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Chapter 7

2005-11-08T23:56:00.000Z

Amy was too nervous to eat. As soon as the morning training session ends she hurried from the room and rushed to get out of the building. The huddled smokers around the back door parted as she burst through the doors. Only when she was through the gate and off the premises did she slacken her pace: dare to breathe.

The letter had dropped on the mat as she was gathering Jess up to take to the nursery. Jess was still enthralled by the plastic princess that came with the Happy Meal, and held it out for mummy to look at, which was not what Amy needed at that moment as she struggled to get Jess’ arms into the sleeves of the anorak. Jess wriggled and fought back, and Amy was on the point of loosing her temper when the post came.

At the time she didn’t notice the letter. Simply thrust the bundle into her bag, and pulled Jess out of the door and into the car. Only when she got to work, and found that she had an extra ten minutes more than she thought, did she open it. It was clearly official, and when she saw the headed paper bearing the name of Noble and Plunkett solicitors she was more puzzled than alarmed. Only when she unfolded it did she realise the enormity of what was contained within.

All morning she had tried to block the thoughts from her mind, to remain professional and focussed on the training, but all the while she could feel the guilt nibbling at the back of her mind. Of course the whole situation was entirely of her own making. But, no sooner had she started thinking this than she began hating herself for being so weak. Not that the current situation was made to enervate anyone.

She had two options.

And in an effort to avoid either, she found herself in a card shop looking at novelty mugs. The plan had been to by Jess something as a treat, but nothing in the tacky row of stuffed toys appealed, and she couldn’t find a card that suited the mood. And the reality was that this was just another piece of pointless displacement activity: a practice that she was becoming expert in.

She had plenty of opportunities to deal with this. There was the incident in Ibiza when Cliff had got drunk and argumentative and she had locked him out the apartment. That was supposed to be the end of things, but then he had talked his way into the next-door apartment and clambered over the balcony. And then they had a row, and as per usual he had used a mixture of blackmail and physical presence to make her back down. Which had always been the way things had happened between them. And he was especially effective at this when she fell pregnant.

It was his changeable nature that she disliked the most. Some days he was the most loving man that a woman could ever wish for, and then the next he was distant and moody. But, then this was as much to do with the nature of the job. The public are not the easiest people to deal with, especially when you have a bullying nature: like Cliff.

Her eye was draw by the stare of the assistant. Amy turned away from the novelty mugs, and flicked through a stand of ‘Happy Birthday Grandma’ cards. Before slipping out of the shop and back into the flow of office workers rushing on errands in the dinner hour.

The queue for Gregs was back out of the door. Amy joined it, and stood behind a couple of teenagers discussing the forthcoming weekend. The line shuffled forward, past the sandwiches and drinks. But Amy was in need of a sugar rush, the kind of thrill that can only be provided by a four pack of raspberry donuts.

What annoyed her was not that she had been deceitful: which of course she had. But it was more of a sin of omission.

They had been together for six years: living together for four. In all that time Cliff had never had a clue or even asked about contraception. To him it was a matter that was purely down to the woman. The only time he had shown the slightest interest was in the early days when Amy had told him that she was on the pill and was worried that it might lead to a thrombosis, to which he replied that not having to use a condom would more than make up for that.

And she didn’t blame him entirely. They were both working shifts, and Cliff was working all the overtime that came his way to pay for luxuries.

She wiped a trail of jam from her chin as she turned into the High Street. A number of the women scurrying by looking on enviously as took the third donut from the clear plastic tray.

What struck her most was the fact that she had never had to lie. From the moment she told Cliff that she was pregnant he had assumed it was his. It never occurred to him that he was away with the rugby club in Dublin on a Stag Night on the weekend of her fertile weekend. Not that she would have expected him to even know this fact. Because the truth was that as far as she could recall she was still telling him that she was taking the pill.

The receptionist in the solicitors took some details but understood that Amy didn’t want to give her the details. She didn’t have to wait long. A legal secretary appeared and ushered Amy into a side room.

“I received this letter this morning. It’s from my…. ex-boyfriend’s solicitors. He is applying for custody of our…. my daughter.”

“I see. Could I take a copy of the letter? All the solicitors are busy at the moment, but if I could take the details, we will be able to arrange an appointment.”

“Of course. This is all rather embarrassing.”

The secretary smiled, a warm smile, “this is entirely confidential.”

“It doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. The thing is, Jess, that’s my daughter: isn’t his child.”

“Has there been a paternity test?”

“No.”

“Are you willing to take one?”

“Yes. Ummmm…. I suppose that is why I am here. You see he, Cliff, has moved in with another woman and my circumstances are not ideal. And the Lord knows the money he has been sending us has come in handy.”

“How long have you be separated?”

“It’s about eight months. I’ve only just moved up here, about a month ago. I had to leave my job: I was a policewoman. And, Jess’ father was someone who worked at the station.”

“Are you sure you who the father is?”

“I didn’t sleep around if that is what you are asking.”

“I didn’t mean that. What I meant was, If you go for the paternity test then you may be opening up a bigger can of worms. For instance the biological father might wish access, or it could affect any benefits that you may be entitled to.”

“I’ve thought of that. I was wondering if it would just be possible to prove that Cliff is not the father. I’m not doing this for the money. I just want to make sure that I keep my daughter.”

“Well, as I say, the solicitor will be able to advise you. Though I should point out that he may wish to know the identity of the biological father.”

“I understand.”

“Ok, I’ll arrange an appointment for you. Is there any day that would be best for you?”

As she left Amy felt a huge weight lifted from her mind.

Chapter 6

2005-11-08T13:44:00.000Z

David picked at the turkey curry. Outside the sun was shining briefly through the scudding grey clouds. Conversations whirled around him in the cafeteria but each time he caught another diner’s eye, the feeling of being an outsider only increased.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

David looked up and saw Sean standing at the end of the table with a tray in hand. “No, no,” said David, making a slight gesture with his right hand of welcome. “I was just sitting here feeling like the new boy.”

Sean slid into the seat opposite David, “yeah, I know what you mean. They are not the friendliest of people who work here. I asked a woman on the third floor the way to the toilets but she just ignored me. How are you finding the training?”

“Boring.”

“It’s all pretty straight forward for you I guess: with your background.”

“It doesn’t make it any less boring. To be honest, I am wondering if I have made the right career move taking on this job.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well between you and me this company doesn’t have a very good reputation. And there is gossip that it might go under.”

“Really?”

“It’s only gossip,” said David again, “it’s just something that my old boss told me when I handed in my notice.”

“He was probably only saying it to try and get you to stay.”

“Maybe.”

“Oh no,” said Sean, looking up and seeing the approaching figure of Chaz.

David looked over his shoulder but by that time Chaz had reached the table, “shift up,” he said with his usual bravado, and he sat down beside David. Chaz noticed the look on Sean’s face and said, “have I disturbed something?”

“Not at all,” said Sean quickly.

“Have you seen Amy?” asked David.

“I think she’s gone into town. You know what women are like, they are always on one urgent mission or another.” Chaz laughed at this, but as no one else did, he changed tack and fixed Sean with a questioning stare, “did you sort things out?”

Sean winced, “yes thanks.”

“She weren’t a bad looking girl. I wouldn’t have had her down as your type: maybe a work colleague but not a fiancée.”

“Have I missed something?” asked David.

“I’m not sure,” said Chaz, “I saw young Sean here, last night, with his lady friend. Why did you shoot off so quick?”

“I….. er….. it was all a bit awkward.”

“What was?”

“I don’t know. You know how these things are sometimes.”

“And there was me thinking that you were spying on Mrs Wade. You have no idea how suspicious her husband is. Do you know him? He’s the boss of Wage’s Glass. Oh, he’s loaded. But, he is also very suspicious. For some reason he is under the impression that his beautiful wife is having an affair: can you believe that? By the way, didn’t you say you used to work for a private detective agency?”

“I used to.”

Chaz forked a pile of chips and stuffed them into his mouth. “Only, I thought I read something in the contract that we were not allowed to have over jobs.”

“I doubt they take that too seriously,” commented David.

Chaz raised an eyebrow; “I would have thought it crucial. After all, the last thing this company needs is to be compromised by a conflict of interest. I mean supposing that Wade’s Glass was mysteriously to burn down and old Mr Wade were to make a dodgy insurance claim. It might get a bit tricky if one knew that his wife was having an affair because you had been moonlighting.”

“Or if you were having an affair with her?”

“Sean, Sean, Sean: you have a suspicious mind. Oh wait! Are you suggesting that I might be having extra marital pleasures with the beautiful Mrs Wade?”

“It’s really none of my business.”

“Really?”

“Yes really.”

“Then your fiancée wasn’t taking illicit pictures on her mobile phone?”

“Would someone like to explain what you two are talking about?” asked David.

“It’s nothing,” said Sean, his shoulders rising around his ears as he tried to make himself invisible.

“We just bumped into each other last night. And for some reason I got the impression that I was being spied upon.”

“I was there with my fiancée, I told you, and we went for a quiet drink to discuss the plans for the wedding.”

“That’s alright then.”

“Fine.”

“It must have been quite a row you had.”

“We didn’t have a row. I just didn’t want to stay in such a grubby pub.”

“I meant, for you to be late into work.”

“You’ve got your answer, so can we just change the subject.”

Chapter 5

2005-11-06T21:40:00.000Z

The next morning Sean was late. In answer to Les’ questions Chaz dropped some heavy hints, along the lines of “I think he’s got woman trouble,” or “probably still drunk from last night.” But, he refused to be drawn further and dismissed his own comments as a joke. When Sean did appear nearly an hour later he was most apologetic and said that he had been forced to go home again because he had left the grill on and worried that there would be a fire. Chaz let out a loud laugh, Les told him to take a seat and the matter was forgotten.

“Right, as we are all here,” began Les, taking a pile of printed papers from his briefcase, “I thought we would take a break from the mundane business of the principles of insurance and take a look at an actual case.”

“Oh good,” said Chaz, turning to wink at Sean.

“This is a case that I worked on, and I use it to demonstrate the way in which one thing often leads to another, and that until all the facts are none, that you should not jump to a conclusion and prematurely close the case. The first sheet I am handing around is an example of the information that we receive from the insurance company. As we have David, I thought it would be useful to the rest of you to understand the way in which a case comes together.”

“Me?” asked David, looking alarmed.

“Yes. I wanted to give the others some perspective as to how the process begins. And the starting point for all our work is the claims handler.”

“Well,” sighed David, unsure of exactly where to begin. “The very basics is that every claims handler has a list of indicators that they should look out for, These are pretty standard stuff really: if the policy has only recently been taken out, or the insured has a history of frequently changing insurers, or even if they live in a high risk insurance postcode. But it can also be things about the manner of the client. For instance if they are pushing for a fast settlement, or appear to have an intimate knowledge of the insurance policy.”

“And why would that last point be an indicator of fraud?”

“Because sometimes a client will alter the circumstances to make the claim valid, when if they revealed the actual circumstances it would make the insurance invalid. An example would be that in certain policies, a theft from a car is only covered if the belongings were in the boot or the glove compartment. I remember a case in which a customer tried to claim for cigarettes and CDs that were stolen from a car, and they claimed that as a matter of routine they took such items out of the body of the car and stowed them in the boot, but we were able to show that this was not the case: and because they had made a false claim it made the entire claim invalid.”

“Exactly, thank you David. And the other thing you have to think about is that the claims handler has on average around three minutes to deal with each call, and therefore these decisions are really only snap judgements: or a question of intuition. Now by the time the case is referred to us there will have been more digging into the claim but don’t think that they will have got to the bottom of the matter. Ok, I’ll give you a few minutes to read through the instructions and then we can chat about where you would start.”

Les turned his back on the group and busied himself with the over-head projector. The class read the brief.

“Ok, as you can see,” said Les, breaking the silence, “it is our old friend Asian jewellery. Right, let’s look at the details of the case. In a burglary, forty-eight thousand pounds of jewellery is taken from a house in Stretham South London. The insured is a married couple, he is a businessman who lists his business as import and export, she is a housewife. They have one child, aged twelve. The police were called shortly after the break-in was discovered, and report that a back window was forced to gain entry, but there are no witnesses. Who would like to start?”

“What is the husband importing?” asked Amy.

“Excellent question. How are we going to find that out?”

“You could speak to the insurance company,” suggested Sean.

“What is wrong with that?” asked Les.

“If the insurance company knew it would be included in the notes,” stated David.

“Exactly,” said Les, empathically, “look at the dates. The claim was originally made in June 1998. The insurance company have been negotiating with a loss adjuster and the client for nearly two years, and in that time it was impossible to establish the exact nature of the insured business dealings.”

“Then he’s got something to hide,” said Chaz.

“Perhaps? But without evidence you may not make that conclusion. There might be a number of perfectly legitimate reasons why the insured has not disclosed that information. For instance he might have been out of work and his listed occupation is import and export, and therefore he is entitled to be considered as in such a business. Is there anything else that strikes you?”

“There were no witnesses to the burglary, and it would seem that it was not immediately reported to the police,” said Amy.

“Precisely. The client discovered the theft of a large amount of jewellery, and did not immediately report it to the police. In fact, and this is not covered in the report, the police were not called for some three hours.”

“Dodgy,” commented Chaz.

“What does that suggest to you?”

“That there wasn’t a break in,” said David.

“What makes you think that?”

“I was thinking back to what we were talking about. The policy might have included a clause that there would be no pay out unless there was a break in. And I was thinking that perhaps they used the time between the discovery and the call to the police to fake the signs of a break in through the back window.”

“Oh you have a suspicious mind,” said Chaz.

“That may be so, but these are things that you should be asking yourself. Go on David.”

“I would want to know what the child was doing. For instance if it was left in the house on it’s own, or if they had friends around. Because apart from anything else, there is no mention of anything else being taken, which suggests that if this were a burglary then the burglars knew exactly what they were looking for.”

“How long had the couple been married?” asked Sean.

“Aha!” cried Les, “what makes you ask that?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s got a thing about married women,” said Chaz, giving Sean a broad smile.

“Why don’t you cut the wise cracks,” said Amy, sharply, “no one thinks you are funny.”

“Calm down everyone. And Chaz, can you focus on the exercise.”

“Sorry boss.”
“Sean has stumbled across the killer clue to understanding this case. And precisely the reason I use this case to illustrate the perils of the job. So far we have been looking at all the reasons for why this case is a fraud. But we have not looked at why the client is not answering the questions to our satisfaction and why every answer has led all previous investigators to believe that there was an improvable fraud occurring. And though it is improvable, the details gleaned were sufficient to legitimately withhold payment. I want you to have a look at who has referred the file to us. It is not the insurance company, or the loss adjuster, but the insurance ombudsman. The crucial clue is that this jewellery was the dowry and the burglars new exactly what they were looking for because the client had been bragging to associates, and they in turn had decided that it was worth stealing. And the question of employment status was ambiguous because the client was not legally in the country at the time, import and export was his job in his homeland, but for various technical reasons his employment status was in a state of flux. I cannot explain why he did not inform the investigators of this: maybe it was pride; perhaps it was fear. Though in a final twist to the tale, the claim was not paid, precisely for the reason that David stated. They did indeed try to fake the forced entry, before ringing the police. Ok, let’s get back to the work in hand. I want to go through a standard household policy, and I want you to consider this case when going through it. And, then this afternoon, we will have a look at some other actual cases.”

Chapter 4

2005-11-04T23:54:00.000Z

“Where the hell have you been?”

Angela did not look happy. She was pressed into the raw shelter of a shop doorway against the increasing rain. Sean shrugged an apology. “I got her as soon as a I could.”

“Well it’s not good enough. I have caught my death of cold.”

“Where’s your car?”

A sneer ran across Angela’s face, and for a moment she looked as if she was really going to let rip: but the moment passed and she regained her supercilious façade. “Whatever.” She stepped from the doorway and looped her arm through his, “tonight I am going to be your fiancée.” Sean flinched from her proximity, “you are walking a tightrope lad. I could have done this job on my own. It is only because you are Des’ favourite that I got lumped with you. Come on let’s get this over and done with.”

The White Lion was not the most salubrious of places. It smelt of stale malt and burnt sausages. Sean and Angela leaned against the Snug bar and scanned the room. The room was lined with faded red flock wallpaper, rows of red velourette benches lined the walls. The tables had heavy iron supports and were screwed to the floor. The focal point of the room was a worn dartboard flanked by pinpricked blackboard scoreboards.

Monday night is ladies darts night at The White Lion. On the table to the left of the dartboard sat the home team, and to the right was the away team. And on the table, one up from the home team was a spread of sandwiches, sausages on sticks and slices of congealed pizza.

Sean scanned the teams, and was instantly drawn to Debbie Wade: the target for tonight. She was a woman in her early thirties, with bleached blonde hair that darkened at the roots of her central parting. A sense of longing and sensuality leaned from her every pore, and this energy flowed from her to become focused in her jet red lips. She was sitting with the home team. They laughed and joked amongst themselves and cheered if a high score was thrown.

Angela paid for the drinks and she and Sean took up position to get a good view of Debbie Wade.

“So why were you late?” asked Angela, sipping at her have a lager and black.

“You don’t need to know,” was Sean’s terse reply.

“That’s nice.”

“We are only playing at being engaged, so you can cut the crap.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“With me? Nothing. Who is the bloke?”

“Didn’t you read the file?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“As if they are listening. Look at them; they are too busy laughing at the size of their husband’s cock to bother about us. I knew you would be a pain in the arse to work with. Everyone says you are useless.”

“Of course I read the file,” said Sean, trying to change the subject. “Look out.”

A woman in a jade low cut top, which barely concealed her bosom, broke away from the home team and approached them with a plate of curling sandwiches. “Have you had your tea?” she asked, thrusting the plate towards them: a strong smell of cheese and onion assailed them. Both Sean and Angela declined. “There’s some meat and tuna on the table there. You help yourself if you feel peckish. It will only go to waste if not.”

“We’re fine,” said Angela.

The woman caught sight of the ring on Angela’s finger, “you want to be left alone?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Have you set the date?”

“That’s what we are talking about.”

“I think it’s nice. In my day we waited until we got up the duff before we went in for that sort of thing.” The woman winked at Angela, “get what you can out of him now, he’ll soon be like a Christmas tree: all dried out and the balls only there for decoration.”

No sooner had the woman turned away than the door to the bar opened and Chaz walked in. Sean felt his insides shrivel. A sensation that increased with Debbie Wade stood up and walked across to Chaz at the bar. It was perfectly obvious to even the casual observer that this was the boyfriend. A fact made more obvious when he bought her a drink, and she kissed his neck in thanks.

Angela was onto the case at once. On the pretext that she was texting a friend, her phone was out and the camera snapping away. Sean sat dumbfounded watching his worst nightmare unfold before his eyes.

And then things got worse. Chaz turned and saw him, “hello mate,” he said, “we don’t see you over this side of town very often.” Debbie stood beside him, grinning.

Sean’s face ached as he fixed a smile, “I just fancied a quick drink”

“You never mentioned that you had such a gorgeous girlfriend.”

“Fiancée,” corrected Angela.

“You didn’t ask,” said Sean, the words coming out long before his brain had processed the correct way to deal with the situation. “Angela, this is Charlie…. Charlie this is Angela.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Angela a flush running across her cheek.

A look of recognition ran across Chaz’s face, “oh sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realise that you were moonlighting.”

“We’re not,” cut in Angela, “we were discussing arrangements for the engagement party.”

“Leave them alone Chaz,” said Debbie.

“I hope that mobile is not a camera,” he continued, pointing at the phone in Angela’s hand. “I know that I am stunningly handsome, but it is good manners to ask before taking someone’s picture.”

“I was texting my mum,” Angela said, entirely unconvincingly.

“Give her my love,” said Chaz.

“We better go,” blurted out Sean, stranding so violently that he spilt the drinks.

“So soon?”

“I promised that…. I need to get back to sort out things for the morning. Come on Jane, we better go.”

“I thought you said her name was Angela.”

“It is,” said Angela, “Angela Jane. Well it’s been nice meeting you.”

And with that, they left the pub, leaving a Debbie looking bemused and followed by Chaz calling after Sean, “See you in the morning.”

Outside the pub, Angela was livid, “What the hell is going on Sean, you completely blew that. How dare you call me by my name! You have breached my confidentiality and maybe even put me at risk.”

“Keep your hair on. Did you get the picture?”

“No thanks to you. Did you know that man?”

“Good file it with Des.”

“Wait Sean, where are you going?”

“I getting out of here.”

“Sean….. Sean……”

“Later.”

Chapter 3

2005-11-03T23:06:00.000Z

As she stepped through the front door was assaulted by the smell of furniture polish. The vacuum cleaner was whirring back and forward from her bedroom. For a second she felt a flash of dread that she hadn’t felt she was a teenager. “I’m home,” she called, taking off her coat. The vacuum stopped and moments later her mother appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. The two exchanged looks. “I’m not going to say anything,” said Amy, “though I would rather that you didn’t clean my bedroom.”

“I got a bit carried away,” replied her mother, “you know what I am like when get on a roll. I haven’t been prying if that is what you are worried about. How was work?”

“It wasn’t work, it was training. I need a cup of tea. How about you?”

“I am a bit dry.”

Amy went to the kitchen, as her mother retrieved the vacuum from the bedroom. She wasn’t annoyed precisely; the flat was getting a little ragged. The effort of moving, and the stress of trying to sort out her life, find a job, a nursery fro Jess, to feel safe again. All of this required a routine to be established, a routine that had not been imposed because of the vast amount of energy it required, and she was too tired to even attempt it. Instead she had metaphorically cleaned a space in the flat in which she cocooned herself and her daughter.

“Cliff said he would bring Jess back around seven.” Announced her mother as she can into the kitchen. “He was late picking her up. He didn’t get here until twenty to three.”

“He can’t do so much damage.”

“His breath smelt of mints.”

“Be thankful that he is making the effort. Do you want tea?”

“Yes please.” Amy’s mother pulled a chair from under the table and sat down. “So come on, tell me about your day? What were the people like? Do you think you will like the work?”

“Like I said it was the usual training day. We sat down talked about ourselves and then sat back and listened to the usual stuff. How was Amy when he arrived?”

“You know what children are like?”

“I thought you might say that.”

“I didn’t say anything if that is what you are worrying about.”

The kettle boiled and Amy filled the teapot. The question of Cliff was just another piece of baggage from the move that had not yet found a proper place in her life. And, it wasn’t fair on Jess to break contact entirely. Though it still ate away at her.

As they drank tea, Amy listened as her mother told her about her day. It was a relief not to have to think. And as she settled into listening mode, she found herself melting into the old certainties of life that she had not felt since moving away to join the police. Amy had never felt entirely at home. She missed the tiny details that her hometown offered: the way the clouds rolled over the fells, the accent, being called ‘duck’ and ‘love’. And though in part she had feared her mother’s influence, it was a necessity now that she needed childcare.

After they had finished the tea, her mother washed the cups, whilst Amy searched in the freezer for something for her tea. She hadn’t been shopping for a week or so, and so the choice was between a frozen seafood pizza or boil in the bag cod in parsley sauce.

The door bell rang. Amy looked at the clock, quarter past six.

“Mummy, mummy, look what I got with my Happy Meal,” cried Jess as Amy opened the door. The child waved a plastic cartoon character. Amy smiled and ushered the child inside. Cliff stood on the landing, a thin drizzle of rain illuminated by the streetlights swarmed as a backdrop.

“We ran out of placed to go.” He explained, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine.”

Her mother came into the hallway and glared at Cliff through the crack of the door, before breaking into excited baby talk that steered Jess into the living room.

“Everyone at the station wants to know how you are doing.”

“What have you told them?”

“I said you were fine. There’s not much else I could say. Having not seen you.”

“You’re seeing me now.”

“Yeah.”

“When do you want to see Jess again?”

“I’ll ring. If that is OK? I mean just because we can’t be friends there is no reason why Jess should miss out on her dad.”

“I haven’t stopped you.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t imply that I have been difficult about this.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I can see this is going to be one of those conversations and I don’t have time. I’m due on shift at ten and it is a three hour drive.”

“I thought you had the day off?”

“We’re short of staff and all leave has been cancelled.”

“If you feel sleepy, you can always raid the drug safe. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Right. I’ll ring you about Jess.”

And with that he was gone. Jess closed the door and wondered if she would ever find the strength to tell Cliff the truth.

Chapter 2

2005-11-02T22:07:00.000Z

“OK,” said Les, closing the door.

The four inductees sat in islands of there own space, in an inverted pyramid with the top lopped off. They had exchanged brief grunted greetings at the coffee machine, but before any meaningful conversation could begin they were rounded up by Les and led to the training room.

“Ok,” repeated Les, picking up a cloth to wipe the white board, “welcome to the firm.” He then turned and wiped the last session from the board, his backside wiggling in over tight chinos. “Don’t look so nervous,” he continued, turning back and tossing the cloth onto the table. “My name is Les and I will be guiding you through the induction process. So that you have a bit of background, I have been an investigator for the past ten years. I have seen every scam, by every scammer, so feel free to ask me questions. And before we go any further, I want to make one thing clear. If you read the handbook, it will say that it is company policy not to discriminate on the grounds of age, sex, gender, race, sexuality, mother’s cousin or any of the other nonsense that the management choose to churn out to please the Politically Correct. That does not mean that you should forget your manners. But it does mean that you are free to pursue your prejudices until such time as those prejudices are shown not to lead anywhere. Let me give you an example. A common case we handle is Asian jewellery. And you will find that the only proof that the person ever owned the jewellery is normally a photocopied invoice from Dubai. And if I say that this invoice will usually include enough necklaces and rings to kit out a jewellers shop, then you will understand why I say ignore your prejudice. Because when you turn up at their small terraced house, and see the son in street wear talking like Ali G then the chances are that the scam is not simple insurance fraud but money laundering. If this happens, and I guarantee that it will, I want to make one thing clear. Under no circumstances do you write this down. You do not put anything on paper that could lead to a compliant until you have found the evidence to make it obvious to the ombudsman that the compliant is the last resort of a desperate crook. You will see what I mean when you get on the job. Right let’s introduce ourselves to one another and then we can get on with the training.”

David was the first to speak, he was followed by Sean, then Amy and lastly Charlie, who preferred to be called Chaz. Rather than dwell on these potted histories it is sufficient to know that David had a background as an insurance claims handler followed by two years working in the fraud referral unit. Chaz had been in the army, served in the first Gulf war, then joined the MET and had applied for the job because he didn’t like shift work. Amy had also been in the police but was looking for a change in career because of limited career options. Lastly, Sean had had various low paid jobs, from deck chair attendant to white van man, before he got a job working for a private investigator. His work was mainly compiling dossiers on errant husbands. He wanted to become a fraud investigator because it offered a regular pay packet.

Les listened to the biogs and made the occasional note in a reporter’s notebook. “OK,” he said, “we may as well make a start.” He handed out folders, manuals, notebooks and pens. “I warn you that this week will be extremely boring. But, before we let you loose on the public you need to understand everything that there is to know about insurance. And the one thing that you need to know is the simple truth that you are all that stands between honesty and our clients going out of business. The business model of insurance is that because most people don’t claim on their policy, the company can afford to pay out 104% of the money they take in. Thus technically all insurance companies are bankrupt. In general, if you get your phone nicked, the company can afford to replace it as a courtesy. But, as any of you who have ever made an insurance claim will know. The more money involved in the claim, the more hassle the company will put you through before you pay out. The jobs we get are the big money claims. The claims that if they are allowed to proceed will eventually make the companies collapse. We are the guard dogs. And like any good guard dog, our bark is often as effective as our bite. Now, clearly we cannot threaten members of the public, but if you make yourself familiar with the rules of insurance, and the technicalities of the policy, you will not need to get heavy with them. You will be able to steam roller them with the facts, or at least the facts as you want them to be understood. By the way, this is a superfluous part of the training. But we need to tick the boxes. When you get into the field, the chances are you will never use any of this stuff. And I realise that I have just contradicted myself. But never mind.”

“What a tosser,” said Chaz, as they gathered around the coffee machine in the break.

“He’s only doing his job,” said Sean, feeding ten pence pieces into the machine. “It’s like he said, he has to give us that stuff to tick the boxes.”

“I meant him, not what he was talking about. What do you think Amy?”

“Why ask me?”

“You’re a woman aren’t you? Would you go to bed with him?”

“Is that a chat up line?”

“Ignore me. I’ll be sorted when I get some caffeine inside me. I had a skin-full last night. I can’t take in anything he says.”

“Why did you leave the force?” asked Amy.

Chaz stepped up to the machine as Sean took his Hot Chocolate and moved across to David. “You know better than to ask a copper why he left the force,” said Chaz, running his finger up and down the menu of drinks. “You should know that being an ex-force yourself.”

“I guess you couldn’t have done something that bad, or you’d be a security guard.”

“You must be more bored than the rest of us,” said Chaz to David, as he leaned down to take his coffee. “You must have been through this insurance stuff a hundred times before.”

“It goes in one ear and out of the other,” replied David, “I always found it was best to just trust your nose. If it smells funny, then it usually is.”

“So we don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know, I’m asking you.”

“Ignore him Dave,” cut in Amy, “he’s your typical squaddie copper.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that you forget some of us don’t need to shave our backs to make us different to gorillas.”

Chaz laughed, “I can see you and I are on the same wave length.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Amy, with a knowing smile.

Chapter 1

2005-11-02T21:32:00.000Z

His mother had always been the repository of knowledge on all matters relating to the family. She seemed to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of all the faces that stared out of the black and white pictures that she had spent the best part of twenty years cataloguing and ordering into family albums. She was a regular visitors at the offices of the local paper, and by searching the micro-fiche and using her considerable intuition, she had been able to identify the most obscure events, and people who in all reality were but bit-part players in the family album. Each time he returned home, after tea, David would humour his mother by sitting on the sofa in living room, and making the correct noises as she revealed her latest piece of detective work.

“That is George Bunn,” she said, pointing to a very erect man, who had the air of a sailor, who was holding a pint of beer aloft, “I can’t be sure of the exact date this picture was taken, but I think it was shortly after North End won the district Football league: division B, in 1936.” It always amazed David that she could be so accurate. His mother clearly picked up on his quizzical look, because she added, “my uncle Alfred used to play for that team, he was the right full-back, and that chap there,” she pointed to a baby faced youth wearing a cap three times to large for his head, “well that is Davie Grayson, and he only played for the team in 1936: I think he joined the army after that.”

Now you should not get the impression that either David or his mother found this ritual in the least bit odd. A psychologist would probably point to the day nearly fifteen years before that David flew the nest to go to study at college. Because prior to that date the collection of the photographs inherited from her mother, had been a novelty to his mother. More modern types may call it a by-product of empty nesting.
And some might call it social history; because of the sheer depth of information that David’s mother had amassed over the years. There was hardly a family in Queens Market that was not touched in some fashion. They need only to drift into the frame of a snap-shot and they became part of the whole mythology.

The albums, and there were nearly fifty books, were ragged with news-cutting and dogged eared photocopies. His mother was insistent on finding as much as possible about every picture.

His father drifted into the room, with a fresh pot of tea. “I see she’s cornered you again,” he said, setting the tea-pot on the coffee table.

“I find it interesting,” said David.

His father gave him a wink, “It’s certainly interesting.”

“Oh,” said his mother excitedly, “Now you remember that I couldn’t place this woman.” She turned the pages of the album to the book marked page. “Ah yes, here we are.”

“I’m going to oil the lawn mower,” said his father, the tone of his voice was half invitation that David might like to join him in the shed. Maybe they could talk about men’s things? But the chance went by the board, because his mother took him by the hand, almost an instinctive move, and drew him back into her world of pictures. His father realised the situation and turned on his heels and sloped out of the room.

“Yes here she is. That woman in the back row, there.”

David leaned forward and looked at the picture. It showed the cast of a theatrical production, the clapper board held by a beaming girl in the front row, informed that this was the cast of ‘Cho Chin Chow, 1943,’ and from the oriental costumes and the slanted eyes of the make-up, it was clear that this was indeed that show. But though he could not see the woman’s face clearly, it being partially obscured by his mother’s finger, but the woman bore a remarkable resemblance to his grandmother who was two rows in front and to the left four people. He continued glancing from one to the other whilst listening to his mother.

“You wouldn’t believe how much trouble I have been through trying to find out who she was. I managed to get a program from the show, but she is not listed in the cast list. But then I happened to bump into Marge Clark in the library, and as luck would have it, her father was a member of the Minstrels during the war. Did I mention that he is in hospital again?”

“No.”

“His waterworks have gone haywire again.”

“I blame the Viagra,” quipped David.

His mother cackled, and then elbowed him gently; “You’ll get me in trouble. Anyway, that his him there, the stagehand and luckily he remembered that the woman was called Joan, he couldn’t recall her surname, but in the program she is listed as an usherette. So I was able to put a name to the face, she is Joan Davis. Why she is in this photograph is anybody’s guess.”

“Perhaps she was an understudy?”

“I shouldn’t have thought so. The Minstrels were never that professional.”

“Or perhaps she was standing in for a friend?”

“Perhaps. But, whatever the reason she has caused me a great deal of trouble.”

“Mum? Have you noticed how much she looks like Gran?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have a look at the two of them. They are almost like peas in a pod.”

“So they are. Do you know I have never noticed that before?”

“Do you think there is something Gran never told you?”

“Don’t be silly. You always did have a wild imagination.”

David knew better than to say anything more on the subject and held his tongue. He was well aware that to protest this point would lead to his mother reeling of increasingly embarrassing incidents from childhood. Partly they were embarrassing because his mother has a knack of remembering things that he knew had never happened, or at least, had not happened in the way that his mother seemed to remember.

He checked his watch, “I really should be making tracks. Thank you for a lovely dinner.”

“There’s nothing like home cooking.”

“Indeed, and no-one makes gravy like you.”

“Flatterer.”

“I’ll just go and have quick word with dad.”

The heat of the day had passed but the garden was pleasantly warm. And as he crossed the grass of the neat cut lawn a wave of nostalgia ran through him. The colours of the flowers in the borders changed each year, and the lime tree he climbed as a child was now gone, but there was something eternal about his parents garden. And nothing was more eternal than his fathers shed, half hidden as it was by dog roses.

And just as he expected his father was not oiling the lawnmower but sitting on his chair reading the Sunday paper and smoking a cigar.

“You’ve managed to escape then?” said his father as David stepped inside the shed.

“I might say the same for you.”

“Cigar?”

“I don’t have time. I have to leave, it’s quite a drive, and if I leave now I might avoid the happy campers coming back form the coast.”

“When are you starting the new job?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Nervous?”

“As nervous as anyone is when starting a new job.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re a smart lad.”

And just as he knew would happen, as he backed out of the drive, he saw his mother and father standing by the front door waiting to wave him goodbye: his mother fighting back the tears: his father supporting her with an arm around the shoulder. He pushed the car into gear, gave a simple wave and drove away.

Dealing with the Stoopid

2005-10-23T18:01:00.000+01:00

Don't worry folks, the podcasts will soon resume.

I have spent the weekend at a writer's workshop, but before I tell you about that.

I wish to remind you of my current thinking whilst writing scripts: Towards a Ring Wing Theatre. Now before you get your knickers in a twist, this has nothing to do with facism or even right wing politics particularly.... and everything to do with slayed the sacred cows of Political Correctness and trying to move drama towards the truth.

Perhaps a clearer explanation is to get away from the sort of theatre in which a happy ending is for a woman to leave her 'partner' or that the moment a black character appears, you know that racism will be the theme of the play.

Oh.... and two things amused me.

The first is that we were told we were free to write whatever we like.

And the second is that we should break free from the conventions and tell new stories, in new ways.

Anywho.....

Older readers may recall that I have been working on a script about a transvestite is caught in the act, and rather than admit the truth to his girlfriend he tells her he is a rapist.

Now the reason for his lie, is guilt. And becuase I wanted to explore the nature of secuality surrounding transvestitism. This is in part because the only time the subject appears it is always as a joke.

In order to understand why this relates to rape, I would suggest you read Men in Love by Nancy Friday, or perhaps the Bacchae by Euripedes. Or failing that have a skim around the tranny blogs on the net. Despite the odd 'it's not a problem' blog, there are any number that are wracked with shame.

Anywho..... accept and build.....

The reason for me telling you all this is that there was a woman in the group, who lost her temper and angrily declared that transvestitism was offensive to women and that it was insulting. Principally because 'all' transvestites dress like tarts.

Which is news to me.....

Why this was funny was that she could not make the connection between her attitude and my character telling the biggest lie he could think of when backed into a corner.

Which means that despite the bullshit comments I have had to wade through, it has given me a way of proceeding.... time to go and have a look at the theatre of Brecht.

peace:)

The Director's Cut

2005-10-10T17:15:00.000+01:00

It's odd the way that things happen.

To those that have heard this podcast on BlogExplosion, you may be forgiven for believing that Pinky and Perky or the Chipmunks have made a come back. It seems that there is a way around this porblem, but since it relies on understanding technical stuff, that is all quite beyond me.

But....

I got to thinking....

Since the serial, Towards the Light, is the story of a woman I decided to try to play around witht he settings in the hope of getting a more feminine sounding voice. Plus, I have added music.... and to be honest I am rather pleased with the result.

So go.... give it a try....

I have re-recorded the first three episodes, Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3.

The final two episodes will be appearing shortly....

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World.

peace:)

A Break in Transmission

2005-10-08T16:35:00.000+01:00

Excuse me folks, I'm just doing a little housework.... do you like the pinny?

My Odeo Channel (odeo/e93ea011cb162c63)

My Odeo Channel (odeo/b55f565bd59c0612)

My Odeo Channel (odeo/56b8e8deab2341ab)

oh and while I am doing behind the scenes work: "web 2.0", "the trouble with...", earthquake, serenity, "Karl Rove", "Leo Laporte", "Paul Krugman", tsunami, ajax, "Taylor Behl".

The management wishes to apologse for the pointless of this posting, but it was required to register our transmitters on Odeo.

Normal service will return as a soon as possible.

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World.

peace:)

More Versified Culture

2005-10-07T13:21:00.000+01:00

Today, eBBC continues in our task to bring you the finest poetry on the web.

Beehive and Geordies is a collection of recordings from the past week.

The Beehive Poets meet on Monday's at the Beehive Pub on Westgate; the Beehive is the last gas-lit pub in England. The group are stunning in the quality and diversity of the work produced, and bring out a yearly anthology of the best work.

Featured on this recording are Frank Brindle, Kathy Benson and Nick the Vic.

The second part of the recording features poets from Newcastle, who perfromed at the Irish Democratic League in Bradford as part of a series of exchange visits between Northern Writers.

The featured Poets were Keith Armstrong, Ray Clark, and Nod the Geordie Poet: with the final two poems provided by Bradford's very own Tina Watkin.

The second podcast is a simple Prayer

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World

peace:)

The Arts Program

2005-10-05T01:28:00.000+01:00

Today eBBC brings you cuture in the form of poetry.

A Room with a View is a moving poem, which attempts to describe the emotional fall-out of an arson attack.

It is very much based on true events, and was originally written as a tribute to the mother and son who died: and whose deaths were obscured by the outbreak of war in Iraq.

Bleaching a Mouse is a very contraversial poem, that has recieved calls for it's banning when it appeared in an anthology last year.

Like it, loath it, or laugh.... you decide..... but you have to make your own entertainment when you don't have a television.

And lastly, we offer you the latest in the SoundScape series, Supermarket Saturday.

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World

peace:)

Variety isn't Dead

2005-10-03T02:49:00.000+01:00

The drama continues in the eBBC serial, Towards the Light

In today's episode, plans progress apace, whilst the tongues start wagging.

Now....

Never let it be said that eBBC's talent scouts do not scour the length and breadth of the land to bring you the finest talent.

And so get your MP3 clicker finger working and tune into the latest offering from eBBC Variety Theatre.

Today, for one night only.....

Evan Evans the only Asian/Welsh Ventriloquist Magician treading the boards today.

He comes fresh from his triumph in the Mountain Ash Search for a Star competition.

Hear him now for free, before Las Vegus snap him up.

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World.

peace:)

New Series

2005-10-01T18:28:00.000+01:00

eBBC is proud to present a powerful new documentary series...

Hartley Dearcroft Investigates

Week-by-week we take you undercover to expose the criminals and break the stories to hot to handle by the mainstream media.

This week's investigation sees Hartley on the trail of a dangerous left-wing conspiracy to bring a 'Peace Festival' to the mean streets of Bradford.

Fire up your i-Pods and MP3 players and listen as Hartley Dearcroft Investigates: Peaceniks

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World.

peace:)

eBBC Presents

2005-09-30T01:54:00.000+01:00

Today eBBC brings you the latest episode in the comedy drama, Towards the Light.

In today's episode, Alan has a shocking announcement.

The other offering is a SoundScape piece built around my going to rehearsal of the London Cuckolds: In Rehearsals and a Kebab

Other than that the day has been spent grappling with JavaScript, MP3 files and generally trying to get around the fact that PodCasting does genuinely offer a way of making radio programs without the need to stick to the confines of accountant-driven-three-act-plays that rely almost exclusively on your CV to get commisioned.

So have a listen and join in the fun.

eBBC: Broadcasting a message of peace to the free people of the world

peace:)

More Fun with Sound

2005-09-29T18:02:00.000+01:00

I am curently struggling to learn the mysteries of podcast hosting, so my apologies to those who followed the previous link.

Plus you can now use the Poem Jukebox on The Complete Poetic Works of Jeremy Young

Anywho....

Last night was the third Taking the Mic event to be held at Rafters, and a good time was had by all. The guest poet was Anna Tuck, who was on splendid form as always.

Next month, we have Kevin Byrne.

I have made this soundscape of the evening.

Unfortunately it ran into technical difficulties whilst converting it to an MP3 file, for some reason it wiped large sections of the content.... and you guessed it..... the parts it wiped were of Anna:(

Oh and I learned a lesson, which is not to destroy the mastercopy before you have checked the MP3 is working correctly.... oh well, I guess you live and learn.

Right now to sort out the other file, so you can begin to enjoy the serial....

This is eeore reporting for eeore's Bradford Broadcasting Company....

eBBC, Broadcasting a message of peace to the free people of the world.....

peace:)

For Your Listening Pleasure

2005-09-28T03:49:00.000+01:00

You know the old saying, 'if you can't join them beat them'

And so in that vain I offer you:

eeore's World of Theatre.

Yes you guessed it, I have discovered podcasting.

To be frank I have given up messinhg around with time wasters and this offers a way of getting the work out to the people that matter, the audience. But, rather than start this project in a negative tone, I shall simply offer you this link, which takes you to Part 1 of Towards the Light.

It is the script I was working on for Kitty earlier in the summer.

I shan't give away the story, suffice to say it is set in Bradford and is a tale of working class life.

Here We go Again Yawn

2005-09-09T01:06:00.000+01:00

It is September, so it must mean that a well-known scrounger is due to arrive and drain energy, enthusiasm and particularly money out of the hard pressed people of the Bradford poetry community. I refer of course to the visit of Thom the World Poet.... I have forgotten how many times I have heard that it is his last visit.

Mind, I have forgotten how many times I have heard people at the Beehive poets moaning about having to have him as a guest, or complaining at his basic lack of talent, or that next time they are going to tell Bruce Barnes, his principle cheerleader, that next year come-what-may they are not going to have him back.

But then, I have forgotten how many times I have heard people moan and groan at the thought of another of Bruce's workshop nights.

And in the past few days I have recieved a stream of emails from Bruce, most of them factually inaccurate, extolling his virtues, and attempting to have him hi-jack, long-term and unwanted events.

For instance, we are commited to hosting a visit from poets from Newcastle, as part of an exchange visit, principally because we have a grant from the Arts Council and the money has to be spent. This exchange was principally responsible for the demise of the Interchange writers group, as it split the membership into an in-group and an out-group. Now suddenly we are informed, by Bruce, that not only do we to have to host this event, but that we are to have Talentless Thom on the bill.

I guess my problem is that I am perfectly prepared to be the boy in the crowd who points out the Emporer is naked.

But the simple fact of the matter is this. All of this is backward looking. The reason Kevin and I set up the Taking the Mic event is precisely to get away from this sort of crap. We are interested in the future of poetry and perfromance in Bradford, and developing talent and an audience for the future. Not harking back to a glorious past that never was, and to people who have been entirely destructive in pursuit of Arts Council money.

And before anyone chooses to disagree, show me the groups and the poets that these people are supposed to have created, supported and fostered?

Still Here

2005-08-09T22:19:00.000+01:00

Don't worry people I'm still here. I haven't updated because I haven't been writing anything.

Though last night I went out to the local theatre co-op and one thing lead to another. First, I met this woman who is perfect for the script I wrote for Kitty, and since Kitty appears uncontactable at the moment I have sent a copy of the script to this other woman. And, since this appears to be a runner, I have wangled to get it serialised on the local radio station. The exact details of the serialisation have to be worked out: i.e. how long each episode will be.

Either way it is all good.

Oh and I have arranged the guest for the next poetry event at Rafters, my mate Frank Brindle. He's a wonderful nature poet: and I say that as someone who normally doesn't like nature poetry.

But I guess hte main thing is that the radio play looks like a goer.

Plus it was a very boozy evening with a lot of laughter and some rather good jokes, like:

This man goes to the doctor with a bad back.
'How did you do it?' asks the doctor.
"It's my girlfriend, she insists on doing it doggy style, and it hurts my back.'
"Well why don't you turn her over?'
"She keeps licking my face."

You have fun now...

peace:)

On My Holidays

2005-07-30T15:38:00.000+01:00

The past week I haven't written anything. I have weeks like this sometimes. It's not that I dobn't have anything to say, it's more that I can't be arsed.

I sent off a script to a short film competition and I have been chatting with Kitty about the play, but neither of which give me much cause for optimism. Meh.... we'll see.

I kind have found a little more inspiration and sense that I will start scribbling again.

About the only thing of note that has happened is that I got an email from this guy called Mark 'I'm a journalist' Cantrell, who wanted to know about Taking the Mic: the poetry thing that I helped organise the other day. And maybe this goes to the root of my present disgruntlement. Since he seemed to think that I was just tagging along and that my partner in crime Kevin was the driving force behind the the project. Which is not the case.

It annoyed me because his questions were all so pointless. For instance he wanted to know how Taking the Mic relates to the defunct Interchange writers group. And the fact is that Taking the Mic is the antithesis of Interchange, indeed we set it up precisely to be nothing to do with Interchange.

One of the questions was: 'Why did Interchange fold?' To which I gave the reply, 'too many lefties.'

And this is true. One thing I have noticed from travelling about that Marxist naval gazing is not something that is common elsewhere. And I can't imagine them having pointless conversations about sexism and such-like that Interchange collapsed into: hence my reference to lefties.

Meh.... whatever....

peace:)

Versifying Again

2005-07-28T11:41:00.000+01:00

It's been a busy couple of days.

On Tuesday I went to Sheffield with the Bradford Poetry Idol Winners, another of the exchange visits. It was a good evening. Not much to say about it really, other than it was fun.

Then last night we had the first of the Taking the Mic events at Rafters. And the general agreement was that it went well. To be honest I was nervous that no one would turn up and sure there were poeple who said they were coming and didn't show but that is only to be expected.

Perhaps the best thing, from my perspective, was that there were more women then men. Which may seem a minor point but I think it was significant, and a welcome sign.

The guest poet was Fiona Durrance and she was excellent.

Which has left me scratching my head as to who to invite for the guest spot next month, and also even more nervous, since my partner in crime Kevin is off in Austrailia doing a painting a decorating job: don't ask.

peace:)

Whatever....

2005-07-27T23:50:00.000+01:00

I went to Sheffield yesterday to a poetry gig.... one man and his dog.... which I understand is no way to talk about his wife.... but you know....?

It was Ok but nothing to set the world alight....

And tonight we had the first 'Taking the MIc' event at Rafters which wnet very well. We had Fiona Durance as a special guest and to to be hinest she was too good fo us.

And people seemed to enjoy it... and I am drunk.... so hey! It was a good evening....

peace:)

Spastic

2005-07-26T02:11:00.000+01:00

I rang Kitty today to ask if she had read the script I had sent her, which was amusing because I dialed the wrong number and got into a very strange conversation with some woman, I never realised there were 8,000 ways to say 'hello' but we got through most of them before I realised that it was a wrong number.

To be honest I have been feeling a bit out of sorts of late. This is partly because of the college thing and being rejected on the grounds of discrimination, partly because I really can't be arsed, and partly because of the way things get commissioned. It does seem a fairly crazy system in which you have to have a track record in theatre, when most people can't stand theatre, which does kind of hint at the reason there is so much shite on the television. Meh..... this is just me being bitter. Though the significant point here is that commissioning is in the hands of accountants and not creatives.... I refer you back to the posting in which Pauline said that King Leah would not be commissioned today because of the basic flaws in the play.... this of course being the greatest work of tragedy in the English language.

Which leads me on to the Kitty situation.

The piece have written has as the central character a woman who is paralyzed and blind. This is specifically because Kitty is blind, and I was looking for a way around the problem of having a blind person on stage. And the simplest thing was to have them in a wheelchair.

Which then got me thinking about another issue. Kitty is a diabetic, which is the reason she is blind, and thus she has to be very careful about checking her blood. The monologue is about 1hr 20mins and I started worrying about this. But then I thought 'meh.... If she has to check her blood, let her check her blood.' Sure it isn't scripted but since much of the play is about showing disabled people as people and not their disability: what the heck.... let her have an insulin injection on stage if need be.

Which is not to say that I am planning on a freak show. Because this is not the case. But like I say the script is about how disabled people are 'normal' people.... and not in a preachy way.... since there are jokes in the script that are too good for that.

Besides, I have a feeling that this is all going to come to nothing in the way that most things I do come to nothing so it don't matter.

Though she is reading the script and will get back to me. If she likes it the agro begins. If she don't I shall just have to go and find someone who wants to do it and a venue that wants to perform it.

peace:)

Terror

2005-07-25T00:12:00.000+01:00

I have been toying with going back to a project I have been toying with for the past ten years. It's a film script based on the Houndsditch Murders and the Siege of Sidney Street, though essentially it is about terrorism.

I did make a start on it ages ago but the script fell to pieces whilst thinking about the sub-plot of the love story.

And the problem was also knowing where to tie down the story. I mean by this that the gang at the centre of the story were Latvian Nationalists: one of who's members was only there because the rest of the gang had sprung him from the central jail in Riga: a place where prisoners were tortured by having their penis ripped off.

There are other similarities to the current situation. For instance that London was being used as the base for anti-Tzarists groups, with the British government claiming that these groups were under surveillance.

But in terms of making this into a story, where do you draw the line?

For instance, does the action start with the pogroms following the 1905 revolution? Or do you try to tie that element of motivation into the later action and use it as justification? This following the death of around 7 policemen and a number of by-standers in a bungled wages snatch.

And then where does the story stop? Does it end with the fire that supposedly killed all the members of the gang? Or do you end it with the fact that one of the gang, who escaped the siege, went on to be the chief of Stalin's secret police and was responsible for the deaths of millions of people.

There is a telling line in this story. That the reason the gang were willing to die was because they could not believe the British police would be any different to the Tzarist police.

peace:)

Nowt

2005-07-24T08:52:00.000+01:00

Didn't do much yesterday....

The only thing of note is that I e-mailed Pam at the BBC, but even that was dull.

Peace:)