By Peter Woodgate
Business colours
disguised as team shirts
worn by players
who, with one swift kick
of the Nike boot, earn
the equivalent
of one year’s labour.
Brain cells educated,
by the advertisements,
having us believing
costly is excellence.
Side by side,
on the rail,
in the charity shop,
Versace and Winfield
are equal in the eyes
as they pass through the fingers
of the one who relies,
on simple tog value.
Copyright Peter
Woodgate
by Richard Banks
How all this was to be fitted into the kitchen diner of our
small flat became the first challenge of our married life. It was also the
cause of our first quarrel. How was a table, seven chairs, plus two armchairs,
a settee, cupboard and TV to fit into a room eleven foot by nine? The answer,
according to Jenny, was that they couldn't, something had to go, and as usual, she was right. The next day we donated the armchairs back to the charity shop
from whence they came and offloaded three of the chairs into the safekeeping of
my parents. With the table shifted back against the wall an uninterrupted
corridor of floor space opened up allowing us to make the necessary journeys
about our flat while at all times maintaining contact with the carpet.
Problem over we now established a modus operandi which made
full and frequent use of the table. In addition to being the place where we ate
our meals, it became, with the addition of a blanket, an ironing board and,
without said blanket, a card table, a writing desk and the 'seat of learning'
at which I studied for my accountancy exams. In a moment of passion, we even
made love on it, an erotic, if bruising, experience that may have resulted in
the birth of our first child. The addition of a cot and pram into our limited
living space finally persuaded me to commit to a mortgage and we moved into a
seven-room semi which not only had a separate kitchen but lounge and dining
rooms too. Our table could now stand centre stage, as intended, with all seven
chairs around it.
Over the next three years, two more children were born and
their increasingly mobile explorations of the house became an ever-present
danger both to themselves and the many floor-standing objects in their way. The
solid wood construction of the table presented them with a particular challenge
and when Johnny found that head butting its yellow legs was an unequal contest causing damaging to his forehead he enacted his revenge with a metal Matchbox toy that
removed a narrow sliver of wood. Not to be outdone, brother Michael inflicted
two dents of his own while, four years later, Lizzie first expressed her
artistic talents by daubing the tabletop with white paint from an unattended
tin of emulsion.
But at last, the table became what it was intended to be, a
place where a family ate together, talked, laughed and occasionally fell out.
Other families ate their meals around the TV, not us. Jenny's restaurant
extended no further than the table and no one was going to miss out on her
cooking. The table also became the place where, at breakfast, letters were opened
and the news within, when suitable for inquisitive ears, was shared and
discussed. The news was invariably good: invitations to parties, birthday
cards, a letter from ERNIE, news of examinations passed and a few that weren't.
The kids were clever. Throughout their school days, they worked hard, did well.
It was in the genes, I said; with a Mum and Dad like us how could they go
wrong, and up to now they haven't.
Johnny passed his A levels and went to
On an August evening with the five of us sipping coffee at
the end of dinner, Jenny told us her bad news. It was cancer she said, but so
what, they [the hospital] had caught it early, at least early enough. After
chemo she would be fine, no one was to fuss. Twelve months later she was in
remission and we celebrated with another family meal at which champagne was
drunk and never more enjoyed.
But the times they were a-changing and this was the last
time that all five of us would be together. Johnny married and moved to the
States, Michael fed up with commuting into London rented a flat in Deptford
while Lizzie, on the completion of her course, was offered and accepted a job
with the Manchester Arts' Council. It was hard not to be sad but a worse sadness
was to come. Jenny's cancer was back and this time there was no stopping it. On
the day before the funeral, I had her coffin brought from the undertakers and
placed on the table that had been an ever-present
witness to our life together.
The memories it now stirs are mainly happy ones but no one
shouldn't live on memories. Life is about the here and now, which is why I'm
giving the table to the young couple down the road. They have memories of their
own to make, and good memories require a good table.
Copyright
Richard Banks
By Len Morgan
I randomly picked up a
book in Waterstones. I let it fall open
and started reading. Five minutes later
I was £8.99 poorer but the book was mine!
Natalie Goldberg – Wild Mind
The small piece I read
described perfectly how I feel about writing but haven’t been able to put into
words. This I will attempt to describe.
Her first chapter gave her
rules for writing and, it seems, for life:-
From chapter two on, she
has a section (short section) – called Try this:
Followed by simple exercises for would-be writers:
Try this:
Write for ten minutes on
each of the following:-
Warming up your mind, stretching your mind, opening up hidden places.
The rest of the book was not disappointing, it made me aware of ‘Monkey mind’ ‘The critical Mind’ & ‘self-censorship’ that little voice in the back of your mind that says: You can't write that! ~ Well, you can & will!
I will say no
more; don’t want to spoil the experience for you.
If you like the idea I guarantee you won’t be disappointed. I highly recommend it.
By Peter Woodgate
How can a
clock tick so loudly,
whilst
displaying the numbers
to sadden my
heart?
How can a
storm rage so furiously,
without
destroying buildings,
yet tearing
my world apart?
And, how can
I make that journey home,
knowing my
insides will remain
within that
hall,
to greet the
grinding, hissing train?
On my way
home,
I open the
car window
and throw
expectation
into the
path of an oncoming vehicle.
I see how
easily it is destroyed,
yet, the
driver is unaware
of the destruction, they have caused.
Copyright Peter Woodgate
By Janet Baldey
I
sure didn’t mean to break that winder and I stood starin’ at the black hole
that had taken its place, my bat droppin’ from my hands. Daddy would be so mad. I looked around for a place to hide but I was
too late. I heard a roar and then next
minute I was laying in the dirt like a stricken snake, my body whippin’ from
side to side trying to dodge the heavy leather belt with its wicked buckle.
‘Daddy, daddy!
Stop you’ll kill him!’ I saw a flash of blue dress as my sister flung
herself at his arm.
With a slurred curse my pa brushed her
aside but doing so bought me time and in a flash, I was up and running for my
life. Half blinded by blood from a gash
over one eye; I didn’t care where I was
headed. I knew only one thing, I’d never go back. Sis was right; sooner or later my daddy
would ruin me. He’d always been free with his fists, especially after time
spent with the brandy bottle and one day I wouldn’t get up from that dirt.
As I ran, tears mingled with the blood
streaming down my face but I forced myself on until strength left my legs and I
lurched from side to side. I stopped, bent and wrapped my arms around my chest
until the flames died down. When I
unfolded there was a scattering of stars and I squinted into the darkness
realising I’d made it to the edge of town.
The trail leading away was littered with large, dark shapes, scores of
them, looming silently under the night sky. They reminded me of elephants I’d
seen in picture books.
I let out my breath, slapping my head
as I remembered; of course, they were wagons headed for
I walked down the track. There was no
one about; I guessed everyone was spending one last night on soft mattresses
between clean sheets. Even so, I trod cautiously and when I heard a soft cough,
my heart filled my mouth. There was the hoarse sound of heavy breathing and the
shadows started to move. A musky stench filled the air and my held breath
released. They were only oxen, tethered in a grove of trees. I grinned at my fright, the movement of my
mouth changing instantly into a jaw-breaking yawn. A single wagon was tantalisingly close. Slightly
smaller, it was away from the main group; perhaps used only for storage. I was
so weary I didn’t care: in any case I’d
be up and away at first light.
My body swayed from side to side and
there was the faint sound of creaking. I
snuffled and buried myself deeper into my bed.
I didn’t want to leave my dream; it was peaceful on the high seas and
when I woke up there’d be decks to swab and canvas to stitch. My lids snapped open as I remembered and sat
up. This was no ship – it was a wagon
and it was moving. It was also hot as an oven and dripping with sweat, I crawled
to the end and peered out. The sun was riding high in the sky and through a haze
of dust, I saw a long line of similar wagons but no trace of the town.
My head swivelled and I saw him for the very first
time. He was striding by the side of a
couple of oxen, their reins held loosely in his hands. Maybe, he had second
sight because all at once he turned and saw me staring. His face was tanned and deeply seamed, but
his eyes were bright and the colour of summer. He showed no emotion, simply
looped the reins over the oxen and walked towards me.
‘Here,’ he handed me a water bottle. ‘You
best be out and walkin. It gits a trifle warm inside.’
I stopped and took a mouthful of beer; the
memory re-kindling my thirst. Going over
to the camp fire, I kicked a smouldering log into life. As orange sparks spat into the night, my
grandson touched my arm. I smiled at him
and carried on.
‘Back then, his hair was as black as an
eagle’s wing but by the time the journey had finished it was streaked with
white. He never spoke much but later I
realised he’d known I was there. Not at first, but when I started screamin’ in
my sleep and by then, the wagon train was well on its way.
‘Your daddy slapped you around some,
didn’t he boy?’ He once said to me.
I suppose that was why he never made a
fuss about me tagging along; together with the loneliness. He’d had a wife and son once but the cholera
had taken them both.’
My grandson fidgeted, he wanted more action. So I told him about our trials along the way;
the endless plains with their seas of shifting grasses and the monotony that
turned every day into a year. I told him
about the shining deserts whose fiery winds dried your throat making you crave
the very water denied to you and the jagged mountains with pitiless granite faces
soaring into the sky. There were things
I didn’t mention, things that I prefer to forget. The crazed screams of men as they whipped
their oxen into the ground, deaf to their panicked bellows as they scrabbled
through gullies filled with snow: the starved
faces of the children and the lonely graves marking our passage.
We were half dead when we arrived at Sutter’s Mill
and never saw any gold, but that hardly mattered. Somewhere along that journey,
I found what I had been looking for all my life - a father. Not of my blood and not for very long. The
hardships we’d endured had weakened him and he died a couple of years later. But he didn’t die alone and ever since I’ve
kept him alive in my mind. He taught me
something I never learned from my own kin.
Riches are nothing, it’s love that counts.’
Copyright Janet
Baldry
By Robert Kingston
I spent a penny today, in a very special way
I dropped it in a bucket, and wished it a good day
I watched as the bucket, wandered along the street
I visualised the faces of the needy ones, with whom it would eventually meet
I spent a penny today, in a very special way
It was given to a stranger, who seldom had a say
I gave thought to how they became a beggar, in a country of such wealth
instantly realising it was created, by governmental stealth
I spent a penny today, in a not so special a way
I gave it to a corporation, whom with this government have so much sway
It put my penny in its till, and took it clean away
It's worth no longer relevant, it's hidden where taxes have no say
I spent a penny today in a not so special way
I gave it to a government who said the people had to pay
inventing many reasons for more and more taxes to be paid
In this country of the free, where money is given to the rich,
instead of distribution in a much fairer way
Copyright Robert Kingston 30.1.16
by Richard Banks
Dibbs
sits down on his hind legs on the pavement next to Benny and peers eagerly at
the steady flow of people coming from the direction of the station. This he
senses will be a good day. After a long winter and an insipid Spring, the first
warm day of the year has finally arrived.
The punters are in a good mood, glad to
be out, to feel the sunshine on their arms and faces, and although not quite
Summer bare shoulders and legs are also to be seen. In the winter they scurry
from stall to stall buying what they need before returning to the warm comfort
of their homes. Today they are at their ease, unhurried, ready to browse and be
generous. The main beneficiaries of their largess will be the market traders
there gathered, but those whose only utility is in triggering the altruism of
others are also hopeful of turning a profit. In this respect, they have a rival
in an elderly lady rattling a tin for the Red Cross. Benny mutters aggressively
at her and Dibbs joins in, baring his teeth and barking like he’s about to go
for her throat. After holding her ground for a few seconds and finding no one coming
to her aid she withdraws several shop fronts to Marks & Sparks.
Benny isn’t the first con man Diggs has
worked with and he’s far from the best but having smeared his face with cement
he looks ready for the graveyard. Who
can resist him, especially when the nutrition of his doggie friend seems more
important to him than his own well-being? To illustrate the point Harry who
works in the burger bar at the back of where they sit will come out with a bog-standard burger and give it to Benny who despite his unhealthy appearance
insists on feeding most of it to Diggs. In return, the dog makes huge, soulful
eyes at Benny full of pathos and unconditional love which Benny in his
uninspired way tries to reciprocate. Time this right when people are looking
their way the result is likely to be a deluge of coins and the odd fiver or
two. Happy days!
At half-past eleven they give it a go.
Cindy buys the burger and on slipping Harry a few quid he makes a big show of bringing it out and
handing it to Benny who pretends to be pathetically grateful.
“Don’t you worry, mate,” bellows Harry
in a voice that can be heard on the other side of the square? “I’m not going to
walk by and let you starve. Ex-army are you?”
Benny nods his head in acknowledgement
of his never-was past.
“Thought so, can always tell. One day a
hero and the next you’re on the scrap heap. What sort of people are we that
don’t look after our own.” He strides back to the burger bar shaking his head
at the shortcomings of his fellow countrymen. He’s really rather good, and few
can resist this sudden and unexpected assault on their conscience. Coins are
flying from every direction and if Benny and Dibbs don’t keep their eyes tight
shut they’re likely to be going legit next week for the white stick brigade.
Cindy passes by and smirks. She
provides the wheels that gets them to the big events. She’s also the brains of
their little enterprise and sets-up the stunts that draw attention to them.
Right now she’s off to buy a new dress, she’s off clubbing tonight. At half one
she’s back and we do the whole burger thing again. This isn’t just a good day,
it’s the best ever. Everyone’s happy except some clod on the far side of the
square who passes out, and falls face down on the pavement. Cindy goes over to
take a look. An ambulance comes and goes. She returns, via several stalls, and
Benny asks her what’s up?
“Nothing much,” she says, “just that Bosnian woman selling the Big Issue. As thin as a rake, gawd knows when she last had a square meal. It’s her own fault, of course, doesn’t know how to work a crowd, no props, no patter, nothing, not even a mangy dog. No idea at all. Bloody immigrant!”
