(///desk.finds.canny – Malmaison Hotel, Leeds, UK)

Nobody could work out the identify of #thebreakfastthief.

It had been going on for a couple of years now. At first, an obscure Instagram internet account with photos of extravagant breakfasts began to pick up a modest following of people enamoured of eggs and avocados.

Then the narrative behind the pictures began to emerge. The mysterious breakfast thief started to boast that none of those delicious breakfasts had actually been paid for, and that the imagery actually showed the fruits of their larceny.

The Breakfast Thief insisted that this pursuit of free breakfasts was not just about eating without paying. It was also about exploiting the system, showing hotels the flaws in their breakfast routines, protecting breakfast for people who had paid for it.

The process was relatively simple. The breakfast thief tended to work shortly after service opened – they were adept at staring at the list of room numbers at the desk at the front of the breakfast area, and then supplying a number that they could see had not yet been ticked off. Nobody ever checked for a name or a room key, they simply asked whether they had eaten breakfast there before.

And so the breakfast thief was able to drink copious juices, tea and coffee, indulge in fruit, pastries and hot treats from the buffet, or order breakfast classics from the menu. And nobody ever knew that they weren’t supposed to be there.

Of course there were scares. There were times that the person whose room number they had stolen came down and stood looking a little bewildered, explaining that they would remember if they had already eaten breakfast and could they please just sit down. The staff would inevitably just relent, assuming a mistake had been made with a different guest, but occasionally they would scan the room, seeing if they remembered who had quoted that room number, even though that information had been forgotten almost as soon as it had been imparted. And of course there was the morning in Bristol when the thief was almost rumbled and had to crawl under the tables to get away, knocking over three chairs and a samovar during their escape.

As The Breakfast Thief’s fame grew, so the stakes got higher, with hotel chains offering ‘a free breakfast to whoever finds the thief’, seemingly without recognising the irony. The thief grew more canny about their breakfast choices, ever earlier starts, scoffing rather than savouring. The energy seemed to go out of the postings – as follower numbers boomed so the new material became more infrequent, the risk of being caught beginning to eliminate the thrill of the free French Toast.

And then the posts stopped. At first, nobody realised. After all, a couple of weeks without a breakfast thief post was nothing, garnered no comment. But three weeks, four weeks, a couple of months – suddenly it began to dawn on the hordes of followers that #thebreakfastthief was no more, that the hunt for free breakfast had simply stopped with no announcement, no fanfare.

Fans felt short-changed – they would never know who the breakfast thief had been, what they had done before and what they were doing now. And then people moved onto other things, and hotel breakfast staff could relax once more.

A few weeks later, an Instragram account called #thedinnerthief went live.    

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Why this location?

(///lifeforms.perceptual.pasts – Atlas Film Studios, Ouarzazate, Morocco)

“He’s ruining it for everybody,” Malcolm muttered for the umpteenth time under his breath.

“Sssh dear,” Maureen replied for the umpteenth time. “It’ll soon be over.”

“But that’s just the point,” Malcolm hissed. “This was going to be the highlight of our trip. And he’s ruining it for everybody.”

Maureen smiled indulgently. “You mean he’s ruining it for you.”

In that assertion she was largely correct. Most people in the tour group were allowing the ramblings of the gangly figure with his notebook to just wash over them, nodding indulgently and then moving discreetly away. But Malcolm couldn’t seem to shake him, forever finding himself having to listen to those wild theories.

So instead of enjoying anecdotes about the many films that had been made in the desert studio and admiring the impressive range of authentic sets, statues, plants and other lifeforms from across Egyptian, South American, Roman and Chinese history, he instead had to endure a man who identified himself as an amateur archaeologist with unique perceptual skills, a man who was convinced that this film studio actually gave credence to the theories in his self-published series of books The Scripts of History.

The tour ended and Malcolm was finally able to relax and salvage what he could of the day. But on the coach back to the hotel he found he couldn’t shake the nonsense his brain had been subjected to for the previous hour.

It’s true, he was amused by the notion that if someone dug up the film studio site in 500 years’ time, they might well conclude that a range of diverse cultures had lived harmoniously in close proximity to one another, leading to a raft of inaccurate historical conjecture.

But to extrapolate from there that most of history was in fact derived from fiction, that historical figures were simply the acting stars of their age, and that the accounts of ancient pasts uncovered from tablets and carvings were not fact, they were scripts or novels or publicity material, well that seemed a step too far. Malcolm needed to stop filling his brain with such nonsense and just focus on remembering what he could from the afternoon’s excursion.

**

Nimlot was exhausted. He sat down and handed his robes to a runner, who gave him a mug of beer and a plate of pomegranates and dates in return. He stretched his feet out and surveyed the sands beyond him, ripping up his papyrus script and tossing it into a basket.

He could hear people chiselling away behind him, committing the tale of the Battle of Kadesh to stone so that it could be taken the masses to drum up excitement ahead of the first performance of new Ramses II adventure. He was already looking forward to first night after party and spending more time with Bastet. Her performances as Nefertari had brought them close during rehearsals, and he knew that they would continue to work together for many years to come if off-screen romance blossomed.

He wouldn’t miss Giza. The pyramids were sometimes too dark for rehearsals, notwithstanding the drama they gave to performances. The new city being built, which he had heard would be named Pi-Ramesses in honour of the long-running Ramesses franchise, promised better facilities and opportunities for more expansive story telling.

Nimlot sat back. Acting brought pleasure to millions. It didn’t matter that he and his stories would be forgotten by history, it was enough to make people happy now. He drank his beer and smiled.

_______________________

Why this location?

(///range.linked.regime – Black Park Country Park, Buckinghamshire, UK)

Ducking Useless: A Bizarre Cold War Failure, by Duncan Smithson, Europe Correspondent

The trove of recently declassified papers from the Government has given people a fascinating insight into the lengths that spy chiefs went to in their efforts to entrap suspected spies at the height of the Cold War.

Yet while social media debate rages over whether the Brandenburg Concerto Sting or the Beans on Toast Gambit was more ludicrous, a new contender has emerged from the leafy quiet of a country park.

There had long been suspicion that Economics Professor Ernest Jameson was using his role as a respected academic to feed information back to the regime in Moscow. However, no tangible evidence was forthcoming, and MI5 chiefs were preparing to move on to other targets.

The newly released documents detail how the desperate spooks became fixated on Professor Jameson’s regular visits to a local lake and resorted to an elaborate operation to try and gain the information they needed.

Jameson visited the lake every Saturday morning to allow his son to feed the ducks, but it had been noted that a revolving cast of men and women would often come to speak to them, and some of these associates had been recognised and linked to other ongoing spying investigations.

To get close enough to the conversation to record what was being said, MI5 set to building a mechanical duck with a camera and recording device housed inside. The plan was for the duck to record what was being said once it was in range, and this evidence could then be used to apprehend their target.

Regrettably, those building the duck had failed to account for Jameson’s son’s love of his weekend visits and his deep knowledge of all of the birds in the lake. He quickly spotted that there was a new duck, but told his father in animated tones how its movement was jerky, unlike the smooth movement of the ducks he recognised, how its feathers shone like metal in the sunlight, and how the webbing on its feet stayed a uniform size rather than contracting in and out as the duck swam along.

MI5 only heard this exchange when the duck returned to them, where the son’s detailed description of the duck’s less than lifelike appearance was followed by Jameson declaiming ‘You will have to do better than that’, before blowing a lengthy raspberry intended for his pursuers.

Jameson vanished from his job within a few days, and though it was rumoured that he resurfaced as Professor Arnold Gilbert in a different area of the country some months later, he was never caught.

The story is another historical embarrassment for the British Intelligence Services, and leaves many wondering why the files were released, given they do nothing beyond making those working at the time look anything but intelligent.

If you knew Ernest Jameson, or you were his son, and you would like to contact us, simply email contact@thescandalpaper.com.

______________________________

Why this location?

(///games.unrealistic.rice – Highgate Cemetery, London)

It started with the letter. At first Oliver dismissed it as an elaborate hoax. His great-great grandfather Edward Morris had not travelled through time from the 19^th century, hand-crafted a beautiful missive with fountain pen on thick, cream paper, stuck a stamp on the envelope, posted it, and then gone back to his own era.

But the more he thought about it, the more intrigued he became, especially when Dominic chided his brother for his scepticism. As he pointed out, the letter contained family details which they knew to be true but which had only been handed down aurally through the generations. He had described in detail the processes he had undertaken to travel through time. And finally he had outlined how they could prove the veracity of what he was saying, as clearly this letter would never be enough.

“That’s all very well,” Oliver retorted. “But nobody is going to let us exhume his body.”

Dominic refused to take no for an answer. The obvious authorities were predictably dismissive but he reasoned that an unorthodox request needed a similar approach. So he started posting snippets of the letter on social media. He got the local newspaper interested. He managed to land a brief radio slot. Television news programmes booked them. A trickle of pressure became a tidal wave as popular opinion demanded that the Morris grave be dug up.

And so it was that Oliver and Dominic found themselves in Highgate Cemetery standing across from a a degraded tombstone, with cameras behind them and diggers ahead, the exhumation about to begin.

“It’s a weird inscription,” Oliver said, remembering that the letter had urged them to pay particular attention to it.

“Pretty hard to read now,” Dominic concurred. But they both broadly agreed that it said: ‘Here Lies Edward Morris. His Games seemed Unrealistic at times, but the truth will prevail’.

“Pretty meaningless,” Oliver concluded. “And those italics don’t help anybody.”

The diggers dug. The brothers spoke to reporters. TV crews scurried around taking various meaningful shots. And after what seemed like an age, a dark brown wooden coffin was brought to the surface and placed gently on the path.

TV channels went live. Everyone else held their breath as the lid was prised open. And Oliver and Dominic advanced with the camera to see what was inside.

They weren’t sure what they were expecting, but the first view was underwhelming. Bones and teeth were still intact, but the sense of a whole skeleton had long since passed. At first there seemed little else to see and reporters were already starting to talk about this revealing nothing special.

“What’s that,” Oliver said.

There were some small metal objects, sitting roughly where the body’s hands would have been.

“He was holding something in the coffin,” Dominic said.

The cemetery staff reached in and delicately took out the objects, handing them to brothers. They turned them over in their hands.

‘They’re small letters,” Oliver said. “What do they mean?” He examined them, turning them over again and again I. R. E C. Irec? Crie?”

“Rice,” Dominic confirmed. “It’s rice. Can’t think of another word.”

They shook their heads. What did it mean? What did it prove? Not much.

Oliver looked at the gravestone again. “The letter said the headstone mattered. Maybe the two words in italics. Games. Unrealistic. And then Rice. No there’s nothing in that. Those three words don’t mean much together.”

Dominic nodded. “Absolutely,” he agreed. “Unless it’s a what3words address of course,” he laughed.

They stared at each other in astonishment and then grabbed for their phones.

__________________________

Why this location?

(///magpie.tracking.loudness – Janefield, Ardbeg, Isle of Bute)

As in a dream I wander
the derelict shell of my old home
from room to room,

a hazy ghost of my past,
a child barely formed,
sidling now into hindsight,

sidling then into parent’s lives,
the heat of family,
the beat of another age.

Then there was headlong push of days,
both carefree and careworn
balancing themselves.

Where once was loudness of youth,
shouts to come in for dinner,
now corvid majesties, crow and magpie,

lord it over these memories,
strut and argue along childhood spaces
tracking through dust and age-long times.

This reverie of revisiting of course can but fail
to halt feelings of inevitable loss
and the measure of close-guarded love.

_______________________________

Why this location? Guest author Laurie Donaldson explains the background to his choice of location. Laurie  is a poet and educator, and has had poems published in Dreich, Blue Bottle Journal, Cold Moon Journal, BRAG Writers Literary Magazine, Ink in Thirds (forthcoming), Power Cut magazine (forthcoming) and the Primo Poetica Collection, as well as anthologies. Follow Laurie on Instagram at @powanpoetry or on X at @LaurieDD