Simon Hugh Wheeler's Blog, page 4
April 1, 2014
Bonsai Grass - A Shortcut To Maintenance-free Lawn
Research into drought-resistant grass produces unexpected results
What would you do if you didn’t have to mow the lawn every weekend? Take up a new hobby? Go fly a kite? Or just sit out in the back garden with a cold beer, and watch the grass grow.
Now, with the help of science, watching the grass grow is going to be even less exciting.
Scientists at the University of Obejo, in Spain, have spent the last five years trying to develop a drought-resistant strain of grass. The region of Andalucia, in southern Spain has a very dry climate, but in recent years, due to global warming, water shortages have become increasingly acute. The reservoirs are currently at barely 40% of their capacity, and that is even before summer has started. Having a lawn will soon be a luxury.
Professor Ángel Ortega, head of the Botanical Research Department, described the unexpected find.
“We were developing a variety of grass with a very shallow root system which could take maximum advantage of limited precipitation.”
“This grass was displaying a retarded growth rate. We decided to ascertain if it was possible to extrapolate this growth rate factor to the extent that the grass would rarely need cutting. What we have achieved, is in effect, bonsai grass.”
“Trials have shown that the lawn normally only needs to be cut once a year, in early spring. It is a hard-wearing turf that can withstand poor growing conditions. The only slight drawback is that it takes a little longer to germinate.”
A further by-product of this research was discovered by chance when the groundsman, Ángel Ortega, noticed that rabbits, who had taken a liking to the university's bonsai lawns, were being affected. During the course of the five-year research period, there have been over two thousand generations of rabbits, which have evolved into a new breed that is less than half the size of a normal rabbit.
When questioned about the impact the genetically-modified grass could have on other species, the Director of the University, Ángel Ortega, tried to play down concerns by stating that, "This is a really exciting development. We posted a photo of the bonsai rabbit on Facebook and it got 36 million likes in one week. It really is cute. There has been an enormous demand for it and since they breed like rabbits, so to speak, there shouldn't be any problem in meeting that demand. You have to realise that we are in the middle of a severe economic crisis and clearly, the environment will have to come second to company profits. And, as we all know, company profits translate to job generation of course."
Due to be launched on the market next month, more details are available on the website below, where other works of fiction can also be found.
From now on, you will have to watch the paint dry instead.
www.simonhughwheeler.com
What would you do if you didn’t have to mow the lawn every weekend? Take up a new hobby? Go fly a kite? Or just sit out in the back garden with a cold beer, and watch the grass grow.
Now, with the help of science, watching the grass grow is going to be even less exciting.
Scientists at the University of Obejo, in Spain, have spent the last five years trying to develop a drought-resistant strain of grass. The region of Andalucia, in southern Spain has a very dry climate, but in recent years, due to global warming, water shortages have become increasingly acute. The reservoirs are currently at barely 40% of their capacity, and that is even before summer has started. Having a lawn will soon be a luxury.
Professor Ángel Ortega, head of the Botanical Research Department, described the unexpected find.
“We were developing a variety of grass with a very shallow root system which could take maximum advantage of limited precipitation.”
“This grass was displaying a retarded growth rate. We decided to ascertain if it was possible to extrapolate this growth rate factor to the extent that the grass would rarely need cutting. What we have achieved, is in effect, bonsai grass.”
“Trials have shown that the lawn normally only needs to be cut once a year, in early spring. It is a hard-wearing turf that can withstand poor growing conditions. The only slight drawback is that it takes a little longer to germinate.”
A further by-product of this research was discovered by chance when the groundsman, Ángel Ortega, noticed that rabbits, who had taken a liking to the university's bonsai lawns, were being affected. During the course of the five-year research period, there have been over two thousand generations of rabbits, which have evolved into a new breed that is less than half the size of a normal rabbit.
When questioned about the impact the genetically-modified grass could have on other species, the Director of the University, Ángel Ortega, tried to play down concerns by stating that, "This is a really exciting development. We posted a photo of the bonsai rabbit on Facebook and it got 36 million likes in one week. It really is cute. There has been an enormous demand for it and since they breed like rabbits, so to speak, there shouldn't be any problem in meeting that demand. You have to realise that we are in the middle of a severe economic crisis and clearly, the environment will have to come second to company profits. And, as we all know, company profits translate to job generation of course."
Due to be launched on the market next month, more details are available on the website below, where other works of fiction can also be found.
From now on, you will have to watch the paint dry instead.
www.simonhughwheeler.com
March 29, 2014
Blood is Thicker than Sangria
Here's an excerpt from my book "Loosely Translated" which I think is a nice scene about two old guys reunited in Arrivals at the airport. Inspired by something I saw in Malaga Airport, Spain.
‘When I went through to Arrivals earlier on, I saw these two old guys, well into their seventies, greeting each other. I would have said they were brothers, because they certainly had a close, family resemblance and were not much different in age. It wasn’t an over-the-top, emotional scene, but on the other hand, it wasn’t a light-hearted, superficial welcome back from two weeks’ holiday. These two had been apart a long time. One looked like he’d come from America; he was wearing a polo shirt, chinos and a sports jacket, whereas the other went for the more traditional Mediterranean style: dark suit and white shirt.’
‘They stood there, quietly holding each other – all they had to say was being exchanged through their eyes. I wondered how long they had been apart, because I got the impression that they had missed out on sharing so many things together. That then leads to the question, why were they apart so long? One of them wouldn’t just go abroad in an adventurous spirit and not come back for forty or fifty years. He’d probably gone to America, hoping for a better life. Did he find it? Well, he probably hadn’t made his fortune; otherwise he’d have been back sooner. But he can’t have done too badly – he’d stuck it out for all those years.’
‘And why didn’t his brother go with him? Was he a bit timid and didn’t have the same drive or optimism as the other? Perhaps he couldn’t face such big changes, or the risk of things not turning out the way they hoped. Maybe he had met a girl and she didn’t want to leave Spain and her family.’
‘Their lives had taken very different directions. They must have a lot to talk about now. There’s another thing: the one who went to America, he might even have forgotten a lot of Spanish. At the very least, the Spanish guy would have a chuckle at the other’s American accent.’
‘I should have taken a photo. It would have made an interesting picture. There was something about the way they looked at each other. They had been apart a long time, but they were still family.’
Mike was silent for a moment. He was surprised to find that the memory affected him. He had never had anyone meet him at the airport; nobody pleased to see him and certainly not a big, happy, family reunion. His family was neither big, nor happy.
‘At least,’ said Mike, ‘they’ve had the chance to get back together, again.’
Loosely Translated is a romantic comedy in which it is a case of hate at first sight and judging books, (and people) by their covers. It also gives a peek at Spain and its culture.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Link to Loosely Translated on Amazon
‘When I went through to Arrivals earlier on, I saw these two old guys, well into their seventies, greeting each other. I would have said they were brothers, because they certainly had a close, family resemblance and were not much different in age. It wasn’t an over-the-top, emotional scene, but on the other hand, it wasn’t a light-hearted, superficial welcome back from two weeks’ holiday. These two had been apart a long time. One looked like he’d come from America; he was wearing a polo shirt, chinos and a sports jacket, whereas the other went for the more traditional Mediterranean style: dark suit and white shirt.’
‘They stood there, quietly holding each other – all they had to say was being exchanged through their eyes. I wondered how long they had been apart, because I got the impression that they had missed out on sharing so many things together. That then leads to the question, why were they apart so long? One of them wouldn’t just go abroad in an adventurous spirit and not come back for forty or fifty years. He’d probably gone to America, hoping for a better life. Did he find it? Well, he probably hadn’t made his fortune; otherwise he’d have been back sooner. But he can’t have done too badly – he’d stuck it out for all those years.’
‘And why didn’t his brother go with him? Was he a bit timid and didn’t have the same drive or optimism as the other? Perhaps he couldn’t face such big changes, or the risk of things not turning out the way they hoped. Maybe he had met a girl and she didn’t want to leave Spain and her family.’
‘Their lives had taken very different directions. They must have a lot to talk about now. There’s another thing: the one who went to America, he might even have forgotten a lot of Spanish. At the very least, the Spanish guy would have a chuckle at the other’s American accent.’
‘I should have taken a photo. It would have made an interesting picture. There was something about the way they looked at each other. They had been apart a long time, but they were still family.’
Mike was silent for a moment. He was surprised to find that the memory affected him. He had never had anyone meet him at the airport; nobody pleased to see him and certainly not a big, happy, family reunion. His family was neither big, nor happy.
‘At least,’ said Mike, ‘they’ve had the chance to get back together, again.’
Loosely Translated is a romantic comedy in which it is a case of hate at first sight and judging books, (and people) by their covers. It also gives a peek at Spain and its culture.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Link to Loosely Translated on Amazon
February 13, 2014
Bridge Encounters: A Rose to Remember
'Don't look now,' I advised my husband and signalled discreetly with a slight nod of the head to a point behind us, 'but there's an old lady leaving a rose between the bars of the bridge.'
I should have known that David wouldn't understand the concept of tact and discretion. His head swung around as if his neck were made of rubber. 'Where? Oh, yeah.'
The woman interwove the stem through three of the wrought iron railings on the side of the bridge.
'So what?' added David.
'I've seen roses left there before and always wanted to know who did it.'
He shrugged a disinterested shoulder. 'Well, now you know.'
He could be so infuriating at times. 'I wonder why? There must be some really romantic mystery behind it.'
'Why don't you go ask her?'
'Don't be silly!'
To my horror, with a goofy grin he grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the woman who stood there for a moment, contemplating the rose and the magnificent view of the sun settling down for the night behind the jagged ridges of the surrounding Ronda Range.
She looked around as we approached and her face shone softly with a serene smile. 'Good evening,' she greeted us.
There was no stopping David's cheekiness. 'Hello. My wife was itching to know why you've left that rose there. She thinks there might be some romantic mystery.'
The old lamps wrapped a warm, yellow light around us as the evening sky cooled from a rich peach colour to deep plum.
'That's alright, dear,' she assured me. 'There's no mystery, though; just a simple love story. This is where I met my husband. We were both very young - sixteen-years-old; we got married at eighteen and shared fifty-nine years together, until he passed away.' Her gaze was momentarily lost in the dark depths of the narrow gorge. 'Not a day goes past that I don't think about my Hugo.'
'Fifty-nine years,' I responded. 'That's amazing.'
'I won't pretend that it was all perfect. We had our difficulties at times, but you know, every month on the twenty-first, he would take me for a walk along the bridge here and give me a rose on this spot, where we met. A simple thing, but it meant a lot to me and he never forgot. Since he died, I've kept the tradition going.' She got out her purse and flipped back a section to reveal a worn, black and white photo of a couple of newlyweds. 'That's me and Hugo on our wedding day.'
'He looks very handsome,' I commented.
'Thank you, dear. Occasionally he could be hard-headed, though.' She sighed. 'Ah, my Hugo: hard-headed, yet soft-hearted.' She leaned in a bit closer towards us, as if about to tell us a secret.
'A rose looks beautiful and smells wonderful. Unfortunately, it has thorns. But that doesn't stop people liking roses. Only when you accept the imperfections in your partner will you encounter true love.'
David had quietly taken my hand and I gave it an appreciative squeeze in return.
The elderly lady was pleased. 'Don't ever stop holding hands. My mother constantly berated me for always holding Hugo's hand - she thought it was silly teenage nonsense. But all throughout the years, even those last days in the hospital, he always reached out to take my hand.'
She took a little step back. 'I really must be off. I don't want to hold you up.' She turned to go, but then waggled an arthritic finger at David. 'Don't wait until St Valentine's Day to give your delightful wife a rose. Any day is a good day to remind her how much you love her.'
'Ok,' he nodded cheerfully.
'Um, aren't you worried someone might take the rose that you left there?' I asked her before she left.
The woman smiled. 'I'd be disappointed if nobody did. Love is the greatest gift you can give.'
The Bridge Encounters are stories set on the Puente Nuevo, a 100 metre high bridge that crosses the gorge running through the beautiful, historic, Andalucian town of Ronda in southern Spain.
If you liked this story, you might be interested in the book, Happy Juice, which invites the reader to discover for themselves what is really important in life.
Happy Juice at Amazon
I should have known that David wouldn't understand the concept of tact and discretion. His head swung around as if his neck were made of rubber. 'Where? Oh, yeah.'
The woman interwove the stem through three of the wrought iron railings on the side of the bridge.
'So what?' added David.
'I've seen roses left there before and always wanted to know who did it.'
He shrugged a disinterested shoulder. 'Well, now you know.'
He could be so infuriating at times. 'I wonder why? There must be some really romantic mystery behind it.'
'Why don't you go ask her?'
'Don't be silly!'
To my horror, with a goofy grin he grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the woman who stood there for a moment, contemplating the rose and the magnificent view of the sun settling down for the night behind the jagged ridges of the surrounding Ronda Range.
She looked around as we approached and her face shone softly with a serene smile. 'Good evening,' she greeted us.
There was no stopping David's cheekiness. 'Hello. My wife was itching to know why you've left that rose there. She thinks there might be some romantic mystery.'
The old lamps wrapped a warm, yellow light around us as the evening sky cooled from a rich peach colour to deep plum.
'That's alright, dear,' she assured me. 'There's no mystery, though; just a simple love story. This is where I met my husband. We were both very young - sixteen-years-old; we got married at eighteen and shared fifty-nine years together, until he passed away.' Her gaze was momentarily lost in the dark depths of the narrow gorge. 'Not a day goes past that I don't think about my Hugo.'
'Fifty-nine years,' I responded. 'That's amazing.'
'I won't pretend that it was all perfect. We had our difficulties at times, but you know, every month on the twenty-first, he would take me for a walk along the bridge here and give me a rose on this spot, where we met. A simple thing, but it meant a lot to me and he never forgot. Since he died, I've kept the tradition going.' She got out her purse and flipped back a section to reveal a worn, black and white photo of a couple of newlyweds. 'That's me and Hugo on our wedding day.'
'He looks very handsome,' I commented.
'Thank you, dear. Occasionally he could be hard-headed, though.' She sighed. 'Ah, my Hugo: hard-headed, yet soft-hearted.' She leaned in a bit closer towards us, as if about to tell us a secret.
'A rose looks beautiful and smells wonderful. Unfortunately, it has thorns. But that doesn't stop people liking roses. Only when you accept the imperfections in your partner will you encounter true love.'
David had quietly taken my hand and I gave it an appreciative squeeze in return.
The elderly lady was pleased. 'Don't ever stop holding hands. My mother constantly berated me for always holding Hugo's hand - she thought it was silly teenage nonsense. But all throughout the years, even those last days in the hospital, he always reached out to take my hand.'
She took a little step back. 'I really must be off. I don't want to hold you up.' She turned to go, but then waggled an arthritic finger at David. 'Don't wait until St Valentine's Day to give your delightful wife a rose. Any day is a good day to remind her how much you love her.'
'Ok,' he nodded cheerfully.
'Um, aren't you worried someone might take the rose that you left there?' I asked her before she left.
The woman smiled. 'I'd be disappointed if nobody did. Love is the greatest gift you can give.'
The Bridge Encounters are stories set on the Puente Nuevo, a 100 metre high bridge that crosses the gorge running through the beautiful, historic, Andalucian town of Ronda in southern Spain.
If you liked this story, you might be interested in the book, Happy Juice, which invites the reader to discover for themselves what is really important in life.
Happy Juice at Amazon
February 8, 2014
Dead & Not Liking It
'Searching Network Providers...'
There was a momentary flicker on the screen of my mobile phone.
'Connecting...'
'Afterlife On Line. Connected.'
The screen told me I was getting an excellent signal. I immediately signed into Facebook and the news feed opened up instantly.
'Damn, that was fast!' It was my lucky day to find decent, free WiFi for a change.
'Look up,' suggested a guy standing near me. I did as he said and discovered that my news feed, photos and all, were projected in front of me, not only perfectly clearly, but in 3D, too.
'Bloody Hell! That's amazing.' A quiver of ecstasy rippled throughout me, like a whole-body orgasm.
'Would you expect anything less than perfection here?'
I was starting to get annoyed with the interruptions from this person. Some people are so rude, I thought. Can't they see that I'm busy? This guy looks way to shiny, too.
Sure enough, another interruption. 'And I'd watch your language around here. Particularly with your big interview coming up in a few minutes.'
'Yeah, whatever,' I fobbed the guy off. Did he have wings? Weirdo. Why can't he just flutter off to his fancy dress party and leave me alone?
I shuffled forward another step in the queue. I wasn't quite sure why I was waiting in this line, but I got the feeling they were giving away something free - a lot of people seemed quite excited by it.
The waiting wasn't so bad, though. Not when I was enjoying this superb Internet connection. Animated gif images appeared totally lifelike. No over-compressed, pixelated photos here. I almost had to blink back the tears of pure joy at such a sublime experience. In fact I became so immersed in it that my turn came around far too quickly.
'Your name, please?'
This new interruption could barely drag me away from my digital dreamworld.
'Craig Millar.'
'Craig...' repeated the receptionist as she typed.
'That's with "ar" at the end,' I quickly added, to preempt her next question.
'Ok.' A few more taps on the typewriter preceded the next question.
'Do you consider yourself a believer?'
'Huh?' My attention was on a friend's post, not on this stupid bureaucrat.
'I'm sorry to bother you, but there are just a couple of quick questions before you go in to see Our Lord.'
This was driving me nuts. 'Well can we hurry up with it, then?'
The receptionist hung onto a grim, customer service smile. 'So, are you a believer?'
'Believer in what?'
The woman behind the counter blinked a couple of times and stretched the smile tighter. 'Why, in God, of course.'
'You gotta be kidding me? My religion is made up of the four F-words: Football, Facebook, Fosters and Fu-'
'Ok, ok,' she blurted out nervously. 'I get the picture.' She looked down at her screen. 'Er, so the next question: when was the last time you went to Church...?' A look was enough for her to guess the answer. 'That's fine. It's not a prerequisite for entry, but we do like to know just for our records.' She waved a hand to a nearby door. 'You can go in, now. Our Lord is ready to see you.'
With my peripheral vision I headed in the direction she indicated. I had barely taken two steps when she called out to me. 'By the way, can I ask you to turn off your mobile phone before you enter, please?'
'Arrest me,' I muttered.
On the other side of the door was a room that broke with the endless white decor and instead radiated a soothing pink glow. In the centre sat a woman who my appraising eye instantly judged to be incredibly beautiful but not at all hot, in the way that you would never consider your sister to be hot. I also thought she had a certain know-it-all, holier-than-thou look.
I held up a hand to stop her. 'Just gimme a minute.'
Thankfully, she didn't give me a hard time, but sat there quietly and waited. In fact a moment later, I noticed out the corner of my eye that she had picked up her own mobile and was busy typing something.
Suddenly, my phone emitted a series of tones to indicate that I had received a message, which was great, since I was beginning to worry that my friends were ignoring me. I immediately opened it.
'TURN YOUR PHONE OFF! Please.'
I looked around to see if someone was playing tricks on me, but there was only the woman seated in front of me, with one eyebrow slightly arched.
'Sorry to bother you,' she began. 'I promise it won't take long.'
'Well get on with it then. What is it you're giving away?'
'Excuse me?'
I sighed. 'That's what this queue is for, isn't it? You're giving away freebies.'
The woman blinked. 'I suppose you could say we are giving away free entrance into Heaven, yes.'
'What d'ya mean, Heaven?'
A small crease of perplexion spoilt her otherwise perfect forehead. 'You died; you've come to Heaven.'
I paused, trying to make sense of this. 'Don't be ridiculous. If I were dead, I wouldn't be standing here, talking to you.'
The crease in her forehead deepened.
My patience was unravelling. 'Look, I've had enough of this. I want to speak to your boss.'
'I am The Boss. I'm God.'
I knew the super high-speed WiFi was too good to be true. Something had to mess up my day. 'You're a woman.'
'I realise that.'
'God is supposed to have a long, white beard.'
'Being a woman, that's not very likely, but I can assure you I am God.' A note of exasperation crept into her voice. 'Why is everyone so surprised that I'm a woman? I would have thought that it makes perfect sense for me to be female.'
I rubbed at the growing tension in my temples. 'I don't really care, actually, cos I don't believe in God anyway.'
Her look of serenity was showing signs of fading. 'You know, I'm a fairly forgiving kinda gal - it's part of my job description, but I'd appreciate it if you'd shut up for a couple of seconds and listen. For your information, you did die, strangely enough, by sending a text message while driving, when you should have been concentrating on the road. Now, I'm going to keep my personal opinion out of this and let's take a look at what other people have to say about you.' God waved a finger at my Facebook page that still hovered in the air. 'I wrote on your wall, saying that you had died and here,' she moved a finger and the page scrolled down, 'is the response.' She paused for effect. 'Likes: None. Comments: Zilch. Shares: Guess what? A big, fat zero.'
A feeling of horror gouged into my soul.
'Craig Millar,' God pronounced, 'your entry has been denied. You belong downstairs.'
A man who looked like a used car salesman, appeared at my side and ushered me towards the exit.
'By the way,' God called after me, 'the Internet connection down there is "hellishly" slow. To log into Facebook takes an eternity.'
To see more of my work, go to www.simonhughwheeler.com
There was a momentary flicker on the screen of my mobile phone.
'Connecting...'
'Afterlife On Line. Connected.'
The screen told me I was getting an excellent signal. I immediately signed into Facebook and the news feed opened up instantly.
'Damn, that was fast!' It was my lucky day to find decent, free WiFi for a change.
'Look up,' suggested a guy standing near me. I did as he said and discovered that my news feed, photos and all, were projected in front of me, not only perfectly clearly, but in 3D, too.
'Bloody Hell! That's amazing.' A quiver of ecstasy rippled throughout me, like a whole-body orgasm.
'Would you expect anything less than perfection here?'
I was starting to get annoyed with the interruptions from this person. Some people are so rude, I thought. Can't they see that I'm busy? This guy looks way to shiny, too.
Sure enough, another interruption. 'And I'd watch your language around here. Particularly with your big interview coming up in a few minutes.'
'Yeah, whatever,' I fobbed the guy off. Did he have wings? Weirdo. Why can't he just flutter off to his fancy dress party and leave me alone?
I shuffled forward another step in the queue. I wasn't quite sure why I was waiting in this line, but I got the feeling they were giving away something free - a lot of people seemed quite excited by it.
The waiting wasn't so bad, though. Not when I was enjoying this superb Internet connection. Animated gif images appeared totally lifelike. No over-compressed, pixelated photos here. I almost had to blink back the tears of pure joy at such a sublime experience. In fact I became so immersed in it that my turn came around far too quickly.
'Your name, please?'
This new interruption could barely drag me away from my digital dreamworld.
'Craig Millar.'
'Craig...' repeated the receptionist as she typed.
'That's with "ar" at the end,' I quickly added, to preempt her next question.
'Ok.' A few more taps on the typewriter preceded the next question.
'Do you consider yourself a believer?'
'Huh?' My attention was on a friend's post, not on this stupid bureaucrat.
'I'm sorry to bother you, but there are just a couple of quick questions before you go in to see Our Lord.'
This was driving me nuts. 'Well can we hurry up with it, then?'
The receptionist hung onto a grim, customer service smile. 'So, are you a believer?'
'Believer in what?'
The woman behind the counter blinked a couple of times and stretched the smile tighter. 'Why, in God, of course.'
'You gotta be kidding me? My religion is made up of the four F-words: Football, Facebook, Fosters and Fu-'
'Ok, ok,' she blurted out nervously. 'I get the picture.' She looked down at her screen. 'Er, so the next question: when was the last time you went to Church...?' A look was enough for her to guess the answer. 'That's fine. It's not a prerequisite for entry, but we do like to know just for our records.' She waved a hand to a nearby door. 'You can go in, now. Our Lord is ready to see you.'
With my peripheral vision I headed in the direction she indicated. I had barely taken two steps when she called out to me. 'By the way, can I ask you to turn off your mobile phone before you enter, please?'
'Arrest me,' I muttered.
On the other side of the door was a room that broke with the endless white decor and instead radiated a soothing pink glow. In the centre sat a woman who my appraising eye instantly judged to be incredibly beautiful but not at all hot, in the way that you would never consider your sister to be hot. I also thought she had a certain know-it-all, holier-than-thou look.
I held up a hand to stop her. 'Just gimme a minute.'
Thankfully, she didn't give me a hard time, but sat there quietly and waited. In fact a moment later, I noticed out the corner of my eye that she had picked up her own mobile and was busy typing something.
Suddenly, my phone emitted a series of tones to indicate that I had received a message, which was great, since I was beginning to worry that my friends were ignoring me. I immediately opened it.
'TURN YOUR PHONE OFF! Please.'
I looked around to see if someone was playing tricks on me, but there was only the woman seated in front of me, with one eyebrow slightly arched.
'Sorry to bother you,' she began. 'I promise it won't take long.'
'Well get on with it then. What is it you're giving away?'
'Excuse me?'
I sighed. 'That's what this queue is for, isn't it? You're giving away freebies.'
The woman blinked. 'I suppose you could say we are giving away free entrance into Heaven, yes.'
'What d'ya mean, Heaven?'
A small crease of perplexion spoilt her otherwise perfect forehead. 'You died; you've come to Heaven.'
I paused, trying to make sense of this. 'Don't be ridiculous. If I were dead, I wouldn't be standing here, talking to you.'
The crease in her forehead deepened.
My patience was unravelling. 'Look, I've had enough of this. I want to speak to your boss.'
'I am The Boss. I'm God.'
I knew the super high-speed WiFi was too good to be true. Something had to mess up my day. 'You're a woman.'
'I realise that.'
'God is supposed to have a long, white beard.'
'Being a woman, that's not very likely, but I can assure you I am God.' A note of exasperation crept into her voice. 'Why is everyone so surprised that I'm a woman? I would have thought that it makes perfect sense for me to be female.'
I rubbed at the growing tension in my temples. 'I don't really care, actually, cos I don't believe in God anyway.'
Her look of serenity was showing signs of fading. 'You know, I'm a fairly forgiving kinda gal - it's part of my job description, but I'd appreciate it if you'd shut up for a couple of seconds and listen. For your information, you did die, strangely enough, by sending a text message while driving, when you should have been concentrating on the road. Now, I'm going to keep my personal opinion out of this and let's take a look at what other people have to say about you.' God waved a finger at my Facebook page that still hovered in the air. 'I wrote on your wall, saying that you had died and here,' she moved a finger and the page scrolled down, 'is the response.' She paused for effect. 'Likes: None. Comments: Zilch. Shares: Guess what? A big, fat zero.'
A feeling of horror gouged into my soul.
'Craig Millar,' God pronounced, 'your entry has been denied. You belong downstairs.'
A man who looked like a used car salesman, appeared at my side and ushered me towards the exit.
'By the way,' God called after me, 'the Internet connection down there is "hellishly" slow. To log into Facebook takes an eternity.'
To see more of my work, go to www.simonhughwheeler.com
January 24, 2014
Real Love vs Romantic Love
I remember when I met my wife, everything was all flowery, warm and fuzzy, and glowing pink. Little birds used to perch on our shoulders and twitter love songs, like an old Disney movie. But yesterday, almost nine years after having met, my wife demonstrated her real love for me. She bought me some slippers.
Not any old slippers, though. She picked out a pair which don't look too far removed from shoes. "In case you go out and have forgotten to put shoes on," my wife said, only half-cheekily. See, she thinks of me, cares about me and puts up with my absentmindedness, (I have been to the shops before, but with one slipper and one shoe).
With my hair falling out and what little is left rapidly turning grey; the crow's feet turning into ostrich feet and my memory starting to... I can't remember, I can't get by on looks any more. I don't turn heads these days, apart from in the other direction. I hope that my wife can see beyond the superficial appearances and appreciate me as a person. The real me is still inside.
If you fall in love, try wearing your slippers on a date. See if the potential soul mate is crazy about the way you look, or really in love with the person inside.
In my romcom, Loosely Translated, Maria has to choose between two men: a hot, rich and famous football player, and a very rough diamond.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
Not any old slippers, though. She picked out a pair which don't look too far removed from shoes. "In case you go out and have forgotten to put shoes on," my wife said, only half-cheekily. See, she thinks of me, cares about me and puts up with my absentmindedness, (I have been to the shops before, but with one slipper and one shoe).
With my hair falling out and what little is left rapidly turning grey; the crow's feet turning into ostrich feet and my memory starting to... I can't remember, I can't get by on looks any more. I don't turn heads these days, apart from in the other direction. I hope that my wife can see beyond the superficial appearances and appreciate me as a person. The real me is still inside.
If you fall in love, try wearing your slippers on a date. See if the potential soul mate is crazy about the way you look, or really in love with the person inside.
In my romcom, Loosely Translated, Maria has to choose between two men: a hot, rich and famous football player, and a very rough diamond.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
January 18, 2014
In Defence of Toyboys
In my romantic comedy, Loosely Translated, Carmen defends her relationship with a much younger man.
“It’s strange how it’s all right for a man to go chasing the young girls – he’s considered a stud. But if we do it, we’re thought of as slappers. And the stupid thing is that we reach our sexual peak at thirty-five, while men have left theirs behind at the tender age of eighteen. I’m doing what is only biologically fair. Not to mention that Alvaro has got lots of energy, which means he can keep up with me. Almost.”
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
“It’s strange how it’s all right for a man to go chasing the young girls – he’s considered a stud. But if we do it, we’re thought of as slappers. And the stupid thing is that we reach our sexual peak at thirty-five, while men have left theirs behind at the tender age of eighteen. I’m doing what is only biologically fair. Not to mention that Alvaro has got lots of energy, which means he can keep up with me. Almost.”
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
January 12, 2014
Dogs - Woman's Best Friend?
Many women are very attached to their canine companions. What if they did the fairytale trick of kissing their pooch to see if it turns into Prince Charming?
Unfortunately, it would be somewhat disconcerting if your prince retained a dog's social skills: licking their bits in public, (in private isn't much better), they'd want to sniff your bum and would run after any "bitch" that smelled good.
I've heard people say, 'I wish I could talk to my dog.' The conversation might be disappointing: 'Nice shoes. Can I chew them?', 'When do we eat?', or 'Look at the "tail" on her!'
Thinking about it, dogs aren't that much different to most men. However, dogs are loyal, always happy to see you, greeting you with a wagging tail when you get home, sensitive to when you're feeling blue, coming over and resting their head in your lap, and love you unconditionally. Perhaps men should take note.
This cheeky wee doggy can be downloaded from my website, free, to be printed off, cut out and folded so it stands upright.
www.simonhughwheeler.com
Unfortunately, it would be somewhat disconcerting if your prince retained a dog's social skills: licking their bits in public, (in private isn't much better), they'd want to sniff your bum and would run after any "bitch" that smelled good.
I've heard people say, 'I wish I could talk to my dog.' The conversation might be disappointing: 'Nice shoes. Can I chew them?', 'When do we eat?', or 'Look at the "tail" on her!'
Thinking about it, dogs aren't that much different to most men. However, dogs are loyal, always happy to see you, greeting you with a wagging tail when you get home, sensitive to when you're feeling blue, coming over and resting their head in your lap, and love you unconditionally. Perhaps men should take note.
This cheeky wee doggy can be downloaded from my website, free, to be printed off, cut out and folded so it stands upright.
www.simonhughwheeler.com
January 4, 2014
My House is Haunted!
It all started with the shower screen. We had moved into the house three years ago and not long after settling in I was vaguely aware that there were occasional, weird, clunking noises in the bathroom when I had a shower.
One day while showering I happened to catch the screen move and also discovered that it was this that made the clunking noise. It had moved about half an inch, even though it is not free swinging, if not fairly firmly seated on the edge of the bath. Although the window was open a notch to let the steam out, there wasn't enough wind to have moved the screen. I hadn't touched it, either. Since then, there have been a number of occasions where I have witnessed it and I've been much more aware of anything that might be the cause of this movement. But each time it moves completely by itself.
Two years ago, another incident made me start to wonder. One day as we were going out, I noticed that the front window was open. Although the front of the house is right on the street, there are wrought-iron bars on the window, so nobody could get in, but I still didn't want people to be able to look in through the gap in the curtains. I went back inside and closed the window, assuming that my wife had mistakenly left it open, since I couldn't remember opening it.
Two days later, it happened again. I reminded my wife to be careful not to leave it open and she replied that she hadn't opened it. After repeated occasions over the following weeks, I was increasingly making sure that the handle was properly in the closed position. The thought that it might be due to vibrations from cars going past crossed my mind, but the road is narrow and they don't drive very fast in front of the house. Also, the handle is fairly solid; not difficult to turn, but firm enough that it would need very heavy vibrations to turn it, not to mention that it turns up to open - they'd be amazing vibrations to work against gravity.
Finally, some weeks ago, I was working upstairs in my study before going to bed. My wife normally gives our baby girls their last bottle at about eleven so they sleep the rest of the night. At a couple of minutes past eleven, I heard her coming up the stairs and go into the kids' room, so I went down to the kitchen to make myself a hot cup of cocoa, (yes, I'm terribly old-fashioned and, ok, terribly old!). I was therefore surprised to find my wife sitting at the kitchen table with the laptop, surfing the Internet. Yet I could have sworn I heard her, very clearly, coming up the stairs.
The house is about 400 years old. The exterior walls are solid stone, a foot thick. Vibrations would be almost impossible. We also certainly can't hear the neighbours. I don't know what ancient history is hidden within these walls.
However, I was talking to a friend who has grown up in the town and happens to know the house well. Nine years ago, a couple bought the old house with the aim of completely renovating it. The place was gutted and the interior rebuilt. The husband created a big den on the far side of the house in which he planned to get on with his hobbies in peace and quiet when he was soon to retire. The day after finishing the renovation, the wife found him dead, still sitting upright in an armchair in the den.
And yet, it would seem there was no resting in peace. The wife began to see his face appear in all the mirrors, in particular the fixed mirror in the bathroom. Within two months she couldn't stand it any longer and sold the house.
I live in an ancient town in southern Spain which has an interesting history. It is purported to be the site of the Battle of Munda, where the blood of around 30,000 Roman soldiers soaks the soil. Later, it became one of the last Muslim strongholds, the scene of some of the bloodiest confrontations with the Catholic armies. Hemingway was inspired by events in the Civil War where a mob threw people suspected of being Fascists off the cliff, to write such a scene in For Whom The Bell Tolls. And rather strangely, for what has been such a strongly conservative, Catholic town, I have counted at least seven Green Men carvings above old doorways, a very much Pagan symbol.
I'm one of the most sceptical persons when it comes to esoteric things. But every once in a while something happens that gives me a wee shiver down my spine.
Check out my romantic comedy, Loosely Translated, set principally in Spain and which gives a bit of a feel for the country, its history and people.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
One day while showering I happened to catch the screen move and also discovered that it was this that made the clunking noise. It had moved about half an inch, even though it is not free swinging, if not fairly firmly seated on the edge of the bath. Although the window was open a notch to let the steam out, there wasn't enough wind to have moved the screen. I hadn't touched it, either. Since then, there have been a number of occasions where I have witnessed it and I've been much more aware of anything that might be the cause of this movement. But each time it moves completely by itself.
Two years ago, another incident made me start to wonder. One day as we were going out, I noticed that the front window was open. Although the front of the house is right on the street, there are wrought-iron bars on the window, so nobody could get in, but I still didn't want people to be able to look in through the gap in the curtains. I went back inside and closed the window, assuming that my wife had mistakenly left it open, since I couldn't remember opening it.
Two days later, it happened again. I reminded my wife to be careful not to leave it open and she replied that she hadn't opened it. After repeated occasions over the following weeks, I was increasingly making sure that the handle was properly in the closed position. The thought that it might be due to vibrations from cars going past crossed my mind, but the road is narrow and they don't drive very fast in front of the house. Also, the handle is fairly solid; not difficult to turn, but firm enough that it would need very heavy vibrations to turn it, not to mention that it turns up to open - they'd be amazing vibrations to work against gravity.
Finally, some weeks ago, I was working upstairs in my study before going to bed. My wife normally gives our baby girls their last bottle at about eleven so they sleep the rest of the night. At a couple of minutes past eleven, I heard her coming up the stairs and go into the kids' room, so I went down to the kitchen to make myself a hot cup of cocoa, (yes, I'm terribly old-fashioned and, ok, terribly old!). I was therefore surprised to find my wife sitting at the kitchen table with the laptop, surfing the Internet. Yet I could have sworn I heard her, very clearly, coming up the stairs.
The house is about 400 years old. The exterior walls are solid stone, a foot thick. Vibrations would be almost impossible. We also certainly can't hear the neighbours. I don't know what ancient history is hidden within these walls.
However, I was talking to a friend who has grown up in the town and happens to know the house well. Nine years ago, a couple bought the old house with the aim of completely renovating it. The place was gutted and the interior rebuilt. The husband created a big den on the far side of the house in which he planned to get on with his hobbies in peace and quiet when he was soon to retire. The day after finishing the renovation, the wife found him dead, still sitting upright in an armchair in the den.
And yet, it would seem there was no resting in peace. The wife began to see his face appear in all the mirrors, in particular the fixed mirror in the bathroom. Within two months she couldn't stand it any longer and sold the house.
I live in an ancient town in southern Spain which has an interesting history. It is purported to be the site of the Battle of Munda, where the blood of around 30,000 Roman soldiers soaks the soil. Later, it became one of the last Muslim strongholds, the scene of some of the bloodiest confrontations with the Catholic armies. Hemingway was inspired by events in the Civil War where a mob threw people suspected of being Fascists off the cliff, to write such a scene in For Whom The Bell Tolls. And rather strangely, for what has been such a strongly conservative, Catholic town, I have counted at least seven Green Men carvings above old doorways, a very much Pagan symbol.
I'm one of the most sceptical persons when it comes to esoteric things. But every once in a while something happens that gives me a wee shiver down my spine.
Check out my romantic comedy, Loosely Translated, set principally in Spain and which gives a bit of a feel for the country, its history and people.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
December 26, 2013
Size Matters at Christmas - 2
Many years ago I lived with an English girl who had a young daughter. One Christmas the daughter had a shock when she discovered an enormous present under the tree from me. As nonchalantly as I could, I asked her which present she would like to open first. In a quivering, excitement overload she threw herself at the huge gift, tearing it open. Opening the box, she revealed a heap of crumpled paper amongst which was another, smaller box. Within that box was a similar scenario, which continued for various minutes, with more paper and boxes until she found a single, lonely lolly.
Needless to say there were daggers coming from both the daughter and my girlfriend. The poor, wee lass learnt a lesson that day: Size is not important.
And that all men are bastards.
For a fun book about Christmas, check out my story, Santa's Night Off. When Santa is sick on Christmas Eve, who is going to deliver the presents? A merry, but mad, Christmas for all the family.
***FREE*** 6th - 10th December (Wed-Sun) on Amazon.
Santa's Night Off at Amazon
Needless to say there were daggers coming from both the daughter and my girlfriend. The poor, wee lass learnt a lesson that day: Size is not important.
And that all men are bastards.
For a fun book about Christmas, check out my story, Santa's Night Off. When Santa is sick on Christmas Eve, who is going to deliver the presents? A merry, but mad, Christmas for all the family.
***FREE*** 6th - 10th December (Wed-Sun) on Amazon.
Santa's Night Off at Amazon
Size Matters at Christmas - 1
A guy I knew went to buy a Christmas tree and as could be expected of men, bought the biggest one he could find. On arriving home, it was immediately obvious that it was too tall and he had to cut a couple of feet off the end for it to fit. When he was finally able to stand it up without the top bending over, he removed the plastic net that sheathed the tree. The branches settled down into place... taking up half the living room. His wife grudgingly put up with having to squeeze past it for about three weeks, but she completely lost it when she came downstairs one morning to find the carpet had turned green because the tree had decided to shed its pine needles.
Moral of the story: Men should not be let off the leash without proper supervision.
You can download a free mini tree that is perfect for kids, (and adults too, if you like!) to cut out, colour in and fold into shape: www.simonhughwheeler.com
For a fun book about Christmas, check out my story, Santa's Night Off. When Santa is sick on Christmas Eve, who is going to deliver the presents? A merry, but mad, Christmas for all the family.
***FREE*** 6th - 10th December (Wed-Sun) on Amazon.
Santa's Night Off at Amazon
Moral of the story: Men should not be let off the leash without proper supervision.
You can download a free mini tree that is perfect for kids, (and adults too, if you like!) to cut out, colour in and fold into shape: www.simonhughwheeler.com
For a fun book about Christmas, check out my story, Santa's Night Off. When Santa is sick on Christmas Eve, who is going to deliver the presents? A merry, but mad, Christmas for all the family.
***FREE*** 6th - 10th December (Wed-Sun) on Amazon.
Santa's Night Off at Amazon
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