To answer a longstanding Question...

A longstanding Question...

 

Rayleigh Library Writers Group

 started ~  6th April 2019

Youth is wasted on the young (300 words)

Youth is wasted on the young

By Len Morgan 

“Shuddup yer noisy little scrote, or I’ll give you a right slappin!” she grabbed the girl by her hair, dragging her closer to the pushchair, occupied by a screaming, grubby faced infant with candlewax running from his nose. “Shutit Jamile or I’ll sort you too!”

Jemile increased the volume by a few decibels.

“Bloody kids! Can’t you shut em up? They’re doin me head In!” 

“Maybe if you got a job you’d have somethin else to screw wiv it!” 

“Work? Wots that? Last refuse of my famlee.” 

“My parents worked all their lives. They got a house, a pension, and a proper lifestyle. They don’t avta wait for handouts from the dole.” You’re spunging on their taxes…” 

“Wot I’d pay if I wos mug enuf to work? Anyway my dads gota penshun.”

“I didn’t know your dad had a pension.” 

“He doesn’t, it’s me granddads.”

“I thought he’d been dead for years?” 

“Yea, but the penshun cumpernee don’t know that.”

“How old was he when he… (Shut it Jamile) ~ Died?”       

“Ninety free!” 

“Aint they twigged it yet?” 

“Nah we jus showem his telegram from the queen; innit.” 

“Wot about his death certificate… Jamile!”

“Nah we didn’t report is def, we put Im on a bomfire, 5^th November, made a grate guy…” 

“Sasha, come back here!” She grabbed Sasha and hauled her back to the pushchair.” 

“But I wanna see the puppies in that cage,” she tried to pull away again. 

“Honestly, I akst you to do one simple fing; stay here wive the chair…” 

“But I want…” she received a resounding slap.

.-...-. 

“Kelvin? When’s bomfire night?”

“I told yer it’s the fifth.” 

“Three days… Does the guy have to be male?”

“Ha ha haa!        Fault yer wer gonna…

 

(Youth is wasted on the young ~ Kevin Andersson)        

 

 

 

  

TIMETABLE OF GROUP MEETINGS FOR 2026

 TIMETABLE OF THE RAYLEIGH

LIBRARY WRITERS’ GROUP MEETINGS 2026

 

The Rayleigh Library Writers’ Group meet on the second and fourth Thursday of each month.  Date and meeting places are as follows:

                    At the Library                           Member’s House

          8^th January at 2:30pm               22^nd January at 7:15pm

          12^th February at 2:30pm           26^th February at 7:15pm

          12^th March at 2:30pm                26^th March at 7:15pm

          9^th April at 2:30pm                     23^rd April at 7:15pm

          14^th May at 2:30pm                    28^th May at 7:15pm

          11^th June at 2:30pm                   25^th June at 7:15pm

          9^th July at 2:30pm                      25^th July at 7:15pm

          13^th August at 2:30pm               27^th August at 7:15pm

          10^th September 2:30pm             24^th September @ 7:15pm

          8^th October 2:30pm                    22^nd October @ 7:15pm

          12^th November 2:30pm              26^th November @ 7:15pm

          10^th December at 2:30pm                        No meeting

 

 

 Mrs Bobbin, afternoon tea, and sawn off shot guns.

By Christopher Mathews

“I don't get why you don't understand the plan Spike, it really ain’t that difficult, son.

“Just go over it again, please Charlie, for my sake, please!” Charlie frowned at him, and said in a slow frustrated voice,

“I ring the doorbell – to distract the old bag with some blag - you break in at the back, nice n quiet like, and find ‘er stash - got it?”

“Can't I ring the doorbell, Charlie, please. Why do I have to do the break in every time. To tell the troof, I've put on a few pounds since Christmas, and I don't like climbing up drainpipes ‘n in fru windows no more, it’s my back Charlie see.

“Yeah, but you aint got the brains Spike old son, you gota sweet talk the old girl, soft like, see, lull her to sleep, stuff like that needs brains Spike, and you don’t hav em.”

“You're always sayin that, just 'cause you got O level woodwork, and I aint. Anyway, wouldn't she keep her dosh stashed in the bank like normal people.”

“The bank!” Charlie gave a hollow laugh. “I told you before Spike, old ladies like that keep wads of cash under the bed, or stuffed in the mattress, they don’t trust banks! You just have to remember not to spill the chamber pot all over you when you go fumbling under her bed. NDA on your clothes, and you’d be down the nick, soon as. Besides, her old man didn’t like banks - famous for it - he was!”

“You are clever Charlie, you’ve fought of everythin.”

“Brains, that’s what a job like this takes. Anyway Spike, there’ll be loads of jewels, n silver, gold, n stuff somewhere up there. Then, off down the pub with a bag full of shiny. Micky the Fence melts it down, and bosh, we are rolling in clover. And the best part, it’s all untraceable, no prints, no family heirlooms for the Plod to track down. Nufin to flog down Doggy Frank’s Pawn Shop, nufin, nufin comes back to us see. The Old Bill can’t pin nufin on us.”

“I fought she was just a sweet little old lady livin in that big old house on Cable-stich Street.”

“Just goes to show what you know then don’t it! She's the widow of a textile tycoon, worth millions, and she aint got no kids to squander all that lovely dosh on niver. It’s all there just for the pickin. I bet she’s half dotty too. So, by the time the Old Bill arrive, she won’t tell ‘em nufin.”

“Can’t’ we do over a post office instead. I don’t like the idea of gaggin and tying up the old dear, what if I have to… well you know…”

“What?”

“You know, I have to hurt her?”

“Then make it look like an accident - you know, fell down the basement steps tripping over the cat, all old bag’s got cats. That reminds me – balaclavas, gloves, and come tooled-up too, got it!”

“Do we have to Charlie, what do we want wiv shooters? It’s just one old dear. And another fing, why do we have to do it in the afternoon, can’t we do it at night, like decent burglars.”

“Never go to a job without adequate insurance Spike, you know that! Anyway, no one will suspect nufin. Before she knows it, you will be off with the swag, while I’m still drinking tea wiv the old bag, then we meet back at your gaff to count the takings.”

“But won’t she give your description to the Old Bill.”

“I got a false beard and make-up nicked from the market.”

“I will say it again Charlie, you are clever, I give you that!”

The two parked up a block away and Spike sneaked off down a back alleyway.

The ancient doorbell rang somewhere deep inside the gloomy hallway. The sound of shuffling feet and the slow tap, tap, tap of a walking stick echoing on the black and white tiles could be heard from deep inside the house.

“Coming dear,” called an old woman, followed by some indistinct mumbling. Finally, a croaky old lady’s voice came through the letterbox.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Inspecta, err, Smith - the gas safety, err hoficer from, err from British Rail, I mean Gas. Is that Mrs Bobbin of number one Cable-stich Street.”

“What do you want dear, could you speak up a little dear, I frightfully def.” Charlie raised his voice a little saying,

“We had reports of gas leaks coming from your err, water pipes, err plumin, err under your floorboards.” He flashed an identity card past the letterbox. It looked a lot like a Guinness label. “I’ve come to inspect your gaff, err property madam.”

“Oh dear that does sound dreadful, you had better come in. Just a moment please dear.” The sound of keys scraping in rusty locks, chains being unfastened and bolts being drawn back, then, several minutes later the door opened a fraction. Somewhere inside the dingy house, a gramophone was playing Boccherini’s minuet in E major. A warm musty smell like old cabbage wafted out through the gap in the door which took Charlie back a little.

The visitor looked down to see a pair of watery grey eyes looking up at him. They belonged to a little old lady of about ninety, back bent double, with a lace shawl across her shoulders, fluffy slippers, lace gloves and an enormous sapphire necklace, which winked invitingly at Charlie.

She drew the door wide open and said,

“Do mind the step dear. I was just going to make a pot of tea.” She showed him into a large richly furnished drawing room. Charlie’s eyes hungrily scanned the room taking an inventory of the valuables on offer. Mrs Bobbin shuffled off saying,

“Won’t be a moment dear, the kettle has almost boiled. Do you like hobnobs dear.” Her voice tailed off and Spike could just hear her mumbling, “I might have some homemade fruit cake left if you…”  Charlie sat down clumsily, his sawn-off shotgun sticking out awkwardly from under his heavy overcoat. A handgun in his back pocket making him jump up again. He stifled a squeal, but out in the kitchen the old girl heard nothing as she made the tea.

His quick scan of the room revealed a nice haul of valuables, antique furniture, paintings and the like, but too difficult to shift quickly. He would pass the intel onto an associate who specialises in that stuff. Intel like that is worth a mint down his boozer, even if it is to just keep the ‘big fish’ like The Pike Brothers off his case. Never mess with the Pikes!

Mrs Bobbin came shuffling back into the room carrying a tarnished silver tray, solid silver cutlery and chipped crockery. The stale fruit cake looked unappetising. Spike, seeing the silverware, mentally adjusted his estimation of the haul upwards a little.

“The tea tastes funny love.” He said.

“Oh yes, it is camomile tea dear, very soothing, have another piece of my fruit cake dear.” After ten minutes of small talk, his head was starting to spin. The room was stiflingly hot. He took a bite of stale cake, but that too was odd.

The sound of banging could be heard from upstairs.

“I wonder what that was dear,” she said, beginning to rise.

“It’s probably your pipes banging, err from the err, the gas leak, err they do that.” He put a heavy hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down.

“Don’t trouble yourself luv, I will go and inspect. Gas can be dangerous to the untrained,” he added. His head was aching, and he staggered out of the room and up the stairs calling softly,

Spike, Spike! Keep it down Spike!

From the drawing room, a stifled argument could be heard upstairs somewhere. The old lady suddenly appeared at the door of the bedroom with astonishing speed. The two men froze, mid-sentence in a comical tussle, Spike’s fists were full of jewels. Both were amazed at how such an old lady could have managed the stairs so quickly. She stared at both men with an expression which could be accusation or simply confusion. “Finally,” she said, with a slight smile,

“Perhaps your colleague would like some tea too.”

“I aint found no gas leak yet neiver love! Honest love.” Spike blurted out, his face riddled with guilt at being discovered red handed.

“Play along Spike, I don’t think she noticed,” Charlie whispered. She led both men downstairs again.

“Stupid old bag!” Spike said under his breath. Mrs Bobbin insisted that he have some camomile tea and cake too.

“Play along Spike,” Charley muttered again under his breath. “But shut up and let me do the talking! And say you want the loo, that will give you a chance to finish the job.” The stale air, her monotonous hypnotic voice with its endless string of petty irrelevance and the hot fire seemed to overtake them.

Within ten minutes both men were slumped fast asleep in armchairs. Mrs Bobbin picked up the old telephone and said,

“They are both fast asleep Mable.” An indistinct old lady’s voice came from the receiver and Mrs Bobbins replied,

“Several hours I should think dear, I gave them a very strong dose.” This was followed by more indistinct questions.

“Yes, two sawn-off shot guns, and two revolvers and plenty of ammo. And yes, their dabs are all over the shooters, and I did wear gloves.” A muffled cheer could be heard from the telephone and Mable said something else.

“How else could six old ladies get hold of guns like that, it was a great plan and it worked! Contact Maureen, Elsie, Joan and the other members of the Lavender Ladies Mob, we are on tonight.

The end

Copyright Christopher Mathews – Jan 2026

 

 

 IN SEARCH OF SELF

 By Richard Banks

One day I ventured back to where

I lived a life so free of care

 

To my first house in Bedford town

I thought the past could there be found

 

Might I remember and reclaim

the hope and joy of one who came

 

to lose all faith in God and man

so try I must and if I can

 

refind the me who once I liked

well meaning, upright, good and bright.

 

The house was smaller than I thought

its former merit all but nought

 

old, neglected, paintwork peeling

through window eyes as if appealing

 

to make it good as it once was

to save it now before all’s lost

 

What me? I said, who like yourself

is cut-adrift from his true self

 

Could we together push back the years

and recreate a time so dear.

 

Restore yourself, replenish me

saved united we will be

 

So thus I brought that empty wreck

and rescued it, my old homestead.

 

But true to say it rescued me

and happy now I am to be

Copyright Richard Banks

Haiku in Action

 Haiku in Action

By Robert Kingston

Copyright Robert Kingston

Autumn’s Harvest

 Autumn’s Harvest

Sorry for duplication, see 03/01/2026!