The shipping
forecast

(There are warnings of gales in Viking, South Utsire, Forties, Fisher, Biscay, Trafalgar, Fitzroy, Rockall,
Bailey, Fair Isle and Southeast Iceland.
The area forecasts for the next 24 hours:
Viking, North Utsire, South Utsire, Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger Bank, easterly 5 to 7,
occasionally gale 8 in Viking, South Utsire and Forties, becoming variable 4 at times in Cromarty,
Forth and Tyne. Moderate or rough, occasionally very rough in Cromarty and Forties. Snow showers.
Good, occasionally very poor, light or moderate icing in South Utsire).
He heard the voice calling the Shipping Forecast as clear as a bell, he always did, whenever his mind
was clouded by stress or if he just needed to organise his thoughts.
It was like a litany, a Hail Mary that he used to block everything out for as many times as his mind
wanted to repeat it.
The forecast had gotten him through Basra, Mogadishu and a few other scrapes that he did not care
to remember.
And now he came back to it, back to the crackly old radio that pulsed these very words throughout
his childhood, back to a safe place beside the fire as the wind howled and the rain hammered down
outside the window.
There is a small patch of grass, just below Victoria Embankment, in between snaking concrete roads
and the river Thames, not much of a beauty spot, and hardly noticed by most passersby.
One man, a speck viewed from a high rise, sat in the middle of the grass triangle looking over the
dirty river, the late afternoon sun reflecting vivid colours on its surface. An orange glow rippling out,
masking the grey waters depths.
How had he ended up here?
Why did she have to catch him out?
What would happen to him now?
These and many other questions, some too frightening to keep at the front of his mind were
bouncing around his head.

It had all happened so quickly, a man living a comfortable life who really did not want for anything,
and now, destitute, no money, no credit cards, no possessions; she had seen to that, yes, he was
well and truly screwed.
But still alive and with no injuries to speak of, that was something to be thankful for, as she had
connections, really bad connections, it would not have been a problem for her to make him
disappear or wake up with two broken legs.
One last act of benevolence was all he got for three years of life together.
The wet grass was starting to soak through his jeans, but he did not care, it was a small discomfort,
he could sit here forever if that is what it would take to solve the mess that he was in.
He looked out across the river, at the thousands of doors and windows that housed so many lives,
none connected to his, but all existing on the same patch of land that he sat glumly upon.
Inside those famous London buildings, people went about their daily business with no thought for
him, no concern for what would happen when the sun went down; they did not even know that he
existed.
Perhaps if he tried to tell his story to someone, maybe they would take pity on him. No........ this was
a city where people looked out for themselves only; besides, it was all his own fault wasn’t it?
Had he not been so careless with the other woman, she would not have caught him with his pants
down in the first place. How ironic that they had both conspired to trap him after one had found out
about the other.
Maybe he could find his way back and patch things up?
Maybe she would welcome him back with open arms?
More likely, she would get one of her thugs to beat him to within an inch of his life and dump him in
the river, yes that was their modus operandi, no questions asked; you are persona non gratis mate.
Not an option to go back then, he might as well sit here a while longer and think.
(Viking, South Utsire, Forties,Fisher, Biscay)
Perhaps in this spot, many others had the chance to sit and think over the years, as the Thames lazily
drifted past on its slow journey to the sea.
He could imagine, courtiers, businessmen, paupers and other regular people, sitting on this very
spot, hoping for some inspiration, or perhaps a miracle to save their wayward lives.
He was neither a good nor a bad man, in fact you could describe him as a very interesting person
with a history that would not be discussed in polite conversation, but now none of that counted here
beside the Thames under a late Autumn sky that looked like it was rapidly changing it’s mind about
keeping the rest of him dry, and very soon unleashing some of that predictable English weather right
on top of his sorry head.

A sorry head that felt a shiver run down his spine as he suddenly felt a compulsion to look at a pile of
rubbish next to him. Was that a ten pound note sticking out from a crisp packet or an old piece of
newspaper?
Almost breaking his neck to scramble over to the pile, he grabbed at the bag only to find that it was
sitting on top of a piece of brown muck that was either shit or mud, but he was to afraid to smell it
to make sure.
Wiping away the mess on the grass he dared himself to look again and yes, it was a battered and
very old but quite useable tenner that was now his own personal fortune.
Walking to the nearest puddle, he carefully dipped the note in the water and washed the dirt away,
slowly as possible, he was afraid that it would disintegrate, as it was so old. After wiping it on his
shirt to dry it, he looked at the date, 1971, that was old, but, still legal tender and that was good
enough for him.
Snatching it up and carrying it close to his chest like it was a new born baby, he hurried away from
the river front before someone saw what he had and tried to take it away.