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It started with a tweet. Jenny Duffy asked me to write a story in response to a painting. I asked her for one and she gave me gorgeous lady above. As per this week’s challenge I needed to find a new home for it. So I put it on a noticeboard. The type you might even see dance lesson adverts on.

Thea would have been offended if she’d heard the phrase ‘dance for your life’ thrown about on a reality TV competition. She was the President’s personal dancer. When he’d come to power, Thea was just 15. The president had handpicked her from a dance class. She never saw her family or classmates again.

She was given the most beautiful designer clothes and danced in the finest palaces. Most common people could never dream of such riches. But once her dance for the day was over she was locked away like a precious piece of jewellery.

Now 20, Thea was sure the President was becoming bored with her. Fearing what her fate would be, she decided it was time to dance for her life. That morning she was brought into the President’s personal chambers. She began to dance as usual.

“Don’t you have any other moves girl?” the President enquired lazily.

She bowed her head and with one graceful twirl opened his balcony doors. The sound of angry rebels filled the room. The guards made moves to grab her but the President held up his hand. There were always protestors outside the window.

She flashed a brilliant smile and danced out onto the balcony letting the sunshine hit her golden hair. As her skirt twirled she ripped a strip and began to unravel herself. The President’s red face lit up with excitement. She beckoned the President closer and he obliged.  

The guards’ eyes were fixated on her now bare body as she tied the top of the strip around the president’s neck, and the let the rest fall into the crowd below. One brave protestor took his chance and climbed up the material onto the balcony.

No one knows if Thea survived the storming of the president’s chambers that day. But there is a graceful old dance teacher in the city who tells the tale well. 

It’s day’s like these I really wish I didn’t have to write a story. I’m pretty sick today and haven’t been able to complete my challenge of finding a new place for my story to go.For now I’ll just post the story but I promise I’ll update this tomorrow morning with a photo of it in it’s new home.

So my friend sent me this comic strip he found above a urinal in Portland Oregan. 

Philosophy fly

He can make frogs question their sexuality

And spiders fret over their individuality

But he doesn’t know why

So he starts to cry

Perhaps he should stop

But then the penny drops

He remembers old man grasshopper

Who always came a cropper

He met obstacles with aggression

Instead of a well phrased question

He once made an accusation

About the meaning of creation

And lost his only friend

Never knowing why it did end

So philosophy fly wipes away a tear

And vows to spread curiosity, not fear

Last object story. Failed at carving it into burnt toast…

So I fell back on old faithful. Vegemite piped with a glad bag. Obviously.

I’ve never eaten a dead thing… except animal fat, but only in chips. Oh and sometimes the skin & bones of pigs but only in sweets. I don’t mind the inside of an unweaned calf’s stomach now and then, if there’s a good cheese going. I guess my relationship with food is complicated. Hopefully toast will never cheat on me.

There’s been a social media elephant in my online room, and it’s name is Tumblr. I have a website, facebook and twitter; now it’s time to complete the interweb circle of life… and look at some funny GIFs. http://freyawriter.tumblr.com/

Yep, I went with the completely not obvious and very imaginative title: ‘reflection’. Today’s object: My Mirror.

I know all your secrets.

I know you suck at makeup. I know you procrastinate with dance breaks when nobody is home. I know you spend more time on your hair than you care to admit. And I remember the hours you used to spend obsessing over your skin, hoping to find new ways to hide it.

You pretend not to care. Some days, you even threaten to smash me up. But I see your vanity and I know you need me.

I went to Bookfest today and was challenged to alter a page of a kids book to create a new story. Those few extra letters and words come from the other pages of ‘Tat the Cat’.

Tat still had a long way to go and found it harder and harder to love. Creatures stood in front of him. Tat tried to get past, but the creatures did not move.

“Please let me pass,” said Tat, “I am so very tired.”

“You will never make it on your own. Please let us help you.”

Tat longed for warmth, but he was afraid.

Got a glass pen and this happened:

The window washer felt a special affinity with the glass as he cleaned. The only time anyone ever looked at him properly was when he was particularly dirty, he thought. Usually people just looked straight through him. And in that moment he decided not to clean anymore. Instead he adorned every window on the high-rise with a drawing in dust, determined they would both be noticed at last. 

Found this seed pod in a park near my house. So I carved it…

A game of life encased

All fighting for treedom

One pessimistic seed doesn’t participate

As bark and flesh melt away

The others fly with the wind

Alone, the seed patiently awaits death

But nature is an ironic bastard

And death does not come

Typical, thinks the seed.

So I’ve finished the ‘news’ week and I’m onto finding new objects each day and writing on them/about them. Please make suggestions for! Here is today’s:

Translation for those who don’t speak chalk:

You’d walked all over me. I wished the cracks in the pavement could swallow me up. You’d told me my boobs were too small, my waist too fat, my life too fast and my career not fast enough. I looked into your perfect glossy face and tore you in two. Seeing you lay there in bits on the concrete made me realise: magazines are just words. 

I got tweeted this photo. So I wrote the story behind the story. That headline is the remnants of something bigger. 

Two decks of headline go right here pls pls pls

By TED THE PAGE DESIGNER

CAPITAL letters! O’ journalist until your magnificent masterpiece is dropped in, I have written my own story.

Once upon a time there was a man who looked like a dumpling. He loved to edit people’s lives. “No lunch break now!” he would bark, his saggy sallow skin producing a sheen of oil.

Live-Washing-Commentary was one of his favourite past times. This is where an opponent enters the arena (kitchen) and he gives a running commentary on how bad they are at washing up. Bonus points if he can work in a metaphorical link between their washing ability and job security.

Luckily, whilst Dumpling Man loved to edit lives, he rarely edited any of the words his workers laboured so hard over. He preferred to edit after print when it was too late. One brave soul saw an opportunity to exploit this; he asked the oppressed workers to let off some steam if they wished. He would take the blame for their stories, as Ted the Magnificent was retiring anyway.

All Ted asked for in return was a good leaving cake, not like Derek’s.

A tiny family lives inside the trumpet of a famous jazz man.

Diary,

I miss my room in the Tuba already. It was so spacious. Me and my brother would slide around and make up games. The human player didn’t get many gigs, so we had lots of spare time. But today we moved into Nat’s trumpet. It’s very cramped and we’re told he plays every night. Dad loves it. He says now we’ll be respected by the instrument dwelling community. I told him that I don’t care about status. He put me on spit valve duty. I was fuming until the gig tonight. The sound was incredible. We were working with a true artist. I didn’t want to tell dad, but I think I’m going to like it after all. Maybe if I keep doing a good job, we can join the team in Billy Taylors Piano.

Brett

Today for diary December I got my christmas wish! I got a real diary entry from a very dear and brave friend called Georgia. So I wrote her a story: 

Georgia’s town was isolated. Her people were peaceful, hard working and fearful. The wall had been closed when she was little to keep out the Others.

Home to a rare and precious mineral, her Town had been flooded with Others trying to trick the townspeople. But her people were smart and whilst the Others warred with each other, they closed the wall. When the Others realised, they were furious. Waves of their armies crashed against the wall, weakening it with every strike. To keep the peace, her people had struck a deal. They would work tirelessly to export equal amounts of the mineral to all.

Since then, mining is the only respectable job. Her father gave up his passion (science) to dig, everyone did. Mining protects her Town. The people became interchangeable, except Georgia.

At 12 she found a discarded piano, and at 14 could play it with her eyes closed. But she was seen as selfish by most, and told to dig. So she did. She dug under the wall and never looked back.

In the years that followed she played in many colourful cities to thousands of Others. Some of whom turned out not to be so bad. She sent a letter home explaining her success every day. The reply was always the same Come home- Dad. She assumed the townspeople still thought music was selfish. So she ignored them. She was terrified of going back to her old life where everything was the same.

5 years later, despite her fears, she decided to go home. What if they were in danger and she really had been selfish?

When she returned she found the wall still stood, as did the mines. But everything had changed. When she left, her father had been inspired to take up science again. He discovered a new way of using the mineral that was indestructible and they had rebuilt the wall. The town was safe, and filled with scientists, musicians and artists.

For those curious the real diary entry is below and it could also double as the girl from the story’s diary entry before she went home. 

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe I will be going home in just a few days. I have been away so long. I am excited to see my family and my friends, who I have missed so much. But I am also a little afraid. When most people spend time away from home they fear that things will change while they were gone, that the lives of the people they know will move on and they will lose their place in the scheme of things. Maybe I am different, because I fear that nothing will have changed – that everything will be the same. Too ordinary, too easy, too familiar. Will returning to an old environment instigate a backwards evolution of the self? Or, to apply a philosophy I have learnt to be quintessentially true, might returning home be whatever I can imagine to want it?

Georgia

Today I got “7 went in. 3 Came out. The others decided to stay…” from  Pete Lowry. I was stuck for aggges, but finally came up with this. 

Diary,

It’s hard to deal with the concept that my life is just aimless swimming around. Like most krill I grew up believing in The One. According to legend, The One is a massive blubbery fish with loads of teeth and inside is another world. Thousands of krill swim into the mouth and cross over each year.

Today I saw The One. Me and my krill-ball team swam toward the mouth, exited to move on to the holy land. I suddenly felt a pang of fear as I swam toward the giant tongue. I looked back just as the mouth closed. Darkness. I felt a strong sucking feeling. I could hear the cries of Hundreds of other terrified krill. I got stuck in between two teeth along with my team mates. Then, I heard a voice.

“Help me,” it said.

I looked around. I could make out an old krill who was stuck next to me. He was horribly damaged as the mouth had bitten down on him.

“The atheist plankton group were right,” he said. “We are just a food source for this thing. It’s not a deity.”

Inside a giant mouth about to be eaten, was not the greatest place to have an existential crisis.

“Guys, let’s get out of here,” I pleaded.

I was met with a torrent of abuse: “Non-believer,” “Blasphemy!”

Only one of my team mates, Kate, agreed with me. The others decided to stay. They told us we were idiots and they were going to paradise.

I wondered for a moment, but one look back at the old krill again confirmed we had to leave. I grabbed onto Kate and the old krill. The mouth opened again and we swam against the tide. We were buffeted by more krill trying to get in the mouth but somehow we made it.

Perhaps there is a land beyond the mouth. But I am not so scared of the aimless swimming now. I think Kate might be my girlkrill now, and old shrimp has no-one else to nurse him back to health.

Pete.

Today I write to you from work on my lunch break. I’ve been thinking about Matt Hsu’s prompt: “a mummified little man inside a chocolate wrapper” all morning while working and here’s what I’ve got.

Diary,

My sister once told me that Hans Christian Anderson tales were history books. I’ve always thought she was an idiot untill today. While walking through a London park I saw a tiny tent made of chocolate wrappers. I looked inside and found what I thought was a little mummy man toy. But when I picked it up it smelt and the tiny bandages began to disintergrate. I looked at the tomb’s inscription which read Here Lies Thumbelina. Then over the top in tiny red graffiti read Bigot! Toad Hater! 

Jeremy

Peladophobia – Fear of bald people. (Georgia Wellington)

8^th December 2013

I’ve managed to avoid them till now. My wife and family all have lovely hair. Shopping is a hassle, but mostly I’ve learnt to avoid the shortness of breath, dry mouth, nausea and dread. Peladophobia they call it: a fear of bald people.

I’d never met Dad. All I knew was that he went mad and disappeared one day when I was little. I saw a picture of him in the newspaper the other day (Mad Wig Man brings Christmas Cheer). I felt shaky. My stomach tied in knots like the hair stuck in the shower plughole. Everything was falling into place as his shiny scalp gleamed up at me. My mum used to say I took after her, but for two things I got from dad. Now I know what they are: hereditary baldness and peladophobia.

George

Tonight I was invited to write at Lost Movements, an art event in West End. We had an hour or so to write a story based on the inspiration from other artists in the space. I singled out the awesome people who were having their bodies painted by artists. This is the result.

Dear Diary,

Jen came to school today with no paint. She just doesn’t give one single fuck. One of the male teachers even told her to cover up.

She said we’ve been covering ourselves up for hundreds of years. She said it was a statement, time to make a change. Apparently hundreds of years ago it was cool to be orange, and they had this thing called a tan.

Jen didn’t want people to know how rich she was by the quality of her paint or the tint of her contacts. She’s never even been under the knife.

She got called ugly and slut by Tyson, but I thought she looked beautiful. It was scary really seeing someone. It felt so private. No contacts, no paint, just her and her uniform.  I felt angry for her. Could I interject?

I’ve always been into the paint. I go to all the best designers. Sometimes I even fork out for a real live artist if there’s a special occasion.

I’ve been painted as a Picasso, the universe, pixels, even the Mona Lisa. The other girls at school look up to me. We go paint shopping together and even do surgery days. I thought it was a channel for self expression. How would people know I was unique and artsy if I wasn’t painted? But after seeing Jen today I think it may be more of a mask. Camouflage even.

I looked around at my friends. They were all looking at Jen like an embarrassing parent at a party. I stood up and crossed the courtyard. I got my water bottle out of my bag, poured it all over my face, and began to scrub with my jumper.

Tyson opened his mouth.

“What?” I snapped. “Never seen a girl’s skin before?”

I think Jen and I are friends now.

Love

Cat

So a while ago I did a podcast with fellow 24 hour writing veteran Simon Groth which you can check out here:

http://www.futureofthebook.org.au/2013/11/05/extreme-writing-and-doo-wop/ (Also can download the podcast on itunes from if:book Australia.

Simon and a bunch of other awesome authors (including Nick Earls and Krissy Kneen!), editors and printers came together with a mission: to create a book in 24 hours. Printed and all!

Each author took a chapter passed it onto an editor and then compiled it into a book and sent it off to the US where they printed one copy and sent a picture back. Crazy right!? Definitely worth checking out Willow Patterns.

http://www.futureofthebook.org.au/willow-patterns-the-24-hour-book-remixed/

I am in the process of giving this site an extreme makeover as I embark upon my new project in just 10 Days time! The project is the 365 Day Challenge- where I write a story every day for a whole year!

You can still find a time capsule of my last project (24 Hour Challenge) on the 24 Hour Chalenge tab. Also there is a new podcast with me during the challenge at: http://2013.youngwritersfestival.org/podcast-24-hour-writing-challenge/

I simply got ‘lots of legs’ for this one.

I’m 6. I remember adults looking at me in pity and amusement. I’ve attached a lot of fake legs to my stuffed dog toy. He looks like some sort of toy story nightmare. I call him Dogipede (I think it’s sweet) the others try to look enthusiastic. This look has followed me well into adulthood. It’s the same look people get when I tell them I’m going on a date.

So From Tanwyn I got: “Your body is a composite of organisms. They have all become sentient, including the bacteria, and each is vying for total control.”

I always saw and felt the world differently. I thought I was the only one. When I was 10 I broke 4 ribs and an arm and didn’t even register it. I had to learn fear, it didn’t come instinctually.

When the Zombie apocalypse came, it wasn’t blood and brains, it was a sensation and I wasn’t surprised. You couldn’t see it and it certainly didn’t make sufferers groan. They dubbed sufferers zombies because most would just shut down and simple stare into space until they starved. The virus took over the organisms in the body and was highly contagious. Each becoming sentient, including bacteria and set about war for total control over their host. The pain it caused sufferers would render them useless doomed to live out the pain in isolation, finding it impossible to even articulate. We were sent notifications that it had been sent to earth to purge, so a new species could take over.

But I felt no pain, and I found other survivors. Other people like me. I wasn’t alone after all. The virus was very slow on us. So slow in fact, that we found a cure. We readied ourselves for battle with whoever was to take over but they never came. We were notified that the intergalactic financial crisis had hit and earth was essentially now worthless.

I just did the most epic interpretive dance and it didn’t record it. Now there is a lady from the festival about to interview me so I’m gonna have to skip this hours update. Next one I promise will be good.

A weirdly serious one, not what I was aiming for but it’s too late now I can’t go back- it’s written now. And here is it. Plus- it gets in my zodiac thread. Anyone picking it up yet? Oh and the trigger was from Darby Laughren “you could write about a series of peoples’ encounters with those (annoying) jets that are around during Riverfire”

I work shifts in the Mater Hospital. I used to live out on a Farm near Emerald, but now instead of a Rooster each morning, I wake up to the sound of Jets practicing for Riverfire. I hate Riverfire. Apart from the influx of stupid injured drunk people we get at the hospital, it embodies everything I find stressful; big loud crowds of strangers. I like to deal with people one at a time, patients are good like that. You can’t treat two at exactly the same time. I wouldn’t work anywhere else, but I fear living in the city, I am doomed to ignorant city people patronising me as if their lifestyle is worth more. 

So here is the trigger I go: “All the worlds inanimate objects suddenly develop personalities and now the human population must learn to deal with it.” I think a. went off topic and b. didn’t actually explain what has happened so only makes sense with introduction but its 3.5 hours to go. I’ve been awake 30 something hours and don’t particularly care anymore. Such a maverick! Can’t stop me!

The day it happened most object were harmless. Humans like objects, humans have been kind to objects for many years, we even make lots of them. But the wifi modems rose up against the humans, creating a 1 ft tall plastic coated army that blocked out all internet. For too long had the humans bashed, plugged unplugged and cursed at these small miracle devices who so kindly brought a kind electronic magic land into their houses and their workplaces.   

So 58 mins ago Joe gave me this absolute gem: An super intelligent bear must fight its way out of a gulag in an alternate history of 1945 Russia. Here is what I came up with:

1945. Russia. You were separated from your mother at birth. You lived your cubhood as a slave being taught to be a dancing bear. As you grew older you were sold to the Gulag who performed scientific experiments on you to see if they could raise an bear army. Only you survived. You wake up in a test room, finally the without sedation for one of the first times in your life. You know exactly what to do with this new energy: revenge.

You look down at your bionic arm. It is 10:27pm most of the camp will be asleep. You crush the padlock on the door with your hairy metal bear fist. You pad softly along the corridor and come to a guard.

‘Bear!’ he shouts, but in Russian.

‘Barely,’ you reply, but in Bear.

Your hilarious action quips will be lost on this crowd. You sigh as you break the guard’s neck like rabbit ready to be slung over a horse. He slumps to the ground and you enter the dormitory easily.

You snap, crunch, tear and shred everyone who comes into your path coming up with classic lines such as ‘Can’t handle the bare truth?’

When you get to the other side of the room you splinter the wooden door and make a break for it over the wall. You could stay and have a little more fun, but you have better plans. You’ve never had any friends before why not start now? They wanted a bear army? They’re going to get it alright.

You and me in the closet. My older sister had told me it’s what you do with boys at parties, and now you were just inches away from me in the closet. I breathed deeply and then immediately regretted it, inhaling a large amount of loose fur from my nan’s fur coat. I was nervous, what happened in the closet?

After what seemed like far too long I realised that the closet didn’t have the answers, I was meant to know what happened next and I didn’t. Anticipation turned into fear and embarrassment. Luckily the next thing you said was, ‘You read that book Narnia then? I got all the videos too.’  

When Jenny went down to do a routine quality check on the factory floor she found that one of the machines had malfunctioned and each condom it produced looked exactly like the Virgin Mary. It became an office joke that turned into a niche underground market, that turned into a global best seller, but only a brave few ever admit to buying them.

A Short Essay on Gender equality the Male Perspective.

After seeing  Oscar Jonsson’s run at Hand to the Queen end last week, it became clear that Seahorse kind is still not ready for a male in a position of power. It’s sad to admit but I fear that the veins of matriarchy run to deep in our society.

One of the burning topics I hear around the sea anemone at lunch is our right to decide on safe abortion. Unfortunately most of the traditional matriarch doesn’t see our bodies as our right. In fact I think this issue will be lost amongst the sea weed, particularly after outspoken feminist Therese Albert was elected as minister for horsemen. Currently Seamonkeys have a more advanced gender political system than us.

Nevertheless I hold out hope, and dream someday to see a King on the throne.

I can feel my knees turning to jelly and mind seeping out my ears. I always get this feeling when I am star struck. And it looks like Johnny Depp no less. This is a big one for my books. Not that I have a book, I just happen to like hanging out at LA Airport. I like the atmosphere, and what celeb doesn’t love a good dedicated fan? I walk up to him on the two wobbling pillars I usually call my legs. He is asleep. Then I spot it. It’s awful, he got a goatee? Must be for a role. Still I can’t bring myself any closer, I hate goatees. Why have so many of the stars that live around here suddenly got them I wonder?

Part 3 of my serial story. Probably one more to go.

Matthew stared at the second less than impressive tree in as many days. This time just a stump with a new sprout. It didn’t explain anything. He sat down on the stump and thumbed through the pages of his father’s journal. Flicking past leaf after leaf, each covered in spindly lettering spelling out stories from all across the world. This must have been one of the trees the storytellers had got their leaves from. Perhaps all the storytellers had been wiped out on cocktail night. Matthew knew the story well, his father had constantly reminded him of his role as a scientist during the water restricted years.   

How embarrassing thought the Micra. She didn’t know why her owner took her to these car networking events. They were nearly every night in city about 5:30 on the highway. She never got any better at them. The sound of beeping and warmth of headlight flashing washed over the little Micra’s dusty exterior. Why hadn’t she been washed? It was so embarrassing. Suddenly a Pajero cut in front of her. This was her worst nightmare. Beeeeep! Being forced to sound the long angry horn was Micra’s worst nightmare. She hated confrontation. But to her surprise a fiat close by sounded the soft toot toot of approval. For the first time she felt included.

Day 6 on Celebrity Moth Survivor. Fashionista Kevin has been on hunger strike for 48 hours with only Target and Jay Jay’s coats on offer. 

Mothality is now a word. Mash all the things. With all the other things! 

Around and around this tiny glass bowl. What did it all mean? I used to think the looming face that rains food was god, but now I’m not so sure. 

So after a visit from the younger young writers fest group I have this: I had to change dragon because I’d already had one, so Incorporated Maddy’s Dino tweet into the mix. 

Dino stared down its nose at me in a disapproving condescending manner. He did this every morning during our jog.

‘A stegosaurus could hunt you down!’ he shouted. His voice was horse (intentional typo! I promise) from all his stupid quips and his stupid little arms flailed about as he sped along.

That was it. We would endure this no more, I was leading a rebellion. No longer would he be the fastest rex. No longer would he oppress the good rexes of the T-Run Jogging group.

I forged ahead, we were neck and neck. I saw my break but ironically failed to see an oncoming stegosaurus. We collided.  No one ever knew of my heroic attempts thwart the regime instead they call me ‘T-klutz.’ 

Yeah I stole your name Darby sorry I’m doing it to a lot of people. Oh my god I kid you not – a bikie just went past my window revving all the way!

He looked like the famous Bikie leader Buzz of the Bikie Bandits, it wasn’t much to work with but he’d take it. On his 21st birthday Darby made the most of it, and had bikie themed party. He didn’t have many parties so he went all out, he thought it was very convincing. Unfortunately so did the Hades Saints who attempted assassinate who they thought to be Buzz.  Luckily the police also had a tip off about the party and saved Darby’s life. Unluckily, they arrested him for weapon development.

Here lays Freya, on the straight and narrow till junky Michael got her onto the hard stuff & she overdosed on caffeine.

Under 24 words. My my. 

5/10/2013 international reporter Lucy Sweeney, Germany.

Raving Lunatics Dance the House Down.

Some say you could hear it from the other side of town, others say their arrhythmic moves registered on the Richter scale. This was the 43^rd annual International Society of Bad Dancers Rave.

Already known to be one of the most dangerous international events, injuring thousands every year, this was to be the most disastrous year yet.

Witnesses say they saw moves never tried before, such as slithering snakes and the where’s wally waltz. But when it came to the freestyle event, the jumping, jiving and sporadic movements of the crowd created a landslide. Rocks tumbled down and now cover the entire venue.

No-one is said to be seriously injured however the rescue team continues to work around the clock to free the dancers who have continued to rave in a mark of unity.

Prompt was ‘failed magician’.

Alexandria the Amazing horrified her audience

When she was arrested on stage for fraudulence

Eddie the Excellent was less than entrancing

His assistant was shot with an arrow while dancing

Fabio the fascinating freaked out his assistants

Their hair ablaze he continued the show with persistence

So assistants beware, don’t be a sucker

A magician can be a pretty dodgy… fellow.

So I got “The owl and the pussycat didn’t go to sea” from Lou LaBelle + Catherine Grainger sent in ‘Beach bitches’. A wave of tired just hit me and this is the result. If this is hour 9 I dread to imagine hour 20… Be ready for weirdness. At least I’ve included Father Ted references.

Owl: It’s a nice day. Go on, go on, go on.

Pussycat: I’m not going to the seaside.

Owl: Ah go on.

Pussycat: It’s not because I’m a cat and hate water. It’s not because the sand gets on my whiskers. It’s not even because the public transport is a nightmare with that new rabbit announcer. It’s that stupid gang.

Owl: Bloody beach bitches.

Part 2

Jamie,

If you found this letter then you have done everything I wanted you to, and I’m very proud of you son. I’m sorry I had to leave when you were little. I hope this key has kept you busy long into your twenties at least. But most importantly I hope this made you travel; meet people you never would have met, eat food you’d never tasted, see things you’ve never seen.

Love

Tim

P.S. Sorry it’s just a letter mate. There’s no pot of gold… army doesn’t pay enough.