RBW Online

ISSUE 229 Date: 25h March 2012

Words

Exercises

Assign-

ments

Fiction

Projects

Events

Work-

shops

Thoughts

Your

Pages

Poetry

News

Items

World Book Night Info ...

World Book Night is a celebration of reading and books which sees tens of thousands of

volunteers give away free books in their communities to share their love of reading.

In 2012 World Book Night will be celebrated in the UK, Ireland, Germany and USA on April 23.

25 titles are specially chosen and printed in World Book Night editions. Givers apply to give away

a particular book (you get a first, second and third choice) which they must commit to give away to

those who don't regularly read to share and spread their love of reading. Each Giver receives 24

copies which they pick up from their local bookshops and libraries - the very heart of our reading

communities - in the week before April 23.

The greatest reading journeys start when you put a book in to someone's hand and say 'this one's

amazing, you have to read it' and by applying to be a giver you can help World Book Night give

that experience to a million new

It is difficult to quantify the value of reading on people’s lives, especially given the shocking statis-

tics in the UK that outlines that one person in six struggles to read and write. Poor skills compro-

mise health and well-being, confidence and employability.

World Book Night’s charitable mission is to advance the education of the public by assisting in the

promotion of literacy and the celebration of books and reading by creating unique moments which

focus attention on adult literacy. By focusing on the enjoyment and engagement of reading we aim

to reach and inspire those who have never discovered the value of reading.

April 23 is a symbolic date for world literature. It is both the birth and death day of Shakespeare, as

well as the death of Cervantes, the great Spanish novelist. It is in their honour that UNESCO ap-

pointed it the international day of the book and that it was chosen to celebrate World Book Night.

Bill Bryson, Ian M Banks, Terry

Pratchett, Jane Austen, Mark Billing-

ham, Charles Dickens, Martina Cole,

Bernard Cornwell,

Stephen King. Daphne du Maurier,

Sophie Kinsella, David Peace, Maggie

O’Farrell, Audrey Niffenegger, Joe

Simpson, Dodie Smith to name but a

few ....

http://www.worldbooknight.org/

htt

p:/

/ww

w.w

orl

dboo

knig

ht.

org

/

Issue 229

Page 2

Thoughts & Quotes ... Solemnity, refers to the quality of being solemn, deeply somber or serious, or ceremonies to be performed with such quali-

ties. The word derives from the Latin sollemnis (ritual; festive, solemn, customary, celebrated at a fixed date), itself from

sollus (entire).

A judge can't have any preferred outcome in any particular case. And a judge certainly doesn't have a client. The judge's

only obligation — and it's a solemn obligation — is to the rule of law, and what that means is that in every single case, the

judge has to do what the law requires. Samuel Alito, in Confirmation Hearing on the Nomination of Samuel A. Alito, Jr.

to be an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States (January 2006), p. 56

Being solemn has almost nothing to do with being serious, but on the other hand, you can't go on being adolescent forever,

unless you are in the performing arts, and anyhow most people can't tell the difference. In fact, though Americans talk a

great deal about the virtue of being serious, they generally prefer people who are solemn over people who are serious. In

politics, the rare candidate who is serious, like Adlai Stevenson, is easily overwhelmed by one who is solemn, like General

Eisenhower. This is probably because it is hard for most people to recognize seriousness, which is rare, especially in poli-

tics, but comfortable to endorse solemnity, which is as commonplace as jogging.

Jogging is solemn. Poker is serious. Once you grasp that distinction, you are on your way to enlightenment. Russell Baker,

in "Why Being Serious Is Hard" in So This Is Depravity (1980), p.17

In the last analysis ability is commonly found to consist mainly in a high degree of solemnity. Perhaps, however, this im-

pressive quality is rightly appraised; it is no easy task to be solemn. Ambrose Bierce, in The Devil's Dictionary (1911)

Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer. Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto 3, Stanza 107

He had a quiet way with the girls, and with the men a way of solemn, blinking simplicity which caused the more hasty in

judgment to consider him a fool.

James Branch Cabell, in Figures of Earth : A Comedy of Appearances (1921), Ch. I : How Manuel Left the Mire

No one is exempt from talking nonsense. The great misfortune is to do it solemnly.

Anthony de Mello, in One Minute Nonsense (1992), Introduction

If you are different, you had better hide it, and pretend to be solemn and wooden-headed. Until you make your fortune. For

most wooden-headed people worship money; and, really, I do not see what else they can do.

Oliver Heaviside, in Electromagnetic Theory (1912), Volume III; p.1; "The Electrician"

Everything is theoretically impossible, until it is done. One could write a history of science in reverse by assembling the

solemn pronouncements of highest authority about what could not be done and could never happen.

Robert A. Heinlein, in The Rolling Stones (1952)

A serious writer is not to be confused with a solemn writer. A serious writer may be a hawk or a buzzard or even a popin-

jay, but a solemn writer is always a bloody owl.

Ernest Hemingway, in Death in the Afternoon (1932), Ch. 16

Scott took LITERATURE so solemnly. He never understood that it was just writing as well as you can and finishing what

you start. Ernest Hemingway, in a letter to Arthur Mizener (12 May 1950); published in Ernest Hemingway : Selected

Letters 1917-1961 (1981) edited by Carlos Baker

There was no Piggy to talk sense. There was no solemn assembly for debate nor dignity of the conch.

William Golding, in Lord of the Flies (1954), Ch. 12: The Cry of the Hunters

There must be something solemn, serious, and tender about any attitude which we denominate religious. If glad, it must

not grin or snicker; if sad, it must not scream or curse. It is precisely as being solemn experiences that I wish to interest

you in religious experiences.

William James, in The Varieties of Religious Experience (1902), Lecture II, "Circumscription of the Topic"

Because of its tremendous solemnity death is the light in which great passions, both good and bad, become transparent, no

longer limited by outward appearances.

Soren Kierkegaard, in The Journals of Søren Kierkegaard as translated by Alexander Dru (1959)

Earth and fire and water and air We solemnly promise, we solemnly swear

Not a word, not a hint, not a sound to declare Earth and fire and water and air!

Hilda Lewis, in The Ship that Flew (1939), Ch. 2 : And Continues

Issue 229

Page 3

LIFE OBSERVATIONS

ASSIGNMENT: Highlight of the week or dialogue between two

characters in a sports changing room

Random Words: twilight, grass, therapy, redeem, pawned, excoriate,

dormouse, valley (150 words)

Don’t forget the cryptic clues ... 20 words. (please enclose answer)

Mothers‘ Day Card: I‘m smiling because you are my mum — and I‘m laughing

because you can‘t do anything about it .... (So true, so true ...)

Why don‘t bunches of flowers come with a label saying the name of the variety?

Bad things come in threes. Is snow on Mothering Sunday an omen?

Brambles pay their debts in blood to those clearing them.

Freedom of speech is a great responsibility.

Painting the ceiling in the outside loo can put a dampener on mother‘s day.

Why do strangers expect others to sort out problems with their elderly relatives?

haricot n

A stew of lamb and vegetables.

A kidney bean.

coalesce v

(of separate parts) To join into a single mass or whole.

(of a whole) To form from different pieces or elements.

scion n

A descendant; a son or daughter.

A detached shoot or twig containing buds from a woody plant, used in

grafting.The heir to a throne.

crotchety adj

Cranky, disagreeable, or stubborn, especially if prone to odd whims or

fancies.

wonky adj

Lopsided, misaligned or off-centre.

(computing) Suffering from intermittent bugs; broken.

Generally incorrect.

bromide n

(chemistry) A binary compound of bromine and some other element or

radical. A dull person with conventional thoughts.

A platitude.

lyonnaise adj

Cooked with onions, especially caramelized onions.

viraginous adj

Resembling an overbearing woman; shrew-like.

Resembling an Amazon; of a woman with great bravery, strength, or

stature.

Issue 229

Page 4

Here are a few more cryptic birds from JT 1. Cowardly striker? 2. Sounds like a cat’s funeral 3. Old joke about garden implement 4. Cut the ocean 5. Russian census? Answers in random order: Kittiwake, Shearwater, Yellowhammer, Redpoll, Corncrake.

Random words: SMS

Black Wednesday they were calling it on the news. The broadcaster was delivering the soliloquy

from outside the hallowed doors of the stock-exchange. The share price index had been revised

down again and trading suspended to circumvent a crash. It was all a mystery to Carlos, the

short-order chef, at the cafe in the Donkey Sanctuary, who was chopping onions for the sauce-

pan totally oblivious to the chaos unfolding on the small screen, or of what the consequences of

the economic downturn would be for them. At that moment Nectar, the oldest mare, snuffled

her grey muzzle in through the open window and stamped her iron shod feet on the step – she

couldn‘t resist the smell of onions cooking.

Random words: CMH

The onion skins in the saucepan were boiling nicely; another hour and they‘d be ready for the dye pan I thought. It

was a pity my granddad had wrecked the black iron pan though. But, as I thought he‘d said at the time, his false

teeth always gave him problems if he talked fast, ―It‘s always difficult to get the pips out of a soliloquy, Carlos, old

chap. We‘ll stick to the old method, lad. The way they do it down in the village is a mystery to me but it‘s some-

thing to do with a donkey I understand. I dunno, but last Wednesday the head dyer told me it was all donkey-

work.‖ Now, I just need to add the salt and then drain off the nectar to settle in pan. If I can catch about it right I

can circumvent the need to reheat the brew after filtering. Then it‘s put the revised labels on and it‘s me for the

bright lights. Well; the pub anyway.

Assignment:

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness, that’s how they put it in America anyway, thought Ed-

ward as he shambled down the front of the dilapidated shopping centre.

Life? Yes, well, I’ve got that. More or less, he thought. Well I have A LIFE, of sorts, even

if it’s not what I’d like it to be.

Liberty? Hmm. Difficult one that. What’s liberty? I mean, I’m not banged up in the nick so

I’ve got some liberty, but, if liberty means freedom to what I want when I want to do it, then I’m

not at liberty. I can’t just jump on a ‘plane and go to somewhere. Not got the money for that so I’ve

not got that sort of liberty.

Pursuit of happiness? I do pursue happiness, mostly. Me and Emma pursued it a lot last

night. We’d have pursued it even further if her Dad hadn’t come home early and chucked me out.

Random words: AB

The twilight was turning the grass verges to shades of purple and black. In the valley

below the chapel bell was ringing. Its comforting tolling sounded like therapy. There

it still was in the shop window accusingly gazing with its seed pearl eyes. She needed

to redeem it. How could she have pawned the family’s only heirloom. The silver

plated dormouse was given to her gran by Lloyd George, or so she claimed. Her

gran’s vile tongue would excoriate her when she found out what she had done.

Steph‘s second FREE poetry e-chapbook is now published on

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters (profile page)

and on RBW main site and Facebook

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

The chapbook is illustrated by some of her original artwork.

She is a member of Stafford Art Group and has exhibited some pieces locally.

CLIVE‘s three free e-books are doing very very well and are

NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu and Facebook

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

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Cobwebs and Brambles

Blog Tour

All this week, 19th-23rd

March, RBW member

Elizabeth Leaper has

been guesting at Dragon-

scale Clippings, the blog

of writer Freya Pickard.

There are interviews with Elizabeth and a

guest post about writing ‘Small Stones’. On

Friday Freya will review Elizabeth’s book of

poems ‘Collecting Cobwebs, Gathering

Brambles’. To be in with the chance of win-

ning a FREE copy of the book simply visit

Dragonscale Clippings at http://dragonscaleleggings.blogspot.com and leave a comment.

Each day during the week Elizabeth is also

posting a short poem from the book on her

‘Small Stones’ blog

‘By The Wobbly Dum-Dum Tree’. To read these poems visit

http://bythewobblydumdumtree.wordpress.com.

To buy ‘Collecting Cobwebs, Gathering Brambles’ or her

previous book of verse for children ‘Barking At Nothing’ go

to Elizabeth’s web site: www.silverburnpublishing.co.uk. Both

books are sold in aid of charity. You can save the postage by

ordering or copy to be collected at a Monday workshop.

Issue 229

Page 6

A Young Girl’s Thoughts

The safest place in the world to be

Is curled up tight on my Dad’s knee

Dreaming dreams and thinking things

In fantasy lands with kings and queens

Where a handsome prince, a gallant knight

Will win your honour in a fight

Dragons fly, shy unicorns roam

To find a place they can call home

Here am I, a tiny ball

With the bravest knight of all

Sue Cantrill INSIDE OUT POETRY COLLECTION

Edge of The Blues Gulls hover Soprano wails over thrumming downbeats Semaphore wings Soaring sentinels shadowing flotsam prey. Scattered pebbles Bedded down in sandy slumber Rubbed and teased Tickled by ocean’s lingering fingers. Seaweed clusters Flung forward in primeval unison Strummed then plucked Nomadic fronds sucked in by salty pulse. Proud white horses Relentless beat with front line crescendo Furled flanks Strut out prodigious riff in deep sea blues. Judy Davies INSIDE OUT POETRY COLLECTION

We are delighted to announce three further Writers' Workshops for 2012. Following the fantastic feed-back we've received from the events over the last year, we are enjoying giving writers direct feedback and advice as well as a clear insight into the publishing industry.

And we are particularly excited about the new events - two of them book pitch events where writers will pitch a work or idea directly to literary professionals for immediate feedback and the other a new no-holds-barred panel discussion event. And the excitement is generated from the panellists we have confirmed so far - from top authors, to editors, to literary agents, to pub-lishers, to book marketers. Places fill quickly, so to view details and to book your place, visit www.legendpressworkshops.com. Alternatively, email confer-ence@legend-paperbooks.co.uk. We look forward to receiving your bookings and to meeting you at the events. Best wishes, Legend Press

Issue 229

Page 7

Jet White

Say what mischief dallies here

Lurks then squats on swaying haunch To mind the wheel where guile spins

The vivid palette of my days.

Tell me who rubs sticky fingers, Now draws out the short white threads

Has swiftly banished vibrant colours To merge in sycophantic praise.

What his measured tread conspires

Short inconsequential lies Draining hues from life’s bold pattern

To dazzle in a mourning blaze.

Judy Davies INSIDE OUT POETRY COLLECTION

Issue 229

Page 8

Announcement ...

RBW are pleased to announce that the result of the vote means that

―Going to the dogs‖ is to be the scenario for the 2012 jointly written

fiction project.

Now is the time to sign up for this project.

Naturally it is a farce set in Trentby.

Two charity shops, Puss in Boots and a dog charity Man‘s Best Friend,

are in rivalry from opposite ends of the High Street.

They each have a mismatched cast of charity volunteers —- and a lost

scarab beetle broach worth millions to add to the mayhem.

The action will take place over five days beginning with the charity collec-

tion van making collections and deliveries to both shops. The driver of

which, a said Mick Grabble, being a dishy ―poster boy‖ for Ragmen and

an object of desire for both manageresses of the rival charity shops— one

a former military type in gumboots and tweeds and the other a retired

dancer in fluffy pink slippers.

If you‘ve ever wondered how we do this, it is not as easy as we make it

look, but, by following a few simple rules everything eventually drops into

place.

Each piece of action has to take place within a few minutes time frame

and be complete within itself. Characters cannot be in two places at

once so it is important to keep abreast of what other contributors are

writing.

The characters are not for the sole use of any one writer. The characters

are for joint usage. This is very hard for some writers to get their heads

round.

If you start a plot line then you have to complete it. You can‘t write one

piece and leave it hanging.

This exercise has a real purpose — it teaches plotting, team work, charac-

ter building. It imposes discipline and the concept of writing to deadlines.

It improves use of dialogue and encourages research. It also is a lot of

fun and there is a real sense of achievement when it is finished.

Issue 229

Page 9

The office of the ‗Puss in Boots‘ manageress was a shrine to her youth. Pink gossa-

mer curtains festooned the window and Princess Barbie perched on the sill among

her attendants. The computer sat on a white and gold Queen Anne style desk and

the chair into which Cynthia was squashed was of rosy translucent plastic. She

swivelled round at Tim‘s knock.

‗Come in,‘ she trilled, for she liked to start the day on a positive note, whatever

the weather.

Tim entered and carefully put down her special cup and saucer.

‗Thank you,‘ she said. ‗Now you wanted a word?‘

‗Yes, I don‘t think…‘ he began

Cynthia raised her cup and took a sip. ‗Ahh,‘ she breathed. Wonderful. What

was it, Tim?‘

‗Well,‘ he began again. ‗It‘s not… it‘s not really…

‗Not really what?‘

‗Not really working out here for me.‘

She replaced her cup, regarded him. For goodness sake what did he expect at

his time of life? A proper job? He must be all of 50 and his qualifications – well! Fer-

reting among old bones and things – what call was there for that? Even if you were

entitled to call yourself ‗Doctor‘. Not that he ever did, but word was he‘d written a

very good book on the Ancient Egyptians which meant he could if he wanted to. He

wasn‘t allowed to cure anyone though so what was the point? You can be extremely

clever without being in the least useful, reflected Cynthia and at the same time,

have no qualifications at all like herself and be very useful indeed. After all, who

had clothed the man but the shop she ran so successfully? He stood before her,

skinny as a match in the fraying shirt stuffed into corduroys with matching plastic

belt. His hair was dragged into a long greasy queue – it had obviously been impris-

oned in the 80s and never released since. What hope did he have of any job? If it

weren‘t for the likes of herself…

‗You‘re happy with us aren‘t you?‘ she asked in gentle tones.

‗Oh yes, very happy. No it‘s not anybody here. Not exactly here.‘

‗What then?‘ She was becoming rather interested.

‗It‘s the cats.‘

Cynthia groped for understanding. ‗The knitted ones? Are you allergic to wool?‘

‗No. The real ones.‘

‗We don‘t have any real ones. Tim, would you like to sit down?‘

There was only the floor available, but Tim sat.

‗I just can‘t stand the things.‘

‗But you love cats, Tim. You‘ve got lots of cats at home.

‗Yes, 17 of the things. They just keep coming. Producing more. They mess all

over the garden, they stink the house out, and they kill things. Birds, little baby

mice. They keep bringing them in. I hate them!‘ Tim dropped his face into his hands

and his shoulders started to shake.

‗So why do you keep feeding them?‘

‗Because they‘d starve otherwise. I thought if the shelter had more places

they‘d be able to take them, so that‘s why I came to help here. I thought I‘d be able

to make a difference. But I can‘t.‘

Issue 229

Page 10

Knock, knock. The tradesman‘s entrance door shook on its hinges as Marge

Potts, wiping her hands on a teacloth, struggled to push back the huge bolts.

―Hold your water there, Michael Grabble, don‘t you know an old biddy can‘t be

all of rush this time of a morning.‖

The door screeched ajar and snagged over the flag stone floor of the scullery.

―He hasn‘t got this fixed yet, then,‖ said Michael adding his shoulder to the

ancient woodwork and pushing his way inside. ―Too tight to spend a penny that

one.‖

Marge said nothing but gestured towards the teapot on the Aga. The man

nodded, it was parky outside and he had carried the cold. dewy morning in with

him on his donkey jacket. The dampness had settled on a row of wild Irish curls

plastered against his brow and was glistening on long dark lashes and handsome

chiselled features. Caught off guard for a second by the nearness of the swarthy

young man, Marge had a momentary flashback to an indiscretion on the Moun-

tains of Mourn in her early spring with that devil-of-a-boy Jamie O‘Farrell who bore

an uncanny resemblance to the talk-of-the-town to women-of-a-certain-age, the

said Michael Grabble. To her mind Michael Grabble was far too sure of himself and

needed a good woman to take him in hand. Had she been thirty years younger she

might have thrown her own hat into that ring.

He was helping himself to tea as he waited for her to gather her composure

together. He knew he had this effect on women, he took their breath away, when-

ever he entered a room perfectly sane women started gabbling and pouring coffee

over themselves: this marvel was great in some circumstances but a right nui-

sance in others.

―So how many today?‖ he asked eyeing the stack of bin bags lined up by the

scullery door.‖

―Five each,‖ she replied pushing a strand of grey hair out of her eyes. ―There‘ll

be loads more, but I can only do so much at a time.‖

―I don‘t suppose the Missus does a hands turn to help you.‖

Marge didn‘t reply, it wasn‘t her place to comment on the lazy nature of the

quality. Bone idleness was inborn in the aristocracy, sure didn‘t anybody with a

head on their shoulders know that, indeed.

―I miss her,‖ she said her eyes misting over. ―Good old stick was Lady Lucy.‖

Mick picked up the first two bags and made for the door. He, too, missed

Lady Lucy, she had been a character, alright. Not many ninety--year-olds encour-

aged a schoolboy to play hooky to go fly fishing with them or taught them how to

smoke a joint without burning their lips.

As he loaded the charity donations into the back of his van his eye caught

sight of the oak tree by the gate. A stray tear mingled with the drizzle as he re-

membered sitting high up there in the branches with Lady Lucy listening to her sto-

ries as she began his education into the life and times of the pharaohs of ancient

Egypt.

The things she had seen and done in her long life were simply amazing to a

boy from the back streets of Trentby. The things she told him had made the hair

on the back of his neck stand on end, and the things she had taught him and

shown him had broadened his horizons.

Throwing in the last bag of Lady Lucy‘s unwanted possessions, he slammed

the van door and as he did so a gust of wind rattled the leaves like a message. A

shiver ran down his spine. His sister would have said a curse had been cast.

Issue 229

Page 11

Character List

Robert Bluddschott Earl of Trentby deceased

Lady Angelica Bluddschott deceased wife to Robert — Aunt to Lucy

Dowager Lady Lucinda Bluddschott — recently deceased

Colonel Bluddschott — nephew to the late Lucinda, Dowager Lady Bluddschott— re-

cently inheritor of Bluddschott Manor — breeds gundogs

Lady Bluddschott wife of Colonel

Marge Potts - cleaning woman at Manor

Mick Grabble - charity collection driver — lives with sister Jean

Puss in Boots Charity Shop

Cynthia Saunders Manageress — pink and fluffy

Volunteers — Timothy Toogood—50s — owns 17 cats — long grey hair tied in a queue

thesis specialism Ancient Egypt, rebellious tendencies

Iris, Dylis and Evadne who knits cats

Dogs Charity Shop — Man‘s Best Friend

Geraldine Vickers Manageress — gumboots and waxed jacket — rides to hounds —ex-

military

Volunteers— Randolph Andover — Community Service — Internet hacker

Rosemary Thorne - Twins Daphne and Deirdre Drinkworth — knit dogs

Customer

PC Daniel Smithers — built like side of house but enjoys AmDram/Musicals and

dressing up in stage act — always buying costume materials from both shops — very

high pitched voice. Stage Name: Danni la Do on account of large purple wig

House Style

RBW uses Franklin Gothic Book font size 14pt and single spaced Word

files.

NO fancy fonts — no tables — no underlining — no centred headings — no

coloured anything.

Names of contributors will appear at the front of the book but not on each

piece.

The copyright will be RBW and the book will hopefully be published as a

free e-book.

Issue 229

Page 12

Mick. Monday 6.30

Sitting down to what he referred to as his ‗Full English Breakfast‘, because he said it

filled him up until lunch time, of: six rashers of Bacon, three jumbo sausages, two

eggs, half a link of black pudding, fried bread and half a tomato, which was only there

because his sister Jean said he should have more roughage.

Mick Grabble opened his hand and pushed a horseshoe shaped brooch set with

red and white sparkling stones across the table. ―What do you reckon this is, Jean?

Worth anything do you think?‖

Jean reached over, picked it up, and examined it. ―Well, if the back of it‘s gold, it‘s

heavy enough so it could be, it could be worth a few quid. We couldn‘t flog it as gold

anyway, ‗cos there‘s no hall-marks. Foreign I‘d think; these stones could be diamond

and ruby, not to my taste though. Where‘d you get this, Mick?‖

―It was in the stuff I collected from old lady Bluddshott‘s place, up at The Manor.

Fastened to an old fur coat it was. Marge didn‘t bag it for charity, it just was chucked in

lose.‖

He paused to shovel in an-

other helping of fried bread and

sausage. ―That one‘s not going to

the charity shops neither. I‘ve got

that contact in the fur trade I‘ll

take that too. No point in giving

money away is there?‖

―What‘s the plot for today

then?‖ Jean asked.

―Normal Monday drop-offs

first, Jean. Then I‘m going back to

the Manor, ‗cos I told Marge Potts

I‘d clear out the rest of the stuff

today. I‘ll need to take some

boxes with me this time though!

Marge says that the old lady had

a real load of junk that she‘s been

told to get rid of.

Then I‘ll rag some of the house clearance rubbish I‘ve got in the shed and take it to

the collectors. They owe us for last month‘s stuff anyway. That‘ll pay for the work on

the van that needs doing. After that, it depends. May not have time to do much. What

about you?‖

―What do you think about another leaflet drop? Around the cattle market area I was

thinking. We didn‘t do too badly on the last one. Funny isn‘t it? Now it‘s gone all up-

market, with them posh flats and all, they changed its name; but it‘s still the slaughter-

house!‖

Mick thought for a few seconds. ―Collection on Wednesday then, Jean.‖

There was another pause while he used the remainder of a loaf to chase the last of

the bacon fat around his plate and slurped some tea to help it down. ―I don‘t want to

keep on going up that drive to the Manor, I can tell you. All them statues and stuff half

hid in the bushes; it fair gives me the creeps it does. Not like when I was a nipper and

the old dear was alive. She used to tell me stories and go fishin‘ with me. Now it‘s like

going through a lost world, or somethin‘‖.

Issue 229

Page 13

To assist newcomers into the world of RBW joint workshop projects, below is one

way being used to sort out the characters being jointly built up:-

Character detail sheet

Book/Work Name. GONE TO THE DOGS

Character Name Full. Michael Grabble aka. The scrappy or the ragman.

Shortened form: Mick

Self employed. Does Charity collections [any charity] van driver. [THE MAN with a Van!] House clearances and local ragman.

Biological

Height. 5' 9 [1.75m] Build. Tall and well built. Hair. Black Curls Eyes. Blue.

Age. 30s State of health. Good. Sexuality. Male (Very) Assets. Willing worker Flaws. Hasty

Gait. Quick. Swaggers. Voice. Pleasant tenor

Psychological

Intelligence. Good. Temperament. Even until roused Un/happy. Happy

Self-knowledge. Oozes sexuality and knows it. Babe magnet Unconscious aspects. Deep thinker — keeps intellect hidden

Cultural & Interpersonal

Family. Extended Marital Status: Single. Friends. Lots of local ladies would like to be EXTREMELY friendly with him.

Birthplace. Trentby [local] Education Secondary school

Hobbies Am-Dram Beliefs Atheist tendencies

Lifestyle Lives with his sister Jean.

Personal history

Typical „White Van Man‟, owns his van and runs just about every collection route in Trentby. At the end of each run, he sorts the stuff for delivery to the charity shops or the „recycling

trade‟.

Major events in the life [best and worse]. Undecided but was influenced by Lady Lucy as a

child

Brief summary Appearance. Looks like a scruff but this is deliberate.

Part of his sex appeal [“Please give generously” could be his motto]

Speech. Takes no prisoners

Habitual/repeated actions. As yet undecided

Issue 229

Page 14

Memories: Fred Waterfall, Yews Farm, Seighford.

I was born in the middle of the Midlands of the UK, just on the outskirts of Stafford at Brook House

Farm Doxey and still even now live just a mile and half from where I was born.

I am second of four children, father was eldest of four, grandfather was one of eight, G. grandfather

was youngest of seven, (and it was G. grandfather that brought his young family from Fenny Bent-

ley Derbyshire in 1862 to live at Litteywood Manor Farm Bradley Nr Stafford) G.G. grandfather

was youngest of eight, and my G.G.G. grandfather was born in 1753, all farmers.

Out of the six generations of farmers, I and my father were the only ones to benefit from the use of

tractors, we have always milked cows, my father had to help with the hand milking when he was a

lad before he went to school every morning, and started his own herd not long after leaving school.

In fact he had a sow with piglets and swapped it for his first cow, when he acquired his first fifteen

acres.

After meeting and marrying my mother they moved to Brook House Farm Doxey on the edge of

town where the milk was sold and the surplus turned into butter and cheese to sell, also sold pota-

toes. He had twenty six cows that they milked by hand, they were at this farm through the depres-

sion of the 1930s and on up to the World War 2. I was born there in 1938 just at the start of the war,

I can just remember mother talking us under the kitchen table when we heard the air raid siren go

off in town, it was the humming of a lost German bomber looking for the factory in town that was

making and building tanks for the war effort.

1942 we moved to a larger farm two miles distance, at Seighford where we were brought up, and

where my youngest brother went on to farm to this day. I started farming on my own 1960 on a

farm half a mile away, again milking cows for the next 26 years, then I moved to where I am now

(another 26 years up to now) on 250 acres, I gave up milk in favour of a suckler herd and reared

calves for beef, also grew wheat and barley for sale as cash crops.

Fred Waterfall — Countryman

The picture is a family wedding

group outside of Littywood

Manor farm house in June

1897, it has not changed much

other than now it has all tiles

and no thatch.

If you tap in Littywood Manor

into Google, there are pictures

of it as it is now.

(Editor’s Note: Owd Fred had a

regular column in Farmers’

Weekly and a blog with a fol-

lowing readership of many

thousands — his series of

poetry books have raised con-

siderable sums for charity.)

The Farm Sale

The years have come the years have gone, it’s time to sell the lot,

And now I’ve got to organize, the sale of all I’ve got,

To pull it out the sheds and then, n’ lay it out in rows,

For all and everyone who comes, to have a damn good nose.

The tools and all machinery, bought it years ago,

Ploughed the land and worked it, encouraged crops to grow,

Harrowed all the grass in spring, soon as the Daff’s appear,

Cattle would be turned out, and sold that big fat steer.

Job to know where to start, and find things long forgotten,

Things we used like brushing hooks, n’ pitch forks stale gone rotten,

Shovels spades and muck forks, all standing where last used,

Some I’ve had a long time, and some they were abused.

Workshop that’s a nightmare, the scrap ruck will increase,

Wading through the junk to find, that lost now found tailpiece

All the things you save as spares, but things move on apace,

Out dated now and far too small, with newer one replaced.

The tractor that’s seen better days, reliable it has been,

Well used and got a loader on, could do with a damn good clean,

Worked it hard all day long, every day of the year,

Last day now it has arrived, and to the field must steer.

A second one it’s older still, with a draughty cab,

Tyres worn and torn about, n’ the paints a little drab.

Steering wobbles brakes no good, useful to have about,

It’s winter when it wonner start, I have a damn good shout.

Be sorry to see an empty yard, and all the cleaned out sheds,

The damp old house abandoned, and empty old farmstead,

Silence now for few a weeks, until new folk move in,

Then once again start from new, new livestock make a din.

Countryman (Owd Fred)

POETRY AT THE FILM THEATRE College Rd, Stoke, ST4 2EF

Wednesday, 4th April, 2012, 7pm - 10pm

Jo Bell, Peter Branson and John Lindley, with Roger Elkin, W. Terry Fox, Gill McEvoy,

Andrew Rudd, ‘Trentvale Poet’, Phil Williams, John Williams & Joy Winkler

plus ‘open mic.’ and music from ‘Parish Lantern’ and ‘Roaring Owls’

Drinks available from 7pm and during the interval. Tickets: £4.00

For ticket info, contact: p_branson@sky.com or 01270 883410

or just send a cheque, (pay ‘Poetry at the Film Theatre’), to:

‘Poetry at the Film Theatre’, c/o Peter Branson, ‘Ash House’, 226 Sandbach Rd,

Rode Heath, Nr Alsager, Stoke-on-Trent, ST7 3SB

(Your reserved tickets will be available at the box office from 7pm.)

All ticket proceeds to Cystic Fibrosis Issue 229

Page 16

It was early last September nigh to Framlin'am-on-Sea,

An' 'twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea,

An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane,

A Pharaoh with his wagons comin' jolt an' creak an' strain;

A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up,

An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup,

An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings

Was joggin' in the dust along 'is roundabouts and swings.

"Goo'-day," said 'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you find things go,

An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?"

"I find," said 'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found,

For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round."

Said 'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were,

It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a 'are;

But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's,

What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings!"

"Goo' luck," said 'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it past a doubt;

An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out."

'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again

To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane;

An' the moon she climbed the 'azels, while a night-jar seemed to spin

That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, 'is sooth of lose-and-win;

For "up an' down an' round," said 'e, "goes all appointed things,

An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!"

Patrick Reginald Chalmers

Author and poet who wrote on a wide variety of themes. He was born in Ireland

in 1872 and was employed as a banker in London as his day job.

His first book was published at the age of 40 - Green Days and Blue Days and

was followed three years later by A Peck Of Malt (1915).

He is best remembered for writing on country pursuits such as deerstalking, horse

racing, biography works such as of Kenneth Graham and J M Barrie as well as

humorous articles for magazines such as Punch. He also edited the hunting dia-

ries of the Prince of Wales. His poetry includes pieces featuring war, cats and

dogs, hunting and fishing and Irish life in general.

Issue 229

Page 17

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.

© Rising Brook Writers 2012 — RCN 1117227 A voluntary charitable trust.