The Birthday Present

Then – suddenly – there it was!

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Is that all you can say?’ I was a bit put out, especially after all the trouble I’d gone to. Eye of newt is not that easy to come by, not around here.

‘We’ll I’d expected… well, something a bit more….’ She made one of those vague-shaped gestures that are not easy to interpret.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, you know…?’

‘What?’

‘Magic and all that?’

‘Yes…?’

‘I’d just… I suppose… expected something a bit more…?’

‘A bit more what?’

‘Well, magical… basically.’

‘Oh.’

‘Not that I’m complaining,’ she complained. ‘Another thing?’

‘Yes.’ I realised I was tapping my arm with my magic wand. I remembered what that had done to the handsome prince… well, toad now, of course, and stopped. ‘What other thing?’

‘It smells of pumpkin.’

‘Right. What do you expect it to smell of?’

‘Well… I dunno… leather, metal… that new car smell.’

‘It smells of pumpkin… because… well.’ I gestured in the air with the wand, making sure I’d turned it off first, of course.

She sighed. ‘Typical.’

‘What?’

‘I never asked to be the daughter of a wizard. Other dads on their daughter’s birthday…. Well, you know, they at least go out and buy something… not this.’ She pointed down at the car. Maybe bright pumpkin orange is not the right shade for a teenager’s first car, but I’ve seen worse.

‘I bought the pumpkin,’ I protested.

But by then it was already too late. She had already stormed off.

‘Don’t slam the…!’ I yelled as the door slammed.

‘Well, that went well,’ her mother said in her I told you so voice.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘At least I didn’t have to tell her about having to be home by midnight with it.’

Kids, eh?

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Smoke on the Breeze

Shirena was weary; she'd been up late the night before with the old woman, treating a sickly calf. Now she'd been out wandering the woods since it had been light enough, searching for the herbs to replace the ones they'd used treating the calf.

Shirena dropped her basket to the ground and slumped back against a tree trunk. No doubt, she thought, the calf will be snuggled up against its mother, while she was out here in the morning-cold woods.

It had taken Shirena hours longer than she'd hoped to find the plants the old woman needed. There were none in the usual place, so she'd had to go deeper into the woods, further than she'd ever been before.

Now, she wanted to rest for a while before going back to the village.

She awoke, she didn't know how long later, smelling smoke on the breeze. She wondered if any of the men had ventured into the woods to hunt or gather building wood.

Sighing, she got to her feet, picked up her basket and headed back to the path that led to the village.

There was smoke and... well, little else of the village left when she tuned the corner out of the woods. Shirena just stared, her basket dropped and forgotten.

She ran for the village, stumbling over something, which turned out to be old Toma, the oldest man in her village. She had treated his cut hand a few weeks ago, and now as she looked down, a silent scream caught in her throat. She could see he was beyond her healing ability, beyond the healing ability of even Beena the old woman.

Nothing remained, except smoke and bodies, the bodies of the men and of Beena too. Shirena half-smiled to see the old woman had died with her knife in her hand, its blade bloodied.

There were a few strange bodies too, wild-haired men, their hair as pale as that of hers and her fellow-villagers was dark, lying where their drying blood soaked into the ground.

Then a hand grabbed her by the hair and dragged her away, screaming past more of the strange pale-haired men, laughing gangs of them, all taking turns picking out which ones they wanted from the women of the village.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

More or Less

I don’t know.

There was a time back long ago when I thought I did know. I looked out on the world, out there, and I thought I understood it. I thought it made sense to me. I knew – at least, enough to get by – how the world worked. I understood, as much as anyone can, why people did what they did.

More or less… of course.

None of us really knows enough about the world, or about other people. But – somehow – we get by. That’s what I knew: enough to get by and that’s what I did – I just got by.

I had no great theory of the world, or the people in it. I just thought it more or less made sense, and the people – more or less – did sensible things. Although, any glance at the Evening News programme will bring some doubt about the latter.

Mostly though, even those people on the News in faraway places – more or less – lived lives like mine. They got up, went to work, looked after who they needed to look after and tried to do the right thing. Most of them did, anyway. They seemed just as bewildered to be on the News because of some catastrophe or cock-up as I would if I were in their place.

Then, though, she – Jeanette - came into my life. Then everything changed and things no longer made sense. I wasn’t even sure if those people I saw each day were human, not any more.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

One from Shelter 15

Everyone said those from shelter 15 were the best. I’d worked hard, got my promotions and saved every single penny from working as many extra shifts as I could. I knew I deserved the best, so only one from Shelter 15 would be good enough for me.

A lot of those on my shift, first when I was just another worker, and then as I rose up the supervisor ranks said I was a fool waiting so long. Others though, those who knew, said I was doing the right thing and one from Shelter 15 would be ideal for me.

Then I heard market day had been put back for a month. Even when I had the money and I could afford – finally – one from Shelter 15, it seemed the fates conspired against me.

I thought maybe those who prayed to the old gods were right and maybe I should learn how to pray too. But they didn’t seem to have better, or worse luck, than those of us who never prayed. Anyway, I’m not sure if their god would approve me praying for one from Shelter 15. From what I can see that god doesn’t approve of much and wouldn’t approve of anyone trying to buy some happiness.

Anyway, eventually the storms cleared and the word came down from the administrators that the Shelters had all agreed the next market day.

So, a week before the market day, I withdrew all my money from the bank, to smiles all around and people wishing me luck, I set off for the market green.

It took a few days for me to get there across the Nowheres.

It still amazed me to see all the stalls from all the shelters spread out across the valley under the bright purple sky.

Once in the market itself, I took a deep breath, took a tight grip on my money belt and strode straight over to Shelter 15’s stall.

‘Yes?’ the stallholder said, smiling because he knew why I was there.

‘I’d like to buy a wife please.’ I dropped my moneybag onto the table.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Entrance to the Lair

He prepared himself and took a firm grip on his lance, ignoring the smirk from the peasant. ‘Are you sure this is it?’

The peasant nodded. ‘In here… definitely.’

Sir Gawain studied the cave entrance. ‘It’s a bit small.’

‘Are you worried your lance is too big to fit in the hole?’ The peasant smiled helpfully.

The squire snorted and doubled over.

‘Squire!’

‘Sorry, sire… I… er… sneezed.’

‘You’ll do more than sneeze when you get in there.’ The peasant seemed to relish the prospect. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Aren’t you coming?’ Sir Gawain fiddled with his visor.

‘No… I’ve got…..’ The peasant looked around the mist-shrouded landscape, what they could see of it. ‘It’s harvest time.’

‘What, this time of year?’ Sir Gawain knew little of farming. In fact the only thing he knew about agriculture was not to fight a battle in a field recently vacated by livestock… it was a bugger to get those sort off stains off armour. The latter thought made him wonder just how fearsome a dragon could be. He didn’t want to be trapped in a suit of armour with those sorts of smells on the inside.

‘Shall we go, then Sire?’ The squire helpfully stepped to one side holding her flaming torch up just inside the cave entrance.

‘Peasant. I order you to go first!’

‘Fuck off… I’ve got a harv….’

Sir Gawain swapped the lance to his other hand and drew his sword.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ the peasant said, grabbed the flaming torch from the squire and stopped into the cave. ‘Come on then.’

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Land of Tears

It was not raining… for once. We came out into a dry morning. The clouds hung low in the sky, heavy and foreboding. But the rain had stopped.

Maybe we would manage to get back to our beds this time without getting soaked. Everything was wet; everything that wasn’t wet was damp. That which was no longer wet or damp had rotted away.

I smiled – for a moment – as I remembered Jed saying something about the rain in this country. Then I remembered Jed was no longer with us, and then I remembered how he’d died and I stopped smiling.

The woman saw my smile disappear and she ducked down under my arm. She gathered some wood and kindling out of the box we used to keep the wood dry. She was still struggling into her clothes – such that they were – as she hurried to light the fire.

For a moment, I wished I knew her language so I could ask her name. I’d heard her crying in the night, last night, as she lay with her back to me, her naked skin damp against mine. I’d thought about asking why she cried, then remembered she could not tell me even if she knew what I asked. Then I remembered about the cold, the constant rain and how Jed died. I knew I’d probably die the same way too before too long.

Then I’d wondered why I hadn’t asked myself why I wasn’t crying too.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

It was Nowhere

There was nothing there. At first it was just wasteland stretching as far as I could see. Stubby trees, brambles, weeds and grass, little more and all overgrown. There was something familiar about it though, even though I couldn’t place it. As I walked on, looking for anything that would tell me where I was, I realised it reminded me of the waste ground around where I’d grown up. Back then, there were many places where demolished houses and factories had been, with the site just left to grow wild. Great places if you were a kid back in those days when you were just let out in the morning to roam and explore.

This, though, looked bigger than those places, as though a whole area, the whole area, as far as I could see had gone wild. Then, looking around up on a small rise I had the feeling I was home.

There were none of the houses, shops, factories and all that. No roads, street lights and pavements. But looking around I realised that this was where I lived. There was something there, the place behind the buildings under the roads and pavements. It was where I lived, but everything human removed from it. 

Half-closing my eyes I could imagine all the human habitation given a place and a name. Eyes half-closed, I could see it all how it was only yesterday, back when everything was normal. Not like it was now, when I’d woken up and found myself here, either long before humans came to inhabit this place… or long after they’d all died and gone.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

No Stranger

We spent our last night together in that chamber above the main room of the inn. Downstairs we could hear all the others drinking, singing, carousing and having a good time. Up here, though, in a room lit only by a few small candles and the fire in the stone fireplace, we knew we only had these few hours together. Jenny knew that come the dawn I would be gone.

So we kissed and held each other. Neither of us wanted to say anything that would break the spell of our last hours. She held me close afterwards, lying on my chest, her hand wrapped around me and her leg thrown over mine, almost as though she was trying to hold me there. I could feel the flutter of her eyelashes against my chest as she tried to stay awake, even though both of us knew we needed the sleep; sleep that would not come for either of us.

But, eventually, in the end, we both must have fallen asleep at some point, because I did not see Jenny again for around 200 years.

I woke up again lost deep in some woods, not knowing where I was or when it was. Time had slipped by, that was all I knew. Eventually, using those tricks we all have to learn if we are to survive in this kind of life I managed to find some clothes I found I was back in the old country too, for once. But I still had no idea when it was. From the look of the clothes, I guessed sometime around the 17th century.

I walked out of the trees in the thick wood into a clearing. There was a merchant’s caravan there, stopped to camp for the night as the summer evening slowly turned into a warm summer night.

I walked up to the first camp fire. It had a pot of stew simmering over it and the smell of cooking meat and vegetables drifting towards me on the evening breeze.

‘Could you spare some food for a stranger,’ I asked the figure bent over the pot.

Jenny looked up at me and smiled. ‘You are no stranger,’ she said.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Not About Her

This is not about that day. It isn’t about her either. It has nothing to do with that morning when I woke up next to her and thought about all the days we’d spent together and all the nights.

These days I hardly ever think of the way I crept out of the bed while she still slept and gathered my belongings together in the curtained gloom of an early morning. This has nothing to do with how the seasons were changing and the summer was beginning its long slow fall into autumn. I can remember the way I shivered as I gathered my belongings from around her room, not trying to look at her as she slept.

I knew I had to go and I knew if I turned to watch her sleeping that, within moments, I would be undressing to get back in bed beside her again.

All through that morning as the dawn became the day, I did not think of her and how good it would to be back in the bed beside her. I did not want to take her in my arms as she surfaced out of sleep and….

I left the house and did not look back. I know better than to look back. I know better than to think about her and those days we had together. I do not think about those times, not ever.

Most of all, though, I never think about Natalie, nor how stupid I was for leaving her behind... and I never think of her name.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Looking for Her

She was small, dark-haired and her eyes were in constant movement, watching everything and everyone around us. Her skin was a dark-brown, like finely polished wood. Later, when she undressed for me, I saw she had no tan lines. She’d never hidden any part of her body from the sun.

She led me away from the crowd, out beyond the edges of the town, out past the fields and back towards the woods.

‘I don’t want to be in the town,’ she said. An explanation that hid more than it revealed. As we walked away, she kept glancing back over her shoulder, watching for something. It was not until we left the last of the buildings and fields behind, and were inside the wood, that she relaxed.

‘Is someone looking for you?’ I asked.

She just laughed and looked back over her shoulder once more. She turned to face me. ‘Everybody is looking for me. You were looking for me.’

‘I found you.’

‘Did you?’ She laughed again and led me to a place at the side of the road. There was a break in the undergrowth. I would not have given it a second glance if I’d been riding through the woods. Beyond the road, behind the undergrowth there was a hidden path.

She tuned a few strides along the path and I saw a knife glint in the sunlight that found its way through the high trees. ‘This path is a secret.’

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the knife. ‘I know about secrets,’ I said. ‘I have too many of my own.’

She stared at me for a while and then put away her knife. She stepped towards me. I could smell something earthy, something wild about her as strong as the smell of wood smoke in her tangled hair. She grinned at me. ‘Come on then. Come with me and tell me all you secrets and I will show you mine.’

So I did… and later she did too.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Swordsman

‘So,’ she said.

‘Hmm,’ he said.

‘Is that it?’

‘Er… it must be the weather. It has been a bit cold.’

‘What has that got to do with it?’

He looked down at his sword. ‘It is a well-known fact that metal shrinks in cold weather.’

‘Really?’

He didn’t like the way she was looking at him. He shifted his feet and put his sword away. ‘I’ll be getting a bigger one soon,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes?’ She leant back against the low stone wall behind her, half-sitting on it and raised her leg to push herself onto the top of the wall. She sat on the wall with one foot resting up on it, her hands over her knee and her chin resting on the backs of her hands. ‘Do you wish you had a bigger one?’

‘Well,’ he could feel the heat in his neck spreading upwards. She was not looking at the size of his scabbard. He stopped himself turning away from her, or clasping his hands over his groin. ‘I have no complaints.’

‘But you do want a bigger one… need a bigger one?’

‘I….’ He looked around for some way out of this.

She laughed. ‘You’re new to the city aren’t you?’

‘Y… yes…. Is it that obvious?’

‘I’m afraid it is.’ She smiled, warmly this time and shifted her position, signalling for him to sit on the wall beside her.

He sat.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Just some village… days away.’

‘Oh, what was it called?’

‘What?’

‘Your village… what is its name?’

‘I don’t know… it was just home… the village. None of us ever thought of giving it a name.’ He sighed. ‘It was the only place I knew. I was happy there.’

‘So why did you leave?’

‘The foreigners… the invaders…. They came one day… and… well… the village is no longer there.’

She looked at him. ‘Come on,’ she said.

‘Where?’

‘I have a home… not much of one, but I’ll take you there.’

‘Why?’

She looked at him, head cocked to one side. ‘Let’s just say every sword needs a scabbard, shall we?’

Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

In the Rain

Moments came and went. They fell out of the ordinary time, falling like rain from a passing cloud. Sometimes it was unwelcome rain, like a cold winter day when the hard wind blew the icy rain into her face. Clara could only put her head down and plough on into it, hoping it would soon pass and she would be back in the warm again.

Other times, those moments fell like the rain after a long dry, hot spell and there was nothing sweeter than standing out in that moment and letting it all wash over her.

Clara was there, in such a dry place, a long hot dry spell in her life. She felt each day as an endless trudge through a desert of possibility. Everywhere she looked, the same featureless expanse of emptiness surrounded her. Every step Clara took, left her no closer to anything she could recognise as some way out of her current predicament.

Her job was dull and poorly paid. Her friends were all growing away from her, falling into new lives that left Clara behind. All doing things she could not do, going to places she could not afford, meeting people she did not want to like. She hadn't had much luck with men and couldn’t see that changing.

She needed some rain to pour down on her desert life and bring it into bloom, fill up her dry cracked river beds with fresh flowing water again. But all she could see was the same nothingness ahead as she’d already trudged through.

Then, one morning, a morning much like any other, she was stumbling to work down a dull quiet street when her foot struck something hard. She looked down and saw a book, kicked open, with its pages fluttering in the slight breeze. Bending down she looked at the book.

Looking closer, she saw her own name on a few of the pages fluttering past. She looked around, seeing no-one and picked up the book.

As she glanced at the pages, flicking through them, she noticed slowly at first drops of rain falling on the pages.

She looked up to see a solitary cloud in the blue sky, the first rain for weeks.

Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Seasons of Forever

It takes the time we share and twists it into something new. There was a time when this was a summer lasting for as long as we could see. It was a summer stretching beyond our beach to where the sea reaches out to meet the sky. We never thought our summer could ever feel these colder winds of autumn. We never thought the trees up on the climbing headland would ever fade from green to these browns, reds and golds of our darkening narrower days.

Now we turn away from that sea that stretched away before us. We turn back from this beach, towards the forests and fields that lie between our fading summer and the winter that waits for us deep inland. The time of coldness is coming and we can feel it in the winds that blow around us.

You turn away in the night, chasing your dreams across a bed suddenly grown big. A space I cannot reach across to close, even if I wanted to, even if I knew how.

Outside, the nights grow ever longer. The wind blows and the rain falls like those tears you cry whenever you think I cannot see or know.

Our summer has been too long though. I know the sound of your tears and I know nothing remains here for either of us. Except the slow journey from this summer we thought would never end back inland to our endless winter.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Writer's Block

I turned.

Then I wished I hadn't.

There was a man, standing there in the doorway behind me. He had a gun in his hand.

I raised my hands.

'What are you doing?' he said.

'You've got a gun.'

'And?' He looked down at the pistol in his hand. It was a big one. The sort that Clint Eastwood would point at a street punk.

'And you are pointing it at me.'

'Oh, sorry.' He lowered the gun, but remained standing in the doorway.

'But... well, what's going on?'

'You... you're writing that story.' He nodded towards the computer on the desk.

'Well... yes. But what's that got to do with you?' I remembered about the gun. 'If you don't mind me asking?'

'It's that Raymond Chandler thing.'

'What Raymond Chandler thing?'

'Don't you know?'

I shook my head.

'But you are the writer?' He spoke as though it was something every writer should know. But, if he was so bloody smart then he'd know that writers don't know much at all, about anything. That's why there is Google.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, that story....' He pointed with the gun towards the computer. 'You are having trouble with it, aren't you?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Well, Raymond Chandler said once: When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand.' He shrugged. 'So here I am.'

'Ah, right.'

'What?'

'I'm not entirely sure that is what he meant.'

'Oh.' The man slumped. 'Should I go then?'

'Yes. I think that would probably be for the best.'

'Oh, right.' He turned. 'Bye.'

'Bye.' I said. 'Oh... one thing...?'

He turned back eagerly. 'Yes?'

'How did you know I was having problems?'

'Oh, your muse told me.' He trudged off down the hallway. 'Bye, again.'

'Bye,' I called, but he'd already gone.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

When the Empress Danced

It is said, still after all these years, by those who knew her, that she was the most beautiful woman they'd ever met. Even allowing for the way time alters perceptions so we only remember the golden times, it is still something remarkable.

Of course, history has a way of choosing who it wants to remember and who it wants to forget. History has decided to keep Empress Shilah as one of its own, while her husband is left for the dust of time to cover over.

This suits me.

Even back then, I merged into the background, becoming the forgotten Emperor, while Shilah became the symbol and the beloved of the empire.

Of course, that was not the whole story. As my wise old teacher, the philosopher Hedden, said to me once, 'while everyone is watching the dancer, no-one sees what goes on in the shadows.'

I liked to live, and – yes – rule, in those shadows, letting Shilah dance for everyone. She liked the attention, she liked the gold, the rich fabrics, the obsequious attendants, servants and slaves. She loved the fawning ambassadors and the politicians all eager to lick the dust from her feet, if her whim so commanded it.

They all thought that winning her favour would aid them in whatever way they thought would further their desires. Little did they know that while they plotted and schemed behind their smiles, while they manoeuvred and plotted to gain her favour or merely lusted after her, I was there in the shadows behind them listening and learning.

Of course, the stories and tales tell of all her lovers and her desires. But Shilah was not like that. Like all beautiful women who spurn men's – and women's – advances the stories grew more lewd and lurid the more of them she turned down and turned away from. She always, every night, came to my bed to listen to the stories I told her of what I'd learnt from the shadows while the court danced its attention on her.

She had no other lovers.

Except for that lover that crept out of the darkness of the East, out of the shadows where even I feared to tread. The lover that came from the plague- scarred lands and stole her from me with his fatal kiss.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Here be Dragons… Possibly

‘We're here.’

‘What?’ Sir Gawain stared around the damp misty valley, then turned to his squire. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, look.’ His squire held up the sat-nav.

Sir Gawain clunked across to her. He was sure the constant drizzle was making his armour rusty, seizing it up slowly.

His squire showed him the sat-nav screen. ‘Here be Dragons!’ It said.

Sir Gawain turned to stare at the damp, empty valley again.

‘Hey, be careful with that lance!’ His squire yelled, stepping smartly out of the way and ducking.

‘Sorry, it's new,’ Gawain said absently.

Then, out of the mist something emerged.

Gawain peered into the mist, whatever the whatever it was was, was coming towards them. His hand fell to his sword pommel as he dropped his lance to the ground.

‘Hey, careful with that lance!’ the squire said. ‘I was up all night polishing that.’

Gawain turned, trying to glare at the squire through his visor. ‘So, that was what you were doing?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Oh, nothing… its just that… well, y’know…?’

‘What?’

‘Polishing your lance… y’know back at knight school… well, that was a bit of a euphemism….’

‘A what?’

‘Nothing…. Nothing at all.’ Gawain turned back to see the whatever it was was now standing in the road staring at them… possibly.

‘What manner of foul beast are you? I am Sir Gawain of the Knights of the Oblong Table and I command you to stand clear or taste the edge of my sword!’

‘What does it taste of, then?’ the whatever it was said, drawing back a hood made of the same collection of patched and ragged material that Gawain could now see gave the whatever it was its rather indefinable outline.

‘This sword of yours… taste nice does it?’ The whatever it was winked broadly. ‘Pork sword is it? Know what I mean, eh?’ It winked again.

‘I….’ Gawain peered through the mist. The whatever it was was a peasant, but it was hard to tell if it was male or female, or how old it was. Although, the dirt ingrained in the skin suggested he or she had not had a bath, or even stood out in the rain, for quite a long time. That was surprising in such a damp country as this.

‘Never mind all that,’ Sir Gawain said. ‘I’m looking for a dragon.’

‘Oooh, kinky,’ the peasant said. ‘Got a lance have you?’

‘Yes, I ha…. What do you mean by that?’

‘Disgusting, I call it,’ the peasant said. ‘You posh blokes coming up here to poke a nice harmless dragon with your lance… you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

‘A dragon… nice… harmless…!’ Sir Gawain spluttered.

‘Yes.’

‘But… it is a… dragon.’

‘So?’

‘But they are savage, fire-breathing monsters who kill….’

‘Well, I’d imagine that you’d get a bit pissed off if every time you settled down for a nap on a heap of gold some toff strode up to you and started prodding you with his lance.’ The peasant peered through the mist at Gawain. ‘Although, you’d probably like to be prodded by a lance, wouldn’t you? I’ve heard what goes on at those Knight Schools once the candles are blown out.’

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

A British Sporting Great

Well, these days the name of Binomial Herbidacious is little known outside the sport of running about for a bit for no real reason. But back in her heyday Herbidacious was a leading contender for Olympic gold in the British team at the Carlisle Olympics of 1876. A remarkable achievement, especially since the Olympic games would not begin for another twenty years. But one of Herbidacious's great strengths was her starting speed out of the blocks.

In fact, it was reading of Binomial Herbidacious's talents that got a young Albert Einstein interested in both the speed of light and the effects of gravity. Mainly as Herbidacious was competing well before the invention of the dedicated sports bra and was a lady of generous frontage. In fact, several competitors in races against her, complained that Herbidacious already had an advantage of a few yards before the race even began. Many said she could win a close race even with most of herself still behind her opponents.

Her talent was first noticed at school, even though during those strict Victorian days it was not regarded as proper for young ladies to exert themselves physically. Especially as most of them needed a long lie down after divesting themselves of their very restrictive Victorian corsets.

In her infant and junior school years, Herbidacious was unbeaten at the egg and spoon race. She won it every year on her school's annual sports days. But disaster struck when she moved up into secondary school and her physical development made it impossible for her to keep her egg in her spoon without her generous proportions knocking the egg from the spoon. Nor could Herbidacious herself even see if her egg had fallen from her spoon without the aid of a mirror.

Her heartbreak was short-lived however as her sports mistress took a keen interest in Herbidacious and her physical development. In fact, in her autobiography Herbidacious credited her sports mistress and Herbidacious's attempts to evade her attentions, especially in the showers, as a major factor in Herbidacious's remarkable powers of acceleration from a standing start.

Lately, there have been calls to make this great sportswoman of an earlier age into a figure of national pride and importance. So that is why the current government, ever eager to boost their populist credentials, have decided that a statue to this leading figure in the UK's sporting development should be erected.

They promise to commission a statue as soon as they can afford to pay for the sizeable amounts of bronze needed to full realise Herbidacious and her spectacular assets at anything near life size. So naturally the government is looking to the public to make generous donations to the statue fund. The government has pledged to match out of funds it has already appropriated from the public, thus making us all pay twice – and probably well over the odds as usual with any government project.

So please give generously to support this monument to this country's great sporting heritage.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]