Time ticking on - tick tock, tick tock.
Saturday a blur, from daytime lessons of bishoprics and ceorls across the county, a frantic race to seat of the bishopry to a night time musical frenzy, tick tock, tick tock.
Crimson Clocks raced against time to make their music, and all the while the clock ticked on, tick tock, tick tock.
Gladstone rocked and Birthrite rolled, the clock struck and a new day began.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Early morning mist, lonely travel on train and bus; military march through Worcester's streets to the might of the Commandery, to set up The Last Line, always against the clock.
Tick tock, tick tock.
People, in trickles, in herds, as the time ticked on, all so friendly.
Unlike the clock that ticked on, tick tock.
A close, and an end, playing tetris with stock to pack it into a suitcase, tick tock.
The train platform is dark.  The train comes slowly.  T i c k   t o c k.
Finally home.  Cats counting the hours til feeding time.  Tick mrouw?
Then bed.
Tick
Zzzzzzz.

On Sunday I went to the Leeds Steampunk market with The Last Line publishing stand.

It's not impossible to travel around this country by public transport, but it can be quite awkward. My usual bus into town doesn't start running very early on a Sunday, so the day began with a brisk hike of a mile or so in the pre-dawn to get onto a different bus route. Strange how attractive a block of flats can look when viewed from a distance as it rises from the mist, lit by the first rays of the morning light, like a startled brachiosaurus made of concrete.

At the bus stop, a friendly chap took in my Georgian style attire without blinking, and proceeded to tell me how to get a more flexible bus ticket for an extra 10p. Georgians clearly rate a better class of travel.

Once off the bus, I faced another brisk hike to the other side of town where I was able to locate the elusive stand of the megabus. I've never traveled by megabus before. I can report that it was clean, not over busy, punctual and, importantly, cheap (although some of the drivers are wearyingly cheerful).  It did however, take the long route to Leeds via Manchester, which necessitated a longer, if picturesque trip over the Pennines. The road to Manchester had been swathed in fog; as we crossed the Pennine hills we rose above it all and were bathed in sunlight. Below us we could see a roiling fog bank in which the lower levels still languished. What creatures lurk in the mist, we will never know...

Finally we arrived in Leeds and I transferred onto the final bus of the outward journey, thankful for the GPS on my phone to help me get off at the right point. I was there!  And not a moment too soon; not only was my bag very heavy, but Arkwright was about to need assistance shifting The Last Line table.  I’m sure he would never have coped without me.

The market was held at Leftbank Leeds, a converted church. It is spacious and stately, with high windows letting in the sunlight. It's also quite chilly! The previous day, the market had apparently been very busy; but this being Sunday it was less so, with more people succumbing to the lure of the Sunday roast. While it got busier later, we were told it never reached the heady heights of the previous day.

Nevertheless, publisher/ writer Arkwright and I talked to a number of people who were trying their hands at writing and were after advice on either sharpening their skills or on getting published.  We talked about the Asylum Chronicles and The Automata Wars, and future plans for both. And we debuted a line of related products, such as notebooks and playing cards.  The TAC ration chocolate bars did particularly well…

It was also good to see some familiar faces, though I was sorry not to have taken time to have a proper look around the market and say hello properly to more people.  To those I missed – hope to see you soon!

At 5.00pm the market was not quite finished, but I had to duck out in order to get the train back into Leeds City centre. Finding the local station into Leeds was easy; trying to find the megabus stop from the central station was less so. Fortunately with the aid of my trusty GPS, I managed to locate it and bag a seat before the bus left...

And so, back across the smoky Pennines, to Manchester in the dark, before returning to B'ham, and one final bus back home. Where, of course, there is no place like!

Next week: Crimson Clocks travel to Lichfield, and I team up with The Last Line again in a visit to the wonderful Matlock Bath...  Stay tuned for more travelicious exploits (if you’re lucky I’ll get some photos of the illuminations!)

Today is the 1st of October.  The nights are getting longer darker; and the days shorter and greyer.  Soon it will be Halloween…

When it’s dark, you always notice the noises more.  The things that crawl in the night, sneaking around while you sleep.   The things that fight in your hallway, only to have vanished when you get up to investigate.  The things that go bump in the night…

The things that go bump in the night in my house are usually the same things that wake me up far too early by scratching at the bed covers to try to dig me out of bed.  They also lie on the bed and purr or wash noisily, or have happy feet on my chest, thus preventing me from sleeping.

One of them is black, synonymous with evil, witches and Halloween.  He’s also a bit thick.  He’s scared of plastic bags, which probably isn’t ideal in a demon’s sidekick.

One of them is black and white, killer whale coloured, tall and skinny and far too clever.  That one is the ruler of the house.  That one knows exactly how to get his own way…

Does their presence prevent other, less desirable visitors?  Well, spiders are given short shrift, but who know what else… Neil Gaiman’s ‘The Price’ is a heartbreaking take on that angle.  Nor is his the only treatment that cats have received in literature.  Tanith Lee’s ‘Thomas’ was inspiration for the lyrics I wrote for the Crimson Clocks song, also called ‘Thomas’.  And we all remember Puss in Boots and the Cheshire Cat…

Gabriel King has an interesting take on cats as central characters in a series of books that just manage to stay the right side of twee.  In Robin Hobb’s Farseer & Tawny Man series, a lead character can ‘talk’ of animals.  The Cat is very much The Cat.  As Kipling said, it walks by itself.

They’ve been gods.  They’ve been demons.  In the time of Mary I (Bloody Mary), cats were burned as a symbol of Protestant heresy.  Elizabeth I had a wicker effigy of the pope filled with live cats burned at her coronation, as a symbol of Catholic heresy*.  Ironically, it was the Black Death that saved the cat from extinction in the UK – their ability to control the pests that spread the disease, though by then their numbers were few.  There is even a legend that they are descended from snakes – next time your cat is on your lap, hold back its ears and look at the shape of its head…

Personally?  I think they are probably aliens.  Why else are they so bloody weird?


*Source:  The Enchanted Cat, John Richard Stephens, 1990.