People of Nepal

For Wordless Wednesday November 30

I took these in Nepal a few months ago

 

To read about my amazing time in Nepal and see many more pictures click HERE

The investing-gator!

Written for Sunday Scribblings

Little Ricky’s Mum and Dad went shopping the other day and Granny came round to look after him . Granny was very old and almost as soon as she sat down she fell asleep .  Ricky was watching a cartoon on television about an investigator who hid behind lamp posts and looked at things through a great big magnifying glass. Granny had a magnifying glass . She held it up to her bad eye when she read her book . Ricky always laughed because it made her eye look enormous! But right now Granny was snoring and the magnifying glass was on her lap . ‘I am going to be a investing-gator’ chuckled Ricky , and with that he gently took the magnifying glass from Granny’s lap and set off to the jungle outside the kitchen door.

He crouched down behind a white plastic chair and studied every corner of the garden . Not much was happening , so he crawled across the grass on all fours to see what he could find . ‘Aha’ he  said .  Climbing up a blade of grass was a ladybird . He raised the magnifying glass to his eye to investigate what the spotted creature was up to . It looked huge! But it just stood there like a red and black blob . Boring . He shuffled across the lawn to the place where Mums best flowers were looking up at the sun . Right in the middle of a yellow one was a bee . Ricky thought he’d investigate in case the bee was stealing stuff to make honey. He peered through the magnifying glass and watched the bee’s ugly little tongue whipping in and out then hiding the stolen pollen behind one of its fury little legs .  ‘Gotcha’ shouted Ricky and just then the busy bee flew straight towards the magnifying glass and frightened Ricky so much that he fell over backwards . ‘Phew’ said Ricky as he wiped his brow the way he’d seen the investing-gater do it on television .

Out of the corner of his eye he saw some ants . Just a few at first , but then he noticed there were millions of them climbing up a pile of dirt behind the rose bush . 'What are you up to?’ he asked . They looked huge through the magnifying glass .They were scurrying along really fast all in a line . Most of them were carrying bits of leaf between the front legs . He watched them for ages wondering what they were up to . Suddenly he felt a tickle on his leg . He began to scratch it but he didn’t want to take his eye off the ants . Then the tickle became an itch . He began to scratch it very hard . He decided he’d better investigate his leg , so he turned round at looked at his leg through the magnifying glass . He saw an enormous red lump on his skin and lots of naughty ants crawling all over it . We wacked them with his free hand until they’d all fallen onto the grass . Then he jumped as he felt a tap on his shoulder . Still holding the magnifying glass he looked up and all he could see was an enormous set of grinning teeth ! Ricky screamed and dropped the magnifying glass .  He rolled onto his back and looked straight up at Granny who was peering down at him , tapping his shoulder with her walking stick .

A few minutes later Granny was back in her chair reading her book though her magnifying glass . Ricky was watching a clown on television . He was so funny. He had a flowery hat, big feet and a red nose .Richy looked around the room for something a clown might need. He spotted Granny's big brown boots by the door. And there was her hat with a flower in it, and on the table he was Mum's bright red lipstick . ‘ I'm going to be a clown’ said Ricky.

Hourglass

Written for Short Story Slam

I can’t sleep. I lay on my side watching the glowing green numbers on my bedside clock ticking the time away. Minutes, hours; will this night never end? A car whooshes past and a blade of light shoots through the gap in the curtains and slashes sabre-like across the ceiling. Then silence. An uneasy silence. Now and then the hoot of an owl. Now and then the rustle of leaves. Tonight something is different. I don’t know what and I don’t know why. But something isn’t right.

What’s that?  A low thump from the room below. Oh, it’s nothing. I probably imagined it. They say counting sheep helps. Doesn’t help me. What was that joke I heard about sheep the other day? Or was it pigs? Never mind. Another hour has passed. Perhaps I shouldn’t have eaten so late. There it is again, that thump. I can feel my heart beginning to beat faster, and faster, and faster, and faster. I’m not imagining things, that was clearly the clink of a glass. There’s someone down there. They said on my bedside radio the other day not to face an intruder, but there’s no way I’m going to let anyone get away with trashing my place.

I knew this cricket bat would come in useful one day. It’s never hit a ball; not yet anyway! I shouldn’t be joking at a time like this; it’s just a nervous reaction. This is serious. I never realised these stairs creaked. My heart feels as if it’s about to leap out of my chest. Breathe. Breathe. Slowly.Silently.

I push the door to my kitchen open very slowly, inch by inch. There’s a torch on the table lighting up the wall opposite. Suddenly an invisible hand grabs the torch and it paints a waving pattern of light in the darkness as the intruder flies through the back door and out into the yard.

Silence. All I hear is the cathump cathump cathump of my heart. I venture into the kitchen and fumble for the switch on the wall. For a second I’m blinded by the light. There on the table is my favourite whisky glass; I’m sure I put it away last night. There’s scotch in it. I never leave a drink unfinished. And what is my hourglass doing beside it? It’s been upturned and the sand is flowing through. Why can’t I move, why am I frozen to the spot? Something in my jumbled head is telling me to grab it and turn it over again. With a jerk I manage to snatch it but not before the last grain of sand falls through. The end .

Doors and windows; Greece

For Wordless Wednesday


I took these on the Greek island of Samos

He gets Rosey's vote!

Written for Carry On Tuesday and Sunday Scribblings

‘Can I rely on your vote Sir? ‘asked the sharp suited young man with the enormous blue rosette and a mass of floppy black hair The elderly gentleman just gave him a blank stare and carried on shuffling his way down the shopping mall . My friend Rosey was standing nearby giving directions to a girl who was a little lost. The poor child appeared more confused than ever by Rosey’s route; hopefully she’ll never land a job a sat-nav voice . Rosey then spun around and pointed in the direction the girl should set off. Unfortunately in doing so she poked the aspiring politician right in his left eye .

For the umpteenth time in her life Rosey claims it was love at first sight . As she stared at the hapless young man with a stream of tears flowing from his very red eye she claims a flock of pink doves filled the air above her giddy head . Above his head spun stars , but that’s hardly surprising under the circumstances . It seems however that he was equally struck by her , in more ways than one . After a bit of billing and cooing Rosey decided she should get him some medical attention as quickly as possible , and they duly had their first date and the A&E department of Eastbourne District General Hospital.

A short while later he appeared from behind a curtain sporting a black patch over his injured eye . Rosey was overcome with feelings of guilt and compassion , but mostly ardour . She had always wanted to meet Johnny Depp and for a moment the young man before her bore a striking resemblance to Captain Jack . (I decided not to spoil her story by pointing out that although Jack was a pirate he didn’t actually wear an eye patch)

She has yet to introduce us to her new love . He’s busy on the campaign trail and has no time to sit in a pub with us even if he wanted to . We’ve questioned Rosey as to whether being the partner of a politician is really what she needs right now , but she seems to think that this time he’s ticked her box . One of her friends said that he was not 'a patch' on her last fellow, but Rosey didn't get the joke, or chose not to . I pointed out to her that so often, love is blind . She giggled and said ‘He nearly was!’

To read 40 more stories about My Friend Rosey click HERE

For Wordless Wednesday


I took these a few days ago in the garden of a nearby stately home.

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Poems or prose?

Written for Carry On Tuesday and Sunday Scribblings

I used to write quite a bit of poetry . I even won an award or two. But one day I stopped . Not through choice ; my muse suddenly decided she preferred prose to poems. Today I decided to make myself write some verse, and despite spending ages struggling with rhymes and rhythms, my apology for a poem was pretty dire. Then I applied the same theme to a chunk of prose . It flowed out in exactly the way my poetry once did – it was all done in five minutes. By this time next year it could all have swung around again; who knows . Anyway I’ve posted both . Perhaps seeing them one above the other in print might give me the push I need to practice  my verse . 

The summer flower has run to seed

The trees have shed their leaves

It’s cold outside

The sky is grey

And winter’s here indeed.

But in the pub I sit beside

A fire of crackling wood

A beer in hand

A plate of food

I tell you, life is good!

Not so many weeks ago all I could see from the window was a palette of colour. Gaudy blooms adorned well tended beds, trees were dressed in quivering leaves of green , and puffs of whitest cloud drifted across a sky of deepest blue . Today it is different . The summer flowers have run to seed and the trees are no more than frosted skeletons . A leaden sky presses down on all who venture out and the freezing wind whispers winter .

I turn my head from the window and stare into the orange glow of a crackling log fire . I feel a warm glow in my cheeks as I raise a pint of frothing ale to my lips . I watch as a cloud of steam floats upward from a bowl of comfort food and assaults all my senses. From the bar comes the sound of jovial chatter and the clanking of glasses . Here in the inn, winter is kept outside . As I throw another log on to the fire a voice in my head reminds me – life is good

bububububbles!

Written for Short Story Slam 

I remember a few years back ‘her indoors’ treated herself to some very special bath oil . She spent some considerable time luxuriating in a mountain of sumptuous  bubbles . I popped upstairs to find out how she was enjoying it , and as I entered the bathroom she was climbing out of the tub . There she stood with a big smile on her face , all pink and shiny . She looked so sweet I felt I had to give her hot little body a cuddle . I gave her a squeeze and suddenly she shot out of my arms and hit her head on the ceiling! Ok , a slight exaggeration but she was extremely slippery .She always said she would like to bathe in champagne . I said it would be extremely expensive and the bubbles would probably get up her nose . We compromised one day when I tipped a bottle of sparkling wine into her bathwater .

As for me, I think the ideal soak would be in a bath of red wine . That chap Anonymous once said (and he said an awful lot in his lifetime) ' where there is plenty of wine , sorrow and worry take wing ’. I like that .  To sit there in a cheeky little Chateau  Branleur with a hint of blackberries and plum , and an aroma reminiscent of balmy summer nights is quite appealing . Actually it would be more like marinating than bathing , and I’d probably emerge looking like a life sized strawberry! So perhaps beer would be a better idea , a well crafted pale ale .

In the meantime I’ll make do with my usual squirt and a half of citrus washing-up liquid , and pretend it’s gin and lime !

Picture; Bath Girl by KarataSana at deviantART

Grateful

Written for Magpie Tales

There were not many people at Gerald’s funeral. A couple of neighbours, three or four folk from his church and his health visitor . He had lived alone for years and although everyone around him did what they could for him, he never really seemed grateful .

There was however one person at the chapel whom nobody had seen before. Tall , expensively suited and with a skin the colour of polished mahogany . His gentle smile lit up the miserable grey walls and the leaden sky which peered through the chapel windows .

*

Thirty or so years ago , Gerald had been a manager at a gold mine in Africa . There, the local men toiled and laboured taking home a meagre wage , day in day out , year after miserable year . One evening after Gerald had finished his shift he was wandering back to his hut when he witnessed the appalling sight of a man raping a local girl . Had she not been wearing a bright yellow coloured garment he might never have noticed her . He was however too late to prevent the ghastly crime , and the guilt he felt for not being there minutes earlier haunted him for many a long month .

As a result the girl had conceived and in the following spring gave birth to a healthy baby boy . So moved was Gerald that he made a promise to see that the mother and child were supported both physically and financially for as long as he lived . Months later he returned to England and never saw them again. His attempts to contact the girl and her baby were unfruitful , but still he ensured that the financial help he had promised continued even though he realised that the aid he was sending could well be falling into the wrong hands .

*

A couple of weeks ago Gerald was lying in a hospital bed . He had few visitors and those did sit at his bedside never felt that he was in any way grateful for their visits . Then one afternoon a handsome young man strode up to his bedside. He was tall, expensively suited and had skin the colour of polished mahogany . His smile lit up the gloomy hospital ward and softened the leaden sky which peered through the windows . Gerald knew at once who the young man was, but was too weak to utter a single word .

‘My name is Gerald too’ said the visitor . ‘My Mother and I owe you a debt we can never repay . You have given us everything , for which we will be forever grateful . Yet I ask for one thing more . I simply ask that I be permitted to call you Father . Gerald’s feeble smile was all the confirmation the young man required .

*

At the graveside the gathered few scattered soil on Gerald’s coffin as it was lowered into the ground. The young man cast in a piece of bright yellow fabric . ‘Rest in peace Father’ he said .

I think it may be an omen

  

Written for Sunday Scribblings

I have a little book . Actually that’s not completely true because I’ve lost my little book . I’ve always kept it in the same place, and whenever I think of something that will need attending to in the future I jot down a few words to remind myself. You know the sort of thing; birthdays, doctor’s appointments , funerals and the like . I obviously moved it to an unfamiliar place I can’t for the life of me remember where . In other words I simply can’t remember where I’ve left the book that jogs my memory . Is this an omen? Is it a sign that I’m about to lose what’s left of my dwindling ability to retain such  little knowledge as I require to carry me into the autumn of my life?

The other day couldn’t find something that I needed to take with me when I went shopping . What was it? I can’t remember now, but it did worry me at the time . It was last Wednesday I think , or perhaps it was Thursday . I was going to get some , err, things I needed . What were they? Can’t remember , but when I got to the shop I wasn’t even certain it was the right shop .  Anyway I bought something or other , and when I went to pay I remembered what I’d forgotten – my money; or was it my credit card?

  

I recently moved house. Yesterday (or was it the day before?) when I returned home from work I had trouble getting my key to turn in the lock on my front door . I fiddled about for a while then suddenly the door flew open and standing before me was Susan or Sarah or Sonya or whoever it was that moved into my old place . I’d only gone to my previous address!

Did I tell you that I can’t remember where I left my book of reminders? I think it may be an omen.

If I was a frog

If I was a frog
I’d sit on a log
and stick out my tongue
and catch flies

If I was a worm
I’d wriggle and turn
and dig a deep hole
where I’d hide

If I was a bee
I’d buzz round a tree
and dive into flowers
to make honey

If I was a mouse
I’d live in your house
and eat all your cheese
and your bread

if I was a snail
I’d leave a white trail
and sleep in a shell
on my back

If I was a child
I’d live in the wild
if my mum and my dad
said I could

Then what I’d do
is start my own zoo
with the ants and the slugs
and bugs too

let me read it to you!

Where are you?

Written for Carry On Tuesday


What came over him that day he never understood. All he knew was that it would be final; there’d be no going back.

It was a typical late summer’s day in a park . A few mums sitting on benches chatting whilst their children ran around catching balls, chasing each other and skipping . He felt separate from all he saw around him. Since he’d been left to bring up their little boy alone his life had changed . He seemed to be coping but behind his mask of contentment lived a troubled soul, desperately unhappy and confused about what if anything the future held . He bounced a football once or twice at his feet then kicked it high into the air . It sailed off into the distance and little Simon raced after it at fast as his seven year old legs could carry him. ‘Go on son’ he yelled as the ball fell towards the ground. With a hop and a twist Simon stopped the ball, and with all the strength he could muster he kicked it back again . A perfect shot . Suddenly everything around him seemed to go into slow motion. ‘Dad’ he called ‘Where are you?’

                                                       *

Every Sunday morning Simon played football with his village team. He was a pretty good player by all accounts; until recently he’d been the captain of his university team. The match would always be followed by a few pints at The Dog and Duck, a post match analysis and a few bawdy songs. One Sunday they played a particularly tough game against a neighbouring village. There were just a couple of minutes to go and neither side had scored a goal.

Simon saw a chance to win the game as the ball landed at his feet. With the agility of a dancer he stopped it, turned and prepared himself for the kick that would decide the victory. ‘Go on son’ a voice called from the crowd. He froze. He could see his mates shouting at him but he couldn't hear a thing, just that voice ringing in his head; ‘Go on son’. He saw the referee raise the final whistle to his mouth. He just stood still.

Suddenly everything around him erupted . His pals looked stunned. They were asking him what on earth had happened. Why didn't he shoot the ball into the net? But Simon just stood there staring into the distance. A man was opening the door of a car and as he did so he looked back over his shoulder at Simon. He never saw him again.

Because

Let me read it to you

She was staring into space

focusing on nothing at all

I asked her why

She said because

Her eyes were filled with tears

which trickled down her cheeks

I asked her why

She said because

Her brow was heavy with sadness

Her face etched with sorrow

I asked her why

She said because

She knew that I was leaving

She knew it broke my heart

She asked me why

I said because