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I confess to using this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt 'Milestone' as an excuse write a story in which I can show you some pictures I took a few months ago in the countryside near my home. I hope you’ll forgive me my little indulgence!

You may wish to listen to Sheep May Safely Graze whilst viewing. Although Elgar wrote much of his music in celebration of the landscape in this part of England, I feel the piece I’ve chosen by J S Bach captures the feel of the area just perfectly. Simply click on the arrow.

Meet me at the milestone


Meet me at the milestone he said. Just lately things had been difficult and after months of slowly drifting apart they’d reached a crossroads. Which way to go? 

(click on photos to see far more detail!)

They walked uphill, slowly, heads bowed in silence. The only sound was the swishing of the long grass under their feet and the songs of birds hidden in the bushes, unseen.

He bent down and plucked a bunch of purple flowers. As he offered them to her she pushed them away. He tried tickling the end of her nose with the bloom and she was unable to stop the merest hint of a smile.

On the brow of a hill they stood in silence and looked towards the distant blue sea. Between them and the ocean there was nothing but undulating slopes and rolling golden hills.

They came upon post and wire fence. Beyond it some curious sheep raised their heads and stared at them for a second or two then quickly became disinterested and returned to their meal of lush downland grass. There was a rickety wooden stile and she allowed him to take her hand as she climbed across. They continued their stroll towards the sea hand in hand but still a word had not passed between them.

Suddenly the white chalk cliffs came into view, strung out like Mother Nature’s pearl necklace. They walked down into a dip and at the cliffs edge they climbed down to the pebble beach. They’d reached the end of the path, but they’d reached it together. 

Standing at the water’s edge they threw stones at the waves drifting towards the shore. They slowly turned to face each other. Words weren’t necessary. The milestone was a distant memory.

It's not too much to ask for.....a chilling tale!

This weeks [Fiction] Friday Challenge is to write a story on the following theme 'the last nine years a wife has forgotten her husband’s birthday. The tenth time, he snaps…'






Year after year it rained on January the twenty ninth. If it didn’t rain it snowed. The wind always blew. It was bitterly cold.


January the twenty ninth was Dominic’s birthday, but it never felt special. Donna’s birthday was in August. He always made sure that the sun shone on his wife’s birthday. He did little things which went virtually unnoticed, but without them her day would have been like any other. He made sure her birthday was special.


But for ten years he’d waited in vain for a gesture, a sign of her affection. Surely a handful of flowers or a card was not much to wish for. For ten years he hid the hurt he felt.


It was January the twenty ninth. The weather was abysmal. It was a day when it never seemed to get light. Donna arrived home from work, soaked to the skin and her fingers so cold she could hardly turn the key in the lock. She rushed inside and flung the door closed behind her. She fumbled for the light switch. Click. Not a glimmer. She switched it on, off, on, off. Nothing.


Suddenly the door flew open behind her and the wind and rain almost blew her off her feet. She tried to push the door closed but she couldn’t do it. She stumbled backwards and into the room behind her. She felt for the light switch. Nothing. As violently as it opened, the door slammed shut, and the sudden silence hurt her ears.


She felt her way along the wall until she came to the under stair cupboard. There was a torch in there. She rummaged along the shelves knocking everything onto the floor as she went, and then to her relief she came across the torch. Light at last. She went into the kitchen, she had some candles there, and just as she was opening the drawer the beam from the torch fell on a bunch of flowers on the counter. She stared at them for a moment. It was then she noticed a birthday card standing on the table. On the front it said To My Husband. The air in the room turned icy, and suddenly a hand appeared from nowhere, grabbed the torch from her and turned the beam onto her terrified face. She was panic stricken. What was happening? Who was that shadowy figure lurking in the darkness?


‘Hello Donna. Aren’t you going to wish me a happy birthday?’


‘I don’t know who you are’ said Donna ‘but if this is some kind of joke it’s not funny. Get out, go now...please’


‘That’s no way to talk to your husband on his birthday’


Donna thought she must be in the middle of a nightmare.


‘Did you forget me Donna? Is that why it’s been ten years since you wished me a happy birthday? I didn’t want much from you but a bunch of flowers and a card would have been nice'.


With that the flowers flew through the air and the vase smashed at her feet. She stood frozen, petrified with fear. The torch fell to the floor and went out. In the darkness she could just make out the figure walking away. He opened the door and the wind whipped into the room. He turned his head toward her and said ‘surely a bunch of flowers and a card on my grave was not too much to ask’.







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People and places

Carry On Tuesday # 37

Top - My pub The Brewers Arms, my parents, me at the Taj Mahal,

Middle - grandchildren Ella and Oliver, son Tim in Dubai, Tenerife,

Bottom - daughters Penny and Rachel, me on Samos Island, grandson Billy

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Rosey has popped up again! It seems she's found an internet

cafe. I told her I'd let you know. Incase you don't know

where to find Rosey's Posey it's right HERE!

Yes!

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This weeks prompt on Sunday Scribblings is the word Yes

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Gerry rushed down the street and thumped on Joey’s door. Joey pulled it open and stood there in his dressing gown with half of his face coated in shaving foam.

‘Well?’ he said blowing bubbles into the air. ‘Did we do it?’

‘Yes’ yelled Gerry, 'we bloody well did! Celebration tonight in The Bull after the meeting.’ And off he dashed.

His mobile rang; he plugged it to his ear and listened for a second or two. Then his face broke into a smile from top to bottom! ‘Yes Tom, yes we did!’ shouted Gerry ‘ See you at the meeting!’

Gerry flew into the village post office. Several villagers were standing in an orderly queue the way villagers do. The bell on the door went ding dong ding dong and turned as one to see Gerry standing there puffing and panting and grinning like a Cheshire cat.

‘Don’t just stand there’ shouted Graham the postmaster, put us out of our misery – did we win?’

Gerry paused for dramatic effect before flinging a fist in the air and screaming ‘Yes!’

‘Champers in the The Bull on me tonight’ said Graham the postmaster.

‘I’m usually in bed by eight’ croaked old Mrs Jones ‘but tonight I’ll make an exception’

‘So can I count on you all to come?’ asked Graham to his assembled customers.

‘Oh yes’ the queue replied!

Gerry rushed back out into the street just as Paul the postman was returning from his round, almost knocking him from his bicycle.

‘Gerry, put me out of my misery’ Paul said ‘Do I still have a job?’

‘Yes – you – have!’ shouted Gerry and Paul bumped into the kerb, fell flat on his back and waved his legs in the air with pure delight.

‘Yes, yes, yes’ giggled Paul.

The Town Hall was packed to the gunnels, the eager crowd waiting for the planning committee to confirm their decision. But the villagers had already heard the outcome from Gerry. No-one asked how he found out! But then, in a village the size of Old Bramton, there was no way the outcome could possibly have been kept secret. In one corner a gaggle of businessman stood with serious looks on their worried faces.

The Mayor marched into the room, his gold chain glinting under the spotlights. Behind him came his team of sombre grey haired, grey suited councillors. They sat, and then the crowd sat

The mayor banged his gavel on his desk and rose to his full officious height. He noisily cleared his throat.

‘In the matter of Tesco Supermarket’s application to build a new store on the site of the Post Office, a decision has been reached by means of a poll of all those living in the area concerned. The ballot paper asked the following question. Do you wish to see a Tesco Supermarket built on the site of the Old Brampton Post Office? Yes or No’

‘I can confirm that the overwhelming majority voted NO and as a result........’

But he couldn’t end his sentence, as the ‘no’ crowd, Gerry, Joey, Graham, Paul and all of the villagers leapt into the air and screamed YES – except that is, for Mrs Jones who woke up with a start and waved her walking stick above her head. The dejected ‘yes’ contingent mumbled ‘No’ and left the hall by the door at the rear.

Graham the postmaster jumped up onto a chair.

‘It’s champagne at the pub on me, is everybody coming?

‘YES’ they shouted as they headed out of the town hall and into The Bull to the sound of popping corks and clinking glasses.

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Don't forget to join in Carry On Tuesday. The new prompt is HERE
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Condemned

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This is my contribution to this weeks (Fiction)Friday.

It was a sentimental journey. A journey back in time. She searched for the street. Was it here? No, perhaps it was around that corner over there. Yes, back home at last, back to street in which she grew up. Back to the street filled with memories, happy memories because she was happy then.

But it wasn’t the street she remembered. Those apartments weren’t there back then, Auntie Julie was. Her house was right there by that chestnut tree. And over there, what happened to Jamey’s house? It didn’t look like the one that stood there now. Jamey’s house was a friendly house which smiled. This was cube which frowned. What happened to Jamey?

She had played in this street. Marbles, hopscotch, chase, ‘you’re it’! She remembered the time they’d played ball and she’d kicked it through Mrs Mason’s window. The sound of that breaking glass rang in her ears as the memories flooded back. But Mrs. Mason’s house was no longer there. They’d run away and hid behind the massive oak tree on the corner, that corner over there. What happened to the oak tree, why was it gone?

As she turned the bend in the road a row of houses came into view. Her heart leapt. It was the row of houses where she’d lived. Her little house was still there, right in the middle. She walked a little faster, and then began to run. Her mind filled with images and her ears filled sounds. Sounds of laughter for she as happy there. Oh how she longed to feel Tibbles the fat black cat brush against her legs. She so wanted to hear the chiming bells of the ice cream van as it sat across the street.

But why were there boards over the windows? Why wasn’t grumpy Mrs Brown next door peeping out from behind her net curtains? Why couldn’t she see the bright yellow door on the house she grew up in? Why did it say ‘Keep out, condemned’ where her door used to be?

Condemned. She’d returned to her street to relive her memories. It had been the only place she’d ever been happy. Since she left, her life was condemned.Tragedy, sadness and despair waited around every corner. Now it was if her happy memories were condemned too.

Grow old with Rosey? I think not!!

This week our prompt at Carry On Tuesday is 'Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be'

She’s gone! Rosey is back in Africa. She’s only left a few days ago, but I miss her already. She was uncharacteristically emotional at the airport. She was very quiet and didn’t seem to want to talk.

We were having a coffee while she was waiting for her flight to be called, and she just sat there holding her cup in both hands and staring into the cappuccino foam. I think it had occurred to her that she was alone, single, whilst many of the friends that surrounded her were in relationships. I may be wrong, I wouldn't put my theory to her, but that was the feeling I got. She said that we were both in the same situation and that was why we got on so well. She told me how much she valued and needed our friendship and that she wanted us to grow old together. She told me that the best was yet to come! That was the point at which I broke into a smile. She gave me a quizzical look, cocked her head on one side and asked what I found so amusing. I reminded her that I was 33 years older than her, and in most people’s eyes I’m already old! When she reached my age I told her, I’d be almost 100 years old and she’d be pushing me around in a wheelchair with one of her famous knitted blankets over my knees!

I think that her Christmas trip home showed her how much she was missed by her friends, and how important her friendship is to our group. I must say that life is very different without her, but during those three weeks when she was back it was business at its hilarious usual!

So many funny things happened. She became a kid again in the snow. She was telling us about her walk in the park when she joined some children having a snowball fight. She is pretty poor at throwing balls and one went well astray. The wig–wearing Reverend Roger Cross (known to the kids of the choir as The Old Rug-head Cross!) was passing by walking his little dog, Pontius the poodle. Rosey’s snowball hit him right on the back of his head sending his hairpiece sliding down over his eyes! Rosey hid behind a tree. He turned to the kids, pushed his hair back and swore at them! Honestly! Then he clasped his hand over his mouth and uttered a few muffled yet penitential words up to heaven!

Then there was the afternoon we were in a china shop. Actually, it was the china department in a department store. Rosey wanted to get her parents a figurine. They had collected shelves full of them, mainly brought back from foreign holidays. You know the kind of thing; pottery Taj Mahals and porcelain Eiffel towers. In typical Rosey style she had accidentally swept their china model of a charging Spanish bull onto the floor whilst waving a red scarf at it. Anyway, she found one in the shop, a perfect replacement. She spun round to call me over forgetting that she had a rucksack strapped to her back. Crash! Bull, china shop, Rosey. What a combination!

You may remember that for Christmas 2009 Rosey knitted us all phone socks, little woollen bags for our cell phones. As wool was something of a scarcity in Africa she was unable to make us the scarves or hot bottle covers as she originally intended. However, she decided to set to work on my knitted present as soon as she got back home. I’d mentioned that I get very cold hands whilst working, as I do in shopping malls. She decided that I needed a pair of gloves. Now I imagine that gloves are fairly complicated things to knit, certainly they must take quite a while to make. They did I understand, take longer than expected so in order to get them ready for Christmas she came up with a plan. She made the right glove exactly as you’d expect, four fingers and a thumb. Perfect because I could still write and use my calculator. Then time ran short so the left hand glove became a mitten! Not just any mitten, this one had no thumb! In fact it looked very much like last year’s phone sock! Bless.

I could go on but I’ll save the rest for another day. Right now I imagine she’s doing what she does best. She’s probably sitting in her little African school surrounded by wide-eyed children as she tells them tales of England and sings them nursery rhymes. She’ll be back in April. I for one can’t wait.

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To read all of Rosey's adventures Click Here!
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The big house on the hill

This weeks prompt at Sunday Scribblings is The Good Old Days

A stately red brick pile stood magnificently amid a brick walled garden. Log fires crackled and blazed, and tables groaned with food and sparkling crystal decanters of ruby wine. Maids and servants fetched and carried. Butlers moved silently and discreetly about their business .Soon it would be time for the winter ball, when every room in the house would echoe with the sound of laughter and merry music.

Each morning the footmen prepared a coach and four for the master of the house in readiness for his daily trip to his factory. He would walk between the clanging and crashing machines, a handkerchief to his face, and his loyal workers would stop for a second as he passed and tug a forelock of hair.

The days were good back then.

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The winter wind whistled through cracks in the crumbling walls and broken windows. Five scruffy urchins played in the dust on the floor as their mother, large with child, struggled with what little food she had with which to feed her family. Hopefully her husband would catch enough rats today to earn a shilling to buy some more food tomorrow.

Last week one of their children died. They couldn’t afford a doctor or his medicine. She was buried in a tiny pauper’s gravemarked with a small cross of twigs.

Soon their eldest son would be six years old and strong enough to climb inside and sweep the chimneys of the big house on the hill.

The days were dark back then.

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This weeks prompt at Carry On Tuesday is ready and waiting for you right HERE!

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Holy toast

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I guess that everybody in the UK has heard about this – it was in all the papers today and widely covered on the radio and the telly. But I reckon it deserves a wider audience so I’m pleased to present to you this amazing and unique work of art!

Artist Adam Sheldon switched his electric toaster to maximum power to produce one hundred and fifty three slices of burnt toast. He then dried them out, flattened them and mounted them in a six feet high frame. Armed just a knife he set about scratching and scraping the toast. A few hours later a remarkable picture appeared.

Click on pic to enlarge

His depiction of the crucifixion of Christ is now on display in the Church of St Peter, in Great Limber, Lincolnshire.

There is of course a degree of symbolism in his choice of ‘canvas’, since bread is used in the Anglican Church to represent the body of Christ. The piece has gained the title Holy Toast and it’s even been pointed out that Christ rose from the bread!

Provided that the resident mice and birds don’t make a meal of it, it should remain on display for the next two weeks.

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waiting for spring

Slumbering, dormant

Waiting for spring

Patiently

Deep in the soil

Anvil hard

Frozen

Soon they’ll stir

Push upward

Undaunted

At first buds

Then blooms

daffodils

Extreme

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Today's Sunday Scribbling prompt is Extreme, some thing I know a lot about right now!
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As extreme weather goes, the extreme weather in the UK in the past few months has been extremely extreme!

We were warned that the climate was changing. We got a collective slap on the wrist for flying in planes, using old cars and striking a match. We were told that it was out fault the world was heating up. As a result sea levels would rise, and in the near future the shape of the UK would change as the oceans marched landward. In the future the only way to visit some of our favourite seaside resorts would be by submarine – a fuel efficient submarine that is.

And why would the sea rise? It seems that the polar ice sheets and the icebergs will melt creating more sea water. I had a theory but apparently it doesn’t hold up. Consider this. An iceberg sits nine tenths below the surface of the sea, and ice has more volume than the water it produces when it melts. Surely, if it melts it simply fills up the hole left in the water when it melted! Same with the ice sheets. But what do I know?! I do know however that the sea has been rising at 1.8 mm each year for the last 100 years or so, and that’s not changed despite Wikipedia’s claim to the contrary.

Where were we? Oh yes. We were told that we would experience a slow but sure rise in air temperatures, year on year on year. Soon our (new) beaches would be lined by coconut palms, and rabbits would be replaced by hippopotamuses (or is that hyppopotamusi?)

Last summer was a write off. Apart from on a few odd days, the idea of having a barbeque in the garden was joke. Summer simply didn’t happen. And before we knew it, it was winter. What ever happened to the long hot summers of my childhood?

In recent weeks we have been in the grip of the coldest spell for over thirty years. The country has been brought to a standstill by snow, the amount of which hasn’t been seen for decades. Trains and planes stopped (yippee, less emmitions!) We are about to run out of salt with which to treat the roads. There are claims that within weeks we will run out of gas with which to heat our homes. One newspaper today predicted 60,000 deaths due to the big freeze.

Right now I bet you are tut-tutting at me and telling yourself ‘he doesn’t understand’. On the other hand you may be nodding in agreement with my suggestion that the experts aren’t making an aweful lot sense! Some people think that the whole global warming thing is a deliberate attempt at changing the way we live in order to suit big business and politics. Who knows?

I love a good conspiracy theory. Did man land on the moon? I have my doubts. Did the Titanic sink? Almost certainly not, more likely it was its sister ship the Olympic which was the subject of a failed insurance claim at the time. Did you know that Elvis faked his own death and the plays supposedly written by Shakespeare where actually the work of Francis Bacon?

I admit that I’ve written all of the above with my tongue stuck firmly in my cheek! Is global warming a fact? Probably. Is the extreme weather the result of global warming.? Just possibly. I simply don’t know, but I need to be convinced.

snow boats

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I took these pictures down on the beach a couple of hours ago and I'm still thawing out! To see them larger and in far more detail just click HERE! Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

à où allez-vous ?

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“Quand est-ce que je dois vous rencontrer?” Felicienne was talking on the phone to a friend. “J'attends avec intérêt de vous rencontrer”

I met her last year at an art exhibition. She told me she was a friend of the artist, and they certainly seemed to be very good friends! The first thing that attracted me to her was her accent. There’s something special, about the sound of a fille française! That’s a French girl by the way, and if you are impressed by my sudden switch to French, don’t be! Apart from a couple of phrases like ce qui est votre nom (what is your name) and vous venez pour enfoncer avec moi?, I can’t speak a word! I learned those two questions from a friend at work who was fluent in French. I suppose you want to know what the second question was. I thought it was an excellent chat up line at the time, but the only response I got was a slap around the face. It means...well, you know. Actually it was only a temporary setback and a week later we’d become an item. Finnian and Felicienne, what a mouthful! That was nine months ago.

It’s not that I didn’t trust her. Why should I not have? No, it wasn’t that. But she did seem to have a lot of calls from a French friend called Mystique, and with a name like that I was bound to be curious! Anyway, it seemed that Mystique was a colleague of Felicienne’s at the language school in which they both taught. It was known by the somewhat unoriginal title of The Anglo-French Academy, and aimed to ‘foster a greater understanding of our two great nations by the sharing of language’.Felicienne worked three evenings a week. I say evenings, she often got home after I’d gone to bed. There was clearly quite an after-hours social life attached to her job!

Going back to the language thing, as I said I didn’t suspect there was anything going on that I was being kept unaware of, but I was at the same time a little curious when it came to those long telephone calls.

Last week it was New Years Eve. We decided to make New Year resolutions. Why I don’t know, nobody ever keeps them! But I came up with a great one. I resolved to learn French. I told her that I was about to enrol at her college, The Anglo French Academy. I thought that even if the classes were a bore, at least I’d be able to join in with the fun some evenings after lessons. But her reaction was odd. She took a sharp intake of breath. “That’s a great idea” she said, but there was something about her tone of voice that made her seem a little odd.

I asked if she had any resolutions. She trotted out the usual ‘give up smoking’ one, then lit a cigarette and disappeared into the kitchen with the phone, jabbering away to her friend in French. What I didn’t know was that she had made another resolution. And her resolution was to stop me carrying out my resolution before I had a chance to turn up at college the next week.

Just after that, she said she had to go to meet Mystique, she wanted to join her for a drink and a chat. She changed into a particularly stunning black dress, told me not to wait up and off she went.

No sooner had the door slammed than the phone rang. It was George, a mate of mine. Seems he’d been to the New Year races and won a packet on the gee-gees. He wanted to go out and celebrate. He was a single guy and as he couldn’t tempt out a filly at such short notice, he asked if I would care to join him at the Ivy. The Ivy! One of London’s most expensive restaurants. The waiting list for a table was as long as your arm. It took a serious back-hander to get us in at a moment’s notice.

I felt like a celebrity when I walked in. It’s the kind of place where everyone who enters is greeted with a stare from the other diners in case they are well known. They soon got back to their food!

My eye was caught by a couple at a table on the other side of the restaurant. He was disarmingly handsome and all over his partner like a rash! What a display I thought. It was when she looked up to speak to the waiter I had the shock of my life. It was Felicienne. I didn’t know what to say or do. I moved to the side of our table so I’d have my back to her. There was no way I could make a scene in there. Anyway, it was George’s night so I did my best to carry on as if nothing had happened. Unsurprisingly I had no appetite, but the copious amount of wine and the endless brandies had something of a calming effect.

How could I have been so stupid? She was never a teacher. She never went near the Anglo-French Academy. She was one of a group of French girls that came to England to set up a high class escort agency. No wonder she didn’t want me to learn French. I‘d have discovered she and Mystique were unknown at the college. Not only that but I would I have understood her telephone conversations.

What a difference a week makes. She didn’t manage to keep her resolution, but I did! Tomorrow I’m off to The Anglo-French academy. I’d rather got used to the idea of having a French teacher for a girl friend.Que se produira à l'avenir ?

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Written for (Fiction)Friday # 138

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1898 ad

Wordless Wednesday - 1898 ad

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This weeks prompt at Carry On Tuesday is 'we laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear'