RBW Online

ISSUE 268 Date: 11th January 2013

OLD FRIENDS AND NEW FACES

WELCOMED ... Shake of those January

blues and come to group!

Issue 268

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Archbishop of Canterbury: society can’t wait to get old people ‘off our hands’ British society is missing out on a massive contribution the elderly could play because too many people are simply waiting for them to die, the Archbishop of Canterbury has warned. In his last speech in the House of Lords before he steps down, Dr Rowan Williams said too many older people being were being “tolerated” rather than “valued”.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/religion/9744882/Archbishop-of-

http://www.ageuk.org.uk/latest-news/age-uk-wins-queens-award-for-volunteering/ Age UK is one of 60 organisations to have been recognised with The Queen's Diamond Jubilee Volunteering Award 2012, the Cabinet Office and Buckingham Palace announced in Dec. Michelle Mitchell, Charity Director General at Age UK, commented: 'We are delighted to receive the Queen‟s Diamond Jubilee Volunteering Award which brings wider recognition to the important contribution of volunteers, who make such a huge difference to so many lives.'

'Volunteers play a crucial role in Age UK‟s vital work for older people across the country, running all sorts of activities from serving food at lunch clubs to sorting stock in our 440+ high street shops.'

Age UK has launched a search for its Internet Champion of the Year for 2013, with the

aim of inspiring the 5.3 million people aged 65 and over who have never been online. Brenda O‟Mulloy, 83, Age UK‟s joint Internet Champion for 2012, is urging people to put themselves for-ward to be the 2013 Champion, saying: 'I took up the internet on my 75th Birthday. My husband had passed away a few months after we moved to a new area, so my son bought me a computer to ensure that

I wasn‟t left alone and it has changed my life.

'The first thing I do in the morning is turn on my computer and check my emails. It‟s fantastic to have the world at your fingertips and to have the ability to chat with friends and family so easily. It‟s been great

sharing my passion for all that the internet offers during my time as Internet Champion and encouraging others to get online, so I‟d urge any older people who use the internet to enter.'

LIFE OBSERVATIONS December: A grandma with cancer was evicted onto the streets (she had fallen into arrears due to the effects of chemotherapy treatment making it impossible for her to work). The un-caring face of capitalism is exceedingly ugly in its avarice.

The Duke of Wellington’s report: 'I can either capture the whole of the Iberian Peninsula or comply with your requests for despatches and reports. I cannot however do both. Please advise.' Thoughts for 2013: 1. Surround yourself with people smarter than you and enjoy the experience. 2. The only constant in life is change; try to be comfortable with it. 3. Fail often. Only by trail and error do we progress 4. Make every opportunity count. 5. Live every day as if it is your last Big companies valuing ‘Customer Loyalty’ is a thing of the past it seems.

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Caprice noun a sudden unexpected action or change of mind/a tendency to sudden

impulsive decisions or changes of mind

Impediment noun an impairment, especially one affecting speech/obstacle some-

thing that hinders progress/law: the reason a legal contract such as a marriage cannot

be entered into

Transcend verb go beyond limit/to go beyond a limit or range, e.g. of thought or

belief/to go beyond something in quality or achievement/to exist above and apart

from the material world

Melodrama noun a dramatic or other literary work characterized by the use of

stereotyped characters, exaggerated emotions and language, simplistic morality, and

conflict/melodramas collectively considered as a dramatic or literary genre/

exaggerated behaviour or emotional displays, characteristic of a melodrama

Ardent adj passionate/enthusiastic/glowing shining or glowing with fiery quality

Alloy noun mixture of metals/metallurgy a substance that is a mixture of two or

more metals, or of a metal with a non-metallic material/ debasing addition—

something that detracts from the value or quality of the thing it is added to or mixed

with/ blend, mixture or amalgam or compound of different materials

Gall noun audacity, impudent boldness/feeling of bitterness or resentment

Wormwood noun a plant that yields a bitter extract. Genus: Artemisia Use: fla-

vouring for absinthe, formerly, medicine for intestinal worms/ cause of bitterness

Supplication noun a humble and sincere appeal to somebody who has the power to

grant a request/ addressing of such requests/ entreaty/prayer/request/plea

CLIVE’s three FREE e-books

NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?

PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

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Steph’s two FREE poetry e-chapbooks now published on www.issuu.com/

risingbrookwriters

and on RBW main site

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

2012: RBW FREE e-books NOW

PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

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Random Words: hidden, Roberta, on route, hatchet, catapult, satellite, jonquil, nailbrush, devastation, landslide Assignment: “something vague”

RBW NEWS: Clive stands down as Chair

At a Trustee Meeting on 7th Jan 2013

the resignation of Chairman, Clive Hewitt, was reluctantly accepted by

the board of Trustees, who were delighted that Clive will remain as a Trustee, and send all good wishes to him for a speedy recovery.

Taking over from Clive as Acting Chair until the August AGM

is Trevor Fisher all the board wish him well in the appointment and will give him their full support.

At the annual planning meeting it was decided the main focus of the

charity for 2013 will be recruitment of more contributors for the charity‟s on-going creative opportunities and attracting writers

Under-50 to the newly established FRIENDS of RBW.

So if any of your resolutions include doing more writing you know where we are. Tell your friends!

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The further adventures of

(Him, you know, Wotsisface, the one in need of a paint job.

The one with that Rabbit who's a Hare as a side kick.)

The office door was opened and a head poked around it. “Haben sie gesehen mein Wolf,” the head said, as the rest of the body followed it.

It was foreign head. The clothes, the leather trousers, long socks, the pleated shirt and the big feather in the small hat said it all.

“Sorry,” Plodd said, “but we didn't understand that.” “Sorry about that Inspector Plodd. I'm still suffering from a hang-under from

my last performance. “A hang-under! What's that?” Rob wanted to know. “A bit like an upside-down hang-over, a malady known only in Theatre World.

Can only be cured by not drinking coffee or the malady lingers on,” he ex-plained.

“I'm Peter from 'Peter and the Wolf, The Musical' and I've lost my wolf. You wouldn't have seen a lone wolf anywhere would you?”

“Not recently,” Rob de Rab told him. “But I do like the trousers. I'd like pair like that for partying in. Where did you get them made?”

“My Dad. But he doesn't make them; he bakes them. He's the one who baked that Gingerbread Man you know? Mind you he's given up on them now, he's working on Chocolate Soldiers, Easter Bunnies, small biscuit selections and edi-ble clothing.”

“Having problems I suspect,” Plodd remarked. “That's fantastic! How did you know that, Inspector? You don't even know my

Dad.” “That is nothing,” Plodd exclaimed! “To the experienced eye of Market In-

spector Plodd all is such things are matters of simple detection!” But he was out of practice, so it was only a grade two exclamation.

“Besides which you've been walking in puddles and your shoes have gone floppy.”

“A real live case at last, boss.” Rob declared.”One we can get our teeth into.”

“Only as long as the biscuits hold out, Rob.” Plodd mused. “After that it should be a piece of cake, probably a Swiss roll.”

“A Swiss roll, boss! Even as an OASIS I don't know how to make a Swiss roll?” “Easy, Rob. Once you've got the ski's off!” Half a page of dialogue, and two cups of tea, later Plodd and Rob set off to

find the Wolf. They sought him here, they sought him there,

they went and looked about everywhere was he in bakehouse

or as he down the well He was very elusive,

they couldn't find a smell.

Eventually they gave up on bad poetry and went to get some Elevens's, also Tens's and Twelves's.

Will M.I.Plodd succeed in his latest QUEST? Has Red Riding Hood found her final target for revenge?!

Will Granny talk her out of it! (The Three Blind Mice are offering 5 to 4 and say that they see it a close run thing) and where did she hide her teeth, again!

Down at the station, early in the morning, Plodd had an idea. “Let's try the left luggage office.” He said to Rob after seeing all the little puffer

trains all in row, waiting for the next sale of redundant rolling stock. They were lucky, the door was open.

“Excuse me, have you seen a lone wolf around here?” Plodd asked the character at the desk.

“Yes, it was me,” came the answer. “I suppose that Peter sent you. He's always doing that. Just when I get a good job, and some company, he sends a couple of unlikely characters to drag me back to his third rate show at the music hall.”

“We're not going to do that,” Rob explained. “He just wants to know where you are. Anyway what other jobs have you had?”

“Well. Last time I got a job as a fireman. That was good job I enjoyed being the chief bell ringer on the fire engine.”

“But they don't have bells on fire engines any more, Mr Wolff.” Rob said, taking care to pronounce both F's in the name.

“They did then, Hare-ess,” he said showing that two could play at the pronunciation game.

“How did you do at putting the fires out then?” “That was the easy bit. At least on the three that I worked on.” “So what did you do then. Getting the hoses out is hard work I should think.” Plodd

remarked. “Not those three. I just huffed and puffed and blew them out. I lost that job because

of the complaints; and it was all the builders fault! I mean fancy making houses out of straw and sticks! Of course the last one was the most difficult. I tried to climb on the roof to get at the

fire, fell down the chimney and ended up in the central heating boiler. Silly pigs!” “That wasn't what we saw in the papers, Mr Wolff,” said Rob who was having none of

it. “Wanton destruction of property, endangering life and limb, littering the countryside and other things.”

“Yer them pigs got away easy on that. They should have been sentenced to six months appearing twice nightly, with matinees, at Mother Hubbard’s light show.”

“But the papers said that you did it, Mr. Wolff,” Rob replied. “Typical! Never knew a paper what checked its stories properly. Not stain on me char-

acterisation lads or lass in your case, Rob.”

Has M.I.Plodd succeed in his latest QUEST? Will Granny find her teeth, again!

Has Red Riding Hood found her hat?! For the next episode of this griping all action adventure

Tune in sometime in the near future [if you dare!!]

New Year Resolutions for Writers:

I resolve to check everything before I submit it anywhere. I resolve to send in something for the bulletin every week I resolve to join in with exercises and plots because it will help me

to expand my horizons as a writer I resolve to learn how to punctuate dialogue I resolve to learn how to use apostrophes (its, it‟s) I resolve to learn when to use their, there and they‟re I resolve to learn that verbs have tenses I resolve not to over emphasise with bold, underlining and ital-

ics and learn that Nouns don‟t start with a Capital I resolve not to preach to my readers as a narrator but to allow

my characters to tell their own story I resolve to “show” and not to “tell” I resolve to give each character their own voice and not for old

and young to “speak” through mine I resolve never to use coloured paper, or backgrounds, when

sending in submissions I resolve never to use obscure ink colours when sending in sub-

missions I resolve never to enclose my writing inside a table or to use

obscure formatting when sending in submissions I resolve to only send in images to which I own the copyright

(i.e. I took the picture) I resolve never to send in submissions in which multiple colours

and fonts and letter sizes have been used I resolve to learn how to set paragraph indent I resolve to learn that house style formats are there for me to

use as well as for every other writer I resolve to write something every day (diaries are good) I resolve to realise that writers‟ block will only end when I actu-

ally start writing something I resolve to step outside my comfort zone and to try writing

something entirely different at least once a week to avoid going stale: readers soon grow tired of a one-trick pony

I resolve to read everything I can get my hands on I resolve to visit my library and to ensure my local councillor

knows if they threaten my library with closure my vote cannot be counted on ever again

YE SLIGHTY OBLONG TABLE OF TRENTBY

YE CAST OF CHARACTERS NB: Historical accuracy is NOT encouraged

Nobles and similar Harffa Ye Kyng. Not ye sharpest knyfe in ye drawer. Queen Agatha (the tight fisted) Don Key O‟tee Spanish ambassador to Court of Kyng Harffa .. Wants saint‟s big toe back Baron Leonard Bluddschott (Stoneybroke) Gwenever Goodenough Wyfe of ye Baron Della Bluddschott Ugly Daughter of Baron Bluddschott. GalLa of Hadnt Hall A Prince but Charmless Daniel Smithers Constable of Bluddschott Castle and maybe the Corowner of the County Old Maids Vera, Gloria and Bertha husband hunting sisters of Baron Bluddschott Evil Sherriff and Baron Morbidd up to no good Morgan le Fey king‟s evil sister - Merlin the king‟s magician

Ye Knights [they‟re better during the day] Lancealittle, Dwayne Cottavere, Percivere Mailish (Narrator) Page to Baron Bluddschott (Probably Son by wife‟s sister)

Religiouse Lionel, Bishop of Trentby keeper of the Mappa Tuessdi Abbot Costello of Nottalot, a Nasturtium Abbey desperate for pilgrim pennies Vladimir A monk from far off somewhere, a Calligrapher Wyllfa the Druid Sorcerer

Others Big Jock A Welsh poacher and short wide-boy. Robbin‟ Hoodie Another poacher and wide-boy. Peeping Barry member of Hoodie‟s gang of miscreants Clarence the cook and a Wandering Troubadour

None living The Ghostly Sword of Bluddschott Castle The Mappa Tuessdi ... Velum maps of the known world bought in a bazaar in Constantinople for a few pennies by Vladimir oft times copied The toe bone of St. Gastric. Gallstone of St. Hilarious Crocodile and a Unicorn and a Dragon carved in stone

Good luck, we ’ l l need it ...

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Wyllfa was seeing things in a whole new light. Truth to tell he was seeing double

of everything, when I caught up to him, or rather caught his sleeve as he tottered

out of the beer tent.

„Wyllfa, My Lord Bishop wants a word with you,‟ I said tugging at his elbow.

„Not now Mailish, I‟m a trifle indisposed.‟

This fact was undeniable if anyone had struck a tinder box near his breath their

future would have been in jeopardy.

„Come on, you can‟t say no to a Bishop,‟ I argued and sloshed a beaker of wa-

ter over his grizzled chops. Cold water had the desired effect of opening his eyes

and steadying ale befuddled wits. To say Wyllfa didn‟t have much desire for follow-

ing the foreign habit of „lavage‟ was an understatement. Wyllfa‟s idea of good per-

sonal hygiene was to bathe once a year in the Trent at the pinnacle of the sum-

mer solstice whether he needed to or not.

With some reluctance on the elderly Druid‟s part we approached Bishop Lionel

who was seated in the shade of an elm tree smiling his saintly smile and bestow-

ing regal waves to all and sundry who passed by.

„How much is it going to cost me this time?„ said the Druid swaying unsteadily.

Bishop Lionel‟s saintly smile became a little more fixed about the edges. „A

good deed, is never discussed in such terms of such vulgarity, my old friend,‟ re-

plied the Bishop. „A friend in need...‟

„Is a ruddy nuisance,‟ muttered Wyllfa sinking onto the bench next to the

Bishop, who had the decency not to move away but sufficed by wafting a fan of

peacock feathers under his nose. It could have been worse. He could have set fire

to them. Smouldering feathers was what Lady Gwenny used whenever Wyllfa en-

tered the solar at the castle. In moments of alacrity she had been known to re-

mark on the resemblance to the pong of a swamp wetted dog which followed the

Druid around as his own personal miasma. Essence of „Swamp Dog‟ was certainly

Wyllfa‟s signature scent.

„I‟m sure you will easily be able to oblige me with one or two items, for which

you will be well recompensed.‟

„In this world or the next?‟ asked Wyllfa who had long remembrance of the un-

reliability of Bishop Lionel‟s financial promises.

The Bishop‟s saintly smile was setting in lime mortar. „As I said, one or two

items.‟

„Such as, Sire?‟ I ventured.

„Mere trifles ...‟ the Bishop didn‟t even blush. „The foot from a gallows hanged

scallywag and a bottle of love potion.‟

„Number eight?‟ I asked, as a strange sense of déjà vu came over both me and

the old druid who was now dribbling so in his cups he was.

„Number nine, I fear. Only very strong stuff will do. A change of direction and

an undoing of ....‟ at which point the Bishop stopped, there was little point in con-

tinuing as the old druid had fallen off the bench and was now snoring under it.

Shaking his head in disgust Bishop Lionel wandered away still wafting his pea-

cock feathered fan under his nose as if to distance himself from the practitioner

of the old ways.

I watched him conversing with the three ugly sisters and a light dawned. Now I

could understand the need for a love portion ... that was pretty much par for the

course round here, but what on earth did the good Bishop need a dead man‟s

foot for? And more to the point where was I going to get one from ...

The Ursine Chronicles

[v.2.0.0.]

Chapter 1

The first pairing

Thomas felt Grubber waking up in his den under the cabin. A scritty-scratty feel as Grubber got

a claw into a knot in his fur that had formed while he was asleep.

“Morning Grubber” he said aloud. He knew that Grubber didn't really understand the way

he talked but it felt better than just 'sending' to him. Thomas didn't understand how he could

'send' either but he and Grubber knew that it worked. It worked well enough so that the fully

grown bear and a young human man could roam the forest without any fear of anybody, or any-

thing.

He could hear his parents starting their day and snuggled down for another few minutes

before starting his day.

Today was his 21st birthday and his Dad had promised a complete explanation of why he

and Grubber worked the way they did. Tom knew his Dad was often called Doctor, but that

was only a job description, he wasn't a proper one.

After breakfast had been cleared away and, slightly younger, sister Rosie had driven off

into town, Tom and his parents sat down to talk.

“Tom, there are two distinct strings to your story. One is personal to me, your Mum, you, and

Rosie and the other is to do with Ursine Research Foundation. Just to clear up some erroneous

ideas' you may have had I'll deal with that first. You'll also have to do some reading in your

spare time; we'll get to that later.

The foundation was set up in early 1732 by a group of folks in London, it had two aims.

Firstly: and semi-secretly, it was to let the American Colonies know that, regardless of Govern-

mental incompetence and interference, they weren't being neglected. The idea of American

Separation, which by that time was, with the French pushing into to the South East and the

Spanish up from the South, even by the hardest Separatist American-English, being regarded

as a failed idea. That military counter balance was needed.

Effectively we were, then, a channel for money and colonists. Because we are still part of

the British Commonwealth and Empire, instead of some ragtag, ragbag, cobbled together, flat

broke, Republic of America that the French or Spanish could easily swallow, the Foundation

may have instrumental in helping to stop a complete breakaway.

Those facts you will need to read between the lines to discover!

Secondly: it was to seriously research the possibility of taming the Kodiak or any other

bear for some military purpose. They didn't, and couldn't, at that time know if it was a possibil-

ity but, if it was, then a cheap way to open the rest of the world to trade could be available. No

need for large armies to keep the French and Spanish off, lower taxes, all manner of spin-offs

came as part of it. You'll need to do even more reading on that.”

“But Dad, why should a bear be friend to one person and a deadly threat to another? It

doesn't make sense! I mean Grubber is MY friend and a threat to anything that might injure

me, but he's not a dangerous to anybody else. I'm not even sure that he understands the differ-

ences between you, Mum and Rosie but I do know that he won't get between us in a fight.”

“I wish I knew the answer to that one, Tom.”

“So do I, Dad, so do I.”

“Anyway, to carry on with this bit! The Governors of the Ursine Research Institute, as it

was then, had a bright idea and bought some twenty thousand square miles of mainly moun-

tainous country as a research base. It wasn't, and most of what's left, still isn't, good farm land

so it was cheap. It did have some good sized stands of timber that could be used as a cash

crop. We still have a lot of that left, regrown when the original was felled of course.

It didn't work. The Ursine Research Institute became bankrupt after sixty years or so.

Enter the Ursine Research Foundation!

Deals were, quietly, done headquarters moved from Bath to here in New Trench, a lot of

changes made as to how we were run. The good farmland was leased out or sold. Money

started to come in instead of going out, prudent amounts were set aside for contingencies, re-

dundant buildings in Bath, London and New York sold, all manner of things. That's the broad

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picture; your Mum, in her genetics hat, can brief you on the personal side. Over to you Margot.”

Margot, Tom‟s Mum, pulled down a large roll chart mounted on the wall and took up a pointer. “ Tom,” she

began. “This part of your story begins when the original Institute was set up. Some of the founders realised

that it wasn't only the bears that had to be specially bred, it was the humans too! They had to be of the type

that got along with animals really well.

Now that was really forward thinking, a leap in the dark for them. The wisdom of the day was that hu-

mans were the top of what we would call the evolutionary tree, full stop, so not only wasn't improvement pos-

sible, it was also unthinkable. Amen.

The original six thinkers decided to set up a parallel, but separate and much more secretive, organisa-

tion. It couldn't be an Institute, although, according to their letters, they argued about that point for months.

Nor could it seem to be anything to do with Ursine Institute.

In the end they opted for something you've heard about, 'The Society for the Improvement of the American

Wilderness', and with a title like that it could be anything! In fact it was the channel through which specially

selected settlers were placed in this area. I rather like the sneaky way they thought!

From the last census about 90% of the families in the Rocky Mountain County can trace their ancestors back

to one of the original three thousand families.”

“So where are we on your chart then, Mum?”

“Bottom left hand corner, Tom. Four in is you, five is Rosie.” Her pointer flicked to the spots. “You can

study that later. In fact you'll need to, unless you want to end up marrying a multiple first cousin you didn't

know about! That works with most animals but it's a disaster for humans.”

Tom sat back regarding the chart and thought about that for a few seconds. “So how many multiple first cous-

ins do I have around here then, Mum?”

“The last time I updated this chart it was about a hundred in the county, Tom.”

“And is...?”

“Is Sylvia one of them? No, I checked, she's a third cousin twice removed.” The pointer flicked to a differ-

ent line. “She's a nice girl, and if you do decide to get married there's no more than the ordinary problems.”

Tom sat back and thought again. He was employed in the positions of Senior Research Assistant and Acquisi-

tions Officer or, as he put it, 'a well paid errand boy'. It hadn't really altered anything when he came back from

University, but allowed him to sign things and make cheques payable. As an added fillip he could also drive

the official 'high mobility' vehicles the fifteen miles into town whenever he wanted to.

He had a very good reason to go frequently. A reason that was green eyed, fair haired, 5 foot 5 inches

tall, curved to fit his arm Rhine maiden, with a delightful silvery laugh, called Sylvia. The mere fact that her

father also owned a local shop and was the manufacturer of the extra large biscuits that Grubber enjoyed

had, naturally, nothing to do with the attraction.

Jemima said, „I‟ve never been to the zoo before.‟ „Extraordinary,‟ replied Miss Jones in her „stock answer to annoy-ing children‟ voice. She was lost in wonder gazing at the huge monopod that had attached its single foot to the pane and was pro-ceeding to climb towards a Will o‟ the Wisp moth trapped by a spi-der web. Jemima noticed the slug, and the predicament of the moth which was spinning in a slow revolution, its wings trembling. „It‟s hopeless mate,‟ she sighed. „There‟s no remedy ... unless ... maybe ... ‟ A thought exploded in her frontal lobes. „Miss, should Alfie be chasing that wallaby in the petting zoo?‟ Miss Jones taken care of, Jemima picked up the fire extinguisher and shattered the glass with only two blows. Mission accomplished.

Game Set and Matches

There are events in every lifetime, which burn themselves into the memory of

those involved. Events which become stories to be told around a fire on a camping

holiday or laughed about in pubs on cold winter‟s nights. Usually these are tales of

tragedy, which, with the passage of time, have become comedy. This is one such

story.

When I was seven I would often walk to school by myself. It was a walk of two or three miles across

fields and a council estate. In 1956 this walk was esteemed safe. Perhaps as a sort of insurance, my

mother would dress me very warmly. My grandmother had a tyrannical conviction that I would sicken and

die if I did not “keep the cold off my chest,” and to avoid this tragic eventuality she had bought me sev-

eral “Liberty Bodices.” A liberty bodice was a white garment, much like a waistcoat, with ornamental rub-

ber buttons: it was worn over the vest and under the shirt. There is a certain irony in the name since it

did not bestow any liberty but felt like a sleeveless strait–jacket. My shirt was usually a thick grey flannel

one. Over this I would wear a sweater and a jacket and over that a scarf would be wrapped around my

neck and across my chest, fastened at the back with a safety pin. Encasing all this, would be my over-

coat. Fortunately these overcoats were usually too large, as were most of my clothes. They were bought

on the basis that I would “grow into them” – a feat which I never achieved. One such coat had previously

belonged to my cousin, David, in Blackpool. Cousin David in Blackpool was a young giant whose clothes

were always too big for me, but this coat was made of a thick, coarse material and felt like a horse blan-

ket. Rejected by every horse and donkey - it had become a child‟s coat. Wearing all these clothes I was

protected from the cold, but I was also deprived of the use of my arms, which stuck out much like flip-

pers. Perhaps I should not complain too much about this encumbrance since one day I was in “collision”

with a car. Wearing all that padding I was completely unhurt. Grandma insisted that her liberty bodice

had saved my life.

Every day I would waddle off to school, through the council estate, like a small teddy bear walking

through a colony of rottweilers. The children who inhabited the council estate appeared not to have a

cousin David in Blackpool, and wore no coats. They wore sweaters badged with holes, and cynical

sneers: they were lean and mean and not given to debates on moral philosophy.

One evening, on the way home, I bumped into a group of these wolf-children. One stepped forward

from the group and addressed me:

“Ayup youth, weer‟t thay from?”

Even at the age of seven I was sufficiently bi-lingual to know he was asking where I was from.

“Oh I go to St Augustine‟s” I replied.

Now this wasn‟t meant to be a joke but the wolf-children seemed to think it unbelievably funny. They

roared out their laughter. They seemed rather pleasant – certainly very jolly. Clearly they thought I was

very diverting and entertaining. I began to relax. The one who had approached me was a thin wiry indi-

vidual with a face much like a ferret,

“Ay youth! Dustna thay talk funny?”

Now had I been Oscar Wilde I would have pointed out that he was the one who “talked funny” but that

seemed a little harsh. I could also have pointed out the tautology in his speech since „dustna?‟ means

„don‟t you?‟ (Second person familiar interrogative) and therefore the „thay‟ was superfluous. Still I didn‟t

want to hurt his feelings so I simply smiled, as if to accept his theory.

This conversation had grown too long for Ferret: it was time to end it. Stepping forward resolutely,

he punched me firmly in the face. Then with a yell he and his pack ran off into the grey council dusk. Per-

haps, if I could have moved my arms I would have defended myself. It is unlikely though. I was shocked

and appalled. How could these people hate me when we had never even been introduced? I was not so

much hurt as offended. Besides, what they had done was wrong – where was God when I needed him?

I walked home in tears, believing that my mother would somehow put things right. How wrong I

was. If I was to get by in the world, I shouldn‟t let anyone bully me. If someone hit me – I should hit him

back. There was no point running home crying to her. I would have to decide whether or not I wanted to

be a man. (I had always thought that becoming a man was inevitable once one had started by being a

boy, but there was clearly more to it.) For the moment I was mortified. It must have been a year later that I met Ferret again. This time he was with two older, much bigger

boys. Here was a chance to impress his friends and show how cool he was. He would beat me up. He

walked towards me again, with a knowing sneer, but I was no longer the mug I had been. I was not wear-

ing my coat. I had been watching “The Cisco Kid” and “Hopalong Cassidy” – I knew that “A man‟s got to

do, what a man‟s got to do” and the man who does it first is often the winner. With a shove and a quick

judo throw I had seen on the television, I threw him onto his back. Issue 268

Page 12

I admit that I had never expected this to work and I can‟t say which of us was the most surprised. Ferret

seemed a little put out and I was faced with problem of what to do next. This was instantly solved as Ferret kicked

out from the floor with both feet – I caught them and lifted so that he was standing on his head. Now I was really lost.

Standing there, holding the lad upside down, meant he was helpless but I couldn‟t think of any progression. I didn‟t

want to hurt him. At this point he began screaming:

“Gerrimoff!” he yelled to his friends,“Gerrimoff”

Now this sounded like a submission to me, so I cast his legs aside and walked away. As much like John Wayne

as I could mosey.

I was never troubled by Ferret after that. In fact we became friends. We never actually spoke to each other but

we were equal members of a huge group of footballers, cricketers, and players of sundry games, where there was no

place for warm human relationships. None of us kept our teddy bears, and anyone who had would have been soundly

thrashed.

The summers of my childhood all seemed to be long sunny and warm. All the kids of Birkholme Drive would

play together and be joined by others from further afield. Enormous games of football took place - thirty goals would

signal half time. Bad light never stopped our cricket matches. Batting in the dark simply made it more challenging.

Late in the evening mothers would come and peer into the darkness to shout,

“Is our Brian out there? Come on Brian it‟s time for bed!”

Meanwhile, Brian would disappear into the long grass on the third man boundary and lie there, embarrassed, but

knowing he was invisible: until his mother gave up.

“Sorry Mrs Mcdowell – we haven‟t seen him.”

One warm summer evening we were playing cricket. I didn‟t like cricket much – I couldn‟t take the pain. We

played with a ball called a “corky”. This had once been red but the demands of our play had rendered it black, and it

didn‟t feel like cork either – it had the texture of a brick and when it hit you it would leave a black bruise the size of a

half-crown coin. Of course we wore no protection of any sort, and when the ball struck bone you were allowed to

shout, but nothing more. We were all unbelievable tough and cynical and crying was just unacceptable. We did make

allowances for the girls though. You could only bowl to them underarm.

One night, the usual crowd was assembled on Arthur Wild‟s field. In the daytime this was a pasture for Sally, a

large and formidable sow, often accompanied by a squealing litter of piglets. (Another unpleasant aspect of the game

was that Sally‟s droppings would somehow become attached to the ball, but they were easily wiped off.)

Late on in the game, Ferret walked out of the gloom on the boundary and took his turn to bat. Alan Wild was

the bowler: a huge, strong lad with a devastating right arm and a fierce temper. When he said he was bowling, the

group would generally agree – besides it was his dad‟s field.

Ferret defended the first few balls manfully: the third ball struck him hard on the back of upper thigh. There

were thirty appeals for LBW from the darkness and then a sudden pause. Ferret suddenly launched himself into the

air, as if kicked by an invisible mule, and came down stamping his left foot. He then ran a short distance and we no-

ticed that he left a smoke trail. Somehow it appeared that his bottom had exploded and was on fire. He threw himself

on the floor and appeared to be experiencing some sort of fit, or perhaps St Vitus Dance, (not that any of us had ever

seen St Vitus or his dancing). Meanwhile he was disappearing in a cloud of smoke. We had never seen spontaneous

human combustion before but we stood back and watched the performance in amazement.

Eventually Ferret thrust his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a box of matches. They were

still burning like a firework as he threw the box on the grass. The cricket ball had hit the box and his matches had

been struck. He had scorched his fingers and another area of his anatomy, which he did not wish to discuss. It would

have been less painful to have removed his trousers but I suspect that he lacked underwear and a gentleman does

not remove his trousers in public – even if they are on fire: there were ladies present. There was a pause, while Ferret

commented on this unusual experience, using language, which I‟m not sure I understood, but the rest of us simply

stood in amazement and then burst into paroxysms of laughter. No one offered consolation or sympathy. It wouldn‟t

have been acceptable anyway. Ferret then picked up his bat and walked back to the crease.

Any child of the twenty-first century would, at this point, have phoned for an ambulance and then a firm of

lawyers to seek compensation, but Ferret had been waiting all night to bat and he wasn‟t going anywhere until he‟d

had his innings. He played on into the darkness: an innings of grim determination.

He was still batting at close of play as we drifted into the velvet dusk of the summer night. For a moment I

wondered what Ferret had ever done to deserve such injury and embarrassment, and then I remembered our first

meeting. God had got him back for me.

As we parted that night I remember shouting out to him:

“Ay youth! Dustna thay walk funny?”

Issue 268

Page 14

Please Note: RBW does not endorse any third party

workshop, competition or event.

Formerly: An Exhibition of Disappearing London | 11-Dec-12 to 03-Feb-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/exhibitions/current/?id=65 Latest News: John Agard awarded The Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry 2012 | 29-Dec-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1002 Poetry Library Book Clubs | 19-Dec-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=997

Poetry Salzburg Review on our magazines site | 19-Dec-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=996

Items added to the Poetry Library in November 2012 | 18-Dec-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=995

Live Canon Anthology 2012 | 15-Dec-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/acquisitions/?id=994

Renowned Irish Poet, Dennis O'Driscoll, dies aged 58 | 24-Dec-12

Dennis O'Driscoll was born in Thurles, County Tipperary in January, 1954. The poet, poetry critic and civil

servant for 40 years was taken to hospital and died on Christmas Eve 2012 following an unknown illness.

O'Driscoll published nine books of poetry, three chapbooks and a collection of essays. He also edited and

compiled editions regarding poets and poetry, and published a collection of interviews, „Stepping Stones‟,

with Seamus Heaney. A second collection of essays, The Outnumbered Poet will soon be published.

Awards include the Lannan Literary Award, the E.M. Forster Award of the American Academy of Arts and

Letters, the O'Shaughnessy Award for Poetry from the Center for Irish Studies in Minnesota, and the

Argosy Irish Non-Fiction Book of the Year Award. He was awarded an honorary doctorate in literature

University College, Dublin in 2009.

Poetry publications include Kist (Dolmen Press, 1982), Hidden Extras (Anvil Press, London/Dedalus

Press, Dublin, 1987), Long Story Short (Anvil Press/Dedalus Press, 1993), Quality Time (Anvil Press,

1997), Weather Permitting (Anvil Press, 1999), Exemplary Damages (Anvil Press, 2002), Reality Check

(Anvil Press, 2007/ Copper Canyon Press, 2008), Dear Life (Anvil Press, 2012; Copper Canyon Press,

2013), New and Selected Poems (Anvil Press, 2004). The three chapbooks: The Bottom Line (Dedalus

Editions, 1994), 50 O'Clock (Happy Dragons Press, UK, 2005) and All the Living (Traffic Street Press, Min-

nesota, 2008). He was married to the poet Julie O'Callaghan.

Obituary: Irish Independent here. Enniscorthy Guardian tribute by poet & Irish president Michael D Higgins.

Quotation from the poem “Synopsis” by Dennis O‟Driscoll

“Life passes at a breakneck rate, brisk as text messages, time only for the executive summary.”

Just the sort of freezing weather when mother (1950s)

would make a great big pot of suet dumplings, bubbling

away with an upside down plate rattling in the bottom to

keep them from gluing to the bottom of the pot.

Mother‟s Suet Dumplings

In winter mother often made, suit dumplings in a pot,

Dozen or more as big as your fist, boiled steaming and hot,

One each we had along with stew, fluffy and light inside,

Filled you up along with the veg, big meals for us her pride,

Then for pudding to our delight, dumplings she served

the rest

These we sliced into two, loads of syrup it was the best,

Slowly melted into the dough, a really nice treat agen,

Plates all scraped and cleaned, build us up into

working men.

Countryman (Owd Fred)

Wikipedia image.

Issue 268

Page 16

ANOTHER ROMAN FOOD RECIPE FROM CLIVE (TIME SERVED ROMAN RE-ENACTOR)

Not all Roman food was herbed and spiced up to its back teeth, the Romans loved to use HONEY in their food as well. For 'Mince Pie Monday' (10 Dec 2012) I prepared Honeyed Nut Dates and even if they didn't go down well during the meeting (I had to take some home where they didn't last long) I thought that the, updated to 21st Century tastes, recipe may be useful to others. It's a bit fiddly and very sticky. Heavens only know how many hundred calories each they are but they are nice!! You will need: A box or packet of dates. (The ones' with the stones in are better but pre-stoned are okay as long as they're whole.) A packet of nuts. (As long as they aren't salted almost any sort of nut will do but roasted/blanched almonds are the best by far.) A few tea spoons of honey. A few teaspoons of icing sugar, caster sugar is okay as well. Take a baking tin and coat it very very thinly with low fat margarine then coat that with a teaspoon or more of sugar. Carefully slice a date long ways down the middle, taking care not to cut all the way through, and remove the stone Fill the cavity with a nut or nuts if they're small. Place onto the baking tray. Carry on until the tray is full, or you run out of ingredients, taking care that the dates don't touch each other. It doesn't matter if they do but it makes it much more difficult to take them off the tray later if they do. Put a little honey over the cut and nuts on each date. If you have difficulty with this err on the side of too little as it makes the washing up easier. Put the tray into a hot oven for about 3 to 5 minutes. The idea is to get the honey to run into and over the interior so you need to keep an eye on it. Remove and sprinkle with some more sugar and allow to cool down for a little. Now for the fun bit - getting them off the tray - how you do this is up to you but try to keep the shape of the date. Although you can dress them up how you like, essentially, that's it. Never mind these Johnny-come-lately Victorians, enjoy a REALLY old fash-ioned idea.

National Association of Writers’ Groups details of their 2013 Festival

The 2013 Warwick Festival of Writing,

30th August – 1st September 2013

Based in the heart of the Midlands, and set within 700 acres of rural parkland, the Conference Centre in the campus of Warwick University makes this an ideal place for our 2013 Festival of Writing. Yet, it is just 10 miles from the Mid-lands motorway network, less than 4 miles from Coventry railway station, and 11 miles from Birmingham International Airport. Very accessible.

This is the Writing Festival that’s moved forward with the times whilst still re-taining serious learning workshops. We have an exhilarating team of eight tu-tors for 2013 - Tim Wilson, AKA Jude Morgan - latest book ‘ The Secret Life of William Shakespeare’; James Nash, latest book, ‘Some Things Matter: 63 sonnets’; Marvin Close; script writer for television, including 70 episodes of Emmerdale; Steve Bowkett, published writer and qualified hypnotherapist – ‘Learn self-hypnosis for creativity’; Pippa Hennessy; tutor at the Writing School Leicester eBook course, ‘Understanding eBooks and Creating Your Own’; Roz Southey, Crime Writer, creator of the Charles Patterson Mysteries; Linda Lewis, latest book, ‘The Writer’s Treasury of Ideas’, full time writer of short sto-ries and judge for our Writing Competitions; Annabel Pitcher, first novel, ‘ My Sister Lives on the Mantelpiece’, offering children’s story writing workshops. Open to all talks and an ‘Authors and their Books’, session.

Author Gervase Phinn is the after dinner speaker at our Gala Dinner.

What more could you want? How about use of a free to all fitness centre and heated swimming pool? Or, en suite rooms with baths? A Gala Din-ner in the Chancellors Suite at Warwick Univer-sity, where the 2013 competition winners will be announced? For all of this, the full weekend pack-age will be £250 for non-NAWG members and £230 for members.

Also, a very special treat, an optional chance to stay on Sunday night for a trip to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford.

www.nawg.co.uk for full details.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gervase_Phinn

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Publicity image G Phinn

Issue 268

Page 18

Prole Laureate Poetry Competition 2013 | Closing Date: 14-Feb-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1275 Cardiff International Poetry Competition 2013 | Closing Date: 15-Feb-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1276 Latest News: VisitWoods.org.uk launch creative writing website | 14-Dec-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=993

Issue 268

Page 19

Issue 268

Page 20

Jane Moreton FAMILIAR TENSION When you were all little you jumped up and down and shouted “Look at me! look at me!” splashing in the sea or turning cartwheels in the grass. You wouldn’t let it pass if I admired one more than another - not the right thing for a mother to do. Look, I’ve been with you half the day but with them only now for this meal. We have to even things up a bit or somebody may throw a fit. We’re all grown up now, for heaven’s sake, so why this ache? Why am I sitting here, in this pinkish loo, wondering what to do, shedding tension and gathering my strength before I can return and smile down the length of that humming dinner table?

WEEKEND VISIT She sits between them, parent at each end of the table, anxious, loving. They pass the marmalade, drink cof-fee, wonder what she’ll do today, whether she’ll be with them tonight. Last night, for sorrow at their seem-ing so bereft, she refused an invitation, cut short a phone call; sank into too many soft cushions, watched TV. They do not ask her plans, and for this self-denial she’s glad; glances at them with love, and then beyond, out at the cloudscape of the sky. Her glance pulls back, down to toast and cutlery. A butterfly recalls her gaze to the glass, tapping with impatient wings, flut-tering to regain that bright beyond. She rises, releases it, Red Admiral, to the open seas.

AMAH They spoke of you as Amah, only so; your successor has her name below the photograph. She does not hold me in cradling arms as you do - but I was bigger then.

You cradle me, but I cannot re-call your smell, your voice, the feel of you – all I know is that war divided us while I was still small. How, tell me how did I lose you?

RECOLLECTION They arrive, our children, bringing their grown-awayness, their scent of other lives. At these longed-for gatherings memory’s cupboard doors burst open, flinging out knives for me to catch and sharpen; I test them on my heart. There are cake tins on the cupboard shelves, but I find they are empty save for a few crumbs. It’s poor provender in this pantry. I try to turn away, force myself back, and stare in shame, disconsolate, at stained untidy shelves, unstoppered bottles and jars. They come to look in with me, our chil-dren. They say this cupboard is in order, the shelves stacked with good things: show me tins, filled with cake; bottles, with ginger beer: say I must screw the lid on the jar of tears, stack the knives safely. They close the cupboard door.

BONFIRE Corners of letters catch fire; love scatters in the flames, colours them, crumbling into ash. But no, that’s only paper; what remains is the affection, though only half-remembered; the warmth we shared, I and these friends, lost so long, passed by, passed on... Though we are no more in touch, never see each other now, if we met again our warm embrace, shy perhaps, would still mean as much as ever is contained in these sheets now consigned to flames. Better to let love drift on new year’s air than leave it weighted down with dust in a crammed drawer.

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