Jamie ~ 2

 Jamies ~ 2 Golden Rules

By Len Morgan 

Jamie was small in stature, but as mice go, he was very much an adult at two years of age.  He’d long since learned the rules for survival.  The do’s and don'ts that mean the difference between living & dieing.

 

He’d seen family and friends come to sticky ends, because they failed to observe those rules.  He was determined that neither he nor his siblings would ignore them.

Rule 1:  They all knew they had the run of the house when old Frizzy Whiskers went outside, but Jamie insisted that one of their number should be constantly on guard duty to warn of his return so they could all be safely below floor when he re-entered the house.

Jamie nibbled contentedly on nuts, ham, cheese, and bread left on the kitchen table.

Rule 2:  Always eat from the same place where humans eat or prepare their meals; never from the floor.  Slow painful death from poisoning resulted from ignoring this rule.

All things considered, life was good, if a little crowded, at 17 Cedarwood Terrace.  The rodent population had grown and flourished under his watchful gaze.

Rule 3:  Warned that when the population reached a certain level, the adults should move out and populate other nearby buildings.

But, life was easy, just a little too comfortable for those expected to move out.  Why should they leave a haven of plenty, for a meagre existence half a mile down the road?  

Time passed and their numbers continued to increase… 

.-…-. 

“No!” Jamie yelled at a svelte young female named Natasha.  She was scurrying towards a large smelly ball of cheese, standing on a wooden plinth on the floor.  She hesitated, and looked in his direction, allowing a rival to get to the cheese first.  He jumped on the plinth and buried his face in the soft delicious smelling cheese.  

Snap!  A screech of pain, then silence. 

“Your hesitation saved your life!” said Jamie coming up beside Natasha.  “That could have been you!”  Taking two paws full of cheese he handed one to her.  “You ignore the Elders rules at your peril, never eat from the floor.”

She stifled a yawn and mouthed ‘never eat from the floor’ as he spoke the words.  In her mind, Elders like Jamie were unnecessarily restrictive on the young ones; they fear competition and new ideas.

You stick to your silly old rules and I’ll find my own…” she said.  He left her not knowing it would be the last time he would see her. 

There are good reasons behind the Golden Rules, they are not simply there to spoil the fun for the young.  Some would learn them the hard way, others like Natasha, would pay dearly for not learning from the experience of others.  They had gotten out of the habit of asking why?

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

Personal Well-Being ~ 19

 Personal Well-Being ~ 19  Constipation

By Barefoot Medic 

There are numerous quaint and amusing old wives tales and remedies for curing minor/common ailments.

Constipation is a case in point.  One would have us believe chocolate works (excuse the pun).  It’s true there was a small bar of chocolate sold in the 1950s, specifically for the purpose, known as Xlax (brand name). It carried an effective medicated chocolate in small half-inch squares. 

Other suggestions that spring to mind are:

 

• Going for a half-mile run.
• Eating raw vegetables Celery, carrots, etc.
• Fresh fruit, always favourite, Pineapple, grapes, oranges, plums.
• Some swear by dried fruit ~ raisins, figs & prunes.

 

But, I have always found that eating an apple while drinking a cup of hot tea at the same time…  Works for me (excuse the pun).

 

None of the above are injurious so give them all a try

Wait long enough & you may GO anyway (not another pun…)

Haiga 4

Picture Haiku In Action

by Robert Kingston

 MR TRUNDLE’S REALLY SPECIAL CHRISTMAS

by Richard Banks

                                                                                

Mr Trundle poured himself a sherry from a near-empty bottle and wished himself a merry Christmas. He felt sure it was going to be a good one, almost certainly better than the party he was now hosting. As custom demanded, he had invited the bank’s entire staff into the inner sanctum of his office, and with unusual bonhomie dispensed special offer sherry and mince pies, whilst trying to ignore his guests’ irritating tendency to spill both on his Axminster carpet. He consoled himself with the thought that over one million pounds had been deposited that week by local businesses, and that having safely secured this sum in the bank’s strong room, his official duties on Christmas Eve were now ended.

    The last stragglers, finding the bank’s largess all but depleted, began to leave through a side door in the main office, for the more congenial surroundings of a nearby public house. His chief clerk, Miss Pymm, supervised their departure and shut the door behind them.

    They were alone now, free to play out their Christmas ritual. She would emerge from the staff room, red-cheeked from the cumulative effect of too many sherries, with a sprig of mistletoe placed conspicuously in her hair. He would bid her the compliments of the season and attempt to peck her on the cheek, while she quickly turned her face to catch the full impact of his lips on hers. Subsequent developments were less predictable. Last year she declared herself unable to release the clasp at the back of her dress and his help was needed not only to unfasten it, but to unzip Miss Pymm to a point where her brassiere strap should have been.

    Mr Trundle shuddered at the recollection and steeled himself for what was to come. Through the open door of his office, he watched Miss Pymm totter towards the staff room and close the door. He readied himself for her reappearance by rolling up the blinds of the large plate glass window that overlooked the High Street, and standing conspicuously in front of its lettered glass. For good measure, he turned on the wall lights on either side of the window. Not even she, he reasoned, would try anything in full view of the fast food bar across the road. He looked stony faced at the staff room door, and with mounting apprehension observed the handle turn and the door slowly open.

    The Miss Pymm that came into view was not the Miss Pymm he was expecting. He felt a strange mixture of relief and rejection. There was no mistletoe on her head, at least none that could be seen beneath the crash helmet that almost entirely covered her auburn hair. The floral, cotton dress that had swayed elegantly about her knees was now replaced by a navy blue tracksuit which terminated just above a pair of mud splattered plimsolls. A rucksack, containing her party clothes, was strapped to her back.

    She advanced a few steps into his office and squinted short-sightedly in his direction. “I’ll be going now if that’s okay. Got a bit of a headache. Mrs Sullivan’s clearing up next door, she shouldn’t be long.”

    “Oh,” said Mr Trundle. For a moment he was at a loss for words. “So, you’re off then?”

    She confirmed that she was and with measured deliberation attempted to walk, in a straight line, towards the basement stairs. She paused at the top and clutched the banister. “Mr Trundle, could you do me a favour?”

    Mr Trundle felt his knees buckle. His voice, when it came, was unusually hoarse. “If I can, Miss Pymm.”

    “Would you give me a hand with my bike? It’s in the basement.”

    Mr Trundle wiped a clammy palm down a pin-striped sleeve and, without further conversation, descended the stairs. He resurfaced several minutes later, with the bicycle, to find Miss Pymm still clinging to the banister.

    “Oh dear,” she sighed, “I think I’ve had too much sherry.”

    Mr Trundle suggested that some fresh air might help and managed to steer both bicycle and Miss Pymm into the walkway outside the side entrance. He held the bicycle steady as she mounted it, and for good measure gave the saddle a shove that propelled her beyond the façade of the bank into the middle of the busy main road. He retreated inside and returned to his office, where Mrs Sullivan was gathering up the debris of the party into a large bin sack. He acknowledged her presence with a grimace that he thought might be mistaken for a smile and waited for her to finish. She had almost done so when the telephone on his desk gave two shrill rings. He picked up the receiver, intending to say that the bank was closed, when the agitated voice of Miss Pymm reverberated around his left eardrum.

    “Is that you, Mr Trundle? Oh yes, of course, it is. Thank goodness you’re still there. I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of an accident.”

    “What kind of an accident, Miss Pymm?”

    “One involving a bus, Mr Trundle. It stopped and I didn’t.”

    “Oh,” said Mr Trundle. “Is there any damage to the bicycle?”

    “That’s why I’m ’phoning. The front wheel is buckled. Would you do me a favour and bring me my spare one? It’s in the basement, next to the radiator.”

    “But where are you?”

    “At the top of the High Street, in the Saucy Gander public house. It’s only a mile from the bank. It won’t take you long.

    There was a brief silence as Mr Trundle considered the full implications of what she had said.

    “It’s on your way home,” added Miss Pymm by way of final appeal.

    Mr Trundle repressed a sigh and confirmed that he would shortly be on his way.

    He arrived fifteen minutes later, to find the pub in darkness and the car park almost deserted. He pulled in beside a Ford Fiesta that was parked outside the main entrance and turned off the ignition. A curtain parted in an upstairs room, to reveal a dim light within. There was the sound of voices and a few seconds later a neon strip light spluttered into life behind the glass panelling of the front door. Mr Trundle gathered up the spare wheel from the back seat and hesitantly approached the door. He was about to push it open when it was swung inwards by a sandy haired man of middling years. The man greeted him in an affable Irish brogue.

    “Come in, sir, do come in. The young lady is upstairs with my wife. She’s a bit shaken, but the bike’s okay.” He escorted Mr Trundle through the bar to a corridor where a narrow staircase rose steeply to an open door.

    “Up there?” queried Mr Trundle.

    The Irishman smiled reassuringly and called up the stairs. “Miss Pymm, your gentleman friend has arrived. Is it okay if we come up?” The unmistakable sound of Miss Pymm’s voice confirmed that it was.

    Mr Trundle mounted the steps and found himself in a small storeroom containing a stack of packing cases against one wall, several benches and a small table, where Miss Pymm sat observing her face in the mirror of her powder compact. The Irishman followed him into the room as another man stepped from behind the door. The man advanced resolutely towards Mr Trundle, who sensing his presence, turned to confront him. His startled expression changed to utter astonishment. “Meekins,” he said, addressing the tall, thickset figure of the bank’s security guard. “What are you doing here?”

    Meekins applied a large, gloved hand to Mr Trundle’s jaw, and forced him against the wall. “Now listen good, Trundle. Do as we tell you and you’ll be home tomorrow in time for Christmas dinner. Play the hero and I’ll use this on you.” He pulled a revolver from his jacket and pressed the muzzle against Mr Trundle’s cheek. “Now when I take my hand away from your mouth, you sit down opposite Miss Pymm and listen very carefully to what my colleague has to say. Is that clear?”

    Meekins released his grip sufficiently for Mr Trundle to signify his compliance. He sat down as directed.

    The Irishman crossed the room and settled himself next to Miss Pymm, who with apparent indifference to the drama before her, was reapplying her lipstick with a gloved hand. “Now, Trundle, we are bank robbers and it’s your bank we’re robbing. In a few minutes, you, me and Meekins, are going there to empty that fine new strong room of yours. We will need your keys and the combination number that’s in your head. We’re armed and dangerous, which means that if we don’t get what we want, Meekins and I will be queuing up to put a bullet through your brain. Have you any questions?”

    Mr Trundle spoke slowly and in a faltering voice. “If I co-operate, do I have your word that you will release me unharmed?”

    “You do.”

    “And, what about Miss Pymm?”

    The Irishman let out a raucous laugh. His hand alighted on Miss Pymm’s knee and gave it a playful squeeze.  “Did you hear that, Vickie? He’s concerned about your welfare. That must be a first. Look, Trundle, this is a three-way split. You’re the only victim here. Our little Mata Hari has found a more generous employer. Isn’t that so, my lovely?”

    Miss Pymm arrested the upward drift of his hand. “Better do as he says, Mr Trundle, no point in getting hurt.”

    “None at all,” agreed the Irishman. “Now if you’ll excuse us, my dear, we will be on our way. Expect us back in half an hour, forty-minute tops. Until then, keep your gloves on and the curtains drawn. You, Trundle, will sit in the back of Meekins’s van with me. Meekins will drive. …Well, come on gentleman, let’s get busy. We have a withdrawal to make.” 

    Mr Trundle allowed himself to be driven to the bank, where his abductors donned balaclavas and swiftly disabled the security alarm and CCTV camera. He opened the safe and within twenty minutes the contents of his strong room were transferred into six large holdalls that were loaded into Meekins’s van. On their return to the Saucy Gander, they hurried up to the storeroom.   

    The Irishman was first into the room, and with a celebratory jig advanced across the floor towards Miss Pymm, who leapt from her chair, sending it tumbling to the floor. “Vickie, we did it! We’ve hit the jackpot, just like you said.” There was a tangle of arms and heads as they embraced.

    “Later,” she whispered.

    The Irishman’s thoughts returned to business. “Take off your jacket, Trundle, and roll up your sleeves. Meekins has a little something that will give you the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had.” He held Mr Trundle firmly by the arm as Meekins inserted the contents of a syringe. They lowered him to the floor and watched as he rapidly lost consciousness. “Okay now, no time to lose. Let’s get going. Vickie, you take my car, I’ll follow in Trundle’s. Meekins, you hold on here for ten minutes. Make sure he’s properly out, then lock up and follow on. Don’t lose your way now, or my friend with the alibi will have other things to say about you. Are you ready, Vickie?”

    She glanced anxiously at the prostrate figure of Mr Trundle.

    “Don’t worry my dear. He’s fine. No damage, just as you wanted.”

    Without speaking she left the room. The Irishman nodded grimly at Meekins and followed Miss Pymm down the stairs. Several minutes later the sound of two cars could be heard leaving the car park.

    Mr Trundle opened both eyes and stared at Meekins, who was peering through a gap in the curtains at the main road. He quietly raised himself to his feet and reached out for a chair. Meekins heard the movement and swivelled round to find Mr Trundle gently easing himself onto the chair and mopping his face with a large handkerchief. Meekins raised his arms in triumph. “They’ve gone,” he announced. “They’ve bloody well gone. Trundy you’re a genius.”

    Mr Trundle’s face creased into a weary smile. “Not at all, dear boy. Couldn’t have done it without you. Indeed, had you not told me their plans I would now be as dead as the proverbial dodo.” He winced at the thought of what might have happened.

    “Thank the Lord for Miss Pymm, is what I say,” said Meekins. “Had she not insisted on you being unharmed, O’Leary would have shot you in the back of the van.”

    “Instead, he had to find a way of keeping Miss Pymm onside while still ensuring my silence.”

    “Quite so, Trundy. That’s why I got the job of shooting you, once Miss Pymm was off the premises. O’Leary said you knew too much and that killing you was the only way we were going to get away with it. He was right, of course. Fortunately for you, he was talking to the wrong man.”

    Mr Trundle was overcome with emotion. “My dear boy, how can I ever thank you. Come here, big man, and give me a hug.”

    Meekins did as he was bid. For a few moments, they clung to each other, oblivious of everything except each other. The siren of a passing ambulance jolted them back to reality.

    “We’ve better get on, Trundy. When I don’t turn up at O’Leary’s place he’ll be back here in double quick time.”

    Mr Trundle wiped the tears from his eyes and took a deep breath. “Quite so. No time to waste.”

    “Do you want me to do the shooting now?” asked Meekins.

    “Why not, dear boy. May I suggest, you fire three bullets against the wall over there and three more into the packing cases.”

    Meekins connected a silencer to his gun and discharged the bullets as directed.

    “And now for the blood,” said Mr Trundle, reaching for the spare wheel that had lain unheeded beneath the table. He produced a tyre lever from the hip pocket of his jacket and carefully opened up the tyre to reveal two plastic tubes.

    “Shall I do the honours, Trundy?”

    “Why not,” said Mr Trundle. He watched attentively as Meekins snipped off the top of one tube and poured its contents onto the floorboards beneath the bullet holes in the wall.

    “Is that your blood or mine?” asked Meekins.

    “All yours, dear boy. Mine’s here. Now trickle some of it down the packing cases and the rest on the floor.”

    “Like that, Trundy?”

    “Perfection, dear boy. What a picture it paints! They shoot me, I stagger back against the packing cases and slowly slither down to the floor.”

    “Then, you and I bleed a bit before they cart off our corpses and bury them in the woods.”

    “Never to be found,” added Mr Trundle. “Innocent employees of the bank, murdered by their ruthless abductors.”

     “The Daily Mail will have a field day with that, Trundy.”

    “Banner headlines, no doubt, especially when the perpetrators of this heinous crime are arrested.”

    “Well if you’re careless enough to leave your fingerprints at a crime scene it stands to reason you’re going to be nicked.”

    “Absolutely, dear boy, and what could be more incriminating than Miss Pymm’s fingerprints on her very own teaspoon.” Mr Trundle picked up the spare wheel and shook it until a silver-plated spoon tumbled from the rubber tyre onto the table. “And what about you, Meekins? Did our little ruse work?”

    “Like a treat, Trundy. Told O’Leary that one of my bullets looked a bit suspect, so he picks it up and gives it the once over. When he gives it back to me I take it in the palm of my hand and slip it into my pocket.”

    Mr Trundle nodded approvingly. “Then all we need to do is leave it in a none too obvious place for the forensic investigators to find.”

    “What about between the packing cases, Trundy?”

    “Capital idea, Meekins. The teaspoon can go under the table. Remember to leave your own fingerprints about the room. After all, as innocent victims, neither you nor I would be wearing gloves.”

    “Good thinking, Trundy. ….. There, that should do it. Is there anything else?”

    Mr Trundle shook his head. “Nothing more to detain us here. We will, of course, need to alert the police. An anonymous call from a concerned citizen reporting gunshots in an unoccupied public house and two large objects being loaded into the back of a car. That should bring the boys in blue running to the scene.”

    “We can do that on the way to the marina, Trundy.”

    “Quite so, dear boy. Let’s go. We have two hours to get there, load up and set sail before the tide turns.”

    “Then goodbye England and hello world. A new life beckons, Trundy, or should I be calling you Mr Green?”

    “Please do Mr Jones. After all, those are the names on our passports. New passports for a new life together. What could be better? This really is a very special Christmas.”

The End

 Copyright Richard Banks

Cheilin Saga ~ 29

 Cheilin Saga ~ 29  Bector to the rescue

By Len Morgan 

As the door slammed, and the key turned in the lock, Bector wretched violently; bringing up most of the potion he’d been forced to swallow.   He still felt dizzy and sick but at least he was still conscious.   The world seemed like a reflection in a lake and his head wobbled as he attempted to walk.   Several times he found himself on the ground, attempting to walk up the wall; he made a lot of noise which alerted his guard.   Seeing the state he was in the man thought to help him back to his cot as an act of kindness.   As he regained his feet he push the guard away from the door, dived out, slamming it shut behind him.   He saw the key in the door and locked it, there was a purse on the table with bread and cheese; he snatched them up.   In moments he was out of the building and running towards the Central Way, the purse hanging from his belt, as he stuffed food into his mouth.   He realised he could not have been compromised and could therefore be of use in the current situation.   He entered a tavern and purchased several mugs of ale, to flush his stomach.   Outside he wretched, to the disgust of passers by, and evacuated his bowels at the first convenient spot.   By the time he reached the reviewing stand, he was feeling more his old self; all doubt gone.   Bector knew, from what they had attempted to imbed in his mind, at least part of their plan to kill the Emperor.   He remembered!   Efelel had ordered him to climb the scaffolding and fire down on the royal party killing the Emperor, and as many others as he could, but not the Prince Regent Gavein.    Failing to indoctrinate him, or control his mind, she had instead attempted to wipe it completely but succeeded only in causing temporary amnesia.   She had allowed him to escape, to act unwittingly as a smokescreen, to spread doubt and uncertainty among her enemies. 

His memory had now completely returned and he knew exactly what he should do.   He knew she had tried to take over his mind, and failed, or was he fooling himself?   He saw the guards below and a-top the thirty-foot stand.   He realised he would have to follow the plan; he worked his way onto the structure and started to climb.   No voices demanded to know what he was doing.   Above him were three figures, two very still, the third was using them as a shield.   He continued to climb, closing on the assassin, his presence masked by the noise of the crowd.   But his luck didn’t hold a figure at the top pointed towards Bector.   He heard the shout from above, and so did the assassin, the man turned to face him, leaving his bow and quiver with the two corpses he swung from the structure, like a monkey, to get a favourable position above the newcomer.   He grinned as his free hand drew a throwing knife from a bandoleer across his chest.   Six, Bector mentally counted the blades, but the man could only throw one at a time.

 ‘It’s as well he doesn’t know I’m unarmed’ thought Bector backing away to minimise the target he presented.   The man was bronzed and obviously operating in his own element, Bector was, by contrast, a fish out of water.   He did however have one advantage, over the rogue rigger, he was Tylywoch.   He was a survivor.   He focused on the projectile and centered his mind.   The arm went back slowly then shot forward and the blade arced towards him, as if in slow motion, and he was able to react by moving his body to one side.   The blade clashed harmlessly with a pole and fell unnoticed to the street below.   Already the rigger was hefting a second; Bector centered and faced him again.   The rugged face broke into an evil snarl as he flicked the second blade.

.-…-. 

   Aldor watched the cat and mouse game being played out twenty-five feet above the street.   He had moved closer but there were too many people milling around for him to intervene, with any hope of accuracy.   But, he knew that Bector was resourceful, it was in his hands, all Aldor could do was watch and hope.

.-…-. 

A third blade cluttered harmlessly past Bector’s shoulder, this was not good, and the man was closing in.

“Come to me,” said Bector gesturing with a confident grin on his features.

The man held his distance and drew a fourth blade.   Bector leaned back resting his shoulders on the planking behind him.   ‘Yes,’ he thought.   The arm drew back and the blade began its flight, tumbling end over end, closing the distance one, two, three and a half turns, he rolled aside.   Tonk!   It struck the boards point first and bit deep.   He grasped the hilt pulling it free and, in one fluid movement, returned it to its owner.   A look of surprise froze on the rigger’s face as he slowly draped over a horizontal poll, at waist height, and hung there suspended twix heaven and earth.   Bector moved towards him.   It seemed as though he heard a warning shouted above the noise of the crowd.   He ducked back and to the side, and a quarrel split the planks an inch to the right of his head where he had stood an instant before.    Bector moved swiftly, towards his recent protagonist, using him as cover.   From its angle, the shot had come from above.   He raised the dead man onto his shoulders, as a shield, and made his way towards the bo’stad and quarrel then waited patiently for the new attacker to reveal himself. 

.-…-. 

Aldor watched as the second man drew a bead ‘Take care, shooter at right eye quarter’ it seemed that his silent warning was heard and heeded.   The shooter drew back from the rail to reload and Bector took up station beneath it.   As the man came back to fire again he seemed to freeze and slowly tip over the rail tumbling down past Bector to the ground below.   There were screams from the crowd and people rushed to the impact site.   Others pointed up to where the four motionless figures stood.   Bector was about to clamber up when Aldor spotted a third man approaching the rail.

‘There’s another!’   His urgent warning was enough.   As the man took aim Bector fired.

It seemed as though somebody was inside his mind, at first he feared it was Efelel, but he didn’t doubt the warning.   He reloaded and covered the rail waiting for the second bo’yer to appear.   When he had a target he took his time and aimed carefully, the trajectory is different when aiming up or down.   The bo’yer fired quickly, but allowed for the standard trajectory, and missed.  Bector loosed his shaft a hair's breadth later, but it flew straight and true.   He saw it take the man in the throat, no body armour there, his eyes glazed over just before he fell.

   Moments later a platoon of the Red Guard appeared at the top of the structure he looked down and signalled that all was clear.   A second man took a longer look and counted the bodies 1, 2, 3, no four.  

 “Four bodies sergeant!   Ho, he heh,” he laughed quietly under his breath. 

“What is it Welek!” the sergeant yelled; then he heard it - loud and unequivocal.   He leaned over the side and there was Bector, fast asleep, snoring like a tiger.   

“Now that’s what I call being cool under fire,” Welek grinned.

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

Personal Well-being ~ 18

 

  Personal Well-being ~ 18 Age, the new black?

By Barefoot Medic

A deep throbbing bone ache drags me from sleep.   I squeeze my hands alternately, massaging the sensitive muscle tissue. Smoothing out the tender flesh.   Dad would say I’ve got the screws.    In my youth, such pain would have made me cry out, and send me scurrying to the nearest doctor for surcease.   Now, it merely confirms that I’m still alive; I can go on for another day smiling and bearing up as if nothing is wrong.   But, nothing is wrong, it’s just old age.   In fact, it’s been my age for thirty-five years, more than half of my life.   I smile, recalling one of Dad’s old jokes: 

“Doctor, Doctor, I keep getting stabbing pains in my left arm.”

“It’s your age,” says the Doctor.

“But, my right arm is the same age and it’s never felt better!”

I don’t consult a Doctor anymore, no point, they never do anything to help.   You’ve got a Headache?   Take two Paracetamol/Avril.    Broken leg?    Take two paracetamol.   Broken heart…   I just cut out the middleman now and take the pills.

I’ve just collected my repeat prescription for blood pressure tablets, (one advantage of being over sixty in the UK is getting free medication each month), we just take a tablet and get on with living and complaining.    Irbesartan, what kind of a name is that for medication?   The names ought to reflect their use with a number and or letter to depict their family, and the release number, ‘Blood Pressure D175’, might be more appropriate.   Manic Depressive N06666, Cancer OMG099!   No, maybe I've got it wrong, maybe we shouldn’t know such things. 

 

They did it on food packaging, the boxes doubled in size, and so do the prices, or the price stay the same and the contents shrink from 500g to 425g:

Ingredients: Potato Starch, Maltodextrin, Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil, Salt, Colour (E150c), Flavourings (contains Celery, Soya, Wheat), Wheatflour, Flavour Enhancers (E621, E635), Emulsifier (E322) (Soya), Spice & Herb Extract.

   In case you’re wondering, on the other side of the drum it just say’s ‘Beef Gravy Granules’ (in 24 point text), with no mention of beef or chicken extract.  

Maybe the name should suffice, it did in the past.  In the British Army circa 1964 I remember eating tins of stewed beef with  WD>1945 stamped on them, I pointed it out to the cook.   “Yea we got a job lot at a special rate,” he said.  I wonder if they’ve run out yet? a friend tells me his grandson was eating out of the same WD>1945 cans in the first Iraq conflict.  I think the army is in more danger from field rations than from bullets.

The government has set up a watchdog committee, costing the taxpayer two million pounds a year ($4 million US, and shrinking), to check that we are not being poisoned.   I rely on the old tried and tested method, suck-it-an-see.   If it tastes alright, eat it.  

Have I become a cynic?   When everything you see and hear in the news leads you in that direction, it’s hard to refute; 2+2=4 yes?. 

 Have fun!

 HOW TO SAVE A LIFE

By Peter Woodgate 

Janice sat on the park bench and looked around. It was Autumn and the trees were looking decidedly bare, in fact, her whole life seemed bare.

She glanced at her watch, it showed 1245.

“Where is she?” Janice thought nervously, “she was supposed to meet me at half-past, she better not let me down.”

    Her friend Jo arrived, out of breath and apologetic, “sorry” she said as she gave Janice a hug, “now what’s this all about?”

    Janice hesitated before bursting into tears, “come on, spit it out,” Jo gave Janice another hug then sat her down on the bench.

    “It’s Jim,” Janice wiped the tears from her face, “I just don’t seem to be able to get through to him these days, whatever I say or do makes no difference, it’s like everything is normal but it’s not.

    “What do you mean exactly?” Jo asked inquisitively,

“Well for a start,” Janice blurted out, “we haven’t made love for six months, he just doesn’t seem interested, it’s not as if I don’t make an effort, you know, Ann Summers and all that, he’d rather watch football,

There’s no fun in our lives anymore.

    “Oh come on girl,” Jo put her arm around Janice’s shoulder, “you know what men are like, I’m sure it’s just a phase you are both going through. Arrange a nice romantic evening where you can both talk, I’m sure that will do the trick, after all,” Jo added,” Jim’s a good bloke, you don’t want to lose him.”

    Janice looked at Jo and hesitated for a moment before blurting out her fears. “I think he has someone else,” Janice had a lump in her throat and fought back the tears.

    “Don’t be silly,” Jo replied, “Jim’s not like that, I mean, he’s just a bloke and blokes are, well just not sensitive to our needs, it doesn’t mean he is cheating on you.”

    Janice thought for a moment, “perhaps you’re right,” she replied.

“look I must rush or I will be late back from lunch, I will try what you have suggested though, thanks for listening to me. They hugged once more before going their separate ways.

    Janice didn’t get much work done that afternoon, she was too busy thinking about how she could arrange this heart to heart and whether it could save their marriage. At present, she felt totally depressed, was suspicious of everyone and felt almost alone. “Thank goodness for Jo,” she thought.

    Calling in at the local deli on the way home she purchased ingredients for an Italian dish, “nothing like a romantic Italian,” she thought,

“and the foods not bad either,” Janice chuckled to herself, the first time in days she had managed to smile, “keep it up girl,” she whispered, “keep it up.

    Janice had prepared most of the food and had laid the table by the time Jim got home. “Hello Darling,” he called out as he flung his coat over the banisters, this was one hell of an annoying habit that really bugged Janice. “Have you hung your coat up?” Janice replied, knowing that he hadn’t. “I’ll do it in a minute,” Jim retorted, “there’s football on the telly in five minutes, it’s an early kick-off and I want to change into something casual.”

    “Why do I bother? Janice thought as she walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Look,” she shouted up,  “I’ve cooked a nice Italian meal for us and it will be ready in ten minutes, we really do need to have a chat. Jim mumbled something inaudible and after a couple of minutes came down the stairs two at a time. His coat was still draped over the banister and he nearly tripped over it before deciding that maybe he ought to hang it up after all.

    He walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the delicious aroma of savoury pasta and noticed the table had been laid with a cloth and candlestick. “Bit posh,” Jim remarked as he walked over and switched the TV on. “Jim,” Janice raised her voice, “I thought we could have a nice meal and a chat for a change, there are more important things than football you know.”

    “Not to me there isn’t, we could go top of the league tonight.”

Janice gave Jim a glare, “OK,” he held his hands up in submission, “I’ll turn the sound down.” Jim walked back over to the television and turned it down to a minimum.

Janice poured the wine and Jim sat down making sure he had an unobstructed view of the match. “Smells lovely,” he said casually

his attention taken up completely by the match as Rooney fluffed yet another chance. “Sod it,” Jim thumped his fist on the table spilling his wine. Janice was straining the spaghetti and hadn’t noticed so Jim wiped it up quickly using his serviette, “hope it doesn’t stain,” he thought, glad that they were drinking white and not red.

    Janice served the Bolognese and sat down opposite Jim, he was about to tell her how lovely it looked but realized Janice had obscured his view

Completely. He decided he would move his chair a few degrees to the left but Janice was wise to this and moved her own the same distance to the right. “Look Jim I’m serious about this we need to talk.” Jim decided he would “get it over with”, after all, if he agreed to everything he could get to watch the second half in peace.

“Ok, what is so important that we have to have this talk, right in the middle of an important match too?” Jim had put on his angelic voice,

very submissive, and if Janice hadn’t known him better, sounded almost as if he was interested.

    Janice began explaining her concerns, they were just not close anymore and they didn’t do things together (she didn’t actually mention the sex word but by way of metaphors made it quite obvious). Jim responded by dropping his fork on the floor which enabled him to peek at the screen as he bent down to pick it up.

    Janice sighed in despair and found herself staring past Jim to look out of the window. She was staring but did not see the rain that was now lashing down. A sudden gust of wind sprayed the rain onto the window which broke Janice’s trance, she looked at Jim, he was oblivious to all except the match on the TV. She started to plead with him to listen but Jim was now upset, mainly because United had gone one nil down, and shouted back at Janice.

“Look, I don’t know what all the fuss is about, all I want is to watch a football match in peace, is that too much to ask?”

    Jim got up and stormed out of the room to watch the match in the lounge. Janice felt completely deflated and got up to start clearing the table. As she did so she heard a bleep from Jim’s mobile which he had left by the side of his half-eaten spaghetti Bolognese. She was about to take it into Jim when curiosity got the better of her and she slid the phone open nervously and pressed the view button. It was a message from Jo and Janice gasped as she read the message. It was short but had the impact of a “Gone With The Wind” saga, it read;

Saw Janice today

She is suspicious

I think we should tell her

XXX

Janice stood mortified, staring at the message but was brought back to her senses by an almighty whoop from the lounge (United had obviously equalized) and she became aware of her predicament.

“I must get rid of the message,” she thought, “otherwise Jim will know that I have read it.” She quickly deleted the message replacing the phone back on the table. She finished the clearing up on auto-pilot; her mind fixed on one thing only;

“Where did I go wrong?” The question rolled over and over in her mind and the fact that her one and only friend was involved just compounded the misery. She thought about Jo and felt nauseous, “bloody Judas” Janice mumbled under her breath.

    The match finished and Jim breezed into the kitchen, “oh” he exclaimed, “I was just about to help you with the clearing up but see you have finished, tell you what” Jim was now in high spirits, United had won with a last-minute penalty, “why don’t we go down to the local for a few drinks? You said we needed to do things together, let’s start with that.

Janice was taken aback, this was not something Jim normally suggested, drinking was very much a “boys” thing. Was it possible that he had been listening and really cared? Janice wanted to say “no” she wanted to confront Jim about the text, she wanted to smash something over his head but found herself saying “ok.”

As she changed into something more suitable Janice kept thinking about the text, her best friend, and whether her marriage was over.

    They arrived at the pub to discover it was a quiz night. Janice didn’t care much for quizzes but knew that Jim loved them. She had been hoping for a nice cosy drink and a chance to chat but once again her attempt at a serious talk had been blown out of the water.

    It had been decided that teams should consist of up to six persons and Jim had already collared his workmate together with his partner and he now looked around for another couple when, who should walk in but Jo, Janice’s best friend (well ex best friend) and her boyfriend. Jim immediately pounced on them and dragged them over to their table. “Look who’s here,” he smiled at Janice, “we have a winning team now girl.” Janice found herself recoiling as Jo gave her a hug and just about forced a smile.

“You know Dan don’t you,” Jo gestured towards him as he gave her a smile and held out his hand. Janice knew Dan alright, in fact, most people knew Dan, he was a right boozer and Janice couldn’t understand how Jo had ended up with him. Although none of her business Janice had felt Jo could have done so much better, right now though she felt they deserved each other.

    Throughout the quiz, Janice noticed that Jim and Jo were getting very “familiar.” They whispered to each other and laughed without sharing the jokes. This made Janice feel very uncomfortable and she began to simmer.

Dan either didn’t notice or didn’t care as he poured pint after pint down hi neck.

The quartet, in fact, came up with very few correct answers and, had it not been for the other couple on their team they would almost certainly have finished last. As it happened they fished third from bottom and, disaster averted, Jim thought they should celebrate. “Anyone for another drink,”

Jim was already sozzled, same again Darling vodka and tonic?”

    Janice declined, saying she had a splitting headache and wanted to go home. She could see that Jim was annoyed but he begrudgingly agreed to join her. They said goodbye to the others, Janice taking particular note of the kiss Jim gave Jo, and then left for home.

    It was a short walk, the footpath running through a small wooded area before crossing the canal and joining the road that formed part of their estate. As they crossed the bridge Janice peered down at the cold dark water that flowed underneath and for a moment, an all-encompassing fleeting moment wished for an end to the torment she now endured.

    They arrived home and Jim immediately went to the lounge to pour himself a drink determined, it seemed, to make up for what he had missed out on at the pub. “Would you like one Darling?” Jim called out from the lounge, “OK,” replied Janice, thinking it an ideal opportunity to get the matter out in the open.

    She walked into the lounge and, as Jim handed her the drink, she asked bluntly, “are you having an affair with Jo?”

Jim nearly choked on his whisky and stared at her disbelievingly, “what did you say? Jim replied, giving himself a few extra seconds of thinking time. “I said are you having an affair with Jo?” Janice found herself shaking as she asked the question again. Jim hesitated for a moment longer before replying,

“Have you gone mad, what makes you think that?” Janice noted that Jim didn’t actually deny it before shouting, “I saw a text on your mobile it was from Jo, how do you explain that?”

Jim looked at her enquiringly, “What text,” Janice then explained how she had read the text repeating it word for word then found herself screaming,

“How do you bloody explain that then?”

Jim stared at her blankly before replying in an unemotional tone,

“Look, I don’t know what all this is about, perhaps she sent it by mistake, maybe it was for someone else, why don’t you ask her?”

Jim then switched the TV on before settling down to watch the highlights of the rest of the evening’s matches.

    To Janice, Jim’s reaction was an admittance of guilt and she left the room climbing the stairs with tears in her eyes.

    Janice was dreaming and the vision of Jim and Jo making love made her scream waking her up with sweat pouring down her face. Jim was snoring next to her as she glanced at the clock, the harsh red glare showed 2.30am. Janice slid out of bed and collecting her clothes, crept silently downstairs.

    She propped the envelope upon the mantlepiece before leaving the house closing the front door quietly behind her.

    The ducks had built a sleeping platform in the rushes under the bridge

That spanned the canal and they flapped nervously as a loud splash sent a wave that temporarily flooded it. After a few quacks and rustling of feathers, they settled down again, heads neatly tucked under their wings, oblivious to the release of a tormented soul.

    Jim woke up and reached over to touch Janice, his arm fell on an empty pillow. “Strange,” he thought, as he glanced at the clock. The red glare showed at 6.15am. Jim got out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and made his way downstairs.

    “Your up early,” he called out as he entered the kitchen, then, realizing it was empty, approached the lounge with a puzzled look on his face. He caught sight of the envelope as he entered and walked over to open it immediately. His jaw dropped as he read the message;

“I would have stayed up with you all night had I known

how to save a life. I am sorry but at least

you can get on with yours.”

“She’s gone and left me, stupid cow” Jim thought angrily and I’d gone to all that trouble to keep her special birthday treat a secret, Jo did say we ought to tell her but I thought it would be a great surprise.

Jim was seething as he looked up and saw the police car pull up outside the house.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate