You couldn't make it up.

It really is beyond belief. The BBC news last night reported the story of a school which has banned it's dinner ladies from selling triangular shaped flapjack after a child had to be sent home when another child threw a slice of flapjack at his eye causing him an injury. Well actually he probably just threw it in his general direction, I doubt he would have ballistic accuracy with a slice of flapjack, whatever it's shape. I will point out at this point that the child made a full recovery. In other words he was just a bit upset.
I would consider this a freak accident, and would not rearrange the menu simply to prevent the highly unlikely event being repeated. But just look a the probabilities. A triangle has three points and three sides. The chances of being struck by a point are equal to the chances of being struck by a side. The school has been told to serve only square or rectangular pieces of flapjack. These have four corners and four sides. So whilst the chances of being hit by a corner remain the same at 50/50, the chances of being hit by a corner are 33% higher when compared with a triangle. And I would doubt the ballistic accuracy of a square of flapjack is any worse than that if a triangular piece.
Of course what the school has failed to take into account is the devious nature of school children. What will prevent them, left with their cutlery, from cutting the square of flapjack diagonally across and thus arming them with not one, but two triangular pieces of lethal flapjack? The consequences are unthinkable.
And if triangular flapjack is such a safety hazard within the school canteen, then surely wedges of quiche and slices of all sorts of pie should be outlawed too?
You really couldn't make this up. It's Health and Safety gone mad etc etc........
Of course those of a certain age will know of the real danger in school canteens - chocolate crunch with pink custard. This stuff really was dangerous. If Teflon is the slipperiest substance known to man then chocolate crunch is definitely the hardest. If the local council could only get hold of the recipe they could solve the pothole problem in an instance. Attempting to eat this stuff was nigh on impossible. An entire generation of dentists were able to retire early as a result of the inclusion of chocolate crunch onto the school meals menu. Hitting it with the sharp edge of a spoon would, when around 3 1/2 tonnes of pressure per square inch had been applied, result in the stuff shattering, with pieces flying everywhere. Many a child would go home with shrapnel wounds when chocolate crunch had been on the menu. People born in the mid sixties proudly show off their scars. Soaking the stuff in the accompanying pink custard after turning it upside down helped a little but not much. All that happened then was that the stricken child would go home with a simulated gunshot wound with unsightly creamy white stains around it, because the pink was a mere illusion, it always dried creamy white. It was a different time of course, before Yogurt and Lettuce were invented, but it was part of what out the backbone in British kids. So, let them eat triangular flapjack. Otherwise they will all grow up without the nerve to ever try a Vindaloo, or a late night Kebab. And the world will be a darker place without that.
  

Now I really don't understand money - budget review.

As I admitted in my previous post, I don't understand money. And I sure as hell don't understand the budget.
We have had three years of austerity, with pay freezes in the public sector, redundancies, cost efficiency measures, pay cuts, tax rises, pension benefits reduced and we will all have to work longer. But this, we are told is for the greater good, as we will bounce out of recession in no time and be richer in wealth and experience. However despite all the savings the Government still borrowed £21 billion last year and £20 billion the year before (in rough terms - give or take a million, and when you're talking in billions what does a million here or there matter? Ask the CPS) Even with all those savings and all that money borrowed growth is at a standstill and inflation is rising.
Despite being in debt, and in a recession we continue to give away millions in foreign aid. This is so that African clan leaders and warloads can buy more guns and new Mercedes, and spend a very small percentage of what we send on buying a well, or building a school out of corrugated tin. It wouldn't be so bad if they spent the money on British guns, but they don't, they buy Chinese copies of the excellent Russian AK-47. So UK Plc doesn;t benefit at all from this, other than we get a nice warm glow from helping save ungrateful nations from their own stupidity in order that they can grow up and become terrorists to fight against us. But I digress.
We fell into this recession, if memory serves, because a bunch of greedy Americans loaned money to people to buy houses who had no hope of ever paying the money back. This caused soem American banks to collapse, which in turn, for reasons I am not able to fully grasp, caused Northern Rock, a UK bank to also collapse. And then caused lots of other financial institutions to have collywobbles of their own until suddenly it was my problem, even though I don't own a bank. I am in the happy position where whilst I have very little money, I owe very little money too, so I could manage reasonably well without a bank at all. So, in a nutshell, lending money to people who can't pay it back is not a good idea. Obviously you should only loan money to rich people, who can pay it back. But then, they don't need to borrow it because they are rich.
Anyhow, it would seem that the Chancellors plan to get the economy moving is that he will borrow £21 billion again this year. He will then use this to help people who can't afford the deposit to buy a house, to buy a house. This will be in the form of some sort of loan, which if they can't afford a mortgage, they will have no hope of paying back. Sound familiar?
Elsewhere in the budget, a political master stroke, Mr Osbourne announces he will not increase the duty in fuel that he had planned for the Autumn. We are supposed to be grateful for this. 'I am cancelling this September's fuel duty increase altogether,' said Osborne. 'Fuel is now 13p cheaper than it would have been,' he claimed. Well there's a convenient conversion back to imperial measures for a start. Yes it's 13p a gallon cheaper, but only 3p a litre which is what it is sold in. 3p doesn't sound as impressive as 13 p though does it?And don't forget that's not 3p a litre coming OFF the price, that's the removal of a 3p per litre increase he had previously threatened. So, If I threaten to punch him in the face, but then say I've changed my mind, does that make it all okay?
The only other striking bit of news in the budget was a reduction in the price of a pint of beer by 1p. Wow! With beer costing on average £3 a pint in pubs that is really something to drink to. Actually he missed a trick there, becasue had he converted it to litres it's more than twice as much at 2.1 pence per litre. So, for example, if you are a raging alcoholic and drink 10 pints of beer every day, that will save you £36.50 a year, enough to buy another 12 pints, and one for yourself darling. If on the other hand, like me, you enjoy a nice glass of red wine at home you save nothing. Or if you have the occasional pint after walking 30 miles in the beautiful rural North Yorkshire moors, at a nice country pub, assuming it hasn't closed down because of the recession, it will save you only about 5 pence a year. Which is more than the 3p a litre you'll have not saved on the reduction in the fuel duty that never was in the first place.
The final bit of budget news I caught was that we will now be able to earn £10000 before paying any tax at all. Unless you are a mulitnational company in which case it will remain as it was £100,000 million.
Of course what George should have done is gone down to "Cash for Gold" with the nations gold reserves and flogged them - but too late, seems like the preceding Labour Government already did that.

I don't understand money, but I've worked out how to fund war heroes care.

I don't understand money, possibly because I have never had enough of it to be on close terms. I know money only as a fleeting acquaintance. For example a recent £3000 endowment policy matured, and remained within my bank account for about an hour before it paid off my credit card balance and for some urgent repairs on my car. They say money talks, but mine barely has time to learn the local dialect before it is saying goodbye.
I follow the basics of finance, in that there are 100 pennies to the pound, and six zeros behind a million, and 9 behind a billion (unless you are American, they seem to follow their own rules)
I can even follow basic interest rates in that 2% interest means you get £102 a year back for every £100 invested. What I can't quite follow is negative interest, the idea that the bank would charge me to look after my money, so that for every £100 I invest I get £98 back. A financial dumb dumb I may be, but at that point shoving it under the mattress seems a better option. Particularly as I have a safe built into the house which I could throw the mattress on top of. Of course having cash around the house is not a good idea in these dark times. Anything over a couple of hundred quid and you are likely to mistaken for a drugs baron money laundering his ill gotten gains, because we live pretty much in a cashless society otherwise. I rarely have more than £30 in my wallet, and being a working married man it is usually less than that.
What I can't comprehend however is other peoples attitude to money.

Hitting the headlines today is the story of two senior employees with the Crown Prosecution Service. They are apparently being investigated in a fraud case for up to £1 million expenses claimed for taxi fares. This is a staggering amount. I would assume that this has accrued over a number of years, but how? Has nobody noticed this? 1/2 a million each in taxi fares couldn't go unnoticed even over five years. And surely the accountants do an annual review, the Inland Revenue must look at the figures, and Mr CPS Limited can;t have failed to notice the money leeching from the public funds. Lets' say then that this must have happened with the last financial year to have gone unnoticed at the last review. Allowing these guys two weeks leave there are 50 working weeks to keep things simple. £1/2 a million over 50 weeks is £10,000 a week. Excuse me? I bought a 4 year old Vauxhall Vectra a few years back for less than half of that, and can run it for a year on a couple of grand including insurance. That allows one hell of a parking budget and still gives change out of £10000. I could pay a chauffeur a handsome £30000 a year to drive me around and still only spend £40000 a year. So in one month I could have bought a decent car paid for it's running costs. In two or three months I could have bought and paid for a brand new executive car and been chauffeur driven whilst a private masseur attended to my every need. Yet these guys were claiming that much for black cabs and nobody noticed? I can only assume they were being driven by his holiness The Stig in a gold plated special edition Bugatti Veyron.

It beggers belief that public money can be squandered unnoticed by other public officials in this way and yet we force our war heroes to sell their homes to pay for their care in their twilight years. Because the other news that caught my eye this week was the story of a WW2 RAF fighter pilot, who was decorated for many deeds of bravery and had an enviable 19 kills to his score sheet during the hostilities with Germany, is being forced to sell his medals to raise the estimated £120,000 he needs to pay for his care home. This is an absolute disgrace. We owe our lives and freedom to "the few" and those who battled in the theater of war so that we might enjoy those freedoms. The medals we present them with are mere bits of stamped metal but their rarity and what they stand for makes them value able beyond words to the recipients and their fallen comrades, their families and those who understand what they went through. That they can be sold to the highest bidder, some faceless collector who doesn't deserve them is abhorrent  That the ex serviceman should have to consider that option in his twilight years is a national disgrace.
So how about this for a suggestion. We currently have 2.5 million unemployed in receipt of benefits. This week we should deduct £1 from each of their benefit payments and fund the care of this war hero and others like him. £2.5 million could be raised just like that. A proportion of those 2.5 million, the genuinely unemployed minority would, I am sure, willingly donate a pound. The remainder are being funded by the workers and have their rights and freedoms funded by the surviving war heroes and others who gave their lives and endured hardships so they wouldn't have to, so a pound is the least they can give. And if, next week another war hero finds himself in the same position, we should do the same again. Because I'd be happier with a pound of my taxes supporting the genuinely needy than some drug taking alcoholic fat lazy scumbag on a council estate. And heroes should be buried with their medals, or pass them on to their families - lest we forget.
In essence it would seem we can spend public money on taxis for able bodied bureaucrats without anyone worrying, but we can't pay for a care home for retired disabled ex-servicemen.

Work harder to earn less.

As a kid I was encouraged to work hard to get on in life. My dad wasn't bothered what career I went into, whether it was emptying the bins or something more lowly, like an MP. Actually, he'd have probably disowned me if I had become an MP. The point was though, that hard work earned success, and success lead to a better lifestyle, and higher income.
However, the austerity measures have left me increasingly doubtful of Dads wisdom. Casual overtime used to be paid at time and a half, now it is time and a third. Working on a day off used to be double time, but now it's time and a half. So, work harder and you can still earn more, but less than you could.
So far so good. But today I got my tax code notice. Bad news is always buried in the good, and if something looks too good to be true it usually is. Too bloody true. On the face of it I can now earn an extra £1330 without paying tax. However, the tax bandings have been revised, which takes back a good proportion of that, meaning that I now pay 40% tax on the £530 basic pay that goes over the threshold. Following this so far? Basically I pay no tax on more money, the same amount of tax on just as much money but more tax on less money.
And then there is the question of overtime. If I have understood this correctly any overtime I work now will be taxed at the 40% rate which means that I will be earning £3.50 an hour LESS on overtime than I am on standard time. This wouldn't be so bad if mine was a job where overtime can be avoided, but it isn't. It's often an operational necessity to work overtime.
So, basically the harder I work, the more tax I pay and the less I earn. Meanwhile, some people don't work at all and had their benefits increased last year. Go figure!

Gale force winds save the economy

For many years gales have been measured using numbers, with Gale Force 10 being the strongest, and Gale Force 1 hardly worth a mention. Gale Force 1, so far as I can tell, is a breeze. Whilst we think of a force 10 as likely to take our roof off.
But has the "Force" scale gone out of fashion? We hardly hear of it on the weather forecast these days. Now we get Amber warnings, and if it gets really bad, I p[resume we will get a red warning. Which is all very nice, but the people with wind turbines will be very disappointed to get months and months of green warnings.
And even when the wind gets up really high, as it has done in the last few days around here, the little arrows on the weather map mean nothing to real people. 13 with a directional arrow? What is that about? Is it mph, kph or something else?
What I need is a windspeed indicator which warns, in no uncertain terms that my fence is about to fall over. A clear indicator that the solar panel is about to be blown off the summerhouse roof. And how this will affect my bank balance.
So, I am pleased to report I have the solution. It is rather localised I'm afraid, but in general terms the wind which blew through last Thursday rated £100 on the damage scale. That's on a DIY basis obviously. If I had a tradesman in to repair the damage it could easily have rated £300 to £400.
This compares favourably with the storm several years ago which rated at a DIY score of £300 and that was sharing the costs with the neighbour. Mind you, the shared fence very nearly took out his front room windows, so it could have been even higher.
The problem with this scale of course is that it can only be applied AFTER the event. Rather like the weather forecast, which spends the first five minutes telling us about the weather that has already happened. I know about the weather that happened, I was in it. Just warn us about the weather to come thanks. Specifically the local weather. the very local weather. The weather that will knock my fence down, block my driveway, burn me, make me wet, or freeze me.

I've just realized that I have turned into the archetypal Brit, talking about the weather because he has nothing else interesting to say. Well, to quote Stan Laurel - "A lot of weather we've been having lately."

Am I alone in thinking that wind is just part of life and to get on with fixing the damage it has caused? It's an act of God, or one of the Gods, that's for sure. But can I claim on my insurance for high winds? People claim for floods, and that is just weather, after all. Perhaps I'm missing out here. Wind certainly makes money for my local fencing supplier. It has probably kept his business going through the austerity measures. Maybe I should get on that gravy train too.

Roman Sunset - a short story by Martin Thorp

Okay, instead of my usual drivel here's a short story I've written which I've entitled "Roman Sunset" although I'll probably think of a better on later. Read and digest, if you enjoy I'd appreciate any comments. If you don't enjoy I'd still appreciate your comments. Just not as much. I know it's probably a bit rough around the edges and might have the odd typo and spelling mistake, but is the plot idea any good that's the question?

ROMAN SUNSET a short story by Martin Thorp

I’d overstretched myself, and I knew it. I ought to admit it to myself, I am not as young as I once was, and with failing health I shouldn’t push myself so hard. But then, I’d rather die alone here and now on the moors, than a few months older in a sterile hospital bed surrounded by two faced family, covertly bickering about the will.

I seemed to have been walking for days, and every step now was an effort. It was my own fault though. I loved walking in Yorkshire, and a rare day off on a warm late autumn Wednesday had been too good a chance to pass over. To be honest, every day could be a day off, I was well over due for retirement, but retire to what? Everyday the same, watching Jeremey Kyle, Top Gear and Emmerdale, slurping soup and waiting for God to come and claim my tarnished soul. No, that wasn’t for me, so I kept up my job although on reduced hours now. There’s only so much a man in his late sixties riddled with cancer can do, and I was increasingly aware that subtly my responsibilities were being taken on by the younger fitter members of staff. They didn’t know about the cancer of course, I kept that to myself. They all assumed that as a reasonably well off widower I just kept working for the company, that I didn’t want to spend my days alone. Far from the truth, it wasn’t loneliness that I feared, but boredom, and the infinity that lay ahead once my ageing body surrendered, leaving my healthy alert mind trapped.

I loved the solitude of the moors, the stretching silence punctuated only by the sounds of nature and the occasional whoosh of a distance car on the open roads. Sometimes it was so quiet the only sound would be my own breathing and my own footsteps as I shuffled, leaden footed, leaning heavily on my stick on the tougher gradients. And those gradients were getting tougher, even more so as I tired. I knew in my heart this would probably be my last chance to hike these parts, I was weakening by the day, and if the fat lady wasn’t singing she was certainly looking at the play list to see what might go down well. I’d stopped taking the medicines a month ago, they made me nauseous and dizzy, and they didn’t really work anyway. The end game was on, so here I was, making the best of it, an old man with a mission, to seal his memories, capture the past in photographs, so that when the family forced me into the hospice to die I would have a little book filled with Yorkshire in there with me.

I’d parked the car just after first light in Cropton Forest, in a small layby shielded by trees, marked as the Newtondale Forest Drive. That gave me a marvellous view down into the valley over the Goathland railway and the river Pickering, down into the wonderfully quaintly named Hole of Horcum and across to the Saltergate Inn, where I planned to have a relaxed lunch and a beer. I’d walked this area many a time in my youth, and was as familiar with it as the locals who were lucky enough to live with this landscape on their doorsteps, instead of the brick and concrete of the city I endured daily.

I hadn’t bothered to pack a map, going against the sensible hikers rules of course, and I didn’t have a compass either, but I wasn’t concerned. I knew the area well, and I was otherwise well prepared for anything the weather could throw at me. My rucksack was a huge but lightweight modern goretex job, a pale sage green with many Velcro and zip fastened pockets, containing food and water to last easily overnight with spare dry clothing, first aid kit, a kettle and stove, eating irons and the essential whistle, torch and matches. Plus of course, like any modern hiker and despite muy age, I had my tablet phone, with built in SatNav. I could work the essential functions on it, the phone, maps and email, but I’m sure it could do a lot more beyond the needs of an elderly technophobe. I had reached my IT ceiling many years back once DVD’s were invented.

It had been a cool but bright start to the day, but after a half hour hiking I had stripped down to shorts and a t shirt, the sweat top and cargo pants getting stuffed into the Bergen on top of the wet weather gear and sleeping bag inside. The walk down through the devils punchbowl which is the Hole of Horcum saw a sheen of perspiration glistening on my forehead, the rim of my saggy old beige bush hat soaking up the excess. I was breathing hard by the time I arrived at the Saltergate Inn only to find it obviously closed, the lower windows boarded over and the frontage festooned in scaffold tubes. I wasn’t desperate for a pint, but I do like to reward myself with one during and after a good hike. I knew there was a very welcoming pub down in Levisham, a picture postcard village down the other side of the Hole, but then I figured I wasn’t so very far from Goathland either. It was still before midday, so I decided I would push on along the A169, past Fylingdales and into Goathland, where several pubs ought to be open. The other driver of course was the chance to see Mallyan Spout again, and then planning my route in my head, I would return across Wheeldale Moor along the old Roman Road.

And so it had gone. I had a very refreshing pint of ale in Goathland, then dropped down the valley to Mallyan Spout where I dipped my feet in the icy cold water before replacing my boots, refreshed and ready for the return haul.  I spent a good quarter of an hour shooting the waterfall from all angles, the reliable Cannon DSLR making the best of the dappled sunlight playing off the shimmering water, deepening the shadows and highlighting the fairylight twinkles of the spray, rainbows dancing in a multihued green backdrop.  I’d considered taking a video camera with me, but decided against it. Video captures an event, like a news film, and without a lot of editing and buggering about it always looks amateur. No, for me, a still picture, well composed is far better at trapping a memory. If I’d been any good with a brush I’d have tried painting, but photography was second best.

I’d have liked to have continued on along the valley and out to Beck Hole, the pub there with its little wild bird garden was always a treat, but I knew I was pushing my luck, the air was starting to cool, the skies clouding over. If I had the chance, if I had another day, maybe I’d fit in that visit.

Hauling myself back up out of the valley was hard work, I had to steady myself more than once with my hands, and rely heavily on my stick. Reaching the top road again my heart was pounding, I could hear the blood rushing in my ears and the pain from the exertion of worn out muscles was agony. Reaching Hunt House road I stopped at the bench and slipped my cargoes and sweat shirt back on. The clear blue skies of the morning had now filled with low grey clouds, the moorland weather changeable as ever. I strode out towards the Youth Hostel, glad that the surface was now level for a while and that at least it had remained dry.

By the time I reached the branch off at Hunt House the air was decidedly moist and cool, and a thin mist was forming. I swung open the gate and started onto the Roman road. The road is a bit of a mystery, because although generally termed as Roman it is potentially much older. The Romans are credited with building many of Britain’s roads, famously long and straight and built to last, with a definite structure. More recent researchers argue that the Romans simply reconstructed existing roads improving what they found with better surfaces and engineering. Wheeldale Road however differs from the Roman design, they were gravel topped, whilst Wheeldale is paved with large stone slabs. It also deviates from the straight, direct route one would expect of roman roads. That it was built at all is a mystery in itself. What outposts must it have linked? I had always been fascinated by it. To me it symbolized the stubborn resolute of the Yorkshireman that farms the bleak moors. It was built just because it could be, because others said it couldn’t be done, so they proved them wrong. That’s my theory anyway. Some say it linked Malton to Whitby, but there must have been easier routes. Carrying the tonnes of stone slabs up onto the remote fells must have been a mammoth task.    

The mist had thickened to a fog now, and my peripheral vision had gone, the fog was deadening what little sound there was too. The remains of the Roman road though were easy enough to follow, and I knew that if I kept going I would reach Keys Beck, then Brown Howe Road which would take me through the edge of Cropton Forest and back to where my Rover was parked. The light was failing now too, it would be dark before I reached the car, but not a problem, it was tarmac once I hit Keys Beck and I couldn’t get lost on a single track road. I wouldn’t want to be out on the moor itself in the dark; that is asking for trouble.

I became aware of a shadow on the path ahead, the vague suggestion of another hiker moving slower than me, but travelling in the same direction. Other than a few locals in Goathland I had barely seen a soul all day. Midweek and late in the season few hikers ventured out on the moors, and only those like myself, caught out by age and an ambitious route were likely to be out so late in the day. I wondered if the hiker must be lost, but the lone figure seemed to be walking with purpose, albeit slowly, slower than my own agonizing pace. I was gaining slowly, and decided in the gloom that the figure must be that of an elderly woman, appearing short and wiry and wearing a skirt and a strange hat of some sort, a plume of feathers or something visible in fog.

Occasionally as visibility got worse the figure would disappear in the swirling cloud, only to reappear moments later, and each time I had the impression the figure had moved ahead again, as if running whilst concealed only to slow down as soon it cleared once more. I was definitely gaining though. I assumed the walker must be local, looking at the upright posture and the suggestion of old and seemingly obscure rural clothing, perhaps a farmer or shepherd. As the fog swirled clear once more I was startled to see I had suddenly caught up with the figure, and he had turned to face me, stopping and staring past me, no through me, as if unseeing, but seeking something. It was a man I saw, and he wore against all probability a Roman Centurions uniform, or what I supposed one to look like. What I had mistaken for a skirt was a leather and hide kilt, he wore long knee length socks and sturdy leather sandles with thick soles, and enclosed toes. A metallic breastplate covered a thick woollen shirt, and despite the increasing chill he was bare armed and bare legged. What I had taken to be a plume of flowers in a close fitting hat was a metal cap with a plume of burgundy brushes. The man had a wide bladed heavy looking sword in a sheaf on a broad leather belt. He looked muscular and weather tanned, his skin tone matching the leather of his outfit, as though he spent much of his time outdoors. He appeared in his late thirties, maybe early forties, the first signs of grey appearing in his dark brown hair.

At my age I like to think I have seen everything and nothing surprises me, but seeing a middle aged man in fancy dress on the moortops, miles from anywhere sent my brain reeling for a moment. Then explanations began top present themselves. Maybe he was a student and this was some sort of stunt? No, too old for a student. No, he must be an actor, they’ll be filming something and I’ve stumbled in across the set, there’ll be an angry director shouting at me any moment. It will be “Heartbeat” filming something, or maybe some period drama. Or maybe he’s just a crank? Whatever he was giving me the willies, looking straight through me like that.

I realised I had stopped walking and was leaning heavily on my stick again, my heart pounding from the exertion of walking, and of the sudden surreal experience. I had stopped maybe 30 feet from him, and still neither of us had spoken or acknowledged each other in any way. He seemed to be still scanning through me, looking beyond me and to either side, and I instinctively looked around to see who might be behind me. The camera man maybe? I felt I ought to say something and resorted to that reliable old English expression; “Good afternoon.”

The roman turned his head slightly, cocking his ear, as if struggling to hear me, yet there was not a sound to be heard other than my laboured breathing. The fog swirled, and he suddenly appeared to be more solid, the colours of his dress more vivid, and I realised with a start that he had been semi-transparent; the fog had been swirling through him until now. “Ego sum conscius vestri presenti,” he said. My language skills are poor at best, my Latin limited to the essentials I learned for sciences at school, but somehow I understood the gist of what he was saying. I know you’re there. “Ego fui questio vos.” I have been looking for you.

My mind reeled. I realised that whilst he was speaking his lips weren’t moving, although his facial expression showed puzzlement to match his sentiments. I then saw him start, and now he could see me, I could sense it, like he had been looking at one of those pictures with all the dots, and now suddenly saw the pattern. My body let me down then, the fatigue of walking, the pain, the cancer all conspired to collapse my legs and a sat with a bump onto a grassy tuft between the stones of the ancient road, the pain jarring up my back. “Who …..who are you?” It seemed a stupid thing to ask, but then it was a stupid situation, on the top of a moor with a ghostly figure dressed as a Roman centurion speaking ancient languages at me. Again he spoke, and again I understood not the words, as he spoke soundlessly, but the essence, the meaning became clear in my mind. “Vestri vicis has adveho, fatum specto in Olympus. Nos fui ut vado.” Your time is done, heaven is waiting. We must go now.

“I am a …..medic?” He spoke now in faltering English, as if he had had time to recalibrate and tune into my wavelength, and I wondered if he was hearing my words in his head as I heard his. I was faintly surprised to hear he had a vague Yorkshire accent, but then I realised he had spent a great deal of his own life in Yorkshire. I began to understand things without really knowing how I did, as if some collective knowledge was being downloaded into my brain, some sort of cosmic internet. “I am here to ease your path,” he said. He helped me to my feet and we walked a short distance to a dry stone wall, part of which had collapsed and I sat on the lowered section, taking off my rucksack and placing it on the ground besides me. I say I walked a short distance, the man, for I couldn’t comprehend him as anything else, but who I knew was some sort of spirit helped me along. I was in a lot of pain now, and I might have blacked out once or twice. I think he may have carried me in a firemans lift. I was passing in and out of consciousness, and I may have been hallucinating.

“Nos fui supervenio procul vestri electus locus.” He smiled and then translated himself, “I fall into my old ways,” he apologised, “We have arrived at your chosen place. The prodigium. The portal. Time is short. If you have affairs to finalise make your peace with the gods and the world now.”

The soldier, who I learned was called Marcus, explained as best as he could in his faltering English, and I understood, in that telepathic way that he was to be my spirit guide to whatever came next. I had many questions to ask, but seemed to know the answers without asking. That collective knowledge was really coming together now. And he was right, this was my chosen place, up on the high moors, in the clean clear air. I had decided long ago that if the choice were there I would die on my terms in my chosen place and not in some frigid sterile and godless hospital. I wasn’t a religious man and the time didn’t seem right to find religion even now, but it seemed right to me to go out in Gods beautiful country, admiring it to my last.

Time to make my peace with the world. I reached into my pocket and took out the tablet phone. No signal. No signal and no time. I should have said goodbye to my son, and now I felt selfish and ugly. My hand fell on my camera, and I considered, maybe I could leave one last photograph for posterity. I raised the camera and saw an icon of a sand timer filling the screen, the sands running out of the bottom. Marcus said gently “It is time.”

I felt a sudden loss of pressure and saw a sort of oily blackness seeping out of my body, a thick bloody tarlike substance, it had no real form, like a mist, but not like a mist, there as it leached into the ground but then melted away. And with it went the pain, the ugly cancer gone. I realised that I could breathe freely again, but at the same time knew I had no need. My body slumped and the last thing I saw was the fog clearing, it was bright again, the last rays of amber sun setting in a blaze of pinks and purples mimicking the heather moors below, and I was flying, soaring above the moors, a spirit free of pain and worry.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

EPILOGUE

The policeman knocked on the door of the large detached house and was hustled in by the middle aged man who answered the door. “Have you found him?” he asked. The policeman nodded introducing himself, “PC Jackman, sir, from Grange End Police Station. I’m sorry, Mr Carter” he added, “I’m afraid I have bad news for you. The body of an elderly man was found on Wheeldale Moor earlier today. I believe this to be your father, he matches the description you gave us, and his car was found parked in Cropton Forest nearby. I am sorry, sir. You will need to formerly identify him of course, but I’m afraid there is little doubt.” Carter nodded “Thank you officer, you’ve all been very kind since he went missing.” Emotions running away with him, anger pushed forward, “Bloody old fool, going hiking alone at his age. I told him to go into the hospice, they would have taken care of him, but he wouldn’t listen. Always had to have his own way.”

The policeman explained that a formal identification would need to be carried out and did Carter feel up to it right away. Carter agreed, it may as well be done and over with, and after some arrangements were made by the telephone with North Yorkshire Police the officer organised transport and they set off. Little was said along the way, Carter and his wife sitting in dull silence throughout most of the hour long journey. As they entered the side wing of the mortuary and the curtains were pulled back Carter formerly identified his father’s body.

As they prepared to leave the officer handed Carter a carrier bag and a rucksack. “Your fathers things,” he explained, adding, “You’ll need to sign for them. There’s a camera here too, it was lying right besides him. I hope you understand sir, but we did have to look at the pictures he’d been taking, just to rule out any possibility of foul play you understand, make sure he was on his own, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, yes of course,” said Carter. “He was, of course, wasn’t he?”

“Oh yes,” said PC Jackman, “So far as we can tell. He was a talented photographer I must say, some incredible views of the moors. There was one shot that caused us some consternation though, do you mind if I show you? Some sort of double exposure I think, damned if I know how he’s done it. Must have been the last picture he took too.” He switched on the camera and flicked the review screen to show a picture of a handsome looking middle aged man, dressed as a roman soldier, his feet appearing a couple of inches above the surface of the Wheeldale Road, the figure semi-transparent, a slight ground level mist burning away over the heather and a brilliant pink and amber sunset stretching up into the clear deep blue sky overhead. “A cracking good shot,” said PC Jackman, “I always think a photo tells a story far better than a video can.”

THE END

The idea for the plot developed from my own experiences walking the moors. I too have often walked Wheeldale Moor, reputedly haunted by roman soldiers. Walking alone in the mist one late autumn evening I kept hearing someone coughing behind me, yet every time I checked there was nobody there, only a few scattered sheep. My overactive imagination had me meeting a ghost from the past. It turned out later that sheep have a very human sounding cough! Like the un-named character I too would rather die on my terms somewhere beautifully scenic and outdoors, with a glass of scotch than in some musty hospital ward. The only core difference being, if possible, I'd like my family around me, and for that day to be many years into the future.

Quack recommends Duck Tape

I know that Britain is now a third world country and we have no money to spend on Transport, Law and Order, Education, Medicine viaducts or fine wines, or any of the other things the Romans introduced us to, but I didn't realise things were quite so bad as they seem in the NHS.
Daughter child has picked up a verruca at school, so we went to the doctors expecting him to burn it with acid or freeze it, both treatments being equally painful and something she was not looking forward to. Instead the doctor recommended that we cover up the warty appendage with duct tape. I explained that we had elastoplast in the house, and he needn't worry about the cost of a prescription, but no, he insisted we use Duct tape. Duct tape. Often referred to by a well known brand name of Duck Tape, this has many many uses. It is the tool of the Jedi handyman, having a dark side, a light side and being a force which holds the universe together. But I had never thought of it before as a cosmetic coverall. Covering up the verruca and hoping it would go away just didn't seem like a modern approach to medicine. I thought for a moment the doctor was taking the mickey. Then I thought maybe he was maybe a witch doctor practising traditional remedies, but no he was definitely white European and probably English, although he was clearly talking gibberish.
As it turns out the old treatments of burning and/or freezing only had something like a 40% success rate whilst 80% of verrucas and indeed many other viral warts can be cured simply by covering them with duct tape. It seals them off and starves them of oxygen that they need to survive. It sounds uncomfortable, but girl child reports that it is actually quite cosy and she doesn't notice it after a while. Which is just as well, as the tape has to stay on 24/7 for the next couple of weeks at least. Elastoplast or other types of dressing just don't cut it, it has to be Duct Tape.
So there you go, another use for duct tape. And a good excuse for having it in the boot of the car when plod stops you and thinks you are on your way to kidnap someone - Honestly officer, I've got a verruca.