Samuel Jones' Diary, Part A

                 
Well, another year has come and gone. I did intend on writing a nice little Christmas blog, but I never did get around to it. Frankly I’m surprised I managed to go a complete year and still be writing blogs on here.

                This time of year makes me think about one of my favourite books – Bridget Jones’ Diary by Helen Fielding. At the beginning of the book the protagonist, Bridget Jones, sets down a whole lot of New Year’s resolutions, and at the end she presents a little summary of the year that was. I tend not to bother about making resolutions because they tend to go out the window within a few days. I did try to get around it one year by saying that my only resolution was not to have any New Year’s resolutions but then I realised I’d broken it before I’d even started it.

                I would like to reflect on the year though. It’s been a long year – full of travel and heartbreak and friendships and breakups and sunburn and heartships and friendups and sunships and heartburn. So I thought I’d take a look at 2011, Bridget Jones style.

Number of overseas holidays: 2

Number of countries visited: 9 (impressive)

Number of ex-boyfriends: 1

Number of current boyfriends: 0

Number of times have fallen in love: 6

Number of times have decided to give up on men altogether and become a nun: Several hundred

Number of times have actually become a nun: 0

Number of languages attempted to learn: 15

Number of languages can actually speak (excluding English): 0

Number of languages can actually speak (including English): ½

Number of religions have wanted to convert to: 3

Number of religions have actually converted to: 0

Number of messages sent on my phone: … Oh dear.

Number of times have attempted to get fit: Aprox. 13

Number of times have succeeded in getting fit: 0

Number of books finished writing: 2

Number of books started writing: 5

Number of blog posts: 28

Number of publication rejections: 2

Number of articles published: 2

Number of books I now own: 700+

Number of New Year’s resolutions made: 7

Number of New Year’s resolutions met: 1

You’d think that having read some of those things I’d be depressed. And I was until today. But this has been an amazing year. I have done so much, learnt so much, grown so much. The good and the bad… I don’t regret it. No regrets. And I think I’m ready to face another year.

Farewell 2011. You shall be missed.

A Concise History of History Part 4

Chapter Four - Ancient Cultures: Greece
What follows are some of the earliest written records of the Socratic method. This was a philosophical means of debate, created in Ancient Greece by the world renowned philosopher, Socrates. It is a method by which a person would make a philosophical statement and Socrates, by carefully questioning and needling them, would prove the statement to be false. In court this is known as ‘cross examination’. In Australian politics this is known as ‘Kerry O’Brien’.

Socrates used this method to point out inadequacies in people’s professed knowledge. While many people believed they were knowledgeable while being totally ignorant, Socrates believed that knowledge of his ignorance actually made him more knowledgeable than the ignorant people who thought that they were knowledgeable. This resulted in much confusion and debate in which people attacked each other’s knowledge or lack of knowledge, resulting in the revelation that nobody knew anything at all. We would now recognise this as a ‘government’.

The following is a dialogue between Socrates and a student, recorded by Plato. This particular exchange was left out of Plato’s major works, but was discovered recently in a cave outside Athens by historian and linguist Peter M. Donoghue.

Student: I think, therefore I am.

Socrates: So because you think, that means you exist, is that right?

Student: That is what I just said.

Socrates: Then it would be safe to assume that because something is capable of thought, it exists.

Student: That’s right.

Socrates: But is it not true that rocks exist?

Student: That’s right – rocks exist.

Socrates: And are rocks capable of thought?

Student: Err… maybe? I mean, no one’s ever asked them…

Socrates: (loudly) Is it not true that rocks are incapable of thought?

Student: As far as we can tell, yes, rocks don’t think, but…

Socrates: But rocks still exist, even though they don’t think.

Student: Yes, but…

Socrates: And you also exist, even though you do think.

Student: Umm… yes…

Socrates: (triumphantly) So you think, therefore you are not a rock.

Student: … Err…. Are you sure you did that right?

Socrates: Eh?

Student: Well, is not the point of your valued method of debate to contradict my initial statement?

Socrates: That is correct.

Student: And was not my original statement ‘I think, therefore I am’?

Socrates: That is also correct.

Student: Therefore the previous exchange between us was not an example of the Socratic method, correct?

Socrates: Correct… Err… what’s the score?

Student: Fifteen-love.

Socrates: Damn. Alright, try this. If a tree falls in the woods and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Student: Are you sure that’s Socratic?

Socrates: Trust me.

Student: Well, yes, all things that fall make a sound.

Socrates: But is it not true that if you are not near a falling tree then you can’t hear it?

Student: Well… yes…

Socrates: So how can you be sure that it’s making a sound?

Student: Because trees make a sound when they fall.

Socrates: I don’t think you’re entering into the spirit of this.

Student: Well how about this. If the tree doesn’t make a sound, how do you know the tree is even falling?

Socrates: That’s not the point.

Student: And is it not true that a tree that may or may not be falling also may or may not exist?

Socrates: Well, I suppose…

Student: And so is it not true that the tree, the woods and even the concept of falling are merely human constructions and probably don’t exist anyway?

Socrates: One could say that…

Student: So does that not prove that this philosophical concept is completely ridiculous?

Socrates: I feel you’ve just weakened your argument.

Student: Thirty-love.

Socrates: Let me try this one. If you put a cat in a box, is it dead or alive?

Student: That depends – what was it when it was put in the box?

Socrates: Alive.

Student: And are there air holes in the box?

Socrates: No.

Student: Then I’m going to guess it’s dead.

Socrates: But if you can’t see it how do you know if it’s dead or alive?

Students: Because cat’s need air?

Socrates: Hmmm… Perhaps there were air holes in the box. I’ll have to check that.

Student: Where did you get that one from anyway?

Socrates: Schrodingerclese. You know what he’s like with putting animals in boxes.

Student: That poor cat. But returning to the point in question, is it not true that the fact of whether or not the cat is dead or alive is not determined until we open the box?

Socrates: That is correct.

Student: So it is safe to say that until we can see that cat we do not know what state it is in?

Socrates: That is also correct.

Student: So following on from this we can also say that the cat either exists or does not exist, is that true?

Socrates: It is.

Student: So I pose to you that the question should not be whether the cat is ‘dead’ or ‘alive’, but whether the cat ‘is’; that is – if you put a cat in a box, is it?

Socrates: … What?

Student: Forty-love.

Socrates: I don’t like this game anymore.

Student: You started it.

Socrates: Let me try this one. You have often said that courage is the endurance of the soul.

Student: No I haven’t.

Socrates: Well, it has been said by people that courage is the endurance of the soul.

Student: By who?

Socrates: Pardon?

Student: Who has ever said that?

Socrates: … People. And I put to you…

Student: What people?

Socrates: Eh?

Student: What people say ‘courage is the endurance of the soul’?

Socrates: Oh. Um… Philosophers.

Student: You are a philosopher, are you not?

Socrates: I am.

Student: And philosophers say things such as ‘courage is the endurance of the soul’, am I right?

Socrates: That is right.

Student: Which are things that nobody else says, correct?

Socrates: Correct.

Student: Then it would be true to say that philosophers say things that no other person has said before?

Socrates: Yes, that is true.

Student: Then is it not also true that philosophers make all this stuff up as they go along.

Socrates: Yes. Hang on…

Student: And that you made up this method to feel smug and intelligent without really saying anything.

Socrates: But…

Student: And I put to you that this entire exercise has been a waste of my time. Fifty-love.

Socrates: I need to find a new student.

Lifestyles of the mundane and famous.

Author’s note: This piece was written in early November, but due to illness, laziness and China the publishing was postponed. At the time it was written it had been inspired by recent news reports.

Does anyone actually know who Kim Kardashian is?

She's been everywhere in the headlines recently;

'Kim Kardashian files for divorce.'

'Camera falls on Kim Kardashian's head.'

'Kim Kardashian sues over look-alike.'

'Kim Kardashian regrets porn shoort - Kim Kardashian says she only stripped off for Playboy because her mother told her to.'

I had to stop looking them up; they were both fascinating and horrifying.

Ok, one more. 'Kim Kardashian embarassed by breasts - Kim Kardashian says she has prayed to God for smaller breasts.'

That's the last one. I swear.

What will come next? ‘Kim Kardashian wins Nobel Peace Prize’? ‘Kim Kardashian; first woman on Mars’? ‘Gaddafi was killed by Kim Kardashian’?

It wasn’t until I looked her up on Wikipedia that I discovered she was an; ‘American business woman, socialite and TV personality’. In other words, she’s no one in particular. Yet she is apparently a celebrity.

I have made a lot of complaints about the cult of celebrity; about how the media follows their every move and the public raises them to the height of Gods. But at least in a lot of cases these are the common or garden variety of celebrities. They are singers, pop stars, sportsmen and women, actors and actresses. But when it comes to people like Kim Kardashian or Paris Hilton who have not appeared to have done anything of note to achieve their fame, it all gets a bit bewildering.

Where do we find these people? Perhaps there is some sort of criteria that media outlets have in order to decide who is worthy of their attention (actually, having studied journalism for three years, I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the case). Perhaps, if a certain individual is brought to their attention, they have to be ticked off against a stringent checklist. Young. Check. Female. Check. Rich. Check. Has made a sex tape. Check.

What’s more, you would think that once you were in the public eye you would be more careful about what you said to the media. Remember Jessica Simpson and her amazing reality TV show? Wasn’t that fun? I don’t care if TV producers are going to pay you millions – in fact, that should make you more suspicious. If the whole world is watching, for goodness sake don’t make a fool of yourself by asking if tuna is chicken. It’s the modern day equivalent of Marie Antoinette saying ‘Let them eat cake’.

In all honesty I do feel a bit sorry for these pseudo-celebrities sometimes. It can’t be easy being the butt of international jokes. They are, after all, human beings just like the rest of us. The difference however is that every slip up, every mistake, every embarrassment and every personal moment is out there for the world to see. We, on the other hand, can hide behind our anonymity. Can you imagine the headlines if we were all famous?

‘Bryan passes out drunk on his neighbour’s lawn.’

‘Laura drops glasses into toilet.’

‘Jenny goes through messy and heart wrenching divorce.’

‘Adam sends naked picture of himself to girlfriend.’

‘Offelbert in court battle to change his name.’

Everyone should be able to make mistakes and be human without it being plastered all over the global news networks. It’s in the International Charter of Human Rights. I think. It should be.

So in the end who is really to blame? Is it we, the consumers of media; a society who idolises the rich and terminally idiotic? Or perhaps we should blame the media who feeds us this tripe in order the boost circulation instead of reporting on things which really matter? Or when it comes down to it is it the celebrities themselves who eat up the fame and pander to the camera like a panda, pandering to a camera?

Perhaps it’s all three. Perhaps it’s a necessary part of the society, just like birth, death and Texas. Whatever the reason, it appears that the Kardashians of the world are here to stay; rich, stylish and clueless.

May God help us all.

A little poem I'd like to call "Giving the Finger to Mental Illness"

You’ve taken enough from me.

You’ve taken it for so long.

You’ve stood in my way at life’s twists and turns.

It’s time for you to be gone.

Dreams are no good if they’re only dreams.

What’s the point of life without living?

It’s time to soar, time to be free,

Time for life to start giving.

You’ve weighed me down for too long now.

You’ve taken too much of my time.

You’ve made me be less than I could have been,

You’ve made me burst into rhyme.

I still can be great, I still have a chance.

Not for anyone else, but for me.

Not because I want to be better,

But because I long to be free.

So I’m putting you far behind me.

The past is the past and it’s true;

I’m stronger than you and I’m not holding back,

I’m much better off without you.

Writers and badgers and blocks. Oh my.

I am suffering from writer’s block.

I don’t know what it feels like to anyone else. But for me it’s like a sort of mental numbness, a lack of feeling in my thought muscles. It’s as if a family of badgers have made a nest in my brain and have gone into hibernation.

I’ve been trying to work on a new book, inspired by my recent trip to Europe. While staying in the north of Italy my parents and I went on a day trip to the old city of Verona. It was pouring with rain. The sky was dark and close. The city – which is pretty old and earthen, one of those powerful medieval cities that make travelling in Europe so amazing – was thronging with people. Of course they were all making their way to la Casa di Giulietta; Juliette’s house.

I was moved by Verona. I was inspired by Verona. I was determined from the moment I arrived in the city that I was going to set a story there. Granted Shakespeare beat me by a few centuries, but dammit he wasn’t a fantasy writer. Unless you count A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Arriving back at our accommodation – a farmhouse/B&B in a place called Casabalbato, just outside Parma – I took out my pen and paper and set to work. As the storm broke over the Italian countryside my mind was entering a fantasy world; an alternate Italy in the middle ages. Suddenly characters, scenes, languages, symbols, creatures… they all came flooding into my mind. My hand could hardly keep up with my brain. I could see relationships between people, magical scenes, whole settings, action, everything! The whole book… no, a whole trilogy began to play out like a movie right before my mind’s eye.

If only my mind’s eye knew how to type.

It’s all well and good being able to see everything you want to capture in a book. Actually putting it into words is much more difficult.

I have trouble with words, which is a pretty bad outlook for a prospective writer. Some writers can churn out thousands of words a day (yes, I’m looking at you Alexander McCall Smith). I on the other hand sit at the computer and stare at the screen willing the words to come to me and, continuing on in this fashion, I can go days, weeks, even months without writing a single word. Seriously – I’m not making this up for comic effect, but as I sit here trying to write this post a spider has literally started making a web between the laptop and my hip.

Writing all depends on approach and method. I have heard so many ways that writers go about their craft, and ways they combat writers block. Some (damn you Sandy!) are just geniuses and can write for long stretches of time every day. Others treat writing like a job, with set hours where they sit down and write. Some writers make daily or weekly deadlines that they have to meet.

I wish I had that much discipline. I treat writing the same way I treat everything I do – impulsively and sporadically. My mind is a constant whir of inspiration and ideas, and my time is a constant vacuum filled by work, Facebook (when I still had an account) and, most recently, Avatar: The Last Air Bender. I have trouble focusing and I can only really write when a bolt of inspiration comes to me.

That’s why writer’s block is so annoying for me. Right now I am in another sudden flood of inspiration for this Italy book. Once more I can see the scenes playing out in my head. But I can’t for the life of me think of the words. The badgers have well and truly settled in. They’ve insulated the den and filled the empty spaces with stores of… well, whatever it is that badgers eat. I’m not even sure if badgers hibernate, come to think of it. Actually I’m convinced that badgers are the fictional creation of Kenneth Grahame intended as a joke, and David Attenborough hasn’t seen the punch line yet.

But none of this is helping me with my writer’s block.

So I find myself here at 1am; sitting in my room, trying to meditate, realising I don’t know how to meditate, wishing I was back in Italy because even if I was still unable to write at least I’d be in Italy. I’ll try anything to let the words flow. Perhaps my last chance is to find some sort of pest exterminator or animal rescue service that can deal with my mental badgers.

I wonder if David Attenborough makes house calls.

Death of a Lecturer; Episode 5

SCENE 5

EXT./INT. HOUSE IN THE MOUNTAINS

HARRIET and DAVID are standing outside a large house. It is an expensive looking house, with a large garden and a large car in a big driveway. Harriet and David are walking up the front steps to a double-door.

David: This can’t be her house. A teacher couldn’t afford this.

Harriet: This is her brother’s house. I have on good authority that the entire family is gathered here at this moment.

David: You have it on whose authority?

Harriet: Never you mind.

David: You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?

Harriet: (sharply) Just ring the doorbell.

(David rings the bell. The door is opened by an old man, REEVES, wearing a black suit and thick glasses).

Reeves: (formally) May I help you?

Harriet: Good morning sir. We’re journalists and…

(Reeves shuts the door in her face).

David: (sarcastically) Well, that was effective.

Harriet: Shut up.

David: I have an idea.

(He rings the doorbell. Reeves opens it again).

Reeves: (angrily) The family does not wish to see any journalists, so if you would be so kind…

David: (interrupting) What my friend meant was that we’re journalism students. Pupils of Ms Caine. We came to pay our respects.

Reeves: I see. (reluctantly) Well, enter, please. I am Reeves, the butler.

David: Butler?

Reeves: (acidly) Yes. Butler.

(They enter a large entrance hall)

Reeves (cont’d): If you would wait here, I will ask the Colonel if he will see you.

(He exits through a side door).

Harriet: Colonel?

David: (hysterically) Oh my God! This is like some horrible parody!

Harriet: Get a grip! At least we’re in now.

David: Thanks to my brilliant plan.

Harriet: Your brilliant plan? All you did was tell the truth!

David: It’s surprising how often people forget about that plan. It got us in didn’t it?

Harriet: True. I tip my cap to you, Watson.

David: But you’re not wearing a cap.

(Harriet is about to respond when Reeves re-enters).

Reeves: The Colonel will see you. If you will come this way.

(They enter through the side door. The come into a large room. There are three sofas in a semicircle around a large, glass coffee table. Seated on them are four people; the solicitor, MR GARETH, the brother THE COLONEL, the sister, MARY, and what appears to be an old, French maid, ADEL. There is a roaring fire at one end of the room, and a large window with heavy, drawn curtains at the other.)

Reeves: This is Miss…

Harriet: Johnson.

Reeves: Miss Johnson and Mr…

David: Watson.

(Harriet gives him a quizzical look, and he winks back.)

Reeves: And Mr Watson.

Colonel: Thank you Reeves.

(Reeves exits).

Colonel (cont’d): Now, what can I do for you young things?

Harriet: We’ve come to pay our respects. We are… or were rather, students of Jessica Caine.

Colonel: (kindly) Good eggs. Nasty business this, what?

Harriet: (to David) An authentic 1920’s English Colonel in 21^st Century Sydney. How… how…

David: Odd?

Colonel: (not appearing to hear them). I am Colonel John Caine, Jess’ brother.

Harriet: But I thought Caine was her married name?

Mary: It was. She married another Caine, no relation of ours of course. Her third husband. Or was it her second. Lord knows, she’s had quite a few of them! (laughs like a zebra). I’m Mary by the way. Jess’ sister. Mary Caine. Of course. (laughs again).

Colonel: (leans over to Harriet and David and whispers). Our Mary is a bit… you know… lacking upstairs, if you catch me.

Harriet: (to David). Relatives of yours are they?

David: (confused) Eh?

Colonel: Sweet girl she is though. Quite a few in our family like her. Take that lady there in the corner.

(He points to Adel).

Harriet: The maid?

Colonel: (laughing). She thinks she is. That’s our mother, Adel.

David: Why does she think she’s a maid?

Colonel: No one knows. Doctor thinks she may have had a stroke or something. One morning we got up and went down to the dinning room and there she was.

Harriet: Unconscious?

Colonel: Polishing the silver.

David: Why is she dressed as a French maid?

Colonel: Well, we thought as long as she was convinced she was a maid she might as well look the part.

(Mr Gareth stands up and walks to them. He is tall and intimidating).

Gareth: I’m Mr Gareth, Ms. Caine’s solicitor. I didn’t quite catch what it was you were doing here?

Harriet: We came to pay our respects.

Gareth: I see.

Mary: Very kind of you, I’m sure.

Harriet: We didn’t really know her outside uni. What was she like?

Mary: I’m not really sure. One doesn’t have the time to see family these days.

Harriet: Doesn’t one?

(Mary laughs, and Harriet and David cringe).

Colonel: She was really the black sheep of the family. Married a penniless actor when she was 19. We tried to stop her but she said it was true love.

Harriet: Oh, how romantic!

Colonel: The divorce came through ten weeks later.

David: He’s right, it was true love.

Harriet: You said I think Miss Caine that she had three husbands?

Colonel: Four actually. The second… let me see now, who was the second? (he calls out to Adel) Mother!

(She ignores him)

Colonel (cont’d): Mother!

(She ignores him again)

Colonel (cont’d): (sighing) Adel!

Adel: Oui monsieur?

David: Oh my God, she’s having another stroke!

Harriet: She’s speaking French you idiot.

Colonel: Adel, who was Jess’ second husband?

Adel: Que?

Colonel: (sighing and with a very bad French accent). Le deux husband de Jess.

David: Was that French?

Harriet: No.

Adel: Ah, mai oui. He was le millionaire, n’est pas?

Colonel: Of course! Her second husband was a millionaire.

Mary: That’s right! And she was welcomed back with open arms! (laughs).

Colonel: But then came her third husband. A poor musician he was.

David: And back out of the family I guess?

Mary: Of course.

Harriet: And the fourth?

Colonel: The late Mr Caine. He was a rather fine businessman. Very rich.

Harriet: And you welcomed her back into the family?

Colonel: Certainly. But then he died in very vulgar and suspicious circumstances.

Harriet: So she was back out?

Colonel: That’s right.

David: (to Harriet). This is just like the hokey pokey. I’m starting to get dizzy.

Harriet: (to the family). Can you think of anyone who would want to kill your sister?

Colonel: I can’t think of anyone.

Gareth: I can’t think of anyone.

Mary: I can’t think.

(Everyone else looks at her. She is staring into space).

Harriet: I see. Who was her beneficiary?

Mary: Her what?

Harriet: Her beneficiary.

Adel: Que?

Harriet: (wearily). Le beneficiary.

Adel: Ah, je comprende.

Colonel: I’m not sure. That’s a matter for Gareth. (yells) Gareth?!

Gareth: I’m right here Colonel.

Colonel: Good show.

Gareth: (to David and Harriet) I was about to read the will when you arrived.

Harriet: Oh. In that case…

David: (interrupting) We’ll stay.

Harriet: (hits him). This is obviously a private matter, so we’ll just…

Colonel: Nonsense. Make yourselves at home. It’s good having young people about to break up the sombre mood.

(Harriet looks to Mary, who has headphones in her ears and is bouncing up and down to music).

Colonel (cont’d): (snapping) Mary!

Mary: (takes the headphones out). Yes?

Colonel: Where did you get that? (Mary shrugs). Never mind. We’re about to hear the will.

Mary: Oh, how exciting!

(Harriet and David sit down on the sofa)

Harriet: (to David) Rather callous bunch aren’t they?

David: I had one of those?

Harriet: One of what?

David: A callous.

Harriet: I shouldn’t have asked.

Gareth: (stands up and reads the will). This is the last will and testament of Jessica Katherine Mary Sarah Rebecca Nathan Caine.

David: Should we ask?

Harriet: No.

Gareth: (glaring at them) Some silence if you don’t mind.

Harriet: Sorry.

David: (to himself) Nathan?

Gareth: (reading). I have gathered my fortune over the years, which now amounts to one million dollars, one penny, two paper clips and a large silver button.

(David opens his mouth to say something. Harriet pushes his jaw back up).

Gareth (cont’d): This is to be shared equally between my relations. To my brother, John, I leave… one penny. May it teach him that what goes around comes around.

Colonel: (angrily) Well really!

Gareth: (reading). To my sister Mary I leave my large silver button.

Mary: How splendid!

Gareth: (reading) They’re not real silver Mary. (looking up) She’s thought of everything hasn’t she? (reading) To my dear mother, Adel, if she is still kicking, I leave the two paper clips. She will probably not know what they are anyway.

Adel: Que?

Harriet: (to David) I told you she was vindictive.

David: That’s not sharing equally.

Gareth: (reading). My fortune of one million dollars will go to… (looks up). My son.

Colonel: What?

Mary: Her son?

Harriet: Doesn’t she have a son?

Colonel: None that we know of. I say, this is an absolute outrage! Of all the ungrateful…

Gareth: (coming over). Here is your penny Colonel. (holds out a coin).

Colonel: I’m so insulted I refuse to take a cent of her money!

(Takes the coin and pockets it quickly).

Gareth: (walking over to Mary) Here is your button Miss Caine.

Mary: Ooo, shiny! (takes the button from him).

Gareth: (to Adel). And your paper clips.

Adel: Que?

Gareth: (sighing) Le clips de paper.

Adel: (angrily) Que scandeleux!

(There is a lot of angry noises from the Colonel and Adel. Gareth, David and Harriet slip out quietly through the door).

Mary: (staring transfixed at the button) I like shiny!

Death of a Lecturer; Episode 4

SCENE 4

INT. UNI CAFÉ

The café is practically deserted. HARRIET and DAVID are sitting at a table. Harriet is drinking coffee and looking thoughtful. David is doodling on a serviette. There is a long pause.

David: Do you know what I think?

Harriet: What?

David: (hesitates) Nothing actually. I just don’t like long silences.

Harriet: (sighs). You know, thanks to you the entire student body is under suspicion.

David: Just trying to help.

Harriet: Well, stop helping before you get someone arrested. Like me.

David: Sorry.

Harriet: It’s ok. (pauses) I was wondering, how come you seem to be really… well, stupid, yet you pick up on clues really easily?

David: My grandmother was a policeman.

Harriet: Don’t you mean she was a policewoman?

David: No. The police force weren’t too keen on woman joining so she…

Harriet: (finishing) Pretended to be a man?

David: How did you know?

Harriet: Just a guess. Well, I suppose that’s better than pretending to be a goat.

David: She tried that first, but the police weren’t taking on livestock either.

Harriet: (leaning on her arm). You know, it’s worrying when you can say absolutely anything and I’m not the least bit surprised.

David: I must be growing on you.

Harriet: Like a fungus.

David: Well, I am a fun guy.

Harriet: (looks at him). What was that?

David: A joke.

Harriet: Please don’t.

David: Sorry.

(There is a long silence).

David (cont’d): Do you know what I think?

Harriet: (irritated). What?

David: We should find out who had a motive to kill Jessica Caine.

Harriet: I agree. What are the main motives for murder?

David: Money?

Harriet: She can’t have been very rich, she was a teacher. But still, someone might have inherited something of value from her.

David: Jealousy?

Harriet: Hmmm. I don’t see anyone being jealous of her.

David: Could she have been blackmailing someone?

Harriet: It’s possible. She was pretty vindictive. Maybe she had found out something about someone and was blackmailing them…

David: (finishing) And they got sick of it and stuck her with a knife?

Harriet: Exactly.

David: It couldn’t be a combination, could it?

Harriet: What?

David: She could have been blackmailing someone, and saved up a whole heap of money, so someone killed her to inherit it, and also she was killed by the person she was blackmailing.

Harriet: What, murdered twice you mean? I wouldn’t put it past her. Was there much blood when you found her?

David: I’m not sure, why?

Harriet: Well if she had, say, been poisoned first, or even strangled, and then she was stabbed, she wouldn’t have bled much.

David: Oh, I see. (thinks). She couldn’t have been stabbed and then poisoned could she?

Harriet: I think if someone had found her with a knife in her back they would have guessed she was already dead. Even you had enough sense for that.

David: So I did. So what’s the plan then, my dear Sherlock?

Harriet: Find out where she lived. See if she had any family. Interview them.

David: How do you propose we do that? Knock on the door and say ‘hi there, we’re suspected of murdering your relative. Did you do it?’

Harriet: I’d be a bit more tactful than that. (thinks) I know! We’re journalists, right?

David: No.

Harriet: No, this is hypothetical.

David: Hypo-what?

Harriet: Hypothetical.

(David looks blank)

Harriet: (cont’d): It’s imaginary.

David: I see.

Harriet: No you don’t.

David: No, I don’t.

Harriet: Put it this way. We go to the house…

David: Which house?

Harriet: (hesitates) We’ll work that out later. We go to the house, pretend we’re journalists, and ask a whole lot of questions. We’re bound to find out something useful.

David: Will that work?

Harriet: Only one way to find out.