This map is an idea that time will only take you as far as time allows and being read suggests no more than it does; so never let it be said that something can't be said if it's worth saying.

This is a book of short stories that can be read over a cup of coffee in some sunny nook where you can be pleasantly surprised by the twists and turns of the different tales.

When she came to the train station she waited for the first train out of town and settled herself on a wooden seat in the empty station and hoped no one else would come along and disturb her. After a while her head began to nod and before long, the ordeal which had worn her out drifted away as she dozed off to the hum of the trains travelling along the tracks to somewhere else. The X-ray dog settled down near her to guard her against all comers and before long was asleep too.

That night we found an allotment of cold love by a dark house, and pulled up frozen, dirty vegetables, ate them in a small shed. Shared love on sacks, and then like a single grain of dust we slept in the pitch black wrapped around each other. A frozen dawn saw us walking onwards

And then a different bandwidth, not quite a security breach came around the corner of it all as I was writing my prayers on the wall of my indisposition, and recognising me somehow, called out my secret name. Disappearing down a hole I'd dug for just such an occurrence I left everything I'd built over the years behind me and wondered how they'd found me or if I'd been betrayed. Well maybe I'd find out and maybe I wouldn't but I wasn't sticking around to ask questions.

This is about Captain Morgan Jones of the Vindaloo Curry, a submarine he found in the desert one day, and after hauling it back to the ocean by camel train set it to floating again after repairing a few holes. After trial and error and a lot of huffing and puffing he managed to get to the Taff River and after sailing up it to Ponty took on a crew and then set off for the Orient and many adventures.

This story sells itself by inference as it goes along and relies for its context upon the clues scattered within its generalities and has as its bearing the vagaries of the human condition in confluence with life as it flows and so should not be mistaken for anything else but what you feel after reading it.

When the robot came out of the closet and began charging its batteries in front of everyone there was a cry of outrage from a lounging bigamist who went on to say: "Protect our children's eyes from the machine lest they become machine-like and poop in our soup." When the robot approached the bigot to clarify a point, the bigot ran off screaming and left a hole in the breadline that the robot promptly filled to great cheers from the crowd watching.