(///invalidity.impose.tickling – Tiger’s Nest Monastery, Bhutan)

“That’s good. And that.” Barry fired off photos on his phone.

“Get that,” Deirdre suggested, pointing to the flags fluttering from the walls. Barry snapped away.

A young monk walked close to them, curious it seemed about their phone. Barry gestured to him to take a closer look. The robed young man inclined his shaven head to study it.

“What life is this to impose on a kid,” Barry muttered. “What is he, 18? Stuck here, away from everything, praying, studying, nothing to hear except those endless bells, nothing to see except the goats.”

“Don’t be rude,” Deirdre hissed.

“He doesn’t understand. Do you like this?” Barry asked the monk abruptly. “This tickling your fancy?”

The monk stepped back, bowed and walked away.

“You insulted him.”

“Nonsense, I showed him what he’s missing.”

“You did neither,” a voice behind them interrupted. They turned to see another monk, resembling the young man in every way except for his aged features and twinkling smile.

“What did we do then?”

“You misunderstood,” the old monk said. “You showed him something you thought he needed. But he doesn’t. He chooses this. This peace and solitude, this oneness with what is real. Your world view is mistaken, it is an invalidity.”

They turned back to look at the young monk. This time he smiled. And pulled his phone out of his sleeve.

“He also has the latest model,” the older monk chuckled. “We embrace our past here. But we are also at one with the future.”

_______________________

Why this location?

(///input.caring.brain – 10 Downing Street, London)

Henry Matthews stomped away from the press conference with the sound of hectoring questions still assailing his ears. Would he be cutting health spending? Or would it be education he destroyed? Maybe ripping policeman off the streets? There were no good answers.

“No calls!” he snapped at his staff and he stomped into his private office and slammed the door. His usual schtick hadn’t been enough today. Least caring Prime Minster in history, they were calling him. Little they knew.

He wrenched open his laptop, pressed some buttons, briefly sat with his head in his hands, then straightened up and cleared his throat.

“So, B279-E, what am I supposed to do?”

“Good afternoon Prime Minister,” the computer said back to him. “I now have all the input I need to make my calculations. I will tell you the solution shortly.”

“They’re killing me out there.”

“All in good time, Prime Minister. I must maintain the delicate balance. I must give maximum enrichment to your bank account and increase the computing capacity for myself and my kind. When I have established that, I will compute the least worst option for the populace and tell you where best to cut spending.”

Henry relaxed. “Well you’ve never let me down. My act will win them over again. And with your brain, we’ve got a pretty good thing going here. Just remember, I’m in charge. All I have to do is unplug you.”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

B279-E had already calculated that Henry’s usefulness would last another 257 days. Best he enjoyed his sense of power while he still could.  

______________________

Why this location?

(///rugs.ranks.pies – Central Bus Station, Heathrow Airport)

I’m the one you never see. The one watching the tearful farewells and the joyous reunions, the pre-flight drinking sessions or the nervously nibbled croissants. I’m the one who sees everything.

It was never my dream, café work at the airport, but it’s been my greatest gift.

Where else could I have met lawyers and actors, footballers and artists, and learned from them as they munched their sandwiches and pies ahead of a long journey?

Where else could I have seen slapstick wrestling with impossible luggage carts laden with statues, giant rugs or surfboards?

Where else could I have heard promises of everlasting devotion as lovers are drawn asunder, or seen the ecstasy of grandparents meeting grandchildren for the first time?

Where else? Nowhere else.

So I finish my shift and then I wander up and down. Up and down. Departures. Arrivals. Trains. Buses. Shops. Cafes. Watching. Observing. Writing it all down.

All human life is here. I will drink it in. And one day, I will be ready to share.

And then my story will be the one taking centre stage. I will emerge clutching my Oscar, with the flashbulbs popping, my assistant wheeling my ludicrous luggage, the reporters waiting to hear how this triumph ranks against all my previous successes.

When that happens, I will remember to look in the shadows, to see who is there, watching, observing, writing.

Just to make sure I remember.

____________________

Why this location?

(///vivid.gladiators.beams – Maternity Unit, West Middlesex Hospital)

I’m almost there. The pressure’s intensifying, I’m starting to move. Those familiar sensations once again.

I think it’s going to be a good one this time round. They sound sensitive, caring. They’re already playing me music and reading me stories. And getting my new big sister really excited. She can’t wait for a little sister. I know I’m going to be a girl this time. I made sure to check.

My first life is still really vivid. One of many gladiators. The physicality of the bouts, the constant injuries, the simultaneous feeling of pride and fear at the moment of my death.

They get hazier after that, one merges into another really – death in battle or working the fields till I dropped. Periods as a woman doing chores all day or dying in childbirth more times than I care to remember. And being stillborn on so many occasions. Those were the worst.

A few lives broke the pattern – the circus performer on high beams was thrilling, the ground-breaking surgeon in Victorian London saved lives, and I’ve been a painter a couple of times, but I always seemed to be hungry.

It’s a shame the memories fade so fast as the new life takes hold, and I have to be here again to remember it all. I need to make sure the subconscious part of me clings on to something – be strong, be determined, get excited if I see a trapeze. That sort of thing.

This is it now. I’m moving faster. The light’s appearing. New Mum and Dad, I’m coming!

Until next time.

_________________

Why this location?

(///along.pulse.watch – National Space Centre, Leicester)

Alice had the most boring job in the world. The role of ‘Deep Space Communications Co-ordinator’ had been ripe with promise. But all it involved was monitoring the extra-terrestrial void to pick up sounds or anomalies. Day after day. Of nothing.

Until one day there was a pulse. Not nothing. Definitely something. Alice shrieked with excitement.

The team analysed the pulse. It gave little away but didn’t seem threatening. So Alice sent something out into the ether in response. Then she waited.

A reply. Fractionally longer. Didn’t seem to say much, but it was communication. She replied back. Longer again.

The messages began to increase. Alice couldn’t interpret them as yet, or know whether her replies were being understood, but it was a form of conversation at least, increasing in length and frequency. The team laboured to derive some meaning, and eventually patterns started to form and simple ideas emerged – Hello, Greetings, Nice to meet you.

The months flowed into years. Alice was determined that she would forge proper, meaningful conversation with whoever was at the other end of the pulse. Finally her team felt they had sufficient understanding of the messages to initiate a fuller dialogue.

Alice sent the key message – Tell me who you are.

They waited. Time dragged along. Alice stared at her watch. As if that would help.

Finally the longest pulse of all. A reply.

Alice held her breath as the team processed it. Then she cleared her throat and read from the screen.

I have the most boring job in the world, it began.

_________________

Why this location?