“So, run this past me again, Drew – you want me to join a unit that does not exist to help babysit a group of the Vanguard’s freaks and failures? I am sure you have held back the bad news until last.”
Drew felt himself wince at the cutting tone. Prudence Armitage was not one to mince her words – it was more usual for her words to mince those she spoke with.
“Purdie, Purdie…”
“Don’t you ‘Purdie’ me, Andrew Gilroy! I have just got back from a reconnaissance mission and my mood is foul.”
He loved the way her slightly upper-class accent lingered over the last word, making it sound almost onomatopoeic. But then he adored almost everything about her and had as long as he knew her. Seeing her sitting in her mahogany and glass office, her back straight and her head slightly tilted up so the chisel sharpness of her profile was accentuated, he was irresistibly reminded of their first meeting in Rome. Then she had coal-black hair framing those amazing grey-blue eyes and a gloriously athletic body. She still had the body, but now her choppily short hair was steel, as if it had finally come to match every other aspect of her. For maybe the thousandth time he wondered why he had never asked her to marry him. Now it was twenty years and a hundred encounters too late.
Sighing slightly, Drew turned away from the piercing iron gaze which made him begin to feel uncomfortable like being under the twin barrels of a shotgun. He picked up something, anything, from her desk and looked at it without seeing.
“Silver medal. European Junior Gymnastics Championships. I was 13 years old and trying not to be seen as an overachiever. Even at Roedean that could lose you street cred. Coming second was my social salvation.”
He put the framed medal down quickly and pulled his attention back to the matter in hand. With Prudence, honesty and straight delivery were always the best policy.
“The thing is Purdie, we really are in a bit of a jam. The whole notion of apprentices and preparation for initiation, filtering out the unsuitable as we go is being made redundant by the present crisis. There has been nothing like it in centuries. Sanctorum was not designed to be a – mainstream operation unit. It was set up to be what its name suggests – an asylum for those we couldn’t risk in the open.”
“More like a semi-secure unit for the crazies who can’t adjust to being able to see demons.”
“That is an exaggeration. It has just managed those with adjustment issues. But the numbers recently…” he broke off. Then working to keep the slight trace of his near desperation from his voice, said: “It is getting very bad. You will have heard they opened a new training facility on the Perthshire Estate – already there is talk of a third being needed. And Sanctorum…”
“Sanctorum is being overrun by maladjusted post-millennials who think they are at Hogwarts?”
“Not quite.”
“But close enough?”
Drew just looked at her. He knew she was being deliberately difficult, but as always he had no idea why. The neat grey outfit gave away nothing of her personality. She wore it like armour. 
Sometimes he wondered how she felt when most of her peers – those she had been in training with and who had become her friends – and others much younger than herself, were now in the upper echelons of the Vanguard’s ranks and she was still a lowly commander. It was not that Purdie had ever lacked ability, but as Gita Sharma had read out of from Purdie’s psychological profile at the selection board for this post, she was not suited to take on the responsibility of an independent command. She was, Gita had observed, simply the best lieutenant – fiercely loyal, well able to give orders and run field-missions, so long as the ultimate authority was not herself. 
If Purdie was consciously aware of that aspect of her nature and the degree to which it defined her prospects, he had no idea. But she had never shown any sign of resentment even at the promotions of others who had once served under her – or any particular desire to seek a place higher than the one she had held now. Secretly, he suspected she had no wish to leave active service and trade her weapons for a desk and computer terminal.
“Really Drew, you know I have all the maternal instincts of a seahorse. Is a baby-sitting job the best use of my abilities? We are being overrun – what happened in Penrith is just the tip of a very ugly iceberg. We need every capable initiate in the field twenty-four seven. It is not the time for me to be sitting on my bum in a glorified…”
“Sanctorum is a fully operational unit within the Vanguard.” Drew spoke more sharply than he had intended “It has had the highest proportion of mission losses of any active unit in the Vanguard over the last year. They get sent in where anyone more…”
“You mean they are seen as disposable cannon-fodder? Or is their commander a useless wanker?”
“No. I mean it has stood where others would have run. Its CO is a highly competent woman, Janice Roslaird. She has been doing an incredible job with people that no one else can handle. Sanctorum is…”
Purdie lifted a hand to silence him.
“It’s alright Drew, you don’t need to give me the full heart-wringing oration – I have already heard the sound-byte.”
Gods, the woman could be so damn cold! Drew felt his anger rising, then saw the slightly mocking look in Purdie’s expression and bit back his intended retort.
“It’s an assignment, not a volunteer position,” he heard himself say tightly. “I didn’t come here to persuade you – only to inform you. A courtesy between old friends.”
She looked away then, for once perhaps shamed. He could only hope.
“Who put me up for this?” she asked, still avoiding his eyes.
“It’s not like we have many options. Roslaird needs a rottweiler – but she gets you instead.”
“She asked for support?”
“Of course not. She may even resent you – I am sure you would love that.”
Purdie shook her head briefly, but whether in denial or resignation, he could not tell. Then she got up and moved around the desk to stand with him. For the first time he noticed the gouges on her neck and the patch of naked scalp where a row of stitches ran into her hair. Close up he could see etched into her face the marks of exhaustion together with contained physical pain and…
“We lost Nish in the Penrith thing,” she said, as though reporting the loss of a cricket match rather than of her most trusted Sergeant for the last five years. Possibly, rumour had it, something more. “He was torn apart by demons – literally. Bits and pieces. Nothing left.”
Andrew swallowed, unsure now.
I’m s-sorry. I was not informed.”
“It’s alright, you are in good company. His twin sister can never be told and his parents will have no body to bury and be left to wonder forever why he didn’t come home.” She sounded almost offhand, but the storm-sky eyes were unfocused. “Still, you know what they say – the war must go on.”
“Purdie, I…” 
She moved her body slightly in easy evasion so his comforting hand reached only into air and he withdrew it quickly.
“So. Who? Who do I have to blame for this? Tell me.”
“I can’t tell you that. You know I can’t.”
“Karl? Christa? Josh?”
Drew shook his head. His silence determined and final. Purdie closed her eyes in resignation, head slightly bowed.
“When?”
“Tomorrow – unless you need medical attention? No? You are sure? Then you’ll get the orders tomorrow to report to Karl at HQ. He’s to brief you formally, after which you will be removed from our active files and transferred to Sanctorum.”
She nodded once, then managed to recapture a brief waspishness which Drew felt was almost entirely for his benefit.
“Does it have to be Karl? He is such an adolescent with attitude, and his cynicism…”
“…matches yours?”
It was always hard to know with Purdie, but it was just possible that the warmth in the smile she gave him then was more than just acknowledgement of his attempt at humour. Whilst he was still trying to decide if that was so, she reached over the desk and swept her grey jacket from the back of her chair.
“Take me for a drink, Drew, and I might even forgive you.”
Following her from the office, he wondered if Karl and Gita really knew what they were doing in pushing for Purdie to be given this assignment and wondered again if he had been wise to let himself be persuaded into supporting the notion…

E.M. Swift-Hook

I gave him the glad eye years ago
He clearly remembers the occasion
When he chased me beneath the mistletoe
And I had no thought of evasion
And all through the years as they tumble by
And we tumble into the hay
He reminds me it’s all the fault of my eye
As it noticed him gladly that day

©jj 2021

The Working Title crew bring you the opportunity to enjoy wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica…

Aries.
The mythical ram is surprisingly fond of roast lamb with all the accompaniments. If you want to start a fight with an Aries suggest that redcurrant jelly is a more proper condiment than mint sauce

Taurus.
Taureans are not, by nature, attracted to gourmet dishes. They are prone to consider food as fuel rather than pleasure. Generally speaking Taurus cooks consider any food that takes longer to prepare than eat a waste of time

Gemini.
For a sign represented by twins Gemini people have remarkably restrained appetites. They can, however, always be tempted by chocolate – particularly in the shape of a certain biscuit and caramel bar, which comes conveniently two to a packet

Cancer.
Cancerians tend to look sideways at any food they consider to be ‘messed about’ – by which they mean anything that isn’t served with chips and peas. Fish in batter is a favourite although they are willing to allow a sausage with the proviso it contains neither herbs nor garlic

Leo.
Leo’s appetites are as large and genial as those of the sign’s spirit animal. Shepherds pie, beef stew, and anything on which you might sensibly pour custard are all greeted with roars of delight

Virgo.
Sushi, sashimi, raw vegetables and hummus. For some inexplicable reason the zodiac’s virgins like their food raw. It has been postulated that they equate cooking food with the removal of its virtue

Libra.
Baked goods of a complex nature appeal to this sign’s affinity with measuring devices. If you would ensnare a Libra with your culinary skills one would humbly suggest the croquembouche

Scorpio.
Just shove an unfeasibly large amount of booze in whatever you propose to feed a Scorpion. Boeuf bourguignon. Champagne sorbet. Chicken in cider. Get the buggers drunk and they will sing your praises forever.

Sagittarius.
The archer sees himself as a gourmet of endlessly refined tastes. Sadly, though, this illusion masks an insane desire for the pub grub incarnation of lasagne – complete with chips (fries if you are a colonial)

Capricorn.
This sign is characterised by the inability to sit still for more than five minutes. Ideally, then, hand held food of simple pedigree. Give the goat a pasty and he will be your slave forever.

Aquarius.
The house of responsibility. Requires to read the food map before eating anything. Ideal meal is locally sourced and heavily vegetable based. Borsch and spelt bread is an ideal. But do stand back when an Aquarian belched

Pisces.
It is perhaps surprising that Pisceans love to eat fish. It seems to resonate with some masochistic inner swimming thing. Salmon en croute is the absolute apogee of their imagination.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

Caldwell was the newest gnome in the Garden, and he wasn’t making himself popular with his constant questioning. Today it was Ernie’s turn, but even that worthy’s monumental patience was wearing thin.
“You casts your hook into the pond. And you sits.”
“Wassa point of that?”
“If you sticks around you might even find out.”
Caldwell sat on the mossy bank moodily throwing twigs into the water. He was completely unprepared for the arrival of Big Bertha with a wheelbarrow.
“Oh good. You’re doing nothing. There’s manure to be shifted.”
Caldwell quickly learned the benefits of fishing as a hobby.

©️jj 2021

That day of all days when making bloody silly jokes is all right.
Only it isn’t. It isn’t funny to send your sister a photoshopped image of her boyfriend in bed with a blonde. It isn’t funny to put an announcement of your mother’s death in the local paper. It isn’t funny to  befriend somebody online only to make them the but of your annual ‘humour’ fest.
Just stop it.
It’s not funny. You’re not funny. Leave humour to those who don’t equate being funny with making people cry. Stop being an asshat for ten minutes and consider how you would enjoy being the but of one of your own ‘jokes’.
For those of you who find themselves on the receiving end of one of these gems of sparkling ‘wit’ I have the following advice.
If the perpetrator is an online acquaintance, by all means retweet or reblog the offensive item adding one or more of the following hashtags:

#sentbytheguywiththegherkindick
#sentbyadiscardedlover
#sentbythebitchwhohasnofriends
#thanksasshole

I think you get the idea.
However, should the ‘joker’ be known to you outside cyberspace, vengeance is perfectly acceptable. Consider one of the following:

Itching powder in the underwear.
Chilli in the wine
Pepper in the chocolates
And the classic – A kipper wired to the exhaust pipe of their car

Soooooo. To recap. Don’t do personal April Fools jokes. They are seldom kindly and never funny. 
But.
If you do. Expect vengeance…

Have fun until the next thing pisses me off.
Granny

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

You are old and the fast passing years
Should fill you with sorrow and fears
It shouldn’t be you
With a camera crew
And a blog about sex and craft beers

© jane jago

Just Dropped By

There are many obligations which fall on the broad shoulders of a temple warden. Not only are there the endless administrative duties, the constant chasing for funds, the arbitrary dispensing of justice, and the providing of grave spaces for those whose bodies will never be found, there is also the
visiting of the sick.
In this, as in everything else, Maljie was assiduous in performing her duties.
The visiting of the sick has many aspects. It isn’t merely boosting the morale of the invalid, (or in the case of those enjoying ill-health, their long suffering family) it is also ensuring that proper medical help has been summoned and that the patient is being properly cared for.
Thus in some households the arrival of Maljie was on a par with the arrival of an avenging angel. In some cases it was the family who feared the arrival, in other cases it was the invalid.
But one afternoon will give you a feel for the role Maljie played. I had been encouraged to accompany her. First on the list for the day was Gamma Dilwin. A lady of immense age, so old in fact that it is one of her granddaughters, a respectable married woman with children of her own, who cares for her. Gamma has her own home and refuses to leave. As Maljie and I arrived, she met the granddaughter leaving. The younger woman was carrying a tray on which her grandmother’s mid-day meal had been served. I surveyed the tray, even empty the aroma that lingered was appetising. There had been soup, followed by minced horrocks and vegetables. There was still a slice of new bread, generously buttered, which the old lady hadn’t wanted. This was followed by a bread and butter pudding.
We went in and the old lady was sitting by the fire.
“Ha, somebody come to see if the old woman’s dead yet.”
“Hello Gamma, how are you doing?”
“Badly Maljie, badly. Nobody ever visits, I survive of crusts and whatever that slut of a granddaughter can spare.”
“Things are so bad?”
“Worse.”
I noticed the pot of tea keeping warm on the hearth, the well banked up fire and the fact that the room was warm and clean. Maljie diverted Gamma’s talk to mutual acquaintances, (all dead, hanged and rightly so) Gamma’s offspring, (drunkards and ne’er do wells,) and the doings in the city. These latter provided Gamma with infinite satisfaction, things were collapsing into chaos in a most gratifying manner.
On our way out we met Gamma’s oldest son who was paying his daily visit, he brought with him more coal and some cakes his wife had baked.
Then it was on to our next destination, the home of Artos Wellbeck. Maljie had to detour to collect something so I went directly there. I was admitted by his daughter, Artos was in bed. He was suffering from ague, something that had come up from the river and left him prone to bouts of shivering and fever. When he learned Maljie was arriving he immediately threw back the bed clothes.
“Daughter, where’s me britches?”
“What do you want your britches for, Father, you’re in bed.”
“Be damned if I’m going to have Maljie see me lying in bed like an old man.”
“You’ll kill yourself.”
“So that way she’ll see me in a shroud and I won’t be there to feel embarrassed about it.”
With me acting as his valet, we got the old man dressed and through into the front room. As he sat in from of the fire I shaved him and we even trimmed his hair. I stepped back and looked at him then glanced at his daughter. She winked at me. Certainly he looked presentable. He was obviously unwell but he looked better for being out of bed.
At this point Maljie arrived. Here we sat and drank a selection of infusions the daughter served and we spent a pleasant hour. Artos seemed to be bearing up well, but I did notice there were times he would put his mug down and clutch the arms of his chair to keep himself from shivering too obviously.
Finally we felt we ought to make our apologies and leave.
The daughter asked, “Maljie, could you get him into bed please, he’ll not take any notice of me.”
Maljie, in her sternest and most formal manner said, “I am a respectable lady, what will people say if word gets out I have been seen whisking Artos Wellbeck off to bed.”
Old Artos hooted with laughter, his daughter blushed and Maljie left. I helped them get Artos back to bed and caught up with Maljie at the home of Jinatte Mallerstang. Madam Jinatte was of the same generation as Maljie.
Normally an active lady she had suffered from various complaints. Her doctor was Mord Filch so we had no worries about the medical care she was receiving, but her morale was poor. Maljie had taken to visiting her every afternoon to lift her spirits.
Jinatte was cared for by her husband, a decent enough chap although not the most competent person around the house. A daughter-in-law used to drop in daily to make sure that he didn’t inadvertently poison her.
As the husband went out to fetch us coffee, Maljie reached cross to Jinatte’s medicine bottle and hastily topped it up with plum brandy. By the time the husband arrived back we were all sitting innocently chatting about minor matters at the shrine.
When we left I asked Maljie, “Have you been topping her up with brandy every day?”
“Yes, but she’s had to be careful, she has to make sure that when her husband puts everything away in an evening, there’s a little bit less in the bottle than there was the day before.”
It was a few weeks later when Jinatte and her husband graced one of the events the shrine had put on. I asked the husband how Jinatte was.
“She’s fine. That Doctor Filch is a wonderful doctor, one bottle of his medicine got her back on her feet in a week.”

And now a brief note from Jim Webster. It’s really just to inform you that I’ve just published a full Tallis Steelyard novel. Yes, the rumours are true.
Tallis Steelyard, the man who considered jotting down a couple of anecdotes to be ridiculously hard work, and considered the novella form to be the very pinnacle of literary labour, has been cozened into producing a novel.
It is, ‘Tallis Steelyard. A Fear of Heights.’

“What’s this?”
Granny Mim picked up Tom.
“It’s called a cassette tape and it has songs on it.”
Tom held it to his ear but he heard no music.
“Do it play?”
“Not any more love. Even if I had a player it would be too old.”
Tom frowned.
“Why Granna keep it then?”
Granny Mim put Tom back on the floor and gently took the cassette from his chubby fingers.
“Somethings we still keep even when they are useless, pet. This cassette has love songs your Grandad recorded from the radio for me back when we were first married.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

The librarian raised a weary brow. “You may not demand anything of me. I am my own mistress. I do this because I so choose. This night is to give hope to the children and the small things. It is the one night they may safely leave their story books and be happy.”
Damballa Ouedo actually shuffled his feet. “Sorry ma’am. Never thought about it like that. Can we come and listen then?”
“If you can take forms less likely to cause distress.”
The light shattered before it coalesced into two toddlers who stood hand in hand with identical hopeful looks on their faces.
“Very well. You may come.”
They followed her sturdy little figure to the edge of the gathering where they were easily absorbed into the waiting crowd.
The librarian took her seat and opened the Book. Her audience grew silently attentive as she began to read.
“And it came to pass…”
As the story unfolded those spoken of left the pages of the Book and enacted their parts as they stood on an invisible stage high in the cold air. Each was greeted with an outpouring of love from those who listened, even the sweet-faced donkey, and the herders of sheep, and the eastern gentlemen bringing unsuitable gifts brought gasps of delight from the children, and the small creatures, who heard the story at this time every year and loved it more each time they heard it.
All too soon, it seemed, the story ended and the librarian closed the book – leaving only a star shining brightly high in the dome of the library ceiling.
A dragonish voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd. “Even though I know it ends badly, I like that story.”

From ‘The Night Library at Christmas’ one of the stories in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago which is available for pre-order now and is out on 10 April.

Cover design is an original artwork by Ian Bristow, an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action on ART with IAN

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

I am old as you rightly suggest
And often I don’t look at my best
But I just think sod that 
And shove on a hat
And stick out my oversized chest

© jane jago