A small part of my mind has been closed off for about twelve weeks now. I have walked the corridors outside its door many times, hesitating to perhaps look in as if checking on a sick child. Each time, however, I have resisted the temptation and gone about my business satisfied that all was well within.

For a while I became concerned that what lay in that room had withered and died - faded away into nothing more than a clouded memory but something drove me on to persist with my absence and let it have time to rest. Instinctively, I knew that the thing which I had confined had been worked harder than it had ever been for some time and needed to recover.

On the sixth of December last year I completed the final chapter of a novel that I had poured myself into, intensively, for a little more than six months. Carving out an average of a thousand words a day, it staggered into bed at just short of one hundred and fifty thousand words. I knew in my heart that those words were, quite possibly, not assembled in the right order and might even be the wrong words for the job. Certainly, there were more than required but for the time being they served the purpose of painting the picture I wanted to release from my imagination.

Since that day in December I have made no attempt to put my fingers to the keyboard to write anything of substance. With the exception of a few journal entries I have observed a complete abstinence which has been due in part to having nothing of any interest to say. So complete was my exploration of the grand designs of my novel idea that I had exhausted every creative avenue and emptied all the resources I had for new ideas. Rather than face the futility and disappointment of flogging a crippled steed I concluded that a sojourn was better than a battle. Far better that I let it lie than try to ride the stumbling creature and fall, taking the humiliation which that brings.

I am convinced that my inactivity these last few months are not a case of writer’s block (which, in any case, implies that a writer cannot move forward) so much as a case of a writers ‘conclusion’ - a situation where a train of thought finally arrives at its intended destination. Having disembarked from the train I find myself now striding the platform’s length looking at posters for other exciting places to visit.

But now it is time to unlock that attic room. I have heard the plaintive cries from within and know that the thing is alive and well. Awakening from winter hibernation, it now seeks sustenance and attention which I once more feel capable of offering. Our time apart has been a period of recovery for us both as I have spent my time living a life and observing the very things which I have previously attempted to document. Now that the dark days and icy winds have receded, my internal store of snapshots and character sketches is renewed and together I believe that we can, once more, embark on adventures new as spring begins to surge around me. Sometimes a change is as good as a rest. When the words won’t flow - don’t force them (they are unforgiving). Do something else instead.

I don’t doubt for a minute; the old adage that we all have a book, somewhere deep inside us just waiting to get out but, from what I understand of the way that the publishing game works, there are certain ingredients that you need to bake a successful cake.

The Cathedral of Wonderful Imaginings is usually ‘novel’ shaped for most writers and whilst many succeed in building a palace we are willing to visit, others create a shrine of obscurity that is devoid of any congregation and I began to wonder why that was. There seems to be something at work here between the pages of the very best (and worst) examples of these and I feel it’s something that any aspiring writer should at least be aware of. 

It seems to me that ‘popularity’ does not always equal ‘quality’. There are far too many examples of current best sellers that are abysmally written and the same was true of the past. However, there is a common thread that unites the good, the bad and the ugly when they surface as popular and often recurring successes.

If you met a friend who told you that they had been to the cinema to see the latest blockbuster I am certain that your first question would be: “What’s it about?” Likewise, if you told your friend that you had just read a new novel, they would ask you the same question. Chances are, they wouldn’t ask you: “Was it well written?” A question like that would seem churlish or petty minded in ordinary conversation but it is the first thought of editors, publishers and academics alike.

For most of us, watching a movie does not involve a conscious critique of camera angles, plot development and edit points. We are (generally) looking to be entertained and are responsive to the unfolding of a good story. In the same way, most readers can forgive quirky grammar and the occasional hole in the plot as our suspension of disbelief is open to the spinning of an intriguing tale.

Without mentioning any names, there are plenty of currently best selling books on the market which the intelligencia say should never have appeared in print but for those who are gripped by the story, the construction of academically correct prose is of little interest.

Which leads me to believe that the single most timeless ingredient in any story is the premise - the actual ‘thing’ that it is about. If you can get that right then your readers will be with you. Unfortunately, the editors, agents and other gatekeepers feel quite differently and any aspiring writer should be well aware of that. The drive to keep every page tight and exciting is very important in such a fiercely commercial arena. If you can do both, the rich shores of literary fame are well within your reach.

What’s it all about?

“Valvepunks! The long road to Quixotica” is an epistolary novel. To you and I - that’s a novel that is written as a series of documents. Typically stories like this have the narrative flowing through letters but in this case there are diary entries, newspaper cuttings and other personal documents which are threaded throughout the adventure along with extensive photographs, illustrations and diagrams. To add further intrigue, the rising action is told in the present tense in stark contrast to the past tense narrative of the bulk of the yarn.

It follows the experiences of Bradley Gardner - a budding young journalist - as he embarks on the assignment of a lifetime, investigating and researching the life of one of the twentieth century’s most alluring innovators. He meets the enigmatic, 98 year old Reginald Merryweather at his home in Hertfordshire and realises that there is much more to this faded radio star than the thin references on the internet about him would suggest.

Bradley is invited to spend the weekend with the aging broadcaster but the forty eight hours are revealed to be weird right from the very start. But, because Bradley is suspicious of Reggie’s claims to have built a time traveling radio, Reggie feels the need to demonstrate its capability. However, in the process he accidentally takes his housekeeper, Florence Jiggery along for the ride.

It is whilst listening to the past that Reggie gets a message about events in the future and the impending peril faced by his one true love - a girl he met during the war. Spurred on by this emotional cry for help, Reggie takes Bradley and Florence back to wartime Paris to try to alert his younger self of the dangers awaiting him and his lover in the future.

They arrive too late to change history (as it emerges that his younger self has already perfected time and space traveling and scarpered rather swiftly to escape not only the British authorities but also the Nazis,) so the three of them must then transport themselves into the twenty second century in hot pursuit of himself and Vera Cruz - the woman he loves more than anything else in life.

Unknown to Bradley, Florence and Reggie, Vera is being brutally tortured and questioned by the antagonists who we learn are the Ludwigian Order - a universally wide organisation of illuminati, cruelly intent on the absorption of all known intelligence. Created from dark energy, and manifest as a super intelligent human form, the ‘Order’ are all powerful and hope to learn Reggie’s specific secret of time travel.

Unfortunately, (like most things he does) Reggie’s radio is not particularly well built and before long starts to fail. They arrive, unexpectedly, on a futuristic pleasure cruise liner and are detained as stowaways. Luckily, Reggie is able to use their power source to recharge the batteries of the failing contraption but his failing health poses a larger threat. They escape just as the doomed liner is sucked into a black hole on its maiden voyage.

He makes Bradley set the radio’s controls to a period in the past when he was younger and fitter so that he may gain strength from his younger self as well as gain from the fresh memory that he now so sadly lacks. Their survival at this stage depends on the success of finding and enlisting a younger version of the elderly eccentric.

Arriving back in England of the 1930’s, the three intrepid (and largely bewildered) playmates discover an even more confused, younger Reginald as he is being pursued by angry Yorkshiremen during the recording of one of his very early radio programmes. They take him, kicking and screaming, to the planet Galena in a solar system not too far from Earth and into a scrape, the like of which he has never encountered.

Hiking across barren landscapes and desert terrain they eventually arrive in a mining outpost which is revealed as a place that Reggie himself helped to establish. The geologists living there were taken by a version of his younger self in search of a mysterious element that he first discovered when he was a young man. This substance is the main catalyst of his time traveling radio and has the power to enhance the human race beyond all recognition. Vera was taken there by the young Reggie to oversee the mining of Radionium 7 (or Seedstone, as it becomes known) but is being held captive with threats to her life if she does not reveal what the material is capable of.

Their enquiries and search takes them into the ‘great underground’ of the planet into a place called the ‘Cave of impossible reasoning’ where the indigenous people have lived for eons which is now occupied by a mixture of new settlers but more recently by the militia forces of the Order whilst they undertake their savage investigation of all mining operations.

One of the overwhelming features of Seedstone is that it is composed of each single element of the periodic table in a state of impossible equilibrium. However, a side effect of its presence in large quantities is that it affects the mind in unpredictable ways. Once inside the mines, Florence, Bradley and the two Reggies are overwhelmed by baffling experiences but ferociously battle on, led by the elder Reggie and his drive to save Vera.

Eventually arriving at the ‘inner sanctum’ of the great city of Quixotica under the hostile surface of the otherwise insignificant planet, the four conquistadors face the military strength of the Order face on, as they discover the true extents of the grand plan that they have begun to execute.

Will they succeed in rescuing Vera? Does she have a subplot up her sleeve? Do the Order have greater plans that they are looking to execute? Will Bradley get back in time to catch his train home? To find these answers, you’ll have to read on. It’s a puzzle, hidden in a conundrum wrapped in a mystery. The internal logic is convoluted and multiple layers of referencing explode at every turn. Contemporary and vintage media icons are mirrored in every event and there are as many genuine facts as there are red herrings but can you find them all?

A synopsis.

Two, middle aged friends find their life-paths crossing - after having had no contact since their student days - when a terrible shared secret comes screaming through the years to haunt them, threatening their sanity, freedom and comfortable lives.

Evidence surfaces, when Joshua (the ten year old son of the family who had just moved in to the former student flats) finds a ring in the back garden. This leads to further discoveries of human bone and a police inquiry quickly links the house to the era and the two main characters.

As the story unfolds, we hear personal accounts of the sequence of events told by Dave (a respectable dentist) and Tom (an IT consultant) and see how their viewpoints differ. However, in the process we see how the secrets they each keep (from themselves and each other) have shaped who they have become. These statements are set against (and woven amongst) present tense revelations as the inquiry unfolds, revealing that the girl was a flatmate of Dave and Tom, who was not lost on a backpacking holiday as the reports had suggested in 1976

We learn from Tom and Dave that their extreme student lifestyle - constantly in search of the ultimate thrill - led (through a combination of drink and mushrooms, on Halloween weekend) to the drowning of Clare (an archeology student), in the bathroom at the house.

We hear from Tom that the secret he kept from Dave was that he had sex with her almost-dead body, causing her to drown. However, we learn from Dave that it was his idea to dispose of the body (to hide their grisly excesses) instead of reporting the incident.

Having tried a variety of methods (including food processors and a bonfire in the garden) they are satisfied that the incident is behind them, but rivalry between Dave and Tom reaches a climax when Tom tells Keith about the party. Dave had stolen Keith’s girlfriend and the tension between them was already there.

Now, in the present day only Dave and Tom know the full truth but the police (as yet) can’t directly link them. That is, until Keith arrives back on the scene. Dave convinces Tom that the only way to retain their anonymity is to make sure that Keith doesn’t reveal all that he knows.

However, following the ill conceived murder of Keith, fresh evidence emerges which irrevocably incriminates both Dave and Tom but for different reasons. From beyond the grave, Clare appears to have had a hand in posthumous retribution.

One of the perils of embarking on the journey of writing, is the very likely possibility of ending up down a road with no exit route. A cul-de-sac (literally meaning “bottom of bag” in French) is a word which refers to a dead end street, a close, or a no through road and it’s a place that every writer fears, no matter how spectacular the houses are along that road.

During May and June of this year I was particularly inspired by my novel - so much so that I was averaging a thousand words a day, clocking in at nearly thirty thousand of the sparkly things by the first week of June. This was a wonderful achievement, in my eyes, and the completion of the first three chapters of the book heralded a great sense of relief. However, there was a theatre booked for the performance of a play I wrote which needed all my attention and so throughout the rest of June I was engaged with rehearsals and preparation for that.

The show went well and I came out of it with not only a feeling of pride that it was well received but also a commission to write a new play for the October Literary Festival in Malton. Without wasting a moment, I began work on that and turned round a first draft in a couple of weeks, organised a cast get together and had a couple of read throughs, which looked promising but this week realised it had been four weeks since I had worked on the novel.

I tried to re-start the impetus which I had going this time last month and found it very hard indeed to get the flow started and on one occasion only managed a paragraph in an hour. For whatever reason, the ideas were simply not ‘tumbling’ like they were previously. Now, it’s not like I don’t know the story (the whole thing is mapped out in my mind and I am aware of all the intimate details), it’s just that I feel like I am slightly trapped in the cul-De-sac created by the events so far. The magnitude and impact of the ‘set-up’ is slightly intimidating me at the moment and I feel as though I might not be able to match the dynamic and thrusting pace I had set down last month.

It’s not that I am worried by this, far from it, it’s just that it’s frustrating as I want to get back in the captain’s chair and resume steering the ship through new waters. But that cul-de-sac! Perhaps the work on writing scripts is something that I should embrace for the time being until the words are ‘bursting’ to come out again.

It is for this reason that I haven’t posted a blog for a few weeks and right now I am putting some thoughts down - as a kind of laxative, if you will and if your writing takes you down some blind alleys from time to time, my advice would be: get out of the car, take a look at the neighbourhood, survey the landscape, eat a sandwich and have a think - you haven’t lost your legs, you’ve just misplaced your roadmap for a bit.

NEVER give up.

It is a time of innocence and a place of no consequence as we soar through the night air, carried along by the vibrations that inform, educate and entertain a nation. Over the moonlit, Christmas-cosy rooftops and between the softly smoking chimney pots of suburban Middle-England, we see avenue after crescent of semi detached houses. Closer now, we see the glow of hearth and home, illuminating the netted windows of each one as the families within, settle down at the end of another weekend. There, a woman draws the curtains at the floral, leaded window to keep the frosty nip of the late December air at bay but inside a fire roars, guarded by a sleeping cat.

Behind those curtains, another world unfolds. Mother - in her powder blue, lambswool cardigan, knits. Her legs demurely tucked to the right. Father, with pipe and slippers, reads the Sunday paper, smiles and dunks another digestive in his Ovaltine. But there, sitting cross-legged on the rug between the cat and the side table by the fringed floor lamp, is Timmy Brewster in his red dressing gown and pyjamas. His hot milk - cupped between eager hands and his eyes firmly fixed on the walnut veneer box that stands on the table next to father. He is being drawn in through the latticed, brass porthole on the front of the box by polished, cut glass voices that softly crackle through that comforting silence of the room. They’re voices that are taking him far, far away from home. 

“Oh Reginald. When will this beastly war ever be over?”

“Vera, my darling. That was back on Earth, It’s all behind us now - in space and time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes my dearest. Here in the twenty second century, we are safe from the Gerries but not, I fear from the Order.”

“The Order?”

“Yes, my love - The Ludwigian Order.”

“Oh yes, that Order. Sorry, you’re overwhelming me with expositions.”

“If they should ever discover that I brought you here, well - the consequences could be dire.”

“Oh no, is it terribly dangerous?”

“Not as dangerous as it is back …there. But the most important part, is that you establish the mining settlement here. As an eminent geologist, that shouldn’t be difficult. When we, or rather you, finally find the motherload of Seedstone, the world will be at our feet. Don’t you realise that darling? It will bring us riches beyond our wildest dreams.”

“Oh I do love you Reginald.”

“And I love you too Vera.”

“But …last night we said a great many things. You said I was to do the thinking for both of us. Well, I’ve done a lot of thinking since then, and it all adds up to one thing: you must go back to Earth where you belong.”

“But, Vera, no. How can you say that?”

“Now, you’ve got to listen to me! Have you any idea what you’d have to look forward to if you stayed here? Nine chances out of ten, we’d both wind up in a concentration camp.”

“You’re only saying this to make me go.” 

“I’m saying it because it’s true. Inside, we both know you belong on the radio. It’s the one thing that keeps you going. If you don’t let the magic radio take you back, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”

(Mother looks at father and they both laugh. Timmy cannot understand why and he shushes them.)

“But what about us?”

“We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have: we’d lost it until you brought me to planet Galena and then, well - we got it back last night.”

“I meant it when I said I would never leave you”

“And you never will. But I’ve also got a job to do. Where I’m going, you can’t follow. Look, I’m no good at being noble, Reginald, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of two little people doesn’t amount to a hill of seedstones in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that.”

“Oh Vera.” 

“Oh Reginald.”

(As the organ music makes its final crescendo, the warm tones of a familiar voice take over.)

“And there we must leave the magical world of yesteryear and return to the present. Let’s switch the magic radio off and let it cool down. There we go. Now …wasn’t that an exciting adventure? I wonder who we’ll meet next. We’ll just have to wait and see. I do hope you’ve enjoyed your little journey through time and that you’ll want to take a trip with me again next week. You do? -oh that’s wonderful.”

(In the background, an orchestra begins to play the final coda of the show’s signature tune: Al Bowlly’s “Any broken hearts to mend” as the voice continues:)

“Well, this is your ‘Uncle Reggie’ saying goodnight until next time. Goodnight children …wherever you are.

(Then there is a silence.)

“This is the BBC and you can catch up with the adventures of Uncle Reggie at the same time next week, when he once again invites you to tune in to his magic radio. It’s very nearly eight O’Clock on Sunday the thirtieth of December and in a moment it’s: ‘Take it from here’ starring Jimmy Edwards, Dick Bentley and June Whitfield. Later this evening, Richard Dimbleby takes a look back at 1956: the year that saw the Suez Crisis and petrol rationing, the Hungarian revolution and the dawn of transatlantic telephone calls, in a programme entitled ‘Review of the year’. That’s at nine O’Clock, but first…” CLICK. 

“Aw dad!” 

“Now come on Timmy, it’s past your bedtime. You know it’s a treat to stay up and listen to Uncle Reggie,” says mother. 

“Yes son. We’ll have no backchat here. Do as your mother says and get yourself to bed now,” says father’s gentle voice and Timmy kisses them both on the forehead takes a last look at the Christmas tree sprouting from a bucket on the table in the bay window. 

He watches the lights and baubles as they twinkle then leaves to climb the stairs to dream. “Goodnight son,” they call. Through the closed door of the sitting room, he hears them switch the radio back on, quietly. Alone in his bedroom, he lays in the darkness and looks out into the night sky in the chink between the spaceship print curtains that his Grandma bought him for his tenth birthday. 

I wonder if Reggie is really out there, he thinks to himself.’ (Journey into space’ and ‘Orbit one zero’ were Timmy’s long standing favourites on the radio but Uncle Reggie’s stories were, for him - ‘proper magic’: incredible adventures lived by ordinary people, he thought to himself - like me.) I wonder if Reggie really can travel through space and time, he thinks as he slowly drifts into his own world.  

~

“Good morning, good morning, goodmorning! All you layabouts, it’s time to get out of bed and get yourself to work. Shake a leg or an arm or whatever. You are listening to the one and only Chris Moyles breakfast show and it’s five past eight, or summat like that, and anyway, it’s time you were up. But hey! Guess what gang? IT’S FRIDAY!”

The radio alarm blared the start of a new day into Bradley’s ears with a rudeness that focussed his hangover all the more heavily as he fumbled a hand from under the duvet to hit the snooze button, missed and sent the clock crashing to the floor. The muted sound of the clock radio continued under Bradley’s bed: “This is Lostprophets and ‘where we belong’ as he stumbled out of bed and inspected his face in the bathroom mirror. 

“I Don’t Need A Vision. A Light To Embrace. I Don’t Need False Promises, Hopes And Wishes,” he sang, off key, to the distant radio as he scraped the ginger stubble from his chin. Looking at himself, he saw a man of 27. Medium build, red hair, moderately attractive, mildly amusing and immensely talented - if only the world would recognise it yet. He’d been five years out of university and the freelance circuit was only just starting to open up to him. It’s just a matter of time, he thought. The next big break, and I’ll be up there with John Peel, Lester Bangs or Julie Birchill ( - well, maybe not her,) he thought as he pulled on yesterday’s Rolling Stones T-shirt and went downstairs, without showering. (Today was not a ’shower day.’)

Eating hot buttered toast to the sound of ‘Don’t stop believin’ on the kitchen radio, he strutted the length of his hallway, past the abandoned bike to the front door, to get the morning’s mail: the usual collection of Domino’s vouchers, LoveFilm offers, bills and - unusually - a jiffy bag with a London postmark - this caught his attention and he discarded the rest on the radiator shelf near the door (as he always did) and walked back to the kitchen, tearing open the package as he went. 

“Dear Mr Gardener. Further to your recent communication, please find enclosed a cd that we wish you to review. Yours sincerely, Krissi Murison, acting editor, NME.” 

“Yes!” Bradley punched at the air. “At last - something I can get my teeth into.” And then he looked at the cd that fell from the envelope. Sitting at the kitchen table and slurping his morning tea, he turned the case over in his hands. 

“Uncle Reggie’s Magic Radio?” he said, incredulously. “Random or what?” he laughed but in spite of himself he loaded it into his laptop and quickly transferred the contents to his iPod. His phone and his laptop were his world, they contained all the films, music, podcasts, books and friends he’d ever known along with his thesis and every unfinished article he ever wrote. Without either of them, he knew that he couldn’t function properly and in particular: his phone. It was his prize possession and the centre of his personal orbit. 

He repeated the name over in his mind as he paced about the kitchen, making more tea to the perky melodies and not unpleasant, hypnotic tracks he heard and before long, he was enchanted and had to learn more, not only for the review that he had to write but also to satisfy his own curiosity. The sleeve notes revealed that the band had taken their name from a legendary (and now largely forgotten) radio show. Bradley scratched his head. He’d certainly never heard of it, in spite of his cultural studies qualifications. He opened a Google page, started searching and it wasn’t long before he paradoxically found a lead. 

~ 

Reginald ‘Uncle Reggie’ Merryweather. Born 1912. Reginald was a brilliant scientist who became a mediocre (but highly loved) broadcaster during radio’s golden years with such legendary programmes as: ‘My gypsy life’ (1930s), ‘Missed your chance’ (1940s), ‘Suspenders’ and “Uncle Reggie’s Magic Radio Show’ (1951 − 1961). However, his experiments with his time traveling radio inventions in the late 50s led to his eventual downfall and departure from the BBC when he unfortunately and successfully erased most of the historical records of his existence and achievements. He disappeared from public life in the early sixties due to mental health problems and only emerged again during 2008 when a British northern pop group took the name of his children’s programme for their own. 

~

“What the…” laughed Bradley. Incredulous that he hadn’t heard of him before. But then, as he thought over the implications of his conclusion, quickly realised that it wasn’t so remarkable after all. If it were true. 

“This has to be an elaborate marketing stunt, right?” he said to himself as his typing became more intense and his surfing - more detailed. “If he was born in 1912, that would make him …” he quickly negotiated some basic mental maths, “ninety eight. Wo!” he said softly, then began to wonder as the Wiki entry didn’t give a date of death. Sure enough, he soon found a Twitter page: @therealreginald and it gave the location as Bedford. From there he found a blog page with a link to contact and he sat at his computer, gripped in excited wonder as his fingers poised over the keys like Nosferatu.

“Dear Mr Reggie…” he began. “Nah. That’s pants,” he said and started again. “Dear Sir… oh dear God.” He rubbed his head and looked out of the window. A pair of ladders appeared and then a young man, about his age, with a gray chamois began smearing pigeon droppings across the pane until the glass looked like one of those shops that have closed for refurbishment. Bradley took a deep breath. “Dear Reginald…” 

What if he doesn’t even read his email messages, he thought as he watched the window cleaner scrape frothy water into semi-circles of a Streatham street scene. It might take weeks for him to answer. Perhaps a phone call might be better, he finally concluded. 

“Hello? yes hello there. I’m Bradley Gardner and I work for the NME. What? …no, not the enemy,” he looked away, considering the idea for a moment then continued: “The New Musical Express. Yes, that’s right - a newspaper, of ‘sorts’ and I’d love it, if I could come over and interview Mr Merryweather. Your number? Oh I found it in the directory. Hmm? Ex-directory? No, it came up under ‘vintage radio repairs’. I’ve rung hundreds of numbers this morning, and… Oh, would you? that would be fantastic. Great, I’ll wait to hear from you then. I sent an email but let me give you my number. This afternoon? Brilliant”

The phone at his ear was becoming slippy but he just had to tell someone:

“Gaz! hey, it’s Brad. Yeh, not so bad mate, listen …er, something’s come up and I don’t think I’m going to be able to make tonight. I know, bummer. Why not? Well I’ve blagged an interview with Reginald Merryweather. Reginald …yes, Merryweather. You’ve heard of him right? Big radio star in the fifties? Well, anyway, there’s this band who named themselves after him and I’m doing a review of the cd for the NME - Yeh! I know! and, well anyway look: I’m expecting a call, I’ll give you a bell at the weekend right? Cool. See you Gaz. Don’t drink too much yeh? 

As he put the phone down, Mrs Jiggery’s email surprised him with a ping and told him exactly what he had been wanting to hear:

~

Dear Mr Gardner. 

Mr Merryweather would be delighted to welcome you at his home for an interview and has asked me to extend his hospitality by suggesting that you stay for the weekend if you so desire. Our house is easy to find, and the address is below. Please don’t hesitate to phone if you wish to know any further details and we look forward to seeing you.

Best wishes. Florence Jiggery. 

PA and housekeeper to R.K. Merryweather.”

“Good afternoon. Do you have anything on valve radios?” says a mellow voice that rings through the willows and elms, almost making the pond ripple in reverberant sympathy. 

“Reggie!” I call as I turn and there he is, dressed in his familiar Gabardine raincoat and tweeds and he lifts his hat as he greets me with that huge, silly grin of his. 

“How the devil are you, you old goat?”

I pull the lever and turn my scooter a little so that there is room for the two of them on the bench next to me. “What time do you call this?” I ask him, as he and a young man sidestep to be next to me. 

“I’d call this a perfect time to arrive. Bradley - I’d like to introduce you to a very dear and very old friend of mine.”

“Hey less of the old already,” I say.

“Ziggy Bernstein. Ziggy this is Bradley Gardner,” and we shake hands awkwardly as he bends over.

“He’s not on the square, like us, is he?” I wink at Reggie. 

“VERY PLEASED TO MEET YOU ZIGGY,” says Bradley.

“I’m not deaf!” I say. I’m just sitting down. “And what about you? What do you do?”

“He’s a journalist, don’t you know?” says Reggie.

“Oh? Are you famous?” I ask. Bradley looks at me and then at Reggie.

“Not as such, yet”

“He’s going to write about me,” smiles Reggie. 

“Is he now?” I say. “Good luck.” - Bradley obviously hadn’t got to know Reggie very well yet (or perhaps he had), and he frowns at me as he sits, at the far end of the bench.

“Ziggy played guitar,” says Reggie, and his knee nudges mine. I know what he’s doing. 

“Really?” says Bradley, stunned, dying to laugh but still not sure if he heard properly. After looking at me for a moment he decides to go for it: “Screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo?” he says, cautiously. Reggie and me guffaw then fall silent. Reggie has a short coughing fit as he reaches for his pipe from his pocket. 

“What do you mean?” I say, straight-faced and Bradley nervously mumbles and looks to Reggie for backup. 

“He’s winding you up, Bradley,” says Reggie as he tamps down the tobacco and flicks his lighter open. “You’re learning fast though, I’ll give you that.”

Bradley might be ‘learning fast’ but he’s clearly out of his depth and Reggie was loving it. He leans over and points at the carrier bag of stale bread at the side of my scooter and asks: “Can I?”

“Sure, sure,” I say and kick the bag towards him. He delves into it and begins skimming slices of Mother’s Pride across the dark water as a flotilla of waterfowl emerge from the undergrowth in all directions and he seems pleased. 

“So,” says Reggie, as billows of creamy smoke encircle his head and he takes off his hat, smoothing down the white hair, “what do you know?”

“Ach, the same old. You know?” I say. “Got here quite early today. Had a chat with Marty.”

“Oh how is he?” he says. 

“You know, usual self.”

“Lydia?”

“Don’t ask,” I say and he cranes his neck up and looks along the High Street towards Royal Oak Lane. 

“Did you come in the Moggy?” I ask. 

“Yes. Just making sure she’s safe.”

“Still going strong then?”

“Aren’t we all?” he says with a glance. His brown eyes sparkle in the sharp sunlight and I can still see the fire within. 

Bradley is coming to the end of the bread and as he flings the end crust, it wallops a drake on the head, bounces onto the bank and the tabby cat leaps and wrestles with an unsuspecting flurry of feathers. He anxiously looks at us and points but I know there is nothing we can do. 

“I think it might be time for a lunchtime beverage. What do you think Reginald,” I ask. 

“That sounds like a perfect idea. Come on Bradley.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, still watching the forces of nature taking their course and from the look on his face - feeling responsible, or perhaps irresponsible. 

I stand up and fold the tartan blanket into the shopping basket which takes Bradley’s attention away from the cat but his mouth is still gaping as he watches me.

“I thought you …I mean. I didn’t know that…”

“What? That I couldn’t walk or something? Ach, I get lazy sometimes. Besides, my padded seat is more comfortable than that bench,” I say as they both rise and brush the cold from their trousers. “Come on, it’s just across the road.”

~

We sit in the window, overlooking the road so I can keep an eye on my scooter outside. The smell of freshly cooked chips and bacon fills the air as the soft murmur of a Sunday lunchtime warms us from the brisk day outside. A thin film of condensation blurs the glass and I wipe a small porthole with my cuff. 

“A very agreeable pint indeed,” says Reggie as he slurps at the froth of his Black Swan. “Brewed in Yorkshire,” he enthuses to Bradley, then adds: “…wherever that is,” 

Bradley’s glass is half-poised to his lips as he thinks fast and looks at him. “It’s…”

“I know - up North, but not as far as Scotland,” says Reggie and I laugh. Bradley laughs too but he is not in on our countless in-jokes. We’ve had sixty years to hone our repartee, how could he? We’re a double act, me and him. 

The Fox is a homely, ‘proper’ English pub. Red brick, slatted windows with tangled ivy and a sense of log-fire welcome that is so often lost in many of the new, ‘corporate’ pubs. Villages revolve around places like this and for me, it has become my second home and I settle back, putting the newspaper on the seat at my side as I take off my scarfe. 

“So fellas. What have you been up to this weekend?” I ask and Reggie gulps a quick mouthful before heavily landing his glass on the table. 

“Oh, it’s been quite an adventure really,” he says and Bradley smiles and nods in agreement. “Friday night, Mrs Jiggery put on a bit of a spread for Burns Night - I know it’s not the right day, but I thought it might be fun. THEN,” he continues: “on the Saturday, we caught the bus into Bedford and after visiting the Museum and lunch at the Embankment…” Bradley is looking at him now. His smile has become that goldfish-gape again as Reggie turns.

“You remember, Bradley?  I had the ‘dry-aged Aberdeenshire steak with all the trimmings and a pint of Bombardier and you had the Salmon Fishcake with a watercress salad and bottled water.? Bradley says nothing. He just looks at him and then at me. 

“Anyway, after that we walked along the Ouse, over Town Bridge and onto the high street,” - I nod in acknowledgement and saw Bradley mouthing the word ‘No’ as he pulls a bemused frown for my benefit. “Then I took us to see the place where David Robinson had his old shop. Remember Bradley? I told you I worked there as a young man.”

“They named a college after him at Cambridge you know,” I added, looking at Bradley. “Sir David he was in the end.”

“Then we took another bus into Clapham to see the Glenn Miller Museum. Have you been there Ziggy? Housed in the old control tower of the airfield where he was last seen alive in ’44,” said Reggie widening his eyes. “Splendid it was, then back home in time for tea. Mrs Jiggery had made Stargazy Pie for us and we pulled Christmas crackers - just for a bit of fun.”

“Crackers …yes,” says Bradley, downing about half of his pint in a single go. 

“Then I put on a slide show: Egypt, Paris, New York, that sort of thing. I opened a bottle of Armagnac and we had cigars,” he concluded. 

We all fall silent as the soft, muffled noises of the pub envelop us and the sound of collective swallowing and the clinking of glasses on the table is the only exchange between us. Reggie looks at the crackling logs in the fire but Bradley is troubled. He looks out of the window and back at Reggie a few times before speaking.

“Reggie?” he says, “That’s not …I mean. I don’t …hm. How can I put this?”

Reggie puts his glass down and looks at him, slowly folding his arms, “hmm?”

“That’s not what happened. You’re joking. Right?”

“Well Bradley. Perhaps you’d like to tell the nice Mr Bernstein here, exactly what you have been up to for the last 48 hours, then. Hm?” he says, raising an eyebrow. Repeatedly. I’m not sure what he means but I expect he’s been up to mischief again. As usual. Whatever it is that Reggie is trying to conceal finally dawns on Bradley with a weighty realisation and he grins. 

“Ah. Right,” he concedes and stares at the floor with a schoolboy blush just as the chips arrive. 

“Ooh! Tucker,” beams Reggie and we all dive into our bowls of hand-cut, deep fried slabs of potato, each of us thankful for the distraction for different reasons. 

“You know Reggie, I’ve been clearing out my garage recently. I’ve been getting rid of all the left over stuff from the shop as you know, and I found something that I think is yours,” I say, with a full mouth. Huffing the heat between the words. He turns to look at me.

“Oh?’ he says and I reach into my inside pocket. I offer out my hand and he wipes his on a napkin before taking the tin box from me. He is frozen in time as he gazes at the box.

“Well bless my soul,” he says, shaking his head. “After all these years.” His eyes twinkle as his fingers clasp around the tin. “Thank you Ziggy, you have no idea how precious this is.”

“What is it Reggie?” asks Bradley as he chomps and squirts more sauce on his lunch.

“This,” answers Reggie, “is ‘number seven’ …the one that was missing.” 

Bradley stops and looks at his hand as he offers it to him. “I’d like you to look after it. You might need it later,” he urges and Bradley slowly takes the box and starts to open it but Reggie’s huge hand covers it. “Not now,” he says and Bradley puts the box in his pocket, looking at Reggie to make sure that he was doing the right thing. “Good lad,” says Reggie and concludes lunch, wiping his lips with the napkin and rising to his feet. 

“You must excuse me a moment. I have to ‘see a man about a dog’,” he winks as he places his hand on Bradley’s shoulder to get past and I see him disappear across the bar and into the Gents. A few locals glance and some nod as he goes by. 

“So, you’ve been having fun with ‘Uncle Reggie’ then, have you?” I smile at Bradley as I finish my chips. 

“Yes, it’s been …interesting,” he says. 

“What do you think of him?” I ask. 

“He’s …” he thinks for a while, “fascinating,” he says. 

“Don’t believe a word,” I warn him but he is not convinced.

~

My scooter trundles along the high street, bumpily, as Reggie and Bradley walk alongside as we go back to his Morris Minor, parked a little way along from the pond. I can recognise it immediately, not only for it being an old 1950’s split-screen, vintage green banger but also for the famous ‘AND 50’ number plate. 

“Hello there Mavis,” says Reggie to the car, “I hope you’ve been keeping out of trouble.” He leans over and brushes a couple of leaves off the bonnet. 

“What have you got planned for the rest of today?” I ask. Bradley shuffles about nervously. 

“Oh, that’s it isn’t it? Bradley has to catch a train soon?” I look at him.

“Back home?” I ask.

“Yep, back to London to start my feature.”

“Where will you begin?” I ask him and he scratches his head.

“At the beginning I suppose,” and Reggie laughs.

“I doubt it,” he says. 

I hand him the newspaper I’ve been carrying and say: “Here, take this. Something to read on the train,” and he takes it with a smile and a nod.

“How about you?” says Reggie. 

“I think I fancy some duck soup tonight,” I say, looking back at the pond.

Bradley looks terrified for a moment, but I punch him on the shoulder.

“Silly boy. Sainsbury’s best. As if I’d…” I say, shaking my head and glancing at Reggie with a wink. “Next thursday, as usual?” I ask and he waves through the window and then they were gone

And that, in a nutshell, was my Sunday - same as usual: ‘nothing much happened’, but it was nice to see the old fool again. I just wonder what Bradley will make of it all. 

This isn’t the usual kind of post that I would normally make but this week has seen some extraordinary activity on Tumblr that I couldn’t let pass without some acknowledgement. 

I am in the process of ‘workshopping’ my current work in progress: a valvepunk comedy epic psychological adventure, and from now on, various chapters and extracts will appear amongst the usual short stories, sketches and literary obseravations, advice etc. 

However, I was surprised to pick up eleven new followers in the week and thought that I’d like to give you all a big thank you. You are (in no particular order): bmulhill, readingme, scrawlingtruths, onceuponatimewriting, bvjk, theriverrunswild, thatneedstogo, pianoghost, iwanttobelikearollingstone, ninjamnah, nureenvelji - and I’d just like to say “Hi, I know you’re there and I’ve followed you back to say thanks”

Just because I don’t comment on posts as a rule doesn’t mean that I don’t read what you put. I enjoy checking stuff out just like the rest and as a writer (!) enjoy a distraction whenever it comes along, like we all do. 

Once again, thank you and I hope that you have enjoyed what you’ve read and that you will take time to trawl back through my archives and check out the new stuff as it comes along. The new novel is going to be great and there’s enough depth and intrigue in there to keep anyone guessing (and chuckling) for a long time. 

Yours, JB.

For every writer, there sometimes comes a point where they take the ‘big picture’ and think “what the hell am I writing about?” Unfortunately for me, this has happened this week.

After spending a year and a half nurturing my baby with tender loving care, feeding and tending it on a daily basis, this week it looked up at me and said ‘what the hell have you made me? What is this body you have given me?” and I had to re-assess the entire story from the toes to the head. 

It’s not as though my story is weak - far from it (in my humble opinion), it’s just that the way I have been building it, now seems clumsy and cluttered. It makes me realise how an outsider might come to visit my world and I see that it is not a tidy place. I feel as though I should have at least hoovered round and done the washing up. 

My problem is not unique and I am sure that a lot of writers have experienced a similar ‘crisis of confidence’ at some point in the journey but for reasons that escape me, I am asking for your help before I hit the delete button and rid myself of the problem once and for all (didn’t we all feel like that at one time or another?). 

Ok, so the story so far - 

It’s a steampunk extravaganza. My main character was born in 1912, started out as a radio journalist and cod-scientist who dabbled with the emerging radio technology. During the war years he worked for the British Ministry of Misinformation and then after the war went on to have a speculative fiction series on radio which he wrote. However, when he (claimed) to have invented a time machine, he intervened in his own past and succeeded in erasing himself from history and eventually had a major breakdown in 1960 which resulted in his incarceration in a mental institution. Following a variety of twists and turns he re-emerged in the late 1990’s when a rock band discovered an album that was released of his vintage radio series from the 50’s and took their name from the series as their band name. 

In the current version of the story, a journalist is sent a cd by the rock band to review for the NME and he starts to research the name and becomes intrigued by the snippets he finds and arranges to meet up with the old guy (now in his 90’s) to secure an interview. Things don’t go to plan and before long, the journalist is sucked into a frantic time-traveling adventure as the old guy goes in search of his long lost love from the war years. 

Ok, so here’s my dilemma - I have almost a hundred years of journal entries for the old guy as well as a stack of short stories ‘he’ wrote. In themself, the journal entries are fascinating but don’t have a ‘plot’ that would engage an audience in anything other than a ‘faux-biography’. I also have a reasonably gripping tale of a contemporary journalist being hurled backwards and forwards in time as the old guy retraces his lifetime steps to save the girl of his dreams from his arch enemies. 

At this point, I have several options: firstly, I could tell the tale of the journo, in a standard novel format, experiencing the twists and turns of a stranger and split the entire thing into a ‘Trilogy’ so that the journals become the second installment and the  journo’s account (and essentially part of his ‘review’) as he ends up writing the ‘memoirs’ of the old guy with his stories as the third part of the overall trilogy. 

OR - I could include the journal entries (and thereby thread the entire lifetime of the old guy) into the main story, as if the journo was reading the books as he went along. Much in the same way that The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide revealed bits of information as and when they were required. 

The lifetime entries of the old guy are so strong (and bizarre) that they tell a tale of a man destroyed by his own intelligence and the stories that he (supposedly wrote) stand alone as credible enough to be worthy on their own merit. But the ‘plot’ brings the whole thing to life. Do I separate the immense backstory as a diary and keep the stories he wrote for the radio series as a separate, and final ‘part’ of a three part chronicle?

Today, I had an epiphany. The ‘inner voices’ told me that I should incorporate (what is essentially a ‘back story’) - the journals -  into the main frame of the plot and abandon the short stories altogether as they are nothing more than a ‘vanity’ move on my part to include a bunch of stuff that I am attached to. I like the short stories very much and the content is very integral in cross-referencing various episodes in the old guys life (as he usually wrote from personal experience) but in the final analysis, their inclusion was more of a distraction than an enhancement of the overall piece. 

As a result of this realisation, I have ruthlessly hacked at least ten thousand words off the total word count which is always good but I am concerned that the finished story will be impoverished without the depth of understanding that the stories he wrote (which made him famous) would bring.

What should I do? - Make the story a ‘trilogy’? Make the story a blend of past and present? and include the short stories as an appendix? or just spin the whole thing around the fact that a journalist in the present day meets a time traveler who gives him his journals and let us discvover ‘edited highlights’ as we go along?

A good writer should have their radar on at all times. Life has a way of hurling incidents that, when viewed with ‘novel-goggles’ has a perspective which makes them larger than life and absolute gold dust when it comes to the tricky business of inspiration. 

There was an incident which happened to me today which I have to admit was unlike anything I have ever experienced before. So, as an example I guess it’s not typical. However, I wanted to tell you about it as it is still very vivid in my mind and I think it might inspire a bit of creative exploration in your own imagination. 

I was waiting in line at a gas station. It was a clear, sunny day with a slight breeze. Ahead of me was one compact vehicle with a female driver. To my left were two other pumps with two and three vehicles respectively and to my right were another two pumps with about the same amount waiting there. It was a busy morning stop-off for us all by the look of it. 

The woman in front worked for a real estate company, judging by the signs and livery on her small car but it was clear that she was unfamiliar with the workings of the gas cap. She struggled with it for at least five minutes before eventually (it seemed) breaking it off completely and it rolled under the white van to my left. She heavily stuck the pump nozzle into the hole and walked around the van to get the cap. 

She must have been filling the tank to capacity as it seemed to take at least another ten minutes during which time I looked around at the other occupants waiting their turn. By now I had switched off my engine. Behind the van at my left was an old couple and behind me were two female students. To my right was an old man and his wife and behind him: a business man in a suit. Between the pumps I could see a mother with two small pre-school children in the back, but any more than that I was unable to see. 

As I sat there just observing what was going on, I became increasingly aware of a terrible sense of dread overwhelming me. I began to have doubts about all kinds of things but wasn’t sure what they were. I had a cascade of fragmented dream sequences slicing their way into my thoughts but they appeared to me as shards of important things forgotten. I began to feel a prickling sensation across my neck and forehead as I grasped at these shattered bytes of what began to feel like an alternative reality in the same way that a hangover delivers you a handful of blurred polaroids and says: “remember this from the night before?” and try as you might, you have no recollection of the scenes before you. 

Eventually, the woman appeared to have finished and I was more concerned about being late for work to notice how long she had taken paying for her fuel, but when she returned she seemed concerned that the car wouldn’t start. She fumbled endlessly with the keys and eventually got out and gestured to me to help her push it out of the way. As I stepped out of my car, I realised that I was standing in an inch of petrol which had spread from under her car and outwards to the kerb of the pumps and had flowed under my car and beyond, behind me under their car. 

A forecourt attendant ran out from the cash desk and helped push her car forwards to let others through but seemed to not notice the several gallons of freshly seeping petrol that her car was oozing. I went to the back of mine and told the students to back up, or in effect I think in my mental state I actually told them to get the hell out of there, which they did pretty quickly. I too, started my engine up (which I instantly regretted) and backed up enough to get around the furthest pump to my left and past the tanker which had arrived with a delivery of fresh petrol. I drove away from the station, convinced that I hadn’t paid for something or had just robbed them. Such was the state of mental confusion I was experiencing. I have no idea what the outcome of the incident was, but as I never heard an explosion or heard anything on the news, I have to assume that they got the spill cleared up. 

My mind was in a state of mosaic, almost hallucinatory paranoia for about two hours after that and it was only after lunch that I was able to check out on the internet, what might have been wrong with me. I realised that I was experiencing a ‘real time’ dream which was being fed to me from my memory. From what I could discover, I am pretty sure that I must have been suffering from a mild case of ‘Toxic Psychosis’ which is a side effect from inhaling petrol fumes, Wikipedia told me. Further, it said that in mild cases, a subject might experience a ‘detachment with reality’ and in severe cases ‘paranoid hallucinations’ and even death. I then recalled that the air inlet pipe for my car is just by the nearside tyre, about six or eight inches from the floor. Then, my ‘novel-goggles’ came on. 

Take the above scenario; the characters and add to it a punk robbing the cashier at the same time. He has a stolen car which he can only start by hot wiring and add to that: the tanker fully loaded who clipped the kerb as he parked up, sheering a strut at one end (which now hangs precariously against the concrete and will spark if he moves forward or backward.) With me so far? Ok, this is where it gets exciting. The businessman has just lit a cigarette and the old woman with the old guy (remember him?) is now having am asthma attack, which he is unaware of as he pays. Top it all off with everyone tripping out on the fumes as they sit on this ticking bomb and you have one hell of a great story - who’s going to rescue them? Will they rescue them? How are they going to do it? Will they all fry?

I don’t have an answer, but I’d love to see what you could make of it. I may well do something with this set up at some point, but for now I just wanted to share with you the endless possibilities of real life as a ‘story starter’. Keep your eyes open at all times, just in case that ‘big idea’ comes right up and says hi.

P.S. if you do want to have a go at writing this story, I’d love it if you’d let me know, so we can all read how it ends up, and I’d be kinda grateful if you kept my name on it somehow as the person it happened to or at least inspired your version. Have fun.