The Ataraxia Narratives

By Robert Radnor

Short stories, monologues, 'recipes', funeral orations, career stories, business affairs, and Bands Of History, such as The History Of Rock Music In Ten Bands including Seventeen & The Doo-Wops, and Hamburg & The Number Ones.
A connecting theme? Well, sort of: ataraxia - peace of mind. How much some people want it, others have given up hope of obtaining it, some win it, some earn it.
See what you think.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244238254

Book preview

The Ataraxia Narratives

The Ataraxia Narratives

Robert Radnor

Copyright © Robert Radnor 2019


Robert Radnor, whoever he is, or perhaps she is, has asserted his (or maybe her) right
under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
The book is not to be sold or resold without the publisher’s express approval,
not to be unreasonably withheld, for sure, for sure. First printing 2019.


ISBN 978-0-244-23825-4

The Abbeycymhir Publishing Corporation 2019

Farmers, Llandeilo SA19 9DW

Website: www.abbeycymhirpublishing.com

Critical Acclaim For The Ataraxia Narratives

TRUTHFUL

‘Truly, these are what they are.’ Emmeric Pressburger

IMPRESSIVE

‘Oppressive, impressive, excessive, recessive, depressive…the ive’s are endless.’ Amelia Earhart

HISTORIC

‘Indisputably part of a tradition dating back over one thousand years to the invention of printing by the Han Chinese soon after 1040.’ AJP Taylor

INSIGHTFUL

‘Creativity that has no bounds with insightful aphorisms that most certainly belong on XXX T-shirts.’ Leonardo da Vinci

CONTEMPORARY

‘Nobody could have written these stories one hundred years ago, nobody.’ Buzz Lightyear

MAGICAL

‘It beats me how anybody could pull off a trick like this, and dare to publish it.’ David Nixon

AUTHENTIC

‘This is the work of one man because you can be sure no other bugger will claim he or she wrote stuff like this.’ David Lloyd George

AWARD WINNING

‘In a category all of its own, and it would certainly win that category - were the right competition ever to be launched.’ Booker T & The MGs

Preface: An Ataraxia Narrative

These are stories written over several years, often begun at 5am or earlier on the kitchen table with a mug of Earl Grey, and when I came to put them together four facts emerged:

I couldn’t remember writing many of them, and I didn’t think I could, or would, have written some of them. You may wish I hadn’t.

There are more strands than I would have expected from what appeared to me to be random scribblings (typings?).

They are all stories about people’s lives, and most people’s lives are ‘difficult’, at least I think so.

They are directly or indirectly about ataraxia.

Ataraxia means - and excuse me for patronising you, but I didn’t know what it meant until I did - freedom from anxiety, and that seems to me to be the state most of the characters, and most of us, want to achieve. Not freedom, not fortune, not fame, not even happiness, just freedom from anxiety. Call it peace of mind, if you will.

You might well find yourself a little less than ataraxified by these stories, but even so they might, at least, distract you for a little while as they have me in writing them.

Robert Radnor

Recipes: Chefs De Nos Jours

This is, although I say it myself, the ultimate all-in-one recipe. All the chefs, all in one recipe. What's not to like?

Method

Every successful dish depends on a solid base, so we’re going to begin with a no-nonsense British foundation.

Take three dollops of Fanny Cradock (that’s about as much Fanny as any recipe can take), blend it with a more contemporary but equally British, safe-as-houses, love-him-hate-him Nigel Slater, and bring it altogether with a it-never-curdles-for-Delia.

Whip it all up with a spontaneously wacky, porky Jimmy Godwin, and calm it all down with a good, honest, communal Hugh River-Cottage. Now, you’ve got a blend of traditional and authentic ingredients with a somewhat cloying consistency, but consistency is the key word.

Time to add a little flavour. A pinch of Caribbean Ainsley Harriott (two pinches would be painful), a handful of rough, ready and freshly picked Gennaro Contaldo, a posh and oh-so-truffle-like Nigella, a big, fat flair of vintage Marco PW, and finally pour in a large glass (or three or four or five) of pickled Keith Floyd.

Now, time for some quality ingredients with an international twist. Give some Rick Stein Greek octopus the Hom wok treatment by throwing in some finely chopped Ottolenghis, a ready-made American Sauce Grossman, a carpaccio of Hartnett, a home grown, just-sniff-that courgette de Blanc, then finish off with a doyenne of Elizabeth David.

To add that Michelin star flair, take a freshly laid Heston, and dip him in nitrogen for one minute, flash fry a sliced and diced heart of Michael Caines, and make a roux with Roux, then another roux with another Roux, and another roux…and so on.

Toss it all in a ganache of James Martin, add some lugubrious Olio d’Carluccio, then thin it down with a much reduced, ‘can’t-beat-it’ Kerridge.

Now it’s time to plate it. Take a large plate and shove it in Greg Wallace’s mouth so he can’t speak, then take a moment to enjoy the silence before spreading a saucy slither of Lorraine de Pascale across the plate, and laying a Gary In-His-Dreams Rhodes on top. Design and construct an enduring insalata di Rogers, and place it gently beside a sharply complex Wareing.

Finally, finish off with some banter de Jamie, and a fucking splash of Gordon.

Menologues: Agatha

Yes, yes. Love. Loved. Love probably. He was a geologist, a gemologist, he always called himself. And he loved that my name was Agatha. Like Agate. ‘It’s a beautiful, endlessly variable mineral’, he’d say, ‘that’s inspired people without despoiling the world like gold and silver and malachite and lapis lazuli and copper and...well, I could go on.’ He could certainly go on! He'd always compare me to minerals, but, you know, the truth was that he was the one more like a mineral with a rough exterior - he certainly had that, never one for sartorial elegance my Arthur, never one for social graces - but inside he truly was like a gemstone. You'd never know. No one else, just me, discovered that beautiful inside of him. So…sensitive, so caring, so...sharing. So gentle too. Just kind, thoughtful. And witty. You'd never think it, but he could make me laugh, laugh out loud, both of us, laughing, chortling away. I know this is all a cliché. Not very credible. Naff. But, you asked me, and I’m telling you the truth…Now I’m not sure I want to continue…So anyway, nobody ever really knew any of this about him, or, what was best of all, our shared time. Our private time. Just the two of us. He'd croon those words: just the two of us. And we’d get into bed, with the lights off. No, no, not for that, but sometimes that's where it led, of course, but...well, anyway, we'd turn out the lights, get undressed, get into bed, each from our own side, at the same time, and pull the sheet right up over our heads. Always had a sheet, then the duvet on top, don't know why, but we always did. So we’d pull the sheet up over our heads, and lie on our sides facing each other, and wait, breathing gently, not saying anything. That was sort of the rule. Not saying anything until our eyes got accustomed to the dark, then he'd say, always him first, hello Agatha Mary. Mary's not my second name, but he always said Agatha Mary, and I'd say hello Arthur Dafter, and we'd both smile, and he'd have something to say, something he'd been thinking about, and storing up, and it was always nice, and always about me, and then we'd start, chattering, like you hear children when they're hidden in a make believe tent or boat or something, chattering away to each other, and that's what we'd do, just talk about stuff, share little events, say what we really thought about this and that, him and her, a programme on the TV, a politician. It could be anything. We'd chatter away, lost in our dusk-like world, protected, safe, happy, and it would always come back to me, and how much he cared for me, how much he loved me, and thought me beautiful, and he really did. Then one day he was gone, and our under the sheet sessions too. Of course. A train. Pushed under a train. By a man who'd been let out of a mental hospital that day. Doncaster. The station. That's where he died. Doncaster. Who'd expect to die like that in Doncaster?

Bands Of History: A History Of Britain In Ten Bands

Ice Age & The Hunter Gatherers

Ironman & The Settlers

Roman & The Soldiers

Darkness & The Saxon Kings

Norman & The Doomsdayers

Wagewar & The Henries

Watt & His New Era Steamers

Victoria & The Imperialists

Churchill & The Beach Battlers

Thatcher & The Milk Snatchers

Funerals: Sinjohn Yohannes Blyton-Royce

2.1.97-21.5.01. Gone To Play In Another Land

‘No, no, don’t know the family at all, but I’ve seen them at this grave – when I’ve been passing with the dog. See them quite often in fact. Three of them. There’s always three of them. Two boys and the mother…

‘Oh, they must be ten or eleven, that sort of age. Lovely looking lads, and always well dressed. Well behaved too, but they do stand around rather awkwardly. You can see they feel uneasy, uncomfortable, don’t want to be there really, but they do it for their mum, of course, only natural…

‘Four, he was, yes four. You can see it from the dates on the gravestone. Wouldn’t have even gone to school, well not proper school, but four years, a lifetime, don’t you think, for his parents? Their first little boy…

‘Yes, well you can work that out from the dates and the ages of the boys now. Their first, their pride and joy, all of that, but it’s true, isn’t it? D’you have children of your own?...Oh, lovely. You’re lucky…

‘No, never did. My wife, she always said she didn’t want them, and I knew that before we married. Accepted it, of course. Her right, her decision, and I never tried to persuade her – knew her own mind she did, that’s one thing you can say for sure about Jess – but, well, for me, as I got older, the longing, I suppose, got stronger. Then the time passed, and you just live your life. You have to get on with it, don’t you?...

‘Yes, she passed away, what, six years ago now. Time, well I was going to say time flies, but to be honest, it drags, drags slowly by. Still, I’ve got the dog, haven’t I, old Gregorieff? Yes, you’re a good boy, aren’t you? Yes, a really good boy…

‘Yes, yes, great company, and gets me out and about. No peace for the wicked. Twice a day, so that’s why I seem to often see them. I don’t know how often they come, but I must see them every, what, 3 or 4 weeks.

‘Seen those lads grow up, but their big brother, still four he is. In the mind of his mother anyway. Have you seen the inscription? ‘Gone to play in another land’. Tough to read that, really, what with the carving of a toy train and its smoke, and the little toy engines beside the gravestone. Stuck in time. Always four. Never grown up, and of course she’s right. He hasn’t, but, I don’t know, stuck in amber or something.

‘A bit odd for her boys – a big brother who’s younger than them – but what can you do? You can’t imagine him growing older beyond the grave, can you?

‘I mean, I do that with Jess, remember her at her last, and still like that now. Wish it could have been better for her at the end, but not our choice, is it?...Cancer. Cancer got into her blood, and that was it. We both knew. Didn’t make it any easier, though.

‘38 years. Well, lucky I suppose. 38 not four. Yes, 38 not four.’

Inconsequentialities: I Don’t Give A Damn

If you had to watch one film every week for the rest of your life, which film?

Why do we cry more easily about films than about real life?

Which film would you like to live in?

Pitch the plot for a film based (perhaps loosely!) on your life story.

What’s the best job: scriptwriter, film director or film star?

How much ‘acting’ do you do in your daily life?

Careers: Shaun

‘Course it’s a career! Why wouldn’t it be? I can – will – earn loads more playing snooker than I ever would working in an office or…whatever. Earn more in a year than in a lifetime working. That’s what my coach says, and my dad agrees.

‘Never was much cop at school. Well, never paid much attention to be fair. Not thick or anything. Just…didn’t, what’s it they say…engage, that’s it. Couldn’t engage with it. Never saw what difference it’d make knowing that stuff. Who cares? Not me. Good at maths, though, well, quite good. And physics. Liked that sort of stuff you can work out. There’s this lad at the club now, only been coming a year or so, but he’s good. Not as good as me, but you know…Anyway, he’s from Korea. North Korea. You know, where they got that mad young dictator? He escaped, him and his family, and anyway he’s brilliant, like proper brilliant, genius, at maths, so they say. Only 15 or so, but he tells professors how to work stuff out. Anyway, he’s good at snooker because he works out all the angles. He’ll do shots me and others’d never even think of, and you wish you’d thought of that, and you realise a lot of it’s maths, well geometry really, so I try to think more now – about the angles, the options and stuff. Good it is. Improves your game. Adds another… dimension.

‘So, anyway, yeah, it’s a career. Will be. Earned my first prize money when I was 14 I did. £200. Seemed like a fortune. Had to give half to me dad – for petrol and stuff, but one hundred quid when you’re 14 – a fortune. I was well made up, but, you know, I couldn’t even buy half this iPhone with it, could I? Nothing really, but at the time…And I guess it’s like that. Well, I talked, talk, to the pros, and they say that. You know, the money comes in big chunks then dries up, and you get used to a…certain standard of living, and I know I would. Will.

‘Sponsorship. That’s what makes the difference to the money, my coach says, and my dad agrees. Course, he gets a slice of it, my coach – yeah, 25% - only fair really. But he says,