Where do these silly expressions come from, nobody knows.
Where are the happy news stories? Do people only love depressing news or is it merely the journalists who think this. Personally a nice quiet life full of love and happiness does it for me.
Lady approached me in my corner cafe this morning. “You’re the famous author.”
“Well not famous yet.”
“Down here you are. I’m also a writer and playwright.”
“Maybe we should get together and you can write the film script!”
Well of course we all dream which is what life is all about.
Yes they’re all the rage.
Luna has her own unique take on dealing Tarot cards to give her friends a reading into the future
Heather stood at the back high enough to see over the heads of the others, picking out the heads she knew and the one that she desired. Love could be a wonderful experience, if the novels in her bookcase were anything to go by, although she had not yet had the full experience yet. Well from her side she had, but it was all in her mind as she lay sleepless at night dreaming of romantic candlelit dinners.
But it seemed as if the object, sorry person, of her love was oblivious of her, despite all her efforts to be noticed. Maybe he was also shy and not versed in the ways of true love. In fact, he was the reason she was standing here in the first place.
She had met him in the local café where he sat in a corner, nursing a large cappuccino, huddled in front of his laptop. Well ‘met’ was probably too strong a word, she had passed him and said “Hello,” and he had muttered something but that may have been at something on his screen. Hiding behind a newspaper she had snapped a picture of him engrossed in his work, which she had blown up and was now hanging in her bedroom.
She heard the barista greeting him one morning, after she had set her alarm early to catch better look at him. Paul was definitely the man of her dreams, tight chinos showing off his athletic legs, chest hugging blue shirt, highlighting his toned torso and a brilliant smile as he greeted his server. Once he had gone she quickly got up for a refill.
“He’s a bit of a dish, isn’t he?”
“Yes too good looking for his own good,” replied the barista. “Bit wrapped up for me though.”
Not me, thought Heather. He must either live locally or a least work in the area, she’d have to keep her eye out for him. She soon spotted him carrying a small good quality box, with gold lettering on the side. She noted the word Altus, there would be a clue on the internet.
Which indeed there was. Altus was the high end manufacturer of musical instruments and, by the size of Pauls case, probably a flute. So maybe the evening outings she had seen him going to, were for an orchestral rehearsal. Her next investigation showed that there would be a classical concert highlighting Hans Rott’s works at the Royal Albert Hall in the summer.
Heather had been interested in music but had never mastered the violin or piano, although her drum work and rhythm were excellent. Looking up Hans Rott she found that his Symphony in E major had extensive use of the triangle, maybe this was her way of getting close to Paul. Being in the audience wouldn’t do at all. There was a music shop in the High Street, where to the amusement of the sales assistant, she purchased the best one he had.
“So what are you darlin’, the new wave of music?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I could teach you a thing or two,” he said, with a leering wink. “It’s George by the way,” holding out a hand.
“No thank you,” said Heather, ignoring the proffered hand. “I have had enough of sexual predators. Thank you.”
“Predators could teach you lots.”
Heather walked out before he could grab her, which she thought was his intention, She could imagine his overfamiliar arms reaching around her, whilst teaching her the triangle. No she would and indeed did, learn everything from YouTube, until she had mastered the complex rhythms required.
Now all she had to do was get into the orchestra. Life was full of opportunities and as luck would have it a small article about a car crash mentioned that the victim had been a member of the orchestra and that she was the lead proponent of playing the triangle. Thrilled that she had a chance to fulfil the dream of getting close to Paul, she rang the leader of the orchestra to see if they had already filled the part.
“I’m sorry but we are thinking of dropping that symphony, as without an expert player the movement is very flat.”
“I have mastered that sequence, give me 5 minutes and I could show you.”
“Well, it would save us having to reprint the programme,” he said. “Five minutes, no more, come over at 5pm.”
Heather arrived early, almost too eager but after her recital was delighted to be accepted.
She joined in the rehearsals and excelled at her role and had even had a few words with Paul, mostly about music and his flute. The only fly in the ointment was the boy, George from the music shop, who was also part of the orchestra and kept trying to corner her and actively interfered when she was close to Paul.
The big day arrived and she was smartly dressed and full of excitement hoping to finally nab Paul after their triumph. Sitting at the back waiting for the Symphony she watched Paul in his impeccable dinner suit, expertly play his flute, as she daydreamed of what might be.
The time for her performance was upon her. The orchestra played the opening sections of the symphony until the conductor looked at her to ensure she was ready. She had her instrument ready and striker poised, until the conductor pointed at her and with a flamboyant movement signalled her to start.
Instead of the joyous tinkles and dings of the triangle there was just a dull thunking. George turned towards her, grinning like an ape. The rest of the players studiously avoided turning around.
Heather looked at her triangle to find clear Sellotape wrapped around the metal. George stifled a laugh.
The conductor glared at her, turned around, standing on one leg and staring out at the sea of faces, sure that they would understand when he gave a shrug as if to say ‘Look what I have to work with!’
New twist, on an old saying, as robots and computers ‘think’. No they just gather facts and spout them off as if they thought about them.
Until such time as a computer writes an original poem; writes a fictional book or comes up with an original scientific, thoery they are just our puppets.