Thirteenth Candle

'The Thirteenth Candle?' Well, it is meant to be a logical title derived from what I am trying to do. I am trying to 'light a candle' which is far better than 'cursing the darkness'. This is my thirteenth book which, I hope, will be my Thirteenth Candle.

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Excerpt:

You may think it is a very little candle, perhaps one of those birthday-cake candles. But I have never had a cake of any kind with candles-never even had a birthday cake!- and now with my restricted sugar-free, low-residue diet of not more than a thousand calories is too late to bother.

So indulge me; let's pretend that this Is 'The Thirteenth Candle' even though it be as small as the candle on a doll's birthday cake.

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Mrs. Martha MacGoohoogly strode purposefully to her kitchen door, a tattered scrap of newspaper clutched in a ham-like hand. Outside, in the parched patch of weed-covered ground which served as 'back garden' she stopped and glared around like a cross bull in the mating season awaiting the advent of rivals. Satisfied-or disappointed- that there were no rivals for attention in the offing, she hurried to the broken-down fence defining the garden limits.

Gratefully propping her more than ample bosom on a worm-eaten post, she shut her eyes and opened her mouth. 'Hey, Maud!' she roared across the adjoining gardens, her voice echoing and reverberating from the nearby factory wall. 'Hey, Maud, where are ya ?' Closing her mouth and opening her eyes she stood awaiting the results.

From the direction of the next-house-but-one came the sound of a plate dropping and smashing, and then the kitchen door of THAT house opened and a small, scraggy woman came hopping out, agitatedly wiping her hands on her ragged apron. 'Well?' she growled dourly. 'What d'ya want?'

'Hey, Maud, you seen this?' yelled back Martha as she waved the tattered piece of newsprint over her head.

'How do I know if I seen it if I haven't seen it first?' snorted Maud. 'I might a done, then, on the other hand, I might not. What is it, anyhow another sex scandal?'

Mrs. Martha MacGoohoogly fumbled in the pocket of her apron and withdrew large horn-rimmed spectacles lavishly besprinkled with small stones. Carefully she wiped the glasses on the bottom of her skirt before putting them on and patting her hair in place over her ears. Then noisily wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve, she yelled out, 'It's from the Dominion, my nephew sent it to me.' 'Dominion? What shop is that? Have they got a sale on?' called Maud with the first show of interest.

Martha snorted in rage and disgust, 'Naw!' she shouted in exasperation. 'Don't you know NUTHINK?

Dominion, you know Canada. Dominion of Canada. My nephew sent it to me. Wait a mo, I'll be right over.'

Hoisting her bosom off the fence, and tucking her glasses into her apron pocket, she sped down the rough garden and into the lane at the bottom. Maud sighed with resignation and slowly went to meet her.

T. Lobsang Rampa