ISSUE 305 Date: 27th September 2013

Monday 30th September 2013 1.30pm to 3.30pm An afternoon celebrating poetry with RBW & Staffordshire Poet Laureate Mal Dewhirst Rising Brook Fire Station Community Room. All welcome. There will be no library workshop on this day.

Presentation: Fire Safety in the Home will be given by a Fire Officer

LIFE OBSERVATIONS When the coldness comes back in autumn why is it such a shock? What a beautiful pest Buddleia Davidii can be. It’s dead heads of flower cluster spikes send out millions of seeds powerful enough to destroy paved drives and uproot concrete, and to fill rain water gutters with glee. Its pollen is a powerful cause of hay fever and nasal irritation. But the numbers of butterflies it attracts are truly incredible. Knitting. One of the joys of life which held communities together and is far more special than just the joining together of threads of wool. These skills are soon lost if not passed on. Who now can cable stitch without a pattern to fol-low, or think up Fair Isle patterns in one’s sleep? Granny could. Beware which free accounts you sign up for on the internet: some things can have unforeseen consequences.

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Dictionary definition: Libel: noun a defamatory writing: any book, writing or picture

containing representation maliciously made or published tending to bring a person into contempt or expose a person to public hatred or derision: it can also mean a seditious or

obscene publication

Ignorance of the law is no defence: a false and defamatory statement posted on Twitter, Facebook etc or in a blog is not immune from legal action. If a tweet or blog post is defamatory, untrue and cannot be defended, the maker of the

statement can be liable for defamation and the so defamed likely to press for substantial damages.

What the untrained may not realise is that when they post original material online or RE-POST something which was not theirs to start with, they act as publishers and their publi-

cations are subject to the same laws and are as legally responsible as those of professional publishers, such as newspapers or broadcasters who have legal departments and millions of pounds of publication protection insurance.

Professional Journalists are not risking losing their homes by what they write, bloggers etc could be. Journos are also trained in the essential aspects of law for publication and

aware of the potential consequences of “instigation” of libel. Saying „nice things‟ about someone, or some company, is also an area which can spectacularly backfire. What is „nice‟ to the writer may not be thought so by those being written about.

“As a consequence of modern technology and communication systems, stories had the

capacity to “go viral” more widely and more quickly than ever before. The scale of the

problem is “immeasurably enhanced” by social networking sites. This “percolation phe-

nomenon” could be taken into account when awarding damages. This should, of itself, dis-

pel any suggestion that different rules apply in the online and social media worlds.” The

Lord Chief Justice is widely quoted as having said in a case ruling.

NB: This article should not be taken as legal advice, it is merely intended to raise aware-

ness of the potential for risk to bloggers etc.

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: chronic, coffee, Gavin, having, light-

house, box, occupant, machine

Assignment: WATER a poem for Monday‟s workshop

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

She was walking the circuit again, time and time again. This was a cam-paign for she was going to be fit and slim for her wedding day if it killed her. This would teach her to splurge at Christmas, for it was no coinci-dence that the bathroom scales revealed the ghastly denouement, that she had gained a stone! Curse Turkey, Sage and Onion stuffing and the rest! (PCJ)

Elly was too weak to castigate the charity for the elderly‟s volunteer painter. What was he thinking? Chicken poo brown when she‟d asked for magnolia or beige. Perhaps the old man was colour blind ... To be candid, he was doing his best, even if his best was tortoise slow. She made her-self an instant cappuccino and scraped margarine onto blackened toast with an ancient butter knife, made with a carved ivory handle, a remnant of a better times. Perhaps she could paint over that wall with the damp patch when he had gone home, or, perhaps, she could ignore it. (SMS)

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Submissions for the RBW 2014 Short Story Collection

Roads Less Travelled are now invited.

All contributors must be registered with RBW Library Workshop or be weekly

email pdf recipients Submit in the usual way.

Closing date for submissions 30th Nov 2013

RBW team are delighted to announce the RBW

2013 comedy, King Harffa and the Slightly Ob-

long Table of Trentby, which has a knavish

chuckle at the expense of our Arthurian heritage,

has now been published as a free e-book on

Facebook,

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters and the

main RBW website:

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=78

RBW team are delighted to announce the

RBW 2013 memories collection, has

been published this week as a free e-

book on Facebook, www.issuu.com/

risingbrookwriters and

the main RBW website:

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=79

Have you sent in your submissions for FOOTPRINTS the RBW 2014 poetry collection?

ONLY NINE SUBMISSIONS SO FAR! Only 9 active poets in RBW? Surely there are more ...

The Hobby is a small type of swift falcon with long, narrow wings. There are four birds called Hobby, and a few which are very similar. All are superb aerial hunt-ers. Although they will take prey on the ground, most prey is caught on the wing; even the quick manoeu-

vring swifts and swallows can‟t escape a hobby when hunting in flight. Hobbies are traditionally considered a subgenus Hy-potriorchis due to their similar morphology: they have dark slate grey in their plumage; the malar* area is black and the underside has long black streaks. The tails are all-dark or have only slight banding. Monophyly** of Hypotriorchis is supported by DNA sequence data, though the exact limits are still uncer-tain. It is thought the Hobby could be one of the Falco lineages which emerged around the Miocene-Pliocene

boundary 8.5 million years ago and spread throughout the world. Their re-

lationship to the Peregrine Falcon group and Kestrels is not well decided.

* cheek/cheek bone area ** In common cladistic usage, a monophyletic group is a taxon (group of organisms) which forms a clade, meaning that it consists of an ancestral species and all its descendants. Monophyletic groups are

typically characterized by shared derived characteristics (synapomorphies).

Source Wikipedia

Aerial Hierarchy SMS

Rated ‘Poor man’ of nobility,

on the cusp the Tercel stands,

while Sparrow Hawk is tranquillity,

tithed priest o’er all their lands.

Hobby, servant to all an’ false knave,

overseer Kestrel on high flies,

sentinel messenger to the brave,

for those who’ll listen to his lies.

Lanner sits beneath the salt,

‘Bring succour Lanneret,’ the lowly

squire.

Aloof Gerfalcon stands beyond fault,

regale the monarch hailed by choir.

Proud Peregrine envies all,

Bastard Hawk shares in conspiracy.

Earls and their Barons watch the falls,

o’ the hooded and belled aristocracy.

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The Allotments and the Site’s Rules

When the allotments were first set up it was decided that plot

holders shouldn’t grow flowers and the site would just be used

for vegetables, however last year several people did put a few

flowers of one sort or another in. It was pointed out that all fruit-

ing plants have to have flowers before they can produce fruit.

This is most obvious where some plants have one variety that

has been bred for their flowers, such as the “Flowering Cherry,”

and one for their fruit such as the “Morrello Cherry.” The same

can be said for “Ornamental Pear Trees” and many others. This doesn’t just apply to

fruit trees though, but also to a few vegetables. The “Globe Artichoke,” is one of the

most obvious that springs to mind, as it is really just an edible thistle. Also a new

“Runner Bean,” has been developed that has the best of both worlds as it is said to be

ideal for the back of borders, with its stunning, long lasting flowers that eventually fade

and produce a good crop of beans!

With these in mind I decided to plant some old Chrysanthemum stools in my plot

that had been over wintering in my greenhouse, so that I could make a little space under

the staging to start off some more vegetables such as Potatoes and Jerusalem Arti-

chokes, Etc. There was, and still is a good risk of frost as it is still very early in the new

season, but I took a chance and as yet they have been OK. However, the pot of Sweet

Peas that I bought, have been individually potted so that I can hold them back in the

greenhouse until the risk of frosts has diminished. If they had been left in one pot, I

would have had to divide a tightly grown pot full when they are eventually planted out

and this would really set them back as they do not like their roots disturbed. Where the

Runner Beans and Sweet Peas are to be planted on the allotment, I dug out trenches and

filled them with lots of very rough, home made compost, that was produced from the

waste stalks of last years Tomatoes and Cape Gooseberries as well as other assorted

“Rubbish.” I did this because both Beans and Sweet Peas need moisture retentive soil

to perform well, especially if watering is going to be a little more infrequent that it

might be.

When the allotments were first set up it was decided that were to be no hedges or

fences on the site, however since then, the rule has been amended to allow, low, open,

fencing to divide up plots. With this in mind I decided to plant a few young, edible, Bay

Trees which can obviously have their leaves picked as they get a little bigger for use in

the kitchen. So as not to fall foul of the “ No Hedges” ruling I planted 3 or 4 Bays in a

row, which according to the Governments “High Hedges,” legislation, is not a long

enough row to be classed as a hedge.

The whole site has been rabbit fenced at some cost to the parish council, but a few

weeks ago there were signs of what looked like rabbit damage. Some plot holders

blamed badgers, foxes and dogs, but I assumed that the gate had been left open and a

lone rabbit had got on to the site. However, on one visit, when no one else was up there,

I saw and heard a movement to one side of the site in some growth by the fencing.

Watching closely, a few seconds later I had the closest view of a “Hare,” that I had ever

seen! It scurried, or rather “hared” across the open field next to the allotments and was

gone in a couple of seconds. Some days later I saw it again so it has obviously decided

that the allotments produce some tasty food! Either we will have to put up some much

higher rabbit fencing, or find a friendly farmer to deal with the problem.

Perennial Vegetables.

Whenever I have been up to the allotments over winter I have had them to myself, but now the

weather has changed and planting time is upon us they have suddenly come to life and people

seem to be almost constantly coming and going. Last year (the first year) we were all a little late

in planting as the allotment was a new site, so I suppose everyone is making the most of the early

planting opportunity that the unseasonable weather is giving us. However, I can see a lot of peo-

ple are going to be caught out by planting things too early that may well be killed by more frosts

yet to come. In fact I got up early this morning to see the lawn was white over and we may still

get frosts until the end of April and well into May. Some years ago I remember a bit of a SNOW

blizzard in the middle of JUNE! The unseasonably warm, dry days are already bringing official

drought conditions in some parts of the country, so as is only reasonable, many of the plant out-

lets have started advertising drought resistant plants and giving water saving tips. The allotments

do have a blanket ban on the use of hosepipes, but have got several taps installed for watering.

This often tempts plot holders to water, water, water and then they go on holiday for a couple of

weeks and the plants wilt and die through lack of water. Constant watering encourages plants to

form roots at the surface, which is fine, until the water stops. Then they dry up very quickly,

whereas “puddling them in,” when they are first planted and then an occasional soaking, encour-

ages them to go down for their water and they fare much better in the end. Even better is to sow

the seed on site, not transplant, not water and just let them get on with it. Fruit bushes will take a

year or two to establish themselves, but most, will put their roots down deep and not need water-

ing at all, ever. Many other perennials will do the same, so with this in mind I have decided to try

and plant some perennial vegetables of which there are more than one might think.

The first of the two batches of Asparugus, that were planted last year, have started to throw

up a few nice looking spears and these plants will be joined by as many again in a few weeks. Ac-

cording to the books they will go on cropping for some 20 years and more. Globe Artichokes are

another luxury, perennial, vegetable that I have decided to give a try. They “flower,” in the second

year, so being impatient, I am going to buy some young plants by mail order instead of sowing

seed and waiting another season before a harvest.

The old fashioned “bunching,” “Welsh,” onions, or “Ciboule,” are another perennial that I

recently came across. They are supposed to be a “Heritage,” plant, but seed is on general sale.

Most people treat them as an annual, but they are perfectly hardy and will go through from one

year to the next. Other new vegetable discoveries for me are “Elephant Garlic,” that is said to be

milder than normal Garlic, but has the advantage that it should grow to some 4 inches in diameter

and Garlic Chives. Garlic Chives are just like the perennial, ordinary Chives, but as the name sug-

gests, with a little of the added flavour of Garlic.

Lastly, I recently came across Oca, or New Zealand Yam, which is yet another different

vegetable that is being offered for sale by mail order companies. This interesting root vegetable is

a member of the Oxalis family, but instead of being a nuisance weed,

the plant produces tasty tubers at the end of a long growing season. If

the season is cut short by an early frost, the underdeveloped tubers

can simply be saved as seed for the next year, much as you might

save small potatoes, or Jerusalem Artichokes. A large, bushy, plant

will grow in one season from a tiny tuber little more than the size of a

pea. The foliage can also be of interest in the kitchen as young leaves

have a tangy taste of Lemon and can be mixed in with other salad

leaves. Furthermore, the abundant foliage may also produce some

tiny aerial tubers that can be harvested as future “Seed.”

NEW DAY TOMORROW

The morning was just so incredibly bright, clear and brisk, Bernard decided to dust off the old bike and go out for a ride. He‟s been promising himself this treat for ages, but the

weather had been against him, time had been against him, life had been up against him. There were always so many things to do, what with mother‟s illness, his job and caring for the house and garden.

He ought to treat himself to some of that new cycling gear, those bum tight shorts for instance, a helmet and those special shoes. There were all kinds of bits and pieces avail-

able for the trendy gentleman cyclist, but, let‟s face it, he was hardly trendy in any area of his life, being a dyed in the wool fogey, and the size of his backside would hardly be flat-tered in those skin tight things that he‟d seen others wear. Out came the old bicycle clips

and it wouldn‟t hurt to pack that rain cape just in case. He debated taking a picnic and then decided that a pub. lunch wouldn‟t come amiss. ‟Face it, Bernard,‟ he told himself,

„You‟ve got to start a new life; get used to treating yourself, go out, meet people.„ He told himself this several times a day, but, it was easier said than done.

He had wandered down to the local several times lately, and though he‟d never made any friends, being too quiet, shy and bound up with caring for mum, he at least expected to encounter a few of those neighbours he‟d nod to. To his discomfort, he found the pub

full of complete strangers who ignored him. Sitting alone at a table, trying to look as if he was enjoying his half pint while wishing he was anywhere else, had not been an encour-

aging experience. Never mind, he‟d cycle out and find a nice country pub .today, and treat himself to a blow out. On a day like this, who knew what might happen?

It had been six months since mother died, right in the middle of a glacial Winter. The bitter cold, the ice and snow had made the whole palaver even more of an endurance test. Although her death had rocked his foundations, leaving him shell-shocked and be-

reft, she had been years going, at death‟s door so many, many times, that the end could not help but seem a blessing for them both. It had taken him months to get up the cour-

age to clear away mother‟s things, but ultimately, he had found release as he surveyed the de-cluttered rooms. Using the Easter Bank Holiday for a major spring clean and spending some of the money mother had left on carpets and furniture felt like a brand

new start. Now, he‟d have to spring clean his life as well, and change that It was time, he decided, to don that pink sweater he‟d bought. It had lain in the

drawer for weeks now, for he dared not wear it at work, predicting the laughter, the chaff-ing.

„Today is the first day of the rest of my life!‟ he chanted, a mantra that he repeated many times each day, but so far, it felt as if „the rest of his life‟ was going to be a very iffy enterprise indeed.

Pedalling out of town, bowling along, free and unfettered by mother‟s feeding time, mother‟s toilet visits, mother‟s medicine, he revelled in having a whole free day stretching

before him. The fields were golden with a ripe harvest and sprinkled with the blaze of poppies, the grain bowing and undulating in the breeze. In the distance hills rose and fell

like waves, green waves, golden waves, then mauve, purple and blue, out to the far hori-zon and over all, a blue, blue sky.

The lanes meandered and twisted, bending, beckoning him onwards. This was the first

time he had ever taken the bike and ridden out with no destination, not caring where he went or whether it was far or near. For the first time in his adult life, he had no immediate

responsibilities and for the first time in his adult life, he rejoiced in the joys of irresponsi-bility. He didn‟t care if he got lost! In fact he hoped fervently that he got lost and, maybe, was never found again!

He‟d cycled many miles when he came upon a tiny village, a muddle of ancient cottages set round a small green on which a tethered donkey grazed. He dismounted and went

over to give the donkey a pat and stood enjoying the peace and quiet of the place. He might as well have a look at the church while he was here. Church-crawling was a hobby

he was considering. It went well with cycling and there were some very good churches in this area,

giving a dual-purpose to days out. He‟d buy a book. The church was locked but he decided to wander round the graveyard, look at the gravestones and

take a break. As he rounded the corner of the west front, he saw a man sprawled out on a grass bank, soaking up the sunshine, his cycle lying beside him. Approaching, the man raised his head.

„Hi‟ he said, his head flopping back to the grass. „Nice day for a ride out.‟ „Yes.‟ Bernard answered. „Lovely! Shame the church is locked.‟ „Yes. I was hoping to look at it too.‟

„Tiny little place this to have such a big church.‟ Bernard ventured. „Yes, you‟re right. It‟s amazing how many places you find like that; probably built by some local

Lord of the Manor. That‟s the usual thing, isn‟t it-you know, for the glory of their souls, making up for all the rotten things they‟d done in their lives?‟

Bernard laughed. „Do you do much church crawling?‟

„Yes, it‟s a hobby of mine. Pretty eccentric I know.‟ „No, I don‟t think so. I‟m just thinking of getting into it myself.‟

„Oh there are a few of us around you know!‟ He raised his head and gave Bernard a speculative look over. The man had a long, intelligent, humorous face, a lock of ash blonde hair falling into one

eye. „More than a few!‟ and he smiled and then laughed. „Come and sit down. It‟s just perfect here, right in the sun.‟

Bernard lowered himself onto the grass, sitting cross-legged. „Such an amazing day.‟ he said, tak-

ing off the pink sweater and slinging it around his shoulders, tying the sleeves around his neck where he hoped it looked dashing and sportsmanlike.

I‟m John.‟ The man said, „John Cross.‟ „Bernard Dunn.‟ They shook hands.

„Where were you heading.‟ „I wasn‟t‟ Bernard laughed. „Just cycling, messing about.‟ „Me too, isn‟t that strange? Two guys messing about and into church crawling! That‟s coincidence,

isn‟t it?‟ „Yes, definitely! I‟m hoping to come upon a nice country pub. for lunch. Do you know anywhere?‟

„Well, coincidence again! That‟s exactly my aim! There‟s a great pub. in the next village, about three miles away. Fancy that?‟

„Sounds just the thing! Isn‟t it good to just relax!‟ Bernard stretched himself out, giving himself up

to heat and sloth for the first time in years. He could feel knots of tension loosening as he lay there, the routine that had bedevilled him giving up its stranglehold.

„I entirely agree.‟ They lay in companionable silence for some time.

„I don‟t know about you,‟ John said, at last, „But I‟m hungry. Fancy moving on?‟ „Yes, of course.‟ As they cycled along, two abreast in the deserted narrow lanes, they chatted easily. The pub. was

busy, but they found a table and demolished a really good Sunday lunch, mutually agreeing that an-other churchyard siesta might be a good thing. Waking as the sun was lowering, they wandered to-

gether into the massive Norman church. John was exceedingly well informed and Bernard hung on his every word, learning much.

Later, over pints Bernard found himself laughing as John described his abortive venture into show-business and his retreat into a local country town, working in an Estate Agents‟ office, and it seemed quite natural to cycle home with him to eat supper in John‟s delightful country cottage.

„Come on now, you‟ve very patiently listened to my blether. Tell me about yourself.‟ „Oh, I don‟t know.‟ Bernard said, lowering his chin and rubbing his forehead. „I‟m boring. Boring

life.‟ and suddenly to his immense shame, he burst into tears. All those months and he hadn‟t cried over mother. Now, suddenly with a complete stranger, he was blubbing his eyes out! Blubbing at the endless tedium of his life, blubbing over all the wasted years, blubbing over his loneliness, his des-

peration. John came over and put his arm round his shoulders, patting gently. „It‟s alright old chap. It‟s al-

right.‟ passing tissues, and even holding his hand. „Mum died.‟ Bernard managed to mumble at last. „Mum died.‟

John continued patting him, reassuring him, seemingly not one whit embarrassed by this display of

weakness as Bernard saw it. At last the tears dried and he managed to force out, „Oh, I‟m so sorry, so sorry. Oh God!‟

„Please don‟t apologize. Believe me, just lately, I‟ve done enough crying.‟ „You? You seem so happy, so ....together.‟

„Oh yes, that‟s the carapace isn‟t it? Happy and together! Happy and together! What a joke!‟ „I‟m sorry. I feel such a fool!‟ „I‟ve told you, don‟t! Look my partner walked out on me two months ago. Your mum died. We‟ve

both lost people we loved. Why shouldn‟t we cry?‟ „Mum was ill for twenty years. I‟ve spent twenty years looking after her. I‟ve had no life, no

friends, no love!‟ „And I‟ve had five years of love and then he leaves with someone younger. Isn‟t it ironic! You‟re cry-

ing because you‟ve had no love and I‟ve cried because I‟ve had love! The human condition.‟

They both sighed. „Come on,‟ John said, „Let‟s have some supper and a nice cup of cocoa and you can stay the night.‟ He held up his hand as Bernard gathered himself to refuse. „Spare bedroom. I‟m not in

any rush or any state to start something new at the moment, and you‟re in no fit state to bike home and those lanes are dangerous in the dark.‟

They sat over their steaming cups, filling themselves up on toast and dripping, the room low lighted, full of benign shadows and comfortingly quiet.

At last John said, „On Tuesday, there‟s a gang of us go to the Spa in Walburton. We mess around in

the gym, splash around in the swimming pool afterwards and then go for a meal. It‟s a good night. Come and join us.‟

„What me? They won‟t want a boring stick like me.‟ „Believe me, you won‟t be a boring stick for long around that crowd. They‟re a hoot.‟

„I suppose it‟s what I‟ve been wanting for years,‟ Bernard admitted, his voice so quiet john had to strain to hear it, „But I couldn‟t do it with mum. If she‟d have known it would have killed her.‟

„So, you‟re coming? You‟ll join us?‟

„Yes.‟ Bernard said quietly. „Yes, yes, I will.‟ „That‟s great! I want to get to know you better. What a find, someone who likes church crawling

and cycling! We could make a trip to Higham Ferrars next Sunday. I‟ve been reading about that church and it sounds fascinating. What do you think?‟

„Yes,‟ Bernard said, louder and more definite now. „Yes, I would very much like that.‟

„Bed now? I‟ve made the spare room ready for you.‟ and he came over and gave Bernard a brief hug. „Sleep well old chap. I‟ll call you early tomorrow because you‟ll have to cycle home. Think you

can make it?‟ „New day tomorrow.‟ Bernard said. „And yes, yes, I can make it!‟

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spring_and_Port_Wine

The play began with the title My Flesh, My Blood as a BBC Radio play, broadcast on 17 August 1957 in the Saturday Night Theatre strand. By April 1958 a BBC TV version had been broadcast and in Octo-ber 1959 a stage adaptation was put on at

the Bolton Hippodrome. The story set in Bolton concerns the Crompton family, where the father, Rafe, attempts to assert

his authority as his children are growing up.

Flamborough Head Lighthouse By daylight it stands on the headland like a huge candle, a reassuring sight as it towers over the cliffs below wakening memories of childhood tales with the drama of men snatched from the turbulent waves. There's a constant boom and echo as the high tide is thrown up and returns sucking the loose sand and pebbles with it. On this still calm day it looks innocent and magnificent dwarfing all around this well known landscape. But in the deep black of the night there comes a sharp stab of light rhythmic and steady for the watchers at sea telling them here are the rocks and the danger we salute you, stay clear and all's well.

Wikipedia image

http://www.supportstaffordhospital.co.uk/

With his usual modesty this message from Owd Fred: “Just to let you know I now have two volumes of my book "The Longest Furrow" published and for sale on Amazon UK in paper back and on Kindle.”

This is a book reflecting back on my life, having

been brought up on a farm in a small village, in rural England. Born in 1938 and still live not a mile and a half from where I was “dropped” it's

about my early recollections of the end of World War II, the rationing, the old characters who

worked on the farms and estate through the years, about mother and father and family farm-ing through more than sixty years, how they

brought us up in the 1940s, four of us lads in the old farm house with no central heating and no mod com‟s. Some of the descriptions are in the

form of poetry, and all of it is of what I have ac-tually experienced through my seventy five years of life. It‟s in no particular order, and written as

and when it came to mind. Cows and cattle, shire horses to tractors, workshop and welding, cook-ing and knitting, coffins and the wheelwright,

blacksmith and mending, gypsies and wagons, school and college and many more stories of the village in between plus a sprinkling of pictures to

boot. It does not all fit in this first book so there will be more volumes to come.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-

keywords=The+Longest+Furrow&rh=n%3A266239%2Ck%3AThe+Longest+Furrow

Ctrl click image to follow link

Ctrl click image to follow link

Issue 305

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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 Kit Marlowe (soon to be private-eye), Harry Swann (the first victim who first told the story of the poisoned silver challis), Samuel Burball (Owner), Peter Pecksniff, Daniel Alleynes, young Hal who plays the girl‟s roles very badly, The Boar‟s Head Tavern, Trentby: Bertha landlady, Molly Golightly, Mar-tha Goodnight wenches 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 The evil Sheriff‟s Castle : Magistrate Squire Humphrey Pettigrew, Black Knight, the Sherriff Lord Haywood, man-at-arms Richard of Hyde Leigh, a constable and a scribe Modern Day: Rick Fallon and Tommy Tip-Tip McGee** Private eyes in Trentby on case for Sir Kipling Aloysius Bluddschott to locate silver chal-ice and Roman hoard of Trentby Abbey + corpse Jago Swann, DI Pete Ferret

To give the tale a twist we want to attempt to take what seems like an historical fiction novel and write it as if it‟s a hard-boiled 1930‟s pulp fiction romp. It might not work but we‟ll give at a go and see what happens... Suggest we all read some Ray-mond Chandler, (opposite im-age) Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain and other Black Mask writers, of the hard-boiled school of detective fiction e.g.

The Big Sleep, Farewell, my Lovely, The Little Sister, The Long Goodbye etc ** Characters from Where There‟s A Will There‟s A Weigh RBW fiction project

Yesterday: Fallon‟s office Fallon wished he hadn‟t sat on his Ray-Bans (eight quid from a car-boot). The shine off DI Ferret‟s cheap suit could have been used as a laser pointer. His head was beating time like Keith Moon at his best and the urge to vomit hadn‟t been dispelled by the bottle of water thrust into his shaking hand by Tip-Tip, who had appeared in the doorway as if by magic closely followed by Mr Patel, their landlord. Mr P was do-ing his nut over unpaid rent and was his rental becoming irrevocably defaced by dead bodies: was his business a corpse suppository? No, it was not.

Even Ferret had almost cracked his face over that one. Even so, Mr P and Tip-Tip were being kept on the other side of the striped tape in the doorway by a knuckle dragger in uniform only the size of a basket ball player. His name was Sweet. Tip-Tip was too upset to be saying anything derogatory.

Only Fallon and Ferret were stood in the office facing each other accusingly over the strip of threadbare carpet runner on which the body now lay, it having slid off the desk on its own accord. Fallon guessed it was getting as bored as he was by Fer-ret‟s whining voice.

„Once again. Run this load of old trollop past me once again,‟ said Ferret holding out a Dictaphone under Fallon‟s nose in a manner provocative in the extreme.

There was no love lost between Ferret and Fallon. Tip-Tip sighed. Why was it al-ways Ferret? Fallon should never have let on how well he knew his missus, even if she wasn‟t actually missus DI Ferret at the time ... probably.

At which point, the duty pathologist turned up with a couple of bods from an epi-sode of CSI all in blue bagged shoes and carrying a bostin camera Tip-Tip would have loved to acquire. If they turned their backs it was coming home with him.

Ferret pushed Fallon outside onto the stairs. Below the dry-cleaners had opened up shop and the acrid smell of chemicals was wafting upwards, threatening life and limb.

„Your lucky day,‟ snarled the DI ,‟we‟ll continue this little chat at the nick.‟

“So you‟re on your own now Fallon,‟ said DI Ferret with a sneer. „That looker from the chippy didn‟t last long, did she?‟

Fallon gritted his teeth and shuffled the toes of his shoes on a rip in the worn lino. The interview room hadn‟t improved with the years. It smelled the same as it used to when he was on the other side of the stained table now lodged between them.

„So your lady‟s cleared off ... can you blame her? Cat got your tongue? You‟ll never guess who I saw the other day that young lad of yours. MacGuidan. That‟s him. The youngest, Marcus. Doing very well for hisself so I hear. Who‟d have thought the old boy‟d leave him all that dosh. I thought he was penniless. See you never can tell by appearances.‟

Fallon grimaced. It was all true. Their unpaid researcher Marcus had been left a small fortune when the Professor passed over, but give him his due the lad had done exactly what the old boy told him to do and got himself a degree from the open uni-versity: after that there was no stopping him. Property baron he was becoming. Very nice.

„So that leaves you and Tommy McGee in the frame, doesn‟t it pal?‟ Fallon‟s bloodshot eyes flicked up: „You are joking Ferret. You can‟t think me, or

Tommy, had anything to do with that body. I don‟t even know the bloke. Never clapped eyes on him.‟

„That right? So you don‟t know your old snout Jago Swann?‟

Fallon‟s jaw dropped. 1564

'The body's over there Constable. Against the wall behind the midden. It was only be-cause there was a dog making a noise that Master Burball went and looked.'

The Constable grunted, 'Come on let's get a look', to his scribe and the pair went around to the rear of the malodorous heap which was, from both the actors, and the heap‟s point of view, an all round improvement.

'Where is it then? I can't see no body around here,' he shouted to them. 'Probably got his eyes shut,' Peter Pecksniff said, 'that way he gets less to do.' 'Hand well out to the fore though, I'll be bound,' replied Samuel Burball.

Peter Pecksniff said nothing but nodded in answer. 'Now what are you two up too?' a voice they knew well asked from the inside of the

inn. Kit Marlowe, the Queens Men's playwright and major nuisance, was always asking awkward questions.

'The Constable's examining a body that Master Burball found,' Peter Pecksniff an-swered.

'Body? Whose body was it? Do we know him?' As always, it was questions, one after the other.

'Harry Swann, our odd parts man. Well chopped about he is. No legs and one arm missing.'

'You two! Come over 'ere and point out jus' where this body is,' the Constable shouted across at them. 'Cos I can't see no body over 'ere.'

'No help for it I suppose.' Peter Pecksniff said, 'Come on, let's get our clean shoes and hose dirty in the name of justice. That pillock of a Constable's about to render the area a service by expiring from a fit of apoplexy unless we do. That could only be good but we'd be stuck here until the Crowner's been and had his enquiry and the Saints alone know when that would be!'

Both men crossed the Boars Head Tavern‟s midden yard, trying to avoid wading through the worst of the ooze and the puddles of who knew what, to the wall.

'He's over there by the repair to the ….' began Samuel Burball until he noticed a dis-tinct lack of corpse. Any kind of corpse. 'Well he was over by that new planking any-way.'

'And I suppose he's jus' got up and walked away has he? T'would be difficult wi' no legs and just one arm, I should think!' The Constable wasn't at all excited, peeved of

course, but he knew the answer to peeved. Several answers. One was an afternoon in the stocks for the miscreants, another,

the one he preferred, clinked when struck together. After all being the Constable for the area was hard work and didn't pay well; and

wasn't he was entitled to some small recompense for his diligence?

Of course he was! He decided that these foreigners looked as if they were able to enhance his pay by a

suitable ... now what was the word the Bishop had used ... donation. Yes, it was a good word was 'Donation', a large one of course. No less than three silver pennies he thought, plus a flagon of the best wine the inn had to offer for his scribe. His scribe was

a well-known tosspot, but he came cheap, and the odd flagon of wine to keep him sweet was a good idea.

'Well now gentles,' he began, 'A little joke at the expense of the Court Leet can be a very expensive idea. One that could cost you a few weeks in my cells plus a whipping or an ear cropping I think. Something I think you would like to avoid. Am I right?'

Samuel Burball and Peter Pecksniff where experienced in the hard world of avoiding trouble.

'Oh yes, Constable. You are absolutely right there,' Samuel assured him. Peter took up the reins, 'Well Constable. We're all men of the world and if it did come

to a Courts Leet session, they would just impose a fine and that would be it from their point of view. But it doesn't do anything for you, does it?'

The Constable made “Go Away” motions to his clerk then, when the man had gone,

they all relaxed. 'Too true Master Pecksniff, all it does is waste their time, and mine of course, when we could all be doing something better.'

Peter nodded. 'As a man of great experience and wisdom in these matters what do you think the fine would be? I was thinking about fifteen or twenty pence seemed to be the right sort of thing.'

Scratching his head, and disturbing several fleas, the Constable pursed his lips before replying, 'Well the Courts around here tend to be rather heavier handed. Four Silver pennies is about the figure that they would impose I think. O' course I may be wrong and it'd be higher.'

Both Samuel Burball and Peter Pecksniff knew what this meant, “I'll argue a bit but pay up sharpish or else.” They also knew that they'd be broke.

'Constable, I'm sure that, between us we can save you, and the Court of course, a lot

of work. If we gave you our fine money, in advance as it where, mayhap we could avoid the appearance? Unfortunately, we don't have four silver pennies between us. The best we could do is three plus, say, a flagon of the best wine in the city for you, and one for your scribe of course.'

The Constable agreed to this and he, and his clerk, went away each clutching a large flagon of The Boars Head‟s best wine. Leaving the Queen‟s Men the poorer by three sil-ver and eight copper pennies.

Kit Marlowe had seen and heard all this from inside the shelter of the inn doorway. He went away to ponder on it; fully intending to ask more questions later in the day. But for now a walk around that back fence looked to be a good idea.

Latest Competitions: Poem Pigeon September Competition | Closing Date: 30-Sep-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1433 Build Africa Poetry Competition 2013 | Closing Date: 30-Sep-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1432 Bingo Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 31-Oct-13

http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1435

Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry 2013 | Closing Date: 31-Oct-13

http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1434

Writing @ Sea | Closing Date: 31-Dec-13

http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1431

Medieval coinage: research by CMH From what I've been able to gather, the MONETARY UNIT was the Penny. In the same way we use the Pound or the Euro today. As the accounts were kept in Latin, using Latin numerals, they used the let-ter ’d’ (denarius the nearest thing to a penny in Latin) as a tool. There were various denominations issued. In rough value order at the time we're interested in they were: Mite [1/24d] [Tudor dates] Farthing [¼d] [1200 to 1960] Halfpenny [½ d] [1272 - 1969] Penny [1d] [727 - 1970] Half groat [2d] [1351 - 1662] Groat [4d] [Silver. 1279 - 1662] Shilling [12p] [introduced in 1502 and still going as the 5p piece] Half Angel [40d] [1470 -1619] Half Crown [30d] [1526 - 1969] Crown of the Rose [54d] [1526 - 1551] Crown [60d] [1526 -1965] Angel [80d] [1461 - 1643]

There were others but I think that these are enough to be going on with. Just to make life interesting they also used the MARK as a UNIT OF ACCOUNT - it was-n't a coin - to the value of 13 shillings and 4 pence [160d]. The accounts must have been a nightmare.

Groat struck in reign of Edward the first 1272 1307. Wikipedia image.

Message to RBW from our website: I am hoping that you will be able to pass the de-

tails of this year's H E Bates Short Story Writing Competition on to the members of

your Writers' Group. It is a relatively small competition, but this does mean that any-

one who enters has a much better chance of being a prize-winner! Thank you. Secre-

tary, Northampton Writers' Group

THE 2013 H E BATES SHORT STORY WRITING COMPETITION

This competition, inspired by Northamptonshire born master of short stories, H E Bates, was first

launched in 2005, his centennial year. It is run by Northampton Writers Group.

Write us a short story on the subject of your choice:

The competition is open to all writers.

Entries must be no longer than 2000 words in length.

Prizes: 1st Prize £150 ; 2nd Prize £100; 3rd Prize £50

In addition, a prize of £50 will be awarded for the best story by a writer under 18-years-old on the closing

date for entries.

The entry fee is £4.00 for each story submitted – or £1.00 for each story submitted by an Under 18 writer.

Entrants are invited to submit as many stories as they wish, providing they have not been previously pub-

lished or have been prize-winning entries in another competition. The fee is reduced to £10 for an entry of 3

stories.

The judging panel will comprise members of Northampton Writers’ Group.

The Head Judge is Della Galton, author of Ice And A Slice, The Short Story Writer's Toolshed, and much

else. The decision of the judges is final.

Closing date for entries: Monday 4th November 2013

Prizes will be awarded at a ceremony in January – date & venue to be confirmed.

There is no entry form. Simply send your story (typed please) with a first sheet giving your name, address,

telephone number, e-mail address, and title of story (plus date of birth if entering the Under 18 competition)

to H.E.Bates Competition, 19 Kingswell Road, Northampton NN2 6QB, together with a cheque or a postal

order. Begin the story on the second page. Alternatively, you may e-mail your story in Word format, com-

plete with a first sheet as described above, to hebatescomp@gmail.com and pay by PayPal. In this case, we

will invoice you on receipt of your story. Please note that stories will not be returned, so keep a copy!

Full rules and further information available on www.hebatescompetition.org.uk

It's nearing that time of year again, and we are already making plans for

this year's National Short Story Week (NSSW). This year, NSSW will take place between Monday 11th to Sunday 17th Novem-ber. If you are organising an event to celebrate the week, we'd love to hear about it. We'll be putting information about NSSW events on our blog from next month, and you can find out how to submit details of your own event at: http://www.nationalshortstoryweek.org.uk/tell_us_about_your_event.htm Our recommended reading list for 2013 is now online, and includes recom-mendations for adults and children. Why not see if your local library or bookshop will stock some of the titles from our list: http://www.nationalshortstoryweek.org.uk/recommended-reading-list.htm We also have two exciting projects launching to tie-in with this year's National Short Story Week; we'll bring you news of them both very soon. National Short Story Week www.nationalshortstoryweek.org.uk

Issue 305

Page 19

Issue 305

Page 20

MY LOST POET THIS WEEK is Colmán mac Léníne (530 – 606).

There are supposedly two existing poems of Colmán mac Léníne, one dedicated to the life of St Sennen and the other to the life of St Brendan, both were written in Latin. Despite much searching of the internet I have not been able to find either of them.

Very little is known about his early life, what is known about him seems to sug-gest he was born and raised in Munster and studied poetry for 12 years to be-come a Filé or poet, he was considered by his contemporaries as the royal poet

of Munster. Following his conversion to Christianity, at the age of 50 he became a monk and was giving land in Cloyne by Coirpre mac Crimthainn the King of Munster, where he was to found a monastery and is said to have left a school of Poetry. He was later venerified to be St Colman of Cloyne. As I previously stated above the Cathedral at Cobh is dedicated to him.

He is to a large extent still a lost poet and I would appreciate seeing copies of the two poems, should you come across them.

Saint Colmán of Cloyne (530 – 606), also Colmán mac Léníne, was a monk,

founder and patron of Cluain Uama, now Cloyne, Co. Cork, Ireland, and one of

the earliest known Irish poets to write in the vernacular.

Wikipedia source. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colm%C3%A1n_of_Cloyne

My second lost poet this week is

Bub Bridger (1924 – 2009).

Bub was suggested by a writer friend of mine from New Zealand, Kirstie Brooks. Follow-

ing my blog on the Australian Poet Banjo Patterson, Kirstie suggested that I might be interested in featuring a Kiwi poet and passed on Bub‟s details.

The story goes that Bub was born into a very large family who rather than think up a name for her, called her Bub, she was stuck with it for the rest of her life.

Bub was born in 1924 and grew up in Hawkes Bay. She was married and had four children, but the relationship

broke down and she raised them on her own.

She didn‟t start writing until she was 50 and drew on her English, Irish and Maori (Ngäti Kahungunu) ancestry for inspiration. Her work is full of wit and idiosyncratic fantasy that makes it easily accessible. She is also noted

as a performer and was a member of the women‟s comedy group Hen Teeth. She also wrote short stories and plays, writing for both radio and television.

Her work mostly appeared in anthologies but her collection, Up Here on the Hill, was published in 1989.

She was a great promoter of women writers especially those from New Zealand and it is reported that on a

visit to London as a guest of the International Feminist Bookfair that she brought a suitcase full of books of New Zealand Women writers to show that their was an active group of writers who needed a wider readership

than their native country. She died in Westport, New Zealand in December 2009.

Poems of Note.

Wild Daisies – thematically similar to Brian Patton‟s Blade of Grass, but with a variance as Patten tries to give

a single blade of grass to show his love, whereas Bub as the recipient of a love gift only wants Wild Daisies that the giver has risked his life to get them. It is a wonderful snippet of life that says the simplest of things

mean the most and should be the real treasures that we seek.

It amused me that their was a link to Interflora New Zealand under the version on this web version below, es-pecially as the poem is an anti-flower shop poem, it makes me wonder if some business‟ actually read and un-

derstand the poems they link their business too, well it is about flowers so it must be appropriate for a flower shop business, I suggest that they read it again.

Wild Daisies – Bub Bridger.

http://maaori.com/misc/flowers.htm

A Blade of Grass. – Brian Patten.

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=5923 Another poem Blatant Resistance follows the themes of Warning by Jenny Joseph. Bub with her scarlet coat

wandering around like a fire engine resisting the onset of old age. If Joseph had not written Warning then this would be the delightful poem on the theme of growing old. However, I think Joseph does it better and al-

though Warning is a bit of a cliché these days and is perhaps the only poetry book to be found in most garden centres – I suspect that this is in the hope that most customers of garden centres are likely to relate to it.

Blatant Resistance – Bub Bridger.

http://www.vcoy67.org.nz/blatant.htm

Warning – Jenny Joseph. http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/warning/

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