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The house we chose was built before the war, now pleasantly mellowed, according to the estate agent. For once we agreed with him. It was a semi-bungalow, all the important rooms downstairs with an extra bedroom in the loft, intended to be used by our younger guests. The garden ran to about half an acre, most of it behind the house, the whole surrounded by mature trees, none of them conifers! We cultivated a small area calling it the kitchen garden, because the back door opened on to it, and dubbed the rest, which was left to run wild, “the paddock.” Planning the eventual civilising of the paddock was just the kind of mild challenge suited to our age and station with the additional luxury of knowing it did not matter if we never did action the plans. Beyond the paddock was a large field where, most appropriately, a couple of retired horses grazed peacefully. Our neighbours on both sides were unobtrusive and friendly.

I know it used to worry me listening to my people discussing how nice it was going to be when they no longer had to work and could live out their days in comfort and tranquillity. Many was the night I would curl up around the camp fire, the stars of the Indian night sky winking above me, and utter a silent prayer that their dreams would not be shattered when we finally returned to England. From time to time I even tried to strike a cautionary note, to minimise the eventual let down, if it came. As you know communication is always a chancy business, especially if the message is not welcome, but if they heard me they took no notice whatsoever. Situation normal.

In due course my people duly retired and I went with them. For the first two or three years--my memory begins to fail me these days--my half voiced fears proved quite unfounded, so much so that I would have forgotten the pessimism of those later Indian days, but for the fact the Colonel regularly reminded me! In fun, of course, everything was fun; and there seemed to be no reason at all why we shouldn’t live blissfully from one happy day to the next until the final curtain was drawn and we transferred from one perfect paradise to the next!

At least, it was!

One bright sunny day in August I was lazing in the garden, the Colonel beside me contentedly puffing at his pipe, occasionally half-heartedly swotting the odd troublesome fly, speculating whether not to mow the paddock next year or not to plant some fruit trees, when the people next door leant over the fence. They waved, the Colonel stirred himself, ambling over for a friendly chat, and my first thought was to leave them to it. The Colonel would convey any important news, over supper perhaps. But, call it what you will, a sixth sense, a premonition, ultra sensitivity to atmosphere, an ill defined but very definite sense of unease filled my being. I don’t shirk problems, which is not to say I like them, so, dutiful but reluctant, I got to my feet and let myself wander over to them.

The fellow next door, young, brainy but damn naive, held aloft a kitten.

“Her name is Shambles,” he told us.

The Colonel took the moggie and stroked it. “Isn’t she a pretty thing!”

The cat, a tortoishell, with a black nose and a small inverted vee of white just below its mouth, which gave it a perpetually angelic appearance no matter what evil lurked in the brain above, preened itself in the Colonel’s arms. The woman next door, young, intelligent but damn cynical in my view, looked on knowingly. The cat purred, loudly.

I felt sick. Normally I like household pets. They’re great fun. I’ve known many a tame rabbit, hamster and canary and got on very well with all of them, although I have to admit the chirruping of the birds does tend to remind one of prattling women. Or is it the other way round? No matter, I make allowances, for the poor things cannot help it, being much less bright than, say, the Colonel and I.

But cats! Cats are different. Cats know better. I hate to say it but their brains are as good as yours or mine. And whereas you and I, or even the Colonel, will voluntarily, without being asked, extend a helping hand when it is needed, a cat never has and never will. Their only concern is for themselves. They don’t give a fig when sharpening their claws if the timber that’s nearest happens to be the leg of a valuable Chippendale. You’re wearing a newly cleaned dark suit and about to go out for the evening? So what. The cat wants to rub itself against your leg. You’re replete after roast pork and crackling and are content to doze by the fire. The cat, even if its belly is so full it is scraping on the ground, will go out and scoop goldfish out of next-door’s pond and leave the mangled remains to decompose in some inaccessible corner of the kitchen. I could go on but suffice it to say that the worse trick cats pull is to escape all responsibility for their evil doings by becoming coy, soft, and as unreachable as the aforementioned fishy victim.

The very first moment I saw this Shambles I knew that angelic mouth and loud purr would confer unbreakable immunity upon it, and, naturally enough, with no retribution, why not commit evil? Worse still, you always get the blame, no matter how innocent you might be. So, I don’t like cats; I don’t trust cats; cats to me are the devil incarnate. When we meet, it is war, and a fight to the finish at that. They know this of course.

Shambles was no exception. She saw me, she knew I saw through her, and immediately reacted as cats do. Her ears flattened and her tail stood on end. She bristled with hostility and before I could say “how d’y’do” she spat right in my eye.

Immediately the Colonel was full of concern. You might think he’d say “What a dreadful thing to do.” or “Unprovoked and unforgivable aggression, and at first acquaintance too!” If nothing else the Colonel knows the value of good manners. But no; it was “Poor little pussy. Did my ugly old friend frighten you? Don’t worry; I’ll keep tabs on him!” And he turned and gave me a severe ticking off. Me! What had I done? I could have strangled that smirking, purring moggie as it draped itself all over him. The young fellow next door thought that was very sweet. People always take a cat’s word and there is nothing I can do about that. I did have an inkling that the woman next door recognised that under the sleek, soft exterior there beat a heart of pure malice backed up by a scheming brain. Perhaps it takes one to know one.

This Shambles soon confirmed my worst fears. Within days she had started to creep up on me when I was enjoying a quiet afternoon snooze in the garden and if I was nearer sleep than awareness she would pounce, flicking out her paws, left, right, so that I was jerked suddenly awake in a most unpleasant manner. On other occasions she took to standing before me, bold as brass and just out of reach, and would make faces, or spit. Or both. Normally I’m a pretty easygoing chap, as I’m sure you’ve gathered from the tone of my story, but you’d have to be more than human to avoid reacting. It was inevitable that one day I would lose my temper.

The provocation was quite unbearable. I was lying down, upstairs in the room in the loft as it happens, for it wasn’t quite warm enough to be outside, when, hearing a slight sound, I opened one eye, casually as one does. Would you believe it, Shambles was there, chewing a mouse at the foot of MY bed. The mouse was quite annoyed too, as you can imagine. For me it was much too much to tolerate.

I’m still very quick on my feet when I choose to be, despite my years, and I gave that murdering feline something to bristle about. Before she knew it I leapt from under the covers and went for her. She fled, yowling mightily. I didn’t touch her, she was too quick to escape, but I’d definitely shaken her up. As the mouse sat on its haunches examining the damage Shambles hurtled across the room and through the doorway to the landing. In her haste to escape she realised, too late, that the stairs were right in front of her. Out splayed all four legs, claws scraping on the lino as she skidded along it, desperate to stop, and then, happy day, she was over the top!

I don’t think she touched the first five steps and in negotiating the rest she must have cracked her shins more than once. Bliss! While the mouse rolled about on the floor I went after that cat to keep her going. Panic stricken she tore through the lounge and out into the garden. I followed and soon saw her off the premises.

A good bit of work, that, I thought, as the sun came out. Finding a warm spot on the edge of the paddock I settled down, confident of at least an hour or two of peace.

Wrong again. The Colonel had seen me and that was that! The woman next door rubbed it in, too, complaining she’d had to give her “pet” a great deal of comforting. I was blamed, received no supper, and some very off hand treatment for days. Of course, one expects no less when cats are about and one has to live with that, but the sight of her sitting in one of the trees, out of reach, threatened to drive my blood pressure dangerously high. She was obviously laughing at me and was no doubt hatching another odious scheme designed to make my life hell.

Fight fire with atom bombs, that’s what I say, and I finally came up with an idea that would sort her out. What’s more I planned to get away with it. Did I tell you about our well? Eight feet deep with sheer sides and no bucket on a rope, nor is there a ladder inside enabling one to climb out. A sapling grew next to it. Ding dong bell... You know the nursery rhyme, of course.

The sapling wasn’t much more than a big bush but I knew that that cat would not be able to resist taunting me from it. The day came. The Colonel was out, the woman next door was in, I lay down near by and the cat went up the tree. It was simplicity itself to give that tree a thorough shaking up. Shambles screamed and shouted, desperate to keep her footing but, as the Colonel himself used to say in India, beware for the general who does not secure his base. That cat’s perch was no castle. She slipped and slithered and screeched to the ground, somehow missing the open well; rather unfortunate, that. In naked hate we glared at each other, eyeball to eyeball. Plan “A” might have failed but I was between her and her own place. Beautiful; time for Plan “B.”

Shambles must have guessed what was coming for she hared off across our kitchen garden, disappearing round the house. I found it hard going but I managed to maintain a close pursuit. I’d have her in another stride.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have harmed the paperboy. We were pals. Or, we were. But, that’s the kind of disaster that regularly happens when cats are around. By the time the Colonel returned and was able to effect emergency treatment the cat had gone, I was for the high jump and one perfectly good friendship was irretrievably ruined. I tried explaining, one does you know, even though the effort is entirely pointless, and anyway the evidence was damning. I cannot lie, just to save my own skin, so I had to admit I’d rounded the house and grabbed where I thought the feline villain was, unfortunately colliding with the young lad instead. It was an instinctive reaction to grab him securely to prevent his escape. A moment later I realised my mistake. Horrified, I’d let him go immediately, but the damage had been done.

I’ve had this sad little story written for two reasons.

In the first place it may serve as a warning to the unwary. It is probably a waste of time. Cats are cats, big or small, black, white or any other colour, and nothing anyone can say or do will alter that. You just have to learn to live with it.

And in the second? Do you believe in reincarnation? I want to, desperately. I now realise it is not enough to know one’s enemy. To overcome a deadly foe one must become bigger and nastier than they are. This story is my plea to the gods. Next time I want to come back as a tiger!

In the meantime I don’t go out so much. What’s the point? Why invite other disasters? I shall ignore her and all her kind, and hope she’ll come to a sticky end. I’m determined to try to outlive the beast and so enjoy at least part of that projected, contented retirement. The chance of that happening is remote. Mine, after all, is a dog’s life. Why remote? Surely everyone knows cats have nine lives, and not one of them is likely to fail to take full advantage of an asset as big as that.

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Silly Verse

1. THATRO

“It’s very clear,” the raw onion said, tears streaming o’er his skin,

“That you and I are miles apart; let’s end our life of sin.”

The Hypnotist, with rueful smile, felt this was very logical

Their relationship had, from first to last, been purely biological.

The onion said, with motive cruel, “Take this, my parting gift

A million tears for you to shed in memory of our rift.”

The hypnotist, with watering eyes and now without her skill

Realised at once that she’d been had, oh what a bitter pill.

Revenge is sweet I’ve heard it said and this case proves it true,

Our hypnotist became a cook and invented onion stew.

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Family History is Weird.

I asked my father once; it was the 13^th June 1951, actually, about the TRANTER’s. “Where do we come from, Dad?”

He looked down and frowned. “Don’t ask.”

“But I’d like to know.”

He shook his head and started to fill his pipe with a compacted mass of old rope strands, and tar. The label on the tin informed us it was Lloyds Skipper Tobacco. Sailors used to chew the stuff. They didn’t dare smoke it.

He contemplated the stuffed bowl. “Better not ask questions.”

“But, why?”

While he thought of an answer he tamped the tobacco down. Finally satisfied, he stuck the pipe stem in his mouth and looked at his finger. It had gone black. With a shrug he fished out his matches, struck one, applied flame to pipe bowl and commenced to suck. “You don’t....”suck, “know...” suck, “what you’ll find.”

“But if I did know I wouldn’t need to ask, would I?”

“True.”

Encouraged, I added, “We could always keep quiet about what we find out.”

“Are you ever satisfied with the answers you get?” he retorted, from behind a smoke cloud.

How to respond to that? The honest answer is no, I am never satisfied. By this time the pipe and Dad were enveloped in an impenetrable fog of blue-black smoke. The conversation died. I wandered away and forgot about the subject for years. Dad remained seated, perhaps ruminating over whatever he knew he was not going to tell me. Certainly, both he and the subject I’d raised were, for him, happily obscured.

I think someone in Parliament must have heard about us because shortly afterwards the Clean Air Act was passed. As a result, London’s smog disappeared and asthmatics cheered. I am amongst them. Dad simply ignored the health warnings. In a way I sympathised, for actually I quite liked the aroma of his smoke. I suppose it was part of my comfort zone, the atmosphere of security and love in which I was growing up and for which he and mum were jointly responsible. Maybe, too, raking over the past would have disrupted his peace of mind. I knew enough of his early struggles out of poverty and insecurity to know he had no wish to look backwards. Young as I was, I was sufficiently aware to realise that day in June just wasn’t the moment for family history. Perhaps in the future I’d satisfy my curiosity; maybe even try smoking my own pipe.

A little background information is necessary. Dad was managing director of a timber firm which he had joined as an office boy and worked his way up. It was not his first choice of occupation—he’d achieved the required scholastic level to go to university but not the financial independence that would have allowed him to do so—and in 1928, when he left school, you took whatever job you could get. As it happened, working in a timber yard was not a bad outcome. He loved working with wood and I still have some of the furniture and marquetries he made in later years. I didn’t know it at the time but this was a clue to past links, as was the fact he supported Oxford University in the boat race, built model railways and gave my brother and I one when we were kids. I wanted a chemistry set but he said “No. You’ll blow us all up.” He did a lot of camping as a youth, once managing to camp in a tent for 50 out of 52 weekends in the year. Then he met mother, a bigger bike was required, so they bought a tandem and, well I’m here, aren’t I? They both loved walking through the woods.

I have to say that this family history business is weird. You don’t know what you’ll find, as Dad pointed out, but nevertheless, even if he was usually immersed behind a cloud of blue-black smoke, the clues were there, as they often are, in the environment in which you live. I’ve just listed a few, which later investigations have revealed were indeed links to the family past. The discoveries I have since made include the good news, the bad and the spicy.

I blame one of my daughters. One day, 45 years after my foggy chat with Dad, she asked me, “Where do the TRANTERs and SANGWELLs come from?”

I started to tell her about the birds and the bees and of course received that look. “I don’t mean sex,” she retorted. “I know all about that!”

“Oh, do you, my girl,” I began.

“I mean the family,” she insisted. Sangwell, by the way, was my mother’s and thus her grandmother’s maiden name. “We should be able to find out. Neither name is that common.”

True, though I think our ancestors must have had a policy of marrying themselves to keep the numbers down, you know, cousins and so on. Or maybe there’s a flaw in our survival techniques for there should certainly be more of us than there actually are. I blame Darwin for that, of course.

I am not as wise as my father, as he well knew, for one day I took my probing daughter to the local reference library to see what we could find out. To be honest, my own curiosity had been revived.

The resources available at the reference library presented, at first, a rather daunting prospect. There were hundreds of folders containing transcripts of parish records; thousands of card indexes telling you where to look next but not actually managing to give anything away, and lots and lots of microfiche readers with which you could sometimes clearly read Latinised records on film. Not that that helped too much. At one point in our searches we both stopped and looked up. I caught her eye. “What’s a Galfredus?”

“Huh,” she retorted, “Cariolus to you.”

Our blank faces turned to grins, then back to blank faces again. “Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” she said. “I need a cigarette.”

In the nick of time the cavalry came to the rescue, not in the form of a mounted and charging gallant, waving a cutlass, (though he looked fierce enough to me,) but an eager fellow disguised behind a beard, large horn rimmed glasses and sporting sandals rather than an equine friend as his aid to locomotion. It was The Librarian, with helpful attitude.

In an unguarded moment, probably whilst distracted looking for his matches, or extinguishing the carpet, Dad had let slip he was a Londoner, as was his father. We informed The Librarian of this useful fact and as soon as we’d done so his face lit up. In a very few minutes he showed us the 1881 census and explained how to use it.

We started our search. After a while I glanced up, to rest my eyes, and saw The Librarian had returned. He was sort of hovering, full of indecision over some hidden agenda. I did not wish to upset him but at the same time I wanted to convey the impression we were perfectly capable of looking through index cards and actually preferred to do so on our own. Long gone were the days when we’d had to endure the attention of hovering schoolmasters. The Librarian did not get the message. He lingered. He did more than that. He twitched nervously, and there was a Galfredus look in his eye. He opened and shut his mouth several times and finally, as unwisely I looked at him again, he summoned up enough courage to demand, “What’s your name?”

I didn’t mind telling him that. “TRANTER” I replied, casually, for we try not to make too much of it, even though we are fully aware we are a rare breed. However, I was curious, wondering at his interest, so I asked, “Why do you want to know?”

It was the only prompt he needed to reveal his desperate need. He had a new toy, some software on his computer, which contained indexed names of all the people who had appeared in THE TIMES in the nineteenth century. He was dying to use it but so far no one had let him look up a name. Did it work? Was he in the presence of a descendant of an historical celebrity?

I shrugged. “Go ahead,” I said. “You won’t find anything. We’re not famous, just relatively rare. We might be in the local rag, attending a fete, or in the Births, Marriages and Deaths columns. I admit our ancestors are guilty of these things, but that’s all.”

He was no longer listening. In fact, he’d gone, the urgent slap, slap, slapping of his sandals on the hard, shiny floor, signalling his focussed purpose and eventually fading into the distance.

A little more background. I’d lived most of my life in Middlesex, and then Hampshire, with a few years away at sea, and until the expletive deleted French broke a promise and made me redundant; I had only ended up living in Oxfordshire from chasing the job they destroyed when they took over my work place.

We found my grandfather. There he was, two years old, living in Fulham in 1881 with the rest of the family, as it then was. Slightly more surprising I found, scanning down the census pages, there were more TRANTERs next door. An older generation, no doubt. They were, in fact, the Mum and Dad (i.e. grandparents) of the one for which we had been looking. The big surprise was to discover that these older TRANTERs were not Londoners at all. They’d been born in Oxfordshire, in Lewknor which, within three miles, was where I had ended up chasing that job!

That was a weird feeling. It was if I was haunted by the past for I had gone back to the family country roots and until now had been completely unaware of the fact. And real roots they are, the TRANTERs, RIXONs, MESSENGERs, AUSTINs, PIGGOTs, to name just some, were once residents of Lewknor, Radnage, Aston Rowant, and Stokenchurch, small Oxfordshire villages. Some of these ancestors were carters, a few were farmers, and there were woodworkers, even bodgers amongst them. A bodger is one who does preliminary chair making work on raw timber and then hands the result on to others to finish. These days it is often used in a derogatory sense, to mean someone who never finishes anything, but that neglects the fact that someone has to have the initial idea and start the production process. It was a term Dad had often employed with me in mind.

Those family clues were, unexpectedly, beginning to tie in. We didn’t know all that then but we were still pretty elated when we turned to leave the library with what we had. One ancestor married twice, he was in his 60’s the second time, and went on, with the help of his wife (and ex housekeeper his first wife had employed) to produce several more children while his wife was still alive. There’s nothing new under the sun, they say and it is true. See below.

As we approached the exit, Beard and Sandals hurried up, a smile of satisfaction on his face. He thrust three pages of typescript into my hands.

“What’s this?”

“Hot off the computer,” he said.

“What is hot off the computer?”

“Entries from THE TIMES,” he told me, gleefully. His new toy evidently worked.

That was a surprise. “You found TRANTERs in THE TIMES?” It didn’t seem credible. Grandfather was a railway porter.

“I have indeed. Eighteen entries.”

“Good grief.” I started to examine his printed sheets and as I did so, asked, “What are these?”

“Criminal records,” he blurted out, and then went scarlet with embarrassment.

“What!”

“It’s in black and white.”

“All eighteen?”

“All eighteen,” he confirmed, with a gulp, and then, trying to make amends for an imagined solecism, he actually committed one by adding, “Do come again, we might find some more.”

“Oh, thank you so much!”

Of course, I tell everyone that THE TIMES list is of a totally different collection of TRANTERs. They have nothing to do with us. I mean, some of the crimes--I didn’t know you could do such things. No, they could not be part of our lot, and we did not find any actual links, apart from the names. To me, that was the good news. My daughter found it all very interesting!

Later on we did further research with the assistance of many people who’ve trod similar pathways long before us. I’ve the will of one family farmer. In 1832 he left everything to his wife, provided she did not marry again. She was 71 at the time! It was probably to do with the absence of the married women’s property act rather than her adventurous nature. Another ancestor married a lady--I think she was a lady--called Elizabeth VEAR, in 1580. In those days most commoners were illiterate. A clerk would write down names as they sounded. He wrote V-E-A-R in the Register, but she may well have been V-E-R-E, only of course she didn’t know it could be spelt that way. Does it matter now?

Well, it so happens that the family name of the Earls of Oxford is de VERE, and what with droits de seigneur it is conceivable (pun accidental) that our Elizabeth was the result of such a right being exercised. Well, it is a thought, but it leads inevitably to the bad news. We cannot be absolutely certain we are not related to royalty!

The unsettling coincidences don’t end there so perhaps Dad was right. Leave the past well alone. But I’m insatiably curious and the more I discovered the more I wanted to know. For example, in Hampshire I lived in Whitchurch. My first wife had chased a job this time and believe it or not, when we investigated my mother’s side of the family, we found that, despite the fact that she and her father were Londoners, the SANGWELLs all came from Kingsclere and Brimpton, in Berkshire, just four or so miles away from where we lived at that time. Was it yet another coincidence to find we had resettled once again upon an ancestral stamping ground?

A penultimate bit of background. In order to survive after redundancy, and unable to persuade potential employers that there was more between my ears than bodger’s sawdust, or perhaps they thought there was a brain in there, and took fright, I took on taxiing. I did that for four years until I became solvent enough to stop and yes, there is a link. For recently I found out that my mother’s grandmother was Ann WEBB, who died giving birth to Mum’s father in 1878, and Ann WEBB’s father was one William WEBB of Hanover Square, London, Cab and Cart Proprietor!

Hanover Square! Cab proprietor. I’ve said repeatedly that family history is weird, and so it is. Perhaps uncanny would be a better way to describe how my present life mirrors so much of the life of my ancestors. Whatever next? Maybe I’d better take a closer look at those criminal records, just in case!

Whatever next has just turned out to be on Mum’s side, the SANGWELLs. With the help of others I’d managed to trace her London links back to Brimpton, and Kintbury, and Woolhampton and Kingsclere where, in 1807 Timothy MARSHALL married a Mary SIMS. For a long time we were unable to make further progress. Then we discovered that young Tim was not a Marshall at all. His real surname was WIGMORE. Apparently Tim’s grandfather was a bigamist which, when Tim married, the vicar covered up by giving him the MARSHALL surname. So Tim and his wife became MARSHALLs and their children little MARSHALLs, nicely obscuring the truth, rather like my father hiding behind his smoke screen.

I mean, who cares? A little bit of scandal is rather spicy after all, adding excitement to a hobby that is sometimes a rather laborious process of discovery, and a source of constant frustration. So I say hooray for the spicy bits. I bet most of us have a spicy bit or two in our own lives. I must admit, though, I haven’t quite acclimatised myself to those criminal records in THE TIMES.

The final piece of background and another bit of spice. One day, after my divorce, (sorry, not that spicy!), I answered a family history query from a lady in Australia. Could I help with her family tree (STYLES & others)? It turned out I could, we got emailing, then phoning, then I went to Australia and we came back to England, for a while. She’s ace at the business of record searching and demanding proofs, and we’ve made great progress. Now, it was not to escape my past, you can never do that, even down the generations, as I now realise, that we decided eventually to go back to Australia. When we arrived we found both sides of both families had emigrated here in the nineteenth century, and by no means were all of them deported criminals, despite those records in THE TIMES. One was actually a mayor.

We got married and, in my 64^th year, I started a new family (with my wife, no housekeeper involved) and if I read this to my wife and she makes the link to my ancestor, who obviously anticipated me, (see above), I expect she’ll have me sorted out. I can hear her saying it, “Lot’s more children, indeed! He was a woodman, and lived in the woods! What else could he do in the evenings?” Should I point out that we have 6 1/2 acres and lots and lots of trees? We seem to spend an awful lot of time amongst them!

I promise you that this is a truthful, but not a complete account. Sadly, it can never be that. In addition to the names mentioned I am looking for ADAMS in Depford; COOK(E) in Woolwich, and a Sarah ADAMS, Nee ?, who was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia around 1817; SIMS, MARSHALL, SANGWELL, WICKENS, MILLS, HAZEL and now WIGMORE, (all Berkshire); one W TRANTER who played for West Ham in 1900, but I support Spurs, so he was probably one of those other TRANTERs we don’t mention too much, and of course, quite a few ladies who must have existed but for whom we have either only a Christian name or no name at all.

There is a little more. According to the DNA analyses of Prof. Brian Sykes, (See Brian Sykes “The Seven Daughters of Eve”, a Corgi paperback) all the females in my mother’s line ultimately descend from one Helena (his name for) a real and identifiable lady who lived 20,000 years ago, on a part of the Mediterranean coast that is now under the sea. I bet there are lots of spicy bits in 200 centuries and 1000 generations! What a shame we shall never know.

Or is that so? Strip away our technology and veneer of civilised behaviour and we are left with ourselves, much as we ever were. Helped by a background of growing historical knowledge we can use our imagination to fill in more and more detail. On one level there is no mystery; it is easy enough to produce rational explanations for the coincidences I have described. One wonders though, given all those haunting links, just how much is in each of us of our forgotten ancestors?

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Silly Verse.

2. AIWIA

(Am I What I Am?)

“I am what I am,” said the wolf to the lamb,

As he sank in his teeth for a feast.

“Yes, you are what you are,” said the lamb to the wolf,

“I can’t mind in the least!”

“I am what I am,” said the wolf to the lamb,

As he finished his meal with a smile.

“Yes, you are what you are,” he wanted to hear

To justify action so vile.

“You are what you are,” said the man with the gun,

To the wolf, holding a gun to her head,

“Am I who I am?” asked the man with the gun?

“Too right!” And so he shot the wolf dead.

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For the Young and Young at Heart

1. Why Mum Fainted.

The TV announcer said, "The thief got away on foot after robbing the bank and taking the world's biggest chocolate egg. The egg had been left in the bank for safe keeping."

Mum did not faint then, although she might have done had she known what was going to happen.

Eight-year-old Stephanie perked up. She was a tomboy and her favourite stories were about cops and robbers. And her very favourite food was chocolate. She ran to the television, to turn the sound up, eager to hear more.

Her mother got there first. "Bed time," she announced, firmly. She switched off the TV.

For once, Stephanie did not argue. "All right, Mum," she said, meekly. Her mother, expecting a fight, nearly did faint then.

"I'm going to sleep in the bathroom tonight." Stephanie announced, expecting a big "No you're not!" from her mother." And I'm taking my magic covers with me."

Her mother did not argue. This surprised Stephanie but also, it pleased her, for she had a plan. She knew adventures never ever happened when she went to bed normally, in a normal bed, like normal people. How could they? Adventures are not normal. But, when she slept in the lounge, or in a tent, then exciting things always happened.

Collecting her pillow, cuddling Panda-ted and dragging her quilt behind her, she went into the bathroom. She was determined to give an adventure a chance to happen. Her mother did not protest as Stephanie curled up on the bath mat and made herself comfortable. She knew it would be much easier to wait until Stephanie was asleep and then put her into her proper bed. Stephanie realised this, of course, but it did not matter. By then the adventure would have started.

"I'm lovely and warm and comfortable," Stephanie told Panda-ted." Are you?"

Panda-ted put his paw to his lips. "Shhh. Look!"

Stephanie opened one very tired eye and, believe it or not, saw her pig shaped soap jump out of the soap dish and into the bath. He started to wash himself. Stephanie, not sure if she was awake or dreaming, sat up and stared, wide eyed.

Soap-pig was singing:

"Rub a dub, dub

I've jumped in the tub,

I must get clean in a trice!

For if I do not,

When I'm sweaty and hot,

I won't smell particularly nice!"

"And that's important," Soap-pig told Stephanie, seriously. "Otherwise the bank robber might smell me coming and run away."

"Are you a soap policeman," Stephanie asked, excitedly.

"You don't need to know that," Soap-pig said, bossily. "Now, please make the shower work. I need to rinse the people off of me."

Stephanie did not need telling twice. To get her sister Alison to accept even a little squirt of water she had to be very persuasive. It was a pity because squirting water is such fun. Happily she switched on the water.

Soap-pig liked it. He was laughing as she made him wet and Stephanie soon saw why. He was starting to get bigger. The more she sprayed him the bigger he became. He got bigger. And bigger. And bigger. Soon he'd grown so big he filled the bath and he had to jump out before he got stuck.

"Come on," cried Soap-pig, impatiently, landing with a squelch on the bath mat. "We've got a robber to catch. Jump on my back and I'll take you with me."

Soap-pig looked slippery so Stephanie threw her quilt over him, as a saddlecloth. Then, clutching Panda-ted, who was as excited as she was, she climbed on to Soap-pig's back. They had to hold tight as he carried them down the stairs and they nearly fell off, but Soap-pig got them safely out of the front door.

If her mother had seen them go she would most definitely have fainted. But she did not because she had switched the television on again and was now involved with her own favourite soap.

On the front lawn it was dark. In the road it was not dark. A light was flashing. In fact, it was a lamppost and it was jumping up and down. “I wonder why?” thought Stephanie.

The Lamppost saw them and gasped in relief. "Oh, thank goodness you are here. Please, please turn me off."

"Why?" demanded Stephanie. She always asked why." Aren't you supposed to be alight? It is night time now."

"Yes, yes I am," wailed Lamppost. "But, you see, there is a moth bashing himself to bits against my glass. Can't you hear his cries? He can't help it, poor dear, but he is hurting both of us." And she gave another moan.

Soap-pig was bossy. "We're far too busy," he snapped. He would have walked on but Stephanie stopped him. She didn't like to think of Lamppost and the moth being hurt.

Stephanie jumped down from Soap-pig's back. "I'll save you," she shouted. She had to shout because the light was now a long way above her head. She hoped it wasn't too loud and she woke herself up, or her mother heard.

"Do be careful," Panda-ted warned. He was very anxious. He knew Stephanie very well and he guessed what she was going to do.

Stephanie was extremely clever at climbing. It was one of her best tricks, next to doing pig impressions, which she found easy, and whistling, which she found difficult. Some of her teeth were missing. But at climbing she was great. As nimble as a squirrel she shinned up to the top of the lamppost.

"Throw up my covers," Stephanie shouted. She had to shout because the ground was now a long way below. Panda-ted did as he was asked, Stephanie caught them, first go, then wrapped them round the light until only a faint glow showed through.

The moth was very grateful. Clutching his head he was able to stagger away from the lamp. He was no longer fatally attracted. "Oh, thank you, dear, dear girl," he gasped. He was very much relieved.

Lamppost was dazed. "Why didn't I think of that?" she wondered, vaguely.

"Because you're not very bright," Soap-pig informed her. "Not now, anyway."

"That's true," sighed Lamppost. “Are you going away?"

"Oh yes," Stephanie told her. "We've got to catch a robber."

"Can I come too?" Lamppost pleaded. "It's so lonely in the dark."

"You can move my covers," Stephanie said, "Providing you warn moth, first."

"What for?"

"So moth doesn’t look and get hurt, of course," Stephanie retorted.

"I might forget," replied Lamppost. "Please, can I come with you?"

"You'll have to carry me," Stephanie said.

To that Lamppost readily agreed so they all set off. They made their way along the night time streets, Moth fluttering just in front of Stephanie and Lamppost. Of course, Soap-pig led the way. Panda-ted skipped along behind, careful not to tread on cracked paving stones because that brought bad luck and might ruin the adventure.

They came to a road junction, guarded by a 'keep left' sign.

The sign screeched at them, "Keep left!"

They were going to do that but just then a police car rushed by. It was full of policemen.

"Keep left!" the Keep Left sign repeated, bossily.

This was too much for Stephanie. "Why?" she demanded. There were no more cars about.

"Because it is the rule," Keep Left repeated, staring up at her. "You must do as I say."

To Stephanie this was as good as a dare. She winked, both eyes, at Panda-ted, slid down Lamppost, then raced the wrong way round the sign.

"Keep left," the Keep Left sign said, weakly. "Please!"

Stephanie grinned naughtily and went round the wrong way again.

"Oh dear," Keep Left groaned. "I feel ill. Oh dee-aar." It swayed, from side to side, as if drunk, and then fell over.

Soap-pig was cross." I don't know," he complained." You do a good thing to help Lamppost and then you do this!" He reached down a hand and helped Keep Left to her feet. "Why?"

"Being goody, goody is boring," Stephanie retorted. But she felt a little guilty and helped Moth. He was using his wings to brush away the road dust from Keep Left. Stephanie had to use her hands but that was okay. Until now they had been much too clean anyway.

"Do come on," Panda-ted urged. "We haven't found the robber yet."

"Or the stolen chocolate egg," Stephanie added. "Is it milk chocolate, or plain?"

"Half and half," Soap-pig replied. "With toffee chocs inside."

Stephanie beamed happily. "Oh, good," she said.

When they reached the bank they found it crowded with very busy policemen. One of them, coming out of the bank door, saw them, frowned, and stopped. "Show me your hands!" he ordered, holding up one of his own.

"Why?" Stephanie demanded, but a little afraid. The policeman was ugly and she did not like him.

The policeman stared at her. "Because I said so, that's why. And," he added, before Stephanie could argue, "My sergeant told me to look for finger prints in all the likely places." He frowned, as if thinking hard. "That's on fingers, isn't it?"

Stephanie was anxious to get away. "Show him yours," she told Soap-pig. "They're cleaner." The real reason was she'd seen a speaking computer just inside the bank. It had a round TV screen for a face. There was also a big red button which had a notice beside it. "Press and Speak."

Stephanie ran into the bank and pressed the big red button. Hard.

The computer had a squeaky voice." What's your name and address," it demanded.

Stephanie told it. Then she said, "I want a list of robbers."

The computer blinked. "In jail, or out?"

"Out, of course," Stephanie replied. "And probably hiding."

The computer was not pleased. "I don't wish to know that," it squeaked, angrily. And to prove it hundreds and hundreds of names appeared on the screen so fast that no one could read them before they had gone again.

"Not all of those," Stephanie cried. "I want the name of the one who stole the giant chocolate egg!"

"Milk or plain," demanded the computer. It still felt like being awkward.

"Both. And with toffee chocs inside, and probably other sweets as well." Well, she hoped so.

The computer sighed and his screen went blank. "That's far too difficult."

"Difficult!" Stephanie exclaimed. "I thought computers were supposed to be clever."

"No. We're just very fast. I'm really rather stupid I'm afraid. You must ask me yes, or no. You must tell me this, or that, and then ask me for this, or that." He sighed. "I'm only binary, you know. My Mum and Dad were, too, so it is not very surprising. But it means if you ask rotten questions you get rotten answers. Or no answers at all."

"All right, then," Stephanie replied. "Robbers like chocolate. Yes, or no? Quickly, please. I want a list of yeses."

A much shorter list appeared on the screen.

Stephanie smiled. "That's better. But there are still far too many names." She thought for a moment. "Cross out all the ones who drive a car." That was clever of her because, if you remember, the thief got away on foot. Thieves are lazy. They drive if they can.

The computer evidently agreed. Eagerly it searched its memory. One by one all the names were removed until only a single robber was left. He was Greedy Jim Black!

"Greedy Jim Black can't drive, he loves chocolate, milk or plain, he robs banks and sweet shops and," the computer reported, triumphantly, "He is not in jail. At the moment, anyway." He paused, and then looked down at Stephanie. "Will he do?" he asked, hopefully. Now that he had an answer he was anxious to please.

Panda-ted had arrived. "I know about him," Panda-ted cried. "He also dresses up as a policeman. That's why he doesn't get caught so often."

Suddenly they all heard a very loud noise. "Dah dee, dah dee, dah dee."

Moth flew hurriedly into the bank. "What is that?" he cried, fluttering his wings in alarm.

"A police car, going backwards," shouted Lamppost, from outside. "I can see it getting away."

"It must be Greedy Jim Black," Soap-pig cried.

Stephanie ran out of the bank. "Quick, let's catch him."

"I'll fly my fastest," promised Moth, catching her up.

"And I can blind him with my brightest light," Lamppost declared. "But," she added, modestly, about to remove the covers, "You must not look while I undress."

With great determination Moth flew on ahead, trying to catch up with the car. Lamppost took off the covers Stephanie had given her and handed them to Soap-pig as they both ran along the road. "You can smother him."

The police car was being badly driven. It crashed into the pavement, cracking a paving stone which Panda-ted accidentally trod on. "Oh dear," thought Panda-ted. "That's bad luck coming."

Desperately, Greedy Jim Black tried to drive away forwards but he forgot to steer for Moth had arrived and fluttered in his face. Lamppost then glared fiercely, and he couldn't see. But, the car was moving away.

Stephanie saw where the car was going and ran round Keep Left, the wrong way. "Sorry," she apologised, but grinning. "I've got to do this!"

"Oh, no. Not again!" Keep Left wailed. Almost immediately he went dizzy and fell over, right in the path of the car. Going Dee dah, Dee dah, Dee dah it crashed in to the sign. Then it just went DAAAaaaaaa.

As quick as you like Soap-pig was there to smother the robber with Stephanie's covers. Suddenly he cried, "Help! Stephanie, help! I'm getting smaller again."

Panda-ted was in trouble, too. "Help me, Stephanie. I'm losing my face!"

Their luck had changed and the adventure was almost over. They still had to get home and, what was even more worrying, they could see the giant chocolate egg on the back seat of the car. Soap-pig was already small enough for Stephanie to pick up, so he couldn't help. Panda-ted was quite unable to speak anymore and Stephanie had to help him move his arms and legs. Greedy Jim Black was struggling hard. Soon he would be free of the covers.

Lamppost came to the rescue. "Don't worry. The real police are coming. I'll lie on him until they arrive."

Stephanie had to go but she didn't want to. She kept looking at the giant chocolate egg.

"You must go. Remember to leave your window open."

"Why?" Stephanie demanded.

"Because I need to bring your covers back and I can't climb stairs."

That made sense so Stephanie, clutching Panda-ted and Soap-pig, ran home. Very quietly she crept upstairs. She knew if her mother saw her come in she'd probably faint, but the TV soap was still on and Mum was fully occupied with it, so she didn't. Stephanie opened her window, jumped onto her bed with Panda-ted and Soap-pig and, because they were all very tired, they soon fell asleep.

When she woke up in the morning the covers were there, keeping her warm. She jumped out of bed, shouted "Thank you," to Lamppost, outside (it was not night time any more so the light was out but Stephanie thought she saw a brief flash of light, in reply) then ran downstairs, still excited. She found her mother in the kitchen, cooking breakfast.

"Guess what, Mum. I had an amazing adventure last night. Me and Soap-pig, and Moth, and Lamppost and Panda-ted caught a robber. "And she told her all about it.

Her mother smiled, complacently. "I wondered why you took the soap to bed," she said. She turned to listen to the TV news.

The Announcer said, "The Police are looking for a young girl, she's a tom-boy, who, the bank computer says, helped last night to catch Greedy Jim Black, the bank and chocolate robber. There is a big reward, so where are you, Ste....?"

Her mother nearly fainted then, but not quite. For just at that moment there was a loud knocking on the door which drowned out the end of the announcement (and Stephanie's name).

"I'll go," Stephanie's father called, cheerfully.

There was a muttering of voices but Stephanie wasn't listening. She was much more interested in breakfast. Then her father came in to the kitchen. He looked at his wife. He looked at Stephanie. "The police are here. With the biggest chocolate egg you ever saw. Apparently it is to be Stephanie's reward for catching a robber." He stared at Stephanie. "Last night." Then he had to rush forward and was only just in time to catch Mum before she hit the floor. She HAD fainted!

Gently Stephanie's father carried her mother to a chair. He sat her down in it. He looked worried.

Stephanie could see the chocolate egg blocking the front doorway. She looked at her father. "What's the matter, Dad?"

"That egg! It is so big!" he cried. "Where shall we put it?"

Stephanie grinned. "Oh, that's easy," she said. "Inside me!"

back

Silly Verse.

3. TACMAP

(In response to a challenge to write about a coffee machine, an ant and a purse.)

Lord Chief Justice Ant, in foppish wig and flowing gown,

Peered grimly on the rivals with his infamous, hanging frown.

Truth to tell he did not care which one hung from a rope;

As for justice, that’s a laugh, it’s the law with which he’d cope.

In haste the accusing purse declaimed, “I haven’t got a bean

Because all my loot’s been stolen by this odious, coffee machine!

And did he even percolate, as drinks dispensers must?

We got, my Lord, warmed water, plus dried up, pale brown, dust!

Impoverished am I, and quite bereft of money and caffeine,

Essential elements of life, denied by that machine!”

A murder charge, that was clear, for without life we’re dead,

That drinks dispenser was in the dock and soon could lose his head.

“Defend yourself,” Judge Ant sneered, “If you’ve got the mettle.”

The steel, glass, plastic, coffee machine was stung as by a nettle.

“I’m not the great designer, God; don’t think I lack a dream,

I’d much rather be a rocket than a grubby income stream,

And search the distant cosmos, make friends with nebulae,

Returning as a conqueror, applauded till I die.

I’ve done what I was made for, no less and never more,

And if that is not enough for you I care not for the law.”

Lord Justice Ant was unimpressed, “I deal in facts, not wishes,

Your role was clear, as is my mind, first causes are for fishes.

Now Mrs Purse had given coin, her needs were then abused,

She didn’t get her caffeine fix so you’re guilty, as accused!”

Replacing wig with blackish cap, the rivals guessed what next,

And gazed at him quite thunder struck whilst fingering their necks.

Backed by law a judge’s acts, are as defined, quite lawful,

But do not heed those higher thoughts which label killing awful.

The rivals came together; “You must not hang for me,”

Said Mrs Purse, “I’m horrified.” The reply was, “I agree!”

“My lord,” they said in unison, “Of us your hands don’t wash.”

With nil compassion Judge Ant replied, “My verdict I won’t squash.”

Each occupation carries risks, for me, for you, for judges,

In his own court that legal ant became two messy smudges.

back

Not the Firefly

It is late, it is dark, it is very humid; I am in bed and suddenly very wide-awake.

When you live alone, out of the city, not exactly in the bush yet the nearest neighbour is half a mile away, you tend to notice unusual sounds. I’d heard something just now and I cannot settle.

Sometimes it is better to be over cautious. Get up if you must, but don’t put the light on. If it turns out to be nothing then there is only you to laugh. On the other hand,

The kitchen is dark and so are all the other rooms. Dark and empty. No, what is that? I pad across to the screen door and breathe out in relief. It is just a firefly, clinging to the mesh. And there is another outside on the doormat. Silly me! I smile. Then I remember fireflies are soundless.

The house is definitely empty. I can close the windows and doors and lock everything up. I can retire to the bedroom: and become a nervous sweaty wreck for the next six hours?

Very quietly I step outside. There is no moon and clouds obscure most of the stars. There is one, shining brightly, to the North West. I am sweating and although the gentle breeze is welcome I’m not cooling down.

This is very stupid. From here, just outside the back door I can peer into the gloom on three sides of the house. As far as I can tell there is absolutely nothing out of place. So, check the fourth side then go back to bed.

As I walk softly along the verandah my brain is working overtime trying to recall what I’d heard. More than one sound. There had been some muffled shuffling, rather like I am making now. And also, possibly a cough, or a groan? But that means a person is out there, in trouble maybe. It might be me in trouble, if they are dangerous.

I round the corner of the house and stop dead in my tracks. A few yards ahead is the shed I’d built last year. The lights are on!

I’d subdivided the interior to make a workshop at the far end and a hobby room into which the access door is set. All the windows are on the other sides so I cannot see in.

There’s nothing worth stealing in there. Leave well alone; go away, whoever it is let them get on with it. No tool or model is worth walking into danger. Go back in, lock up and call the police.

I hear a solid object crash to the floor, followed by a muted curse. I breathe in heavily, growing anger replacing fear. That could be the ship I’ve laboured on for so many hours, now tossed aside and smashed by an ignorant, thieving intruder. Without thinking I stride to the door and fling it open.

The glare is painful yet moth-like my eyes are drawn up to the light source even as my mouth gapes open. In my peripheral vision I pick out a scruffy man, then another, and then two women. About to panic I read the banner, stretched from wall to wall just below the ceiling. “WE LOVE YOU. HAPPY CHRISTMAS, DAD!”

The whole family are there, kids and all, bottles and streamers and open hampers beside the table they’d knocked over. The ship is safe on a shelf. Seeing my gaping mouth they are laughing at my reaction. I grin, all of us very happy with the success of their surprise. Boy, do we have a party, just a bit earlier than they had planned!

back

Silly Verse.

4. Yes and No.

“Hullo,” said Mr. No to Mr. Yes

And Mr. Yes became distressed.

“Who addresses me?” asked Mr. Yes

As Mr. No began to go.

Knowing Yes was so distressed

No paused, uncertain he could go

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