Fake Tan and White Stilettos

By Janet Baldey

 There’s black marks, smeared all over me piller an me eyes are so swollen I can hardly see.   Must’ve been crying all night.   Bet I look a proper fright.  Plus, me back’s on fire.   It’s that mattress, you can feel every effing spring.

         God, this is a dump.   No room to swing a cat and there’s no carpet.  To fink I’m stuck here for another three weeks.   Don’t fink I can stand it.  Wish I was back in me own bed, under me pink satin duvet cuddling the teddy nan giv me.

          It’s all Lauren’s fault, silly moo.   Fancy daring me?   Done it on purpose, o’course.  Mind you, we were all half cut.  We usually go places on a Saturday.  This time it was the Rocking Rhino, wicked groups they get there.  Mind you, we sobered up a bit as we marched back to Chantelle’s, straight down the middle of the road, singing at the tops of our voices.

         “S’okay.’  She’d said.   ‘Me parents are in Marbs.”

         Once inside, she’d kicked off her stilettos and scampered over to the bar.

         “What’s it going to be then?”  She’d waved a bottle in the air.

         We sprawled on the blond leather sofa and Paris switched the telly on.   Seemed like the whole wall exploded into high def colour.   Must admit, I was wel jel.  ‘Course I knew Chantelle’s family were well wedged up.  That bar would look good in any pub and they were always off chasing the rays.”

All of a sudden, Lauren squealed.   “OMG, It’s Joey”

         “What?  From TOWIE.”

         “Yeah.   Ain’t ‘e smexi!”

         “Din’t know he was on the Riki Rich show.    BOGOFF, eh girls?”

         “Joey’s all right,” I said  “but Riki’s my fave.  He’s real bang tidy.”

         That was true then, but not now. Not after what ‘appened next.

There was a deafening blast of music and Riki stepped forward.   Teeth flashing out of ‘is tan, he opened his arms, ‘ugging us all.  

         “Ladies and gentleman.   You’ve heard of ‘Wife  Swap?  Forget it. Now bigger and better, you’ve got ‘Life Swap!”   The drummer went bananas and the audience went mad.  It was well-staged.

Eyeballing Riki, we giggled and nudged each uvver.  Apparently, there was this bird in Odessa with a brother who was a druggie with Aids and she was desperate to come to England to graft some loot for ‘is treatment.

         “Wha’s he say? Swap places with her and live in Odessa for six weeks?  Where’s that?  Sounds, alright?  Gotta be better than Basildon.”

         Then, Lauren went and opened her stupid mouth.  

         “Hey, you do nothing but chill, Chels.   Why don’t you go in for it?”

         “Bee-ayve…” 

“Go on, I dare you”.

         Well, that done it.  Mind you, I never expected to be picked.  Forgot all about it till I answered me Beyonce ring tone a few weeks on.   It were only the producer of the prog weren’t it?   Nearly wet me knickers.  “They’d had a good response”, he said, but I’d been chosen and could I come and discuss it?

         I was dead excited but when I met him it was a right let-down. He seemed a real nerd.  Well educational and skinny wiv it.   His glasses kept slipping down his nose and he had white eyelashes that blinked all the time.  He had odd socks on and what looked like me grandad’s fair isle cardie.   Nigel’s his name. The producer, not me granddad -‘is name is Alf.

         He said that this was a new venture for the programme and Riki was very excited about it.   It was to be a sort of social document.  LO flippin L!   Then, he said, would I be prepared to rough it?

          I sat fiddling with me Louis Vuitton handbag wondering how to say ‘no’ when, suddenly, Riki appeared.   ‘E was amazing, even more fit in the flesh than on the telly.   He was wearing a pair of skin-tight black leathers wiv a white silk shirt open to the waist with a gold medallion round his neck.  Well, me heart started beating so fast I couldn’t say a ruddy word, so I just nodded.

         Afterwards, me and Nigel had another chat.   The girl’s name was Nadya and she was an orphan and worked in a shop.   I’d go over there, live at hers and do her job - sort of fly on the wall thing.   He realised I didn’t speak the lingo, but he didn’t seem to think that’d matter, the customers could always point, or maybe I’d just do shelf filling.  In turn, Nadya would come over and live at ours.   She could help mum and dad wiv the ‘ousework and maybe do a bit of gardening. 

         ‘Course, then I had to sort it with the olds.   Dad was well vexed but I’d always been able to manage him and even Mum calmed down when she heard Nadya would help around the house.

         “That’s more than you ever do, me girl.”  She said.

         In the plane going over, they told me that Odessa was in the Ukraine which was a very poor country.  Even so, I was shocked when I saw where I was ‘sposed to live.  WTF!   I just stood and stared.  Nadya lived on the seventh floor in one grotty room and had to share a toilet and kitchen with four others.  They were really sick.   There was a creepy middle-aged geezer with oily black hair who offered to help me cook some golubtsy, (turns out its just cabbage and a bit o’ meat).  He’d stood so close, I couldn’t get his smell out of me nose for hours.   Then, there was a girl called Oksana.   She was about the same age as me but obviously never cleansed, toned or moisturised, cos her pores were well clogged.  She ‘ad dyed hair and wore a very short skirt wiv an ankle bracelet, so I guessed what she did for a living.    Worst of all, there was this minging old bag who didn’t stop staring at me from out of eyes like dried currents, well past their sell-by date.  She seemed to think she owned the kitchen and spat at me in Russian if I even picked up a tea towel.     

                The worst bit about the whole thing is that I’m wired for sound every minute of the day, can’t even fart without the whole world knowing.   There are cameras fixed to every wall and every time I go out one follows me.   I had to force meself the first time.  Well, it’s part of me contract, so I sort of ‘ad to.    There’s a lift, about the size of a coffin and you ‘ave to seal yourself in by pulling a sort of metal trellis shut.  Din’t trust it, so I walked all the way down six flights of stairs, every one smelling of pee

         Outside, it’s grim.   Dirty streets wiv crumbling concrete buildings and on every corner there’s groups of ugly old men playing dice.

         Me wages don’ go far.  At the end of the first week, I’d just got paid and went for a walk.  After a bit, the area picked up, there were avenues with trees and shops, some of them very smart, like you’d find in the West End.  So I window-shopped and that’s when I noticed the prices.  Then, I came to a one of them posh cake shops.  As soon as I saw all them meringues and pastries, me belly started to rumble.   So, I went inside and bought a cream slice.  I couldn’t believe me eyes when I saw me money shrinking as the assistant pecked away at it with long scarlet fingernails.; nearly half me wages gone on one small luxury  I felt for Nadya, then. Couldn’t be easy; not being able to afford stuff, no wonder her room was dingy

         Once or twice, I passed groups of beggars; young blokes mostly.  They’re gear was all ragged and they looked well spaced out.  Some of em muttered as I passed by,  prolly asking for money. I couldn’t help wondering if one of ‘em was Nadya’s brother.

 Then, it started to get dark, the wind got up and there was sleet in the air.   I shivered and thought about winter.  I bet Nadya’s room is an icebox.  There’s a big old-fashioned radiator under the window but it probably don’t give out much heat.   Not like our Baxi back home. 

 Mind you, all this made me fink.  I always blank the Big Issue sellers who whine at yer down the High Street back ‘ome but maybe some come from places like this.   Thass a thought.  ‘Cos this place ain’t reem.  It really ain’t reem at all.

  

Copyright Janet Baldey      

  LOCAL HEROES    

By Jane Scoggins       

                       

 ‘‘Cheers Philip’’. Annette held up her glass to Philip. He leaned forward and they chinked glasses. Beaming at one another for a few seconds they studied each other’s faces. Philip loved her face. Soft pale skin and gentle brown eyes twinkling with warmth and mischief. In turn, Annette loved Philip’s freckled face and the bright blue eyes that absorbed everything around him in an instant.

    ‘‘Happy Birthday Annette’’ said Philip raising his glass to her.

     ‘‘Thank you Philip, I can’t believe I am 90 years old, I feel like a 20-year-old inside’.

Philip laughed. ‘‘I know you do, you are always larking about and saying things to be outrageous.  I’ve got used to you now but I used to be quite shocked. I think you have a wicked sense of humour. You are what some people call a recycled teenager; lots of attitude but minus the spots.’’

    ‘‘I know, I used to say things on purpose just to see you go red and flustered, mean of me wasn’t it but I couldn’t help myself, I’ve always had a mischievous streak. Anyway, it worked because you don’t go red anymore; you just smile and shake your head. Makes you a person who can handle what gets thrown at you unexpectedly, and I like that. At my age, you don’t care what people think of you, although I never did really, which is the one advantage of getting old. Anyway enough said, shall we have cake now, it looks delicious?’’

    Philip reached for the cake.

    ‘‘I made it myself you know, just to prove to you that I can now cook.’’

    When the cake was eaten Philip put his hand behind the cushion on the sofa and brought out a gift, wrapped in birthday paper with colourful butterflies. Annette smiled and took the gift in her hands and for a few seconds admired the wrapping paper and showing absolute delight at receiving a gift.

    ‘‘My oh my, what a lucky girl I am today, a gift as well as a delicious chocolate cake that would make a Paris patisserie proud.’’

     Annette carefully unwrapped the gift so as not to tear the pretty paper and rip the butterflies. She revealed a picture of a popular Impressionist print within a small rectangular frame.

     ‘‘Poppies’ Annette said wistfully and was immediately taken back to the poppy fields of France where so many brave men and women lost their lives fighting for King and Country during the First and Second World Wars.

    Annette was nineteen when the Second World War broke out. In 1943, aged twenty-three, she had been recruited to the prestigious Special Operations Executive, known as the SOE. They were unprecedented times; she was young, adventurous, and proud to be chosen to serve her country in this way. Not that she had much time to think about it before being trained and given orders. The first time Annette was parachuted into France was both terrifying and thrilling. Met by Resistance workers in the darkness and silence of the night she was hurried away by locals across the fields to a safe house. In the morning the sight of the poppy fields all around was breathtaking and forever memorable. Later, poppies became the symbol for the fallen and every November poppies continue to be worn in remembrance. All those Annette met and worked with so briefly in northern France she never saw again. Annette wondered how many survived. There was one brave English girl, Nancy, whom she would always remember. They were parachuted into France together in 1944 just before D-Day, and tasked with helping distribute weapons to the Resistance fighters. If not for Nancy’s quick thinking after they landed in a field and hurried to hide themselves, they would have been discovered and probably shot dead. German soldiers tipped off about a possible landing, had fired indiscriminately into the undergrowth where they were hiding. Fortunately for Nancy and Annette, the soldiers, halted by the sudden loud screech of an owl nearby, briefly discontinued their firing and bayonet thrusting. Nancy followed the screech with a perfect owl call, as if from the owl’s mate. The soldiers laughed, and presuming that there was nothing hiding there except wildlife, moved away.

    Annette was roused from her reverie by Philip, telling her he had to go or he would be late to collect the papers.

    ‘‘Don’t forget you are going to Fitzwimark school next week will you?’’ Philip said as he prepared to leave.

    With Philip gone Nancy considered what she would talk to the Year 9’s about at the school. The youngsters had been learning about the Second World War. Pupils and teachers had been asked to talk with an older person who had memories of the war and then to write up the conversation.  These were already up on the classroom walls. Everyone had commented on Philip’s piece about Annette. She, along with two other senior citizens from Rayleigh had been invited to the school to share their memories with the pupils. Annette knew that this was a special event for Philip, she knew he was proud of knowing about her secret role during the War.

    Annette was equally proud of Philip. He had recently saved the day for her with his quick thinking and prompt action. He had helped to save her life three months previously when she had fallen in the kitchen and lain cold, stiff and in pain for several hours.  The old wound in her spine from the German soldier’s bullet that fateful night in France was so painful from her fall that she kept slipping in and out

of consciousness and feared she would not survive a night on the floor. When she heard the newspaper come through the letterbox she called out but was not heard.

 Annette resigned herself to her probable fate. But all was not lost. Out of the blue the paperboy came back, pushed the newspaper through and peered through the letterbox shouting, ‘‘Hello are you there?’’  He waited and listened, and on hearing a feeble cry had called out to her.

    ‘‘I’m going to get help, I will be as quick as I can.’’ After rushing to get help from a neighbour an ambulance was called.

    And the reason Philip the paperboy came back?  He knew the lady at that house must be at home as he could see her mobility scooter parked, and the light was on inside the hall.  She always collected her newspaper straight away from the door and had asked him to only push it through the letterbox halfway as she suffered from a painful back, and didn’t want to bend to pick it up.  After finishing his round he noticed that the newspaper was still in the door. Instinct told him to go back and check all was well.

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 Look Younger live longer

 Sis Unsworth

Sue was only 32, but she looked 64.

She searched all through the beauty books,

when they came through the door.

She always bought the facial creams and potions that they sold,

but no matter how she tried, she always looked so old.

Her skin was always dry and grey, she couldn’t understand,

She moisturized and cleansed her skin, with a very gentle hand.

The best advice our Sue got, was from her dear friend Lyn.

“Don’t bother with the creams my love, lay off the fags & Gin!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

DRIFTERS Ch 1

 DRIFTERS

 by Richard Banks

Chapter 1                                       

Don’t ask me why she left. I thought we were good. OK, so we had the occasional fall-out, who doesn’t, just the normal sort of stuff, nothing terminal. One day everything’s fine, the next you arrive home and she’s gone. No goodbye note, nothing. So you phone the police to report her missing.      

      “Did she pack a suitcase?” they ask.

      “Yes,” I say.

      “Then that’s her choice. Nothing we can do.”

      Next day I phone the bank she works for, except that she doesn’t. No one there has ever heard of her. Pay a guy I know to do some digging. Same result. No one called Cassandra Goodyear exists, or if they do they don’t have a birth certificate or pay tax.

      “End of story,” says the guy. “This lady doesn’t want to be found. Get over her.”             

      Three months later and she seems like a dream, perhaps she was a dream. Then the world goes crazy, she phones, leaves a message on voice mail. Can I meet her in Broad Street across the road from the café? She isn’t sure what it’s called, only that it has a neon light in the window that flashes pink and blue.

      So here I am racing across town trying to get to Broad Street by five-thirty. I arrive on time but she’s not there. When was she ever on time? Snow’s falling and I’m regretting we’re not meeting in the café. Ten minutes later it’s getting dark and snowflakes the size of fifty pence pieces are turning everything white, including me. That’s when the dog starts barking and she finally shows up.      

      Didn’t see the connection at first. I mean dogs often bark, sometimes at the moon, sometimes just for the hell of it. Life’s too short to be wondering why each time. Anyway the dog was a side show, the focus of my attention was on Cassie, on her face. She’s smiling, like she’s glad to see me.

      “Hi,” I say.

      I wait for her to say something. Instead she throws her arms around my neck and kisses me like she means it. Some of the snow on my head falls down onto hers. She laughs.

      “Where the hell have you been?” I ask. I’m glad to see her but angry at the same time. I need an explanation and it had better be good.

      “Sorry George, I know I should have left you a note but there wasn’t time. Hardly had time to pack. Anyway I knew you wouldn’t miss me for a couple of days.”

      “Okay,” I say, “I’ll let you off the couple of days. No problem. None at all. Just satisfy my curiosity about the rest of the time. It’s been three months Cassie, where have you been?”

      She looks bewildered, dazed. “What’s the date?” she whispers.

      She can’t be serious, I think, but she is.

      “It’s the eleventh of February. You left on November fourth last year. That’s fourteen weeks and five days. Shall we start with week one?”

      “It’s complicated,” she says. “Have I ever told you about space-time continuums?”

      This is a question deserving an angry response, but I say nothing. I don’t even raise an eyebrow. My silence makes her nervous. She takes a deep breath.

      “George you deserve a really good explanation and I really wish I had one, but as I say it’s complicated. If you want to know what’s happened, you’ll need to speak to a really brainy person like Aunt Lucy.”

      “Then why don’t we go and see her,” I say. “As long as she talks in sentences that make sense I’m sure we’ll get on like a house on fire.”

      Cassie goes quiet. She’s in a corner and she knows it. It’s time to put up or shut up. She puts up.

      “Okay George if you really want to meet Aunt Lucy that’s what we’ll do.”

      She grabs my hand and pulls me along the pavement towards a telephone box. We go in. She dials a number, twenty digits at least and replaces the receiver.

      “We’re in luck,” she says. “Transmission ends in ten minutes, we’re out in two.”

      “Shouldn’t we be strapped in?” I ask. I’m being sarcastic, of course. Normally she’s sarcastic back but today she’s not taking the bait.

      “George, please be quiet and do what you’re told.” She unwraps a toffee and presses it into my mouth. “Now close your eyes, suck the toffee and try not to fall over when things start shaking.”

      And start shaking they do. It’s like the most gut wrenching fairground ride that’s ever been invented. If I could scream I would, but my head is fast spinning like it’s no longer attached to my neck. I prepare to die, then the shaking stops. Cassie says I can open my eyes. I do. We’re in a box but it’s not a telephone box. I should be wondering what kind of a box it is, but I’m past caring – all that matters is that it’s not a coffin. There’s a metal bar. Cassie pushes down on it, the door opens and a dog barks.

      Outside is a place I don’t recognise. It’s nearly dark and gas lights on wrought iron lamp posts are giving out a dim, yellow glow. Across the road is a café, not unlike the one in Broad Street. An old car that should be in the London to Brighton rally pulls up on the cobbles outside. The driver takes something into the café, comes out, drives off.

      I’m thinking that this must be a film set or an historical re-enactment. I tell myself that it’s not for real, but deep down I know it is. It’s weird and getting weirder. A man in a silver jump suit and shoes that glow in the dark is running down the street. He stops outside the cafe, peers in the window and waves furiously at someone inside. He shouts, something about being back, but no one’s taking any notice.

      “What’s that all about?” I mutter.

      Cassie sighs. “George, even if I could explain, you wouldn’t believe me. Let’s go and find Aunt Lucy.”

 

Chapter 2

 

What happens next? Would anyone like to have a go at writing chapter 2?  1,000 - 1,500 words.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Inspiration

By Sis Unswoth

Tim needed inspiration to elevate his plan,

to combat global warming for a better world for man

No more flying holidays, he would always stay at home

along the Southend pier, they now would see him roam.

But, he needed inspiration, to help him to get started,

he had to give it all he had, and not just be half-hearted.

Someone had suggested, he should give up his car,

he pretended not to hear that, as it was a step too far.

He could always buy a bicycle or even take a bus,

but all that waiting in between, he didn’t need the fuss.

No more plastic bottles, he’d recycle all his waste,

he tried to be a vegan, but he didn’t like the taste.

He couldn’t give up bacon, and he loved his Sunday roast,

And breakfast wasn’t quite the same, with tomatoes on dried toast.

If he had inspiration, he was sure he could succeed,

to leave his carbon footprint, would be his one good deed.

But all thoughts of inspiration really had to wait,

as he tucked into a juicy steak, they’d just put on his plate.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

A BITTER TASTE

By Peter Woodgate 

I look at the barmaid through an empty glass

As the last drop of liquid slides down my throat

I fumble through pockets each side of my jeans

Finding them empty I turn to my coat.

I manage a smile as I find some loose change

And thumping the glass down I ask for another,

She gives me a smile and replies with the words

“You’ve had enough darling, go home to your mother”

Everyone knows that I’ve had a big row

My wife’s kicked me out and I’ve gone home to mum

All I have left is to visit the pub

And drown all my sorrows, one after one.

But hang on a moment, that girl in the corner,

She’s wearing a blouse with pink and white lace

I stumble toward her, my luck may be in,

It’s then that I trip and fall flat on my face.

So to all those poor fellows who know what it’s like

To feel so dejected, their lives full of woe

Don’t bother with women, they just give you grief,

Stick to the booze, but drink nice and slow.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Personal Well-being: 01

  Personal Well-being: Peppery, Dry Gritty Eyes?  

   

   By Barefoot Medic

 Many of us work long hours, frequently late into the night, in front of a glowing computer screen.  Is it any wonder that we suffer from dry sore eyes?  We don't blink enough; we don't take frequent breaks, so we are our own worst enemies.  There is another growing breed who suffer from the same symptoms, the 'games players' who can't or won't pause that game to take a break for fear of being eliminated. 

 You need eyewash to keep your eyes healthy.  The finest eyewash is freely available & costs nothing.  It is your own tears; if you are able to cry at will then you'll never suffer from sore eyes.  Unfortunately few of us have that ability.   But, a good substitute is 'Saline', slightly salty water.   The main problem is not the constituents, water & salt, but the quantities of each required to mix 'false tears'.  Well, it’s your lucky day:

1.    The foolproof method I use is to mix a supersaturated solution of salt. Add a teaspoonful of table salt to a small quantity of boiling water.   It's important to stir vigorously and add further salt until there are undiluted crystals remaining; this is a supersaturated solution of salt.  Pour the liquid into a dropper bottle, (available at most chemist shops)' taking care not to transfer the un-dissolved salt.  Allow this to cool.

2.    When you need to wash your eyes out, fill a standard eye-bath (20ml) with very hot water:

·    Add 6 drops (less than 1ml) of supersaturated solution into the hot water and stir well.  Leave it to stand for a few minutes.

3.   Everybody's eyes vary ever-so-slightly so the solution may need fine-tuning but, it will be within +1 or -1 drop. Start with 6 drops of saline if your eye feels raw add a 7th drop of saline this will be the required mixture for your eyes in future.  If there is too much salt your eye will feel itchy.  If this is the case, discard the eye-bath contents & start again adding one drop less.  Ideal for tired eyes and irrigating dust, dirt, or an eyelash from your eye. 

    One small dropper bottle will last a month or more and cost a few pence, or two packets of salt from McDonald's.

   I have used this remedy effectively and with confidence for 'forty years'.  It was recommended to my mother, by the surgeon who removed her cataracts.  He maintained this simple salt & water solution is closer to natural tears than any of the proprietary brands of eyewash.  

Warning:

This remedy has been used by me with no ill effects, however, be advised that you try it at your own risk.   If in doubt consult your physician.