The first day of August was one of the great pagan festivals celebrated in ancient Britain. Like so many other celebrations, it was taken over when Christianity arrived and named Lammus Day, the festival of the harvest. In Anglo Saxon times, Lammus became the ‘festival of the first fruits’ and loaves of bread made from the first wheat harvest were taken to church.

August was also the time when the harvested hay meadows were opened to the common people for grazing their animals, and it was marked by the holding of country fairs many of which survive to the present day. Although not practiced at today’s Lammus fairs, there was a tradition called hand-fasting whereby couples could embark on a trial marriage for one year after which they either stayed together or went their separate ways, no questions asked!

So, enjoy your Lammus day, and if you have a glass of beer or wine in your hand,raise it and toast your bread!   

Free beer tomorrow / Rosey gets a standing ovation!

In my pub I had a blackboard suspended from the ceiling on which I’d written ‘Free Beer Tomorrow’. It never ceased to amaze me how many people turned up the following day expecting to get a free pint, only to be confronted by the same words, ‘Free Beer Tomorrow’. The fact is that is that tomorrow never comes; when you wake up in the morning, tomorrow has become today and run away!

They say that tomorrow is another day. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Written for Carry On Tuesday prompt 'After all, tomorrow is another day'. The words come from the film Gone With The Wind, the title of which crops up in my latest report from the wonky world of my friend Rosey. The story also builds on our Sunday Scribblings prompt, Standing Ovation'


We had all arranged to meet at Starbucks for an infusion of caffeine after a long night at the Bicycle Arms. It was a gorgeous morning so we decided to sit outside in the sunshine and catch a few rays. I was there with Jonno, Claire, Daniel, Charlie (as in Charlotte with her trademark boy’s short back and sides, and rapidly descending baggy jeans), and of course Rosey.  Rosey offered to go inside and order our drinks, an offer none of was going to refuse despite a niggling feeling that things could just go wrong at some stage in the operation. Most of us chose sensible drinks, mainly Americano’s with or without milk. Rosey stared into the middle distance and proclaimed that she was going to have a (I think this is right) a Tazo Green Tea Crème Frappuccino, and when quizzed on its makeup she declared that it was a refreshing blend of sweetened macha green tea with milk and ice, topped with sweetened whipped cream. I was somewhat impressed with her knowledge of unusual sounding beverages with odd sounding names, until that is Jonno pointed to a card on the next table plugging the above mentioned liquid concoction, and easily read by Rosey even without her spectacles. Anyway, she refused help and made her way inside to order our drinks.

We were so busy chatting that we didn’t notice that Rosey was tottering her way back across the café with a somewhat overloaded tray of cups and glasses. We spotted her just as she was trying to work out how to open the door, and before we could go to her assistance she had already turned around and was opening it by pushing against it with her back. Suddenly a young was heading toward the door from the street, and rather unwisely pulled it open sending Rosey staggering backwards out onto the terrace and straight into his arms! All we could do was to watch on as steaming coffee shot up into the air and a large dollop of whipped cream landed fairly and squarely on Rosey’s nose.

There was little bit of discussion going on only interrupted by occasional giggles from both of them. Rosey called out that she was going back inside with her new acquaintance to repair the damage done to our long awaited drinks. A few minutes later she was on her way back with a big grin on her face and a refilled tray. We all looked on in part amazement part horror at the green concoction Rosey was about to swallow. She was more interested in telling us about Claude and was obviously quite struck by her new found friend; in fact they’d even swapped phone numbers. She told us how charming he was, and how just for once her parents might approve of him as he’d told her he was a barrister. As she was gushing about him I glanced inside the café to see him tying on an apron and making his way behind the counter. I thought I really ought to tell her that far from being a wig wearing justice of the peace, he was actually a Starbucks Barista. She actually took it very well, and said she still found him very attractive even if he does smell permanently of soggy coffee grounds.

I commented on his rather unusual name; you don’t get too many Claudes these days. That reminded Daniel of an old joke and he asked us what you call the loser in a hissing, scratching cat fight. The answer he said was – Claude! Don’t worry if you don’t get it straight away, I thought about it all day before it dawned on me and I doubt it will ever sink in to Rosey’s brain! Whether Charlie got it or not I don’t know, but she came back with another cat joke; what does a cat do when it stops? Answer, paws. Mmm! Rosey liked that one and suddenly clapped her hands together and said that the answers to those two questions reminded her of a cat joke of her own.

To say that she got in a muddle telling it would be an understatement. I must say, it is quite a tongue twister, but between us we managed to sort it out for her. It goes like this. What is the difference between a full stop and a cat? A full stop is a pause after a clause, and a cat has claws on its paws. We simultaneously broke into a round of applause and stood up to leave. Rosey assumed she was receiving a standing ovation and bowed her head banging it on the table! After the laughter and assorted groans had died down, Rosey tipped her Tazo Green Tea Crème Frappuccino down her throat in one enormous gulp, looked at us with horror-film green lips and bulging eyes, then pulled an agonised face. ‘That was horrid’ she squeaked then let out a thunderous belch! ‘That’s better’ she said, ‘Gone with the wind’. That was the funniest thing she said all day because she was making an amusing reference to the fact we were planning to visit the Vintage Picture Palace later that day to see the Vivien Leigh film of the same name.

‘What colour is a burp?’ called out Claire. ‘Burple’  chuckled Rosey!

A few thoughts about Rupert Murdoch

As for Rupert Murdoch and his band of merry men, I was beginning to feel sorry for the old fella! I honestly think that our world has benefitted from his input over the last god-knows-how-many decades. For instance I’m a great fan of The Times and its Sunday version. The unions closed it in the 70’s, and then it was rescued by Murdoch’s News International. Today it is a very influential medium and has helped shape the political landscape of our country. One could argue that the shape is a little distorted at the moment, but I wonder how different it would be without Rupert’s group of newspapers, the Sun and such other titles which reach every section of society. I also feel that his Sky News plays a very important role in balancing the bias displayed by the BBC. I have found the self satisfied glee on the part of the ‘Beeb’ very uncomfortable of late.

Having said that, I have to admit that I totally disagreed with Mr Murdoch’s decision to close the biggest selling newspaper in the UK, the Nudes of the World (sorry, it’s actually called the News of the World!)after 168 years.  I can honestly say I’ve never actually purchased a copy: no, that’s a lie, because I bought a copy of the final edition as a keepsake – I’ve not yet peered inside!

There were over 200 journalists sent to the scrap heap when it closed, as well as 100 printers. None of the present day staff were involved in what went before, and I feel they have been made sacrificial lambs in order to satisfy the baying mob. I'm well and truly astride the fence. Debate!

A distant memory

There was a time when I wrote something every day. Sometimes a short story, often a poem, but always something. Normally, in my head, I paint a picture and the words bring it to life. Just lately though, I seem to have ground to a halt; my daily word-spinning now a distant memory. My muse it appears has wandered off and left me speechless! I even wrote a poem about my muse once; how ungrateful she is. I’m joking of course. To think that some outside force can influence the way you express your thoughts and ideas is preposterous. It is however a very useful excuse when your imagination dries up!

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I wrote the above about an hour ago, sorry for the interruption. I thought I heard someone calling my name. The voice was faint, distant, and almost unreal. I went over to my window; I live opposite a park, and there are always people wandering around. I often stand and watch people feeding the ducks, kids running about and youngsters kicking a ball around scoring goals and cheering in triumph. But when I looked out a moment ago, the park was strangely empty. The water in the lake was still and mirror like. Where were the swans and the ever- swooping sea gulls? The trees and bushes were totally still. No movement, no sound, no sign of life. And then, again, in the distance I heard someone call my name. It was more of a whisper than a shout. There was not a soul in sight.

“Go back to your keyboard” the eerie voice hissed. “Go back, and empty your mind. Relax your hands and let me help you find your way back”.

I won’t deny it; I’d had a couple of drinks over lunch and one or two more when I got home. My immediate thought was to grab a caffeine fix, so I went straight to the kitchen to make a strong cup of coffee. Then I heard the voice again, still distant but a little closer than before. “Come back to your keyboard” it said. “I’m waiting for you”. With that I knocked the cup over and steaming coffee swirled around my feet. I suddenly felt as if I was losing control. Outside I could once again hear the sound of laughter. The ducks were quacking and the breeze was rustling the branches of the trees. I glanced out and the park was it's usual bustling self. I felt myself being drawn towards my desk.

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You are going to think I’m crazy, but I promise you I have no recollection of writing any of that nonsense. But I have to admit that for the first time in ages I actually have a few ideas swimming around in my head. But before I start writing them down I need to see to the kitchen floor which right now must be swimming in spilled coffee! Oh, that’s strange. There is no spilled coffee. I think I need another drink!

The prompt at Sunday Scribblings this week is 'Distant'. At Carry On Tuesday it's ' In my head I paint a picture'.
Illustration, 'Artist and Muse' by Cepums at deviantArt

Without a hitch

I recently wrote a story with an ambiguous ending. I called it Ten Steps to Go.I had intended leaving it there, but I’ve given in to the requests I had to complete the tale. To read the first part just click HERE

They say things come in threes! The day he got hitched his plan went without a hitch, and there he was wandering between rows of trucks at a motorway service area hoping to hitch a ride to another life.

It seemed ages ago, yet it was only a couple of days since he’d fulfilled his promise to carry his new wife over the threshold of their new apartment. Only it wasn’t their apartment. He’d managed to get hold of the keys to an empty property and told her it was to be their new home. Nobody knew that was where he was taking her; to an address nobody knew of. Anyway, it didn’t matter now. His new wife was already unconscious when he struggled up the stairs with her. He’d left her on the hall floor to breathe her final living breaths then gone into hiding.  He didn’t need a wife on the honeymoon he was about to embark upon.

He wondered if anybody had found her yet. He didn’t really care because right then he was sitting smugly, riding shotgun in a truck heading for the continental ferry terminal. No one from his past life would recognise him anyway. He was always proud of his long wavy hair and designer glasses. Now he was as bald as a coot, and seemingly able to see without the aid of spectacles.

A couple of hour later he was in the queue at Dover Ferry Terminal, about to buy a ticket to France and a new future; a future where money would never again be a problem.

Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder. He slowly turned his head then gasped. This was not possible……was it?

The prompt at Sunday Scribblings this week is 'Hitch'