The anti-resolutionaries

There’s a village in the county of Cheerishire which goes by the jolly name of Much-Giggling–in-the-Meadow. Imagine the lid of a chocolate box adorned with a picture of a street lined with thatched cottages, whisps of smoke curling from their rustic chimney stacks and a fox looking over its shoulder, standing beside a garden stuffed full of roses and gladioli. This impression could not be further apart from reality!




Now clear your mind of that idyllic scene and imagine instead a scruffy street lined with dilapidated cottages and a couple of broken down cars propped up on bricks. The meadow is no more than a patch of rubbish strewn wasteland with a rusty old caravan sitting lopsidedly at one end. Instead of Freddy the fox, you’ll usually find a mangy mogrel cocking its leg on the crumbling gatepost of the disused church.


If you were by accident to find yourself in this ramshackle backwater (it would be by accident since the road leads nowhere) your first inclination would be to turn and make a speedy exit! And if you where to be there on New Years Eve (now that would be a mistake!) your ears would be filled with the most unexpected sound. Not exactly giggling as the name of the place suggests, but raucous laughter! And it would be assaulting your ears from the direction of the pub (or the boozer as the locals call it). Don’t ask me what this decrepit hostelry is called. The sign fell down years ago and rumour has it that it fell on the head of the one resident who actual lived there by choice, killing him. An outsider. You see, it’s close knit community and it’s said that the village folk are all related to one another. I have to tell you, they are a somewhat unattractive bunch, dare I say as a result of their preference for inbreeding. I should add that claims made about the inhabitants cover all kinds of anomalous behaviour, what is fact and what is fabrication I know not.

One thing however is known to be a fact, and it’s to do with the strange tradition that takes place at the aforementioned pub each New Year’s Eve. For whilst most of us are coming up with objectives and intentions aimed to improve ourselves, at least for the first few weeks of the year, the population of MGitM actually submit lists of anti-resolutions; things they are determined not to do in the year ahead. And they clearly derive great pleasure from this strange practice. Needless to say no one from without has ever witnessed this odd tradition, but it’s quite obvious that they are determined not to make the place more attractive, they definitely don’t want visitors and people looking for a rural retreat are unquestionably to be turned on their heels and driven away immediately. What else I know not.


At least on one night of the year the wretched dwellers actually get to let their hair down. That is of course until the day someone makes an anti-resolution which states that never again will anyone have a good time on New Year’s Eve.


Written for (Fiction)Friday prompt 'anti resolutions'

Twixt dusk and dawn

It’s time to celebrate! Well nearly. With just a few days of 2010 left to, go we are  about to celebrate the end of a year that was perhaps less than kind to us, or the start of a new one with all the hope and promise it brings. Maybe both, maybe neither.

There’s only a night between old and new. A few hours twixt dusk and dawn. Is it possible that our fortunes can change between an owl’s hoot and a sparrow’s fart?

Now is the time to draw up a manifesto. A list of intentions, goals and objectives. For it’s only with resolutions that next year will be any different from one about to fizzle out. The change of date can never bring a change in providence, it’s for us to bring about that change for ourselves.

So, all that remains is for me to step down from my soap box and wish you whatever you wish for yourself, even if wishes don’t really come true without a little bit of self-help!

Written for Carry On Tuesday, Sunday Scribblings and Writers Island.

Pictutre by Nefis at deviantArt

Thank you Santa

A few days ago I showed you a letter which was sent to Santa by young Pheobe Pinkerton. I thought you might like to know what happened next. If you didn’t read her letter, scroll down to ‘ A letter to Santa’. What follows will then make more sense!

Thank you Santa

It was cold in Helmand last night. When Phoebe talked about her father being in Afghanistan, her friends often quipped ‘at least it’s hot there’. It’s not of course. In fact last night it dropped below freezing. Last time Phoebe spoke to her Dad on the phone he had jokingly said that he was missing his woolly hat! That was couple of days before her schools parents’ day when Phoebe was missing her father more than ever. She insisted that her mother leave an empty chair alongside her where her father should have sat, and on that chair she placed her dad’s woolly hat.
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Today was Christmas Day. Phoebe and her mum had never spent Christmas on their own before. Actually, they weren’t completely on their own because, my friend Rosey - her ‘kinda’ auntie - joined them for lunch. Phoebe called Rosey her kinda’ auntie because she didn’t like referring to her as ‘once removed’! Okay, Rosey was a little eccentric as regular visitors to my ramblings know, but although she’s come close to it on a couple of occasions, she’s not once been removed from anywhere! She was also very kind!

Phoebe hadn’t told her mother about the letter she wrote to Santa, she was too embarrassed! But she did tell Rosey because she knew that her kinda’ auntie had a nagging feeling that Santa was as real as the old man next door! In fact Rosey wrote about it last year on her blog and Phoebe had read it.

It was while they were talking about it that the phone rang. It was Phoebe’s dad. He’d just received his Christmas parcel from home. After a short chat with her mother, it was Phoebes turn to wish her dad a happy Christmas. He thanked her for her gifts: the photo of her receiving her award on parent’s day, and a woolly hat. He said that he had on his head right then! Phoebe was confused because she hadn’t sent him a hat. Then she broke into a huge grin as she realized what had happened.

‘Thank you Santa’ she whispered.

  

A letter to Santa

Dear Santa

I bet you don’t get many letters from 13 year olds! Actually I feel a bit stupid writing this. If the other girls at school find out about it they’ll tease me rotten. I mean, writing to someone who doesn’t exist? Crazy! But I see it like this. My school is a religious one and every day we like pray and stuff to a god who we’ve never seen. If I’m supposed to believe he exists then why shouldn’t I believe in you? Okay, he was supposed to have done a load of miracles thousands of years ago, but then so have you. And more recently too.

For instance, right now you are in every shopping mall in the country at the same time. Clever. And you like deliver presents to every child in the world on the same night. If they aren’t miracles then I don’t what are. (I don’t believe I just wrote that! I guess I’m like just trying to persuade myself that you are more than just a thousand different people in fancy dress!)

The thing is me and my mates were fooling about on your website and my friend found my name on your naughty list! Me, naughty? Me? Anyway, it looks like you won’t be popping down my chimney on Christmas night (which I’ve really felt happy about) so I came up with an idea.

It’s this. My Dad is away. Not ordinary away, he’s in Afghanistan. He’s a soldier you see. I miss him sooooo much. It’s like so unfair that he will be over there at Christmas. He said not to worry. He said they’ll have turkey and stuff, and we were allowed to send him little presents – mine is a photo of me getting a certificate on parents day at school. He was one of the only fathers not there. So I thought that as I won't be getting a present from you this year it would be great if you could take him a present from Lapland instead. Please say you will.

I’m sorry about that smudge down there. I try not to cry when I think about Daddy, but sometimes I have no choice, and a tear just dripped onto the paper. I made a bit of a mess where I tried to wipe it up. I should really start again on a new bit of paper but I know that if I don’t send you this letter, I’ll tell myself the whole thing is stupid and I won’t write another. I’m going to post it straight away. Do I need a stamp?

Love and kisses

Pheobe Pinkerton  xxx

Written for Carry On Christmas. Please join in.

The quest for true love

Written for Carry on Tuesday and Writers Island.


Now and again when reading a book, you come across a sentence that you wished you’d come up with yourself! I am currently reading ‘One Week In December’ by Sebastian Faulk and I admit to being overawed with each turn of the page; not simply the choice of words, but the turn of phrase employed therein.


I’m not into plagiarism, though having said that, I would be flattered if someone was to use words of mine to enhance their literary piece! But on this occasion I’ve decided to extract part of a sentence from Mr. Faulk’s delightful tome in order to give my humble effort a little more zazoom! As recompense I’m sending you on a quest! I’ve decide that the first person to single out the words I’ve stolen should receive a copy of his wonderful book with my complements.


Your suggestions please!

If only

She always complained that the bed was too small. Too small he asked? Too small? Then get a bed of your own he said, and then you can have it all to yourself.


If only he could turn back the clock. If only he’d realized how things were to turn out.


Two in the morning and he was feeling alone. Three in the morning and the empty space beside him was cold and vast. Four in the morning and he longed for the day to break. Six in the morning…


The call of the alarm clock didn’t fill him with pleasurable anticipation. The endless night was over and the endless day was about to begin.


No one said it would be a walk in the park. She’d said something about love not being easy. She’s used a phrase; something about the course of love not running smooth. Not running smooth? If it wasn’t so true, it would be funny!

*

She sat in front of a blinking screen. In a cold and unfriendly office. The day job. It put food on her plate, but not much more.


Two in the afternoon and there were four hours to go. Three in the afternoon she was free to get coffee and a biscuit. Five o’clock and she was longing to leave. Six and she was released; able to escape, into a life ….a life that was empty. Empty. So empty. So very empty.


A verse ran through her mind. Something that Shakespeare once said. Something she’d said to him before she left. Something about true love ‘not running smooth’ – he said it should it have read smoothly! It ran through her mind. And through, and through, and through.


Two in the morning and she was feeling alone. Three in the morning and the empty space in the bed beside her was cold. Four in the morning and she longed for the day to break. Six in the morning and the birds in the trees sang a melancholy tune.


At seven, the call of the alarm clock didn’t fill her with pleasurable anticipation. The endless night was over and the endless day was about to begin.