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Tuesday, 7 November 2023

WORST HOLIDAY EVER (Part 1 of 4)

 WORST HOLIDAY EVER  (Part 1 of 4) 

 By Richard Banks 


It’s 7am, the sun’s shining and I’m packed and ready for the taxi that’s coming at a quarter past. Could anyone be more ready? I doubt it. The sooner I’m out of Drislow the better. No disrespect to the folk still living here but the town’s a dump and always has been. It was a dump in the 1800s when the first ironworks were built and now, twenty years after the last one shut down, it’s still a dump.

         The old timers say that the air’s never been as clear as it is now, that the smoke from the chimneys used to make blue skies grey and every cloud black, but with the mills went the jobs the town depended on. No wonder half the people who once lived here have left. As for those who remain, most are unemployed while a fortunate few, including myself, have work at Fareland’s new packaging and distribution centre, made possible by Government grants and low business rates. ‘A hundred new jobs,’ was the headline in the Gazette, ‘a major step in the regeneration of the town’. What they didn’t mention was that the company only pays minimum wages on zero hours contracts.

         I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining, it’s better than nothing, and because the firm never seems to have enough staff there’s always plenty of work for those ready to turn up at any hour of the day and do long shifts. And no one puts in more hours than me which is how, for two weeks in the fifty-two, I get to swop Drislow and Fareland for the Spanish Costa’s or the Algarve.

         The front door bell rings, two sharp blasts. It’s Ross, an old mate from our school days. He use to be Bar Manager at the Blackbird before it closed. Now he drives a cab, his own car. He does most of his business in Brum where he also picks-up and delivers packages. What’s in them no one knows, not even Ross. It’s cash in hand, so no questions asked. When you’re struggling to make ends meet that’s the way it is. 

         I put my suitcase in the boot and we’re off past the old back to back factory houses and into the High Road where the closed down shops are beginning to outnumber those still going. Ross says that the bank will soon be closing. For him this is good news. The nearest branch will soon be five miles away. For those without a car it will be him or the bus that will get them there. I close my eyes as we near the old factories on the edge of town, windows long broken and stripped of anything of value, including the lead in the roofs. The rain pours in which is bad news for the dossers that sleep there. I count to thirty, that should do it, and sure enough we’re past them and out into open country. I’ve escaped, the holiday’s begun and I couldn’t be more chuffed.

         This year I’m in a four star hotel in Montura. It’s not far from Torremolinos where I was a few years ago, but Montura, so the travel agent says, is better, classier. I should be paying twice as much as I am, but the guy who did, cancelled only a week ago so I’m his last minute, cut-price replacement. It’s full board and cheap drinks for guests, so I won’t be short of spending money in the bars and clubs of which, I’m assured, there are many.

         Ross drops me off at the airport where I check-in and wile away the time to take-off in MacDonalds. It’s a good place to check-out the unaccompanied talent. By the time the plane’s ready to board I’ve sussed out two going to the same resort but a different hotel. This is the third time that Kerry and Ella have been to Montura. It’s a great place, they say and there’s this really cool club called Roscoe’s where they go most evenings. “Sounds fun,” I say, “see you there.” Whether we do depends on who else we see and speak to in the next day or so. Even if we don’t meet up none of us are likely to be short of company.

         The plane takes off on time and lands just after mid-day. The holiday rep greets us in the arrival’s lounge and we’re bussed-off to our hotels in Torremolinos, Fuengirola, and finally Montura. The girls get out at the Alfredo while the rest of us are taken on to the Presidente where we retrieve our cases from the luggage compartment and form a line in reception. There’s a dozen of us and I’m at the back of the queue. Well, why rush, especially if it puts me behind two platinum blonds who are definitely worth some serious chat-up time. But I only have five minutes at most, so there’s no time to be lost. As a conversation starter I give them a hand with their cases. The one with Rita tattooed just beneath her shoulder blades tells me her name is Gemma. “Not Rita?” I say. “No,” she replies, “that’s Rita.” She giggles and points to the other girl who has Gemma etched on her shoulder.

         I’m confused, and it’s showing. Worst still they’re laughing now and it seems I’m the butt of their joke. Gemma hastens to reassure me. “Sorry, no offence,” she says, “but we’re an item; actually we’re on honeymoon.” She holds up her hand so I can see the gold band on her ring finger. I say congratulations and do my best to make small talk until they reach the reception desk. They collect their key card and follow the porter to their room.

         The receptionist turns her face towards me and I hand her my booking form and passport. She looks surprised and after staring blankly at the form tries to find my name on the list she’s been ticking off. “One moment, sir,” she says. “I need to speak to the manager.”

         This is not looking good and sure enough when she returns with said Manager it doesn’t take them long to decide that there’s been a mistake. Not only am I not on the list but their last four star room has just been allocated to Rita and Gemma. The Manager proffers his apologies and when I tell him that’s not good enough he agrees and upgrades me to their only five star room. He regrets that it has a double bed and not the single I requested, but hopes it will otherwise meet with my approval. He summons a porter who shows me into the Executive lift and we zoom up to the sixth floor where we step out onto a deep pile carpet that seems too good to walk on. I can’t wait to see my room, and when I do, I’m not disappointed, it’s got a fridge full of booze, Sky TV, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom and a balcony with a view across the bay. If this isn’t paradise it’s the next best thing and all I need now is to meet that special someone for the best holiday romance of all time.

         The porter’s evidently a thought reader. “There’s a pair of binoculars in the cupboard,” he tells me. “Very useful for locating friends on the beach.” If this was a three star room he might also be giving me a wink and telling me about a young lady he knows who would very much like to make the acquaintance of a young man like myself. But this is a five star room and, in keeping with my new found status, he assumes my sights will be set higher than the local pro. I give him the equivalent of a tenner and he departs looking less than impressed with my generosity. Who cares. If that’s not enough I don’t want to see him again. The next time I shell out that much it will be on someone a good deal better looking than him. 

         It’s still only 3pm. Time enough to shower and get down to the beach. The girls with the deepest tans are the most appealing but they’re the ones who’ve been here the longest and will soon be back home. Best to check out the pastier ones before the competition gets there first.   

         It’s always difficult to know whether to stick or twist on the first day and after meeting Abby from Manchester and Lorna from Leicester I return alone to the hotel intending, after dinner, to go to the club that Kerry and Ella were telling me about. But when I get there they’re nowhere to be seen. There is, however, this red head in a mini whose girlfriend is getting more than friendly with one of the local Romeos. It’s looking like three’s a crowd so I’m guessing she won’t be saying no when I offer to buy her a drink. But before I can take a step in her direction a voice shouts, “Up the Villa,” and this guy comes shooting over and grabs me by the shoulders like I’m his long lost friend. It turns out that his name is Faisal from the Arab Fed and he’s a life long Villa supporter. He tugs at the football shirt I’m wearing and almost twirls me around so he can see the name on the back. “Ollie Wilson,” he roars. “My favourite player. Good old Ollie! How many goals will he score next season, twenty at least. What do you think? No, don’t tell me here. Come, you join me and my friends. We’re over there by the window. I want to know everything you can tell me about the Villa. Did you know that they are one of the oldest clubs in the world? Yes, of course you do. You’re a number one fan, just like me.” He has me by the arm and evidently isn’t going to take no for an answer so I let him usher me over to his table where he introduces me as Ollie.   

         “Actually, it’s Dean,” I say, but it’s evident, even at this early stage, that if Faisal says my name is Ollie then that’s what it is. Anyway, what the hell, all I’m going to do is have a drink with the guy, talk some football and get back to that red head.

         Faisal’s friends consist of two young women in their mid twenties, two older guys in expensive white suits and another two who say nothing and seem to have no other function than to block off each side of the bay seat where we’re sat so that no one else gets in. Another ‘friend’, who’s clearly a lackey hovers nearby ready to do anything his master bids. Faisal is clearly an important man and when someone addresses him as “Your Highness” I cotton on to the fact that I’m in the presence of royalty.


         The men in suits introduce themselves as Asad and Karif. They’re polite, but not, I’m sensing, over keen on making my acquaintance. If it wasn’t for their leader they wouldn’t be giving me the time of day, but as long as Faisal finds me interesting I’m part of the in-crowd - my fifteen minutes of fame has finally arrived! The two women say nothing, silently taking in everything that’s going on, but making no effort to communicate their thoughts. It’s not until Faisal has dispatched the lackey to the bar for champagne, that he thinks to introduce them as Princess Fidelia and Princess Honora.  He swiftly returns to the subject of his beloved Villa.


         “Will there be any new signings? I’ve heard they’re after Perez. Can this be true?”  I tell him what I have read on the web but make it sound as though I have informants within the club. After a bottle of champagne, I’m also the bosom buddy of Ollie Wilson and half the team. Faisal laps it all up and at 2.30 in the morning is still going strong, which is more than can be said for the Princesses and guys in suits who look more than ready to call it a day. Fortunately for them the Bar Manager announces that Roscoe’s is closing and we troop out onto the pavement to find two Mercedes waiting for Faisal and his entourage.

         “My friend,” he says, engulfing me in another bear hug. “We can not part like this. We have so much more to say. Tomorrow we are going sailing. It will be good. You come too. I will send a car to pick you up at ten. We will have a wonderful day, yes?” This sounds like one heck of a good plan as many things do when you’re pie-eyed, but for once I know that come morning I’ll be more than pleased I said yes.

 

(To Be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks

Saturday, 4 November 2023

We are running out of Time!

 We are running out of Time!

 

Sis Unsworth


 

We are running out of time, is what I hear them say.

The ice caps are all melting, pretty soon they’ll slip away.

The forests are diminishing, the wildlife’s going too.

Some say that it’s apparent, and there’s not much we can do.

We are running out of time, and Brexit’s still not done,

just like headless chickens, we’re forever on the run.

The roads are always packed, with people in a hurry,

We are running out of time, the meter needs more money.

I’d like to write much more, and continue with this rhyme,

But I have a writer's meeting, and I’m running out of time

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Monday, 30 October 2023

THE CURSE OF THE HENDERSON FAMILY

 THE CURSE OF THE HENDERSON FAMILY

By Bob French 

Ann Henderson sat at the foot of her grandmother, spellbound, as she listened to her mumblings.  It was the first time she had heard the story that most of her relations, thought was an old wives’ tale.

“Be aware of the curse, I tell you.  If it wasn’t for Henry, none of this would have happened to us.”

Ann looked up into the wrinkled old face.  “Sorry Grandmama, what do you mean, ‘if it wasn’t for Henry?  What did this Henry do that was so terrible?”

“He was a British cavalry officer who, in the confusion of the
battle of Waterloo, rode down and killed a group of Irish nuns who had been helping the wounded. Once he realized what he had done, he dismounted and tried to help them, but it was too late. It is said that he knelt down beside one very old nun and tried to give her water, but she pushed his hand aside and asked him his name.  When he told her, she put a curse on him and his family: ‘that the eldest child of each family that bears the name of Henderson, and those who followed would be taken at the beginning of Sow-in Samhain.”

Ann not knowing what she had said frowned, “what is Sow-in Samhain?”

“Tis the same as Allhallowtide child.  The Days of the Dead.”

It was just before Ann’s twenty-fifth birthday whilst sheltering from the rain in Rayleigh Library that she picked up a book about ‘tracing your ancestry,’ a subject that had pricked her imagination many times since that time, eighteen years ago, when she had listened to her grandmama talk of the curse placed upon the Henderson family. 

She found a seat made herself comfortable and started to read.  Within a few hours, she was hooked; borrowed a few books on the subject, and she made an appointment with one of the family history researchers who operated in the library. As she went to leave one of the ladies who had also taken up the hobby explained that she should get in contact with as many of her living relatives as possible as it would save her hours of unnecessary work.

It didn’t take her long before she received replies from many of her relatives who made up the five branches of the Henderson family.  As she consumed this information, she started to build up the family tree.

Even after four weeks of raising false hopes and coming to dead ends, she concluded that she was still a novice. It also became clear that she was impatient and easily frustrated, something her mother had told her on several occasions. Some evenings she would be glued to her laptop searching for past relatives well into the early hours and coming up with nothing.

Her mind was invariably preoccupied with the research she had done the night before, and sometimes she would arrive at work, not knowing how she drove down the busy A12 to Colchester.

In time, the family tree started to take shape and after a grueling six-hour stint one cold, wintery October afternoon, it suddenly dawned upon her that nearly all the eldest children of three branches of the Henderson’s had died before their time. 

She stared at the screen for a while, trying to understand something that was nagging her, but she was exhausted, so closed her laptop and decided to have an early night.

Early the following morning, she was woken by a phone call from her mother to say that Cousin Mary had passed away during the night from alzheimers. She was fifty-two. Ann had never known Cousin Mary, so thought nothing of it, but made a mental note to update the family tree, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

* * *

Lengo Stomerwitch, a 35-year-old Polish heavy goods driver had just landed at Harwich, having driven across Europe during the night, and decided to stop just outside Colchester to grab a McDonald's breakfast, before he continued on down the A12.

Driving in the opposite direction was Ann.  She was tired and running late having gone back to sleep after her mother’s dawn phone call.  As she moved quickly along the outside lane, her mind drifted back to the moment when she thought she had an epiphany. She tried to recall what it was, but weariness and frustration quickly took over her. Then it began to rain.

Lengo Stomerwitch, swore at the English weather as the rain increased and his visibility started to fade.  He was tired and needed to rest, but he knew that if he did not reach Chelmsford in time, he would lose his bonus, so increased his speed.  He was approaching the Witham turn-off, a known trouble spot on the A12, when he first felt his eyes close, but quickly took a deep breath and regained control of his huge truck.

Ann, was deep in thought.  Something was there, staring her in the face, but what was it?  Then it came to her.  She was the last eldest child of the fifth branch of the Henderson family.  As she changed up and accelerated to overtake, she shook her head; there was something else that bugged her.  She felt it on the tip of her tongue, but what was it?? 

As the rain thundered on the roof of her car, the noise around her increased. She leaned forward and turned up the radio.  All around her horns were starting to blare; large trucks and cars were slowing down, but Ann kept her foot on the pedal. Then she heard the DJ wish everyone, “a happy Trick or Treat or Allhallowtide if you are into old witch’s tales.”

Then it came to her as the bright lights of something very large came crashing towards her on the wrong side of the road.

It was the last day of October; Halloween. She was the last of the eldest children of the Hendersons.’ In a blink of an eye, everything made sense and she screamed, “Oh God! it’s me.”

Everything around her shook; her windscreen shattered; her seat belt wrenched at her neck and shoulder and she felt the car start to tumble through the air, then a cold still silence settled around her.  After a few seconds, the light in her eyes started to fade.

Copyright Bob French

 

Riddles 06

 Halloween 1920

Have you ever thought how it was celebrated in earlier years?

Pre: WWI,  WWII, before the Korean conflict?  Before covid... 



Well, the Riddler knows...



A man describes his daughters saying:

They are all blond but two, all brunette but two.  
they are all redheads but two...

How many daughters does he have?

The Riddler

Sunday, 29 October 2023

The Indian Summer

 The Indian Summer

By Sis Unsworth 


We had an Indian summer, that took us by surprise.

The colours of this autumn, are enhanced before our eyes.

Lovely dry warm afternoons, the sun in all its glory.

The nights beginning to draw in, but that’s another story.

People in their summer clothes, adorn the parks and streets,

packed tables outside restaurants, and queues waiting for seats.

Nature looked quite puzzled, not sure of anything,

The sky so blue, the earth so warm, it surely can’t be spring?

the Indian summer now is gone, seems it just moved on,

Nature now is less confused, awaiting winter's song.

Then on the weather forecast, someone mentioned snow,

so treasure all your memories, of that lovely autumn glow.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Saturday, 28 October 2023

Riddles 05

 Riddles 05 

By the Riddler


 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  A Plane crashes off the coast of Bermuda.  Every single person died, yet there were two survivors.  How could that happen?

 

No 2.   What 5-letter word becomes shorter when two letters are added? What is that word?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

Halloween Fantasy

 Halloween Fantasy

By Jane Goodhew


Was it really that time again, it was so hard to believe that it was a year ago that it all happened, it seemed like only yesterday.  Everyone was getting ready to go to the Halloween Ball and had worked hard to make sure it would be perfect.  The rose petals had been stored since summer but still looked as fresh as the day they had been picked.  So many colours, some pastel others more vivid and vibrant for those who wanted to be noticed and there would be plenty that did as this ball was special as the prince himself would be there.  The future king of Fantasy Land, a land full of fairies, pixies, elves and of course witches both the good and the bad.  They all inhabited the gardens of those who still believed in dreams and love and forever after.  If you go out into your garden and are very, very quiet, look carefully, you will see them, busy trying to get the hall ready, sweeping leaves away to be re-scattered later to cover the floor in a thick, luxurious carpet of warm rustic brown and burnt orange which will crackle underfoot as the guests enter the hall and later as they dance around the floor.  The pixies are putting the tables out made of twigs and bark from the silver birch with small mushrooms for stools so that everyone can be seated for the banquet which will take place at 9pm before the dancing which goes on until Midnight.  The large mushrooms provide shelter should it rain, and the spider’s webs keep the draught out and catch any mischief makers who might try to spoil the evening.  As it is Halloween there are often many who would rather create chaos and mayhem than just have fun and enjoy the night and so the spiders keep a watch and throw out the troublesome ones or keep them stuck fast to their web until the night is over.                            

Annabella had looked forward to the evening all her life, she dreamt of growing up and meeting her Prince and then as in the story books living happy and content for the rest of her life with the man she loved and the children they had together.  Life was going to be bliss.  She had been to the dressmaker that very afternoon to pick up her ball-gown made of the most delicate rose petals that he had to offer in soft shades of pink and lavender that would glisten in the moonlight as if they were covered in a thousand diamonds that sparkled and lit up the room but were the dew that had remained upon them and would until the dress was packed away to be made into potpourri as a memento of the evening.  She was so excited she could hardly wait, and she was determined to look her best and not be outshone by any of the other fairies especially as she knew they had come from far and wide in the hope that the prince would notice them.   Annabella had been told from an early age that she was the prettiest girl for miles around and although she was not vain she knew this to be true because her Mother had a mirror just as in the old folk tales that would say who was the most beautiful fairy in the area and it always said ‘Annabella is the most lovely and exquisite in the whole of fairyland, there is no one more attractive than she’. 

Annabella thought of the previous year and a dark sadness overcame her as in her mind she went back there and recalled every hideous moment which she had been watching through her globe and wished she could find a way to make up for all the hurt that had been caused that night even though she was not to blame but her evil twin Pandora.  Pandora had always been jealous of her sister and had teased her ever since she was able to talk and would play unpleasant jokes on her or blame her for things that she herself had done.  She was popular amongst the locals because they feared her and preferred to remain on her good side if there was one.  Just like today, everybody had been working hard to make the evening a great success and it would have been if Pandora could have just left her black magic at home.

 


The hall was full to bursting and everyone was so happy, laughter filled the air and smiles lit up the room as did the light from the full moon.     The pixies had just finished clearing away the last of the dinner plates and the goblets were being filled with pink champagne so they could all raise their glasses and give thanks to another successful year.  That was the last time that anyone who had been there that night knew what it was to smile or to be happy or to give thanks because since then all their lives had been plunged into blackness and an overwhelming sadness that they could not find a way out from.  A wind had come out of nowhere and started to get stronger and stronger until the guests were being lifted off the ground and thrown into the air then as suddenly as it had come, it ended and they came down to earth with a bump.  Stunned into silence they looked at one another as the thunder crashed and the lightening zapped through the hall setting light to the leaves that were tinder dry, the fire quickly spread and panic overcame each and every one of them as the smoke became so thick that they could not see the exit.  They cried out to each other, they tried to fly but something kept their wings from working so they huddled together that was the end, the last anyone remembers because the next day there was nothing to show of the disaster that had just occurred.  When I say nothing that is not quite true because the difference was that everyone who had been there that night had changed, they were no longer young and beautiful and fit and healthy but old, craggy, bent over and their memory was failing, some days they could not even remember their own names.  Annabella and all her friends had been spared because they were too young to attend, this year would be their first ball and they were hoping that a miracle could be performed and that the spell that had been cast a year ago could be lifted, that love would succeed and hate would fail, that Pandora would see the error of her ways and find forgiveness in her heart.   It had not been meant that she would not receive an invite to the ball, it was a genuine mistake, the elf who had neatly hand-written out every letter had not known that Pandora had been born at 11.59pm and Annabella 12.09am so Pandora had been old enough to attend and had felt slighted at being missed out.  She had worked herself up into such a state she could not think straight and instead of going to the Mayor and explaining the error which would have been easy to rectify she instead reeked misery on all those who did go which also meant that all their relatives suffered too when they saw how their children had become.  Since that night no-one had heard or seen Pandora, she had vanished into thin air which is why the curse could not be lifted because only the fairy who placed it could remove it, that or a new love that would last a lifetime and it was that love that Annabella dreamed of.

Copyright Jane Goodhew