It's a bank holiday in England 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿 today. Time to get busy 😉.

Every bank holiday Monday, for the last few years, I’ve made a point of indulging in a spot of killing.

On those rare occasions where the sun comes out, I’ve been known to practice the fine art of mass murder. When it doesn’t shine I kill ‘time’ as I loath that particular son/daughter of a gun for always going quicker on days off work.

This past holiday I managed a record haul of eleventy nine and a half. Some of them deserved it; in fact, I asked a few after I’d killed them, and they were in full disagreement.

Even the ones that didn’t know how to talk seemed happy to confirm they wanted post-death sandwiches round at mine. Obviously I took this as confirmation that my murdering was respected, if not always appreciated. It did present a problem, though, because there is no ‘mine’. I don’t exist apart from in reality.

People aren’t generally the benefactors of my murdering ways. I once ended the life of an Elephant who’d annoyed me by looking at a Gazelle in the wrong way. There was another occasion when I snuffed out a banana for attempting to split up with a garden rake.

My favourite execution was the bank holiday I dropped lucky and discovered two potatoes running for President, wearing the same jacket. I know I was justified in their slaying, especially when one of them attempted to teach me how to count to ten in Portuguese.

I pride myself on the meticulous planning that goes into my murdering sprees. I leave every stone unturned, and no scenario is worked through before I act.

The clues I do leave are simply concrete evidence of my guilt, which can never be traced back to me apart from every time.

Like all good killers, the press have named me to scare and excite their readers at the same time. I’m sometimes known as the Daily Mirror or New York Times, depending on who’s reporting on my heroic deeds. I was once called Kellogg's Cornflakes as well; I think that was a reference to my serial killing.

If I’m ever caught, I will plead guilty of being not guilty and not guilty of being guilty. I will then have myself declared fit for trial by a lunatic and throw the book at myself. After my sentence has been given,  I’ll lock away the key so nobody can find it to lock me away.

In years to come they’ll make a film about me called ‘messages from our sponsors’. A Big Mac and cheese will play my part. Audiences will stay away in droves, coming in their thousands.

When you go to sleep tonight, keep all three eyes open. You just never know who might not turn up!

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Essay prompt.

Do you have any goals you thought you’d achieve by now, but haven’t? Do you still have them? Did you make new goals? What changed?

As you can see below, my effort ended up neither an essay or addressing the questions properly. I should probably add the following to my list

• Follow the rules 🚷

When I was five…

• I wanted to be allowed to stop wearing short trousers for school. I was the only one in my class who did and it made me very self conscious.

• I wanted to be a footballer. Preferably for Liverpool FC.

• I wanted Stovies for tea. Or fish and chips.

• I wanted an Action Man, the one with the swivelling eyes.

• I wanted to avoid the kisses of old ladies; e.g. Anyone older than twelve.

When I was fifteen…

• I wanted to kiss more girls (I was up to maybe half a dozen by then). Ideally I wanted to kiss them without having to talk to them first. I was a lot better at kissing girls, than talking to them.

• I wanted nothing to do with my brother. Oh, how I would regret that one day and forever more.

• I wanted my French teacher to be off sick. I was terrified of her. She actually died quite young, this made me sad. I think I would have liked her as an adult.

• I wanted to be a footballer even though I already knew it was never going to happen.

• I wanted to like myself more, to stop punching myself in the face when nobody was looking.

When I was twenty-five…

• I just wanted to get drunk and be someone else.

When I was twenty-eight…

• I wanted my heart to not be shattered into a million pieces.

• I wanted to not have to just get through another day.

• I wanted to see her more than anything.

• I didn't want to see her ever again.

• I didn't want to be alive.

When I was thirty…

• I wanted to understand why I am as I am.

• I wanted Adele to hold my hand.

• I wanted to do more cocaine.

• I wanted to make people laugh so they wouldn't see that I am nothing.

• I wanted not to have to do my ‘real job’ anymore.

When I was thirty-two…

• I didn't want to be a terrible father, despite doing everything I could to be a terrible father.

• I wanted to go out at 3pm and go home at 4am.

• I wanted Adele to love me.

• I wanted not to hate myself.

• I think I wanted to be a writer.

When I was forty…

• I wanted to save my brother, I needed to save my brother.

• I didn't want a dog.

• I wanted to lose myself in my words.

• I wanted it to be Saturday so I could drink and take drugs.

• I didn't know what it was I actually wanted.

When I was forty-one…

• I wanted to die.

• I wanted my dad not to have died.

• I wanted everyone to read my blog.

• I wanted my depression to be seen and understood.

• I wanted to carry on being a loser as that was easier.

When I was forty-five…

• I wanted my mother to be proud of me.

• I wanted to do more drugs.

• I wanted to split up with Adele.

• I wanted Adele to love me.

• I wanted my kids to be better than me.

When I was fifty…

• I wanted to be a better person.

• I wanted to write a book.

• I wanted to stop doing drugs.

• I wanted my brother not to have died before he was fifty.

• I wanted to spend more time with my dog.

When I was fifty-one…

• I wanted to understand that it never was all about me.

• I wanted not to know it was too little, too late.

• I wanted to be a better father, partner, brother, son, and friend.

• I desperately wanted to write.

• I wanted my mum to be free from pain.

Now I am fifty-three…

• I want to make amends.

• I want to publish my book.

• I want to know I will never do drugs again.

• I want to be the father I never was and expect nothing in return.

• I want to know who I am, diagnosis or not.

By the time I am fifty-five…

• I want to have started living, not just existing.

• I want Adele to be glad we are still together.

• I want my sisters to be healthy and happy.

• I want people to be proud of what I became in the end.

• I want my dog to still be with us.

By the time I am sixty-five...

• I want to have touched the world with my words.

• I want the human race to come together with a common cause, to save our beautiful planet.

• I want people to be valued for their kindness, not their bank balance.

• I want all of our children to know only love, peace, health and laughter.

• I want Stovies for tea. Or Fish and Chips ☺️.

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It’s easy to forget,

in these challenging times.

That a simple kindness,

can be a powerful force.

~

A small thing to do,

taking no time at all.

Lights up someone’s day,

changes their course.

~

We might never know it,

but a life has been saved.

Our gift of kindness,

creating a ripple effect.

~

Inspired by our deed,

that gratitude passed on.

A wave starts building,

where kindness is king.

~

All started by a person,

just doing their thing.

Changing the world,

one kindness at a time.

~

À l'étranger qui a partagé,

l'histoire de l'oiseau.

Pour la gentillesse que vous avez montrée,

ce poème est pour toi.

❤️

To the stranger who shared,

the story of the bird.

For the kindness you showed,

this poem is for you.

This Substack relies on the kindness strangers show me every day. Please consider a paid subscription if you are able. I have reduced the price to £3.50 per month.

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The World According To Arthur is an occasional glimpse into the world of One Dog and His Man, a novel about love, grief, mystery, sheepdogs, and the extraordinary humans they spend their lives with.

If Arthur has found his way into your heart, I’d love you to subscribe so you don’t miss the next instalment and remain updated on the date of his book release.

I think I am a very lucky sheepdog. My world is filled with love, and I’ve never really known anything else.

I know some people aren’t so fortunate. This makes me sad.

We dogs can easily pick up on a scent of love. It smells a bit like the first flushes of spring, with a hint of Cumberland sausage.

Due to being a dog, I make it my business to sniff everyone and everything that comes within range of my nose.

Although this is mainly to determine whether there might be a treat or five in the offing, I also notice when someone's love scent might be running low, or isn’t there at all.

When that happens, my canine instincts go into overdrive. We dogs were put on this earth for many things, but our number one responsibility is to love and be loved.

Hate breeds hate, love breeds love. It really should be as simple as that.

My love spreading technique involves wagging my tail and licking faces. Coincidentally, it’s the same technique I use when a treat or five is in the offing.

I know I’m not perfect. I find it hard to show love towards anyone who hurts Brian, or any of my other friends. I have never bitten anyone, but I’ve been close a few times.

It wasn’t that long ago that Brian was shot at on the farm. For a few moments I didn’t know if he’d been badly hurt, or worse. I did consider running after the gunmen; I had his scent, and biting him several times on his scoundrel-flavoured behind, but, in the end, my fleeting hatred was swallowed up by my love for Brian. I could run after the gunman, fuelled by hate. Or to Brian, fuelled by love.

In the end, there was no contest.

It's not just humans that need to be loved. Deep down, I know I should love Catricia. I am working on it, although she sometimes makes it difficult.

Just the other day, I found her asleep in the spot under the stairs I use for thinking and hiding from Brian, when I accidentally eat a whole packet of biscuits.

She well knows that I have a ‘no cats’ policy under the stairs, but, as usual, she had chosen to ignore me. When she first began squatting in the farmhouse, I’d have seen her off. This time I just left her to it. I didn't have the heart to wake her up.

Cats actually look very cute and peaceful when they're sleeping and not plotting to take over the world or, worse, eat my food.

Brian is a typical human when it comes to love. By this I mean he often makes a complete hash of it. His heart is as big as it is soft. I feel that in every moment. He can love me and be loved by me.

When it comes to other people, other women mainly, he is, and I'm putting this as kindly as possible, a complete shambles.

Lucy Harpington has been in love with Brian for a while now. I'm fairly sure he loves her as well, but he pretends not to.

I very much want them to get married, as it would mean Elliott, her son and my friend, would become my brother.

Occasionally, Brian does soften towards her. We’d been invited over for tea, and after a splendid homemade chicken curry, Elliott asked me to go upstairs with him and look at his train set. I wasn't overkeen on the idea, as Lucy had mentioned Apple Crumble and Custard for pudding, and I didn't want to miss out.

I did go,  but as soon as I got a whiff of the crumble, I hurtled back downstairs with Elliott close behind me.

Brian and Lucy were in the kitchen. We walked in on them kissing, like they do on television.

I was worried Elliott would think Brian was trying to eat his mother. Fortunately, that didn't seem to be the case, as he found the whole thing hilarious.

Brian was very embarrassed to be interrupted mid-smooch. His face went very red, and he mumbled something about us having “things to do on the farm” before making a hasty departure from Lucy’s house.

I followed, wondering what “things” needed doing. It turned out he meant we had to sit on the sofa and look at a photo of his late wife and my mother for an hour in complete silence.

This was fine by me. We both loved her very much, and we miss her always.

Life does go on, though. I know she would want him to be happy. He might not have accepted it yet, but the love scent is very strong when Brian and Lucy are together.

I hope they will find a way. I will help them find a way.

Until next time.

Arthur.

Please help me to promote Arthur by sharing this post. He appreciates it almost as much as he does a plate of sausages ☺️.

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Earlier installments of The World According To Arthur are available through the links below.

Arthur On Modern Technology

Arthur On Mental Health

Arthur On Yorkshire

Arthur On Grief

Arthur On The UK Heatwave

I have a number of stories that I could begin to serialise on here.

1. The Accidental Time Traveller

2. The Storyteller

3. The Secrets They Shared

4. The Waiting Room

5. Rocket Man

Some you may have seen before but, I'm going to post all of them over the next few days.

If you want to know what happens next, tell me in the comments. I know which one is my favourite, but I’d love to know yours ☺️.

Rocket Man...

With the final clunk of the hammer and tightening of the last bolt, he was finally there. Of course, it would need an actual flight, but all the indications were good. He’d successfully built a fully functional rocket.

Blast off was within reach.

Rick had always wanted to reach the stars. He was the kind of man who believed anything was possible.

The accident he’d suffered as a teenager, in which he’d lost the use of his legs, was simply a different kind of opportunity for him to realise.

If he couldn’t walk on Earth, he’d do so in space.

A space walk seemed a little more interesting to him than the process of putting one foot in front of the other and heading to the shop for a carton of milk.

Although I’m sure he’d have found that nice as well.

But beggars can’t be choosers.

Not that Rick is a beggar.

He is a rocket man.

Or at least he would be once he’d put the bins out, fed the dog and had his dinner.

That evening, his plan was to blast off for a quick trip. No further than a quick circle around the moon and then home in time for his nightly hot chocolate.

That was his plan.

Before we get to the nitty-gritty of what happened during Rick’s inaugural flight, it’s probably worth a quick explanation as to how he managed to turn his wheelchair into a rocket. The science bit, if you will.

He just did.

I hope that covers it.

There’s obviously more to it than that. I just don’t understand it, so if you’re interested, it’s probably better to ask Rick to explain it to you directly when we finally get home.

If we get home.

I’m his dog, by the way.

My name is Buddy.

The part where he was going to put the bins out, feed me and have his dinner went a bit wrong.

Rick didn’t have his dinner.

The bins remained where they were.

I missed out on my mid-week sausages.

And we both ended up in space without the means to get home.

And I missed out on my mid-week sausages.

#justsaying

If we ever do get home, we'll really have a great story to tell. Rick would tell you it’s just a matter of time. He remains the eternal optimist.

I’m far more of a realist; I know that it’s far from a given. It’s for that reason that I decided to write it all down. Maybe, if we don’t make it, someone, somewhere, sometime will find this and know we tried.

I do realise dogs are generally optimistic creatures, but I like to think my outlook balances Rick’s unshakable positivity.

It’s certainly got us out of a few scrapes on our journey together.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though.

I need to explain how I came to be on board with Rocket Man Rick at the time of blast off, and why we couldn’t come straight home, as per the original plan.

Do you know when somebody repeatedly tells you not to go near something, to touch something or to press something?

Well, that’s what happened.

I went near something, touched something, and pressed something.

Specifically, I jumped up on Rick’s knee. Just at the very moment he was sitting on the patio with the launch button in his hands.

Getting a feel for his post-bins, dinner-and-sausages adventure, but not ready for an actual launch.

My front left paw had other ideas. I’d meant to use it as a springboard, from knee to chin, as I bounded up to give him a congratulatory lick to mark his Rocket building success.

Instead, said paw made contact with the aforementioned launch button and as quick as you can say, “everyone makes mistakes”, we were hurtling upwards towards what was for us anyway the great unknown.

It’s a good job he was wearing his Space suit.

It’s a good thing I seem to be a dog who, as well as being able to write, can survive in Space without an unbecoming goldfish-bowl-type helmet on my head.

Our adventure had begun.

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I have a number of stories that I could begin to serialize on here.

1. The Accidental Time Traveller

2. The Storyteller

3. The Secrets They Shared

4. The Waiting Room

5. Rocket Man

Some you may have seen before but, I'm going to post all of them over the next few days.

If you want to know what happens next, tell me in the comments. I know which one is my favourite, but I’d love to know yours ☺️.

Yesterday I shared The Accidental Time Traveller (link below).

The Accidental Time Traveller

The Secrets They Shared…

Jack Davidson died at exactly three minutes after six on the evening of the 23rd June, 2022.

His last day was also his birthday, he was 28 years old.

How he died is very clear. Jack took his own life when he stepped from the platform in front of a train, as it passed though the station in what had been his home town.

Why he died is less understood.

It is known that Jack wasn't completely alone in the moments before his death, there were six others on the platform that evening with him.

The answer to the question of why Jack chose that day to die lies with one of them. The burden of carrying that secret will lay heavy and it will be many years before it is shared.

On the day it finally is, there will be another death from among this group.

That, though, is for later…

Jack

23rd June, 2022

Jack was up early on the day he died. This wasn’t particularly unusual, It had been his habit since childhood.

The fact that it was his birthday barely registered. He may have overlooked it completely if it weren’t for the carefully wrapped gift and unopened card left on his small kitchen table, the previous evening, by his girlfriend Emily.

As he went through his morning ritual of preparing fresh coffee and generously buttered toast the new additions to this daily scene seemed to adopt an almost lifelike presence.

It felt, to Jack, like they were demanding his attention. That they were somehow surprised that he hadn’t immediately stripped them of their outer layers and were now becoming more and more frustrated by his apparent apathy.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful to Emily for her efforts. He already knew that the gift would be thoughtful and that the card would be humorous on the outside, containing an understated message of affection on the inside.

They would represent the kind of gesture that part of him craved. He would see that he mattered to someone. Other feelings would undoubtedly arise however.

Jack knew that being confronted with the evidence of his value to another would be in direct contradiction to how much he valued himself. This kind of thing was a daily struggle for Jack. He didn’t want today to be like that, he knew who he was even if those closest to him did not.

Coffee drunk and toast attempted, Jack made his way through to his bedroom and readied himself to leave the flat. Tall, dark haired, medium build and with deep brown eyes, Jack would certainly be described as handsome.

Obviously somewhat aware of this, but never entirely comfortable with it, Jack consciously never dressed to impress.

The faded jeans he slipped on were at least five years old and the plain green T-shirt he selected was one of a 'three for two' bundle from one of the charity shops that had appeared on the high street in recent years.

Completing his outfit with a pair of brown training shoes Jack stood up, gave himself a cursory once over in the bedroom mirror, walked through to the small entrance hall, picked up his wallet, opened the front door and left the flat for the last time.

He didn’t lock the door behind him.

The present from Emily remained unopened.

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I have a number of stories that I could begin to serialize on here.

1. The Accidental Time Traveller

2. The Storyteller

3. The Secrets They Share

4. The Waiting Room

5. Rocket Man

Some you may have seen before but, I'm going to post all of them over the next few days.

If you want to know what happens next, tell me in the comments. I know which one is my favourite, but I’d love to know yours ☺️.

Some people are born to be time travellers, some have time travel thrust upon them.

Others, like me, thought that the Time Machine I’m currently writing my memoir from was actually a fried chicken shop on the high street of the town I used to live in.

An easy mistake to make, especially after a skinful of Scrumpy Jack at the Dog and Duck.

Basically, what happened, to cut a long story short, is that after a fairly standard Saturday night, I’d headed for a catch-up with the Colonel.

The itch I had for one of his bargain buckets desperately needed scratching; there was even a possibility I’d have added three hot wings for ninety-nine pence.

Unfortunately, due to a mix of inebriation and drunkenness, I overshot and missed the door to the Kentucky Fried Chicken. Instead, I entered what was, unbeknown to me then, a Time Machine that had carelessly been discarded at the entrance to an alleyway a few metres beyond the actual doorway I’d been aiming for.

So that’s how I became an accidental time traveller. Fairly standard stuff, as you can tell.

Or should I say, that’s how I thought I became an accidental time traveller. Don’t worry, I’ll come back to this later.

It’s also probably worth mentioning at this point that Elvis is in the corner of the Time Machine. He’s strumming his guitar and writing a song, something about shoes. Don’t worry, I’ll also come back to this later.

Of course, other perfectly plausible errors needed to be made before I actually fired up my Time Machine. Starting with pushing a load of buttons on a screen I’d mistaken for a self-ordering kiosk.

Again, strong cider was to blame for me not noticing that the buttons being pressed were not aligned to any type of chicken, with a secret recipe of herbs and spices, that are most definitely “finger licking good”.

Finally, instead of quickly realising that I wasn’t where I thought I was, or doing what I thought I was doing, and leaving, I decided, instead, to have a quick snooze.

I’ve since learned that falling asleep in a Time Machine often leads to an adventure or two. In fact, I learned that a long time ago, but well, you get the drill.

In this case, I fell asleep in 2025 and woke up in 1977.

In the grounds of Graceland. Home of Elvis Presley.

But before I get to that, I should probably introduce myself. My name is Jake Lockwood and I am the accidental time traveller.

Or possibly ‘an accidental time traveller’. I’ve never met another one, but I guess it is possible other people may have stumbled into this lifestyle. I suspect it’s easily done, as I’m sure you agree.

Prior to this particular time hop, I’d been in the Yorkshire town of Skipton, in the north of god’s own country.

Without wanting to turn this bit into a profile for a dating website, I’ll finish by filling in a few blanks as to my general appearance.

I’m of medium height and weight; the beer gut has reduced of late. My hair is a mousy brown colour, much longer than it used to be, and I have dark green eyes.

I suppose I would be described as handsome, but generally not when I’m anywhere near Elvis.

Anyway, back to where my adventures really began. Or at least, the ones I remember.

For anybody that doesn’t know, Graceland is a mansion located in Memphis, Tennessee.

Elvis bought it in 1957, lived there until he faked his own death in 1977, and joined me on our journey, backwards and forwards, through time.

Of course, I didn’t realise exactly where I was when I made my first tentative steps outside the Time Machine. I certainly didn’t know that I was in a different year to the one I’d been in just a little while ago.

I did quite quickly establish that I wasn’t in Skipton and that there definitely wasn’t a Kentucky Fried Chicken next door. This was quite disappointing as I was still feeling peckish from back in 2025.

There was a smell of food though. It was coming from the big house, close to where the Time Machine was currently parked. I could smell fried onions, so, like any accidental time traveller worth their salt, I followed my nose.

The front door was slightly ajar. As is protocol in these kinds of situations.

I did knock first, but there was no answer. Hunger and the need for the toilet trumped decorum, so I edged my way inside.

Despite the masses of clues before my eyes, I still didn’t know I was in the home of the ‘King of Rock and Roll’. I certainly didn’t realise that I was there fifteen years before I thought I’d been born.

Still tracking the smell of those onions, I tiptoed down a narrow corridor, towards the right of a very grand, white staircase.

I hadn’t got very far when I heard a voice coming from a much larger entrance, closer to the foot of the stairs.

“Say Jake, is that you?”

The southern drawl was unmistakably Elvis, of course, but I didn’t immediately recognise the voice. I think I was in a little bit of shock; I also still needed to use the toilet.

I didn’t answer, instead choosing the age-old tactic of pretending not to be where someone had already heard that I was.

“Come through here, Jake, I’ve been waiting for you”.

“Can I use your toilet first? I’m busting”.

I was.

It’s funny how being desperate for a pee suspends a need to understand what the blinking heck is going on.

“Use the one in the basement”

“Where’s that?”

“Don’t you remember? There’s a john in the basement, go back through the jungle room and you’ll see a staircase there”.

“The jungle room?”

“Just look for a green carpet”.

Miraculously, or maybe not, I did actually manage to find it. So once I’d done my business I went back upstairs to the room the voice had been coming from.

Yes, I could have acted like a real man and run away, but I didn’t. I hadn’t forgotten the fried onions.

He was there, sitting on a comfortable chair, looking older than his years, but unmistakably Elvis Presley.

“How’s it going, Jake? Glad you made it back.”

I dropped into interrogation mode, probably from the shock.

“Are you Elvis? How do you know my name? Can I have one of those burgers?”

“Slow down, man, we’ve talked about this before. You still don’t know how to be cool. Wiggle your pelvis like I showed you before we met Abraham Lincoln, and it’ll mellow you out.”

“I doubt it. About five seconds ago, I was heading for a KFC in North Yorkshire. Now I’m standing in a room, who knows where, with Elvis Presley.”

“Jake, my old buddy, you’ve been here before.”

“When? Where? How?”

“Pelvis, Jake, pelvis. Get yourself a hamburger, take the load off, and I’ll fill in the blanks.”

I got two hamburgers. There were plenty more on the hot plate. Despite the unsettling turn of events, I hadn’t lost my appetite.

“So you really don’t remember?” said Elvis.

“I have no idea about anything,” I replied, whilst munching down my second hamburger.

“It happened as he said it would then, you would forget all that came before.”

“What came before?”

“We were here, together. At this time, in this place. You saved my life, Jake, I owe you everything.”

“I’ve never been here before. I think I’d remember meeting you. I’ve barely left Skipton, let alone been to wherever I am now. Apart from anything else, you died before I was born.”

“Yes, we did a great job making the world believe that. The truth is, Jake, I didn’t die then and I won’t die now. You weren’t born in Skipton, that’s just where you went after that incident at the O.K. Corral. You’ve been a time traveller forever for a very long time. I’ve been your partner since the last time you were here”.

“Where’s here?”

“Graceland, Jake, Graceland, Tennessee. It’s August 16th, 1977. The day I most definitely did not die. I’m also not the guy down the chip shop who swears he’s me”.

Is this all getting a bit confusing? Imagine how it feels to be me! The reality is I still don’t know who I really am, where I’m from, and how I first ended up in a Time Machine. I do know now, it certainly wasn’t next door to the KFC on Skipton High Street.

“So how did I get here now?”

“Keep up, Jake, on the Time Machine”.

“Why am I here?”

“Because we have to go back for Ellie”.

“Who’s Ellie?” I was becoming exasperated.

“She’s the love of your life, Jake, she’s your Priscilla”.

I have to say, I was quite pleased to learn I had ‘an Ellie’, even though I still couldn’t really believe anything I was seeing and hearing in those moments.

I did roll with it though, seemed the only thing I could do.

“So where is Ellie now?”

“Where we left her, the year 1940. She’s in Nazi Germany and she’s in big trouble”.

“What kind of trouble?”

I felt a pang of fear for someone I thought I didn’t know. Maybe there were things about this whole escapade that I didn’t yet understand.

Or, to put it another way. Definitely there were things about this whole escapade that I didn’t yet understand.

“She’s upset a senior Gestapo man. Rejected his advances. Ellie only has eyes for you, Jake, somewhere inside, I think you know that.”

All I did know was that we had to save Ellie, whoever she was. After all, she only has eyes for me.

“Why don’t I know who she is? Why don’t I remember any of this?”

“We made a deal, Jake, that was his price.”

“What deal?”

“There’s no time to explain that now, I’ll tell you on the way.”

With that, Elvis stood up, became fifteen years younger right before my eyes, picked up his guitar and walked out of the room.

I grabbed another hamburger, well two more. Practiced the pelvis thing in the mirror (I looked ridiculous) and then followed him.

In hindsight, as soon as we set foot back on the Time Machine, it should have been obvious I had been there many times before.

The lack of recognition I had for the old thing in Skipton had completely disappeared. I seemed to know my way around its inner workings instinctively. Elvis watched as I set things up for our next hop through time. He knew this was my domain; I think I was starting to know that as well.

Within a few minutes, we were on our way. Our mission to save Ellie had begun. Unfortunately, our journey there wouldn’t be in a straightforward one.

We would get there eventually, but the Time Machine had other ideas for us first.

Elvis and I left Graceland for the second time in 1977, heading for Berlin, 1940.

Our first stop, of many, on the way, ended up being November 22nd, 1963.

In Dallas, Texas.

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The darnedest thing just happened. It turns out I’m dead.

When I went to bed last night, I was very much alive, but this morning I’m very much not alive.

It’s funny how things turn out.

As I’m a newcomer to this being-dead lark, it did take me a while to realise I’d crept past my expiry date. I must have been staring at my own lifeless body for several minutes before the truth dawned on me.

Initially, I’d just been reflecting on how much I needed a haircut, which shows how slow I was on the uptake.

In death, as I had been in life, I know some would say.

I got there in the end, but when I did, my total lack of any experience in this area really kicked in.

If there is an instruction manual guiding what to do in the event of your own death, then I’ve certainly not had the pleasure.

I was rendered completely clueless.

In death, as I had been in life, I know some would say.

My first thought was whether the onus was on me to let someone know. It felt like information I should probably share, but I was at a loss for how to do it.

I know this generally isn’t thought to be the convention on the other side of death, also known as life, but it didn’t stop me from feeling like the keeper of some guilty secret.

The second death-related problem I needed a solution for was how to get down from the ceiling I was floating up against. Not that I’d ever given it a whole lot of thought, but I’d always assumed I’d just be able to zoom about once my spirit broke free of the dilapidated vessel that was my body.

Apparently not; I was more helium balloon than jet-pack joyride until I worked out the mechanics of my new mobility options.

After a few false starts, I did begin to get the hang of it. I was about to test whether I could travel through walls when I noticed the bedroom door handle begin to turn.

It was my wife; she was about to discover my lifeless body. I prepared myself for the impact of a dreadful shock, followed by an outpouring of emotion, but neither came. Instead, she made her way slowly into the room, approached the bed, glanced at my ‘deadness’ for a few seconds, then simply turned and left the room.

I guess we all react differently in times of trouble.

Especially when your partner for life has died suddenly.

It was a bit weird though.

Maybe not.

Examining my dead self wasn’t how I’d expected to spend the morning, but that’s exactly what I did next.

The first thing I noticed was that I didn’t look especially peaceful; instead, I looked a little annoyed.

It occurred to me that this was probably how I appeared when I’d come home to find the television remote lost for the one millionth time and my tea “not quite ready”.

I can see why this particular expression irritated the wife; I wasn’t over the moon looking at it myself. It made me appear somewhat pompous, with a side order of oafishness. Not a good look, especially not when it’s the look that accompanied my dying breath.

I wonder if I was dreaming about a lost television remote control in my final moments. Quite possibly, but I can’t remember now.

Obviously, I took a quick peek at my genitalia and wished them a heartfelt goodbye; we’d been through a lot together after all, and I would miss them greatly.

I’ll miss the rest of my body as well, but maybe not quite so much.

I don’t include my right ankle in that, though. Never liked it, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise, just because it’s a part of my overall deadness.

As I carried out my final inspection, several questions bsomem.

1. Will I manage to watch television?

2. Can dead people eat pizza?

3. When dead people marry, do they vow ‘till life do us part’?

4. How will my wife cope without me?

5. What did I die of?

What did I die of? My examination had discounted a shark attack, but many other reasons remained on the table.

There’ll probably be an autopsy.

Get me, having an autopsy. Who’d have thought little old me would attract the attention of the medical profession by dying? They don’t slice just anyone up, you know.

Actually, I’ll definitely be having an autopsy, but more on that later. First things first.

Pizza.

Television.

Preferably both.

Walls, shmalls. I may not be able to pee standing up anymore, but I can certainly pass through walls. When one door closes, another one opens, I’ve heard it said. Doors are for shmucks, I’ve heard me say, several times today already.

Do you like me?

When I was alive, most people did. Especially those who only thought they knew me.

Floating down your own stairs is fun. So much fun, I floated back up them again. Then down them again.

I then passed through the living room wall where my wife and her sister were sitting watching television.

They weren’t eating pizza, but they were deep in conversation.

“I’m going to have to call someone soon; he’s been gone at least a couple of hours.”

“I can do that if you like? You’re in shock; nobody would think anything of it.”

“Thanks, that would probably be best. I don’t think I can speak to anyone at the moment. I’m sure they’d see right through me.”

“You’ve done the difficult part now. He’ll be in the ground in no time, and you can get on with your life.”

By now, I was beginning to think I died in suspicious circumstances.

“They’ll know I did it though. I don’t know how I ever thought I could get away with it.”

By now, I knew I’d died in suspicious circumstances.

“Nobody will suspect a thing. The poison you gave him just accelerated the heart attack he was bound to have eventually. He wasn’t exactly the most vigorous of men.”

Cheeky bleeder. I never liked my wife’s sister. She reminded me of my right ankle.

My wife had murdered me. Disappointing news that will take me an eternity to overcome. To be honest, I didn’t think she had it in her.

If I ever needed a double pepperoni with extra pineapple, this was it.

Then another voice, one I’d not heard before. Turning, I saw what can only be described as a ghostly aberration sitting at my kitchen table.

“I’m just checking the final balance now, sir. As soon as I’ve done that, we’ll be off.”

“Who are you?”

“Off where?”

“Final balance?”

Given my traumatic day, I think I can be excused a few questions.

He ignored me.

He did make some interesting noises though.

A sigh.

Another sigh.

A tut.

What sounded like a curse word.

What definitely was a curse word.

Eventually, he did speak. I wish he hadn’t.

“Well, sir, I’m afraid you’ve ended up with a significant debt on your account. It looks like you’re heading for the furnaces.”

“The furnaces. Are you saying I’m going to Hell?”

“Most definitely.”

This question he does answer. He’s heading for the same file as my right ankle and sister-in-law at this rate.

“But I’m the one who was murdered.”

“We see your wife’s actions as self-defence.”

Your physical and mental abuse of your wife over many years demands it.”

In that moment, I realised my reckoning had come. I always knew it would in the end.

Like so many, I’m not who I appear to be.

Too many.

There was no point arguing. He was right, of course. I loved my wife, but despite appearances, I’d always hated myself. From time to time, I took this out on her. I really don’t know why.

It makes little difference now. I accept that. I am sorry, though, and I understand why she did what she did.

I allowed myself to be led on my final journey. As we made our way, my companion tried some spirit-world small talk.

“It wasn’t all bad, you know. You had many good qualities as well.”

“Will any of them prevent me from being burned in the furnaces of Hell?”

“Definitely not.”

Probably for the best...

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Welcome to this week's edition of The World According To Arthur. These are short promotional posts for my upcoming debut novel, One Dog And His Man.

Please help me to introduce the world to Arthur by helping with the promotion wherever/however you can. It really does mean everything ❤️.

Links to is the other posts in the series are available at the bottom of this one ☺️.

Brian and I were in the village shop the other day buying essentials from Mrs Gregory.

A quarter of a midget gems for Brian, a sausage roll for me.

Actually, as it turned out, the sausage roll was supposed to be for us to share, but Brian failed to make that clear when he offered me ‘first bite’.

Anyway, before Brian's miscommunication, we’d been standing at the counter passing the time of day with Mrs Gregory when the door was flung open, and a hurricane swept in.

Of course, it wasn't an actual hurricane, but it was our former Lady Mayor, Patricia Metcalfe.

Anyone who has met her would agree that a period of extreme weather and Patricia Metcalfe are basically the same thing.

“Batten down the hatches”, joked Brian.

Mrs Gregory sniggered.

I wagged my tail.

Patricia Metcalfe ignored the hilarity.

“Look at this”, she said, holding her phone up for us to see.

“Yes, it's a phone”, replied Brian. “They've been around for a while”.

Brian was a big fan of teasing our former Lady Mayor. Years previously, he'd snogged her at the bus stop when they were at school together. She'd dumped him fairly soon after, so his light mocking always contained an element of revenge.

Not that she ever noticed.

Patricia Metcalfe rolled her eyes. “Not the phone, Brian. I'm trying to show you this translation app I've downloaded. It really is amazing”.

We've all known our former Lady Mayor long enough to know that, in circumstances such as these, there is no escape. There is only one possible course of action.

Feign interest and hope she gets bored quickly.

“You speak a foreign language into the phone. The app then detects what language it is and translates it into English”.

Without pausing to take the questions none of us had, she raised the phone to her mouth and slowly spoke some words of what sounded like French.

Or possibly Italian.

“Vorsprung durch Technik”.

The phone spoke back.

“Advancement through technology”.

“Very clever”, said Brian with more than a degree of sarcasm. “That’ll be reet useful in these parts”.

“That will be very useful in this location”, replied the phone.

It also translated Yorkshire into English.

My interest was now very real.

Now I love Brian more than absolutely anything, but sometimes he's slow on the uptake. Here was a wonderful opportunity. I could get the app. to translate Dog into English; this could be life-changing.

I scampered over to where Patricia was standing. It wasn't far, but given the excitement, a scamper was the only possible speed of travel.

As soon as I arrived at her feet, I wasted no time.

“Woof, Woof”

I waited for the phone to relay my “Hello Brian” message.

Nothing.

I tried again.

“Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof”

The fact that the phone didn't translate this to “Is that sausage roll for me?” did make me feel a bit better later, given what transpired, but in the moment, it was disappointing.

I think Brian quickly realised what I was trying to do and walked over to give my head a sympathetic pat.

“Modern technology isn't all it's cracked up to be, Arthur. We can understand each other perfectly without it.

He was right, of course. It might not sound like it to others, but I spoke Brian.

And Brian spoke me.

We didn't always speak using actual words, but they are rarely needed anyway.

Although a few minutes later,  I did mistakenly eat his share of the sausage roll, so it might not be the perfect system.

It is, however, good enough for me.

Until next time.

Arthur.

Please hit the share button if you enjoy reading Arthur’s words.

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Links to more The World According To Arthur.

Arthur On The UK Heatwave.

Arthur On Grief.

Arthur On Yorkshire.

Arthur On Mental Health.

Thanks as always ❤️.

Before Arthur became a sheepdog, he started off as a young boy in another novel I tried to write.

I do hope to finish it one day, although Arthur’s character will probably need a name change.

Anyway, given this one is unlikely to see the light of day for some time yet (if ever), I thought I’d share with you the opening pages. It's an unedited first draft, but I still hope you enjoy it ☺️.

p.s. Don't tell the other Arthur about this one.

Chapter One.

Another long night in a different place. Finding those words that gave life to an idea. Losing himself a little more with every story created.

Andrew was tired. He’d given nearly all of himself to his writing; every trip inside his own mind was becoming harder to return from. There was a real chance he’d be swallowed whole by his own imagination.

Despite his declining grip on reality, Andrew just couldn’t let his stories be. Even though he never let anyone read them.

His latest work, the one that had kept him up all night, was about a boy called Arthur, who solved crimes in his neighbourhood with the help of Buddy, his beagle puppy, and Holly, the girl he absolutely wasn’t in love with.

Andrew was satisfied with it, but not entirely happy. That was the root cause of his problems, trying to write the perfect story that, despite his best efforts, stayed tantalisingly beyond his reach.

The truth of it was that his stories were more than good enough. There would be an audience out there for them, if only he could believe in himself enough to let it in.

No milk in the fridge. Hardly a surprise, he hadn’t left the apartment in days. It’s possible he hadn’t eaten in a while either, but he really couldn’t say for sure.

His medication remained untouched on a small coffee table.

Again.

Chapter Two.

Pulling on his ancient Parker jacket and a pair of battered Adidas sneakers, Andrew left the bedsit he called home and made his way down the narrow staircase to a hallway that led to the front door of the building.

There was a large burn mark on the carpet; it had been there longer than Andrew had lived there. He had no idea how the carpet had come to be in that state. Andrew didn’t talk to anyone else in the building, so had nobody to ask.

It was the boy from the neighbourhood he saw first as he’d known he would. It always happened this way. They never stayed characters in his stories anymore. There was a time when they did, but that seemed a long time ago.

Andrew considered ignoring the boy. If he zipped his collar up and walked quickly, perhaps he wouldn’t be seen. He was kidding himself, of course. His characters always saw him, even when nobody else did.

“Andrew”

The voice he’d had in his head, as he brought the boy from the neighbourhood to life, was now calling to him from across the street.

He slowed; he could tell from the tone that something wasn’t right. Turning to look in the direction he knew the voice was coming from, Andrew saw Arthur coming towards him with some urgency; he looked worried.

“Someone has stolen Buddy.”

“Are you sure he hasn’t just run off?” Andrew replied, trying to sound like he was fully present, whatever that meant.

“No, he was tied up outside the shop. Buddy would never run off anyway. He’s my best friend.”

“Ok, don’t worry. We’ll find him. Where have you looked so far?”

“Everywhere between here and the shop; he’s disappeared. Something has happened to him, I know it has.”

The boy from the neighbourhood was becoming visibly upset now. Andrew was very fond of this particular character, even if he sometimes struggled to show it.

He always made sure things ‘turned out okay in the end’, in all his stories featuring Arthur.

Steely determination began to flow through him as he resolved to provide a happy ending to this unsettling state of affairs.

“Well, let’s go back to the shop and start there, like you say; he won’t have gone far away. He might even have gone back to look for you.”

“Okay, shall we call for Holly on the way? She will want to help.”

Andrew smiled and nodded.

“Great idea; the more help we have, the quicker we’ll find Buddy.”

He also knew Arthur would cheer up a bit if Holly joined them.

Even though he absolutely wasn’t in love with her.

The two of them walked steadily the short distance to Holly’s house. She was already waiting for them and knew all about Buddy’s disappearance.

Andrew didn’t bother to question how this was the case. He knew that this was just how things were.

Holly was all fiery red hair and a whirlwind of energy. Quick-witted and sharp of tongue. She reminded Andrew of his sister when she was Holly’s age, which of course she would, as that’s who he’d based her on.

“Have you done this?” said Holly, whilst fixing Andrew with her best teenage girl death stare.

“Of course I haven’t,” replied Andrew, “Why would I steal Buddy?”

“For one of your silly stories, of course. Creating a crime for us to solve like you usually do.”

“Have you?” said Arthur, looking less convinced than Holly but wanting her to know he was on her side.

“No, I haven’t done anything to Buddy. I’ve no idea where he is and I can’t get my head around why this would be. I always know where all of you are.”

“Let’s just go and find him,” cut in Holly.

Andrew could tell she hadn’t quite made her mind up to believe him yet, but this was her way of giving him the benefit of the doubt.

So two became three, and they headed off in the direction of the place Buddy was last seen.

Noreen’s Newsagents.

Andrew definitely was in love with Noreen. She was the woman of his dreams. Newspaper shop proprietor by day, femme fatale by night, and occasionally on Sunday afternoons.

As the heroin in his ‘Noreen: Femme Fatale’ series of short stories, he’d created her to be everything he wanted in a woman.

She was beautiful, intelligent, excellent at close-quarters combat, and a big fan of introverted writers. Especially those who gave her a place in his world.

The shop front was a blatant nod towards all the things Andrew had loved in his younger days.

Adverts for ice-pops, Monster Munch crisps, Lilt, The Beano, Roy of the Rovers, Curly Wurly, and Yorkshire Mixtures screamed better days to him.

As the three of them made their way through the entrance, a bell signalled their arrival and alerted Noreen to their presence in her shop.

She came through to her side of the counter from a little office at the back. She’d been in there planning that evening’s femme fatale activities.

Noreen was pleased to see some potential customers. Especially Andrew, whom she enjoyed teasing.

He was sweet on her, and she liked him too.

Quite a lot actually.

“Look what the cat’s dragged in,” she exclaimed with a wry smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It was Holly who answered.

Andrew had been trying to think of something cool and flirtatious to say, but as usual, he missed his moment. No doubt he’d think of the perfect response in a few hours, when he’d had more time to mull it over. This was one of several reasons he was still single.

Arthur was a bit scared of Noreen. She’d once told him off for bringing his dog into the shop, so he was happy to let others speak for him now.

“Someone has stolen Buddy,” began Holly. “He was tied up outside this shop, but now he’s gone.”

“Is this true?” Noreen replied, aiming her question in the direction of Arthur. “I didn’t notice him with you when you were in earlier.”

A quick nod of the head was all Arthur could muster. He was trying not to cry.

“Did you see anything? Maybe hear something?” said Andrew, eager to break his silence in the presence of Noreen.

“I just said, didn’t I? Didn’t see anything or hear anything.” She was lightly scolding Andrew, but only so she could watch his cheeks turn red.

“Was there anyone else in the shop when you were here?” Holly asked Arthur.

“I don’t think so,” he replied, looking at Noreen for confirmation.

“There wasn’t….” began Noreen, before checking herself.

“Well, not when you were in exactly, but someone had only just left. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he had something to do with this.”

“Who was it?” Holly and Arthur asked in unison.

Andrew said nothing; he realised he already knew.

“Kenneth Frequency,” said Noreen. “Another one of yours, Andrew.”

Although his name was inspired by an REM song, that’s where the comparison between that Kenneth and this Kenneth ended.

Andrew had created Kenneth Frequency to be his Moriarty. An evil genius whose sole purpose was to cause misery and suffering to as many people as possible.  His plans were generally thwarted by the equally adept, but in a good way, Rosie Red. Unfortunately, Andrew currently had her in the back of his mind as he was unsure what to do with her character next.

This had created a window of opportunity for Kenneth, and it looked like he’d jumped right through it.

“Where does Kenneth Frequency live?” Arthur demanded of Andrew. “I bet he’s keeping Buddy locked up in a cage there.”

“I’m going to give him what for,” added Holly, deploying her death stare again.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Andrew, trying to calm the younger ones down. “We don’t even know for sure that it was Kenneth Frequency who took Buddy.”

“Maybe not, but he’s as good a place as any to start,” chimed in Noreen. “He’s a nasty piece of work, is that Kenneth?”

“So where does he live?” repeated Arthur. He was determined not to let his emotions get the better of him in front of Holly, but he was really starting to worry now.

“He lives at the old schoolhouse,” said Noreen. We used to deliver his morning paper there, but he kept frightening the delivery boys and girls. He even shot one of them with a homemade gun that fired ball bearings. Fortunately, he didn’t cause any major injuries, but we stopped delivering there after that.

“Didn’t you phone the police?” asked Andrew.

“We don’t have any police in this neighbourhood, Andrew,” Noreen said with a slightly irritated look forming on her face. “You didn’t create any. Arthur, Holly, and Buddy are the only crime fighters around here.”

This was one of those moments where the confusion threatened to overwhelm Andrew.

Of course, he knew there were no police. It’s how he’d wanted it to be. These were his characters, in his stories, so that bit sort of made sense.

The question he was really struggling with, though, the elephant in the room, if you like, was a little more unsettling.

How did he end up in a newsagent’s shop with three people that he knew for a fact weren’t real, because they were figments of his own imagination?

There wasn’t really time for that now, though; he had to focus on the task in hand.

Finding Buddy.

Chapter Three.

Andrew had been making up stories for as long as he could remember.

When he was very young, he would do it as a way of pretending that things weren’t as they were. Later, he would do it to settle his little sister when she was frightened. To take them both away from this place.

He’d make up stories at school, trying to explain away the bruises, or how he’d lost the lunch money he’d never been given.

In the end, he made up a story to a nice lady on the end of the emergency telephone number. He repeated it to the police officers who came and took him away and many times after that.

Over the years, he heard that story so often, either in his head or when he was telling it to anyone who asked, that he almost convinced himself it was true.

It wasn’t, though; he just made everyone else believe it was.

Andrew was a storyteller. It was the only way he knew how to survive.

Chapter Four.

They needed a plan. Holly had been in favour of charging straight over to the old schoolhouse and ‘confronting’ Kenneth Frequency right on the end of his nose.

Arthur was in favour of Holly’s plan, but only because it was Holly’s plan.

Once again, Andrew tried to do some adulting and calm the crime-fighting duo down.

“Kenneth Frequency is a very dangerous man. You have to go carefully with people like that,”

If anyone should know that, it was Andrew.

“Well, what do you suggest then?” Holly said, rather crossly. She was an all-action kind of girl; she couldn’t do with ditherers.

Unless it was Arthur doing the dithering, it was cute when he did it.

Andrew looked at Arthur, who was looking at him through pleading eyes. He looked at Noreen, who just made him blush. He then looked back at Holly and began to speak.

“We’ll wait until after dark. I’ll go over then and have a look around. He doesn’t know what I look like, at least I don’t think he does.”

Kenneth was one of his creations. He knew what he looked like as he had brought him to life through words on a page. It wasn’t supposed to work the other way around, the character recognising the creator. That made no sense, but then, lots of things in this real or imagined world fell firmly into that category.

He’d just have to go with what felt right. Or at least, what didn’t feel hopelessly wrong.

“I’ll go with you,” said Noreen.

Well, that certainly felt right, thought Andrew.

“Me too,” Holly exclaimed excitedly.

Less so, thought Andrew.

“And me,” Arthur added nervously.

That was definitely in the “hopelessly wrong” bucket. Andrew wasn’t keen on the idea of putting any of them in danger, particularly not Arthur.

“Someone will need to stay here, in case Buddy comes back of his own accord. Arthur, that should probably be you. Buddy would want you to be here if he does return.”

“I suppose so,” muttered Arthur, disappointed but with a tinge of relief.

“And maybe you can stay with him, Holly? Keep Arthur company. Noreen and I won’t be long. It’ll probably be not much more than a reconnaissance mission tonight.”

“He means, we’ll just go have a quick snoop and be back before you know it,” added Noreen. “Reconnaissance mission, Andrew, what on earth are you blabbering on about, we’re not the CIA.”

“We know what Reconnaissance Mission means” Holly cut in. “Andrew sent me and Arthur on one in The Curse Of The Missing Trousers”

“Arthur and I” Andrew corrected Holly, he just couldn’t help himself.

He received yet another death stare for his trouble. Probably fair enough.

They did all seem to have settled on his plan though. Holly wasn’t exactly jumping for joy but he knew she’d be okay staying with Arthur. She liked looking after him, she liked being with him.

Plus Noreen said they could help themselves to sweets.

To be continued…. 🤔

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This article is my submission to the excellent Stories From The Jukebox newsletter. Please see a link below.

The song title this week is For What It’s Worth by Buffalo Springfield.

For What It's Worth…

In October 2017, after many years of dancing in the dark, I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression.

A formal acknowledgement of what I’d known for a long time: I suffer from depression. The Big D and me, rocking along, singing our miserable song.

Do you see what I did there?

I jumped on the depression bandwagon and the two of us set off into the sunset to begin our journey of medication, therapy and all sorts of other crazy nonsense.

We’d probably have left anxiety on the side of the road if he hadn’t stowed away somewhere in mental illness economy class.

He was happy to let D and me ride business. It’s often been like that on the journey the three of us have been on.

I wrote a post once called, ‘Anxiety, Depression and Me’. If I’m honest, although a lot of the issues I referenced were, at least in part, anxiety-related, I was only really writing about D. No wonder anxiety is rabbit punching away at me now; I obviously annoyed him back then. He will not be ignored anymore.

Depression has the profile, the charisma and the scary consequences, so it’s the one I fought hardest, the one I wrote about over and over and over and over again. It’s the one I now work hard to control every day (most days, some days...) so it doesn’t control me.

Of course the reality, as it is for many people, is that depression and anxiety are like Laurel and Hardy, Dempsey and Makepeace or Plug and Hole. They come as a pair; they fuel each other, and they compete for your attention.

I’m sure for some people, for loads of people, they know their anxiety rules ok. For me, it’s only now that D is taking a break that I realise how much anxiety likes to sneak around in the background and fuck me right up whenever he gets the chance.

Of course I help him more than I should. Drinking too much gives him a platform to perform; so do excessive sneezing, not enough sneezing, and being around people. Especially people who are sneezing.

Like D, I don’t think anxiety comes as a one-size-fits-all. For me, it comes as a foundation where I’m pretty much anxious at my very core most of the time. This is generally manageable, and I’ve developed cunning strategies, e.g., hiding away from the world, drinking, and sneezing.

At its worst, I struggle to breathe, my eyesight becomes blurry and general feelings of nervousness become those of fear and paranoia. I also grind my teeth until my jaw hurts and I get so tired it physically hurts.

It makes me a selfish waste of space, an irritable piece of work, and an irrational so-and-so.

I become unable to stop myself throwing hand grenades at my own life. To date, although some have fizzled, most of these have not fully exploded. It’s only a matter of time.

On the flip side, I think it’s also helped me be more empathetic towards others, increase my own self-awareness, and make me better looking.

The last one is obviously a joke, although I was proud to be the centrefold in a recent edition of ‘Basket Case Monthly ’, proving, beyond doubt, that beauty is in the eye of the deluded.

Do you know that sometimes, even on the bad days, I still manage to get up, do stuff that people need me to achieve and fool the world!

I did that today. In your face, world!

Despite the flaws, some I can blame on illness, some I really can’t, I’m also pretty amazing. Obviously, I’m the only one who knows it, and I’ll never really be able to believe it because that’s how I’m wired. This makes me anxious.

Here are some other things that make me anxious (just so you know):

1. Making lists about things that make me anxious.

2. The run-up to working away from home.

3. The run-up to coming home again.

4. Run-ups.

5. The idea of ever having to get a proper job again (this is bordering on an irrational fear).

6. Crowds, i.e. more than one person (inclusive of myself).

7. Not being enough for you.

8. Not being enough for me.

9. The inevitability of it all.

10. Posting on Substack.

11. Not posting on Substack.

12. Moustaches.

13. My real job.

14. Turnips.

15. That you got bored before making it this far down my list.

Weirdly, the song ‘Anxious’, by the Housemartins, actually calms me down, although thoughts about what happened to their original drummer can have the opposite effect if I’m not very careful.

If you’re an anxiety sufferer, then I know that whatever you achieved today, big or small, it probably wasn’t easy. In fact, it was probably extremely difficult. This post is for you because you definitely are amazing. Don’t let anyone, including yourself, tell you anything different ❤️.

I really hope you consider sharing this. There are many more of us out there than sometimes we realise.

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This is the fourth installment in the World According To Arthur series. In this one he shares his thoughts on mental health.

These are promotional posts for my upcoming novel; One Dog And His Man. I hope you will buy it when it becomes available.

Sometimes, even when I am right by Brian’s side, I can tell he's somewhere else. Or at least part of him is.

When this happens, I wish, more than anything, that I could go there too. Wherever Brian is, that's where I need to be, even if that is in more than one place at the same time.

These ‘episodes’ as my grandmother, Elizabeth Hirst, calls them, can occur at any time.

Sometimes they can last for what seems like an eternity, but in reality might be only a few days. On other occasions, they only last a moment or two.

He’s here, then he's not, then he's here again.

Think sticks when Brian throws them in the reservoir for me to save. It's probably not exactly like that, but, hopefully, you know what I mean.

It happened just this morning. We were outside playing frisbee. Catricia was watching from the barn roof, trying to pretend she was not completely baffled by the noble art of the frisbee.

I was winning, obviously.

Brian had just launched the frisbee long and high.  My most challenging catch yet. I had to judge the height, distance, and speed to perfection.

This would have been a frisbee too far for most dogs, but not me. I plucked it out of the air with the grace and athleticism I've become famous for on the sheepdog trial circuit, then sprinted back towards Brian so he could ready himself for the next throw.

He was standing there.

But he wasn't there.

I dropped the frisbee and wagged my tail, but he didn't respond. He was staring into the distance, seeing whatever it is he sees when he leaves me to go wherever it is he goes.

There was nothing else for it but to lie down at his feet and wait. I would be there when he came back, as I always have been and always will be.

Fortunately, he wasn't gone too long this time. As always, it felt like forever, but it was only a few seconds.

He looked down at me, gave the top of my head a rub, then uttered some of the greatest words in the history of words;

“Come on, Arthur, it's time for lunch”.

Later, after we’d shared a pork pie and a packet of pickled onion-flavoured Monster Munch, we settled down to watch the news and have a quick nap.

A dog nap for me, a Brian nap for him.  The only real difference between these two types of nap is that Brian snores and I don't.

I don't.

Before we nodded off, Catricia came and jumped on Brian’s lap. She clearly wanted in at ‘afternoon nap club’.

When she first began squatting illegally at the farmhouse, it would have made me livid. Not now, though. I know how fond Brian is of Catricia.

I've learned not to absolutely loathe her as well. This is an inclusive farmhouse.

Brian has something called Depression. It's undiagnosed, as according to my grandmother anyway; “Men like Brian rarely speak up”.

I think she meant ‘handsome scruffs with a heart of gold ’, but I couldn't check, due to being a dog.

She also says that it's up to us to notice what's going on with Brian and be there for him when he needs us. This worried me, as I don't know how to get to that other place he goes. What if he needs me there? What if he calls my name and I can't hear him?

I must find a way; I will not fail Brian.

Ever.

Apparently we also have to look out for other people, as “there's a lot of this kind of thing going around, more than we sometimes realise”.

She went on to tell me that I shouldn't judge and that I should always be kind. I wagged my tail to show her that I understood my mission completely.

Since then I've noticed Mrs Gregory trying very hard not to look sad in front of Brian. She's had some difficult times lately, and I know the childhood she had a million years ago wasn't a happy one.

I know most people will say that former Detective Sgt. Anderson brought his troubles upon himself, but perhaps even he deserves a kindness or two.

He really doesn't look very well.

It’s early days, but I suspect there will be others. It's clear that I have much to do, but I'm not just a sheepdog, you know; I am a champion sheepdog.

If anyone can help people feel better, it's me.

Well, me and Dr Bradley anyway.

Brian has to be my priority, but I will do everything I can to be there for whoever needs me.

After we've had tea, that is.

I wonder what we’re having. I quite fancy toad in the hole.

Until next time.

Arthur.

Arthur invites you to read his other posts in this series. You can do so by clicking the links below 👇.

Arthur On Yorkshire

Arthur On Grief

Arthur On The UK Heatwave

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There are many English people who are simply fabulous, some of them I'm lucky enough to be connected with on here. However…

Some English have a strange affliction,

they are basically better than everyone else,

or at least they tell themselves they are.

~

Just this very morning I was in a shop,

a bald-headed chap with a bulldog tattoo,

was explaining our superiority to himself.

~

We built this country, he said with pride,

won two world wars and one world cup,

all before the morning edition of Jeremy Kyle.

~

I thought about asking what he actually did,

but there's really no point engaging like this,

his brain will for sure be less active than his fists.

~

So instead I went home and wrote a poem,

I find that this is the best way to deal with clowns,

the pen is after all mightier than the sword.

~

He wasn't completely wrong, of course,

we are world leaders in moaning about life,

and there are no equals at queuing to get in.

~

If I was brave enough to give him some advice,

I’d have told him he’s no better than anyone else,

and that he looks ridiculous in Union Jack shorts.

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I was feeling pretty good about myself as I was shown into the waiting room. I’d been one of life’s high achievers, so death just seemed like a new beginning to me. I was sure I could make a success of the afterlife in the same way I had in the land of the living.

The waiting room was empty as I entered. My escort bid me goodbye and closed the door quietly as she left.

Alone now, I reviewed my new surroundings. It was what looked like a perfectly square room. The entrance I’d come into, the waiting room, was opposite two other doors. To the left were three small windows, circular in shape and similar in size to a ship’s porthole.

Against the right-hand wall was a desk with two chairs on either side. Above it were several pictures on the wall, hung in three distinct rows. It was to this side of the waiting room that I found myself drawn towards.

Two of the pictures were easily recognisable: my vintage sports car and the London penthouse I’d lived in after my last marriage ended.

The third picture took a little longer to place. It showed a picture of a digital watch with a calculator on it. It was a gift my girlfriend bought for me at the time, as something of a joke, before my first job as a trainee stockbroker.

It had been years since I’d thought of her. She had been my first love. Thinking about it now, she might have been my only true love. I’m pretty sure she was the only one who loved me despite me.

On the desk below the pictures was an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a strip of passport-sized photographs. Four were of the two of us pulling funny faces for the camera. The last showed a couple locked in a passionate embrace.

There was a short note written on the back of the strip. It read: ‘You died yesterday, but do you remember the day you stopped living?’

Clearly, the waiting room was trying to send me a message. It wanted me to examine the life I’d had, try to get me to see where I’d made mistakes. Fair enough; if this was a test to get me through to a better place, then I knew how to play the game. I’d been doing it for years.

I’d always been an impatient man, eager to get to the next thing. Looking forward, not back, so it was a bit out of character that I hadn’t just walked across the room and tried the other two doors as soon as I came in.

Putting the photographs in my shirt pocket, I walked over to the doors and tried each in turn.

They were both locked. Next, I tried the door I came into the waiting room through at the other side of the room. That was now locked as well.

Moving over to the windows, I realised that I would need to stand on tiptoes to look through.

The middle one seemed as good a place as any to start, although I’d realise later that it wouldn’t have mattered which order I looked through them. It was the waiting room that was in charge of what I would see and when. Everything had been decided long ago.

A plane could be seen through the middle window. Flying high in the blue sky on a beautiful day. It was one of the planes used for promoting events and was pulling behind it a banner with the slogan: ‘What do you see? How do you feel?’ The word ‘feel’ was underlined.

The left-hand window showed a view along an ordinary residential street. After a few moments, I recognised it as being the view from the bedroom I’d shared with my brother while we were growing up.

Across the road was the house of my best childhood friend. At the bottom of the street was a patch of grass where we’d played ball games for hours until it was time for tea.

The three of us had been inseparable. Our friend would often sleep on a small camp bed in our room, particularly during school holidays. We’d stay up late laughing, telling ghost stories, and discussing our first forays into the magical and mysterious world of girls.

I felt nothing.

It was no surprise to see what was to be found through the final window. The waiting room was playing a very sure hand. It was the body of my brother hanging from a tree.

My memory of that day was a little blurred, but I was fairly sure it was the same scene as it was when I’d discovered him all those years before.

I felt anger, but just for a moment.

I felt nothing.

A little tired now, I crossed back to the other side of the waiting room and sat at one of the desk chairs.

This was proving to be a little more difficult than I expected. Was I expected to atone for the things I’d been shown? If the waiting room knew so much about me, it would understand that I hadn’t been at fault for these things. If anything, I’d been the victim.

As I was sitting, trying to work out my next move, I noticed the handle on the furthest of the two doors on the same wall begin to turn.

Momentarily frozen to my seat, all I could do was stare as the door slowly began to open. After what seemed an age, the figure of a man peered into the room and gave me a wry smile.

“Hello, son.”

That it was my father addressing me was hard to process. Not so much that it was one of my parents now standing in front of me. More that, as far as I knew, he was still alive, so how did he come to be here, with me, in the waiting room?

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Welcome to the third instalment of The World According To Arthur. This week he talks lovingly of Yorkshire, or God’s Own Country as it is often known.

This is a promotional post for my upcoming debut novel; One Dog And His Man.

Note: These words are original and do not appear in the book.

It has only recently become clear to me that the world isn't just made up of different parts of Yorkshire.

This does, at least, partially explain why the rest of the world appears to be making such a dreadful job of things.

Did you know that Yorkshire is, in fact, just one of the counties that make up the country called England? I’d been convinced it was the other way around.

Worse, it seems the village Brian and I live in is not even the capital. Apparently, a place called London has that particular honour. I've never been, but Brian says it's impossible to “get a decent pint” and that “the fish and chips are shit”.

Just to be clear, I'm quoting Brian when I use a swear word. I like to think my vocabulary is developed enough to use fewer unpleasant words.

Personally, I’d have described the fish and chips as “not fit for a cat”. Assuming, of course, they are as “shit” as Brian says. I’ve only ever had them from the village fish and chip shop, run by Sid Fishous (this may not be his real name). They are lovely from there, and Sid also does a first-class battered sausage.

Anyway, to add to the confusion, Yorkshire is also known as ‘God’s Own Country’.  It's at times like this that I wish I could talk. I have questions.

Is Yorkshire a Country or a County?

Depending on the answer, I would also want to know.

Who is going to tell God that they've got themselves a bit mixed up?

If God is right, who is going to tell London that they are no longer required as our capital?

What are we having for tea?

I do know that last question isn't particularly relevant to the topic, but I never don't want to know what we are having for tea so, if I could, I wouldn't waste the opportunity to ask.

Hopefully, the answer will be sausages.

Country or County, I do know that I live in the most beautiful place on earth. There is no place I’d rather be, and there are no people I’d rather share it with than those who've chosen to make Yorkshire their home.

Apart from possibly Patricia Metcalfe, but that's only because she keeps bossing me around.

You'd think she'd take a low profile after what happened to our former Lady Mayor. Not Patricia, though. Brian says she has a “hide as thick as a rhino”.

I’d love it if you ever got the chance to visit Yorkshire. Perhaps you could come and watch me in one of my sheepdog trial competitions. It would give me extra incentive to defeat that young pretender, Rasputin. He does need to be knocked down a peg or two.

Or three.

I know if you ever do visit, you will want to see Yorkshire’s most famous attractions (see photos). If you visit Brian and me on the farm, though, I’d show you the little things that make this place so special and introduce you to the people I'm happy to call my friends.

First, I'll show you my favourite spots on the farm. There's a very special tree, at the top of a hill. From there you can see all our land and the road that leads down to the village. I do like seeing new places, but this is my home.

My heart is here.

The ashes of Brian’s mother and father are scattered under the tree. I never met them, but I know I would have loved them unconditionally.

Later we’ll call in on my future brother, Elliott Harpington. At the time of writing, he's still my “future brother,” as Brian is completely oblivious to the fact that Lucy Harpington, Elliott’s mother, is in love with him.

He’ll probably want to show you his train set. Brian says we have to pretend to be interested. I do this by lying down on the beanbag he has in his bedroom and taking a nap.

Next we’ll visit Mrs Gregory in the Village Shop. She's not had the easiest of times lately, but she is always happy to see Brian and me. If we’re very lucky, she might even come and have a drink in the Cow and Anchor when the shop closes.

If it's quiz night, you could even join the team. Be our secret weapon. That will get right on Jim Gregory’s nerves, which is always fun. They also provide a magnificent free buffet, which is my personal highlight of what's always a lovely evening.

Make sure to brush up on your knowledge of Yorkshire cricket, just in case. Brian thinks he's an expert, as all men from these parts do, but I have my doubts.

I do love Brian, but it was a little embarrassing at last week's quiz when he didn't seem to fully understand what a googly is. Fortunately, Elizabeth Hirst ignored his blustering and just wrote down what turned out to be the correct answer. It's not what you might be thinking.

Well, what I was thinking anyway.

Until next time.

Arthur.

Yorkshire ❤️.

If you would like to read the previous two The World According To Arthur, you can do so by clicking the links below.

Arthur On Grief

Arthur On The UK Heatwave

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As England get ready to face Argentina in the World Cup Semi Final, I am reminded of a quote from the legendary Liverpool manager, Bill Shankly.

On the theme of life and death, I wonder if Bill ever played Monopoly 🤔

“Double six! I knew my guy had the wrist action needed to win this thing. In your face.”

“There’s a long way to go,” replied Iron.

Not yet steaming, but certainly annoyed.  If there was one thing guaranteed to ruin his day, it was his nemesis, Boot, getting a good start.

Iron could only watch as Boot raced off towards the Electric Company and an early lead.

Race Car buzzed up next to Iron and nudged her front end into his handle.

“Luckily, these players don’t give themselves an extra throw for a double; he’d be away and gone.”

Iron was momentarily lost for words. He loved Race Car more than Monopoly itself.

“Their ‘house rules’ mean they don’t need a double to start either, so here we go. I’m up next. C’mon, player, don’t be rubbish.”

Her player rolled a two and a one.

“A fucking three, the useless clown.”

With that, she was off. Iron loved her all the more for her potty mouth.

“Stand aside, clothes flattener; I’m next. This is my day; I can feel it in my hoofs.”

Rocking Horse always started with an air of overconfidence.

In reality, he hadn’t been the winning piece since Christmas 1987, and that was only because two of the players retired hurt when they came to blows over a family disagreement that had been getting steadily worse as the years rolled by.

Nobody seems even entirely sure what the argument was actually about. Other than it was something to do with brussel sprouts.

Rocking Horse was immediately the recipient of a four, thrown by his player. The income tax space, incurring an immediate penalty.

There are only three things certain in this world: death, taxes, and Rocking Horse finishing last at Monopoly.

At last it was Iron’s turn to make a move. A solid seven, and he was off. Or at least he would have been if one of the players hadn’t called a cigarette break before he’d been placed in his new space.

After the smoking intermission, the game actually progressed quite nicely for a while. Iron enjoyed some jail time with Racing Car, without either of them being in the slammer long enough to put them out of contention.

They were certainly friends, but he wanted more than that. She was way out of his league, though; he was only a domestic appliance after all.

There were the usual sniggers when someone landed on the Community Chest space. It seems the word ‘chest’ is hilarious. It really doesn’t take much for the tone to be lowered.

Cliff Richard provided the soundtrack to the game as usual. One of the players suggested they play some “Jive Bunny for a change”. He was rightly ignored.

About an hour in, it all went predictably astray when one of the players spilt a glass of wine on the board, almost drowning Rocking Horse in the process.

This soon descended into a game-derailing discussion about the best way to remove a red wine stain. It’s blotting with white wine or club soda, by the way. Not rubbing it with French mustard as one of the players suggested.

After a lengthy clean-up, yet another cigarette break and the opening of a giant box of chocolates, the game was back on.

Positions rotated regularly as Lady Luck, or unadulterated skill, as Boot liked to put it, did its thing. As the game built towards its crescendo, Boot looked to be heading towards victory when his player landed him gloriously on the ‘Go to Jail’ space.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer piece of footwear”, said Iron in the general direction of his player. This was theirs to win now.

It wasn’t done yet, though. Another obstacle soon arose for Iron when one of the players declared they were tired and didn’t want to play anymore.

Fortunately, House Rule No.6 was immediately enforced, which states:

‘No player can use tiredness as an excuse for not playing the game to a conclusion unless it’s grandma.’

It wasn’t Grandma, so on they went.

Iron would have won; everything was going in his favour.

Although I accept this is very hard to believe, there are some things in life more important than winning a game of Monopoly.

One of them is Iron’s eternal love for Racing Car.

You might not know this, but Irons have the ability to communicate telepathically with players. They don’t do it often, but on special occasions, they can bend them to their will.

Think of the influence the smell of freshly baked bread has over a potential house buyer. It’s nothing compared to the power Iron has to make a player turn victory into defeat.

So he did just that.

With Boot safely locked up and Rocking Horse on the verge of bankruptcy, it didn’t take long to surrender the lead to Racing Car surreptitiously.

When the moment finally came, the sheer joy on the face of Racing Car made Iron’s heart sing. She was happy; he was happy. Love is love.

Another bonus was that he’d beaten Boot into third place.

“Hard luck, old chap,” said Iron, not remotely magnanimously. “Same time next year?”

Boot didn’t reply. He was a notoriously bad loser, which made beating him all the better.

Rocking Horse was his usual last. On this occasion, he didn’t seem to mind. He was still slightly drunk from the earlier wine incident and declared himself.

“The moral victor”.

Later that night, when they were all packed back up in the box, Racing Car whispered to Iron.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes,” replied Iron.

“You let me win, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I didn’t. You won fair and square.”

“I know that’s not true; it’s very sweet of you, though. You really are very special to me; I hope you know that.”

Iron didn’t reply; he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

Racing Car had just made him the happiest Iron in the world.

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Here is my submission to the weekly writing prompt, provided by the excellent Stories From The Jukebox newsletter (link below):

Stories From The Jukebox

This week the song title was The World (Is Going Up In Flames) by Charles Bradley.

Warning: Contains subject matter that some readers may find distressing.

It had been another difficult day at School.

Some light bullying, nothing he hadn't experienced many times before. He’d struggled in class; he wasn't stupid, but his teacher often made him feel that way. It took him a while to process things; that was all. Time his teacher never let him have.

The icing on the cake was seeing a girl he liked walking hand in hand with the captain of the football team. He knew he had no chance with her; he'd never even spoken to her, but still, it hurt. Probably more than it should have.

As usual, the house was empty when he arrived home. His dad had walked out a few years back, and his mother worked long hours, just to keep their heads above water.

He lifted the plant pot on the windowsill to retrieve the back door key from its hiding place. That it wasn't there didn't come as a complete surprise. His mother was always in such a rush in the morning to make sure she didn't miss the bus to work that she sometimes forgot to lock up after herself.

Sure enough, the door was open when he tried it, so he was able to get inside easily. He made a mental note to remind his mother to be a bit more careful. Even as he did, he knew he’d never actually say that to her. She did her best; he knew that.

Afterwards, he would miss the silence of those many hours being home alone. It would be a long time before the noise of what he'd done would quieten.

He decided he was hungry. As a teenage boy, he was always hungry or horny. Often both at the same time.  Looking around the kitchen for something to eat wasn’t straightforward. The weekly food shop hadn’t yet been done, and even when it was, snacks and treats weren’t really within their budget.

In the end, he settled on a can of vegetable soup. The temperature outside wasn’t much above freezing, and he’d already felt the beginnings of the flu virus his mother had been ignoring for the past few days. The loaf of bread on the side wasn’t quite ready to be discarded, so soup and toast would do just fine.

As usual, the can opener decided not to play ball. He was left-handed, so ordinary things like tin openers and scissors were his natural enemies. Usually, he just accepted it for what it was, but today it irritated him more than it should have.

From nowhere, the tears came. This happened from time to time, but he never let anyone see him this way. His mother could tell that his unhappiness was overwhelming him, but he refused to talk about it when she asked.

Eventually, he managed to get the soup into the pan. He lit the gas stove and watched as the flame roared into life. Reaching for the pan, he was about to place it on top of the hob, but then, well, he just didn't.

He'd never be able to explain why he didn't, or why he chose instead to go and get his school books from the bag he’d discarded just inside the door and start feeding the pages, one by one, into the flame.

Many people would ask him why he started using the burning paper to create flames on other things in the kitchen. First, the curtains, then the upholstered table chairs, then whatever else would take light. He wouldn't be able to answer their questions either.

It didn't take long before the little fires he had started began to merge. He could have stopped them then, but he just stood mesmerised until they quickly got out of control. It was only when the heat from the flames became unbearable that he snapped back into life and managed to get out the back door before the fire and smoke consumed him.

He should have raised the alarm. Called the fire brigade, knocked on a neighbour's door, flagged down a passing motorist.

In the end, he did none of those things. He just ran and kept running until he could go no further.

Then he waited.

He was picked up sitting on the side of the road several hours later. They knew who he was and what he'd done, but they weren't angry.

A kind lady would come and speak to him later. She would explain that he hadn't been alone in the house after all. His mother hadn't gone to work that day; her illness had finally gotten the better of her, and she'd phoned in sick. She'd been upstairs in bed when the fire took hold. Despite the best efforts of the emergency services who attended the scene, she couldn't be saved.

Everyone was very sorry for his loss, but a full investigation would be necessary.

He would need to accept responsibility for what he had done.

But not today. Not on the day the world is going up in flames, his world.

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Timezones…

I need to do some research,

find out who invented these.

It was almost certainly a boffin,

who didn't have Substack friends.

~

How are supposed to survive,

when most of our readers are asleep.

No opportunity for us to thrive,

we’re in bed when our subscribers awake.

~

Clearly there needs to be a change,

put everyone in the same timezone.

We should all probably adopt Greenwich,

if it promises to stop being mean.

~

I know this might cause problems,

for certain places in the world.

But I'm sure this inconvenience is minor,

if it means I'm not on here alone 👍.

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This is what I used to have,

most days in the canteen,

at the hospital nearby,

waiting for visiting time to begin.

~

You had to get there early,

parking was a bit of a trial,

not the cheapest either,

it added up after a while.

~

The food was really nice,

but eaten in a bit of a daze,

so much uncertainty ahead,

how would he be today.

~

The walk to the ward was hard,

I know the damage it's caused,

my anxiety never stopped shouting,

the guilt wouldn't leave me alone.

~

Some days it was quite normal,

progress occasionally made,

but then two steps backwards,

seemed like his final days.

~

In the end he made it home,

but it was only another false dawn,

not long before I was there again,

this time to watch him die.

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This is the second of a series of promotional posts aimed at introducing readers to Arthur.

One Dog And His Man is a Comic Crime Novel, narrated by Arthur, a champion sheepdog and beloved companion of Brian. It will be out soon (hopefully).

Note: These words are original and don't appear in any of the books. They are my gift to you for supporting me always.

When things you love leave, it’s natural to feel a sense of grief. I know this because my grandmother, Elizabeth Hirst, told me when we were out on a walk together, and a view from the top of a hill made her cry.

At first I thought it was something I’d done. We’d recently finished a picnic, and I thought that perhaps she was upset with me for not sharing the ham sandwich she’d made for me.

I do like ham sandwiches, but not as much as I like my grandmother.

I attempted to make amends by giving her the stick I’d retrieved from a hedge, but, as it turned out, I wasn’t the cause of her tears.

“I used to walk up here with Rachel; we both loved this view”.

I sat silently while she spoke. Rachel was her daughter, Brian’s wife, and my mother. She died when I was a trainee sheepdog (puppy). Although I don’t remember her that clearly, I do know that I carry her loss.

We all deal with grief differently. For me, it’s like finding out that there are no sausages left.

Only worse.

Much worse.

It’s much harder for Brian and Elizabeth Hirst; I do know that.

Even when Brian looks happy, I can sense something isn’t quite right. His soul is a shade darker than it should be. I’d give anything to be able to bring her back for him. Sometimes it upsets me that I don’t know how.

I keep hoping we will watch a programme that teaches us how to bring back those we love. I haven’t seen anything like this yet, but I have learned what’s required to make a bird out of paper and double-sided sticky tape, and the secret to the perfect poached egg.

My grandmother carries her grief with incredible grace. She always puts Brian’s feelings above hers. I think she knows that her daughter would want her to look after Brian and me. She does this very well.

She looked down at me. I met her eyes and wagged my tail.

“I miss her so much, Arthur. Sometimes I feel like I’m getting over it, or at least learning to deal with it. Then something happens, and it brings it all back. A memory. A sound. Or a view like this. It hurts, but deep down I’m glad. I never want to get over it. That would make me feel that I’ve lost her all over again and I couldn’t deal with that”.

She crouched down. It took her a while as she’s not as young as she used to be. I licked her face clean of her tears. I know it sounds a bit strange, but I could feel my mother in them. I wanted to tell my grandmother this but I couldn’t due to being a dog.

“Anyway, I’m so lucky to have you and Brian in my life”. Let’s head on home now; it’s Steak and Ale pie for tea”.

This cheered me up enormously. Brian sometimes says that every cloud has a silver lining. In this case, our silver lining is a delicious homemade pie.

Hopefully with rhubarb crumble and custard for afters.

Until next time.

Arthur.

You can read the other instalment in this series by clicking the link below.

Arthur On The UK Heatwave

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