In the covert

Here in the thicket he feels safe

Yet afraid to breathe, scared to stir less he be heard

The fox crouches in the gently swaying grass

Watching, eyes unblinking, ears searching for sounds

Listening for the thunderous beating of horses hooves

Watching for the scarlet of the huntsmen’s coats

Awaiting the wail of bugles, the panting of hounds

Should he stay, should he dash, should he run for ground?

But for now the covert protects him, hides him

Here in the thicket he feels safe

Not much happens on November 25th. Percy Sledge was born in 1941 and as I’m sure you’ll remember the Christian martyr Peter of Alexandria keeled over in the year 311. In 1949 Bojangles died and Karl Benz the German car manufacturer took his first breath in 1929.

In 1977 David Steed balanced stationary on a bike for 9 hours 15 minutes, and the future Queen Elizabeth married Prince Philip in Westminster Abbey in 1947.

And did you know that in 1949 Gene Autry's "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" entered the pop charts and in 1963 President John F. Kennedy was buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

So I suppose it falls to me to provide the biggie! On November 25th 2006 I plonked my first post down here on Keith’s Ramblings!
This is my 500th post. My first one was a pretty dodgy affair called Lucky Dip. Nobody knew I existed so unsurprisingly I got no comments. The piece which has received the most hits is a travelogue I wrote called Samos – an unspoilt Greek Island. Although it only picked up three comments at the time , my hit meter has recorded over 1200 visits via Google.

My favourite post has to be My Dear Friend, a very short piece I wrote about the death of one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever met.

I supposed I got the most satisfaction from writing my part work The Stranger. I never knew from one week to the next where the story would go but it worked. It now has its own site.

I suppose the biggest thing to happen to my blog was the arrival of Rosemary Pinkerton! I first wrote about my friend Rosey in January in an article called The Adventures of a Girl called Rosey. It was an instant hit and so I’ve continued to write about her ever since, in fact I’ve written 53 stories about her to date. Throughout it all she’s remained a good mate despite me telling you all sorts of things about her, admittedly embellished and exaggerated on occasions, and teasing her mercilessly! More recently she has taken control of her adventures by starting her own blog called Rosey’s Posey and when I read her posts it’s almost as if I’d written them myself!

Today Keith’s Ramblings is just one of 7 blogs I run the latest being a writing prompt site called Carry On Tuesday.

So, will I write another 500 pieces? I don’t know. I sometimes think that I spend too large a part of my life here at my keypad and too much of the night writing when I should be sleeping. But in the immediate future I fully intend to keep up the pace.

Finally thank you for your support. Without your generous comments and encouragement I would have given up ages ago!

Everyone sang Rule Britannia

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The prompt on Carry On Tuesday this week is the opening of a poem by Siegfried Sassoon entitled Everyone Sang Everyone suddenly burst out singing;.And I was filled with such delight
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How patriotic are you? If you are American you’ve probably just said ‘very’! But here in the UK patriotism is something most people don’t think about. I can’t imagine our children starting the school day by swearing allegiance to the Queen. Ask anybody in the street to give you the date of St Georges Day – our patron saint- and you’ll probably get no more than a shrug. I can’t remember the exact figure, but in a recent survey amongst young people, less than half of those asked could not name the Queens husband!

There are however, odd occasions when we suddenly get a rush of patriotism. This phenomenon rears its head at the outdoor concerts which have become very popular in recent years. At these events which take place up and down the country, thousands of folk gather in the open air often sporting union jack hats and waving flags. They sit with their picnics on garden chairs in front of a stage on which an orchestra belts out a selection of quintessentially English tunes.

I was at one last August, you may remember the piece I wrote about it. The highlight of these concerts is always the playing of our unofficial national anthem, Rule Britannia. Just like every year, as soon as the orchestra played the opening chords the crowd jumped to its feet, waved its flags in the air and everyone burst out singing. The girl standing next to me was so moved that she was choking back the tears. I was filled with such delight that even I was struggling to keep my stiff upper lip!

An hour later, thousands of people were struggling to get their gridlocked cars out of the muddy car park and moaning about the British weather and the inadequate British roads and wishing they were in sunny Spain!

I told her not to worry

I said she shouldn’t worry. But would she listen? I told her that things like that didn’t happen in real life, and even if they did it wouldn’t happen to people like her.
‘Everything always happens to me’ she used to say.
I told her I’d be there for her, so even if the worse did come about she wouldn’t be alone.
‘It’ll happen when your back’s turned’ she always said.
I tried to remind her that all those films she watched and books she read were pure fiction. She always said that the people that wrote them knew something that we didn't.
No matter what I said she worried more and more. ‘If you keep on at this rate the men in white coats will come for you’ I joked.
She said it was the men in green coats that she was worried about.
This went on and on for ages, and in time even I began to worry. This stupid fantasy was beginning to take her over.
And then one dark night the sky suddenly lit up. I heard a deep throbbing sound, but when I got to the window to see what was happening, everything had returned to normal. In the morning I put it all down to a silly dream.
She was right to have worried. I was wrong. I still find it hard to comprehend. Why her of all people?
Still, she loved to travel and not all aliens are bad. Every night I look up at the stars and wonder which one she’s on. It’s quite funny really!

Another wierd fact

The first lighter, known as Dobereiner’s Lamp was invented by German Johann Wolfgang Dobereiner in 1823 – three years before Englishman John Walker created the friction ignited match.

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Courtesy of The Metro

My favourite place

I love to sit here. There is nowhere I’d rather be right now than perched on my favourite rock on a deserted beach with just my thoughts for company.
All I hear is the gentle whoosh of the sea as it washes up the shore, then the rattling of the shingle as the water retreats again only to rush back seconds later.
The summer moon sends a shaft of shimmering gold across the rolling waves toward a distant horizon. I look skyward into a black infinity speckled with a million glistening stars.
A cloudless night like this can set the spirit soaring. Tonight my thoughts know no bounds. My mind is free to fly at will. This is where I belong.

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Today's wierd fact

It is reputed that when John Hetherington – inventor of the top hat – first wore his creation in London, it caused a riot in which a child’s arm was broken.

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Heatherington was prosecuted for his hat crime on the grounds that the design was ‘calculated to frighten timid people’

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Courtesy of The Metro

Disconnected

"I’m watchin’ you sunshine” muttered Mickey under his breath. For months they had been hiding in the shadows observing each other’s movements like two jungle cats skulking in the undergrowth just waiting to pounce.
It was a dark night and the wind roared as it rushed between the trees and buildings. Jonno had waited ages for a night like that night. A night when Mickey was away. A night when he could go about his business unheard.
But Mickey hadn’t gone way. He was watching from the back of an anonymous van in the lay-by across the road. Jonno was invading his property. He was in his garden extending a ladder and ever-so carefully placing it against the wall of Mickey’s house.
He slowly climbed the ladder, the wind violently buffeting him. Intruder alarms are difficult devises to interfere with, but Jonno was an expert. It was Jonno they called for when an alarm stood between them and their booty.
Once the alarm was disconnected he slipped away as silently as he’d arrived. Mickey smiled. “You’ve just made very big mistake sunshine. A very big mistake indeed”
It was no secret that Mickey had a safe in his cellar. Not any safe but one that would put a bank vault to shame. There was only one person who had the ability to crack it. Jonno. And given the activities of the other night, he was clearly about to make his move.
“Prepare yourself for a bit of a shock Jonno” he whispered to himself. There was not a safe anywhere which was safe from Jonno’s nimble fingers. No, something else was needed to stop him getting his grubby little hands on the treasure within. And a shock it was to be. He looked on as one of his useful contacts wired up the handle on the safe to the electricity supply. 'Poor Jonno' people would say, 'fancy suffering heart failure whilst doing what he enjoyed most'.
Mickey often had to travel overseas. There was always business to carry out in faraway places. His driver called at the house the next morning to take him to the airport, only he never arrived.
Instead he watched from a distance as Jonno skilfully let himself into his home. But Jonno didn’t go straight to the safe. Instead he visited the bathroom, and with him he took a few tools. Electrician’s tools.
When he finished in the bathroom he made his way to the object of his labours. What happened next he never expected. It was over in a flash. A blinding blue flash.
“And then there was one” Mickey said as he stood over Jonnos body which lay rigid on the floor in front of him, its eyes bulging and a look of terror frozen on to its face.
He started to laugh as he walked up the stairs casting off his clothes as he went. He strode into the bathroom and turned on the taps to fill the bath. The cork from the bottle of Mumm popped and foaming champagne flowed onto the floor. He raised the bottle into the air. “Nice knowing you Jonno!” he roared, as he started half drinking, half spilling the champagne. He stepped into the bath tub.


The End

Carry On Tuesday #1

I'm delighted to announce that the first Carry On Tuesday prompt is ready and waiting for you. No doubt this new venture will suffer it's fair share of teething problems for which I apologise in advance.


Your comments and suggestions will be most gratefully received.

So, simply CLICK HERE and join in the fun!

All By Myself

The composer Sergei Rachmaninoff was born on April 1st 1873 in Novgorod, Russia. In 1901 he penned what was to become his best known work, his Second Piano Concerto.


Fast forward to 1975 and the ex lead singer of the Raspberries, Eric Carmen used the most melodic piece of this majestic work in his well known power ballad All By Myself.


Despite initial legal wranglings between Carmen and the Rachmaninoff estate, this simple song eventually became one of the best known and most covered pop songs of all time.


The first cover was by Frank Sinatra in 1976, and other versions have come thick and fast, the last rendition being featured in last year’s movie Super Hero. In total 27 covers have been made by artists as diverse as Hank Williams, Tom Jones and Cheryl Crow.


There is little doubt however that the rendition to top them all was the 1996 recording by Celine Dion. It was first released on October 7, 1996 in the UK, then on March 11 1997 in North America.


I am a single person. I live all by myself and that suits me, so I can’t relate to the sentiment of the lyrics . However I  find it impossible to listen to this amazing piece of music without being moved.


May I invite you to stop whatever you are doing and listen to All By Myself whilst following the words on the screen And when it's finished listen again with your eyes closed and a clear mind. Enjoy.

I thought I knew everything there was to know about my friend Rosey, but when I was asked to proof read her new post for her, I learned about a job she once had that I knew nothing about. It’s not often I blow her trumpet for her, but I have to admit this piece is very good – so good in fact that if I didn’t know better I’d swear someone wrote it for her! It’s called I was the tailors tinker and you can find it HERE

Carry On Tuesday - an idea

I’ve been thinking! Since the sinking of Writers Island those of us who need a kick up the back-side to get the creative juices flowing have been left high and dry.

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Sunday Scribblings is great but I feel the need for something else earlier in the week get the ‘ole grey matter churning.

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How about this?

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Supposing we had a site called Carry On Tuesday where we are given the just first line or a few words of a famous poem or book, then continue it with our own thoughts but in completely different direction from the original piece.

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What do you think?

Healing hands

It was about three months ago, and I was visiting a graveyard. It was a grey day. The sky was grey, everything around me was grey except for an occasional bunch of flowers which punctuated the lines of leaning grey headstones with splodges of colour.

My eye was caught by grave which stood out from the rest. Instead of dreary grey, it was white. Pure white marble.
Alongside a young man knelt, a posey of white roses in his hand. As I walked closer he nodded his head toward me, and I felt the need to stop and look on. I read the inscription on the headstone. Arthur Mason 1963 – 2009 In God’s Hands Now.
A relation?” I asked.
“My father” he replied.
The young man placed his flowers on the stones and stood up.
“Rick” he said as he stretched out his hand. “Rick Mason”
I introduced myself and then we chatted for a bit about what it meant to visit a departed loved one. Walking out of the churchyard he pointed towards the inn opposite.
“I’m having a beer in my Dad’s favourite pub” he said “I always like to raise my glass to him after we’ve had a graveside chat! Fancy joining me?”
Never one to turn down a pint I followed him into the Good Intent here we sat in front of a crackling log fire with tankards of frothing ale in our fists.
Rick told me that his Dad was well known in this pub for his party trick. It seems that after a drink or two he often claimed to have healing hands. If someone complained of a headache he’d negotiate a fee, usually a pint of best bitter, then place his hand on his patients head, mutter some mumbo jumbo and the headache would seemingly disappear. No one took it really seriously though. Perhaps the headache went naturally, perhaps they just thought it had as they got carried along by the laughter and applause. Who knows? Arthur claimed that after performing his miracle cure the pain would transfer itself to him! "Nothing a couple of aspirin won’t cure" he'd say as he downed his reward.
Now and again he was asked to heal a cut finger or a bruised arm. “Not my field” he would say! He only dealt with pain unseen.
One day a girl told him that she couldn’t sit on a bar stool because she’d been stung on the bum by a bee! After agreeing a price, a large malt whiskey, he took great pleasure in stroking the girl’s rear, and then took a bow as the young lady declared the ache gone. He then went to sit on his chair then leapt to his feet again saying he was unable to sit for the pain!
Suddenly the smile disappeared from Ricks face. He held his glass in both hands and stared into it as if examining its contents. Very quietly and without looking up, Rick said “A couple of years ago I was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer”. There was a period of uncomfortable silence. He raised his head and looked me in the eye. “My father was distraught when I told him” he continued. “He'd never been one for physical contact where I was concerned but that day he held me tightly in his arms and told me not to worry. Everything would be alright”The strangest thing happened. A few weeks later a scan showed that Rick’s cancer had disappeared without a trace. And soon after, Arthur died from the same cancer that had once afflicted Rick.
We finished our drinks and prepared to leave the pub. I stood up and caught my head with a crash on the shelf above the inglenook fireplace. I remember that it really hurt. We walked out into the street and shook hands. Then Rick ruffled my hair and said “Next time you go in there beware of the low flying shelf!”
“I certainly will” I said. Then as we walked away from each other I realised the pain from my bump had gone. I looked over my shoulder and saw Rick disappearing into the distance, rubbing his head.

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Rosey goes back

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I thought I’d let you know that my friend Rosey has written a story. Nothing unusual in that I hear you say, but this time even I’m impressed! I suppose it helps that she’s taken the Mickey out of herself for once. If I’d written it you’d have accused me of making it up!.

It’s about turning the clock back which is quite appropriate since she has a problem with clocks and often reads the hands back to front! I was on the phone to her the other day and she suddenly squeaked then said “Look at the time”. I looked at the time and said “I’m looking at the time, what about it?” She said “It’s twenty to eleven and past my bedtime!” It was in fact five minutes to eight.
She always has a problem with the seasonal time changes. When the time jumps ahead an hour it takes her ages to adjust. For at least a week she claims that she suffers from jet lag!

And no matter how often I recite the adage Spring Forward Fall Back she always manages to get it wrong. She says it would be easier to remember if it went Spring Forward Autumn Back. I’ve given up trying to explain why it wouldn’t work.

As for the twenty four hour clock, forget it! She was supposed to catch a train last week at 20.45. Did she catch it? Not a chance! She ended up getting a taxi instead. 
Anyway, her piece is well worth a read, so click here and enjoy.
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Forgive me Father

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been many years since my last confession”
Seamus had hovered at the door of the church unsure whether or not to enter the uninviting grey stone building which towered into an even greyer sky. He had often glanced at the signs placed outside the gate to the churchyard. He’d even cracked a smile now and again at the witty messages displayed to tempt people in.
But today, the sign made him stop and think. ‘No God, No peace. Know God, Know Peace’.
He half hoped he’d find the huge oak door locked, but when he pushed it, it opened with a creak and a groan as if to say ‘What took you so long Seamus?’
He stood and looked around the vast gloomy edifice. A few candles flickered here and there. A woman, kneeling at prayer a few feet from where he stood, put God on hold for a moment as she stared at the stranger who stared back at her.
His immediate thought was to turn and flee this grotesque unwelcoming place, but something deep down inside him said that now was the time to face his maker. Now was the time to make his confession.
As he approached the confessional he saw Father McGuire slip inside. The priest, more used to forgiving trivial transgressions had no idea what he was about to hear. As he listened to Seamus he gasped. Then silence. Father McGuire was speechless. What he heard stunned him, and for the first time in his career he felt unable to forgive a sinner his sins.
A few muttered ‘Hail Mary’s’ seemed insufficient to absolve the transgression he’d just listened to.
He composed himself. ‘Give thanks to the Lord for he is good’ he whispered.
Seamus failed to respond. Instead, he flung open the door of the confessional and rushed through the church, out of the door and into the graveyard.
The sense of relief was almost unbearable. Strange as it seems, it actually hurt. This sudden out flowing of things previously hidden sent him reeling into a state of euphoria. He had faced the monster inside him. He was released. He was forgiven.
He was forgiven in the eyes of the church, but the eyes of someone hidden and watching were unable to forgive.
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