Watching Malcolm

I first noticed Malcolm in the night club; the kind of place where people go to have a drink in friendly company without the need to talk too much as the music can make conversation difficult. He wasn't difficult to spot as he wore a cream coloured suit and a bright red bowtie; his shirt colour varied through a rainbow of pastel shades over the times I saw him.

Being the kind of person with a streak of curiosity, I wondered what this out-of-place character was doing in this kind of place. From my vantage on the balcony, I tracked his movements around the lower floor. What I saw drew my attention more for questioning what he was up to. He never strayed onto the table-free area which was termed the dance floor. Instead he seemed to visit tables and booths with exclusively female occupants and talk to them; shortly after there would be a whoop or a shriek from the group and he would move on. He never seemed to have a drink with him or anything else that I could see.

It seemed to happen like this for a few nights. I decided to take a closer look; I told myself that it was part of my job, which was looking out for suspicious behaviour, which might indicate drug-dealing, stealing, bullying or such conduct as, if left unchecked, might lead the club to gaining a bad reputation; in reality, I wanted to know what he was doing here. I knew from the guys on the door that he was called 'Malcolm' and had been coming each night for a couple of weeks. Based on the ID he was using and a few checks, I knew he was a real 'Malcolm' with a day job in an office in the city and a flat within walking distance of the club. The door guys told me he arrived each night shortly after nine and left before midnight alone.

My observations showed me that he only interacted with groups of young women, so when he showed up that evening I moved down to the main floor and did my best to discreetly follow him; a task made both easier and more difficult by the crowded area. It was more difficult to observe what he was doing, that first night I followed him all I saw of his activities was a few flashes of colour glimpsed between the heads of members of the crowd.

The following night he did not come; I checked with the door crew and they confirmed that he had not showed up. Why had he broken what appeared to be the pattern of two to three weeks? Would I ever find out what he was doing? I went to work early the next day and reviewed what glimpses the security footage afforded me, which were few. It confirmed what I had seen; he was never seen speaking any male member of staff or any male customers, beyond a few seconds and in most instances appearing to be polite and nothing more. I did notice that he favoured the two female bartenders; frequently waiting to be served by one of them, in preference to being served by their male colleagues.

I checked the rotas and hurried down to the staff rest area in the hopes of catching Cathy, who was due to clock in the next half hour. I found her stuffing her personal stuff in her locker.

"Hi, Cathy," I opened. "May I ask you a few questions about a customer?"

"Sure, Hon," she replied. "Can we make it quick, 'coz I'm due on shift in a few." She continued her prep-for-work routine, but with a listening frame to it.

"Ok. What do you make of Malcolm?" I asked.

"Who's Malcolm?"

"Guy in a cream suit, pastel shirt and red bow tie."

"Oh, him. He's nice; in that he waits and doesn't shove and I can hear him clearly, even though he isn't shouting. Ok, he's a bit odd, you know dressed like that and only drinking still water from a glass and giving a nice tip."

"Ok. Do you have any idea what he's here for? Because he doesn't seem to be dancing or drinking or with anyone."

"You think I've time to check out customers? I thought that was your job! I only see him when he's ordering a drink. He's polite, generous and pleasant, that's all I see of him. What do you think he's up to?"

"I don't know," I said. Internally, I added the word 'yet'. "But it all seems peculiar to me. He only seems to talk to women, he doesn't seem to talk to men unless he must."

"You think he might be one of those pervs who scouts out a victim and then kidnaps them on the way home?"

"Not really. But there's something not right. Well, thank you for your time."

Cathy checked her watch and hurried off adjusting her skirt as she went.

Malcolm turned up. I tried to follow him using the security cameras, but was prevented by the need to record a brawl and then spotting the clues that a drug dealer was operating, and having to shut him down.

I was beginning to feel like the border guard, in the story, that was convinced the guy who wheeled his bicycle over the border into East Germany in the morning and walked home at night was smuggling something and despite his efforts never found any contraband on the guy, only to be told on the day of his retirement that the guy was smuggling bicycles. Malcolm was becoming an obsession and I need to get to the bottom of what was going on. I decided to speak to Malcolm.

I was on the main floor when Malcolm entered and with an earpiece the door crew had notified me that he had arrived. I was ready to follow him closer this time to see what he was up to and had decided to speak to him the second time he went to the bar, if I was still in the dark about what he was doing. To my surprise, instead of doing his usual circuit of the room, he headed straight for me.

Speaking without shouting he asked, "Is it you who's been watching me?"

Too shocked by this development to speak, I nodded an affirmative.

"And have you seen anything?" he asked.

Still dumbstruck by the turn of events, I shook my head.

"I think we both know that to be untrue. You just haven't put together what you have seen. And given that your job is observing I feel good about that. But the fact you have been watching me means that, somewhere in your gut, you know there is something to see."

It wasn't until he had put it into words that I knew what was so fascinating about him. He made it obvious that he was hiding something, but despite my best efforts I still did not know what he was hiding. My focus on him was the child of frustration. I nodded again; this conversation was seeming a little one-sided.

"If I told you that I'm doing nothing to harm anyone, would you still want to know what I'm doing?"

I felt that I should belief this man's assertion that he was doing no harm, but I felt even with such an assertion I would still want to know what he was doing here. With the question wrapped in a hypothetical, I was not even certain I would get the outright statement to believe.

I suspect that my confusion showed on my face. He said, "Meet at the bar at eleven and I will show you what I am doing. That is, of course, if you haven't found out my secret before then." He turned and began his customary tour of the room prior to speaking to groups of girls.

I did not know if I had been dismissed or challenged. I went to check with the door crew that they had not given away that I was interested in his activities. On returning unsatisfied, I went back to the balcony to watch. I hoped that he would do whatever he was doing where I could see it, but for the next hour or so he was always the other side of the room and with his back to me, so that I could not see. Between visiting with the groups of girls, he would look directly at me, wherever I was around the balcony and smile or wave. I could not tell if I was being acknowledged or taunted.

At ten he went to the bar and waited until Cathy could serve him. He sipped his glass of water and saluted me with it. As he finished his glass he placed it carefully on a mat on the bar and spoke a few words to the barmaid. I felt I needed to know what Malcolm had said. I moved as rapidly down to the bar area as the crowd would allow and went behind the bar, to ask Cathy what he had said.

She told me while she was pulling a glass of beer, that Malcolm had said thank you, but in a manner, that she had felt, suggested that he was not going to get the opportunity to thank her again.

I was getting more and more puzzled, trying to think what he might show me that was harming no-one, but that might possibly get me to stop him coming to the club.

The next hour crept round the clock, I was none the wiser what Malcolm was doing and if Cathy's interpretation of his thanking her was accurate, this might be my last chance to find out. As the hour approached I was torn between the need to find out Malcolm's secret and a feeling that knowing the secret would change something and effect people, in some way, possibly negatively.

I sat on the end bar stool and noted that Cathy drifted to end of the bar. As the second hand on my watch lined up with the minute, both pointing at twelve, he was there. He did not acknowledge my presence, but was not ignoring me. Cathy came forward to serve him. "A glass of water for me and one for my friend here." A gesture indicated me as his 'friend'. Cathy looked a little surprised, but took clean glasses and filled them from a freshly opened bottle from the chiller. He thanked her and then beckoned her closer, until she was leaning over the bar. He leant forward and placed a twenty in her hand and kissed her gently on the cheek. Then he whispered something to her which made her smile, which went well with the blush caused by the kiss.

"You came," he observed, in a normal voice that was clear to me despite the thrum of drum and bass that overrode most other sound below a shout.

"I came," I replied in a voice that I would not have heard if it had not been me saying it. He clearly heard. My reply felt like the only one I could give, because all I could do was confirm his observation; I did not have any idea where the conversation might go and if I would be allowed knowledge of his secret.

"Have you found me out?" he asked.

"No," I stated. "I think that you have been purposely being more mysterious than usual. The little smiles and waves have been done to... I don't know whether you were letting me know that you knew that I was watching and from where, or keeping my interest, because it was obvious to me that you were taking more care to not show anything."

He did not comment on my observation, but asked, "Do you still want to know my secret?"

"I want to know more than just your secret, I also want to know why you seem to think this may be your last time here."

"Come with me, and your questions will be answered." He sipped his water and I sipped mine; finding it unexpectedly refreshing.

When both of our glasses were empty, he pushed the mats they were on to the centre of the bar and then began to walk away, while making a beckoning motion. I followed managing to keep close enough to him that nobody could get in the way of me following him. We travelled around to dance floor and he approached a booth full of female university students, some of them I recognised as faces I had seen before, but I knew no names as these were not trouble-makers, but girls on a congenial night out together.

"Good evening, Theresa, Andrea, Beth." He greeted the group. The girls seemed pleased that he had remembered their names, and the rest did not appear to be offended by not being named. "I hope you don't mind if a friend of mine waits with you while I get the special thing I promised you last time I saw you." He indicated that I should sit with the girls. They squeezed up to allow me enough space to sit on the padded bench. "I'll only be a few minutes," he assured the group. To me he added, "I hope you'll have the patience to wait and will play your part when the time comes."

He headed towards the exit and I sat there. Was he going to leave for good? Or would he be back? I suddenly felt out-of-place for the first time since starting work at the club; I was a thirty-something that had been attached to a group in their late-teens. I did not know if I should wait in silence for his return or try to make conversation. As it turned out the choice was taken from me.

The girl who had reacted when the name Beth was mentioned shouted, "You work here, don't you?" in a conversational tone. "I've seen you several times, but not worked out what you do."

"My job is to spot trouble-makers and other ne'er-do-wells; to keep this place a safe and clean place to come," I shouted back. "I let the door crew deal with them, but I let them know who we need to not have here."

"So you keep the pick-pockets, drug-pushers and pervs away?"

"Yep."

"So what do you make of Malcolm?" she asked.

"I don't know. We've had no complaints about him, but I find his behaviour and attitude a bit odd." I shouted back.

"You know what he does?" asked the one I assumed was called Theresa.

"No; I know what he does for a day job, but what he does here is a mystery to me. And with my job it shouldn't be."

Beth shouted, "I guess you're in for a surprise."

It became clear to me that the girls knew more than I did about Malcolm's secret, but were conspiring to keep it from me until Malcolm himself revealed it.

My thoughts were interrupted by a voice in my earpiece. "That Malcolm, you're interested in, just came out and reclaimed a bag from the cloakroom and wants to take it in without it being searched. He says that you'll authorise it."

I extended the mouthpiece and replied, "Describe it!"

The voice of 'Big Dave' answered, "It looks like a small leather satchel, maybe, eight inches by four by two. When he tapped it, it sounded like a hollow plastic box, but it didn't rattle when he shook it."

I remembered the comment about 'playing my part when the time comes'. I hoped this was the time. "Let it in with him, but if he does not come directly to me in booth eight, or stops to talk to anybody more than an 'excuse me' or a 'thank you', feel free to eject him. I'll assume he heard that."

A few minutes later, Malcolm returned. "Your security guys are a bit hot on the bag searches."

"How else are we to keep drugs and knives at bay? Not to mention the people trying to bring in their own alcohol. So what's in the bag?"

Malcolm placed the bag on the corner on the opposite side of the table from me. "That is for later. First, I need to demonstrate what I do and help Anthea work out who she is. The girl in the see-through top and black bra at the far corner of the table, reacted at the mention of her name; I could not tell if it was anticipation or apprehension; I guess she could not either.

He reached into his jacket pockets and pulled out two pairs of cloth squares. He offered the choice of the yellow pair or the red pair to Beth, who chose the red ones. She was asked to knot a pair of corners together and lay the squares on the table with the knot under her hand. Malcolm knotted two corners of the yellow squares together, then dangling the knot by holding the opposite corners of the two cloths, touched the knot to the back of Beth's hand. He then unknotted his squares and asked two of the other girls to pull the exposed ends of the red cloths. The two red squares came away from under Beth's hand, no longer knotted.

His next move was to have Theresa hold the loose ends in a fist. He then he tied the corners of his yellow squares. Andrea was asked to pull one of the red squares from Theresa's fist, but pulled both, because they had returned to being knotted together. Being an observer and people-watcher, I was at a loss as to how he was achieving these feats and I could tell from the expressions of the girls round the table that they were as mystified by the behaviour of the squares of cloth as I was.

Andrea was invited to tie the diagonally opposite corners together so that the two squares were a loop. She then, at his instruction, wadded then up between her hands held palms together and fingers interlaced. Malcolm untied his yellow squares from each other and knotted them into individual loops, but looped through each other. The next girl was asked to hook the cloths out from Andrea's hands with a finger. The two red squares came out looped together like two links in a chain.

Malcolm asked the girl who now had possession of the cloth chain to follow what he did with the squares he had. He moved the cloth loops until the knots were together and enfolded them in his fist. He followed this by using a pointed finger to push most of the cloth into the fist from either end until a tiny tail of fabric remained protruding from either end. The girl emulated this procedure, but without the smooth grace that Malcolm had managed. He held his fist and made a move, which the girl reproduced by rocking her hand side to side. Next he asked me and the girl sat opposite me to take hold of the tails of cloth from his hand and invited the girls either side of the girl with cloths to act similarly for her. He asked us all to pull on the cloths we had hold off. Imagine my surprise when each of us pulled free a single loop cloth not attached to anything.

This surprise was evident on all the faces round the table, but it was fused with the delight of seeing magic performed in their hands.

The further girl was asked to unknot the ends of her loop and collect the other loop and thread it onto the opened square of cloth. Malcolm did the same, claiming the cloth I held and unknotting it then threading it through the loop held by the other girl and taking that loop with the opened square dangling through it. He asked me and the other girl to take up the loose ends of the square while he used his fist to cover the loop round it. The girl with the cloths passed the loose ends of her straightened cloth to the girls either side and made a fist around its middle which almost encompassed the looped square; a corner showed between two of her fingers.

Malcolm rocked his hand and arched an eyebrow at the girl, who repeated the move. All the girls holding cloth ends were invited to pull on the ends which soon became taut. Malcolm and soon after the girl with a scrap of fabric between her fingers let go of the taut cloths. Me and the girl opposite and the pair near the other end of the table were holding the ends of different cloths knotted together.

He placed the knotted cloths on the table in front of him and asked that the red pair were passed to Anthea. He asked her to undo the top two buttons of her blouse and tuck the knotted ends of cloth into the gap created. She tucked the knots into the small amount of cleavage created by her bra, where it was mostly concealed by the double thickness of the button strip. The loose ends were taken up by the girls on either side. Anthea was asked to reach forward with a finger, which I was invited to lean forward to touch. It was a stretch, but we leaned across the table fingertip to fingertip. Malcolm then asked me to touch the knot of the knotted squares in front of him with my free hand.

I made a fist and thumped it down on the knot. I felt something that felt like static discharge between mine and Anthea's touching fingers. She felt it too. The knot I had thumped was no longer a knot, because the two ends were no longer tied. With a look Malcolm invited the girls either side of Anthea to pull on the ends that they had. The two ends of the cloth squares were no longer tied to each other, but they were tied to either side of a black bra. The girls were laughing at this.

I was the first to notice that there was no longer a bra under Anthea's see through blouse. She was the second and immediately grabbed for the bra hanging taut between the two cloths she had put into her cleavage, while attempting to cover her breasts with the other arm. The girls either side noticed her peculiar wardrobe malfunction and began to hastily untie the cloth squares from the under garment. By the time this was done, Anthea seemed more comfortable with her semi-exposure and tucked the bra into her handbag, rather than trying to get it back on or rush to the toilets to find somewhere more private to redress.

While this mini-drama happened Malcolm smiled and collected the cloths as they became available.

"Now for the special thing I promised," he said. He reached for the satchel and unbuckled the flap. With the flap opened he reached in and withdrew a clear plastic box almost too big to be in the bag.

He handed it to the girl opposite me and asked her to look it over and then pass it round the table, so that they could all be sure that it was exactly what it seemed. I was the last to receive it.

It was a made of sheets of clear plastic, thick enough to be rigid. One of the small ends had an oval hole, that end was really two parts; one half glued in, the other half loose, but it did not come out. A millimetre or two from the inside of that side there was a slot in the large side. There was not a matching slot in the other side.

Malcolm gave me one of the cloths to wipe the fingerprint evidence that it had been passed around from the outside of the box. I handed back the red cloth and tried to hand back the box. "Don't want to touch the box for a while. You will handle the box. Can you get you hand into the box?"

Before answering, I measured my hand against the box. "I could fit my hand inside there, except that I can't get it through the hole in the end; that's big enough for my wrist, but I couldn't get my palm through without losing my thumb."

"Put your finger into the hole and pull the plastic on the upper side and see what happens."

I did as he suggested and was rewarded with the upper piece of the plastic moving upward slightly as it was released from an unseen catch. I moved it the rest of the way up the small guide rail at either side.

"Now that there's a bigger hole to put it through, could you put your hand into the box?"

"I guess so," I said. "Do you want me to try?"

He nodded. With a little bit of a squeeze I pushed my left hand into the box; I had to curl my fingers a little to fit it in comfortably. My wrist rested in the lower half of the oval hole.

"Pop the loose bit back and see if you can get your hand out."

Like a fool I picked up the piece I had removed, checked it was in the right orientation and fitted it back in place; despite the loud background we heard it click. The oval hole was tight around my wrist. There was no way I was going to get the rest of my hand back out; the hole was definitely too small. I tried to remove the piece I had just moments before fitted, but there was not space enough beside my wrist to get my finger in to pull the loose piece and the top edge was recessed below the surface of the box.

While I was attempting to extricate my hand from the trap of the box, Malcolm returned to the satchel and pulled out a small brass plate about the same size as the small end of the box. He showed it round the booth making sure that nobody touched it, because of the sharp edge. Even in the poor and variable lighting it was clear that one of the long edges had been sharpened to something approaching a razor edge. I caught myself thinking I had sufficient grounds to have him ejected; he had caused a customer to go beyond the dress code for the club, he had possession of a blade and he was preventing a staff member from performing their job.

He drew the small audience's attention back to the box in which my hand was trapped and particularly the slot in the top, just inside the wrist end. Feeling powerless to do anything about what seemed inevitable, I grimaced as he lined up the sharp edge of the blade with the slot and pushed it in with a sudden movement.

All I felt was the sharp edge touch my wrist; there seemed to be no other sensations. I let out a girlish squeak of surprise and froze in place, lest anything move and get damaged more than thrusting a blade through my wrist would in the first place.

It took several seconds for us to notice the absence of the expected blood. I also expected severe pain that did not happen. I also looked to see if the blade could be removed, but saw that the back edge was below top of the slot.

Malcolm placed a finger on the top of the box at the wrist end and push it away from me; I tried to keep the outside end of the wrist pressed against the brass plate that separated it from my hand. He place another finger gently on my forearm with no actual force, only contact. He moved the box away across the table with one finger and held my forearm still with the other. A gap opened, but I still did not dare move my arm that now ended eight inches short of where it had ended before.

As the initial shock of having my hand chopped off began to dissipate, Malcolm lifted the clear box containing my hand from the table and handed it to the girl opposite me to examine more closely. He did say that they should be careful with it as it was my hand.

Each move of the box, I felt and when they pressed the open side of the brass that had removed my hand I could feel a slight ache in my wrist. I could see that my hand was making small movements as it braced itself against the sides of the box in response to the movements as the box was passed round the table from girl to girl.

It finally reached the girl next to me. She turned it over so my palm was face up, despite bracing for the move when it came, I still felt my hand fall the tiny distance to land on what had been the top of the box. It felt odd, but not unpleasant, to have a part being moved without causing movement in the rest of me. I don't know what my eyes were saying, but I could feel a smile on my lips.

The girl tried to pass the box to me, but it was intercepted by Malcolm. He slipped the box and my hand into the little satchel. "I'm sorry, but I did not bring the tools to get your hand out of the box; they're at home. I'll have it ready for you when you get there." He hung the satchel from a shoulder and walked towards the exit.

As Malcolm disappeared into the crowd, the girl next to me asked, by shouting into my ear, "Shouldn't you go and get that back?"

I shrugged; I was feeling peaceful in the midst of the noise and bustle. I lifted my left arm to take a look at the stump. Expecting blood to start spurting and a messy view of severed bones and sinews, I was calmed further to see a flat oval of what looked like skin. I don't know why, but I showed the girls and when I touched it, I felt it; the finger I touched it with would have felt as if it was moving inside my wrist if I had not been watching it and the contact was pleasant in the same way as stroking your arm.

I sat for a moment trying to consider what to do, until the girl next to me asked, "Are you feeling alright? Do we need to get someone?"

I thanked her and told that I thought I would be alright; I do not know what I based that on, but it was true. Before I left, I advised Anthea that if she wanted to come back to the club, she should return her bra to its proper place, but also wished her luck with expressing her exhibitionist tendencies.

I moved through crowd with my shortened arm by my side and headed towards the bar. Operating my earpiece wrong-handed I asked if Malcolm had left. 'Big Dave' told that he had left, but not before shaking the hand of every member of the crew on the way out and thanking them for being who they were. "It was like he was not expecting to ever come back."

At the bar I caught Cathy's eye. She finished the order she was doing then came over. I asked her what Malcolm had said to her at the end of his last visit to the bar and ordered a glass of water.

As she broke the seal on a fresh bottle of water and poured it, she said, "He said that I shouldn't expect to see you wave good bye. I took it to mean that you would be here long after me. But then I only planned to be here a few months, but I've been here nearly three years."

"I think he meant something different, by it." I laid my left forearm across the bar, drained the glass and put the glass down next to the stump. For a moment, her eyes showed surprise and shock. She seemed on the verge of screaming, but then she looked at my face and the panic left her.

"He did that?" she asked, her eyes pointing at the place where my hand should be connected.

I nodded; to say anything at that point seemed superfluous.

"And where's your hand?"

"He took it with him to get it out of the box it was in."

"He's going to bring it back?" Cathy asked.

"No, I'm going to his place to pick it up." For a moment I thought that 'it' could have been anything from a parcel to a mobile phone, but in this instance was my left hand.

"In that case, I'll wish you good bye and good luck. I hope we meet again someday." She leant forward and kissed me on the cheek, then turned to continue with her job.

I sat there for a full minute, before I headed for the staff area to pick up my things. On the way I let the door crew know that I was leaving early, "because there is something I need to pick up."

The weather was cool when I started my walk. I left my car where I had parked it, because I was unsure that I could drive it with a missing hand. In about ten minutes I was on the street where he lived. I approached the building and at the external door operated the entry-phone.

Malcolm voice answered, "Great! You made it. Your hand is waiting for you on the coffee table. Come in when I buzz the door. I'm the second on the right when you turn left at the top of the stairs. I'm sorry, but the lift is out of action."

There was a rasping buzz and the door gave when I pushed. The stairs lead up from the lobby. Three floors up I turned left and headed for the second door down the corridor. I knocked with my remaining hand. "Come in! The door's open. Make yourself comfortable!"

I opened the door and went down a short corridor; the first on the right was a bathroom, but the next door, on the left was a room with chairs and a coffee table. I sat on the sofa next to the coffee table and looked at my hand lying there.

What was I meant to do? Pick it up? Try to reattach it? Wait for Malcolm to appear to attach it for me? I sat there and noticed the oval of skin on the hands wrist stump that matched the oval of skin at the end of my arm.

Malcolm entered the room bearing a tray on which two plates steamed. "I don't reckon that you've had a decent home-cooked meal in a long time, so I thought I'd make us supper. Would you mind moving your hand?"

I leant forward and picked up my hand and placed it in my lap. It was an odd sensation feeling from both sides of the contact, but only one side being in the correct place relative to the rest of my body.

He slid the tray onto the table. On the plates were fluffy-looking omelettes and scattering of peas. "I know it isn't much really, but it's got to be better than the kebab van outside the club, right?"

"Do I have to eat one-handed?" I asked.

"Before I put your hand back, may I ask you a question?"

"Will my answer effect whether you put my hand back?" I countered.

"No." He did not seem sure that this was the answer he ought to be giving.

"In that case, may I have my hand back first, then we eat then you can ask what questions you like, but I can't guarantee that you'll like the answers."

"Fair enough. Give me your hand and hold out your arm!"

I held my hand out in my right hand and held up my short left arm. He brought the two ovals of skin into contact and rubbed them together. It began feeling like the skin was rubbing together and then my arm was following the movements he was making with my hand; I was reunited with my hand, but the exact moment it had happened had passed me by.

He indicated the cutlery by the plates and said, "Eat!"

I moved the plate to my lap and ate; it was a good omelette. He sat next to me and ate too. I was relieved that he did not try and make conversation; I was trying to process this evening's events.

Omelette eaten, I returned the plate to the tray. He added his to mine and took the tray away, but quickly returned.

"You had a question," I stated.

"Yes, but may I provide a little background first."

"Please do." A question without context is not likely to get the correct answer.

"A couple of days ago, I did an audition with an agency, because, as you have seen, I do some magic tricks. I took my sister to act as my assistant. They wanted to know if we were the act and I had to tell them that my sister was only helping me out and I would be looking for permanent assistant and perhaps they could find me one. They told me to come back when I had an assistant of my own. So, would you like to be my assistant?"

I said, "Yes," and have never looked back with regret since; Astonishment, yes, but never regret.