Taking Turns With Shrugs

As I start to dig, I'm aware that it's still rather early.

An hour ago, I wake before seven. That's two Sundays in a row, and I'm not best pleased about it. I suspect my recent spate of early starts at the office have reset my body clock, though I have to say it's doing little for my weekday work ethic. Perhaps some breakfast will help?

Thirty minutes ago, I'm just finishing my breakfast. Cereal, toast with butter and jam, and an heroic mug of coffee have done little to raise my mood. Perhaps getting some jobs done will help?

Fifteen minutes ago, I'm washed up and checking my To Do list; it's rather full. I've been adding items all week, but have been too busy to cross any off. I have to change the beds, do two loads of laundry, take a trip to the supermarket, clean the bathroom, and dig a hole in the garden.

This last item is a good place to start. These kind of days always go better if I can get the biggest job done first. Besides, I marked out the location in the garden last night, so it doesn't need much thought. Perfect.

I pull some scruffy clothes on, head outside and start to dig.

Back in the now, I stare at sixteen neat turfs that I've carefully removed from the plot. My careful preparation the night before has helped; I would have been clumsy doing it this morning. Getting off to a precise, solid start is important in any job; a few early mistakes, and you spend most of the time compensating.

I stack the turfs to one side, close to the wooden fence, in case I need them later. And I continue to dig.

I'm a foot down, piling earth neatly around the square hole, when I pause to catch my breath for the first time. I check the plan. A square, four feet to an edge. Four feet deep. Vertical sides. Piece of cake. Well, it would be if the earth was not so cold and unyielding. It's been below freezing for several weeks, and there's still a touch of snow on the ground.

That said, I'm quite enjoying myself. It's a lovely clear day, bright and cloudless. It feels good to be getting some exercise - I've a healthy sweat on - and it's nice to have an achievable goal ahead of me. Something has started to nag at me vaguely, but I notice that my mood has improved considerably; I decide that this was a good choice. And I continue to dig.

I'm two feet down when King, the house's resident lion, comes through the side gate. I look up and start to wave, but stop when I realise that he has company. He's walking ahead of a zebra, and is carrying a clipboard. He totally ignores me. I notice that he's wearing one of my good neckties again. The zebra looks nervous, but that's understandable; I'm always nervous at job interviews too. The pair make fading chit chat about the zebra's journey to the house as they head up the length of the garden.

I mop my brow and take a sip from my drink. My doubt is still nagging at me, but I can't place it. I dismiss it again, and reflect positively that the work is going well; I'm halfway there. And I continue to dig.

I'm three feet down when iDifficult comes in through the side gate with Yavin the badger; they are in good spirits. My best friend is carrying a stack of pizza boxes and cans of fizz. The pair fall silent as they see the hole and the piles of earth surrounding it.

Oooh, nice hole! enthuses 'Difficult as he absently reaches into the top box for his next slice of pizza.

Yavin wanders over, climbing the mound of earth between us. He stands and scratches his chin in that way that workmen do. As I stand in my hole, smiling indulgently, the badger briefly inspects the plans, and proceeds to take a long, appraising look at my efforts. I note him checking the vertical drop on the sides by eye. He seems satisfied.

Without a word, Yavin gives me a professional nod, and retreats over the hill of soil. He then takes one of the pizza boxes from my friend, salutes him amiably in farewell, and wanders off towards the shed.

iDifficult strolls over, and nods, impressed. Yes, he confirms, that's a nice hole. Very square. He hands me one of the remaining two boxes and, noticing the grubby state of my hands, cracks open a can of fizz for me.

Thanks. I flip open the box as I sip the sugary drink, and marvel at the steaming, early-morning pizza. How does he get them at this time on a Sunday? As ever, I don't ask questions. I just eat.

I didn't realise how hungry I was. Two gloriously meaty slices vanish in under a minute.

Need a hand? asks my friend, inspecting the scribbled plan and the hole in turn. Looks like another foot to go.

I nod appreciatively as I chew and swallow, and wave absently across the garden. There's another shovel in the shed.

I'm aware that my nagging doubt has returned, and is starting to take some shape. It now stands on the fringes of recall, signalling indistinctly. I decide to continue ignoring it until I can see it clearly.

I'm also aware of a distant happy roar from the top end of the garden, and some panicked whinnying. I ignore those too. 'Difficult returns with the shovel, and rolls up his sleeves. Is King interviewing zebras again?

Yep, second one this week. The whinnying stops abruptly. They all get the job, of course.

My friend chuckles darkly - he is an evil genius, after all - and then asks The Question.

So, what's this hole for? Bingo. My doubt steps into plain view.

I stand speechless for a few seconds, then sigh, embarrassed.

I can't remember. It's on my list, and I know it's important. I shrug. But right at this moment, I don't recall why.

There's a brief moment of decision, and then it's 'Difficult's turn to shrug. He hops neatly into the hole beside me. Neither of us is small, but there's room for both of us to work.

Not a problem, he says, thumping his shovel into the earth. If it needs doing, let's get it done. It'll come to you eventually.

I smile, buoyed by my friend's support. Thanks, man.

We stand shoulder to shoulder, and start to dig.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

As I mentioned the other day, I've been lucky enough to pick up some awards this week. This number has swelled mightily with the addition of another, but I am determined to clean my slate tonight. I'll pop it in here just in case award entries aren't your cup of tea. So, if you'd like to slink off for a stiff Rimsky Korsakov And Tonic, I understand.

So, here we go. My good mate Kato at Pandorah's Box has honoured me with not one, but two awards. I believe the second gong was a revenge hit for the drive-by award I got her with last week, so clearly she is not to be messed with.

First, we have the Sweet Friends award:

Kato said some very nice things about my blog as she handed this one over, to which I can only offer a blushing thank you.

To qualify, I have to mention ten things that make me happy. This may not be easy. I'll have to assume that achievements and possessions count?

1. Captain Kirk on BluRay. New effects shots and remastering have breathed new life into these classic episodes. This is the only version to watch. Season Three in March!

2. My first edition copy of The King In Yellow by Robert W. Chambers. Hardback, 1895. Yes, Victorian-era! I had it repaired professionally a few years ago, and it handles like a dream.

3. Memories of my holiday in California with Eolist Petite in 2008. It was for just a few days, but we had the best time.

4. Twenty years of messing about with iDifficult. We've worked together, eaten all know fast foods together, crawled home drunk together. I was his best man when he married Mrs. LongSuffering, and he is my first port of call on a tough day.

5. Being debt free. I have nothing, but I owe nothing. This isn't a bad place to be.

6. A large, thin-crust Domino's Mighty Meaty, hold the onions, with double pizza sauce and jalapeños. Chicken dippers, sweet chilli sauce, and a big bottle of Diet Coke. What, you thought I'd get through this list without takeout?

7. Being unashamedly daft and creative writing this blog. As a well-educated man with a hard-science background and poorly-closeted artistic tendencies, IndigoWrath has been an escape, a safety valve and an occasional joy.

8. Reaching a count of 5000 unique visits on this blog. Statistics to do with blogs can be misleading, but this one was a huge psychological barrier for me as a writer. I smiled, big time.

9. You lot. It's been an interesting ride since last May, and there's no way I could have done it without your interest, encouragement and comments. I write because I am compelled, but it's much less like therapy when there's an audience. Thank you.

10. Family. I'll say no more.

I'm supposed to pass this onto a bunch of folks, but I'm going to hold the list down and award it to two people who I have not given awards to before. These are people who my heart tells me are perfect recipients.

1. Jen over at Jen's Voices. Having to write about another bloody award will probably annoy the hell out of her, but this is my party. There's cake.

2. Robbie over the The Thought Bubbles Of Robbie Munn. Real-life friend, fellow dungeoneer, über-photographer and Alpha Geek. Also one of the nicest people I know.

The second award from Kato is a delight; as a red-blooded male, I can get right behind it. Never mind the fairy cakes, I'm a Kick Ass Blogger!

Hell Yeah! Thanks Kato! Better yet, I'm not obliged to give it to anyone. Which is why it is all the sweeter to be able to draw your attention to my favourite blogger.

Oh, I know it's bad form to pick favourites, but Stephanie Fey over at the insanely-titled Nicole Kidman Stars In: 'The Astronaut Dropped' has been wowing me with her evolving psychological thriller and ghost story narrative for months.

I enthusiastically suggest you should go visit Steph's blog, and read it all, right from the beginning. You can't dip in, it's a single story, and a damned good one. It's a surreal account of the strangest of circumstances, and told in a way that I'm frankly envious of at times.

Amazing, chilling and surreal. Not one to read before bedtime.

And that, as they say, is your lot.

And mine. My work is done.

Thank you Wembley, goodnight!


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Once More With Brevity

Does anyone fancy some simple fun? A show of hands, please?

OK, the vote is carried unanimously. Oh, with one exception.

Can somebody untie iDifficult please?


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

I've been lucky enough to pick up two awards this week. It's getting late, so I'll share just one of them with you today. I'll save the second for when I blog at the weekend. I can tell you right now that writing about them has been fun. So, while you'll be missing a treat, I understand if you'd like to slip off to bed early with a hot milk drink with a spot of chai syrup in it. I'll be doing that later. Don't hog the duvet.

My lovely mate Nancy over at f8hasit has honoured me with a Best Follower Award:

This is in recognition for me being a loyal follower from the very beginning of her blog, a lovely gesture if ever I saw one. I must respond by telling the court that it's entirely her fault for writing a sparkling blog, and that I'm not to blame, Your Honour. I would also like iDifficult's blog to be taken into consideration.

So, here's the thing: I have to answer questions. Lots of 'em.

1. What is your current obsession?
I’m fairly sane at the moment, but Dominos, the NFL playoffs and the Rubik’s Cube are fairly prominent.

2. What are you wearing today?
Dark suit trousers with braces, and a t-shirt over the top. So that nobody can ping the braces. I may wear my suit tomorrow. It's worth it for the swooning.

3. What’s for dinner?
If I eat before I go to London, a gargantuan pizza. If I eat with friends at their place in London, it’ll be crisps and choccy and Pepsi Max. Nice, either way.

4. What’s the last thing you bought?
Petrol (that’s gas if you live west of the Atlantic). It was exhorbitant. You think it’s expensive in America? You have no idea.

5. What are you listening to right now?
Rush’s 1978 epic, Hemispheres. I was in a lighter mood, but Eric Dolphy’s Out To Lunch wasn’t blotting out this open plan office sufficiently.

6. What do you think about the person who tagged you?
Nancy? She's fabulous. I'd put money on her being sexy, too.

7. If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
Marin County, California. Somewhere near Tomales, maybe? It's beautiful up there, and I'm told the bakery is terrific. Either that, or somewhere near the Great Barrier Relief in Queensland, Australia; north of Mackay, perhaps? I must blog the scuba diving sometime.

8. What are your must-have pieces for summer?
Golf shoes and a trilby hat. Who needs trousers, the snobs.

9. If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Actually, Nancy’s suggestion of Machu Pichu sounds pretty good, though an hour wouldn’t cover it. It’d be nice to drop and see a friend in Grand Haven, Michigan.

10. Which language do you want to learn?
Spanish, though my French needs work. Japanese would be pretty cool, too. Utz!

11. What’s your favourite quote?
“Now’s the time to turn the tide, now’s the time to fight. Let us not go gently to the endless winter night.” It's a lyric from Rush's track Red Tide, but it might have a literary heritage I'm ignorant of.

12. Who do you want to meet right now?
What, famous? Colonel Harland Sanders, though I’d need a time machine. I just want to say thanks.

13. What is your favourite colour?
Dark blue ;> There may be another word for it.

14. Give us 3 styling tips that work for you.
Be clean. Fresh breath. Screw fashion.

15. What is your dream job?
A job where I can randomly come up with ideas and sell them. Blogging is as close to it as I’ll get.

16. What’s your favorite magazine?
Empire, though I seldom read magazines.

17. If you had $100 now, what would you spend it on?
Dollars?! I’m a Brit, dammit! Ok, then something from Amazon for an American friend. I like to share my good fortune.

18. What do you consider a fashion faux pas?
You’re asking me?

19. Who according to you is the most over-rated style icon?
Victoria Beckham, Nancy nailed it again. Girls need more positive weight role models. And frankly, as a female icon she does nothing for me as a man.

20. What kind of haircut do you prefer?
Short back and sides, a bit longer on top. Nothing I can’t do with a comb in five seconds. A spot of gel when it misbehaves.

21. What are you going to do after this?
Go get a haircut (see 20)

22. What are your favourite movies?
Very few that are respected for their artistic merits. The ones I watch most are the Connery 007 movies (Goldfinger and You Only Live Twice are the best), John Carpenter’s original 1980 classic The Fog, and Raiders of the Lost Ark. All awesome, and easy to rewatch.

23. What inspires you?
Anything I would have been proud to create. And occasionally things I do create.

24. What do your friends call you most commonly?
My name? Or HEY YOU! Of course, 'Difficult calls me Betty, and says that when I call him I can call him Al.

25. Would you prefer coffee or tea?
Coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon. Evening? Neither, but a stiff Vesper is always welcome. Steady, madam!

26. What do you do when you are feeling low or terribly depressed?
I eat pizza. Much like I do when I'm happy.

27. What makes you go wild?
Wild? As in sexy abandon? I forget. But smart is sexy. Though tons of things make me angry. Usually it's people being casually thoughtless or intentionally inconsiderate.

28. Which other blogs do you love visiting?
Anything I list in my blogroll. I read other blogs too, but the listed ones are always my current favourites. I rotate some in and out occasionally, but continue to read them on the quiet from my dashboard.

29. Favorite Dessert/Sweet?
Steamed sponge pudding with lots of jam, and hot custard.

30. How many tabs are turned on in your browser right now?
Four, but I'm running other browsers too. Men can multitask too. Well, their computers can, anyway.

31. Favorite Season?
Winter. I like the short days and cold nights, though I have to keep an eye on my mood. Snowfall makes me smile; I am told this means I am not old yet.

32. If I come to your house now, what would you cook for me?
I don't know. What do you fancy? My Cajun is pretty good - gumbo, jamabalaya, duck and biscuits, pecan pie, homemade ice cream. It'd mean a trip to the supermarket, whatever it is. We could just order out, of course.

33. What is the right way to avoid people who purposefully hurt you?
The right way to avoid them? I find that staking them out in the midday desert sun near a termite mound tends to keep them out of my hair. I'm a very easy going bloke, but a bit Old Testament if wronged.

34. What are you afraid of the most?
Loss, I suppose. I don't care for spiders, and I don't like tall vertical distances from up close. From the top looking down, or the bottom looking up. Result? Total loss of Mojo.

35. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought?
Fat bastard! Get a haircut!

36. What brings a smile on your face instantly?
Anything that's well done (see 23).

37. A word that you say a lot?
OK. Oh, and Roquefort.

38. What would you do if you were made President for one day?
Invade Poland? Sorry, that'd be if I was Führer for a day.

39. What is that one thing that keeps you going?
The people I love.

40. What's word drives you crazy when you hear it?
Well, not a word, a phrase - touching base. I prefer to talk to people. Actually, just about any corporate euphemism gets my goat.

Apparently I have to add a question of my own, and tag a new set of people. Eight or ten? Forget that, not happening. But here's my question:

41. What's your least favourite character trait?
A conveniently short memory.

I'll pass this onto a short list of followers, to keep this currency vibrant and exciting. Click the names to visit their blog.

1. CatLady. I think she's read and commented on every damned blog I've written. Better yet, she liked them. I sleep better knowing she's overseas.

2. Eolist Petite. A huge encouragement and consistent presence since the beginning. And a "real life" friend, gorgeous redhead, sharer of escapades, and renowned tinyperson.

3. iDifficult. A solid commenter, and the only one of my followers who takes me out and buys me curry. Give this man a medal.

4. Lesinfin. A relatively new follower, and a bit of a mystery, but I always get a bit giddy when I see that Ms. Fin has left a comment. I adore her avatar, too.

5. Kato. Another lady that inspires a sense of anticipation. And with a name like that, she could be a Roth. Double whammy.

Thank you Nancy! Hope to hear from you soon!


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Always A Cause To Dream

I shuffle around the kitchen in my dressing gown. The floor is cold. It's early. I am loosely aware that outside, the sun is just over a frosty horizon. There's a new covering of snow. It's Sunday.

Why on earth am I even awake, let alone up and about?

The stovetop coffee maker hisses quietly on the hob. How my slow, clumsy hands cleaned it, refilled it and set it to its task at this time of day is a mystery. There's a faint smell of burning bread as the toaster pops its load upwards. I fumble at the door of the fridge, seeking out the milk for my cereal.

There is a knock at the front door. Rap rap rap. Somewhere in my reptile brain, a neuron fires, fails to grab my attention, and fires again. Actually it's not a knock, which is just a functional rapping of bone on wood. This is more definite. It asserts itself and demands my attention, though it is not forceful. It heralds arrival.

Suddenly more awake, I turn towards the dim hallway. A short silhouette greets my eyes in the dawn light beyond the front door.

Postman? No, it’s early. And Sunday.

The door resists my efforts to unlock it. While I jiggle the key in the lock, trying to catch just the right spot to turn it, and cursing at every thwarted effort, the dark figure stands immobile outside, patiently waiting.

I finally wrestle the door open, and find an oriental man on the snowy doorstep.

He is a head shorter than I am, and has a pleasant, clean-shaven, inquisitive face. He looks younger than me. Better looking too. His simple black clothes and shoes are unusual, being neither eastern nor western in style. He holds a folded black leather cap in clasped hands just below his waist. It’s a chilly day; his short-cropped head must be cold without the hat. There is something wonderfully eclectic about him, but somehow the whole effect is balanced and without pretention.

I notice that he is regarding me curiously, as if he had opened the door to me, and is wondering why I was knocking. He smiles.

Excuse me. I seek Indigo Roth, he states simply. Something about his tone suggests that he expects me to know something about this Roth fellow. He's in luck.

Yes, hello, I smile in return. That's me.

He cocks his head slightly, and an array of emotions flicker past my eyes as he tries to find the most appropriate one. Disappointment is in there somewhere, but he rallies well and settles into something neutral. I respect this.

He bows slightly. Forgive me, Mr. Roth, you are not as I expected. I meant no offence.

I shrug, puzzled. None taken, I say as affably as I can muster at this hour of the day. I admire the white-draped beauty of the garden distractedly over his shoulder, and note the small, careful footprints in the snow of the path. My gaze returns to him. How may I help you?

He stands suddenly erect, as if I've hit a key point in the script, and he has lines to deliver. He finesses a battered-looking letter with a wax seal from within a hidden seam in his jacket. The paper looks old, yet supple, and the red wax is crazed but seemingly intact. He holds it close to his chest, between his hands. I have no idea where the cap went.

My name is Li H'sen Chang, he announces formally. I bring a letter for Indigo Roth from the Last Emperor of China.

OK, I didn't see that one coming. He slips the letter back inside his jacket and looks at me quietly, expectantly.

Well then, I find myself saying, you'd better come in.

We move through to the lounge, and I wave him to a comfy chair. I'm curiously unsettled by his bizarre announcement. It sounds outlandish, but there are forgotten memories suddenly jostling for my attention. Memories of stories told to me by my grandmother, in another life, when I was young.

It's a cold day, I'll set us a fire, I mutter, setting about my task at the hearth while I try to rally my thoughts. Chang is silent as I work, perhaps sensing my unease, but has an air of polite attention. He's waiting for me to speak.

But what can I say? What do I remember?

So, Mr. Chang, I finally offer up as I put a long match to some kindling, I'm delighted to meet you, but surprised at your news. I grasp at old memories, but find them surprisingly substantial. The Last Emperor of China, Pu-Yi, was deposed in 1911 during the Xinhai Revolution. The newspaper catches the flame and its light grows. He officially abdicated in 1912, but remained in Beijing’s Forbidden City until 1924. I move some logs expertly, and the fire takes hold. He then went into exile, and after a very colourful life, he died in 1967, the year before I was born.

I look towards the messenger, and ask simply, So how can he have sent me a message?

Chang nods, obviously impressed. Quite so, Mr. Roth. Your recall is precise, and your confusion is understandable. This message has puzzled me for many years. Years? He takes a few breaths, then gently deflects the question with one of his own. May I ask you how you came to know these facts? He bows his head slightly. Again, forgive me, but this is uncommon knowledge for a Westerner.

His deference is rather disarming, but I learned long ago not to confuse it with weakness. The ability to show respect commands respect in turn; few seem to grasp this, and look down on the little people. I decide that, rather than finding offence in the questions of this stranger, I will share with him what I know.

I learned it all from my Grandmother, Mr. Chang. She died when I was a boy, but I remember her telling me stories. I take a seat and talk quietly, suddenly sad, as I stare into the fire.

My favourite story she would tell was written by a man called Kafka, I recall, my tone dropping into the easy tone of a lecturer. In it, an insignificant man in a distant corner of an empire imagines that his Emperor has sent him a message, whispered with his dying breath to a messenger. The man imagines the messenger valiantly carrying the message from the room, fighting to get through the throng of those in attendance. He then pictures him struggling to traverse the teeming ante-rooms, and the busy corridors, down crowded steps, through bustling courtyards, after which he would only have escaped the innermost palace. And onwards the messenger struggles, fighting a relentless press of humanity only to reach another surrounding palace. And so on, through endless palaces for a thousand years, until he breaks free, only to reach the centre of the labyrinthine capital city. His journey has only just begun. The foolish man who imagines all this knows that the message from the Emperor could never be delivered...

... and yet, he sits at his window when evening comes, and dreams of the message, finishes Chang.

My eyes are welling a little. Yes. I sit silently. I've not thought of any of this in twenty five years. I remember my grandmother fondly, she fired my imagination with many such stories. I continue with my recollections, trying to answer Chang's question.

I asked her one day if the story was true. She said it was, and told me about Pu-Yi, who she said she always called Henry. I remember laughing at this silliness, not realising until years later that she was a diplomat of sorts, and may have known him. My voice tails off as I consider this possibility seriously for the first time. She told me that yes, he may have sent such a message. And as a shy, imaginative boy, I was enthralled by the idea. And, like the man in the story, I would sit by my window and dream a foolish dream of an important message sent to me by a dying Emperor.

Chang laughs quietly, but kindly, And yet today, it has arrived.

This is too much. Overwhelming.

In his final days, continues Chang, the Emperor was visited by an old friend; I remember her as a tall, elderly woman. She was strong and fierce, yet she laughed a great deal. He looks at me levelly. Her name was Roth. Juno Roth.

I nod. My grandmother. Wait a minute. What do you mean, you remember?

It was long ago, and it was far away, Mr. Roth. But yes, as a twelve year old boy, the son of a servant, my Emperor gave me a message, and sent me out into the world to deliver it. The message had your name on it.

There are so many questions to ask, but one shoves its way to the front and demands attention.

How has it taken more than forty years to deliver the message, Mr. Chang?

The messenger smiles. Perhaps he has anticipated this question, and considered many possible answers over the years. Again, there is a sense that he’s shuffling through responses, gauging them to find the correct one. In the end he says with quiet, direct honesty, I suppose you might say I took the longer road.

I bark a laugh at this, but my incredulity instantly sublimates to acceptance. It sounds like something I would say.

I regard him more closely; he looks no older than thirty, but in reality he is almost twice that. The road has been kind to you, Mr. Chang, I observe drily. This gets a laugh out of him, and the earnest façade inches aside for a moment as he spreads his arms airily.

I spend my time outdoors. Plenty of exercise, fresh air. He cracks a grin as he shrugs, You know how it is.

I’m too ashamed to tell him that actually, I don’t. But, as he has eyes, I probably don’t need to.

My instructions were to travel by foot, to experience the journey one step at a time. He seems embarrassed as he admits, I was told to deliver the letter when the right time arrived.

There is an awkward moment of silence. We are both aware that History is standing there, waiting for us to complete this scene, to end the play. There will be no applause or catcalls. There will only be the moment. So, onwards.

So. Please may I have the message, Mr. Chang?

Our eyes meet for a second, and he retrieves it from his jacket. He stands and moves closer, but does not hand it to me. The fire crackles behind him.

I have wondered for over forty years about this message. He frowns as he regards the faded letter with its chipped wax seal. He fingers the wax lovingly as he tries to find the right words. About what it contained. About why my Emperor's last message was to the unborn grandson of a friend. About why I, the son of a servant, was chosen to deliver it. He sighs. About these words that I have carried around the world for most of my life.

And did you reach any conclusions? This seems weak, inadequate.

He looks distractedly to the window, not meeting my gaze. Yes. My Emperor blessed me with a mission. To travel, to learn, and to be part of the world. I have met thousands of people. I have helped them when needed, and fought against them when needed. I learned from all of them, though, and perhaps left something of myself behind when I moved on. My life has been an extraordinary adventure. His eyes return to me. Over time, the message itself became less important than the journey to bring it to you.

That sounds like Wisdom to me.

The messenger does not respond.

History coughs, urging me on to the final exchange.

I am a less remarkable man, I say gently, but may I accept your Emperor’s message?

He stares at the letter, struggling to let it go.

Suddenly, there is a shuffling, growling and thumping from upstairs. I pay it no heed; I am well used to it. But it draws Chang's attention. He stands, his head cocked, listening. Heavy footsteps make their way down the stairs and pass the closed door.

Slowly, the messenger walks from the room, drawn by his curiosity. He returns a few seconds later, visibly shocked. There is a lion in your kitchen! he whispers, as an awed look spreads across his face. You live with a lion?

I nod, used to odd reactions to this. Yes. His name is King.

He looks at the letter in his hand one last time, and bows his head as he quickly hands it to me.

I have delivered my Emperor’s message to a noble man.

I take the envelope with quiet deliberation. I notice his gaze drift back to the door as I crack the seal and unfold the ageing, loose-woven paper.

Oh good grief, no. The message is simple.

Please make my son a cup of tea. He’s had a long journey.

My heart sinks. My mind races.

What can I do with this? What can I say?

I scan the paper far longer than the number of words merits, and notice that Chang’s attention has returned to me. He regards me calmly, but I sense it's taking every ounce of his effort to not ask about the letter's contents.

I feel inadequate in the face of this moment.

It is now my turn to decide, to gauge the correct response.

I fold the letter carefully, and hand it quietly back to him.

Your father says he loves you.

The messenger's eyes look startled, unsure. His eyes flick to the envelope and then, after a million thoughts have passed behind them, back to me. There is gratitude and relief in his quiet gaze. He nods, and without a word, he turns and drops the letter message into the fire. In a few seconds, forty years flare gloriously into legend. He then turns to me, his mood lighter, and shakes my hand gently.

Truly, Indigo, I have delivered the message to a noble man.

Twenty minutes pass; I make us some tea, and discover that Mr. Li H'sen Chang has a soft spot for toasted teacakes. We sit comfortably by the fire, swapping tales of our travels, grateful that History has moved along.

We're discussing Marrakech when King wanders in. He eyes Chang meaningfully and says something in what I instinctively know is Mandarin Chinese. The messenger stands to bow low, and offers a few sentences in reply. The lion glances at me briefly. His gaze returns to Chang, and he nods sagely.

Yes, he says in a low growl, I can do that.

Thank you, My Lord. He turns to me. Farewell, Indigo. I may have delivered the message from my Emperor, he beams, but there will always be cause to dream.

And, after helping himself cheekily to the final teacake, the messenger retreats to the hallway, passes through the door into the world, and is gone.

King sighs and regards me quizzically. His mane ripples gently, as though a breeze is moving through the house. He then turns and heads towards the kitchen.

I drank your coffee, he says flatly. And ate your toast. You seemed busy.

King? The lion looks back. What did Chang ask you to do?

The lion chuckles.

He asked me to make you a cup of tea.

He says you have a long journey ahead of you.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

The Path No Longer Trodden

It was a very close-run thing.

When David Tennant announced his departure from his iconic role as The Doctor in the hugely successful science fiction show Doctor Who, many names were thrust forward as possible replacements.

We’ll mention none of them here; that’s just tabloid fodder. But it’s true to say that on that red-hot list to take over as the last Time Lord, there were veterans, newcomers, the old, the young, the hip, the square, and both men and women.

But at the top of the list, one man stood clear.

Here’s a glimpse of what might have been - Indigo Roth as The Doctor. Part dandy, part two-fisted adventurer, all hero.

The BBC rejected Roth's initial suggestions of a lion, a bear or a badger as The Doctor's new sidekicks. However, the actor went on to suggest Sasha Grey - fresh from her role in Steven Soderburgh’s The Girlfriend Experience - as his leading lady. The Beeb hastily agreed to this, relieved to be free of wildlife, and commenced filming on a pilot adventure with Roth and the energetic Miss Grey in the midst of the French Revolution.

Sadly, despite sizzling chemistry between the principals, changes to the script to tailor the role for Roth did not fare well with test audiences. The replacement of The Doctor’s trusty Sonic Screwdriver with a Sonic Pizza Slice was dubbed unnecessary and confusing, and the installation of a Starbucks in the TARDIS control room courted controversy both on and off-screen.

Rumours that iDifficult was approached to play The Doctor’s nemesis The Master to prop up a flagging Second Act remain unconfirmed. Though for what it’s worth, he screen-tested better than John Simm and looked really good in the black Nehru jacket. Roger Delgado would have been proud.

In the end, the BBC pandered to the masses and settled on the younger, viewer-friendly Matt Smith.

Indigo thinks that Mr. Smith will be a winner, and consoles himself that he and Miss Grey will always have Paris.

But it was a very close-run thing.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

A Prospect Of Zero Snackage

It's Thursday evening, and I'm feeling quite pleased with myself.

I received a puzzle for Christmas, one of those Rubik 360 contraptions. Perhaps you've seen it advertised by fast moving, exciteable, hip kid on TV? It looked cool, but I didn't find time to check it out over the holidays, despite living alone*. I was somehow always busy; you know how it is.



[* King lives here too , obviously, but having a lion about the place tends to double the chores rather than halve them.]

But tonight I made some time. I have a hospital appointment in the morning, and I'm not allowed to eat. TV lost its charm with the prospect of zero snackage, so I picked up my new puzzle. It's an intruiging beast. It has three weighted, interconnected spheres, half-a-dozen tiny coloured balls in the core, and just three seemingly-inaccessible holes opposite the weights for them to pass through to the coloured receptacles on the outermost sphere.

It is, unsurprisingly, a puzzler.

I've just spent three hours fiddling with it. Just one of these was spent working out the method needed, the trick of the thing. The other two hours were largely spent cursing my dismal lack of manual dexterity. The kid in the advert was a red herring; being fast moving and exciteable are counter-productive to this puzzle; slow, fine motor skills are required. My fistfuls of pork sausages and pizza-addled brain were a poor substitute.

But now, I'm all puffed with pride having solved it without needing to resort to a cheat sheet or the internet.

You can call it tenacity, you can call it determination. You might even call it sheer bloody-mindedness, and you'd probably be onto something; a slow, steady approach and a whole lot of swearing will win the day every time.

However, pride comes before a fall, and this is only half the tale.

I decide to go for The Double, and dig out a Rubik's Cube from a box. I'm sure you've seen these of late, or perhaps even remember them from their heyday in the early Eighties? I tell you, I used to be quite the Cuber. Even before I hit my teens, I could solve one of these in under a minute; 33 seconds was my record time.

So, this should be a piece of cake, right?

Wrong. This is what mine currently looks like.

Hmmm, I can only do a single layer. When I remember my childhood skills, this is laughable. I had a dog once that could do that much. Good grief, I can't even get the second layer done; the shame of it.

I consider calling iDifficult for advice, but think better of it. I bought him one of these a few Christmasses ago. He stared at it for a few moments, and a manic grin slowly came over his face. Perfect! he cried, and went off to his lab to integrate it into a machine he was working on. He later went on to conquer Peru with it.

So, I'm on my own. But it's late, and I'm tired. I have to be at the hospital at 7am, so I toss the puzzle into my bag, and hit the sack without my usual hot milk drink; this annoys me unreasonably.

It is Friday morning, and I'm a private room at the hospital. I'm wearing one of those bare-arsed hospital gowns, and one of their one-size-fits-none dressing gowns, having forgotten again to bring my own. I sit in a comfy chair and fiddle with the Rubik's Cube to no avail; the second layer still eludes me.

A suited fella breezes through; he asks me some trivial questions about false teeth and spectacles, offers broad and swift assurances that all will be well, and vanishes. I recognise this behaviour as that of an Anaesthetist. He almost bumps into my surgeon on his way out.

Now, this guy is the real deal. An affable old boy, probably way past retirement age, but with a passion for his work. He's thoughtful, incisive, and open to modern techniques, which he tempers with old-fashioned thoroughness. He also doesn't dismiss evidence that is a poor fit for his ongoing diagnosis.

In my experience, these are rare qualities.

He puts me at my ease about the procedure. And then, out of the blue he indicates the Cube and exclaims, My word! I've not seen one of those in years! He then adds in a whispering theatrical tone, Getting anywhere with it?

I shrug and say I'm struggling to remember the technique. He smiles indulgently and says that I should persevere, and that it'll come back to me eventually.

He informs me grandly that they're ready for me. For the second time, I toss the Cube aside and wander through to the operating theatre in my bare feet, accompanied by a nurse. I don't remember anything after the injection and being asked to turn onto my side to save them doing it. Was I asked to count backwards? Perhaps.

I am back at my old school. It is 1981. I stand in the corner of a sunlit room at lunchtime, watching a uniformed, gangly youth solving a Rubik's Cube. There's a mess of kids around him. Most are watching, a few are timing his attempt, while others sit with their Cubes, waiting for their turn to be solved. The lad's hands are lightning and confident, though clearly his social skills are lacking. He doesn't say much, and blushes a lot, especially when a girl talks to him. He looks something like this.

He is so wrapped up in his obsession, he doesn't notice half of what is going on around him. He doesn't notice the hangers on, dining out on his skills. He's cool, they enthuse to others, emptily. He doesn't notice the grudging respect of the tough lads. He's smart, they say, adding sourly, the little dork. He doesn't notice the admiration of the girls, and won't for another couple of years. He so clever, they say. He also doesn't notice the teacher frowning, undecided if she should put a stop to these antics. He's a show off, she thinks, but at least he's out of his shell for once.

I try to shout, to tell him to look around him, to take it all in, but he just smiles and seems not to hear me. So I watch his hypnotic hands, the deft sequences of twists and turns, and find something familiar there. They have resonance. I remember them, these old friends. I remember them, just as it's time to go.

It's Friday lunchtime, and I am back in my room at the hospital. A nurse is fussing over me. She tells me that the surgeon will be in to check on me soon, and that I should sit quietly. My limbs feel leaden, so I choose to obey her instructions. Just this once, mind.

Time passes. It's slow and relaxing, dilated almost. I like it.

When the surgeon returns, he gives me plenty of good news, and a clean bill of health. I take this in, but say little, smiling and nodding where required. He tells me that I can go home in an hour, and asks me to confirm that someone will be driving here to pick me up.

I nod and hope quietly to myself that it's not Bear.

By the way, he says as he stands to go, Congratulations! You must ready to go home now if you can finish that! And with a cheery backward wave he is gone.

Bemused, I realise I am holding something. I lift the hand slowly into my line of sight.

My mind flits back to the obsessed, introspective lad in the classroom, and I thank him back through the years, even though he's in the room.

And smiling, I drift off to sleep again.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Making It Past The Landmines

Today starts as it always does, with coffee, toast, breakfast TV, and my horoscope.

As I munch on a slice of hot, buttered toast on the sofa, I flip through the newspaper. I hurry past pages of dry news, and wrestle with several colourful inserted supplements until I locate the Lifestyle section. To the left of a full-page article on bowel-cleansing spa holidays in The Maldives, I find the list of zodiac constellations.

Here we go. Scorpio:

Step away from your responsibilites today, Scorpio! This is a day to kick back and relax after recent troubles. Enjoy some time to yourself and recharge those physical and emotional batteries. Go on, you deserve it!

I lower the paper. Well, that sounds like my kind of thing. It has been a trying few weeks. I've been craving some decent downtime. Actually, it sounds wonderful. But no, there's a lot to do today. It's a luxury I can't really afford after a few days off work sick, however tempting it is.

I pick the paper up again, and notice a second paragraph for Scorpio.

But beware, Scorpio! The call of the office will be strong. Don't forget what a battlefield it can be - pointless meetings, unpleasant politics, idiotic edicts, endless red tape, and the relentless demands of people who respect neither your skills nor results. Screw that! You'll thank yourself tonight if you resist.

Wow, that's unusually specific. And colourful. And how did I miss it the first time? But it changes nothing; it's too easy to get behind and spend days fighting your way back up to date. I have to go to work, no matter what my horoscope says.

Hey, there's more. And it definitely wasn't here a moment ago.

Not convinced? What if we admitted that the "day to kick back" was actually a bit of a smoke screen? The truth is, there is an inauspicious planetary alignment today, and you'll find yourself coming up empty on all fronts; family, work, finances, friendship, and love.

Not a good day for love? Well, dammit!

Face facts Scorpio, this is not a day to venture out into the world. Carpe diem? Forget it. Make any effort to seize the day, and it'll be two steps forward, five steps back. All. Bloody. Day. Come bedtime, you'll be a shattered wreck of a man, wrung dry like an old dishmop.

Good grief, when you put it like that...

In fact, did we mention that your car battery is dead? Or that there's a Venezualan sniper taking potshots from the top of the nearby block of flats? And that you'll be run down, trampled and gored by a rogue rhino as soon as you step onto the pavement?

I sigh and toss the paper aside.

And that's if you make it past the landmines!

Some days the universe does its best to tell you something.

I find it's usually a good idea to pay attention.

I finish my coffee, call in sick, and head back to bed.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

Well, for the second time in a week, I've received an award. I'll mention it here, as we're already done for the day. If awards entries aren't your thing, feel free to go make that phone call you've been dawdling over. And once you're done, may I recommend Catching Passes In Traffic? It didn't get the love it deserved, poor thing.

My good friend CatLady over at How To Become A Cat Lady Without The Cats has decided I am a badass. Yes, me. Go figure.

My mother will not approve, as she raised me better than that. But I salute the wonderful CatLady and her unhinged blog. Oh, and her lack of felines, though I have nothing against them personally; I just like a running gag as much as the next man.

I don't have to do a damned thing with this award except enjoy it.

So I shall. Thanks for sharing the love, CatLady!


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Rimsky Korsakov And Tonic

I’m walking in the desert. I’m not sure how I know it’s the Sahara, but I do. I suppose I did visit the Sahara Desert when I was in Tunisia a few years ago, but from where I’m standing, it just looks like desert.

High dunes surround me, and the sun is high.

It seems redundant to say that it’s hot here, somewhere in mid-forties Celsius. If there were any Americans with me, I would confidently tell them that was over a hundred and ten Fahrenheit. Again, I have no idea how I know this.

Scorchio! I mutter sourly, wondering why I’m here without a hat. Without shades. And, looking down, without trousers.

I wonder if I’m dreaming, but I’m distracted by someone shouting what sounds like orders from somewhere above me. Looking around me, I can't see anyone, but the roar sounds familiar. Bear? King? Yavin? Nope, it sounds less like wildlife and more like human. Besides, I’m not sure I've ever heard the elder badger speak, let alone shout.

I follow the outburst and start to make my way up a dune to the south. This is as hard a task as I remember. The beautiful windblown patterns dissolve under my feet into dry pools that swallow my feet. Plod plod plod. My breath begins to strain. This would be superb training if I were a sprinter, but as a slightly overweight writer with sedentary habits, it’s just slog.

As I near the top of the dune, a large canvas shelter hoves into view. Beneath its shade, a familiar figure bellows into a metal hatch in the sand at his feet.

Belay that order, Number One! Torpedoes are not the solution! He then strains to listen to a tinny reply. No, neither are the Polaris missiles! We shall wait ‘til we can see the whites of their eyes, Mister!

It’s iDifficult. He’s dressed as an Admiral in the British Navy. My best friend, The Part-Time Evil Genius, slams the hatch and spins the wheel to secure it. He curses violently, sounding rather like Charles Laughton in Mutiny On The Bounty.

Having a spot of bother, Admiral? I halloo cheerily as I finally crest the dune.

He looks my way. Ah, Roth! Finally, some sanity! he shouts with a wave, and beckons me into the shade. He indicates the hatch and mutters, I swear these commissioned henchmen have more stripes on their cuffs than they have brain cells.

I step inside the broad open tent. It has a large awning out front, supported by two poles. There are striped deckchairs out of the sun, along with a drinks trolley, a hugely fronded fern, and an old fashioned gramophone with an amplifying horn.

And the hatch. Now that I am closer, I recognise it for what it is; a conning tower from a submarine. I notice the tower’s wide, curved handrail behind the fern.

So… what are you driving today? I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

HMS Repulse. A decommissioned Resolution Class nuclear sub. I raise my eyebrows at him. I picked it up on eBay, he adds by way of explanation. The postage was a little high. Drink?

Please. Odd to find it buried in the Sahara, I say conversationally as I occupy one of the low-slung deckchairs. Over at the drinks trolley, 'Difficult drops ice into glasses and pours us a couple of long tonic waters. He conjures lime slices from a bag under his hat, and drops them in with a fizz.

Is that where we are? I left my satnav in the car. He sighs as he carefully applies the needle to the gramophone. Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade crackles its way from the ancient equipment. Beautiful. It’s been a bad day. You know how it is.

I grunt and nod, having been through many exploits with him over the years.

So, what are you doing here? He hands me my drink as he takes to the second deckchair. We clink glasses in salute. And what happened to your trousers?

I shrug. Not sure. I have a vague memory of a pizza-eating competition in Cleveland.

He grunts and nods, having been through many exploits with me over the years.

Well, he says, I’m not worried. These things tend to work themselves out.

True enough, I say, my mind wandering. You remember that time with the frozen lake and the painted cow?

He raises a finger in agreement. Exactly. And we got her to Flagstaff before Arbor Day.

We clink glasses again. I toast, Here's to Daisy! and we both chuckle.

Time passes. We sit lost in contemplation, sipping our drinks as Rimsky-Korsakov weaves his magnificent sea tale in the aether. We don’t need to fill the moments with chit chat; we're old friends. Besides, quiet days are a luxury.

After perhaps fifteen minutes, a periscope surfaces and looks east. I follow its line of sight, and point towards the horizon.

Hey look. The tide is coming in.

My friend sighs, then stands and dusts himself down.

So. Can I drop you off somewhere?


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

Well, it doesn’t happen very often, but I received an award this week. As ever, if awards entries aren't your thing, feel free to slip away and enjoy a nice cup of tea. Ooh, and a slice of bakewell tart. Lovely. If you’d like something daft to read, may I recommend Intervention In Aisle Three?

Still here? Great. Matthew over at AbodeOneThree was kind enough to push a new award of his own devising my way; the Feels Like Home award.

He gives this to blogs that make him feel welcome, and who make “this strange virtual world more comfortable and habitable”. Matthew is one of my favourite writers, so I’m delighted.

I’m supposed to pass it onto five folks whose blogs make me feel the same way. And, for once, I can entirely comply. These following blogs are always a pleasure to read, and are part of my daily routine, which feels like home to me.

So, stand up and take a bow:

1. Kato over at Pandora’s Box. I’m never sure what to expect from Toronto’s finest, but whatever it is I enjoy it with my first coffee of the day.

2. Chrissy over at I Shoulda Been A Stripper. Happy times, sad times, and times past in Cleveland. Smashing photos, too. Love it.

3. Steph over at Nicole Kidman Stars In: The Astronaut Dropped. This is a striking tale of Steph’s life in a Scottish house that is haunted by the ghost of an astronaut. No, really. Go read it from the start, I’m hooked.

4. Nancy over at f8hasit. Another wonderfully eclectic blog, chock full of things Nancy cares about. For me, a must read.

5. My eccentric pal iDifficult, over at his eponymous, evil genius blog. Need I say more?

Thanks for sharing the love, Matthew!


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

A Ratchetting Of Vertebrae

Indigo On The East Coast - Part 1

Three days before I fly to America for a friend's wedding, I'm starting to get a little nervous.

The trip has been booked for about six months, but I'm not relishing thought of the journey; I don't enjoy flying much. Too tall, too wide, too neurotic. But at least I'm flying from a local airport, Stansted, just a few minutes down the road from where I live. And I'm also flying late morning, so checking in two hours early won't mean getting up in the middle of the night.

I have e-mail.

Dear Mr. Roth, we are sorry to inform you that...

My flight has been cancelled six months after I booked it. Fantastic. But there is a replacement flight laid on. Unfortunately, this one is from Heathrow, and is earlier in the day. I guess they've done their best, but Heathrow is an hour further away, and is the world's busiest airport; I will have to check in three hours early.

I'm going to have to get up in the middle of the night after all.

Unless... I quickly check online... Yes, Heathrow has a Japanese-style capsule hotel, in the terminal building I'm flying from. Tiny rooms, exquisitely designed, comfortable. Better yet, an interesting experience to start the trip off. I am aware that I'm desperately trying to make lemonade from a thundering great lemon that's landed in my lap. But hey, says my upbeat internal voice, it will be something to talk about later; holidays are always more interesting when things don't go to plan! I am not convinced*.

[* You can read about that sort of nonsense in my trip to Marrakech.]

Just do it Indigo, the voice encourages. So I do. A few clicks and credit card numbers later, and I've booked a standard room in the capsule hotel. Job done, problem avoided. The stakes are raised for what is now a five day adventure.

Two days later, the adventure begins.

My good friend Bear is driving me down to Heathrow.

I was going to take the train, but it was stupidly expensive and required two changes in London. Besides, the seven foot black bear owes me a favour; I managed to get him and Clarice a romantic box at the Royal Opera House for La Bohème a while back. I'd not expected him to be a fan of Puccini, but I've discovered over the years that this Ursus Americanus is full of surprises.

And, to his credit, he offered to drive without being asked.

I like a mammal with a good memory.

I just wish he had a larger car. It's an orange open-top roadster, perfect for a big guy like him, but not so good for two big guys like us. As I sit wedged into the little vehicle, I begin to wonder if this capsule hotel room will be suitable for even one big guy like me?

I also wish Bear wasn't in such a damned hurry to get to Heathrow. He's a solid, level-headed, dependable type, wise in a way that shames me at times. But behind the wheel of a car, he's a little... driven?

Bear drops me off at the Terminal 4, helping - pulling - me from the cramped car and straightening my spine out with an upward tug on my head that makes my feet leave the floor with a pronouced ratchetting of vertebrae. He then leaps back into the car and waves cheerily as he speeds away.

I limp inside with my minimal luggage.

I find the capsule hotel with a little effort; up an escalator and round a few badly signposted corners. The entrance presents itself curiously, a narrow temple of glass and purple lights. The automated check-in via an ultraviolet hole-in-the-wall doesn't cooperate, but an Oriental porter lets me in, registers me, and locates my room key.

As I wander the corridors in search of my room, I'm surprised by the sterile, laboratory feel to the place. But it's cool and quiet, two things I value highly when I'm trying to sleep. Each room has a large window onto the corridor, which is peculiar to say the least, though it gives me a chance to inspect the swankier rooms.

I find my room, walk down the three steps from the corridor, and eventually convince the door to open. I never have much luck with hotel room doors; they resist this weary traveller most of the time.

As I open the door, I am struck by two things.

Firstly, how spacious the room feels. There's a low-slung bunk bed to one side, a glass walled bathroom with shower to the other, and a short central corridor-of-sorts where I am standing. There's mirrors to push the walls out a bit, and it's pleasantly lit in the same soothing purple tones of the corridor.

Secondly, I am aware just how incredibly small the room is. I know from their website that this room covers just seven square metres, and that's a small enough number to stand and count them. Also, the blocked-in space above the bunk bed makes me suspect that the adjacent room interlocks with this one, and that the inhabitant will have a high bunk above my low one. Weird.

I kick off my shoes, hang up my coat, pop my luggage out of the way beneath the coat rack, and slip into the bunk.

The bed is fantastic. I'm a tall fella, and this is a full two metres long. The mattress is substantial and pleasantly firm, and it's wide too. The website says it's comfy for two, but they may have had slim, amorous, newlywed types in mind; I recall that these rooms can be booked by the hour. There's a large flat-screen TV embedded in the wall by my feet, a host of online services, including an impressive selection of room service meals, drinks and snacks.

As I survey the room from the bunk, I am very impressed. There's a wonderful feeling of efficient, considered design about the place, and it's not triggering my claustrophobia; yes, I like to live dangerously. I remember that the room was designed by the bloke who created first class spaces for British Airways, but what it actually reminds me of is a well-arranged caravan. One with air conditioning, high def TV and ultraviolet lighting, but a caravan.

Suddenly, there is a knock on the door. I manoeuvre myself out of the bunk, and open the door, half expecting a member of staff checking in on their latest arrival.

It's Bear. He looks sheepish, which is difficult for him.

The car's got a flat, he tells me by way of explanation. He waves the steering wheel, which he has brought with him for some reason. I've made some calls, but it won't get sorted 'til the morning. He looks over my shoulder. Hey, this looks nice! he enthuses. Then, more hesitantly, he grins, Is there room for another?

I sigh. You'd better come in.

I don't really want to get into the sleeping arrangements, but let's just say that me and Bear are not a pair of slim, amorous, newlywed types. It is an uncomfortable experience, both physically and emotionally. I have terrible dreams in which I am alternately falling from a narrow ledge over a precipice, and being smothered by an immense, black cushion.

I wake at seven, to the sound of hissing water.

Bear is in the shower, singing some old Burt Bacharach tune. I lay listening as consciousness seeps in. How did he get out of bed without waking me? There is coarse, black hair in my mouth. Do You Know The Way To San Jose? croons Bear.

Suddenly, there is a knock at the door.

I shuffle out of the bunk clumsily, and open the door an inch. There's two badgers in the corridor. I recognise one of them from my back garden, an old grey-templed boar called Yavin. He salutes me respectfully from under his flat cap, and silently raises a toolbox into the line of sight.

Hey Yavin, I mumble in welcome, rubbing sleep from my eyes. BEAR! I shout hoarsely, The badgers are here to fix your wheel!

Outstanding! he shouts back, midway through a line about all the stars that never were, are parking cars and pumping gas. I'll be out in a moment! Make yourself at home fellas!

I sigh. You'd better come in.

I open the door fully, and the younger badger pushes past his elder and rolls a new car wheel into the room. He leaves it carefully by my luggage, growls something in greeting to Bear, and then leaps straight into the bed. I stand, jaw slack, dumbfounded; it's too early to get surly with wildlife. A few seconds later, the black-and-white youth pokes his head out excitedly, waves the remote control for the TV, and beckons Yavin into the bunk.

Yavin looks up at me and takes his cap off. It's getting crowded in here. I wave him towards the bunk wearily. He steps smartly into the room, deposits the toolbox with the luggage and the wheel, and quickly vanishes from sight. I'm still sleepy, and as Bear switches the shower off and uses both towels to dry off, I lower myself carefully onto the top of the toolbox; there's nowhere else to sit, unless I pull the table down.

Suddenly, there's a knock at the door.

I find my way there past the emerging Bear, and open it a crack.

Housekeeping, says the tiny Japanese lady with the large trolley in the corridor. She bows only slightly; we're a long way from Tokyo, and I'm gaijin after all.

Do we have to do this now? I ask her, failing to look or sound authoratative in my pyjamas. I'll be gone in an hour, and it's a bit crowded in here.

She puts her hands on her hips and repeats defiantly, Housekeeping!

I open the door wider and poke my head out. I scan up and down the corridor to make sure the Marx Brothers aren't in the vicinity; I expect the double thump of hard boiled eggs at any moment.

I sigh. You'd better come in.

Ten minutes later, as I sit on the table under the coats and hats, while the cursing maid does her best to remove coarse black hair from the shower drain, I am surprised and relieved that the badgers haven't ordered any room service.

Suddenly, there's a knock at the door.


Indigo

Continued in Part 2 - Beaten To Death By Karma

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010
Photos from www.yotel.com, because mine were rubbish