CONFESSIONS OF A PAMPERED POOCH

By Peter Woodgate 

These confessions that I’m making

Are transcribed by my mate Tom

A cat, I met in our garden

But I don’t know where he’s from.

I can’t write this myself, you see,

Cos my paws can’t hold a pen,

So Tom, he kindly offered,

If I didn’t bark at him again.

He sometimes leaves me messages,

I leave some for him too,

Humans, they don’t understand,

The information in a piece of poo.

I know that I should do that

When we go for a walk,

But I save some for the garden

So Tom and I can talk.

Sometimes I wee upon the lawn,

My Dad, it makes him mad,

Those little brown patches on the green,

He thinks that I am bad.

I must confess, I do, do some,

But the foxes do some too,

If you don’t believe me, ask them,

They will tell you that it’s true.

Mostly though, we get on well,

My Mum, my Dad and me

yet still I do some naughty things,

but that’s just me you see.

I’ve made a hole in my nice new bed

And my toys, I just tear them to bits,

My Dad thinks it’s funny when we play “tug”

But my Mum says it gets on her glands.

Despite the fact that I have my own bed

I prefer to sleep on theirs,

When I hear them say “it’s time for bed”

I’m the first one up the stairs.

My Mum says that I snore a lot

And the sound is really bad

But I am “off the hook” you see,

Cos it’s not as loud as my Dad.

I don’t know why, but I get the urge,

To tear around the house,

I jump on chairs and break some things,

Then I’m quiet as a mouse.

I look at them with soulful eyes

And know they are not cross for long,

They love me you see, for being just me,

In their eyes, I can do no wrong.

I love them too, with all my heart,

On good days, and bad, just the same,

I know these things and pull all the strings

In this world, there is no better game.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 Life's a gamble

By Len Morgan

"We all have shortcomings.  If I like to gamble, so what!  It brings a little excitement to an otherwise lackluster day, week, month...

For a brief few moments, I'm about to be a winner!  And, then my hopes are dashed; occasionally it happens and I'm king of the world.  But, it falls short of a real high.  Then, I'm back to the mundane, the urbane, the boring, because real life sets in faster each time." 

"So, what's the point Doc?"

"Mr. Carmody, take a seat, please.  It's bad news I'm afraid…”

“Is it ever good news?”

 Is there somebody you would like with you for support..."

"I've got nobody currently, no one who gives a dam.  So you might as well just give it to me!"

"I'm sorry to tell you that you have lung cancer."

‘I have cancer and he's sorry...  Now, why doesn't that ring true?’

"You will be pleased to hear that it hasn't metastasized." 

‘Why can't they just say it's not spreading?’

"How bad is it Doc?"  ‘You sit there pronouncing a death sentence on me, where's your black cap, I'd like to smear your news all over your face you smug bastard’.

"I'm afraid it's stage 3, Mr Carmody."

‘Stage 3, stage what?’  "What the fuck does that mean! 3 of 10, 3 in a hundred?  How many stages are there?"

"Without chemotherapy, you have six months to a year." 

"And with?"

"Two to three years.  Maybe as long as five.  Surgery might be an option, we'll know more when the results of your latest scan and a biopsy are available.  I'm really sorry that the news isn't better..."

"Really!"  ‘Really sorry?’  "Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better."

The Doc presses and holds a button on his desk, "Nurse Reynolds, we have another...  Patient who is in need of your sympathetic ear."

‘Which ear is that I wonder?’  "Well, nurse Reynolds, tell me, it's a bad dream and I'll wake up in the morning and it will all be gone."

"In your dreams Mr. Carmody, but look on the bright side, we're all going to die, it's just a question of when.  You're lucky you won’t grow old and crotchety, you won’t be going senile..." 

"And you Nurse Reynolds could leave the hospital this evening and get run over by a No.9 bus; that's life eh! Nurse Reynolds?”

“Please don’t cry Nurse Reynolds, it will never happen; your sympathetic ear would hear it coming?”  ‘Anyway, the No. 9 doesn’t pass Southend Hospital…’

BROUGHTON REVISITED 

By Richard Banks 

It is not often that one receives a printed invitation to a funeral, usually, it’s just a telephone call, perhaps two, but then Great Aunt Beatrice was not a usual sort of person. She was, however, a card sort of person. Whatever the occasion, she had one specially printed and dispatched by first class post. There were her regular cards received at Christmas and Easter, her big O birthday cards – she never bothered with anything in between - and her January card announcing her departure to Biarritz where she would remain until another card proclaimed her return to Broughton Hall. Her ‘irregulars’ announced the births, deaths and marriages of persons we knew nothing off apart from one we identified as a second cousin, once removed.

         Being only on the fringe of her social circle there were probably many other types of card to which we were not privy, although occasionally we would receive one by mistake inviting my father, or rather someone with his surname but different initials, to a soiree or shooting party. These he returned to his aunt with apologies for inadvertently opening a communication evidently intended for someone who was not himself. On these rare occasions, yet another printed card would follow bearing Great Aunt Beatrice’s apologies.

         Although my father wasted little time in dispatching her cards into the waste paper bin my mother would retrieve each one and consign them to a shoebox in a cupboard that was otherwise full of her things. Safe from my father’s desire to be rid of them they accumulated in number until a second shoebox was needed. They were, she said, too good to throw away, and she was not alone in thinking so. Each one was a work of art, a thick white paper card bearing the delicate weave of linen on which the message of the day was inscribed in gold lettering of an almost luminous lustre. On the front cover, the family crest appeared like a signature of authenticity above the family motto in Latin. One signature they never contained was that of Great Aunt Beatrice whose name at the foot of each was printed in slightly larger lettering than that preceding it. This particularly irked my father and speeded each card’s journey into the bin. “Too grand to sign her name,” he snorted. “Paupers, that’s what we are to her.” While this may have been only too true my mother took particular pride in the cards and would at her own soirees ‘let it slip’ that we were related to landed aristocrats of ancient descent. At this point, she would take down the latest card from the mantelpiece that she had placed there once my father was safely out of the way and allow the visiting ladies to read the message within. Whether this raised our standing in the neighbourhood I am unable to say although my mother was invited to join the Conservative Ladies Sewing Club which she claimed to be an exclusive gathering second only to the Rotary Club, to which we were not invited.

         And so the years rolled by until one day we received a card that was about Great Aunt Beatrice but not from her, the sad tidings of her death and impending funeral in the family chapel. For the first time the name at the bottom of the card was not hers but that of the family solicitor, and, also for the first time, our attendance was requested. Needless to say, this invoked a howl of disapproval from father followed by another howl when mother insisted that we should go. It would be unchristian, she argued, not to, and how else were we to see the inside of Broughton Hall. Father stated his objections of which there were many but mother once roused was seldom deflected from any course of action she considered necessary or desirable. After a stand-off that lasted the best part of a week and nearly cost us our Sunday roast father yielded to the inevitable and signed the letter of acceptance that mother had drafted. Had he known that the cost of this expedition would be compounded by mother’s insistence that we attend in full mourning dress he might well have stuck to his original resolution, but having purchased the rail tickets for the four of us there was now no going back.

         The following day my father’s bank account was further depleted by the acquisition of two mourning dresses. It was money well spent claimed my mother; Ann, my sister, might catch the eye of a nice, young man with good prospects, possibly the heir to an estate, who knows, the next Lord of Broughton Hall. Father, making a Herculean effort not to combust, replied through gritted teeth that no one would be able to see her behind a veil that hid not only her face but everything else down to her knees. Mother agreed that it was, indeed, a very long veil but that she had been assured by Mrs Atkins at the dress shop that it was in the neoclassical style and much in demand for society interments. Whether these were Mrs Atkins’ words or my mother’s liberal interpretation of them I am unable to say but Ann was duly kitted out in the ‘favoured’ fashion as was mother.

         My own visit to the tailor, under father’s supervision, was predictably less fashionable and less expensive. After less than an hour in store we emerged from Bernies Buy and Hire with two dark suits we were required to return the following Monday. It was the first time I had worn long trousers and although they terminated just above the ankles my pride in wearing them more than made up for my misgivings about an event that seemed poor fare for a Saturday afternoon.

         Come the day, in the gathering heat of a hot summer’s day we set off for the station like four black clouds aboard a bus full of lightly clad shoppers bound for the local street market. The train that took us on to Kings Cross was, thankfully, less crowded and the train thereafter to Broughton almost empty. Having arrived at an unattended platform we ascended a steep flight of stone steps to an unattended ticket office. With tickets in hand but no one to collect them, we ventured outside to find the town consisting of a single street of neglected dwellings of which one was a newsagent.     My father who had planned our journey with almost military precision informed us that the final stage of our journey would take place on a Green Line bus, number 9, that stopped every half hour outside the station. While we were not expecting the immediate arrival of said bus the absence of a bus stop or any other evidence of buses eventually persuaded father. to make enquiries at the newsagents from whence he returned with the news that we had missed the bus by six months. The route had been replaced by a 9A that missed out Broughton in favour of a new housing estate. The rather better news, according to father, was that Broughton Hall was little more than two miles away and that a brisk walk would see us there in time for the funeral.

         We set off in single file down a narrow country lane that soon passed from daylight into the deep shadow of a forest. Rendered almost invisible to the cars that frequently roared past us we were on several occasions compelled to throw ourselves into the hedgerow that separated us from the forest. At last, we arrived at the entrance to Broughton Hall thankful to have reached our destination safely but soaked through with perspiration and covered in ‘bits’ from the hedgerow, some of which was moving. With ten minutes to go before the off, we dusted each other down and hurried along a very long driveway towards the chapel where a Rolls Royce was dropping off the last mourners apart from ourselves. As the coffin emerged from the house borne by six men of military appearance we sprinted forward and, narrowly beating them to the door, squeezed into the back pew where we made our funeral faces.

         The service that followed, though not as entertaining as the cricket match I had been hoping to watch that afternoon, was, even to a twelve-year-old boy such as myself, an impressive spectacle that I’m sure would have been very much to Great Aunt’s approval. Indeed I later learned that her will contained detailed instructions for its regulation; the choir that sung had been borrowed from the cathedral as was the Bishop who presided over a cast of extras that included two Earls and a Vice Admiral. Her only error was to stipulate that her last remaining cousin should deliver the eulogy. While this may once have been a wise choice recent years had evidently taken their toll on Great Uncle Bert who having dropped his script launched into a vitriolic tirade against the Germans with whom he thought we were still at war.  Fortunately, his address was brought to a halt by a ferocious piece of organ playing during which he was dragged from the lectern.

         Peace restored by the singing of ‘Lead, Kindly Light’ the Bishop then had his say in which peace and light was very much the order of the day and Great Aunt Beatrice was benevolently looking down on us from heaven. As proof of this, he pointed to a stained glass window through which a shaft of sunlight was bouncing off the bald head of a mourner and onto the coffin. Quite how he would have explained the thunderstorm that erupted later that afternoon I do not know but if Great Aunt Beatrice was continuing to look down on us she was evidently not in a good mood.

         However, that was later and unknowing of the soaking, we were later to get we were pleasantly immersed in a grandeur that we were never again to see beyond a TV screen. At the conclusion of the service the coffin was carried out for interment in the family vault which was for immediate family only. For the rest of us, the more enjoyable part of the day had arrived and we were escorted by a flunky in knee-breeches to the Great Hall where black aproned waitresses awaited us with trays of sherry.

         It was one of those awkward stand-up events at which you wished you had three hands, one for the sherry, another for the sandwiches that subsequently arrived and a third to raise said sandwiches from plate to mouth. That we managed all this without troubling the deep pile of the very expensive carpet on which we stood was a feat of ingenuity that we unexpectedly proved equal to. Indeed we were quite disapproving, in an eyebrow-raising sort of way, of those less successful than ourselves. The sandwiches were followed by cake and the sherry by tea, and still, nothing detracted from our flawless performance which could only have been the envy of those about us.

         Relieved of crockery and cutlery the assembled company were now free to circulate and those more practised at this than ourselves broke ranks and sought out those they thought worth speaking to. Our first visitor was an elderly man with a walrus moustache and a dark tan that could only have been acquired in the tropics. His first words directed to my mother and sister were memorable for being in a language that was definitely not English. Receiving no response he tried again at which point my mother nervously replied that she didn’t speak English. Although this was the precise opposite of what she meant to say, the old chap immediately responded with some English words of his own that unlike ours had evidently been well-honed at public school.

         It turned out that he had mistaken their dresses for burkhas, or at least a version of that garment worn by princesses and the like at mourning events in the Middle East. Although being mistaken for princesses was most gratifying to my mother and sister, the revelation that they had been no further east than Boulogne was clearly a disappointment to their new acquaintance who soon deserted them for someone he addressed as Lady Barbara.

         Undeterred, and not wishing to confuse the assembled company as to who they really were, mother and Ann threw back their veils and for the first time since dressing saw the clear light of day as well as their fellow mourners who had an equally clear view of them. For a few seconds mother and Ann were the most closely observed persons in the room and the sideways glances of those about us were accompanied by a perceptible hush as conversations paused before restarting.

         Realising that they had been noticed mother quickly scanned the assembled company for a suitable young man for Ann. It was not long before she found one who it must be said seemed more than a little interested in my sister. Instructed by mother “to smile” and then to “smile at him, not the floor,” Ann responded with an embarrassed grimace which nevertheless had the desired effect. The young man edged nervously towards us and on reaching the little semi-circle in which we had arranged ourselves seemed oblivious to everyone but Ann. If love, at first sight, existed this was it and as he opened his mouth to speak we all knew that something memorable was about to happen.

         “Do you…” he said, apparently lost in admiration and unable to complete his sentence.

         “Do I?” encouraged Ann.

         “Do you know,” persisted the young man, “that you have a Polyommatus Bellargus on your head?”

         Ann did not know that she had such a thing, or indeed what kind of thing the thing was that without her knowing had acquired a Latin name. Her reply while brief was in the circumstances the only one possible: “no.”

         The young man assured her that she did have the thing he had mentioned and between thumb and first finger extracted a large caterpillar from the folds of her upturned veil that he gently transferred onto the palm of his hand. Having lovingly observed its green and yellow livery with an expression of joy not normally seen at funerals he departed our company for the kitchen in search of some leftover lettuce. His desertion was the last straw for my father who was for joining the trickle of persons beginning their homeward journeys.

         Mother, however, had other ideas and seeing a woman she thought she recognised from a WI meeting had broken ranks and was now busy getting reacquainted. She eventually returned to us with the news that the woman was not the woman she thought she was but that nevertheless, she was a very nice woman who was going to the reading of the will and wondered if we were also going. On mother expressing her doubts as to whether we were allowed the woman had apparently said, “nonsense,” that if we had an invitation to the funeral, of course, we could go. My father groaned but on being assured by mother that it wouldn’t take long and that it would be disrespectful not to attend we duly took our place among the hopeful and curious.

         The family solicitor who took centre stage was clearly enjoying his time centre stage and in no mood to hurry the reading of a very detailed document that began with a long list of runners up and their consolation prizes which included several old master paintings, a dog, a parrot and the vintage car in which she had been driven about the county. At long last, the next owner of Broughton Hall was confirmed and a rather sickly young man was congratulated by those about him. Father managed to stop mother from applauding and muttering darkly that we might still make the 6.32 train began to usher us towards the exit.

         There was, however, one last announcement and although it did not specifically mention us we were very definitely included. Lady Beatrice had decreed on her death bed that all her numerous correspondents should each receive a small memento by which they might remember her. Accordingly, a great many odds and ends had been assembled on the lawn outside and anyone who wanted to was invited to take a single item.

         If father had it in mind to forego this pleasure and make haste for the train station he had no time to inform mother of this before she raced off through the door at the head of a tidal wave of determined memento hunters. By the time the rest of us were outside mother had already bagged a statue that was nearly as tall as she was and, determined not to release her grip lest the statue be claimed by someone else, was attempting to drag it towards us. Despite my father’s protests it was, we all agreed a rather nice statue and by far the best thing on offer. After a brief and unwise period of reflection, we decided to carry it back to the station along the country lane on which we had previously risked life and limb. How we expected to get to the other end without mishap was as unlikely as us now catching the 6.32. That we made it as far as we did with the statue still intact was an achievement that paled to insignificance when we were apprehended by two policemen in a Panda car. By then our enthusiasm for our prize was already beginning to wane as a torrential downpour soaked us to the skin. The policeman at the steering wheel asked father if the statue he and I were carrying was a Greek nymph and, on receiving the reply that it might be, informed us that one just like it had been reported stolen.

         Our journey to the police office at least took us back towards the train station and after being questioned for over two hours we were eventually released without charge. The statue had not been among the trifles that Great Aunt Beatrice’s executors had decreed surplus to requirements but an architectural feature bordering the display area. It was, according to mother, a mistake anyone could have made and while father declared himself of the same opinion he had very little to say on the subject thereafter, at least not in my hearing. We returned home damp and bedraggled at half-past one in the morning, thankful not to be seen by anyone who knew us.

 

                                            *****

        

         What follows now is in the way of a postscript. Mother and father lived into their nineties during which time Broughton was seldom mentioned outside mother’s soirees where her recollections of that day were conveniently forgetful of stolen statues and torrential downpours.

         The new owner of Broughton Hall survived Great Aunt Beatrice by little more than a year leaving his successor with her death duties and those of his own. Today the hall and most of its grounds are owned by the National Trust, and the eighth Lord Broughton is billeted in a flat that occupies a single floor of the west wing. Anyone wishing to see the rest can do so at weekends and on Wednesdays. Unlike us, you will have to pay.

         Ann married and although her husband is not of noble blood it hasn’t stopped him from becoming the managing director of an events’ company that recently hosted a craft fair at Broughton Hall. More importantly, he’s a great guy and I’m not going to spare his blushes by omitting that information. They have two children and three grandchildren.

         I married Jean, a librarian. We have two children and a great many books. At their request (the children I mean) I have written this memoir of a family outing in 1963 that is wanted for a family archive they are compiling. In case it never sees the light of day I have also sent a copy to my local writing group. I hope it informs and entertains in equal measure.

         Needless to say, every word is true and while my account differs somewhat from what Ann remembers it must be borne in mind that her view of things was much obscured by the veil she was wearing which also affected her understanding of several conversations that she imagines being more favourable to herself than they actually were.

         No, believe me. What you have just read is definitely the truth, it’s my truth and nothing but my truth. Most of all it’s a darn good yarn and you’re welcome to it. 

 Copyright Richard Banks   

  

 Three’s Company

By Janet Baldey

I have always loved the park and today, as I stroll along its meandering pathways, the sudden thought pops into my head that everyone must have a special lucky place and that this is mine.  This may sound fanciful to some but if it wasn’t for the park and Jill, of course, my life might be quite different.

         It’s almost a year ago, to the day, that I first met Jill.  I was sitting on a bench watching squirrels rustling around in last year’s dead leaves while couples were walking hand-in-hand and families picnicked on the grass. The sound of people enjoying themselves echoed all around me but, sitting alone, I felt remote. Everyone seemed to have someone and I was the odd one out; there seemed to be a wall of glass separating me from other folk.  Since Ted died, I often got that feeling.  I had spoken to my doctor about it. He had pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and looked at me, his eyes kind.

         “You’re suffering from post-bereavement depression, Emily.  You will get over it but it might take some time.  Try to develop some outside interests, something to get you out of the house.  In the meantime, you might like to try these,” he said, scribbling out a prescription.

         As I remembered the conversation, I closed my eyes willing away the tears that were always on the brink.  Suddenly, the bench lurched and creaked.  Opening my eyes again, I saw that a plump, red-faced lady had collapsed onto the seat beside me.

         “Hope, you don’t mind,” she gasped, “but this is the only spare seat in the park and I must have a rest.”

         I felt my eyes widening as I noticed that the woman was accompanied by a small sea of dogs that surged around her, panting happily.  Amazed, I counted five tails waving in the air.

         “Gracious,” I said faintly, “what a lot of dogs you’ve got.  You must live in a very big house.”

         She grinned.  “Oh, they’re not mine.  I dog walk for the local animal rescue centre.  We’re short-handed at the moment, that’s why I’ve got so many.  Marlon, do get your nose out of the lady’s bag.”

         I laughed and put out my hand to stroke the inquisitive pup.  I was rewarded by a big, sloppy lick and some of the ice around my heart began to melt.

         “I’ve always wanted to have a dog, but my late husband was allergic to their hair.”

         “I can’t have a dog either, my landlord won’t allow it. That’s why I do this. It’s the next best thing.  If you live nearby, you could always do the same. We’re a friendly crowd and we’re always short of volunteers.  I’m Jill, by the way.”

         It was nice to have someone to talk to, although as I remember it, it was Jill who did most of the talking.  As we sat enjoying the last of the evening sun, I became so involved in the tales she told of the Rescue Centre, that my own troubles slipped quietly into the background.

         “Don’t forget,” Jill called over her shoulder, as she was dragged about by her impatient hounds, “if you do decide to help, just say Jill sent you.  You’ll be welcomed with open arms.”

         So, the very next time I started to feel sorry for myself, instead of moping around, I plucked up enough courage to walk around to the Centre and volunteer my services.  Before long, my visits were the highlight of my day and gradually, I found my depression fading. The dogs were always delighted to see me, especially as I made a habit of smuggling in little treats for them and the other volunteers were so nice and made me feel so welcome.

         Among them was a gentleman called Harry.  He was tall, with kind blue eyes.  He was quiet and rather shy but he would listen to my chatter indulgently, all the while puffing gently on an old pipe.  Over the months we developed a special rapport and just the sight of his slightly stooped figure ambling towards me was enough to lift my spirits.  I began to feel that life was not so hopeless after all.

         We had our sad times at the Centre but whenever one of our charges was re-homed it was a real Red-Letter Day and everybody celebrated.  It was heart warming to see the dog strut proudly away, escorted by his new owners.   We were warned not to get emotionally involved with the animals but we all did and there was one particular dog that I always felt sorry for.  He was big and ungainly with only one eye, so of course we called him Nelson.  Nelson was loving and intelligent and always did his best to please.  At regular intervals we held ‘Open Days’ when the public was encouraged to visit the Centre.  Quite often, they fell in love with one of the dogs and went away with a new member of the family.  On these occasions, Nelson would press his body as close as he could to the wire and gaze hopefully into every face, his tail beating as if in time with his heart.  But no-one ever gave him a second glance.  After everyone had gone home, he would lie with his head on his paws and the mournful expression in his one good eye tugged at my heartstrings.  Against all advice, I began to give him extra fusses and began to regard him as my own special pooch.

         “I can’t think why no-one wants him,” I once complained to Harry.

         “He tries too hard,” Harry replied, ruffling the dogs’ ears.  At this sign of affection, Nelson went ballistic and raced around in circles, barking with delight.

         One morning, I arrived at the Centre and found Nelson’s pen empty.  I was puzzled.  All the other volunteers knew that I always walked Nelson.  I went over to the office to find out where he was.  Sue, the receptionist, was just coming on duty.  She hung up her coat and checked the register.  As she reached an entry, her finger stopped.

         “Oh!” she said, obviously surprised.  “He’s been re-homed.  He went yesterday evening.  How lovely.  I was beginning to think we had him for keeps.”

         She looked up and her smile faded as she saw my face. 

         “Cheer up.  It was best for him,” she said, patting my shoulder.

         I stood in silence, trying to take in the fact that I would never see my Nelson again.

         I took another dog out that day.  He was a nice enough little fellow but it wasn’t the same.  Harry didn’t turn up that morning and that made things even worse as I really needed someone to talk to and I knew that he was the only person who would understand.

         I went home at lunchtime and pushed some food around my plate.  My mind was in turmoil, I knew I should be glad that Nelson had found a home at last – after all it was what I had wanted for him – but inside, I felt bereft.

         I felt my depression returning as my thoughts chased themselves around.  If I became this upset every time a dog, I was fond of got re-homed, maybe this wasn’t the job for me.  Perhaps it would be better if I stopped going to the Centre.  But I knew I would miss my new-found friends and the thought that I wouldn’t see Harry again brought tears to my eyes.  Suddenly, as if on cue, the ‘phone rang.  It was Harry.  At the sound of his voice, relief flooded through me and my legs trembled so much, I had to sit down.

         “Would you like to come to tea this afternoon?”  There’s someone I want you to meet.”

         Of course, by now you will have guessed the rest.  As Harry explained to me afterwards: “I knew how much you liked Nelson, so I thought it was the best route to your  heart. Now I’ve got two for the price of one.

         He smiled and put an arm around my shoulders as we sat with Nelson a contented heap at our feet.

         So now you understand why the park will always have a special place in my heart. I come here often now but I’m not alone any more.  My hand slips into Harry’s as he whistles for Nelson and together, we three head for home.

Copyright Janet Baldey

        

 

        

Personal Well-being: 11

 

Personal Well-being: Sunburn Remedy

By Barefoot Medic

 We are in the summer season, ice cream, seaside swimming, sunburn…  Yes!  You come out of the water, your factor 20 has all washed off, and so you have to reapply the lotion.  I dread to think of the cost.

 I spent two years in Cyprus whilst in the Forces, man it was hot in 64~65!  I tried to spend as much time indoors as I could but even so had to do some external work, I spent a lot on sun cream.

 My friend, a pale-skinned, ginger-haired, Scott in the ‘Army Postal Service’, was out in all weathers and never seemed to suffer from the heat; unlike the rest of us.  One day he watched me rub suntan lotion on:

“What're ye doin man!  That stuff’s a waste o good beer money.”

“So what d’you suggest Jock?”

He pulled out a small bottle of what looked like milk.  “Try some o this,” he said. 

I opened it and sniffed, “smell like coconuts” I said.

“Aye, So it shood, it’s coconut oil, use it before and after goin oot an yell ne'er get sunburn agen…  Keep it, mon, I got plenny more, I buy it by the pint!”

Well, I kept it and use it to this day, & I never get sunburn. 

And, there’s an added bonus. It tells you when it needs to be applied:

  In hot weather it’s liquid ~ if it’s cooler it becomes a mushy paste ~When it’s cold it’s solid.  Apply at any time to calm itchy skin. You only have to apply it once, it soaks in, and it doesn’t need to be reapplied if you go for a swim…

It just another tried and trusted remedy I can heartily recommend from personal use over the last 55 years. 

As always you try it at your own risk, but it works for me.

 

Cheilin Saga ~ 07

Cheilin Saga ~ 07  Defence Against Bluttland

By Len Morgan

Aldor surprised even Lomax, by completing his training in just four months.   It was during the following year that Aldor and Meillo officially became a couple.

 over the next five years, their plans would come to fruition. They would build up a network of forty forts, fully garrisoned, around the fringes of the Empire.   All manned by militiamen trained, by a small cadre of Tylywoch a hundred and fifty seasoned warriors.

   Bandits and opportunist raiders from outside took their lives into their hands when carrying out raids on the Cheilin Empire.   Each fort could raise and field a force of 2000 well-trained and battle-hardened troops at any destination on the fringes, within hours of the alarm being given, which would be swift, thanks to the inception of the 13^th Clans secret weapon, ‘pigeon post’.   The only form of attack with any chance of success would be a hit-and-run raid, but there were precious few successes.

The Empire prospered and the imminent attack from Bluttland was postponed indefinitely due to the constant readiness of the 13^th Clan.   There were rumours and feint attacks to test their defences but they were not found wanting so all the posturing came to naught.   However, had the Bluttlanders known of the chronic shortage of weapons it might have been a different story, but they never received that information and so the invasion never happened.  The Emperor was pleased with the performance of his 13^th Clan and with their new tactics.

.-…-.

In the eleventh year of Aldor’s stay in Cheilin, Sanko had to pass on intelligence to Emperor Daidan III from the border with Blutland reporting a build-up of troops on the far shore of the Stalbech river.  

“It may of course be just an exercise to test our state of readiness ‘light of the world’.”

“You have of course countered with an appropriate force I presume?” said the Emperor.

“We mobilized units from the nearest forts; half the complement of Strikol, Ricc, & Teel.”  

“That would be three thousand men.  What is the size of the opposing force?”

“Close to twenty thousand,” Sanko replied.

“Seven to one that is a high ratio; would you consider an additional two thousand expedient?”

“They are on their way, ‘light of the world’.” 

Daidan III winced.  “You know how I feel about that honorific, you are my friend so in the future please, just call me Dan.”

“Yes, ligh… Dan” Sanko grinned.  

“Oh one thing more, I need to speak with Aldor, would you ask him to join me please?” 

"Right away Dan." he was bowing as he backed out of the audience chamber. 

.-…-. 

Six months on, it was Aldor who was providing the progress reports.  

“Good day Aldor, what news from the Stalbech?”

“We have been steadily moving troops from the west over to the Eastern forts in order to provide additional support if or when their attack comes…”

“I’m aware of that, how many men have you mustered?”

“Currently we have just over twenty thousand with the same again on call.”

“Opposing?”

“Between sixty and eighty thousand if our intelligence is as good as we think.   We are maintaining the ratio at four to one.” Said Aldor.  "I hope the other Clans are not becoming too alarmed about the troop movements?"

"Not as much as you might think, I only have to suggest that they contribute a complement of their own forces to administer the outer regions.  But they are too busy watching their neighbours to risk-reducing their own forces.  They are content for me to draft in others for the task." Dan smiled “Will Forty thousand be a sufficient deterrent?”

“Bluttlands losses would be massive on crossing the Stalbech and in their landing places.  We expect to face them at only two to one.”

“Are they aware of what it will cost them?” 

“They know,” Aldor assured him.

“Let’s just hope it will be a sufficient deterrent then...” 

 .-…-. 

   In the fall of his eleventh year, Aldor considered his work in the Cheilin Empire near to completion, he said as much to Orden; during one of their many chats.

Orden chuckled with amusement, ’don’t be so hasty Sprout.   Your work here in Cheilin has barely begun; you still need to spend at least another century here’

'But,' he asked in desperation, 'what about the rest of Abbalar?'

'What is there to know?   Corvalen has become the cultural center of the Kurdik states, the Poché  Platzé is now a theatre, run by none other than your very good friend Genna Dylan.   It is not only thriving but becoming internationally renowned.   Asba continues, as ever, working towards the betterment of his charges, the deprived and underprivileged young people.   Whilst, true to his word, Paveil is administering a more enlightened State, and educating his eldest son for succession.   Skaa returned home, as he'd planned, he now has his own farm, a young wife, five sons, and a daughter, at the last count.   Between them, they are keeping him pretty well occupied, and will; no doubt look after him well into his dotage.   And, when he finally returns to the wheel of life, you will have aged a few years,' said Orden.   'Last I heard, Genna and Asba had twin boys and a daughter, and we're anxiously awaiting the birth of their third son who they plan to name Ahlendor after you.'

'It's been eleven years since I left Corvalen.  I have heard nothing, where do you get your information?' 

'I have my sources.'   Orden chuckled.

'Then perhaps you can tell me why I have been ordered back to Sanctuary, so suddenly?'

'Why did you not read the messenger's mind?' 

'Because the Tylywoch are very efficient at closing off certain areas of their minds, and I find it tiring trying to winkle out information.   I am much better at reading faces, gestures, and reactions.'

'Then that is what you should do sprout!   I will bid you well, I must be away, things to do you understand, I'm awaiting the arrival of a new trainee, a young sword-smith named Terek, he should be of use to you in time to come, he is a sword-smith of note, his craftsmanship is a pleasure to behold.'   

Aldor knew he would get nothing further from Orden.  'Goodbye friend.'

(to be Continued) 

Copyright Len Morgan

 The Village Fete                                  

By Jane Scoggins 

Lisa was feeling anxious. She bit her lip as she picked up the flyer from the doormat. It announced, not just in black and white, but in Technicolor, that the village fête would be in 6 weeks time. She had known for weeks but had been trying not to think about it. Expectations were high amongst the villagers and Lisa was in no state of mind to meet those expectations.

    ''How Stupid, to feel anxious about a village fête!'' she told herself. Well, more terrified than anxious, if the truth be told. Lisa and husband Mike, and four year old Amy were newbie’s to the village and feeling accepted had been hard for Lisa. The reason being something she hadn’t anticipated at all. Their house. It had set them apart from the rest of the village. They had moved from London to rural Essex for a bigger house, and a more healthy way of life. Mike was in banking and worked long hours. He wanted to have time and space to spend with his wife and child in a relaxing environment at the weekends. It was he who hit on the idea of moving east, out of the city and into the countryside. It all sounded so wonderful. They enjoyed the weekend trips to Essex to look at property. They liked the little village of Fambridge. It had a railway station and a nice pub, so two of the boxes were ticked straight away. When they walked through the gate and up the drive to Creek View, Mike and Lisa were immediately impressed. When they looked around the old house and garden they knew that this was the home they were looking for. It had not been lived in for two years and was shabby and unkempt. The previous owner of fifty years had died there aged 96. He had not maintained it well. The state of the property, the price, and the clause stating that no other houses could be built on the land had reduced the amount of interest by a developer or anyone else initially interested in going ahead with a purchase. However, Mike decided to make an offer after a survey, and it was accepted.

The house needed a lot of work and once they had sold their London home they stayed with Mike’s parents whilst the work was being carried out. They had not really had many opportunities to engage with local village life. The villagers were a bit in awe of this apparently well off London couple who had bought old Mr Dawson's big house, set imperiously back from the road in its large garden. Clearly, a lot of work had been going on to make it nice, in fact pretty posh if the tradesmen, who called into the pub at lunchtimes, were to be believed. The villagers weren’t sure if this banker from London with his Aston Martin, and his wife with her smart clothes, would fit in with them.

Lisa was aware of the villager's reservations. She enrolled Amy at the Ladybirds playgroup in the village hall. She felt out of place and not in tune with the sorts of things they talked about. Until recently she had worked in banking and had employed an au pair to look after Amy and the house. It felt too snobbish to share this detail of her life with the other mums. They all seemed so capable, managing several children, the house, the school run, and for some, a part time job or an allotment too. Lisa made every effort to join in and be accepted, feeling it necessary to throw in a few white lies about herself to improve her credibility.

 So when the subject of the Fete and who would run the stalls came up, Lisa was quick to offer her help and found herself down for the cake stall. Lisa didn't learn straight away what that involved, and then it was too late to back out having committed herself. The two stallholders were responsible for baking homemade cakes and for making a two-tier birthday cake to be raffled.

 Unfortunately for Lisa one of her white lies in a moment of madness and vulnerability amongst the playgroup Mums, had been to tell them she loved baking and had made Amy's last birthday cake with 3 tiers and covered in handmade Disney characters. The truth was that Lisa had never successfully made any cake of any description and certainly not a child's Disney birthday cake!

After a few disastrous attempts at cake making, she had to decide if she should come clean with the playgroup Mums. Whilst she was thinking about this she had a call from Simone, the au pair, who said she was coming back to England and could Lisa supply her with a reference.

'' Of course, I will'' said Lisa. ‘‘Why not come and stay with us for a couple of days and I will give it to you then. Amy still asks about you and would love to see you, come and see where we are living out in the country.''

When Lisa came off the phone having made the arrangements for Simone's visit, she had a light bulb moment. She would ask Simone to make the cakes. She had loved making cakes for Amy. Her parents ran a patisserie so she was very knowledgeable. She phoned Simone back and asked her if she would do it. ''Mais Oiu, bien sur ‘‘ replied Simone laughing.

By the time Simone arrived, Lisa had cleared out the big freezer and bought all the ingredients for a whole day's cake making.

 The visit from Simone was a triumph in every sense of the word. Amy was overjoyed to see her and loved helping in the kitchen with the cake making. With Lisa washing up and generally being the kitchen maid to Simone, the three of them had a wonderful time. Amy, too young to understand the different roles in the kitchen was none the wiser that her Mummy was not actually the person making the cakes. So no need for Lisa to worry that Amy would blurt out the truth. It had been a joint effort.

  The Fete was a tremendous success. The homegrown organic produce from Jan and Simon’s allotment made a fabulous display. The arts and crafts stall was heaped with handmade puppets, toys, cushions, bunting, jewelry, and knitted hats and scarves. Jim’s hand thrown pottery bowls were bright and beautifully decorated. The sewing girls stitch craft stall was piled with pretty aprons, bags, summer tops, and dolls clothes. Although she knew she had cheated somewhat, Lisa was proud of the cake stall. She and Kelly displayed their cakes on cake stands and lace covered boxes, the centerpiece being the beautifully decorated chocolate frosted birthday cake to be raffled. The stall groaned with fancy cupcakes, sponges, chocolate brownies, fruit cake, macaroons, and cookies. Lisa and Kelly complimented each other on their amazing cakes.

 Mike was amazed when he saw the stall. He hugged his wife'' country life sure suits you my darling, well done!''

  All the cakes were sold with ease and every raffle ticket was sold for the birthday cake.

Lisa felt very much part of the village now. The other playgroup Mums heaped praise on her and Kelly for their cake making.

 

When they were clearing up after the fete and folding the tablecloths Kelly said '' I must say, Lisa I never imagined that you would be such a fantastic baker of cakes. You are quite a dark horse, aren’t you? Some Mums thought you might have been exaggerating when you told us at playgroup. That's why it was suggested that you were given the cake stall with me, to see if it was true. Just goes to show, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.''

Lisa smiled. She felt relaxed and happy with the way the day had gone and her growing friendship with Kelly. She was not at all offended by what Kelly had said about the way the playgroup Mums had decided to test her.

   ''That's absolutely fine with me Kelly'' No harm done. I needed a challenge, and I have loved today.

  ''Sorry to have doubted you. Actually, can you keep a secret Lisa? ''

  ''Yes Sure''

When I first did the cake stall I was terrified, as everyone else seemed so good at everything I was not, So….the first year I got my Mum to make most of my cakes, and after that, I made the effort to learn how to bake really well, and now I love it.''

  ''Really, Well your secret is safe with me. Mum’s the word''

Later that night Mike and Lisa lay in bed talking over the events of the day and Mike again exclaiming what a fantastic cook she had become.

  ''Such hidden talent'' he said

Lisa decided to come clean about Simone and the cake making cheat.

Simon roared with laughter. When she told him about the secret Kelly had shared about her own previous cheat, he roared with laughter again.

  ''You little minxes, I can see you have something in common, a baking bond''

  '' Yes, I think we are going to be good friends. I admire her honesty and her baking. Not sure if I feel ready to spill the beans on my cheating as yet, but maybe next year when we run the cake stall together again. In the meantime, I am going to take a leaf from her book and learn how to make amazing cakes. And lovely dinners for you and Amy of course.’’

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins