The B4 Variant

 

by Lena Green

a sparkling rosé with a dash of something extra  

 St. Mary’s Convent had not expected to become victim to the Covid pandemic. They thought that with little contact with the outside world and with the protection afforded by the One Above, that they might be spared. But not so – for when Covid hit, it hit badly.

Feeling unwell, several sisters retreated to their rooms; the remaining less affected went about their duties feeling both depleted of energy and lacklustre of spirit.

The Mother Superior guarded the welfare of each and every sister, for some were elderly - and new recruits were scarce in coming.

However, with the passage of time and with the regular administration of paracetamol, the sisters recovered, and their pre-set daily life continued. Chores were undertaken, Matins and Vespers were sung, and prayers, numerous prayers, were offered.

Until, some two months later when once again the community was stricken. Stricken this time not by Covid, but by its variant, specifically, the B4 variant.

As opposed to the debilitating effects of Covid, B4 acted in quite the reverse.  Instead, it provoked inordinate levels of physical energy, and a paranoid intensity of excitement from dawn till dusk.

As a result, the quiet harmony of the community was rent asunder. Sisters sang and danced noisily through the corridors. They were slap-dash in the execution of their duties. And worse still, they were, not only restless, but all too frequently ‘irreverent’ during Scriptures.

Such behaviours would usually lead to the reprimand of the Mother Superior - but not so - for she too was similarly, and happily, affected.

But as the days passed so this unaccustomed euphoria tired the sisters. Tired them to such an extent, that come the evening, they would be found sprawling shamelessly, in almost drunken repose across the chairs in the   common room.  Their tiredness incited a sense of freedom. Liberated by B4, their conversations opened as they drifted, from one topic to another.  

In this spirit it was Sister Agnes who said, ‘I could murder a chocolate Hobnob!’ In response further cravings were voiced.  Many and varied they were, until losing all restraint, Sister Rosina, forgetting others were present, indulged the crevasses of her former self, then with voice wistfully trailing, she said, ‘I would love to feel the warmth of a man’s arms around me again …. To make l… once more.’

Assembled eyes turned in her direction. Had they heard what they thought they had heard? Was she going to continue?

A poignant lull. A careful pause, before, ‘You mean, you’re not a virgin? enquired one of the older, more established sisters.

But before Sister Rosina could realise what she had said, so a barrage of questions.

 ‘What was it like?’ ‘How did it feel?’  ‘Was it like on the television?’ ‘Did he take his socks, off like they’re supposed to….?’

And thus, the sisters continued probing, questioning, fantasising, until as one they agreed, that they were all suddenly regretting the loss of that part of their lives they had vowed to quell. 

 Sister Marion, knowing that the brothers at the Priory were similarly affected by B4, cleared her throat. In a flippantly casual, almost throwaway manner, she wondered if their colleague brothers might be feeling, similarly …. err…um … frustrated …  And further, if they did, might the sisters be able to help.

And so, it was decided that in the name of Christian fellowship, they would invite the brothers for a light evening supper. A night …. let’s just say … a night of whatever might come to pass.

The brothers arrived at 7.30 sharp. The meal, a somewhat more elaborate repast that the usual fare, was prepared, and several bottles of communion wine were made available to those (all) who might wish to partake.

 Replenished of belly, by 9pm or so, the common room emptied as ‘couples’ made their teetering way to the spartan cloisters above. There on narrow beds with horse-hair mattresses, the wondrous deed was done - and accordingly, the bells of heaven rang out loud and clear!

By 10pm, the elated sisters, waved goodbye to the band of limping, worn-out brothers. And then, as per routine, they made their way to the chapel, for evensong, to give thanks for another day of God given life.

The following day, an ethereal cloud was seen to hang over the Convent. A cloud of prayer. A cloud of … ‘Heavenly Father, forgive me for I have sinned …. ‘Since by now the variant had retreated and life had returned to its prescribed routine.

 However, disconcerted sister looked with both intrigue and embarrassment, at disconcerted sister.

Meanwhile Mother Superior, prudent as ever, decided that a week of silent reflection would take place. Seven days of no contact with the outside world - especially the press. A week of contemplation. A week of prayerful thanks to the One Above, that they had been released from the temptations occasioned by the B4 variant. 

About the author

I have been writing for a while now - simply for y own pleasure. Now though, i feel happy to open up and welcome feedback.

The Day the Careers Advisor Came

 

by Lena Green.

a double expresso – without water.

 

We didn’t do a lot of imagining where I came from – fantasy didn’t exist in bombed-out south London.

Life was daily. Life was routine. Life was getting to see tomorrow. Life was not marked by success, but by survival.

So when the careers officer said, ‘what would you like to do when you leave school?’ I failed to respond.

My query was with the word ‘like’. What would ‘I like’ to do? Was he bluffing me? Did I really, aged fourteen and on the cusp of leaving school, have a choice?

I paused and then said, ‘I want to be a teacher.’

He rocked back in masculine laughter. He lay down his gold-tipped fountain pen, and said, ‘No. No my child! Let me remind you. You are a secondary modern girl! You are not intelligent enough for higher education – it’s not designed for girls like you!’

I remained silent. I smiled because that’s what I had been taught to do, but deep down in the crevasses of my inner self, I knew that my immature utterance was no vision of fantasy.

I left the room – convinced I would prove him wrong.

I refused the polite subservient convention of thanking him for his advice.  What did ‘he’ know of my so-called intelligence? What did ‘he’ know of me?

I left knowing that I would prove him wrong: that higher education, that teaching ‘was’ for me. From our short meeting I determined   that  I would grasp my future with both hands – that ‘I’ could make a difference for future  girls like me . 

About the author

I have always written for my own benefit but am now hoping that others may be interested in my work. 

 

The Revenge of the ‘Cold-bum'

 

by Lena Green

a satisfying cappuccino with chocolate sprinkles

 

I knew it was going to happen because it always did. That knowing nagging voice as I go to bed, telling me, ‘At some stage during the night, you’re going to wake up cold’.

 For me, this ‘cold bum’ no duvet scenario is not caused by some high octane out-of-this world libertine extravaganza, or by some clumsy teenage romp. Unfortunately, not!  It’s simply the result of   two medium-sized, middle-of-the-road people, under a king-size quilt, one of whom with every twist and turn, takes the entire duvet with them. Oh yes! You say: you’ve heard it all before.

 But after years of shall we say ‘almost’ silent acquiescence, to quote the immortal Baldrick, I now have a ‘cunning plan’. My comeuppance may only work for one night – but gee! That one night will be such bliss!

 For by the marvels of modern science I have programmed the front doorbell to mysteriously, and uncontrollably ring at 2.13 am (at the hour when my bum is at its coldest). Upon which, if I predict correctly, the one of us who considers themselves more courageous with dealing with unexpected middle-of-the-night scenarios, will, eventually, stir. They will look at me feigning deep sleep, then go to investigate.

 In their absence, with the uncontrollable greed of a five-year-old with a bag of sweets, with gusto beyond limitation, I shall grab every conceivable bit of the duvet. Thereupon I shall tuck all of it tightly, oh so very tightly, round myself and wallow, centre bed, snugly cocooned within a wealth of feathers.

 When the other one of us returns, cold from the January blast they encountered as they investigated the random ringing of the doorbell, they will stand and stare. Stare dumbfounded at the new bed-duvet arrangement – an arrangement that clearly now (oh! so sadly) leaves no room for them!

 I will chuckle silently as I hear their hurt, grumpy, defeated footsteps heading for the guest room – to shiver in the small, single bed, with its child-sized Noddy duvet.

 And I shall sleep, warm bottom included, blissfully on. My pleasure may only be short lived, but what satisfying retribution to know that revenge is a dish best served cold.              

About the author 

I have always written simply for myself but am now hoping that others might enjoy my work

   

Staying the Night

by Lena Green

coffee

We called it snogging or necking in those days – and we did quite a lot of it. Mostly it happened on a Saturday as we walked through the park, or along the banks of the river as we walked into town. Other times it would be in the cinema, and of course when we got back home and sat on the settee drinking coffee. 

It was modern to drink coffee then and I remember that although neither of us liked coffee we were keen to be seen a modern. We would take sips, place our cups back on the coffee table, look at each other, and then, well … neck!

Occasionally on the settee a hand would wander, his, not mine, followed by one of those ‘stop it - I like it’ struggles of unexplored desire. It was all very new. It was all very innocent.

And so it was, that one evening some ten days after my sixteenth birthday, my cards still displayed on the sideboard, he whispered in my ear, 'Can I stay the night?’

Failing to realise the inference in those simple words I said, ‘Of course you can!’ before calling to mother saying, ‘John’s asked to stay the night. Is it OK?’

I'm still not sure whether she read the situation better than I but I remember her busying herself with spare blankets and sheets, making up a bed or him on the very settee where had had until two minutes ago sat contented in deep snog.

John was very quiet the following morning. By contrast I was bubbly, girlish, pleased to be sharing the breakfast table with him, oblivious to anything other than his presence.

He said he needed to get back home so I walked with him. Still I chatted, still he remained subdued, until on reaching his door, he said, ‘but I wanted to sleep with you.’

In that moment my girlish world stopped. Embarrassed by my blindness, my gauche inexperienced failure to understand what had been implied, I sobbed. Every glimmer of the sophistication I was trying so hard to acquire was stripped form me.

We stood in silence: I frightened by the realisation than I stood on the brink of something of which I was not ready. That someone fancied me – not just for snogging - but for ‘going all the way’, and surely not –sex!

Cromwell Road

by Lena Green

vanilla ice-cream with a chocolate flake 

‘I love to look out at the sea', she said watching the traffic on the Cromwell Road. ‘Why, it’s so refreshing – breath in Molly dear – taste the saltiness of the air.’

‘But Grandma, we're in London. There’s no sea here.’

‘Silly girl,’ Grandma gently rebuked. ‘You tell me there’s no sea here – just look at the seagulls. Seagulls everywhere! … and look, there’s the pier. Come on, let’s walk down to it.’

 
With a gentle smile Molly complied. And so, arm in arm, Grandma leading the way with the tap-tap of her stick, they walked past the shops, crossing at the lights to avoid the traffic, chatting inconsequentially.

Until … ‘Look, Milly dear.  The pier, we’ve reached it. Let’s go and get an ice-cream from that handsome Italian man at the kiosk at the end.’

Again, Milly made no protest, rather she pulled her grandmother closer and said nothing, for nothing was all that was needed.

But then, ‘Oh! Milly dear! The wind. It’s always so blowy here on the pier. Help me with my hat or I shall be completely blown away.’

Respectfully Milly attended to her hat, fitting it more snugly around her ears, until Grandma satisfied, they walked on. One step at a time – bowing against the illusory wind.

But then Grandma suddenly stopped.

‘Milly dear! He’s gone! The ice-cream man. He's been here for years and now he’s gone!’

‘Don’t worry Grandma. I know a place where we can get an ice-cream. And with that she gently turned her grandmother back round to the direction from whence they had just come.

‘It’s all changed,’ mumbled Grandma. ‘It’s all changed. I don’t understand it … he’s been here for years... and now …

Milly let her talk. The occasional, ‘yes’ or ‘I know’ seemed to suffice, until back in the High Street they arrived at a café. 

Milly found a table, outside, in the sunshine. Grandma sat, took off her hat, straightened her hair, rummaged for a hankie while Milly bought two ice-creams: vanilla, both with a chocolate flake.

Contented Grandma ate. While her girlish tongue made swirls and chased the never-ending drips so she said nothing. And Milly, relishing Grandma’s tranquil moment, savoured her’s too.

Then, ‘I love it here on the pier,’ said Grandma. ‘Don’t you too Milly?’

‘Oh, I do Grandma,’ said Milly, her voice almost lost by the roar of the traffic as it made its perpetual way, oblivious to all, along the Cromwell Road, to who knows where.

Exiled

 by Lena Green

bitter lemon

So, can you tell me how it all started: how you came to feel exiled from yourself, as you say.

Well, it was back last summer. I read an advert in the paper. It said something like: are you fed up with having to hold your phone?  Do you long to have your hands free again? If so, ring a certain number for more details. You’ll never regret this step, it said. 

So I did - I rang the number, and they explained that instead of having the chip inside your phone, you could have it implanted in your brain instead. That way you could control your phone or laptop or whatever, simply by thought. That way you didn’t have to go through all the palaver of the apps and typing in because you could simply direct your thought to wherever, and the answer to whatever you wanted would appear in your mind straight away. It would be the new ‘hands free’; you could leave your phone at home – because the chip would always be with you, implanted in your brain. Easy! It said! Who could refuse?

Were you sceptical at all?

Well... er ... unbelievably, at the time: no. I had started getting this numb thumb, repetitive strain injury the doctor called it, so … well, it seemed like a good idea.

So, I phoned.  I asked a few questions and they explained that his was the new way to go. I would be at the cutting edge of technology –all my friends would be envious. Chips were getting smaller; implanting was getting easier … why get left behind? So, to cut a long story short: I went ahead. 

The procedure itself only took a half day, although I did take the afternoon off from work because I had a bit of a headache. But after that it was fine.

You didn’t have regrets then – once it was in?

No, it was fine. I emailed my friends – simply by ‘thought’, with no problems at all. The system worked. I was glad I had caught on to the idea.  I managed to keep in daily contact with my parents, so they liked it!  And if I wanted to google something, I knew the answer straight away. It was almost as though I knew everything.

So, I thought I would test it out by going to the pub quiz. I didn’t really need to be in a team of four, but to make it look good I asked a few friends to come along with me. Sure enough, every question I knew the answer. In fact, the only question we got wrong was the one Rob insisted he was right and I was wrong. We walked away with the prize, and thought we would go back the following week.

And did you?

Well, no!  The landlord asked us not too! 

So all went well. 

Yes, sort of.  It certainly saved a lot of time at work. But then after a while, things started to boring.   And then worse still, I began losing friends.  People didn’t want to be with me because they said I knew too much.  They said I was no fun to be with, so they stopped including me.  And me? Well, I just switched off.

And then I thought blow them! I will go out and find new friends.  But then as soon as I met someone, I immediately knew everything about them. You see, as I was talking to them so I had immediate access to Facebook and LinkedIn and everything else.  I had nothing to learn from them, I just knew everything!   So you see, I can’t just ‘chat’ any more. Life now has no surprises: life has no excitement: there’s nothing unknown: no challenge.

That sounds sad.

Yes, it is. The result of all this is that I find myself alone and friendless. I’ve become the know-all! They joke behind my back, and well, life has simply become hell.

In a moment of desperation, I contacted the firm and asked if I could have the chip removed. Answer: an emphatic ‘no’.They said I had signed the agreement for a six-year trial and that was that. It was only later that I found out that they were selling the results of my brain activity to some foreign data base company …  and that made me even more distressed!

So, you see: the result is that I have lost myself. I’ve driven myself into exile.

I’m completely at odds with who I was. I have no personality. I have no friends. I am simply a chip – a chip that knows and can do everything, yet a chip that can be out-flanked by some data company since they control my every thought.  

I’m lost to a world beyond myself, because by freeing my hands, I have freed my identity.  I am a nothing. I am completely lost.