My First Great Western Adventure

Penzance and beyond without a car? It’s not as Scilly an idea as it sounds (that pun never gets old).

Pregnant wifey and I recently enjoyed a pleasant and entirely car-free week in deepest-darkest-Cornwall, proving quite merrily that the death of public transport has been announced prematurely (you know, over and over again).

Getting there (and back) was a doddle. From Reading to Penzance there are several direct trains a day, taking about 5 ½ hours. Book far enough in advance (about 3 months, although watch the FGW website for announcements about the early release of tickets, which happens around summer/Christmas time) and it’s easy to bag cheap First Class tickets. For about £30 each way we travelled in (relative to Standard!) luxury. The forward planning more than pays off!

Penzance has a stack of B&Bs and a good few places to eat, but if you’re on a budget (or just don’t like eating out all the time) booking a cottage can be a cost-effective way to holiday. You’ll typically get more spacious accommodation including a kitchen so you can make dinners and lunches yourself.

We found it was very nice to have a proper base to return to and relax, rather than the more formal and constricted feeling you get in a hotel or B&B. Plus with cute names like Puffin Cottage who can resist?

How to get around? The 300 bus runs every 2 hours from Penzance bus station (just by the train station) and takes in the delights of Porthcurno (for the telegraph museum, Minack Theatre and a lovely beach), then goes on to the tourist trap at Lands End, or around the bay to Marazion and even up to St Ives. A £6.80 ticket gets you all day travel, with longer tickets available (I think the driver said it was only about £12 for a week!).

Porthcurno is about 45 minutes away on the bus (make sure you sit upstairs on the left-hand side for a seat-of-the-pants ride, just watch out for low-hanging tree branches lest you want an arboreal bitch-slap), including some pretty hair-raising country roads and an impossible feeling climb from Newlyn up away from the coast. We didn’t have the time to check out the Telegraph Museum and tunnels, but the beach is very pretty and the Minack Theatre is a must-see, even if you don’t manage to take in a performance. It also looks to us like Porthcurno would be a great starting point for some stunning coastal walks, either around towards Lands End and Sennen Cove, or perhaps back towards Mousehole.

I call Lands End a tourist trap with good reason and even the local tourist publications suggest giving it a miss! We still thought it was a worthwhile visit though, and it’s only 15 minutes on from Porthcurno on the bus. The scenery makes it worth the trip, but don’t fall for the Lands End publicity suggesting you should make a day of it!

You can still walk out to the headland, but the signpost is now fenced off so photos lack that “stood right by the sign” feeling (unless you’re feeling well off enough to pay the official photographer). Otherwise there’s little more there than a handful of tat-merchants and an incongruous mix of ”feature attractions” (Doctor Who?).

St Ives is what (for some reason) I imagined Penzance would look like, very cute, pretty harbour and quite “boutique-y”. Not sure what the bus journey is like, we took the train (about £3.50 return, a steal!) from Penzance to St Erth and then to St Ives. Be sure to grab a seat on the right-hand side facing the direction of travel for wonderful views of St Ives as the line clings to the side of the Hayle estuary.

And in the harbour we saw a seal! Clever Wifey made sure we did the bulk of our souvenir shopping in St Ives and we came away very pleased, if somewhat weighed down and significantly poorer.

Now the big one (and the source of all the puns). A day trip to the Scilly Isles is easily done from Penzance – however with only 4 hours on land you need to plan ahead! The Scillonian III sails from Penzance harbour every weekday during the summer and only costs £25 if you grab a discount voucher from Tourist Information by the station and buy your tickets the day before (ticket office by the harbour).

It’s an early start, but they do serve suitably greasy looking fare if you can stomach the thought of eating a fry-up at sea. 2 ½ hours out, 2 ½ hours back the journey is as much a part of the experience as the time on St Mary’s is, especially if it’s a little choppy!

While we were there we ate and had a nice walk around the Garrison, part of St Mary’s Island with a long military history. The Scillonian’s onboard shop sells a handy tourist guide (£1) for St Mary’s with this and two other walks on it, any of which are doable in the time available (perhaps two if you don’t dawdle like we did).

The braver among you could book trips to one of the ‘off islands’ – the Scillonian won’t wait too long, but does wait for local trips which are scheduled to connect with the afternoon return sailing.

 

What happens if you miss the boat? Don’t know... Have a go and tell me about it if you’re brave enough.

While you’re in Penzance be sure to check out the local Polgoon farm and vineyard which is about 15 minutes walk from the town centre. They hold tours and tastings on Tuesday-Friday and (most importantly) have a shop selling their yummy wares. The wines and apple juice is available around Cornwall (we had some delicious sparkling Aval Raspberry at The Bakehouse for our anniversary), but this was a souvenir opportunity I wasn’t going to miss.

Speaking of local eateries... The Bakehouse was nice (and handily only a street away from the cottage) although the Monday evening atmosphere was obviously not what we were hoping for on our anniversary. We can also recommend Sophia’s Cafe down on the promenade, which does excellent fish and chips. Captains Fish and Chip takeaway also came highly recommended, though sadly we only discovered that after already having some from the takeaway next to Sophia’s. Unless you’re feeling lucky don’t bother with Gino’s Italian (also on the prom), we did and were underwhelmed.

Our last recommended outing is around the bay from Penzance to Marazion and St Michael’s Mount. Sadly the weather broke for us the day we went, but it had been pretty good up to that point so we’re not going to complain. We walked around, following the coastal path (starts behind the bus station – look out for the signs as it’s not too obvious) and walking down the beachfront alongside the railway, past the heliport (who were probably far happier to see us *not* flying a kite in their flightpath).

When we went the tides meant we weren’t able to walk across, but it is possible at low tide to walk to St Michael’s Mount. If you can’t, don’t let this put you off! The boats (£1.50 each way) are frequent, fast and fun. When you’re across be prepared for a steep climb (and sadly a steep entry fee – it is National Trust) up the Pilgrims Steps to the castle atop the mount. There are also gardens on the island (a joint ticket is available) which would probably be very nice earlier in the season and without the Atlantic gale blowing wind in people’s faces! Buses are available back to Penzance if you’re tired or, like us, soaked.

So that, in a 1300 word nutshell, was our holiday in recommendation form. We’re now, sadly, back at work and trying to come to terms with the fact that was probably our last holiday as free people. Come January our next adventure starts...

My Baby's Baby

Brace yourselves, it’s a blog entry.

We had an announcement to make. Actually, we’ve had an announcement to make for weeks, but I’ve had to wait until now to say anything as one of wifey’s friend’s needed telling in person, what with it affecting bridesmaid dresses and all that. And then I tweet-booked it and no one noticed. My ego is sorely bruised.

Anyway, introducing:

Personally I’m of the opinion it’s a she. But I’ve have also been telling people I think the picture looks like Tweety Bird, so what do I know?

Let’s cover the basics:

• Due in January. The 10th according to the maternity-math, though going on her parent’s form she’ll be about 10 days late, making her a lovely birthday gift for her northern Nan.
• Yes, planned. Or “knowing you two, it was planned” as my Dad expressed it. Not sure if that’s a compliment or not...
• Yes, I’m the father. Cheeky.

The first trimester went well. For me, at least. Wifey suffered quite a bit, but she’s been living with me for a good few years now and I think she welcomed a different kind of torment.

We’re now well into the second trimester and the nausea’s gone, but tiredness, hunger and my questionable sense of humour have persisted. You’ve got to feel sorry for the poor woman.

According to the best science that one can find in an Android app, my little girl is almost 11cm “from crown to rump”, weighs nearly 90grams and is growing by a third of a centimetre every day. I keep wanting to say “Fatty! Fatty! Fatty!” to her, but I should probably wait until she’s at least born before screwing her life up.

The Agreement

By unspoken agreement the men congregated at the far end of the long conference table, away from the double doors which led out to the offices beyond. Conspiracy breeds paranoia. The doors closed silently behind them and outside a red light came on, a clear signal to those outside (very few at this time of night) of sensitive business being conducted. Inside everyone noticed a slight buzz as an anti-eavesdropping device came to life.

Two of the men, one blond, one balding and both significantly shorter than their guests, were wearing suit jackets which were quickly removed and draped over chairs as they all sat. The suited men were senior partners of the company which owned the building and they leaned comfortably in their high-backed chairs, feeling at ease in this familiar environment.

However they regarded their four guests warily, as if they might at any moment lash out at their hosts. The tall men were all dressed similarly, wearing simple jeans and shirts in different pastel colours, as if their clothing had been bought in bulk from the same store. No better way to disguise danger, the bald suit thought, than to make it look like everything else, stop it from standing out, even if their appearance jarred when compared to their current corporate surroundings.

Three of their visitors intentionally chose seats which allowed them to take in the view that the floor-to-ceiling windows gave them from up on the 43rd floor. Heights didn’t bother them. But even though time on Earth was a rare and expensive thing for off-worlders their rapt fascination with the brightly lit city 120m below them surprised their hosts.

The fourth man however seemed disinterested in the view, disinterested even in the expensive décor of the conference room, the crystal glasses and water-filled pitcher laid out for them. He seemed content to stare intently at the conference table as his fingers ran gently over its smoothly polished surface. He imagined that somewhere outside was someone who’s sole official purpose in life was to keep this table in such wonderful condition. A worthwhile endeavour, he felt.

“So we are in agreement?” The question from the bald suit broke the spell the Chicago skyline had over three of the pastel-shirted men, who all turned to look at the man still quietly studying the fine mahogany table. The question hung in the air until he gave a quiet sigh and asked “How old do you suppose this table is?”

“Shall we focus, please, Mr Spencer?” An edge of impatience was clear in blond suit’s voice and his face briefly flushed red. 6 years of planning, 18 months of courting these… these people. The fourth man continued to gaze down at the table, though one of his colleagues opposite noticed an eyebrow rise slightly at the tone.

“You may communicate to your employer that yes, we have an agreement.” Spencer finally said. Both suits relaxed visibly, the blond one fleetingly glancing at a small camera in the opposite corner of the room. “We will foment and lead a revolution against the new planetary authority and install a government more to our liking. In return for your… sponsorship… your employer will receive preferential,” without looking up from the table he raised a hand to pre-empt an objection from the man in the blond suit, “preferential treatment. We cannot be seen to allow exclusivity if we are to have any kind of legitimacy. You know this.”

The suits said nothing, eventually earning them a look and then a nod. Across the table one of his companions looked at his watch and coughed discretely.

“Very well,” the Spencer continued, his attention now returned to the table. “We will confirm the start date by encrypted message to this email account”. The man who had coughed slid over a piece of paper the size of a business card with some typed characters on, which the bald suit picked up and pocketed without comment.

“We have a spaceship to catch.” A brief smile at the cliché. The four off-worlders stood in unison, catching both suits by surprise. The coughing man, having been sat closest too them, handled quick handshakes with both the blond and bald suits and turned to follow his colleagues from the room.

On his way out the Spencer made a point of running his fingers smoothly down the length of the table. He paused at the door and turned to his guests, still stood in front of their chairs at the other end of the table. “Nice view,” he said and disappeared through the door and out of sight.

Such was modern life, thought the blonde suit as pulled on his jacket, revolutions now begun as business deals - the line between a corporate takeover and dramatic social change increasingly blurred. People said a Martian revolution was looking inevitable, the result of both dissatisfaction and a century of science-fiction literature prompting a peculiar fusion of populous need and populist thought. Life imitating art, on a planetary scale. So, he thought, why not make some money from it?

* * *

A continent away an old man with thinning hair and a carefully trimmed white beard had exactly the same thought as he watched his two assistants leave the conference room.

The Greenhouse

“It’s very bad soil you know,” his mother had said.

It wasn’t that his mother wasn’t right; in fact he was reminded of her words every day when he tramped out of the door of his home and across his bare plot towards the greenhouse - the only green to be seen for miles around.

First he checked a complicated and ramshackle looking machine that was whirring (and occasionally spluttering) by the greenhouse door. He tutted to himself as he brushed a fine layer of dust off the solar panel he had propped up on the south-facing side of the device.

That stuff just gets everywhere no matter how much you try, he thought.

The machinery seemed happy enough for the moment, although it wasn’t vital to the greenhouse. He had once been told that having a higher carbon-dioxide content in the atmosphere was helpful to growing, so he’d begged and borrowed the parts to put together a simple pump to add CO2 to the greenhouse atmosphere. Not much, but enough to make a difference he hoped. It also gave him a headache if he worked inside too long.

He opened and closed the greenhouse’s outer door, entering what he called ‘the airlock’, and picked up his tools - just some rubber gloves and some secateurs for today. He opened and passed through the greenhouse’s inner door, closing it behind him. Outside the CO2 pumped strained at the momentary change in air pressure.

The greenhouse was, by his reckoning (not that he’d ever measured), about 8 metres long and 6 metres wide, taking up most of his plot of land but giving him a much needed warm growing space. He paused inside the door, looking up and down the 4 wide rows of plants for anything obviously out of place.

On the right, the northern side of the greenhouse, was what he hoped would become his tallest crop, the tomatoes. These had started off well as seedlings, but the shock of entering the soil (despite the 2 years he had spent trying every preparatory method he could find) had left them looking pale and stunted.

To the left of them he had a long low miniature greenhouse which ran the full length of the row, under which he had planted a variety of salad leaves. These were doing better than the tomatoes, mostly he suspected due to the extra heat, although he did worry about how much light they were getting. The sun here was always darker than he’d remembered as a child.

The final two rows were a mixture of potatoes, onions, garlic, courgettes and parsnips. How these were developing was difficult to tell and it would be several months until he could harvest his crop and finally see how they’d grown. The topside parts of the plants (like the tomatoes) looked quite unhealthy. Although rather than dying off they still seemed to be growing, if very slowly. He took that as a good sign.

But it was very bad soil. Bone dry, high in peroxides, low in nitrogen and phosphorous. And very, very rocky. It had taken him two months just to pick the rocks, stones and gravel out of the soil.

He went to work, starting with the tomatoes, which needed checking for parasites and then had to be pruned to encourage them to fruit. Parasites were a concern. Much like the dust which seemed to get everywhere, fruit flies and aphids could turn up in the most unlikely of places despite the hostile environment outside and his best efforts to keep them out.

While he checked the plants over he mumbled to himself quietly, feeling contented even as he had to pick off the small bugs which he found under the occasional leaf. What his mother didn’t understand was that this kind of thing could be so satisfying.

He moved onto the salads under the miniature greenhouse. These needed thinning out. He’d overdone the seeds a little. Opening the roof of each section of the miniature greenhouse he moved gradually down the row, gently tugging out the unhealthier looking plants and being careful to shake off as much of the valuable soil as he could.

Two rows down. His back was already sore after several hours of crouching next to the tomatoes and then leaning over the salads. Why did he never remember to start with the shorter plants? And why, he berated himself, did he always forget to bring out that cushion for him to kneel on?

He straightened up with a slow deliberate movement, his hands cradling and then pushing his lower back forwards to stretch it. The sun was beginning to get low, so he’d have to get a move on. He passed out of the greenhouse through the airlock, again making the CO2 pump whine in protest, and quickly stepped inside the house. He re-emerged a moment later carrying the handy square of foam he’d shaped as a cushion to kneel on when he gardened. It didn’t prevent his knees to clicking when he stood up, but it at least kept them clean and stopped the small stones left the soil sticking into them.

Walking back to the greenhouse a movement on his left caught his eye. He looked out towards the horizon. Beyond the crater walls and plastic dome of his home, probably 6-7 miles distant, a lone vehicle was passing over the rocky red soil, stirring up a cloud of dust behind it. Dust that he was sure would soon be inside his home or greenhouse and eventually his lungs…

He paused for a moment, looking out at the desolate landscape around him and still getting the feeling that it was all so alien even after the many years he had lived there. He trudged back into the greenhouse and, kneeling on his cushion, began tending to a patch of potatoes.

Even when he’d tried that one time to explain the sense of satisfaction he got from his work to his mother she just couldn’t get it. Why not tend a garden here on Earth? Things grow fine here! Or why not work in hydroponics if you want to feed people and play with plants? It’s nice and easy and safe! Why do it this way?

It wasn’t simply about the plants or the food or the gardening. It was about sustaining life in the 144 cubic metres of glass-enclosed space around him, inside the clear plastic dome that covered his crater-bordered plot of land, in one of the most inhospitable environments accessible by man. And it was about doing it with as little reliance on the hydroponic sciences as possible. It was about having a greenhouse on Red Mars.

My First Steps

Rather than flailing around for inspiration on this (slightly delayed) writing-night I figured I’d, you know, waffle instead.

I’m choosing to believe that, given the deafening silence that resulted in their posting, that my first two attempts at creative writing since school were critically acclaimed. Don’t worry if that sounds a little needy – they were both useful exercises regardless. But I have a fragile ego as it is dammit. Somebody stroke it. SOMEBODY STROKE IT!

The inspiration behind The Gamblers came seemingly from nowhere while I was washing up. I hope that those of you who read it didn’t see the twist coming too far off. Re-reading it now (for the first time since I wrote it) there are random words I might change here and there, a couple of spots where I’d add 2-3 words to flesh things out or (more likely) give a sentence something approaching proper structure, but nothing I’d change dramatically. The reveal, even though I saw it coming, still made me smile.

The Builder came from a fit of desperation last week and was inspired by one of the paintings we brought back from Hong Kong. Hand painted, yet still showing the same scene as thousands of other paintings (including a second we brought back!), it shows a view across the harbour in Hong Kong, towards the towering skyscrapers on Hong Kong Island.


The piece was originally called The Architect, a name which had a nice resonance to my mind – but then Alison made the observation that it reminded her of The Matrix. Sure enough, there’s apparently a character called The Architect who features in the last 2 films. Hence The Builder, which doesn’t quite sound right, but the main idea behind it is indeed a bit Matrix-y, even if that wasn’t my intent.

Re-reading The Builder I actually quite like the writing technically, the descriptions flow nicely and I was obviously able to use a bit of ‘real life’ detail. 10 kudos points to anyone who knew what the Kehlsteinhaus was without having to look it up. What doesn’t stand up though is the logic behind what happens – the idea is there, but the plot isn’t. Fixing that is mostly a case of developing the humanity bit at the end, give some depth to what changes his mind I think. There’s also some continuity to address – you’d be right to be confused by the end about how many times he’d interfered with Earth’s development, given it varies from a couple to a thousand depending on the paragraph you’re in…

Before I sign off – for the record, the last 10 minutes of the series 8 finale of Scrubs – 10 minutes of the most beautiful TV I’ve ever seen.

The Builder

The bearded man sat quietly on the promenade, enjoying the sun and taking in the view across the harbour. He sat totally unnoticed by the tourists swirling around him. Not even the many hawkers and the supposed “fortune tellers” (who would convince anyone who stood still long enough that they were very lucky and would have many children) disturbed him.

It was the usual problem, he thought. It was almost perfect, but there was something somewhere that felt wrong and so for the thousandth time he’d just have to change it all again.

He blinked his eyes and in a flash it was night. The lights from the sky scrapers of Hong Kong Island lit up the harbour. The irregular twinkle of flash bulbs from Victoria Peak was visible next to the massive stark white profile of the IFC Two building, visitors capturing the view. Always best, he remembered, to see things in all seasons, all lights, all conditions. Something amiss at one time of day could become a glorious jewel in the right conditions. And time… Time can make such beauty. But time can also make fools of us all, a thought which brought a smile as he remembered his age.

The dazzling vista reassured him a little, but at the same time made the bearded man feel melancholy. His role in this world was one of creation. He had come into consciousness when the planet had formed from the dust orbiting around the sun and he had been on Earth ever since, subtly leading the planet’s evolution. He had a feeling he had existed long before the Earth took solid form, but no memories earlier than his first moments floating amongst the primordial soup that would form the basis of future life.

Over the millennia he had taken many forms. A turtle watching prehistoric man in northern Australia painting cave walls, then a cat in ancient Egypt watching the building of the Sphinx, then a lynx in the German Alps watching the construction of the Kehlsteinhaus.

Throughout that whole time he’d known himself by a simple name. The Builder. And much like the builders who constructed buildings in the cramped space available on the waterfront opposite him he knew that to create, you first had to destroy. Make space.

He knew that simply by focusing his mind he could make everything around him would stop. He had done it many times, sometimes just for fun. The world would smoothly come to a halt. People frozen mid-step, birds hanging motionless in the air and fruit falling from trees caught in a strange limbo.

Then the people would disappear. They always went first. When they were gone everything just seemed that much… he struggled to find the right word. “Tidier” seemed appropriate, if a little cold. The people who had previously been noisily milling around him on the promenade would fade from sight, passing from existence with whatever inane face they were holding for the camera-wielding friend.

From there it depended on his mood. Sometimes he felt like an engineer of some kind and he would focus on the mechanics, starting by draining away the water. He could make the harbour in front of him drain dry in minutes, the boats and fish held in place by some unseen force. Had people still been around they would have been able to dispense with paying for the Star Ferry or MTR and make the journey from the Kowloon Peninsula to the Island on foot.

Then the buildings would go. He could have the 72 floors of the Bank of China Tower crumble into dust that would then be carried away invisibly by the wind in a three millionth of the time it had taken to build it.

Taking away the flora and fauna of the world, a trivial mental exercise, would leave before him a simple landscape he could sculpt at will. He could rejoin the island to the mainland, or turn all of south-east Asia into a series of small islands, before reintroducing life to the planet. He’d worked through this landscaping exercise many, many times before. To his mind Italy was his favourite creation.

He made his plans as the world continued around him, as unaware of him as he was of them. One of these days he’d have to rethink his whole approach. Did he need to re-run the whole human evolutionary process? He’d only done that once. The previous attempt hadn’t been much different from the current Homo sapiens, but had been far more prone to violence. That knowledge had carried him through some of Homo sapiens more troubling periods.

Maybe it was time. Interfere a little at the early primate stage perhaps. He’d read that scientists had recently dug up a primate fossil in Germany, so he’d start there. It amused him to make his plans based on “current” affairs.

Or truly clean the slate, start the experiment again. Experiment? Was it really an experiment? Not a responsibility? He’d had no brief when he started. Until now his objective had simply been to achieve perfection. But was that actually achievable?

He looked around, his eye caught by a family walking past; two parents preceded by a pushchair, the child asleep. Suddenly the man’s mood changed and he felt his heart soften, only to be followed by a moment of disappointment. He’d had a sense of resolve, but it had been easily broken by the simplest of human activities. He looked away, only to find he was sat next to a young couple holding each other while they quietly looked out across the harbour.

No, how could he follow through on his plan now? For all the bad in the world, surely there was more good? So what was wrong? Something had caught his eye, something amiss, something needed his attention. He looked carefully again and slowly realised. Was it that simple? Had he nearly reversed millions of years of evolution for… a broken bulb in a streetlamp? He twitched the right side of his mouth and the streetlamp sprang back into life, startling a cat that had been skulking through the darkness. A small patch of dark hillside filled with a little light. That felt better.

But what of humanity? This was the longest he’d gone without making any dramatic changes to the world and its inhabitants. Would this evolutionary route prove to be the right one? Would it achieve perfection? It was impossible to tell.

But he had time. He would be there to see. And if not…

The Gamblers

Across a low square table four pairs of eyes jerk around suspiciously, each watching the others for any sign of deceit or foul-play. Hands clutch cards close to chests. There have already been several loud accusations of cheating made, each dealt with by an independent adjudicator, resulting in nothing more than bruised egos. But everyone knows it is only a matter of time before the consequences become more serious and decidedly final.

Were the card players aware of anything beyond the probing expressions and careful movements of their opponents, they would note the distant sound of classical music, sometimes clearly, sometimes muffled, coming through the half-open door from the adjacent kitchens.

Studying their current accommodation they would assume that it typically served as an activity room of some kind. Or perhaps even a gym, given the paraphernalia which had earlier that day been scattered across the floor and since pushed unceremoniously to the room’s four walls to accommodate the game.

One of the room’s pale blue walls has a series of windows through which the sun is attempting to pour, hampered only partly by some half-drawn red curtains, catching the dust in the air and creating shafts of warm light which attract a small ginger cat looking for somewhere to nap. Periodically a car drives down the tree-lined street outside, the noise intruding on the game abruptly and making one of the card players look up nervously until it passes to his opponents barely concealed annoyance.

Opposite the kitchens is a further entrance, this one leading down a narrow magnolia walled passageway to a large wooden door. Through here the card players will eventually, one by one, make the walk of shame to waiting transportation. Stopping perhaps to agree future meetings with their hosts, while their drivers wait impatiently.

But awareness of their surroundings comes second to careful observation of their opponents. The only pronounced movement in the room is the cat, shifting occasionally to follow the sun across the floor.

The four card players sit, almost stock still, around the green plastic table. The game has reached a crucial point. Money is not a concern; the real stake here is respect. Reputation. For the winner the chance to laud it over his opponents, to brag about the victory amongst friends and peers, to enjoy all the social benefits success brings. For the unfortunates who will not win, the sole concern is avoiding significant loss of face.

Three pairs of eyes study the face of the fourth card player. Their right hands grip their cards while their left hands sit firmly palm down on the table in front of them, an important rule imposed by the adjudicator earlier in the game in the face of vigorous objection, but which will be observed to the letter by each player lest it be counted against them when arguing some future dispute.

The fourth player scrutinises his opponents one by one, his collar loose, his top stained faintly by an already forgotten spill received during the strained yet polite buffet they had endured before the game began. He lifts his left hand from the table and begins to carefully pull a single card from the selection in his right. Opposite a player's left arm twitches, his left hand moving almost imperceptibly, only to be returned to its place on the table by the stares of six observant and distrustful eyes.

The single card begins its journey towards the table. All four card players know this will be important, though not even the player holding the card will know how important until it is on the table and his left hand safely removed from the field of play. Carefully the card settles on a pile of cards that had sat, studiously undisturbed until now, in the middle of the table. The fourth player's left hand briefly covers the card, denying all four a view.

The hand begins to lift, pausing bare millimetres above the card it has just deposited on the table. Four backs straighten. Four breaths are held. Four pairs of eyes stare at the hand, as if through sheer concentration alone they will see through it. Suddenly the hand drops back down.

"SNAP!"

“Cheater!”

“MUM HE CHEATED!”

“No see two monkeys!”

"You cheated you should move your hand so we can see!"

"I did I moved it plenty!"

“Cheat cheat cheat!”

"MUUUUUM HE CHEATED AGAIN HE DIDN'T MOVE HIS HAND ENOUGH!"

"See I moved it up like that you can see it fine see!"

"MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!"