'This will do' said Benny!

This weeks prompt at Writers Island is Improvise and at Sunday Scribblings, Fire.

This’ll do said Benny as he climbed up the hastily assembled pile of boxes and crates. A couple of hours later he emerged from A&E with a plaster cast on his leg. He should have known better. Always inclined to improvise, his life was one of disaster after disaster. Not long ago he stabbed himself in the palm of his hand when he used a pointed knife as a screwdriver. He’s a regular visitor to A&E. As a child he dislocated a shoulder whilst using a tea tray as a toboggan. He once nearly drowned when taking to sea in a bath tub; he forgot the plug. On one occasion he jumped from the top of a tree using a bed sheet as a parachute with dire consequences.

His friends still laugh about the time he went to a fancy dress party as some kind of black knight. He thought he’d save money by making his own costume from black plastic rubbish sacks. At one point in the evening he leant for a while on a very hot radiator. He jumped forward leaving molten remains of plastic behind and spent the rest of the evening totally unaware that he was displaying his bare bottom! Then there was the party when he turned up in the guise of the incredible hulk. Instead of face paint he used food colouring and he spent the whole of the following week with a green face and arms! Soon after that he lost his eyebrows when he lit his fire with petrol instead of a fire lighter, and the flames shooting from his chimney could be seen for miles. One time during a power cut he used a cigarette lighter instead of a torch and set fire to the curtains. Recently Benny needed a new electrical fuse but couldn’t find one. A twisted bit of silver foil seemed a good idea at the time, but the burn marks on the wall and ceiling show that it wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Benny has never had much luck in getting a girlfriend, so he improvised there too – I leave the rest to your imagination. As for pets, he always liked the idea of having a parrot, but looking after it seemed too much of a chore so he got a stuffed one with a little devise inside which when switched on created a fairly life-like parrot voice. He saw it in a second hand shop and wondered why it was so cheap. He found out when he got it home and it started swearing like a trooper! His front garden is the only one in his road with a display of golden daffodils in midsummer; plastic of course, and his little pond is inhabited by several koi carp which would be worth a fortune if they were real.

Nobody has heard of Benny for a while. Apparently he was planning to fly across the sea without travelling in an aeroplane. He was last seen with a bag full of balloons, lugging a cylinder of helium gas and heading for the cliffs. Later that day they found the empty cylinder lying on the grass but no sign of Benny. I wonder where he is.

It's still before eight, but what the heck!

Earlier today I wrote a product review of After Eight chocolates for another site. I thought I'd tickle your tastebuds by reprinting here at the Ramblings!

I was given a box of After Eight chocolate mints the other day, and as I sit here tapping away on my keyboard the shiny green box stands open to my left tempting me to eat another of its wickedly scrumptious contents.

I can't quite remember how many After Eights there are in each box, about eighty I think. Whatever, there are currently far less in mine! There is something really special about those wafer thin squares of chocolate with their gooey minty fondant filling. It's not just the look of them that entices me to slip another one from its little brown envelope and into my mouth, it's also the tantalizing aroma which caresses the senses and renders me helpless to resist.

Some people I'm told enjoy their After Eights chilled. As far as I'm concerned imprisoning them in a fridge is tantamount to chocolate abuse. They become bendy and chewy. The flavours diminish and their sumptuousness declines. The noble After Eight need to be served at room temperature. Your fingers should sink into the glossy ribbed chocolate case as the minty filling dribbles down your chin. A sip of fine cognac between each one only adds to the sensuous experience.

After Eights have been around for as many years as I can remember. Certainly they have been a constant and welcome guest at my dinner tables since the seventies. Try as they may, their creator, Nestles has never come up with a better way of presenting the jewel in their crown. They make stick-like After Eights, round podgy After Eights and even now (I can't bear myself to say this) milk chocolate After Eights. But they are just not the same. Over the years there have been many pretenders and imposters. Supermarkets have tried to muscle in on the post dinner experience by producing bland copies. The world's best known confectionary manufacturers have tried to come up with an alternative but to no avail. As for Ferrero Rocher and those Dr Oetker chocolate truffles, they will always be the bridesmaids, never the bride.

And now for something special. Melt a few After Eights in a pan, let it cool, then fold in some thick cream. Spoon the glorious mixture into individual bowls and chill for an hour or two. Before serving poke a raw one into the top like a sail then garnish with fresh mint leaves. Yummy! When you've eaten them make some strong coffee, pour a brandy and open a new box of After Eights!

Harry has a surprise!

This weeks prompt on Writers Island is Foretell, and at Sunday Scribblings, Food.
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Harry loved a good dream. He always said that dreams were more entertaining than television or the movies. He also knew that the secret of a good night-time adventure lay in certain foods! One night last week Harry felt he was due a bit of nocturnal fun, so before he went to bed he gobbled down a pair of pickled onions and a pack of popcorn - they were always guaranteed to work.


That night Harry had a dream. A dream about an island. Buried in the sand on the island was a box and in the box was a surprise. A surprise just for him. But Harry woke up just as he was about to open the box. What was in the box? Harry had to find out.


He didn’t own a boat. Why would he? He didn’t really like the sea. But one sunny Saturday he took himself down to the beach and hired a jolly red and yellow pedalo with a picture of a pirate on the front. He climbed aboard with a pair of binoculars around his neck and a little trowel in his pocket!


Off he pedalled, his little legs a blur as he headed off towards the horizon. After an hour or so he stopped and looked around him. Nothing but water. He sat there for a minute or two bobbing up and down and scanning the blue yonder for signs of an island. And then he spotted it, way away in the distance.


 A few minutes later he landed on a sandy little beach which surrounded a sandy little island with a lone coconut tree right in its centre. He found a stick, tied his handkerchief to it and planted it in order to claim the island for himself.


Something foretold him where to start digging. Out came the trowel and he started furiously digging, a plume of sand flying skyward as he dug and dug and dug. And then he saw somethig glinting at the bottom of the hole. He was so excited! He reached down and grabbed his booty. Suddenly there was a glugging sound and water began to fill the hole. Harry stood there open mouthed, in his hand a silver plug on a silver chain. As the water came closer to the surface Harry scratched his head and wondered what to do next. To his surprise the water began to gush out of the hole and the island started to sink! Before he knew it the sandy island had disappeared beneath the surface of the sea and Harry found himself up to his neck in water held afloat by his orange blow up armbands.


He wasn’t sure what was involved in swimming, but he thrashed about for a minute or two and slowly he found himself in reaching distance of the pedalo.


 As Harry was clambering aboard the little craft, lots of bubbles began coming up from the deep and with a plop a brightly coloured box appeared on the surface. It was square and green and blue and purple and gold. On its sides were the letters CKJA. It was box he’d seen in his dream. Now to discover the surprise that was hidden within. He prised open the lid and certainly got a surprise as a grinning puppet leapt upwards then stood quivering on a spring.


 He sat there for a while with a look of disappointment on his face. He stared at the puppet and the puppet stared back. It was then Harry noticed the eyes on the little wooden head. They were unusually bright. In fact they sparkled. Could they be the surprise he was promised in his dream. Maybe, just maybe they were diamonds. He squeezed the Jack back into the box and closed the lid. It was then he got the biggest surprise of all as the lid sprung open again, the Jack flew up into the air then landed with a splash several feet away in the water. Harry just sat their clutching the colourful little box which then contained nothing more than a wobbling spring. He felt sure he the smiling puppet waving as it sunk below the surface.


Harry pinched himself hoping he was still dreaming, and that he’d wake up in the bath with his rubber duck looking at him from a sea of foam. He was of course a great believer in the power of pickles and popcorn. But no. Every day he wanders down to the beach in the hope that Jack will be washed up. Day after day after day.

Roseys little bit of India!

This weeks prompt on Writers Island is Epiphany. Rosey recently had one of those. And her story also fits the Sunday Scribblings  brief quite well. A Thousand Years. 
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‘That’s just piffle’ said Rosey. ‘You are talking nonsense’ she said. Then she slammed down the phone.


I was at her apartment where we were enjoying a drink and an Indian meal together. Our plates were balanced precariously on our laps; we couldn’t sit at the table like civilised human beings because it was in its usual state of chaos with teetering piles of books, screwed up papers, pens, brushes and paint pots competing for space with a fruit bowl containing a lonely brown banana. She was concentrating hard on transporting an overfull spoon of curry from the foil container to her plate when the phone suddenly rang. In truly Rosey style she jumped out her skin sending a dollop of Dansak into the floor. She swore, I complained and she told me not to be such a *?!>#% prude. Nothing new there! Anyway she made to the telephone just in time and I carried on eating as she listened intently to the individual who’d unreasonably interrupted our ‘Indian Banquet for Two’ (This week’s special at the supermarket)

I sort of flapped my hand to get her attention and tried to sign to her that her food was getting cold, but she just gave me a filthy look and carried on concentrating on her one sided conversation. Her only contribution was the odd ‘rubbish’, the occasional ‘baloney’ and the sporadic ‘twaddle’ or two. I frowned at her as if to ask what was going on but she just glared back making it perfectly clear it was none of my business.

Call over, she stomped back to her chair, growled and stabbed a lump of cold chapatti with her fork. ‘Piffle’ she shouted.

A couple of chardonnays later, after she’s calmed down, I ventured to ask her what the call was about. She told me it was nothing, I said I knew it wasn’t and she said yes it was. After a while she mumbled something about a call from India. I jokingly asked her if was from the factory that had knocked up our microwave ready feast and she told me not to be silly. It went quiet for a while. I could see her brain working. She kept frowning and tipping her head on one side and screwing up her nose. Clearly something about the call was bugging her.

‘It was one of those nuisance calls you hear about’ she said, ‘you know the ones, someone calls from overseas and tells you have won something or you’ve been left money’. I asked if she was so certain it was a hoax, why was it playing on her mind. She told me to forget it. Obviously though, she wasn’t forgetting it.

Slowly piffle was turning to epiphany! Her eyes widened and I could see something was dawning on her. She asked me if I remembered her telling me about her grandfather. He’d owned a plantation in India back in the days of British rule. He said the land had been fertile for a thousand years. He’d told her that one day it would be hers. She thought he was joking. He’d died several years ago and left her enough money to set herself up in her apartment – with a bit of help from her parents of course! But there was no mention of a plantation, and in any case she’d forgotten about it.

Slowly but surely she began to tell me what she’d heard on the phone. By now she was pretty sure it was genuine. It seems that the plantation had been left in trust to her by her grandfather and the Indian law firm handling it was unable to trace her when she became of age. It was now being rented to a tenant and the rent owed to her had been building up for years. Not a lot of money by our standards of course, but not to be sniffed at.

So, how about that? As well as her little allotment in Eastbourne, she has a slightly bigger one in Rajasthan! When she suggested we get an Indian that night, she must have had a premonition about the call that was to interrupt it!

She said that our next takeout should be a Chinese! She said that land in China was getting more valuable by the day!

It's back again

It’s back again. Every year it turns up around the same time. I tried to ignore this year, but right now it’s peering at me through the window like a miserable grey demon reminding me that it’s in control of everyone and everything around it. I try referring it by its Latin name, Febura, named after the feast of purification but it’s no good. I know its February and I know there’s still two thirds of the month to go. I don’t like Tuesdays either, and to me February is like twenty eight Tuesdays joined together. In really bad years  an extra one gets tacked on the end. If we need to have one month which grows by a day every now and again, why can’t we make it a jolly month like July?


I saw some snowdrops today. How brave they are to poke their little white heads above the ground when all sensible flowers are still tucked in their beds.


Here’s something I bet you didn’t know! The name snowdrop does not mean 'drop' of snow, it means drop as in eardrop - the old word for earring. It is also said that when Eve was in the Garden of Eden one freezing February day she was moaning to Adam about being cold and she thought the winter would never end. You can't blame her.  can you imagine being out there today with nothing more than a fig leaf to keep you warm? It’s said that an angel appeared and she transformed some of the snowflakes into snowdrop flowers, thus proving that winters do eventually give way to spring. Surely the angel could have done something a little more useful like poking a hole in the clouds to let a little sunlight through. Anyway, spring seems a long way off right now.


The author Anna Quindlen was no fan of February either. In her book One True Thing she says ‘February is a suitable month for dying. Everything around is dead, the trees black and frozen so that the appearance of green shoots two months hence seems preposterous, the ground hard and cold, the snow dirty, the winter hateful, hanging on too long’. How true.


I was reading a local village newsletter today. The lead article says ‘February has an optimism all of its own. When else can you experience a burst of sunlight when least expected? What about the ice moon against the bitter sky and the long expansive vista only visible this time of year when the trees are without the clutter of leaf or bloom?’ Unbelievable!!! I don’t want just ‘bursts’ of sunlight. You can keep your ice moons and bitter skies, and as for leaves and blooms being referred as clutter.......... Grrrr! Remind me to drop the editor a line.


It’s the middle of the day right now, but outside it’s more like dusk. I can see the sea from my window. It's grey. Rising up from the distant horizon the sky is grey. Even the seagulls squawking overhead are grey today. What leaves there are, are shivering in the cold. The only bit of colour I saw whilst peering outside was the glowing red nose on a grey clad fellow who wearily trudged past.


I think I’ll close the curtains.


Picture - Winter by Syrilla at deviantART

The beguiling Father Fogarty

Our prompt at Writers Island this week is the single word Beguile. And over at Sunday Scribblings the theme is Story. This is the story of the beguiling Father Fogarty

Most of the residents of the Sunset Retirement Home were ladies. Real ladies; genteel, refined and used to the finer things in life. Each day was very similar to the one which preceded it except for Sunday when a  retired gentleman of the cloth dropped in to speak to them about matters of faith. Father Fogarty was his name. He would move around the tables and chairs dispensing messages from above to his eager listeners.

Imagine if you will a stocky sexagenarian with a pot belly. He sported a few hairs combed across his almost bald cranium which looked like spindly twigs on a marble dome. Always he would be clad in baggy brown cord trousers, and an Oxford check shirt topped with a golden cravat worn under a beige tweed jacket that had seen better days.  Not for him Gods uniform. No one ever remembered seeing him sporting the customary white dog collar and a black two piece. The only outward symbol of his calling was a silver cross

in his lapel which more often than not was upside down. 

He would sit across the table from groups of four or five 'parishioners' as he liked to call them, wearing a benign smile which linked together his ruddy blue veined cheeks. Before he started talking he would reach into his jacket pocket and pull out his pipe and a tin of tobacco. He would skilfully fill its cavernous bowl with moist brown strands which smelt slightly of cherries, tamp it down with the end of his pipe maintenance devise then flip open the lid of a battered old Zippo which he ignited with a deft flick of his nicotine stained thumb. A few second later after  much blowing and sucking blue smoke would curl upwards from the fuming shag and hover in the air above. No one seemed to object to his habit. At least no one ever said anything about it. Sometimes his ladies would produce lace trimmed hankies which smelt of lavender from their sleeves and hold them to their noses, but then they quite often did that during the course of the day anyway.

Then Father Fogarty would begin to speak, drawing on his pipe between short laconic sentences. There was something about the way he delivered his pithy gems. He had a beguiling effect on his audience who would seem to drift away as he uttered a series of short one-liners. Was it the words, or the way he spoke that was so mesmerising? Someone even suggested that there was something in his tobacco that was strangely calming.Whatever it was, the ladies lapped it up, week after week after week.

It was Easter Sunday. He moved around the room visiting several groups of his adoring fans doing exactly what he did every Sunday. He would light up his pipe, speak for a while, and then place his hand on each of the ladies’ hands in turn as he offered a short prayer of thanks for God’s generosity.

But something was a little different on this glorious spring morning. It was after they’d each bid Father Fogarty farewell they all realised that things of theirs had mysteriously disappeared. They were no longer wearing their rings, bracelets or watches.

Needless to say he never came back. He’s not been seen by any of the ladies or the constabulary from that day to this.