CHRISTMAS ON MY OWN 1

 CHRISTMAS ON MY OWN ~ Part One of two

By Bob French

Amanda had decided to leave London and take her skills as a newly qualified nurse to one of the outlying towns where the pressure was a little less and she could distance herself from her past; in particular Philip, a cruel, jealous and greedy man who betrayed her just before Christmas two years ago.  Since then, she has always spent Christmas on her own.  Her father worked for the Foreign Office, so he and her mother were always overseas. 

It was early November and she was already dreading another Christmas on her own.

          As Amanda finished her rounds of the adult wards, she often quietly crept into the children's ward to see if they needed a hand.  She enjoyed helping out where ever she could and Clair, who was a senior nurse appreciated her help.

As she slumped down into a soft chair in the nurse’s restroom for lunch one Thursday, Clair looked across at her with a frown on her face.

“Hey, Amanda, what’s up with you. Nothing planned for this weekend?” Clair said with a twinkle in her eye.

          Amanda Anabel shrugged her shoulders.  “Can you believe it?  I’ve done all my Christmas shopping online.”  She paused, as if to contemplate her achievement, then frowned and shook her head.  “I would normally be out on the high street shopping right up to Christmas Eve, but doing it all on-line sort of took the fun out of Christmas. I enjoyed the crowds, the hustle and bustle, the carol singers, all the toys and things and the smell of roasted chestnuts on the high street.” She then felt sadness creep over her as the thought of spending Christmas on her own again sunk into her thoughts.

Clair stood and came and sat next to her.

“What you need is a girls’ night out.  Shake off those blues.  Philip is long gone and good riddance to the beast. He was never any good for you.”

Amanda looked up as Clair waved over Pam her best friend.

“This girl needs a night out.  Do you know if they are playing at home?”

Amanda frowned at the question, but Pam quickly pulled out her phone and after a few seconds, grinned and nodded her head.  “Yep.  Looks like it’s a good night out after all.  I’ll call Jilly and Donna.”

Amanda, still confused by the planning of this ‘night out’ going on around her, stood and straightened her uniform.

“Can someone please tell me what this ‘girls’ night out’ is going to be? Where is it and do I need to get dressed up?”

Pam rested a hand on her shoulder. Don’t worry.  Wear boots, jeans and a warm woolly pullover and something to keep your head warm and dry, oh, and wear your Barber.  I will pick you up at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon from your place.

Amanda reluctantly nodded and as Pam left, she turned to Clair and quietly asked.

“Do you know where we are going?”

Clair smiled. “Amanda, believe me, you will thoroughly enjoy it, trust me.”

With a toot on her car horn, Amanda rushed down and got into the car. Clair drove for about fifteen minutes during which time she refused to be drawn by Amanda’s questions about what to expect, until she slowed down, then pulled slowly round a corner and passed a brightly coloured sign; ‘Welcome to the Dragons Rugby Football Club’.

Amanda glanced at the sign as it drifted past with a frown on her face.  “Rugby?”

“I bet by the end of the evening, you’ll thank me and the girls.”

As they got out of the car it started to rain and Amanda silently thanked Clair for her instructions regarding what to wear.

The clubhouse was packed with people of all ages.  The festive spirit seemed very much in the air as they made their way to the bar to get a drink. Clair turned to look for a table when she heard Jilly yelling over the noise of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ on the duke box.

Once they were all seated Jilly leant across and touched Amanda’s hand.  She nodded to the tall, well-built man with dark brown coloured hair and a nine o’clock beard.

“This is my Brian and over there is Ian, he’s madly in love with Donna.  Amanda glanced across at Ian and was taken by the size of him.  He looked about five foot ten, but his neck, chest and shoulders were huge.

Amanda nodded at them.  “I take it that you both play rugby?”

Ian spoke in a broad Scottish accent. “Ay, but it’s the second team playing today lass.”

Suddenly someone rang a bell at the bar and the place started to empty.

“Come on Amanda, let’s go.”  Without a word, she stood and followed the girls along with the crown from the clubhouse as they made their way down to the pitch.

The game was fast and furious.  No one seemed to care about the rain or the mud.  It was halfway through the second half when a tall man with straw-coloured hair punched through the opposition to score a try.  The crowds along the touch-line went hysterical, and even when he failed to convert, they still cheered.

Amanda watched in fascination at the men from both teams crashed into each other, or fought for the ball in the thick slimy mud and rain.  Then suddenly a player from the visiting team gathered up the ball and was sprinting down the wing towards her. The spectators fell silent as there was no doubt about it, he was going to score a try.  Out of nowhere, the tall man who had scored the first try shot across the pitch hit the man with a tackle that took them both sliding off the pitch into a bunch of spectators.

 Clair, along with the rest of the spectators quickly moved out of the way of the two men sliding majestically towards them. Amanda froze as she watched in slow motion as the two huge mud-covered players slid toward her.

The man with the ball slid into Amanda, knocking her off her feet, but the man who had tackled him had dug his studs into the grass and rose with the momentum just in time to catch Amanda in mid-flight.

She went to scream but suddenly felt his arms gently gather around her and put her back on her feet.

“Sorry Miss. I do hope you’re alright?”  Amanda was speechless.  She tried to thank him, but her mouth was dry; her eyes stared up into his bright blue eyes and she felt her heart jump.  Before she could get control of herself, he had brushed past her, held out his hand to the man who had the ball and pulled him up, then trotted back onto the muddy pitch.

Amanda stood quite still for a while until someone next to her was asking if she was alright.

“Oh! yes, yes thank you.”

The final whistle brought cheers from all the spectators, especially the home team as they had, for the first time, beaten the top team in their league.

The third half, as known in rugby circles, was something to remember.  Everyone; the home and away team and their spectators joined in the singing, dancing and merriment of the evening until the bell at the bar rang again.

Throughout the evening, Amanda had been discretely trying to seek out the tall man with straw-coloured hair and blue eyes, to thank him for saving her from the embarrassment of falling face down in the mud, but failed.

The rain had continued into Monday morning as Amanda and Clair met for the morning shift.

“Well, did you enjoy the night out?” Clair smiled, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, thank you so much.  Not for the hangover on Sunday morning though, but the whole experience.  I really enjoyed myself. It would have been nice if I could have thanked the chap who saved me from the mud.”

Clair looked into Amanda’s eyes and laughed. “Not a chance. His name’s Roddy, and he’s smitten with Holly.  You’re going to have to be very special if you want to win him over.”

“Does he play every weekend?”

Clair saw that look again.  “No. He only plays when there is a second-team home game. He’s a farmer and doesn’t like being away from the farm or Holly for too long.”

The ward was busy and whilst Amanda concentrated on the numerous tasks, she couldn’t help thinking about the man who saved her in the mud and rain.

The second team weren’t playing at home until the first week of December and Clair didn’t have to invite Amanda to the game.

That Saturday was a bright and windy day.  Amanda watched keenly as the man with straw-coloured hair swerved in and out of the players, or rummaged around on the floor in a great heap of steaming bodies trying to free the ball.

The game was a draw and once again, Amanda tried to spot Roddy in the crowd of the clubhouse, but he never seemed to be there. Clair caught her staring around the club room and stepped up beside her.

“Looking for someone?”

Amanda jumped with surprise at the challenge, then tried to make some excuse, but Clair nodded and smiled at her.

“Me thinks you have the hots for him, am I right?”

Amanda smiled and felt her face blush. She hadn’t done that in a long time, she thought. “Well, Maybe.”

“They run a small farm just out the back of the railway station.  Does alright by local reckoning.”  Amanda smiled, hiding her feelings that she would be interfering in their life if she pushed herself in.

Three days later, having received an unexpected Christmas card from Uncle Jim, she had decided to quickly pop out during her lunch break and buy him something.  Just as she crossed the road towards Smiths, she spotted Roddy. He was strolling along the pavement as though he had not a care in the world.  Amanda quickly stepped into the doorway of Boots and watched him as he raised a hand to a woman who was slowly walking towards him.  She noticed that woman had a smile to die for.  They met on the pavement and hugged each other, then hand in hand they went into The Crown and Anchor. 

Amanda stared at the woman.  She was beautiful; slim, nice clothes and hair neat and tidy.  So that was Holly.  Her selfish thoughts of breaking up a happy family now firmly cast out of her mind. With anger and frustration in her mind, she turned, and as though on a forced route march, stormed back to work.  Any thought of getting Uncle Jim a Christmas present long forgotten.

The meeting played on Amanda’s mind for the rest of the day and her moods matched her feelings.  Clair, who had noticed, had asked her a couple of times if she was alright, but only received a grunt. After her shift, instead of helping out on the Children’s ward, she went straight home.

Sitting in her dark and cold flat, feeling sorry for herself, she quietly cursed herself for being an egoistic fool.  Why on earth didn’t she listen to Clair in the first place before making a complete fool of herself.  Feeling sorry for herself, she turned on the television and was greeted with Christmas carols being sung by the nurses of some London hospital in a children’s ward; cursing under her breath, she quickly switched it off and threw the remote onto the floor.  Christmas alone again, she thought.

Copyright Bob French

 

 

ASPECTS OF LOVE

 ASPECTS OF LOVE

Peter Woodgate

I am sending you a poem

to read in the evening.

Free from the prison of material mediocrity

it will be a peaceful poem,

giving comfort through the night

and a morning full of the memories.

You will look in the mirror

and see each word on your lips,

your limbs caressed,

by its rhythm.

You will sit at a table

surrounded by its warmth

and your breakfast

will taste of its sweetness.

You will open the cupboard

and it will be there,

each window

reflecting its radiance,

the house

echoing with its wonder

and the garden

revealing its beauty.

You will see it in faces

of people on the train,

hear it in thunder,

feel it in rain.

You will laugh

and you will cry,

you will look up at the sky

and shout!

   

 Copyright Peter Woodgate  

TIMEWALK (Part 1 of 5)

 

TIMEWALK ~ Part 1

By Richard Banks     

                                                                                                                  

Time travel is not for the faint-hearted. There's no end of scrapes you can get into and the repercussions can be enormous. Just think of the consequences, heaven forbid if you were responsible for the death of a single Viking or Anglo-Saxon. Okay, you might get lucky and nothing much happens but supposing your actions prevent the birth of just one child. One child who might have gone on to have children and grandchildren. I've not done the maths but by the time we get to the here and now we’re talking big numbers. And these are people who should be living now, except that they aren't because you ended the life of their dark-age ancestor.

         Then there's the future. That's another kettle of fish. Does it exist? I mean, can we go forward into a future that hasn't happened yet. There's a lot to find out and more than a few risks along the way, but to President Hurst and his cronies, even the smallest risk isn't worth taking. That's why there's an embargo on forward trips and a root and branch review of the Time Back project.

        The rumour currently doing the rounds is that Time Back is to close, with the loss of two hundred jobs, including my own. If this happens it will be spun as a necessary deployment of resources to the present day. The real reason will more likely be the unreported disappearance of two research workers into the seventeenth century. One month later there has been no impact on history or the present time. It's 2105, and it’s the same old world. Nothing's happened, nothing is going to happen. We're safe. Why doesn't Hurst understand that, that we need to go back in time just like we need to go forward? If we have neither then we have only the present and that's one big mess we can do without.

         Yes, I know I'm angry. I'm not the only one. When you're living five to a room in one of the world's most crowded cities how can you not be angry? Where do you go when you need peace and quiet? There used to be such places in London: parks, open spaces where you could throw out your arms and touch only the air around you, a circle of nothingness unfilled by another human being. What remains of these places are in the outer zone, where those with the necessary papers are permitted to go on the airbus. There are, we are told, large forests in the Welshland. Virtual tours of these can be viewed on what is left of the Web in public information rooms, but no-one believes they still exist.

         It's time I was getting back. Greta will be cooking dinner in steaming saucepans that make the walls and window glisten with condensation. It is the time of day I like best. A time to drink vodka and chill – maybe life isn't that bad.

         I return on pedestrian highway 22, in the fast lane, with the serious runners returning home from the financial sector. Many of them would like to race but since the Oxford Street disaster, this is forbidden and punishable by a loss of privileges. The traffic police, in their hover drones, pass slowly over us, issuing the usual warnings. Above them, the transits of senior officials make more rapid progress. This evening they are out in unusual numbers, fuelling rumours that important talks are taking place in the Executive Council. What these are about we may never be told. Those who care, who think there is some point in knowing, turn on their TV screens at 19.30 for the news but nothing worth the hearing is ever broadcast at this time. The important stuff is transmitted on ‘Street Talk’ through an ever-increasing network of on-street loudspeakers.

         I am in good form today, keeping up with those around me for over five miles. As we approach Patriots Way I ease back into the middle lane and immediately decelerate to avoid clipping the heels of the young woman in front of me. She is dressed in the rough weave overalls of a grade three factory worker. The green highlight in her hair sends out the message that she is different. A little difference is tolerated, but not encouraged. In an age when conformity is considered necessary for the maintenance of public order a small spark of rebellion remains in us all.  I carry mine in my head, no doubt she does too, but our thoughts are best kept to ourselves, the loudspeakers also listen.

         The walkers stop at a traffic light and I move over into the inside lane. I rejoin the pavement on the opposite corner and walk the remaining fifty metres to the high rise where I live. The air is cold and already the heat I have generated by my exertions is beginning to dissipate. I look forward to the warmth and aromas of Greta's cooking. If only she was alone, but as I push open the door I know the others will be there too.

         Egor sits in front of the window, reading the sports page of the People's Gazette. By doing so he deprives our single room of much of its light. He is a large, bad-tempered lout, addicted to alcohol and unlicensed stimulants. Despite his unpredictable mood swings he somehow manages to hold down a job in highway maintenance. He speaks little, mainly to claim what he refers to as his rights: the largest share of the food ration, an extra blanket, a larger sleeping space. These things, he says, he must have on account of his greater bulk. Why should a woman or an undersized runt – he refers to myself – have as much as him? As he can easily take what he wants we reluctantly concede to his demands. If he takes too much we will have to find some way of disposing of him. Many people fall to their deaths through open windows, but whether the rest of us have the collective strength to make this happen is uncertain. For the moment we scrape by as best we can.

         At least we have the mitigating influence of Mia, a nervous young woman who gives him her vodka measure in exchange for his protection from those who would part her from the little she has. Were she physically attractive his price would be higher, but her skin is covered in purple splotches. She has no memory of her parents but thinks it likely they were killed in the chemical wars of the 80s. She is one of nearly four million survivors now living in London.

         I fill my glass with vodka and sit down beside Eli who is reading the official newsletter. I say what splendid news it is that the Government has again reduced unemployment and homelessness. The newsletter makes the claim that homelessness will be eliminated within five years. This is rubbish but I pretend to believe it. In all probability, Eli is a government spy who denounces all those with dissident opinions. His presence, however, is an opportunity as well as a danger. If my positive opinions are mentioned in his regular, and no doubt detailed reports, this can only be to my advantage. My recent posting to the Timewalk Unit may well be a consequence of what he has written. To ensure that I am heard by others who also listen I voice my support for the Government to anyone within range of a loudspeaker. Today, while in Concord Square, I loudly rebuked a woman for complaining about the clothing ration.

         “The reductions are necessary,” I say. “Why should you have two coats when others have none?”

         I relate this story to Eli, who nods his head approvingly. He asks if I took her name and number. I say, “No. Was not a reprimand sufficient?” He again nods his head, but his face is thoughtful, as though he is weighing my every word. I change tack. “Thank goodness, we have Greta; she is worth a hundred of those complaining bitches.”

         And indeed she is. As our designated 'house mother' her main task is to manage the food allowance for five people and prepare meals that adequately feed us. While others go hungry we feast. How she does it is a mystery that sometimes seems like a miracle.

         “So what hotchpotch have you got for us today?” I call out, with the exaggerated good humour of a man playing to the gallery. “Surely it cannot taste as good as it smells.” She laughs. She often laughs. Of all the people I know, she is the happiest, the most fulfilled. Immersed in the magic of her cooking, the grim imperfections of the world are an unimportant irrelevance.

         Greta says we are too quiet and that if we want to eat we must sing her a song. The troubles of the day are fading, we are warm and a little foolish from the vodka. We sing the old song about Waterloo. Someone says it is about a battle but it has a lively tune and by the time Greta fills our plates we are as happy and content with life as we will ever be. When we have finished we look at Greta like ever-hopeful children. “There is nothing else,” she says. She appears surprised that we have asked, but we can smell jam cooking. Inside the oven there are raspberry tarts. There is one for each of us and although Egor snatches the largest those left are enough to fill our stomachs.

         Mia and I take the dishes down to the utility room and load them into one of the washers that roar into life at 21.00 hours. On our return we find Egor and Greta arguing about the TV. This evening only two of the permitted channels are still broadcasting. We have the choice of a new soap or a drama purporting to be the life story of the martyr Spelthorpe. When Eli tries to mediate by suggesting a house vote be taken Egor loses his temper and resolves the issue by knocking Eli to the floor. This is another opportunity for me to ingratiate myself with Eli.

         I help him to his feet and when he goes to the washroom to staunch the blood flowing from his nose I follow on with a clean cloth. If Eli is a spy he has the power to make Egor disappear –  this is an opportunity not to be missed. I find him spitting blood and venom into a washbasin.

         “Are you okay comrade friend?” For the first time, I use the form of address for a party member. He looks surprised but makes no response. “It is a disgrace,” I say, “the oaf should be punished. We must make a complaint.”

         Eli dismisses the idea with a contemptuous snort. His supercilious expression returns. “Be careful who you complain about applicant member. They may have friends, big fish that will snap up a minnow like you. Not everything is what it seems.”

         We return to the flat and everyone lays out their bedding on the floor, in preparation for lights out. The atmosphere is tense and no one is sorry when our room is plunged into darkness. The night that follows is punctuated by Egor's snores and the sirens of emergency vehicles. These are distractions I have long become accustomed to. My conversation with Eli however is new and unexpected. I lay awake trying to make sense of it. His warning raises more questions than answers. Why should anyone lodging a complaint about Egor be at risk? The man is an unskilled labourer, a drunken idiot; why should anyone care about him? Yet apparently someone does. Clearly, Eli knows more than he is telling, but the fact that he is telling me anything shows that my months of toadying up to him are paying off. Friend, I called him. Let's hope so, a friend like him can only be to my advantage. 

         In the morning I awake to find that Eli has already departed for his work. When I set-off for mine I discover the free lunch ticket he has left in my jacket pocket.

 

(To be continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks

Collaborative Poem

 

 Shisan – Cobblestone Path

 

Included is the collaborative poem discussed on Wednesday’s zoom.

I thought it could be of interest to the group to see yet another strand of poetry.

It would be helpful if all of this email could be put on the blog, as people can better understand the format etc.

 

I have sought permissions from the other writers for it to be published and all are happy to be included.

The poem has recently been published in “Presence”, Britain’s top haiku genre related journal.

 

I look forward to seeing the outcome.

Best wishes

Rob

Cobblestone Path (12 verse Shisan)

cobblestone path

a view of blossoms

with every step                                   mv

 

children play leapfrog

in the new grass                                 ms

 

winding down

with smooth jazz

and a bubble bath                               po

 

the last nut in place

on the cloudbusting machine              rk

 

she tells me

she’s a dominatrix

over ice cream sundaes                      mv

 

since the mastectomy

they’ve slept in separate rooms          po

 

plate boundaries

shifting along the fault lines

of the East-African Rift                       ms

 

the mutant crickets’ 

soundless wings                                 rk

 

moonlight 

has silvered

all the daytime colors                        ms

 

graffiti artists

share a cigarette                               mv

 

the Pope again

asks Michelangelo

when it will end                                 rk

 

a wedge of swans

above a withered field                      po

 

 

mv - Maureen Virchau (USA), ms - Mary Stevens (USA),  po - Polona Oblak (sabaki - Leader) (Slovenia), rk- Robert Kingston (uk)

 renku is a collaborative poem generally taken on when a group of poets meet. Formally named rengay, it as been around in Japan and China for hundreds of years.

Each poets can either take turns or the sabaki (leader) chooses from supplied verses.

Dependant on length of poem, they range between 12 and 36 generally, but can be upwards of a thousand verses. Each verse, be it three or two lines follows a table of events and must link to the previous verse, whilst shifting away from the previous. The events generally include at least one blossom or flower verse,  a moon verse, two love verses , with the rest being non seasonal verses. The opening verse is from where haiku originated. Separated out by Basho.

The poem is divided into 4 sections, with each section traditionally being written on one folded side of a piece of paper.

 

Shisan a significant occasion Kaoru Kubota - 1970's
The Shisan - 12 verses - A Description
The Shisan is a twelve verse sequence consisting of four movements of three verses each. The movements are treated as preface, development part one, development part two, and rapid close. To the extent that the four part division is taken to reflect that of the kasen, the shisan also lays claim to the topical and tonal characteristics of the jo-ha-kyu pacing paradigm. As with all formal renku the shisan starts with the season in which composition takes place. Unusually the seasons then appear in calendar order with one season featuring per movement. Typically spring and autumn will take a grouped pair of verses, whereas summer and winter are represented by a single verse apiece. However, for sequences begun in summer or winter, the wakiku would also be expected to take that season as the shisan invites a relatively conventional treatment. The majority of moon and blossom verses will be set against autumn and spring respectively - the order in which they appear, and the characteristics of the relevant movement, being dependent on the demands of the calendar. In more experimental sequences the blossom position may be treated as the more generic flower. In all cases, a pair of love verses will appear in one of the central movements, normally the one that does not feature moon or blossom.  The word shisan may be read in several ways. Primarily shi means four, and san means three. When written in kanji shi may read as tamawari - something bestowed - and san as bansankai - a formal meal. The suggestion is that participants are invited to a significant occasion - reflecting the expectation that all will respect the finer points of style.
side 1
	autumn		autumn	spring		spring		summer		winter
hokku	au mn		au	sp bl		sp [mn]		su		wi
wakiku	au		au	sp		sp [mn]		su/ns		wi/ns
daisan	ns		ns	ns		ns		ns		ns
side 2
4 short		ns/wi	wi/ns [mn]		ns/su lv	ns/su		ns		ns
5 long		wi/ns	ns/wi [mn]		su/ns lv	su/ns		au mn		sp bl
6 short		ns	ns		ns	ns		au		sp
side 3
7 long		ns/sp [bl]	ns/sp lv	ns/au [mn]			ns/au		ns	ns lv
8 short		sp	sp lv	au			au lv		wi/ns lv	su/ns lv
9 long		sp/ns [bl]	sp/ns	au/ns [mn]			au/ns lv		ns/wi lv	ns/su
side 4
10 short	ns lv		ns	ns		ns			ns	ns
11 long	su/ns lv		su/ns [fl]	wi/ns		wi/ns [fl]			sp bl	au mn
ageku	ns/su		ns/su [fl]	ns/wi		ns/wi [fl]			sp	au
Not s	su/ns - (wakiku only) - where the hokku is summer, wakiku may be non-season wi/ns - (wakiku only) - winter likewise sn/ns or ns/sn - (elsewhere) - whichever is selected first its counterpart is selected after ns - non-season (miscellaneous) position bl - blossom position [bl] - alternate blossom position (when season selected) - the choice is either/or [fl] - alternate flower position (when season selected) - the choice is either/or mn - moon position [mn] - alternate moon position (when season selected) - the choice is either/or lv - love position, indicative - love verses move as group

 From Robert Kingston