FADE IN A DINNER TABLE WITH EMPTY PLATES BUT FULL GLASSES.

JAFFA
So, we’re trying to establish a new Citizen’s Assembly as you know. The politicians have been getting cash for questions and PPE equipment contracts for their relatives; lobbying to enrich themselves; putting out aircraft carriers without planes, submarines with the conning tower upside down and weapons systems not fit for purpose, that sort of thing.
ROBBIE
Robbie: Well, as you know from my resume, I’m a retired civil servant.
JAFFA
Well Robbie, you might have to say goodbye to your index linked pension if we get into power.
ROBBIE
Don’t worry, I retired at fifty-five; went back as a consultant and charged the government a pretty penny for my services, I can tell you. I made a fortune. That brought me a nest egg, which I invested in a private pension.
JAFFA
Well, that’s a relief of sorts, I suppose. Nothing wrong with profiteering from taxpayers’ money, is there? So, you offered your help to the community once you retired properly at 65?
ROBBIE
No, we just take holidays. Though when the last fuel shortage came along, I was worried.
JAFFA
Weren’t we all, my wife didn’t drive for three weeks, it was terrible? She had to take the train down to see her sick mother in Sussex, nightmare. Still, we all had to make sacrifices.
ROBBIE
Not me, oh no, laddie. As soon as I heard, I went straight out. Our petrol station had a limit of £30.00, I don’t normally tell white lies, but I told the guy behind the counter that I was going to visit my ill mother in France, and I got a full tank off him.
JAFFA
How resourceful of you. Well, I’m sure the Uber drivers and the those desperate to get to work appreciated your efforts. So, did you get your holiday? Did you have enough petrol?
ROBBIE
Oh, yes, we drove down to Deal in Kent, and all around and still had almost a full tank of diesel when we got back. The funny thing is my mother died ten twelve years previously but she still comes in useful. She recommended diesel.
JAFFA

Yes, sadly Gordon Brown favoured diesel over the less polluting liquid petroleum gas, our council, Wandsworth, had a whole fleet of LPG, Brown decided diesel belching out black smoke was better for the environment than petrol or less polluting LPG. He was Scottish, too. Just a coincidence I suspect.
ROBBIE
You talk in riddles half the time; I find it difficult to follow you at my age.
JAFFA
Never mind, I just thought with the national shortage of fuel and your wealth you might have taken the train to Deal and left some fuel for the next bloke but that’s why we’re having this meal to see who wants to help others rather than themselves.
ROBBI
I want to help; I was hoping for a contract.
JAFFA
We’ll have to talk about that, but in the meantime, help yourself to a glass of wine, I’ve brought out my celebration wine, Margaux.
ROBBIE
Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.
(ROBBIE POURS THE WINE TO THE BRIM)
JAFFA
Wow, I’ve never seen a glass so full; Robbie, you’ve surpassed yourself, remember there’s many a slip between cup and lip.
(Turning to Malachiah)
What’s your role going to be Malachiah?
MALACHIAH
Social justice. If a statue is toppled into the sea, make another face from a foundry, if someone sets your flag alight, weave anew with colours bright, injustice must make you seethe. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.
JAFFA
That’s brilliant, we’ll call it the George Floyd Justice Department and we’ll show them what levelling up really means. Equality for all religions and races, classes and castes, genders, and persuasions. You’ll need help, I have a few people you should meet. Are you willing to work with them to make society a better place?
MALACIAH
Of course, we need to work together to achieve anything, I know that you know that, even Rebel Robbie knows it deep down. He’s just not aware as yet.
JAFFA
Robbie’s too far gone, I’m afraid So, the House of Lords will have to be replaced.
MALACHIAH
Yes, by an assembly of lawyers but of a far fewer number. Seize a knight and save the day, they’ll have to surrender their seats, their tax avoidance, and other cheats, their schemes and their flat flips, as well as their club memberships.
JAFFA
Stay playful. Lizzie must tell Derek the news I suppose.

This is a two short stories that I created with one of my descriptive writing pupils.

Bankers have to accept that they’ve had it good and its payback time. We helped them out when they leant to people they knew could not pay them back now they have to help the people who get them to work on the trains, the cleaners who clean their offices and the doctors and nurses who look after them when they get gout. If inflationary pressures are temporary then give them the ten per cent, help the poorer people and they will spend to boost growth. Stop sitting on your cash in pensions and shares spend some cash. Then, and only then get inflation back under control and the public service workers will take a 2 per cent pay rise if inflation is 2 per cent. It’s not rocket science. It’s austerity over – time to cough up and pay people a wage they can survive on – stop stepping on drowning people’s heads to feather your nest.

Here Michael Fitzalan. the local South London author talks to us about his childhood home in a video. Born in the South London Hospital, now Tescos – because it was the finest maternity hospital in London, next to the Clapham South tube and on several bus routes, staffed by women doctors and nurses and porters, it had to be closed, obviously, his childhood home was a surgery and he takes us around the shell before the family was forced to sell.

Government Maths – Does Not Add Up – Rishi Sunak needs to see what modern thinkers are saying about paying the poorer people in our society.

Finnian Fitzpatrick, writing as Michael Fitzalan, reading from his book Gunpowder Guy, which is known as Remember the Fifth in England.

The Waterwitch – Chapter 1 – The Storm

The sixteen-ton boat surfed over the gigantic waves. Its metal hull the only strength that prevented the boat from breaking up, yet it was this steel that within minutes of flooding would sink to the ocean floor like a stone slung into a pond. This smallness in the immense ocean, the vulnerability of our situation, that was the major worry.

The Atlantic is a cold and lonely place in a gale.

Safety, the Portuguese coast, was twelve miles off, but it was becoming further away with each wave, we were being driven in the direction of America over three thousand miles to the west with only enough water for two days at the most. The Azores to the Southwest might as well have been the same distance. Both wind and wave drove our vessel westwards, the waves were in command, we had no control.

Clouds hung in stratus layers, rain fell at the wind’s whimsy, drops angled to the back of the head or darting, diagonally, onto the deck as another wave of water crashed over the bow. Helplessly we bobbed into the shipping lanes. Waves, rising ten metres high, raised us above the blue boiling water below, we rested on the foaming crest, afforded a glimpse of a ship or a tanker or just grey cloud horizon, before plunging down, sliding along the wave into a deep trough where another wave would splash over the bow as our boat dipped its nose into the bubbling brine. In a heartbeat we were lifted up again on a swell, as it grew higher we floated up like a chair on a Ferris wheel.

Our boat was a heavy 52 foot sailing cruiser, a yacht designed for day sailing in safe seas with the occasional overnight anchorage. The boat was never designed to be buffeted by waves that swamped its own size. The sea rose and fell all around us, an inconstant billows, and we were dwarfed by the swirling swell.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Waterwitch-Perilous-Periplus-Michael-Fitzalan/dp/1976797586/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3S9YL43QJGVVT&keywords=the+waterwitch+by+michael+fitzalan&qid=1680515120&s=books&sprefix=the+waterwtich+by+michael+fitzalan%2Cstripbooks%2C52&sr=1-1

Excerpt from ​Waterwitch – ​Periplus – by Michael Fitzalan

Chapter One, The Man, Mars the Bringer of War

“Are you coming in?” asked the handsome, young man as the heavy main door of No 1, Wetherby Gardens, swung open.
He was always willing to help a beautiful blonde woman, well-dressed and her hair coiffured exquisitely. If he had not been running five minutes late to meet friends for supper, he might have stayed to flirt with her, perhaps, but he was going to meet a young girl who was new to the group.
It was only down the road at the Hereford Arms, pre-dinner drinks, but he could not afford to be too late, making a good impression was normally a guarantee of a later date.
‘A brunette in the hand was worth a blonde on the steps,’ he mused.
Jo had been studying the buzzers for each flat. She smiled, her disarming smile, acknowledging his gallantry and good looks. He was fair-haired and handsome, perhaps a Guardsman, tall, elegant and thin, dressed in a light grey, single-breasted, suit, Jo reckoned it was from Gieves and Hawkes, a red and blue striped tie and white shirt hid behind a navy blue cashmere jumper.
“Yes, please, I’m visiting the top flat, worse luck,” she explained, giving him eye contact, hoping he would believe her.
“Be my guest,” he announced, stepping backwards and drawing the door open.
He gave her an appreciative smile as she was very good looking, stunning in fact, and the camel skirt and jacket ensemble looked reassuringly expensive. She was a bit older than his usual type but definitely attractive. With the endearing hopefulness of youth, he thought he might well see her again.
Perhaps, he conjectured, he might get to know her better if things did not work out with the girl at the pub. At his age, life was full of infinite possibilities.
“Thank you,” she replied, slipping past him with ease, a rush of joy ran through her, she could not believe her good fortune. A closed gate had swung open.
As Jo started to shuffle up the carpeted staircase, she heard the door slam shut behind him, which meant she could increase her pace. There was no longer any need for pretence. She wondered why Jenny Strong should buy the top floor flat, it was not for the views; the other stucco apartment buildings blocked any vista of the capital. The brass runners and wine red carpet became a blur as she bounded up the four flights. There was no room for a lift in the stairwell.
Jenny had good legs and Jo could see why if she was trundling up and down these stairs every day. Grabbing the bannister, she hauled herself up, taking two steps at a time. Jo was tall and athletic, which stood her in good stead for the climb.
She had no idea how she would get into Jenny’s apartment or what she would find there. All she knew was that Jenny Strong had secrets hidden in there. Her train was at this moment hurtling towards King’s Cross St Pancras. Jo had very little time to search the flat for answers. She had to act fast.
For some strange reason, she thought of her brother at the monastery in Nunraw. Thoughts of stations triggered memories. It was from St. Pancras Station that Father Stephen had left to join the silent Cistercian order at Sancta Maria Abbey. It was a fleeting thought.
Silence was also required at Wetherby Gardens; she did not want to alert the neighbours to her presence. Jo rested half way up the stairs; already she was glowing, her heart thumping in her chest. Cigarette smoking had shrunk her lung capacity so she was panting. She was tall, a size ten, statuesque but she was not used to exercise. She ‘caught her breath’.
She simply had to give up smoking, she told herself.
Taking a deep breath, she walked up the two remaining floors to the flat. At the top, she rested. Her heart rate was returning to normal but adrenaline kept her pulse rate racing. She wanted to remain calm and she tried her best to quell her panting. Discipline was needed.
Pulling herself together on the landing at the top of the stairs, she looked down. It was a very, very long way down. Wondering how she might pick the lock, she suddenly thought that the neighbour might have a spare key. Just as she was turning to ask, she noticed the door was ever so slightly ajar; it was not flush with the wall. Not only that, but the lock looked like it had been forced open.
‘Burglars,’ she immediately thought.
There were scars on the white gloss paintwork, which she might have dismissed as carelessness with keys, if the door had been closed. Her heart stopped. This was a complication she had not foreseen.
Hesitating, only briefly, Jo determined to approach them with her charm. There was no going back, she had to be brave, she decided. Perhaps, a woman might be able to talk her way out of a situation. Hopefully, her Irish charm would help to diffuse any charged atmosphere she might encounter.
On second thoughts, it would perhaps be better to call the police and let them deal with it. There were already two detectives in hospital, she remembered so she dismissed the idea. Leaving it up to the police might complicate things; the burglar might get away before they arrived. It was time for action, ‘time and tide, wait for no man,’ she intoned in her head. There was no choice; she had to go in alone. Jenny would be home soon. Jo steeled herself to open the door.
Not for the first time, in this caper, she was unaware of what lay behind the door. One thing she did know; she had to find out who was there, how they got in and what they were doing there in the first place. It was clearly not Jenny. Why would anyone break into her flat?
Her heart hammering, she pushed the door open, conscious that she should do it slowly and gently so the hinges did not creak, she stepped through the doorway and only half closed the door behind her, making sure the door would not blow shut and give her away.
She had been expecting to be greeted by a large room overlooking the street. Instead, she was confronted by a blank wall and, to her right, yet another staircase leading up from this second landing.
Inwardly sighing, she tiptoed up the stairs. As Jo emerged out of the stairwell, she froze. Her head was only just visible above the last step but she could see that the burglar had drawn the heavy claret drapes and he had turned on all the lights and lamps in the room.
Her heart was pounding now, she felt sick, she had come so far and now there was yet another obstacle. She realised she had no choice but to go on.
It was definitely a man, big, broad and fighting fit. Her luck, it seemed, had changed. Fortune’s fickle wheel had turned full circle. He had removed his gloves and his head was bowed as he shuffled some papers, skimming each leaf as he searched for something. His hands worked frantically through the piles of letters. Next to his pigskin gloves, was a heavy handled commando knife, which Jo immediately realised was not for letter opening.
It had a blackened steel blade and a ribbed handle. It was about a foot long, the blade being six inches. The sight of it made Jo’s heart stop. Opening another draw, he took out another pile of papers and scanned each of those.
The burglar was wearing a balaclava, not one of those open faced woollen ones that everyone used to wear to keep warm in winter, but a menacing black mask with two holes for the eyes and a slit for the mouth.
Jo wished she had been dressed for flying; her camel Pierre Balmain skirt-suit was not ideal for fight or flight. She noticed her green silk blouse was clinging to her skin. If there had been time, she would have taken off her jacket, it would restrict her movement, being pursued down the stairs with that drop worried her and she wanted to keep cool physically as well as mentally.
She drank in the situation.
On the desk there were piles of papers a green shaded desk lamp burning brightly and a black Bakelite telephone. The phone might be of use, the lamp might make a weapon, or the paper might offer a distraction if she showered him in it, she might be able to escape or maybe she could pretend that she could find the document for him, had been told by Jenny to help him locate it.
Thoughts flooded her head.
It was as if he smelt her approach, despite her soft tread on the carpeted stairs, he sensed her presence. There was no escape at that stage. Jo continued up the stairs. The burglar appraised her as she entered the large drawing room. They were matched in height, he was six foot; Jo was tall, too, five foot nine.
She was strong and her fencing gave her agility and stamina but she doubted that she could match him in strength, not with his bulging muscles and boxer’s pose.
Being on the fifth floor of number one Wetherby Gardens meant the window could not provide escape. She could bolt down the stairs but he would follow, hurling himself on top her, she did not doubt that for a second. Even worse, he could bundle her over the bannisters and she would not survive the plunge to the bottom.
He put down the papers.
Jo was ready for a fight. She had two brothers; she had fought with them enough times, physically and mentally. The knife was a worry. At first, Jo thought he was reaching for the black leather gloves. Then, she saw his left hand grasp the black, ribbed, handle of a knife. Suddenly, the odds were not so even.
She flicked, her long blonde hair away from her face, trying to see what colour her assailant’s eyes were, trying to see if she recognised them. They stared at her, ice blue like her own, but his burned with anger while hers darted left and right, desperately searching the room for something with which she could defend herself. A knife-wielding thug threatened her on the other side of the desktop.
Talking was no longer an option, yet that was her forte. He wanted her out of the way and she wanted to have answers. Their eyes locked over the sea of the desk for a full minute. He had the power; he had the strength. He was militarily fit. She was determined to stand her ground.
Perhaps, he was a former soldier or a physical training instructor. He was all muscle. That was clear. She was relatively fit and her long limbs might allow her to outrun him but he was beefy, he could crush her easily with his strength. There had to be a way for her to save the situation, she reasoned. She was right; he was might. She had to prevail.
“One of the Tweed twins?” she announced from the relative safety of the other side of the room. “Breaking and entering is hardly your forte, I thought that was extortion and murder.”
He was surprised to hear her posh voice, cut glass Kensington.
“Doctor Nora Josephine Murphy, I presume,” the man hissed, his lips curled into a grotesque smile behind the mask.
“My friends call me Jo but you can call me Doctor Murphy,” she replied dryly, taking a step towards the desk.
The mouth became a pair of pouting lips twisting into a bigger smile, he was finding all this entertaining. Jo was just another problem that he had to solve. He had been successful so far that night.
She heard a snort. Jo knew he was evaluating the situation, deciding when to pounce. It was like being in the room with a cobra.
“I don’t see any of your friends here, I dealt with Regan outside and you sent Stephens to take him to hospital. How did you get in here anyway?” he drawled in his south London accent, his eyes never leaving her face.
Jo smiled knowingly, provoking him.
“I recognise the voice and you’re left handed, Derek Tweed, I assume,” Jo asserted proudly, moving a step towards him, playing grandmother’s footsteps. She had only met Tweed once before but she had managed to pierce his disguise. She was bluffing about recognising his voice but he did not know that.
“You should have stuck to doctoring love,” he advised, the mouth forming itself into a dismissive smile that showed his teeth, “no one asked you to stick your nose in.”
“Doctoring those files seems to be your purpose. What are you doing, destroying evidence?” she asked, taking another pace closer to the desk.
“Mind your own business,” he warned, the mouth was, now, a sneer.
“Jenny wanted some incriminating information destroyed before we could get a warrant and so she sent for her tame assassin,” she goaded him, moving yet another step towards the desk that she hoped would form a protective barrier against her attacker.
“That’s my twin,” he explained.
“That’s what he says about you, he’s pointed the finger of suspicion at you, anything to escape a life sentence, Regan tells me.”
“I’m not falling for that one. I just clear up after him, normally,” he said and, then, paused, “but this time I’m prepared to make an exception, on medical grounds.”
“Oh really, what medical grounds are they?”
“I don’t like doctors who think they are detectives.”
He lifted up the receiver. Jo thought he was going to call someone for instructions and was about to tease him about that fact and his inability to make up his own mind, when he smashed the receiver down on the desk.
The earpiece split, the cover flew into the air, landing on the floor, and a silver disk fell out like a dislocated eye, the internal receiver, hanging from coloured electrical wires. He tore it off. Raising, what was left of the receiver, he smashed the mouthpiece on the leather tabletop. Again, the Bakelite cracked, splitting open like a walnut, the microphone cover flew off, joining its double on the floor. Tweed tore that grey disk from the electrical flex. Again, he stared at her with his cold blue eyes. Again, Jo stared back at him.
Neither of them was prepared to blink.
“So my assumptions were right,” Jo beamed, hoping to rile him further.
She hoped that his anger would be his Achilles heel.