The noise alone was all-enveloping, allowing no thoughts. His eyes were shut tight, his lips pressed together, every orifice clenched. He was rolled into a ball in a futile attempt to protect his vital organs as he was spattered with earth falling from the sky. His elbows tucked against his knees, he lay still. The screaming of the shells and the explosions continued around him, rocking the very planet. He was pelted by rocks and clods of soil even though he was surely surrounded by cliffs of wooden palisades with sold ground behind. Walter became aware of a voice shouting, penetrating his terror. It was a voice that could not be denied, his training had programmed his brain to obey without question. The voice was telling him to stand, to do his duty. He was aware that his duty was to die for his King and country, his duty was also to do that simple thing whilst performing whatever task that the voice had set. The current task was to stand and face the enemy, hold his rifle and. Therefore I was overjoyed when I met the pickle lady. I chanced upon a farmer’s market one Saturday morning in a new part of town. At least it was new to me. There was the obligatory table displaying jars of pickles in various shapes, sizes and flavors. There was a small hand-made sign saying The Pickle Lady and, behind the table the pickle lady herself. She appeared to be on the far side of 50, like me. She had blonde hair, a buxom figure, a round face and a warm smile. I walked up to her table and said, ‘Are these pickles for sale?’ ‘Absolutely,’ she replied. ‘Would you like a sample?’ ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘which one would you suggest?’ ‘What kind of pickles do you like?’ ‘All kinds,’ I said. ‘Ah, a man after my own heart.’ I smiled at that and thought I might also be after her body. I sampled several and bought a couple of jars. As we finished the transaction I said, ‘Does the pickle lady have a name?’ ‘Polly,’ she replied, ‘Polly Pickle.’ ‘Seriously?’ ‘Yep. I married a man named.
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