Rosey and the Shipwreck

This week our prompt at Sunday Scribblings is Shipwreck

I don’t know if you remember but back in January I told you about Rosey and her unfortunate incident in her rowing boat – if not, you can find it here. Ever since that fateful day we have referred to it as Rosey’s shipwreck! So when an exhibition came to our local art gallery with the one word title Shipwreck, we felt we had to drag Rosey along to show her what a lucky escape she had in comparison to the tragic events in marine history past.

So off we went, Rosey chose to wear an outfit of blue and white as she felt it fitted the occasion. We suggested she should have worn a lifejacket as it would have been more in keeping. I have to admit that the pictures were not particularly interesting. Rosey thought that the star exhibit, ‘The Shipwreck' by Turner was pretty dull and certainly not as interesting as his most famous work, ‘The Hay Wain’. I pointed out that John Constable painted the Hay Wain to which Rosey retorted that he should have been promoted to at least a Sergeant by now!

Anyway, we wandered though into the next room where things certainly looked up, for me at least! Gone were the broken boats and crashing waves. Now our eyes feasted upon painting after painting of Rubenesque ladies from the Baroque period. Rosey made a tut-tutting noise and said that it was unfair that all the nude paintings depicted women. I pointed out to her a sign on the wall that said ‘Men’ and off she strutted in the direction of the arrow. One minute later she found herself standing before a row of urinals!

On her way back she spotted a notice on the wall advertising life painting classes, and you’ll not be surprised to learn that she intends enrolling. I for one can’t wait to see the results!   

Two steps back!

This weeks prompt at Sunday Scribblings is 'Forward'.




Every Monday I take a journey on a bus to visit my friends at their pub. I leave my trusty car by the roadside thus removing the threat of a driving ban should I imbibe to excess.


I have been making this journey every Monday for the last four years, and it has become increasingly apparent to me that as people get older they tend to become creatures of habit. Spontaneity jumps out of the window; their sense of adventure cowers behind the door. Stepping forward becomes replaced by stepping back.


I know that when I arrive at the bus stop I will find an elderly man standing reading a folded copy of the Daily Telegraph. I know that I will see a tiny lady pacing up and down and consulting her wrist watch every couple of minutes.


When the bus arrives in the village of Horam, a large elderly lady will alight, sit in the front seat and go about her weekly ritual of unwrapping a sausage roll, examining it then nibbling at it depositing a pile of crumbs on the floor. Further on an old couple will get on. He will sit in one seat and his wife in another, two rows behind. At the next stop an old boy will get on and say to the old couple "Hello Gladys. Hello Ted".


When I arrive at the pub the same old people will be sitting in the same old seats as last Monday. I know we will discuss with one the weather and the other, football. Another chap will be sitting by the window tut- tutting at the sports pages of his newspaper. At 12.37 precisely Gerald will appear in the doorway and immediately come out with an extremely un-funny one liner and we’ll all pretend to laugh.


Elderly people are creatures of habit, and while it might comfort them, I find it all a bit depressing.


I went out for a beer the other night. I had a pint, followed by just a half a pint as I was driving. At 21.45 I left the pub and at 22.05 I pulled up outside the Istanbul Kebab Korner, My Turkish friend looked up and said “Chicken Khofte with extra onions, chilli sauce and garlic?" I didn’t need to reply; I suppose you could call it a rhetorical question. He then shuffled through the pile of newspapers on the counter, and handed me the Eastbourne Herald. He knows I like to read it while I wait.


So I guess I'm getting older too. As I said, as you get on in years it seems that as you take one step forward, then two steps back, but I’m not going to let that t happen to me! Next time I stop to get a kebab I’ll have a Lamb Donner with chips instead!

If I should die..........

There’s a programme on BBC Radio 4 which has been running week in week out since 1942! If you are reading this in the UK you’ll know what I’m referring to, (no, not the Sooty Show!).  It’s called Desert Island Discs. For the uninitiated, each week a personality / celebrity / boffin /  star / politician /chav / really nice person has to choose the eight pieces of music they’d most like to have with them if they found themselves alone on a deserted palm fringed hump of sand in the middle of the ocean. Such practicalities as an electrical supply and a convenient gramophone are overlooked, but this is after all a fantasy. The thing is, such a catastrophic event is hardly likely to befall the great and the good who weekly state their carefully selected preferences. The nearest I came to it, was when my hired rowing boat developed a leak and I had to make for the little island in the middle of the pond much to the chagrin of the resident duck and his good lady drake. If I’d suddenly played them eight tunes they'd have thought I was quackers!

There is however one event which will befall us all, and one at which pieces of music are almost certainly going to play a part. I refer of course to our funeral. No doubt our friends and family think they know where our taste lies in matters musical, and it is more than likely that they’ll accidentally on purpose miss out the tunes that don’t float their boat. But I honestly feel that as it’s our last time at a family get together, we should at least be allowed to choose the farewell tracks. Let’s face it, getting them to appreciate them when we were living was difficult enough; just for once we’ll have a captive audience and the upper hand, so they’ll simply have to listen like it or not! So I think everybody should put together a list of bits of music, no matter how much you think it might bore the pants off those present. After all it’s your last chance to take centre stage, so go for it! You could be ploughed down by a bus tomorrow.

I suppose I should have given a little thought to the task before telling you about it, so I’ll beg your forbearance as I go through my record collection to find a few tracks which will send me on my way rejoicing, and remind others how lucky they are that I am finally setting off to that great music hall in the sky.

As they say in those tacky low budget adverts, watch this space! I'll be picking out a few of my favourites, so why don't you join me in this final act of unadulterated indulgence!

An unexpected pleasure

Written for Sunday Scribblings 'Pleasure' and Carry on Tuesday 'If I should die...'

‘It’s my pleasure’ said Graham Gulliver as he handed the book to his admiring fan. Next in the queue was Elisha Fewlam, a lady whose enigmatic presence oozed sophistication and confidence, so much so that Graham felt drawn towards her in  the way authors do when spotting an interesting character that would fit well into a new novel. ‘Mr. Gulliver’ said Elisha. He blinked a couple of times then smiled as the spell was broken and he found himself back behind the pile of books awaiting his signature, and a line of eager readers snaking its way back through paperbacks and into the stationery department. ‘I’m sorry’ he said ‘to whom shall I dedicate it?’ ‘Letz’ said Elisha ‘my husband, Letz’. With a flourish of his hand he autographed the front page, and then offered the book to Elisha. ‘I hope he has as much pleasure reading it as I did writing it’. But the book was not intended for Letz.

‘Murder Most Secret’ had been well reviewed. Graham Gulliver’s followers were always eager to discover the latest idea he’d come up with to disguise murder as suicide or simply a mysterious disappearance. Elisha saw it more as a reference book than a crime novel.

In another part of town, Letz was sitting in a plush leather chair talking across an opulent mahogany desk to his solicitor Horacio Hunter, making a subtle change to his last will and testament. ‘Always a pleasure to see you Letz’ said the solicitor. ‘I just wish you’d tell me the reason for this latest alteration’

’Worry not Horacio’ said Letz. 'If I should die before Elisha she is still the main beneficiary; I’ve just made a small change
to the way in which she receives my estate.

Back at their stately pile, Elisha closed the book then placed it on the coffee table. She made her way to the kitchen. Who needed a recipe when she had Graham Gulliver to guide her?

The next morning Elisha made Letz his coffee at the usual time and took it through to his study with a piece of her homemade Victoria sponge cake. Letz's face lit up, cake was one of his simplest yet greatest pleasures. ‘Thank you my
dear’ he said.

‘I only hope you get as much pleasure from eating it as I did making it’ said Elisha. She then explained that she had to run an errand and would be back later in the afternoon.


But she didn’t come back that afternoon. In fact she didn’t come back for several days.

When she returned she gingerly opened the creaking door and ventured slowly and quietly into the hall. She called Letz's name. Of course, she didn’t expect a reply. All she expected was to see Letz slumped in his chair no longer in this world. But he was nowhere to be seen. She walked into the kitchen; not there. Upstairs to the bedrooms, not there either. She went back downstairs and into the dining room. There on the table was the slice of cake , still whole, and alongside it an envelope. She opened it. Inside was a letter from Haynes and Son, undertakers, expressing great regret and explaining that her husband had passed away. Despite the best efforts of friends and family no one was able to reach her with news of Letz’s demise. She was invited to the chapel of rest were his body was awaiting her. Everything seemed to be going to plan although she was a little worried about the uneaten cake. However, he was gone and in just a few days, and she’d be meeting Horacio Hunter for the reading of the will.

At the Chapel a suitably morose gentleman, head bowed, walked toward her and gestured for her to enter the room where a lily covered coffin stood on trestles. She tried to suppress a smile because he’d always hated lilies; reminded him of death he’d always said. She didn’t want the lid opened; she had no reason to ever see him again. Later that day she met with their family doctor who said that his sudden death had been a complete mystery and despite the best efforts of the coroner, no reason could be found. It remained unexplained and probably down to natural though unexpected causes. A few days later she watched his coffin being committed to the flames.

Horacio Hunter handed Elisha a key. He explained that Letz had reduced his will to just a few words, and he’d placed everything of value including deeds and bank authorisation letters in a deposit box at Heathrow airport.

TV programmes and radio broadcasts were interrupted that afternoon as news of an explosion in Terminal 3 spread throughout the media. Was this the latest terrorist attack? Who was responsible? Sadly there were a considerable number of casualties and one fatality. The dead person was found to be Elisha and a terrorist organisation eager for publicity falsely took the blame.

Fast forward a year. It’s summer on the sundrenched Mediterranean paradise of Barbados. There among the banana trees and ornate blooms sits a villa, and on the veranda is a writer known locally as Mister Cheetham is putting the final touches to his new book. He raises a glass of rum in a toast, and thanks his absent friends for the inspiration they afforded him. Then he lifts the papers, knocks them into a neat pile then places them in a box. There is a label on the lid and on it he writes ‘Houdini Had Nothing on Me’, a novel by Letz Fewlham.

Rosey's friend Jack

Rosey and I went round to Jack’s the other night. I can’t remember if I’ve told you about Jack, but he’s a friend of Rosey from her school days. She lost touch with him when he went to university. He was always something of a musician, and a fairly serious one. Whilst we were all trying to emulate Meatloaf he’d be studying the finer points of Mozart. He came out of uni with a creditable first in what Rosey calls ‘musicing’. As you know Rosey is a teaching assistant at the school she attended as a kid, and when they last did an end of term concert Jack, a fellow ex-pupil, turned up to help bring together the blowing, banging, strumming and squeaking of the school orchestra.

As I said we popped round to Jack’s pad the other day; Rosey wanted me to be there to lend moral support as she felt a little inferior in the company of the maestro. His apartment couldn’t be more different from Roseys. Everything is neat and tidy. On his wall he proudly displays his degree certificate alongside a photo of himself in mortar board and gown. The centrepiece of the room is a magnificent glossy black Steinway baby grand piano. After a glass or two of very fine wine and some very expensive nibbles (we were not exactly sure what they were but we made all the ooh and ahh sounds to show our appreciation) we felt we ought to ask him to play us something suitable for the occasion. Actually Rosey asked him to ‘bash out a tune on the ‘ole Joanna’, her turn of phrase causing Jack to wince just a little. Anyway, he put up no argument, and a few seconds later we were being entertained by his rousing rendition of someone-or-others’ piano concerto. Apparently it was in A minor, but Rosey whispered to me that it sounded B flat.

Once over, we applauded and as Jack got up from the stool Rosey shot across the room and plonked herself down at the piano. Jack muttered something about being gentle with his beloved instrument, but Rosey was already poised to open part two of the evening’s entertainment. You’ll remember no doubt that Rosey only plays one tune, Chopsticks. I say ’play’, but that is something of an exaggeration. She is as good at playing Chopsicks as she is at eating with them. Only the other night she managed to poke one right up her nose whilst doing battle with a plate of chop suey in the Poo Ping Chinese eatery.

I must say that Jack was very generous with vino, and before we knew it we’d passed the witching hour and beginning to wonder how we were going to get home. Driving was clearly not advisable given the state of minor inebriation we found ourselves in, and the last bus was tucked up safe and sound in its garage for the night. Jack to the rescue. He said one of us could have the spare room for the night and the other could get their head down on the sofa. A coin was duly tossed to establish who would get the bed. I said to Rosey ‘heads I win tails you lose’ which she accepted and I duly got the spare room. As I said goodnight to her I could see that something about the way the decision was made was worrying her.

It was about 4.30 in the morning when we heard Rosey scream. Jack and I stumbled down the stairs and into the lounge where we saw Rosey in half light sitting up on the sofa a giggling. Apparently she was having a dream, at least she thought she was, and suddenly she saw this monster in a dark corner of the room with its enormous mouth open, baring an alarming set of gappy teeth. A second or two later she realised it was no more than Jack’s piano.

When morning properly arrived Jack asked us if we’d like to join him for a cup of  Nicaraguan Maragogype elephant bean coffee with scrambled free range eggs and McGilvray smoked salmon, followed by one of his specially imported hand crafted pain au chocolat from his ‘little man’ in the Bohemian quarter of Paris. We declined his invitation and headed off to Greg’s Greasy Spoon for a full English breakfast washed down with a mug of his famous stewed tea! And guess what was playing on the radio in the background – yep, Piano Man!