keith's ramblings

Undressed for action!

2012-01-29T17:28:00.000Z

I saw this photo over at Magpie Tales and I was reminded ofsomething Rosey did recently. It also fits quite nicely with this week’s promptat Sunday Scribblings!

I don’t know if you recall, but a few months ago I told youabout the time Rosey and I went to an art exhibition and she spotted a posteron the notice board advertising life drawing classes. Rosey often gets excitedabout possible new projects and this was no exception. But I know Rosey well,and more often than not her hair- brained ideas go nowhere. I said that she’dbe too embarrassed to stand there ogling naked bodies. I was so convinced thatshe’d forget about it that I made a bet with her. I said if she took up lifepainting I’d pose in the buff myself! Well, she laughed so much that she almostchoked and I tried to remember all the resuscitation techniquesshe’d tried to teach me after her first aid course last year. When sherecovered she said if there was to be a bet, it would have to be for a prizeworth winning, and she wouldn’t take gamble for anything less than a bottle of Chardonnay. That put me firmly in my place! After that I guess I just forgotabout it.

Anyway I called round unannounced at her apartment a coupleof weeks ago and she answered the door wearing a paint splattered linen jacketand gripping an artist’s brush between teeth. As soon as I walked through into the hallway myeyes were assaulted by drawings and watercolours of naked men and women. I couldn’tbelieve my eyes; they were everywhere. I had to admit they weren’t too bad, she'd obviously started going to the course. I then remembered the bet. I’d arrivedwith a bottle of wine anyway; I said she could consider it to be her prize forproving me to be a doubting Thomas. She then confessed that she had actually beento some of classes, but said nothing in case it didn’t work out. Since then she’dpainting nudes right there in her front room! I guessed by her attire that she wasmid-action at that very moment. I told to take the bottle, and I turned to make my escape.She then started dragging towards her ‘studio’; I was none too keen to enter Ican tell you, but my resistance was futile. I kept my head to one side, coveredone eye and squinted with the other in fear of what embarrassing sight I wasabout to witness. She then said that I’d arrived at a most opportune moment because she wanted to draw apair of men in an artistic pose. She said she was taking me up my originaloffer and hoped I was wearing clean underwear! By now I’m beginning to panic! I tried jokingmy way out of it by saying silly things; I’m overdue for my bikini wax, and havean unsightly boil on my bum, but she kept tugging. She then suddenly let go ofmy arm and I shot backwards tripping over Scruff the cat who let out a wailingsound before heading for the safety of the kitchen. Roseystarting giggling at me as I sat there on the floor; said she was only teasing and that she’d happily settle for the chardonnay. She insisted however thatI come right inside. Well I got to my feet, brushed myself down and venturedtoward doorway. Inside stood a professional looking easel supporting a large canvasson which I could make out the beginnings of a painting of a nude Adonis. It wasblocking the view within so I gingerly peered around the canvas, nervous ofwhat I might see.

I can’t remember if I ever told you, but Rosey has the world’sbiggest collection of dress up dolls. There’s not a Barbie she’s doesn’t ownand she has Cindy dolls galore. And there on a table, standing to attention wasone of her army of Action Men, as naked as the day he popped out his mould.

Though I say it myself, that was a pretty good bottle of Chardonnay!

To read more stories about Rosey click HERE!

Eyes!

2012-01-25T00:30:00.000Z

For Wordless Wednesday

I took these photos in Nepal

Rosey's red dress!

2012-01-18T23:32:00.000Z

Written for Short Story Slam # 19

I saw thispicture today over at Short Story Slam and my mind was immediately taken backto the time my friend Rosey met up with Sue and me in our local Italianrestaurant. It was just before Christmas and she was wearing a stunning brightred dress very much like the one in the painting.

The first thing I remember of that evening was Rosey trying toattract the attention of a waiter. “Scusi calamari” she called. I pointed out toher that she’d just tried to catch the eye of a squid. Anyway, the waiterlooked in our direction and I seized the chance to use the only bit of Italian I've ever mastered. "Scusi cameriere" I said “Una birra per favour” Like most seasoned travellers,I know how to request a beer in every country I’ve ever visited. So, he cameacross to our table to deliver some menus, take our drinks order andintroduced himself as Adriano.

I’m told by those who know that particular trattoria, that he’s notreally Italian at all. Apparently he’s Adrian from Aldershot, but he does pull the deception off pretty well. He took one look at us and starting singing theItalian national anthem. Seeing our bemused looks, he pointed out that Roseywas in 'rosso', Sue was wearing 'bianco' and I had on my rather fetching (though I sayit myself) bright 'verde' pullover. ”Bandiera d’Italia” he chuckled as he pointedat us. We still looked a little confused. "Red white 'n green" he chuckled "You lot look like the flag ofI’aly ”, his new accent confirming our suspicions as to his real nationality.

Sue and I ordered a couple of those wonderful Peronni beers and Rosey requesteda Lemoncelo. “Would you like ice Signora?” he asked returning to his fauxItalian accent. “Yes please” said Rosey “but good ice, none of that frozenrubbish” We all laughed at Rosey’s joke and Adriano gave us a dismissivelook as if to say “I maka d’ joka round 'ere”.

It has to besaid that Rosey looked stunning in her red dress. All she needed was a white beard and she would have been a really popular Santa Claus with the local dads. She told us that she waswearing it the other day when she went shopping. It clearly had quite an effect on one particular shop manager who gave her more than her usual share of attention.It seems they got chatting, and as it was close to his morning break he invitedher to partake of a cappuccino with him. She told us that his name was BrianBull . Sue suggested that it was a red rag to a bull situation . I asked if heworked in a china shop and when we stopped laughing at our own jokes she said that yes he did. What’s more, when he first noticed her he bumped into a shelf displayingteetering towers of teacups and they took on something of a worrying wobble. Asyou know dear reader, if there’s ever a chance for Rosey to cause mayhem, sheusually obliges. However, this time the tremor subsided and there were no nastyaftershocks. She hasn’t seen him since. She made corny quips like not wantingto be Bull-dozed into anything and that she had ‘bitten the Bull-et’. We weren’tsure what she meant by the last one and didn’t bother to enquire.

And so, wehad our meal . Rosey had a pizza with extra buffalo mozzarella, and we settledfor good old ‘spag bol’. To follow, we all had some luscious desserts. Sue saidthat when she was a child, she thought tiramisu was named after her. It wasyears before she discovered that it was an actual Italian dish and notsomething her mother had made especially for her. Adriano looked after us very well feeding usnot just food but the occasional witty gem like “What’s an innuendo? An Italiansuppository!” and “How do you stop an Italian talking? Tie his hands behind hisback” As we left he once again burst into song ; Lady in Red.

To obtain a copy of My friend Rosey the book, visit Lulu Publications

Blue Moon

2012-01-17T10:57:00.002Z

For Wordless Wednesday January 18th

I took the original photo from the bank of the River Nile

Where now?

2012-01-14T18:37:00.000Z

Written for Sunday Scriblings 'Tribe' and Carry On Tuesday # 140

"There are just ten of us, that’s all. None of us remembers life beforethe Tribe. Did we have lives before? Some of us resemble children, othersadults. One of us looks older and wiser than any person I’ve ever seen before, yet like ours, his face is featureless,smoothand pale as alabaster. We are like livingstatues."

Julie and John couldn’t have children of their own. They’d longago resigned themselves the fact. They became short term foster parents buthanding back one child after another became more painful every time so theygave it up. They couldn’t understand why with so many parentless children inthe world, they seemed unable to adopt one. The pain of waiting was beginningto put a strain on their relationship. One night John, unable to sleep,wandered over to the bedroom window. At first he thought he was dreaming, forthere in the middle of the lawn stood ten motionless bodies attired in whitehooded cloaks. The only features on their smooth white faces were laser-like eyeswhich dazzled him as he watched, standing there, staring. A shiver ran through his body. When he awoke in themorning he thought it must have been a dream.

"We don't sleep like Julie and John. We have no need for food. We have no need for water or anyof the things those in the outside world rely on. We simply exist, and existsimply. We are sitting in a circle among the trees. It’s dark all around. Awhite mist is swirling between the skeletal branches over head. The Wise Oneslowly rises to his feet; a moonbeam shimmers over his hunched form like whitewater across rocks. He looks upwards. ‘Where now?’ he croaks."

Hard Arthur they called him. Never worked, at least notlegally. Everyone avoided him, no one crossed him. He lived in a shadowy worldwhere people who owe money disappear and revenge killings are said to be his speciality.He was married once. No one knows what happened to her. He was left with achild, a boy called Mark. He looked about seven years old although he may have been older. Mark, all skin and bone lived in a wheelchair;he had for as long as people could remember. Quite why he ended up unable to walk was subject of much speculation among the folk of the grim estate on which theylived. Even the Children’s Service kept well clear for fear of what might happenif they interfered. One night Arthur was slumped in a tatty old chair staringat his TV in a drunken stupor, whilst Mark was curled up in his bed cryingafter another beating for something he doesn't remember doing. Arthur heard a noise,a roaring sound from outside. The wind started howling and branch went rat-a-taton a window pane. He pulled himself up and staggered unsteadily across the roomto door. As he twisted the handle the forceof the gale caught the door and flung him out into the garden. Suddenly all wasstill. He layed there surrounded by ten ghostly figures, some small, some tallbut all with the same featureless faces and piercing laser eyes. The next morningand he was found floating face down in the river. How he got here no one knows;no one cares.

"So why am I one of the Tribe? What am I doing here? Was I once one of the others in the outside world? Did I ever know Hard Arthur? I’m not happy, but I’m not sad. I just am. Oneday is the same as the next but we don’t know boredom. Right now the Wise Oneis standing before us, arms splayed as if asking for guidance. ‘Who now?’ hemutters."

Following Hard Arthur's death, his son Mark was taken into care. He had never been happier. You would think that being consignedto a wheel chair watching his friends in the children’s home playing ball wouldupset him. But no, he now lives in a world where people care about him. He’snot known that before. Gone are the days when he used to sneak down in the middleof the night to find a crust of bread because he was so hungry. Now his clothesare clean and the sheets on his bed smell like flowers. One night somethinghappened; something that was to change Mark’s life. It was like a dream, onlyit wasn’t. He heard the sound of an owl outside the dormitory window. It seemed to becalling him. He pushed back the coversand slowly sat up. And then he did something he could not remember ever doingbefore. He stood. Slowly he put one foot in front of the other and began to totterunsteadily towards the window. He pulled back the curtain and jumped as the owlflapped in his face and flew up into the sky. Then he saw them. He rubbed hiseyes with his little clenched fists expecting to see nothing when he opened themagain. But they were still there. Ten people all dressed in white. Two of themwere small like Mark, and their laser bright eyes looked straight into his.

"Children in the outside world run around. They climb trees andplay hide and seek. Mark, the boy we visited last night will now. The little ones in the Tribe don’t. They just sit like the adults. I'm wondering if I’m a bit different from the rest of the Tribe. I mean, I’m sittinghere and thinking. Are the others thinking? Sometimes when I’m deep in thoughtthe rest of them turn their heads towards me and just stare as if theyare trying to read my mind. Perhaps they know that I’m questioning our existence.The Wise One is on his feet again. Where now I wonder? "

It was just before Christmas. Whilst Julie and John quite enjoyedChristmas, one thing was always missing from their celebration. One night some carolsingers came to their door. There before them stood twenty or so childrensinging their hearts out; their round cheeks flushed pink, and their little buttonnoses red from the cold. But a glow of warmth seems to radiate from them. Julieand John hardly spoke again that evening. The next morning Julie was to go shopping andshe’d given John the task of putting up the festive decorations. Just as shewas getting into her car the phone rang indoors. John answered it. It was Beth,the lady from the Children’s Service. As he talked he banged on the window and beckonedJulie to come back. The next day Beth wanted to bring a little boy from the children's home to see them. His name was Mark. Ifall went well they would at last have a chance to adopt.

"Earlier today I was left on my own. The rest of the Tribewere huddled together; I knew they were talking about me. I am beginning tofeel different. I seem to be growingaway from my family and starting to become more inquisitive about life on theoutside. Clearly they have sensed that too. It’s Christmas Day in the otherworld and I’m wondering if I’m missing something that I’d enjoy, not that Iunderstand what joy feels like. Anyway, the Wise One is about to speak."

Julie, John and Mark were sitting around the Christmas tree openingpresents. Mark always knew that people unwrapped parcels today, but he’d neverhad one before. It was the perfect family scene. It was dark earlier than usualthat afternoon. John zigzagged across the room avoiding the scattered gifts,and started to close the curtains. He thought he was imagining things becauseoutside the window stood the same ten motionless bodies in white cloaks that hesaw all those weeks ago. They stared at him with their laser-like eyes. He screwedup his eyes for a second and the room began to spin a bit; perhaps he’d had onetoo many glasses of wine . Just as he thought, he must have imagined them, for when heopened his eyes they’d gone. Or had he imagined them?

"I’m standing here in the woods, in the dark and the mist iswafting around me. I’m surrounded by the Tribe. One by one they raise theirright arm and point at me. Their eyes begin to send sabres of light into mine. TheWise One walks toward me. ‘Your work is done here’ he whispers, ‘away you go’. 'When?’ Iask. ‘Now’ he hisses."

I was sitting half watching one of those dreary reality showson television when the phone rang. I thought about ignoring it and letting the answer phone take the call for me . But then I decided I’d take it myself ; after all it may have been someone suggesting we goout for a beer, and right then I was pretty bored. Blow me down if I wasn’t right. It was John. We hadn't seen each other for months and he wanted to catch up. Young Mark it seems was in bed and Julie wanted to watch something girly onthe box so he’d got permission to escape to the Dog and Duck.

Well, John always did have a fertile imagination, but whathe told me that night took it to another level. Men in white sheets with greeneyes? I ask you ; whatever next ?

May be continued!

Just a normal January day

2012-01-08T13:29:00.000Z

Written for Sunday Scribblings, Short Story Slam and, of course Carry on Tuesday.

It was a normal January day; grey, a light drizzle and achill breeze . I sat at my usual seat in Starbucks, right by the window, myhands cradling a mug of steaming Americano . The street outside was busy.Shoppers going this way and that under a rippling canopy of dripping umbrellas .Everything perfectly normal. Then someone caught my gaze; a girl carrying abunch of golden flowers . Above her floated a bright yellow umbrella. It was asif she was under a sun all of her own. My mind started drifting towards a palmfringed beach a million miles away from the dreary scene beyond the window. Justthen I realised she was looking at me. I heard her speak, but her lips didn’tmove . She held a hand out towards me. ‘Come’ she said ‘Fly with me’.

Before I knew what was happening I was standing by her side .She was looking, unblinking into my eyes; her face expressionless. My hand washeld in hers and we began drifting upwards . A moment later I found myself looking down at the miserable scenebelow then slowly everything became a blur. I looked up and her yellow umbrellabeamed sunlight down into my squinting eyes. A sense of warmth spread through my body and a smile beamed across my face . It was then Irealised I’d spilt my very hot coffee into my lap. Everything had returned to normal .

London 2012

2012-01-01T11:40:00.001Z

Winchester Cathedral Christmas market....

2011-12-21T11:40:00.000Z

....in the pouring rain!

For Wordless Wednesday December 21st

A fairytale

2011-12-11T17:13:00.001Z

For Sunday Scribblings

A picture of innocence. A pointy pink dress of satin and lace, wrinkled sparkly white leggings and silver ballet shoes. A garland sits lop-sided atop of a stack of golden hair. With her arms going this way and that she struggles to put on a pair of translucent yellow wings.

Wriggling from side to side she heaves up her leggings then straightens her headgear. She picks up her wand, adjusts the glittery star on the end, and then she’s ready. There are spells to perform, happiness to hand out and wishes to fulfil!

Falicia the fairy tip-toes out into fairyland. Thomas the ginger tom casts a wary glance in her direction as she totters across the lawn toward him. He sits nervously as she taps him gently on the head with her wand, then bends to stroke his sun-warmed back. Little Freddy pulls a quizzical face as the fairy, who looks very much like his sister, wanders over to his play pen. She reaches into her pocket then scatters a handful of stardust over his head. Freddy cries. Felicia wanders off in search of a more appreciative audience. She was certain that when she grew up she would become a real fairy.

Twenty years have passed and Felicia is ‘something in the city’. She is successful. People come to her with their dreams of wealth and she grants their wishes. Her stardust is now loan agreements and share documents. Her fairy land is the bank.

But in those quiet moments she is still that little pink fairy from her childhood. Those quiet moments when she drifts away and imagines herself flitting from flower to flower in a magic garden. When she sleeps she wears a smile as she swings from a rainbow and plays ring-a-ring-a-roses with the butterflies.

But she knows it will never be. She tells herself she was stupid to have ever believed it. The kids that teased her were right.

A dragonfly hovered outside her office window. Felicia turned her head, smiled and winked. A dozen pink rose petals floated down from the sky.

Oh Joy!

2011-12-04T15:38:00.001Z

Written for Sunday Scribblings and Carry on Tuesday

Joy Grimes was shopping. She hated shopping. The day wasgrey, the darkness of winter weighed heavily on her shoulders. The main street was busy; fartoo busy for Joy. There were too many people, too many screaming kids and thatannoying greengrocer shouting about fruit and chestnuts and holly wreaths from behind his stall.She mumbled and grumbled and cursed and swore under her breath. The windows inthe shops to her left and her right where a blaze of multicoloured light, andstuffed with Christmas gifts and party frocks. Christmas should be bannedmuttered Joy. Right in the middle of the street was a grotto, Santa’s grotto.What a stupid place to put it, right in Joy’s way. As for those grinning gnomestrying to drum up business from passing parents; words failed her.

In the distance she could hear boom boom boom. Quietly atfirst but getting louder with every beat. Then the sound of screaming trumpetsand groaning tubas. How Joy hated marching bands. There was enough noise in thestreet without them adding to it. Suddenly the Salvation Army band rounded thecorner and all around her stopped and watched. Why was everybodysmiling? It was loud very loud. Joy claspedher hands over her ears. But try as she may she couldn’t blot out the sound ofthe carol the band were belting out; Joy To The World. A girl dressed in ablack and red uniform topped off with a little black bonnet rushed up to Joy rattling a collecting tin.She looked so sweet with her rosebud mouth and flushed cheeks and little rednose; far too sweet to be a teenager. ‘What do you want?’ barked joy. ‘Bringingyou joy with our music, and joy to those less fortunate this Christmas’ thesweet girl said.

Quite what happened to Joy that minute, I have no idea.Perhaps it was all those references to her name. Maybe it was the look ofinnocence in the sweet girls blue eyes. Possibly for the first time in her lifeshe got carried away by all the joy that surrounded her. Whatever it was, for thefirst time in living memory Joy’s downturned mouth showed a slight glimmer of asmile. She didn’t put any money in the tin, but she did touch the girl lightlyon her shoulder before shuffling off down the street. At that moment the darknessof winter lifted from her shoulders as the sun broke through the clouds.

That was a year ago, and Joy died on Christmas day . Acouple of weeks later there was an article in the local paper about a largedonation having been given anonymously to the Salvation Army.

'Rest in peace Joy Grimes' said old Joe Grimes as he drank his first hot drink of the day at the drop in centre. 'You weren't such a heartless old cow after all'

People of Nepal

2011-11-29T22:39:00.001Z

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!

2011-11-28T00:01:00.000Z

Written for Sunday Scribblings

Little Ricky’s Mum and Dad went shopping the other day andGranny came round to look after him . Granny was very old and almost as soon asshe sat down she fell asleep . Ricky waswatching a cartoon on television about an investigator who hid behind lamp posts andlooked at things through a great big magnifying glass. Granny had a magnifyingglass . She held it up to her bad eye when she read her book . Ricky alwayslaughed because it made her eye look enormous! But right now Granny was snoringand 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’slap and set off to the jungle outside the kitchen door.

He crouched down behind a white plastic chair and studied everycorner of the garden . Not much was happening , so he crawled across the grass onall 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 spottedcreature was up to . It looked huge! But it just stood there like a red andblack blob . Boring . He shuffled across the lawn to the place where Mums bestflowers were looking up at the sun . Right in the middle of a yellow one was a bee . Rickythought he’d investigate in case the bee was stealing stuff to make honey. He peeredthrough the magnifying glass and watched the bee’s ugly little tongue whippingin and out then hiding the stolen pollen behind one of its fury little legs . ‘Gotcha’ shouted Ricky and just then the busybee flew straight towards the magnifying glass and frightened Ricky so muchthat he fell over backwards . ‘Phew’ said Ricky as he wiped his brow the way he’dseen the investing-gater do it on television .

Out of the corner of his eye he saw some ants . Just a few atfirst , but then he noticed there were millions of them climbing up a pile ofdirt behind the rose bush . 'What are you up to?’ he asked . They looked hugethrough the magnifying glass .They were scurrying along really fast all in aline . Most of them were carrying bits of leaf between the front legs . Hewatched them for ages wondering what they were up to . Suddenly he felt a tickle on his leg . He began to scratchit but he didn’t want to take his eye off the ants . Then the tickle became anitch . He began to scratch it very hard . He decided he’d better investigate hisleg , so he turned round at looked at his leg through the magnifying glass . Hesaw an enormous red lump on his skin and lots of naughty ants crawling all overit . 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 magnifyingglass 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 upat Granny who was peering down at him , tapping his shoulder with her walkingstick .

A few minutes later Granny was back in her chair reading herbook 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 roomfor 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

2011-11-23T22:52:00.001Z

Written for Short Story Slam

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

What’s that? A lowthump from the room below. Oh, it’s nothing. I probably imagined it. They saycounting sheep helps. Doesn’t help me. What was that joke I heard about sheepthe other day? Or was it pigs? Never mind. Another hour has passed. Perhaps Ishouldn’t have eaten so late. There it is again, that thump. I can feel myheart beginning to beat faster, and faster, and faster, and faster. I’m notimagining things, that was clearly the clink of a glass. There’s someone downthere. They said on my bedside radio the other day not to face an intruder, but there’sno 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’snever hit a ball; not yet anyway! I shouldn’t be joking at a time like this; it’sjust a nervous reaction. This is serious. I never realised these stairscreaked. 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 byinch. There’s a torch on the table lighting up the wall opposite. Suddenly aninvisible hand grabs the torch and it paints a waving pattern of light in thedarkness as the intruder flies through the back door and out into the yard.

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

Doors and windows; Greece

2011-11-22T22:41:00.001Z

For Wordless Wednesday

I took these on the Greek island of Samos

He gets Rosey's vote!

2011-11-20T12:33:00.001Z

Written for Carry On Tuesday and Sunday Scribblings

‘Can I rely on your vote Sir? ‘asked the sharp suited youngman 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 theshopping mall . My friend Rosey was standing nearby giving directions to a girlwho was a little lost. The poor child appeared more confused than ever by Rosey’sroute; hopefully she’ll never land a job a sat-nav voice . Rosey then spun aroundand pointed in the direction the girl should set off. Unfortunately in doing soshe poked the aspiring politician right in his left eye .

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

A short while later he appeared from behind a curtainsporting 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 JohnnyDepp and for a moment the young man before her bore a striking resemblance toCaptain Jack . (I decided not to spoil her story by pointing out that althoughJack was a pirate he didn’t actually wear an eye patch)

She has yet to introduce us to her new love . He’s busy onthe campaign trail and has no time to sit in a pub with us even if he wanted to . We’ve questioned Roseyas to whether being the partner of a politician is really what she needs rightnow , 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 outto 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

2011-11-16T00:11:00.001Z

For Wordless Wednesday

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

Poems or prose?

2011-11-13T22:39:00.001Z

Written for Carry On Tuesday and Sunday Scribblings

I used to write quite a bit of poetry . I even won an award ortwo. But one day I stopped . Not through choice ; my muse suddenly decided she preferredprose to poems. Today I decided to make myself write some verse, and despite spendingages 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 theway my poetry once did – it was all done in five minutes. By this time nextyear 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 needto 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 paletteof colour. Gaudy blooms adorned well tended beds, trees were dressed in quivering leavesof 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 freezingwind whispers winter .

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

bububububbles!

2011-11-10T15:03:00.000Z

Written for Short Story Slam

I remember a few years back ‘her indoors’ treated herself tosome 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 Ientered the bathroom she was climbing out of the tub . There she stood with a bigsmile 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 myarms and hit her head on the ceiling! Ok , a slight exaggeration but she wasextremely slippery .She always said she would like to bathe in champagne . Isaid it would be extremely expensive and the bubbles would probably get up hernose . We compromised one day when I tipped a bottle of sparkling wine into herbathwater .

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) ' wherethere is plenty of wine , sorrow and worry take wing ’. I like that . To sit therein a cheeky little Chateau Branleur witha hint of blackberries and plum , and an aroma reminiscent of balmy summernights 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 beerwould be a better idea , a well crafted pale ale .

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

Picture; Bath Girl by KarataSana at deviantART

Grateful

2011-11-07T20:22:00.002Z

Written for Magpie Tales

There was howeverone person at the chapel whom nobody had seen before. Tall , expensively suitedand with a skin the colour of polished mahogany . His gentle smile lit up themiserable grey walls and the leaden sky which peered through the chapelwindows .

Thirty or so years ago , Gerald had been a manager at a gold minein 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 hadfinished his shift he was wandering back to his hut when he witnessed theappalling sight of a man raping a local girl . Had she not been wearing a brightyellow coloured garment he might never have noticed her . He was however toolate to prevent the ghastly crime , and the guilt he felt for not being thereminutes earlier haunted him for many a long month .

As a result the girl had conceived and in the following springgave birth to a healthy baby boy . So moved was Gerald that he made a promise tosee that the mother and child were supported both physically and financiallyfor as long as he lived . Months later he returned to England and never saw themagain. His attempts to contact the girl and her baby were unfruitful , but stillhe ensured that the financial help he had promised continued even though herealised that the aid he was sending could well be falling into the wronghands .

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

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

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

I think it may be an omen

2011-11-06T22:20:00.000Z

Written for Sunday Scribblings

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

The other day couldn’t find something that I needed to takewith me when I went shopping . What was it? I can’t remember now, but it didworry me at the time . It was last Wednesday I think , or perhaps it wasThursday . I was going to get some , err, things I needed . What were they? Can’tremember , but when I got to the shop I wasn’t even certain it was the rightshop . Anyway I bought something or other ,and when I went to pay I remembered what I’d forgotten – my money; or was it mycredit 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 lockon my front door . I fiddled about for a while then suddenly the door flew openand standing before me was Susan or Sarah or Sonya or whoever it was that movedinto 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

2011-11-06T14:07:00.000Z

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?

2011-11-05T22:32:00.000Z

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

2011-11-03T20:42:00.000Z

Let me read it to you

She was staring into space

focusing onnothing at all

I asked her why

She said because

Her eyes were filled with tears

which trickleddown her cheeks

I asked her why

She said because

Her brow was heavywith sadness

Her face etchedwith sorrow

I asked her why

She said because

She knew that Iwas leaving

She knew it brokemy heart

She asked me why

I said because

Love one another - a battle plan for bridegrooms!

2011-10-30T00:25:00.000+01:00

For Carry On Tuesday # 129 and Sunday Scribblings # 291

Having had three weddings, you would assume I've had enoughexperience to write a book on the subject. Wrong. Possibly a book on how to getit wrong would be an easier task. Your wedding should be treated as a military operation and a battle-plan is essential. I placebefore you now 12 rules of engagement that the groom should bear in mind based on personalexperience and mishaps. There could have been 13, but that would have been asking for badluck.

1. Turn up at theright venue. Sounds obvious, but it's an easy mistake to make especially ifyou've had a drink or twenty the night before. There's nothing worse than bowlingup at the wrong wedding and attempting to steal someone else's bride.

2. Always rememberwhat your bride looks like, particularly if you have been married several timesbefore. Carry a photo to the ceremony just in case

3. Make sure yourbest man has the ring. Do not under any circumstances give it to him the nightbefore, or he may use it to obtain credit at the tenth bar you stagger in to.

4. Very importantthis. Whatever you do, don't get a fit of the giggles during the vows. Isuggest you avoid looking into your brides eyes during this part, especiallyduring the bit about procreation.

5. The nextobstacle is the reception. You are expected to stand in a line and make inanesmall talk with your guests. Thing is, who to kiss and who not to kiss. Clearlykissing old Uncle Albert is not a good idea, but the tedium of this ritualsometimes lulls you away into your private thoughts, and you can easily plant asmacker on an inappropriate cheek

6. Assumingeverything has gone alright up to now, make a point of treating every guest asa long lost friend or relative even if you have no idea who they are. Tryhowever not to enter into lengthy conversations. This is a minefield. Saying tosomeone that she doesn't look old enough to be your bride's grandmother only todiscover she's actually her long lost sister, is not a good way to ingratiateyourself with her family.

7. This is alsoimportant. Avoid kissing the Matron of Honour on the lips, however friendly youwere the night before. Could be a bit of a give-away.

8. Speech shouldbe a doddle. They will laugh at anything you say. This is where you thank the bridesmaids,not in private later.

9. Then the firstdance. Nightmare for anyone like me with two left feet but do your best not totread on your beloved’s toes. It is also advisable to dance with your newlyacquired mother in law. Be careful however where you place your hands. Don'twant to give the impression that you have anything irregular in mind.

10. Don't have toomuch to drink. This is not the place for announcing home truths, it could causeproblems, and a fist fight at a wedding is not a good start to your life ofmarried bliss.

11. Almost overand you can relax until the time comes to carry her over the threshold. Try notto drop her, and under no circumstances suggest she joins Weight Watchers.

12. Enjoy thehappiest day of your life and simply love one another!

I really don't believe in fairies

2011-10-26T18:41:00.000+01:00

Written for Short Story Slam week 13.

I'm used to seeing birds in trees. I often see squirrels in trees.I’ve seen monkeys in trees and bats in trees. But it’s not every day you comeacross a blue haired girl in a flimsy blue dress sitting in a tree readingHello Magazine.

I couldn’t help but stare up at her. Then I realised I wasseeing too much and quickly looked down again. Call me old fashioned, but myimmediate thought was that she should have worn jeans and preserved hermodesty.

‘Hello’ she chirped waving her magazine at me. ‘So I see’ I said’glancing up. ‘ Not a publication I subscribe to myself but . . . . . .’

‘No silly!’ she interrupted.‘I was saying hello to you; being friendly '

‘Oh, of course’ I said staring down at the grass, ‘that wasindeed a silly thing to say. Err... may I ask? Why exactly are you sitting upthere?’

I suddenly became aware of glittery particles raining down on me, and from the corner of myeye I saw a magazine barrelling across the fields in the autumn breeze . Islowly raised my eyes until I saw the place she’d been sitting. There wasnothing there .

OK, I’m a bloke so I don’t believe in fairies. Even if I didI wouldn’t admit it to you. I mean, if I’d had a beer or two, I could have putit down to alcoholic sensory enhancement. But I was on the way to the pub, noton my way back. And in any case I’m sure that fairies don’t read Hello Magazine .What am I saying?

Anyway, I didn’t mention it to my mates when I arrived atthe pub. I put my sparkly shoulders down to an accident I’d had at the greetingscard counter in the supermarket.

‘Hello’ whispered a voice in my ear. I automatically lookedup at the lamp shade expecting to find a fairy sitting there! ’Not apublication I subscribe to myself ’ I muttered before I could stop myself. Myfriends gave me a selection of bemused looks. Just then I felt a tap on myshoulder from a rolled magazine . I turned around and there stood a blue haired girl in a flimsy blue dress ‘Your secret’s safe with me’ she giggled. Ilooked at my friends but they just carried on chatting as if there was no oneelse there . I glanced back over my shoulder and she’d gone . I ordered aquadruple scotch.

Meditation at the birthplace of Buddha

2011-10-26T00:51:00.002+01:00

It's Wordless Wednesday

I took these in Nepal back in April

The night that changed his life!

2011-10-23T09:12:00.000+01:00

Written for Carry On Tuesday # 128, 'sitting alone listening to the silence'

Another Saturday night and he was leaning on the bar of anearly empty pub, staring into a beer glass counting the bubbles as they burst,one by one by one. Once again Tecno Geek was sitting alone listening to thesilence. Then a girl sidled up the bar with two empty glasses attempting tocatch the eye of the barmaid. ‘Don’t I know you?’ she asked Tecno. ‘I‘m Sell,Sell Fone from Mobile World; you were in our shop the other day’. He looked ather for a second or two then her face rang a bell. ‘That’s right’ he said. ‘Iwas fed up with my Blackberry letting me down so you sold me an Apple . Nowthat’s giving me the pip too – I feel like wrapping them in pastry and bakingthem in a pie.

‘I might have just what you need’ said Sell as she fished inher bag. She pulled out a card and gave it to Tecno. This guy does the latestthing in the communication biz. It’s called MolarFon. Go see him’. And withthat she tottered off with her freshly recharged glasses.

The next day Tecno was standing at the top of a flight ofsteps in front of a grand door. On it was a sparkling metal plate bearing thelegend ‘Doctor Cawlan Receve, Registered Fontist’. He pushed open the door andventured inside.

Minutes later Tecno was laying back in a chair, mouth wideopen, with all kinds of gleaming instruments of torture around him. This won’thurt said Doctor Cawlan as he started frantically prodding, poking and drillingin Tecno’s mouth. Suddenly he stopped and the chair sprung into an uprightposition. The good Doctor grabbed Tecno’s right hand and proceeded to stab theends of his thumb and fingers with little needles.

He was then ejected from the chair and taken to a sofa wherethe grinning Doctor handed him a book of instructions and a sizeable bill. Hethen reversed away and went back into his surgery.

Suddenly a ringing sound appeared in Tecno’s head and hecould feel one of his teeth vibrating. ‘What do I do now?’ muttered Tecno as heleafed through his manual. Got it! ‘To take a call press thumb on tip of indexfinger’ it said. The voice of Doctor Receive filled his head. ‘Welcome to theworld of MolarFon’ he said. ‘Please settle my account before you leave’ andwith that he rang off.

Now Tecno Geek is the envy of all that meet him. He’s thecentre of attention. He only has to press his thumb to his middle finger, uttera contacts name and he’s connected. To text, he presses his thumb on his thirdfinger then speaks his message! Wonderful. He’s still got a bit of toothachebut that’s small price to pay for being at the forefront of toothology.

He called Sell Fone the other day to thank her. He waseating a particularly spicy Indian meal at the time and Sell was suddenlyovercome by the smell of curry. And whenhis Mother called he felt sure he could taste the revolting sweet tea she wasdrinking. But as he says, it’s new so there are bound to be a few teethingproblems!

The earth is flat!

2011-10-21T16:52:00.000+01:00

During the run up to Keith's Ramblings 5th anniversary, I'm picking a piece from the archives each day. Apparently I wrote this one on January 2nd 2008 although I have to admit I have absolutely no recollection of doing so! Maybe the New Year celebrations were going on a bit!

I love alternative theories! I remain to be convinced that man landed on the moon. I am pretty sure it wasn’t the Titanic that sank, rather its sister ship the RMS Olympic. And Santa is an anagram of Satan, so is he really the jolly chap we all think he is or the devil in disguise?How about this one. The Earth is a flat disc, not a sphere! Don’t laugh! It’s possible. It has a diameter of 24,0h0 miles with a 150 foot wall of ice around the edge and the ‘north’ pole at the centre!

It gets better. The sun and moon are also discs, 32 miles in diameter and only 3000 miles above us. The stars are 100 miles above them.

As for gravity, this is brought about as a result of the Earth accelerating upwards. This also explains global warming as we are gradually getting closer and closer to the sun which itself is moving upwards, but at a slightly slower pace than us. The oceans' tides? Simple. The Earth tips from side to side causing the water to slosh to one side then the other.

I’m told that sunrise and sunset come about as a result of the planetary bodies above us revolving and moving in and out, although I’m not sure I quite understand that one!

Now I didn’t invent all this stuff myself! There is a Flat Earth Society which puts up very convincing arguments for this theory. And I like it!

I was thinking that a new business could be started up which offers the ultimate bungee jump from the edge of the earth! And instead of rock-climbing a whole new dangerous sport could start by crossing the earth from underneath using giant suckers!

Anyway, I have to sign off now or I’ll be late for my appointment with my counsellor!

Farmer Bill's big back yard

2011-10-20T00:10:00.002+01:00

Keith's Ramblings will soon be reaching its 5th Anniversary. Over the next few days I'll be publishing a few of my favourite posts. This one fits almost perfectly with the Sunday Scribblings prompt, My Back Yard. It was first published here in April 2008

In Farmer Bill's big back yard

Pigs grunt
Cows moo
Frogs croak
Doves coo

Sheep baa
Birds sing
Bees buzz
Wasps sting

Ducks quack
Cocks crow
Mice squeak
Winds blow

Branches wave
Streams run
Clouds float
In the sun

Swans glide
Fishes dart
Ponies canter
Bulls fart

Kanye West on stage!

2011-10-19T11:01:00.000+01:00

It's Wordless Wednesday!

Grateful

2011-10-18T13:55:00.000+01:00

Keith'sRamblings is fast approaching its 5th Anniversary. I've been going backover many hundreds of posts and reading things I don't even remember writing!I've picked out a few that have attracted favourable comments and I'm going tobe reprinting several of them over the next few days. This story entitled Grateful appeared inNovember 2008

There were not many people at Gerald’s funeral. Acouple of neighbours, three or four folk from his church and his healthvisitor. He had lived alone for years and although everyone around tried to do whatthey could for him, he never showed any gratitude.

There was however one person at the chapel whomnobody had seen before. Tall, expensively suited and with a skin the colour ofpolished mahogany. His gentle smile lit up the miserable grey walls and softened theleaden sky which peered mockingly through the chapel windows.

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

As a result the girl had conceived and in thefollowing spring gave birth to a healthy baby boy. So moved was Gerald that hemade a promise to see that the mother and child were supported both physicallyand financially for as long as he lived. Months later he returned to Englandand never saw them again. His attempts to contact the girl and her baby wereunfruitful, but still he ensured that the financial help he had promisedcontinued even though he realised that the aid he was sending could well befalling into the wrong hands.

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

‘My name is Gerald too’ said the visitor. ‘MyMother 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 simplyask that I be permitted to call you Father. Gerald’s feeble smile was all theconfirmation the young man required.

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

The show must go on

2011-10-17T00:39:00.000+01:00

Keith's Rambling is fast approaching its 5th Anniversary. I've been going back over many hundreds of posts and reading things I don't even remember writing! I've picked out a few that have attracted favourable comments and I'm going to be reprinting several of them over the next few days. This weeks prompt at Carry On Tuesday is 'The show must go on' and I've dug out a short piece I wrote in 2009 on that very subject.

The show was to start in just ten minutes time. The audience had been filing in and taking their seats for the last twenty minutes or so. There was a contented buzz filling the auditorium and the crackling sound of bags of sweets being opened. Not long to go and you could feel the excitement!

Then suddenly the lights went down, ten minutes early! The orchestra which had been playing a little light music suddenly stopped and frantically set about finding the music for the overture. There was a rustling of sheet music as the conductor raised his baton, then most of the musicians started playing.

Thirty seconds into the overture, the curtains swept aside, a hush came over the audience.One by one the musicians stopped playing and the spotlights flickered into life.

The stage was bare! At least it was until a little man sauntered on from stage left!

There, blinking in the middle of the empty set stood Ron the stage manager in his paint splattered dungarees with a hammer in one hand and a screwdriver in the other! The only sound from the auditorium was the thud of seats popping up as people stood to allow the latecomers to shuffle their way to their seats in the middle of the rows!

Ron looked left, looked right, looked up, and then down. Being a true professional he decided that as the curtains had opened, the show must go on. He shrugged,and the crowd started laughing. Ron laughed back and the crowd laughed even more! Then he produced a spanner from his tool belt and started his back-stage party trick – juggling with his tools! The crowd loved it!

Ron had always fancied the idea of being a stand up comic. Perhaps this was fate. Perhaps this moment was meant to be. Dare he? Well, nothing else seemed to be happening so he started telling jokes!

‘Two cannibals are eating a clown. One says to the other, "Does this taste funny to you?” Laughter! ‘I went to buy some camouflage trousers the other day but I couldn't find any’. More laughter!

It didn’t last long. The curtains flew closed leaving Ron half in and half out of the set. The audience roared for more, but that was it for Ron’s first public performance. A couple of minutes later the show that the audience came to see got under way.

But it wasn’t Ron’s last performance! Nowadays he appears in open mike sessions in pubs and clubs all around the area. He still wears his dungarees, juggles tools and tells corny jokes!

‘A recent survey was conducted to discover why men get out of bed in the night. Five percent said it was to bet a glass of water, twelve percent said it was to go to the bathroom and eighty three percent said it was to go home!’

Nice one Ron!

Here there and everywhere

2011-10-16T21:38:00.000+01:00

Gemma’sphone rang. She could hear it but she couldn’t see it. She rummaged through herbag desperate to get hold of it before it cut off.

She pressed the button. ‘Hi’ she shouted, ‘Isthat you?’

‘At last’ said the voice at the other end. ‘Whereon earth are you?’

‘I’m still here’ said Gemma.

‘Haven’t you found it yet?’ said the voicesounding a little impatient.

‘No’ said Gemma, ‘I’ve looked everywhere’

‘But I'm sure it’s there’ said the voice ‘youmust keep looking because I need it here, if you don’t find it then everything I've dreamt of and worked for will disappear’

Thirtyminutes passed and Carly was pacing the room. ‘So near but so far’ she whisperedto herself. ‘Please please find it’. She jumped as her phone sprang into life.

‘I’vefound it!’ shrieked the voice on the other end. ‘Fantastic’ shouted Carly, ‘getit here as quickly as you can’.

Thedoor swung open and in ran Gemma. Carly was hopping from foot to foot withdelight. ‘At last you are here said. ‘If I rush I’ll just get to that interviewin time. I so need that job and there’s no way I could sit there without mylipstick on’.

Written for Sunday Scribblings

Peace at last!

2011-10-13T16:40:00.001+01:00

Written for Short Story Slam 12

Peace at last! I thoughthe’d never fall asleep. Listen; bliss. All I can hear is the ticking of theclock, and the rustling of autumn leaves in the world beyond his cosylittle room. ‘Yes’ I said to her, ‘you go out and enjoy yourself thisevening; you deserve it and it’s time for our first attempt at father-sonbonding’. Little did I realise what I’d let myself in for.

I need to start clearingup the bombsite that used to be our lounge. I had no idea how loose the curtaintrack had become and I had no idea how tight his grip was on the fabric when Itried carrying him away from the window. I’m never going to have time to getout the ladder and my tools and reattach the rail before she gets home . I knowI said I’d feed him, after all, how difficult could it be? I’m sure it wasn’t my fault thefirst jar of baby food exploded in the microwave, it must have been faulty. Thento demonstrate how tasty the Heinz cauliflower and broccoli cheese was, I lethim watch me eat a little myself. Mistake . When I got back from throwing up inthe bathroom he was tucking into the cat litter, and for some reason he foundit tastier than the gloopy slime in the little jar. He was probably right . Thekitchen looks like a disaster area and if she sees all that baby foodsplattered across the ceiling she’ll be furious. Actually, pale green looksquite good, I’ll bear that in mind when we redecorate .

Tabby the cat isprobably still hiding behind the sofa. Can’t say I blame her. At one stage Inearly joined her. He’s got a lovely little wind up toy cat, I like playingwith it myself, but he seems to think that torturing Tabby is far more fun .Actually, whilst watching him it did occur to me that he has a natural aptitude forriding - one day he might even become a jockey.

I’m not too good withthings horticultural, but I’m hoping that if I poke the snapped-off part of herprecious orchid back into the dirt in the flowerpot, it might re-grow its roots.After all, the wriggly worm he snapped in half in the garden earlier todaymanaged to survive. It was funny actually ; both halves went off in differentdirections! I bet they won’t arrange a get-together inour garden!

He looks so sweet andinnocent lying there. I wonder if he’s dreaming? We are going to the coasttomorrow. What was it Winston Churchill said, something about fighting them onthe beaches? He’s probably plotting something right now. I had no idea how hardlooking after a child single-handedly could be ; I’m worn out.

It’s reallycomfortable here. I think I deserve a little rest before I start downstairs. Ican hardly keep my eyes open. I’ll just er, er, mmmmmmmmmmm.

Prince plays Abu Dhabi

2011-10-11T23:59:00.003+01:00

For Wordless Wednesday October 12 2011

The Call

2011-10-09T17:59:00.001+01:00

Thecall came in the middle of the night. Her cell phones ring tone was turned offso it rattled its way across the table top then fell onto the rug with a thud.She cursed under her breath in case her husband had been woken by the noise.The previous night she had deliberately started a furious row with him and asshe had planned, he stomped off to the spare room for the night.

She hadn’t needed to answer it. There would onlyever be one call made on this phone then she’d lose it as quickly as she’d gotit. Without turning on the bedroom light she fumbled her way over to thewindow, opened the curtains the merest bit and strained her eyes to look outinto the pitch black of the winter’s night. There was not a sound coming fromthe sheep in field opposite the cottage, and she hoped and prayed that theywould not be disturbed by her leaving the house in the early hours of themorning. Had there been a moon she would at least be able to see where he waswaiting. Then she spotted a tiny orange glow, the light from a cigarette. Shehadn’t realised he smoked, he’d certainly not done so in her company so herstrong feelings on the subject had never come up. Still, if he was asmoker it would a small price to pay. Sonya was besotted with him even thoughthey had only met two or three times; love at first sight was something she’dnever believed in until this week.

She grabbed her small pre packed bag of essentials,eased open the bedroom door praying it wouldn’t creak then slowly and silentlydescended the narrow staircase. Only two bolts and a door lock stoodbetween her and her new life. The first one slid effortlessly aside. She heldher breath as she twisted the key. Not a sound. Sensing freedom she bent downto release the bottom bolt, but it refused to budge. She pulled it a littleharder. Nothing. Her heart began to beat a little faster; she was aware ofmoisture forming on her top lip.

Suddenly it crashed open with a deafening bang andshe caught the flesh of her finger between the bolt and its barrel. It wasagonising; in the darkness she could feel blood trickling across her palm. Shewaited making not a sound, expecting to hear James wake up and leave the spareroom to investigate. But remarkably, he didn’t.

As she pulled open the heavy oak door it letout a disapproving groan, as if were trying to tell her something, but itwouldn’t have mattered if he had heard it, because within seconds she wasrunning as fast as her shaking legs would carry her in the direction of theorange glow. She couldn’t understand why Sam wasn’t walking towards her. Sheglanced over her shoulder at the cottage and as she did so the light in thespare room flashed on. She stopped and turned, and for the first time in daysshe asked herself what on earth she thought she was doing. It was then sherealised that the face watching her from the window was not her husband James.It was Sam. She turned to face the field and the light from the window wasilluminating a figure smoking a cigarette and holding cell phone. He wassmiling. Not a pleasant smile, more a menacing one. She had never seen Jameslook like that before.

James had been planning to leave Sonya for sometime. He was a man of means and before they married he drew up a prenuptialagreement. It was unusual inasmuch as it stated that in the event of Sonyaleaving him at her instigation, then she would be entitled to none of hisestate. On the other hand, should he leave he would have to share everything heowned with her. He therefore had to find a way parting without it being hisfault. Unbeknown to her he’d arranged at some considerable expense for her tobump into several eligible men over the past year or so. It was Sam thatmanaged to work the magic. He’d persuaded her that once they were togethershe’d have no need for James’ money. But of course, she was never to see himagain. And James had been careful to cover his tracks making it nigh impossiblefor him to be accused of anything untoward. It was Sonya’s word against his andhis accomplice Sam; or so they thought.

The call came three years later. It was from hersolicitor. It was good news!

Mary's lamb

2011-10-06T22:42:00.000+01:00

Mary had a leg of lamb, she got it from the butcher. She stuck a few sprigs of rosemary in it. She picked the rosemary from her friend’s garden; Rose Marie'sgarden. Roses are Mary’s favourite flowers. Mary stabbed it with garlic cloves. She got them from her mate Gary who licks cloves. Cloves are good for toothache and Gary suffers with hismolars. His friends lampoon him and his spice-sucking habit. Gary has a split personality, a cloven hoof. Mary’s leg of lamb once had a hoof. She coated her lamb in honey, clover honey.

It tasted good.

She also cooked a pie, a blackberry pie which sounds like apie made from four and twenty blackbirds but it wasn't. Her friends made things too; Pat a cake, and Polly put the kettle on so they could allhave a cup of tea.

A tasty time was had by all.

Rosey has words!

2011-10-03T00:56:00.001+01:00

Rosey was in a strange mood the other evening. It seems thatsomeone had had said something unpleasant to her during a drama class at herschool. As you know Rosey takes her position as classroom assistant to SallyBlackley very seriously, and when she was asked by Sally to take part in ajunior version of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet she was in her element! At thetime she thought that being too keen was probably not such a good idea, so sheanswered the request with a line from the bard himself – ‘to be or not to be’she asked, ‘that is the question – Hamlet act three scene one!’ Anyway, sheagreed ‘to be’ and a few days later rehearsals began.

You may recall that I told you about her contribution to theschool Christmas play a couple of years ago. She went from being a productionassistant to playing a major role, that of the first palm tree on the rightnext to the principal alien.. Ever since then, the children have insisted thatshe joins them on stage at every possible opportunity! Clearly, despite heryouthful looks, she was a bit too old to play the part of Juliet, much to thechagrin of young Jamey Fothergill who had landed the part of Romeo.

One of the other teachers, Francis (known as Frigid Franbehind her back) always treated Rosey with disdain; clearly she thought thatRosey was beneath her being no more than teacher’s assistant, and wasobservably jealous of her popularity among the staff and students. She couldn’tunderstand why she should have a stage part in what was meant to be a kid’sproduction. ‘For you and I are past our dancing days’ she said. ‘From act onescene five I believe!’ retorted Rosey putting Fran firmly in her place. Shethen suggested that Rosey play the part of Rosaline, the character Romeo has acrush on in the early part of the play. Rosey was initially delighted! But thenshe suddenly remembered that Rosaline has a non-speaking part and never evenappears on stage.Sally tutted at Fran and suggested that Rosey play the nurse,one of the funniest yet most disturbing characters in the play.

It seems that Rosey’s presence among the cast was having aninspirational effect on the young thespians. ‘O! She doth teach the torches toburn bright’ said Sally to Fran quoting a line from the play. ‘Act one, scenefive’ called Rosey from the wings. Fran was visibly riled.

The first rehearsal was a triumph. Sally was delighted with Rosey’scontribution; Fran less so. The children fled from the room visibly excited andenthused by the events of the afternoon.

As Rosy was putting on her coat on, Fran sidled up toher. ‘You are as a candle, the better burnt out’ she hissed.

‘Henry the forth part one’ said Rosey ‘and you areloathsome as a toad’.

‘Ah’ said Fran ‘Troilus and Cressida! Peace ye fatguts’ she shouted. ‘Henry the forth part one again’ chuckled Rosey.

‘Parting is such sweet sorrow – not’ said Fran as she leftthe room.

After Rosey had finished telling us about the strange eventsof the afternoon she opened a bottle of her favourite Chardonnay and visiblyrelaxed. I don’t know much Shakespeare so the best I could come up with wassomething along the lines of ‘sticks and stones may hurt my bones but wordswill never hurt me’.

‘Yes’ said Rosey, ’but a blow with a word strikes deeper than a blow witha sword’

'Who said that?' I asked. 'Aint got a clue' saidRosey,'Cheers!'

Writtenin response to Carry On Tuesday promptabout words

To read more of Rosey's adventures, visit My Friend Rosey.

Those were the days

2011-09-25T18:08:00.000+01:00

When he wasyoung, in his teens, Ernest learned to strum a guitar. He got the hang of a few chords,just the basics like C and F and A minor. He also sang a little, usually Bflat! Anyway, he used to bowl up every Friday night at a local pub when most ofthe regular drinkers were three sheets to the wind and treat them to his hardlyrecognisable renditions of the big hits of the day. He strummed and sang andswayed and screwed his face up to show how deeply he was feeling the emotion of the words he was crooning. They always said that he was Ernest by name andEarnest by nature! They always appeared to be enjoying his performances; afterall they laughed a lot and even joined in if the song was recognisable. Allthis apparent adoration gave Ernest the false impression that he was on the wayto becoming a major force in the recording industry; one mega break, that’s allhe needed. Little did he realise the reason for his popularity.

Thirty yearswent by and Ernest never did get that break. His performance tended to be inhis bedroom, or the garden shed if his wife insisted he stopped making ‘thatawful racket’ in the house. His favourite piece to play was Those Were the DaysMy Friend, his personal anthem. He had a stash of beer in his shed, or studioas he called it, from which he drowned his sorrows. The more he drank thebetter he seemed to play, or at least that’s how it seemed to him. He felt thathe was misunderstood and one day he’d show the world that they had beendeprived of his talent for a generation.

Then one boring Sunday night whilst watching a repeat of a repeat of The X Factor he mumbledsomething under his breath. He’d had an epiphany, a sudden realisation that theperfect way to reach his deserving audience was via Simon Cowell. He lookedaround the room at his wife and kids and proclaimed that he was going to winthe next series of The X Factor. There was a look of amusement on his wife’s faceand looks of horror from his teenage daughter and son. Their expressionsspelt out like OMG very loudly! What on earth would their friends think if their Dadpopped up on the screen; they'd like LOL!

To cut along, very long story short, he applied to The X Factor the following year andwas duly summoned for the auditions. He spent the next few weeks gettinghimself a new look. Much to his kids embarrassment he now sported spiky baldinghair and greyish fuzz on his lower face. When he experimented with wearing his jeans fashionably half way down his back-side, the family said he’d gone onestep too far, in fact when he took one step into the street they dropped downaround his ankles. He also felt he need a catchier name to go with his newyouthful image and he duly re-christened himself Eric; if it was good enoughfor Mr Clapton it was good enough for him!

The dayarrived. He had expected to be standing in front of the judges for his firstperformance; it hadn’t occurred to him that there would be a preliminary panel whittling downthe many thousands to the chosen few. And of course, the selected acts whichwere to go forward to the TV auditions were chosen as much for their CringeFactor as their X Factor. Clearly his act went down well, and when he was toldthat he was to be appearing in front of Simon and Louis and those young ladiesfrom so called girl bands (what did they know about real music?) he assumedthat stardom was only a few songs away.

One of thejudges (a pretty girl with a Liverpool accent who he knew was once married tomillionaire footballer and sang in aband he thought was called No Girls Allowed or something like that) asked himwhat he was about to entertain them with. Those Were the Days My Friend hemuttered. Simon asked him to speak up and he bellowed the title down themicrophone causing the assembled thousands to jump off their seats as one! Hewas a couple of minutes in, and he thought it was going down pretty well; afterall the judges were pulling faces at one another and the audience were laughingjust as they did all those years ago in the pub. Louis shot his hand up intothe air and the backing track fell silent as did Ernest – sorry, Eric! He hadexpected rapturous applause and to see the judges on their feet clapping theirhands in utter amazement. But all was quiet. It was time for Plan B. He had another trick up his sleeve if only they’d let him try it. This time theaudience were on his side and they started calling E-ric, E-ric, E-ric. Eric ofcourse didn’t realise that they were more a baying mob than an adoringaudience desperate to hear more. Well, he was given a second go, and Plan Bturned out to be a more active version of Plan A with Eric attempting franticdance moves and even failing to perform a hand stand.

Eric –sorry, Ernest didn’t make boot camp, in fact the only boot he got was beingbooted out of the auditions. His kids asked to go to a different school and hislong suffering wife has been shopping online rather than making her weekly tripto the supermarket. But he hasn’t given up. He’s still convinced that he has a talentdeep within him which will someday emerge to enthral and entertain the nationif not the world.

Carry OnTuesday prompt is Those Were the Days my Friend

SundayScribblings is Plan B

(Fiction)Friday) is Drown your Sorrows

Tommy's adventure

2011-09-18T22:00:00.000+01:00

The prompt at Carry On Tuesday this week is 'He should have seen it coming' and over at Sunday Scribblings it's Easy'

"How was theexam?" asked Dad as Tommy came through the door. Tommy dropped his bag onto the floor and collapsedonto the sofa. A big grin spread across his face. “Easy” he said “it was adoddle Dad!” Tommy didn’t have too muchhomework to do and anyway, it was in his words ‘easy’, so there was still timefor a bit of fun before bedtime.

The sun wassetting over the park. Tommy had a feeling that he was being watched. He couldn’tsee any one, but he could feel several pairs of eyes peering at him. He lookedaround. Were there people hiding behind the trees? There was a hedge a few feetaway. Was he being watched from behind the twigs and leaves? He jumped as heheard a crunch and a snap to his left. He spun round and as he did so amenacing growl came from behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck were standingon end, he could hear himself breathing and a trickle of sweat ran down hisbrow. He ran forward and stumbled into aditch. He didn’t expect that. Water swirled around his feet – the stench was awful.He spotted a sturdy stick; it may come in useful he thought. As he clambered out of the ditch a ferocioushair covered creature appeared in front of him welding a spiked ball on a chain.As he creature began to spin his deadly weapon around and around, Tommy leaptforward and smashed his stick against his foes shins. The creature shrieked asTommy dashed away across the grass looking over his shoulder as he ran. Crash.He’d run into a tree trunk and he fell to the ground. He was seeing stars, andnot just stars. Suddenly from the midst of the twinkling lights a two headed vultureswept down from the sky. Tommy waved his stick around in the air and sent acrashing blow to one of the vulture’s heads. It screamed and rushed up into thesky.

Tommy wasreally tired. He sat there, his heart pounding and wondering what on earthwould happen next. Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder. It made him jump outof his skin; he should have seen it coming. He spun round and saw his Dad standingover him.

“Time toturn off the Xbox for tonight Tommy” said Dad “Time for bed, you’ve another examin the morning and this time it might not be as easy!”

The windows to the soul

2011-09-09T23:11:00.000+01:00

Many years ago I met a girl called Laura. A strange girl,she was never seen without a pair of dark glasses covering her eyes. I caughther off guard one day, and just for a moment her eyes were uncovered; just fora moment I caught a glimpse of her eyes and I was overcome by a strange andindescribable sensation. Let me tell you about Laura. Much is heresay, butthose who new her all seem to tell the same story.

You’ve neverseen so many sunglasses. Allover her apartment sunglasses are tucked and wedged and propped into everycorner. Under cushions, in kitchen drawers, on shelves, among the leaves of herhouseplants; dark glasses lurk, peer and peek. Watching everything that happensin Laura’s apartment.

Nobody hasever seen Laura’s eyes. Are they blue as the midday sky, or brown like the soilof mother earth? Are they as cold as a winter morn’s frost, or burning like theflames of an autumn bonfire? Do they sparkle or sulk or glisten or brood? Day after day Laurahides her eyes behind windows of darkened glass, each of them framed with acolour of the rainbow or shades beyond.

They say thatthe eyes are the windows to the soul. Laura wants nobody to see into her soul.And Laura has no desire to look into the souls of those she meets. Nobodyrealises that when they meet Laura, she avoids looking them in their eyes. Shelooks to their right or their left. She stares above or below; anywhere butinto their eyes. But because of her glasses, no one realises she’s looking anywherebut into their eyes.

Laura losther mother when she was but a few years old. Those that remember Laura’s motherremember only her eyes. They say they looked empty, like deep dark pits. Shewas it seems, a troubled person though nobody ever knew why. It is said thatwhen Laura looked into her dying mother’s eyes she saw something terrible;something which would stay with her always, and something she never wanted tosee again. From that day to this Laura has worn dark glasses so that no one cansee into her soul. She avoids eye contact with everyone she meets for fear ofseeing something deep inside them which will bring back the terror she sufferedall those years ago.

‘If thineeyes be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness’: Matthew 6: 23

Carry On Tuesday prompt is 'when I look into your eyes'
(Fiction) Friday Challenge prompt is 'your character has an unusual phobia but tries to hide it'.
Our Sunday Scribblings prompt is 'Sensation'.

Please don't make movies from books!

2011-09-08T22:57:00.001+01:00

In July of last year I read a book which completely blew my mind!So much so that I wrote a revue here on Keith’s Ramblings. It was titled OneDay and written by David Nicholls. Well, here we are one year on, and a filmhas been made of the book starring American actress Anne Hathaway in thestarring role of Emma.

Such was the popularity of the book, the premier of OneDay the movie was a huge red carpet event which was held in Leicester Square inLondon’s West End. The massive crowd held aloft a sea of orange and white booksin the hope of gaining the autographs of the stars.

Predictably, as is oftenthe case, the movie received a luke warm reception from its legion of fans. AnneHathaway’s ‘Yorkshire accent’ has been the subject of much ridicule from the devotees of the book who’ve seen it so far. The emotional poignancy of many of thescenes has been watered down or missed out altogether.

David Nicholls’s previous book was also made the subject ofa movie. The novel Starter for Ten was simply brilliant. A couple of weeks agoI read it on a plane during a flight to Egypt; I couldn’t help but chuckle outloud, much to the amusement of my fellow passengers in the adjacent seats! Thena couple of days ago I managed to get a copy of the movie, and surprisesurprise, the film was a disaster. Scenes were dropped, characters somehow changednationalities, and the entire experience was diluted.

The problem with creating cinematic dramas from books seemsto be in the limited time available to the film maker. In the case of One Day,twenty years had to be compressed into ninety minutes. It is just impossible.

David Nicholls has three titles to his credit. Before he wroteOne Day And Starter for Ten he came up with one of the funniest tales of alltime, The Understudy. As far as I’m aware it’s managed to avoid a movieversion. I sincerely hope it never gets the silver screen treatment.

Currently the number one best selling book in the UK is One Day. Numbertwo is Starter for Ten and number four, The Understudy; amazing, but hardlysurprising. I can’t wait to see what appears next from the pen of David Nicholls.

If only walls could talk

2011-09-03T19:38:00.219+01:00

I can’t begin this account of my holiday without first giving you a little background information, much as it pains me to do so.

As I walked through the streets and markets of Luxor it was impossible not to sense tension in the air. There was nothing I could put my finger on, but it’s evident that following the revolution of February this year things are far from calm. Since President Mubarak stepped down, Egypt has been under military rule. Police brutality was considered to be one of the main motives behind the uprising and they disappeared from the streets for a while, but since their return they have been treated with very little respect.

In large conurbations such as Cairo and Aswan much of the population are employed in industry and the public sector. Luxour however is almost totally dependent on tourism. At the time when most families were planning their holidays earlier this year, Egypt was seen as a place to avoid especially as many tourists were among the 846 people who were killed and the 6000 injured in February. As a result, tourists are very scarce and it was therefore not surprising that the hassle factor for which Egypt is notorious was ten times worse than previously! My hotel, one of the more prestigious resorts in Luxor, was no more than 20% full. This time last year there wasn’t a bed to be had. I saw owners of souvenir shops sitting disconsolate on their doorsteps; the horse-drawn caliches stood idle, and most of the restaurants were empty. I spoke to the owner of the café in which I had lunch hours before returning home, and he told me that he has no idea how his business and his family will survive this

Egypt has put up with a lot since it came into being in 3150 BC. Having originally been ruled by the Pharaohs, it was later to become Persian. Then Alexander the Great came and conquered Egypt and so its Greek period started. Then along came the Romans! This chequered history has of course provided Upper Egypt with a wealth of history, traces of which today litter the landscape. I chose to visit Luxor in order to visit many of the sites which have earned this region the title ‘the world’s greatest open air museum’. Join me as I give you an idea of what I experienced.

If only walls could talk

I’ve seen temples in most of the countries I’ve visited. But the temples I saw in and around Luxor took me to another level! It’s hard if not impossible to appreciate the fact that these enormous sanctuaries were constructed not just centuries ago, but thousands of years ago. Luxor temple for instance was founded in 1400BC.

Click on photos to enlarge

I’m not going to bore you with loads of historical facts and dates. To be honest I had trouble in getting all the dates and names into my head, so whenever a guide looked at me whilst spouting facts plentiful, I just stroked my chin, nodded my head and tried to look intelligent! Take a wander around Luxor Temple with me, and whilst you do so imagine if you will that until the late 19^th century most of what we see was completely buried beneath the ground.

There is no doubt that what has so far been uncovered is but the tip of the iceberg, and excavation is still going on today as it will into the far future.There was originally an avenue of sphinxes all the way from Luxor Temple to the Karnack temples some three miles away. Both ends have now been excavated and work is ongoing to eventually uncover the whole road.

The Karnack temple complex is the most visited site in all of Egypt. It was started by Ramses 11 who reigned from 1391–1351 BC. All of the temples in Egypt were originally brightly painted. It would be wrong of course to use modern paints today to renovate the pillars and walls. Whilst they have some idea of how the paints were made they’ve not yet discovered the secret ingredient that prevents the colours from washing away when it rains for that single day every year! Here endeth the facts! Come for a stroll.

Click on photos to enlarge

Queen Hatshepsut temple butts the mountainside was commissioned by Augustus in 15BC. Climbing all those steps in the midday sun was sheer torture!

Half way through my holiday I decided to set off down (or was it up?) the Nile. The River Nile is the world’s longest river measuring over 4000 miles. I was surprised to learn that only about 20% of the river actually flows through Egypt. The country is almost entirely dessert, but alongside the Nile there are wide fertile banks on which crops grow and cattle graze. I travelled in a floating palace known as the M/S Orchid. It was great!

It chugged along past village after village whist feeding me scrumptious food and quenching my thirst with flavoursome beers. We even had tea and cakes at sundown! It was a long day from the misty moisty morning until sunset. My arm ached from waving at the ebullient children who rushed to the river bank as we passed. Hardly surprising that the God of the River Nile is known as Hapi! There was a swimming pool on board which was filled with screaming splashing kids for the whole 12 hours. I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been happier playing with youngsters at the riverside, but I resisted the urge to get them to walk the plank! Anyway, swallow a sea sick pill and come with me; sorry I can’t offer you a beverage!

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.

Needless to say we managed a quick stop off to visit another temple (surprise surprise!) This time it was a
Greek one, Dendur temple, and it had a roof – that’s unusual I‘m told.

The Valley of the Kings which dates back to 16-11BC was the highlight of my trip. It was here that the tomb of Tutankhamen was found having been there for some 4000 years. His tomb is in fact quite modest compared to the other 63 so far discovered. This was the final resting place of the Kings of Egypt; a valley in the mountains on the west bank of the river Nile. Sadly cameras are forbidden (They claim that the flashes would harm the paint - mmmm) So, I’ve nicked a couple of pictures from another site to give you an idea what I saw.

We also visited the Valley of the Queens which as its name implies is the burial site of the wives of the Kings. Again, photography not allowed!

I mentioned in my preamble that I spent some time wandering around Luxor. I have to say that I’m not one for lounging around the pool. It bores me. The smells, the sounds and the sights I experienced down town will remain with me forever. From the donkey carts to the meat stalls; the shoemakers to the vegetable sellers.Flags strung across streets and brightly coloured washing hanging from balconies. And of course the heat – it reached 45 degrees every day, that’s 115 degrees in old money. Ready? Then off we go.

I didn’t take lots of photos of my hotel, lovely as it was. But I did take a couple from the bar, after all it was the best place to sit (because of the view of course!) This is what I saw.

I was of course in the wrong part of Egypt for the pyramids. I may go there one day, I don’t know. My abiding image of them is a picture I saw recently which showed a branch of McDonalds alongside one of those great monuments! I can just imagine the menu – Pharaoh Burger and McRamses fries and Tutankhabonated Cola!

Thanks for joining me on my trip. I can only hope it has inspired you to go there too. As I write this the sun is going down in my little corner of England. Minutes before I left the hotel for the airport I leant on wall beside the swimming pool and took a picture of the very same sun setting across the Nile.

As usual I’ve only used a handful of pictures within my piece. I will shortly have about 50 selected photos over at Keith’s Images. I’ll let you know when they are in place.

Rosey and the Shipwreck

2011-08-21T22:41:00.007+01:00

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!

2011-08-16T11:58:00.008+01:00

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..........

2011-08-07T23:44:00.007+01:00

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

2011-08-07T01:15:00.005+01:00

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

2011-08-05T10:33:00.002+01:00

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!

2011-07-31T23:40:00.000+01:00

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!

2011-07-31T01:15:00.017+01:00

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

2011-07-26T22:25:00.007+01:00

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

2011-07-24T21:40:00.009+01:00

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!

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.

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

2011-07-03T18:24:00.007+01:00

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'

Is that all there is?

2011-06-25T10:24:00.029+01:00

Do you remember as a child, plunging your chubby hand into a sweetie bag only to find you’d already eaten all its yummy contents and thinking ‘is that all there is?’

I sometimes cast my mind back to when I first married. We made vows and promised to love and support each other for the rest of our lives. Loves young dream; life was wonderful during the honeymoon years. But then the memories of the good wishes and confetti faded; what happened to our vision of the future? ‘Is that all there is?’ I asked my wife. Then overnight everything changed. We were expecting our first child.

When he was born we felt our family was complete. But our lives were different. We were woken up during the night, our house became a tip! Every spare minute of the day was taken up by playing, feeding, and clearing up. I remember holding this tiny thing in one hand, looking around at all the chaos and thinking ‘is that all it is?’ There’s nothing of him. How can something so small bring so much utter joy into our lives? But it did, and our marriage was richer for it.

We had a little garden and I was determined to provide for us. I had a go at growing a few vegetables. One sunny afternoon I proudly ran into the kitchen holding in one hand a few green beans and in the other a six or seven misshapen tomatoes. ‘Is that all there is?’ my wife asked. And with every year, the question was asked with increasing regularity. Everything I did fell short of her expectations. Then it was my turn to ask; ‘is that all there is?’

Now things have changed. I’m in the autumn of my life and I only have myself to please. Throughout my life my vision of the future has constantly changed with each unexpected twist and turn. I look around at my modest apartment and think back to the homes I’ve owned in the past. Memories and treasures I no longer have room for have long ago been discarded. Now my world is represented by a few photos and a shelf or two of books. ‘Is that all there is?’ I ask myself. But then I notice the box of chocolates on the table beside me; a gift from my daughter on Father’s Day. It’s half full and I’m reminded that my life is far from half empty. During my life I've been blessed with so many gifts.I think about my family, my parents, my kids and my grandkids. I gaze from my window at the park opposite my home. There are ducks and swans swimming around in search of bread thrown into the water by excited children. I can see young lads kicking footballs, giggling girls comparing texts, joggers puffing and panting, and fathers desperately trying to launch colourful kites into the blue sky to impress their kids. And then I watch the sun go down sending a cosy orange glow into my room. If that’s all there is, then it’s more than enough for me.

This week the prompt at Carry On Tuesday is 'Is that all there is?' and the final topic on Writers Island is 'Vision of the future'. SundayScribblings asks us to ponder on 'Gifts'

Ten steps to go

2011-06-18T21:17:00.019+01:00

Ive got a bit behind with my writing so I've comblined this weeks prompt at Writers Island, Threshold ,with last weeks prompt at Sunday Scribblings, The Next Step.

Silver spears of rain darted downward and glistened in the glare from the streetlamp which shook in the wind. It was as if his face and hands were being pricked by a thousand needles. In his arms a heavy load. Not much farther, the door was in sight, not far to go. He fumbled for the key which had lodged itself in the bottom of his pocket. As he pulled it out, his fingers which were numb with the cold let it fall the to the rain drenched pavement at his feet. The bundle he carried, his precious load was becoming heavier by the second but he dare not let it out of his grasp. Scooping the key from the ground took all the effort he could muster. His next task was to push it into the lock without once again letting it escape from his hand. He pushed it, twisted it, and eventually the door swung inwards. He stumbled into the entrance, it was totally dark. With his free hand he felt along the wall until he found the light button. He pressed it and in an instant the hallway was flooded with white light. It hurt his eyes. Ahead lay his next challenge, the staircase to his apartment which went steeply upwards, then twisted, and rose again then turned. One slow step at a time, each one more difficult than the last. The next step, then the next and the next. A few feet above him he could see the door to his flat. Just ten steps to go, nine steps, eight steps ...... the light went out. Complete blackness. He swore out loud. His arms ached, why did he ever agree to carry this cumbersome load from his car to home? In the darkness he tripped then tottered back a step, quickly grasping the handrail preventing him and his precious bundle from falling back down the stairwell. He felt his arms were giving way, but there was no way he would give up now, not now he was so close.

As he reached the top of the stairs he located the light timer and stabbed at it, lighting up all around. He knelt down resting his load on his knee as he once again searched for his keys. He juggled them in his free hand until he found the one which would let him into his apartment. With all his strength he rose to his feet and pushed the key into the lock. A twist and the door flew open. A triumphant smile illuminated his face as he carried his cherished cargo across the threshold then lowered it to the floor. He lay down alongside, totally exhausted but elated. “Thank you so much” he said “for becoming my wife today, but that’s the last time I carry you anywhere!”

PS. Originating in Rome, the bride used to have to be carried across the threshold because she was or pretended to be reluctant to enter the bridal chamber. In those days it was considered lady like to be hesitant at this point or look hesitant. Another legend has it that bride was carried over the threshold to protect her from any evil spirits lingering there.

Rosey's allotment - redesigned!

2011-06-17T23:05:00.007+01:00

We knew she was up to something. All of us were barred from visiting Rosey’s allotment. The general consensus was that she’d got bored with it and didn’t want us to see the mess it had become. After all, this time last year, we were constantly being invited to partake of a gin and tonic and a help ourselves to as many vegetables as we could carry.

I was at a loose end yesterday, and I knew that Rosey was away visiting her friend in Piddletrenthide. No doubt she would be sitting in the garden of the Chamber Inn on the bank of the River Piddle and having a giggle catching up with all the latest news and gossip. So, I ventured down to the allotment site to take a look at her one-time pride and joy.

I was gobsmacked. Imagine the scene. The Meads Allotments comprises some twenty plots. Most are neat and tidy with rows of salad leaves, vegetables and fruit. Early runner beans sway in the breeze, and tomatoes blush in the June summer sun. Earnest gardeners hoe and dig and harvest their bounty. One or two plots look in need of a little attention, and a couple are overgrown. I expected Rosey’s to fall into the latter category, but I was wrong. I felt as if my eyes were deceiving me because there in the middle of all those bountiful small holdings was a garden! Not a vegetable garden – a proper garden! Gone were the rows of potatoes and peas that graced the plot last time I visited. In their place I found clumps of colourful flowers and plump little shrubs. Between them was a shingle path, chunky pottery tubs and a wooden picnic bench. The shed sported a fresh coat of pink paint, a wind chime tinkled as a robin pecked at the food on a rustic bird table. There I stood there in an oasis! A few square feet of peace and tranquillity.

So Rosey, your secret is out! Why you kept it so quiet I know not. I can only assume you were waiting for the right time to invite us all over for a garden warming! I have to congratulate you on creating something completely different, but then you were

never one to court convention!

A moving experience

2011-06-06T00:32:00.001+01:00

Moving home should be simple, shouldn’t it? A bit of forward planning is all that it takes. So, a couple of weeks ago I started organising my move. Book a removal van, simple. Ask for a couple of days off work; after all that’s all I’d need. Contact the gas folk, the electric people. Arrange for my mail to be redirected in case I forgot to tell everyone my new address. I remembered to tell the council, the water company, my bank, and most important of all, my internet provider. Then of course I had to organise a land line, it’s cheaper than using my cell phone. The new place needed a fresh coat of paint; as much as I loved the 60’s, I felt it really needed bringing up to date.My lovely daughter and her dear partner stepped in to complete that task for me. The old place need a jolly good clean. A local company was contracted to dust, hoover and wash.

Downsizing always creates problems. It involves shifting a whole load of stuff that’s been moved from home to home without ever being unwrapped, cleaned or looked at. Sentimentality has no place in such a situation. Things I’d forgotten I’d had, simply had to go. I organised a boot sale to get rid of a lot of it. It was quite sad selling a treasured possession for a few pence and seeing it disappear into the distance under some strangers arm. What wasn’t sellable went to the local rubbish dump. Farewell fond memories, you’ll live on in some landfill site and soon be forgotten. You may even pop up again in a hundred years time and end up in a museum or an antique shop.

As the day approached the packing process reached fever pitch. Bags of this and boxes of that, where was it all to go? On the day of the move the sun looked down mockingly on the frantic scene. The cleaners arrived with mops and buckets and the furniture van slid into a narrow space outside my door. Three hours later it was loaded and started its journey to my new home a few streets away.

By teatime all was calm. I stood in my new apartment in a daze, looking around at teetering piles of my possessions, most of which were in the wrong rooms.

First things first, a glass of wine. Then I needed to make a call. My land line wasn’t working. I called British Telecom on my cell phone only to be told that there was a fault, and I needed to be patient for a few days. OK, I’ll email. My internet was not connected as promised. A call to my provider resulted in me being informed that they had made an error and I’d have to wait a few days for my service. I picked up the mail from the mat. The first one I opened was a letter informing me that my postal redirection would be delayed for a week. There was another missive from the gas company informing me that a new meter should have been installed the day before had been put on hold for three weeks.

I’ve arranged some of the new bits and pieces I purchased for my tiny bathroom and they look ridiculous. All of my old stuff which seemed so small in the old place looks huge here. Oh dear.

It’s now four days on, and gradually things are beginning to happen. My phone spluttered into life yesterday and as you can tell, I now have access to the internet. I still have to wait for several other things that were promised but not delivered, but my apartment is beginning to look less of a bomb site and more like a disorganised mess! At least that’s progress!

I’ve decided I’ll never move again. The next box to leave this apartment will be the one carrying me! Hang on a minute; I remember saying that last time I moved, and the time before.

The end of the world!!

2011-05-21T17:23:00.013+01:00

Dear Diary May 21 2011

Apparently the world is due to end at six o’clock. Blimey, that crept up on us without much warning. Millions of years the earth’s been here, and all we get is an ‘and finally’ item at the end of the news telling us that we’ll all be floating around in space in a few hours time. They’ve not even given us enough time to pack a few bits and pieces. According to the newsreader, if I’ve been a good boy, Scotty will beam me up to paradise. I can only hope that there’s free Wi-Fi when I get there. What am I saying; I may end up stoking the furnace down below! Hell’s teeth! Better pack my shorts just in case.

What’s the time? Mmm, five o’clock. Earlier I set up a reminder on my Sky TV box so I don’t miss a particularly interesting programme on BBC Two at six. With a bit of luck there’ll be a delay on the world ending so I’ll at least see the beginning half an hour or so. After all, my train was thirty five minutes last night and that’s only a local service. The end of the world is far more complicated to arrange, and it’s the first time they’ve ever attempted it.

Let’s think positively. If the world switches off in the next few hours I won’t have to worry about who wins Idol, after all, it has to be the poorest line up of non-talent yet. Do you remember when the Titanic sank? The band played on. I can only hope that that strange teenage boy with the deep voice isn’t providing the entertainment for our send off! Just thought of another bonus ; I won’t have to endure the Olympics next year. I had planned to escape to a remote island whilst it was on, but now I’ll be able to save the expense.

What’s the time now? Five twenty. Not long to go. I could open that wonderful bottle of 1984 Bolly I’ve been saving for a special occasion. Not sure. It would fetch a fair price on Ebay, and if those doom mongers are wrong I’ll have slugged a pretty valuable asset. I think I’ll stick to supermarket plonk I normally throw back just in case.

I’ve just had an email from my friend in New Zealand. They had their six o’clock this evening this morning if you get what I mean. The fact that I received it a couple of minutes ago is a fair indication that the pessimists got it wrong. Having said that I keep getting told how wonderful NZ is, so it may just have been spared.

***

Hi, just had a wonderful last supper of chips and chocolate biscuits. A quick look at the timepiece on my wrist tells me that it’s a couple of minutes to six. It’ll be goodbye world in a few moments! This is so exciting! Do you detect a sense of sarcasm in my words?

Right, count down time. Five, four, three, two, one, zero – nothing! So it’s back to the daily grind, back to life as we know it. As I thought the prophets of doom got it wWwwrOnggGgg..............................

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Words Not Necessary # 4 / tree stump sculpture

2011-05-17T23:22:00.009+01:00

What bad luck!

2011-05-16T00:10:00.003+01:00

This week our prompt on Writers Island is superstition and at Sunday Scribblings, surrender.

Last Friday was the thirteenth. It’s the day that friggatriskaidekaphobics dread! Freddy was born the thirteenth, the thirteenth of February to be precise. But Freddy has no time for superstition; in fact on Friday the thirteenth he makes a point of walking under ladders, and clapping his hands at black cats so they run in front of him. If he sees an ambulance he pinches his nose until he sees a brown dog.

It’s a sad fact however that things always seem to go wrong for Freddy not on the thirteenth, but the on the fourteenth. Last Saturday was the fourteenth. He was walking down Fountain Street and cockily passed under a ladder when a pot of pink paint fell from on high bumping him on the head. He toppled on to a black cat which screeched and scratched his nose. A brown dog passed by and mistaking him for a log, pee’d on him. Then an ambulance arrived to take him to A&E.

Today is the fifteenth. A few hours ago Freddie discharged himself from hospital. Whilst there he’d had plenty of time to think. He decided that it was about time he surrendered to superstition . He declared himself defeated. He worked out that the next Friday the thirteenth will occur in January 2012. On that day he intends to open his umbrella indoors, he’ll spill salt on the table and maybe even break a mirror. Perhaps then, superstition will see him as less of a toy to play with. And just to make sure, he’ll push his spoon through the shell of his boiled egg to let the devil out. He’ll touch wood at every opportunity making sure of course that there are no nails poking out. He’ll sniff pepper so that he sneezes three times before breakfast and he’ll touch his toes because that wards off bad luck on the thirteenth.

I’ve just had a call from the hospital. It seems that Freddy was so deep in thought as he walked down the road, that he walked straight into a lamp post and knocked himself out. Bad luck Freddy!

The merry month of May

2011-05-07T23:50:00.010+01:00

Spring is heralded in by an army of trumpeting daffodils. Their job done, Spring lays her carpet of yellow primroses, their smiling faces raised towards the sun which shimmers in a pale blue sky. Speckles of purple appear on the downy green grass as a new crop of crocuses greet the new season.

Slowly the skeletal trees in the copse come alive as their tiny leaves unfurl. Shards of silver light shoot down through their branches and illuminate a sea of sturdy bluebells on the woodland floor.

And now, in the merry month of May, regiments of multi coloured tulips stand to attention, and azalias show off theirs coats of vivid yellow, red and orange.

Spring is the season of rebirth. Creatures venture from their winter hidey-holes, and birds go about building nests. Lambs skip and frolic.

Spring sounds different; it feels and smells different. A season filled with hope. A reason to be cheerful. A season filled with joy.

This weeks prompt on Writers Island is Season, at Sunday Scribblings May, and at Carry On Tuesday In the merry month of May...

Words not necessary # 3 / tulip time

2011-05-03T22:11:00.003+01:00

click on pics to make huge!

2011-04-27T11:38:00.000+01:00

I've done it! I've managed to reduce 1400 photos of Nepal down to about 50. They are over on my Images site where the quality is better than here at Blogger. If you fancy a look, just click HERE!

'Better to die than be a coward'

2011-04-26T13:24:00.003+01:00

I recently visited Pokhera in Nepal which is the home of the Ghurkha army. Alongside the barracks is a museum which celebrates the contribution these brave soldiers have made to conflicts the world over. Their motto which is proudly displayed in the entrance is ‘Better to die than be a coward’. In a dark corner I found a very moving poem pinned to the wall. I thought I’d share it with you.

My Mother will ask where her boy Is

My mother will ask where is her boy

Tell her that the battle has begun

My father will ask where is his boy

Tell him his inheritance has increased

Younger brother will ask where is his brother

Tell him he died in battle

Elder sister will ask after her brother

Tell her one less choli

Younger sister will ask after her brother

Your Maiti become smaller tell her

Sister in law will ask where her brother in law is

Tell her to cut a goat to mourn

My buddies will ask for their lahure

Tell them to kill all memories

My son will ask for baba

Tell him to take his off his cap

My daughter will ask for baba

Tell her to save her honour (ask her to offer a daan of gold bangles)

My love will ask after her husband

Tell her to break her necklace and the bangles

Wipe her sindur, and that she is now free.

Brothers will talk of me at family gatherings

Father will talk of me for six months, a year (fathers cry for a year)

Mother don’t cry, don’t cry

Mother will weep and talk about me for ever

I wanted to come, the enemy stopped me

I did not come, death met me.

Choli – clothes given by brothers to sisters

Maiti – married woman’s parents’ home

Lahure – soldier

Baba – father

Daan – a ritual offering

Sindur – coloured powder on the forehead of a married woman