‘Bill And Monica Lived Here’

There were some differences, admitted Monica Sherwin.

First, she told her friend, Gloria Adams  as they discussed the Clinton-Lewinsky affair, her trophy was a cheap, red pull-on skirt. Not a blue designer dress.

Second, she’d never be able to prove anything, as she’d had the skirt dry-cleaned.

Third,  continued  Monica,  she’d    been enjoying  a  simultaneous        ‘relationship’ with Bill Roberts’s son, Matt.

“Anything else?”, gulped Gloria as Monica paused for breath.

“Yes! When Matt realised later  what had been going on, he told several people that I deserved ‘to be raped’.”

“But I must ask,” said Gloria. “You hinted you wanted to get something off your chest about events from the 1970s. Why now? Why me?”

“Good question, Glo’,” grinned Monica. “Potty, but the stories about showbiz guys abusing young girls seemed reminiscent of what happened to me. Anyway, you’re my dearest girl friend so I reckon you’re entitled to know.

“Of course the situations aren’t parallel and you’re probably thinking that as a 22-year-old professional, I had much more in common with posh American Lewinsky than any  disturbed, sometimes disabled British kids in the clutches of people like Jimmy Savile.

“But still, I was woefully immature, rather lonely and allowed both of the Roberts to abuse my trust quite shamelessly. And don’t forget, when I wasn’t servicing them personally I was working my butt off 25 hours a day, eight days a week for their ruddy business.”

“How did it begin?”, asked Gloria.

“Good question! With Matt, it had been the mid-life ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ twaddle which I’d devoured whole like a chocolate orange.

“But the old man … that was strange. I don’t think he ever had an inkling about Matt and me. His own marriage had  been rotten for years and he simply wanted a soul-mate. Occasionally, I’d do some work for him. Then one day, when quite absently I quoted some verse as he commented on the weather, he looked at me hard and quoted something back.

“At first it was  unrequited love – on my side, anyway. Despite being well into his sixties, Bill still bore the traces of what had once been slightly raffish good looks. I was hooked. A bunny ensnared by a snake ...

“Things moved on. One day I was treated to another old man’s cliché: ‘Y’know Monica,’ said Bill, ‘I’ve not felt like this for a long time.’

“He leaned over me, locked the office door and told me to put away my notebook and switch off the dictating machine. Then he held my hands briefly and kissed me. Most tenderly.

“It was so sweet that I broke down. I felt as if I were centre-stage in a home-grown TV soap. It was an unnerving experience because I’m sure I could have stymied it all at source. But something stopped me.”

“Curiosity?”, said Gloria.

“’Fascination’ – much more than wanting to know what would happen next.

“Then things hotted up. But Bill was canny. We never went the whole hog. No penetration – no adultery. In fact he’d call our sessions ‘a spot of the orals’ and any local difficulty his ‘building problems’.”

“Yuck! And then?”, asked Gloria, fairly bolted to her chair.

“One day we forgot to lock the office door. I was standing with my back to it. Some of my blouse buttons were open. We were about to get cracking when Matt burst in, knocking a hanger off the coat-hook which hit Bill on the nose as I dived aside.

“Matt didn’t notice my appearance because he was concerned for his dad. So that day we got off scot-free.

“I suppose there’s a bit of Napoleon coming next. Like many short men, Bill was fanatical about his personal ‘dignity’. One day he had a spill. Down the front of my skirt. He couldn’t apologise enough. But really he was trying to justify what had happened to himself. He asked me to leave the room so he could have a brush up. But I never saw him again.”

“What?”

“Yeah! He’d not told me he was ill. Angina or something like that. It seems the episode upset him so much that he became over-agitated and had a heart-attack.”

“How was he found?”

“He’d locked his door after I left and a little later a junior tried to enter the room with his afternoon drink. When she couldn’t, she  called for help and you can imagine what happened next. Personnel from the Emergency Services found it difficult to keep straight faces when they examined Bill’s body and found he had been somewhat playful just before his demise. They related this to Matt who was as much bewildered as enraged.

“The burial was delayed slightly as the Coroner was involved. All staff attended. But Bill’s wife, Helene had been suspicious about me and I was told specifically that I was not ‘obliged’ to attend the funeral tea. I took the hint and stayed away.

“I was also in mourning but it was worse for me because I couldn’t confide in anyone. Then I made a terrible mistake.”

“How?”

“The bloody skirt. In the flurry of that awful day I’d barely sponged the stain and didn’t realise it was still visible.

“Then I wore it one evening some weeks later when I went out with Matt. He noticed the mark  and immediately put two-and-two together. He called me a slut and then stalked out of the bar where we’d been sitting. I never saw him again either.

“Next morning, there was a  ‘redundancy notice’ on my desk with a cheque representing six months’ salary. However, Matt’s every bit as cute as his father. He gave me  the customary written references but followed them up with chatty phone-calls to everyone in the trade. He had me black-listed and I never worked in the building industry again.

“Oedipus, Shmoedipus,” said Gloria, a great fan of pop psychology, “as long as you love your daddy.”

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 12 October 2012)

 

 

 

‘A Piece Of Fruit – And A Kiss On The Head’

A piece of fruit and a kiss on the head. Grandma Sophie stooped and smiled.

How better to say ‘goodbye’ - once times five?

 

 

A single farewell -  five tiny cherries. A growing  crop from too many passions.

A banana for Will. May had an apple,  Judith a plum. For Frank and George? A pear and a peach. Sophie sowed fruits and kisses. One of both. Each. But she wouldn’t see her seedlings grow.

“Please be good,”  she begged as she blew away, never to be seen again.

Then Grandpa Hymie  cut his shirt, sat on a stool and wept for a week.  They do that in Jewish homes when someone passes.

“What happened?”, asked Abe, his friend next door.

“My love and trust died on Tuesday. Sophie stole them both.  I didn’t mind the kissing and sharing. But she should have asked me first!”

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,A Piece Of Fruit - And A Kiss On The Head

 

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 08 October 2012)

‘Throw A Little Light’

He was  an odd-ball, that man at the door.

And those girls sitting on the  outside wall.  They sniggered when I stumbled, walking past.

He, mark you, wore a large, black velvet skull cap while they, modestly apart, were in long  skirts, heavy cotton blouses,  flat shoes. They must have roasted under the burning sun.

Then Mr Odd Ball stopped me short.

“I’m sorry, Madam. You can't come through here. Your husband, yes. Maybe you’ll feel more comfortable using the left-hand entrance, the one reserved for ladies.”

“Me? I’m no lady!”, I snorted,  pushing past. “I’ve come just because I've heard of the spiritual enlightenment thousands gain visiting the tomb of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, here at Meron, in Israel’s Galilee.

“By the way,” I added, “I’ve been told the rabbi was responsible for cleaning up ancient Tiberius. Cripes, I wish he were here now, parts of the modern town are flamin’ filthy!”

“Madam,” continued Mr Oddity, with measured calm. “Rabbi  bar Yochai, known colloquially as ‘Harashbi’, did not use a mop and bucket. His cleansing technique was of a higher order.

“Which reminds me. I guess, listening to your struggle with Hebrew, that you may need a guide to accompany you around the site. I’ll attend to your husband, if you’d care to allow my wife to show you around the women’s section.

“We do this as a mitzvah – holy duty – and the cost is a mere one hundred and fifty shekels per person. My family will use the proceeds to fund our oldest son’s barmitzvah next year.

“I wonder, he added, “did you light a memorial candle on Yom Kippur – the Day of Atonement? It’s also a great mitzvah, along with lighting candles on the anniversary of the death of a close relative. We can give you the candles and help you to say the prayers here. It’s a service we offer for only eighty shekels each.”

“That’s fine,” I said, starting to back away. “But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll leave it. The crowds and the heat are making me feel faint. I’m sure those kind little girls sitting outside will give – er – sell me some water.

“But before I go, let me tell you something. I keep a regular supply of memorial lights at home. I use one on  Yom Kippur, of course. I also light them on the due dates for my parents. Then there are two we need for my husband’s parents.

“More are required for Yom Hashoa  – Israel’s Holocaust Memorial Day and Yom Hazikaron – its day for fallen I.D.F. soldiers. Then there’s the one I use in January for International Holocaust Day. Let’s not forget the millions of gentiles who perished in the flames.

“Finally, in the harsh, early days of spring, I light one to recall my dear, late friend Judy. She had been a Reform convert to Judaism who decided, after a terrible ten year battle with leukaemia, that she preferred to be cremated instead of buried.

“But I don’t suppose you’d want me to waste a ‘kosher’ light on her,” I said. “She was only a woman. And, I bet you’re going to tell me she wasn’t a ‘real’ Jew.”

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 01 October 2012)

‘You – And The Day'

Our best day was the day we dared.

We hit the road at noon, eyes puckered against the piercing lights of a faultless sky.

Then speeding on, ever-faster, we became mountain goats on tiny bikes, fairly skipping, prancing through ring-slim, beribboned, be-tasselled trails, whose ends uncoiling, frayed slowly, calmly, revealing the gentle embrace of  yielding hills.

When  in a still moment we stopped to rest, you whispered: “You – and the day – I’m young again. Sixteen once more.”

“Me, too!”, I sighed. Then scrambling, trembling, hillside kids, we delved, dived to where all fragrance met, plucking, savaging wild and secret fruits, their seething juices blue and purple-black. Fervid, then wedded, finally spent.

Brief silence. Adrift. Dozing. Gorged. Happiness complete.

But we were briskly stirred. Blinking, returned to earth.

“Nice day for it, then?”

Giggling, we nodded, most contrite. Then staggered homeward, half-drunk on our feast of private plums just pulled.

Somersaulting, freewheeling ever downward, at last we crashed into the trailing fleece of the dying, citrus- cinnamon-scented sun.

“Time for bed?”, you asked.

“Of course!”, I said.

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 01 October 2012)

‘The Butterfly Effect’

 "Predictability: Does the Flap of a Butterfly's Wings in Brazil Set Off a Tornado in Texas?" Meteorologist, Edward Lorenz - 1972.

Esmé ate a little potato then  put her fork down.

“I had a chat with Mum today,” she said soberly.

“It’s good that you’re able to think of her like that,” said Ray, patting her arm.

“You don’t understand. Mum was here – in the house – well,  really the garden.”

Miranda and Alfie avoided eye contact, trying not to giggle.

“I was in the kitchen at about 2.00 o’clock, still washing up the breakfast things when the sun broke through and made me look out of the window. Then I saw an outsized Red Admiral butterfly sitting on a branch of the pine tree opposite. It was flapping its wings like crazy, wiggling its antennae, trying to say ‘hello’. Only Mum would pull a stroke like that.”

“Isn’t that what she died from? A stroke?”, asked Miranda, now almost 15.

Esmé didn’t react.

“Wow!”, said nine-year-old Alfie, impressed. “Admirals are sometimes seen in the South of England in January. But up here in Lancashire … ?”

“Ssh!”, warned Ray, kicking Alfie’s shin as he leaned over to collect the dinner plates.

“I was in the car at about that time and  it was, briefly, very sunny. I wonder how the creature arrived here.”

“Maybe it used the tram,” said Miranda.

Esmé tried again. “Look, guys. I’ve lost my mother – not my marbles. There’s no need to humour me. I’m telling you it was Mavis.

“I know it was her because the butterfly’s wings were like a replica of that gaudy  knitted suit she was wearing when she died.

“You must remember the row. Winifred got Georgie to bring it back from London  with her broken brolly after the funeral.

“She stalked up to the front door, threw them at me and marched away without a word. No comfort. Nothing. The suit - for chrissakes why did I encourage her to buy it? - still stank of Mum’s sweat. If Winnie didn’t want to sell it  or give it to a charity shop with everything else, why didn’t she dump it instead of calling me nasty names?

“Finally, when I had the damn thing dry-cleaned in town, the girl at the counter sneered when she handed it back.  So now it hangs in the back of my wardrobe as a sort of double family motif. The first part is about the guilt that’s been laid on me over the years.”

“And the second?”, asked Ray.

“The barely hidden derisive contempt with which almost everyone treats me. That includes you two!”, added Esmé, stabbing the handle of her dessert spoon at her step-children.

“I’ve had so much to do and still everyone says  I never pull my weight. They refuse to listen when I tell them the efforts I’ve made to empty and clean Mum’s flat for possible sale or potential rental. Then there was the paperwork and extra expense involved in having a Bury resident cremated out-of-town. No-one except you, Ray, even begins to understand.

“Now there’s more. Tony’s putting it about that I’ve stolen £400.00 from our joint account.” 

“How do you know? After all, Georgie and Tony aren’t speaking to you,” said Miranda.

“Mavis, of course. We must have chatted for at least half-an-hour. Typically, the first thing she did was to scold me for not getting showered and dressed earlier. It felt like old times.

“’Do something with your hair. It’s in rattails. You’ll feel a lot better if you improve your appearance, instead of indulging in so-called depression. And if I were you,’” she added, ‘I’d go back to your natural colour. Platinum blond is really not you.’”

“What did you say back?,” asked Alfie,  caught up in the scene.

“First of all, I told her how much I’d always hated my name. Horribly old-fashioned and flashy - like her embarrassing taste in clothes. From now on, I’m ‘Gail’.”

“’What’s more, I’m not taking any more bull from my family - in this world – or out of it!’”, I told her.

“’If you want to play truths,’ I said. Here’s a few for you to cuddle  in heaven or wherever you’re going next. The fact is, Mum, you were fine when it came to practical, every-day parenting. But a few other things got in the way.’”

“’Such as?’”, she asked.

“I didn’t miss my chance. ‘For instance, you could never resist playing us children off each other – even to the end – all the better to control us. Remember the last thing you said to me, here, in this garden, before you left for your trip to London?’”

“’No, not really,’” said Mavis.

“’We’d had a tiff as I asked you to wait a couple of hours before we went shopping for extra shoes.

“’Georgie’,’” you said, ‘is so good-hearted. She’d never refuse. This, my dear, is a good example of what I mean when I say ‘I’ll always love you – even when I don’t like you.’”

There was a tiny space between Esmé speaking and Alfie bursting in to help.

“Yesterday,” he said, “our science teacher told us something really cool about butterflies. There was a weather man called Edward Lorenz who, in 1972, showed how a butterfly flapping its wings in one part of the world  can cause a hurricane somewhere else. Mr Hammond said it was part of ‘predictability’ and meant in easy words that small events can cause very large ones. Then Steve Brown worked out on his calculator that in 1972 everyone in our class was aged minus thirty-one.”

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 26 September 2012)

‘Duchess of Cambridge Bares Her Soul’

Conference Room, St James’s Palace, London.

Wednesday 26 September 2012

The Duchess of Cambridge looked most strange.

The fashionistas three rows back began scribbling like fury. They had no choice. Photographs were banned and all audio and video equipment had been temporarily confiscated by security.

“Out-dated black trouser suit. Prim white blouse. Black patent-leather ballet pumps. Minimal make-up; no jewellery. Hair arranged in severe French knot. Kate more skinny than slender. Refuses to smile”, noted The Daily Telegraph’s Lisa Armstrong.

But as the former Catherine Middleton mounted the podium there was a further shock. The famous blue sapphire and diamond engagement ring had disappeared. Only her wedding band now adorned her long slim hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,” began the Duchess in tones as starchy as her shirt.

“As we wish to keep this emergency Press Conference brief, we are not offering our customary hospitality. Moreover, as the matter under discussion is sub judice in the French courts, I am reading the text of a prepared speech and will take no questions.

“William is seated on the front row with our new Press Secretary, Mr Ed Perkins. Although we’re not due to start working together until December, it was his suggestion that the transcript of my speech  be made available in all major languages to avoid any ambiguity.”

The Duchess took a sip of water before she continued:

“First I must remind you that I am known to the world by my face. Today you see it ice-cold with anger. Should anyone believe I am shaking with nerves - think again. I tremble with rage.

“I am too well aware that I am an ordinary woman who was thrown into extra-ordinary circumstances by my marriage. So be advised: my skull contains an active brain while inside the bosom that has been so vulgarly displayed by some publications represented here, there lies a warm heart that has been deeply hurt. ’Keep calm and carry on’? Hmm. ‘Don’t get mad. Get even’? O.K., this is my chance to talk openly about myself to you.

“As I do not need conventional employment, it would be easy for me to live privately; to indulge all my favourite hobbies more often and to have extra time to see my birth family and close friends. That is not to be. I am strictly committed to the life of a ‘working royal’ and make myself as accessible as is possible, both to people like yourselves and to the general public.

“But everything has been spoilt by the greed of those who abused my trust. While legal action proceeds, William and I have decided to draw a fresh line over the point where the previous ‘red line’ of common decency was crossed.

“Some of you have noticed that I am not wearing my engagement ring. I removed it – with William’s approval – just for this session.

“Everyone knows that it first belonged to his mother. I have made this gesture to emphasise that while I cherish her memory  I do not live and work in her shadow. I am a different, quite separate person and am determined neither to imitate her life – nor, heaven willing - her tragically untimely passing. 

“But during the many times we have talked about her, William and I have reflected that in the 15 years since her  death, technology has advanced greatly.

“For instance,” said the Duchess, opening the handbag by her side to find and replace her ring, “I wonder what Princess Diana would have done if she had owned an i-phone. Would she have surprised you and started ‘snapping’ back?”

The crowd tittered but the Duchess raised one hand for silence as the other drew her own ‘phone from her bag. “Perhaps,” she went on, “my late mother-in-law would have done as I’m about to do. Maybe she would have invited a couple of senior print or photo-journalists to join her on a public platform to explain themselves to her – er - in the flesh.

“I do hope that Mr Michael O’Kane, recently of the Irish Daily Star and Mademoiselle Laurence Pieau of Closer magazine are here. Please come ‘closer’,” she invited, finally breaking into a smile. “After all, this session would be so much duller without you.”

But suddenly the Duchess’s mood changed. She put her ‘phone aside. “No. If I were to do as planned, I’d cheapen myself – and much worse – the monarchy. I can’t, in all conscience, humiliate anyone else as some of you have degraded me. Instead, I’ll wish you all good day. Goodbye.”

“How are we going to handle this?” mused The Mirror’s Victoria Murphy, as the crowd slunk away. “To make things worse, we’re going to have to use just her text and library pictures.

“Ha! Just like the good old days,” said The Independent’s Andy McSmith.

  --------

‘Y’know, said Prince William, hugging the Duchess as they walked from the hall towards the Press Office. “Gran need not have worried about this morning’s proceedings. She and Dad have attempted to instil me with the concept of ‘kingship’ since I was a tot. I think you’ve got it straight off. You really are a smart piece! Now, how about a Coke?”

--------

Wednesday 26 September is also Yom Kippur – the Jewish Day of Atonement. I wish all Jewish readers ‘an  easy fast’.

 

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,Duchess of Cambridge Bares Her Soul,Prince William,The Queen,Princess Diana,St James's Palace,Ed Perkins,Privacy,Scandal,Michael O’Kane,Irish Daily Star,Laurence Pieau,Closer

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 18 September 2012)

‘Playing ‘Hangman’’

Grandpa Sam was outside the  Alum Ale House in South Shields with his mate, Tommy Pierrepoint.

“I’ve got an hour to kill,” said Tommy,  then England’s busiest public executioner. “How about a beer and a game of draughts?”

“Wonderful!,” enthused Grandpa, pulling a small arm from behind his flapping coattails. “But our Sonia’s with us while Dottie’s in Newcastle, so we can’t go inside.”

“We’ll not mind that,” said Tommy, giving Sonia, aged five, his best beam. “You get the drinks with this,” he offered, handing Grandpa some coins, “and I’ll get us settled at the table just outside the door. “But we’ll have to keep our coats on”, he warned, peering cautiously at the watery sun. “It looks like rain.”

When Grandpa returned, Sonia was straddled on Tommy’s knee, fingering  his Prince Albert pocket watch   and staring helplessly, first at a piece of paper in front of her and then at a pile of chocolate pennies just beyond her grasp.

“How does an ugly dad like you have such a pretty kid?”, quipped Tommy. “She’s bright and knows all her letters and numbers up to ten. So I thought that while we play and chat, she can have a taste of ‘hangman’. I’ll give her  a penny every time she gets a letter right.”

Grandpa, who’d been gassed during the Great War, started wheezing horribly.

“Er, lovely,” he spluttered, trying to change the subject as he hated falling out with anyone. “How’s business? Yanked any good necks lately?”

“Haha! Things are a bit slow, so maybe I could have a go at yours!” snorted Tommy, tracing an expert thumb up Sonia’s delicate nape, making her shiver.

“Ooh, that tickled. Can I have a chocolate now?”, she asked.

“All right, pet,” said Grandpa, pushing the pile towards her. “You try to fit the right letters in the spaces that Tommy’s drawn, so we grown-ups can have a talk.”

Sonia nodded.

“What’s news with you, Sam?”

“Things aren’t perfect as m’chest hurts like hell. The doctor says I  could do with living somewhere warmer and drier, so we’re thinking of moving to Bournemouth.”

“Really? It’s nice down there. You’ll still have the coast – so you’ll never be short of somewhere to take the bairns.”

“That’s true. I’m hoping it’ll bring us some other changes. Sonia’s older brother, Joe is also doing very well at school but  he’s such a handful that –” here Grandpa, grinned weakly - “I’m thinking of calling on your services!”

“Ooh, that’s a bit drastic, But to be blunt,” confided Tommy, “I could do with extra work. I’ve made some enemies in the Prison Service, even at the Home Office and some folk are saying I’m no longer fit for the job.”

“What’s happened?”

“They say I’m getting too old and my sight’s not as good as it was. There may be a grain of truth in that. But there’s more. They claim that I’m trying to – umm – polish people off too fast – that I’m being too efficient. They also don’t like how I’ve been bending the rules by  touting for business.”

“How do you do that?”

“I read the newspaper court reports  and when I see a capital sentence passed against a murderer, I write to the under sheriffs who are responsible for hiring me, offering to do the job. I know it's morbid but I’m not the only one who does it. We got found out as sometimes death sentences are commuted on appeal, which leaves us applying to hang prisoners before it’s definite that they’re down to  swing. They’ve also accused me of drinking on the job. Now, would I do that, Sam?

”In fact, I’m going to complain. I’ll be saying that I never used to write to the sheriffs  until I discovered that someone else got there first and I was not having my turn. My junior’s getting the work and I’m left waiting, idle. Does that sound fair?"

“Hmm, all else aside,” said Grandpa sympathetically, “it seems they should award you brownie points for initiative!”.

“Talking of ‘initiative’,” said Tommy, suddenly remembering Sonia,  “I’d clean forgotten about everything and meanwhile the pennies have vanished most mysteriously. Any ideas?” 

Sonia’s cheeks were bulging and her eyes began to swell with tears.

“Dear me,” said Tommy. “I’ve got to tell you something serious. I’d only left you four spaces to fill in  - to make the word      ‘L - I – F - E’.  That’s what happens to some people – they spend their whole lives in  prison for doing wrong.

“Liars,” continued Tommy, now in full throttle, “turn into thieves and thieves become murderers. Do you know what happens to them, Sonia?”

But Sonia couldn’t reply. She was choking on  mouthfuls of half-eaten buttons and unshed sobs.

“Murderers, Sonia, are who I deal with. They get sent to the gallows and they are hanged …”

Grandpa could take no more. “Look what you’ve done. A little less pantomime might be in order, Tommy. Sonia’s going home almost hysterical and I’ll have  Dottie to reckon with.

“It’s been nice to see you, but as we’re leaving Shields and Newcastle soon, I’ll just wish you goodbye and good luck.”

------

“Huh!,” said Grandma Dottie a couple of hours later. “Now I’m having to deal with the tantrum and what’ll probably be a sleepless night. If I hear that you’ve been out with Pierrepoint again, I’ll .. I’ll …

“Yes, our Dottie?”, asked Grandpa, ever so meekly.

“Break your flamin’ neck! Now, I’m  in such a tizzy, I can’t think what to make for tea.”

 

The Alum Ale House was established in the 18th century

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,Playing Hangman,South Shields,Newcastle upon Tyne,Alum Ale House,Thomas Pierrepoint,Public Executioner

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 01 September 2012)