'The Busker of Torrevieja' - part 2 of 2

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THE BUSKER OF TORREVIEJA

 

Part 2 of 2

Nik Morton

 

 

The programme for the following night was a mixture of Debussy, Ravel and Haydn, and I soon got lost in the music.

            At the end I bowed and peered into the auditorium as the lights went up. I noticed the distinctive headdress of a nun in the back row. Without another moment’s thought, I hurried off-stage, rushed round to the exit doors and nudged my way through the crowd.

I was in time.

            “Excuse me, Sister,” I said, tugging at her black cotton sleeve.

            She turned and her bright brown eyes gazed straight at me. “Yes? Oh, Mr. Jacobs, this is a pleasant surprise–”

            “Sorry to interrupt, but...”

            And then I saw the young woman alongside the nun. How had I missed her? The nun’s habit had drawn me, I suppose. I guessed that the nun was barely in her thirties, while the elusive busker was about eighteen, shorter than the nun, with long curling black hair, staring grey eyes with long lashes, a flawless complexion and thick full lips. There was a bruise on her temple, and yellowing under the eyes. “It’s this young lady I’ve come to see,” I explained awkwardly.

            The young woman smiled and shook my hand. “Thanks for coming to my aid.”

            “Sofia told us all about it,” said the nun. “You rescued her, didn’t you?”

            “Yes,” I said sheepishly.

            “I’m Sister Teresa from Santa Clara’s hostel for the homeless. Sofia is one of our charges.” She held out a hand and we shook firmly.

            “Hola.” I turned back to Sofia. “Well, I’d just like to say that your playing...” I paused, staring.

            Sister Teresa said, “There’s no need to be embarrassed, Mr. Jacobs. Many people don’t realize at first. Sofia’s been blind for a number of years.”

* * * *

After mild curiosity on our arrival in the tapas bar round the corner from the theatre – it isn’t every day a nun sits and eats fast food, after all – nobody paid us any further attention. I ordered coffees and portions of tortilla.

            I couldn’t keep my eyes from Sofia’s face. Eyes are supposed to be the windows of the soul but her windows were blank. Yet the tenderness of her smile, the slight tilt of her head as she listened to conversation and the background sounds of her surroundings, tended to diminish the shock of her unknowing stare. Besides, she had found an outlet for her soul through music.

            “I’m sorry, Sister, I didn’t realize Sofia was – couldn’t see...”

            “Mr. Jacobs,” Sister Teresa said in a tone that gave me the distinct impression that she’d like to wring my neck. “We don’t subscribe to the absurd politically correct lobby. Sofia’s blind. Has been since her drunken father threw her downstairs on her sixth birthday. She isn’t deaf. Talk to her.” She tempered her words with a smile that put me at ease. “She’s too polite to say so,” she went on, “but Sofia probably gets pretty irate being talked about in the third-person, just like I’m doing, you know?”

            Sofia leaned forward, touched Sister Teresa’s sleeve and shook her head, as if to say, “Let it go.”

            Suitably chastised, I said, “Sorry, Sofia.”

            “Stop apologising, Mr. Jacobs!” Sofia laughed, a tinkling musical sound.

            “Your music yesterday, it caused me to turn the car round – if I hadn’t, God knows what would have happened!”

            Sister Teresa nodded. “God knows, indeed.”

            “Er, yes, well...”

            Sofia’s lips curved and her eyes crinkled at the corners and my insides seemed to somersault. “Sister Teresa has asked me not to busk...” She shrugged. “I’m just stubborn!”

            “Amen to that!” said Sister Teresa, and both women clasped hands spontaneously.

            I’d never met anyone like either of them. Sister Teresa possessed the serenity and poise of a devout religious person. As for Sofia, I simply marveled at her good humor in the face of adversity: blind, homeless, the victim of a mugging and God knows what else, yet she smiled out at the dark threatening world.

            “Don’t you feel anger?’ I asked her. ‘After what those men did?”

            Sofia shook her head. “I feel sorry for them. They’re obviously incapable of appreciating music. Their lives are probably empty, loveless, while mine has the love of the hostel’s sisters. They doubtless steal to feed their drug habit, while the sisters feed and clothe me. Their souls are barren, while I have music...”

            “Yes, music,” I echoed, moved by her words. “Your violin, though; it was smashed.”

            “I was upset about that, naturally. It was a generous gift from one of Sister Teresa’s benefactors. But my main concern was to get away. I’m used to running away – well, before I found the hostel...” She sighed. “I’ll just have to save for another violin.”

            Inescapably, I thought of Milly, of all the material riches she and her society friends possessed, and suddenly I understood how poor they were in contrast to this stubborn young woman.

            “Don’t worry about Sofia’s violin. Somehow, the Lord will provide a replacement.” The determined set of Sister Teresa’s chin made me believe she could achieve anything she set out to do.

            “I believe you. Please call me Adrian. Both of you.”

            “Adrian.” Sofia smiled beautifully and I felt something unravel inside me.

* * * *

When I returned to the Cabo Cervera hotel I felt lonely, empty and strangely unfulfilled.

            As I entered our room, Milly stormed at me for missing the after-show party. She accused me of being uncaring, of being selfish.

            She was so right, of course, though not in the way she meant. “Yes, Milly, I have been uncaring.”

            She stamped her foot. “Don’t call me Milly!”

            “I haven’t cared about people for a very long time, Millicent. Real people. You know, those who live in the actual world, those who suffer from real bruises not bruised egos–”

            “What’s this rubbish?” A cunning tone entered her voice. “It’s that girl – that busker – she’s got to you.” She sneered, her lips twisting. “Wait a minute, now I remember, someone said they saw you with a young woman and a nun...” She laughed. “It isn’t the girl, it’s the nun! Are you kinky – does the habit turn you on?”

            “Please stop this–”

            “A frustrated old nun!”

            “Sister Teresa’s not old, Millicent. She’s a good honest–”

            “You’ve gone and got religion, is that it?”

            Saddened, I shook my head. “No, Milly, I haven’t. I’ve gone and got my humanity back. I’d lost it on the way to being famous.”

            I heard the vase shatter against the wall as I shut the door behind me.

* * * *

My savings account was bulging. Expenses came out of a separate bank account – Milly could have that to settle the hotel bills, I thought as I booked into a somewhat cheaper pension.

            The following morning, on my way to the Santa Clara hostel, I bought a reproduction baroque violin. Its tone was nasal, but pure.

            I felt surprisingly self-conscious as I was shepherded to Sister Teresa’s office. My pulse raced at the prospect of speaking to Sofia again. I was being foolish; it was probably misplaced pity that impelled me to come.

            At that moment, the office door opened and Sofia came out with Sister Teresa.

            I smiled and could feel my heart fluttering.

            “Oh, Adrian!” exclaimed Sofia. “How nice to see you!”

            “How’d you know–?”

            “Your after-shave. It still lingers in the memory after yesterday.”

            You’ve lingered in mine, I wanted to reply. Instead, I said, “I brought you this.” I glanced at Sister Teresa and she nodded okay. “It’s a new violin,” I ended lamely, thrusting the instrument into Sofia’s hands.

            Her eyes could not light up with pleasure, but her smile was radiant and her complexion took on an attractive flush. “Thank you, Adrian.”

            Excitedly, her long hands ran over the instrument, smoothly gliding across the maple back-plate, fingers daintily plucking the strings.

* * * *

After lunch, Sofia played Tartini’s Devil’s Trill sonata for the inhabitants of the hostel. They all sat enraptured by her amazing control of the music. The final movement, where she trilled on one string while executing swift passagework on another, was extraordinary, performed with exquisite assurance. I was thrilled by her choice as poor Tartini had been sadly neglected for too many years.

            However, more than the music captivated me.

            I never went back. My purpose in life shifted quite dramatically. I left behind Milly and the world we had inhabited.

            Later, I wrote to Milly, apologizing for ending our personal and commercial relationship on such a sour note. I made a point of saying that I’d always be grateful for her sponsoring me and making it possible for my music to touch so many people. She never replied. Later still, I saw her photo in Hello and she was on the arm of a young handsome film star. She was smiling and seemed happy.

            From that moment when I listened to Sofia playing, my destiny was sealed.

            Sofia and I are very happy. We now tour the world, putting on concerts for the benefit of several charities. And we send a percentage of our fees to help fund Santa Clara’s hostel for the homeless in Torrevieja.

 

***

This story won 3^rd prize in the Third International Story Writing Competition, Torrevieja, Spain. Published in the anthology Another Look, May 2007.

Reprinted in When the Flowers are in Bloom and Other Stories (out of print), 2012

 

Copyright Nik Morton, 2007, 2012, 2015

 

If you liked this story, you may like my two Spanish themed books published by Crooked Cat:

Amazon UK :-

 

Blood of the Dragon Trees

 

Spanish Eye

 

Amazon COM here                   Amazon COM here

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday Story - 'The Busker of Torreveija' part 1 of 2

Wikipedia commons

THE BUSKER OF TORREVIEJA

 

Part 1 of 2

(part 2 tomorrow)

 

Nik Morton

 

Milly was at least ten years older than me – I was twenty-five and she was a bit hazy about her date of birth. Whatever she wore, she always looked stunning. The black sleeveless dress was in some kind of all-over stretch lace and the net underskirt rustled as she turned to gaze at me. “Adrian, be a dear and zip me up,” she said, fixing a pearl earring. Her hazel eyes shone with the anticipation of seeing Tomás, her new conquest for this evening.

            “Certainly, Millicent.” She didn’t like me calling her Milly. “You look ravishing, by the way,” I said, truthfully enough, obliging with the zip.

            The mood was changed by a rapid knock on the hotel room door.

            “That’ll be Tomás,” she said. “Let him in, will you?”

            Tomás Rivera had moved from Madrid to Torrevieja ten years ago and thrived on the considerable and delightful cultural delights of the town. In every way, he was Milly’s kind of guy. He pumped my hand vigorously. “You are sure I am unable to twist your arm for a meal first, young man?”

            I declined. “Sorry, I have to prepare for my performance later.”

            Milly wanted glamor and excitement, while I was only a fairly staid if talented flautist. True, she liked having me hang on her arm at society events, and to begin with she’d sponsored me till I became known. I’d thought we were in love but after a while it became obvious that this was not the case. I suppose I should’ve realized sooner, but maybe I was selfish, not wanting to jeopardise my comfortable life, touring and staying in the best hotels, playing my music and making recordings. Perhaps all artistes are self-centred like me.

            As Milly left with Tomás, I tried to submerge any thought of self. I must live for the music. Only the music was important. Not Milly, not my happiness, and certainly not me.

* * * *

It was a hot July. On our way to the Teatro Municipal, the early evening buzz of Torrevieja’s paseo intruded pleasantly enough through the open windows of the limousine. My driver Emilio had explained, “The air-con, it always breaks in summer.”

            Then I heard a remarkable, beautiful sound, a violin playing a Tartini sonata, though I’d never known it expressed with such feeling. I leaned forward. “Emilio, turn up the volume, will you?”

            “The radio, it is not on, Mr. Jacobs.”

            The music was fading, I was losing it. “Emilio, stop the car!” Normally, I didn’t make a habit of being rude, but that music really got to me. I peered out the rear window and glimpsed a figure with a violin on the corner of the block we’d just passed.

            Emilio pulled over smoothly, reversed into a side street and, to the accompaniment of blaring car-horns, he crossed the traffic and headed back the way we’d come. Thankfully, not a policeman was in sight.

            “Where are we going, Mr. Jacobs?”

            “We passed a – a busker. I want to hear him play.”

            “Sí, vale, Señor.” His tone suggested that he was humouring an escaped inmate from an asylum. I had to admit, I wasn’t acting rationally. But that music had really affected me.

            Up ahead three people were scuffling on the pavement. As we approached, I realized it was two men fighting a woman – and she was the busker.

            “Pull in, Emilio!”

            “This is not a good idea, Señor.”

            “Emilio!”

            He slammed on the brakes and I bundled forward. Fortunately, the drinks cupboard was shut or I would’ve been wearing it.

            By the time I’d opened the door and stepped out, the two men had knocked the woman to the ground. “Hey!” I shouted. “What are you doing?” A stupid thing to say, but it got their attention.

            My stomach churned sickeningly: the woman lay quite still. I was about to get Emilio to call for an ambulance when I heard something that made my mouth go very dry and my legs seemed to lose all prior knowledge of mobility.

            “Richer meat here, eh, Fedor?” said the taller one, eyeing me. He was grinning. I wasn’t. My face felt frozen, the blood draining from it.

            And still not a policeman in sight.

            Instinct must have taken over from common sense. I reached inside the car and grabbed my flute case. Purposefully, I walked toward them, even though adrenalin pumping down to my wobbly legs told me that I was going in the wrong direction. I guessed – hoped – that they were cowards.

            “Just watch, Igor!” said Fedor and rushed me.

            I’ve guessed wrong, I thought with a sinking feeling. Somehow, I side-stepped Fedor’s charge and luckily brought the flute case crashing down on the back of his head as he passed. He let out a yelp and slid unconscious to the pavement.

            Both the case and flute were broken. What was Milly going to say?

            Igor came at me with a knife and I forgot all about Milly.

            I was in over my head and knew it. My legs felt like jelly and my heart pounded.

            Igor lunged, but I backed off in time and the blade slashed the front of my jacket. Blood roared in my ears; I was angry that my life would end here and now, on this orange-tree lined street.

            My back bumped into an ornate cast-iron lamppost. I had nowhere to go.

            Igor grinned, and I noticed that he needed a dentist.

            The high-pitched squeal of car-tires caught our attention. The limo mounted the kerb and Emilio stormed straight at Igor, who decided to run.

            As Emilio braked, I turned to the woman – but she was no longer there. Only her broken violin.

            Shakily, with trembling fingers, I picked up the ebony fingerboard and spruce top-plate, pieces of wood that had so recently been an instrument capable of sending waves of emotion that wrenched at my heart. A heart that was now pounding with relief. Thanks to Emilio, I was still alive. But did I really feel alive?

* * * *

When I finally arrived at Torrevieja’s impressive theatre, Milly sounded a little uptight over my delay. That’s understatement. And when I told her what had happened she went ballistic and railed at me for being irresponsible. She held my hands, stroking them. “You can’t get involved in brawls, Adrian! The damage you could do to your hands – it’s too great a risk!” She was simply concerned about my ability to play music.

            Very altruistic, I thought. “I couldn’t let those thugs get away with–”

            “Your heart’s in the right place, dear,’ she interrupted, ‘even if your head isn’t. You can’t put your livelihood on the line for some silly busker!”

            My cheeks felt suddenly very hot but, before I could respond, one of her acolytes said, “Time for the concert, darlings!”

            ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ I said and shrugged off her imploring hand and ignored her whispered words of good luck. Break a leg? That woman busker had made exquisite music and now her instrument was broken beyond repair. How many buskers were there in Torrevieja? God knows! All I knew was that it was a long time since I’d been so affected by anything like that busker’s music.

            My hands trembled with reaction but, somehow, I had to go on and perform. Be a professional, I told myself, as the applause echoed round the Teatro Municipal.

            Since the evening was humid, no one remarked on my appearance in shirt-sleeves and cummerbund. I didn’t have a spare jacket but I used my spare flute.

            No matter how hard I tried to be detached, I was haunted by the sound of the woman’s violin, so I don’t believe that I played too well. Fortunately for my nerves and reputation, it was a fairly simple programme, Love Themes from the Movies. Popular stuff, like We have all the time in the world, Bilitis, Tara’s Theme from Gone With the Wind, Love is a Many Splendored Thing, and Three coins in the fountain.

            I received rapturous applause and was grateful but felt no familiar warmth from the approbation.

            Next day, I telephoned the few musical instrument shops in Torrevieja and the outlying area. The F-holes in the violin’s top-plate were unusual and easy to describe. At the third shop the owner recognised the violin. He complimented me on my Debussy solo two weeks earlier in Murcia and regretted that all he could remember about the violin was that a nun had bought it about six months ago. He offered to search his records, but I told him not to bother. Since I had not seen a nun busking, it seemed likely that the violin was stolen. End of the line.

… to be concluded tomorrow…

Cheeky Chapí et al

Monday, 6 January was a bank holiday in Spain – the celebration of the Three Kings. This, traditionally, is bigger than Christmas. That evening, Jen and I with our two visiting long-standing friends Margaret and Neil attended the New Year’s Concert at Torrevieja. Certainly, it wasn’t Vienna, but it was still great music and all tickets were sold out. It was a traditional new year concert with an enjoyable Spanish twist.

The orchestra of Torrevieja was conducted by José Francisco Sánchez, a diminutive man who exuded plenty of bravura and was clearly liked by his musicians. The orchestra was a good mix of males and females, many of them young, and they all played with gusto and fervour and enjoyed the whole performance.

 

The concert began with El Tambor de Granaderos (Prelude) by Ruperto Chapí y Lorente (1851-1909). Chapí wrote a large number of symphonic, band, choral and chamber works, as well as zarzuelas and operas. He was one of the most popular and important composers of his time. Many of the preludes to his zarzuelas (including those to El tambor de granaderos and La patria chica) have remained staple items in Spanish orchestral concerts, hence its inclusion here.

There followed Tchaikovsky’s Polonesa de ‘Eugene Onegin’ and Vals del Lago de Los Cisnes (Swan Lake).

Johann Strauss’ New Pizzicato Polka was rendered with great precision, one of several highlights of the night; this was followed by the Tik-Tak polka. The first half concluded with the Intermedio de la Boda de Luís Alonso (1897) by Gerónimo Giménez (1854-1923). He was commissioned by Chapí to write the openings to his zarzuelas El Milagro de la Virgen and La bruja. Giménez  was a prolific composer and his influence is often noticeable in the compositions of subsequent Spanish composers, such as Manuel de Falla. In 1939, Joaquín Rodrigo paid his respects with a Homenaje a la tempranica, which contained a solo part for castanets.

The second half began with the prelude to El Bateo (the baptism, 1901) by Federico Chueca (1846-1908). Chueca entered the conservatory aged eight, but his family later forced him to abandon music to study medicine. He was arrested in 1866 as a participant in the student demonstrations against the government. While he spent three days in the Madrid prison, he composed several waltzes that he entitled Lamentos de un preso ("Lamentations of a Prisoner"). Later, his works were orchestrated, and their success helped Chueca leave medicine and devote himself once more to music…

The rest of this half was dedicated to Johann Strauss – Tritsch-tratsch polka, Voices of Spring, the thunder and lightning polka and lastly the Blue Danube waltz, which was beautifully played.

Then we had a good ten minutes of encore music - The Champagne Gallop, a piece of orchestral music by the Danish composer Hans Christian Lumbye (1810–1874) which was written to celebrate the second anniversary of Copenhagen's Tivoli in 1845; this was complete with the traditional popping of corks! Next, the audience was in for a treat with witty and clever piece, The Typewriter (1950) by Leroy Anderson (1908-1975), a novelty instrumental first performed by the Boston Pops. One of the percussionists, the kettle drummer, brought out a typewriter: keystrokes, the typewriter bell, and the carriage return mechanism provide amusing components of the piece. In fact, the typewriter is modified so that only two keys work.

Finally, to be expected, the musical evening concluded with Strauss’ dedication to Field Marshal Joseph Radetzky von Radetz, The Radetsky March (1848).

 
This concert took place in Torrevieja’s controversial €40m auditorium; it has a symphony hall with 1,452 seats and a smaller hall with 384 seats. This evening’s event was in the symphony hall and was virtually full. The Concert Hall was opened over two years ago, but has only featured a handful of events since then. The extensive music conservatory for more than 240 students, as part of the complex, has never been used. Apparently, two nearby universities have expressed an interest in managing the music conservatory. To date, it is an underutilised gem.

'Missing person'

Spanish Eye contains 22 cases from Leon Cazador, half-English, half-Spanish private eye.  It was released on 29 November, from Crooked Cat Publishing.

The vast majority of these cases are based on true events…  The short story ‘Gone Missing’ was first published in magazine format in 2011: here is a very brief excerpt:

Gone Missing

Pavel’s best defence was extreme halitosis…

 

Miguel García Hernandez had been missing a week by the time his wife, Beatriz, got in touch with me. He’d walked out of his apartment in Edificio Donna Ximena, saying that, on his way to work, he was going to drop into the loteria shop to claim his euro reintegro from La Primitiva.

José on the lotto desk knew Miguel as a regular and was adamant that he had not come in that day. Miguel was supposed to go to the La Mata villa of Señor Rafael Morales, to fit a wooden carport in his drive. A three-day job, he’d estimated, but he never arrived.

Beatriz feared something terrible had happened to her dear Miguel and it showed in her sleep-deprived, dark brown eyes and unkempt dyed-black hair. She was in her mid-forties, but seemed older since the clear complexion of her chubby cheeks was mottled after she had dried too many tears.

She’d been quite a catch. Her family had worked in the salt industry since the 1820s. Salt was another word for money in Torrevieja. Beatriz thought that Miguel was the salt of the earth, and she should know. In the middle of last century, Torrevieja was a small fishing village on the southeast coast of Spain that also thrived on “white gold”, salt production. Today, Torrevieja exports a million tonnes annually. Twenty years ago, its population was about 20,000. Now it’s a sizeable city with in excess of 100,000 residents, over half non-Spanish.

*

There is a glossary explaining terms such as 'reintegro' and La Primitiva'...

As can be seen in this clipping from The Coastrider dated July 2007, Torrevieja town has grown over the years – the fastest growing town in Spain, in fact. The numbers have fluctuated since then, but even taking into account the financial crisis of 2008, which meant many hundreds of expats returned to their native countries, the numbers have still increased – in 2012 there were 107,009. Estimates may vary, but when the tourists are added to the number, there are never less than 320,000 inhabitants.

 

Spanish Eye paperback may be purchased post-free worldwide from here

Kindle UK here

Kindle Amazon com here

 

Wishing you a happy and peaceful Christmas!

Dateline Friday, December 14 – Town Hall square, Torrevieja, Costa Blanca, Spain


This was the tenth annual Christmas Carols in the Square event.

My wife Jennifer and I, along with many members of her choir, Cantabile (above), joined other choirs and citizens from the area to sing thirteen carols in front of the floodlit church and next to the splendid Belen diorama. Included were two Spanish carols, ‘Campana Sobre Campana’ and ‘Fum, fum, fum’. The music was provided by The Phoenix Concert Band.

Lots of Christmas hats and antlers were in evidence! A census wasn’t taken, but we reckon there were Spanish, English, Welsh, Scottish, Belgian, German, Dutch, Ukranian, Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian in attendance to celebrate the nativity. Also present, representatives from the town hall and the Salt Queen and her Dama, Nuria Zaragoza and Elsa Martinez respectively (below).

The collection amassed €985 for the local charity Alimentos Solidarios, which provides meals for those in need.


There was no religious message, save that implicit in the nativity; Mass followed for those who wished to attend.

The international community of Torrevieja and environs is a beacon for co-existence among all peoples. Yet again it was wonderful to be a part of this event. The world is a better place than we sometimes wonder when we learn about the horrors and destruction, natural and man-made.

Lust to read will never dwindle with a Kindle

Some said it was the end of an era. After five years as Chairman of the Torrevieja Writers' Circle (TWC), I was stepping down. My last day wielding the gavel was Wednesday, 23 February. There were about 28 members in attendance and several apologies. The first half was a normal session of reading and critique, then cakes, buns (thanks to the bakers)and drinks for the halftime period. There followed a presentation of a Kindle, contributed by the members. I was very touched by this thoughtful present. (Some whispered I've been a bit touched for ages, hence the puns...) Mary K (Hasta Luego)and Chris (Woe...)read out poems, which were both appreciated and struck several chords. Several - about 22 stayed behind to eat a menu del dia. A really good day, thank you all!


I finished off with a small 'thank you':

After five years as Chairman, I ask myself, why do we come to the TWC meetings? Presumably, we all like to read – whether books or magazines. Most of us were brought up with a love of books – either imparted by our parents or our teachers. Even in this age of the e-book, books play an important part in our lives. As Cicero said, ‘A room without books is like a body without soul.’

The Canadian-Japanese Professor of English, Samuel Hayakawa said, ‘In a very real sense, people who have read good literature have lived more than people who cannot or will not read… It is not true that we have only one life to live; if we can read, we can live as many more lives and as many kinds of lives as we wish.’

They’re talking about books. But we aren’t a reading circle. We strive to write. As E L Doctorow said, ‘Planning to write is not writing. Outlining a book is not writing. Researching is not writing. Talking to people about what you’re doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing.’

So it’s the placing of your bum on a chair and writing. No pressure, there then.
Still, as we know – no pressure, no diamonds.

Many of you have written for years and received little or no pecuniary reward, but that doesn’t stop you, nor should it. Richard Bach, who wrote Jonathan Livingston Seagull, says, quite rightly, ‘A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit.’

So, if it isn’t for the financial reward, why do we write? Is it because we must? Katherine Mansfield said, ‘Looking back, I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was, too. But better far to write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all.’ Maybe we want to make sense of the world, or understand ourselves, our past. Indeed, the life of every person is like a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another.

I think I’ve used this quotation from O Henry before, but make no apology for using it again: "A good story is like a bitter pill, with the sugar coating inside of it."

Maybe that’s it: we just like telling stories! To know is nothing at all; to imagine is everything. Of course, you don’t have to rely on imagination; you can reminisce about your past. You don’t have to write fiction. You can write memoirs and poems, rants and articles. It doesn’t matter, really, so long as you write. You write to be read, however. You write for an audience, even if that’s an audience of one or the circle members only. You don’t write for praise, though it’s always welcome. You write to affect others, to raise a laugh, stir an emotion, elicit a tear. You don’t write to slavishly copy your favourite authors. Each one of us is unique, and we see the world and humanity in different ways. The secret is that in our writing we invite the reader to see the world – our imagined world – as we see it.

In my five years of Chairmanship, I’ve been privileged to listen to a vast array of writing from the TWC members – poems that made me think or cry, stories that made me laugh and empathise, articles that made me see some aspect of life with a fresh eye. Many of you have already done it, but I would recommend that in your writing, make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.

Thank you for putting up with my terrible puns over the years. I’ll miss banging my gavel, and inevitably I’ll miss several gems that will be read out in future meetings, since I will no longer be a regular attendee. However, to use a final quotation, in the immortal words of the Terminator, ‘I’ll be back.’