Green Boar: Part Six

The story so far: Leanne, having escaped the brewery and Cl’mentine the blue bear, yet having promised to return, now discovers the mask of the boar, Le’Roy, on her doorstep, yet again...

Disbelieving, she stared at the mask, incongruous in the yellow plastic bucket. Modern materials didn’t suit them, she thought, and now it came to mind the lights in the brewery had been strange too, maybe they had been gas lamps. She’d never seen gas powered lamps but had heard they flickered as those had done. How long was it since everyone had electricity? Fifty, sixty, seventy years, probably more, surely long enough for everyone in the United Kingdom to have electric lights.

“What’s with the bucket? She hissed as she picked him up.

It wobbled as he spoke: “You took the basket. We had nothing else with a handle.”

“Does someone carry you here? I thought you could fly.”

“Fly? Why would you say that? Boars do not fly.”

“But you floated!”

“I was in battle form. I could never do that here. It would be the wrong thing entirely.”

“Why?”

“It would just be wrong. You don’t understand our traditions. In battle we shine: we live in our ultimate form, but now I am not in battle, I am like you, lady: normal!”

“No way are you normal,” she exclaimed, they were inside now so no one could hear her. On reflection, she added, “and since I can see and hear you, then I’m not normal either.”

She caught sight of herself in the mirror. No, you might not be normal any longer, she thought, but you still look the same, nobody would ever know. What if someone saw the bucket arrive and started asking questions. Some of her neighbours were old, it would give them a heart attack.“So, how do you get here?”

“The Furies fly me here.”

“Furies.”

“Yes, Furies fly, I cannot.”

“The same ones you fought last night? Are they here now?

“They are waiting. They are friends, and the bravest of all, but you need not worry about them, they would not hurt you.”

“So, why can’t I see them?” she asked.

“They can’t be seen by you or I, they won’t allow it.”

“Well, I don’t understand that, but then I don’t understand doors having a mind of their own either. Anyway, that wasn’t a real battle last night, was it? You made it up to test me.”

“Yes. My estimable friend the bear, said you were very angry at us.”

“I was.”

“I am so sorry, my lady, but we had to know if you could complete your task.” He paused, then asked as if he had come all this way to ask  but now didn’t want to hear her response, “Are you still angry?”

“No, I don’t think I am. But look, it isn’t part of the deal that you turn up on my doorstep whenever it suits you, it’s going to make me late for work.” She still had a few minutes before she must leave, but she didn’t feel like telling the boar this.

“I’m very sorry dear lady,” the bear replied, “but I had to make sure you would still help us.”

“Ok. Look, I want to know who and what you are before I agree to help you further. That’s fair isn’t it?”

Le’Roy took a deep breath “I believe it is, and that is what I came here to tell you.” It sounded like he was about to continue with the whole story right then, so she cut him off, lying. “But not now. I have to go. I’m already late!”

It was one thing to cycle messages through the dark of night, to go from one reality to another, but it was entirely another matter to have one’s head offered to be blown off by unusual bears when one had done so. It was nice that he wanted to apologise, but she wanted to make him aware that her agreement was something he must fight quite hard for.

Anyway, it wasn’t really a lie; she did have to leave for work, even though if she were late she would be the only one to know. Mr Ashburton, the boss of the cobbler’s shop she worked in relied on her to open up the shop. If they were a few minutes late, then customers would have only to wait a few minutes more to have their keys cut, or their boots dropped off for mending. It would not be the end of the world.

Though Le’Roy, she felt, would only take advantage of that fact to persuade her to stay and listen, so she made for the door, “You’ll have to explain after I’ve finished work.”

Without a doubt, he was determined to persuade, “But, my story is a saga! It crosses generations and penetrates eons, it would take days to tell in its entirety. If you will kindly hear me out, busy lady, I think you will find I have a solution that fits us both superbly, and I will tell my tale in such a way that it will satisfy your curiosity fully, so that when I am done, you will truly understand the awfulness of our calamitous circumstance.”

“Go on then.” she replied, hopping on one foot, hoping his explanation of the solution would be shorter than the story, or certainly, the proposal for its telling.

”I shall come to work with you, and spin you my tale there.” He announced.

“What? No!”

“But, my lady, it is the obvious solution, for hardly anybody else but you can see or hear me.”

“But you’ll distract me.”

He had “Well, while it is true that my tale is distracting, I believe it is not impossible for you to listen and work at the same time. For do you not listen to the people in the little box all day while you continue to work most industriously, and still you do not fail to complete your many and most varied tasks?”

“What little box... Oh, do you mean the radio?” How did he know about the radio? “Yes, but that’s the radio. I don’t really listen to it.”

“Yes, them... the Radios. You listen to them chattering and making music all day. However, to listen to me would not be so much harder would it? I promise, dear lady, to be unobtrusive, I will be as if a spirit in the wood, and I will not interrupt when you have customers. You will hardly ever know I’m there.”

She sighed. His idea was not so bad, and if he could keep quiet during lunch, when it was busiest, then it would probably work. “Okay. We’ll give it a go then. However, and you must promise me this: if I say you are to go, you will go at once. With no whingeing.”

“Boars of the Green Board standard do not whinge, my lady. Our opinions are varied and always affective, and we are stoic in the face of hardship. However, to answer your question, most generous lady, yes, I promise to go. In fact, I agree fully with your stipend. Oh, I am delighted; I am a masterful storyteller – Whoa!”

This last he exclaimed because she had grabbed his bucket and run at full pelt out of the door, and the journey was obviously bumpier than usual, because he struggled to make himself heard, “My… my lady… May I… pro… pose… th… aaat… I… trav… el… Oh!... by… Fury… and… Meet you there. Oh! Thank goodness you’ve stopped. Oh, I feel quite queasy, two legged animals run so uncomfortably. Just put me down please.”

She rested the bucket on the stair. Le’Roy’s alter form was grimacing and fidgeting in a most uncomfortable way.

“Thank you. The furies will take care of the rest... Here they come.” To her surprise, the bucket handle rose up by a force she could neither see nor hear, and then the whole vessel disappeared. She felt a harsh wind rush against her cheek and heard his voice, as he rose past her head, cry out “Good lady, I will see you anon on the pave!”

It turned out that ‘pave’ was ‘pavement’, because when she arrived there the bucket was, abandoned about three metres from the shop door in the middle of the pavement, forcing the few people passing by to step around it. She saw a man glance curiously down, but he continued on his way as if its contents were completely usual. Reassured, she picked it up, more carefully this time, and peered in. Le’Roy smiled up at her. “This is exciting, my lady, I hope to learn much about your world, even as I tell you about mine. Well, how shall I begin?”

“Not just yet,” she muttered, setting him down gently by the door, so she had her hands free to unlock it. “Just let me get you settled.” She fiddled with the key in the lock for a moment, the irony being that, as a locksmith her boss had all the time in the world for everyone else’s locks, but none for their own, and you needed to learn the knack for unlocking it.

As soon as they were inside, Le’Roy sprang from the bucket into his boar form, this time not dressed in armour, but still very smartly in a formal scarlet tabard bordered with gold thread, that contrasted vibrantly with his green skin. “Thank goodness for that.” He exclaimed. “I, for one, am no fan of buckets. The plastic makes one so very sweaty.”

He looked around the tiny cobbler shop, noting the punched out brass and alloy key blanks that hung in neat lines on the green felt backed wall, and the newly mended shoes labelled and awaiting collection in a line no less tidy on the other side.

They had two counters; one to serve customers needing new watch batteries or keys cut, which had a second lower shelf that served as a working area. This was surfaced in green baize, such as you would find on a snooker table, and was fringed with every kind of tiny tool required to open the backs of watches, currently scattered in between these were little twirls of metal that came off the keys when they were cut, which she hadn't cleared from the previous day. The other counter was for cobbling, and several tins and boxes of shoe polish stood in pyramids on top of it.

Unfortunately it now looked as if they may soon reside upon the floor, for as a space the shop was hardly large enough to contain Le'Roy, and an unwary movement from him would send everything tumbling down, creating utter havoc where there had been calm. This, she thought, seemed the general state of affairs where Le’Roy was involved. In his current shape, there would certainly be no room for customers, for there was no corner he could squash into that could take him.

She inched into the shop, acutely aware that she was trying to avoid touching his body with its wiry, scratchy looking hairs, and put the bucket on the watch and key counter.

“You’ll have to get back in, and then you can hide under there.” She pointed under the watch and key counter. “That’s where I sit.”

“Under a desk! What an absurdity.” He began to bluster, as if to do such a thing were beneath his dignity.

“Well, what else do you suggest? You don’t fit, and I can’t just plonk you on the top, you are not the normal stuffed furry toy kind of desk ornament. People would ask questions… unless you can reform as something else?”

Though she could not imagine Le’Roy agreeing to reform as a furry toy boar, if indeed he could, the idea was highly amusing, and she couldn’t help smiling.

“But that is preposterous, dear lady. I cannot do such a thing.” He looked around again, seeking another solution, but there really was nowhere else for him to go.

“Well, it seems I must take up your suggestion. But please, lady, please do not put me in the bucket, it does not suit me, my bones are old and I am not used to such garish surrounds, and besides that, there is all the sweatiness; my insides feel as if they are made of slush. It is all too much.” He twitched in what she took to be distaste at the memory. “May I ask instead, for you to prop my alter form against something firm. But make sure it is upright, there is a danger I will fall asleep if I am laid flat.”

“I can do that.” She replied. “Is that why you fell asleep at the brewery?” She shoved a few of the boxes they kept under the counter aside to make room for him.

“I, ahem! I was not asleep then. I was healing.”

“Healing?” I thought you said the furies were friendly.” She sat back on her heels and looked up at him, surprised.

“They are, but they were playful, it is a long time since they fought a battle, and they are quite strong. Some of them became quite eager to win, and I am not as young as I was. Although still strong.” He added hurriedly, “I am still Le’Roy of the Green Boar and feared throughout the land.”

She had reservations about this, but he seemed over sensitive about it, so she decided to say nothing about them, “You said they. How many were there?”

"Well," he said, “There are many furies, but my friends are only three. It is enough.”

He shook himself, like a dog shaking water from its coat after a swim, nearly causing their display to cascade onto the ground. It seemed to be part of his preparation for becoming his alter form, for then he seemed to tip himself forward, just briefly becoming transparent, then the mask dropped onto the counter with a woody clatter. She carefully picked it up, and propped it against the boxes under the counter on top of a folded cloth. “Don’t worry, the cloth is clean. We use them for polishing. I’m curious, why is three furies enough?”

“Enough to carry me, enough to be friends; Too many furies get very angry, dear lady, and then they make everyone else very angry too. It is very dangerous to be around many. Very dangerous indeed.”

She stood and straightened the tools on her desk. “So you don’t know what they look like either?”

“Not at all. Sometimes I see a shadow, but no more than that. If I were to tell the truth, I would not want to see one, and I am brave. There are many myths about them, and they are all horrible.”

“Myths?”

“Oh yes. It is told they have the wings of eagles but the bodies of ugly old women, that they are dressed in fine but bloody clothes, and that they carry their heads between their knees, having had them parted from their necks in punishment for some terrible deed. They are a fearful sight and furious because of it.”

“They sound awful!”

“They are not so bad. They are in pain because they were once so beautiful and everyone loved them for it, but now they must keep themselves hidden because of the fear and hate their appearance inspires.”

“That’s terrible.” Leanne felt sorry for the furies.

“All throughout our long years of solitude, they have been brave and helpful.” He sighed. “When we were young there were many of them, but that is a very long time ago.” He sighed again, as if the thought of so much time passing tired him, “But times have changed and I am here. Would you like me to begin my story now?”

There were no customers yet, in truth there were still ten minutes to go before she would open up. “Just a minute, I’m going into the office to make a cup of tea.” She said, exiting the shop into the tiny little room at the back, which they jokingly called the office, but was actually more of a cupboard. It was all the room they had that was not shop, and they kept everything in that could not be on display, so it was filled floor to ceiling with files, stock, catalogues, spare rags, buffing pads, and shoes whose owners had not yet remembered to collect them. On one of its shelves was a tiny fridge for milk, the smallest kettle ever made and two cups, one for her and one for Mr Ashburton. “I’ll only be a minute.”

Her cup had a picture of a kitten sitting in a mug on it, and Mr Ashburton’s had an arrow pointing up, and the word ‘Idiot’ under the arrow. He thought it funny in an ironic way, while she thought it funny in a true way, even though she was fond of him.

“I shall begin now.” She jumped, for Le’Roy’s voice sounded as if it came from the space next to her right ear…
… to be continued…

Warning to disaffected types: this is a post about how much I love my job, and we all know how infrequently that line appears - the blogosphere may just implode with surprise.

Well, I do love my job, and I don't see why I should pretend otherwise. It helps that I'm a freelancer and that the job I do contains a fair wodge of creativity. Actually, I would say that removing the boss from one's life is pretty much the key to happiness, but some people will never be happy, and since happiness and contentment are mostly my default setting, maybe I'm not a reliable judge. Yeah, sorry. I know happy people are annoying... but I'm still doing it.

Anyway, I'm here in Tenerife, enjoying what really amounts to a day off, although it started stupidly early and that was down to someone else's design, it is still a day off and it is still warm and sunny - not very pretty, but then that's Spanish architecture for you; I reckon they don't do pretty. Even Gaudi isn't pretty; more sublime, imho. I think it's something to do with the landscape, it's pretty arid over most of Spain, an extreme landscape, so 'pretty' wouldn't survive long.

I digress... the main news I have to share, is that I've just met a guy, the guy who owns this gig, and he says that he spent three years doing the drawings for Spitting Image, so I shall expect fine stories tonight.

That puts what I do in the shade, and to be fair, most things do. I spend most of my time making what other people put on slides a whole lot better, I don't get to design the stuff to start with. At least, not very often. Corporations don't want to make art, they just want to put the message across effectively, and most of the time they don't even allow the time to do that properly. And, when they do want to make art, they head straight for the designers that shout loudest, and I don't shout loud. Ah, well, it doesn't matter, I am, after all, happy with what I do, and that is enough. But, I have to let the creativity out somewhere, and that's what the writing is about...

And now I've found the free broadband in this hotel, I can get on with using the rest of my day for that!

The Green Boar: Part 5

The story so far... Leanne is defending herself against the blue bear, who seems to be really keen on her being an optimist, or something. But, right now she can’t see anything optimistic about this plainly weird situation, and Le’Roy, the Green Boar, is doing nothing to help, instead he’s gone to sleep, listen, you can hear him snoring...

She waved the mop in a threatening manner at the bear, ignoring the way the string head flopped about unmenacingly, and shouted ‘Tell me what’s going on. Who are you? What is this place? What were those things out there, and what’s all this stuff about optimism?”

The bear looked taken aback. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Le’Roy? He didn’t tell me anything.”

The bear looked shocked. Then he muttered and puttered under his breath, his paws clasped and unclasped again. He seemed most put out by her claim. If it were possible to twiddle claws in the way she could twiddle her thumbs, then that was exactly what he was doing; he seemed not to be at all the aggressive bear who moments ago had her pinned to the carpet with a gun at her forehead. Eventually, he said, “But, and I’m so sorry lady, if it appears rude of me to say, but it appears that you came anyway?”

Well it was true, she had. It made her feel stupid. Of course she had come anyway; it had sounded exciting, there had been money in it, but now her willingness embarrassed her. She opened her mouth and closed it again, there was of course no point in denying it; the evidence was in front of her. She had been all too eager to jump on her bike and go off on an adventure, trusting that she would be safe. She knew now she had trusted too much too quickly.

He put his head to one side and considered her thoughtfully, and she remembered, for a moment, how it was to be a child looking up at an adult. He was a good two feet taller than her, and she was above average height for a woman. It gave him looming presence in the hall, he dwarfed her bicycle; its handlebars barely came up to his waist. His iridescent blue fur rippled as he moved his arms, betraying the powerful musculature underneath, he could easily have ripped her head off with a single gesture. He stood firmly on his haunches as if standing on hind legs was his normal gait; not something she had assumed with Le’Roy, who had seemed unsteady on two legs. He wore no clothing other than a heavily studded collar, from which hung a long, gold coloured chain, which snaked down his front, partially hidden in his long fur. She had seen similar things on old and terrible photographs or illustrations of captive bears, the sort humans had used to chain them and bend them to their will. Unimaginable that a bear this large and powerful could be controlled in such a way; the collar and chain were indeed quite an oddity. He said, “You could say coming anyway was the action of a born optimist.”

“Could you?”

“Oh yes, Lady.” She struggled for a second to place his accent, it was posh certainly, but the way he called her lady was deferential, but otherwise there seemed to be some regional cadence, but it was from nowhere she could place. She gave up, filing the sound in her memory for another time. He continued, “Surely, I hope at least, that you never thought we meant you any real harm?”

“He,” she gestured with the mop at the basket, where Le’Roy slept, and from which emanated the sound of snoring, “Promised me he’d make sure I was safe. Then you, you threatened to kill me, and there were those things out there too.”

“Furies.”

“What?”

“Furies,” he repeated. “They were Furies. We wouldn’t have let them harm you.” He carried on, “But you believed him when he said he’d keep you safe, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Are you saying he’s a liar?”

“The Green Boar is lots of things, but he is certainly not a liar. Or, at least he tries very hard not to be.”

“But he lied to me...”

“Have you been hurt?”

“I have been scared. I am scared.”

“We are very sorry about that, very sorry indeed. We wish it hadn’t been so.” The bear looked properly contrite, but Leanne, having been very scared and being really quite scared still, was now very cross too, the mop head shook several times as she cried out: “So why did you threaten me if you didn’t mean to scare me?”

“You had to fulfil your quest.” Replied the bear.

“My quest!”

“Yes, Lady. Young warriors go on quests to prove that they are able...”

“I know what a quest is.” She interrupted him. “I’m not a warrior. I’m a courier! He told me I was a courier.”

“I’m so sorry for your distress, lady. I thought he had explained, and he told me to make sure that you were good enough. Please believe me that I am sorry.” The bear sounded truly apologetic, so she pressed home the advantage.

“Good enough for what?”

“Good enough to help Le’Roy. He has a hard set of tasks ahead. We had to make sure that you were strong enough to help him.”

“So, this was all a test? Pretending to try to kill me. And what about all those things out there, the sparks?

He nodded again in an approving, teacher-like manner, “Yes, a test, which you passed. Although your choice of weapon has been a touch misguided.”

“What? Oh.” She looked down at the mop, “This?” He nodded.

Defensively, she said, “What was I supposed to do? Throw the ironing board at you?”

“You should have picked up Le’Roy’s alter form and thrown it at me. Sudden movement will always wake him.”

“But, he was injured!”

“He heals quickly.” Said the bear dismissively, waving his paw airily. “He is fine.”

“He’s okay?”

“Yes, yes. You can wake him now if you want.”

“Really?” This was good news, but getting to the mask would mean advancing on the bear, who still stood near the bike, but he seemed to understand this and backed off all the way to the threshold of the door behind him, leaving the way clear for her to come forward, which she did.

Le’Roy’s mask face was snoring properly, the lips puttering together as his breath came out. Which was peculiar, for there were no body or lungs to feed breath to his mouth, if indeed there was a mouth at all, but she could feel the draft of his breath, and it smelt of rotting apples. Gingerly, she reached one hand into the basket and carefully picked it up. She had been going to throw it directly at the bear, but just before she did, she changed her mind. If she threw it she’d be facing two huge magical creatures, and, since actions without questions had been what got her here, she decided that this one time it might be wiser to find out a little more first. Additionally, although the bear had only minutes ago been mortally threatening, now he was more forthcoming with information than the boar had ever been. She was in the mood for facts, and now he seemed sorry she thought she could probably get him to answer more of burning questions.

It occurred to her to be astonished at her own presence of mind; that she was even able to think this through, that although she was admittedly scared, and really quite cross, she was also calm. Her heart wasn’t beating abnormally fast anymore and her hands no longer shook. Why was she not a quivering wreck?

It was only when the bear quietly said, “Because you’re special.” that she realised she had spoken aloud.

Le’Roy’s mask in her hand, close up, was the texture of finely polished mahogany furniture, the workmanship marvellously delicate, but too realistically done to be real. It had the reassuring coolness and heaviness of wood, and it didn’t give under her fingers like skin, even though his mouth continued to snore in its frankly disturbing manner. “That’s what he said.” She told the bear. “He said it was rare for people to be able to see and hear you.”

“Yes, it is, but it’s more than that.”

“How? I mean, I know that. I am standing here looking at you. I mean, you’re magical,” He started to speak and wave his paws around, but she carried on, “No. You are, from my point of view. I mean, I don’t come across breathing masks every day. But does that mean I’m magical too? I don’t feel it. I’ve never been the superstitious type; I don’t even read my horoscope.”

“It’s not like that.” The bear said. “But please tell, what is a horror-scope? It sounds awful. What does it do?”

“Horoscope, not horror-scope. You don’t know what a horoscope is?”

“I have not been so honoured with the knowledge of such a thing.”

“Well, it’s like fortune telling from the stars, only... it’s complete rubbish. Well, really, whatever, it doesn’t matter.

“But it does! It does to us. We know nothing about your world.” The bear became agitated, or maybe just excited, he leant forward in the doorway, his snout twitching, his fur rippling in the light from the wall sconces. “When you say you think we are magical, you have it all wrong. To us, you are the magical ones. We know nothing about your world or your horoscopes, whatever they are, they sound so exciting to me. But that is why you are so important. Finally, someone who can see us and talk to us again. There are so many exciting things! You humans make so much and change so frequently; we cannot keep up. Lady, you just have no idea how important you are.”

“But...” A thousand questions burst into her head at once. She didn’t know which to pick first, so she plumped for the oddest. “Why did you want to know if I was an optimist?”

“Ha! The best question of all.”

“What? Why is that the best question? I don’t understand. If you needed me to help you so much, why threaten me? I mean, it wouldn’t be the first technique I’d think of.”

“Well, there you go. This is just the first of many things you can teach us. Well, it seems we were wrong. You see, we agreed, the boar and I, that if he brought you here then I would endeavour to find out if you were an optimist.”

“But, why an optimist?” Said Leanne, completely mystified.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He peered at her and registered her confusion. “Ah. Maybe not. I forget we are so different. But, after all, it is something that came from your world, so perhaps I can... Please lady, would you allow me to fetch it and show you?”

“Er, yeah.” She said. Just as Le’Roy did, he had a very formal way of speaking, almost archaic. Yes, ‘archaic’ was a good word for it; beyond old fashioned, “So what from my world is all about optimism?”

“Optimistic, lady, is the most important thing to be, and I don’t hesitate to propose to you that it is the same for both our worlds. Ah, but I need to get the special parchment. It is your type of parchment, not ours. All nice and shiny. You will like it I think. Please will you bear with me a moment, lady, while I fetch it for us? I have it in the library. I shall be straight back.” He trilled, then paused, as if waiting for her permission, so she bobbed her head in a nod, and it seemed to be what he expected, because he did a little bow in return, then disappeared through the doorway. Only straight away he popped his head back round the doorframe, and as a discombobulated head, said, quite entreatingly, “You won’t go while I’m away will you?”

“I can go?”

“Oh yes. You can now. The door is ready now.”

“The door?” What did he mean, how could a door be ready now, and not then?

“Yes. The door.” He pointed at the door through which she had come and through which she had tried to leave and failed, on which she could have sworn there was nothing like a handle or a knob, there was now, right in the middle, a large, round, see-your-face-in-it shiny brass doorknob, just like the one outside which she had pushed to get in.

“That wasn’t there before!” She exclaimed in astonishment.

“But it wasn’t ready. Doors won’t open if they are not ready.”

“How can a door not be ready? That’s preposterous.”

“I don’t know, at least not entirely. It’s just the way it is. It is there when we want it, usually, which isn’t often if you are me.” He looked a bit downcast. “I don’t go out much.” Then he brightened, “But Le’Roy uses it all the time.”

“But, why? I don’t understand. Doors... are just doors, they don’t... they aren’t just doors sometimes and not at other times.”

“But why not? Doors always know when they need to be used, do they not? And when they aren’t needed, well, it’s a bit selfish to expect them to hang around waiting for you to want them on a whim.” He seemed to be astonished. “So doors are not like this in your world?”

“No. They just wait there.” She could hear her voice turn thin and strangled with disbelief, “And what do doors do when they aren’t being used?”

“I don’t know. Really, you do ask interesting questions. I’ve never thought about it before.” Replied the bear.

“So I could just push on it now, and I’d be able to go?”

“Oh yes, but don’t you want to see the parchment about the optimistic? It’s ever so wise.”

“You wouldn’t stop me?”

“What? If you wanted to go home? Oh no! You are Leanne of the Green Boar, you are free to come and go as you please. I would never try to prevent you. In fact, I can’t.” He seemed quite horrified at the idea.

The temptation to grab the bike and leave right then almost overwhelmed her, but now he was no longer threatening to shoot her the bear had turned earnest and exaggeratedly polite, and somehow she felt rude for wanting to leave. So she looked to excuse herself more politely instead, and said firmly, “I have to get some sleep; I have to work tomorrow and I still have to ride home. I need to go, I’m sorry.”

To prove her intentions, she carefully posted Le’Roy’s mask through the banister and laid him gently on the stairs, remembering what the bear said about sudden movement waking him up; she didn’t want  him here now, it would only make it harder to get away. Fortunately, he carried on snoring, oblivious to his friend the bear, who clasped his snout in sudden distress. “It’s my fault isn’t it?” He wailed through his claws. “I should not have done it so. Oh, I shouldn’t have. Only I didn’t know how else to do it! Oh, please can you forgive me. This is terrible. I’ve ruined everything.”

“Erm. It’s work, you know...” She pushed open the door, which now gave way easily under her hand. Outside the street was empty, not much time had passed, it was night still; street lamps shed ample light onto the road at the back of the brewery and a faint breeze failed to stir fallen leaves and rubbish in the gutter. Nothing unusual was apparent; it was as if Le’Roy’s fight with the Furies had never happened.

Half way out with her cycle, trying to ignore the bear’s anguished wailing, she thought; don’t feel bad about leaving, it’s you who has been put upon and subjected to this torment, and whatever those Furies were. Leanne, just go, now, before it’s too late, it doesn’t matter that you are special and they need you, afterall, what have they to do with you? It’s plainly a madhouse and you don’t need this melodrama in your life, and never mind the money; you can always find a weekend job if you have to. But the bear wailed despairingly, “But, if you go, you won’t come back. I know you won’t.”

She paused, feeling her better side get the better of her. He was standing in the doorframe, backlit he looked a dreadful hulk, but he was sniffling, “It’s all gone wrong, and it’s all my fault.” He entreated her, “Please won’t you stay, lady? We didn’t mean to scare you. It would be such a shame if you left now. After all this time... we waited so long. We need you so much. Oh, it was all going to be so good.”

She said, hesitantly, “Please, don’t be upset. Well... I could come back... perhaps.” Coming back, if she was honest, filled her with dread, but at the same time, it did not seem impossible; the needing of her; that was important, and the fact that it was magical creatures doing the needing, that was important too, even if they were a bit confused, and didn’t see themselves as magical. That they thought she was the magical one, well, that was just another part of the mystery. There was also, of course, the money. “Do I, erm, still get paid?”

“Oh yes, Lady. Yes of course.” He had brightened up instantly, “Yes, that would be marvellous. You must come back. Yes, yes, most marvellous, I think he will be happy too...” He was talking about Le’Roy, she thought. Would the boar would wake naturally, or just keep snoring until someone threw him at something?

She cut him off: “I’m not promising anything, but you must promise me, if do come back, there will be no more of that silly stuff with the gun.”

“Oh, I do, I do. I promise.” Declared the bear, “And I am so sorry about the silly gun, so very sorry indeed. I will never do it again. I promise. Because you must come back, it is so important.”

“And, if I do, then it will all be much more civilised, and friendly, and none of that Fury stuff either. Do you promise me?” She had taken up the tone of a teacher, somehow it seemed appropriate; he had turned from wise and venerable to childlike and anxious the moment he realised she was going to leave, it felt like she was calming a five year old.

“I do, Lady, I promise; friends it is. And no more furious Furies. The furies are very nice when they aren’t furious, Lady. You mustn’t think they are bad, Lady.”

“No... Well then, okay, I won’t think they are.” Hurriedly she added, because she didn’t think he had answered properly first time, “And I shall still be expecting payment.”

“Yes, yes.” He waved his paw airily, “It goes without saying; whatever Le’Roy agreed.” Then he clasped his paws and, with exaggerated politeness, asked, “When will you be so kind as to delight us with your presence again, delightful Lady?”

Leanne said, thinking hard about how soon she thought she would be recovered from this night, “Well, I think I can make it on Saturday. And you should call me Leanne.”

“Then Saturday it shall be, Lady Leanne.” Shyly, he then said, “And my name is Cl’mentine; Cl’mentine of the Blue Bear.”

“Bli... Right, Cl’mentine. Right. Okay then.” Leanne spluttered. Did this mean the bear was female? She supposed it was difficult to tell he and she bears apart under all that fur, even in her world. She supposed, really, that it didn't matter, but, was she wrong about Le’Roy’s gender too? She thought not. No, she concluded, he had seemed quite male.
“Is there some problem?” Said Cl’mentine.

“No, no, not at all.” Maybe, she thought, it might be best if I pretend some kind of authority, after all, I am going to be teaching them everything because it is obvious they know nothing. She straightened the bike, got on it, and said, with a confidence that was entirely acted, “I shall see you on Saturday, so have the parchment ready for my inspection then. Ten o’clock, on the dot. Goodbye!” With that, she pressed her foot down, and within seconds, she was pedalling around the corner, fast leaving the brewery and its very odd inhabitants behind her.

When she got back home, she collapsed into her bed and slept soundly until morning, when the cat Pig woke her and demanded breakfast via the expedient means of sitting on her head and biting her ear until she got up and fed him. But, on leaving for work, still feeling very tired from the night’s adventure, but on time and determined to see the day through, she was dismayed to find waiting on her doormat, yet again, Le’Roy’s mask, this time contained in an ordinary yellow plastic bucket. It was no longer snoring but frozen hard, and into what an expression, it impossible to tell if it was a scream or a smile...

... to be continued.

Encounters with BAD words...

This, I hope, will be the first of a series of posts about the awful neologisms, soundbites and (mostly) pretend words that I come across on corporate slides. Actually, what am I saying? I don't 'hope' this will be a series, I don't wish to be trapped in a place where I am endlessly deriding such torture of English, nevertheless, I strongly suspect this post will be the first of many.

You see, I spend many of my working hours dragging through slide after slide, trying to make better sense of what is there, tidying it all up, correcting mistakes, spotting yawning chasms in the content, and sometimes I come across such awful whoppers that I feel I must share. So, without naming names, and therefore spreading the blame... let's begin.

Addendum... I began scraping the barrel at the bottom of this list and I'm adding newly suffered words at the top...

BAD word #1: 'Corporatise'
This was used in the bullet point: corporatise and leverage... effectively. A pretty awful line in itself without the added indignity of a made up word in its midst.
Adding the ise to corporate is simply a work of evil. Corporate as a concept itself is a blandishment; a byword for the expulsion of anything resembling an individual thought, and that is true no matter how many times one sees presentations championing innovation (how can you have this when you also insist on a corporate brand?). So to corporatise something, well that means to take out the heart of a thing's difference. I hate that.

To be fair, I'm not a big fan of many ise words, I think it's the idea that they involve the concept of doing something to something, or someone else, without that person's necessary agreement, or possibly their understanding. (See colonise. I even have a slight problem with 'realise', even if only because I find it a slightly nasal word - you may disagree, that's fine.) I just feel sorry for whatever is being corporatised, twisted out of its former shape, altered against its will. Anyway, all that is the besides the point of this being a MADE UP WORD. Tut!

BAD word #1: 'Onboarding'
This is used in the context of 'getting someone to agree' with the recently amended policy, change in culture, etc, etc. As a concept, I can see that it is needed because business is always changing because that keeps everyone in business. But doesn't it sound a bit distasteful? A little tyrannical. In fact, even a little piratical? Would one be forced to walk the plank if one does not agree? Well yes, probably. I reckon if you hear this term bandied about then keep your head down and make non-committal affirmative noises so that when the next change comes around in a couple of years you'll not look too attached to the old one.

Instead of sounding like some sort of lingual torture, this should be 'getting everyone onboard'. There, doesn't that sound nicer? More of a day trip around the island than being press ganged with a corporate cutlass.


BAD word #1: 'Decisioning'

I nearly exploded muttering over this one. I tried to get it removed. I pointed at it and laughed. I ground my teeth. I am still doing so. My teeth are stubs. All to no avail.
The damn thing still went out. The only chance of salvation was that it was buried in such a busy slide in such a graceless sentence that it was likely to go unnoticed. Fortunately, the audience had become so immune from being constantly bombarded by this sort of thing that I wasn't worried for them.

However, I still consider this a failure.

'Decisioning' - the act of making a decision - is a real word, but only according to The Free Dictionary. (Which doesn't count - no really, it doesn't).
The OED http://oxforddictionaries.com/ gives it short shrift. (I have a feeling that I'll be referencing the lovely OED quite a lot in this post) Charmingly it suggests 'disjoining' and 'tensioning' amongst the options that it is sure you must have been searching for instead, silly you.
It made me so irritated because there exists a good pair of words that already do this job to perfection: 'decision making'. See what I mean? There is no need for the untidy, unruly 'ing' that puts all the phonetic emphasis on the 'de' part of the word, obfuscating the clear meaning of 'decision': That need we have to make up our minds to carry us forward toward whatever it is we have to do next. Emphasising the 'de' makes the word negative, whereas it should be glorious, progressive and empire-buildingly, positive. No wonder we are all going to the dogs.

Word

:

I came into the room with my word

I placed it, good and strong, before me.

Upon taking it away, they said, “You will be heard!”

But when again they laid my word before me

It was twisted, wrangled, poorly.

They asked, "Was that what you meant?"

I looked at my sad, diminished, wrinkled word

And said, “Yes.”

It was all I'd had to hand.

But I hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Where people could hear me,

And agree.

The Green Boar - Part Four

The Story so far: Leanne has successfully made her delivery, though she still doesn't know of what, but now finds herself at the wrong end of a shotgun, wielded by an angry, and rather unusual, bear...

The bear was definitely blue. And possibly, she considered, based on no particularly weighty supposition, probably male. In the brightly lamp lit hallway she could clearly see the individual hairs on his snout, though in shadow they appeared almost black at the base; probably some sort of dark undercoat. They grew out in royal blue, shiny and iridescent, each one the same colour as the dragonflies that careered around the river in summer, continuing in their ancient manner to dash about in pursuit of food and love, irrespective of humankind.

Like Le'Roy, and she naturally put them together within the category of magical beasts, this bear had vestiges of human expression about his face. Under his furry blue round bear ears that, backlit by the wall sconce, created two mini halos where the hairs attenuated, were noticeable eyebrows, which she was sure that bears, real ones, ones in the wild that is, didn't have. They framed his angry black eyes like twin wrinkles in a thick carpet. And his snout wasn't the snout of a stuffed toy teddy bear, but that of a traditional bear, long, pointed and much more dangerous, much more able to rip her to shreds. She wondered why he bothered with the gun.

At first she couldn't be certain that it was the bear that spoke. The voice was reedy, a sibilant whisper, perceptibly refined, completely at odds with the vision before her:
"Are you an optimist?" She thought someone else had spoken, and dragged her eyes away from the gun to look round the hall, but they were alone.

She remembered that Le'Roy's voice had been unexpected too. She wanted him to wake and help her, but he was still lying in mask form in the basket, eyes closed, to all intents and purposes as unreachable as if he were not there at all. She shook the basket, but he remained mute; she was abandoned.

The voice said again. "Are you an optimist?"
The only option was to reply, she said: "Er."
He said, and this time she could clearly see his jaw moving, delicately forming each syllable unmistakably, "An optimist, I said."
"An optimist?"
"We only want optimists here, young lady."
Leanne, peered closer at the gun, this time noticing the latch was still in place, though the bear's thumb claw was positioned on top, ready to cock it. This gave her confidence, though barely a second's leeway, should he decide to fire. That he had not done so yet was hugely in her favour. She realised that she spoke the truth when she said: "Then I am an optimist."

The bear lowered the gun, then, as suddenly as the wind changes direction in a gusty corner, he raised it again, shouldered it and bore down on her with it, as if in a rage,  "Are you sure? No lawyers required here."

She shrank back against the red carpet,"Yes, yes!" She cried, sure to the centre of her thumping heart that this would be the end, that she would die here, in this unknown, probably magical house, and nobody from her world would ever know.

"You promise? We don't need any more shyster ambulance chasers."
He pulled back the safety catch, and rested the business end of the shotgun on her forehead. "Do you walk on the sunny side of the street?"

"What? Yes! I've got nothing to do with the law." In a most unoptimistic manner, she had begun to quiver with terror, her nails dug into the carpet behind her, and she felt her t-shirt, still soaked with sweat from the ride, press clammily into her back as she bent as far as she could away from him. He simply followed her evasive movements with the gun until the back of her head was pressed into the floor and she could go no further. "I'm an optimist. I'm an optimist!" She cried. Tears slanted down her cheeks. 

"Then why are you crying? If you are an optimist, then surely you don't think I'll actually shoot you?" His reedy voice was calm. Great, she thought, not only a blue bear with a gun, but a sociopathic blue bear with a gun, bent on mental torture before shooting my brains out and eating my still warm remains. Her eyes rolled up in their sockets, unable to look at the gun but still wanting to, "I'm scared." Her voice emerged as a timorous and embarrassing squeak. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to look any more, and still wanting to look too, waiting for the inevitable sound of his finger on the trigger and inevitable oblivion.

"Oh!" The gun was removed from her forehead, and she heard the sound of the latch being clipped shut. She peeked out and saw the bear. He had turned away and was carefully leaning the gun against the banister, barrell facing down. Before she could even think about moving, he spun back towards her, surprisingly light on his hairy blue and very bandy legs. He bent down towards her, but instead of making any more threatening moves, he offering a clawed paw to assist her back to sitting, or standing, or whatever position wasn't cowering ungracefully.

He blinked at her anxiously, "I didn't want to scare you. I'm so very sorry." His cultured voice was very solicitous now, "Please let me assist you."

"Don't touch me!" She scrambled up out of his reach, noticing, as she did so, that her bike, which should have fallen onto its side when she let go of it, had curiously remained standing with no other obvious means of support.

Loud snoring sounds were now emanating from the basket. Le'Roy, it seemed, she thought furiously, had slept soundly and uselessly through the whole thing. So much for protecting her. Obviously, that promise only applied during their travel. Now she'd stupidly done whatever it was he'd required of her, and he'd abandoned her to the whiles of this psychotic friend of his. There was so much he'd not told her. In fact, she was amazed that she'd done what she had with so little information to go on. She should have forced the issue with the package much further.

Well, it was all up to her now. She was responsible for her own safety, and her only thought was to get away. "Keep away from me!" She held up her palms towards him, warding him off, at the same time edging towards the door, which only now she noticed, had no internal handle. Still, it had opened outwards, so sensibly it would just push open, if it were indeed a sensible door. She doubted it.

The palm thing seemed to be working, the bear barely moved a muscle, it was as if he had decided to do without breathing. She pushed at the door with her other hand. Nothing happened. Typical, and to be honest, she said to herself, not entirely unexpected. Another way out must be found.

She could, of course, have asked the bear, who was now standing out of reach of his weapon, and quietly, quite unlike his former aggressive self. But she didn't feel like it, so she didn't do it. She'd had enough of magical animal beings. And there were other ways out of the room they were currently in. The stairs led to who knows where, certainly to where there would be windows with a better view, but probably not to possible freedom and her own reality. There was a single door behind the bear, but that was obviously out. Behind her there were internal doors, shadowy ones; she'd no more than glimpsed that way; but she thought they would be the best first place to try. Palm still warding off the bear, she walked backwards to the nearest of the doors.

"I'm sorry, lady, that's the closet." The bear said, apologetically. She grasped the handle and opened the door anyway. It was a cupboard. It contained an ironing board, a mop, and a yellow bucket. She picked up the mop. It was no match for a shotgun, but it was the best she'd seen so far. She slammed shut the door and jumped round to face the bear, holding the mop in what she hoped was a good defensive position.

She expected that the bear would have taken advantage of the moment her back was turned to press home with the gun, but he hadn't. Instead, he remained where he had been, on the other side of the mysteriously suspended bike, wringing his paws, his expression, from his high and rounded eyebrows now echoing the line of his furry ears, most regretful.

"I'm so sorry," Said the bear, "I didn't mean to scare you. Le'Roy said I shouldn't scare you. I'm so sorry." His reedy voice entered the upper register, and the sentence ended on a squeak.

It didn't really make sense, but now, with the bike and the mop between them, she felt that things might just now be made to turn in the direction she wanted them to.

Firstly, there would be some questions, unless escape presented itself beforehand...











"

Potero and the Cloud Slippers

Potero had taken the wrong train. Again.

    He got off at this wrong station, which was miles from his intended destination, and stood on the platform in a funk. Too annoyed to look for another train just yet that would take him to his right stop. Running through his brain was every curse he knew, and several more he invented just for now. With these, in his mind, he knocked several virtual bells out of the designers and engineers of the London Underground, for allowing him to lead himself so very far out of his own way.

    This was very unfair to the London Underground, because it wasn’t the one who didn’t pay proper attention to where it was going and, while it was used to people grumbling about it, today it felt enough was enough and that it was time to fight back.

    Suddenly, the concrete platform and its yellow safety-lines and chewing gum pockmarks under Potero, who was still standing in his funk upon it, began to heave as if there was earthquake beneath. Potero shrieked and fell to his hands and knees. Beneath his fingers cracked and jagged fissures formed.

    Eventually the commotion ceased, and Potero pulled himself back onto his feet warily, and looked around for a way out beyond the havoc of people and immanently falling masonry. But before he could move towards the exit sign showing a little green man poised to run, he became aware of something odd happening to his feet. They hurt, and it seemed like they were growing.

    At first his shoes became tight, in fact, painfully so. Then, just as the pain became unbearable, they split around the soles, and in a moment of incredible relief, his toes flopped out onto the platform. Yet they still grew. The stretched skin as purple and tender as a newborn’s, into which every speck of grit from the ruined platform dug in as if they were tiny daggers.

    “Arrgh!” He yelled. “My feet! My feet!”

    As you can imagine, Potero was terrified. He wanted most of all to get himself out of the station as quickly as possible. However, he had no idea how to use these incredible and painful feet, so he positioned himself back on his hands and knees and crawled along like a baby.

    At the exit, where he eventually arrived, other people were milling around. Some of them were also hurt, and all of them were confused and asking for help. However, none of them had enlarged feet like his. Moreover, in their confusion, they kept knocking into his massive toes which caused him excruciating pains.

    Finally, he made it to street level where, to his great relief, he spied a street stall selling slippers. Just the thing for his hurting feet.

    “Do you have any slippers big enough for me?” He asked the man who stood next to the stall.

    “The only slippers I have big enough for your enormous feet are magic slippers, and they cost £200.” The man replied. Pointing to two large, fluffy objects tied to the roof of the stall which looked like clouds.

    “£200! That’s a lot of money for slippers.” Potero exclaimed.

    “You pay extra for the magic, sir.” Said the stall owner defensively.

    “Magic? What do they do?”

    “They float, sir.”

    To Potero, floating slippers sounded exactly like the sort of slippers he wanted. “I’ll take them.” He replied.

    “That’s £400.”

    “£400! What? You thieving wretch. You said they were £200 just now.”

    “They’re £200 each, sir.”

    “Each?”

    “Yes sir, they’re magic slippers, sir. Magic doesn’t come cheap.”

    Potero didn’t want to spend so much money, but he really wanted the slippers to protect his newly painful feet. So he plucked £400 from his back pocket and handed it over to the stall holder. Who detached the slippers from his stall and handed them over.

    When Potero put them on they were oh so very comfortable, cushioning his feet as if they had been made just for him. If someone had told him they had been sewn from real live captured clouds he would have believed them. Which would have been wise, because that’s exactly what they were. 

    If you had been there, standing on the street looking up at Potero, who was at this point wearing the slippers and hanging on to a street lamp to balance himself in them, it would have looked very much like two nimbo cumulus; the fluffy little white clouds you see on a summer’s day, hovering oddly low around the street lamp, but you wouldn't have been able to see Potero standing up on them.

    “Well, try ‘em out then.” The stall owner yelled up to him.

    “What?” Potero called back.

    “Take a step.”

    “What? I can walk in them?”

    “Yes! It’ll be a bit odd, but you’ll soon get used to it.”

    “Won’t I drop?”

    “No.” Lied the man. Who put on his jacket and flipped his stand so it collapsed into a package he could carry, and ran off with it into the underground station. If you had been close enough by at street level you might have spotted the logo of the London Underground, a little red circle split by a horizontal red line on the lapel of his jacket, and heard him mutter ominously; “Mind your step as you leave the train.”

    But Potero wasn’t at street level, he was at the top of the lamp post, still hanging on.

    He stayed there for quite a while, not quite sure of how to start walking. Eventually though, and very tentatively, he let go of the street lamp.

    It was amazing! He found himself bobbing up and down on the spot. It was slightly wobbly, but it felt great. He was totally astonished that the floating slippers were holding his weight.

    Walking felt similar to how it might be to stride through a vat of wobbly jelly. As soon as one foot went up to take a step, the other would sink. It was impossible to walk normally. It was really funny to see and very strange to experience. His arms flailed about.  At first, he really enjoyed it. It felt like he was on a bouncy castle, but he couldn’t pay much attention to where he was going, and quite soon then his feet skidded from under him, and he fell.

    However, instead of falling to the ground, he discovered that the slippers held him safely but upside down. He was now hanging in the air and everything around him was red and blurred.

    At first he thought he had hit his head and he was seeing red because there was blood in his eyes. But, after feeling all over his body, he realised that it was because he was suspended near the glowing red sign of the London Underground, that red circle split with a line which marked the entrance to the very station he had just escaped.

    He reached out for it, thinking it would be better to hold onto something, but as he did so the slippers swung him away. He tried again, and then again, but each time they wouldn’t let him grab it.

    It seemed the slippers simply wanted to fly. They let Potero reach for the sign one last pointless time, then they whisked him away up over the streets, the roofs and the towers of the city of London, and into the cold stratosphere far above the earth, where he soon froze into a very dead, Potero-shaped icicle. 

    Finally, the cloud slippers unsheathed themselves neatly from his feet and let him drop into the sea with a small and unnoticed splash. Then they slowly became vapour, and once they had disappeared no visible trace of Potero was left.

The end.