The Writing Group meets on alternate Thursdays at Corby Old Village Community Centre 1.30-3.30pm

A different topic is chosen at each meeting and are now included in a special writing groups publication which is available in the Links section of the website.

See the link for some examples of our work.

Contact is Cath Arnold

Links

• Poetry
• No Ordinary Garden
• No Ordinary Garden Ray Smith
• Something I found that changed my life
• The Genie, Written by David Ball

Corby (Synopsis of a town) by Janet Quarrinton

Come to historic Corby

This is a good place to see

Tripadvisor, Advertiser to come and see

The many sites

You cannot ignore the introduced Red Kites

Places to visit, Kirby and Deene, Boughton and Rockingham, houses of standing to be seen

The viaduct at Harringworth is very old

It has 82 arches so I am told

Built out of an ancient woodlands

Go to the Core and see many bands

Shopping is easy with other places to visit

You will fit in and not be a misfit

Various places to go and eat

Vegetarian or meat

Variety in the many restaurant

If nothing else, you will not want

A stone’s throw away East Carlton Park

Great for a walk and have a lark

Foxton Locks is quite near by

It’s very nice, so give it a try

The Weldon medieval lighthouse at St. Mary’s church

Designed to guide people from dense woods instead of a search

The people are friendly, my mum would say

She came from London for a week to stay

So you see we are not all mad

Painted, tarnished and made to look bad

Give it a go and be impressed

Start your journey into the treasure chest

WAKING UP IN A STRANGE PLACE by Anne Duffy
I could hear voices, people were whispering. I opened my eyes, realising my head was
resting on a table. Where was I? I raised my head and saw four people looking at me. Who
were they? I blinked my eyes open and shut, open and shut, in an effort to focus and
remember what had happened. One of the people, a woman, sat down next to me.
“Are you ok, how do you feel ? ” I don’t know” I replied. “Where am I”, Who are you”?
Another woman spoke to me – “your son will be back soon, there’s nothing to worry about,
you’ve just had one of your turns, do you want a cup of tea ? I’ll make you a nice cuppa”.
And she turned and went off somewhere.
“Where did my son go“? I said to the woman sitting next to me. She smiled and told me my
son had gone to get his car – it was in the garage, when he’s back he’ll take me to hospital for
a check up. My thinking was foggy and I tried desperately to recall what had happened. I had
a vague recollection of taking some tablets, my son gave them to me. No, that wasn’t right, I
don’t have a son. I have a daughter, I have a daughter called Alice. But I felt sure a man gave
me the tablets and a glass of water to wash them down. The woman arrived back and put a
mug of tea on the table in front of me.
“I’ve put 2 sugars in it – you’ll need the sugar, it’s good for shock” she said, smiling at me.
I sipped the tea, it was so sweet but I did appreciate it.
Then my memory kicked in. I kept sipping the tea, looking around the cafe, looking at the
people looking at me with sympathy in their eyes.
I stared at them, sat back in the chair and drank my tea. There was no need to say anything.
The woman next to me told me her name was Helen. She looked at her watch and looked
concerned. She went over to the others and I could hear her say – he’s been gone 45 minutes,
did anyone get his phone number or his name ? Did he say which garage his car was in? The
others shook their heads. Helen came back to me and asked my name. I looked at her. I told
her I didn’t have a son. I told her I didn’t have any children. I asked her where I was. This
place was strange to me. I finished my tea and set the cup down on the table. I told Helen I
was hungry and she told me that I’d eaten scrambled eggs and toast a little while ago, then
I’d sort of fainted, my head hitting the table. No, I said,” I haven’t eaten anything all day, I’m
hungry”. I picked my cup up and looking up I said “who drank my coffee , someone has
drunk my coffee, can I have something to eat and a cup of coffee please”? Helen looked at
the others, then at me and said that I’d just drunk the tea myself. I told her I didn’t like tea, I
only drank coffee.
I put my head on the table and closed my eyes. Helen kept asking if I was ok, did I feel faint.
I heard her saying that she was going to call the police, the son had been gone a long time.
Helen said she thought I had dementia and that I looked about 70 years old, so I could have
dementia.
Things moved on very quickly. A police woman spoke to me, a social worker spoke to methey
were very nice to me. I was taken to a “safe house” by the social worker who told me I
would be warm and safe here and that the police were looking for my son. I asked her why I
was in this strange place. I need to go home, I live here, in Beddingworth, please take me
home. This lady asked me many questions about my life but I didn’t answer her.
Weeks went by - I was given some tests to do by a doctor and was diagnosed as having
dementia. I was given new clothes, toiletries and towels. Food was made for me but
sometimes I asked for something to eat because I said I was hungry and couldn’t remember
eating.
A few more weeks went by and Linda, the social worker, told me that even though the police
had issued a photograph of me to the local public, no one had come forward saying they
knew me. I told Linda I lived here, in Beddingworth. Because I didn’t know my name and I
hadn’t had any form of ID on me, any search of records was useless.
I was being transferred to a local care home, which would be my permanent home. There was
nothing for me to be worried about.
I settled in to my new home very easily, although I kept asking why I was in this strange
place. I had my own room, small but adequate for me – it had all the necessities and I ate my
meals in the dining room with the other residents.
Entertainers came to sing to us once a month and sometimes the staff would set us an easy
quiz “to keep our minds active”.
Then the best day arrived.
Alice was introduced to me by one of the staff as my helper. She would help me with
washing, dressing and maybe read to me in the privacy of my room. Perhaps she would take
me on a little shopping trip in the town if I was having “a good day”.
Alice and I were left alone “to get to know each other better”.
My daughter Alice and I were so happy to be finally reunited.
Alice and John -my ‘son’ from the cafe – who was my real life son in law - had settled in to
their new house in Beddingworth, the other end of the country from where we all used to
live.
I had hatched the plan - I was 73 and they were in their early 50’s and I didn’t want to be a
burden on them.
We moved in, making sure the neighbours didn’t see me and the next day John left me in the
cafe. He’d made himself look very different for the occasion! Alice and I had done extensive
research into dementia and Alice, a qualified Carer had hands on experience. Our former local
council wouldn’t have considered me for a care home, nor sheltered accommodation because
they knew I had relatives in the area, therefore I could live with them. We couldn’t afford to
pay for me to live in a private care home. We’d moved my treasured personal belongings
into their house, sold or dumped the rest and had given up the tenancy on my council house.
My bills had been paid, accounts closed with no forwarding address given. We’d gradually
introduce my belongings into my new room after our “shopping trips”.
Alice had easily got the job at my care home because of her qualifications.
I had taken a couple of diazepam before going into the cafe, knowing they made me drowsy
and a bit disorientated for a while after waking up. It had made me all the more convincing to
the people in the cafe. Anyway - the cafe was truly a strange place to me and I didn’t know
anyone.
Alice had taken part in testing people for dementia and knew how I could fake it to fool the
doctors.
I had practised and played my part to perfection.

‘How did I get here?…waking up in a strange place’ by Cath Arnold

I opened my eyes slowly and looked around, expecting to see the familiar quilt, bookshelf and bedside table plus snoring husband. This was completely different: trees towering above me; grass underneath me and a lovely smell of lavender (I think).

I just couldn’t imagine how I got here. Had I been sleepwalking? Was I in Thoroughsale Woods? Surely I hadn’t walked that far in my sleep? I rubbed my eyes and looked down. I was wearing a T shirt and trackie bottom but no shoes and my feet looked clean. That was another puzzle. Surely, if I had walked from my house to the woods, my feet would be dirty?

And where was my husband? I had no bag, keys or phone, so I couldn’t get in touch.

I sat up and looked around. Then I heard the murmur of voices. Oh great, there were others in the woods who could help me get home.

I stood up rather shakily and walked slowly towards the sounds I could just discern.

The first person I spotted was my good friend, Jean. I shouted “Jean!” but she didn’t appear to hear me. When I got close, I expected at least a smile of recognition, but she didn’t seem to recognise me. I was a bit upset but approached another lady, who looked familiar. “Dorothy – I wonder if you can help me? I need to find my way home”. Dorothy looked straight through me and, again, I felt upset and rejected by someone I thought was, at the least, an acquaintance, if not a friend.

I was surprised at how many people were in the woods, that I call ‘my Happy Place”. I started walking but was unsure which way was homewards. After walking for quite a while, I saw someone that reminded me of my dad, who died many years ago. This man did appear to recognise me. He smiled and approached me.

“Catherine, it’s been a long time!”

I replied “You look like my dad, who died in 1972”.

He said slowly, “Catherine, I am your dad. You’ve come to join the family after life”.

I was confused …” But, what happened? How did I get here?”

Dad said “You died of a massive heart attack in your sleep. It’s definitely the best way to go! No suffering and now you are in your Happy Place forever”.

I stammered “But what about Terry – he’ll miss me terribly”.

Dad “Oh he’ll be coming soon to join you”.

I asked “Why didn’t Jean and Dorothy seem to recognise me? They were my friends in life”.

Dad “Ahh…well, you can’t possibly spend eternity with everyone you met in life, so, as family meant most to you in life, those are the people you have chosen to spend eternity with and only family will recognise you in this place”.

I suppose that made sense.

RS                                            ‘HOW DID I GET HERE’

This is a true story. It happened over thirty years ago. Some names have been changed.

The church that I was minister of didn’t just meet on a Sunday. We also met in House Groups in various parts of the town. My wife and I hosted one of them, which I led. We knew who was likely to turn up each time, although we did get the occasional visitor.

On this occasion, everyone was there except two. My wife was preparing teas and coffees. I greeted people as they arrived. Just as we were about to start, Dot and Eric arrived. Dot looked flustered and was clearly not happy. Eric sat himself down in his usual chair. Dot asked if she could have a word with me. I took her through to the kitchen, where she told me what the problem was. ‘The DVLA have given Eric his licence back!’

‘But he has epileptic fits, Dot.’

‘Precisely. That stupid GP has taken his word against mine and agreed that he doesn’t have them. He went to see him without me. So, he’s insisting on driving. The reason we are late is because I tried to get in the driver’s seat. There was a tussle and he got in. He even clipped the kerb on the way here.’

What could I do, apart from be sympathetic?

The meeting began and we began to discuss the Bible passage I had picked for the evening. I was facing Eric and Dot. Suddenly, I realised Eric wasn’t involved. I made a gesture with my hand which Dot noticed. ‘See what I mean?’ she whispered. She then shared with the others what she had told me in the kitchen. I nudged Alan who was sitting next to me. He was a paramedic. Between us we lifted Eric to his feet, dragged him across the floor, turned him around and sat him in my chair. I then sat next to Dot and the discussion continued as if nothing had happened. After a few minutes, Eric was back with us.

‘Hey! How did I get here? Why are you in my seat, Ray?’

‘We moved you. You’ve just had an epileptic fit.’

‘Don’t you start that nonsense! Have you been listening to her? She’s trying to stop me driving. I do not have fits!’

‘Sorry, Eric,’ I replied, ‘but I’m afraid you do. What is more, we have all witnessed it. I know how much you like driving, but you are not safe to be behind the wheel. Not safe for you and Dot. Not safe for other road users. You have got to let Dot take you back to the GP and let her tell him what has just taken place.’

‘No! I’m not having this. It’s a conspiracy. She talked you into this. I DO NOT HAVE FITS!’ He was furious.

‘In which case,’ said my wife, ‘perhaps you can explain how you managed to swap seats with Ray. It was obvious that it was a surprise to you.’

‘I don’t know,’ Eric replied, ‘but I know she’s behind it.’

It was time to get tough. ‘Enough, Eric. If you don’t do as I ask, I will get each of these good people here to write a letter to your GP, explaining what each of them witnessed this evening.’

On Sunday morning, it was Dot who drove the family car into the church car park. A disgruntled Eric was in the passenger seat.

A Reflection of Reality
As the morning sunlight is bursting through the chink in the thick lined curtains my
aching body can feel the chill in the room, somewhere I really don’t remember having
been before or really where I am, or more importantly how I got here. As my brain is
slowly emerging from the effect of excess alcohol consumption and the events of the
previous day, I seem to remember much of what has happened but still cannot fully relate
to how I am in a large cold room in a fourposter bed.
A little further thought and recollection that I was at the wedding of my best mate
Frank, I was in fact his “Best Man”. More past circumstances are being recalled and things
are now beginning to take shape. Frank has married his long time partner Janet, and after
much planning and expense a Lochside castle in the wilds of Scotland operating as a
wedding venue was chosen. I now remember driving up the day before with a couple of
girls who were to be Bridesmaids. On the eve of the wedding everyone was settling in and
as the whole place was a dedicated venue our accommodation was defined, and we all
settled in.
The Castle was indeed a beautiful place to be, and on the day of the wedding
everything went smoothly and it was a joyous occasion which everyone present enjoyed
thoroughly. It was upon recollection, that as the evening hospitality progressed those still
standing; (the bride and groom having left to be driven to Edinburgh airport for their flight
to the Maldives), were very much enjoying the raucous and merriment of the occasion. It
had become a wild drunken, happy occasion and it continued well into the early hours.
Laying down and nursing my head, still trying to recall more from last night; the
door bursts open and in comes Pammy the head bridesmaid, (one of the girls who travelled
up with me). Bearing the gift of hot Strong and most welcome Coffee, I take a sip and feel
immediately better. Still not fully recalling or being able to see how I ended up here, I ask
Pammy if she knows what happened. She said I was pretty drunk as well, but in essence
this place is seriously haunted and we were bet fifty quid that we couldn’t spend the night
in this room and would be scared out when the “Grey Lady” and her spiritual presence
called upon us.
We grabbed a bottle of Champers and two glasses and came to face the challenge
with everyone else wishing us luck and cheering us on. Oh god! my memory is now
beginning to recall; no self-respecting Ghost would think to disturb two drunk happy
people enjoying life after the party the way that we were. Eventually we must have passed
out, so if or when we were visited by a scary spiritual apparition, we were not aware.
Eventually we go down to breakfast and were cheered and presented with fifty quid for
completing the challenge.
There was much conversation and all the staff and fellow guests were amazed that
we had stayed the night. All previous people attempting the challenge had left the room
abruptly, and in many cases distressed. Personally, we couldn’t understand what the fuss
was about having achieved it without noticing and being happy to take the money.
Later that day we set off to drive home; after dropping off Susie the other bridesmaid, I
ask Pammy if she would like to come and see if my flat is haunted. She smiles and says
“Why Not” If you buy the Champagne and put the bloody heating on, I will be your Ghost
Buster as like you I can’t remember if we actually saw one.
Ted Holmes u3a writers’ group.

Rude Awakening: C.G.: 28/11/24

I really wish I hadn’t woken up right here and now, like this. Where am I, for goodness sake? Yes, where am I exactly? Maybe in a minute or two, I’ll work it out. With luck, then find a way somehow to escape. If it’s even possible. I don’t know how I got in here, who put me here; let alone find a way to get out!

        Thinking about it, I’m sure this wasn’t planned for me. Some sort of sadistic torture. Compressed in here, in this confined place. It CAN’T have been (planned); it’s such a traumatic experience. Can’t be right. This dark, almost too warm, dank place where I’m trapped – seemingly. Or is that what one might call ‘body temperature’?  Surely not. ‘Too Darn Hot’ That familiar song, that – inexplicably – I find myself humming. Why do I remember that tune?  Everything here is sort of familiar; yet alien. A kind of humid warmth that one could say is a little stifling, almost suffocating; which combined with the oppressive darkness, is just too worrying. Nay, SCARING. I cannot imagine where I am exactly. I am NOT breathing. It would be impossible for me to breath. Somehow (and strangely) it seems I don’t need to. Thankfully. Or else I’d be dead; most likely drowned. How do I know that?

    I hadn’t noticed earlier, but there’s that continual rhythmic bleeping; some sort of machine, I reckon. Not like that melodic Zumba music I heard months ago: a melodic introduction, then the words ‘Ice, ice, Baby’. Must be popular music at places like that, because I heard it often. Almost every time. Weekly, I reckon. That must have been when she didn’t even know I was here.

          I say ‘She’; that I DO know…  Just like how it was at ‘Zumba’ I heard that sound, THOSE sounds; I could hear some women speaking at some sort of check-in.        “Ouch, ouch,” I really hate that; sort of contractions, compressions, complete with a squeeze that pushes me down, as if falling, sliding down a helter-skelter at a Fun-fair. (another place she went to before she knew I was here).  And now I can just see a glimmer of light, see things I’m certain I should NOT be seeing (not from this angle anyway). and that bleeping is getting louder. Now, it’s almost TOO bright. That beeping is so loud now. Listen; is it matching my heart rhythm? All of a sudden, it’s all a little too familiar. I now remember, and although it’s no less frightening for suspecting that it’s happened to me at least once before; I can only conclude that this is what they call ‘reincarnation’.

A traveller’s tale.

There was a slow throbbing in my head, a gritty feeling behind my eyelids, a bitter taste in my mouth. Slowly I opened my eyes blinking and adjusted them to the light coming from the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. I eased up on my elbows taking in the unfamiliar scene. I blinked some more trying to bring the room into focus. Across the room I could make out the back of a young woman sitting at a table.

She turned on hearing my movements.

“Ah, you have woken up.”

How did I get here?

She saw the bewilderment on my face.

 “I was out walking with my father last night and we saw you lying in the gutter. We brought you home”

Yesterday I had arrived in the small Peruvian town of Màncora, dumped my rucsac in the hotel and gone out for a meal tired after the long bus journey. A week into my trekking holiday I was feeling relaxed soaking up the delights of a different culture.

“We thought that you were ill or perhaps eaten or drunk something you shouldn’t have,” she said looking at me quizzically head tilted to one side.

 Last night, a simple meal washed down with a local beer. I had begun to feel dizzy. I had needed some fresh air. I remembered walking, or rather staggering, to the door and collapsing in the street.

“It is not uncommon for foreigners to have their drinks spiked and then be robbed.”

My hands went to each pocket in turn. No wallet. No passport.

My head dropped. My eyes closed. Always keep your passport on you I had been told and only enough money for what you are going to buy that day. Fortunately the bulk of my money was in the hotel safe.

“We will go to the police station this afternoon to report the ‘loss’ of your wallet and passport,” she said emphasising the word loss, “but first some food.”

Later Maria, as I discovered her name was, and I went to the police station. 

“I lost my passport and some money last night,” I said, “or it may have been stolen.”

The policeman slouched back in his chair, took the small cigar from his lips and blew three smoke rings.

“We have found your wallet and passport.”

Opening a drawer he placed them on the desk in front of him.

I gave an audible sigh of relief.

“And,” he said, “we found this.”

He held up a small plastic bag containing white powder.

“We don’t take kindly to foreigners bring drugs into our country. You will doubtless get a long prison sentence.”

He returned the wallet and passport to the drawer and waved the plastic bag ominously.

“But that’s not mine. It must be have been…”

I felt Maria’s hand squeeze my shoulder with some force silencing me.

“Is possible that he could pay a fine instead?” Maria asked.

The policeman smiled, lent back in his chair interlocking his fingers in front of his chest nodding his head.

“Yes, perhaps that’s possible.”

I was incensed. That’s bribery. I’m not standing for that. I bristled. 

“But that …”

Another pincher like grip on my shoulder.

I realised how this had to play out.

“… would be great.”

“Would $50 be OK?” Maria asked.

A pause. He stroked his chin, smiled and looked at me rather like a poker player with a winning hand looks at his opponent wondering what size bet would extract the most money.

“In these circumstances the usual fine is $100. Bring it here tomorrow morning.”

Another squeeze of my shoulder prompting me to respond.

“Yes. Thank you,” I said.

And so next morning the transaction was completed, $100 in exchange for my wallet, my passport and a hard lesson learnt.

Abduction
Location Sol III,-453594, 4907203, 402990
Specimen number: S3 5656776
Specimen sedated on retrieval. Found to be covered in layers of fabric which
were removed for this investigation; it is uncertain whether these were for
protection, sexual attraction or other behavioural purposes. Recommended for
future research. Primitive communications device sent for examination.
Biped with articulated limbs. Sense organs arranged in pairs on a structure at the
top. Specimen is covered with fine hair, particularly concentrated around this
feature which also has an orifice whose function is not yet certain but may be
associated with the intake of nutrition. A mind probe has revealed only the
minimum of telepathic activity.
Weight: 75kg
Length: 1.72m
Mean circumference of upper body: 0.95m
Length of lower limbs: 0.81m
Length of upper limbs: 0.75m
The creature was retrieved at the same time as Specimen number S3 5656777,
a quadruped, which is being examined by a colleague. It has been suggested
that there may be a symbiotic relation between them.
“Where the hell am I? What's happened? I'm not in the woods any longer!” I start
to stir and look around me but all there is is darkness; there's no sound except
my tinnitus. I reach for my phone to gain comfort from its torch but all I find is
bare flesh- I'm naked! Despite this I'm comfortably warm.
“Is anybody there?” Nothing, no one. I begin to feel like Harry Palmer in the
Ipcress File being subjected to sensory deprivation, but I've no information that
nefarious organisations would be interested in.
Detectors indicate the specimen is now conscious.
Specimen immobilised and levitated for electromagnetic scanning.
“What the …!” I find suddenly I'm floating and unable to move.
Oxygen metabolism briefly deactivated
I can't breath! I panic with claustrophobia. “Let me out! Let me out!” I scream
inwardly but not a sound escapes me.
Scanning complete. Oxygen metabolism reactivated.
Thank God! My chest is free again. I breath deeply, slowly calming myself.
Biobots activated.
There's a sound- a high pitched whine like mosquitoes. I feel the faintest touch all
over my body and then a tingling sensation like I'm being brushed with a stinging
nettle only not so painful. Now they're on my face, in my eyes, my ears, up my
nostrils, in my mouth. I can feel them crawling between my buttocks and round
my genitals. I have never felt so violated.
Biobots all returned and biopsy samples undergoing preservation for later
analysis.
Specimen sedated.
At last the intrusion is over and I'm aware of nothing more.
Specimen returned to retrieval site.
I awaken to find Roly licking my face; the air is cold. “Where am I?” I look around
and I'm back in the woods. Have I had a seizure? Was it just a dream? My body
still tingles. I look and see my clothes are folded neatly beside me but there is no
sign of my phone.

Isidora (Isi to her friends) was half awake - what had roused her from her long sleep? Perhaps it
was the noise of the workmen who were rearranging the displays nearby, but she could not see
them, she could not see anything much, just a glimpse of light through the half open lid of her
coffin. She did not recognise the language, she had no idea where she was. This was not what
she’d expected - her memory was intact and she knew that her country had been attacked and the
Royal Family would be killed if they won. There was also a plague and people were dying - the
medicine men couldn’t cope, neither did they have anything to cure it. When she’d become ill, her
father was distraught - not only was she his beloved daughter, but as the only survivor of the next
generation in the family, she was destined to inherit the throne. The medics came up with the only
possible solution, which had been done successfully only once before in the past - she would be
put into a deep coma and laid to rest in a pyramid, built for the purpose, until it was safe for her to
emerge. As far as the King’s enemies, and the country’s population, were concerned, his daughter
would have died of the plague. A guardian would be appointed to be responsible for Isadora’s
safety and she would be interred with everything she’d need when she was brought back to
consciousness. Meanwhile she would be visited regularly by a lady in waiting who would massage
her body with oils to keep her skin in perfect condition and maintain her muscle health. The last
thing she remembered was being shown the beautifully decorated burial chamber with the various
jars of water, oil and food, the walls covered with paintings and stories of her life, and the actual
coffin, also inscribed with her name, and the date of her supposed death from the plague. Only one
loyal female servant would know the truth and look after her until the threat had passed, whilst
Isadora’s appointed Guardian arranged the practical details.
In time the King and Queen passed away and were buried in separate rooms in the same pyramid,
likewise the female servant and Guardian. The enemies had prevailed in the war and nobody left
alive knew the truth, and so Isadora lay there in her coffin, in a drugged induced state of stasis -
unable to move, barely breathing, not even thinking, and now, something had jolted her out of that
state and she was in urgent need of the antidote that had been hidden in the coffin with the body all
those years ago - the only trouble being that there was nobody alive on earth who knew her story.
The Director of the National Museum showed Professor Khalili the new Egyptian room, explaining
that they’d brought in several exhibits from various other museums and were holding a month long
exhibition of Egyptology, which they hoped Professor Khalili would open. The Professor winked at
his six year old daughter Isa, who he’d brought along with him as it was a school break, and asked
her if he should do it, but Isa had only one thought in her head - ‘can I see the mummies?’ she
asked. The Director jumped in immediately and said yes, of course you can, leading them straight
over to Isidora’s coffin. ‘This one’s a bit of a mystery’ he said ‘it is very old but the body is well
preserved, and she seems quite young, we don’t know what to make of her”. The Professor first of
all examined the lid of the coffin and the writing on the side, then carefully lifted the lid a little more.
He drew in his breath at the sight of Isadora’s uncovered face and found himself staring into her
eyes. Isa had been brought up to know that she musn’t touch anything in a museum but she too
couldn’t take her eyes off the body, and the still beautiful face of Isidora who, it seemed to them all,
was staring straight back at them, her eyes appealing for help. The Director found it so unsettling
that he had to walk away and sit on a chair. “Are you sure she’s dead daddy?” asked Isa. “Yes
darling, she must be, but isn’t it amazing what the Egyptians could do two thousand years ago?” he
replied as he walked around the coffin to read the other side. Isa, stole a quick glance at the
Director and her father before leaning into the coffin and planting a quick kiss on Isadora’s cheek
and, because she didn’t know any better, she was not surprised that it felt warm. Meanwhile the
Professor walked over to the Director and told him that he didn’t think it would be a good idea to
include Isidora in the exhibition, or, if he did, her face should be covered, as there was something
unsettling about it which might upset people. He asked if there were any artefacts associated with
the coffin, and the Director said there were the usual urns etc, and there were photos of the room in
which she was buried with some writing on the walls. The Professor asked if he could have them as
he found the case interesting and would like to study it, and the Director said they could go and
look for the papers now, it shouldn’t take long. Calling Isa over, they went on their way.
If anyone had been there as they left, they would have seen the tears falling from the eyes of
Isidora. She knew that now that the drug was wearing off, she would no longer stay alive, but her
muscles, including those in her face, her lungs and vocal cords, would no longer work after so
many years of use. She was now dying for real, and wished she was still in her pyramid in Egypt. As
she lay there, all she could think was “ how did I get here?