To say that he
woke with a start would not be strictly accurate, mainly because he was quite
certain that he was not awake at all. There was, however, a start involved – in
particular a starting pistol that went off with a loud bang and started the
runners in a huge race.
The race in
question was the 2019 London Marathon, and Joe appeared to be one of the
competitors.
But how was
that possible? As far as Joe was concerned, he was asleep in bed a long way
from London.
Also, he had no
memory of ever having entered the London Marathon, let alone bought a pair of
running shoes or a singlet and pair of shorts.
Come to that,
he did not have the slightest interest in running. He had never been any sort
of athlete – always last in running races at school and in later life he could
rarely be bothered even to run for a bus. There could only be one explanation.
He was having a dream.
As dreams go,
this was a pretty realistic one. He was surrounded by hundreds of other runners
and he seemed to be keeping up with them quite well. For somebody who had never
done a day’s training for road running, this was not proving to be too
difficult, although he could certainly feel every step as his feet hit the
ground with a solid thump.
Ah, but this
was a dream, wasn’t it? That meant he should be able to run really quickly, or
maybe even fly. I’ll try flying, he thought, and waved his arms in the air. He
failed to get airborne and prompted a cry from a close neighbour of “Mind what
you’re doing, Mate, you nearly had my eye out there.”
This won’t
really be London of course, he thought to himself. Round the next corner he was
going to see the Pyramids, or the Statue of Liberty. But what he saw was
another long street stretching into the distance, filled with thousands of
runners just like himself.
But they won’t
all be like me, will they? he pondered. Some of them will be dressed as camels
or post boxes, and some of them will be joined together as Chinese dragons. But
this is a dream, so if I see a unicorn it’ll be a real unicorn, not some pair
of idiots wearing a unicorn costume.
But no, every
fun runner in a costume was exactly that – an idiot making life extra difficult
for him or herself by wearing some ridiculous outfit to get themselves seen on
TV.
Relief at last.
He had seen something that absolutely confirmed that he was in a dream. There,
a few yards ahead, was the Pope at the side of the road being interviewed by
Clare Balding. The real Pope would never take part in the London Marathon, and
there could surely be no doubt that this was the real Pope. He was the right
height and build, and he looked just like all the photos Joe had ever seen of
Pope Francis. He would know for certain when he ran past.
But were the
backs of Pope Francis’s hands really covered in tattoos? And would he really be
carrying a banner that read “Epping Forest Hell’s Angels”? It seemed
improbable, to say the least.
He could not
remember having dreams that lasted quite so long, especially ones that did not
go decidedly weird at some point or other. But this one refused to deviate from
what looked decidedly like reality. All the landmarks were in exactly the right
places – Cutty Sark, Tower Bridge, Canary Wharf, the Thames Embankment, Big Ben
– and they all looked exactly as they should have done.
This dream was
also exhausting. He felt as though he really had been running for more than 26
miles on a Sunday morning in London. Surely he should wake up soon?
And wake up he
did. There he was, in his own bed, with everything exactly as it should be.
That was the
most vivid dream he had ever had. It was so vivid that his feet felt sore and
his leg muscles exhausted.
But what was
this thing dangling round his neck that certainly had not been there last
night? There was no doubt about it. It was a genuine 2019 London Marathon
Finisher’s medal.
© John Welford
Schoolfriends Jason and Marcus were deep in conversation.
“Are you sure about this?” Marcus asked.
“Course I am”, said Jason. “It’ll be a huge laugh.”
“But will he really see the funny side?” Marcus insisted.
“This is your Dad we’re talking about. I’ve never been impressed by his sense
of humour. I remember the time I was round your place when the TV was showing
‘The Greatest Comedy Moments in TV History’ and he stayed stony-faced through
every single one of them.”
“But he was laughing to himself inside”, said Jason.
“Really? So why, when Del Boy fell through the bar, was your
Dad’s only comment that the Trotters should have sued the pub for breaching
Health and Safety? And why did he insist that playing the notes in the wrong order
was just the same as playing all the wrong notes?”
“I’m telling you”, said Jason, “Dad loves a joke as much as
anyone, and practical jokes are right up his street. He’ll definitely see the
funny side of this one.”
“OK”, said Marcus, “so what’s so funny about being robbed of
your cash at the ATM outside Sainsbury’s – which is what you appear to have in
mind?”
“Simple”, said Jason, “Dad’s being going on for months about
how careful you need to be at cashpoints, and how he would never be caught out
by a sneak thief who tried any sort of trick on him. Well – I reckon we could
prove him wrong. It’s all right – we won’t keep the cash, obviously, but we’ll
show him that he can be caught out as easily as anyone.”
“And he’ll take that as a joke?”
“Believe me”, said Jason. “I know my Dad. He’ll be the first
to start laughing”.
So, the next day being Saturday, the two boys followed
Jason’s Dad down into town on the latter’s regular morning walk to do a little
shopping. Dad was one of those people who much prefer to use cash than plastic
when buying things over the counter, so his first stop was the Sainsbury’s
hole-in-the-wall cashpoint.
The boys had rehearsed their tactics very thoroughly, so
when the notes emerged from the dispenser, Jason shouted loudly “Oh my God,
look at that!” which made his Dad spin round, leaving Marcus free to grab the
money and run off round the corner.
“You seem to be going somewhere in a hurry, young man”, said
a deep voice.
The voice belonged to a police officer, into whom Marcus had
cannoned just round the corner. Marcus had not reckoned on an outcome like
this, and he could feel his legs going extremely wobbly as the policeman
grabbed him by his shirt collar.
“And what’s that in your hand? Nice crisp ten-pound notes if
I’m not mistaken. They wouldn’t by any chance have been stolen from some
innocent old person using the cashpoint, would they? Let’s just see if we can
find their real owner, shall we?”
So saying, the policeman dragged Marcus back round the
corner, where Jason’s Dad was standing next to the cashpoint.
Two things now surprised Marcus to a considerable extent.
The first was that Jason was also standing there. Why had he not scarpered as
soon as he himself had run off? The second was that both Jason and his Dad were
laughing their heads off.
“I told you Dad would see the funny side”, said Jason. “The point
is – do you?”
Marcus didn’t know what to say, so said nothing.
Jason’s Dad turned to the “policeman”. “Thanks for playing
your part so well, Brian”, he said. “It sounds as though you made an excellent
officer of the law for our little prank. Now I suppose you’d better clear off
before a real policeman turns up”.
© John Welford
Part 1: The True Bit
After a short break in Berlin my son and I returned by rail to
our home in Leicestershire.
The first train took us from Berlin to Cologne. The journey
was notable for keeping perfectly to time, arriving at exactly the right time
in Cologne after a journey lasting more than four hours. We therefore had no
problem with making the connection for the next leg of the trip, from Cologne
to Brussels.
However, that was when things started to go awry. Shortly
after starting out, the announcement was made that the train would make an
additional stop at Düren, which is a town between Cologne and Aachen. A later
announcement said that everyone would have to leave the train at Düren and get
on a train that would be on the opposite platform. All seat reservations would
still apply on the other train.
As our train arrived at Düren another train was approaching
at the adjoining platform from the opposite direction. The two trains stopped
at almost exactly the same time. We all duly got off our train – as did the
passengers who had just arrived on the other train.
We then swapped trains. When everyone was on board, the two
trains set off back the way they had come, carrying a fresh set of passengers.
There was no explanation given as to why this took place,
and there seemed to be no reason why two trainloads of passengers, travelling
between Germany and Belgium, should have to do what they did.
Odder still, from my point of view, was the fact that I just
finished reading Christopher Isherwood’s novel “Goodbye to Berlin” and had
started on his other “Berlin” novel. The title? “Mr Norris Changes Trains”!
Part 2: The Fictional Bit – One Assumes!
So, what possible explanation could there be? Here is a
possible – albeit unlikely – scenario.
Fritz, a train driver working for Deutsche Bahn, had a
problem. He lived with his wife in a small flat in Cologne, and regularly did
the run between Cologne and Brussels, where he sometimes stayed overnight so
that he could drive the early train back to Cologne. He was supposed to spend
these nights at an approved hotel, but had recently got very friendly with a
young lady, named Yvette, who had her own flat in Brussels. He had therefore
got into the habit of staying overnight with her instead of at the hotel.
This arrangement had worked very well for around a month,
with the girlfriend in Brussels knowing full well that Fritz had a wife in
Cologne, but the wife in Cologne being in total ignorance of the girlfriend in
Brussels. As long as this situation continued, the happiness of all three of
them would be maintained.
But it could not last for ever.
Things went wrong when Yvette, unknown to Fritz, made her
own visit to Cologne to see Louise, an old schoolfriend who had done very well
for herself and now worked as a senior controller for Deutsche Bahn. Yvette
wanted to tell Louise about her new boyfriend, and she did so at a café not far
from both the Hauptbahnhof and the Cathedral.
“His name’s Fritz”, said Yvette, “He’s a lovely guy. Tall,
blonde, very well-spoken. He works for your company as a train driver - you
might actually know him.”
“We’ve got more than one driver named Fritz”, said Louise.
“He could be one of several.”
“I forgot to mention”, said Yvette, “his eyes look a bit
strange. His left eye is blue but his right eye is brown. I don’t think I’ve
ever come across that before.”
“In that case”, said Louise, “I know exactly who you mean”.
And so did the woman sitting at the next table whose
attention had been drawn to the conversation of the two friends the moment she
overheard the name Fritz being mentioned. As soon as Yvette had got up from her
table to go the Ladies, the woman went over to where Loiuse was sitting.
“The next time you see my husband Fritz”, said the woman,
“You can tell him from me that if he ever comes near me again he’ll get a lot
more than he bargained for. If he wants to live with that trollop in Brussels,
he can do so, but I’ll be chucking all his belongings out into the street as
soon as I get home”.
She then walked off, presumably to go home and start packing
Fritz’s things.
Louise had no idea whether Yvette knew that Fritz was
married or not. Yvette sounded so happy and it might well destroy her if she
found out that her new boyfriend already had a wife in Cologne.
However, Louise was a resourceful person and she had a
solution to the problem, which she could do given her professional capacity as
an arranger of train movements. When Yvette came back, Louise excused herself
in turn and made some urgent phone calls.
She arranged for the train that Fritz was due to be driving
to Cologne that evening to reverse direction at Düren, which is where it was due
to cross with the Brussels-bound train on which Yvette would be travelling.
When she phoned Fritz to tell him, he was shocked by the
news that his marriage was now in tatters, but very grateful to Louise for
sorting things out. The prospect of facing his irate wife when he got home was
not one to savour, and Yvette’s flat in Brussels sounded like a much safer
place to spend the night.
Louise also had to get the driver of the other train to agree
to the plan, which he was perfectly willing to do, being one of Fritz’s best
mates.
All the passengers would have to swap trains at Düren,
meaning that Fritz and Yvette would head to Brussels together, with Yvette
being none the wiser about what was really going on.
Louise’s next job would be to collect Fritz’s belongings and
take them to her own flat in Cologne.
She had always fancied Fritz. Getting Yvette to sit at the
table next to where Fritz’s wife always had coffee at this time had been the
only really tricky part of the plan.
© John Welford
Groucho Marx is reputed, almost certainly falsely, to once
having said “I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it”. I
think I can echo that line many times over, but there were also evenings that –
if not exactly perfectly wonderful – were at least memorable.
One that comes to mind was when I was a young librarian
working at a college that has since turned into the University of Chichester.
In my student days at Bangor I had been very active in its Gilbert and Sullivan
Society, and was delighted when the equivalent group at Chichester allowed me –
as a non-student – to join their ranks.
After chorus appearances in The Mikado and Iolanthe I was
promoted in my third year there to a principal role when they performed HMS
Pinafore. I duly appeared for three nights as First Lord of the Admiralty Sir
Joseph Porter KGB. I managed to remember all my lines, including getting the
verses in the right order in “When I was a lad” shortly after my arrival on
stage in Act I.
In Act II one of my numbers was a trio with Captain Corcoran
and his daughter Josephine, who is reluctant to accept my marriage proposal,
mainly because she is in love with Ralph, one of the ship’s crew. However, my
only explanation for her coldness towards me is that she is dazzled by my
exalted rank.
I therefore offer the salve that “love levels all ranks” and
that she should therefore not imagine that being a humble captain’s daughter
means that she cannot enter high society as the wife of the head of the
Admiralty.
Josephine does not dissent from this view. If social rank
can be ignored when it comes to matters of love, then her devotion to a humble
“tar who ploughs the water” is equally legitimate. Hence the famous trio in
which everyone seems to be in full agreement despite arguing in opposite
directions.
The director of our production had the bright idea of
illustrating the tangled web by having the three of us swinging about on ropes
at various stages of the trio and getting our wires crossed almost literally.
He apparently imagined that it would not look out of place for three vertical
ropes to suddenly appear on the deck of a 19th-century Naval vessel,
presumably as pieces of rigging that had come loose for no obvious reason.
We were all young and foolish, and we reckoned that if it
got a laugh, why not?
I was not quite as young as my colleagues, but equally
foolish, so I suggested an extra piece of “business”. I thought it would be a
good joke for Sir Joseph to swing right off into the wings at the end of the
song, giving a loud despairing cry that would be followed the sound effect of a
huge splash. He – by which I mean I – would then stagger back on stage soaking
wet.
So that is what we did.
On the first of our three evening performances the stagehand
in the wings scooped a tumblerful of water out of a fire bucket and threw it in
my face. It got a reasonable laugh, but I doubted whether anyone more than
three rows back would have seen any wetness on me at all. I therefore asked the
stagehand to throw more water at me at the second show.
This is what he did. Instead of a glassful of water I got a
jugful. This was a distinct improvement, but it still wasn’t enough. More water
for the final night, please!
The guy in the wings was determined to get it right on the
night. Instead of scooping water out of the fire bucket, he – being quite a
strong lad - just picked up the bucket and chucked the lot over my head.
I don’t know if you have ever had two gallons of ice cold
water thrown at you, let alone when you are in costume and about to return to a
stage to deliver a couple of lines before you can escape, but I can tell you
that the shock is a considerable one.
On the plus side, the laugh from the audience was the
biggest of the night. As you can tell, that was an evening that I have not
forgotten.
© John Welford
At the end of the island where I live we are waiting for
John to come back. At the other end, which we don’t ever visit, they are
waiting for Philip. But we will see John back here long before they see Philip.
John is a legend. I suppose Philip must be too, but our legend is better than
theirs. That’s because ours is true and theirs is made up. I know this because
my grandfather said so. He has actually seen John and knows he is real, but he hasn’t
seen Philip. He thinks the people at the other end of the island made Philip up
out of their own heads, just because we had John all to ourselves down here.
Grandfather is now a very old man, and it was when he was only
a young boy that he saw John. It was at a time when huge ships, loaded with massive
guns, went sailing past our island. Some people came from other islands and
talked to our people about what was happening there.
It seems that on some of the larger islands people with much
lighter skins than us arrived in big metal birds. They wanted to stay for some
time, and they told the local people that they needed to attract much larger birds,
but in order to do so they would have to clear away some of the forest and build
a special track on which the birds could land.
This is what they did, and after the birds began to arrive,
and the people had built huts near the end of track and really nice huts for
them to live in themselves, all sorts of strange things started to arrive that
were taken out of the birds and into the people’s new huts.
These people didn’t seem to do any work. They didn’t grow
food or climb trees to gather coconuts, they stayed in their huts and the food
arrived inside the birds, or so it seemed.
Some of the local people helped with unloading the birds,
and what they unloaded was called “cargo” by the newcomers. It was wonderful
stuff. They had boxes outside their huts that made whirring noises, and when
this happened the inside of the huts were brightly lit, even if it was long
after dark.
They even had boxes in their huts that cooked their food or
kept it fresh during hot weather. One or two of them would go round the island
in metal boxes that moved all by themselves.
This went on for some time, but one day all the people got
into the metal birds and flew away, taking all their cargo with them.
Grandfather told me that some people on other islands wondered
if there was a way of getting metal birds to come down and bring some cargo for
them. What they did was go into the forest and cut down some of the trees in a
long strip, just wide enough for a metal bird to land on. They built some huts
at one end of the strip, just like the ones that the white-skinned people had
built so that the cargo could be stored there before it was taken to their own
huts.
Do you know, I’m just not sure if any cargo did land there,
however much the people raised their hands to the sky and asked a metal bird to
come down and land on their forest strip.
But we have something a lot better on our island. We have
John Frum. At least, that is what everyone calls him. He came to our island
once, a long time ago, but I’m not sure if he came in a metal bird or on a
boat. He stayed for some time and then he went away again, but everyone just
knows that he’ll come back one day. And when he does come back, everyone will
be so, so happy because he’ll bring lots of cargo with him for everyone.
Grandfather has told me lots of stories about John Frum and
all the wonderful things he did. He made people better when they were ill, by
making them swallow tiny round pieces of food. If they did this for a few days,
all their pains went away.
I have heard lots of other stories too, but I can’t be sure
that they were all true. It was said that he could make a dish of water taste
like anything you wanted it to be. When it was hot in a pot on the fire, he
would drop some powder into it and it would smell wonderful and taste like
nothing anyone had known before. John Frum had said that all the people where
he came from drank this every day when they got up and it made them work so
much better. He called it Caa Fie.
Some people said that John Frum could fly in the air and
turn himself into birds or bats. Could he? Well, if he could make Caa Fie, who
knows what he could do?
We had John Frum all to ourselves. At the other end of the
island they say had a visit from a tall handsome man in a white costume who
said his name was Philip. They asked him who he was and he said that he was the
husband of a queen from a far distant land, and that this queen actually owned
the island. That sounds very odd to me. If he was the husband of a queen,
surely that would make him a king? It doesn’t add up. That’s why I think they
invented him.
No, we’re far better off with John Frum, who’ll come back
one day and bring lots of Caa Fie and other things with him. I asked Grandfather
one day why he was called John Frum. He said it was because he had said – in a
very funny voice that dragged out all the vowels, that he was “Jahn Frum
Armorica” or something like that. Nobody was quite clear what the last word was
– it might have Ormerocaw or Hamvericore or almost anything. So everyone just
stuck with what they could agree on, which means that we are all now waiting
for the return of our very own John Frum.
© John Welford
God was in a bit of a stroppy mood. This was not unusual for
God – his strops came at fairly regular intervals and the consequences could be
distinctly uncomfortable for anyone within range of his thunderbolts.
He had been having quite a good time designing the planets
round his latest star. Mercury had been OK for starters, and he quite liked
Mars, although he had a sneaking feeling that all those lovely rivers and seas
might not last as long as he had originally intended.
But the real problem was Venus. He had had all the right
surveys done and had listed all the chemicals that were to comprise its
atmosphere, but made the unforgiveable mistake of leaving the actual ordering
and supply of the materials to a useless bunch of underling angels who couldn’t
count. As a result, his lovely new planet didn’t stand a hope in Heaven (this
was in the days before Hell had been invented) of it ever supporting what God
wanted to call Life.
God knew precisely how much methane and carbon dioxide there
should have been for a planet in the position it occupied in a solar system,
but those clowns had managed to order vastly more volcanoes than they should
have done, and these had been spewing so much in the way of greenhouse gases
into the atmosphere that Venus was doomed from the outset with the surface
temperature rising far too high for any surface water or anything that could
remotely be described as living.
Hence God’s extreme annoyance, coupled with the wish to
start again and not get it wrong a second time.
He decided that his next project should be a planet between
Venus and Mars. This time there would be no mistakes, nothing like as many
volcanoes, and lots of water. Once he got life established it would continue
for ever afterwards, and there was not the slightest chance of global warming
getting out of hand, however long one looked ahead. How could it? It was
impossible!
For one thing, he had had the notion, after he had played
around with dinosaurs for a hundred million years or so, of developing creatures
that walked on two legs and had proper brains. These would be so intelligent
that there was no way they could possibly allow the planet to get too warm, or
be led by people who had less than half the average brain power. That just had
to be God’s brightest idea yet.
Once God got creative there was no stopping him, and he soon
had lots of clever thoughts about the new planet. He had not yet decided on a
name – perhaps he might hold a competition among the angels and pick the best
suggestion? That would be fine, just as long as it didn’t end up as Planet
McPlanetface.
He was very happy with the red colour he had given Mars and
thought that this would suit the latest creation as well. He had a word with
Bert, the angel in charge of the warehouse, about ordering lots more red, but
was disappointed to learn that this wouldn’t be possible.
“We can do some of it in red”, Bert told him, “but we used
so much on Mars that there isn’t much left. There are some bits down the bottom
that we can do in red, the bits that nobody would actually want to settle in if
their ancestors had not been forced to go there, but that’s about it”.
“What else have you got?” God asked.
“There’s lots of green, brown and yellow”, Bert said. “You
can have as much as you want of all of them”.
“Great”, said God, “we’ll do the dry bits in green and
yellow and the wet bits in brown”.
“Brown?” said Bert. “You cannot be serious. It’ll look
awful. Do you really want all your continents swimming in chocolate sauce?”
“Have you got any better suggestions?” God asked.
“Funny you should mention that”, said Bert. “I’ve just taken
delivery of a brand new colour that I think you’ll love for your seas and
oceans. It’s called blue.”
“Tell me more”, said God.
“I’ve got the colour chart here”, said Bert. “Just look at
all the shades you can have. There are different blues for angry seas, calm
seas, in-between seas, seas at different times of day, seas near the land and
seas nowhere near the land, the choice is yours.”
“I see”, said God, “and you can supply all these shades?”
“No problem”, said Bert. “And then for your skies …”
“Skies?” said God.
“That’s the trouble with you deities”, said Bert. “You’re
always looking down, you never think about looking up. You need a decent colour
for your lifeforms to look up at.”
“How about magnolia?” God suggested.
“Magnolia? You must be joking. That’s so boring”. said Bert.
“Let’s go back to the blue idea. You could have a different shade of blue for
the sky and coordinate it with your sea colour. How about this lovely pale
shade?”
“What do you call that?” God asked.
“It hasn’t got a name yet”, said Bert, “but if you choose it
we could just call it ‘sky blue’”.
“I like it”, God said. “We’ll have sky blue all the way
across the planet”.
“Small problem there”, said Bert, “You’re going to have to
get some of your water out of the oceans and on to the land, otherwise the
green bits won’t stay green for very long. And that means you can’t have
unbroken blue skies everywhere. Some places will have to make do with grey for
much of the time”.
“Such places as?”
“These islands about three quarters of the way up. I reckon
you could cut down on the blue quite a lot there, and stick mostly to grey”.
“But won’t the two-legged brainy lifeforms complain if they
hardly ever get any blue skies?”
“I wouldn’t worry too much”, said Bert. “It’ll give them
something to talk about. You take it from me – they’ll just love it”.
© John Welford
The envelope was pushed under the door of my hotel room
while I was over on the other side of the bed, so when I rushed across to open
the door and see who was there, it was too late. The corridor was empty and I was
left standing on my own to wonder who might have delivered whatever it was.
I had not been in the small Dutch town long and had yet to
get my bearings. I had some business to undertake the following day and had
nothing else in mind that evening other than going out for a meal and then straight
to bed. I knew nobody here, so who on earth could be pushing strange notes
under my door?
I opened the envelope as I stood there. The card inside bore
an invitation, of sorts. All it said was:
“Come to 28 Prinzengracht at any time you like. Just walk in
and come upstairs. MCE.”
The only thought that came to mind was to quote Lewis
Carroll: “Curiouser and curiouser”.
But, just like Alice, I had no intention of letting the
mystery lie where it was. I decided that, after my meal, I would take up the
invitation to visit the address on the card.
I had no idea where Prinzengracht was, so after I had eaten
in the small restaurant near my hotel, I asked the waiter for directions. He
was curious as to why I wanted to go there at what was now quite a late hour.
What number was I going to?
I thought I could detect a hint of a smile on his face after
I said “Twenty-eight”, but maybe I was imagining this. Or maybe not.
The door of Number 28 was closed, but the handle turned
easily enough and I walked straight in, just as suggested by the invitation.
There was no passageway or sign of other doors, just a
staircase leading upwards. “Come upstairs”, the invitation had said, so I did
just that. At the top of the first flight there was a sharp turn to the right,
and another flight of stairs. There were no windows or doors on either side,
but the stairs were well lit. I kept climbing upwards.
After the second flight there was another right-angled turn,
then another, and another. The stairs just kept going on, and on, and on.
The thought struck me that this house must be immensely
tall, given how many stairs I must have climbed, but I had certainly not been
aware as I walked along Prinzengracht that any of the houses were higher than
what one might expect to find in a typical street in a small town in the
Netherlands.
At last, I could see a window in the side wall. When I got there
I peered through it to see just how high up I was. But the view I had was of a
typical street in a small town in the Netherlands. I was no higher off the
ground than the lampposts that shed their weak light over the street.
I decided that I had had enough of this, so I turned round
to take the stairs back the way I had come.
But that was when things got even stranger than they were
already, if that was possible. The stairs did not go down at all, only up.
What? If I had climbed all that way up, how come I could not go down? But that
was precisely what I was faced with – whichever way I turned, the stairs only
went up, and they never took me any higher than I was already.
When I next came to the window I could see a card on the
window sill, which I could swear had not been there before. I picked it up and
read:
“Welcome to my house. I hope you like it. Don’t worry, just
snap your fingers and you’ll be back on the street. Yours in jest, M C Escher”.
© John Welford
