Prompt 25

As it explains - this was created in response to a writing prompt.

So I decided to spruce up my write life by looking for some prompts online and I came across a list of 25 on Pinterest. Seemed like a good number to start with; I mean there were some lists with fifty or a hundred on but I didn't want to commit to that many.

I've never been the best at following orders and going with the herd so I figured accepting someone else's prompts was a big enough sop to normality and started reading the list from the bottom. Serves me right. The suggestion was: "Write about the first thing that happened yesterday morning."

Oh come on!  I can't even remember what I had for lunch let alone first thing yesterday morning. So I need to think.  It was Tuesday. Nothing specially different about that, except I go swimming, and I go early, but not first thing.

I expect I woke up in bed. That would be a usual Tuesday. I also suspect I didn't like it when the alarm went off. It's a work day, so I assume the alarm went off. But was I already awake?  Can't remember. We have cats, you see, and (don't squirm) we let them wander in and out of the bedroom as they like, so sometimes I wake up early to a demanding meowl that means that one of them is hungry. Or a sweet little chirrup that means the other one is asleep on my pillow and is warning me not to roll over onto her. But whether Tuesday was like that escapes me.

We must have had breakfast, but that wasn't first thing either. I shower before I eat, and dress, and do my hair and other ablutions that I probably shouldn't describe. And clean my teeth. Don't get me started on the clean before or after breakfast argument. I've had it before. With a dentist. There is no easy outcome. Back away from the health advice.

So have I established anything by writing this? Well, I am still capable of responding in the written word to a prompt that I wasn't expecting. I can still waffle on for a few hundred words even if I know nothing about the topic. I'm not promising it'll be interesting though.

Crisis of confidence

Crisis of confidence. I am not sure how to rescue my self worth. Time was when I would sail through life knowing I could do anything if I put my mind to it, but nowadays I am never sure. Job adverts call but I block my own chances with doubt and never even apply. Ideas flood at work but I fear the negative response of my employers and carry on, plodding, without achieving anything remarkable. I have hit mediocrity on my way down and will probably soon be beyond repair. The skills I have, the ones I have practised and polished for decades, are no longer valued. Who cares that I can craft a sentence well or even spell? They have machines that do it now, although they cannot tell the difference between wood, would, wooed and wowed. They even think that color is correct, and ax, center, sympathize and split infinitives, but no-one cares. My knowledge is dismissed as irrelevant today. I am a dinosaur, a dodo, and my skill set is redundant because my mindset (apparently) is wrong.
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May 2011

Stones

Tumbled stones glitter in small baskets on the market stall; quartz, citrine, fluorspar, opalite. Alongside each small cairn is a sign that promises good health and fortune. The rainbow of colours is linked to something called chakras. There is no explanation and I am forced to assume that those who believe in the power of stones will understand the strange word. Small, pink cards offer good luck and balance from agate; relief from loneliness through dolomite; power over depression from smoky quartz. Hard to choose: do I need jade’s promise of longevity, energy from obsidian, or peridot’s ability to attract wealth? In the end I pick a small, pointed, purple one, because I think it is pretty.

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July 2011

Shadowman

You know how sometimes you catch sight of something out of the corner of your eye and it scares you because it looks like a person in the shadows? You glimpse it, you turn to take another look, and then it morphs into your coat hanging on the door back, or a table lamp and a pile of books or something. Well it’s constant in my life, happens every day, but I never get used to it because once, many years back, it really was somebody, and I know one day he’ll be coming back.  

I had just got home from work, not that I worked too hard in those days. To be honest I was a bit of a waster and was the first to bleat if conditions weren’t exactly how I wanted them. I was drinking hard, ate too much of the wrong stuff, smoked worse than a kipper and was probably heading for an early grave. So I walked in the house and threw my coat and a load of other stuff onto an armchair as I passed it, went straight to the cabinet and poured myself a large whisky. Just as I looked back into the room, there he was; large as life and way more ugly, sitting in the chair where I’d just deposited my gear.

I did a double-take and checked again but he was still there. He looked like he’d been dragged out of a grave, all grey and dusty. His suit seemed like it had once been well cut, maybe Italian styling, but old fashioned. I could see the skull through the skin on his face and he just stared at me. He had no eyes in his sockets but I knew he was staring.

“Listen,” he said, lifting a bony hand and pointing at me, “I’m here to give you some advice.  Unless you want to end up like me you have to lay off the booze, cut out the smokes and watch your cholesterol. You’ve heard about all that karma stuff? Well it’s real, and you already have a debt to pay. We have a job for you to do and you’d best be fit for it when we come to call.”

“What job? What do you mean? Who are you? Who’s we?” I tried to ask, but it was no good. I was talking to my coat.  

Do I need to tell you how terrified I was? Some beast from beyond had paid me a visit with a personal message from…who? Heaven or hell or some place I never heard of.  Next morning I joined a gym and I’ve been living the clean life ever since to keep myself in trim. I daren’t do anything else because I know he will be back some day. I’ve seen his eyeless face every single day to remind me: in dark corners by coat stands; in the way the curtains hang in my living room; in my rear view mirror. So far he’s always been a shadow man but one day will be for real. When he does come I want to be ready for him. Though whether I’ll use my new fitness to help him or fight him off I’m not so sure. 

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Originally written for three word Wednesday. The three words are highlighted in bold.. 

Earwig

Prison life really suited Jimmy the Wig because of his habit. Jimmy’s nickname didn’t come from any lack of hair; he had such a thick thatch of black locks that many people thought it was a rug, but no. He got his name from being a natural earwig. He couldn’t stop himself eavesdropping conversations. He was compelled to do it, just like that disease, that obsessive compulsive thing, you know.  So being in prison was just right for him, surrounded by people with nothing better to do than discuss old exploits and plan new jobs for when they got out, and Jimmy became what they call institutionalised. He was happiest behind bars.

His only troubles came from the other side of his compulsion: he felt driven to pass on whatever he overheard. If he thought he was imparting a particularly exciting piece of news he would gesticulate a lot, so it left no-one in any doubt what he was doing.  At first it ruffled a few feathers when he chose to reveal something to the hotter heads in clink, but an understanding Governor solved that by putting him in a cell with Clothears Jones: deaf in one ear and didn’t listen with the other. Wig could say anything he liked and Clothears would nod and hum and har occasionally to make Wig think he was paying attention. That went on for years and life looked settled.

Wig had a number of jobs around the prison. They’d tried him on library duty but it made him edgy because no-one was allowed to talk in there, so they swapped him to cleaning the chapel. He loved that because he often overheard juicy confessions about dirty thoughts. So one day when he was polishing the brasswork and Phil Skillett came in to talk to the Padre he thought he was in for a treat. He was; just not the kind of treat he was expecting.  Phil’s nickname was ‘Fillet’ and it wasn’t just a play on his name; he was renowned for his knife skills and I don’t mean he was a good cook! Anyhow, him and the Reverend disappeared behind the curtain and Wig could hear the prayer bit as he dusted his way closer to the booth. He was comfortably in place when he heard Fillet admit he was the one who had shanked one of the screws two weeks ago.

Well that was too much for Wig. He dropped his cloth and dashed out to find someone to listen. Give the boy his due, he went looking for Clothears, but as bad luck would have it the cell was empty. Wig turned back just in time to come face to face with a chatty screw and he couldn’t stop himself from telling. He was still talking and waving his arms around when Fillet came back from chapel and saw him. Of course he realised straight away what was going on and Wig’s days were numbered.

They found Jimmy dead in his cell two days later and everyone assumed that Fillet had got to him somehow, even though he had been questioned almost non-stop since the secret was revealed. At the inquest, though, the sawbones reckoned there wasn’t a mark on him and there was no hint of poison. The coroner had no option but to call it natural causes, though I know he was wrong. I know what it should have said on the death certificate. To protect him from Fillet’s attentions the screws had Wig put in solitary confinement. I reckon he died of boredom.

(596 words)

Originally written for Three Word Wednesday, but I can't remember what the three required words were now. 

Spelunking

"I just don't understand the attraction. Why would you travel half way around the world, to a beautiful country, then spend your time underground?" It was clear that my opinion depressed her.

"Because it's beautiful underground too," she said, with a hint of wistfulness and her eyes not quite focussed, as though she was already there. "Besides, it's the largest known cave in the world."

"But underground is just rocks. Nothing but rocks."

"It has the tallest known stalagmites in the world too."

"So they're big rocks."

She huffed at me and brought her focus back to give me a hard stare. "I suppose there's no point in telling you there's an underground river as well?"

I shook my head. I was never going to feel her attraction to caves and caving. It's not that I don't like rocks and rivers. I'm actually fond of limestone country. But I think it's much better in sunshine.
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October 2014. A writing challenge. 

Falling Star

Dirk Blaise looked hard into the mirror to check the crow's feet around his eyes. "Time for another tuck, Dirk baby," he muttered, as he continued to brush dye onto the canescent patches around his temples. "Or they won't be casting you as the varlet much longer."

He smiled his youngest-looking grin, revealing his newly re-whitened teeth.

"You CAN still pass as the juvenile lead," he asseverated, at the face that grimaced back at him.

But his reflection looked unconvinced.

*************
February 2011.  Originally written as part of the Three Word Wednesday challenge that featured on the Reading and Writing by Pub Light blog.  (You're given three words that you have to incorporate into short story) Later included in Microstory a Week.

Invention

He knew as soon as his boss told him the plan that it was a bad idea. Yes, the device needed to be revealed to the world, but this was not the way to do it. They wouldn’t understand the importance of the find. Thanks to some incontrovertible evidence in the tomb, it was possible to date the parts very accurately, and they proved that mankind invented clockwork millennia earlier than was previously thought. This was big stuff; but would the uninitiated grasp the significance? Of course not – and he knew he’d be the fall guy.

Dennis had spent two years painstakingly copying each of the cogs and wheels and creating a working model. It had been in a woebegone state when it first arrived at his workshop. The rest of the team of archaeological investigators had carried out all of the tests they could on the bits and pieces and then brought him the remains to interpret. Luckily, many of the sections were still intact, thanks to the lack of rain at the dig site, but connecting up all the Heath Robinson gearing had given him a few challenges.

The work had been tough, but the finished article was a triumph. The key mechanism had been the trickiest: making sure it connected all of the rotors so that, when the brake disengaged, the whole apparatus danced majestically. Ratchets engaged, spheres spun, pivots balanced and the two flagellate arms swept delicate arcs around each other, making a soft swishing sound.

It was inevitable that the museum director wanted to make a show and so a press conference was duly called. Dennis was given his orders to set up the machine prominently so that, at the right moment it could be switched on for the crowd to admire. After a gushing introduction, the director handed over to him to explain how it all fitted together. The journalists made suitably admiring noises and Dennis tried to give them every possible fact he could so that he could avoid the one question he dreaded: the one thing he could not answer.

As he reached the end of his talk and applied the brake to bring the mechanism to a controlled halt he hoped he had got away with it, but he should have known better. Just as the gentle machine hum ended a voice spoke up: “But what does it do?”

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This story featured on the Microstory a Week blog in 2012

More 55s

When I was young I used to ask: “How do you know if you’re in love?” And they answered: “If you aren’t sure, you’re not.”

I didn’t understand. Not then. But I do now. Every moment of every day I understand and know I am in love. And even better, I know I am loved.

13 April 2012

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“Hand it over and tell me where you got it, please.”


“Shan’t.”

“I’m asking nicely. Please let me see it.”

“It’s mine!”

“I really need to look at it, young man. Now!”

“Officer, leave my son alone. He’s only playing marbles. What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, Ma’am. That’s not a marble, it’s a glass eye.”
April 6, 2012

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There’s something about the eventual arrival of Spring weather after a long and miserable winter that brings out the best and the worst in people. I’ve seen how everyone has a happier expression and they are smiling at each other again. But have you noticed how awful their pasty skin looks in such bright light?
March 30, 2012

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Signs of Spring

Wood pigeon.
Magpie. (Morning Sir.)

Blackbirds.
Some sort of crow.
Unidentified, large, brown, bird of prey.
(Must look that up when I get home.)

Pied wagtail.
Collared dove.
Another magpie. Two for joy!
Lots of small twittering things in a tree.

More blackbirds.
A second crow, carrying a twig.
Squirrel!

Sparrow.
Robin.
Squashed young badger.

March 23 2012

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February 17, 2012

‘So, traditional tales are too scary for children,?’ Brian queried after gathering his family in the kitchen.  His young sons looked on, fascinated.

‘No more Brothers Grimm. No more Fee Fi Fo Fum.

‘Maybe we should show them a slice of real life, then,’ he sneered, and plunged the bread knife into his wife’s chest.

#Inspired by a news story. Are fairytales too frightening for children?

The tale of the Lancashire witches (in 55 words)

Fear and superstition were rife in early 17th century England so it was all too easy to misinterpret a glance, and link it to later misfortune. And that’s why ten people of Pendle were hanged for witchcraft. Device, Chattox, Demdike, Whittle and Co. No black cats, no pointy hats; just accusations and misdirected religious fervour.

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The Lancashire (or Pendle) Witches are among the most famous in England. Like their US counterparts in Salem, Mass., the group were victims of over zealous neighbours who were quick to accuse at the first sign of trouble. Alizon Device was called witch after she had dealings with a peddlar who refused to give her some pins. He collapsed, paralysed, and later died (probably of a stroke) and Alizon was blamed. She was said to have cursed him, with the help of her large black dog familiar. Friends and neighbours were soon rounded up and branded as a coven, who were said to meet for Sabbats at the home of Anne Whittle, known as Old Chattox.

In spite of common belief, witches were not burned at the stake in England. That treatment was reserved for heretics, and the fires wee kept alight by throwing on homosexual 'faggots' (which actually means a bundle of sticks).

Victorian philanthropy

Since the earliest days of industrialisation, factory owners created communities for their work forces, based around a centre of production. Their apparent generosity earned them the title of philanthropist. In truth they were just maximising performance. A healthy workforce is a productive one, so looking after staff meant individuals worked harder and longer, increasing profits.

Billy's challenge

Big Mike Bigelow stared at Billy’s offering  for half a minute that seemed to stretch for hours.  If Mr Big accepted the gift, Billy knew he’d be accepted into the gang.  This was his only chance. The big man opened a cigar box and proffered it, nodding a direction to drop the severed finger in.

10 August 2012

Blind faith

She was almost blind and her limbs trembled constantly, but she knew she was doing holy work. She knew her god would guide her hand if she was weak, so she continued with her mission. But gradually she began to doubt. Perhaps trying to restore the church fresco wasn’t such a great idea after all. 

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16 august 2012
An 80-year-old Spanish woman has ruined a painting of Christ on the wall of her local church by attempting some 'restoration' work.  The image by painter Elias Garcia Martinez now looks more like "a very hairy monkey in an ill-fitting tunic" according to one observer. More details here. 

Further 55s

An explanation can be found here. 

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There is no way through. So, having no dynamite, I must chip my slow way, painfully, until I can be free. I can smell fresh air and there are bright lights through the narrow chinks but I am still trapped. Is anyone digging toward me or do I have to dig my own escape? Again.

Living history: the past brought back to life. Were the good old days really so great? Or do we look at them through rose coloured spectacles? Whatever the real story, the picture painted by modern, interactive museums is attractive. And I plan to enjoy my old fashioned fish and chips when I visit one today!

The past is dead, and so is every person in it. So why am I fascinated with history and all its tales? Do we learn its lessons or are we doomed to repeat mistakes because of human nature? Should I try to better them or just relax and do what I want?

I don’t know.

Every year I promise myself that I’m not going to go berserk in planning the yule celebrations and yet each time I wear myself out buying and wrapping presents, cleaning the house so I can put up decorations, trimming the tree, planning and cooking meals, and all the hundred other jobs. So – mince pie anyone?

Fifty five words of seasonal thoughts. What are the essential ingredients for this time of year? Turkey, mistletoe, pork pie, presents, egg-nog, tree, baubles, lights, mince pies, candles, cheesy songs, cranberries, crackers, paper chains, pudding, stocking fillers, trifle, a pair of socks, wrapping paper, chocolate coins, wine, energy and patience!

So, have I forgotten anything?

Journey

Everyone is on a journey these days; actors, wannabes, slimmers of the year, they all say it. “It was a tremendous journey, but I made it”. Well, good for you, but what you had was not a journey, it was a challenge, and I can appreciate that whatever you did probably took guts, determination and effort (and possibly botox and cash) but please stop calling it a journey. Life is not a journey. That is a metaphor. This is a journey. Or at least, it would be if the traffic ever moved.

Here I am, third time this week, stuck in a mid-price, mid-range, mid-coloured saloon, midway between junctions on a Midlands motorway, aiming for home. Overhead a number forty shines from a red light circle on a gantry, telling me that I must not exceed that speed. Oh how I wish! At forty miles an hour I would arrive in fifteen minutes, but no amount of guts, determination or effort will help me move a single inch along the black-topped, pitted highway, because, although it is a challenge, it is also a real distance-to-be-covered journey.  

In an effort to pass the interminable time I have already tried three radio stations: inane music, inane chat or local traffic reports that tell me there is a hold up on the motorway. Unless things improve there might just be a hold up. Up ahead, three cars away, I can see a lorry painted with adverts for beer, and it might be worth hijacking the driver, just to kill time, although the getaway could be the slowest that ever featured on Crimewatch. I could wave a torch at him (kept in the glove compartment in case of emergencies) and tell him that I shall shine it in his eyes unless he drives me to somewhere – anywhere – that is not this motorway. But who would retrieve my car when the traffic finally clears?

I have no idea how long I have been here because, as usual, I failed to check the clock as I pulled up behind the BMW in the centre lane, with its impatient cargo in the driver’s seat. The man is tapping the steering wheel rhythmically, perhaps in time to some unheard in-head music, but more likely in time with his rapidly increasing heartbeat. Dressed in a blue shirt, with a suit jacket suspended from a hook on the rear passenger-side door, his patience gauge is reading almost empty, and he is not alone. Many faces in this jam show signs of stress, except the long-haired, bearded youth at the wheel of a camper van in lane one, who is singing, mouth wide as he expels the notes, and his head rocks side to side like a metronome. It must be a happy song because his eyes are sparkling, unless they are full of tears of tedium.

 I must call on dwindling reserves of patience to see me through.

The Hidden Folk

Come, child, and tell me, were you looking for the Little People in the woods today? Then sit, and let me explain why that is something you must never do. Once upon a distant time we humans were great friends with the People of Peace and all was well. You must remember that They were here long before us, and all the earth is Theirs, but They tolerated our arrival, despite our lack of grace.  They taught us how to live in harmony with the world and we wanted for nothing, blessed as we were by Their patronage.

After a long while The Others came to trust us and offered us a great boon. They own the earth and all that’s in it, and above all, metal is the prize of the Sidhe, but They honoured us by granting the use of copper. It is magic and holds the power of the sun within in, so we were able to make great and beautiful things, like jewels and mirrors; and the world was a lighter, brighter place as a result.

However, smiths can be devious people and many coveted the Tidy Ones’ magic for themselves. One particularly jealous smith stole secretly into a Yarthkin camp and learned the skill of making a cutting edge; so the very first knife was fashioned. This scared the Gentle Folk and we were made to promise that we would only ever use our tools for good. We could eat with them, and prepare our food; we could build our homes and cut our firewood; but we must never wield one in anger.

   

Of course we didn’t listen, and ere long the smiths were forging longer and longer blades – daggers and swords – to please their feudal masters, and warfare was born.  Camp against camp, town against town, even brother against brother, fought for supremacy, all the while forgetting the source of true power. Then one day the smiths realised that iron will conquer copper and a band set out to steal the last great secret of the Fair Folk.

When the Lords and Ladies learned that Mankind had the Knowledge they were angry, and They cursed us forever: “If bloodshed is what you want, then bloodshed you shall have! Whenever you make a metal edge there will be a price to pay. Forget that at your peril!”  And They disappeared.

From that point They closed the doors of Fae to Humankind and hid their Fair Faces from all but a lucky few who had respected Them well, and who were taken to live in the Beautiful Land. And yet They still hold the power. We must always remember that metal is not ours to use. Whenever we forge it anew, or exchange it, we must make a payment, or the Wee Folk will claim their own price; and that price is usually blood. An axman misses his stroke and loses an arm; a kitchen maid is distracted and cuts her hand; a Feudal lord over-reaches his authority and many die.

We who are left must remember that all power still resides with the Old People. If we want our crops to flourish, if we want our stock to fatten well, if we don’t want our milk to sour or our cheese to spoil, we must still pay our dues. We must never use the word They hate – the one that starts with Faer – and we must honour Them in all our endeavours. Above all we must never go looking for Them, because They will never appear to one who does.

But if you are honourable, and you respect the Good People well, maybe one day you might catch a fleeting glance of one, if They choose to bless you so. But never marry a smith, young lady. Never marry a smith!

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July 2015

Inspired by the Damh the Bard song Iron from Stone. This version differs slightly from his explanation, but it's based on what I was told by my Father.  

More 55s

See the previous post for an explanation.

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Tiring. I tell you it’s tiring. You’d think having nothing to do would make life easy, wouldn’t you? But that’s not the case. Trying to look busy is even worse. I’d much sooner have enough to do so I could get on with it and not have to make up jobs to justify my paycheck. 

 No, I won’t! If you think I’m going to do all of that for you when you never do anything for anyone except yourself and you seem not to know the word “thanks” you have another think coming. You are the most selfish, arrogant leech I ever met!

Well, that’s what I SHOULD have said.

And he was sitting there in the middle of the carpet, stark naked except for the lampshade, and holding a torch in one hand and a copy of the Times in the other. And he was singing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Of course I never worked out what he’d done with the tomatoes.

Fifty five! I’m sure last time I looked I was thirty-something with a great job, the future all ahead of me and ambitions to meet. And before that I was just 19, setting out expectantly in the world. It doesn’t really seem so long since I was starting high school. Where did the time go? 

55s

These are from a challenge I used to take part in that required exactly 55 words on any topic.
Various dates
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There were good things and bad things for Brenda about the accident. Although her belongings escaped damage when the car went out of control, she now faced a big problem with future transport. She would just have to find another shopping trolley to carry her life around in. It was tough being a bag lady.


“Please sit down.”
“No. Mummy doesn’t make us sit down.”
“I’m sure she does. Sit down!”
“Don’t have to.”
“If you don’t sit down you won’t get ice cream.”
“You’re mean.”
“People are getting annoyed with you.”
”Don’t care what people think. Mummy wouldn’t care about people.”
“Mummy never cared about anything much. Including us.”


Bernard hated management speak, but even more he loathed when he did all the work and colleagues took the credit.
So he devised a plan.
The next time one of the smarmy sales requested his ‘strategic input’ he returned totally wrong data.
“I think that’s what they call ‘low hanging fruit’,” he chuckled to himself.


It had been a long and tiring hearing. The coroner said it was impossible to tell why the death happened, and so he had to return a verdict of misadventure. The evidence said he’d been cleaning his gun when it went off and shot him in the face.  But we all know what that means.


Do not feed the birds, the sign said. Flying pests are a health hazard and you could face a fine of up to £5000. But the gulls could catch chips in flight. And Mary could not resist watching their aerobatics.  Besides, they would have trouble finding £5000 from her anyway. Let them try to sue!


Dianne sat paralysed with fear until the light faded, legs drawn up into her chair so the beast couldn’t reach her. Unable to see where the terrifying animal might be, she remained until rescue arrived.
It did not help her temper when her friend laughed out loud: “It’s a tomato top - not a spider!”


Dan had heard all the superstitions from his old grandma but he ignored them.  Shoes on the table, horseshoes upside down, red and white flowers in the same vase. All supposedly portended death – but he couldn’t see it. He didn’t see the bus coming as he stepped under a ladder to cross the road either.


Will’s motorbike wasn’t very powerful, but he dreamed of winning races just as soon as he was old enough to ride a big machine. He regularly practised his victory salute in readiness for the day.
At the inquest the lorry driver said Will could not have swerved because he had his hands in the air.


It had been a near thing. He reached out to grab her hand as she slipped off the kerb, right in front of the car, but couldn’t catch hold. It was only because the driver was a professional that he managed to miss her.  It was almost impossible to believe.
But trains can’t swerve.


“Stupid man,” thought Billy ‘the Dip’ Jackson. The bloke didn’t have a clue. He’d been the perfect mark – clearly a tourist and carrying cash in his back pocket. Billy counted out the notes until he came to the last sheet and read: “Enjoy your moment of gloating. They’re fakes. And I’ve now got your wallet.”


He dressed casually and his general impression suggested tweed. His outfits gave off a sort of browny-green aura, as if he had been carved from a part of the landscape, and they had the kind of texture that conjured up pictures of moorland and bracken. Sometimes I swear I could hear grouse calling around him


There really was no option, she thought as she plunged in the sharp knife. It had to be disposed of completely.
She watched the blood ooze away from the serrations along the edge and smiled.  She was good at this. There would be absolutely nothing left when she had finished.
Doreen just adored blue steak!


Helen took a deep breath and prepared to explain it again. Her fiancé was looking at her with a strange expression: slightly confused and slightly annoyed.
“This has nothing to do with women’s lib and equality. I’m just not going to take your name when we’re married.
“I refuse to be known as Helen Highwater!”


Jim looked at the tiny packet on the table in front of him that held so much hope. It was hard to believe that his future might rely on it. Now he was unemployed he might starve if he could not make the seeds grow. He pushed them into the soil and crossed his fingers.


Dad coughed and sat back with a worried look.
He enjoyed the turkey, perfectly roasted and surrounded with beautifully browned potatoes, parsnips, sausages, cranberry sauce and herby stuffing.
Then came the dreamy pudding, with brandied flames and a choice of rum butter or cream.
But nobody warned him about the sixpence – and he’d swallowed it!

There was something furtive in the way he moved through the house, edging carefully around furniture, stepping noiselessly. The woman was oblivious to his approach, peeling vegetables at the sink as he crept behind her. Then he made his move. 

“Surprise! Happy birthday Darling,” he announced, as he produced a bouquet from behind his back. 

Wedding

It was a wedding and everyone was supposed to be happy, weren’t they? But she knew

the real truth behind all of it. She knew what the guy was really like – but would she tell? She’d hurt a lot of people if she did.

The vicar was saying: “Speak now, or forever hold your peace…..”

August 2012

Impress me

You want to impress me?  Bring me flowers. Not boring roses but bright daffodils. Clove-scented pinks. Feed me well. French bread, salty butter, crisp salad leaves. Fresh crab and a bottle of bone dry Chablis. Follow it with a good blue cheese; Roquefort with pears, and a glass of fine port. Read me Walt Whitman. 

June 2011