By Ray Wilson Flipping The Switch “Merry Christmas!” I shout out in the direction of the beam. “Bless you,” she replies. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shine the torch in your eyes.” It is a balmy 13 degrees, and still a dark grey cloud blankets the road, making it seem earlier than it actually is.
By Ray Wilson Fog permeates the substance of the forest; rivulets run down the gnarled trunks and drip from the inter-tangled canopy of branches. The Bluebell railway line runs through the Ashdown forest. Somewhere far ahead, a steam train blows its whistle, its piercing vibrancy muted by the smothering blanket of fog. I urge my
By Ray Wilson Christmas Chronicles It’s been a morning of dull grey skies and long, persistent rain. I got back soaking wet with a soggy dog, having walked the hills above my dad’s village. I parked the motorcycle combination and quickly changed into dry and somewhat more respectable garb. My missus, having picked up Trev
By Ray Wilson New York Herald Tribune, November 29, 1953. “Scientist killed in Hotel Plunge: Frank Olson, 42, a bacteriologist for the Defence Department in Washington, was killed early yesterday in a plunge from a tenth-story room at the Hotel Statler, Seventh Ave. and 33rd Street, police reported.” “It’s interesting about Special Operations and MKULTRA
By Ray Wilson It’s a chilly Saturday morning in late November 2023. The skies are clear, the sun is rising, and there is still a frost on the grass verges outside my dad’s house. I avoid the potholes punched into the asphalt road as I manoeuvre the motorcycle combination onto the driveway. As soon as
By Ray Wilson Its another Saturday; not a smidgen of blue-fine drizzle permeates the garage; moisture appears unbidden on the tools; and condensation forms drips down from the steel rafters. What’s the plan, then, Ray?” Rich asks. It’s a very big question. “You and your missus spent a long time on the drive Thursday evening
By Ray Wilson It’s Saturday, November 11, 2023, and early afternoon; the sky is blue, and the sun shines down on us, as we are on manoeuvrers. On another day over a century ago, the Armistice, a peace agreement signed on November 11, 1918, marked the end of World War I—the war to end all
By Ray Wilson It’s Saturday, November 4th, and the annual fireworks display is being held in my dad’s village. Me and the missus had been invited to meet up with family there; it has been a while—maybe half a century ago—since I was last there. The venue is packed; huge electronic displays flash up messages; the
By Ray Wilson It’s raining, sometimes intermittent, sometimes stair rods, but always a perpetual rain; it stings the eyes and wrinkles the hands; and summer is a distant dream. The sound of raindrops hitting the soft top in plinks and splats creates a melancholic symphony vibrating on the car’s canopy. Each droplet seems to carry
By Ray Wilson Let’s work together.Together, we will stand, and divided, we’ll fall.Come on now people let’s get on the ballAnd work together, come on, come on let’s work together, now, now peopleSay now, together, we will stand, every boy, girl, woman, and man.-Canned Heat Friday, October 20th, and we are attempting to load a