Fever Crumb
This is the first prequel to the Mortal Engines quartet, set several centuries before that quartet. Fever Crumb is an orphan girl adopted and brought up by London's engineers to be rational. It is centuries after the "downsizing" and archaeologists are digging up old tech while engineers are trying to understand the finds. There is still some functioning technology, mainly the legacy of the Scriven, dapple-skinned mutant humans who conquered and cruelly ruled London until they began to die out or were hunted and killed. Fever's odd-colour eyes make people fear she is a Scriven and when she goes back out into the world as a teen, she becomes a target for bagman Creech, last of the Scriven-hunters.
Fever is sent by the engineers to aid Kit Solent, and arcaeologist who may have discovered artefacts belonging to Auric Godshawk, a great Scriven scientist. What she doesn't know is that her adopter, Gideon Crumb, previously worked for Godshawk and fell in love with his daughter. Fever finds Solent's home, with his two young children (he is widowed) irrational. Soon all of them - Solent, Fever, the engineers and a wave of besiegers lurking beyond the orbital moutway and led by Admiral Quercus - are overtaken by chaos and change with the London mob rising up. In this post-technological London, the engineers are only just rediscovering flight using hot air. Some of the geography of London has changed as the Thames has shifted course.
As well as telling a rip-roaring tale and giving us the origins of traction fortresses, municipal Darwinism, the stalkers (Shrike in particular) and other concepts familiar from the Mortal Engines quartet, Fever Crumb contains hints at our modern culture. A religious procession chants "Hari, hari, hari potter". Names such as B@tersea and @kinson work less well as these occur in speech (and the joke is visual rather than audible). Cheesus Crice is an old cockney god. Pickled Eel Circus is a circus in the Roman arena sense. Users of the wind-tram system must buy and wear an oyster shell. At times, it's a bit like a junior version of Self's Book of Dave!
I'm already looking forward to the second book detailing Fever's adventures outside of London.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Bad Food Britain: How A Nation Ruined Its Appetite
Bad Food Britain
Britain has become a nation where people are unable to cook a meal from raw ingredients. Cooking isn't taught in schools and school meals are cheap and nasty. Many Britons consider fast foods and snack foods as a staple diet and manage to be both obese and malnourished - too many calories, but too few nutrients. It has forgotten its own traditional foods in order to produce bastardised cook-chill versions of other countries' cuisines. Blythman compares the British diet and attitude to food and food shopping with that in continental Europe. Unlike Europeans who take time to choose the best produce, to cook it and to sit as a family eating it, Britons spend as little time and money as possible on food, cook it in a microwave and don't eat together as a family. While continental children learn to eat what their parents eat at a family meal table, British children get a "children's menu" of poor nutritional quality food (burgers, chips etc) because parents don't believe they will eat adult food. And the cycle is continuing and getting worse.
At the same time we watch an increasing number of food/cookery shows and buy more and more recipe books, but these are 2food-porn" or aspirational shows/books - designed to be watched and admire, but not emulated.
While I have to agree with much of what Blythman has written, I can't agree with it all. In suggesting we revive traditional British foods, how traditional does she want us to be? Much of what we consider traditional British cooking was introduced into Britain - even the potato, which would rule out meat pie and mash. A properly traditional British diet would see us back to barleymeal, pottage and mutton. A better compromise is to start cooking our own meals, whether traditional sausage and mash (real sausages, not pink reclaimed slurry in a skin) or vegetable curry awnd pilau rice.
Britain has become a nation where people are unable to cook a meal from raw ingredients. Cooking isn't taught in schools and school meals are cheap and nasty. Many Britons consider fast foods and snack foods as a staple diet and manage to be both obese and malnourished - too many calories, but too few nutrients. It has forgotten its own traditional foods in order to produce bastardised cook-chill versions of other countries' cuisines. Blythman compares the British diet and attitude to food and food shopping with that in continental Europe. Unlike Europeans who take time to choose the best produce, to cook it and to sit as a family eating it, Britons spend as little time and money as possible on food, cook it in a microwave and don't eat together as a family. While continental children learn to eat what their parents eat at a family meal table, British children get a "children's menu" of poor nutritional quality food (burgers, chips etc) because parents don't believe they will eat adult food. And the cycle is continuing and getting worse.
At the same time we watch an increasing number of food/cookery shows and buy more and more recipe books, but these are 2food-porn" or aspirational shows/books - designed to be watched and admire, but not emulated.
While I have to agree with much of what Blythman has written, I can't agree with it all. In suggesting we revive traditional British foods, how traditional does she want us to be? Much of what we consider traditional British cooking was introduced into Britain - even the potato, which would rule out meat pie and mash. A properly traditional British diet would see us back to barleymeal, pottage and mutton. A better compromise is to start cooking our own meals, whether traditional sausage and mash (real sausages, not pink reclaimed slurry in a skin) or vegetable curry awnd pilau rice.
Swindled: From Poison Sweets to Counterfeit Coffee - The Dark History of the Food Cheats (Bee Wilson)
Swindled
This book looks at the history of adulterated food over the last hundred or so years (some parts go further back into the Medieval guilds). It includes alum and chalk added to bread, copper used to keep boiled veg green (and toxic), lead and arsenic to colour sweets and antifreeze in wine and the Chinese baby-milk scandal. Often the adulteration is to stretch the product so it meets the correct weight with cheap non-nutritional substitutes making up part of the weight. Other adulterants were to improve the look of the food. Often the poor suffered most from adulteration with milk being tainted, bread not being nutritional and orphans dying because the oatmeal porridge was stretched with nutritionally poor barleymeal.
The motives were often greed, but sometimes poverty-stricken sellers were cheating their even poorer customers just to make ends meet. Luxury goods such as spices and wines were also often adulterated.
Wilson also looks at the history of food adulteration in the USA with the poor quality "swill milk" and packinghouse meats taht caused illness and malnutrition.
This book looks at the history of adulterated food over the last hundred or so years (some parts go further back into the Medieval guilds). It includes alum and chalk added to bread, copper used to keep boiled veg green (and toxic), lead and arsenic to colour sweets and antifreeze in wine and the Chinese baby-milk scandal. Often the adulteration is to stretch the product so it meets the correct weight with cheap non-nutritional substitutes making up part of the weight. Other adulterants were to improve the look of the food. Often the poor suffered most from adulteration with milk being tainted, bread not being nutritional and orphans dying because the oatmeal porridge was stretched with nutritionally poor barleymeal.
The motives were often greed, but sometimes poverty-stricken sellers were cheating their even poorer customers just to make ends meet. Luxury goods such as spices and wines were also often adulterated.
Wilson also looks at the history of food adulteration in the USA with the poor quality "swill milk" and packinghouse meats taht caused illness and malnutrition.
The Many Conditions of Love (Farahad Zama)
The Many Conditions of Love
The sequel to The Marriage Bureau for Rich People, this looks at the problems of marriages between castes and between religions. Mr Ali's marriage bureau is thriving, but he has more problems at home. His son (Muslim) is courting a Hindu woman whose family imprison her in the home and try to forcibly marry her to an abusive Hindu suitor. His assistant Aruna has married a high caste doctor, but her sister-in-law finds fault with everything and accuses her of marrying for money which the sister-in-claims Aruna is draining from the family. Meanwhile a young widowed friend of Mr Ali comes to stay in town. By tradition she should exclude herself from social life, but she's only in her 20s and Mr Ali believes the world is modern enough that she could re-marry. Other themes include GM farming and farmers who commit suicide because their GM crop fails and the company wants their money regardless.
Maybe not the most accomplished book, but well-paced and has a definite feelgood factor as the characters must work out their problems. Often traditional ways and modern ways collide and these must be navigated with common sense and a feeling for what would be "right" in the circumstances (and the law isn't free enough from corruption to help). The wisdom and experience of elderly relatives is also emphasised.
The sequel to The Marriage Bureau for Rich People, this looks at the problems of marriages between castes and between religions. Mr Ali's marriage bureau is thriving, but he has more problems at home. His son (Muslim) is courting a Hindu woman whose family imprison her in the home and try to forcibly marry her to an abusive Hindu suitor. His assistant Aruna has married a high caste doctor, but her sister-in-law finds fault with everything and accuses her of marrying for money which the sister-in-claims Aruna is draining from the family. Meanwhile a young widowed friend of Mr Ali comes to stay in town. By tradition she should exclude herself from social life, but she's only in her 20s and Mr Ali believes the world is modern enough that she could re-marry. Other themes include GM farming and farmers who commit suicide because their GM crop fails and the company wants their money regardless.
Maybe not the most accomplished book, but well-paced and has a definite feelgood factor as the characters must work out their problems. Often traditional ways and modern ways collide and these must be navigated with common sense and a feeling for what would be "right" in the circumstances (and the law isn't free enough from corruption to help). The wisdom and experience of elderly relatives is also emphasised.
The Feng Shui Detective's Casebook (Nury Vittachi)
The Feng Shui Detective's Casebook
A collection of CF Wong stories linked loosely together. Wong, his incomprehensible Australian teen assistant Joyce and the union of mystics (a Chinese fortune teller and an Indian vaastu practitioner). Using their disciplines and a lot of common sense, the solve a number of cases in several countries (Philippines, India, Thailand) as CF Wong is sent on business to his employer's most important clients. In most cases, the reader can work out the myustery using reasoning and deduction, but it's fun anyway.
The cases include grand theft auto from a highly secure garage, a missing film star, gym clients who are exercised to death, a journalist who sends an email after taking her own life, some disappearing valuable fish, a computer loner whose emails continue bouncing around the internet after he is killed when someone bombs his office. Throughout, Wong is perplexed by the language (groady!) and behaviour of the Australian who has been foisted on him while Joyce carries on oblivious to the culture shock she causes around her.
A collection of CF Wong stories linked loosely together. Wong, his incomprehensible Australian teen assistant Joyce and the union of mystics (a Chinese fortune teller and an Indian vaastu practitioner). Using their disciplines and a lot of common sense, the solve a number of cases in several countries (Philippines, India, Thailand) as CF Wong is sent on business to his employer's most important clients. In most cases, the reader can work out the myustery using reasoning and deduction, but it's fun anyway.
The cases include grand theft auto from a highly secure garage, a missing film star, gym clients who are exercised to death, a journalist who sends an email after taking her own life, some disappearing valuable fish, a computer loner whose emails continue bouncing around the internet after he is killed when someone bombs his office. Throughout, Wong is perplexed by the language (groady!) and behaviour of the Australian who has been foisted on him while Joyce carries on oblivious to the culture shock she causes around her.
The System of the World (Neal Stephenson)
The System of the World
The last book of the Baroque cycle looks at the rise of coin currency, the Royal mint and the problem of counterfeiters. Jack Shaftoe finds himself in opposition to his brother, Sergeant Bob Shaftoe resulting in Jack being locked up in jail and taken to be hanged. Once again, the heavy Solomonic gold is at the centre of the plot - it makes some sovereigns heavier than others and Daniel Waterhouse is using sheets of it as punch-cards in his logic mill (he's Babbage ahead of the times). Waterhouse's customer demands all the punched cards are made from the same type of gold. Meanwhile Newton, now in charge of the mint, also wants it. The English throne is in crisis with Anne, now gravely ill, still hanging on and her successor being a foreigner.
Other themes include slavery, the power of the mob, bull/bear baiting, infernal devices (clockwork bombs), political intrigue and alchemy, with the Solomonic gold being a crucial ingredient in an elixir to prolong or restore life and the surprisingly hale-for-is-age Waterhouse discovers the elixir was used on him when he "died" during a bladder stone operation many years previously.
This volume took a long time to pick up, but once it hit its stride it romped along.
The last book of the Baroque cycle looks at the rise of coin currency, the Royal mint and the problem of counterfeiters. Jack Shaftoe finds himself in opposition to his brother, Sergeant Bob Shaftoe resulting in Jack being locked up in jail and taken to be hanged. Once again, the heavy Solomonic gold is at the centre of the plot - it makes some sovereigns heavier than others and Daniel Waterhouse is using sheets of it as punch-cards in his logic mill (he's Babbage ahead of the times). Waterhouse's customer demands all the punched cards are made from the same type of gold. Meanwhile Newton, now in charge of the mint, also wants it. The English throne is in crisis with Anne, now gravely ill, still hanging on and her successor being a foreigner.
Other themes include slavery, the power of the mob, bull/bear baiting, infernal devices (clockwork bombs), political intrigue and alchemy, with the Solomonic gold being a crucial ingredient in an elixir to prolong or restore life and the surprisingly hale-for-is-age Waterhouse discovers the elixir was used on him when he "died" during a bladder stone operation many years previously.
This volume took a long time to pick up, but once it hit its stride it romped along.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Routemaster RML 2488, Chiswick Common
Routemaster, Chiswick Common
Originally uploaded by messy_beast
This Routemaster has been turned into a play/dining area with tables inside. It sits at one end of the miniature golf course on Chiswich Common near the tennis courts. There's a hole in the wing and a missing light - no doubt due to golf balls. There's no glass in the driver's cab window beside the bonnet, one of the front screens is missing (broken glass again) and more holes in the wooden screens on the rear platform.
In its time it was RML 2488 and was a Stagecoach-owned vehicle (the logo is still just visible on the other side). Its history includes being caught in a flood.
Friday, December 04, 2009
Storm on a Teacup Kitty
A few blogs (including one called "pictures-of-cats" which has greatly plundered my cat website, often without giving credit) have picked up
"a nice story on the internet about a person called John Antrobus, who used to breed teacup cats (he may still do it but a search proved fruitless). He first discovered miniature cats in Argentina. He says that he found them surviving in a refuse dump, in a back alley. He decided to bring 7 home to Canada and 6 survived the trip (one died due to the sedative needed for the journey). He bred them successfully. He says that a "trade off" for the small size is that they are short lived (although this probably only applied to the breed he was dealing with)."
Here's the original story: TEACUP CATS ARE HERE TO STAY?
And if you look here (following a link at the bottom of the teacup cat page), you'll see it was an April Fool joke, created in part to see who was ripping off information wholesale and skimping on research. The original is an image file (so copyists would have to type it up) with a blatantly fake photo.
That's even better than Petshed treating the Pakhet spoof as a real breed.
"a nice story on the internet about a person called John Antrobus, who used to breed teacup cats (he may still do it but a search proved fruitless). He first discovered miniature cats in Argentina. He says that he found them surviving in a refuse dump, in a back alley. He decided to bring 7 home to Canada and 6 survived the trip (one died due to the sedative needed for the journey). He bred them successfully. He says that a "trade off" for the small size is that they are short lived (although this probably only applied to the breed he was dealing with)."
Here's the original story: TEACUP CATS ARE HERE TO STAY?
And if you look here (following a link at the bottom of the teacup cat page), you'll see it was an April Fool joke, created in part to see who was ripping off information wholesale and skimping on research. The original is an image file (so copyists would have to type it up) with a blatantly fake photo.
That's even better than Petshed treating the Pakhet spoof as a real breed.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Centre Point
Centre Point
Originally uploaded by messy_beast
Getting the exposure right was the fun part otherwise Centre Point was just a silhouette. I was waiting for Billy to pay for some stuff in Muji.
Notting Hill at Night
Notting Hill at Night
Originally uploaded by messy_beast
A nice busy street scene after dark. I was impressed at how well this turned out.
jjd573d Routemaster
jjd573d Routemaster
Originally uploaded by messy_beast
A former London bus advertising an Xbox game. Nice Routemaster, but the advertising amounts to vandalism on a classic vehicle. And the image of Allen on the side looks positively deformed. This bus was previously seen in black advertising Capital Radio. Not the sort of thing I expect to find in Chelmsford town centre and spotted only because I had the day off to go Xmas shopping.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Baragami - The Ancient Welsh Art of Toast Arranging
Baragami is the ancient Welsh decorative art of "toast arranging". First documented in Aberystwyth, Wales, baragami involves the presentation of toast in intricate and preferably topical arrangements. Just as haiku should have a reference to the seasons, a skillful baragami endeavours to make reference to current affairs although there are a number of classical toast arrangements.
How does baragami differ from toast sculpture? Baragami aims to create designs with the minimum use of cuts. It may be necessary to remove crusts or to use slices from different loaves to attain different sized pieces, but fancy bread-trimming such as curves, zig-zags etc are frowned upon.
Baragami was also used as a political statement. Some scholars say that the political language of baragami dates back to when Wales was a kingdom under threat from the English. During meetings, secret messages were conveyed in baragami - a language the English could not understand. On defeating the Welsh, the English banned the serving of toast except in toast racks. During local and general elections, plates of arranged toast in the window indicated the household's political allegiance to warn off would-be canvassers. Guests were warned to avoid political discussion when served them a plate of toast; arranging it into the design representing a political allegiance. Some designs indicated that a guest had outstayed his welcome - many a guest departs swiftly after receiving such a design. It was a code that was understood throughout Wales.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
I Fade Away
(Dream 17/11/09)
A piano recital in the home was an anachronism in those days. It must have been common enough in the days before radio or TV or the other entertainment systems, but now it's just a costume party. Most of us sat in dining chairs around the edge of the room while the baby grand piano had the centre of the room. No doubt the other furniture had been cleared away somewhere. The pianist was a chunky redhead in blue dress, but it was the singer who caught my attention. He was medium height and had dressed the part in a black suit over a white shirt with an old fashioned "stand-up" collar and a black bow tie. It was his face that attracted my attention - the vivid blue eyes and raven-black hair. Surely hair so black should have accompanied a swarthier complexion or shown signs of being dyed! I sensed this was really his show and the pianist, who seemed to be a relative, was his accompaniment. Something about him put me on edge even before he was introduced as Watt.
Not long into the recital (which was in itself not at all bad, although the singer was more accomplished than the pianist) I found the atmosphere in the room unbearable. It was as though everyone were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. I slipped out of the door into the hallway and continued watching from there. The singer's vivid blue eyes caught and held mine. I heard a voice in my head, my name being whispered and I felt my flesh crawl. I made some excuse and left, as politely as was possible, at once. It was not so easy to forget about Mr Watt though and what I learnt about him shaped my life.
Looking around me more than a decade later I see the bright lights of amusement arcades and brightly lit signs of a shopping centre. It's a coastal resort, a mix of entertainment and shopping, and it could be anywhere on the south coast. I shouldered my pack and kept walking, scanning the fluorescent-lit windows of luxury goods stores and the cosier windows of tea rooms. At this time of year, when shopping was the main attraction, I looked out of place among the smartly dressed visitors. I was a shortish, fairish, scrawny-looking middle-aged women in cargo-pants and jacket with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder though no-one gave me a second glance as I dogded among groups of people and along the pedestrianise streets. Finally I see what I've been looking for.
The woman was in her 40s, a little plump as they all had been. He hovered by her attentively, his hair as black as ever with no signs of grey and his eyes still a piercing blue. They spoke and separated, no doubt to meet up later. She had no way to know she was courting danger. I moved through the clot of shoppers that had hidden me from him and approached the plump woman. Closer up she looked less affluent and a little out of place in the shopping area; middle-aged, middle class and anonymous. She didn't see me at first, of course, though she felt someone pressing against her arm. She didn't hear me either, though she no doubt felt a stray breeze. That was always the first problem - to be noticed.
I exerted enough pressure on her arm to make her turn towards the tea room window. Then she saw me, or rather saw my reflection. Only now that she was looking for me could she see me next to her. I've gone so long unnoticed that it's difficult to be noticed now, though mirrors still see me. At least she didn't scream.
"Your companion," I began, "Mr Watt ..."
She smiled. It was the strange, slightly besotted smile I'd seen on the other women he chose.
"...he's dangerous, you need to protect yourself."
But she didn't listen, didn't want to know. I vanished from her perception as soon as she turned away from the window. Some I save, but each time I fail, I fade a little more and one day even the mirrors won't see me. Perhaps it is time to face him directly. I am, after all, a bounty-hunter.
Soon after, I watched Watt and his chosen leave the well-lit streets and move into a quiet district, lit only by pale streetlights. He hurried her along and she, seemingly unaware of the dangers of poorly lit unfamiliar streets, went eagerly. I followed at a distance, my weapon taken from its duffel bag and assembled, now slung on my shoulder. Here, in the twilight, not even windows noticed me. They moved faster than I anticipated and I dared not approach more closely, not yet. Then, to my annoyance, I lost them altogether among tall garden fences. I felt myself fade a little more.
Now with no visible quarry, I continued walking along the back-alley between rows of gardens, overhadowed by larch lap fencing or conifers that screened the gardens. When I heard his footsteps behind me I turned around. Even in the dim streetlights his blue eyes pierced me, seeing me without the need for mirrors. He looked solid, glutted. The woman he'd absorbed had been plump. Moreover he looked no older than when I'd first seen him. I'd always avoided a direct confrontation, but now I heard that silky voice in my head speaking my name: he'd waited so long, hadn't I known we were the same? That knowledge had only come later as I'd begun to fade. The knowledge that now came to me, bright and clear, was that only one, or neither, of us would emerge from that alleyway.
(My subconscious is a scary place sometimes!)
A piano recital in the home was an anachronism in those days. It must have been common enough in the days before radio or TV or the other entertainment systems, but now it's just a costume party. Most of us sat in dining chairs around the edge of the room while the baby grand piano had the centre of the room. No doubt the other furniture had been cleared away somewhere. The pianist was a chunky redhead in blue dress, but it was the singer who caught my attention. He was medium height and had dressed the part in a black suit over a white shirt with an old fashioned "stand-up" collar and a black bow tie. It was his face that attracted my attention - the vivid blue eyes and raven-black hair. Surely hair so black should have accompanied a swarthier complexion or shown signs of being dyed! I sensed this was really his show and the pianist, who seemed to be a relative, was his accompaniment. Something about him put me on edge even before he was introduced as Watt.
Not long into the recital (which was in itself not at all bad, although the singer was more accomplished than the pianist) I found the atmosphere in the room unbearable. It was as though everyone were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. I slipped out of the door into the hallway and continued watching from there. The singer's vivid blue eyes caught and held mine. I heard a voice in my head, my name being whispered and I felt my flesh crawl. I made some excuse and left, as politely as was possible, at once. It was not so easy to forget about Mr Watt though and what I learnt about him shaped my life.
Looking around me more than a decade later I see the bright lights of amusement arcades and brightly lit signs of a shopping centre. It's a coastal resort, a mix of entertainment and shopping, and it could be anywhere on the south coast. I shouldered my pack and kept walking, scanning the fluorescent-lit windows of luxury goods stores and the cosier windows of tea rooms. At this time of year, when shopping was the main attraction, I looked out of place among the smartly dressed visitors. I was a shortish, fairish, scrawny-looking middle-aged women in cargo-pants and jacket with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder though no-one gave me a second glance as I dogded among groups of people and along the pedestrianise streets. Finally I see what I've been looking for.
The woman was in her 40s, a little plump as they all had been. He hovered by her attentively, his hair as black as ever with no signs of grey and his eyes still a piercing blue. They spoke and separated, no doubt to meet up later. She had no way to know she was courting danger. I moved through the clot of shoppers that had hidden me from him and approached the plump woman. Closer up she looked less affluent and a little out of place in the shopping area; middle-aged, middle class and anonymous. She didn't see me at first, of course, though she felt someone pressing against her arm. She didn't hear me either, though she no doubt felt a stray breeze. That was always the first problem - to be noticed.
I exerted enough pressure on her arm to make her turn towards the tea room window. Then she saw me, or rather saw my reflection. Only now that she was looking for me could she see me next to her. I've gone so long unnoticed that it's difficult to be noticed now, though mirrors still see me. At least she didn't scream.
"Your companion," I began, "Mr Watt ..."
She smiled. It was the strange, slightly besotted smile I'd seen on the other women he chose.
"...he's dangerous, you need to protect yourself."
But she didn't listen, didn't want to know. I vanished from her perception as soon as she turned away from the window. Some I save, but each time I fail, I fade a little more and one day even the mirrors won't see me. Perhaps it is time to face him directly. I am, after all, a bounty-hunter.
Soon after, I watched Watt and his chosen leave the well-lit streets and move into a quiet district, lit only by pale streetlights. He hurried her along and she, seemingly unaware of the dangers of poorly lit unfamiliar streets, went eagerly. I followed at a distance, my weapon taken from its duffel bag and assembled, now slung on my shoulder. Here, in the twilight, not even windows noticed me. They moved faster than I anticipated and I dared not approach more closely, not yet. Then, to my annoyance, I lost them altogether among tall garden fences. I felt myself fade a little more.
Now with no visible quarry, I continued walking along the back-alley between rows of gardens, overhadowed by larch lap fencing or conifers that screened the gardens. When I heard his footsteps behind me I turned around. Even in the dim streetlights his blue eyes pierced me, seeing me without the need for mirrors. He looked solid, glutted. The woman he'd absorbed had been plump. Moreover he looked no older than when I'd first seen him. I'd always avoided a direct confrontation, but now I heard that silky voice in my head speaking my name: he'd waited so long, hadn't I known we were the same? That knowledge had only come later as I'd begun to fade. The knowledge that now came to me, bright and clear, was that only one, or neither, of us would emerge from that alleyway.
(My subconscious is a scary place sometimes!)
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