Oggbashan Stew Pt. 01

"Let's see if there is any ruin within a ten mile radius. You take that side of the map. I'll look at this side."

Map reading was difficult. We were in my classic sports car. There is little room in the car and opening a map fully was impossible.

"There's one." I said. "Found any on your side, Judy?"

"Only one twenty miles away. Where's yours?"

"About seven miles but it is the other side of the Roman Road. It doesn't seem to fit the clues."

"That's not too far. How about going there? If it isn't the right place we can go to the final meeting place and be there in time for the meal."

"OK, Judy. Fold the map, please. You direct me and we should be there in ten minutes."

She folded the map so the section we wanted was on top. She gave precise directions as if we were on a competition rally. I drove the car hard knowing that Judy would warn me of any dangerous bends. We arrived close to the map position within eight minutes. Not bad on minor country roads. I pulled in to the side of the road and switched the ignition off. The engine spluttered before stopping. That wasn't a good sign. We got out and looked around. There was a track beside us leading into a wood.

"Paul," said Judy "I think we should put the top up before we start looking. I don't like the weather and it is getting dark."

I was impatient to find the next clue but Judy's suggestion was sensible. We struggled with the top. It is difficult at any time but would be worse in the dark or if it were raining. Our tempers were fraying when we left the car.

We walked into the wood. If our navigation was right the ruin should be about four hundred yards away on the other side of the wood. I should have taken a torch.

Story 012

Carnival Princess

Our annual carnival is at the end of August. Unlike many towns the participants tend to be amateur and the costumes and floats are home-made. Every year for the past six years I have had an argument with Ian about his costume. He always dresses up as a woman, usually in an old bridesmaid's dress. He looks ridiculous, not comic but stupid, and so many other men dress up as women that they have become a cliché.

Many of our local children who used to wear home-made costumes now use store-bought ones. There will be many Disney Princesses, Supermen, Bob The Builders and whatever is the popular icon this year.

I dress as a woman too. Why not? I am a woman. Our women's group construct the float on the back of a small flatbed truck. We change the theme each year and make all the costumes ourselves. We try to produce a professional effect. Sometimes we succeed, sometimes we fail but at least we try. We take our float not just to our own carnival but to most of the other carnivals within a twenty-five mile radius.

This year we are trying to be Burlesque queens. The float will look like a Wild West Bar, with real alcohol on tap, and we'll dance the Can Can all the way along the carnival route. Some of us will be on the float. Most of us will be on the street around the float. We've been rehearsing our routines for weeks and we think we will entertain the crowd.

But Ian? He'll dress as an unlikely woman again and just walk the route of our carnival and the other ones being boring unless I can persuade him to try something different.

Last year one of his friends did make a change. Instead of dressing as a woman he had hired an inflatable costume that made him look like a cowboy riding a horse. It wasn't very good, but it was better than yet another fake bridesmaid.

My friend Caroline is an artist. She uses an unusual form of media. Her speciality is giant inflatable figures with some animation. I wondered if I could persuade her to produce an inflatable costume for Ian. It would be expensive for one evening but if it was good enough we could use it for other carnivals in the district.

I rang her up and arranged to meet for a drink at a local Wine Bar on an evening when Ian would be home late. I had a few ideas of what might be possible but I expected that Caroline would think of much better projects than I could.

Story 013

Catacomb

I'm a slave, a Roman slave, in the time of the Emperors. I'm a Christian. That I have to whisper. Christians are unpopular and persecuted. As a slave it probably doesn't matter that I'm a Christian because no one cares what slaves think, but my mistress is a Christian too and that is very dangerous - for her.

I work in the villa's extensive gardens growing garden vegetables and herbs. It is much better than working in the fields because I can think, I can plan the sowing, I can take pride in my work and the results.

But for one hour every day I'm not in the garden but behind the wall against the sandstone cliff face. My mistress has told me and the other slaves to dig a tunnel into the sandstone and create a chamber. It could be our church and a refuge if the Empire turns from disapproval of Christians to active persecution again. It is many years since Christians were thrown to the lions but who knows what an Emperor might do?

My mistress says that the master doesn't know that his slaves are digging deeper into the earth. I'm sure he does know. He knows what we are planting and when, when the seeds will sprout, when they should be manured and watered, and when they will crop. How could he not notice one-tenth of our labour? He can't be seen to be lenient with Christians nor with slaves because he is part of our town's administration.

But our digging continues. The spoil is used to make all-weather paths around the formal gardens. It makes roads for the carts to get to the fields and working paths for the farm labourers. Now our mistress has asked us to build a mound on which we will build a small temple. The temple will contain a statue of the Emperor in his attribute as a God, but the mound will conceal more of the spoil from our deep tunnelling. I have to whisper again that the temple would also be a convenient lookout post to see if any soldiers are approaching.

I'm not married. Slaves can't marry but are expected to produce children. Marriage is expensive and complicated. Our Master and Mistress are married. They had to be otherwise the religious ceremonies of our town couldn't continue. All Patricians are expected to marry formally. Many don't because of the restrictions but some must. I think, if a slave can be allowed to think, that Master married our Mistress because he suspected that she was a Christian. If she was formally married that suspicion would be allayed. They are unusual. They love each other and show it. Most un-Roman!

But I have a girlfriend, Marcia. She too is a slave, working in the kitchens. I'd like to pair with her, to marry according to the Christian rite, which of course no one except Christians recognises.

Story 014

Christmas Conga

"Christmas".

I had just added that item to the draft agenda for the March meeting of our Chamber of Commerce. It would be emailed out with the minutes of the February meeting.

I could predict the reaction of the Committee members when we got to that item. They would moan and groan. 'We've just had Christmas.'; 'It's too soon to think about that.'; and more relevantly 'What the fuck are we going to do for next Christmas?'.

Our Chamber's response to each Christmas had been predictable for years. We had a window dressing competition. We provided the public address system and a stage for the local schools to sing carols in the town square.

Each of us tried to maximise our sales for Christmas but we were competing with the out of town supermarkets and on-line retailers. We were surviving but each year trading seemed harder. Fixed costs such as rent and rates were rising, variable costs like power were rising even faster, sales were flat, static, or even falling, and profits were down.

Last year's Halloween had been a great success. A few years ago a couple of us had started a Zombie Crawl through the town. The first year had attracted a couple of hundred costumed people, mainly children. The second year had split, with a children's event early in the evening, and an adult Crawl starting at ten pm. The adult Crawl had grown to five hundred. Our members had sold suitable drinks, food and Halloween goods until the early hours.

Last year, despite our preparations, we were nearly swamped. We had planned for two thousand adults but it had been an unlikely hit on social media. Five thousand 'Zombies' turned up. We ran out of food, nearly ran out of drink until the truck arrived from the next town, and we sold out of anything remotely linked to Halloween.

Halloween had been the best sales day on the whole year. What was even better was that there was no hangover, no downside. Every participant had behaved well. There was no vandalism, no antisocial behaviour, no aggressive drunks and even no litter. The litter had been cleared by Zombie Wombles. The Wombles harassed the other Zombies into donating litter; sorted the litter into recyclables and other rubbish, bagged it carefully and piled the bags in agreed places for the Council's contractors to remove in the morning. After the Zombie Crawl the streets were cleaner than they usually are after a normal evening.

Story 015

Christmas Train

It was the May meeting. The trustees were sitting in the private bar of the public-house opposite the Town End railway station that is the headquarters of our preserved railway. Their monthly meetings are always held there. We don't have a large enough room at the station and the food and beer are excellent.

My girlfriend Helen is the youngest trustee. She was elected in her own right but really acts as a proxy for her grandfather who was one of the founders of the railway preservation society. She conveys his views if he wants to participate. Most of the time she says nothing. She is listening and learning. But she can and does represent the views of the younger volunteers.

I'm not a trustee but the trustees ask other people to attend for specific items. I was there for one part of the agenda. I was taking more notice of Helen's long slim legs than the meeting's content.

The trustees had just finished discussing the regrettably slow progress on restoration of our only currently viable steam locomotive. The winter weather had been bad. The volunteer engineers hadn't been able to start work on the major task of retubing the boiler. All they had been able to do was some minor repair that could be done inside the workshop.

We ran 1950s and 60s diesel-electric units on our five mile long preserved line. We had six serviceable two-car units but only two sets could haul additional coaches. We had three diesel shunters, two currently operational, but our stock of five steam engines all needed major repairs.

Reginald, our chairman, suspended the meeting at the end of that agenda item so we could order more beer. We were all feeling depressed. We had hoped that we could run steam-hauled trains this summer. The engineers' report suggested that next summer would be more likely but perhaps not even then. We needed money and more steam-skilled staff.

The next item was the report about our Christmas Santa Specials last December. As usual, almost every scheduled service had been almost fully booked. If the diesel sets could have hauled a couple of coaches we could have taken hundreds more passengers. That would have improved the railway's finances.

Next Christmas? Instead of two two-car sets we might be able to run three four-car sets but our Santa Claus operation at the remote terminus would struggle to cope. Mary introduced her report on that part of the service.

"As you all know," Mary started, "we provide an age and sex-related present to every child on the Santa Specials. At Church Lane station each child is taken into the adapted coach to meet Father Christmas and is given the present. Any child whose birthday is close to the date of travel gets an additional birthday card and small present to go with the Christmas one.

Over the years we have been running Santa Specials we have improved what we do. Originally we had some grumbles from the parents about the presents. The girls seemed to get every shade of pink and the boys had too many guns. Now the presents are almost interchangeable. Our suppliers have been consistently brilliant providing us with suitable presents that are value for the money. The feedback on Facebook and TripAdvisor has consistently praised us for the quality of the children's presents.

That's not our problem. What we can't seem to do is speed up the process of getting children to see Father Christmas. Sometimes we even have to delay the return train from Church Lane to make sure every child has time with Father Christmas. Over an operating day those delays can reach half an hour..."

"And that annoys the passengers and the operating staff..." Reginald interrupted.

"It does," John, the operating manager added. "We are first and foremost running a railway. Not departing on time is a cardinal sin. We hate late trains."

"I agree," Mary said, "but if we were to have four-car sets the delay caused by Father Christmas at Church Lane could become unmanageable. Rescheduling the timetable to allow longer at Church Lane isn't the answer. The children would have to wait an unreasonably long time before they get their present. Now we stop at Church Lane for half an hour yet sometimes we need forty minutes. Santa's helpers do their best to keep the younger children entertained but the strain is showing.

What I am really worried about is that some of the older children will get bored and roam around, endangering themselves on the track. We need some way to make the Father Christmas experience as good as it is now but without the delays. We just can't fit four coach loads through the Grotto in a reasonable time. If it is raining..."

"OK," Reginald interrupted. "We have to think about how we change the Grotto timing at Church Lane. If we are to run four-car services, and we should because of the increased revenue, we need to be able to deal with four-car numbers through the Grotto."

"We can't," Mary retorted. "We don't have the space at the station. We could have two Father Christmases. That might upset some of the younger children. Even if we did have two we would need two Grottos. In theory we could convert another coach, but the Grotto already blocks one potentially serviceable coach all year round. We need running coaches for the passengers, not for another Grotto."

"I analysed the feedback and circulated a summary," I interrupted.

Mary looked annoyed.

"Is it relevant, Malcolm?" Reginald asked. His tone suggested that it wasn't.

"I think so if you'll give me a couple of minutes to explain."

"OK. But keep it short. We've more items on the agenda."

"Thank you Reginald... and Mary," I said. "The feedback was generally positive. As usual the negative responses were more valuable. One specific one gave me an idea about the Grotto. What they said was they liked the experience but there was nothing about the Christian Christmas. They would have liked some acknowledgement in our event that Christmas means the Nativity..."

Reginald almost interrupted. I held up my hand to indicate that I wanted to continue.

"We also had a letter last week from the Reverend Anne Smith of the Church down Church Lane. You know that her Church is opened to the public every day that we run a train service. She thanked us specifically because takings in the donations box at the Church have risen significantly since we mentioned the Church opening in our leaflets and on the train tickets. We did that in the publicity leaflet for the beginning of last year's schedule. We've repeated it for this year. Anne reports that the annual donations have increased from two hundred and forty pounds to..."

I paused for effect.

"...three thousand four hundred and twenty."

"So much?" Mary queried.

"Yes. It startled the Reverend Anne. That sort of money makes a real difference to maintaining the Church. But her letter together with the feedback about no mention of the Nativity made me think. What if? What if, instead of using a coach for Father Christmas' Grotto, we use the church hall? It's only fifty yards from Church Lane station. The Church Hall is much larger than our coach Grotto could ever be. That hall is underused because the village hall is better equipped, is closer to the centre of the village and has a large car park which the church hall hasn't got. But if everyone came by our trains? They wouldn't need a large car park..."

"And is that all of your idea?" Mary asked. I could see she was thinking hard.

"No," I replied. "There is also the lack of a Nativity theme. The Church congregation is small but they produce a Nativity Scene in part of the Church. They also have a Christmas service of twelve lessons and carols on Christmas Day, and a midnight service on Christmas Eve. We could run special trains for both. And there's more."

"OK, Malcolm. I can see the possibilities. So can Mary. Please can you and Mary work out proposals together and bring them to the next meeting. I'll put it on the agenda."

"Can I involve Helen too?" I asked looking directly at her. She nodded.

"Yes, and Helen," Reginald said. "I note that you redacted the feedback about Helen's legs from the summary of feedback. We've all read the appendix showing every comment. Thank you, Helen. I hope that you weren't too offended by some fathers' comments."

Helen blushed.

"OK. Next item on the agenda. Replacing the cafe's freezer and microwave..."

The trustees went through the rest of the agenda quickly and competently. Why not? They are all, except Helen, retired people who have had significant positions in the past. Each of them has decades of experience on committees. I sat quietly until the end.

+++

When the meeting closed Mary asked Helen and I to join her in a corner of the bar.

"We three need to meet soon," May said. "Christmas is months away but if we are changing things we need to have a recommendation to the next trustee meeting. Are you two free tomorrow evening? We could meet in my house. As you know I have a comfortable two seat settee for you two lovebirds..."

I looked at Helen who was consulting her mobile. She grinned at me.

"I am," Helen said.

"So am I," I said.

"OK. Six thirty?" Mary asked.

We nodded.

"We'll start with a meal. OK?"

We nodded again. Mary's cooking was famous.

I walked Helen back to her parents' house. Our arms were wrapped around each other. Helen's farewell kiss lasted a long time ensuring that I dreamt of Helen that night. Her long legs featured prominently in that dream. Her legs are long. She's as tall as me, taller when she's wearing heels, and I'm not short. The comments on her legs when she was dressed as a Santa's helper were complimentary, some suggesting what the children's fathers would like to do with Helen... I understood. I'd like to do some of those things too.

+++

Both of us are volunteers on the railway, training to become qualified firemen and eventually drivers. The second hand on the diesel set is still called 'fireman'. We had qualified as guards. Our roles on the Christmas specials were in entertaining the passengers. I was one of the warm-up people in each coach. Helen was a Santa's helper at the Church Lane station, dressed as an Elf in short skirt, green tights. She tried to keep the children and parents amused while waiting for their time with Santa Claus. She was more popular with the passengers than I was. It's her legs...

No. It's not just her legs. It's her smile and her rapport with the children. She had worked as a helper in a nursery during her vacations from University. She had qualifications in child care to go with her First in Physics. I had a 2.1 in Physics. If I had been Helen's boyfriend then? I too might have got a First but my complicated and disastrous relationships at university had damaged my studies. But a 2.1 isn't bad. Helen and I both work at the same company a few miles from our home village. My vacations had been spent plucking chickens. I had earned more from the chickens than Helen had at the nursery, but chicken-plucking isn't a transferrable life skill.