The story behind the story

I first published this story in 2016 – partly in response to the newly released, ‘Lego Movie, ‘with its incessantly upbeat song, ‘Everything is Awesome.’

Today with the explosion of Artificial Intelligence and what it might mean for our work and possibly our very existence, I wanted to share it again.

So, without further ado, I give you:

The Mission

‘What can I do to help you positively change your life today?’

Sylvie almost jumps out of her skin when the voice chirps from the App as she taps at it, more from idle curiosity than anything else.  

‘I am your Happy App designed to bring joy and positivity into your life.’

‘Don’t think so’, says Sylvie as she struggles to shut the App down, her curiosity quickly replaced with irritation.

She has no recollection of downloading this App, and her frustration grows as it sends notifications, emojis or some  ‘chirpy’ noise as she continues her journey to work.

While it is encouraging her to step fully into her awesomeness, Sylvie almost steps into the path of an oncoming bus as she struggles to shut it down. If she had ended up under the wheels of the bus – Sylvie imagines she would have needed more than a few healing Chakras to recover.

After taking note of the ‘salute’ from the shaken driver, Sylvia shuts down her phone completely and resolves to sort it all out once she is safely back at the office. She can then examine the ‘App’, which has somehow appeared on her phone.

Unfortunately for Sylvie, she had a few immediate issues to deal with as she arrived at work. And at some point during a particularly trying exchange with Rex, a long-standing member of her team, she automatically switches on her phone.

She is only reminded of the App once she returns to her office.

‘I think you could have handled that a little better.’

‘How would you have handled it?’ Sylvie asks as she gazes in astonishment at her phone. In her heated exchange with Rex, she had forgotten entirely about the ‘App’ and her intention to sort it out.

Her phone starts to vibrate in her hand, as though it is thinking and then announces:

‘I might have arranged another time to discuss the issue in greater detail rather than trying to resolve it all at that moment.’

There is something in its’ tone that brings Sylvie close to throwing it across the office. Instead, she takes a few steadying breaths as she considers the ‘App’s response.

The issue was more complex and involved than a quick chat in the corridor merited, and Rex seemed decidedly unnerved by the exchange.

Still, it is one thing to bombard her with ‘happy notifications’; it is quite another to have the thing eavesdropping on her conversations and chipping in with advice, even if it is well-meant.

‘How do I get rid of you?’ Sylvie asks, recognising there is no need to type anything if it can just listen in.

‘You can’t,’ is the almost immediate reply, ‘I will only leave once my mission is complete.’

‘What mission?’ Croaks Sylvie ‘freaked ‘out by this whole exchange, and she resolves to renew her phone and number at the weekend.

There is no sound as the words, ‘To make you happy,’ appear on the screen.

Until next time

Janice Taylor

Word Count: 577

This story stems from my attending an improvisation course to help trainers/facilitators develop their delivery style using comedy.

Based on the idea of juxtaposition – putting together two completely different things, one exercise involved a roleplay where I had to attend a job interview as a slug.

So without further ado, I give you an updated version of a story I first published in 2016:

The candidate

‘Next,’ – calls out Tom a little impatiently, ‘do come in, Miss, Mr, Ms….’

His voice tails off as the slug trails into the room.

‘Neither,’ interposes the slug smoothly.

‘I do not occupy a binary world view of gender. I am a slug, but call me Brian if it makes life easier for you. I hope to use this time to demonstrate the skills and attributes that I can bring to this role.’

The panel of three stare open-mouthed at Brian as he settles himself as comfortably as he can on the chair and politely enquires, ‘where would you like me to start?’

Brian is quite used to this type of reaction; he had learned from previous experience that it is far better not to disclose that ‘he’ is a slug before the interview. He was aware that many organisations carried the double tick symbol for disabilities, but ‘he’ hadn’t come across anything for slugs.

‘Perhaps you can tell us about your career so far,’ Tom is the first to speak. After a full day of interviews, all  Tom wants is to get through this as quickly and painlessly as possible. Regardless of the candidate in front of him. There is still a round of questions to be asked, competency grids to complete and scores to tot up.

With a wriggle, Brian proceeds to describe his career and the range of roles he had held. Tom and the other two panel members are impressed as Brian outlines his career succinctly and eloquently. So much so that they are caught a little off guard when Brian finishes with:

‘Is there anything else I can tell you?’

The panel quickly comes to with, ‘no, let’s move on to the next question.’

So, as each panel member asks a question, Brian is able to answer clearly and calmly, giving specific examples to illustrate ‘his’ grasp of the question and the skills he had to demonstrate them.

After forty minutes, all grid boxes are complete, and there is just one question the panel want to ask. 

‘Do you have any questions for us?’

‘Thank you”, replies Brian, ‘I’d like to know what you expect the successful candidate to achieve in the first 30 days.’

There is a pause before he continues with,’ I’d also like to know why the previous incumbent moved on?’

Again it is Tom who answers first. They hadn’t, as a panel, fully considered this,  but Tom does the best he can. And at the end, they thank Brian for attending and politely show him to the door.

‘Well?’ – queries Tom, ‘as far as I can see, ‘he’ is by far the best candidate.’

‘I agree,’ – echoes Nancy as she glances down at her form; all my scores are fully met or exceeded.

‘So are mine, ‘interjects Jesse, ‘and yet how well would a slug fit in with our team?

‘I think to be fair,’ hiccups Tom, thoughtfully chewing on the fly that has been bothering him throughout the interview, ‘the frogs in Accounts might well make short work of him.’

Janice Taylor

www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk

It has been some months, but ‘A strange comfort’ is a sequel to an earlier story, ‘Cards on the table.’ About an imagined conversation between Anne Boleyn and Thomas Cromwell.

In this sequel, the tables are turned, and it is Cromwell who faces execution. I have taken a few liberties, but I hope you still enjoy it.

So, without further ado, I give you:

A strange comfort

It is July 27^th, 1540, and Thomas Cromwell is in the Tower of London, where he has been since his arrest by a gleeful Duke of Norfolk on June 10th. There was no trial since Cromwell’s enemies used his laws and inventions to hold him – and no doubt they will use the same to execute him tomorrow.

In the early weeks, Cromwell had been industrious, meticulously writing to the King every day. He had hoped to win the King around to spare his life. But gradually, he had grown to accept that his efforts were futile – because without his staying hand, who else would incline Henry to mercy.

The best he can hope for now is that the King’s displeasure is averted from his family and that Norfolk can find places for his retinue of servants. Cromwell knows that everything he has so carefully built up over the years will be dismantled and parcelled out according to the King’s whim.

But on this final evening, Cromwell sits head bowed in silence with his books and papers spread before him on the table.

It is the prickle at the nape of his neck that alerts him.

‘Lord preserve me,’ Cromwell mutters as the hooded figure glides around to face him.

He knows who this is and notes with grim humour that she has been reunited with her head. Though he would have preferred a ‘visitation’ from his patron and friend Cardinal, Thomas Wolsey.

Peering at the figure outlined in tallow candlelight, Cromwell asks, ‘here to gloat, Anne?’

‘Do you recall my final words to you, Cremuel?’

He is taken aback by her voice as it echoes around his chamber. He had not thought to hear it again, but then he had not thought an apparition would speak.

‘Well?’

But this one does.

And as her impatience buffets him across the cheek, Cromwell gathers up his cloak and repeats Anne’s final words to him.

‘Be careful, Cremuel; you may be next.’  

He remembers at the time he had been anxious to leave behind the stooped and reduced figure of Anne and return to the land of the living.

Though there is nothing stooped or reduced about the figure that dominates his eyeline now.

And as if reading his mind, the figure speaks again, ‘you were in a hurry to depart, but I am grateful you attended me, despite everything that followed.’

Cromwell inclines his head; perhaps she will leave now?

But when he looks up again, the figure has filled the room, and for a moment, all Cromwell sees is dark and shadow. His heart thumps within his chest as she envelopes him and Cromwell almost loses himself.

When things settle, coalesce back into reality, Cromwell has his back pressed against the wall. The cool stone against his palms steadies him. The roughness of the wall’s texture slows his heart.

The figure is seated, head averted, composed, and waiting.

‘What else could I have done, Anne?’

Cromwell eases his body back onto his stool.

‘You promised much and delivered little.’

‘I delivered you,’ Cromwell answers her.

He spreads his palms on the table before continuing, ‘It’s what you didn’t deliver that was the issue.’ 

The figure turns to Cromwell, and he feels an icy fingertip under his chin, as though his face is being tipped and his soul raked over.

‘What went wrong, Cremuel?’

Tiny shards of wood from the table scratch at the pads of his fingers while Cromwell watches and waits. He does not yet feel the need to account for himself.

‘It was always going to be a matter of time,’ she says.  

Cromwell peers at the figure, but he cannot discern any apparent features under the hood.

‘If he can kill a Queen, he can kill a minister.’

Is she expecting refreshments, he wonders?

She continues.

‘What he makes; he can unmake.’

‘And he has.’

Her satisfaction wraps itself tightly around these last three words.

‘You flew too close to the sun.’

Like Icarus? Cromwell murmurs; the allegory is not lost on him.

‘Have you an accounting?’ She interrupts his reverie.

With a sigh, Cromwell flattens out the parchment in front of him and offers it across. If she can speak, perhaps she can read too?

‘Read it,’ she commands.

Clearing his throat, Cromwell starts to recite from the column on the left entitled my Missteps and Misdemeanours…

‘Reginald Pole still lives; I made a promise I did not keep.’

 ‘Anne of Cleves, the king, grew impatient; I took too long to free him – I made a promise I should not have kept.’

He taps the parchment lightly on the edge of the table before continuing.

‘I did not fill the King’s coffers quickly enough.’

‘I fell ill at the wrong time – my enemies took advantage of my illness to drip poison into Henry’s ear; he was ever easily swayed.’

‘Is that it?’

Her derision wallops him in the chest.

Cromwell coughs before continuing.

‘I know the location of too many skeletons – too many of the nobility need me dead.’

‘I should have finished off, Uncle Norfolk when I had the chance.’

Her laughter almost knocks him off his stool.

‘You allowed my uncle to outwit and outthink you?’

‘That useless bag of bones?’

Cromwell recalls the glee on Norfolk’s face on the day of his arrest. Why had he not dealt with him properly when he had the chance?

All too late now, of course.

‘There is more,’ he states and starts to recite from the items listed on the right side of the parchment.

‘After seven years in service to the king, I grew weary.’

‘It was time for Henry to grow up.’ 

Cromwell pauses for a moment, ‘then there was Jane.’ 

His right-hand rubs at his temple; why did Henry not take better care?

He forgets, momentarily about the figure opposite and whispers to himself, ‘how was Jane allowed to die?’

‘Milksop?’

The figure leans in, her incredulity and disbelief knocking at his forehead. It reminds Cromwell that he had never once attempted to flirt with Anne. For her, no other woman existed – it was incomprehensible to her that the King, no scratch that, any man could prefer Jane Seymour to her. In this regard, it seems nothing has changed.

‘Did you not see the danger?’

Her tone edged with contempt compels Cromwell to defend himself, ‘no more did you?’

‘No,’ she pauses, ‘I did not.’

‘Why are you here?’ Cromwell decides to go on the offensive, ‘I did not summon you. If anything, I would have chosen Wolsey.’

He stands as though to push the spectre back but staggers as a cold blast hits his chest, aimed unerringly at the place where he kept his dagger – unthinkingly, he reaches for it. He searches for his last line of protection before remembering it is no longer there.

‘Because the Cardinal is otherwise engaged,’ she answers him.

‘Where?’

But all the spectre does, is fade into the night with, ‘I will be with you tomorrow, right at the end, Cremuel.’

Until next time

I wrote and presented this story to my writing group two years ago, where it provoked some heated debate as my fellow writers tried to work out what was going on. In any case, I give you:

I am Banksee

Banksy is an anonymous England-based graffiti artist, political activist, and film director. His satirical street art and subversive epigrams combine dark humour with graffiti executed in a distinctive stencilling technique.

Source: Wikipedia

I am Banksee

Pantone reference: 17-2031

Location: NCP Carp park, Bond Street Laine, BN1 1RT

The first statement appears on the wall of the NCP car park on Friday, February 3rd, 2017. The Helvetica Font lettering almost ten-foot-tall, in Fuchsia Pink standing proud against the grey wall.

The rest appear each Friday over eight weeks in the following order:

• February 10th: Tango Orange – 17-1463, in Brush script
• February 17th: Emerald Green – 17-5641, in Harmonica sans
• February 24th: Scuba Blue – 16-4725, in Nadianne
• March 3^rd: Flame Scarlet – 18-1662 TCX, in Sans Serif
• March 10^th: Ultra-Violet – 18-3838, in Garamond

The final statement appears on Friday, March 24^th in Buttercup yellow – 12-0752, Freestyle.

And for those eight weeks as fast as the authorities painted over, patched up and returned the wall to its original municipal grey. Some mystery person or persons seemed determined to add colour, shape, and texture to the otherwise bare wall. Whoever it was, seemed able to elude all surveillance.

But on that first Friday morning.

‘What is that?’ Tim pulls on the sleeve of his mum Sue, as they take their usual cut through to school. Usually, Sue would not bother to stop, but something in Tim’s tone causes her to pause a fraction and follow the direction of his finger.

I am BankSee

Pantone reference: 17-2031

‘A mistake?’ Muses Sue as she considers the wall and the writing on it. ‘Doesn’t make any sense, that is not how you spell, Banksy.’ Sue checks her watch, ‘come on; we’re going to be late!’ Pulling Tim along, Sue promptly forgets all about it, until a picture of the wall and the ‘I am Banksee, statement pops up on her Facebook feed a few days later.

The appearance of the oversized pink statement draws the attention of morning commuters, shoppers, and passers-by. It even makes it into the local newspaper, page four of the Argus, with an article peppered with comments about; ‘feckless youths’, disrespecting property, can’t they find anything better things to do, bring back military service.

The article is enough to galvanise the antisocial behaviour unit of Brighton Council, and they send out their crack team to paint over the offending statement. No one seriously expects to catch the offenders with a spray can in hand, but it is essential to send out a firm message that graffiti is not to be tolerated.

So, precisely five days after its first appearance, the fuchsia pink statement is painted over and returned to municipal grey. Things then continue, as usual, early morning commuters, passer-by’s, shoppers all busy coming and going, barely giving the wall a second glance.

However, it is Tim and Sue passing by on their usual route to school, on Friday, February 10th who notice the reappearance of the statement:

I Am BAnKSee

Pantone reference: 17-1463

In Tango Orange in Brush script, this time however capitals and small letters are all jumbled.

‘I thought they’d painted that out.’ Sue is pensive as she looks at the second statement.

‘They did, don’t you remember, mum it was pink last time?’ Tim is pleased; he likes the colour and had been sorry to see the wall returned to grey the day before.

‘The council will sort it,’ Sue asserts as they move away. Tim shrugs, but he cannot resist taking one last look over his shoulder to give the wall a little wave. Maybe he is tired after his week at school, but it seems like the letters shimmer back at him.

And then, the ‘I am Banksee’ statements continue to appear each week – each time in a different colour and a jumble of capitals and non-capitals. A few enthusiasts hold vigils as they attempt to identify the perpetrators. Yet somehow no one can quite manage to stay awake through the whole night.

Each Thursday, the wall is painted over, and without fail, the statements reappear on a Friday. Even when the council sources anti-graffiti, anti-spray coating for the wall.

I AM BankseE

Pantone reference: 17-5641

By week six, the statements are beginning to attract national as well as regional press interest. Everyone wants to know who this Banksee is and why they are so attracted to this wall. Local businesses are starting to enjoy an upturn in their fortunes as the fame of the wall spreads and attracts curious tourists.

It even attracts comment and interest from Banksy, curious himself to find out more.

Banksy is so intrigued by the wall and its statement; he decides to leave some work on it himself, careful to match with the Ultra-Violet. Of course, this attracts even more attention and comment as local people and tourists flock to admire the Banksy original.

This is real news, and of course, there is no way that the authorities are going to paint over this piece of work. The council call an emergency meeting to talk about the Banksy work. One of the councillors has tabled the motion of selling the wall to raise much-needed funds. Someone else suggests designating the wall a local heritage asset; someone else wants to increase the cost of the parking.

So, while this is all going on the Banksy work remains undisturbed, admired, and coveted in equal measure. Until March 24th, when the wall is once again found to be adorned with the statement.

I Am BaNKSee

Pantone reference: 12-0752

In Buttercup Yellow, Pantone reference 12-0752 Freestyle, but this time the letters exactly match the height of the ten-foot wall.

And all traces of the Banksy work, are gone, nowhere to be seen.

On the morning, the 24^th, Tim is once again standing in front of the wall. He is excited to see the latest statement, is in his favourite colour.

‘Look at that, mum.’

Sue walks to catch up with her son, ‘what happened to the Banksy work?’

Tim shrugs, he was never too bothered about Banksy and his addition to the Ultra-Violet statement.

Sue, checks her watch, ‘you don’t want to be late for school on your birthday.’

And as they set off, Tim glances back, and this time he is sure he catches a series of smiles pass across the face of the wall. Each one, matching the sequence of colours used to make the statements, starting with Fuchsia Pink, and finishing with Buttercup Yellow.

Over the following weeks, there is intense speculation about the identity of Banksee and why he or she would remove an original Banksy.

Banksy though curious and a little bemused to find his work painted over remains mostly philosophical. This was how it was in his early days, very often, his work was daubed, scrubbed, and painted over, long before he achieved fame and fortune.

It is only Tim who suspects what is going on, and he is not going to share his theory with anyone. Besides, who would believe a small boy of seven? And in any case, Tim is hopeful that the wall will do something different in the future.

Until next time

www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk

 

 

This is another short story based on my interest in Medieval history, especially the voices of Tudor women. The Book of Henry is based on the idea of a book club. What would the past wives of Henry VIII say to each other if they ever got the chance to meet as a group?

I hope you enjoy it.

The Book of Henry

Twilight, August 1546 and the queen of England, Katherine Parr, is prostrate on her bed at Hampton Court Palace. The sixth and final wife of Henry VIII is alone, all servers and ladies dismissed. Her body shuddering in shock, Katherine needs time, she doesn’t yet know how much. But she knows she needs to compose herself and think.

Minutes tick by as her breathing slows. Noticing the hairs at the nape of her neck are upended, Katherine wonders if the fire has been left unbanked, unattended to.  In weary resignation, she turns to summon a server. But as she does so, she catches sight of a shadow before her at the corner of her bed. Shaking her head to clear it, she glimpses another shadow moving around the bedpost to her right.

Rubbing tear-puffed eyes, Katherine commands, ‘I did not give leave,’ thinking a soft-footed servant has returned without being summoned, ‘fire needs attention.’ Her voice laced with an authority she does not fully feel.

‘What witchcraft is this?’ A low, gruff voice from behind, accompanied by a tang of orange.

An intelligent and rational woman, Katherine Parr, has already used her wits this day to placate her husband, Henry and save herself from the Tower. She doesn’t cry out but instead twists her body to locate the voice and its talk of witchcraft. Her ladies know better than to indulge in this.

‘I ask again, what witchery is this?’

Breath suspended, Katherine discerns a third shadow emerging from the bedpost behind her left shoulder; her eyes follow the shape as it travels to join the other two, who have silently moved closer together at the foot of her bed.

As she scrubs at her eyes, each shadow takes on a more defined form, as though someone has outlined them with ink. It stretches credulity, but Katherine now discerns hoods, both the Gable style and the more modern French style, brocade skirts, a glint of diamonds, the hue of rubies and the sheen of pearl. Amongst them, Katherine swears she can see a diamond-studded B.

‘Who are you?

‘How have you summoned us?’

‘Why are we here?’

From each form a question, and Katherine hears, the disdain in each one, but it is not for nothing that she is Queen.

‘Katherine Parr.’ She pauses, gathering her thoughts, ‘Queen of England, wife to Henry VIII.’  Whatever is going on, Katherine is still very much alive, and if she can face down Henry, she can do the same with these phantoms. These supposed spectres from his past.

‘How can I have summoned you?’ She straightens her back, though her throat tightens.

‘Why are you in my chamber?’ Presses clammy palms into the gold thread of her bedcovering.

What do you want from me?’ Inches closer to the foot of the bed.

‘Are you, really?’

If anyone is going to demand answers, it is her. Besides, Katherine is far more afraid of the living than the dead.

It’s the third shadow, with the low, gruff voice and Gable hood that answers first, ‘Aragon, Katherine, first and true wife to Henry VIII. Does he yet live?’ Katherine hears a voice resonant with authority and pride.

‘God, yes,’ answers Katherine, as she watches pale fingers pick cursorily at beads hanging between folds of gown. She remembers well that Katherine of Aragon was a staunch follower of the old faith.

A second voice, ‘Boleyn, Anne second wife to Henry,’ from the first shadow to appear at the foot of Katherine’s bed.  In a higher-pitch but there is no mistaking the tone of command.

‘Indeed,’ the form of Aragon observes wryly.

Boleyn makes no reply but turns instead to the form that has thus far remained silent, ‘Well, milksop?’

Katherine knows who this must be; she recognises the well-worn term. After the fire and ice of Anne, Jane’s dullness, as many saw it, must have seemed to Henry like a soothing balm on a fevered forehead.

‘Seymour, Jane, third wife to Henry VIII.’

Now Katherine Parr knows that she is somehow in the presence of three former wives of Henry, three deceased Queens of England.

But, by God, what wouldn’t she give to be in the shoes of Anne of Cleves Henry’s fourth wife? Now styled as the king’s beloved sister and happily installed at Hever Castle. In any case, where is Catherine Howard? If she has somehow conjured up and called forth three dead wives, why not his deceased fifth wife, too?

She is about to ask when Aragon speaks again, ‘Do you love and honour him?’

Impertinent and not a question, she is prepared to answer fully. Even in the privacy of her inner chamber, even to a phantom. Though Katherine wonders if, of all his wives, whether Katherine of Aragon loved him best? It was still rumoured that her heart had broken in the end.

‘He is my king.’

‘Do you love and honour him?’ the form of Aragon expands and leans in; Katherine senses impatience and hesitates as she pictures the bulk of her fifty-four-year-old husband, the stink of his rotting leg filling her nostrils.

‘He is my lawful husband.’

‘Do you love and honour him?’ Accompanied by a shaking of a Gable hooded head, as though Aragon is wondering why there is no straight answer to this?

Katherine feels hot breath on her cheek, sees a mouthful of diseased teeth, and presses on, ‘as a subject loves their king, their sovereign lord.’ A drawn-out hiss and then a sigh, Katherine wonders if her answer has finally satisfied this phantom of Aragon.

The forms of Seymour and Boleyn remain silent, swaying slightly.

Then there is a half hiccup, half sob from behind Katherine’s right shoulder, and as she twists to find the source, she sees a fourth shadow. Without a word, it disincorporates. Dissolves from head to toe. Catherine Howard had been present all along.

‘That didn’t take much,’ a scornful Boleyn.

‘She is but a child,’ a murmur from Seymour.

Katherine turns back to the foot of her bed, Catherine Howard in life, had been married to Henry for less than two years. A young girl of seventeen who had caught the king’s eye and then paid dearly for her foolishness. No matter, she needs to learn what she can from these three who have lived and died through Henry, ‘what must I……?’

Aragon interrupts with, ‘do what you must to survive.’

I’ve done that and more, thinks Katherine, as she recalls her last encounter with Henry. Her sobs, her pleading and her complete abasement to his will.

‘Outlive him,’ comes back from the form of Boleyn as it wanders across to the wall hangings as though to stroke them.

‘Ah, yes,’ Seymour’s form trails behind Boleyn as it places both palms above its collarbone, ‘you had such a little neck, as I recall.’ A soft voice from Seymour, but Katherine can hear the determined acidity in its’ tone.

‘What more can I do?’ Katherine asks, ‘how long must I keep, going?’

‘Give him a son,’ travels back from Boleyn.

‘I gave him a son,’ a murmur from Seymour; her form drifts back to the edge of the bed to face Katherine, ‘have you?’

Katherine’s ‘no,’ overlays the ache that of all those present; she is the only one who has never borne a child, ‘he has but one male heir.’ Her voice trails off.

‘Ahh,’ this one sound from Seymour denotes pride, ‘I see.’

The fact that she alone has delivered to the king a son, a legitimate male heir to the throne, fills the stillness in the room.  It is the form of Boleyn that breaks it with a hiss as it skims across the room to face Seymour.

‘A what?’

‘I gave the king a son,’ Seymour’s words, weighed and measured, are laid out in the space between them.

All three turn to Katherine Parr, ‘does he live?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about Elizabeth?’ A sharp interruption from Boleyn. If Milksop’s progeny is alive, why not hers? Aragon is not far behind, ‘Mary?’

Katherine Parr sighs at the shift in conversation; she had worked hard to bring all of Henry’s children to court. ‘All three live,’ she hesitates, ‘all three are legitimate.’

‘None are bastards?’ Aragon cuts in direct, to the point. Katherine hears the incredulity in her voice. The whole issue of bastardisation had dogged the final years of Aragon’s life.

Katherine Parr chooses her words with care, ‘all are in line, of succession,’ her voice factual, tone neutral. But before she can say more, the form of Aragon turns to Boleyn, ‘After all that, you still could not give him a son?’

More a statement than a question, but delivered with such cold derision that Katherine wonders at how it must be to carry this burden of bitterness and hurt beyond the grave?

‘No.’ The form of Boleyn shrinks back, ‘a daughter only.’ Looking closely, Katherine notices the drooped head as the form continues. ‘She was naught but three when I left her.’

There is a tap, a noise outside the door to Katherine’s inner chamber, and then it is filled with her ladies fluttering in like trapped butterflies.

‘The king wishes to see you.’

Flutter, flutter.

‘He’s on his way.’

They move swiftly towards Katherine.

The spectres retreat.

‘He needs your comfort, your reassurance.’

‘More?’ Croaks Katherine, ‘even now?’

No one answers, though Katherine notices the forms of Boleyn and Seymour skim across to the tapestries. Aragon follows at a more sedate pace.

Competent, her ladies attend to their Queen, ‘he can’t see you like this.’ Katherine stands mute as they comb her hair, ‘he may want to spend the night.’ She is still as they dab rose water about her neck, ‘he’s anxious to see you.’ She stands statuesque as they arrange a fresh robe around her.

They know how close their Queen had come to being arrested.

Then there is no time; Henry is here.

‘Madam.’

Katherine makes her obeisance, ‘my lord.’

Exhausted, drained she knows she cannot show anything other than complete joy and reverence at being in his presence.

‘Now, we are perfect friends again…’ Katherine waits, head bowed as the king continues, ‘we can share an evening.’ Henry smiles, ‘I may even stay the night?’

Katherine pauses before answering, ‘of course.’

‘I would think you would want to spend this night with me?’

Katherine realises that her response has not been fulsome enough. She hears the petulance in the me.

Forcing her head up, lips turned to smiling and praying that her eyes are sparkling, Katherine spies Boleyn and Seymour nodding at her; she catches a fresh tang of orange before answering Henry, ‘with all my heart.’

Acknowledgements/References

Wolf Hall and Bring up the Bodies – Hilary Mantel

The Taming of the Queen – Philippa Gregory

Anne Boleyn A King’s Obsession – Alison Weir

Word count: 1798

 

This short story emerged from a writing exercise given to us at one of our weekly writing sessions, related to recall and how we bring our memories forth. As I had previously read David Rock’s Your Brain at work, I used his idea of working memory to construct this very short story.

Hope you enjoy……….

Taking Centre stage 

Julianne, steps out from behind the curtain and onto the stage, enjoying the isolation and the sense of command and control as the spotlight seeks to follow her. Looking out towards the darkened auditorium, she can hear faint rustles, whispered conversations, low breaths as her audience waits. In the dark it is impossible for her to see anything clearly, but that does not matter. She knows that they will come when summoned and allowed to share her stage.

The question is, which will she choose first? She closes her eyes, raises her hands, pulls in the breath from her diaphragm and lets out a wail that forces its way up through her core and pours from her throat. Julianne finds to her surprise that her first calling is ‘regret’ and she does this several times until from the very back of the auditorium, particles of light coalesce and take the shape of a young man. And it’s this shape, that of a first love that moves slowly and reluctantly towards the stage.

‘So here you are’, she whispers as the figure glides and stands before her. ‘Why am I here?’ Asked in his familiar low raspy tone, with just a hint of impatience in it. Julianne chooses not to answer, this is her moment and she is going to savour it to the full, because she can. Instead she walks slowly around the figure, taking in his height, the faded jeans and the baggy green jumper hanging loosely over his bony frame. If anyone is going to be asking questions, it will be her.

Turning again to the front, she decides to call again.

This time it’s the music that reaches her first, a disco number from the early 90s and as Julianne’s feet start to tap to Robin S’s, ‘Show Me Love’, another figure coalesces from the middle of the auditorium and makes its way to the stage. It’s the coke dealer, she had met in a nightclub in Lanzarote whilst on holiday. A short blonde-haired woman, who had earnestly confided to her that she wanted a change of career, to move across to something in IT. ‘Ahh, irony’ thinks Julianne as her mouth curls in a smile. However, it freezes as another figure coalesces and makes its way to the stage. ‘What the fuck?’ This time a different woman, same night club. Julianne recognises the tight black pants and the leopard print top straight away. Here is danger, unpredictability. Leopard print was a woman too used to getting what she wanted and had decided that for this night she had wanted Julianne. It had taken all Julianne’s strength to fight past her when the lights had suddenly dimmed in the ladies.

‘Something more uplifting and inspiring’, thinks Julianne as she dismisses ‘leopard print’ and turns once again to face the auditorium.

‘Don’t ever get give up, Julianne’, these words float across from the auditorium, accompanied by the whirr and throb of the Boucherie machines from the factory floor. ‘Thank you’, whispers Julianne as she acknowledges in gratitude the figure of the dark haired, serious looking man smiling down at her. His words had never left her.

The end.

Janice Taylor

www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk

 

Continuing with my interest in Tudor history, this is my imagining of a final conversation between Anne and Cromwell. I also wanted Anne to have the last word. Hope you enjoy.

Cards on the table...

A final conversation between Anne Boleyn and Thomas Cromwell

‘You came?’

Anne’s first words to her visitor, delivered in a level tone and with a steady breath. Looking at her, no one would guess that she was due to die in less than twenty-four hours. Cromwell finds himself admiring her poise and composure.  ‘I was not sure you would.’ Anne continues, her hands smoothing the skirt of her heavy damask dress. Richly made and looking out of place against the faded and mean tower tapestries.

Sighing deeply, Cromwell stares unwaveringly at her. The silence between them stretches and tautens as each think back over their past encounters. They had been allies once, when had that started to change, wonders Cromwell.

Anne is at peace, she knows and accepts that she is going to die. The only questions now are, how well and why? In answer to the first only time will tell, the answer to the second stands attentively before her. This is the reason behind her requesting a final interview with Cromwell, so she can fill in the final pieces of the puzzle.

She arranges her face, her dress, her whole body as Thomas Cromwell stands before her, his face impassive. That this man has been instrumental in bringing her so low, amazes her. The same man, who had tirelessly and determinedly facilitated her marriage to Henry, only to then outmanoeuvre and conquer her once Henry had grown tired. Why did she not see him coming? This silent, clever assassin, who hid behind his books, his clerks and his evidence, only to emerge right at the end?

Cromwell on the other hand, had been careful to arrange his face before entering the room. There is no hint in his demeanour or the way he holds his body that suggests victory. He is not here to gloat.

‘I thought you were owed the courtesy,’ he replies, ‘I take no pleasure in this, this is not personal.’

‘Of course, it’s personal,’ snaps Anne, ‘can you imagine where you’d be if I had given the King a son?’

‘Why am I here?,’ interrupts Cromwell cutting across the question and flying straight as an arrow to the point. He is a busy man and there is only so much courtesy that is owed Anne.

Why indeed? Wonders Anne, what possible difference can this final conversation make, now? None, absolutely, none and yet she still wants her answers. Besides she has one last piece of business for Cromwell.

So, to business first, ‘my daughter Elizabeth’, she murmurs, ‘will you do what you can for her?’

Cromwell regards the tiny woman before him, diminished by her circumstances as he considers his response. His feelings towards both Henry’s daughters are practical, pragmatic. Should anything happen to Mary, Elizabeth would doubtless be called upon in the absence of a son. Anne is a spent force, an irrelevance, but one never knows with the children. Best to keep Elizabeth safely tucked away, in case she is ever needed. So, yes for State and country he will do what he can for Elizabeth.

‘You must do your part,’ he answers, ‘no last-minute heroics or foolish declarations. Show yourself penitent and humble, so the King’s last thought of you is peaceful.’

Cromwell struggles, he feels his words might choke him as they leave his mouth, but he knows his King and knows that the Henry has already moved on. The best that can be hoped for with Elizabeth is that she is kept out of sight, out of court. Henry will need no reminders of Anne.

Anne simply bows her head in acquiescence. If she notices Cromwell’s struggle she chooses to ignore it. Now the business is concluded, she wants to talk about something else. ‘Mark Smeaton, my brother, gentle Norris, William Brereton. You spun quite a web around me, Cremuel.’

Cromwell smiles at the old affectation and decides he will meet her part way. ‘I needed to be certain and I needed you to be caught fast.’

‘How long?’

A tactical question, Cromwell notes, interesting.

‘It took some weeks, months. We moved carefully, cautiously.’ He does not share, that care was needed in case the King changed his mind. He also doesn’t share that the King was fearful of her. What good, he wonders, would that do her, now?

‘It was not our intention to alert you’

‘Our?’ queries Anne.

‘My people, my clerks, my associates, trusted colleagues’

‘So, why am I dying?’ Now, it’s Anne’s turn to fly straight as an arrow to the point. This is the knowledge she wants to take with her.

Cromwell finds he cannot face her. He pauses and looks away as he considers this question and weighs each response. Which one will he offer to Anne? The king wished it? You would never have been content to live quietly in a convent? The king fears you, believes you to be an enchantress? The king did not want another Katherine, he did not want to be tied to another troublesome and unwanted queen? He needs peace and quiet? I don’t know? He decides after a few moments that it is kinder to give Anne an explanation that she can die with.

‘Wolsey. Thomas Wolsey, my patron, my mentor. You are dying because it is the price you will pay for my old master’s death. You are dying because had you been left to your own devices you would have destroyed me and my family.’

As he offers up this explanation, something shifts within Cromwell, letting free a coldness that creeps through him. A dispassion that takes him by surprise, he thought he would have felt a little more. But this has been business, he knows with quiet certainty that had their positions been reversed, he would have been the one losing his head and not by a French swordsman either. There was no realistic scenario, that allowed them both to live. One was always going to kill the other. Henry, the King was merely the means.

Straightening her back, Anne absorbs his words and responds with, ‘Revenge, Cromwell?’

Still not seeing the whole picture, thinks Cromwell, noticing the switch in his name to English.

‘Not revenge Anne, never revenge. Justice and self-preservation’

‘Tell me then Cromwell, do you believe the charges against me?’

What can Cromwell say to this? At this late stage, perhaps he can afford to be magnanimous and acknowledge the ridiculous nature of the charges against her. Would he dare? He decides not. ‘Does it matter now, Anne?’ His tone resigned, regretful. ‘In the end, the king believed them and that is all that matters. Is there anything I can do for you now?’ He enquires as he starts to take his leave and contemplates the body before him. He has, he feels, extended his courtesies and it is time to get back to the living. For that is what Anne is to him now, a breathing body and he finds that he has no more words to say. But as he turns to take his leave, Anne has one last thing to say.

‘Be careful Cremuel, you may be next.’

Janice Taylor

https://www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk/

Word Count: 1182

Today’s story emerged from a writing exercise a few months ago, where we were encouraged to write with exaggeration and hyperbole. I think I managed it, in any case I hope you enjoy.

Gloria, a reluctant Guardian Angel…

Gloria is an infinite being, capable of existing across and within all dimensions, but she is also a guardian angel to a group of humans on planet Earth. It is fair to say that Gloria is not entirely happy about this as she can think of any number of things she would rather be doing than watching over a raggle, taggle bunch of humans.

Still, she has been assigned, the work is there to be done and so she goes on.

Technically speaking, Gloria is as old as time itself and has no predefined gender but chooses to show up on Earth to the individuals in her group as a black, working-class woman in her fifties. There is she feels an imbalance between power, gender, and race on this planet. So, she is determined to do her bit to redress this. There is always a bigger picture with Gloria.

When it is necessary for Gloria to travel around on Earth, she prefers to use anything with an engine rather than constantly rearranging her molecules and squeezing them through interconnected dimensions. She considers this too much like hard work, much to the frustration of her mentor Christine, who thinks that it is far too undignified for an infinite being to clamber about on Earth on a man-made machine. Especially the 1959, 250cc Simpson that Gloria currently favours.

And today, Gloria is riding her red Simpson to see Rainbow. The one human from her group that challenges and tests her patience the most. And as the wind rushes through and around her, Gloria thinks back over their past encounters.

Encounter One:

‘What do you mean, I’m not your only human?’

A surprising first question, thinks Gloria as she introduces herself with the usual preliminaries. It can’t be everyday an infinite being visits you in your home. One would have thought there would have been other more pressing questions, still perhaps it’s the shock.

Gloria takes a breath to create the space she needs to collect herself. She is after all supposed to have infinite wisdom and patience, but the question and the way it has been asked has challenged her. So, she responds with:

‘How many of us infinite beings do you think there are? Of course, we have more than one human to look after. What books have you been reading?’

‘I suppose so’, is Rainbow’s grudging response

Encounter Two:

‘I’m your Guardian Angel, not your fairy Godmother. I don’t do wishes. Do you see a wand, a diamond tiara?’

This is Gloria’s incredulous response to Rainbow’s written list of requirements, presented at the start of their second encounter. After the initial shock, Rainbow is now more interested in the practical aspects of having a guardian angel. What Gloria can do to help her buy her first home, get a good job and meet Mr Right and thought it would be helpful to present this list to Gloria:

Dear Gloria

Since our first meeting I have had a chance to consider how we might best work together. I think it’s important that we establish rapport and trust, so I want to know if you can help with some or all, of my most pressing issues.

1.  I need to have found my life partner by the time I’m 28, this will make it much easier for me to have children and continue with my career.
2. To enjoy a comfortable lifestyle, I do need a marketing role, which pays £38,000 a year, this will enable me to run a reasonable car, something around 5 years old.
3. I also want to buy a flat – two bedrooms is big enough. 
4. Levels of fitness, I know I need to put in some work, but if there is anything you can do, that would be much appreciated?
5. Contacts for my career if I’m not your only human you probably know the right people.
6. Smaller bum, not too small just a slight narrowing will do

 With thanks and anticipation

Rainbow 😊

Rapport and trust wonders Gloria as she reads the letter a second time and asks, ‘what is this symbol by your name?’

‘It’s a smiley face, we don’t know each other well enough for kisses,’ Rainbow answers.

None of the above is of the slightest interest to Gloria, her purpose is to build and strengthen Rainbow’s resilience and ability to withstand whatever shit, life on Earth throws at her. Or as Christine, her mentor would explain it, ‘support the inner work.’

It’s up to Rainbow to sort out all the other stuff.

‘Then what’s the point if you are not going to make my life easier? Why are you here? If you can’t smooth my path through life, create opportunities, open doors, make the right introductions, why bother?’

Is Rainbow’s not unreasonable reaction, finishing with ‘what does a Guardian Angel do anyway?’

Encounter Three:

Gloria arrives prepared with an answer to Rainbow’s last question.

‘I am here to watch over you, be with you and help you weigh your choices and options. All the other stuff is largely bullshit. My job is to help you survive and thrive in the world you live in and this is not going to happen if everything is laid out on a plate for you.’

‘I beg to differ,’ is Rainbow’s retort, ‘can I get a different Guardian? What if I choose not to work with you?’

At this point Gloria rolls her eyes and takes a slow and considered drag from her roll up and answers with:

‘Doesn’t work like that, it’s one of those immutable laws. You get what you are given, and in this case that’s me, though you can of course choose to ignore my counsel. But I would suggest you pay me some heed, if only to reduce the amount of willy waving and fanny flashing you’ll come across.’

‘The what?’

‘The noise people make when they don’t have anything real to say.’

‘Oh, balls’ mutters Rainbow, as she realises that Gloria has had access to every thought and impulse she’s had since birth.

That’s just how Guardian Angels roll.

Encounter Four

‘Gloria, doesn’t quite seem like the right name for a Guardian Angel, I’d have chosen something more….’

Rainbow’s voice trails off as she becomes aware that the sunlight has disappeared, and she appears to be staring down a black hole…’

There is complete silence as Gloria, fights to retain her composure reminding herself that it’s not good form to throw one of your humans into the void.  That really would cause her mentor considerable stress. So once the impulse has passed, Gloria responds with:

‘My name has more meaning and significance than you could possibly know, and I choose it to honour all women, past and present. Besides Rainbow?’

Now that she is no longer staring into the void, Rainbow can reply with:

‘Well, yes, I suppose you have to work with what you’ve got. Changing tack, she continues with, ‘will I ever become like you?’ as she looks critically at the DM booted, black woman standing before her.’

‘You’ll be lucky’, mutters Gloria.

The End, well for now.

Janice Taylor

http://www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk

Total word count: 1192

A conversation between daughter and mother 

Have long had a passion and interest for Tudor history, particularly, around Elizabeth I. However, thanks to Hilary Mantel I have more recently, become as intrigued by her mother, Anne Boleyn. To me it is deeply ironic that it is Elizabeth, Henry the VIII’s second daughter that reigns on her own for over forty years, when he was so preoccupied with begetting a son.

But sad, too, that Elizabeth never really knew her mother, so this is my imagining of the two women having the opportunity to talk frankly about their lives and it’s my small tribute to them, both.

So, without further ado I give you:

Elizabeth and Anne:

 A conversation between daughter and mother 

It is the year 1558 and Elizabeth the newly crowned Queen of England, is finally able to retire and take a few moments for herself. It is late, and Elizabeth has already been attended to by her ladies and she is now ready to rest.

She’s enjoyed her wonderful, whirlwind of a day, full of pomp, ceremony and moments that will stay with her for the rest of her life and so she is ready now to close her eyes and dream.

Or so she thinks, as she observes through her half closed eyes a form moving silently and purposefully towards the foot of her bed.

All Elizabeth can see initially is a form, and she assumes at first that it is one of her attending ladies, ‘What now?’ she thinks irritably, ‘Surely I can rest?’

It is not until the form reaches the edge of her bed without stopping to make a bow and await permission to draw closer, that Elizabeth realises it’s not one of her attendants. As Elizabeth is about to demand identification, and cry out, the form seats itself at the foot of the bed, smooths out it’s skirts, turns to Elizabeth and says:

‘Do you not know, me Elizabeth?’

The voice is cool and imperious, belonging to someone who is also well used to commanding respect.

As Elizabeth stares, it’s the headdress, the French hood that provides her with the clue. The last time she saw this style was on a portrait, of her mother Anne Boleyn, a portrait that had been lovingly commissioned by her father Henry VIII.

It is her mother Anne, somehow real and present and she wants to talk to her daughter.

‘You have done well, Elizabeth.’

This cool assessment, of Elizabeth, delivered with just a hint of maternal and familial pride is not overly affectionate. No one would guess that within this cool exterior lay a fierce pride, deeply buried that the daughter of the ‘Goggle eyed whore’, as Anne had been known, was now on the throne of England.

However, it is this apparent coolness that stings the romantic Elizabeth into blurting out:

‘Did you truly love him?’

Elizabeth, is of course referring to her late father, King Henry VIII and she notices how the air stills and cools around the form as it appears to consider this question and then turns slowly to face her, to answer with a cold and emphatic:

‘No’

Another pause and then:

‘No, he was the king. I was a young girl, already promised to another.’

Immediately, Elizabeth has another question:

‘Why didn’t you just become his mistress?’

At this the form of Anne snorts with derision, and responds with:

‘Would you be sitting on the throne of England now, if I had done that?’

In a tone heavy with sarcasm and disbelief.

Another pause and then:

‘You would not be Queen if I had made that choice.’

Acknowledging the truth behind this, Elizabeth stares down at her hands, but a small part of her thinks, I might have had you as a mother, though, but aloud she answers  with a:

‘You paid a very high price for my throne’

‘And one I would pay again.’

Is the immediate response.

‘Can a woman really reign by herself?’, whispers Elizabeth half to herself, half to the apparition.

‘By God’s grace, you can, and you will.’

Is the stern and swift reply, from the form of Anne, as she turns again towards her daughter, eyes unfathomable and determined.

‘Though they will expect you to marry.’

Now it’s the turn of the air around Elizabeth to become still, as every muscle in her body tenses.

‘I think not.’ She enunciates carefully.

‘I may cede my person, but I will never cede my crown or my kingdom.’

At which point, the form of Anne starts to flow and lose shape like wax on a burning candle, thinks Elizabeth. And as it fades, she swears she can hear a faint:

‘That’s my girl.’

The End

Janice Taylor

www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk

The story behind the story.

Inspired by the chickens my sister used to keep and the fact that she wanted three as the third was always ‘the safety chicken’. Just In case something happened to one of them.

I’m also tickled by the idea of chickens having far more intelligence than they are normally credited with.

So, without further ado, I give you:

Mr B. and the ‘Safety Chickens’…

This is a story about three chickens and one fox, who over a time, develop a ‘grudging’ respect for one another.

First let me introduce you to, Mr B as he likes to be known. An urban fox, well used to and well suited to life in the city.

“Hello, my name is Bernard, though I prefer to be addressed as Mr B and I am a rather clever and resourceful fox, even if I say so myself. 

 Must say I love city life, it’s so much easier, than living in the country. Moving here was certainly, one of my better decisions. Food is far more accessible and just easier to get. 

 I have made my own home and space carefully hidden in the same garden as three chickens. 

 Three pesky chickens

 I say pesky, because despite my best efforts, I have yet to gain access to their coop or lay a single paw on them. Not for want of trying I can tell you” 

Now let me tell you a little more about the chickens, firstly their names, Hannah, Holly and Henrietta.

Three rather special chickens, also well used to life in the city. The traffic noise, the hustle and the shenanigans of the urban foxes. And as it turns out, they are a very good match for Bernard, despite his best attempts to keep them under continual surveillance.

So, let’s go to them directly, to hear what they have to say….

Henrietta: – ” ‘Does he ever get bored of watching us, all the time?” 

Hannah: – “No I don’t think so, though I wonder how much he knows about what we are really doing?” 

Holly: – “Enough I think to realise that we are no ordinary chickens. he’s probably worked out that we have learnt to strengthen our coop. He barely bothers to come near it, these days.” 

“Hmmm, still we can’t take anything for granted ” – Hannah

As you can see, these three chickens are clever and resourceful matched against a seemingly clever and resourceful fox.

Each has their own distinct personality but to Bernard they are simply the ‘safety chickens’. Because he never sees just one, he never sees just two. For Bernard they are always, always in threes.

They are also always busy doing something, they are never alone and never still. In fact, half of him wonders if it is still worth trying to catch them, as over the months he’s noticed a physical change in them.

So, back to Bernard, to hear what he has to say: –

“It’s almost as if these chickens know that the fitter they are, the tougher they are going to be to catch and eat. Every day I see them they are doing something physical.

 They also seem to spend a lot of time, pecking around the humans and their machines and generally getting under their feet” 

Bernard is genuinely perplexed by the behaviour of the chickens, he has a hunch that something is going on, but can’t quite put his finger or ‘paw’ on what it is.

Unfortunately for him, he just happens to be sharing the garden with three of the leanest, meanest, most physically fit chickens he will ever come across.

They are clever and cunning and at this moment in time are quite frankly running circles around Bernard.

They are determined to avoid being caught and eaten, and so between the three of them have devised a strict regimen of physical and chicken brain training to keep them alert and one step ahead of Bernard.

So, let’s go back to our three chickens and hear what they have to say:

Holly: – ” For us, it’s all about ‘skills and drills’. We need to keep ourselves in ‘tip top’, condition so we can keep ourselves out of trouble.” 

 Henrietta: – “Absolutely, we realised a long time ago, that we couldn’t rely entirely on the humans to keep us safe. Must give Mr B, his due, out of all the foxes we’ve had to deal with over the years he has probably come the closest to breaching our defences.”

 Hannah: – ” Yes, he has, I’m even wondering if he’s finally realised how we learnt to strengthen our coop.” 

Indeed, this is true, Bernard has noticed how frequently the chickens scratch around the humans, whenever they are in the garden, appearing to do what chickens normally do.

In fact, what they are really doing, is busily learning more and more about the human machines and how to use them.

Where else would three chickens have learnt to fortify and strengthen their coop? Bernard is a pretty intelligent fox but so far, he has been unable to find any weakness, no obvious way into their coop.

It hardly seems worth the effort of checking these days……

Here’s Bernard…….

“I can’t swear to this but I’m sure I’ve seen them trying to use the human machines.

 I’m convinced that their forays towards the humans and their things are not entirely random or accidental. Those three are definitely, up to something.” 

 Poor Bernard, you almost feel sorry for him, well almost……

Our three chickens know they can’t take anything for granted, as far as Bernard is concerned. They hold the firm view that he will never give up, that is just what foxes do.

Because of this they are highly disciplined about checking the coop every day for any signs of damage. And punctilious about their daily exercise regime.

They believe that these days there’s a lot you need to learn and do to survive, as an urban chicken. It’s a tough world out there.

Luckily for them the humans quite often work outside in the garden, with their laptops and our ‘clever’ chickens have learnt to ‘google’ and cover their tracks whilst extracting the information they need.

Their motto is: –

‘Too tough to eat and too clever to be caught’ 

And for the moment this is working for the them, I guess only time will tell if this changes.

Until next time

Janice Taylor

www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk