READ OUR WORK Homework 2022
Deadline: 13th December
Brief: Essay: write an essay/article/summary about the last three years with Covid at our heels. Do you have thoughts, regrets, insights, about the effect it’s had on your life? Maybe you’d like to add further thoughts on ‘where do we go from here?’
Brief: Essay: write an essay/article/summary about the last three years with Covid at our heels. Do you have thoughts, regrets, insights, about the effect it’s had on your life? Maybe you’d like to add further thoughts on ‘where do we go from here?’
Lockdown Lessons
My first thought is that, despite the horror of it all, in the early days of lockdown, improbably the world seemed a kinder place, or at least there was the possibility of living a more kindly and thoughtful life. There were countless examples of people going above and beyond to help others cope with our greatly altered circumstances. For the most part, there was a sense of ‘we’re in this together’ and efforts were made to make the best of it. People may not have liked or agreed with the restrictions, but they complied. Perhaps it restored some faith in humanity.
Enforced and unwelcome as it was, the lockdown gave many people the opportunity to stop and take stock of what they were doing, questioning and taking time to reassess their lives. Some made life changing decisions: deciding to change jobs or negotiate a more realistic work balance, commuting less and working from home; others looked to relocate away from cities to a rural environment.
People saw their local neighbourhood in a new light because they had the time to go for a walk during the permitted exercise break and began to take note and appreciate the world of nature right there on their doorsteps. Others found new hobbies or revived old ones: there was time to read, to paint, to build models, write that novel.
The role of technology in our lives became even more apparent and important. Skype and Zoom became the norm, enabling contacts, essential to make the work situation effective and of course maintaining contact with family and friends. Many leisure activities too were saved because they could go ‘on line.’ Supermarket deliveries boomed, as did deliveries of just about everything else.
The major breakthrough by the Oxford Astra Zeneca scientists, successfully bringing a vaccine to market in record time is having spin off effects as the testing regime they used is being adopted for other drugs, speeding up research and work in repurposing existing drugs.
Covid is still out there but we are learning to live with it. So, have the positives stayed with us? Despite what’s happened is the world a slightly better place? Well, having just listened to the news: strikes, recession, rising cost of living, more strikes, increasing waiting lists, oil protesters, on and on it goes. So much discontent. I’m trying to focus on some positive outcomes from the pandemic but struggle to see my kinder place. It’s hard to believe it all happened. Are there really no lessons learnt?
Linda Birch
My first thought is that, despite the horror of it all, in the early days of lockdown, improbably the world seemed a kinder place, or at least there was the possibility of living a more kindly and thoughtful life. There were countless examples of people going above and beyond to help others cope with our greatly altered circumstances. For the most part, there was a sense of ‘we’re in this together’ and efforts were made to make the best of it. People may not have liked or agreed with the restrictions, but they complied. Perhaps it restored some faith in humanity.
Enforced and unwelcome as it was, the lockdown gave many people the opportunity to stop and take stock of what they were doing, questioning and taking time to reassess their lives. Some made life changing decisions: deciding to change jobs or negotiate a more realistic work balance, commuting less and working from home; others looked to relocate away from cities to a rural environment.
People saw their local neighbourhood in a new light because they had the time to go for a walk during the permitted exercise break and began to take note and appreciate the world of nature right there on their doorsteps. Others found new hobbies or revived old ones: there was time to read, to paint, to build models, write that novel.
The role of technology in our lives became even more apparent and important. Skype and Zoom became the norm, enabling contacts, essential to make the work situation effective and of course maintaining contact with family and friends. Many leisure activities too were saved because they could go ‘on line.’ Supermarket deliveries boomed, as did deliveries of just about everything else.
The major breakthrough by the Oxford Astra Zeneca scientists, successfully bringing a vaccine to market in record time is having spin off effects as the testing regime they used is being adopted for other drugs, speeding up research and work in repurposing existing drugs.
Covid is still out there but we are learning to live with it. So, have the positives stayed with us? Despite what’s happened is the world a slightly better place? Well, having just listened to the news: strikes, recession, rising cost of living, more strikes, increasing waiting lists, oil protesters, on and on it goes. So much discontent. I’m trying to focus on some positive outcomes from the pandemic but struggle to see my kinder place. It’s hard to believe it all happened. Are there really no lessons learnt?
Linda Birch
Changing Lives
I feel that the last two and a half years have aged me more than I expected, and I’m not sure if Covid is partly responsible.
On the 16 March 2020 our lives changed for ever. Covid 19 was rampant. We were to stay in, not meet up with friends or family. Everything was cancelled, like some dystopian world.
My generation was lucky enough not to live through a world war. We grew up in a time when life was improving for most people. So, when the pandemic hit China, at first we dismissed it as something happening elsewhere. It was almost unbelievable that we seemed unable to control its spread. Our worst fears were soon realised and our lives changed forever.
I know I have been lucky. No one in my family or any of my friends has died as a result of Covid. The change has been emotional rather than physical.
With all the shops closed apart from food shopping, many people started to shop online. This had a massive affect on the high street. Shopping in our towns is no longer the pleasure that it was. We are frequently directed to online shopping when the shops don’t hold the stock any more. Staying at home becomes a habit.
When our clubs and groups closed, many did not return. I will admit that a little part of me was relieved that I could enjoy less responsibility, recoil into a hermit existence, see less of the people who were acquaintances rather than friends. I’m not sure if this is a good thing. It’s very easy to become isolated and introverted. Although I like my own company, I dislike idleness, so I always have some project on the go; be it art or writing, knitting, or simply reading a book.
However, I realise the importance of getting out there again. Family is important too. When they don’t live on the doorstep, a little more effort is required to keep in touch.
Communication is a two way affair, so it’s up to me to contact friends and family as much as it is for them to contact me. So, my New Year’s resolution will be to keep as busy as I can, keep planning for the future and keep in touch with old friends as much as possible.
Maggie Storer
I feel that the last two and a half years have aged me more than I expected, and I’m not sure if Covid is partly responsible.
On the 16 March 2020 our lives changed for ever. Covid 19 was rampant. We were to stay in, not meet up with friends or family. Everything was cancelled, like some dystopian world.
My generation was lucky enough not to live through a world war. We grew up in a time when life was improving for most people. So, when the pandemic hit China, at first we dismissed it as something happening elsewhere. It was almost unbelievable that we seemed unable to control its spread. Our worst fears were soon realised and our lives changed forever.
I know I have been lucky. No one in my family or any of my friends has died as a result of Covid. The change has been emotional rather than physical.
With all the shops closed apart from food shopping, many people started to shop online. This had a massive affect on the high street. Shopping in our towns is no longer the pleasure that it was. We are frequently directed to online shopping when the shops don’t hold the stock any more. Staying at home becomes a habit.
When our clubs and groups closed, many did not return. I will admit that a little part of me was relieved that I could enjoy less responsibility, recoil into a hermit existence, see less of the people who were acquaintances rather than friends. I’m not sure if this is a good thing. It’s very easy to become isolated and introverted. Although I like my own company, I dislike idleness, so I always have some project on the go; be it art or writing, knitting, or simply reading a book.
However, I realise the importance of getting out there again. Family is important too. When they don’t live on the doorstep, a little more effort is required to keep in touch.
Communication is a two way affair, so it’s up to me to contact friends and family as much as it is for them to contact me. So, my New Year’s resolution will be to keep as busy as I can, keep planning for the future and keep in touch with old friends as much as possible.
Maggie Storer
Covid: Three Years On
I’d like to say, ‘Three Years On from Covid.’ But alas it’s still with us.
On March 11th 2020, The World Health Organisation (WHO) officially declared COVID-19 a pandemic. The first known case was found in Wuhan China in December 2019. The disease quickly spread world wide, resulting in the pandemic.
WHO Director said ‘There’s been so much attention on one word -
Let me give you some other words that matter much more and that are much more actionable.
Prevention, Preparedness, Public Health, Political leadership, and most of all, people. We’re in this together, to do the right thing with calm and protect the citizens of the world. It’s doable. I thank you.'
At that time eighty one countries had not reported any cases of the virus and fifty seven countries had reported ten cases or less. WHO was shouting loud and clear that all countries can still change the course of this pandemic.
Cases grew rapidly! The rest, as they say, is history; if you need the time line of Covid-19, look it up. Although most of it I think is etched on our brains and memories.
We all have our own story to tell, we have all been affected in some way. My own dear mum passed away February 14th 2020, there were rumblings in the press and mutterings in Government. Gel was being issued to every establishment. Then came the ‘Hands, Face and Space’ slogan. By the time it came to my mums funeral, which was three days before the official lockdown in England, people were beginning to panic. Hence Mum's many elderly friends and family wouldn’t risk the public gathering. At least we weren't subject to the stringent rules that followed after lockdown, only six people were allowed to attend any funeral. Weddings and Christenings were cancelled.
The time line of events in the UK and other countries over the next few months, and the two years following the lockdown, can be easily Googled.
For me it has left mixed emotions; losing my mum made grieving difficult; talking on the telephone to family and friends is not the same as meeting up and having a hug and a cry.
Knowing family who were losing loved ones to Covid-19, was traumatic, not being able to visit and help at a time when they couldn't go and hold hands with loved ones in their passing hours. This was all before the UK brought out the first Covid-19 vaccine.
Of course we had big debates going on; ‘Matt Hancock, wasn’t doing enough, Boris had got it all wrong.’ It was the blame game. We all stood outside our homes, every Thursday evening applauding the wonderful work the NHS were doing, despite all the problems behind the scenes, we were united as a nation, knowing these wonderful people who worked on the front line were giving it their all.
Despite some people's moaning and groaning on how things were managed, I think overall the powers that be, did a pretty good job. This was a world wide pandemic, if we hadn’t got on track pretty quick with the vaccines, we would have lost more people. Look back over two years and see how far we have come.
We all should take responsibility for how we keep moving forwards with the aftermath of Covid-19. Those that don’t or show disregard for it, probably caused more problems for others during it! We all know people who flaunted the rules, I hope they have a conscience.
One lasting memory I have of this time was when my daughter Liz and then eleven year old granddaughter Taylah, were allowed to visit ‘on the driveway of our house.’ (All masked up of course). A surprise TikTok duet was performed. Thank goodness there were lighter moments during this awful time.
Cora Boffey
I’d like to say, ‘Three Years On from Covid.’ But alas it’s still with us.
On March 11th 2020, The World Health Organisation (WHO) officially declared COVID-19 a pandemic. The first known case was found in Wuhan China in December 2019. The disease quickly spread world wide, resulting in the pandemic.
WHO Director said ‘There’s been so much attention on one word -
Let me give you some other words that matter much more and that are much more actionable.
Prevention, Preparedness, Public Health, Political leadership, and most of all, people. We’re in this together, to do the right thing with calm and protect the citizens of the world. It’s doable. I thank you.'
At that time eighty one countries had not reported any cases of the virus and fifty seven countries had reported ten cases or less. WHO was shouting loud and clear that all countries can still change the course of this pandemic.
Cases grew rapidly! The rest, as they say, is history; if you need the time line of Covid-19, look it up. Although most of it I think is etched on our brains and memories.
We all have our own story to tell, we have all been affected in some way. My own dear mum passed away February 14th 2020, there were rumblings in the press and mutterings in Government. Gel was being issued to every establishment. Then came the ‘Hands, Face and Space’ slogan. By the time it came to my mums funeral, which was three days before the official lockdown in England, people were beginning to panic. Hence Mum's many elderly friends and family wouldn’t risk the public gathering. At least we weren't subject to the stringent rules that followed after lockdown, only six people were allowed to attend any funeral. Weddings and Christenings were cancelled.
The time line of events in the UK and other countries over the next few months, and the two years following the lockdown, can be easily Googled.
For me it has left mixed emotions; losing my mum made grieving difficult; talking on the telephone to family and friends is not the same as meeting up and having a hug and a cry.
Knowing family who were losing loved ones to Covid-19, was traumatic, not being able to visit and help at a time when they couldn't go and hold hands with loved ones in their passing hours. This was all before the UK brought out the first Covid-19 vaccine.
Of course we had big debates going on; ‘Matt Hancock, wasn’t doing enough, Boris had got it all wrong.’ It was the blame game. We all stood outside our homes, every Thursday evening applauding the wonderful work the NHS were doing, despite all the problems behind the scenes, we were united as a nation, knowing these wonderful people who worked on the front line were giving it their all.
Despite some people's moaning and groaning on how things were managed, I think overall the powers that be, did a pretty good job. This was a world wide pandemic, if we hadn’t got on track pretty quick with the vaccines, we would have lost more people. Look back over two years and see how far we have come.
We all should take responsibility for how we keep moving forwards with the aftermath of Covid-19. Those that don’t or show disregard for it, probably caused more problems for others during it! We all know people who flaunted the rules, I hope they have a conscience.
One lasting memory I have of this time was when my daughter Liz and then eleven year old granddaughter Taylah, were allowed to visit ‘on the driveway of our house.’ (All masked up of course). A surprise TikTok duet was performed. Thank goodness there were lighter moments during this awful time.
Cora Boffey
…out of darkness….
I was quickly drying and dressing after my swim at my local health club. It was late afternoon and there were only a few ladies getting changed. I was not aware of the two near naked bodies sharing the space some 14 feet away until…I heard, ‘ ..knickers!’ I looked up from drying my feet
‘What you on about Karen?’
‘My knickers. I haven’t brought any’7
‘Where are they then?’
‘I must have left them on the side in the caravan.’
‘So you came here in your dress with no knickers’
‘ Well no, ‘course not. I wore my costume under my dress’
‘ Oh! Well, be a bit cold going home. Never mind put some more of this..down there, handing her friend a tin of baby powder.
I giggled very quietly as the two finished dressing and made their way fully dressed ( well one of them was) out of the changing room into the chilly November dark.
Since March 2020 these snippets of others’ lives are what is needed to remind me that though the world has changed so very much, there are still very quiet and simple scenes to show that folk care and consider one another.
Community groups did numerous kindnesses to families; shopping, meal deliveries, help with housework and child care. Bike shops spruced up machines to give to nurses and care workers and several shops donated still fresh food for those poorer families.
This service for others has continued and although the pandemic virus is no longer headline news, it is clearly here to stay. I’m sure many of us count ourselves incredibly lucky to have made new friends and become less selfish, and appreciate selfless acts shown to us.
I now believe in fate in a different way. The random nature of life, ‘what will be will be’ –
The world for a time seemed to be chaotic and populations were reduced to numbers of dead on a graph.
But with the reality that this crisis can be contained with medical breakthroughs, as well as with resources of ordinary folk , I hope the world is a kinder place.
AndieGreen.
I was quickly drying and dressing after my swim at my local health club. It was late afternoon and there were only a few ladies getting changed. I was not aware of the two near naked bodies sharing the space some 14 feet away until…I heard, ‘ ..knickers!’ I looked up from drying my feet
‘What you on about Karen?’
‘My knickers. I haven’t brought any’7
‘Where are they then?’
‘I must have left them on the side in the caravan.’
‘So you came here in your dress with no knickers’
‘ Well no, ‘course not. I wore my costume under my dress’
‘ Oh! Well, be a bit cold going home. Never mind put some more of this..down there, handing her friend a tin of baby powder.
I giggled very quietly as the two finished dressing and made their way fully dressed ( well one of them was) out of the changing room into the chilly November dark.
Since March 2020 these snippets of others’ lives are what is needed to remind me that though the world has changed so very much, there are still very quiet and simple scenes to show that folk care and consider one another.
Community groups did numerous kindnesses to families; shopping, meal deliveries, help with housework and child care. Bike shops spruced up machines to give to nurses and care workers and several shops donated still fresh food for those poorer families.
This service for others has continued and although the pandemic virus is no longer headline news, it is clearly here to stay. I’m sure many of us count ourselves incredibly lucky to have made new friends and become less selfish, and appreciate selfless acts shown to us.
I now believe in fate in a different way. The random nature of life, ‘what will be will be’ –
The world for a time seemed to be chaotic and populations were reduced to numbers of dead on a graph.
But with the reality that this crisis can be contained with medical breakthroughs, as well as with resources of ordinary folk , I hope the world is a kinder place.
AndieGreen.
Deadline:29th November
Brief: I wish: Do you harbour a wish you’ve held secret for years? Did you want to buy a valuable object, or something outrageous, or perhaps visit a faraway place, meet a certain person? Tell us about the things you have never done but wished you had…and is it possible that one day you still might fulfil your wish?
Brief: I wish: Do you harbour a wish you’ve held secret for years? Did you want to buy a valuable object, or something outrageous, or perhaps visit a faraway place, meet a certain person? Tell us about the things you have never done but wished you had…and is it possible that one day you still might fulfil your wish?
I Wish
I wish I’d not listened to my mum and dad, gone on to art school; I wish that I had. They said I would never find a career if I mixed with Bohemian types that were there. So I learned how to type at a college for girls; mixed with the middle class twin set and pearls. I wish that I’d worked in a place full of books; a library or Waterstones would have been good. I wish that I’d trained in how to cut hair; had my own business or rented a chair. I wish I’d learned pastry at catering school, making bespoke cakes would have been cool. But I’m happy with life as it’s turned out to be. I read and do art and I write just for me. Maggie Storer |
My Wish
Money was never handed on a plate, Yearning material things is not my fate. Wise words to embrace and share In a world that needs repair, Showing caring, teaching Harmony to the human race. Friendship goes hand in hand, Open heart, open mind. Raise the roof with joyous songs, Alleluia! Laughter lifts the spirits, Loyalty my last wish. Cora Boffey (Acrostic poem – using short sentence. My Wish For All.) I Hope You Dance
I wish that dance had played a greater part in my life. A perverse hope for me really, given that I have two left feet and no sense of rhythm whatsoever. But I’m not being fussy, any sort of dance would have done: it’s the combination of fitness, discipline and expression that appeals. But I never took the time to learn and consequently, other than the kitchen disco, dance has not featured very much. As a little girl I had a collection of ballerina cards (I remember ones for Margot Fonteyn and Anna Pavlova) but ballet classes were out of the question. At junior school we did country dancing and I loved that. I tried a little ballroom for a short time (without success) and there was a very happy interlude with line dancing (that may have been helped by the trip to the pub after class). But that’s it; only in my dreams am I auditioning in Flashdance or dazzling with kicks and flicks in a jive, and you should see my cha- cha and Charleston, not to mention my amazing Argentine tango! During lockdown, looking for a new interest, I found ballet classes on You Tube – some Silver Swans (ballet-based exercise classes specifically for ‘seniors’) and Ballet Based Movement with the lovely Susan and Elizabeth (mother and daughter). Now good fortune has led me to a live class here where I live. It’s too late by far of course. Old bones are set and there is no way that they will work like they should But, it’s do what you can without damaging yourself, have a good laugh, and let your imagination do the rest. I’ll never make the corps de ballet but the benefit is the strength, balance and finesse required. It’s brilliant exercise for an oldie, challenging, and something to aim for. So, dance on (like no-one is watching). Linda Birch |
We'll keep a welcome…
Being of Welsh heritage I have always loved to sing. A passion inherited from my father and his two brothers. The three had a love of jazz – which were the pop songs in that era.
They never performed beyond church and school choirs but old-fashioned Christmas singsongs around Gran’s jolly piano playing are a special memory. My uncle Alan and family emigrated to Canada in the 1950s and he eventually began the first Duke Ellington fan club, meeting his idol on several occasions. Also, Alan’s daughter married a lad f rom Anglesey who she met at a choir convention in Toronto and they settled in Wales.
My proudest achievement in high school was when we joined with the boys' school in the sixth form and were on the BBC local radio (in Newport Gwent) performing Mendelssohn’s Elijah with a famous Welsh baritone, tenor and soprano.
So I have a ‘choir’ voice. But my dearest wish has been to have the confidence and talent to sing solo. Just a favourite song from a musical would do - ‘If I loved you’ from Carousel or any song from the more operatic score of Phantom of the Opera. I know every word from every score ! But I’ll just carry on doing ‘in car karaoke’, loud if I’m alone, or turned to serenade random drivers on the motorway if I am a passenger.
My body is gradually stopping me from doing high kicks and cartwheels (huh!?!) but… in the words of George Gershwin
‘...they can’t take that [my singing] away from me …'
Andie Green
Being of Welsh heritage I have always loved to sing. A passion inherited from my father and his two brothers. The three had a love of jazz – which were the pop songs in that era.
They never performed beyond church and school choirs but old-fashioned Christmas singsongs around Gran’s jolly piano playing are a special memory. My uncle Alan and family emigrated to Canada in the 1950s and he eventually began the first Duke Ellington fan club, meeting his idol on several occasions. Also, Alan’s daughter married a lad f rom Anglesey who she met at a choir convention in Toronto and they settled in Wales.
My proudest achievement in high school was when we joined with the boys' school in the sixth form and were on the BBC local radio (in Newport Gwent) performing Mendelssohn’s Elijah with a famous Welsh baritone, tenor and soprano.
So I have a ‘choir’ voice. But my dearest wish has been to have the confidence and talent to sing solo. Just a favourite song from a musical would do - ‘If I loved you’ from Carousel or any song from the more operatic score of Phantom of the Opera. I know every word from every score ! But I’ll just carry on doing ‘in car karaoke’, loud if I’m alone, or turned to serenade random drivers on the motorway if I am a passenger.
My body is gradually stopping me from doing high kicks and cartwheels (huh!?!) but… in the words of George Gershwin
‘...they can’t take that [my singing] away from me …'
Andie Green
Deadline: 15th November
Brief: Setting: cut a picture from a newspaper or magazine of someone NOT known to you. ALSO cut out a picture of a furnished room – upmarket or plain ordinary. Write a piece in first person with your character telling us about his/her home.
Brief: Setting: cut a picture from a newspaper or magazine of someone NOT known to you. ALSO cut out a picture of a furnished room – upmarket or plain ordinary. Write a piece in first person with your character telling us about his/her home.
Poster Boy
If you had suggested nine years ago that my destiny was to be the archetypal image of homelessness…
Back in 2013 I had it all. Nice apartment, sweet girlfriend, big hairy dog and a job in a city finance company. But I got greedy. I thought I had the brains to outdo the system- play with other people's money. Invest in unsecured schemes, high risk for higher profits, always cashing in and closing down before I got caught. This may sound confusing and crazy, which it was, but that adrenaline high was addictive, the more I got away with, the more I needed to prove how clever I was.
It was the summer quiet time, when most businesses slowed to allow for annual leave. I saw an opening in a holiday bond scheme and threw half a million into a sand hotel off site construction deal.
You probably spotted the tiny anomaly in that last sentence. But I missed it. To buy off plan means plans have been passed and construction is underway. However off-site agreements is an invented phrase that means there are no plans or building permission. I should have clocked that a sand hotel has no foundation!
I lost everything except for a bag full of totally unsuitable designer clothes and my dog. For two years I begged near the underground or outside super stores. At my lowest I pleaded with shoppers to ‘let me take your trolley back’ for the pound coin. Often that went on scraps from the butchers to feed Boyo.
But look where I am now thanks to the kindness of a charitable lady from the soup kitchen who found me a room in a renovated warehouse. A bed sit – a room with a bed to sit on. Shared kitchen and bathroom - but warm and dry. The floor is wood, but I’m saving for a rug. The windows have thin net curtains, but I’m saving for a thick pair. I have my old sleeping bag, but I’m saving for blankets. Saving from my benefits and part time job collecting trolleys in the super store. The only sadness is I wasn’t allowed to bring my big hairy dog. He’s still on the streets with baggy Martha – she is a bit doolally, but he’ll look after her.
Andie Green.
If you had suggested nine years ago that my destiny was to be the archetypal image of homelessness…
Back in 2013 I had it all. Nice apartment, sweet girlfriend, big hairy dog and a job in a city finance company. But I got greedy. I thought I had the brains to outdo the system- play with other people's money. Invest in unsecured schemes, high risk for higher profits, always cashing in and closing down before I got caught. This may sound confusing and crazy, which it was, but that adrenaline high was addictive, the more I got away with, the more I needed to prove how clever I was.
It was the summer quiet time, when most businesses slowed to allow for annual leave. I saw an opening in a holiday bond scheme and threw half a million into a sand hotel off site construction deal.
You probably spotted the tiny anomaly in that last sentence. But I missed it. To buy off plan means plans have been passed and construction is underway. However off-site agreements is an invented phrase that means there are no plans or building permission. I should have clocked that a sand hotel has no foundation!
I lost everything except for a bag full of totally unsuitable designer clothes and my dog. For two years I begged near the underground or outside super stores. At my lowest I pleaded with shoppers to ‘let me take your trolley back’ for the pound coin. Often that went on scraps from the butchers to feed Boyo.
But look where I am now thanks to the kindness of a charitable lady from the soup kitchen who found me a room in a renovated warehouse. A bed sit – a room with a bed to sit on. Shared kitchen and bathroom - but warm and dry. The floor is wood, but I’m saving for a rug. The windows have thin net curtains, but I’m saving for a thick pair. I have my old sleeping bag, but I’m saving for blankets. Saving from my benefits and part time job collecting trolleys in the super store. The only sadness is I wasn’t allowed to bring my big hairy dog. He’s still on the streets with baggy Martha – she is a bit doolally, but he’ll look after her.
Andie Green.
House Proud
“Hello, welcome to my home.
This is the sitting room. As you can see, these full-length windows make it very light and airy and there’s a lovely view of the river. I had the curtains and blinds made to measure when I moved in five years ago. Just a press of a button and you can adjust them to suit.
The sofa and chairs were new too and I think they look very smart. I love the blue leather and I took a lot of time and trouble choosing the cushions. I like to arrange them just so. These wooden floors are very convenient but I thought a rug would be a nice homely touch. I found this one at the local market. It’s a good match but it does tend to creep, so I’m forever pulling it back into position. The sideboard and bookcase are interesting, don’t you think? I know it’s out of fashion but I prefer mahogany. I can make the sideboard shine so brightly you can see your reflection. I like to think no speck of dust would dare to show its face here. Very satisfying.
The mirror was a wedding present. It’s the only thing I’ve kept but I think it’s unusual and it helps to keep the room light. I’ve resisted the temptation to put up any pictures – they’re just something more to dust and always go lop-sided anyway. Same goes for ornaments. I don’t understand why people want to cling on to so many things – it’s just the detritus of life, useless clutter.
Oh dear, do I sound grumpy? As you can probably tell, I’m a very neat and tidy person: I like things to be organised, you know, a place for everything and everything in its place. I’ve always been the same. Not helped by all those years working in accountancy and stock control I suppose: we had to account for everything or else there was hell to pay. I just don’t feel comfortable if something is out of place.
Oh, how silly of me. I’m chattering on. Please let me take your coat. I’ll just move these cushions so you can sit down...”
Linda Birch
“Hello, welcome to my home.
This is the sitting room. As you can see, these full-length windows make it very light and airy and there’s a lovely view of the river. I had the curtains and blinds made to measure when I moved in five years ago. Just a press of a button and you can adjust them to suit.
The sofa and chairs were new too and I think they look very smart. I love the blue leather and I took a lot of time and trouble choosing the cushions. I like to arrange them just so. These wooden floors are very convenient but I thought a rug would be a nice homely touch. I found this one at the local market. It’s a good match but it does tend to creep, so I’m forever pulling it back into position. The sideboard and bookcase are interesting, don’t you think? I know it’s out of fashion but I prefer mahogany. I can make the sideboard shine so brightly you can see your reflection. I like to think no speck of dust would dare to show its face here. Very satisfying.
The mirror was a wedding present. It’s the only thing I’ve kept but I think it’s unusual and it helps to keep the room light. I’ve resisted the temptation to put up any pictures – they’re just something more to dust and always go lop-sided anyway. Same goes for ornaments. I don’t understand why people want to cling on to so many things – it’s just the detritus of life, useless clutter.
Oh dear, do I sound grumpy? As you can probably tell, I’m a very neat and tidy person: I like things to be organised, you know, a place for everything and everything in its place. I’ve always been the same. Not helped by all those years working in accountancy and stock control I suppose: we had to account for everything or else there was hell to pay. I just don’t feel comfortable if something is out of place.
Oh, how silly of me. I’m chattering on. Please let me take your coat. I’ll just move these cushions so you can sit down...”
Linda Birch
A New Start
Welcome to my home, especially to this lovely cosy lounge. Take a seat and I’ll tell you about it. Oh, mind Scampy; he will sit on the sofa in preference to his bed.
The house is mid terraced, 19th century, about 1890. I bought it to downsize after my husband died. I was quite nervous about buying a property on my own; the first place I have ever lived alone. As a child I always shared a bedroom with my sister, and when I left home to get married, of course I shared my homes with my husband. So everything in this room is my personal choice. I threw away most of the old furniture. It either didn’t fit or I didn’t like it.
Those two sofas are so comfy. They are my biggest expense, but worth it. Okay, I know they are beige, as is the carpet, but that means I can add colour with cushions and accessories. There are lots of cushions - I bought those too. I’m no seamstress.
The tall bookcases came as flat packs and I had help to put them together. All the books are from the old house - all sorted into authors and genres. Two shelves are full of cookery books and creative writing stuff. I keep all my art books and equipment in my studio. That sounds very grand, but it’s just the second bedroom where I do all my art. It overlooks the road so I can see who is coming and going. I write in this beautiful lounge on my laptop, where I am not disturbed by the TV in the background.
Do you like the oak chest? I use it as a coffee table, but there is lots of storage inside for more books and magazines. I found it in an antiques shop and couldn’t go home without it. The round side tables came from a reclamation yard. You can still see the wear and tear, but I like that.
The two paintings on the wall; one a robin and the other a landscape, are my own work.
I love lamps and never use the central lights in any room. They came with me from the old house.
Oh, how rude of me. Would you like a coffee? Come with me into the kitchen and I’ll show you what I’ve done in there. We can sit out in the garden, which is also very bijou. Just the right size for my new start.
Maggie Storer
Welcome to my home, especially to this lovely cosy lounge. Take a seat and I’ll tell you about it. Oh, mind Scampy; he will sit on the sofa in preference to his bed.
The house is mid terraced, 19th century, about 1890. I bought it to downsize after my husband died. I was quite nervous about buying a property on my own; the first place I have ever lived alone. As a child I always shared a bedroom with my sister, and when I left home to get married, of course I shared my homes with my husband. So everything in this room is my personal choice. I threw away most of the old furniture. It either didn’t fit or I didn’t like it.
Those two sofas are so comfy. They are my biggest expense, but worth it. Okay, I know they are beige, as is the carpet, but that means I can add colour with cushions and accessories. There are lots of cushions - I bought those too. I’m no seamstress.
The tall bookcases came as flat packs and I had help to put them together. All the books are from the old house - all sorted into authors and genres. Two shelves are full of cookery books and creative writing stuff. I keep all my art books and equipment in my studio. That sounds very grand, but it’s just the second bedroom where I do all my art. It overlooks the road so I can see who is coming and going. I write in this beautiful lounge on my laptop, where I am not disturbed by the TV in the background.
Do you like the oak chest? I use it as a coffee table, but there is lots of storage inside for more books and magazines. I found it in an antiques shop and couldn’t go home without it. The round side tables came from a reclamation yard. You can still see the wear and tear, but I like that.
The two paintings on the wall; one a robin and the other a landscape, are my own work.
I love lamps and never use the central lights in any room. They came with me from the old house.
Oh, how rude of me. Would you like a coffee? Come with me into the kitchen and I’ll show you what I’ve done in there. We can sit out in the garden, which is also very bijou. Just the right size for my new start.
Maggie Storer
The Letter
As she dried her long hair as quickly as she could, she cursed herself for not getting the latest conditioner for greying hair. This just added more anxiety to how she was feeling. Why should she be feeling anxious, she hadn’t done anything wrong? But the letter made her feel apprehensive; after all she’d never heard of William Felton, until the letter arrived.
She shivered, hoping she wasn’t going down with a cold, or maybe it was the lack of heating in the small pokey flat.
Oh what has brought me to this; never knowing where the next penny was coming from; she mumbled to herself. She thought life would get easier once the girls had left home. Struggling as a divorced mum, with no support from anyone had been difficult. Ending up with losing her home, she’d struggled to pay the mortgage, ending up in this horrid, damp flat; but she tried to stay cheerful, knowing she had done the best for the girls and kept them in a nice home until they had both flown the nest.
She picked up the letter again. ‘Please telephone Stuart Mander at your earliest convenience, to make arrangements to come into our office, to discuss the late William Fenton.’
Milly had wracked her brain as to who William Felton might be, but as her mum and dad both passed away a few years ago, she couldn't even ask them if they knew the guy; and there were no other family members who she’d care to contact to find out. All her old aunts and uncles had passed away and she’d never really got to know any cousins, as her parents preferred to just have a small circle of friends from the Church.
Anyway, this was private business, as far as she was concerned, and she’d find out soon enough.
Milly walked into Stuart Mander’s office later that day. He stood up to greet her and offered her coffee.
‘You say you have no knowledge of Mr, William Fenton; Mandy?’
‘Not the slightest’ she said, shaking her head. Oh God, it’s not someone I’ve upset is it? Something ghastly like that?’
‘No far from it,’ said the kind looking Stuart Mander. ‘I can tell by our telephone conversation you have no idea who William Felton was. Well, if it doesn't upset you too much, I would like to inform you that William Felton, was your father.’
Milly was in total shock and denied that this could be possible.
‘It’s ridiculous, I’ve known my Dad all my life, since I was born! I’ve got photos of him holding me after mum gave birth to me. What sort of person goes round saying these lies?’
‘Your real father and your mother did a DNA test for proof for you. They took William’s and your mother's DNA along with a toothbrush from your house a few years ago and sent them off for testing. Your mother always knew William Felton was your father; but knew you would not believe it without the evidence, so here it is.’
He produced the DNA results showing Milly all the evidence she needed; along with a letter from her deceased mother, explaining, how she had had a brief love affair, while John Foster; the man you loved and knew as your father, was away on business.
The letter went on to say, ‘After your dad passed away, I decided to contact William Felton and tell him the truth; I believed this was the right time to do this and hoped one day you may forgive me and understand. We were a happy family, and you were God’s blessing to us...’
Milly was shaking and crying as she continued to read the letter and take it all in.
‘I also have a letter here from your real father, William. You will read the emotional side of the story in his words and the reason you are here today. You, as the sole survivor of his family, will inherit his home and a substantial amount of money. It will take a couple of weeks for us to process the final paperwork and get various information from you. Don’t worry about anything, we are here to help every step of the way.’
Four weeks later Milly was given the keys to her new home. When she walked in she was stunned at the décor. The solicitor had said William had had it all modernised before his passing, he knew he was dying and it gave him something to think about and it was with her in mind.
It was just how Milly used to dream she would put her mark on her own home one day Everything she touched, every room she entered, she said, ‘just what I would have chosen.’ Neutral beige interior, with cobalt blue adding boldness to various walls, letting other blues flow gently through the house.
She imagined her daughters and families sitting round at Christmas; what would they think? She hadn’t said a word yet, about anything.
The cosy lounge was inspired by the peaceful British countryside surrounding her new home. Classic furniture mixed with modern accessories and tastefully patterned soft furnishings. Even the warmth of the room couldn’t stop a shiver going down her spine; how much more could she be like William Felton? She caught sight of herself in the mirror and saw William's picture on the shelf.
She smiled and spoke to him, ‘at least my mother had a better choice in men than me.’
Cora Boffey
As she dried her long hair as quickly as she could, she cursed herself for not getting the latest conditioner for greying hair. This just added more anxiety to how she was feeling. Why should she be feeling anxious, she hadn’t done anything wrong? But the letter made her feel apprehensive; after all she’d never heard of William Felton, until the letter arrived.
She shivered, hoping she wasn’t going down with a cold, or maybe it was the lack of heating in the small pokey flat.
Oh what has brought me to this; never knowing where the next penny was coming from; she mumbled to herself. She thought life would get easier once the girls had left home. Struggling as a divorced mum, with no support from anyone had been difficult. Ending up with losing her home, she’d struggled to pay the mortgage, ending up in this horrid, damp flat; but she tried to stay cheerful, knowing she had done the best for the girls and kept them in a nice home until they had both flown the nest.
She picked up the letter again. ‘Please telephone Stuart Mander at your earliest convenience, to make arrangements to come into our office, to discuss the late William Fenton.’
Milly had wracked her brain as to who William Felton might be, but as her mum and dad both passed away a few years ago, she couldn't even ask them if they knew the guy; and there were no other family members who she’d care to contact to find out. All her old aunts and uncles had passed away and she’d never really got to know any cousins, as her parents preferred to just have a small circle of friends from the Church.
Anyway, this was private business, as far as she was concerned, and she’d find out soon enough.
Milly walked into Stuart Mander’s office later that day. He stood up to greet her and offered her coffee.
‘You say you have no knowledge of Mr, William Fenton; Mandy?’
‘Not the slightest’ she said, shaking her head. Oh God, it’s not someone I’ve upset is it? Something ghastly like that?’
‘No far from it,’ said the kind looking Stuart Mander. ‘I can tell by our telephone conversation you have no idea who William Felton was. Well, if it doesn't upset you too much, I would like to inform you that William Felton, was your father.’
Milly was in total shock and denied that this could be possible.
‘It’s ridiculous, I’ve known my Dad all my life, since I was born! I’ve got photos of him holding me after mum gave birth to me. What sort of person goes round saying these lies?’
‘Your real father and your mother did a DNA test for proof for you. They took William’s and your mother's DNA along with a toothbrush from your house a few years ago and sent them off for testing. Your mother always knew William Felton was your father; but knew you would not believe it without the evidence, so here it is.’
He produced the DNA results showing Milly all the evidence she needed; along with a letter from her deceased mother, explaining, how she had had a brief love affair, while John Foster; the man you loved and knew as your father, was away on business.
The letter went on to say, ‘After your dad passed away, I decided to contact William Felton and tell him the truth; I believed this was the right time to do this and hoped one day you may forgive me and understand. We were a happy family, and you were God’s blessing to us...’
Milly was shaking and crying as she continued to read the letter and take it all in.
‘I also have a letter here from your real father, William. You will read the emotional side of the story in his words and the reason you are here today. You, as the sole survivor of his family, will inherit his home and a substantial amount of money. It will take a couple of weeks for us to process the final paperwork and get various information from you. Don’t worry about anything, we are here to help every step of the way.’
Four weeks later Milly was given the keys to her new home. When she walked in she was stunned at the décor. The solicitor had said William had had it all modernised before his passing, he knew he was dying and it gave him something to think about and it was with her in mind.
It was just how Milly used to dream she would put her mark on her own home one day Everything she touched, every room she entered, she said, ‘just what I would have chosen.’ Neutral beige interior, with cobalt blue adding boldness to various walls, letting other blues flow gently through the house.
She imagined her daughters and families sitting round at Christmas; what would they think? She hadn’t said a word yet, about anything.
The cosy lounge was inspired by the peaceful British countryside surrounding her new home. Classic furniture mixed with modern accessories and tastefully patterned soft furnishings. Even the warmth of the room couldn’t stop a shiver going down her spine; how much more could she be like William Felton? She caught sight of herself in the mirror and saw William's picture on the shelf.
She smiled and spoke to him, ‘at least my mother had a better choice in men than me.’
Cora Boffey
Deadline: 1st November
Brief: Mirror, Mirror on the wall: what if your mirror started talking to you? What would it say?
Brief: Mirror, Mirror on the wall: what if your mirror started talking to you? What would it say?
What the Mirror Says...
The mirror in the bathroom is particularly spiteful: it’s illuminated and can shed a frightening light on all matters. It always has plenty to say: “Well, is this it? Is this the best you could manage? All the time you’ve had, all those opportunities life gave you, and just look at you now. You should be ashamed of yourself. Why didn’t you make more of yourself? “No, I don’t want to hear your excuses. Don’t contradict me. I’ve seen you looking at yourself. I can tell you often think “what if?” – the old woulda, coulda, shoulda refrain. Well, yes, you should have listened to me more. “By the way, that new hair colour. It’s not working. It’s too dark, and your fringe needs trimming. How old do you think you are? Trying to recapture the sixties are you and hoping it makes you look younger? Well, take it from me, it’s not working. You might want to rethink the eyeshadow too. “Oh, and don’t get me started on that dress you’ve just bought. Talk about a fairground ride. People need sunglasses just to look at it. You’re surely not planning on wearing it again? And do you think I can’t see your shoes from here? You really should listen to me.” Linda Birch |
Mirror
You’ll never guess what I saw in my mirror today. I keep a handbag mirror in a pocket, just for touching up lipstick. I was putting on a bit more pink passion when a bright light was reflected from over my left eyebrow. The glare caused me to shudder. It highlighted grey bags and crinkles around my eyes. Shocked, I grabbed my handbag and hid in the ladies' cloakroom. Ages later I glanced towards my vacant seat and a sixty something man was checking his watch and looking at the door. ‘Um? Jason?’ my date smiled and stood, gesturing to the other seat. He too had lines and creases, yet soon all I noticed was his utter lack of vanity. I began making excuses, mumbling about how tricky meeting new people was ‘at my age’. He laughed. ‘You don’t need to worry! I am glad to be sixty-two. Let’s just relax and feel sorry for the youngsters!’ Andie Green t. |
Mirror Mirror
Well, I hardly recognised you, it must be the bags you're carrying, they certainly weren't there the last time I saw you. Mind you, you can do a good cover up job. Those faces you pull; are they really necessary; puckering up and pouting? Are you preparing yourself for a lusty kiss or doing a de-wrinkle exercise? Either way, more practice needed! It is you, isn't it? I mean I’m quite observant, but I must have missed something over the last few weeks or months; can’t be years? Is it time for an eye test for one of us? Cora Boffey |
From Me to You
“So, you decided to do it, against my advice. How many times have we discussed this? Just you and me, staring at each other, face to face. No secrets between us. I can even read your thoughts. I see you every day in this hallway, glancing my way before you leave the house. Before you left today you added a little more lipstick than usual, touched your beautiful hair and swivelled your head from side to side. I saw that look in your eyes. Did you really think this through? Does Michael know? Of course not. You would hardly confide in him. It will be a big shock for everyone. Now you are back and I can hardly believe it. We stare at each other for far too long and you burst into tears. Oh, please don’t cry. It will grow back again, and it really doesn’t look so bad.” Maggie Storer |
Deadline: 18th October
Brief: Rewrite: take any poem or short story you enjoyed. Rewrite it in your own words. You are free to make your own rules on this one – make changes or stick to the original plot/theme etc.
Brief: Rewrite: take any poem or short story you enjoyed. Rewrite it in your own words. You are free to make your own rules on this one – make changes or stick to the original plot/theme etc.
Here is the Weather Forecast
In Wolverhampton Today, there is One hundred per cent Chance of rain, Drizzle for the next hour And through the afternoon, Decreasing to forty per cent By sunset, when Temperatures fall. The wind will Make it feel cooler. Visibility - It is perfectly clear right now. Maggie Storer inspired by TV weather forecast Rambling
As I aimlessly walked from Dove Cottage thoughts hanging heavy, mind furrowed and knotted; out of the blue, a swathe of golden daffodils, emerged dancing in the breeze. As far as the eye could see, beauty grew among the mossy stones twinkling out to the new horizon; spring had finally sprung. Ullswater lake sparkling, waves reeled and danced with the golden glow; I stood euphoric, heart fluttering, amazed natures beauty enhanced. I keep this picture in my heart and when the mood is gloom and doom, I bring the keepsake out; for this, my life is so much richer. Cora Boffey Inspired by Wm Wordsworth's 'Daffodils' Flinderella Little Polly Flinders Sits among the cinders Warming her pretty little toes Her mother came and caught her And whipped her little daughter For spoiling her nice new clothes |
The Meeting
Her office stank Of cigarettes and old dog, A tweed bed for the animal Under her desk; Walls plastered with Old photographs and prints. A stack of papers, Old copies of the Bookseller Removed from where he Should take his seat. The agent took a cigarette, Lit with an onyx lighter, Inhaled deeply, then broke Into a fit of rattling Wheezing coughs. He waited in silence For the fit to pass. Later, he shook her hand, Said a general goodbye as The door swung shut on the Doberman’s growling and snarling. Maggie Storer Inspired by The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith Brie Diva
Could you please pass the brie again, its next to your elbow, just there, And might I ask while you do so for a biscuit, if I dare? And a few grapes, and more butter, some port wine if you please? What a fine meal, with such kind friends, very good wine and cheese. Could you please pass the brie again, er… have you left any for me? I could only squeeze a morsel, greedy I'll not be. I'd like more wine, yes the red one, just to moisten my lips… What did you say? Oh, you’re quite wrong… I’ve only had a few sips. Could you please pass the brie again? You're the one eating too much, Just a small piece for politeness, er… bigger… just a touch. What's that you say? No! The wine hasn't gone to my head! You’re just being obnoxious, so now I’ll be off to my bed. Betty Taylor Parody: 'Sea Fever' by John Masefield. with apologies Inspired by ‘Leisure’ by William Henry Davies
We lose so much if we forget To stop and look without regret. No time to watch the rising sun And greet the day that’s just begun. No time to stare at clouds on high And make up pictures in the sky. No time to marvel at moon’s light And follow his path through the night. No time to wander by sea’s shore Be content and not ask for more. No time to laugh at lambs at play But dash straight past along our way. So much less than we might have been If we forget sweet nature’s scene. Linda Birch |
I’m Polly Flinders. You won’t know me, but you may have met my mother. We live in the housekeeper's cottage on the big estate where the Lord lives. I am six years and three months next Wednesday. I help mother sometimes with the dusting and polishing- but what I like best is clearing out the huge fireplace in the dining room. I wear my oldest dress and boots for this, tie up my long hair and get very dirty. Mother leaves me to sweep and sort the ashes from any coal that can be used as kindling for the next fire. Yesterday morning I found a shiny coal lump and was about to slip it into my apron pocket when mother shouted, ‘Hurry up Polly, you still have to fetch the sticks and lay the grate for later’. I dropped my treasure on the good coal and finished my work.
Last evening was the Lord’s birthday party and we were allowed to go into the dining hall to see all the guests arrive, greet Lord Frederick and wish him happy birthday. I wore a new dress. It is horrid. Bright pink, frilly and stiff. Mother pulled my wild hair into bunches so tight I started to cry. Then she tied quite -I suppose - pretty pink check ribbons – but my head still hurts.
Thankfully all below stairs staff had to leave before the dancing started – which I was glad for as I could get out of the dress and head torture. But I was so tired I fell asleep still in my new clothes. I dreamt that my shiny coal was a precious jewel and when I woke I hurried down to search the cinders again. Did I find it? I might have. There were so many sparkly lumps and they were still very warm. Too warm to hold and I was in tears when the loudest scream from my mother – well you know the rest- all because of a silly dress. But I shall go on searching for my shiny treasure.
Andie Green.
Last evening was the Lord’s birthday party and we were allowed to go into the dining hall to see all the guests arrive, greet Lord Frederick and wish him happy birthday. I wore a new dress. It is horrid. Bright pink, frilly and stiff. Mother pulled my wild hair into bunches so tight I started to cry. Then she tied quite -I suppose - pretty pink check ribbons – but my head still hurts.
Thankfully all below stairs staff had to leave before the dancing started – which I was glad for as I could get out of the dress and head torture. But I was so tired I fell asleep still in my new clothes. I dreamt that my shiny coal was a precious jewel and when I woke I hurried down to search the cinders again. Did I find it? I might have. There were so many sparkly lumps and they were still very warm. Too warm to hold and I was in tears when the loudest scream from my mother – well you know the rest- all because of a silly dress. But I shall go on searching for my shiny treasure.
Andie Green.
Deadline: 4th October
Brief: In tune with the year: write anything inspired by autumn - nature, the spooky season, take it where you will.
Brief: In tune with the year: write anything inspired by autumn - nature, the spooky season, take it where you will.
The Equinox - Even Days and Nights
This year the autumn equinox was on 23 September. The exact time varies as there are not exactly 365 days in a year. It always falls between the 21 and 24 September. In the Spring it happens between 19th and 21st March. Equinox means that day and night are of equal length. Have you noticed the sudden change of temperature? The dew on the grass in the early morning; the nights drawing in faster and faster and the mornings darker too. Not to be confused with the summer and winter solstices which are the longest and shortest days. After a long hot summer, I welcome the beginning of autumn. I like tucking my legs under a blanket, curling up in front of the TV and not having to throw off the duvet at night. I am definitely an autumn/winter person. I prefer my winter wardrobe; boots and trousers with layers of tops and a jumper. When I’ve mown the lawn for the last time in October, I can leave the garden to look after itself. It’s a job that doesn’t get any easier as I grow older. Even days, Quiet nights Under a harvest moon. In autumn Nothing stops the Oncoming of Xmas. These days Christmas begins as soon as the children go back to school. There is no getting away from it. There is even a TV channel devoted to Christmas films, all year round! Once Strictly Come Dancing begins, you know that Christmas is only 13 weeks away. So, it all begins with the equinox, steeped in folklore and myths. Mabon, a pagan holiday, the period of struggle between life and death, darkness and light. It signifies the journey of the universe. Buddhists believe it is symbolic in the joining of the physical and the spiritual. My sceptical self doesn’t hold any interest in this ancient folklore. I believe in the science of the universe and to keep looking forward. Maggie Storer |
First Thoughts
I feel fuzzy, it’s dark well it would be, my eyes are shut tight, I know something is about to happen, but it won’t register yet. I hear the neighbour set off to work. Is he in Birmingham or Hull today? Not my business it’s too early yet. I fear to stir, hesitate, what day it is? What fate may unfold today, dare I take a peek at the curtain left with a chink? Roll over, still time to think. I put my nose outside the duvet as the comforting waft of toast floats up the stairs, my tummy settles, today “Tuesday” writers' group, share our views. Seven days still in my week, how lucky I am to have my senses and friends to wake up to, I will be more gracious and meet each morning and dance on the morning dew. (AIM – Get to bed early) Cora Boffey |
Wakey Wakey
This is not what I think upon waking. Never a morning person I remember this shout from Sunday lunchtime radio band show. This morning as with most I stretch to see what hurts before I get up. I had one of those recurring dreams where I am lost or have lost something- a purse or shoe- scary but so good to wake up from! I thought it was Sunday at my still dreaming moment, but it’s Friday which is good. Fridays are second best. I have my Qigong class which is a relaxing hour's switch off to ‘stretch mind and body’ followed by a swim and jacuzzi. My second dream last night was all about my holiday. On Monday afternoon we will be sitting on our balcony, gasping at the paradise of sea and mountains and blue blue sky – that travel blurb had better be more than accurate! We have holidayed lots but this is possibly the last big one. Italy’s Amalfi coast has been on our wish list for all time and to celebrate our 55 years there will be wonderful. The world’s in a worse mess than ever. It’s horrible to think of folk having to choose between eating or heating their homes. We can do nothing about the cost of everything; the war in Ukraine; knife crime or the ridiculousness of some reality t.v. shows. But for 11 days we can try and allow ourselves respite from family worries which we can do little to change, only offer help when needed. When we come home autumn will be golden, red, and russet. The gradual turnaround from this hot parched summer is magical. After bulb planting and a mountain of leaf clearing ! we can shut the garden doors and make plans for Christmas. Andie Green |
Autumn
Autumn reminds me Of screeching crow calls, Sky skimming birds Scouting for food. Autumn reminds me of The low setting sun Casting long shadows, With horizon on fire. Autumn reminds me That harvest is over, Fields tidily furrowed And Hedgerows flamed With red berries for birds. Autumn reminds me of Scattered conkers, Acorns and beech mast. Mother Earth sighs deeply Then settles to rest. Betty Taylor |
Autumn Visitors
Autumn on the north Norfolk coast is a golden time for birdwatchers. Although around fifty species of birds leave the UK each autumn heading for warmer climes, as if to compensate, others, such as redwings and fieldfares arrive. In addition, huge numbers of migrating ducks, swans, geese and other wetland birds join the resident birds to overwinter in the UK, avoiding the harsh weather in their northern homes. It’s quite a sight to see them all jostling and squabbling for space.
I want to find out more about this magic, so I’ve located the binoculars, found a guidebook and I’m reading all about what’s happening in the ‘Nature Notes’ article from the RSPB which appears in the local town magazine.
This month we learn about small, energetic waders called sanderlings which arrive on the beaches from late summer. Sanderlings dash to and fro on the edge of sea, feeding on shellfish and invertebrates exposed by the pull of the tide. Another autumn visitor is the grey plover, which travels from its Arctic breeding ground. These birds adopt a ‘run, stop and peck’ approach to mealtimes. The grey plovers will be accompanied by hordes of Icelandic and Scandinavian common ringed and Eurasian golden plovers.
Another visiting wader is the knot. Knots are tactile feeders, using their bills to detect food in the mud. There is a legend of a connection between King Canute and the knot. Rather than dashing about when feeding, the knots prefer to stand their ground, as if trying to hold back the tide, hence its scientific name Calidris Canutus. Most impressive is the aerial flight of the knot over The Wash. I was fortunate to see this a few days ago. At first it looked like just a dark shadow on the sky but then shapes, sometimes thin as ribbons, sometimes as a mass of menacing cloud, formed and reformed as the birds swirled around.
I don’t know how long this new interest will last. It is bewildering: there’s so much to learn and I admit so many of the birds look the same to me. It’s amazing how many times I come across a bird that I can’t find in my guide book - evidently so new it has not yet been recorded. Maybe it’s time to follow poet William Henry Davies’ advice and just ‘stand and stare’, appreciate nature, and not worry too much about all the detail.
Linda Birch
Autumn on the north Norfolk coast is a golden time for birdwatchers. Although around fifty species of birds leave the UK each autumn heading for warmer climes, as if to compensate, others, such as redwings and fieldfares arrive. In addition, huge numbers of migrating ducks, swans, geese and other wetland birds join the resident birds to overwinter in the UK, avoiding the harsh weather in their northern homes. It’s quite a sight to see them all jostling and squabbling for space.
I want to find out more about this magic, so I’ve located the binoculars, found a guidebook and I’m reading all about what’s happening in the ‘Nature Notes’ article from the RSPB which appears in the local town magazine.
This month we learn about small, energetic waders called sanderlings which arrive on the beaches from late summer. Sanderlings dash to and fro on the edge of sea, feeding on shellfish and invertebrates exposed by the pull of the tide. Another autumn visitor is the grey plover, which travels from its Arctic breeding ground. These birds adopt a ‘run, stop and peck’ approach to mealtimes. The grey plovers will be accompanied by hordes of Icelandic and Scandinavian common ringed and Eurasian golden plovers.
Another visiting wader is the knot. Knots are tactile feeders, using their bills to detect food in the mud. There is a legend of a connection between King Canute and the knot. Rather than dashing about when feeding, the knots prefer to stand their ground, as if trying to hold back the tide, hence its scientific name Calidris Canutus. Most impressive is the aerial flight of the knot over The Wash. I was fortunate to see this a few days ago. At first it looked like just a dark shadow on the sky but then shapes, sometimes thin as ribbons, sometimes as a mass of menacing cloud, formed and reformed as the birds swirled around.
I don’t know how long this new interest will last. It is bewildering: there’s so much to learn and I admit so many of the birds look the same to me. It’s amazing how many times I come across a bird that I can’t find in my guide book - evidently so new it has not yet been recorded. Maybe it’s time to follow poet William Henry Davies’ advice and just ‘stand and stare’, appreciate nature, and not worry too much about all the detail.
Linda Birch
Deadline: 20th September
Brief: Inspiration: choose a famous painting and write about anything that the picture stirs in your imagination.
Brief: Inspiration: choose a famous painting and write about anything that the picture stirs in your imagination.
In Praise of Sunflowers
Van Gogh painted five versions of his famous Sunflowers, using only three shades of yellow. They were painted in Arles in the south of France in 1888 and 1889. It is said that to Van Gogh the flowers represented gratitude and were a great comfort to him, the yellow being an emblem of happiness. . Sunflowers have universal appeal. In Russia and Ukraine, they symbolise peace and optimism and Ukraine adopted the sunflower as its national flower, planting them at the Pervomaysk missile base to mark its nuclear disarmament in 1996. They represent loyalty in Greece and to the Incas they were a representation of their sun god. |
Each sunflower Van Gogh painted is different and when I look closely there seems to be something else going on that I didn’t notice before. Today, some of the flowers look decidedly the worse for wear, with cross and worried faces as if they are arguing and having distinctly disagreeable conversations!
Sunflowers growing in the garden are so exuberant, their wide expressive faces looking for the sun (this following the sun is called heliotropism or solar tracking). You just have to smile. The name too, a promise of well-being - the sun for life, flowers to celebrate. As well as being valued for their good looks, sunflowers have important commercial uses, the main ones in oil and confectionery. It’s a real treat to see fields of sunflowers growing, although there are only a few suitable locations in the UK, Lincolnshire being the furthest north they can thrive.
Did you have competitions when you were young – who could grow the tallest flower?
I don’t know if someone still owns the copyright for Van Gogh’s pictures but if so they must be making a fortune. There are copies everywhere: framed prints, fabrics, trays, mugs, all sorts of things for sale.
I went to see the flowers left for the Queen at Sandringham and a good proportion of these were sunflowers. Fitting tributes to her - gratitude, loyalty, optimism – we will meet again.
Linda Birch
Sunflowers growing in the garden are so exuberant, their wide expressive faces looking for the sun (this following the sun is called heliotropism or solar tracking). You just have to smile. The name too, a promise of well-being - the sun for life, flowers to celebrate. As well as being valued for their good looks, sunflowers have important commercial uses, the main ones in oil and confectionery. It’s a real treat to see fields of sunflowers growing, although there are only a few suitable locations in the UK, Lincolnshire being the furthest north they can thrive.
Did you have competitions when you were young – who could grow the tallest flower?
I don’t know if someone still owns the copyright for Van Gogh’s pictures but if so they must be making a fortune. There are copies everywhere: framed prints, fabrics, trays, mugs, all sorts of things for sale.
I went to see the flowers left for the Queen at Sandringham and a good proportion of these were sunflowers. Fitting tributes to her - gratitude, loyalty, optimism – we will meet again.
Linda Birch
My Choice
Much art is like poetry to me; you either love it or dislike it; understand it or haven’t a clue.
‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’ The saying first appeared in the 3rd century BC in Greek. It didn’t appear in English and its current form in print until the 19th century, but in the meantime, there were various written forms that expressed much the same thoughts. In 1588, the English dramatist John Lyle, in his Euphues and his England, wrote, “...as neere is Fracie to Beautie, as the prickle to the Rose, as the stalke to the rynde, as the earth to the roote.”
Shakespeare, in Love’s Labours Lost expressed similar sentiments; as did David Hume’s essays, Moral and Political. Probably my best comparisons quote; to poetry and art in my eye, comes from Benjamin Franklin, in Poor Richard’s Almanack; “Beauty, like supreme dominion is but supported by opinion.”
To some this may not be the most artistic piece of work; but Banksy and his Girl with a Balloon, is simple and easy to understand or interpret, however you like.
I want pictures that I can feel comfortable with, pictures that can adorn my walls at home, ones that are talking points.
I’m no artist, I’m lucky to have many friends who are and many times I’ve chosen their paintings over any famous artist’s painting to frame and display.
Maybe I can relate to Banksy and his famous Girl with a Balloon because it is the only one I’ve ever attempted to copy; although there's no chance of me ever becoming a forger! I say copy, even that is a sticking and gluing exercise.
As with most people, my understanding of the painting is simple, it represents lost innocence, just setting the balloon free, or reaching out, holding on to hope, even if it feels out of reach. Even if you look at the wind blowing the child's hair and clothes in the wind, you could interpret, the child's worries being blown away; even put into the red balloon to eventually be scattered away. Or even her dreams in the balloon, as others put their’s into a bottle in the sea.
The red balloon is associated with fragility of dreams, innocence, hope, dreams and love. The image first appeared in London’s Southbank in 2002, with a quote that read ‘there is always hope.’
Banksy’s distinctive graffiti stencilling technique of the painting was soon painted over by the Council. In response he painted another and had copies done to be sold in Ikea. The original sold for £73,250 at Bonhams in 2012.
In July 2017, a poll asked 2,000 participants to rank the best 20 pieces of British art – Girl with the Red Balloon emerged as the number one favourite artwork.
So I join these 2,000 participants and celebrate my famous artist achievement and as I have said, my artist friends and many local artists, give me great pleasure.
Before you shred this piece of work, find out what lies behind the man Banksy himself and his artwork.
Cora Boffey
Much art is like poetry to me; you either love it or dislike it; understand it or haven’t a clue.
‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’ The saying first appeared in the 3rd century BC in Greek. It didn’t appear in English and its current form in print until the 19th century, but in the meantime, there were various written forms that expressed much the same thoughts. In 1588, the English dramatist John Lyle, in his Euphues and his England, wrote, “...as neere is Fracie to Beautie, as the prickle to the Rose, as the stalke to the rynde, as the earth to the roote.”
Shakespeare, in Love’s Labours Lost expressed similar sentiments; as did David Hume’s essays, Moral and Political. Probably my best comparisons quote; to poetry and art in my eye, comes from Benjamin Franklin, in Poor Richard’s Almanack; “Beauty, like supreme dominion is but supported by opinion.”
To some this may not be the most artistic piece of work; but Banksy and his Girl with a Balloon, is simple and easy to understand or interpret, however you like.
I want pictures that I can feel comfortable with, pictures that can adorn my walls at home, ones that are talking points.
I’m no artist, I’m lucky to have many friends who are and many times I’ve chosen their paintings over any famous artist’s painting to frame and display.
Maybe I can relate to Banksy and his famous Girl with a Balloon because it is the only one I’ve ever attempted to copy; although there's no chance of me ever becoming a forger! I say copy, even that is a sticking and gluing exercise.
As with most people, my understanding of the painting is simple, it represents lost innocence, just setting the balloon free, or reaching out, holding on to hope, even if it feels out of reach. Even if you look at the wind blowing the child's hair and clothes in the wind, you could interpret, the child's worries being blown away; even put into the red balloon to eventually be scattered away. Or even her dreams in the balloon, as others put their’s into a bottle in the sea.
The red balloon is associated with fragility of dreams, innocence, hope, dreams and love. The image first appeared in London’s Southbank in 2002, with a quote that read ‘there is always hope.’
Banksy’s distinctive graffiti stencilling technique of the painting was soon painted over by the Council. In response he painted another and had copies done to be sold in Ikea. The original sold for £73,250 at Bonhams in 2012.
In July 2017, a poll asked 2,000 participants to rank the best 20 pieces of British art – Girl with the Red Balloon emerged as the number one favourite artwork.
So I join these 2,000 participants and celebrate my famous artist achievement and as I have said, my artist friends and many local artists, give me great pleasure.
Before you shred this piece of work, find out what lies behind the man Banksy himself and his artwork.
Cora Boffey
The Singing Butler
I have The Singing Butler by Jack Vettriano on my bedroom wall. I won’t apologise for liking his work, which has been criticised by eminent art critics over the years.
I love imagining the story behind the picture. How did the elegant woman in red and the gentleman come to be dancing on the sand? Look at those storm clouds and how the Butler and the lady’s maid are struggling to protect them with their windswept umbrellas. The colours in the sand reflecting a golden sun peeping through the clouds.
Jack Vettriano was raised in poverty in a spartan miner’s house in the industrial seaside town of Methil. Controversy has surrounded him. He left school at sixteen and did various jobs. He took up painting as a hobby when he was twenty one and his sister bought him a set of watercolour paints. At first he copied the impressionists and studied paintings in museums and art galleries. He applied to study Fine Art at the University of Edinburgh, but was rejected. In 1988, two canvasses were sold on the first day of the Royal Scottish Academy and from then onwards his success grew, but he was always criticised.
In 2004 The Singing Butler sold for £744,800; a record at the time for any Scottish painting. But in 1992 it had been rejected by the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. It was found to have been sourced from a reference manual.
Vettriano has been accused of being the Jeffrey Archer of the art world. Who wouldn’t want the success of Archer and his clever story telling? He has been accused of ‘colouring in’ and ‘brainless erotica’. Pure snobbery is at work here. There have been many artists who have copied or created paintings in the same style as the recognised famous painters. They are just as good, if not better. You only have to watch the BBC programme, Fake or Fortune, to see how art experts reject an artist’s work simply because the provenance is not strong enough.
Vettriano draws attention to himself by suggesting that inspiration for his paintings has come from twenty five years of sexual misbehaviour. He says he lives in a world of heartbreak, but that is when he is most creative. At least his work has been recognised. He was awarded an OBE in 2004.
He has set up the Vettriano Trust and plans to leave his money to do good work. He is a troubled soul, but at least he is a living artist recognised for his talent.
They say his popularity rests on cheap commercial reproductions of his paintings. Well, we have one of those on our wall, and I love it.
Maggie Storer
I have The Singing Butler by Jack Vettriano on my bedroom wall. I won’t apologise for liking his work, which has been criticised by eminent art critics over the years.
I love imagining the story behind the picture. How did the elegant woman in red and the gentleman come to be dancing on the sand? Look at those storm clouds and how the Butler and the lady’s maid are struggling to protect them with their windswept umbrellas. The colours in the sand reflecting a golden sun peeping through the clouds.
Jack Vettriano was raised in poverty in a spartan miner’s house in the industrial seaside town of Methil. Controversy has surrounded him. He left school at sixteen and did various jobs. He took up painting as a hobby when he was twenty one and his sister bought him a set of watercolour paints. At first he copied the impressionists and studied paintings in museums and art galleries. He applied to study Fine Art at the University of Edinburgh, but was rejected. In 1988, two canvasses were sold on the first day of the Royal Scottish Academy and from then onwards his success grew, but he was always criticised.
In 2004 The Singing Butler sold for £744,800; a record at the time for any Scottish painting. But in 1992 it had been rejected by the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. It was found to have been sourced from a reference manual.
Vettriano has been accused of being the Jeffrey Archer of the art world. Who wouldn’t want the success of Archer and his clever story telling? He has been accused of ‘colouring in’ and ‘brainless erotica’. Pure snobbery is at work here. There have been many artists who have copied or created paintings in the same style as the recognised famous painters. They are just as good, if not better. You only have to watch the BBC programme, Fake or Fortune, to see how art experts reject an artist’s work simply because the provenance is not strong enough.
Vettriano draws attention to himself by suggesting that inspiration for his paintings has come from twenty five years of sexual misbehaviour. He says he lives in a world of heartbreak, but that is when he is most creative. At least his work has been recognised. He was awarded an OBE in 2004.
He has set up the Vettriano Trust and plans to leave his money to do good work. He is a troubled soul, but at least he is a living artist recognised for his talent.
They say his popularity rests on cheap commercial reproductions of his paintings. Well, we have one of those on our wall, and I love it.
Maggie Storer
Castle and Sun by Paul Klee
My chosen work is a vibrant painting comprising triangles and rectangles arranged to represent a city scape – a mass of buildings of differing heights and distance. I think this painting “works” - the complicated assemblage of shapes sitting happily together, defined in vivid colour, has impact. I think any would-be abstract artist could take inspiration from this work and experiment accordingly. I recall a quotation by Matisse, I paraphrase' it's not about producing a verisimilitude, it's about one's reaction to the finished work. I felt a "wow" on seeing "Castle and Sun". In one way it's simplistic but the colour vibration is inspirational - I get a happy vibe, one reacts and is uplifted.
Paul Klee (December 1879 – June 1940) is a Swiss-born German artist. His individual style was influenced by several art movements including Expressionism, Cubism and Surrealism Similar works which I also admire were executed by Sonia and Robert Delaunay who were painting at the same time as Klee. The Delaunay’s founded a new art movement called Orphism, based on geometric shapes and strong colours. I wonder if Klee and the Delaunays ever exchanged ideas. A point for more research.
I have a soft spot for Klee as I discovered he suffered from the same disease that I have (diffuse systemic sclerosis / scleroderma). He departed this world four months before I entered it. He died just five years after his diagnosis when his internal organs gradually succumbed to the disease. Medical research had moved on by the time I developed this rare condition, so although I'm unlucky to be landed with it, I'm much luckier than Paul Klee.
My pipe dream is to visit the Zentrum Paul Klee Museum of Modern Art in Bern, Switzerland. It is dedicated to Klee primarily, but not exclusively. Klee’s vision and philosophy inspired the architect Renzo Piano who designed the museum. Their aim was “to achieve coherent union of art with nature”. It’s an exceptional building which merges into the landscape almost without notice. It houses over 4,000 of Klee’s art works. I doubt I’ll ever make the trip to Switzerland, but I'll buy a poster of “Castle and Sun” to remind me of one of the good guys who has a special place in my heart.
Betty Taylor
My chosen work is a vibrant painting comprising triangles and rectangles arranged to represent a city scape – a mass of buildings of differing heights and distance. I think this painting “works” - the complicated assemblage of shapes sitting happily together, defined in vivid colour, has impact. I think any would-be abstract artist could take inspiration from this work and experiment accordingly. I recall a quotation by Matisse, I paraphrase' it's not about producing a verisimilitude, it's about one's reaction to the finished work. I felt a "wow" on seeing "Castle and Sun". In one way it's simplistic but the colour vibration is inspirational - I get a happy vibe, one reacts and is uplifted.
Paul Klee (December 1879 – June 1940) is a Swiss-born German artist. His individual style was influenced by several art movements including Expressionism, Cubism and Surrealism Similar works which I also admire were executed by Sonia and Robert Delaunay who were painting at the same time as Klee. The Delaunay’s founded a new art movement called Orphism, based on geometric shapes and strong colours. I wonder if Klee and the Delaunays ever exchanged ideas. A point for more research.
I have a soft spot for Klee as I discovered he suffered from the same disease that I have (diffuse systemic sclerosis / scleroderma). He departed this world four months before I entered it. He died just five years after his diagnosis when his internal organs gradually succumbed to the disease. Medical research had moved on by the time I developed this rare condition, so although I'm unlucky to be landed with it, I'm much luckier than Paul Klee.
My pipe dream is to visit the Zentrum Paul Klee Museum of Modern Art in Bern, Switzerland. It is dedicated to Klee primarily, but not exclusively. Klee’s vision and philosophy inspired the architect Renzo Piano who designed the museum. Their aim was “to achieve coherent union of art with nature”. It’s an exceptional building which merges into the landscape almost without notice. It houses over 4,000 of Klee’s art works. I doubt I’ll ever make the trip to Switzerland, but I'll buy a poster of “Castle and Sun” to remind me of one of the good guys who has a special place in my heart.
Betty Taylor
My favourite painting.
Pablo Picasso painted this in 1903 during his post-impressionist Blue Period. It shows three figures; a man, a woman, and a child, huddled together on a beach. It is not clear if it is the aftermath of a disaster or if they are anticipating tragedy. I find it both sad and hopeful. The details are exquisite, and I love the way the artist shows feelings through the positioning of the hands and feet. It now hangs in my bedroom and I ‘talk’ to these figures, imagining their story and whatever is going on in my life, it somehow gives me hope. Andie Green |
The Tragedy (Blue Period) by Pablo Picasso
Deadline: 6th September
Brief: In the moment: sit outside for a while. Write down the sounds you hear – voices, dogs barking, birds singing etc. Try to develop your notes into a poem, essay, or short story.
Brief: In the moment: sit outside for a while. Write down the sounds you hear – voices, dogs barking, birds singing etc. Try to develop your notes into a poem, essay, or short story.
Disturbing the Peace
The noise is horrendous. Clatter, crash, smash then a gentle tinkle like a breaking mirror; wheels screeching, bleeps as the lorry reverses and shouts from the guys. Such a cacophony but at least I know it must be Tuesday – bin collection day. More specifically, this is recycling bin collection day. Everything that can be potentially saved for another use is thrown in together: bottles, tins, cartons, paper, all jostling for space. I know this must work (mustn’t it?), because that’s what they do but I wonder how chucking all life’s leftovers into one bin like this can be efficient. But that’s the way it is.
There are no secrets either: the smashing of glass a tell-tale of the week’s activities. Must be all that jam I’ve consumed! I can remember the days of one bin – no wheels, a detachable lid and a warning of ‘no hot ashes’. So much simpler.
The lorry works its way methodically along the road. No-one has forgotten to put out their bin. Sometimes there’s a panic if the date changes, like for Bank Holidays, and Christmas can be a nightmare for those who haven’t read the leaflet. Sometimes there are plaintive pleas on Facebook – ‘does anyone know which bin it is?’ Why they don’t check on the website I don’t know.
The noise recedes. Bins are lined up higgledy-piggledy along the road but all are emptied, ready to begin their cycle again. The system works; something to be celebrated.
Peace descends; now all I can hear is the rustle of the wind in the hawthorn tree and a lone gull calling.
Linda Birch
The noise is horrendous. Clatter, crash, smash then a gentle tinkle like a breaking mirror; wheels screeching, bleeps as the lorry reverses and shouts from the guys. Such a cacophony but at least I know it must be Tuesday – bin collection day. More specifically, this is recycling bin collection day. Everything that can be potentially saved for another use is thrown in together: bottles, tins, cartons, paper, all jostling for space. I know this must work (mustn’t it?), because that’s what they do but I wonder how chucking all life’s leftovers into one bin like this can be efficient. But that’s the way it is.
There are no secrets either: the smashing of glass a tell-tale of the week’s activities. Must be all that jam I’ve consumed! I can remember the days of one bin – no wheels, a detachable lid and a warning of ‘no hot ashes’. So much simpler.
The lorry works its way methodically along the road. No-one has forgotten to put out their bin. Sometimes there’s a panic if the date changes, like for Bank Holidays, and Christmas can be a nightmare for those who haven’t read the leaflet. Sometimes there are plaintive pleas on Facebook – ‘does anyone know which bin it is?’ Why they don’t check on the website I don’t know.
The noise recedes. Bins are lined up higgledy-piggledy along the road but all are emptied, ready to begin their cycle again. The system works; something to be celebrated.
Peace descends; now all I can hear is the rustle of the wind in the hawthorn tree and a lone gull calling.
Linda Birch
A Perfect Day
There is a bird cack-cacking somewhere. Maybe he objects to ‘Karma, karma, karma Chameleon’ drifting through the open windows. A yapping dog joins in. There is a flailing of wings from the undergrowth and a flapping from above. All hidden from view, but never silent. I hear children somewhere and a change of music - dancing tunes. Another barking in the distance; a larger dog imagined. The ducks are stuttering to each other in the lake just beyond my view. No ripples of water. There is a deathly calm from the black silted lake. Now, a cooing from a pigeon joins in the menagerie. I hear footsteps; a pushchair scuffling the tarmac. A small child’s voice fading away. The music stops for a moment, honing my ears to the bird chirrups. Never total silence as the white noise of softly blowing leaves pervades the air. Gentle footsteps over wooden planks hardly noticeable as birds scuttle away from human presence. Bicycle wheels and young voices whiz by. The music changes; voices singing, ‘I just wanna dance the night away.’ I can only imagine the dance class in the village hall. A shopping trolley rumbles along the path. More dogs alerting pigeons to flap away. A ball bounces along the path behind me and a chatter of voices pass by on their weekly stroll. I leave this peaceful spot to the wildlife that it really belongs to and where sometimes we are privileged to sit. Maggie Storer |
Captured
Who would live in a comfy blanket far from the maddening crowd, I am at one wrapped up snug sitting on the seashore listening to the tide pouring back through shingle, gulls fly, loud cry shouting through the sky. Who would live and wake to a new dawn, taste salt around their lips, feel the soft breeze and the breakers’ spray, rejoice as the dolphins frolic and sway. Who would live with joy of memories walking along the pebbled shore, white horses riding the waves, booming sounds crashing around the rocky caves. Who would live and take solitude at nightfall with stillness, calming sea, full moon beam rays down pool of silver; above, as if for me shooting stars appear. Cora Boffey |
Sounds
I gently push back the greenhouse door to greet the last of the tomatoes. It squeaks a little. Soon be time to throw out the old vines. I listen to the traffic from the Lane – more like a highway these days – a constant noise that I shall never ‘get used to’. Sunday mornings are a bit better. I can hear splashing sounds and realise it is sparrows happily bathing in the guttering on my neighbour’s conservatory after last nights welcome shower. I sit on the bench and listen for birdsong. Coo coo from the gentle pigeons that poop constantly on my path to the compost bin and down to the vegetable beds. A tired late August spectacle now. Harvested onions and beetroot; can there be a few carrots under those fern-like tops? Empty currant bushes – scavenged by birds, pigeons perhaps? In this drought I guess this was a source of moisture. The quiet is disturbed by a chain saw from over the back, then someone decides to cut his lawn - I sigh and go back indoors. Time to get my home ready for the autumn. Andie Green. |
Homework
I'm at my desk, I've just opened my laptop and logged on. I gather random thoughts, consider and discard them. I must get stuck in, do the homework to meet the deadline. The day is hot and I fling windows wide to catch a breeze. A warm gust rushes in and I jump out of my skin as the draught causes the door to slam with a bang. I get up to reduce the window gap and I hear the postman’s footsteps on the gravel. The letter box clatters. An uninspiring thud intimates a bundle of junk mail. Back to my blank screen. It is no more inspiring than the constant one-note song the pigeons are broadcasting. A couple of squabbling magpies cackle harshly, reminding me of those old wooden rattles used by football supporters. The cacophony continues until a lorry rumbles into our cul-de-sac. The birds flee and an army of refuse operators in their neon bright work kit take centre stage. They drag bins, hoist them one by one onto the mechanical gadgetry which gives off a metal-on-metal squeal at each emptying. It takes a while and the screeching, rattling, clanging, continues interspersed with voices. I try to tune in to my task, desperate for an idea. The first sentence still hasn’t hit the screen. I re-read our writing brief. “Sit outside…” it says. I read no further, someone is calling. “It’s six thirty, what are we having for supper?” The blank screen wins. I log off, silently willing the Muse to bail me out tomorrow. Help! Betty Taylor |
Deadline: July 19
Brief: Talk to the wall or something… Choose an inanimate object. Talk to it. We cannot wait to hear where the conversation takes you – give it to us verbatim.
Free Spirits
I know, I know, I’m a disappointment. Not what you expected and certainly not what you deserve. You should be free, rolling along the roads and lanes, feeling the cool fresh air caressing you.
I am sorry, really, but it turns out you were just a phase. Not a real commitment. Everyone was saying we should give up our cars, and get cycling. We’d be fitter, leaner and better off with no expensive petrol to buy either.
So here you are, a delight of gleaming metal, abandoned, my pride and joy for only a few moments.
I’ve let you down, I know I have. But have you seen the traffic around here? Smelt the fumes? You know how close the cars get to you. It’s scary and the cycle track is unbelievable, more weeds than a wildflower meadow.
Of course, you know how I wobble. You were there, do you remember? We went out once and it was pretty disastrous. Straight into next door’s parked car so we didn’t get very far. No damage thankfully but not at all dignified.
Just excuses, do I hear you say. I expect you’re right. But you are still here aren’t you. I could have sold you so perhaps there’s hope yet. Come on then, let’s give it another go. I’ll find my helmet and I promise tomorrow I’ll be back. We’ll go out together again, free spirits. Tomorrow...
Linda Birch
I know, I know, I’m a disappointment. Not what you expected and certainly not what you deserve. You should be free, rolling along the roads and lanes, feeling the cool fresh air caressing you.
I am sorry, really, but it turns out you were just a phase. Not a real commitment. Everyone was saying we should give up our cars, and get cycling. We’d be fitter, leaner and better off with no expensive petrol to buy either.
So here you are, a delight of gleaming metal, abandoned, my pride and joy for only a few moments.
I’ve let you down, I know I have. But have you seen the traffic around here? Smelt the fumes? You know how close the cars get to you. It’s scary and the cycle track is unbelievable, more weeds than a wildflower meadow.
Of course, you know how I wobble. You were there, do you remember? We went out once and it was pretty disastrous. Straight into next door’s parked car so we didn’t get very far. No damage thankfully but not at all dignified.
Just excuses, do I hear you say. I expect you’re right. But you are still here aren’t you. I could have sold you so perhaps there’s hope yet. Come on then, let’s give it another go. I’ll find my helmet and I promise tomorrow I’ll be back. We’ll go out together again, free spirits. Tomorrow...
Linda Birch
Vanity
I bought you on a whim. You certainly caught my eye with your slender animal print and curved wooden handle which is shaped to fit comfortably into my ageing palm. Your adjustable height and rubber ferrule make you the perfect fit. So why are you still sitting in the corner, never used? Please don’t be angry. After my operation, I used the hospital issue stick until I was confident enough to walk without it. Then, I saw you in the shop window, looking so handsome amongst a bundle of lesser looking sticks. I thought that one day I would take you out, parade you with pride; you would make me look special. Alas, as time has gone by, I don’t feel the same need for your assistance. I even feel that you will make me look older and more decrepit than I am. I wouldn’t blame you if you crumpled under my weight to teach me a lesson. Every now and then I take hold of you and try you out for size. Recently I have found that walking on rough ground is quite unsteadying, so I have looked at you once or twice and been tempted to take you on your maiden walk. I promise that I will not ignore you forever, so please be patient. I still think you are the best looking stick around. Maggie Storer |
C’est la Vie
What am I to do with you? No one knows you’re here. Lie across the settee, let me think. It’s our little secret; what would they say if they knew? You’re still beautiful, let me hold you one last time; then go; make someone else happy. The smell of that day lingers over you. Roses. I’ll play our first waltz, we’ll dance around the room; You wouldn't remember it; no it never happened. Before we say our last good bye, I’ll slip into you, like I did sixty years ago; when we were abandoned outside the church. Cora Boffey |
Looking out…
Hello you. Let’s see what you’ve got for me today. Looks okay, bit grim, but not raining. We’ve been through a lot together. Bet you’ve lost count of all the changes. All those spruces-up and spring cleans; colour changes of walls, carpets and furniture; visits from friends, family, even complete strangers – those lovely ambulance girls when I was poorly.
The never the same yet regularity of outside must be comforting. From up here you can see the beauty of colour changes – season’s greens to browns; dark grey, moon-lit silver, the black of thunder and summer’s blue happy skies with crazy shapes, white story telling clouds, all underscored in red-brown roof tiles.
Your own colours are no longer crisp. Like me time and temperature have faded your vitality. The other day while dusting I caught my cloth in a scorched hole in your hem.
I have difficulty in reaching up with the vacuum hose to get at your dust, so I’m considering replacing you with blinds.
Then it will be curtains for you…
Andie Green
Hello you. Let’s see what you’ve got for me today. Looks okay, bit grim, but not raining. We’ve been through a lot together. Bet you’ve lost count of all the changes. All those spruces-up and spring cleans; colour changes of walls, carpets and furniture; visits from friends, family, even complete strangers – those lovely ambulance girls when I was poorly.
The never the same yet regularity of outside must be comforting. From up here you can see the beauty of colour changes – season’s greens to browns; dark grey, moon-lit silver, the black of thunder and summer’s blue happy skies with crazy shapes, white story telling clouds, all underscored in red-brown roof tiles.
Your own colours are no longer crisp. Like me time and temperature have faded your vitality. The other day while dusting I caught my cloth in a scorched hole in your hem.
I have difficulty in reaching up with the vacuum hose to get at your dust, so I’m considering replacing you with blinds.
Then it will be curtains for you…
Andie Green
Inner Thoughts
Talking to the wall, the rock, the light hanging in the lounge. Better get up and dust it, but not today, perhaps tomorrow, but they never talk back. Thoughts, questions we ask ourselves, answers and decisions that need to be made every moment of every day. You stand before the mirror looking at the new dress just arrived. Is it too short, too long, to baggy? If it blew up in the wind would it be embarrassing? You smile, problem solved, send it back. Your best friend your inner thought, always there to answer you, to help and advise. Your conscience... you did not choose her, or him, they chose you, and you are inseparable. You may turn a blind eye to what is advised, but this is your friend for life and will always be there to see you through thick or thin... whatever. Carol Hipkin |
A Computed Confession
I think of us as bosom friends. For years we've worked together and much of the time you're in charge, testing my skills and patience and working twice as hard as me. I'm ever grateful for the way you correct my spelling and store all the stuff I'm apt to forget. I couldn't live without you. Even so, my conscience squirms, I need to tell you something. In truth, I'm disloyal, a low life renegade, a traitor. I'm in awe of your cleverness and masterful quick-thinking. I also value the secrets we share, our communications with friends and family, our Safari trips to see the world and its wonders. I treasure the way you help me to learn something new, or dig out obscure information, you help me so much in many ways. Dutifully I send for Richard if I think you are depressed or unwell. He advised that I cover your "eye". Consequently, I've turned you into a blind cyclops by placing a patch over your little spy hole, the portal that undesirable nosey parkers might try to access. I also tamper with your settings after we've had an especially busy day together; I delete your happy memories of our travels, the shops we've visited and suchlike. Yet I selfishly store them in my own mind. I'm sorry I'm so mean to you. You're a dear friend and my only saving grace is that one has to be cruel to be kind... I do love you. Betty Taylor |
Deadline: July 5th
Brief: Change your point of view Dig out a first person (“I” viewpoint) story you wrote ages ago. Rewrite it in third person. A third person viewpoint will allow your characters more access to information. You may add an extra character if it helps your story along.
First Person point of view: your story is told from the point of view of the narrator i.e. only one person, can tell you what is happening and what has been said. Remember the narrator cannot see or hear what other characters are doing when not in his/her company.
Third Person point of view: means that there's a disembodied narrator, never identified, who's telling the story. It's the understood agreement between reader and writer that the reader will accept that there is somebody who can relate all that happened without being involved in the happenings.
Tip: If you are struggling with a story plot, changing the point-of-view helps you rethink the story and thus resolve any doubts or difficulties. You may even find your story needs to take a different turn depending upon which viewpoint you use.
Deadline: July 5th
Brief: Change your point of view Dig out a first person (“I” viewpoint) story you wrote ages ago. Rewrite it in third person. A third person viewpoint will allow your characters more access to information. You may add an extra character if it helps your story along.
First Person point of view: your story is told from the point of view of the narrator i.e. only one person, can tell you what is happening and what has been said. Remember the narrator cannot see or hear what other characters are doing when not in his/her company.
Third Person point of view: means that there's a disembodied narrator, never identified, who's telling the story. It's the understood agreement between reader and writer that the reader will accept that there is somebody who can relate all that happened without being involved in the happenings.
Tip: If you are struggling with a story plot, changing the point-of-view helps you rethink the story and thus resolve any doubts or difficulties. You may even find your story needs to take a different turn depending upon which viewpoint you use.
Stuck Behind – View I
Aunt Judy gave me the model for my tenth birthday. She made it in pottery class and was very proud of it. “That one’s called Mary,” she said pointing, and that’s you.” Mary is my elder sister. I don’t suppose Aunt Judy meant anything by it, but I thought ‘there I am, trailing behind Mary again’. The prettier, smarter, more popular sister whom I adored, who never seemed to have time for me, always outshining me. Funny how silly childhood moments can stay with you. Did I let Aunt Judy’s comment influence me? Is that why I’m always second best? Linda Birch |
Stuck Behind – View II
Aunt Judy made the model in pottery class. She’d based the figures on her sister Amy’s two daughters: Mary, outgoing and carefree, and the younger Lisa, introvert and shy. Judy saw it in her face as soon as she showed Lisa the model. She was upset. ”That’s you,” Judy had said, pointing at the small figure in the model. She meant only that – “there you are”, nothing more, nothing less, but Lisa had taken it as a criticism. She thought she was somehow less than her sister. Was Lisa destined to go through her life being so negative, always expecting criticism? Perhaps Judy could have tried to encourage her more. Well, there was nothing she could do about it now. Nothing she wanted to anyway. She was fed up with Amy’s kids. Linda Birch |
The View
‘Hi Mum, this is the view from my bedroom window. Not much to look at, but plenty of sky to let the light in. I’m at the top of the house, so it’s very quiet. The others haven’t arrived yet. We’ve all got our own room with a little kitchen area on the landing, so Nana’s kettle will be very useful. That’s the back of the hospital you can see, so not far to walk. Will keep in touch. Don’t worry. Love Daisy’. I close the attic skylight and feel the dark room closing in. Time for my first shift. Maggie Storer |
The View II
Daisy’s dad had finally emptied the boot, and the back seat, and dragged the heavy suitcases and boxes up to the top floor. There wasn’t room for her mum in the car too, but she would phone later and make the flat sound as cheery as she could. With her clothes packed away in the tiny wardrobe, she took Nana’s kettle out of the box, and set about making tea. That’s what her mum would have done. At least the view from the skylight was worth looking at. And her first shift at the hospital was only two hours away. Maggie Storer |
Loyal Friendship
Hello Diana, I want to thank you for all your help getting me settled in my little bed sit, I am so thrilled to feel safe at last, to be free and having things to call my own, is amazing. I sat out in the communal garden yesterday, there were flowers and trees. The sun was shining, and I could hear the birds singing, it was lovely. I tried on the outfit we bought for my interview before I went to bed last night, it made me want to cry with happiness. If I am successful at my interview tomorrow, I will pay you back, I promise. Thank you so much.’ Love Charlie. Carol Hipkin |
Loyal Friendship
Diana had arranged an interview for Charlotte at a friend’s Bistro café. Charlie had been in a young offenders' detention centre for the past five years. During that time, Diana, who was her attorney, had fought hard for her release. Having no immediate family of her own, she had enjoyed helping this young woman whom she genuinely believed needed a fair chance to have a happy life. Charlie had proved to be excellent at cookery in the kitchen during her stay at the detention centre, her speciality being in cakes. The staff said she had a natural talent, and allowed Charlie to help with the Governor's birthday cake. Carol Hipkin |
The Crown Jewels
The three old men, heads together, peered into a scrunched up bag. "They could be the crown jewels," said Charlie. Will laughed, "not quite, but nearly as good," he muttered. "Those were the days," said Henry raising his eyes to stare into the distance. I had a good nose for a gem." "Quiet boy, we don't speak about those days any more," hissed Charlie. The other two nodded agreement. "Let's have another look at them," said Charlie, "I like the red strawberry ones." A care assistant approached. Henry closed the bag. The woman laughed, "don't worry boys, I won't pinch your valuables." Betty Taylor |
The Crown Jewels
I work in a care home. Believe me, some of our guests can be difficult. We have three old chaps who worry me a bit. They're cheeky and a bit secretive. Sometimes I feel like they're laughing at me. This morning I was serving the mid-morning tea and coffee. I knew they were up to something when I saw them messing about with a grubby paper bag. Their heads were together peering inside it and arguing which colours were best. Charlie liked red, Henry insisted on green and Will wasn't fussed. "What on earth have you got in there?" I asked. Charlie snapped the bag shut as I leaned closer to look inside. "The crown jewels," he replied. The other two sniggered but said nothing. I heard Henry saying "what's up with her?" as I fled to the phone to report a burglary. Betty Taylor |
Viewpoint 1
It was his turn to plan a surprise day out, something we’d not done before. Mine was a hike up Snowdon. Exhausting, leg and back aching and we did get a bit wet, but do-able. After 5 years of living together he should recognise my reluctance for anything out of my comfort zone. I have always absolutely and unconditionally hated those places – see, I can’t even say it. The second we pulled up at the gates alarm bells screeched louder than an air raid siren dying to burst my brain. I literally could not move. The more Greg laughed, persuaded and tried to be all gung-ho to show me up as weak and silly, the deeper I slid into my car seat. After biting back a tsunami for an age my flooding eyes finally convinced him that this was not a hormonal induced tantrum, but a phobia and we drove the twenty miles back home in complete silence, with the un-shared promise never to visit a reptile zoo again. Andie Green |
Viewpoint 2
Greg had surprised his girl with a trip out last weekend. She was excited as it was going to be nothing they had done before. Apparently she had taken Greg to climb Snowdon last month and they had a good but tiring day. But Greg did not know or understand Maria’s change of mood when they arrived at his chosen treat. She could not get out of the car, no matter how Greg tried to coax and persuade, show off and play the macho game, Maria stayed put. When Maria sobbed uncontrollably, Greg realised that Maria was not being hormonal, but had a genuine phobia of this place, so he drove silently home, and made a silent promise never again to take his girlfriend to a reptile zoo. Andie Green. |
Deadline: June 21st
Brief: Reflection Consider a span of years, say 20 or 30 or 40. Reflect on your thinking, likes and dislikes, etc during the time span. Have they changed? Write an essay about the changes, if any, that have affected your thinking, approach to life, and your hopes for the future. Are you a different person from the one you were all those years ago?
Brief: Reflection Consider a span of years, say 20 or 30 or 40. Reflect on your thinking, likes and dislikes, etc during the time span. Have they changed? Write an essay about the changes, if any, that have affected your thinking, approach to life, and your hopes for the future. Are you a different person from the one you were all those years ago?
All God’s people…
I cannot remember when I became aware of prejudice. People who were bigoted towards others who didn’t belong to a particular group; looked and dressed differently; ate different food and enjoyed their own music and pastimes. When I began my nursing training in Birmingham in 1964 I became very aware of ‘coloured’ men and women who lived in the town, drove the buses, sold colourful goods on the market and were employed at the hospital as surgeons and nurses, as well as cleaners and cooks. After a very ‘white’ upbringing in South Wales I liked and learned to appreciate and not judge.
Prejudice has become an accepted norm, we may not admit to being discriminatory, but it affects all of society. It has become accepted that when crime is reported in parts of towns and cities known to be inhabited by many nationalities, we are not surprised that the criminals are black or Asian.
Yes, it is okay to say black- no more N word or P (for Pakistanis)
Reports that used to shock and upset have become the normal consequence of intolerance and bigotry, even though the media tries to remain impartial.
I used to hope it was a generational thing. Post Second World War society was understandably
intolerant of Germans and Japanese. I had a few friends – including my mother- who asked how I would feel if my teenage daughter brought home a non-white boy. I assured them that as long as he was kind and respected my daughter then I would not have a problem. I ‘lost’ a few friends due to this attitude.
Hatred is the biggest crime. Some folk need to hate, discriminate and blame. I don’t know what makes men or women act on these opinions. No one is born evil. But racism is nurtured into a child as easily as you may teach your offspring to cross the road safely or be wary of wild animals.
I studied American literature and loved the aural tradition of African Americans educating white folk by talking and singing in the early nineteen hundreds. But it was a short lived idyll. Very soon white gangs were hanging those niggers and burning their homes.
It is stating the painfully obvious that hatred breeds intolerance breeds bigotry breeds misunderstanding.
It is the main reason that I, in my 70s, feel sad. Of course my own attitudes have been changed by several incidences of cruelty and hate that I have witnessed over the decades, on holiday and at work, and very recently in my local supermarket. Technology has changed the world in two generations but no scientific breakthrough will ever kill off despair.
Andie Green.
I cannot remember when I became aware of prejudice. People who were bigoted towards others who didn’t belong to a particular group; looked and dressed differently; ate different food and enjoyed their own music and pastimes. When I began my nursing training in Birmingham in 1964 I became very aware of ‘coloured’ men and women who lived in the town, drove the buses, sold colourful goods on the market and were employed at the hospital as surgeons and nurses, as well as cleaners and cooks. After a very ‘white’ upbringing in South Wales I liked and learned to appreciate and not judge.
Prejudice has become an accepted norm, we may not admit to being discriminatory, but it affects all of society. It has become accepted that when crime is reported in parts of towns and cities known to be inhabited by many nationalities, we are not surprised that the criminals are black or Asian.
Yes, it is okay to say black- no more N word or P (for Pakistanis)
Reports that used to shock and upset have become the normal consequence of intolerance and bigotry, even though the media tries to remain impartial.
I used to hope it was a generational thing. Post Second World War society was understandably
intolerant of Germans and Japanese. I had a few friends – including my mother- who asked how I would feel if my teenage daughter brought home a non-white boy. I assured them that as long as he was kind and respected my daughter then I would not have a problem. I ‘lost’ a few friends due to this attitude.
Hatred is the biggest crime. Some folk need to hate, discriminate and blame. I don’t know what makes men or women act on these opinions. No one is born evil. But racism is nurtured into a child as easily as you may teach your offspring to cross the road safely or be wary of wild animals.
I studied American literature and loved the aural tradition of African Americans educating white folk by talking and singing in the early nineteen hundreds. But it was a short lived idyll. Very soon white gangs were hanging those niggers and burning their homes.
It is stating the painfully obvious that hatred breeds intolerance breeds bigotry breeds misunderstanding.
It is the main reason that I, in my 70s, feel sad. Of course my own attitudes have been changed by several incidences of cruelty and hate that I have witnessed over the decades, on holiday and at work, and very recently in my local supermarket. Technology has changed the world in two generations but no scientific breakthrough will ever kill off despair.
Andie Green.
One Chance
We have one chance to live our lives. We have difficult decisions to make, and may be unsure of how important those choices are. Now, looking back and feeling comfortable, do I have true satisfaction with the choices I made?
I ask myself could I have achieved more, taken more chances, set myself higher goals, travelled and been more adventurous when I was young and free? If you look back at the naïve person you were, the answer is often 'yes', or 'perhaps'.
If you had the chance to begin again, would you choose a different direction; Or would you wish to be the person you are now in the place you have chosen to be, having the loving family you have created?
My answer: my life is good, I am mainly content with my achievements. But at times one’s thoughts will always drift and always wonder. If you had your chance again, to change the mistakes you have made along the way, or even understand why you made them, would you? But there is only one chance. Time and tide wait for no man - absolutely true.
Carol Hipkin
We have one chance to live our lives. We have difficult decisions to make, and may be unsure of how important those choices are. Now, looking back and feeling comfortable, do I have true satisfaction with the choices I made?
I ask myself could I have achieved more, taken more chances, set myself higher goals, travelled and been more adventurous when I was young and free? If you look back at the naïve person you were, the answer is often 'yes', or 'perhaps'.
If you had the chance to begin again, would you choose a different direction; Or would you wish to be the person you are now in the place you have chosen to be, having the loving family you have created?
My answer: my life is good, I am mainly content with my achievements. But at times one’s thoughts will always drift and always wonder. If you had your chance again, to change the mistakes you have made along the way, or even understand why you made them, would you? But there is only one chance. Time and tide wait for no man - absolutely true.
Carol Hipkin
What Do We Learn?
When I first looked at this exercise, I thought topical, seventy years, make it an easy task, we’ve just celebrated the Platinum Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth 11 reign on the throne. Then I thought I’d be repeating myself and maybe you’ve all had enough of the last seventy years broadcast on TV? To be honest, being a Royalist myself, I loved it.
I know people think we spend enough on the Royal Family and hangers on, but I think what they stand for in this country and what we stand for is Great, plus, no one can put on a show like us. (OK like all families, we all have a few glitches and odd balls.)
Anyway, to the point; I decided as my eldest grandson was born in 2000. I’d look back a mere twenty odd years and give you a few facts to mull over and see where the Joys and Celebrations of the Millennium 2000 took us -
What was the 2000’s known for?
From Y2K bug and HP – Company merger, to Apples rebound, the decade saw a wealth of historical events.
Here’s a look back, the highlights of 2000’s. The decade was littered with recessions, stock market crashes, financial scandals, antitrust cases, and flat out disasters all round. YEAR 2022: nothing much seems to have changed??
Back in 2000, nowhere near as much racialism reported as now. Back in 2000, nowhere near as much knife and gun crime reported as now. A bit of world news – 2000, Vladimir Putin elected for President of Russia; No Comment!
Back to UK, January 4th Millennium Dome Opened, by Queen Elizabeth 11. Catherine Hartley and Fiona Thornwill first two British women to reach South Pole. April 3rd Immigration and As to cover cost of food and clothing/ free school dinners. (Have we moved forwards 2022?)
2001 Wikipedia is launched. Apple Launched the iPod.
2002 Apple Introduced the IMac G4.
2003 Invasion of Iraq
My Space launched
2004 Facebook launched
2005 You Tube launched
USB flash driver replaces floppy disc
Angela Merkel first female chancellor of Germany
2006 Twitter launched
Saddam Hussein executed
2007 Global economic down turn
Apple debuts Iphone
Amazon releases the Kindle
2008 Oil prices hit a record high. (2022 think we can well beat that!)
The Internet continues to boom
2009 Major breakthrough in cancer research
2009 Mind control headsets enter the video games market
Africa's population reaches one billion.
Exciting toys of Millennium – Furby, Tamagotchi, Buzz Lightyear, Bratz Doll, Razor Scooter, Bob the Builder.
My conclusion is technology has come on in leaps and bounds over the last twenty years; where would we be without the new technology in hospitals and in industry. Even 3D printing in industry in planning and design; that’s in plastic, not metal as yet. Robots doing operations in hospitals, information sent across the world in seconds, Internet banking, shopping on line.
The down side – Big Brother watches everything, technology rules kids' lives, they can’t live without their phones; TikTok is their best friend.
The rich still seem to get richer and the poor get poorer.
The world is getting a scary place for me to leave behind for the next generation; not what I had dreamed of at all.
Cora Boffey
When I first looked at this exercise, I thought topical, seventy years, make it an easy task, we’ve just celebrated the Platinum Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth 11 reign on the throne. Then I thought I’d be repeating myself and maybe you’ve all had enough of the last seventy years broadcast on TV? To be honest, being a Royalist myself, I loved it.
I know people think we spend enough on the Royal Family and hangers on, but I think what they stand for in this country and what we stand for is Great, plus, no one can put on a show like us. (OK like all families, we all have a few glitches and odd balls.)
Anyway, to the point; I decided as my eldest grandson was born in 2000. I’d look back a mere twenty odd years and give you a few facts to mull over and see where the Joys and Celebrations of the Millennium 2000 took us -
What was the 2000’s known for?
From Y2K bug and HP – Company merger, to Apples rebound, the decade saw a wealth of historical events.
Here’s a look back, the highlights of 2000’s. The decade was littered with recessions, stock market crashes, financial scandals, antitrust cases, and flat out disasters all round. YEAR 2022: nothing much seems to have changed??
Back in 2000, nowhere near as much racialism reported as now. Back in 2000, nowhere near as much knife and gun crime reported as now. A bit of world news – 2000, Vladimir Putin elected for President of Russia; No Comment!
Back to UK, January 4th Millennium Dome Opened, by Queen Elizabeth 11. Catherine Hartley and Fiona Thornwill first two British women to reach South Pole. April 3rd Immigration and As to cover cost of food and clothing/ free school dinners. (Have we moved forwards 2022?)
2001 Wikipedia is launched. Apple Launched the iPod.
2002 Apple Introduced the IMac G4.
2003 Invasion of Iraq
My Space launched
2004 Facebook launched
2005 You Tube launched
USB flash driver replaces floppy disc
Angela Merkel first female chancellor of Germany
2006 Twitter launched
Saddam Hussein executed
2007 Global economic down turn
Apple debuts Iphone
Amazon releases the Kindle
2008 Oil prices hit a record high. (2022 think we can well beat that!)
The Internet continues to boom
2009 Major breakthrough in cancer research
2009 Mind control headsets enter the video games market
Africa's population reaches one billion.
Exciting toys of Millennium – Furby, Tamagotchi, Buzz Lightyear, Bratz Doll, Razor Scooter, Bob the Builder.
My conclusion is technology has come on in leaps and bounds over the last twenty years; where would we be without the new technology in hospitals and in industry. Even 3D printing in industry in planning and design; that’s in plastic, not metal as yet. Robots doing operations in hospitals, information sent across the world in seconds, Internet banking, shopping on line.
The down side – Big Brother watches everything, technology rules kids' lives, they can’t live without their phones; TikTok is their best friend.
The rich still seem to get richer and the poor get poorer.
The world is getting a scary place for me to leave behind for the next generation; not what I had dreamed of at all.
Cora Boffey
A Different Life
They say that life begins at forty. So are the years up to that point a learning curve? Are we all testing ourselves, trying new things, until we reach the stage where we are happy with ourselves and our lives?
At every stage of my life I have always felt that this was the happiest time; never wanted to go backwards or leap forwards. I grew up knowing that family was more important to me than career, so by the time I was forty I had a husband and three children. My ambitions had been achieved. I was lucky. There was little time for self analysis; life was too busy, but it never occurred to me that I might have taken the wrong course.
Beyond forty, I still felt that at every stage I was at my happiest, but it was perhaps about this time that I began to reassess my life and what I had or had not achieved. Family wise I had achieved my goals, but perhaps I had not made the most of my education. I retrained, updated my secretarial qualifications and eventually found a full time job, where I stayed for eighteen years. These were probably the most fulfilling years of my life.
I think I am basically the same person I have always been, with the same ideals. I have a strong work ethic and don’t have much patience for laziness. I berate myself for being idle and routine is my mantra. Perhaps I wish I could be more relaxed about life in general, let things go a bit. But it’s very difficult to change one’s personality.
No one gets the opportunity to start again, take a different direction, choose another career path. I think I took the best path opened to me at the time. Do I still think this is the happiest time of my life? No; with old age creeping up on me, I can only see a gradual decline, but I am determined to make the best of the life I have left and to keep exploring new ventures and learning new things.
Maggie Storer
They say that life begins at forty. So are the years up to that point a learning curve? Are we all testing ourselves, trying new things, until we reach the stage where we are happy with ourselves and our lives?
At every stage of my life I have always felt that this was the happiest time; never wanted to go backwards or leap forwards. I grew up knowing that family was more important to me than career, so by the time I was forty I had a husband and three children. My ambitions had been achieved. I was lucky. There was little time for self analysis; life was too busy, but it never occurred to me that I might have taken the wrong course.
Beyond forty, I still felt that at every stage I was at my happiest, but it was perhaps about this time that I began to reassess my life and what I had or had not achieved. Family wise I had achieved my goals, but perhaps I had not made the most of my education. I retrained, updated my secretarial qualifications and eventually found a full time job, where I stayed for eighteen years. These were probably the most fulfilling years of my life.
I think I am basically the same person I have always been, with the same ideals. I have a strong work ethic and don’t have much patience for laziness. I berate myself for being idle and routine is my mantra. Perhaps I wish I could be more relaxed about life in general, let things go a bit. But it’s very difficult to change one’s personality.
No one gets the opportunity to start again, take a different direction, choose another career path. I think I took the best path opened to me at the time. Do I still think this is the happiest time of my life? No; with old age creeping up on me, I can only see a gradual decline, but I am determined to make the best of the life I have left and to keep exploring new ventures and learning new things.
Maggie Storer
Deadline: June 7th
Brief: Spilling the Beans Your first line is: I looked at him (or her) and said, “here’s a secret that nobody knows…”
Brief: Spilling the Beans Your first line is: I looked at him (or her) and said, “here’s a secret that nobody knows…”
Secret Love
I looked at her and said, “here’s a secret nobody knows.”
Well, that’s how I imagine it anyway. I’ve lost count of how many times I pictured myself looking my sister straight in the eyes and telling her what I did. “It was me, I interfered and I ruined your life.” Maybe that’s an exaggeration but I know I influenced how you felt about him.
The scene is Emerson College, boys’ Boarding School in 1959, and the end of term Summer Ball. Sixth formers from the local girls’ high school were invited to join the boys for the dance – chaperoned by some teachers of course. It was there you met Matthew Harper. All the girls fancied him but it was you he asked to partner him. It was a magical evening and you met a few times secretly after that (our parents would never have approved). Timing was against you: he was due to return home before going off to university to study geography and you too were due to go away. Our parents had arranged for you to stay with our Aunt Sarah and help with her tea shop – ‘get some proper work experience’ - before you went to Teacher Training College in September. But he said he’d write to you and you gave him our address.igh School were invited to partner the boys at the dance
You told me about your secret love. “He’s so special, Jilly. I think about him all the time.”
I promised to look out for Matthew’s letter and send it on to you. He wrote to you, of course he did, and more than once. I made it my life’s work to see I got to the post first each morning. I read those letters and I know how much he felt for you. But I destroyed them. Everyone of them until there were no more. You asked me if there were letters and I said no and added some snide comments about you not knowing what he was up to now he’d gone to university. All those new girls he’d meet. Why wouldn’t you believe your own sister? You stopped asking.
Why did I do it? I was jealous as hell. You were bright and beautiful, had inherited mum’s blond hair and blue eyes. Kind and clever, people just took to you. Everything was a struggle for me, plain and clumsy. You had it all already, why should you have Mat Harper as well?
Well, Sis, there it is, that’s my secret. I know you never forgot him and I know I shall never tell you what I did. It’s still my secret.
Linda Birch
I looked at her and said, “here’s a secret nobody knows.”
Well, that’s how I imagine it anyway. I’ve lost count of how many times I pictured myself looking my sister straight in the eyes and telling her what I did. “It was me, I interfered and I ruined your life.” Maybe that’s an exaggeration but I know I influenced how you felt about him.
The scene is Emerson College, boys’ Boarding School in 1959, and the end of term Summer Ball. Sixth formers from the local girls’ high school were invited to join the boys for the dance – chaperoned by some teachers of course. It was there you met Matthew Harper. All the girls fancied him but it was you he asked to partner him. It was a magical evening and you met a few times secretly after that (our parents would never have approved). Timing was against you: he was due to return home before going off to university to study geography and you too were due to go away. Our parents had arranged for you to stay with our Aunt Sarah and help with her tea shop – ‘get some proper work experience’ - before you went to Teacher Training College in September. But he said he’d write to you and you gave him our address.igh School were invited to partner the boys at the dance
You told me about your secret love. “He’s so special, Jilly. I think about him all the time.”
I promised to look out for Matthew’s letter and send it on to you. He wrote to you, of course he did, and more than once. I made it my life’s work to see I got to the post first each morning. I read those letters and I know how much he felt for you. But I destroyed them. Everyone of them until there were no more. You asked me if there were letters and I said no and added some snide comments about you not knowing what he was up to now he’d gone to university. All those new girls he’d meet. Why wouldn’t you believe your own sister? You stopped asking.
Why did I do it? I was jealous as hell. You were bright and beautiful, had inherited mum’s blond hair and blue eyes. Kind and clever, people just took to you. Everything was a struggle for me, plain and clumsy. You had it all already, why should you have Mat Harper as well?
Well, Sis, there it is, that’s my secret. I know you never forgot him and I know I shall never tell you what I did. It’s still my secret.
Linda Birch
Secret
I looked at him and said Here’s a secret that nobody knows... How can there be a secret that nobody knows? Even secrets hidden for thousands of years We’re once known by somebody You are not nobody - you are known to me If you have a secret keep it Else it becomes my secret too And before you know it The whole world will know it Then it will belong to everyone Secrets should be kept But they have to belong to somebody A child whispers in an ear to share a secret Then two have the secret A trouble shared is a trouble halved A secret shared is a secret no more Andie Green |
Spilling the Beans
He looked at her and said, “Here’s a secret that nobody knows...”
Heidi ran sobbing from the tent.
“Now look what you’ve done; how stupid and selfish, it’s not for you to go blabbing things like that to anyone, especially Heidi. How will she ever trust anyone again.”
“She’s got to know sometime and I thought it was best now. Anyway, she’s got five months to get used to the truth and I really couldn’t face all that pretend again, so no, just tough love.”
Furious at her twelve year old brother, Julia stormed off to find Heidi before she spilled the beans, guessing I’d be livid at Ben, especially after all the hard work she knew had been done this week to make everything magical.
The children had sleep overs in the tent at the bottom of the garden, they’d built a rope swing over the brook at the bottom of the lane. I buried treasure in the garden before they arrived, so to discover it with their metal detectors. We’d had treasure hunts and built dens; Now Ben decided to bring Heidi’s world crashing down.
Little did Julia know grandma had ears and eyes everywhere and grandmas were always on the alert for people, especially children who spilled the beans for whatever reason.
Twenty four hours later the children were sleeping in the tent, when they woke to the sound of bells and a faint light shining on the tent; there was a huge shadow. They all shot up in complete surprise.
Ben was the first to gasp, “it's Father Christmas!”
The children shot out of the tent, but the light and figure had disappeared.
Heidi screamed at her brother, “You told me there wasn’t a real Father Christmas, we've just seen him, you just shouted his name!”
They looked up at the house which was in darkness. “Look,” said Julia,“ a letter on the lawn.”
They went back into the tent to shine their torch on the letter, Ben took charge.
Dear Children,
Forgive me for spilling the beans, but there are very special circumstances when this can be done and this is one of them. I have heard a secret that nobody knows; yet. Your grandma is going to Australia for Christmas to visit her sister, so won’t be able to be with you this year. So as a special surprise my Elves and I have been very busy preparing a surprise for you and grandma tonight..
Quietly go to her bedroom and wake her up and take her down into the lounge in that order.
Love
Father Christmas xx
Well as you can imagine the scene in the lounge was magical. The Christmas tree was lit up, fairy lights up around the room and boxes of presents for everyone.
Ben just shook his head and said, “this is the biggest surprise of my life.”
Cora Boffey
He looked at her and said, “Here’s a secret that nobody knows...”
Heidi ran sobbing from the tent.
“Now look what you’ve done; how stupid and selfish, it’s not for you to go blabbing things like that to anyone, especially Heidi. How will she ever trust anyone again.”
“She’s got to know sometime and I thought it was best now. Anyway, she’s got five months to get used to the truth and I really couldn’t face all that pretend again, so no, just tough love.”
Furious at her twelve year old brother, Julia stormed off to find Heidi before she spilled the beans, guessing I’d be livid at Ben, especially after all the hard work she knew had been done this week to make everything magical.
The children had sleep overs in the tent at the bottom of the garden, they’d built a rope swing over the brook at the bottom of the lane. I buried treasure in the garden before they arrived, so to discover it with their metal detectors. We’d had treasure hunts and built dens; Now Ben decided to bring Heidi’s world crashing down.
Little did Julia know grandma had ears and eyes everywhere and grandmas were always on the alert for people, especially children who spilled the beans for whatever reason.
Twenty four hours later the children were sleeping in the tent, when they woke to the sound of bells and a faint light shining on the tent; there was a huge shadow. They all shot up in complete surprise.
Ben was the first to gasp, “it's Father Christmas!”
The children shot out of the tent, but the light and figure had disappeared.
Heidi screamed at her brother, “You told me there wasn’t a real Father Christmas, we've just seen him, you just shouted his name!”
They looked up at the house which was in darkness. “Look,” said Julia,“ a letter on the lawn.”
They went back into the tent to shine their torch on the letter, Ben took charge.
Dear Children,
Forgive me for spilling the beans, but there are very special circumstances when this can be done and this is one of them. I have heard a secret that nobody knows; yet. Your grandma is going to Australia for Christmas to visit her sister, so won’t be able to be with you this year. So as a special surprise my Elves and I have been very busy preparing a surprise for you and grandma tonight..
Quietly go to her bedroom and wake her up and take her down into the lounge in that order.
Love
Father Christmas xx
Well as you can imagine the scene in the lounge was magical. The Christmas tree was lit up, fairy lights up around the room and boxes of presents for everyone.
Ben just shook his head and said, “this is the biggest surprise of my life.”
Cora Boffey
New Beginnings
I looked at him and said, ‘here’s a secret that nobody knows.’
My brother and I rarely saw each other, and when we did he seemed to be somewhere else most of the time; either hidden behind a newspaper or attending to some job that didn’t need doing. We had never been close, but there are times in your life when coming together is inevitable, and this was one occasion. I lay the paperwork out in front of me; letters, official forms, all yellowing with age, but clearly stating what I now had to tell my brother.
‘This looks very ominous Claire. Family secrets? Love letters?’
‘It’s more serious than that,’ I said. ‘We’re not related, and what’s more neither of us is related to our mum or dad. It clearly states in this paperwork that we are both adopted.’ I looked up to see his reaction.
For the first time I could remember Steve actually put down his paper and sat with his mouth open simply lost for words.
‘Did you know?’ I asked.
‘Of course not. How could I know and not you? This answers a lot of questions though; how we have never had anything in common, how we look so different and could never decide which parent we took after.’
I was puzzled. ‘Why did they never tell us? It isn’t something to be ashamed about. These days everything is out in the open. I can’t understand it, and now we can’t even ask them.’
Steve held his head in his hands. ‘A secret they took to their graves, and that’s the biggest secret of all. Why?’
‘I’m going to follow this up, find out where we came from and discover why it should be such a secret. Are you with me on this?’ For the first time I felt that my brother and I had a bond, even if it was only to find out where we came from and why.
‘Yes Claire, we have to work together on this. We owe it to our children and grandchildren to find out the truth. Maybe our past will help us to be together in the future.’
And for the first time we gave each other a warm hug before we parted, promising to keep in touch and knowing that a new chapter in our lives was about to begin.
Maggie Storer
I looked at him and said, ‘here’s a secret that nobody knows.’
My brother and I rarely saw each other, and when we did he seemed to be somewhere else most of the time; either hidden behind a newspaper or attending to some job that didn’t need doing. We had never been close, but there are times in your life when coming together is inevitable, and this was one occasion. I lay the paperwork out in front of me; letters, official forms, all yellowing with age, but clearly stating what I now had to tell my brother.
‘This looks very ominous Claire. Family secrets? Love letters?’
‘It’s more serious than that,’ I said. ‘We’re not related, and what’s more neither of us is related to our mum or dad. It clearly states in this paperwork that we are both adopted.’ I looked up to see his reaction.
For the first time I could remember Steve actually put down his paper and sat with his mouth open simply lost for words.
‘Did you know?’ I asked.
‘Of course not. How could I know and not you? This answers a lot of questions though; how we have never had anything in common, how we look so different and could never decide which parent we took after.’
I was puzzled. ‘Why did they never tell us? It isn’t something to be ashamed about. These days everything is out in the open. I can’t understand it, and now we can’t even ask them.’
Steve held his head in his hands. ‘A secret they took to their graves, and that’s the biggest secret of all. Why?’
‘I’m going to follow this up, find out where we came from and discover why it should be such a secret. Are you with me on this?’ For the first time I felt that my brother and I had a bond, even if it was only to find out where we came from and why.
‘Yes Claire, we have to work together on this. We owe it to our children and grandchildren to find out the truth. Maybe our past will help us to be together in the future.’
And for the first time we gave each other a warm hug before we parted, promising to keep in touch and knowing that a new chapter in our lives was about to begin.
Maggie Storer
Deadline: May 24th
Brief: Where would you go? If you could visit anywhere on Earth for a one-month holiday, where would you go and what would you do?
Brief: Where would you go? If you could visit anywhere on Earth for a one-month holiday, where would you go and what would you do?
My Special Place
When anxiety grips me, I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift to my favourite place in Wales, Talybont. Perhaps because Wales is in my blood, my mother was Welsh. Walking on the soft golden sandy beach, my toes in the warmth of the gentle waves as they reach the shore. Gathering shells and small coloured pebbles. At the end of a glorious summer day, sitting on the stones watching the sun going down, casting pink shadows over the surrounding hills and mountains. Remembering my young sons enjoying their freedom, playing in the sand dunes, paddling their canoe on the slow flowing river. barbeques on the beach, with friends. Waking in the morning to the sound of a seagull’s cry. The endless walk’s, climbing Snowdon and Cader Idris, seeing the buzzards and kites soaring on the thermals. Looking down at the lakes, valleys and the sea beyond. I don’t think I could ever tire of that place, that scenery, nature in all its glory. My special sanctuary, my special place.
Carol Hipkin
When anxiety grips me, I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift to my favourite place in Wales, Talybont. Perhaps because Wales is in my blood, my mother was Welsh. Walking on the soft golden sandy beach, my toes in the warmth of the gentle waves as they reach the shore. Gathering shells and small coloured pebbles. At the end of a glorious summer day, sitting on the stones watching the sun going down, casting pink shadows over the surrounding hills and mountains. Remembering my young sons enjoying their freedom, playing in the sand dunes, paddling their canoe on the slow flowing river. barbeques on the beach, with friends. Waking in the morning to the sound of a seagull’s cry. The endless walk’s, climbing Snowdon and Cader Idris, seeing the buzzards and kites soaring on the thermals. Looking down at the lakes, valleys and the sea beyond. I don’t think I could ever tire of that place, that scenery, nature in all its glory. My special sanctuary, my special place.
Carol Hipkin
In Search of Pocahontas
From my window I can see the chimneys of the old manor house, nestling behind the trees. This was Heacham Hall, home of the Rolfe family, lords of the manor, and has links to the Indian princess, Pocahontas.
Pocahontas was the daughter of Powhatan, powerful chief of the Algonquin Indian tribes, and she famously intervened when Captain John Smith was about to be executed on her father’s orders. Captain Smith came from Lincolnshire and was one of a band of intrepid explorers who sailed out to Virginia for the London Virginia Chartered Company, seeking the treasures Sir Walter Raleigh had reported. Raleigh had claimed the land for Elizabeth I, and named it Virginia in her honour, but had not continued his explorations. About the same time, John Rolfe and a group of Norfolk men, also sailed to Virginia. The travellers landed at Chesapeake Bay and called the settlement Jamestown, after the King, and the district Norfolk. (An earlier expedition had vanished without trace, probably having fallen foul of the native tribes).
After saving John Smith’s life, Pocahontas became an intermediary between her father and the settlers, trying to maintain peace between the newcomers and the natives, until she herself was taken captive. She was lured on board a vessel and kept as a hostage. It is recorded that she converted to Christianity and was baptized as Rebecca. It appears that John Rolfe became sincerely attached to Pocahontas and they were married in April 1614 and had a son, Thomas Rolfe, in January 1615.
In 1616 Sir Tomas Dale, governor of Virginia, accompanied the family to England. Pocahontas was presented at court to Queen Anne, consort to James I, and attended the twelfth night masque. Virginia had become a highly prosperous colony - Rolfe was the first Englishman to introduce the regular cultivation of tobacco into Virginia - and they were feted by the companies of the City of London.
Tradition has it that Pocahontas planted the seeds of a mulberry tree on her travels and there is an ancient mulberry tree in the gardens of Heacham Hall known as Pocahontas’ Mulberry tree.
She was in England for about ten months but tragically the climate did not suit her and they were about to return to America when she fell ill and died at Gravesend, where she is buried. Rolfe returned to Virginia but left Thomas to be brought up in England. Thomas returned to Virginia in 1640. He married Jane, daughter of Francis Pothyress, and their daughter, also Jane, married Colonel Robert Bolling, from whom many eminent American families are descended.
I’m intrigued by Pocahontas’ story and so my choice of destination for my one-month holiday would be to visit the ‘historic triangle’ of Jamestown, Yorktown and Williamsburg in Virginia and also the town of Pocahontas, to learn about the early settlers and look for traces of her life and times. I could visit the site of the original settlement – historic Jamestowne, where there are ongoing archaeological investigations and hundreds of artefacts on display, and the Jamestown settlement, which recreates life in the original settlement. There are also replicas of the three ships which brought the first settlers to Virginia and a recreation of a Powhatan Indian village. The whole story of these brave early settlers and the native tribes is fascinating and there’s so much else to visit I’m not sure one month is enough!
Linda Birch
From my window I can see the chimneys of the old manor house, nestling behind the trees. This was Heacham Hall, home of the Rolfe family, lords of the manor, and has links to the Indian princess, Pocahontas.
Pocahontas was the daughter of Powhatan, powerful chief of the Algonquin Indian tribes, and she famously intervened when Captain John Smith was about to be executed on her father’s orders. Captain Smith came from Lincolnshire and was one of a band of intrepid explorers who sailed out to Virginia for the London Virginia Chartered Company, seeking the treasures Sir Walter Raleigh had reported. Raleigh had claimed the land for Elizabeth I, and named it Virginia in her honour, but had not continued his explorations. About the same time, John Rolfe and a group of Norfolk men, also sailed to Virginia. The travellers landed at Chesapeake Bay and called the settlement Jamestown, after the King, and the district Norfolk. (An earlier expedition had vanished without trace, probably having fallen foul of the native tribes).
After saving John Smith’s life, Pocahontas became an intermediary between her father and the settlers, trying to maintain peace between the newcomers and the natives, until she herself was taken captive. She was lured on board a vessel and kept as a hostage. It is recorded that she converted to Christianity and was baptized as Rebecca. It appears that John Rolfe became sincerely attached to Pocahontas and they were married in April 1614 and had a son, Thomas Rolfe, in January 1615.
In 1616 Sir Tomas Dale, governor of Virginia, accompanied the family to England. Pocahontas was presented at court to Queen Anne, consort to James I, and attended the twelfth night masque. Virginia had become a highly prosperous colony - Rolfe was the first Englishman to introduce the regular cultivation of tobacco into Virginia - and they were feted by the companies of the City of London.
Tradition has it that Pocahontas planted the seeds of a mulberry tree on her travels and there is an ancient mulberry tree in the gardens of Heacham Hall known as Pocahontas’ Mulberry tree.
She was in England for about ten months but tragically the climate did not suit her and they were about to return to America when she fell ill and died at Gravesend, where she is buried. Rolfe returned to Virginia but left Thomas to be brought up in England. Thomas returned to Virginia in 1640. He married Jane, daughter of Francis Pothyress, and their daughter, also Jane, married Colonel Robert Bolling, from whom many eminent American families are descended.
I’m intrigued by Pocahontas’ story and so my choice of destination for my one-month holiday would be to visit the ‘historic triangle’ of Jamestown, Yorktown and Williamsburg in Virginia and also the town of Pocahontas, to learn about the early settlers and look for traces of her life and times. I could visit the site of the original settlement – historic Jamestowne, where there are ongoing archaeological investigations and hundreds of artefacts on display, and the Jamestown settlement, which recreates life in the original settlement. There are also replicas of the three ships which brought the first settlers to Virginia and a recreation of a Powhatan Indian village. The whole story of these brave early settlers and the native tribes is fascinating and there’s so much else to visit I’m not sure one month is enough!
Linda Birch
Around the Coast in Thirty Days
I have never been a great traveller; always preferring the familiarities and comforts of home. It is sufficient for me to read about, or watch on television, the places in the world that I could visit. There is still so much to see here at home.
Home for me in this country has been as far north as Dunfermline in Scotland, to the south coast of Pembrokeshire. I have lived in Sheffield, London, and finally here in the Midlands. But I have sometimes wondered what it would be like to travel round the entire coast of England and Wales.
I would hire a very modern camper van, because I couldn’t manage without the basic luxuries. I would need it to have a bed, easily convertible; a small oven and hob; a fridge; a shower/toilet, and be able to hook up to electricity whenever possible.
I would travel to the nearest coastal point in Wales and work my way clockwise, heading north. I would plan ahead to stay at Caravan Club rated sites at thirty venues around the country. That’s one place each night for a month.
I would visit the places I have never been, including coastal towns and cities, as well as holiday resorts. I would save Scotland for another trip, as I don’t think thirty days would be long enough to fit in all the places I could visit.
I would visit Porthmadog, then Liverpool; both places I have heard so much about, but never visited. I would go as far north as Carlisle before taking the A69, the shortest distance across the country to the east.
I would probably stop at Whitby or Filey before taking the coastal scenic route south to Chapel St Leonards - a childhood holiday destination.
I would explore Norfolk and the Broads before moving south again to Kent and along the south coast. Time permitting, I would stop at Hastings, Chichester and Weymouth, all places I have never visited.
We have travelled well in Devon and Cornwall, mostly on the south coast, so a quick diversion to Ilfracombe on the north coast would set us on our way home.
Assuming, of course, that my husband would be with me, we would dip down into South Wales and revisit Pembrokeshire for old times' sake, before heading north and then across country back to the Midlands.
Would I make this trip now? Not on your life; but twenty years ago it would have been a great adventure.
Maggie Storer
I have never been a great traveller; always preferring the familiarities and comforts of home. It is sufficient for me to read about, or watch on television, the places in the world that I could visit. There is still so much to see here at home.
Home for me in this country has been as far north as Dunfermline in Scotland, to the south coast of Pembrokeshire. I have lived in Sheffield, London, and finally here in the Midlands. But I have sometimes wondered what it would be like to travel round the entire coast of England and Wales.
I would hire a very modern camper van, because I couldn’t manage without the basic luxuries. I would need it to have a bed, easily convertible; a small oven and hob; a fridge; a shower/toilet, and be able to hook up to electricity whenever possible.
I would travel to the nearest coastal point in Wales and work my way clockwise, heading north. I would plan ahead to stay at Caravan Club rated sites at thirty venues around the country. That’s one place each night for a month.
I would visit the places I have never been, including coastal towns and cities, as well as holiday resorts. I would save Scotland for another trip, as I don’t think thirty days would be long enough to fit in all the places I could visit.
I would visit Porthmadog, then Liverpool; both places I have heard so much about, but never visited. I would go as far north as Carlisle before taking the A69, the shortest distance across the country to the east.
I would probably stop at Whitby or Filey before taking the coastal scenic route south to Chapel St Leonards - a childhood holiday destination.
I would explore Norfolk and the Broads before moving south again to Kent and along the south coast. Time permitting, I would stop at Hastings, Chichester and Weymouth, all places I have never visited.
We have travelled well in Devon and Cornwall, mostly on the south coast, so a quick diversion to Ilfracombe on the north coast would set us on our way home.
Assuming, of course, that my husband would be with me, we would dip down into South Wales and revisit Pembrokeshire for old times' sake, before heading north and then across country back to the Midlands.
Would I make this trip now? Not on your life; but twenty years ago it would have been a great adventure.
Maggie Storer
Found Love
“You’re giving up a two-week holiday in Italy with your friends, and taking two weeks unpaid leave to go off on your own, to a hippy commune in Ibiza, for a month in September. You’re really having a midlife crisis, Shelly.”
“You know what Mum; I don’t give a damn what you or anyone else says; I’m going to do it.”
Everyone thought Shelly had lost the plot since her divorce two years previously, her relationship with Ian was never going to last forever; everyone was convinced of that, but they did fight the good fight for longer than folks thought.
Shelly married Ian on the rebound a few months after her twentieth birthday. She’d been off travelling after doing her A levels, fell madly in love en route, and by the end of the summer came back home heartbroken, leaving her lover somewhere in Spain.
“Well Shelly, we’ll see you when you get back from Ibiza; you must be mad; You’re only guessing it’s the same guy you fell in love with all those years ago; that article in the Swagger magazine could have been about anyone running Yoga classes in Es Canara.”
“Girls, it’s going to be no pressure, four weeks holiday, my little room near the beach, cheap and cheerful, join in with whatever makes me feel comfortable with the hippy commune for the month; therapy, meditation, crafts to sell at the hippy market, yoga, music; just being me.
It was three days before she spotted him. It was him. Davy Munro; like the magazine article said Davy had settled in Es Canara in the early 1960s, taking to the hippy life, like dream to a cloud.
Almost twenty-five years had passed, he was still as she remembered him. Her heart was racing, but she had rehearsed how to handle it; she signed up for his class the next day and took herself off to a quiet area to meditate alone that night and watch the sun set.
In the distance she could hear the traditional drums drumming as the sun went down, an experience to live at least once in your lifetime. Then the party begins on Es Canara.
Just as she seemed to take her last breath, a warm, gentle hand touched her shoulder and spoke her name; “Shelly”
She didn’t jump, she half knew the hand of fate was with her. She slowly turned round to face him. “Davy,” she beamed.
He took her hand to assist her to stand to face him.
He spoke gently to her, explaining he had seen her name on the booking system and had done some investigations to see if it was the girl he once knew.
The next few weeks saw love rekindle on the idyllic hippy island.
Shelly returned home to the UK to sell her home and hand in her notice; returning to Davy four months later to share the tranquil hippy life and their blessed baby now due.
Cora Boffey
“You’re giving up a two-week holiday in Italy with your friends, and taking two weeks unpaid leave to go off on your own, to a hippy commune in Ibiza, for a month in September. You’re really having a midlife crisis, Shelly.”
“You know what Mum; I don’t give a damn what you or anyone else says; I’m going to do it.”
Everyone thought Shelly had lost the plot since her divorce two years previously, her relationship with Ian was never going to last forever; everyone was convinced of that, but they did fight the good fight for longer than folks thought.
Shelly married Ian on the rebound a few months after her twentieth birthday. She’d been off travelling after doing her A levels, fell madly in love en route, and by the end of the summer came back home heartbroken, leaving her lover somewhere in Spain.
“Well Shelly, we’ll see you when you get back from Ibiza; you must be mad; You’re only guessing it’s the same guy you fell in love with all those years ago; that article in the Swagger magazine could have been about anyone running Yoga classes in Es Canara.”
“Girls, it’s going to be no pressure, four weeks holiday, my little room near the beach, cheap and cheerful, join in with whatever makes me feel comfortable with the hippy commune for the month; therapy, meditation, crafts to sell at the hippy market, yoga, music; just being me.
It was three days before she spotted him. It was him. Davy Munro; like the magazine article said Davy had settled in Es Canara in the early 1960s, taking to the hippy life, like dream to a cloud.
Almost twenty-five years had passed, he was still as she remembered him. Her heart was racing, but she had rehearsed how to handle it; she signed up for his class the next day and took herself off to a quiet area to meditate alone that night and watch the sun set.
In the distance she could hear the traditional drums drumming as the sun went down, an experience to live at least once in your lifetime. Then the party begins on Es Canara.
Just as she seemed to take her last breath, a warm, gentle hand touched her shoulder and spoke her name; “Shelly”
She didn’t jump, she half knew the hand of fate was with her. She slowly turned round to face him. “Davy,” she beamed.
He took her hand to assist her to stand to face him.
He spoke gently to her, explaining he had seen her name on the booking system and had done some investigations to see if it was the girl he once knew.
The next few weeks saw love rekindle on the idyllic hippy island.
Shelly returned home to the UK to sell her home and hand in her notice; returning to Davy four months later to share the tranquil hippy life and their blessed baby now due.
Cora Boffey
A month in France
A month on holiday anywhere in the world was not a difficult decision. I have enjoyed many countries including Spain, America, Australia, Canada and Sri Lanka. But over of all these I would choose France for my four weeks. This interesting country is very close to the UK, but the much smaller population and far more relaxed pace of living helps me to unwind and ‘this is the life I need’ quickly becomes my mantra. I would choose a small village about a four-hour drive from a ferry port or Channel tunnel stop.
I would rent a two-story town house with green painted window shutters and a solid front door leading from the narrow street into the big living room stuffed with comfy sofas and rugs on a wooden floor. There would be a typical French kitchen at the back with a shallow sink and various cupboards and scrubbed wooden worktops, with no attempt to colour or style match. At the centre would be a big rectangular table covered in a bright wipe-clean cloth, mis-matched chairs and with an old rocker by the fireplace. There would of course be a modern cooker, fridge and washing machine.
When I arrive in the afternoon I would unlock and throw open all the shutters to let that unique French light fill my home. Perhaps I would try capturing the colours shapes and reflections while sitting in the garden overlooking a river view. But better not to spoil my love of real French painters, instead I would keep a journal, write freely with no boundaries, writing only for myself. I would go out early each day to buy warm bread, croissants and golden sunshine honey, replying to the locals’ greetings of ‘Bonjour Madame’
On this holiday in France my confidence would improve, and my ‘O’ level learning would help me to shop, laugh and chat with my neighbours. My home would be close to a weekly market. Packed full of colour and sound, a treat for all the senses. I would taste the cheeses on each stall, salty goats’ cheese and very ripe camembert. Point to the dozens of olive varieties – hopefully asking for – or just miming a scoop – of my favourite kinds. Eventually I would find a café and order a café and cognac before taking my lunch home.
Later in my month’s stay I would drive to some of my favourite memories, Venice Vert with its idyllic canals, Rocamadour, a medieval town built into a mountain, stunning and unique. Further away I could revisit Biarritz for the glamour; sit in a café and people watch; then swim in the Atlantic or watch the surfers perform.
On other days I would enjoy walking in and around my village. I may discover on the outskirts an imposing Chateau with its ‘Histoire du Chateau’ notice outside. Perhaps I would venture inside and imagine living there many centuries ago.
On my way back to the UK I would feel rested and content, and probably itching to go travelling again soon.
Andie Green
A month on holiday anywhere in the world was not a difficult decision. I have enjoyed many countries including Spain, America, Australia, Canada and Sri Lanka. But over of all these I would choose France for my four weeks. This interesting country is very close to the UK, but the much smaller population and far more relaxed pace of living helps me to unwind and ‘this is the life I need’ quickly becomes my mantra. I would choose a small village about a four-hour drive from a ferry port or Channel tunnel stop.
I would rent a two-story town house with green painted window shutters and a solid front door leading from the narrow street into the big living room stuffed with comfy sofas and rugs on a wooden floor. There would be a typical French kitchen at the back with a shallow sink and various cupboards and scrubbed wooden worktops, with no attempt to colour or style match. At the centre would be a big rectangular table covered in a bright wipe-clean cloth, mis-matched chairs and with an old rocker by the fireplace. There would of course be a modern cooker, fridge and washing machine.
When I arrive in the afternoon I would unlock and throw open all the shutters to let that unique French light fill my home. Perhaps I would try capturing the colours shapes and reflections while sitting in the garden overlooking a river view. But better not to spoil my love of real French painters, instead I would keep a journal, write freely with no boundaries, writing only for myself. I would go out early each day to buy warm bread, croissants and golden sunshine honey, replying to the locals’ greetings of ‘Bonjour Madame’
On this holiday in France my confidence would improve, and my ‘O’ level learning would help me to shop, laugh and chat with my neighbours. My home would be close to a weekly market. Packed full of colour and sound, a treat for all the senses. I would taste the cheeses on each stall, salty goats’ cheese and very ripe camembert. Point to the dozens of olive varieties – hopefully asking for – or just miming a scoop – of my favourite kinds. Eventually I would find a café and order a café and cognac before taking my lunch home.
Later in my month’s stay I would drive to some of my favourite memories, Venice Vert with its idyllic canals, Rocamadour, a medieval town built into a mountain, stunning and unique. Further away I could revisit Biarritz for the glamour; sit in a café and people watch; then swim in the Atlantic or watch the surfers perform.
On other days I would enjoy walking in and around my village. I may discover on the outskirts an imposing Chateau with its ‘Histoire du Chateau’ notice outside. Perhaps I would venture inside and imagine living there many centuries ago.
On my way back to the UK I would feel rested and content, and probably itching to go travelling again soon.
Andie Green
Deadline: May 10th
Brief: The merry month of May A month that features in folklore and legend. A month with spring in the air – do a modern take on the joys of Maytime. Make it a children’s poem, or something satirical, humorous, or just a ‘straight’ piece about May.
Brief: The merry month of May A month that features in folklore and legend. A month with spring in the air – do a modern take on the joys of Maytime. Make it a children’s poem, or something satirical, humorous, or just a ‘straight’ piece about May.
May
Here comes pretty little May All freshness and fruitful promises Ready to go a-Maying Then to inspire an ode or two From Wordsworth one May morning In which he praises ‘The sovereignty of May'. May is all about the Spring, Rising sap and breaking rules. Young girls chase men to say, 'you may,' Dreaming of a white wedding shower. Of breeze-blown blossoms in her hair, Spring, sooner than the Lark To fetch in May – so wrote Robert Herrick in ‘Corrina’s going A Maying’ May - by John Clare is a beautiful celebration of the month : Come queen of months in company Wi all thy merry minstrelsy Although Christina Rosettii ‘s - May lines begin joyfully; ..Upon a bright and sunny day When May was young; ah, pleasant May! The final thoughts are: Like all sweet things it passed away, And left me old, and cold and gray. In the 1967 movie ‘Camelot’ is a glorious song in which lyricist Frederick Loewe celebrates the ‘Mad, Gay’ month with wit and happiness Guenevere sings : Tra La it’s May The lusty month of May That lovely month when everyone goes Blissfully astray. May has certainly inspired many poets for centuries. Andie Green |
May Love be your guide
May your guiding stars be ever present alongside you three precious travellers, on this great adventure. May mother earth steer you safely and steadfastly on this wonderful journey. May no ills befall you and only good and true companions tread your way. May you always be strong in mind and body, with joy and laughter wherever you may be. May you be warmed by the sun and rested beneath the moon and starry sky by night, fulfilling your hopes and dreams, and all your vital energy renewed for the forthcoming dawn of day. May your love of earth and its boundless beauty enfold, guide and protect your pathways. Should this journey be your destiny, let it shine through and show its rainbow colours and vast horizons to pursue. Know always of our love Carol hipkin |
Buds of May
The word ‘May’ was named after the Greek goddess, Maia, who oversaw the growth of plants. As a nurturer and an earth goddess, it seems sensible that May is the name of a springtime month. I don’t suppose many people realised that when they called their daughters May, that she was a wished-for child. This was a Hebrew meaning. It seems that the Anglo Saxon, Muslim, Persian and others, all have different origins. We use the word ‘may’ to introduce a wish or hope: may you have a long and fruitful marriage. In Countdown’s Dictionary Corner, Susie Dent always refers to the Oxford Dictionary of English. According to them, and probably other references, ‘may’ is a Modal verb, which indicates a modality such as a likelihood, ability, permission or request. So; will, would, should, can, shall and must, are all Modal verbs. I searched for well-known poems about the month of May, and was disappointed to find very few, so I picked the one that must be the most famous sonnet ever. Here are the first three lines from William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May... Maggie Storer |
What I Know
That May is the third and last day of Spring now don’t you think that’s a smart thing? That the birthstone of May, is the emerald, symbol of success and love; Now don’t ask who shot the dove, that to marry in May, you’ll rue the day. That May brings warmer temperatures and flowers begin to bloom, If I could afford it, I’d still have my heating on in the living room. That May is the time for the May Fair, now the kid’s think that all too square. That May has Meteor Showers spectacular show in the sky; How amazing UK to Dubai. That May dancing is a tradition from the Roman Soldiers around 2,000 years ago, round the Maypole they danced, to and fro to celebrate the arrival of Spring. Modern times I see them doing a Tik Tok Swing. That May brings singing birds, skipping lambs Happy thoughts of summer days Gin and tonic, all fresco dine, Gather round friends; May is quite divine. Cora Boffey |
May Sonnet
There never was so beautiful a day, With setting sun and weather temperate. When April rains pour over into May, The blossom scent of spring so delicate. Mimosa’s yellow flower often shines While others fade, their beauty truly dimmed. In regimental ranks they plant their lines, With grassy borders clipped and neatly trimmed. My love for you of course will never fade, Even days when we are at our lowest. In brighter times and even in the shade, Hearts declare our love will be the truest. So long as we can breathe, our love will be Forever there for everyone to see. Maggie Storer |
May Fair
It was just for one night The fair was coming to town Ferris wheels and roundabouts in full flight Sweet smells of toffee apples and candy floss Wafting through the air. Coconut Shy, aim for the target Boys and girls having fun Fairground music, very loud Screams and laughter, from the crowd. Everyone a winner for one night Hoopla, roll a penny, throw a dart Beat the man in the fight Tomorrow it will all be a different sight. Cora Boffey |
Deadline: April 26th
Brief: Get out of this one You are walking down the road wearing an item of clothing that doesn't belong to you. You meet someone you know who recognises the garment is not yours and asks why you are wearing it. Tell us how you resolved your dilemma.
Brief: Get out of this one You are walking down the road wearing an item of clothing that doesn't belong to you. You meet someone you know who recognises the garment is not yours and asks why you are wearing it. Tell us how you resolved your dilemma.
The Wrong Jacket
Here goes, she’s spotted me. Well, I expected it, so nothing for it but to tough it out. It was a genuine mistake, so sorry, and all that...
It had been a lovely idea of Amy’s to have a get together for everyone. We ‘d all worked really hard; it had been a challenging time during Covid lockdowns getting the new ranges launched. We needed to unwind and it was good to dress up and meet people in person after all those zoom calls.
I’d put on my prettiest dress and new ‘designer’ jacket. I say designer – of course it was a copy, I could never afford the real thing - but it fitted me well and the colour was just right. I felt great in it and it gave me confidence.
The party had been going really well, wine flowing, conversation mellow, with everyone swapping stories until she arrived. She being Melissa - really good at her job but the sort of person you’d dread being caught in the lift with. She was expensively dressed as usual but I was shocked to see her in the real version of my Gucci jacket. I tried to be philosophical. These things happen, but it rankled and anyway why should she have all the nicest things?
You couldn’t miss Melissa once she’s arrived, her cutting tones soared above the other conversations: how well Jeremy was doing in his new job, Samantha’s forthcoming wedding (sounds like more planning than Will and Kate’s), Josh trekking in Peru, this year’s holiday in Seattle, on and on she went. Time to make an exit.
I took my chance to slip away and went upstairs. All the coats had been piled on Amy’s bed. And there it was: Melissa’s beautiful jacket. I don’t know why I did it, so out of character, but something got hold of my hand like a magnet and the next thing I knew I was out of the house on my way home wearing the real thing.
I decided to brazen it out and wear it the next day. I knew she’d see me so I guess in my heart I didn’t truly intend to keep it and now here she is to reclaim her jacket.
I felt so embarrassed inside but I brazened it out, trying not to blush, and maybe she believed me. Anyway, it was worth it. I found a ticket from Compton Care Charity Shop in the pocket. So maybe things are not quite as rosy as she makes out.
Linda Birch
Here goes, she’s spotted me. Well, I expected it, so nothing for it but to tough it out. It was a genuine mistake, so sorry, and all that...
It had been a lovely idea of Amy’s to have a get together for everyone. We ‘d all worked really hard; it had been a challenging time during Covid lockdowns getting the new ranges launched. We needed to unwind and it was good to dress up and meet people in person after all those zoom calls.
I’d put on my prettiest dress and new ‘designer’ jacket. I say designer – of course it was a copy, I could never afford the real thing - but it fitted me well and the colour was just right. I felt great in it and it gave me confidence.
The party had been going really well, wine flowing, conversation mellow, with everyone swapping stories until she arrived. She being Melissa - really good at her job but the sort of person you’d dread being caught in the lift with. She was expensively dressed as usual but I was shocked to see her in the real version of my Gucci jacket. I tried to be philosophical. These things happen, but it rankled and anyway why should she have all the nicest things?
You couldn’t miss Melissa once she’s arrived, her cutting tones soared above the other conversations: how well Jeremy was doing in his new job, Samantha’s forthcoming wedding (sounds like more planning than Will and Kate’s), Josh trekking in Peru, this year’s holiday in Seattle, on and on she went. Time to make an exit.
I took my chance to slip away and went upstairs. All the coats had been piled on Amy’s bed. And there it was: Melissa’s beautiful jacket. I don’t know why I did it, so out of character, but something got hold of my hand like a magnet and the next thing I knew I was out of the house on my way home wearing the real thing.
I decided to brazen it out and wear it the next day. I knew she’d see me so I guess in my heart I didn’t truly intend to keep it and now here she is to reclaim her jacket.
I felt so embarrassed inside but I brazened it out, trying not to blush, and maybe she believed me. Anyway, it was worth it. I found a ticket from Compton Care Charity Shop in the pocket. So maybe things are not quite as rosy as she makes out.
Linda Birch
Friendship
Elaine made eye contact with the two women as she sat down for her coffee. They had spotted her and beckoned her over to join them. Maureen and Sylvia, she had known them sine their school days, and, like a number of her peer group, avoided them like the plague. Their heads were always full of bitchy, silly, uninteresting gossip. Reluctantly she moved over, thinking, oh heck! She glanced at her watch as she sat down. ’Hello there, sorry I can't stay long, I have a dental appointment,’ at the same time wishing she had washed her hair and made a bit more of an effort this morning, instead of scraping it back into an untidy bun.
‘You’re looking good’ Maureen smiled towards her.
Liar Elaine thought, expressing no comment.
'What are you having done? Tooth whitening is all the rage,' Sylvia smirked.
‘No just a check-up.’ These bitches would never change.
‘I like your cardigan, have I seen it before? Wasn't it the last time I saw you with Rose? You were in a hurry to get home, and wasn’t Rose wearing it or one very similar?’ Maureen was looking straight at her, hoping she could embarrass her.
‘Yes, that would be over twelve months ago. Rose passed away shortly afterwards, I had knitted the cardigan for her as a gift, she asked me what I wanted as a memory of her, we had known she did not have long.’
‘I’m so sorry ‘. They declared in unison.
Elaine stood up to leave as quickly as possible. ‘No, you are not, you always were, and still are, the most distasteful, two people I have ever known, if you ever see me again, do not even give me a second glance, I certainly never wish to speak with you again. I only sat down today out of common curtesy.
Walking home, she wrapped her arms around the soft warmth of the cardigan and felt close to her friend. She whispered silently to herself, 'dearest Rose, I hope you were proud of me today.'
Carol Hipkin
Elaine made eye contact with the two women as she sat down for her coffee. They had spotted her and beckoned her over to join them. Maureen and Sylvia, she had known them sine their school days, and, like a number of her peer group, avoided them like the plague. Their heads were always full of bitchy, silly, uninteresting gossip. Reluctantly she moved over, thinking, oh heck! She glanced at her watch as she sat down. ’Hello there, sorry I can't stay long, I have a dental appointment,’ at the same time wishing she had washed her hair and made a bit more of an effort this morning, instead of scraping it back into an untidy bun.
‘You’re looking good’ Maureen smiled towards her.
Liar Elaine thought, expressing no comment.
'What are you having done? Tooth whitening is all the rage,' Sylvia smirked.
‘No just a check-up.’ These bitches would never change.
‘I like your cardigan, have I seen it before? Wasn't it the last time I saw you with Rose? You were in a hurry to get home, and wasn’t Rose wearing it or one very similar?’ Maureen was looking straight at her, hoping she could embarrass her.
‘Yes, that would be over twelve months ago. Rose passed away shortly afterwards, I had knitted the cardigan for her as a gift, she asked me what I wanted as a memory of her, we had known she did not have long.’
‘I’m so sorry ‘. They declared in unison.
Elaine stood up to leave as quickly as possible. ‘No, you are not, you always were, and still are, the most distasteful, two people I have ever known, if you ever see me again, do not even give me a second glance, I certainly never wish to speak with you again. I only sat down today out of common curtesy.
Walking home, she wrapped her arms around the soft warmth of the cardigan and felt close to her friend. She whispered silently to herself, 'dearest Rose, I hope you were proud of me today.'
Carol Hipkin
Revenge is Sweet
When I stole the jacket, I felt good. Lifted it like a pro from the rail in the charity shop and walked out while the shop assistant wasn’t looking. I didn’t regard it as stealing. You see, it was originally my jacket before I decided to leave home.
Everything was fine until Dad met his new partner, Cathy, and she brought her daughter, Tiffany, into our house. It was as if she’d been there forever. We didn’t get on from day one. She was a year younger than me, but she had attitude and hung around with the older kids in my year. I could tell she was going to be trouble.
She made my life a misery and Dad was too taken up with Cathy to notice. When the bullying got too bad, I went to live with Mum, which was fine. I took all my stuff with me, or so I thought.
One day I was looking in the charity shop when I spotted my jacket on the rail. I knew it was mine straight away because I’d sewn on lots of motifs to personalise it, make it special. It obviously wasn’t good enough for Tiffany and she hadn’t even bothered to ask me if I wanted it back.
A few weeks later I was walking down the High Street when who should be walking towards me but Tiffany. She did a double-take, eyeing up the jacket I was wearing. Not the one from the charity shop, but the one I nicked from her wardrobe before I left.
Well, she couldn’t really say anything could she? We walked past each other, and guess who was wearing the biggest grin?
Maggie Storer
When I stole the jacket, I felt good. Lifted it like a pro from the rail in the charity shop and walked out while the shop assistant wasn’t looking. I didn’t regard it as stealing. You see, it was originally my jacket before I decided to leave home.
Everything was fine until Dad met his new partner, Cathy, and she brought her daughter, Tiffany, into our house. It was as if she’d been there forever. We didn’t get on from day one. She was a year younger than me, but she had attitude and hung around with the older kids in my year. I could tell she was going to be trouble.
She made my life a misery and Dad was too taken up with Cathy to notice. When the bullying got too bad, I went to live with Mum, which was fine. I took all my stuff with me, or so I thought.
One day I was looking in the charity shop when I spotted my jacket on the rail. I knew it was mine straight away because I’d sewn on lots of motifs to personalise it, make it special. It obviously wasn’t good enough for Tiffany and she hadn’t even bothered to ask me if I wanted it back.
A few weeks later I was walking down the High Street when who should be walking towards me but Tiffany. She did a double-take, eyeing up the jacket I was wearing. Not the one from the charity shop, but the one I nicked from her wardrobe before I left.
Well, she couldn’t really say anything could she? We walked past each other, and guess who was wearing the biggest grin?
Maggie Storer
Kitten Heels
“Have you paid for those shoes Sis?” smirked my younger sister Kate, raising questioning eyebrows.
“What’s that supposed to mean clever Kate?”
“Well you know what they say; shoes that squeak when you wear them haven’t been paid for; and I’ve not seen them in Mum’s Freeman’s catalogue nor James Baker, for that matter.”
Kate ran up the stairs before I could sling one of the offending shoes at her. They were so gorgeous, cream kitten heels, with a sling back, so Jean Shrimpton. I would be wearing them tonight to go to the Queen’s Ballroom, straight after work. With my new pink shift dress and my bouffant flicked out hair; I might even meet my David Bailey.
I carefully folded all my clothes, making sure to put the shoes and my make-up bag and toiletries, in the bag first, then the clothes on top last of all. The last thing I wanted was for Carol to spot the shoes.
I got to work early on Friday morning to open up the hair salon where I was top junior. I carefully placed the bag under the spare gowns that weren’t used until Christmas. There the shoes would be safe from prying eyes.
Thank goodness we’d been busy all day and time went quickly. I was looking forward to meeting my friends after work and going to the popular Friday night dance.
Friday was always eight o’clock finish, and the stylists were always out in a flash on the dot. Boyfriends in sports cars lined up to whisk them off to some fancy meal or the local cinema. We juniors had a mad dash cleaning up and preparing for the next day; but we did it in good humour Then it was a quick wash and change; titivate each other’s hair and off to catch the bus.
I was last to leave and lock up. I had just posted the keys back through the salon door, when I heard the sound of a sports car pull up behind me; and out jumped Carol.
“Oh no, you’ve locked up and posted the keys back through the door, I forgot my scissors and Jamie wanted a trim later. Never mind, I’ll do it tomorrow now,”
I felt my face burning. This is the last thing I wanted, and she was the last person I wanted to see.
She was just about to jump back in the car, when she stopped and looked me up and down. “You look as though you might turn heads tonight Nicky, very cute. Love the shoes, are they the squeaky ones that I threw in the bin? Gosh, you should have asked; I’d have given them to you!”
At that the car screeched off in a puff of smoke. Carol had a big grin on her face.
Tonight I don’t give a dam! The music will be loud; no one will hear my squeaky designer shoes. Tomorrow I will take smiley Carol a box of chocolates.
Cora Boffey
“Have you paid for those shoes Sis?” smirked my younger sister Kate, raising questioning eyebrows.
“What’s that supposed to mean clever Kate?”
“Well you know what they say; shoes that squeak when you wear them haven’t been paid for; and I’ve not seen them in Mum’s Freeman’s catalogue nor James Baker, for that matter.”
Kate ran up the stairs before I could sling one of the offending shoes at her. They were so gorgeous, cream kitten heels, with a sling back, so Jean Shrimpton. I would be wearing them tonight to go to the Queen’s Ballroom, straight after work. With my new pink shift dress and my bouffant flicked out hair; I might even meet my David Bailey.
I carefully folded all my clothes, making sure to put the shoes and my make-up bag and toiletries, in the bag first, then the clothes on top last of all. The last thing I wanted was for Carol to spot the shoes.
I got to work early on Friday morning to open up the hair salon where I was top junior. I carefully placed the bag under the spare gowns that weren’t used until Christmas. There the shoes would be safe from prying eyes.
Thank goodness we’d been busy all day and time went quickly. I was looking forward to meeting my friends after work and going to the popular Friday night dance.
Friday was always eight o’clock finish, and the stylists were always out in a flash on the dot. Boyfriends in sports cars lined up to whisk them off to some fancy meal or the local cinema. We juniors had a mad dash cleaning up and preparing for the next day; but we did it in good humour Then it was a quick wash and change; titivate each other’s hair and off to catch the bus.
I was last to leave and lock up. I had just posted the keys back through the salon door, when I heard the sound of a sports car pull up behind me; and out jumped Carol.
“Oh no, you’ve locked up and posted the keys back through the door, I forgot my scissors and Jamie wanted a trim later. Never mind, I’ll do it tomorrow now,”
I felt my face burning. This is the last thing I wanted, and she was the last person I wanted to see.
She was just about to jump back in the car, when she stopped and looked me up and down. “You look as though you might turn heads tonight Nicky, very cute. Love the shoes, are they the squeaky ones that I threw in the bin? Gosh, you should have asked; I’d have given them to you!”
At that the car screeched off in a puff of smoke. Carol had a big grin on her face.
Tonight I don’t give a dam! The music will be loud; no one will hear my squeaky designer shoes. Tomorrow I will take smiley Carol a box of chocolates.
Cora Boffey
This Old Thing...
I folded the sleeves back on dad’s old jacket. He was over six feet and I am five-four. It felt good and warm over my thick sweater and jeans. I set off through the village. The morning was sunny and crisp. The overnight frost was still sparkling on the privet and box hedges. As I walked I remembered Dad wearing the new tweed jacket to a ‘do’ at his work. Mum had a new dress too. They went off to a smart hotel for the evening and Nanna babysat my brother and I. Years later this favourite jacket hung on a hook in the shed for use on cold gardening days.
I was almost at the church when I spotted her coming towards me. Doris was the last person I wanted to meet this morning.
‘Why Hello Mandy!’ she began, her voice as brash as her garish green coat. 'You look a bit peaky, and what on earth are you wearing?’
‘This belonged to Dad. I’m going to wish him Happy Birthday’ I immediately wished I hadn’t told Doris this.
Mum used to call her Dad’s floosy. ‘That Doris is so loud and common.. Can’t she see your Dad can’t abide her?’
But I could see that Doris made him laugh with her flirtatious gestures and stories. He loved Mum of course, but she was far more comfortable, smartly dressed and serious.
‘Oh that’s nice’ replied Doris. ‘Perhaps I could come with you. My hair appointment isn’t for twenty minutes’
‘No Doris. I don’t want you to come. This is my private time with Dad.' I stepped quickly round her and walked slowly through the churchyard to calm my upset thoughts.
At Dad’s plot I sank to my knees and chatted, reminiscing on lovely times, with not a single thought or reference to ‘that woman.’
Andie Green
I folded the sleeves back on dad’s old jacket. He was over six feet and I am five-four. It felt good and warm over my thick sweater and jeans. I set off through the village. The morning was sunny and crisp. The overnight frost was still sparkling on the privet and box hedges. As I walked I remembered Dad wearing the new tweed jacket to a ‘do’ at his work. Mum had a new dress too. They went off to a smart hotel for the evening and Nanna babysat my brother and I. Years later this favourite jacket hung on a hook in the shed for use on cold gardening days.
I was almost at the church when I spotted her coming towards me. Doris was the last person I wanted to meet this morning.
‘Why Hello Mandy!’ she began, her voice as brash as her garish green coat. 'You look a bit peaky, and what on earth are you wearing?’
‘This belonged to Dad. I’m going to wish him Happy Birthday’ I immediately wished I hadn’t told Doris this.
Mum used to call her Dad’s floosy. ‘That Doris is so loud and common.. Can’t she see your Dad can’t abide her?’
But I could see that Doris made him laugh with her flirtatious gestures and stories. He loved Mum of course, but she was far more comfortable, smartly dressed and serious.
‘Oh that’s nice’ replied Doris. ‘Perhaps I could come with you. My hair appointment isn’t for twenty minutes’
‘No Doris. I don’t want you to come. This is my private time with Dad.' I stepped quickly round her and walked slowly through the churchyard to calm my upset thoughts.
At Dad’s plot I sank to my knees and chatted, reminiscing on lovely times, with not a single thought or reference to ‘that woman.’
Andie Green
Deadline: April 12th
Brief: A word miscellany Write a poem, essay, story, whatever… it must contain this collection of nouns (shower, umbrella, rainbow) and these adjectives (shiny, wet, dry). Endeavour to avoid the obvious.
Brief: A word miscellany Write a poem, essay, story, whatever… it must contain this collection of nouns (shower, umbrella, rainbow) and these adjectives (shiny, wet, dry). Endeavour to avoid the obvious.
A New Beginning
We recently had an unexpected spell of fine weather, warm enough to enjoy a cup of coffee outdoors. I settled myself comfortably and started to think. Nothing too serious you understand, just the usual simple things like what’s it all about and why am I here? Time’s not standing still, is it? So maybe now is the time to shake things around a bit and grow old disgracefully.
I think it's probably best to start in a quiet way. For instance, trying a new hair colour? Or, more precisely, colours – a veritable rainbow in fact. Not burnished copper or pale pink or silver blue either, I’m thinking more reds, orange, maybe a dash of yellow, vibrant colours. Energised, I book an appointment. The hairdresser is really up for it. I had a treatment as well and whilst my hair was wet, she applied a lotion, which was left on for ten minutes to work its magic. When my hair was dry it was so soft and shiny, smooth and silky, you could see your face in it. and if I say so myself, she did a great job.
I was just about to leave the salon feeling like a new person when there was a heavy shower. Luckily, I had remembered to bring an umbrella and undaunted I set off twirling the umbrella, skipping over the puddles, planning my next little adventure. I am reminded of Jenny Joseph who plans to wear purple, spit and eat sausages. That’s all very well but now I have a new look I’ve an idea for something more daring for my next adventure…..
Linda Birch
We recently had an unexpected spell of fine weather, warm enough to enjoy a cup of coffee outdoors. I settled myself comfortably and started to think. Nothing too serious you understand, just the usual simple things like what’s it all about and why am I here? Time’s not standing still, is it? So maybe now is the time to shake things around a bit and grow old disgracefully.
I think it's probably best to start in a quiet way. For instance, trying a new hair colour? Or, more precisely, colours – a veritable rainbow in fact. Not burnished copper or pale pink or silver blue either, I’m thinking more reds, orange, maybe a dash of yellow, vibrant colours. Energised, I book an appointment. The hairdresser is really up for it. I had a treatment as well and whilst my hair was wet, she applied a lotion, which was left on for ten minutes to work its magic. When my hair was dry it was so soft and shiny, smooth and silky, you could see your face in it. and if I say so myself, she did a great job.
I was just about to leave the salon feeling like a new person when there was a heavy shower. Luckily, I had remembered to bring an umbrella and undaunted I set off twirling the umbrella, skipping over the puddles, planning my next little adventure. I am reminded of Jenny Joseph who plans to wear purple, spit and eat sausages. That’s all very well but now I have a new look I’ve an idea for something more daring for my next adventure…..
Linda Birch
Villanelle - A Love Poem
I’ll stick to format, keep the humour dry. I wanted to impress before we met With all the given words, I’ll really try. Shower you with prose to make you cry Beneath your umbrella, don’t get wet. I’ll stick to format, keep the humour dry. You see that lovely rainbow in the sky? Reminds me of our love I can’t regret. With all the given words, I’ll really try. Our friendship is much more than we can buy, With memories we never shall forget. I’ll stick to format, keep the humour dry. Those shiny stars we gaze upon so high Cannot express my thoughts to you - and yet With all the given words, I’ll really try. And now it’s written I can breath a sigh. I hope you like my poem and don’t object. I’ll stick to format, keep the humour dry With all the given words, I’ll really try. Maggie Storer |
Magic
Candy coloured rainbow paper Magic scrunching in my hands See the spectrum of colour Tricks I will explore Shiny, light and decorative Hang from my door. Many choices in my cellophane Collage shower of rain I shall arrange Cascading over a dry umbrella Tumbling, on a wet puddle floor. Cora Boffey The Day We Met
The space we shared, I watch the rain cascading. Wet and shiny, river running, Down the window pane. You brought a rainbow into my life, Your shielded me under your umbrella, Holding me close, enfolding me, Offering me a show of gifts and love. Then you were gone, I dry my eyes. Remembering the day we met. Carol Hipkin |
The proposal.
The dry cider was perfect, causing just the right amount of giggles as we walked the half mile to the nurses' home. We stopped on the canal bridge and watched swans nesting on an island of weeds. A mallard swam by showing the iridescent rainbow of his feathers. Nearly there, I ran up the hill laughing as you clumsily opened my bright pink umbrella. ‘Come back, silly girl, you’re getting wet!’ you shouted, louder than the sudden shower. I ran back to you almost slipping on the shiny slabs and you asked me again. I answered soberly. 'YES.' Andie Green |
A True Story
Dark clouds appeared as I walking home from the shops. I'd forgotten my umbrella and was caught in a sudden April shower. As I reached our gate the sun reappeared creating a beautiful rainbow. My young grandsons were due any minute, and when I saw the wet puddled garden path a sudden idea came to me. I grabbed my gardening wellies and dipped the soles in creosote and left them in a dry spot outside the back door. When the the boys arrived, they called me to come outside to see the rainbow. With my wellies on, I explained how I'd just walked along that very rainbow. As I stepped along the wet path my creosoted soles left shiny rainbow footprints. The boys gaped. Did I confess? Never! I’d just heard Ian explaining to his brother that Granny Betty can do magic. Betty Taylor |
Deadline: March 29
Brief: knowing what you know now, what would you tell your younger self? Choose a point in your life when you had to make an important decisions such as career choice, moving house, one of life's major events.
Brief: knowing what you know now, what would you tell your younger self? Choose a point in your life when you had to make an important decisions such as career choice, moving house, one of life's major events.
Keep Going
Even now, after all these years, I do not feel qualified to tell my younger self anything. But if I have to say something, it would be ‘don’t look back.’ You can only imagine how, if you had taken another decision, the other life would have looked. You cannot know it would have worked out better. So ‘should have’ must be banished from your thoughts. You make the best decision you can based on the knowledge you have at that time. Hindsight is not your friend. Of course, you can learn from mistakes but at the time, when faced with a choice, the best you can do is gather information, as many facts as you can, then listen equally to your heart and your head. Make your choice, make the most of it, and do not look back. There’s a real danger you’ll end up wasting too much precious energy on regrets. Once the decision is taken and acted upon you have no way of knowing how the other way might have worked out. I once took a job that did not work out for me at all. But I met someone there who turned out to be the best friend anyone could have wished for. So, make the other choice, don’t take that job and be a whole lot happier for that, but then you don’t make a special friend. How can you say what would have been the better choice? This is life now. You cannot swap this day for another. Do your best with each day and that’s it. Linda Birch |
Keeping Shtum
What would I tell my younger self ? Absolutely nothing in the way of advice. It's a concept I see as a futile exercise. Advising, preaching, call it what you will, to a young person from my standpoint of eighty-plus years, would be unfair to the young person. The older person's thinking is influenced by a lifetime's experience and guided by an upbringing and education from an earlier era, including the social rules, and laws their time. It would be wrong to encourage a much younger person to live by the same values as those experienced by the older person. Social structures change, values change, the thinking of the populous changes and adapts to the times in which they live. I'd say to my younger self, or any young person today, don't grieve over what's gone before, stay within the law and go with and enjoy the zeitgeist of your day. Betty Taylor |
New Beginning
I’ve always looked at September as the beginning of my new year, even when at school; new uniform, new class, fresh start, new aims.
January always seemed so fake; got to go to the parties, got to kiss and hug people who you’d rather not be around, make resolutions that never lasted more than a week. No, not for me, give me September every time.
September 1987 was a big turning point in my life. I was going to be forty in the November. I had a daughter doing A Levels and another doing GCSE’s, and I was starting my full time two year BTEC course, National Diploma in Nursery Nursing, at Wulfrun College Wolverhampton. (Now Wolverhampton College)
“Why?” asked Dave. “We’re ok, we’ll manage if one or both girls want to go to University and you work hard enough; you know what you’re like, you’ll be going the extra mile as usual; I can only do what I can do, with the hours I work and the girls have their studies, so you can’t expect any extra help from them.”
I’d decided it was now or never and it would give me extra security and hopefully a good pension, so face it all head on and keep organised!
The first day was daunting, twenty five, eighteen to twenty one year old girls; Linda who was thirty, and me. The young ones had either just completed A Levels or had taken a year out to travel or tried various jobs, before coming to college, Linda was an accountant, but knew she wanted something more fulfilling from life.
Looking back I can see two years is nothing out of your life; but at the time, trying to keep home, keep tabs on teenage girls and their needs, doing homework until twelve o’clock at night; along with other family commitments, I was often ready to throw the towel in. Being a mature student I felt I had to prove myself even more. The young ones must have felt it was a pain in the butt when Linda and I were called out to collect our Distinction Assignments back again from tutors, although we did come in useful when some of the girls got stuck on work or were late meeting deadlines.
During the second year of the course, we had to find a six week placement and do a term's assignment and research on the venue.
I knew mine would have to be different, relevant and agreeable to the college. I was a mature student, who would be looking for a job along with these other young talented girls. Although there was quite a dropout of students as the course was new to the college and it was proving to be more difficult than some expected? Linda found a very interesting placement attached to a Catholic school, which took on home teaching of Travelling Gypsy Children and trying to integrate them into the school system.
Where was I going? Well, one Sunday morning, I was listening to Radio WM while preparing Sunday lunch.
“So listeners, Doctor Ron Mc Ketney will be looking for volunteers to go out to Romania to work in Romanian Orphanages and the local hospital in a small village outside Moinesti. Contact myself, Ed Doolan, at the station and we will put you in touch with Doctor Ron.”
This was it! I ran out to Dave who was cleaning the car and told him what I was planning. I think at the time he was just nodding and thinking well, we’ll just wait and see. It was just after the Ceausescu Revolution, where hundreds of children were found in the notorious Romanian Orphanages.
The college made me jump through hoops to get there; I had to keep a book on fundraising events I had to organise; they wouldn’t let me just fund from my own purse. I had to guarantee I could take money into the organisation so that some of my work could continue once I was back in the UK. I had to go to planning sessions in Wales, as the organisation going to Romania was the North Wales Health Fund.
Eventually I flew out to Bucharest with one of the leaders. We were met by a volunteer Romanian. In his old car we had a five hour journey across rough terrain. Remember what a poor country you might have seen in those days on TV?
After twenty four hours I was the only volunteer to work in that area, others had to be moved around because of the shortage of help in other areas. My only English speaking companion was the daughter of the Romanian doctor. I stayed with Raluka, who was only fourteen; her mum was also a doctor. She had to take a post in another part of Romania, where her expertise was needed.
I only saw Doctor Radhu (the father) twice during my in stay in Romania; he worked almost in his sleep at the hospital to keep abandoned babies and ill people alive. The poverty and aftermath of the Revolution and the consequences of having lived under Ceausescu’s rule was heart-breaking to observe.
My six weeks' voluntary work experience after the Revolution was the biggest turning point of my life. Don’t ever be scared to fail; you get more out of any experience than you ever think. I achieved Student of the Year when I completed my course. I dedicate the Award to every adult and child I met along my path.
Cora Boffey
Inspired by: The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
The Road Taken Two paths did merge when I was eighteen. I had to choose which road I should take And a life I could not have foreseen When I was a girl of seventeen, And barely hesitated to make; Then took the path that would guide my way To Wales and the coast of Pembrokeshire, And save the first for another day. There we settled to enjoy our stay, Our family happy living there. And both that morning could well have been Leaving our footprints in sand or snow, Or treading softly in fields of green To places where we had never been And places where we will never go. I shall be telling in future years To our children and grandchildren thus, That all our worries and endless fears, The ups and downs that ended in tears, Were all worth it in the end of course. Maggie Storer |
Life’s Changes
Affluent, settled, warm and well fed. Were these adjectives true for Ukrainian citizens less than one month ago? Ukraine is not a third world country. We are saddened and used to media coverage from Syrian and Afghanistan conflicts; seeing columns of hundreds of displaced people seeking help and carrying what little they have to save; dressed poorly and looking sad and hungry. But this war with no rhyme or reason has shown us miles of cars fleeing away from the cities stuffed with families and their belongings, looking a lot like us; well dressed and fed as their comfortable homes crumble behind them. When they reach the station their plight is terrible. The men and older boys are forced to stay and fight, while women and children are squeezed into the carriages. Some carry pets in boxes or crates, one report told of a young boy carrying his pet rat in a sock. If these refugees are asked to look back one day and address their younger selves, wondering what could have been; what they could have done to take a different path for careers or big important events. How will they tell themselves at twenty that they were powerless to take decisions or make plans, as what was happening seemed hopeless and out of their control? Andie Green |
Deadline: March 15
Brief: take a walk, ride on a bus or train (real or imaginary). Describe the journey in detail and include something that happens that is very scary or dramatic.
Brief: take a walk, ride on a bus or train (real or imaginary). Describe the journey in detail and include something that happens that is very scary or dramatic.
Drifts and Dunes - ...take only photographs
From Barry Island to Benidorm, St. Ives to Sri Lanka. Any beach in any weather. I kick off my sandals at all opportunities to dream, stroll and paddle.
To feel free as that Girl from Ipanema...
Tall and tanned and young and lovely…
Holiday memories, French cricket in Wales; running down to explore new rockpools after high tide; fish paste sandwiches and ice-cream cones. Hot, hot Mediterranean sand that burnt feet and being warned to ‘cover up after midday’
Often the shortest path to the water’s edge involves stepping carefully over tide washed debris, sharp stones, slippery seaweed and razor edged shells.
On this morning I stowed a few treasures in my skirt pocket. Half a cuttle fish home; a rough scrap of pure white coral and a crab’s vacant house. I would add them to my collection back at home.
As I stood up to my knees in the pure water digging my toes into the gritty sloping ground the only signs of life were a shoal of tiny white fish darting around my feet, and a fishing boat way out in the calm and silent bay. I started my walk along the edge of the ripples and realised there appeared to be no end to this beach. Just mile after mile of sand, sky and water. High dunes fringed the icing-sugar sand at the back, sloping gradually over shingly stones then compact sand from the tides.
As I have no thoughts of time or distance on these walks it helps if I can decide to turn back at a rock, some washed up driftwood or even a beach bar.
After what seemed like a mile I made footprints away from the water to the drier sand and sat down. The sun was not yet overhead and I reckoned if I carried on until the dunes met that distant clump of trees I could turn back. Happy with this plan I ran down to the tiny waves again. I had an urge to play leapfrog, do handstands and perform perfect cartwheels – though I never did master those!
Squinting into the sun I was delighted to see a boat being pulled onto the shingles. There were people throwing what looked like fishing gear onto dry land. I began to run towards them but could not get any closer. I flopped down exhausted, lay back and closed my eyes for a moment.
I sat up, and cleaned my sunglasses on my skirt.
The sun was now directly above the boat and its rays made the scene shimmer. I sat transfixed for ages.
I must have dozed for a while because the sun was directly over my head as I made my way back to the campsite for lunch.
…leave only footprints..
Andie Green
From Barry Island to Benidorm, St. Ives to Sri Lanka. Any beach in any weather. I kick off my sandals at all opportunities to dream, stroll and paddle.
To feel free as that Girl from Ipanema...
Tall and tanned and young and lovely…
Holiday memories, French cricket in Wales; running down to explore new rockpools after high tide; fish paste sandwiches and ice-cream cones. Hot, hot Mediterranean sand that burnt feet and being warned to ‘cover up after midday’
Often the shortest path to the water’s edge involves stepping carefully over tide washed debris, sharp stones, slippery seaweed and razor edged shells.
On this morning I stowed a few treasures in my skirt pocket. Half a cuttle fish home; a rough scrap of pure white coral and a crab’s vacant house. I would add them to my collection back at home.
As I stood up to my knees in the pure water digging my toes into the gritty sloping ground the only signs of life were a shoal of tiny white fish darting around my feet, and a fishing boat way out in the calm and silent bay. I started my walk along the edge of the ripples and realised there appeared to be no end to this beach. Just mile after mile of sand, sky and water. High dunes fringed the icing-sugar sand at the back, sloping gradually over shingly stones then compact sand from the tides.
As I have no thoughts of time or distance on these walks it helps if I can decide to turn back at a rock, some washed up driftwood or even a beach bar.
After what seemed like a mile I made footprints away from the water to the drier sand and sat down. The sun was not yet overhead and I reckoned if I carried on until the dunes met that distant clump of trees I could turn back. Happy with this plan I ran down to the tiny waves again. I had an urge to play leapfrog, do handstands and perform perfect cartwheels – though I never did master those!
Squinting into the sun I was delighted to see a boat being pulled onto the shingles. There were people throwing what looked like fishing gear onto dry land. I began to run towards them but could not get any closer. I flopped down exhausted, lay back and closed my eyes for a moment.
I sat up, and cleaned my sunglasses on my skirt.
The sun was now directly above the boat and its rays made the scene shimmer. I sat transfixed for ages.
I must have dozed for a while because the sun was directly over my head as I made my way back to the campsite for lunch.
…leave only footprints..
Andie Green
Three peaks
We climbed Snowdon for my husband Peter’s fiftieth birthday. Peter and our two sons had already climbed Ben Nevis, and Scafell Pike two days before. This is known as the "three peaks in three days". I had hired a cottage in Harlech, Wales intending to climb with them on the third day. My friend, Jane, had a caravan in the area and asked to join us. She accompanied us on many walks in the past. When she arrived at the arranged meeting point, she introduced us to her friend Elaine, who also joined us. As we began the climb Jane became very breathless. I was then informed that Elaine had a chest problem. I felt sorry for my husband and the boys being delayed and told them to continue without us. I explained to Jane and her friend this was a mountain not a hill climb. After a short rest I persuaded them to go back. I saw the train coming down and hailed the driver to stop, he kindly allowed them aboard. I carried on and eventually joined the lads at the top, breathing a sigh of relief. It was a glories summer day, you could see for miles, there were people hang-gliding down from the cliffs, looking like birds as they rose and fell on the thermals, how brave they were. There were streams, lakes and waterfalls, glistening in the bright sunlight and the air was so fresh, nature unspoiled, a joy to behold. That evening we had a barbeque and laughed, making light of the day. I doubt my friend Jane and Elaine, now recovered from the ordeal, will ever attempt a mountain climb again. How did we manage without mobile phones? When writing this I recalled the day and wondered how did I know I would meet with the lads again at the top? Twenty-seven years ago, we got along very well without this amazing little gadget in our lives. Perhaps we used some thought telepathy?
Carol Hipkin
We climbed Snowdon for my husband Peter’s fiftieth birthday. Peter and our two sons had already climbed Ben Nevis, and Scafell Pike two days before. This is known as the "three peaks in three days". I had hired a cottage in Harlech, Wales intending to climb with them on the third day. My friend, Jane, had a caravan in the area and asked to join us. She accompanied us on many walks in the past. When she arrived at the arranged meeting point, she introduced us to her friend Elaine, who also joined us. As we began the climb Jane became very breathless. I was then informed that Elaine had a chest problem. I felt sorry for my husband and the boys being delayed and told them to continue without us. I explained to Jane and her friend this was a mountain not a hill climb. After a short rest I persuaded them to go back. I saw the train coming down and hailed the driver to stop, he kindly allowed them aboard. I carried on and eventually joined the lads at the top, breathing a sigh of relief. It was a glories summer day, you could see for miles, there were people hang-gliding down from the cliffs, looking like birds as they rose and fell on the thermals, how brave they were. There were streams, lakes and waterfalls, glistening in the bright sunlight and the air was so fresh, nature unspoiled, a joy to behold. That evening we had a barbeque and laughed, making light of the day. I doubt my friend Jane and Elaine, now recovered from the ordeal, will ever attempt a mountain climb again. How did we manage without mobile phones? When writing this I recalled the day and wondered how did I know I would meet with the lads again at the top? Twenty-seven years ago, we got along very well without this amazing little gadget in our lives. Perhaps we used some thought telepathy?
Carol Hipkin
Sunday Nightmare
“You can’t come with us Mum, you look awful.”
“I’m coming and that’s that; in fact I think your dad’s over the limit this lunch time, so I’ll have to drive.”
I knew Dad would have a moan about that but it was his own fault. He loved a drink before lunch on a Sunday at the local pub with my uncles and promised Mum it would only be one today, as I was catching the 4.30pm train back to Newcastle Uni, and he would be driving me to the station.
It was an abysmal day, rain and sleet; but the usual Sunday atmosphere at home was warm and cosy, with Mum’s Sunday lunch making me feel I was going to get a little home-sick this term.
We loaded Mum’s little Seat Marbella, with all my bags and tins of food. Dad sat in the back of the car; all grumpy, moaning about the deck chair type seats he was sitting on and it was about time Mum got used to driving his car; he was quite a snob really with his cars, always liked to arrive in style, even delivering me to the station on a wet Sunday afternoon.
To make things worse the heater in the car was playing up and the January day was showing a deep freeze on the way. Poor Mum could hardly see out of her eyes with the flu-like symptoms taking over her body.
“Pull up on the drop off/pick up bays at the front of the station love,” said dad from the back.
Mum insisted it was going to be more than a drop off; we were going on to the platform to wave me off.
“Don’t worry,” said dad. “It’s always quiet this time on a Sunday and as for Station Police, they won’t step outside today. Just park up; we won’t be that long.”
As usual the 4.30pm to Newcastle was packed; dad insisted on getting on the train with me to put my bags and food parcels in the hold. Being the perfect perfectionist, he kept wandering up and down the train to find me a good seat for the long journey.
Mum, in the meantime, was out on the platform fuming at him, to get off the train; she was obviously watching the guard.
Dad kept waving back, telling her not to panic; again!
The next thing we heard was the whistle blow! Dad ran down the train to the door. Electric! No way. The train was now moving; next stop Birmingham.
All I could see was my poor mum disappear into the distance as dad returned to my seat. Dad had the car keys in his pocket, mum had no money on her and in those days no one had a mobile phone.
This story has been told many times over the years and causes quite a laugh now.
Mum said that two hours later, dad arrived back from Birmingham to Wolverhampton station; thank goodness no one recognised her. She felt and looked like a right hobo.
When they arrived back outside to the drop off/pick up point, a big black Mercedes car was blocking in mum’s little Seat.
Dad was livid; that was the last straw.
They got in the car expecting the driver to move; no chance of that!
Dad got out of the car and knocked on the Mercedes blacked out windows.
The window wound down. “Yeh,” said the deep growl.
“Would you mind moving your bloody car, so we can get home tonight, please?”
At that, the door of the car opened and a 6’ 5” Rastafarian got out and laughed at Dad.
“Call that a bloody car?”
Dad turned his back and went straight back to mum.
He says to this day; “If it hadn’t been for your mum, I’d have sorted him.”
Yes, and I think Mum would have sorted Dad after the journey he gave her that day.
Cora Boffey
“You can’t come with us Mum, you look awful.”
“I’m coming and that’s that; in fact I think your dad’s over the limit this lunch time, so I’ll have to drive.”
I knew Dad would have a moan about that but it was his own fault. He loved a drink before lunch on a Sunday at the local pub with my uncles and promised Mum it would only be one today, as I was catching the 4.30pm train back to Newcastle Uni, and he would be driving me to the station.
It was an abysmal day, rain and sleet; but the usual Sunday atmosphere at home was warm and cosy, with Mum’s Sunday lunch making me feel I was going to get a little home-sick this term.
We loaded Mum’s little Seat Marbella, with all my bags and tins of food. Dad sat in the back of the car; all grumpy, moaning about the deck chair type seats he was sitting on and it was about time Mum got used to driving his car; he was quite a snob really with his cars, always liked to arrive in style, even delivering me to the station on a wet Sunday afternoon.
To make things worse the heater in the car was playing up and the January day was showing a deep freeze on the way. Poor Mum could hardly see out of her eyes with the flu-like symptoms taking over her body.
“Pull up on the drop off/pick up bays at the front of the station love,” said dad from the back.
Mum insisted it was going to be more than a drop off; we were going on to the platform to wave me off.
“Don’t worry,” said dad. “It’s always quiet this time on a Sunday and as for Station Police, they won’t step outside today. Just park up; we won’t be that long.”
As usual the 4.30pm to Newcastle was packed; dad insisted on getting on the train with me to put my bags and food parcels in the hold. Being the perfect perfectionist, he kept wandering up and down the train to find me a good seat for the long journey.
Mum, in the meantime, was out on the platform fuming at him, to get off the train; she was obviously watching the guard.
Dad kept waving back, telling her not to panic; again!
The next thing we heard was the whistle blow! Dad ran down the train to the door. Electric! No way. The train was now moving; next stop Birmingham.
All I could see was my poor mum disappear into the distance as dad returned to my seat. Dad had the car keys in his pocket, mum had no money on her and in those days no one had a mobile phone.
This story has been told many times over the years and causes quite a laugh now.
Mum said that two hours later, dad arrived back from Birmingham to Wolverhampton station; thank goodness no one recognised her. She felt and looked like a right hobo.
When they arrived back outside to the drop off/pick up point, a big black Mercedes car was blocking in mum’s little Seat.
Dad was livid; that was the last straw.
They got in the car expecting the driver to move; no chance of that!
Dad got out of the car and knocked on the Mercedes blacked out windows.
The window wound down. “Yeh,” said the deep growl.
“Would you mind moving your bloody car, so we can get home tonight, please?”
At that, the door of the car opened and a 6’ 5” Rastafarian got out and laughed at Dad.
“Call that a bloody car?”
Dad turned his back and went straight back to mum.
He says to this day; “If it hadn’t been for your mum, I’d have sorted him.”
Yes, and I think Mum would have sorted Dad after the journey he gave her that day.
Cora Boffey
Flying Visit
When our son, James, was posted to Iraq as the 1990/91 Gulf War kicked off, he and Lesley were newly-weds. On his return in March 91 he was allowed to submit their preferred choice for his next posting. They opted for RAF Akrotiri, Cyprus, lured by thoughts of sun, sea, and sand. They were told they would have to wait for a married quarter, and Lesley couldn't join him until they were housed, either on the base or in rented accommodation near to the base. James found a flat in Limassol which met with military approval and Les was offered an RAF flight to join him. They soon settled down, Jay with 51 Squadron RAF Regiment and Lesley took a job in Lady Lampson's Cafe on the base, known to military personnel as Lady L's.
We were thrilled to get an invitation to join them for their first Christmas in the Mediterranean. It transpired that the world and his dog were on the move, the only flight available to us was out of Heathrow. Once aboard our plane, the cabin crew went through routine safety business. Suddenly, everything was called to a halt. The doors opened and three suited, tough looking guys appeared; the sort of chaps you see in a Bond movie, and you get the feeling they each have a gun under their armpit, or wherever tough guys hide their shooters. We were told to sit tight but have passports ready. Our passports had already been checked and now these chaps wanted to see them. The men took their time scrutinising everyone's credentials. We finally took off, I don't know where the heavy squad went but they popped up again when we landed at Larnaca. They stood at the cabin doorway watching everyone alight. We collected our luggage but it wasn't until we reached Limassol that we realised our suitcases had been forced open and searched.
For much of our stay Jay and Lesley were at work. During the daytime we explored Limassol, visited the shops, walked the less salubrious areas and generally got the feel of the place, and yes, we enjoyed it. One weekend afternoon we all took a walk round the old port area of Limassol. It appeared run-down and frequented by old sea salts of a dodgy disposition. As we strolled around I spotted an interesting looking parcel on the pavement. I bent down to get a closer look. Suddenly Jay yelled at me, 'don't touch it.' He didn't actually say it might be a bomb, but I knew that's what he meant. On several occasions when Bern and I were out alone, I had the feeling we were being followed. Once or twice I thought I saw familiar faces sitting in the same café as us. And then there was the day Lesley saw a man hiding in the bushes near the door to their apartment block. I never told anyone that I saw the long-handled instrument in their hall cupboard. From our bedroom window I watched Jay use it every morning to check under their car. Even I know that's not a normal broom-cupboard piece of kit. My reasoning says it was RAF issue because they were living off base. Another time, I excitedly told Jay about the strange plane I had seen taking off from he base very early in the morning. It was an awesome big black behemoth, it was low in the sky when I saw it slowly slink away. It looked ominous, threatening, something from a science fiction comic. He looked at me sternly, "It's American, and you didn't see it." I agreed, "No, I didn't."
Too many tiny clues, or was I dreaming up a drama that didn't exist? Was it all in my imagination? I guess we'll never know the truth of it, but the locks on our suitcases were well and truly buggered up.
Betty Taylor
When our son, James, was posted to Iraq as the 1990/91 Gulf War kicked off, he and Lesley were newly-weds. On his return in March 91 he was allowed to submit their preferred choice for his next posting. They opted for RAF Akrotiri, Cyprus, lured by thoughts of sun, sea, and sand. They were told they would have to wait for a married quarter, and Lesley couldn't join him until they were housed, either on the base or in rented accommodation near to the base. James found a flat in Limassol which met with military approval and Les was offered an RAF flight to join him. They soon settled down, Jay with 51 Squadron RAF Regiment and Lesley took a job in Lady Lampson's Cafe on the base, known to military personnel as Lady L's.
We were thrilled to get an invitation to join them for their first Christmas in the Mediterranean. It transpired that the world and his dog were on the move, the only flight available to us was out of Heathrow. Once aboard our plane, the cabin crew went through routine safety business. Suddenly, everything was called to a halt. The doors opened and three suited, tough looking guys appeared; the sort of chaps you see in a Bond movie, and you get the feeling they each have a gun under their armpit, or wherever tough guys hide their shooters. We were told to sit tight but have passports ready. Our passports had already been checked and now these chaps wanted to see them. The men took their time scrutinising everyone's credentials. We finally took off, I don't know where the heavy squad went but they popped up again when we landed at Larnaca. They stood at the cabin doorway watching everyone alight. We collected our luggage but it wasn't until we reached Limassol that we realised our suitcases had been forced open and searched.
For much of our stay Jay and Lesley were at work. During the daytime we explored Limassol, visited the shops, walked the less salubrious areas and generally got the feel of the place, and yes, we enjoyed it. One weekend afternoon we all took a walk round the old port area of Limassol. It appeared run-down and frequented by old sea salts of a dodgy disposition. As we strolled around I spotted an interesting looking parcel on the pavement. I bent down to get a closer look. Suddenly Jay yelled at me, 'don't touch it.' He didn't actually say it might be a bomb, but I knew that's what he meant. On several occasions when Bern and I were out alone, I had the feeling we were being followed. Once or twice I thought I saw familiar faces sitting in the same café as us. And then there was the day Lesley saw a man hiding in the bushes near the door to their apartment block. I never told anyone that I saw the long-handled instrument in their hall cupboard. From our bedroom window I watched Jay use it every morning to check under their car. Even I know that's not a normal broom-cupboard piece of kit. My reasoning says it was RAF issue because they were living off base. Another time, I excitedly told Jay about the strange plane I had seen taking off from he base very early in the morning. It was an awesome big black behemoth, it was low in the sky when I saw it slowly slink away. It looked ominous, threatening, something from a science fiction comic. He looked at me sternly, "It's American, and you didn't see it." I agreed, "No, I didn't."
Too many tiny clues, or was I dreaming up a drama that didn't exist? Was it all in my imagination? I guess we'll never know the truth of it, but the locks on our suitcases were well and truly buggered up.
Betty Taylor
Still Searching
This walk happened a long time ago now so maybe my memory has embellished some of the details. I don’t know. But what I do know is that it was my favourite walk and after that day in January I never returned to those paths again.
The walk was marked on the village map. At its start it followed the driveway to the old manor house, now a nursing home. This part was tarmac, so easy walking. It had been raining a lot recently and there were clumps of hard compacted leaves lining the road. They looked slippery. Tall hedges and shrubby trees lined one side, a wooden fence the other. There were the remnants of iron railings, an older boundary marker. Further along, the wooden fence got lost in the hedgerows. Overhead, some of the trees met each other, seemed to shake hands, and form a protective canopy.
The red brick wall around the manor house still stood tall, parts covered in trailing ivy. On the other side was a field, known locally as Dicken’s, a favourite with dog walkers. It’s especially lovely here in February when a profusion of snowdrops whitens the grass.
It’s a slight incline and at the top the track divides. The way I was going continues past some lovely old properties and leads into Waverton village itself. The other way goes across a couple of fields and takes you down past the boating lake, once in the grounds of the manor house. It’s not used nowadays: slime has built up on the surface. Even the birds shun it but the yellow iris in spring are spectacular.
There were no dog walkers on that cold January day. I was quite alone. A glimpse of sun broke through and I could see my shadow walking ahead of me. A magpie flew out and landed on the path. Bad luck – ‘one for sorrow’. There should be another – yes, there he is, two for joy. A relief. Then the sun disappeared again and as I walked on the murk took over. Night was falling quickly so best not to stay out much longer.
The voice startled me. ‘I’m looking for Elspeth’
Frightened, I couldn’t summon any words, just turned and stared at the man. He was tall, wearing a gaberdine coat and carrying a cane. ‘Can’t you help me? I’m looking for Elspeth.’ He came from behind me and quickly pushed past. He was close. I felt his arm brush against mine and his cane knock against my leg. Droplets from an overhanging branch sprayed my cheek.
‘Wait! Who are you? Who’s Elspeth?’ I gasped. Too late. He was gone. But I can still hear his voice, sorrowful, that plaintive ‘where’s Elspeth?’ I can feel the touch of his cane against my leg and the raindrops on my skin.
Years later I was helping with research for a history project with Waverton History Society. The Society had been gifted a pile of newspapers from the mid nineteenth century and a few of us were reading through them for local news items. I came across the story of a boating accident at Waverton Manor. Mr and Mrs Charles Weaver lived there. They had a son, Bertie, and two daughters, Elspeth and Maria. One day Bertie and his sisters had gone out in the boat. But they got into difficulties, the oars were tangled in the reeds, and the boat capsized. All three were thrown into the lake. Bertie managed to grab Maria, the youngest child, and get onto the shore. Elspeth was never found.
Linda Birch
This walk happened a long time ago now so maybe my memory has embellished some of the details. I don’t know. But what I do know is that it was my favourite walk and after that day in January I never returned to those paths again.
The walk was marked on the village map. At its start it followed the driveway to the old manor house, now a nursing home. This part was tarmac, so easy walking. It had been raining a lot recently and there were clumps of hard compacted leaves lining the road. They looked slippery. Tall hedges and shrubby trees lined one side, a wooden fence the other. There were the remnants of iron railings, an older boundary marker. Further along, the wooden fence got lost in the hedgerows. Overhead, some of the trees met each other, seemed to shake hands, and form a protective canopy.
The red brick wall around the manor house still stood tall, parts covered in trailing ivy. On the other side was a field, known locally as Dicken’s, a favourite with dog walkers. It’s especially lovely here in February when a profusion of snowdrops whitens the grass.
It’s a slight incline and at the top the track divides. The way I was going continues past some lovely old properties and leads into Waverton village itself. The other way goes across a couple of fields and takes you down past the boating lake, once in the grounds of the manor house. It’s not used nowadays: slime has built up on the surface. Even the birds shun it but the yellow iris in spring are spectacular.
There were no dog walkers on that cold January day. I was quite alone. A glimpse of sun broke through and I could see my shadow walking ahead of me. A magpie flew out and landed on the path. Bad luck – ‘one for sorrow’. There should be another – yes, there he is, two for joy. A relief. Then the sun disappeared again and as I walked on the murk took over. Night was falling quickly so best not to stay out much longer.
The voice startled me. ‘I’m looking for Elspeth’
Frightened, I couldn’t summon any words, just turned and stared at the man. He was tall, wearing a gaberdine coat and carrying a cane. ‘Can’t you help me? I’m looking for Elspeth.’ He came from behind me and quickly pushed past. He was close. I felt his arm brush against mine and his cane knock against my leg. Droplets from an overhanging branch sprayed my cheek.
‘Wait! Who are you? Who’s Elspeth?’ I gasped. Too late. He was gone. But I can still hear his voice, sorrowful, that plaintive ‘where’s Elspeth?’ I can feel the touch of his cane against my leg and the raindrops on my skin.
Years later I was helping with research for a history project with Waverton History Society. The Society had been gifted a pile of newspapers from the mid nineteenth century and a few of us were reading through them for local news items. I came across the story of a boating accident at Waverton Manor. Mr and Mrs Charles Weaver lived there. They had a son, Bertie, and two daughters, Elspeth and Maria. One day Bertie and his sisters had gone out in the boat. But they got into difficulties, the oars were tangled in the reeds, and the boat capsized. All three were thrown into the lake. Bertie managed to grab Maria, the youngest child, and get onto the shore. Elspeth was never found.
Linda Birch
A Walk Through Time
I leave the house where I grew up in Sheffield. The road is steep, so now I must navigate it more carefully than I ever did. The houses on both sides of the road are mostly semi-detached, pre-war. Nearly all have extended driveways, new doors and windows, and extensions that sometimes seem at odds with the original building.
I turn left at the bottom of Greystones Crescent, cross the main road, and on my way to the back entrance of Bingham Park. All the houses I pass on the way are similar; improved and updated over the years. Many more cars sit on cramped driveways or in the road. These houses weren’t built with garages or space to build one.
There is a notice at the entrance to the park: No Parking. I walk on. Now the sound of rustling leaves is more evident as the wind picks up. It was in this park that I saw my first red squirrel back in the 1950s. Now the only squirrels to be seen are grey, but they are still cute and have become more friendly as they know we humans are a source of food.
Echoes of laughter chuckle in the wind as I walk past the tennis courts and bowling green. They still show up on my map, but as Google Street View doesn’t enter the park, I will imagine that they are still in use as they were years ago. It’s the Spring, so I know that at the other end of the park, Whitely Woods will be a carpet of tender bluebells.
I am now approaching Rustlings Road, a tree lined avenue with beautiful Victorian stone houses overlooking the park. I have to stop and listen. I can hear chain saws and voices raised. I walk towards the disturbance and see a large crowd of people with banners; Save the Trees. The police are there trying to hold them back. I decide to join the throng. Apparently the council deem some of the trees to be unsafe. Several trees now stand devoid of limbs; naked and vulnerable. I would happily lay across the road in protest, but my friend is waiting, so reluctantly I retrace my steps and cross the road into Endcliffe Park which is the park of my childhood.
I walk past the weirs of Porter Brook and hear the rushing water after the recent rain. I can smell the wet leaves and the damp brown soil. The brook diverts into a pond where I remember sailing a small wooden yacht with collapsible sails with my dad. The brook rushes over black boulders and under stone bridges, and then opens out into a trickling stream. The large stepping stones are still there, worn down over the years by millions of treading feet.
I stop at the Pavilion, the same wooden building that has stood there for over 70 years; still with the hatch in the wall where we used to queue for ice-cream. Layer upon layer of bottle green paint has preserved the wooden panels in pristine condition.
I take a seat in the café and wait for my friend, where we will chat and reminisce about our childhood years. I might persuade her to join me and take up a banner.
Maggie Storer
I leave the house where I grew up in Sheffield. The road is steep, so now I must navigate it more carefully than I ever did. The houses on both sides of the road are mostly semi-detached, pre-war. Nearly all have extended driveways, new doors and windows, and extensions that sometimes seem at odds with the original building.
I turn left at the bottom of Greystones Crescent, cross the main road, and on my way to the back entrance of Bingham Park. All the houses I pass on the way are similar; improved and updated over the years. Many more cars sit on cramped driveways or in the road. These houses weren’t built with garages or space to build one.
There is a notice at the entrance to the park: No Parking. I walk on. Now the sound of rustling leaves is more evident as the wind picks up. It was in this park that I saw my first red squirrel back in the 1950s. Now the only squirrels to be seen are grey, but they are still cute and have become more friendly as they know we humans are a source of food.
Echoes of laughter chuckle in the wind as I walk past the tennis courts and bowling green. They still show up on my map, but as Google Street View doesn’t enter the park, I will imagine that they are still in use as they were years ago. It’s the Spring, so I know that at the other end of the park, Whitely Woods will be a carpet of tender bluebells.
I am now approaching Rustlings Road, a tree lined avenue with beautiful Victorian stone houses overlooking the park. I have to stop and listen. I can hear chain saws and voices raised. I walk towards the disturbance and see a large crowd of people with banners; Save the Trees. The police are there trying to hold them back. I decide to join the throng. Apparently the council deem some of the trees to be unsafe. Several trees now stand devoid of limbs; naked and vulnerable. I would happily lay across the road in protest, but my friend is waiting, so reluctantly I retrace my steps and cross the road into Endcliffe Park which is the park of my childhood.
I walk past the weirs of Porter Brook and hear the rushing water after the recent rain. I can smell the wet leaves and the damp brown soil. The brook diverts into a pond where I remember sailing a small wooden yacht with collapsible sails with my dad. The brook rushes over black boulders and under stone bridges, and then opens out into a trickling stream. The large stepping stones are still there, worn down over the years by millions of treading feet.
I stop at the Pavilion, the same wooden building that has stood there for over 70 years; still with the hatch in the wall where we used to queue for ice-cream. Layer upon layer of bottle green paint has preserved the wooden panels in pristine condition.
I take a seat in the café and wait for my friend, where we will chat and reminisce about our childhood years. I might persuade her to join me and take up a banner.
Maggie Storer
Deadline: March 1
Brief: do you have a memory of a notable motoring incident - were you the driver or the passenger? Write about this factual happening but try to make it a very interesting read. Hype it up - think satire - humour - pathos or even better, bathos.
Brief: do you have a memory of a notable motoring incident - were you the driver or the passenger? Write about this factual happening but try to make it a very interesting read. Hype it up - think satire - humour - pathos or even better, bathos.
Heart Stopping Moment
Some years ago, my husband and I had a holiday in Madera, the floating garden, it did not disappoint. We walked the Lavadas, zig-zagging up the hillside. They are narrow concrete channels that carry water to the narrow patches of land where local people grow vegetables. Women were mostly working, carrying sacks of potatoes on their backs. The men we presumed, were working elsewhere. We came across a beautiful tea garden, classical music filled the air. it was idyllic. Another day we decided to take a local bus through the Gorge, it was packed with people chatting happily, getting on and off when the bus stopped at villages along the way. The driver would get off for a chat, and at one stop he climbed a ladder to help put up decorations for a festival. No hurry, manana. Then everyone got off the bus and we assumed this was the terminus, and presumed the bus would return. After a short break the driver got off returning a few minutes later, telling us, 'siesta'. We had not taken this into consideration. It was a sleepy village, the shops were closed, only the taverna was open, I managed to explain to the barman that we needed a taxi to Funchal, the capital. Eventually an old, battered car arrived driven by a short stocky man. He appeared disgruntled, perhaps because we had disturbed his siesta. As we sat in the rear, I noticed his broad sweaty neck, he reminded me of Odd Job in the film Goldfinger, a nasty piece of work. I felt rather unnerved. We seemed to be heading further up the mountain instead of following the route the bus had taken. It became very grey and misty. We passed a sign saying Funchal, he did not turn. I called out, 'Funchal a la de rerecha, turn right,' but he did not answer. I looked at Peter and grabbed his hand, crazy thoughts were racing through my head, we were going to be kidnapped, or worse. We were helpless, no one knew where we were. The time seemed endless, my heart was pounding, then at last we began to descend The fog was clearing and we passed a small village where people waved to our driver.
I was so relieved to get back to Funchal. A day to remember, a vivid memory of more than twenty years ago.
Carol Hipkin
Some years ago, my husband and I had a holiday in Madera, the floating garden, it did not disappoint. We walked the Lavadas, zig-zagging up the hillside. They are narrow concrete channels that carry water to the narrow patches of land where local people grow vegetables. Women were mostly working, carrying sacks of potatoes on their backs. The men we presumed, were working elsewhere. We came across a beautiful tea garden, classical music filled the air. it was idyllic. Another day we decided to take a local bus through the Gorge, it was packed with people chatting happily, getting on and off when the bus stopped at villages along the way. The driver would get off for a chat, and at one stop he climbed a ladder to help put up decorations for a festival. No hurry, manana. Then everyone got off the bus and we assumed this was the terminus, and presumed the bus would return. After a short break the driver got off returning a few minutes later, telling us, 'siesta'. We had not taken this into consideration. It was a sleepy village, the shops were closed, only the taverna was open, I managed to explain to the barman that we needed a taxi to Funchal, the capital. Eventually an old, battered car arrived driven by a short stocky man. He appeared disgruntled, perhaps because we had disturbed his siesta. As we sat in the rear, I noticed his broad sweaty neck, he reminded me of Odd Job in the film Goldfinger, a nasty piece of work. I felt rather unnerved. We seemed to be heading further up the mountain instead of following the route the bus had taken. It became very grey and misty. We passed a sign saying Funchal, he did not turn. I called out, 'Funchal a la de rerecha, turn right,' but he did not answer. I looked at Peter and grabbed his hand, crazy thoughts were racing through my head, we were going to be kidnapped, or worse. We were helpless, no one knew where we were. The time seemed endless, my heart was pounding, then at last we began to descend The fog was clearing and we passed a small village where people waved to our driver.
I was so relieved to get back to Funchal. A day to remember, a vivid memory of more than twenty years ago.
Carol Hipkin
Monkey Business
We crammed six of us into the car. Well, they charged entrance per car to drive through the wild life park, so it made sense for all of us to have the experience of getting ‘really close to wild animals in their natural habitat’, or so we were promised.
Don drove, the three older kids were strapped in the back, and six month old Jonny was on my lap. There were signs everywhere to keep moving, keep windows and sunroofs closed, NO FEEDING THE ANIMALS, and a notice saying that the park took no responsibility for damage to vehicles.
The huge metal gate slid open and we were in the wolf enclosure. Several huge grey dog-like shapes moved among grey trees behind a fence. ‘Glad I didn’t wear my red hoodie,’ giggled Jane. ‘Can you spot grandmama?’
Through the next gate were herds roe deer and reindeer, and the older kids tried to spot Rudolph, while I showed cute Bambi to Jonny. Hippos were down the bottom of the next valley wallowing in the river.
Then a double security fence and two gates alerted us that we were ‘entering the lions reserve’. It was early afternoon and several beautiful specimens were lolling sleepily on rocks and under trees. Suddenly a camouflaged Range Rover raced towards us, veering off towards the lions and stopping beneath a tree. There at the very top stretched along a branch was a majestic lioness. The keepers coaxed her down with a huge joint of meat, we weren’t sure why they didn’t want her to sleep up there unless there was a danger she could fall onto a car!
Further on the fun started. We had heard tales of monkeys jumping onto cars, stealing wipers and radio aeriels, four of these sweet creatures bounded over towards our bright yellow car. We sounded the horn, banged the windows and made faces at the windows, all to no avail. Other cars drove past, laughing and pointing. The kids thought it was hilarious and if it wasn’t for the window lock I’m sure one of the kids would have let a monkey in. ‘But they’re so cute and cuddly!’ Then one bared its teeth and pooed on the windscreen! After an age the gang retreated back to the trees with their haul of two wiper blades, an aerial and a tissue I had used to try and clean the window when I thought they had moved away!
We began to drive quickly through the last area where the giraffes and zebra roamed, but were held up by several cars petting these handsome beasts through the windows. I couldn’t resist doing the same, and we were startled as George giraffe’s huge head with long eyelashes and purple tongue invaded the car! The younger kids squealed but I was impressed as twelve year old Dan pushed George’s head firmly back through the window.
We parked and ate our picnic safely away from the animals. The children were imitating the monkeys and their collection of car accessories. Don was like a grumpy hippo, and just hoped it would not rain on the drive home.
Andie Green
We crammed six of us into the car. Well, they charged entrance per car to drive through the wild life park, so it made sense for all of us to have the experience of getting ‘really close to wild animals in their natural habitat’, or so we were promised.
Don drove, the three older kids were strapped in the back, and six month old Jonny was on my lap. There were signs everywhere to keep moving, keep windows and sunroofs closed, NO FEEDING THE ANIMALS, and a notice saying that the park took no responsibility for damage to vehicles.
The huge metal gate slid open and we were in the wolf enclosure. Several huge grey dog-like shapes moved among grey trees behind a fence. ‘Glad I didn’t wear my red hoodie,’ giggled Jane. ‘Can you spot grandmama?’
Through the next gate were herds roe deer and reindeer, and the older kids tried to spot Rudolph, while I showed cute Bambi to Jonny. Hippos were down the bottom of the next valley wallowing in the river.
Then a double security fence and two gates alerted us that we were ‘entering the lions reserve’. It was early afternoon and several beautiful specimens were lolling sleepily on rocks and under trees. Suddenly a camouflaged Range Rover raced towards us, veering off towards the lions and stopping beneath a tree. There at the very top stretched along a branch was a majestic lioness. The keepers coaxed her down with a huge joint of meat, we weren’t sure why they didn’t want her to sleep up there unless there was a danger she could fall onto a car!
Further on the fun started. We had heard tales of monkeys jumping onto cars, stealing wipers and radio aeriels, four of these sweet creatures bounded over towards our bright yellow car. We sounded the horn, banged the windows and made faces at the windows, all to no avail. Other cars drove past, laughing and pointing. The kids thought it was hilarious and if it wasn’t for the window lock I’m sure one of the kids would have let a monkey in. ‘But they’re so cute and cuddly!’ Then one bared its teeth and pooed on the windscreen! After an age the gang retreated back to the trees with their haul of two wiper blades, an aerial and a tissue I had used to try and clean the window when I thought they had moved away!
We began to drive quickly through the last area where the giraffes and zebra roamed, but were held up by several cars petting these handsome beasts through the windows. I couldn’t resist doing the same, and we were startled as George giraffe’s huge head with long eyelashes and purple tongue invaded the car! The younger kids squealed but I was impressed as twelve year old Dan pushed George’s head firmly back through the window.
We parked and ate our picnic safely away from the animals. The children were imitating the monkeys and their collection of car accessories. Don was like a grumpy hippo, and just hoped it would not rain on the drive home.
Andie Green
Pedal Power
He’s tearing along, lying sleek along the metal frame. Head down, eyes fixed on the road below, his hands clutching the handlebars. He’s seeing himself in the Tokyo Olympics, going for gold. The next Jason Kenny. The only problem is: this isn’t a track, it’s a pretty single-carriageway hump back bridge over the river Trent in rural Staffordshire. There is no room to pass another vehicle.
Tom has stopped already. He could see what was going to happen, his hand is on the horn. A vision of ambulances, wailing sirens, fatherless children is in his head. It’s already too late when the cyclist hears the blast, looks up and tries to brake.
As anticipated, there’s a screech of metal, a crump and a sickening thud of body against windscreen, then a slithering as he falls back onto the road. Tom closes his eyes, his whole body starts to shake. His worst nightmare is happening and the car isn’t even moving.
A groan. The cyclist sits up. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I always come this way and there’s never anyone around.”
He’s alive! He can speak! Relief floods Tom and a new vision settles itself in his head. A picture of paperwork, insurance claim forms, arguments over premiums and no claims protection. Nice one, Jason!
Tom looks at his car, his beloved shiny new Audi. The one he waited six months for and collected just two weeks ago. The one Lara fell out with him about because she said it was too flashy, too expensive and it wasn’t electric and he should be taking more care of the planet. The pristine red paintwork is scratched, the headlamp smashed, the cracked glass forming crystal tears. Tears form in Tom’s eyes too as he thinks about the eye-watering garage bill to come.
Tom looks at the cyclist, who is now standing and dusting himself down. Miraculously, his bike doesn’t look too badly damaged. Passersby have arrived and are taking an interest. Offers of witness statements, lifts home, first-aid kits proffered. Tom reaches inside the car for his phone. They need to exchange contact details.
He turns round just in time to see a leg flung over a saddle and a swish of gravel as the bike races off.
“Sorry, need to get back on the bike straight away. See you.”
Linda Birch
He’s tearing along, lying sleek along the metal frame. Head down, eyes fixed on the road below, his hands clutching the handlebars. He’s seeing himself in the Tokyo Olympics, going for gold. The next Jason Kenny. The only problem is: this isn’t a track, it’s a pretty single-carriageway hump back bridge over the river Trent in rural Staffordshire. There is no room to pass another vehicle.
Tom has stopped already. He could see what was going to happen, his hand is on the horn. A vision of ambulances, wailing sirens, fatherless children is in his head. It’s already too late when the cyclist hears the blast, looks up and tries to brake.
As anticipated, there’s a screech of metal, a crump and a sickening thud of body against windscreen, then a slithering as he falls back onto the road. Tom closes his eyes, his whole body starts to shake. His worst nightmare is happening and the car isn’t even moving.
A groan. The cyclist sits up. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I always come this way and there’s never anyone around.”
He’s alive! He can speak! Relief floods Tom and a new vision settles itself in his head. A picture of paperwork, insurance claim forms, arguments over premiums and no claims protection. Nice one, Jason!
Tom looks at his car, his beloved shiny new Audi. The one he waited six months for and collected just two weeks ago. The one Lara fell out with him about because she said it was too flashy, too expensive and it wasn’t electric and he should be taking more care of the planet. The pristine red paintwork is scratched, the headlamp smashed, the cracked glass forming crystal tears. Tears form in Tom’s eyes too as he thinks about the eye-watering garage bill to come.
Tom looks at the cyclist, who is now standing and dusting himself down. Miraculously, his bike doesn’t look too badly damaged. Passersby have arrived and are taking an interest. Offers of witness statements, lifts home, first-aid kits proffered. Tom reaches inside the car for his phone. They need to exchange contact details.
He turns round just in time to see a leg flung over a saddle and a swish of gravel as the bike races off.
“Sorry, need to get back on the bike straight away. See you.”
Linda Birch
Lethal Weapon
“And they kick away over seven furlongs and Ravens Head a little bit slower, er... and that’s a surprise he normally, eh wants to make the running; Nazzime a horse; that’s sweated up, gave Lester Piggot such, eh an unfortunate fall at Aintree, fitted with a breast girth today.
But it’s eh Ravens Head despite that slow start has come to share the lead and just ahead Pretty Lady in the check sleeves n the purple jacket. On the far side, is Ho Long, there 1, 2, 3 then Late Night Out and Nazzime followed by Got Caught as they go through the first quarter mile”
“Eh excuse me Miss; will you be joining us today? Have you signed in?”
“Oh sorry I was miles away then; taken back to another time. Sorry, no I haven’t signed in, I was early and the lady on reception said come straight up and wait.”
“Well I suggest you go over to John at the table and sign in, with all your paperwork and you’re relevant ID.”
I felt well and truly reprimanded. This was a good start to the course.
Very quickly the room filled up with twenty five bums on seats, each with our own little table.
“Sorry to disappoint you ladies and gentlemen; but the horses and riders have had their early morning canter, and they're off to their local stables; there will be no racing at Dunstal Park today! So those who came in early this morning have had their fun; now it’s down to the serious business.”
I felt myself blushing, he’d singled me out, I’d better watch my step.
“As you are all aware; you have all committed a criminal offence. So I guess while you are in this room, doing this course you are all criminals; I’m not here to judge you.
You maybe sat next to a drunk driver? I have no idea of your crime, but we know for sure you are all guilty. Some clever friend may have said to you oh you’ll be ok; it’s not an exam you’ve got to pass! But believe me, don’t think you are just going to sit there all morning and me do all the work; this is audience participation and if you don’t participate, I DO have the power to fail you.”
For a split second I thought I’d got paralysis in my arms and when I tried to test out my voice, a silly squeak came out, resulting in everyone looking at me. How was I going to participate in this state?
“Well on a lighter note, I won’t ask you to introduce yourselves by name, but just take a quick look around the room to see if you know anyone; just brings to mind one occasion a few years ago, when a husband and wife turned up on one of my courses and neither had confessed to the other their crime. Oh, how embarrassing that was.”
Well it did raise a little titter. Then he asked us to all volunteer our offences and evaluate the crime.
I was about third in line, with a very shaky voice. “I was travelling down the Wednesfield road, about 3am on a Sunday morning. 10mins. behind the ambulance carrying my mother; who had had a heart attack.
My sister was in the ambulance with mum. I had stopped along the way to pick up my other sister.
Knowing where the speed cameras were I was aware of my speed.
We parked up at the hospital; I remember saying to my sister; I think it’s too late, I saw the massive light along the road, I think she’s gone.
We ran inside to find mum, smiling and waiting for treatment.
Three days later, I knew what the beam of light was on the Wednesfield road. I was doing 36mph in a 30mph limit.
We all mulled over each other’s cases, participated in video scenarios and question and answer sessions.
I went straight off after the course and bought a new Highway Code book and will always remember the guy saying you are in charge of a lethal weapon. That is one scary object!
Cora Boffey
“And they kick away over seven furlongs and Ravens Head a little bit slower, er... and that’s a surprise he normally, eh wants to make the running; Nazzime a horse; that’s sweated up, gave Lester Piggot such, eh an unfortunate fall at Aintree, fitted with a breast girth today.
But it’s eh Ravens Head despite that slow start has come to share the lead and just ahead Pretty Lady in the check sleeves n the purple jacket. On the far side, is Ho Long, there 1, 2, 3 then Late Night Out and Nazzime followed by Got Caught as they go through the first quarter mile”
“Eh excuse me Miss; will you be joining us today? Have you signed in?”
“Oh sorry I was miles away then; taken back to another time. Sorry, no I haven’t signed in, I was early and the lady on reception said come straight up and wait.”
“Well I suggest you go over to John at the table and sign in, with all your paperwork and you’re relevant ID.”
I felt well and truly reprimanded. This was a good start to the course.
Very quickly the room filled up with twenty five bums on seats, each with our own little table.
“Sorry to disappoint you ladies and gentlemen; but the horses and riders have had their early morning canter, and they're off to their local stables; there will be no racing at Dunstal Park today! So those who came in early this morning have had their fun; now it’s down to the serious business.”
I felt myself blushing, he’d singled me out, I’d better watch my step.
“As you are all aware; you have all committed a criminal offence. So I guess while you are in this room, doing this course you are all criminals; I’m not here to judge you.
You maybe sat next to a drunk driver? I have no idea of your crime, but we know for sure you are all guilty. Some clever friend may have said to you oh you’ll be ok; it’s not an exam you’ve got to pass! But believe me, don’t think you are just going to sit there all morning and me do all the work; this is audience participation and if you don’t participate, I DO have the power to fail you.”
For a split second I thought I’d got paralysis in my arms and when I tried to test out my voice, a silly squeak came out, resulting in everyone looking at me. How was I going to participate in this state?
“Well on a lighter note, I won’t ask you to introduce yourselves by name, but just take a quick look around the room to see if you know anyone; just brings to mind one occasion a few years ago, when a husband and wife turned up on one of my courses and neither had confessed to the other their crime. Oh, how embarrassing that was.”
Well it did raise a little titter. Then he asked us to all volunteer our offences and evaluate the crime.
I was about third in line, with a very shaky voice. “I was travelling down the Wednesfield road, about 3am on a Sunday morning. 10mins. behind the ambulance carrying my mother; who had had a heart attack.
My sister was in the ambulance with mum. I had stopped along the way to pick up my other sister.
Knowing where the speed cameras were I was aware of my speed.
We parked up at the hospital; I remember saying to my sister; I think it’s too late, I saw the massive light along the road, I think she’s gone.
We ran inside to find mum, smiling and waiting for treatment.
Three days later, I knew what the beam of light was on the Wednesfield road. I was doing 36mph in a 30mph limit.
We all mulled over each other’s cases, participated in video scenarios and question and answer sessions.
I went straight off after the course and bought a new Highway Code book and will always remember the guy saying you are in charge of a lethal weapon. That is one scary object!
Cora Boffey
Stuff Happens
The minute I passed my driving test I was on a mission to buy my first car. Circumstances decreed it had to be a cheap one. I found a second-hand MG Midget, it was well worn but within my price range, and I guess I was viewing it through rose-tinted lenses. My little rust bucket was bright red and sported a removable tonneau cover which had me thinking I'd soon be tootling round the lanes with the wind in my hair. There was something of a downside, it had a bit of a hole under the foot pedals. I soon resolved that one by investing in a pair of matching red wellies to keep my feet dry on rainy days. I was set for motoring heaven. Each morning I collected my friend Doreen and off we zoomed to work. One stormy day on our journey home, the windscreen wipers were snatched away by a mighty gust of wind, that was the last time I saw them. Poor Doreen had to hang her head out of the window to tell me what was ahead as we manoeuvred through the traffic in a monsoon-like downpour.
Over the next few years I owned several old bangers and, inevitably, stuff did happen. I finally achieved street cred, well the chaps I worked with were impressed, when I inherited Bern's old but upmarket 6 cylinder BMW with real leather interior and polished wood dash. It was a beast of a thing. For some strange reason, unbeknown to me or anyone else, I delighted in the secret place where the thirsty monster pursed its lips to guzzle fuel. There was a tiny hook under the bottom edge of the rear number plate which enabled you to lift the plate and reveal it's greedy mouth and the petrol cap. I acquired the vehicle when Bern's employer decided he should have a company car. My inheritance wasn't spanking new but at least it had gravitas. One little drawback, it had automatic gear change, but I didn't let it beat me.
Then, one day, the car became a little unhappy at a time when hubby was away on a business trip. He told me to leave it with the BMW garage in Wolverhampton. Several times they rang me to say so-and-so needed replacing. I just replied with, 'put a new one on.' Unfortunately I hadn't a clue about the cost of motor parts. It transpired that the thing called a camshaft is the one that bumped up the repair bill. On his return, Bern went to settle the account and he was... I'll just say, disgruntled... when he discovered the bill came to more than he'd paid for the car in the first place.
As I've already said, stuff happens, it certainly happens to me, but I'll save all the other stories for another day.
Betty Taylor
The minute I passed my driving test I was on a mission to buy my first car. Circumstances decreed it had to be a cheap one. I found a second-hand MG Midget, it was well worn but within my price range, and I guess I was viewing it through rose-tinted lenses. My little rust bucket was bright red and sported a removable tonneau cover which had me thinking I'd soon be tootling round the lanes with the wind in my hair. There was something of a downside, it had a bit of a hole under the foot pedals. I soon resolved that one by investing in a pair of matching red wellies to keep my feet dry on rainy days. I was set for motoring heaven. Each morning I collected my friend Doreen and off we zoomed to work. One stormy day on our journey home, the windscreen wipers were snatched away by a mighty gust of wind, that was the last time I saw them. Poor Doreen had to hang her head out of the window to tell me what was ahead as we manoeuvred through the traffic in a monsoon-like downpour.
Over the next few years I owned several old bangers and, inevitably, stuff did happen. I finally achieved street cred, well the chaps I worked with were impressed, when I inherited Bern's old but upmarket 6 cylinder BMW with real leather interior and polished wood dash. It was a beast of a thing. For some strange reason, unbeknown to me or anyone else, I delighted in the secret place where the thirsty monster pursed its lips to guzzle fuel. There was a tiny hook under the bottom edge of the rear number plate which enabled you to lift the plate and reveal it's greedy mouth and the petrol cap. I acquired the vehicle when Bern's employer decided he should have a company car. My inheritance wasn't spanking new but at least it had gravitas. One little drawback, it had automatic gear change, but I didn't let it beat me.
Then, one day, the car became a little unhappy at a time when hubby was away on a business trip. He told me to leave it with the BMW garage in Wolverhampton. Several times they rang me to say so-and-so needed replacing. I just replied with, 'put a new one on.' Unfortunately I hadn't a clue about the cost of motor parts. It transpired that the thing called a camshaft is the one that bumped up the repair bill. On his return, Bern went to settle the account and he was... I'll just say, disgruntled... when he discovered the bill came to more than he'd paid for the car in the first place.
As I've already said, stuff happens, it certainly happens to me, but I'll save all the other stories for another day.
Betty Taylor
The Longest Journey
Our very first car was a black Ford Popular circa 1958. It had orange indicators that flipped out right or left, or if you wound down your window you could rotate your arm in an anti clockwise direction to show you were going left. Or stick your arm straight out to turn right. There were no windscreen washers. We filled a squeeze bottle with soapy water and leaned out to squirt the windscreen. We devised our own heating system whereby a tube was connected to the engine to allow the warmth to slowly permeate the interior of the car. For winter journeys I wore fur boots and always had a blanket wrapped round my knees. Our fastest speed was 40 to 45 miles per hour going downhill and 20 to 30 going up uphill. That’s the only time we were able to overtake the lorries.
We lived in Pembroke at this time, so we had to make the long trek home to visit relatives in Chesterfield a couple of times a year. With a baby and a toddler, spare bottles, nappies and all the other paraphernalia you need for a long and tiresome journey, we set off one sunny day around Easter. The journey was broken by bottle feeds, nappy changes and a stop off for petrol. Although many feeds and nappy changes were made on the move. This particular journey took about nine hours, with our families unaware of what might have happened to us. No mobile phones in the sixties and not even a landline to ring.
We were travelling through a border town, probably Oswestry, and were driving slowly up a hill through the town. There was a narrow pavement on the left up against a stone wall. We could see three or four boys ahead, jostling with each other - an accident waiting to happen. Sure enough, as we approached, one of the boys shoved another and he landed in front of our car with a bump. Bob jumped out to see if the boy was hurt. I think he had hit his face against the bumper and a couple of teeth were missing. He may also have hurt his arm. It’s strange how time blurs the edges of the picture in your mind. Someone called an ambulance and a parent arrived. The boy was taken off to hospital and we gave a statement to the police, who let us carry on with our journey. Fortunately no one was badly injured, although we were all a little shaken.
I sometimes think about what might have happened today in the same circumstances. No one lay any blame and no doubt the boy was chastised for playing so near the road. Had we been travelling any faster in a modern car, the outcome could have been so different.
Maggie Storer
Our very first car was a black Ford Popular circa 1958. It had orange indicators that flipped out right or left, or if you wound down your window you could rotate your arm in an anti clockwise direction to show you were going left. Or stick your arm straight out to turn right. There were no windscreen washers. We filled a squeeze bottle with soapy water and leaned out to squirt the windscreen. We devised our own heating system whereby a tube was connected to the engine to allow the warmth to slowly permeate the interior of the car. For winter journeys I wore fur boots and always had a blanket wrapped round my knees. Our fastest speed was 40 to 45 miles per hour going downhill and 20 to 30 going up uphill. That’s the only time we were able to overtake the lorries.
We lived in Pembroke at this time, so we had to make the long trek home to visit relatives in Chesterfield a couple of times a year. With a baby and a toddler, spare bottles, nappies and all the other paraphernalia you need for a long and tiresome journey, we set off one sunny day around Easter. The journey was broken by bottle feeds, nappy changes and a stop off for petrol. Although many feeds and nappy changes were made on the move. This particular journey took about nine hours, with our families unaware of what might have happened to us. No mobile phones in the sixties and not even a landline to ring.
We were travelling through a border town, probably Oswestry, and were driving slowly up a hill through the town. There was a narrow pavement on the left up against a stone wall. We could see three or four boys ahead, jostling with each other - an accident waiting to happen. Sure enough, as we approached, one of the boys shoved another and he landed in front of our car with a bump. Bob jumped out to see if the boy was hurt. I think he had hit his face against the bumper and a couple of teeth were missing. He may also have hurt his arm. It’s strange how time blurs the edges of the picture in your mind. Someone called an ambulance and a parent arrived. The boy was taken off to hospital and we gave a statement to the police, who let us carry on with our journey. Fortunately no one was badly injured, although we were all a little shaken.
I sometimes think about what might have happened today in the same circumstances. No one lay any blame and no doubt the boy was chastised for playing so near the road. Had we been travelling any faster in a modern car, the outcome could have been so different.
Maggie Storer
Deadline: February 15
Brief: from a book, magazine, or newspaper select a line at random and start writing. Or you may use the first line of a well known novel.
Brief: from a book, magazine, or newspaper select a line at random and start writing. Or you may use the first line of a well known novel.
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day: first line from Jane Eyre
Every Cloud
A fierce storm had blown up overnight, rain lashing the window and trees moaning in the gale. A tree was down, blocking the lane, which had turned into a mud slide. It was raining still and there was no possibility of taking a walk that day.
“Oh well, that’s the last excuse gone. Now I’ll have to get on with my writing.” Moira sighs. She’s been in the cabin three weeks so far and the late autumn weather has been glorious. She makes a cappuccino and opens her laptop - thankfully, the electricity has not gone down. Donna’s words come back to her.
“Come on, you’re not the first person to lose their job. At least you have a good payout. Get over it. Look at it as an opportunity to take a break from work. Go away, do something you’ve always dreamed of.”
Not one to mince her words, Donna. Just the kind of friend you need really. Always upbeat, ready with the stiff words, saying it how it is and not what she thinks you want to hear. The something that Moira had always wanted to do was write a novel. Yes, a cliché - everyone says they want to do that. But Donna sensed there was something more to Moira’s dream and wanted to encourage her.
Besides, it would be therapy, Donna had said. “Look I know it’s rough but you’ve survived three big reorganisations already. It was never going to last forever. E marketing – it’s much too competitive. Talented graduates coming along all the time. I grant you it was abysmal timing for Josh to dump you like that. But I never thought he was good enough for you anyway.”
Yes, just the friend you need was our Donna, never spared your feelings. Moira feels the familiar lurch in her stomach. She loved Josh, thought they made a great team. But evidently Josh had eyes on another team member.
But Donna had been right. She’d even suggested the accommodation. Her cousin Mat had a small holding with log cabins to rent for holidays. It was in a remote part of Wales and no-one ever went there in the winter so he was more than happy to have Moira stay for six months out of season. They agreed the terms and Moira had moved in to Bluebell Lodge. It was picture-perfect, with gentle warm days, hardly any rain, and the added bonus of the trees changing colour, giving a golden sheen to the hills. Moira had taken long walks every day and could feel the stresses and strains melting away. But the writing had not started.
The doorbell rings sharply, startling her. She opens the door and in bounds Jessie, Mat’s spaniel, followed by Mat.
“Just checking if everything’s ok here? You know the lane’s blocked?”
Moira bends down to stroke Jessie, who is looking up at her with those adorable brown eyes. “Hello Jessie, my lovely. It’s so good to see you.”
“I’ve driven the tractor across the field. It could be a couple of days before the tree is shifted and the lane’s cleared. Do you think there’s anything you’ll need?”
Moira looks up at more adorable brown eyes, dark curls dropping over a forehead crinkled with concern.
Maybe there will be another story to tell …
Linda Birch
Every Cloud
A fierce storm had blown up overnight, rain lashing the window and trees moaning in the gale. A tree was down, blocking the lane, which had turned into a mud slide. It was raining still and there was no possibility of taking a walk that day.
“Oh well, that’s the last excuse gone. Now I’ll have to get on with my writing.” Moira sighs. She’s been in the cabin three weeks so far and the late autumn weather has been glorious. She makes a cappuccino and opens her laptop - thankfully, the electricity has not gone down. Donna’s words come back to her.
“Come on, you’re not the first person to lose their job. At least you have a good payout. Get over it. Look at it as an opportunity to take a break from work. Go away, do something you’ve always dreamed of.”
Not one to mince her words, Donna. Just the kind of friend you need really. Always upbeat, ready with the stiff words, saying it how it is and not what she thinks you want to hear. The something that Moira had always wanted to do was write a novel. Yes, a cliché - everyone says they want to do that. But Donna sensed there was something more to Moira’s dream and wanted to encourage her.
Besides, it would be therapy, Donna had said. “Look I know it’s rough but you’ve survived three big reorganisations already. It was never going to last forever. E marketing – it’s much too competitive. Talented graduates coming along all the time. I grant you it was abysmal timing for Josh to dump you like that. But I never thought he was good enough for you anyway.”
Yes, just the friend you need was our Donna, never spared your feelings. Moira feels the familiar lurch in her stomach. She loved Josh, thought they made a great team. But evidently Josh had eyes on another team member.
But Donna had been right. She’d even suggested the accommodation. Her cousin Mat had a small holding with log cabins to rent for holidays. It was in a remote part of Wales and no-one ever went there in the winter so he was more than happy to have Moira stay for six months out of season. They agreed the terms and Moira had moved in to Bluebell Lodge. It was picture-perfect, with gentle warm days, hardly any rain, and the added bonus of the trees changing colour, giving a golden sheen to the hills. Moira had taken long walks every day and could feel the stresses and strains melting away. But the writing had not started.
The doorbell rings sharply, startling her. She opens the door and in bounds Jessie, Mat’s spaniel, followed by Mat.
“Just checking if everything’s ok here? You know the lane’s blocked?”
Moira bends down to stroke Jessie, who is looking up at her with those adorable brown eyes. “Hello Jessie, my lovely. It’s so good to see you.”
“I’ve driven the tractor across the field. It could be a couple of days before the tree is shifted and the lane’s cleared. Do you think there’s anything you’ll need?”
Moira looks up at more adorable brown eyes, dark curls dropping over a forehead crinkled with concern.
Maybe there will be another story to tell …
Linda Birch
[First line from Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre]
The Gathering There was no possibility of taking a walk that day, and it had nothing to do with the weather. We had been summoned to the dining room for a family gathering; an event we could not miss. Eight family members had to take their place alongside our grandparents for a family confrontation from which we could not escape. Laid out on a side table was a selection of tiny sandwiches and dainty savouries on delicate china plates. Tea and coffee was available from two sturdy flasks, or you could have fruit tea or fresh juice. The carefully prepared buffet was as eagerly awaited as the main event. At last, when we had eaten and drunk our fill, and the wine was flowing, we took our seats. Grandpa sat at the head of the table, Granny to his right. He slowly reached forward and opened up the board; well worn but lovingly cherished. Red hotels and green houses lined up neatly, waiting to be purchased, for Mayfair or Park Lane if they were lucky. Faded banknotes were stacked in front of Granny, the banker, a very important task. I reached for my preferred token, Scottie the dog, as other family members claimed the battleship, boot, racing car, cat, thimble, top hat and wheelbarrow; all in their original pristine condition. The game could begin. Maggie Storer |
[First line from Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca]
Going Home Last night I dreamt I went to Mandalay again. As I pack my bags I feel a shiver of excitement, just as I had one year ago when leaving Mandalay en route for London. With eager anticipation I head for the airport. I know things will be different, my beloved homeland has suffered a year of military rule since I left. Now they talk of Myanmar and even the Irrawaddy river near to my home has been renamed. I will always keep the old names in my heart and mind. I will only utter the replacement names when our oppressors are within earshot. Just before the coup, my supervisor at the Mandalay Ritz Hotel, where I’m a trainee chef, offered me the opportunity to do an exchange with a counterpart from the London Ritz. We were to experience another culture and broaden our knowledge of the hospitality industry. I jumped at the chance and accepted there and then. But it was a worrying time to leave and when I expressed concern to my parents, they insisted I benefit from the opportunity. Then, after my first few days in London I learned that the Junta had taken control of my country. Today, after a wonderful year in London, I’m going home. My folks are OK and doing their best to cope with the restrictions imposed by military rule. I'm hopeful that I can make their lives easier. We'll be landing soon and I reach for the guidebook in the seat pocket in front of me. I flick through the pages and see the spectacular scenes intended to temp tourists to visit. Underneath a spectacular picture showing an historic temple and associated statuary there's a little phrase... “the people of Burma are generous, friendly, and good-humoured and they’re the happiest people in all Asia.” So true, how I’ve missed them. Mandalay here I come. Betty Taylor |
Make Your Mark
A round of applause rippled round the room, accompanied by cries of 'liberator!'.
I felt my knees would buckle beneath my full length, satin, figure hugging, backless red dress; not really me at all. I’d come here tonight to make a statement, win or lose. I was here to stay. What did they really know? Maggie Lacy, unknown artist, had moved into this quiet dishevelled town five years ago. She made her mark almost immediately, by doing a small mural on her own front garden wall. Of course this got the tongues wagging and the press snapping; and an appearance at the local court, with a warning not to de face any other building. Hey ho, Maggie Lacy had arrived! It was fun and got the reaction I wanted, I guess that was the rebel in me wanting to fight back. The other side of me; my true roots, had needed to grow back into this town and be nurtured. I would help make this town bloom and flourish again, along with me. That's why they said I’d won this award tonight.
‘Maggie Lacy, virtual new comer to the town of Weybridge, had helped to turn the town around. Almost single handedly she has kicked the council up the bum, to start making changes. Using her artistic talents, she started art projects for the homeless, getting them motivated to join Further Education Courses. She initiated the new hostel for homeless men, giving them a place to live while waiting to be re housed.
Maggie took her projects into the Women’s Refuge, to help mothers and children build broken hearts and re build confidence in themselves.
For her kindness and support, those she helped, repaid her by giving their time to help run after school art and craft projects for local children or help spruce up the area in many different ways. Maggie Lacy is a firm believer in what you give out; comes back tenfold. With Maggie and her pots of paints; this town is a brighter place.’
‘Could I follow that with a splash of colour?’ Virtual new comer they call me; little do they remember of the little ragamuffin they ran out of this town twenty five years ago.
As I had been short listed for the prize of Citizen Award, I came prepared with a short presentation. I waited until the audience was silent and excused myself from making the traditional speech. I held the memory stick up in my hand and said ‘this five minute presentation will be far more interesting than any speech.’
I slipped the memory stick into the USB port on the laptop, pressed the relevant buttons and the introduction music started. Where You Lead by Carol King. The first photo showed me, a happy five year old holding mum’s hand, outside the local primary school in Weybridge. The second picture was me and mum outside the big court, in the centre of Weybridge. Then up flashed the pictures of mum on the front of the local Evening Weybridge Express. BERNADETTE LACY SLEPT WITH HOUSING MANAGER TO GET A HOUSE!
The fourth and last slide I made my statement. ‘As some of you may still remember this time; my mum and I were shunned out of this town; my mum was unfortunate enough to fall in love with this person, who made promises of a life together; nothing to do with getting a house for her and her child. When he got found out by his wife and council officials, he concocted this charlatan woman Bernadette Lacy; to be his stalker and blackmailer in order to get extra points for a house.
My mother was groomed by this, worthless, pathetic man. She died with the shame, he made her carry.
THANK YOU ALL for this award; which I could never have achieved without my mother’s love. I will continue to support this town; for the good and memory of my mother.'
Applause rippled around the room; accompanied by cries of liberator.
Cora Boffey
A round of applause rippled round the room, accompanied by cries of 'liberator!'.
I felt my knees would buckle beneath my full length, satin, figure hugging, backless red dress; not really me at all. I’d come here tonight to make a statement, win or lose. I was here to stay. What did they really know? Maggie Lacy, unknown artist, had moved into this quiet dishevelled town five years ago. She made her mark almost immediately, by doing a small mural on her own front garden wall. Of course this got the tongues wagging and the press snapping; and an appearance at the local court, with a warning not to de face any other building. Hey ho, Maggie Lacy had arrived! It was fun and got the reaction I wanted, I guess that was the rebel in me wanting to fight back. The other side of me; my true roots, had needed to grow back into this town and be nurtured. I would help make this town bloom and flourish again, along with me. That's why they said I’d won this award tonight.
‘Maggie Lacy, virtual new comer to the town of Weybridge, had helped to turn the town around. Almost single handedly she has kicked the council up the bum, to start making changes. Using her artistic talents, she started art projects for the homeless, getting them motivated to join Further Education Courses. She initiated the new hostel for homeless men, giving them a place to live while waiting to be re housed.
Maggie took her projects into the Women’s Refuge, to help mothers and children build broken hearts and re build confidence in themselves.
For her kindness and support, those she helped, repaid her by giving their time to help run after school art and craft projects for local children or help spruce up the area in many different ways. Maggie Lacy is a firm believer in what you give out; comes back tenfold. With Maggie and her pots of paints; this town is a brighter place.’
‘Could I follow that with a splash of colour?’ Virtual new comer they call me; little do they remember of the little ragamuffin they ran out of this town twenty five years ago.
As I had been short listed for the prize of Citizen Award, I came prepared with a short presentation. I waited until the audience was silent and excused myself from making the traditional speech. I held the memory stick up in my hand and said ‘this five minute presentation will be far more interesting than any speech.’
I slipped the memory stick into the USB port on the laptop, pressed the relevant buttons and the introduction music started. Where You Lead by Carol King. The first photo showed me, a happy five year old holding mum’s hand, outside the local primary school in Weybridge. The second picture was me and mum outside the big court, in the centre of Weybridge. Then up flashed the pictures of mum on the front of the local Evening Weybridge Express. BERNADETTE LACY SLEPT WITH HOUSING MANAGER TO GET A HOUSE!
The fourth and last slide I made my statement. ‘As some of you may still remember this time; my mum and I were shunned out of this town; my mum was unfortunate enough to fall in love with this person, who made promises of a life together; nothing to do with getting a house for her and her child. When he got found out by his wife and council officials, he concocted this charlatan woman Bernadette Lacy; to be his stalker and blackmailer in order to get extra points for a house.
My mother was groomed by this, worthless, pathetic man. She died with the shame, he made her carry.
THANK YOU ALL for this award; which I could never have achieved without my mother’s love. I will continue to support this town; for the good and memory of my mother.'
Applause rippled around the room; accompanied by cries of liberator.
Cora Boffey
Opening paragraph to ‘As I walked out one midsummer morning’ by Laurie Lee.
The stooping figure of my mother waist deep in the grass and caught there like a piece of sheep’s wool, was the last I saw of my country home as I left it to discover the world.
That image played out countless times over the years. Memories of another lifetime, when all that mattered was whose turn it was to lock the hens up for the night, shoo the sheep into the meadow and make sure we were all in bed by nine.
I’ve travelled to astonishing places, writing home of other lands, other people and how they differed from Ma, Robert, Sally and Pop. But I moved around so fast and frequently that my letters went astray and, although I kept meaning to make this trip my last, that country my final adventure, I somehow never made it back home.
Now here I am standing on the top of the hill overlooking the house. The house now surrounded by giant hollyhocks, large flowered clematis and rambling roses reaching the roof. All of these plants are white, pure and gentle. Not invasive or enveloping. Mothers flowers, planted and tended with intricate care. It is as if they are keeping the cottage safe and intact.
The door opens easily. There is no dust or cobwebs in the parlour, where we ate and slept, played and fought. The walls echo with Ma scolding one of us for taking the last piece of cake, a cherry or a biscuit. The wooden chair legs bore scuff marks from heavy boots and one chair back was still scarred from me tipping back into the fireplace. I was scolded for playing that dangerous game!
Why had I left it till now? In the fifteen years I had been away Ma & Pop had died, Robert has emigrated to Canada and my sister Polly no longer speaks to me because of my neglect.
Well I’m here now, determined to make up for my abandonment, set up here with my new family and make this a happy place again.
I will get the water and power restored, draw up plans for an extension, clear the garden and…
I have a lot to do, but I need Ma’s help. Can I do this alone? I sit for a while in her old chair by the hearth. I realise I am weeping, blubbing like a baby. No adventure has given me this, no people touched my heart so completely. I know Ma is still here to help me and I will make her proud.
Andie Green
The stooping figure of my mother waist deep in the grass and caught there like a piece of sheep’s wool, was the last I saw of my country home as I left it to discover the world.
That image played out countless times over the years. Memories of another lifetime, when all that mattered was whose turn it was to lock the hens up for the night, shoo the sheep into the meadow and make sure we were all in bed by nine.
I’ve travelled to astonishing places, writing home of other lands, other people and how they differed from Ma, Robert, Sally and Pop. But I moved around so fast and frequently that my letters went astray and, although I kept meaning to make this trip my last, that country my final adventure, I somehow never made it back home.
Now here I am standing on the top of the hill overlooking the house. The house now surrounded by giant hollyhocks, large flowered clematis and rambling roses reaching the roof. All of these plants are white, pure and gentle. Not invasive or enveloping. Mothers flowers, planted and tended with intricate care. It is as if they are keeping the cottage safe and intact.
The door opens easily. There is no dust or cobwebs in the parlour, where we ate and slept, played and fought. The walls echo with Ma scolding one of us for taking the last piece of cake, a cherry or a biscuit. The wooden chair legs bore scuff marks from heavy boots and one chair back was still scarred from me tipping back into the fireplace. I was scolded for playing that dangerous game!
Why had I left it till now? In the fifteen years I had been away Ma & Pop had died, Robert has emigrated to Canada and my sister Polly no longer speaks to me because of my neglect.
Well I’m here now, determined to make up for my abandonment, set up here with my new family and make this a happy place again.
I will get the water and power restored, draw up plans for an extension, clear the garden and…
I have a lot to do, but I need Ma’s help. Can I do this alone? I sit for a while in her old chair by the hearth. I realise I am weeping, blubbing like a baby. No adventure has given me this, no people touched my heart so completely. I know Ma is still here to help me and I will make her proud.
Andie Green
First line from Cartes Postales from Greece by Victoria Hislop
They arrived dog- eared, always torn, often almost illegible. Joe held his mother’s hand as he waited for his two older twin brothers to emerge from the pit. When she was well, she always wanted to walk to greet them with a smile, speeding them home for a warm bath by the stove, and some hot broth.
Their father would come home later after a beer or two. When Joe was ten years old his mother died, the family fell apart his farther began drinking heavily and became aggressive, his two older brothers then aged sixteen ran away; the note read: ‘We ain’t workin in the pit anymore, will write when we get sorted out.’ Joe’s father took him out of school to work in the mine. He protested, only to get a clip around the ear. ‘Yer 'av to help put food on the table an earn ya keep now lad.’ Joe knew it was to support his father’s drinking obsession. His job was to sit in a shallow hole, holding a string attached to a door, and pull it open for the worker to go through then let it close.
Alone in a blanket of pitch darkness, wanting to cry, he occupied himself thinking of stories he had read, and making ones up of his own. Candles were three shilling and thru pence each, a price his father said they could not afford. Sometimes on the way to work, a kind neighbour would slip one in his pocket. How he longed to hear from his brothers and play street games again; had they forgotten him?
One Sunday morning, Mr Jessop, his schoolteacher, called to the house, his father sent him upstairs, he tried hard to hear what they were saying but their voices were muffled. When he left his father told him he would be returning to school the following day, Mr Jessop had said what a bright lad he was, and with schooling he could do well. Joe hugged his father, who just patted his head.
When his father died the following year his brothers came back for the funeral, they were sorry to have not been in touch with him, but did not want their father to know where they were, afraid to return to be forced back to the mine. They had both found jobs in the building trade and asked Joe to go back with them. Mr Jessop had asked Joe if he would like to stay with him, he had lived alone since losing his wife and son in childbirth.
Joe enjoyed his time with Mr Jessop, reading, walking going out on his tandem, and felt he wanted to stay and finish his education and gain a scholarship. His brother spoke with Mr Jessop and it was agreed that Joe would stay, and they would visit him regularly. When Mr Jessop died, at the funeral his housekeeper, Mrs Rawlings, a kindly lady, thought he should know, Mr Jessop had paid his dad weekly to allow him to go back to school, this was not a surprise, he often suspected this was the case. Such hard times, now as a professor of English language he never forgot his roots, and how lucky he had been. He worked tirelessly all his life to protect young people and in the mining industry.
In 1842 it became illegal for girls and women to work in mining, and only boys aged ten years old. In 1903 the age was raised to thirteen years old, still unacceptable.
Carol Hipkin
They arrived dog- eared, always torn, often almost illegible. Joe held his mother’s hand as he waited for his two older twin brothers to emerge from the pit. When she was well, she always wanted to walk to greet them with a smile, speeding them home for a warm bath by the stove, and some hot broth.
Their father would come home later after a beer or two. When Joe was ten years old his mother died, the family fell apart his farther began drinking heavily and became aggressive, his two older brothers then aged sixteen ran away; the note read: ‘We ain’t workin in the pit anymore, will write when we get sorted out.’ Joe’s father took him out of school to work in the mine. He protested, only to get a clip around the ear. ‘Yer 'av to help put food on the table an earn ya keep now lad.’ Joe knew it was to support his father’s drinking obsession. His job was to sit in a shallow hole, holding a string attached to a door, and pull it open for the worker to go through then let it close.
Alone in a blanket of pitch darkness, wanting to cry, he occupied himself thinking of stories he had read, and making ones up of his own. Candles were three shilling and thru pence each, a price his father said they could not afford. Sometimes on the way to work, a kind neighbour would slip one in his pocket. How he longed to hear from his brothers and play street games again; had they forgotten him?
One Sunday morning, Mr Jessop, his schoolteacher, called to the house, his father sent him upstairs, he tried hard to hear what they were saying but their voices were muffled. When he left his father told him he would be returning to school the following day, Mr Jessop had said what a bright lad he was, and with schooling he could do well. Joe hugged his father, who just patted his head.
When his father died the following year his brothers came back for the funeral, they were sorry to have not been in touch with him, but did not want their father to know where they were, afraid to return to be forced back to the mine. They had both found jobs in the building trade and asked Joe to go back with them. Mr Jessop had asked Joe if he would like to stay with him, he had lived alone since losing his wife and son in childbirth.
Joe enjoyed his time with Mr Jessop, reading, walking going out on his tandem, and felt he wanted to stay and finish his education and gain a scholarship. His brother spoke with Mr Jessop and it was agreed that Joe would stay, and they would visit him regularly. When Mr Jessop died, at the funeral his housekeeper, Mrs Rawlings, a kindly lady, thought he should know, Mr Jessop had paid his dad weekly to allow him to go back to school, this was not a surprise, he often suspected this was the case. Such hard times, now as a professor of English language he never forgot his roots, and how lucky he had been. He worked tirelessly all his life to protect young people and in the mining industry.
In 1842 it became illegal for girls and women to work in mining, and only boys aged ten years old. In 1903 the age was raised to thirteen years old, still unacceptable.
Carol Hipkin
Deadline: February 1
Brief: The Mona Lisa. Search the Internet for a picture of Leonardo Da Vinci's famous painting Look into her face as she looks out at you. Write a monologue as if written by the lady herself. She can be talking to you from the viewpoint of any century. Maybe she'll manage a rundown of happenings through the ages. You can be serious, satirical, factual or funny. Leonardo worked on the painting for a long time between 1503 and 1519 in Florence, it now hangs in The Louvre.
Brief: The Mona Lisa. Search the Internet for a picture of Leonardo Da Vinci's famous painting Look into her face as she looks out at you. Write a monologue as if written by the lady herself. She can be talking to you from the viewpoint of any century. Maybe she'll manage a rundown of happenings through the ages. You can be serious, satirical, factual or funny. Leonardo worked on the painting for a long time between 1503 and 1519 in Florence, it now hangs in The Louvre.
The Real Mona Lisa
For centuries many have speculated on the truth behind Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of La Gioconda - the 30 x 21 inch painting that hangs in the Louvre Museum. I read countless theories as to her true identity - the artist’s favourite model, his muse - or a self portrait! Then I discovered a meticulously researched book by Dianna Hales. Having fallen in love with Italy and all things Italian Dianna lived in Florence and experienced Mona Lisa’s life in the early fifteen hundreds. She traced the Gherardini family tree and presented her findings to the ancestors still living in Florence. Born into poverty in Renaissance Florence, Lisa was a strong woman, married to a business man twice her age. Nevertheless the author discovered the women at that time were strong, intelligent, and the main power in the families. A map of where Mona Lisa was born, attended church, lived and raised six children, and the convent where she died aged sixty three, came out of this research and it is now possible to explore the city through this life. Mona Lisa was a model of Leonardo’s – apparently she has been spotted in other paintings. An exciting and fascinating discovery. Andie Green |
Mona Lisa
What lies behind that glimpse of a smile; does Leonardo talk to you as he works, or is there silence? I do hope he had a sense of humour? Do you relax, enjoying the privacy of your inner thoughts, or are you bored and lonely, longing to be home with your children or escaping for a liaison with your lover? Yet your face does not seem to say the latter but looks can be deceiving. How could you ever know your portrait would be held in such high esteem; are you saying if you only knew the real me, I am not the contented serene beauty you see? Beauty they say is in the eyes of the beholder, but you have engaged artists worldwide with the mystery behind the mask you wear. Your name is often spoken, and you have been viewed by a multitude, with mystery and admiration. You have travelled the world, visiting countries you never knew existed. Would your smile have turned to hysterical laughter, had you envisaged that throngs of people would be queuing to see you, hundreds of years later? Carol Hipkin |
Seeing You Seeing Me
The doors have just opened… here they come. The gawping hoards in their relentless mission to look at ancient artefacts. I’ve got their measure, but occasionally I see a knowledgeable art expert, very boring, but they know their stuff.. They peer closely, objectively studying paint condition, shadows, my pose, and expression. I just stare back and pretend I can’t see them.
Some people come alone, some in groups. I see the affluent, the foolhardy, the plebs and the elite; whatever their status, there's little to choose between them. Ninety-nine per cent are excruciatingly annoying with their inane comments, and there’s always one who shows off by quoting dates of when I was stolen, when I was reinstated, I’ve heard it that many times I could scream, and anyway, who cares about all that? Not me.
I’m quite bemused when a silly twerp has the cheek to wax lyrical about my enigmatic smile. What a cliché that's become. If only they knew. I think deep thoughts, weigh up the know-alls and pass judgement, just like they pass judgement on me. And as for the enigmatic smile’ thing – it's toe-curling. I’ve heard that to this day the so-called experts debate my expression: happy, sad, indifferent? Look again idiots!
Those who come to meet my gaze see what they want to see, so take your pick… supercilious, smug, mildly amused, disdainful, dismissive, privately pleased, complacent, how's that for starters? I know what I know and my mood and thoughts are no one's business but mine.
Lisa Giocondo
translated by Betty Taylor
The doors have just opened… here they come. The gawping hoards in their relentless mission to look at ancient artefacts. I’ve got their measure, but occasionally I see a knowledgeable art expert, very boring, but they know their stuff.. They peer closely, objectively studying paint condition, shadows, my pose, and expression. I just stare back and pretend I can’t see them.
Some people come alone, some in groups. I see the affluent, the foolhardy, the plebs and the elite; whatever their status, there's little to choose between them. Ninety-nine per cent are excruciatingly annoying with their inane comments, and there’s always one who shows off by quoting dates of when I was stolen, when I was reinstated, I’ve heard it that many times I could scream, and anyway, who cares about all that? Not me.
I’m quite bemused when a silly twerp has the cheek to wax lyrical about my enigmatic smile. What a cliché that's become. If only they knew. I think deep thoughts, weigh up the know-alls and pass judgement, just like they pass judgement on me. And as for the enigmatic smile’ thing – it's toe-curling. I’ve heard that to this day the so-called experts debate my expression: happy, sad, indifferent? Look again idiots!
Those who come to meet my gaze see what they want to see, so take your pick… supercilious, smug, mildly amused, disdainful, dismissive, privately pleased, complacent, how's that for starters? I know what I know and my mood and thoughts are no one's business but mine.
Lisa Giocondo
translated by Betty Taylor
I am Monna
I think this will be my final resting place, high up on the wall of the Louvre in Paris, protected by bullet proof glass, temperature and light control. Here will be the last place anyone will see me, and my disappearance will rock the art world to its very roots.
I am over 500 years old and I have had many near fatal accidents. Restorers way back through the centuries thought they knew best with their harsh cleaning fluids and varnishes. Not to mention the missiles that have been hurled in my direction. Even modern scientists with their reflective light technology, couldn’t agree on my layers upon layers, hiding other models beneath my paint. What do they know?
I have spent many years in the palaces of kings, slept with Napoleon and gazed dreamily over his bedchamber as he lay with Josephine. Over the years my real name, Monna, has become Mona and accepted as such, even though the true meaning in Italian means something very different and demeaning.
After the French Revolution I became the property of France and the Louvre palace became a museum. I remained fairly unknown until around 1858 when they discovered how to reproduce me as engravings. Leonardo’s painting of The Last Supper lost a little of its glow when I came along.
My most exciting time was spent in the home of Vincenzo Peruggia, an employee at the Louvre. He stole me in 1911, believing that I should be returned to Italy. I think he was right and I very much enjoyed his company, away from prying eyes who just wanted to gawp at me. In the end I became too much of a temptation and he sold me. I eventually found my way back here, high up on this wall; tired and lonely.
But I digress. My history is well documented. Look it up if you want to know more because before long I will be gone. You will not be able to ogle me with your peering eyes. I have seen things you cannot even imagine and now it is time to go. Only I know the truth behind this enigmatic smile, so beguiling that it fools you all.
Remember Banksy’s painting, Girl with Balloon on the wall at Sotheby’s? It self destructed and was shredded into dust. Watch this space.
Maggie Storer
I think this will be my final resting place, high up on the wall of the Louvre in Paris, protected by bullet proof glass, temperature and light control. Here will be the last place anyone will see me, and my disappearance will rock the art world to its very roots.
I am over 500 years old and I have had many near fatal accidents. Restorers way back through the centuries thought they knew best with their harsh cleaning fluids and varnishes. Not to mention the missiles that have been hurled in my direction. Even modern scientists with their reflective light technology, couldn’t agree on my layers upon layers, hiding other models beneath my paint. What do they know?
I have spent many years in the palaces of kings, slept with Napoleon and gazed dreamily over his bedchamber as he lay with Josephine. Over the years my real name, Monna, has become Mona and accepted as such, even though the true meaning in Italian means something very different and demeaning.
After the French Revolution I became the property of France and the Louvre palace became a museum. I remained fairly unknown until around 1858 when they discovered how to reproduce me as engravings. Leonardo’s painting of The Last Supper lost a little of its glow when I came along.
My most exciting time was spent in the home of Vincenzo Peruggia, an employee at the Louvre. He stole me in 1911, believing that I should be returned to Italy. I think he was right and I very much enjoyed his company, away from prying eyes who just wanted to gawp at me. In the end I became too much of a temptation and he sold me. I eventually found my way back here, high up on this wall; tired and lonely.
But I digress. My history is well documented. Look it up if you want to know more because before long I will be gone. You will not be able to ogle me with your peering eyes. I have seen things you cannot even imagine and now it is time to go. Only I know the truth behind this enigmatic smile, so beguiling that it fools you all.
Remember Banksy’s painting, Girl with Balloon on the wall at Sotheby’s? It self destructed and was shredded into dust. Watch this space.
Maggie Storer
The Fame of Mona Lisa:
I’m going to live forever
Well, why wouldn’t I be smiling? I’m a Star, the most famous painting in the world. I’ve been here in the Louvre for a long time and I’m their main attraction. I’ve heard them say that over 80% of visitors here come to see me. There are over ten million visitors every year, so that’s a lot of people. Your modern-day stars have nothing on me.
I wasn’t always this famous you know, not until I was stolen. You probably won’t remember, but in 1911 a guy called Peruggia stole me. He had worked in the Louvre so he knew all about it. He hid me under his coat, very daring. I’ve heard he only stole me because I’m small enough to fit under his coat but I don’t believe that was the reason. There was uproar in the Gallery when they realised I was missing. The police were completely useless. Peruggia even left a thumb print but they didn’t arrest him. Because of them I had to spend two years in a poky little flat in Paris until Peruggia took a risk and tried to sell me, first in London then back to Italy.
Oh, did I mention who I am? My real name is Lisa del Giocondo and I’m the wife of Francesco, a silk merchant, and we have four beautiful children, so I’ve a lot to smile about. Leonardo accepted the commission to paint my portrait but he took a long time over it and then sold me to the French king, Francis I. Don’t ask me why.
Anyway, back to Peruggia. He was found out eventually of course. He was sent to prison, but only seven months I think. There was a lot of sympathy for him in Italy because he wanted them to believe he thought I belonged there, not in France. At least it was freedom for me. A couple of weeks’ holiday in the Uffizi and then back here.
After that episode I was treated like royalty. I suppose you could say I became famous for being famous, like the Kardashians. Whilst I was missing people stared at the empty place where I should have been and left roses. Only what I deserve really. I did some more travelling, went on tour, around Italy, and then to America, where I met JFK, and Japan and Russia. Crowds flocked to see me. I was a true superstar. I like the attention I get, more like adoration really. Well, I do now anyway. I’ve been a target for some pretty horrible stuff – I’ve had acid, rocks and red paint thrown at me, and even a coffee cup. Now they’ve put me behind bullet proof glass so I feel much safer.
I know there’s a whole myth built up around me but there’s no mystery really. Leonardo was a painter of smiles. The clue is in my name. La Joconde, la Gioconda, the happy one.
Linda Birch
I’m going to live forever
Well, why wouldn’t I be smiling? I’m a Star, the most famous painting in the world. I’ve been here in the Louvre for a long time and I’m their main attraction. I’ve heard them say that over 80% of visitors here come to see me. There are over ten million visitors every year, so that’s a lot of people. Your modern-day stars have nothing on me.
I wasn’t always this famous you know, not until I was stolen. You probably won’t remember, but in 1911 a guy called Peruggia stole me. He had worked in the Louvre so he knew all about it. He hid me under his coat, very daring. I’ve heard he only stole me because I’m small enough to fit under his coat but I don’t believe that was the reason. There was uproar in the Gallery when they realised I was missing. The police were completely useless. Peruggia even left a thumb print but they didn’t arrest him. Because of them I had to spend two years in a poky little flat in Paris until Peruggia took a risk and tried to sell me, first in London then back to Italy.
Oh, did I mention who I am? My real name is Lisa del Giocondo and I’m the wife of Francesco, a silk merchant, and we have four beautiful children, so I’ve a lot to smile about. Leonardo accepted the commission to paint my portrait but he took a long time over it and then sold me to the French king, Francis I. Don’t ask me why.
Anyway, back to Peruggia. He was found out eventually of course. He was sent to prison, but only seven months I think. There was a lot of sympathy for him in Italy because he wanted them to believe he thought I belonged there, not in France. At least it was freedom for me. A couple of weeks’ holiday in the Uffizi and then back here.
After that episode I was treated like royalty. I suppose you could say I became famous for being famous, like the Kardashians. Whilst I was missing people stared at the empty place where I should have been and left roses. Only what I deserve really. I did some more travelling, went on tour, around Italy, and then to America, where I met JFK, and Japan and Russia. Crowds flocked to see me. I was a true superstar. I like the attention I get, more like adoration really. Well, I do now anyway. I’ve been a target for some pretty horrible stuff – I’ve had acid, rocks and red paint thrown at me, and even a coffee cup. Now they’ve put me behind bullet proof glass so I feel much safer.
I know there’s a whole myth built up around me but there’s no mystery really. Leonardo was a painter of smiles. The clue is in my name. La Joconde, la Gioconda, the happy one.
Linda Birch
Dreams Are Brought To My Doorstep
Good morning Monsieur: your visits are getting earlier and earlier. I take it you have some agreement with le Curateur? Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me. Your business is your own; and if I intrigue you; I too am intrigued.
I often wonder; were I in your shoes, or those of the masses that pilgrimage to see me, would I stand for hours queuing to look at me?
What is it you or the others actually want from me? I believe I can be Googled now; you don’t even need to turn a page in a book. But still that is not enough, you silently need to come and stand with me.
Don’t judge me for my thoughts; I am grateful for your interest, it can get quite tiresome hanging around all day long. Nevertheless I know you want more from me, than I am prepared to give.
To know or not to know; that is the question. I’m afraid. NO I’m not afraid, it is by choice my true identity stays with me. So my dear Monsieur, I have read your mind; for the duration of your stay you may call me Lisa and just enjoy me as I am.
I know you have many questions you would like to ask me; but no matter how long and hard you look into my eyes for answers; the secrets will stay deep within my soul. Leonardo made sure of that.
You think you see Leonardo’s mother looking out at you? Or you question is it the maestro himself? Move along quickly if your aim is to rock my conscience.
I was almost tired of the time it took Leonardo to produce this masterpiece; 1503 -1519.
All was worth it in the end; I can almost say I have travelled half way around the world; ending back in my resting place in Paris, and now a room all to myself in this beautiful Louvre Museum.
After Leonardo died, life became more exciting; I went to live with the King of France; I’ve spent time in Napoleon’s bedroom. Please do not ask!
In 1911, things became very unnerving for me. That was the year I was actually stolen, by three characters who were working at the Louvre Museum. I was kept in a trunk for a very long time. Unfortunately a friend of Leonardo’s, Pablo Picasso, was arrested on suspicion of my theft.
Once the real thieves were caught, I did manage to see a little of Italy before I came back to Paris.
During the dangerous time of WW2 I was evacuated to the French countryside for safety, it was in 1945 I returned back to my home.
Did you ever meet the glamorous Jacky Kennedy? Well Monsieur, I did in 1963. This Lady insisted I spent time at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and the National Gallery Washington DC. How lucky was I to have 40,000 people a day come to visit me.
A few years later in 1974, I tootled off to Tokyo and Moscow. I might just add it hasn’t always been plain sailing for me; I’ve ducked the bullets aimed at me, in more ways than one.
I’m flattered by all the attention I get; my smile will never falter while they play my song ‘Mona Lisa’ by that superb singer Nat King Cole.
I’m sure being an admirer you know this much about me, but it still has been good that you stop to visit me; and thank you for the love letters you post into my personal mail box at the Louvre; my eyes always follow you when you kiss the letter and pop them into the box. X
Cora Boffey
Good morning Monsieur: your visits are getting earlier and earlier. I take it you have some agreement with le Curateur? Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me. Your business is your own; and if I intrigue you; I too am intrigued.
I often wonder; were I in your shoes, or those of the masses that pilgrimage to see me, would I stand for hours queuing to look at me?
What is it you or the others actually want from me? I believe I can be Googled now; you don’t even need to turn a page in a book. But still that is not enough, you silently need to come and stand with me.
Don’t judge me for my thoughts; I am grateful for your interest, it can get quite tiresome hanging around all day long. Nevertheless I know you want more from me, than I am prepared to give.
To know or not to know; that is the question. I’m afraid. NO I’m not afraid, it is by choice my true identity stays with me. So my dear Monsieur, I have read your mind; for the duration of your stay you may call me Lisa and just enjoy me as I am.
I know you have many questions you would like to ask me; but no matter how long and hard you look into my eyes for answers; the secrets will stay deep within my soul. Leonardo made sure of that.
You think you see Leonardo’s mother looking out at you? Or you question is it the maestro himself? Move along quickly if your aim is to rock my conscience.
I was almost tired of the time it took Leonardo to produce this masterpiece; 1503 -1519.
All was worth it in the end; I can almost say I have travelled half way around the world; ending back in my resting place in Paris, and now a room all to myself in this beautiful Louvre Museum.
After Leonardo died, life became more exciting; I went to live with the King of France; I’ve spent time in Napoleon’s bedroom. Please do not ask!
In 1911, things became very unnerving for me. That was the year I was actually stolen, by three characters who were working at the Louvre Museum. I was kept in a trunk for a very long time. Unfortunately a friend of Leonardo’s, Pablo Picasso, was arrested on suspicion of my theft.
Once the real thieves were caught, I did manage to see a little of Italy before I came back to Paris.
During the dangerous time of WW2 I was evacuated to the French countryside for safety, it was in 1945 I returned back to my home.
Did you ever meet the glamorous Jacky Kennedy? Well Monsieur, I did in 1963. This Lady insisted I spent time at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and the National Gallery Washington DC. How lucky was I to have 40,000 people a day come to visit me.
A few years later in 1974, I tootled off to Tokyo and Moscow. I might just add it hasn’t always been plain sailing for me; I’ve ducked the bullets aimed at me, in more ways than one.
I’m flattered by all the attention I get; my smile will never falter while they play my song ‘Mona Lisa’ by that superb singer Nat King Cole.
I’m sure being an admirer you know this much about me, but it still has been good that you stop to visit me; and thank you for the love letters you post into my personal mail box at the Louvre; my eyes always follow you when you kiss the letter and pop them into the box. X
Cora Boffey
Deadline: January 18
Brief: create a story or poem about one of your hobbies.
Brief: create a story or poem about one of your hobbies.
Thank you for ……
Music has always been a big part of my life. From early memories of family sing-songs around the piano, enjoying the hymn singing in church on a Sunday, never missing Top of the Pops chart show on Sunday evening radio, to my very first experience of a live concert by the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra at the civic hall in nineteen seventy something, when the sound so close and live made me cry.
In high school I wanted weekly piano lessons like my two best friends, but we didn’t have a piano at home, and Sandra and Susan did moan all the time at having to practise every single day!
So Dad encouraged me in his love of musical shows and jazz bands My two uncles and grandad played in bands. ‘ Will you come to see Carousel on Saturday afternoon?’ Dad asked.
That visit to the most magical film began a lifelong love of musicals. We went again to the next Saturday matinee, then to many of the Rogers and Hammerstein productions, Oklahoma, The King & I, The Flower Drum Song.
Years later when watching a theatre production of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers I remember having to ‘shush’ Dad as he sang along with the show songs, although I longed to do the same.
I have been singing in a choir for about nine years. It is my weekly escape for a few hours from the routine pressures, joining together with 25 ladies who share a love of making a gorgeous sound. We are asked to perform at various groups, Christmas concerts, and occasionally a wedding or funeral. It’s great when we sing a choral arrangement of a song that has been in my life for years, for special memories, I’m so lucky to have that gift and privilege. Just a few days ago while watching the new version of West Side Story I knew I will never lose my love of music.
Andie Green
Music has always been a big part of my life. From early memories of family sing-songs around the piano, enjoying the hymn singing in church on a Sunday, never missing Top of the Pops chart show on Sunday evening radio, to my very first experience of a live concert by the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra at the civic hall in nineteen seventy something, when the sound so close and live made me cry.
In high school I wanted weekly piano lessons like my two best friends, but we didn’t have a piano at home, and Sandra and Susan did moan all the time at having to practise every single day!
So Dad encouraged me in his love of musical shows and jazz bands My two uncles and grandad played in bands. ‘ Will you come to see Carousel on Saturday afternoon?’ Dad asked.
That visit to the most magical film began a lifelong love of musicals. We went again to the next Saturday matinee, then to many of the Rogers and Hammerstein productions, Oklahoma, The King & I, The Flower Drum Song.
Years later when watching a theatre production of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers I remember having to ‘shush’ Dad as he sang along with the show songs, although I longed to do the same.
I have been singing in a choir for about nine years. It is my weekly escape for a few hours from the routine pressures, joining together with 25 ladies who share a love of making a gorgeous sound. We are asked to perform at various groups, Christmas concerts, and occasionally a wedding or funeral. It’s great when we sing a choral arrangement of a song that has been in my life for years, for special memories, I’m so lucky to have that gift and privilege. Just a few days ago while watching the new version of West Side Story I knew I will never lose my love of music.
Andie Green
Writing Buddies
“That’s really interesting Ellen. So funny too.” Liz flips her notebook closed.
“We’ve had such an interesting chat, Liz dear. I hope you’ll be able to write it up properly. You have a way with words I could never manage.”
“No, really, you have such a way of describing what happened it all flows easily. It’s the way you tell ‘em! You’re an inspiration.”
Ellen laughs.
“Look at us chatting now like old friends. Do you remember when I first called on you?”
“Yes, I gave you the cold shoulder, didn’t I? “
Liz nods, “Yes, you did.”
Liz is visiting Ellen, her elderly neighbour. Liz only moved to Waverton about a year ago, after her breakup with Ben. She needed to make a completely new start and didn’t know anyone. Liz had noticed that the lady at number 7 didn’t go out very much and no-one seemed to visit. Liz walked by the house with Mindy, her border terrier, almost every day. One day she decided to knock on the door to introduce herself and see if the lady needed anything. True, Ellen had opened the door and was polite but Liz could tell she was mistrustful, so she left it at that. But every time she passed the house, she would make a point of waving to Ellen, who was usually sitting by her window. Liz started to keep an eye out for number 7 and was rewarded when Ellen started to smile and wave back.
Then one day as she walked by, the door opened and Ellen asked “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”
As simple as that. The start of a lovely friendship. Liz often visited now and they found lots to talk about. It turned out that Ellen had been a teacher and she had some amusing tales to tell. Liz loved to write and one day she suggested to Ellen that they could write up all her anecdotes and maybe put them together in a book. Ellen was thrilled. She also told Liz how she had lived in Waverton since she was a little girl and had lots of memories about the old village. She could remember the Saturday night dances at the Institute, the Corner Stores that sold absolutely everything, Miss Pringle at the Post Office. That sparked another project for them both.
“Wow, Ellen, we’ve so much to work on. I must be off now but I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Don’t forget to bring Mindy.”
Liz waved goodbye. Thursday would be a special day. It was Ellen’s birthday and Liz had a particular present for her. Unknown to Ellen, she had sent off a story about the village to the local newspaper and they were interested, not only in just that one but others for a regular feature. What a wonderful present!
Linda Birch
“That’s really interesting Ellen. So funny too.” Liz flips her notebook closed.
“We’ve had such an interesting chat, Liz dear. I hope you’ll be able to write it up properly. You have a way with words I could never manage.”
“No, really, you have such a way of describing what happened it all flows easily. It’s the way you tell ‘em! You’re an inspiration.”
Ellen laughs.
“Look at us chatting now like old friends. Do you remember when I first called on you?”
“Yes, I gave you the cold shoulder, didn’t I? “
Liz nods, “Yes, you did.”
Liz is visiting Ellen, her elderly neighbour. Liz only moved to Waverton about a year ago, after her breakup with Ben. She needed to make a completely new start and didn’t know anyone. Liz had noticed that the lady at number 7 didn’t go out very much and no-one seemed to visit. Liz walked by the house with Mindy, her border terrier, almost every day. One day she decided to knock on the door to introduce herself and see if the lady needed anything. True, Ellen had opened the door and was polite but Liz could tell she was mistrustful, so she left it at that. But every time she passed the house, she would make a point of waving to Ellen, who was usually sitting by her window. Liz started to keep an eye out for number 7 and was rewarded when Ellen started to smile and wave back.
Then one day as she walked by, the door opened and Ellen asked “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”
As simple as that. The start of a lovely friendship. Liz often visited now and they found lots to talk about. It turned out that Ellen had been a teacher and she had some amusing tales to tell. Liz loved to write and one day she suggested to Ellen that they could write up all her anecdotes and maybe put them together in a book. Ellen was thrilled. She also told Liz how she had lived in Waverton since she was a little girl and had lots of memories about the old village. She could remember the Saturday night dances at the Institute, the Corner Stores that sold absolutely everything, Miss Pringle at the Post Office. That sparked another project for them both.
“Wow, Ellen, we’ve so much to work on. I must be off now but I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Don’t forget to bring Mindy.”
Liz waved goodbye. Thursday would be a special day. It was Ellen’s birthday and Liz had a particular present for her. Unknown to Ellen, she had sent off a story about the village to the local newspaper and they were interested, not only in just that one but others for a regular feature. What a wonderful present!
Linda Birch
I Love Being a Plucker!
“Well I nearly died when I saw them all standing there applauding me.”
“I bet you did, silly buggers they are at times.”
“Well I wouldn’t have minded them all standing like a guard of honour by the allotment gates clapping, but when they all started shouting 'here comes our little plucker; hurrah, hurrah, hurrah.' That was going too far.”
I was really trying hard to stifle my giggles down the phone to mum, when she was relaying the story to me.
Mum had been voted Chair of Connaught Allotment Society, two years after dad passed away. She threw herself into organising fundraising events and social events to interest the local community. Her Community Bake Off was a huge success on the village green. Encouraging local people to use home grown produce, and to be inventive in their recipes. There were prizes for Master Chefs who cooked and demonstrated on the day to children who rolled out their own at home.
No one ever expected to see my mum in any other roll. She was the other half of my dad Tom from the TV series The Good Life; Good old Barbara! Kept the allotment going.
“I tell you Sally, you ought to have seen their faces when they spotted me stood outside the Coop, with my other friends all in matching T- shirts and straw hats. Then we all started to tune up; I thought I was going to fall apart by the look of shock on their faces. It was inspiring!”
“Roy gave us a quick introduction to the crowd that had gathered to hear us play; and without time wasting counted us in to our first song; three quarters of an hour later we took our first break.”
“So your first public ukulele performance was a huge success by the sound of it mum?”
“What! I was as high as a kite. I never thought I’d ever change my c, f, g, d and Em‘s quick enough and sing at the same time; and the speed Roy gets you up to on Leaning on the Lamppost; well I amazed myself.”
“What did the Allotment Society have to say after your performance?”
“Well they want to book us for the next Community Bake Off;”
“You’re going to be changing your hat a few times that day mum,” I laughed.
“Just another runner bean to my bow.” She giggled.
Cora Boffey
“Well I nearly died when I saw them all standing there applauding me.”
“I bet you did, silly buggers they are at times.”
“Well I wouldn’t have minded them all standing like a guard of honour by the allotment gates clapping, but when they all started shouting 'here comes our little plucker; hurrah, hurrah, hurrah.' That was going too far.”
I was really trying hard to stifle my giggles down the phone to mum, when she was relaying the story to me.
Mum had been voted Chair of Connaught Allotment Society, two years after dad passed away. She threw herself into organising fundraising events and social events to interest the local community. Her Community Bake Off was a huge success on the village green. Encouraging local people to use home grown produce, and to be inventive in their recipes. There were prizes for Master Chefs who cooked and demonstrated on the day to children who rolled out their own at home.
No one ever expected to see my mum in any other roll. She was the other half of my dad Tom from the TV series The Good Life; Good old Barbara! Kept the allotment going.
“I tell you Sally, you ought to have seen their faces when they spotted me stood outside the Coop, with my other friends all in matching T- shirts and straw hats. Then we all started to tune up; I thought I was going to fall apart by the look of shock on their faces. It was inspiring!”
“Roy gave us a quick introduction to the crowd that had gathered to hear us play; and without time wasting counted us in to our first song; three quarters of an hour later we took our first break.”
“So your first public ukulele performance was a huge success by the sound of it mum?”
“What! I was as high as a kite. I never thought I’d ever change my c, f, g, d and Em‘s quick enough and sing at the same time; and the speed Roy gets you up to on Leaning on the Lamppost; well I amazed myself.”
“What did the Allotment Society have to say after your performance?”
“Well they want to book us for the next Community Bake Off;”
“You’re going to be changing your hat a few times that day mum,” I laughed.
“Just another runner bean to my bow.” She giggled.
Cora Boffey
The Suitcase
Ellen stood on the pavement looking up at the sign above the shop window; ‘Cafe and Crafts.’ Her suitcase felt rather ridiculous as she pushed the door and activated the tinkling bell. She was surrounded by cluttered displays which she had to negotiate to reach the counter.
Nestled in the centre of the shop and surrounded by shelves and display cabinets, were five tables, covered with embroidered cloths. Each table had a small spray of flowers in a china tea cup.
‘Good morning. Would you like a table?’ A small rosy cheeked lady appeared from a back room.
‘Er, yes please.’ Ellen hadn’t intended to stop for coffee, but she thought it might help persuade the owner to take a look in her suitcase. Only two tables were occupied, so she eased herself into a corner where she managed to park her case under the table.
After indulging in a latte and a large piece of chocolate cake, Ellen caught the eye of the rosy cheeked lady who seemed to be working on her own. ‘I wonder if I could have a word with the owner?’
‘Yes, that’s me. My assistant called in sick this morning. I’m Alice. How can I help? I hope everything was all right for you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ellen. ‘Really delicious. Do you make the cakes yourself?’
‘Some of them. Sarah, my assistant makes most of them, but she’s moving to The Lakes in a couple of months; wants to set up her own coffee shop. So I’ll be looking for a new baker’.
‘I can bake’, blurted out Ellen. It slipped out before she could stop herself. ‘I took a City and Guilds in Patisserie and Confectionary, Level 2, five years ago, but I’ve never used it professionally.’ Ellen had almost forgotten the suitcase sitting at her feet.
‘Well, that’s really interesting. Perhaps you could bring in a couple of cakes and we can see how it goes. Would you be interested?’
This was not the way Ellen had intended things to go. She had come in to try and sell the goods in her suitcase. It was time to own up.
‘Thank you so much for the offer. I’ll need to think about it. Actually, I came in here today to see if you might be interested in what I have in the suitcase.’ Ellen trundled the case from beneath the table and together they moved to the counter where she flipped open the lid and started removing the tissue paper. She removed each knitted scarf carefully; each one crafted in the finest cashmere. Some in delicate shades, contrasting with others in vibrant colours. There were a couple of dozen altogether.
‘Wow, they’re beautiful, so soft and warm and yet so light. My customers would love them. Perhaps if I could take six, three in the lighter shades and three of the brighter colours, and we can see how they sell. As you can see, I don’t have much room for surplus stock.’
Ellen was delighted. She had been knitting scarves as a hobby for friends and family. They had all said she should try and sell them, but it had taken a great deal of courage to go into the cafe. And here she was, not only selling her scarves, but possibly baking cakes to sell too.
‘Thank you so much’, said Ellen. ‘I’ll make a Victoria sandwich and a lemon drizzle cake if that’s okay.’
‘That would be wonderful.’ Alice took the scarves and said she would display them later.
Ellen wondered where on Earth she would have the room, but she was very happy to receive the cash up front. She thanked Alice again and left the shop with a lighter suitcase and a big smile on her face. She went straight round to the supermarket and bought the ingredients for her cakes. She swung the suitcase as she walked. Suddenly, she didn’t feel ridiculous any more.
Maggie Storer
Ellen stood on the pavement looking up at the sign above the shop window; ‘Cafe and Crafts.’ Her suitcase felt rather ridiculous as she pushed the door and activated the tinkling bell. She was surrounded by cluttered displays which she had to negotiate to reach the counter.
Nestled in the centre of the shop and surrounded by shelves and display cabinets, were five tables, covered with embroidered cloths. Each table had a small spray of flowers in a china tea cup.
‘Good morning. Would you like a table?’ A small rosy cheeked lady appeared from a back room.
‘Er, yes please.’ Ellen hadn’t intended to stop for coffee, but she thought it might help persuade the owner to take a look in her suitcase. Only two tables were occupied, so she eased herself into a corner where she managed to park her case under the table.
After indulging in a latte and a large piece of chocolate cake, Ellen caught the eye of the rosy cheeked lady who seemed to be working on her own. ‘I wonder if I could have a word with the owner?’
‘Yes, that’s me. My assistant called in sick this morning. I’m Alice. How can I help? I hope everything was all right for you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ellen. ‘Really delicious. Do you make the cakes yourself?’
‘Some of them. Sarah, my assistant makes most of them, but she’s moving to The Lakes in a couple of months; wants to set up her own coffee shop. So I’ll be looking for a new baker’.
‘I can bake’, blurted out Ellen. It slipped out before she could stop herself. ‘I took a City and Guilds in Patisserie and Confectionary, Level 2, five years ago, but I’ve never used it professionally.’ Ellen had almost forgotten the suitcase sitting at her feet.
‘Well, that’s really interesting. Perhaps you could bring in a couple of cakes and we can see how it goes. Would you be interested?’
This was not the way Ellen had intended things to go. She had come in to try and sell the goods in her suitcase. It was time to own up.
‘Thank you so much for the offer. I’ll need to think about it. Actually, I came in here today to see if you might be interested in what I have in the suitcase.’ Ellen trundled the case from beneath the table and together they moved to the counter where she flipped open the lid and started removing the tissue paper. She removed each knitted scarf carefully; each one crafted in the finest cashmere. Some in delicate shades, contrasting with others in vibrant colours. There were a couple of dozen altogether.
‘Wow, they’re beautiful, so soft and warm and yet so light. My customers would love them. Perhaps if I could take six, three in the lighter shades and three of the brighter colours, and we can see how they sell. As you can see, I don’t have much room for surplus stock.’
Ellen was delighted. She had been knitting scarves as a hobby for friends and family. They had all said she should try and sell them, but it had taken a great deal of courage to go into the cafe. And here she was, not only selling her scarves, but possibly baking cakes to sell too.
‘Thank you so much’, said Ellen. ‘I’ll make a Victoria sandwich and a lemon drizzle cake if that’s okay.’
‘That would be wonderful.’ Alice took the scarves and said she would display them later.
Ellen wondered where on Earth she would have the room, but she was very happy to receive the cash up front. She thanked Alice again and left the shop with a lighter suitcase and a big smile on her face. She went straight round to the supermarket and bought the ingredients for her cakes. She swung the suitcase as she walked. Suddenly, she didn’t feel ridiculous any more.
Maggie Storer
My Hobbies
Looking back, there have been a few, but hardly ever long term. I loved to draw as a youngster usually mermaids or scantily clad ladies, cartoon style. Then I began knitting; cardigans , jumpers, hats, but I never did crochet, I was a St Johns Ambulance Cadet from the age of eleven until I was fifteen, and always thought I would to be a nurse. We used to go on "picture duty," getting into the cinema for free and watching the film. We thought this was great as nothing ever happened. That was, until one day an old man collapsed, and the manager summoned us to the foyer. We quickly went into action, remembering what we had been taught Out came the smelling salts, we undid all tight clothing around the neck, chest and waist. The old chap’s trousers were tied up with string. He was breathing, but would still not wake up, so we called for an ambulance. When they arrived they said, ‘Oh, not him again, he comes in regularly to have his stomach pumped.’ I didn't understand until later when my Mom explained that he was drunk. During my time with St Johns I also took part in a mock-up civil defence demonstration in preparation for a disaster or war, It took place at a my school; I was a patient and had my leg dressed as if a piece of bone was sticking out with blood around it. Then I was taken by ambulance to the other side of the school into the main hall, on a stretcher. There where lots of people lying on blankets on the floor moaning so I joined in. My leg was put in plaster. Some time later, with my leg back to normal, I walked home feeling unwell. The following day, I was covered in spots. Mom called the doctor who diagnosed measles. Mom said, "I hope you haven't infected the army, fire service and medical staff who were all involved. Oh dear, I thought, hope not.
I always enjoyed needlework and spent hours on an old Singer treadle sewing machine, making my own clothes. When I got married I made my three bridesmaids' dresses in apricot brocade. I was very pleased with them. Secretly my mom asked two young cousins to also be bridesmaids, I was unaware of this until close to the wedding day. I can’t remember my reaction, probably not good, as the dresses she made were pastel blue, and she also asked another young cousin, to be a page boy. Oh well, all must have been forgiven, so instead of three bridesmaids, I had five plus a page boy. Quite a procession coming down the aisle. Then I recall I joined an operatic society at Tettenhall college for some years. It was serious stuff on stage but great fun backstage. I have always considered my hairdressing and beauty career as a hobby, rather than a job, so I class this as being the longest lasting one.
Carol Hipkin
Looking back, there have been a few, but hardly ever long term. I loved to draw as a youngster usually mermaids or scantily clad ladies, cartoon style. Then I began knitting; cardigans , jumpers, hats, but I never did crochet, I was a St Johns Ambulance Cadet from the age of eleven until I was fifteen, and always thought I would to be a nurse. We used to go on "picture duty," getting into the cinema for free and watching the film. We thought this was great as nothing ever happened. That was, until one day an old man collapsed, and the manager summoned us to the foyer. We quickly went into action, remembering what we had been taught Out came the smelling salts, we undid all tight clothing around the neck, chest and waist. The old chap’s trousers were tied up with string. He was breathing, but would still not wake up, so we called for an ambulance. When they arrived they said, ‘Oh, not him again, he comes in regularly to have his stomach pumped.’ I didn't understand until later when my Mom explained that he was drunk. During my time with St Johns I also took part in a mock-up civil defence demonstration in preparation for a disaster or war, It took place at a my school; I was a patient and had my leg dressed as if a piece of bone was sticking out with blood around it. Then I was taken by ambulance to the other side of the school into the main hall, on a stretcher. There where lots of people lying on blankets on the floor moaning so I joined in. My leg was put in plaster. Some time later, with my leg back to normal, I walked home feeling unwell. The following day, I was covered in spots. Mom called the doctor who diagnosed measles. Mom said, "I hope you haven't infected the army, fire service and medical staff who were all involved. Oh dear, I thought, hope not.
I always enjoyed needlework and spent hours on an old Singer treadle sewing machine, making my own clothes. When I got married I made my three bridesmaids' dresses in apricot brocade. I was very pleased with them. Secretly my mom asked two young cousins to also be bridesmaids, I was unaware of this until close to the wedding day. I can’t remember my reaction, probably not good, as the dresses she made were pastel blue, and she also asked another young cousin, to be a page boy. Oh well, all must have been forgiven, so instead of three bridesmaids, I had five plus a page boy. Quite a procession coming down the aisle. Then I recall I joined an operatic society at Tettenhall college for some years. It was serious stuff on stage but great fun backstage. I have always considered my hairdressing and beauty career as a hobby, rather than a job, so I class this as being the longest lasting one.
Carol Hipkin
Living the Dream
Back in the 1940s on Sunday evenings The Palm Court Orchestra would be playing at the Grande Hotel, courtesy of the BBC Light Programme. My parents would settle down to listen and I would park myself on the hearth rug and line up my little collection of shoe boxes which were, of course, my keyboard. As the orchestra played, I would hammer my eight year old fingers up and down the cardboard lids to accompany the orchestra.
I always had a wish to play the piano and eventually, when I was in my forties, I bought a clapped out piano from a work colleague. I took music lessons and then it was a case of practise, practise, practise. Eventually I took my Grade One theory exam with a gang of junior school children. I never mustered the courage to sit a practical exam where you perform for the examiner. Over the years I had a string of second-hand pianos each one a little less clapped out than its predecessor. But – and it’s a very big BUT - I was never going to be on a par with Chopin, Schubert, and Shostakovich, despite my love for these three guys and their pianos.
Hence the following ditty written years ago around the time of my piano exam.
Betty Taylor
Back in the 1940s on Sunday evenings The Palm Court Orchestra would be playing at the Grande Hotel, courtesy of the BBC Light Programme. My parents would settle down to listen and I would park myself on the hearth rug and line up my little collection of shoe boxes which were, of course, my keyboard. As the orchestra played, I would hammer my eight year old fingers up and down the cardboard lids to accompany the orchestra.
I always had a wish to play the piano and eventually, when I was in my forties, I bought a clapped out piano from a work colleague. I took music lessons and then it was a case of practise, practise, practise. Eventually I took my Grade One theory exam with a gang of junior school children. I never mustered the courage to sit a practical exam where you perform for the examiner. Over the years I had a string of second-hand pianos each one a little less clapped out than its predecessor. But – and it’s a very big BUT - I was never going to be on a par with Chopin, Schubert, and Shostakovich, despite my love for these three guys and their pianos.
Hence the following ditty written years ago around the time of my piano exam.
Betty Taylor
STRIFE BEGINS AT FORTE
Not being the type that's sporty, Not too highbrow, nor too haughty, I'm learning' pianoforte - drat the scales, But my battering of the ivories Is shattering to Clive, he is My much tormented tutor - hear his wails! When playing pizzicato I confuse it with legato, And my grandioso tends to be quite small, I can't do a tremolando D'ye think he'll smack me hand?- oh! Before I drive us both right up the wall. I'm sure he feels quite weary When he's teaching me the theory, Dreary demisemiquavers won't behave, They don't fit the acciaccatura And cause a big furore, Poor Chopin's turning over in his grave. |
I'm just a middle-aged beginner And a great harmonic sinner Hubby's dinner's never done when he gets home, As I thump the old 'pianner' In my unmelodic manner, Neighbour's bangin' on the wall's my metronome. Though I send them all quite frantic I intend to be pedantic... Continuing this antic just the same, While husband, son and daughter Might threaten me with slaughter, I’ll regale them with my 'music' - what a shame! One day my great cacophony May turn into a symphony, By Jiminy! I think that pigs might fly, So, whilst I'm still a duffer, The world will have to suffer, But, I'll get the hang of it before I die! Betty Taylor |
Deadline: January 4
Brief: (from Writers' Forum magazine) Mind Map Write the word SPILL or SPELL in the middle of a page. Around your chosen word jot down ideas and words it sparks. Take inspiration from your "word cloud" to create a story, poem, essay etc. Try to include some of your listed words.
Brief: (from Writers' Forum magazine) Mind Map Write the word SPILL or SPELL in the middle of a page. Around your chosen word jot down ideas and words it sparks. Take inspiration from your "word cloud" to create a story, poem, essay etc. Try to include some of your listed words.
Spell Check Spell check You Imps and Elves. Can you not see I before e Except after c In your books with words Arranged on your shelves. Cast spells, Wave magic wands Over black cauldrons. Mix nouns and adjectives, They are only words Jumbled and flung Spelling right from wrong. Maggie Storer |
Spill
Despite the many meanings one could apply to the word spill, the first thing that popped into my head was my Granny's little pot that lived on the mantelshelf. It was always stuffed with pretty coloured spills. After tea, once the blackout blind was in situ, she would take a spill from the pot, dip it into the fire in the old cast iron range to light the gas lamp. At home we made spills out of a slip of paper suitably folded, but Granny's were shop bought ones made from very thin strips of wood and as a child I considered them to be quite posh. The fire was warm and in the glow of the oil lamps the radio kept us company. We had to ensure the blind was rolled down properly so that no chinks of light escaped to the dark street outside, otherwise the man who walked the streets to check blackout rules were followed tapped the window, warning you to put things right, or else... Those dark days of the early 1940s were dark indeed, literally and metaphorically. Betty Taylor |
An Essay About Spill
Spill is only a little word but it has much more going for it than might at first be apparent. It’s a very interesting word.
My first thought was ‘be careful not to spill anything’. Aunt May makes a great cup of tea but she always overfills the teacups. She insists on using china cups and saucers and it’s a bit of a nightmare as we watch her balance the tea tray from the kitchen to the table. She won’t let anyone help; it’s a badge of honour for her to keep steady enough to deliver unspilt tea – not a drop in the saucers! To be fair, miraculously, she (usually) manages to do so and we can all breathe again as she puts the tray down.
Then there’s spilling the beans. There are those people you cannot trust with a secret – you learn the hard way who they are. You know the ones, if you want some news spreading you only have to say ‘keep this to yourself, it’s secret but I know I can trust you’ and, there you go, job’s done, they cannot resist telling everyone, well and truly ‘spilling the beans.’
This phrase has an interesting origin. It comes from ancient Greece where voting took place using different coloured beans in a jar. Once the beans were spilt, the election result was revealed.
It’s no use crying over spilt milk is a very pertinent phrase. What’s done is done and cannot be undone. The origin for this one is believed to be that if milk was spilled it was just an offering to the fairies and nothing to be upset about. Whoever came up with that had clearly not experienced the enduring smell of spilt milk in the car, especially in warm weather.
Not to forget how much trouble you will be in if you spill salt. All sorts of bad luck will befall you. Superstition says the devil is lurking behind to steal your soul. The remedy? Throw some more salt over your left shoulder. That’ll get rid of him. Spilling is bad, throwing is good.
In the days before matches, a spill was a very useful item indeed. No self-respecting mantelpiece would be without its pretty spill vases. It was a regular household task to make your spills from old writing paper or newspapers so there was always a supply to hand for lighting the lamp or your cigar. Some people made ornamental spills, such as Miss Mattie Jenkyns in Elizabeth Gaskell’s Cranford, who made spills of ‘coloured paper, cut so as to resemble feathers.’
By the way, if you fall off your bicycle or horse, you’ve taken a spill. Although spill is not the word that came to mind when I parted company from my bike due to an unfortunate encounter with a drain cover.
Spill is a rhyming poet’s dream – it has so many to offer – ill, will, drill, trill, pill, on and on:
For example, (with apologies):
There once was an old lady named Gill
Who would not accept she was over the hill
She’d dance and she’d sing; she’d skip and she’d run
Always looking for a laugh and more fun
‘Til one day the zip wire proved too much of a thrill.
Linda Birch
Spill is only a little word but it has much more going for it than might at first be apparent. It’s a very interesting word.
My first thought was ‘be careful not to spill anything’. Aunt May makes a great cup of tea but she always overfills the teacups. She insists on using china cups and saucers and it’s a bit of a nightmare as we watch her balance the tea tray from the kitchen to the table. She won’t let anyone help; it’s a badge of honour for her to keep steady enough to deliver unspilt tea – not a drop in the saucers! To be fair, miraculously, she (usually) manages to do so and we can all breathe again as she puts the tray down.
Then there’s spilling the beans. There are those people you cannot trust with a secret – you learn the hard way who they are. You know the ones, if you want some news spreading you only have to say ‘keep this to yourself, it’s secret but I know I can trust you’ and, there you go, job’s done, they cannot resist telling everyone, well and truly ‘spilling the beans.’
This phrase has an interesting origin. It comes from ancient Greece where voting took place using different coloured beans in a jar. Once the beans were spilt, the election result was revealed.
It’s no use crying over spilt milk is a very pertinent phrase. What’s done is done and cannot be undone. The origin for this one is believed to be that if milk was spilled it was just an offering to the fairies and nothing to be upset about. Whoever came up with that had clearly not experienced the enduring smell of spilt milk in the car, especially in warm weather.
Not to forget how much trouble you will be in if you spill salt. All sorts of bad luck will befall you. Superstition says the devil is lurking behind to steal your soul. The remedy? Throw some more salt over your left shoulder. That’ll get rid of him. Spilling is bad, throwing is good.
In the days before matches, a spill was a very useful item indeed. No self-respecting mantelpiece would be without its pretty spill vases. It was a regular household task to make your spills from old writing paper or newspapers so there was always a supply to hand for lighting the lamp or your cigar. Some people made ornamental spills, such as Miss Mattie Jenkyns in Elizabeth Gaskell’s Cranford, who made spills of ‘coloured paper, cut so as to resemble feathers.’
By the way, if you fall off your bicycle or horse, you’ve taken a spill. Although spill is not the word that came to mind when I parted company from my bike due to an unfortunate encounter with a drain cover.
Spill is a rhyming poet’s dream – it has so many to offer – ill, will, drill, trill, pill, on and on:
For example, (with apologies):
There once was an old lady named Gill
Who would not accept she was over the hill
She’d dance and she’d sing; she’d skip and she’d run
Always looking for a laugh and more fun
‘Til one day the zip wire proved too much of a thrill.
Linda Birch
No Good Crying
“Tilly you can’t keep doing that, this is a fish and chip shop, it’s obvious you’re going to spill the salt when you miss the chip tray.”
“I know Luigi, but you never spill the salt or the vinegar, and we work at such a speed, I’ll never keep up.”
“Don’t worry Tilly you're new to the business, you’ve only been here a week. I can’t afford you to keep chucking the salt over your left shoulder, every time you spill it on the floor or the counter.”
Luigi was trying to be patient with his new recruit. She was young and conscientious, but this obsession was getting a bit ridiculous for him to cope with, plus the fact he was going to have to tell her it was getting dangerous for staff; what if the salt caught them in the eye or they slipped on the mounding salt on the floor?
“Luigi if I don’t do it, it will be bad luck on me.”
“Well, I’m sorry Tilly if you do it one more time, I’m calling it Health and Safety and you will have to leave for showing no consideration to your colleagues.”
A tearful Tilly left the fish and chip shop that night, after her last salt chucking session hit Luigi in his left eye, causing him to go into a rage. Enough was enough!
Tilly went straight to the local pub to console herself and hoped one of her friends would have been there for a shoulder to cry on.
“Large Pinot Grigio please. Are my friends in tonight Sam?”
“No, think it might be a bit early for them Tilly. You not working tonight?”
Tilly managed to avoid the barman's question and took her drink over to a quiet table where she could calm herself and gather her thoughts. Maybe she had taken the superstition too far, but she really was frightened to stop.
She had always been brought up to believe if you spilled the salt, which was deemed bad luck, you had to stop the devil in his tracks by throwing salt back over your left shoulder.
But now it seemed the bad luck had bitten her on the bottom by losing her her job!
She started to sob again, how was she going to pay for driving lessons now?
“Hey what’s all this about?” she heard Sam say. “ Spill the beans or whatever daft thing people used to say.”
She proceeded to tell Sam what had happened, and maybe the salt thing had got out of hand, but now she was penniless and no driving lessons.
“You know what Tilly, if you promise not to throw anymore salt around the place, we need bar staff here at The Swan. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Oh Sam, no more superstitions for me, although I can’t help but feel something good has come out of this one.”
Cora Boffey
“Tilly you can’t keep doing that, this is a fish and chip shop, it’s obvious you’re going to spill the salt when you miss the chip tray.”
“I know Luigi, but you never spill the salt or the vinegar, and we work at such a speed, I’ll never keep up.”
“Don’t worry Tilly you're new to the business, you’ve only been here a week. I can’t afford you to keep chucking the salt over your left shoulder, every time you spill it on the floor or the counter.”
Luigi was trying to be patient with his new recruit. She was young and conscientious, but this obsession was getting a bit ridiculous for him to cope with, plus the fact he was going to have to tell her it was getting dangerous for staff; what if the salt caught them in the eye or they slipped on the mounding salt on the floor?
“Luigi if I don’t do it, it will be bad luck on me.”
“Well, I’m sorry Tilly if you do it one more time, I’m calling it Health and Safety and you will have to leave for showing no consideration to your colleagues.”
A tearful Tilly left the fish and chip shop that night, after her last salt chucking session hit Luigi in his left eye, causing him to go into a rage. Enough was enough!
Tilly went straight to the local pub to console herself and hoped one of her friends would have been there for a shoulder to cry on.
“Large Pinot Grigio please. Are my friends in tonight Sam?”
“No, think it might be a bit early for them Tilly. You not working tonight?”
Tilly managed to avoid the barman's question and took her drink over to a quiet table where she could calm herself and gather her thoughts. Maybe she had taken the superstition too far, but she really was frightened to stop.
She had always been brought up to believe if you spilled the salt, which was deemed bad luck, you had to stop the devil in his tracks by throwing salt back over your left shoulder.
But now it seemed the bad luck had bitten her on the bottom by losing her her job!
She started to sob again, how was she going to pay for driving lessons now?
“Hey what’s all this about?” she heard Sam say. “ Spill the beans or whatever daft thing people used to say.”
She proceeded to tell Sam what had happened, and maybe the salt thing had got out of hand, but now she was penniless and no driving lessons.
“You know what Tilly, if you promise not to throw anymore salt around the place, we need bar staff here at The Swan. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Oh Sam, no more superstitions for me, although I can’t help but feel something good has come out of this one.”
Cora Boffey
SPILL Thoughts from a mind map
Another year, another bench, another spilling bin –
Roddy and Josh puffed towards the park bench, out of breath and overweight.
‘That was a close one’ gasped Josh, his eyes and mouth spilling sweat and saliva.
Roddy looked at his thighs spilling over the edge of the seat.
‘ Got to do some fing about me weight. Can’t outrun the rossers forever’
‘Well. Well. What have we here. You may have out run Sparksy & Clutch back there but I am not your regular park keeper. I also moonlight as a Special Constable. ‘
‘ So what? We was only jogging to keep fit’ Josh muttered.
‘Yeah’ Roddy joined in, ‘why don’t you do something about these litter bins spilling their shit all over the path. ‘We ain’t done nuffing wrong’
‘Come on lads. I saw you running like two elephants on a dog track. What you done, hey? Robbed some old dear’s handbag?’
Josh had recovered his breath and moved his six feet two and seventeen stone bulk to stand over their self important accuser.
‘ You! A Special Rosser! Leave us alone. Your nowt but a tiny busybody. If we ‘ad nicked anything, then where is it Sherlock?’
Special Constable Newman cleared his throat and glared at the boys. ‘ Let’s make this easy lads. You spill the beans and I’ll let you off this time’
‘Can you do that?’ Roddy gasped
‘ Yes, sure I can. If you share whatever you robbed’
Both boys laughed heartily as they carried the diminutive park copper kicking and yelling to the ‘Out of order’ fountain up by the swings. Lifting him in bum-first, the rancid water spilling over the ornate stonework, they ran downhill back to the shops and retrieved their haul from the over spilling waste skip back of MacDonalds.
Andie Green.
Another year, another bench, another spilling bin –
Roddy and Josh puffed towards the park bench, out of breath and overweight.
‘That was a close one’ gasped Josh, his eyes and mouth spilling sweat and saliva.
Roddy looked at his thighs spilling over the edge of the seat.
‘ Got to do some fing about me weight. Can’t outrun the rossers forever’
‘Well. Well. What have we here. You may have out run Sparksy & Clutch back there but I am not your regular park keeper. I also moonlight as a Special Constable. ‘
‘ So what? We was only jogging to keep fit’ Josh muttered.
‘Yeah’ Roddy joined in, ‘why don’t you do something about these litter bins spilling their shit all over the path. ‘We ain’t done nuffing wrong’
‘Come on lads. I saw you running like two elephants on a dog track. What you done, hey? Robbed some old dear’s handbag?’
Josh had recovered his breath and moved his six feet two and seventeen stone bulk to stand over their self important accuser.
‘ You! A Special Rosser! Leave us alone. Your nowt but a tiny busybody. If we ‘ad nicked anything, then where is it Sherlock?’
Special Constable Newman cleared his throat and glared at the boys. ‘ Let’s make this easy lads. You spill the beans and I’ll let you off this time’
‘Can you do that?’ Roddy gasped
‘ Yes, sure I can. If you share whatever you robbed’
Both boys laughed heartily as they carried the diminutive park copper kicking and yelling to the ‘Out of order’ fountain up by the swings. Lifting him in bum-first, the rancid water spilling over the ornate stonework, they ran downhill back to the shops and retrieved their haul from the over spilling waste skip back of MacDonalds.
Andie Green.