OK – so following on from finishing Maggie’s story I’ve had a few weeks away from Raven’s ever intriguing competiton, but I’m back this week to pay respects to one of the regular participators – the much missed Dr John/Fandango (without whose presence Wordzzles will never be the same)
The reason I took a few weeks away was because there were other, factual things, that I wanted to talk about and hadn’t had time to do: so in the spirit of this the first of my Wordzzles this week is based on something that actually happened to me
As usual the rules are that Raven, or a willing volunteer, submit a total of fifteen words which can be used to create a mini, main or mega story (or all three if the mood takes you)
My “main” this week marks the start of what may or may not (probably not, knowing my attention span) become a semi-regular series of thoughts about things that have happened to me (the title of which will say it all)
Words this week were: 10-word challenge are: smoothness, crafty, purchase, brief, chirping, forever, shift, moonrise, lampshade, stereotypeFor the mini: remembrance, Dr. John, Agent 012, dragons, Fortress
The Main (smoothness, crafty, purchase, brief, chirping, forever, shift, moonrise, lampshade, stereotype)
The Various Women In My Life Vol 1: RW
She was attractive in a quiet way. Not in an “in your face” unobtainable way, but someone whom you felt that you just might stand a chance was.
Of course, being me I had as much chance of catching her as I had of catching moonlight. I was seventeen and my knowledge of women extended little further than my mother. Not, I have to admit, that I was that bothered. I’d only just recovered from an infatuation with a girl so far out of my league that I’d’ve had to shift universes just to stand a lampshade’s chance of shielding the sun. But there we were, on the same photography course together and, well…
It wasn’t even as if I was that attracted to her, but there was something about the smell of her hair when you stood behind her in a pitch-black darkroom that made me want to reach out and do the sort of things that I had only heard about on late night TV. She was something of a stereotype 17 year old girl – the kind of girl who always had to go to the toilet with another woman so that she could gossip about whichever waste of oxygen of a man she was infatuated with at the time, each brief liaison teaching her few life lessons. She was so naïve that when she was trying to keep her phone number from her latest infatuation she made the mistake of telling it to another lad on the course – who went around all day singing her number until everyone knew it (I still know it now and will probably remember it forever)
But the reason I remember her is purely for the night in the chip shop (and for Americans – think French Fries)
In addition to the training course in the daytime we had found ourselves on the same evening course (purely by accident). It was dark, but we decided to go out into the street and take some night shots of the traffic. She decided that she was hungry and suggested that we buy some chips.
Just a few yards down the road was the chip shop and we entered, opening the door with easy smoothness. The man behind the counter asked us what we wanted, shooting me a crafty look as we selected our purchase.
I felt an unexplainable moment of pride. This man thought that she was my girlfriend. No one had ever thought I was capable of getting a woman as attractive as this, not even me. In that moment the birds were chirping in my head, I felt tall and strong: capable of anything despite my usual shyness.
Thursday night, on my way home from the train, I went into that chip shop again. The chips were just as good as I remembered.
The Mini: (remembrance, Dr. John, Agent 012, dragons, Fortress)
NB: in one of his responses to Maggie’s story Dr John/AKA Fandango commented that he thought the Dragons had once met her – although that lady was not Maggie: this is her story. In memory of Dr John.
Elsie Thomas And The Dragon
Once upon a long ago
In the land of Hernextdoor
There lived amongst the dragons
A lady who declared war
She didn’t have a fortress
It was just a little shack
And it took half a morning to clean
Cos she had trouble with her back
And though she complained about the council
They’d never cleared her street
When Agent 012 came to ask for help
She knew she must compete
He said he’d had some trouble
With the dragons on the hill
A row had recently broken out
Through the boys looking for a thrill
The dragons had remembrance
For the things that had been said
So they burned down the local cinema
And burned every book they’d read
The council tried to kick them out
But the dragons would not yield
So they sent for Elsie Thomas
And she set off across the field
Her sleeves got swiftly rolled up tight
Her coat was buttoned up
She wouldn’t take no nonsense
And told them to shut up
But she never tried to fight them
She invited them to tea
And they talked about it openly
Till both sides felt quite free
To call a truce and come to peace
That would last for many years
Long after Elsie Thomas
Had sorted out their fears
So when you have a dragon round
Don’t wish that they were gone
Just welcome them like long lost friends
And think of Dr. John
Friday, 26 February 2010
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Oh Aye, One Of Those...
The woman on the other end of the phone sounds vaguely troubled. Frankly I don't blame her
"OK, run me through this again: because we haven't got a clue what you're talking about here"
I take a deep breath and try to think of a good way to explain what I want. It's midday on Wednesday. I'm struggling with my new job, trying to get my head around all manner of pointless trivia about servers and routers and things that go ping occasionally...and in the middle of all this I now have to explain something I've only ever seen once to a woman that I've never met.
"Well...it's sort of like clingfilm" I begin, not entirely sure if it really is, "only it has a circular or oval hole and you stick it onto a piece of canvas before you do your painting and when you pull it off at the end you're left with a circular painting"
"Only...your partner said you'd described it as being like a canvas condom?"
I close my eyes, feel my cheeks going a bit red, wondering if it was really necessary for this private joke to be shared to the whole world and knowing that it's probably the sort of thing I'd've said eventually anyway.
This all started because a relative of mine is having a Significant Birthday this year and in a moment of blind panic as to what to do I had thought "I know: I'll do a painting"
This year is a big year in my family for Significant Birthdays (IE ones with a zero at the end, thus marking the end of a decade of existence) and always keen for an excuse to do a painting I decided to look on the internet and do a painting of some landscape from the area they grew up: a lovely mountain.
And that was when I remembered the woman at the Arts Alive demo day who'd had this...well...I can only describe it as a canvas condom really. Designed to protect the parts that other clingfilms can't reach.
And I thought what would be a good effect would be to use this method of protection, paint the mountain in the circle, pull off the condom (so to speak) and then add a single tree or similar outside of the circle - much as the demonstrator had done...and so I asked my partner to stop off in a photo framing/art shop if she got time and see if she could get me some.
The woman on the phone pauses for a second, trying to make sense of my description, "Just out of interest" she says, "was the person you saw doing this a Bob Ross demonstrator?"
"Yes she was" I say.
Well, I guess that some of you in the USA may have heard of Bob Ross: apparently he was something of a cult TV personality in the states in much the same way that Rolf Harris was/is here: only Ross seems to have been a better marketing man because he has a whole range of paints, books and demonstrators who tour the country like rabbits ready to leap out at unsuspecting artists and shock them with their wet-on-wet technique.
The woman is saying something to my partner about how I will now be forever stuck with the moniker of "Canvas Condom Man" and I realise with a degree of sadness that I have been called worse - but then she proceeds to tell me that she can order what I want: only it doesn't come with the hole already cut, it only comes in two sizes and will take two weeks to arrive.
I realise that I've been stupid to assume that anyone apart from baby product manufacturers would sell condoms with the holes pre-cut and sadly inform the woman that she has just talked herself out of a sale, but that as she has been so helpful I will probably pop in and buy something non-protection related in the near future.
That's the thing about small shop owners - many of them seem so miserable at the thought of selling you their product that you come out wondering how they stay in business. In the world of Global Corporations the small businessman has to offer something else: the personal touch, going the extra mile...making you want to come back again.
Like there used to be a really good art shop about 10 miles away where they used to be really helpful: but the woman hired some Bored Teenagers to run the shop for her: result was that they closed within months and probably never knew why.
So the fact that this woman was willing to talk and joke about Canvas Condoms and talk herself out of a sale if it wasn't what the customer wanted made me that little bit more willing to go back again.
That evening I got home from work and went upstairs to change. That was when I saw my partner's alterior motive for visiting the shop. Lying on the bed is a late Valentine's present, wrapped in stylish paper.
I know what it is straight away.
Inside the painting is a canvas board, surrounded by off-white card and a dark (with flecks) frame.
On the canvas is a painting that I did of Charlie and Willow late last year. The framing looks fantastic and I take it downstairs straight away and hang it on the wall. It looks great.
It's just about the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.
"OK, run me through this again: because we haven't got a clue what you're talking about here"
I take a deep breath and try to think of a good way to explain what I want. It's midday on Wednesday. I'm struggling with my new job, trying to get my head around all manner of pointless trivia about servers and routers and things that go ping occasionally...and in the middle of all this I now have to explain something I've only ever seen once to a woman that I've never met.
"Well...it's sort of like clingfilm" I begin, not entirely sure if it really is, "only it has a circular or oval hole and you stick it onto a piece of canvas before you do your painting and when you pull it off at the end you're left with a circular painting"
"Only...your partner said you'd described it as being like a canvas condom?"
I close my eyes, feel my cheeks going a bit red, wondering if it was really necessary for this private joke to be shared to the whole world and knowing that it's probably the sort of thing I'd've said eventually anyway.
This all started because a relative of mine is having a Significant Birthday this year and in a moment of blind panic as to what to do I had thought "I know: I'll do a painting"
This year is a big year in my family for Significant Birthdays (IE ones with a zero at the end, thus marking the end of a decade of existence) and always keen for an excuse to do a painting I decided to look on the internet and do a painting of some landscape from the area they grew up: a lovely mountain.
And that was when I remembered the woman at the Arts Alive demo day who'd had this...well...I can only describe it as a canvas condom really. Designed to protect the parts that other clingfilms can't reach.
And I thought what would be a good effect would be to use this method of protection, paint the mountain in the circle, pull off the condom (so to speak) and then add a single tree or similar outside of the circle - much as the demonstrator had done...and so I asked my partner to stop off in a photo framing/art shop if she got time and see if she could get me some.
The woman on the phone pauses for a second, trying to make sense of my description, "Just out of interest" she says, "was the person you saw doing this a Bob Ross demonstrator?"
"Yes she was" I say.
Well, I guess that some of you in the USA may have heard of Bob Ross: apparently he was something of a cult TV personality in the states in much the same way that Rolf Harris was/is here: only Ross seems to have been a better marketing man because he has a whole range of paints, books and demonstrators who tour the country like rabbits ready to leap out at unsuspecting artists and shock them with their wet-on-wet technique.
The woman is saying something to my partner about how I will now be forever stuck with the moniker of "Canvas Condom Man" and I realise with a degree of sadness that I have been called worse - but then she proceeds to tell me that she can order what I want: only it doesn't come with the hole already cut, it only comes in two sizes and will take two weeks to arrive.
I realise that I've been stupid to assume that anyone apart from baby product manufacturers would sell condoms with the holes pre-cut and sadly inform the woman that she has just talked herself out of a sale, but that as she has been so helpful I will probably pop in and buy something non-protection related in the near future.
That's the thing about small shop owners - many of them seem so miserable at the thought of selling you their product that you come out wondering how they stay in business. In the world of Global Corporations the small businessman has to offer something else: the personal touch, going the extra mile...making you want to come back again.
Like there used to be a really good art shop about 10 miles away where they used to be really helpful: but the woman hired some Bored Teenagers to run the shop for her: result was that they closed within months and probably never knew why.
So the fact that this woman was willing to talk and joke about Canvas Condoms and talk herself out of a sale if it wasn't what the customer wanted made me that little bit more willing to go back again.
That evening I got home from work and went upstairs to change. That was when I saw my partner's alterior motive for visiting the shop. Lying on the bed is a late Valentine's present, wrapped in stylish paper.
I know what it is straight away.
Inside the painting is a canvas board, surrounded by off-white card and a dark (with flecks) frame.
On the canvas is a painting that I did of Charlie and Willow late last year. The framing looks fantastic and I take it downstairs straight away and hang it on the wall. It looks great.
It's just about the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.
Friday, 5 February 2010
Kobiyashi Maru
OK - so I can't start this post without a big THANK YOU to everyone who left messages of support after my last post. I'm sorry for not responding individually, but I would particularly like to thank Argent for being a good friend and Lydia who was kind enough to care about someone she has never met.
The good news is that Willow seems to be coping well so far - she was very anxious the first few days and we are still trying to work out exactly when and how much to feed her, but she is getting all the fuss and attention I can give.
So - moving on now and on top of the continuingly baffling and often contradictory news from my new bosses (honestly - the goalpoasts are moving faster than a fighter plane) I got an email from the competition I entered shortly before Christmas to say that my short story "Kobiyashi Maru" had been rejected from their anthology. To be honest I wasn't too bothered, as I was somewhat underwhelmed by the last publication.
And this does mean that I am now able to bring this short story direct to yourselves on this blog.
For anyone who isn't a rabid Sci-Fi fan 'Kobiyashi Maru' is a deliberate reference. I suggest you look it up on Wikipedia (where worryingly there are more pages on Luke Skywalker than there are on Albert Einstein)
And finally before the story: followers of the adventures of Margaret Mills (Maggie) and Spud on my recent Wordzzle will be glad to know that I am currently trying to re-write it as a radio script. I will keep you informed of my progress or otherwise.
_______________________________________
Kobiyashi Maru
“Snap!”
Death looked up from the board and, despite lacking the required facial musculature to do so, managed to look like someone who could now only see the state of Bloody Annoyed in the rear-view mirror having passed it at some speed just a few minutes earlier.
‘I BEG YOUR PARDON?’ Death asked.
Keema the Dwarf looked up with an apparently innocent look of joy on his face, ‘Horsey to King Prawn: Snap!”
Death looked down at the chess board and desperately tried to work out what, if any, of the previous statement applied to the game in hand. So far Keema was winning by the age-old tradition of playing so badly that all of Death’s clever tactics were of no use to him. The only thing that Death couldn’t work out was whether it was deliberate or not.
It was always the bloody same these days Death ruminated silently as he tried to assess where to move his own horsey: knight – he silently corrected. For thousands of years when people had come to challenge him it had been epic battles that had spanned the whole of space and time, swords, cutlasses, semi-automatic weapons: all had fallen to his Scythe. Then that bloody Ingmar Bergman had come along and all of a sudden it was all chess this and chess that. Nobody had any style these days; that was the problem. Still, Death conceded to himself, anything was better than the Bill & Ted incident. Losing at chess was one thing: losing at Buckaroo was quite another.
Keema yawned and stretched suddenly, ‘Methinks we need a break’ he said
‘OH YES’ Death replied, cursing himself that he had fallen into his habit of Talking In Capitals To Intimidate People, ‘I MEAN: IT’S ONLY YOUR SOUL WE’RE PLAYING FOR AFTER ALL’
Keema nodded, oblivious to the tone of voice and got up to fetch a drink. Sarcasm, like most things in a Dwarf’s life, went straight over his head.
‘I don’s suppose this place has a toilet?’ he asked
‘INDEED YES’ Death replied, ‘IT’S ONLY ONCE YOU’RE IN HELL THAT YOU FACE AN ETERNITY WITHOUT RELIEF’ He paused. When it became clear that plays on words were another thing that went over a Dwarf’s head Death sighed, ‘THIRD CORRIDOR ON THE LEFT, SECOND DOOR’. He paused again. Many people had asked him down the centuries why he, the Grim Reaper, kept a fully fitted Avacado bathroom suite complete with skeleton rubber duck, the truth being that everyone needed somewhere to read the Obituaries Gazette. Keema, being a Dwarf, merely wondered off down the corridor singing a song about gold.
Once he was alone in the corridor Keema let the simple minded expression drop from his face and unfolded the map that Prendegast had sold him. The plan was going perfectly so far and all he needed now was to follow the instructions he had been given to the letter.
Back in the games room Death looked up from the Coffee peculator and tipped his head to one side. If his suspicions were right then any second now...
Cre-ak. Snap, Snap, Snap
...the crocodiles would have had their meal for the day. Death waited. There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Somehow Keema had avoided the crocodiles. It didn’t matter the...
Twang twang, twang
...poison darts would get him. The sound of continued footsteps alerted Death to the fact that he had failed to take Keema’s diminutive stature into account and thus ruined the mahogany floorboards for the fifth time that week. Death reached for his Scythe and began sharpening it with a stone, his upper temple lobes furrowed in thought. There was still the Pit Of Certain Oblivion, but somehow he suspected...
Chink, chink, chink, plop!
...Keema would avoid that one too. Death sighed and stood up, aware that he would have to sort this one out for himself.
In the corridor Keema paused and looked for any sign of the ornamental skull that he had thrown into the Pit, but could see none. If Prendegast was right then the next door should lead to the Storage area.
Keema opened the door as silently as possible. The inside was little more than a corridor, laid out like a vast library with letters and names stretching as far as the eye could see.
It was a long walk before he even reached the letter K and he had to go back and collect a stepladder before he could reach up to the box containing his details. He picked it up with trembling hands and placed it on the floor, taking the lid off slowly.
Inside was just a single bullet.
Keema picked it up and fetched an eyeglass from his pocket. As he held it up to the light he could see just a single word engraved onto the surface: “KEEMA”
It was the bullet with his name on it. He had often heard it said that there was a bullet out there for everyone, only now that he owned his bullet he could never die: because he was hardly likely to shoot himself, right? He put the bullet into his shirt pocket and turned around.
Death was there behind him, seeming to have somehow grown taller in the enclosed space. Keema backed away, his expression turning to panic as Death brought the Scythe around in an arc. The blade cut through the material of the shirt pocket, catching a glancing blow on the bullet which sparked, the casing splitting as the small object hit the floor and exploded.
‘Oh Shit...’ Keema managed, falling face down on the floor.
‘INDEED’ Death replied, bringing the Scythe down one final time to cut the thread of life.
After a long moment Death sighed deeply and turned away, heading back to the kitchen where the kettle had already boiled over. ‘THAT’S THE PROBLEM,’ he said to himself, ‘PEOPLE JUST DON’T THINK THINGS THROUGH’
‘I MEAN...YOU CAN’T CHEAT DEATH NOW, CAN YOU?’
The good news is that Willow seems to be coping well so far - she was very anxious the first few days and we are still trying to work out exactly when and how much to feed her, but she is getting all the fuss and attention I can give.
So - moving on now and on top of the continuingly baffling and often contradictory news from my new bosses (honestly - the goalpoasts are moving faster than a fighter plane) I got an email from the competition I entered shortly before Christmas to say that my short story "Kobiyashi Maru" had been rejected from their anthology. To be honest I wasn't too bothered, as I was somewhat underwhelmed by the last publication.
And this does mean that I am now able to bring this short story direct to yourselves on this blog.
For anyone who isn't a rabid Sci-Fi fan 'Kobiyashi Maru' is a deliberate reference. I suggest you look it up on Wikipedia (where worryingly there are more pages on Luke Skywalker than there are on Albert Einstein)
And finally before the story: followers of the adventures of Margaret Mills (Maggie) and Spud on my recent Wordzzle will be glad to know that I am currently trying to re-write it as a radio script. I will keep you informed of my progress or otherwise.
_______________________________________
Kobiyashi Maru
“Snap!”
Death looked up from the board and, despite lacking the required facial musculature to do so, managed to look like someone who could now only see the state of Bloody Annoyed in the rear-view mirror having passed it at some speed just a few minutes earlier.
‘I BEG YOUR PARDON?’ Death asked.
Keema the Dwarf looked up with an apparently innocent look of joy on his face, ‘Horsey to King Prawn: Snap!”
Death looked down at the chess board and desperately tried to work out what, if any, of the previous statement applied to the game in hand. So far Keema was winning by the age-old tradition of playing so badly that all of Death’s clever tactics were of no use to him. The only thing that Death couldn’t work out was whether it was deliberate or not.
It was always the bloody same these days Death ruminated silently as he tried to assess where to move his own horsey: knight – he silently corrected. For thousands of years when people had come to challenge him it had been epic battles that had spanned the whole of space and time, swords, cutlasses, semi-automatic weapons: all had fallen to his Scythe. Then that bloody Ingmar Bergman had come along and all of a sudden it was all chess this and chess that. Nobody had any style these days; that was the problem. Still, Death conceded to himself, anything was better than the Bill & Ted incident. Losing at chess was one thing: losing at Buckaroo was quite another.
Keema yawned and stretched suddenly, ‘Methinks we need a break’ he said
‘OH YES’ Death replied, cursing himself that he had fallen into his habit of Talking In Capitals To Intimidate People, ‘I MEAN: IT’S ONLY YOUR SOUL WE’RE PLAYING FOR AFTER ALL’
Keema nodded, oblivious to the tone of voice and got up to fetch a drink. Sarcasm, like most things in a Dwarf’s life, went straight over his head.
‘I don’s suppose this place has a toilet?’ he asked
‘INDEED YES’ Death replied, ‘IT’S ONLY ONCE YOU’RE IN HELL THAT YOU FACE AN ETERNITY WITHOUT RELIEF’ He paused. When it became clear that plays on words were another thing that went over a Dwarf’s head Death sighed, ‘THIRD CORRIDOR ON THE LEFT, SECOND DOOR’. He paused again. Many people had asked him down the centuries why he, the Grim Reaper, kept a fully fitted Avacado bathroom suite complete with skeleton rubber duck, the truth being that everyone needed somewhere to read the Obituaries Gazette. Keema, being a Dwarf, merely wondered off down the corridor singing a song about gold.
Once he was alone in the corridor Keema let the simple minded expression drop from his face and unfolded the map that Prendegast had sold him. The plan was going perfectly so far and all he needed now was to follow the instructions he had been given to the letter.
Back in the games room Death looked up from the Coffee peculator and tipped his head to one side. If his suspicions were right then any second now...
Cre-ak. Snap, Snap, Snap
...the crocodiles would have had their meal for the day. Death waited. There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Somehow Keema had avoided the crocodiles. It didn’t matter the...
Twang twang, twang
...poison darts would get him. The sound of continued footsteps alerted Death to the fact that he had failed to take Keema’s diminutive stature into account and thus ruined the mahogany floorboards for the fifth time that week. Death reached for his Scythe and began sharpening it with a stone, his upper temple lobes furrowed in thought. There was still the Pit Of Certain Oblivion, but somehow he suspected...
Chink, chink, chink, plop!
...Keema would avoid that one too. Death sighed and stood up, aware that he would have to sort this one out for himself.
In the corridor Keema paused and looked for any sign of the ornamental skull that he had thrown into the Pit, but could see none. If Prendegast was right then the next door should lead to the Storage area.
Keema opened the door as silently as possible. The inside was little more than a corridor, laid out like a vast library with letters and names stretching as far as the eye could see.
It was a long walk before he even reached the letter K and he had to go back and collect a stepladder before he could reach up to the box containing his details. He picked it up with trembling hands and placed it on the floor, taking the lid off slowly.
Inside was just a single bullet.
Keema picked it up and fetched an eyeglass from his pocket. As he held it up to the light he could see just a single word engraved onto the surface: “KEEMA”
It was the bullet with his name on it. He had often heard it said that there was a bullet out there for everyone, only now that he owned his bullet he could never die: because he was hardly likely to shoot himself, right? He put the bullet into his shirt pocket and turned around.
Death was there behind him, seeming to have somehow grown taller in the enclosed space. Keema backed away, his expression turning to panic as Death brought the Scythe around in an arc. The blade cut through the material of the shirt pocket, catching a glancing blow on the bullet which sparked, the casing splitting as the small object hit the floor and exploded.
‘Oh Shit...’ Keema managed, falling face down on the floor.
‘INDEED’ Death replied, bringing the Scythe down one final time to cut the thread of life.
After a long moment Death sighed deeply and turned away, heading back to the kitchen where the kettle had already boiled over. ‘THAT’S THE PROBLEM,’ he said to himself, ‘PEOPLE JUST DON’T THINK THINGS THROUGH’
‘I MEAN...YOU CAN’T CHEAT DEATH NOW, CAN YOU?’
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Charlie
The first time we came to view the house he was there: sitting in the garden under a bush – just chilling out in the sun. He perked up when he saw us, allowed us to say hello. I guess we both loved him from the start. In fact we secretly hoped this fluffy black cat would come with the house.
Within a few hours of opening the back door for the first time he was a part of our lives: either strolling in casually when we opened the door, or waiting on the fence first thing in the morning. After an incident of his sneaking in and not being noticed having hidden in a quiet corner to go to sleep, our arriving to discover him lead to a checking for catty deposits, pretty soon we got him a food bowl and a litter tray in case he got shut inside again.
We had some builders round one day: someone to look at the bathroom, someone with a new washing machine: and as we led the builder upstairs we saw a small black shape slinking out of the bedroom. To this day I don’t know how he got up there without us noticing.
His name was Charlie, though I’ve previously called him “Furry” on this blog: a big black ball of fur (possibly) all the way from Manchester. He originally belonged to my next door neighbour’s partner, but when they split up and she went back up North she was unable to take Charlie or Willow (our cream Siamese – previously referred to as “Tiny” on this site) and they both remained frequent visitors to our house.
I remember nearly two years ago, just before we officially adopted them both. We had come back late from my cousin’s wedding and Charlie wanted in. This was before he started sleeping over at our house and just after midnight I put him outside – thinking: what can happen in April?
Later all I could hear from outside was his sad cries and I found him on the back doorstep, shivering in the snow! He came into the bed, just about the only time he ever did that, and stayed with us for hours.
Not long after our neighbour announced that he was thinking of moving away and asked us to officially adopt Charlie and Willow. We did so with joy and took them both to the vets to get checked out and registered. Neither had been to the vets for nearly three years and both had to have several teeth removed.
Also he was mostly deaf – he had a long running ear infection that we had to treat with drops and for a month or so he had a collar on to stop him trying to scratch out the pain.
I remember the first time he faked a terminal illness. He was off his food, vomiting blood. We rushed him to the vets in a washing basket in case of accidents, as we had not at this point got a cat basket, and were told to expect the worst – turned out that it was just a furball on that occasion.
And there are all the funny things he would do: like he would jump from the chair to the sofa and we would give him marks out of ten for style, finesse and landing, we could always pick him up for a hug, he would complain about being groomed but just stand there and take it. And all the times that he had to be put into the shower to wash off something that had got stuck in his fur: or the time when he was sitting innocently by my side then moved lightning speed to steal a piece of sausage.
We started out with the intention of keeping them downstairs at night, but Charlie and Willow made a cunning team. Charlie the perpetrator and Willow the instigator and accomplice stood at the door. Charlie, paw underneath or sometimes at the side, pulling at the wood, Willow egging him on until they soon managed to open it. We tried putting a heavy weight on the inside, but Charlie just put his head down, pushed it away and returned to plan A. After that we just let them have the run of the entire house. We are glad they did as they would both come and snuggle.
He was also a bit daft though sometimes – you could leave out all the food you wanted and he would just sit there and starve because it would never occur to him to go and look until you came back in and suddenly he would think that you had just fed him and chomp it down like there was no tomorrow.
Charlie had a recurring furball problem – evidence of this could be found by either the front or the back door from time to time.
So when he started going off his food again we didn’t think much of it at first. True he was drinking more than usual, but he had always gone through stages of chomping everything in sight and then eating nothing for a few days. But then I began to realise that he hadn’t been up into the window for days, bringing down the curtain in the process; that he hadn’t come to join us on the bed or even followed me through to the kitchen: and I began to notice that when he was placed in front of his food he just wasn’t interested and would pace slowly straight back to the sofa. And Willow began to paw at him: like she knew something was wrong and was trying to get it out.
Friday 29th January – he didn’t eat anything except a little bit of tuna and I was out with some workmates when I got a call from my partner saying she was taking Charlie to the emergency vets. I arrived shortly after.
The prognosis was confusing but not encouraging. To me, at least, the emergency vet was merely shrugging her shoulders and saying “Well, you can get some tests done if you want, but...”
We took him to our own vets Saturday morning and left him for blood tests. These all came back negative: which meant it could only be organ failure. The x-rays confirmed this: showing that his abdomen had swollen with fluid: fluid that would return within an hour if it were drained.
There was nothing else to do.
I held him one last time, kissed his head: told him how sorry I was and how much I loved him. We both stroked him as the vet (a much nicer one) gave him the injection. He was gone within seconds: his head just gently lowering onto his paws.
I am glad in a way – because up until those last few days he was his usual self. Even at the end he didn’t seem to be in any pain: he was just without any energy. I could never have forgiven myself if he had suffered, or if we had been unable to have been with him when it happened.
But the image that will stay with me: the one that I may never forgive myself for is just standing there and keying in the four digits for my payment card, buying his death like I was paying for the fucking shopping. Couldn’t we have done that some other time? That really hurt.
We don’t know how old he was exactly – but he must have been about seventeen years old. Not bad for a cat, but I could have wished for so much longer. I would have given the world for another few years.
Last night I got up to check the back door and there was no one on the sofa to watch me quizzically as I walked through. Nobody jumped onto the bed with a slight purr of announcement.
No one tried to sit on my head in the night or had to be persuaded to lie in the space between my body and my arm. No one had to be pushed aside when I came to sit on the sofa, nor did I have to hold my food in the air to keep it out of his reach. Nobody on my lap as I played on the play station: holding the control high enough to allow him to settle and sleep. Nobody clawed their way up my leg as I was typing this and then tried to lick my fingers. I miss every one of these things and the space where he should be on the sofa, squashed in between my leg and the edge of the sofa, gives me no comfort at all.
He will never sit in that gap again, his head on my leg. I will never pick him up and carry him downstairs to his food, nor wriggle out of bed in the morning to avoid waking him.
But the worst part is that Willow has been so distracted since we came back. She’s always vocal, but she clearly knows that something is wrong and there’s nothing I can do or say to make her understand that her lifelong companion is never coming home. She came through several times whilst we were writing this – calling out to add her voice to our feelings. We know she loved him and will miss him too.
My stomach hurts from crying. Every time I think I’m doing ok it comes back again, just as bad. I got a call from my partner this morning. She was in tears because she had taken a wrong turn on a familiar journey and in her upset had no idea how to cope.
Goodbye Charlie.
Goodbye Furry Cat, Fluffy Cat, Mr Charles, Flobby Cat (flob – UK term for spit or slobber), Charlie-Warlie Cat, Charlie The Dancing Cat, and all the other names that we bestowed upon you. We know you were loved and were happy, which is why we let you go when we did so as not to keep us with you for our sakes not yours.
You will be loved: always.
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Must The Show Go On?
And so it was that myself, Argent and my partner arrived in the small village hall, guitars in hand and carrying a bag with a papier-mâché hat: having previously sworn that I would never act again.
I had a brief flirtation with the stage about fifteen years ago now, but to be honest the commitment was just too much for the level of enjoyment it brought. Often rehearsals would be two, three or even four nights a week and be followed by a ten night run with matinee. You had to be really into it to commit, and at the end of the day I just wasn’t.
But when the Toastmasters group mentioned a Panto Party named “Aladdin And The Starship Enterprise” and El Presedente asked me to be involved and to play the Genie it seemed to be just the right side of insanity and I suggested that, in addition, myself and Argent would be willing to perform some songs on the evening.
“Great...great” El Presendente replied... “I’ll send you a script”
This was September 2009: the play was due to take place in December, but by the end of November we had seen neither a completed script, nor had any kind of rehearsal. El Presedente was still busy empire building by inviting a rival speakers group to attend and do an additional panto of their own and seemed to have forgotten to complete his script – sending me a version to learn that didn’t even have an ending.
And then the play was delayed until January – and Argent and I started talking about what we wanted to do musically. We eventually decided to do humorous songs in the style of famous singers, but I’ll leave Argent to tell her version of events there and return to the play
Aladdin And The Starship Enterprise was written in semi-poetic verse that would have left William McGonnagle speechless and potentially shunted Vogon poetry into fourth place (and if you don’t get the reference read The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy NOW!!!!!) and seemed to be constantly evolving. It included jokes that referenced Toastmaster procedures, as well as the band Tight Fit...I mean who’s going to get that reference after all these years? (one hit wonder – famous for “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”)
We never did manage a full cast rehearsal other than on the night and even then El Presedente was still adding new twists. This is the man that, when I first met him, was making a big thing about how he always ended up doing everything: and yet totally unable to relinquish control.
My role as Genie was small – just the way I like my acting parts (no responsibility and all the fun), but I still aspired to the school of acting that suggests that your role is THE pivotal role and had privately renamed the show Genie And The Starship Enterprise and was determined to apply for a bed in the hospital for over-acting as a role. Well – what else can you do?
My costume was grey tracksuit-style trousers (borrowed from my partner) with cycling shorts over them, a plain black t-shirt with a colourful waistcoat (again from my partner) and a specially made hat to look like the Starship Enterprise.
And then the other group arrived and started getting changed – and it was like watching the cast of Pirates Of The Caribbean getting ready for another sequel...there panto was bound to put ours to shame.
And so we started our stage rehearsal – with our villain the dastardly Captain Kirk, desperately in search of his lines and wearing a Star Trek uniform borrowed from my brother (technically a Next Generation science-officer top with a Voyager comms badge, but thankfully no one noticed), trying to trick Aladdin out of his lamp and with El Presedente rather bizarrely turning up as Snow White.
And it all went horribly wrong – lines were dropped, suggested, dropped again, buried in soft peat and recycled (again: read HHGTTG Now!!!) before finally being slotted into place – with me over-acting and refusing to do a humorous “gay voice” (how come it is acceptable to take the mickey out of gay people? Surely this should be confined to the same bin as black/Irish and other racist jokes – if you are a humorous gay person then fine, but otherwise steer clear)
And if the semi-dress rehearsal was anything to go by then it was all going to be terrible...only when we came to put on the costumes (me with my partners grey trousers, cycling shorts on top, black t-shirt, partner's waistcoat and papiermache Starship Enterprise being one of the more "normal" costumes) it ran a lot better. True - lines were still dropped, true - it still didn't rhyme and True - El Presedente was still unable to relinquish control and kept issuing directions to cast as we performed
But the thing is – that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that I had to say my line about “Tight Fit” three times before the audio cue came in, it didn’t matter that Captain Kirk couldn’t see to read his script: the audience was entirely up for it and willing to laugh along with us...but I won’t pretend that I wasn’t glad when the bloody thing was finished and I was able to dash back stage and start getting ready for our musical interlude between shows...
Only El Presedente had decided to change the running order again, putting us on after the second panto...neglecting to tell anyone other than us, meaning that the announcer was more than surprised when I came and took my seat...as did the other speakers group.
Finally the second group took their place – and although their costumes were better their panto was not – nor was their level or preparation: so we’ll call it a draw and leave it at that.
Back to the stage now with Argent and we took our places – me managing to sing off key throughout and putting my capo on half-cocked: but they laughed in all the right places and only a few of the wrong ones: and we both had good fun doing it and were happy to leave without having been lynched.
I think Argent would agree with me that our musical interlude was a success and we are now seriously thinking about that open mike night we've been threatening for so long...
NB: apologies - i had hoped to bring you a picture of the hat: but the library people wont let me!
I had a brief flirtation with the stage about fifteen years ago now, but to be honest the commitment was just too much for the level of enjoyment it brought. Often rehearsals would be two, three or even four nights a week and be followed by a ten night run with matinee. You had to be really into it to commit, and at the end of the day I just wasn’t.
But when the Toastmasters group mentioned a Panto Party named “Aladdin And The Starship Enterprise” and El Presedente asked me to be involved and to play the Genie it seemed to be just the right side of insanity and I suggested that, in addition, myself and Argent would be willing to perform some songs on the evening.
“Great...great” El Presendente replied... “I’ll send you a script”
This was September 2009: the play was due to take place in December, but by the end of November we had seen neither a completed script, nor had any kind of rehearsal. El Presedente was still busy empire building by inviting a rival speakers group to attend and do an additional panto of their own and seemed to have forgotten to complete his script – sending me a version to learn that didn’t even have an ending.
And then the play was delayed until January – and Argent and I started talking about what we wanted to do musically. We eventually decided to do humorous songs in the style of famous singers, but I’ll leave Argent to tell her version of events there and return to the play
Aladdin And The Starship Enterprise was written in semi-poetic verse that would have left William McGonnagle speechless and potentially shunted Vogon poetry into fourth place (and if you don’t get the reference read The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy NOW!!!!!) and seemed to be constantly evolving. It included jokes that referenced Toastmaster procedures, as well as the band Tight Fit...I mean who’s going to get that reference after all these years? (one hit wonder – famous for “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”)
We never did manage a full cast rehearsal other than on the night and even then El Presedente was still adding new twists. This is the man that, when I first met him, was making a big thing about how he always ended up doing everything: and yet totally unable to relinquish control.
My role as Genie was small – just the way I like my acting parts (no responsibility and all the fun), but I still aspired to the school of acting that suggests that your role is THE pivotal role and had privately renamed the show Genie And The Starship Enterprise and was determined to apply for a bed in the hospital for over-acting as a role. Well – what else can you do?
My costume was grey tracksuit-style trousers (borrowed from my partner) with cycling shorts over them, a plain black t-shirt with a colourful waistcoat (again from my partner) and a specially made hat to look like the Starship Enterprise.
And then the other group arrived and started getting changed – and it was like watching the cast of Pirates Of The Caribbean getting ready for another sequel...there panto was bound to put ours to shame.
And so we started our stage rehearsal – with our villain the dastardly Captain Kirk, desperately in search of his lines and wearing a Star Trek uniform borrowed from my brother (technically a Next Generation science-officer top with a Voyager comms badge, but thankfully no one noticed), trying to trick Aladdin out of his lamp and with El Presedente rather bizarrely turning up as Snow White.
And it all went horribly wrong – lines were dropped, suggested, dropped again, buried in soft peat and recycled (again: read HHGTTG Now!!!) before finally being slotted into place – with me over-acting and refusing to do a humorous “gay voice” (how come it is acceptable to take the mickey out of gay people? Surely this should be confined to the same bin as black/Irish and other racist jokes – if you are a humorous gay person then fine, but otherwise steer clear)
And if the semi-dress rehearsal was anything to go by then it was all going to be terrible...only when we came to put on the costumes (me with my partners grey trousers, cycling shorts on top, black t-shirt, partner's waistcoat and papiermache Starship Enterprise being one of the more "normal" costumes) it ran a lot better. True - lines were still dropped, true - it still didn't rhyme and True - El Presedente was still unable to relinquish control and kept issuing directions to cast as we performed
But the thing is – that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that I had to say my line about “Tight Fit” three times before the audio cue came in, it didn’t matter that Captain Kirk couldn’t see to read his script: the audience was entirely up for it and willing to laugh along with us...but I won’t pretend that I wasn’t glad when the bloody thing was finished and I was able to dash back stage and start getting ready for our musical interlude between shows...
Only El Presedente had decided to change the running order again, putting us on after the second panto...neglecting to tell anyone other than us, meaning that the announcer was more than surprised when I came and took my seat...as did the other speakers group.
Finally the second group took their place – and although their costumes were better their panto was not – nor was their level or preparation: so we’ll call it a draw and leave it at that.
Back to the stage now with Argent and we took our places – me managing to sing off key throughout and putting my capo on half-cocked: but they laughed in all the right places and only a few of the wrong ones: and we both had good fun doing it and were happy to leave without having been lynched.
I think Argent would agree with me that our musical interlude was a success and we are now seriously thinking about that open mike night we've been threatening for so long...
NB: apologies - i had hoped to bring you a picture of the hat: but the library people wont let me!
Friday, 22 January 2010
Wordzzle 96
Well, all good things come to an end and after Fifteen weeks Maggie has completed her journey from John O Groats to Land's End
For those of you who have forgotten:
Margaret Mills, semi-retired Bed & Breakfast (small hotel) owner embarked on a journey from the most northern part of mainland Britain to the most southern, travelling via mobility scooter. Along her journey she has kept in constant contact with her friend and co-worker Bernard "Spud" Maris via letter and text. Spud himself has been trying to woo Denise the cheerleader and establish the location of his slightly dodgy friend Tosser
Along the way Maggie has caused inadvertant mayhem via stopping a bank robbery, destruction of property (Harry Potter audio books), two cases of accidental assault (against the same marine biologist) and burglary.
Just before leaving on her journey Maggie was seen in the Casbah Club accepting a package from Tosser containing powder. This was shortly after Tosser left Mandala Pharmaceuticals following the disappearance of a large amount of Heroin.
In the penultimate episode Maggie had finally been caught by the police just less than thirty miles from her final destination and was about to reveal all...
As usual the ever brilliant Raven at http://ravensviews.blogspot.com/ sets us the task of writing either a mini, a main or a maxi (or all three) using a set of words that have been defined for the week. This week I really have no cause to complain, having suggested the words myself. Did i deliberately choose any of the words for my story? Just one - but I'll leave it to you to guess which.
Thanks to everyone for keeping up with Mags and her journey - I've been really pleased with the levels of interest and response. It is my intention to print off all the episodes, go back, re-write and maybe send as a radio script. If this happens I will let you all know. In the mean time I will be taking a break from Wordzzle for the next few weeks as there are several other things I want to write about and haven't had the chance.
PS: The reasons for Maggies journey go no further - or she'll be round with a rolling pin.
PPS: A Maris Piper is a kind of potato, and the slang in the UK for potato is "Spud". Just thought you should know!
Words for 10-word challenge are: Badger, roll out the barrel, amazing, a lovely cup of tea, pressure, frozen, gandalf, pixies, top gear
And for the mini: smelly, politician, favourite, token gesture, garden
---------------------------------------------
WEEK FIFTEEN, PENZANCE – LAND’S END
--------------------
NEWSPAPER HEADLINE, WEDNESDAY 20TH JANUARY:
“STOLEN” DRUGS FOUND: CHAIRMAN ADMITS “THEY WERE BEHIND A FILING CABINET ALL THE TIME”
--------------------
6 O’CLOCK NEWS, THURSDAY 21ST JANUARY
REPORTER #1: The crowds have been out along the shores of Land’s End for some hours now, despite the frozen air and the low temperatures: each one of them has come to welcome the now legendary Bed & Breakfast owner Mrs Margaret Mills as she reaches the end of her fifteen week journey from the most northerly point of mainland Great Britain in John O’Groats to the most southerly at Land’s End.
Just this morning it was revealed that the Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, had submitted to pressure from the Margaret Mills Liberation Front to drop all charges against Mrs Mills in the light of the revelations from Mandala Pharmaceuticals Chairman Timothy Lumsden that there never were any stolen drugs
CUT TO SHOT OF A MAN DRESSED, RATHER BADLY, AS AN OLD LADY. CAPTION: MR DEREK KINKADE, PRESIDENT OF THE MMLF
KINKADE: We at the Margaret Mills Liberation Front feel that this is a triumph of public opinion over bloody minded legality. We said from the start that we felt it could all be settled over a lovely cup of tea and we are glad to have been proven correct
--------------------
TEXT FROM BERNARD “SPUD” MARIS
Alrite Tosser?
U shd’ve sed u were in Marbella, doin deal wiv Simon Cowell’s record bods
We woz rite worrid u’d skarperd
Amazing nuws 4 “Woe Is Me”. Denise sez she’ll download the single nex Friday, as how that’s wen her fone line gets put bak on
Is it tru that bloke from The Pixies is produsin u? Thort e were ded?
PS: Soz mate, but Ive askd Mags 2b best man
Spud
--------------------
CHANNEL FOUR NEWS AT SEVEN
REPORTER #2: And the party is really getting underway here at Land’s End as the crowds are scanning the highway for their first glimpse of Mrs Mills. The band here are playing “Roll Out The Barrel” and the beer is flowing freely. I managed to catch a word with Mrs Mills earlier today as she embarked on the final leg of her journey, complete with Police escort
CUT TO BRIEF SHOT OF MAGS, LOOKING LIKE SHE’S HAVING A WHALE OF A TIME
MILLS: Get out me bloody way, you daft bugger: this thing is stuck in top gear and if you don’t move I’ll have your bleeding leg off
REPORTER: Mrs Mills: can I ask you – how do you feel as you approach the end of your journey
MILLS: Knackered, smelly and right ready for a bath – how do you bleeding expect me to feel?
REPORTER: And would you care to tell me what your favourite part of the journey was?
MILLS: No, I bleeding well wouldn’t!
CUT BACK TO REPORTER ON BEACH, NOW STANDING NEXT TO A LADY IN A SMART SUIT AND DEREK KINKADE (STILL DRESSED AS AN OLD LADY)
REPORTER #2: Mrs Mills refused to answer any questions about her journey or give any reason for her trip, her continued silence leading to much speculation for her reasons. (PAUSE)
I’m standing here with Lady Sabrina Mullhollander-Djones, Member of Parliament for Land’s End. Lady Sabrina: you’re here to give Mrs Mills the freedom of Land’s End, surely that’s a token gesture?
LADY SABRINA DOES NOT GET CHANCE TO ANSWER, AS THE CAMERA PANS SHARP LEFT TO A LINE OF FIVE POLICE CARS FLANKING MAGS ON HER MOBILITY SCOOTER AS SHE APPROACHES THE SIGN MARKING LAND’S END. THE REPORTER RUSHES FORWARD WITH THE OTHERS
REPORTER #2: Mrs Mills! How does it feel to finally reach your destination?
MILLS (INDICATING DEREK KINCADE): Here! Why is that daft bugger dressed as a Badger?
REPORTER #2: Mrs Mills, will you please answer some questions.
MILLS: And who’s this posh bit of stuff, stood so straight you’d think she’d had a garden rake shoved up her bum?
LADY SABRINA: I will have you know, Mrs Mills, that I am the right honourable Lady Sabrina Mullhollander-Djones, MP for Land’s End
MILLS: Oh right...well, that’s different then (MAKES A SUDDEN GESTURE)
LADY SABRINA (COUGHING): I say! What the bloody hell did you just throw in my face?
--------------------
Dear Mrs Peterson
I were right surprised to get your letter from OK magazine, asking as how you want me to give you an exclusive interview for your paper. I can only give you the same answer as what I give to the other papers that asked:
BUGGER OFF!
My reasons for travelling ain’t nobody’s business except for those that need to know, or as I wants to know: and each one of them that I has told knows better than to wrong me by telling any of youse lot, as they know I’ll be round there houses with a stick before they can spend a single penny of their filthy lucre
Might as well go and ask Gandalf the wizard for all the good it will do you
Margaret Mills
--------------------
My Dearest Margaret
Well, we allus knew this day would come me ducks. Not like we could avoid it, happens to us all as they say.
We’ve had some right good times: like that holiday in Brighton where it rained all week and all we did were sit in the tent just chatting. Don’t think either of us were any happier than we were that day, not ever.
And I’ll never forget the first time I saw you, arm-wrestling with that Policeman. You were seventeen years old and I were twenty, but I knew right there and then that you had to be mine. Your dad once said as how it were women like you that were the reason Hitler never came past Calais, on account of how he knew there’d be people like yourself waiting with a rolling pin, but I allus knew you had a good heart underneath.
And I know that we never did half the things we said we would: I suppose that’s just how things pan out. I never could buy you the things I wanted, nor take you to exotic places that were any further away than Weston Super-mare.
We ain’t talked about it much since Dr Trevors came round the other week, but I guess that me days are numbered and so I’ve set me alarm for the first time in years so that every day I can wake up and see your face one more time...just in case.
Anyways: when I’m gone I don’t just want you sitting there moping me ducks, it just ain’t your style.
So I’ve had a word with your friend Tosser. I know he don’t work at the funeral parlour no more, but I know he still has mates there, and I know he can do what I’ve asked him.
So when he gives you this note and me ashes I want you to take them with you, right away, and travel with them from John O’Groats to Land’s End: just like we allus said we’d do, but never did.
And every time you stop somewhere just throw out a handful of me into the wind and watch where they fall. That way I’ll allus be there: no matter where you are.
Oh: and if you get a chance – save a bit and throw a handful of me into the face of a prominent politician. That way you might just hear me laughter on the wind.
See you in heaven me ducks
Norman.
For those of you who have forgotten:
Margaret Mills, semi-retired Bed & Breakfast (small hotel) owner embarked on a journey from the most northern part of mainland Britain to the most southern, travelling via mobility scooter. Along her journey she has kept in constant contact with her friend and co-worker Bernard "Spud" Maris via letter and text. Spud himself has been trying to woo Denise the cheerleader and establish the location of his slightly dodgy friend Tosser
Along the way Maggie has caused inadvertant mayhem via stopping a bank robbery, destruction of property (Harry Potter audio books), two cases of accidental assault (against the same marine biologist) and burglary.
Just before leaving on her journey Maggie was seen in the Casbah Club accepting a package from Tosser containing powder. This was shortly after Tosser left Mandala Pharmaceuticals following the disappearance of a large amount of Heroin.
In the penultimate episode Maggie had finally been caught by the police just less than thirty miles from her final destination and was about to reveal all...
As usual the ever brilliant Raven at http://ravensviews.blogspot.com/ sets us the task of writing either a mini, a main or a maxi (or all three) using a set of words that have been defined for the week. This week I really have no cause to complain, having suggested the words myself. Did i deliberately choose any of the words for my story? Just one - but I'll leave it to you to guess which.
Thanks to everyone for keeping up with Mags and her journey - I've been really pleased with the levels of interest and response. It is my intention to print off all the episodes, go back, re-write and maybe send as a radio script. If this happens I will let you all know. In the mean time I will be taking a break from Wordzzle for the next few weeks as there are several other things I want to write about and haven't had the chance.
PS: The reasons for Maggies journey go no further - or she'll be round with a rolling pin.
PPS: A Maris Piper is a kind of potato, and the slang in the UK for potato is "Spud". Just thought you should know!
Words for 10-word challenge are: Badger, roll out the barrel, amazing, a lovely cup of tea, pressure, frozen, gandalf, pixies, top gear
And for the mini: smelly, politician, favourite, token gesture, garden
---------------------------------------------
WEEK FIFTEEN, PENZANCE – LAND’S END
--------------------
NEWSPAPER HEADLINE, WEDNESDAY 20TH JANUARY:
“STOLEN” DRUGS FOUND: CHAIRMAN ADMITS “THEY WERE BEHIND A FILING CABINET ALL THE TIME”
--------------------
6 O’CLOCK NEWS, THURSDAY 21ST JANUARY
REPORTER #1: The crowds have been out along the shores of Land’s End for some hours now, despite the frozen air and the low temperatures: each one of them has come to welcome the now legendary Bed & Breakfast owner Mrs Margaret Mills as she reaches the end of her fifteen week journey from the most northerly point of mainland Great Britain in John O’Groats to the most southerly at Land’s End.
Just this morning it was revealed that the Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, had submitted to pressure from the Margaret Mills Liberation Front to drop all charges against Mrs Mills in the light of the revelations from Mandala Pharmaceuticals Chairman Timothy Lumsden that there never were any stolen drugs
CUT TO SHOT OF A MAN DRESSED, RATHER BADLY, AS AN OLD LADY. CAPTION: MR DEREK KINKADE, PRESIDENT OF THE MMLF
KINKADE: We at the Margaret Mills Liberation Front feel that this is a triumph of public opinion over bloody minded legality. We said from the start that we felt it could all be settled over a lovely cup of tea and we are glad to have been proven correct
--------------------
TEXT FROM BERNARD “SPUD” MARIS
Alrite Tosser?
U shd’ve sed u were in Marbella, doin deal wiv Simon Cowell’s record bods
We woz rite worrid u’d skarperd
Amazing nuws 4 “Woe Is Me”. Denise sez she’ll download the single nex Friday, as how that’s wen her fone line gets put bak on
Is it tru that bloke from The Pixies is produsin u? Thort e were ded?
PS: Soz mate, but Ive askd Mags 2b best man
Spud
--------------------
CHANNEL FOUR NEWS AT SEVEN
REPORTER #2: And the party is really getting underway here at Land’s End as the crowds are scanning the highway for their first glimpse of Mrs Mills. The band here are playing “Roll Out The Barrel” and the beer is flowing freely. I managed to catch a word with Mrs Mills earlier today as she embarked on the final leg of her journey, complete with Police escort
CUT TO BRIEF SHOT OF MAGS, LOOKING LIKE SHE’S HAVING A WHALE OF A TIME
MILLS: Get out me bloody way, you daft bugger: this thing is stuck in top gear and if you don’t move I’ll have your bleeding leg off
REPORTER: Mrs Mills: can I ask you – how do you feel as you approach the end of your journey
MILLS: Knackered, smelly and right ready for a bath – how do you bleeding expect me to feel?
REPORTER: And would you care to tell me what your favourite part of the journey was?
MILLS: No, I bleeding well wouldn’t!
CUT BACK TO REPORTER ON BEACH, NOW STANDING NEXT TO A LADY IN A SMART SUIT AND DEREK KINKADE (STILL DRESSED AS AN OLD LADY)
REPORTER #2: Mrs Mills refused to answer any questions about her journey or give any reason for her trip, her continued silence leading to much speculation for her reasons. (PAUSE)
I’m standing here with Lady Sabrina Mullhollander-Djones, Member of Parliament for Land’s End. Lady Sabrina: you’re here to give Mrs Mills the freedom of Land’s End, surely that’s a token gesture?
LADY SABRINA DOES NOT GET CHANCE TO ANSWER, AS THE CAMERA PANS SHARP LEFT TO A LINE OF FIVE POLICE CARS FLANKING MAGS ON HER MOBILITY SCOOTER AS SHE APPROACHES THE SIGN MARKING LAND’S END. THE REPORTER RUSHES FORWARD WITH THE OTHERS
REPORTER #2: Mrs Mills! How does it feel to finally reach your destination?
MILLS (INDICATING DEREK KINCADE): Here! Why is that daft bugger dressed as a Badger?
REPORTER #2: Mrs Mills, will you please answer some questions.
MILLS: And who’s this posh bit of stuff, stood so straight you’d think she’d had a garden rake shoved up her bum?
LADY SABRINA: I will have you know, Mrs Mills, that I am the right honourable Lady Sabrina Mullhollander-Djones, MP for Land’s End
MILLS: Oh right...well, that’s different then (MAKES A SUDDEN GESTURE)
LADY SABRINA (COUGHING): I say! What the bloody hell did you just throw in my face?
--------------------
Dear Mrs Peterson
I were right surprised to get your letter from OK magazine, asking as how you want me to give you an exclusive interview for your paper. I can only give you the same answer as what I give to the other papers that asked:
BUGGER OFF!
My reasons for travelling ain’t nobody’s business except for those that need to know, or as I wants to know: and each one of them that I has told knows better than to wrong me by telling any of youse lot, as they know I’ll be round there houses with a stick before they can spend a single penny of their filthy lucre
Might as well go and ask Gandalf the wizard for all the good it will do you
Margaret Mills
--------------------
My Dearest Margaret
Well, we allus knew this day would come me ducks. Not like we could avoid it, happens to us all as they say.
We’ve had some right good times: like that holiday in Brighton where it rained all week and all we did were sit in the tent just chatting. Don’t think either of us were any happier than we were that day, not ever.
And I’ll never forget the first time I saw you, arm-wrestling with that Policeman. You were seventeen years old and I were twenty, but I knew right there and then that you had to be mine. Your dad once said as how it were women like you that were the reason Hitler never came past Calais, on account of how he knew there’d be people like yourself waiting with a rolling pin, but I allus knew you had a good heart underneath.
And I know that we never did half the things we said we would: I suppose that’s just how things pan out. I never could buy you the things I wanted, nor take you to exotic places that were any further away than Weston Super-mare.
We ain’t talked about it much since Dr Trevors came round the other week, but I guess that me days are numbered and so I’ve set me alarm for the first time in years so that every day I can wake up and see your face one more time...just in case.
Anyways: when I’m gone I don’t just want you sitting there moping me ducks, it just ain’t your style.
So I’ve had a word with your friend Tosser. I know he don’t work at the funeral parlour no more, but I know he still has mates there, and I know he can do what I’ve asked him.
So when he gives you this note and me ashes I want you to take them with you, right away, and travel with them from John O’Groats to Land’s End: just like we allus said we’d do, but never did.
And every time you stop somewhere just throw out a handful of me into the wind and watch where they fall. That way I’ll allus be there: no matter where you are.
Oh: and if you get a chance – save a bit and throw a handful of me into the face of a prominent politician. That way you might just hear me laughter on the wind.
See you in heaven me ducks
Norman.
Friday, 15 January 2010
Wordzzle 95 - The Penultimate Episode!
Yes, that's right: Maggie's journey is nearly at an end, so you can expect some surprise revalations and plot resolutions over the next week or so
Thanks to everyone for staying tuned throughout - I hope you will join me again next week for the final installation.
As usual the rules are simple. Every week the magnificent Raven at http://ravensviews.blogspot.com/ sets us a total of fifteen words, ten for a standard challenge, five for a mini or all fifteen for a mega - which words we have to encorporate as sneakily as possible into our story.
This week I would like to add additional thanks to the chap sitting next to me at the library who has apparently never learned to read without talking at the same time and nearly got a smack round the head with my umbrella as a result.
Words for 10-word challenge: alternate reality, shadows, frantic, tomatoes, field, lilies, DVD, snow mobile, aggravation, music
And for the mini: grounds for divorce, pink panther, salutations, wavering, lasagne
-------------------------------
WEEK FOURTEEN, PENZANCE
NEWS AT TEN, THURSDAY 14TH JANUARY 2010
NEWSREADER: ...with four elks and a whippet.
Police are continuing to refuse to confirm whether the elderly lady they took into custody late Wednesday evening is Margaret Mills, the semi-retired B&B owner who went missing fourteen weeks ago. The as yet unidentified lady was taken into custody following what the Police describe as an altercation with a snow mobile driver just outside of Penzance.
Despite the Police’s refusal to name the lady in question several members of the Margaret Mills Liberation Front are already performing a twenty-four hour vigil outside the station. The President of the MMLF, Mr Derek Kincade said, ‘Anyone who thinks that Mrs Mills can be guilty of any of the accusations laid against her is clearly from an alternate reality and deserves to have their brain pan-fried in garlic.
---------------------------------------
POLICE INTERVIEW ROOM, THURSDAY 14TH JANUARY.
PERSONS PRESENT
MARGARET MILLS (HEREAFTER REFERED TO AS “MILLS”)
DETECTIVE SERGENT CLAY (DS CLAY)
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR SHARP (DI SHARP)
DI SHARP: The time is 8:15am
MILLS: It’s a fair cop, governor, you got me banged to rights and no mistake
DI SHARP: I’m sorry?
MILLS: Well, ain’t that what you’re supposed to say?
DS CLAY: Mrs Mills...please...
MILLS: Oh call me Mags dear and don’t go bothering with all that formal nonsense. Ain’t nobody that calls me Mrs Mills apart from me bank manager and he’s on the fiddle
DI SHARP: Mrs Mills...
MILLS: Not that it’s for me to say, mind you, but it ain’t right how he mucks about with Elsie Smith from number forty three. It’s grounds for divorce if you ask me.
DI SHARP: What we would like to ask you, Mrs Mills, is about the contents of the package given to you by Mr Trevor Stanley at the Casbah Club
MILLS: Who? Oh you mean Tosser? He’s a nice enough lad really. Did you know he was a champion Shot-putter at school? Oh yes, he won quite a few rewards for track and field: that were until he hefted a javelin at Mr Wavering the headmaster. After that they never let him near anything sharper than a pencil.
DI SHARP: Mrs Mills, your friend “Tosser” has a criminal record as long as the extended DVD collection of “The Lord Of The Rings”, including a reputation for causing aggravation wherever he goes. Now we know that he worked for Mandala Pharmaceuticals and failed to turn up for work the day after forty kilos of heroin was taken from their offices and has not been seen since
MILLS: Don’t be stupid! Tosser didn’t vanish, he were sacked on account of how he forgot to water the genetically enhanced tomatoes. Last time I heard from him he were saying as to how he were hoping to concentrate on his music career from now on – you know, his band “Woe Is Me”
DS CLAY: And yet he failed to turn up for rehearsals
MILLS: Well I’m not sure as to how I’d know anything about that, on account of the fact that I’ve been travelling for fifteen weeks. I only know what Spud has told me
DS CLAY: Spud?
MILLS: Not that I think much of the band, I have to say – sounds like someone scraping the side of a house with a spatula if you ask me. Give me Cliff Richard and the Shadows any day.
DI SHARP: For the benefit of the tape Mrs Mills was referring to Bernard Maris, also known as Spud, who works at her Bed & Breakfast establishment in...
MILLS: I don’t suppose there’s even half a chance of a cuppa tea? I’m right thirsty after all this talking – don’t forget that I ain’t had no one to talk to for fifteen weeks, so I might have gone a bit mental in the process
DI SHARP: Mrs Mills – we’ve taken a look at your journey so far. You’ve had us on quite a frantic search and seem to have left a trail of devastation in your path
MILLS: Well if I have then it were no fault of mine.
DS CLAY: Wilful destruction of property, namely a selection of Harry Potter audio books
MILLS: I said I were sorry about that on the day – it were an accident
DS CLAY: Two counts of assault on a marine biologist...
MILLS: I were trying to save the daft buggers life the first time
DS CLAY: Taking without payment, destruction of a memorial
MILLS: Look, me mobility scooter slipped on the ice – there were no way I could have avoided them lilies
DI SHARP: The list goes on, Mrs Mills
MILLS: Well? Are you going to charge me with any of them or are you just going to sit there making out you’re in a pink panther flick all day?
DI CLAY: We can’t answer that question at the moment Mrs Mills. We just need to know where Trevor Stanley is and what you’ve done with the drugs
MILLS: Drugs? What drugs? The only drugs I ever carry is a bottle of Vicks Vapo-rub for me chest
DI SHARP: The ones that your friend Mr Stanley stole from Mandala Pharmaceuticals. The ones he gave you in the Casbah Club: the ones you’ve been selling to fund your little trip across the country
MILLS: (LAUGHS) Is that what you think I’ve been doing all this time? You daft buggers: I’d be surprised if you have a brain cell between you
DI SHARP: OK Mrs Mills, we give up: tell me: what have you been doing all this time?
MILLS: Fetch me a lovely cuppa tea and I’ll think about it…
--------------------------------------
Dear Spud
I’m right sorry to say that I can’t write you a long letter this week, on account of how the bleedin desk sergeant won’t let me out of his sight with a pen in case I stab him with it or some such nonsense.
I’m at Penzance Police Station waiting whilst the daft buggers check the contents of that jar Tosser gave me. They won’t even let me stay in a hotel, which I think is bloody madness: I mean, they’ve taken me mobility scooter and collapsing zimmer frame, so exactly where do they think I’m going to go?
Anyway, see if you can’t make it down here pronto, can’t you? There’s a woman in the next cell whose promised to make me her bitch if I get sent down. I told her I had no bloody idea what she were talking about, but if she talked to me like that again then I’d show her the back of me hand and no mistake.
Mags
--------------------------------------------
TEXT FROM BERNARD “SPUD” MARIS TO MARGARET MILLS
Mags
Ave they let u ave ur fone? Ope sew
Tried ringin u, but polize sed u were incommuni-mikado and he wud pass on me salutations
Dont no wot that meens, think e were takin the piss
PS: Denise not happy, coz we gritted the drive wiv the last of her lasagne: so we shud b down 2 penzanze 4 u soon, weathr permitting
Spud
Thanks to everyone for staying tuned throughout - I hope you will join me again next week for the final installation.
As usual the rules are simple. Every week the magnificent Raven at http://ravensviews.blogspot.com/ sets us a total of fifteen words, ten for a standard challenge, five for a mini or all fifteen for a mega - which words we have to encorporate as sneakily as possible into our story.
This week I would like to add additional thanks to the chap sitting next to me at the library who has apparently never learned to read without talking at the same time and nearly got a smack round the head with my umbrella as a result.
Words for 10-word challenge: alternate reality, shadows, frantic, tomatoes, field, lilies, DVD, snow mobile, aggravation, music
And for the mini: grounds for divorce, pink panther, salutations, wavering, lasagne
-------------------------------
WEEK FOURTEEN, PENZANCE
NEWS AT TEN, THURSDAY 14TH JANUARY 2010
NEWSREADER: ...with four elks and a whippet.
Police are continuing to refuse to confirm whether the elderly lady they took into custody late Wednesday evening is Margaret Mills, the semi-retired B&B owner who went missing fourteen weeks ago. The as yet unidentified lady was taken into custody following what the Police describe as an altercation with a snow mobile driver just outside of Penzance.
Despite the Police’s refusal to name the lady in question several members of the Margaret Mills Liberation Front are already performing a twenty-four hour vigil outside the station. The President of the MMLF, Mr Derek Kincade said, ‘Anyone who thinks that Mrs Mills can be guilty of any of the accusations laid against her is clearly from an alternate reality and deserves to have their brain pan-fried in garlic.
---------------------------------------
POLICE INTERVIEW ROOM, THURSDAY 14TH JANUARY.
PERSONS PRESENT
MARGARET MILLS (HEREAFTER REFERED TO AS “MILLS”)
DETECTIVE SERGENT CLAY (DS CLAY)
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR SHARP (DI SHARP)
DI SHARP: The time is 8:15am
MILLS: It’s a fair cop, governor, you got me banged to rights and no mistake
DI SHARP: I’m sorry?
MILLS: Well, ain’t that what you’re supposed to say?
DS CLAY: Mrs Mills...please...
MILLS: Oh call me Mags dear and don’t go bothering with all that formal nonsense. Ain’t nobody that calls me Mrs Mills apart from me bank manager and he’s on the fiddle
DI SHARP: Mrs Mills...
MILLS: Not that it’s for me to say, mind you, but it ain’t right how he mucks about with Elsie Smith from number forty three. It’s grounds for divorce if you ask me.
DI SHARP: What we would like to ask you, Mrs Mills, is about the contents of the package given to you by Mr Trevor Stanley at the Casbah Club
MILLS: Who? Oh you mean Tosser? He’s a nice enough lad really. Did you know he was a champion Shot-putter at school? Oh yes, he won quite a few rewards for track and field: that were until he hefted a javelin at Mr Wavering the headmaster. After that they never let him near anything sharper than a pencil.
DI SHARP: Mrs Mills, your friend “Tosser” has a criminal record as long as the extended DVD collection of “The Lord Of The Rings”, including a reputation for causing aggravation wherever he goes. Now we know that he worked for Mandala Pharmaceuticals and failed to turn up for work the day after forty kilos of heroin was taken from their offices and has not been seen since
MILLS: Don’t be stupid! Tosser didn’t vanish, he were sacked on account of how he forgot to water the genetically enhanced tomatoes. Last time I heard from him he were saying as to how he were hoping to concentrate on his music career from now on – you know, his band “Woe Is Me”
DS CLAY: And yet he failed to turn up for rehearsals
MILLS: Well I’m not sure as to how I’d know anything about that, on account of the fact that I’ve been travelling for fifteen weeks. I only know what Spud has told me
DS CLAY: Spud?
MILLS: Not that I think much of the band, I have to say – sounds like someone scraping the side of a house with a spatula if you ask me. Give me Cliff Richard and the Shadows any day.
DI SHARP: For the benefit of the tape Mrs Mills was referring to Bernard Maris, also known as Spud, who works at her Bed & Breakfast establishment in...
MILLS: I don’t suppose there’s even half a chance of a cuppa tea? I’m right thirsty after all this talking – don’t forget that I ain’t had no one to talk to for fifteen weeks, so I might have gone a bit mental in the process
DI SHARP: Mrs Mills – we’ve taken a look at your journey so far. You’ve had us on quite a frantic search and seem to have left a trail of devastation in your path
MILLS: Well if I have then it were no fault of mine.
DS CLAY: Wilful destruction of property, namely a selection of Harry Potter audio books
MILLS: I said I were sorry about that on the day – it were an accident
DS CLAY: Two counts of assault on a marine biologist...
MILLS: I were trying to save the daft buggers life the first time
DS CLAY: Taking without payment, destruction of a memorial
MILLS: Look, me mobility scooter slipped on the ice – there were no way I could have avoided them lilies
DI SHARP: The list goes on, Mrs Mills
MILLS: Well? Are you going to charge me with any of them or are you just going to sit there making out you’re in a pink panther flick all day?
DI CLAY: We can’t answer that question at the moment Mrs Mills. We just need to know where Trevor Stanley is and what you’ve done with the drugs
MILLS: Drugs? What drugs? The only drugs I ever carry is a bottle of Vicks Vapo-rub for me chest
DI SHARP: The ones that your friend Mr Stanley stole from Mandala Pharmaceuticals. The ones he gave you in the Casbah Club: the ones you’ve been selling to fund your little trip across the country
MILLS: (LAUGHS) Is that what you think I’ve been doing all this time? You daft buggers: I’d be surprised if you have a brain cell between you
DI SHARP: OK Mrs Mills, we give up: tell me: what have you been doing all this time?
MILLS: Fetch me a lovely cuppa tea and I’ll think about it…
--------------------------------------
Dear Spud
I’m right sorry to say that I can’t write you a long letter this week, on account of how the bleedin desk sergeant won’t let me out of his sight with a pen in case I stab him with it or some such nonsense.
I’m at Penzance Police Station waiting whilst the daft buggers check the contents of that jar Tosser gave me. They won’t even let me stay in a hotel, which I think is bloody madness: I mean, they’ve taken me mobility scooter and collapsing zimmer frame, so exactly where do they think I’m going to go?
Anyway, see if you can’t make it down here pronto, can’t you? There’s a woman in the next cell whose promised to make me her bitch if I get sent down. I told her I had no bloody idea what she were talking about, but if she talked to me like that again then I’d show her the back of me hand and no mistake.
Mags
--------------------------------------------
TEXT FROM BERNARD “SPUD” MARIS TO MARGARET MILLS
Mags
Ave they let u ave ur fone? Ope sew
Tried ringin u, but polize sed u were incommuni-mikado and he wud pass on me salutations
Dont no wot that meens, think e were takin the piss
PS: Denise not happy, coz we gritted the drive wiv the last of her lasagne: so we shud b down 2 penzanze 4 u soon, weathr permitting
Spud
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