READ OUR WORK Homework 2023
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(hover mouse over Homework on the menu to access last year's Homework 2023)
EXTRA EXERCISE
We have received a challenge to respond to a given phrase. Write a short piece beginning with the following words,
"a soft and silent thick blanket..."
We have received a challenge to respond to a given phrase. Write a short piece beginning with the following words,
"a soft and silent thick blanket..."
Mother Nature
A soft and silent thick blanket Has settled on tired grey land. A beauty beyond human making, Where nature has shown her upper hand. When anger storms and fires burn, Her rage melts ice caps in revenge. She sees our unrepentant tears, Counts the hours, the days, the years. Maggie Storer |
Haiku
A soft and silent thick blanket sweet and white keeps Christmas cake cosy Betty Taylor |
Haiku
Whilst we were sleeping A soft silent thick blanket Made all beautiful Sore frost bitten paws A soft silent thick blanket Wrapped until better Andie Green |
Deadline: 19th December
Brief: something seasonal. Story, poem, article. Consider any aspect of the season
e.g. celebration, weather, rituals, etc. relating to Christmas and/or New Year.
Brief: something seasonal. Story, poem, article. Consider any aspect of the season
e.g. celebration, weather, rituals, etc. relating to Christmas and/or New Year.
The Christmas Tree Festival
In anticipation I waited Behind the big oak doors, Weeks I’d been planning, At night I paced the floor. The time had come, Everything was now set, All the lights twinkled Switch on the Christmas cassette. The crowd ambled through, Notes and coins dropped in the box, I see smiles, looks of delight, Christmas stars and fairy's, sit on top. Folks stop to look and think, They have to choose a winner, Trees by the Brownies, Scouts, Grocer’s shop, Hairdressers, keep-fit and local slimmers. How do you choose from twenty-five? Hard work, unique and style, Christmas spirit fills the air, Everyone has gone the extra mile. Public voting, the frenzy begins, Excitement with trepidation - Count the votes, for all to see - The local school collect the prize, in great elation. Cora Boffey |
A Picture Book Story for Children
The Blue Spruce The air is tangible with the smell of pine. From first light the chopping and sawing began, and a hum of something else. Voices in the distance, shouting, laughing. Our pine needles shiver in the morning frost. Some of us have been here for a few years, always wondering if this time it will be our turn. I have grown strong and straight, my blue shadowed needles healthy and thick. The noise is nearer now. They are looking for good strong trees like mine. My base is shaking. I’m losing control, encased in mesh netting and hauled into a van. I rest, then sleep. When I wake I am under cover, allowed to shake out my branches and twisted this way and that for best affect. Looking down I see that my roots are still in tact and I’m in a huge pot. I hear children laughing and the tinkle of shiny things being strung around me. Lights and delicate objects twinkle. The room is large, with a fire blazing at the far end, so I won’t be too warm. I’m glad they chose me. I will do my best to stand tall and proud, and maybe later they will let me live outside again, where, as a Blue Spruce I will need hardly any attention at all. Hush, there is someone in the room. He is laying parcels around me on the floor. Even in the dark I can make out his bulky frame from the glow of the fire. He sits down under my shadow to rest. He must be very tired as he has an enormous sack that he carries on his back. Then he is gone. I settle down and wait for the sun to peep through the curtain. I think it’s going to be a very happy day. Maggie Storer |
What’s It All About?
Hello, it’s me again, Monty. Something’s up and I don’t like it. A tree has appeared in the living room. What, I ask you, is that for? No, I know what you’re thinking, I haven’t disgraced myself, I do know better than that. It’s just that there were all these coloured ribbons and beads and toys around the place and I thought they were to play with and well, yes, I may have had a little chew as well. Mary got all uptight again but I think it was an easy mistake to make. Mary and I seem to be even busier at the moment. There’s a lot of shopping going on. Well, not so much shopping really as looking at stuff and a general to-ing and fro-ing and fretting about whether or not Sally, she’s Mary’s sister, will like a jumper with a robin on the front of it. Hardly likely in my opinion but then I don’t like Sally and she doesn’t like me. First time we met we had a bit of a do over her handbag. We sort of tolerate each other now. The real problem is she has a cat named Aysha, but don’t get me started there. Anyway, back to Mary and me. I know trouble’s coming. She’s making lists and rearranging furniture and cleaning anything that isn’t moving. The place is in turmoil. Those people in the red vans are bringing more stuff too. Mary has fitted a cage on the back of the door so I can’t sort out what’s coming but it’s still a worry for me. Mary spent ages writing out things as well. Had me really worried because I thought she’d forgotten our walk, which is very unusual. We did go out eventually but only as far as the postbox and then we went straight home and back to the lists. There’s a lot of pretty paper around as well and some boxes but I can’t tell you what’s happening there as I got shut in the kitchen out of the way. Another lost opportunity for a good game I reckon. Mary says we’re going to the Christmas Market this afternoon. I’m not looking forward to it. There will be too many people. We’ll be doing that slow shuffle walk again, oohing and aahing over things, and there will be a smell of burgers and sausages tormenting me. No-one will think to get one for me. I do like all the lights though, cheers everywhere up. I’ve heard all this palaver is something to do with the celebration of someone’s birthday. All this fuss: must be someone very special. Linda Birch |
Theme – when I was young – conversation between Tom & Michael
I’ve lost count of the number of folk who say things like ‘In my day we did not have mountains of toys. Just a tangerine in the toe of a stocking and a sprout in the heel, or summat like that’
Yeah, my gran’s neighbour is Mr Grumpy, never a cheery word, just moan moan and he even took a swipe at Clarry the cat when she peed on his prize marrow last summer’
‘So mate have you sent your list to Santa yet ?’
‘Naa ! You don’t still believe all that nonsense do ya? My mam just gave me the Argos catalogue and told me to chose 10 toys. ‘
‘ Wow ! So what you getting? My folks can’t afford to splash that much cash’…
Acrostic poem.
Children. Is that what it’s all about?
Hanging up stockings, hiding from a man in red
Reindeer shooting stars in a cloudless sky
Iced cake and tubs of chocolate
Spare a thought for poor folk please
Take treats to a food bank, blankets too
Maybe a toy for a child in need
And count each blessing one by one
Sing praises for peace not greed.
January
Tom – So did you get your 10 wishes on Christmas morning
Michael – Nah – I got an Xbox and some cool games and a huge shock from Ma. Instead of waking up to delicious smells from the slowly roasting turkey we all trooped down to the community hub and had to help a gang of volunteers serve dinner to about 50 oldies.
Tom - oh poor you!! We went to my grans she’s a brilliant cook.
Michael - it was fine. Very jolly. We got back about 6 totally zonked and Ma cooked our turkey on Boxing Day. But I’d rather you didn’t tell the others! Don’t want to spoil my street cred !!’
Andie Green
I’ve lost count of the number of folk who say things like ‘In my day we did not have mountains of toys. Just a tangerine in the toe of a stocking and a sprout in the heel, or summat like that’
Yeah, my gran’s neighbour is Mr Grumpy, never a cheery word, just moan moan and he even took a swipe at Clarry the cat when she peed on his prize marrow last summer’
‘So mate have you sent your list to Santa yet ?’
‘Naa ! You don’t still believe all that nonsense do ya? My mam just gave me the Argos catalogue and told me to chose 10 toys. ‘
‘ Wow ! So what you getting? My folks can’t afford to splash that much cash’…
Acrostic poem.
Children. Is that what it’s all about?
Hanging up stockings, hiding from a man in red
Reindeer shooting stars in a cloudless sky
Iced cake and tubs of chocolate
Spare a thought for poor folk please
Take treats to a food bank, blankets too
Maybe a toy for a child in need
And count each blessing one by one
Sing praises for peace not greed.
January
Tom – So did you get your 10 wishes on Christmas morning
Michael – Nah – I got an Xbox and some cool games and a huge shock from Ma. Instead of waking up to delicious smells from the slowly roasting turkey we all trooped down to the community hub and had to help a gang of volunteers serve dinner to about 50 oldies.
Tom - oh poor you!! We went to my grans she’s a brilliant cook.
Michael - it was fine. Very jolly. We got back about 6 totally zonked and Ma cooked our turkey on Boxing Day. But I’d rather you didn’t tell the others! Don’t want to spoil my street cred !!’
Andie Green
Deadline: 5th December
Brief (1): invent a new gadget and write about it – explain to a potential user how to operate it.
Be imaginative – your gadget can be a viable practicality OR off the wall comic book
fantasy fiction.
OR if your inventive powers are reluctant...
Brief (2): a piece about a modern gadget or tech equipment - do you hate it or love it?. Write about the joys of using it - or pitfalls. Why is it so important to you? OR why do you dislike it so much?
Brief (1): invent a new gadget and write about it – explain to a potential user how to operate it.
Be imaginative – your gadget can be a viable practicality OR off the wall comic book
fantasy fiction.
OR if your inventive powers are reluctant...
Brief (2): a piece about a modern gadget or tech equipment - do you hate it or love it?. Write about the joys of using it - or pitfalls. Why is it so important to you? OR why do you dislike it so much?
Slice of Life
My bugbear is the sharpness or should that be bluntness of knives. I have two knife blocks in my kitchen- one is a conventional heavy wooden slotted version; and the other has a series of ‘laser rods’ [?] that you plunge blades into a different home each time.
I remember grandmas sharpening carving knives on stone steps or on something called a ‘whetstone’ setting teeth on edge like nails down a blackboard! And I’m positive that method never failed to successfully carve the Sunday joint into perfect slices.
I’ve tried several knife sharpeners with limited results- I bought one recently that is marketed as ‘idiot proof’ so I’ll let the man of the house have first dibs with that one.
Andie Green.
My bugbear is the sharpness or should that be bluntness of knives. I have two knife blocks in my kitchen- one is a conventional heavy wooden slotted version; and the other has a series of ‘laser rods’ [?] that you plunge blades into a different home each time.
I remember grandmas sharpening carving knives on stone steps or on something called a ‘whetstone’ setting teeth on edge like nails down a blackboard! And I’m positive that method never failed to successfully carve the Sunday joint into perfect slices.
I’ve tried several knife sharpeners with limited results- I bought one recently that is marketed as ‘idiot proof’ so I’ll let the man of the house have first dibs with that one.
Andie Green.
Quiet Please!
These days so many gadgets that were the stuff of dreams are now a reality. There are all sorts of devices which we take for granted and have become a routine part of our lives, but once were seemingly impossible fantasies.
Who would have believed that you could hold a whole library of books in your hand; that all your music could be in one small place; that a camera would fit inside your phone; that you could switch on the heating and draw the curtains when you are miles from home; that a robot could mow the lawn. I do not possess a smart speaker but it looks as though she can take over your life if you wish. She will be there for you, obeying your commands and answering your questions. All you need is your voice!
All these gadgets and innovations are marvellous of course. But what I would really like is a silencer. For example, the vacuum cleaner does the job but not without a high-pitched screeching that could easily wake up Sleeping Beauty. Then there are hair dryers, especially irritating in the hairdressers when I am trying to listen to all the latest gossip. Coffee machines are another example. Why do they have to make such a racket? Imagine the peace and quiet in your favourite coffee shop if the machine had a silencer fitted. Even the kettle in my kitchen, which boasted that it was quiet, sounds like it’s getting ready for take off when coming to the boil. The washing machine can reach a similar ear-splitting crescendo; the tumble dryer whines on relentlessly.
Why is it so hard to design things to be quiet? In an attempt to learn more I turned to the internet, which tells me that “Noise generated by electronic devices varies greatly as it is produced by several different effects. In particular, noise is inherent in physics and central to thermodynamics. Any conductor with electrical resistance will generate thermal noise inherently.” Quite.
Maybe AI will give us the answer before too long? I hope so.
Linda Birch
By chance, I’ve just found out about a Christmas Market to be held at Gresham School in Holt, which is not far from here. Sir James Dyson attended Gresham and has made substantial donations to the school. Perhaps he will be at the Market and I can ask him to carry on with the progress he’s made with fans and hair dryers and put coffee machines on his list? I’ll look out for him. Dream on!
These days so many gadgets that were the stuff of dreams are now a reality. There are all sorts of devices which we take for granted and have become a routine part of our lives, but once were seemingly impossible fantasies.
Who would have believed that you could hold a whole library of books in your hand; that all your music could be in one small place; that a camera would fit inside your phone; that you could switch on the heating and draw the curtains when you are miles from home; that a robot could mow the lawn. I do not possess a smart speaker but it looks as though she can take over your life if you wish. She will be there for you, obeying your commands and answering your questions. All you need is your voice!
All these gadgets and innovations are marvellous of course. But what I would really like is a silencer. For example, the vacuum cleaner does the job but not without a high-pitched screeching that could easily wake up Sleeping Beauty. Then there are hair dryers, especially irritating in the hairdressers when I am trying to listen to all the latest gossip. Coffee machines are another example. Why do they have to make such a racket? Imagine the peace and quiet in your favourite coffee shop if the machine had a silencer fitted. Even the kettle in my kitchen, which boasted that it was quiet, sounds like it’s getting ready for take off when coming to the boil. The washing machine can reach a similar ear-splitting crescendo; the tumble dryer whines on relentlessly.
Why is it so hard to design things to be quiet? In an attempt to learn more I turned to the internet, which tells me that “Noise generated by electronic devices varies greatly as it is produced by several different effects. In particular, noise is inherent in physics and central to thermodynamics. Any conductor with electrical resistance will generate thermal noise inherently.” Quite.
Maybe AI will give us the answer before too long? I hope so.
Linda Birch
By chance, I’ve just found out about a Christmas Market to be held at Gresham School in Holt, which is not far from here. Sir James Dyson attended Gresham and has made substantial donations to the school. Perhaps he will be at the Market and I can ask him to carry on with the progress he’s made with fans and hair dryers and put coffee machines on his list? I’ll look out for him. Dream on!
‘Stop and Smell the Roses’ - (Ringo Starr album 1981)
Have you ever watched Mary Berry on her TV programmes making tasty desserts, or seen Jamie Oliver enthusiastically whipping up delicious looking meals? His recent series using only five ingredients made me want to rush into the kitchen and start cooking. Well, almost. Stop for a moment and think how much more appealing it would be to actually smell and taste the recipes. Well, my invention is to do just that. Who would have dreamed before 1876 that we would be able to hear through a receiver, the voice of someone miles away? But it happened, and look at the progress since then in communication technology. So, is it so surprising that at the press of a button, we will be able to savour the aromas of a dish we are seeing being made? I think smelly vision has been talked about for some time, so I can’t really claim it to be my idea. But I want to go a step further. All the recipes you see being made will come with a glossy card that we will be able to purchase from your local supermarket. One card could contain all the recipes from one programme. By peeling off a sticker for each dish, for the first time you will be able to taste the dish. This will work in a similar way to testing perfumes in expensive magazines, but we will be able to taste as well as smell. So, my invention is twofold. A button on the TV console will allow you to smell the programme you are watching, as if you were in the room with them. This may be a cookery programme or any programme where you want to be fully immersed. Imagine being able to smell the flowers at the Chelsea Flower Show, or even the smoke from a bonfire, or the smell of the sea as the waves crash against the shore. My second option will be to purchase a menu card from your supermarket so that you can peel off the stickers from your favourite cookery programme and taste and smell the dishes before purchasing the ingredients. Chefs who produce their own cookery books could do the same within the pages. We really will be able to ‘stop and smell the roses’. Maggie Storer |
Tickle Your Fancy
With the coming on of old age, or a disability; this gadget is a must and maybe even a friend to talk to, whilst idling away your time; because, there is nothing else you can do whilst sitting in the loo. (?) Unless you go to palates, yoga or keep fit, your body gets very stiff; doing a twist and turn or whatever movement you might do to clean up after a normal ablution, could leave you with your head down the bowl rather than your bum. So my Foxy gadget is the answer; a right handed hand to do the job for you. The gadget is easily fixed to the wall and has a voice activated sound system. Speak to Foxy when you enter the little room. He will be activated by your voice and reply ‘ready and waiting.’ then raise a hand to wave to you. Once sat comfortably on the throne, ask Foxy to play your favourite tune; depending on how much time you need to perform. When the ‘act’ is finished, tell Foxy to prepare the roll, then lean forwards for the cleansing to be completed. Foxy comes with a built in hygiene system, so no need to wash his hands. You will never look back again! (Why the name Foxy? The name Alexa was chosen for Alexa because it has a hard consonant with the X, which helps it be recognised with high precision; as with FoXy.) Cora Boffey |
Deadline: 21st November
Brief: from an animal’s point of view: write a story or poem from the point of view of an animal or a creature other than a human.
Brief: from an animal’s point of view: write a story or poem from the point of view of an animal or a creature other than a human.
Who’s In Charge?
Hello, I’m Monty and I live with Mary. It’s very comfortable here: regular meals and plenty of walks (whether I want one or not). Mary’s a stickler for walks as she has to do a certain number of steps each day. What that’s all about I don’t know, but we’re out in all weathers. No excuses. There’s just the two of us so there’s only me to look after her which is a big responsibility. Mary is retired but that doesn’t mean she stays home. She does lots of things so we’re always out and about. I think we’re a bit of an item around here: people look out for us on our walks and are always ready to chat. When I first came to live with Mary, she used to go out without me but there was some trouble and the neighbours complained because I barked a lot. Well of course I did. I didn’t know where she was and I had to look after everything. Anyway, we sorted out that misunderstanding and now I go with Mary most of the time. My favourite is when we go out with the walking group. Sometimes we stick to the local footpaths, other times we go for a drive then walk in the countryside. It’s really good but the humans do an awful lot of talking. We could cover much more ground if they would just focus on the walk. I shouldn’t complain though. There’s a very nice man called George in the group and if the field is a bit uneven or there are lots of brambles or nettles or awkward stiles, he picks me up and carries me on his back. Everyone thinks this is great fun. It is very kind of him but I do not have much of a head for heights so, although a lift up saves my paws, I’m always relieved to be back on firm ground. Today we are going to the Village Hall which is where the local history group meets. Mary is very keen on local history. I’m allowed in now because I just sit quietly under the table and have a snooze. There was a bit of an issue the first time I came here. I just wanted to make sure everything was alright and I probably got a bit over excited but everyone calmed down eventually. Anyway, the group is researching the men named on the War Memorial. There was great excitement at the last meeting when they discovered some commendations for bravery which they didn’t know about. I wanted to tell them they are not the only ones to have medals. We animals can receive a medal too, called a Dickin Medal, awarded for gallantry and devotion to duty. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get one but I do try to look after Mary. Trouble is, she doesn’t always appreciate my efforts. Take the people in the red vans for instance. They march up to the house and then throw stuff through the letterbox. Now what’s a dog to do? Ignore it? Of course not. Could be anything so I do my best to get rid of it. Better safe than sorry is my motto. Mary disagrees, so now it’s a race between us to see who reaches the door first. Quite a tussle some mornings but it’s great fun. Sometimes I let her win. Well, nice talking to you but I have to go now. We mustn’t be late for the meeting. Linda Birch |
Catty
Catty preened her soft white fur as she sat on the window sill waiting for Mary to return. It seemed a long time now since she was here. Although Josie from next door had been feeding her, Catty was lonely and missed Mary's kisses and cuddles. Today, the house was full of people including many she had never seen before. They were chatting and laughing and Catty could not understand why they were there. Catty was deeply sad; she and Mary had been so happy together. In the room was a little girl with long golden hair, who kept looking at her and smiling. Then she came over to stroke and kiss her, speaking softly to her. It was so nice, Carry felt happy for the first time since Mary had gone away. The little girl chatted endlessly and in a soft friendly voice. As people began to leave the little girl continued cuddling her until a lady came over and wrapped her in a shawl, holding her gently. They carried her out to their car and the little girl and Catty settled on the back seat. The little girl held her close, kissing her and whispering softly. She reminded Catty of Mary so much. That night she was allowed to sleep next to her new friend. Hayley. Catty cuddled up close to her feeling warm and safe. Mary had found a new home for her perhaps she was not coming back, just like when she had left her mother and sisters. At last Catty felt contented and loved again as she purred and went to sleep. Carol Hipkin |
Moving House
I've heard tell that humans sometimes wish they were a fly on the wall. Why? Believe me, being a fly on the wall is not all it's cracked up to be. To begin with there's no choice of whose or which wall you'll be settling on. It all depends upon where you happen to hatch. My siblings and I, about a hundred of us, landed up in this modern minimalist sort of place with white walls throughout. White blinds at the windows; the kitchen looks like an arctic wasteland. It's pretty much state of the art in today's way of thinking and there's oodles of gadgets sitting on gleaming white surfaces, not the sort of place where an honest fly can find a snack or have a crafty snooze. The fusspot people spot me in seconds, there's not a snowball in a blast furnace chance of not being spotted, I'm constantly conspicuous.
So far I've managed to dodge their hostility by nipping up behind the window blinds. They've tried swatting me and attempted chemical warfare with a spray thing, although they do hold back a bit with this weapons of mass destruction for fear of marking the walls. Sadly, most of my family have been blasted out of existence by such random acts of terrorism before they were fully grown. I seem to be the only one around these days and I fear my luck is about to run out. I was threatened with extinction a couple of days ago just for skating on the marble worktops. Then I had another close shave when I paused to lick the sugary icing on a cake. Minutes ago, while I was hiding behind the blind, I noticed that an old lady lives next door. She shuffles along and looks unlikely to leap about chasing flies. She picks up her cat and takes him indoors so I surmise she's not averse to sharing her home with something non-human. I note that the old lady and her cat are bit frayed round the edges in a comfortable sort of way. They've never entered my house but I can see this place wouldn't suit her. I imagine there's a dish of cat food in her house, maybe I could share it with her cat. There's bound to be some cosy corners and dusty surfaces where I can rest. Ooh look! the back door is ajar... my mind's made up... I'm moving house... I'll be spending what's left of my 28 day lifespan in peace
Betty Taylor
I've heard tell that humans sometimes wish they were a fly on the wall. Why? Believe me, being a fly on the wall is not all it's cracked up to be. To begin with there's no choice of whose or which wall you'll be settling on. It all depends upon where you happen to hatch. My siblings and I, about a hundred of us, landed up in this modern minimalist sort of place with white walls throughout. White blinds at the windows; the kitchen looks like an arctic wasteland. It's pretty much state of the art in today's way of thinking and there's oodles of gadgets sitting on gleaming white surfaces, not the sort of place where an honest fly can find a snack or have a crafty snooze. The fusspot people spot me in seconds, there's not a snowball in a blast furnace chance of not being spotted, I'm constantly conspicuous.
So far I've managed to dodge their hostility by nipping up behind the window blinds. They've tried swatting me and attempted chemical warfare with a spray thing, although they do hold back a bit with this weapons of mass destruction for fear of marking the walls. Sadly, most of my family have been blasted out of existence by such random acts of terrorism before they were fully grown. I seem to be the only one around these days and I fear my luck is about to run out. I was threatened with extinction a couple of days ago just for skating on the marble worktops. Then I had another close shave when I paused to lick the sugary icing on a cake. Minutes ago, while I was hiding behind the blind, I noticed that an old lady lives next door. She shuffles along and looks unlikely to leap about chasing flies. She picks up her cat and takes him indoors so I surmise she's not averse to sharing her home with something non-human. I note that the old lady and her cat are bit frayed round the edges in a comfortable sort of way. They've never entered my house but I can see this place wouldn't suit her. I imagine there's a dish of cat food in her house, maybe I could share it with her cat. There's bound to be some cosy corners and dusty surfaces where I can rest. Ooh look! the back door is ajar... my mind's made up... I'm moving house... I'll be spending what's left of my 28 day lifespan in peace
Betty Taylor
What am I?
Tall and handsome and super strong Hands up for those who go Fearlessly on to rough land and forest Holding bodies straight and proud When ground may be too hard Sometimes I have to be gentle and soft With special children who may break Quiet walking, no sudden snaps A test for my patience I’m rewarded with smiles I like being me most of the time In winter it’s blanket days Indoor warmth with extra treats Always a walk to stretch and More freedom to nag and gossip I’m lucky to be cared for My owner loves to fuss and brush I’m stubborn when he tries to take charge He knows I’m in charge. He holds the carrots No more clues – time to canter on. Andie Green. A Fishy Story
They stand there gawping, wondering what to say; how rude can you get? Then they start to talk, not to me, at me. They think I can’t hear them; stuck in my own bubble. They think they’re funny when they mimic me, mouths opening wide, then clamping shut, over and over again. Oh, if only I was as big as the whale that swallowed Jonah; that might be a sprat to catch a mackerel? It’s no good being fickle about it, or them, I’ll just trawl around hoping they might take themselves to the chippy? No chance I can hear the loud mouth fish wife shouts from the kitchen. She’s brought her boyfriend home, the one with the mullet, he thinks he looks brill! Oh no, now there’s four of them being catty about me, cod eyes I snigger back. Those dog eared chums need to be at school, learn their angles and geometry. One thing for sure, they’ll not become surgeons. They think I’m an oddity; I’ll let them off the hook; I think I’m a good catch. Cora Boffey |
Cool For Cats
Life is pretty cool for a cat like me. I come and go as I please, live a life of comfort and ease. The flap in the door allows me to roam, but I always return to the comfort of home. A scratch pole was purchased especially for me, where I sharpen my claws on my substitute tree. The food that I’m given is fish with boiled rice. No need to go hunting for small birds and mice. I stay clear of the feral town cats, who would pick a fight for scenting their patch. I prefer to stay home than go out at night. I have no desire to join in with their fights. I’ve been there before, unloved and alone, untilI I was rescued and put in a home. Many walked past with a nod and a smile, but one special person stopped by for a while. I purred as they nuzzled me under their wing, my personality charmed them, but here is the thing; A cat is as clever as an animal can be. Of course I chose them, but they think they chose me. Maggie Storer |
Deadline: 7th November
Brief: poem – story – essay – article BUT, it’s not quite a free rein, you must include the following 5 words.
Brief: poem – story – essay – article BUT, it’s not quite a free rein, you must include the following 5 words.
Age pedal signature consternation chorus
It’s Never Too Late
I’m buying a new car. Yes, at my age! I’m fed up with being told I’m too old for this and too old for that. We had a discussion last Saturday when my well intended children had obviously discussed together the absurdity of me wanting to buy a MINI convertible. There was a chorus of indignation and they hounded me with questions and arguments against it. Unbeknown to them I have already visited the showroom. The salesman was extremely helpful and he showed me the model that I’m interested in. He let me have a test run. I can’t tell you how exciting it was to feel the wind in my hair. He was slightly concerned that the pedal might be beyond my reach, but I was fine once I’d got used to where the break was. At least with an automatic, there are less pedals to press. My only consternation was that the lime yellow model I had chosen wouldn’t be ready in time. At least you will be able to see me coming and I won’t lose it in the car park any more. You see, I’ve planned a trip down to Cornwall to see an old friend. She’ll be 82; a couple of months younger than me, but we’ve known each other since we went to school together. When her husband died, she decided to move to the coast. I’ve always wanted to live by the sea, ever since I was a little girl. So after Reg died, I thought I would spend my inheritance before it was too late. I plan to buy a little cottage near to Lizzy in Polperro. When the family come to stay I know they’ll love it and will realise I’ve made the right decision. All I need to do now is go back to that nice man in the showroom and put my signature on the agreement. Maggie Storer |
Well I Never
I knew it was her by her full on make-up and her beautiful coiffured hair; a bit out of character was her wearing a track suit and a rucksack on her back. She normally posed in smart attire, all matching; black tights and shoes with a small heel. Mother always said she was good for her age, wearing those heels. We almost collided as she came out of the shop. I rummaged through my bag, I found a pen and an old envelope. I ran after her; ‘excuse me, excuse me, would you mind putting your signature on the back of this envelope? It's for my mother, she watches you three times a week, on the telly.’ ‘What’s your mam’s name lad?’ ‘Ivy.’ ‘There you go lad, All my love to Ivy from Barbra Knox; Rita Tanner x’ She promptly handed me back the pen and envelope, gave me a wink and to my consternation, cocked her leg over the saddle of the waiting bike, put her foot on the peddle and peddled off. Laughing and humming the chorus to the theme tune Coronation Street. I quickly took a picture for mother. Cora Boffey |
The Cycle Rides
Seems an age away looking back, when she set out with her friend June on their usual Sunday cycle ride’s to her uncle’s farm. They were such fun days with her two cousins’, the enjoyment of devouring her aunt’s jam sandwiches for lunch. Then picking apples in the orchard, paddling in the stream, their den was an old, abandoned gypsy caravan, such a sense of freedom, the summer of their young lives together. As they cycled up the hill her foot slipped from the peddle. She ended up on the cycle pathway, in a semi-conscious state. Her next recollection was a chorus of unknown voices in the background, and wondering what had happened. For some strange reason the word consternation came into her head, then thinking surely, she could have used a simpler word to describe the situation, perhaps alarmed, scared. She then remembered using the word in her recent A levels, but what had she done to herself? Now unable to move or speak she felt strong arms supporting and lifting her gently, speaking softly, to her. Now two months later she smiled to herself as she put her signature to the letter thanking the staff at the Royal infirmary for saving her life. Carol Hipkin |
Never give up….
The day was here at last. Pressing the pedal to power herself over the hill Melanie freewheeled the last hundred yards and slowed easily onto the lay-by in front of the colonnaded Marks theatre. Her mother and younger brother had assured her she looked eighteen, the required maximum age for dancing in the chorus of the new musical. At twenty five she was far too senior but since her accident she felt that if she wanted to achieve her dream she had to start at the bottom. As she waited in the wings Melanie reflected on how far she’d come since that horrifying car crash two years ago. Her pelvis was cracked and she had nerve damage to her spinal chord. After eleven months and five days Melanie defied all predictions that she would never walk again by gingerly placing one painful leg forward, then the other, holding onto the parallel bars. She was now able to walk unaided and had persevered to complete a punishing physio and dance regime to be ready for this audition. The routine wasn’t too strenuous, mostly tap and formation following. No high kicks or jumps, thank goodness. Melanie was delighted when she was among the dozen selected for the chorus lineup. The cast and new chorus met in the Swan & Signature after the first rehearsal. Melanie accepted a red wine from the choreographer. ‘Well young lady’, he began, ‘I thought I recognised you. You were an up and coming performer a few years ago. Where have you been?’ With consternation Melanie told her story, aware that this would jeopardise her chance of dancing in the chorus. ‘Well that’s quite a story! Well done for your determination’ ‘What do you suggest I do now?’ asked Melanie, certain that she’d blown her chance for the chorus. 'Just turn up for rehearsals and let me know if the strain is too much’ With that he moved on to chat to a group at the bar.’ Andie Green |
Preamble… I was stumped for ideas this week and consulted The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, a hefty tome to which I often turn for inspiration. Whilst browsing quotes pertaining to the given list of words an unfortunate surname caught my eye. A misnomer? No! Google revealed that the guy existed and I found that he was something of a bigot. Mr B was a man of God with the misfortune to have an unsavoury surname. Although he held a senior position at Oxford University he was eventually dismissed from his post and stripped of his title. Here are the sorry facts…
Thomas Bastard 1566-1618 It was bad luck for Mr B to have such a surname but ironically, he managed to live up to it. Thomas Bastard was born in Blandford Forum, near Dorchester; he was well educated and attended New College, Oxford, earning a BA and MA . He was awarded the title of Perpetual Fellow in 1588. Just what that entails, I have no idea. His writings became well known; in particular a poetry collection entitled Chrestoleros: Seven Books of Epigrams (1598). Indeed, he wasted no time in putting “pedal to the metal” to name and shame local people; his revelations causing much consternation in the community regardless of the thoughts and feelings of others. Via the publication of his writing, he spilled the proverbial beans about the misdemeanours of local folk in a “holier than thou” manner. In my book that’s sneaky: in full chorus he told of their sexual liaisons and other misdemeanours. He was a Christian preacher who hounded his flock rather than helping them onto the straight and narrow. I’m inclined to wonder if he was more peeping Tom than minister, or in today’s parlance, a voyeuristic weirdo? Mr Bastard was an epigrammatist and clergyman, here is one of his epigrams. "Age is deformed, you We scorn their bodies, they our mind." It was an age when ministers of the church were overly pious, judgemental, and demanded atonement. During his lifetime Mr B served as a Church of England vicar. He was found guilty of libel after publicising the sexual doings of various Oxford clergy and academics resulting in his expulsion from his Oxford fellowship in 1591. In 1615 he put his signature to two collections of tracts: Five Sermons and Twelve Sermons. He married three times and died at the age of 52 in debtor’s prison in Dorchester and was buried in a churchyard there. Betty Taylor |
Finding Your Own Way
Millie had not expected quite such a negative reaction. It had been a lovely lunch and she’d ruined it. Andy, her ex, would say that was typical of her, talking too much and always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Well, he’d made his choice and left her after thirty years. Shocking, but she was still here. Today, her children, Tom, Mark and Amy, had come over and for once they had not started squabbling. It was a treat to get them all together as they could rarely spare the time off from their busy lives to visit her. She’d also invited her lovely neighbours Laura and Sam and prepared a delicious beef bourguignon. She called it her signature dish but in truth, it was the only meal she could produce with any confidence that it would turn out well enough to serve to guests. They’d had a relaxed chatty meal; everyone had enjoyed the food and they were just opening another bottle of shiraz when Millie decided to tell them her plan. She would visit her sister Caroline, who had just moved to a retirement complex in Cromer. She would be away for two weeks as she planned on taking the opportunity to explore the coast and she would be on a bicycle. Tom exploded first – ‘Absolutely bonkers!’ – then the others joined in. ‘But Mum do you realise how much traffic there is these days?’ ‘Do you know how far Cromer is from here?’ ‘You never had a sense of direction. You’ll get lost.’ ‘You never liked Aunt Caroline much.’ ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’ ‘Has something happened?’ ‘I never heard such a ridiculous idea! You’ll be mugged.’ Sam, bless him, had given her a look of real consternation. ‘But Millie dearest, will you be safe? It’s such a long way to pedal, and all on your own. There must be easier ways to get there. Have you checked the trains? Buses?’ Laura just looked at her aghast. The chorus of disapproval rang on in her ears. Of course, the unspoken words which they were all really thinking, hung in the air. ‘What a daft thing to do at your age.’ Millie looked round the table at all their cross faces. ‘No, really, I’ve made up my mind. I’ve found Amy’s old bike from the back of the shed, cleaned it up and it’s as good as new. I used to cycle everywhere when I was a girl you know and you never forget how. Besides, I’ve been in training to get fit and I’ve bought a helmet and planned a route so I know which way I’m going and where I can stay overnight. I’m not completely ga-ga you know …’ Millie stopped to catch her breath. They were all still staring at her in disbelief. You would have thought she’d proposed flying to the moon. Well, they were going to have to get used to it. She wouldn’t back down, not this time. This was a brand-new Millie and she was definitely going to get on her bike! Linda Birch |
Deadline: 17th October
Brief: your love/hate relationship with something. Tell us all about it. Engage the senses, the feel of it, the pleasure or dislike of it.
Thoughts and feelings you have about this “thing” (or things) - why do you feel love and/or hate?
Brief: your love/hate relationship with something. Tell us all about it. Engage the senses, the feel of it, the pleasure or dislike of it.
Thoughts and feelings you have about this “thing” (or things) - why do you feel love and/or hate?
Here is the News
I like tuning in to the news channels; BBC anytime, Good Morning Britain on ITV and their evening news. Sky is 24 hours, so I can look at that anytime. I like to feel that I’m there when news breaks, be it some tragedy or hopefully good news too. I know that the news is repetitive throughout the day. That has to be the case if coverage is for 24 hours. However, I have a few grumbles. The first I direct to the News at Ten on ITV. In particular Tom Bradby, who probably writes his own scripts and can’t help giving his own point of view. The way he reports; the intonation in his voice, you can tell exactly what he’s thinking. I want to shout, ‘this is not about you Tom, just tell it like it is.’ News reporting should be exactly that and not a programme that tries to persuade the viewer to their point of view. I do think it’s rather comical and unnecessary to place reporters in the nearest location to the item of news. Very often they are standing in the rain with no protection, looking like drowned rats. We don’t need to see Buckingham Palace when a Royal is in the news, nor number 10 Downing Street when nothing is happening. I’m usually distracted by Larry the cat catching a mouse or someone polishing the brass knocker. Standing in front of the Houses of Parliament just gives the board waving protesters more opportunity to push their anti government slogans. I also object to longer pieces of reporting within the news. Sometimes ten or fifteen minutes is given over to one particular theme, when this should be a separate item on another programme. We have recently been bombarded with reports of XBully type dogs attacking people. Shoplifting has reached dystopian levels in some places, where nothing seems to be done to stop them. I do not believe the country should be terrified by such reporting, as if there are vicious dogs and lawless human beings everywhere. Many people think that the BBC and other channels have their own agenda and that their reporting is skewed towards their right or left wing views. I’m not sure about this, but I do know that climate change has become the main obsession with reporting and everything seems to be linked to this tragedy which is reported to be only decades away. How can we know that the facts we are presented with are correct? I worry for future generations. There are too many people on the planet, too many countries at war with each other, and decency and common sense have disappeared. My love/hate relationship with the news continues. Maggie Storer |
The Owl
Some years ago my husband's grandmother bequeathed him her stuffed owl in a glass dome. He loved bird watching and every holiday he would always find a hide. Luckily, I enjoyed this activity too. When we visited Peter’s grandmother in Norwich before we were married, I used to share her bedroom in which was a large owl on a dresser adjacent to my side of the bed. I found it very scary but never dared to ask if I might sleep on the other side of the bed. One of the rules that was drummed into us back in the day was " respect your elders". When the owl moved in with us it was in glass dome and it lived on the sideboard in our dining room. When our young son was eventually tall enough to reach it, and yes, in hindsight the owl should have been moved out of his reach, by now you will have guessed that one day it came crashing down. The glass dome shattered, but the owl was intact. My husband said we need to find a new dome and it would be a good idea to get the owl cleaned. Reluctantly, I agreed but where could we get it done? I had no idea where to take it and there was no Internet or Google back then. However, it so happened that a client was able to give me details of a taxidermist whom they considered able to do the job. I contacted him and we drove some distance into the countryside. It was a horrid place and I cannot begin to explain how it made me feel to see dead animals lined up and ready for the mysterious process of taxidermy. I returned to the car, leaving Peter to explain. Weeks went by eventually turning into months whilst I secretly hoped we'd never hear from the man again. Then came a phone call. The message was, we have your blue budgie ready for collection. Aghast, I explained that our item was an owl. An awkward moment followed as the caller was clearly embarrassed. I agreed we could wait a little longer while he looked into the "error". To this day we've not heard another word from him. To my relief, Peter never pursued the matter, thank goodness! Carol Hipkin |
A Mashing Time
Don’t ask me why; I mean I was brought up on the bland looking, tasteless diet; apart from bread. I only attempted to eat it once at school, that was the day all ten year olds had to consume school dinner on the school premises; the day we all sat the 11 PLUS. The LEA must have thought they had super human beings, at that time. The rest of the school were given the day off, while we took the exam; we weren't allowed to go home for lunch or take sandwiches; did they think we were going to smuggle revision pieces and answers in between our egg butties? Maybe they thought the stress of the exam would freak us out and we wouldn’t go back after lunch? I doubt that; children’s mental health wasn’t considered in those days. That day all I remember was the awful lumps and water that seeped out of the dollop on my plate at lunchtime; Yuk. ‘Eat up,’ the dinner lady insisted, ‘its going to be a long afternoon, and you need brain food!’ There were no lumps in Mum's, but it didn’t help my distaste for it, even with loads of butter (marg.) or gravy. It was served with most meals, unless we had chips. Even on a Sunday we had it along with the roast potatoes, accompanying the meat and two vegetables. I always minced around the pale, tasteless boring stuff. Even when my cousin tried to introduce me to Cheese and Potato pie; OMG, what was that all about? Mash and grated cheese. Gag! But now I do it happily for family and friends who groan heartily, ‘Oh Mum, your mash is simply the best.’ I must admit occasionally I will add the odd scoop on to my plate these days and dip into tomato sauce. But give me sweet potato mash any day. Cora Boffey |
Sport
I hate boxing. Where is the sense in thumping an opponent senseless? How much hate must there be to not care if you hit someone so hard that they end up with a life changing injury? I like most sports and can understand how a crowd can get on board with their side winning – being part of a team – winning trophies for skill and talent. But boxing is a real turn off for me. Even the language describing this barbaric act is all about violence and aggression. Punching, striking, brawl and combat. Crowds of spectators often get so emotionally involved that they end up fighting too. In a recent fight security and bodyguards were involved as a massive punch up came after a split decision on the result. Fighters can suffer from Punch Drunk syndrome, boxers brain or dementia pugilistica – CTE as they are collectively called. (chronic traumatic encephalopathy ) caused by repeated concussions from blows to the head. It is estimated that around 20% of professional boxers have this condition- but the true number may be much higher. Kids as young as fifteen are encouraged to learn fighting as a means of self defence, but even just sparring in an amateur ring can lead to brain damage. Persistent brain traumas have also been linked to symptoms of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson in later life. Now women are also experiencing this thrill – but that is a complete anathema to me. Andie Green |
Deadline: 3rd October
Brief: pop this little phrase into a piece of writing – fact or fiction: …so many vacancies…
Brief: pop this little phrase into a piece of writing – fact or fiction: …so many vacancies…
Work Shy - a Triolet
I see so many vacancies, I don’t want to work at all. My mojo has forsaken me. I see so many vacancies, I could call all the agencies Or phone the job ads on the wall. I see so many vacancies, I don’t want to work at all. Maggie Storer |
So Many Vacancies
So many vacancies... they mount up over the years... each vacancy makes a little hole in my life. I don't mean the vacancies that you see in the situations vacant columns, or a hand-written notice in the chippy, "assistant required for evening shift", such vacancies are of little consequence to me. I'm talking about friends and family, those who have beaten me to the mythological golden gates. I have a little folder full of orders of service handed out at the funerals of people who have been part of my life. I'm about to wheel out a well worn cliché here, and I mean it sincerely when I say, 'gone but not forgotten.' These scraps of paper represent family and friends with whom I've spent happy times - I keep them close, tidily filed in departure date order. They live on a cosy shelf of the oak bookcase in our dining room. In recent times vacancies are occurring with greater frequency, my folder is getting full. I often take them out, leaf through them to have a quiet thought of loved ones who have gone, leaving me earthbound for the time being. For a moment or so they are back with me to fill the little vacancies left by their absence. Right now I'm wondering how many vacancies will I leave behind when I reach the point of no return? Betty Taylor |
So many vacancies
Beth had been a widow for two years now, it was time to let go and get on with her life. Enjoy, that’s what Tom would have said. Their only child, Grace, was now at university in her final year of business studies. Tom had never wanted Beth to work, after they were married. He took her on many of his business trips abroad and she enjoyed travelling with him. It had been a good life. Beth had been a typist in his family company when they met, and love had blossomed at first sight.
She felt the need for a challenge, a purpose. Today she was meeting her school friend Jayne, they had been friends for forty years, they were having lunch at the garden centre. It was mid-July everything would be in bloom; it was lovely warm sunny day; the smell of the roses filled her nostril as she entered the garden area. Her thoughts were perhaps I could get a part time job here.
They had always had a gardener; Beth had only looked after the tubs on the patio and two hanging baskets each summer. This gave her pleasure. so perhaps it’s a possibility.
Her friend, Jayne, was writing a book, it was a psychological thriller. Beth had been privileged to read a few chapters and found the characters very interesting, she had wished to read more. But she never pushed the issue and only occasionally asked how the book progressing. Today she would ask. Jayne frowned looking at her mournfully. She told Beth the book was finished, part typed up, and the rest in long hand she continued. I keep telling myself it’s now or never. Main problem is I type slowly so maybe it’s time to shelve it.
Beth said, 'that’s sad, I used to be very quick at typing I could do 100 words per minute. I would type it for you.' The novel, entitled Damaged Tomorrows, was published in May 2019 and became a best seller. To her delight Jayne Has now been approached regarding filming rights. This is definitely cause for a celebration.
Carol Hipkin
Beth had been a widow for two years now, it was time to let go and get on with her life. Enjoy, that’s what Tom would have said. Their only child, Grace, was now at university in her final year of business studies. Tom had never wanted Beth to work, after they were married. He took her on many of his business trips abroad and she enjoyed travelling with him. It had been a good life. Beth had been a typist in his family company when they met, and love had blossomed at first sight.
She felt the need for a challenge, a purpose. Today she was meeting her school friend Jayne, they had been friends for forty years, they were having lunch at the garden centre. It was mid-July everything would be in bloom; it was lovely warm sunny day; the smell of the roses filled her nostril as she entered the garden area. Her thoughts were perhaps I could get a part time job here.
They had always had a gardener; Beth had only looked after the tubs on the patio and two hanging baskets each summer. This gave her pleasure. so perhaps it’s a possibility.
Her friend, Jayne, was writing a book, it was a psychological thriller. Beth had been privileged to read a few chapters and found the characters very interesting, she had wished to read more. But she never pushed the issue and only occasionally asked how the book progressing. Today she would ask. Jayne frowned looking at her mournfully. She told Beth the book was finished, part typed up, and the rest in long hand she continued. I keep telling myself it’s now or never. Main problem is I type slowly so maybe it’s time to shelve it.
Beth said, 'that’s sad, I used to be very quick at typing I could do 100 words per minute. I would type it for you.' The novel, entitled Damaged Tomorrows, was published in May 2019 and became a best seller. To her delight Jayne Has now been approached regarding filming rights. This is definitely cause for a celebration.
Carol Hipkin
So many vacancies
John and Mary had run the bed and breakfast on the sea front for thirty years. They had seven rooms, four of which were en suite, rooms five and six shared a bathroom and the attic room was snug at the top of the house, empty and always waiting. Of the six guest houses along their stretch opposite the promenade, most were very busy from May to September- the ‘No Vacancy’ signs displayed under the names of Sea View, Ocean Breeze, but always just one ‘vacancy’ notice in the window of Beach House. Matty and Rob, newlyweds from the city, arrived on the late train one Saturday night in the middle of June. A spontaneous couple who caught the first train to the coast determined to start married life with an adventure. Matty groaned as all the guest houses appeared full. ‘Dad said we’d have trouble finding a bed this week’ she began, ‘Something about it being regatta week?’ ‘This end house has a Vacancy notice in the upstairs front window, though it looks a bit tatty’. Rob gave two sharp knocks on the red door. Mary greeted him and ushered the couple into the hallway. ‘Sorry lovelies we’re full - it’s Regatta week. Most folk book ages in advance’ ‘But your sign says vacancy,’ pleaded Matty’ ‘we’ve been searching for an hour.’ ‘Well, that’s the attic room where my daughter used to live.. we keep it ready in case she returns..’ The couple sensed the sorrow in this statement ‘But,’ Mary continued, ‘you can have it tonight. Mind there’s only a wash basin and you’ll have to use the toilet on the first floor landing.’ The couple bounded up the stairs before she finished and landed giggling on the fluffy eiderdown. ‘Well I just hope the runaway daughter doesn’t come home tonight’ ( To be continued… ) Andie Green |
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So Many Vacancies
So many vacancies, but could you trust any? They all seemed too good to be true
.
"Wanted, mature person to look after three children, during school vacation. Nanny provided.
Holiday around the Greek Islands, must be a good traveller. Ref. 45674B"
"Arabian Royal Family requires English speaking Nanny, young at heart; with a cultural understanding,
stipulates rules, regular routine and good manners.
Children – boy four years old and six year old twin girls. Ref. 764962X"
The list was endless in The Lady and Sir magazines. I’d got full qualifications and experience for: Norland Nanny, Nursery Nurse, Child Psychology, Baby Yoga, Placements in schools; private and state education; worked for two football stars; I could apply. So many vacancies; I’d got nothing to lose.
I emailed the address and gave the reference number for the Greek Island job, I could manage six weeks.
The got the interview, in London the following Monday, at 2.30pm at the Savoy.
I’d got plenty of time to catch the train from Birmingham, without having to stay over night.
I travelled in an old pair of joggers and t shirt, I got changed in the loo on Euston station, I was going to dump my old clothes in a bin, but decided to give them to a rough sleeper; I wouldn't show anyone a crease or a flaw in my attire.
The last time I’d been to the Savoy was for afternoon tea, for my mum's 60th birthday. What would she say now; me sat waiting to be interviewed for a job, for some business tycoon's children; escorting and playing with them on the Greek Islands for six weeks. ‘So many vacancies Lucy, I think they make these jobs up to fill the pages in the magazine. I’ve never heard of anyone getting a job from the magazine, have you Lucy?’ I can hear her now.
She’d be tickled pink to know I’d got this far at least, I thought to myself as I sat in the beautiful foyer, with it’s amazing ostentatious, floral arrangement, it’s highly scented perfumed flowers. The Jasmine with its slightly animalistic edge that filled the air with it’s tenacious musky aroma, combined the feminine sweetness and masculine wickedness, reminding me of my roaming days in the Orient.
‘LUCY WALLACE’ I looked up to see a very efficient lady looking down at me.
‘Yes, that’s me.’ I stood up to acknowledge the woman.
‘If you follow me, I’ll take you up to the interview suite.’
I followed her, straightening my skirt and holding my portfolio tightly. The woman joined her accomplice behind the big oak desk. ‘Take a seat Miss Wallace,’ my escort said.
My goodness, I did feel important, I almost giggled out-loud.
‘We were very impressed with your CV and the work you have done, Miss Wallace, along with excellent references. Tell us how you would structure three children's day, on their journey from port to port, on the yacht?’
I had my answer ready for them, with ideas and theories, I didn't leave a pebble unturned. After a twenty five minute interview, I was asked to take a seat back downstairs. Ten minutes later, I was called back to the interview suite.
So many vacancies; and I got the job.
Cora Boffey
Deadline: 19th September
Brief: Look through your poetry books. Find a shortish poem and write an extra verse (stanza). When selecting a poem you can choose any form, blank verse, free verse, rhyme, limerick etc. Follow the form and rhyme scheme of the original. Stay with the original topic and write a new verse.
Brief: Look through your poetry books. Find a shortish poem and write an extra verse (stanza). When selecting a poem you can choose any form, blank verse, free verse, rhyme, limerick etc. Follow the form and rhyme scheme of the original. Stay with the original topic and write a new verse.
Dreams
by Langston Hughes Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken, winged-bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow. _____________________________________ Hold fast to dreams For your dreams believe Life is a gamble - roulette wheel With diligence achieve. Cora Boffey _____________________________________ How to Get on in Society by John Betjeman Phone for the fish knives, Norman As cook is a little unnerved; You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes And I must have things daintily served. Are the requisites all in the toilet? The frills round the cutlets can wait Till the girl has replenished the cruets And switched on the logs in the grate. It's ever so close in the lounge dear, But the vestibule's comfy for tea And Howard is riding on horseback So do come and take some with me Now here is a fork for your pastries And do use the couch for your feet; I know that I wanted to ask you- Is trifle sufficient for sweet? Milk and then just as it comes dear? I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones; Beg pardon, I'm soiling the doyley's With afternoon tea-cakes and scones. _____________________________________ I’m taking up Betjeman’s story About Norman, fish knives, and tea, His Ma's dainty jam spoons and china Were inherited by Norman you see. Norman’s wife thought them outmoded, Rather fusty and no longer chic, She doesn’t do napkins nor doyleys, She likes minimal, modern, and sleek. She ignores the flowery bone china, The fish knives never see light of day, She doesn’t use crisply starched linen, Such a practical girl, one may say. Betty Taylor _____________________________________ |
Silver
by Walter de la Mare Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon; This way, and that, she peers, and sees Silver fruit upon silver trees; One by one the casements catch Her beams beneath the silvery thatch; Couched in his kennel, like a log; With paws of silver sleeps the dog; From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep; A harvest mouse goes scampering by, With silver claws and silver eye; And moveless fish in the water gleam, By silver reeds in a silver stream. _______________________________________ Fox streaks white from moon so pale; From silver chest to white-tipped tail; The silver night owl seeks his prey Under the luminous moonbeam’s ray; Silver stars peep through misty gloom, Slowly, silently, now the moon. Maggie Storer _______________________________________ Moon
by Kathleen Jamie what do you mean entering my study like a curiosity shop, stroking in mild concern the telescope mounted on its tripod, the books, the attic stair? You who rise by night, who draw the inescapable world closer, a touch, to your gaze-why query me? What’s mine is yours; but you’ve no more need of those implements than a deer has, browsing in a glade. Moon, your work- worn face bright outside unnerves me. Please be on your way. _______________________________________ I see you still, cloud shadowed, your beautiful aura distracts me still, please respect my own shadow light. Go now, before the Dawn. Andie Green _______________________________________ |
The Thought Fox
by Ted Hughes I imagine this midnight moment's forest: Something else is alive Beside the clock's loneliness And this blank page where my fingers move. Through the window I see no star: Something more near Though deeper within darkness Is entering the loneliness: Cold, delicately as the dark snow A fox's nose touches twig, leaf; Two eyes serve a movement, that now And again now, and now, and now Sets neat prints into the snow Between trees, and warily a lame Shadow lags by stump and in hollow Of a body that is bold to come Across clearings, an eye, A widening deepening greenness, Brilliantly, concentratedly, Coming about its own business Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox It enters the dark hole of the head. The window is starless still; the clock ticks, The page is printed. ____________________________________ Suddenly against the window Eyes glistening a shadow in the snow Staring in wonder heart pounding Then gone a misty haze in the moonlight Carol Hipkin ____________________________________ |
Deadline: 25th July
Brief: Fact or Fiction... select a notable character who is the main protagonist in a myth, legend, or factual historical event. You are that character. Writing in first person, begin with “I, character name, …"
Now tell us something of your life experiences, we'd love to hear your side of the story.
Brief: Fact or Fiction... select a notable character who is the main protagonist in a myth, legend, or factual historical event. You are that character. Writing in first person, begin with “I, character name, …"
Now tell us something of your life experiences, we'd love to hear your side of the story.
The Love of my Life
I, Charlotte Brontë, and my sister, Emily, travelled to Brussels in 1842 to enrol in a boarding school. We hoped to improve our skills in languages. To pay for our board and lodgings I tutored students in English and Emily taught Music. Our time there, although enjoyable, was cut short when our aunt, Elizabeth Branwell, died suddenly and we had to rush back to England. A year later I returned alone to take up a teaching post at the same school. I was excited to be returning. My thoughts of meeting up again with Constantin Herger, who ran the school with his wife were playing on my mind. My feelings for Mr Herger must be kept secret. He was a married man and I had met his wife, Claire, and their six children. They ran the school together. I was lonely and missed my sister, Emily, so any time I could spend with Constantin was precious. We became deeply attached, but keeping our clandestine relationship hidden was becoming a strain. I was homesick too, and realised that as much as I didn’t want to admit, our relationship could not continue. I returned home in 1844. My stay in Brussels inspired me to write The Professor and Villette. We wrote to each other for a while, but often he would not return my letters. I expect he felt guilty because he was a married man. But Herger was my first true love, and my later marriage to Arthur Bell Nicholls was out of duty rather than love. He was my father’s curate, but father was not keen on the union, not least because of his financial status. He didn’t come to my wedding to give me away and that was very sad. Arthur and I settled down together and found companionship. I often wonder what could have been if Herger had been free to marry me and what a different life I would have led. Maggie Storer |
Stand and deliver….
I am Dick Turpin. You may of heard of me, but I’m betting your version was glamourized to paint me as a romantic villain. Well that was a thousand miles of thundering hooves away from my real life. I started out as a butcher which made me handy with a knife, so it seemed only natural to do a spot of poaching on the side. The notorious Gregory gang were the ones who taught me how to be a real villain. We terrorised the roads and highways of Essex. Horses and carriages were easy prey to ambush and rob the wealthy of anything and everything – jewellery – watches- anything that shone or jangled. We showed no mercy to these powdered and coiffed fine and dandy ladies & gents. After a fair old time of robbing and rampaging the law caught up with us, but I escaped when the others were caught. That’s how I became a true highwayman – a ruthless and violent villain. I palled up with a mate called Matt King to rob at gunpoint. Our horses outrode any that accompanied the carriages, and no, my horse was not called Black Bess. That’s another romantic myth to cover up the truth of my villainous heart. I shot not one but two men dead and was the source of much pain and many tears. How I met my end is not widely known or romanticised. I ran away to Yorkshire and changed my name to John Palmer and was sent to prison for stealing chickens. I wrote to my family pleading my innocence but, the postman was none other than the one who taught me how to write!, so he recognised my hand. He knew I’d lied and declared ‘that’s not John Palmer’s hand! That is Dick Turpin’s !’ That was the end of my ‘glamorous highwayman’ legend. Don’t aspire to be like me. It’s no fun hanging out with a highwayman - you’ll end up hanging from a rope… Andie Green. |
Everyone’s Darling
I, Grace Horsley Darling, am a most unlikely heroine. I say heroine hesitatingly but that’s what people call me. I believe I just did my duty, helped my father and fellow men, as God taught us. I never looked for nor expected the attention I received. In fact, it quite frightened me. But let me tell you my story.
I was born in 1815, the seventh of nine children born to William and Thomasin. My father is the lighthouse keeper. I was born in Bamburgh, Northumberland but when I was just a few weeks old we went to live on Brownsman, one of the Farne islands, where we stayed until 1826 when we moved to a new lighthouse on Longstone Island.
In the early hours of 7 September 1838 my father spotted the wreck of the Forfarshire, which had run onto rocks, split in half and sunk. He could see survivors on Big Harcar, a nearby rocky island. We knew that the weather was too severe for the lifeboat to launch from Seahouses so we launched our coble (rowing boat). It took nearly an hour to reach the survivors, so strong was the wind and the tide. Father climbed onto the rocks which meant I had to handle the boat by myself.
I held the boat steady as I had been taught. I assure you my terror was great but I put all thoughts for myself out of my mind and concentrated hard on keeping the boat steady because I knew that would mean the difference between life and death for so many. I prayed hard and mercifully God heard me.
We were able to save the nine survivors. I learned later that there were 62 people on the Forfarshire and there will never be a day when I do not remember and mourn those who perished and I weep for their families.
As word of the rescue broke, the story was published in the newspapers and read by many influential people. This meant I had opportunities which were beyond my imagination. Both father and I received medals. So many people wanted to visit me, to paint my portrait, to receive a lock of my hair, they sent letters, gifts and donations and, would you believe it, Queen Victoria even sent me £50! The Duke of Northumberland has appointed himself as my guardian and set up a trust for me. I blush to say it but I have even received proposals of marriage. People were very kind but it was overwhelming and I wore myself out writing thank you letters.
But I never sought these attentions. I love my family and was content with the life we led. I miss the waves and working in the lighthouse and if I could have just one wish, I would dearly love to return now to that simple way of life. I feel that I am caught in a whirlwind of activity; so many want me and expect me to be what I am not. I am trapped by people’s expectations and I cannot escape without disappointing so many.
Who would have believed this could happen to a simple lighthouse keeper’s daughter?
Grace did not return to her old life. Sadly, she was taken ill whilst visiting the mainland and although The Duchess of Northumberland arranged for Grace to be cared for at Alnwick Castle, she died of tuberculosis on 20 October 1842, aged just 26. Hundreds of people attended her funeral and she is buried in the churchyard of St Aidan’s Church. The Church has a stained-glass window in her memory and there is a monument in the west end of the Churchyard.
Linda Birch
I, Grace Horsley Darling, am a most unlikely heroine. I say heroine hesitatingly but that’s what people call me. I believe I just did my duty, helped my father and fellow men, as God taught us. I never looked for nor expected the attention I received. In fact, it quite frightened me. But let me tell you my story.
I was born in 1815, the seventh of nine children born to William and Thomasin. My father is the lighthouse keeper. I was born in Bamburgh, Northumberland but when I was just a few weeks old we went to live on Brownsman, one of the Farne islands, where we stayed until 1826 when we moved to a new lighthouse on Longstone Island.
In the early hours of 7 September 1838 my father spotted the wreck of the Forfarshire, which had run onto rocks, split in half and sunk. He could see survivors on Big Harcar, a nearby rocky island. We knew that the weather was too severe for the lifeboat to launch from Seahouses so we launched our coble (rowing boat). It took nearly an hour to reach the survivors, so strong was the wind and the tide. Father climbed onto the rocks which meant I had to handle the boat by myself.
I held the boat steady as I had been taught. I assure you my terror was great but I put all thoughts for myself out of my mind and concentrated hard on keeping the boat steady because I knew that would mean the difference between life and death for so many. I prayed hard and mercifully God heard me.
We were able to save the nine survivors. I learned later that there were 62 people on the Forfarshire and there will never be a day when I do not remember and mourn those who perished and I weep for their families.
As word of the rescue broke, the story was published in the newspapers and read by many influential people. This meant I had opportunities which were beyond my imagination. Both father and I received medals. So many people wanted to visit me, to paint my portrait, to receive a lock of my hair, they sent letters, gifts and donations and, would you believe it, Queen Victoria even sent me £50! The Duke of Northumberland has appointed himself as my guardian and set up a trust for me. I blush to say it but I have even received proposals of marriage. People were very kind but it was overwhelming and I wore myself out writing thank you letters.
But I never sought these attentions. I love my family and was content with the life we led. I miss the waves and working in the lighthouse and if I could have just one wish, I would dearly love to return now to that simple way of life. I feel that I am caught in a whirlwind of activity; so many want me and expect me to be what I am not. I am trapped by people’s expectations and I cannot escape without disappointing so many.
Who would have believed this could happen to a simple lighthouse keeper’s daughter?
Grace did not return to her old life. Sadly, she was taken ill whilst visiting the mainland and although The Duchess of Northumberland arranged for Grace to be cared for at Alnwick Castle, she died of tuberculosis on 20 October 1842, aged just 26. Hundreds of people attended her funeral and she is buried in the churchyard of St Aidan’s Church. The Church has a stained-glass window in her memory and there is a monument in the west end of the Churchyard.
Linda Birch
Codsall 3rd May1948
I, Thomas William Jones, am verger at St Nicholas Church, Codsall. I’ve lost count of the number of years I’ve held this position and my father was verger before me. I’m proud of our contribution to the community. Father is long gone of course, but I think of him as I face today’s big event with some trepidation. Firstly we are not used to such crowds in our little backwater. Police are out in force, they’re patrolling the area and checking the churchyard as a safety measure. The press and the BBC are here too, we’ve never seen anything like it in these parts.
There’s excitement in the air, but excitement is not a good word to use in this instance, but after all the publicity and newspaper reports there’s certainly an atmosphere of anticipation and speculation.
I’ve closed the workshop for the day. I need to give my attention to the occasion. The Vicar has been fussing, and we all have to be on our toes, everything will be strictly timed and the cortege will arrive on the dot. But we’ll be ready. After all, Mr Farran was a local man and it is a very tragic story. A bomb indeed! A bomb here in Codsall. Rex Farran was killed by a booby-trap bomb intended for his brother Roy, damaging the family home at Histons Hill. I read in the paper that they still don’t know for sure who sent the bomb. They say the bomb was intended for Rex's brother, Roy. I also think of the girls in the post office, Joan Roberts, who handled the parcel in the sorting office, and Eileen Hayes who delivered it, both local women just doing their job, I hope they won’t be haunted by the fact that they had an innocent hand it it all.
Mr Roy Farran served in Palestine during the war, – it was from this area that the bomb was sent. Mr Farran’s role in Palestine was all hush-hush stuff; army, espionage, terrorists and that sort of thing. I doubt we’ll ever know the truth of it all. Sadly, and with both brothers having the initial R, the wrong man opened the parcel.
It’s been the only topic of conversation in recent weeks and I guess it’ll be around for years to come. We're only just out of the war years, as if we haven't had enough tales of tragedy. I’ll be glad when things quieten down again and all I’ll have to think about is getting on with mending shoes in my little cobbler’s shop in Church Road.
Betty Taylor
I, Thomas William Jones, am verger at St Nicholas Church, Codsall. I’ve lost count of the number of years I’ve held this position and my father was verger before me. I’m proud of our contribution to the community. Father is long gone of course, but I think of him as I face today’s big event with some trepidation. Firstly we are not used to such crowds in our little backwater. Police are out in force, they’re patrolling the area and checking the churchyard as a safety measure. The press and the BBC are here too, we’ve never seen anything like it in these parts.
There’s excitement in the air, but excitement is not a good word to use in this instance, but after all the publicity and newspaper reports there’s certainly an atmosphere of anticipation and speculation.
I’ve closed the workshop for the day. I need to give my attention to the occasion. The Vicar has been fussing, and we all have to be on our toes, everything will be strictly timed and the cortege will arrive on the dot. But we’ll be ready. After all, Mr Farran was a local man and it is a very tragic story. A bomb indeed! A bomb here in Codsall. Rex Farran was killed by a booby-trap bomb intended for his brother Roy, damaging the family home at Histons Hill. I read in the paper that they still don’t know for sure who sent the bomb. They say the bomb was intended for Rex's brother, Roy. I also think of the girls in the post office, Joan Roberts, who handled the parcel in the sorting office, and Eileen Hayes who delivered it, both local women just doing their job, I hope they won’t be haunted by the fact that they had an innocent hand it it all.
Mr Roy Farran served in Palestine during the war, – it was from this area that the bomb was sent. Mr Farran’s role in Palestine was all hush-hush stuff; army, espionage, terrorists and that sort of thing. I doubt we’ll ever know the truth of it all. Sadly, and with both brothers having the initial R, the wrong man opened the parcel.
It’s been the only topic of conversation in recent weeks and I guess it’ll be around for years to come. We're only just out of the war years, as if we haven't had enough tales of tragedy. I’ll be glad when things quieten down again and all I’ll have to think about is getting on with mending shoes in my little cobbler’s shop in Church Road.
Betty Taylor
Deadline: 11th July
Brief: Write a piece (fact or fiction) involving a weather event i.e. drought, thunder storm, snow, heatwave, high winds etc. The action takes place with a backdrop of extreme weather.
Brief: Write a piece (fact or fiction) involving a weather event i.e. drought, thunder storm, snow, heatwave, high winds etc. The action takes place with a backdrop of extreme weather.
The Pleasure Beach
My name is Jenny and this is a true story that happened to me and my sister when I was 15 and Helen was 12.
We arrived at Sunnyside Pleasure Beach the second day of our holiday on the North East coast. We couldn’t wait to have a go on the machines at the amusement arcade. At the claw machine we failed to win a teddy bear, which slipped from the steel grasp. Outside we could hear the rain pattering on the corrugated roof.
I wanted to ride on the Big Wheel, and Helen said she would come with me even though she hated heights. We left mum and dad at the gate below and climbed together into the seat where a steel bar was slotted in front of us. At this point the rain started to come down heavier, but we were on our way, so no going back.
I sat stock still. I dare not move an inch and Helen grasped my hand so tightly, her nails dug into my skin. We went round once, relaxing just a little as we accustomed ourselves to the height.
On the second round the wind and rain suddenly hurled around us, shaking the wheel and rocking our seat. We screamed, but the wheel kept turning. No one heard our screams, or maybe the operator thought we were enjoying the ride. We weren’t.
A sudden gust shifted our seat and a cranking of steel against steel sounded in a terrifying shudder as we came to a stop very near the top of the wheel. The rain was now pouring from a dark sky and a flash of lightening cracked against the iron wheel. We were truly terrified. Our screams were lost in the gale which roared around us. Why weren’t we moving? Did the operator know we were stuck? We shouted and screamed, our voices soundless and lost as a crack of thunder vibrated the air.
We must have been stationary for at least ten minutes before the seat jerked into a swinging movement as we started to turn again. As we reached the bottom we assumed we would surely stop and be released from our hell. We waved frantically at the operator. He just waved back. Even mum and dad were smiling and waving.
Again we seemed to emerge into a grey cloud which drenched us once again and battered us against our seat. We could see nothing below us and again we shuddered to a stop. We thought we would never be released from our caged prison.
As we travelled down again we were determined to be heard. ‘Stop’, we shouted. ‘Let us out’. We came to a natural stop and after we were released, ran to mum and dad, both of us shaking and crying. They seemed surprised and unconcerned. The sun was out and we were soon dry. I’m sure they never believed our story.
We glanced back at the wheel as we walked away. The top was completely enveloped in mist. I’m sure something unearthly happened to us on that day. Needless to say, neither of us ever went on a big wheel again.
Maggie Storer
My name is Jenny and this is a true story that happened to me and my sister when I was 15 and Helen was 12.
We arrived at Sunnyside Pleasure Beach the second day of our holiday on the North East coast. We couldn’t wait to have a go on the machines at the amusement arcade. At the claw machine we failed to win a teddy bear, which slipped from the steel grasp. Outside we could hear the rain pattering on the corrugated roof.
I wanted to ride on the Big Wheel, and Helen said she would come with me even though she hated heights. We left mum and dad at the gate below and climbed together into the seat where a steel bar was slotted in front of us. At this point the rain started to come down heavier, but we were on our way, so no going back.
I sat stock still. I dare not move an inch and Helen grasped my hand so tightly, her nails dug into my skin. We went round once, relaxing just a little as we accustomed ourselves to the height.
On the second round the wind and rain suddenly hurled around us, shaking the wheel and rocking our seat. We screamed, but the wheel kept turning. No one heard our screams, or maybe the operator thought we were enjoying the ride. We weren’t.
A sudden gust shifted our seat and a cranking of steel against steel sounded in a terrifying shudder as we came to a stop very near the top of the wheel. The rain was now pouring from a dark sky and a flash of lightening cracked against the iron wheel. We were truly terrified. Our screams were lost in the gale which roared around us. Why weren’t we moving? Did the operator know we were stuck? We shouted and screamed, our voices soundless and lost as a crack of thunder vibrated the air.
We must have been stationary for at least ten minutes before the seat jerked into a swinging movement as we started to turn again. As we reached the bottom we assumed we would surely stop and be released from our hell. We waved frantically at the operator. He just waved back. Even mum and dad were smiling and waving.
Again we seemed to emerge into a grey cloud which drenched us once again and battered us against our seat. We could see nothing below us and again we shuddered to a stop. We thought we would never be released from our caged prison.
As we travelled down again we were determined to be heard. ‘Stop’, we shouted. ‘Let us out’. We came to a natural stop and after we were released, ran to mum and dad, both of us shaking and crying. They seemed surprised and unconcerned. The sun was out and we were soon dry. I’m sure they never believed our story.
We glanced back at the wheel as we walked away. The top was completely enveloped in mist. I’m sure something unearthly happened to us on that day. Needless to say, neither of us ever went on a big wheel again.
Maggie Storer
The Disaster
Lightening never strikes in the same place twice – myth!
Like floods in my house weren't supposed to happen twice, but they did.
The house we’d lived in for eighteen years had two major flooding events.
It was a very hot humid summer, one of those the weather man says hasn’t happened for umpty-tumpt years. We hadn’t had rain for weeks. Then it happened, we came in from the garden when the midges decided to attack us. We switched on the TV in the front room about nine o’clock, it was then the heavens opened; thunder and lightening flashed across the sky. The house seemed to shudder with the claps and roars of the thunder all around us.
‘The garden needs this,’ came the echo from the arm chair, ‘mind you I wouldn’t fancy driving in it, it’s coming down in sheets; and you know what’s going to happen after the dry spell, the drains are going to get blocked up, no I wouldn't like to be driving in it; or out in it.’ Voice of weather knowledge.
We both stood up to watch it come hammering down, it wasn’t abating.
‘Our drive's getting a bit flooded,’ I commented.
‘Mmm...’ came the concerned reply, ‘I’ll go and take a look, maybe it’s the drain.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I heard the shout.
I ran to the front door, where water was rising over the top of the step, into the hall. Within minutes it was in the lounge, conservatory and kitchen; we opened the garage door, that was already well under three feet of water.
We looked out to our back lawn and garden, which now looked like a mini West Park lake. The water was rising rapidly throughout the downstairs and the garden.
I ran to get everything as high as I could; Important NVQ and Btec students' files I was marking, ready for end of term results. My God, if I’d have lost those, the students would have sent me up the river!
Dave was in the garden trying to locate the problem; I was running up and down the street; my husband now says, ‘she was hysterical, not the funny sort either.’
The storm was still coming, neighbours came to help, I remember the young lad opposite where we live, shouting ‘I’m here, come to help, what’s to be done?’ The next minute he’d disappeared, all I could see was the poor lad's head, pushing up through the manhole he’d disappeared down.
The fire brigade came to try and pump the water away, pointless until it stopped raining and they could find the source of the problem.
Someone shouted, ‘check the culvert,’ which was over the back of our garden, on the Nature Walk that runs from Tettenhall to Wombourne.
It was the culvert. Someone had put a lock on the iron grid for safety, because stupid youths were going down there. Consequently the metal grid could not push up in emergencies. The lock had to be smashed to release the gate. Who’s got the key? (council worker.)
After an hour an insurance assessor arrived and ripped up all the carpets to inspect the damage. I collected all the frogs that were floating round the lounge, put them in bucket and returned them to the nearby brook.
Two months later, the house was perfect, all damage sorted, new carpets, three piece suite re covered. Dave said, ‘I hate water, the damage it causes.’
Twenty four hours after that comment, the same thing happened again, the B council hadn’t done the repair properly on the culvert, after giving reassurance it wouldn't happen again!
Water can cause so much damage.
Cora Boffey
Lightening never strikes in the same place twice – myth!
Like floods in my house weren't supposed to happen twice, but they did.
The house we’d lived in for eighteen years had two major flooding events.
It was a very hot humid summer, one of those the weather man says hasn’t happened for umpty-tumpt years. We hadn’t had rain for weeks. Then it happened, we came in from the garden when the midges decided to attack us. We switched on the TV in the front room about nine o’clock, it was then the heavens opened; thunder and lightening flashed across the sky. The house seemed to shudder with the claps and roars of the thunder all around us.
‘The garden needs this,’ came the echo from the arm chair, ‘mind you I wouldn’t fancy driving in it, it’s coming down in sheets; and you know what’s going to happen after the dry spell, the drains are going to get blocked up, no I wouldn't like to be driving in it; or out in it.’ Voice of weather knowledge.
We both stood up to watch it come hammering down, it wasn’t abating.
‘Our drive's getting a bit flooded,’ I commented.
‘Mmm...’ came the concerned reply, ‘I’ll go and take a look, maybe it’s the drain.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I heard the shout.
I ran to the front door, where water was rising over the top of the step, into the hall. Within minutes it was in the lounge, conservatory and kitchen; we opened the garage door, that was already well under three feet of water.
We looked out to our back lawn and garden, which now looked like a mini West Park lake. The water was rising rapidly throughout the downstairs and the garden.
I ran to get everything as high as I could; Important NVQ and Btec students' files I was marking, ready for end of term results. My God, if I’d have lost those, the students would have sent me up the river!
Dave was in the garden trying to locate the problem; I was running up and down the street; my husband now says, ‘she was hysterical, not the funny sort either.’
The storm was still coming, neighbours came to help, I remember the young lad opposite where we live, shouting ‘I’m here, come to help, what’s to be done?’ The next minute he’d disappeared, all I could see was the poor lad's head, pushing up through the manhole he’d disappeared down.
The fire brigade came to try and pump the water away, pointless until it stopped raining and they could find the source of the problem.
Someone shouted, ‘check the culvert,’ which was over the back of our garden, on the Nature Walk that runs from Tettenhall to Wombourne.
It was the culvert. Someone had put a lock on the iron grid for safety, because stupid youths were going down there. Consequently the metal grid could not push up in emergencies. The lock had to be smashed to release the gate. Who’s got the key? (council worker.)
After an hour an insurance assessor arrived and ripped up all the carpets to inspect the damage. I collected all the frogs that were floating round the lounge, put them in bucket and returned them to the nearby brook.
Two months later, the house was perfect, all damage sorted, new carpets, three piece suite re covered. Dave said, ‘I hate water, the damage it causes.’
Twenty four hours after that comment, the same thing happened again, the B council hadn’t done the repair properly on the culvert, after giving reassurance it wouldn't happen again!
Water can cause so much damage.
Cora Boffey
The Great Storm
On the evening of 16th October 1987, we set out on a journey to Uxbridge, Middlesex. We booked into an hotel and had a light meal before bed.
What promised to be a quiet evening quickly morphed into a wild night. We lay awake listening to the increasing roar of the wind which, as the minutes ticked by, sounded more and more scary. I went to the window and saw a row of tall fir trees leaning at an acute angle as the wind hammered into them. At the same time the spooky trees writhed in all directions. They gripped the ground, hanging on as the wind tore at them trying to wrench their roots free. Next minute the power went off. We were in total darkness in an unfamiliar room and outside Armageddon raged in an atmosphere of sinister hostility.
I’ve since read that a storm of this magnitude is caused by a sudden drop in barometric pressure which can have an adverse affect on some; I think this is why Bern suddenly and inexplicably, felt ill. He floundered about in the dark in a rush for the bathroom. We spent an unpleasant sleepless night waiting for dawn while the tempest raged. Without TV and radio, we were oblivious of the fact that half the country had been ravaged, 16 million trees had been torn down, and the alarming wind we heard had reached 115 miles an hour. We had witnessed the worst storm since 1703.
Next morning, pale-faced, tired, unaware of the consequences of the night’s happenings, we gave breakfast a miss and mustered a hint of gung-ho to continue our journey to RAF Uxbridge. As faithful groupies we looked forward to watching our son’s third passing out parade. James aka Jay, was serving in the RAF Regiment and had applied for a posting to the Queen’s Colour Squadron. He met the required criteria, and with training completed, he was to take part in a passing out parade prior to embarking on a two-year stint of performing ceremonial duties around the world, including events in the UK. A sort of military show-biz situation. It’s obligatory that kit receives over-the-top attention: uniforms must fit as if sprayed on, hats wired and rigidly pristine, gloves and belts a blinding white, boots ‘bulled’ to within an inch of their leathery lives, brass buttons gleam, bayonets polished to a mirror finish, everything has to be immaculately “just so” or else!
On arrival at the guardhouse we were given directions to the parade ground. Surprisingly, only a handful of people had turned up to watch the spectacle. Then came an announcement explaining that due to the storm many people couldn’t make it, including the dignitaries scheduled to conduct the goings on. Having digested the news, our feeling of miffed would be putting it mildly. Flipping heck, we'd travelled several hundred miles from Staffordshire and the RAF bigwigs just up the road in London, couldn’t make it! Things were a bit up in the air as people flapped and fussed, everyone wondering do we leave, or do we hang on here?
Whilst the powers that be were ‘iffing’ and ‘butting’ I amused myself by taking a good look at the surroundings. RAF Uxbridge sported a magnificent parade ground. A large square bordered by handsome horse chestnut trees. They stood tall and strong, shoulder-to-shoulder on all four sides of the drill ground in true military fashion. Thanks to the previous night’s devastation, although the trees were undamaged, we were standing knee deep in conkers… well… ankle deep… thousands of fat shiny conkers were heaped around the perimeter of the square. I was tickled pink, the big brown beauties had popped out of their shells, smooth and shiny in the sunshine. I felt compelled to shuffle my feet through their mahogany loveliness – I was paddling in conkers. Apologies, I digress…
Eventually things got moving and the newest members of the Queen’s Colour Squadron performed a short drill accompanied by Central Band, members of which also call Uxbridge home. It was disappointing that the intended “do” had to be curtailed but, as we all know, “stuff happens”.
Time was moving on and we had one more call to make before heading home. James’s previous posting was RAF Odiham close to the village of Greywell where Lesley, his girlfriend lived. Her parents, whom we’d never met, had kindly invited us to dinner giving us an inkling that Lesley was going to be “the one”. It was early evening and dusk was falling. We had to dodge fallen branches, a dead deer, and various obstructions littered the lanes en route to Greywell making the journey arduous and slow.
The evening proved difficult for Lesley’s parents as they were without power and had to take emergency steps to produce a meal. The only light in the house was candlelight. We felt awkward as things were difficult for the hosts and Bern was still a bit queasy. We were both tired and neither of us could do justice to the food. I hoped that in the half-light no one would notice. That was our first meeting, one of many, with James’s in-laws, 35 years ago.
Betty Taylor
[ Note: The Meteorological Office described the 1987 weather event as an extratropical cyclone with hurricane force winds and declared it the worst storm since 1703. Statistically that means we should be good for another 249 years before another one blows up. Following the coronation of King Charles III the Queen’s Colour Squadron is now known as The King’s Colour Squadron.]
On the evening of 16th October 1987, we set out on a journey to Uxbridge, Middlesex. We booked into an hotel and had a light meal before bed.
What promised to be a quiet evening quickly morphed into a wild night. We lay awake listening to the increasing roar of the wind which, as the minutes ticked by, sounded more and more scary. I went to the window and saw a row of tall fir trees leaning at an acute angle as the wind hammered into them. At the same time the spooky trees writhed in all directions. They gripped the ground, hanging on as the wind tore at them trying to wrench their roots free. Next minute the power went off. We were in total darkness in an unfamiliar room and outside Armageddon raged in an atmosphere of sinister hostility.
I’ve since read that a storm of this magnitude is caused by a sudden drop in barometric pressure which can have an adverse affect on some; I think this is why Bern suddenly and inexplicably, felt ill. He floundered about in the dark in a rush for the bathroom. We spent an unpleasant sleepless night waiting for dawn while the tempest raged. Without TV and radio, we were oblivious of the fact that half the country had been ravaged, 16 million trees had been torn down, and the alarming wind we heard had reached 115 miles an hour. We had witnessed the worst storm since 1703.
Next morning, pale-faced, tired, unaware of the consequences of the night’s happenings, we gave breakfast a miss and mustered a hint of gung-ho to continue our journey to RAF Uxbridge. As faithful groupies we looked forward to watching our son’s third passing out parade. James aka Jay, was serving in the RAF Regiment and had applied for a posting to the Queen’s Colour Squadron. He met the required criteria, and with training completed, he was to take part in a passing out parade prior to embarking on a two-year stint of performing ceremonial duties around the world, including events in the UK. A sort of military show-biz situation. It’s obligatory that kit receives over-the-top attention: uniforms must fit as if sprayed on, hats wired and rigidly pristine, gloves and belts a blinding white, boots ‘bulled’ to within an inch of their leathery lives, brass buttons gleam, bayonets polished to a mirror finish, everything has to be immaculately “just so” or else!
On arrival at the guardhouse we were given directions to the parade ground. Surprisingly, only a handful of people had turned up to watch the spectacle. Then came an announcement explaining that due to the storm many people couldn’t make it, including the dignitaries scheduled to conduct the goings on. Having digested the news, our feeling of miffed would be putting it mildly. Flipping heck, we'd travelled several hundred miles from Staffordshire and the RAF bigwigs just up the road in London, couldn’t make it! Things were a bit up in the air as people flapped and fussed, everyone wondering do we leave, or do we hang on here?
Whilst the powers that be were ‘iffing’ and ‘butting’ I amused myself by taking a good look at the surroundings. RAF Uxbridge sported a magnificent parade ground. A large square bordered by handsome horse chestnut trees. They stood tall and strong, shoulder-to-shoulder on all four sides of the drill ground in true military fashion. Thanks to the previous night’s devastation, although the trees were undamaged, we were standing knee deep in conkers… well… ankle deep… thousands of fat shiny conkers were heaped around the perimeter of the square. I was tickled pink, the big brown beauties had popped out of their shells, smooth and shiny in the sunshine. I felt compelled to shuffle my feet through their mahogany loveliness – I was paddling in conkers. Apologies, I digress…
Eventually things got moving and the newest members of the Queen’s Colour Squadron performed a short drill accompanied by Central Band, members of which also call Uxbridge home. It was disappointing that the intended “do” had to be curtailed but, as we all know, “stuff happens”.
Time was moving on and we had one more call to make before heading home. James’s previous posting was RAF Odiham close to the village of Greywell where Lesley, his girlfriend lived. Her parents, whom we’d never met, had kindly invited us to dinner giving us an inkling that Lesley was going to be “the one”. It was early evening and dusk was falling. We had to dodge fallen branches, a dead deer, and various obstructions littered the lanes en route to Greywell making the journey arduous and slow.
The evening proved difficult for Lesley’s parents as they were without power and had to take emergency steps to produce a meal. The only light in the house was candlelight. We felt awkward as things were difficult for the hosts and Bern was still a bit queasy. We were both tired and neither of us could do justice to the food. I hoped that in the half-light no one would notice. That was our first meeting, one of many, with James’s in-laws, 35 years ago.
Betty Taylor
[ Note: The Meteorological Office described the 1987 weather event as an extratropical cyclone with hurricane force winds and declared it the worst storm since 1703. Statistically that means we should be good for another 249 years before another one blows up. Following the coronation of King Charles III the Queen’s Colour Squadron is now known as The King’s Colour Squadron.]
The Storm
With trepidation I crept along the landing on hands and knees. That deafening noise was coming from the east wing. As I approached the gold corridor the door at the far end screeched back on its hinges and immediately slammed shut again.
I tried to stand but my legs buckled as the force of the gale blowing across from the shattered casement sent me sprawling forward catching my head on the bannister. My hand came away from the gash warm and bloody... I must be strong, I screamed at myself... I must reach the east tower and check on the prisoner...
A terrifying anguished piercing scream whipped through the wind as it encircled the tower. Window fastenings shook free and forced more glass to splinter and fall. The moaning and screaming continued as the wind gave voice to the ancient construction, freeing crumbling masonry and corroded frames. I forced my body along the wet floorboards, realising the rain was seeping under the end door. The door banged open again but now it could not slam shut as the flow of freezing water poured through
I called out, then tried to listen for a voice, but the storm’s screams increased mocking and deafening. A fork of lightening illuminated the room before me, shocking me upright. The room appeared empty. The sparse wooden table and chair were thrown against the wall; the stream of rain carried paper and food debris. I steadied my body to stumble along the skirting to look over the shattered balcony, but as I reached it the floor gave way forcing me to fall with my legs one each side of the opening.
After an age I forced my right led back to help me lie with my head over where the balcony had been. Below as another fork cracked the sky lay his body mangled and still.
Andie Green
With trepidation I crept along the landing on hands and knees. That deafening noise was coming from the east wing. As I approached the gold corridor the door at the far end screeched back on its hinges and immediately slammed shut again.
I tried to stand but my legs buckled as the force of the gale blowing across from the shattered casement sent me sprawling forward catching my head on the bannister. My hand came away from the gash warm and bloody... I must be strong, I screamed at myself... I must reach the east tower and check on the prisoner...
A terrifying anguished piercing scream whipped through the wind as it encircled the tower. Window fastenings shook free and forced more glass to splinter and fall. The moaning and screaming continued as the wind gave voice to the ancient construction, freeing crumbling masonry and corroded frames. I forced my body along the wet floorboards, realising the rain was seeping under the end door. The door banged open again but now it could not slam shut as the flow of freezing water poured through
I called out, then tried to listen for a voice, but the storm’s screams increased mocking and deafening. A fork of lightening illuminated the room before me, shocking me upright. The room appeared empty. The sparse wooden table and chair were thrown against the wall; the stream of rain carried paper and food debris. I steadied my body to stumble along the skirting to look over the shattered balcony, but as I reached it the floor gave way forcing me to fall with my legs one each side of the opening.
After an age I forced my right led back to help me lie with my head over where the balcony had been. Below as another fork cracked the sky lay his body mangled and still.
Andie Green
Too Much Weather
The snow started to fall steadily from about three o’clock. We were watching from the office window and people began to drift away from their desks, finishing early to get home before the weather worsened. I decided to join them and, although I felt guilty as I slithered off across the car park, it was dark and I had a journey down narrow country lanes so it seemed reasonable to leave for home now.
I followed the traffic along the main road without much difficulty, keeping to a very low speed, but then I needed to turn off down onto the lanes. There was no street lighting. The wind had increased, driving the snow across the windscreen. It was mesmerizing, the rhythm of the wipers slapping across the glass, pulling me into a snow-covered fantasy world. I decided I would not be able to go any further in the car and it would be better to walk. I pulled into the side of the road and got out of the car. It felt like the force of the wind would rip off the car door. The wind took my breath away and it was freezing cold. I was afraid of the strength of the gale and knew that if I tried to walk the rest of the way I would not make it. I got back into the car and waited a while. This happened before mobile phones so I had no way of contacting anyone and no-one else was around.
The snow was still coming down but not so heavily so I decided to turn around and try to get back onto the main road. I could take a much longer route home but it would be on better roads. It took me well over an hour to complete a few miles. I was about a mile from home when a tractor loomed into view. Never has there been such a welcome sight! Without a word the driver got out of his cab, hooked up the front of my car, towed me along the road and deposited me on my drive. Such a relief and heartfelt thanks to the local farmer.
The following morning, we woke up to a generous covering of snow, up to the top of the hedgerows in several places where the wind had gusted, making the lane impassable. The power cables were down so we had no electricity for three days. This episode certainly reinforced for me how powerless we really are in the face of nature.
Linda Birch
The snow started to fall steadily from about three o’clock. We were watching from the office window and people began to drift away from their desks, finishing early to get home before the weather worsened. I decided to join them and, although I felt guilty as I slithered off across the car park, it was dark and I had a journey down narrow country lanes so it seemed reasonable to leave for home now.
I followed the traffic along the main road without much difficulty, keeping to a very low speed, but then I needed to turn off down onto the lanes. There was no street lighting. The wind had increased, driving the snow across the windscreen. It was mesmerizing, the rhythm of the wipers slapping across the glass, pulling me into a snow-covered fantasy world. I decided I would not be able to go any further in the car and it would be better to walk. I pulled into the side of the road and got out of the car. It felt like the force of the wind would rip off the car door. The wind took my breath away and it was freezing cold. I was afraid of the strength of the gale and knew that if I tried to walk the rest of the way I would not make it. I got back into the car and waited a while. This happened before mobile phones so I had no way of contacting anyone and no-one else was around.
The snow was still coming down but not so heavily so I decided to turn around and try to get back onto the main road. I could take a much longer route home but it would be on better roads. It took me well over an hour to complete a few miles. I was about a mile from home when a tractor loomed into view. Never has there been such a welcome sight! Without a word the driver got out of his cab, hooked up the front of my car, towed me along the road and deposited me on my drive. Such a relief and heartfelt thanks to the local farmer.
The following morning, we woke up to a generous covering of snow, up to the top of the hedgerows in several places where the wind had gusted, making the lane impassable. The power cables were down so we had no electricity for three days. This episode certainly reinforced for me how powerless we really are in the face of nature.
Linda Birch
Deadline: 27th June
Brief: Write a monologue in which a character vents her rage. Vary the tone of the character’s voice. Instead of one long rant, soften the voice, add a touch of humour. Perhaps the entire monologue can be delivered quietly, the rage bubbling just below the surface.
Brief: Write a monologue in which a character vents her rage. Vary the tone of the character’s voice. Instead of one long rant, soften the voice, add a touch of humour. Perhaps the entire monologue can be delivered quietly, the rage bubbling just below the surface.
Are You Listening?
I hope you're listening to me; it’s no good bloody lying there thinking out of sight out of mind, because as far as I’m concerned you're staying there and listening. It’s cold out here, and wet, and I nearly broke me leg when I slipped on the leaves on the path. You know, the leaves off the conker tree, or it could have been a smashed conker? I don't know, but it’s pained me ankle; how am I going to get back? What am I supposed to do, I know he’s gambling, but I’m frightened to tackle him about it; could be worse; could be women he’s going after. I’ve been told he’s collecting bets from the pubs; bookies runner. Yes I know it’s illegal. The other night I hid behind the wall and watched him with Joe Kelly, they were stood under the lamp light, in the street playing pitch and toss, I saw money handed over from him to Joe Kelly. Yes; Walter had lost! I could have been the police spying on them. He must have been desperate for money; he’d only just left me. Are you listening? What did you say? Yes I’d like to do that to his family jewels! Thanks for the chat dad, don’t tell anyone I’ve been, Oh no here comes the vicar, he’ll think I’ve been talking to myself, ha, ha. Cora Boffey |
What are Pigeons For?
I hate pigeons. Flying rats, that’s all they are. They sit on the TV arial above the patio, so every day I’m out there with a bucket and a brush sweeping away their filth. My father in law used to entice them into his greenhouse, ring their necks and put them in a pot. I may or may not have eaten pigeon. Yuk. I was glad to see the back of our old Rowan tree. Every year they would return to nest there. I couldn’t persuade them to leave even when I reached up with a yard brush and tried to dislodge the nest. Well, call it a nest if you must. A flat tangle of twigs it was, and they would leave their presents of twigs at the bottom of the tree. I was forever cleaning up their litter. When the tree came down, the nest stuck firmly to the branches. It stank too. They still strut along the fence, bobbing and cooing at each other. When next door had solar panels put on the roof, the town pigeons moved in and tried to creep under the panels for warmth. What a sight, and the mess from the droppings - well. I hate pigeons. When I put bread or scraps on the lawn, guess who is first in the queue? I stopped putting seed out for the same reason. The little birds didn’t stand a chance. They even try to squeeze their fat bodies onto next door’s bird table. Of course, she encourages them. Silly woman. Have you ever seen a baby pigeon? No, me neither. We bought a cat. She hates pigeons too. So we’re pretty much pigeon free now. I mean, what are pigeons for? I hate pigeons. Maggie Storer |
A Well Weathered Rant Each morning I witness a little event that really winds me up – has me seeing red – blowing my top. There is no violent invective, mad metaphor, nor adjective descriptive enough to describe my feelings about patronising television presenters. I admit to not being the sunniest bunny when I open my eyes to a new day. The wrench from the arms of Morpheus is fairly painful and prompts a modest amount of resentment, antipathy and general grumpiness. My other half knows better than to do no more than rattle a teacup, wait patiently whilst I surface, and then retreat in silent deference whilst I slurp tea and growl at the morning. He flicks the TV switch and an early news programme fills the room. First we get the political squabbles followed by the stupid goings on of society in general, and then come the horrors of the war torn areas of the world. Next comes a sports update, I show little interest, and disregard every word of the constant prattle. Then, wait for it, I know it’s coming but I can’t ignore it. My hackles rise the moment she ingratiatingly pops into view. She dithers ankle deep in snow, or clings to a large umbrella in her effort to show me what snow looks like, the wetness of rain, the effects of wind, sleet, hail. Sometimes she dons a flimsy dress to wilt under a blistering sun. I yell at the screen – ‘Get back in the studio woman! Don’t patronise me! I understand what you’re telling me – I understand your weather map with its kindergarten raindrops, starburst sun, and big fat fluffy clouds. I understand your windy little arrows and their directional pointy bits. You really don’t need to suffer the elements at this time in a morning. I understand your words – I understand your pictures – I don’t need a hands-on real-time demonstration.’ And as if that’s not enough we’re advised to ‘wrap up warm’, ‘don’t forget the factor twenty’, ‘take a brolly’. Please… I can work out what to wear all by myself. If she continues to patronise my sensibilities in this way I can only say I hope she gets cold feet, I hope she gets wet through, I hope her umbrella turns inside out, she deserves to get chilblains and a ruined hairdo. And there’s more: I hope her gloves shrink; I hope her colours run, and her nose. If the sun is shining, I hope she gets freckles. I only need an approximation of today’s temperature, the likelihood of a shower, a tiny clue regarding the viability of pegging out the washing, the need for a cardigan or a brolly. If she is promoted to reading the Shipping Forecast, perhaps she’ll board a North Sea trawler in the height of gale? She'll need to be strapped to a mast, if they still have masts, and pit her voice against a rip roaring nor'westerly. Now that would be worth watching. Betty Taylor |
Can You Hear Me? Here we go again. Regular as clockwork. Boom, boom, bang. Every day when she gets home from shopping or whatever she gets up to, on goes the music – well if that’s what you can call it. It’s just a racket to me. Listen. Hear that? Yes, now Joe on the other side has started banging the wall and shouting for her to turn it down. I don’t know what gets in to her. Must be trying to recapture her long lost youth or something. No chance of that, darling. I wouldn’t mind so much if she played something I liked. Some Springsteen, for example. He’s good to unwind to after a tough day or what about some Tamla Motown. A couple of weeks ago she had a fad for 60s hits. That was better. I must admit it had me dancing around the kitchen. Didn’t last though and we’re back to this garage or rave or whatever it is. Anyway, I digress. It’s getting too much and goes on for hours. She’s just a selfish cow. I’m sorry to say so. It’s not ladylike language I know but this racket would drive a saint to despair. I should try to be more charitable. Perhaps she’s deaf but I don’t think so. Soon will be though at this rate and serve her right. I’m not usually this angry but enough is enough. It’s time someone spoke to her about it but no-one seems to want to do it. She’s a bit formidable, see and I don’t like confrontation. Nothing unpleasant. I like to live and let live. But this noise is getting ridiculous. Oh no, now the dog’s started barking. He doesn’t like this music either. Evidently, he has much better taste than his owner. I ask you, what if all of us decided to play music and have the radios on as loudly as madam there. It’d be bedlam. Might as well throw in Bella’s piano practice and Jim’s drums for good measure and we’d be well away. Could start a little ensemble. These are nice retirement apartments and the builders said they were high specification soundproof. Huh! I don’t think so. It took them weeks to come and fix the shower properly and the kitchen window still doesn’t shut properly. Don’t get me started again. More lies than Partygate with that lot. Right, that’s it, I’m off to have it out with her. I’ll show her. Now, where are my Jim Reeves CDs. They’ll calm her down a bit. Better rescue the dog too and take him for a walk. Linda Birch |
Please stop….
I’ve had enough. Something must be done. If I go for a drive, walk or venture anywhere, I am increasingly depressed by the amount of LITTER. What is wrong with folk? Our country is beautiful. But it’s gradually becoming shamefully polluted. When I was a kid we had lots of picnics and always took our rubbish back home. In those far off times there was only paper and glass to dispose of, take-aways - (apart from fish suppers wrapped in just newspaper) - and plastic packaging hadn’t been invented. It is against the law to drop litter. The minimum fine is £150, but I am not brave enough to chase after a gang in a town centre who chuck their fish and chip wrappers on the street, I’m more likely to pick their litter up and put it in the nearest bin myself! If I was in charge as well as a fine the offender must spend time picking up rubbish along a road, in a park, on a towpath or beach, provided with a pair of protective gloves and a plastic bag. From fag ends to fish and chip wrappers; plastic bottles or pizza boxes; nappies and all the tons of cardboard boxes - this has to stop. It’s a blight and an eyesore. In the home local councils encourage us all to sort waste into separate bins and bags. Is this why some can’t be bothered to consider where rubbish goes when they go out? Where is the sense in throwing paper or plastic out of a car window onto the grass or gutter where it looks disgusting and dirty. It’s not only packaging waste but anything no longer wanted but don’t even get me started on fly tipping…. Andie Green |
My Thoughts
I have to escape; I feel like a prisoner I have no control of my life. I hate his possessiveness, his control over me, I feel I cannot breathe. I need money for this think, Hedy think. How can I get money, my jewellery? Yes, yes, that’s it sews it into my coat and my dress. I will go down as usual meeting and greeting those hateful men, who are plotting war. He always has cigars and brandy, after dinner. I will leave as usual and retire to my room afterward, he never comes to bed until dawn. But how can I get away from here? I cannot drive someone would hear the car. Think Hedy think? My bicycle, that’s it I will make sure it’s in good working order. I have to plan carefully, if he has any idea of my intention, I will be locked here as a prisoner for the rest of my life. I have to be free, I have to be me again, and be in control of my own destiny, this is my only chance to be free. You can do this Hedy; you have to do this? Carol Hipkin |
Deadline: 13th June
Brief: Here are your opening words: Right after they posted the results, I tried to…
Brief: Here are your opening words: Right after they posted the results, I tried to…
Unexpected Results
Right after they posted the results, I tried to stop myself from grinning. Grinning with relief that is. Jenny Baxter had failed the chemistry exam and I was so pleased. You see, I’d seen her cheating but I hadn’t said anything. I was ashamed of letting her get away with it and couldn’t help myself, the relief was so great. There was some justice at Northolt Girls’ High after all.
It was the dreaded chemistry exam and I was sitting one desk behind her in the next row in the examination hall. She had a bottle of lucozade on her desk. That’s fine, we were allowed that, but I noticed something strange about the label. As I peered across, I could see that it had formulas written on it. I was too much of a coward to let the teacher know. The portraits of former headmistresses stared down at me scornfully.
The three hours passed and we began to file out of the hall. I came along side her as she picked up the bottle from the desk. “How did you get on Jenny?” I asked. Feeling brave, I looked her square in the face and then down at the bottle. She knew I knew what she’d done. Immediately I regretted my boldness in speaking to her. Jenny was a bully and I was a coward, letting myself be intimidated by her. She glared at me with a look that told me next term would be a greater hell than she had made this one for me. Of course, I did nothing about what I’d seen.
On results day, all the girls were crowding around the noticeboard; there were some squeals of joy, congratulations, gasps and giggles, but no-one spoke when Jenny Baxter and her entourage approached the noticeboard. I watched as she found her name on the list and the colour drained from her face. All was quiet. Then she snatched the paper from the board, scrunched it up and threw it in the bin, drawing pins scattering across the floor.
‘It’s a mistake, you’ll see.’ Defiant, she marched towards Miss Tranter’s office.
We never saw her again. You see, the teachers weren’t as unseeing as I’d thought. They realised what Jenny had done and decided a bit of public humiliation was in order.
But Jenny Baxter always thought it was me who told on her. Which didn’t matter at all until some years later when I went for a job interview and some familiar features glared back at me across the desk……….
Linda Birch
Right after they posted the results, I tried to stop myself from grinning. Grinning with relief that is. Jenny Baxter had failed the chemistry exam and I was so pleased. You see, I’d seen her cheating but I hadn’t said anything. I was ashamed of letting her get away with it and couldn’t help myself, the relief was so great. There was some justice at Northolt Girls’ High after all.
It was the dreaded chemistry exam and I was sitting one desk behind her in the next row in the examination hall. She had a bottle of lucozade on her desk. That’s fine, we were allowed that, but I noticed something strange about the label. As I peered across, I could see that it had formulas written on it. I was too much of a coward to let the teacher know. The portraits of former headmistresses stared down at me scornfully.
The three hours passed and we began to file out of the hall. I came along side her as she picked up the bottle from the desk. “How did you get on Jenny?” I asked. Feeling brave, I looked her square in the face and then down at the bottle. She knew I knew what she’d done. Immediately I regretted my boldness in speaking to her. Jenny was a bully and I was a coward, letting myself be intimidated by her. She glared at me with a look that told me next term would be a greater hell than she had made this one for me. Of course, I did nothing about what I’d seen.
On results day, all the girls were crowding around the noticeboard; there were some squeals of joy, congratulations, gasps and giggles, but no-one spoke when Jenny Baxter and her entourage approached the noticeboard. I watched as she found her name on the list and the colour drained from her face. All was quiet. Then she snatched the paper from the board, scrunched it up and threw it in the bin, drawing pins scattering across the floor.
‘It’s a mistake, you’ll see.’ Defiant, she marched towards Miss Tranter’s office.
We never saw her again. You see, the teachers weren’t as unseeing as I’d thought. They realised what Jenny had done and decided a bit of public humiliation was in order.
But Jenny Baxter always thought it was me who told on her. Which didn’t matter at all until some years later when I went for a job interview and some familiar features glared back at me across the desk……….
Linda Birch
Results Day
Right after they posted the results I tried to push my way to the front. I needed to get there before anyone else. I hadn’t expected it to be posted on the notice board for all the world to see. I glanced at the list which was in alphabetical order and waded through the names. Not on the first sheet, so maybe the second. Yes, there it was. Please let me find it before anyone else. “Well done Cathy.” I turned to see Gemma, a fellow classmate, with a surprised look on her face. “Well done, you made it.” I couldn’t help but notice the sarcasm in her voice. I would ignore her jealousy. Gemma came top in most subjects, but this time I had beaten her by a long way. “Thanks,” I said. Too late now. Soon everyone would know that I had passed with an A*. Me, Cathy Scott had actually achieved the impossible. I truly believed that now I could leave my old life behind. Opportunities stretched out in front of me. Suddenly I wanted the world to know. I had actually passed with flying colours. Mathematics, a subject that had always eluded me, was now my gateway to any career I wanted to go for. My fear of failure had caused me to be shy, drift into the background. Not only had I passed, but with distinction. I floated on cloud nine for several days. You can say what you like about Artificial Intelligence, but for me it’s the gateway to a new life. Maggie Storer |
The play's the thing…
Right after they posted the results, I tried to stop myself from bursting into tears. Why was my name not on the list of actors for the school play? Alan Smith as Romeo, Joyce Rogers as Juliet – I scoured the list six times and finally saw my name in tiny print on the second page Mandy Jones – prompt. Well if that’s all I’m worth they will get the best shout outs from the wings ever. I went home with my copy of the play and learnt every part to be sure not to let anyone down I was there at every rehearsal chipping in where needed. I swear I became more of assistant director especially when Mr Fox went off sick. He was so grateful for the way I handled everything. They all began to rely on me and on the final night of a week's run I played the nurse when Rachael came down with a stomach bug. But I was not a convincing actor. And would you believe I forgot my lines twice! That was twenty years ago. You may have seen my name in the credits on several plays and dramas as assistant director- all thanks to Mr Fox. Andie Green. |
The Results
Right after they posted the results, I tried to phone him. How would he take it, would he be as excited as me? My heart was racing, was it the anticipation of telling him the news?
Why does his phone keep going to answer phone? ‘Please leave a message after the tone.’ I don’t want to leave a message, I want his reaction, when I tell him.
I’ll check the email again; damn! It’s not like WhatsApp goes blue, when its been read. I’ll check our joint account; he bloody well knows, we’ve won ten grand; he’s drawn it out!
Cora Boffey
Right after they posted the results, I tried to phone him. How would he take it, would he be as excited as me? My heart was racing, was it the anticipation of telling him the news?
Why does his phone keep going to answer phone? ‘Please leave a message after the tone.’ I don’t want to leave a message, I want his reaction, when I tell him.
I’ll check the email again; damn! It’s not like WhatsApp goes blue, when its been read. I’ll check our joint account; he bloody well knows, we’ve won ten grand; he’s drawn it out!
Cora Boffey
Look Forward
Right after they posted the results, I tried to hold back my tears and disappointment. Taking a deep breath and convincing myself that I was cheated, feeling that voting was sympathy alone for the winner and her circumstances. I was devastated, there had been so much interest and praise for my work at the exhibition. I was so confident in myself, it meant so much to me.
During the following days I pondered over the reasons for the result and found myself questioning, If I was had been one of the judges would I have been swayed and given her my vote, considering her sad background history, that everyone was aware of.
A week after the event I received a letter asking me to attend the National art gallery in London, to meet an eminent professor in my field. I arrived at the gallery half an hour before my appointment, and browsed around the great masterpieces. My future is now looking so bright, my work in sculpture has been recognised. I fly to Zurick tomorrow to help restore some of the great works of art, and will also be encouraged to develop my own techniques. Life is not always about being a good winner, but being a good looser.
Carol Hipkin
Right after they posted the results, I tried to hold back my tears and disappointment. Taking a deep breath and convincing myself that I was cheated, feeling that voting was sympathy alone for the winner and her circumstances. I was devastated, there had been so much interest and praise for my work at the exhibition. I was so confident in myself, it meant so much to me.
During the following days I pondered over the reasons for the result and found myself questioning, If I was had been one of the judges would I have been swayed and given her my vote, considering her sad background history, that everyone was aware of.
A week after the event I received a letter asking me to attend the National art gallery in London, to meet an eminent professor in my field. I arrived at the gallery half an hour before my appointment, and browsed around the great masterpieces. My future is now looking so bright, my work in sculpture has been recognised. I fly to Zurick tomorrow to help restore some of the great works of art, and will also be encouraged to develop my own techniques. Life is not always about being a good winner, but being a good looser.
Carol Hipkin
Deadline: 30th May
Brief: Read the contents page of one of your favourite poetry books. Without reading the associated poems, select five titles that appeal to you – list them on a piece of paper. Now edit them by changing a noun, adjective, gender. (Don’t worry, there’s no copyright on titles). Choose one of your five new titles and write a poem to suit the title.
Brief: Read the contents page of one of your favourite poetry books. Without reading the associated poems, select five titles that appeal to you – list them on a piece of paper. Now edit them by changing a noun, adjective, gender. (Don’t worry, there’s no copyright on titles). Choose one of your five new titles and write a poem to suit the title.
A nod to Shakespeare ‘s Sonnets
Sonnet 4 (Countdown) I wrote this sonnet watching Channel 4 With half an ear on Colin Murray’s voice. Two bright contestants never seen before, With consonants or vowels - they have a choice. Another letter, Oh the dreaded Zed To try and make the longest lettered word. The numbers, they go right above my head, Four large, two small for me is just absurd. In dictionary corner Susie sits, A mine of useful facts she has to tell About strange words the public picks her wits While Rachael solves the maths she does so well. I managed to obtain a decent score. I wrote this sonnet watching Channel 4. Maggie Storer |
My Failure
I picked up a poetry book I read the contents page I knew at once I’d get stuck I selected five titles I said ‘they appealed to me’ I knew the planning was vital I had to edit by changing a noun I edited more by changing adjectives I felt my brow develop a frown I looked at Maggie's; Sonnet Four I did try to complete the task I KNEW I wouldn’t obtain a decent score I’m giving up and watching, channel 4. Cora Boffey |
With a nod to Roger McGough (1969).. If I were poet laureate…
If I were the Queen's favourite poet I’d write a verse or two For fundays in the park Where all could come, yes me and you. If told to produce words to celebrate a birth We’d all dress as kiddies and act really daft Eating cream cakes and jelly Chucking ice cream from a raft. My poems would never speak of war and pain It’s much better to uplift one Cheers and hope and sunshine All to bring back faith in fun. I’d recruit from the stage or screen A cabinet of happy law makers Comedians and idiots - but nice ones this time Not miserable movers and shakers. If I was the Queen's favourite poet She would like my verses We would meet every week And discuss fun words and curses. The Queen would be my editor No smut or words to waste She’d like my take on the world In the best possible taste. Andie Green |
Following on from ’Silver’ by Walter de la Mare
Golden Now moon has left her ghostly path Sun blazes down his mighty wrath; Red and orange colour the sky ‘Awesome sight’, the watchers cry. Banish darkness, light up the day Join the fight, he will show the way. Waste not the daylight, given free, Take up the cause and come with me. Sun’s golden rays, sent straight and bright Defeat all fears and dread of night; No sleeping in the shadows now, Sun calls you out to take your bow. Moon’s silvery threads weave no spell Salute golden sun, all is well. Linda Birch |
Deadline: 16th May
Brief: Is there a subject you wish you’d had the opportunity to study? Was the opportunity out of reach in your younger days? Tell us about it. Have you been able to follow your dream in later years?
Brief: Is there a subject you wish you’d had the opportunity to study? Was the opportunity out of reach in your younger days? Tell us about it. Have you been able to follow your dream in later years?
No Regrets
George Bernard Shaw famously said that ‘youth is wasted on the young’. I think he should have replaced ‘youth’ with ‘education’. I know that in my youth I was neither ready to be seriously educated, nor did I know what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t enjoy any of the more academic subjects. I was more attracted to the practical lessons like art or domestic science as it was called.
I considered being a nurse, or going to art school, but I don’t think my GCE qualifications would have enabled me to go to either. There were limited options when we left school. The clever ones went on to university or teacher training. The less able girls went into shop work or hairdressing, which tells you something about the class system in those days. There was little choice. So, I fell into office work and studied shorthand and typing. It seemed to be a route that could take me anywhere I wanted to go. It was probably the best course of action for me as I was methodical and liked organising.
My interest in creative writing came much later. I took a GCSE in English Language and realised I loved writing essays and short stories. But I would never have considered this at school.
So, I am torn between two subjects that I might have chosen to pursue had the options been available at the time. The first being creative writing which might have led me to actually writing a book. The second subject is art. My parents thought that going to art school would mean me mixing with Bohemian types, which would be a bad influence. I would have chosen portraiture, although I’m not sure you can make a living from that unless you are really good, and I didn’t think I could teach.
If I had the chance now, I would probably choose art over English, although when I heard that Lady Louise (Prince Edward’s daughter), was studying English at St Andrews University, I thought how wonderful that would be. My interest in Literature and the classics has developed very late in life, although I could never take to Shakespeare. At school, Shakespeare was taught from a text book. I never once went to see one of his plays, nor did we act one out. No wonder I couldn’t understand a word. Children today have so many more opportunities. Far more reach higher academic achievements and are able to go to university. But I could quite happily spend my time improving my skills at painting portraits.
In my own small way, I have been able to realise my dreams and have enjoyed many years as a member of Codsall Writers, and as a member of an art group in Albrighton.
It’s too late for great ambitions now and I have no regrets; only that I wish I’d known sooner in life how my real interests would develop.
Maggie Storer
George Bernard Shaw famously said that ‘youth is wasted on the young’. I think he should have replaced ‘youth’ with ‘education’. I know that in my youth I was neither ready to be seriously educated, nor did I know what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t enjoy any of the more academic subjects. I was more attracted to the practical lessons like art or domestic science as it was called.
I considered being a nurse, or going to art school, but I don’t think my GCE qualifications would have enabled me to go to either. There were limited options when we left school. The clever ones went on to university or teacher training. The less able girls went into shop work or hairdressing, which tells you something about the class system in those days. There was little choice. So, I fell into office work and studied shorthand and typing. It seemed to be a route that could take me anywhere I wanted to go. It was probably the best course of action for me as I was methodical and liked organising.
My interest in creative writing came much later. I took a GCSE in English Language and realised I loved writing essays and short stories. But I would never have considered this at school.
So, I am torn between two subjects that I might have chosen to pursue had the options been available at the time. The first being creative writing which might have led me to actually writing a book. The second subject is art. My parents thought that going to art school would mean me mixing with Bohemian types, which would be a bad influence. I would have chosen portraiture, although I’m not sure you can make a living from that unless you are really good, and I didn’t think I could teach.
If I had the chance now, I would probably choose art over English, although when I heard that Lady Louise (Prince Edward’s daughter), was studying English at St Andrews University, I thought how wonderful that would be. My interest in Literature and the classics has developed very late in life, although I could never take to Shakespeare. At school, Shakespeare was taught from a text book. I never once went to see one of his plays, nor did we act one out. No wonder I couldn’t understand a word. Children today have so many more opportunities. Far more reach higher academic achievements and are able to go to university. But I could quite happily spend my time improving my skills at painting portraits.
In my own small way, I have been able to realise my dreams and have enjoyed many years as a member of Codsall Writers, and as a member of an art group in Albrighton.
It’s too late for great ambitions now and I have no regrets; only that I wish I’d known sooner in life how my real interests would develop.
Maggie Storer
It’s Never Too Late
How I hated every day at school; but never tell my grandchildren!
I think I was born before my time. Although I wasn’t Victorian. I think my younger years followed their ideas in school. Sit in rows, backs straight, boys being caned, teachers in caps and gowns. Speak when spoken to.
I think I should have been a Montessori child; philosophy belief, every child is born with their own natural drive for learning and their autonomy to follow their interests is respected.
They encourage Critical thinking, Collaboration, Creativity and Communication. In my day, teachers thought for you.
You didn’t collaborate with anyone, you worked in isolation. Creativity was mixing colours, knitting squares, learning to do running stitches and cross stitches and hymn practice. Communication was break time, if you were in the right gang, otherwise you walked round the playground holding the dinner lady’s hand.
Senior school was daunting; although I was proud to attend the first Comprehensive School in the country and because it achieved well, the head teacher was made a ‘Sir’
The only thing I achieved was ‘The Deportment Sash’ A red sash you were presented with, because of the way you walked and presented smart in your uniform. I think I went on the stage three times to receive this award.
I did achieve in netball and domestic science. The rest did not enthuse me at all.
I really didn’t like school or the system and swore education would be the last place you would ever see me again.
So how come at thirty years of age, I ended up at Old Hall Street college, doing everything I hated? Then onto Wolverhampton College; eventually teaching children and assessing adults for teaching in education?
Because I was respected and listened to and teachers/lecturers had mainly other experiences out of the education system.
My philosophy regarding education is; no one should go straight from education to education. You should gather other work experiences along the way; see life from another angle.
Belief in yourself is one thing, but drive and motivation is fuelled by others.
Cora Boffey
How I hated every day at school; but never tell my grandchildren!
I think I was born before my time. Although I wasn’t Victorian. I think my younger years followed their ideas in school. Sit in rows, backs straight, boys being caned, teachers in caps and gowns. Speak when spoken to.
I think I should have been a Montessori child; philosophy belief, every child is born with their own natural drive for learning and their autonomy to follow their interests is respected.
They encourage Critical thinking, Collaboration, Creativity and Communication. In my day, teachers thought for you.
You didn’t collaborate with anyone, you worked in isolation. Creativity was mixing colours, knitting squares, learning to do running stitches and cross stitches and hymn practice. Communication was break time, if you were in the right gang, otherwise you walked round the playground holding the dinner lady’s hand.
Senior school was daunting; although I was proud to attend the first Comprehensive School in the country and because it achieved well, the head teacher was made a ‘Sir’
The only thing I achieved was ‘The Deportment Sash’ A red sash you were presented with, because of the way you walked and presented smart in your uniform. I think I went on the stage three times to receive this award.
I did achieve in netball and domestic science. The rest did not enthuse me at all.
I really didn’t like school or the system and swore education would be the last place you would ever see me again.
So how come at thirty years of age, I ended up at Old Hall Street college, doing everything I hated? Then onto Wolverhampton College; eventually teaching children and assessing adults for teaching in education?
Because I was respected and listened to and teachers/lecturers had mainly other experiences out of the education system.
My philosophy regarding education is; no one should go straight from education to education. You should gather other work experiences along the way; see life from another angle.
Belief in yourself is one thing, but drive and motivation is fuelled by others.
Cora Boffey
When I Grow Up
From a very young age, I always wanted to be a nurse. My dolls and teddy bear were my patients. But I also liked to sing and dance. Until about the age of eleven I would perform in front of anyone. Then I became very timid and shy, since then I would only sing in a choir. When I was in my twenties, I went to have some singing lessons. As I sat waiting for my appointment, I could hear a beautiful soprano voice coming from the next room. I was thinking, should I go now and sneak away quietly? Then the door opened, and Miss Kershaw appeared, a tall elderly lady followed by the young woman. Now it was my turn and I felt very nervous. I commented on the lovely voice I had heard as I sat waiting. Miss Kershaw replied, "no she has a terrible wabble." This did not help my anxiety at all. I did some scales and then a song. I was amazed when she told me my voice had the clarity of a young chorister. But still, this did not give me the confidence to sing an operatic solo. I enjoyed my time in the chorus, performing in many shows, including 'Carmen' and 'The Merry widow' at Tettenhall College, and I loved wearing the lovely ball gowns. I could never have coped with the great responsibly that a leading lady has. I had met Peter he was a Gents' hairdresser, and I chose to be a ladies' hairdresser. We worked in our salon at Tettenhall. I also lectured at Wellington and Dudley college in hairdressing, but I preferred working in the salon with clients. I still sing in a local ladies' choir and enjoy my writing group. Life seems to choose or guide you along your pathway and I count myself fortunate, having enjoyed my journey. But you only have one lifetime, and if you make the wrong choices or meet the wrong partner or people it can be disastrous.
Carol Hipkin
From a very young age, I always wanted to be a nurse. My dolls and teddy bear were my patients. But I also liked to sing and dance. Until about the age of eleven I would perform in front of anyone. Then I became very timid and shy, since then I would only sing in a choir. When I was in my twenties, I went to have some singing lessons. As I sat waiting for my appointment, I could hear a beautiful soprano voice coming from the next room. I was thinking, should I go now and sneak away quietly? Then the door opened, and Miss Kershaw appeared, a tall elderly lady followed by the young woman. Now it was my turn and I felt very nervous. I commented on the lovely voice I had heard as I sat waiting. Miss Kershaw replied, "no she has a terrible wabble." This did not help my anxiety at all. I did some scales and then a song. I was amazed when she told me my voice had the clarity of a young chorister. But still, this did not give me the confidence to sing an operatic solo. I enjoyed my time in the chorus, performing in many shows, including 'Carmen' and 'The Merry widow' at Tettenhall College, and I loved wearing the lovely ball gowns. I could never have coped with the great responsibly that a leading lady has. I had met Peter he was a Gents' hairdresser, and I chose to be a ladies' hairdresser. We worked in our salon at Tettenhall. I also lectured at Wellington and Dudley college in hairdressing, but I preferred working in the salon with clients. I still sing in a local ladies' choir and enjoy my writing group. Life seems to choose or guide you along your pathway and I count myself fortunate, having enjoyed my journey. But you only have one lifetime, and if you make the wrong choices or meet the wrong partner or people it can be disastrous.
Carol Hipkin
Deadline: 2nd May
Brief: Describe a book, film, or piece of music that affected you – one you’ll never forget. Why did you find its effect so memorable.
Brief: Describe a book, film, or piece of music that affected you – one you’ll never forget. Why did you find its effect so memorable.
ABBA
My favourite group of all time is ABBA. I have four of their albums, and probably the one with the most memorable songs is GOLD, their greatest hits. But I can pick a favourite tune from any one of their CDs.
Sometimes a tune will catch me out and I find myself crying. I have no idea why. Happy New Year always does this, probably because the New Year is an emotional time. Also Thank You for the Music, because this came out when they were breaking up.
They were formed in 1972, Agnetha, Bjorn, Benny and Anni-Frid; the first letter of their names forming ABBA. They are one of the best selling musical groups of all time, topping the charts between 1974 and 1982. Then, in 2022 a new album, Voyage, came out when they appeared as avatars on stage.
Their sound was unique; Bjorn and Benny so talented. Agnetha and Anni harmonised so well - you could hear every word and sing along.
I am generally not very interested in music, but ABBA had something that captured my interest. They were at the height of their fame during the early years of my marriage, bringing up a young family. Their hit songs were played at functions we attended, so became part of our family life. We would dance and sing along to Dancing Queen or Waterloo, Super Trouper or Take a Chance on me. Any one would do.
It was very sad when they broke up, especially when Agnetha became more distant and hid herself away from the public. Fame became too much.
But you can’t keep a good group down forever, so I was delighted when they decided to work on the avatar project and after many ups and downs they finally appeared on stage with their avatar personas.
I don’t think there will ever be a group like them again. Maybe they will decide to make one last appearance, but perhaps it’s better to remember them at their best. Thank you for the music ABBA.
Maggie Storer
My favourite group of all time is ABBA. I have four of their albums, and probably the one with the most memorable songs is GOLD, their greatest hits. But I can pick a favourite tune from any one of their CDs.
Sometimes a tune will catch me out and I find myself crying. I have no idea why. Happy New Year always does this, probably because the New Year is an emotional time. Also Thank You for the Music, because this came out when they were breaking up.
They were formed in 1972, Agnetha, Bjorn, Benny and Anni-Frid; the first letter of their names forming ABBA. They are one of the best selling musical groups of all time, topping the charts between 1974 and 1982. Then, in 2022 a new album, Voyage, came out when they appeared as avatars on stage.
Their sound was unique; Bjorn and Benny so talented. Agnetha and Anni harmonised so well - you could hear every word and sing along.
I am generally not very interested in music, but ABBA had something that captured my interest. They were at the height of their fame during the early years of my marriage, bringing up a young family. Their hit songs were played at functions we attended, so became part of our family life. We would dance and sing along to Dancing Queen or Waterloo, Super Trouper or Take a Chance on me. Any one would do.
It was very sad when they broke up, especially when Agnetha became more distant and hid herself away from the public. Fame became too much.
But you can’t keep a good group down forever, so I was delighted when they decided to work on the avatar project and after many ups and downs they finally appeared on stage with their avatar personas.
I don’t think there will ever be a group like them again. Maybe they will decide to make one last appearance, but perhaps it’s better to remember them at their best. Thank you for the music ABBA.
Maggie Storer
Liebesfreud (loves pleasures) by Fritz Kreisler
It’s a memorable moment when a piece of music becomes an ear-worm, forever in your head, urging you to buy the CD. It all began with my usual morning listening - Classic FM. Having heard a captivating tune by composer, Fritz Kreisler, I failed to catch the details of the recording. I straightway e-mailed programme presenter, John Suchet, requesting particulars of the recording. A prompt reply came winging back. Within minutes I’d made the online purchase. The CD is entitled Kreisler Violin Music and the performers are Jack Liebeck, violin, and Katya Apekisheva, piano. Perfect. The piece I was interested in is called Liebesfreud (loves pleasures). It is joyous, capricious, and it makes me happy, good enough reason to splash the cash. Having become familiar with the piece, I’ve listened to several versions of it by top violinists, including Nichola Benedetti, Maxim Vengerov, and an old recording on YouTube by Kreisler himself. Nicola Benedetti's rendering is the most energetic, Maxim Vengerov gives a faultless performance, and Kreisler's is, of course, flawless, expressive and beautifully lyrical but the listener must allow for the poor sound quality of the old recording.
Inevitably, once hooked, I had to know more about Fritz Kreisler. Born in Vienna in 1875, his musical talent was evident at a young age. As a young man he achieved world fame as a virtuoso violinist. He also began composing. Very often he would include a few of his own compositions in his concert repertoire. The critics assumed that Kreisler’s repertoire comprised mainly of pieces by the “old masters” because Kreisler’s style was similar to that of composers of the past. He was often accused of plagiarism, but he refused to argue with his accusers.
The truth of the matter is that Kreisler himself had written all the pieces under question. When quizzed by journalists he said they were the work of long gone composers and that he had discovered their old manuscripts. He did this because he was uncomfortable with the notion of an entire concert programme comprising of his own works. He thought concert goers would consider him egotistical. The pieces upon which he put his own name were the ones the critics lambasted, implying that the "little pieces" by Kreisler shouldn't be played alongside works of the masters? Liebesfreud is one such piece, the critics disliked this and other pieces because they were short and declared them worthless.
In 1934 Kreisler instructed his publisher to reveal the facts. Subsequently, the 1935 catalogue explained that all the works under question were composed by Fritz Kreisler, finally silencing the whispered accusations which had circulated for years.
He did military service during World War I. Kreisler was of Jewish decent and with the Nazis in power, life was inevitably difficult for him both in Austria and Germany. He went on to perform in London, America, and the Far East. In 1938 he moved to France. Later, he made America his permanent home and considered himself an Austrian American. He continued to perform publicly until 1950. He owned a collection of valuable antique violins, including a Stradivarius. In his latter years he donated most of them to various institutions, thus allowing talented music students the joy of playing them.
My thoughts are that he was a modest man of immense talent who moved around the world to avoid political and racial discord. Fritz Kreisler died in New York on 29th January 1962.
Betty Taylor
It’s a memorable moment when a piece of music becomes an ear-worm, forever in your head, urging you to buy the CD. It all began with my usual morning listening - Classic FM. Having heard a captivating tune by composer, Fritz Kreisler, I failed to catch the details of the recording. I straightway e-mailed programme presenter, John Suchet, requesting particulars of the recording. A prompt reply came winging back. Within minutes I’d made the online purchase. The CD is entitled Kreisler Violin Music and the performers are Jack Liebeck, violin, and Katya Apekisheva, piano. Perfect. The piece I was interested in is called Liebesfreud (loves pleasures). It is joyous, capricious, and it makes me happy, good enough reason to splash the cash. Having become familiar with the piece, I’ve listened to several versions of it by top violinists, including Nichola Benedetti, Maxim Vengerov, and an old recording on YouTube by Kreisler himself. Nicola Benedetti's rendering is the most energetic, Maxim Vengerov gives a faultless performance, and Kreisler's is, of course, flawless, expressive and beautifully lyrical but the listener must allow for the poor sound quality of the old recording.
Inevitably, once hooked, I had to know more about Fritz Kreisler. Born in Vienna in 1875, his musical talent was evident at a young age. As a young man he achieved world fame as a virtuoso violinist. He also began composing. Very often he would include a few of his own compositions in his concert repertoire. The critics assumed that Kreisler’s repertoire comprised mainly of pieces by the “old masters” because Kreisler’s style was similar to that of composers of the past. He was often accused of plagiarism, but he refused to argue with his accusers.
The truth of the matter is that Kreisler himself had written all the pieces under question. When quizzed by journalists he said they were the work of long gone composers and that he had discovered their old manuscripts. He did this because he was uncomfortable with the notion of an entire concert programme comprising of his own works. He thought concert goers would consider him egotistical. The pieces upon which he put his own name were the ones the critics lambasted, implying that the "little pieces" by Kreisler shouldn't be played alongside works of the masters? Liebesfreud is one such piece, the critics disliked this and other pieces because they were short and declared them worthless.
In 1934 Kreisler instructed his publisher to reveal the facts. Subsequently, the 1935 catalogue explained that all the works under question were composed by Fritz Kreisler, finally silencing the whispered accusations which had circulated for years.
He did military service during World War I. Kreisler was of Jewish decent and with the Nazis in power, life was inevitably difficult for him both in Austria and Germany. He went on to perform in London, America, and the Far East. In 1938 he moved to France. Later, he made America his permanent home and considered himself an Austrian American. He continued to perform publicly until 1950. He owned a collection of valuable antique violins, including a Stradivarius. In his latter years he donated most of them to various institutions, thus allowing talented music students the joy of playing them.
My thoughts are that he was a modest man of immense talent who moved around the world to avoid political and racial discord. Fritz Kreisler died in New York on 29th January 1962.
Betty Taylor
One of the Best
I’m partial to a bit of opera Country and Western, I like it more Rock-and-Roll, I’d dance you off the floor So through my grand collection I sort To find my favourite, song of all. A memorable piece, Betty said, What affect did it leave? In my soul and in my head This Welsh song raises, From the valleys and beyond. A Pure Heart; In Welsh, Colan Lan With no understanding of the words The tune, melody and rhyme Where this haunting story, began. ‘I don’t ask for luxuries of life The world's gold or its fine pearls, I ask for a happy heart, a pure heart.’ The chorus; I felt the song unfurl. Many have sung this song On TV and radio, they would feature Cerys Matthews, Bryn Terfel, The Welsh choirs, to name a few But best of all, a teacher I once knew, Alun Stoll, took assembly In a very special school We’d never heard him sing solo It blew our minds away The song reminds me how cruel Life can be, and why I need to pray. Simplicity of words When trauma stands before you. Cora Boffey |
Film…Mandy (1952)
When I was five or six years old I was taken to see a film called Mandy. Of course I didn’t know then that this story of a deaf girl’s struggle in a hearing world would have an affect on my choice of career. This gentle telling of how a deaf girl makes sense of the world sees her parents struggling to get education for their daughter in a special unit in a school in the 1950s. This causes a rift between her parents and Mandy is eventually home schooled Mandy’s first sound is achieved by using a balloon as she ‘hears’ through putting her mouth onto the balloon and through the vibration makes her first sound. I vividly recall that scene, a real emotional moment and at the end of the film when after several battles to get her privately educated she ends up in post war London and, for the first time tells children playing on a bomb site that her name is Mandy. I studied nursing and knew after just a few months that I wanted to help children who are handicapped. I have worked in several units helping very young children as well as completing a survey in the 1990s on the resources for deaf children in Staffordshire. It saddened me to discover that these were woefully inadequate and had not improved greatly since the 1950s. I now have a great-niece in Wales who has hearing problems and although she struggled with having to wear hearing aids from a baby she has been helped greatly with speech therapy and understanding from her Mum and two older sisters and is doing well at school. It’s good to see that resources and facilities have improved and deafness is less of a burden now. Andie Green |
Deadline: 18th April
Brief: Chocolate: story, article, poem, with a chocolate them. Or a piece either encouraging or discouraging us to eat chocolate.
Brief: Chocolate: story, article, poem, with a chocolate them. Or a piece either encouraging or discouraging us to eat chocolate.
Opposites Attract
We find ourselves standing together in front of the chocolate confectionery aisle. We don’t know each other, but we are both searching the shelves. I say what I’m looking for; the supermarket’s own brand of dark chocolate because I refuse to pay an exorbitant price. He says he likes white chocolate. I say I like dark chocolate. He is dark skinned. I am pale skinned; opposites in looks and taste it seems. We find each other again at the Easter eggs. I pick out a deliciously dark egg with gold wrapping. He goes for the milk chocolate variety, encased in silver paper. In the cafe, he asks if he can join me. He orders a frothy white cappuccino - no sprinkles. I order a steamy hot chocolate de luxe. I pass him the white sugar. He slips a brown sugar cube into mine. Maggie Storer |
The Old Chocolate Box (tongue in cheek)
I’ve got a lovely chocolate box It belonged to my gran She gave it to my mum Gran said, it came from Stan. Stan was her first love He was a lovely man He brought her the chocolates in the box That’s when love began. Stan went away to war He wrote letters to my gran All were stored in the box He wrote a wedding plan. Stan never did come back The box has a church on the lid My mum and me, smile We know the secret; Stan had a kid. Cora Boffey |
Chocolate
If I were a chocolate bar What would I be? Fruit and Nutty Cadbury’s; large Or Ferrero Roche, yes by far. Mars, strip off the layers Delightful, erotic and smooth Take your time and enjoy Poor old teeth, it will destroy. Now if Bounty is your fave Dream of relaxing, on the beach Mouth watering coconut What a treat. Come take a Picnic Enjoy it, anywhere Crispy, wafer, chewy, crunchy Peanuts if you dare. If I were a Cadbury’s little egg I’d give my friends a treat Air fry me in pastry Now this you can not beat. Cora Boffey |
Chocolate (Acrostic)
Can you enjoy chocolate and not put on weight? Heavens no, that’s testing fate Offer me a Chocolate Orange, Orio’s or Quality Street Calorie counting, no fun, when a days work is done Oh dear, I know I’ll regret it; life is so bitter sweet Love it, but always share, that way it’s more fun Always remember, chocolate is not a healthy treat Taste, smell, feel it smooth Enjoy your chocolate, but it can be cruel. Cora Boffey Chocolate C is for creamy Cadbury cream eggs H is for Heroes, perfect to share O is for Oreo cookie bar C is for Coconut Bounty, comes from afar O is for Orange chocolate; love the box L is for Lion bar, nutty and sweet A is for Aero, light and lifts you off T is for Toblerone chocolate, that peaks E is for Eclairs, now these are the best treat. Cora Boffey |
Chocolate Sonnet I know that I must find the foolproof way To learn that chocolate is not my friend, And so I must forget the words that say “A bar for now – another for day’s end.” To contemplate such loss fills me with woe The longing for a fix prohibits glee, Despite the craving all too well I know, Chocolate bar my heart is still with thee. And yet it’s you who makes me put pounds on And inside baggy frocks I have to hide, The mirror speaks and inwardly I groan, My silhouette's no longer slim, it's wide! I can’t disguise the facts, nor cheat my mind It’s my own fault I sport a broad behind. Betty Taylor The Joy of Chocolate
Comfort food, restoring Happiness to a jaded soul. Organic, white, milk or dark Choose to celebrate, congratulate Or commiserate, spreading Love for all to share. Awakening senses, Tantalising tastebuds, Enticing – enjoy some more! Linda Birch |
Chocolate Matters
It’s official, scientifically proven: chocolate is good for you. The science says that a small chunk of dark chocolate causes the brain to release endorphins and decreases anxiety and promotes relaxation. The antioxidants lower blood pressure, increase blood circulation and reduce the risk of clotting: all good for heart health. Now I could bombard you with a lot more technical stuff, words like flavonoids and polyphenols, but there is no need. It’s really quite simple. You just have to say chocolate and it makes you happy. Now I know the British Heart Foundation would have a thing or two to say about this and we have to pay attention. For each report that comes out in favour of chocolate, there’s another one saying something contrary. The same thing happens with other foods: don’t eat eggs/eat more eggs; coffee is good for you/oh no it isn’t; drink red wine, and so on. It’s all very confusing so it comes down to the usual advice – everything in moderation – and don’t forget to check who has paid for the research. There is so much pleasure to be had from chocolate, whether or not it’s actually good or bad for you, but there are other issues to consider. Many cocoa farmers are living in poverty; they do not receive a fair price for their significant effort and are exploited by unfair practices throughout the supply chain. Additionally, crops are affected by diseases and pests, and weather patterns are becoming increasingly unpredictable, making it harder to grow successfully. As a consequence, younger people are reluctant to go into cocoa farming and the future of the industry is under threat. It's because of these factors that the Fairtrade system is so important. It sets social, economic and environmental standards for companies and farmers. The aim is to support small farmers through trade, not aid. Fairtrade certification guarantees a fair price, enabling them to make a decent living and provide for their families. They can invest in improved farming methods and help their local communities. Chocolate was put on this planet to be enjoyed – but we should make sure that what we purchase is ethically produced. Linda Birch |
Cadbury’s
What an amazing legacy John Cadbury left the world, Chocolate. In 1824 he opened a shop in Birmingham selling co- co and drinking chocolate. This was prepared on the premises by himself using only a pestle and mortar a laborious task, hour after hour. He moved to a larger premises in 1831 and the Cadbury manufacturing business was born. In later life after the death of his second wife John became very depressed, he then spent the rest of his life in civic and social work endeavouring to improve the life of the poorer people in society. His two sons Richard and George worked in the business and took over the manufacturing, they were only in their early 20s. The constant threat of bankruptcy plagued them due to the high cost of the co-co beans. There were many times they almost gave up. They worked hard and eventually became large enough to break the French monopoly. Their packaging was truly British using Victorian and Edwardian designs. Easter eggs were made by them in 1875.Then Cadbury’s village was born, good working conditions building homes, schooling for workers children. Reaching 2.6000 employees. George’s brother Richard died suddenly in 1899 and George continued to support his workers. His Chocolate became affordable for many. A remarkable story of a family that valued their workers, and self belief that became global and still remains so. Carol Hipkin |
Get thee behind me …
The sweetest treats full of good deliciousness for all ages. Milky bar for kids; boxes of Milk Tray & Black Magic for women to dream with; Lindt Bunnies with their tinkling bells. I remember when “everyone was a ‘fruit & nut case’” plus Mars bars that help everyone to ‘work, rest and play’ Slogans, catchy ditties, romance and seduction- The first Cadbury adverts were seen in the early nineteen hundreds on posters and magazines. Chocolate biscuits – fingers – Club – Kit Kat, Mars bars, chocolate ice cream- all entice from a very young age. What an advertiser's dream is plain, milk, white, nutty and fruity. Made into bars, slabs wrapped around toffee, biscuit, honeycomb or gooey Turkish delight. I’ve seen coffee, mint, black pepper, salted caramel and sea salt added to bars. Last October Cadburys launched a mystery prize draw contest to guess its two new flavours of chocolate bars. A staggering 300.000 folk entered of which just 6,861 correctly guessed Rhubarb & Custard and Blue Raspberry Slushie. Two lucky winners collected £5k in prize money. Plus a few of the new bars I expect ! The term ‘chocoholic’ should warn of addiction as potentially deadly as tobacco or alcohol. Manufacturers do nothing to help those who become used to chocolate in many guises for every meal. Recently in my supermarket there was a display of cereals all containing this irresistible sweetness. Chocoflakes, Weetabix with chocolate and Cocopops. And many ‘healthy’ cereal bars have also been melted onto the bandwagon. A popular dessert that should ring every alarm bell is Death by Chocolate – but there is something exciting and risky in giving in to its temptation – like siren’s who lured susceptible sailors in Greek mythology. On my sideboard is a luxury brand of Easter egg from my daughter. If I put it out of sight I know I can resist it’s allure until I have eaten all the chocolate biscuits in my kitchen cupboard – oh YES I can … Andie Green |
Deadline: 14th March
Brief: The Road Not Taken: a poem by American poet, Robert Frost. Read the poem and write a piece, prose or poem, using the subtle wisdom found in the final verse of Frost's poem. You could use Frost's idea as analogy to apply to another situation whereby, serendipity, happenstance, or the mere toss of a coin influences an outcome, for good or otherwise.
Brief: The Road Not Taken: a poem by American poet, Robert Frost. Read the poem and write a piece, prose or poem, using the subtle wisdom found in the final verse of Frost's poem. You could use Frost's idea as analogy to apply to another situation whereby, serendipity, happenstance, or the mere toss of a coin influences an outcome, for good or otherwise.
Which Way?
Do I go with the flow, or am I self-motivated? I suspect I skip between the two with the help of my erratic inclinations. Hence my bouts of dilly-dally dithering at major decision times.
Robert Frost understood my dilemma perfectly, and I wonder if he, like me, found himself torn between carpe diem and que sera sera – a sort of rock and a hard place situation. When push comes to shove, it’s a matter of weighing up the pros and cons. I try to do so but find myself wrapped up in literary clichés, proverbs, aphorisms, all indicating outcomes which prompt further indecision, and so I continue to tread water, arriving nowhere.
Is it mood, the weather, or plain pot luck that renders me indecisive? There are so many wise words wrapped up in clichés, epithets, aphorisms and suchlike; I can’t see the wood for the trees. When I find one to fit the bill another one pops up to revoke it. Oh yes, for every wise saying there's a contradictory wise saying to render it useless. Literary checkmate.
I've found a quotation that resonates for me, a marvellous little metaphor I can identify with, 'A comfort zone is a beautiful place but nothing ever grows there.'
I'm nearing the end of my walk along my chosen road, but I so wish I was on the other one, the road I didn't take that Mr Frost mentioned.
Betty Taylor
Do I go with the flow, or am I self-motivated? I suspect I skip between the two with the help of my erratic inclinations. Hence my bouts of dilly-dally dithering at major decision times.
Robert Frost understood my dilemma perfectly, and I wonder if he, like me, found himself torn between carpe diem and que sera sera – a sort of rock and a hard place situation. When push comes to shove, it’s a matter of weighing up the pros and cons. I try to do so but find myself wrapped up in literary clichés, proverbs, aphorisms, all indicating outcomes which prompt further indecision, and so I continue to tread water, arriving nowhere.
Is it mood, the weather, or plain pot luck that renders me indecisive? There are so many wise words wrapped up in clichés, epithets, aphorisms and suchlike; I can’t see the wood for the trees. When I find one to fit the bill another one pops up to revoke it. Oh yes, for every wise saying there's a contradictory wise saying to render it useless. Literary checkmate.
I've found a quotation that resonates for me, a marvellous little metaphor I can identify with, 'A comfort zone is a beautiful place but nothing ever grows there.'
I'm nearing the end of my walk along my chosen road, but I so wish I was on the other one, the road I didn't take that Mr Frost mentioned.
Betty Taylor
Decisions, Decisions
Most of the time Ellie enjoys her American Literature course but the assignment she’s been given on Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken” is proving challenging. Her tutor said that the poem was often misread by his students and she doesn’t want to fall into the same trap. She’s walking across town to meet up with some friends for coffee at their usual café and as she walks, she thinks about what the poem means to her.
The poem describes two roads, surely a metaphor for life’s journey and making choices along the way. Like the choice she made to come and study here at UEA. Her mother had been set against it, wanting her to go in for law. ‘But what about your career, Ellie. What job can you possibly have with a degree in American Literature, of all things?’ She didn’t tell her mother that her heart was playing a major role in her decision. Not her love of American authors either, but her new boyfriend Zac had chosen UEA, and she couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from him. Besides, quite a few of her class were opting for law degrees and she wanted to be different. There had been arguments and tears but Ellie stuck to her decision. No-one could call her indecisive. Her mother consoled herself, saying Ellie would see sense and want to change course.
Ellie was now in her second year and had made lots of new friends. Which was just as well as Zac had changed his mind at the last minute and accepted a place at Birmingham instead. Effectively, he dumped her. She’d been heartbroken but he’d made his choice. There was no going back and so she had come to UEA on her own.
‘So much for choosing the road less taken,’ Ellie sighs ruefully. ‘A lot of good it’s done me.’
Thinking about Zac has made her sad and, on a whim, she changes mind about going to meet up with her friends at the usual place. Anyway, she has some ideas about how to tackle her assignment and decides instead to go to a quiet café she knows. The usual crowd don’t like it but Ellie appreciates its old-fashioned ambience: white linen tablecloths, pretty teapots displayed over the fireplace, cups hanging on hooks and delicious home-made scones. She orders her coffee, sits at a table in the corner, opens her notebook and starts writing her thoughts about the poem.
A voice startles her peace. ‘Is it you, Ellie Johnson! Really? I can’t believe it. I’m so pleased to see you.’
Ellie jumps up and hugs Jamie. They’d met during her gap year, working at a wildlife centre in Shropshire. They had a lot of fun working together but Jamie left to take up a job offer in London and they’d lost touch. ‘It didn’t work out for me Ellie, just not the right way to go, so I’ve enrolled on an environmental science course here. What about you? What are you doing here?’
As Jamie goes to buy more coffees, Ellie reflects on the chance decision that brought her here this afternoon. They could so easily have missed each other. ‘Serendipity’ she thinks, ‘’it’s meant to be,’ and she knows she will remember this moment always. Time slips away as they start talking easily about everything that’s happened since they worked together.
Linda Birch
Most of the time Ellie enjoys her American Literature course but the assignment she’s been given on Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken” is proving challenging. Her tutor said that the poem was often misread by his students and she doesn’t want to fall into the same trap. She’s walking across town to meet up with some friends for coffee at their usual café and as she walks, she thinks about what the poem means to her.
The poem describes two roads, surely a metaphor for life’s journey and making choices along the way. Like the choice she made to come and study here at UEA. Her mother had been set against it, wanting her to go in for law. ‘But what about your career, Ellie. What job can you possibly have with a degree in American Literature, of all things?’ She didn’t tell her mother that her heart was playing a major role in her decision. Not her love of American authors either, but her new boyfriend Zac had chosen UEA, and she couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from him. Besides, quite a few of her class were opting for law degrees and she wanted to be different. There had been arguments and tears but Ellie stuck to her decision. No-one could call her indecisive. Her mother consoled herself, saying Ellie would see sense and want to change course.
Ellie was now in her second year and had made lots of new friends. Which was just as well as Zac had changed his mind at the last minute and accepted a place at Birmingham instead. Effectively, he dumped her. She’d been heartbroken but he’d made his choice. There was no going back and so she had come to UEA on her own.
‘So much for choosing the road less taken,’ Ellie sighs ruefully. ‘A lot of good it’s done me.’
Thinking about Zac has made her sad and, on a whim, she changes mind about going to meet up with her friends at the usual place. Anyway, she has some ideas about how to tackle her assignment and decides instead to go to a quiet café she knows. The usual crowd don’t like it but Ellie appreciates its old-fashioned ambience: white linen tablecloths, pretty teapots displayed over the fireplace, cups hanging on hooks and delicious home-made scones. She orders her coffee, sits at a table in the corner, opens her notebook and starts writing her thoughts about the poem.
A voice startles her peace. ‘Is it you, Ellie Johnson! Really? I can’t believe it. I’m so pleased to see you.’
Ellie jumps up and hugs Jamie. They’d met during her gap year, working at a wildlife centre in Shropshire. They had a lot of fun working together but Jamie left to take up a job offer in London and they’d lost touch. ‘It didn’t work out for me Ellie, just not the right way to go, so I’ve enrolled on an environmental science course here. What about you? What are you doing here?’
As Jamie goes to buy more coffees, Ellie reflects on the chance decision that brought her here this afternoon. They could so easily have missed each other. ‘Serendipity’ she thinks, ‘’it’s meant to be,’ and she knows she will remember this moment always. Time slips away as they start talking easily about everything that’s happened since they worked together.
Linda Birch
Contradictions (With a nod to Robert Frost)
If I were to take the other way
Even at this time in my life,
In spite of what other people might say,
Could I still enjoy life from day to day,
More than a mother, more than a wife?
Don’t we always wonder, ‘what if’? An impossible question. The only ‘what if’ that makes any sense is looking forward to what we might do differently in the future. Hindsight is pointless. What’s gone is gone. We can only pass on to our children the opportunities they might want to take.
And yet, Robert Frost could have gone back on another day and taken the other path to see where it would lead. In the end there is only one way forward and only so many times in life when you can change direction.
If you are happy with your choices, why would you ever think of changing? Unless some better opportunity arises. The new road might seem more attractive, but how do we know?
Our lives are mapped out for us from the day we are born. Destiny knows where we are going and the choices we will make.
Robert Frost was talking about a simple choice - which path to take through the woods. A choice that could change every single day. The bigger choices in life take more thought and the older we get the more difficult those big choices are to make.
Perhaps we should keep changing the little things; not stick to a ridged routine; get out of bed on the ‘wrong side’; go the long way round to the shops; drive a different route; wear clothes you wouldn’t normally wear.
Keep things fresh and different and see the magic happen.
Maggie Storer
If I were to take the other way
Even at this time in my life,
In spite of what other people might say,
Could I still enjoy life from day to day,
More than a mother, more than a wife?
Don’t we always wonder, ‘what if’? An impossible question. The only ‘what if’ that makes any sense is looking forward to what we might do differently in the future. Hindsight is pointless. What’s gone is gone. We can only pass on to our children the opportunities they might want to take.
And yet, Robert Frost could have gone back on another day and taken the other path to see where it would lead. In the end there is only one way forward and only so many times in life when you can change direction.
If you are happy with your choices, why would you ever think of changing? Unless some better opportunity arises. The new road might seem more attractive, but how do we know?
Our lives are mapped out for us from the day we are born. Destiny knows where we are going and the choices we will make.
Robert Frost was talking about a simple choice - which path to take through the woods. A choice that could change every single day. The bigger choices in life take more thought and the older we get the more difficult those big choices are to make.
Perhaps we should keep changing the little things; not stick to a ridged routine; get out of bed on the ‘wrong side’; go the long way round to the shops; drive a different route; wear clothes you wouldn’t normally wear.
Keep things fresh and different and see the magic happen.
Maggie Storer
Situations
Put the cards on the table Toss a coin Stop at the signpost Time to move too fast Make up your mind Decide, now or never. Thinking; or is it too late? Which road to take, Be real or just leave it to fate? Always questions; maybe? Sometimes, debate. This time be fearless Life has no guarantees, Come out of your comfort zone, Seek the mysterious unknown. It may not be easy, But you won’t be alone. Cora Boffey |
The Road Not Taken.
This poem is sometimes used to introduce students to Robert Frost. On various web pages there are several explanations suitable for teaching the thoughts behind the lines. The animated films on YouTube give the lines a whimsical and innocent quality and are an excellent aid to understanding that we do have choices and inevitably wonder how our lives may have been different if only the other Road had been taken. This poem was written as a joke between Frost and his friend Edward Thomas while they were out walking in 1915 as he lamented on his chosen path. It is often analysed and explained in a way that loses its joke qualities. Robert Frost realised that students needed line by line interpretation and took his meaning seriously in spite of his jokey intention. Later on in life we do reflect on what has been and what might have been. Andie Green. |
Deadline: 28th February
Brief: Short story for the women’s mag market: Your character has just read her horoscope. What did it say, does it have particular resonance for your protagonist? How does her day develop?
Brief: Short story for the women’s mag market: Your character has just read her horoscope. What did it say, does it have particular resonance for your protagonist? How does her day develop?
The Best Intentions
It’s New Year’s Day, a little after mid-day. Stella is somewhat the worse for wear, but not too bad, considering the unusual late night. She’s bored, listlessly flicking through the pages of a magazine. Until she comes to the horoscopes that is. She doesn’t usually bother with them, thinks they’re rubbish but, as it’s New Year, it’s worth having a look.
As your ruler Mars moves into your sign today, get ready for a burst of energy. At last, as your horizon looks more inspiring and less cluttered by other people’s moods and expectations, you can begin to see the way to move on from a dissatisfying situation. As you feel more confident, you’ll discover a natural momentum. The cosmos is carrying you into a brighter future.
Well, that’s not bad at all, well worth believing. Three words in particular have rivetted Stella’s attention: energy – clutter – confident. To be precise, de-clutter is what has come to mind. She’s read a lot about it recently - decluttering your home and consequently your life. You should keep only what sparks joy, and a tidy house means a tidy mind. She’s been thinking about having a good clear-out for ages but hasn’t felt up to it. But now the heavens are pointing the way. ‘Right, no time like now. What could be better for a New Year’s resolution? But where to start?’
There was her wardrobe of course. Plenty of items there for the charity shop. Then the kitchen cupboards: all that Tupperware she’s accumulated and the glasses she’s never used. What about the cupboard under the stairs. A bit of a nightmare in there, so maybe another time. Best of all though, Leo’s desk.
Leo is her husband, has been for over forty years, and she thinks his desk has probably not seen the light of day in all that time either. Leo was a university lecturer, a historian specialising in local studies. He was very well-respected and has kept up his interest since he retired: giving talks, leading field trips, doing more research, it’s still his passion. Stella thinks he’s very lucky to have been able to combine his career with his passion and wishes she could have done the same. Though in truth, she’d been happy enough to give up work to set up home and raise their two children, hadn’t she? She shakes her head. ‘It’s too late now. What’s done is done. Forget it, and focus on what you’re doing.’
She’ll start with Leo’s desk. He’s so untidy. It’s irritated her for years, his untidiness. She just can’t work out how he can find anything. So that’s where she’ll focus. Leo will be so pleased and the timing is just right. He’s out playing golf and will not be back for hours so she can get on with it unhindered. What a lovely surprise it will be for him.
Leo’s study is at the back of the house, quite small, but functional. He has a desk and chair under the window, and there are shelves lining the walls, filled with books and dozens of little objects scattered around. These are items which Leo has found whilst out field walking: coins, bones, shells, metal fragments, even more of these recently since he bought a metal detector. Some are displayed on the shelves, more in boxes stacked on the floor, others on the desk, where also there are numerous books, some open with pages marked, pamphlets, maps, a half-buried laptop, marker pens and biros. ‘What a mess, complete shambles, I don’t know how he gets anything done,’ mutters Stella as she sets to work.
She tidies all the books and makes room for them on the shelves. “Maybe the books would look better if they were arranged by the colour of their spines” she muses – but perhaps that’s for another day. Next, she tackles the papers: folds them all neatly and finds a box to stash them in. Then she collects all the ‘bits and bobs’ together and puts them in another box. That left just what she thought was needed on the desk: laptop and printer, notebook and pen. She clears everything off the window sill, cleans the glass until it gleams, polishes the desk, and vacuums.
Stella stands back and views her handiwork. ‘Perfect, she thinks, ‘just like the horoscope said, “a brighter future.” Tomorrow I’ll buy some flowers to place in the window.” Now I’m ready to start on my wardrobe,’ and off she goes upstairs.
Stella doesn’t hear the door open as Leo comes back from the Golf Club, so engrossed is she in her tasks. But she does hear him call out, ‘Stella, where are you? What have you done?’ She stops. She hears anger, or is it anguish, in his voice. It’s maybe not going to be such a bright day after all.
Linda Birch
It’s New Year’s Day, a little after mid-day. Stella is somewhat the worse for wear, but not too bad, considering the unusual late night. She’s bored, listlessly flicking through the pages of a magazine. Until she comes to the horoscopes that is. She doesn’t usually bother with them, thinks they’re rubbish but, as it’s New Year, it’s worth having a look.
As your ruler Mars moves into your sign today, get ready for a burst of energy. At last, as your horizon looks more inspiring and less cluttered by other people’s moods and expectations, you can begin to see the way to move on from a dissatisfying situation. As you feel more confident, you’ll discover a natural momentum. The cosmos is carrying you into a brighter future.
Well, that’s not bad at all, well worth believing. Three words in particular have rivetted Stella’s attention: energy – clutter – confident. To be precise, de-clutter is what has come to mind. She’s read a lot about it recently - decluttering your home and consequently your life. You should keep only what sparks joy, and a tidy house means a tidy mind. She’s been thinking about having a good clear-out for ages but hasn’t felt up to it. But now the heavens are pointing the way. ‘Right, no time like now. What could be better for a New Year’s resolution? But where to start?’
There was her wardrobe of course. Plenty of items there for the charity shop. Then the kitchen cupboards: all that Tupperware she’s accumulated and the glasses she’s never used. What about the cupboard under the stairs. A bit of a nightmare in there, so maybe another time. Best of all though, Leo’s desk.
Leo is her husband, has been for over forty years, and she thinks his desk has probably not seen the light of day in all that time either. Leo was a university lecturer, a historian specialising in local studies. He was very well-respected and has kept up his interest since he retired: giving talks, leading field trips, doing more research, it’s still his passion. Stella thinks he’s very lucky to have been able to combine his career with his passion and wishes she could have done the same. Though in truth, she’d been happy enough to give up work to set up home and raise their two children, hadn’t she? She shakes her head. ‘It’s too late now. What’s done is done. Forget it, and focus on what you’re doing.’
She’ll start with Leo’s desk. He’s so untidy. It’s irritated her for years, his untidiness. She just can’t work out how he can find anything. So that’s where she’ll focus. Leo will be so pleased and the timing is just right. He’s out playing golf and will not be back for hours so she can get on with it unhindered. What a lovely surprise it will be for him.
Leo’s study is at the back of the house, quite small, but functional. He has a desk and chair under the window, and there are shelves lining the walls, filled with books and dozens of little objects scattered around. These are items which Leo has found whilst out field walking: coins, bones, shells, metal fragments, even more of these recently since he bought a metal detector. Some are displayed on the shelves, more in boxes stacked on the floor, others on the desk, where also there are numerous books, some open with pages marked, pamphlets, maps, a half-buried laptop, marker pens and biros. ‘What a mess, complete shambles, I don’t know how he gets anything done,’ mutters Stella as she sets to work.
She tidies all the books and makes room for them on the shelves. “Maybe the books would look better if they were arranged by the colour of their spines” she muses – but perhaps that’s for another day. Next, she tackles the papers: folds them all neatly and finds a box to stash them in. Then she collects all the ‘bits and bobs’ together and puts them in another box. That left just what she thought was needed on the desk: laptop and printer, notebook and pen. She clears everything off the window sill, cleans the glass until it gleams, polishes the desk, and vacuums.
Stella stands back and views her handiwork. ‘Perfect, she thinks, ‘just like the horoscope said, “a brighter future.” Tomorrow I’ll buy some flowers to place in the window.” Now I’m ready to start on my wardrobe,’ and off she goes upstairs.
Stella doesn’t hear the door open as Leo comes back from the Golf Club, so engrossed is she in her tasks. But she does hear him call out, ‘Stella, where are you? What have you done?’ She stops. She hears anger, or is it anguish, in his voice. It’s maybe not going to be such a bright day after all.
Linda Birch
Sliding Down Rainbows
My mantra for today
I admit I’m a sucker for horoscopes. I don’t read them often but put me in a waiting room or on a boring flight or train ride and I browse through magazines or newspapers skimming articles until I turn to the horoscope page. So when I landed a job on ‘Teens Plus’ as an occasional features writer I decided to give the horoscope page a different angle.
I have often thought the advice for each star sign to be chosen from a mixed bag of glib phrases. One morning Leo may be looking for that ‘tall dark handsome stranger’ and in another publication he or she could be warned of a colleague’s ruthless aim to cause trouble.
The magazine title was ironic. Aimed for oldies with a teenage heart. Some features were on fashion and lifestyle but all had to be there for a purpose, not just fillers between ads.
If an elegant raincoat filled a full page the price didn’t matter so long as this coat could be used for all occasions from a funeral to a film premier; a dress down walk in the country or shopping in the West End.
Two weeks into the job I was tasked with the horoscope page as the regular columnist was on leave – or had she succumbed to a prediction?..
I read back through some six months forecasts and thought I spotted a pattern. No matter what the advice, readers had to be convinced they were able to solve any problem, take a step back or find time for themselves, even if the (unknown) outcome was not predictable.
That was it – nothing is predictable - it’s all ideas grabbed and garbled into possibilities. Never strong enough for the faithful to feel manipulated, but enough of a nudge to choose the right path.
Followers of astrology believe that star and moon alignment govern life paths and decisions based on birthdates - all very impressive - but all the daily reader wants to know is ‘will today be a good one?’
If they don’t like or agree with the forecast they can dismiss it and perhaps read the horoscopes either side to see if that suits them better.
I’m not doing that column anymore. ‘Too cynical for a few minutes escape each day’ my editor said.
I kept advising lions, rams and fish signs to ‘lighten up- seek a fellow or opposite star sign.’
I tried to encourage folk to question and argue and wrote about mermaids and rainbows.
Lives cannot be predicted. Horoscopes bring romantic idealism for those who need it. Make the most of whatever – read, dream, use the emotional crutch if needed, but use the advice to take charge.
I still reckon it’s much more fun to slide down rainbows than constantly seek for the pot of gold.
Andie Green
My mantra for today
I admit I’m a sucker for horoscopes. I don’t read them often but put me in a waiting room or on a boring flight or train ride and I browse through magazines or newspapers skimming articles until I turn to the horoscope page. So when I landed a job on ‘Teens Plus’ as an occasional features writer I decided to give the horoscope page a different angle.
I have often thought the advice for each star sign to be chosen from a mixed bag of glib phrases. One morning Leo may be looking for that ‘tall dark handsome stranger’ and in another publication he or she could be warned of a colleague’s ruthless aim to cause trouble.
The magazine title was ironic. Aimed for oldies with a teenage heart. Some features were on fashion and lifestyle but all had to be there for a purpose, not just fillers between ads.
If an elegant raincoat filled a full page the price didn’t matter so long as this coat could be used for all occasions from a funeral to a film premier; a dress down walk in the country or shopping in the West End.
Two weeks into the job I was tasked with the horoscope page as the regular columnist was on leave – or had she succumbed to a prediction?..
I read back through some six months forecasts and thought I spotted a pattern. No matter what the advice, readers had to be convinced they were able to solve any problem, take a step back or find time for themselves, even if the (unknown) outcome was not predictable.
That was it – nothing is predictable - it’s all ideas grabbed and garbled into possibilities. Never strong enough for the faithful to feel manipulated, but enough of a nudge to choose the right path.
Followers of astrology believe that star and moon alignment govern life paths and decisions based on birthdates - all very impressive - but all the daily reader wants to know is ‘will today be a good one?’
If they don’t like or agree with the forecast they can dismiss it and perhaps read the horoscopes either side to see if that suits them better.
I’m not doing that column anymore. ‘Too cynical for a few minutes escape each day’ my editor said.
I kept advising lions, rams and fish signs to ‘lighten up- seek a fellow or opposite star sign.’
I tried to encourage folk to question and argue and wrote about mermaids and rainbows.
Lives cannot be predicted. Horoscopes bring romantic idealism for those who need it. Make the most of whatever – read, dream, use the emotional crutch if needed, but use the advice to take charge.
I still reckon it’s much more fun to slide down rainbows than constantly seek for the pot of gold.
Andie Green
Horoscope
“Coffee Judy?, before sister comes back with the new rota; and before someone presses their buzzer.”
It had been another hectic night at, West Point General, but one which most staff got on with and thanked themselves lucky they were still in a job they loved and with people they could still have fun with.
“That sounds great Liz, time to smell the roses or in our case the coffee. Where’s the new magazine sister brought in earlier? Lets see what our horoscopes have to say for this month.”
“No thanks,” said Judy. “Forget mine, last month I was going to get a windfall and travel in style; what a laugh. Some of the nurses were having a night at the Dogs and I lost a fortune, and as for travelling in style, my car broke down and I had to catch two buses into work all week. Oh, and the windfall came off my aunt’s apple tree!”
The girls took the weight off their feet and sat with the comfort of their coffee and opened a box of biscuits, brought in by a family member of one of the patients.
“Go on, I’ll read mine then and see how good it is for me this month.”
“Gemini – he will come into your life like a burning fire; you can take that two ways, but hot and smoky is on the menu. If you keep the balance you won’t get burned.”
The girls were still laughing when sister came back into the room.
“We’ve got to move Mr. Singh out tonight as an emergency came in earlier to A & E and he’s to come up here once they’ve sorted him. I’ll leave you the notes to read, then we can get moving.”
Two hours later Jimmy Munro was settled in bed, nurse Liz was assisting him with a drink through a straw.
“This is no way to end up on Valentines night is it nurse, and me not even able to hold my own drink; with these bandages on.”
“So what were you doing to get into this situation Jimmy, on this romantic evening?
Liz was being sympathetic, but trying to lift Jimmy’s mood, with her usual bright sense of humour.
“Well I thought why should I dip out on a nice steak meal and a bottle of wine. So I popped into M&S on the way home from work and got the Valentines special offer.
I put the one piece of steak in the freezer for another night and set to with my gourmet meal for one. I decided to flash fry the steak, when the door bell rang. It was my neighbour bringing me a parcel which the postman had left with her.
It wasn't till I’d shut the door, after she left, did I realise my stupid mistake; I’d left the steak in the pan. I ran to the kitchen to see flames leaping from the pan. I threw a cloth over the blazing flames; hence my hands and arms got in the way, and hear I am. No date, no steak and useless.”
Liz wanted to throw her arms around him, he was in a mess. But that’s not what nurses do; especially as he was a six foot, gorgeous male.
“Well you were having a nice chat to our new patient Liz; I overheard him telling you his story.”
Liz sighed, “Oh I wonder what a guy like him is doing on his own on Valentines night?”
“Well if you take it from me,” Judy laughed, “he’s come looking for you; Remember what the Gemini horoscope said, He will come into your life like a burning fire. He’s defo hot and smokey; just don’t get burned.” She giggled.
Liz blushed at the thought, and picked up the magazine to re-read her horoscope.
Cora Boffey
“Coffee Judy?, before sister comes back with the new rota; and before someone presses their buzzer.”
It had been another hectic night at, West Point General, but one which most staff got on with and thanked themselves lucky they were still in a job they loved and with people they could still have fun with.
“That sounds great Liz, time to smell the roses or in our case the coffee. Where’s the new magazine sister brought in earlier? Lets see what our horoscopes have to say for this month.”
“No thanks,” said Judy. “Forget mine, last month I was going to get a windfall and travel in style; what a laugh. Some of the nurses were having a night at the Dogs and I lost a fortune, and as for travelling in style, my car broke down and I had to catch two buses into work all week. Oh, and the windfall came off my aunt’s apple tree!”
The girls took the weight off their feet and sat with the comfort of their coffee and opened a box of biscuits, brought in by a family member of one of the patients.
“Go on, I’ll read mine then and see how good it is for me this month.”
“Gemini – he will come into your life like a burning fire; you can take that two ways, but hot and smoky is on the menu. If you keep the balance you won’t get burned.”
The girls were still laughing when sister came back into the room.
“We’ve got to move Mr. Singh out tonight as an emergency came in earlier to A & E and he’s to come up here once they’ve sorted him. I’ll leave you the notes to read, then we can get moving.”
Two hours later Jimmy Munro was settled in bed, nurse Liz was assisting him with a drink through a straw.
“This is no way to end up on Valentines night is it nurse, and me not even able to hold my own drink; with these bandages on.”
“So what were you doing to get into this situation Jimmy, on this romantic evening?
Liz was being sympathetic, but trying to lift Jimmy’s mood, with her usual bright sense of humour.
“Well I thought why should I dip out on a nice steak meal and a bottle of wine. So I popped into M&S on the way home from work and got the Valentines special offer.
I put the one piece of steak in the freezer for another night and set to with my gourmet meal for one. I decided to flash fry the steak, when the door bell rang. It was my neighbour bringing me a parcel which the postman had left with her.
It wasn't till I’d shut the door, after she left, did I realise my stupid mistake; I’d left the steak in the pan. I ran to the kitchen to see flames leaping from the pan. I threw a cloth over the blazing flames; hence my hands and arms got in the way, and hear I am. No date, no steak and useless.”
Liz wanted to throw her arms around him, he was in a mess. But that’s not what nurses do; especially as he was a six foot, gorgeous male.
“Well you were having a nice chat to our new patient Liz; I overheard him telling you his story.”
Liz sighed, “Oh I wonder what a guy like him is doing on his own on Valentines night?”
“Well if you take it from me,” Judy laughed, “he’s come looking for you; Remember what the Gemini horoscope said, He will come into your life like a burning fire. He’s defo hot and smokey; just don’t get burned.” She giggled.
Liz blushed at the thought, and picked up the magazine to re-read her horoscope.
Cora Boffey
Pottery Throwdown
Susie sat comfortably in her armchair, a cup of coffee by her side with two crumpets oozing butter. Comfort food. She opened up her daily horoscope on her Smart phone and began to read. Not that she ever believed the prediction, especially when she read she was coming into some money or she needed to consider new job prospects. Today’s blurb for Aquarius caught her attention:
Time alone is essential for everyone, but make sure you recognise when you are isolated to the point where it is unhealthy. Are you lonely? Consider what is upsetting you so you can work things out.
Susie turned off the App. She recognised herself immediately. Sometimes it was easier to stay in, cuddle up with a good book and turn off her phone.
She hadn’t always been like this. She had enjoyed a happy busy life when Jeff was alive, and now the children were adults, they had their own busy lives and she saw them far less often
Susie thought about what her horoscope had said. Was she upset? Was she isolating herself simply because it was the easiest thing to do? She would take herself off to the local village; at least have a coffee and see what was going on. She decided to walk rather than take the car. When she reached the High Street she was surprised to see how busy it was. A few stalls were set up on the village green. There was a lady selling her homemade jewellery; another stall with a display of deliciously decorated chocolates; the smell of an artisan baker’s bread and cakes permeated the air. Then she spotted a young woman setting up her stall with some brightly decorated pottery vases, all different shapes and sizes. She stopped and admired a tall slim vase brightly coloured in red.
‘Did you make these?’ asked Susie. ‘They really are beautiful.’
‘Yes, I did. Do you like pottery? I’m Daisy by the way. I have a workshop in the garden with a kiln. It used to belong to my mum, but we worked together to make most of these. Sadly, she passed away last year so I’m trying to keep it going on my own.’
‘Oh, that’s so sad. I’m Susie. Here, let me help you unpack. This is so strange you know. My husband loved pottery. We always went on holiday to Devon or Cornwall so we could come back with a piece of pottery. We collected Troika in the 1970s before it became really popular, and then of course they stopped making it, so I have quite a few bits and pieces now that are probably worth something.’
‘That’s really interesting. My mum loved Poole pottery. We used to do the same thing when we went on holiday. In fact her own pottery was inspired by the bright colours of Poole.’
Susie and Daisy worked together unpacking and arranging the pots on display.
When they were finished, Daisy looked so grateful. ‘Look, I don’t know whether you would be interested, but I’ve started running pottery classes to bring in a bit of extra cash. Would you like to come along?’
Susie didn’t need to think about it. ‘I’d love to, thank you. And if you need any help with your stall at any time, I’d be very happy to help.’
‘Thank you, I try to go to as many of these village fairs as I can. People are always so friendly. It’s been great to meet you. And you never know what the future may hold. With mum’s inspiration, my pottery could be sought after too one day.’
They laughed together, exchanged email addresses and promised to keep in touch.
Susie had a spring in her step as she walked back home. She thought about her horoscope that day and how things had turned out. She already had plans for the future, thanks to Jeff and Daisy’s mum.
Maggie Storer
Susie sat comfortably in her armchair, a cup of coffee by her side with two crumpets oozing butter. Comfort food. She opened up her daily horoscope on her Smart phone and began to read. Not that she ever believed the prediction, especially when she read she was coming into some money or she needed to consider new job prospects. Today’s blurb for Aquarius caught her attention:
Time alone is essential for everyone, but make sure you recognise when you are isolated to the point where it is unhealthy. Are you lonely? Consider what is upsetting you so you can work things out.
Susie turned off the App. She recognised herself immediately. Sometimes it was easier to stay in, cuddle up with a good book and turn off her phone.
She hadn’t always been like this. She had enjoyed a happy busy life when Jeff was alive, and now the children were adults, they had their own busy lives and she saw them far less often
Susie thought about what her horoscope had said. Was she upset? Was she isolating herself simply because it was the easiest thing to do? She would take herself off to the local village; at least have a coffee and see what was going on. She decided to walk rather than take the car. When she reached the High Street she was surprised to see how busy it was. A few stalls were set up on the village green. There was a lady selling her homemade jewellery; another stall with a display of deliciously decorated chocolates; the smell of an artisan baker’s bread and cakes permeated the air. Then she spotted a young woman setting up her stall with some brightly decorated pottery vases, all different shapes and sizes. She stopped and admired a tall slim vase brightly coloured in red.
‘Did you make these?’ asked Susie. ‘They really are beautiful.’
‘Yes, I did. Do you like pottery? I’m Daisy by the way. I have a workshop in the garden with a kiln. It used to belong to my mum, but we worked together to make most of these. Sadly, she passed away last year so I’m trying to keep it going on my own.’
‘Oh, that’s so sad. I’m Susie. Here, let me help you unpack. This is so strange you know. My husband loved pottery. We always went on holiday to Devon or Cornwall so we could come back with a piece of pottery. We collected Troika in the 1970s before it became really popular, and then of course they stopped making it, so I have quite a few bits and pieces now that are probably worth something.’
‘That’s really interesting. My mum loved Poole pottery. We used to do the same thing when we went on holiday. In fact her own pottery was inspired by the bright colours of Poole.’
Susie and Daisy worked together unpacking and arranging the pots on display.
When they were finished, Daisy looked so grateful. ‘Look, I don’t know whether you would be interested, but I’ve started running pottery classes to bring in a bit of extra cash. Would you like to come along?’
Susie didn’t need to think about it. ‘I’d love to, thank you. And if you need any help with your stall at any time, I’d be very happy to help.’
‘Thank you, I try to go to as many of these village fairs as I can. People are always so friendly. It’s been great to meet you. And you never know what the future may hold. With mum’s inspiration, my pottery could be sought after too one day.’
They laughed together, exchanged email addresses and promised to keep in touch.
Susie had a spring in her step as she walked back home. She thought about her horoscope that day and how things had turned out. She already had plans for the future, thanks to Jeff and Daisy’s mum.
Maggie Storer
The Empty Shell
Laura did not believe horoscopes but that day for some inexplicable reason she read her own. Today you will find something special, that resonates with you. Smiling, she did not give this another thought . The past few months had been a living hell leading up to the death of her husband. Her family and friends had been wonderful and given her great strength and support. Later that day she went for her usual walk. It was a cold, bracing, but a wonderful sunny day. Crocuses were everywhere white, purple and yellow reaching upwards, so beautiful. Then she made her way to the bench they often sat on looking out across the Green they loved so much. She sat down with a deep sigh, watching people walking, exercising their dogs. Her eyes strayed to the space beside her, seeing a flat shell about the size of the palm of her hand. On the smooth side of the shell there was a small delicate painting of two Penguins hugging each other and surrounded by four red hearts, with the words, One day someone is going to hug you so tight that all the broken pieces will stick back together. This caused her to brim with tears, as she held the shell. On their many holidays at Taly-bont in Wales with their children they had been shell collectors. All day she asked herself why had she picked it up? Was it meant for her alone? Often on their walks the bench would be occupied, on a number of occasions to family and friends she had often likened herself to an empty shell. Not being a believer in the afterlife, she found this was difficult to understand, and she knew it would always be a mystery.
Carol Hipkin
Laura did not believe horoscopes but that day for some inexplicable reason she read her own. Today you will find something special, that resonates with you. Smiling, she did not give this another thought . The past few months had been a living hell leading up to the death of her husband. Her family and friends had been wonderful and given her great strength and support. Later that day she went for her usual walk. It was a cold, bracing, but a wonderful sunny day. Crocuses were everywhere white, purple and yellow reaching upwards, so beautiful. Then she made her way to the bench they often sat on looking out across the Green they loved so much. She sat down with a deep sigh, watching people walking, exercising their dogs. Her eyes strayed to the space beside her, seeing a flat shell about the size of the palm of her hand. On the smooth side of the shell there was a small delicate painting of two Penguins hugging each other and surrounded by four red hearts, with the words, One day someone is going to hug you so tight that all the broken pieces will stick back together. This caused her to brim with tears, as she held the shell. On their many holidays at Taly-bont in Wales with their children they had been shell collectors. All day she asked herself why had she picked it up? Was it meant for her alone? Often on their walks the bench would be occupied, on a number of occasions to family and friends she had often likened herself to an empty shell. Not being a believer in the afterlife, she found this was difficult to understand, and she knew it would always be a mystery.
Carol Hipkin
If The Shoe Fits
Every workday morning we caught the same train. I remember the first time I saw him… he was the sort of guy who deserved a second glance. Of course, he didn’t notice me. A couple of weeks later, when everyone was boarding the train, he stepped back to let me on before him but there wasn’t a flicker. He was just being polite, I could have been an old hag for all the interest he took. In the morning rush everyone grabbed the first vacant seat available. And then, one morning just before Christmas time, he landed in a seat across the aisle from me. Our eyes met and we exchanged a glance of recognition and he gave me a sort of good morning nod. I fought the urge to sit and stare at him, he had deliciously dark eyes, he was quite good looking and didn’t appear to be the usual “eyeing up the girls” type, seemingly happy with his own company. When I saw him reading his mail or making notes I felt a stab of jealousy – my mystery man probably had a girlfriend, a wife even.
I thought of him often during the Christmas break. I realised that despite the occasional nod of recognition on the train, I didn’t even know his name and he’d not a made a move to learn mine.
On the first day back to work after Christmas I was conscious of feeling a little excited about seeing him again. I even checked my horoscope before leaving home. “Value your acquaintances, someone may surprise you.” What drivel they come up with. Booted and muffled up against the weather I trudged to the station. He was there, looking cool and collected in a smart camel overcoat. I stood as near to him as I could without seeming obvious. His gaze didn’t stray from his paper. In the ensuing weeks I received the occasional nod and then, at the beginning of February he actually said, “Good morning.” I was speechless and grinned back at him. What an idiot, I could imagine what he must have thought of me. Why couldn’t I have responded with a grown-up and sensible, “good morning?” To tell the truth I was getting desperate, I had become besotted with the man. I had to think of a plan to break the barrier. Listen to me, barrier! Oh yes, I reasoned it all out, I was being ridiculous. So ridiculous I hadn’t told a soul about him, the whole thing was taking over my life, forever buzzing round in my head. Even my mother accused me of mooning about as if I were on another planet.
I needed a plan, and a few days later, it came to me in a flash. Wasn’t it Marilyn Monroe who said, “Give a girl the right pair of shoes and she’ll conquer the world”? “That’s it!” I breathed the words aloud already imagining myself at the station.
Monday morning brought bright spring sunshine and a warm breeze. I wore a tight fitting suit and my new stiletto shoes. Mother looked at me and shook her head resignedly. I just smiled, gave her a little wave and teetered off to the station having had the sense to set out fifteen minutes earlier; I needed some practise on my killer heels which, incidentally, came with a killer price tag.
I arrived without mishap at my usual time. He was standing there buried in his paper as usual. The regular commuters were dotted about as I strode along the platform, the sharp clip of steel on concrete demanding attention. People glanced in my direction and some of the looks were appreciative. He didn’t look up and I managed to get quite close to him. The train rumbled in and everyone surged forward. It was then I tripped, it was the damned shoes. Suddenly I was sprawled at His feet with a piercing pain in my ankle. To say I was mortified is putting it mildly. As the train pulled away, he knelt beside me. “Please let me help,” he muttered, “I’ve been trying to think of a reason to talk to you.”
That all happened twenty years ago… he’s still on the case and often relates the dangers of very high heels. But remember, and this is between you, me, and our teenage daughter, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do1
Betty Taylor
Every workday morning we caught the same train. I remember the first time I saw him… he was the sort of guy who deserved a second glance. Of course, he didn’t notice me. A couple of weeks later, when everyone was boarding the train, he stepped back to let me on before him but there wasn’t a flicker. He was just being polite, I could have been an old hag for all the interest he took. In the morning rush everyone grabbed the first vacant seat available. And then, one morning just before Christmas time, he landed in a seat across the aisle from me. Our eyes met and we exchanged a glance of recognition and he gave me a sort of good morning nod. I fought the urge to sit and stare at him, he had deliciously dark eyes, he was quite good looking and didn’t appear to be the usual “eyeing up the girls” type, seemingly happy with his own company. When I saw him reading his mail or making notes I felt a stab of jealousy – my mystery man probably had a girlfriend, a wife even.
I thought of him often during the Christmas break. I realised that despite the occasional nod of recognition on the train, I didn’t even know his name and he’d not a made a move to learn mine.
On the first day back to work after Christmas I was conscious of feeling a little excited about seeing him again. I even checked my horoscope before leaving home. “Value your acquaintances, someone may surprise you.” What drivel they come up with. Booted and muffled up against the weather I trudged to the station. He was there, looking cool and collected in a smart camel overcoat. I stood as near to him as I could without seeming obvious. His gaze didn’t stray from his paper. In the ensuing weeks I received the occasional nod and then, at the beginning of February he actually said, “Good morning.” I was speechless and grinned back at him. What an idiot, I could imagine what he must have thought of me. Why couldn’t I have responded with a grown-up and sensible, “good morning?” To tell the truth I was getting desperate, I had become besotted with the man. I had to think of a plan to break the barrier. Listen to me, barrier! Oh yes, I reasoned it all out, I was being ridiculous. So ridiculous I hadn’t told a soul about him, the whole thing was taking over my life, forever buzzing round in my head. Even my mother accused me of mooning about as if I were on another planet.
I needed a plan, and a few days later, it came to me in a flash. Wasn’t it Marilyn Monroe who said, “Give a girl the right pair of shoes and she’ll conquer the world”? “That’s it!” I breathed the words aloud already imagining myself at the station.
Monday morning brought bright spring sunshine and a warm breeze. I wore a tight fitting suit and my new stiletto shoes. Mother looked at me and shook her head resignedly. I just smiled, gave her a little wave and teetered off to the station having had the sense to set out fifteen minutes earlier; I needed some practise on my killer heels which, incidentally, came with a killer price tag.
I arrived without mishap at my usual time. He was standing there buried in his paper as usual. The regular commuters were dotted about as I strode along the platform, the sharp clip of steel on concrete demanding attention. People glanced in my direction and some of the looks were appreciative. He didn’t look up and I managed to get quite close to him. The train rumbled in and everyone surged forward. It was then I tripped, it was the damned shoes. Suddenly I was sprawled at His feet with a piercing pain in my ankle. To say I was mortified is putting it mildly. As the train pulled away, he knelt beside me. “Please let me help,” he muttered, “I’ve been trying to think of a reason to talk to you.”
That all happened twenty years ago… he’s still on the case and often relates the dangers of very high heels. But remember, and this is between you, me, and our teenage daughter, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do1
Betty Taylor
Sunflowers
On my first drive through the French countryside I remember the sunny miles of fields of sunflowers. At that time I was not aware of these happy flowers growing in the U.K.
These blooms go back to ancient times when according to the myth of Clytie and Apollo they symbolised loyalty and adoration.
Since the conflict in Ukraine we are all aware that it is the national flower in this region. This cheerful flower was originally cultivated in the Americas before becoming the favourite flower of Ukraine. In traditional folklore the sunflower signifies fertility, solar power, and vigour. In Britain villages hold competitions to grow the tallest blooms and my efforts from a few years ago of the 7.5 foot bloom was tiny in comparison with the record flowers of over 30 feet with a 12inch diameter head.
This highlights the Sunflower’s unique tendency to turn its ‘head’ to follow the sun across the sky, drooping down towards the sun when night falls.
The whole plant is very useful for cooking oil, beauty products, medicine, and birds love the dried seed heads too.
I hope to grow some more this summer as last year's seed suppliers quickly sold out due to the country growing ‘Sunflowers for Ukraine’
Vincent Van Gogh painted seven sunflower pictures in Arles, France, between August 1888 and January 1889 . These paintings make up one of the most famous series of works in art history. They were painted during a rare period of excited optimism for the lonely and passionate painter where he dreamed of setting up a community of artists in the south of France with his mentor Paul Gaugin.
Vincent wrote that the richness of the flowers for the use of the yellow spectrum, partly because newly invented pigments made new colour possible.
It really is a symbol of hope and happiness.
Andie Green
On my first drive through the French countryside I remember the sunny miles of fields of sunflowers. At that time I was not aware of these happy flowers growing in the U.K.
These blooms go back to ancient times when according to the myth of Clytie and Apollo they symbolised loyalty and adoration.
Since the conflict in Ukraine we are all aware that it is the national flower in this region. This cheerful flower was originally cultivated in the Americas before becoming the favourite flower of Ukraine. In traditional folklore the sunflower signifies fertility, solar power, and vigour. In Britain villages hold competitions to grow the tallest blooms and my efforts from a few years ago of the 7.5 foot bloom was tiny in comparison with the record flowers of over 30 feet with a 12inch diameter head.
This highlights the Sunflower’s unique tendency to turn its ‘head’ to follow the sun across the sky, drooping down towards the sun when night falls.
The whole plant is very useful for cooking oil, beauty products, medicine, and birds love the dried seed heads too.
I hope to grow some more this summer as last year's seed suppliers quickly sold out due to the country growing ‘Sunflowers for Ukraine’
Vincent Van Gogh painted seven sunflower pictures in Arles, France, between August 1888 and January 1889 . These paintings make up one of the most famous series of works in art history. They were painted during a rare period of excited optimism for the lonely and passionate painter where he dreamed of setting up a community of artists in the south of France with his mentor Paul Gaugin.
Vincent wrote that the richness of the flowers for the use of the yellow spectrum, partly because newly invented pigments made new colour possible.
It really is a symbol of hope and happiness.
Andie Green
It’s Never Too Late
“A greeting card sent to a person anonymously on 14 February as a sign of affection is known as a valentine. The name derives from either of two Christian martyrs in the 3rd century AD called St Valentine: one an Italian bishop, the other an Italian priest, although neither was noted for the amorous practices which are nowadays associated with them. St Valentine’s Day traditions date back to the pagan feast of Lupercalia in ancient Rome, held on 15 February in honour of the god Pan. This coincided with the day that birds were supposed to choose their mates. Rather than abolish the feast, the early Christian church gave it a new name.” *
Alison knows this, and more, and could tell you all sorts of interesting things about St Valentine’s Day. No matter though, as she’s never actually received a card herself. She remembers the squeals and giggles of the teenage years; friends comparing the cards they had received. To her shame she remembers she sent one to herself one year, in desperation, so that doesn’t count. In the office she just kept her head down, carried on working pretending she was too busy to notice. She had a reputation for being aloof, stand offish her boss said, but really, she was just shy, and took her work seriously.
Secretly she loves the whole idea of Valentine’s Day and of course she’s jealous of all the attention others receive. So, she pretends to detest 14 February: she scorns the way the shops fill up with ridiculous sickly cards, balloons and cuddly toys. All rubbish, just another cynical commercial ploy to get you to part with your money. Not to mention all the chocolate and roses, all those special restaurant meals, and ‘two dine for £20’ including champagne deals in the supermarkets. All those smug couples, have they nothing better to do with their money? What’s the point anyway? You shouldn’t wait until one designated day to declare your love.
Tom, her husband for forty years, didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. It would never have occurred to him to send flowers or buy chocolates, let alone give her a card. Nor to tell her he loved her, for that matter.
But this year is different. This year she’s received five cards. They’re lined up on the kitchen work top. She can’t actually believe it but there they are. They’ve been pushed through her door over the past couple of days and this morning, the day itself, a bunch of roses has been left on her doormat. It’s strange that this should happen after all these years of nothing.
Alison is thinking about all this as she bakes another batch of scones. There’s a coffee morning in the community lounge tomorrow and she likes to take something home-made. It’s one of the joys of living in her retirement apartment. She’s pleased she moved here after Tom died. She loves the modern kitchen; there’s a lovely view of the park from her little balcony and of course there’s always company to be found if you want it. The coffee mornings are very popular and her cakes are always eaten up quickly; she’s getting quite a reputation for her baking. A thought occurs to Alison. This couldn’t be anything to do with the Valentine cards, could it?
Linda Birch
“A greeting card sent to a person anonymously on 14 February as a sign of affection is known as a valentine. The name derives from either of two Christian martyrs in the 3rd century AD called St Valentine: one an Italian bishop, the other an Italian priest, although neither was noted for the amorous practices which are nowadays associated with them. St Valentine’s Day traditions date back to the pagan feast of Lupercalia in ancient Rome, held on 15 February in honour of the god Pan. This coincided with the day that birds were supposed to choose their mates. Rather than abolish the feast, the early Christian church gave it a new name.” *
Alison knows this, and more, and could tell you all sorts of interesting things about St Valentine’s Day. No matter though, as she’s never actually received a card herself. She remembers the squeals and giggles of the teenage years; friends comparing the cards they had received. To her shame she remembers she sent one to herself one year, in desperation, so that doesn’t count. In the office she just kept her head down, carried on working pretending she was too busy to notice. She had a reputation for being aloof, stand offish her boss said, but really, she was just shy, and took her work seriously.
Secretly she loves the whole idea of Valentine’s Day and of course she’s jealous of all the attention others receive. So, she pretends to detest 14 February: she scorns the way the shops fill up with ridiculous sickly cards, balloons and cuddly toys. All rubbish, just another cynical commercial ploy to get you to part with your money. Not to mention all the chocolate and roses, all those special restaurant meals, and ‘two dine for £20’ including champagne deals in the supermarkets. All those smug couples, have they nothing better to do with their money? What’s the point anyway? You shouldn’t wait until one designated day to declare your love.
Tom, her husband for forty years, didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. It would never have occurred to him to send flowers or buy chocolates, let alone give her a card. Nor to tell her he loved her, for that matter.
But this year is different. This year she’s received five cards. They’re lined up on the kitchen work top. She can’t actually believe it but there they are. They’ve been pushed through her door over the past couple of days and this morning, the day itself, a bunch of roses has been left on her doormat. It’s strange that this should happen after all these years of nothing.
Alison is thinking about all this as she bakes another batch of scones. There’s a coffee morning in the community lounge tomorrow and she likes to take something home-made. It’s one of the joys of living in her retirement apartment. She’s pleased she moved here after Tom died. She loves the modern kitchen; there’s a lovely view of the park from her little balcony and of course there’s always company to be found if you want it. The coffee mornings are very popular and her cakes are always eaten up quickly; she’s getting quite a reputation for her baking. A thought occurs to Alison. This couldn’t be anything to do with the Valentine cards, could it?
Linda Birch
People Watching
They say we all have a doppelgänger, a German word for ‘double walker’. Someone who looks identical to you, but not related biologically. Apparently there is only a 1 in 135 chance that there is a single pair of doppelgängers existing anywhere in the world. Just think of the millions of computations of the human face. So my first statement is most probably untrue.
However, there are many people who share similar features and could pass for a close relative. There are even websites where you can search for your own twin self. I don’t think I would go down this road. It could get complicated. There has to be some truth in there being someone out there who shares many of your facial features.
I was walking along the pavement today, and saw a lady approaching. She looked at me and smiled and I looked at her. I think we both saw some connection. She looked like a relative on my mother’s side; the same Ellis nose and face shape. I am a hundred miles away from Sheffield where the Ellis family came from, so it would be highly unlikely that we had any connection at all. We passed each other by. Too late now to wish I had stopped to say hello.
The doppelgänger is often portrayed as a ghostly or paranormal phenomenon and usually seen as a harbinger of bad luck. Seen as spirit doubles and said to be bad omens. So perhaps we wouldn’t want to meet one after all.
There are many examples of doppelgängers on the Internet, which poses the question of the probabilities of there being more than 1 in 135 stated. Some even share part of their DNA. The conclusion being that there are many people who have many similarities, but when properly scrutinised, found to have many differences.
According to the concepts of science, true doppelgängers don’t exist, or at least its highly unlikely. Do you believe in ghosts? If your answer is yes, then maybe your doppelgänger is nearer than you think. The websites are only a click away.
Maggie Storer
They say we all have a doppelgänger, a German word for ‘double walker’. Someone who looks identical to you, but not related biologically. Apparently there is only a 1 in 135 chance that there is a single pair of doppelgängers existing anywhere in the world. Just think of the millions of computations of the human face. So my first statement is most probably untrue.
However, there are many people who share similar features and could pass for a close relative. There are even websites where you can search for your own twin self. I don’t think I would go down this road. It could get complicated. There has to be some truth in there being someone out there who shares many of your facial features.
I was walking along the pavement today, and saw a lady approaching. She looked at me and smiled and I looked at her. I think we both saw some connection. She looked like a relative on my mother’s side; the same Ellis nose and face shape. I am a hundred miles away from Sheffield where the Ellis family came from, so it would be highly unlikely that we had any connection at all. We passed each other by. Too late now to wish I had stopped to say hello.
The doppelgänger is often portrayed as a ghostly or paranormal phenomenon and usually seen as a harbinger of bad luck. Seen as spirit doubles and said to be bad omens. So perhaps we wouldn’t want to meet one after all.
There are many examples of doppelgängers on the Internet, which poses the question of the probabilities of there being more than 1 in 135 stated. Some even share part of their DNA. The conclusion being that there are many people who have many similarities, but when properly scrutinised, found to have many differences.
According to the concepts of science, true doppelgängers don’t exist, or at least its highly unlikely. Do you believe in ghosts? If your answer is yes, then maybe your doppelgänger is nearer than you think. The websites are only a click away.
Maggie Storer
Carcassonne
I have always loved visiting old ruined castles around the countryside. Touching the stone walls, climbing the winding stair cases and imagining the historic stories they have to tell. Love, seduction, deception, cruelty, feuding and death. I first heard of Carcassonne in France when my son had a French penfriend, sadly they did not continue to correspond. When I read about this magnificent fortified historical castle with a wall encircling the city and its population, I wanted to see it for myself. A few years later my husband and I booked a tripto spend a few days there and also to tour the vineyards. Plus, of course, wine tasting. When we arrived it was dark. After our meal, I asked how far the castle was and was told just a short a distance along the road. It did not disappoint Magnificent spot lights glimmered on the stone walls. The drawbridge was open, beckoning us in. The streets were cobbled and as we continued there were people sitting out chatting at coffee shops and wine bars. We sat enjoying the ambience of everything around us. As I went to bed I looked forward to spending the following day exploring the castle. We walked down the hillside to the bustling town square. In the centre was a large fountain. Looking back from there you could see the huge fairytale towers, so lovingly restored, and the great protective walls. The castle was used in the film Robin Hood Prince of Thieves, starring Kevin Costner, a perfect setting. Its history dates back to the fifth century, and was expanded and fortified in the Gallo Roman period. In 1807 Napoleon reinforced the castle for use as a military stronghold during the French revolution. Later, when it was no longer required as a stronghold, it was decided to demolish it. There was a huge outcry and so the castle was retained as an historical monument. Thank goodness! Carol Hipkin |
You Never Know What’s Round the Corner
With gunged eyes, I stumbled out of the opticians in Codsall, gripping my computerised prescription. GPs don’t do eyes these days, you have to find an optician who is registered MECS (Minor Eye Condition Service.) ‘There’s a chemist round the corner,’ said the cheery receptionist. Good. I didn't want to wander far with gunged eyes and brown liquid that had stained my eyes, while the optician checked me out. ‘Sorry we’ve run out of this,’ said the chemist. ‘Try Tettenhall.’ Great, I thought, up to Tettenhall with these eyes and trust me to have forgotten my dark glasses. ‘Good morning,’ said a very jolly lady, jumping out of a doorway. ‘Are you busy?’ I was about to find some excuse or say, ‘sorry not today, thank you,’ when she said, ‘would you like a free breakfast; or just a coffee?’ I looked up above the doorway, where she had appeared to leap from. ‘Love and Liquor .’ Fast thinking, I thought, maybe she’s escaped from the local care home. Am I safe; is she? I decided not to object to her questions. She gently took my arm and ushered me through the door of the small quaint establishment. It was buzzing! People chatting, laughing, in small groups, sets of two, people on their own happy to read the newspaper, a man holding his dog; enjoying watching and soaking up the atmosphere. ‘Were you dragged in off the streets?’ laughed a kindly lady. ‘Or have you heard about us and decided to pop in and see for yourself? Either way, take a seat. Would you like a coffee, tea, toast, crumpets with jam, butter or marmalade?’ ‘Oh lovely, coffee and crumpet sounds just fine, thank you.’ I was asked if I wanted to join others in the room, on the comfy settee and low coffee table, or sit at the window table. I opted for a high bar stool with the high round table; near to the door, just for a quick get away if I felt the need. It turned out to be one of the most enjoyable three quarters of an hour I’d encountered in a long time. I learned it was one of the new Huns set up since Covid 19 and to help support people who might be looking for a warm space and company in this difficult climate. It is with many thanks to the volunteers and the people who run Love and Liquor for setting up the Wednesday morning social. Cheers guys, may you continue to go from strength to strength with the Hub at your popular hostelry in Codsall Square. Cora Boffey |
Deadline: 31st January
Brief: Sentimental. Write about an inexpensive item you have that means a lot to you.
Select your viewpoint i.e. first person - second person - third person.
Note: Google research will help you recognise the various viewpoints from which a story can be told.
Brief: Sentimental. Write about an inexpensive item you have that means a lot to you.
Select your viewpoint i.e. first person - second person - third person.
Note: Google research will help you recognise the various viewpoints from which a story can be told.
Sewing basket
I’ve just had an hour sorting my mother’s wicker sewing basket. I don’t know how long she had it, possibly it was her mothers. I recall Mum doing embroidery on dresses made by my Nanna.
There are remnants of embroidery silks. A dozen reels of cotton, some made of wood in shades named wine, myrtle, sky blue and almond green. There is a jumble of ribbons and tape, I recognise some as iron-on mending tape. Small cards of fine thread in six shades from tan, brown, beige and pink. Nylon thread for mending nylon stockings. How lovely to imagine my Mum mending her hose for a night out or to look smart in her wartime army uniform. But how tedious to have to mend ‘ladders’ ! There are yards of elastic, narrow white and wider cream. For underwear or waistbands, perhaps. There is a yellow and red tobacco tin labelled ‘Erinmore flake'. Squashed in here are buttons for every garment; black coat buttons; tiny white and pink for baby cardigans; extra buttons that are on new knitwear, often with thread too and some delicate gold buttons that I remember from a honeymoon dress.
There are several packs of needles, not many that I could thread now – even with a round pin and hook gadget to ‘help with needle threading’. More needles and some pins are in a flat silver tin that once contained ‘ 20 Panter BRASIL Cigarillos’ showing a picture of a handsome panther wrapped around a lit cigar.
Hidden amongst this jumble are five pairs of scissors. Small varieties to cut and trim, one pair I recognise for snipping stitches on an imperfect sewing line. Blunt ended ones for a child to use and a tiny curved pair that I can only imagine was for trimming a babies nails!
At the very bottom is a triangular piece of dressmakers chalk for using on paper patterns and a tiny silver thimble.
I’ve sorted the mess of fabrics, tapes and ribbons. Secured cotton ends on the reels and pushed it all back into the basket even though I’m not sure why I’m keeping it all.
I use it very occasionally to sew on a button. I can usually find the right shade of cotton and size of button.
Maybe one day my granddaughter may look through it and ask questions of the oldies.
Andie Green
I’ve just had an hour sorting my mother’s wicker sewing basket. I don’t know how long she had it, possibly it was her mothers. I recall Mum doing embroidery on dresses made by my Nanna.
There are remnants of embroidery silks. A dozen reels of cotton, some made of wood in shades named wine, myrtle, sky blue and almond green. There is a jumble of ribbons and tape, I recognise some as iron-on mending tape. Small cards of fine thread in six shades from tan, brown, beige and pink. Nylon thread for mending nylon stockings. How lovely to imagine my Mum mending her hose for a night out or to look smart in her wartime army uniform. But how tedious to have to mend ‘ladders’ ! There are yards of elastic, narrow white and wider cream. For underwear or waistbands, perhaps. There is a yellow and red tobacco tin labelled ‘Erinmore flake'. Squashed in here are buttons for every garment; black coat buttons; tiny white and pink for baby cardigans; extra buttons that are on new knitwear, often with thread too and some delicate gold buttons that I remember from a honeymoon dress.
There are several packs of needles, not many that I could thread now – even with a round pin and hook gadget to ‘help with needle threading’. More needles and some pins are in a flat silver tin that once contained ‘ 20 Panter BRASIL Cigarillos’ showing a picture of a handsome panther wrapped around a lit cigar.
Hidden amongst this jumble are five pairs of scissors. Small varieties to cut and trim, one pair I recognise for snipping stitches on an imperfect sewing line. Blunt ended ones for a child to use and a tiny curved pair that I can only imagine was for trimming a babies nails!
At the very bottom is a triangular piece of dressmakers chalk for using on paper patterns and a tiny silver thimble.
I’ve sorted the mess of fabrics, tapes and ribbons. Secured cotton ends on the reels and pushed it all back into the basket even though I’m not sure why I’m keeping it all.
I use it very occasionally to sew on a button. I can usually find the right shade of cotton and size of button.
Maybe one day my granddaughter may look through it and ask questions of the oldies.
Andie Green
A Child’s Garden of Verses
A little volume of Robert Louis Stevenson’s verse for children is my chosen sentimental treasure. It’s been in my keeping for 72 years. When I was 8 or 9 I began churning out what I called poems... in retrospect I see they were corny, doggerel ditties. In 1949, inspiration struck and my mother seemed pleased with my offering…
Autumn
In autumn when the leaves are brown,
Little squirrels come scampering down,
From their nests high in the trees
They never think to play with me,
They are busy every day.
Collecting nuts to store away,
For in the winter, they you know,
Go to sleep through all the snow.
Cringe-worthy indeed, but my Mum was tickled pink. A few weeks later, Christmas 1949 arrived. In my stocking I discovered the book. Its pristine newness and pretty dust cover delighted me. It didn’t occur to me to question when and why Santa had allowed my Mum to write an inscription inside my book. Maybe I feel sentimental about the little message Mum wrote, or perhaps the book struck a nerve because I’d enjoyed my teacher’s reading of Stevenson’s poem, “My Shadow”. To me it was a revelation when we discussed the poem in class and the penny dropped as to why the writer’s shadow had failed to accompany him on an early morning excursion into the garden.
The original print run was in 1885 and reports tell of its instant success. My copy came off the press in 1946. There were three printings that year so it must have still been selling well at that time. The poems are written from the point of view of a small child. On reading it today, it's clear that it’s from a bygone age and the writer enjoyed an upper middle-class lifestyle. He talks of his nurse, Alison Cunningham, who must have been important to him as he has dedicated the book to her. In modern day parlance she'd be called a nanny. The poems reveal much about the way of life in the writer’s household.
With the help of Google I find that more recently printed volumes are beautifully illustrated in full colour, indicating reprints still happen. Perhaps today’s children might well be puzzled by Leerie in the poem entitled The Lamplighter, likewise they may wonder what is going on in Auntie’s Skirts. Today’s young readers may need help to understand life in the Stevenson home.
My book, with its outmoded metaphors, is tired, has yellowing pages, and is missing a dust cover. Despite its shabbiness, it will stay with me until I’m ready to depart this mortal coil to wander off into the hypothetical big blue yonder, where… maybe… I’ll happen upon a bookshop and acquire a colourful contemporary copy.
Betty Taylor
A little volume of Robert Louis Stevenson’s verse for children is my chosen sentimental treasure. It’s been in my keeping for 72 years. When I was 8 or 9 I began churning out what I called poems... in retrospect I see they were corny, doggerel ditties. In 1949, inspiration struck and my mother seemed pleased with my offering…
Autumn
In autumn when the leaves are brown,
Little squirrels come scampering down,
From their nests high in the trees
They never think to play with me,
They are busy every day.
Collecting nuts to store away,
For in the winter, they you know,
Go to sleep through all the snow.
Cringe-worthy indeed, but my Mum was tickled pink. A few weeks later, Christmas 1949 arrived. In my stocking I discovered the book. Its pristine newness and pretty dust cover delighted me. It didn’t occur to me to question when and why Santa had allowed my Mum to write an inscription inside my book. Maybe I feel sentimental about the little message Mum wrote, or perhaps the book struck a nerve because I’d enjoyed my teacher’s reading of Stevenson’s poem, “My Shadow”. To me it was a revelation when we discussed the poem in class and the penny dropped as to why the writer’s shadow had failed to accompany him on an early morning excursion into the garden.
The original print run was in 1885 and reports tell of its instant success. My copy came off the press in 1946. There were three printings that year so it must have still been selling well at that time. The poems are written from the point of view of a small child. On reading it today, it's clear that it’s from a bygone age and the writer enjoyed an upper middle-class lifestyle. He talks of his nurse, Alison Cunningham, who must have been important to him as he has dedicated the book to her. In modern day parlance she'd be called a nanny. The poems reveal much about the way of life in the writer’s household.
With the help of Google I find that more recently printed volumes are beautifully illustrated in full colour, indicating reprints still happen. Perhaps today’s children might well be puzzled by Leerie in the poem entitled The Lamplighter, likewise they may wonder what is going on in Auntie’s Skirts. Today’s young readers may need help to understand life in the Stevenson home.
My book, with its outmoded metaphors, is tired, has yellowing pages, and is missing a dust cover. Despite its shabbiness, it will stay with me until I’m ready to depart this mortal coil to wander off into the hypothetical big blue yonder, where… maybe… I’ll happen upon a bookshop and acquire a colourful contemporary copy.
Betty Taylor
Sentimental Value
She can feel the tears brimming. Silly. It’s not like it was deliberate. She knows that. ‘But Jackie, come on. It’s only a few old books. It’s not like you ever looked at them anyway.’ That does it. She starts blubbing. ‘You don’t understand and I can’t explain, but they matter. It’s like I’ve lost some dear friends.’
‘Well, you should have marked the boxes more clearly. I thought all those in that corner were for the tip. I was only trying to help.’ Jackie knows that’s true and she stops crying, smiles at Robert, and says it’s all right. ‘Don’t worry I’m over it.’
But she doesn’t look like she is. Robert shakes his head; he thinks she’s crazy. He’s bewildered, he just doesn’t get it. ‘Come on, what’s so special about a few old books. You can always get some more if you want. It’s not like they were rare or anything. And it is true, isn’t it, you hardly ever looked at them. They were stashed up in the loft for years.’
‘I know, I know, forget it. I’ll take Millie for her walk now.’ Jackie puts on her coat and marches defiantly down the path, a reluctant Millie in tow. As she walks, she begins to calm down. Poor Robert, he does look upset. But it’s lucky really. If she’s honest with herself, they were just old paperbacks. So not as bad as it might have been. It’s not like he’s thrown away the poetry book Sam gave her, or the complete Shakespeare from uncle Tom, or the signed Jo Jo Moyes, or... she sighs, so many special books, so many stories, so many treasures.
Robert watches her go. He looks baffled. What a fuss over nothing. But there’s no reasoning with her. She’s upset and there’s nothing he can do to put it right. It’s not like he can go to the tip and retrieve them. He saw the boxes well and truly chucked into the skip. He better buy her a book token or something. Bottle of wine maybe. A crate more like. Sentimental nonsense. It’s not like he’s thrown away some jewellery, or smashed the Crown Derby, destroyed something valuable, something properly worth something. Now that he could understand.
Linda Birch
She can feel the tears brimming. Silly. It’s not like it was deliberate. She knows that. ‘But Jackie, come on. It’s only a few old books. It’s not like you ever looked at them anyway.’ That does it. She starts blubbing. ‘You don’t understand and I can’t explain, but they matter. It’s like I’ve lost some dear friends.’
‘Well, you should have marked the boxes more clearly. I thought all those in that corner were for the tip. I was only trying to help.’ Jackie knows that’s true and she stops crying, smiles at Robert, and says it’s all right. ‘Don’t worry I’m over it.’
But she doesn’t look like she is. Robert shakes his head; he thinks she’s crazy. He’s bewildered, he just doesn’t get it. ‘Come on, what’s so special about a few old books. You can always get some more if you want. It’s not like they were rare or anything. And it is true, isn’t it, you hardly ever looked at them. They were stashed up in the loft for years.’
‘I know, I know, forget it. I’ll take Millie for her walk now.’ Jackie puts on her coat and marches defiantly down the path, a reluctant Millie in tow. As she walks, she begins to calm down. Poor Robert, he does look upset. But it’s lucky really. If she’s honest with herself, they were just old paperbacks. So not as bad as it might have been. It’s not like he’s thrown away the poetry book Sam gave her, or the complete Shakespeare from uncle Tom, or the signed Jo Jo Moyes, or... she sighs, so many special books, so many stories, so many treasures.
Robert watches her go. He looks baffled. What a fuss over nothing. But there’s no reasoning with her. She’s upset and there’s nothing he can do to put it right. It’s not like he can go to the tip and retrieve them. He saw the boxes well and truly chucked into the skip. He better buy her a book token or something. Bottle of wine maybe. A crate more like. Sentimental nonsense. It’s not like he’s thrown away some jewellery, or smashed the Crown Derby, destroyed something valuable, something properly worth something. Now that he could understand.
Linda Birch
Pack up Your Troubles
The longer you hold on to things the harder it is to let go. Especially if it has a sentimental value. But what I’ve held onto for sixty years, has no story, only those I’ve made up in my mind. It all began when I was about twelve years old and due to go to Girl Guide Camp.
I remember going home and telling mum all about it. ‘We're going to Beudesert, I can go, can’t I? She said, ‘I’ll have to ask your dad, it sounds a bit far to me; France.’
For the next week, I was so excited, I was the first in our family to go abroad; well apart from my dad, who went in the war; and France, don’t think he’d been there. You didn't ask dad much then about the war; mum used to say, ‘dad's not ready to talk yet, he saw too many nasty things and had to watch some of his mates die in the sea, when they were bombing the ships.’
How disappointed I felt when Captain told me the following week, ‘You should listen to the full instructions; Beaudesert is on Cannock Chase, about fifteen miles from your home!’
Well at least I was going on my holidays.
The list was issued for our five day stay; and the list of jobs we would all be taking part in; digging out the latrine, being one of them. Oh well, the upside was, we were inviting the Scouts on the Thursday evening to our Camp Fire.
NO CASES, please; medium sized holdall or canvas bag.
‘I’ve got just the thing you’ll need to carry all your clothes,’ mum said, all organised. ‘Come with me and hold the chair, while I reach up to the top cupboard in my bedroom.’
I felt apprehensive, mum had all manner of items tucked away in that cupboard. ‘Catch,’ she shrieked all delighted, as this four foot long, black canvas thing unravelled itself. 'It was your dads in the war, you’ve seen the sailors getting on the ships, going to war, carrying all their belongings. Well your dad will be well chuffed to see you going off to your first camp with it.’
Of course, I wanted to have the same as all the other girls, but didn't dare show my disappointment. And of course dad was well chuffed; he even went and had my name in large letters printed onto the bag.
All these years later the bag remains in my spare cupboard. My name big and bold still, the draw string pulled tight. I said at the beginning; the bag has no story; but over the years I must have filled it with imaginative stories of the places it went to with dad and the memories it holds. But who’s going to want it after me?
Cora Boffey
The longer you hold on to things the harder it is to let go. Especially if it has a sentimental value. But what I’ve held onto for sixty years, has no story, only those I’ve made up in my mind. It all began when I was about twelve years old and due to go to Girl Guide Camp.
I remember going home and telling mum all about it. ‘We're going to Beudesert, I can go, can’t I? She said, ‘I’ll have to ask your dad, it sounds a bit far to me; France.’
For the next week, I was so excited, I was the first in our family to go abroad; well apart from my dad, who went in the war; and France, don’t think he’d been there. You didn't ask dad much then about the war; mum used to say, ‘dad's not ready to talk yet, he saw too many nasty things and had to watch some of his mates die in the sea, when they were bombing the ships.’
How disappointed I felt when Captain told me the following week, ‘You should listen to the full instructions; Beaudesert is on Cannock Chase, about fifteen miles from your home!’
Well at least I was going on my holidays.
The list was issued for our five day stay; and the list of jobs we would all be taking part in; digging out the latrine, being one of them. Oh well, the upside was, we were inviting the Scouts on the Thursday evening to our Camp Fire.
NO CASES, please; medium sized holdall or canvas bag.
‘I’ve got just the thing you’ll need to carry all your clothes,’ mum said, all organised. ‘Come with me and hold the chair, while I reach up to the top cupboard in my bedroom.’
I felt apprehensive, mum had all manner of items tucked away in that cupboard. ‘Catch,’ she shrieked all delighted, as this four foot long, black canvas thing unravelled itself. 'It was your dads in the war, you’ve seen the sailors getting on the ships, going to war, carrying all their belongings. Well your dad will be well chuffed to see you going off to your first camp with it.’
Of course, I wanted to have the same as all the other girls, but didn't dare show my disappointment. And of course dad was well chuffed; he even went and had my name in large letters printed onto the bag.
All these years later the bag remains in my spare cupboard. My name big and bold still, the draw string pulled tight. I said at the beginning; the bag has no story; but over the years I must have filled it with imaginative stories of the places it went to with dad and the memories it holds. But who’s going to want it after me?
Cora Boffey
The Bracelet
It was difficult to choose just one object that means a lot to me. I racked my brain to think of what I would grab in a fire situation, but that didn’t really work.
So, I decided to choose a bracelet that has been in my possession for well over fifty years, before I was married. It was given to me by my mum. Actually, I think we were looking through her jewellery box and I asked her if I could have it. I think she said that my dad had bought it for her, so it was a big thing for her to give away.
It is a broad clip-on bangle made out of a shiny silver material, but it isn’t silver. The leaf design embossed on the surface is very scratched and well worn, which makes it very smooth to the touch and gives a more authentic antique appearance. It has a sturdy spring which has never broken and remains as strong today as it was fifty years ago. It never catches on the clothes I am wearing; fits under sleeves and will fall to my wrist at just the right place. It is elegant and sturdy at the same time. Many people have admired it over the years.
Other bracelets have been given to me as presents on occasions, but I always come back to this one as my ‘go to’ bracelet. I even believe it has a lucky charm, so will wear it when I need extra confidence or to get me through a stressful situation.
I have just given it a gentle clean with methylated spirits and a soft brush, which has brought out the shine even more. Ready for someone to wear for the next fifty years.
Maggie Storer
It was difficult to choose just one object that means a lot to me. I racked my brain to think of what I would grab in a fire situation, but that didn’t really work.
So, I decided to choose a bracelet that has been in my possession for well over fifty years, before I was married. It was given to me by my mum. Actually, I think we were looking through her jewellery box and I asked her if I could have it. I think she said that my dad had bought it for her, so it was a big thing for her to give away.
It is a broad clip-on bangle made out of a shiny silver material, but it isn’t silver. The leaf design embossed on the surface is very scratched and well worn, which makes it very smooth to the touch and gives a more authentic antique appearance. It has a sturdy spring which has never broken and remains as strong today as it was fifty years ago. It never catches on the clothes I am wearing; fits under sleeves and will fall to my wrist at just the right place. It is elegant and sturdy at the same time. Many people have admired it over the years.
Other bracelets have been given to me as presents on occasions, but I always come back to this one as my ‘go to’ bracelet. I even believe it has a lucky charm, so will wear it when I need extra confidence or to get me through a stressful situation.
I have just given it a gentle clean with methylated spirits and a soft brush, which has brought out the shine even more. Ready for someone to wear for the next fifty years.
Maggie Storer
Deadline: 17th January
Brief: A twist in the tale. Write a short story where your two main protagonists share a dilemma or disagreement. Resolve the problem with an unexpected and outcome.
Brief: A twist in the tale. Write a short story where your two main protagonists share a dilemma or disagreement. Resolve the problem with an unexpected and outcome.
Jumping to Conclusions
‘It’s busy in here today.’ The coffee machine hisses and crockery clatters. ‘You seem quiet Daisy. Is everything alright?’
‘Oh, sorry Bella, I was miles away there. I’m fine, really. Just haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.’
‘Something on your mind? Can I help?’
‘Well, no not really. It’s nothing. Don’t worry, I think maybe I’m fretting about Suzie’s job interview.’
‘Oh, she’ll be fine. Your Suzie always was a worker, she got a really good degree. They’ll snap her up. Can I get you another latte?’
This is Daisy and Bella’s favourite place to meet. Sarah’s Place, a coffee shop tucked away in a quiet corner opposite the minster. Steeped in history, the ancient walls offer a sanctuary and the two friends have shared their hopes and dreams here. They met during their nursing training and through all the ups and downs of their lives have kept in touch. Bella went through a very difficult divorce five years’ ago and Daisy thought she would never quite get over it. But last year she met Bob and it seemed that she had never been happier. At last Bella became the bubbly smiling person she used to be.
Daisy looks affectionately at Bella. ‘Yes, please, another latte would be great. Then you can tell me about your plans for the house.’ Daisy smiles and hopes she sounds enthusiastic.
But it’s no surprise she’s quiet and she can’t tell Bella the reason, can she? She couldn’t bear to see her friend hurt again. Last weekend Daisy’s daughter Suzie had treated her to a ride out into the countryside and lunch in the pub at Moreton. It was there that she had seen Bob. He hadn’t noticed Daisy, so engrossed was he talking to the woman he was having lunch with. Daisy remembers how comfortable they looked together, leaning close over the table.
‘Here we are.’ Bella brings over the drinks. ‘Enjoy! Now, I’ll show you some pictures of the house…………’
Driving home, Daisy thinks about everything Bella has told her. She’s so excited and if Daisy tells her what she saw it will break her heart. ‘But I can’t let her sell up and move in with Bob. I’d never forgive myself. We’re meeting again next Friday. I’ll tell her then.’
Friday comes around and Daisy makes her way to Sarah’s Place. She’s early and still hasn’t worked out how to tell Bella what she saw. Bella bounces through the café door, scans the tables, spots Daisy and bounds over.
‘Daisy, I’ve some wonderful news. You’ll never believe it.’ It all comes tumbling out in a breathless rush. ‘You know Bob has been looking into family history, well he’s discovered I have a sister. Can you believe it? It seems mom had a baby, a daughter, and she was adopted and none of us knew about it. I thought Bob was researching his family but it turns out he’s been looking for me too. He’s checked her out and already met her. She’s called Pam and it’s all arranged for us to meet next week. I’m so excited I can’t wait. What do you make of that? I always wanted a sister, didn’t I? Isn’t he wonderful?’ Bella pauses for breath.
‘Why, that’s marvellous news, Bella.’ Relief floods through Daisy, of course there was an explanation. She’s misjudged the situation and shudders at the thought of how easily she could have lost such a precious friendship, jumping to the wrong conclusion like that. Things are not always what they seem. But Daisy can’t quite shake off the picture in her mind of Bob and Pam together...
Linda Birch
‘It’s busy in here today.’ The coffee machine hisses and crockery clatters. ‘You seem quiet Daisy. Is everything alright?’
‘Oh, sorry Bella, I was miles away there. I’m fine, really. Just haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.’
‘Something on your mind? Can I help?’
‘Well, no not really. It’s nothing. Don’t worry, I think maybe I’m fretting about Suzie’s job interview.’
‘Oh, she’ll be fine. Your Suzie always was a worker, she got a really good degree. They’ll snap her up. Can I get you another latte?’
This is Daisy and Bella’s favourite place to meet. Sarah’s Place, a coffee shop tucked away in a quiet corner opposite the minster. Steeped in history, the ancient walls offer a sanctuary and the two friends have shared their hopes and dreams here. They met during their nursing training and through all the ups and downs of their lives have kept in touch. Bella went through a very difficult divorce five years’ ago and Daisy thought she would never quite get over it. But last year she met Bob and it seemed that she had never been happier. At last Bella became the bubbly smiling person she used to be.
Daisy looks affectionately at Bella. ‘Yes, please, another latte would be great. Then you can tell me about your plans for the house.’ Daisy smiles and hopes she sounds enthusiastic.
But it’s no surprise she’s quiet and she can’t tell Bella the reason, can she? She couldn’t bear to see her friend hurt again. Last weekend Daisy’s daughter Suzie had treated her to a ride out into the countryside and lunch in the pub at Moreton. It was there that she had seen Bob. He hadn’t noticed Daisy, so engrossed was he talking to the woman he was having lunch with. Daisy remembers how comfortable they looked together, leaning close over the table.
‘Here we are.’ Bella brings over the drinks. ‘Enjoy! Now, I’ll show you some pictures of the house…………’
Driving home, Daisy thinks about everything Bella has told her. She’s so excited and if Daisy tells her what she saw it will break her heart. ‘But I can’t let her sell up and move in with Bob. I’d never forgive myself. We’re meeting again next Friday. I’ll tell her then.’
Friday comes around and Daisy makes her way to Sarah’s Place. She’s early and still hasn’t worked out how to tell Bella what she saw. Bella bounces through the café door, scans the tables, spots Daisy and bounds over.
‘Daisy, I’ve some wonderful news. You’ll never believe it.’ It all comes tumbling out in a breathless rush. ‘You know Bob has been looking into family history, well he’s discovered I have a sister. Can you believe it? It seems mom had a baby, a daughter, and she was adopted and none of us knew about it. I thought Bob was researching his family but it turns out he’s been looking for me too. He’s checked her out and already met her. She’s called Pam and it’s all arranged for us to meet next week. I’m so excited I can’t wait. What do you make of that? I always wanted a sister, didn’t I? Isn’t he wonderful?’ Bella pauses for breath.
‘Why, that’s marvellous news, Bella.’ Relief floods through Daisy, of course there was an explanation. She’s misjudged the situation and shudders at the thought of how easily she could have lost such a precious friendship, jumping to the wrong conclusion like that. Things are not always what they seem. But Daisy can’t quite shake off the picture in her mind of Bob and Pam together...
Linda Birch
The Ghost House
I passed the ghost house almost every day, and have done so for the past twenty years. We called it that because it looked as if it could only be inhabited by ghosts. Each year it appeared more dilapidated, untouched, unloved. I thought it must be abandoned; the owners living abroad somewhere. Some rich oligarch with properties all over the country, building his portfolio and presumably his wealth. At one point I even complained to the Council that this property was an eyesore as well as a health risk. But they weren’t interested.
One day I saw men in high viz jackets clearing the back garden, which was overgrown with brambles up to the first floor windows. I shuddered to think of all the rats that must have been scurrying in the undergrowth that would surely have infested the house. At last, I thought, someone has bought the property and is going to clear it out, renovate it to the standard of the other houses in the street. But nothing happened.
The men took the garden rubbish away and the house remained empty and dead. The Leylandii trees at the front of the house obscured the view and overhung the road. Surely the Council would come and trim them before one of the branches crashed onto the pavement or road. Would someone have to die before something was done?
In the twenty years I have been driving or walking past this house, there has never been any sign of life. The filthy curtains remained stuck to grimy windows. The front door appeared to be sealed with cobwebs and dirt.
Until a few weeks ago. I was off out early to an appointment. The morning was cold and dark. Some of the street lamps were still shining their amber glow on the murky road. I glanced over at the house as I always did, as if drawn to its ghostly presence. And there it was; a dull light visible through the front room window. I slowed down. I was shocked. How could that be? How could anyone be living in such squalor?
I puzzled over this for the next couple of days. I had to know who, if anybody, was living there. Had I really seen a light in the window? To that question I knew I had the answer. I was absolutely certain, and because, never in my wildest dreams had I expected to see life in that house, I knew it was not my imagination playing tricks.
On the third day I decided to go against my natural instinct to ignore what I had seen. After all, someone might be in need of help. I should perhaps have tried knocking on a neighbour’s door first. They would probably have been able to tell me that no one lived there and that I must have imagined I’d seen a light.
Which is why I went straight up to the front door and banged as hard as I could. Of course, there was no response. I peered through the filthy glass, so dirty I couldn’t even make out the dimensions of the room, let alone a light.
Well, what did I expect? As I turned to walk away, a neighbour’s curtain twitched and I could feel eyes penetrating the back of my neck. I was out of there as fast as I could go.
A week later, I drove past again, more discreetly this time. There was no light, no house, no trees overhanging the road. The area was cordoned off and the obvious signs of a fire remained on the blackened soil. I glanced at the report by my side from The Midland Express. It said the house had been empty for many years and investigations were taking place to contact the owner. The energy supply companies were looking into the matter.
I tapped the box of matches in my pocket and drove on.
Maggie Storer
I passed the ghost house almost every day, and have done so for the past twenty years. We called it that because it looked as if it could only be inhabited by ghosts. Each year it appeared more dilapidated, untouched, unloved. I thought it must be abandoned; the owners living abroad somewhere. Some rich oligarch with properties all over the country, building his portfolio and presumably his wealth. At one point I even complained to the Council that this property was an eyesore as well as a health risk. But they weren’t interested.
One day I saw men in high viz jackets clearing the back garden, which was overgrown with brambles up to the first floor windows. I shuddered to think of all the rats that must have been scurrying in the undergrowth that would surely have infested the house. At last, I thought, someone has bought the property and is going to clear it out, renovate it to the standard of the other houses in the street. But nothing happened.
The men took the garden rubbish away and the house remained empty and dead. The Leylandii trees at the front of the house obscured the view and overhung the road. Surely the Council would come and trim them before one of the branches crashed onto the pavement or road. Would someone have to die before something was done?
In the twenty years I have been driving or walking past this house, there has never been any sign of life. The filthy curtains remained stuck to grimy windows. The front door appeared to be sealed with cobwebs and dirt.
Until a few weeks ago. I was off out early to an appointment. The morning was cold and dark. Some of the street lamps were still shining their amber glow on the murky road. I glanced over at the house as I always did, as if drawn to its ghostly presence. And there it was; a dull light visible through the front room window. I slowed down. I was shocked. How could that be? How could anyone be living in such squalor?
I puzzled over this for the next couple of days. I had to know who, if anybody, was living there. Had I really seen a light in the window? To that question I knew I had the answer. I was absolutely certain, and because, never in my wildest dreams had I expected to see life in that house, I knew it was not my imagination playing tricks.
On the third day I decided to go against my natural instinct to ignore what I had seen. After all, someone might be in need of help. I should perhaps have tried knocking on a neighbour’s door first. They would probably have been able to tell me that no one lived there and that I must have imagined I’d seen a light.
Which is why I went straight up to the front door and banged as hard as I could. Of course, there was no response. I peered through the filthy glass, so dirty I couldn’t even make out the dimensions of the room, let alone a light.
Well, what did I expect? As I turned to walk away, a neighbour’s curtain twitched and I could feel eyes penetrating the back of my neck. I was out of there as fast as I could go.
A week later, I drove past again, more discreetly this time. There was no light, no house, no trees overhanging the road. The area was cordoned off and the obvious signs of a fire remained on the blackened soil. I glanced at the report by my side from The Midland Express. It said the house had been empty for many years and investigations were taking place to contact the owner. The energy supply companies were looking into the matter.
I tapped the box of matches in my pocket and drove on.
Maggie Storer
Bitter Sweet
I never thought it would come to this; friends since primary school, we were seven years old. He’d just moved into the area. The street next to mine. My whole world opened up, when Robert Aston moved in.
Our mums got on well and our dads took us to football every Saturday morning. Our primary school was five minutes walk from home. Once our mums knew we could be trusted not to mess around, I used to call for Robert every morning,
Banter, fun and sport continued into senior school. We both played for the Academy now on Saturday mornings. Life for boys in our area was all about football.
The only crack in our friendship was Saturday afternoons, when Rob went off with his dad and I went off with mine.
We did have the crack with each others families, but in our world it could be war.
On match days Wolves and Aston Villa fought for their positions in the leagues. Rob Aston, would vouch ‘the teams in my blood; my name sake.’
The crack was there, he always thought he was the winner.
Through the town Academy we both did well; both being signed for our local clubs; Rob the Villa and me praise the lord Wolves. We both worked hard to keep our places, often playing against each other. Then the big decider came, who was the best?
The ultimate goal was achieved – Wolves v Aston Villa in the FA Cup Final at Wembley Stadium or was it Billy Wannabe v Rob Aston? There can only be one winner in the final.
The crowd roared, the music played, the team stepped out from the Wembley tunnel. Two mates, kept their eyes focused to the front; for the next 90 minutes; or more, this was war.
Half time Wolves were 2 - 0 up. The manager was staying calm. ‘It’s not in the bag yet lads. And keep your eye on number 9, Rob Aston, he’s got you marked Billy.’
We went back out fighting; Rob scored the next two goals to bring the game level!
The dreaded penalty shoot out!
Rob took the first penalty for Aston Villa and scored, they were one goal up. Joe Mander took our first penalty and scored; top right corner, goal keeper had no chance. 1 – 1.
Aston Villa’s, Pete Murdoch came forward and hit the cross bar, missed; the crowd was tense. Still 1 – 1. Our Pete Burrows was ready for action. Straight down the middle, goalie went to his left; 2 – 1 to Wolves.
Aston Villa’s Ruben Podence, under a lot of pressure, skies it over the cross bar; still 2 – 1 to Wolves.
Heart beating, the pressure is on; it’s my turn. I’ve practised this, hop, skip and a jump, many times, wait for the goal keeper to move; then kick the ball the opposite side.
It worked a treat - we are now 3 - 1 up.
They need to score to stay in the game. Lucas Mings steps up, puts the ball wide. Wolves have beaten Villa 3 – 1 on penalties. Wolves fans were euphoric!
You have to be a football fan to understand the pain of what Villa fans went through that day.
Forty years later, two old mates still share the highs and lows of that day. But there can only be one winner. I’ve got the bragging rights!
Cora Boffey
I never thought it would come to this; friends since primary school, we were seven years old. He’d just moved into the area. The street next to mine. My whole world opened up, when Robert Aston moved in.
Our mums got on well and our dads took us to football every Saturday morning. Our primary school was five minutes walk from home. Once our mums knew we could be trusted not to mess around, I used to call for Robert every morning,
Banter, fun and sport continued into senior school. We both played for the Academy now on Saturday mornings. Life for boys in our area was all about football.
The only crack in our friendship was Saturday afternoons, when Rob went off with his dad and I went off with mine.
We did have the crack with each others families, but in our world it could be war.
On match days Wolves and Aston Villa fought for their positions in the leagues. Rob Aston, would vouch ‘the teams in my blood; my name sake.’
The crack was there, he always thought he was the winner.
Through the town Academy we both did well; both being signed for our local clubs; Rob the Villa and me praise the lord Wolves. We both worked hard to keep our places, often playing against each other. Then the big decider came, who was the best?
The ultimate goal was achieved – Wolves v Aston Villa in the FA Cup Final at Wembley Stadium or was it Billy Wannabe v Rob Aston? There can only be one winner in the final.
The crowd roared, the music played, the team stepped out from the Wembley tunnel. Two mates, kept their eyes focused to the front; for the next 90 minutes; or more, this was war.
Half time Wolves were 2 - 0 up. The manager was staying calm. ‘It’s not in the bag yet lads. And keep your eye on number 9, Rob Aston, he’s got you marked Billy.’
We went back out fighting; Rob scored the next two goals to bring the game level!
The dreaded penalty shoot out!
Rob took the first penalty for Aston Villa and scored, they were one goal up. Joe Mander took our first penalty and scored; top right corner, goal keeper had no chance. 1 – 1.
Aston Villa’s, Pete Murdoch came forward and hit the cross bar, missed; the crowd was tense. Still 1 – 1. Our Pete Burrows was ready for action. Straight down the middle, goalie went to his left; 2 – 1 to Wolves.
Aston Villa’s Ruben Podence, under a lot of pressure, skies it over the cross bar; still 2 – 1 to Wolves.
Heart beating, the pressure is on; it’s my turn. I’ve practised this, hop, skip and a jump, many times, wait for the goal keeper to move; then kick the ball the opposite side.
It worked a treat - we are now 3 - 1 up.
They need to score to stay in the game. Lucas Mings steps up, puts the ball wide. Wolves have beaten Villa 3 – 1 on penalties. Wolves fans were euphoric!
You have to be a football fan to understand the pain of what Villa fans went through that day.
Forty years later, two old mates still share the highs and lows of that day. But there can only be one winner. I’ve got the bragging rights!
Cora Boffey
Pigs in blankets…
After all the gloom of winter it’s good to walk in fresh air. Marian used to work in the hall over there, surely she won’t still be here. We grew up together, from pre school to High School.
That’s when it happened. We were mooching about the precinct one Saturday afternoon May 15th it was. Robbie was there with Brian, Dave, Jayne, me and Marian. I knew Marian fancied Dave, but he was all mine.
He had a car, well his Dad let him drive his Ford Capri. We went all over the place at weekends. I would get Mum’s meat order from Dave’s dad’s stall on the weekly market, Dave would drive me home. Sunday evenings I went to Dave’s house for tea.
It was nice. Dave was learning to be a butcher, to take over from his dad one day. I liked being treated as a grown up, and Mum encouraged Dave to call
. ‘He’s got good prospects and he’s potty about you’ she’d say when I started to talk about going to college.
That’s what happened. I got the required grades to go to Manchester – I soon met someone more exciting, told Dave it was all over, and was acutely embarrassed when I opened a box on Valentine’s Day containing a huge padded heart ‘All My Love Forever’ Dave xxxx’ I’ve not thought about Dave for years. My Mum told me he joined the police and emigrated to Australia with a girl who looked a lot like me !
‘Alice Dawson. It is you! Well how are you. How long has it been?’
‘About 20 years, I reckon. How are you Marian? Didn’t know you as a blonde!’
We had a coffee on Marian’s break from showing visitors around the Hall.
I decided to ask the question… ‘Do you see any of the old crowd, Brian or Jayne? ‘
‘Not those two, but you must know what happened to your Dave?’
‘Well, no last I heard he was in Oz ‘
Marian ushered me across to the farm shop selling local produce. At the far end was a display of pies, cooked meats and “locally resourced pork chops, sausages and bacon”.
Standing proudly behind the glass was the stout cheery homely Dave Poole.
‘Hi Love’ he called to Marian. ‘Got some juicy spare ribs for our supper’
Andie Green
After all the gloom of winter it’s good to walk in fresh air. Marian used to work in the hall over there, surely she won’t still be here. We grew up together, from pre school to High School.
That’s when it happened. We were mooching about the precinct one Saturday afternoon May 15th it was. Robbie was there with Brian, Dave, Jayne, me and Marian. I knew Marian fancied Dave, but he was all mine.
He had a car, well his Dad let him drive his Ford Capri. We went all over the place at weekends. I would get Mum’s meat order from Dave’s dad’s stall on the weekly market, Dave would drive me home. Sunday evenings I went to Dave’s house for tea.
It was nice. Dave was learning to be a butcher, to take over from his dad one day. I liked being treated as a grown up, and Mum encouraged Dave to call
. ‘He’s got good prospects and he’s potty about you’ she’d say when I started to talk about going to college.
That’s what happened. I got the required grades to go to Manchester – I soon met someone more exciting, told Dave it was all over, and was acutely embarrassed when I opened a box on Valentine’s Day containing a huge padded heart ‘All My Love Forever’ Dave xxxx’ I’ve not thought about Dave for years. My Mum told me he joined the police and emigrated to Australia with a girl who looked a lot like me !
‘Alice Dawson. It is you! Well how are you. How long has it been?’
‘About 20 years, I reckon. How are you Marian? Didn’t know you as a blonde!’
We had a coffee on Marian’s break from showing visitors around the Hall.
I decided to ask the question… ‘Do you see any of the old crowd, Brian or Jayne? ‘
‘Not those two, but you must know what happened to your Dave?’
‘Well, no last I heard he was in Oz ‘
Marian ushered me across to the farm shop selling local produce. At the far end was a display of pies, cooked meats and “locally resourced pork chops, sausages and bacon”.
Standing proudly behind the glass was the stout cheery homely Dave Poole.
‘Hi Love’ he called to Marian. ‘Got some juicy spare ribs for our supper’
Andie Green
Ella’s Delight - A Modern Fairy Story
Ella was happy when the Cluck-Chick factory opened. Like many others in Ampton she was able to pay her way and give up claiming benefits. Their days of hardship were consigned to the past
The company provided a fleet of buses to transport the hundreds of grateful, new employees to their workplace. Despite the general elation about new jobs, the journeys to and from work were less than sociable. Most passengers hid behind their newspapers to shut out the miles of flat, barren landscape. Ella found the journey interminable, but, like her work colleagues, felt able to put up with anything for a decent wage.
The factory building sat like a festering pustule on a desert of decay. The journey was a minor drawback compared with what went on inside the hellhole. The fetid stench, the sight of dismembered birds, and mountains of bloodstained waste was something they all had to learn to stomach. Ella had difficultly hanging on to her breakfast cereal when first confronted with the reeking mess of slithering innards. Eventually she learned to tolerate the putrid stench and sickening slapping sounds as the piles of entrails mounted and the ceaseless conveyor ferried the gruesome load to the relevant workstations.
Business boomed and Cluck-Chick’s directors were greedy and demanding. They pressed for increased production figures, always pushing, always threatening, but always coming up with a good wages.
Within a year Ella began to crumple under the workload, it was an incessant treadmill and a hostile environment.
After several weeks’ absence from work she received a letter of dismissal causing further stress. The thought of reverting to her former state of poverty exacerbated her condition. Finally she suffered a total breakdown, enduring terrible nightmares that had her drowning in a sea of blood. She thrashed about, fighting for her life, wallowing in the surging waves of guts. She scrambled out of the mess to find chicken parts flew towards her; clawing, pecking, flapping, until she was woken by her own screams. She would collapse in a dithering heap.
She spent many weeks in therapy, but the time came when she managed to sleep without being plagued by lurid dreams. Her mind was healing, and no longer imagined she could still smell the factory stench. Then the joy of returning home to her family.
It was in this quiet time of convalescence that she began to paint. The psychiatrist had put the idea to her and she found it an appealing notion. She had always enjoyed the simple art lessons at school and even in later years she spent happy hours with a pencil and sketchbook.
Initially, she fretted about the cost of materials but the compulsion to paint was strong. She became immersed in her work, delicate flowers, landscapes, every genre, but she could not find satisfaction in the finished pieces. Local people were impressed with her efforts and occasionally she was paid a good price for her work. She was reluctant to part with the paintings, considering them worthless failures. She felt guilt when accepting payment, but it meant she could purchase more materials and to continue searching for something that eluded her.
One day, in a state of sheer confusion, Ella experimented with an abstract design. Slowly the ideas unfolded as if seeping out of her troubled mind. The thoughts flowed and manifested in smooth swathes of paint. She studied colour, working out which were transparent, and which opaque. She learned which colours to juxtapose, complementary, tertiary, the difference between shade and hue. She learned to overlay transparent pigments, create texture and depth. And then, one day she knew she had found that elusive something she was seeking.
She revisited memories of her time at the Chuk-Chick factory. She found the shapes, patterns, and colour schemes for her work. She worked on enormous canvases, producing numerous series of paintings. She was inspired by the smooth lines, shapes and shadows she’d seen in the grisly heaps of entrails at the factory. She used harmonious hues, overlaying colours that slid onto the canvas with satisfying fluidity. Ella had found her niche.
Her work received much acclaim and was purchased by large corporations, hotel chains and prestigious interior designers. Each series sold quickly; she could barely keep up with their demands.
It was a very pleased and very helpful bank manager who rubbed his hands together and suggested she investigate the possibility of having limited edition prints made of certain works. As he pointed out, her stuff was quite sought after, not many people could afford to purchase an Ella original.
This idea pleased her and several pieces were sent out to have giclée prints made. With the prints in the pipeline Ella could at last afford to take a break. In fact, as her bank manager pointed out, she could live very nicely thank you, by marketing her prints and working less frantically.
The company commissioned to produce the prints pulled out all the stops – they’d heard of Ella’s success and were pleased to join the bandwagon. The managing director telephoned Ella to say her order would be delivered tomorrow.
Well, well, thought Ella, this is like a fairy story. I can almost hear the violins playing, Cinderella shall go to the ball, and I can truthfully say, ‘one day my prints will come!’
Betty Taylor
Ella was happy when the Cluck-Chick factory opened. Like many others in Ampton she was able to pay her way and give up claiming benefits. Their days of hardship were consigned to the past
The company provided a fleet of buses to transport the hundreds of grateful, new employees to their workplace. Despite the general elation about new jobs, the journeys to and from work were less than sociable. Most passengers hid behind their newspapers to shut out the miles of flat, barren landscape. Ella found the journey interminable, but, like her work colleagues, felt able to put up with anything for a decent wage.
The factory building sat like a festering pustule on a desert of decay. The journey was a minor drawback compared with what went on inside the hellhole. The fetid stench, the sight of dismembered birds, and mountains of bloodstained waste was something they all had to learn to stomach. Ella had difficultly hanging on to her breakfast cereal when first confronted with the reeking mess of slithering innards. Eventually she learned to tolerate the putrid stench and sickening slapping sounds as the piles of entrails mounted and the ceaseless conveyor ferried the gruesome load to the relevant workstations.
Business boomed and Cluck-Chick’s directors were greedy and demanding. They pressed for increased production figures, always pushing, always threatening, but always coming up with a good wages.
Within a year Ella began to crumple under the workload, it was an incessant treadmill and a hostile environment.
After several weeks’ absence from work she received a letter of dismissal causing further stress. The thought of reverting to her former state of poverty exacerbated her condition. Finally she suffered a total breakdown, enduring terrible nightmares that had her drowning in a sea of blood. She thrashed about, fighting for her life, wallowing in the surging waves of guts. She scrambled out of the mess to find chicken parts flew towards her; clawing, pecking, flapping, until she was woken by her own screams. She would collapse in a dithering heap.
She spent many weeks in therapy, but the time came when she managed to sleep without being plagued by lurid dreams. Her mind was healing, and no longer imagined she could still smell the factory stench. Then the joy of returning home to her family.
It was in this quiet time of convalescence that she began to paint. The psychiatrist had put the idea to her and she found it an appealing notion. She had always enjoyed the simple art lessons at school and even in later years she spent happy hours with a pencil and sketchbook.
Initially, she fretted about the cost of materials but the compulsion to paint was strong. She became immersed in her work, delicate flowers, landscapes, every genre, but she could not find satisfaction in the finished pieces. Local people were impressed with her efforts and occasionally she was paid a good price for her work. She was reluctant to part with the paintings, considering them worthless failures. She felt guilt when accepting payment, but it meant she could purchase more materials and to continue searching for something that eluded her.
One day, in a state of sheer confusion, Ella experimented with an abstract design. Slowly the ideas unfolded as if seeping out of her troubled mind. The thoughts flowed and manifested in smooth swathes of paint. She studied colour, working out which were transparent, and which opaque. She learned which colours to juxtapose, complementary, tertiary, the difference between shade and hue. She learned to overlay transparent pigments, create texture and depth. And then, one day she knew she had found that elusive something she was seeking.
She revisited memories of her time at the Chuk-Chick factory. She found the shapes, patterns, and colour schemes for her work. She worked on enormous canvases, producing numerous series of paintings. She was inspired by the smooth lines, shapes and shadows she’d seen in the grisly heaps of entrails at the factory. She used harmonious hues, overlaying colours that slid onto the canvas with satisfying fluidity. Ella had found her niche.
Her work received much acclaim and was purchased by large corporations, hotel chains and prestigious interior designers. Each series sold quickly; she could barely keep up with their demands.
It was a very pleased and very helpful bank manager who rubbed his hands together and suggested she investigate the possibility of having limited edition prints made of certain works. As he pointed out, her stuff was quite sought after, not many people could afford to purchase an Ella original.
This idea pleased her and several pieces were sent out to have giclée prints made. With the prints in the pipeline Ella could at last afford to take a break. In fact, as her bank manager pointed out, she could live very nicely thank you, by marketing her prints and working less frantically.
The company commissioned to produce the prints pulled out all the stops – they’d heard of Ella’s success and were pleased to join the bandwagon. The managing director telephoned Ella to say her order would be delivered tomorrow.
Well, well, thought Ella, this is like a fairy story. I can almost hear the violins playing, Cinderella shall go to the ball, and I can truthfully say, ‘one day my prints will come!’
Betty Taylor
Deadline: 10th January
Brief: Free Verse. Write a free verse poem about a familiar place i.e. your local area / street / favourite place / your home. Free verse poems have neither meter nor rhythm. They don't follow a regular rhyme scheme, nor do they have set rules. This type of poem is based on natural pauses and rhythmical phrases and is free from the constraints applied to other poetry forms. It is also called verse libre, French for free verse. Employ the various poesy "tools" e.g. assonance, consonance, alliteration, and, of course, carefully chosen words.
Brief: Free Verse. Write a free verse poem about a familiar place i.e. your local area / street / favourite place / your home. Free verse poems have neither meter nor rhythm. They don't follow a regular rhyme scheme, nor do they have set rules. This type of poem is based on natural pauses and rhythmical phrases and is free from the constraints applied to other poetry forms. It is also called verse libre, French for free verse. Employ the various poesy "tools" e.g. assonance, consonance, alliteration, and, of course, carefully chosen words.
From the Harbour
Sitting in the harbour taking in the view, Cadar Idris holds its beauty as the breakers unfurl against wide expanse of golden beach, boat’s bobbing, fishermen remove their catch. Barmouth nestles beside the beautiful Mawddach Estuary calling you to explore. Focus eyes to the left, see the train appear over the majestic bridge, holiday makers cheer. Smiles from Davy Jones's Locker, people taking lunch, knickerbocker Ice cream further up the street, Take a moment, pop inside Sailors' Institute, seafarers stories told. Walk through the steep winding streets of the town; step away from shops, walk the gorse-covered hill of Dinas Oleu ascending the dramatic views, the Mawddach Estuary and Cardigan Bay, an artist's dream on display. Cora Boffey Sea ..
If I had my selfish final wish I am walking, lying, just living A cacophony of sea sounds Tiny scurries of scratchy crabs, muscles sand slapping Raucous razor bills, garrulous gulls and puffed out puffins. Olfactory treats too. Nose wrinkling stinky seaweed slithering over rock pools Lift a stone to discover spiny urchins or darting damsel fish Fresh silver mackerel carried proudly for supper. Did I catch one ? Does it matter ? A taste exquisite with bread and salty butter. My forebears were sea folk. Fishers of men? One sailed the ‘Spanish Main’ and brought back a señorita Anna-Maria Romantic tales passed down embellished, imagined Is this true ? Does it matter ? To revisit old favourite shores in Devon or Wales Counting white horses riding every seventh wave Predicting tomorrow’s weather from sunsets candy store The egg timer souvenir still tips grains from our first holiday Is this true ? Does it matter ? Andie Green. |
A Few of My Favourite Things
A beautiful garden, a stately home, a coastal walk and a sandy beach, These cannot compare to my favourite things; the corner of a room with a cosy chair, A book, a plot to carry me away, A place to create, paint portraits, landscapes or still life. Friendships, old and new. To absorb myself in family chatter, enjoy their happy news; that feeling of belonging, being loved. Knowing that all is well in their lives is the happiest place for me. Maggie Storer Wrekin, Romans, Countrymen
Centuries ago... Iron Age Britons, the Cornovii tribe, built a hillfort at the Wrekin's peak rejoicing in their vantage point. Tragically... The Romans, camped at Wroxeter, learned of the local tribe and marched for miles to oust them. Several times... I've climbed the Wrekin. Once as a girl, clambering with ease to squeeze through the Needle's Eye. Years later... Another trek, more slowly this time. I spotted totems and talismans courtesy of folklore and legend fans. Even later... On a frosty New Year's Day, I struggled to the top with my family. Ungainly on the uphill ice, we laughed. Today... Our hill looks content in the landscape, watching over the Watling Street, an old Roman Road we call the A5. And as we pass by... For me and mine, and ghosts of the past, The Wrekin looks friendly, familiar, A sign we're near home. Betty Taylor |
A Walk on the Wild Side
In winter we wonder
If spring will ever come
The wild wind
Whips the waves
White foam caressing the shore
Walkers scurry along
As best they can
Bodies bent against the blow
Coats buttoned up, hats pulled low
Scarves anchored tight
Seagulls soar and swoop
Circling for the greatest show
Fearless and free
No limits
Calling ‘come and see’
Clouds shape-shift
Scudding across the boundless sky
Spiteful rain begins spitting
Prickling tingling skin
It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s windy
It’s wild and wonderful
Linda Birch
In winter we wonder
If spring will ever come
The wild wind
Whips the waves
White foam caressing the shore
Walkers scurry along
As best they can
Bodies bent against the blow
Coats buttoned up, hats pulled low
Scarves anchored tight
Seagulls soar and swoop
Circling for the greatest show
Fearless and free
No limits
Calling ‘come and see’
Clouds shape-shift
Scudding across the boundless sky
Spiteful rain begins spitting
Prickling tingling skin
It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s windy
It’s wild and wonderful
Linda Birch