CONFETTI......

Once, upon answering the telephone, I encountered a voice on the other end that had sounded very agitated. It belonged to Frank Cunningham who ran a very large architects’ office in the town of Mayfair, Tasmania.

‘I have received several complaints from my client, the Crown Reception Centre. Your vinyl flooring is no good. There are black spots appearing everywhere!’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Frank. What kind of spots are they actually? I do not understand what you mean by “spots”.’

‘Well, little round black spots. I want you to come here right away and sort things out!’

That was tricky! I was asked to fly to Tasmania immediately - just to have a look at ‘spots’! Of course, spots do not just develop on PVC floorings. It must have been something to do with the floor maintenance or other external influences. Never had I received a complaint like that and I had kept thinking about it .A hectic day went by and I was still mulling things over when I received another call from Frank.

‘Peter, I want you to come over as quickly as possible! More and more spots are appearing.’

‘You mean there are male and female spots?’

‘This is no time for levity, Peter. I’ve seen the spots myself They are round and black and they are increasing as time goes by!’

‘Frank, I’ll phone my boss for permission to fly to you right away. You’ll hear from me in a few minutes.’

‘Okay, Peter. But remember this is urgent. I have a client who is very unhappy and probably thinks I’ve specified the wrong flooring. Remember, I’ve seen the spots myself. I will get no more assignments from him and of course I cannot specify your products any more in future projects. So, I am waiting to hear from you shortly.’ ‘Click’ and the line went dead.

Yes, it was the old blackmail again, I had thought bitterly. The real reason for getting me to fly to Tassie was because it costs the architect nothing! Since my company paid the costs for this service, it was easier to request my coming than to try a bit harder and find out the cause of the complaint themselves.

Still, it was my policy to attend to complaints immediately, no matter what, because if problems were allowed to drag on, they became magnified and in a legal dispute the motto seemed to apply: ‘blame the manufacturer unless he can convince us otherwise’.

Having informed my boss, I had booked a ticket and the next morning I was on my way to Tassie. Arriving in Launceston, I rented a car, phoned the architect to meet me at the site, the reception centre, and had driven off.

Upon, arriving at the Crown Reception Centre, I had encountered a whole group waiting for me - my ‘welcoming committee’, was the thought that raced through my mind. There was the owner of the Reception Centre, his manager, the cleaner, the architect and somebody from the Health Department.

I had to laugh ‘inside’ just looking at them. They all had grim faces and looked like a mob ready to lynch a ‘mainlander’! Regional patriotism was ripe everywhere, and I had found it particularly strong in the island state. Nothing good can come from the mainland, seemed to be their thought. Their polite greeting was extra stiff, as if they were welcoming a mass murderer. But then again, I may have been exaggerating, as usual.

We all went through the decorative wrought iron main gate and headed for the largest building. It was a very pleasant looking reception centre, a white complex in Spanish-style imitation; the owner walked ahead, followed by his manager and then the remainder of us, in a kind of pecking order.

The owner had then aired his unhappiness with the floor using particularly descriptive words, for my benefit, of course! There were indeed lots of small black spots on the floor which nobody seemed to want to touch. And as they walked along, they all kept nodding gravely to each other and every now and then, shot damning glances at me, especially the cleaner and the Health Department official!

I was hanging back as I had wanted to have a close look at everything, take photos, check the whole installation and basically take everything in as not only would I have to write a report to my company but also I would have to come up with an answer!

Like I said, I was hanging back from the group and had noticed immediately that the so-called black spots were in fact confetti from a wedding party. They were lying loosely on the vinyl flooring. The cleaner obviously did not sweep the floor with a broom before mopping and when he did mop the floor, he did not pick up the slurry but merely swished everything about and let it dry. Of course, the confetti on the floor went darker with every mopping! Another reason for my trailing behind the group was that I was busily picking up some of the dark confetti. And the heap in my hand grew bigger all the time.

The others were waiting for me at the end of their ‘excursion’, back outside their building. They looked at me with dark expressions that said it all: ‘Now what do you have to say for yourself? Isn’t your floor terrible!’ I went to the architect, my main contact.

‘Frank, hold out your hand, please.’ He did so with a puzzled expression. ‘Here are your spots’ I poured enough to fill his hands while he screwed up his face.

‘That’s confetti!’ he exclaimed, totally bewildered. The remainder of the group just stared at his cupped hands which were overflowing with the ‘black spots’ and every now and then one slowly drifted to the floor.

I had swallowed deeply and taken control of myself - no good making enemies! I tried to make light of it. ‘Now that this is settled, could I invite everybody for a cup of coffee? I am a coffee addict myself and am having withdrawal symptoms right now. Where is the nearest café?’

The manager of the reception knew his cue: ‘Good idea, I will take care of this. Please come with me.’ He took us all back inside another building. A table was quickly covered with a fresh cloth and, with amazing speed, it was populated with coffee and plenty of hot scones, butter and jam.

We started to relax and talked about all sort of things except what we just had been through and soon we laughed together as if we were celebrating a reunion!

To be honest, I had always liked to go to Tasmania because the people there were genuinely friendly and their hospitality was always great. They seemed to look at you and see a person with feelings and not a title or position. In fact, I almost wished I had more complaints in the wonderful island state!

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

TWO MEN DANCING……

Having completed my turn into Hills Avenue and

gazing automatically ahead towards the veterinary

surgery, which was about half way to my destination, I

saw something that made me sit bolt-upright. Outside

the entrance of the vet’s were two men dancing!

‘What?’ My tranquil eyes snapped wide open and I

looked again. Although still far away, I could definitely

make out two men dancing. They were about the same

size and holding each other in an embrace while dancing

to the tempo of an imaginary English Waltz.

‘What is happening to me?’ I looked again, this time

squinting, yet there they were, still dancing! All the time

I was getting closer and seeing them more clearly. On

and on they danced, on the spot, in front of the entrance.

But having nearly reached the two, I suddenly noticed

that they were not two men, but one man and his Great

Dane! They were holding each other the same way:

upright, hands and paws at each other’s shoulder blades,

staring into each other’s eyes with utter concentration,

but neither saying a word. The man was rather elegantly

dressed in an expensive suit and his face was almost as

red as a stop sign from embarrassment and effort.

Wondering what the problem was with the two and

slowing down almost to a halt, I suddenly perceived the

true situation. The man was trying to get the Great Dane

into the veterinary surgery but the dog didn’t want to go.

Obviously the man had tried brutal force by positioning

his dog in the doorway and trying to push him through.

The dog had, in return, reared up on his hind legs and

got a hold of his master exactly the way he, himself, was

being held. Every time the man tried to push the dog

through the glass door into the waiting room, the big dog

took evasive action. Obviously, he was smarter than his

owner because every time the man tried to push him hard

against the door, he did not push back - oh no! Instead,

he quickly side-stepped so that the man found himself in

the doorway, with the dog on the footpath side!

So he had to resume his original position again, with

the dog in front of the door and him on the road-side.

Another push against his dog was parried again with

a side-step (actually a ‘Quick-Step’, as they teach in

dancing schools) and, once more, he found himself in the

doorway instead of his dog! A step forward, side-step,

reverse position and, again, round and round they went.

If it had been a dancing competition and somebody had

played the tune of the ‘Tennessee Waltz’ they would

have won a prize, for sure! They just kept looking at each

other very seriously whilst pirouetting on the spot.

I had to drive on and was long past the two when

I glanced into the rear vision mirror and saw that they

were still dancing. And they really did look like two men

dancing! Except one of the two had his trouser bottom

rather low, with spindly, unattractive, legs sticking out!

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org                                     http://www.life-on-the-road.com

A PUB CONVERSATION

Entering the pub, one finds the noise almost unbearable. But in the adjacent room, three company representatives found enough space to retreat into and stand in a circle, each with a glass of the amber fluid in one hand.

They had just met a few minutes earlier, on the way in and had recognised each other as fellow company representatives and therefore a kind of bond, a recognition of rank and status in the world of commerce had quickly been established.

Fred wore a dark blue suit with a waistcoat to match and had, out of habit, his clipboard in one hand and a ballpoint pen sticking out of his small pocket that had originally been designed for a handkerchief.

Charlie was the chubby one and had the mannerism of an easy-going sales representative. Only his eyes betray his alertness and knowledge of business practices and types of human beings.

Brian, who wore a tweedy sports jacket with leather patches at the elbows, gave the appearance of the architect or similar intellectual, he would normally call on.

For some reason, the conversation soon turned to the subject managing directors and, encouraged by the room’s open fireplace and the warm and cosy atmosphere, they opened up and now have a lot to say!

Charlie: ‘My managing director is a real shifty one, he keeps promising me a pay rise year after year but it never eventuates. Who knows, he may better his own income at my expense.

Every year, he takes his family of five to Tasmania for twelve days. Once there, he meets with customers and business contacts for two days, which mean extensive lunches and one or two casual chats, mainly about how good he is personally and how well he is leading his company.

The rest of ten days are spent with his family with no expenses spared!

Upon his return to his office, he puts it through the books as having worked for ten days and only two days holidays. He can do that and get away with it as he is the managing director – there is nobody above him in this country!

His overseas principals trust him and leave everything to him, as long as everything has been booked properly, accounting-wise, no questions are being asked of him.

Charlie appears to be really worked-up about this and takes a disgusted sip from his brew. Obviously, being a conscientiously working company representative, he can only shudder at this going-on of his top superior.

Brian and Fred suddenly had flushed faces and nodded at him in sympathy.

After one more gulp of beer Brian commiserated: ‘I can relate to every word you said! Why, my managing director goes to a car dealer and says ‘I am in the market for seven new company cars. All station wagons, with cruise control and all the other extras. If you give me ten thousand dollars in cash, unmarked, in an envelope and delivered to a certain address, I sign the deal with you!’

And then he adds a punch-line, ‘I change my company’s fleet every two years and the number of cars I need are getting more as my company is growing.’

He gets away with that because he is a managing director! The last two words were uttered with a raised voice and in an expression of utter disgust.’

Again, a long draw from his glass seems to calm him down but his raised left hand indicated that he had something else to add. Patiently, Fred and Charlie nodded at him understandingly.

Thus Brian continued: ‘He sacked a representative in Perth for drinking during working hours when, in fact, he was drinking with him! It was on one of his so-called inspection trips where he’s always invited old Dave to a pub for a long discussion about business but in fact it has always been a long and heavy drinking session!

And boy, can he drink! He is so fast in this that only after a few minutes his face always turns red like a stop sign…..

‘How is this possible?’ Fred and Charlie interjected. Whilst they believe Brian, of course, the reality of this was difficult to comprehend.

Brian shrugged his shoulders. ‘He asked for the car keys and gave him a lift to the nearest taxi stand. There, poor Dave had to rummage around the car for his belongings and store them into this taxi. His former boss then drove off, totally soused – but nothing ever happens to these creatures.

‘How can that be?’ Fred thought aloud. ’By law, anybody, who gets sacked on- the-spot, must be paid off instantly. Did he give the man a cheque?’

‘No he didn’t! The payment arrived much later by mail, right before the court case.’

‘That cannot be! That is against the law’

‘He is the managing director; he can do as he pleases. There was this industrial court case, of course, but there he spoke, with his air of born-to-rule and stentorian voice, he was instantly believed by the magistrate. Naturally, the employee did not have the same eloquence and had a deflated attitude right from the start of the court case……..’

‘Bloddy ‘ell!’ Charlie could only utter. ‘I know what these people are up to, but I’ve never heard anything like that. Myself, I’ve been to the Department of Labour and Industry twice with previous companies, trying to lodge a complaint about a whole string of law-breaking but did not get anywhere. Firstly, I had to wait for two hours because the room was full of people who had something to report, then a young man obediently noted everything I said down on a form. When finished, he looked at my itemised list and assured me that it will take at least six months before they can deal with it as they have such a big workload.

Aw, forget it,’ I replied. ‘I won’t be with the company by then!’ Then I walked out. It is really hopeless to buck the system. After all, a boss is a boss is a boss…..’

Fred seemed to get visibly depressed, listening to all this. But he, too, was no stranger to the machinations of heads of companies. Everybody turned expectantly to him for his contribution.

But he looked upwards with darting eyes as if having difficulties about where to start.

Finally, his words started to flow: ‘My boss, every now and then, declares a container load of goods he receives from overseas as damaged through transport and therefore unsalable. This can happen, of course, when you receive a lot of containers into the warehouse and they have undergone an extensive journey, that is half around the world.

So he claims compensation from his company’s insurance and, with that money, sends-off an order for a replacement from his European supplier.

The insurance company takes away the container with the supposedly damaged goods and puts it in a public auction for disposal at a fraction of their real worth.

At the time of auction, my managing director appears there and, as a private person, manages to succeed in his bidding. Now the container with the immaculate goods belong to him privately and he has it taken away and disperses it at an attractive price through his contacts in the trade. With an enormous profit to him personally, of course.

He does this quite regularly and with the proceeds buys house as a nest egg. Nobody knows about this and he known in his state as a company director, a family man and citizen in good standing!’

Everybody is now shaking their head and staring sadly at their now empty glass. Fred feeling that it is his shout, collects them and leaves to return soon with full glasses of glowing amber fluid with the foam hanging tenaciously over the rim of the glasses.

‘Yes,’ Fred utters slowly, as if speaking to himself’ We have a warehouse with a fork lift that is diesel-driven! In a confined space! The warehouse worker has to keep front and backdoor open to prevent himself from fainting’.

Four eyes are staring at him, wide and in disbelieve.

‘There is no shower for the store man despite what the law says, no working clothes, no kitchen facilities – why, he had to buy his own pie warmer and a plastic chair to sit down.

And the product samples the company gets from the overseas manufacturer and the discontinued items the managing director gives to his son, who has a retail shop that sells them in addition to the normal line of goods. Of course, that never goes through the books and there is easily $ 80 000.—income from them the government does not know about.’

Charlie, who has just swallowed more of his tasty substance in his glass, finds time to remark:’ They try to crack down on black cash – theoretically, everything has to go through the books. Wage earners like you and I cannot get away with anything. But such a managing director with their natural cunning get away with their schemes. And society and the law seems to accord them a superior position and, if queried, a monopoly of truth!

The conversation ceases and the quiet in the little room becomes oppressive as everybody ponders this last sentence. Even the sipping has stopped and is being replaced by sad nodding of people in-the-know!

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

Dear Reader - would you like to leave a comment?

THE LATEST IN CRIME FIGHTING.

Nigel Osprey sits in front of his television set with a can of beer in his hand, slowly raising it and taking a luxurious sip and a sound escapes his wet lips ‘ah…..this is life!’

He is enjoying the sport on television, holding his favourite brew in his hand as symbol of freedom, whilst stabilising a family size pizza that had just been delivered and now balances precariously on his knees. He notices its steam rising gently and wafting through the air, filling the room with his favourite aroma: ‘food!’

He listens with rapture to his favourite football manager's ranting.

Yes, he reminds himself with glowing eyes: that manager’s a real man, strong, with a thick-set body and a mouth that continually seems to burst forth outrageous statements! And expletives – admittedly beeped out by a sissy programme editor – seem to stream effortlessly from his thick and egotistic lips.

Nigel giggles to himself. He is enjoying these outbursts; they are amusingly insulting and words are being aired that cannot be received over the airwaves because of their earth content – they are too earthy! But one can always lip-read and not missing out, thereby increasing the fun!

Wonderful thoughts are coming to his mind as he takes another strong suck from his beer can: The wife’s gone away, this time for good! The divorce was very disturbing and a real upheaval. She seems to live now with her aunt Gerti in Muckalot in the state of Victoria – wherever the hell that is.

Her dim-witted cousin Winston had come and picked-up all her belongings. He’s taken a lot, piling it high on a truck, but it was great to see the last of her junk!

From now on, he keeps reminding himself, there is no more screaming at him, no more berating, the home is now quiet and peaceful as there is only he and his cat Benny, who is in complete agreement with him.

He glances around and notices that the room now looks sparsely furnished. His wife, ex-wife to be exact, has left him with the bare necessities! But there is a tranquil light filtering through the sheer curtains, making all the dust in the air visible and yet giving the room a tranquil ambience.

‘This is a man’s paradise’, he thinks, nodding to himself. There are his scattered newspapers, with the sports pages open and soon there will be a few magazines lying around the room he would normally not have dared to buy.

‘It‘s great to be free’, he thinks – it is a wonderful feeling, and he becomes aware of an intoxicating rush rippling through his body, making him sigh in bliss.

Suddenly, there are knocks on the door, rather firm and banging with determination and impatience.

‘What on earth…..’ He doesn’t like unforeseen visitors, especially when they are interrupting his favourite television programme.

Before he is able to shout ‘Go away!’ it bangs again, this time with an added touch of impatience and extra annoying! He feels his fury rising.

Opening the door somewhat to avoid further noise, he becomes aware of two men who were obviously detectives, identifiable by their tight fitting suits and felt hats – ‘who wears hats, nowadays?’ he observes. Behind them jostled a fat policeman with a television news team, complete with camera man and sound technician.

The detectives worry him - right from his first glance at them he has this gut feeling that they spell troubles. These two men had faces so leathery and weather beaten and with darting eyes that, when making eye contact, seem to yank out any secrets a person might want to withhold.

They are with a third man, a kind of professor-type, with thick glasses, holding a clipboard folder in his hands.

The news team is getting visibly exited, starting to push their way closer to Nigel. They are of the delicate type, colourfully dressed, ‘very pansy-like’, Nigel observes.

They are holding their various apparatuses as if they were doing the public, and humanity in general, a great favour! ‘But what is this all about?’ his thoughts keep racing through his mind.

Before he could think straight and absorb all this gathering, one of the detectives, with a face like a constipated bulldog and with eyes that were big and bloodshot and darting everywhere, held out a shiny metal plaque.

‘Homicide!’ he rasps, ‘Are you Nigel Osprey?’ He did not wait for a reply – so sure was he of his case.

‘You are under arrest for the murder of a Mrs. Emilia Prattlelot…, your ex wife!’

‘W..w..w.whaaaat?’ Nigel could only gasp incredulously.

‘That’s right!’ You heard!’ This bellow comes out of non-existent lips.

‘Come with me now. Come on, come on…..’ A huge fat hand reaches out to grab him.

‘What are you talking about?’

Nigel instinctively tries to close the door in an attempt to shut out this hostile crowd.

Unfortunately, this Robert Mitchum look-alike has big feet – very big, they reach all the way to the door gap, preventing its closing.

The third man, the one looking like a boffin, but with the same non-descript clothes, had white hair and probably a large bald spot that, too, is covered by the old-fashioned hat. His pronounced features were thick spectacles – very thick. They were so pronounced that they seem to convex out in an attempt to reach him. Two tiny black spots are trying to hypnotise him – they were either his pupils or the dots flies had left on his glasses.

‘We know’, it escaped his stern lips. His Adam’s apple moved up and down his scrawny throat with a collar that was far too big, giving the impression that he is shrinking whilst on duty!

The policeman, was in a uniform that tries to control his excessive weight by compressing it severely. But it only shifted his blubber downwards, manifesting itself in legs like concrete crushers, with rather broad feet.

Now, he too, tried to get into the act: 'Come out, quick!’ escapes his thick lips.

Nigel feels that it is time to say something:

‘Look, I haven’t done anything to anybody – I just wish to be left alone. He forcefully stemmed his weight against the door, jamming that giant’s foot as hard as he could – with no effect.

‘He must have a prosthesis’, he observes as the man’s features betray nothing.

The man with the thick goggles explained: ‘We are from PCU, Predictive Crime-fighting Unit, based at police headquarters……’

‘I don’t give a fig what you are – I haven’t done anything and my meal is getting cold’

(He didn’t shout exactly ‘fig’, but this writer is of good upbringing and would not know how to spell the exact expletive!)

Nigel keeps banging the door against the detective’s shoe - a useless exercise.

‘Hey’, shouts the man with the microphone, ‘can you come out a bit and give us a smile – you will be on the news tonight!’

Amazed, Nigel opened the door and steppes outside. ‘What news? What are you talking about?’

The reporter was quite friendly; ‘Our government has installed a new supercomputer that not only records all the crimes in this state, keeps statistics as to their frequency and type……..’

The scientist took over:’ With all the demographic details, and the time-span, motive and all other relevant personality traits of the perpetrators, we are now able to forecast where a crime will happen, by whom, the reason, et cetera, et cetera’ letting the Latin words dissolve on his tongue.

He looked really exited about this new era of crime fighting. His hand, holding the pen, seem to write something unseen in the air.

‘What rubbish! I ‘aven’t done anything and that’s it. Leave me alone – the lot of you!’

His eyes encompassed everybody and his chin pointed especially at the reporter and his team. Blood is draining from his face and suddenly he feels so alone and helpless.

‘This is a nightmare! How do I get out of this?’ his thoughts keep racing. And there are now signs of perspiration on his forehead.

‘Come with us – come on, come on!’ The hefty detective uttered these words like a busy landlord reminding his patrons of closing time.

‘Just to show you how accurate we are,’ the scientist tries to demonstrate eagerly, ‘You’ve ordered a pizza for dinner, with extra anchovies and mushrooms.’ Staring at his clipboard folder in his hand, he rattled off the words.

Stunned silence prevailed.

‘Well, yes, but…..’

‘Come on, come with us. Don’t give us any troubles.’

The mountain-man began tucking at his arm again - a symbol of his impatience.

‘Leggo of me - I ‘aven’t done anything!’

Nigel’s cry now sounds a bit more desperate.

Staring at his clip board folder, the scientist eagerly continues:

‘You’ve ordered this from an outlet called Pizza Paradise – did you not? Then you fed your cat – didn’t you? Also, you rang your friend Alfredo, inviting him for the evening?’

The last sentence was shouted with disgust.

In the background, the television anchorman started to talk into a microphone, explaining to the unseen viewers this great new technology, with the eager face of an expert and an uneasy stomach because he was not sure what exactly he was talking about.

Standing on a nature strip, he notices that this was not the only thing he was standing on. Don’t people believe in picking up after their dogs?

Now the policeman gets into the act: ‘You have a brother called Arthur who lives in England. And a cousin in Townsville, called Edward, - right? And your car number is ……’ Raising his voice in triumph he finishes:

‘Your ex-wife will arrive any moment now, attempt to take custody of the dog, leaving you with the cat. And then it will happen!’

He nodded at the increasing number of spectators. Justice is being done – everybody can see this!

A new person, female, approaches the crowd. She is somewhat dowdily dressed, with a headscarf and showing an expertly way of pushing and shoving her way into the crowd and through it.

Nearly reaching Nigel, she nods at him.

‘Stop! Where do you thing you are going? And who are you anyway?’ The policeman held up a big hand with sausage fingers.

‘Let me through, I must see Nigel!’

The detective tried to state a fact:

‘So, you are Emilia Prattlelot, the ex-wife?’

The gathered crowd outside the door stiffens; they look at each other, nodding ‘I told you so!’ Then they step back somewhat, aware that they are facing a cataclysmic moment.

‘No, I am Sally the cleaner! I am here to pick up my pay for the house cleaning. She looked at Nigel, holding out a hand: ‘You promised you’ll have the eighty-five dollars for me…..’

Nigel gasped: ’Of course, Sally, eighty five-dollars did you say? No problem! Reaching into his back pocket he produced his wallet and carefully counts out the money into her upheld palm.

Staring at the money piling-up in her hand, she readily gives information to the questions. Yes, she comes regularly and this afternoon is her pay-day.

Great consternation is spreading and the police suddenly look deeply wounded: It is supposed to be the time of murder!

There are frantic phone calls to the police head offices and phones are ringing in reply, back and forth.

‘Thanks, Nigel, see you soon!’ Sally disappears with the same amount of determination she came with, but this time with an added touch of triumph.

For some reason the group of police are looking pale and stunned. The scientist staring into his clipboard folder was suddenly red-faced, the police crowded around him, all attempting to look knowingly.

‘There is no mention of a Sally!’ The geek with the thick glasses seems to have his eyes protruding like on stalks.

‘The wife is not here, but a cleaning woman turns up…..’

First, a murmur goes through the crowd, then a kind of rebellion starts spreading. Mumbling first disappointment, then loud sounds of dissatisfaction about the police in general and the law enforcement in general are beginning to be aired.

The television team hurriedly pack-up their various equipment with downcast expressions whilst their bus driver starts the engine. Now, they have no story to report!

People are walking away, with disgust and in all directions, having been cheated out of a real drama.

The people of the law are still making frantic phone calls to their head offices, especially to their computer department.

‘Goggle-eyes’ stares at his mobile as if he cannot believe what he’s just heard, Fatso tries to crush his phone in his meaty hand and the bulldog’s blood-shot eyes keep staring in disbelief at the scientist’s computer readout.

But after a while they too, withdraw, making their exit with a final glare at Nigel: ‘We will be back,’ their looks seem to say.

Everybody withdraws – the new, crime-predicting, computer has made a mistake!

Leaving only Nigel standing outside his door, alone and scratching his head. Shrugging his shoulders he murmurs: ‘Who the hell is Sally?’

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com