ISSUE 316 Date: 13th December 2013

RBW Christmas Lunch at The Picture House on the 9th Dec ...

Don’t forget it’s Mince Pies on Monday next at the library.

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Another year whizzed by ... The bulletin will be taking a rest over the winter hols but

will be starting up again in early January. Library workshop begin 13th Jan. Hope “writing” will be on your list of New Year resolutions ... An electric blanket is a glorious indulgence when one is getting older, has thinner blood and feels the cold.

In amongst the trees, and unseen when they were heavy with leaves, a silver cloud of honesty. (Wikipedia image http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lunaria_annua) In homes lived in by the same family for several generations, the garden can be-come a „garden of remembrance‟ with each shrub or tree becoming a memory of the person who gave it, or planted it, especially poignant when the donor had passed over.

Hunting, a hawk sat for over an hour in the bare branches of a cherry tree. Totally fo-cused, it wasn‟t even the slightest bit bothered by a camera flash.

Issue 316

Page 2

Elasmobranch n cartilaginous fish group which includes sharks and rays

Elaphine a pertaining to a stag

Eldritch a hideous, weird, ghastly

Epithet n descriptive word added to or substituted for a name, highlighting

a feature or quality e.g. „the all knowing‟; can be an insulting word or phrase

Elaxation n the act of untying or

loosening

Ejoo n the gomuti palm a source of

palm sugar (nearest illustration I could find)

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

File:Arenga_pinnata_Blanco2.419.jpg

Eidolon n a phantom or apparition

Eisel n vinegar

Hickway n species of small Wood-

pecker Picus minor

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/

birdguide/name/l/

lesserspottedwoodpecker/index.aspx

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

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DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

2012: RBW FREE e-books

PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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

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Random Words: same as last week Assignment: same as last week

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

Rose set off with a purpose. The last few months had been traumatic for her, since John had come into her life. At first, she was bewildered by his un-reasonable jealousy. But when she told him it was all over, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He tex-ted and rang at all hours. Then the stalking began. But now she would get out of his clutches for good. She grasped her passport and walked towards the quayside. The sky was blue, and waves were break-ing gently further out to sea. Time for a new start. But she hadn’t noticed John lurking behind the ships’ chandlers, sheds and other buildings by the harbour. He had a knife in his hand, and his quarry well within sight.

Stafford Knot Storytelling Club Christmas Special : Tuesday 17th December 7.30pm

The Mews Cafe, St Mary’s Mews, Stafford ST16 2AP

More information: stknotstorytelling@gmail.com or

FACEBOOK: Stafford Knot Storytelling Club

THE COMING OF HEAVY WEATHER – 2ND WEEK DECEMBER

The second week of December saw the arrival of changeable weather, and the short term predictions were

reasonably reliable especially the Meteorological Office, giving us a bench mark for the rest of the winter.

How well are the forecasters doing?

The Met. Office is fairly accurate in its five day forecasts, but fortnightly and monthly reports get vaguer

and less reliable. They are not predicting beyond Xmas Day at this stage. However the 16-29th December

forecast did not present any evidence of a savage, unusually cold winter in prospect as the tabloids had

suggested. Officially Winter starts on the 21st December, and the Met. is not predicting much beyond

there.

The record so far this month looks pretty good for the Met. The Monthly outlook for 2nd December broke

down the December forecast into three segments – this week was sharply mixed between before Thursday

and after Thursday, and forecasters got the first segment right, five days ahead being fairly easy to spot.

Blizzard Thursday was exactly as predicted. The Met. Office reported thus:

Week beginning 2 12. This week started on a largely quiet note with “high pressure firmly in control of

weather conditions across most of the UK... Thursday is the day when things will start to change...Severe

gales will also affect many coastal regions through Thursday. High tides along the North Sea coast will

also introduce the risk of some coastal flooding. Friday will be a bitterly cold day, through the weekend

pressure will start to build again... the return of more settled weather conditions, with a generally mild

feel”.

Week beginning 9 12. “After a very cold and unsettled end to the previous week, a gradual return to

more settled weather.... as the week draws on, a northwest/southeast divide is expected to become estab-

lished... the more unsettled but often milder weather tending to be in the northwest and the best of the drier

weather towards the south and east of the UK”. By Monday the BBC reported the Met. saying “generally

mild and settled conditions through most areas this week. We will be able to assess this by the time the

bulletin comes out. The weekend the met thinks conditions will become “more unsettled”, particularly

across the north and west”. The Midlands rarely gets a look in.

Week beginning 16 12 “There is a degree of confidence in the northwest/southeast split being maintained

across most of the UK throughout most of the last two weeks of December. Temperatures are expected to

be close to average values for the time of year”.

The Story Up To Now - Will we have a White Christmas?

We will have to wait to see about the end of the month. For the first full week of December the Met. got it

largely right. The Met's warning on Tuesday (3rd) that there would be severe weather on Thursday was

spot on, and tragically two people were killed in high winds which closed the Scottish rail system.

Evacuation along the East Coast however prevented the high tide and wind leading to a 1953 style disaster

and despite some houses being severely damaged the worst scenarios did not happen.

However forecaster Dan Williams in the Express was wrong to predict “snow and hail by Friday with up

to 20cm (8 inches) expected over high ground”. Scotland may have got this – The Met. had severe weather

warnings for Scotland on Saturday and Sunday but these were only of the Yellow (Be Aware) kind not the

Amber (Be Prepared) or Red (Take Action) kind. On Thursday 5th the warnings had been Take Action and

the work of the emergency services especially in evacuations meant that a crisis was averted. The Met.

warnings for several days ahead have proved accurate. But the longer range forecast is really... no one yet

knows. On Christmas the Met. only predicted conditions “make a white Christmas look unlikely” but on

Monday 9th they were still saying “it's too early to give a definitive forecast”.

But so far so good with no major bad weather apart from Blizzard Thursday.

Trevor Fisher

The passing of our friend and RBW contributor, Barbara Barron, has been reported to us. Barbara was a renowned jazz composer and musician, teacher, poet and writer.

Her contribution to the local arts scene has been immense, in her later years she was in-volved with experimental theatre which took professionally performed drama and her music

into community settings from village halls to Staffordshire University studios. She is pictured here at a RBW workshop in 2006.

The funeral was held on Thursday 12th Dec at Stafford Crematorium. All the team at RBW send their condolences to her family and friends.

Issue 316

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Cross Purposes Alice Schofield

As the coach pulled into the bus station, Jean anxiously scanned the win-dows looking for an empty seat. 'Oh, please let there be one,' she pleaded

silently. She didn't want a repeat of her first coach trip alone. She couldn't cope with another large chatty earth mother, not today. This outing was special. Today was for Richard. He had been so impressed by the London Eye. He thought it a superb piece of engineering, and was keen to see it at close quarters. 'We'll go there next summer Jeannie, for our ruby wedding anniversary. My treatment should be finished then. Let's do it.' he'd said. He'd been so enthusiastic. So had Jean. It would be a double celebration. Richard beat-ing his illness, the two of them, celebrating forty happy years together. Fate had decided otherwise. Richard's relapse had been swift. One min-ute he seemed to be glowing with renewed health, the next, his lean body was gasping for life. He fought hard, but he lost. Jean, resolving to follow Richard's positive approach, was determined to cope, and although difficult, she had coped for almost three years. Urged on by her two sons, she had planned this trip on the 'London Eye' as a tribute to Richard ...The boys would be waiting to meet her at Victoria. They had planned to toast Rich-ard's birthday, with champagne when the 'Eye' reached its highest point. The coach door swished open to reveal the smiling blonde courier. Patti, (as her badge revealed) bounced down the steps to greet Jean. 'Mrs Johnson? Hi! I'm Patti.' She checked Jean's ticket and ushered her onto the coach. Jean made her way to the only empty double seat, with a quiet 'Good Morning' to her fellow travellers. They nodded and smiled in ac-knowledgement. Patti waited until Jean was seated, then clipped on her microphone to address the passengers.

'Good morning everyone. Welcome To Lawson's Luxury Travel. We will be leaving in a few moments, when the last two passengers arrive. They've telephoned, as they have been delayed.' Patti's welcome was interrupted by the arrival of a taxi gliding to a halt in front of the coach. 'Oh, here they are' She stepped down to greet the late arrivals. Out of the car stepped an elegant thirty something supermodel lookalike, followed by a tall suave ma-ture man, his dark brown hair flicked with distinguished silver streaks. 'Oh, no,' groaned Jean silently 'Miss Bimbo and her Sugar Daddy.' She quickly glanced round to identify any empty seats. Just two, one next to a bearded young man near the front, one next to her. The two latecomers

boarded the coach. The young woman breezed in confidently 'Hi everybody. Apologies, do hope we haven't kept you waiting too long,' she smiled. Jean sighed with relief, ashamed at her initial thoughts of her as a bimbo. She wouldn't mind sharing her seat with this pleasant young woman... Her thoughts were interrupted, as the bearded young man at the front of the coach stood up to speak to the latecomer.

'Natalie, what a surprise! Trust you to make a dramatic entrance.' Natalie beamed at him. 'Jamie! I don't believe it. Fancy seeing you, on a luxury coach. Thought you would have hitched to London.' She flopped into the seat beside him, and smilingly beckoned her companion to the vacant seat next to Jean.

'Is that OK? Jamie's an old friend from college. I'll introduce you later.' Mr Sugar Daddy complied, aware that they were creating even more delay. With an embarrassed smile, he edged his way to the vacant seat beside Jean. 'Sorry, so sorry.' Jean glanced at him. His mouth was smiling, his eyes were sad. She turned away slightly, and edged closer to the window to make room. 'H' m,' she thought.' Not too pleased to see Jamie. Probably feels threatened by the charms of the younger man. Still, he had the advantage of money, judging by his ex-pensive suit and no doubt lots of experience' Jean suddenly felt sorry for Mr Sugar Daddy. 'Stop it Jean, don't get involved' she reproached herself. This was a special family day, she did not want to hear about other peoples' problems. She opened her Telegraph and carefully folded it at the crossword. Reaching for her pencil, she concentrated on

the clues. Soon she was absorbed, and quickly filled in the easiest answers. Now to tackle the difficult ones. Jean became aware that her neighbour was leaning forward to peer at the clues. With an impatient shrug, she turned the paper towards her, her finger on 10 across: 'Angry amongst the cabbages.' (5,5). Mr Sugar Daddy leant towards Jean, and whis-pered, 'Cross Patch'. 'I beg your pardon,' Jean bristled, turning to glare at him. 'Cross patch' he repeated, 10 across.' She became aware of his after-shave, 'Dune', she hadn't smelled that since Richard died. 'Sorry, I couldn't resist. I enjoy crosswords, and we were so late this morning, I did-

n't have a chance to buy a newspaper. I didn't mean to intrude. I'm David, by the way, David Braithwaite.' 'No, I'm sorry', replied Jean, 'I thought you were referring to me, I know I haven't been very friendly.' David chuckled. He was about to reply when Natalie appeared at his side. 'Dad, are you OK? Sorry I got absorbed in catching up with Jamie's news. He's of-fered to swap seats if you want to sit with me.' David stood up beside his daughter, 'Natalie, this is Jean, I'm afraid I intruded on her crossword.' 'Hello Jean, glad you've managed to cheer Dad up, I haven't heard him chuckle in ages, not since Mum died. We're going on the London Eye to celebrate, she would have been sixty today.‟ Flustered, and red cheeked, Jean shook Natalie's hand.

'Hello', she stuttered, 'Sorry, I got it wrong…. I thought you two were…‟ embar-rassed, her words trailed off. Natalie and her father stared at each other and burst out laughing. 'Oh, Mum would have loved that! Well what do you think, do you want Jamie to swap seats?' David sat down beside Jean, his eyebrows raised quizzically.

'What do you think, crosspatch?' This time it was Jean's turn to laugh. 'I'd be delighted to share my crossword with you, and you and Natalie can share with me and my sons our bottle of champagne on the London Eye. It's a special day for us too.' Jean smiled at them both... With such coincidences, she had a funny feeling that they may have more than crosswords in common.

-o0o-

Assignment - Feasts PMW

Food and drink and gifts in abundance. We’re tempted by over-indulgence.

Easter, we’re told, is a moveable one. Like the body of Jesus, you can’t pin it

down.

A gorgeous girl in the street walks by. The old men remark “She’s a feast for

the eye!”

St Stephen’s feast’s twenty-sixth of December. Because of a carol, it’s one we

remember.

There’s more to it all than food and drink, which is what most people seem to

think.

Salvation is the real reason for the Easter and the Christmas season.

COLOURBLIND

Another day draws slowly by

Fogged up by the misty eye Toneless sounds, life passes by

In black and white, I‟m colourblind walking along through quiet streets

traffic someplace else it seems people glare, but never stop

never seem to ask what‟s wrong I can cry for them, without them seeing

Without their concern, they walk on by me Alongside me, sometimes right through me

But im still there, beside their being

Masked today, today im sad Saddened by the world so bad Saddened, I shouldn‟t be so

But the woes I carry, will never go

Fading along with the sunlight

Look upon those who rush by Again pass through me, as though I‟m not there

I see through them too, shadows of night Chilled by the air, The silence dawns down

The world re-awakens as the nighttime sounds Euphoria spreads for all to find

Little has changed, I‟m colourblind.

This is a poem I have written for the latest campaign from Parkinson's UK. They are trying to let people know that you don't have to suffer alone. I was diagnosed with Parkinson's 18 yeas ago when I was 41.

It‟s a great big shock when they tell you, You can hardly believe it‟s true! Things like this are for others Not meant to be dealt out to you. A diagnosis which sets you reeling, Dark thoughts round your head now buzz, Don‟t hide away in isolation, Remember you can turn to us. For Parkinson‟s, we know all about it, If you want to ask questions now, Someone will have an answer, To cope we will show you how. So telephone, text or email, Facebook, twitter and share, Turn to us when you need an answer, Because we‟ll always be right there!

I have written lots of poems about my experiences having Parkinson's. I am sitting in my Tardis, my haven and retreat, It‟s my armchair near the bookcase, a very comfy seat! The place I visit first after struggling down the stairs, It‟s the biggest and the best of all my family‟s chairs! On the shelves just to my left, there‟s everything I need, My sewing box and knitting bag and lots of books to read. There are pencils and some paper, a ruler and a pen, And a telephone which rings loudly, every now and then! On the table just before me, my laptop has its place, A communication centre which takes up little space. I don‟t sit here all day although I know I could, In my moments of mobility I do the jobs I should. My Tardis has become a haven and retreat, It‟s my armchair near the bookcase, a very comfy seat. http://www.pdf.org/

Issue 316

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FEAST by Aimless Ramblings 'Io Saturnalia! Merry Christmas, long may your Yule log burn and other

things as well. Ho, ho, ho, ho and another ho as well my merry little elves and pixies... erm ... and others; now settle down while I tell you a story of long, long, ago.

Once upon a time, and all the very best stories start with that, there was a little girl....

You what? You don't want a little girl story! Oh, all right, she was a fairly big girl. A cuddly 13 stone about 6-foot tall girl who could swing an axe and take somebody's head off no problem....

What do you mean what's 13 stone and 6 foot in real terms? Let's see? Thirteen stone is somewhere about … taking two pounds to the

kilo, times fourteen pound to the stone … times thirteen stones gives us … yes, erm … about 84 kilogram‟s and six foot is a bit less than two metres, say one and three quarter metres. Near enough.

Pass me that beer over; all this calculating's making my mouth dry! Ahh, that's better, there's nothing like a quick quart of beer, even that

funny tasting stuff, to loosen your tonsils! Now where wash I?.... What do you mean I hadn't started; I was too busy getting my maths

wrong? And, before you ask, a quart of beer is about a litre, its two pints. Now! There wash this fairly beg girl, a curdled 13 stone with 6 feet who could swing an axe and take somebody's head off no problem....

Washu you mean; why should she wan take somebody's head off with an axe? What short of question's that? ….

I didn't shay she did, I shed she could! If she wanted too! Right, smarty pants? ….

Washer mean, what short of axe did she use? There's only one short she could use. The one her dear old Dad had for working with. What else? ….

No, her Dad wasn't the local executioner, he was a woodcutter … Oh all right, he wash moshtly a woodcutter who moonlighted an executioner. Okay now?...

Yes, you're probably right; there wasn't much business coming his way so he was the ash-ish-tant executioner.

Pashush that beer again, I've thirst up a work arguing with you. Ahh, that's better, there's nothing like a quirk quartz to irritate your tonsure! Now where wash I?

Anyway, here there was thish … wash this fairly cuddly tall girl who could swing an axe and cure somebody's problem head ...

Washer mean 82.55 kilo and 1.83 metres tall and a quart is 1.14 litres us-ing UK measurements but 0.95 if US and you don use a widcotters ash … axe

… for excursions? Why not?.. Wrong short of blade and the weights in the wrong place … hmm …

good pints. Have to commember when I tell you this story... Pashmina beer jug again, this thinking's made me thirty...

Ahh, nothing like it to lose your toe-nails! Now where wash I? Issue 316

Page 10

Anyway, here, or shomewere - was washing a curdled 2-metre tall girl whose ash had a swing on it, and cured headaches...

No, I don know what caused the headaches … purbly arguing with you lot! Shomewere - wash a girl who swung in ash and cured headaches with it … ohh

feel ill. I'll just go for a lie down. Rope you enjoined the story' The door slammed behind him and there was the sound of stumbling footfalls

and a whisper of laughter in the room. 'How much did this one drink, Swallow?' asked Whisperer. 'More than the others, but he didn't last as long, and you got him with the num-

bers. I don't think we'll be seeing him again.' 'Pity that. He was the most amusing of the humans so far. But telling us about

Margaret was too much. We'll just have to collect the next one!' Editor note: I used to attempt to edit assignments from “Aimless Ramblings” but

their surreal qualities are impaired if I do, so from now on ... Enjoy ... They are what they are, and if anyone thinks it is an easy thing to write in this fashion ... I suggest you have a try: I know it is a skill beyond me.

Too much enthusiasm for that Christmas Toblerone which I then got every year for ten years Wrapped in a groan. Pleasure goes when everyone knows That the giving is just going through the motions without emotions. Writing is a gift not to make money Given to others and self useful in terms of mental health. Creating is a gift the hand is led uncontrolled by the author in the hand of the creator or the subconscious other. November 2013

Issue 316

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Mixed Success With Some Exotic

Vegetables.

When I plant things I very often get to the point where I put

things in the nearest available space and forget all about the

carefully designed plans that I made on the computer before the

season started. This was the case with the “Oca,” or “New Zea-

land, Yams,” that I planted in the late Spring. Most of the other

vegetable plants had gone into the plot by that time and the Oca

were just put in an odd bit of space that was left.

Consequently, some weeks ago, as it started to get colder and I wanted to wrap them

up to against the early frosts, I only managed to put a fleece cloche over some of the

plants. A few I couldn’t cover, so were left un-protected from the cold and those have

now succumbed. As a result of this, I have harvested the first few OCA, or Oxalis Tu-

berosa plants, that were caught by the frosts.

For months now, other plot-holders were convinced that they were overgrown Clover

weeds as they are members of the same family, but having dug up a few very nice lit-

tle, tuberous roots, I know they weren’t and I was quite impressed with them. Not

only are the colourful, smaller tubers tasty, if scrubbed and added to a salad like a

Raddish, but the bigger ones can be cooked like a potato. My brother pointed out that

they have Oxalic acid in them that is in fact the same highly poisonous acid that is

found in Rhubarb leaves, but it is far more concentrated in Rhubarb and is only in the

skins of the Oca, rather than the flesh. According to an old 1971 Encyclopaedia they

are perfectly edible raw and are best after a few days in the sun (unlike most root

vegetables) to break down the acidity in their skins.

Like most people I am tidying up my allotment ready for Winter now and the remain-

ing Oca that are under the cloche are in the way for me to plant some of my new Cur-

rant bushes. However, they are still surviving at the moment, so will be left as will

the few I grew at home, in potato tubs in my greenhouse. In the tub next to the Oca,

in the greenhouse, I grew a few Sweet Potatoes, however, the Sweet Potatoes were

smothered by the neighbouring Oca plants and produced nothing at all with those on

the Allotments not faring much better, although I did get a handful of some small tu-

bers. Everyone else on the allotment was convinced I was carefully growing Convol-

vulous under my giant Cloche Sweet Potatoes are in the same family, but it wasn’t

and I have a dozen of the smallest Sweet Potatoes you have ever seen to prove it!!

The plants obviously wanted some more growing time and even under the Fleece

Cloche they were just too delicate for the early frosts this year. Unfortunately, with

the cost of the young plants, I think they are too expensive to grow for such a risky

crop. The plants did not flower, so there was not even any seed to collect, whereas the

Oca are yielding hundreds of tiny tubers that should keep over winter to seed my plot

with next year besides the few larger tubers to eat. As well as being that little bit

tougher than the Sweet Potatoes, the Oca plants should go on to produce even better

tubers than those already harvested as they are still growing. So next year I will fill

both large cloches with them and maybe try some under smaller, cheaper cloches as

well, to maximise the number of plants that I can grow.

Flowers on the Allotment.

When the Allotments were first set up it was decided to discourage plot holders from growing

flowers and try to persuade people to grow just vegetables and fruit. It was said that the Allot-

ments were not to be thought of as gardens, but large and productive vegetable patches. How-

ever, comments were made that without flowers to encourage the Bees, things like Runner

Beans would not get pollinated and the beans wouldn’t set. The first year there were virtually

no flowers anywhere on the site, apart from on the vegetables, but this, the second year, there

have been flowers grown on many of the plots. Sweet Pea towers standing tall have been dotted

about the site and several people have put on a show with some spectacular Dahlias. Little bor-

ders of Marigolds have brightened up one or two plots as have Poppies and a wild flower mix

on others. My own Chrysanthemums did very well providing many cut flowers for the house

and one or two for some of my mother’s friends, so consequently, I am planning to put in more

flowers for cutting next year.

When I had my plot on the other Allotment site at Amerton, we had a problem with Rab-

bits, so were looking for and experimenting with natural deterrents. One plant that we identified

as fitting the bill nicely was Monarda Didyma, otherwise known as the herb Bergamot that is

used in making drinks. As a result we bought some seeds which produced over a dozen nice

sized plants ready for planting out this year. One of the TV gardeners talked about them saying

what a wonderful display of flowers they produced, so after losing the intended site for them,

we decided to plant them at the Hixon allotments. I don’t know how suitable the flowers will be

for cutting, but I have planted six plants anyway that should make a nice little drift of flowers,

next to where I will make my Chrysanthemum bed in the forthcoming season. Instead of tying

the Chrysanthemums themselves up with canes for support though like last year, I am going to

plant them in a broad row and run a roll of “Chicken Wire,” horizontally along the length fixed

securely with posts at a height of about 18 inches and 3 feet. Hopefully, this will give the grow-

ing plants more natural support and allow the stems to space out better instead of being

bunched and tied up against canes.

My Sweet Pea towers were also very successful this year and will be put up again in the

new season, although I would like to find out why the stems on the flowers got shorter and

shorter as the season progressed this year.

Normally we grow quite a few Gladiolas at home for cut flowers, but many corms seem to

die over winter in the ground. It may be because they are supposed to be a little bit frost tender

and don’t like winter wet either, although they have been in sheltered, dry spots in the garden,

so this year, as they die down, I am digging the bulbs up and storing them dry and frost free, in

the greenhouse. When I recently I emptied the fish-pond at home I saved the big mesh planting

baskets to plant some of the Gladiola bulbs in. The idea is to plunge the baskets in the ground in

the allotment next year, so that the plants will draw the moisture they need from the ground,

will not need watering, but will be easy to fetch up when next Winter

comes.

Next year, after seeing the great looking Dahlias on the other

plots, I have also decided to try a few plants from tubers rather than

growing the cheaper bedding type. By the time the new season comes

round I may have added a few more flowers to the list to grow.

Issue 316

Page 14

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.

Things had drastically changed when Rick and Tip-tip arrived back at the office. The door had a plastic sign on it saying:

POMEROY, McGee & FALLON LLC Private Investigators.

There was a smell of fresh paint and air freshener, the scarred, ancient, desk had

been replaced by a modern workstation; complete with computer screen, the overflow-ing ashtray had disappeared and there was a well-dressed woman sitting in a bright new swivel chair. Neither Rick nor Tip-tip would have classed her as 'a girl', and 'middle aged' was going too far, but she smiled at them and said, “Good afternoon to you both. Laven-der's in the other office Rick, doing the accounts, and swearing. Help yourself to a drink and take her in a cup of coffee, then, maybe, she won't rip your head off for letting things get in such a muddle.” The smile said something else; it said, 'Dubious at best, but it serves you right if she does!'

'Tip-tip there's shopping list of things for you to do after you pick up the new car. Here's the details.' She handed him a sheet of paper.

'But Molly, she knaws I don' read t' well.' Tip-tip knew her as a friend of Laven-ders, not as an office manager.

'That is why there's only five things on it Tip-tip. Do them in order. First, pick up the firms new car, then your clothes from the cleaners and then the other three. You've plenty of time to do them; the four of us aren't going out for the firm‟s inaugural dinner until seven.'

This was the first they'd heard about going out to dinner. Things had DECIDEDLY changed!

Molly continued, 'As long as you're back home by five there's no problem. Ohh and don't forget the nameplate for my desk.' She stroked the desk as if it were a pet. 'Ms.M.Rippsheet should look good.'

'Yes', Rick thought as he went into the back office, the one that had, all too often,

served him as makeshift living quarters. 'No mistake there; definitely a Ms!' # 'You've made a right mares nest of these accounts, Rick.' Lavender told him, she knew

that he knew but said it anyway. 'You've money owing to you and you've debts that have to be paid. Once I've cleared up all the mess I think we may be, just about, in the black. Once Molly and I have used our own funds to recapitalise the firm we should be okay.'

Rick was concerned, 'Who's Molly and what is she doing here. This is my firm, well Tip-tips and mine anyway.'

'Was, Rick. Definitely a was. Fallon and McGee has gone bust, I've filed a notifica-tion with the bank. Pomeroy, McGee, and Fallon have taken over the business. You work for a limited liability company now.'

'But I've never signed anything about that!' Rick was astounded at the speed of things.

Lavender smiled. The smile didn't reach her eyes. 'Bust is bust, Rick. I took over your debts, all legally and above board, and now own the firm. You are on salary and own a twenty-five percent share, Tip-tip owns ten percent, Molly also owns ten percent, and the rest is mine. Now! Daily report! What have you found out?'

Rick, still in shock said. 'Nothing at the Abbey because just about everything was moved when the Government took over the site in about 1945. The guide said that there was supposed to be some treasure buried in the abbey grounds and that was given attention at the time. The chief conservator called in an army mine detector team just to make sure that they found it.'

'Did they find anything,' Lavender asked him in a voice that Rick recognised as avari-cious.

'Lots of odd chunks of metal but no gold or silver. That particular story is a completely wrong.'

'So how many stories are there? You said that that one's rubbish, how about the rest?'

With a shrug Rick replied, 'According to the guide we talked to there's four that are reasonable and a few dozen that are stupid. There's even a Trentby Abbey Treasure Seekers Association, TATSA for short. They've got a website - whatever that is.'

'Rick, you're a technological dinosaur! Ask Molly to explain it to you; when she has a day or so to spare. What else?'

'This TATSA is working on the idea that there where two abbey sites. The guide reck-

ons that they're a bunch of nutters. 'And?' 'Well we had lunch in 'The Monks Head Tavern‟; it was Tip-tips idea. They do two for a

tenner and a free pint with it.' 'Rick … !' 'It was a good thing we did, because there may be something in there that will lead

us to the answer.' '“Well!' 'There's a history board up on the wall it says. Well, lots, you'll have to see for your-

self. Anyway, I had a word with the manager and he took us down into the cellars. The pub cellar was the crypt of a church or something. If the TATSA idea is right, this could be the second one, the one they think burned down before the Dissolution.'

'So why does that interest us? Stop playing about Rick.' 'Well there are a lot of interesting things down there...' 'Besides the beer barrels I hope, Rick!' 'Beside the beer barrels! There's a coat of arms carved into one wall, a Unicorn, a Lion

and a Crocodile. You know the old kids rhyme?' Lavender chanted slowly under her breath,' The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting

for the Crown. The Lion beat the Unicorn all around the town.' 'That's one version, but there's another with a Crocodile in it. Well Dragon, but from

the carving it's the same thing, and the Bluddschott coat of arms has?' 'A Lion, a Unicorn and a Crocodile on it, and we've guessed that Bluddschott is the

one who instructed Mbekod to engage us....hmm. This looks interesting, Rick. Well done! That gets you get an extra whisky at dinner, at least.'

Burrowmere, Black Knight, the Lord Heywood, sees double ACW As Kit and Burball had talked with no man they thought in earshot, Burrowmere afoot,

reclaiming an arrow or two to keep his archery in good practice, had heard all from down in road ditch and behind gorse wastelands.

This penny per page wordsmith after my Squire‟s daughter, Penelope. I‟ll soon scupper that upstart low born! thought Burrowmere.

Burrowmere‟s manservant rode up, leading his black stallion. „The Squire beseeches you visit with him, while ye be so close by, for a matter of some

delicacy, Sire.‟ The Lord Heywood vaulted onto his war horse mount and went round to the front

gatehouse to enter the Hall, as befitted his aristocratic birthright. His man took charge of the Lord‟s mount and Burrowmere left his cloak and gloves

with a bowing servant. Another bowing servant led him to the solar, in which the Squire awaited.

„Most kind, Lord Heywood, to grant me the privilege of your visit.‟ The Squire beckoned him sit in his best chair and sat opposite, offering a drink of wine

with his own hand, and it was then Burrowmere noticed no servant was present. „What are you up to now, Squire Bluddschott?‟ „Well, my dear Lord Heywood, there was a small matter that I was privileged to assist

you over. You may care, my Lord, to grant me a small trifle in token of your favour, in re-turn.‟

„How much is it going to cost me?‟ „Why nothing at all, but a fine lady to enrich our social standing and make use of the

fine lodgings of your Hunting Lodge, now little used.‟ „Have you run out of rooms to house your harem of mistresses?‟ „Nay, nay, my Lord. You are mistook, for this lady of virtue is a daughter unbeknown to

me till now. All dowry for her suitor is my duty and her care my sole concern. All is asked is that she be presented as ward to your house, after the sadness of your esteemed

mother, the Lady Heywood‟s last childbirth stillborn and so a comfort.‟ „Servants will tittle tattle.‟ „Nay, nay, a maid and Lady‟s Maid in service to my mistress, the child‟s mother, will be

such service as a lady needs, and their mouths stopped up by chinks to show for it, and chaperone to her virtue, my Lord.‟

„Oh be assured Squire, I would not affront my respect for your station and will visit as is right and proper.‟

Me Lord then settled in to drink a goodly amount of the Squire‟s finest wine and best assortment of afternoon twixt meal pies and desserts. Ah, thought the Squire, the dire cost of aristocracy throughout the ages!

Lord Heywood took his leave before the dark closed up the village way‟s wicker wall pale, the night-watchmen and their mastiffs took over the land against brigands, and the

servants bolt the great gates of his Hall. As he rose past the Hunting Lodge he saw wag-ons unloading and servants going through the back carrying trunks and valises.

He rode up the front door left ajar and a footman hurried forward, bowed and Lord Heywood commanded, „Tell your Mistress I will visit on the afternoon of the morrow.‟

Just as the servant bowed again, Lord Heywood saw Mistress Hood come into the hall

and instruct a servant where to place pewter plates in a cupboard. „Penelope, are you put out from the Hall?‟ Just then Penelope came out of the study. „My Lord Heywood, it is so kind of you to offer my cousin Anya such fine lodgings.‟ „Cousin?‟

„Yes, may I present Mistress Anya to you, my Lord Heywood.‟ Lord Heywood could see double. „Yes, I can see the family resemblance now.‟ „So pleased to make your acquaintance My Lord.‟ Anya was so pleased she had paid attention to courtly manners in the plays now. As

Lord Heywood left he mused, So is this seamstress the source of that upstart play-wright‟s affections?‟

„What do you mean there‟s been a murder?‟ said the Magistrate a spoon of porridge halted half way between bowl and neatly trimmed soup catcher. „Who‟s been mur-dered? Speak up man.‟

„One of the players, sire. A man called Harry Swann,‟ replied Smithers twisting a vel-vet cap in his fingers like a nervous girl.

Lord Heywood, the Magistrate‟s break of fast guest who was smoking a pipe over by the newly-installed chimney breast of Trentby Castle‟s main Hall, regarded the consta-ble with interest. The man was clearly out of his depth and worried. With good reason. If the culprit could not be found and hanged there would be a hefty fine on the hun-dred to be paid by every man. Times were hard, winter had been never ending and a poor harvest would be late to gather in.

„Tell me more,‟ said the Sherriff. „Sire, the body, well part of it, was found in the midden at the back of the Boar‟s

Head Inn.‟ „Part of it?‟ spluttered Pettigrew. „Which part of it?‟ „The top half, sire.‟ „Good grief.‟ Pettigrew put down his spoon and pushed away his bowl. The Sherriff, a soldier of fortune, was not so squeamish. „And the legs? What of the

lower limbs and the guts, man?‟ „Found in the river. Downstream. Found an hour ago by the Miller, clearing a blockage

in his race.‟ „Was this an animal attack?‟ asked the Magistrate desperate for it to be easily ex-

plained and with no expense and no fine. The Sherriff scowled. „The bear,‟ replied Smithers spreading his hands in submission. „The bear!‟ said Lord Heywood knocking out the pipe on his boot. „Come on man,

show me what you‟ve discovered so far. Let‟s put an end to speculation and see if Ned‟s

tired old Bruin is indeed covered in such guilt and sin.‟ This is an earlier piece and will be inserted further back in the storyline.

FEAST Pamela Clare-Joyce

(for Barkat)

The black back of your head,

Your slimness, tallness,

All familiar here, where

I cannot reach a finger

To your nape, feel your

Back against my breast

As I close in on you.

You are aware, I know it,

Of my hungry eyes;

Your smile displays it

When you turn to stride

Across the large room

Over to your side

Away from me.

And on those smiles,

Those mouthed words

Space denies a sound,

We feast like starving

Children bolting dry crusts.

I hold the knowledge of

You like a leaf of gold

A breath could blow away;

Treasure, long awaited,

Poised, here in my hand.

Issue 316

Page 20

Missing

Missing you is being bullied in Miss Ashworth‟s class, Missing you is bare feet crunching on broken glass, Missing you is the world switching over to „Mute‟, Missing you is hurting over a friend‟s dispute, Missing you is buying chips without salt, Missing you is everything‟s always my fault, Missing you is the horror of Concorde crashing, Missing you is lorry tyres puddle splashing, Missing you is as sore as an open wound, Missing you is reaching out for a silent sound, Missing you is eyes wide staring at a game-show, Missing you is chilblains throbbing in winter snow, Missing you is two weeks in Benidorm, Missing you is being a caterpillar that can‟t transform, Missing you is Mozart through ear defenders, Missing you is sales day at Marks and Spencer‟s, Missing you is cardboard instead of cornflakes, Missing you is my life drifting by in out takes, Missing you is a ticking clock without a chime, Missing you is so much worse at Christmas time.

FORWARDPOETRY

Just a quick message to let you know that our current submissions invited themes close on the 27th December 2013, so

there is still time to enter. It’s a great opportunity to showcase your writing talents, using the inspiring themes:

A Guiding Light

Celebrating victory of good over evil, and hope after overcoming the worst adversity.

Into Darkness

Who can tell what is lurking in the shadows? We are inviting you to submit a poem based around things that go bump

in the night.

Thankful Thoughts

We all have things we're thankful for and Forward Poetry would like to hear just what it is that has you brimming with

gratitude. Further information on each theme and entry rules can be found at our website: www.forwardpoetry.co.uk/

competition-categories.php. You are welcome to enter one poem per theme.

Simply email or post your poem(s) to us by the 27th December 2013.

If you have any questions, please feel free to drop us an email or give us as call.

We look forward to reading your work. Best wishes Editorial Manager

P.S If you have a poem you’d like to send us that doesn’t fit any of the themes currently open, you are welcome to send

it to us.

PUBLICITY RELEASE: FORWARDPOETRY

Wheelie Bin Blues The wheelies came in two by two, Hoorah, Hoorah the green one and the brown one too, Hoorah, Hoorah now there’s one with a caddy blue, to add to the hullabaloo. And they all go to St Albans Road for to ease the Council Tax strain. The wheelies came in three by three, Hoorah, Hoorah but a change of day adds misery, Hoorah, Hoorah to the colour blind it’s a mystery adding richness to social history. And they all go to St Albans Road for to ease the Council Tax strain. The wheelies came in four by four, Hoorah, Hoorah standing in line outside the door. Hoorah, Hoorah Be careful not to break the law don’t leave any scraps upon the floor. And they all go to St Albans Road for to ease the Council Tax strain. The wheelies came in five by five, Hoorah, Hoorah rotting garbage heaves maggot alive, Hoorah, Hoorah seagulls circle and swiftly dive, on old spud peelings see them thrive. And they all go to St Albans Road for to ease the Council Tax strain. The wheelies came in six by six, Hoorah Hoorah packets of cornflakes and Weetabix, Hoorah Hoorah folded and emptied by forty licks, crushed down smartly with a pile of bricks. And they all go to St Albans Road for to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in seven by seven, Hoorah, Hoorah lined up all the way to the gates of heaven. Hoorah, Hoorah From cold Aberdeen to sunny Devon they’re collected by hero, beefy Kevin. And they all go to St Albans Road for to ease the Council Tax strain. The wheelies came in eight by eight, Hoorah, Hoorah be out by 7.00am or you’ll be too late, Hoorah, Hoorah be careful don’t confuse the date, if you mix up the colours you’ll be in a state. And they all go to St Albans Road for to ease the Council Tax strain. The wheelies marched in nine by nine, Hoorah, Hoorah collected in ones, or two at a time. Hoorah, Hoorah Brown and Blue together in a line, but mucky old Green has to bide its time. And they all go to St Albans Road for to ease the Council Tax strain. The wheelies trooped in ten by ten, Hoorah, Hoorah We’re all truly sick of them by then. Hoorah, Hoorah Let’s take all useless poli-tic-ian, and dump them in a wheelie bin, and send them all to St Albans Road for to ease the Council Tax strain. 2011 (SMS)

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