...Or now you see me, now you don't!
I'm relegating Blogland to the naughty step for a couple of weeks, while I ignore its daily screams for attention. Occasionally, one has to show who is boss.
Friday, 19 June 2009
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Turning A Blind Eye
Having got my teeth into this subject of animal welfare, I can't let it go just yet.
On the news yesterday, there was a whole family in the UK who have just been prosecuted for keeping over a hundred horses in squalor on their farm in Amersham, even to the point of allowing some of them to die of hunger and thirst in their disgusting stables, then simply leaving them to rot where they fell.
It is unbelievable that neighbours or visitors to the farm didn't call in the RSPCA before things got so bad. How many blinkered human beings looked the other way, instead of making a stand? Even younger members of that family were condoning the atrocious behaviour of their elders by their continued silence. The farmer and his wife had several grown up sons and daughters. They had to have been aware of their father's cruelty, yet they remained silent.
This same silence was being kept by all those people in America, who had to be aware of those poor moneys being treated like human babies ; owners of shops where the doting 'parents' spent a fortune on baby clothes; supermarkets where the check out girls oohed and aahed at the tiny creatures, but made no attempt to call in animal rescue organisations to investigate such abnormal behavior.
Has the world lost all sense of common decency? Hopefully, not Blogland. I urge everyone who reads this post to talk about these animal welfare issues, to bring them to the notice of as many people as possible; to keep a weather eye open for any similar instances of cruelty and to have the courage to make a noise about it, rather than remain silent.
The animals have no choice. They can't speak for themselves. We can speak on their behalf... please do.
On the news yesterday, there was a whole family in the UK who have just been prosecuted for keeping over a hundred horses in squalor on their farm in Amersham, even to the point of allowing some of them to die of hunger and thirst in their disgusting stables, then simply leaving them to rot where they fell.
It is unbelievable that neighbours or visitors to the farm didn't call in the RSPCA before things got so bad. How many blinkered human beings looked the other way, instead of making a stand? Even younger members of that family were condoning the atrocious behaviour of their elders by their continued silence. The farmer and his wife had several grown up sons and daughters. They had to have been aware of their father's cruelty, yet they remained silent.
This same silence was being kept by all those people in America, who had to be aware of those poor moneys being treated like human babies ; owners of shops where the doting 'parents' spent a fortune on baby clothes; supermarkets where the check out girls oohed and aahed at the tiny creatures, but made no attempt to call in animal rescue organisations to investigate such abnormal behavior.
Has the world lost all sense of common decency? Hopefully, not Blogland. I urge everyone who reads this post to talk about these animal welfare issues, to bring them to the notice of as many people as possible; to keep a weather eye open for any similar instances of cruelty and to have the courage to make a noise about it, rather than remain silent.
The animals have no choice. They can't speak for themselves. We can speak on their behalf... please do.
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Misplaced Affection, Monkey Style.
I've been waiting to blog about this, ever since I watched a documentary a week or so back with a title along the lines of 'My Monkey Baby'. It had to be American, I thought - and it was.
It was hard to believe any country would allow such goings on.
The first story, was of a young couple just setting out to buy their 'baby'. They drove hundreds of miles to pay around four thousand dollars for a tiny, two week old monkey, from a woman who obviously had a thriving business going. Her small, untidy house had an annex with several cages of breeding pairs of monkeys which supplied her with 'stock'. The cages were simple wire enclosures, like crates, and although their inmates were fed and watered, the cruelty of confinement didn't bear thinking about.
The new 'Daddy' had suffered a less than perfect childhood, and never wanted to have a child of his own, so in his early twenties he had a vasectomy. But he soon found he wanted the chance to lavish care and affection on a newborn, and persuaded his partner to go with the 'monkey baby' idea.
Once collected, 'Mummy' secreted the tiny bundle inside her coat, as they checked into a motel for the night. The feeding bottle they were using had a teat designed for a human baby, obviously, and the unfortunate primate had difficulty fitting it into its tiny mouth. It spent the night spread eagled on 'Daddy's' chest, clinging to his T-shirt for dear life.
The next couple were retired. It was the woman's second marriage, after the death of her original husband. They both spoke of 'our daughter' and fed the unfortunate creature, as far as I could see, with a diet of cakes, sugary snacks and lollipops. 'She doesn't like bananas', insisted 'Mama'.
Their wills made provision for the animal to be cared for after their demise - but with the diet they were giving it, I'd imagine it would never reach the 50 year life span it might have attained in the wild.
The third was a 'single parent'. Her own grown up children were no longer in contact with her, so her monkey baby was company, as well as surrogate daughter, now she was a widow. At least she
fed it a reasonable diet, but did spend a fortune on ridiculous, frilly garments she made it wear, changing them several times a day, as though it were a doll, a plaything. Which of course, to her it was.
The last couple had several monkeys, and they had the freedom of the house to wander in, with a large caged area to which they were banished occasionally for 'bad behavior'. They were only subjected to wearing garments when out in public, although nappies were used indoors - until the wearer decided they had enough, and removed the offending article...
With so many children in the world, crying out for love and attention, this misguided 'caring' leaves me speechless...
It was hard to believe any country would allow such goings on.
The first story, was of a young couple just setting out to buy their 'baby'. They drove hundreds of miles to pay around four thousand dollars for a tiny, two week old monkey, from a woman who obviously had a thriving business going. Her small, untidy house had an annex with several cages of breeding pairs of monkeys which supplied her with 'stock'. The cages were simple wire enclosures, like crates, and although their inmates were fed and watered, the cruelty of confinement didn't bear thinking about.
The new 'Daddy' had suffered a less than perfect childhood, and never wanted to have a child of his own, so in his early twenties he had a vasectomy. But he soon found he wanted the chance to lavish care and affection on a newborn, and persuaded his partner to go with the 'monkey baby' idea.
Once collected, 'Mummy' secreted the tiny bundle inside her coat, as they checked into a motel for the night. The feeding bottle they were using had a teat designed for a human baby, obviously, and the unfortunate primate had difficulty fitting it into its tiny mouth. It spent the night spread eagled on 'Daddy's' chest, clinging to his T-shirt for dear life.
The next couple were retired. It was the woman's second marriage, after the death of her original husband. They both spoke of 'our daughter' and fed the unfortunate creature, as far as I could see, with a diet of cakes, sugary snacks and lollipops. 'She doesn't like bananas', insisted 'Mama'.
Their wills made provision for the animal to be cared for after their demise - but with the diet they were giving it, I'd imagine it would never reach the 50 year life span it might have attained in the wild.
The third was a 'single parent'. Her own grown up children were no longer in contact with her, so her monkey baby was company, as well as surrogate daughter, now she was a widow. At least she
fed it a reasonable diet, but did spend a fortune on ridiculous, frilly garments she made it wear, changing them several times a day, as though it were a doll, a plaything. Which of course, to her it was.
The last couple had several monkeys, and they had the freedom of the house to wander in, with a large caged area to which they were banished occasionally for 'bad behavior'. They were only subjected to wearing garments when out in public, although nappies were used indoors - until the wearer decided they had enough, and removed the offending article...
With so many children in the world, crying out for love and attention, this misguided 'caring' leaves me speechless...
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
It's Different
What is? Why, the competition that has been going on over at Angie Ledbetter's Gumbo Writer.
She posted several photos, and had people write 50 words about the one they chose. But then, once the answers were in place, she added a different twist. We were asked to use any of those words from the various answers, to construct a new poem of sorts. I thought this an intriguing exercise, and if you fancy a bit of fun, go read the 50 word answers, and make your own collage from their contents.
Thought I'd let you read my copy and paste job today, to see if you think it makes sense...
Life of Disaster
Far below the spreading sunlight it waits,
the curves are most painful, scrape and burn.
She's waiting, looking out the window
beyond blankets of dirt and canopied leaves -
the disaster my life has become.
Mesmerised by the stillness, I forget
the sunlight filtered through the trees.
Couldn't help but think about grandma,
drowned in memories, saying 'Hurry!'
(You can find Angie at http://angie-ledbetter.blogspot.com)
She posted several photos, and had people write 50 words about the one they chose. But then, once the answers were in place, she added a different twist. We were asked to use any of those words from the various answers, to construct a new poem of sorts. I thought this an intriguing exercise, and if you fancy a bit of fun, go read the 50 word answers, and make your own collage from their contents.
Thought I'd let you read my copy and paste job today, to see if you think it makes sense...
Life of Disaster
Far below the spreading sunlight it waits,
the curves are most painful, scrape and burn.
She's waiting, looking out the window
beyond blankets of dirt and canopied leaves -
the disaster my life has become.
Mesmerised by the stillness, I forget
the sunlight filtered through the trees.
Couldn't help but think about grandma,
drowned in memories, saying 'Hurry!'
(You can find Angie at http://angie-ledbetter.blogspot.com)
Monday, 15 June 2009
I'm A Coward
Not the usual kind, I don't think. I faced with equanimity the Doc in her lair this morning; nothing dire showed up as a result of last week's scan, but I am now being propelled into a round of blood tests, gynaecological specialist appointments, and pill popping prescriptions, all of which I can accept with my usual un-flappable sang-froid (apt choice of words, in the circumstances! Think about it , ladies).
No, I'm a coward when it comes to Taxi Drivers. For many years, it has intrigued me how the price between A and B varies, not only between drivers working for the same firm, but also according to whether you are travelling from A to B, or B to A.
Does the road shrink and grow? Are the car tyres of different circumferences and the journey counted in revolutions to calculate price? Either of these theories could explain the discrepancy, but are each as unlikely as the other.
For the five minute ride from my house to the Health Centre, I was charged £2.80 this morning - a pretty average amount, though I have occasionally had a driver charge £2.70 for the same trip in the past few weeks.
The taxi firm I use has been part of the Havant scene since I moved here in 1964, and many of them are so used to me, they tell me where I live...
So the drill goes like this; I ring and book (usually a day in advance) when a Doc's appointment is coming up, and when it's over, and I leave the surgery clasping my bag of goodies to my chest, I give them a call from my mobile, and pretty soon, my chariot awaits - although, come to think of it, in those circumstances I do the 'awaiting' for the chariot. Be that as it may.
Because today, I emerged with a raincoat over one arm, a bulbous bag of goodies, a sheaf of forms and papers plus a hardback book purchased from the surgery which sells second hand ones in aid of a local hospice, using a mobile would have necessitated an extra special balancing act.
I chose the easy option, and used the phone in the vestibule which connects directly to another local cab company - no dialing, no money required. My overloaded left arm could continue balancing with no danger of an avalanche, while my right hand unhooked receiver and placed call. Fine.
Rival cab ( I think of them in this way, as my usual firm have been around longer) duly arrives and whisks me back to my front door. "That's £2.70, love, thank you" says he, as I try to make an elegant an exit as possible. He then begins waffling on about 'not asking passengers he picks up from the Health Centre whether they are Old Age Pensioners, or Disabled, as both options entitle them to reduced fares'. He, apparently, assumes obvious wrinklies will come under one or the other heading, and charges accordingly. OK - that's fine by me, and £2.70 is definitely better than OK. I give him £3.00. He makes absolutely no attempt to give me 30p change.
Coward that I am, I say nothing...
I certainly didn't say 'keep the change', and am left feeling cheated by him, and annoyed at myself. I now feel browbeaten, all over a measly 30p. Does this make me a miser? Or him a bully?
No, I'm a coward when it comes to Taxi Drivers. For many years, it has intrigued me how the price between A and B varies, not only between drivers working for the same firm, but also according to whether you are travelling from A to B, or B to A.
Does the road shrink and grow? Are the car tyres of different circumferences and the journey counted in revolutions to calculate price? Either of these theories could explain the discrepancy, but are each as unlikely as the other.
For the five minute ride from my house to the Health Centre, I was charged £2.80 this morning - a pretty average amount, though I have occasionally had a driver charge £2.70 for the same trip in the past few weeks.
The taxi firm I use has been part of the Havant scene since I moved here in 1964, and many of them are so used to me, they tell me where I live...
So the drill goes like this; I ring and book (usually a day in advance) when a Doc's appointment is coming up, and when it's over, and I leave the surgery clasping my bag of goodies to my chest, I give them a call from my mobile, and pretty soon, my chariot awaits - although, come to think of it, in those circumstances I do the 'awaiting' for the chariot. Be that as it may.
Because today, I emerged with a raincoat over one arm, a bulbous bag of goodies, a sheaf of forms and papers plus a hardback book purchased from the surgery which sells second hand ones in aid of a local hospice, using a mobile would have necessitated an extra special balancing act.
I chose the easy option, and used the phone in the vestibule which connects directly to another local cab company - no dialing, no money required. My overloaded left arm could continue balancing with no danger of an avalanche, while my right hand unhooked receiver and placed call. Fine.
Rival cab ( I think of them in this way, as my usual firm have been around longer) duly arrives and whisks me back to my front door. "That's £2.70, love, thank you" says he, as I try to make an elegant an exit as possible. He then begins waffling on about 'not asking passengers he picks up from the Health Centre whether they are Old Age Pensioners, or Disabled, as both options entitle them to reduced fares'. He, apparently, assumes obvious wrinklies will come under one or the other heading, and charges accordingly. OK - that's fine by me, and £2.70 is definitely better than OK. I give him £3.00. He makes absolutely no attempt to give me 30p change.
Coward that I am, I say nothing...
I certainly didn't say 'keep the change', and am left feeling cheated by him, and annoyed at myself. I now feel browbeaten, all over a measly 30p. Does this make me a miser? Or him a bully?
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Catching Up
Today has turned out to be just the day for doing that, so forgive me for disappearing until tomorrow...
Saturday, 13 June 2009
It's An Age Thing
I was astonished at the number of heartwarming comments that materialised after my Thursday post - So was No.1 Son. I have to share with you all part of the message he sent me yesterday afternoon. You must understand, as I know he reads my every word (and yours too, commenters) I'd sent him an email saying I hope he didn't mind my writing about our current state of less than tranquil being. This was his cracking rejoinder:-
And no I don't mind about the post yesterday (Thursday). Reading through the comments I have to laugh because they make it sound so much worse than things really are. The anti-D's are meant to just to take the edge off things.
Lovely bunch you have found there though, I'm grateful for all the prayers.
Just one thing, last time I checked I was 38 not 39 !!! So be sure to tell sweetmango - should you decide to email her - if she's into distance healing she might miss me by a year!!! :-)
Lovely bunch you have found there though, I'm grateful for all the prayers.
Just one thing, last time I checked I was 38 not 39 !!! So be sure to tell sweetmango - should you decide to email her - if she's into distance healing she might miss me by a year!!! :-)
I hadn't realised that I'd managed to age him by a whole year in the comment I'd added to the post myself. How shocking was that? A mum not getting offspring's age correct? Although I have a more than sneaking suspicion it may have been due to my erratic typing, rather than senility, but hey, I get my share of senior moments. However, in my defence, he is as much in his thirty ninth year as I am in my sixty ninth - so I was close...
Rhymeswithplague-Brague managed to come up with what I took to be a mis-quote following my spic-and-span ponderings this week. He mentioned 'bubble and squirt', which I took to be bubble-and-squeak.
Of course this sent me on a Google-hunt. I know UK tradition has it that the dish Bubble-and-squeak uses a medley of vegetables left over from the Sunday roast, but there were lots of other interesting tidbits I uncovered.
Firstly, its fame is apparently mostly confined to England, with only an occasional passing reference in American literature or media. The dish appears not to have spread to the British Empire countries either, possibly due to hotter climate, or simply different taste buds!
Firstly, its fame is apparently mostly confined to England, with only an occasional passing reference in American literature or media. The dish appears not to have spread to the British Empire countries either, possibly due to hotter climate, or simply different taste buds!
A1770 book by one Thomas Bridges, intriguingly entitled 'A burlesque Translation Of Homer' mentioned
We therefore cooked him up a dish of lean bull-beef, with cabbage fry's...
Bubble, they call this dish, with squeak.
The writer pointed out this work would be more at home among the Simpsons, than the Iliad and said, unsurprisingly, that a Fracis Grose was a collaborator in writing it. There was also a book published by them in 1785 - Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue- which indicated how the dish got its name.
Bubble and Squeak, beef and cabbage fried together. It is so called from its bubbling and squeaking whilst over the fire.
Eventually, probably due to meat shortage after WWII, only vegetables were used, as the Good Housekeeping - Home Encyclopedia of 1951 pointed out.
In rhyming slang, Bubble and Squeak can mean Greek - no doubt a throw back to the first reference found. In 1968 Leila Berg in her book Risinghill:death of a comprehensive school, wrote:-
In rhyming slang, Bubble and Squeak can mean Greek - no doubt a throw back to the first reference found. In 1968 Leila Berg in her book Risinghill:death of a comprehensive school, wrote:-
"Why do they call Greek children Bubbles? said Mr Colinides to me... Later, it dawned on me it was short for bubble-and-squeak rhyming slang.Rhymeswithplague-Brague has a lot to answer for...
Friday, 12 June 2009
Spick And Span
Having been up since what seems like the crack of dawn this morning, I got to blogging relatively early, so began by seeing who'd popped up on the Blogger Buzz 'recently posted' list. And there was Bernie from On My Own, telling us all about a 'free' cleaning day carried out by what seemed like two cleaning angels. What a thing to win!
Come to think of it, a couple of those would be a welcome round here. I could ask a small one to fly up into the corners of every room on a cobweb/spider hunt, and get them to flick their wings over the top of any dusty cupboards they met on the way.
Another, heftier, taller entity might like to tackle the outside jobs, hovering mid air to trim over-enthusiastic green and growing things with a shiny (golden, perhaps?) pair of secateurs he/she just happened to have amongst their folds of cloudy raiment. That would be after manhandling (would that apply to an angel?) a few pairs of curtains down and into the washing machine...
I wish!
It's easy to see why the words 'spick and span' presented themselves to me as a suitable title for today. But then, naturally I had to hunt out their origins, as much as one may winkle out the truth of such things. This is what I found:-
Hopefully not.
If a poem should present itself on any of the aforementioned points before the sun is over the yardarm, or the roof top, I'll be back to share it...
Sorry it's a bit late...and not a lot...
Cleaners come and cleaners go,
but where they've been
we always know.
No speck of dust; house spick and span
thanks to elbow grease
and large dust-pan !
Come to think of it, a couple of those would be a welcome round here. I could ask a small one to fly up into the corners of every room on a cobweb/spider hunt, and get them to flick their wings over the top of any dusty cupboards they met on the way.
Another, heftier, taller entity might like to tackle the outside jobs, hovering mid air to trim over-enthusiastic green and growing things with a shiny (golden, perhaps?) pair of secateurs he/she just happened to have amongst their folds of cloudy raiment. That would be after manhandling (would that apply to an angel?) a few pairs of curtains down and into the washing machine...
I wish!
It's easy to see why the words 'spick and span' presented themselves to me as a suitable title for today. But then, naturally I had to hunt out their origins, as much as one may winkle out the truth of such things. This is what I found:-
The noun spick has various meanings, or rather it had various meanings, as it is now rarely used outside of spick and span. These include: a side of bacon, a floret of lavender, a nail or spike, a thatching spar.
Likewise span has, or did have, several meanings, including: the distance from the tip of the thumb to the tip of the little finger, a measure of butter, a fetter or chain, a chip of wood (as the Norse word spann-nyr).
Hopefully not.
If a poem should present itself on any of the aforementioned points before the sun is over the yardarm, or the roof top, I'll be back to share it...
Sorry it's a bit late...and not a lot...
Cleaners come and cleaners go,
but where they've been
we always know.
No speck of dust; house spick and span
thanks to elbow grease
and large dust-pan !
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Contrasts
Light/dark, fast/slow, thick/thin, up/down, high/low, happy/sad; wherever you look, contrasts are part of life. I found out this morning, after getting ' normal ' results to all the blood tests No.1 Son has just undergone, his doctor has come to the conclusion that he is depressed.
I know in Blogland many people could hold their hands up to be counted among this band of less than happy campers, so I'm sure they will sympathise with him, too. Anyone who feels like joining with me in sending him some uplifting, healing energies, will be greatly appreciated, for I'm sure these have a power all their own.
Any hints or tips as to what a Mum can do in these circumstances, where 'popping in' to see him is not an option, I'd love to hear, especially from anyone with first hand experience. He has always been such a stalwart for others when they've been going through rough patches, that he deserves to have someone fight in his corner for a change!
Any gentlemen reading this post, may wish to retire at this point, before I make them blush.
In the good old tradition of buses (and problematical things!) never coming singly, I've come under the watchful eye of the medical world, too. Although I've pointed out to many health care bods on more than one occasion, that for me 50= menopause was a joke, a non-event. It never happened. Now they are sitting up and taking notice. I've been for blood tests and pelvic scan, and am booked in to see the doc next Monday at the wonderful time of 7.45am for results. As if this wasn't enough, yesterday comes the routine NHS letter about a follow up to the colonoscopy I had last July, when they removed a tiny polyp. Looks like everybody wants a piece of me at the same time.
I hope you will understand why I opted to write a bit of 'life in the raw' today, instead of resorting to ostrich mode, sticking head in sand and composing another laughable episode of poetic diarrhoea. Not that pelvic examinations aren't laughable, eh, ladies?!
I know in Blogland many people could hold their hands up to be counted among this band of less than happy campers, so I'm sure they will sympathise with him, too. Anyone who feels like joining with me in sending him some uplifting, healing energies, will be greatly appreciated, for I'm sure these have a power all their own.
Any hints or tips as to what a Mum can do in these circumstances, where 'popping in' to see him is not an option, I'd love to hear, especially from anyone with first hand experience. He has always been such a stalwart for others when they've been going through rough patches, that he deserves to have someone fight in his corner for a change!
Any gentlemen reading this post, may wish to retire at this point, before I make them blush.
In the good old tradition of buses (and problematical things!) never coming singly, I've come under the watchful eye of the medical world, too. Although I've pointed out to many health care bods on more than one occasion, that for me 50= menopause was a joke, a non-event. It never happened. Now they are sitting up and taking notice. I've been for blood tests and pelvic scan, and am booked in to see the doc next Monday at the wonderful time of 7.45am for results. As if this wasn't enough, yesterday comes the routine NHS letter about a follow up to the colonoscopy I had last July, when they removed a tiny polyp. Looks like everybody wants a piece of me at the same time.
I hope you will understand why I opted to write a bit of 'life in the raw' today, instead of resorting to ostrich mode, sticking head in sand and composing another laughable episode of poetic diarrhoea. Not that pelvic examinations aren't laughable, eh, ladies?!
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Words
I'm often amazed and enchanted by the words that crop up among comments left by folks passing through my Blogland estate. The winner by far, yesterday, was lakeviewer of sixtyfivewhatnow fame, with her glorious offering 'polemic'. Doesn't it roll off the tongue in the most delightful fashion? How I wish I could instantly craft it into a poem! Might take me some time to achieve that, so will hold it in the back of my mind for future reference, perhaps.
I can hear one or two eyebrows being raised, though. Polemic? Is that related to pandemic?
For any wrinkled foreheads out there, here is the delightful offering found on Google:-
"...a polemic text on a topic is often written specifically to dispute or refute a position or theory that is widely viewed to be beyond reproach..."
Don't you just love that 'in a nut shell' explanation? I can think of no greater fun than disputing just about any theory you care to mention. After all, bandying words about theories, gets everyone's grey cells up and running- if only round in circles. What exercise! And occasionally, you may even find another person's opinion brings you to a full stop, as you ponder its validity.
Of such stuff is learning made.
Pouty Lips, of Pouty Baby's Nonsense, had a eureka moment with the word 'lilt' it seems. It's all very well talking about the rhythm of words, but until the mind grasps what that really means, and where it comes from, the words remain no more than words. Pouty admits to reading some of my stuff out loud, and I love her for grasping the fact that it's exactly the way poetry should be experienced, rhyming or not.
I think I will simply send you away today, admonishing you to read out loud for a bit - doesn't really matter what - while you savour the usually un-noticed lilt of the words, letting each one roll of the tongue in delight.
I look forward to hearing any experiences this may have brought forth by tomorrow...
2.15 pm PS - had to add this:-
Pip, Polemic, Pacify,
Frugal, Frumpish, Fortify.
Astral, Ankh, Antimony,
Artful, Angst, Agrimony.
Words are fun, they've got potential
especially when experimental
combinations come to mind -
try some out, see what you find!
I can hear one or two eyebrows being raised, though. Polemic? Is that related to pandemic?
For any wrinkled foreheads out there, here is the delightful offering found on Google:-
"...a polemic text on a topic is often written specifically to dispute or refute a position or theory that is widely viewed to be beyond reproach..."
Don't you just love that 'in a nut shell' explanation? I can think of no greater fun than disputing just about any theory you care to mention. After all, bandying words about theories, gets everyone's grey cells up and running- if only round in circles. What exercise! And occasionally, you may even find another person's opinion brings you to a full stop, as you ponder its validity.
Of such stuff is learning made.
Pouty Lips, of Pouty Baby's Nonsense, had a eureka moment with the word 'lilt' it seems. It's all very well talking about the rhythm of words, but until the mind grasps what that really means, and where it comes from, the words remain no more than words. Pouty admits to reading some of my stuff out loud, and I love her for grasping the fact that it's exactly the way poetry should be experienced, rhyming or not.
I think I will simply send you away today, admonishing you to read out loud for a bit - doesn't really matter what - while you savour the usually un-noticed lilt of the words, letting each one roll of the tongue in delight.
I look forward to hearing any experiences this may have brought forth by tomorrow...
2.15 pm PS - had to add this:-
Pip, Polemic, Pacify,
Frugal, Frumpish, Fortify.
Astral, Ankh, Antimony,
Artful, Angst, Agrimony.
Words are fun, they've got potential
especially when experimental
combinations come to mind -
try some out, see what you find!
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Prose Or Poem?
I see Star asked a similar question in her comment on yesterday's post. Must admit, it's one I've often asked myself, and it will probably be interesting to see what answers any of you, my readers, come up with as a result of such a question.
I've already mentioned a correspondence, poetry-writing course I've been working my way through. Among its notes, it advises one to try writing the words down as in an ordinary sentence. If this works, it's probably prose; if not, it's probably a poem. That's the only advice I've ever encountered on the subject. I tend to think, like beauty, it's in the eye of the beholder.
I did say, I was trying to write a 'word picture' with yesterday's lines. They did not simply flow from the pen. I spent quite some time endeavouring to pare down the number of words I used to a bare minimum; to use ones that would give the sharpest image of what I was trying to convey: no unnecessary 'the, and, a,' etc, added at every tiff and turn but serving no real purpose by their inclusion. Although there is no set rhythm, I did bear in mind the lilt of the words I wrote, not something I'm conscious of when setting out to write prose.
In complete contrast, here's a bit of fun that came to be on Sunday afternoon, complete with obligatory rhyme!
Who'd Be A Zookeeper?
Mister McCorkerdale
worked at the zoo.
He loved all the animals -
'cept one - or two.
The first, a white cockatoo
had a strange habit.
He'd hop around Corky's cap,
just like a rabbit.
He'd bounce and he'd jump
while squawking out loud
'Wothcher, old Corky!'
to delight the crowd
who'd paid just to see
this unusual sight.
They'd loudly applaud him
with all of their might.
The second was Ellie,
a young, playful Jumbo,
who thought of McCorkerdale
as a right dumbo.
She'd fill her long trunk
from a pail full of water,
then squirt it at Corky
when she shouldn't aughter!
I've already mentioned a correspondence, poetry-writing course I've been working my way through. Among its notes, it advises one to try writing the words down as in an ordinary sentence. If this works, it's probably prose; if not, it's probably a poem. That's the only advice I've ever encountered on the subject. I tend to think, like beauty, it's in the eye of the beholder.
I did say, I was trying to write a 'word picture' with yesterday's lines. They did not simply flow from the pen. I spent quite some time endeavouring to pare down the number of words I used to a bare minimum; to use ones that would give the sharpest image of what I was trying to convey: no unnecessary 'the, and, a,' etc, added at every tiff and turn but serving no real purpose by their inclusion. Although there is no set rhythm, I did bear in mind the lilt of the words I wrote, not something I'm conscious of when setting out to write prose.
In complete contrast, here's a bit of fun that came to be on Sunday afternoon, complete with obligatory rhyme!
Who'd Be A Zookeeper?
Mister McCorkerdale
worked at the zoo.
He loved all the animals -
'cept one - or two.
The first, a white cockatoo
had a strange habit.
He'd hop around Corky's cap,
just like a rabbit.
He'd bounce and he'd jump
while squawking out loud
'Wothcher, old Corky!'
to delight the crowd
who'd paid just to see
this unusual sight.
They'd loudly applaud him
with all of their might.
The second was Ellie,
a young, playful Jumbo,
who thought of McCorkerdale
as a right dumbo.
She'd fill her long trunk
from a pail full of water,
then squirt it at Corky
when she shouldn't aughter!
Monday, 8 June 2009
Today Already?
Obviously, I must have got waterlogged yesterday, if it's taken me 24 hours to drip dry! Howsomedever, as my Bro likes to say every so often ( his vocabulary is extremely large and no doubt used to impress his old Sis) here I am in tomorrow, today, already...Get the picture?
Despite any good intentions I had of returning to blogland to further amaze you with more tales of the unexpected, Sunday had other ideas. It lured me after lunch, to catch up on a few poetry related TV programmes I'd recorded during the week, and they started the cogs and wheels whirring in my mind.
Although I've not lived in Portsmouth since 1964, the picture of some of its more tightly packed areas has changed but little over the years. Houses in the small side roads face directly onto the pavements, and the only sign of change tends to be in the gradual increase of double glazing and UPVC front doors over the intervening years.
I decided to try and write a word picture about them. Here goes...
City Streets
Terraced houses
huddle row by row,
perspective diminishing
to grey pavements'
vanishing point.
Two up, two down,
kitchen added out back,
bathroom tacked on
as an afterthought,
following demolition
of outmoded privies
in minute gardens.
Parts of the old city
time and bombs forgot,
where life continues
despite hardship.
Cars line narrow streets,
parked on side roads
never designed to hold
these effigies of wealth.
Despite any good intentions I had of returning to blogland to further amaze you with more tales of the unexpected, Sunday had other ideas. It lured me after lunch, to catch up on a few poetry related TV programmes I'd recorded during the week, and they started the cogs and wheels whirring in my mind.
Although I've not lived in Portsmouth since 1964, the picture of some of its more tightly packed areas has changed but little over the years. Houses in the small side roads face directly onto the pavements, and the only sign of change tends to be in the gradual increase of double glazing and UPVC front doors over the intervening years.
I decided to try and write a word picture about them. Here goes...
City Streets
Terraced houses
huddle row by row,
perspective diminishing
to grey pavements'
vanishing point.
Two up, two down,
kitchen added out back,
bathroom tacked on
as an afterthought,
following demolition
of outmoded privies
in minute gardens.
Parts of the old city
time and bombs forgot,
where life continues
despite hardship.
Cars line narrow streets,
parked on side roads
never designed to hold
these effigies of wealth.
Sunday, 7 June 2009
Disclaimer
After reading comments left as a result of yesterday's ditty, I've been unable to decide whether or not some people have gone away thinking that I have an extremely odd bunch of relatives...Maybe so, but I would assure everyone, those in the poem were entirely fictitious!
Will now go away to ponder the unintentional effects of my words on blogland, while I wash my hair. Once drip-dried, I shall no doubt be back to overload you with a few more...
Will now go away to ponder the unintentional effects of my words on blogland, while I wash my hair. Once drip-dried, I shall no doubt be back to overload you with a few more...
Saturday, 6 June 2009
Family Favourites?
Visiting
When I visit Auntie Kate,
she takes the biscuits from my plate.
When I visit Grandpa Jones,
he jokes that he might grind my bones!
she holds my hand and won't let go.
When I visit Cousin Dot,
she says' You'd fit my stewing- pot!'
When I visit Brother James,
he teases me and calls me names.
But if I visit Uncle Jack,
he says 'Be off! And don't come back!'
Friday, 5 June 2009
Friday Fun Poem
A cloud
floats gently by;
fluffy, shape-shifting forms
encouraging dreams which end in
R """"""D
a"""""" r
i """"" o
n"" p
s
floats gently by;
fluffy, shape-shifting forms
encouraging dreams which end in
R """"""D
a"""""" r
i """"" o
n"" p
s
I've been trying in vain to make blogger accept the words 'rain drops' as if they were written vertically, with both of them sloping left to right. It worked well until I clicked 'post', then the auto gremlins took over, and the whole effect was ruined. Now I need you to use your imagination, to remove the """"""" in each line, and slope the word 'drops' as my mind envisaged, to run parallel to 'rain'. It would have been effective if I'd managed to persuade blogger to be flexible...
The form started life as a cinquain - five lines, with syllables for them being 2,4,6,8,2 - but my imagination wanted to play with the way the last line was printed and things went haywire....So much for creativity!
The form started life as a cinquain - five lines, with syllables for them being 2,4,6,8,2 - but my imagination wanted to play with the way the last line was printed and things went haywire....So much for creativity!
Thursday, 4 June 2009
Puzzles
Yes, I know the whole of life can be a bit of a puzzle, but that's only if you stop and think about it for too long. If you just get on with living it, you don't have time to be puzzled, I reckon. But I'm really thinking more about those time consuming jig-saws or crossword puzzles - or sudoku, if you are of a mathematical bent. It's often a touch of the 'Marmite Syndrome' - love or hate - that describes a person's attitude to them. I've found, rather than a lukewarm, take-'em-or-leave-'em attitude, a lot of people tip towards one extreme or the other. Either their eyes light up, a pen flies into their hands and the Daily Crossword is under siege in a flash, or they sigh, frown and quickly find a reason to be somewhere else at the very mention of the word puzzle.
If it's jigsaws under scrutiny, the 'for 'em' brigade will get the table cleared and the pieces spread around almost before the crumbs of the last meal have been swept away. The corners (or simply edges, as there are many fiendishly shaped jig-saws around these days) are quickly located and the hunt for matching textures or colours on the squiggly shaped cardboard pieces absorbs their mind completely from that moment on. Concentration rules. Woe betide any swift movement on the part of passers by that manages to waft a delicate piece to the floor...
This grumpy reaction is particularly noticeable if a group of mixed age is endeavouring to achieve a team effort. The smallest, youngest or least dexterous is likely to be ostracised at a very early stage of the proceedings.
I am a sucker for punishment. Not enough for me to enjoy these ready made puzzles which originated in another's mind. No, I revel in the opportunity of self inflicted word puzzles which occur when I try to follow a traditional, poetic rhyme scheme.
I know these days, a lot of poetry tends to be free form, non-rhyming, and there is no doubt many beautiful thoughts and feelings are expressed within its freedom. But the discipline imposed by following a specific form holds this same element of 'puzzle' within my mind. The grey cells need to scurry and search to make language do my bidding. The thrill of the hunt with a finished poem as the only quarry.
Yesterday found me chasing over many hurdles. You've seen the first race result ( thank you RWP for giving me a retrospective boost over one or two jumps). Next on the race card came the Triolet Stakes. The prize would be awarded to the following rhyme scheme:-
If it's jigsaws under scrutiny, the 'for 'em' brigade will get the table cleared and the pieces spread around almost before the crumbs of the last meal have been swept away. The corners (or simply edges, as there are many fiendishly shaped jig-saws around these days) are quickly located and the hunt for matching textures or colours on the squiggly shaped cardboard pieces absorbs their mind completely from that moment on. Concentration rules. Woe betide any swift movement on the part of passers by that manages to waft a delicate piece to the floor...
This grumpy reaction is particularly noticeable if a group of mixed age is endeavouring to achieve a team effort. The smallest, youngest or least dexterous is likely to be ostracised at a very early stage of the proceedings.
I am a sucker for punishment. Not enough for me to enjoy these ready made puzzles which originated in another's mind. No, I revel in the opportunity of self inflicted word puzzles which occur when I try to follow a traditional, poetic rhyme scheme.
I know these days, a lot of poetry tends to be free form, non-rhyming, and there is no doubt many beautiful thoughts and feelings are expressed within its freedom. But the discipline imposed by following a specific form holds this same element of 'puzzle' within my mind. The grey cells need to scurry and search to make language do my bidding. The thrill of the hunt with a finished poem as the only quarry.
Yesterday found me chasing over many hurdles. You've seen the first race result ( thank you RWP for giving me a retrospective boost over one or two jumps). Next on the race card came the Triolet Stakes. The prize would be awarded to the following rhyme scheme:-
A B a A a b A B
Eight lines, with the first, fourth and seventh and the second and eighth repeated verbatim. Not quite as easy as you may think - if you still want the whole thing to make sense! At least there are no restrictions to line length or metre in a Triolet. Here's what I ended up with:-
Concentration
As I try to pen a line
to start the juices flowing,
I hope to capture all in rhyme,
as I try to pen a line -
and fondly hope it won't decline
but keep the verses growing,
as I try to pen a line
to start the juices flowing.
As I try to pen a line
to start the juices flowing,
I hope to capture all in rhyme,
as I try to pen a line -
and fondly hope it won't decline
but keep the verses growing,
as I try to pen a line
to start the juices flowing.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Attics Of The Mind
Our unusually warm weather over the last few days has guaranteed that my thinking processes plummeted to virtual zero. Inspiration suffered under an 82º blanket. By about half past seven in the evening, once the sun moved off the patio doors, I could at least contemplate a quick whizz around Blogland. And what did I find? Many people posting old, faded photographs, many others talking of packing /unpacking boxes, storing parts of their lives, not always quite certain why. Others were telling stories of earlier times, as though they had already unpacked a 'virtual reality' box from the recesses of their minds and were looking at events the same way one might flick through a photograph album.
For some, I think the recollections were almost a way of saying goodbye to the past and looking forward to the future, while with others it made me feel they were holding on to parts of their lives best forgotten. With all these ideas gleaned from minds all over the globe, I thought I might try writing something this morning, while the temperature was a little more conducive to creativity.
It's not often I approach writing in a logical way. I usually get an idea that makes me grab the nearest pen or pencil and scribble frantically, in an almost indecipherable scrawl, to get a string of words down because I like the sound of them, or because I can see where they might lead. But if, like today, I only have a vague idea, then uppermost in my mind it's the rhyme and metre I decide upon first. OK, I would go for iambic pentameter in sonnet form, I thought. Next, I still needed one line to start me off... 'a photograph from childhood, long ago' had a swing to it...
Then the rhyme scheme takes over, and already I'm hunting for a word that will fit with 'ago', and jot down a selection at the side of the page.
Because of the almost nostalgic and and sometimes regretful tone of some of those Blogland posts I'd read, I wanted to capture that mood in the poem that was under construction. This is where the attic of my mind began unloading it's own dusty boxes, as I searched for words or feelings that would combine into a cohesive whole. Half an hour with the pencil got me as far as eight lines, and I transferred to the computer, where it's easier to move things around quickly. At that point, the beginning was 'A photograph...', but seeing the onscreen version, I wanted more lines before this point. It wasn't long before I had decided what they should be, so here it is folks, open to criticism. At least you will know how it came into being...
Voyage Of Discovery
Another box; a dusty treasure trove
of keepsakes hoarded over many years:
a trinket: letter: token of old love
forgotten, washed away by gentle tears:
a photograph from childhood, long ago,
where memory's encapsulated shades
of black and white, now faded, serve to show
in frozen movement, youthful escapades
among imagined fantasies galore.
Oh, then we could be masters of our fate,
before we knew what life may hold in store,
before we realised, it's soon too late
to captain yet another ship. We sail
against prevailing wind to no avail.
For some, I think the recollections were almost a way of saying goodbye to the past and looking forward to the future, while with others it made me feel they were holding on to parts of their lives best forgotten. With all these ideas gleaned from minds all over the globe, I thought I might try writing something this morning, while the temperature was a little more conducive to creativity.
It's not often I approach writing in a logical way. I usually get an idea that makes me grab the nearest pen or pencil and scribble frantically, in an almost indecipherable scrawl, to get a string of words down because I like the sound of them, or because I can see where they might lead. But if, like today, I only have a vague idea, then uppermost in my mind it's the rhyme and metre I decide upon first. OK, I would go for iambic pentameter in sonnet form, I thought. Next, I still needed one line to start me off... 'a photograph from childhood, long ago' had a swing to it...
Then the rhyme scheme takes over, and already I'm hunting for a word that will fit with 'ago', and jot down a selection at the side of the page.
Because of the almost nostalgic and and sometimes regretful tone of some of those Blogland posts I'd read, I wanted to capture that mood in the poem that was under construction. This is where the attic of my mind began unloading it's own dusty boxes, as I searched for words or feelings that would combine into a cohesive whole. Half an hour with the pencil got me as far as eight lines, and I transferred to the computer, where it's easier to move things around quickly. At that point, the beginning was 'A photograph...', but seeing the onscreen version, I wanted more lines before this point. It wasn't long before I had decided what they should be, so here it is folks, open to criticism. At least you will know how it came into being...
Voyage Of Discovery
Another box; a dusty treasure trove
of keepsakes hoarded over many years:
a trinket: letter: token of old love
forgotten, washed away by gentle tears:
a photograph from childhood, long ago,
where memory's encapsulated shades
of black and white, now faded, serve to show
in frozen movement, youthful escapades
among imagined fantasies galore.
Oh, then we could be masters of our fate,
before we knew what life may hold in store,
before we realised, it's soon too late
to captain yet another ship. We sail
against prevailing wind to no avail.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Still On The 'Phone?
How many times has a disgruntled voice in the background muttered that phrase into your ear, or mimed it, accompanied by great contortions of the old physiognomy? It's easy to imagine a parent trying to stop young offspring from upping the 'phone bill by their youthful shenanigans, but from personal experience, I can assure you it's just as valid in the world of grown-ups. My Mum used to be a great one for long winded conversations, and hubby a great one for deciding when he thought it had gone on long enough! Know what I mean?
Telephones have such differing effects on people. I know a person who refuses to have one in their home. They can''t face the thought of having to speak to 'strangers'. On the other side of the coin, you have somebody like my daughter, whose mobile is rather like an extra limb, bless her talkative little tongue!
Now, in this technological age where mobile 'phones are two-a-penny (to find, may I hastily add here - certainly not to buy!) it's impossible to walk down a High Street without coming across hoards of people apparently talking to themselves. They stride along, one hand clamping small device to ear, or, even more eerily (pardon the pun) they look as though they've stepped straight out of a science fiction story because of the hands-free headset they're wearing.
Quite apart from physical equipment that no longer ties one to a landline, there is the advent of the language murdering texting. 'C U 2nite?' may get a message across, but I ask you...would it fire you with enthusiasm? Bring to mind an eloquent suitor? Hardly! Don't get me wrong, sending a text is fine, and I use them myself, but I choose to at least attempt to use the English language whilst doing so. Can't you just tell I'm a miserable old git?! Before I get embroiled in further rantings, especially on the subject of automated, telephone reply options, I think I will go while the going is good, and simply leave you with a 'phone inspired ditty called:-
Telephones have such differing effects on people. I know a person who refuses to have one in their home. They can''t face the thought of having to speak to 'strangers'. On the other side of the coin, you have somebody like my daughter, whose mobile is rather like an extra limb, bless her talkative little tongue!
Now, in this technological age where mobile 'phones are two-a-penny (to find, may I hastily add here - certainly not to buy!) it's impossible to walk down a High Street without coming across hoards of people apparently talking to themselves. They stride along, one hand clamping small device to ear, or, even more eerily (pardon the pun) they look as though they've stepped straight out of a science fiction story because of the hands-free headset they're wearing.
Quite apart from physical equipment that no longer ties one to a landline, there is the advent of the language murdering texting. 'C U 2nite?' may get a message across, but I ask you...would it fire you with enthusiasm? Bring to mind an eloquent suitor? Hardly! Don't get me wrong, sending a text is fine, and I use them myself, but I choose to at least attempt to use the English language whilst doing so. Can't you just tell I'm a miserable old git?! Before I get embroiled in further rantings, especially on the subject of automated, telephone reply options, I think I will go while the going is good, and simply leave you with a 'phone inspired ditty called:-
Love Match?
We play with out thoughts
like the players at Wimbledon,
bouncing them from mind to mind
across the net of distance between us.
I sometimes get the feeling
you are waiting to demolish me
with an ace to end all aces.
Game, set and match
via the telephone.
We play with out thoughts
like the players at Wimbledon,
bouncing them from mind to mind
across the net of distance between us.
I sometimes get the feeling
you are waiting to demolish me
with an ace to end all aces.
Game, set and match
via the telephone.
Monday, 1 June 2009
Every End Is A New Beginning
This is a wonderful quote from Khalil Gibran, which has long been a favourite of mine. It is particularly relevant after the ending of my yesterday's post, which left readers to draw their own conclusions, deliberately. Always leave 'em wanting more. Weaver of Grass asks for another instalment. So, come on Bloggers, how about writing one for her? I've set the scene for you. Where would you go next? Here's one option, condensed into a few words. I'd probably give them a title along the lines of:-
'I'll call you'
Waiting by the telephone.
Expectant. On edge.
Difficult to settle down
to anything new.
Clock hands creep round.
Please, let it ring!
Breathing quickens;
stomach churns
and hands grow cold
as adrenalin pumps.
Seconds lengthen to minutes,
drag interminably.
The appointed time passes
and hope dies.
'I'll call you'
Waiting by the telephone.
Expectant. On edge.
Difficult to settle down
to anything new.
Clock hands creep round.
Please, let it ring!
Breathing quickens;
stomach churns
and hands grow cold
as adrenalin pumps.
Seconds lengthen to minutes,
drag interminably.
The appointed time passes
and hope dies.
Sunday, 31 May 2009
Storytime Continues
And A New Day Was Begun ... continued
Mother and daughter spent the next few moments immersed in culinary details.
'I've still got most of my last Saturday's wages upstairs', Louise explained, 'so I'll go round the corner shop and get some sausages and bread rolls. Emma told me she'd bring tomatoes, beans and a couple of onions, so we'll have a right royal feast. But... I was wondering, have you got any special 'treats' in the freezer that you would donate to your lifelong good cause ... me!?'
'What a nerve you've got, Miss ', laughed her Mum, 'but just for your cheek, yes, I do have some biscuits and little fruit pies I'd be willing to 'donate'!
Barter and banter time eventually over, the rest of the morning disappeared in a flurry of activity. By eleven o'clock, the chores were finished and Louise, complete with bulging hamper and beach bag, sat on the back doorstep, waiting for Emma and the boys.
Soon she heard their rather old but well loved car growl to a halt outside the house. After a lot of teasing about the size and weight of the hamper, when Peter struggled to fit it in the boot, they were off.
'Bye, Mum! See you this evening. Enjoy yourself at the fête.' Louise waved to the receding figure leaning out of an upstairs window, then settled herself back in the none too comfortable seat with a sigh of contentment. Comfort was not high on her list of priorities when the prospect of a day at the beach stretched invitingly before her. She turned and grinned at her companion on the back seat, who had been briefly introduced by Peter as 'my friend Alex' while the car was being loaded.
The face that smiled back to her was brown and dimpled, beneath a shock of fine, black hair. 'You look happy as I feel. May one enquired whether it's for a special reason, or simply a general love of the world and mankind as a whole?' Alex's hazel eyes smiled approvingly at the pink and white picture before him, as he spoke the words in an exaggeratedly 'posh' voice.
'Oh, I think life in general - though mostly the prospect of a long summer holiday before college starts in September, I suppose.' Louise felt immediately at home with this sturdy but slim young man, so close by her side in the cramped spaces of the small car that she could feel the heat of his body like the radiant warmth from a convector heater. If it had been winter, she may have appreciated it a little more, but, nonetheless, it gave her an inexplicable feeling of sharing, and even...belonging. Her mind searched for the right word to capture the sensation that the proximity of this boy produced in her, but without success. It was totally beyond anything she had ever experienced before.
While they embarked on a verbal voyage of discovery with each other, Louise tried to imprint his separate features on her memory. The eyes she had first labelled hazel, varied from clear grey that appeared to be lit from within, to rich, warm brown, as the light altered with every twist and turn of the car through the town. Strong white teeth, although neat in appearance, were uneven enough to give them an identity all their own, whilst each smile of the sensitive lips sent the dimples flashing on either side of his mouth. A kind face, that matched the gentle, well spoken voice. Louise knew instinctively it would always be the face of a little boy, however many years left their mark upon it. Perhaps it was the almost comical snub nose that would achieve this effect, or the small, neat ears and overall vulnerable shape of the head and neck that contributed to this air of a permanent Peter Pan.
As she sat there, happily talking to Alex, Louise was suddenly aware of a strange sensation in the region of her diaphragm. It was as though the heat of the sun had gradually focused on the closed petals of a flower and forced it to bloom to welcome the day; a joyous, many petalled, bright golden sunflower. Could this be the dawning of the magical, elusive thing called love? For an instant, she felt as though she was whirling through endless galaxies of spinning stars, only to be brought back to earth with a bump as the car stopped.
She realised they'd come to a halt in a gravelly car park, in full view of the bluest sea imaginable, and she heard Alex saying 'Come on - no time for daydreaming. We're here!' as he reached out a firm hand to help her from the car.
Now the day was really beginning.
Mother and daughter spent the next few moments immersed in culinary details.
'I've still got most of my last Saturday's wages upstairs', Louise explained, 'so I'll go round the corner shop and get some sausages and bread rolls. Emma told me she'd bring tomatoes, beans and a couple of onions, so we'll have a right royal feast. But... I was wondering, have you got any special 'treats' in the freezer that you would donate to your lifelong good cause ... me!?'
'What a nerve you've got, Miss ', laughed her Mum, 'but just for your cheek, yes, I do have some biscuits and little fruit pies I'd be willing to 'donate'!
Barter and banter time eventually over, the rest of the morning disappeared in a flurry of activity. By eleven o'clock, the chores were finished and Louise, complete with bulging hamper and beach bag, sat on the back doorstep, waiting for Emma and the boys.
Soon she heard their rather old but well loved car growl to a halt outside the house. After a lot of teasing about the size and weight of the hamper, when Peter struggled to fit it in the boot, they were off.
'Bye, Mum! See you this evening. Enjoy yourself at the fête.' Louise waved to the receding figure leaning out of an upstairs window, then settled herself back in the none too comfortable seat with a sigh of contentment. Comfort was not high on her list of priorities when the prospect of a day at the beach stretched invitingly before her. She turned and grinned at her companion on the back seat, who had been briefly introduced by Peter as 'my friend Alex' while the car was being loaded.
The face that smiled back to her was brown and dimpled, beneath a shock of fine, black hair. 'You look happy as I feel. May one enquired whether it's for a special reason, or simply a general love of the world and mankind as a whole?' Alex's hazel eyes smiled approvingly at the pink and white picture before him, as he spoke the words in an exaggeratedly 'posh' voice.
'Oh, I think life in general - though mostly the prospect of a long summer holiday before college starts in September, I suppose.' Louise felt immediately at home with this sturdy but slim young man, so close by her side in the cramped spaces of the small car that she could feel the heat of his body like the radiant warmth from a convector heater. If it had been winter, she may have appreciated it a little more, but, nonetheless, it gave her an inexplicable feeling of sharing, and even...belonging. Her mind searched for the right word to capture the sensation that the proximity of this boy produced in her, but without success. It was totally beyond anything she had ever experienced before.
While they embarked on a verbal voyage of discovery with each other, Louise tried to imprint his separate features on her memory. The eyes she had first labelled hazel, varied from clear grey that appeared to be lit from within, to rich, warm brown, as the light altered with every twist and turn of the car through the town. Strong white teeth, although neat in appearance, were uneven enough to give them an identity all their own, whilst each smile of the sensitive lips sent the dimples flashing on either side of his mouth. A kind face, that matched the gentle, well spoken voice. Louise knew instinctively it would always be the face of a little boy, however many years left their mark upon it. Perhaps it was the almost comical snub nose that would achieve this effect, or the small, neat ears and overall vulnerable shape of the head and neck that contributed to this air of a permanent Peter Pan.
As she sat there, happily talking to Alex, Louise was suddenly aware of a strange sensation in the region of her diaphragm. It was as though the heat of the sun had gradually focused on the closed petals of a flower and forced it to bloom to welcome the day; a joyous, many petalled, bright golden sunflower. Could this be the dawning of the magical, elusive thing called love? For an instant, she felt as though she was whirling through endless galaxies of spinning stars, only to be brought back to earth with a bump as the car stopped.
She realised they'd come to a halt in a gravelly car park, in full view of the bluest sea imaginable, and she heard Alex saying 'Come on - no time for daydreaming. We're here!' as he reached out a firm hand to help her from the car.
Now the day was really beginning.
The End
Saturday, 30 May 2009
Story Time Again
And A New Day Was Begun
Louise opened her eyes and lay still for a moment, while consciousness gradually took possession of her sleep-lulled brain. Dappled patterns of sunshine filtered through waving leaves of the aspen tree outside her window and made a living kaleidoscope of light and shade across her bedroom walls.
A smile hovered round her lips. She raised her head a little, clasped her hands behind it, then allowed herself to plump back luxuriously onto the soft pillows. No need to rush this morning! After twelve long years of school régime, she could now indulge in a celebratory lie-in. No longer a child: a young lady. Even as she thought these last words, her smile broadened. Could she ever claim them as being true? Certainly, 'Tomboy' would be a truer title, if she were laying claim to any title at all. And today was not the one on which to be especially ladylike. Heaven forbid!
Before she could indulge in any daydreams sparked off by this last train of thought, there was a great commotion outside her bedroom door. It banged noisily open, to admit a whirling dervish of dog and small boy, as her younger brother, Simon, bounded in and executed a flying rugby tackle aimed at her feet, which were still under the bedclothes.
'Come on, sleepy head!! It's holidays! Don't let's waste a minute of them!' Scruff joined in the general mêlée, with excited barks and a good deal of tail wagging. Eventually order was restored and Louise moved her feet to give Simon enough room to perch himself on the end of her bed, followed closely by Scruff, so that she had to re-arrange herself again.
'Sorry, Si. You'll have to count me out today', replied Louise, as she sat with legs drawn up, hugging the hump of her knees. 'I'm going to the beach with Emma.'
'Good, then I'll come too,' was the instant rejoinder.
'Not this time, I'm afraid. There are four of us going by car. If we'd planned cycling, it'd be different, but we'll have so much gear to take for a whole day, you'd never fit in.'
'What on earth will you need on a beach besides bathers and a towel? Simon could not begin to imagine.
'Well, we'll have two picnic hampers for a start. Emma and I said we'd take one each to share with the boys as a thank you for giving us a lift.'
'Huh! Stupid boyfriends. Thought there had to be a catch. No wonder you don't want me as a gooseberry!' interrupted Simon, scathingly.
'Don't be silly, it's only Emma's cousin Peter and his friend,' but even as she spoke, Louise couldn't prevent a little flush of expectation tinging her cheeks. She'd never had a steady boyfriend, as had some of her classmates. Boys seemed so immature, and the few she had gone out with to discos, or the local cinema, had never made her heart beat faster with their persistently wandering hands and wet, ill judged good night kisses that she'd usually tried to avoid.
Who could tell? Perhaps this unknown 'friend' would be someone special. Louise wondered what he would be like.
' Anyhow,' she carried on,'we want to take a picnic table and chairs and a camping stove, so we can do the whole thing in style. We intend having a pic-nic to end all pic-nics! But don't be cross with me. Tomorrow you can choose what we do. How about asking James if he'd like to come over?'
'Smashing idea!' Simon was already imagining a blissful, rambling day looming on the horizon. Two boys and a dog, plus a sister who was quite useful when it came to giving a chap a bunk up a tree, no to mention treating him to the odd ice cream if the weather turned hot, was a recipe for a good time.
'Right then, young man. I've got lot's to do.'
Left to herself, Louise quickly showered and, dressed in pale pink shorts and a halter top, worked a small miracle in setting her room to rights in five minutes exactly, before padding barefoot downstairs. In the kitchen, her mother already had coffee made.
'Hello, love! Toast or cereal today?'
'Toast and peanut butter, please, but it's alright. I'll see to it.'
'Thanks,' said her mother, continuing to sort clothes into various coloured heaps by the washing machine. 'I'd like to be finished quickly this morning, because of the W.I. fête. I'm organising the cake stall, so the more help I get today, the better.'
'Can I pack up a basket of food for us to take to the beach today, Mum, if I give you a hand with the housework first? How about if I vacuum everywhere?'
'That will be lovely. Simon can wield a duster and we'll be finished in record time.' Simon groaned as he overheard this last suggestion in passing the kitchen door, but only for effect, not as a serious protest. His mother loaded the washing machine, deftly shook powder into the pull out dispenser and started the wash cycle, before going to sit opposite her daughter at the table.
Louise had watched her, grinning. Every time she shook powder that way, there was as much on the floor when she'd finished, as ever went into the machine.
'What are you smirking at, my girl?' asked her mother, helping herself to coffee.
'Nothing special, Mum. Just wondering if I'll ever be as competent as you one day.'
'What a funny thing to say.' Her mother was pleased, nevertheless, at the round about compliment. 'I dare say you'll do fine, in your own way. Now, tell me about this pic-nic.'
To be continued...
Friday, 29 May 2009
Keeping It In The Family
About seven o'clock yesterday evening I checked my emails. There was one from No.1 Son, among others, so naturally I opened his first, and was delighted to find the following:-
More Stuff!
I too collect the treasure
that others label trash.
From time to time it's useful
and reborn in just a flash.
I think it is genetic
and I get it from my Mum.
My latest acquisition is
a stick used for a drum.
It has a perfect balance
and is very smooth and neat.
There's not a mark upon it,
like it's never missed a beat.
It seemed a crime to bin it
just because it wasn't paired.
Today it served as inspiration
for this poem to be shared.
He'd just read my post and 'This popped into his head', he told me! He'd thought about posting it in the comments box, but decided against it. I urged him on, but he was in a rush to go out, so we let things lie. Then I realised I had the perfect post for today, ready made, thanks to his inspiration.
This morning, what do I find, but another missive from him, which made the whole thing even better!
Quote -
True to form, whilst I was visiting my dearest friend 'M' today sipping coffee in her back garden, I said 'Wow, that's a lovely table top', referring to the polished oval piece of wood propped up against the side of her house. It has an intricate inlaid design to its centre and carefully carved accents around its circumference. M replied 'Ah yes, it's destined for the tip; it was mounted on a tacky base that never really did it justice.' ... and wait for it ... 'You can have it if you like.' !!!!!!
My mind had already given it new life, reshaped and finished edges mounted upon an old Singer sewing machine base of the kind with the large square treadle/pedal which has remained topless for some time now, waiting for that perfect top to transform it into a plant stand or similar.
Applying this simple rule - on the days when you are feeling like half a table, legless, seemingly unwanted and discarded, take extra great comfort in the fact that there are people out there who will always see you for the true treasure you really are!
Dermot.
(AKA Q, No1 Son).
xx
What more need I say? Don't I have the best son ever?!
More Stuff!
I too collect the treasure
that others label trash.
From time to time it's useful
and reborn in just a flash.
I think it is genetic
and I get it from my Mum.
My latest acquisition is
a stick used for a drum.
It has a perfect balance
and is very smooth and neat.
There's not a mark upon it,
like it's never missed a beat.
It seemed a crime to bin it
just because it wasn't paired.
Today it served as inspiration
for this poem to be shared.
He'd just read my post and 'This popped into his head', he told me! He'd thought about posting it in the comments box, but decided against it. I urged him on, but he was in a rush to go out, so we let things lie. Then I realised I had the perfect post for today, ready made, thanks to his inspiration.
This morning, what do I find, but another missive from him, which made the whole thing even better!
Quote -
True to form, whilst I was visiting my dearest friend 'M' today sipping coffee in her back garden, I said 'Wow, that's a lovely table top', referring to the polished oval piece of wood propped up against the side of her house. It has an intricate inlaid design to its centre and carefully carved accents around its circumference. M replied 'Ah yes, it's destined for the tip; it was mounted on a tacky base that never really did it justice.' ... and wait for it ... 'You can have it if you like.' !!!!!!
My mind had already given it new life, reshaped and finished edges mounted upon an old Singer sewing machine base of the kind with the large square treadle/pedal which has remained topless for some time now, waiting for that perfect top to transform it into a plant stand or similar.
Applying this simple rule - on the days when you are feeling like half a table, legless, seemingly unwanted and discarded, take extra great comfort in the fact that there are people out there who will always see you for the true treasure you really are!
Dermot.
(AKA Q, No1 Son).
xx
What more need I say? Don't I have the best son ever?!
Thursday, 28 May 2009
Waste Not Want Not?
Stuff
I think I am a magnet,
but not the usual kind
that gathers iron filings
whenever it has mind.
No, I collect detritus,
unwanted bits of 'stuff'
that other people throw away.
They say 'Enough's enough!'
But I embrace all this debris;
it may spark creative juice
and for other people's cast outs
I can often find a use.
You could pity my addiction,
unless you share it too,
and are always on the lookout
for something new to do
with multifarious rubbish;
a treasure trove in waiting.
It may end up recycled- but
what joy comes with the making!
I think I am a magnet,
but not the usual kind
that gathers iron filings
whenever it has mind.
No, I collect detritus,
unwanted bits of 'stuff'
that other people throw away.
They say 'Enough's enough!'
But I embrace all this debris;
it may spark creative juice
and for other people's cast outs
I can often find a use.
You could pity my addiction,
unless you share it too,
and are always on the lookout
for something new to do
with multifarious rubbish;
a treasure trove in waiting.
It may end up recycled- but
what joy comes with the making!
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
Wakey Wakey?!
That was an interesting peep at early morning Blogland - all you merry band of comment writing, blog addicts cover the whole spectrum. Imagine everyone in a sleep clinic, wired up to record their first reaction on awakening! The scientists would have a field day analysing the results, I'm sure.
I started life as a definite 'lark' - up, up and away as soon as the old eyelids lifted, inbuilt clock primed the night before to wake me at specified time, so I could turn off alarm clock before it rang! It was only a back up, that clock, and in all my school and college years, I can only remember it beating me a couple of times.
Marriage brought a new set of factors into the equation. Hubby was an 'owl', to my 'lark'. With him, came an alarm clock loud and clangy enough to wake the neighbourhood. This would have been enough to cope with, but he liked to set it half and hour before he intended to get up... In his book, this constituted a 'lie in'. In my book, it constituted torture! As a result, for many years, I set my 'inner alarm' to wake me up before his. Could almost have called it enforced larkdom, but I was happy with it!
Now I'm retired and sole guardian of an electric clock/radio/alarm, I'm only too happy to have it in an'Off' position for most of the time. Thank you for all the variations you wrote about in your replies - I now feel twice as lucky! Retirement does have its advantages...
Solution?
'Come on, get up!' , the sunshine says,
'It's time to start the day!'
'Slow down, why rush?' the rain cloud drips.
'Why don't you go way?'
From North to South, from East to West
the daylight wakes us all;
but 'larks' and 'owls' have different views,
some rush while others crawl
to start their day, take up their lives,
as Earth goes spinning round.
Day and night, night and day,
it turns without a sound;
it's just our gears grind in our ears
as 'sleep' moves on to 'wake'.
If only we'd an inbuilt switch -
what difference that would make!
No sluggish, early morning head,
no wakeful, night-time blues,
a simple, on/off sleeping switch
would enable us to choose!
I started life as a definite 'lark' - up, up and away as soon as the old eyelids lifted, inbuilt clock primed the night before to wake me at specified time, so I could turn off alarm clock before it rang! It was only a back up, that clock, and in all my school and college years, I can only remember it beating me a couple of times.
Marriage brought a new set of factors into the equation. Hubby was an 'owl', to my 'lark'. With him, came an alarm clock loud and clangy enough to wake the neighbourhood. This would have been enough to cope with, but he liked to set it half and hour before he intended to get up... In his book, this constituted a 'lie in'. In my book, it constituted torture! As a result, for many years, I set my 'inner alarm' to wake me up before his. Could almost have called it enforced larkdom, but I was happy with it!
Now I'm retired and sole guardian of an electric clock/radio/alarm, I'm only too happy to have it in an'Off' position for most of the time. Thank you for all the variations you wrote about in your replies - I now feel twice as lucky! Retirement does have its advantages...
Solution?
'Come on, get up!' , the sunshine says,
'It's time to start the day!'
'Slow down, why rush?' the rain cloud drips.
'Why don't you go way?'
From North to South, from East to West
the daylight wakes us all;
but 'larks' and 'owls' have different views,
some rush while others crawl
to start their day, take up their lives,
as Earth goes spinning round.
Day and night, night and day,
it turns without a sound;
it's just our gears grind in our ears
as 'sleep' moves on to 'wake'.
If only we'd an inbuilt switch -
what difference that would make!
No sluggish, early morning head,
no wakeful, night-time blues,
a simple, on/off sleeping switch
would enable us to choose!
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Wake Up Call
I wonder how you wake up in the morning? Do you leap into action the minute your eyes open, or do you come round slowly, allow body and mind to gradually acclimatise after a night in dreamland? Perhaps you have an 'inner clock' that wakes you at a time you choose, or you might be one of those people who need anything up to three varying alarm clocks to shock you into greeting the day. Maybe you have young children, who provide the most efficient wake up call ever created.
I would imagine almost everybody, at some time in their life, could identify with the poem I'm going to post today. My little blue book (where all my original, handwritten 'stuff' was collected before the days of computer) presented me with it as I leafed through its faded pages the other day, and the subject has been coming closer to the surface ever since. I've recently read several blogs whose authors have been at some kind of crossroads in their lives; decisions have needed to be made, and often the way forward has not been easy to see.
When I was still at art college, I imagined I would go on to teacher training college, and indeed, I eventually had a provisional acceptance by Reading University to do just that. At twenty three, I thought my life was mapped out.
However, life and circumstances had other ideas, and I got a bad dose of influenza instead of the final NDD ( National Diploma in Design) I'd been working towards for five years. The principal of the college would have let me repeat the last year, to sit the exam again, but made it abundantly clear in his opinion, that by then, a twenty four year old, female student, was more than likely heading towards marriage, rather than a teaching career. He was an out and out MCP, on reflection, but I was too naive to recognise the symptoms, and cowered under his eagle eye.
So you can place me, and this poem, in the setting which left me wondering what would come next.
Back To Reality
Head on a pillow,
lids lowered;
light breathing
blowing the cobwebs of night.
Consciousness surfacing.
Flutter of eyes opening.
Panic.
Orientation.
Then memory flooding
and realization
of who
and where
and why
and how.
Only problem is
what now?
I would imagine almost everybody, at some time in their life, could identify with the poem I'm going to post today. My little blue book (where all my original, handwritten 'stuff' was collected before the days of computer) presented me with it as I leafed through its faded pages the other day, and the subject has been coming closer to the surface ever since. I've recently read several blogs whose authors have been at some kind of crossroads in their lives; decisions have needed to be made, and often the way forward has not been easy to see.
When I was still at art college, I imagined I would go on to teacher training college, and indeed, I eventually had a provisional acceptance by Reading University to do just that. At twenty three, I thought my life was mapped out.
However, life and circumstances had other ideas, and I got a bad dose of influenza instead of the final NDD ( National Diploma in Design) I'd been working towards for five years. The principal of the college would have let me repeat the last year, to sit the exam again, but made it abundantly clear in his opinion, that by then, a twenty four year old, female student, was more than likely heading towards marriage, rather than a teaching career. He was an out and out MCP, on reflection, but I was too naive to recognise the symptoms, and cowered under his eagle eye.
So you can place me, and this poem, in the setting which left me wondering what would come next.
Back To Reality
Head on a pillow,
lids lowered;
light breathing
blowing the cobwebs of night.
Consciousness surfacing.
Flutter of eyes opening.
Panic.
Orientation.
Then memory flooding
and realization
of who
and where
and why
and how.
Only problem is
what now?
Monday, 25 May 2009
Just Deserts
After using this phrase on a comment today, I was tempted to explore further. There is a wonderful Internet site called The Phrase Finder, which does just what it says on the box, and has often given me a deal of entertainment browsing its pages. Today, I also noticed they offered 'a phrase a week', and gave some examples of recent postings under this heading.
Just deserts forgotten, my attention was captured by 'old codger'. This, they said , was 'An old man, especially one who is eccentric, curmudgeonly or grotesque'. Yes, no problem there, exactly as I pictured. Doesn't everyone know somebody who fits the bill?
But that wasn't what intrigued me. It was the origin they came up with. On Time Team back in April, they showed a contraption used by falconers in Tudor times, called a 'cadge' - a square frame which surrounded a man's body, supported by crossed shoulder straps. It was used as a perch to carry falcons to the field. Frame carrying was supposed to be a job for elderly falconers, hence 'old cadgers' to 'old codgers'.
The gentleman writing the article on The Phrase Finder site, became very indignant at this assertion, and proceeded to give arguments as to why this was dubitable.
He maintained the word 'cadger' had been in use at least 200 years prior to the 'cadge' for falcons, and was the name used for itinerant dealers of eggs, butter etc, transported by pack horse. He supplied a wonderful quote from something called The Morall Fabillis of Esope, circa 1450:-
'A Cadgear, with capill and with creils' [horse and baskets]
I think he won this round... He said by early 19th century, the meaning of cadging had changed from trading to begging, or borrowing, and could be applied to any who made a living by questionable means. As it was often those too old to find work who had fallen on hard times, the idea of a 'codger' (an unfashionable, peculiar chap) and a 'cadger' (wanting to borrow or steal from you) were probably merged into the 'Old Codger' expression we use today.
I thought Blogland would never forgive me for failing to pass on such a riveting piece of all but useless information... Especially as I'm sure there are more Old Codgers per square megabyte here than anywhere else in the known universe.
(Spellchecker has just shown me its displeasure at the word 'dubitable', but appears quite happy with both cadger and codger. Is it trying to tell me something?)
Just deserts forgotten, my attention was captured by 'old codger'. This, they said , was 'An old man, especially one who is eccentric, curmudgeonly or grotesque'. Yes, no problem there, exactly as I pictured. Doesn't everyone know somebody who fits the bill?
But that wasn't what intrigued me. It was the origin they came up with. On Time Team back in April, they showed a contraption used by falconers in Tudor times, called a 'cadge' - a square frame which surrounded a man's body, supported by crossed shoulder straps. It was used as a perch to carry falcons to the field. Frame carrying was supposed to be a job for elderly falconers, hence 'old cadgers' to 'old codgers'.
The gentleman writing the article on The Phrase Finder site, became very indignant at this assertion, and proceeded to give arguments as to why this was dubitable.
He maintained the word 'cadger' had been in use at least 200 years prior to the 'cadge' for falcons, and was the name used for itinerant dealers of eggs, butter etc, transported by pack horse. He supplied a wonderful quote from something called The Morall Fabillis of Esope, circa 1450:-
'A Cadgear, with capill and with creils' [horse and baskets]
I think he won this round... He said by early 19th century, the meaning of cadging had changed from trading to begging, or borrowing, and could be applied to any who made a living by questionable means. As it was often those too old to find work who had fallen on hard times, the idea of a 'codger' (an unfashionable, peculiar chap) and a 'cadger' (wanting to borrow or steal from you) were probably merged into the 'Old Codger' expression we use today.
I thought Blogland would never forgive me for failing to pass on such a riveting piece of all but useless information... Especially as I'm sure there are more Old Codgers per square megabyte here than anywhere else in the known universe.
(Spellchecker has just shown me its displeasure at the word 'dubitable', but appears quite happy with both cadger and codger. Is it trying to tell me something?)
Sunday, 24 May 2009
What's'is Name?
After No.1 Son emailed me the other day with some more tips on IT wizardry, I quickly replied to thank him - like you would. But his next rejoinder included the following:-
"I'm taking a wild stab in the dark that you have just replied to lots of emails and been signing them off as Pen! :-) First time for everythingI guess; just reads very funny to me! If I were one of those shaky flaky characters who's paranoia has consumed them and the world around them, I could roll up into a ball crying 'My Mum has disowned me! Woe is me!
Right, that's it, I'm changing my name!!!!'...... but I'm not so I won't.
Loves ya,
Dermot."
Yes, he'd guessed. I had been sending mail, left, right and centre, to Blogland pals all over the world, and instead of my usual 'Ma' sign off to son, I'd typed 'Pen'.... OK, so he'd rechristened himself Dermot. I could live with that. He, he, he...
Speaking on the 'phone later to No.1 daughter, I told her of the joke, just to keep her up to speed should she too get an email from 'Dermot' instead of her Bro! We had a good laugh about it. But it didn't end there. Friday evening, 'phone rings. 'Hello?' says I , with my customary, non-specific greeting. I was then besieged by a giggling daughter, spluttering a little manically in my ear.
Eventually when we'd both composed ourselves a little, I got the gist of what she was attempting to tell me.
She'd just sent her Bro a text which should have said 'How are you?' , but predictive text had overtaken...as she punched 'send' she realised what it actually said was 'Howard you?' Luckily, he knew that she knew (!) about the Dermot thing, and with his usual quick wit, he'd replied 'Fine, thank you Mildred! Love, Howard.'
Needless to say, Mildred is NOT the name my daughter started life with, so here I was with two grown up children, Mildred, Dermot - or possibly Howard - transformed in the twinkling of an eye into unknown entities!
I may not have managed to capture here the true hilarity of the on-the-spot experience, but I still have to crack a grin to myself each time I think it over.
Love to Blogland - from ?
(If anybody can tell me who I am today, I would be grateful...)
Saturday, 23 May 2009
The Recipe Box Conclusion
Carrie crossed the hall and opened the far door. Still occasionally muttering to herself, she pottered around, filling the kettle and placing it on the hob before taking time to study the surroundings. They'd changed little, other than in colour scheme. The same honey coloured pine wood dresser stood against one wall, but a scarlet box file on one of its shelves arrested her attention. 'That's something new', said Carrie under her breath. The bright colour stood out like holly berries in the snow, standing as it did among the pastel tones of this white and eau-de-nil room.
She sat down at the kitchen table and placed the box before her. The spine bore the label 'Recipes', and it became increasingly obvious how great her Aunt's enthusiasm had been, as Carrie leafed through them. There were pages torn from magazines, pieces of paper with scribbled pencil notes and some sheets of paper with typed recipes that her Aunt had copied out from some long forgotten source.
After several minutes spent delving into them, Carrie promised herself an even closer study one day soon. Eventually, she came to the last card in the box. It was a proper, printed post card with a snapshot of her Aunt's house on the left and an inset picture of her little sitting room table, laid for tea, at the bottom right hand corner. Two delicate, china place settings stood on either side of an ornate cake stand, on which a delicious looking cake had already been sliced ready to serve.
On the reverse, in her Aunt's spidery handwriting, was written 'My Dorset Apple Cake', with a tight packed list of ingredients. Carrie smiled. Now she knew exactly which cake she would bake for Bill and Ted.
Now the explanation, folks, as to how this tale came to be. I'd signed up for a short, creative writing course in our local library, and for our first week's homework the lecturer had passed round a postcard - yes, the one described - and packed us off to write a short story of no more than 2000 words by the following Saturday. I'd been hoping the course would cover something on the poetic front, but I was out of luck. The rest of the class were were avid novelists or short story buffs, and my interest in poetry stuck out like a sore thumb. 'Poetry isn't my thing', said our very nice, but somewhat un-inspiring tutor, as she managed to pretty well quash me from the start.
There was much talk of writing for magazines, and of 'showing' not 'telling' a story. That just about wiped me off the map all together, as I guess I identify with being a story teller, after years of doing just that for my kids! So, I'm totally clueless on the short story front, and can only apologise if you thought this Recipe Box was going to turn out to be a chef's Table d'Hote instead of a plain old Soup du Jour.
She sat down at the kitchen table and placed the box before her. The spine bore the label 'Recipes', and it became increasingly obvious how great her Aunt's enthusiasm had been, as Carrie leafed through them. There were pages torn from magazines, pieces of paper with scribbled pencil notes and some sheets of paper with typed recipes that her Aunt had copied out from some long forgotten source.
After several minutes spent delving into them, Carrie promised herself an even closer study one day soon. Eventually, she came to the last card in the box. It was a proper, printed post card with a snapshot of her Aunt's house on the left and an inset picture of her little sitting room table, laid for tea, at the bottom right hand corner. Two delicate, china place settings stood on either side of an ornate cake stand, on which a delicious looking cake had already been sliced ready to serve.
On the reverse, in her Aunt's spidery handwriting, was written 'My Dorset Apple Cake', with a tight packed list of ingredients. Carrie smiled. Now she knew exactly which cake she would bake for Bill and Ted.
The End
Now the explanation, folks, as to how this tale came to be. I'd signed up for a short, creative writing course in our local library, and for our first week's homework the lecturer had passed round a postcard - yes, the one described - and packed us off to write a short story of no more than 2000 words by the following Saturday. I'd been hoping the course would cover something on the poetic front, but I was out of luck. The rest of the class were were avid novelists or short story buffs, and my interest in poetry stuck out like a sore thumb. 'Poetry isn't my thing', said our very nice, but somewhat un-inspiring tutor, as she managed to pretty well quash me from the start.
There was much talk of writing for magazines, and of 'showing' not 'telling' a story. That just about wiped me off the map all together, as I guess I identify with being a story teller, after years of doing just that for my kids! So, I'm totally clueless on the short story front, and can only apologise if you thought this Recipe Box was going to turn out to be a chef's Table d'Hote instead of a plain old Soup du Jour.
(If I could have got ^ this over the top of the o in Hote, I would!)
Friday, 22 May 2009
The Recipe Box Continued...
'I understand you want Primrose Cottage, Miss?' called Ted over his shoulder, as the archaic, black taxi went lumbering along. He was inordinately proud of 'the Duchess', as he fondly called her, but it was only his consummate skill that kept such an ancient vehicle on the road. 'Don't get much call for taxis round here, so it's good to take her out for a jaunt this fine spring morning - no matter how brief. Are you staying long?'
'Only a few days. I guess you've heard...?'
'The sad news about Prue, you mean? Aye...indeed. No need to explain.'
For a moment, the pair of them sat in silence, remembering the kind old lady, each in their own way.
'Did you know, she always won more prizes for her cakes, every Summer Fayre, than the rest of the village put together. My Missus got to be quite jealous. Never did beat Prue's 'secret recipe'.'
'Oh, really? I wonder which that was? I know she must have had lots, from the days when she used to let me lick the bowls. Every one more delicious than the last!', said Carrie, and they both grinned companionably.
'Here you are then, Miss. Have you got a key?'
'Yes, the solicitor had been given one for me. Auntie was nothing if not thorough. How much do I owe you?'
'That's alright. Call it my welcome to the village.'
'You're very kind. I'll make it up to you somehow, promise.'
Carrie determined at this point to make at least two cakes as good as any Auntie Prue had made, one each for Bill and Ted; between them, they'd managed to allay her feeling of trepidation at returning to the village with no prospect of a warm welcome from Auntie Prue herself. As to which recipe to use, that could be a difficult choice. She wouldn't want to let her Auntie's reputation down by association!
Carrie waved her thanks, as Ted performed a rather miraculous three point turn in the narrow, cobbled street and headed back to his garage.
'Now, let's see if this works,' said Carrie under her breath, as she slid the shiny key in the lock. The door opened effortlessly and she gazed round the miniature entrance hall with delight. Sunlight dappled the pale, apricot-blush walls and lit a tiny hall table in pride of place against the wall. A gleaming copper jug and a porcelain dish stood on its mellow, well polished surface, alongside an envelope clearly marked 'Carrie Luscombe.'
'Dear Carrie', she read on the enclosed card, after putting her bags down next to the table.
'I wanted to welcome you to Primrose Cottage again, even if it's only with the paper kiss I can give you today....' X' ! There! Much love from Auntie.'
To the right, the cosy sitting room door stood ajar. Walking in, Carrie whispered 'What a dear she was' and, kissing the symbolic 'X' on the scented paper card, she placed it on the mantel shelf, next to a a quietly ticking, quartz movement clock, which only served to underline the fact that life goes on, no matter what.
Two chintz covered armchairs flanked the coal effect gas fire, which she lit, grateful for its instant warmth in the room which had already assumed an indefinable, unlived in air. Beneath the lattice window, prettily framed by matching curtains, stood the table she remembered from her childhood, exactly positioned for taking afternoon tea in the sun. She stood by it for a moment, gazing out at the peaceful village street where she had skipped and played with local children on each of the holidays she'd spent with Auntie Prue. Then, bringing herself back to the present, she decided on a plan of campaign. 'Right, first the kitchen and a cup of tea.'
To be continued...
'Only a few days. I guess you've heard...?'
'The sad news about Prue, you mean? Aye...indeed. No need to explain.'
For a moment, the pair of them sat in silence, remembering the kind old lady, each in their own way.
'Did you know, she always won more prizes for her cakes, every Summer Fayre, than the rest of the village put together. My Missus got to be quite jealous. Never did beat Prue's 'secret recipe'.'
'Oh, really? I wonder which that was? I know she must have had lots, from the days when she used to let me lick the bowls. Every one more delicious than the last!', said Carrie, and they both grinned companionably.
'Here you are then, Miss. Have you got a key?'
'Yes, the solicitor had been given one for me. Auntie was nothing if not thorough. How much do I owe you?'
'That's alright. Call it my welcome to the village.'
'You're very kind. I'll make it up to you somehow, promise.'
Carrie determined at this point to make at least two cakes as good as any Auntie Prue had made, one each for Bill and Ted; between them, they'd managed to allay her feeling of trepidation at returning to the village with no prospect of a warm welcome from Auntie Prue herself. As to which recipe to use, that could be a difficult choice. She wouldn't want to let her Auntie's reputation down by association!
Carrie waved her thanks, as Ted performed a rather miraculous three point turn in the narrow, cobbled street and headed back to his garage.
'Now, let's see if this works,' said Carrie under her breath, as she slid the shiny key in the lock. The door opened effortlessly and she gazed round the miniature entrance hall with delight. Sunlight dappled the pale, apricot-blush walls and lit a tiny hall table in pride of place against the wall. A gleaming copper jug and a porcelain dish stood on its mellow, well polished surface, alongside an envelope clearly marked 'Carrie Luscombe.'
'Dear Carrie', she read on the enclosed card, after putting her bags down next to the table.
'I wanted to welcome you to Primrose Cottage again, even if it's only with the paper kiss I can give you today....' X' ! There! Much love from Auntie.'
To the right, the cosy sitting room door stood ajar. Walking in, Carrie whispered 'What a dear she was' and, kissing the symbolic 'X' on the scented paper card, she placed it on the mantel shelf, next to a a quietly ticking, quartz movement clock, which only served to underline the fact that life goes on, no matter what.
Two chintz covered armchairs flanked the coal effect gas fire, which she lit, grateful for its instant warmth in the room which had already assumed an indefinable, unlived in air. Beneath the lattice window, prettily framed by matching curtains, stood the table she remembered from her childhood, exactly positioned for taking afternoon tea in the sun. She stood by it for a moment, gazing out at the peaceful village street where she had skipped and played with local children on each of the holidays she'd spent with Auntie Prue. Then, bringing herself back to the present, she decided on a plan of campaign. 'Right, first the kitchen and a cup of tea.'
To be continued...
Thursday, 21 May 2009
Storytime
The Recipe Box
Carrie Luscombe stood on the platform of a tiny, rural station, juggling to carry a grip, a handbag and a brown paper carrier all at once.
'Could you tell me where the nearest Taxi Rank is, please?' she called to the dapper stationmaster as he finished blowing his whistle, sending the rumbling carriages on their way.
'That's a bit grand!, he replied, his weather beaten face breaking into a smile. 'There's only one taxi in the village. Come into the office, while I 'phone', and he opened the door with a flourish. 'You going far?', he continued, picking up the receiver, as Carrie perched on a bentwood chair.
'Not very. I need to go to Uphill Lane - Primrose Cottage.'
He dialled a short sequence of numbers on the antiquated 'phone.
'Hello, Ted? Got a young lady here needing a taxi to Uphill...a huh...yes...see you in a bit, then...bye! That Prue Luscombe's house?' he continued, turning back to her and Carrie nodded.
'Yes. She was my Aunt...'
'My goodness me, then you must be young Carrie, all grown up! I do declare! I remember you coming to stay with Pru when you were knee high to a grasshopper.'
'Really? Then you must be...wait a minute, I've got it! Bill Purkiss, the porter. Sorry, Stationmaster, now I see!'
'Fancy you remembering... Well, well, well!', and he chuckled, secretly pleased.
'I'd hardly be likely to forget,' laughed Carrie. She'd last seen Bill as a young lad, pushing a trolley piled high with teetering suitcases on that far off summer day that had brought a drove of eager holiday makers pouring onto the station. He'd wobbled a bit and the cases had avalanched to the ground. Aunt had said, 'Quickly, Carrie. Let's give Bill a helping hand'. They'd laughed over the incident at the time, as they all three huffed and puffed the luggage back into position, as well as giggling any time they remenisced.
'Sounds like the car already,' said Carrie as a horn blared. Bill hoisted up her bags and hurried to put them in the boot.
'Thanks', she added, clambering into the cab. 'See you again soon, Bill' and she waved to him through the window as they got underway.
To be continued...
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