Gravity Curves

The International Spacetime Investigation Committee (ISIC) had politely asked Peter Strondike to leave five years previously. Though a gifted physicist, Peter was considered ‘Not a Team Player’ by the group. In fact, his single-mindedness in the pursuit of time travel enraged other committee members. At the ISIC Annual Conference 2026, Peter had created a laughing stock of the group’s achievements with his presentation ‘Gravity curves: an exploration of Gravitational Fields and Time Travel’.
‘Regretfully I must ask for your resignation from the Committee,’ wrote the then-president Carl Walson PhD, ‘We thank you for all your contributions… you have been an asset to the development of ISIC…’
Five years later, the words of this missive were still imprinted on Peter’s brain. But his rejection had ultimately been the catalyst to spur on his own experiments. Peter preferred to work alone anyway. In fact, he preferred to do pretty much everything alone: Eat alone, live alone, sleep alone. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than another human about the place; cluttering things up, demanding attention, making conversation. Yuck.
There was really never any doubt to Peter that he would achieve time travel anyway. His whole life had built to this; from tinkering with rockets as a boy, to his Doctorate in Physics at Bern University, to his development (from the conception) of ISIC. As he sat in his workshop, he idly dreamed of the first journey he would make when his machine was finally complete. A few clichés would be necessary: The removal of Adolf Hitler would be top of the list, the prevention of the discovery of Nuclear Weapons, perhaps he could smuggle back a couple of modern-day vaccines? And for his own personal gratification: an encounter with Albert Einstein would be hard to beat.
With the discovery of a new element Marinovium (atomic number 278), the final piece to Peter’s interdimensional jigsaw had arrived. With trepidation, Peter stepped into his machine, closed the motor actuated vacuum door, and held his fingers static above the virtual keyboard. Suddenly, all of Peter’s noble intentions to better the history of the world deserted him. Before he even knew what he had done, his fingers had keyed in the date 11^th March 1984, and the place: Swindon Community Youth Club. With a flash and a baritone howl, the machine (pregnant with Peter) embarked on its maiden voyage.

Feeling woozy, Peter clambered out of the vessel, and made his way into the centre. All around him, groups of young teenagers noisily huddled, playing ping-pong, listening to music. Peter edged to the far corner of the room where he found the reason for his journey. Sat together around a table were Simon Vee (an older teenager, covered in acne and socially awkward), Fiona Shaw (the object of Peter’s teenage affections – his first crush), and a 14-year-old Peter Strondike. For a moment, Future Peter hesitated, then approached the table.
‘Peter, I need to speak with you.’
14-year-old Peter surveyed this white-haired, bearded eccentric before him with zero recognition. Not wishing to lose cool points by acquiescing with this stranger’s request, Young Peter affected insouciance, and turned his back on his future, returning his attention to his friends.
Astounded, the Future Peter considered his options. There was so much that he wanted to say to his younger self. He wanted to warn him not to get in the Green Fiat in Milan. He wanted to let him know that, at 24 he will suddenly (and briefly) become attractive to females, but that he must capitalise on it, because he will be unaware at the time – have some fun, have some flings! He wanted to steer him towards Gravitational Physics, to the exclusion of Quantum, as this is where his career will ultimately lead. He wanted to explain about the back-stabbers of ISIC, and let him know that he was better than them anyway, and would ultimately have the last laugh. But more than anything he wanted to say ‘Take Fiona Shaw by the hand and lead her outside. Tell her how you feel. Tell her now. It is very likely that she will reciprocate. If you do not do this now, you will never have another chance, and you will regret this for the rest of your life.’
Ah, but what was the point? Young Peter would not listen anyway. Resigned to his impotence, Future Peter backed out of the Community Centre, climbed back aboard his machine, and in a burst of white light, returned to his workshop in April, 2031. Stepping for the last time out of his vehicle, he picked up a screwdriver from his work bench and slowly, methodically, set to work disassembling his life’s work screw by screw, bracket by bracket, component by component.

In a daydream, you imagine what it would be like to experience a birth, inspired by the arrival of a new baby girl to one of your good friends

This is a story I wrote a while ago - reproduced here in celebration of Neve's 4th (4th!) birthday today.

You are woken at 3am by your wife, who is experiencing tightenings, quickenings, contractions. This is not unusual: she has woken you every night for the last week with her sufferings. Even though the routine is familiar, it is exhilarating each time. You fall back to sleep. You awake again after an indeterminate period of time (in sleep, all periods of time are indeterminate). Your fecund wife is still awake, still experiencing pain. This time, you cannot resume slumber. You talk to her, quiz her of the pains. After an hour in bed like this, you switch on the bedside light to retrieve a digital watch. You time the contractions (yes – you are now referring to them as contractions). They last one minute, and are 10 minutes apart. You hug each other excitedly, then walk down the stairs together to phone the delivery suite.
‘Hello, Maternity ward.’
Speaking in a deliberately measured tone (to give the impression of calm, of control):
‘Hello. My name is {name}. My wife is one day past her due date, and we think that she is in the early stages of labour. We are registered for a home birth. Her contractions are one minute long, and 10 minutes apart…’
Your wife, sat next to an alarm clock, corrects you:
‘Now 6 minutes apart.’
‘…sorry, six minutes apart.’
‘OK, would you like us to send out a midwife now?’
Losing your cool a little, you fumble your words, ask your wife, and then pass the phone on to her. She makes the necessary arrangements, displaying the exact amount of confidence that you tried, then failed to pretend.
You walk to the utility room and attach a hose to the tap. You will use this hose to fill the inflated pool that you already have set up in your dining-room. Of course, before you go, you explain to your wife where you are going, and seek their approval. As the morning progresses, there will be much of this explanation/approval pattern (I’m just going to the toilet, will you be OK?).
You expect a period of the two of you sitting, waiting, talking. Instead, you hear a tentative door-tap almost immediately (it felt like immediately – how long could it have been? Minutes?). Standing at the door is a perfect midwife. She smiles, reassures, enters the room and begins to set out her stall.
By the time the second midwife arrives, a remarkable calm has fallen over the house - your house. Your wife is not writhing in pain, as you had expected, but instead, is sat on the couch, concentrating on breathing, leaning her head back into a cushion. Each time she does this, you catch the midwives eye, check the clock perched next to her, raise your eyebrows, and then remember your duty and comfort her by lightly touching her hand, leg, or head. The contractions are becoming more painful, and closer together. The midwife examines your wife, and declares her to be three centimetres. With your rudimentary knowledge of labour, you understand from this that you are in for a wait.
A word here about how utterly, utterly useless you are. You Are Useless. The midwives find small jobs for you, which you do gratefully. There is the hand-holding that we mentioned. Oh, and you made a playlist for her on your music player, so you add soothing music to the room. But really, you are no help at all. Get used to this feeling.
At around 7 in the morning, the pain is changing – things are progressing faster than you expected. The pool is uncovered, and your wife gets in the water. It is beginning to get light outside (and here is where you become aware that this must be a daydream, or some such fantasy), through the window you see three inches of snow have fallen, blanketing your garden. You both stare out of the window, as ‘Cool Waves’ by Spiritualized begins. It is too perfect.
The birth? Grunting, screaming, writhing agony for around 5 minutes, and then a head is visible beneath the water. A perfect head, covered in dark hair. A final push, and the baby is free. Deftly, the midwives scoop up this new life, and as they do, you and your wife synchronise:
‘It’s a girl!’
…and she is placed on your wife’s chest. She is purple, and covered in a white goo, and yet she looks more beautiful than anything in the world.

In the daydream, we now skip to one week after the event. You stand in your kitchen over a pan of milk, and try to evaluate how you feel, to remember all the emotions that have passed over you. It’s difficult to put your finger on it.
With the continuous stream of well-wishers, and the extra work involved in having a baby, there is very little time to reflect. But now, as you stand over the stove, it occurs to you: ‘I feel taller.’ Physically taller. You grin as you feel yourself looming over this miniature oven, and standing tall, you breathe in deeply, then exhale.

The pride of the artist stripped bare by his patroness, even.

As a last resort, Marcel Duchamp rode the subway north, alighting at 66th Street. Fastening the belt of his raincoat tighter, he walked quickly to the Arensbergs’ house (a journey he had made many times before). He knocked on the large oak door, and Louise answered wearing an elegant long white dress, with a blue silk scarf around her neck. She took a moment to survey Marcel on her doorstep in his filthy brown mackintosh, then flatly intoned ‘Marcel, how wonderful to see you. Please come in.’
Marcel followed Louise through the hallway, and into the drawing room where he took a seat close to the fireplace. Louise remained at the doorway: ‘Can I get you a drink? Walter is out of town, I’m afraid. Tea? Un café?’
‘Louise, I need help’
Louise released a small sigh, and then took her place opposite him, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on his face. That Gallic, chiselled countenance that she knew so well: Older than its years, yet handsome enough to charm. For his part, Marcel kept his gaze downcast, studying the intricate patterns of the Indian rug.
‘Marcel we already are helping you. How can we do more?’ She paused, suddenly enjoying the power that she held over him. ‘Perhaps if you were more forthcoming with your work? We haven’t had anything from you for so long. Walter believes that we may never see The Large Glass. I defend you, of course, but I wonder how long this can continue, when I have nothing from you?’
Marcel had not expected this attack. He lifted his head to meet her eyes: ‘But…the sketches. I showed you the sketches.’
‘Oui Marcel, but those were just ideas. If we are to continue this agreement, then we need more from you.’ In the silence that followed, an idea formed in Louise’s mind: ‘Ah! But let us not talk of work. It can be so lonely in this big house, all by myself. It is so good to have some company.’
Like a puppy that has been struck by its owner, Marcel looked uncomprehendingly at Louise.
‘Perhaps there is some way that I could help you,’ she drawled, ‘but of course, you would have to do something for me in return. No? Then I am sorry Marcel. It seems we have reached something of an impasse.’
This time he knew that he must speak, but for the longest time, he did not know what to say.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, in all innocence.
A smile wound its way around Louise’s face. Conspiratorially, she walked over to where Marcel sat, and lowered her face to his: ‘There is a new game of which I am rather fond. In this game, two players must compete to build a tower of wooden bricks – each time taking a brick from the bottom of the tower, and placing it at the top with sufficient care to ensure that the tower does not tumble.’ As she spoke, she retrieved a wooden box from a drawer. ‘The player that fells the tower is deemed the loser of the game. It is really most diverting.’
Marcel could not help a curl of disgust to form around his lips. Though a placid man, he had his limit. Though he was renowned as an artist, he spent most of his time playing chess in the cafés around Greenwich Village. He took chess very seriously, and he played well - the game was the right combination of mathematics and Machiavellian plotting to appeal to Marcel. This new game of bricks and towers was infantile! An insult!
He raised himself to his full height, pushed his patron out of the way, and in so doing cascaded the wooden blocks in a clatter over her floor. ‘I WILL NOT LOWER MYSELF TO THIS! GOOD-BYE.’ He exited the house, slamming the door shut behind him, and marched down the street.
After only fifty paces, he reached inside his trouser pockets to find them empty, and considered for a moment going back to Louise’s front door to ask for a nickel for the train-ride home. It was too late. He pulled his collar up high, and as the rain began to fall, he began the long walk home.

The Insecurity of a sasquatch with above-average intelligence is exposed

Adam Schriver, a sasquatch from the Yukon area of Western Canada was notoriously insecure about his education. Born to a middle-class family of sasquatches, in fairly affluent forest, Adam had a more privileged upbringing than many of his friends and colleagues, and had achieved reasonable exam results. Nevertheless, he often underestimated his own intelligence, and as a result, his ambitions in life were limited.
This was highlighted in Adam's mind one Friday night, when he sat down, as he often did, to watch an episode of QI (a panel show featuring a human named Stephen Fry that Adam greatly admired). During the programme, Adam noticed that Stephen used the word 'one' as a pronoun: He said that 'one could use it as such if one so wished'. Adam reflected that he had never had the confidence to use 'one' in such a way. He felt sorry that this was the case, and resolved to slip it in at the earliest possible occasion, in order to somewhat improve his image as an intellectual ape.
The following day, on a lunch break with the boys, talk turned to the Winter Olympics, which were currently taking place in BC. The rest of the sasquatches present felt that the luge was an event ruled by chance, a sport which required luck more than skill. Adam saw his chance. He had a cousin that had once participated in the sport, and so he felt more qualified than most to comment on their mistaken assumption.
'Actually, a great deal of skill is required to steer the luge. One must use one's calf to exert pressure on the front runners, and one's shoulders on the rear of the seat. A professional luge athlete must maintain a fine balance of shifting their body weight, applying pressure with their feet and rolling their opposite shoulder simultaneously. It is really quite a difficult sport.'
As the words left Adam's mouth, his co-workers stopped eating their sandwiches and stared, open mouthed at Adam. Eugene (the Alpha of the group) waited patiently for eye contact, and then sardonically raised one simian eyebrow.
Adam went on to live for another 42 years in the Yukon area of Western Canada. He never again used the word 'one' in this way.

A List of reasons

There are reasons. I mean, I couldn’t come up with them at the time, but yes – there are reasons to get rid of them. Lots of reasons:
1) Life is short.
2) I work long hours, and so seldom see them anyway.
3) They are ugly.
4) We have to employ babysitters to feed them when we go on holiday.
5) I could do without the extra responsibility.
6) It’s not environmentally sound to keep them (and I think it may be cruel).
7) Their staring eyes taunt me.
8) I don’t think it’s hygienic to be touching their food.
9) When I drink, after you have gone to bed, I place my hand into the tank and look at it magnified through the glass, the fish exploring my outstretched fingers. Sometimes I can be there for thirty to forty minutes. I don’t think that this is healthy.
10) We could scoop the fish up with a net, carry them in a jar to the sea, release them and watch them gratefully swim away. Then we could return to the tank with a lump hammer, smash the glass and watch the water flap in one liquid lump to the floor, then crash and split into bouncing droplets before settling into one large soggy puddle punctuated with shards of glass on our living room carpet, and we could stand over the scene, the two of us, and for the moment before regret and thoughts of cleaning up set in, we would feel like: Yes! This is life! This is living! I am ALIVE!

So anyway… those are my reasons. I’ll let you make the final decision. They’re your fish.

...Like a sore thumb

The scar on your thumb, which you caught on a nail while taking down shelving, is bothering you. Each time you place your hand in your pocket, or slip on a glove (which is often, during this gelid weather) the scab catches, and a small amount of translucent fluid is secreted. You wonder if it is infected. You prod it and squeeze around it, but no – it seems fine. It's just a nuisance.
It could have been so much worse. You don't realise this, but if you hadn't caught your thumb on that nail, there would have been a much worse accident, so really it was lucky for you that the shelves needed removing.
Following the initial rejection, people told you that you took the news well. You were characteristically philosophical about it. 'It's a part of the job,' you declared, 'I'll bounce back.'
In fact, you felt fine in yourself: maybe a little more snappy with the children, perhaps a little quicker to frustration when dealing with phone calls, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Taking the shelves down from the wall should have been a fairly straightforward job. The problem was that the screws were very old, and so it was difficult to get a purchase with your electric screwdriver. After trying a number of different screwdrivers, your patience was wearing thin. Puffing, sweating and shouting expletives you threw down your screwdrivers and reached for the claw hammer. As the shelf finally ripped from the wall (along with the plaster behind it) it hit you on the side of the head, and a nail tore the skin at the side of your thumb (the thumb which has been causing you so much trouble of late).
The episode with the shelving was unpleasant, but it was a release. You can't deny that it shifted that little ball of rage that had been lying dormant within your rib-cage. And if it hadn’t been the shelves, then that fury would have found a way out somehow. Just think: you could have crashed the car, or punched your boss, or got drunk and picked a fight with an old friend. It could have been so much worse. Really. You should thank those shelves.

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We understand that in these credit-crunch times, value for money is of key importance. Money was certainly one of the things that my wife and I always argued about! That’s why we at Levendens are committed to providing the best quality kitchens at affordable prices. The last thing that we would want is for your dream kitchen to come between the two of you. A project like this should bring you together - yet so often, it drives a couple apart.

We knew that things would never be perfect, but…

You reach 30, 31, and your options suddenly seem narrowed, don’t they? I’m not saying that we settled for second best, or anything, but I can’t really say that we were ever blissfully happy. But really… who is? We tried to make things work. God knows I tried. But there are only so many allowances you can make. Only so many differences that you can reconcile. Before you know it, you’re sitting opposite each other, over a cup of tea at your Levendens Composite Granite-Effect breakfast bar having that conversation.

Don’t make the mistakes that we did

You know that expression about a wife being a goddess in the kitchen and a [something else] in the bedroom? It’s just a cliché. And don’t believe that clichés enter popular parlance because they are true – sometimes they just aren’t. Don’t expect that this kitchen will change your life, your marriage. Don’t attach too much importance to anything that you can buy in a store. In the end, what really matters is actual relationships between real people: Heartfelt conversations and physical contact, not chrome taps and ice dispensers.
Honestly – the kitchen is too big for me now. And I wouldn’t have chosen those tiles.

I still love her

I do. Despite everything, I still love her. But there’s no use in looking backwards, only forwards, towards the future. Towards your future: Your bright new future in a Levendens custom-designed, dream kitchen.

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