Version # 1

It is easily noticeable how everything in a train rattles.
Even though the entire interior of a train was inevitably once meant to be stuck, it has somehow managed to rattle itself a bit more loose. Not all the way loose, but partly loose. Just loose enough to rattle, basically.
Not an inch more, not an inch less, but, enough of those inches to simulate a one-note beat box.
You would naturally think that the storage compartment above you, the seat beside you, in front of you and behind you would all together (especially with the row at the far back, which seems to be incredibly loose) make a wonderful orchestra.
But a train does not have a sense of rhythm; nothing beats steadily or with any constructive repeat. It just rattles.

Some things that rattle, rattle to tell you that it’s about to loosen from its roots completely. Trains, - I think – rattle because both the exterior and interior of a train simply wants a bit of freedom. A free chair in a dining room can in theory move around as it likes, but a seat inside a train is locked in a certain position.
But seats do not want to be entirely loose, as there would be no use of that. If the train seats were completely loose, they would slam about freely inside the carriages, making the fact that your neighbour is not generous enough with his deodorant suddenly very unimportant. You would actually leave the train with not only your own collarbone broken – but also with somebody else’s broken collarbone. In other words the seats (or the compartment above you or the especially loose seats at the far back) don’t want to be entirely free.
To know that they have freedom of movement, like being a bit closer to be free, is far more important than that they are actually absolutely free. It is to believe that they’re able to be free whenever they want, that matters. So if all of these furnishings can believe they are free and demonstrate it by rattling, it is a small price to pay compared to if they went on strike.
After all, it would be horrible if all kinds of interior in public transport got revolutionary ideas and started to leave. The society as we know it today would break down. Parts of the basic infra-structure in our everyday lives would shatter and fall to pieces.

“Well there is obviously truth in what you’re saying right there Mr.Llabeye” the doctor said smoothly and massaged his temple on both sides with his wrinkled fingers.
“You do, however” he added “forget one thing”.
- “And what is that? If I may ask…?” Mr. Llabeye said, but did not seem offended.
“The obvious importance of their urge to start dialogue” the doctor said and put his glasses on. “If the inventory of a train is interested in demonstrating freedom, break loose from their chains and organise strikes, it seems logical to me that these items would – in other words – want to communicate” He paused for the effect.
They were passing an exceptionally ugly area of forest where all the trees seemed bent or wrong in a way. The doctors eyes skipped back and forth in his eye-sockets as he was tossing glances at the passing trees, following them for the slight second possible before looking at a new tree. He met Mr. Llabeye’s eyes before continuing. “Doesn’t it sound like a language to you?” He raised his voice a notch and added – with a hint of excitement in his old eyes – “They even have different accents! Listen!” he said imperatively, and raised a hand to cut Mr. Llabeye silent as he had drawn his breath to speak. The old man then pointed towards the door at the end of the carriage that was rattling as if urging someone to open it. A wave of excitement spread across the old doctor’s face again as he pointed towards the seat in front of them, that now, in an odd way, seemed to be replying to what the door had just said. Mr. Llabeye thought for a moment, he could’ve thought for longer, because the doctor was now attempting to tap the beat of the door and seat with his pointy, black shoes. The doctor was lost in his own rhythm and his bowler hat was slowly tipping more and more over to one side, his white moustache curling further up as he smiled.
– “There is obviously truth in what you’re saying doctor, it does indeed sound like language, perhaps I should change the approach slightly and add that too” Mr. Llabeye said thoughtfully. “Your suitcase wants to tell you something as well it seems” he added, and smiled (just as much to himself) as the doctor clapped his hands in delight at the suitcase clattering away at his feet.

Tedvard Llabeye, otherwise known as Ted, Tedvard, Mr. Llabeye or as his mother called him “sugarplum” (the nickname he preferred the least) was not a very important person. His late father, Oliver Emmanuel Llabeye, had left Ted a rather enjoyable amount of money when he passed away a few years ago. But Ted was hardly very important anyway, his job as an olive-milker being one of the less interesting jobs you can imagine. Still Ted loved his job, and his Olive farm in Otsep Valley was in his opinion -the best place in the world. Mr. Llabeye leant back in his seat comfortably. He was on a train to Gimpsmock-Fillings, scribbling something on a piece of paper about how a train rattles, as Doctor James Amos Woodchop-Chopling was clapping a disorientated beat next to him. It all seemed like a rather usual thing to take place, except from the fact that it was far from it.
Ted and Doctor J. A. W. Chopling were not going to Gimpsmock-Fillings with an ordinary purpose. People usually went to Gimpsmock-Fillings to get laid with something they didn’t care what looked like, to hide something particularly nasty, something in-between, or sometimes even both. You could also visit Gimpsmock-Fillings if you had no reason to live or if you had an urge to get rid of all your money as quick as possible.
As you might already have realised, neither of these were the reason why Ted and Doctor J. A. W. Chopling were going to Gimpsmock-Fillings, they hardly do seem like that kind of people, do they? A slightly squint academic and an olive-milker often do give the impression of being rather harmless, especially in the company of each other, like these two.
Their business in Gimpsmock-Fillings was in fact, also quite harmless; they had been given special invitations to the annual Baked-Apple and Treacle Festival, and what kind of dumb idiot would ever let go of a VIP-pass to the Fudge n’ Fondue Tent at the Baked-Apple and Treacle Festival? Certainly not these two gentlemen.
In Doctor J. A. W. Chopling’s suitcase there was a jar of the Doctors own, homemade, pickled strawberries with liquorice. This very special treat he had brought along to attend the highly respected Alternative-Tea-Treats Competition, with loads of ambition.
Ted had brought a delicate little box of Olive-milk chocolate covered almonds for the Best Home-Grown Speciality Competition. They were sitting, thinking about exactly how many sponsors would toss greenhouses and trolleys after them the moment they had won their prizes. They could live off the money prize for a long while and sponsors could see to the rest. The Doctor and the milker were ambitious and both took for granted that they were returning with large trophies in their laps, as most men do. Blind for reason they had quarrelled their way out of their houses this same morning, wives swinging saucepans menacingly at them as they hit the road.
Running away to attend a festival was perhaps not the most mature thing the two of them had ever done together, but as usual they had currently forgotten that there would be a decent round of beating for both of them when they got home.
The Doctor and his company had in their ignorance a rather enjoyable journey, containing prune-sandwiches as well as raisins, jelly-puffs and Olive-shakes.

As the train made a final, annoyed hoot, it chuffed away from platform 54 at Gimpsmock-Fillings Central Train Station. In fact, the sign dangling above their head actually said

Platform 54 – Gimpsmock-Fillings Central Train Station (Your Last Stop)

Ted felt an uncomfortable sense of regret for ever leaving his safe olive-farm to attend a Baked-Apple and Treacle festival. It didn’t quite seem as tempting now the smell of Gimpsmock-Fillings was polluting his lungs. Even though this entire journey-thing had seemed like a good idea in the morning, it didn’t even seem the slightest good now that they were approaching afternoon. The trip had only taken them about four hours and his quick eyes could tell that there was a train going back to Otsep Valley in forty-five minutes. His hand reached for the elbow of Doctor J. A. W. Chopling’s suit, but ended up trying to grasp thin air as the Doctor was no longer standing beside him. It took a bit above four seconds before Ted realised, and by the time he did, he also noticed that he had been ribbed down to his flowery underwear. Suddenly awakened by the cool breeze around his knees he turned around every direction at once, searching for Doctor J. A. W. Chopling’s bowler hat that ought to be easily spotted along the masses of strange creatures. But even though he turned around and round, Doctor J. A. W. Chopling was completely gone and Ted then became aware of his inappropriate outfit again.

There was little Tedvard Llabeye could do, standing at Gimpsmock-Fillings Central Train Station one late autumn afternoon wearing nothing but his flowery underwear and his new black top-hat. Also, his travelling companion Doctor J. A. W. Chopling had been missing for about six minutes and thirty-nine seconds, evaporated without a trace to an unknown location. After another two minutes had passed, Ted’s forehead was so covered in deep, worried wrinkles that his eyes were about to be buried under an avalanche of skin. Ted was suddenly forced to think again as he realised he was getting some strange glances from the bypassing Gimpsmock-Fillingers. Some of the looks he was getting were rather unpleasant, especially the ones that were hungry. As a matter of fact, his flowery underwear had caught little attention, except from by a little Fompfer that had now repeatedly attempted to stick its fuzzy head up the left leg of Ted’s shorts. Ted took another annoyed step to the side, the Fompfer following playfully making little squinting noises of delight as it got even closer to the leg this time. With this hairy little creature hopping about around his skinny calves, Ted tried to get his way to platform 3 that was now urging a last call to Otsep Valley. The message was carried over some dodgy speakers that looked poorly hotwired to the network as sparks flew from the audio-system.
You might think that platform 3 is very far away from platform number 54 where Ted currently was, but in fact these two platforms were positioned right next to each other. Most Gimpsmock-Fillingers couldn’t count anyway. It was therefore not important if the numbers descended or ascended in the right way. The important thing was that every platform had a number (they had, however, managed to give two platforms the same number, three times). Ted was made conscious of the fact that the train for Otsep Valley was leaving over thirty-four minutes early, he could though, not blame the poor train. He for one, was certainly sure that he had had more than enough of Gimpsmock-Fillings already.

Meanwhile Doctor J. A. W. Chopling awoke as he heard a screeching noise.
The Doctor could not recall that he had fallen asleep in the first place, or that everything except his respectable underwear (God bless his wife) and his socks had in fact been removed. It seemed, however, more likely that he had been knocked unconscious and mugged. There were few things that the Gimpsmock-fillingers actually did properly as most of the things he had seen of the city had been fastened with duct tape, but mugging they seemed to be able to manage, very smoothly.
A soaring pain appeared in the back of Doctor J. A. W. Chopling’s head and for the first time in thirty-nine years, the doctor could not blame alcoholic beverages or his blessed wife.
He carefully propped himself up with his arms and led one hand to the back of his head. He stroked the painful spot carefully and felt the bump swelling under his thin white hair. He put his hand back down and tried to look around a bit. He found himself being in a very dark place filled with the rests of ancient chewing gums and cigarette stumps. The sudden screeching sound that had awakened him had to be a train. Judging from the smell there was also rotten food nearby. All around him he could also recognise curled up old train tickets which made him draw the conclusion that he had to be underneath the train station.
His eyes were getting more and more used to the dark, only small stripes of afternoon sun coming through slits in the platform above him lit the miserable state of himself and his surroundings. As he untied his legs he suddenly heard a woman’s voice, it was a lot clearer than the muffled conversations coming from above, and so he looked around to see where it came from. Doctor J. A. W. Chopling was still feeling rather delicate so he had been unable to hear what she said the first time. The second time, on the other hand, nobody in the world could get it wrong.
-“I said – Where am I?!” the voice repeated, this time so sharp it could cut steel. He hesitated for a moment, but then heard an annoyed snort (which he recognised as something his wife did too) and gathered himself enough to answer.
-“I d-don’t know m-madam” The doctor stuttered, and looked around anxiously.
-“Miss” the voice corrected stiffly. “And who are you?!”
That was a rather rude approach, the doctor thought, now thinking as she was a “miss” she was probably part of today’s youth which he apparently was supposed to dislike and pass judgment on.
-“I am Doctor James Amos Woodchop-Chopling” he retorted briskly, putting extra weight on the word doctor.
-“I see” she said, with obvious careless-ness in her voice. The doctor sat back with his arms crossed, still unable to see the rude young woman in the dark and intended not to speak to her anymore.
There was silence, only the usual hooting, chuffing and puffing of a train broke the quiet.
“Soooooo” she said finally, after the longest and most awkward death of a conversation she had ever lived to experience. “Are you not going to ask my name?”
The doctor still sat with his arms crossed, looking like a large, insulted baby seal with a moustached pout and a displeased look on his face. He figured it would be to rude to say no – after all, he was a gentleman and he had to pretend like he had a little bit of dignity and politeness left, even though he was ribbed to his underwear. His bowler hat was also missing he realised and started to look around for it as he said:
- “Well then, my lady, do forgive me, what is your name?”
Sounding pleased and softening her voice a bit she said something along the lines of
-“Laurel Lilac Sir, the name is Laurel Lilac”. The tone of her voice indicated that she was blushing. The doctor didn’t really care and just kept crawling around on his knees to find his hat, he was also getting uncomfortably aware of the evening chill that was setting in.
- “so, sir…” Laurel Lilac started, but was cut off.
-“Doctor, if you could be so kind” Doctor J. A. W. Chopling said “I did not spend seven years in a university to be called sir” in the dark you could barely make out that he smiled and there was no menace in his voice, but Miss Lilac seemed to have taken it all the wrong way.
-“Sorry then, doctor” she said sourly “I was just going to ask you where we are”.
-“oh dear, I did not mean it like that Miss Lilac, I was simply correcting for future reference, also, I believe that unfortunately we are at the Gimpsmock-Fillings Central Train Station. Well, we are more like underneath it actually” the doctor said – and had after getting some old candy wrappers stuck to his hand stopped the search for his hat for now.
-“Gimpsmock-Fillings!” Miss Lilac extorted happily “well then at least I am still home, this is not bad at all, that’s wonderful. Puh! I am rather relieved” she giggled nervously. “I was scared right then”. The doctor didn’t reply.
“Are you okay doctor?” she said after breathing normally for a while.
-“No actually. No, no I’m not” Doctor J. A. W. Chopling said “I seem to be in a city that is new to me, robbed, no clothes, and to make it worse…” –“you are stuck here with me” Miss Lilac said. –“oh, no, not at all Miss Lilac, on the contrary, I am very pleased to have company in this hour of distress, but you see, my lady, my good friend and travelling companion Mr. Llabeye seems to have been separated from me”.
He looked down at his hands, feeling a bit lost.
-“Oh don’t you worry Doctor Chopling” Miss Lilac said cheerfully. “I will get both of us out of here, we will get something to wear and something to eat, and we will find your good friend, oh no, don’t you worry about that doctor, don’t you worry at all”.

-“I say it only one more time, sir. You are not boarding this train without clothes and especially not without a ticket or any money”.
The conductor blew his whistle and waved numerous colourful flags, threw his shoe in the opposite direction and put a trashcan on fire to signal the train to leave. The train hooted impatiently as it started puffing away from the station. The conductor grabbed a handle and swung himself on board the train elegantly. Before he disappeared inside he tipped his hat at Mr. Llabeye. Poor Mr. Llabeye was standing cold and frightened on platform number 3, a Fompfer was sticking its head up the left leg of his flowery knickers letting out satisfied little sighs now and then.
The conductor was right of course, he was doomed without any money and he did not have a place to stay either. The only thing he had was his spotless new top hat –oh, wait, no. –It appeared he only had his flowery knickers and a slightly fruity Fompfer up his shorts, completely new to the scariest city on the planet.
Obviously Ted felt lonely and scared, he was a grown man, responsible, quick of mind and experienced, but this was the kind of place where you would rather not be half-naked, broke, alone, or worse; all three of them.
Night was draping its way across the city, still it was as noisy and smelly as ever, just darker now. Ted realised he had no choice but to find a place to sleep, if things got really bad, he could sell the fompfer for a little bit of money. He threw a glance at the fompfer that was now examining his legs closer with its giant black eyes. For a moment the fompfer stopped looking at his leg and instead looked up at him, tipped its head a little and purred loyally. Ted didn’t know why, because even though it was all looking more than just “rather hopeless” (which would have been his usual approach to the situation) he smiled affectionately at the fompfer as he started walking towards the exit.
The train station was considerably emptier now and since he had no pockets or no apparent wallet, he could walk unnoticed through the masses of people on the street outside.

Everywhere around him the night was lit by colourful little lamps, the air was filled with thick scents and fumes, noises, explosions and languages. Ted thought that maybe in all of this, even though it was all very bad, the pulse of the city seemed to give life and energy to him. He found himself being pushed and squeezed like olive bread dough as he walked through the crowd of people. Really he had no place to go, so he thought he might as well explore. The street he was on now, that was named Sees-Smack, and it seemed to go on forever. In the middle of it there was heavy traffic. There were wagons, horses, cattle, and carriages of different sorts, trolleys, chicken, and sometimes the occasional person. Along what people had declared as sidewalk (even though there was no clear line) there were tons and tons of shops. There were people, lots and lots of them, there were stores, stands, booths and… And then, then there was something quite out of the ordinary.
There was something not even a grown man like Ted had seen his entire life. On top of a stack of crates there was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen.

Ted was a married man and so he had been for nearly five years. Those had been nearly five very happy years because he loved his wife very much and Ted was a very lucky man to have her. Together they had a little son and Ted cared for his wife and son very much. Ever since Ted lost track of Doctor J. A. W. Chopling at the train station he had thought about his family and how much he wished he was with them instead of lost in an alien city. Right now though everything about his daily duties of milking olives, his wonderful wife and his growing son seemed to have vanished from his mind completely, he was gob smacked. It must’ve been a strange sight, a man in his mid-thirties wearing nothing but a pair of very flowery underwear, and a fompfer hopping about around his knees. The eyes of this exceptionally tall man were fastened to something very high above him across the street. On top of the stack of crates (that appeared to be going to topple any minute) there was a stand selling ties. Now there is of course something extraordinary about a tower of crates swaying back and forth with a tie selling stand on top of it. But there was something even more out of the ordinary in that stand, there was a woman.
She was very young he reckoned and she had long flowing curls of blonde hair. Yes she was a very beautiful young woman, but what really surprised him was the man standing beside her. It was none other than Doctor J. A. W. Chopling –who would’ve thought they would ever meet again?
-“Doctor!” he bellowed (yes in fact, it was proper bellowing because Ted Llabeye had a very deep voice). “Doctor Woodchop-Chopling!” He yelled, waving his arms frantically. In response the keg-shaped Doctor J. A. W. Chopling grinned broadly and yelled back, relief curling its way across his face: -“Mr. Llabeye! I was sure I would never see you again! My, my am I happy to see you, come up here and meet Miss. Lilac!”

-“So tell me exactly how did you two manage to lose each other?” Miss. Lilac said, the street was just a bit less noisy from up on the swaying tie shop. –“I wish I could say it’s a long story, but really it isn’t” Mr. Llabeye said. “It is all quite simple. We got off the train, we stood around for a bit, I got thoroughly mugged without noticing a thing, when I turned around to tell Doctor Chopling that we better get back home – he was gone! I was feeling quite alone, which is when I met Philip…” –“Philip?” Miss Lilac interrupted, she had a habit doing that. –“The fompfer” Ted smiled. –“Oh, right. The fompfer is called Philip. Heh, Philip the Fompfer” she giggled. Doctor Chopling and Ted’s eyes met for a second and they smiled in the corner of their mouth all ‘she’s not the least bit right’, but these men were not used to today’s youth and did not realise that she could obviously see them. She laughed at them both going – “oh c’mon lads, I’m not all that silly. I just thought it was a bit funny, that’s all” she continued to laugh.

And what happened to the excitement of the story? Why didn’t it take longer for the two of them to meet up? Well, simply because there is something even bigger than the danger of the city against them now, way bigger, and I thought it would be better for them if they were together against that, all four of them.

They all tried the very best they could to settle inside Miss. Lilac’s little residence. It was a small two floor house along one of the side-roads to Sees-Smack. All the houses in Gimpsmock-Fillings had been built so close together they had gone all crooked and bent, leaning over the roads and alleys as if they were going to topple over any minute. On the ground floor in their current home there was a minuscule kitchen in one corner, a set of chairs around a square table, a little fireplace, a broken piano, the walls were covered from floor to ceiling in theatre posters and a little shelf on one wall was filled with ties. There was only one room on the ground floor and all these things were pressed tightly into it. To make matters worse, a massive amount of dirty dishes were stacked around the room so it was hard to find places to sleep. Little flies zoomed around above their heads as they entered, and loud music from some kind of event a few houses down made flakes of paint drop from the ceiling. Even though the first impression of the house seemed less than convincing, the first floor turned out to be a lot better.
A large double bed, a giant bookcase, a dresser packed with clothes, shelves crowded with girly things, two chairs, a soft toy giraffe, a massive mirror, dirty garments, a box filled with Christmas decorations, eight carpets overlapping each other and the worlds most diminutive sofa had been squeezed into the room. It gave the room a somehow claustrophobic, yet charming appeal, in a way only a young woman could make a mess and still make it seem delightful.
Miss Lilac moved about her belongings, she had lifted her upper lip up, clearly showing she was disgusted by her own mess and apologizing at the same time. The smell of Gimpsmock-Fillings had faded once they had stepped into her home, so both J. A. W. Chopling and Mr. Llabeye seemed only relieved about getting inside. The two of them were currently dressed in some old sheets, wearing them like togas, this had not drawn any immediate attention, so it was all good. The moment they got upstairs, Miss Lilac instantaneously started to dig through her possessions to find some clothes for them. Seeing neither of the three now had any money at all, it was hopeless to try to buy anything.
After waving away at least fifty different flowery, feathered and sparkly pieces of clothing, Miss Lilac admitted her defeat against her own wardrobe and she had to give up. Outside darkness had caught its full embrace of the night, but there was still tons of life outside. The Philip the fompfer had made itself comfortable in an old cauldron with burnt porridge scraps along the edges. An old pillowcase with a baroque pattern remarkably similar to the flowery pattern on Mr Llabeye’s underwear had been crammed into the cauldron, which was probably why Philip had settled so nicely in it.
Mr Llabeye attempted to get some shut-eye on the carpet in front of the fireplace on the ground floor, however whatever direction he rolled over he seemed to noisily hit pots and pans. Dr J. A. W. Chopling had fallen to sleep immediately and was snoring generously on the undersized sofa on the first floor. Miss Lilac was drooling munificently in her own double bed, against all odds earlier the same day, it seemed to approach a relaxing night after all.

-“Where is it?!” he demanded, smacking his paperwork about on his desk. He was twitchily walking back and forth in his round office and his head was pulsating with a luminous red. Across the room from him there were three people seated. At least one of them was still seated, the other two had got up so they could bend their necks and look ashamed.
“Well?!” He boomed “None of you seem to be keen to explain this intricate and unfortunate situation to me, or rather, how it could possibly become intricate and unfortunate. Because it was so damn simple, so simple. How could it have gone wrong?! You had a very simple task to do for me, but you screwed up. I want to know what happened and I want to know where the object is, and I want to know now!”
The silence that followed this time was something completely different from what anyone in the room had ever experienced. It was the kind of silences when you don’t know what is loud and what is silent. The sound of your heart pumping blood around your body seems to dominate the use of your eardrums while shouting, screaming and loud noises in general seem to be coming from underwater somewhere.
One of the men that were standing, his name was Sir Joshua Herbert Sherbet, drew his breath as if to speak, but instead of any words coming out of his mouth it was merely a peeping, weak sound of air passing through a pipe. The man at the desk seemed to have lost his patience, the smile curling its way across his exceptionally revolting face gave away that he was planning to do something very mean. Sir Joshua Herbert Sherbet saw this immediately, because he was no dumb man, so Sir Joshua instantly drew his breath again and this time the words coming out of his mouth seemed to never stop.
-“Well you see the thing that happened sir, a case which is obviously horribly regrettable and also pathetic if I may say so myself, is that your consignment – on which you have been waiting ever so unwearyingly for- did not turn up as premeditated. There was difficulty with the train and the crate in which your treasured cargo was kept throughout the journey was not found until after a full search of the entire train sir. The problem was that when the crate finally turned up, it was also empty. There was absolutely nothing we could do but to search the station, it was unfeasible to search every person present though, which I would believe you comprehend, it was rush hour sir. So many people, so much luggage and so much traffic sir. We got a written admission of guilt from the train-driver, but we fully intend to get your cargo back as planned. A written apology and a few gold pieces can not return the treasure which has been lost now, sir. We all understand that, though we do not intend to take full responsibility of the misplaced cargo as it had gone astray way before we even arrived and before it even came into the possession of any of us, sir”. He stood still and waited for an answer in painful anticipation. When the person at the desk finally moved, the two men standing up both winced at the same time.
-“he he” The man at the desk grinned cruelly.
“Your words are as always chosen with care as you are very well articulated my friend Sir Sherbet”. The room was thick with tension, you know the way that you’d rather like somebody to be properly angry, instead of this false content on the outside that could suddenly reveal a fuming inside completely unpredicted.
“Of course neither of you two is forgiven in any way nor will you be before this is over and done with. You will not be forgiven until what I want is on my desk right here. You two are on the job, and you have one week. You’ve got one week gentlemen. Perceive that I have invited a third person into my office today. Gentlemen, let me present to you Miss Marion Eow, better known as Miss M. Eow.”
When the lady in the chair got up, the light from the window behind the desk lit her face. The other two men gasped as they saw her large, green eyes placed beautifully in the face of a cat. She was a woman with a cat face, tall and slender, sexy in a way, having this dangerous attitude about her. “She will be like your parole officer, let’s just say – she’s there to look after you, so if you screw up, I will know – it is the most suitable solution for all of us”. He looked down at his desk. “Lord Melon, since you have not spoken I assume you take a complete side with Sir Sherbet here, which leaves you in the same fully responsible position as him. You three are on this task for now on, I do not care how many people dies, how many Christmases cancelled, how many baby otters have to suffer or how many latte’s you have to drink. The expenses of your personal pleasure during your mission to obtain the objective will be paid for by yours truly. I do this only because I feel very strongly about this particular case, so gold should not be of your concern. You do of course understand that this generosity has a reasonable limit, yes gentlemen, I believe we are done here. You too my lady, so if you would be so kind to get lost, get on with it and leave me alone would you? Thank you”. Sir Sherbet and Lord Melon bowed and scurried hurriedly out of the room, while Miss M. Eow merely nodded before she strode elegantly out of the office. The door closed and the room was only lit by the light from the lively nightlife of Gimpsmock-Fillings coming from through the window. The curtains closed, and alone in the darkness sat Kaptain Kill.

The original draft for "Olives, Trains and a Slightly Fruity Fompfer" is finally posted - note that the intro is very different from the rest of the story, which is why it is removed in the latter versions.

200 letters for Mason

It was a wonderfully calm morning, Shallow Dump was draped in this foggy, summer-morning heat that stuck to everything. Drops of dew were dripping from the roses outside Shallow Dump n.18, the biggest, most crooked house in the street. The big, old and bent house, with the exceptionally overgrown garden, belonged to Mason Rembrandt.

Loaded outside this very huge, fertile garden with it's red brick house behind it, on this wonderfully calm morning, was a pile of letters about the size of a large television set.
The envelopes were all addressed to the same place, in colours of yellow, blue, white, brown, green and some even red, and all of them had been left by the porch of n. 18.

Parts of the mail delivery had been mashed into the mailbox with great force, indicating the mailman wasn't especially thrilled by the idea of having to load 200 more letters than usual in his bags this morning. You could also tell by the sledge leaned up against the stonefence, covered in tiny bits of paper.

The tall and stilty Mason came staggering out of her house. That was the way she moved, slightly like a giant, she had the longest legs in the world, today wearing her gigantic green rubber-boots. Mason had very characteristic cheekbones placed in a hollow, milky face. As usual she was wearing her catty glasses.
Her ginger hair stood out in every direction, making her look like she was wearing an agitated red cat on her head.

The moment Mason realised that a mountain of letters were piled up in front of her house, she let out an excited squeal. Like the wind she ran up to the attic and kicked all the boxes with junk into the same corner. With amazing haste she swept the floor quickly with a mouldy old broom.
She didn't have time to even consider breakfast before late afternoon the same day. Every single letter had been sorted after colour in the huge attic, stacked neatly beside each other. The fuzzed, gingerly striped cat, Scruffy, was purring in the sunlight beside Mason, that sat with her legs crossed in the centre of all the letters. In one hand holding a cold cup of tea (that she had completely forgotten), and in the other hand, a long, long letter.

Her mouth had slightly opened, completely unaware of the world around her. Beside her was a few biscuits on a plate, but they had not been touched, and a glass of milk had tipped over when she was reaching for a new letter earlier. But sitting among all this mess, she was glued to the floor for hours. Outside, Shallow Dump was consumed by darkness, but in the flickering light from the old bulb in the roof, she sat like a statue and read through every single of the first 200 letters that were for Mason.

//mason

The first letter for Mason

Out of all the letters that had ever been sent to Mason, the first one she ever got, was the most remarkable one. She put that above all the others, even though it had been kept in the huge attic with all the other letters for six years, it was now where it belonged, in her minuscule kitchen, framed.

Everyday, as she was frying up bacon and toast, her cat stroking itself against her stilty legs, she would look over to that frame, looking at the nervous little handwriting spreading across the red paper. If she bent over a bit closer, perhaps when wiping her hands clean on her apron, she could read what it said. She had read it so many times, she nearly knew it by heart.

My Dad

First I want to apologize, -sorry dad, sorry I ran away and you looked everywhere for me. I'm sorry I was nowhere to be found. So sorry.
I know my life has always been a bit secluded from you. Even living in the same house as you for the better part of my life haven't really made us open up to each other. This is my last chance of showing my integrity and to be absolute and honest with you dad. And this time it is essential that you at least try to understand. Just try, please.

There is never a chance in the world you will ever accept what I have done or what I will do in my life. I'm telling you that you couldn't ever respect me or praise me, because I was never enough for you, I was never the daughter you wanted to have. I can't be someone I'm not. And I know I've tried, I've tried and tried, sometimes I catch myself in the middle of trying again, but I know for a fact that it is useless to even attempt. Because you are as a mountain.
You are as a mountain, your head so far up, my small words could never reach you, so far up, you could look down at everything I did and was, so far up, you were always in control, so far up the air was thinner and more important up where you were.

Well forget about that, I'm not looking for an apology, I just want a certain level of acceptance, after all, you are my father, and despite a lot of different things, I still love you.

There are exactly 11 years between Hector and me. Hector is now 28, and me, your daughter, is 17.
I think this is the part where the raised eyebrows come in, and you build that high wall of ignorance and disgrace around you. I can't get past that, and I'm prepared for that. Instead of attempting to get your blessing, I'd rather just tell you what my life is like right now.

I have never been better, never better, never ever in my life have I been better. Never better than right now, right here with Hector. I'm living in his flat in Lovlenton, I'll have my final grade exams done by next spring and I'll get a job through Hectors company. We are planning on having children dad, you'll be a grandpa.

Hector proposed in February, we had a small ceremony and got married in May.
I am now a wife, I'm a student, I'm a lover and one day I'll be a mother too. Know that dad, that no matter what happens, and even though you will never see me again,
I'll always be
Your devoted daughter
Ally.

The Character Mason

Mason Rembrandt, being a dreamy, useless and clumsy person, has only one goal in life and that is to help people out. She has lost the apparent ability to do anything properly anymore and has let it crash out that way. Currently she lives in an over-dimensioned house made of bricks along a crooked road on the countryside. She has a little vegetable garden in her back yard, lined a long a river that runs past her house. Mason is a typical free spirit and spends her time best reading letters sent to her from all over the world, by people in pain. Read about Mason, her backyard and the letters and wherever that leads her.

The letter you never dared send

She was dredging through her old letters, shuffling through the envelopes, paper flying across the floor and slowly landing backside up on the scruffy wooden floor.

All around her towered massive mountains of letters, letters of love and devotion, letters of sympathy and understanding, letters filled with humour and comfort and letters of hate and anger. But she couldn't find that excact letter, the letter she had been digging after for two days straight. Her throat felt soar and dry in the crispy-papered air. Everywhere old stamps were fading underneath layers of dust, same as with the adress written on the envelopes. The adress these letters had all been sent to.

To Mason
The Letter I never Dared to Send
Shallow Dump 18
67 578 Forgeson

She had started the program across the internet, a website that was there for peoples own pain only. People posted long, complicated situations from their lives, they met comfort and unleashed their pain to the world. After just seven months her bandwidth had exploded, there was no way she could pay for more, as her job painting fences of the nearby old houses didn't pay off very well.
So she changed the website.

This website has been closed down, The Painful Program has been changed to a manual channel, which means you have to send your thoughts through old-fashioned mail. Yes, letters.
So, as a dare, send me the letters you never dared to send to get the pain off your chest.

The message was followed by Masons adress, for a while it was silent. She would stroll up the crooked street, peek down into the mailbox, pick up the occasional bill, or the letters that had been delivered to her by mistake.
Else than that, there was nothing, nothing for three weeks. It had been an especially hot summer, painting fences gave her neck and the lower of her back an excellent tan, but the rest of her was basically soaked in sweat and paint. So she spent the days away from the internet, listening to the birds sing, sitting in the frying sun, enjoying the light summer silence.

Peeking down her mailbox randomly one of these boiling days, her eyes fell upon a tiny, red envelope.

She picked it up and carefully read the address, she read it twice. Then one more time. It was indeed adressed for her and her house. She looked up at her red brick house and checked the number on her door, just to be sure, even though she knew her address well. She then read the description on the envelope one more time. Yes, it was for her.

Glowing with anticipation and with a heart thumping with excitement, Mason forgot all about paint, sweat, birds and the sun. The door slammed behind her, she let herself slide down the back of her door until she was sitting on the cool hallway floor leaning against the door. Her fingers ripped the envelope open and a neatly folded letter slipped out.

Her fingers were shaking and struggling to unfold it, resulting in curling it further. She licked her lips, they tasted salty with sweat and sweet with paint-remove chemicals.

She could remember that emotion so well, the feelings flowing through her as the first letter arrived.

Mason flung the shovel up into the air and shrieked with happiness. On the floor, just digged out, lay a tiny red envelope.

//Mason

The Character Angela

Angela Higgons is a 34 year old, un-married woman with a career going down hill.
She feels as if her life is incomplete and currently a roaming chaos. Which it is as well.
A compulsive liar with a twisted angle to life and relationships is struggling to find the man of her dreams. She lives in a hot-shot flat alone and paranoid with a pair of binnoculars in her window sill, always ready to look out for the man of her life. Read about Angela Higgins and her desperate attempts to find the perfect one for her...

The Character Frannie

Frandela Twain Broomshead (aka Frannie) is a 23 year old woman from West Newbury, Essex. According to her doctor, Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling, she suffers from pretty much every phobia imaginable. Because of this, she takes series of heavy
rehabilitation classes in the vague hope of once recovering. She lives of government support and her hobbies include injections and vaccinations, shopping and dieting. Frannie also quite enjoys rubbing herself with itch relieving salves and creams or
painting her apartment over and over again. Struggles with love-life and finding her phobic place in the world creates an obscure world around her.
This blog features her experiences with the mentioned.

Quotes from incidents in her life!
"I could tell he was lying, because his lips were moving"
by Tina - Anger Management Group
"I swear te God, 't was tryin' ter kill me. It was at me legs and evr'thin" by Lex - Alektorophobia Relief
"Sometimes, at night. I can hear the sound of a polyester sweater climbing my bed post" by Lily - Textophobia Management
"Sitting on a chainsaw didn't remove the pain, or the fear. Now I realise that" by Graham - Rectophobia and Meditation Class
"I thought to be terrified of glasses and porcelain was perfectly normal, then my dog ran into our new verandah door until it died, and I realised I had a problem" by Edward - Nelophobia Therapy Circle
"My heart is longing, so full of love still, but no prince that can quench his thirst in it. I guess it's broken, undrinkable, poisonous.Unlovable" by Angela - Monophobia Lessons

Everything in this blog about Frannie or other characters is purely fictional except phobia names. Treatments discussed in this blog is not given from professionals and is not recommended for actual patients.
To learn more about phobias, visit
Phobialist.com

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Obsession.

Randomly I had picked out a man from the bakery the other morning.

He was a nobody, wasn't he?

Not very tall, a bit round here and there, deep eyes, blonde, curled hair. How original. Dark eyes and light, fluffed angel-hair. He spoke with his unsteady accent. Where was his accent from? I was trying to get myself captivated, lost, drowned, drenched in him.
Seems it was harder than I thought. Why wouldn't love come by force? Why wouldn't those emotions sparkle and shine and glow and.. And glisten? Why wouldn't they? Why wouldn't I be able to sense his presence, or think about him for hours, why wouldn't I lay awake? Why not?

Because love can not be achieved by force? What kind of bullshit is that?
Of course it can! All that would be needed was for him to fall in love me. And I would make him do. I would. I would make him love me, that way I could just give more than I would take, all the way. Try to be resourceful and fascinating, I wouldn't tire him out, wouldn't let him go.

Then suddenly behave like a witch, be rude, short, take him for granted. Make him want me, need me. Oh yes.
All I would need was a perfect place in which I could trap him. But where? The bakery, was it too obvious? Hm, I tried. I tried the bakery, went several times, stalked it. Parked my car outside it and watched for nearly an hour.
nothing.

So I had to make another plan. I hadn't seen him for two days, he could be anyone from anywhere and I wouldn't know. I might never see him again. I had to make a plan. But how could I do that if I didn't even know where he was? How? How would I be able to see him again?

I walked around the area around my house, looking like a dump obviously, no need to put my face on before I had him cornered. It was exactly what I shouldn't have been thinking, because as I was in the middle of another plan I barged right into him. His eyes were calm, warm and caring. His unsteady accent retorting millions of apologies. The hood of my raincoat had slipped back, revealing a face that hand't seen concealer or mascara for three days.

My heart skipped at least five beats.

Shit.

But he seemed completely unaffected by the dark bags under my eyes, the spots a screaming red, the uncoloured lashes or my dry, chapped lips. Even the face he was looking upon that was now flourishing with embarassment he looked upon with admiring eyes. These deep, dark, sexy eyes.

Love by force. How ridiculous.

//Angela

French cooking course

was absolutely splendid! You should all try it!
Today we made a most amazing Chicken cordon bleu with ham and cheese!

YUMMEH.

/frannie

Equilibrium

The state where everything is perfectly balanced.

I can't say that's anything near the state in which I'm right now. Everything around me seems turbulent in some way, especially loosing a job last week and all the courses I had to catch up with in addition.
The only good thing that actually came out of getting a new phobia (though my doctor has now seemed to cure me from this through hours of phone-therapy) was a closer contact with Xander.

Yesterday I was at a new class again, this was for people suffering with Obsessive-Compulsive disorders, it's called Clear-path - "Your way out of the maze", and it surprised me with showing progress among the group already on my first night there!

It was all very quiet, we were having a little break, drinking cheap tea and just chatting silently. Though for those too disordered to be able to keep a conversation these breaks were spent rocking back and forth in their chairs like cramped fetuses.
Among the silence a very pale person got up, his name-tag was a different colour from all us others, so I figured he was attempting the wrong course. That, though, didn't seem to affect him the least. The room hurried into empty silence and he was standing straight like a monument.

"I now realise that I've been captured within my own mind" he said, his eyes were shiny and his voice shook. "I -I now realise" he continued. "T-that, I'm not a jellyfish anymore".

"- I'm a dumpster with a radar".

Clearly puzzled I sat absent-mindedly through my next classes, I thought I'd already seen a lot of crazy things.
Though apparently,
I had not.

//Frannie

Ambulophobia

I was lying in bed, today I had lots to do. First I was going to see the doctor again. Then I was going to go to a job interview for a job as a reseptionist at Winston Estates Ltd. Then I was going to the usual Anger Management Group, Monophobia Lessons, Alektorophobia Relief and then Russophobia - How to Avoid It. I was then around nine-ish going out to dinner with Xander.

Everything seemed to fill my mind so full, I couldn't think. The worst was what to wear, I mean, this was my first job interview in two years! I had been shopping yesterday, you know, the sophisticated - yet, elegant and educated, not preppy, just proper, but with a slight edge - outfit. And I didn't want to look repulsive either. After six hours I went to the cashier, handing in my two new outfits. Of course I needed one for the date with Xander as well.

But right now, as I was lying in bed looking at them hanging over a chair, I felt very unsatisfied. I couldn't wear that, I thought. Now wondering whatever I'd been thinking. Yes the blue dress for tonight was very pretty, but the cleavage was enormous! I would look like the biggest slag in West Newbury! Oh dear. The suit for the job interview was sober enough, and the shoes with the little heels made my legs just look a tad bit longer, they were perfect. But I hadn't prepared enough for that interview. The twentynine pages of notes I'd taken about Winston Estates Ltd. (including their entire website being memorized) just wouldn't do it, would it? After all, I had very little work experience, and I wouldn't manage to answer their questions. I'd probably have a seizure and die right there, in a leather chair, pouring starbucks all over my new suit.
ih, how horribly embarassing.

I had already overslept, I had to get up immediatly to get to the doctor in time before the interview, his office was way across town. Still I couldn't move. Everything inside me was shaking and squirming, I was completely immobilized.

I shook like a little leaf, sweating. Felt that suffocating emotion flow through me, quickly I reached for Phobias and where to Find them - by Claus T. Rophob and flipped through the pages quickly. I let my index-finger slowly flow down page after page ",,,Unable to walk, unable to walk" I repeated to myself.

"aha!" I let out, triumphantly "Ambulophobia, the absolute fear of walking" I read "Your fear of walking can result in the following symptoms:
breathlessness, dizziness, excessive sweating, nausea, dry mouth, feeling sick, shaking, heart palpitations, inability to speak or think clearly, a fear of becoming mad or losing control, a sensation of detachment from reality or a full blown anxiety attack." I continued. Let my book drop to my lap.
Fuck.

What kind of time is this to earn a new phobia?
I got a few calls during the day, from Winston Estates Ltd. saying they had been waiting for me and had now given the job to somebody else. Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling's secretary called, saying I missed my appointment and that they set a new one for next thursday at 8:30. Then my tutor from Russophobia - How to Avoid It just making sure I was okay and that I hadn't been eaten by a rabid Russian. Then Jenny Amkins called, saying she missed me when she was at Monophobia Lessons alone.
Finally, Xander called, saying he was bringing me chinese and a hot water bottle.

I then dragged myself along the floor to the computer with my arms and wrote this to you.
oh, the phone is ringing again.

//Frannie

Doctor Howard Ulrich Fields Eeling

Since I was three Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling have been my doctor. According to my dad he was a good friend of my mother, but my mother said Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling was a good friend of my dad. So seeing they both denied their acquaintance with my Doctor, I found it best to not ask any questions.

But unfortunately, he asked me.

"So, Ms. Twain Broomshead" he said, in the usual 'let's start' tone of voice. "How is your mother?" I was taken aback to be honest, didn't expect him to ask about my mum. -"she''s" I said, "She's fine" I said, searching his PhD-face for answers. -"I'm glad to hear" He said. "She hasn't" He looked down at his hands and hesitated "erhm. mentioned me, has she?" he asked. I was being rude, but I couldn't help it. - "No!" I said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world (as it was!) He didn't seem offended at all by my rude behaviour. Just shuffled some papers and looked me right in the eyes. I couldn't look away.

- "Your mum and I" he said. His eyes just widening slightly, "we were made for each other". I was expecting some dramatic explanations, a wild accusation perhaps, some huge gesticulations and a few loud words. But he said nothing. He simply grabbed his pen, clicked it and didn't mention what we had just talked about.

With my purse full of new pills and medications and the worlds most puzzled expression glued to my face, I left Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling's office this morning.

I really have no idea what he was going on about. My mum? And my doctor?

That's just gross!

//an upset Fran

Strengthen Your Inner Woman

"I'm so glad you're here, welcome everyone" she said. Her hair was tied back in a very tight knot, gathering into a thick brown ball at the back of her long head. She was sitting high above everyone else in a tall chair, surveying everyone from above. She let her hands fold gently in to her lap, waited, waiting for us to finally become silent. Squeezing hands, speaking names and introducing ourselves until we were all neatly sitting in a horseshoe formation around her.

She let the silence remain for a few seconds, let every last uncomfortable shift pass until she spoke. "Only 1 out of 4 people with a panic disorder receive treatment." Her voice was cool, straight and clear. There was no way anyone could misunderstand her words. Her face glanced over all the women in the room.
"Twice as many women suffer panic disorder than men." She said, her last word sounding final.

"Therefore, it's very important that every last one of you, attend each and every one of my classes. This is going to be tough, and if you're not prepared to work, then you can walk out the door right now". - ow, I thought. She was one of those. The ones that liked to scare and gather respect. The kind that pretended like her job was extraordinary, like nobody could do it like her. That it was a lot of work and that everyone that attended her courses were very "strong" people. A confidence-booster kind of person, I thought.
My lines of thought were suddenly broken as a very good looking woman suddenly got up.

- "I've had enough of this shit" she said flatly. Turning on her high heels and stroding out of the room. A slight murmur spread across the tiny group of women. Nobody seemed to notice the fact that their tutor was looking so taken aback she was about to fall off her very tall chair. And as I thought this, she rumbled to the floor. Indeed she rumbled, the skinny womans bones cacked and banged against the ground underneath her. - "What is this place?!" a woman called, dividing the masses of women now gathering around the tutor on the ground. "The woman clearly needs a beating" she said, rolling her sleeves up and delivering a punch right in the nose of the tutor.

I looked into Jenny Amkins equally shocked face. "What on earth are you doing?!" Jenny Amkins called to the woman, but it was not to be heard by anyone but myself, now every last one of them were involving in the crazy situation by either cheering or delivering punches in whatever directions they liked.
This was better entertainment than "Eastenders" I thought for myself. Watching the amount of blood on the ground rapidly increase.

The chaos then suddenly came to a halt. A very old woman with so many wrinkles she looked like a little grey raisin was running around in circles and screaming. "THE BADGERS!!!" she shrieked. The women gave each other puzzled looks. "THEY'RE ALL OVER!!" she continued. As sudden as it had all started, it stopped. Nobody seemed interested in fighting anymore. People just slowly picked their handbags up, now and then wiping blood from their noses or trying to rub bloodstains off their clothes with spit. After a few moments nearly all of them had limped their way out of the room, the old lady still screaming.

"We better get out of here" Jenny Amkins said, gathering her things from underneath her chair as well. I couldn't agree more.

Let's just put it this way.
Strengthen Your Inner Woman - "Don't be afraid" - Women Therapy Liberation Group Doesn't exist anymore.

Frannie

Xander, here boy!

- "What you like the most about our time together?" He asked, clearly fishing for compliments. - "The food" I said. He looked deflated. -"so, so I might just be a pizza sitting right here then?" He said, smiling, but seeming a bit insecure.

-"Don't be silly!" I said, snickering. "A pizza doesn't have a car!"

His eyes were searching my face for traces of a joke, but I hid them carefully. He didn't find them, and was left uneasily in his seat as I excused myself to the ladies room.

Since then he's followed me around like a dog.

//Frannie

- ring ring?

I really don't know what to say.
Trying hard to get over everthing that had to with Xander (scroll down!) He called me very early this morning. My phone just wouldn't stop ringing, by the time I was digging my head deeper into my pillows I was fully awake. I grabbed it, saw his name across the display. Fuck.
I answered, but didn't say a thing, just listened to his breath.
Clearly drunk his voice seemed to break every second sentence.

"Frannie" he said coarsely "Frannie, baby" he said, I could tell he was drunk. "What the fuck happened Fran? You di-dn't call me!" I swallowed, didn't know if I could say his name without crying. "Fran?" he said. I remained silent. "Are you pissed at me Fran? What's wrong?" I didn't dare to speak, just sat there and listened. I could hear him lick his lips, then bite them. "oh, God, Fran" I was upsetting him. "I should've called you, I'm so-rry" He said, his voice breaking in the middle of his apologize.

- "no" I said, testing my voice. "No, no it's not your fault". Surprisingly I was calm, my voice was steady. "I should've called you Xander, I just didn't have the time. I'm the one who should be sorry". I could hear his cheek touch the phone as he smiled. - "so great to hear your vo-ice" he said, his own voice breaking again. - "ditto" I said, smiling too.

"Where are you?" I asked. - "outside your flat, it's wet here". The rain was splashing down outside my third floor window. I giggled. - "like to borrow my shower?" I said. He laughed. - "if you could be so kind".

He smelled awful as he came in my door, soaked and unshaved. "What have you been doing?!" I asked. Never seen him like that before. - "oh" he said, shrugged, his raincoat squeaked. "you know, not much". I shook my head and let his words hang in the air. - "Xander" I said, but didn't touch him. I was glad he wasn't like my other ex, Liam Smithers, he suffered from Ablutophobia, the fear of bathing. So I let him undress and heard the shower going. So strange to have him back in my flat. - "COULD I BORROW YOUR RAZORS?!" he shrieked from within the shower cabinet. I smiled to myself. - "knock yourself out" I said. I was digging through my closet, trying to find something that might fit him, but there was nothing. "I don't have any dry clothes for you" I said through the bathroom door. - "Get me a towel and I'll be pleased" he said.

And he was.

I made us toast and tea. We just cuddled up together like nothing had ever happened between us. Like it was just a few days ago we spent that weekend in Boxford together. I'm speechless!

Alright, have to go, I have to finish my Alliumphobia "Cure your fear of garlic" - course before I attend that cooking class on wednesday. (iih, excited!)

*Frannie*

Fear and Relaxation

- "it is said that the relaxation response counters the fear response." She said. Her nails a red woosh through the air as she was gesticulating wildly.

The class scribbled as mad. I had long since stopped taking notes in classes. I found it better to sit perfectly still and just absorb everything. Especially when on my Panophobia "How to handle being afraid of everything" - courses, that were clearly the most helpful ones. Automatically I raised my hand. Her enthusiastic, blue-eyes caught mine, they were so broad it often seemed as if she was keeping them open with force. Her gaze inense upon me, she said "yes, Fran?" Her eyes had just popped down to the sticker on my chest for a split second, yet she said my name as she was used to it.
She was good.

"In what way is it best to stimulate a relaxing emotion to counter a panic attack, or a wave of fear?" I asked. Her face froze a split second, like she was having a hard time understanding what I had just said. Then, as a robot responding just a bit slow to it's commands, her body started moving again. "That definitely depends. It's different from person to person. All kinds of things that are looked at as relaxing for some can be upsetting for others. Like being nude for example". Someone made a squeal on the front row.

- "I see" I said "Thank you". The man on the front row, now hyperventilating, was so loud nobody heard my thanks. Though it didn't matter. I'd have to answer my own question myself. Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling had strictly forbidden me from trying to cure myself from my own phobias. I had attempted once before. When suffering from a very heavy Botanophobia (the fear of plants) I had locked myself into a plant nursery at night. The next week I was at the hospital covered in deep, red wounds after crashing through a greenhouse, screaming.

But this time it was different. After snoring through another hour of Cyberphobia (the fear of working on a/using a computer) - remind me to stop going to them! - I took the bus home. I only passed by a news stand to see if I could catch a glimpse of any job-ads, but I didn't really try. My mind far off, elsewhere. Grey weather today, not very nice at all, still quite warm. I collected my mail and got home. Very thoughtful I stumbled past all the painting equipment spread around my apartment (nearly done now!) and heated up some beef and rice from lunch. I need to find a way to use what I learnt today as a way to potentially cure myself.
I'll definitely go see the doctor again as soon as I have time.

Flat-out.

Don't know what to do. What to do?
What to do.

His name is Xander L. Flatford. Perhaps the only specimen of the male sex that has ever let his eyes rest on my eyes instead of letting them just glide past them. He was indeed special. He could do that thing with his face, it made him look extremely strange, but he knew as he would do that, I would burst out into laughter. He could listen, his ears always open, his mouth asking questions, his fingers playing with mine, his head nodding. Wow, what happened?

Thinking back to it, I can't believe I did what I did. I mean, the memories, seem like some Hollywood film. Flashes of us smiling, washing my hallway stairs, he would always help me with that. He would cook me a nice thai stir fry and feed it to me, piece after piece, smiling, laughing, his eyes sparkling from the candlelights. His laughter came out nice and light, afflicted by the wine as he was. He was no poet. He was though, ironically, brilliant with words. His voice would make my knees weak, it would soften my spine, make my face glow with heat.

Xander had two years of schooling as a journalist behind him. For obvious reasons he couldn't finish it. And that's how I met him, at Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia "Don't let the books block your mind" class. To be honest, that's the most silly name of a phobia that could ever exist! It frightens away it's own patients from telling them whats wrong with themselves. A phobia that is against long words that consists of over 30 letters, that's pretty silly.
Anyway, taking those classes together for five months was enough. After sitting in that room, for hours, feeling that heavy chemistry just thickening the room (worse would it be if we by accident touched) and the looks. His deep brown eyes. Wow. Yeah, it was more than enough.

I'm naturally hard to get I think. Always avoiding eye contact, blushing if it would occur. Stare obviously in another direction, freeze if I'd be touched, with Xander it was worse than ever. Without knowing it, I guess that's how I kept him interested for so long. By being something he couldn't achieve, precious, mysterious. Ai, ai. His eyes could show his lust so clearly at times, I didn't know what else to do, but to just smile, desperately trying to hide a face flourishing with colour. His confidence wasn't even intimidating, it was just another one of those things with him. I was free together with him, could talk to him about everything.

We finished our Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia "Don't let the books block your mind" class in May together. Spent a lovely weekend in Boxford with him. But from then on, it just all slipped a part.

Not very clearly. We just glided away from each other. Our conversations didn't loose their spark or chemistry, on the contrary. We just didn't have the time to talk. Classes and courses occupying most of my time, Xander finally returning to his education after 7 months rehabilitating. We were both busy. We didn't call, didn't meet. But I refuse to think either of us actually forgot. Would be hard to do so.

That way Mr. Flatford, flat-out disappeared out of my life. He just disappeared. Haven't talked to him for two months. It wasn't until this morning after I'd taken my usual medication, that I wrapped up in blankets and stared hard out the window. A cold wind tatooing the feeling of tears to my cheeks. My eyes edged with red, I went to Russophobia class this morning. My lector told me tears was a way of the mind to free itself of waste. I cried all the way home on the bus.

- "Salty tears, I'd lick them off your cheeks and whisper silent words to you, to your ears only" He had told me. He had embraced me, squeezed me tight, promised me that he wouldn't ever let me go.
But he did.

Finding my desk is now just covered in tears and it's nearly time for Nelophobia Therapy Circle, I'll end it here.

/Frannie

Wallpaint

The store was about the size of a large arena, the height of the roof was so high, I had to lean heavily on my shopping cart several times during my shopping trip. Huge racks covered in buckets met me at last, after using nearly half an hour down all the rows of screws, hammers, mats, lawn mowers, fertilizers, seeds, shovels, bags of compost, fences, nails, wood boards, pots, garden gnomes and terrace lace.

It struck me at first as a task close to impossible, MI:Wallpaint, wouldn't make a good film. Anyway, suffering from Octophobia as I am, would make it quite hard for me to find a paint that was the excact number of (let me get dad to spell it out, hold on) eight. (I just need to sit down for a bit, my dad and step-mum is about to leave, they seem rather upset after my announcement of suffering from Novercaphobia which is the fear of your own step-mum. But, for my defense, she is awfully intimidating when she does that thing with her teeth that gives her that strong resemblance with a horse, before she laughs mentally. And not to mention her hideous furcoat). So I went over to the counter and handed the man behind it (- his name was Minsc) my folded note of "Brilliant Rosé 8" with my gloved hand.

At first he gave me a quizzical look, and I suddenly recalled what my lector at my Russophobia - How to Avoid It class had told me about treating potential Russians, over whom which I suffer from a neverending paranoia. This person named "Minsc" could just as well be from Belarus, I thought, and that changed everything. I gave him a beaming smile and asked him as sweetly as I could, if he could be a darling and retrieve this colour for me.

Unluckily, he handed me the note back, without even looking at it, and pointed over to the racks of paint "just take the bucket from that row right there madam" he said. It struck me that his English was even more fluent than mine. Simultaneously a pulsating emotion of Octophobia was waving through me. I couldn't get that bucket myself! I tried to stand up straight, but the huge arena (!) was already spinning before me. - "I - I have a bad a-arm" I said, stumbling to retrieve my balance, though standing still as I was. His eyebrows were nearly touching the top of his head by the time he stopped moving them upwards. He then tried to hide an annoyed sigh as he nicked the note out of my hand and walked over to the shelf. With a swift movement he grabbed two buckets and walked back towards me. Slammed them into my cart and smiled so fake, he could've been Jenny Amkins GUCCI bag.

I can't even recall if I said thank you. I felt nauseous and the high racks were now tripling before my eyes. As quick as I could, I pushed my cart towards the entrance, rapidly digging money from my pockets, I got to the cashier, lifted the cart up, even though I felt weak, and emptied the lot over the counter. I had no time to tactically manage to get someone to lift the paint out of the cart for me. The woman looked at me, terrified, but I didn't mind. I was too busy managing to stand up straight. *bip* *bip* *bip* *toc* *toc toc toc* - her manicured nails were beating against the cashier. She said a number, but I was unable to percieve any information. I simply handed her way too much money, grabbed my bags and got out of the store.

The bus ride was relaxing, outside I used some of the techniques from my Panophobia"How to handle being afraid of everything" - course and I soon felt a lot better.

Didn't have time to look into that job thing, but started painting, went to an extra Octophobia class, of course the usual Rectophobia and Meditation Class before having tuna for tea, and then going to bed.

- What a day! Frannie.

I'm thinking, light magenta

Perhaps even something over the scale of deep pink. I think it's about time I retire my limegreen livingroom and change it into something new. There is nothing as satisfying as changes, especially not when it comes to colours around you.

I was at the doctor today again, he claimed the reason why I was having a rash was because of a "new" phobia I have aquired through my hobby of redecorating. He called it Atelophobia - Which is the fear of imperfection. I had him write it down for me because of my Athazagoraphobia That is my fear of being forgotten or ignored or forgetting things. A lot of a- phobias today! hehe!

At the Mottephobia course "Do not seek the Light", where I fight my increasing fear of moths, Jenny Amkin suggested I'd look for a job. Especially seeing my hobbies just seem to encourage more disorders, I might as well have a look around. My neighbour, a rather skinny woman complained over my lack of exercise. "All you do is run back and forth to those classes, you have done so since you were four years old. The only thing you need to realise, is that these aren't helping! You should get out and get some fresh air!" she had said briskly, then slamming her door in my face. She didn't lend me that cup of painkillers either.

So, having to avoid my neighbour as much as possible (which is becoming very very difficult) I'll have to find a job that fits in-between all my classes! But before I do so, I'll discuss that wallpaint further.

- Frannie.

Tina from Anger Management

"A chair is not nice to get thrown at your ear" said Eric.
The group repeated his words solemnly, like robots, clearly without passion, or with understanding.
He smiled sheepishly, seemed satisfied with their progress, at least they were not beating each other up, or calling each other names anymore. I looked over at Tina. She was not moving at all. Her head was even more round and plump than before, somehow it seemed to be swelling. Her eyes slowly increasing their size, her face gaining a deeper red.

It was too late when I discovered that her knuckles were whitening and that she was whispering curses under her breath. I honestly didn't think about warning anyone else, I was keene on saving my own bony ass by diving across the circle of chairs, and hiding behind Pete, the whale-guy.

By the time I had reached Pete's swetty behind, Tina was leaping across the ring once again, a fist above her head, prepared to strike. What drama, I thought. Tina was always that dramatic.

She was about the size of a taxi, her hair tight up in a blonde ponytail. Her nose was lightly specked with tiny freckles, but as she was always upset or angry, those were rarely visible through a plum-red frown.

- "Tina!" Eric called. I couldn't understand how he had the time to do so, being buried underneath her huge body only half a second later. I can recall hearing thumps and thuds, but I can't think of a way that Tina could actually strike Eric at all, as when she sat on his skinny body, she wasn't just covering the whole of him, but also major parts of the floor. Pete stood up from his chair. He was the calmest one of them, and to be frank, I have never seen him angry, not even slightly agitated. His mood seems to be deep down under his fat. He doesn't even smile, never seen him do it. Never.

With a bear paw, Pete grabbed Tina's shoulder and pulled her up from the floor. How, I have no idea, and once again he impressed me with his blatant calmness, even as Tina was pounding away at his chest with blunt fists, crying. Without a speck of emotion he led her swiftly back to her chair and pushed her down into the seat. Tina covered her eyes with her sausage fingers and was shaking in whimpers. Pete then lifted little Eric from the floor. His suit was slightly crumpled, but he himself, seemed to hold such a deep calm, he seemed even more down to earth than Pete.

He couldn't say anything, because as he opened his mouth, his mobile phone let out that liberating "pling!" - meaning the class was over. Tina, with a startling speed for her size, blurted out some words I shall not repeat, before storming out and thundering down the hallway. The room would then rapidly thin out, before it would be completely empty.

I took the bus home, gasping for breath in the tiny passenger seat, feeling a seizure of claustrophobia was attacking me, gulping down unhealthy amounts of asthma medication and stuffing my face with many a colourful pill, when I thought that:
whatever these Anger Management courses were giving me, it wasn't curing anything but my thirst to write a blog.