CONGRATS TO YOU MIMI - I was trying to follow your dream and help fulfill it. And now it is done. I hope this works better for the new writers. So onto a couple of disclaimers for those, that are like me, and usually jump to the end to see what people are saying.

So there have been a couple of changes that people need to be aware of.

First, the end date for the opening paragraph has been moved to 6/19/13. So there is still time if you want to have one considered.

Second, we decided I wasn't clear enough, we are using the one thousand word count for the writing. Please try to stick to it. There are a couple opening paragraphs back a few pages if you want to check them out to get an idea.

Lastly, I know this may look like a random thread of nonsense, but we are going to do a free writing challenge, as stated. I will then ask that we tone down some so as not to lose focus. It is fine for comments or questions, but there will be a time we need to buckle down to the task at hand. (Laughing my ass off right now trying to say that.)

Seriously though, we have a summer slacker's hangout, and we can go there for some of the randomness that may entail if this gets going well?

Thanks to all who may show up sooner or later.

Oh yeah - We are a featured discussion, we are a featured discussion!!! (who says slackers don't have drive?)

                Just another few feet and he is mine! He thought to himself as the furry devil slowly made its' way out of hiding. It was so close he could smell the stench of it. He could wait no more, and lunged out with a ferocious attack that would should of surprised his opponent and delivered the man victory, but it was not so.

                As he lurched out of the shadows, he tripped in his drunken attempt, and fell face first on the floor. The wood axe went scattering across the ground and far out of his reach. For a moment, the mouse only started at him, he knew it was taunting him, before it scurried off into its hole once more. It had even secured the cheese he had tried to bait it with.

                "Argh, ye slimey varmint. I will have ye in me stew someday, I promise ye dat!" He yelled after the mouse in the slurred speak that only too much wine can cause.

                "You stupid old fool, you could have killed yourself. Why must you torment that poor creature so?" He heard a female voice yelled from the other room.

                "I is the one tormented by dat ball o' fur. He haunts me in my dreams, and ev'ry wakin minute." He tried to yell back as he attempted to haul himself off the floor. "Ye be wise to be on de me's side. That pest will eat us out o' food for winter ends if'n we don't stop him. An de be breedin' like roaches. Soon it'll be havin' youngins to feed an we'll be starved."

                He had succeeded in getting up off the floor and dropped himself, unceremoniously into the soft chair he called his own. His head was starting to swim, but he wasn't done waiting. He released his axe was across the room, and he let out a sigh. He knew there was no way he was going to make it over there to pick it up. He threw his head back with his glass and swallowed down the last of his wine.

It was a dark and stormy night.  Johan looked out at the street, what little he could see through the slit  in the blinds, held open with one finger.  Rain washed down the outside of the glass, f the world outside twisting and churning under flickering street lights.

The shrill sound of the microwave broke Johan from his reverie, and letting the slats close, he turned to collect his lonely, one man meal.  Walking towards the kitchen, his eyes fell on a picture standing on a shelf, surrounded by smaller knick knacks.  He smiled wistfully, then frowned and walked past.

Minutes later he sat at a small table in the corner off his kitchen. The TV dinner was still hot, and he waited, listening to the rain, thinking to himself.  A long sigh dragged from him, and he turned to face the picture on the far wall again.

“Another night alone. The kind of night you loved, before...”

Johan trailed off, realizing that he held his phone in his hands, finger over a speedial button.

“No, not... No, I’m not calling!”  

He slid the phone across the table away from him. “Not calling first.”  His pronouncement to the world at large hung in the air as he stubbornly began chewing down overcooked chicken and corn.

Thunder cracked and the lights grew dim for a moment.  It blasted again, blue white bolts shining through the window, and the crack of thunder came almost instantly behind it.  The lights fell away completely, the sound of the heater fan, the fridge compressor, all was dark and silent except for the howling wind and streaming rain.  

Johan reached over and snagged his phone just as the screen started to darken. That small source of illumination gave him confidence, and he walked back to the window. A quick glance confirmed it was a larger area than just his house.  The darkness outside broke in an instant as the sky lit in a fire of red and purple.  He pulled the blinds away from the window, staring at the sky open mouthed.  As if on it’s own volition, fingers pressed on the speed dial they’d hovered over, and Johan raised his phone to his face.   

A few rings, and then that voice, so familiar and dear, answered.

“Yeah, it’s me.  You looking outside?  Yeah, that’s what it looks like to me too.”

He hung up the line, staring up as the giant metal shell hanging in the sky split open, and thousands of small dots flew away from it, getting larger by the moment.

And in fairness, I say Alexander and all future authors have five days to run their story. So considering the site will be down tomorrow, we will keep it open till Fri 6/28/13. And you don't need me to officiate if it gets done sooner. Just post your stuff and please place the new author's name at the bottom so they know to grab the story. 

Thanks to all for the entries and for allowing me the humble position of moderating this challenge. I hope I have not angered or offended anyone. I did not want to have to pick the winner, and I hope everyone can except the way this goes in good conscience and move forward with a light heart and enjoy the challenge for what it is.

Lastly, with the judging at a conclusion, the thread is open for comments or what have you. But please, remember to acknowledge each of the authors and the future writers for their work and contribution on this story.

Enjoy. 

Coin flip is good for me (For the record, I voted yes on one of the other two , and did not vote no, the first go round)

Mimi, is Bertie the name of the dead brother?

 “Ruination!” he shrieked, wildness in every aspect of his person.

 
Lord Houghton, above all else, above his renowned wit, above his fine breeding, above his meticulously turned out person, his almost preposterous elegance, known for his grace under pressure, was clearly, astonishingly, not in control of himself.

Beads of sweat on his brow and the rumpled linen of his gold-flecked waistcoat showed him to be a mass of moist anxiety. His thin-skinned hands, streaked with veiny indigo, would not be still. He kept wringing them in apparent agony. A sigh, notable for its trembling, heartfelt depth, escaped his compressed lips.

If one were to cozy up to him, the distinctive odor of gin would have been found to hover about him. Instead of the suave master of Houghton House, he looked the most luridly disarranged denizen of the lowest swill shop in London. His speech, usually of the best buttermilk fashion, reverted to the raw provincialisms of his rural minority, which he had worked tirelessly to expel from a cultured, man-about-town patter.

He lowered himself into a large wing-chair, which seemed to enfold him in its kindly embrace. He gripped the quilted arms, as if to rise, as if ashamed of seeking shelter from the storm of misfortune that had pounded away at him for nigh onto six months. Six months in Hell is how he viewed the series of hideous events which had lately engulfed him.

When had disaster struck with such decisive frequency at any man of such sterling reputation, generous civility and pious leanings?

Yes, he had evicted his crippled sister-in-law from the safe haven of the Kent estate, but that had been in strict accordance with his legal rights. No, he had shown no mercy. Why should he have? That monster had been the cause of Bertie’s death, of that he was quite sure. The once sweet face behind the silk masks - she was never without one now - eaten away, he imagined, by the syphilis that she had contracted on the ill-advised excursion to Istanbul in defiance of his brother’s wishes, held power over him no longer.

She had decamped – there was no other way to put it – in the company of a certain Madame Rosignol, who pretended to assist her endeavors with the drawing of charts, the reading of palms, and so on. The fraud had a hundred silly methods, and poor stupid Esmé was enthralled by every one of them. She was under the woman’s spell, which hinted at an indecent connection, and had returned to the marriage bed only upon receiving news of her husband’s precipitous decline, which showed every sign of ending badly. She’d scurried home to see what she might extract from the estate before push came to shove, a will was settled, and the locks changed, her unsavory advisor in tow.

Pudge, he had been a thickish child and the name had stuck, had arranged a mean lodging for her in a particularly sad street of Camdentown and had hired two brutes with a cart to transport her scanty personal belongings to the site. With his lawyer at his side flourishing a formal notice of expulsion and a smirk which he could not allow himself to enjoy, he had confronted her with great correctness, bid her quit the grounds now devolved to him, and vowed that rash longing for that which could not be should never trouble him again.

He had slept easily that night, but that was his last night of peaceful repose. From that moment his world had started to collapse around him. He wondered if he were not going insane.

*****

6 Months Earlier

  Lord Houghton awoke slowly and deliciously, the golden sun's rays crawling up his chest and face, the tender warmth rousing him. His sleep had been sound, it had been just, it had been full of the most wonderful dreams.  He gazed out the window, mind lingering on the imagery that drifted in and out of his mind's eye.

"I beg of you, brother, to have mercy."

"Call me not brother, woman. Till death do us part, and by my brother's death has any familial connection between us parted!"

She looked up at him from bended knee, her silk mask contrasting to her glittering eyes.  "Then perhaps we should approach each other simply as man and woman."

Lord Houghton hemmed and hawed as he felt her hands on his trousers. Her mask slid up to the top of her head, the now eyeless mask nodding up and down at him as he luxuriated in the sensation.  

Silk scarves wafted through the air, and he started as in his daydream as Madame Rosignol suddenly stood next to his ex-sister-in-law.   The vision faded, and he saw the same scarf fluttering through the air past his window. 

"Lord Houghton, there is a wom woooah!"

His maid, Franchella, stood, her face quickly sharpening from its customary pale to beet red, cream gloved hand crammed against her wide open lips.  He looked down, and realized that in his fantasy his bed-linens had slipped down, and he was absentmindedly handling himself through a slit in his dressing gown. 

With a bolt he rose from the bed, turning sideways and pulling a sheet around him.  

Franchella continued to stare at his now covered tumescence, but quickly gathered her wits. 

"Woman, to see you. In the library. It's...  Madame Rosignol."

Without another word, she spun on her heels, and was gone from his chamber. Houghton took a deep breath, and went about his morning toilet. If the gypsy wanted to see him, to plead on the monster's behalf, she could damn well wait!

>>>>>>>>>>>

I rolled a d6 for next up.  Atthys Gage, I choose you!

--edited by Alexander Hollins on 6/29/2013, 3:56 PM--

Part Three:  

Travestina Rossignol did not rise from the settee as Lord Houghton entered the library.  Nor did Lord Houghton sit.  With the air of someone avoiding some unpleasantness in the center of the room, he contrived a path around its perimeter, finally to perch at the mantlepiece, one elbow propped, a look of utter boredom on his sallow features.  He forewent the usual pleasantries, opting instead for a direct and belligerent approach.  

“If you’ve come to advocate for the wretched widow, I have it on good authority that I was well in my rights to demand her expulsion from the presences in Camdentown.  It’s done.  My agents are in the process of selling that property even as we speak.”

That much was true – apart from the words about ‘good authority.’  He had consulted no one on the matter, his own authority being quite good enough for him.  The lady lifted her chin another inch.  "Lord Houghton.  The widowing of the Lady Esme is certainly a tragedy, and she would no doubt cut a heart-rending and beguiling figure were she to appear before the magistrates..."

Lord Houghton huffed.  

“...but I am not here for purposes of...litigation.”

“Indeed not!”  Houghton blustered.  “You haven’t a prayer!”

“Ah,” the lady smiled.  “What an interesting choice of words!”

Houghton frowned, waiting.  He crossed his arms over his chest, then thought better of it and returned to his former pose.  Aloof, indifferent – yes, he was bored with the whole thing.  A clock, a monstrous thing modeled in ivory after the Tower of London Bridge and set with ridiculous amounts of gold filigree, sat ticking on the mantlepiece.  He had always detested the thing.  When enough ticks had gone by that he could no longer stand it, he fixed the wretched woman with a contemptuous glare. 

“Well, what is your purpose, then!  Come!  I am a busy man!”

She smiled again, with apparent satisfaction.  “Lord Houghton, I come to you with a proposition.  Will you hear it?”  She drew from a beaded clutch a deck of cards.

“What the devil?”  Houghton sputtered.  He laughed.  “What are those for?  A hand of Whist, perhaps?”  He forced another laugh.  “Excellent.  I’ll call the cook and a footman!  We’ll have a foursome!”  

The lady's face remained demure and maddeningly pleased.  She held the deck a little higher.  "You will observe, my lord, these are not those sort of cards."  With a practiced flick, she fanned the deck.  Lord Houghton recognized the figure on the bottom card – a man, dressed in red leggings and belted blue blouse, hung by his foot, a halo of gold surrounding his serene face.  He burst into laughter.  

"Gods, lady!  You really are a gypsy, aren't you?"

She cradled the deck in one hand.  “I have a proposition, my lord.  If you to consent to a reading, I promise you that the lady Esme will foreswear all claims to the property in Camdentown.  She will, in fact, forego all pursuits as to your late brother’s estate.  She will, indeed, disappear from your life completely, and never darken your doorway again.”  

Houghton's dark, blood-shot eyes, narrowed to mistrustful slivers.  "Why should I?  She has no claims to make on the property.  And my brother's estate is worse than worthless.  He left more debts than anything else."  This, while not strictly true, was true enough for Houghton.  He had nothing to gain from this woman's proposition.  But try as he might, the deck of cards drew his eye like a lodestone.  It was not a thing he would've admitted, least of all to this woman, but they brought a low murmur of dis-ease to his belly.  Though he dismissed all manner of superstition as 'drivel' he was not, in fact, above it himself.  

“Why should you not?”  Madame Rossignol countered.  “Surely you do not fear what they might show?  Some dark secret, perhaps?”

The cruel arch of her smile discomfited him even more than the cards had done.  A lump rose in his throat, and he suppressed the urge to tug at his collar.  Did she know?  With some effort, he forced a look of what he hoped was utter indifference onto his face.  "Poppycock, madame!  Your gypsy tricks are nothing but a lot of stuff and balderdash!  Secret, indeed!  Let the devil take you and your secrets!"

The lady gave a generous shrug of her fleshy shoulders.  “Well, then, let’s proceed, shall we?”  With her brightest smile yet, she began the nimble mixing of the deck, a process she accomplished without even the slightest glance, her eyes fixed upon Lord Houghton’s own.  When she had finished, she extended the deck.  “Please cut the deck, my lord.”

He pushed a smile on to his face.  “If it will amuse you, my good lady.”  He divvied the pile into two halves and placed the lower on top of the upper.  “Will that do?” His voice positively brimmed with derision.  

She took the deck.  “It is quite up to you, my lord.  I merely the read the cards.  I do not decide their order.”

 I bet! the lord thought.  The woman is, no doubt, a card-sharp on the side!  Nothing she says can mean anything at all!  But the lump in his throat was becoming even lumpier, and a prickle of warmth was leaving moisture on his brow and it the pits beneath his arms.  

Madame Rossignol selected the top card and placed it face up upon the coffee table.  She said:  “This covers you.”

An angel, robed in white stood upon the waters.  From a golden chalice in one hand, she poured a stream of water into an identical chalice in the other.

“Temperance,” Madame Rossignol said, in a deep, significant voice.  "It is as I thought.  This matter needs solving, and soon, or it will confound all your wishes and desires."

End

I think, if she is following us, I would like to toss the ball to LeAnna.  (I think she might enjoy the tarot riff.)  

Cheerio. 

--edited by Atthys Gage on 7/1/2013, 7:16 PM--

Well, Mimi, if LeeAnna never shows (haven't seen much of Carl either) you may get your chance again sooner than you think! 

So do we just wait for a response or do we go looking for our missing? 

LeeAnna, thank God you showed up. I know nothing about tarot cards. Well, I guess I could have made something whacky up, come to think about it, which might have been even better than playing it straight. 

I've just found out about Lily's Christian Astrology, surely full of all kind of neat hocus-pocus. I'm going to order it off Amazon. It was written in the early seventeenth century. It looks yummy! Just what I need for Sly. 

But I don't have it yet. So ... Take it away, LeeAnna!

Hey, Alantis! Where the hell are you? The honeymoon's over, kiddo. Back to work!

--edited by Mimi Speike on 7/3/2013, 3:07 AM--

Atthys, you are full of fabulous ideas! I'd better get my thinking cap on, or you're going to show me up.

...

Vampire nuns. I like it! The giveaway: Look for nuns who don't wear crosses. 

...

Their elaborate crosses seem to be crosses until you look closely. Then you notice that they are actually ___ ___ ___. (Help me out here, eh?)

...

--edited by Mimi Speike on 7/3/2013, 11:28 AM--

Atthys, if you make up interpretations, well, maybe the card reader is making it up? unless Houghton knows his tarot, how would he know?

Vampire nuns?  Gives new meaning to the communion ritual! You don't want to piss off Sister Mary Bloodletter, that would really suck!

If they are actual nuns, maybe a fish?

From what I know of our fatuous lord, I doubt he knows his tarot cards.  But readers (ha!) might.  Anyway, it'd be more fun to use the conventional meanings, and since they're open to a range of interpretations, not that hard to finagle.  I've always liked it that the cards are not straightforward, and that cards in different contexts can have wildly different 'meanings'.  Full disclosure:  I don't believe in divination of any sort, but there are all sorts of ways that people throughout history have used divination techniques (like the tarot, or the iching) to help them conceptualize and rethink the questions in their lives.  

As far as vampire nuns, yeah, I kinda like that myself.  I'd be pretty surprised if it hasn't been done yet.  Sister Mary Bloodletter!  Love that.

--edited by Mimi Speike on 7/4/2013, 2:09 PM--

Yes, Mimi!  That could be the connection.  And as far as the crosses go, Sister Maria's convent is run according to the principle of NO IDOLATRY at ALL!  Not even the crucifix.  "The Sisters of the Sanguine Heart reject from us all idols, all images of our dear Lord and savior.  His name we do not even speak!"  

I figure Houghton can be blackmailed (whatever his secret is, it's small potatoes) into somehow helping the demonic sisterhood.  Given his self-importance and apparent dull-wit, it could be a whole novel before he figures out who they really are.   The reveal!  Heh, heh, heh...

Or, maybe the whole cast-iron lawn jockey idea...

Part Four

Lord Houghton scoffed. What did a piece of paper know about his future? They were just cards with unusual drawings. Only the belief of a vulgar, low-class housewife could give them meaning. "Poppycock! Everything that needs solved already is," he said, crossing his arms across his chest with a huff, the lump in his throat gone.

Madam Rossignol arched a carefully groomed eyebrow. "Then why do you smell of sweat?"

The lord did not appreciate the observation. It was merely warm in the library, nothing more. He swallowed to chase the returning lump away. "Are you done, gypsy? If so, be gone."

"Of course I'm not done," she responded with a firm tone that hit him like a tutor's ruler against his knuckles. She slowly shuffled the deck in her finely manicured hands, her eyes burrowing into him, not blinking once it seemed. "We have to find out how to go about solving this little matter at hand."

"Matter? You have not told me what the matter is about, woman. You only stated that there is one. I demand to know what it is you speak of before you draw another card."

The madam did not flinch. Her eyebrow stayed maddeningly raised and a smirk played on her painted lips as she shuffled the cards. Heat rose in his face as his blood began to boil, overcoming the lump that had decided to return and had before refused to leave like an unwanted party guest. He unfolded his arms and ran them over his waistcoat as he fixed his narrowed eyes on the gypsy. He had half a mind to have her thrown from the house, but that would not do for a man of his reputation to treat a lady so, damned as she was.

Madam Rossignol began to speak when three cards leaped from the deck mid-shuffle to fall on the small claw footed table between them with their backs facing up. She stopped shuffling, and the lump in Houghton's throat returned, quenching the fires that heated his blood. For once his mind was at a loss of opinion. He did not know what to think about the errant cards or the simple fact that the madam had stopped shuffling. Perhaps the event was negligible, a simple fumble by the smug madam.

No! He was being foolish. The cards meant nothing. Nothing! He would not sink to the level of a half-wit. He reached out to grab the cards. Touching them again would reassure him they were just stiff stock covered in paint. Before he could lay his hands on them, laquered fingernails on splayed fingers bared his way. The madam had placed her hands over them, fixing him with a look that could have curdled freshly milked cream. Now that he thought about it, he had yet to have his morning tea, or breakfast. This woman better be quick.

She picked up the cards. "I must read them as they fell," she spat. "Unless I instruct you, do not touch the cards."

That unsettling feeling tickled his stomach again. Houghton did not know if it was hunger or the look she gave him.

Madam Travestina Rossignol studdied the cards, keeping the patterned backs to Lord Houghton. The top card was that of a demon staring lovingly at his ill begotten treasures. The Devil. A representative of evil, fraud, and trickery. The card below it was The Fool dressed in mottley and running with his leaping dog. It was upside down, a negative meaning. Under that was the Ten of Swords with a mother clutching a child that had just been struck by lightning. It was to mean ruin. Like The Fool, it was also upside down.

The Fool was obviously Houghton. He was being crushed between The Devil and ruin. Or perhaps dragged along by them. That seemed far more likely. Madam Rossignol crinkled her brow when she realized what this meant. The cards had tried to tell Houghton the truth. They had never dared betray her before, remaining maleable in her dexterous fingers. She contemplated trying to convince him that this was exactly what Temperance was trying to say him, but the fool was stuck between abject skepticism and abject belief. She did not want to deal a heavy hand, but with the cards' betrayal, she now needed to.

She slipped the three back into the deck and now it was Houghton's turn to cock an eyebrow. "What was the meaning of that, woman? Did they say something found unfavorable to you?"

"Of course not," she responded, sounding completely offended by his remark.

He wanted to feel satisfied, but the ice that had invaded his veins kept the feeling from rising. "So, are you going to do another reading, as you were so insistent upon, or are you going to tell me about this matter?"

Madam Rossignol slipped the cards back into a velvet sack she kept on her person. "It appears that you are going to have to come with me if you wish to find out more about this matter. What I say will not be as sufficient as hearing it from the source."

Source? There was another person involved? He set his jaw. It better not be his ex-sister-in-law. "And who are we calling upon?"

"We must meet with Sister Mary Bludledder. She knows more about the coming events than I."

"And what if I do not wish to attend you?"

Madam Rossignol's smirk returned. He did not like the look in her eyes. "You will accompany me or I will tell everyone who will lend me their ear that you hire prostitutes who are willing to sate your desire to be spanked with a riding crop during your amorous activities. I am sure all of high society would love to hear about your deviant sexual needs. Such gossip would make tea time and other social gatherings quite entertaining."

If it was at all possible to turn whiter than a ghost, Lord Houghton must have managed it. She did know about his secret and he would be shamed into exile if she told anyone outside his trusted circle. "Let me get my hat and gloves."

_________________________________________________________________________________________

And there you have it. My first entry. I'm glad I waited to write it after I had seen some of your posts. I really liked the idea of Sister Mary Bludledder, vampire nun. I just kind of threw something together that ran off the previous scene and moved us along. I guess it's up to the next person to decide what the fate of Lord Houghton is.

I also happen to know something about tarot cards. Aren't you guys lucky to call upon me? I admit I'm not proficient, but I've got materials.

I call upon Michael! If he's hanging around... I hope so.

--edited by LeeAnna Holt on 7/4/2013, 10:46 PM--

I'm excited about this. I think we have something good here. 

.

LeeAnna, I'm wiped out from gardening in the heat. I will savor your addition later tonight. 

What, oh, me, erm, right!

I have been the most profficient slacker, amongst summer slackers. Not a word since this masterpiece began, or indeed since the KGB hacked into this site and sabotaged the format in an attempt to destroy Western creativity.

Is there a slacking badge award?

I'd pretty much defected to Bookkus.

I'll get on it over the weekend.

God, the pressure, the pressure.

Mike

Guys, I've just spent 4 hours carefully orchestrating my 1000 words; tying in concepts and painstakingly bringing the plot on.

All proud of the chapter, as you can imagine.

The site doesn't facilitate copying and pasting into a word doc to protect the work, and when I clicked post, the entire message just vanished. Does anyone know if it turns up, but takes a while to go on, or has the piece just been irretreivably lost?

My heart is broken with this site........

Chaps, you know what it's like redoing work, that's been done, especially when you consider it 'golden'

I'm going to throw my toys completely out of my pram and bow out of this. Sorry.

I just can't face trying to rewrite that lost chapter all over again. I'm gonna start on my next book instead.

Truly sorry to let yo'al down.

You can find me on Bookkus.

Grumpy Mike

P.S. Best of luck... tis a great idea, this shared book game.

Yeah, it doesnt like the standard ctrl buttons, but there are buttons along the top left to accomplish that.

I personally write everything in google documents, then copy and paste from there.

I know the feeling of losing perfection and faceing a rewrite, but often the rewrite is even better, even if you're missing that wonderful turn of phrase that made you shiver to the toes when you'd read what you had written.  Wait a day, then decide if you're out or not, please?

OK, having passed through my forty shades of red, I'm calm and collected again, ready to have another bash at it. I'll be back on later....... If you hear a scream reverberating across the globe, you'll know it didn't work again.

Well that's my effort posted...... phew, third time was the charm, but at least I had it typed into a word doc the second time.

For whomever would like to follow, in case the hint in the text is too quiet.... I'm thinking fratricide, I'm thinking satan worshipping nuns (if you lot prefer vampires, so be it).... I'm thinking sacrifice, satan risen, and hell on earth. Then again, what I'm thinking is irrelevant as it aint my turn any more.... As it is I went 90 words over. Naughty me!

Now I'm thinking...... an ice-cream sounds good. I'm off.

G'luck with it.... And Mimi, in case you haven't voted already elsewhere... if you're too busy reading to get to this for a couple of days, I'll quite understand.    

All the best,

Mike