FREE CHOICE

By Barbara Thomas 

What is free choice I ask myself in this day and age, where is 'Free Choice' allowed?

Being that due to current Labour Government and many Woke Persons who tell us: What, Where, When, and How, we can manage our lives.

Give me some moments to make sense of the wording;

“FREE CHOICE”

 

OK! I have got it as I have just Googled the meaning of Freedom of Speech:

The fundamental right to express one’s opinions and ideas without fear of censorship or punishment from Public Authority and includes the freedom to receive and impart information and ideas.

 

The 1^st Amendment to the U.S. Constitution protects the freedom of speech, religion, and freedom of the press.

It also protects the freedom for peaceful assembly or gathering together or free association with a group for social, economic, political or religious purpose, as well as the right to protest against the Government.

In the United Kingdom free speech is a fundamental, legally protected rights under the Human Rights Act 1998 enshrined in Article 10 of the European Convention on Human Rights, allowing the expression of ideas, opinions and information without Government interference.

Freedom of Speech Limitations, such as hate speech, incitement to

Violence, defamation and harassment, exist to prevent harm to others.

To protect Public Order, safeguard reputations, rights and National Security.

Whew!!!

Now we know…….

BUT and it is a big But!

Then why are there so many things going wrong I ask myself?

For months now there have been marches for whatever reason in London, and many other large Cities.

When it was believed that the British Flag could not be raised people from all walks of lives and diversity defied and flew the flag.

Flags on lamp posts, cars, windows and even across bridges and many more way-out places, including zebra crossings painted in red against the background of white.

When I first saw them all I was surprisingly taken back and a little overwhelmed.

But after a time, I personally felt the point had been made and it was time to take the flags down and if people felt so angry vote with their feet, and make their mark in the polling booths.

It is saddening now when I see our glorious flag humiliated.

I would ask people to take down the flags that are now sodden, and torn by wind and rain.

In some parts of the country their Council tax has risen, stating that this is because of damage to Council and Government property.

But, and this is a big BUT: Great Britain is one of the most tolerant

countries in the world for FREE CHOICE and long may it continue.

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

Riddles 30

 Riddles 30 

By the Riddler

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  A letter in the following word has been replaced by a ‘z’.  pzrszvzrz, what is the word? 

No 2. A German has less than an Australian. An Irishman has one less than a Scotsman. A Welshman has four more than a Dane. How many does an Italian have?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

Hidden In Plain Sight

 Hidden In Plain Sight

By Jane Scoggins

The thing about driving a car is that you can get from A to B in one journey. The disadvantage is having to concentrate on the road ahead. The advantage of travelling by public transport is, you are free to view the unseen.

High up on the top deck of the coach to Stansted airport I could see the otherwise hidden. Despite the increase in housing estates, there is still plenty of countryside on the outskirts of towns, like my own, or so I thought. Within five minutes I could see from my eagles perch down into a hollow where previously there was field and wood, two enormous diggers scoured the land leaving it ravaged. A bit further, another dip behind old established high trees, a more progressive project was on its way, brutalising the land with tons of concrete vomiting from churning machines onto a factory size base. Cheerful men in high viz jackets without a care in the world, following instructions. Further still along the road a sign Beware Lorry Entrance heralded a hidden muddy track leading to a vast area of semi built houses, some with footprints for 4 or 5 bedroom dwellings for the elite. The fields, woods and wildlife habitat swept away. Where would they go? The tarmacked roads and drives, the tiny gardens not able to sustain pollinators and small country creatures. And then respite from the devastation of concrete, brick, mortar and steel. A field or two of grass and planted crops. Ironically sitting in the middle a low concrete Pillbox with sad eyes looking out across the hectares for the enemy. Not as before for invading soldiers from another country, but from our own coalition of local and national government invaders. Determined to sweep away our green and pleasant land in the name of progress..

Copyright Jane Scoggins

Uncle Thomas (300 Words)

 Uncle Thomas (300 Word Flash Fiction)

By Len Morgan 

I look down from above, “Is that me Dad?” I asked.

“Yes Son.” 

My face looked pale against the white sheets and pillow case, “Am I dead?”

“That’s up to you son.” 

I stood beside him and another man about my age, who looked vaguely familiar, “Who’s he?” I asked.

“That’s your Uncle Thomas.”

“Will I live?” 

“If you do, ask Mum about Uncle Thomas.” 

“You died Dad, so is he…” 

He nodded “Iraq war, 2004. He was buried same year Mum and I got married.” 

.-…-.

An alarm sounded! A defibrillator was placed on my chest and discharged three times. My eyes opened and I looked up into a pair of concerned brown eyes. 

“He’s back Doctor,” She smiled reassuringly, “you’re back with us Mr Quinell” 

“Can I speak to him?” It was mum’s voice.

“Be brief, he needs to rest,” said the nurse. 

“You really gave us a scare passing out, without warning, like that!”

“What happened mum?”

“The Doctor says you had a mild cardiac arrest. When it happened I called an ambulance and administered CPR, thank goodness I did my First Aid course, they say I saved your life…” 

“Thanks Mum. It may sound a strange question but, who was Uncle Thomas?”

She went pale, I thought she was going to cry, then she smiled, her face took on a far away look; she was remembering… 

“Thomas was your father’s younger brother. We were to be married, but he was a soldier and the Gulf war happened so he was posted to Iraq. I was pregnant at the time. We had planned to marry on his return but, he never came back. When I told Rick (Dad) he immediately proposed to me.” 

“What was your answer?” 

She smiled and slapped me on the back, “cheeky bugger!”

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 The Hit (Flash 300 words)

By Richard Banks

In less than two hours he would be away to La Paz where he was Jarvis, the real estate man. But for now he was Chapman, a coffee broker, and would remain so until his flight from Heathrow. He took a pride in his work, it was almost a craft, one he had perfected over many years. Each job a logistical puzzle; he relished the challenge, no problem too difficult to resolve.

         Weeks of meticulous planning had secured him this room with a view. On a Saturday afternoon it was empty of all those who worked there, as were the other offices in the block. The room was on the third floor, at his preferred elevation, the sun at his back. He unpacked his briefcase of the disconnected parts within, reassembling them with a quick fingered dexterity he often practised with eyes tight shut. He was in the zone, pulse beating at a steady fifty-five.

         He raised the blind a few inches and pushed open the window, he would fire from within the building unseen by anyone looking up into the dazzle of the sun. All that was needed now was the correct alignment, the target to appear in the expected place, at the expected time. Due 2pm at the Embassy he would be leaving the hotel by the front entrance no later than 1.45, walking briskly across the wide pavement into the safety of a bullet proof car. There would be two, maybe three seconds in which to take aim and fire.

         Through the tinted glass doors of the hotel he could see dark shapes gathering for the off. Outside a limousine was gliding into place. The hotel door opened and out came the target with his minders. He aimed centre forehead. One shot only, and it was done.     

Copyright Richard Banks 

The end of war.

 The end of war.

By Christopher Mathews

(A love letter from Flanders)

My dearest, darling Florence,

It’s been so long I can hardly remember the shape of your face or the outline of your nose. The warmth of your skin in the sun on that day last summer, or the smell of oranges after you had been working in your father’s fruit stall all day. How your eyes twinkle when you smile at me.

The captain says, I’m not allowed to tell you where I am, somewhere in France in a trench, it’s a sort of ugly scar in the earth we all hide in. Do you know I haven’t seen or heard a bird singing since we got here. That’s because all the trees have been shredded to stumps, I suppose.

The morning mist mixed with the smoke from the guns hangs thick on the ground. We all live in terror of the Gas Rattles sounding, and Captain shouting Gas, gas, gas. Followed by “Mask up, lads”, as we all scramble before the green miasma comes.

Oh, for just a glimpse of your smile, to see you again. Sometimes I can’t remember what you look like. Do you remember that moment when your barley coloured hair flowed like ribbons in the summer breeze as I pushed you on a swing in the playground. Or the time when I gave you a ride home on the crossbar of my bike, your father was standing at the door looking cross. And you, trying to hide the oil stains on your dress from my bike chain. And he, with pocket watch in hand, tutting at the lateness of the hour. You were too afraid to kiss me goodnight in front of him, do you remember?

Where do all the rats come from. They seem to be everywhere and so big too. I swear, some are as big as the pigs on Mr Gregory’s farm. What do they live on? There’s hardly enough rations for me and the lads.

After it’s been raining, we’re wading through mud. How come the rats can get so big when there’s nothing to eat but mud?

My mate Frank says, they have found another food supply, out there, in the dark, among the bomb craters and barbed wire. But there’s nothing out there, so how did the rats get so big? Frank says they found a plentiful supply of meat. I don’t like to think of that.

Do you remember that day when we went tobogganing down Shooters Hill, we laughed. We couldn’t feel our fingers or toes, and your friend Betty cried all the way home on the bus. My dad made that sledge from an old bed frame and scraps of wood. I expect it’s gone now.

Lieutenant Graham says we should sleep sitting upright, with our hands tucked inside our trench coat pockets, otherwise the rats nibble your fingers or ears.

Rob and his brother Wil, didn’t come back after the last push. I wonder if they’re lying there, asleep out in the mud and cold. He still has my tobacco tin. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see it again.

Oh Flo, I long for the day when we will be wed, and this nightmare will come to an end. We felt so brave me, Charly, Frank, Rob and his little brother Wil, when we set off. He wasn’t even old enough to join up. Do you remember all the girls came to wave us off on the train. But I only saw you my dearest Flo.

Over here, It’s nothing like the posters or the rousing songs back in the pub. Can’t say too much ‘cos they will only blot it out. Something to do with morale back home.

Will you come rowing on the Serpentine with me again, we can bring a bottle of ginger beer and a basket full of sandwiches. Your mum makes nice sandwiches, and my mum’s fruit cake too?

We just have spam here, it’s not too bad, you get to like it after a bit.

Do you remember auntie Charlotte giggling like a girl when she saw us kissing in your mum’s pantry last Christmas. You went so red in the face.

The captain says, it will soon be over boys, so hold fast. One last push men! But that was Christmas 1915, it’s now February. 

We could hear the Germans singing carols, not one hundred yards away that Christmas. We joined in too. Who would have thought it, maybe they're not so different from us after all.

I still remember your sweet voice, the first time I heard you sing in church; like an angel, it was.

The first day it snowed it was so white, it seemed to wash away the war with all his ugly scars. It’s like God wanted to blot out the shame of it all. But it’s all grubby now, trampled under jack boots.

The chaplain says that God is on our side. I don't think he takes sides, do you?

Captain Graham does his best to reassure us all. He often walks along the trench just to cheer us up, you know, to check morale and bolster our spirits. He gave me a Cigarette once, when I’d run out. Yesterday he laid his hand on my shoulder,

“Take courage lads,” he said, but I could feel him trembling. He’s not much older than us.

I can still remember the first time you touched my arm, that made me tremble too, goosebumps all over, like electricity. Funny thing how both love and fear can make a man tremble.

I should really love a July wedding, shouldn’t you? We’ll have ginger beer and your mum‘s best cakes. I still keep the lucky rabbits foot you gave me when we parted, it’s the most precious thing I have, apart from your letters and my Bible.

Frank says, I’m stupid for trusting in such nonsense. He was shot the other day in the arm, they patched him up as best they could, but everything rots down here, I fear he may lose it to gangrene. He says it’s his lucky ticket home. I wish I had a ticket home.

I think I will ask my brother Donald to be best man, what do you think? You could ask your sister to be bridesmaid. I’m sending you ten-bob so you could start saving for our honeymoon. Southend, on the seafront, riding the dodgems or the helter-skelter, holding a big mop of candyfloss, glorious! And dancing too, at the Kursaal! I’m not very good at dancing. I know, you could teach me. Or if we can afford it, the Isle of Wight. No, don’t be silly Jack, we’re not millionaires are we.

The Big Bertha’s have started pounding again, so I’ll have to sign off.

Did your big sister have her baby yet? I hope it grows up with a dad. Every kid should have a dad.

Do write soon. I store up your letters and keep them in my Bible close to my heart.

I can’t sleep when the bombs are going off ‘cos the ground shakes. I wonder if my mates can see the fear in my eyes, I can see it in theirs. I think Norman has gone mad ‘shell shock’ they calls it. He wet himself on the first night of bombing, we found him huddled in a corner crying for his mother. Lack of morale fibre. They calls it, but I say, scared witless, like the rest of us.

“Our father who art in heaven… deliver us from this evil.” I never thought about that prayer much before now, but we all pray, every night, even Micki, who always said he didn’t believe in God. There are no atheists in the trenches.

Remember me in your prayers Flo, as I remember you. The captain has called orders down the line, so it’s tin hats on and rifles at the ready. When the whistle blows we’ll be up the ladder and over the top.

Think of me sometimes, if I don’t come back.

All my love, Jack

 

                                                                                               Copyright Christopher Mathews - November 2025

 

Keir Starmers student days

By Barbara Thomas 

Did you know that our Prime Minister at the age of 23 ended up in Communist spy files after joining a Czechoslovakian work camp during the height of the Cold War (the newspaper “The Mail” revealed) that he was one of 17, mostly students from around the globe in a 1986 scheme behind the Iron Curtain to restore a memorial to victims of a Nazi Atrocity. Whilst the volunteers had noble intentions unbeknown to them the event was being monitored by those with a far more sinister motive. Sir Keir Starmer’s full name date and place of birth plus his passport number photo and family address are listed among other International work camp participants in a dossier discovered by the Mail in the “Foreign Intelligence main Directorates Operation Files” section of the Czechoslovakian Secret Police Archives the young Starma’s visa application, including a passport photo and hand-written personal details, are kept in a separate section of the Czech Cold War State security service archives.

Youthful idealism could be exploited by the Communists, it was an error, although a forgivable one given his age.

According to Professor Anthony Glees an Intelligence and Security expert from the University of Buckingham, Starmer wanted to commemorate victims of the sadistic Nazi atrocity in Lidice.

 

My question here is why wasn’t this important information added to Sir Keir Starmer’s Wikepidea,

 

He owns up to selling ice cream illegally, as a teenager abroad.

 

What other secrets has he withheld?

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas