The Spring of ‘45’ 

By Sis Unsworth 

The Union Jack so proudly shown,

distracted from the street,

of bombed out shells that once were home,

to folk I’ll never meet.

 

Street parties came, with tables laid,

we danced and sang for more,

what was this peace for which we’d prayed,

I‘d known nothing else but war.

 

A little girl with a pink dress on,

And ribbons in my hair,

Too young to know why we’d fought so long

With a man no longer there.

 

Pictures of him were placed that night,

on a bonfire along the drive,

I watched them burn in the twisted light

in the spring of ‘45’

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 Better Go Home

Author Unknown

Well you say you’re gonna cut me, put me six feet under.

Better listen to me buddy, to what I’ve got to say.

I aint a bad man, that’s plain to see,

But bad men don’t mess around with me

 

Well I’m fresh out of prison, ten years in San Quentin

Lost my wife & family, I don’t feel so nice!

So before you reach fer that blade,

I didn’t do that time just for shooting dice.

 

I wasn’t lookin fer trouble, I never do.

But the man I killed acted just like you.

Well I had a little boy like the one you’ve got

Though you aint much, I guess you’re all he’s got

 

So you better go home, just walk away

Better go home and throw that blade away.

Better go home and throw that blade away,

Better go home - and throw that blade - away!

 

I learned this song in the 1960s, from an old reel2reel tape recording found at a friend’s house.  I don’t know the artist or the author.  And I’ve long ago lost contact with my friend. 

If anyone can enlighten me, as to its origins, I would be obliged!

 

It has occurred to me that if it were reissued, it might give a stern warning to kids about the folly of carrying knives…

 

Len

 Dancing Light

By Jane Goodhew

I drew back the curtains to let the sun shine through

And the colours danced across the room

As the light caught the crystals hanging on a thread

They reminded me of delicate butterflies

flying from flower to flower

Or a rainbow in the sky after a light April shower

The beautiful colours so vibrant and clear brought back memories of you all my dears

                           

                  

The love of the friends who had given them to me

 so many years before

Time stood still and I saw their faces again

 even those that were a long time dead

Memories are the gifts they leave 

of the colour they gave to our world

so if in the present you are feeling alone

Just remember that they are always still here

 

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

EASTER SUNDAY 20TH APRIL 2025

 EASTER SUNDAY 20^TH APRIL 2025

By Barbara Thomas

Everyone waited in anticipation, would Pope Francis give the Easter Blessing.

Everyone went quiet when the French windows opened and a very frail figure

In a wheelchair being pushed by a priest bought the wheelchair to a halt on the Balcony of St Peter’s square Bonsilica.

The roar went up; our beloved Pope Francis had come to give his Easter blessing and homily.

Weeks before the Pope had been near to death and after 5 weeks in hospital, he came home which unlike other Popes he chose to live outside the Bonsilica in a 2-bedroom apartment.

The doctors instructed strongly that whilst he was fairly good enough to go home, it was vitally important that he rested so therefore no meetings and that included Royalty, presidents and world leaders.

But the Pope had other ideas.  He met our King Charles and Camilla the Kings consort,

Vice President of the United States of America, the Ukrainian President,           

and many more. All against Doctors orders.

Let me tell you about this extraordinary man who sadly lost his fight just after 7.00am our time. On the 21^st of April 2025 88 years of age.

 

JORGE MARIO BERGUGTIO who years later was to take the name of Pope Francis.

was born in Argentina’s capital BUENOS AIRES on the 17^th December 1936

His father was an Accountant on the railway and an Italian by birth.

He indoctrinated his son Jorge with his obsession of a football club San Lorenzo de Almagro.

Pope Francis would say years later that this was one of the best times in his life.

Jorge would go with his dad to the stadium. Although he also admitted he was no great player and played goalkeeper in matches to avoid the humiliation. The Pope would say later that playing in goal was a great start to get him ready for the school of life. The goalie has to be ready to respond to threats which can arrive from every side.

Wise words for when as Pope Francis he took on the Vaticans “Snakepit”

He started by dismantling the monarchy-style of previous Popes.

He expanded dramatically the number of decision-roles that both lay men and women could hold within the administration.

He would be heard repeatedly saying (about being a goalie makes you aware).

I digress let me tell you more about this amazing person.

One day in 1995 a 16 year Jorge dreamed of being a chemist, on his way to a party he passed a Church and dropped in on a whim to make his confession. Afterwords he said “I felt something had changed, I was never the same, I heard something like a voice or a call I was convinced that I should become a priest.”

He studied at a seminary, but this did not distract him from his other passion ‘The Tango’. Also, during this time, he met a girl and in his own words “I was bowled over for quite a time.”

Jorge eventually chose his faith and particularly the Jesuit Order with its focus on missionary activities and its vow of poverty.

Although whilst he was studying, he worked part time as a bouncer.  Young Jorge took his final vows as a Jesuit priest in April 1973.

This was the year before the outbreak of Argentina’s so called “Dirty War”.

He explained that this was the darkest days of his life. During this time, he was chosen to be the archbishop and had become the leader of the Jesuits in Argentina.

It was felt at the time that as Archbishop he had failed to protect two Jesuit’s priest who had been continually tortured for alleged involvement in left wing activities in 1976, he would always maintain all that could have been done had been done.

Moving forward, as he worked his way through the ranks in 1998 Jorge Mario BERGUGTIO was appointed the Archbishop of Buenos Aires.

The archbishop was soon famous for visiting slums the poor and lonely he would use a bus rather than car to get to his flock.

He continued doing this even when he was made a Cardinal by Pope John Paul, the second in 2001.

Four years later he narrowly avoided becoming the new Pope after Pope John Paul died.

Despite begging his fellow Cardinal’s NOT to vote for him, he still came 2^nd behind Pope Benedict XV.

But in 2013, after continues illnesses a poorly Pope Benedict shocked the world by becoming the first Pope to resign since 1415.

Jorge Mario had not thought of being a contender this time, after all he was now 76 and had already lodged the official paperwork for his retirement.

Many Cardinals strongly believed that the new Pope should be from Latin America home to 39% of the worlds catholic’s.

Then Jorge Mario caught their attention by giving an emotional speech in which he said:

“The church must walk amongst people and be in step with the poor.”

Jorge Mario was voted into the top job on March13th 2013, he joked, “may God forgive you for what you have done.”

When he first appeared on the balcony of St Peter Basilica, he made sure he looked different from any previous plaintiff.  The Pope chose the name Francis as Saint Francis governed the poor sick and lonely. And that’s what Pope Francis always wanted for himself. Therefore, instead of all the pomp of the Vatican he chose to wear a white Cossack and instead of an ornate cross he once again chose his old iron cross.

An Australian Archbishop at the time, Mark Coleridge was later recorded as saying:

“It was clear that this was NOT business as usual.”

So, this is my homage not only to Pope Francis in situ but the man behind the throne, Jorge Mario Bergugtio.

Pope Francis may all the Angels and Saints take you up to the Kingdom of Heaven, you have served his people well and deserve the rest.

 

God Bless may perpetual light shine above you, live in the house of the Lord forever.

Rest in Peace, Amen.

Barbara Thomas

   ANNIE (a daughter, wife and mother)

By Richard Banks

Annie Eliza was born out of wedlock in 1841, the first child of George Smith and Ruth Chapman. Her father was a soldier in the 2^nd Regiment of the Queen’s Life Guards, stationed at Regents Park Barracks. The Regiment provided the mounted guard for ceremonial parades and processions in London, such as those for Queen Victoria’s coronation and marriage. Ruth, had come to London from Sussex to work as a domestic servant. George would, no doubt, have cut a dashing figure on horseback and Ruth was one of many young women exposed ‘to the all powerful redcoat’ and ‘succumbing to Scarlet Fever’.       

         Although the army actively discouraged marriage for enlisted men George and Ruth were given permission to marry a year after Annie’s birth enabling the three of them to live together in barracks and later in lodgings. One of the benefits of George’s employment was that Annie would have been educated at the Regimental School well before the introduction of mandatory schooling. The school sought to instil notions of discipline, duty and respect in line with military ideals as well as teaching practical skills that would have equipped their pupils for future employment. By the standards of the time the children also received a good academic education, including spelling, reading, writing, diction, grammar, English history, geography, arithmetic and algebra. George would have been paid two-pence a month for Annie to attend and one penny for each of his children that came after her.  

         Growing up in salubrious areas such as Knightsbridge and Windsor put Annie in close proximity to a world of privilege and wealth seldom glimpsed by other working class children. From a young age Annie would have learned to take a pride in her father’s position and espouse regimental values of honour and dignity. How she spoke and comported herself would have conveyed the impression, even in later life, that she was from a good family. 

         By 1854 Anne had been joined by five siblings. The family was living in lodgings near to barracks when epidemics of scarlet fever and typhus arrived in London. Within weeks four of Annie’s siblings died, sparing only herself and one sister, Emily. Despite the trauma of these deaths family life continued and George and Ruth had several more children, including a son named Fountaine. By now Anne was in her teens and almost ready to begin working life. 

         At the time of the 1861 census she was working as a housemaid in the Westminster home of an architect; a few doors away was living Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Her duties as a maid of all work were many and involved long hours. The pay was poor and it is unlikely she had very much free time. However, for the first time in her life she had her own room. 

         In 1862 tragedy again entered her life when her father, now in civilian life, working as valet to a former officer, committed suicide by cutting his throat. The reason or reasons why he did so are unclear but since leaving the army it appears he had become a heavy drinker. 

         In 1869 Annie’s life took an upward turn when she married John Chapman, a lodger at her mother’s house. He was a private coachman, a job that put him near the top of the hierarchy of servants. They lived reasonably well by working class standards of the time. Indeed it was observed that many coachmen and their wives harboured delusions of grandeur, especially those who, like John, worked in the West End of London. In 1870 Annie’s first child was born to be followed by seven more. 

         In 1879 John became head coachman to Francis Tress Barry, a man of considerable wealth with a country estate, St Leonards Hill, near Windsor.  John’s duties now extended to the supervision of the estate’s stable block. The family’s accommodation in the coachman’s house would have been a significant improvement on previous lodgings and Annie may well have employed a charwoman or day maid. 

         Barry’s house was only four miles from Ascot racecourse and in 1881 was visited by the Prince and Princess of Wales, plus other royals, attending the races. They were often to return for dinners and shooting parties. Living close to high society, and benefiting from John’s well paid employment, the family had all but become middle class – what could possibly go wrong? 

         The answer is to be found in a letter written in 1889 to the Pall Mall Gazette by Annie’s younger sister, Miriam. She wrote: ‘Just before I was six years old, my father cut his throat, leaving my mother with five children, three girls older, and one younger than myself.’

         All, she wrote, had signed the abstinence pledge to forgo ‘fermented spirits’ but her eldest sister [Annie] was unable to adhere to this commitment. ‘We tried to persuade the one given to drink to give it up. She was married and in a good position. Over and over again she signed the pledge and tried to keep it. Over and over again she was tempted and fell.’ Annie’s struggle, according to Miriam, had been a lifelong one and that she had inherited ’the curse’ of alcoholism from their father.          

         Her letter further states that of Anne’s eight children, ‘six of these have been victims of the curse.’ Indeed, all died within days or weeks of being born or suffered medical conditions likely to have been a consequence of Annie’s addiction. In 1882 after her eldest child, Emily Rose, had died of meningitis Annie began to acquire a reputation for public drunkenness. In the December of that year she was persuaded by her sisters to enter a sanatorium in Spelthorne, West London. One year later she was discharged and according to Miriam, ‘came out a sober wife and mother’.

         However, after a year of abstinence she was again observed wandering the St Leonards Estate the worse for wear. John was presented with an ultimatum by his employer, either to remove her from his estate or face dismissal. With two surviving children to consider, including one who was severely disabled, John and Annie agreed too separate. It was agreed that John pay her 10/-s a week maintenance and that she return to the family home in Knightsbridge. With the help and support of her mother and sisters there was still hope she could overcome her addiction, but within weeks Annie’s inability to stop drinking caused her to leave the home of her pledge adhering family. 

         It is likely she relocated to Notting Hill, a poor working class area, where she met a Jack Sievey and the two of them became a pair, probably on account of their mutual love of alcohol. In 1884 they moved to Whitechapel in search of work. Known as Mrs Sievey she was described by a friend as a respectable woman, never using bad language, clever, and industrious when sober. They lived in Dorset Street, a road the social reformer, Charles Booth, described a few years later as ‘the worst I have seen,’ on account of its poverty, misery and criminality. As Annie and Jack almost certainly had enough money between them to afford better lodgings it would seem that most of what they had was spent on alcohol. 

         In December 1886 her situation worsened when John’s maintenance payments ceased. Learning that he was gravely ill Annie set-off to walk the twenty-five miles to Windsor where John, now retired from Barry’s service, had taken a house. Their reunion was a brief one, John dying on Christmas Day. Back in Whitechapel she seemed genuinely remorseful although her grief may have had more to do with the loss of her maintenance money. Early the following year Jack Sievey deserted her, leaving Annie without a protector, imperative in a neighbourhood renown for its criminality. 

         Annie’s life became increasingly affected by drink, despondency and ill health that included tuberculosis. Nevertheless she attempted to earn money by selling matches, flowers and her own crochet work. Occasionally, she would return to her family who would give her clothes and, in Miriam’s words try to, ‘win her back, for she was a mere beggar’. Annie’s brother, now resident in Clerkenwell, was also approached for help and likely gave her money as well as buying her the occasional drink. Like Annie he was an alcoholic whose addiction later led him to steal from his employers. 

         In 1888 Annie began to spend her weekends at the Dorset Street lodging house of Crossinghams in the company of Edward Stanley, a brewery worker, who paid for their accommodation from Saturday through to Monday morning, also paying for Annie to stay there a night or two more. Their relationship appears to have been an exclusive one and Annie, trying to affect an appearance of marital respectability, purchased and wore rings which Stanley described as a wedding ring and keeper, ie an engagement ring.

         On 7 September 1888 Annie’s friend Amelia Palmer saw her lingering on Dorset Street looking unwell and apparently penniless. Asked if she would be going to Stratford Market to sell her crochet work Annie replied, ‘I am too ill to do anything’ and then, ten minutes later, when their paths crossed again, ‘I must pull myself together and get some money or I shall have no lodgings.’ By this time she may well have been sleeping rough on some of the nights she was not with Stanley. 

         On the evening of 7^th September Annie appeared at Crossinghams having apparently begged five pence. By 1.45 am when the kitchen was cleared of those unable to pay for a bed her money had largely been spent on alcohol and a meal of potatoes. With insufficient money to pay for a bed Annie wandered out into the night with no other option but to sleep rough. 

         Her murder in the early hours of 8 September 1888 was the second of five thought to have been committed by the serial killer, Jack the Ripper.   

        

                                                    ***** 

         It was generally assumed in 1888 that the Ripper’s five victims were prostitutes. That belief has persisted into modern times. The available evidence indicates that only one was. All had problems with alcohol which for four of them wrecked stable relationships contributing to their slide into desperate poverty. Sadly nothing of Annie’s tragic life would be remembered today had it not been for her brutal murder.

[Bibliography: ‘The Five. The untold lives of the women killed by Jack the Ripper.’ A book written by Halle Rubenhold and published by Transworld Publishers (part of Penguin Random House UK group of companies.]

 

Copyright Richard Banks

Spring on the bank of Buttsbury Brook

 Spring on the bank of Buttsbury Brook 

By Christopher Mathews

The stream is swollen ripe with rain, that feeds the meadow and the plane,

Suckles the trees with fertile wine, and feeds the myriads that dine, on tender shoots of verdant green, spring may soon be seen.

Gentle rain beats softly down, on the dry and frozen ground, and so the earth begins to yearn in winter’s night for spring’s return,

spring must come at last.

The air is laden warm and sweet to wake the moles from winter sleep, to stir the worm beneath the ground to seek the fresh spring’s vibrant sound,

Spring is coming fast

It nourishes the wild and fertile soil, as all the creatures begin their toil,

urgent now no time to lose find a mate and choose. find a home, make a nest no time to take a rest,

spring shall come at last.

The earth once captive to winter's grasp, begins to warm by sun at last, and so to wake the sleeping land from its slumber, unseen by man.

The beetle and the bee begin to stir inside their secret tomb, the frozen soil begins to yield to the warming sun across the field.

spring will come at last.

No time to lose too much to do, to build the hive and tend the brood, to seek the nectar in the flower, this is her appointed hour.

Spring has come at last

The snowcapped hills release their store of living water on the poor. For thirsty land, a new fresh spring is now at last at hand.

But spring will never last

 

© Christopher Mathews, April 2025

The History of clocks being changed.

 The History of clocks being changed.

By Barbara Thomas

In 1905 a British man named William Willett published a leaflet to encourage people to make the most of the early morning sunlight.

He suggested bringing the clocks forward each Sunday in April then turning them back in September.

William Willett was Born on the 10th of August 1856 in Farnham Surrey.

His occupation was a master builder he inherited his father's business equivalent to today's Wimpy Houses.

Willett Builders built houses in choice parts of London and the South including Chelsea and Hove plus Derwent house.

He lived most of his life in Chislehurst Kent and where he would be found in the early hours of the morning on horseback riding through Petts Wood.

Near his home early one summer morning he was noticing how many blinds were still down. This is where the idea for daylight saving time 1^st occurred to him.

He used his own financial resources and published a pamphlet

called,  “The waste of daylight” In it he proposed that the clocks should be advanced by 80 minutes in four incremental steps during the month of April and reverse the same in September. The evenings would then remain lighter for longer, increasing daylight recreation and work time and also saving £2.5 million pounds in lighting costs.

William suggested that the clocks should be advanced by 20 minutes at a time at 2 a.m. on successive Sundays in April and to be reversed in September.

In1908 Willett through vigorous campaigning managed to get the support of a Member of Parliament namely Robert Pearce MP who had also made some unsuccessful attempts to get a bill passed by law. A very young Winston Churchill promoted it at the time and the idea was examined again by a Select Parliamentary Committee in 1909

Unfortunately, his idea was never taken seriously, and the idea was thrown out.

Step forward approximately to 1916 during World War One and the issue of more daylight became important. The Germans decided then to implement the changing of clocks due to the need to save coal.

A bill was finally passed in Parliament the British could also implement what was called “summer time” on 17th May 1916.

And the clocks were advanced by 1 hour on the following Sunday 21^st May 1916 enacting as a war-time production boosting device under the Defence of the Realm Act, it was subsequently adopted in many other countries apart from the USA.

Unfortunately, William Willett did not live to see his daylight saving become law as he died of influenza in 1915 at the age of 58.

He is commemorated in Petts Wood Kent by a memorial sundial set permanently to daylight saving time.

The Daylight Inn in Petts Wood is named in his honour also there is a road named after him. There is also a blue plaque outside William’s house in Chislehurst.

William Willett is buried in St Nicholas churchyard, Chislehurst and a family memorial stands in the church at St Wulfran’s Church, Ovingdean in Brighton and Hove.

Also, a Freemason he was initiated in Camden Place Lodge on the 1^{st of} November 1906.

William Willett was the grandfather of John Willett the translator

(BERTOLT BRECHT) a German theatre practitioner playwright and poet.

His Great Great Grandson is Coldplay singer Chris Martin

Popular myths claim that adjusting the clock would benefit the farmers and improve road safety for early morning commuters,

As you can see from the above the practice goes back well over 100 years.

Although in 1968 clocks went forward as usual in March they were not reversed until October 1971.

The BST Act was created in 1972 which started the tradition finally of changing the clocks in Late March; Spring forward ~ fall back.

Many were not happy with this as Muslims, Jewish and other faiths followed their own calendars; which is their choice.

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

Spring Time Blossom

 Spring Time Blossom 

By Sis Unsworth 

The alluring vision of blossom, does now embellish the trees,

enhancing the world in springtime, it gently succumbs to the breeze.

For early spring pleasure we treasure, as winter at last says goodbye,

the blossom displayed in its glory, is enhanced by the sun and sky.

Its presence will not last forever, take time to enjoy the grand view,

the memory of springtime blossom, is a gift to last the year through.

 

Easter Limerick

By Sis Unsworth

Easter does come a bit late this year,

chocolate eggs in the shops now appear,

I asked auntie Peg,

If she fancied an egg,

She said “no, I’ll just stick to my beer!”

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

 

SALVATION

By Richard Banks                                   

 

If I had one wish it would be to declare all wishes null and void. Call me cynical, a spoilsport, anything you like but if you had my job you'd be wanting the same. Right now you're thinking about all the good I'm doing, how I help to transform people's lives; lives full of hardship that without me and the wishes would be as grey and cheerless as the never changing sky. Well, what can I say? With three million viewers I must be doing something right; if I don't bring them pleasure then why do they watch? For thirty minutes each month on ‘UK Plus’ they get to hope that they will be chosen, one of ten people randomly selected by computer to have their wishes made reality. The real winners are those who lose. For them there is still hope. OK, they say, so I didn't win this time but there's always next week and, if that doesn't happen, there's the week after and the week after that. Someone's got to win, why not me? In a world where deaths outnumber live births by ten to one their chances of winning constantly increase.

         My sympathy goes to the chosen ones, the poor mutts who think that all their troubles are over, then they find out about the rules, the unpublished small print that no one thought to tell them about. Cash prizes are limited to 50,000 credits, enough to buy an apartment in a domed village but nothing left to pay the bills; and if you don't live in a domed village there's no shortage of desperadoes who will cut your throat for what you have got and they want. Happy days! Then there's the crazy people who think miracles can be done. Cure me of the sickness they say, I want to live in a warm place where the sun still shines, take me back in time, I know you can do it!

         But we can't. This is reality, it's all we have. Choose what you want but prepare to be disappointed. The lucky ones are those who make only moderate demands and having only moderate expectations are moderately satisfied. A man who wanted to see the sun was taken to a mountain top above the cloud bank. A woman who wanted to make love with Brad Pitt junior, was granted half an hour of his time, and went home more satisfied than most. The winner who came out best was the guy who wanted a litre of Ginsplash every day for the rest of his life. As he was on the wrong side of forty this was considered a reasonable request. He's the happiest drunk you'll ever meet. For him the world is a great place, it exists at the bottom of a glass.

         Most of our winners aren't that fortunate. All suffer from the same disadvantage, that having won they are no longer eligible for further wishes. For most of them no wishes, no prospect of wishes, equals no hope. No wonder that the suicide rate for winners is three times higher than for the rest of us. By now you're thinking I don't get much job satisfaction. I don't, but at least I get to live in a domed village. Life in the bubble may not be normal but if normal is what we once had, normal no longer exists. At least we're alive. In the combat zones no one lives, twenty million deaths for every second of war. But not here, not on this sceptred isle. We were spared, no rockets, no bombs, not a single casualty, not a single building destroyed. Then the clouds rolled in. We thought they would pass, that it was just a matter of time before we woke up one morning to see a blue sky. Thirty years on we know that’s not going to happen, not for us, not for many generations to come. Our world is a twilight place where few crops grow and those that do are contaminated with the same sickness that's in all living things. We that were once sixty million are now down to four, but we cling on. Food is grown in factories, electricity generated, new buildings constructed. We have adapted, we continue to adapt. Every year some small progress is made but as yet there is no cure for the sickness. In the accountancy of human life if we do not balance the books in twenty years mankind will be extinct. We are on the edge, but not done yet. The newborns contain less radiation than their parents. For most the difference is not significant, in some it is. These fortunate few are nurtured within the benign environment of a dome. In time they will be paired with others of their kind. In them is our salvation.

         For now, we must take consolation in the few pleasures that remain. Our lives are short, fifty years for those in domes, thirty-five for the rest. What would we do without the wishes? On TV screens crackling with radiation those who watch dare to dream and believe in the possibility of better. For a short while behind drawn curtains the world is out of sight and the things that remain seem more precious than those lost. It could be worse, they say. While there are life and wishes there is also hope.

         Important people also get wishes. For them there is no need for random selection. They are chosen as a reward for services rendered, members of the ruling council, district marshals and occasionally TV personalities like myself. Yes, I too have a wish. Having observed the shortcomings in other people's wishes I have been careful not to waste mine. I have chosen psycho-stasis, ten days in an induced coma where I can be in an ideal world of my own construction. I tell the therapist precisely what I want and she programmes my mind like others programme computers. For ten days I can be anyone I want, do anything I want, in any place or time. It's a fantasy world in which the mind moves but the body doesn't. For some it's more real than reality.

         Sometimes things go wrong, but not often. The nurse assures me that their success rate is 98%. She attaches electrodes to my head and chest, explains the procedure yet again and punctures my arm with a needle. Have a good trip she says. I close my eyes knowing that the next time I open them I will be in the south of France, circa 2001. The programme downloads and I slip into unconsciousness.

                                                       *****       

         I awake in a pleasant enough room that has floral wallpaper, a cupboard, and a media viewer. It's morning on day one. I get out of bed and cross the room towards the window. My legs are unsteady but this is to be expected; it will, I'm told, soon pass. I draw back the curtains and stare out at a landscape that's definitely not the south of France. This is England, the way it used to me. It's a sunny, windswept day, the radiator beneath the window is cooling but still warm. My disappointment is eclipsed by the sight of the sun and the blue sky that surrounds it. I shower, select some clothes from the cupboard and go exploring. The building I am in is a large one, evidently a hotel. There is food cooking, a full English breakfast. The smell of bacon mingles with that of sausage, mushrooms and coffee.

         At the end of a corridor is a staircase. I follow my nose and descend two flights to a dining room where the food is set out in metal bowls within a long wooden cabinet that separates the kitchen from the dining area. I help myself. A jolly woman in white overalls asks me whether I want tea or coffee. I ask if I can have both. She laughs, says I will need a tray, finds one and, when my hands shake, she takes my breakfast to a table where the cutlery is already set out. Other people enter the room, but little is said. They choose their meals, sit down and eat. There are no children. I wonder why, surely there must be children.

         I’m drinking the last of the coffee when a woman, a youngish sort of woman, asks if she might join me.  It sounds like an old joke. Am I falling apart is the standard response. Instead I gesture politely towards an empty chair. Her name is Lyn. Lyn is pleasant, informal, but businesslike. She says I am her ten o'clock. I wonder if she is the escort I requested.

         “Why don't we go through to the conservatory,” she says, “it will be quieter there.” It is. 

We sit by the French windows in the full glow of the sun. Outside, in the garden the rhododendrons are almost in bloom. It’s Spring.

         “How goes it?” she asks.

         I nearly say that it is not what I asked for, but this would be absurd. The woman exists only in my imagination. How can she explain the malfunction in my programming?

         “I'm fine.”

         She smiles. “How is your room?”

         “It has a nice view,” I say, “the sun shines in.”

         “Yes, we thought you would like that. It's east facing. There's nothing better than waking in a sunlit room. Don't you agree?”

         I do. She knows I do.

         She smiles, changes the subject. “Your publisher's been in touch. He sends his best wishes.”

         I suppress my annoyance. I speak quietly, but firmly. “I'm Gerry Donovan, the TV presenter, I don't have a publisher.”

         “What about the other Gerry?” she asks.

         “Which Gerry is that?”

         “This Gerry.” She hands me a book. “Give it a read. I'll be interested to know what you make of it. No hurry. We'll talk again tomorrow. Until then, make yourself at home.”

         She terminates our meeting with yet another smile. Her smile is irritating, affected. It seems to be saying that she knows things that I don't. I decide that if she wants me to read the book that's a good reason for not doing so. I take a walk in the garden but it's still cold so I come back in. The book lies on the table where I left it. I pick it up. It's an hour and a half until lunch and there's nothing else to do. I turn to chapter one. I start reading, get to page twenty-two and stop. This is a narrative I know only too well. It's about me, Gerry Donovan, a TV presenter in the year 2050 granting wishes to the poor wretches that have survived the apocalypse. Someone has been observing me, writing down the minutia of my life for an unsanctioned biography that reads like fiction. It's an outrage! Who has done this? I turn back to the inside flap of the cover where there is a short biography of the author. His name is Gerry Baker. His life is summed up in three short paragraphs. Beneath them is his picture; it’s a picture of me.

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Riddles 25

By the Riddler

The Riddler has more puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  Height, Asinine, Unwrit??? 

(what three letter word can replace the question marks?)

 

No 2.  On a QUERTY keyboard, which number can be written  from a single row of keys?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

Scarlett's Granddad said...

 Scarlett's Granddad said...

 by Len Morgan

When I was a boy, about your age, the tooth fairy began to visit.  She took away my milk teeth.  One by one they fell out until they were all gone. 

Then the tooth fairy waved her wand and allowed me to grow a new set of teeth, bigger and stronger. 

"Take good care of them!" she warned, "they are your second chance.  Do not eat too much sweet stuff or drink too many fizzy drinks or they won't last long." 

But Granddad was a silly boy who drank too much Lemonade and Fizzy Pop.  He ate sweets by the bag full and sweet sticky cakes and buns by the ton.  He forgot to brush his teeth regularly and pretty soon, he was visiting the dentists for fillings every month.  

When he had his first extraction, he recalled the Tooth Fairies warning and tried to change, but he was a 'sugar-junkie' he couldn't resist the 'Sugar-Demon'. 

He called out to the Tooth Fairy and promised he would change his ways!  His Teeth were being extracted every three months, regular as clockwork. 

"If you prove you can go one month without sweets or fizzy drinks, I'll see what I can do," she said. 

After a month she returned with his old milk teeth and fashioned them into a new set of false teeth. 

Granddad smiled and showed his bright teeth. 

"Ha ha!  You got them from the dentist," Scarlett said.  

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Mmm..." she wasn't quite so sure after all...

Copyright Len Morgan

A Conversation with Mother

 A Conversation with Mother 

By Barbara Thomas

Today happens to be the 15th anniversary since my Mother passed away, and I would dearly love to speak with her. 

I sat quietly so that I could get in the right frame of mind.  

The first question:  “Mum what is heaven like and did you meet up with both Dad and June and tell me please, is heaven as good as we are led to believe”

Mum said, “Heaven is within your soul and pain is a thing of the past” then added “we are all ok”

There was one more question I had to ask Mum “are you aware what is happening in my life, and I added that I was very aware of her presence around me like a warm blanket hugging me.

Mum said, “yes, my love I always said I would watch over you.”

I thanked her with tears in my eyes.

There had been so much I wanted to say but knew the moment would not last forever so I reminded Mum about the time she had a visit.

Dad had died roughly 3 weeks before and do you remember telling me that you had gone to bed, then about an hour later you said you heard a strange banging outside the bedroom door followed by a sensation that someone had come in the room, pulled the duvet back, and climbed into bed.

I also remember you saying, you scooted out of the room. Then you phoned me, and as I lived locally I came round immediately.  I checked the bedroom there was nothing there. I decided to stay over-night. 

In the morning, after breakfast, you told me how frighten you had been.

I told you that it could be Dad giving you a visit and would you like me to get my Bible and holy water and talk to whoever had frightened you? 

You agreed, so armed with the Holy book and water I entered your bedroom. Going round the room and spraying each corner plus reciting the Lord’s Prayer I spoke to whoever’s spirit was there and said “ Dad, if it was you who visited Mum please find another way to show you are there as Mum was frightened”

Mum, this is where things became strange. Mum if you recall you went to put the kettle on and as you passed the fireplace you noticed a badge that hadn’t been there before.

Mum your face was a picture. Because boldly printed on the badge were these words: 

       DO YOU LOVE ME ENOUGH TO GIVE ME YOUR LAST ROLO

 

A saying from an 80s advert selling Rolo sweets. 

That’s when you knew it was Dad, is that right Mum?

You said that that was Dads favourite saying. 

Problem solved Dad chose another way to let Mum know he was looking after her from the spirit world. 

These were the words I am hating to have to say but time was not our friend. 

“Well Mum it’s time now for me to go and it breaks my heart to say goodbye, but goodbye it is.”

“May you rest in peace and let the perpetual light shine

Upon you and may you live in the house of the Lord forever, Amen.”

“Goodbye sweet lady”

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 2 & Last)

 THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 2 & Last) 

By Richard Banks  

At 2 pm I set out and by evening I’m crossing the Tamar Bridge into Cornwall. The campsite’s near Bodmin, but it’s not open until the morning, so I pull up in a lay-by on the A38 and spend the night there. Come morning I buy a tent in Liskeard and drive the rest of the way to the campsite. It’s in a field, next to an old manor house where the local toffs live. Buy a ticket at the gate and join the early arrivals at a fast food van that’s serving breakfast.

Nothing to do now but put up the tent and suss out the new arrivals. There’s a girl called Lorinda in the next tent who’s came with her best friend, Trish, and Trish’s boyfriend. She’s not best pleased with the arrangement and spends most of her time outside the tent, while Trish and boyfriend cavort energetically inside. 

When it starts raining I invite her in for a coffee. Ask her what she knows about The Anointed Order, but she’s never heard of it. Says she’s only come for the drugs and the chance to get her kit off during the maypole dancing, or whatever it is they do here. She says the organisers of the other events she’s been to are always on the look out for handmaidens and they get given the most incredible psychedelic drugs that you can’t get anywhere else - at least not in the club she goes to. She asks if I’ve got any drugs. I say no, but when the festival drug dealer turns up I buy a few spiffs, and arrange to meet Lorinda in the evening. 

Meanwhile, the site is filling-up with people and tents, but no one resembling the collector is among them. People are also arriving at the house, mainly in expensive cars. According to a guy who’s been here before they are the High Priests, who only come down to the site for special events. No one knows who they are because they keep their faces covered and have made up names like Incubus and Belias. As well as the usual guys on security they also have their own minders, and no one who hasn’t been invited gets inside the house. 

This isn’t good news. If the collector is a priest or a minder getting near him is going to be one big problem. But maybe he isn’t, so I spend the rest of the day by the way in, watching the latest arrivals. Come evening I still haven’t seen him and when Security close the gates for the night I go back to the tent. It’s not long before Lorinda joins me and we start chatting about all the things she’s been doing since we last met; the main news being that this guy from the house has asked her to be a handmaiden for a big ceremony they’re having there at midnight. 

It’s too good a chance to miss, so I tell her about the murder I didn’t do and how I need to get inside the house to see if the collector’s there. She thinks all this is terribly exciting and can’t wait to help me, especially if I let her have one of the spiffs I bought. Two spiffs later and we’ve hit on this plan, where she lets me in through this window on the first floor. I don’t know what I’m going to do once I’m inside, but if this pans out anything like the last film I saw I will not only prove my innocence but get back the book as well. 

The first part of the plan goes like clockwork. Lorinda goes into the house and ten minutes later she’s opening the window so I can climb in from this tree outside. The ceremony’s taking place in a courtyard in the centre of the house and I can see it all from another window on the first floor. Any hope I have of spotting the collector, however, is dead in the water; everyone, except for the handmaidens, is decked out like the Ku Klux Clan, in white robes that cover their faces. The handmaidens seem to be there mainly for decoration, but Lorinda has a starring role. She gets to lie on this marble table and writhe around, while the head priest anoints her from head to foot with linseed oil. Then he picks up a ceremonial sword and pretends to run her through with it, while she throws out her arms and does this cute little scream that’s probably not in the script. All this time the other priests are chanting ‘Comius, Comius, Prince of Darkness’ but he don’t come and after a while they give up and have a prayer instead. 

While all this is very interesting I’m no further forward than before. I get out of the same window I came in by and go back to the tent. Half an hour later Lorinda arrives back in her ceremonial robe, looking like she’s just drunk a brewery dry. Instead of the night of passion we were planning she falls down outside the tent and I have to haul her in. 

I figure it’s best to let her sleep it off, but midway through the night she has a dream in which she’s an oven ready chicken being chased across Bodmin Moor by a fox that sometimes turns into a fire breathing goat. Up she gets and races off, like she’s been shot out of a rocket. I go after her and when she trips over a power cable I grab her and, despite the fact that she’s as slippery as a bar of soap, drag her back to the tent. 

The disturbance, however, hasn’t escaped the notice of Security, and, by following the strong aroma of linseed oil, their man has no trouble in finding us. At first he’s going to throw us off the site but then we realise we know each other. It’s Ernie, who I shared a cell with for six months. I pump him for information about who's staying in the house, but he doesn’t have their names. All he knows is that their car numbers are cross referenced to their room numbers. But, as he says, if I can find out which room my man is staying in I can use the car number to hack into the DVLA’s internet site. I bung him twenty quid for his trouble and he says for another twenty he can let me have a ceremonial robe for wearing inside the house. I agree, and when everyone on site are back sleeping, he brings it along to the tent. 

In the morning, just before brunch, Lorinda wakes up, and I tell her what’s happened and that we have to get back in the house as soon as possible. She says that’s no problem because there’s another ceremony in the evening, after which the Order are having a slap up dinner. The significance of the dinner is that they have to take off their hoods to eat it, so I will be able to ID the Collector and follow him back to his room. What’s more, the priest who was rubbing her down with oil was also reciting stuff from a book that could be the one that belonged to uncle George.

At last everything’s going my way and I can’t wait for the off. But wait I have to because the ceremony doesn’t start until 8 pm. Lorinda’s got the same job as before, except that she’s been told to cut out the ad-libs. Anyway, she goes into the house about 7:30 and I follow her in, ten minutes later, dressed up in the ceremonial robe that Ernie flogged me. 

The sun is setting and when it’s nearly dark the ceremony begins. It’s the same old business as the night before, but this time there’s a thunder storm rumbling overhead. If ever the Order is going to conjure up the Dark Prince this is the night, except that when they get to the Comius, Comius bit a bolt of lightening comes down, strikes one of the minders and fuses all the lights. Needless to say this causes quite a stir, but once the lights come back on and the priests work out that the minder is still the minder and not the Prince, they all troop off to dinner, except the minder, who’s carted off to hospital. 

Sure enough, once everyone’s in the dining hall, the priests take off their hoods and park them on the floor under their seats. At first I don’t see the Collector, or anyone like him. Then he looks round at a waiter and I spot him. All I got to do is sit tight until the dinner’s finished and follow him back to his room. It should be a doddle, but it ain’t. After the cheese and biscuits, the Head Priest says something in Latin and everyone gets up and puts their hoods back on.

Keeping my eyes on the Collector is worse than the three card trick. Far worse! There must be at least fifty guys in robes and they’re all on their feet, going every which way. I’m trying hard not to take my eyes off him, but the hood I’m wearing isn’t helping because the eye holes are too far apart. However, once he’s out of the dining hall there’s less people, and by the time I follow him up three flights of stairs he’s on his own. Half way along a corridor he stops and gets out the key to his room, but, like me, he’s having trouble seeing, so he takes off his hood. Whoever this guy is he ain’t the collector. As if things can’t get any worse he susses out that I’ve been following him and asks me what my priestly name is. 

The game’s up, so I do a runner back down the corridor, hoping I can make it to the ground floor and duck out, through the back door, with the hired help. By the time I make the stairs, the security alarm is ringing, and the word is out that there’s an unwelcome visitor in the house. If the heavies get me I’m toast - the collector may not be the only one who wants me dead. Down below, two minders are running up the stairs towards me. There’s no way I’m going to get past them, so it’s right turn at the next landing, and along a corridor on the first floor. In addition to the guys behind, there’s another one running towards me. I put my head down and crash into him. He hits the floor but I’m still going. Ten yards on I see the window through which I came the previous night and climb out onto the tree. It’s dark and I can hardly see the ground, but the minders are almost at the window, so I take a chance and jump. I think I’m going to break an ankle but the ground’s soft and although I take a tumble there’s no damage done.

I need to disappear into the night but the robe I’m wearing is almost glowing, so I stop behind a bush and tear it off. My lungs are bursting, but stopping ain't an option, so I run hard towards the camp site. I’m nearly there when someone comes straight at me and shines a torch in my face. I zig-zag round him, nearly collide with a tree, and tumble down an embankment that slopes down to the camp site. By now I can hear dogs barking and they don’t sound like they’re going to lick my face. As they can run faster than me, I'm guessing it won't be long before they catch up. 

I’m in a panic. If I have a guardian angel this is the time for it to come to my rescue. Then it appears, except that it’s not an angel, it’s Lorinda. She’s packed a bag with all the money we’re got and on the assumption that a speedy exit is the order of the day, is haring off towards a hole in the perimeter fence that she nearly fell through the previous night. I follow on and we scramble through it and onto an unlit road that’s darker than the average coal cellar. We start running again but there’s no need. The dogs haven’t left the campsite and if their pitiful whimpering is anything to go by they’re not liking the pungent smell of linseed oil still wafting from our tent. We slow down, get our bearings and figure out our next move. 

What happens next is the arrival of the number ten bus to Plymouth. As get away vehicles go it’s not the fastest, but at ten pounds a head it’s definitely the cheapest. An hour later we’re in Plymouth and an hour after that we’re on an overnight coach to Poole. 

Why Poole? you’re thinking. The answer is logical, if not obvious. Lorinda knows a man there who owes another man a favour, and the last named man is Lorinda’s dad. What’s more, the man in Poole owns a yacht, and that’s our ticket out of the country, away from the Anointed Order, the police and everyone else that will do us down. And the good news doesn’t stop there, for Lorinda's old man owns a casino on the Costa del Sol, where he launders money for the same mob I used to work for. It’s a safe haven that might well have a need for my professional services.  

                                                            ********** 

So, it’s all ended well you’re thinking. Okay, so he didn’t prove his innocence to the police, get back uncle George’s book, or get even with the collector, but he’s met this really fun chick and now they’re going to get it together in a warm, sunny place that’s a distinct improvement on north London. While it’s better than a goalless draw at the Emirates I’m not sure how I should be feeling. Had it been down to Tom Cruise everything would have been sorted inside three hours, but real life ain’t like that. 

In real life there’s only so much a guy can do – sometimes, whatever you do ain’t enough - but a guy and a girl together, that’s different. Right from the start it felt different, the proof that it was came on the motorway, south of Exeter. That’s when Lorinda remembers she has something for me. She unzips her bag and rummages through it like she can’t find what she’s searching for, which is odd, because what finally comes out is nearly as big as the bag - it’s a book. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. “Is this the one you’re looking for?” she says, and sure enough it is. 

It turns out that when the lightning came down and the lights went out, my quick fingered little magician takes the book off the High Priest’s lectern and drops it down behind the table she’s lying on. It’s like taking candy from a baby. While everyone’s attention is focused on the stricken bouncer she gets off the table, slips the book into her bag, and as the Anointed Order go off to dinner she exits the house with the other handmaidens.

What happens after that you already know, so I guess this really is the end of the story. Lorinda says that it has more ups and downs than the Himalayas and that if I don’t finish it now while we’re on an up I will only have myself to blame. I take her point. What happens next I don’t know, but it’s a new start, a new story. The old one's over; there’s only one thing left to say - The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks