The Headmaster & The Boy There once was the headmaster of an old red-brick school, covered in ivy. A fine institution, parents from all over the land waited on a list just to have their child considered. There once was also an absentee student. Fate often brings two such figures together, but not in our headmasters experience. Oh no indeed! His students were sharp where others were sloppy, disciplined where others were chaotic and dedicated where others were flighty. All of them. That is to say, all of them...bar this one particular boy who seemed to come and go as he pleased. In the beginning his classmates would laugh at his antics, clap their hands and slap their knees in glee... but over time they began to roll their eyes and then ignore him entirely. After all, they were serious and he was not. And in the eyes of children there a few things less forgivable than standing out. Concerned, the headmaster sought to find the boy but to no avail. He then took to locking doors and windows and still the boy escaped him. Frustrated, he tried to council the boy and bequeath unto him his worldly wisdom. Nothing seemed to take hold. The boy would make all the correct sounds of comprehension and ask all the right questions. Only to disappear the very next day to play in the fields outside the window. Now, the headmaster was a patient and caring man. It was this that had led to the Stirling reputation of his institution. He could not, however, let this slide. In a way the boy was anathema to all he stood for. He was, after all, as exacting of himself as of his students. And so one day, he waited for the end of classes and sought to follow the boy home. For over an hour he watched the boy as he milled around in the exodus of departing students, joining in on games where he could, laughing loudest and trying to draw others in. Ultimately they would leave though to head home alone or collected by adults in fine suits and dresses. The boy was the last to leave deflating as his audience shrank. Eventually he slunk off, a shadow of himself, homeward bound. Through the streets and lanes he dragged his feet, going out of his way to deliver an exaggerated booting to a particularly kickable rock. Eventually he reached the outskirts unaware of the headmaster dogging his heels all the while. The latter was surprised as the boy approached a manor that reared unexpectedly and massive out of the countryside. He watched as the boy was greeted by a team of immaculately dressed (even by his standards) staff and disappeared inside. For a while he simply observed, noticing lights blooming to #life and being extinguished in the windows as the procession made its way through the house. Eventually he approached, pulling a large bell chord and waiting as the sound reverberated through the house. A genteel man of stiff bearing let him in, taking his coat and enquiring as to his purpose. As he answered his intention to talk with the boy's father he noticed the boy rush in, half bathed and full of exuberance, only to shrink once again when he saw the headmaster. He disappeared without a word, turning dejectedly back into his home. 'The boy's father? By whom you mean The Lord Ashford, is in the city and will be home at times unknown. You would be welcome to leave a message with me or make an appointment' the man intoned with the nasal condescension he must have spent a #lifetime mastering. The headmaster refused, insisting he see 'the boys father' that very evening. They stood deadlocked in uncomfortable silence until the manservant finally rolled his eyes and guided the headmaster to a stool near the entryway. For a long time he sat, taking in the opulence of polished wood, gilt frames and looted treasures. For a longer time after that he sat just staring off into the distance. It was late before the boys father made his entrance. Bustling into the home eager eyes shining, only to darken when greeted only by his staff. "He's..." "Abed lord, two hours past." "Ah...quite right, quite right." The mans eyes take in the headmaster then. The manservant explains and a light rekindles in the mans eyes. "You've come to talk of my boy" he beams. The headmaster's carefully wrought piece crumbles on his tongue. He tells the man only the things he wants to hear. Aware that here lies a private tragedy not his to disturb. A boy who longs for his father, and a father that sees his boy in all he does. Forever missing each other, as time and distance slowly take their toll. A boy looking for his father and a father who sees his son in everything he does.

Reconnect Today I spent three quarters of an hour hearing my smile. Now, to many of you, that will sound very daft indeed. Understandable. To be perfectly honest I felt daft doing it…but then I was naked and smiling vacantly up at the ceiling and to an outside observer, of whom I sincerely hope there were none, it seems a loony thing to do. Now, all of us, have a whole range of different smiles. How can hearing one create much of an emotive response beyond that which incited the smile to begin with. Fair question, you are clearly quite clever. There is the smile of laughter, derision, spite, fear, surprise, the fake smile, the subtle curl of the lips, the flirting smile…even contempt has a smile. I would argue, as I discovered twenty minutes ago naked and in a bath, that these smiles are constructs. That is not to say that they are any less real or valid, merely that they are social tools. Used for the most part unconsciously and to benefit an audience. But you too can spend a rewarding time hearing your smile!! Just three easy payments of all your money to my address. You won't be sorry for long! In all seriousness, what I'm planning to describe probably won't sound very impressive or exciting, and you can either let the biology of what is literally happening ruin the magic or try and feel a little wonder. That's on you. All you need is a bath and a bit of darkness. At first I was larking about 'whaling' as I like to call it, making waves and generally enjoying the happiness that comes by being submerged in hot water. Listening to music. I'm sure you can picture the scene, don't though! I have a reputation to maintain! Can't have you lot fantasising about my bath time. As you lower your head into the water, making sure to keep your eyes and nose above the water-line and ears submerged. You will hear the beat of your pulse. Stick with it for a while. It is amazing in its own right when you stop to think about it, but not the object of this story. Keep your face in neutral and spend a moment getting yourself in time with your beat. As you relax into it start a slow smile in the corners of your mouth. You will begin to hear a rumble as if from far away. As your smile grows it will gain in volume and intensity until it starts to sound like a herd of wild horses stampeding down a hillside. As your smile hits its widest you'll find it. Thunderous and powerful in your ears. Not the sort of smile you use often…or ever, but yours all the same. All the other smiles in your arsenal are facets of, or slithers of this smile. This smile has a strength that doesn't wax or wane. Private, but yours. You may not think it is your most beautiful smile, often it is the dainty and fragile that are considered beautiful. But this smile has a beauty of its own, majestic and strong. If you are anything like me you will feel it, its quite infectious…you'll probably do it a couple of times shifting to neutral before leaping back into it. Try not to imagine how it looks, alternating blank face and ecstatic face at your bathroom ceiling. Or do, the merriment won't do you any harm. All in the act of smiling and the thought process that accompanies the sound should prove rewarding. Experiment with a few other gestures, I know I did. My frown growled at me…fitting no?

Behind Her Eyes She is all tempestuous fury. Cacophonous anger thunders through her veins. She bellows her displeasure with BP rising. A personification of her rage. She roars to bear her fury wide. Shouts from which injustice hides. She is the rallying cry. Screaming white hot and bilious venom. Not that there is a ripple on the pond's surface, No not visible to you or I. Tightly held reigns, It all resides behind her eyes.

It Was I So if the world ends tonight I think it only fair that you should know...it was ME!! I ate the last biscuit! I didn't put the seat down that time you fell in! I finished the coffee and didn't put on another pot!! All of it, 'twas I!! And I got away with it too, never thwarted by clearly-drugged meddling kids and unrepentant! ME!! Mwahahahahahahaha

Jimmothy, The Call Of Nature, Part Deux Now, gentle fatties, warm yourselves before the fire as I begin once more with tales of Jimmothy's heroic deeds. Our friend...and sometimes heavy-breathing sex-fantasy...Jimmothy, had been set the task of finding the presumably lovely moosette Olga's cousin...and yes that was her actual name...also we say 'presumably lovely' since its kind of hard to tell with a moose even for one with Jimmothy's superior taste...his general rule of thumb being "mo antlers mo problems." Jimmothy had been in the wilderness for over a month now...admittedly two weeks had been lost as a result of munching on some mushrooms of ill-repute; leaving Jimmothy transfixed by the moss on a log. Some time had also been lost laying low in some shrubberies hiding from the law...totally overblown accusations of homicide had emerged following the stampeding of a child...who BY THE WAY had had some very hurtful things to say about the length of Jimmothy's tail....which is totally above average!! Besides what kind of dumbass gets stampeded by one animal? But that's neither here nor there as Jimmothy had never seen or heard of that evil vindictive little asshole child and knew nothing of the evidence accumulated in his antlers, OK?! SO STOP ASKING!! Anyway, the search was on! Jimmothy looked high and low...then ditched the uppers and downers as they had started giving him sweaty hooves, the muchies and palpitations...then immediately found her near the other mooses. Yes! Bathe in his reflected glory!! For he, Jimmothy, had rescued a damsel in distr....well...maybe not distress per se. Gallantly he approached, decided she was kind of fugly and abandoned the quest. And so soft fatties we reach the end of this tale of adventure and glorious achievement. What lesson did you learn? "Drugs are bad?!" What story were YOU listening to?? Drugs are awesome! J-Dawg was staring at a log for TWO WEEKS! Hahahahaha you can't make that shit up...naw the lessons are; "if you are accused of a crime: deny, deny, deny" and "before undertaking hazardous damsel-saving quests: do your research." So says Jimmothy the wise...and also handsome...talented but like...totally down to earth, you know like REALLY real...not J-Lo "real." -excerpt of the chronicles of Jimmothy, as narrated by Jimmothy.