In the wake of our dog having her little stroke, and subsequently beginning to recover, writing this blog did fade in importance for a little while. However, as the beast begins to bark and climb sofas once again, things recede into their normal levels of importance. That's right, everything is equally unimportant again! Woohoo! Meaningless trivia is on the rise, and we all should be happy. No, don't pay attention to the grand stupidities of contemporary politics until the actual elections, and do try to be happy.
Oh, politics is such a mess right now, mainly due to the word 'politics'. Why can't people just try to do the right thing? Why is it acceptable for people to talk about 'the politics of power' as a means to an end? Shouldn't that invalidate those people from any position of authority whatsoever? What on Earth is going on with Trump? How can we address the horrors of Syria, and a ruling ideology here that is so far to the right that moderates look like the far left? It's all very bizarre, and best not talked about, as this space could easily be talked about Batman's bat-spring shoes or the wonders of 'Quincy, ME'. They, at least, have some resolution or sense to them.
The Marx Brothers mini-marathon continues, as I clock through their Paramount movies with much enjoyment. Ah, nobody could make movies like those guys and their deeply subjugated writers and directors. It's hard to imagine any of Groucho's dialogue being written, but some bunch of people managed to put it all together. More on this later, once it has all sunk in. How many people realise that the joke at the beginning of 'Monkey Business' isn't that they're playing cards inside barrels, but that they wouldn't have been able to see anyone else's cards? That is the joke, yes? Well, that and singing 'Adeline'.
Yes, let's get back to trivia and nonsense. I've already initiated experimental freewriting with my English students to see if it improves their fluency. After a certain point, it should work wonders. The power of freewriting is potent indeed, as many of the better posts here do attest. This is a freewriting blog at its core. Planning? Ha! Anyone who reads the stories knows there is no planning!
O.
Thursday, 11 August 2016
Tuesday, 9 August 2016
The Cookies, Sugar-Free, Version 2
A long time ago, after mammoths but Groucho Marx, I concocted a sugar-free cookie recipe and shared it with you all. Now, as part of the bakery remit of the Quirky Muffin - the blog that time forgot - I present version two! Please be aware that nuts, seeds, and whatever else are included in the mix, and that I take no responsibility for any incidents inspired by mention of the woolly mammoth.
----
Experimental Cookies
(Adapted from 'Chunky Choc Cookies', page 215 of Hamlyn's 'The Student Cookbook', ISBN 9780600609650)
Overloaded with goodness! Makes a large number.
250g (8 ounces) oats
250g (8 ounces) plain flour
6 tablespoons of sunflower seeds
6 tablespoons of sesame seeds
6 tablespoons of chopped almonds
4-6 tablespoons of raisins (to preference)
150g (6 ounces) of butter (or whatever (I use Clover))
100g (3.5 ounces) of set honey
9 tablespoons of vegetable oil
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1 - Heat the oven to 180C, 350F, Gas Mark 4. Prepare a baking tray with some greaseproof/baking paper.
2 - Mix together the oats, flour, sesame and sunflower seeds, almonds and raisins in a big bowl.
3 - Melt the butter and honey in a saucepan, and add the result to the dry ingredients. Then, mix in the eggs and oil until it's all combined.
4 - Put spoonfuls of mixture on the baking tray, spacing them slightly apart. Squish them with the back of the spoon so that they're flat.
5 - Bake in the oven for about fifteen minutes, until they start to brown around the edges. Then leave to cool on a plate and practice meditation in order to not just guzzle them all while they're still warm.
6 - Wait.
O.
----
Experimental Cookies
(Adapted from 'Chunky Choc Cookies', page 215 of Hamlyn's 'The Student Cookbook', ISBN 9780600609650)
Overloaded with goodness! Makes a large number.
250g (8 ounces) oats
250g (8 ounces) plain flour
6 tablespoons of sunflower seeds
6 tablespoons of sesame seeds
6 tablespoons of chopped almonds
4-6 tablespoons of raisins (to preference)
150g (6 ounces) of butter (or whatever (I use Clover))
100g (3.5 ounces) of set honey
9 tablespoons of vegetable oil
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1 - Heat the oven to 180C, 350F, Gas Mark 4. Prepare a baking tray with some greaseproof/baking paper.
2 - Mix together the oats, flour, sesame and sunflower seeds, almonds and raisins in a big bowl.
3 - Melt the butter and honey in a saucepan, and add the result to the dry ingredients. Then, mix in the eggs and oil until it's all combined.
4 - Put spoonfuls of mixture on the baking tray, spacing them slightly apart. Squish them with the back of the spoon so that they're flat.
5 - Bake in the oven for about fifteen minutes, until they start to brown around the edges. Then leave to cool on a plate and practice meditation in order to not just guzzle them all while they're still warm.
6 - Wait.
O.
Monday, 8 August 2016
Television: 'Press Gang: At Last A Dragon' (1990) (Episode 2x06)
The wheel turns, and the long-simmering bickering and tension between Spike and Lynda is resolved to great and universal success. If you had to rank love stories then these two would surely rank near the top, especially if you declare seasons three, four and five non-canonical. There's something rather magical about seeing the arch denier Lynda Day finally give in to her feelings, after Spike Thompson finally does slay that metaphorical dragon he promised back in the first episode. Yes, it is still possible to win fair maiden by act of heroism.
The development of 'Press Gang' is firmly tied to the development of Spike as a character, and that of the rest of the ensemble at a secondary level. It's really not until he puts his own importance to one side, and helps Lynda break through her social anxiety (and potentially leave him in the future), that he actually reaches his own potential in her eyes. Conversely, it's not until the big business soiree that he sees her vulnerable social side and realises that she's so much more than a martinet. Yes, there had been the guilt-ridden fallout seen in 'Shouldn't I Be Taller', but a reaction to a terrible event isn't the same as fears over talking to potential career mentors.
'At Last A Dragon' is an odd episode of 'Press Gang', featuring as it does only three of the main cast and never once visiting the office. Indeed, the Colin portion of the story could also have been excised, it being particularly daft and nasty. Shady business are one thing, but actual scams while disguised as an Arab magnate? Really, Colin? Despite that, it's a classic show, and the one where practically everyone has to fall for either Lynda or Spike. The style flows thick and fast, and in the closing moment you don't even care that Spike pulls off a Fonzz moment and turns on a busted streetlamp by clicking his fingers. Also, the terrible twosome of Sophie and Laura pull off more horrors as temporary waitresses, and an urn plays a central role, but that's for another day. The Fonzz wins out.
Oh, 'Press Gang', you do so much with what should be an absolutely dopey concept. How on Earth you all pulled it off, I have no idea. From the perplexingly paradoxical interesting blandness of Kenny and his romantic interludes, through Colin's daft schemes, and even the wonderful moments that Mr Sullivan springs at any moment, it all works.
Spike: “She is mad, isn't she?” [] Sullivan: “Oh, yes.” [] Spike: “Fine. Just as long as I know.”
O.
The development of 'Press Gang' is firmly tied to the development of Spike as a character, and that of the rest of the ensemble at a secondary level. It's really not until he puts his own importance to one side, and helps Lynda break through her social anxiety (and potentially leave him in the future), that he actually reaches his own potential in her eyes. Conversely, it's not until the big business soiree that he sees her vulnerable social side and realises that she's so much more than a martinet. Yes, there had been the guilt-ridden fallout seen in 'Shouldn't I Be Taller', but a reaction to a terrible event isn't the same as fears over talking to potential career mentors.
'At Last A Dragon' is an odd episode of 'Press Gang', featuring as it does only three of the main cast and never once visiting the office. Indeed, the Colin portion of the story could also have been excised, it being particularly daft and nasty. Shady business are one thing, but actual scams while disguised as an Arab magnate? Really, Colin? Despite that, it's a classic show, and the one where practically everyone has to fall for either Lynda or Spike. The style flows thick and fast, and in the closing moment you don't even care that Spike pulls off a Fonzz moment and turns on a busted streetlamp by clicking his fingers. Also, the terrible twosome of Sophie and Laura pull off more horrors as temporary waitresses, and an urn plays a central role, but that's for another day. The Fonzz wins out.
Oh, 'Press Gang', you do so much with what should be an absolutely dopey concept. How on Earth you all pulled it off, I have no idea. From the perplexingly paradoxical interesting blandness of Kenny and his romantic interludes, through Colin's daft schemes, and even the wonderful moments that Mr Sullivan springs at any moment, it all works.
Spike: “She is mad, isn't she?” [] Sullivan: “Oh, yes.” [] Spike: “Fine. Just as long as I know.”
O.
Two Excerpts
In the wake of our beloved family pet, Tess the Old English sheepdog, giving us a serious scare over the weekend with a mild stroke, let's instead focus on something much more idiotic. Have you ever wondered how I teach English? Normally, it's a combination of reading, punctuation and handwriting, but sometimes we have a writing challenge. I present two of my own efforts from today's writing challenge. I would present the student's too, but they get to keep them unless there's a mass of marking to do. She had an evil secret-blabbing, greenhouse-smashing flamingo. Ha ha!
----
"The Flamingo Did It"
The flamingo looked me in the eye, coldly. It knew one of us would break soon. One of us would have to look away. She looked tough, like a bird from the wrong side of town. It was either her or me. A car horn tooted and I flinched. A plane flew overhead and the flamingo bobbed her head calmly. Then it happened! A flamingo movie star was wheeled on on a gilded cart, and the game was over. The flamingo did it. She looked away. I won the prize and flew away, the pigeon supreme.
----
"When I Ate A Grape"
I had never eaten a grape. My aunt had always told me they were bad for you, and left by aliens as traps for innocent minds. My grandmother backed her up at the time, recounting stories of her cousin Angus and a strange encounter he had had with a grape while fighting fires in Huddersfield. For thirty-two years I had never touched those lovely tiny fruits, nor the wines they made, until that day in Mimi's House Of Pancakes. My friends Larry and Clara had already ordered, as I was late, and when I arrived the pancakes were ready, waiting, and steaming. They had grape jam fillings. Clara smiled innocently and offered me her olive pancakes instead. I hated olives! There was no choice. I closed my eyes, thought about Angus and that inexplicable woolly mammoth, and ate the pancake. Two days later, I woke up in Bratislava, confused. My aunt had been right!
----
On the bright side, Tess is now unsteadily stumbling around and beginning to bark more. She'll always have a lop-sided look now, but it could have been far worse. If only she would eat!
O.
----
"The Flamingo Did It"
The flamingo looked me in the eye, coldly. It knew one of us would break soon. One of us would have to look away. She looked tough, like a bird from the wrong side of town. It was either her or me. A car horn tooted and I flinched. A plane flew overhead and the flamingo bobbed her head calmly. Then it happened! A flamingo movie star was wheeled on on a gilded cart, and the game was over. The flamingo did it. She looked away. I won the prize and flew away, the pigeon supreme.
----
"When I Ate A Grape"
I had never eaten a grape. My aunt had always told me they were bad for you, and left by aliens as traps for innocent minds. My grandmother backed her up at the time, recounting stories of her cousin Angus and a strange encounter he had had with a grape while fighting fires in Huddersfield. For thirty-two years I had never touched those lovely tiny fruits, nor the wines they made, until that day in Mimi's House Of Pancakes. My friends Larry and Clara had already ordered, as I was late, and when I arrived the pancakes were ready, waiting, and steaming. They had grape jam fillings. Clara smiled innocently and offered me her olive pancakes instead. I hated olives! There was no choice. I closed my eyes, thought about Angus and that inexplicable woolly mammoth, and ate the pancake. Two days later, I woke up in Bratislava, confused. My aunt had been right!
----
On the bright side, Tess is now unsteadily stumbling around and beginning to bark more. She'll always have a lop-sided look now, but it could have been far worse. If only she would eat!
O.
Saturday, 6 August 2016
Book: 'No Name' by Wilkie Collins (1862)
It is finally finished. The last of Wilkie Collins' 'Big Four'. In the next few months, 'The Woman In White' and 'The Moonstone' shall be re-read and reviewed, but right now it is time to think about 'No Name', a novel far superior to its successor 'Armadale'. Yes, 'No Name' is much better, but not quite so good as the two iconic novels.
This post will almost certainly careen all over the place, as two months of erratic literary consumption become condensed down to a few paragraphs on a web page. It's a difficult book about which to come to a firm conclusion, due to a plethora of possible choices of theme. The story is about a young woman called Magdalen Vanstone (and her sister Norah) who is dispossessed of the family fortune after her secretly unmarried parents do marry and unwittingly invalidate their wills. Magdalen, a fiery and unbridled passion, sets out to reclaim the money from hostile 'true' relatives of her parents by fair means or foul, while Norah submits herself to fate and finds a position in life.
Magdalen, a truly progressive female protagonist for the time, takes a turn on the stage, sets out to ensnare the true and somewhat despicable heir into marriage, seeks to overturn a secret trust in her husband's will, goes undercover as a servant, and finally breaks down under the stress and almost succumbs to the grim reaper. Meanwhile, Norah ends up unwittingly marrying the eventual inheritor of the whole shebang by dint of her own virtue, so where does the moral lie? Is it in the fact that Magdalen commits several acts of Dick Dastardly idiocy by ruining situations which would have supported her quite well through her following life, in search of the grand prize, or is it in her submitting to the love in the final instance and settling down with the now ironically named Captain Kirke and accepting the role of submissive wife over the lure of money? Is the final breakdown meant to demonstrate nature protesting against Magdalen's proactive proclivities, or is it a purely moral message from the author on sin and virtue? Is it a progressive novel or a conservative one, seeking to put women in their place? Collins does comment freely and simplictically on the 'nature of women' throughout the whole narrative, but simultaneously headlines five major and distinctive feminine characters: The reliable and steadfast governess Miss Garth, the fiery and self-destructive Magdalen, the noble and submissive Norah, the ruthless housekeeper Mrs Lecount, and the moronic huckster's wife Mrs Wragge. Mr Wragge, by the by, is one of my favourite characters in any of the Big Four.
'No Name' is much easier to read than 'Armadale', being far more consistent and less shattered in form. There is a section where forebodings overshadow the story dismally, but it is far less pronounced and lengthy than in 'Armadale'. You weren't in danger of a depressive episode with this novel! It even dispenses with structure in some way, via the introduction of welcome epistolic summaries of events between the seven 'scenes' which make up the whole novel, abridging various periods in the story of minimal interest. That's something which is always appealing here, and a method commonly used in the serial stories at the Quirky Muffin. (We're not Wilkie Collins, but we do have hidden jewels only accessible to sleepwalkers.) Oh, sleepwalking makes its debut here, and will be revisited in 'The Moonstone'.
The height of 'No Name' is the wonder that is the harvester of money, Captain Horatio Wragge, and the depth is that the central conceit is now utterly obsolete in the modern day, making the whole construction less relateable than, say, 'The Woman In White' or 'The Moonstone'. At least, we can hope that it's an obsolete issue, and that illegitimacy is no longer a barrier to intestate inheritance? It is, isn't it? Yes? Anyway, 'No Name' is a solid classic novel, readable throughout, with some great characterisation, some notable eccentric characters, and a confusing theme. Maybe it wasn't intended to have a theme, though? If you like 'The Woman In White' and 'The Moonstone', then definitely read 'No Name', but in all likelihood you should skip 'Armadale' and 'The Dead Secret'.
O.
This post will almost certainly careen all over the place, as two months of erratic literary consumption become condensed down to a few paragraphs on a web page. It's a difficult book about which to come to a firm conclusion, due to a plethora of possible choices of theme. The story is about a young woman called Magdalen Vanstone (and her sister Norah) who is dispossessed of the family fortune after her secretly unmarried parents do marry and unwittingly invalidate their wills. Magdalen, a fiery and unbridled passion, sets out to reclaim the money from hostile 'true' relatives of her parents by fair means or foul, while Norah submits herself to fate and finds a position in life.
Magdalen, a truly progressive female protagonist for the time, takes a turn on the stage, sets out to ensnare the true and somewhat despicable heir into marriage, seeks to overturn a secret trust in her husband's will, goes undercover as a servant, and finally breaks down under the stress and almost succumbs to the grim reaper. Meanwhile, Norah ends up unwittingly marrying the eventual inheritor of the whole shebang by dint of her own virtue, so where does the moral lie? Is it in the fact that Magdalen commits several acts of Dick Dastardly idiocy by ruining situations which would have supported her quite well through her following life, in search of the grand prize, or is it in her submitting to the love in the final instance and settling down with the now ironically named Captain Kirke and accepting the role of submissive wife over the lure of money? Is the final breakdown meant to demonstrate nature protesting against Magdalen's proactive proclivities, or is it a purely moral message from the author on sin and virtue? Is it a progressive novel or a conservative one, seeking to put women in their place? Collins does comment freely and simplictically on the 'nature of women' throughout the whole narrative, but simultaneously headlines five major and distinctive feminine characters: The reliable and steadfast governess Miss Garth, the fiery and self-destructive Magdalen, the noble and submissive Norah, the ruthless housekeeper Mrs Lecount, and the moronic huckster's wife Mrs Wragge. Mr Wragge, by the by, is one of my favourite characters in any of the Big Four.
'No Name' is much easier to read than 'Armadale', being far more consistent and less shattered in form. There is a section where forebodings overshadow the story dismally, but it is far less pronounced and lengthy than in 'Armadale'. You weren't in danger of a depressive episode with this novel! It even dispenses with structure in some way, via the introduction of welcome epistolic summaries of events between the seven 'scenes' which make up the whole novel, abridging various periods in the story of minimal interest. That's something which is always appealing here, and a method commonly used in the serial stories at the Quirky Muffin. (We're not Wilkie Collins, but we do have hidden jewels only accessible to sleepwalkers.) Oh, sleepwalking makes its debut here, and will be revisited in 'The Moonstone'.
The height of 'No Name' is the wonder that is the harvester of money, Captain Horatio Wragge, and the depth is that the central conceit is now utterly obsolete in the modern day, making the whole construction less relateable than, say, 'The Woman In White' or 'The Moonstone'. At least, we can hope that it's an obsolete issue, and that illegitimacy is no longer a barrier to intestate inheritance? It is, isn't it? Yes? Anyway, 'No Name' is a solid classic novel, readable throughout, with some great characterisation, some notable eccentric characters, and a confusing theme. Maybe it wasn't intended to have a theme, though? If you like 'The Woman In White' and 'The Moonstone', then definitely read 'No Name', but in all likelihood you should skip 'Armadale' and 'The Dead Secret'.
O.
Thursday, 4 August 2016
"Never Give Up, Never Surrender"
Captain Taggart was right in 'Galaxy Quest': "Never Give Up, Never Surrender". Just keep on going, and things will get better. A few rough setbacks will not prevail if you keep on getting up and trying again. Is that enough motivational jargon to keep you going out there in the real world, theoretical connoisseurs of the nonsense of the Quirky Muffin? It's all true, no matter your existential state. Most failures are due to giving up. That is why, no matter how long it may take, I will never give up until the Missing Glove is found! (Note: capitalising things makes them more important.)
The Missing Glove shall be found. There will be no sleep, no food, no dirigibles, no juggling, no mashing of potato, and no whistling dixie until it is found. What is a single glove without its mate? Of what use is it? It is merely two Goodies without the third, Fraser without Vecchio, Lois without Clark, or even Lynda Day without Spike Thompson. Oh, the folly of trying to go on with only one glove! Although, technically, a single glove does have a purpose after all: It can be used to challenge people to duels. It's true that a woolly Winter glove doesn't have quite the same sting, but it does the job.
One glove, one glove, and no giving up. A lack of giving up really worked well this week, in helping an undergraduate student with her revision. The first session was a small disaster, but with a lot of preparation and a lack of giving up, the second worked very well. She will pass, with no doubt, and that's the main thing. Sadly, however, she doesn't have the Missing Glove, merely the essence of not giving up, and a lack of experience of single glovedness in the modern age.
Where could the glove be? Is it behind the elephant? No. Behind the printer? Of course not. Perhaps it's under the shrine to the 4077th MASH? Hmmm. It might have been if it existed? Would that be good? Perhaps I should e-mail the AfterMASH podcast to see if they have the glove? That might be ridiculous? The search continues...
O.
PS Now, what on Earth does 'whistling dixie' mean?
The Missing Glove shall be found. There will be no sleep, no food, no dirigibles, no juggling, no mashing of potato, and no whistling dixie until it is found. What is a single glove without its mate? Of what use is it? It is merely two Goodies without the third, Fraser without Vecchio, Lois without Clark, or even Lynda Day without Spike Thompson. Oh, the folly of trying to go on with only one glove! Although, technically, a single glove does have a purpose after all: It can be used to challenge people to duels. It's true that a woolly Winter glove doesn't have quite the same sting, but it does the job.
One glove, one glove, and no giving up. A lack of giving up really worked well this week, in helping an undergraduate student with her revision. The first session was a small disaster, but with a lot of preparation and a lack of giving up, the second worked very well. She will pass, with no doubt, and that's the main thing. Sadly, however, she doesn't have the Missing Glove, merely the essence of not giving up, and a lack of experience of single glovedness in the modern age.
Where could the glove be? Is it behind the elephant? No. Behind the printer? Of course not. Perhaps it's under the shrine to the 4077th MASH? Hmmm. It might have been if it existed? Would that be good? Perhaps I should e-mail the AfterMASH podcast to see if they have the glove? That might be ridiculous? The search continues...
O.
PS Now, what on Earth does 'whistling dixie' mean?
Tuesday, 2 August 2016
Story: The Glove, XIV
( Part XIII , XV )
Steffan was munching on a scone - yes, pronounced like 'bone'! - in the aftermath of the gun incident at the Canterbury church, as a strange woman approached him and sat opposite him in the tea rooms. If he hadn't had had a mouth goofily full of scone, he would presumably have responded to her question about his wellbeing in an intelligent and insightful way. He might indeed have made a curious remark about who the 'we' she was returning to might be. As it was, he surprisedly made a snorting noise, and turned a little red in the face. As you might surmise, he was not the most gentile of eaters, and the mouthful was not a petite one.
"It seems you have bitten off more than you can chew, literally and figuratively." His table mate remarked. "If there is anything wrong with you, it's definitely not your appetite, although Alison's scones are highly irresistible.
Steffan was by now well prepared and free of scone-like material. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you, whoever you might be." He added, for detail, "I mean 'you' in both the singular and the plural, of course."
"Articulate, aren't we?"
"Years of piper training can do that to a person." Steffan was reticent. If the woman was involved with the gunplay at the church then she might be very dangerous indeed.
"I'm Alison's niece. She made those scones. The ones you were trying to inhale. You really should use less butter. 'We' are a far more complicated thing to explain." She looked a little embarrassed. "'We' are a group who want to restore a peaceful balance to the world, a balance where the two halves of our society aren't forced apart in such a silly way."
"Forced apart? Nothing is forced apart! Were those gunshots part of some peaceful balance?"
"No, they were fired by a madman, a person who used to be not quite so mad." Tears glistened in the eyes of his new friend. "He is being taken care of now, somehow." Then, before Steffan could ask another question, the lady continued. "Do you really think it's possible that a world could be split into two such different cultures, and stay that way without collapsing? Without slowly remerging in some way?"
Steffan frowned, thoughtfully. "I had never thought about it. It does seem rather unlikely, doesn't it?"
"Yes, very unlikely." The lady smiled sadly. "My name's Megan, and unless I'm very much mistaken, you're Steffan, yes? The rogue piper?"
"Rogue piper?!"
"Yes, the rogue piper. We thought you might like to hear a story. Would you come with me?"
Not a moment passed. Steffan looked her in the eye, and answered the way any hero in a story would.
To be continued...
Steffan was munching on a scone - yes, pronounced like 'bone'! - in the aftermath of the gun incident at the Canterbury church, as a strange woman approached him and sat opposite him in the tea rooms. If he hadn't had had a mouth goofily full of scone, he would presumably have responded to her question about his wellbeing in an intelligent and insightful way. He might indeed have made a curious remark about who the 'we' she was returning to might be. As it was, he surprisedly made a snorting noise, and turned a little red in the face. As you might surmise, he was not the most gentile of eaters, and the mouthful was not a petite one.
"It seems you have bitten off more than you can chew, literally and figuratively." His table mate remarked. "If there is anything wrong with you, it's definitely not your appetite, although Alison's scones are highly irresistible.
Steffan was by now well prepared and free of scone-like material. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you, whoever you might be." He added, for detail, "I mean 'you' in both the singular and the plural, of course."
"Articulate, aren't we?"
"Years of piper training can do that to a person." Steffan was reticent. If the woman was involved with the gunplay at the church then she might be very dangerous indeed.
"I'm Alison's niece. She made those scones. The ones you were trying to inhale. You really should use less butter. 'We' are a far more complicated thing to explain." She looked a little embarrassed. "'We' are a group who want to restore a peaceful balance to the world, a balance where the two halves of our society aren't forced apart in such a silly way."
"Forced apart? Nothing is forced apart! Were those gunshots part of some peaceful balance?"
"No, they were fired by a madman, a person who used to be not quite so mad." Tears glistened in the eyes of his new friend. "He is being taken care of now, somehow." Then, before Steffan could ask another question, the lady continued. "Do you really think it's possible that a world could be split into two such different cultures, and stay that way without collapsing? Without slowly remerging in some way?"
Steffan frowned, thoughtfully. "I had never thought about it. It does seem rather unlikely, doesn't it?"
"Yes, very unlikely." The lady smiled sadly. "My name's Megan, and unless I'm very much mistaken, you're Steffan, yes? The rogue piper?"
"Rogue piper?!"
"Yes, the rogue piper. We thought you might like to hear a story. Would you come with me?"
Not a moment passed. Steffan looked her in the eye, and answered the way any hero in a story would.
To be continued...
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