Gay City and Other Stories by Alan Keslian (best non fiction books to read txt) 📕

with special dye, I suppose. Next came a long line of armadillos. I must have been standing in one of their regular runs, for they came straight at me so that I had to jump up high as each one came near to prevent it running into my legs.
When at last they stopped, I noticed Ursula was being attacked by a large scrawny crocodile and ran to her aid. Poor love was, not surprisingly, in a state of shock. Obvously confused, she told me later she thought she was being assailed by a rather frisky kangaroo! Then, amazingly, a lovely St Bernard dog turned up waging its tail and determined to give me a drink from the keg of brandy attached to its collar. Funny the things that go through your mind in desperate circumstances – I kept wanting to tickle its tummy. Anyway that ghastly crocodile must have slunk off somewhere, so we sat down under a tree to recuperate. Must have dropped off to sleep, for we woke to find ourselves in a heavy shower, water dripping on us from the leaves above. Made our way back to the hotel by the quickest route – afraid we were too whacked out to help a couple who we recognised from the hotel, slithering about on a steep part of the path – she was wearing some sort of gold flecked sandal, quite unsuitable for rugged terrain. Must have come on their first walking holiday with no idea what to expect. Back at base gave one another a good rubbing down with hot towels, and fortunately were fully recovered in time to enjoy the excellent dinner.

Sebastian Lilliman, Brighton – Been longing to see the local flora in this part of the Med for myself, so when I spotted the hotel’s ad. in the Ramblers’ Association magazine booked a week here a.s.a.p.. Must say expectations have been amply rewarded. Won’t list all the plants identified, there would be pages, but will mention a couple of stars, gentians with their superb intense blue growing in pasture, a tiny mauve cyclamen with petals fully reflexed, and how could I leave out the wild pansies, two delicate blue petals above lovely soft shades of yellow on the lower. Have completed all the walks in the booklet, but there are lots of other little paths I have not had time to explore. Many happy memories to take back – met a local shepherd with his flock. Very lucky, as shortly afterwards there was a heavy shower and he took me into his shelter in the corner of the field, surprisingly comfortable with a table and a couple of chairs, and even a bench seat to lie down on. Like many locals, his mother tongue was Catalan, but we exchanged a few words in French. Did not really need to say much to convey how pleased we were to have met. Looked out after a very enjoyable half hour or more together to see that the rain stopped. What a lucky day!
The following evening there were one or two raised eyebrows when he turned up asking for me at the hotel, but you can either give in to pressure or be determined, so I went right up to him, kissed him on both cheeks, and took him straight up to my room. My hosts at the Hotel des Promeneurs as ever pleasant and friendly when we ate together later – the French are so relaxed and adult in their outlook. Wish I could say the same for the English guests.

Major and Mrs Burnstrap (rtd), Chelmsford – To go directly to the point, have to say that the recent entries in this book present a sorry picture of my fellow countrymen, especially as we are all guests in a foreign clime and ought to be on our best behaviour. Afraid I have to say there is not a man or woman among them I would have chosen to be with me in the regiment during the West Africa campaigns.
Number one, that couple from Purley need to make their minds up whether they’re here on a honeymoon or on a walking holiday. As it is they’re a bit like someone who gets on a bike and then complains it no standing up on its own.
Number two, those Henley ‘veteran walkers’, self-styled. The paths around here are perfectly good natural paths maintained by people walking over them, and public spirited individuals like Gladys (Mrs Burnstrap (rtd)) and myself thwacking away any intruding vegetation with our walking sticks. This is the French Pyrennees; it’s not supposed to be like Mount Kinabalu or the Inca Trail. We come here in the hope of escaping from the noise and never ending building work of town life, we don’t want to come across gangs of coolies embarked on civil engineering projects.
Number three, that Bartmunster pair, they seem to think life should consist of a series of gargantuan over-spiced meals with interludes of heavy drinking. Surprised they can still squeeze themselves into a car, let alone drive it to the nearest town.
Number four, Gladys and I encountered those two womenfolk from Hove on our walk the other day. They were in a terrible state, one of them jumping up and down in a bizarre native dance of some kind, the other rolling around on the ground on a slope of treacherous boulders. My guess is they were suffering from heat stroke - saw some very bad cases of it during the West Africa campaigns. Tried to restrain the one on the ground to prevent her injuring herself, when her companion promptly abandoned her crazy dance and started beating me across the shoulders with her knapsack. Fortunately Gladys grabbed hold of her and managed to get some of the herb tea - she always has a flask of it - down the two of them. She might have wished she had kept clear of them when the balmiest of the pair pulled at her blouse and tried to unbutton it. The tea is a special recipe, something of a cure-all, and when we left they had calmed down and were sitting under a tree.
A little concerned when heavy rain came on an hour afterwards but we saw them both that evening at dinner and they seemed fully recovered. Have some sympathy for them but the long-established rule for expeditions is that each party has to take responsibility for ensuring he or she has adequate covering and sufficient liquids to ward off the effects of unaccustomed sun.
As for that pansy Lilliman with his nosegay of wild flowers, molesting that poor shepherd, the extent of his depravity is revealed by his own account without further remarks from me. Best advice I can offer him for the future is, if circumstances make it absolutely necessary, he should follow the example of the two womenfolk and restrict himself to a healthy rubbing down with hot towels.
In my opinion all this bad behaviour results from inadequate discipline. When I was at Harrow School any signs of whingeing or other namby-pamby tendency would be met with hot strong medicine, vigourously applied, dose to be repeated as necessary until the miscreant was fully cured. All the above disciplinary offences duly recorded by me in this book for action by the proper authorities at an appropriate time, despite a lot of woolly-vested protestations from Gladys - who ought to know better - about live and let live and people can’t help being as they are.

Back to Mummy

Ian was only nineteen and had never broken up with anyone before, but it came as no surprise when Roger said he was leaving. They had not made love for nearly two months, rarely ate together, and except at night when they slept in the same bedroom in the two single beds in the furnished flat they rented in a big old house, they spent hardly any time with each other.
The situation had been very different when they moved in; then they had been full of new found love for each other, and they delighted in spending time together. The change had not come about because of a row, Roger had just drifted away. He became fed up with the quiet pub they used to go, with the music they used to listen to, and with the things they used to do together. Now Roger’s showed every day by his manner that he was fed up with anything that meant spending time with Ian. He had found new places to go where he did not want him tagging along, new friends and, Ian supposed, a new lover.
One evening when there was no food in the flat for dinner they could not agree on whether to buy take-away fish and chips or a kebab, and they both lost their tempers and told each other they could not bear sharing the flat any longer. They divided the household necessities they had bought between them, and Roger hired a van to move his things out. Ian had not asked him where he was going, he preferred not to know. He felt that Roger was being unfair. He had never said what had gone wrong or why he no longer wanted to be Ian’s boyfriend, denying him the chance to put things right, or at least to talk about their situation. All Roger had said was that he wanted have fun, to meet new people, and he went out without Ian until there was nothing left of their relationship except that they still shared the flat.
'You'll soon find someone else,' Roger told him as he was leaving. 'You're easy to live with; anyone could get on with you.'
Anyone, but not you, Ian thought. He seemed to have three choices. He could try to find another flat-mate, but he had been told awful stories from others who had done that. A new flat-mate who had seemed nice at first turned out to be on drugs, or to be a thief. His second option was to could find somewhere cheaper to rent and be on his own, but he would probably be able to afford only a small bed-sitting room. Or he could go back to living with his mother. He was not keen to go back because it would be such an admission of failure, but at her house he would only have to pay for the cost of his keep and he would be able to save some money for the future, perhaps for a fresh start with someone new. When he spoke to her she seemed quite happy with the idea of his going back to her.
He had noticed that she seemed quite happy about most things recently, and he hoped she was at last getting over his father's death. When he explained that he and Roger had fallen out she said at once that, if he wanted to move back, he would find everything in his old room was just the as it was before. 'You're still young, people think they can take advantage of you,’ she added.

On his last day in the flat, while he was packing when the phone rang. He let the answering machine take it and listened to the message as it was being recorded. 'Hi, this is Roger. We are still friends, I hope, no hard feelings? Can we meet and have a drink sometime? Give me a ring.'
Seeing Roger again would only make him feel worse. He was not sure if that meant he had hard feelings, but the boy he had hoped he would be spending his life with had walked out on him. How was he supposed to feel?
At work he had told them only that he was sharing a flat with a friend, not that he