RBW Online

ISSUE 263 Date: 16th November 2012

Page 22

Wartime

Bread Pudding

Issue 263

Page 2

Structural Detail: Roman Baths Complex

City of Bath ( Lower level )

Image taken October 2012

“The size and age of the Cosmos are beyond ordinary human understand-

ing. Lost somewhere between immensity and eternity is our tiny planetary

home. In a cosmic perspective, most human concerns seem insignificant,

even petty. And yet our species is young and curious and brave and shows

much promise. In the last few millennia we have made the most astonishing

and unexpected discoveries about the Cosmos and our place within it, ex-

plorations that are exhilarating to consider. They remind us that humans

have evolved to wonder, that understanding is a joy, that knowledge is pre-

requisite to survival. I believe our future depends powerfully on how well

we understand this Cosmos in which we float like a mote of dust in the

morning sky.” Carl Sagan

Carl Edward Sagan (November 9, 1934 – December 20, 1996) was an American astronomer, astrophysicist, cosmologist, author, and communicator in astronomy and natural sciences. He spent most of his career as a professor of astronomy at Cornell University where he directed the Laboratory for Planetary Studies.

LIFE OBSERVATIONS The casual inefficiency of others can cost you money. New computers with their new systems require hours of retraining especially for those of advancing years. Why do the streets get longer and take more time to walk down as one gets older. Winter draws on: My, how nice are electric thermal under-blankets in this cold winter weather. They might make nice presents for older family members. I now understand how cold it gets without gas central heating radiators turned on! I have come across in a cata-logue timer / thermostats for each individual radiator and might this also be a way to keep down heating costs. Just a green thought if every new dwelling and new industrial/govt building had to have solar panels and/or wind generators built in would we really need new nuclear reactors? Is there anything so cosy as pulling on a vest that has been pre-warmed on a radiator? It‘s all very well people saying that putting the clocks back means an extra hour in bed, but they clearly don‘t own a dog! Mine still wakes me up at the usual time, for her run. "Never argue with a fool; onlookers may not be able to tell the difference." - Mark Twain

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posthumously adj Occurring after death, published after death, born after death of father — a posthumous heir significant adj Meaningful—having or expressing a meaning. Communi-cating secret meaning or implied meaning e.g. A significant nod. Momentous and influential - a significant idea. Substantial — relatively large amount unconventional adj Different from the norm— different from what is re-garded as standard compensation noun Money in payment for loss - for damages, to make amends for something - behaviour that emphasizes ability to make up for deficiency in another personality trait - behaviour that offsets weakness controversial adj causing disagreement—provacing disapproval—causing public debate technique noun procedure or skill required in a task—treatment of basics—skill or expertise reassurance verb to put a person‘s mind at ease, to make someone less worried or anxious adapt verb change to meet requirements—change something to meet dif-ferent conditions or different purpose—adjust to suit new conditions

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

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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 portrait exhibition Oddfellows Hall 30th Nov—1st Dec

Random words: stress, gooseberry, hubris, periwinkle, gilded,

steel, swift, guarantee, George, pink 150 words

Assignment: Twilight (thinking about identity and imagery)

400 words

2012: RBW FREE e-books NOW

PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Contro

l+C

lick th

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follo

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„Wait, please wait. Don‟t go out yet Scottie pleaded Valentine, „it‟ll be fruitless to search until the storm abates.‟

„She‟s right,‟ agreed Rosemary. „Don‟t be foolhardy. It‟s a category five out there. We have to wait it out in the bunker. You know the drill.‟ Scottie‟s face was illuminated red and gold by the candle flame flickering. Be-

hind him in the darkness, tins of Mandarin oranges and baked beans were stacked in boxes all the way from China. Their situation was a random act of fate and not a verdict on their past behaviour. He was a grown man, almost, his sisters weren‟t talking rubbish: they weren‟t into flimflam. Poor Rosemary, she was taking it hard. Watching her rabbit hutch smash to matchwood and staples against the torn fenceline of the banana processing plant was so cruel. Just then a trickle of water squeezed under the cellar door‟s sand bags. The levee had failed.

Chief Inspector Strode had his ear permanently affixed to his Blackberry than

morning. There was no signal. Their mushroom CSI van‟s aerial was on the blink

again. White-Van man, „Iceberg Fruits & Veg Plc‟ van-driver was clearly at fault:

his breath stank of Muscatel and his masquerade as the innocent party wasn‟t

fooling anyone. Why couldn‟t this happen tomorrow? thought Strode surveying

the scene and casting a wary eye over the carnage: tomorrow he would have

been on the terraces of the Champions League watching Wanderers, the favour-

ites for relegation, without a care in the world. But no! Now he‟d be up to his

knees on the trail of matching bones with body parts and grieving relatives for

several days.

Ian Scott was an officer at a Category C prison. The inmates called him Scottie; their verdict being that he was one of the fairer screws, but he got frustrated and occasionally saw red at the rubbish they talked, when they would rabbit on about their lack of opportunities, and the excuses they came up with for their random acts of wanton vandalism or violence. It was just fruitless flimflam, in Scottie‘s opinion. Sad to say, they would never learn. ―Can you help me read this, sir?‖ one of the lads asked, handing him a Valen-tine card. ―It‘s from my girlfriend, Rosemary, and two of paper, held together by staples slipped out. ―Hm. She‘s on a new diet‖, Scottie explained. ―It seems to consist largely of fruit; bananas, mandarin oranges, etc. Says she‘ll be trying it out on you, when you get out next month‖. ―I prefer the ‗mystery meat‘ we have in here, sir!‖ the young man grinned.

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YE SLIGHTY OBLONG TABLE OF TRENTBY

YE CAST OF CHARACTERS NB: Historical accuracy is NOT encouraged

Nobles and similar Harffa -Ye Kyng. Not ye sharpest knyfe in ye drawer. QUEEN AGATHA (the tight fisted) don Key o’tee -Spanish ambassador to Court of Kyng Harffa .. Wants big toe back Baron Bluddschott (Stoneybroke) Gwenever Goodenough – Wyfe of ye Baron Della BluddschotT - Ugly Daughter of Baron Bluddschott. GalLa of HADNT - A Prince but Charmless Daniel Smithers Constable of Bluddschott Castle and maybe the COrowner of the County Old Maids Vera, Gloria and Bertha husband hunting sisters of Baron Bluddschott Evil Sherriff and Baron Morbidd up to no good MORGAN LE FEY SISTER TO KING - MERLIN THE MAGICIAN

ye KnyghtS [they’re better during the day] Lancealittle, Dwayne Cottavere, Perciver Mailish (Narrator) PAGE to UNCLE BARon Bluddschott (probably Son by Wife’S SiSter)

Religiouse Lionel, Bishop of Trentby keeper of the Mappa Tuessdi Abbot Costello of Nottalot, a Nasturtium Abbey where relic abides—desperate for pilgrim pennies Vladimir A monk from far off somewhere — Calligrapher Wyllfa the Druid Sorcerer

Others Big Jock A Welsh poacher and SHORT wide-boy. robbin’ hoodie Another poacher and wide-boy. Peeping Barry member of hoodie’S gang of miScreantS CLARENCE the cook WANDERING TROUPADOUR

None living The Ghostly Sword of Bluddschott Castle The Mappa Tuessdi ... Velum map of the known world bought in A bazaar in Constantinople for a few pennies BY VLADIMERE & COP-IED oft times The toe bone of St. Gastric.

„Page, put down that slop bucket and come with me,‟ said the hooded figure approaching in the darkness.

I looked about me in the vain hope there was some other Page being sum-moned. There was not. Mailish had drawn the short straw again, she‟d proba-bly have her wicked way with me in the bushes and turn me into a toad.

„Keep up boy,‟ came the stinging command and as she passed the slop pail transformed into a burning lantern – a smelly burning lantern – but a light for our path anyway.

Striding ahead like a young woman in her prime I was forced to double my stride to tag along. Most women of her age would have been long in bed and snoring, but not so Morgan le Fey half sister to King Harffa and mother to his adopted heir Prince Galla of Hadnt Hall. Approaching her third score Morgan le Fey was impressive in a cloak of ermine killed in the change from black to white which rippled as she walked: it was said warriors still fell at her feet, and with skin white as apple blossom and hair black as a magpie‟s wing it was easy to see why. Some whispered the Prince‟s origins were very close to home but not within Harffa‟s earshot there they weren‟t so brave.

„What are they feeding you, boy? You‟re puffing like a charger.‟ „Not enough your Majesty,‟ I stuttered. She let out a laugh and slid me a sidelong glance under curling lashes. My

stomach knotted and I was under her spell. „Here, you can ride now,‟ she said mounting the legendary Ruthin an ebony charger shining with a high gloss and decorated with a silver inlaid saddle the like of which I had never before seen. And me? ... she was waving towards a cross-eyed mule hobbled to a bucket.

Before I could utter a word of complaint she was at the canter and heading towards Trentby. Where was she going? Where was I going?

„Wait for me My Lady. You‟ll not be safe alone.‟ The tinkle of a belly laugh scorched my delicate ears as I kicked the mule

into a slow plod. You have to realise Morgan le Fey was not your ordinary Prin-

cess. The bloodline of the Uthar Penndrago clan was dysfunctional – they may even have invented the word. The King and Morgan le Fey shared the same mother the incredibly beautiful Queen of Wessex, Igraine of Cadbury but Uthar was not Morgan‟s Father. Her father was killed at around the time Uthar an-nexed the widowed Igraine and Wessex into his United Briton Alliance. Now, Morgan le Fey‟s folks were big into the following of Queen Mab. They resisted the new religion even more than King Harffa does now. And Queen Igraine‟s dowager mother Queen ... at which point Ruthin came to a slipping halt on the cobbles outside Trentby Cathedral and my mule decided to break into a circling trot.

Tossing me the reins as I tried to dismount with some dignity the Princess of Darkness was already striding up to the iron studded doorway waving what I

took to be a riding crop. Amazed, I gasped as the two oak-beamed doors swung open on their hinges as if they weighed as much as a pennyweight of feathers.

Trembling, I was left in the darkness with the two sweating beast. Morgan le Fey had been swallowed up by the granite mass of the cathedral. Issue 263

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„You may be wondering how „THE SLIGHTLY OBLONG TABLE OF TRENTBY‟ got its

name,‟ said Mailish to Morgan le Fey on the road back to Bluddschott Castle. The

night was so cold and his teeth were chattering so much he thought he would

keep them company. Morgan had been silent since leaving the Cathedral. She

had obviously not found what she had ridden out so hard to find.

Mailish took the silence as permission to relate his tale.

„For many glorious years the Goodenough family and original owners of the

fabulous round table, lived in palatial splendour just outside Trentby. Crafted in

solid English oak it was the family‟s most prized possession and a joy to behold.

Rich, eligible bachelors who visited the Goodenough estate were expected to ad-

mire this famous item of furniture and imagine the daring knights who had once

sat around it, and the hundreds of heart-warming stories they had told. Many rich,

eligible bachelors had been tempted to offer a king‟s ransom for the table, until

they realized that it was part of Gwenever Goodenough‟s dowry. Her worried

mother and father were so anxious to get their daughter married off that they had

been forced to offer their beloved table as compensation. Sadly, one bachelor af-

ter another felt that the price was far too high and beat a hasty retreat. But then,

like an angel sent from Heaven, along came the penniless Baron, Leonard

Bluddschott.

„As soon as Leonard laid eyes on Gwenever, he said to himself, this woman

is unbelievably ugly, but my castle desperately needs cash. Like her, it is large,

empty, dark and dreary. Let‟s hope the sight of my hideous wife won‟t offend me

too often and, on the plus side, the table is perfectly round and historically fabu-

lous. I could spend hours looking at it myself and, even more exciting, charging a

small fee to visiting pilgrims and other notables who are sure to come and admire

it. Once this last thought had registered, Leonard got down on one knee and pro-

posed. Gwenever, thinking that Baroness Bluddschott was a worthy and uplifting

title, accepted.

„In truth, Baron Leonard was not a handsome man and it was no surprise

that he and Gwenever produced a very ugly daughter, Della. This birth added to

poor Leonard‟s problems, because now he was duty-bound to provide dowries for

his daughter and his three ugly sisters, Gloria, Vera and Bertha. There was no way

the precious table could be split into four. Or was there?‟

Morgan le Fey wasn‟t listening. Her eyes were dark slits hidden beneath the

luscious fur of her hooded cloak. Mailish couldn‟t feel his fingers and the mule

only had two speeds – hairbrained and plod. He was happier with plod speed

even if his backside would never be the same again. One thing he had learned

never ride a mule without a saddle. „Shall I go on?‟ he asked. No reply. He took

this as a yes. Like most boys he enjoyed the sound of his own voice especially

when one is travelling with a witch in a dark wood.

The story is called, „How four brave Knights changes the shape of the famous

round table.‟

Deep in her own thoughts Morgan le Fey actually sighed at this point.

„The four brave Knights of the Round Table, Lancealittle, Cottavere, Percivere

and Dwayne, met as usual at the Pink and Green Duck Tavern. Like Bluddschott

Castle it was a dark and dingy place, but, unlike the castle, the tavern had no fine

furniture for others to admire, no redeeming features unless of course you were a

poacher and needed privacy and a quiet, dark corner to plan your next dastardly

deed. If, in addition, you were a brave knight you would require an audience to lis-

ten to your wondrous tales of daring and, in bad weather, a dry, warm place to

practice the noble art of slaughter.

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„On quiet days, when the das-

tardly planning was over, the brave

knights would relax in the tavern,

drinking and perfecting their

slaughtering skills. Depending on

how much ale they had consumed,

something that started as a little

affable sword practice, with a few

harmless cuts and thrusts might

degenerate into a scary,

swashbuckling rout that emptied

the tavern in seconds.

„Henry, the tavern‟s landlord

was driven to despair and would

have banned the brave knights, but

the sound of their clashing swords

and the dread of hearing, „On guard!‟… „To the death!‟ was something he couldn‟t risk. When

customers complained about the knights, crashing into tables or leaping on top of them to

continue fighting, jumping down again and chasing one another round the room, spilling

drinks and scaring the women and children, Henry would smile and say, „They‟re young and

need to practice their techniques. Soon, we may all be glad of their skills.‟

„One dark and dreary night, the four drunk and dreary knights were returning hungry and

worn out after an unsuccessful poaching trip.

„Let‟s go to Bluddschott Castle and poach our food from their storehouse,‟ suggested

Percivere. „I can‟t stand all the mud and rain, and creeping about in the cold and dark, not to

mention snares that don‟t work and animals that refuse to be caught in them.‟

„Good idea,‟ said Lancealittle. „We haven‟t even caught a mouse tonight.‟

„Mouse! I‟m starving and I know for a fact the castle‟s overrun with the tasty creatures,‟

said Cottavere. „That‟s why I killed their cat.‟

„Perhaps there‟s a fire burning in the long gallery,‟ said Dwayne, swaggering off towards

the castle. „It‟s a great place to practice.‟

„Lancealittle, Cottavere and Percivere followed drunkenly behind, and once inside the

castle, they wasted no time in filling their hungry bellies. This done, it was time for a little ex-

ercise. Because their Lordships were sound asleep the swordplay started quietly, but soon

the drunken, distended knights were staggering about on top of the unspoiled, perfectly

round table. Their cutting thrusting and lunging became so uncontrolled that chunks of the

table went flying onto the floor. As the surface of the tabletop got smaller the knights realised

in horror just what they had done. They tried to reshape it, making a clumsy attempt to return

it to its original glory, but failed miserably. There was nothing to do now, but leave the slightly

oblong table and so the knights wandered away to sleep until the morning‟s hangover woke

them up.‟

Fortunately at this point Ruthin the charger and the cross-eyed mule arrived at the portcul-

lis to Bluddschott Castle. One wave of her ladyship‟s wand and they were admitted without

question.

Never was a Page more happy to bed down in the stables with all his bits and pieces still

attached.

© Jphotostyles | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

„Tell the Baron I want a Tournament‟, said King Harffa through the closed door of the

Baron‟s private washroom – not much used by the Baron - and garderobe, to Harald the Herald.

‟No rush. Say in three days time. The Feast of St. Notwithstanding, just after Noon, should

do nicely. What do you think, what‟s your name?‟

Harald didn‟t really like the idea, but his dear old Mum would be very upset if he lost his job.

„Good idea, your Majesty. Getting the commoners on your side by giving them free entertain-

ment. Lots of good stuff there.‟

„Free! Who said anything about free? I need the money you clot! Charge them to enter the

grounds and issue licenses for traders. You can do that, and the PR angle as well, that‟s what I

pay you for isn‟t it? Anything you can make on the side I want a tenth of so keep good ac-

counts.‟

Harald knew better than to say that he was only paid on odd occasions and never ever the

full amount. „Right your Majesty I‟ll draw up a Royal Proclamation for your approval. Where‟s it

to be though? I mean the Bishops building his new house and things in the middle of the City

and the Abbot‟s doing all that work along the river so there‟s not a lot of room!‟ The king

opened the door and came out fastening his trouser belt with a much-relieved look on his

face.

„Don‟t bother me with details, lad. You go and shout it out; I‟ll deal with the rest. All the fun

of the Fayre, don‟t forget.‟ He clapped Harald on the shoulder and went to spread the glad tidings.

Harald went to look things up in his invaluable guide „Ye Bumper Book of Proclamations for

Beginners, {Part 1}‟. Eventually, he wrote out the following for copying:

By Order of Hys Majestye Kyng Harffa On the feast of St. Notwithstanding starting just after Nones

A Grande Tourney is to be held At ye sign of Ye Newe Golfe Club.

At least Fourteen Jousts and Manie other feats of arms will be displayed for the Publick Entertainment

Wrestling, Greasy Pole climbing, Bowling for a Pyge, an Archery contest [with various prizes for ye winners], Bonny baby contest & Face Painting.

ALL YE FUN OF YE FAYRE! ROLL UP! ROLL UPP!! ROLLL UPP!!!

Your Local Jouster needs YOUR support. Entry fee: ½ penny per couple, kids and concessions half price

on Site traderS Will be in attendance! traderS’ licenceS [10 pennieS per stall, stand, or tray] are available from ye office of ye Herald. Trading

without a license is forbidden.

The Nasturtium Monks didn‟t want to know about quick turn around copy jobs. They ex-

plained it was „One page per day no matter how difficult,‟ and they really weren‟t into this

mass production thing. The Vicars even weren‟t that interested and told him that there was a

closed shop agreement with the Monks. „We don‟t copy and they don‟t preach in the city,

thank you very much,‟ he was told.

Harald sat up all night doing it himself; well at least if anyone complained he had a ready-

made explanation, and the King had told him to do the PR.

The trouble with daughters

„Daddy. I'm going to that tourney tomorrow no matter what you say!‟ Della, Baron

Bluddschotts' only and, mostly, much beloved daughter was having one of her bossy times. Al-

though, truth to tell, she was usually bossy anyway.

„I'm not going to go on my own of course, I'll get someone to go with me. One of my friends

from the convent school, Cecilia I think. We can wear our best clothes and do our hair very

nicely and be properly ladylike when we want to be you know!‟

The trouble was that Della was right. She could be properly ladylike when she wanted to be,

and wearing a veil would go some way, at least, towards disguising the Bluddschott nose.

Her father knew when he was beaten. She'd inherited the „STUBBORN‟ from both sides of

the family. „All right, but you take good care not to mix with those rowdy types from the City.

Too much money and not enough sense that's their trouble. I don't want you upset my dear.‟

„Not a problem, Daddy dear. If anything it's that lot that'll have to worry. Now you just worry

about that horrid old king; and finding a dowry for me of course. I'll worry about what to wear

and keeping those city boys in check.... Hmmm... I'm sure that; if I ask very nicely, Mummy will

lend me some of her jewellery to wear.‟

The Baron hurried down to the wine cellars and locked himself in. He didn't want to get in-

volved and, usually, these 'Asking Very Nicely' sessions couldn't be heard from there.

Today he was out of luck.

The guards had a gambling school going in the adjoining wood cellar and had left the door

open so that they could hear better.

From the informed comments passed it seems that the bookmakers had Della as odds-on

to win at about 10 to 4 while a win for Lady G, as they called his Gwenny, was evens at best.

There came a sound that the Baron thought could have been a piece of canvas ripping.

„Good one that, Della,‟ said an indistinct voice that the Baron thought may have been

Wyllfa's.

„A definite improvement over the last time‟, said another indistinct voice. „More a sort of

rhythmic swing to it now, isn't there?‟.

„Where's she getting them from?‟ a third voice asked.

„Must be that school she goes to. Too much education spoils kids,‟ said a fourth.‟

An unusual short silence occurred – THEN!

„Good one that Lady G. But not, quite, good enough,‟ came the comment after what

sounded like a vituperate outburst. „That moves the odds to 4 to 1 on Della with Lady G at 60

to 1 on current form I'm afraid lads,‟ that was the bookmaker speaking.

„Second wind for Lady G, I think,‟ said the possibly Wyllfa voice. „This could be a long ses-

sion with a break for lunch‟.

„Ohh yes! I love that classical glowering over the table bit. If you could bottle that you could

make ice and snow in summer from it. There's not much to choose between them on that one.

If it does happen I'll make that one evens for both. With 5 to 1 odds on Della spilling her

beer first.

Where's the Baron then lads? It's not like him to miss a good scrap,‟ came the bookmakers

voice.

„Next door in the wine cellar of course,‟ the maybe Wyllfa voice remarked. „Keeping out of

the way by checking the wine stocks is a sensible place to be right now. I reckon as how he

might have to check them three times a day from now on.‟

The Baron, afraid he was right, found the comfortable chair and blanket he'd carried down

some weeks before and settled down for a nap.

The Troubadour

An exotic figure walked fastidiously across the straw-strewn floor of the great hall of the cas-

tle. His clothes were of scarlet and blue silk; he wore a black velvet cap and boots of the finest

soft leather. On his back he bore a lute. His face was unnaturally pallid and his lips bright and

shiny, and a close inspection suggested that both had been achieved by the application of

makeup. Such an apparition had never been seen in the kingdom before. Some of the men-at-

arms gawped; others sniggered or passed crude comments amongst themselves. The stranger

ignored the vulgar noises, and addressed the guard at the door to the private rooms.

„Now then, my man, pray inform the King that the troubadour Joscelyn de Melun has arrived

from Provence and craves audience with his majesty!‟

„Indeed! And is his majesty expecting you?‟ It was not the most promising response, but

when the stranger fingered his purse in a meaningful fashion, the guard passed through to

make further enquiries. He felt puzzled. It was part of his job to remember faces, and despite

the outlandish garb and the affected accent, he felt certain he had come across this specimen

somewhere before. Shortly afterwards he returned to usher Joscelyn into the royal presence,

then resumed his post outside the door, still puzzled as he searched his memory.

In the small audience-chamber, King Harffa was seated on a richly-carved chair beneath a

brocade canopy. As Joscelyn knelt to kiss the royal hand, he thought; he‟s impressive enough

when he‟s sitting down, and I‟m told he looks even better on a horse: it‟s only when he‟s on his

feet that you notice his short bow legs. I‟d advise him to keep motionless, like a statue, when-

ever possible. And he really shouldn‟t keep scratching himself: it completely spoils the effect.

„So, Joscelyn!‟ said the King, „You have come to me from Provence; and I suppose you seek

employment at my court.‟

„Yes, your majesty. Your kingdom, though very grand, is a little remote, perhaps, from the

centres of fashion. The Kings in other parts have lately been employing troubadours like your

humble servant here to compose poems that tell of their mighty deeds. I understand that, as

yet, no-one has undertaken such a service for your majesty.‟

„Well, I‟m not sure that‟s quite true. The peasants sing songs about me, or so I‟m told.‟

Indeed they do, thought Joscelyn: mostly highly disrespectful songs; sometimes very rude in-

deed! But what he said was, „I„m sure that is the case, your majesty; but sadly that kind of tra-

ditional verse is now completely out of favour in the most cultivated kingdoms. In Provence

nowadays everyone is writing in heroic couplets . And this is what I have come to offer your maj-

esty: a great epic, in the very latest style and the best possible taste, which will cause your

name to live forever, not only here in Britain, but throughout Europe!‟

„Well, it‟s a thought!‟ said the King. „you will, of course, be well rewarded if it‟s good enough.

Explain to me how you intend to proceed.‟

„The poem would begin, as is usual in these cases, with your majesty‟s childhood and early

adventures. As yet, unfortunately, I know little about the subject. Could your majesty, perhaps,

tell me something concerning your noble father?‟

King Harffa looked unhappy. „I remember that he was drunk most of the time. He was a very

violent man.‟

„I see. And your mother?‟

„I don‟t remember anything about her. I think he kicked her out when I was a baby.‟

This won‟t do at all, thought Joscelyn. Oh well, we can always fall back on the traditional biog-

raphy for a hero.

„Ah, but of course there were rumours that he wasn‟t really your father!‟ he said in a con-

spiratorial voice, „We all know the story of how, when the Emperor visited Trentby, he was so

smitten by the great beauty of your lady mother that …. Well, need I say more?‟

I don‟t remember any such story, thought the King. Is this fellow hinting that I‟m a bastard?

But that would explain all the hostility, wouldn‟t it? And then, if I‟m really the son of the Emperor

stockfreeimages

himself… now there‟s a thought!

All he said was, „Did the Emperor really come to Trentby?‟

„Of course he did! In disguise, naturally. He always travelled in disguise: he said it was the

only way he could really find out what was going on in his domains.‟

That‟s a clever idea, thought Harffa: I might try it myself some time. He continued, „I left

home when I was still quite young.‟

„Of course: heroes always do. No doubt you narrowly escaped some plot to murder you:

that‟s pretty standard as well. We‟ll flesh out some details later. Next, you must have had a fa-

mous sword: how did you acquire it? Did you have to undergo some kind of ordeal?‟

„You mean my first sword? I pinched it from my father‟s armoury when I left home. I‟ve still

got it somewhere. I didn‟t know it was famous.‟

„But it surely had a name? Heroes‟ swords always have to have names!‟

„Oh, you mean like the Vikings? Something like „Skullsplitter‟ or „Blood-drinker‟?‟

„No, your majesty! That Viking stuff is hopelessly out-of-date: no longer fit for the best

courts! Let‟s move with the times! Your sword must have some ringing, poetic name, and there

should be a romantic, magical story about how you gained it. Never mind: we‟ll work on that as

well. Then I suppose you fought a great many battles before you gained your kingdom?‟

„Yes, there was a lot of fighting. But it was a long time ago, and it‟s all got a bit blurred by

now.‟

„But I expect you killed the odd dragon. No: that won‟t do; no-one around here believes in

dragons any more. How about a giant: that sounds more realistic. Did you ever kill any giants?‟

„Well…. There was Kevin. He was an Irishman. He was pretty big, as I recall. But I don‟t re-

member any details.‟

This job is going to require a great deal of embroidery on my part, thought Joscelyn. „Next,‟

he said, „how did you win the hand of your true love, the Queen?‟

Harffa winced, „Do you have to bring Agatha into it?‟ he asked plaintively.

Joscelyn suppressed a smile. He‟d heard how Queen Agatha ruled her husband with a rod

of iron: wouldn‟t let the royal household spend a single groat without her express permission.

There was no getting round Queen Aggie, the courtiers said - or at least, it was a very long

walk!

Harffa continued. „She was the daughter of the Lord of Salopia. They sent me a picture of

her, but when I met her, I found she didn‟t look anything like it. But I thought we‟d better go

ahead and get married anyway. And then her father died and I inherited all his lands, so really

I shouldn‟t complain.

„Is that enough to be going on with for the moment? You‟ll have to leave now, because I‟ve

called a conference of all my knights. I‟ll see you some time and you can tell me how you‟re

getting on with the poem.‟

Joscelyn knelt to kiss the royal hand again. As he backed respectfully out of the presence-

chamber he thought, if I can make a proper epic poem out of this drivel, then I‟ll really have

earned every penny he pays me! As the guard opened the door for him he took a small foreign

coin in his hand, but before he could bestow it, the guard suddenly exclaimed, „I know where

I‟ve seen you before! You were a local lad, didn‟t you? Gavin the baker‟s boy, that‟s right! Then

you disappeared. So you went down to Provence and became a troubadour, and now you‟ve

come back here, all togged up! Well, good luck to you, I say! But where did you get the

Joscelyn?

The troubadour said nothing. He gave the man a long, cold stare and returned the coin back

to his purse.

This is a joining piece and will be inserted further back in the plot ...

„Wait Herald!‟ shouted a thin crackled voice. Wyllfa appeared at the Baron‟s elbow. „Be

careful, Sire. These fools know not what they do. Look you,‟ the Druid thrust his magic spy-

glass into the Baron‟s hands. „Look at the banners. The Queen and, and ....‟ the old man

shuddered. He had felt the sapping approach of doom for many hours and now she was

here.

The Baron screwed the spyglass into his socket and, after nearly blinding himself by fo-

cusing on the sun, followed the Druid‟s instruction. „By the old gods,‟ he said going pale un-

der his ruddy tan. „Morgan!‟ he‟s brought Morgan le Fey with him. The Princess of Dark-

ness!‟

„And the Queen! That tight fisted ...‟ added Wyllfa, „They won‟t sleep in a damp tent in a

water meadow. What can we do? We‟re doomed. Doomed, I say ... doomed.‟

Baron Bluddschott regained his composure and blew out his barrel chest in an impres-

sive manner, something he usually did when his innards were turning to wind and water,

„Herald take a message to the king tell him the best apartments in the castle are at his,

and his family‟s, disposal.‟

Feathered cap brushing the slabs the herald bowed out grinning.

Wyllfa steadied himself against the stonework, crisis averted for now. The Baron was not

so sure. He‟d got to break the bad news to his dear wife.

„The coffers are empty, old friend. Last year‟s harvest was a disaster anyone would think

I‟ve been cursed with bad luck.‟

Wyllfa considered this as a distinct possibility.

„I‟ll have to accept cousin Morbidd‟s proposal.‟

Wyllfa blanched. Poor Della. „Is there no other way, Sire? She‟s such a sweet girl,

emmm ... underneath.‟

„No! My mind is made up. Della‟s betrothal to Baron Morbidd will be announced within

the week. He‟ll be here for the jousting I‟m sure.‟

Wyllfa nodded, it was a sensible thing to do. Morbidd was wealthy and a good match for

a penniless cousin even if he was older than her father, ugly as sin, picked at his rotting

teeth with a rat bone and smelt worst than the midden. What was more he had promised

an interest free loan to cover the expenditure for the tournaments and feasting. No strings

attached if you didn‟t count selling off your only daughter into a life of abject misery.

Abbot Costello was having a little doze after a heavy breakfast of roast duck and dark

plums poached in brandy and fresh cream when the Novice from the Westgate came charg-

ing into his chambers as if the end of the world was nigh.

„Your Grace, wake up it‟s the Spanish Ambassador.‟

„Who the ... leylines of Glastonbury is that?‟ said the Abbot rubbing sleep from his eyes

with bejewelled fingers and wishing he hadn‟t. His geography was a bit sketchy and his

Spanish none existent.

„Don Kee O‟Tay,‟ said the spotty Novice reading from a scrap of embroidered silk edged

in floppy lace. The Abbot cast an envious eye over the embroidery – now that was style – he

had to be getting himself some of those calling cards.

„What does he want?‟ asked the Abbot struggling to pull on a velvet over mantel.

„He didn‟t say,‟ stuttered the boy. „But he‟s carrying an empty relic box and a scroll with a

tassel.‟

The Abbot stopped in his tracks. It couldn‟t be so soon. Could it? Twenty years gone by so

quickly. Great balls of fire and brimstone ... it‟s the toe-bone of St Gastric. The lend lease

must be up ... they‟ll want it back and I‟ve already sold it to Bishop Lionel, he thought. Now

he was for it. Unless ... there was something of greater sentimental value he could palm off

on the unsuspecting Spaniard. Where was that bogus gall stone?

„Don‟t just stand there, admit his Highness the Ambassador don‟t leave him hovering on

the threshold like some commoner.‟

„Tell me,‟ I said to Wyllfa the Druid spell master as he was stirring a brew in his

caldron over a small fire of spluttering logs in the gate. „Tell me about the map

Morgan le Fey went to look at.‟

„There is a map known as the Miri Treis Map. Drawn in 413 by an Admiral of

the Turkish Empire, who drew it from maps which dated as far back as the 4th

Century before the Christians were anything more than an obscure sect of Juda-

ism. It was drawn up in the library of Constantinople, and perhaps from other

maps once contained in the lost library of Alexandria. I believe there is a mes-

sage it that two-hundred-year-old map. I think that is what is she looking for.‟

I yawned and struggled to stay awake to listen to the story unfolding: how did

you lose a library?

„In other words, the Miri Treis Map can trace its origins back to an uncertain

point in the past, but at least to the time of Alexander the Great. The Map

shows features of Queen Maud Land Antarctica which should have been under

ice for all of recorded history. The best scholars of our enlightened time, myself

included, admit to having "no idea" how it was done, because only aerial survey,

exact knowledge of the circumference of the Earth, and an understanding of

Spheric Trigonometry could produce such a map so accurate. Perhaps the

Mappa Tuesdii is a copy of such a wonderful map.‟

The wizard had lost me and the heat of the fire was making me drowsy and

I had been up since before cock crow. But still he went on talking and stirring

his pot.

„The most incredible thing about the real map though, is that it doesn't

show Antarctica covered in ice. It shows details that couldn't be seen if there

was ice. This means that the source of the Antarctic portion of the map is likely

to have been created between 8000 and 4000 BC. One must then conclude

that in 4000 BC there existed a civilization with advanced mathematical abili-

ties, the means to travel great distances, and some means of flight even if only

by means of hot-air balloon.‟

Hot air what? What was a balloon? It sounded like fun. I gazed in wonder

at the tottering stack of books and wondered if the wizard had learned his wis-

dom within their leather covered frames. Perhaps there was benefit in learning

to read. I would think on this some more.

„There were errors in the Miri Treis Map, which can easily be explained as the

result of overlapping maps from different times the most notable is that it

shows twin Amazon rivers, one having the island at the mouth, the other in the

wrong place. These results suggests a slightly earlier date for discoveries by the

Egyptians which like so many things were lost by the fire in the Library of Alex-

andria.‟

Now, Egyptians I had heard of before. There was a travelling fair which

came at Easter which had Egyptian paintings of pyramids on their wagon and

sold charms of painted beetles.

He stopped stirring. „It has been suggested that the loss of that library set

our technological advance back 500 years, if only Marc Anthony hadn't gotten

mixed up in Cleopatra's sibling rivalries.‟

The old man was reaching down a bowl from the shelf and blowing dust off

it. He was pouring some of the strange smelling concoction into the bowl.

„Here boy, try this. It‟s called Tikka Masala. You might like it. I do.‟

NB Obviously, as this farce is fiction so ‘Real History’ is being messed about with by a thousand years or so ...

Issue 263

Page 16

Wikimedia Commons image

Can you remember your first job?

Or ...

Were you „called-up‟ to do a stint of

National Service?

If so please send in your memories for

the 2013 memories project asap.

We hope to be able to collect enough

material to produce an e-book of memories.

As we no longer have the funding, or staffing, to go on a com-

munity tour collecting memories then we will have to think

laterally and produce the project in another way.

If you have old photographs that would be great ... scanned

in and sent as jpegs please.

My First Job

Did you work as a Saturday girl, or boy, while still at school?

Did you become an apprentice?

Did you start in the family business?

What princely sum were you paid for long hours?

National Service

Brasso, blanco and bull? Remember all that?

Nissan huts and square bashing, how did that appeal to a

Teddy Boy?

How much of a culture shock was this?

Did you go anywhere interesting?

What did you learn from the experience?

Were you the square peg in the round hole?

In retrospect did you gain anything from the time served?

This book won‟t write itself ... We need your memories! Issue 263

Page 18

Assignment. Fireworks. PMW

(A Cautionary Tale.)

My father was mild-mannered and quiet. I never heard him swear, or lose his tem-

per, though he did occasionally „chunter‟, as he called it. He was in every way, an

old-fashioned gentleman, and addressed other males as „sir‟, not in a sarcastic man-

ner, but simply through good breeding and manners, and a Methodist ancestry

which dictated that all men were equal, and worthy of respect. I did respect him,

and always sought to please him, because deep down, I adored him too, and knew

the feeling was mutual.

We lived in a neat semi-detached house, on a hill, or „bank‟ as we Stokies call

them, and my best friend who lived two doors below. Her family were pretty well

off;- her dad being a businessman, who owned a Jag, and the only television in the

street. Between us lived The Smiths. They were nice neighbours, and kept the front

garden tidy, but regimented, with square, manicured lawn and rows of summer bed-

ding. Mum was a fairly keen gardener, but ours was more relaxed and less formal,

with shrubs and curved herbaceous borders.

One day, when we were struggling to entertain ourselves, my best friend,- who

was obviously a bad influence on me,- suggested that as the neighbours were out,

and in any case had LOTS of flowers, why shouldn‟t we pick a small bunch each

for our respective mums?

“They have got plenty”, she insisted, “and wouldn‟t miss a few.”

I must have looked doubtful.

“They‟ll never know!” she added.

How I came to let myself be persuaded, I can‟t say, but I did. We picked one

here, from that group, and one there, from another.

“We need a few more, to make a decent sized bunch”, she urged.

We picked and picked… and picked.

Suddenly, there were no flowers left. Just bare stalks and sad leaves.

We presented the illicit bunches to our mums.

I‟ve no idea what the response was from her parents. I do know what my par-

ents‟ reaction was. I incurred the full wrath of my father. He didn‟t rage or shout,

but I never before or after saw him so angry. I had let myself down, and worse still,

I‟d let him down too. It was terrifying. Would he ever love me again? I got a

smack, - something which was com-

monplace to my generation, and was

all the more powerful because it was

rare and a last resort as far as dad was

concerned. His disapproval was thus

well and truly registered. I had to go

round next door and make an abject

apology, and felt mortified about it. I

recall being miserable for the whole

of the following week. I had been

„sent to Coventry‟ and must bide my

time until the episode faded in the

memory.

Deer on Cannock Chase © F.Hickey

Valerie Eliot,

born 17 August 1926 - died 9 November 2012

Valerie Eliot, the widow, and executor, of TS Eliot‟s literary works, has died aged 86. She is

acknowledged as being one of the most generous patrons of modern poets. From 1993,

Valerie Eliot donated the prize award of £15,000 for the TS Eliot Prize for Poetry awarded by

The Poetry Book Society. Every year, Valerie would present the prize in person. After her

husband‟s death on 4 January 1965, she proved herself to be a competent guardian of

Eliot's literary legacy. She inherited his shares in Faber and Faber and was a member of the

publisher‟s board.

Born in Leeds the daughter of an insurance manager, Esmé Valerie Fletcher was edu-

cated at Queen Anne's school, Caversham, where it is quoted that she told her head

teacher that she wanted to become secretary to TS Eliot. In 1949, two years after his first

wife Vivienne died, Valerie was interviewed by Eliot for the post of secretary. As a director of

Faber and Faber, he edited its influential poetry section, which included the poets Pound,

Auden and Larkin. Valerie was now aged 30, Eliot 68. They married in secrecy in January

1957 at St Barnabas Church, Kensington and were together happily until his death eight

years later.

Valerie was a generous supporter of the literary arts, for example, because of the sub-

stantial income from the musical Cats (Andrew Lloyd Webber), inspired by Eliot's Old Pos-

sum's Book of Practical Cats, she provided large donations for, amongst other good causes

linked to literary education, a new wing for the London Library (Eliot had been a former

president). Valerie Eliot has been described as being a “vital link to modernism”.

Further information is available on line ... e.g. The Guardian and The Telegraph carry her full obituary

Follow Radio Wildfire on Twitter @ www.twitter.com/radiowildfire WHAT IS RADIO WILDFIRE? Radio Wildfire is an independent online radio station which blends spoken word, poetry, per-formance 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 broadcasts live 8.00-10.00pm (UK time) on the first Monday of every month. Listen to Radio Wildfire at www.radiowildfire.com where The Loop plays 24 hours a day.

http://us4.campaign-archive1.com/?u=309bdda99c8364a6971f4db82&id=e9ab597a37&e=cdcb43676e

Debut Dagger Update 1 November 2012 - 2 February 2013

In an exciting new development this year, the CWA has introduced a Manuscript Assessment Service. Writers will have an opportunity to receive a professional critique of their work, with honest and con-structive feedback. This can help in polishing the book to give it the best possible chance to attract the

judges‘ attention. For further details please go to the link at http://www.thecwa.co.uk/critiques/index.php

Another new feature introduced by the CWA is the Crime Readers‘ Association. Full of articles, reviews, blogs and writing tips from your favourite authors, it‘s the place to go to find out what makes a good

book. Check out the link at http://www.thecra.co.uk/

This year, the competition runs for thirteen weeks, closing on 2 February. All you have to do is come up with a criminally good tale.

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Please note: I often don’t receive the Radio Wildfire information until the actual day they go on air live — however, their

LOOP service plays constantly so their latest programmes can still be listened to, and very interesting they are too.

RBW Editor

There’s a brand new mix of material in The Loop on Radio Wildfire – 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 with Novelist Paul McDonald about his craft, ]teaching creative writing, plus a reading form his novel Surviving Sting; with poet Roy Mcfarlane about his new poetry imprint Re:verse, plus a reading from his new book In Search of Our Fathers; with Roz Goddard about structuring a short story, plus a reading of a story of her own, The Lexus gives off an Aura. The Loop brings you spoken word, poetry and monolgue set to music, soundscape and manipulation from Gloucestershire's Poet Laureate Brenda Read-Brown; Nick Toczek & Thies Marsen; Fay Roberts; Mark Goodwin; Gail Ashton; and Stephen Mead. The Loop brings you music from singer-songwriter Alex Vann and from Indonesian Indie band The Clouds. The Loop brings you drama from Bunbury Banter Theatre Company - this month the play is Karma Before the Storm by Angela Lord. Plus there's Mal Dewhirst with the latest instalment of his series The Lost Poets, this month he's looking at Anna Letitia Barbauld. 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 format. You can also ensure you always get reminders of upcoming shows on Radio 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 December starting at 8.00pm UK time with a full programme of pre-recorded tracks, live studio guests and conversation.

Gill’s “Wet Nellie” Gill‟s family favourite is the wartime staple “Wet Nellie”, a dark bread pudding made with suet, which can be sliced cold and spread with butter and jam, or served warm with custard. This is not a „bread and butter‟ pudding. It‟s a solid slice of yummyness and good way of using up stale bread. What you need Half a pound of stale bread – white or brown Half a pint of milk Half a pound of dried fruit (mixture of any of the fol-lowing: sultanas/raisins/currants/chopped apricots/candied peel if liked/chopped stem ginger is really lovely in this pudding) Do not put in chopped oranges as they are disgusting – chopped apple can work but is not in the original recipe only use if experimenting. 3oz suet (beef or vegetable it doesn‟t matter which) 3oz brown sugar – plus some golden sugar for sprinkling 1 big egg 1 teaspoon of mixed spice (to your own preference)

What you do Cube the bread Add suet and sugar and dried fruit to the bread cubes and mixed spice Beat eggs and milk together and add to cube mixture. Place into shallow pudding dish. Sprinkle with golden sugar. Soak for half an hour. Bake in a low/medium oven for a couple of hours until it is cooked through and smelling delicious. Leave in dish to go cold or serve straight away with custard.

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UPCOMING POETRY AT SOUTHBANK CENTRE: POETRY LIBRARY UPDATE TS ELIOT PRIZE READINGS Sunday 13 January 2013 Hear the poets shortlisted for the 2012 TS Eliot Prize read from their collections, in what has become one of the most loved and spell-binding events of the literary calendar. The po-ets are Simon Armitage, Sean Borodale, Gillian Clarke, Julia Copus, Paul Farley, Jorie Gra-ham, Kathleen Jamie, Sharon Olds, Jacob Polley and Deryn Rees-Jones. Royal Festival Hall, 7pm £15, £12 10% discount if booked before 30 November BOOK TICKETS http://ticketing.southbankcentre.co.uk/find/literature-spoken-word/tickets/t-s-eliot-prize-readings-70112 POETRY LIBRARY BOOK CLUB Monday 19 & Monday 26 November Join us for the Poetry Library Book Club where we discuss the ten poetry collections nomi-nated for this year’s TS Eliot Prize. MORE INFO >> http://ticketing.southbankcentre.co.uk/find/literature-spoken-word/tickets/poetry-library-book-club-69262 SAUL WILLIAMS' LITERARY MIX TAPE Thursday 29 November Acclaimed poet and musician Saul Williams is back with a new collection, Chorus, which of-fers an introduction to 100 young street poets. Joining him on stage tonight are Kenyan-born Somali poet Warsan Shire and poet and performer Inua Ellams. BOOK TICKETS >> http://ticketing.southbankcentre.co.uk/find/literature-spoken-word/tickets/saul-williams-literary-mix-tape-69250

CELEBRATING CHRISTOPHER LOGUE Tuesday 4 December Christopher Logue was an award-winning poet, screenwriter, playwright, songwriter and mav-erick. Brian Patten, Sam Berkson, Kate Tempest, Diana Quick, Alan Howard, Christopher Reid, Kate Dimbleby, John Hegley and Michael Horowitz, among others, create an offbeat, affec-tionate celebration of Christopher's life. BOOK TICKETS >> http://ticketing.southbankcentre.co.uk/find/literature-spoken-word/tickets/celebrating-christopher-logue-69184

Anthem For Doomed Youth What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen

ASSIGNMENT: NO MAN‘S LAND Reminded me of this poem by Wilfred Owen In November it seemed appropriate to include it here. Lest we forget the horror of warfare.

Poetry Business International Book and Pamphlet

Competition 2012/13

JUDGE: Simon Armitage. DEADLINE: Last post on 29 November 2012, or online by mid-night on 1 December. ENTRY FEE: £25, or £20 for North subscribers and Friends of the Poetry Business. A £1 surcharge is applied to online entries. The Book & Pamphlet Competition invites entrants to submit a col-lection of 20-24 pages of poems for the chance to win a cash prize and publication by Smith/Doorstop Books. Four first stage winners are selected and given the opportunity to submit a full-length manuscript to the second round of the competition, in which one of them can win book publication. The three first-stage winners receive pamphlet publication. All four winners will receive an equal share of £2,000, and have a launch reading at The Wordsworth Trust, Grasmere (Spring 2013) and read alongside Simon Armitage at the 2013 Off The Shelf Festival in Sheffield. For full details and how to enter, visit: www.poetrybusiness.co.uk

http://kentandsussexpoetry.com/2012/08/07/open-poetry-competition-2013/

KENT & SUSSEX POETRY SOCIETY

Open Poetry Competition 2013

For full details see above website link

The deadline for the 2013 competition is 31st January 2013. The Judge is poet Daljit Nagra and he will read

all the submissions.

First prize: £1,000 Second prize: £300

Third prize: £100 Plus 4 x £50

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Issue 263

Page 24

RSPCA STAFFORD WOLVERHAMPTON AND DISTRICT FREE TO ENTER POETRY COMPETITION CLOSING DATE 30th NOVEMBER 2012

RSPCA Stafford Wolverhampton and District Branch have launched a FREE to enter Poetry Competition and we are asking children and adults of any age to send us a poem about their pets or about any animal – it can be funny or sad, it can tell us what animals mean in your life, it can tell a tale or it can just be a tribute to animals. Short, long, rhyming or not we would love to see your poem. There are three age categories to enter: Adults – 17 years plus Children – 5-10 years Children – 11-16 years ... so everyone can enter! There are prizes for all categories including National Trust Family tickets, a 50% off voucher for Wolverhampton Grand Theatre pantomime, a laptop bag worth £40, artist brushes and apron set, sketch pads do-nated by WH Smith, a £10 Tesco voucher and a cuddly toy. The poems will be judged by the Mayor of Stafford and Roger Butters, a local Stafford author. The writer of the winning poem from each category will be informed the week beginning 17th December 2012. Entries will be accepted up to Friday 30th November 2012. All poems will be displayed at our RSPCA Pets and Poetry exhibition at the High House, Stafford from 4th-15th December 2012 alongside the dog photography from our Photo-shoot event earlier in October. So come on – if you love animals tell us what they mean to you in a poem. This is a fun free to enter competition so don’t worry that you’re not a kittenish ‘Keats’, or a wolfish ‘Wordsworth’ .. all we ask is that you are simply ‘Wilde’ about animals!! So have a go and send your poem to rspcasw@aol.com with your name and address (age if under 17 years) and telephone number. If you need a postal address to send your entry or multiple entries or have any questions please call 07715 540618. www.rspca-staffordwolverhampton.org.uk Also find us on Facebook

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