Jessica drank a lot. However, if you were to ask why, she would correct you.

“No, I do not!” she would spit out at you if you dared to point out that drinking one or two bottles of wine a night was a lot. “If you look at all the literature and especially religious literature, it’s nearly on every single page. They drank, she drank, he drank, there it is, go look for it. So, all I’m doing is carrying on that tradition.”
“But Jessica,” I pleaded with her on our second date. I was trying desperately to go on another date with her, but when the waitress brought over the second bottle I found it quite difficult. Even the waitress had to bite her tongue when she came out with the second bottle of cabernet.

I will never forget the first time I met Cynthia. It was at the annual dinner dance held by the company I worked for. It was a way for those who owned the business to say that they did something nice at least once a year for the employees, while the employees on the other hand felt it was the only night of the year, where they could get plastered, eat too much, puke their guts up on the marble floors of a high class restaurant where the function was held, and never lose their job. Every other night of the year they had to behave themselves.

Janet is one of those women they write books about.

Growing up in a family of high achievers, she had no alternative but to become a high achiever herself. She really didn’t want to be one, but there was really no viable alternative. Her brothers left home when they were barely in their teens. John left home at 12 to find himself and hasn’t been heard from since. While Richard never did want to find himself, he was very confident as to who he was. But because John left at 12, he knew he had no alternative but to leave as soon as he was 13. The only problem was that he had no place to live and so ended up in the French Foreign Legion, where he did extremely well. Janet’s last brother, Gordon, when he turned 11 brought his family together one cold winter’s evening while a roaring fire was threatening to burn down the house and told his parents and Janet who was still living at home, that he wanted to be a fireman when he grew up.

Mildred Ulrich, Midget’s grandmother, was considered one of the wisest people to ever live. Not only did she knit body armour for her grandson when he became the executive chef of Viking Horde number 12, but she was also known for her prognostications. And thus she acquired the nick name the ‘Oracle of Lapland.’

Even before Midget joined the Viking horde on their very first mission to India, each chieftain of a horde sought an audience with her where they would pose basically the same questions.

“Oh Oracle of Lapland,” they would begin bowing low, throwing money into her tin, which was an old cigarette can that had washed up on the shore of Swedonia, before it was renamed Sweden because the Swedish kept forgetting the name of their country, while Mildred sat crossed legged outside her cave in the scared mountain of Or, depending upon the weather. They would continue with their request once she had counted the money and determined it was enough to pay her rent or groceries for the upcoming week. “Oh Oracle of Lapland. I and my horde will be sailing tomorrow at dawn for who knows where, and before we leave I need to know whether or not I’m going to come back alive and whether where I’m going is a fool’s errand.”

Midget Ulrich, all 6 feet 11 inches of him, a man of someone’s dreams though I have yet to meet someone who believes that, had numerous fetishes. This isn’t something that should come as a surprise to any reader or those who line up outside the kitchen tent for one of the meals he has cooked on one of the Viking hordes’ numerous battles. Needless to say, his fellow compatriots, the ones who take him along on their conquests, don’t care what idiosyncrasies he has, as long as he keeps turning out dishes like pelican stew on high holy days or sweet potato pancakes laced with maple syrup, which they had just been introduced to in Columbusland, or Caviar from Russia.

“Dammit! Where’s Misty?”

“No idea, your Excellency. The last time I saw him he was going to the bathroom behind that bush,” replied Rudy pointing to a bush in the distance that appeared to be on fire.

“I hope not,” said Moshe King of the Vikings, “because it’s on fire.”

“Oh no, your Excellency. It’s not on fire. It just appears to be because of the way the sun’s rays are dancing on it.”

Moshe looked at Rudy and shook his head. “I damn well know the difference between a burning bush and a bush that appears to be burning, and that bush over there is burning. So please don’t question me. Go over there and see if Misty is behind it.”

n every Viking horde there is always one person whose sole job it is to cook and wash up after every meal. The method employed in selecting the appropriate candidate is not only long and arduous, but also very specific. For instance, in the horde we are following, Midget Ulrich is the man tasked with planning and executing the meals.

Vikings, when they are at home in their forts only require to be fed twice a day. However, when they are on the war path which is most of the time, especially when they are low on funds and have bills to pay, they require to be fed 6 times a day. The worst week for them is the second week of every month when bills such as their mortgages on their huts come due, and the leader of the pack has on his castle. Some have found that the banks who hold their mortgage notes, don’t particularly like to be strung out and even though they charge a great deal of extra interest whenever they are late, they can be pretty vicious by foreclosing on their huts. Even the fiercest Viking is dead scared of their mortgage banker.

There was a noticeable gasp and everyone turned their attention towards me, as I sat in the back of a large ornate conference room of a law firm we had all been summoned to. I shrugged my shoulders feeling embarrassed. I didn’t know what was expected of me. Should I stand up and say hooray I won or just hope the floor would open and swallow me.

The attorney who had summoned us sat at the head of a long mahogany conference table facing my entire family. As there were only enough chairs to accommodate 99.999% of my family, and as I was deemed to be the least influential and most likely not to succeed in life, I was relegated to a broken chair brought into the room by a janitor who had showered or bathed sometime in the last century. I could tell because where he had grabbed the chair, there were distinct marks, brown marks left by his dirty hands. And I was supposed to sit on that.

I stood in front of the door. I read the sign above it for the third time. Sam’s Computer Repair Shop. It just didn’t look like any computer service store I’d ever been to. The plate glass windows on either side of the door were blacked out. I hesitated to open the door. I wasn’t afraid of what I might in there. It was just that I had a peculiar feeling. I couldn’t put it into words though. Maybe it was just that whenever I have wanted to get my computer fixed or updated or something I couldn’t handle technologically, I went to a place called Alphatech Computer Sales and Service, and guess what, it looked like a computer repair shop. This place didn’t. When I peered through the glass door it seemed dark inside and even though it’s located on a busy main street, it looked as if it should be in a back alley in a not so nice part of town. But this was where I was told to go by a friend who swore by the place.

Elizabeth May Hicks was born into a financially comfortable Jewish family in Cirencester, Gloucestershire, in England, 10 years after the beginning of the last century.

Her father made his money by buying and selling cloth throughout the country. He travelled a great deal leaving his wife, Janet, at home to take care of their four children, 3 boys and Elizabeth being the only girl. Needless to say, Elizabeth grew up as a tomboy, but that was until she met a boy much to her liking, but not to her parents because he wasn’t Jewish. It was when she bumped into Rupert at her school as a teenager that she began to wear her hair longer and to the amusement of her parents, discovered what it was to wear a dress.

And soon Virginia was fast asleep.

Bruce wasn’t quite sure what to do. On one hand he enjoyed Virginia laying on his chest fast asleep and yet on the other hand, he knew he couldn’t take her back. Her leaving and returning three times had taken a great toll on Bruce, not just mentally, but also physically. Each time she left he fell a little deeper into depression. His work suffered. The people in his business noticed the change in his mannerisms. He didn’t like the way he felt. He didn’t like the way he looked. That was being felt across his entire office. Bruce was known as a sharp dresser. He always wore the most expensive clothing. His ties were of the best fabrics and the knots were perfect, but now it seemed as if that pride had disappeared.

Bruce took a deep breath. He knew it was now or never. He had to begin the conversation which would eventually lead to a different outcome from the past. As difficult as it would be, and he knew that in his heart of hearts he didn’t really want to do it, but he knew he had to. Virginia’s hands were still resting on his. She apparently hadn’t either noticed the difference in or ignored the difference but in the past he would have pulled her closer or held her hands tighter, but he hadn’t this time.

He squeezed his eyes closed. Virginia was still looking at him sadly. He pulled his hands away from hers, though she kept hers exactly where they were. “You can stay here tonight, but unfortunately….

“I know,” she interrupted him sadly, “you don’t need to say anything more. I know I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

There was a knock on the door. Bruce, who had returned from work that evening later than usual, had finished dinner and then sat on the couch with his eyes closed, his head titled backwards as his mind wandered over the day’s events.

The weather was horrible. The heavens had opened. The skies were angry and dark. Streaks of lightening lit up the night as thunder rolled aimlessly around the sky. Bruce was thinking of what to do for the hour or so before he made his way upstairs to bed and say goodbye to a tough day at work.

He opened his eyes slowly when he heard the knock again, but then quickly closed them when he felt it was his mind playing tricks on him. Nobody would be out in such weather. He heard the knock again. This time it was short sharp rap and very distinct. After a second of thought, he jumped up and peered through one of the side panels of the front door. He could see in the outside lights a petite figure standing there drenched. He thought no more of it other than it must be a stranded motorist and opened the door. The least he could do was to offer them some shelter. It was Virginia!

‘A train passes here at 95 miles an hour at these times, whether you’re on the tracks or not.’ And then there was a list of times. Derek read the sign with some amusement and then as a secondary thought, checked his watch. It was 3.20pm. He looked up at the sign again and noticed that the closest time was 3.30pm.

I wonder if these times are accurate, he asked himself and then was startled by a voice from the car behind him. He turned.

“Dad, dad, aren’t you going to come back?” It was his 12-year-old son, Jeremey. He smiled and waved to his car which had not only his son in it, but his 10-year-old daughter, Agnes and his wife, Jennifer. He looked back at the sign and then returned to the car. He got into the driver’s seat, closed the door and looked at his wife. She wasn’t looking at him but instead into the distance, way beyond the railway crossing.

“It’s 3.20pm,” he began,

“3.21,” his wife corrected him.

Each day after he finishes school, Pradeep Saxena goes straight home where he gives his mother a quick kiss on her cheek, pats his dog Lucy and then runs upstairs to begin his homework.

His sister Rita, always complained to their mother that Pradeep never came to say hi to her. “Ma!” she would say, “it’s as if I don’t exist in this world.”

Pradeep’s mother would assure Rita that she did indeed exist, and that Pradeep was on a mission when he got home. To that point, their mother would take Rita by the hand and walk her reluctantly into Pradeep’s room, where they found him hard at work tackling a maths problem. She would clear her throat pretentiously, causing Pradeep to roll his eyes and turn to face them.

“Ma!” he would say, “I have to finish my work before I can leave to go down to the station and every second counts.”

Jeremy pushed open the door, the bell sounded. Two men sitting against the back wall both reading the same kind of magazines looked up, looked at each other and went back to their pastime. Jeremy felt uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure what to do next, so he remained standing there.

A couple of excruciating and painful minutes later, the slightly older one of the two men looked up but didn’t say word. Jeremy did. “I need a haircut please.” The two men looked at each shrugged their shoulders and went back to their magazines. Must be new editions, thought Jeremy, obviously more important than business. He remained standing waiting for one of them to reply.

Finally, the slightly younger of the two said, “did you read the sign on the glass?”

At the tender age of 11, Jaswant Singh should’ve been in school. Instead, he rose early each morning, before the others in his house and got ready for a day’s work.

He missed school. He loved being in the room with his new teacher Yashwant Rao who had returned from America where he had been a successful entrepreneur and had given up his entire life to return to India. Yashwant had received a great education at the leading boarding school in India, after which he had gained entry to the Indian Institute of Technology in Kanpur, where he excelled in electrical engineering. He went on to get his Masters at a premier institution in the US, before getting a high flying job at one of the largest high tech companies in Silicon Valley.

But there had always been something missing in Yaswant’s life. He wasn’t quite sure what it was. But it all came together when he returned to his village in the Punjab one very hot summer. He paid a visit to the school where he had first become interested in maths and physics. All the current students had been told that someone famous was going to visit them, so they had to make sure they looked their best, “for this most famous man who is going to come to talk to us,” Jaswant Singh told his mother and father. “Maybe I too can become famous like him.” He sincerely meant it.

“Ah, the Barcarole!” James smiled as he turned the corner onto New Bond Street and heard the music float in his direction. It had been quite a while since he last walked down that street. It reminded him that he had been away from London for about four months at Officer Candidate School in Aldershot. His smile grew wider as he approached the corner of Oxford Street where Douglas, the organ grinder, had stood guard for years in all kinds of weather. He got a glimpse of James and for a moment he didn’t recognise him in an officer’s uniform. The last time he had seen James, he was wearing what all poor university students wore, a shirt many too sizes big for him tucked into a pair of hand me down slacks and a large overcoat. But it was his smile. His unmistakable smile that gave him away.

Derek loved trains as a child. In fact, he had loved trains all of his life. As far back as he could remember he enjoyed watching trains, building toy trains, and playing with a train set when he was all of two years old, even though he didn’t understand what it was. He just enjoyed watching them go around and around on the tracks in his room.

When Derek was an infant, his father went out the day after he was born and bought a train set which he eagerly put together in Derek’s room. Many, quite rightly, felt that he had bought the train set for himself, so he could relive his childhood vicariously through his son. That probably was correct, but the end result was that Derek too loved trains.

I was 5 and my sister 4. The year was 1954 and my father had been posted to take command of the Third Battalion the Grenadiers. It was the second time he had taken charge of that battalion. The first was in 1947 just after partition in Bombay when he took over command from that last British colonel, Colonel Shebbear.