tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56403122810932159062024-02-18T17:49:53.308-08:00iscot blogUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-25486308423101087592016-03-11T11:09:00.000-08:002016-03-11T11:09:16.012-08:00Moving to https://daysineuropa.wordpress.com/Hi there,<br />
<br />
I've moved site to <a href="https://daysineuropa.wordpress.com/">https://daysineuropa.wordpress.com/</a><br />
<br />
Click on the link and check out some of the latest content there,<br />
<br />
Thanks a lot!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-500483309154263822014-07-22T11:53:00.000-07:002014-07-22T11:54:43.396-07:00Should crime authors mix fact and fiction?<h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Should crime authors mix fact and fiction?</span></h2>
The fascinating article linked below on the BBC raises some interesting points. The line between authors 'borrowing' story lines, characters and details of crime scenes is becoming increasingly blurred especially in the Crime genre which is awash with novels which are either inspired by true events or a mix of real life detail mixed with fiction. The article raises the question: Is it acceptable for fiction writers to profit on the back of re-telling someone else's, often tragic, story?<br />
<br />
<br />
Link to article: <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">< </span><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/go/em/fr/-/news/entertainment-arts-28376126" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">http://www.bbc.co.uk/go/em/fr/<wbr></wbr>-/news/entertainment-arts-<wbr></wbr>28376126</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> ></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-55197356145704649232014-03-08T04:08:00.002-08:002014-03-08T04:08:57.358-08:00Million Dollar Monkey (chapters 1-4)<h4>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="chapter1"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Chapter 1: </span></a><a href="file:///C:/Users/ewan/Documents/hanover_sep13/million%20dollar%20monkey%20smashwords.doc#Controlling"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Controlling
Engineer Ivor</span></a></span></h4>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was a Thursday night
and I'd drawn the short straw which in this case was covering night-shift with
engineer Ivor. I wouldn't say I was exactly the happy-go-lucky type but I do
try to look for the good in people. Engineer Ivor however, seemed to live his
life under a perpetual rain-cloud and did his best to make everyone else feel
just as miserable as himself. Engineer Ivor was a short man, somewhere in his
late fifties, with a ruddy red face and the look of someone who had just been
caught unexpectedly in a ferocious wind-storm. His playful wisps of thinning
hair had ambitions of becoming comedy performers and enjoyed nothing more than
creating risqué shapes on the polished stage of his pinking scalp. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">These
impromptu performances, when discovered, were cruelly swept skull ward with a well-practiced
swipe. Ivor liked to be in control, especially when it came to his own
head. He came from a village in the far
north of Scotland. It was a bleak, rain lashed place, perched near the edge of
unforgiving cliffs. Countless ships had been dashed on the rocks that lurked
just below the sea’s surface. There were legends of sirens living nearby.
They’d sing their songs, the unlucky mariners would lose their marbles and
point their vessels towards the cliffs. The last thing many of them saw was the
sight of the sirens shaking their heads in disbelief at how easy it was to lead
a man to his doom. Nobody had a good word to say about the place. The advice to
tourists looking to stop in the area was simple: Don't! If the rain or the
cliffs didn't get you then you may be unfortunate enough to be accosted by one
of Ivor's clan. He always wore a short sleeved white shirt with dirty brown tie
combination, along with a pair of thick black woollen trousers that were at
least two sizes too big and as such were constantly playing peek-a-boo with
Ivor’s most sensible white Y-fronts. Quite why he didn’t wear a belt wasn’t
clear though he was spotted once, at a leaving-do that he just couldn’t get out
of, sporting a pair of rather dapper silver braces.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> His usual look was finished
off with large steel toe capped boots and his trusty yellow oilskin jacket
which was never more than grabbing distance away from his person. Ivor kept so
much kit in his jacket that it could have been weaved by an experimental
faction of the magic circle. It was jammed full of notebooks, site plans,
measuring tapes, nails, hammers, at least three calculators and various other
secret engineering devices that Ivor didn’t like to talk of. I knew for a fact
that he kept a creamy white rabbit’s foot in there; I’d seen him rubbing at it
on more than one occasion, usually when the pressure was getting to him and he
was struggling with the little devils that liked nothing more than to unscrew
the lid of his famous temper. I’d tried
my best to be civil to him but you can only beat your head against a brick wall
for so long before you either see stars, break something important or wise up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He just wasn’t interested. So, I put up with him. His gruff manner; his
tendency to bark unintelligible phrases at you from a distance and expect you
to know what they meant; his head shaking, his
<i>you’re an idiot</i> looks; the
long drives from site to site spent in silence as he refused to get into a
conversation unless it was directly to do with work. He’d even removed the car
stereo as he said it <i>interfered with his
thinking time</i>. There was a lot going on in the inside of Ivor’s head but it
was a private show with absolutely no admittance. He had next to no time for
anyone he came into contact with, regardless of where they were in the work
food-chain. Councillors, contract mangers, client engineers, department heads,
foremen, labourers all got the gruff treatment. I had no idea if he was married
or the last of the highland hermits. He could have has six wives and lived in a
castle for all I knew. He just never let on. My guess was that he lived out in
the woods somewhere with a stockpile of tomato soup and salt tablets in
preparation for the impending day of judgement. As for me; I was treated like
his own personal mule. I often found myself being loaded up with stacks of
engineering paraphernalia and told to giddy-up in a vague direction usually ten
yards behind the pathfinder general as he strode off across a site to peer at
something suspiciously through his level. When people had first heard that I’d
been teamed with him I had more than a few sarcastic comments; <i>bad luck,</i> <i>never mind</i>, and <i>been nice
knowing you</i>. At that point in time I was sure that he couldn’t be all that
bad. Surely, somewhere in there lurked a
sweet natured old bloke who just needed coaxed out, like a wary cat that hides
under a shed. I just had to find out what his saucer of milk was. Then, a
possible breakthrough, a nugget of personal information about the mysterious
habits of the Ivor came my way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“So Ivor, I hear that
you play the fiddle,” I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No response was the
response from Ivor. Not an eyebrow was raised. If he’d been rigged up to a
heart monitor then it would have continued to display activity usually only
seen in creatures in deep hibernation. Not one to be easily put off, I tried
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Do you play the fiddle
then?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I looked over at him.
His knuckles were turning a serious shade of white as he put the steering wheel
into the early stages of the Ivor death grip. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I heard that you were
pretty good, in your younger days that is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I wondered if a small
white lie might prod the old grizzly out of his conversation hibernation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Nobody you know would
know anything about that,” he growled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Success!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You’d be surprised who
I know, anyway, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I poked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m not. Why are you
so interested all of a sudden?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well, I play a bit
myself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You play the fiddle?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No, it’s the bass I
play”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“The double bass,
you’re a bit small for that aren’t you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No and no. Electric
bass, actually.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Electric. Call that a
real instrument do you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Erm, yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’ve no purchase with
electric music.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Really. Why, how old
are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m old enough to know
better.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You don’t like any
electric music? What about the Beatles, you must like them. Everybody likes
them, don’t they?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No I don’t. I’ve no
time for that kind of thing. It’ll not creep over into my space, not if I have
anything to do with it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Is that why you ripped
the stereo out of the car, in case someone tried to play something on it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s hard enough
trying to escape it these days. I’m not going to invite it into my own house.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Where is it that you
stay again?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“None of your
business!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Mmm. You should give
it a try, you might like it, they even use the odd fiddle.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“That’s not music.
Electric bass indeed. Whatever next. There’s no place for electric instruments,
it changes them into something that they were never supposed to be. You
wouldn’t have any dealings with someone who was wired up to the mains would
you, screaming and feeding back all over the place?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s hardly the same
thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s exactly the same
thing. Its electricity that swept away all the music that was handed down, hand
to hand, mouth to mouth, for hundreds of years.
It’s got a lot to answer for.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’ll do you a
compilation if you want and you can give them a listen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’d rather spend my
time herding cats than waste my time on that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I must admit that left
me a bit stumped. We pulled up to the site and Ivor had his seat belt off and
was out of the car faster than I could say Sergeant Pepper’s. After that, any
mention of music in Ivor’s direction was brushed away with a contemptuous
whuff. I was pleased that I’d managed to get him talking though. I’d just have to bide my time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<h4>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="chapter2">Chapter 2: The night-shift</a></span></h4>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The night-shift drill
was usually straight forward enough. The Roads Department supervised several
sites in the city which were working through the night and our job was to take
a tour around them and provide any engineering back-up that was needed. That part
came from Ivor, of course. I was really only there to act as his pack-mule and
messenger boy. If anyone was going to be getting flogged for delivering the bad
news then that would be me. Ivor was the smart end of the tape; the brains of
the outfit. He probably kept it in one of his many pockets. The shift was seven
to seven with the first few hours spent in the office. The real fun didn’t
usually start until after midnight, when we went out on </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">patrol</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ivor wasn’t one for wiling away his time staring into space,
unlike yours truly. He spent this first part of the evening transcribing the
scribbles from one or more of his site notebooks into the larger and <i>never to be taken outside of this room</i>
notebooks. The office notebooks were then locked away in a desk drawer, only to
surface on the next occasion that Ivor furnished them with a fresh batch of
updates. The sight of Ivor, hunched over this tomes, with his angle poised lamp
low enough to burn a hole through the paper, scratching away with an ancient
fountain pen put me in mind a monk painstakingly scratching on an ancient
parchment. Ivor would have made a good monk, I thought. He wouldn’t need to
speak to anyone for a start, something that he already excelled in. He’d
probably derive some masochistic pleasure from growing old and withered while
writing up the important knowledge of the day.
It certainly did the trick in keeping those monks busy. The last thing
society needs are large groups of religious types with too much time on their
hands and no mundane and tedious tasks to keep them occupied. That sort of
situation leads to nothing but trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What are you up to
Ivor?” I ventured across the room. I wasn’t holding out much hope of a reply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What does it look
like?” snipped a voice after a satellite delay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Are you working on
your book again?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s better than
gazing at you own navel”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“How’s it coming along?
Has anyone been murdered yet?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No, but the night's
still young.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Wow, Ivor was on fire
tonight, he must have upped his sugar lump dosage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Why don’t you type
that up on the computer? Is it something to do with it being plugged in at the
wall?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Very funny. I’d rather
do it this way thanks very much. For one thing it means that it doesn’t fall
into the wrong hands, or in front of the wrong pair of eyes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well, as long as no
one breaks into the secret hiding place.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’ve got all the
originals safe, it can all be done again by hand if it comes to that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s not exactly
top-secret though is it? Measurements and notes and little doodles of men in
diggers.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You don’t know what
you’re talking about. Why don’t you go back to sleep and let the big folk get
on with their work in peace?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Will I put on some
music?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Do you want to spend
the rest of the shift knocking steel pins into reinforced concrete?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’ll take that as a no
then.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He went back to his
scratchy writing. The thought of a wee nap was quite appealing, though I knew
I’d never manage to drop off with all that squeaking and scraping going on
across the room. I thought about going for a wander around the deserted
building in search of ghosts and clandestine liaisons. Then the phone rang on
Ivor’s desk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There was something
ominous about the sound of that phone. It was like a sound remembered from a
dream; a star crossed ring tone full of fate. A loud group of <i>what ifs</i> barged into a queue in front of
me. What if, I hadn’t been on the night shift that night; What if I’d been
paired with another engineer, one who didn’t spend the first few hours of each
shift in the office; What if the call had come in after we’d left, or before
we’d turned up; What if the voice on the other end of the phone had decided to
call another number; and any of an infinite number of possibilities then things
would have been different. But no. All the little cogs had lined up. Everything
had clicked into place out there in the ether of possibilities and the result
was that I was sitting there in that room with the phone ringing on Ivor’s desk
and a tingling feeling in my toes. Ivor just looked at it for a while, probably
hoping that they’d give up after a few rings but it kept on ringing and
ringing. The phone in question never usually rang, certainly not on a night
shift. It could only be a wrong number or one of the sites wanting something
urgent that involved us. Highly unlikely, I thought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ivor picked it up and with his telephone training topper
most in his mind said “What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I watched from across
the room. Ivor’s apple red cheeks drained to a polo mint white in seconds and
his wayward hair took the opportunity to stand up as if he’d plugged himself
into the mains. He wouldn’t have liked that in so many ways. Ivor put down the
phone and stared over at me with a look of panic in his eyes. This didn't stop
him from carefully closing his big-book, putting it in the drawer, locking it
and then giving the locked door a good tug, just in case it sprang open anyway
and the secrets of the ancients fell into the wrong hands. He got up from
behind his desk, pulled on his multi pocketed coat and for once spoke to me
unprompted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Get your coat,” said
Ivor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I couldn't help myself
and cheerily replied “Have I pulled?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I wasn't surprised to
see that this fell on deaf ears; Ivor had already marched past and was heading
for the exit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<h4>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Chapter
3: An Arachnid assassin</span></h4>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Where are we off to in
such a hurry?” I ventured as we sped out of the council car park at a rate of
knots not usually associated with the quiet man of the North’s Sunday outing
driving style. Ivor gripped the wheel like a man transfixed. I didn't like the
look of him at the best of times but the emergence of this foot-to-the-floor
zombie style driver was as unsettling as it was unexpected. He kept checking
the rear view mirror and I was sure I could hear him humming to himself,
another first. I thought about giving him that Beatles CD that I'd made for him
but on consideration I decided to leave it until a time when he wasn't running
with the moon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We screeched to a stop
on the junction of George Street and Hanover Street. Ivor was out of the car
faster than I could say Starsky and Hutch and started marching off down Hanover
Street towards Queen Street. I shook my head as I watched him stamping off into
the night. What had got into him? In the distance, an almost full moon was
pinned low in the skies. In lent an eerie glow to the city skyline which swept
downhill towards the dark slither that was the waters of the Firth of Forth and
the outline of the Fife hills beyond. For a moment Ivor’s silhouette was
backlit by the moon and the scene put me in mind of one of those dark cartoons
where creatures with stick bodies and oversized heads scare the bejesus out of
unsuspecting town dwellers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I almost expected the
shape of an enormous spider to emerge from behind the hills of Fife, its
burning red eyes looking out over the city where it would wreak its fevered
revenge. A thought occurred to me: Perhaps the spider was the one controlling
engineer Ivor? He never did say who had been on the other end of the phone. Had
it sent out a weird signal via the phone network with all those that picked up
rendered spellbound by the superior intelligence of an arachnid assassin? It
was a question I'd never thought I'd ask. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Could it be that at that very moment,
all over the city people, were scurrying sightlessly towards a sticky web-based
doom? What would become of them all? Would any of them escape or perhaps pass
through in one piece? It brought a whole new angle to the practice of cold
calling. Maybe I'd better not be so cheeky to them next time. I was pretty sure
I was wide of the mark on this one though. There were no murderous giant
spiders in Fife. I was almost certain of that. Meanwhile, Ivor had disappeared
from view. I knew I should be following him like a dim but faithful dog. I was
supposed to be his sidekick for the evening. Robin to his Batman. Without the
shiny tights and the pixie boots though obviously. That sort of thing would be
frowned upon within the corridors of power at the council. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I knew he’d be back
soon enough when he needed someone to hold the end of the tape. Or when some
large inanimate object had to be carried across the site. I’d get volunteered
for that little job no doubt. I leaned over and checked the ignition. He’d left
the keys in there and the driver’s door was wide open. I fished the keys from
the ignition, pulled the driver’s door closed, got out of the car and locked
it. You can’t be too careful, especially with a boot full of rather expensive
engineering kit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You wouldn’t be so
absent minded if your office notebook was in the car, would you?” I asked in
Ivor’s general direction. I ambled off into the site to see if I could find
him. I marvelled at the size of the moon in the sky. It looked like it had been
genetically modified. Or perhaps it was being inflated from within by invisible
forces hell-bent on the over inflation of satellites. I did hope that the
balloon-moon wasn’t about to go POP! It looked close enough to do considerable
damage to a city that was already under attack by a B-movie marauder.
Tomorrow’s Daily Target wouldn’t know what to run on page one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="color: #2e74b5; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<h3>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="four"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Chapter 4: </span></a><a href="file:///C:/Users/ewan/Documents/hanover_sep13/million%20dollar%20monkey%20smashwords.doc#hanover"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Hanover Street</span></a></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We had been to the
Hanover Street works before. We'd taken part in the great drainage pipe hunt.
The section of road in question was approximately 200 meters long and 10 meters
wide. The pipe to be located was clearly marked on the site drawings but when
the excavations had begun it was apparent that there was no pipe in that
location. Then, the site engineer owned up to having the plans upside down and
so they dug up the other side of the street too. Still no sign of any pipes
though. Having the two trenches running was making it very difficult to carry
out any of the other works on the site. At one point a lorry delivering
materials had managed to reverse over one of the trenches getting its back axle
jammed stuck. While trying to drag itself out, the lorry had got itself
completely stuck and had to be lifted out by a mobile crane. The word “mobile”
gave the impression that the crane would be agile and manoeuvrable but it
turned out to be so big that an entire section of the city centre had to be
cordoned off in order to move it into place. The huge arm of the crane
eventually plucked the hapless lorry from its entrenched residence with the
ease of King Kong plucking petals off a daisy. The weight of the crane,
however, had caused considerable damage to road surface on George Street and
had left sets of tracks in the tarmac that were going to cost a lot more than
the price of a lorry to put right. None of this had helped locate the elusive
pipes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The site engineer, Darrius
Malinowski, a graduate of the Gdansk College for Engineering, had been employed
on a no questions asked basis by the contractor AbleCon. Darrius’s English was
excellent but his engineering skills weren’t up to much. He had a history of cobbled
together CV’s and anyone that looked hard enough would establish a clear trail
of engineering calamities to which he was tenuously linked including the
infamous Red Hat Tower collapse in Malaysia, after which Mr Malinowski had gone
mysteriously underground. He'd reappeared in Edinburgh city centre unlike those
pesky pipes. Ivor was surprisingly philosophical about this point by saying
“Aye, they can be mysterious beasties. Supposed to be somewhere but end up
being somewhere else. They’re not expected to move about when they’ve been
buried but that doesn’t stop them.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The scene was eerily
quiet. Nothing seemed to be moving. No machines were out digging or moving
around. No groups of night-shift labourers were kidding on they were busy while
leaning on shovels. No buzzing generators running hand tools and lights. Why
was it so dark? Where was everybody? I picked my way down the edge of the road,
being careful not to slip into the one of the open trenches. I almost walked
straight past them and stepped into the void.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">'STOP!' shouted Ivor's
voice. I did what I was told. I looked around to see the murky faces of Ivor, Darrius
and half a dozen assorted labourers and machine-men, the whites of their eyes
floating spookily in the gloom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">'Who turned out the lights?'
I asked to no one in particular. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I didn't get an answer.
“Ivor's influence must be contagious,” I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Step back from the
edge!” barked Ivor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I hadn't realised I was
at the edge. Stupidly I did what anyone standing at the edge shouldn't do. I
looked over. The words 'staring into the abyss' loomed large in my mind. I was
standing on the edge of an enormous hole. It ran all the way down to the next
junction, a distance of around 100 meters and took up the full width of the
road, disappearing below the level of the pavements on each side. I stared into
it but all I could see was black. Even I knew, with my limited knowledge of
what was going on in Hanover Street, that there was no mention of creating a
gaping crater in the centre of Edinburgh. That definitely wasn't on the plans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What the …” I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“That's what I said,”
said Ivor, before adding, “Just what have you boys been up to down here? What
have you done to my street?” There was much shuffling and looking at feet
amongst the gathered crew. After an awkward pause Old Lachlan, the site
foreman, broke the silence. He was an ex-Sergeant Major type whose boots were
kept sparklingly shiny, a trait which had earned him the name Twinkle-Toes
amongst the braver of the workers. Behind his back of course. Never to his
face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well, Mr Ivor,” piped
up Lachlan. “It was just starting to get dark. We were firing up the gennies,
you know, for the flood lights and what not. That's when the noise started. I
wondered what on Earth it was, thought it was that damned crane rolling back
in, you know, the one that made those nice tracks all the way up George Street.
But no, there was no oversized crane bearing down on us. An awful sound it was.
Sounded like the belly of the city was turning over, ready to throw up over
everything. I for one wouldn't want to be standing in the wrong place if that
ever happened.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Thanks Lachlan, nice
image,” I squirmed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“That's what I thought
anyway. It seemed to be coming from underneath our feet,” said Lachlan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“So, was it an earthquake
then? A tremor?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It could have been but
there was no shaking of the ground, no windows shattering or masonry falling
off the buildings on the side of the street. So, I don't think it was. It
seemed to be happening right under where we were. It was like there was
something moving down there. Something that had just woken up ...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Like a giant worm,” giggled one of the labourers <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Maybe it’s the one
that ate those pipes we've all been looking for, hungry fellas when they get to
that size,” he added.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A few of the men were
bent over so far at this that they nearly fell into the hole. I wondered how
long it would take for them to hit the bottom with a dull thud or an echoing
splash.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Don't be daft,” growled Old Lachlan <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Just look what it did
to the road, that's no sink-hole you know, that's been waiting to happen for a
long, long time and we're all lucky that we weren't standing on top of it when
it did go. We've all been running up and down this stretch for the last couple
of weeks. Someone's looking out for us if we're all still topside and
breathing.” This seemed to dampen the hilarity somewhat. Old Lachlan had
everyone's attention so he continued;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“The sound, whatever it
was and where ever it was coming from, got louder and louder. It was an awful,
muffled groan of a thing, like nothing I've ever heard before and I hope I
don't have to hear it again. Just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Well,
those of us that were there just looked at each other and didn't say a word.
The next thing, suddenly and without warning, the whole section of the road
just fell away and disappeared into the bowels.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This stared off another
round of giggles. Old Lachlan certainly knew how to raise a laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Disappeared?” asked
Ivor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“That's right,”
answered Old Lachlan <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Look at the buildings,
not a mark, not a single window broken or a piece of masonry cracked. Even the
lights are still on. Thank the Lord for small mercies”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We all looked round and
realised that he was right. The lights from the windows overlooking Hanover
Street were lit up as if nothing had happened. The silhouettes of people were
framed in the windows. They were probably wondering what on earth the council
was up to now, keeping them awake half the night and now carelessly misplacing
the whole street. Ivor was staring into the void and stroking his chin. I
reckoned he was just about to crack a joke or maybe start a bit of a
sing-a-long. I was wrong. He just stood there, keeping the thoughts that were
running under his furrowed brow to himself.
He snapped out of it fast enough, taking us all by surprise when he
barked;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Why are there no
lights on the site?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“That would be the
generators,” replied Old Lachlan, somewhat sheepishly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Have they stopped
working?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You could say that,
they all went into the hole.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Into the hole? Did
anything else go in there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well, you'll be glad
to hear that none of the men went in. At least, as far as we know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Dare I ask how you
know this?” asked Ivor with an eyebrow raised. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You can. We got
everyone together and counted them. We're pretty sure everyone's accounted for.
Though, saying that it is pretty dark out here so we might have missed someone.
Someone small maybe, or hard to make out in low lighting,” said Old Lachlan,
rather unconvincingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“So are you saying that
there's a chance that someone might have gone in there, along with the
generators?” asked Ivor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I think we'd have
heard them by now,” said Old Lachlan. “Anyway, I counted them all myself. I'm
as sure as I can be for someone who's standing in the dark next to a big hole
in the ground that is. Of course the lights did end up going in there so it is
possible that someone could have got dragged in along with them. Very difficult
to untangle yourself if you're getting pulled down by a set of temporary
traffic lights.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Not something that’s
really covered in the Health and Safety training then?” asked Ivor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Old Lachlan just looked
blank. He’d probably heard of Health and Safety but I wouldn’t have been
surprised if he thought they were a couple of cheeky chaps from Newcastle that
presented TV shows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“We've no idea how deep
it is yet; it’s too dark to see to the bottom,” said Old Lachlan. Ivor looked around, scratched his head and
looked to the skies. I thought he was going to say “Give me strength” or maybe
just “Why me?” but instead he said;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well, we'll need to
get some lights up and running. Let’s run a feed off the main supply, get this
place lit up and then we can see how much damage has really been done. Maybe
then we’ll be able to see for sure what else has gone into the hole.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Good idea,” said Old
Lachlan who started to snap out instructions to no one in particular.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Alright, let’s make
sure the site is cordoned off completely, last thing we need is someone
wandering in here and going plop! It’s a lot easier getting in there than
getting out!” This was met with an affirmative murmur from the assembled
throng. Old Lachlan, on a roll now,
carried on talking; <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“We'll need to get
these buildings cleared of people. Has anyone phoned the fire service?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A puzzled silence was
broken by a faint voice from the back;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What for, there's no
fire?” muttered a seemingly ownerless voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Not yet!” barked back
Old Lachlan. “This whole street could slide into the crater. You wouldn’t want
that now would you? We're going to get all these people out of their buildings
and off to somewhere safe for the night. I tell you what, I'll phone them. If
you want something done, eh?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That should have been
the first thing he did when a huge unscheduled hole appeared, I thought. I
watched Old Lachlan marching off into the moonlight in the direction of the
site office. I realised while watching him that it must have been Old Lachlan
that had phoned Ivor earlier on in the evening. If that was correct then my
spider idea was blown clean out of the water. I could see Old Lachlan’s legs
disappearing into the gloom from where I was standing and there was definitely
only the two of them. They made an even,
rhythmic, scrunch as they made their way across the muddy site, each one crowned
with a shiny boot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The fire brigade
arrived and set about evacuating the residents of Hanover Street. Luckily, the
street is lined with offices, hairdressers and restaurants, all of which were
closed at that time of night. With only a few flats to evacuate the whole
operation was done within an hour. The sight of a large section of their street
caving in was enough to give most people the motivation to move with no
questions asked. Ivor supervised the “fortification” of the site, to protect
any of the unsuspecting or over-curious from falling into the pit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This consisted of Ivor
barking orders at Old Lachlan who then barked them at someone else until
eventually a barrier was put up or a cone was cunningly positioned. Various
nameless labourers were dispatched to run red and white tape round the edges of
the site boundaries or to put up some makeshift “DANGER - KEEP OUT” signs.
Sentries were posted at any openings, with strict orders to shoot anyone that
tried to gain unauthorised entry to the site. Or at least tell them to go away.
Old Lachlan assured the fire-chief that there was no one missing and so there
was no need to send any of his men into the hole to do a search, at least not
that night. With everything under control Ivor decided that his job was done
and we exited the scene. I looked back to see Old Lachlan and the Fire Chief
standing near the edge of the hole, Old
Lachlan pointing a gnarled old finger ominously downwards.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-76589397758362543542014-02-05T12:43:00.000-08:002014-02-05T12:44:26.893-08:00The Railway Man by Eric Lomax<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8Y6AXk8wd_TfQswX6iJqC7lnirVAPURZ760oxfe7yRIYEn6dbpUE8rPg9LPbsgxXrRSu0bd6JinZHlEP-hOxtp3COHQOkRiXDtQ_YXDLM1HuTreqfA4C4iTTznLjgXPM8XTvPRjV5EU/s1600/railwayman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8Y6AXk8wd_TfQswX6iJqC7lnirVAPURZ760oxfe7yRIYEn6dbpUE8rPg9LPbsgxXrRSu0bd6JinZHlEP-hOxtp3COHQOkRiXDtQ_YXDLM1HuTreqfA4C4iTTznLjgXPM8XTvPRjV5EU/s1600/railwayman.jpg" height="200" width="130" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The Railway Man by Eric Lomax, I'm ashamed to say, only came to my attention due to the publicity surrounding the recent film of the same name which features Colin Firth and Nicole Kidman. I've not seen the film yet and these are my thoughts on the book not the film. The shame part comes in as I feel like I should have already known about Eric Lomax. He published his book in 1995 and lived only a few miles from where I live now and grew up close by in Joppa. He was a Scot who became well known through the story that he wrote down in The Railway Man, an extraordinary true story of adventure, brutality, tragedy, hatred, love and forgiveness. A story like his should be more widely known and the film has created a wave of publicity which will hopefully bring more people to his book.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Eric Lomax was a prisoner of war during the Second World War and was forced to work on the notorious Burma-Siam railway line known as the Railway of Death. He described himself as a railway enthusiast, a term which was misinterpreted during his interogation at the hands of the Kempeitai, the Japanese secret police, infuriating his interogaters and leading to him being subject to water-torture. He survived this and numerous other physical and mental tortures which led him to take more and more desparate measures in an attempt to escaped his captors. He threw himself down a set of steep iron steps in order to injure himself just enough to be transferred to a less oppressive prison. This plan worked but only for a short period before he was transferred back. The news of Japanese surrender and the end of the war is met with disbelief and fear at what the retreating Japanese may do to their prisoners. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;">He returns to Scotland and tries to get on with his life but he has become distant and unable to talk about what has happened to him. He has recurring nightmares and carries an intense hatred of the Japanese.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Fifty years go by and a twist of fate leads him to meet his second wife Patti and through her support and a seemingly impossible series of events (this is fact though not fiction!) he gets the opportunity to face one of his tormentors near the site of his imprisonment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The final passages of the book are genuinely moving and uplifting as this extraordinary man finally gets the chance to free himself from the demons that had tormented him long after the war at ended.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The Railway Man proves a difficult read in places but is well worth the journey. </span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-15818257976145952272014-01-31T13:11:00.001-08:002014-01-31T13:15:22.545-08:00Interview with Meglena IvanovaThanks to Meglena for taking the time to interview me!<br />
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Check it out at <a href="http://meglenaivanova.wordpress.com/2014/01/31/a-moment-to-share-with-ewan-scott/" target="_blank">here</a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-92058399664493664762014-01-23T11:38:00.002-08:002014-01-23T11:54:04.502-08:00Why do Scottish People Love Monkeys?<b>Personally, I was born with a monkey track mind. I wouldn't say I was obsessed but when I eventually got around to writing something I titled it Million Dollar Monkey. I'd like to know why and in my extensive research I've uncovered a few things about Scotland and monkeys that may shed some light on the matter ... </b><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvgGKvIBE16riABT-eKSpidVM5dDbIRPZUkn8vOsgpbQmhANOi19xxIiyLrVQcUbfHMU9Z69RZEymHFf9c1HMA8F0qfatSdBsJ8BY7bckrG-ezPTgSI-ab1o6LXJzM5Ce4oEGtXUlA8I8/s1600/monkey_braveheart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvgGKvIBE16riABT-eKSpidVM5dDbIRPZUkn8vOsgpbQmhANOi19xxIiyLrVQcUbfHMU9Z69RZEymHFf9c1HMA8F0qfatSdBsJ8BY7bckrG-ezPTgSI-ab1o6LXJzM5Ce4oEGtXUlA8I8/s320/monkey_braveheart.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monkeys used blue face paint years before Braveheart</td></tr>
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Why do Scottish people love monkeys? It has been unclear where this tartan monkey-love comes from but researchers now believe the affection runs deeper than was previously realised. Humans are known to share 99.4% DNA with chimpanzees.The average in Scotland has now been confirmed to be 99.8%, with some recorded cases reaching as high as 110%. This anomaly may be linked to Scotland's historic links to the monkey kingdom. There is some evidence that Scotland itself was originally colonised by a fierce Monkey-people known as the Doolicks. The Doolicks were thought to have been in control of large areas of the Scottish highlands and there are written histories that describe them as 'monstrous forest dwelling creatures that could outrun a horse on their four fuzzy limbs'. Doolick artefacts are rare, with the only known examples being housed in sealed glass cases in the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. The mysterious Doolick artwork appears to depict two circular objects, one small, one larger, with a faint line between them together with what appears to be arrowheads pointing in both directions. The meaning of the artwork has puzzled scientists with theories ranging from a depiction of a simple ball game to an early design for Simian space travel. There is very little other evidence of the Doolicks who suddenly disappeared from all written records as suddenly as they appeared. It's as if they just vanished.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiytBKsm16BYWBpRxt_TXZ8CuXjzVQF8xXOdey9utLSMaI_zN10NKP9HCvyGDxlKVAPKk5MqdpOnwEacDCrdn9RklrcaqmImPM5Dt4Q1INHOvcVeJ1rH8RYTNcLsaFtpawmc-DwoaapI/s1600/Bonnie_prince_charlie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiytBKsm16BYWBpRxt_TXZ8CuXjzVQF8xXOdey9utLSMaI_zN10NKP9HCvyGDxlKVAPKk5MqdpOnwEacDCrdn9RklrcaqmImPM5Dt4Q1INHOvcVeJ1rH8RYTNcLsaFtpawmc-DwoaapI/s200/Bonnie_prince_charlie.JPG" height="200" width="105" /></a> Monkeys were reintroduced to Scotland in the 1700's when Bonnie Prince Charlie brought a family of companion monkeys named 'Minions' with him on his quest to re-claim the throne of Scotland. The Minions were said to have been 'the gayest of companions' who could 'raise the Prince's dampened spirits even on the bleakest of Scottish mornings' with their 'furtive dances and mischievous countenances'. Paintings depict them dressed in similar garb to the Prince, who, through generations of interbreeding within the European royal families had been born small in stature but with most of his body covered in a thick dark hair. The Prince was known to shave several times a day in an attempt to hide his hideous hereditary and its believed that the confusion surrounding the Battle of Culloden wasn't helped by the Prince insisting that the settlements around Cawdor be 'scoured for an oval looking-glass' on the morning of the battle when he accidently smashed his own one while attempting the Gay-Gordons dance in a confined area with the Minions and some unwilling members of the McLachlan Clan. The aftermath of the battle saw the Minions successfully deployed as body-doubles for the Prince, easily outwitting their Hanoverian pursuers who were well known to be all mouth and no kilts allowed. Several of the Minions went on to establish successful monkey communities around the western fringes of the Scottish Highlands - a climate that they found most agreeable. Remnants of these communities still exist today and the recent upsurge in interest in genealogy has uncovered some unexpected relatives in some family trees.<br />
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"I'd no idea I was related to a Minion" said Kyle MacLachlan, an American actor visiting near Poolewe while researching his Scottish roots. "It sure explains a few things though. I love nothing more than sheltering in a dark thicket and picking beasties off my dogs. I'm very proud of my Scottish lineage and it’s true that I do come from an unusually hairy family."<br />
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<b><i>Armed with the knowledge of their proud monkey heritage Scots can continue to venture out into the world with renewed hope for the future of man and monkey-kind ...</i></b><br />
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Monkey (book one) now available on Amazon</span></a></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-23460385575751501912014-01-03T08:15:00.000-08:002014-01-03T08:20:32.950-08:00Self Publishing for virgins<h4>
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Like many a virgin, I had an rather rose-tinted view on how things would be when I actually took the plunge. The day after <a href="http://bit.ly/1ccHB5u" target="_blank">Million Dollar Monkey (Book One)</a> appeared on amazon's site (wow - its global, you can even buy my book i n Australia!) I'd imagined that I'd check the <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/kdp/self-publishing/signin" target="_blank">Kindle Direct Publishing</a> downloads report and it would run to so many pages that I'd need to buy a skyscraper length monitor to view the total line. I'd then be able to plan for my retirement from conventional money making activities (ie. work!) and do something a bit more enjoyable with my remaining time on Earth. Can you imagine my bitter disappointment when, after many refreshes on amazon's reports page, I was met with a long line of zeroes and a nakedly empty inbox?</div>
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At first, ever the optimist, I was convinced there must have been some kind of technical glitch at the heart of the situation. <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087363/" target="_blank">Gremlins</a>, bugs, hackers or a conspiracy of all three had managed to wade out into my flooding new income stream and diver the torrenting flow into their own virtual, offshore, hedgefund accounts.</div>
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<b>Those faceless fiddlers had bled me dry before I'd had a chance to pop a single champagne cork...</b></div>
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When I'd calmed down a bit it began to dawn on me that the problem was nothing to do with a secretive global cult hell-bent on sucking the juice out of self publishers but something far more simple. No one knew about my newly release, soon to be bestseller. Of course!</div>
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I was missing something: <b>PUBLICITY</b></div>
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Publicity, is that the same as marketing?<br />
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Being a Scottish simpleton I have an inbuilt aversion to self-promoting, especially my own. I am as far removed from <a href="https://twitter.com/MileyCyrus" target="_blank">Miley Ray Cyrus</a> as is imaginable, although I have handled a sledgehammer but only to whack fence posts into the ground when working on a construction site in <a href="http://www.visitscotland.com/info/towns-villages/fort-william-p236531" target="_blank">Fort William</a>. No crowd gathered to watch. No headlines were sprouted. No photos, please. </div>
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<b>I took stock. Where was I? I was clueless, sales-less, download deficient surrounded by zeroes. Time to pack it all in? No, the only way was up!</b></div>
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<b>Next time: Paddling in shark infested waters</b><br />
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Monkey (book one) now available on Amazon</span></a></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://bit.ly/ILGP8W" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Iscot blog</span></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-45556452436840718842013-12-28T04:09:00.002-08:002013-12-28T04:19:12.062-08:00Self Publishing for dummies and monkeysIt has been a busy few weeks since the release of <a href="http://bit.ly/1ccHB5u" target="_blank">Million Dollar Monkey (Book One)</a><br />
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I've learned lots of things, some more useful than others. Having never been through the self publishing route before I didn't have much of a clue about how to go about things or indeed, what I was doing! I did have a story I was pleased with and a curiosity to see what would happen to it once it had flown the nest.<br />
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The starting point was to decide which route to follow. <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/kdp/self-publishing/" target="_blank">Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP)</a> seemed like the place to start. There are other ways to go including <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/" target="_blank">Smashwords</a> which I'll be looking into further in 2014. Before I really got going the doubt mongers started to circle, whispering in my ear, "just shove it in a drawer - file it and come back to it later - don't show it to anyone else, they'll just laugh and point at you - it'll make a nice bonfire" ... that sort of thing. I decided to ignore all that, open the cage and release the beast!<br />
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The first thing I had to do was name the story. Of course, it already had a working name as the document lived in a directory called Cormack, the name of the main charachter. I toyed with the idea of calling it Cormack but I was looking for something that said a bit more about the story and also there was going to be more that one part to it (at least two!). The story is set in <a href="http://bit.ly/1cYenIz" target="_blank">Edinburgh</a> and features Cormack's band, Six Million Dollar Monkey. The lead singer, Johan, is simian obsessed, tries to stage a publicity stunt at <a href="http://www.edinburghzoo.org.uk/" target="_blank">Edinburgh Zoo</a> and comes under the hypnotic influence of a mystical monkey figure. I decided that <a href="http://bit.ly/1ccHB5u" target="_blank">Million Dollar Monkey</a> fitted nicely. I did wonder at this point if there was another book, tv series or film with the name already but searching for this didn't return much except for lots of links to <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0405159/" target="_blank">Million Dollar Baby</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071054/" target="_blank">Six Million Dollar Man</a>. I reckoned I was alright to go ahead.<br />
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Next, I had to sign up for <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/kdp/self-publishing/" target="_blank">Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP)</a> and get loaded up. I'm not going to bore anyone with all the details of this. The temptation I have is to start researching each step by scouring the internet for information but I've found this is hit and miss at best and mostly just a waste of time which rarely leads to the correct information. Amazon has provided extensive guides on using their system and if a half-wit like me can press enough buttons to get a book up there then anyone can!<br />
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Even the cover is covered in the KDP process. It turns out that you can load up any image and then add in your book title and author name using a number of supplied templates. After a couple of false starts on this and the purchase an image from<a href="http://www.istockphoto.com/" target="_blank"> istock </a>I had everything needed and I could press the publish button, which was very exciting!<br />
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<b>Next time:</b> Pricing and publicity for dummies and monkeys<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLo-GDLNOHhHl8_Yf9IqZoRpXdC66d-OyZ8-MNxJ4ayYU-k7DWOOqk4B2hedBA4ow_fojrFlv_y-V2o6qKQmyVCAdYb1MmQpaE1iJwBHnZo-mJwqZy6F2FjlK8_s1HutaO6jh8rqHB2Hk/s1600/million_dollar_monkey_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLo-GDLNOHhHl8_Yf9IqZoRpXdC66d-OyZ8-MNxJ4ayYU-k7DWOOqk4B2hedBA4ow_fojrFlv_y-V2o6qKQmyVCAdYb1MmQpaE1iJwBHnZo-mJwqZy6F2FjlK8_s1HutaO6jh8rqHB2Hk/s320/million_dollar_monkey_cover.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">istock image used for cover </td></tr>
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<img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6fRn_47JTJjlx0PwUjqQmRMK6GII0eglzK6t98L3eH6A8ORa97qeuZvg9XdIdBX7zQ7wiqPLUxx5EENqsw31xQIRS1rXzp1Vparf3p-MVVmAyWSxxIvOg5-LlVyxkP_8lwJccWqipZA/s320/million_dollar_monkey_cover_AMAZON.jpg" width="200" /><a href="http://bit.ly/1ccHB5u" target="_blank">Image once text added via KDP </a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="http://bit.ly/1ccHB5u">Million Dollar Monkey (book one)
now available on Amazon</a></span></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://amzn.to/1buvvEI" style="font-family: inherit;">Amazon Author Home Page</a></h4>
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<a href="http://bit.ly/ILGP8W" style="font-family: inherit;">Iscot blog</a></div>
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<a href="https://twitter.com/EScott999" style="font-family: inherit;">Twitter</a></h4>
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<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/iscot" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #509ac9;">https://www.goodreads.com/iscot</span></a></h4>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-51427192007658487492013-12-11T12:04:00.001-08:002013-12-14T07:44:44.659-08:00Scottish People Love #1 Deep Fried Food<br />
It's true. Especially if it was originally a tasty chocolate based treat anyway. If you take something like, lets say, a Mars Bar (preferably Kingsize), which is already high up the Scottish list of coveted morsels, wrap it in a super-silky battered coating and bathe it in a deep-fat frier, then, the appeal factor is so high that Scots will literally flock towards the aura of the golden delicacy obeying an instinct hard-wired into the Scottish brain long before tartan was ever even dreamed of.<br />
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One deep fried Mars Bar can attract up to fifty Scots at a time and is said to be effective at a distance of up to thirty caber-toss lengths. The average Scot thinks about deep fried food every seven seconds with deep fried addicts, known as Friar Tucks, consuming multiple suppers every day and often entering a life of crime or office work in order to support their habits.<br />
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Of course deep frying works with just about anything. Early experiments with granite and hedgehogs produced mixed results. The native red squirrel proved a short-lived favourite until demand overtook supply. However, it was the unexpectedly tasty heather mixed with peat that proved a deep fried Scottish culinary phenomenon, an instant hit that was quickly rebranded with the term 'puddings'.Puddings include a simple colour based labelling system that is in no way racist. The classics are <a href="http://www.macbeths.com/white-pudding.html" target="_blank">White</a> and <a href="http://www.macbeths.com/charcuterie/puddings/black-pudding.html" target="_blank">Black</a> but variations exist including the rare <a href="http://www.findlaysthebutchers.co.uk/index.php?_a=category&cat_id=3" target="_blank">Red</a> and in some Highland towns the elusive Hunting Tartan, a heretical invention which can only be consumed safely by the expert pudding eaters found in many Highland communities.</div>
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Novices attempting a Hunting Tartan Supper have been know to break out in an all-over rash which has been compared to serious burn injuries but with a fine silver thread running through it.Haggis, although not strictly a pudding, is a deep-fry favourite. The real recipe for Haggis has been the source of much scurrilous rumour and mis-information. Some of the more far-fetched ingredients are claimed to be sheep-stomach and the jellied eyes of Griffin chicks but the actual recipe is subject to a Scottish national security order administered by Scotland's Master Puddingeers who convene regularly at the Scottish Parliament Building in Edinburgh.</div>
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<b><i>Starved of deep fried food Scots can become agitated and quarrelsome, a state which does no-one any favours in an increasingly fragile and interconnected world ...</i></b></blockquote>
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Further reading:<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.macbeths.com/white-pudding.html">Buy Scottish White Pudding online from Macbeth's Butchers</a> <br /><br /><a href="http://www.findlaysthebutchers.co.uk/index.php?_a=category&cat_id=3">Puddings - Findlays of Portobello Online Butchers</a> <br /><br /><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/4564482.stm">BBC NEWS | UK | Scotland | Deep-fried culture is 'no joke'</a> <br /><br /><a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/foodanddrinknews/8970054/Deep-fried-butter-balls-and-other-Scottish-delicacies.html">Deep fried butter balls and other Scottish delicacies - Telegraph</a> <br /><br /><a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-2401662/Scottish-scientists-compare-effect-arteries-porridge-deep-fried-Mars-bars.html">Scottish scientists to compare effect on arteries of porridge and deep-fried Mars bars | Mail Online</a> </span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Inverness, Highland, UK57.477773 -4.22472100000004557.4094605 -4.386082500000045 57.5460855 -4.0633595000000451tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-42774421994698722452013-11-24T07:45:00.000-08:002013-12-11T12:11:24.390-08:00Free short story - Lights<h2 style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 12pt;">The faint
outline of the rooftops at the edge of the town was lit by the dim orange glow
of the street lamps below. I couldn’t see anything beyond the line of the roofs
but I knew what was out there; bulks of hills looming silently in the deep
darkness; the black waters of the loch lapping thirstily against its broken
shoreline; unseen depths holding fabled inhabitants which etched their way into
the minds of many who’d passed that way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The river
slid mournfully out of the loch and down the glen towards the town. It carried
with it tiny traces of living creatures. Some of them spent their long lives
well below the water-line; out of sight and out of mind. They'd only surface
occasionally. If you were very lucky you may have found yourself in the right
place at the right time with a camera to your eye and have caught a fleeting
glimpse of a dark shape breaking the surface. If you’d blinked you’d have
missed it. If you were unlucky you may have found yourself face to face with
the unimaginable.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">As it neared
the town the river gathered up its strange cargo; twisted shopping trolleys
that had never made it home; bicycles with rusted frames jammed motionless but
wheels that still turned in the flow; golden rings that had slipped from living
fingers and been cast off into the murk; silver coins that nestled amongst the
rocks of the river bed having once skipped gracefully across the waters. The
river passed around a series of small islands before slipping through into the
harbour basin and finally out into the firth beyond.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The harbour
road was cut into sections by four sets of traffic lights, all of which I could
see from my window. The traffic lights beamed out their messages in silent
sequences of colour. Motorists obeyed; pedestrians obeyed - who was I to do any
different? There were traffic lights all over the town. They loitered near the
school gates; they gathered at office blocks and at the shopping centre; they
stood eerily still at the town boundaries, silent sentinels on patrol. They
never slept; they were always watching. I was watching too; watching and
waiting for my signal. At exactly 8PM my alarm sounded a single beep and I recorded
my observations in my journal:</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">G/G/G/G</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Without as
much as a second thought I grabbed my jacket and headed out. I slipped the
latch on the shed and clipped the lead on Hamish’s collar. He'd looked pleased
to see me; his big brown eyes shone and his whole body wagged in time with his
woolly tail as he danced along beside me, snapping at the lead and licking my
hand, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I’d been his gaoler and was now
leading him off blindly to an unknown fate. "Time for a little trip Hamish?"
I said. He looked up at me as if he just knew.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Earlier that
same day the man who lived next door had hammered on our front door. He was
small, stocky and very angry. His head seemed too big for his body and he had
thick black hairs sticking out of his cheeks. They looked like spiders legs to
me. I wondered if he really did have spiders living under his skin and if they
were talking to him in spider-speak, disturbing his brainwaves with their
wicked plotting. While he spoke, the spider's legs moved up and down in time
with his mouth. I realised then that they were controlling him. Some of us were
controlled by invisible messages from an unseen heaven; others by the secret
instructions of traffic lights. The angry man had his spiders and they were turning
his face an odd purple colour. Spiders can be evil when they are in charge.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Behind him
was a little boy. He had a mop of messy dark hair and a lopsided mouth which
was fixed in a half smile / half grimace. I just knew that he was more
frightened of the man than anything else in the world. He kept looking at me
and then looking away before I got a chance to search his eyes for the truth.
The eyes always hold the truth. He wore a dirty white T-shirt which had an
image of a hand-drawn flower on it with one yellow petal. I caught his stare
and he turned heel and ran off to his garden. I could see him hiding behind the
wall, facing the other way until the angry man with the spiders in his head was
finished. I wondered about the little boy and whether the lights would signal
for him one day.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The angry man
was no match for Agnes. She told him that she was sorry that his dog had gone
missing but that we hadn't seen it and certainly hadn't done anything to the
poor beast. Eventually, he just shook his head and walked away but not before
giving me a narrow-eyed stare. Agnes hadn't lied; not completely anyway. She
hadn't seen the dog; I'd made sure of that. I didn't want her interfering with
the important work to which I'd been assigned.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">We followed
the river upstream, past the sets of traffic lights at the road bridge. They
saw us coming and changed immediately to red, allowing us safe passage on
towards the islands. The narrow footbridge creaked and swayed gently as we
strode across. The waters of the river slipped below in a low burbling drone
leaving a faint mist of breath hanging on the surface. At night, the gates to
the islands were locked and marked with a sign which said "NO UNAUTHORISED
ENTRY". It was easy enough to climb around if determined, which I was. I
would never have ventured into the islands at night in normal circumstances.
The place was creepy enough during the day with tight groves of ancient trees
blocking out the light and dead-end paths which led to one too many secluded
spots on the edge of the drifting river. Those places were ideal for moments of
quiet contemplation but they could also hold a solitary silence where shadows
could feed on the unsuspecting.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I could just
make out the path in front of us, the same one on which Mrs. MacLean had ran
terrified, convinced she was being pursued by shadowy assailants that had
materialised from within the trees. We passed the place where the Johnstone boy
had tumbled into the river, never to be seen again. Over time the islands had
become run down and neglected, a no-go zone which the council had fenced off
and covered in signs that no one ever read.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Hamish tugged
at his lead, eager to explore. I kept a tight hold of him. I didn’t want to
lose him now, not when we were so close. Above, the sky was dipped in an
impossible black, broken by a jagged net of branches. It didn’t take us long to
reach the bandstand grove. I knew exactly where each of the stepping stones
was; I’d been down there a hundred times. I lifted Hamish and picked my way
across to the Dark Island.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The rocky
outcrop was completely covered in a strangle of rhododendrons. No one ventured
out there any more; there was barely room to move. I knew the way through
though, under the bushes and clinging to the edge of the treacherous rocks. The
pool was the deepest section of water in this part of the river. If you’d
attempted to paddle out you’d find your feet dropping into nothing at the very
edge of the island. The council had marked the pool with a huge wooden pile
onto which was nailed a sign which said "DANGER! NO SWIMMING". Good
advice I’d say; swimming out there was the last thing you’d want to do.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I sat at the
edge of the pool and waited. Hamish lay down and looked over the river; his
ears fell flat and his legs began to shake. The waters churned lazily like a
huge vat of black treacle. Hamish gave an almighty tug on the lead as he tried
to make a bolt for it. I grabbed onto him with both hands and was knocked off
my feet. Behind, a deep plunging sound echoed across the night as something
massive broke through the surface. She must have sensed we were close. I
grabbed the back of Hamish’s collar as tight as I could. He struggled and
snarled as the shadow moved towards us across the pool. "It’s alright
Hamish," I said, "best not to struggle."</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">"Caught
you!" said the voice. I spun around, straight into the flailing fist of
the angry man. He smashed his punch hard into my face and I felt my nose crush.
My mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood and I fell backwards into the
pool, gulping in a head-full of icy, peaty water. I began to sink and a voice
in my head said "This is it."</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I drifted
down through the depths, buffeted by the undertows. I hit the bottom with an
unceremonious thump and my eyes snapped open just in time to see, directly
above me, the ghostly outline of a huge shadow which sped across the surface
like a furious storm cloud.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I struggled
upright and summoned all my strength to kick for the surface. The air rushed
from my lungs but the weight of my sodden boots held my ascent to an agonising
age. I broke through with a gasp, my eyes full of silt and gunk only to be
flung sideways by a sweeping wave. There was a deep, scrambling commotion on
the edge of the island. As I looked up I saw the angry man levitating from the
waist up above the surface of the pool. He lunged violently from side to side
before being pulled under in a single swallow. Moments later, at the far edge
of the pool I watched a massive leathery hump coil over as it headed back into
the sightless depths.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I scrambled
ashore and was pounced upon by a delirious Hamish. He licked at my face and
pawed playfully at my drenched jacket. He must have seen everything; lucky for
him that he couldn't talk. I held his head and looked deep into his eyes. He
knew we'd done the right thing and so did I. Out in the pool the waters had
returned to their sluggish stir. Sunken footsteps marked the last few steps of
the angry man on the island's shore. They ended at a large bunker that was
lined with frantic scratchings. I knew that the river would claim this evidence
by morning.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">We clambered
back through the rhododendrons. Hamish skipped lithely over the stepping stones
and we wasted no time in the darkness of the deserted island. As we left the
island Hamish stopped and looked back uncertainly, like his name had been
called across the night.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">"It’s
alright Hamish," I said, "we’re safe now, at least for tonight."
He didn’t look all that convinced but was soon walking contentedly beside me.
The traffic lights on the bridge clicked to green as we approached; a subtle
acknowledgment of a job well done.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">At the end of
our street I tied Hamish loosely to the foot of a traffic light pillar. I knelt
beside it and looked up at the light. Just for a moment it strobed through a
rainbow of colours. I knew that they were pleased. I didn’t know why they’d
chosen me. For all I knew there were others too. Sometimes you just had to
resign yourself to a higher power. I walked back to the house, pausing only to
watch Hamish struggling to free himself from his ties. Above him the lights
changed methodically. I knew that they'd signal to me again. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Aberdeen, Aberdeen City, UK57.149717 -2.094278000000031257.0119045 -2.4170015000000311 57.287529500000005 -1.7715545000000312tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-47250586352924242792013-11-24T04:00:00.000-08:002013-12-11T12:09:13.213-08:00Free ebook Million Dollar Monkey (Book One) is free to download on 2nd December 2013 <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOlgGOhHUKFugNzjJRZe769mfySRCgZeihR41J6QpWVEtfL9W-a01ZBrkl117-EZkwcT3Kp9axMePpJ6aptkkr5AFc_EIuebsnBRxIa1OD22KtOvfvOTG1ZSsDzdoUL3rdTuifCgZETw4/s1600/million_dollar_monkey_cover_AMAZON.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOlgGOhHUKFugNzjJRZe769mfySRCgZeihR41J6QpWVEtfL9W-a01ZBrkl117-EZkwcT3Kp9axMePpJ6aptkkr5AFc_EIuebsnBRxIa1OD22KtOvfvOTG1ZSsDzdoUL3rdTuifCgZETw4/s320/million_dollar_monkey_cover_AMAZON.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The old town of Edinburgh resembles the set of a Hammer horror film when the sun goes down. Shadowy creatures of the night emerge from narrow closes which are dimly lit by creaking lanterns; vampyric shapes are glimpsed hanging around in ancient grave-yards; ghostly phantoms swirl around the sites of public executions; tormented souls howl their anguish at the sky. Looming above it all is the hulking shape of the castle rock and on top of that the castle itself stares out over the city like an all seeing eye watching silently over the restlessly sleeping city...</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Million Dollar Monkey (book one) now available on Amazon</span></div>
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United Kingdom site link click <b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 15px;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/reader/B00GFZ8XTE/ref=sib_dp_kd#reader-link">here</a></b></div>
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;">
United States site link click <b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 15px;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GFZ8XTE" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">here</a></b></div>
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Update: Thanks to everyone who downloaded today, hope you enjoy and would love to hear your feedback!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-83709931266740367542013-10-26T08:14:00.000-07:002013-10-26T08:14:25.631-07:00#4 Delivering a million dollar monkeyWell, it's been quite a while since I've updated but I have been busy. So busy in fact that I'm on the brink, if that's the correct expression, of delivering my first finished story out into the world. I've spent the last few months prodding and probing, scratching and scrunching, whuffing and puffing and in between time I've been tippy tapping on various keyboards and scratching with an old bic into a tiny notebook. What started out as a simple tale about a bass player in the worst band in Scotland (who are the worst band in Scotland?) has morphed into something else altogether. There's still a band in there but they share the page with some story squatters that turned up unexpectedly (to me anyway). Can you really tell where your story will end up? If you arrive somewhere different to your original thoughts is that poor plotting or imagination in action?<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640312281093215906.post-53618651139819787832012-12-20T11:30:00.001-08:002013-12-11T12:17:24.292-08:00<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">#1 Starting off with a blank page/mind</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ah, the blank page. It seems like the place to begin for a blog about writing. And not writing. </span></div>
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Much <i>has</i> been written about the blank page, which seems a bit ironic really. </span><br />
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I was going to call this post “<a href="http://rodcorp.typepad.com/rodcorp/2007/12/how-we-work-phi.html" target="_blank">The tyranny of the blank page</a>” (I was convinced that <i>I’d </i>actually created this cunning description - I was sure it had come to me during a fevered dream which involved a cantankerous owl wielding a <a href="http://www.dodopad.com/dodofact/dodofact.htm" target="_blank">dodo</a> feather quill). </span><br />
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Then I thought, hang on, I’ll just Google that to check.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Google said <i><b>“About 140,000 results”</b></i>. Mmmmm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Don’t you just hate it when all your good ideas have already been thought up by other people, ages ago, probably when computers were just people who were good at counting. </span><br />
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It puts me in mind of that Pink Floyd song <a href="http://www.pinkfloyd.com/music/albums.php" target="_blank">Dark Side of the Moon</a> when Roger Waters sings “Thought I'd something more to say.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Never mind. Back to the old drawing board!</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Thurso, Highland, UK58.593566 -3.5220799999999658.5604655 -3.60276099999996 58.626666500000006 -3.4413989999999597