It was just another mind-numbing Monday—same time, same platform, same collection of half-asleep commuters clutching their coffees like life preservers, all awaiting the 8:15 on the Northern Line. But things were about to change.

Alfie had noticed her before—the mystery woman in black, standing alone on the platform. Late thirties, maybe early forties? Casual yet smart, self-assured, confident. He often wondered who she was, where she came from, and what was her occupation. A partner at a law firm? Sales and marketing exec? Media? Pharmaceuticals? Hmm… Or maybe something in Human Resources, the Arts—a creative? Now that’s more my cup of coffee!

There was something about her that drew Alfie in, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. It wasn’t a physical pull, but something deeper—almost metaphysical. His driver-less train arrived, and as it pulled to a stop, the mystery woman and Alfie boarded at nearly the same time, though from different spots along the carriage. He stole a glance in her direction, hoping to catch her eye— chance! would be a fine thing!? he muttered. Funny how the smallests thoughts sometimes end up mattering. Alfie settled into is usual seat by the window, and about 20 minutes into the journey   he drifted off into a deep sleep! 

                                                         Just a *Ping?*

Some time later, Alfie’s phone Pinged—not with his usual ringtone, the Theme from that cult  ’60s series *The Prisoner*.Sometimes he let it play a little longer, just to see if anyone else on the train recognized it. Some people peered to the side thier smart phoned offering a knowing smile and  a sneaky wink, while others—usually younger—didn’t react at all, and many looked genuinely annoyed at his lack of consideration. It’s was just a small inside joke, and most of the time, he was the only one who got it.

Maybe the Ping was a glitch in the provider’s software, or perhaps some sneaky surveillance updating their facial recognition system. Next time I hear it, I’ll throw on a red clowns  nose just to mess with their algorithms. Perhaps we could have a National Red Nose day? Just a thought! 

Imagine a Saturday afternoon, he mused, football season in full swing. One million supporters around the country, all at three o’clock kick‑off… and every single one of them puts on a red clown’s nose.

He smiled at the picture of it — stadiums full of fans, all silently clowning the system.

The average turnout for a political demo was what — a few thousand at best? But a million people in clown noses? That would send a message no one could ignore.

We see you. We understand. 

A protest with no shouting, no violence, no arrests. A demonstration the authorities couldn’t stop physically or intellectually. A reminder that society could mediate itself, take responsibility, find better ways — without fear, without force, without the heavy hand of control.

And the best part? Even the rule‑makers, the police, the officials — they’d probably see the funny side. Maybe even welcome it.

Or maybe it’s just Samantha—now calling herself Sam—been binging on  too many episodes of Loose Women, about to fire  off her usual stream of conscious of reminders : "Don`t forget to pick Danny up  from his judo! class, his sat-nav has malfunctioned again and he`s not sure of his way home! Oh yes, how many more times! do i need to remind you? don`t forget to renew your life insurance Policy?" ”Happy days! Sam."

Then the green screen flashed a message: *LOOK BEHIND YOU*. Alife instantly took a mental snapshot of the carriage—1/60th of a second, the blink of an eye—scanning every detail. Had anyone else recieved it? No one seemed aware; they were lost, on auto-pilot, eyes super glued to their smartphones, immersed in their own personal micro worlds. A couple looked at thier watches! Alfie turned his palm downwards and looked at the S and F  inked on his index and middle finger!

Do I dare sneak a peek over my shoulder, risking my cover and giving myself away? Perhaps it’s an assassin, Smith & Wesson in hand, silencer poised, a neat little pop to the back of the head, job done, then casually slipping out the doors to blend into the crowd.  Was it someone  from his past, back to settle an old score—perhaps an ex with an axe to grind, or worst-case scenario, a stalker. 

Just then, the train jolts  2/3 times as the other carraiges play catch up. then stops and exhales like it’s  all out of puff. The doors slide open, inhaling a huge gulp of warm stale air into its metal lungs, ready for the next leg of the journey.. Alfie then steals a sly look behind, using just enough peripheral vision to catch sight of the doors. She’s there!—the mystery woman. Their eyes lock , and she throws Alfie a knowing smile, as though privy to something beyond his grasp. Moments later, she steps off the train onto the busy platform and disappears into the crowd. He made a mental note of where she had got off, "Finchley Central! Golders Green on the Northern Line"  3 stops before his!

Was it her message? Just a coincidence?  or was it another case of synchronicity—the very phenomenon he’d been studying—appearing yet again? It could connect to Alfie’s theory suggesting that all sentient beings are connected  behind an invisible veil, concealing the true nature and workings of reality. Could there be a single, underlying  field, the one scientists are still researching. that connects all particles and forces? Perhaps synchronicities represent attempts by others to communicate, embedding a language or code we have yet to decipher.There had to be a simple explanation for that hidden field. Could the awnser lie within  his own DNA?

Alfie believed he was close — a grounded, almost embarrassingly straightforward idea about how all sentient beings might be connected behind an invisible veil. He’d been refining it quietly, keeping the details under wraps until he understood the implications.

Max Planck once suggested that matter wasn’t fundamental at all — that behind everything lay an intelligent mind, a matrix from which all physical reality emerges. If Alfie’s theory proved even partly correct, it would send shockwaves through political, religious, and especially financial institutions.

It would level the playing field between local and global decision‑making — not by attacking any ideology, party, or belief system, but by revealing a deeper structure beneath them all. That smile was the moment everything shifted. He had to connect with her again, to discover who she was,  start a conversation—maybe she’d been researching the same subject and had her own theory. But a whole week passed, and she never came back

Magic, Mystery and Science!

Back at the studio, the shift is complete. Digital has overtaken analogue, and Oliver, the resident know-it-all assistant, is in his element, rambling on about mirrorless cameras, megapixels, and the wonders of Photoshop and Lightroom, now peplacing  the old darkroom. He’s relishing the freedom to experiment with images and text however he likes, oblivious to how the digital age will reshape the way we create and share information, turning the medium into the message! and how it would stransform our children’s future. 

His digital ID,  Bio metrics, and DNA  will all be compressed onto a microchip no bigger than a grain of rice, reduced to just a number—pigeonholed, filed, and stored until needed.

 “McGoohan, (No 6!) warned us,” “Not about surveillance — about identity theft. Not the kind where someone steals your bank details. The kind where the system steals your self.”

 “Digital ID is the number. Biometrics are the leash. DNA is the chain. Once they have all three, you’re not a person. You’re a profile.”

Soon, the mandatory government chip will be placed under his skin, like an annoying little splinter you couldn’t just remove  with a bit of patience and a pin! breaking the outer membraine would instantly shut down the system, banking, vehicles, internet, then his neural pathways!   In the blink of an eye, we’ve moved from cash to pin and chip, and now to “skin and chip”—a constant, inescapable reminder of his so-called freedom.  Sat-navs and smartphones? Won’t need them!

DNA, a breakthrough in medical science, yet a threat to society in the wrong hands! “DNA was supposed to be the breakthrough,”  “The miracle. The code that would cure diseases, predict risks, save lives. And it has. It really has.”

 “But every breakthrough has a shadow. Every cure has a cost. And DNA… DNA is the deepest part of us. The double helix looks beautiful in textbooks, but imagine it as a chain. Two strands twisting around each other, tightening. Not choking. Just… constricting.” 

“In the right hands, DNA is medicine,” “In the wrong hands, it’s control. It’s prediction. It’s profiling. It’s the system knowing your future before you do.” “Digital ID is the number, Bio metrics are the leash. But Deoxyribonuclic… DNA is the chain. Once they have that, they don’t just know who you are. They know what you’ll become.”

 Those  cables inside computers, the flat umbilical cords that connect systems together. They look harmless, almost delicate, but they bind everything: data, identity, movement, control.  DNA profiling becomes that kind of ribbon — not a decoration, not a medal, but a technological tether. A strip that links us to databases and surveillance networks, constricting our freedoms with every scan. It’s the final ribbon, the one you can’t cut, because it runs through your biology and into the machines that monitor your life.

He’ll probably never know the stillness and solitude of a darkroom, shut off from the world, a liminal space awash in the warm, calming glow of a red safe light. He won’t feel the quiet rhythm of rocking the developer tray, watching gentle waves roll over a landscape or portrait like a baptism as the image slowly comes to life. 

Completely caught up in the moment, he would watch his creation transform before his eyes, shifting from negative to positive, darkness giving way to light. "Magic, Mystery, and Science working together as one!" The very essence of what we risk losing if we sit back and bury our heads in the sand. Like so many handcrafted skills, they could disapear entrely for future generations.

By then, they’d have called photo chemistry the devil’s own brew—a wild concoction far too dangerous for human hands, a real threat to the planet—and banned it forever, as if the universe didn’t already have plans of its own!

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my future and feeling more certain that something greater is out there, far beyond the bounds of a dystopian fate.  “I know there’s something much more, something even non-believers can believe in” From *Alfie*. 1966.

Julie!

The next Monday, right on time and in the exact same spot, she appears again. This time, Alfie makes sure to hop on at the same place and get off at the same station—looks like he’s officially the stalker now!

 The train is crammed with the morning rush, bodies pressed tight as the last few squeeze through the doors as they close like a Venus flytrap.  sealing everyone inside.  Soon only a handful of people remain in the carriage, and very  quickly thie`r approaching Finchley Central. The train jolts, two three times brakes screeching, and suddenly we’re nudged almost shoulder to shoulder close enouth to get a whiff of her Channel No. 3!  She’s as close as she is ever likely to be, this is Alfies big moment, and he can’t mess it up.

He mumbled a quiet “Er, hi,” expecting her to think he was just some fool trying to chat her up, which wasn’t too far from the truth, actually. He braced for her to tell him in no uncertain terms to get lost, but to his amazement, she smiled and said, “You heard it too.”  ,“Heard What?” He asked. “The Ping.” 

The train shuddered to a stop, the doors slid open and they were swept onto the platform together with the other time travelers? He stood there, for once in his life lost for words, until she said, “Well, aren’t you going to ask if we could meet for coffee sometime?” Turns out, he was spot on about the confidence! She mentioned knowing a quiet coffee bar hidden down a quirky, dimly lit, passage where we could meet and talk.

But who could she be? A honey trap, a spirit guide, a government spook? He had some pretty radical ideas he was about to publish, but nothing that seemed to warrant a covert agent shadowing his every step. Perhaps she was one of those femme fatales  hired to entice men into illicit affairs to test their loyalty to those closest to them: or to extract sensitive information.  or was she part of some elaborate scam with an accomplice.? What might he be getting himself into? he hesitated for just a split second, then said, “Okay, let’s meet!” thinking, " in for a penny in for a pound, who knows what`s around  the coner?

He immediately called Sam and told her he’d be late getting home because an unexpected delivery was coming in just after six.

(It`s the 3.3. 2023)

The Cosmic Coffee Bar.

It was 6.30 p.m., and the sky was darkening as Alfie began looking for the entrance to the allyway, he walked the whole length of the road butfailed find the entrance. Was it a wind up, or having agreed  to meet her, was that all the evidence they needed? That was going to be a difficult one to explain to Sam. He decided to make one more pass. About half way down he noticed what appeared to be a borarded up door. narrowerr than the others and looked out of place, no number, no knocker no bell, no letter box not even an imprint where there may have been in the past. Was it just a panel? Blink and you would easily walk straight past.. Alfie stopped,  looked slowly to his left then right then pushed, the door never moved, was it locked from the inside, or nailed shut.

 Alfie reasoned doors are normaly hinged on the right, opening from the left! maybe this one was different, he pushed the panel from the right side and the door slowly opened! He quickly looked  to his left, then right, then left again is if he was about to negotiate aa busy cross roads. then stepped over the freshold  closing the door behind him. 

The alley was unusauly narrow, if he held his arms out full span he could touch both sides with his finger tips. Alfie had never suffered from claustraphobia but as he made  is way futher along the alley it grew darker and the narrow space was begining to unsettle him  the walls appeared to be closing in on him, he told himself it was  just his imagination playing tricks he stoppesd held his arms  out full span and now it was his nuckles touching the sides of the wall.

Alfie quickened his pace and pushed deeper into the darkness. Soon, he spotted a flickering neon sign and could just make out a dark silhouette. The silence was absolute—was it really her, or part of an elaborate scheme with an accomplice lurking in the shadows? A wave of panic swept over him, his instincts caught between fight and flight.

Was it a setup, or was she really there in person? Alfie slipped his wallet with his credit cards, bank cards, and driver’s license into his inside pocket and zipped it up, keeping his phone open just in case! Then he adopted a confident swagger, whistling to himself “I Did It My Way” as if he didn’t have a care in the world, In fact, his knees were knocking together, whispering to each other, "We're about to die!" 

As he edged closer, the ghostly silhouette slowly turned, the neon light flickering across her face. Hier eyes held the blue of a Norwegian fjord — a colour that seems simple until you stand close enough to feel its depth. Cold, quiet, and ancient.  She smiled, and Alfie knew he was in the right place at the right time—or was he?

"Hi Alfie, Julie" she spoke his name as though it belonged to her, then stepped in a gave him a gentle Bise. The kind of greeting by people with history.The touch was brief but the question it raised wasn`t. He was sure he hadn`t mentioned his name during that brief encounter on the platform at Finchley Central!

The sign on the door read, "Push to open, pull to change your mind." Slightly puzzled but sensing the humor, he glanced at Julie. She gestured at the sign  above the door, gave him that knowing smile, and suddenly it clicked—it was the Cosmic Coffee Bar, not Costa’s. 

Maybe the door was some sort of social experiment, a way to gauge a person’s reaction—character, did they react with anger, frustration, confusion, or look around for inspiration! Either way, it was a perfect ice breaker and a hint of what was to come. This was turning into a completely different ride. 

Maybe it was time to break free from the rigid, artificial, Orwellian world of pixels and politics, and stir things up somewhere else—maybe even drift “Into the Mystic.” Were we born before the wind, before the Big Bang, will the Big Bang Theory someday be nothing more than a blast from the past?

Once inside, it felt surreal—unlike any coffee bar I’d ever been to. The mood lighting shifted with the atmosphere, while the scent of freshly ground coffee blended with a soothing fragrance he couldn’t quite identify. The barista never asked, “drink in or take out”; he already knew!

Triadic Table`s (The Power of 3)

The interior was immense, a massive round chamber with shelves curving along the walls, filled with books on every subject and era of history.. Alfie did a slow 360, taking it all in with awe. The people chatted leisurely, their voices soft and warm, flowing smoothly like the gentle purring of contented cats.

Tables were scattered randomly—some square, oblong, some round, and a few triangular. It was the triangular ones that caught his eye. A table for three!?  Two`s company three`s a crowd! that was about to be disproved once and for all! In one corner, he spotted three people seated at an Equilateral Triangular table, facing each other. No hierarchy, no Boss, all equal, nowhere to hide. Person A could observe person B/C, B could observe  C/A, and C could observe A/? Hold on, let me run that through again! On second thoughts! Answers on a post card to? No: One Marslight Crescent, E.T.3. 

Two connects, three creates!

A meeting of minds was clearly in motion, with the third person sparking the energy—like a cat among the pigeons, a spanner in the works, a fly in the ointment, but in a positve way! The table became a crucible for fresh thinking, an entirely new approach to generating idea`s and problem-solving. Alfie’s curiosity flared as he pictured a Musician, lyricist, and producer deep in conversation, tossing out ideas and feeding off one another’s creativity.. Who knows what they might create—a new musical genre, perhaps?  a mix of samba, nursery rhymes, jazz, and a fresh, irresistible beat!

 Bill Hicks’ quote came to mind: “The next revolution will be a revolution of ideas.”

Traditional ideas like cause and effect, logic, and both lateral and critical thinking were put aside, as the focus shifted to freely sharing ideas and working together to take on whatever challenges they wanted. They met in the middle with a fist bump like boxers before the bout began, and again when it was over. It was all based on respect—no winners, no losers, no draws. 

Three people, no agenda no pre concieved ideas,  and against all odds, a spectacularly accidental masterpiece comes together—something impossible to create with only two minds. 

Dangling above the table was a sign boldly proclaiming, “Non Mihi, Non Tibi, Sed Nobis,” which, for anyone without a Latin degree, might as well have said, “Not mine, not yours, but ours… so hands off the dessert unless you’re ready to share!

”It was actually my old school motto: Not for me, not for you, but for us! A coincidence, or perhaps a hidden message?

On full view was a Juke Box  waiting for the next memory to be released (tbc) Alfie spotted it the moment he stepped into the café — tucked into the corner like a sleeping relic from another age. One of those 1950s beauties, all curved glass and polished chrome, glowing softly as if it still remembered the nights it used to command.

It wasn’t just a music machine. It was a piece of engineering theatre.

Behind the arched window, rows of vinyl singles sat in a perfect semicircle, each one waiting its turn like dancers poised in the wings. When someone made a selection, the whole thing came alive: a gentle hum, a whirr of gears waking from their doze, and then the mechanical arm sliding out with slow, deliberate grace.

It would glide along the row, hesitate — almost thoughtfully — then pluck a record from its slot with a delicate pincer grip. The arm swung back, placed the disc onto the turntable, and lowered the needle with the care of someone handling a fragile secret.

A tiny crackle. A breath. Then the music — warm, full, alive — pouring from the speakers in a way no digital box could ever imitate.

The colours along the sides pulsed softly, reds and blues and golds shifting like stained glass catching candlelight. It wasn’t just playing songs. It was performing them.

A machine built with pride, beauty, and a touch of magic — the kind of magic the world seemed in a hurry to throw away.

Juilie led Alfie  to a quiet, dimly lit alcove, where there was a table for two. Before he could reach for the back of the chair, she leaned forward and slid it out from under the table for him to sit. A female chauvinist? pro activism! perhaps, but he wasn’t about to complain—it felt oddly liberating! Maybe she`d pick up the tab, get  his coat and hold the door open when they left! She then cast a quick glance to the side, peered over Alfies shoulder, and raised two fingers in the air. Something about that signal touched a nerve, somewhere long past but could`nt i figure out what it was. All he know, it wasn`t a victory sign. Then she mouthed, “Two coffees" to the barista. 

The barista swung into action as if gliding across a frozen lake, weaving gracefully between tables with the finesse of a seasoned figure skater. A twirl here, a full pirouette there, and finally, with a dramatic flourish, he slid to a perfect stop at our table. Alfie half-expected the other customers to pull out score cards from under their mugs, holding them aloft to reveal 9.5s and 10s for style, execution and originality.

 Alfie watched Julie stir her latte, slow circles like she was coaxing something unseen to rise from the cup. Steam curled around her face, clinging to her skin as if it knew her. He opened his mouth to tease her for looking like she was summoning a spell — and then he saw it.

Her eyes were changing.

Ice blue, deepened, darkened, pulling in colour like ink spreading through water. Indigo bloomed at the centre, rich and impossible. Then it fractured into a deep emerald, alive and glowing, like forest light after rain.

Alfie froze. Julie wasn’t normal. And for the first time, she wasn’t hiding it.

In them Alfie saw something too big to belong in a coffee bar: the calm sweep of galaxies, the hush of the infinite. A quiet shiver ran through him. Something about her wasn`t ordinary. Not even close.

”On top of each side of the table top was a 10-inch square of dimpled glass, with a gently pulsing holographic  heart glowing beneath. Julie explained it was a Speed Dating Table—able to transfer your entire data faster than the speed of light, "but don’t tell Einstein!"— no doubt it probably had a lie detector built in as well! with a very narrow parameters between lies and truth!  Alfie had an awnser for every think except that one awnser he had been struggling with since he was that teenager standing outside  those school gates!! 

Each person placed a hand on the glass, and in an instant, their full DNA, bio-metric and  would be scanned and recorded.. No need for the usual small talk —what’s your name, what do you do for work, what’s your normal  type, how long have you been single, and so on, giving away absolutely zero intel on the mysterious stranger staring back at you! 

She asked Alfie if he was up for some fun, he could take quick birth sign analysis.  No problem—Alfie slipped into auto-pilot mode, with no space between his thoughts, feelings, and actions, running purely on ego. It was his Achilles’ heel and, ultimately would be his downfall. There  was a time when Alfie would draw the letters “SF” in black ink on his index and middle fingers as a reminder to stay focused. Yet, as with so many others, the moment he stepped beyond his front door, auto-pilot seized control, and the freedom to choose swiftly faded into oblivion.

Alfie pressed his palm against the glass and immediately felt the dimpled sensors shift under his skin, their soft touch sending a shiver up and down his spine. He’d once had his fortune  on a rickety seaside pier, but this was palmistry on a Cosmic level. The reading practically shouted Scorpio—bold, fiery, fiercely loyal, and always ready with that signature sting in the tail! Cross them once, and congratulations—you’ve just been added to their eternal “do not forget” list!

Julie explained that, when used to its full potential your DNA!  and every personal detail known and unknow  could be downloaded: ancestry, family tree, parents, time, date, and place of birth; birth sign analysis; education; circle of friends; partners, children, ex-partners; divorce details; medical history; work and financial history; website activity; memberships, criminal records; qualifications; musical tastes; hobbies; personality traits; political and religious views; bio-rhythms; sleep patterns; potential future physical and mental health concerns; approximate life span given or take  take ayear or two!strengths and weaknesses—and probably a few more she didn’t mention. Alfie’s concern wasn’t about the information itself, but how it might be used. There was enough data to write either a glowing, in-depth unauthorized autobiography or a career-ending “character assassination.” Just a thought!

Colored lights danced beneath the glass panels, revealing a compatibility profile. It could feel like a clever way to protect someone’s safety from psychos, creeps, stalkers, scammers, or gold diggers targeting vulnerable people—or a guaranteed way to collect all your data and toss it into the algorithmic machine. Either way, you’re now  just another number. After hearing the explanation of what it could do, Alfie worried she might pressure him to take the full test, but to his relief, she simply gave a knowing smile and said, “Maybe we can try it later Alfie!

She told me she was based in Golders Green working as a counselor specialising in holauclast survivors and their familiies.—not the usual type who dives into your past searching for flaws or weaknesses, then decides, in their infinite wisdom, whether you need cognitive therapy, in the worst-case scenario, medication or months even years of Therapy, depending on how deep your pockets were! 

She steered clear of standard practices, opting instead for a fresh, holistic approach—tuning in to tone, facial expressions, mannerisms, subtle cues, and intuition, all while considering their awareness, emotional intelligence, and life experience. No rules, no guidelines, not even a trace of procedure—she’d tossed the training manual out the window ages ago, probably clobbering some poor unsuspecting pigeon on the way down.

Something just didn’t add up. She’d mentioned earlier that she’d noticed him on the platform and, for some strange reason, felt drawn to him—yet somehow completely missed “The Ping” and the Message. 

Then came the bombshell: Julie leant foreward foreward and said" Alfie there is something i need to tell you, she paused as if to give Alfie a chance to let it register! i am also a practising white witch, a huge grin spread across Alfies face, He half expected her to request a lock of hair and some nail clippings before disappearing in a puff of smoke, anticipating the punch line, there wasn`t one,. Could that explain the aroma:  when he first walked into the bar: Insense, along with her unconventional approach to counseling? Was it mere chance, a bizarre coincidence, synchronicity! or the universe flexing its cosmic match making skills that brought us together? or was there a darker side to her, either way, the whole thing felt  suspiciously orchestrated, planned in advance. 

Was there some kind of shady setup going on—scanning my DNA, checking my biometric details, and using them for blackmail, extortion, or something even more sinister? Cloning, maybe. His mind flashed to that well-known film "The Wicker Man," imagining himself as a sacrificial lamb on the way to the slaughter. The tension was rising, and Alfie’s gut told him she was trouble.

Was this their usual method? Were there other victims? More importantly, why him? Did he have something they were after? Had they managed to break through his computer’s firewall? Could he trust her—or even his own gut? If Sam caught wind of this, he`d be in big trouble. Should he abandon ship before getting in too deep, or play along to try and uncover the source of the Ping? Or just cast his fate to the wind? Typical Alfie!

 She asked about his back ground, I was  fully aware that if she slipped into counseling mode, the dynamics would shift and every word and gesture of mine would be scrutinized. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. 

If we’re not careful, it’ll soon be “in for a credit, in for a credit.” Imagine ABBA belting out, “Credit, Credit, Credit, it’s a rich man’s world,” or Dick Turpin shouting, “Stand and deliver, credit or your life!” Yeah, sure, Dick, try again later—we’re busy! It just doesn’t feel right. Money makes the world go round, but imagine life without it. No brown paper bags, no under-the-table deals, no cash discounts, no bargaining power, and not even little piggy banks for the kids! As for spending a penny—well, that’s a baffling thought. 

Still it felt like a rare opportunity to openly address some deeply rooted issues and potentially uncover the answer Alfie had been seeking.

Alfie decided to keep it simple, sharing only select details. He asked her, “Where would you like me to start—past, present, or future?” thinking I’d catch her off guard. She replied, “Start whenever, wherever you feel comfortable, Alfie. We can fill in the gaps later.” She was clearly in a different league from Alfie!  had she  slipped into counseling mode—or was it some kind of witchcraft? Would he become just a platonic friend, a patient, or a victim? 

As we dug deeper into my past, my fear and anxiety started to melt away—I found myself completely drawn in by her. I talked for what seemed like an eterinty perhaps it wasr without a single interruption from her. Just how much i kept back i could not remember! I painted a picture of the school gates, the pause from academia, the feeling of time standing still, and his research into his father’s time as a POW in WWII. Then came the dream—that moment of pure consciousness beyond language, time, and identity, where everything and nothing coexisted: non-duality. No magic mushrooms, no hours spent in the lotus position, or years of meditation.

 Unlike those with near-death experiences who felt grateful for a second chance, Alfie would have quite happily remained there!  there was nothing waiting for him—no past, no future, no love or hate, no black or white, no heaven or hell. No mother, father, family, or unfinished business; the slate was wiped clean. Then finaly Alfie explained the strange foot prints he had photographed, filed and discoverd there origin. but had not yet published! When he finished speaking, she smiled and said, “We don’t usually meet people like you.” I thought she was about to tell me I was big enough, old enough, and smart enough to figure out my own problems.

Then she provided the answer I had been seeking: “You’re an intellectual because you think about what you are saying.” Those twelve carefully chosen words were all it took. In that instant, he recalled the boy standing outside the school gates, and in that moment of clarity, he reconnected with and rediscovered his true self. 

When Julie gave Alfie the answer, it wasn’t just understanding — it was a reset. The fog lifted, the noise fell away, and for the first time in years he felt the quiet clarity of a mind returned to itself.. He never revealed the full impact of those words to Julie. he needed time to let them reveal there secrets. Time had passed at an astonishing pace, and he grew increasingly anxious about missing his connection and exhausting the supply of plausible excuses he could offer to Sam. They agreed to meet the following Friday—on the platform where they first met same, time, hopefully with less drama!?  Little did Alfie know it would be the last time he spoke to or saw Julie!

The week crawled by like a tired snail, studio work contined with the usual suspects: cereals boasting miraculous health benefits, baby wipes flaunting their softness, the odd headshot, and a fashion shoot or two. Video was slowly sneaking in, trying to spice things up, but to Alfie, it was just the same meat served with different gravy from a slightly fancier gravy boat. Still, Alfie’s mind was already cooking up a recipe for something entirely different. 

Alfie began to see Julie in a new light—the antifascist  of Sam. Progressive, radical, and highly intelligent, she intrigued him more with each passing day. Friday couldn’t arrive quickly enough; he had so much more to share with her and was eager to get to know her better. Perhaps, he thought, a romance might even blossom. Alfie had clearly fallen under her spell. On Friday, he told Sam he’d be home late once more saying he had to reconfigure the studio for the new digital equipment, though the nagging feeling of guilt lingered.

What`s it all about, Alfie?

Samantha was his childhood sweetheart, the love of his life, and family had always been his top priority, but he felt they were drifting apart, moving in different directions, and Julie seemed to be the one who fit his plans. On the 3 stop journey from High Barnet to Finchly, Alfie’s emotions surged like a roller coaster careering out of control. Should he bare his soul to Julie and confess the depths of his feelings, maintain a calm facade and let their connection unfold naturally, or simply tell her that he had fallen hopelessly in love with her?

It would be Alfie`s last day at the Studio, and only he knew, no explanation, no goodbyes, he packed up his kit left the building for the last time and never looked back! Alfie decided to walk to the station instead of taking the tube, to get his mind in to gear and prepare for whatever was about to unfold.

 He was at Finchley Central now, maybe 20 minutes behind the agreed time, he strode up onto the platform anticipating her presense but there was no sign of Julie. Had he gotten the time wrong or the venue? Were they supposed to meet at the coffee bar instead? Alfie waited for 20 minutes, three trains had passed but no sign of Julie. Alfie had no real reason to be concerened and decided to make his way to the Coffee Bar. 

As he left the station, the rain was pouring down heavily, and he hoped Julie wasn’t waiting outside getting soaked on his behalf.

As he walked further down the alley toward the coffee bar, something felt off, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why—call it intuition or a gut feeling. Then it struck him—deep in his solar plexus, sending a jolt through his nerves and setting off internal alarm bells.

The neon sign wasn’t flickering, and he could hear the sound of someone singing and the hammering of nails. 

That’s when Alfie noticed the guy boarding up the windows. Bang, bang, bang—What’s it all about, bang Alfie, bang! Bang! Is it just bang, bang! for the moment—bang, bang!—we live. He paused only to replace nails between his pursed lips.

 The lyrics hit Alfie with unexpected force, like part of some cruel cosmic joke—a synchronicity he could have easily done without. Alfie asked him, "whats going on?" he said "the place had closed down during the week mate, gutted the place . Chucked out half the old gear even the Juke Box..Proper one it was too-big colurfull thing. Lights, chrome, the lot. Ended up in the skip out back. Alfie winnced. 

What about the triangular tables?: oh, those? went straight into the skip as well mate. Whoever thought of those must ave had a screw loose! the`yed never catch on! The man lauughed under his breath.: saw some lady digging `em out. Said she was going to saw the legs off turn them into trays and flog them at the local boot sale.   Anyway the bar was under new ownership and was gonna open next Friday as the Golden Burgar bar." 

In an instant, Alfie’s world was turned upside down as both sides of his brain—the right and left hemispheres—began spinning out of sync, creating a disorienting and overwhelming sensation that disrupted his perception and balance. He turned to walk away, unsteady on his feet, the cocky, leery swagger gone. The guy called him back and said, "You must be the smudger that chick was talking about—dressed all in black, roll-neck jumper, triangle medallion on show, sneakers and a scorpio tattoo son her wrist. Classy, mate, I could’ve fancied her myself, anyway! She hung around for half an hour or so, then had to go—said she had the 3 o`clock train to catch. Before leaving, she handed me this letter for you."

Alfie snatched the letter from his hand and was already walking away when the guy called out, “Oye, mate, don’t forget—next Friday you get a free hamburger at the entrance. We’ve got a new neon sign, flashing lights, and an all-new wall mounted Digii box, free up a bit of space for a couple more tables where that juke bos usd to be .It’ll be great!” The irony wasn’t lost on Alfie. He shoved the letter into his pocket, turned his collar to the cold and damp, and made his way to the station.

The rain had grown heavier, and the wind, like a sideways twister, was pushing Alfie down the alley as if he had no legit reason to be there. By the time he reached Finchley Central, he was drenched and bewildered—had he gotten the time wrong, had she? Or maybe she never intended to continue their meeting and was ready to end their connection.

The train rolled in, and he stepped aboard, sinking into his usual window seat—alone, damp, and confused. Then it hit him: the letter. With shaky hands, he drew it from his pocket, flipped it over, and spotted the initials SWAK. 

Relieved that all wasn’t lost, he imagined Julie moistening her tongue between  her lips, then with both hands lifting the letter to her mouth. Then slowly sliding her tongue along the triangular flap, tracing up one edge to the tip and down the other side before gently smoothing the edges together with her fingertips, and sealing it with a kiss. 

With a spark of exicitment and a flicker of last-minute hope, Alfie ripped it open—only to be met by a completely blank page staring back at him.

No message, no hint, not even a doodle. Just the silent, mocking emptiness of someone who clearly thought invisible ink was hilarious. Alfie muttered to himself "Life can be so cruel, Should have followed my instinct, i knew all along she was a wrong un!" But why had she ended it that way, no explanation, no good bye. 

Alfie’s mind flashed back to the week before, the continuous reminders  from Sam to renew his life insurance Policy! Was she leaking information, was she part of the scam? where they in it together" Sam the scam? when Julie had offered him to sample the palm reader, assured him it was just a quick, fun, birth sign analysis! Had he been tricked? 

Was it actually recording the whole time, secretly harvesting his details? Mission over. Job done. Alfie could have kicked himself for being so gullible, Paranoia crept in as Alfie imagined the worst— Julie’s smile had always seemed warm, but now it felt like a mask — a professional one, the kind counsellors wear when they’re listening but not revealing. The more Alfie thought about it, the more the edges of her kindness began to blur into something else. Something calculated.

She knew too much. About his routines. His habits. His fears. His research.

A counsellor had the perfect excuse to peer into someone’s private life. To ask questions no stranger should ask. To gather information without raising suspicion.

What if she wasn’t there to help him? What if she was there to extract something?

His mind began to race, stitching together possibilities faster than he could dismiss them.

Maybe she worked for a government agency. Maybe they’d caught wind of his photographs — the footprints, the anomalies — and sent her in to get close. To gain his trust. To take what he had.

And once she had it… what then?

A cold shiver crawled up his spine as his imagination took over.

A car mounting the pavement at just the right moment. A loose scaffold plank “accidentally” falling from a building site. Faulty wiring in his flat that had never been faulty before. Brake pipes cut so cleanly the mechanic would call it wear and tear.

Ridiculous. Absurd. Impossible.

But the thoughts wouldn’t stop. They came in waves, each one darker than the last, each one whispering that Julie wasn’t who she said she was.

He tried to shake it off, but paranoia has a way of sticking — especially when you’re alone, especially when the world already feels strange, especially when someone like Julie walks into your life knowing more than she should.

He didn’t know it yet, but the truth was far stranger — and far kinder — than anything he could imagine.

For now, though, the shadows in his mind were louder than the truth.

 If they had stolen his research, they wouldn’t publish it right away. Instead, they’d invest in defense and security firms, rare earth materials, and scoop up obscure tech patents before they became valuable. Then, they’d release the research gradually, before markets and governments caught on. The threat of aliens wouldn’t need to be proven; the evidence alone—the mysterious footprints, the synchronistic theory explaining their attempt at communication, the codes! and his ideas—would be enough to spark upheaval and panic. 

Alfie had never thought much about defence budgets or government agencies. They were distant things — grey buildings, grey suits, grey decisions. But now, with Julie missing and his research possibly in the wrong hands, those grey shapes loomed large in his mind.

If aliens were real — if those footprints meant what he feared they meant — then governments wouldn’t sit quietly. They’d panic. They’d mobilise. They’d throw money at anything that promised answers.

He pictured it all unfolding behind closed doors.

Emergency meetings in underground rooms. Generals leaning over maps. Politicians whispering about “containment” and “public stability.” Scientists being flown in at midnight. Budgets being approved without debate.

And somewhere in the middle of it all… his photographs.

The thought made his stomach twist.

If someone had stolen his research, they wouldn’t be thinking about science or wonder or the meaning of life. They’d be thinking about contracts. Funding. Power. Defence companies would explode in value the moment the truth leaked. Surveillance firms would be flooded with government money. Aerospace giants would be handed blank cheques.

And whoever held the evidence first — whoever controlled the narrative — would be in the perfect position to profit.

Alfie imagined a shadowy figure sliding his photos across a polished table.

“These are genuine,” the figure would say. “Buy into defence before the announcement. Short the airlines. Secure the satellite contracts. Move now.”

It didn’t matter that he didn’t understand the details. He understood the fear.

Governments didn’t like surprises. They didn’t like unknowns. They didn’t like things they couldn’t control.

And if they thought he had information they needed — or that he’d leaked it — then he wasn’t just a man with a camera anymore. He was a liability.

Julie’s disappearance suddenly felt sinister. Sam’s trust felt fragile. His own selfishness felt like a fuse he’d lit without realising it.

He’d wanted excitement. He’d wanted attention. He’d wanted Julie.

Now he was imagining defence agencies, government operatives, and shadowy investors all circling the same thing — his discovery.

And all of it, every terrifying scenario, was happening inside his own head.

Seconds later, Alfie’s phone pinged! His heart skipped a beat, hoping at last for an explanation from Julie that would ease his fears of entrapment. Maybe she’d simply gotten the time wrong, or perhaps she’d been tied up in a desperate call with a suicidal client and hadn’t had a chance to send a message. Maybe she was even going to suggest they should rearrange the time and date!

 It turned out that it wasn’t Julie after all—it was Sam!

"Alfie, no need to stress about getting home late—there’s been an incident on the rail network, and the trains are a mess. Oh, almost forgot, Danny fixed his sat-nav, and the Insurance company has just renewed your life insurance policy, no problem. Catch you later. Love you loads, Sam.

By now, Alfie’s spirit was broken; he was  on a train going nowhere, and he could`nt care less. He had given up the ghost. Julie had betrayed him!, and he had betrayed Sam’s trust, even casting doubt on her loyalty. 

As the train pulled away and slid into the tunnel, Alfie’s chin dropped to his chest like a hammer driving the last nail into a coffin. His journey carried on long past the stop where he should have gotten off, having missed it entirely and traveled all the way to the end of the line.

He was still out cold when the guard hopped on to check for the usual forgotten items—umbrellas, smartphones abandoned by not-so-smart people, empty energy drink cans under the seats. Muttering to himself, he grumbled, "You’d think with all that extra energy they’d have the strength to carry them to the bins! Lazy sods! Ought to bring back National Service, that’d sort ’em out! What with having to deal with the usual drunks who had missed their stop! making him late and having to  file a ....that’s when he noticed Alfie at the far end of the carriage Bugger it! Could be more papaer work!

He called out: “End of the line, sir, Time to get off,”  Alfie didn’t stir. He tried again, “End of the line!?” Still no response.The guard walked over and tapped Alfie on the shoulder. When Alfie didn’t move, he leaned in to detect any smell of  alcohol or signs of breath, there was none, he then gently pressed the back of his index and middle finger to Alfie`s jugalar, there was no pulse he assumed  he had passed away, just another victim of the daily grind.—nothing unusual, we see at least half a dozen cases like him every week on the network. He turned and walked toward the door, reaching up to press the button that dimmed the fluorescents and closed the doors, sealing Alfie inside. 

Hours later, in the dark, lonely depths underground, Alfie slowly opened his eyes, and in that instant of clarity, the truth hit him—Julie had been his spirit guide all along! That was why she never came back—her purpose in his life was fulfilled, her mission complete, leaving him with the strength and wisdom she had quietly and gracefully given, empowering him to continue his journey.

Alfie glanced up at the carriage ceiling and spotted the tiny red glow of the surveillance camera, blinking at him like it was judging his life choices.

 A wide grin spread across Alfie’s face, as he popped on a Red clowns nose, fired off a cheeky wink, and slowly closed his eyes again. Was this the end of the ride, a bizarre dream, or had Alfie just clowned his way into the Mystic?

Is all that we see or seem, just a dream within a dream. (E.A. Poe.)

A credit for your thoughts!

Bill Hicks left this world early, but his ideas didn’t. They kept moving, evolving, and whispering to anyone willing to look beyond the noise. His message - life is just a ride- wasn`t a punchline. It was a compass. A reminder that the world we experience is shaped by the stories we accept and the fears we inherit.

I am not claiming his voice, his authorship or his brilliance. I`m simply giving his ideas a place to breath. A place where they can keep doing what they were meant to do: wake people up, shake loose the old narratives, and open the door to something bigger. 

Society, war, famine, cruelty to children and animals.... none of these appear out of thin air. They are beliefs, fears, stories, and systems that human beings create and reinforce.

Hicks showed that the ride doesn`t end at the edge of what we can see. It dosee`nt stop at the limits of our conditioning. It dosen`t collapse when the world feels chaotic. The ride continues and it can transcend. It can become something more conscious, more compassionate, more kinder!

This site stands on that foundation. Not as a shrine, but as as a continuation. Not as imitation, but resonance.

Hicks pointed at the machinery behind the curtain and said "you can choose differently."

This space exists to explore that choice-to question the scripts, to imagine new ones, and to remember that we`re not passengers trapped in a system. We are participants shaping it.

You don`t need to be an Intellectual, Scientist, Religious, radical  or a Spiritual Guru floating two feet off the ground. Whether your young and questioning, , professional and skeptical, retired and reflecting or simply someone who`s felt the absurdness of life and wondered if there`s more! 

The ride is still moving. The story is still unfolding, and the chance to steer is still ours! 

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. 

Edgar Alan Poe. American Poet. (1/19/1809 - 9/7/1849)

Author`s Note: The sound behind the Title.

The title Ping comes from a moment i left outside the main story-one of several disturbances from that period that never settled into anything i could explain. One night quite recently i was settling down to sleep when there was a sharp, loud and  distinct Ping, as clear as a bell, eminating from somewhere in or near the bed. 

 At first i thought came from the pull out draw. A rat, a mouse, silly idea they don`t create sounds like that. i froze, slowed my breathing laying perfectly still until i could get a grasp of the situation. It`s strange because you don`t think the obvious that it could be someone standing by the bed with metal-whatever whacking the metal head board! i  did`nt dismiss out of hand. i could`nt it was real. Just another strange incident to go with the others  that where occurring around about time. Some days later my curiosity returned to that sound. 

It had to be something small with some weight that could be swung swiftly and deliberately within a small space. It was`nt a lump hammer, to big, unwieldy, a ball pin hammer, similar to the one the Yorkshire Ripper used on his victims, again to heavy, would just produce a thud! a smaller pin hammer similar to what a picture framer may use to tap in small sprigs that hold the frame contents in place. again the long thin handle would soak up the vibration,  and there was not room to get the angle and whip needed .

Then i recalled those small silver weighty hammers that came with the toffee packs on sale back in the 50s and 60s used to break the toffee slabs to smaller pieces. I imagined that hammer held between the finger and thumb, with a short, fast whack would sound about right. It`s size belied its weight, small enough and heavy enough to produce the sound i heard. 

The next step was to find a hammer and put my theory to the test. I found out that Walkers still made the pack, even after all these years. It arrived in the post the very next day. My first strike was on the smaller bars, producing a dull, flat sound. Then I struck the large down tube—there it was, that unmistakable Ping sound, ringing out loud and clear. Once again, the same questions surfaced, just like with the footprints. This time, though, it was an auditory mystery, not a visual one. We know where and when, but the questions remain: Who? What? Why? And How?

.what appeared to be