The Word Cloud

ClaraW has reminded me that I had a Tod blog going some time ago where I promised to return with more outlandish tales of derring don’t and, as no-one begged to be released from this promise, read on…

Usual warnings about language and apologies to our younger viewers, if there are any terms of endearment that you do not understand then you are too young to read them so stop immediately, rinse your eyes with neat Sarsons and never speak of these things again...

So let’s recap or... let's not - if you want to know who Tod The Second is go hunting for my blog 'Liars'; it won't help but you'll get my 'viewed by count' up and it will make me think I'm popular.

So, in brief; Tod is a nice enough chap, with just the one failing; his brain is missing a link between reality and fantasy.

These last months have seen our hero visit his dentist, a trip he loathes, for some needlework. Now, the concern is that he is a big lad, not in height you understand, but in… girth and as anaesthetic is delivered by body mass index apparently (…!) he has to have not one, not two… oh this could go on for ages… but five, that’s five, times the dose of the average mountain gorilla. So Tod is lying back in the chair waiting for a sharp prick (…oh go on, make your own jokes up…) only to find nothing happens. ‘Is it done?’ Asks he. ‘Why, yes’ replies our oral specialist. ‘Then why is my shoulder wet?’ asks Tod… The dentist has only gone and stuck the needle in through his gum and out through his cheek and squirted over Tod’s shoulder! Oh, how I laughed. No… wait… no I didn’t. Oh, how I smacked my head on the keyboard.

So my colleagues took umbrage at my lack of assistance in their puerile games and dropped all pretence of secrecy when goading and poking the fantasist into action. One of our lads went to Australia on the “Postie bike challenge” (Google it, I can’t be arsed to explain) and managed no more than a stuttering sentence before Tod cuts the air with his wonderful life knife. It turns out that, prior to being legally able to ride and, by my calculation, being able to walk…, oh and prior to being legally over the limit for an eighteen wheeler’s axle weight limit too, Tod was a bit of a rebel without a clause. Yes, it seems, Tod, brought up within the mean streets of Mumbai (read Stoke Newington) took to the world upon a moped. Not a mop head as I first assumed, no, something far more pedestrian… or a motorised push bike anyway. Whilst he retold his journey from the class bound city-scape out through the wild and woolly countryside, turning left just before Afghanistan (which as we all know has been a western war zone for at least fifty years and has never been under Russian control at all… don’t ask… just don’t, ok?) and swinging on down to the Nile delta… possibly just before lunch…, I was inundated with giggling emails. In spite of various electronic retorts of “kill me” and “kill me, now” I was left in no doubt that this one was going to run. And run. And run. And run. And, so help me, run. My final concession was an email advising one and all that I had “heard this one before” and that I was sure this is the one “in which he dies”… for which raucous laughter duly broke out around the office, mercifully stopping the Todster mid-gibber but, not so mercifully, almost demanding an explanation.

He is a true legend. Sorry… leg end. His life is so full and rich and exciting that he shames James Bond with his globetrotting, wears pistol bearing hips and shorts better than Lara Croft and has to be knocking on the door of Methuselah for the Guinness Book of Records oldest living man. He has stripped and rebuilt both his German car and his mansion house chimney, no doubt liberally exchanging parts with no adverse affect ergo being the only person on the planet who drives to work filling up only upon brick dust and pixie piss.

Now I have to avoid so many subjects when he is nearby that it is truly becoming a Trappist (why the hell does Microsoft Word want to change that to ‘rapist’…?!) monastery, replete with shush-ing and celice, a much less painful mechanism of masochism and no mistake. The latest is Artificial Intelligence, of which our eponymous hero is a Jedi master and, sadly, a subject which has lost me years of my life in study.

I am ashamed of my meagre life, with it’s “holiday’s” abroad wasted pool-side instead of lassoing ostriches in the Chinese capital and using them to fly south for the winter. I feel let down by my inability to rebuild my humble abode from atomic nuclei and worst of all I hang my head in shame that when asked what it is I did for a living I replied ‘I’m a dextro-gynaecologist; I spend all day looking at a right…’

*cough*

Ez

The dark, lifeless park, which was long closed, was enlightened by few dim lights, now and then. It´s thin sinuous ways which were filled with children and dogs running arround, now looked quite gloomy. In many ways it seemed like a cemetery.

They walked in and out of the shadows, as a creepy silence was cast into the night; falling also upon two people who calmly wandered across the shadowy place.

The woman, around her twenties, scratched the back of her neck and bit the tip of her lips, thinking of a subject, while the stunning red haired man, with bloody hands, walked calmly by her side:

- So…Vampires, huh?-she snorted a bit. He didn’t reply. She cleared her throat, looking at his hands. – Thanks. For saving my life, back there.

- No problem, Kid. – Why did he have to call her “Kid”? His beauty was  godlike, much resembling all of those Armani male models; and he had just saved her life from five vampires. It is fair to say by this point, that she had fallen in love with the vigorous man; constituting  love at first heroic sight. All of that, only for him to call her “Kid”. She sulked a bit and kept quiet for a long time, trying not to remember five vampires had just attempted to drink her blood when the misterious figure came from the shadows and rescued her. She didn´t even know his name.
              Upon his mutual silence, she puffed out her chest and decided to continue:

-Well, are you going to kill me?- he regarded her steadily for a few seconds:

-Maybe.-he looked up trying to find the right words. His red irises rolled around his white sclera - You see, the whole blood thirst thing is highly overrated. Blood is like chocolate.-He spread his palms, as if he was presenting her the most revolutionary idea- There are those of us, who can eat and stop, and those who can’t. Luckily for you, I am quite good at controlling my urges for chocolate.-he opened a big, warm smile, and she couldn’t stop sighing at the sight of it. He tapped her back with his bloody hands, leaving a few stains on it, and continued to walk.

She couldn’t stop gazing at his incredibly shiny threads under the moonlight, flowing gently at the soft night wind; his pale, smooth skin and masculine features were remarkable, and if he was human, he could make big figures by becoming an actor or model.He was perfect not in many, but in all the ways (except for the "Kid"), and in no way he resembled a monster. Upon noticing that she looked at him with weird airs, he stopped, crossing his arms, looking askance at her:

-What?

-Nothing!-she stammered nervously- I…-she scratched the back of her neck again- I was just wondering…Do things like romance between your kind and mine happen, in real life? –He stared at her without the least sign of any sort of expression for a moment. Then, he laughed out loud so hard, that his following laughs made no sound; yet she was quite aware he was laughing his guts out, by his facial expression. He put one hand over his belly and bended a bit, trying to grab some air. He tried to say something, but couldn’t.
She sighed and crossed her arms, waiting for him to recover.

Finally, he took a deep breath, still curving a smile:

- Kid, let me ask you something: Do you fall in love for something you eat? –he didn’t give her time to answer- Do you fall in love for a cow?- She grimaced:

- Of course not!

- Neither do I. Let me tell you something about vampires: We are demons, we walk through the night, we drink human blood. Why would we be called demons to begin with, if not?- he initiated another burst of laughing but uttered it, approaching her, feeling her scent- We can mate with humans, but we do not have children with them, and most of all- he stared at her with a vicious smile- we don’t sparkle when the sun hits us. –She swallowed a chunk of air as she felt a bit threatened by his speech:

-What happens then?

- We burn to death.-he said as if it was the most trivial thing. He was focused now on her, the helpless girl who suddenly seemed more like a pray to him. Suddenly, his overated blood thirst started to get to him. And he, being the good demons he was, could not care less. He could not stop thinking how ironic it was that he had saved a girl, only that she could become his dinner. 

He was now closer to her, staring her eyes thoughtfully. She shook a bit, as she noticed he wanted her blood. She could not be faster nor stronger than him, and there was no way to get out of there alive:

- But you saved me!-she cried.

-Most certainly. Why let them have you, when I can?- his eyes were glowing red.

-No, you are a good vampire, -she was affirming that more to herself then to him - you look for redemption and a way to compensate humanity for your despicable acts!- his face acquired a confused expression.

- What?-he said almost as if in disgust, looking even more confused,  sweeping his hand violently in the air- Nonsense! My name is not Angel,- he approached her even more, and the woman could feel his cold breathe- my name is not Louis[1], and my name is most definitely NOT Edward Cullen.- She could see his fangs showing off to her, aching for her.

-You said you weren’t going to kill me.- she muttered.

He shrugged:

-I said “Not likely”.- he took a deep breathe and seemed the hero from before, controlling his blood thirst. He blinked one eye to her- See you arround, and vanished right in front of her eyes.

This is Bella Woodrow. I wanna know: can you get a good enough image of Bella in this simple description? There will be more in the stories.

Described as a sexy lady, when in the 2050's she is pale and her hair is black/brown and curly. Her eyes are a brilliant shade of ocean blue and her lips are scarlot. She always dresses in red (mostly dresses). She is mysterious, intelligent, brave and witty. But when she travels beack to Lilith's time she changes greatly. The most noticable difference is that her hair is now straiten, black with rouge streaks and covers her left eye. This is because her left eye was damaged in traveling back in time; it now is scared in one corner and a deep shade of red (similar to her hair streaks). She still wears red. Her personality changes also; she is still mysterious,intelligent, brave and witty but is more confident now and flaunts her sexuality. Her personality eventually reverts to the 2050's Bella but she still knows shes sexy.

Whilst I was walking home from school on the last day before the christmas holidays (ie today) it started to snow! How poetic/ironic/miricleish is that!?

(ok so its not that poetic/ironic/miricleish but it was great for me!)

It is quite common for people  to think writers don´t work hard enough, because all they do is write; and that anyone with a college degree, or even a high school certification can do it, no matter about the text nor story quality.
Indeed, writers can be both by the publishing business or by people who are not trully aware of the nature of writting, quite underestimated, which is to say, at least, odd.

Part of it is true: anyone can write.But I must say I feel like clarifying a few aspects.

It is certaintly not as simple as anyone would think. Especially when you are writting a book, and here follows a few personal insights on the matter, which I hope you will all discuss with me later:

First: Your first scratches will never be what you hope. Thus a writer can be easily compared to a carver, taking a block and transforming it into a statue. It takes loads of revisions for us to reach the desired point of our stories.

Second: Timing. I don´t know if any of you noticed, but every story has to have a good timing. If you put too much text or the wrong information in the wrong parts,for example, the reader will get easily bored.That sincrony is, in my opinion, the worst part, being such a detailist writer as myself, it is quite difficult.

Third: Always keep the readers attention. You must make him want to read the next chapter, which is also not as easy as one would imagine.People dont like loads of description  yet you have to let them aware of the world and context of what´s happening (which is very important with fantasy or historical books) as well as the character´s trade marks.Aligning always with the second element mentioned above.

Fourth: Words are powerful things. If wrongfully induced in a sentence, they can ruin the whole intention of "messages in between the lines".

Fifth: A writer does not have a time of peace, meaning he is a constant workaholic. He or she cannot write for 8 hours, and then think:" ok, done for the day, will do other stuff." The thing is, when you do other stuff, you start having ideas for the book, and I do believe Murphy has one or two fingers on this, because most of the bright ideas will come to you during your body pump class. Which is quite frustrating sometimes, and that is why you see many writers who suddenly start scribbling in restaurant napkins and such.

Sixth: A book is a complex thing. The writer is the master of everything that happens, everyone that enters the story,the way they react and feel,as well as when, where and why it all happens, we control their speeches, their manners. Think of a highly, really complicated SIMs.You see, we start from blank pages into 500 pages best selling (with luck!)stories. And everything has to connect with everything on the book, it´s like an orchestra, and the book, is a song. It must be played flawlessly. Need I rememeber that there are many people in an orchestra, but only one author (usually) of a book?

I believe these 6 reasons are enough to make anyone think twice, before saying a writer´s task is easy, or even underestimating it.

It is though, a very enjoyable work. We give our blood and sweat to the stories, our projects.We research for them, we read for them, we work for them. Sometimes, one can say they become our masters, and not the oher way arround.But still, we do it, loving every minute of it. And that is the true, vicious nature of writting, when your story has you.

A journalist one said to my mother he was a mercenary pen (something that can definetly make you to stop and think. It is quite a harsh statement).

I say I am an addicted pen, and that I can say merely upon myself: I am addicted to writting my stories, and some of them do become my masters. Isn´t that vicious? Writting is not such a light work in the end.

In conclusion,  we only hope readers will love it as much as we did (in some sort of masoquism, since I love something that enslaves me. Don´t be scared, I use these harsh words merely to intensify my passion and dedication to writting). And that, my friends, after all our blood and sweat, is the best reward a writer can get.

Cheers!

I don't usually put fiction in the blog section. But I set myself a little task to raise a laugh for Christmas, so I think here rather than critiques. This is faintly preposterous, but I hope it makes a few folks smile. That's all I hope for.

Hello my Lovely

(Due acknowledgement to Mr. Chandler)

 

She walked the way dames were intended to walk whenever it was that they were invented. So smooth that the air quivered with anticipation as she approached and sighed with satisfaction when she passed. As classy broads go this one beat any competition like a pedigree racehorse in a donkey derby. She had class, she had breeding and she had my full attention.

I had been taking a little air on the corner of Poplar and Maple. I didn't have a single thing to do that day except relax in the sun and let the world entertain me when she glided majestically into view. I figured I must be staring but, what the hell, chances like this don't come often and I was going to make the most of it. Then I realised she was coming straight for me. Probably lost I figured. I started to think of something I could say that would sound better than  "Down that street and turn right" when she coasted up beside me and, with a voice like refined silk, purred

'Are you "Troublesome O'Gradey?"'

The name my mother chose for me was Peterkin. That was a mouthful and my father started to call me Paws after I broke his beer mug playing around and was clumsy. I got to be known as "Troublesome" on account of my being in and out of trouble more than just a few times and when I grew up it had, well, just kind of stuck to me.

"Sure am" I replied trying to be cool. What could this vision want with me I was wondering? No doubts crossed my mind about what I could want with her.

'
My name is "Persimmon Willoughby" but my friends call me "Purr"'

'OK Ms Willoughby, what can I do for you?' I was pretty respectful and I thought it would be a while before we were really on first name terms. She looked kinda unhappy for a moment and then said

'My parents had some jewelry stolen. Pretty expensive stuff. They have had the police round but, well, my mother's really upset about it and I feel so helpless. I was talking to Kitty McNulty and she said you had helped her out with some difficulties a way back and maybe you could help me'

Kitty McNulty. Well there was a real nice memory. Kitty had had a problem with some guy hanging round her house, bothering her whenever she went out. It had gone too far when he actually sneaked in the house one night. She still slept at home with her parents but they were really old and she didn't want them upset. Her father's health isn't too good and a bad shock could have been fatal. I had caught up with the guy that night and explained that he was making a serious error. I had to back it up with a smack in the mouth when he got sassy. He beat it and hasn't been heard of in that neighbourhood since. Well Kitty had sure been grateful.

So even if helping dames out of difficulties wasn't a lifetime occupation, given the right incentive I was a willing sort of guy. This lady was surely loaded with incentive.

'I helped Kitty out. Sure. How do you think I can help you?'

'I'm certain they'll come back again for more. There wasn't a break in and it went during the day from their bedroom. I'm sure I'd have noticed burglars because I was in at the time. My parents were out. So it's someone that got in the upstairs without smashing any doors or windows. What I need is someone to keep a watch and try to see them if they come back. I can't do this myself, I need to stay close to my mother really. That ring she lost belonged to her mother and the necklace was a gift from my father. Very expensive. She's just really upset.'

So I said sure I'd stake out the house. To stay close to this broad I'd stake out the dockyard on a rainy November night. A nice garden in summer for a few hours. No problem.

We set off to her part of town. It wasn't far but wow. This was the expense account neighbourhood where the fat cats live. Big houses, big gardens and big trees. I just sort of tried to look as though I belonged there. Walking next to a princess is a good cover and no-one noticed as we went up the garden path.

'I can't ask you in right now' she said. 'I have to go in before my mother notices I'm gone. I'll sneak in round the back. Good hunting'.

With a whisper of movement she was gone leaving just a hint of her essence behind.

I decided the best place for me to keep a good close eye on things was in the back yard, at least in daytime. So I strolled round the house, casual like I belonged there.

Well that was some back yard. I suppose it wasn't much bigger than a football field, but no football team had ever run around on that manicured surface. I trotted round the edge so that I wouldn't be noticed and settled myself down in the shrubbery. That spot gave me a good view of the whole rear of the house. As I looked around I began to wonder. She had mentioned that there hadn't been any kind of break in and the stuff had gone from upstairs. All these trees but none of them real close to the house. I started to think I knew what had happened to Mrs. Willoughby’s jewelry.

So I kept a close watch and sure enough before long he put in an appearance. Beaky McPie. A true sneak thief. He flew up to the upstairs window sill and stuck his head through where it was open a few inches. He was in and out in a moment but I saw the glitter of something shiny. More jewels no doubt. Magpies never could resist the lure of glitter. I had to see his nest.

I was lucky. He flew no more than forty feet into a big tree in the Willoughby’s garden. I could see the nest from my hiding place.

I have always been good at climbing trees and saw no reason why I couldn't get up there and close this case out straight away. The nest looked secure enough on a solid branch. I was up that tree in a moment. Beaky had seen me coming and had got out of it pretty damn quick. I could see in the nest. It was all there. Necklace, ring and a gold watch. I figured the watch was what he had just taken. That branch wasn't as solid as it had looked from the ground and I couldn't quite get out far enough to get a good hold. Still I managed to reach out far enough to knock the nest to the ground. It sort of floated down and the jewels spilled out onto the lawn when it landed.

OK case closed in record time. All that remained was to get down and call on the rightful owners so that they could come out and collect their goods.

The house was closed up and anyway barging in uninvited and unannounced wasn't a good idea. I could see Persimmon through the French windows curled on the sofa. That older lady next to her had to be her mother. I tapped on the window and called out

'Ms Purr. I've found..'

I didn't get much further before her mother looked up and saw me.

‘George’ she called out real loud. 'There's a big alley cat in our back yard'

‘Damn it’ a man’s voice called. ‘It'll be after Persimmon. I'll deal with him.’

It came to me that this had all the makings of a big misunderstanding but I stood my ground. I just had to show them the jewelry and they'd understand. Then he threw a shoe at me and I dived for the bushes. Purr was in the doorway looking really embarrassed. Parents can be real embarrassing and I don't suppose there was much she could do, but that didn't make it any easier to take.

'He won't be back Honey' said the man. Then 'What the.. Darling look. A nest has fallen out of a tree over there. And look. Your things'

I tracked them under cover of the bushes along the edge of the garden.

'My watch! But that was upstairs half an hour ago'.

Mrs. Willoughby had joined him by then and gathered up her things.

'It's a magpie' She said. 'We'll have to keep the windows closed to from now on'.

Well there we were. Happy ending for the Willoughby family. I beat it back to my part of town feeling pretty unappreciated. But not wanting a shoe on the head it seemed the best plan. I wasn't the first guy to be taken in by a beautiful broad and end up the loser, and I wouldn't be the last.

But I was wrong about that. Later that same evening Persimmon Willoughby came round to apologise for the way it had worked out.

Boy, she sure knew how to apologise.

Ok, this one kind of caught me by surprise… in places it is straight off the cuff *cough* and also has to contain the “swearing” warning accompanied, nay prefixed perhaps, by the words “contains a lot of”. Usual suggestions, if you are not comfortable reading this out to your children as a bedtime story, I applaud your strong moral backbone. If, however, you are willing to read this to your children as a bedtime story then all I can say is “what are you thinking?!”

 

Is it just me or is there just the one script writer that writes both Coronation Street and Emmerdale? EzBird was watching her Monday night soap fest as per usual and, picking up bits and bobs as I do, I was jerked into a “hold on a moment”… moment.

As far as I can work out, Emmerdale has recently introduced a new character who is blind and bugger me if, not a month later, in comes a deaf character for Corrie! What?! No! Think up your own storylines! (I daren’t ask if Eastenders has a "dumb" character… because I suppose it stands to reason really…)

Emmy’s blind woman mistakenly thinks she was robbed, but being blind she didn’t know her bag had actually been knocked into a nearby stream instead. This is a “good storyline” so far by the way. She’s believable as a character, the situation is believable as an event and the aftermath – her internal struggle – is genuinely giving us an insight (that’s a crass way of putting it and no mistake) into the daily tribulations of blind people. It’s a bit of a sad window into an unknown world but on it’s own it is quite good. And then I’m thinking; if the deaf woman in Corrie gets “mugged” because of her disability I am going to scream “foul” and no mistake.

What ruins the Emmy storyline, however, is it is a spin off from yet another bloody “to-date-straight-boy-tries-to-kiss-another-to-date-straight-boy-denies-trying-to-kiss-straight-boy-acts-moody-as-if-fighting/denying-his-sexuality-but-no-one-really-bloody-cares-because-heterosexual-boys-have-been-embarrassing-themselves-by-attempting-to-kiss-uninterested-girls-for-centuries-and-the-fact-it’s-a-gay-version-no-longer-has-any-shock-value-because-being-gay-is-no-longer-and-has-not-actually-been-“mortifying”-for-at-least-a-bloody-decade-so-the-psuedo-gravity-of-the-situation-is-bogus-because-we-all-know-(and-“love”)-at-least-one-gay-person-these-days-so-get-over-it”.

Sigh.

And what the hell is going on with “misery” stories, anyway? I banned EzBird from watching Eastenders years ago because it was depressing. (I didn’t really, EzBird gave up on it herself with lots of effing and blinding about how pathetically dismal it was. Oh and no-one tells EzBird what to do, either…) But now, both Corrie and Emmy are revelling in dragging the season of good cheer into the season of manic depression.

Is it just me or is everything we read or see at the moment deliberately aimed at pushing stressed and unhappy people further into despair? Is this a misplaced concept of wanting me to feel good about my situation by showing me someone worse off than myself? Purlease! It doesn’t work that way. It never has, and it never will. It’s so badly contrived and false that, as intelligent human beings, we completely see through the façade. Throw a character we don’t care about under a bus and guess what? We don’t bloody care! That’s the point! We didn’t care if they lived, what in god’s name makes you think we care if they die?

"It’s a soap" I hear you cry; "it reflects the angst and turmoil of everyday life." No it doesn’t. Sorry, but I live in the real world and there is none of this crap down my street, my families’ streets or my friends’ streets. Ah but, I hear, this is a microcosmic take on the wider issues that do occasionally face real people. Then it’s not a soap; it’s a drama. It doesn’t reflect the everyday life of a street at all; it’s a fantasists (remember them?) wonderland (is that the right word…?), a veritable “Murphy’s Island” where everything that can go wrong, does. Sometimes with “an hilarious consequence”. Now, again, don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate that, unlike me, Soaps want to avoid moralistic preaching but once in a while, surely, we can stomach “don’t go in the cellar!” guidance?

For example, the Carla Conner storyline; how is it that a nationally loved and adored programme (that must be influential) is allowed to portray the Police as sleazy, dirty or scum? (The “Beccy drugs fit-up” abomination and now the Carla Conner bobby – very dislikeable chap; all sneery and intense.) Don’t get me wrong, the acting is, for the most part, acceptable and would be believable if the characterisation was realistic.

I mean; a nasty little policeman turns up to Carla’s place of work, has a business meeting interrupted and announces a requirement for a “few words” but, and this is key, "they’d be best back at the station where the paperwork is." All done in front of her “potential” customer... NO!! No no no no no no no! NO!

Firstly, they come in twos!
Secondly they DO treat you with respect, despite their narrow eyed suspicion that you are, in fact, the scum of the Earth.
And thirdly; they will wait and talk to you IN PRIVATE!!!!! GAH!

And then, right, not only do they screw these simple facts up but they go and dump the poor woman, sans solicitor (which could have been voluntary, granted, but we don’t know that) in an interview room on her own with the same male policeman! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Since when?!

No statement made in the interview will be legal! She doesn’t have representation and there is no proof he didn’t coerce her or even bloody molest her! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!

This is so badly unbelievable that it denigrates the meaty real story that she lied about subsequent “contact” with her murdering husband let alone never reporting his confession of killing her lover – which are totally believable and completely wicked storylines in and of themselves. Obviously the real target for this crap is the build up to a “conflict” with Michelle later on (probably Christmas day – oh joy, yet another jolly story to brighten up our festive bloody season).

And this isn’t the first time they’ve missed a golden opportunity to educate their loyal watchers; I remember getting all pissy some time back about Rosie Webster’s handling of being ripped off to the tune of £100,000+. SHE DIDN’T CALL THE POLICE!!!! Noooooooooooooooooo! Just FUCK OFF! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! That is complete and utter bollocks! Even the most anti-Police/hate-the-Police person in the bloody country would have phoned them the instant they realised they’d been robbed, for fucks sake.

Honestly, "the suspension of reality" is a spice, people; to be added cautiously to flavour the food. It is not the meat and bloody potatoes of a sodding story. For chrissake it’s obvious to any dim wit that had the Police known they would stop him at the bloody airport! What is it with these scripts? Honestly? I know she’s characterised as a div, but not everyone around her is, her own father runs a business for heavens sake and that alone gives him a smidgen of common sense. Even the most stupid of people know that the Police will help if you’ve been bloody robbed like that. Jeez. What a waste of a story. Makes me so angry. Er... in case you didn’t get that… *cough*

Look, I’m not saying I’m a script-writer or anything but come on, a small child could do better. The plots are weak because they are all trashy unrealistic sensationalism. You know what, I’m blaming the script writer but I really shouldn’t because ultimately I don’t know who is responsible for this tat; it may be the director, producers, or the executives, I don’t know. 

What I do know is that "cringeworthy" is not enjoyable to watch. (Actually EzBird ditched Corrie all through the Gail’s boyfriend drug addiction storyline because it was just too much.) What brings her back, and what chills me out, is the comedy which they can still do with aplomb. I’m not going to go into it here, but the balance of misery and comedy is too heavily weighted towards garbage to be honest.

Oh but I should point out that I do like Rosie Webster for two very outstanding reasons. I’m betting that Helen Flanagan is going to be the first “topless on a soap” star. Either that or her storyline is going to take the prostitute route – a la Belle De Jour – because we are slowly crumbling away at the clichéd image of prostitutes as scabby, drug-ridden, Dickensian disease vessels of disrepute and starting to portray them as clichéd hard working, clean living, societal-situational victims of… er… repute. (Slight tangent; does anyone read New Scientist? How bloody horrible was the short question box interview with the newly outed Belle De Jour (Dr Brooke Magnanti)? Three questions about her scientific achievements, all very good and correct for the nature of the magazine but then five questions about prostitution! Bloody hell! She’s not a sodding social commentarist! Or a political tour-de-force looking to change the social stigma of the sex worker industry! She’s a bloody scientist! With serious scientific credentials! Focus on those you bloody idiots! Leave the prostitution interviews to the wipe-off glossy’s and the tabloids. Sheesh.) I can see the rocky road ahead as clear as can be; with the babes of soaps increasing in scantily-clad-loveliness (to attract a broader spectrum audience – or “blokes” as we call them) and the toe dipping “ladies that lock lips” storylines checking to see if (when) the coast is clear ready for a full on frontal assault. The other soap (the one that no-one watches) has an after-dark segment which is their way of warming up the spice rack ready for a good healthy meal of dumplings and sauce. But, as usual, I digress. The truth is that Rosie Webster has so much potential storyline alone that I feel for Helen with the lack of thought (such as that tiny amount needed to stop me screaming “call the sodding cops!” at the telly) put into her increasingly bizarre situations.

As for Ken Barlow… this is a strong case in point for every wannabe writer; when you have a character that is intelligent and morally strong – don’t ignore his intelligence because you want a bloody conflict based on his ethics. Ken wouldn’t have gone to the papers; he knows what they are like – and making Dreary say that same sentence does not vindicate poor, or no, thought in this storyline. Ken is intelligent enough to have looked at ALL the options – including helping his son with the bar. He would have known, fiery temperament included, how Peter would have reacted to his interference and WOULD have wrestled with finding an amicable solution. This story is just conflict for the sake of conflict and show’s no character progression or lesson’s learned. Once again it’s a weak, “misery” story. And because it’s so weak, instead of taking our hearts and getting us to feel for the characters it just makes us baulk because it’s wrong. Ken is acting out of character and anyone who has watched the programme for any length of time knows it. And that stops it being enjoyable. As a writer don’t let this happen in your manuscripts because no self respecting publicist is going to touch you with my ten-foot barge pole, let alone theirs..

So, we’re rapidly descending upon Christmas and at no point do these dweebs want to turn this incessant reminder of what a cess pit our country has allegedly become around. (What the hell, let’s have a go at the Americans now; don’t get me wrong, I love Americans, I know a few of them and they are wonderful people but a lot of them are... how can I put this… gullible. They really do believe what you tell them – why shouldn’t they? It’s actually very endearing to know that a nation basically believes in the good in you without question right up until you slug ‘em between the eyes and take their wallet.) So imagine the damage that this out-pouring of gutter-life storylines has on the British image abroad. How many Americans (and I’m only using them as an example) believe that all Brits have a drink/drugs problem, a criminal record (due to corrupt and thoroughly distasteful Policemen) and a shitty Christmas every year because some disaster befalls them, their relatives or their neighbours. Oh, and not forgetting the stupidity of a nation that WONT PHONE THE BLOODY POLICE WHEN WE’VE BEEN FUCKING ROBBED.

Sigh.

Ez

Press Release for Glam Metal: The Reunion. Glam Metal is back for a Reunion tour!! Samantha Wentworth, beautiful and sophisticated owns her own very successful gallery in LA. She has a beautiful but feisty daughter and her life seems almost perfect to the observer. But Samantha is still in love with her ex fiancé and father of her child GM Jay, can she forgive his colourful past? Glam Metal, the best glam rock band from the 80s, has split up because of personal issues, GM Jay is now working in a soap opera, Nick Glam Man is drinking to excess and Steve and Pete are hanging out and shooting pool. Join the guys as they try to put their personal feelings behind them and reform Glam Metal for the tour that will re-launch their music careers. Will the ghosts from their past destroy the Reunion tour before it even gets off the tour bus? Or can they dominate the Glam Rock world again? Enjoy the roller coaster ride of love, lust, jealousy and betrayal that is Glam Metal: The Reunion and discover why we all love a bad boy rocker. Glam Metal: The Reunion is the eagerly awaited sequel to the hot and steamy Glam Metal, it’s hotter, steamier, filled with more of those riffs and power ballads that will make your ears pop and your panties drop! About the Author: Anna grew up in the small village of Bracknagh in Co. Offaly, Ireland. The youngest child in the family she began keeping journals and writing short stories at a young age. For her 16th birthday her father gave her a manual typewriter and she wrote her first book. She has travelled extensively throughout Europe and New York; she lives in Sweden during the summer, where she enjoys the tranquillity of the Scandinavian summers beside the lake. Her interests are as vast and varied just like her musical tastes, it was her love of 80s Glam/hair metal that inspired her Glam Metal trilogy. And her biggest passion being classic American cars and in particular the 1962 Cadillac coupe Deville. Anna Daly-McCabe is the most exciting and uncompromising writer to come out of Ireland in the last ten years. Her novels are sensational and breathtaking and her short stories leave the reader gasping for more. Glam Metal: The Reunion is Anna’s second book in the Glam Metal Trilogy.

Long, long ago, and probably far away, there was a story that was told by all to many. In those days, it was quite unusual for the same tale to be narrated even in neighbouring villages, so difficult was it to get word through the dark forests that dominated the landscape, or across the fast-flowing rivers that separated one man from another. To add to these geographical difficulties, unfortunately for many pretty startling tales, they also had to sound good in song or verse. Most of the time it was travelling minstrels and players who would do the tale-telling honours, a set-up that led to the demise of many otherwise cracking stories sadly lacking in possible rhymes. A harsh fact of life in these times was that a story had to be pretty unusual for people to go to the trouble of making sure others knew of it: which is why this one prospered so healthily.
So healthily, in an ironic twist, that its popularity ultimately saw its eradication. You see, so many people heard this story that eventually no-one believed it anymore. When it was a true story, it made people’s jaws drop, their eyes widen and their imaginations fizz. But, in the constant telling and re-telling, it journeyed too far from its verifiable source, and in doing so, became assigned simply to the ‘fairytale’ category - of which there were currently so many that it simply couldn’t stand up to the competition. It was dismissed as simply another metaphor for – well, you can decide what for when you hear it for yourself.


It begins – and, in fact, ends – in just one of these forest-isolated villages. Gerrion was quite a large village, with a thriving hub of noisy stores at its centre. Here, of a morning, you would find women jostling each other to reach for meat cuts, small children playing and wrestling in the dust, and burly men showing off their strong physiques as they sweated over forges and re-arranged crates of produce to best affect. Every now and then, as a particularly good pose was pulled over the re-shoeing of a strapping horse, the women would stop their jostling and lean into one another, whispering and giggling, eyes and mischievous smirks darting over to the studiously unaware object of their interest. Which just goes to show that nothing has changed in a good number of centuries.
Apart from a rippling bicep, there was one other thing that could stop these women in their gossiping and browsing. You knew immediately when it happened: every masculine stomach would suddenly be sucked even further in. Every set of shoulders would be straightened, and, in a ripple of physical rearranging, every male in the place would contort themselves into what they apparently saw as a picture of casual manly labour. Work would slow, as it must when being conducted with all muscles tensed for best effect, and the women would suddenly find themselves in much demand as conversationalists.
The first time this happened, they thought themselves on particularly good confabulatory form. The chap they would be grappled into a tête-à-tête with would let off a slightly alarmingly loud laugh at their every second sentence, simultaneously throwing his head back and shaking his hair (worn quite long back then…) in a way that he evidently thought made him look like he was having a fantastic time (and incidentally, didn’t he have a nice smile?).
Only when they realised that during their banter said chap’s eyes were flitting off somewhere to their right did these assembled women realise that it wasn’t their humorous prowess that made him lean so close, but rather somebody quite outside their cosy sphere. Gradually it dawned that this alpha-male spectacle was for somebody else completely: somebody these women had hitherto seen only as the spindly girl from the Castle, growing up quite unremarkably, minding her own business…To their enormous surprise, all this display was for – the Cook’s girl? It could be nobody else. Every male eye was - in between now-obviously-affected guffaws - following her progress down the dirt road between the stalls, as she picked an apple up here, fingered a little bracelet there, and stopped to pat the fruit-boy’s pony hello.

Totally oblivious of the disturbance she was causing, Rossa the Cook’s girl made her way towards the baker’s stall. As she came, the women too gazed at her, perplexed at this sudden change in the men-folk of their village. Had they gone mad? Rossa was only – only – they realised with a frown that Rossa was, in actual fact, sixteen years old. Time had passed, growing up had inevitably occurred, and they looked her up and down with fresh eyes. Indeed, there was the willowy frame, the slender waist and the creamy bosom that held undeniable appeal. A bosom! There were the dainty feet, the step light and free. So what? they asked themselves. Many girls in the village had good figures and a girlish gait. Yet, indisputably, Rossa was not like the other girls in the village. Somewhere in Rossa’s unknown history were some pretty good genes, not that these folk would have considered this. All they saw was the porcelain skin and the wide, turquoise blue, almond shaped eyes, fringed with the sort of sweeping dark lashes that would have earned her a Rimmel contract in no time, if only she had had the good sense to be born in a more commercial age. Cherry red lips complemented the gentle blush of her cheeks (not to mention the sharp cheekbones that, with her piercing eyes, gave her the look of an elegant and perceptive fox). To top it all, luxurious waves of rich red hair fell nearly to her waist, loosely swept off her face with a simple, delicate black leather band.
As the importance of what they saw sunk in, the women of Gerrion halted their faux-conversations with an abrupt cold-shoulder, and stalked off, damned if they were going to be used as props in a competitive game of ‘impress Rossa with who’s having the most fun’. Huddling together in little clumps, they whispered fiercely to each other, making sure it wasn’t just they who had just experienced such a discomforting sensation of irrelevance. If there was one thing these women were not having, it was being relegated to a collective second best by some red-haired whippet.
And from that morning onwards, when the foxy maiden ventured into town to do some little errand, and the men-folk sucked their tummies in and tried to make themselves seem more popular and aloof by corralling the nearest maiden into deep discussion, they would find themselves blanked embarrassingly and left standing on their own, muscles starting to burn with the effort of looking buff. And so, as we are introduced to our heroine on this particular morning, this embarrassing display is being played out as Rossa directed her steps to the Baker to pick up some supplies for the Cook.


To explain a little of Rossa’s situation, which will become important as the tale unfolds, this Cook was not, in fact, any relation of hers at all. One bitter winter’s day, fifteen and a half years ago, a small boy had stumbled out of the darkness of the forest, ice frosting his eyelashes and his lips blue. The Cook had sent a servant out to gather logs for the kitchen fire, and this lad had seen the small boy fall as he made the open field at the brink of the trees. Running over, he found the boy unmoving, and could not wake him. From his arms the servant gently drew a tiny bundle, wrapped thickly in rags, one of which the servant could see was the little boy’s own thin coat. Lifting the cloth from the face, the servant saw a tiny child, with a face puckered with cold, and topped with flaming red hair. The child tried to cry, but only a croak passed her lips. Gathering both infants to him, the servant left his logs and ran back to Gerrion Castle. A servant to the Cook - himself a servant to the kindly Sir Jordan, the Lord of the land the village lay on - he felt sure his master would allow the children to be tended to in the warmth of the kitchen. When he reached this snug and bustling place, he ran immediately to the spherical figure cut by the Cook as he leaned over an ever-bubbling cauldron of miscellaneous broth.
“Cook!” the servant gasped – he was only a scrawny boy of thirteen, and the children had grown heavy during his dash. “Cook! These children…I found them in the snow. I fear it is too late for one of them, but the other may have a chance yet.”
The Cook hurried to lift the children from the servant’s arms, and reassured him, “Armstrong, you did well to carry them here. Sit by the fire for a moment to warm yourself before you go back outside.”
Taking the two children, he saw quickly that Armstrong’s fears were founded, and laid the small boy gently on the ground in the snow, just outside the kitchen door. He turned his attention to the bundle that, by now, lay worryingly still on the scrubbed table in the centre of the large kitchen. Unwrapping the rags, he found a little girl, lying very quiet, with a surprisingly vibrant mop of red hair and distressingly blue hands, feet and lips. He held her to the warmth of his body, and carried her to the fireplace. Standing at a cautious distance from its flames, he gently rocked her until her limbs started to take on a more human hue. As she thawed, she began to grizzle, her eyelids flickering. Suddenly they flew wide open, at the same time as an impressively large “Scrawl!” bellowed from her tiny frame. Armstrong rushed over, delighted at her undeniable return to health, and the Cook beamed with relief. “Still alive then!” he laughed, the tension perceptively lifting from them both. The little girl had fallen into the right hands: there were many in the village who would have left the children to their frozen fate, seeing no inspiration in their often harsh lives to dole out such charity. The inhabitants of the Castle, however, lived more comfortable lives in the service of their wealthy master, and the Cook, in particular, was renowned as a soft touch for a top-up of meals, or five minutes in front of a roaring fire.
“What’s going to happen to her?” asked Armstrong, intimidated by the baby’s littleness, and by her still-complaining lungs.
“I’ll take her to Lord Jordan when the cold-tingles have worn off and she’s a bit more amenable. She’ll need someone to keep an eye on her, and I’ve an idea that he’ll not deny her the basics of life.”
And so he could not. The benevolent Lord freely gave the outspoken red-headed babe permission to be raised within the Castle walls, and she was doted upon by the Cook. Having never married or had children of his own, this man came to love the girl as fervently as if she were his own. Growing up with the other Castle children as her siblings, she proved her ability to stand up for herself from an early age, making the Cook smile to himself often as she fought off the boys her age and older with her brittle tongue and dry humour.
And the rest, I imagine, needs no explanation. She grew up well loved, and if I’m honest, probably a little bit spoilt. Not materialistically, you understand, although the Cook loved to buy her what he could with his limited earnings. He believed she was beautiful, as all parents do - even when she was genuinely aesthetically challenged in her early teen-years - bought her dresses when he could afford to, and told her she was worth two hundred of the local boys. So she grew up confident, which fortunately turned out to be well founded when she suddenly bloomed, at about fifteen. The Cook didn’t notice a thing; to him she’d always been a beauty. Beyond this was the fact that he refused to contemplate the notion that she would or could grow into a woman. He loved her so much he could never think of the day that she must leave him: so he simply didn’t. When other parents were casting eyes around the village to search for the most eligible young gent to whom they could flout the qualities of their progeny, the Cook encouraged Rossa to amuse herself as she always had in the Castle grounds, and colluded with her in her mocking rebuttals of anything resembling an approach by her contemporaries.
And so it came about that, although the Cook and the village women had been a bit slow to notice her transformation from teenage bean-pole to resplendent russet miss, others had certainly taken account of it.

On the day on which we meet her, Rossa was dressed in a shade of green that complemented what can, however gorgeous, be a difficult shade of hair to dress for. Though by no means lavish, her simple dress was cut flatteringly, and showed off her slender figure to good advantage, at least if one were to gauge by the reactions of the assorted male company. A narrow blue band the same colour as her eyes was tied around her waist. The bow holding it around her was coming loose, and she was being eyed by seven men, none of whom were in her appropriate peer-group, who were plucking up the courage to offer to re-tie it for her.
The majority of the female residents of Gerrion gritted their teeth and turned their backs on the men folk as the customary Rossa-reaction was put into play. I say the majority – all except one woman. This had been going on now for over six months, and this specimen of bile and envy was sick of it. Summoning her spiteful consorts to her side, she roused them in their resentment of this vision of youth and beauty. Taking the bait, they joined in with her muttering: they had had enough of being either ignored, mock-flattered, and made to feel ugly and old. As they ranted in their huddles, a change could be felt in the air. This would, they resolved, never happen again. She might be fair of face – but they were strong of will.
“Meagre little nobody!” Giralda, this embittered ring leader and the Butcher’s wife, hissed to Bertrana, her closest associate. “Who does she think she is, swanning down here, pretending she’s not trying to bewitch everyone with her tripping step and her swaying hips. Ladies, we’re going to have to do something about this. Rossa must be married off, or we’ll never get chatted up again!” (There probably would have been more ‘yea verily’s’ in this, I’m sure, but some things get lost in translation, so I shall paraphrase.)
Now, unfortunately for poor Rossa, Giralda may have looked like something swept off her husband’s shop floor, but she was not a woman to be trifled with lightly. The un-ordained queen of Gerrion, when Giralda hatched a plan her minions fell in step to implement it with her. To boot, she could be as wily as a cornered mongoose, and being trough-ugly had taught her to cultivate a slippery charm that had caught many a victim unawares.
These harpies set to a worrying whispering, the kind that portends an elaborate and crafty plan. Stray words could be caught: “decrepit”, “shuttered-in”, and “minx”. None of these were caught by Rossa, who was fending off the advances of four burly men trying to press their wares complimentarily on her, and so she missed the beginning of what would prove the turnpin of her life’s adventures.
“Matthew, seriously, I already have one. In fact I have two. I remember distinctly you told me last time that I needed another one and – what? No, no, I think two’s quite enough thank you, no-one needs more than that, I’ve not even got round to using either of my others – Jeremiah, what?! Ok, I’ll take it. Thank you, you’re very kind – no, I’m fine thank you, I’m busy. No, I’m busy this afternoon too. I don’t need any help, I’m quite alright on my own, I can carry everything. No, don’t take it, I said I’m fine, I – oh, Jeremy, look, you’ve dropped it! Seriously, no – leave it. It’s ok. Bye boys! I said goodbye, ok, bye now…”
As she made her way back up to the Castle, too flustered by inept attempts at flirtation even to notice them as such, she didn’t notice the keen eyes of suddenly-still woman following her out, narrowing in preparation of meddling…


The Cook was known by all to take his Sunday evenings in the local tavern, the Galloping Griffin. On these evenings, Sir Jordan took a simple meal of bread and a cup of wine in his rooms, to mark the Sabbath. The Cook made the most of these nights, making merry till the early hours – he was a popular man, and the village men welcomed his company on his rare free moments.
This particular Sunday evening, two days after the events just related, an unprecedented event occurred. At half past nine, when the men had relaxed into their drinking and their tales, the door swung open, to reveal – a woman! The Galloping Griffin had never had a woman through its doors in all the years it had been a reputable establishment, and the audacity of this dame threatened to undo the good name it harboured. Robert, the Griffin’s portly proprietor, stepped from behind the bar with a politely threatening demeanour. He stopped in his tracks as he realised it was Giralda’s bulk blocking the starlight, and re-evaluated his priorities.
“Don’t let me disturb you, gentlemen.” She piped regally. “My business is with only one of you.”
Walking over to the Cook, she bent and whispered in his ear. He rose nervously, and followed her to the bar.
“Have you a quiet room we may use for a discussion?” Giralda demanded.
“There’s the snug, around the corner – but this is very unusu –,”
He was cut off by the terrifying woman’s, “That’ll do. Much obliged.”
As if she were a regular, she padded through the room, taking no notice of the fallen jaws that she passed on all sides. The Cook trailed in her wake, paling visibly.
Ushering him into a dark corner, Giralda sat beside him, assuming what she evidently believed to be a reassuring smile. The Cook shrank into the hard wood behind him at her chilling grimace, and began to stutter, “G–G–Giralda…Butcher’s a good friend of m-m-mine, and I would never do anything to shame myself in his es-es-esteem…”
His words petered out under the heat of her gaze.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Sir. I mean nothing of that sort. I am here merely for your good – and for the good of your daughter…”
“Rossa?” The Cook cried in a voice husky with concern. “What about her? Is she in trouble?”
“Not yet. But she could soon be. Listen to me well, for what I have to say is a woman’s concern. I know that you have always done your best for the girl – and you have succeeded in creating a fine young woman. Too fine…perhaps. Your Rossa is in danger, man, and you are too close to her to be able to see it. That is why I have taken this difficult step, at the risk of my own reputation, to come into this place and warn you.
“Rossa has grown up. You may not see it, but the rest of us do. And, though you may think her beauty a boon, you do not see the path it is leading her down. Vanity! Lust! Shame! That is where your precious, as-yet-innocent girl is bound. And it is your urgent duty, as her father, to protect her.
“Rossa is at the age where she begins to take notice of…those who may have been heretofore unappealing. And, in this small community, a girl her age cannot be too vigilant! One step wrong, and she will be ruined – forever. No man will want her if she is even perceived as soiled. Harsh, but true. And, Sir, tongues are already beginning to wag…She walks out alone, un-chaperoned. She speaks to men, of all ages and stations. She begins to appear too free…You must take action now, before it is too late for her virtue!”
Here her voice rose from a hiss to a self-righteous clarion cry, and the poor Cook started almost off his seat. He had turned completely white, and looked to be on the verge of tears.
“I – I had no idea!” he wailed. “What have I done? She is but a little girl to me still, yet I see that in being so desirous to keep her a child, I may have forever ruined her womanhood!” He clutched at Giralda’s arm. “Tell me, oh tell me Giralda – what must I do?! I’ll do anything for her!”
Giralda looked on him with her icy eyes, and took his hand in hers. Staring into his frantic face, she intoned, in a deep and impressive voice:
“Marry her. Marry her to a respectable man – and soon.”
“Marry her off?” The Cook crumpled. “Is that the only way? Must I lose her?”
“Unless you want her to be destitute when you’re dead, then yes. There is no other way. A woman must have protection and security in this difficult world, and marriage is, unfortunately, pretty much the only option we’ve got going for us. It won’t be hard – she’s very beautiful, you’ll be able to get a good match for her. She will love you for it, I promise.”
“Who? Who is there worthy of my Rossa?”
“I’m glad you asked that.” Giralda settled in for more mischief-making.
“The house on the hill – the one second only to Sir Jordan’s Castle. Know you who abides there?”
“The big one by the river? Of course. That’s lived in by Osbert Grimbaldus. It has been since anyone here can remember – he must be nearly a hundred years old!”
“The very one. No man in this village would make more of a match for a girl like Rossa. She would be one lucky thing if she could call herself his wife.”
“But he’s ancient! He’s – no, that’s all wrong. Sorry, but that’s horrible. He’s twice my age!”
“Aah, my dear man…How little of women you know! Forgive me for pointing out, but I believe you have never been married? No, didn’t think so. Men and women…they are creatures of such opposites that you could not be expected to understand. While you may see Grimbaldus as a vile, twisted old relic, Rossa will see a fine, wise man, who has made a lavish and impressive life for himself. One who lacks only a beautiful young bride to make him complete. Her gentle heart will be touched by his until-now lonely existence, and her feminine sympathies will yearn to show him the love that has never yet touched his soul. She may complain – she may feign reluctance – but this is just how young girls work. We have had it drummed into us that we must not show affection until we are wed - anything else is just forward. She will be shy, and rightly fearful of showing her true feelings. She won’t want to hurt you by indicating that she has a fondness for anyone but yourself – but believe me when I say, it will be by these actions that you will be able to know her real emotions. He is a wonderful match for any woman, and one who will provoke the envy of every female in Gerrion. He is rich! That is the ultimate catch, trust me. You must approach him without delay, and propose your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“Really? There seems to be some sense in what you say…Rossa can be a little cold around the boys, but I thought that was just because she wasn’t interested in these things yet! Could it be shyness? How little I must know of women. You are right – my experience is pretty limited. Maybe there is wisdom to your plan. Do you really think this is the right match for her? Will it save her from disgrace?”
“Save her from disgrace? It will elevate her above any other woman in the village! The only way she could do better is by marrying Sir Jordan, and that’s out as his wife is in remarkably good shape for someone with seven children. No, mark my words, I show my tender regard for Rossa by proposing this match for her. I’d do it for any of my children, but I’ve only been blessed with boys. Trust me, the other woman are going to be furious – I know of at least three who have been eyeing Grimbaldus up since their girls were in the cradle, hoping for a union!”
“Well then,” the Cook said sadly, “This is a dismal night for me indeed. I thank you, kind woman, for your bravery in coming into this tavern to speak with me, and for your kindness in so selflessly advising me of the best means of securing my Rossa’s happy future.”
“The pleasure, believe me, has been all mine.” Giralda purred, laying her hand on the Cook’s arm and squinting into his eyes in a misguided attempt at a seductive attitude. “Any aid I can humbly give to a man so kind – and, may I say, so handsome – as yourself, is a delight to my womanly sensibilities.”
“Eh-hum,” the Cook coughed, twitchily smiling a nervous smile at her and shuffling away from her claw-like touch. “You’re – too kind. And now, if you excuse me, I feel quite out of sorts. I don’t think I’ll join the room again – I’ll just go out the back way. Um, see you Giralda. And thanks again.”
Hurrying out, he shuddered, both from the recent proximity to Giralda’s gnarly visage, and from the hideous premonitions he had which told him of the thorniness of the path he now felt certain he must take.


Whilst this miserable scene was being enacted, Rossa was not, as one may expect, tucked up warm and cosy in her fireside bed in the Castle. An hour previous to all of this, she had, indeed, been making her nightly preparations. Sat in front of the little glass in her small cubby-hole of a bedroom, she was brushing her hair and considering the day’s events. She was frustrated at herself for not having had more presence of wit in retort to the men who had accosted her in the marketplace, and was coming up with alternative remarks to tuck away for future use.
“Stupid girl!” She thought to herself. “Bye boys? Bye boys? What was I thinking? ‘Get your hands off me’, I should have said. ‘If I wanted your help or your conversation, I would have asked for it’ – that would have been more like it!”
Suddenly disrupted in these reveries by a quiet knock at the door, she started, and jumped up.
“Who is it?” She asked through the thick wood of the door. “I’m dressing for bed.”
“It is me, Bertrana. I am sorry to disturb you so late, Rossa, but I had to come now, when I would not be noticed. Will you let me in?”
Rossa wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and opened the door a crack. Bertrana’s wiry frame and horsey face came into view.
“Come in, Bertrana. I must say, this is an unexpected visit. There must be something wrong! Is all well with my father?”
“Don’t be afraid, nothing is wrong with him – yet. I hadn’t meant to get onto the subject so quickly, but since you brought it up…”
“Please, sit on the bed here. Sorry it’s a bit cramped.”
Bertrana sat, and Rossa placed herself by her, thoroughly perplexed. She had spoken to Bertrana about three times in her life, and that was merely a businesslike request for a side of beef, or a pork chop. She had never seen her as someone who would just pop round uninvited for a gossip, and felt on-edge and intrigued as a result. Her sense of apprehension increased as Bertrana drew a deep breath, and paused, as though what she were about to say had great gravity.
“Rossa,” she began. “I am well aware that you and I have never become good friends, or confidents. I am also aware that there are very few among the village who would count themselves as such to you. You - ,” here she looked to be choosing her words carefully, “You…keep to yourself. You seem not to confide in anyone. You are unlike the other young girls of the village, who consult us on matters that could be seen as…delicate, perhaps.”
“No,” Rossa replied, “I don’t really pass my time with the other girls. I feel uncomfortable with them, and their constant chatter about boys and fabrics. I’d rather spend my time here, with my imagination, and my father.”
“But that is just it, Rossa. The time has come, my dear…” Bertrana took Rossa’s hand, and the girl couldn’t help herself from flinching slightly at the patronising touch of the older lady’s cold, rough touch. “…The time has come to admit that you are no longer a girl, and that your father can no longer be the only man to whom you pay attention. I know it is a difficult time for any young person, but you are no longer a child. You are growing up into a fine – a beautiful – young woman. I have come here because, although we have not become close, you have no mother, nobody to tell you these things, and I believe (not alone amongst the village ladies, may I add…) that it is my duty to tell you the things that you do not want to think, and your father cannot inform you of. It is time, Rossa, to grow up.”
“What of it?” Rossa replied, unable to keep the surly tone from her voice. “What of growing up? I can do that just fine without you telling me of it! That, I believe, is something about which I have no choice at all! I won’t grow up just because you tell me I have to!”
“Yes, my dear, you must grow up, whether you like to or not. However, I am not here to tell you that. I am here to tell you of the manner in which you must do it – or both you and your father will be ruined.”
Rossa had closed up after her outburst, her face drawn and sullen, her arms wrapped defensively around her body. At this mention of her father they unlocked, and she drew her shawl to her mouth.
“R – ruined? I could not ruin my father – I would never do such a thing!” she cried, horrified.
“Of course you would not…deliberately. But all of us, during our lives, may do terrible things without meaning to, only because we had no-one to point out our folly to us.”
“Tell me! Tell me what you mean, and how I may avert it!” By now Rossa was really listening, agitated and impatient.
“My dear, your father is no real father to you. You know that as well as anybody here. The tragic circumstances of your arrival in Gerrion are known by all. He did not have to take you in, he did not have to rescue you. Nobody would have thought ill of him if he had seen fit to leave you, helpless young babe as you were, to fend for yourself. But he accepted you into his arms like his own child, without a thought for his own good, or for his needs. He raised you, fed you, clothed you – and him only a cook! He thought not of finding himself a wife, or having his own family, but devoted himself to you. We, on the outside, have seen this. To you – it is your life. It must seem natural that he did these things. But believe me when I say, they were a great act of kindness.”
“I know, I know – I am grateful! I love him more than anything. But where is the fault? What is the problem?!”
“I will tell you, have patience. Rossa – you are grown. You are a woman, and as a woman…you should begin thinking of his needs, not just your own. You should be finding your own way in the world, not expecting your poor father to provide for you forever! How do you think he will continue to pay for you? He is no longer a young man, no doubt he dreams of rest, and leisure. But he will never have those luxuries, not whilst he has a hungry young lady to feed, and one whom he must dress at her best now she is a woman. He must toil, night and day, to keep you healthy and warm. Rossa, it is your turn to be dutiful now. You must do your best to provide for him, to repay him for all the kindness he has shown you.”
“How? How will I do this? I have no money, no land, no talents to earn a wage!” Rossa looked tearful at the thought of her selfishness, and of the Cook, working hard so she may have a life of plenty and of enjoyment.
“You must earn your way in the world the only way we women can. You must marry, and you must marry well. You are young, vivacious, beautiful. You can capture the heart of any man you desire.”
“Marry?! Me? But – but – I don’t know any men! Who will I marry! And – oh, I don’t know anything about men, or how to act as a wife. I don’t even like men!”
“No doubt your father has been thinking of this, as any loving father will. It is the dearest wish of every other young girl in this village to find herself a husband, and of course he will believe you to be no exception. In his dear love for you, no doubt he is searching this minute for the best, wealthiest and most venerable match for you.”
“My father has never given any intimation of such a search, he has never shown any signs of desiring me to marry. Perhaps he has no such wish!”
“I assure you, he will be looking. No doubt he wishes to give you a wonderful surprise when he is successful, and delight you with the honour of being able to accept the finest gentlemen he can find. Now, listen dear. This is very important. Let me tell you something that most young girls like yourself find hard to believe. When your father does find you a future husband, you must accept him. You must not question him – to do that would be to question your father’s sense, taste and love for you. No – you must accept, and with grateful thanks. You would not be able to find a man more suitable than the one your father finds you, he who knows the village men so much more intimately than you do, and who has only your best interests at heart. And here’s another thing – you will not want the man at first. No woman loves her husband when she marries him, but she says her vows with a wide smile on her face, and a lightness of heart that comes from knowing she is making her father proud, that she will be able to provide for him in his old age, that she will no longer be a burden upon him, and that she may soon devote herself to a worthy new life, working hard to ensure she is as dutiful as possible to her new husband. This is the path you must take, the path that you will take if you truly love your father and want to make him happy, and his last days on this earth as pleasant as they may be.”
Rossa sat, pale, calm and completely miserable, with her hands folded in her lap. She stared at the stone floor in front of her, her long lashes down-cast, and her lovely brow drawn with worry. Gently, she replied to Bertrana, “Then that is the path I shall take. Thank you Bertrana, for showing me how childish and thoughtless I have been. I owe you my father’s happiness. I will be forever grateful to you from tearing from me the conceited veil of girlhood, and illuminating me with the responsibilities of womanhood that I must, hereafter, bear. Now, please, I am weary. Please let me rest, and prepare myself for my new future.”
Quietly, Bertrana left the room, pulling the door closed behind her. Standing outside it for a moment, she smiled to herself as she heard the heartfelt sobs of our gullible protagonist. They meant she had believed every word spun by this malicious woman, who turned and left through the darkness of the Castle kitchens, satisfied that their plan was well laid.


Creeping away from the heavy walls, Bertrana made her way to a darkened copse of trees, halfway between the Castle and the village. Reaching the first tree, she called, in a low voice, “Giralda! Cristina! Matild!”
Out of the darkness came three familiar figures to greet her. The tallest, Giralda, questioned her, “Did you succeed? Did she believe you?”
“Every word.” replied Bertrana. “I left the little brat sobbing herself to sleep – she genuinely believes that she will be her father’s downfall if she doesn’t marry who he pleases! And with you, Giralda – did all go well?”
“It is my expectation that Master Osbert Grimbaldus will be receiving an unexpected visit from our Lord’s Cook within the week. A masterful plan! I’ve done particularly well this time, if I say so myself. Rossa will be married off to Grimbaldus, the old codger will be so disgustingly happy to have such a little cherry-pie of a plaything that he’ll refuse to let her out of his sight. When the novelty wears off, he’ll remember anew that he’s a hundred and four, and that if he lets said cherry-pie anywhere near another male she’ll be after him like a fox after a rabbit. Torn apart by jealousy and paranoia at the idea of being made a cuckold, he’ll never allow her to leave that great creepy house of his. And lo! She will never mince around the village again and we will never have to be witness to every fellow in the neighbourhood drooling over her sultry figure! What a brilliantly simple yet impressively devious scheme!”
And so we will leave them, rolling around under the moonlit trees with wicked laughter and abominable mirth, because the sight of their self-congratulation is quite revolting to have to behold.


For a fortnight after this fateful night, Rossa and her father continued their existence as before, each making efforts not to reveal to the other the well of sadness and fear that plumbed deep inside them. Rossa would not have noticed the extra care and attention her father lavished upon her, or a new unwillingness to let her leave his side, as she was paying the same attentions in return. Each had a desperate sense of impending tragedy, a forced and regretful parting that they now firmly believed must be made in order to save the other. Rossa made no more trips to the village, sending Armstrong instead, taking any excuse not to have to leave the smoky kitchen and the Cook.
Finally, the long-dreaded day dawned, as all long-dreaded days unfortunately must. The Cook drew Rossa to one side, and bid her go and put on her best dress, and brush her hair well, “For we have to lunch a very special guest.”
Doing as she was bidden, Rossa felt a dark hand of grief and fear extend its fingers from her stomach to her throat, and begin its inexorable tightening. Clad in a sky-blue dress that made the blue of her eyes seem as jewels, her hair she held back with a matching ribbon. Standing in the middle of her bedroom, she took in a long breath, and drew herself up tall. Releasing the breath, she arranged her face into the most gay and pleasant smile she could muster, gripped the door handle with purpose, and commanded an illusory lightness of step as she made her way to the dining hall.
This was the first time she had ever eaten in this great hall, but she felt no sense of excitement. The Cook had approached Sir Jordan, and entreated him to allow Rossa, Osbert Grimbaldus and himself to make use of it for this one, crucial occasion.
“Master Grimbaldus has been so magnanimous as to show an interest in my wonderful daughter, and I do believe there could be the opportunity for a match that would ensure Rossa’s happiness for the rest of her life.”
Sir Jordan, himself in a happy marriage with a lady of some fewer years than himself, said that as he was away from the Castle that week, they may make use of the room as long as the Cook provided all nourishment and candles from his own pocket.
“Of course, my Lord. You are most kind. Both myself and Rossa will own you a great debt of gratitude if the match is made.”
And so Rossa entered the room, a radiant smile all that was holding back the tears she could so easily have shed. As delicate and bright as a hummingbird, Osbert took one look at this flame-haired vision, and his heart was no longer his. This, as you will learn, was pretty impressive, and no ordinary falling in love. Rossa, on the other hand, took one look at her prospective husband and had to restrain herself from turning on a sixpence and fleeing the building. Had her father gone mad?
Sat at the table was the oldest man in Gerrion: not only that, but without doubt the maddest. The only time he was seen by the villagers was when he made his way down to church once a week, carried in a litter. Not a word had he ever said to a soul; not a look, not a smile had he ever given. Those who worked for him in his large house wouldn’t say a word about him – they were too afraid. No visitors ever came or went from his home, and only one light was ever lit at night, in an upstairs window. This light remained lit always; it was never extinguished during the night. The villagers said that he had led so wicked a life that he was too afraid to be alone in the dark with his memories. All that was known about him was that he was unimaginably rich. Small, brave boys who crept up to the house and peered through the windows reported finery the likes of which they had never believed possible – a table of solid gold, and vases of glittering crystal. All was kept in the tightest of order, with not a speck of dust to be seen on these riches, and not a soul ever spotted to enjoy them. Yet it was not this that frightened the villagers the most. What prompted the rumours of devilry was that Osbert Grimbaldus had lived in the village for at least fifty years, and perhaps for fifty before that - no-one could attest to it. And for fifty years he had been an old man. By all the rules of nature, he should have been dead long ago – yet he continued to live, and though ancient and crumbling, showed no signs of losing his grip on life yet. People said he had sold his soul to the Devil in return for eternal life, but had neglected to ask for eternal youth. That he would just decay over hundreds of years, without the ability to take death’s release. People said all sorts of things. Every now and then in the Galloping Griffin, somebody would partake overly enthusiastically of Robert’s potent ale and boast that he would break into the Grimbaldus house to kill the old man and have done with it – but when day dawned, no man had ever had the courage to set foot near the gates.

Back to the Castle. Rossa curtsied to the gentlemen, and took her seat opposite Osbert. So old he was hunched low over the table, he lifted his pale eyes to hers. By now her smile was becoming a little fixed, as she took in his brown spotted skin, papery with age. It was so thin and transparent on his hands she felt sure she could see the blood moving sluggishly in the veins. His bones were gnarled and the joints swollen. His wispy white hair crowned only his ears, while his pate bent over his soup bowl was grey, mottled and bald.
Though almost devoid of colour, Rossa could see that his eyes had once been blue, like hers. His eyebrows were long and silver, and his face looked almost folded in on itself, so gnarled by age was he. He made to speak, and was racked with a long cough before he could summon the words.
“So, Rossa,” he creaked. “I have seen you, of course, in church of a Sunday morning. Your father here was telling me about you, but I feel I would like to hear something with your own voice. Tell me about yourself - what you like to do, who you’d like to be.”
Rossa was taken aback by this strange opening to a conversation. She felt exposed, under scrutiny. Who she wanted to be? Until a fortnight ago she had barely given it a thought. Yet, then the answer had been wrung from her. Should she answer with honesty, or should she say what he wanted to hear? She decided on the latter. If this was the match her father had chosen for her, then she must do as she was instructed, and please him so he would want to be her husband.
“I’m not wholly sure what I could say to interest you, Sir,” she began, with a modesty that felt false to her. Of course she could interest him, she thought to herself! She was young, energetic, enthusiastic. What could he say or do to interest her - that was the real question!
“I live quite quietly. I like being in the open air, I like to walk in the grounds. I do not meet very much with others my own age (that should please him, she thought!), I find I have little in common with them. I would like to be somebody I can be proud of. I want to do my duty to those who love me, and to God.”
“I see.” Osbert narrowed his eyes and fixed Rossa with a stare most piercing for one so infirm. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, wondering what he was looking at – or for.
Lunch was pretty awkward. Conversation topics didn’t exactly flow, and the Cook spent most of the time desperately filling silences that the other two diners didn’t seem able to fill. Rossa was trying too hard to force her food down, and Grimbaldus didn’t seem to have the energy to make much conversation viable. When dessert had finally been swallowed, Grimbaldus placed his spoon down deliberately, and turned to the Cook.
“Sir, I thank you for an excellent meal, and for fine conversation. May I be so bold as to speak with your lovely daughter for a short time, unaccompanied?”
The Cook looked over at Rossa, who nodded her head almost imperceptibly. Here it comes, thought she. The end of my life. As he walked by her, her father touched her shoulder briefly, and she clasped her hand over his, giving it a fierce squeeze. The door closed behind him with the finality of death.
“I thank you for bestowing your company upon us two old men for this time,” Grimbaldus began, breathing the words out heavily.
“The pleasure was mine,” Rossa replied quietly.
“Pardon? You’ll have to speak up, my hearing’s not as sharp as it could be.”
“The pleasure was mine!” she cried once more.
“Oh. You’re very graceful.” He paused, as if unsure how to continue.
“Rossa. I feel sure that it will not have escaped your notice that I am somewhat more advanced that you are in years. Don’t reply – please, let me finish.
“I have lived a long life…so very long. Although I may seem old and wretched, I feel sure I have many years in me yet. Of late, in fact for very many years, my life has had little joy, but then that is neither more nor less than I deserve. I have made no steps to make it joyful. I have held out no hope for pleasure, or for any scrap of happiness so long as my days may continue. I do not tell you this to make you feel pity for me, I simply try and make you see my position.
“I have lived alone in my lavish house since long before you were born, and I take no pleasure in that for which I once gave everything up to earn. Gold is but lead to me, diamonds are but dirty grey pebbles, and I can no longer remember why these things once held such value to me – such terrible consequence!”
Grimbaldus had straightened up as much as he could, and an odd light burned in his opalescent eyes. His weak voice was lifted, reedy and thin, but passionate.
“Until your father came to me four days ago, my life was as empty as I had feared my soul had become. He spoke to me of your beauty, of your vitality, and of your charm. I came here through curiosity: it has been many years since I had a visitor, let alone one who proposed to me the idea of marriage. Marriage. These things once seemed to me as pitiful as slavery, and as false as the jewels of the stage. I believed all men who married to be fools, absurd fools who shackled themselves to a pathetic, feeble woman who wanted nothing from them except their wealth. Now I see that it was me who was the fool. It is wealth that is empty, valueless, and love that is all that feeds the soul and stops it becoming a hollow void, to be filled with greed, conceit and vacant gratifications. My soul was not even such as this – such gratifications lost their lustre long ages ago, and not even I was so sunken as to be able to feel conceit for a man such as I have become. My soul was simply empty, and empty is how I sat down to lunch at this table.
“Like a starving man whose stomach feels pain at the first morsel of food he takes, so my soul cried out in anguish when my eyes beheld you. The torturous recognition of all that has been lost for so many years, all that I have rejected, and been banished from! Like a drop of water onto the dry cracks of a desert, I feel your presence has the power to rejuvenate me, to fill the void which for so many years has gaped in my blackened heart.
“Rossa, I fear to ask you for your hand in marriage. If you feel you can never love me, I beseech you to reject me, for by accepting this bond, I will be casting you to a life of such terrible emptiness as I have lived. If you feel though, that you may, in some far-reaching corner of your generous heart, be able to foster so much as a fondness for an ancient such as myself, then I assure you that I have a lifetime of selfishness to atone for, and I will expend my last breath in labouring for your happiness.”
These words painstakingly uttered, Osbert sank as if exhausted in his high-backed chair; yet his eyes never left Rossa’s face. She had sat silently throughout this speech, and knew not how to take it. Of course she would accept him, she already knew that – for her father’s sake. She did not know yet if she could ever feel more than repulsion for him, but his heartfelt words had touched her, and she found herself looking at him with an unexpected feeling of respect. Though the vice-like grip of tragedy still held her heart in thrall, she rose from her chair, and made her way around the table to stand before Grimbaldus. She took his hand in hers, and hers shook. She could feel every sinew, every fold of dry, parched skin, but she held it to her lips, and sunk down on her knees before him.
“Sir, your honesty does you great credit, but you needn’t fear. It would be an honour for me to accept you as my husband.”
With these words, she felt as if a curtain had come down around her life, hemming it in on all sides. Her boundaries of happiness were shrunk to nothing, but she took comfort from the manner in which she would be able to provide for her father: he could have a wing of her new house, he could stop working. He could take his leisure, and live a comfortable old age.


The wedding preparations came and went in a daze for Rossa. The nuptials took place two weeks after their lunch, with very little pomp or ceremony. The Cook and Rossa were too miserable to care much about flowers or other ceremonial decoration, and Osbert couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Rossa’s simple beauty spoiled, as he saw it, by the brashness of jewels and silks. Rossa was surprised at how many people came to watch her become a wife: most of the village turned out, with Bertrana and Giralda sat in the very front row, laughing all the way through. Many of the men, she noticed, looked considerably less merry, and she distinctly saw one or two of the younger ones with curiously bright eyes. She was not in the mood to pay too much attention to these things however, as she walked toward her aged fiancée, forever to bind herself to him.
A simple lunch was had by all, provided by the Galloping Griffin, on the village green. Osbert returned home after several minutes, tired by the activities of the day, after taking his leave of his new young bride with a chaste kiss to the hand.
Rossa sat by her father, neither touching a morsel of food, half-listening to congratulations from well-wishers. Weak attempts at smiles were made, and thanks were given. After she had made the most of the repast on offer, Giralda approached them, all mirth and joy.
“My dear child, you look quite ravishing! So delicate in your simplicity of attire, I do envy you. A wife! My, my, and what a match! The richest gentleman in the village, all to yourself! How overcome with elation and gratitude you must be!”
“Thank – gratitude? I suppose I am grateful to Osbert for choosing me to be his bride.”
“And grateful to your father, dear child, for orchestrating such a match for you – how much he must love you to have gone to such efforts!”
“Yes, it is a wonderful match. I am so lucky to have such a loving father.”
When all had left, Rossa turned to her father and hugged him tightly. Breaking away reluctantly, she told him, “Now I am married to such a wonderfully rich man, father, we need never be parted. You can come and live in Osbert’s large house with us, and I can take care of you into your old age. You need not toil so hard at the Castle – you may come to live in comfort with me, and we can keep each other company as we always have.”
The Cook looked at her in surprise.
“But, Rossa – I love being a cook! I have always been a cook, I can’t imagine what I would do were I to stop cooking. And Sir Jordan, who has always been so kind to us – how would I leave him without anyone to serve his meals to him. That would be most ungrateful of me! No, sweetheart, I intend to keep cooking until my legs give way beneath me. But that needn’t mean we don’t see each other often – you may come to the Castle as a fine lady now, and I may come to your large house, and we can see each other whenever we please.”
“I’d rather come as myself, father. Just as myself, as I have always been. You know I have no love for riches and finery, I would rather live simply, as I am used to. But tell me something – you have no wish to cease cooking?”
“No, Rossa, none at all – I am a Cook, that is who I am.”
“So, it wasn’t for me that you continued to work so hard? It wasn’t to provide for me? You would continue to work nonetheless?”
“Well, of course my first thought has always been to provide for you, but I have been blessed in that my means of doing that has always been such a joy to me.”
“So - ,” Rossa’s voice sank very small, “So, I didn’t need to marry Osbert to prevent my being a burden upon you?”
“A burden?! My child, you were never, have never and could never be anything but the finest point of my existence. No indeed: marrying Osbert was, I was assured, the height of ambition, the finest match that could be made for you. As a young girl, you were, of course, desirous to be a bride. I couldn’t hold you back from your heart’s deepest desires!”
“Who told you these things, father? Who spoke on my behalf about matters of which they know nothing?” Rossa felt a dark core of fury melting within her, as she realised that they had been toyed with – for what purposes she knew not.
“Why, Giralda! She came to me one evening, and spoke to me for your good. She was most concerned – about your reputation, about your future happiness. She recommended Grimbaldus as the finest husband that could be found for you, and one who would make your forever happy. Is it not true, Rossa? Will you not be happy? Have I chosen wrongly?”
Looking into her father’s face, Rossa realised that if she told him the truth, that his match-making had abandoned her to a life devoid of love and satisfaction, the guilt would crush him. She couldn’t do it; she couldn’t tell him what she so strongly suspected: that, for some reason, her marriage had been orchestrated by those who had very little concern for her happiness, and her father had been used as a pawn in a wicked game. She took her father’s hands in hers, and held them to her.
“No, father. You have done me a great service. You have found me a kind, respectable, wealthy man, who I have no doubt that I will be eternally happy with.”
Taking her leave of him, Rossa climbed onto a horse that was brought to her by one of Osbert’s servants, and guided by this servant, she rode to her new house, to enter it as its mistress.


The great door was pushed open, and she stepped into the huge, marble-cold entrance hall. Ahead of her were a wide set of stairs, and up these the servant lead her. Turning left at the top of the stairs, they passed great paintings hanging either side of her on the walls of the corridor. The servant showed her, silently, to a room on the right. She entered to find a large, opulent bedroom, candles flickering in their holders set into the walls. The room was dominated by an imposing double bed, covered by heavy drapes to keep the chill draughts away from its sleeping inhabitant. Pulling these back, Rossa lay herself down upon the blankets, and, curling up into a little ball, cried herself to sleep.


She was woken in the morning, cold and stiff, by the hand of a servant. Looking up, she saw a middle-aged lady, looking down upon her with concerned eyes. Rossa sat up quickly, wiping her face with her hands, and realised she must look as bad as she felt.
“The master has instructed me to help you into your new things,” said this lady to Rossa, while indicating a lovely navy-blue dress that was laid out on a chest to the side of the door.
“Thank you, but I can manage.”
“As you wish. I’ll wait outside the door. If you need assistance, just call.”
Rossa picked up the dress. It was beautiful – simple and tasteful. No embellishment. It was as if Osbert knew her tastes intimately.
Dressing quickly, she splashed her face with some cold water that filled a basin by the window, and opened the door to find the servant still waiting.
“I’m to show you to the breakfast room.” She said this as if it were grand news, and Rossa suddenly felt like laughing. This rigid politeness, this attention – she thought it ridiculous, and hoped it wouldn’t be a permanent feature of her new life.
Entering the breakfast room, Rossa saw Osbert already sat, waiting for her before he began his own breakfast.
“Good morning Rossa,” He greeted her, politely.
“Good morning, Sir.”
She sat opposite him, and was served her food.
“Did you sleep well?” Osbert asked, although his room was next to hers, and he had lain awake all night listening to her sobbing.
“Quite well, thank you. I trust you did also?”
“Thank you, quite well.”
They sat in silence for a minute, apart from assorted breakfast-eating noises.
“Thank you for the dress, it’s lovely” Rossa said, at the same time as Osbert came out with, “Is there anything you would like to do today?” Awkwardly, they answered each other simultaneously:
“You’re welcome, it looks as good on you as I thought it would.”
“I thought I might take one of the horses for a ride.”
They laughed – a sound which broke the atmosphere like a rainstorm after an electric build-up. One a light, melodic giggle, the other a rasping, breathy chuckle.
“Do you like to ride?” Osbert asked her.
“Very much. I’ve always wanted my own horse.”
“There are a few in the stables, some fine beasts. I’ve always loved horses myself, always taken a great interest in their care and rearing. Take a look, see if there are any that appeal while we find you one for your own.”
“That sounds wonderful, I will. You – um, you don’t ride any more, I take it?”
Rossa felt oddly graceless bringing up the matter of his great age.
“I rode for as long as I could. Sadly those days are over now. Perhaps one day though I might again - ,” he broke off, as if he had said too much. Rossa looked down, wondering why he would ever dream that he might again be able to take up such an active pastime.
“I’ll get someone to show you to the stables – but first you’ll need a riding habit I believe. I’m not too versed in the matter of young ladies fashions, but I don’t believe you can go out in that gown.”
“No, you’re probably right! That’s a shame.” She felt uncomfortable bringing up the matter of money: he was her husband, but he felt like a stranger.
“Just tell the seamstress that I’ll pay her another time, she has my guarantee. Do come and show me when you’ve had it made, I’d love to know what modern riding garb looks like.”
Leaving the house, Rossa felt ever so slightly lighter than when she had woken up. The immovable grief seemed less heavy this morning, and she felt glad to be out of doors. Making her way to the seamstress in the village centre, she passed Giralda and Bertrana, and smiled brilliantly at them. The looks on their faces eradicated any doubt she may have felt about the existence of a malicious plot. But why? she wondered. What can they have imagined would happen to her – and why can they have wanted to hurt her? Tripping unselfconsciously through the lanes of Gerrion in her fine new dress, trailing admiring glances, Rossa reached the seamstress and placed her order for a good warm riding habit. The seamstress, Margareta, was a close friend of Bertrana’s, and knew all about the plot that they had thought had worked so well. Alarmed at the unexpected appearance of one who was supposed to be forever locked up under the eye of a terrifying and devilish old man, she was flustered, dropped her sewing and pricked herself with her needle.
“You look very fine, Miss – Mrs – Rossa. Very fine indeed. Being a wife must suit you!” she gabbled.
“Thank you. It’s early days yet, but my husband and I are very happy together.” She knew this account would reach back to Bertrana, and therefore Giralda, and so added, “I am so grateful to my good friends for making all this happen for me. I don’t know what I would have done without them.”
“Indeed…indeed…very good friends…” muttered Margareta nervously.
On her return from the village, Rossa decided to have a walk around the gardens of the house before going back inside. They were wonderfully kept, with an abundance of colourful flowers, particularly roses. Walking down a well-tended path, she came upon the stables, neat and tidy, with four sleek horses to greet her, muscular and shining. Smiling, she approached one, and was petting it when she saw movement in the far stable. “Hello? Osbert?” She called out, and in reply heard a scuffling, a heavy thump, and a groan. Running over, she saw Osbert lying in a heap on the straw, struggling to rise. “Osbert!” she cried, pushing the door open and racing to help him up. “What on earth were you doing?!”
“Oh, what? Um, nothing. Nothing. Just being silly. A silly old man, nothing at all,” he jabbered, seeming very embarrassed and bothered. Looking at the horse, who regarded them with an air of surprise, Rossa realised that it was tacked up as if to go for a ride.
“Osbert, were you trying to mount this horse?” she enquired in astonishment.
“Erm, well…perhaps, just a little bit,” the old man admitted, looking at the floor and shuffling his feet like a schoolboy.
“Why were you trying to mount this horse? You’re not fit enough for this type of thing! You said yourself that you haven’t been able to ride for ages!”
“Well, it’s, er, it’s silly really. I just thought that, you know – if you got a horse and went riding all the time, it might be quite nice it – well, if we could go together. So I thought that if I came in here and tried to get a bit of practice in, then I might be able to…” he tailed off, embarrassed under her gaze.
“Osbert, that’s very sweet of you, but I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself just so we can go riding together. There are plenty of other things we can do together. Like…like…” she searched her brain desperately for an activity that a man who looked over a hundred years old and a sixteen year old girl could happily enjoy. “Like painting! Do you paint?” She had never painted in her life, but it was the best she could come up with.
“Painting. I suppose we could paint together, that might be nice. I’ve never painted in my life, but you’re never too old to give something a go I suppose.”
She helped him into the house, smiling to herself. “I’ll go and buy some painting materials this afternoon.”

That afternoon, as she made her way back into the village, Rossa thought back on the events of the morning. She was, she admitted it, very touched by the ridiculous stunt Osbert had pulled. Silly old man, indeed, she thought to herself. A gentleman though. As long as he doesn’t try and kiss me, this might not be as bad as I thought. And it can’t be forever – he’s ancient! Nobody lives forever…She felt suddenly bad thinking that way, and realised that she did have a certain fondness for Osbert. Though it’s not exactly who I had ever thought of marrying, she reminded herself grimly. Rossa Grimbaldus. Not the most delicate of names to be shackled to, and not the most desirable of men.


The afternoon and evening passed without event. Rossa showed her purchases off to Osbert, and they arranged to go the next day and attempt to paint the Castle, which they could see well from a field in the house grounds. During dinner they talked of her life growing up in the Castle, and of her father. Osbert asked her many questions, seeming completely absorbed by her tales of what she saw as banality – of playing in the Castle grounds, of saving the kitchen kittens from a drowning, of running errands for the meals to be cooked by her father. He was attentive and polite, and seemed to want nothing more than just to listen to her talk, and stare at her radiant face. At the end of the meal, he rose before her and helped her from her chair – a gesture which owed more to chivalry than practicality, since Osbert would be completely incapable of helping Rossa anywhere should she actually need it.
They walked up the sweeping stairs together, and towards their bedrooms. At her door he took her hand in his, and raised it to his lips for a kiss, before bidding her goodnight and entering his own room.
That night Rossa cried herself to sleep, not this time because she was so miserable at being with Osbert, but because she missed her father so much. Nevertheless, she woke feeling more refreshed when the same servant came to rouse her.
“What is your name, please? Do excuse me that I didn’t ask yesterday, I wasn’t myself.”
“Isabel, ma’am.”
“Please, my name’s Rossa. I’m not used to being waited on. Do call me Rossa.”
“As you wish, Rossa.”
There was another dress laid out for her: this time a rustic brown with lace at the collar. She put it on, and made her way down to breakfast.
“Good morning!” she greeted Osbert, so much more brightly than yesterday. “You look well this morning!”
“So do you, my dear. I thought that dress would be appropriate if you are to sit on the ground to paint – it won’t be spoiled.”
 Rossa looked at Osbert more closely. He did indeed look well – there was a freshness to him that had not been there yesterday. Difficult to put the finger on, but definitely there. An almost imperceptible rosiness to the skin, a certain brightness to the eye. She put it from her mind. He was still ancient, he had obviously just slept well.
They spent the day in painting, coming into the house for luncheon and to review their work so far. Rossa got a fit of giggles over one of Osbert’s paintings of Armstrong, who had spotted them and come to see what they were doing.
“He looks…like…Giralda!” she gasped, in between fits of laughing.
“Not Giralda!” Osbert had cried, mock-distraught at this most heinous of criticisms over any representation of the human body.


And so, gradually, the first month of Rossa’s married life played itself out. Nothing too unusual, no wild gestures or frenzied embraces. In fact, the freshest that Osbert ever acted was in the nightly kiss to Rossa’s hand before he left her at the door of her room, as if he knew full well how repulsive he must be to one so young and winsome as his bride. Most mornings there was a new dress for her to wear, carefully chosen, and never too fussy. When her riding habit came back from Margareta, she put it on and ran to show Osbert, performing a graceful twirl to show his present off in the best aspect. From then on, she took a daily ride, and it became one of her greatest pleasures. Yet, her life was not so devoid of pleasure as she had supposed it would be. Osbert proved himself to be a courteous and lively conversationalist, ensuring he gently explained to her that knowledge which extensive years had taught to him. He taught her to write, and to read, and took pride in sourcing her books – which, back then, were extremely expensive and pretty hard to come by. But Osbert seemed to know everybody, and every way of making things happen, as if he had been alive for ever, and travelled everywhere…
As the days passed, Rossa found that fondness which she had felt the tiny spark of, back in the very early days, was growing into a genuine affection. And something stranger seemed to be happening. She had heard the saying that a young bride gives new life to an old man, but in her case, it seemed to be literally true. Each day that passed, Osbert seemed actually to be growing a tiny bit, a minute bit younger. Nonsense, she thought to herself, when she noted this trick of whatever it was. It must simply be the new spark of life that an old man has gained after being so very lonely for so very long.
Yet, when her father came to visit, as he did several times a week, Rossa caught him, too, looking at Osbert with a strange intensity, as if scrutinising him for something. Finally, at the passing of this month, Rossa sat alone with her father.
“Father,” she began, “I was wondering if you had noticed anything – different – about Osbert?”
The Cook looked at her, as if calculating what she meant.
“Different?” he asked, finally.
“Different, as in…less ancient.”
“It’s funny you should say so, Rossa. I had been thinking the very same thing. It seems as if the years are backing away from him. You must be an excellent wife – you’re bringing an old man back to life!”
“He’s a pretty good husband. He’s very thoughtful.” If only those years would really fall away, she added to herself.


One evening, some days later, Rossa and Osbert were sat down to dinner.
“May I ask you something?” Rossa enquired.
“Anything, my dear. I can deny you nothing.”
“Why, all this time when you lived alone, when you said yourself that you took no pleasure in anything, why did you keep your house and your gardens so well? Many men would have just let things go to ruin.”
Osbert paused in his eating, arrested. His smile left him, and his eyes dimmed.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Rossa said, seeing the effect her question had had upon him.
“No. It’s a reasonable question, and I promised I would answer you. It’s just that – while the question may be a simple one, the answer is anything but. And I am afraid that it will give you a glimpse of the man I am ashamed to have once been. Nevertheless, I will tell you, and hope that honesty will invoke your forgiving nature to be my shield.
“Once, many years ago, before I came to live in Gerrion, I was loved by a beautiful woman. Her name was Lucia, and she was the daughter of a Duke. She loved me very much, and I loved her beauty. I felt fine with her on my arm – but, as I told you before, I thought marriage was for fools. Everybody, including Lucia, believed us to be betrothed, and I let them. She loved roses, so I ordered them to be grown in abundance throughout the grounds of my house. Lucia loved me so much, she would have done anything for me. Eventually, after two years, her father came to me, and asked me when I intended to make Lucia my bride. I was arrogant then, so arrogant. I believed nothing could touch me, or do me harm. I replied to him, Duke though he was, that I never intended to marry her.
“I ruined her. Everybody had seen us together, everybody had known about her love for me. No other man would take on a lady who had so publically loved another, and her father and family were so enraged that they rightly drove me out of town, and I never went back. I thought little of it for some years, until suddenly, my life changed out of all recognition. I became old. Someday, perhaps, you will understand. With this, eventually, came a wisdom that showed me the full gravity of what I had done, and I tried to find her again, to make up for my actions in whatever little way I could. Travelling back to where we had known each other, I got as far as the neighbouring town, where I met her brother. He told me, with fury in his eyes, that Lucia – Lucia had died, a year after I left, of a broken heart. I had killed the only woman who had ever loved me. The guilt – oh, Rossa, the guilt! I could never take that back. The foolish actions of an arrogant young man had done irreparable damage, and I could never change that. From then on, it seemed to me that if I could somehow make another woman love me like Lucia had done, and if I could treat her as I would give anything to be able to treat Lucia, then somehow, some part of what I did to her would be repaid. I know it’s foolish, and it doesn’t assuage my guilt at all – but it became habit. I made my house beautiful, I did my best to make it as I imagined a woman would be pleased with, and I tended my garden myself. I filled it with roses – always, wherever I’ve lived, I’ve filled my gardens with roses, because she loved them so. But my curse was my age. I withered, and became decrepit. No woman could look at me without revulsion at my feebleness and my antiquity. And gradually, I stopped looking. I lost hope that I would ever be able to gain the affections of a woman, and my melancholy consumed me. By the time your father approached me, I had forgotten what it was like even to converse with a woman – but then you came. You came, and you are reviving me. I can feel it. I can feel my hope returning. I - ,”
He broke off, and once again Rossa had the feeling that he was about to have said something, but decided against it.
His story had touched her deeply. His terrible shame, and the years of futile attempts to try and turn the youthful sin of his actions to some form of good, the awful pathos of his guilt-stricken clutches at love, always to be rejected and spurned. Her heart ached with compassion for him, and the emotion she felt for the man who had become her husband banished forever the grip of the hand that had clutched at her since the day she learned she must leave the Castle. Impulsively, she reached out and took Osbert’s hand. To her surprise, it was warm – she could not remember it being anything but cold and dry before. She took it in hers, and looked into his eyes. She could see his pain and the torment of many years in them, but what took her by surprise was the lifting of the mists that had clouded them when she first met him. It was undeniable – the blue was returning to them, there was a vigour where none had been before.
“Osbert – what’s happening to you? I’m not imagining it – you are changing! Your years are falling away from you. Compared to when I first met you – you are a decade younger…How is this possible? My husband, you have been so open with me, you have spoken to me as an equal though I am so many years less experienced than you. Tell me, what secret is this that is being played out before my eyes?”
Osbert jumped to his feet, pulling away his hand from hers. He backed away from the table, standing straighter and taller now than she had ever before seen him. His hair, she noticed, was more lustrous than before, and there were glints of white where she could see it re-growing from where age had once banished it.
His agitation was extreme; he paced up and down the room, darting agonised glances at the fair young Rossa, who sat, urgent and impatient, concerned now she saw the effect even mentioning this change was having upon Osbert.
“I’ve said too much…” he gasped eventually. “I can’t – I don’t want to – I mustn’t lose you! I couldn’t bear it!”
Plunging to her side, he took her hand, and stared deep into her eyes.
“My darling…my wife – Rossa. I want to tell you about this – torture – that has afflicted me for so many years, that has seen me move from village to village, ever more isolated, ever more rejected – ever more feared. Yet how can I tell you without exposing myself for what I am? No – what I once was. That much I can comfort myself with. The man who brought this upon himself is gone forever, his eternal lesson learnt, yet his crimes but little paid for. I cannot know that you will not desert me for what you must learn – for learn it you must, it cannot escape your notice! The very fact that this change, for change it is, is occurring makes me the happiest man alive, and I could not bear to reverse it now, to lose what meagre affection you yet harbour for me. Will you leave me when you know? Will you be so horrified at who I have been that you will be blinded from seeing the man I am now?”
“Osbert, Osbert – you must tell me, no matter what the consequences may be. You are a good man, of that I have no doubt. I know it, you have shown me so many times through your kindnesses to me, and through your sincere declarations of repentance. We are bound together by God, and I will not leave you. Tell me, tell me what is it that afflicts you, that has tormented you for so long!”
Osbert stood once more, and crossed to the fireplace. Rossa left her seat, and stood tall before him, saying nothing. He began.
“I told you before of Lucia. She was good, a completely good lady, with no blot on her character. So many loved her for this, for her loving nature, and her utter selflessness. What others loved her for, I saw as weakness. I spurned these gentle sensibilities, and considered all who valued them as lesser mortals. I cannot tell you the life I once led, I would not want you to know such men existed. There were no depths to which I would not sink; no depravities I would not sample – as if they were accolades to be hung upon a wall, I travelled far and wide seeking fresh pleasures, and discarding fresh acquaintances like rotten flesh. Where my reputation became too blackened in one place, I merely shrugged it off and journeyed to another, ever in search of new ways to sell my soul. Innocents like Lucia I used, wrung out of what I could suck from them, and abandoned without a thought. Until one. One night, deep in the bowels of a stinking city where I felt most at home, I came across a woman more bewitching than any I had met in many a year. She was in a tavern, in an alcove at the back. Her hair was long and black, her eyes a brilliant green. She wore a dress of a thousand colours, with a shawl around her woven with a shimmering thread that made her seem as if wrapped in frost-dipped cobwebs. Perhaps she was. Without pause, I made my way to this woman, and bent to caress her face, but she stopped me, grasping my wrist like a vice.
“‘Women like me are put on this Earth for men like you,’ she growled. ‘We understand each other, then,’ I returned, imbecile that I was. ‘Not quite,’ breathed she, pulling me in towards her so our faces were inches apart. ‘Women like me offer men like you a bargain. You may have me in haste, but you will lament me at leisure. Accept the bargain and we understand each other.’
“I had come too far, seen too much, and committed too many sins to be frightened by her witch’s talk. The night passed, and I rose to leave her bed at dawn, to hide myself away somewhere until night may fall again. In the flicker of a candle though, she was before me, blocking the door. The light of the rising sun made her naked body appear to glow, and her wild black hair seethed around her shoulders. Her eyes – those eyes! Her green eyes arrested me, freezing me where I stood and preventing me from sweeping her aside as had been my notion. Unable to move, she pointed at me, arm outstretched, and intoned, ‘Your pleasure has been taken, and your side of the bargain is now to be fulfilled. So many years you have rampaged the country, breaking hearts and lives, destroying reputations and incurring the fear and hatred of all who encounter you. Now take your punishment! No longer strong and handsome, but ancient and pathetic will you grow. In the space of this next year, you will wither as others do in sixty. From that time onwards, you will keep your grasp on life for eternity – but you will crumble like a mountain in an earthquake. Growing ever more deteriorated and debilitated, you will continue in your march towards destruction until you succeed in winning the true love of one pure woman. At that moment will your curse be lifted. If, by that time, you have sincerely repented, then you will live out the normal path of your life, as if nothing had passed. If, however, one seed of the evil that racks you now remains – your once-again-handsome body will be broken up into a million pieces and scattered in the winds to the four corners of the earth. Now go! And repent at leisure…’
“Released, I stumbled out of her ramshackle abode, into the glaring light of day. Any doubts I had as to the veracity of this witch’s curse were shattered as, within the fortnight, it was as if five years or more had passed. My aging occurred at so pronounced a rate that I could stay nowhere for more than a week, lest questions began to be asked. As my body became more infirm, such constant travelling began to make its mark, and I grew weak and was frequently torn with illness. Once the year was up, my aging slowed to a normal rate, but I was older than anybody in this country. As the years passed I did, indeed, come to realise the great toll my actions had taken upon those who had been my victims – I was, in turn, the cast-off, the unwanted, the superfluous. I frightened people with my hideousness, children would scream at my gnarled face. My search for the affections of a pure woman took on, as I have already related, a more desperate edge, as I came to hope that I could in some way atone for the murder of Lucia, and the misery I had caused to so many of those like her.”
Osbert had, by now, sunk into the chair that flanked the fireplace, and Rossa had taken the one on the other side. The light of the fire played across the wrinkles of his face, distorting them. It cast shadows across the hollows of his eyes, deepening them, yet Rossa could see clearly the look of suffering written in them.
“When was this curse laid upon you?” she asked of him.
“One hundred and fifty years ago,” Osbert whispered, almost inaudibly.
“One hundred - ,” Rossa gasped, and left her chair to kneel before him. “Do you fear true love? The true love of a pure woman?”
“Fear it? I ache for it, I long for it. Why should I fear that which will set me free?”
“Because it is your final test. The last chance you have to prove that the man you used to be is, once and for all, dead.”
“Once I did. But now I needn’t fear it at all. If, as I so fervently hope, there is nothing of that man left in me, if I am cleansed and pure once more – then I will live again. If, God forbid, a scrap of that monster lives still, then I do not want to live with it anymore. I would rather be torn apart and tossed to the winds than live as – that man – once lived.”


There wasn’t a magic moment for another two or three months. Osbert didn’t suddenly drop the shroud of extreme old age as a result of this conversation – because Rossa didn’t fall truly in love with him just then. It took, as I said, another two or three months, and it happened very ordinarily, when they were sat in the field practising their painting. By now, Osbert was almost unrecognisable. A full head of rich blonde hair crowned a face, not devoid of furrows, but certainly not with a skin of leather and mottled brown spots. He was becoming, much to Rossa’s delight, distinctly handsome, and her affection for him had been ever increasing as she grew to know better his compassionate and playful nature. As they sat in companionable silence, each concentrating on their pretty terrible representations of the landscape before them, Rossa turned to dip her brush once more in the paint that lay between them. She looked up at Osbert, to her left, as she did so, and her heart made the strangest movement. A ray of sunlight fell across his hair, which was ruffled by a slight breeze. An expression of the deepest, most absurd concentration was upon his features, as he painstakingly touched glimmers of painted light to his painted river. As if her heart were expanding within her, the sight and presence of him suddenly felt painful to her, and a terrible fear of ever being without him flooded over her.
Osbert moaned suddenly, as if in pain, and dropped his paintbrush. Turning abruptly to greet Rossa’s questioning look, she stared, open mouthed, as a transformation occurred before her. Dropping to his knees, Osbert supported himself on his chair, panting as if wracked with pains. His body twisted and straightened, his shoulders heaved and broadened, and his chest expanded. The skin on his face seemed to ripple as it smoothed and brightened – and then, as quickly as it came upon him, the transformation ended, and a young man of no more than twenty-five knelt before her. Throwing himself at Rossa, Osbert clutched her in his arms, whispering, “If there’s any evil left in me, please hold me once before I vanish.”
Clinging tightly to him, Rossa felt terror such as never before. He couldn’t leave her, not now! That would undo all that had been achieved – his last act on this earth would be to leave behind another girl, heartbroken, but this time through no fault of his own. It wouldn’t be fair! For five long minutes they remained together like this, grasping each other as if they could defy the curse with their determination. Gradually, they drew apart, their gazes meeting with joy and triumph. No-one was being torn apart! He was still there! For the first time since they had met, Rossa lifted her hand, and put it to his cheek. Stroking the smooth, soft skin, she drew his face to hers, and gave him the first of many fairytale kisses.

Wonderful as this was, Rossa had to admit that walking into the village, hand in hand with Osbert, came a close second. It’s a crying shame for her that cameras weren’t to be invented for many a year, because she would have given anything to capture the looks of Giralda and Bertrana’s faces as she and her beautiful young husband casually discussed which fabric would look better for new curtains. Beaming a dazzling grin at them, she offered no explanation as they sauntered past beyond a cheery, “Morning ladies! Mr Grimbaldus is feeling much better of late.”
Try as they might - and did - these interfering women never could find an explanation for the miraculous transformation of Rossa’s ancient husband. Rossa and Osbert, on the other hand, lived – of course – a long, happy, occasionally quarrelsome but generally harmonious existence together, blessed with a son, whom they named Armstrong.

And so, you can see why this tale was a popular one. It’s got all the usual elements: the forces of good and darkness, locked in eternal battle. Good-looking protagonists with difficult pasts. A spot of magic and a sexy witch. But, as I said before, its major plus was its basis in truth. Once Cinderella came along, and Sleeping Beauty, Rumplestiltskin and the rest – well, it was old by then, I suppose. People wanted some fresh fairy-stories. But I thought it was a shame it should be lost, so I dug it back up again, to see if you’d think it worth the telling. I hope you did. It’s been told in my family for generations.

S. Grimbaldus.

The End.

This may not make much sense if you haven't read the previous parts. Then again it doesnt make a lot of sense anyway! ;)

Jane Titantits managed to get the shower door open far enough to reach the button on the intercom. "Scotty, send help. I'm stuck in my shower. The damn thing won't let me out."

 

"Ach, dinna worry yerself, lassie," replied Scotty calmly. "It's just the lengthy, and entirely gratuitous, shower scene. It doesn't advance the plot a jot but it does wonders for the box office."

 

"But I'm starting to wrinkle!"

 

"Well try soaping yourself down then washing one thigh in a lingering and sultry sort of way. It won't actually get you any cleaner but it might give them what they need to wrap the scene."

 

"How did I get stuck in a movie scene anyway? I though this was about proper writers issues!" (The author dons his own steel helmet at this point. Hey, blame Jane not me. I'm just writing the material my characters give me!).

 

"I can't say," said Scotty having dropped his silly Scottish accent. "I suspect it has something to do with movie options though."

 

"Has anyone found my uniform buttons? I did manage to steal most of my underwear back from Taarg."

 

Suddenly the shower turned itself off and the door sprang open.

 

"Thank god," said Jane with feeling.

 

Meanwhile on the bridge Spark was, in his calm manner, calmly reporting to Dirk about their latest mission.

 

"Starfleet advise there is a spatial anomaly in the sector, Captain."

 

Dirk took the news calmly. "What sort of anomaly?"

 

"It’s a repetition anomaly of some kind. I wonder what kind of repetition it causes?" reflected Spark calmly.

 

Dirk reflected calmly on the news his First Officer had delivered. "I have no idea but we better stay calm. No need to panic yet."

 

"Actually," corrected Taarg. "I believe there is. Jane has escaped from her shower and she is on her way here. She doesn't look calm at all."

 

"Calm!" growled Jane entering the bridge. "I'll give you bloody calm! Alright which one of you bastards hired that damn film crew?"

 

"Hmmm," reflected Dirk calmly." I think using you as the movie hook may have been a mistake. I never realised how wrinkly you are."

 

Luckily Taarg already had his phaser set on stun or he would never have been able to stop her from ripping the Captain to shreds.