ISSUE 315 Date: 6th December 2013

LIFE OBSERVATIONS

Playing „tick‟ in a school playground, with thirty seven-year-olds is exhausting, but great fun. Especially

when you see the expression of amazement and disbelief on the faces of the other grans and granddads. How annoying it is when upgrades arrive unasked for and mess up your computer. The ‘safely remove from PC’ button used to site harmlessly on the bottom right of the screen which made it easy to remove camera and kindle leads now it’s gone, disappeared and cannot be found anywhere. Leaving one bereft.

You don’t realise how much you will miss something until it is replaced by something technologically more advanced: take ink printers. The old ones used to block up and you could spit on a cotton bud and clean the heads with ease. Not so the new ones. They won’t let you get at the heads so you have to use half a car-tridge of ink flushing, which even then sometimes doesn’t work. It is so frustrating having to print everything in blue because the black ink head is blocked when all it needs is spitting on. Oh for the return of low tech solutions.

Issue 315

Page 2

WINTER WEATHER.

It‟s the end of autumn, so it is getting cold and dreary. However the tabloid press is predicting more than the usual frost, snow and howling winds. Led by the Daily Express, they are predicting the reverse of Global

Warming. So far it has not been anything like awful, but it is worth keeping an eye open for what the Ex-press is predicting as the worst for over 60 years.

It started on 17th November predicting dire effects, and the diary shows that the warnings go like this. Sun 17 11 – “100 DAYS OF HEAVY SNOW: Britain facing worst winter if SIXTY YEARS warn forecasters”. The headline was backed up by the claim that there were 'months of extreme cold with heavy snow

'extremely likely'... “we could see parallels with the shocking winter of 1947'- quoting Jon Powell of Vantage Weather Services who argued “a high pressure blocking system will hold cold air over the UK”. James Mad-den from Exacta weather said this was... “an incomparable scenario to anything we have seen in modern

times”. The Met office, always cautious, did however agree that “temperatures will sink over the next 30 days with snow on the way”.

Mon 18 11 The Express backed up the Met Office with the front page headline “ARTIC BLAST TO LAST A MONTH alleging “bitter air sweeps in from the North Pole tomorrow (i.e. Tuesday 19th) with widespread snowfall... up to six inches expected over high ground”. They backed this up with Jon Powell saying “worst

hit by snow are likely to be the North, central regions north, midlands and central regions ... temperatures are going to plunge from Tuesday (19th) with … -11c in the north -4c in the south likely.

Tue 19 11 The Express was absolutely confident and ran the same story with the Front Page Headline ICY 70 MPH GALES TO BRING CHAOS. However the chaos would be at the end of the week stating “Freezing winds will sweep in from today and send temperatures to below zero all over the UK by the end of

the week”. Met Office issued a Yellow warning and predicted winds up to 70mph “the early hours of tomor-row”, i.e. Wednesday. The more cautious PA Meteogroup was then quoted saying 'temperatures will be much

lower then recently and generally below the November average”. Article ended with a re-run of Jon Powell recycled quotes “We could see parallels with the shocking winter of 1947”.

To the Sunday 24th November THE REALITY of that week was chilly slight morning frosts, some rain, mostly dry and autumnal. There was no heavy frost and by the end of the week neither heavy snow nor high wind or even below zero tempera-

tures had set in. The cold was not excessive and not much frost or snow. In fact in Stafford all I saw was one short shower of sleet. But this was not reported. Instead, the forecasters and the tabloids remained con-vinced a mini ice age was happening. The Daily Star decided this was too good a story to keep off its front

pages, joining in on November 29th. Friday November 29th the Front Page, under news of Amy and Joey's fumble in the jungle (whoever Amy and

Joey are) The Star forecast THREE MONTHS WINTER HELL ON THE WAY, that is “The coldest Christmas on record”. Fleshed out at “Britain is heading for a white Christmas with temperatures plunging to -7C during an icy cold snap that could last for three months”.

Inside the Star forecast, quoting the Met Office “Snow was forecast from today (Friday 29th) over higher

ground, with temperatures plunging towards the end of next week. The icy blast is set to arrive weeks before the official start of winter on December 21st, The cause is a blast of polar air heading from the north”. No snow arrived in Stafford. However I believe every word I read in the newspapers and will be getting out the

thermal tea cosy and the snow grips to put on the bottom of the slippers to go to the dustbin. RBW Chair Trevor Fisher 3rd December 2013

Found it

now

2013: RBW FREE e-books PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=78

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Steph’s & Clive’s FREE e- books 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

PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Random Words: asphalt, low, shimmer, gargoyle, lake, cabin, pirouette, wonder, gunpowder, sea-gull, brain, shadow Assignment: “I haven‟t poisoned anybody yet ...‟

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=79

The manager of the motel‟s prophecy had come true. “People love their cars more than their spouses”, he‟d begun. “The con-sumer will want his vehicle pampered along with himself. What we need is a health spa for our clients and facilities for their vehicles. Whilst we keep them happy with massages and fruit smoothies, their cars are being fine-tuned and valeted in our body shop. We‟ll close for refurbishment and re-open under the name The Carspa”. “Such precipitation!” the staff complained, “We need time to get used to such huge changes”. But it had proved a popular and timely idea. On arriv-ing, guests entered into a roomy reception area, decorated in a rainbow of pastel shades. A plush blue carpet ran the length of the corridor like a river, and soft mood music played in the background. Every half hour or so, two notes on a glockenspiel could be heard over the intercom, followed by a cheery Welsh voice announcing “Hello Carspas. Your delicious, healthy lunch is served, and your car is en-joying a handwash and vacuum. Enjoy your day!”

Issue 315

Page 4

Madame Duval’s Evening Out

Anya Duval raised her leg in front and placed it on the barre, then with her arm curved gracefully overhead she stretched forward over her knee before straightening up and then bending backwards. Turning to face the barre she repeated the stretch and bend to both sides. Then turning again so that the leg was raised behind she stretched forward and down, sweeping the floor with her fingertips before once more bending backwards as far as she could. She repeated the exercise on the other leg.

Moving into the centre of her small studio Anya began a sequence of port-de-bras, the flowing arm movements that always seemed as if her arms reached on forever. Ballet had been her life. Ever since she saw Swan Lake, as a five-year-old she had known that she wanted to dance. When she was eleven she had won a place at the Ballet School and her father had converted this room into a practice studio for her. Now the house belonged to her and she still used the studio for her practice.

Anya Duval was not the name she was born with. It was no longer the fashion to adopt a Russian or French name but she had thought Ann Wood seemed a little dull so she had changed Ann to Anya and taken her mother‟s maiden name, Duval, when she joined the Company. Her natural grace and technical ability had seen her progress quickly to become a soloist and her excellent memory for repertoire had soon won her the chance to understudy the major roles. Sometimes the opportunity arose to take the lead in a per-formance, the most memorable being when she covered her favourite part, Giselle. Her performance had been well received and should have lead to some leading roles in her own right. Then, after a few years, perhaps she would have been awarded the accolade Prima Ballerina, but it was not to be. Soon after that performance her problems began and before long she

could no longer perform on stage. For a while she taught at the Ballet School, where she earned the title Madame and she had often been called on to act as a rehearsal consultant. Now she could no longer teach at the school and the times she was called in to advise on roles were getting more infrequent, but she was not one to complain, not any more. At first she had been angry and frustrated at her fate but she had known of the risk, it was hereditary in her mother‟s family so she eventually accepted it and settled into her new life. She had her memories. She finished her port-de-bras and continued her practice with a few en-chainements, little sequences of dance steps. She had to take care not to cover too much ground. “Spatial awareness” her teacher, Madame Polska, had always instilled in her. “A dancer needs to know where she is on the stage, in relation to everyone else and to the stage itself, at all times. Steps must be adjusted to fit so that you end up exactly where you are supposed to be.” This was essential on tour when stages came in all sorts of different sizes. In her small studio this was doubly essential or she might bump into

something and injure herself. As she danced Anya wondered what the time was; she was going to the Ballet this evening, to a performance of Giselle, and she needed time to get ready. The sunlight was no longer warm on her skin so it must be late afternoon. There was no clock in the studio, but she knew she would hear the chiming of the one in the hallway, so she de-

cided to finish her practice with a grande jeté. It had been some time since she last tried one and she would need to be careful. Experience had taught her that she could only fit one across the diagonal of the studio. She carefully paced the distance, three running steps, spring up with her leg raised in front, turn in the air changing legs, land with leg raised behind, relevé in arabesque. The jeté might not have been the best she had ever performed but there was nothing wrong with her balance and she held the pose for a several seconds. As she brought her leg down behind her toe touched the barre and she realised just how near to the wall she had ended up. She decided not to risk another so returned to the centre of the room to make her Reverance. Although there was no one to see she always fin-ished her practice with this formalised curtsey. The clock in the hall began to strike and she counted up to five. “Good timing,” she thought to herself as she picked up her wrap

and walked towards the door. She paused to listen. Yes, she could hear Brutus, her Golden Labrador, snuffling outside. Several times in the past she had left the studio quickly and fallen over him. Opening the door slowly she felt his cold, wet nose on her hand. “Get back Brutus,” she laughed, “You know you are not allowed in here.” She ruffled his fur and patted him lovingly, his tail thump, thump, thumping against the wall as he wagged it. “Come on, let‟s find you something to eat.” With her hand resting on his neck they made their way to the kitchen. A short while later she heard the front door open and a voice called out, “I‟m back.” It was her niece. Melissa had moved in a year ago to be nearer to her job in the city. The upstairs of the house had been converted into a separate flat so they each had their own space, but they often had their meals together. She was good company

for Anya. “I‟m just going for a shower,” Anya said as she went out to greet her. “I‟ve fed Brutus. Perhaps you could let him out in the garden for me when he has finished.” “Right Auntie,” Melissa replied, brushing her aunt‟s cheek with a kiss. “I‟ve brought a steak pie so I‟ll sort out dinner. While it‟s cooking I‟ll come and blow dry your hair for you if you like.” “That would be lovely Melissa dear, thank you. By the way, I‟ve booked my taxi for 6.45. I‟ve asked for George as usual.”

At 6.45 on the dot the doorbell rang and Melissa went to answer it. “It‟s George with your taxi, Auntie,” she called.

“I‟ll be right there.” She smoothed herself down, picked up her handbag and made her way to the front door. “How do I look?” Melissa reached out to adjust her scarf, which was more for decoration than warmth. “You look just fine. Go and enjoy yourself.” “I will. Oh, pass me my stick dear. I had better take it, it‟s useful when I‟m in a

crowd.” Then she laughed as Brutus nuzzled up to her, “No you can‟t come with me, silly dog.” “He hates it when you go out without him,” Melissa commented with a chuckle handing the stick to her aunt, “but don‟t worry, I‟ll take him for a walk when you‟ve gone. Oh, and Ian is dropping in later to keep me company.” Anya smiled at mention of her niece‟s new boyfriend, a nice young man. “Enjoy your evening too,” she said as she allowed George to take her arm and help her down the steps to the waiting taxi. George pulled up right outside the theatre and he helped her up the steps to the foyer. Once inside Anya heard a familiar voice. “Good evening Madame.” It was the doorman. “Good evening…Jenkins isn‟t it?” “That‟s right Madame. Good of you to remember.” “How‟s your wife? Wasn‟t she waiting to go into hospital?” “She‟s fine thank you. Had her operation last month. She‟s well on the mend now.” Jenkins walked with her to the bottom of the stairs up to the balcony. “Can you manage the stairs Madame? Susie is at the top; she‟ll show you to your seat. Enjoy the performance.” “Thank you Jenkins. I will.” She began to climb the stairs, as usual counting as she went. It was an old habit from childhood, like counting the bars of music for dancing: one, two, three and four, two, two, three and four and so on up to the top. Once settled into her usual seat, right in the centre of the row, she closed her eyes and felt the atmosphere around her. There was nothing like being at a live per-formance. She knew what was going on backstage, the nerves, the warm-up exer-cises, the shoes being dipped in the rosin box, the last minute make-up and cos-tume checks. Stage-hands would be checking that all the scenery and lighting changes were in place, props were being checked and all the multitude of other jobs that went on of which the audience were unaware. Then the orchestra was warming up and Anya felt a tingle of excitement as she always did when a perform-ance was about to start. The music enfolded her and she swayed her body in time with the movement on the stage. With a professional‟s insight she listened to the patter of the dancer‟s shoes. One or two of the corps-de-ballet were not quite together, either anticipating or behind the beat. They were probably under-rehearsed; Anya knew how busy the programme schedule could be. It was not enough to spoil the performance though, and most of the audi-ence wouldn‟t even notice. She stayed in her seat during the interval, holding the magic in her, the emotions that she shared with those on the stage. The interval al-ways seemed an intrusion but Anya knew it was essential. The leading ballerina needed time to recover from the emotional frenzy of the mad scene and Giselle‟s death, time to prepare her-self for the ethereal serenity of Act II when she

returned as a spirit. With a flurry of activity and discreet coughing the audience returned to their seats and the music began once more. Anya felt the grief and remorse of Albrecht, who had betrayed Giselle, the cause of her madness and death. She felt Giselle‟s suffering, forced to keep Albrecht dancing to exhaustion, for if he stopped he would die. Only if she kept him dancing until dawn could she save him. She pleaded with Giselle for the Queen of the Willis to grant his life and felt the moment of triumph tinged with sad-ness as Giselle returned to her grave. After the last curtain call Anya stayed quietly in her seat savouring the perform-ance until she became aware that all those around her were preparing to leave. Then Susie was at her elbow. “Are you going backstage Madame?” she asked. “No, not tonight dear, my taxi will be waiting.” She stood up, made sure she had her bag and her stick and allowed Susie to help her to the stop of the stairs. “Did you enjoy the performance Madame?” Susie asked as they walked along. “It was wonderful. Ah, there‟s the rail, thank you dear, I can manage now.” Anya began to make her way carefully down the stairs, counting as usual, holding the rail with one hand and her stick in the other. Amongst the crowd of people leaving the theatre Anya heard a child‟s voice pipe up, “Mummy, why has that lady got a white stick?” “It‟s so that people know she is blind,” her mother replied quietly. “How could she see the dancing?” Anya smiled to herself. She didn‟t need to see it; it was in her memory, in her soul. She reached the bottom of the stairs and felt a hand on her arm, “your taxi is just outside Madame.” “Thank you Jenkins. Give Mrs. Jenkins by best wishes.” “I will Madame. Goodnight. ”

-o0o-

Where am I? Bewildered I feel the dampness and smell the salty air as the sun rises, bringing into focus the scene around me. The sea, so blue, is breaking onto the rocky shore. But then I withdraw, the focus fades and I‟m back, back to my one purpose in life. To put right the traumatic events of so long ago; they feel more real than that which surrounds me. I see her everywhere, my Rose. She‟s over there, another early walker, blonde hair, same slight build, and same age, well as she would have been. Then I‟m back at the quarry, the

image always the same, falling, losing her. (DC)

A warm RBW welcome to new

contributor Debbie Chatfield

Assignment - Gifts Gifts come in parcels, in boxes with bows. But whatever‟s inside them, nobody knows. When the postman arrives and knocks on the door, The kids want to see what the knocking is for. He hands them a packet in paper and string. It‟s all so exciting, this mysterious thing! You can feel it and squeeze it to guess what‟s inside, Or leave it alone, it‟s for you to decide. There‟s a pile of presents by our Christmas tree. Some gifts are for you and others for me. Not knowing what‟s in there‟s the best bit of all. Could it be a jumper, or perhaps a football? Some parcels are heavy, while others are light, But to see them piled up is a marvellous sight. Then we get to open them. Oh what a thrill! Don‟t forget to say „Thank you‟. Don‟t worry, I will. Talents too are gifts. It‟s a wonderful thing To be able to dance, or juggle or sing. If you‟ve got a talent, be certain to use it, For if you do not, you‟ll be sure to lose it.

Paul’s Mission From God (SMS) Short Story for Roads Less Travelled

Up until that very moment the mission had been going so well. With a final effort, both little hands clenched, twang g g g…….!!! Frayed strands of wet string parted, the wheelie bin lid sprang open like a Jack-in-the-

Box. Pent up energy released with a resounding snap. Off balance Paul was thrown off his feet, sliding horizontally through the air backwards, landing ... thuddd ... flat on his back on the frozen ground still clutching the kitchen scissors.

What should he do now? This wasn‟t right! Paul rubbed welling choirboy eyes and then his banged bottom with skinned fingers.

That fall had hurt more than his pride. Hello!! What was that? The intrepid explorer fixed his gaze on the „something‟ that was propping open the lid.

He couldn‟t make „it‟ out: the „it‟ was too high up and too far away, but, there was a more immediate problem – he‟d got a wet bum. The rime frost soaking through the seat of his pyjama trousers decided his first action: the lad scrambled up and dusted off his backside. He‟d get another lickin‟ if his Ma thought he‟d wet his pants again.

Almost level with the top of Ma‟s wheelie bin a pair of eyes the size of saucers peered hard at the thing inside trying to make sense of the „it‟ without getting too close. Trans-fixed to the spot, standing on tip-toe all he could tell was the „something‟ protruding out of the top was greyish and about as long as his forearm. It looked bent over with a long flattish edge all yucky, wet and squidgy. Whatever could it be?

How could he tell Ma that this time, he wasn‟t lying? He didn‟t do it. It wasn‟t his fault. Honest. Whatever this wrinkly thing was, he didn‟t put it in Ma‟s bin. She must see he was too little to have done „the naughty‟ this time. He searched up and down the lane for any sign of the vile culprit.

Nothing. There was no-one about. Why was there never a grown-up about when he needed one? That had torn it – he‟d

catch out now. It was a universal truth any „the naughty‟ business always had his name

up in lights: PAUL GRADY always first in the frame. Scratching behind his ear, Paul put on his thinking cap. Miss said when you‟re in a

pickle to retrace your steps: perhaps, if he thought backwards he could work this prob-lem out.

It didn‟t want to go. Paul tried to move his foot closer to the edge of the bin to get another look, shivering

as a lazy winter wind, too idle to go around this little bag of bones, sliced straight through the ventilated elbows of the hand-me-down jumper he‟d hastily thrown over the top of p-js.

Was it only a few minutes ago he‟d tumbled out of a warm bed full of glee, full of beans and eager as mustard? It was Monday and he was on his Monday morning mis-sion from God.

„Recycling‟s a wonderful thing.‟ That was what his teacher said. Nodding to himself in agreement, once again Paul gave careful thought to how recycling plastic left such a lot of room inside a wheelie-bin once seven or so half-gallon milk containers didn‟t fill the entire space with their stinking curdy residue, and he sniffed righteously.

It was up to him to valiantly save the planet from being buried under a mountain of cartons. Extended families used a lot of milk. Even though maths was not his strong

point, little Paul knew the Grady clan qualified as a tribe. „It‟s loads better now Ma let‟s me recycle the plastic bottles,‟ he said out loud. Concen-

trating hard, and squeezing his eyes shut tight the next thing he clearly remembered was skidding along the frozen path.

It was more truthful to say Paul loved jumping on the cartons to squash them flat be-

fore Ma sent him, struggling with his load, to the overflowing collection dump by the es-tate‟s communal playground at the end of their street. The connection between playing areas and vermin infestation of recycling „villages,‟ being lost on city planners, but not on his fiery haired Ma, who, a force to be reckoned with in the local community, had opin-ions on everything.

How was today different? It should have been like any other Planetary Mission day but today was different for

the two reasons – his plan to „get even‟ and this „thing.‟ He knew he shouldn‟t have, but he had thought up a plan. That plan involved his mother‟s half empty wheelie-bin that Monday morning and the hiding of his miserable big sister‟s school-bag deep inside.

„Serve her right,‟ he recalled whispering crossly under his breath, for getting him a clip round the lughole last night. Paul rubbed the top of a red- rimmed ear where his mother

had graced him with the edge of well-aimed dishcloth: it still stung like a good un‟. Angrily Paul, the victim of this grave miscarriage of justice, rubbed at the still smarting

ear-hole and edged the other foot closer to the bin. The sticking up thing looked even bigger now and oddly familiar. He tried twisting his neck down towards his knees to see if the offending object made more sense if he looked at it from the other way up. It did-n‟t.

This was very strange: it was the very first time anything had interrupted Paul‟s job of a Monday. Putting out the week‟s accumulation of rubbish was a big job for an eight-year-old but he‟d always wanted to do it. According to his teacher Ma‟s idea of efficient rubbish disposal, would have left a lot to be desired.

Ma Grady in her own inimitable way tied up black-bin bags and lined them up like sol-diers against the fence which led from a graffiti-enhanced back door, down the garden

path to the gate. She couldn‟t be doing with all this sorting out rubbish malarkey – if Paul wanted to do it – fine – but, don‟t be adding more work for her she‟d got enough to be going on with – ta very much.

Paul silently admitted his fault: he had been the one with the silver spray-can on the back door and the fence – so that, technically, was down to him - of their council house, ups sorry! Not a council house, Ma always corrected him for that mistake, it was a Com-munity Housing Association superior enhanced four bed-roomed terrace with an addi-tional downstairs loo and rear utility space. A right snob was his Ma!

The eco-crusader was too young to appreciate that the bare patch of baked earth which lay between the house and the broken fence hardly qualified as a garden - but the dog befouled patch was all he had ever known so he called it the garden – utility space - meaning very little to an eight-year-old planetary pilgrim on a mission.

That bright frosty morning as the wind snapped, against bare ankles cruelly causing eyes to water and a little button nose to run, he toiled manfully with the slimy bags. Each one threatening to divulge their festering contents with every move he made. Paul hardly had time to worry about the aesthetics of his immediate environment as PE pumps slipped on sheet ice and the chill wind caught the breath in his lungs turning it into a halo of vapour round his ears.

By a Monday the bags, all nine bin bags had to be moved through the gate, which had a perverse habit of shutting itself and then sticking, and heaved up into the green-plastic receptacle. To give credit where due, it must be admitted that for a local author-ity, the said receptacle was a fair sized wheelie bin. Even his Ma had said for once the Council had been generous.

And, with this municipal munificence in mind Ma had held his ear lobe between her thumb and finger and whispered woe betide little Paul if any bin liner wouldn‟t fit into the interior of the stinking, if environmentally-friendly, cavernous bin. It was a painful memory. Come to think of it most of Ma‟s learning techniques were pain related to some degree.

Snooking up the watery mucus streaming across his top lip, the boy dragged the sleeve cuff across a raw nose and remembered what had been drummed into him a thousand times by Ma: a loose liner wouldn‟t be collected by the sprinting bin men on bonus time.

And, loose liners meant RATS. Ma didn‟t like rats: they were always much bigger than expected and braver. Rats

were yet another reason why Ma didn‟t go herself but sent him to their frequently van-

dalized, and oft set fire to, recycling „village‟: a grand name for three rusting skips for the collection of glass, paper and plastic.

Paul looked down at his black be-pump-ed foot and willed it to inch forward towards the bin so he could see more on the next attempt. The tidy minded soul had desper-ately tried to keep the worst of the filth off his only sweat-shirt with the school badge and ventilated elbows, and at the same time pondering the wonders of time-and-motion study: the faster the men worked the more money they earned.

If only he could interest Ma in that idea, it being his sworn sacred duty to save the planet. His teacher said so! They‟d just been singing – Jesus wants me for a sunbeam, when the defining moment in his short life hit him smack between the eyes, as the sun-beam glinting through the classroom skylight caught him full square on the face: blinded and dazzled and he heard Miss say the immortal words: „It is up to you lot to

save this planet.‟ In his wildly beating heart he knew, his path had been chosen: Jesus meant for him,

Paul Grady, to be „A Bin-Man‟. Such mind boggling thoughts put aside, Paul‟s greatest desire up until that moment

was to catch sight of the enormous bulk of the Dennis bin lorry – his dream machine. That wonderful six-legger refuse vehicle, aptly called „The Vulture‟, as it staggered around the sharp corner into his alley. How the little lad loved the sheer-power rumble of two-hundred and forty willing shire-horses straining under the bonnet: all pulling to-gether with that earthy grind as the eight huge tyres on rear double-axles, struggled in low gear fighting friction to gain purchase against the rutted, pot-holed surface of the much municipally neglected back-lane.

„I‟m going to be a Bin Man when I grow up.‟

It was his favourite thought. Paul had been thinking about this desire again before this terrible thing happened.

Without fail every Monday, Ma Grady‟s puny youngest son, affectionately known as „Runt‟, would watch in awe the sheer physical prowess of the lowest-tender refuse op-erators. A bin man‟s contracted-out career upon which he had set heady youthful

sights. It was with this delight in the forefront of his mind when the boy, ignoring the gooseflesh covering his entire little body, had hit his first problem.

The lid to the bin wouldn‟t open. „Now what‟s up with this?‟ he remembered saying to himself, the irritated words

sending a frosty cloud in front of his nose, as carefully he placed the first and second of

the black bags, chosen because they looked the most likely to split asunder, on the ice-covered ground by his feet. Standing on tippy-toe the boy used both chapped little donnies to attempt to raise the lid. He had strained until the row of tiny knuckles turned bright red, but nothing happened.

He wasn‟t strong enough to budge the lid. Frowning in deep concentration and annoyance at this interruption to the mission,

the boy recalled how he‟d walked round to the front of the errant bin lid and felt along the rim.

String. The bin lid had been tied down by the hand hold in the handle by a long piece of ny-

lon covered string which ran down to the larger handle half-way down the front of the bin. The handle by which the dust cart‟s two pronged levers lifted the bin – up-ended it

- and spilled out all the waste into the jaws of the rubbish receptacle. Paul loved watch-ing that bit. The cranking noise as the drum churned the new load together with that cloyingly sweet rotting aroma was incredible, but not offensive enough to put him off watching the spectacle, over and over again, even though he could actually taste the pong on his tongue.

„Rotten little madam. She did it.‟ The boy spat out the revelation in sheer frustra-tion. He‟d bet his pocket money on it. Stella, the evilest sister in the whole wide world, must have gotten up early and tied the lid down with that bit of old washing line Ma used to tie up the gate to keep the dog in. „She‟d likely do anything t‟ make me late. And, t‟ catch out with Ma. I‟ll „ave y‟ Stella Grady. You just wait!‟

It was still there, he could still see it. Paul looking over his shoulder gleefully at his sister‟s purloined school-bag, still there

propped against the door step unknowingly awaiting its murky fate – it contained all Stella‟s treasures – her glow-in-the-dark mobile phone; her tin of roll-up fag-papers; a blue see-through cigarette lighter and the strangest of all, a snap to eye-glasses case with some short white plastic tubes which had cotton wool packed inside and long stringy bit dangling out of the end. Whatever these strange things were for he couldn‟t hazard a guess, but hey, she guarded them with her life. After sneaking a crafty look through her bag one Friday teatime when he‟d asked Ma what these unknown objects were the only reply had come via the vicious end of the dish cloth.

Mysterious creatures women. Resigned, as only a hard done to little lad can be resigned, Paul thought hard to re-

call exactly what he had done next: he‟d plodded back through the sticking gate, down the path, passed the remaining black bin bags and forced open the kitchen door.

There was no-one about, but he could hear the news on the telly, so he helped him-self to the scissors Ma kept dangling on a string by the sink. It was a hanging offence not to return the kitchen scissors to their hook so he kept tight hold of them as he‟d skipped and slid in sock-less feet up the path towards the bin.

It was then the eco-warrior heard the first rumble of the famed double rear-axled Vulture leaving the next street, mingling together with the shouts from the bin men

calling to each other as they progressed heroically forward. Paul realized it was now very late.

Ma would kill him. He must hurry or fail his mission. He didn‟t have much time or THE BIN MEN WOULDN‟T TAKE MA‟s RUBBISH.

Holding back tears Paul struggled on, but the plastic-coated string was thick and wet. It took a couple of goes with the scissors using both hands before he, in his panic, finally managed to saw through the inner nylon strands.

The lid sprang back under the force of the released compression. It was only then that little Paul had realized all was not as it should be as he‟d

landed on the hard floor with a thump. Right!! he was full circle back in the here-and-now, he‟d retraced all the steps just like Miss said for those in a pickle to do and still he was none the wiser and the sound of The Vulture drew ever closer.

Paul was now at eye level with the top of the bin daring himself to get a proper look at the mystery thing inside.

Curiosity overcame disbelief. The tiny crusader bravely stepped forward, pocketed the scissors, put eight little fin-

gers and two little thumbs on the edge of the bin. Screwing up his courage Paul pulled himself up to full tippy-toe height. The China blue eyes peeped over the side. Brave little Paul was finally on a level with the upside down sole of the mystery object which caused the lid to spring open as the string snapped.

„MAAAA, ... Ma, ... Ma ...‟ was the only word the boy could choke out as he ran full pelt down the garden path passed the line of awaiting bin-bags. Tripping over the re-prieved school-bag still propped by the door, Paul fell headlong into his Ma‟s kitchen clutching the borrowed scissors for all his life‟s worth, the miniature hero‟s planetary mission, for now, forgotten.

Issue 315

Page 14

NB

E

dit

or

Note

: T

hes

e blo

gs

beg

an i

n 2

010 a

nd a

re s

till

ru

nnin

g t

o

the

pre

sent

day.

We

are

publi

shin

g f

rom

the

beg

innin

g a

s th

ey p

ro-

vid

e an i

nsi

ght

into

a y

earl

y p

rogre

ssio

n.

Some Autumn Planting.

Finally, I decided to take down the Runner Beans as it

was getting just too late for them with virtually no new flowers opening and at the same time I picked the last of the Climbing Beans before dismantling them as well. However, with both lots of plants I cut off the tops leav-ing the roots in the ground, so that as they gradually de-composed the “Nitrogen Fixing Nodules would release their goodness into the soil for the next seasons crops. I had used soft gar-den twine to tie up the beans, so when they were cut down there was no need to sort out the bits of string before adding the waste to the compost heap because it would all rot down. Had I used nylon, every last little bit would have had to be sorted out and disposed of separately.

It may be just imagination, but there seems to be a lot more interest in

growing vegetables, not only in the Summer, but also in the Autumn. Garden Centres have been displaying trays and trays of Autumn Planting Vegetables as well as “New Potatoes For Christmas.” With all the recent Potato Blight I have shied away from planting any Autumn Potatoes, although I did try them last year and had a few develop, but was not very impressed with the crop. Nor have I planted any Winter Cabbages etc other than the Ornamen-tal Variety “Northern Lights,” that is used in “Winter Bedding Displays.” The problem with slugs and fly in particular on the Allotments should be less in the Winter months, but being limited on the use of sprays I am just not go-ing to bother. What I have sown though, is some “Autumn Sowing,” Broad Beans” and Elephant Garlic along with some cloves of ordinary Garlic taken from this years harvest. Supposedly both can be planted in the Spring, but

the extra growing time should help them develop into better bulbs.

Traditionally, Autumn was the time for “Real Gardeners,” to plant all of their bushes and trees and pretty much everything else except bedding, but these days everybody wants to have instant gardens by planting things that are in full flower when they buy them. That is OK with most smaller plants, such as the small bed of “Pine Berries,” or White Strawberries that I have just put in, but big trees and fruit bushes are best planted when they have dropped their leaves, even if they have been “Pot Grown.”

Several of the “Currant,” bushes that I rescued from my other allotment, be-fore the site was closed down, had started to drop their leaves, so as space became available, I have recently planted them with a sprinkling of “Chicken Manure Pellets,” around them for good measure. There are two more larger Red Currant bushes to transplant from home, but my cloche containing the Oka on the allotment needs to be harvested before there will be extra space for them. As with both beds of Strawberries, I am going to spread “Bark Chips,” around the fruit bushes to help keep the moisture in next year, act as

a weed suppressant and provide a better surface for walking on. Some bags of “Chips,” were given to me by a fellow gardener who was doing a lot of pruning at home and some were bought cheaply from a forester who makes his own for his retail plant nurs-

ery.

Most people plant Raspberries in the middle of the season, but again, recently, I de-cided it was time to plant the ones that I had stored all season, roughly planted in soil, in half turned down, old compost bags. Two rows of Red and one row of Yellow went into the allotment with a long strip of soil left empty between them. The idea is to use this strip for short term planting so that it will be dug regularly and that will enable me to keep the runners from the two colours of raspberries apart.

Another Autumn job that most people don‟t think about is taking hardwood cuttings. Moving my Currant bushes resulted in a few branches getting broken, so when trim-ming them, it seemed like a good idea to take a few more cuttings at the same time. “Hard Wood,” cuttings are better if they are larger than normal “Softwood,” and they should be left in the ground until the Spring when new leaves start to appear before they can be disturbed by which time most of them will, hopefully, have rooted. As well as Currants, I took some cuttings from my Goji and White and Yellow Buddleias that are all fairly easy to root. The resulting, small, rooted, plants will make nice swaps for the new season!

-o0o-

The blackcurrant (Ribes nigrum) is a woody shrub in the family Grossulari-aceae grown for its piquant berries. It is native to temperate parts of central and northern Europe and northern Asia where it prefers damp fertile soils and is widely cultivated. It is winter hardy but cold weather at flowering time during the spring reduces the size of the crop. Bunches of small, glossy black fruit develop along the stems in the summer. The fruit is rich in vitamin C, phytochemicals and antioxidants. Blackcurrants can be eaten raw but are usually cooked to make jams, jellies and syrups and are grown commercially for the juice market. The fruit is also used in the preparation of alcoholic bev-erages. Both fruit and foliage have uses in traditional medicine and the preparation of dyes. As a crop, the blackcurrant suffers from several pests and diseases. The most serious disease is ‘reversion’, caused by a virus transmitted by the blackcurrant gall mite. Another is ‘white pine blister rust’ which requires two alternating hosts, the blackcurrant and certain coniferous trees. This fungus caused damage to forests when the fruit was first intro-duced into North America. As a result, the blackcurrant has been subject to restrictions in the United States. Research is being undertaken in Europe and New Zealand to produce better fruit and bushes with greater hardiness and disease resistance.

Source: Wikipedia, image uploaded by Thue

Issue 315

Page 16

My Shoes When you wake up will you stand in my shoes? Will you see the world the way I do? Sometimes I walk very well Sometimes it's like walking into hell Will you jump inside my skin?

See my frustrations from within? See how I feel when people stare Every time I go anywhere?

Untitled You can lie down and moan out loud Or you can stand up and be proud You can hide away from the sun Or you can face everyone

You can cry and stamp your feet And be bitter with people you meet Or you can chase those shadows away Emerging into a bright, new day.

Two Excited Children (with memories of Louise) It's Christmas Eve and so silent You can hardly hear a heartbeat

Suddenly my two lovely children Rushed in and started to speak Their words tumbled excitedly over Torrents shooting from their mouths "The elves have been here again, Mum They must have crept in tonight" We tried keep our eyes open But their fairy dust made us sleep tight

How much we looked forward to greeting them Dressed in their magical clothes We wanted to ask how Santa was feeling Was Rudolph's navigation as hot as his nose? We‟d tell Santa what good children That we‟ve been for our Mum and Dad Times are really hard now and they

both look so sad So we've behaved just like the angels Who gave some shepherds a dreadful fright Whilst announcing the good news Currently breaking in Bethlehem that night We can't wait for Christmas morning When our empty stockings are filled With chocolates and toys amongst the many

Other really good really good things Mum and Dad are so happy At least if only for one day They tell us that God is a father And his son was born today.

A warm RBW welcome to new

contributor Bobbie Coelho

BLOG ABOUT WELFARE REFORM AND ITS DIRE CONSEQUENCES TO PEOPLE'S

WELLBEING

It is often easier to understand the impact of government policy if one considers the affect they have on a single individual.

CASE STUDY of Miss A. Miss A is a disabled person approaching 60 years of age who has been seriously adversely affected by the Welfare Reforms which have stripped her of DLA

and left her without benefits or hope of retirement pension. The following is something of her battles with what she sees as uncaring government

departments:- “One thing I did find out was that the DWP computer automatically notifies the HMRC com-

puter when a person is claiming a benefit. However, I am not sure if there is a way for the computer to indicate that the person isn‟t actually being paid any money. There is no means

between the DWP and HMRC to know if I was receiving the benefit money. Their computers just assume I am receiving money. This was proved by many subsequent letters from DWP

and HMRC that showed there was the belief that I was in receipt of funds. “It was only me writing letters and phoning DWP and using my MP's Senior Caseworker to

solve this problem, but I am still getting paperwork about my tax code from HMRC every other day. I AM SURE there is NO WAY for the computers to say if I received benefit or not.

The letters I got from DWP and Atos kept on saying if I did send further paperwork, my benefit would be stopped. And for a good while the Jobcentre rang me morn, noon and

night, but I ignored the calls as this would have muddied the waters again. “The local MP has told the necessary government departments and Ministers of this anom-

aly. If I had received the benefit, my new tax code would have taxed each and every pound of the benefit AND taken a good chunk from my works pension that was 50% below the ba-

sic tax code. Benefit is taxed, therefore, even if below the basic tax allowance. “Welfare Reform is not reform but the end of help with people with no income, like me, who

have fallen completely out of the benefit system, but entirely incapable to work due to life-long and life-threatening illness that is just getting worse, with serious chronic fatigue is-

sues. The loss of state pension at 60 (January 2014 in my case) is a loss of £6,300 that would have saved my life. My ailment has a partial cause of money worries, as has brought

down the working class since time immemorial. “The Welfare State is self-funded today in a round robin of money of those receiving benefit

and state pension. One day people will realise too late, the changes will affect them as well.”

Further reading:

https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/the-single-tier-pension-a-simple-foundation-for-saving--2

On 14 January 2013, the government published a White Paper – The single-

tier pension: a simple foundation for saving. It outlines proposals to

reform the State Pension into a single-tier State Pension. The White Paper

also includes proposals for a regular and structured mechanism with which

to consider changes to the State Pension age in the future.

On Monday 18 March, the government announced that, subject to Parlia-

mentary approval of the Pensions Bill, the single-tier pension will be intro-

duced in April 2016. The single-tier fact sheet, which gives a simple expla-

nation of the features of the single-tier pension, and the note on National

Insurance credits, are based on the start date of April 2016. The other docu-

ments published here reflect the position at the time they were published

(which was that the single-tier pension would be introduced in April 2017

at the earliest).

This reform will affect people who reach State Pension age from the time it

is introduced. Current pensioners and those reaching State Pension age

prior to introduction of the single-tier pension will not be affected and will

continue to receive their State Pension in line with existing rules.

These reforms will provide a foundation to support automatic enrolment

launched in October last year, which will see six to nine million people

saving more, or saving for the first time, into an occupational pension.

The Pensions Bill containing provisions to reform the State Pension system

and implement the single-tier pension was introduced to Parliament on 9

May 2013.

Extract from the above govt. website.

Issue 315

Page 18

Year 1564 : The Cast : The Queen‟s Men : a group of strolling players thrown out of London where the theatres have been closed due to an outbreak of plague. Elizabeth I was on the throne. Kit Marlowe (wordsmith/detective), Harry Swann (the murderer of the-first victim who first found the chal-ice) Samuel Burball (Owner), Peter Pecksniff, Daniel Alleynes, young Hal who plays a girl‟s role very badly. Vesta Swann, Moll Ripp-sheet. The Boar‟s Head Tavern, Trentby: Bertha landlady, Molly Golightly, Martha Goodnight wenches. Ned the bear keeper. The Trentby Abbey of St Jude : Abbot Ranulf knows something about the missing Roman hoard of silver plate/chalice etc The Manor of Bluddschott : sodden Squire Darnley Bluddschott, wife Mistress Anne, daughter Penelope about to be sold off into matrimony, Mistress Hood seamstress, sister to Penny, Mistress Tatanya

The Sheriff‟s Castle : Magistrate Squire Humphrey Pettigrew, Black Knight, the Sherriff Burrowmere Lord Haywood, man-at-arms Richard of Hyde Leigh, a constable Daniel Smithers and a scribe Modern Day: Rick Fallon and Tommy Tip-Tip McGee** Private eyes in Trentby on case for Sir Kipling Aloysius Bluddschott (Sister Christobel) to locate silver chalice and Roman hoard of Trentby Abbey + corpse Jago Swann DI Pete Ferret

PLEASE NOTE: It is imperative that those writing for the storyline read what other writers have already written before they add a new piece.

Lavender to the rescue (?) „Be quiet Tip-Tip!‟ The fiercely whispered instruction came out of the dank, dark, night of the churchyard. „You sound like a flaming elephant!‟ Tip-Tip wasn't happy and whispered back, „Fell down th' damned hole Rick. Lav'll be

gie'n m' some grief o'er m'cloes bein' a' claggy t'morrow. Where we goin'?‟ The headlights of a car passing along the main road gave them a glimpse of where they were. „The middle box tomb of the three is the one we're looking for it should be off to the left in that pile of stones.‟ They searched, not well considering the rain and the darkness, „They's only twa tombs Rick. The middle one's no there. It's fell in wi' th' weight o'th stanes pu' ont'.‟ Rick wasn't an inventive curser, but he made a good try for length. Eventually, having run out of breath, he muttered, „Back to the office then. We'll come back in the daylight and have a good look about. There may be a clue we've missed.‟ A hip flask, filled with the cheapest rotgut they could find, provided libations of warmth as they struggled back to the car. Climbing into the firms pride and joy, and the despair of the mechanics who kept it on the road, they had another slug. Rick fished the

keys from his pocket and pushed the starter button, nothing happened. He tried again, still nothing. Third time lucky he thought as he tried again, fruitlessly. „You'll have to give it a push Tip-Tip‟, he told his partner. „The starter ring's jammed.‟ For all Tip-Tip‟s other faults, owing to a misspent youth, he knew his way around cars. „S' no the starter ring ye Sassenach, th' battery's flat! Tha' wee merchanic tol' y' tha' it was na good las' week. Still's down hill to th' road so maybe y' can bump start it.‟ A hefty shove, a downhill track and some prayers proved sufficient; right up until the police car flagged them to a stop. One smell of Rick‟s breath brought out: the breatha-lyser kit, a demand for documents and a lot of paperwork. Seeing Tip-Tip covered in mud they also asked what he'd been doing. „Fell o'er in th' mud,‟ Tip-Tip told them. As it was the truth they decided that Tip-Tip had had one too many and that Rick was being a Good Samaritan, although that didn't stop them being

hauled off to the police station for further enquiries. „Well Mr. Fallon, the second test has shown that you are well below the limit,‟ the cus-tody Sergeant told him five hours later. „The doctor has examined Mr. McGee. Apart from being wet and muddy, he's medically sound. Your car has been brought in for examina-tion and can be reclaimed later in the week; we'll tell you when. There'll be a charge for transport and storage. £200 for the transport and £50 a day for storage.‟ „Not worth that much anyway.‟ Rick knew they couldn't pay. „Unless you have evi-dence it was being used for an illegal act, which you won't because it wasn‟t, the scrap value is about £300, and you can have that in settlement. I'll write you out a bill of sale and bring the documents around later today. Now! Just let me have my belongings and I'll get out of your way.‟

As Tip-Tip had forecast Lavender was, to put it mildly, livid over his arriving home with his clothes covered in mud. She blamed Rick and laid into him next day, „You, Richard, may have been a good copper but as a private investigator you're useless. You've no idea about customer care and you blunder about hoping to fall over clues when you should be using your head. You spend too much time drinking when you should be thinking. I'm taking over! Fallon and McGee are going to be Pomeroy, McGee, and Fallon

and, from now on, you are on the wagon. Any slip up on your part and the Fallon bit will disappear; GOT IT?!' Neither Rick nor Tip-Tip had seen Lavender in full flow before and where suitably as-tounded. „Good! Now get out of MY chair and take yourselves off to talk to that grounds-woman at the church. Find out where those tombs started out from,‟ she opened her handbag and put two ten pound note on the desk, „that's for your bus fare and lunch. Don't, either of you, come back here smelling like a brewery; and I want to see the change and receipts‟! Oh and daily reports, in triplicate, from now on. Well what are you standing there for? GO!‟ The pair slunk off to do her bidding and so failed to see the smile on Lavenders face. They didn't know that she'd quoted some lines from the script of a film she had been in; she was going to enjoy „guiding‟, even if she did think that „whipping‟ was much better term, the pair of them into some sort of shape. „No wonder his wife kicked him out‟, she said to herself. „Ricky boy, you've got ME to deal with now!‟ Then she made a phone call to a close friend. „Molly? Action stations dear! Let‟s get this place cleared up before they get back!‟

A Knight In Shining Armour ACW

Penelope‟s mare was always skittish, being an advanced ride, but today the forest was making the hunter mare either trying to go round and round or planting stock still all four hooves. So spoiling Penelope‟s nice ride to put her mind away from her mother‟s in-sistence on her smart match, married off to the Magistrate, who reeked of stale strong pipe smoke and over-sweating in life.

A melancholy humour swept over her just as her boisterous Irish wolfhound Nicode-mus sounded off, baying after a rabbit.

Her mare Hermione had had enough, tried to rear up, her ears were all over the place and then hysteria made the mare bolt away.

„Whoa, Whoa, Hermione, steady girl, be calm.‟ To no avail. The bit was well and truly between the mare‟s teeth and Penelope had no

means to rein her back. The mare bolted into the forest road. It was all Penelope could do to keep her seat on her side saddle and by hanging onto the reins, pulling back to no avail.

Kit Marlowe was sat in the forest‟s glade on the bank of pool, rehearsing a prologue and working out a swordplay scene. His great grey heavy hunter planted all four hooves and whinnied in alarm. Kit heard galloping hooves out on the road, followed by a woman‟s desperate cries, „Whoa, Whoa.‟

Kit leapt up onto his horse and cantered up to the road just as Penelope drew up, her

hair and frock all flying about her, with her face streaked with tears and now screaming out in fear.

She caught sight then of Kit dressed as cavalry with breastplate on a white charger, as she thought. „My knight in shining armour?‟

Kit came after her and grabbed the reins, bringing Hermione to a halt. „Thank you, thank you. Methinks this barn bolter will no longer be my ride. Sir, pray

Editor Notes to Tambourine Contributors ...

It would be greatly appreciated if all contributing writers could please

remember the following: Do not leave a line between paragraphs

Use 14pt Tahoma if possible Indent first line of each new paragraph One space after a full stop not two

Punctuate speech with „ not “ Punctuate speech!

Do not centre headings Do not underline anything

If everyone followed the above guide it would save hours every week. Thank you.

who be you, does the army camp, near here?‟ Kit chuckled, „Nay, Nay, Mistress? Er? May I beseech your name Fair Maid?‟ „Penelope kind Sir, and yourself Sir?‟

„Kit Marlowe, Master Playwright at your service my Lady.‟ „May my thanks be hundredfold, Sir Marlowe. My father, the Squire must hear of your

being my savour, Sir. May you care to be presented at the Manor?‟ „I would not leave you alone with your skittish ride and will escort you home, my

Lady.‟ „Why thank you Sir.‟ The clatter of hooves over stable yard cobbles brought out the stable boy to take the

mare. Kit dismounted and offering, „May I assist my lady.‟ Penelope slightly blushed and nodded, „You may.‟ As Kit grasped her waist to help her down a quiet thrill took hold of her in his strong

arms and being close to his handsome face and lithe youth of body and of gentle co-

logne. Squire Bluddschott hurried up to them, „Sir, Sir, my thanks in catching up that wilful

steed and saving my daughter, Sir, Sir?‟ „Kit Marlowe, Master Playwright at your service, Sir.‟ „Marlowe. Ah yes, we most enjoyed the play at our feast in the hall.‟ „So pleased our play entertained so well, Sir Squire.‟ „Yes, Penelope is to be betrothed to the Magistrate Pettigrew and we‟d be so pleased

to have the classical prologue to the play Tambourine recited at the betrothal breakfast.‟ „It would be my pleasure, Squire.‟ „Again my thanks Sir, Marlowe.‟ Penelope could not but look away at the steady gaze of Kit, that stirred her heart all

a flutter, even more so as Kit kissed her hand in a flourish of a bow.

Turning to the Squire, „May I come of the afternoon to rehearse in the feast hall whilst all are retired at leisure, Squire?‟

„Of course, Marlowe. You‟re most welcome to avail yourself of any refreshments of our ample kitchen as my hospitalised to you.‟

„Why thank you Squire. Most kind. I take my leave til then Squire. My Lady.‟ Swinging up onto his saddle, he turned the grey to the tavern road.

As Kit cleared the Hall, Burball rode up beside him. „And what of the rest of the company, you rascal? „Well, we may yet gain another play as the Lady is betrothed and so may have a be-

trothal feast soon in the hall.‟ „Very well, Kit. A classic play of forbidden romance methinks for that, what say you?‟

The two men exchanged knowing looks and Kit smiled and put Burball‟s mind at rest, „No, No, there is but stolen love, no hope for more.‟

Burball groaned, „Be careful my lad.‟ Kit chuckled. Realisation ACW

Mistress Anne came into Penelope‟s bed chamber, where her daughter was sat at leisure in the window seat, reading.

„Penelope, my girl, come with me.‟ Mistress Anne drew back a tapestry upon the wall and opened yet another hidden

door in the Hall. „I ne‟er knew of that, mother,‟ and followed. Mistress Anne used a flint to light the torch and they went through in a silence that

puzzled Penelope, for her mother looked most serious. Soon they reached an exit and came into a well appointed apartment where a mature

lady sat and then Penelope saw Mistress Hood. Seen side by side the likeness was un-canny, then it occurred to Penelope how much alike they all were. Then she saw her fa-ther, the Squire, sat sheepish to the side, somewhat in the shadows.

Mistress Anne beckoned her to sit by her in front of Tatanya and Anya, and began, „Steady yourself, Penelope, and listen right well to what I have to tell you. Be assured first of my and your father‟s constant love. May I introduce you to your father‟s favourite old mistress Tatanya, who is your true birth mother, and to your twin sister, Anya, the

Mistress Hood as you know her.‟ Tatanya gave out a little sob and came forward to hug the stunned Penelope. „Oh my little Aurora.‟ The Squire could not meet Penelope‟s gaze. Anya then hugged her sister. Penelope sat back, „What is to become of me now?‟ The Squire comforted her, „All will remain the same in the eyes of the world, my dear.

We will say my other daughter, Anya was made ward of the Lord Heywood household as the Mistress Lady Heywood had lost at childbirth her last child. The family owes me a favour, a big one in life. I‟ll pay off the Burball‟s silence. Who‟ll recall a servant seam-stress, always in the background. Anya can stay at the Lord Heywood‟s hunting lodge close by and we will take on a maid and lady‟s maid for her.‟

Tatanya‟s maid, still eavesdropping at the side door, smiled from ear to ear. A lady‟s

maid position! And began in her mind‟s eye her speech in seeking the rise in standing to finally be above stairs household service direct to the Squire. There‟d be no trouble against competition once word got out, as she had heard all. And not just that, for as a Lady‟s maid all the fire-lighting, chamber pot emptying and bed linen changing would be done by her under maid. She‟d have fine clothes as befits her station and a change of frock to boot, maybe more?

Behind her sat the other maid, hidden in the thick curtains of a window bench. So, she hissed in whisper, „You think you‟ll get the post over me. So what, you‟ll be a lady‟s maid to a common girl, a seamstress. I‟ll get to be a Lady‟s Maid with more chinks to show for it, from what we‟ve heard and serve a high born lady, much used to the court of royalty.‟

The two maids glared at each other, but then each smiled in realisation how fate had dropped them good fortune in their laps for the rest of their days in service and excel-lent hush money into matrimony.

-o0o-

Feasting The birds have been so busy Like they know what is to come Their feast it starts so early They need no weather man They must stock up their reserves Cold this winter so they say Squirrels finish harvesting If not they‟ll find a way And then we start preparing Some soon; others in a rush We must stock up our larders We need to make a fuss Of our families this winter They‟ve said that it may snow We love the snow at Christmas Bing Crosby told us so Yet even in the merriment There‟s those that can‟t abide They put faces on to hide the Disappointment that‟s inside

And on the feast of Stephen They must step in good Kings tread And follow this tradition Some of which they really dread For those that trod before them They‟re not here, no more, to share The feasting, celebration That is with us every year. But take one step; then another And one year you may well find The feasting, celebration We call Christmas glows inside And instead the joy of Christmas Will shine through; and we‟ll hold dear Those with us past and present

They will be so every year.

Issue 315

Page 24

I first came across this Japanese Poet through the guitarist Robbie Basho who changed his

name to Basho in honour of this master poet who developed the structures of Japanese po-etry forms that gave us the Haiku, from the traditional forms of Tanka and the collaborative

Haikia no renga.

Matsuo Basho was born Matsuo Kinsaku and was also known as Matsuo Chūemon Muna-

fusa he is the most famous poet of the Edo Period of Japanese Literature and Culture. His father was a low ranking Samurai which would have seen Matsuo progress to a life in the military had he chosen a less notable path for his life.

However as child Basho became a servant to Tōdō Yoshitada, who shared Basho‟s love of collaborative poetry known as Haikia no renga which saw a poem constructed starting with

a Hokku in strict 5-7-5 mora format followed by a 7-7 mora verse from another poetic voice. Basho and Yoshitada developed their voice that saw the first of Basho‟s poems pub-lished in 1662, they collaborated on several pieces including a one hundred verse Rengu in

which they collaborated with several other voices.

It was Yoshitada‟s sudden death in 1666 that saw Basho lose the comfort of the role as

servant and to resign himself away from a samurai life to become a traveller, he is indeci-sive as to whether he should become a full time poet and continues to write and be pub-

lished in anthologies. Renga and Haikia no renga are viewed as low status pastime rather than high artistic form and this may well have influenced his indecision. He does however produce a publication in 1672 entitled the Kai Ōi or the Seashell Game, where he compares

the merits of poems produced by him and others.

It is at this time he heads for Edo and ingratiates himself within the fashionable Literary

Circles, his poetry is recognized for its natural style and simple form and he is soon initiated into the inner circles that enables him to teach and he is soon the tutor of twenty pupils.

Despite this new found appreciation, he feels the need to take himself out of the public eye for a more isolated life and following a series of events such as the death of his mother and his hut burning down his dissatisfaction grows and leads him to embark on the first of four

major journeys, two of which I will discuss here...

My Lost Poet this week is Matsuo Bashō (1644 – 1694)

Editor Note: This is the last piece of research from Mal on

lost poets. However, he assures us that he intends to con-tinue this project until he finds 50 lost poets, so he still has some 15 or so to find. We wish him well and hope he will be

able to share any future research with RBW as so many of our readers have said how much they were enjoying this

fascinating column.

Journey

Travelling throughout the country at this time was considered a danger-ous affair and Basho‟s initial anticipation was that he would be killed by

bandits in some remote location. His mood changes as his journey pro-gresses and he makes friends, his poetry takes in the world around him

and reflects his observations rather than the introspective themes of his earlier poetry.

His journey takes him to places such as Mount Fuji and Kyoto where he

meets other poets, who seek his advice. In the summer of 1685 he re-turns to Edo, much refreshed and happily resumes his teaching post. The

poetry from his journey is published as Nozarashi kikō Account of Expo-sure to the fields. Despite his apparent new found contentment in Edo, Basho knows that this will only last through the thought of another jour-

ney which he privately plans.

The culmination of the planning leads to him setting out on a journey

with his apprentice Kawai Sora in 1689 that saw them explore the North-ern Provinces on an epic 2400 kilometer trip. Basho documents the jour-

ney in a log, creating poetry as he goes. This was published posthu-mously as Oku no Hosomichi The Narrow Road to the Interior.

Basho returns to Edo in 1691 and suffering from illness in his later years,

he spends his last days receiving visitors, he died peacefully in 1694 and although he never wrote an official deathbed poem, his last poem has

been taken as being a fitting farewell to his life.

tabi ni yande / yume wa kareno wo / kake meguru falling sick on a journey / my dream goes wandering / over a field of dried grass [1694]

Basho interests me on several levels. His development of the Haiku from the traditional forms not being the least. The Haiku becoming a standalone form of the original Hokku.

I can see the similarities between his life and that of Michael Drayton, both poets went into service of literary patron as children who nurtured their craft as poets. Both head to the cultural capital to en-hance their study and careers, both write landscape explorations Basho as described above and Dray-

ton PolyOlbion. The Polesworth Circle also wrote collaborative poems through letters, examples of po-ems written between John Donne and Sir Henry Goodere still exist for us to study.

Collaborative poetry has also been a feature of some of my work in the last year, with the Kite poem on the Poets trail using the words from the Primary School children and the Word poem developed as part of the Nuneaton Summer poetry day.

Links to further information on Matsuo Bashō

Classical Japanese Database – Has some of Bahso’s Haikus

http://carlsensei.com/classical/index.php/author/view/1

Simply Haiku has an account of Basho’s last days

http://simplyhaiku.com/SHv4n3/features/Nobuyuki.html

If you are a subscribing email recipient to leave RBW Online is easy just email and say ‘unsubscribe’ and you will be immediately removed from the list. If you have any suggestions for improvement to this service please let us know. You don't have to take an active part to receive this workshop bulletin you can just sit back and enjoy the ride, but if you could send back KUDOS feedback it is greatly appreciated. RBW Privacy Promise: A few simple contact details are all that are required and they will only be used for this bulletin service. RBW promise to:

Only send you details via the newsletter.

To never pass on your details to anyone else.

To always allow recipients to opt-out and unsubscribe at any time.

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk

To contact RBW please use the website contact box.

PATRON Ian McMillan www.ian-mcmillan.co.uk

Memberships and funders.

Rising Brook Writers strives to be compliant with the requirements of the Data Protection Act. RBW strives for accuracy and

fairness, however, can take no responsibility for any error, misinterpretation or inaccuracy in any message sent by this mode of

publishing. The opinions expressed are not necessarily in accordance with the policy of the charity. E-mails and attachments

sent out by RBW are believed to be free from viruses which might affect computer systems into which they are received or

opened but it is the responsibility of the recipient to ensure that they are virus free. Rising Brook Writers accepts no responsi-

bility for any loss or damage arising in any way from their receipt, opening or use. Environment/ Recycling: Please consider care-

fully if you need to print out any part or all of this message.

To the best of our knowledge and belief all the material included in this publication is free to use in the public domain, or has

been reproduced with permission, and/or source acknowledgement. RBW have researched rights where possible, if anyone’s

copyright is accidentally breached please inform us and we will remove the item with apologies. RBW is a community organisation,

whose aims are purely educational, and is entirely non-profit making. If using material from this collection for educational pur-

poses please be so kind as to acknowledge RBW as the source. Contributors retain the copyright to their own work. Fiction:

names, characters, places and incidents are imaginary or are being used in a fictitious way. Any resemblance to actual people living

or dead is entirely coincidental.

This bulletin is produced by volunteers. The editor’s decisions are final and not open to discussion.

© Rising Brook Writers 2013 — RCN 1117227 A voluntary charitable trust.