Sam Redlark

  The Terracotta Man was the colour of a plant pot. He was the shape of a Buddha, who has meditated his way out of the lotus position, in favour of something less taxing on the spine – a semi-reclined pose on a sun lounger. His true age was indeterminate, lost somewhere within the soft folds of his morbid obesity. As a broad estimate, I venture that he was between 60 and 80 years old. His only concession to the social nicety of clothing were a pair of pale-blue shorts and a white strip across the bridge of his nose, that was supposed to protect it from sunburn, though it only covered a small cross-section. During the summer, he was a fixture on the angled balcony of his ground-floor, seafront flat, facing perpetually towards the east, in readiness for the next sunrise. His first outdoor appearance heralded the onset of Summer. His departure, usually sometime during September, marked the end of the season. One day, as I walked past the low-rise block where the Terracotta Man lived,

The following was posted in the comments section of Notes & Queries, on The Guardian website, on the 1st May, 2022. It was promptly deleted by the jannies for infringing upon the community standards, as I assumed it would be. It is not that The Guardian can't handle the half-truth; it's just that this is the opposite half. If you would like to know more about Rambengun politics, wait 12 months and I will happily sell you an entire novel's worth. What is the single most effective thing I could do to reduce my carbon footprint? I met Dr Marcus Tuta in 2019. At this time he was the long-serving GP for the Rambengun ex-pat community that had put down roots in Hammersmith, in West London, and had remained there for many decades. Before I continue, I would like to make it clear that I will not be discussing Tuta's disappearance, nor will I be speculating on what may have become of the man. I am not privy to the details of what went on exactly, and do not think that they a