The next bit.

Well, the story is flowing along, but I'm about a day behind by my reckoning - I'm going to try chunking out more later on today.

We paid for our coffees, and stood up to move on. As we did so, one of the local beggars, a man with badly-shorn short hair, tangled beard and with a hound on a string walked towards us and muttered something.
�I�m sorry?� said Taylor.
The beggar muttered again and stretched out his hand.
�I don�t understand what you�re saying, but the answer�s �no� anyway�,� he answered. Then the beggar, as far as I could see through his beard, went red, then clenched his fists before stomping off.
We wandered into the dark and stale interior of the Hobgoblin. Taylor went off to the bogs, and I got the drinks in at the tiny bar. Apart from the darkness, the whole place was sticky from the floor up, the testament of years of Real Ale drinking and copious smoking. The ceilings were a thick yellow. The air was a comforting fuggy mix of stale beer, staler carpet and ashtrays. The bar consisted of a few tables and chairs, all in dark, cracked wood, then a row of tiny cubicles that gave the place an air of antiquity, although I knew that it had only been done up like that in the 1990�s. A few office workers were perched on the windowsills and bench outside the front; Inside, the noise level was beginning to crank up as people started to leave work and come for a beer or ten. In one corner, some guy who�d obviously decided to give up for the day at lunchtime, judging by his red, sweaty face and the way he was swaying, was chunking his money into the fruit machine and cursing half to himself. He gave the start button slap after great slap, and thumped the machine each time it swallowed a pound without giving a return. The nudge buttons flashed, and he�d stand on tiptoe to peer into the bowels of the machine and try to work out which symbols were on the reels, then crouch down and look upwards for the same purpose. All his concentration was fixed on trying to win, most likely just the money he�d already put in the thing. Taylor came back, and we got a seat next to the window. We supped our beers in silence for a while as we watched Mr. Gambler get more and more infuriated with the machine. He ran out of cash at one point: He put his last thirty pence in it, then slugged back his beer and went to the bar. He slapped a twenty pound note on the bar.
�I�ll have another, thanks. And can I have the change in coins?�
One beer and a handful of metal later, he fed all the money into the machine and began his frenzied squinting and slapping again. Taylor smiled over his beer at this.
�Fruit machines are bloody stupid.�
�Only if you�re the mug playing them.�
� True. Look at this poor bastard here � he�s so obsessed with the idea of winning, he doesn�t even notice that he�s already lost.�
Gambling Man was clearly getting angrier and angrier. He scowled, he patted, he coaxed, he cursed. But it made no difference.
�You�ll see, he�ll give up, then someone�ll come along, put in fifty pence or whatever and clean it out. Then he�ll be back another day, and the same thing will happen.�
�Hope springs eternal�.
�There�s a difference between being optimistic and just being a fucking idiot�, retorted Taylor. �This bloke just doesn�t know when to admit defeat. That�s the problem with luck, I guess; Never comes when you want it to, and when it does, it�s never exactly what you expect�.
�So was it luck you found Beattie, then?�
Taylor paused, had a drink, looked straight at me, and smiled.
�Of course it was. It wasn�t as if I�d specifically gone off in search of her. There�s a phrase, something about how chance favours someone who�s well-prepared. You ever heard something like that?�
I hadn�t. He waved his hand, and continued.
�Whatever, you mentioned in one of your last emails that you thought she was in Indonesia or Malaysia or something. I knew what she looked like, and I knew she worked as an English teacher. You see � I was prepared, in a way, and chance happened. I was in Bangkok; I was walking through Khao San Road, where, as you know, most foreigners and would-be teachers congregate; and I was walking past a bar, when we both know how much English teachers drink; and there she was. The lucky meeting happened in part because of preparation.�
�Now that�s clever, Taylor, and I�d have done the same, but I wouldn�t have come across her, given the same circumstances.�
�That�s because, right now, you�re looking through the glass darkly. You don�t expect anything good to happen to you right now. You don�t think you�re going to find the crock of gold. And you know what? That hurts. Here I am � isn�t this something good?�
And he opened his arms and grinned broadly.
There was a sudden, loud �FUCK!� from Mr. Gambler as his money finally ran out. He finished his beer, then waddled off to the toilet.
�Watch this�, said Taylor, and he went up to the fruit machine and put in a coin. He pressed the start button a couple of times, then pressed the nudge buttons, then he gambled, and started grinning broadly. Two minutes later, he pressed collect, and out clunked twenty-five pounds.
�See? Fortune favours patience and preparation. Someone puts twenty quid in � hell, it�s got to be worth putting the pound in, even if you just get that back. Well, that�ll pay for a few more beers.�
At this point, Gambling Man, returned, got another beer and lumbered back to the machine.
�I�m not going to tell him�, Taylor said, gulped his beer, and we both lit up our fags.

We watched the late afternoon crowds slowly change composition, from mothers with young children and older people, all dressed in casual clothes, to people in suits and formal wear tottering into the humid streets from the rarefied air-condition climes of their offices, then heading towards home or bar. Friday night was coming, and time to play. The pub crowd swelled and spilled onto the pavement, a swarm of relaxed post-work nattering, and there was the choppy susurrus of talk and laughter. The street echoed with the clatter of footfalls and the sound of passing traffic heading towards the Oracle and Castle Street.
�Now notice him�, Taylor suddenly said. He gestured towards a far corner, where sat a guy of about the same age as us, alone. He was counting his money, then looking at his pint, which he was gripping for dear life, then looking at his money again and sighing.
�Now he is the antithesis of our fat chum here�, he continued, �too damn frightened to let go and enjoy himself or spend his money at all.�
�He might just be skint.�
�He�s sat there since we came in and has had two sips of his beer, and he�s got enough on him for another. He opened his wallet and counted what he had a few minutes ago.�
�So he doesn�t want to spend.�
�Exactly! He�s a tightfist. Why else is he on his own? He�s done nothing but sit by himself, stare at his solitary beer, sigh and count his cash. If you have money, spend it �that�s what it�s there for � but don�t throw it away. Fat machine man just made me twenty quid richer, and now I�m going to spend it sensibly, on alcohol.�
�Good idea. Another one here, then move on?�
�Why not?�
As Taylor went to the bar, Mr. Fruit Machine erupted again and gave the thing a thump. He stomped around, and lurched for the bar, but was evidently a bit too pissed, because as he negotiated round the crowd he thumped into the tightfist�s table, not only spilling his drink but also scattering all the coins that he had carefully been stacking on the top.
�Oh shit! Sorry mate!� The beer had spilled all over the guy�s crotch. He leaped up, clearly furious.
�Look what you�ve done! And me money all over the floor!�
�Sorry�what was it you were drinking, eh?�
The tightfist subsided into grumbles and whines, but was eventually placated by a pint of beer � in fact, I�m pretty sure it was a more expensive beer than he�d had previously. It was gradually getting warmer and more humid inside, and the beer was flowing easily by now, as was the talk. Taylor and I chatted about our travels, about the various bars we�d been to and with whom � easy flowing banter, charming and pointless in the warmth. Eventually, we hauled ourselves out.
�Right, which way now?�
�How about the Turks? I haven�t been there for a while. It�s that direction.�
We crossed the street to The George Hotel, then down Kings Street, past Mothercare and Burger King, then we turned into Duke Street. A welcome gust of wind took the edge off the heat, but scattered dust and litter and old newspapers. Walking towards the bridge, we saw a small group of beggars, huddled into the porch of the old Ship hotel. A couple of them were just lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling: three others were sitting and drinking and bickering fiercely with each other. One of the supine, an utterly miserable looking woman, was mouthing silent words into the air rhythmically and repetitively. Her arguing companions were obviously covering some very well-worn topic, something concerning who had taken what from whom and done what to somebody else, and each of the three had taken entrenched positions. They gestured and shouted, then fell into glowering exhausted silence, then reiterate what they had just said. They�d probably been going on about the same thing for months.

LETTERS
Reading Evening Post, July __, ____. Send letters addressed to the Editor to the Reading Post, Richfield Avenue, Reading. Emails must contain a name and address, which can be withheld on request.

Letter of the day
Regarding Councillor Knotwood�s suggestion for a new hostel for the homeless in Silver Street, I feel I must speak up. I am not one to write to newspapers in general, nor am I one to complain, but I have to stand up and be counted on this issue. We do not need a homeless hostel in the centre of Reading, and certainly not in Silver Street where I and many other elderly and respectable residents live. It is not a case of �not in my back yard�. I would not want to inflict this home and its crime-prone inhabitants on anyone living in our town. There are enough beggars as it is. They are a shocking sight on the streets and are frequently aggressive and dangerous. No wonder businesses look elsewhere when they want to set up headquarters, and it is little surprise that we have so few tourists.
If we must have homeless hostels, why not put them on former military bases, which are far from our town centres? Then they would get a job soon enough.
Mr. Bob Gouge
Silver Street
Reading
Swimming in memories
I would like to say thank you, Evening Post, for printing the old photograph of the King�s Meadow Lido (June 30th). It brought back many happy memories for me, especially as I can be seen in the far left of the picture, wearing the striped bathing costume. I and my friends, Dolly Watson and Margery Toodod, who have both sadly passed away recently, spent almost every day of summer there when we were children. It is such a shame it had to close � but perhaps now it will be restored to its former glory, instead of the vandalised shell it is. Thank you.
Dorothy (Dot) Mathersley
Mander Court
Reading
Hunting rage
I, along with many of the citizens of Reading, enjoy the traditional pursuits of fishing and hunting. They are rights that all English people are entitled to, through centuries of fighting for them. Yet I feel I speak for the silent majority when I say that this government has gone far too far in pushing for a total ban on hunting. I was one of many who protested outside the House of Commons on this issue, and I was shocked by the behaviour of our police forces. I always thought they were there to enforce the letter of the law, not trample on our freedoms. Our protest was friendly and civil, yet they treated us as though we were the worst kind of anarchists and revolutionaries. First this government sells us to Europe, and now it is creating the absolutely worst kind of socialist dictatorship to oppress all right thinking people. I know, and am sure, that the people of Reading will speak as one voice and vote this government out at the next election.
Sue Stout
Councillor, UKIP
Highdown Close
Emmer Green
Reading
Loopy idea
Has the Borough Council gone stark raving mad? I refer to their scheme to make the Inner Distribution Road a one way route. Not only would it make the already terrible traffic situation worse, it would also add forty-five minutes to my journey to work during the rush hour. Come on, council � do something right with my council tax money for once. How about widening the roads?
Nigel Chadwick
Via email
Thanks a ton
I would like to say a big �thank you� via your letters page to the lady who helped me to my feet last Friday. I was carrying my shopping through Smelly Alley when I stumbled on a loose paving slab and fell to the ground. As I am quite a large lady, and am on disability benefit because of my size, I could not lift myself up, and lay there in some distress for several minutes, while people walked around me. Fortunately, there are some Good Samaritans in Reading, and the lady in the floral dress with short blond hair helped me up. Bless you, and I hope your back is better.
I also think the council should do something concerning paving slabs.
Name Withheld.

Stop knocking our town!
Alright, we all know that Reading isn�t the most beautiful or exciting city in the whole wide world, but is that an excuse to always be making fun of it? I find myself getting increasingly annoyed these days at those who think it�s fine to rib us or put us down. So we have terrible traffic � so does London. So we have drug abuse and related crime � show me a place that doesn�t. So we don�t have much in the way of picturesque and historical buildings � isn�t everywhere the same these days? So our idea of entertainment is either snooker at the Hexagon or getting drunk for the whole weekend � tell me how that�s different from other towns in the region. So the centre is virtually hostage to teenagers and hooligans every Friday and Saturday night � what�s new?
Look at what we do have � enviable transport links, easy access to the capital, and picturesque countryside just outside the town, as well as the Thames and Kennet � and, of course, the wonders of the Oracle shopping centre itself. So come on � let�s stick up for Our Town, and tell the jokers where to go!
Bill Laud
Kendrick Road
Reading
Eight: Reading is Hell
Fowler�s ministry did not last long, for he had many enemies among the Anglicans, one of whom called him �the author of most of the evil in the town��some years later he was succeeded by the Rev Thomas Juice�.
Daphne Phillips, The Story of Reading
And so Dan and Taylor creep towards the Turk�s Head in London Road as the sun begins to set. I am actually creeping at some distance behind them, hence the reason why Dan hasn�t seen me for a while. When the breeze blew, it flung the above part of the newspaper at me, which I have decided to include. It�s interesting, isn�t it, how the letters page of a local paper tells you so much of the people of a town. An outsider, reading this, would conclude that the citizens of this fair town are parochial, suspicious, elderly, overweight and very slightly mad. They would, however, not be entirely accurate. Reading a newspaper is a whole different kettle of fish from reading a novel, and the letters page in particular is a very odd fish indeed. For one thing, all papers have an agenda of one kind or another, depending on who their proprietors are. The Guardian, for example, is well-known for its left-wing, liberal-leaning views and opinions. The Daily Mail regards itself as the paper of sensible Middle England, although reading it actually resembles watching a barely tolerated uncle dying of an apoplexy. The Sun makes no apologies � it is smutty, chatty and up for a laugh, never truly serious about anything. Then you have to consider what kind of person would actually be so worked up about something that they feel the need to write to their paper. And remember, the nationals only print a selection of the printable each day. The need to write to a local paper in the hope of changing something: well, it generally smacks of a quiet, futile despair. No, in order to read a newspaper well, first one must negotiate the torrent of evasions, half-truths, exaggerations and downright lies that flood out of each page. In short, one must learn not only to read between the lines, but also to consider the significance of what is written. Hence my title: Reading is Hell.
Yes, I knew you thought I was going to start making fun of the town, but I�m doing that already, thank you very much. Rather, in this latest absurd interlude I wanted to think about the challenges that face the reader who wants to be honest and engage the text actively, rather than lazily letting the whole lot wash over one unchallenged. It is hard; to actively read requires a difficult leap of the imagination and mental courage. Most people passively accept what they are told or what stares up at them from the page. Such are literalists; all they see are the letters, words and phrases as is; they do not understand, because of the pedestrian way that they approach the task, that words have another life, a secret message behind their generally imputed meaning. The diligent, active reader, on the other hand, can infer greater levels of meaning by challenging what he or she reads. Religious books, such as the Torah , the Bible and the Koran, or Sufi tracts like Rumi�s Mathnawi, actually tell the reader that the true value is not to be found in the words by themselves, but in their hidden import. The literalist cannot see this, however, and insists on the literal truth of what is written in his or her religious book of choice; such people become fundamentalists, and insist on wearing excessively large beards, or not wearing particular types of clothing, or generally not enjoying oneself. They call themselves religious and spiritual, but nothing could be further from the truth; they cling to a single, solid meaning of the word, and are then stuck in a narrow, moribund world of literal meanings where the spirit cannot soar. And thus they make reading Hell, because their limited perception of meaning makes it so.
The inquiring reader is very different. By understanding that a word can conjure up many possibilities; by knowing that phrases may have an idiomatic meaning as well as a literal one; by sensing that a story, such as a creation myth, is a tale to try and explain a circumstance rather than a description of something that actually happened; by asking questions back at the text, by challenging it to show its true shape, the diligent reader becomes enlightened and liberated. But to get to that plateau of freedom is difficult and harsh, as it means that one has to cast aside assumptions and expectations and read in a very different way. Not only that, but the journey can be a frightening one, once one realises that each and every written thing carries denotations and connotations, meanings coiled within meanings. In order to reach the light, once again reading must be Hell. And it can give one a terrible headache.
Let us take, as an example, one of the letters to the Reading Evening Post above. Remember, we have to evade the surface meaning and try to dig for what else there may be. Let us use the one titled �Hunting Rage�. Firstly, notice the title. The writer herself will not have chosen this � instead, it must have been bestowed by a sub-editor. What is the sub-editor telling us here? Is he being neutral? Is he saying that hunters are angry? Or is he actually enraged by the fact of hunting? Now notice the letter itself. It consists of eight sentences and is organised as a single paragraph. The writer uses the first person singular pronoun eight times � a sign of insistence, or a symbol of an underlying lack of confidence? Does she actually represent the views of others, or does she merely hope so? Why is she so upset about the police doing their job, which at other times and circumstances she surely approves of? Why is she so upset? And why is she so afraid? As we ask the questions, an image comes to mind � that of an essentially lonely, insecure person who hides in a group and conceals her true feelings behind bluster and bombast. As you can see, careful reading unmasks the hand and the mind behind the text. Try it with this text; can you see me smiling between the lines? Remember, what you read is not necessarily what you should be reading; nor can you be sure if I am the voice of the author, or his puppet. Now let�s get back to Dan and Taylor.