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ISSUE 252 Date: 31st August 2012

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Issue 252

Page 2

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Sir Brooke Boothby, 6th Baronet (1744 - 1824), was a lin-

guist, translator, poet and landowner, based in Derby-

shire. He was a member of the intellectual and literary

circle of Lichfield, which included Anna Seward and Eras-

mus Darwin. In 1766 the philosopher Jean-Jacques Rous-

seau came to Ashbourne Hall the family seat which

Boothby was renting from his father, who was forced into

reduced circumstances by his personal excesses so it is

said. Ten years later, in 1776, Boothby visited Rousseau

in Paris, and was given a manuscript part of Rousseau's

three-part autobiography, Confessions, which Boothby

translated and published in 1780 after Rousseau‟s

death, and donated to the British Library in 1781. (The portrait is a Print by John Raphael Smith

after Sir Joshua Reynolds )

Arguably more importantly in 1801, Brooke Boothby

was responsible for saving five panels of artistically

and historically important 16th century stained glass

windows, which are now usually prominently featured

in Lichfield Cathedral. He purchased the painted glass

panels from the Abbey of Herkenrode which had been

dissolved during the Napoleonic Wars and had them

shipped to Lichfield Cathedral (at a cost of £200 for

which he was reimbursed). The windows have been

removed from display and are presently being con-

served (a five year project) and will be restored and

protected by encasing in clear glass for future genera-

tions.

Sonnet X11 by Brooke Boothby

Well has thy classick chisel, Banks, express'd

The graceful lineaments of that fine form,

Which late with conscious, living beauty warm,

Now here beneath does in dread silence rest.

And, oh, while life shall agitate my breast,

Recorded there exists her every charm,

In vivid colours, safe from change or harm,

Till my last sigh unalter'd love attest.

That form, as fair as ever fancy drew,

The marble cold, inanimate, retains;

But of the radiant smile that round her threw

Joys, that beguiled my soul of mortal pains,

And each divine expression's varying hue,

A little senseless dust alone remains.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sir_Brooke_Boothby,_6th_Baronet

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

On 19 March 1791, disaster

struck when Boothby's

daughter, Penelope, died

aged five. Boothby was dev-

astated and published a

book of poetry, Sorrows Sa-

cred to the Memory of Pene-

lope. A remarkable tomb was

constructed which included

a life size statue of the child

sleeping. The tomb is in Saint

Oswald's church in

Ashbourne.

LIFE OBSERVATIONS There are lots of ways to help think creatively ... Write to-do lists and do them, carry a notebook around, realise that you can write with a pencil as well as with a keyboard, take screen breaks and writing breaks, realise you are not a machine so creatively isn’t permanently on tap in your brain, find your own self, know where you come from and who you are, be open, don’t close your mind to different ideas from those you were brought up with, listen to music, if you ask for feedback realise that feedback is only as valuable as the intelli-gence and experience of the person offering it, not all feedback is going to be a positive experience, be up for new experiences and going to new places and meeting new people, be up for taking time out to be happy and to enjoy new things, try to create a framework or schedule for your writing, if you write every-day it is likely you will get better at it, read as much as you can and read a wide variety of authors, learn new vocab, always try to finish what you start, try to work in an uncluttered environment in your workspace, be very careful not to get lost in that world in your head and always remember your characters are just that, characters, they are not part of your real life, don’t get lost in your own personal virtual reality, you have to live a life as well as write about an imagi-nary one.

Issue 252

Page 3

anglicism n

A word or other feature originating in the English language that has been borrowed by another

language.

progeny n

(uncountable) Offspring or descendants.

(countable) Result of a creative effort.

coppice n

A grove of small growth; a thicket of brushwood; a wood cut at certain times for fuel or other

purposes, typically managed to promote growth and ensure a reliable supply of timber.

chiropterologist n Someone who studies bats (the flying mammal).

portend v

(transitive) To serve as a warning or omen. (transitive) To signify; to denote.

levity n

Lightness of manner or speech, frivolity.

The state or quality of being light, buoyancy. A light hearted or frivolous act.

roundelay n

(music) A poem or song having a line or phrase repeated at regular intervals.

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream,

Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, life is but a dream.

(Correct me if I‟m wrong but wasn‟t this sung by Capt J T Kirk and Bones to Mr Spock while

camping in the woods?)

CLIVE’s three FREE e-books

NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

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

PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Issue 251

Page 4

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

risingbrookwriters

and on RBW main site

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

Next exhibition: Millbank Gallery, October.

Random words: extra, cream, fox, confiscate, Aberdeen, proven,

mature, juvenile, village, train, Emperor 150 words

Assignment: - numbers, or, the end of the holidays 400 words

2012 RBW e-books NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

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

PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Random words: SMS

„If it hadn‟t been for Henry waiting to snap an Emperor butterfly

perching on the back of farmer George‟s Aberdeen Angus bull

none of the ensuing train of events would have occurred and

disaster could have been avoided in the whole village,‟ said Mr

Fox, the barrister for the accused. Mr Fox looked simply stun-

ning thought Abigail, his cream coloured wig was cocked at an

amazingly seductive manner: she blushed at such a juvenile

fancy.

„It will be proven beyond doubt that when farmer George con-

fiscated the camera things escalated. Truth be told trespassing

in a bull pen was not a mature and considered thing to do, but

neither was the farmer‟s response.‟

“Extra, Extra, read all about it!!” The shouts of the newspaper vendors came through the window.

“Driver Fox blamed for the train crash in the Emperor‟s play ground. Horrible casualty list. Extra,

extra!”

“Mountains out of molehills in that paper. Nothing of the sort,” said Mr, Plodd to Reg, his assistant.

“Cheese-napping again I suppose,” was the reply. “It‟s been proven that with 500 grammes of Ma-

ture Cheddar in your hand you can get anything printed.”

“250 grammes of Cream Juvenile Wensleydale is better though, Reg. Easier to get it past the snif-

fer snails, Or so they say down in the village. Don‟t know myself of course. I‟m no cheesehead;

strictly a quota person myself.”

Reg nodded. He knew where that pack of Extra Strong Aberdeen that they‟d had to confiscate at

the toll-booth had gone. It had been very nice in a Welsh rarebit; but much better on toast.

David started his journey using the transport mode laid down by tradition, the donkey didn‟t like

the idea either and protested, loudly.

„Still,‟ he thought, „It could be worse, I don‟t know how but it could be.‟

Then the sight of another member of the party changed his mind; „No; it‟s just got worse because

that idiot Isaac is along. He may be somebody I knew in my schooldays, but, he‟s got a very vari-

able outlook on life. One second everything‟s okay; then for some reason it‟s all rubbish.‟

“Oh, hi Isaac. You along on the pilgrimage then.”

“My Dad made me. Said it‟d be good for my soul or something. Load of rubbish if you ask me.”

“Well they do say that confession is good for the soul. At least I think they do.”

“Yeah but what‟s tramping along towing a donkey got to do with that, Mr Clever Cloggs David. You

tell me that? I could be at home doing some greasing and oiling in the garage. Real work and earn-

ing some money.”

“The money you keep secret from your Dad I suppose, Isaac? The money you think he doesn‟t

know about.”

“No danger of him finding out about that, Dave. Not unless somebody blabs anyway.”

“You‟ve got to be joking, Isaac. He knows all about it! He was bragging to my Dad last week about

it. Said you were earning enough in your spare time to keep him in fags and booze if he let on.”

“How did he find out? I never said anything.”

“The trouble with you, Isaac, is that you don‟t think things through properly. Half the folks in the

area get their cars serviced by you, there‟s no way that he couldn‟t know.”

“That‟s why he said I needed the exercise I suppose, Dave. Well at least this section‟s only ten

kilometres so we should be able to do it easily.”

“But it‟s twenty tomorrow, Isaac. That should take the shine off your trainers. Good luck.”

“It‟s always the same on a Sunday,” grumbled Shandy.

“What‟s always the same?” asked Pipe. “It can‟t be the cricket match „cos they haven‟t started

yet.”

“I know that! That‟s one of the things that‟s always the same. A little bit of a shower and it‟s rain

stopped play. No initiative that‟s the problem.”

“A bit of a shower! The pitch is under water, Shandy,” replied G&T as he came back with a new

pot of tea.”And, from my recent observation, the flood‟s stopped traffic clear back to the round-

abouts.”

“Aqualung cricket, that‟s what we need. I mean it‟s not too far-fetched is it? It‟d stop them rowdy

arguments at the wicket anyway.”

“Not a bad idea, Shandy.” Pipe said after a short interval for refreshment. “„Course you could

have problems with LBW and boundaries; but if you get the bowlers in the mood I‟m sure that

that‟s not going to be too much of a Problem”.

G&T thought about it before replying, “Save on the match day tea‟s as well. We used four jars of

pickle last week and that was only a practice match against the Ladies 11.”

Pipe gave a contemplative suck on the stem of his Briar before replying. “The gents lost as well.

An innings and twenty runs. It‟s a good job the Ladies only had nine on their side.”

CMH Issue 251

Page 5

Issue 242

Page 6

Celebrating creative literature, the Birmingham Book Festival 4-13 October 2012 A mix of literature events, talks and workshops. Now in its 14 year. http://visitbirmingham.com/what-to-do/festivals-events/-birmingham-book-festival/

Where would we be without numbers? I mean I can easily count up to 24 using one

finger on my body or from 0000000000 to 1111111111 (2048) just on my fingers,

throw in my toes, much more difficult now-a-days, and the number goes up a lot but

it‟s still very limited.

This was a problem to most of the early civilisations. They could count small num-

bers and, using cuneiform or similar symbols, write them down. However, doing any

calculations with them was a different problem.

The Romans had a crack at it but their notations of M, C, X, V & I meant that they

had to do it the HARD WAY! Usually that approach works very well, but, if you get it

wrong, it often means that somebody gets killed.

Multiplication was the repeated addition of the number and Division was, similarly,

repeated subtraction. The basic engineering tools of Squares and Square roots

needed a genius whilst Base 10 and Base E logs, and the various forms of Trigo-

nometry, upon which much of modern engineering and travel rests, couldn‟t even be

thought of.

Arabic numerals (similar to the ones we use today) were a great improvement, but

naturally they got widely ignored because of the „It Wasn‟t Invented Here‟ syndrome.

So most European folks soldiered on with M, C, X etc.

The big holes in all of the ancient notations, was that they didn‟t have a ZERO and

couldn‟t handle fractions very well, if at all. The Greeks even insisted that Pi was

THREE instead of 3.14159 etc.

The Arabic system used a dot instead of our beloved 0 but that could be confus-

ing. However, as an ancient scribe may have laughed, „That‟s stupid! Who on earth

makes no charge?‟

Help was at hand. In the 13th century some unknown genius devised a zero and all

became sweetness and light. Well not exactly! When all‟s said and done, humans are

still stupidly hidebound when it comes to changing how they think. The idea that, “It

was good enough for great granddad so it‟s good enough for me!” can still be ob-

served; generally on Motorways.

Extremely Large numbers and Extremely Small numbers now became possible, a

bit unwieldy because you had to stick all those noughts in, but possible.

“We‟re going to have to figure out a way to get rid of them,” Genius-1 may have

said.

“I know! We‟ll invent POWERS”, Genius-2 said. “We‟ll put another number, a lot

smaller, over the top that says how many zero‟s you need to add and in which direc-

tion they go!”

Now WE are saddled with it. Any number you like, as big or small as you like and all

sorts of fancy maths to go with them. You just can‟t keep a good mathematician

down, and shooting them doesn‟t work either!

Ahh well, back to the drawing board I suppose. Now! Where did I put those log ta-

bles? (CMH)

Now playing 24/7 a completely new selection of stories, satires, poetry, spoken word, music and interview @ www.radiowildfire.com - another two hours of live literature and chat. In this edition ... The Loop brings you interviews - Nick Toczek talks about a court case over a disputed lyric; and Stuart Maconie interviews Tom Priestley about his father J B Priestley, a Birmingham Book Festival event. The Loop brings you poetry from Rob Hindle, Sally Clarke and Dave Reeves - and improvised poetry with soundscape from Mark Goodwin. The Loop brings you poetry performed with music from Frances Livings, Russel Blake, and story performed to music by Richard Bruce Clay. The Loop brings you song from Sally Crabtree, and Ian Marrey. The Loop brings you theatre from the Bunbury Banter Theatre Company with Conception by Tony C Pearson. The Loop brings you the latest part of Mal Dewhirst's series The Lost Poets. In this episode he looks at the poet Matsuo Basho. PLUS: Irons In The Fire: Jan Watts' Laureate's Diary - the monthly diary from Birmingham's Poet Laureate. So join us and listen by going to www.radiowildfire.com and clicking on The Loop (And don’t forget, you can upload soundfiles of your own work to the 'Submit' page of the Radio Wildfire website. Mp3s are our preferred for-mat. You can also ensure you always get reminders of upcoming shows on Ra-dio Wildfire by following us on Twitter.) The Loop is curated by Vaughn Reeves and will play online continuously for the next month, except during our live broadcast on Monday 3rd September starting at 8.00pm UK time with a full programme of pre-recorded tracks, live studio guests and conversation. WHAT IS RADIO WILDFIRE? Radio Wildfire is an independent online radio station which blends spoken word, poetry, performance literature, comedy, storytelling, short stories and more with a novel selection of word/music fusion and an eclectic mix of musical styles. www.radiowildfire.com currently broadcasts live 8.00-10.00pm (UK time) on the first Monday of every month.

Listen to Radio Wildfire at www.radiowildfire.com The Loop plays 24 hours a day.

Here’s a thought ... what do you think?

RBW is only permitted to be a charitable

organisation for the education and development of the Over 50s

BUT

RBW receives requests from folks under 50 who want help with their Creative Writing and who cannot find

a suitable writers’ group locally.

What if RBW set up an associate level,

FRIENDS of RBW open to all ages of writers and

supporters willing to complement the work of the charity?

Let us hear what you think of this idea.

Send in an email. Thank you!

Do you think the Over 50s can be creative?

Have you got time on your hands?

Do you like working with elderly people?

Do you enjoy creative writing?

Do you have any special skills to share?

How do you feel about team management?

Any good with fundraising?

Enjoy being hands-on with project management?

Enjoy putting on outside events?

Have you ever fancied trying voluntary work?

Ever done any public speaking?

How reliable are you?

Can you work under time pressure?

Can you smile through adversity and deliver on time?

And can you do all the above week in, week out, without being paid a single penny for all the effort?

If you can answer yes to any of the above come and talk to RBW ... we’re recruiting trustees ...

NB: All applicants will be fully CRB checked and references will be required.

„Oh Tom, it's lovely! The view of the Nile, the Pyramids, those funny boats, every-

thing. You are a darling to get us this room,‟ Jean enthused as she stood, a slim fig-

ure against the cerulean sky, at the window.

Tom wasn't as struck. „I suppose this is better than the other one. We‟ve a proper

bathroom and the bed‟s much better. This one's a proper honeymoon bed.‟ He pat-

ted the mattress like a favourite dog. „Why don't you come over here and we can try

it for size?‟

Jean didn't hear him. „I feel like ... oh I don't know ... as if something magical has

happened. Less than a week ago I was just plain old, boring, mousey, Jean Grabble

working in the family business. Then you swept me off my feet and now I'm Mrs

Thomas Green.‟

She turned and did a little dance that brought her near enough to Tom for him to

make a grab at. Jean, who had heard him, launched herself at him and co-

operated in proving that 'Egyptian PT' had more than one meaning.

Later, as they were getting changed for dinner, Tom said, „And who told you

that you were, plain old, boring, mousey, Jean Grabble, may I ask?‟

„Well, I was! I knew that because my mirror told me.‟

„My dear, darling, beautiful, wife that glass was telling you lies. When we get home

it's going to be recycled as a punishment. It's going to spend the next twenty years

as a cracked pint pot in a disused public house!‟ His attempt at a maniacal cackle

was a complete failure.

Over their meal in the crowded dining room they talked about the next day‟s ar-

ranged trip.

„A sail along the Nile? Sounds like the one you promised me, Tom. What was it

now? Something about sailing on a felucca from Aswan under the light of moon and

being served the best viands. Hmm... I like the viands bit, it sounds better than just

food. Now where was I? Oh yes, under the light of the moon and something about

the chefs' secret recipe handed down from his forefathers.‟

„Got it in one Jean, well, almost in one. Except, this one isn't, quite, as perfect as

that. We aren't in Aswan, it's going to be broad daylight and the chef works in this

hotel to American recipes. But, other than that, it's exactly as I said. Except that the

boat has an engine, of course.‟

Jean swatted him with her napkin, pulled a face, and called him a spoilsport.

In the Museum, Maxie, was busy installing the exhibits sent from London to the

satisfaction of Will and his team, and their equivalent local conservators.

„That looks to fine, Max,‟ Suleema, the conservator remarked. „It's a pity that you

can't find the scarab for him though. He looks incomplete without it.‟

„It's not for want of trying, Suleema. I was at Bluddschott Hall last week trying to

find it.‟ Max was not above gathering a bit of kudos with the exotically beautiful

young woman. „There are traces of it, odd mentions in contents lists that could be

it, until about twenty years ago but all the clues died with Lady Lucinda.‟

Will was standing looking over the case and wondering where young Maxie had

learned to speak Arabic, and what he was saying, or was he just chatting her up.

Suleema put Will‟s thoughts into words. „Where did you learn Arabic, Maxie? It's

not something you learned to come out here is it?‟

Maxie laughed, „No, I learnt it at play school and primary school. All the kids came

from different backgrounds and you had to learn fast if you wanted to play anything.

Mainly it was Arabic, Polish, English and Hindustani. Us kids learned very quickly.‟

„Four languages!‟ Suleema was impressed. „Maxie, I don't suppose you can read

hieroglyphics as well, can you?‟

„Not really well, Suleema. Ms Spur was teaching them to me but I wasn't any good at it.‟

„Ms. Spur! You don't mean Margaret Spur do you?‟

„Yes. She was my boss until I became a Museum Assistant. Why do you know her?‟

„Yes, she's family. It's too difficult to explain but she's a second or maybe third or fourth cousin

on my mum's side. She was here about ten years ago trying to find her ancestors. She found

us instead. Now! Let me see what you know. What do these symbols say!‟ Suleema pointed to

the arm of the Bluddschott Mummy.

Maxie looked at the exposed, leather-like, skin. „It's not too clear, but something like,‟ he

changed into Arabic. „My heart will … something, it's not clear … reside in the Blacklands and

ensure fertility and love for all time.‟

During this talk Will had wandered off to check on something.

Suleema beamed at him. „Stop putting yourself down! For somebody who; 'wasn't any good at

it', that was fantastic. Right now though it's lunch time and I'm treating you to it.‟

Jean trailed her hand in the water as it burbled and chuckled along the side of the felucca, Tom

was busy watching her and wondering what life had in store for them when they returned

home. One thing he was sure of was, that whatever it was, it'd be a lot of fun not to mention

some changes, however, his sisters had trained him to know better than to say anything.

„No engine, Tom. Just the river, and the sails, and the sun.‟

„Okay, my love, so I got that bit wrong, although I must admit that it's an improvement, but I

wasn't wrong about the food though. A picnic lunch from the hotel with a bottle of cola to wash

it down with.‟

A little further down the boat another couple, a young quite good looking, European man and

a young woman with an exotic Egyptian look about her, had their heads close together.

‟Tom,‟ Jean remarked, „I'm sure that that's the researcher from the British Museum who was

in Trentby last week. Now what was his name?‟

„Crest,‟ Tom replied after a short pause to think about it, „Maximilian Crest. mum told me

about him going around asking questions about something to do with the Bluddschott Mummy.

It's odd that he's here; but I expect he's on some sort of treasure hunting trip or something.

Mind you that girl looks a lot like those statues of Nefertiti so it could be that she's the attrac-

tion.‟

„Just keep those idea's to yourself, Thomas Green if you have any lascivious thoughts keep

them for me.‟ She chuckled and smiled at him, „I like a bit of lascivious now and again.‟ So say-

ing she arched her back and preened. Tom wasn't bothered about any other woman, he had

more than he could handle with this one.

On the landing stage the two couples came together. „Excuse me, but are you Maximilian

Crest from the British Museum?‟ Jean asked.

Much to Suleema's bewilderment Maxie replied with a wide grin. „It's a fair cop, guv. I'll plead

guilty and blame it on a poor upbringing.‟ Then, „Do I know you?‟

„No,‟ said Jean. „But I've heard about you from my friends in Trentby. You were asking about a

scarab last week.‟

„Oh, yes, the Bluddschott Mummy scarab. Why? Have you any clues that I could follow up?‟

Maxie was on the trail again. „Oh sorry! This is my Egyptian colleague Miss Hassan, a conserva-

tor at the local Museum.‟ There were introductions all around.

Eventually Jean answered the question. „Yes, I know more or less exactly where it is. It's not

worth a lot, according to Lady Lucy and Doctor Toogood it isn't. Tim Toogood says a few pounds

and Lady Lucy, bless her soul, told me about twenty.‟

„A bit more than that, Mrs. Green.‟ Suleema replied. „If you can prove you're the owner it could

be worth a few thousand. Although you could have problems with it. It was illegally exported you

see. But, if it was restored to its rightful owner I'm sure that it would be okay.‟

„You mean that the mummy wants its scarab back, I suppose, Miss Hassan?‟ Tom inter-

jected. „Really! I thought things had gone beyond that sort of superstition!‟

„This is Egypt, Mr Green,‟ Suleema answered, „Not your green and pleasant England. Even if

you don't believe in them, here it does not do to anger the Gods of the Ancients. So yes, I sup-

pose you could say that he wants his scarab returned.‟

Jean felt a coldness close in about her, not the physical coldness which is a mere lack of

heat, but as if her very soul had been chilled. She clung to Tom for support.

„We're due at the Museum tomorrow morning,‟ she said. „If I ask for you at the desk will you

be able to talk to us, do you think?‟

„Both Maxie and I will be there from about eight.‟ Suleema answered as they walked off the

pier. „We‟ll see you tomorrow then. But, please. Don't let my talk about the ancient gods upset

you. After all they're my country‟s gods not yours, so they'll have no power over you.‟

Jean wasn't so sure.

Much to the disgust of the tour‟s courier, Jean and Tom ditched the Museum tour and asked

for Miss Hassan and Mr Crest at the entry desk. Two minutes later they were escorted behind

closed doors into the business of the gallery revamp.

„There he is!‟ Suleema said, pointing to a mummy in an open case. „That's the Bluddschott

Mummy and, as you can see, he's been robbed of his heart scarab.‟

Jean opened her shoulder bag and handed a gold and blue object to Suleema. „That could be

it. Lady Lucy told me it was. She came here with her granddad, sometime in the 1930s I be-

lieve. The mummy went home with him and that went home with her. It wasn't stolen and nei-

ther was it illegally exported, it was all on the report and the digging license allowed it.‟

Suleema and Maxie turned the scarab over. „Who put this pin on it?‟ Suleema asked.

„The lad in the shop I bought it from.‟ Jean told her. „It had been donated to a charity shop.

When I found it, it was 50p plus another 50p for the pin.‟

Maxie and Suleema returned to the scarab. „If we take this pin off we can see better,‟ Maxie

stated, „but it looks right.‟

A few minutes work in the conservation workshop and the scarab came away pristine. „Is it

me or is it glowing!‟ Suleema asked the others.

„Quick; get it into place on the mummy,‟ Maxie said as he took the scarab and ran into the

gallery; hurdling packing cases and bouncing off walls as he went.

The others followed as fast as they could. They arrived in time to see Max put the scarab in

place. They refused to believe their eyes as the scarab seemed to give a little wriggle as it set-

tled back into the hollow that it had been its home for many centuries. The glow, if it was a

glow, faded away and the gold and blue shone in the sunlight.

„I'll be jiggered! It's … I dunno .. I mean fairy stories don't happen … do they?‟ Maxie put into

words something of the feelings of the group.

„No! And that didn't happen either!‟ The ever practical Jean came to the fore. „Not unless you

want to be taken for some kind of head case anyway. We know and that's enough.

Suleema; can you issue a press release please? One that says that, Suleema Hassan, and

Maximilian Crest, from the British Museum, traced the scarab and, at great personal cost, re-

turned it to its rightful place. You would also like to thank Thomas Green and Jean Grabble of

Trentby, for their assistance in making the recovery.

You can both have the glory and Tom and I will get on with our honeymoon. We'll probably see

both of you in Trentby next year, please drop in and have dinner with us.‟

Suleema nodded and smiled, Tom and Maxie looked stunned, Jean looked like the cat who'd

got the cream: blew Suleema a kiss, took Tom's arm, then went and rejoined the tour group.

All of Tom's questions went, except for an enigmatic smile, unanswered.

Lord Lionel Bluddschott had disagreed with something that ate him. Reggie hadn‟t

been himself since his lordship‟s rotund forequarters had wedged in his belly and

rotted.

Reggie had literally bitten off more than he could chew.

It was around his time, after several weeks of fasting on the foreshore of the is-

land in the middle of Bluddschott Park lake and grumbling in the manner only a

Nile crocodile can grumble, Reggie came to a decision. A thought hit his cerebral

cortex like a thunder bolt.

Coincidentally this twinkle in the dark adapted eye of the crocodile occurred right

around the time of the sacred scarab being reunited with the Bluddschott mummy

far away in the land of Reggie‟s birth, if a clutch of eggs can be said to be born

rather than laid.

That was another thought, getting laid, or the crocodilian equivalent of such mat-

ters of reproduction.

As if by magic, something occurred which gave Reggie the push he needed to get

off the beach and to do something positive. He slid into the water and glided to

where the disturbance to his peace was occurring.

It was a visit by Cynthia. A vision in pink wellington boots Cynthia was patrolling

the reed beds and prodding with what looked like a long boat hook. She had com-

pany.

Daphne Drinkwater was holding the torch and shining it onto the surface of the

lake.

„Are you sure about this Cynthia?‟ asked Daphne who was having a very bad

week, what with her twin finding herself a toy-boy with a brand new beamer. „Do you

really think Lady Bluddschott has done him in?‟

„Hold that torch steady I thought I saw something move.‟

„Wouldn‟t he have floated? He was a lump after all?‟

With that criticism of her departed lover ringing in her ears, Cynthia banged the

boat hook down hard on the reeds. Cruising, Reggie didn‟t like the look of the sharp

end of that dangerous weapon and did a hasty detour round the end of the lake he

didn‟t often visit. It so happened that since Lady Lucy‟s demise, no-one from

Bluddschott Hall had taken on the duty of drainage maintenance and the sluice

gate was hanging by a thread. Reggie blinked in surprise. The swinging gate was

smashed open in a swish of his tail. He was free. Free, free at last...

Just like Nellie the elephant, Reggie figuratively packed his truck and said good-

bye to the life of captivity. He was a free crocodile. His days of servitude to Lady

Lucy were over. He sniffed the breeze, yep, all he needed was to follow the brook to

river and the river to the sea. He had the stars to guide him and the smell of home

in his nostrils.

„What was that?‟ dithered Daphne, crossing her legs, „I wish there was a ladies

handy. All this cold water‟s playing havoc with my waterworks.‟

„Nothing, only the sluice gate clanging,‟ muttered Cynthia squelching out of the

reed bed and completely overlooking a chewed foreleg wearing a hand-made

brogue which was lodged close by the toe of her shocking pink wellington.

Editor‟s note: No doubt you will all be delighted to learn that this farce is complete

and is now being edited and proofed prior to publication.

National Short Story Week Competition. (Publicity information)

Fancy taking part in The Short Story Network during this year's National Short Story Week 12th to

18th November 2012? www.nationalshortstoryweek.org.uk.

Have you ever wanted to hear your words broadcast across the airwaves? To celebrate this year's

National Short Story Week (12th - 18th November), the organisers are developing a "Short Story Net-

work" of local, community and hospital radio stations which will broadcast short stories by their local

writers throughout the week. National Short Story Week has teamed up with Writing Magazine, the

National Association of Writers' Groups and The Amateur Theatre Network to get writers around the

UK involved in this great opportunity. Writers are encouraged to submit short stories to their partici-

pating local station, which will chose some stories to be read out by local actors and broadcast in their

area. It's a chance to have your words enjoyed by thousands of listeners and, who knows, maybe make

you a celebrity in your area, or at the very least increase your profile as a writer.

Click the link to find out all you need to know about getting involved. Please follow the guidelines

carefully.

Ian Skillicorn, Director, National Short Story Week.

Keith Large, Co-ordinator, The Short Story Network.

'If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you

must write it.' ~Toni Morrison

Extract ...... Welcome to the August edition of the Brit Writers bulletin!

It's all hands on deck here as we prepare for this year's Brit Writers’ Awards. There's

only four weeks left till we announce the names of the lucky finalists on our website.

And of course, the winner will be announced at the Awards in

London on December 1st.

BRIT WRITERS’ AWARDS latest newsletter is now online

http://clients.prolificemailer.com/t/ViewEmail/r/56885F08848DA71D/

CBEA6AD2D12BFB811D419C9787CC9684

Show and Tell

Ever considered what life must be like

for a snail?

Or had a really good look at how

gorgeous the humble snail is

close up?

It isn’t their fault they evolved to

develop a taste for hostas.

Imagine the cruelty of having to crawl

over eggshells to get to your dinner.

Is pouring salt on them really neces-

sary or drowning them in beer?

And those little blue pellets

don’t get me started on those!

EDITH‟s family favourite recipe...

Gran's rice pudding as recommended by a grandson

You will need large oval brown pudding dish,

2 to 3 oz polished short grain rice,

sugar,

one & half pints of milk,

dried milk,

nutmeg & grater.

Put rice into a small saucepan, just cover with cold

water and simmer on a low heat until all the water is

absorbed.

Mix dried milk with fresh milk (this is called forti-

fied milk in some recipes) transfer rice to pudding

dish add sugar to taste and pour on milk gently stir-

ring, grate nutmeg over in a thin layer. Stand in a

larger dish with an inch or so of water in it, this pre-

vents milk from burning if it boils over.

Use a moderate heat, cook for about one to one

and a half hours, the spoon should stand up in it

then. Enjoy !!

© Tatiana53 | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

Issue 252

Page 16

The Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould (28 January 1834 - 2 January 1924)

was an English antiquarian, writer of songs, novel-

ist and eclectic scholar. His personal bibliography

consists of more than 1240 publications.

His family home, Lew Trenchard Manor near

Okehampton, Devon, is now a hotel. He is remem-

bered particularly as the writer of hymns "Onward,

Christian Soldiers" and "Now the Day Is Over".

One of his noted achievements was the collection of folk songs that he gathered

together in Devon and Cornwall. His first book, Songs and Ballads of the West

(1889–91), was among the first such collections published for the mass market.

Some of the songs were noted by Baring-Gould's collaborator Frederick Bussell.

The musical editor was Henry Fleetwood Sheppard.

Baring-Gould and Sheppard produced a second collection, A Garland of Country

Songs, during 1895. Cecil Sharp and Baring-Gould collaborated on English Folk

Songs for Schools during 1907. These 53 songs was used in British schools for

the next 60 years and became part of the heritage of childhood.

Although he had to modify some song lyrics considered too rude for that time, he

left the original manuscripts unedited for future study thereby preserving many

beautiful pieces of music and their bawdy lyrics which otherwise could have been

lost.

The folk-song manuscripts from Baring-Gould's personal library have been saved

on microfiche in Devon Libraries and the Vaughan Williams Memorial Library, Lon-

don. Thirty boxes of unpublished material (the Killerton manuscripts) are stored

in the Devon Record Office in Exeter. The folksong manuscripts, including raw-

data notebooks used for gathering information in the field, were donated by Bar-

ing-Gould to Plymouth Public Library in 1914 and subsequently deposited with

the Plymouth and West Devon Record Office in 2006. The complete collection of

folk song manuscripts was published online in February 2011 by the Devon Tradi-

tion Project in association with the English Folk Dance and Song Society.

Sources ... There are a rich variety of websites dedicated to the work of preserv-

ing folksongs ... The information herewith was found on Wikipedia ... There are

many links on that page to the biography and work of Reverend Baring-Gould who

was a most remarkable man.

This is one of many versions of, “Widecombe

Fair,” recorded for posterity by the

Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould in 1890 in

“Songs of the West”.

Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey

mare

All along, down along, out along lee.

For I want to go down to Widecombe Fair

Wi‟ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan‟l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

And when shall I see again my old grey

mare?

All along, down along, out along lee.

By Friday soon or Saturday noon

Wi‟ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan‟l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

So they harnessed and bridled the old grey

mare

All along, down along, out along, lee.

And off they drove to Widecombe fair,

Wi‟ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

Then Friday came and Saturday soon

All along, down along, out along lee.

Tom Pearce‟s old mare hath not trotted

home

Wi‟ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan‟l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

So Tom Pearce he got up to the top of the

hill,

All along, down along, out along lee.

And he sees his old mare a-making her will,

Wi‟ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan‟l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

Tom Pearce‟s old mare, her took sick and

died

All along, down along, out along lee.

And Tom he sat down on a stone and he

cried

Wi‟ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan‟l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

But this isn‟t the end of this shocking affair,

All along, down along, out along lee.

Nor though they be dead, of the horrid ca-

reer

Of Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan‟l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

When the wind whistles cold on the moor of

a night,

All along, down along, out along lee.

Tom Pearce‟s old mare doth appear ghastly

white

Wi‟ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan‟l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

And all the long night be heard skirling and

groans,

All along, down along, out along lee.

From Tom Pearce‟s old mare and her rattling

bones

And from Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gur-

ney,

Peter Davy, Dan‟l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all

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