Cricket Anyone?

 It's that time of year of course. The days are long, the shadows longer, insects hum among the bushes, the sun burns brightly overhead and some poor bastard in a red suit and fake beard is gritting his teeth in what he thinks is a grin as small children torment his last moments before collapsing from heat exhaustion. Yes, it's Summer in Australia. 

And then there's the cricket. I can't emphasise how important the cricket is to me right now. The chirruping little bastard won't let me get any sleep. Having finally managed to evict the pigeons from my apartment (to be fair they just got bored with tormenting me and left of their own accord) I thought I was due a wildlife free week or two. But nooo. Lying in bed the other night I was ready for sleep. I had locked the front door, wept silently in the bathroom for an hour, removed my make up, removed my other make up and sprawled on my bed ready for the little death to come upon me when an unearthly noise jerked me from my incipient slumber. 

I lay there for an hour or two as what appeared to be every insect in creation held a metal concert in my bedroom. Finally I took action. With a hysterical sob I hurled a pillow in the general direction of the noise. Not only did that not help but I then had to get up and fetch my pillow. With a deep sigh I turned on the lamp. The noise stopped. I turned the lamp off, the noise started again. The cricket and I went through this cycle for so long it's a good thing neither of us was epileptic. 

Eventually I accepted I was going to have to do more than just turn a lamp on and off. Turning the lamp on one final time I lurched out of bed and conducted a forensic search of my bedroom. I didn't expect it to take too long. From the noise I expected a six foot long insect with a drum kit. Finally after hours of frantic searching I encountered something tiny crouching on a piece of furniture. I stared, was this tiny shred of existence what I had been searching for? Apparently yes. I had geared myself up for insect slaughter, wreaking a bloody revenge for my lost sleep but I couldn't remain angry at the tiny, cute little insect now staring up at me. Gently I scooped it up, took it out onto the balcony and released it into the wild. By "released it into the wild" I mean I flapped my hand about frantically until air pressure finally dislodged its apparent death grip on my finger.

Pleased with my non-lethal resolution of the problem I went back to my bedroom, turned off my alarm and got ready for work. The next night the little bastard was back. This time he didn't even wait until I was in bed. It was early in the evening and I was engaged in rocking in a foetal position on my couch when the noise started. The light was on, the television was blaring and over it all came the smug metallic grating of a cricket who had worked out that I was too soft hearted to stomp it into mush and was prepared to take full advantage. Once again I escorted the cricket as far as the balcony where he vanished into the night. He didn't come back, instead I lay awake all night waiting for him. Every slight noise had me alert and trembling but the chirrup didn't come. By the time dawn came around I was exhausted, sleepless and slightly hurt. Wasn't my apartment good enough anymore? I prowled around pretending I wasn't looking for him but the cricket didn't show. Finally I went to work with a deep, unresolved sense of loss.

It occurs to me that I must be the only person who has Stockholm Syndrome delivered to him.

Travelling Pathetically - Greenway Edition

 It's finally here! After months, nay years, of local government newsletters giving gushing updates on its progress the Greenway is finally among us. "Please Neil, tell us more," I hear you beg. That is true but it's only fair to point out that I hear a lot of things, in fact the voices in my head rarely shut up.

So what is the Greenway? Well, largely by coincidence the existence of a goods rail line (now repurposed for light rail) the Hawthorn Canal and various other bits of defunct industrial infrastructure had left my local council with a few shreds of undeveloped land too small to build a housing estate on (and already I can hear a property developer saying "hold my beer"). It was decided to develop these into a walking and bike path that would lead from the Cooks River all the way to Iron Cove threading through these tiny bits of wilderness and urban decay. Along the way it would link up with various parks and reserves which represented previous attempts to make a parkland virtue out of a dingy necessity. Now it's ready, six glistening kilometres of shared path that would enable people to travel from river to river without the need to get into a car. As long as you lived within walking distance of the Greenway of course.

The grand opening of the Greenway took place this Sunday and the general public were invited to come and traverse its length. Despite this warning I decided to do so anyway. I would do the thing properly, I would trot down to the Cooks River which oozed noisomely in its bed not too far from the shabby flat I call home. I would cross said river and set foot upon the Greenway and not stop until I had arrived at Iron Cove.

Of course it didn't quite work out like that.  I got to the Cooks River easily enough (it was a little too big to miss) and crossed on a faux rusted bridge. Seriously they built the bridge out of some material that looks like rusted iron so it would appear rustic or possibly unsafe. It has the advantage that when the bridge does rust no one will know until somebody tumbles into the water.

Looks as rustic as hell doesn't it. The non stick surface dates to medieval times

Across this future relic I padded appearing in a park. From here the Greenway would commence its journey towards the Parramatta River. I assume. I say that because I didn't actually find the start. I came out a little far and blundered around suburban streets until I wound up in rough proximity to the Dulwich Hill light rail station. This was useful as you could get onto the Greenway here. Get onto the Greenway I did as did half the population of the Inner West. People, dogs and bicyclists (I suppose technically they're people too) jostled together in a human (and bicyclist) tide. It's the only time I've been on a walking path where I found it necessary to check my blind spot before overtaking a slower walker.  The sun was beating down on us and the glare from the bright white path was almost blinding. Fortunately pedestrian sanity prevailed and before long the path changed to something grey and non reflective. 

 

A rather dazzling path. This is the only time I saw it with so few people

Shielding my eyes against the brilliant footpath I stumbled forward. We were paralleling the light rail line and I knew that at Dulwich Grove station the cutting the line ran through left absolutely no room for a footpath. I was keen to see how the Greenway would solve this problem. So basically it just climbed and I had to cross the road. This is the thing of course. It can't be a completely connected course, roads and buildings have been placed in inconvenient locations. A couple of the bits of the Greenway are simply suburban streets (although they do have trees) but they've done their best and for the most part one can walk along without encountering anything as offensive as a car.

Now that's a slightly less visually painful surface

 At random intervals along the way there were artworks adorning (if that's the right word) the path. I glanced at these as I went along. My opinion was varied but I could fully accept that the council might feel it was a good idea to keep the people who made them off the streets even if that meant buying what they produced afterwards.

Past Dulwich Grove we hit Arlington and Johnson Park. Seizing on the existence of a piece of pre-existing parkland this was where the opening ceremony had taken place most of which fortunately I had missed. Nevertheless there was a human throng thronging vigorously and I had to squeeze my way past while children frolicked and even bicyclists were forced to dismount immediately looking clumsy and ridiculous as they wheeled their steeds through the horde. Somebody had got hold of a microphone. It is axiomatic that the person who winds up with the microphone is the sort of person who shouldn't be allowed near a microphone. It's the political equivalent of karaoke. This person was giving a speech where she extolled the fact that people could now move about without having to use a road. Excuse me? The Greenway is an artificially created path so that humans can get from one place to another. What exactly does she think a road is?

Leaving behind the definitionally confused I continued along the Greenway. Despite its occasional intersecting with more vehicle specific roads they have actually done a good job of burrowing underneath them where space permitted. The tunnels providing another opportunity for local artists to justify their welfare cheques and, according to certain promotional literature, providing a haven for microbats. I didn't see any microbats but it was broad daylight and frankly every living thing had probably fled for the hills at the approach of the seas of humanity (and bicyclists).

Not a microbat in sight but I presume they're very small

The path passed by Waratah Mills which used to be a flour mill and is now apartments. Then onto Lewisham West where there's another park as well as a storm water channel which is the less than impressive start of the Hawthorn Canal. Brightly coloured splashes of graffiti (or possibly another artwork) relieved the grey concrete and probably made it a little more difficult for the channel to be torpedoed by U-boats.

Lewisham West, which also gives you an idea of exactly how close habitation is to the path most of the time

As I put Lewisham West behind me I started to head towards an area where trees could be considered something more than an ambitious nature strip. This was Gadigal Reserve where undeveloped land had delusions of nature. Trees crowded and the canal got a little more serious about its job as well.

Look Ma, trees!

 The trees provided welcome shade from the day which was rather warm and the canal, well it was there. In defiance of probability a couple of waterbirds were picking their way through the shallows probably wondering if anything they caught would be safe to eat.

OK I can probably accept that there might be a microbat or two lurking in this one

There's probably a fair bit more I could tell you but at this point I ran into a music therapist who was disposed to be friendly and spent the rest of the walk chatting to her and not really paying too much attention to my surroundings.  I did stop before I fell into the Parramatta River though. 

 

 

Transformation

 Do you remember those old werewolf movies. A standard shot of the full moon and somebody who's previous claim to fame was stilted acting covered their face in their hands. The camera would pull away to a neutral setting while the afflicted actor made a noise like someone having an asthma attack under water. When the camera returned the actor now adorned with fake fangs and what looked like a fuzzy bathmat strapped to their chest would give a gargling howl (the plastic fangs really impede the vocal range) while the villagers would flee in panic instead of collapsing in hysterical laughter. Eventually of course it would all work out. Some dashing hero would fill his afflicted colleague full of silver bullets while the female lead spilled out of her night dress and looked anxious. Collectively the above is referred to as "the golden age of cinema". I don't know about cinema but it must have been a pretty good time for the makers of bathmats. Jekyll & Hyde is another example and the plot is disturbingly similar. The moon scene is replaced with a beaker full of a foaming liquid but otherwise everything is pretty much the same. 

I mention the above simply to point out that transformation is a part of the human existence (and to pad out what would otherwise be a rather short blog entry). The change of one thing to another has been brought rather harshly to my attention by my local cafe. This establishment is all clean, sharp lines, sterile black and white with a sense of openness about it that doesn't interest me in the least as long as they serve coffee. A few weeks ago I entered to satisfy the desperate urge for caffeine which had been building since my last coffee ten minutes earlier. The attractive Asian lady behind the counter announced that the cafe would be closing for a few weeks. I choked on my coffee. I begged, I pleaded, I accused her of abandoning me in my time of need. She was unmoved finally I was moved to ask why they were closing.

"We're transforming the place into a Mexican restaurant."

"Will you still serve coffee?"

"Yes."

"Ok then, I don't care."

But I was wrong, I did care. My stock of coffee at home was dwindling and suddenly my regular supplier had turned its face away from the camera and was undergoing a transformation at least as ridiculous as any fifties werewolf movie. After three desperate wretched weeks (well they were for me) the establishment turned back to the camera revealing itself in all its newly Mexican glory. The chairs had been painted orange and a couple of supposedly Mexican theme murals adorned the tiles on the walls. That was pretty much it. It was the sort of Mexican theming you get if its done by someone who has never been to Mexico. At least there weren't sombreros hanging from the walls, there wasn't even a fuzzy bathmat in sight.

I walked in and was immediately struck by how underwhelming it all was. I presume the menu had changed but I didn't bother to look. I'm thinking sour cream and jalapenos are going to feature prominently. 

"What do you think?" I was asked brightly, a question I struggled to answer as I was having difficulty thinking of anything to say at all. It wasn't quite stereotypical enough to be offensive and not authentically Mexican (or anything else really) to strike one as a little slice of Mesoamerica made real. Finally I did manage to ask one question.

"Can I have coffee?"

The answer, praise God, was "yes". Which was fortunate because I had been living on instant coffee for three weeks which had seen my own transformation not into a slathering fury driven monster but a tear soaked hamster curled in a foetal position on my bathroom floor. To be fair I spend a lot of time in this position anyway but now I had a reason. I wish the newly christened Casa Loco all the best and hope they serve the finest faux Mexican food in the southern hemisphere. But if they tell me they're going to transform it again I will be digging out some silver bullets. Three weeks on instant coffee is a terror undreamed of by any horror writer and one I don't intend to suffer again.

Silly After Action Report - Volunteers Became Scarce

 Major Kim Oh Noh peered through the light woods in front of him, his eyes seeking the enemy positions. Beside him Commissar Kim Poh Sibul read an inspiring tract from Lenin to the troops. It was a mark of their enthusiasm that very few nodded off. The major beckoned a corporal to him. "Corporal, ah..." "Kim Boh Tye," said the corporal helpfully. "Take a few men with the heavy machine gun and set up a firing position." The corporal nodded and turned to the men, "Kim, Kim and Kim, follow me," he called. The major sighed, "Is there anybody here who isn't called Kim?" he asked. A hand shot up from among the ranks. "What's your name?" asked the major. "Deborah," replied the soldier. "I'll call you Kim."

So this is my first full foray into the Korean War. My nemesis Dave has been eager to play some KW stuff for a while but buggering around with infantry platoon movement irritated me so much that I only agreed to play another scenario as long as that wasn't a thing. Cue this scenario from Rally Point which pits Koreans North and South against each other in the dark early days of the war. At least they were dark early days if you were on the southern side. It was pretty good for the northerners. Here my North Koreans supported by some garage sale T34/85 tanks will attempt to dispossess some South Koreans of a group of buildings (definitely not huts). As if to punish me for my aversion to IPM (which sounds like a beer) the North Koreans are saddled with the early war doctrine which hampered their Soviet role models. I suppose it was too much to hope that the North Koreans would emulate 1945 Soviets rather than 1939 Soviets. The North Korean commissars aren't as effective as their Russian counterparts but they are just as unforgiving towards those recalcitrants who fail to rally.

To win my North Koreans have to capture eight buildings (not huts) from their South Korean defenders. It has to be admitted that I have been given the tools to do the job. I have ten elite squads (three 628s and seven 458s) plus four squads of first liners making up the numbers. Three leaders including a 9-1 and a 10-0 commissar urge them forward. They have three lmgs, two atrs and a hmg in support. Rolling on to help my troops forward are six T34/85 tanks from the 105th armoured brigade. Three enter on the first turn and three on the third. Facing me are Dave's hapless South Koreans. He has twelve first line squads (an equal mix of 557s and 447s) a pair of crews, three officers including a doughty 9-2, a mmg, two lmgs, a BAZ45, a DC and a 57L antitank gun plus six concealment counters. But wait, that's not all. He gets a -1 to Human Bullet creation die rolls which means I can anticipate a stream of death crazed maniacs hurling themselves at my clanking metal beasts apparently under the impression they can tear the tracks off with their teeth.

 Below is my set up. Elite North Korean troops can deploy (suck on that Russians) and I dutifully deployed a squad of my 458s to take advantage of the fact. The bulk of my force was heading through the (light) woods on board 62 heading for the buildings (and Dave's main defences) in the corner. A handful of squads and my most expendable leader were allocated to cleaning up the board 48 buildings. I did assign two of my turn 1 tanks to help them. By SSR huts exist on board 48 reducing the number of victory locations on that board to four.

At start

Dave had allocated similar token forces to board 48 as myself. Board 62 was where the real battle would take place. But board 48 would have its day in the sun as my throwaway troops and a pair of T34/85s barrelled down on a collection of concealment counters lurking in huts and buildings. Down on board 62 I eased forward lugging a monstrously heavy hmg (for some reason I didn't think of dismantling it) probing for his defences. Of course it wasn't quite that simple. At the bottom of board 62 my mighty 628s ran into a spattering of long range fire and that was enough for one squad to flee squealing for the dubious protection of the woods behind.

 

End of Korean turn 1 (both sides are Korean but I don't intend to make it easy for you)

The inevitable crumbling of my eight morale troops to inconsequential fire not withstanding I was pleased with my first turn. As Dave struggled to turn the tide board 48 exploded as human bullets charged my tanks, can openers clutched in their eager hands. Just for once I had troops supporting my armour but at least one human bullet charged through a cloud of metal to hurl themselves (note non gender specific pronoun) futilely against the clanking metal beast that menaced their positions. Incidentally my pronouns are clanking metal beast/dicebot bitch. Despite several nervous moments Dave's human bullets bounced off my armour without effect. Down on board 62 while 48 hogged the spotlight I had captured a halfsquad and oozed lava like closer to my goal.

Also the end of Korean turn 1 My tank crew is currently engaged in hosing human bullet off the chassis

 The battle on board 48 raged on but South Korean hopes were clearly fading and media attention turned to board 62 where the looming presence of a North Korean horde had forced Dave to shuck some concealment counters as he rearranged the deck chairs on his personal Titanic in what would no doubt be a futile attempt to slow my raging warriors. One tiny tickle of concern for me was the non-appearance of his atg. It must be hiding somewhere. I dealt with this in my usual way, I forgot all about it.

 

So now I just have to cross a shallow bowl, drive out or kill his defenders and capture the buildings. Easy, no?

Turn three arrived and so did three more T34/85 tanks. I had so many tanks I wasn't sure what to do with all of them (to be fair I have the same problem if I only have one tank). As they buffed their nails and waited for the second half of their armoured support my troops on board 62 incremented forward plunging into close combat when Dave was silly enough to stand and fight. I was already seeing a slight problem. Time was starting to run out and the geography was awkward. Oh yes and there were a bunch of untouched South Koreans ready to greet me with fire and steel or at the very least smoke and plastic.

Board 48 lies near forgotten as the real battle starts

By now, gentle reader you must be thinking "But Neil, things are going so well, how are you going to fuck this up?" Patience children, all will soon be revealed. Just let me revel in my premature triumphalism for another turn or so. Rather to my astonishment close combat was decided in my favour. My troops were weaving through the woods heading towards the buildings which were Dave's "must defend" terrain. Up on board 48 Dave's last troops had gone down but nobody cared. With my reinforcements now up at the front I had six tanks and a plethora of troops. It was true that the South Korean squad in the forward building had shown an irritating failure to break under fire but I had the men and the machines. What I was a little short of was time.

This is the last picture. I was crying too hard to take any more

After such a build up the crash came hard and fast. I found his atg when a tank parked next to it and I was promptly reduced to five T34/85s but this was a pinprick. The victorious board 48 troops scurried down the road to menace Dave from another flank as my troops on board 62 wormed and squirmed their way through the woods ready to lunge for the last buildings. I finally broke the South Korean squad in the forward building but an ill advised follow on shot sent the bastards berserk. That was tedious but not a problem, one way or another he would be leaving the building. I shoved a tank into bypass and built up enough troops to slaughter the hapless inhabitants.

But now I had a problem. My troops from board 48 were menacing him from the top and a building was within reach. That meant I had to take two more. With only two turns left this meant I had to occupy the hex circled in red above as a jump off point. Said hex was covered by a South Korean squad. I drew fire as much as I could but I still had to risk a 2FP shot if I wanted the hex. A 628 squad led by my 10-0 commissar entered boldly. Dave rolled a four. My commissar pinned and the squad broke. I raved and wept but I had no choice, I needed the hex. One by one I pushed another pair of elite squads into the 1FP residual. Each time Dave rolled a four. Each time my eight morale troops couldn't handle a normal morale check.

I'm not sure what happened next but when I woke up in the psych ward the attending doctor told me I had conceded the game. I had plenty of troops left but they weren't close enough to menace the buildings without taking lunatic risks and my troops had proved incapable of surviving quite reasonable risks. Despite the soul shattering way it ended both Dave and I thoroughly enjoyed this game. Congratulations to Dave who delayed me long enough to force me to take the risk and a thousand curses on the dicebot that chose this moment to sodomise me without mercy.

Major Kim Oh Noh crouched further down wishing the trees were a little more thick on the ground. The attack had collapsed at the last minute when the commissar came under fire and had a nervous breakdown. A rustle disturbed the undergrowth and the major froze. 

"Kim?" he asked, it seemed a safe bet.

"Actually it's Deborah," came the response, "but I'm thinking of changing it to Kim." 

 

Silly After Action Report - A Hotly Contested Crossroads

Major Boris Diginaditch stared at the scene in front of him with disfavour. 

"Tell me why this particular crossroads is so damned important?"

Not by a single inflexion did the staff officer allow criticism to enter his voice.

"The regimental commissar feels this is the most important territory between Berlin and Moscow. He has convinced the regimental commander of this inescapable fact."

"This isn't even the most important territory in this neighbourhood," protested Diginaditch.

"I shall inform the regimental commissar of your opinion if you like."

"On the other hand," said Diginaditch reflectively.

"Wise decision."

So this is Scenario OB13 - A Hotly Contested Crossroads where my Soviets will attempt to disrupt the German grand strategy of dragging out the war for a few more weeks. In order to win I have to capture fourteen buildings most of them in the vicinity of the aforementioned crossroads. Dave, commanding the 8th panzer division's reconnaissance battalion will attempt to ensure that this is one speed trap that will remain forever German. All buildings are wood except for AA7 which is stone and has a steeple. So its either a church or home of the fiddler on the roof.

 It has to be admitted that my force is late war Soviet at its finest; fourteen elite squads including three of assault engineers (imagine, Soviet troops with smoke) are ready to storm the lair of the fascist beastie guided by four officers including a 9-2. Support weapons consist of four light machine guns and a pair of demo charges. Armoured support is provided by a trio of T34/85 tanks and three almost as impressive SU-85 assault guns. Snuggled into the buildings around the eponymous crossroads Dave's force is equally impressive. He has seven and a half elite squads of various types with three lmgs and a panzerschreck, plus a pair of crews that can set up hidden anywhere ready to fire panzerfausts at the approaching Soviet tanks. His armour consists of a pair of Hetzer self propelled guns, a PzII OP tank connected to 80mm artillery, a honking big armoured car which has managed to squeeze a 75mm gun onto its chassis at the price of having virtually no ammunition for it and a pair of halftracks including one with an easily removable hmg. Three officers including a 9-1 inspire their troops to "more than mortal deeds for the fatherland."

I was ready to play but before I began there was one more thing to do. Dipping into my knowledge of ancient texts and blasphemous oracles I uttered a dark and grim prayer to the Dice Gods. Once the appropriate sacrifice was made and my immortal soul thoroughly mortgaged I could begin.

Below is a picture that says very little but effectively my intention was to move all of the question marks on the right side of the map as far to the left as possible.

The rather discreet start

A little more specifically my plan involved using the building in the north as cover for the bulk of my infantry which would surge forward hopefully encountering and overrunning his HIP tank hunters along the way. In the south a smaller force (but including my assault engineers) would push forward with armoured support following at a discreet distance and hopefully hit is defences from two directions. For some reason I was obsessed with the prospect of a German hmg in the steeple. Check the OB, the Germans don't have an hmg. There's one in the halftrack but that is hardly likely to be in the steeple on the first turn.

 

End of Soviet first turn

Perhaps unsurprisingly my force made it through the first turn without serious loss although various parts of Dave's OB had started to reveal themselves. Neither of his tank hunter half squads had made their appearance though. I had gobbled up the undefended buildings and would now actually have to fight for any more.

 After a slightly understated first turn things kicked off in the second. Pushing forward my troops suffered some losses, but others pushed forward to the wall in the north. His Hetzers revealed themselves wrecking an SU-85 but in return one of my T34/85s nailed a Hetzer with a critical hit providing me with some useful smoke cover. Dave's OP tank dialled in his artillery but it settled for dropping a spotting round in the next county.

End of turn 2

With his Hetzers revealed (and one fried) I started probing for his flanks if only to get as far away from his artillery as possible. Up in the north I sent an SU-85 around his flank or at least I intended to. Actually it got as far as the wall when it discovered a halfsquad with a panzerschreck. It spent the next couple of turns in motion hiding behind the wall desperately praying for hull hits. Hull hits were duly provided and my SU unaccountably survived. Dave moved his artillery to pound the brush now playing home to two of my T34s. Fortunately they survived, even the one that was foolishly CE (I really was pushing that 8 morale to its limits). My 9-2 took command of a trio of squads with lmgs and sprayed the concealed force in the steeple to find it was only dummies. I'm not sure when I realised Dave didn't have an OB provided hmg but by the time I did he had unshipped the one from the halftrack so it didn't really matter.

Scenting victory (or possibly my neighbour's dinner) I pressed forward. A tank on my left circled around to bring his defenders under fire while my recently rallied troops pushed forward. Up in the north I was winning the battle for the wall and soon hoped to be contesting for the yard. His surviving Hetzer was banging away at my tanks and would sooner or later get a result so I rolled an SU up next to it. My thinking was that either Dave could shift his covered arc (and hopefully miss) or or I would get a side shot on a Hetzer. Unfortunately I pushed the entire CE thing a little far and his hmg (now appropriately ensconced in the steeple) pinned the crew who buried themselves on the floor of the vehicle trembling in fear.

End of turn 3

Despite such idiocy imposed setbacks I was pushing forward. With a real target to shoot at my 9-2 kill stack broke his hmg halfsquad while in the south Dave slunk back out of harms way allowing me to capture a couple more buildings. His artillery had been more of an irritation than a war winning weapon and this was brought to a close when I finally managed to take out his PzII which had been sitting cheerily under a hail of 85mm shells up until that point. I managed to get a squad forward to support my SU-85 in the north and his schreck toting halfsquad decided not to stand upon the order of its going.

End of turn 4

 

Turn four was heavy on armoured casualties with his Hetzer taking out one of my T-34s but in return another critical hit burnt the Hetzer (we rolled three critical hits between us in this turn). The trade was one I was happy to make. I was dismantling his infantry and his armoured support was gone. Over the next turn I slowly gripped his remaining troops in a vice which not even the destruction of another tank could prevent. Dave seeing the writing on the wall offered me the concession. The close combat in the south was Dave's last desperate attempt to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

 

 

 

Lest I appear a military genius (stop laughing) it had to be conceded that with the exception of a couple of critical hits Dave's dice were absolutely dreadful. My sacrifices to various dark gods had not gone unanswered. We both enjoyed this scenario although its fair to say that I enjoyed it considerably more. Dave's dice stats were truly dreadful. I somehow failed to muster up any sympathy. Many thanks to Dave for the game and the dicebot for the win.

 "The crossroads is ours," announced Diginaditch brushing bits of wrecked Hetzer off his uniform. The staff officer gave a sickly smile. 

"It turns out the regimental commissar had the map upside down. The important crossroads is five miles down the road."

"Should we give this one back then?" 

I Need A Falcon

"Get out of here you filthy, disease riddled bastard!" Not, it has to be admitted, the first time I have heard those words but it is the first time I have had to say them. Things are getting a little awkward at Chez Neil with the great outdoors showing an increasing propensity to become part of the great indoors. The latest to blur the boundary between civilisation and the untamed wild is a pair of pigeons who have decided that the top of my bookcase makes as excellent roosting spot and, by corollary, that my floor and furniture are perfect things upon which to shit.

My neighbours are of no assistance in helping me deal with this avian assault. When they hear incoherent shrieks of horror and outrage emanating from my flat they just figure its another Saturday night. As for the collection of plush toys which I once foolishly thought might help me defend my humble abode. They have crawled into corners as far from the incontinent marauders as they can get.

I think what really gets me is their sheer brazenness. I lurch into my loungeroom shrieking and waving my arms wildly. If there are pigeons present they rise in their own time and casually flap outside but they don't leave. They sit on my balcony railing waiting for me to get out of their lounge room. If I pursue my offensive outside they fly precisely two feet up into the air, sit on my gutter and again wait for me to get out of their way. Which, being a busy person and not wanting to break down into frustrated tears in front of a pigeon, I eventually do.

All of this really came to a head yesterday. After a long day selflessly sacrificing my health and sanity for the benefit of my employers I stumbled home tired and traumatised. I lurched in the door, dropped my bag, waved hello to the pigeons and shambled into the kitchen for a drink. What the fuck! I retraced my steps and yes there they were; two pigeons sitting on top of my bookcase looking down with calm politeness as I had a minor meltdown.  I don't know how they got in. I had to open a window and a door so that they could get out. Once I had managed to evict them (and after several hours indoors they were understandably reluctant to leave) I then spent the next half an hour on my hands and knees dealing with the inevitable consequences of having a couple of pigeons indoors for several hours. If I'd waited any longer I could have opened a phophate mine.

The pigeons must go. I need something sharp of eye, cruel of beak and vicious of claw and fortunately I know where to get it. Sixty floors up on the office building I am increasingly inclined to call home (if only because of the relative absence of pigeons) there is a falcon. This alone is sufficient to explain said pigeon absence. It swoops down from its lofty height, talons outstretched and feeds on lesser breeds with cruel gusto. "Lesser breeds" being loosely defined as "those who didn't get out of the way quickly enough". A quick conversation or two along the lines of "plenty of delicious pigeons" should be enough to persuade it to relocate.

I can't wait to see the look on the pigeon's faces when they shoulder their way into my apartment to find them caught in a falcon's predatory gaze. It will be carnage. Of course then I have to pick up bits of mutilated pigeon but I only have to do it once, or at least once per pigeon. My pigeon problems are soon going to be a thing of the past. Only one question remains. Does anybody know how to get rid of a falcon?

The Dark Heart of Paradise

 Near where I, for the want of a better description, work is a food court. In this court dispensers of "protein" frequently liberally adorned with "leaves" hawk their wares to a stream of office dwellers apparently unconcerned that protein and leaves could well mean fruit bat and oleander. Protein and leaves present themselves in all sorts of ethnic variations and combinations referred to as "fusion" or "mutation".or (in a rare burst of honesty) "I accidentally dropped one food tray on another". All around are happy people gorging themselves as they try and find the strength to face the afternoon.

But wait gentle reader, what's this? Is there a rotten heart to this nourishment for profit paradise? Indeed there is. A dark looming presence that casts a pall over the happy scene. Customers avert their eyes as they hasten past the grim location. Small children whimper and dogs flee. Actually given that the customer base is exclusively office workers there are no small children or dogs but if there were they would whimper and flee respectively.

It squats, a dark barren place in the midst of plenty. From time to time the brave attempt to penetrate its depths to no avail. Despite their hopes, their dreams, their ambitions, all come to naught in the face of this squat malevolence. It is the boarded up shop! Once there was a food vendor here indistinguishable from any of the others. Possibly they sold indigenous sushi or Lithuanian fusion pasta but it matters not. Whatever implausible collection of leaves and protein was foisted on the general public from the glistening counters and faux something or other bench tops are long since gone. The vendors transgressed! Some foul crime against the Gods of Semi-fast Food was committed and those mighty deities unleashed their wrath. 

Their hopes in ruins the vendors fled, thankful at least to have got out with their lives even if their artisan cheese board was sacrificed to make good their escape. Since that time the curse has festered, its dark tentacles worming into the very structure of the haunted location. From time to time a new vendor arrives with a heart full of dreams and an trailer load of animal parts and leaves. Surely fame and fortune are just a few deconstructed sandwiches away. But no, even as they unveil the gleaming counter and stock the fridge with bottles of juice so adorned with words like "cold press" and "artisan" that it is difficult to identify the fruit that purportedly went into their creation, dark forces are moving against them.

What exactly happens no one knows. The other vendors know better than to ask questions. All anyone can say for sure is that a few weeks to a couple of months after that proud, hopeful opening the place is surrounded by boarding once more. No longer will customers be able to purchase cumquat and cape buffalo sandwiches on artisan rye bread hand fired in their own oven according to a traditional recipe used by a Gypsy tribe that starved to death in the fourteenth century. Grateful to have escaped with their lives the vendors themselves have been forced to work at McDonalds in order to survive.

Still it could be worse, at least they're not forced to eat at McDonalds in order to survive.