Set by Didier D'Argent So . . . 5 per cent of us think The Domesday Book was a novel by Dan Brown. We asked for an extract. If you felt like being more literary, we offered you the book as written by Umberto Eco

Report by Ms de Meaner

First of all, a sad announcement. Margaret Rogers, aka My Day, aka Roger Margison, has died. She started reading the New Statesman as an undergraduate at Sheffield University during the war, although her first NS competition win was not until 1972. She was also a regular comp setter. Margaret's lifelong ambition was to publish a novel and she made several attempts over the decades, but only succeeded in completing one last year. In the past few months it was rejected by several publishers, but indefatigably she had sent it off again just before she died, and was, according to her daughter, "in a state of optimism". She was thus spared the disappointment of its return. A "keen conversationalist (and argumentative) right up until her death", she will be sadly missed.

This week, hon menshes to Anne Du Croz, John Barham, Bill Greenwell, J Seery, Adrian Fry, John O'Byrne and Shirley Curran. £25 to the winners, the best of whom (El Basilio) also gets the Tesco vouchers.

The Day of the Dome

Langdon opened the dusty tome. Was this what he'd travelled improbably around Paris for? Just two lines: "The Dome has had its day" and "Jot when on a violin". What the heck did that mean? How can you jot when on a violin?

It just didn't add up. He tried playing a violin while jotting. Impossible. He jotted "When" on the side of the instrument. He stood on it and jotted.

He stared at the letters swimming before his eyes . . . Then he saw it: Jot when on a violin! Olivia Newton-John! But what the heck did she have to do with domes? He knew all her songs: "If Not for You", "You're the One", "Xana . . ." That was it! Xanadu! The stately pleasure-dome! He couldn't believe it! For centuries the Priory of Xanadu had conspired, fought, yes, killed to keep the secret of Kubla Khan's tone-deaf blonde Australian mistress . . .

David Silverman

The Name of the Dome

Rufus Merkin awoke slowly. The pigs had kept him warm but they had insanitary habits. Keeping them outdoors was best, most said. But then you had to have a door.

He shook his head, winced and cursed, then cursed again as he heard the occult, alien sound of Norman French. If it wasn't them, it was the Scotch. He'd heard furtive talk of joining everyone else up in some mystical realm called England. That was dangerous and insane, but heady.

Rufus had enough pigs to count for something in the local community and he'd once won a mead-drinking contest. It was an onerous responsibility, so he faced the Frenchy, grim-faced.

The intruder brazenly wanted to know how many pigs Rufus had, to be noted on a scroll. Rufus looked at the scroll. The number 666 leapt out at him. He couldn't read or write, but he knew that spelt trouble.

Basil Ransome-Davies

No 3947 Gambling heaven

Set by Valerie Yule

Gambling is a human instinct to take risks to survive. We want alternative uses of this instinct to brighten lives without losing money.

Max 120 words by 14 September
E-mail: comp@newstatesman.co.uk

Post your comment

Please note: you will need to login or register before you can comment on the website