Riddles 03

The Riddler

No 1.  I sound like one letter but I'm written with three.

I show you things when you look through me.

What am I?

 

No 2.  In a clothing store in Rowayton USA, 

socks cost 25 dollars,

a vest cost 20 dollars

a blouse cost 30 dollars

a tie cost 15 dollars

with this method, how much does underwear cost?

 

Bring it on Riddler

 

 The man most likely to Succeed. 

By Len Morgan

  When I look back on my childhood, one person immediately springs to mind. Barry O’Donnell ~ was a handsome lad ~ and the one most likely to succeed in life.  Dough to his friends, was a charismatic guy, intelligent, witty, and inventive. His passions were modern & traditional Jazz, and Science fiction.   In 1960, at 15 years of age, he was a gifted artist who could paint incredible Sci-fi panoramas so vivid you could imagine you were there.   He idolised an artist, in Weird & Astounding Sci-fi comics, who simply signed his work as DITCO.   Dough was a poet and songwriter, who also wrote stories that could make you laugh or cry.    He would spend endless hours drinking brown ale, and listening to Elvis, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochrane, Jerry Lee and other rock stars of that era.   But mostly he loved the Jazz of Chris Barber, Bix Beiderbek, the Dutch Swing College Band, Duke Ellington, Earl Bostic, Dizzie, Bird, and Ella Fitgerald.  

   At school, he was a gifted ‘A’ stream student, always top of the class.   It seemed that the world was his oyster.   If anybody from Eastbury Secondary School for Boys was going to make a name for himself it was Dough!   But, he had one enormous flaw.   An anarchic antisocial streak that left us, his friends, embarrassed and feeling obliged to apologise for his thoughtless words and actions.   You see we loved him, we appreciated his finer qualities, and wanted others to do likewise.   But Dough, predictable as the weather was guaranteed to do something offensive to alienate somebody - often violently.

“Sorry he behaved like that, he’s really a great guy but, when he drinks…”   Whilst we apologised Dough would wander off, doing his own thing, wreaking havoc, oblivious to the trouble he’d caused and the efforts we put in to make things right! 

   On a school trip, to France, he got drunk and rode off on the local gendarmes bike - there was a gun pointed at his back as we remonstrated with the officer.   We retrieved his bike and apologised, but Dough still spent a night in the cells learning gutter French, and how to drink cheap red wine, with the town drunk; skills he would make use of, in later years, as he travelled the continent as an itinerant grape picker in France, Italy, and Spain.

   Back home he continued to paint and write breathtaking stuff but refused to submit anything for publication.   I believe, that above all, he feared rejection.   But, we will never know, on 5^th Nov 1961 he burned everything, on a bonfire, in his parent's back garden.  

  When he left school he worked in a succession of menial jobs from which he was sacked for disrespect, verbal abuse, bad timekeeping, unreliability, turning up drunk, and fighting.   His longest employment lasted less than six weeks, he didn’t give a toss; he was unemployable. So finally I gave up on him.  I joined a rock group as their singer and saw less and less of Dough.   When we did meet I found myself repelled by his outlandish antisocial behaviour.

   In 1964, I joined the Army for 9 years, serving in Germany, Cyprus, and the Trucial Oman.   I was home on leave the last time I saw Dough, it was in 1969, at 2am in the morning, he was paralytic drunk, and urinating up the front doors of the Barking Town Hall; showing his regard for authority.   I didn’t stop to talk I just looked him straight in the eyes, thinking of all that wasted potential, he glared straight back at me without a glimmer of recognition, and I walked on by.

   In 1974 I read, in the Barking & Dagenham Post with regret, that Barry O’Donnell, aged 29 of no fixed abode, died on the streets of a drug overdose.  Should I, Could I have done anything to change the course of his life?  I think not.

  Some people are like moths.  Try as you will to keep them away from a candle flame, they will inevitably crash and burn.  Sadly, it is their nature.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 Didn’t you hear me?

Janet Baldey
 

The heavy oak doors burst open and Leo fled down the curved white steps.  Without hesitation, he heeled to the left and strode down the street.  His mouth was raked into a thin line and furrows scarred his face.  There was just one thought in his mind, he had to get away from the grey faced men and their grey voices and away from the few friends who’d attended the hearing, knowing he couldn’t stomach their clumsy shoulder-pats and embarrassed sympathy.  His anger, simmering just below the surface ever since it happened, flared, and became white-hot.  How could she have done this to him?  He’d reached his car by now and stood thumping its roof with fury.

         At last, feeling dead inside, he got into the car.  For a long time, he sat, watching skeletal trees bowing under a freshening breeze. Slowly, he reached out his hand and switched on the ignition.  Immediately, the husky voice of his wife’s favourite singer, flooded the car.   His hand shot towards the ‘off’ switch but the damage had been done and his shoulders heaved as he lowered his head onto the steering wheel.

         “Why, Catherine. Why?”

         It was almost dark by the time he recovered.  He knew he couldn’t return to an empty house, so he headed in the opposite direction, threading his way through the evening rush hour, out of the city and onto the coast road.

         When he reached the boatyard, it was almost midnight.  Leo parked the car and stood looking out over the moorings.  The wind was blowing hard now, sending tattered clouds scudding over the moon.  All around him, he could hear the slap of the waves, the clinking of halyards and the creak of vessels being buffeted by the rolling swell.  He drew in a breath of salt-laden air and, despite everything, felt himself relax.  He’d always loved this place.  He’d bought Catherine a yacht, just after they’d lost their third child, thinking it might take her mind off her grief.  After, they had spent almost every weekend sailing.  The rougher the sea, the better Catherine liked it.  On his work desk, he kept a picture of her at the tiller.  Her hair was streaming in the wind and her face was beaded with spray.  He never tired of looking at it, when things were tough, it gave him strength.

         Suddenly, the words of her favourite song reverberated in his head….Didn’t I tell you, I’ll love you forever?  Didn’t you hear me?

         They were very young when they first met but he’d known, almost at first sight, that she was the one.  He remembered walking into the church youth club, intent on having a game of table tennis and a laugh with his mates. Then, he caught sight of a small, serious-faced girl with a cloud of black hair and big brown eyes.  She reminded him of a faun, so small, so dark, so silent.  He found himself wanting to protect her.  He squeezed his eyes shut and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him.  He’d meant to do his best but at the very time she’d needed him most, he’d failed her.

         At first, they were happy just to be together.  He remembered one sun-kissed afternoon when they’d ran along the sands at Rye, her slim, brown legs struggling to keep up with his and her protesting squeals as he brushed sand from her hair after they’d made love in the dunes.  She’d been so joyful then, her future stretched out before her, golden with promise like the sands they raced along.

         All Catherine had wanted from their marriage was to be a wife and mother.  She was not interested in a career; “a real home bird” his mother had called her.  But that was before; after losing three babies in a row, they’d started the soul-destroying round of specialist consultations.  With every visit, hope leached away and her happiness faded.  At first, he’d been supportive but as he became more and more caught up in his career, its distractions followed him home and he failed to notice how pale she was becoming.   All she wanted was to hold her baby; that was her tragedy and it was also his that he never fully realised how deep her longing was.  She sank into depression, her spirit languished and she spent long hours sitting alone in silence.  Then, the attacks of vertigo and dizziness began.  At first, their GP put it down to ‘nerves’ and offered antidepressants and it was only when she collapsed that she was taken seriously.  When MS was finally diagnosed, Leo was shocked into realising how far she had degenerated.  At long last, a surge of tenderness welled and he’d folded her slight figure in his arms. 

         “Don’t worry darling.  I’ll always be here to look after you,” he’d said.

         Didn’t you hear me?  Evidently, she hadn’t.  He’d come back from work one day, opened the front door and immediately felt the emptiness.  Pounding up the stairs, he burst into their bedroom only to find her limp body prostrate on the bed, her dark hair a curtain covering her face and an empty bottle of pills upended on the floor.

         Leo knew he couldn’t live without her.  Moving slowly, he raised the sail, heard the snap of the canvas as the wind took it and saw it billowing ghostly in the moonlight.  He nodded, bad weather was forecast and that would suit his purpose.  He cast off from the jetty and hauled on the tiller.  Without bothering to switch on his navigation lights, he set off and as he did, the first squall of icy rain slapped him full in the face.

Copyright Janet Baldey

        

         

 Riddles 02

The Riddler

Two more puzzles today ~ 2:

 

No1 sometimes I'm hot sometimes I'm cold  I can run and I can be still.

I can be soft and I can be hard what am I?

 

No 2 George, Helen and Steve are drinking coffee.

Bert Karen and Dave are drinking coke.

What is Elizabeth drinking?

 

Answers to Len, so that everybody gets a chance to be clever…

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 APOINTMENT WITH DEATH

By John Smith

Sir Miles Henderson stared at the report, then looked up at his Chief of Staff.

“George, It would appear that the Russians have got the central African nations all sewn up in a bag; arms supplies, military cooperation and training. How do we infiltrate and destroy them?

Before his Chief of Staff could answer, he asked him to arrange a meeting with Bud Wolensky of the US embassy.

 During their brief meeting, it was decided that each would send a man to investigate the situation and restore the balance of power in Africa.

Henry Nielson, eased himself into the cubical in the Railway Tavern just outside Southend Airport, carefully placing his pint of bitter on the beer-stained table and waited. As he stared aimlessly at the faded pictures of bygone locomotives that hung on the walls he pondered the task that lay ahead.  His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden cold draft that forced its way into the warm bar.  A tall, well-built man stood and quickly glanced around the room, then made his way towards the bar.  Minutes later he approached Henry.

          “Do you think the Shrimpers will get promoted this season?”

          Without blinking, Henry responded. “The women’s team will, but I doubt the men have got it in them?”

          The man quickly sat down and in a hushed voice spoken with an American accent. “McKenzie, out of Langley.”

          Henry went to shake hands but quickly realized it was not the done thing. “Nielson, Whitehall.”

          For twenty minutes they chatted about nothing of interest.  When they had finished their drinks, they both left and started to walk the streets of Southend.

          McKenzie spoke first. “So, have you done this kind of work before?”

          Henry smiled, realizing that the man had not read his file.  “A bit. Mainly on the African continent.  You?”

          “Yeh, a bit here and there.”

          It started to rain as they began to walk along the famous pier and once alone started to discuss in detail the operation at hand. The next time they would meet would be in May of 2023, in the town of Vesilivka, on the fringe of the Kremenets Mountains National Park, southwest of Kyie in Ukraine; specially selected as the thickly wooded area and the surrounding mountains would shield their satellite communications and avoid detection from those who wanted to interfere.

          It was three in the morning when Henry, sitting in a rented house in Vesilivka, put down the handset and smiled.

McKenzie looked up from reading an intelligence report.

“Who was that?”

“Major Igor Vassilovitch, company commander of the Wagner 43^rd Infantry company.

“One of your inside men, no doubt? Anything interesting?”

“Yes.  He says that Prigozhin, the leader of the Wagner Group is getting really pissed off with General Shoigu, the Minister of Defence and his side-kick, General Gerasuimov, the Chief of the General Staff.  It appears that these two want the Wagner mercenaries transferred under the control of the Army so they can discreetly milk their unlimited financial and weapons resources.”

McKenzie slowly nodded. “That’s good.  Do you think it’s time to start phase one?”

Henry thought for a minute, then nodded.  “I’ll make the call to GCHQ and start the ball rolling.”

Two days later, TASS, the Russian government news organisation reported that hackers had infiltrated the networks of many large Moscow banks and hospitals including the total disruption of the rail, tram and bus services in and around the Russian capital. The consequences were as expected and the people wanted their government to sort it out, and now!

McKenzie smiled as he read the Russian newspapers, then glanced at Henry. “Phase two, I think? I’ll give Langley a call.”

Within 48 hours, The Russian intelligence services noticed a huge increase in traffic from Facebook, Twitter, and Snapchat users across the country openly complaining about the incompetent way the country was being run, how the war was going, and some very disturbing comments about Putin.

It was the end of May. McKenzie took a satellite message from the telex machine and read it quickly, then glanced up at Henry.  “You need to read this.”

As Henry read the telex which stated that the Wagner Group had to give a lot of ground due to a shortage of ammunition. McKenzie lent over and studied the map of eastern Ukraine. “Phase three to begin.”

Henry nodded.  I’ll contact Igor and warn him.”

“How long have you known this Major Vassilovitch.  Can you really trust him?

Henry smiled. “I met Igor at Cambridge. We both read law.  When the Russians invaded Crimea, Igor returned to Ukraine and joined his country's intelligence service, then when the Wagner Group entered Ukraine, he crossed over to them. He was a lieutenant then, and now he commands an infantry company.  Of course, I trust him.”

Within three days, Igor had covertly intercepted the supply convoy just as it crossed into Ukraine and discretely spirited away the ammunition, supplies and money destined for the Wagner Group through his black-market network. Yevgeny Prigozhin, went ballistic and immediately got onto Moscow, insisting that he speak with the Minister of Defence, demanding to know where his supplies were.  Gerasimov, the Chief of the General Staff took the call and was totally unaware of what had happened and attempted to pacify Prigozhin.  He was met with threats that if he could not supply his men in the field, then he would come up to Moscow and cut his throat, and that of that idiot, Shoigu.

Two weeks later it happened again, and as predicted, Prigozhin publically advocated that he was going to Moscow to execute the Minister of Defence.

On the 24^th of June, American satellites picked up a small Wagner battle group crossing the Ukraine border and slowly starting to move towards Rostov-on-Don, enroute to Moscow. They also picked up that General Shoigu had fled from Rostov-on-Don and, shortly after, the private jet of Putin had flown from Moscow to St Petersburg, later that night.

Social media throughout Russia, driven by the CIA, quickly latched onto this coup against Putin.  Within a matter of hours, the story had gone around the world.  All of a sudden, Yevgeny Prigozhin was the people’s new crusader.

Igor, who had a good working relationship with Prigozhin, spoke to him before he left for Moscow and attempted to warn him that Putin would see his move on Moscow as mutiny, and if captured, he would be eliminated.  “You will have an appointment with death, Sir.”

Prigozhin smiled at him. “Then you must save me,” was all he said, before he turned and climbed onto his tank.

Henry turned to McKenzie. “Right, phase four. Can you get everything ready?”

A week later, once the move against Moscow had petered out, TASS reported that Putin had refused to meet Prigozhin and was going to charge him with treason. Then, after public outcry, again orchestrated by the CIA, It was declared that Putin had asked the president of Belarus, Alexander Lukashenko, to mediate the terms in which the Wagner Group, would be disarmed and sent to Belarus in exile.

During the weeks that followed the attempted coup, phase five was enacted.  The Canadian Globe and Mail, CNN, The New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal all published names of senior Russian generals who, based on reliable sources inside Russia, were complicit in supporting Prigozhin’s attempted coup.

Henry had to hand it to McKenzie.  His misinformation campaign proved very effective with eight senior Russian officers being quietly removed on the orders of the President by the FSB, never to be seen again.

Then on the 23^rd August, the private jet carrying Yevgeny Prigozhin and nine of his senior Wagner officers, flying from Moscow to St. Petersburg was shot down by Russian anti-aircraft missiles, killing everyone.

Early on Monday the 30th August, Henry, Igor and McKenzie flew back to London.  At the debrief, later that day, Sir Miles sat spellbound as Igor explained the last phase of the plan.

“As you know Sir, the Wagner Group was sent into exile on the 27^th June.  I knew that the Boss still had a lot to do with the closing down of his businesses in Moscow. 

Once I got his itinerary, I began to plan.  The first thing I had to do was to recruit a look-a-like and position him in the toilets of the Central Bank in Moscow, which was the penultimate bank on his program.  The others knew of the plan to switch him during the day.  The Boss pretended to have a bad cold, so he wore a scarf, and his favourit thick woolen hat. I have to say, his double did a convincing job of fooling the FSB, who closely followed them everywhere they went.  At the last moment, the Boss went to the toilet and the switch was made.”

“I had already visited the airfield where his jet was parked late that night and removed something that would cause the jet to fail its pre-flight test.  In the morning I explained to the senior aircrew officer that his jet was to be thoroughly checked before take-off.  In the event of it failing its pre-flight routine, I explained that I had a back-up jet in hanger 27. Sure enough, the Boss’s party arrived on time, and, as expected, the jet failed its pre-flight checks, so the aircrew rushed over to hanger 27 and quickly loaded everyone on board, then took off.  Fifteen minutes out, the bomb I had placed on the jet exploded, killing everyone on board.”

One of the officials sitting in on the debrief suddenly sat up. “You killed your Boss, but why?”

Sir Miles Henderson frowned at the man. “Do pay attention, Smithers.”

The boys back at Langley spread the word that Putin had assassinated the leader and his command team of the Wagner Group, by shooting down his jet.   And on the 29^th of August, the whole world watched as the Boss was buried in St. Petersburg. Again, Russian media exploded with threats against Putin.

“And where is Yevgeny Prigozhin at this moment, young man?”

“Long after his party had left the bank, he exited from a side door disguised as an elderly woman, crossed the road, and met up with Sergeant Major Max Stanislas, one of your boys I understand.  They caught the train down to Starobud, just inside the Russian border where a Ukrainian helicopter, hedge hopped across the border, picked them up, and flew them to Warsaw International Airport.” 

Major Igor Vassilovitch glanced at his watch.  “They should be landing at Stansted about now Sir.”

Sir Miles Henderson leaned back in his chair.  “Gentlemen, well done.  Has Mr. Prigozhin agreed to cooperate?”

Igor smiled.  “Yes Sir.  He has agreed to give us and the American’s the full breakdown of the whole central African weapons distribution chain, including who the main ring leaders are.  The breakdown of the Russian deployment along with what is left of the Wagner Group.”

McKenzie cut in.  “We also destabilized the Russian government, removed several high-ranking officials and turned the population again Putin.  Not a bad couple of months’ work.”

 

Now the question is, is he alive or not?

Copyright John Smith

 Riddles 01

By the Riddler

 

Settle down now RLWG2020...  The Riddler says he has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1 what word is pronounced the same if you take away 4 of its 5 letters?

 

No 2  Five sisters are all busy. Ann is reading a book, Rose is cooking, Katy is playing chess, and Mary is doing the laundry, What is the 5th sister doing?

 

 

Riddler says he will feed us a couple each day.

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 Painted Smile

By Jane Goodhew  

Winds blow, the river still flows, like my love for you once did

Until you shied away from me and let me down as you hid

Like a clown behind a painted smile, you deceive

No mention to stay where I was, that you had lied and could not leave

 

Instead, you led the lover into dreams of future plans and journeys to a foreign land

Although you felt an empty space where once had been my wedding band

As you sat that night and held my hands to warm them from the cold

Not once did you say you were not free, to be with me, no my love, you were not bold

 

You hid behind mumbled words that did not disclose how you had lied

Of your betrayal of one who had always trusted as a naïve child

Who gave you unconditional love and would have understood

If you had from the start just told the truth, instead, you chose

 

To lie and break my heart again which no words can ever mend

Yet you continue to deceive but sadly I now know, it is all, pretend.

                                                                       

 Copyright By Jane Goodhew