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And Justice For All

Some days we think we’d sooner stay in bed, on a few of them by the time we come to the end of the day we reflect that had we done so the negative vibes we felt and the possible calamitous events we may have suffered might have been avoided.

Today was not one of them.

Today a simple man was able to go back to his work, he was able to return to his life.  Today the balance is redressed from the overly harsh punishment to which he had been subjected some weeks ago.  It is of enormous pride to me to have been involved at all in him returning to his doting wife and being able to say that the nightmare is over, life can go back to where it was and continue as it has done for the last 26 years not be abruptly brought to an end.  I say simple man with affection not judgement, a man with simple needs, wish to provide a home for his wife and to do his job every day, a man nearly in tears just to learn that tomorrow at 7am he will be back performing his duty.  He wanted to give me money, he wanted to buy me a beer, no no a crate of beer.  I said perhaps one beer would be acceptable, how could I begrudge him that.

Today a humble lady, wronged by someone who should have been supporting her was finally told that she should indeed have been able to expect that duty of care and that she had been treated badly, unfairly and unacceptably.  She was told someone at least was sorry and that they would try to do something about it to ensure such things did not happen again.  She was validated and vindicated, she was believed.  She wanted to buy me lunch.

This is not about self-aggrandisement it is an attempt to ensure that I remember when the days are hard and the efforts seem frustrating and unsuccessful that there are reasons to get up, reasons I do my job and reasons why I should continue to do so to the very best of my ability.  There are more defeats than victories in this job, unequivocal victories are rare and two in one day is sufficiently rare for me to struggle to remember another in my 10 years but at the heart of it there is the knowledge that my victories are not about me, they are about people and their lives and sometimes the returning of equilibrium a little.

Tonight I hope I will sleep well, if I do it will be with peace and the knowledge that I justified my place on Earth and in society today, it was worth getting out of bed and going to the places in which I was supposed to be, two people may be afforded their own good night’s sleep because of it.

Song Of The Day ~ Fréro Delavega – Le Chant Des Sirènes


Statute Of Liberties!

I am heartened, not to mention a little surprised, in many ways that so many people have read my review on the Snowden Mountain Railway, such that it appears in the first page of a Google search on the thing.  I suspect the views of that post equal all of the rest of mine put together!  It shows that some form of direct action can work and that my voicing my opinion and translating the disappointment my children felt may have avoided at least some others having the same experience. Adults can take these setbacks on the chin and muse and moan about the injustice to anyone who will listen, as indeed I have done, but for children this sort of event is more unfortunate and therefore from a parent’s point of view way more vexing.  In this day and age when getting children out of the house and off phones, computers and games consoles is increasingly more difficult it is essential to pick your activity carefully both within budget and something that will appeal sufficiently for them not to feel resentful for having been hauled out of their pits!  One of the most pleasing things is that the benefit to the Lake Railway has been as tangible and this is well deserved.  The experience we had on that did go a fair way to mitigating that on the SMR and I am grateful for it having done so because I imagine, I hope, what they are more likely to remember the SMR for is their father’s ire and indignation rather than their own memories of the mediocrity it all (thankfully they didn’t have to pay for it!).  The rest of the holiday was equally pleasurable with plenty to do in that part of the world and enough to occupy a few days in Llanberis at ground level alone.

Have I heard from the SMR at any stage since our trip, no. Has it damaged their finances much, I shouldn’t have thought a great deal. But it has a little bit and, however insignificant it may seem, the contempt they have shown to my family and others I know has bitten them in the arse, even if the equivalent of that of a mosquito.  There is such little recourse these days when larger organisations do customers an injustice that it is all the more important to speak out by whatever medium you have available, voices, however quiet can still lead to a conversation.  Review sites like Trip Advisor can have both a positive and a negative impact on places, this is not always a good thing as smaller places can be hit disproportionately hard by one bad review whilst the larger ones can absorb it into a morass of sycophancy.  Look no further at the SMR itself for an example of the latter.

At the time of writing the SMR’s Trip Advisor stats are:
  • Excellent – 486
  • Very good – 378
  • Average – 211
  • Poor – 109
  • Terrible – 118
Total reviews 1,302 – There is only 1 of the “terrible” reviews that the SMR have seen fit to respond to and it is one about the lack of the Welsh language being used, none of the things relating to either prices of the train or the parking are deemed fit for comment.  Conversely the “excellent” reviews are greeted with a great many sycophantic responses, I wonder if the original poster were paid to leave their comments!
I notice gladly that there has been no contradiction of my assertion of the Padarn Lake railway being a positive experience and this certainly speaks volumes.
Their Trip Advisor tally is:
  • Excellent – 133
  • Very good – 117
  • Average – 56
  • Poor – 13
  • Terrible – 9

Total reviews – 328.  Obviously this is far fewer than the SMR but the proportions make pretty stark reading, just under 7% of their reviews are at the worst end (Poor/Terrible). They have had 1 terrible in 2015 which was pretty much as a result of the SMR!  Other than that they not had a “terrible” since June 2013 and had responded to the last 2 they did receive.  Their Excellent/Very Good tally is over 75%.  The SMR’s record on the worst end is more than double the Lake railways’ at around 17% and at the Excellent/Very Good they manage only 66%.  So if you then add cost in to that you’ll get an idea of how it all stacks up.  And I haven’t even come to the car parking, a subject that many people leaving reviews seems to merit more anger than any event of the rest of the day!

I hope the people who have chosen to take the SMR have had a better time than we did, I bear those people no ill will and I hope as few children as possible have had a negative experience because at the end of the day my purpose was in the hope that this would be the case.  Likewise I’m sure many of the people working on the railway do care about their customers and are merely hampered, and perhaps equally frustrated by, the failings of the system at management level but I find it such a shame that the bean counters should have been allowed to rob the railway of its magic that I feel duty bound to ensure that my review remains out there alerting people.  One day a manager might come across the assorted negative feedback and think ‘this is wrong, I’m going to change it and make the railway great again’.  Yeah I won’t hold my breath either!

Song Of The Day ~ The Doobie Brothers – Long Train Runing

Final Analysis

Whether love retreat or it advance
owes itself to random chance
would that I could your fears allay
but you’ll find it out yourself some day

naive belief and feckless hope
the brain’s internal gallows rope
as such pray that your neck it breaks
for strangulation longer takes

I ask myself would I again
risk all and end up with this pain
perhaps there’s things I may yet know
but my answer now’s resounding ‘no’

for what once teased a life inviting
from lover’s kiss and all requiting
yielded distance final ruling
exposed a lack of selfless schooling

where pictures, ornaments remember
of August, April and November
a blessed existence hope and pleasure
preserved like frames of gifted treasure

become like concrete under water
each memory a drowning slaughter
to comfort not but showing warning
of toil to come and ageless mourning

I fear each day’s infernal strife
to grieve the one to be my wife
a cause perhaps so self-obsessing
without an end or some redressing

highlighted all where I was failing
I did not heed my dearest’s ailing
assuming all would time becalm
and reunited none would harm

I wrongly left it all to chance
consequent alone shall dance
bookkeeper cannot count the cost
that signifies just what I lost

did I say ‘what’ that should be ‘whom’
for money seldom builds a tomb
though in this case its damage done
without it lost, with it won?

My life to come I’ll analyse
the time since I last saw those eyes
the years since I had felt her touch
will probably reveal as much

had I perhaps her better heeded
might have I constructed what she needed
would we have realised our happy ending
that joined together eternal spending?

as much as all I miss the pleasance
of her enriching, nurturing presence
the lack of love once filled me bursting
has left me parched and constant thirsting

no other cup that dryness sate
no pills can make the ache abate
no mask can face of sadness hide
too great the gnawing pain inside

Song Of The Day ~ Joy Division – Love Will Tear Us Apart


Now is not the time for political polemic, tempting though it might have been to look at who has caused the crises across the world, in particular in Syria. It is a tragedy that it should have taken an image of a three-year-old Syrian boy, Aylan Kurdi, whose body was washed up on the Turkish coast to shock the world into caring for the plight of the displaced, distressed and disenfranchised. People aware of the image do not even mention or perhaps know of the fact that he was washed up on the shore along with his five-year-old brother and his mother. Where was the same shock when 71 decomposing bodies were found in a truck near Nickelsdorf last month?

No, now must be the time for action, to look at what can be done to avert this catastrophe before it worsens resulting in a flood of drowned children on beaches around the Mediterranean and beyond. And yet here I sit on an island which is only populated at all because people crossed the sea to get here and what I see is ambivalence, distain and reasons being given as to why this is not our problem.

Today I was at the first “Refugees Welcome” demonstration in England, I am proud of my city for standing up to be counted, similar meetings, demonstrations and marches have already begun in Europe and tangible action has begun there whilst the British politicians prevaricate until they are shamed into action. David Cameron said Britain was full, he did so in front of an empty field. Whilst in Germany Chancellor Merkel has already pledged that Germany will take an unprecedented number of refugees and will taken Syrians from wherever they have entered the EU. I have seen videos of refugees being cheered and clapped on the streets of Germany, little children being given gifts and hugs and a general outpouring of warmth. I am proud of Germany where I once lived and experienced racism myself, yet now it takes the football fans of German clubs and the clubs themselves to show us the example. Bravo Bayern München Refugee Plans und Borussia Dortmund.


…and Germany is not well-known for its financial profligacy!

Someone articulated the counter argument to the right-wing posturing which will inevitably pervade. It is not about whether we can afford this or that, it is about leadership, it is about saying what it happening is morally wrong and we must find a way to sort this out. When I think how much money we are paying the politicians it seems only fair that indeed they do now need to earn it. If we are saying we are full whilst we have empty houses, empty bedrooms, food being thrown in the bin, blankets in the attic etc. then what we are actually saying is we cannot be bothered or we do not care. If our goal is to find a way then we will not focus on the obstacles we will focus on the endgame and how best we get there, we will solve the problem because it must be solved and impediments will be overcome if there is the will to do it. These refugees are humans, they are fleeing death or a life quite unimaginable to us cosseted in our comfy beds with duck down pillows. These people would be grateful for tents in a park and a 5 year old tin can of baked beans to eat in comparison with their current lot. Are we so heartless as to think we cannot help? And if we do not look to find a way then we merely fuel the business of the people smugglers, already extorting the sort of money from refugees that would pay a months rent for a very comfortable flat in the West just to give passage to Budapest.

These people are not lazy, they are not looking for a free ride, you do not uproot your whole family and leave your home and your possessions behind save for what you can carry unless the circumstances are extreme. Many of us have come to other countries seeking a better life, we have been allowed to live and work, to get education and training. This has enabled us to build a comfortable life with food, entertainment, transport, property and the like, more than we need for basic survival. Yet here we have people for whom basic survival would be a step up the ladder and we can offer our hands.

If you are not touched and cut to the very core by the images you are seeing in the news I question whether you are truly human. Personally I find it hard not to be ashamed that people might even feel they would be abandoned to their fate by people who have so much more than they need. Then I see the fences and the border controls and I know I have every reason to be ashamed.

I heard a speaker say they had been in Calais last month and that they had spoken to refugees camped there who wanted to come to England. The speaker asked the refugees if they could talk to the British people what would they like to say. She said that the most common response was “Mercy.” I struggle to hold back the tears even now.

Song Of The Day ~ Fréro Delavega – Le Chant Des Sirènes

A Passage

Time cannot heal, but brings to kneel, that which might cause us pain
and so we feel, our fate to seal, we’ll never love again.
Where once we soared and felt adored so came the crushing fall,
our heart outpoured with lesions scored the brain a torrid squall.

What did we wrong to silence the song of happy ever after?
No more belong to hopeful throng suffused with love and laughter.
Remember well her sight and smell for such is lost to ether
try not to dwell, you cannot tell of the joy to lay beneath her.

Oh air be still, as wind blows ill and never is it sweeter
ne’er bitterer pill than dreams that still replay when you went to greet her.
If thus my lot it matters not how ably I may embrace it
but finding what might stop the rot is the only way to face it.

The months have passed but peace at last a quest to tame unreason
from succour fast see land from mast does take more than a season.
A cold sweat nightly, clinging tightly, never truly purges.
Though I try rightly to see more brightly with encouraging and urges.

Come what may, as all folks say, the calm will undo sorrow,
find some way if not today perhaps will come tomorrow.
I guess we’ll see just what will be as I will not repeal her
but as I’ve said, until you’re dead, time never is a healer

Song Of The Day ~ Foals – Mountain At My Gates

Ne Déranger Pas

Oh for that fabled sanctic place where smiled the maiden fair of face
The warmth of that which full of grace and reasoned over sea to place

In such who was the blessed child, who thought the world benign and mild
Of good intentions pastille betiled and stared with eyes of wonder wild

Hush wake her not with all your shouts that wear on sleeve your boundless doubts
Reveal your darkened whereabouts that hope and all adventure flouts

What right spoil you her pure naive, and callous swift take of you leave
what sanction would you right receive for thoughts of hope her to reprieve?

Begone internal creature weak whose world of grey of which to speak
where apathy cause love to creak and o’er the world such havoc wreak

By all my sense may I infer fate was not merely mine to err
though try I will to thus concur when all is done what’s lost is her

Song Of The Day ~ Vitalic – Trahison

Impromptu tear upon my cheek
What is your role, what do you seek
Elicited from memories deep
A world long gone you could not keep

As track you make sink dew to skin
Forlorn in hope new life begin
The manner that hint you of grief
illustrate that time brings no relief

Though fleeting be your silvery stain
Emotion whence you came remain
But soon retreats, once more be masked
as daily life more stoic tasked

Betwixt the conscious mundane fate
Flows deeper love through Traitors Gate
The heart beats not on axeman’s block
Through tear-filled eyes at twelve o’clock

Pause not too long beneath the blade
In fear observe the mess you made
Hold back the reemergent tear
Dwell not on now but yesteryear

 Song Of The Day ~ JJ Cale – Call The Doctor

They Still Haven’t Found What I’m Eligible For (to the tune of U2′ I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For)

I have climbed the highest staircase
I have jumped through the hoops
only to feed myself
only to feed myself
I’ve had to stand, had to crawl
I have filled in all the forms
all the forms
only to feed myself

But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for
But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for

I have kissed workplace arses
felt the loathing in the furtive glances
it burned like ire
with me deep in the mire
I’ve not heard any tongues of angels
but I have held my hand out to devils
it was cold in the night
I was kicked like a dog

But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for
But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for

I don’t believe the day will come
when right-wing bastards would bleed into one
bleed into one
But yes I’m still dreaming
You bought your bonds
Your private planes
You profited handsomely
and caused my shame
oh my shame
You know I can prove it

But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for
But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for

But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for
But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for

Song Of The Day ~ U2 – I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For

Craig Murray was a diplomat and worked in a number of embassies, he has over the years published books and articles expounding some of the less savoury things that have gone on in parts of the world where news appears not to filter through to the mainstream.

I have, with his permission, agreed to circulate this, along with many others, so that the numerous attempts to hack his site which have taken place over the last 3 days do not smother what he is saying.  In fact they should be seen only as confirming this is something that is part of the British government’s policy in order to railroad through the “Snooper’s Charter” giving backdoor access to pretty much everything.  

This is not a hoax, this is not about national security as it affects the general public this is about control and who exercises it and how much they wish to do so.  Orwell couldn’t have drafted it all better himself.  But this is not fiction and that should chill anyone interested in liberty and justice.

Five Reasons the MI6 Story is a Lie

by craig on June 14, 2015 10:06 am

The Sunday Times has a story claiming that Snowden’s revelations have caused danger to MI6 and disrupted their operations. Here are five reasons it is a lie.

1) The alleged Downing Street source is quoted directly in italics. Yet the schoolboy mistake is made of confusing officers and agents. MI6 is staffed by officers. Their informants are agents. In real life, James Bond would not be a secret agent. He would be an MI6 officer. Those whose knowledge comes from fiction frequently confuse the two. Nobody really working with the intelligence services would do so, as the Sunday Times source does. The story is a lie.

2) The argument that MI6 officers are at danger of being killed by the Russians or Chinese is a nonsense. No MI6 officer has been killed by the Russians or Chinese for 50 years. The worst that could happen is they would be sent home. Agents’ – generally local people, as opposed to MI6 officers – identities would not be revealed in the Snowden documents. Rule No.1 in both the CIA and MI6 is that agents’ identities are never, ever written down, neither their names nor a description that would allow them to be identified. I once got very, very severely carpeted for adding an agents’ name to my copy of an intelligence report in handwriting, suggesting he was a useless gossip and MI6 should not be wasting their money on bribing him. And that was in post communist Poland, not a high risk situation.

3) MI6 officers work under diplomatic cover 99% of the time. Their alias is as members of the British Embassy, or other diplomatic status mission. A portion are declared to the host country. The truth is that Embassies of different powers very quickly identify who are the spies in other missions. MI6 have huge dossiers on the members of the Russian security services – I have seen and handled them. The Russians have the same. In past mass expulsions, the British government has expelled 20 or 30 spies from the Russian Embassy in London. The Russians retaliated by expelling the same number of British diplomats from Moscow, all of whom were not spies! As a third of our “diplomats” in Russia are spies, this was not coincidence. This was deliberate to send the message that they knew precisely who the spies were, and they did not fear them.

4) This anti Snowden non-story – even the Sunday Times admits there is no evidence anybody has been harmed – is timed precisely to coincide with the government’s new Snooper’s Charter act, enabling the security services to access all our internet activity. Remember that GCHQ already has an archive of 800,000 perfectly innocent British people engaged in sex chats online.

5) The paper publishing the story is owned by Rupert Murdoch. It is sourced to the people who brought you the dossier on Iraqi Weapons of Mass Destruction, every single “fact” in which proved to be a fabrication. Why would you believe the liars now?

There you have five reasons the story is a lie.


Binky got up from the chair in the sitting room and swaggered into the kitchen.  There can have been few more inappropriate pet names than the one that adorned the large marmalade coloured blob that then squawked demandingly at Martin.  The latter attempting, unsuccessfully, to eat his cornflakes quietly so as not to enrage the church bell that seemed to be going off in his head.  Binky had been so named by Bonnie, Martin’s daughter before she had been taken away by her mother to live with Steve the plumber.

Bonnie loved the cat and the cat reciprocated.  She had constantly wandered around the house with Binky in her arms affixed like a ridiculously oversized brooch.  The animal had always been a little standoffish with other people but when Bonnie had left it had acquired a genuinely malevolent temper.  This had manifested itself in amongst other things lacerating Martin’s toes should they stick out of the bed, or lurking near the top of the stairs and feigning affection in an attempt to send Martin headlong down.  People had told Martin not to be so stupid when he had said that the cat was looking for revenge, but he knew, and Binky knew he knew.

It wasn’t that Binky expressly disliked Martin but his little friend had gone and someone had to bear the brunt of his anger.  Martin was now the only one in the house and was thus subjected to whichever of the random acts of violence the ginger fiend felt like mooting out.  Martin who had previously felt he was hanging on to at least some semblance of control over things when Bonnie and her mother were around had entirely lost it when it became clear that he was now below even the cat in the pecking order.  Both man and cat had been forced to adapt to a new way of life that had been in neither of their interests nor very much cared for.  The cat’s answer had been to acquire considerable rancour and the consequential menacing behaviour.  Martin’s had been to acquire large quantities of drink and the consequential hangovers, as evidenced today.

Last night had been especially savage, Martin had stayed in the pub until gone 2am and was now going to have to pay the penalty of too little sleep and too much beer.  To make matters worse he had awoken to find Binky sat on his windpipe at stupid o’clock in the morning and the matter had traumatised him sufficiently to not find sleep as restful as before.  This was of course not the first time Binky had attempted to kill him, there had been the aforementioned stairs incident, which had taken some explaining at the hospital.  He had only fallen down 3 steps to the point on the stairs where they turned ninety degrees but he had clattered his head into the wall and when he came to had gone to A&E to ensure he wasn’t suffering from concussion.  After that failed attempt the cat had appeared to curtail operations or at least became more covert and long-term in their planning and subsequent implementation.  Martin couldn’t be sure he hadn’t merely been lucky to have woken up on this particular occasion, Binky indeed seemed livid to be flung about in the flailing of arms of Martin’s panic and clung to the duvet like an angry mongoose, tail fluffed and spiked like a bottlebrush, ears pinned back and eyes as wide as saucers.

Binky for his part had been hungry and food had not been forthcoming in the kitchen from the slovenly idiot in the darkened stench-ridden bedroom.  His attempts at awakening the thing nicely had not worked, he had tried but impending starvation necessitated desperate measures and it was throat or danglies, he figured the former would be the kinder first port of call.  The cat did not understand why the man seemed to look considerably worse after sleeping than he had done prior to doing so.  He let out another yowl, an impeaching sound with the faintest hint of malice, that there would be trouble were it not heeded.  Martin got up and went to the kitchen, focusing on trying to figure out how he might survive the day.

The beleaguered figure at the table turned abruptly and shouted at the animal, banging his fists on the table as he did so before wincing.  Binky shot out of the room into the hallway where he sat with his back to Martin who had resumed his slouch over his cereal.  Both parties knew that Martin would pay for this, the cat took offence at being the scapegoat for the man’s hangover and Martin who was not at heart a cruel man recognised that Binky was not at fault for his predicament, not on this occasion.

Martin decided that as a piece offering he would put down a nice piece of fish.  He also needed to tackle the litter tray to clean things up, a job he had been trying to avoid for some days.  Binky had earlier decided that a dirty protest was in order and as well as the stench that pervaded the kitchen there had been some offerings near the entry to the hatch of the covered loo.  Martin had been in a state of disrepair when he had returned that night and staggered around with his face buried in his jacket to mitigate the appalling odour whilst he fumbled for some air freshener.  He had no intention of changing the mog bog again whilst battered.  It had taken over an hour to purge up the mess of the last well-meaning attempt and Binky had not taken kindly to the lack of facilities whilst Martin crawled around on his hands and knees bleaching the floor.

Martin took another handful of painkillers which had been prescribed for his chronic toothache some time ago and slugged them down with his coffee.  The doorbell rang.  He went to answer it and saw his daughter standing the other side of the frosted glass.  Martin had not realised the time and immediately stood up straighter and combed his hair back with his fingers.  He opened the door and there was Bonnie, a crooked smile on her face that suggested she knew exactly the dichotomy of her parental state and wished to please both camps.  Sarah shouted from the car parked right outside the gate.  “Don’t be long Bon-Bon remember we’re off for Laser Bowl and Pizza.”  That was low Martin thought, the bitch, Bonnie loved laser bowl, Martin had taken her there when she was seven and they’d had a wonderful father daughter afternoon returning flushed from laughing and bonded.  Sarah had sulked when they had got back all smiles and had insisted joining them the next time.  As far as Martin was concerned the woman was able to suck the very life out of a room, she could turn vibrant colour into monochrome and rosy cheeks to pasty-faced.  The  next laser bowl had been considerably flatter and they had been seldom since despite Bonnie’s pleading.

Bonnie came into the house, she was as pleased to see her father as she was the cat who ran down the stairs on recognition of her voice.  Binky’s countenance had changed immediately, Martin had largely forgotten that the cat could purr, he had not heard it for some time save for the rare moments of tenderness when the cat’s depression seemed to reluctantly require some comfort.  Now here he was winding himself in and out of Bonnie’s legs and raising himself to his hind legs so as to rub against her outstretched hand.  He froze briefly when he saw the cat basket.  That had meant trouble before, that had meant visiting that wanker who was obsessed with his arse and sticking needles into him, not to mention the subsequent poisoning of his food for weeks with those disgusting white tablets which he had to spit out when no-one was looking.  Binky had learnt the hard way not to do so when anyone was on hand as the first time they had wrapped him in a towel and rammed the thing down his gullet, it had been an experience the whole family wished to forget.  Bonnie had cried, Sarah barked at Martin to stop pissing about and get on with it and Binky had spat and hissed as if he were being violently abused, which from his perspective he had.  He had then shot up the stairs and under Bonnie’s bed where she had spent the next half an hour trying to coax him out.

The cat basket had been drugged accordingly and the scent of catnip wafting enticingly drew Binky trance-like toward it.  Bonnie put the front grill on whilst the cat rolled around on the floor of it covering himself in little green seeds.  She watched him for a few moments before turning back to her father.  “Are you ok Daddy?” she asked “do you miss me?” she had added quickly.  Martin nearly welled up, he couldn’t really tell her that without his daughter his life lacked any meaning or direction, that the pain of losing her had robbed him of the very reason for being, that he would rather not be at all if the alternative was not being with her.  It wouldn’t be fair he thought, she couldn’t understand.  Bonnie had a comfortable home now, he hated Sarah but on the whole he did not doubt her maternal instincts, and Steve the plumber had seemed a pleasant bloke in the week he had known him before he became the adulterous git that had been the final nail in the coffin for him and his wife.  Bonnie was best off out of it, this area was full of half feral kids anyway, thieving little swines, and the local school was just a haven for their criminal activities.  He had always wanted to protect Bonnie from that and the irony of the fact that the removing her from him had done just that was not lost on him.  “I’m fine sweetie, don’t you worry., and of course I miss you, you know that.”  He hoped she’d accept the platitude.  “How’s your new school?” he asked “Have you made friends?”  Bonnie nodded brightly.  The car outside honked. “I have to go Daddy, Mummy will get cross if I don’t, will I see you soon?” “I’m always with you my love, you know that, even when you can’t see me I’m watching over you and I always will be don’t you worry about that” Martin embraced the girl tightly.  He knew there was no chance in Sarah agreeing to let him see Bonnie with any regularity without a court battle which he could not afford.  The cow had told him that if he handed over the house she might consent to some visitation but agreeing would leave him homeless and her with the house which she’d never even liked and she already had Steve’s nice 3 bedroom semi in the far more salubrious Malton 50 miles away.  Sarah held all the cards and Martin’s only bargaining chip to coax Sarah into letting Bonnie return now and again had been the creature now in the box ready to depart.

Bonnie had recently implored him to let Binky come and live with her because she missed him so much and he could not refuse.  He had never been able to, she had wound him round her little finger when she was a day old and not unwound him since.  Sarah didn’t even like bloody cats but she knew what Binky meant as well as he did.  Bonnie picked up the basket and asked her father if he wanted to say goodbye.  Martin knelt down and looked in as Binky’s paw came through the grate and waggled around looking for something to claw.  Martin felt it was an appropriate parting, his claws had not even been properly out, more of a friendly attempt to wound for old times sake, Martin smiled, the little bastard, be strange not to have him around.

A sudden wave of melancholy hit him which he desperately stifled as Bonnie kissed him and walked out of the front door.  Waving goodbye he kept the smile from the gravitational pull of the sadness and nausea inside.  He wanted Bonnie to remember him as he was not what he had been becoming.  Shutting the door and going to the sitting room he slumped into the sofa.  It was beginning, he could feel the narcosis, not long now.  He picked up the small bottle of barbiturates on the coffee table next to him, looked at the label briefly and took the thirteen that remained.

Song Of The Day ~ Phoenix 23 – It’s a Blast