Waves

365 Photos - Gallery 15

Streaming

I knew you would get here eventually - I've been watching you ever since you began visiting the House. Not that you seemed to notice me standing by the portal on your way in. No-one ever does, until it's too late.

So have you guessed my name? I'll give you a little clue - cast your mind back to that very first walk along the corridor.

Armoured

"We walk, braille-like, the length of the corridor, careful not to trip inadvertently into one of a series of mounted suits of armour that line the wall."

Tentative steps and a light that beckons toward the end of the corridor. Past silent rows of rusting armour in search of the sound of a tapping type-writer - I slip away into darkness and the noise gets louder as you close in on its source.

Footloose

I see you approach. The sabeton lames of the armoured feet stretch tight across the tips of my toes, set ready to flex. It's hot in here, so hot.

Buried deep within the metal suit I wait patiently for you to appear. The quilted layers of the aketon lining are sweat-stained and bloody from so many encounters before. But I dare not move a muscle.

Until, of course, you arrive ...

Peek-a-boo

I sense your footsteps close by and the visor drops open to reveal a pair of deep-blue Predator sunglasses.

BOO!!

... I grab hold of you and now we're streaming in time.

Life is a Beach

A shadowy figure beckons to us, its hand playing out patterns across the surface of the cold saline water. We're sucked out by the current into a triangulated trench toward the bottom of screenshot and leave the page together, embraced in a metalled armour suit.

We interrupt this pasting

Hello!

It all seems a little Gothic round here, don't you think? And rather confusing, if I may say. I guess that's what you might expect when time starts to stream the wrong way.

I should explain. But first, would you mind holding out your hand.

A simple Borlotti bean

Well caught! Now I guess you want to know what you're holding. Lift it up to the light and take a look. Do you see an oval shaped, pale brown legume?

That's right - it's a Borlotti bean. A rather special Borlotti bean, grown exclusively in the kitchen gardens of the House of electrofried. It has a sweet flavour with a creamy, smooth texture. But may I suggest that instead of tasting it, you dig a small hole in the ground before you.

Yes, just like that. Now plant the bean at the bottom, cover it over with soil and stand well back.

Blossoms

Nothing much happens for a little while. Time is like that - it requires great patience to bring to the boil.

Then a small crack appears in the soil. It spreads rapidly and begins to divide - once, twice, four times then eight. And before we know it, the ground in front of us has fissured and fractalled into a spider-patterned web.

A small shoot appears at the epi-centre. It leaps free into the air and spins round in a gaudy green-leaved waltz that has us both dizzy before we know quite where we are. It's all we can do to hang onto its tendrils as it pushes upward.

Taking hold

The shoot chases toward a triangulated channel in the time-stream and locks on to a medieval armour suit just a few seconds ahead. This suit has a whitened body clasped firm to its metalled breast-plate.

There is no escape! The shoot takes hold of the armoured feet and begins to wrap around. It covers the armour in a green-leafed bower from which blossoms a sweet smelling orange flower. As the metal begins to rust and flake the suit releases its captive cargo.

A portly horologist steps forward, shakes the cold saline spray from his hair and smiles. He has in his hand a magic time-bean.

The confusion of time

We're all very confused!

Those of us who have not visited here before may fail to spot the joins. But there's no getting away from these strange interruptions throughout this pasting. Why do we leap from a darkened corridor to a shadowy figure on the beach, then on once more to a the stalks of a green legume?

And for those who have travelled this path in the past, the shifting sands of time have changed this pasting beyond recognition. On our last visit we were flowing out of a computer screenshot in the cold grasp of a metalled armour suit - but now?

An explanation is required.

The power of fairy tales

Do you believe in fairy tales? They have an uncanny power to transform things so we see them in a different light.

Welcome then to a modern-day fairy tale and shake hands with the time-bean that is the invention of one Master Clesiastes, the keeper of the Horology Factory.

Too confusing by far? Then here are some questions to puzzle over until next time we meet:

• Who greets us as we enter the portal to the House?

• What's the significance of the suit of armour?

• Why do fairy tales have the ability to transform?

• Just who is Master Clesiastes?

Hope to see you soon. And, before you go, here's a present from the horologist who lives here - a time-bean of your very own. Keep it close to hand, just in case you need it to transform something in the future!

Life's a Beach

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

tonight I sit in rather splendid isolation in the pasting room. Teenygoth has long since retired to bed to practice her presence, whilst Cook tucks into a freshly cut Mills & Boon, a half-drained litre of the finest super-strength continental lager close to hand.

Up in the servants' quarters Fetlock is, for some reason best known to himself, exploring the arcane mysteries of a Slovenian wonderweb search engine. The last I heard, he was attempting a translation of "my pomegranate is richly vibrant", which I feel sure will go down a treat, come the morn, when he tries out his best English on the unsuspecting burghers of Little Wittering.

Silence abounds

For her part, mrs electrofried is quilting a cover for her trusty Victrola. We plan an approach to certain well-known music magazines for a sponsorship deal and, keep this under your hats dear readers, we're quietly confident of a major bidding war between the likes of "Kerrang" and "Q" for the privilege of plying their wares before the massed crowds of the Little Wittering branch of the WI. Mrs electrofried has a stencilled motif prepared in readiness.

Even the nether regions of the House have fallen silent. The Black Dowager remains several feet beneath the basement, her ears trained, as ever, upon the sound of a laughing young girl up in the attic. One day, God willing, they may be re-united.

Picture this

But enough of such light banter. Now we are alone, I feel it's time to tell you a little more of the beginnings of the current line of electrofried. Picture if you will a classroom of hormonally charged Fifth Form boys.

Sitting at the back is a particularly unprepossessing specimen. In his mind's eye, he attempts to piece together some loosely worded descriptions from the well-thumbed pages of "Virgin Soldiers" to create a technicolour picture of womanhood. All the while he pretends to pay attention to the teacher.

Enter the Headmaster

His thoughts are rudely interrupted by the arrival of the Headmaster. The boy listens half-heartedly to his request for volunteers to help out at an evening club for the mentally disadvantaged - a place of respite for their long-suffering parents.

No volunteers are forthcoming until the Headmaster adds these few vital words, "And there's girls ... "

One hand is raised swiftly, and the rest is history, for this is young master electrofried we see before us.

Fast forward

And now we're at that very same evening club. Master electrofried spies at the other end of the room a shy, and rather beautiful, young lady who's repeated glances in his direction cannot be ignored. The two gravitate gently toward the table-tennis equipment and play out a game, oblivious to the general mayhem around.

Eight weeks on they're an item, six years later they are mr and mrs electrofried, and thirteen years from when they first met they cradle their newborn second child. Little do they realise that reallyfried, their son, will take them right back to nights at the club ... for he too, it will shortly be revealed to them, is mentally disadvantaged.

And now ... the beach

So why, may you ask, is there a crudely rendered photograph of a beach at the beginning of this increasingly tedious pasting? It's because it's the place that holds the very deepest of memories for mr and mrs electrofried - most happy, just a few that are sad.

For it was here we courted, holding hands to explore rock pools and things that would make teenygoth blush beetroot red. It was here we walked on the first night of our married life. All the way to the fish and chip shop at the far end to purchase supper with the few shillings left in our newly conjugal purse.

It was here, too, that Dr Phlegm, the electrofried family physician, splashed in the waves with his newly christened Godson, the baby reallyfried. Just a few months later it would fall to him to break the news that all was not well.

Bittersweet memories

Scroll up for a second, if you will, to the photograph. How does it speak to you? If you have bittersweet memories of a place in time then spare a moment to add a comment in the Visitors' Book before you leave the House.


yours as ever

electrofried (mr)