Mid Flight Blues

Travelling again! Flying to Kl for a wedding, an Indian at that. The flights only a tad less than three hours but boredom has set in one hour in. Eaten, the lights have been dimmed the plane 45 minutes late.  I find these days in this sort of aircraft I just want to get there. My wife has the right idea. She is asleep with her head leaning up against the bulk head. I find sleeping in a plane a pain in the neck literally. I can't get comfortable even though this time the seat next to us is empty. The light meal devoured in my usual last meal manner, even gives me indigestion. I am becoming an old crock, set in my way, legs in harding concrete boots. The flame of adventure is barely a flicker these days.  A comfortable hotel with good bed and air conditioning will suffice.  I study my wife's face looking angelic, had a very busy week with a conference and has died in her seat. Metaphorically of course, as if death was so peaceful looking. ( I know, I used to work in the dying business) 

The plane rocks a little to remind us we are still 30,000 feet up. 

I have noticed something a little different this flight - no screaming kids. What a joy to behold, a quiet aircraft. I like when I can organise a seat near the exit or bulkhead for extra leg room. The only disadvantage, you're on to it, crying babies. As they say beggars can't be choosers and they're right. It's swings and roundabouts really, you win some you lose some. ( I'm only writing like this because my wife is always asking me to recite idioms and I can never remember any at the time.) 

Looked out the window, sun about to disappear, lots of fluffy cotton balls as far as the eyes can see. Looks good enough to step out on, but I'm not going to this flight. 

Opps the silence has been broken by a rather large man snoring. Always a problem when you sleep with 140 others.

This little writing exercise is doing its job. Just wasted 20 minutes thinking about rubbish to write about. Talking about rubbish I am told by those close to me I use that term far too often. Everything I see or do is rubbish. I personally only use it if it is, well.... rubbish. I don't like the alternative, garbage because it's just too American. Give me good old English rubbish any day.

That was a load of rubbish, wasn't it. I can be more creative than that but unfortunately I don't have the ability to turn it on like a tap of water. It's more like the rain, it comes and goes. Here today, gone tomorrow. There I go again. 

The plane has decided to decelerate and drop its nose. Must be getting close to where ever I'm going. So there you have it 500 words of pure nonsense. Goodnight. ( 501) 

    

The Twin Otter and Me

Organising a trip at short notice can sometimes create unexpected outcomes. This week I found out I was travelling to Kota Kinabalu again, so as usual I book myself a flight online with MAS wings, the local subsidiary of Malaysian airlines.

Because it was so late, I found that the only available flight departed at 11.40 am from Sandakan and it was rather inexpensive. "Hmmm why so," I thought to myself. I noticed almost immediately the flight took over 2 hours.  Usually it varies between 45 and 50 minutes depending on the aircraft type.  Obviously a stop along the way, though it wasn't indicated on the booking page.  I was not in a hurry, the extra hours flight time didn't concern me,  so proceeded to book. Seat 4C came up upon completion. (I had not bothered to preselect my own seat.) I assumed I was on the aisle. 

Being the curious beast I am, I searched for the aircraft type expecting it to be the usual ATR 72 500, a twin turbo prop French/Italian built plane that carries 68 passengers.  I have flown on this aircraft numerous times and found it comfortable enough though a little noisy.

To my surprise, it wasn't. This flight was going via Kudat on the northern most point of Borneo in a much smaller, Twin Otter DHC-6  400 series.

Really flying I thought to myself.  These aircraft have a fixed undercarriage and are unpressurised.  Meaning to say they can't fly very high, so in theory lots more to see.  The downside, of course, is that they must fly through more weather.  They can fly around, not over the numerous thunderstorms in this region.  Since the plane can only accommodate 3 seats across, my 4C was in actual fact a window seat.  "Great!" I thought.  I used to fly small aircraft myself ( Cessna 172 and Grumman Cheetah ) in what seems another lifetime ago and consequently started to really look forward to this trip.

Twin Otter 400

Further investigation dampened my enthusiasm somewhat.

Mas Wings has had 4 accidents since 2008, all  involving the Twin Otter (previous series) with the last one at Kudat air-field killing 2 including the co- pilot.  It appeared from the reports I read all involved pilot error and occurred during landing.  My wife immediately told me not to go.  "Lightning couldn't possibly strike twice, could it?" flashed through my head.  Anyway, it guaranteed this flight wasn't going to be boring. And it wasn't.

The flight was scheduled to depart during the quiet part of the day.  Sandakan airport is no KLIA, so after the early morning flights, there is virtually no one around. 

I had checked in online but was concerned about whether I could take my backpack on board.  I went to the checking counter and to my surprise, they wanted to weigh me!   I had to stand up onto where they weigh the bags on the conveyor belt,  much to the amusement of a group of Australians and British. They too went through the process and started to chatter to each other, a little nervously after being told the plane was small and that weight was critical. 

Through customs and into departure hall, empty apart from the 19 passengers for flight MH3005. 

Time for departure arrived, on schedule and proceeded to march over the tarmac to the aircraft.  It looked very new which was comforting, the refurbishment programme between the 300 series and the newer 400 was obviously well underway.  Maybe because of the previous years' mishaps, they were running out of aircraft.  Anyway, any doubts about the viability of the aircraft were now dispelled in my mind. 

For those who haven't flown in smaller prop aircraft, there are a number of differences immediately apparent.  The Twin Otter carries its own set of stairs forming part of the fuselage which are lowered by two cables at the rear of the aircraft.  I painfully discovered the door well is not very high.  My head came in contact with the top of the door frame even though I'm not a tall man. The interior is less than 5 feet in height, so you have to bend down appreciably as you walk along the short aisle. 

Though I had a designated seat number I was told by one of the ground crew to sit anywhere I felt.  First come, first serve.  How refreshing!  No such luxury of air hotties on this flight.  As it turned out, I chose the same seat next to the window under the wing.  The seats themselves a very rudimentary, light frame with minimal padding.  Only just ok for a short flight with a bad back and arthritic knees.

The small interior brings you close to all the occupants, therefore the plane was full of banter, nervous  laughter and we quickly introduced each other. Most were holiday travellers with I think one local who was flying home. Almost all the occupants had never flown in such a small plane before and were looking forward to the adventure, some with more than a little 

apprehension on their faces.

 Cockpit door wide open to let in some air 

The first thing you notice when the engines are turned on is the level of interior sound. It's noisy, still possible to talk, but with my hearing, I find it difficult.  

The runway in Sandakan is over 2000 metres, so the 'Otter' had little difficulty in getting airborne in well less than half the length.  The throttle is above the pilots head like sea planes and for some reason required the use of both pilots' hands. There was no door separating the pilots from the passengers and I had an excellent view of the GPS map in the centre of the cockpit showing our route.

The sudden lifting into the air and the rapid rate of ascend surprise most on board. I think it was more perceived than real, being a small plane. 

It's worth noting that most people have never flown in small aircraft, so the sensation of flying is very different than in a larger heavier plane. Weather affects smaller aircraft a lot more.  They move around more in the air currents and tend to give the feeling of floating and drifting along. The best way I can describe it is that feeling you get on a large Ferris wheel just before and after reaching the highest point except you have to add the lateral movement.  It's all a bit dreamy, like floating on cloud, or after having a few vodka and tonics, if you enjoy that sort of thing. 

The flight turned left after a few minutes and travelled north west along the east coast. The weather was clear and because of the lower altitude, you could see a lot more detail.  To the east many small islands dotted the sea, some in Malaysia, those further out the Philippines.  Rivers large and small, fill the land like a meandering network of roads which of course they are to the local Sungai.  The banks are predominately mangrove until they give away to firmer ground inland, then the manmade transformation of the land becomes evident.  Oil Palm dominates all that is not mangrove nor mountain and what jungle left is mainly secondary growth from the logging days. 

Midway through the flight to Kudat, the passengers had relaxed and everyone on the plane was enjoying conversing to each other by yelling above the engine din. 

I found myself constantly looking at the pilots doing their thing.  The captain in particular was a little fidgety, unable to keep his hands of the throttle as if it wasn't set right. 

As we approached Kudat, everyone peered out looking for the runway.  It was spotted early but disregarded for being too short. It wasn't until final approach that it became obvious that we were going to land on what looked every bit a paved footpath.  I'm sure there're shorter runways in the world but from the air, this one looked woefully inadequate.  Images of the previous years' fatal accident did cross my mind, but after all this was a short takeoff and landing aircraft.  Two or three of the other passengers were not quite so reassured.  The descend was steep and because we couldn't see out the front at this stage, one of the women screamed out,  "We're going to land in the swamp," at the top of her voice. 

Needless to say, we didn't.  It wasn't a copybook landing though.  We did bounce and float down the runway a tad. The roar of the engines peaked as the props were put into negative pitch to pull us up. 

Smiles returned to all and 17 of the 19 passengers disembarked. 

Myself and one other were going onto KK. 

Me trying to look intelligent. Notice the stairs.

It wasn't long before we were left to our own devices.  The plane got very hot on the tarmac, so we jumped out and wandered around the aircraft taking photos of each other.  No one seem to care, in fact there was no one there to care except us.  Everyone else had disappeared into the green nondescript terminal building.

The Green House. Notice Air traffic Control Tower

This wouldn't happen in too many airports around the world.

Twenty minutes passed and the flight crew returned to the aircraft.

This runway is only 700 metres long less than a third of Sandakan's.

The aircraft taxied to the end of the runway, lined up and gunned the engines with the brakes on.  After what seemed an eternity they were released and we screamed down the tarmac and was airborne in no time.  The lack of passengers helped whereas a full plane must use every last inche.

The 40 minute flight flew south along Sabah's west coast. I couldn't help but feel a little privileged having the aircraft to myself bar one. 

The flight was enjoyable and I looked out the window for most of it.  This part of the west coast is much more built up with numerous small and medium towns to observe along the way.  We did encounter a few thunderstorm cells but easily flew around them.  The site of Kota Kinabalu's long runway was very reassuring. 

The total travel time was a touch over two hours. 

Would I do it again?  The short answer is yes if time is not an issue. 

I have flown a lot over the past decade and have to a certain extent become jaded with air travel.  The little Twin Otter brought back memories of the first time I flew all those years ago.  Not quite flying by the seat of your pants, but close.  

A Tale of Two Cities in Malaysia

Chance would have it I am spending a few days in Kota Kinabalu this week with my wive who, has some Dept of Education business to do in the Capital.  As I linger around the hotel, this has given me the opportunity to reflect on the stark differences between this place and the second largest city in Sabah and former capital where I live - Sandakan. 

Both cities started their life roughly the same time nearing the end of the 19th century.  Sandakan flourished quickly due to its deep harbour and access to natural resources such as rainforest hard wood. In fact it is said there were more millionaires at that time living in Sandakan than anywhere else in Asia and the wealth of the area meant it had a wire service to London and paved roads even before Hong Kong and Singapore.

Kota Kinabalu or Jesselton as it was known then, developed less spectacularly as a trading post in rubber, rattan, honey and wax. Both places were run by the British North Borneo Company in the colony known as North Borneo. World War 2 and the Japanese occupation saw both towns almost completely destroyed. By the war's end, the North Borneo company handed over the colony to the British who in turn moved the Capital to Jesselton.  Independence in the early 1960’s Jesselton got its new name and maintained its status as the state's capital.

From the lookout,  Kota Kinabalu

So what's changed in the last 60 years? In short, a lot.

Sabah is the poorest state of the 13 states of the Malaysian federation despite supplying 30% of Malaysian's palm oil and large reserves of hydrocarbons.  There are numerous reasons for this, which I won't go into here.

The rebuilding started soon after the war where the centre of both cities developed slowly replacing the mostly wooden structures that had been destroyed during the war into concrete shutter shops. 

A lot of Kota Kinabalu's commercial centre was built on reclaimed land from the sea  and being the capital of the New State of Sabah, it developed with better quality and more extensive infrastructure.  Most of Sabah's commerce is conducted here to the long term detriment of Sandakan.

Moving forward to the present. Kota Kinabalu is a vibrant and cosmopolitan city with a population around the half million mark. It is the only place you can arrive in the state from overseas therefore a bulk of the tourist trade stay in the local area. Mount Kinabalu is only a 2-hour drive and there are many beaches and islands with world class  facilities.

Sandakan, on the other hand, is much more limited.  They do have some islands off the coast but these generally have received mixed reviews due to management issues.  If tourists do venture to this part of the East coast, it's for the orang utan sanctuary in Sepilok, 30 kilometres west of Sandakan or the Kinabatangan River. There is accommodation in both these places, so many visitors never reach Sandakan proper.

Where Kota Kinabalu is vibrant Sandakan is not. The population is a little less than KK but the town lacks sophistication in its makeup and infrastructure.  The centre of KK has street appeal and variety whereas Sandakan is drab and predictable. Basic services, the Internet, electricity and water break down on a frequent basis.  A lot of this of course is to do with wealth. Sandakan is a poor place. A large proportion of the town's population are illegal immigrants.  Unofficial figures estimate the illegals as high as 600,000 within Sabah. The Philippines and Indonesia are very close and due to historical reasons the borders are extremely porous. These people have taken over the old centre of the city and the immediate surrounding area and consequently there is little desire for developers to spend their money, so the area is  in a gradual state of decay. ( in some cases not so gradual) Developers in general have concentrated their efforts in establishing new infrastructure projects in the outlying suburban areas. This gives the overall impression of a disjoined city looking for its lost past. Having said all this there are plans afoot to establish a new centre 3 kilometres along the coast in an area called Sim Sim, though this does not solve the issue with the old town centre.

Traffic is a problem in both cities, but the quality of roads are much higher in KK. The national highway between Sandakan and KK is a potholed mess, consequently a 300 kilometre journey takes up to 6 hours. 

In general, cleanliness is better in KK. Litter and garbage disposal is a problem in both, but Sandakan is a far dirtier place. The rat population is enormous due to inefficient collection of refuse and the dumping of cooking waste down the open drains that flow directly into the sea. This is not to say there are not people here that are concerned about the state of the environment and try hard to make an impact, but in generally they are overwhelmed by the enormity of the problem. KK does a far better job at maintaining the immediate environment though litter in the surrounding sea continues to be an issue.   

Having choices is what most people want. KK wins hands down in that criteria. The restaurants and cafes cater for a more diverse segment of society. If you look hard enough you can find food and beverages that will please most.   Sandakan at best has only a handful of places that would come close to catering for a discerning connoisseur. 

So, there you have it my impressions of the two. The crown for most liveable place is firmly on the head of KK city. Sandakan’s glory days of the early 20th century are well and truly gone, but who knows the Phoenix may in one day rise from the ashes again. 

Historical Sandakan before and after World War 2

The Self Conscious Selfie

Just finished reading an article hypothesising on the current social  phenomenon of the Selfie - 'Selfie Addiction' by Hilary Cadigan.

Apart from the word itself sounding painfully indulgent, the idea that there is more to it  than just people taking photos of themselves is very intriguing.

In a nutshell, the article examines an authoritarian society that sets limits of self-expression to a long-standing set of social norms.  Conformity is paramount to this social order where collectivism overrides all forms of individualism. Selfies are contra to this long established mantra.  It's viewed as self-promotion and deemed as inappropriate. Consequently, the powers to be have become exceedingly uncomfortable with this practise to the extent it has been publicly denounced.

Is it really this deep and meaningful?

To be honest, I hadn’t given it much thought beyond the obvious nauseous narcissist that can be often seen on Facebook and other similar social media. Do these people really desire excessive attention?  Are they afraid of becoming irrelevant if not constantly posting images of themselves in cyberspace to family and friends?

Perhaps it is much more mundane than this.  Maybe just a bit of harmless fun?

These are my thoughts for what it’s worth.

When I was at an age to be inclined to indulge in this sort of thing, the means to do so were not easily available.  You did occasionally try to point a camera at yourself, but getting it just right for a quality photograph was hit and miss.  The camera was generally heavy and at arms length you could not predict what was going to be in the frame with any certainty. There was no digital photography and film was expensive. The idea of “wasting a shot” generally meant you didn’t do it and besides, there was no instant gratification;  you had to wait to get the film developed.

Compare those times to now.  The dedicated camera has been replaced by the ubiquitous mobile phone.  Small and light to use, digital technology means you can take as many photos as you wish, to get that perfect shot.  You also see what you are  shooting due to the front facing camera and receive instant gratification to boot.

I'm part of this digital age and own an up-to-date mobile phone with all the bells and whistles, but I don’t take selfies. 
(Slight qualification - on rare occasions when forced to) 

Why?

I have no desire to admire my ageing face and am not the slightest bit in love with my self-image. This doesn’t mean I hate myself, mind you, but I know what I am and don’t need to be reassured each and every day how good I look for my age - polite lies at best.  Drawing attention to myself in this way is shallow and meaningless.  I would much prefer to be known for my conversational and writing skills - better or for worse.  Give me substance over form any day.

The selfie is predominately the domain of the young with plenty of free time to indulge. 

I’m sure in some instances it is a declaration of independence, but for the most part I feel its more to do with boredom,  herd/group mentality, convenience and of course a little self promotion thrown in.   

This is more like it!

Writer's Routine

The alarm announces the day with an irritating excuse for an uneven melody.  Perfect because it works.  Five a.m. and the long days journey into night begins.  No light yet, just the stirring sounds of workers reluctantly preparing for a repeat of yesterday. 

The dog lets out a barks of frustration as a lone male walks in front of the house.  The thought of breakfast breaks through the befuddled mind as it fights the urge to remain inactive. No bouncing out of bed to meet this new day.  Slow right sided roll to the edge of the bed, then an arm thrush to stagger into an upright position.  Unsteady gait, a balancing act on an imaginary tight rope, undignified thrusting of one then the other leg into the opening of a pair of shorts.  The engine needs time to warm up. 

The early morning pre-dawn air is thick with moisture as he walks up the stairs to the kitchen at the back of the house to prepare the breakfast.  Two bowls of cereal and three cups of coffee begins the ritual.  Pairs of eyes stare into miniature screens to peruse any information that has made a difference. The sounds of eating, ironing and bathroom duties reverberates throughout the house as time watching becomes increasing paramount.

Six a.m. is the deadline for departure, to be met by most members of the household except for me.  The first sliver of tropical light dances over the surface of the weatherboard houses.  Wave goodbye, watch the car disappear around the corner and like a recluse retreats to the sanctuary of electronic aids of information and creativity.  The door is firmly closed and locked to shut out the increasing active outside world. 

Time marches on, an active mind makes it fly along, an inattentive one grinds it to a halt.  Reflection and mulling leads to periods of both.  Hours can turn into minutes or minutes turn into hours; the dice of daily fate decides.  Thus is the meanderings of a reluctant scribe. 

Inspiration flows like a creek bed in a dry country; flood or drought with zilch in between.  The tap is either on or off.

Working feverishly on the keyboard, thoughts to bytes building upon themselves creating layers of stone to support the complexity of ideas that form the structure of a new story. 

Otherwise, lying on the bed watching the mosquitoes circling the room wondering which one will attack next.

Ten thirty and the next pattern begins. Showered and prepared to enter the outside world of predictable chaos.  The ebb and flow of unbridled emotions a constant in the background during the walk from one sanctum to another - the coffee shop.  Twenty minutes of automation, one foot in front of another, no thought involved, a well ingrained path in the memory of routine.

Sanctum Two, the weigh station, the second home of possible creativity.  Coffee and cake, the fuel needed to plough on through a very long day.

Fleeting moments of conversation coupled with reading and writing; the pattern never straying too far from the original. Struggling to avoid the pitfalls of staying relevant to the world of the reader, staring and thinking, examining every nook and cranny for inspiration. 

Twelve thirty, work completed, uncompleted or not started. The dice only knows;

automation takes over again.

Inner sanctum one has changed shape and form by the afternoon light.  Neither comforting nor reassuring, but a place that separates the outside world from the existential self.

Period of satisfaction or despair, the struggle continues on and off until five pm when the routine of others intervene.    The need for sustenance brings with it normality as daily events are discussed around the table.  Writer’s inspirational thoughts and ideas simmer in the background all but forgotten. 

Domestic duties prevail until seven thirty.  Propped up in bed, no television, nor radio for distractions, just the electronic companion which screen dimly lights the four nondescript walls. Ideas surface without warning; being prepared to grab and mould them when they do is the key. The search never stops, the peak is never conquered, good is never good enough. Productive or not, the end comes when the writer no longer needs this day but yearns for the next.

Noise Noise Go Away

As I enter my later years, the idea of spending it in peace and quiet appeals. I  have never been big on noise and at my age even minimal consequential sound rubs me up the wrong way.

Let me explain my predicament.

A chronological time line in a day in the life of a phonophobic. 

I live in a middling suburban area 4 miles from the town centre as the crow flies or in this part of the world, the egret. 

The houses are very close together and are generally made out of plywood or similar material. Being in the tropics and in a poorer part of town, ( no air conditioning ) the windows are always open to let whatever cooling breeze there is do its  job, so hearing the neighbours’ slightest movements or conversations even 2 or 3 houses down is common place.

The house I live in is half way down the street.  Most dwelling here have dogs.  Not the pet type per-say, but the so called guard dog variety.  The idea apparently is that the dog will warn the owner of an intruder and save the day.  Great in theory but… From 3 am onwards, 3 times a week the local garbage collection takes place.  This street is a dead end and the truck is reluctant to drive down it in a normal manner stopping at each house and emptying the refuse in the back.  Oh that would be too easy.  Two men are dropped off at the top of the street and walk down emptying the bins along the way and dragging the contents to a central location for collection.  This process takes about 5 or so minutes, a time when every dog in the street goes mad wanting to tear these men to shreds. 

 These dogs are never walked, never leave their yards, so have a lot of pent up territorial frustration.  Believe me, it’s like the Hounds of the Baskervilles. The funny thing is these dogs at times don’t react to more suspicious activities such as roaming packs of local youths walking by. Go figure.

To the left is a place where maybe a dozen plantation surveying workers reside.  Generally, they are fairly quiet apart from the period between 5.30 and 6 when they are getting ready to go to work and sit outside waiting for the companies vehicles to pick them up. On most days, a rather rotund man with outlandishly oversize shorts and workman’s singlet sits on the outside of the house adjacent to my dwelling, sawing and whittling away pieces of wood to make into surveying pegs.  This process starts at 6 am and finishes maybe midday when the sun has finally reached that side of the house.  Constant chopping and gnawing away on wood is the most irritating noise known to man; well at least this man.  These workers also have a tendency to shout at each other, even when they are standing 2 feet apart.  Either they are deaf or insensitive, or both. 

 Just as this is going on, my mother-in-law for reasons unknown to all but herself wants to sing renditions of P. Ramlee’s classics at the top of her voice.  Oh how I long for the morning chatter of the songbirds and the gentle mooing of the cows as they walk towards the milking shed.  Ahhh Bliss.

Turning to the other adjacent house, lives an old couple whom I would have expected to be longing for a quiet peaceful existence.  No such luck.  I might get myself into trouble saying this, but what the heck. The old man is deaf, so as most deaf people do, shouts at the top of his voice when he wants attention.  As luck has it, a mere dozen times a day.  The lady, I call her in my fits of annoyance a fish monger’s wife. My own wife gives me a dirty look when I state this bleeding obvious fact.  For I can’t imagine a better proponent of the art of shouting out “ Fish for sale tuppence a pound . Cum and get ya fresh snapper ‘ere. Cook the old man somefing fresh for din din’s.”  In the most high pitched irritating squark possible… Well - she would, if she could speak English, but you get the point. 

By early afternoon most days, the gas cylinder exchange truck barrels along the street honking its horn incessantly; nothing subtle about its message.  The double advantage of being on a dead end road - get to hear it twice in 30 seconds!

The area opposite the house is owned by the Girl Guides association even though I never see them there. The hall is rented out for various functions or activities, bamington in the evenings ( only hear the occasional grunt ) and mainly weddings that can occur any day but mostly on the weekend. If I am really lucky it’s twice a day, a constant ear splitting band belting out local favourites at 80 decibels, with a singer who thinks they can sing screaming, sorry - calm down now, blood pressure up -  I mean, hitting high notes, a little off key.

To top it all off as evening approaches the local discotheque, which is 300 metres away, revs up to terrorise the neighbourhood until 3 am. Pure bliss, sandwiched between a wall of noise. 

Not all is lost though. You know how I said I longed for the sounds of the country, the neighbours 2 doors down have procured a rooster. This kindly animal allows a brief respite from the disco music and doesn’t offer a cock a doodle doo until 4am.  I now have company in the mornings when the garbage truck doesn’t come.  

Now dear reading you might be thinking all this has everyone around here tearing their hair out in frustration, but I can assure you, no such thing.  It only bothers me. Yes, only little old me is going grey through the battle ground of the sound waves.

I have only one more thing to say before I sign off. 

Are there any decent ear plugs in Sandakan?

The Long Thin Line

A crack in the curtains allowed a sliver of light to penetrate the otherwise dark room. A pair of eyes followed the illumination to its final destination, a threadbare crumpled bedspread.  

Eugene could not gather his thoughts.  The scene was baffling to his ever increasingly befuddled mind. Nothing made sense anymore even the primitive emotions that swelled up from the deep recesses of his once productive brain.

Fear, frustration and anger surfaced now and again with no meaning or substance to connect too.  They were just there hanging like the Sword of Damocles over his increasingly lifeless soul.  The fine thread would soon break; whether he lived or died, it mattered not to him.  

A fly walking up the wall, an inexplicable mystery.  The dots didn't connect, the picture was incomplete.  

The door opened slowly, Rosemary’s head appeared along its edge. 

“Hello, my dear, I hope I’m not disturbing you.  I’ve brought you some of your favourite cup cakes, you know, the ones you love so much.”

Eugene’s expressionless face didn’t change.  It didn’t show any acknowledgement to the woman he had been married to for almost 50 years.The face and the voice meant nothing. He momentarily gazed into that face, but the flame of recognition did not flicker.  

Rosemary for her part found it difficult to let go of this man. She was determined to remain stoic and show her love until the bitter end.  What she could see still belonged to her. It was still her Eugene, the man she raised 3 beautiful children with. The man who supported her throughout life's roller coaster journey. 

Yes, it was still him even though deep down she knew his earthly connection with reality was now lost forever.  His body no longer held the memories, his heart grasped no secrets they had once shared.  She alone held the key now.  He could never again open that door.

Rosemary sat next to him on the bed and held his long bony hand in hers.  Stroking his fingers, she talked incessantly for the next half hour, not pausing for a reply that was never going to come.  It was as much to do with her own sanity as anything else.  He was lost, but she still lived in a world of  memories. 

“How cruel; what was the point of all this,” she thought. 

A tear rolled down her cheek as it had often done during the last few long years.  Wiping her face dry, she whispered into his ear.

“ See you next week my dear.  Same time, I’ll be here."

Eugene stared blankly at that thinning slither of sunlight progressing up the wall.

Bedtime Story For Leela

It was time for bed.  

Leela and Jack cuddled Mum and Dad, gave them a quick peck on the cheek and quickly scampered up the stairs and down the corridor to their bedroom.  

It had been such a long, long day and both were so tired they kept rubbing their eyes.  

Jack jumped onto his mattress and pulled back the sheets to get in. 

Leela, being the good sister she was, tucked Jack in and gave him a good night kiss on the forehead.  

"I love you Jack." she whispered into his ear, but he didn't hear her as he had already entered dream world.  

Leela smiled and climbed into her own bed. 

She lowered her head on the pillow, closed her eyes and tried to think of all the wonderful things she had done that day.....

A strange sensation of soft silky bristles brushing her face and a sharp persistent sniff woke Leela up from her deep, deep sleep. 

She opened her eyes ever so slightly, but couldn't make anything out clearly except for a browny grey blob next to her nose. 

"Whaaat!" she shrieked.  

The blob moved back into focus. 

Startled, Leela sat up quickly, "Who are you? A rabbit?"

"Excuse me Miss, do you mind, I'm not a common rabbit, let me introduce myself. 

Harry Hammerhead Hornbill Hop along Hare the Third at your service, you can call me Houdini for short, and to whom do I have the pleasure?" the big grey thing stuttered and muttered back.

"Harry Hammerhead Hornbill Hop - Along The Third at your service"

Leela turned her head sharply left and then right, looking around. 

Where had her cosy bed gone, and her and Jack's bedroom? 

How strange, in fact to her astonishment she was sitting on the ground in a soft bed made of multi coloured hundreds and thousands. 

In front of her was a large grey and brown rabbit, um I mean hare, wearing a yellow tweed jacket that was too tight, and a baggy loose fitting pair of pink stripped orange shorts that fell down below his bony knees. Finally to top it all off, the most disgusting tattered old black running shoes you have ever seen.

Oh, did I mention he was standing up on his hind legs looking rather menacing with his long pointy ears and scraggly white whiskers?

"Well Miss, what's your name, I can't stand here all day waiting. 

I'm a very important hare you know, very busy, mustn't dilly dally, wasting time with drop in visitors wasting my time to dilly dally,dilly dally etc etc" mutter,mutter,stammer,stammer.

"My name's Leela of course."

"Ah! Not Princess Leela! Oh me, oh my, it's Princess Leela from the internet tree. 

I thought I recognised you, Oh! I can't wait to tell the others."

"Hey wait a minute," shouted Leela "what's an internet tree and besides where am I?"

"You're in Sparkle Dazzle Razzle land of course, as if anyone in this whole wide fantasy world wouldn't know that. 

Then again you might know it as Wonderland, the name we had before that awful Alice girl stopped us using it through the fantasy land patent office. 

Awful girl she is, simply awful, should have minded her own business,” mutter mutter stammer stammer.

"You haven't told me what an internet tree is yet."

“Oh that. It's where the mummies and daddies post all the photos and videos of their children. 

On every branch and every twig hangs an image, on a fine thread of gold. 

We have a great old time sitting around the ancient tree and seeing what the children are doing on the other side. 

I've seen you many times in your princess dress, wearing your sparkling tiara, posing in front of the camera looking all regal and grand.”

Jack and Princess Leela on the internet tree

Then Leela suddenly remembered something. 

"Where is Jack? I mustn't lose him! I'm his big sister you know and if I do lose him Mummy and Daddy won't be very happy." 

Just as she finished saying that, Jack appeared from behind a mulberry bush with a big smile on his face, and a large dollop of chocolate on his left cheek! 

"Oh me, Oh my, he's found the chocolate puddle!" 

A thoroughly exacerbated Harry Hammerhead Hornbill Hop along Hare the Third, or Houdini for short announced. 

"No chocolate before lunch, it’s the rules you know, mustn't break the rules, it just isn't done, no siree it isn't,” mutter, mutter stammer, stammer.

Jack rushed up to Leela and gave her a big cuddle, then nestled down into her lap.

Leela finds Jack with chocolate on his face

Houdini suddenly looked startled. 

“Oh, Oh, Oh, I almost forgot, to many distractions, I remember now. 

Thomas Toad is in trouble, I have to help him, Oh, I almost forgot,” mutter, mutter ,stammer, stammer. 

And with that he jumped up and hopped away down the path and into the forest without even saying a goodbye or anything like that. 

Leela looked at Jack and Jack looked at Leela. They were now all alone in this very strange world.

Fortunately soon after, along came, or should I say blew along, a large plastic bag full of other plastic bags. 

Two small beady dark eyes and thin puckered lips told Leela and Jack this was no ordinary plastic bag.

Just as it was about to roll past it jammed itself between a rock and a tree branch. 

"Oh my word, I'm stuck again," proclaimed the bag. 

Up until then he hadn't noticed the other two. 

It wasn't until Jack ran up and pinched the plastic very hard that it let out an anguished cry of pain and discovered it wasn't alone.  

Jack, startled by the noise, jumped back and looked for Leela's hand. 

"What are you doing little man, that hurts? Just because I'm a lowly Plastic Bag doesn't mean I don't have feelings. Anyway, now that you are here you can help me off of this branch."

Leela and Jack obliged and freed the plastic bag.

"Thank you, thank you so much, I now forgive you little man. 

Let me introduce myself, Peter Plastic esquire at your service. 

No job is too big or small with almost cheap rates."

"What job are you talking about." enquired Leela 

"What do you think!" snapped back Peter Plastic. "Rubbish disposal of course, can't you see I'm a garbage bag. 

I'm the only one in Sparkle Razzle Dazzle land and do a very fine job, even if I do say so myself. 

At this very moment you caught me delivering 40 delinquent shopping bags that have been blowing around our beautiful country side causing havoc and distress to our perfect residents. Yes, very much so, I have a very important job. 

By the way who are you?”

Jack and Leela meet Peter Plastic

Leela explained to Peter how she woke to find herself here but had no idea why or where she was other than it was Sparkle Razzle Dazzle land and full of strange things.

"Oh! one of those you are," Peter said knowingly, “we get them sometimes, escapees from the internet. 

Did your mummy leave the computer on last night? 

Oh never mind, to late, to late for a very important date..... Oh forgot, this isn't Wonderland now."

Peter had a little chuckle to himself, but Leela had no idea what he was on about. 

"Anyway, we need help to get home, can you help us please, pretty please, Mummy and Daddy will be so worried," pleaded Leela.

Before Peter could answer there was this enormous splash from the nearby forest. 

Leela ran, while Peter rolled over to where the sound came from. 

Low and behold there was Jack, waste deep in..... wait for it...... MILK! 

Yes milk, he was sitting in a creek flowing with milk. 

Jack, with a big cheesy grin on his face, was taking a sip. 

'Yummy," he said. Jack was a small boy of few words!

“Well I'll be," Leela looked in wonder at the scene. 

Milk in the creek, honey dripping off the pencil pines, and best of all, a small shop that made the most scrumptious honey milk shakes. (Or so the sign said.)

"This is Wonderland, Oh I mean Sparkle Razzle Dazzle land, how beautiful."

"Yes it is, but we need to help you get home, but how is the question?" 

Peter looked up with those beady eyes and puckered his lips even more so. 

If he had hands he would have rested one under his chin... arrrh if he had one. 

Anyway you get the picture. 

A picture of concentrated intelligence focused on the problem. 

"Aarrh I have it," Peter said with a knowing look on his plastic face, “we will go and see Mr. Thomas Toad, he knows all the answers in the whole wide world."

"Isn't he the one with a problem right now?" asked Leela. 

"Yes, yes I forgot I'm supposed to be helping him, I forgot silly me, too much plastic on my mind. Come, let’s go and find him."

So off they went, deep into the sweetie smelling forest to find Mr. T. Toad.

Mr. Thomas Toad was of the horny back spotted variety. 

He was big with leathery brown skin that had zillions of bumps and lumps. 

This gave the impression he was tough and mean, but really he was a big happy softy who would help anyone in need. 

Everyone loved him, or so he thought. 

When Leela, Jack and Peter finally found him sitting under a toffee covered rock, he was looking very miserable.  

Leela, before saying hello, asked, "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong, what's wrong, the worst possible thing, that's what wrong. 

My toadstool has been stolen and I have nowhere to sit. What's a king without his throne I ask you?" 

He then let out a deep sad croak.

"It was just in front of my favourite toffee coated rock last night, but was gone this morning.  Who could do such a thing? 

How can a toad in my position sit on the cold milk covered ground. 

I mean to say, I'll catch a dreadful cold or something."  

Thomas Toad not looking very happy!

Everyone looked at each other and felt sad for Thomas. 

(Well, not really but they were good at pretending!)

Just then an email arrived on the back of a huge lumbering tortoise. 

"Out of my way, express delivery for Thomas Toad. Move it."

No one had to "move it" because tortoise was so very slow. 

Leela thought to herself, ‘How can an email be delivered without a computer! Then again, anything’s possible in S R D land.’

The back of the tortoise glowed red and the golden coloured words shone out, it said: 

‘Dear Mr. Thomas, Help! I have been kidnapped by a pack of mushrooms that I suspect have  bad intentions, save me as quickly as possible. 

Your favourite seat always, Toadstool xx 

P.S. you can find me down in the cookie and cake playing field, next to the second rainbow lollipop tree on the right.’

"Oh, we must hurry," announced Thomas, and with that they all dashed off down the lane, past the milk creek and over the gingerbread mountain till they reached the playing field.

" Out of my way, Email delivery"

To their astonishment they found Toadstool surrounded in a sea of Mushrooms.

"See here," snapped Thomas sharply. "You just can't take my comfy seat and get away with it. It’s just not right you hear. What do you have to say for yourselves?"

The Mushrooms were stunned. 

They looked at each other, formed a ring and muttered to each other in a high pitched squeal like only mushrooms can. 

After a while one stepped forward, with his head bent so low it was almost touching the ground. Then spoke in a very squeaky voice.

"Sorry sir, we know we have done wrong. You must understand we became so jealous with envy.   

You see Toadstool here is so tall and straight with the most beautiful red skin dotted with green and yellow spots. On the other hand we are just plain Janes, dull grey and uninteresting."

Leela then thought how much she preferred eating mushrooms to toadstools but decided it was best not to say so. 

A tear rolled down the stalk of the mushroom. 

Upon seeing that, Thomas became all soft and jelly like inside.

"Oh! Not to worry, no real harm done as long as you have learnt your lesson. 

Jealousy is a waste of time and energy. 

Beauty is only skin deep and in the eye of the beholder and all that." 

(He read it in a book once but didn't really know what it meant!)

"Oh thank you, thank you," all the mushrooms shouted out at once. 

Before you could say mushroom pie, they had formed a circle and proceeded to dance around Miss. Toadstool, singing and laughing. 

Toadstool in a sea of mushrooms

Everyone was now happy and Sparke ,Razzle, Dazzle land was back to its Wonderland best. 

Then...

In the distance a deep rumbling sound could be heard, and it appeared to be moving towards them! 

Houdini lifted his nose to the sky, took a deep sniff and froze for a moment.

"Oh! It's the Giant Green Bowl of Jelly who lives deep underground: he's on the move, take cover."

Everyone darted this way and that. 

Leela and Jack were left alone in the middle of the field as the ground began to shake. 

In the next valley over grew the Internet tree. It also began to shake and quiver. 

All of a sudden the photos of all the boys and girls started to fall off the branches and twigs, and smashed to the ground. 

Leela felt something brush on her face. "Stop it Harry, I don't like it."

"Harry who?" whispered Mum

Leela opened her eyes and let out a shout. "Mum, you are back."

"I haven't been anywhere," she laughed. 

Leela quickly looked at the bed next hers and saw Jack there, sleeping peacefully.

Only a dream or...

In the corner of the room on top of the highest shelf was a stuffed toy... a toad sitting on a toadstool with a smile on its face...