wytchcroft: heavent sent (cushing)

 
O Come ye Angels full of light
Your gifts bestow good hearts take flight
As prayers with wings may pierce the night
And come at last to heavens bright.

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wytchcroft: heavent sent (walking)


phial 4




It is the pressure of a diving bell, the tension an adult feels watching a child make fists from adamant fingers and press them to its ears, the claustrophobia of a railway waiting-room on a rain-lashed warm spring day. It is the desire for air, for life, that grips the drowning man out at sea – or lost in the thick of a nightmare desperately clawing for wakefulness.

And in the grip of this invisible vice, we are of course, quiet, restrained, civilised beyond reason.
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wytchcroft: heavent sent (cushing)


phial three

It is a paradox for a shy man such as myself, one whom carries the weighty cross of humorous reputation, that even as I find the scowls and frowns of those about me to be something of a balm – so I inevitably find a way to remove them, by which I mean replace them with chuckles and mirth, much at my expense – and I am not a wealthy man. 

It was, I believe, William Digby who, upon seeing me for the first time as I stumbled on the treacherous flooring of a dressing room door, pronounced my doom in solemn tones; “Ah” he said, “I see the comic relief has arrived.”
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wytchcroft: heavent sent (blue)


(rather a sombre chapter this one.)

phial two

I think perhaps it has to do with time and its interactions with us – the ordering, structure and composition of time, time and the spirit so often mutually antagonistic may yet be revealed as close as kin.

I am staring at the clock.
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wytchcroft: heavent sent (cushing)


Phial One:
 
Given that a man has five senses, that the elements of our universe number in accordance five and that the number of phials left by Dr Poliakov is of that same number, it seems appropriate that there should be five of us willing to undergo this experiment, this experience.
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wytchcroft: heavent sent (V)


Thus Percy Robeson found himself settling into his new routine; Mornings were a blur of rising, yawning and hurling himself down the rickety stairs at home, down the hill into London and the thick surging tide of traffic as it swept its uneven course along the Thames gulch.
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wytchcroft: heavent sent (V)


The offices of London Legal and Miscellaneous were in a tall building etched out of stone and wood with wide ledges, the odd gargoyle, and black shuttered windows. The doors to the main entrance were also black and suitably imposing, despite leaning, like the rest of the edifice, at a quite noticeable angle. Robeson had been assured numerous times in his career that concrete and counterweights were making certain of the buildings stability.
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wytchcroft: heavent sent (V)


Crown Heights, thought Percy Robeson sourly, looking down from the lip of the winding lane and out across from the hill and away over the vastness of London. For a moment he was giddy, bracing himself against the ruin of an old lamppost. Gulping a breath or two, his eyes followed shadows in the wide red afternoon sky, scudding along on an invisible current, clouds, smoke or birds he couldn’t tell.
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wytchcroft: heavent sent (persona)


Margaret Hambling, Matron Margaret Hambling rather, had a good head for time, a natural instinct that years of work and responsibility had honed to a point. Nevertheless, on the Monday that Cromwell House was to formally open its new Nursery department, she found herself looking at her watch constantly – the one betrayal of the nerves she was feeling, knowing as she did just how important this was for the Hospital.
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wytchcroft: heavent sent (swirl)



The Lord Mayor, Hospital Director, Chief Medical Secretary, Chief Surgeon and Chief Orderly were moving at pace through the long draughty corridors. A gaggle of affiliates swam behind them, like ducks, quacking politely, and there was the Press, which is to say, there was Charlie Pike of the Tymes, glowing with that specific journalistic warmth ignited by the word ‘exclusive’.
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wytchcroft: heavent sent (swirl)

 

“Nervous are we, Tilly?” The Matron’s voice filled the small room.
Hearing her own name spoken out loud (and so informally!) made Tilly blush. “Well, yes,” she gasped out a relieved laugh, “I suppose I am rather, silly of me I know.”
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wytchcroft: heavent sent (future)


Thanks luv, don’t mind if I do.

I have to change the Dictaphone tape and the old woman scrutinizes me as I do so, her gaze is a bit un-nerving.

Got yer piqued in’ I?

Well, as I said, we’re all very interested.

Hah hah! Look at him – like the cat on the proverbial! Hah hah!

It’s ready, I say.

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wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)



That was back in the war of course.

The old woman finishes her tea with a slurp born of indifference to me and my colleagues - indeed to people in-toto.

Weren't you all evacuated back then? I ask. That's what we're always told.

Well of course, what with His Nibs and the boys up to no good on land and sea and - d'you know why my generation all hate clowns? It’s the balloons see? Just like the bloody King's. Him and that bloody bitch of a Queen lapping up the Empire between them like hungry dogs to a dish.

Mind you, that was after...

 

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