This is the story of what happens when a pragmatist gives in to a romantic impulse. Be warned.
I’m that pragmatist and my name is Alysson Kowalski.
Now that we all know who we are, there’s a couple of things you need to be aware of before you start reading: I swear too smegging much; I couldn’t give a flick what you think of me; and I do expect you to pay attention. Listen up, there may be questions later.

Through the skinny end window of my three-metre square office I watched Jackdaw Court grow from a hole in the ground to something one might call an architectural oddity if one was being kind. That having been said, and almost in spite of myself, I got interested and when the ‘for sale’ boards went up I dropped into the estate agent on my way home.
I sat in my tiny ‘apartment’ (ain’t that a joke: read bedsit with pretensions) ate pizza, and studied the blurb with increasing fascination. It was the tower that got me. Ever since I was a little kid I’ve been fascinated by towers, and the idea of living in one really floated my boat.
Not being one to let the grass grow, I was in the estate agent’s prim little office before nine thirty the next morning.
“The tower at Jackdaw Court. When can I see it?”
The over-presented receptionist looked at me as if I was something that had crawled out of the undressed lettuce that undoubtedly formed the mainstay of her meals. I favoured her with my best and most dangerous glare, and she thought better of whatever it was she had intended to say. Instead she made painfully slow progress on her computer. After faffing about for at least ten minutes she made a breakthrough.
“You can see it now” she said brightly. “Mister Brown is free.”
“Well wheel him out then. I don’t have all day.”
She picked up a handset and dialled three digits with a perfectly manicured finger.
“Customer wants to see the tower at Jackdaw Court. Now.” She put the handset down and only just managed not to sneer.
“He will be right with you.”
A middle-aged gent with a bit of a beer belly came out from the back office and smiled at me.
“Paul Brown” he stuck out a hand.
“Alysson Kowalski” I kept my own hands behind my back and his grin actually broadened.
“I’ll just get my car.”
I looked at him sternly. “You could do with the walk.” He winced then grinned.
“As you say.”
It was all of fifteen minutes, even with me needing to slow down for my new friend, but in that time we had sized each other up well enough for no fencing to be necessary.
“I take it” he said genially “that you have all your finances in position and you are in a position to proceed.”
“Yeah. Course I am. But blondie didn’t think so.”
“No. If she had she would have called on one of the thrusting young men who were also sitting in the back office drinking coffee.”
“How’d anything that stupid get a job?”
He grinned and shrugged.
“Yeah. There’s that” I had to admit. “But how does she keep the job?”
“She probably won’t. Especially if I make a sale this morning.”
“Eh? But don’t you make rather a lot of sales? The harmless duffer pose must be worth more than a few bob to the company.”
He grinned toothily. “It is. And I’m probably the most successful salesman in this branch. But you are not my target market. I’m supposed to deal with older people who would be turned off by Ranjit or Ralph – who are both a bit flashy.”
“Well then. I’d probably have wound up breaking someone’s pinky in a handshake. I don’t much care for flashy young men.”
By this time we were rounding the corner to come face to face with Jackdaw Court. Paul Brown visibly recoiled.
“It’s smegging ugly isn’t it” I said conversationally.
“No comment. But if you think that…”
“It’s the tower.”
He must have seen the yearning in my face, as he sprinted to unlock the front door of the tower apartment, which gave access to a flagstoned lobby and a broad stairway that ran up the side of the stone-clad building to the base of the tower proper. We ascended in single file with me in front. When we reached a second locked door Paul passed me a key. I opened up to find myself in a large, light entrance hall.
“Bedroom level. Both are en suite.”
I looked into the first room to find a hardwood floor and white wooden shutters at the window. Nice. The en suite was a wet room with slate walls and floor.
“Master the other side of the hall.” This was bigger and with windows in two walls, but it had the same flooring and shutters. The en suite was a proper bathroom with whirlpool bath, and walk-in shower. Again the floor was slate, but the walls were white composite. I nodded once and preceded Paul up the stairs. This floor was almost entirely taken up with a kitchen cum diner cum family room. The kitchen bit looked fine to me, and the rest was more than fine. Up again we reached the sitting room, which had a big balcony on one side and a tiny roof garden the other. A final bonus was the spiral staircase to a mezzanine level study.
I stood in the middle of the sitting room and considered my options. “Okay” I said. “Take it off the market. I’ll pay the asking price if I can be in inside a month.”

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago.

I hate being called ‘dear’

I may be as old as dirt. But that doesn’t make it okay for you to patronise me, or not bother to ascertain my name.

So many times I have ambled up to a plexiglass screen to be faced by a face with a lot of orange make-up and nothing going on behind the eyes, who will then refer to me as ‘dear’ throughout.

I read the other day about an old lady in Utah, who suddenly got out a gun and blew off a bank clerk’s face.

I rather suspect she had been called ‘dear’ once too often 

You can now have a collection of Granny’s inimitable insights of your very own in Granny Knows Best.

Join Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson as they investigate the strange affair of the Dartymuir Dog…

‘Mister Homes. Please come quickly. There’s murder afoot on Dartymuir. Signed Inspector E. E. Yore.’

Bearson had to admit the words meant little to him, but he was satisfied by the change in his best little chum from amoral turpitude to intellectual rigour. 

Homes showed his teeth in a feral grin.

“You’d be more interested if you read the Thunderer instead of your dreadful publication full of bones and innards.”

He passed Bearson a copy of the newspaper which he had folded to display a headline and and a short article about a series of strange happenings in the wilds of Dartymuir. The headline read ‘Dogged by the Dartymuir Dog’. According to the somewhat sensationalised account, one of the oldest families in the shire was being persecuted to the extent that its scions lived in fear of their lives. That, combined with the Inspector’s telegraph message, certainly seemed enough to pique the interest of the formerly torpid pig.

“Are we off to Dartymuir, Homes?”

“Oh yes. I think so. Consult your Bradshaw’s for train times and have Mrs Cangar pack some hunny sandwiches. I don’t think we will be home for tea.”

Bearson ascertained train times. “There is a fast train leaving at three thirty, but we will scarcely make that one. Or a stopper which departs at five.”

Homes nodded, and Bearson went off to negotiate with their formidable housekeeper. When he returned, coated and booted, Homes was busily ferreting in an old steamer trunk beside the bay window.

“Aha,” he exclaimed, “got you you little blackguard.”

He emerged triumphantly with a large brass whistle on a lanyard, which he hung about his neck.

“Are you not ready yet Bearson old chap?”

“Very nearly Homes.”

“Good man. Do not by any means neglect to bring your service revolver with you.”

Bearson tapped the pocket of his Ulster. “It’s right here, old thing.”

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of their cab.

As they claimed aboard, Homes passed the driver a shilling. “There’s half a crown in it for you if we make the three-thirty train to Dumplingshire.”

The jarvey whipped up his pony and they were off.

Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week… Jane Jago

χαιρετίζει τους μαθητές μο,

It is I, your beloved pedagogue and guide to the less lucent corners of the labyrinthine literary milieu, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author of the much spoken of science fantasy classic, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. I am here, lissom and tanned, reborn from the ashes of my pre-vacation self like a phoenix and freshly returned from my Mediterranean meanderings around the Greek Islands.

Whilst there, I undertook some language lessons from my travelling companion, Stavros. This had the salutary effect of making me consider the rudiments of grammar, syntax and such basic building blocks from which a writer constructs the complex edifice of a story. It dawned upon me with a flush of guilt and horror that I have not given enough – if indeed any – time to ensuring that you, my beloved students are entirely au fait with the marvels that comprise English grammar.

So, I shall not delay further and will introduce my new project which will, along the way, unveil for you such mysteries as the correct use of the Oxford comma and the importance of not splitting your infinitives!

How to Write Right  – Lesson 1. The Write Apostrophe.

Ah, I hear you say, with a cherubic grin at your own cleverness, this will be one I know! And yes, of course, you will want to then say how an apostrophe stands in for a missing letter or letters, as in:

Balthazar, his book becoming Balthazar’s book. Or when does not becomes ‘doesn’t. But these are the simple uses that every school child will have ingested along with maternal lactic secretions. I shall not spend more than the briefest amount of time on them.

In brief: use an apostrophe to show possession or omission. The only difficult bit is when words have the ill-considered affrontery to end with ‘s’ or to be plural, but there the rule is to omit an extra ‘s’: the boys’ toys or Stavros’ biceps. There may be a few exceptions to this, but we are considering the rule not the breaking of it.

There, now we have that out the way I shall come onto the far more pertinent and valuable part of the lesson: the use of the apostrophe as an essential ingredient in science fiction and fantasy nomenclature. As an author of the genre of speculative fiction that blends both those mighty tributaries into a single majestic torrent – science fantasy – this is an arena in which I can be considered fully expert.

The importance of the apostrophe in naming characters, places and mysterious technological or magical items is immense. With a single tiny stroke, it imbues a name with something not of this world. One apostrophe adds a hint of mystery. Two will make the name ring out visually and three imbues the owner of the name with an aura of unmistakable potency.

This veritable grammatical magic wand, inserted into even the most commonplace of names can elevate your story from the level of dull and mediocre to that of intriguing and innovative. It speaks of mystical matters or loathsome lifeforms, alien abilities or high brow high-tech . But, student mine, be aware of the danger of adding more than three apostrophes to any one name. The effect then is inverted. What was dramatic and original suddenly becomes trite and overplayed. Too many and the bubble is burst. Less is more, my pupil. Less. Is. More!

I will conclude with a powerful demonstration of this marvellous device and you may see for yourself how the humble apostrophe transforms a name, whisking the reader away from the everyday world and into a new and unknown realm, there to hover eager and awaiting, for the story to unfold before them – the story you are writing!

Take my own name: Metheringham

One apostrophe:

Met’Heringham
Metheri’Ngham
Methe’Ringham

Two apostrophes:

Meth’Erin’Gham
Me’Theringh’Am
Metheri’N’Gham

Three apostrophes:

M’Eth’Er’Ingham
Metheri’Ng’H’Am
Me’The’Ring’Ham
These speak most eloquently for themselves and so I rest my case. I shall return next week with another grammatical gem to galvanise you. Until then, I bid you farewell.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Built upon an asteroid, these mighty habitation towers are the final stronghold of humanity in a star system ravaged by a long-ago war. Now, centuries after the apocalyptic conflict, the city thrives — a utopia for the rich who live at the top, built on the labours of the poor stuck below. Starway Pathfinders is a science fiction show that entertains the better off and brings hope to the poor…

“So, you have to tell me, what’s he like? I mean close up? Is he taller than he looks? Shorter? Has he got bad breath and a squint that they filter out? Or is he just like you see him on screen?” Teram was pumping out questions faster than a media interviewer as they hit the glides, and Dog felt as if a heavy weight was pressing on his shoulders.
“Just like he is on screen.” Only colder. But he couldn’t say that out loud. There was so much he had to not say, it made him feel a tight pressure in his head.
He had told Zarshay it made him feel bad, and she had just given him one of those odd smiles of hers.
“You don’t even need to lie, Dog. Just tell the truth of what’s happened. What’s happened, not why.”
She’d made it sound easy. Heila had been even less sympathetic, no surprises there. She had rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh of frustration.
“Oh for— Why all this soul searching? It’s not that hard.You’re an actor — so act.”
But it was Joah’s words which stayed with him. She had gripped his arm and said, “We’re counting on you, and I know you can do it. Don’t worry, you won’t let us down.”
Joah was counting on him. That knowledge made him feel stronger as he followed Teram through the glides; if Joah trusted him, then he could do it. He had to: the thought of letting her down sat like cold vomit in his stomach.

The salvage crew greeted Dog as an old friend, but he knew right away something was different.
“You told them, you bastard,” he hissed into Teram’s ear as the group waved an over-enthusiastic welcome.
Teram gave him an odd look. “Sure, I told them. But only ’cos they were saying how much you looked like Hengast Gethick. These are my bros — people who I trust my life to when we’re out there.” He nodded towards the smudge-covered window.
Dog felt his headache intensifying. This was a new element to the plan, and he’d have to think how to handle it and make adjustments on the wing. The problem was, fast thinking wasn’t Dog’s strong point and never had been.

In the event, it wasn’t as bad as he feared; in fact, it made his task a bit easier. The salvage crew asked all the usual questions he got from fans, but they were less intense. It was almost as if they were seeing him as Dog — himself, the person, and not as Arlan Stude or even as celebrity Hengast Gethick. It was a good feeling and one he hadn’t had for a while.
When it happened, it was so natural Dog found he didn’t even need to act.
“So, what’s with your wrist, Dog?” someone asked.
Two beers down, he was feeling relaxed and lifted his hand to show off the brace he had on his left wrist.
“This?”
“Yeah. I was reading you broke it in another of those accidents keep happening in the studio. “And Heila Camarthy did another floor-kiss over some cable and needed to see a dentist.”
“I heard your floor technician got electrocuted and nearly died.”
“And is it true your production engineer deleted half an episode? That part of the curse too?”
Dog lifted up his other hand and used both to fend off the questions.
“It’s not a curse. Accidents happen.”
“Really? That many in just a few days? People are saying it’s about these aliens. All that stuff about them being able to attack with bad luck. Shit, the next episode even admits it. It’s called ‘Curse of the Kyruku – Part One.’”
Dog barked out a laugh.
“That’s just a story. It’s not real — not a real curse.”
“Really? You could fool me. All of SP social media’s buzzin’ with it — people guessing what’s going to happen next and wondering if we’ll even get to see them aliens. I was all set to put half my savings into building us that real Golden Strand — reckoned I’d be in with a shot at a crew spot and all. But it’s made me think again.”
“You and me both, bro,” Teram said. “I had in mind to buy some sweet shares in that ship’s golden ass, but no way now.”
Shaking his head in disbelief at how easy this was, Dog swilled some more of his drink and let the speculation run riot around him. It was almost as if they wanted there to be a curse.
“What about this latest one? Zarshay Sygma’s gone missing — someone just put out a tweak on Twister.”
Dog thumped his drink down on the table so hard the base cracked.
“What?” His voice was a roar which stunned half the bar into a brief shocked silence. “What’s happened?”
The salvage crew were all gaping at him open-mouthed and he realised that, for them, all this was just some continuation of the storyline. It could be real people being injured, maimed, kidnapped — but to them it was just more Starways Pathfinders. His good mood evaporated, sucked away into the dark vacuum outside the window, and he pushed himself to his feet.
“I gotta go,” he mumbled and, ignoring the protests and expressions of concern, he strode from the bar and hit the glides home.

Star Dust by E.M. Swift-Hook, originally appeared in The Last City, a shared-universe anthology. This version is the ‘Author’s Cut’ and differs, very slightly, from that original. Next week – Episode 1010

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago

Even the grass is bleeding
Even the grasshoppers cry
You took our life with your leaving
Murdered the grass and I
Your life ebbed away in the garden
In the place where the willow weeps
I will cry and I will not beg pardon
In the blood-tipped grass I shall sleep

©️Jane Jago

The Dai and Julia Mysteries are set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules…

Even when he was supposed to be focused on the case, Dai found himself looking again at the selfie of Julia in the sun and wondering how she was. It had got so the image was always popping unbidden into his mind, leaving his thoughts distracted. He had no idea what he should say to her and dreaded that what he said might be the wrong thing. So he made no further attempt to contact her and as time went on he felt as though the opportunity to say anything, ever was slipping away from him.
“… which means we can effectively eavesdrop on him. Unless he wises up and turns it off.”
He was sitting in Bryn’s office in the Vigiles HQ in Viriconium and it took an effort to refocus his thoughts on what his senior investigator was saying.
“Eavesdrop?”
“Yes. You know how Tony Talog’s using that AI PA system? Mercuria? Well, turns out we can apply to have a listening ear put on it. I put in for it last night and got permission through first thing.”
“So we can spy on him using his own electronics?”
“That’s about the size of it. In fact, we have been for the last few hours.”
“I somehow don’t see him being that indiscreet, but we can hope.”
Bryn laughed. “Bard, you have no idea how people can be with these systems. They think of them as a one-way thing – something they control completely. They tend to forget that it’s connected to the entire internet and not just to their own home.”
“Remind me not to get it installed at the villa.”
“So I don’t think Tony will see it as being indiscreet, it won’t even occur to him there is an issue in the privacy of his own four walls.”
Dai frowned. “He has it at home as well as in his office?”
“Yep. He’s the kind who likes to make out he’s up with all the latest trends. Odd for a man who makes his living from the past, don’t you think?”
“Would be odd if he actually loved the past – Tony Talog doesn’t, he just exploits it.”
“Oh and we have a lunch date,” Bryn said. “Justina Cynddylan says she may have some information for us and wishes us to join her for lunch as her guests.”
“And she can’t just tell us because…?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But she says she booked a table at an out of town place. Posh one too, Bene Placito, you may have heard of it.”
Dai nodded. It was one of the most exclusive eating places in the area specialising in the finest Roman cuisine. The kind of establishment where your meal would be sparse but served artistically and the fact you felt hungry at the end of the meal would not matter because one sight of the bill would remove what remained of your appetite. Dai had been toying with the idea of taking Julia there for her birthday as a surprise but was not entirely convinced she would want that. There were times he realised just how little he knew her.

As far as discreet went, Bene Placito served that up in buckets. The place was in one wing of a small villa, presumably also the home of the chef who owned it, that nestled in the hills behind Viriconium. The villa had a long private driveway which wound past fields of vegetables and livestock, showing off the produce that they would soon be eating.
Dai and Bryn were greeted at the door by a simply dressed waitress who asked their names and explained that each party or individual was given their own secluded dining room.
“Domina Cynddylan is in the Rose Room. If you will come with me…”
Bene Placito was a small slice of Roman elegance and opulence thrust into the British countryside. The decor and furnishings were all items that might grace the pages of patrician’s lifestyle magazines and set in amongst the modern, sophisticated, decor were exquisite examples of ancient Roman statuary and other artefacts.
The Rose Room turned out to be well named. It had a window onto a small walled rose garden, though at this time of year the bushes were little more than pruned back twigs, and there were several pots of indoor miniature roses sitting on small pedestals. Dai’s heart sank as they were shown in. he should have expected it, but somehow he had not. It was a triclinium. The three couches had been set to overlap, in three sides of a square with the table in the middle.
Justina Cynddylan was already ensconced on the central couch, helping herself to some olives from a bowl on the table. She smiled as the two men were shown in and made a sweeping gesture to the empty couches on either side of her.
“Thank you for joining me, please make yourselves comfortable and we will see what the chef is providing today.” Dai eased himself on to a couch, feeling awkward, but noticed with surprise that Bryn seemed completely unperturbed and slid onto his couch as if patrician born.
“You will have to excuse me from getting right down to business, but we can’t be assured of complete privacy until the meal has been served. The timing of that is always a little uncertain as Chef can be very temperamental.”
“I understand,” Dai said, though he was not sure he really did. But he sought an alternative topic of conversation. “There are a few antiquities here I see.”
“Oh yes. I have sold several genuine ancient pieces to Chef. He is a bit of a connoisseur of Etruscan art and it has been my pleasure to help locate and arrange the purchase of one or two for him.” She lowered her voice “To be honest he is a little obsessed, he is convinced he is descended from Etruscan ancestors, but when one is such a great artist as he is, one can be forgiven such foibles.”
The door opened as she was speaking and the waiting staff piled the table with heated stands and small covered pots, as well as plates with a few multi-coloured leaves strewn over them. A bottle of good wine and glasses completed the spread, then the staff withdrew.
Justina lifted a few lids and helped herself to some of the contents, and made the same imperious sweeping gesture with which she had greeted them. “Eat up. We can talk and eat.”
Dai eyed the items on her plate with some suspicion. He went for a plentiful portion of the grains and vegetables and only a couple of the more innocent looking meat slices, spooning garum over the whole lot to disguise any odd flavours. Bryn, meanwhile, was cheerfully piling his plate with samples from all that was on offer.
“The flamingo is excellent, don’t you think?” Justina nodded towards the meat Dai had chosen. He had some in his mouth at the time and chewed and made himself swallow before managing a nod. Why did the Romans insist on eating such things?
“Look, I really appreciate your – uh – generosity in inviting us here -”
“Oh, not so generous, Chef always gives me a discount,” Justina said quickly.
“Yes. Well, the thing is we are a bit pressed for time, so if you feel we are private enough now, perhaps we could get to what it was you wished to tell us.”

From Dying for a Vacation a Dai and Julia Mystery by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

There is no way this ‘elderly lady’ is going to be buying anything on the telephone. Which means I need to have developed coping strategies.

I have three:

Sometimes I just take the phone outside and leave it in the garden. I pick it up later.

Sometimes I blow a very loud whistle I happen to possess in close proximity to the phone.

Or if I am feeling particularly sadistic I play along – confusedly dim. Until they want money when I sweetly say my son has power of attorney and he will call them when he is finished in court…

It’s amazing how quickly you get removed from their ‘to ring’ list!

You can now have a collection of Granny’s inimitable insights of your very own in Granny Knows Best.

Join Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson as they investigate the strange affair of the Dartymuir Dog…

It was a dull day in August and the heat was of such an oppressive character that even the normally sanguine Doctor Bearson was a little inclined to snap. Homes, of course, was fretted beyond measure – both by the lack of intellectual stimulation and by the disappearance of the kazoo with which he was wont to while away the hours of boredom.

In an effort to cheer his porcine chum, Bearson challenged him to a game of Bar Billiards, which Homes promptly lost – setting in motion a foetid sulk and the ignition of a pipe whose effulgences were so noxious as to render him almost invisible as he hunched in his wing chair swearing sulphurously in Serbo-Croat.

Bearson himself was close to despair when an urgent rap upon the oaken panels of the front door heralded the arrival of the telegraph rabbit with a buff envelope in one paw. 

By the time Bearson had paid the rabbit his carrot, Homes had so far exerted himself as to knock the dottle from his pipe and scramble out of a chair that had been constructed for a person of a much larger stature.

Bearson handed him the envelope, which he slit with a grimy and nicotine blemished trotter. He read the contents and his countenance shifted from self-pitying childishness to acute intelligence.

“I say, Bearson,” he ejaculated, “this is a bit more like it.  Cast your eyes over this communication and see what it reveals to you.”

Bearson picked up the single sheet of flimsy paper.

Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…

Jane Jago