Welcome to the Christmas Issue of . Seasons Greetings to all our readers.

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Contents

Poetry
Christmas Eve : Karen Mossman
Thank You for Christmas : Debbie Panks
This Is Christmas : Debbie Panks
Snow : Karen Mossman
Christmas Haiku : Neca Stoller

Fiction and Prose
A Christmas Tale : Alison Greensill
Act of Parliament : Michael Colmer
Home for Christmas : Karen Mossman
'FRAOCH LEANN' (Heather Ale) : James Whyte
Christmas Office : Bruce Blackmore
'Tis The Pilot Season : Diana Stoneberg

Christmas Eve

The clock ticks on, I lie and wait,
A Christmas stocking on my bed.
Will he still come if I'm awake?
The man with beard dressed in red.

Out of the window I see the moon.
It's watching me trying to sleep.
Will Father Christmas come soon?
Will he tip-toe with quietened feet?

From the night sky comes the snow.
All white and covered with frost.
How will he see where to go?
Oh, I hope it doesn't get lost!

Does he remember his way here?
Does he know my garden gate?
Have I been good this year?
Getting to school, never late.

Can he tell if I'm awake?
Will I see him if I peep?
Will he hear any noise I make?
Oh, will I ever go to sleep!

Will I see the break of dawn?
Or will it always be the night?
How long before the morn?
With my bedroom bathed in light!

I don't remember falling asleep.
I don't remember seeing Santa come.
Feeling something heavy at me feet,
And leaping from bed, he's been and gone!

Karen Mossman ~

Thank You for Christmas

Silent Night and Christmas cheer,
carols echo everywhere.
Tinsel, trimmings, house adorn,
Baby Jesus all forlorn.
In a stable long ago,
A baby is crying, no Christmas snow,
Simple things around him lay,
an Ox, an Ass, a bale of hay.
In a manger softly sleep,
Mary greets shepherds with their sheep.
Three wise men come from afar,
with presents for the King, a jar
of Frankincense, some Myrrh and Gold.
this Story tell of Christmas old,
to children snuggling in their beds,
with dreams of Santa in there heads.
Forget ye not the times of old,
of Mary and Joseph in the cold,
searching for a place to stay,
of baby Jesus in the hay.
For whilst the merry voices sing,
Choirs of angels Caroling.
It's all to easy to forget
the very first Christmas day, and yet,
it is this day we celebrate,
when reindeer dance on snowtop roofs,
and Santa dons his big black boots,
and comes to us with coat of red,
while we lay snuggled in our bed.
He presents leaves in every house,
even the stockings of a mouse.
Remember then and softly say,
Thank you for this Christmas day!

Debbie Panks ~

This Is Christmas

When I hear the church bells ringing
and the carol singers singing,
With an air of joy that's present everywhere.

The Town is really bustling,
everyone around is jostling in the chaos
that is Christmas. Everywhere!

There are chestnuts busy roasting
and the people they are toasting,
frozen toes as they sit snugly in their chair.

And the children get excited,
With their little faces delighted
at the thought that old Saint Nick will soon be there.

With a tinsel covered tree,
holly, mistletoe and three
little stocking hanging there beside the fire.
There are visions in my head,
Daughter sleeping in her bed,
sipping sherry, wrapping presents by the tree.
So enjoy yourselves, have fun,
and Merry Christmas everyone!
and here's hoping for a Happy New Year!

Debbie Panks ~

Snow

It snowed heavily last night.
I didn't hear it fall or see it land
I lay awake and let the night wash over me
And when I slept it so was restlessly.
It snowed heavily last night and
I couldn't look at the flakes passing window.
My eyes were open but I was unseeing,
I was lost in a maze of thoughts and feelings.
I didn't want to notice the snow outside.
I was with my man in dreamland
For it was the only place for us to be.
It snowed last night but he wouldn't see.
Would never feel the snowflakes in his hair.
You see he had stopped to tie his shoelace
And I walked on, anxious to get out of the cold.
Oh! When will they learn, drink driving just doesn't go
And my precious love lay face down in the snow.

Karen Mossman ~

Christmas Haiku

Christmas lights
outline the house, warmer
outside than in....

Neca Stoller ~

A Christmas Tale

The evening sky was milky orange, cold and heavy with snow. The drifts were deep and once the frost had touched them it became as hard and smooth as marble. The village was isolated from the mainland by the sea.

Green eyes observed from a distance smoke which curled into the sky from the chimneys of the most remote crofts. Tilting her head to one side to observe the lights from the windows she moved silently back into the woods. This was her domain and during the hours of dusk to dawn no man nor beast entered her territory. It was an understanding past down from crofter to crofter on the isle but the last ferry for Christmas departed out of the bay leaving supplies and outsiders who didn't know the rules.

They were here until New Year to get away from the falseness of the city celebrations - at least Tom was. Clare squinted at the ferry terminal and frowned. The bags she had packed were heavy and stung her hands. The crossing had been noticeable for the sudden arrival of a cold wind. Her legs still thought she was sailing and the cold made her feel light- headed.

"Where's the taxi?" she exclaimed. Clare was organised and this was her last chance to land her biggest catch. She had arranged everything except the weather. Clare loathed the snow and nature for its purity. She liked to be in control and now she felt powerless against the harsh reality of the environment.

Tom didn't hear her, he saw only the beauty of the bay around him. To him the snow was white, untouched and fanned by the wind into peaks on the beach. The scene represented an escape from the man-made bleakness of the city. This was how he wanted life to be, free, uncluttered and no deadlines!

"Mmm did you say something petal? I'm sorry I was just looking around..." His words trailed away to a whisper.

Headlights came into view and stopped close to them both. "You want a lift, not a good night to be out?.." Clare fluttered her eyes and smiled at the driver. His complexion was rough like a withered apple yet his piercing blue eyes twinkled with life when he saw her legs.

"Tom, darling put the bags in the boot will you?" she wined pitifully. He complied happy to see her smile. She smiled because he obeyed.

The cottage was lit and warm when they entered. Tom thanked the driver suggesting a dram in the pub as payment. He nodded and smiled as he drove away. Clare was already looking around, getting used to her surroundings.

"Nice chap, I'll buy him a dram or two tomorrow..."

He scanned the wooden beams and open fire surprised at Clare's lack of enthusiasm. He removed his coat and boots and warmed himself. Meanwhile Clare was unpacking her cases. She knew Tom. He didn't surprise her and when she had first met him. She paid little or no attention until she found out he was rich. Not seriously, obscenely rich but with the right connections to get her to those sort of people who were. Tom was spellbound by her flattering but there was always something stopping him proposing but now. There were no distractions on an island she thought. She cooed at Tom to come to the bedroom but, hearing no response, wandered into the main room.

The flames flickered around the dark wooden panels and shadows danced about. Tom lie asleep in an oversprung armchair. Clare struck the chair with her foot but to no avail. Irritated with herself for leaving him she retired to the main bedroom alone. The snow clouds cleared to reveal a clear velvet sky sparkling with a millions stars. The frost caressed the windowpanes, decorating them with patterns.

A gentle breeze suddenly surrounded the outsiders croft, moaning a sad lament which gave Clare bad dreams. It sang a different tune to Tom - pleasant and wild and so, so sweet. Tom awoke to find the fire was low and it cracked when he placed a dry log onto the ember's centre. Rubbing his hand on the glass, he strained to see what type of creature made such a noise. He saw nothing and the noise subsided. Then he was outside the croft being drawn into the woods. He heard the Machrie Waters nearby but he could not stop.

The moonlight painted blue shadows on the pines and frost decorated the branches. The beauty was stunning, yet Tom knew that it was something more radiant that was pulling him. As he neared the clearing he heard the splashing of water and laughter.

The sun rose reluctantly above the slope of the hill to cast a sleepy red-eyed gaze at the scene. Clare woke early and showered and preened for maximum effect. It was Christmas day and Tom would ask her to marry him and she would pretend to be surprised.

Tom stared into the snow. Had he been drinking the night before? Why were his buttons missing on his shirt and where was his shoes? He vaguely remembered a feeling of total happiness and yet now it was gone. He remained sat on the porch for several minutes looking not for what, but hearing Clare's voice triggered him to return inside.

"Been out have you..? Oh, never mind, I've made coffee." She held out a brown terracotta mug to his waiting hand, her eyes darting at him but not really seeing.

"What time is it?" asked Tom, tapping his watch as it seemed to have stopped at midnight. Then he remembered long soft red hair touching his face, but like camera shutter the image was gone. He stared hard at Clare, and then kissed her hard full on the lips. For a moment she was speechless, lips warm and red, and yet she did not return the kiss with the same passion. A quick peck and she had escaped his embrace and was in the kitchen. Tom remained confused for the remainder of Christmas day and the presents and festivities proved to be somewhat of an anticlimax but passed well enough. Clare settled down for a romantic evening.

Green eyes peered cautiously out of the darkness.

"Remember the farmer last night? I thought we could go to the pub and buy him a drink." He didn't wait for a reply.

Tom's heart pounded quickly like a wild deer and yet he didn't know where the excitement came from. He just knew as instinct he should go. Clare nodded in agreement. She dressed in haste and followed him as best she could, but her fashionable boots and clothes were for urban living and not thick snow. Instead of trailing him her pace reduced in order to catch her breath. She regarded the figure in the distance. Why didn't he look around?

Green eyes saw Tom enter the tavern and her wild heart raced. Too long had she spent alone and apart from mortal men. Usually they were regarded as interesting and cold as porridge, but this man ... Abruptly she retired back into the pines as she heard steps getting louder.

Clare stumbled in the drifts where the snow-plough had failed to clear. She cursed him under her breath. The words were heard. Suddenly an owl with yellow saucer-eyes and white ear tufts swooped silently towards a black fur hat. Clare screamed, flaying her slender arms in wild circles to fend the owls talons off, but the hat was gone and in the snow lay a single feather. Screeching with fury, she received no help. She was wet and dirty from the slush. Angrily she walked back to the croft. She loathed nature and everything in it.

The fur hat was dropped at his mistress's feet, the owl landing on a branch bobbing its head from side to side. A trophy, a gift from a servant. It was approved of. The owl was rewarded with a plump dead mouse which it gobbled down hungrily save for the tail which refused to disappear. He closed his eyes satisfied.

The pub was warm and welcoming - the landlord greeting Tom like an old friend. It was a traditional pub decorated with hunting trophies and sepia photo's, walls stained with decades of smokers. Tom remarked at a small corner, heavily garlanded, lit by a single candle with a glass of whiskey standing in the middle.

"It's our altar to the Lady of Machrie - gives us good fortune." replied the landlord in answer to Toms unspoken question.

"Who?" Tom asked blankly.

"Let's just say she is the reason we have the best harvests and the prettiest children and most beautiful girls." A roar of approval echoed round.

"How's your wife laddie?" asked the old man who had driven him.

"Oh she's not my wife!" The reply was quick and definite and startled Tom. He didn't love Clare.

"Aye, a bonny lass but with a heart of stone - you should be getting back before she gets angry with you!" Tom paid the landlord and set off back to the wooden croft.

Once again the sky was a velvet-blue. Tom didn't really want to see Clare. So, deliberately, he slowed his pace.

He heard a rustling to his left and a hare came into view. "Looking for food are you .." Oh God I must be drunker than I thought - I'm talking to a rabbit!

"It's a hare," a calm voice replied behind him.

Spinning round quickly he slipped in the snow and knelt before a wondrous sight. The shape was a woman - definitely a woman. Her black hood and cloak covered all of her body but cascades of red curls were unmistakable and when she lifted her hood back it revealed the green eyes and face of a Rossetti painting - she smiled as he tried to speak.

This was the vision he had met the night before, she had beckoned and he came willingly to her. She was the most beautiful creature with an air between dignity and sweetness and something which exceeded modest self-respect. Tall, finely formed with a lofty neck and regular, yet somewhat uncommon, features, greenish blue eyes, large perfect eyelids, perfect complexion and a lavish wealth of red fiery hair.

"I'm sorry I stared but I thought you were...." Tom said.

"A dream," she finished. "If I am a dream, wouldst thou walk with me in the woods a while to keep me company?" she whispered.

"Who are you?"

She placed a finger on his lips and the air was heady with the smell of violets and roses. Tom didn't care about anything except the tide of passion which rose in his heart. If she was a witch or a spirit he knew he was totally in her power.

The couple walked through the pine forest but left no trace in the snow. The lake glittered with a million reflections and she turned to face him. "Will you walk with me tomorrow and the next day, Thomas, when the moon is full, for your night is my day and has been so for a lifetime."

She lifted her hand and pointed to the middle of the lake.

"This is my world and across the water is your world." Tom remembered the water, he remembered being pulled into the water and fighting and then embracing and kissing the woman before him. He felt no cold when he left her. The sun began to rise and the maiden's face grew anxious for a reply.

"Hurry, my love, and make up your mind, my love is pure and free and willingly given to thee. At sunrise I must leave."

At this she threw herself in the deep water leaving no trace. He called but there was no response. The water was icy and the shock made Tom gasp, but then she was with him in the shallows, helping him into deeper water. She kissed him hard and, holding her in his arms, they submerged in the waves.

In the morning enquiries were made in the village, but Clare was of the opinion she had made a mistake. She hired a small boat to take her to the mainland, leaving Tom to enjoy the new year. The boat sailed out of the dock and Clare did not look back.

Alison Greensill ~

Act of Parliament

The following is an actual act of Parliament banning Christmas. It was passed in 1652 during Thomas Cromwell's time.

Refolved by the Parliament,

That the Markets be kept to Morrow, being the Five and twentieth day of December; And that the Lord Mayor, and Sheriffs of London and Middlefex, and the Iustices of the Peace for the City of London and Weftminster and Liberties thereof , do take care, That all such perfons as fhall open their Shops on that day, be protected from Wrong or Violence, and the offenders be punifhed.

Refolved by the Parliament,
That no Obfervations shall be had of the Five and twentieth day of December, commonly called Chriftmas-Day; nor any solemnity ufed or exercifed in Churches upon that day upon that day in refpect thereof.

Ordered by Parliament,
That the Lord Mayor of the City of London and Middlefex, and the Iustices of the Peace respectively be Authorised within the late lines of Communication, and weekly Bills of Morality.

- Hen: Scobell, Cleric. Parliaments

London, Printed by John Field, Printer of England, 1652.

Michael Colmer ~

Home for Christmas

Christmas lights zigzagged from one side of the road to another. Christmas shoppers hurried for the warmth of department stores, passing decorated, santa-filled windows. It was two days before Christmas and the snow fell lightly over the path and road. It lay on roof tops, glistened on windows and street lamps.

Louise stopped and looked in a window longingly. A huge tree was displayed with presents round its trunk; fairy lights blinked; streamers dripped and baubles twinkled. A lump formed in her throat as she walked on.

Happy faced shoppers passed by with joyous children. A lady came towards her holding the hands of two little boys, their eyes wide with excitement and anticipation. They reminded Louise of her own brothers, and the lump grew bigger.

"Ho, ho, ho," boomed a voice beside her. Turning she saw a jolly red Santa mechanically waving its hand. She remembered last Christmas, how she helped her mother in the kitchen preparing dinner. The stuffed basted turkey, roasted in the oven. Louise could not remember the last time she had had a hot meal.

Steven and Shawn had played with an Auto City driving the cars down the long circling roads, parking them at the petrol station and filling up. Daniel sitting in the corner at his computer learning a new game and Lee strumming on his guitar. Tears spilled over as she remembered it with affection.

Across the street was a telephone box. She did not know what she was going to say after eight months.

"Hello, Mum, it's me, your long lost daughter," or "Hi, Mum, Merry Christmas. Can I come home, please?"

Lee answered and she quickly put the phone down. Lee, one year younger at fifteen, no, sixteen now. They had both had a birthday while she was away. Her friend Simon had lit a candle and sang Happy Birthday to her. For a second she smiled at the memory. It was their only light, and he had blown it out to re-light for her.

Louise looked at the telephone again and somewhere heard, Oh Little Town Of Bethlehem, and once again thought of Lee. He had been in the school nativity when he was seven playing a reluctant angel. She did not want to talk to Lee. She remembered his constant teasing and how the final straw had come when he found her diary and had told his friends her secrets.

Picking up the phone again, she dialled. It was her last coin. The sound of her mother's voice brought fresh tears and a longing she had never known.

"Louise!" her mother gasped. "Oh Louise!!" she sobbed. There was a commotion in the background. A commotion of voices that Louise wanted to be part of.

Her Dad came on and she could hear her mother crying in the background. She was trembling and it was not just from the cold.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"I'm, I'm," she stuttered, trying desperately not to cry. "In London, Dad, outside Harrods."

"Will you come home? Please come home, Lulu, it's Christmas." She could hear the break in his voice. "I want to come home, Daddy," she cried, feeling like a little girl again. "Please come and get me..."

Sitting in a doorway just near to Harrods, Louise snuggled into the worn winter coat the Shelter had given her. She had come to London full of dreams and adventure. At Euston station she had been befriended by a man who seemed genuinely concerned that she was alone. He fed her and gave her somewhere to sleep. But it turned sour when she realised what he wanted her to do for her keep.

There were the men who wanted to touch her and the women who wanted to use her and the good Samaritans who wanted to send her home. And then there was Simon. She met him in an arcade. He was not much older than she was and, like her, a runaway. He had been on the streets longer. He showed her the best place to beg for money and how to steal the food they needed to eat.

One day when the weather turned cold she had met up with him again at the soup kitchen. She was miserable and lonely. They stuck together after that and he took her to the Shelter for warm clothes and blankets. When the snow began to fall they found an old house and squatted there.

"My dad remarried," he told her one night as they huddled together for warmth. "We didn't get on. She'd pick on everything I did. She forgot it was my house before it was hers. When Dad sided with her, I knew it was time to get out."

"Didn't you have brothers or sisters?" she asked, fascinated to be learning something about him at last. "Two, a brother and a sister, four and six. They barely remembered Mum, not like me. So when she came in the house and stripped everything of Mum's away, they didn't bother. But I bloody did, no one bothered to ask me."

"I'm sorry. It must have been awful."

"Yeah, well," he said, turning round to snuggle further into her warmth.

She felt sorry for Simon, because she knew he was hurting. He pretended it did not matter, but she knew it did.

Early in December, when every morning was frosty, Simon suggested they move to a shelter where they could have a bed. Louise did not want to move on. She liked it in the squat. She liked listening to his stories, liked it being just them. She did not want to share him, or move away, but most of all she did not want to run into that man again.

So Simon left. He did not say he was leaving, he just never came back. As the days led up to Christmas, Louise shivered and begged alone. But as Christmas approached she knew there was only one place she wanted to be.

"Louise?"

Raising her head she saw two people, a man and a women. They held up cards to her which bore their photographs. We're from the Missing Persons Bureau and we've come to take you home.

 Alone in her bedroom, eight months and ten days after she left, she was back, sitting on the bed looking at her Oasis posters and feeling happy. Everybody had hugged her, even Lee, who told her he was really sorry for what he did and never wanted her to run away again.

Christmas Eve came and the snow was falling heavily. Louise was sitting in the arm chair opposite the Christmas tree which had lots of presents with her name on underneath. Lee was having a bath. The boys were all watching Peter Pan. Her mother was doing embroidery, but ever so often she would look up and smile. Her father was, to all intents and purposes, reading the newspaper. But even his eyes would stray occassionally to her.

The doorbell sounded and Louise's mother put down her cross stitch and as she passed Louise's chair she kissed the top of her head.

"This is going to be the best Christmas ever," she whispered.

"Through here," she heard her mother say as the lounge door opened again. Everybody looked up at the unexpected visitor.

Carrying a beautifully wrapped parcel and wearing a shy smile, a clean and nicely dressed Simon said, "Happy Christmas, Louise."

It was going to be the best Christmas ever!

K.J. Mossman ~

'FRAOCH LEANN' (Heather Ale)

Heather Ale, believed to have been drunk since around 2000 BC and reputed to be one of the oldest styles of ales in the world, is beginning to enjoy a renewed interest since the re-introduction of the long forgotten style and art of making the brew a few years ago, made from the flowering tips of wild purple heather boiled with Scottish Malts and wild myrtle leaves in order to extract the flavour and nectar, it has been described as being Full and of Firm character with a Floral, Peaty Fruit Aroma with a Dry, Wine-like taste.

A History:

2000 BC ~ The Isle of Rhum; A Neolithic shard is discovered by Archaeologists it contains traces of a fermented beverage made with heather flowers.

325 BC ~ Pictland; More commonly the lands north of the Forth-Clyde valley where the Picts, who were accomplished brewers, brewed some awful grand drink they called heather ale from heather and some unknown kind of fog.

843 AD ~ Scots and Picts united under the Scots King Kenneth MacAlpine to form 'Scotland' or 'Alba' to the Gaels. Throughout medieval times many ceilidh stories mention the brewing and drinking of heather ale. This folklore includes the tale of a Highland clan warming heather ale over the fire on a cold night. The steam from the hot ale cooled against the stone roof and dripped into a drinking cup. Upon drinking the contents, the Gaelic clansmen exclaimed 'Uisge-beatha' convinced they had experienced the fabled "water of life". Uisge had been discovered that night. This word has since been bastardised by the English language to 'Whisky'.

1707 AD ~ The Act of Union. After centuries of war Scotland became part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, despite many wars of independence and Highland uprisings, Scotland had lost its freedom. Many atrocities were passed through Parliament during the 18th century, outlawed was the wearing of tartan, playing bagpipes and Highland gatherings. Lands were stolen from crofters, Gaelic was forbidden and clans were persecuted - a whole culture and way of life was virtually destroyed. An Act was passed which prevented brewers using any ingredients other than hops and malt. Hops cannot grow in Scotland, indeed there is no Gaelic word for hops, heather ale was all but reduced to legend. This persecution of the Highland way of life caused thousands of Scots to be transported to the new worlds of the West Indies, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, America and Europe which led to a mass exodus of Scottish society emigrating to follow their clans.

1809 AD ~ In the Highlands and Western Isles the brewing of heather ale continued, as did the wearing of tartan and the Gaelic language. They held on to their traditions and customs including the manufacture of illicit "uisge-beatha" the defiant message to the British Government was 'Pog mo thon' (kiss my arse!).

1986AD ~ In Glasgow's home-brew shop a Gaelic-speaking Islander translated an old family recipe for "Leann fraoich" to Bruce William's, the shop owner. He began the crusade to revive Scotland's brewing heritage by trying different varieties and quantities of heather flowers, making up batches and testing them on his customers. When the formula was perfected he began selling the brew as "Fraoch" (heather ale).

1992 AD ~ The first twenty thousand pints were produced at the small West Highland brewery in Argyll, sales were restricted to six pubs due to the capacity of the brewery. In 1993, an agreement was reached with Scotland's oldest family brewers, Maclay & Co. at the Thistle Brewery in Alloa which allows Bruce William's to brew larger quantities during the heather season (July to September). Every batch is inspected and recorded for the Scottish Brewing Archive in Glasgow. Under supervision of The 'Scottish Office' in Edinburgh, the tradition and custom of brewing heather is protected and Heather ale receives a "Certificate of Specific Character".

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote the following poem titled 'Heather Ale':

From the bonny bells of heather, they brewed a drink long syne,
Was sweeter far than honey, Was stronger far than wine,
They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in blessed swound,
For days and days together, In their dwellings underground,
There rose a King in Scotland, A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle, he hunted them like roes,
Summer came in the country, Red was the heather bell,
But the manner of the brewing, Was none alive to tell,
The King rode and was angry, Black was his brow and pale, To rule in a land of heather, and lack the heather ale,
Down by the shore he had them, And there on the giddy brink,
"I will give thee life ye vermin, for the secret of the drink",
"Life is dear to the aged, and honour a little thing, I would gladly
sell the secret", Quoth the Pict to the King,
"And I dare not sell my honour, under the eye of my son"
They took the son and bound him, and flung him far and strong
And the sea swallowed his body, like that of a child of ten,
And there on the cliff stood the father, Last of the dwarfish men,
"True was the word I told you, Only my son I feared,
For I doubt the sapling courage, That goes without the beard,
But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall not avail,

Here dies in my bosom, the secret of the heather ale ......"

James Whyte ~

Christmas Office

The office clock said 15:50. It was christmas eve and Bill was the last one left in the building. That was ok, he had nowhere to go; nowhere he wanted to go anyway.

"Bah, humbug.." he snarled to himself, but he was no scrooge. Just after lunch he'd called the staff together, handed out presents, wished them a very merry Christmas, then sent them all home. By 13:30 they'd gone, every one.

So he'd been sitting, staring at the picture of his late wife for the better part of three hours. Perhaps he should just go home and drink himself into oblivion. Ok, so he'd feel even worse later, but there'd be more booze, then a couple more laters, and then.. and then, thank god, it wouldn't be Christmas anymore. Yea, sounded good enough to him.

Three years since she'd died; that long? How time flew when your soul was dead. Well, obviously not quite dead, or times like Christmas would lose the power to torment, prod him deep inside.. remember.. remember.. remember, stirring up the old joy that now lay inside him like toxic waste! How could he not remember someone who'd been his life, or the reason he lived it. Now he was just a man turning off all lights because he dreaded the shadows so much.

It was time to go home. Slowly, he got to his feet, turned off the lights and shut the doors. Finally in reception he opened the main door, snapped the last switch, and stepped outside. Already it was dark and that was just fine. He reached into his pocket for his keys.

"Don't lock it Mr Simpson."

He turned, startled. "Oh, hello Betty!"

"Hello.." she smiled, a little shyly. She was 38, ten years younger than Bill. She too had lost a spouse, but her loss was to a younger woman, or as it materialised later, a chorus line of younger women. Bill had thought her attractive, tagging her husband mad, but he had to admit, since then Betty had become almost plain, dowdy. He guessed it was a confidence thing.

"Didn't Peggy tell you.. you know, not to bother tonight. You could leave it till after the holiday."

"That's alright, Mr Simpson. Really. I may as well get it over.. you know."

They stood there awkwardly; two people with nothing to say, yet not wishing to appear rude.

"Well, whatever Betty. Have a nice Christmas."

"You too Mr Simpson."

Just as they were about to go their separate ways, they were stopped by a tinny, manic rendition of "we wish you a merry Christmas". Betty turned back to see Bill raising his hand to check his watch. It was flashing fitfully in a pathetic attempt to appear festive. Bill looked at her, a wry almost embarrassed grin on his face, and tilted his wrist so she might see better. Then he looked back down and gently touched the crystal. A chipmunk voice informed them that it was 7 o'clock on Christmas eve, "Ho, ho, ho, ho." They had to smile then; a chipmunk should never attempt a santa belly laugh. "Wow," said Bill, "..it's never done that before. And I thought it was broken!"

"Oh, I think it's wonderful." said Betty, "What will they think of next?" then immediately curled up inside at the inanity of the comment. Oh, I bet that piece of razor observation really impressed him, she chided herself.

"My wife bought it for me," he informed her. "She reckoned I was gadget mad, so.." he looked down, sighed, "..so she went to the biggest jewellers she could find and asked for the biggest, singingest, dancingest, tell the time in the deepest, darkest, wristwatch available." Betty's heart went out to him. He was obviously quoting.

And he appeared so lost, so broken; how she wanted to hug him, right there, right then; tell him it was alright, everything was alright. The fact that she loved him- always had - was a side issue.

"Of course such a watch would not be held in stock..," he continued, "so they had to order it... I received the letter informing her of its arrival about a week after she died."

Her mouth formed a silent ooh, but she said nothing.

"I almost didn't collect it. How could I? I thought of getting someone else to pick it up for me. But that didn't seem right. It was already paid for, so I just phoned and told them I'd be leaving the country for a while on business. They offered to post it to me, but I said no; that didn't seem right either, and to be honest I was afraid of it being damaged or lost. Anyway, about a month later, I just walked into that store and collected it as though it were nothing; no, I told them, I'm in a hurry, I've no time to hear of its wonders; then I just put it in my pocket and went home." He laughed quietly, an essentially humourless sound.

 "Brave, huh? Unfortunately, I couldn't bring myself to open it for a further six months or so." He raised his eyes to hers, "What a man!"

Unconsciously, she'd moved closer to him, now she reached out and touched his arm. "God, Mr Simpson, I can understand what you felt. Really. But you mustn't see love, or the loss of it, as some test of strength. I mean, you talk as though you were somehow weak, that you'd let her down, when instead, what you have there.." she indicated the watch, "..is simply the most wonderful reminder of everything she meant to you, and you to her. It's small, almost inconsequential, but it's.. everything!"

When he looked at her the reflected street lights flared in the moistness in his eyes.

"That's right.." he nodded quickly, bitterly "..everything. I'm an accountant, my life is numbers, so it seems that this love business is beyond my terms of reference; one plus one equals one, take away one and you're left with nothing! Just tell me what kind of bloody sense that makes!"

She bit her lip, but failed to still the trembling there. "I know." Her chin began to pucker and a sudden pressure of panic grew within her. In an effort to lessen the emotional intensity she heard herself say, "It's Christmas! People are supposed to be happy at Christmas!" She turned away to hide her distress and the shame she felt at the stupidity of her comment.

"Christmas!" he breathed, snarled. "Do you remember that case a couple of years back? You know, that old man found dead some months after Christmas? No one knew he was there you see. No relatives left, no friends to care about him, no counsellors, no no-one, nothing. So he sat down in his armchair and died, and not a living soul cared. When they eventually found him, it was because he was the source of a particularly foul smell... So anyway, they broke down the door and there he was... But do you know the best part? The real icing on the cake part, that room was full of trimmings! That poor, frail, unloved, surplus to requirements, little bastard had decorated his bloody room!"

For a moment he remained silent, and she knew he was replaying the scene in his head.

"Well, I haven't trimmed up.. have you?"

She shook her head, not trusting her voice, just wanting to cry.

"It's crazy, but for a long time after reading that story I couldn't get him out of my head. I'd keep seeing him, going about his task, ignoring his loneliness, finding the deccy box, digging out the tree, pulling out a chair to stand on, reaching up, almost overbalancing as he pushes in the pin.. Jesus Christ, I see him like I was standing in the room!" His eyes were on her, wide, desperate, accusing. "Why..! Why, IS that?"

She shrugged, what the hell did he want from her? Didn't he know he was talking to a shell? If he put his ear to her head and listened there'd be nothing but the sound of the sea. It was wrong of him to push her like this.. like she was a person? She was surprised to feel anger swelling within her.

"Why what?! Why did he decorate, or why does the fact that he did, upset you so much?" She faced him, full on. He seemed startled, had almost taken a step back and yet her voice had remained level. But she was definitely taller, straighter.

"Firstly, because that so-called, sad little old man was better than us. Despite all his losses he still had the guts to retain hope and faith, and hadn't become cynical enough to sneer at happy memories as if they were just so many weaknesses. The second why is even easier: it's not just any little old man you keep seeing, you're looking into the future; you're seeing yourself some way down the line. Don't you get it at all? You're wallowing.. wallowing in self pity!" Quickly she touched his arm to placate him, aware suddenly how important it was that he should listen.. for both their sakes. "If you don't believe me, then consider this: all pity is self pity. it has to be, otherwise we'd hire help to feel for us, just like you hired me to clean for you. But if you'd really felt for that old man, you'd have been out there doing something about it.. No, not for him, too late for that, I know, but I doubt whether his kind suddenly became extinct with his passing. Imagine, thank god he's dead, now there are no more lonely, desperate people in the world!" She sighed, but held him still. "That, Mr Simpson is bollocks... So he's still out there now, you know that, in his little room, smiling at the antics on the telly as he goes about his one way life, pinning his hope to the walls and ceiling. And you? You who care so much that you're haunted by his plight.. what do you do Mr Simpson?"

He tried to move away, to escape her eyes, but she'd have none of it. Both her hands now held his arms.

"Well...?! Come ON, Mr Simpson, I answered you, now you answer me: what do you do?!

Unable to escape, not even sure if he wanted to, he looked hard into her eyes. "I... I do nothing."

"That's right, Mr Simpson. That's exactly right. Now, what type of pity do you call that...?"

For quite a long time he failed to respond, but she saw the haunted look in his eyes dilate as though touched by anger. His answer was not what she had expected.

"Who the hell are you?"

She was surprised to hear herself laugh, but she liked the sound. She adopted a big macho voice, "Don't you mean, who the hell do you think you are?!"

"I know what I mean... Betty is a shy little thing, kneecap high, invisible, wouldn't say boo to a goose. But you.. you; tall, attractive, potentially beautiful, full on, tell it like it is, like it should be, oh, so wise, and... a strange man in doorway accoster, to boot."

She smiled, easily. "I told you, it's christmas."

He smiled back, but there was uncertainty there. "Look Betty.." he dropped his eyes and seemed to swear under his breath, "..I guess if something hasn't got a number attached to it I'm at a bit of a loss, but tell me.. is something happening here.. you know..!

She shook her head and he thought how delicious she looked.

"I honestly don't know, Mr Simpson.." the way she spoke his name was different too, coquettish, playing with him, "But I'd like to think it might be..

"When are you going to call me Bill?" he asked.

"Just as soon as you call me Kathy." she replied with a twinkle in her eye. "Betty left five years ago; I was her replacement."

Once again he had to swear under his breath.

"Sorry, Kathy."

"S'ok, Bill."

They locked eyes as though seeing each other for the first time, but mesmerised by their total lack of fear.

Kathy was the first to speak. "It's not just because we're lonely, is it Bill?"

He smiled the kind of smile where the whole face joins in. "I'm not alone, Kathy.. Are you?"

"No.."

Suddenly he laughed and pointed to the street. She looked up at the snow beginning to fall.

He laughed, "Buggar me.." he said, "..It's a Wonderful Life"

"Oh, I love that film!"

"Hang on," he said, diving into his pockets in a very exagerated manner, Jimmy Stewart fashion, "..just looking for Zuzu's petals.."

She laughed at his foolishness.

He'd just reached into his breast pocket, when he stopped abruptly, and remained quite still.

"Bill..!" Kathy moved to him. He looked terrible and was beginning to tremble. Once more she felt panic in her chest, oh God, not now, please not now! "BILL.. please Bill.. tell me...!"

But he seemed to be regaining control. She watched him retrieve something, an envelope, from his pocket. He looked at it as though the key to the universe lay inside. He touched it, pressed it, his fingers dwelling, then tracing its contents. He reached out, took her hand in his and turned it palm upward. Then he opened the envelope, it wasn't sealed, and began to tip the contents into her palm. She saw it tumble, a metallic street light flash. She peered at it, turned it. Was this a joke? She raised quizzical eyes. "A battery..?"

"A watch battery.." he stated flatly.

She tried to comprehend, reading his eyes for clues, saw them drop to his wrist. Then suddenly it dawned,

"Oh, come on.." she laughed nervously.

"You can't mean..."

"I took it out a couple of days ago. I kept meaning to pick up a replacement.. but I never got round to it."

He removed the watch from his wrist stepped back into reception and snapped on the light. At the reception desk he prised the back off the watch with a pen-knife. Kathy watched closely, expecting a trick, a joke, but no, she could see very well for herself, the watch lay open before her, and not a battery to be seen.

"But it's impossible.." she observed pointlessly.

"Tell me about it." answered Bill. "What happened out there was an impossibility."

 She shivered, but not with the cold. "And you asked out there if something had happened."

"We were going to part, Kathy. You to your home, me to mine. Ask yourself what stopped us, what forced us to stay awhile.. and talk."

"Oh, my God!" she couldn't help herself, she had to cry.

He approached her, comforted her, they comforted each other because he was crying too - how could he not.

"What a wonderful, wonderful gift!" she sobbed, "She wasn't saying the time, she was telling us it IS time."

"Yes.." he answered, ".. yes. That's how I see it too."

Just a little later, having found christmas together, they set off through the deepening snow to share it with the lonely ones.

Bruce Blackmore ~

'Tis The Pilot Season

LOS ANGELES - It's that time of year. The time when TV shows are getting canceled and networks are on the look out for mid-season replacement shows. Thus, pilot season is upon us.

A few nights ago I was invited by a friend to go see the taping of a new sitcom pilot television show. The taping was at Paramount and, given the fact that that is my favorite studio, I thought I'd go check it out.

I drove through the gates at night and there was a drive-on pass so I could park on the lot without having to walk through too much rain - the only weather we have to deal with here.

The reason I like Paramount so much is the ivy. It has nothing to do with the studio. It's the ivy. It reminds me of brownstones back in Chicago. It's my version of Wrigley Field.

There is this safe feeling that comes over you when you arrive on a lot. Once enclosed behind those gates you know that you may experience a petty robbery but, unless confronted by a disgruntled armed guard, at least you won't be shot.

They were shooting an episode from some disaster show with sirens and fire engines not far from the stage where the taping of the pilot was supposed to happen so I watched that for awhile.

I walked up to the entrance of the stage where the pilot was being shot and there was a rotund, out-of-breath, miffed productions assistant at the door with a clip board. Having been a production assistant myself I know his job and I know that he often has to take a lot of crap from people on and off the set. I tried to be accommodating. However, this kid was the kind of kid with a chip on his shoulder. The kind of kid who wouldn't and couldn't give me a straight answer. He referred to his clipboard and told me that they weren't going to let people in for a while. I then walked back over to where they were shooting the disaster show and he looked at me in disbelief that I could walk away from the power of his clipboard.

Later, another woman showed up and she was insistent upon getting in. I stood next to her as she chewed out the production assistant yelling, "You seat us right this minute or I'll have your head on a platter so fast it'll make your seat spin". Nice graphic, I thought. He let us in.

The crew was busy attending to the details of preparation for shooting the show. I noticed one lone painter still painting the set while the camera people were attempting to light it. I thought if this were a real comedy they would have left that guy in there.

The seats were marked off with masking tape with various people's names on them. In some cases whole aisles were marked off for some members of the cast or crew. My friend was the script supervisor, so my seat was in the next to the top aisle but in the middle.

The middle is where everyone wanted to sit. I not only wanted to sit in the middle I wanted to sit on the end of the aisle in case I wanted to leave early. I get a little claustrophobic in groups like that.

My friends parents arrived not long after and they were disappointed with their assigned seats next to me. They wanted to be closer to the front row. There were only about 10 rows of seats so it was not like we were in the bleachers but they insisted on moving. I noticed that the ushers, again with clipboards, weren't budging.

This seating stuff was serious business. Forget about the show, this was what was important. The hierarchy of the seating arrangements is what is important behind the making of a pilot. Forget about all that stuff you may have heard about talent, writing, direction, it's all about where you sit and whose name you're sitting on.

Just below me there was a package taped to the seat. A tall, good looking actor came in and found the package was marked for him. He opened it, embarrassed, and found some caramel corn, some licorice and a card. He peeked at the card and quickly stuffed it into his leather coat. He was wearing black leather pants as well. Another friend of his showed up and he tried to explain the package. He said, maybe this chick was trying to "sweeten him up". He then offered the food to his friend. I wondered whether the chick knew her stuff would be going to someone else. He then proceeded to go into a litany of all the parts he was up for and how many he "almost got".

More people started to arrive. These were producer type people. You could tell by their attire and demeanor. Unlike the funky dressed and quirky mannerisms of the actors' section these folks were in their pearls and Armani, with matching rainwear. They all greeted each other with the double "air kiss". The kiss to both sides of the check which never actually makes contact. I think for fear of smudging one's foundation or fear of some, as yet unknown, skin disease.

They all had seats front and second row just to the left of center. They all huddled together supporting each other with their numbers. One or two of the women kept glancing over at the actor who was seated below me. They kept trying to get his eye but he was too busy relaying his latest "almosts" to pay any attention. He also kept getting more food throughout the taping from various ushers who were instructed to take him these care packages. At one point I leaned over and said, "aren't you mortified?" He shook his head, "yes". I told him I know a women who sent balloons to a guy in his office and he probably felt the same way. He agreed.

There were two single women who showed up and sat behind me. They introduced themselves and started to compare resumes. One worked for a writer/producer developer of sitcoms at one of the networks. She explained that, while she wasn't a writer, this would be a perfect job for a writer because there was plenty of free time in-between projects and if she were a writer - which she was not - she could be doing all sorts of things. She also mentioned that part of her job was to go around to various comedy clubs looking for talent.

I turned around at that point to look at the person, the gatekeeper if you will, of the state of comedy today. I couldn't help asking, "are you looking for just comics or are you also looking for comedic material?" She looked at me and said, "huh?"

This person. This person who is not a writer. This person, this gate keeper with the key to so many people's futures, who wouldn't know good comedy from a carpet sample. This person who laughed at all of the lame jokes by the warm up, wall eyed comedian, as well as all the lame retorts by the bused in audience, is deciding who will contribute to your entertainment on television.

The other woman listened intently and explained that while she is just reading scripts for a producer she had the utmost respect for someone who knew how to spot a talent.

Having done stand-up comedy, I wondered whether this non-writer, who was biding her time in an office, bored out of her mind, was in any of my audiences taking notes. And whether or not she was laughing at the guy with the cigar jokes and thinking "yes, he's potential sitcom material".

More producers started to arrive. One of whom, was an extremely ugly looking guy with a very beautiful, and probably paid for, woman. He was elbowing everyone he saw and pointing to her as if to say, "see, see, that's mine". Most of the people he was elbowing were giving him the "thumbs up" sign and then turning around and rolling their eyes.

A number of actors showed up. There was a couple in very expensive, distressed clothing. They probably paid mega bucks to look like most kids on the street, however, there's that one difference, a subtle label here or there which says, "I'm not trash, I just want to look like it".

They were seated near the center first aisle, but noticeably not in the dividing line next to the producers - or "above the line" folks. These are the Executive Producer, Producer, Director - the above the line on the budget folks. All others - technicians, camera people etc. are "below the line" folks, not to be associated with, nor socialized with, if one can help it.

A woman with Bozo-like red, ratted out hair, and some extremely bad plastic surgery, showed up with her daughter. She was making a stink about where she was being seated and insisted on being seated next to the funky actors. She immediately went into "schmooze mode", introducing her embarrassed daughter to all the actors trying to further her career.

I suddenly had real empathy for the maitre d's in this town. If seating for a television pilot was this rough I could only imagine what it was like in some of the trendoid restaurants.

The warm up, wall eyed comic stepped up to the plate and tried to get everyone into a laughing mood. They weren't buying it. They were still too busy jostling for seats and trying to prove that they were somebody to laugh at him or any of his jokes.

And, finally, the bussed in audience arrived. These were the folks, some from out of town, who were just happy to be on a lot to see anything. They arrived to find the whole mid- section of the audience already seated with what looked like important people. They glared as they walked by, wet from standing in the rain, to be seated on the far ends of the audience, the worst seats. There were no refreshments for anyone. However, another example of the hierarchy was that, periodically, someone from the producer's group would go backstage and come back with a plate full of food or a can of pop, just to further the distance between producer and peonery in the seats.

Everyone eyed the people who were bringing in the treats with envy. Not so much for the food but for what it symbolized. Power. The power to go behind the scenes and get something. Anything. It didn't matter. Peanuts. It wasn't about the peanuts. Power. Just the fact that you were able to go behind the scenes and get something like peanuts, that the rest of the audience couldn't, meant you were somebody to these power hungry folks.

By the time the show started I was exhausted. The show before the show had been enough for me. It was supposed to be a comedy. And the comedy scout/gate-keeper, who knows a good laugh when she hears it, laughed at everything. I highly suspect she's the kind of person who laughs at home by herself at reruns of "Three's Company".

They taped a few of the first scenes and I was ready to go home.

One man in the bused in crowd asked to be released. The wall eyed comic insisted that he had to guess his weight before he left. He refused and pushed his way to the exit.

Yes, it's television pilot season in Los Angeles and not everyone wants a seat.

Diana Stoneberg ~