Liz waylaid Jack on the landing as he came out of the bathroom from brushing his teeth. She pulled his naked body into her dressing gown for a long loving hug and then spoke softly into his neck.
    'I hope you don't mind if I don't come in tonight, love. I still feel absolutely shattered. And you've got to get up early tomorrow.'
    The words "wedge" and "thin end" sprang to Jack's mind but he didn't say so.
    'Course not, love,' he said instead. 'We both need a good night's rest. It's been a strange few days.'
    'Annus horribilis all of a sudden.'
    'I'll fetch the cream.'
    Liz laughed properly for the first time in days.

xxxxxx

He was still going round the conundrum, examining it from every angle, when they caught up with the bank holiday traffic (they usually missed the worst by setting off early or late) and an ancient Ford Escort tried to get him to move over from the outside lane by the simple expedient of driving right up his arse. And woke him from his reverie with a jolt.
    'Get back, you tosser!' he said through gritted teeth with a vehemence that set alarm bells ringing in Liz's brain.
    The Escort decided not to.
    'The stupid tosser,' said Jack. 
    'Stay calm,' advised Liz.
    'I am. But how am I supposed to pull over when there's a steady stream of traffic in the middle lane? Just get the Distalex ready.'
    'Okay.'
    The Escort flashed its lights.
    Jack stayed calm. He lifted his left arm up by the side of his head and pointed to the middle lane, to indicate the impossibility of the demand.
    The Escort flashed its lights again.
    'Okay,' said Jack, 'switch it on and press White.'
    Liz did as requested; Jack watched in his rear-view mirror for a reaction to the message TOO CLOSE, GUYS!.
    The Escort driver's shaved bald head went back, and Jack was sure he could see the stupid tosser's eyes open wide and his mouth gape even wider in a big fat face that looked as if it belonged to a thirtysomething hod carrier (with an unlovely thirtysomething female hod carrier alongside him making up the plural Guys). And Fat Face was so bewildered that he had obviously stamped on his brakes because the ancient Escort seemed to buck and then suddenly it was a dozen yards further back than it had been.
    'It worked! Hallelujah!' chortled Jack. 'Switch it off, switch it off.'

xxxxxx

They sat close together, talking quietly. In Interview Room 1.
    It took some explaining. Firstly, that it wasn't another little white lie, as such, and no, he hadn't suddenly taken to lying to her after all these years of togetherness and trust; she had just assumed that the note he had left saying "Gone out to play!" had meant golf, just because he had mentioned once that he might play golf on Saturday. Secondly, that when he said he had gone out to play with Dodge he meant he had been experimenting again with the Distalex, or rather the AntiGater Mark 1 (VAT Included) as it was now, with Dodge and a young woman; who was, yes, reasonably attractive, but that was beside the point. And thirdly, that he had never mentioned the reasonably attractive young woman before because ...
    'Yes, because?' demanded Liz.
    'Because ... you might ... get the wrong idea,' said Jack warily.
    'Because I might be jealous and jump to the wrong conclusion?'
    'Yes.'
    'How old are you, Jack?'
    'Fifty-nine, Miss.'
    'And how old is she?'
    'Late twenties, I believe.'
    Liz looked at him dispassionately with raised questioning eyebrows.
    'Ah. See what you mean,' he said. 'Even if I fancied her - which I don't, of course - never in a million years would she fancy, er...'
    Liz nodded.
    '... An old fart like me,' he added.
    'Quite,' she said. 'Now where is she?'
    'Still in with the good-cop-bad-cop, I think.'
    'I'm gonna tear her fucking tits off.'

www.abd.org.uk
From the Manifesto of the Association of British Drivers:
The ABD believes the issue of tailgating deserves urgent attention through education of both the tailgater and tailgated plus enforcement. We have great reservations over the use of cameras for this and cannot support their use. Cameras cannot tell when somebody has just cut back in front – indeed this, or deliberate braking, could be done maliciously resulting in an innocent driver being prosecuted.

www.safespeed.org.uk
Advanced driving teaches us that we are in control of all aspects of the traffic and the spaces around us. Sometimes we might be driving along and our problem tailgater simply catches up. In other situations we have chosen to take a position in front of the tailgater without noticing he's not leaving good gaps. If you overtake or change lane into proper-sized gaps you've already noticed that the new vehicle behind is leaving proper gaps and will probably leave a good gap behind you. This simple stategy will ensure that the tailgaters are behind other vehicles most of the time.

www.highways.gov.uk
Following too close is a factor in one third of road accidents, according to the Highways Agency. Drivers are encouraged to use the 'Two Second Rule' to measure the distance between themselves and the vehicle in front. Choose a point in front of you, such as a bridge or a road sign, and when the vehicle in front passes it, start to repeat the sentence "Only a fool breaks the two second rule" or count out loud "One second, two seconds". If you're at the correct distance, your vehicle should pass the landmark only after you've finished speaking.

One
A knife. Yes, it had to be a knife. Quiet, deadly; more reliable than a bullet. And he knew how to use one.
   Mr 10CC had it all worked out. Set down in black and white. Now all he had to do was memorise it. And then execute it ...

Schedule
I buy a knife. I doctor it, as decided. I dress casually and pack holdall, as decided. I park in the town centre. I walk to the house, arriving at about 11.30 a.m. on Thursday, when every single person in the Close should be at work. If I see a single person in or near the Close, I abort.
   I go round the back and use the Pick-lok to open the door. I leave it unlatched. I hide in the shed with the holdall. I put the gloves on. I put the belt on and sheathe the knife behind my back. I stick two strips of duct tape either side of it. I prepare the gun.
   They arrive at 12.15 p.m. approx, letting themselves in by the front door. They pull the blinds in the kitchen and undress. They switch the washing machine on to spin cycle. She perches on the edge. He perches on her. They are finished by 12.30p.m..
   I enter as their legs go to jelly. I quietly drop the holdall. I point the gun with my right hand. I hold my left index finger to my mouth in a 'be quiet' (or I'll kill you!) gesture. I make them tape each other's mouth. I order her into the broom cupboard. I make him lie down and close his eyes. The second his eyes are closed, before he even has time to think about it, I retrieve the knife and slice him. It is so quick, the only noise will be a gurgle.
   I go to the broom cupboard. I order her to close her eyes, take her arm and lead her back into the room. I help her to lie down. I slice her.
   I clean up as much as necessary. I change my clothes. I check the road. If all is clear, I leave, latching the door.
   I return to my car. I drive to the old pit to lose the gun. I take the holdall to the incinerator man.
  I read this three times. I destroy it.

    Mr 10CC smiled as he thought. Ah, the power of prep!

xxxxxx

Norm had a lot on his mind. There was the little matter of light years and planets, for a start: if there were life forms on a planet two hundred light years away - a mere spit in space - and they were looking at Earth, they could now be watching the Battle of Trafalgar or the demise of the Holy Roman Empire. Amazing. And what about atoms? Trillions of them had assembled from the boundless vastness of space to make Norman Philip Ducker, and not one of them knew it. One of them might once have been part of William Shakespeare. Or Jack the Ripper. Or - oh joy - W.G. Grace. And then, of course, there was the problem of how much longer would it take to separate Maria Sharples from her Sloggis.

xxxxxx

The phone rang again.
    'Hello. Crimestoppers,' said Norm
    'Is this where I report crimes, without the police knowing who I am. Or suspicious things, you know.'
    'I do, and it is. This is totally confidential, Madam. No calls are recorded or traced, so you will remain anonymous. Crimestoppers is an independent charity, and I am a civilian worker, although of course we work in close cooperation with the police.'
    There was a long pause. Norman was about to fill it with words of reassurance when she said quietly, 'Look, I just wanted ... erm, I don't know how to say this properly.'
   'Take your time. No hurry. The call's free.'
   'Well, it's to do with the Mayor ...' 
    'Just take a deep breath, and imagine you're telling a friend in confidence.'
   'Well, I, er ... all right,' she said, obviously determined to make a real effort to get her message over loud and clear. She cleared her throat, and then screeched:
    'THE MAYOR'S A FUCKING PAEDOPHILE!'
    Her phone crashed down.
    Wow, thought Norm. Welcome to a new week.

2002
Tuesday, January 1

Looked in the mirror first thing this morning and didn't like what I saw: a 5ft-tall penguin wearing sunglasses and a red bikini, smoking a cigar, and toting a machine gun under one stunted wing-flap.
    I turned round and looked at it. Yup, it was definitely there, larger than life and in our bedroom.
    I was ridiculously pleased to note that the cigar was unlit. I'd had three cigars as I welcomed in 2002 and my lungs felt as if they had spent the whole of 2001 wandering through a 1951 London smog.
    Jules says I was as pissed as a fart last night/this morning. But she was crapulent, which must be one stage worse, so how does she know? Aaah... a blow-up transvestite penguin in the bedroom is a bit of a give-away. Plus the fact that I was looking in the mirror to see why I couldn't get my tongue back in my mouth. Had it really metamorphosed into something normally found in a hippo's gob?
    Hang on, hang on - it might not be a transvestite. It might be a very butch female penguin.

Definitely last time we go to The Crown for New Year's Eve. They didn't let us out till gone 3am and the DJ was a twat pretending to be a shock-jock, which apparently is why FR and I decided to sneak off with his gender-confused prop while he was packing up. In revenge for him taking advantage of a paralytic Blind Hugh by persuading him to 'volunteer' to lead the conga line.
    The noise of Blind Hugh bouncing off the bar and the la-la-laaaarrgghhs of those behind will live with me for a long time.

xxxxxx

Wednesday, January 9
2 16 28 34 41 42
   Oh fuck! Keep beating, heart.
   2 16 28 34 41 42!
   Please don't stop. I need you now more than ever. It doesn't bear thinking about: realise an unbelievable dream - and the old ticker conks out.
   2 16 28 34 41 42!!!
   We sat up virtually through the night. Talking, planning, sometimes dreaming, sometimes scarcely daring to dream, occasionally rechecking - via newspaper, TV, laptop.   They all said the same thing. We had been millionaires since Saturday night, and didn't know it. Multi-millionaires, actually.
   £3,456,768, to be precise. If we had claimed straight away and got the cheque in the bank it might even be £3,456,789 by now. What a fabulous, pleasing sequence that would be. But shit, what's £21 between friends. When we get the cheque - TODAY! (now early hours of Thurs) - and lob it in a new account I might even write a separate cheque for £21 just to see that on the statement.

xxxxxx

Friday, May 10
Jules couldn't bear the suspense any more - she rang Toon And Country and asked if Mrs W-L had accepted our offer on Windolene Heights (aptly named in view of all the glass overlooking the garden). She was fobbed off, which made us suspect that there hadn't been any other offers but Mrs W-L didn't want to come down by £10K. Apparently the man dealing with it was out and wouldn't be in again until next Wednesday.
    Jules didn't say it; she didn't have to. Her look said: 'If we lose this house because you were too tight-fisted to put in a proper offer, I'll chop your balls off, sauté them, and feed them to Sarah's moggy.'
    I may have got the odd word wrong, but that was the gist of it. Well, we have been communing for 31 years.

xxxxxx

Wednesday, September 18
We went back to the hospital mid-morning, to discover that Sarah and Sam would be discharged in the afternoon! As soon as the Demigod Doc had done his rounds and checked over the latest batch of babies. My god, they don't hang around these days. Another ten years and having babies will be a visit to the out-patients.
    Just pop into the baby cubicle, plug in the Midwifation machine, let it go through its 20-minute delivery programme, tidy up your bits, and away you go. Take the placenta home in a doggy bag if you're a hippy or alternative chef. Next please!

xxxxxx

Tuesday, December 31
A letter dropped on the mat from the hospital mid-morning.   They would like to take some more spinal fluid. Nothing to worry about; just a technical problem rendered the test inconclusive.
    Worried!? Course I wasn't. I rang the surgery straight away, and fortunately Dr Macca was free. She reassured me that if they had spotted anything untoward they would have told me. A technical problem meant just that - an equipment failure, or something.
   Her vague 'or something' was no more reassuring than the hospital's 'inconclusive' . Why hadn't they said 'void'? Or did that just stem from the general malaise these days of imprecise English ?
   More likely the latter, I think. Ask a hundred people what 'invariable' means and only a few will say correctly 'always, without exception'. The rest will say 'usually' - invariably.
   Anyway, I decided my brain needed a break from the written word; and vowed to try my darnedest to put my inconclusive test out of mind, for at least the rest of 2002.

xxxxxx

2007
Monday, January 1
Spent the day in a dream. Got absolutely slaughtered at The Cocked Hat last night. Smoked like a chimney fire, too.
    Just me and the Usual Suspects. Sarah and Mike were down in Kent, Cory and Chrissy in Edinburgh (street party called off because of high winds after they had driven all that way!), Ronnie and Sally in Leicester, FR and MJ in Lincolnshire. Lots of calls and lots of texts after midnight. I must practise my texting; it took me half an hour to reply to just one.
    Glad I didn't go to The Crown. The only person I missed was Blind Hugh.

http://www.crimestoppers-uk.org
Crimestoppers is an independent charity helping to find criminals and help solve crimes. It has an anonymous phone number, 0800 555 111, that people can call to pass on information about crime; alternatively people can send   information anonymously via its website, using the Giving Information Form . Callers don't have to give their name or any personal information and calls cannot be traced.
   The year 2008 marked its twentieth anniversary - and some impressive results. In that period more than 86,000 arrests were made and charges brought as a result of information to the charity. The million   or so 'actionable' calls also resulted in the recovery of £102million worth of stolen goods and the seizure of £151million worth of drugs.

JUST A THOUGHT ...

Who'd be a writer?

Red Smith:
'Writing is quite simple; all you have to do is sit down at your typewriter and open a vein.'

 

Hugh Leonard:
'Writing is neither profession nor vocation but an incurable illness. Those who give up are not writers and never were. Those who persevere do so not from pluck or determination but because they cannot help it. They are sick and advice is an impudence.'

 

W Somerset Maugham:
'There are three rules for writing a successful novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.'

 Got the taste for it? You can read more at: http://authonomy.com/ViewBook.aspx?bookid=10723