Yeah, I know, they’re pretty pathetic, but I find them amusing. In reality though I can remember being born. I have this clear impression of pressure all around me and then suddenly light and noise. It is an extremely clear feeling and memory. It has been with me even before I knew what a memory was or knew what being born was. I have no idea why I do remember it so vividly. I have never known of anyone else who remembers being born.

My next memory is of being carried on my Nanny’s back. My Nanny was a Zulu and it is their tradition to carry their babies strapped securely on their backs in a blanket. I would be taken for walks like this rather than in the stroller. I can remember being bounced on her back and her and the other neighbourhood Nannies meeting at the corner for a chat and a laugh. My memory is of being safe and warm and, in my half asleep state, I found their loud chatter somewhat comforting.

To go along with my memory of being born I have a memory of dieing. As a small child I was extremely ill. Things became so bad that my parents were persuaded to allow the doctor to administer a new experimental drug. At the lowest part of my illness I remember seeing the painting that hung on the wall opposite my bed begin to get smaller and smaller as I experienced the sensation of falling backwards into a large void and seemingly floating in that blackness until I slowly began to rise up towards a white light that grew bigger and bigger as the painting had grown smaller and smaller.

Once the drug began to work its magic I awoke, back in my room, the painting its normal size. It was only many years later, when reading of near death experiences, that I realised how close I had been to dieing. The doctors had said at the time that without the drug I would have died. Interestingly only one in every ten children who were given that drug survived and it was eventually taken off the market. I was lucky.

I hated school and do not have many happy memories of those days. I grew up in a time when teachers thought sadism was a prerequisite for maintaining discipline in class. As I got older though I hoped for three with the cane rather than a 6 page essay. The pain from the caning would be over in minutes and the welts would provide bragging rights. A 6 page essay took the best part out of an afternoon’s play.

There were a few positives. The time that I won the prize for English. The downside was that no one was there to be proud of me. My father had left us many years before and probably was in a drunken stupor the night I collected my prize. My mother was out on a ‘date’. The book I won is still somewhere among my possessions.

I was a good swimmer and saved Nigel Timson’s life. He was a first year and could not swim. He had been punished by the prefects and told to swab the pool surrounds after an afternoon of swimming practice. He was lucky that I was still practicing my diving when he fell into the deep end of the pool. I got a mention in assembly and a bravery award at the end of term prize giving. I never received any thanks from Nigel or his family.

I did not study further after school. I decided that more could be gained from earning a living. Banking was a good profession and I was fortunate to get a position in a Merchant Bank. If truth be told I was not a very good banker. The highpoint of my career was allowing a client to withdraw considerably more than was held in their account. Fortunately that incident did not end my banking career, but a subsequent call up to do National Service did.

Considering my dislike of the imposed disciplines of school and banking, I loved the army. The training period was hell, but I enjoyed every muscle straining minute of it. I was promoted to lance corporal in that brief time and for once I felt my life had meaning. Unfortunately my army career was to be extremely short. After basics I was deployed straight to the front line and within a week of being there I was wounded. We were still in base camp when the enemy attacked us. They threw a grenade into our tent. I was the only one to survive.

I am diagnosed as being in a vegetative state, but cannot tell them otherwise. I have endured this living hell for more than half my life. Every morning I am sat in the same chair and my legs covered with a rug. My eyes stare at the wall opposite. On the wall is a calendar. I am grateful that the staff religiously turn over to the new month so that at the beginning of each month I have a picture to bank into my memory. Every day I stare at the calendar and pray that today is the day I see it get smaller and smaller as I fall backwards into the abyss.

The coach eventually came to a stop in a cloud of dust outside The Welcome Inn. The overnight rest and the fine meal that awaited him would indeed be welcome, but he knew that his arrival would not be. The proprietor of The Welcome Inn stepped out just in time to catch the Reverend’s dusty valise which the driver had thrown down from the top of the coach and for the Reverend Abernathy to confirm his suspicions by observing the surely look on the proprietors face.

“Good afternoon.” said the Reverend jovially “It’s good to see you again.”

“I hope you will not be stopping long this time?” The tone of the proprietor’s voice and demeanour clearly announcing his displeasure at this unwelcome visit. “You were unsuccessful last time as you shall be again this time.”

The proprietor was an atheist. A rather rare breed for the times and steadfastly refused to honour the Reverend with any tithes which required him to acknowledge the Reverend as God’s servant on earth. As steadfastly as the proprietor refused to pay the tithes, the Reverend Abernathy was determined to change the proprietors mind and claim his dues.

“Perhaps you will do me the honour of supping with me tonight so that I might be given the opportunity of changing your mind.” His invitation was met with a grunt of acceptance and the Reverend followed the proprietor to the room for some much needed rest and to freshen up before dinner.

Dinner was, as usual, a protracted affair and the arguments flowed back and forth over several courses of the Welcome Inn’s finest fare and the best part of two bottles of brandy. The proprietor’s wife fussed over the Reverend with her usual hospitality. She did not share her husband’s views, but unfortunately had no control over financial matters, the least she could do was ensure the Reverend a comfortable stay.

Eventually, realising the futility of any further argument Reverend Abernathy made the following suggestion. “If I were able to provide you with irrefutable proof of the Lord’s existence would you agree to paying all the tithes owed to the church?”

The proprietor thought for a few seconds and then said. “Yes. Yes I would, but the proof must be indisputable.”

“Excellent! I will send for my instruments in the morning.”

“Your instruments? Why would you need instruments?”

“Well, obviously, in order for you to meet The Good Lord, you will need to die.” The proprietors mouth gaped in disbelief. “However I must warn you” said the Reverend “there is one small caveat.”

“Of course there would be.” smirked the proprietor. “We both know that in such a situation you could not be proved wrong, but I could be proved right.”

“Not at all. My caveat is that should you have not lead a pious enough life it might not be my sweet Lord that you meet on the other side, but….”

With that the proprietor stood up and stormed out of the dining room. The Reverend Abernathy slowly sipped the last of his brandy and went off in search of some well earned rest.

The next morning the Reverend Abernathy rose early and headed for the dining room to enjoy breakfast. He had a busy morning of tithing ahead of him. As he sat down he noticed a small leather pouch on the table. He opened it to reveal several gold coins and a scrawled note. It read;

Dear Reverend Abernathy

Yours faithfully
Abednigo Smith
Proprietor: The Welcome Inn

He thought that a quick Google search on “Creative Writing” would do the trick. And it did. The Google epiphany was that writers seem to use a stimulus. A piece of music, a song, a picture. Some writers collected antique postcards and used the pictures and the messages to get the creative juices flowing.

This got Jim thinking. What would be powerful enough to work on his imagination. What would get his creative juices to bubble like lava flowing from a volcano? Perhaps the drive to Bristol tomorrow for the Jameson meeting would provide some inspiration. Bristol. Bristol? That was it. Stonehenge.

He loved Stonehenge.  That’s it. Tomorrow he would leave early and do a little detour to the stones. He hated that he could not touch the stones so his mission would be to do so. He just knew that touching the stones would be his inspiration. Getting over the boundary ropes and passed the security guards would be a small problem to overcome that he would think about during the drive tomorrow.

The drive to Stonehenge went well. He hit the morning mist about 3 miles before he arrived. He paid the entrance fee and walked toward the stones. There was not much to see. The mist was a thick grey that the autumn sun would not burn off for ages. Surprisingly there were already a number of tourists wandering around half blind in the mist. Jim was able to make out the people just slightly better than the stones nestling temptingly a few yards beyond the barrier ropes.

He walked along the path a little more until there were no more ghostly outlines and only the stones stood out against the mist. This was his chance. He casually stepped over the rope and headed for the nearest stone. It was much bigger than he imagined, towering above him like a giant branchless redwood. He put out his hand and slowly touched the stone with his fingertips.

It was cold as he imagined it to be. This close the mist could not hide the mottled blue grey roughness. He hugged the stone putting his arms around it. He wanted to feel the stone against his cheek. He nestled his cheek against the stone it did not feel good. The cold roughness was not conducive to nestling. He smiled at the image forming in his mind.

“Hey! Hey! Get away from there. Did you not read the sign?”

Jim woke from his reverie. “Sorry officer.” he said, backing away from the stone and onto the path again trying desperately not to sound sarcastic. The sun had gained enough strength to begin burning away the mist revealing the stones in all their magnificence. Jim looked at his watch. He would need to hurry if he was going to make the meeting on time.

He marvelled at the powerful beauty of the stones as they emerged all around while he headed for the exit. Swirling around in his head now were images of the great Stonehenge sitting coldly in the morning mist. Druids in flowing robes waiting patiently for the solstice sun. Human sacrifice. Celebration. Lovers. Lovers to be sacrificed. Together. Together at the end and forever. Chieftains. Rivals. A volcano. A bubbling flow of lava.

The beauty that surrounded me while soaring gently and quietly through the air, always made me think of Carol waiting faithfully for me at home. I know that Carol always worried when I flew, but she never let on. She had kept the fear to herself, not wanting me to be distracted in any way. She knew from the beginning that I loved flying and never interfered, and I loved her all the more for it. It was always in these quite moments that I chose to spiritually have her join me here.

The weather was warm and the resultant thermals were slowing my rate of descent. I was confident that I would make the runway easily and so was happy for my mind to wander around the hills and vales of my life rather than concentrate on those below me. I had flown many times and felt completely in control of this environment which was at once both natural and unnatural.

I was thrown from my reverie by the sight of a large bank of dark cloud directly ahead of me over the expanse of forest that announced my approach to the runway. If there was rain there as well, then controlling my descent could prove difficult.

I suddenly became aware of a feeling of being where I did not belong. Man was not meant to fly and seemed to be the only creature that couldn’t fly that had any great ambitions to do so. Aircraft were designed to counter the forces of nature which constantly construed to remind us that our place was on the ground. It was these forces of nature that were now construing to bring me down and I would have to use all my resources to get me over the beckoning trees.

It was quite dark under the clouds and with it my once sunny mood completely disappeared. I had no time for self pity though as all my faculties were now directed in keeping us in the air for the few minutes required to reach the runway. The controls felt sluggish and the craft unresponsive to my desires, responding more to the forces of gravity pulling us inexorably towards the earth.

Suddenly, through the haze of rain and cloud I could see in the distance the runway lights, but as I felt and heard the tips of some of the taller trees scraping underneath me I realised that even that small distance was too great and that I was not going to make it. I was going to have to land in the forest and a forest was not the place to try and land a crippled Boeing 737.

Roddy used to sit at the back of the class with the naughty boys. Roddy wasn’t naughty. He was fat and a little nerdy, but he learned early on in his school career that palling up to the bad boys was his insurance against bullying. Jack, Kev and Pauly, who sat at the back with him, were not only his friends, but his protector. They took pride in that, having saved him, on many occasions, from the menaces of the local school bullies.

One other, very important, advantage of sitting at the back of the class was that Roddy had an unrestricted view of Abigail Mortimer albeit a view of her beautifully straight back and pigtails. Roddy was completely and absolutely in love with her. He had hardly said more than a few words to her despite having shared a class with her for three years. She was out of his league and he could never imagine her being interested in him. If he couldn’t be her boyfriend then being able to look at her back, whenever he wanted, would have to do.

He never let on to The Three Musketeers (his nickname for them) that he liked Abigail. It would only have resulted in ribbing from his friends probably accompanied by some good natured application of pain on his person. Despite the fact that the application of pain might be good natured it would still be pain so he took the appropriate action to avoid it.

Jack, Kev and Pauly looked after Roddy, but that didn’t extend to their social life. Roddy was forever trying to get them to invite him to do whatever it was that they did for fun outside of school hours, but it never happened. Roddy decided that he would try and get them to hang out with and him, but all invitations were usually dismissed with some sort of snide accusations about his manhood. He was pleasantly surprised when, uncharacteristically, they accepted his invitation to come to an Astronomy club meeting with him. Perhaps the fact that he promised them UFOs had something to do with it.

It was a beautifully clear night made for star gazing. Roddy prayed that there would be a few shooting stars or a passing satellite that he could pass off as a UFO. He and The Three Musketeers would not be disappointed. His three pals enjoyed the talk given by the Science Teacher who told them about all the current space explorations taking place around the world. After the talk there was tea in the quad and telescope time.

Roddy and the boys were standing around talking about Mars probes while peering into the night sky when suddenly, to Roddy’s great relief, there was the tell-tale streak of a shooting star. “Look a UFO!” shouted Pauly. The four watched transfixed as the “UFO” seemed to go behind Town Hill at which precise moment they heard a muffled crash coming from the direction of the hill.

“Oh my God!” Yelled Jack and Roddy together. They looked at each other and without a further word all four rushed out, climbed on their bikes and rushed off to Town Hill. As they got closer they saw a small fire on the side of the hill. The school side of the hill was very steep and there were no houses there. It was unlikely that many people would have seen or heard the UFO crash. On seeing the fire they pedalled even faster. When they got closer to the spot they realised that it was no UFO crash site, but a car. They could see two passengers.

Fearing that the small fire could spread and engulf the car the four jumped off their bikes and ran to the car. Kev and Jack on the driver’s side and Roddy and Pauly to the passenger side. Roddy got there first, looked inside and his heart skipped a beat.

“Abigail?” he blurted. “Quickly! Let’s get them out!” he screamed. They worked the buckled doors and eventually got them open and the passengers out. Abigail and her mother were alive, but unconscious.

“See if there are any blankets in the boot.” said Roddy before jumping on his bike and riding to the nearest house to call for an ambulance.

The boys were hailed as heroes and their pictures appeared in the morning paper.  Abigail and her mother were not that badly injured, but needed hospitalisation. The boys visited them every day, Roddy keeping them all in stitches with his jokes and funny stories.

Soon the novelty of being heroes wore off for the Three Musketeers and only Roddy continued to visit Abigail and her mom. The nurses said that it was the laughter that helped them to recover so quickly.

At the end of one his visits Abigail’s mom said that they were being discharged the next day so he would not have to visit them again. “You have been so good to us you must come for dinner” she said.

“Yes. On Sunday.” Abigail chipped in quickly.

“Yes. Sunday.” said Abigail’s mom with a little smile.