Wednesday November 14th, 2012

The exercise:

Write about: the records.

Went in to see the local Public Health Nurse this afternoon to get Max weighed (among other things). It went well (other than Max deciding to soil his diaper right before she put him on the scale, which was directly after I'd told her it was dry because I'd changed him just before we left home).

Anyway, he's regaining weight at the upper end of the normal scale, so he'll be back to his birth weight in no time.

They grow up so fast.

Also: the slight delay in getting this posted was brought to you by a sleeping baby on my chest, who somehow managed to trick me into falling asleep as well.


"If you wish to access the records vault," Miss Vandenbeeker told the visitor in the tattered trench coat, "you must know the password."

"This is a matter of life and death!" Blood flew from his lips as he spoke, spattering across the elderly curator's glasses.

"I can understand that," Miss Vandenbeeker said, taking a cloth from her breast pocket and using it to clean her glasses. She did this with an efficiency and serenity that indicated this was not the first time she'd been forced to do so. "That does not, however, mean that I can simply cast aside the sacred duties of my position in order to allow any and all fools inside that hallowed room."

"Sacred?" the man shouted, looking around in disbelief. "Hallowed? Are you insane?"

"Provide the password," Miss Vandenbeeker said calmly as she returned to the romance novel she'd been reading before this most recent interruption, "or go away."

"Unlock that door or suffer the consequences!"

"Nice try, dear," Miss Vandenbeeker said without looking up, "but that's not the password."


morganna said...

The detective frowned at the morgue clerk. "That can't be right," he said. "There must be a mistake in the records."

"No, sir," said the clerk. "It's all right here. The body is not that of Christopher Harrison, as was originally reported. Dental and DNA records show that the body is that of James Wilkes. This has been confirmed by family identification, including a birthmark."

The detective frowned harder and sighed. "But then where is Christopher Harrison? And who is James Wilkes?"

"That's your problem, not mine," and the clerk smirked a little as he returned to his work.

Cathryn Leigh said...

@Marc – babies have a great way of doing that to you... but do enjoy those moments, once Max begins to move about, sleep will suddenly turn into a rare beast. And how’s Kat doing? Well I hope. You have plenty of help? Good!


It is a matter of record, or fact if you will, that there are no limitations on what the mind can imagine. At least not while one is young enough to know the limitations our physical world puts upon us.

Dream big while you can, kid. And remember how to do it, how to set those limitations aside and dream bigger. For that’s the only way your imagination will be come your friend, your constant companion.

And with imagination by your side, the only time life will let you down, is when you let it down.

Dream big, kid, but take baby steps, and it CAN happen.

Hm... rather inspirational it seems

Greg said...

@Morganna: that's a great start to a story, and (depressingly) one I'm sure confronts police departments all too regularly. I really like your clerk and his attitude.

@Cathryn: that is rather inspirational. And something worth telling not only children, but adults as well. Because there's no reason to ever stop dreaming.

@Marc: Never work with children and animals :) Let's hope this isn't a sign of Max's behaviour to come!
I like Miss Vandenbeeker, she's got the right attitude towards protecting things. I'd like to see her come up against Henri sometime. The blood spatter when her visitor speaks is very intriguing though, I might actually believe it is a matter of life and death to him!

The records
"According to the records," said the little man with the enormous, almost manga, eyes and the purple hair, "you served Lemon-thyme chicken nicoise with pommes anna and parsnip purée two years, seven weeks and three days ago."
The chef went pale, which was all the more significant because he had a decent tan from spending his mornings before the restaurant opened tending the fruit and vegetable garden.
"And I expect you know," said the little man, pulling a small but thick leather-bound book from an inside pocket of his jacket, "that the laws strictly prohibit the reuse of a dish within two years and four months of its last use."
The chef nodded, licking suddenly dry lips. He was certain that he'd checked his own records before writing the menu, both on computer and on the hard copy that took up four bookshelves of space.
"Do you have anything to say?" said the little man. His eyes looked wet, almost sad, but his voice was clipped and unfeeling.
"I think there's been a mistake," said the chef, reaching for his keyboard.
"They all say that," said the little man. "But sure, if you think you can show that our records are wrong, you'll be the first. We keep meticuluous records.
The chef tapped at the keyboard, his forefingers hunting and pecking as he brought up the menu from last night. He stared at it, then tapped the keyboard again, rerunning his search. He stared at the screen again, and then abruptly turned the monitor to face the little man.
"We didn't serve chicken last night," he said, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. "We served grouse."
The little man also stared at the screen, his finger moving across it as he checked the date, the menu data, and then finally the serial number issued by his department when the menu was registered them. He frowned, thin eyebrows disappearing in a mass of furrows, and then checked his printout.
"Ah," he said. "I see that my records are correct, as are yours. However, my assistant has written the wrong address on these forms. I should be two streets over, at the Charles St. Restaurant."

Marc said...

Morganna - intriguing, as always in this tale :)

Cathryn - we're doing well, thanks for asking :)

Inspirational indeed. Sounds like something I'd like to share with Max, actually.

Greg - my goodness, that would be quite the world to live in. I would not envy the chef's in the least!