A rebel without a clue.

I. Dogshit Alley and the End of Grande Civilization I left the flat for Starbucks on Street Lane. One grande mug of Café Estima Blend® and a brownie later, I’d had enough. Sweet indifference in a paper cup — and no Wi-Fi. So I walked back through what I’d christened Dogshit Alley, the shortcut across the Romans Estate. They still call it The Romans, though it’s no Rome. A turn-of-the-century suburb sagging into 1950s council spill-over, trailing off into The Bumps — a park more by accident than design. I lived just the other side. “The Romans” felt wrong. More Gypsy than Ravenna. More tired than tragic. I don’t mind a park’s edges being dumping grounds for dogs, but that path was a wager with disgust — hop, glance, dodge. Miss one pile and comedy strikes. I still remember 1985: I fell flat into a steaming one. Oh, the smell. Oh, the shame. The “lake” in The Bumps was no lake. A brown puddle with an upturned Presto trolley sticking out of it like some exiled relic. Ribbon-shaped, half ...

31 October. Morning slow to take shape, the light a pale smear above the roofs. The house cold round the edges; you grind coffee, fill the French press, let the steam lift. That smell—burnt caramel and earth—still enough to bring a kind of grace. You step out to Sainsbury’s, collar up, pavement slick with leaves. Lola’s gruel collected—£3.29 less of zero—and left waiting back at the house. Duty done, you carry only the quiet of it as you head toward town. Braine Road half-asleep: van doors, bin lids, a dog impatient somewhere. The air smells of slow decay—leaves, damp brick, a hint of diesel. Everything simmering down for winter, resigned, graceful in retreat. North Street folds into York Road, traffic grumbling, drizzle needling the pavement. Then Joseph C Roberts, Independent Family Funeral Director. Glass so polished it returns the sky, clouds smeared like fingerprints of light. A hearse idles, limousine behind, engines breathing their quiet smoke. Inside, lilies, mute...

He woke heavy but not broken. The night had left its film — beer, blue cheese, the uneasy truce between body and will — yet the morning light over Leeds was clean enough to try again. He ate yoghurt, brewed Lavazza, and felt the quiet resolve that always arrived after excess. Day One again, but softer this time. Outside, the A64 hummed with commuters. Inside, the flat was stripped to cold air and maize drying on the sill. He liked the clarity of cold; it told the truth. Heat was lazy. Cold sharpened. By seven he’d showered, made the bed, left the window open to let the night out. Dawn lifted over Sheepscar — pigeons balancing on gables, the driver of the X98 swearing about a fault — and still he went. The bus idled through Oakwood and on toward Wetherby, past shopfronts that once were cliffs, through light that was neither fog nor sun. He thought about sobriety, about focus, about the long pattern of falling and returning. At his mother’s he found the true rhythm again. Lola waited — o...

"The day began in perfect, hard-won Order: the 4:30am rise, the deliberate trek to the Wetherby microcosm, and the execution of the mantra of entrainment at Costa by 6:30am. I was the self-entrained anchor, determined to maintain the same accord as I established on the Camino. This stillness was my work—the final proof that the journey from July’s hangover to September’s Monastery had been successful. But the Ego seeks friction, and the world always obliges? The initial, subtle test was the intrusion of the external world's Umbra—the voice of "everyone" channeled through my nephew, Finley, with the question: "Why don't you get a job?" This simple line was a violation of the Daniel/Finley sanctuary, a reminder that the world defines my Order by income, not by the life-or-death necessity of Accord. I had successfully identified the two faces of the Wetherby Chaos: the aggressive, boundary-violating "Troll," Andy Stoney, to be avoided, and the pa...

ACT I – A Pincho Too Far. Setting: Casa Alberto, Tudela. A dim, narrow bar smelling faintly of bleach, Rioja, and fried cartilage. The counter is cluttered with half-drained glasses, pinchos under glass domes, and a small handwritten sign: “Menú del Día — Oreja de Cerdo.” The lighting flickers slightly, unsure whether to flatter or expose. Characters: DANIEL (The Peregrine): worn, wry, a pilgrim of mixed conviction. Sandals dusty, eyes alert to absurdity. ALBERTO: the barman. Mid-forties, dead behind the eyes but efficient. Moves like someone who stopped listening years ago. THE SHADOW: a gaunt man in cheap sportswear, glassy-eyed, perpetually hovering — left, right, forward, back. His presence is an itch that won’t scratch. THE PIG’S EAR: glistening, stubborn, and silent. --- [Lights rise. The hum of the fridge. A muted TV showing a bullfight rerun.] ALBERTO (flat): Oreja de cerdo? DANIEL (hesitant): Sí… why not? ALBERTO (shrugs, disappears into the kitchen). [THE SHADOW appears, circ...