Issue 364 27th Nov 2014

Rising Brook/Holmcroft/

Baswich/Gnosall

Libraries are under threat.

Historic THE VINE HOTEL

Salter Street Stafford

Is the venue For the 2014 RBW

Workshop Christmas Lunch

Please note in your diary:- There will be no library workshop on Monday 1st December

on account of the Christmas Lunch There will be a workshop on the 7th Dec as usual and

The ever popular “Mincepie Monday” will be on 15th December which will be the last library workshop of 2014.

Library workshops reopen on Monday 5th January 2015

Bulletin submissions can still be sent in over the holidays.

Submissions for Defying Gravity have now closed. Look out for Short Story opportunities after the holidays.

2

To win without risk is to triumph without glory. ~ Pierre Corneille (1606-1684)

The wisest man is he who does not fancy that he is so at all. ~ Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux The progress of the intellect is to the clearer vision of causes, which neglects surface dif-

ferences. To the poet, to the philosopher, to the saint, all things are friendly and sacred, all events profitable, all days holy, all men divine. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

We‘d all like t‘vote fer th‘best man, but he‘s never a candidate. ~ Kin Hubbard

Hunting hawks do not belong in cages, no matter how much a man covets their grace, no matter how golden the bars. They are far more beautiful soaring free. ~ Lois McMaster

Bujold

What is man? A miserable little pile of secrets. ~ Andre Malraux

Suddenly, it seems, it‘s worthy of scorn to drive a transit van and to proudly display one‘s country‘s flag on one‘s home. A great many would love the opportunity to have employ-ment as a van driver and many hundreds of

thousands proudly display their flag when their sporting team plays a game. Something has

gone very badly wrong ... if there is such a disconnect between some politicians and the ordinary people they are so well paid to repre-

sent.

Steam from an apparently empty kettle can still scald.

Too much of a good thing can be wonderful ~ Mae West

Random words : Leonard, yogurt, refrigerator, lake, indignation, ladder, advantage, Martin, quern Assignment : meals on wheels

LICHFIELD POETS: POETRY ALIGHT 2nd December 7.30pm

THE KINGS HEAD, LICHFIELD

Posted by a Wit on Facebook

following the Rochester by-election

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Don't know whether anyone remembers what whitewash was/is, its burnt lime mixed with

water in a bucket or tub the brushed onto the cowshed walls. It dries very white, and very often also used on the ceilings in the farm house. After the coating of lime had

been refreshed a couple of times a year for the previous forty or fifty years there builds up a thickness of lime and this eventually becomes brittle.

When us kids started jumping about in our bedroom above the kitchen, flakes of white-wash would fall onto fathers head and into his paper as he was resting and reading after a long day‘s work. This he did not appreciate.

Father Used His Slipper

Father always used his slipper, when we were being naughty,

But we were quick and dodged about, for he was over forty, He chased upstairs into our room, he thought he‘d got us now,

We dived under both the beds, to reach us he dint know how.

Looking back he never hurt us, he slapped his slipper on the floor, The noise and shouting gave us speed, that we never had before, Old farmhouse two lots of stairs, up one set and down the other,

Dad soon got out of puff; and shouted for our mother.

A couple of smacks across the bum, and on he put his slipper, And told us off when we did wrong, but never was he bitter,

Respect was what he taught us, and elders must not cheek, Listen to what you‘re being told, with P‘s and Q‘s must speak.

Pillow fights at bed time, when we should be fast asleep, Jumping high up to the ceiling, were not counting sheep,

Our room was buv the kitchen, and noise he couldn‘t stand, Heard him rushing up the stairs, for peace and quiet demand.

When he came in, were in bed, feathers floating round the light, Pretending were asleep, bulb still swinging from the fight,

Settle down we had to now, if he came up a second time, We‘d all be in trouble, twas the stairs that he had to climb.

He had done a hard days work, and had settled in his chair,

And running up the stairs at night, enough to make him swear,

Slipper slapping on the treads, we knew what he had got, So fast asleep pretend to be, looked like he‘d lost the plot.

Owd Fred

The aerial picture shows the half mile of the village,

top left at the end of the road is the Beeches where we were brought up, above left of the church tower is Church Farm I farmed for 25 years and on the

bottom left is the farm where I farm for the last 30 years.

ASSIGNMENT: Utterly nauseating : Food Hoarding ... (SMS)

The light flicks on regardless, a promise of three minutes of fame. A hand reaches to the middle shelf, passing sour milk and mouldy oranges,

The withered dream of now green, iridescent bacon and the stale hope of squashy tommies are stuck with icy fingers to the back wall.

The stench is nauseating, the wanton decay a testament to neglect. It was all so familiar: a backdrop to a life on hold, mildew on out of date labels,

decline lingers on out of mind thoughts, Shut tight the chilly door: shut out its cold accusation as the light clicks off.

Tell yourself, tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow, that will be the right day to defrost the fridge. Always tomorrow.

INFORMATION FROM ‘STAFFORD STORYTELLERS’: Our Christmas event is going to be at St Mary's Church, on the 16th Dec. At 7.30 (admission £5.00) It was a big step to book the Church, but it is a beautiful venue for Christmas. Please, spread the news. Here are some details - At Stafford Knot we really love Christmas! Join us on Tuesday 16th at the beautiful and his-toric St Mary's Church for a wonderful evening of wintry tales. We are delighted to be teaming up with our friends who run Matlock Storytelling Cafe to tell stories to warm you when it's cold, or even cause a few shivers! Hear about a kind innkeeper's mysterious visitor, strange events one Christ-mas in Norway, the time the moon was kidnapped by dark creatures, find out why trees are ever-green, listen to a solstice story and more. In between the traditional stories, we will be reading out some real­life Christmas memories, some funny, some poignant, all contributed by our audience and friends and guaranteed to bring out the festive spirit. The stories are part of the decorations on our Stafford Knot Tree, so you can read some for yourselves in the interval! So come with us to snowy landscapes, warm fire sides, wintry forests and all things festive for a heart warming evening with our friendly club. Cakes, snacks and hot drinks are available Hope to see you there.

St Mary’s Church, Stafford is a Grade I listed parish church in the Church

of England in Stafford.

The church dates from the early 13th century, with 14th century transepts and 15th century clerestories and crossing tower. Excavations in 1954

revealed the adjacent late Anglo-Saxon church of St Bertelin.

The church was collegiate when recorded in the Domesday Book when there were 13 Prebendary Canons. It became a Royal Peculiar around the thir-

teenth century, exempt from the jurisdiction of the Bishop, but this caused conflict and culminated in December 1258 when the new bishop Roger de Meyland came to Stafford with many armed men who forced entry and

assaulted the canons, chaplains, and clerks. The church survived as a collegiate institution until the dissolution of colleges and chantries in 1548.

6

The Gardening Tips series was produced by well known local gardening expert Mrs. FM Hartley as monthly gardening items which featured on an audio news-tape produced locally for partially sighted people. (Link To Stafford & Stone Talking Newspaper. Link To R.N.I.B.)

As such the articles are meant to be read individu-ally and not as chapters of a book. The articles were written over a period of some 7 years. RBW is absolutely delighted that Mrs Hartley has agreed to some of her words of gardening wisdom gathered over nine decades being reproduced for our benefit by her son, Alan.

Garden Tips Week December 15th

Hello Folks

If you like Poinsettias there are various colours in them now, but I prefer the tradi-

tional red ones. Please can I point out that it is not wise to buy them from open

stands at outdoor markets and the like, as they may look fine, but if they have been

exposed to the wind, a few days after being brought in the warm again they will start

to wilt and nothing will save them. It is very important then, when buying, to make

sure they are wrapped properly before taking them outside. Chrysanthemums, Cy-

clamen, most bulbs and Azaleas are a bit tougher though and don’t need so much

molly coddling, even though they have all come from a warm nursery originally as

well. Cyclamen don’t like a lot of water but Azaleas are thirsty plants and must

never be allowed to dry out. When Azaleas have finished flowering and need potting

on they must go into ericaceous (Lime Free) compost.

The days have certainly been dark and short lately, but with very little frost and

no snow, thank goodness. In a few weeks we can look forward to the Spring bulbs

pushing their noses out of the ground, followed by their beautiful, bright flowers.

My purple Christmas Roses (Helleborus Niger Purpurea) are flowering now in the

garden and I expect they will continue ‘till after Christmas. There is also a Cotoneas-

ter full of bright red berries and the leaves have gone bright red. The leaves will all

drop soon, but it does look a picture at the moment. It seems to be a variety whose

berries the birds don’t like. On the other hand, the birds strip the evergreen one in no

time at all.

I noticed some of the Hebe plants are still producing a few flowers, especially

the pale blue ones. One job less to do now is lawn cutting and then edging, so the

mowers can be put away and can rest now till the Spring.

It’s not much like gardening weather now, but we do have the Spring bulbs to

look forward to. If you are buying indoor plants for Christmas, do not buy Poinset-

tias, indoor Azaleas or Crotons that have been standing outside on open market stalls

because they will almost certainly have come from heated nurseries and will usually have been

transported in heated or insulated vans. Standing them outside in the cold like this after being

raised in the warm will kill them and a day or two after you have bought them they will wilt for

no apparent reason.

Re-cycling places have complained about shredded paper clogging their machinery and are

asking people not to put it in with other paper for re-cycling. I have a small paper shredder and

scatter the shredded paper from receipts, old bank statements and such on the compost heap

amongst the grass cuttings, or it can be put in small quantities in the bottom of pots when re-

potting plants or bulbs. Some can be scattered with a little soil on in the garden to act as a mulch.

If wet it will not blow about and soon rots down when the worms have pulled it into the soil.

I keep a book in which I write notes of what plants have done well in different parts of the

garden in our changeable weather and then go through seed catalogues with the aid of my strong

magnifying glass to see what’s new and suitable for the next year.

I think I may have mentioned before that if you receive a planted bowl for Christmas with a

Cyclamen in it is better to take it out and re-pot it in a separate pot, as they prefer a cool place,

unlike some of the other plants, such as the Poinsettias that they are likely to be potted with.

Also Cyclamen don’t like water on their corm, so they are best watered from the bottom and

then only occasionally. Cyclamen should never be allowed to stand in water but Azaleas on the

other hand should never be allowed to dry out as they are thirsty plants and will drop all their

leaves if they do.

A Few Tips On House Plants In December

There are some really lovely Cyclamen about now, but they don’t like central

heating which most of us have. It is the dry air that is the main trouble, so stand

the pot, the plant is in, on some gravel, broken pots or small stones in another

container and keep the stones wet, though not so much water that the plant is

standing in water. Cyclamen don’t like water on the corm, but with these pre-

cautions they should stay in flower for at least 3 months.

Azaleas like plenty of water so give them a good soak each day by standing them in water

until the pot feels heavy, then, let it drain and stand the pot in another container with wet gravel

etc in the bottom. This keeps the humidity round the plants and indeed you will find that most

house-plants prefer this type of care. This does not apply to Cacti and other succulents which

like dry air. If you like the Xmas cacti you should buy them in tight bud if you can and after put-

ting them in the house don’t keep moving them round as they might drop their buds. Just dust

around them without disturbing them.

African Violets don’t like water on their leaves so when the pot feels light just stand it in

water for a few minutes, leave it to drain and then put it in a holder or on a saucer.

Hope these tips are useful.

That’s all for now.

Cheerio Frances Hartley

ORIENTAL SEDUCTION by SHOSHA CLARE I had never liked Siamese cats. I used to see them sitting on people‘s windowsills, apparently glar-

ing balefully at passers-by, and wonder at their appeal. I even went to a major Cat Show, and, though entranced by the many fascinating breeds, glamor-

ous Persians, Burmese, Balinese, British Shorthairs, Abyssinians, and so many more, all so desirable, I ignored the cages of what I saw as scowling oriental anorexics.

For years I had moggies, lovely moggies, and I loved them all. In fact I seem to have been desig-nated as a provider of a ‗help the aged‘ rest home for a series of moth-eaten, battered old ladies and gentlemen who staggered to my door on their last legs, with the unerring instinct of any domestic ani-

mal for a Joe Soap. Even at the risk of upsetting my resident delightful tortoiseshell lady, naturally I took them in, caring for these grateful geriatrics with love and home comforts, easing their last few

weeks or months. Silky eventually became immune to the comings and goings of the hospice, and also coped valiantly with the advent of various dogs and their offspring. Even several house moves did

not ruffle her gentle and sweet, accepting nature, and she died peacefully at the age of twenty two years, a much loved and respected companion.

When a move to a flat became imminent, I made the sensible decision that this kind of abode was

no home for a feline, and for three years I manfully resisted the occasional urge to acquire a cat, even though Charming Moon, my cat-compatible Tibetan Spaniel would have liked the company.

If and when, I bought another cat, I decided it would be a Somali. Seeing Somalis at the cat show, for the first time was love at first sight. I adored their lynx–like grace, triangular faces, fringed ears

and thick coat. I also loved their colours, rich topaz bronze or chestnut sorrel. They had that indefin-able foreign look, so attractive, and it seemed, loving quiet temperaments, so, a Somali would be an acquisition for the far distant future, I felt.

One day, I popped to Smith‘s for a biro, and bought the latest Cat Club Annual. The photographs were delightful and, lo and behold, there were local Somali breeders! A Somali cat and kitten looked

up appealingly from the page. Well now, when I felt it was the right time to buy a cat, I‘d know where to go, I thought, as I slotted the Annual into my bookcase, putting cats out of my mind for the fore-seeable future.

Driving my dog to the local Country Park some time later, I spotted a notice on a lamp-post:- Sia-mese Kittens for Sale. I drove purposefully on. I did not like Siamese, and anyone who advertised on

lamp-posts could not be a reputable breeder. Walking the dog I could not get the words out of my head. ‗Siamese kittens for sale.‘

As I started homewards, a thought sidled into my head. If there was a parking space, it wouldn‘t hurt to just pop in and have a squint at them. Of course, I‘d no intention of buying one, oh no, not a Siamese. Needless to say,

a parking space was waiting for me, and I was viewing a lovely even kindle of white and brown kittens clustering serenely on a settee together, nurtured by

Mummy and Aunty Siamese. Their breeder was obviously a cat nut, and they were unmistakably well bred, well fed, and had been nurtured with plenty of

TLC. I was entranced, and, reassured that Siamese are the perfect breed for a flat, it was now not a

question of just looking, but of choosing. In the end I said yes to a chocolate-point boy with a slight

violet tint to his beautiful blue eyes. His breeder painted one of his claws with coral nail varnish to make sure I took the chosen one home, and said I could take him next week after his first inoculation.

I was in a daze. What had I done!! I didn‘t really want a cat in my present circumstances! I‘d never liked Siamese and how on earth was I going to pay for him! I must be crazy! Deeply regretting

my ridiculous impetuosity I sat bemused, unable to erase the vision of his sleepy violet shaded blue eyes staring at me! Oh my goodness me!

Next day I took books out from the Library. Every Siamese owner had obviously been utterly capti-

vated by the breed. The stories were amusing and salutary. Siamese seemed to be no ordinary felines and he was not going to be a doddle it seemed. They were the original ‗pickles,‘ into everything. I

tried mentally to compare the pictures of Champions with the little scrap I had viewed. Were his ears set at the right angles? Did he fit the breed standard? Oh dear, was I buying a reject, and, anyway,

did it really matter? AND, what about the Somali that I‘d promised myself?

The Somali breeders were helpful. They had no kittens at present, but friends expected a litter in a few days. They would be ready in eight weeks, and they would be delighted for me to come over and

look at their adults. How could I resist! I ordered a kitten! In even more of a flummox, I thought it would be a very good idea to go back to the Siamese

Breeder and tell her face to face that I was not going to buy her kitten. After all, I wanted two cats a lot less than I wanted one. I felt bad about it, but it had to be done. I sat amongst the litter and told her that I was going to call him Ylang-Ylang, and that I‘d fetch him next week!

Of course I am completely sold on Siamese! I love his sleek svelte lines, his tiny slender face, and his bubbling personality. I forgive him his manic leaps on to furniture, sending flying my valuable orna-

ments, and his endless capacity for mischief. His loving, gentle ways are so sweet, his yowls delight-fully sotto voce. I am now a total devotee of the breed. The arrival of Topaz, the Somali, created no problems. He and Ylang-Ylang hit it off immediately, and my dog accepted yet another interloper in her

basket with good grace. They all often sleep in a heap together, and peace reigns once Ylang-Ylang is at rest! Luckily, Topaz is of a much quieter nature. Two Ylang-Ylangs would be somewhat over the

top! Then, I found a tiny jet black kitten mewing pitifully on the high wall of my Balcony. I can only as-

sume someone dumped him there, hoping he‘d fall to his death. There were many cruel people around here in an area where most people acquired dogs and shoved them out to wander the streets all day. Of course, I took the little darling in. Unsuccessful in finding a home for him, Phoenix joined the happy

gang. Although firmly a member of the hoi polloi, he fitted in nicely with the Pedigree Aristocrats. Oh well, I‘ve always loathed that old saw, ‗Never let your heart rule your head!‘ and yes, I know,‗

‗Fools rush in where angels fear to tread!‘ and where animals are concerned I have always been, and always will be a happy fool!

RADIO WILDFIRE UPDATE: There's a brand new selection of tracks now playing in The Loop on Radio Wildfire – another selection of stories, satires, poetry, spoken word, music and interview playing 24/7 @ www.radiowildfire.com

This edition of The Loop features tracks of spoken word, music and song by Huw Parsons; H.C.Turk; Sally Crabtree; Ron Runeborg; Sharon Ashton; Tony Judge; 6&8; Manni; Dave Reeves; Mostyn Harris and Matt Leonard

Price We've got another outing for the first track to be played in the UK from Cassette a new album by New York poet and songwriter David Francis (first play was in November's re.Lit); and a special focus on the work of editor of Poetry Cornwall Les Merton All finished off with another great play from the Bunbury Banter Theatre Company: the very serious comedy From Venus With Love by Bruce Shakespear and left to rotate throughout the month... So join us and listen by going to www.radiowildfire.com and clicking on The Loop

(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 plays online continuously except during our live broadcast on Monday 1st December 2014 starting at 8.00pm UK time with a full programme of tracks, guest interviews and conversa-

tion. 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 where The Loop plays 24 hours a day. Twitter @radiowildfire

RBW FICTION PROJECT FOR 2014/15 NOTES: ( CHANGES )

Story so far. Plotlines are developing ...

This is a listing of what we have so far ...

Place: Sometime in the 1890s The Grand Cosmopolitan Shipping Line Chain: The Nasturtium Hotel (GNH) in Trentby-on-Sea a place that has a similarity to Southampton, twinned with Murmansk and has a decided international flavour. Despite recent squabbles with Russia, France and certain other countries all rich spending foreigners are welcomed

Time Span: Between the arrival and departure of the steamship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. About 3 weeks.

Hotel: The GNH is owned by The Cosmopolitan Shipping Line and is the usual Victorian Hotel. It has three classes of accommoda-

tion, that are roughly: Suites [1st floor] for those with money and the POSH nobs. Rooms [2nd and 3rd floors] for the not so well off. Accommodation [tiny attic rooms, top floor back] for staff

Staff: Basil Bluddschott (70's) – Manager Mrs. Cynthia Bluddschott (20's) - 2nd (trophy) wife of Basil

Daniel Bluddschott (40) – Son of Basil by 1st wife Miss Marian Bluddschott (35) – Daughter of Basil by 1st wife Mrs. Natasha Bluddschott (34) – wife of Daniel — gambling debts up to mischief

Roberto Manchini - Italian chef; has the hots for Marian & Cynthia Mrs. Bertha Buckett – Breakfast Cook in Charge Peter the porter

Nancy the Scullery maid, Betty the Chambermaid Guests:

Lady Vera Accrington and Lady Gloria Stanley – a couple of old biddies with a chequered past who are enjoying themselves their Ward Dorothy ... much admired by the Maharajah and every other red-blooded male Major Martin – May be the ADC to the Prince of ??

The Russian Prince of ?? Referred to as Mr. Smith; even tho' everybody know who he is. Daphne Du Worrier - Writer Capt. Toby Fowlnett – Recently appointed skipper of the clipper ship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. He may be a little short on

experience as his last job was skipper of the IOW ferry. [Hey! How difficult can it be to find India or China?] St. John Smythe – Tea planter with holdings in Assam. The Maharajah of Loovinda and his wife and valet George (apologies to Shakespeare, you‘ll see why immediately)

The Sheik of the province of Kebab. (It‘s a farce!!) Walter Wales – hack writer for Capt. Thaddeus Hook travel books Murray Durrisdane (currently a Boots)— Jade Buddha/Stone of Kali seeker — (Jamie Burke — Alexander Mulrose — baddies)

Russians? in room 212 Russian Agent Capt. Wild Will Body and his travelling Wild Rodeo Show, Missy Clementine Jane, Big chief Light–in-the-Sky and Texas Jim

McGraw the shootist (may be subject to change) Graf Hubrecht Walther Falscheim, the Graf von Jagerlagerberg involved with Ward Dorothy Kugyrand Rippling South African diamond dealer nasty piece of work

Music Hall turns playing at 'The Winter Gardens', Also staying the GNH some in suites some in the accommodation class.

Miranda Barkley – maybe mistress of the Prince of ?? Dario Stanza – singer Vesta Currie – cross-dresser hot stuff on the stage - Miss Maple piano-playing-Temperance Sister Cystic Peg – Medium / Seances Dan Fatso – Charlie Chaplin type

ALSO listed: Diamond dealer — Boniface Monkface

Jade - A rare Jade Buddha with a Kali Stone is specifically noted. A golden laughing Buddha also appears. NOTES:

CHECK THE DATE! Q. Victoria is Empress. Osborne House IoW is her fav. des. res. 1. Gas lighting or oil lamps – no public electricity supply about for another couple of decades; unless the hotel has its own generator, electrical lighting is out.

2. Horses and carriages in the streets, steam trains for long distances and on the dockside. Trams in some areas. 3. Limited number of phones, usually locally between ministries or business offices. Messengers or Royal Mail normally used.

Telegrams are available.

RBW Library Workshop group are working on a script for the next book. The ideas so far include a hotel in

the 1890s with as diverse a mix of travellers about to de-part for the far east as it is possible to squeeze into the

plot. Obviously the action will take place in Trentby-on-Sea, twinned with Murmansk, and

the establishment will be man-aged by Basil Bluddschott and his new wife Cynthia. If you‘ve ever watched a Carry On film you will have had all the training you‘d need to join in.

The annual joint project ...

The joint comedy is good practice in group co-operation, character building, plotting, dialogue, storyline arc etc and

besides it‘s hilarious to write an un-PC plot which pokes fun at everybody. Here outrageous stereotypes are encouraged!

What is more people actually read our free e-books ... Some brave souls even give us LIKES on Facebook

OPPORTUNITY: Take a room in the hotel ... Who is waiting to go to India? Why are they going? What are they running away from or towards?

Vera & Gloria 2 'Don't think much of this place at all our Gloria.' Lady Vera Accrington complained to her companion as she peered around. 'This ain't the posh bank we was told about. It's about the same size as our coal house, an' dingy. You sure we got the right place?'

Lady Gloria Stanley, silently, agreed. The deserted 'bankers office' was, just like her coal house, small, dark, and smelling of old socks and cat pee. 'Must be, Vera, it were the right name on the front. Let's see if we can wake somebody up!' Gloria took a firm grip on her umbrella, remembering her own advice of keeping the wrist supple, and used it to tap on the grill over the sole counter. There was no response to that, nor to the three repeats. 'No good you jus' ticklin' it like that, Gloria,' Lady Vera said, 'I'll 'ave a go.' Even if she didn't, she gave the impression of rolling her sleeves up. Her try bent the grill, added dents to the already battered counter and ruined her brolly. Spotting a bell rope Gloria went and gave it a sharp tug. There was an answering Clang – Bong - Tinkle from somewhere in the depths of the building before the bell rope expired from advanced boredom and fell, coiling lazily, at her feet.

'Bad that,' said Vera, 'needed replacin' years ago by the looks.' Gloria nodded as she kicked the rope into a heap behind the sole chair. Behind the counter a door opened and a face appeared round it, there was a startled squeak and it disappeared. Then a figure appeared dressed in the full majesty of a Bank Managers apparel; unfortunately the rest of the figure failed to live up to the clothes. Gloria took no prisoners and waved him away saying, 'Who-ever you are go and fetch the manager of this dingy establishment. Inform him that Lady Vera Accrington and Lady Gloria Stanley are here to do business.' The underdeveloped, undersized, sweaty, balding man replied, 'Madam, I am Morgan, the manager of this branch. How may I have the pleasure of serving you?' His tone said, 'Preferably lightly roasted with an apple in your mouth.' 'We wants to take some money out of our accounts,' Vera burst in. 'Not much, say fifty

quid each. In proper money, none of them bank notes you bankers is fond of cos it saves you havin' real money in your till.' Not to be outdone Gloria chipped in, 'But we 'spects that you won't have that much ready an' waitin', so pop off like a good little mank banager, and get it together for us. We'll be here for another ten minutes or so. Won't we Lady Vera?' Vera decided that, as she was now posh, H's shouldn't be dropped, 'Ho yus, Hat least hanotha ten minutes, hif hi can find somewhere to sit hin this dhark rhoom.' The one spindly chair in the room collapsed under her bustle, leaving her legs sticking out of a pile of firewood. 'See that?' Gloria said as she helped - heaved more than anything - Vera to her feet. 'That says that you ain't kep' this place up ter where it should be.' Stooping down she picked up a chair leg and brandished it at the bank manager.' Rotten old chair. Wood-

worm I should think.' 'That chair, madam, is a genuine Throplewaite. It's nearly two hundred years old.' Vera chimed in, 'Good job fer you hit hain't ha new one then. See! That's what hi means! Hold furniture's no good, you should 'ave good new stuff hin 'ere, hand get some lamps has well. They was good ones' hin that Hex-hib-hish-shun hat The Great Shalimar hay few years since. Got one hof them cattle-hogs hat 'ome hi 'as.'

There was a whispered conflab between the women before Vera burst out … 'You sure, our Gloria? Nobody never said nothin' ter me 'bout that!' Gloria nodded before admitting, 'On the nail in the back place it is. Not good paper for it though, too stiff and shiny.' 'I were savin; that our Glor! The gran' kids could 'ave got some edicay-shun out on it. Still, if its gone down the tumbler it's too late now.' By this time Gloria had become impatient, 'Well, Mr. Mank Banager, get on wi' it then! Where's our money? Any more dill-dallying and well take our business to some-where what know how to treat Ladies of quality, like us, proper.' 'And what's got proper chairs,' Vera put in. The even sweatier manager called a junior who 'popped off' to get the cash.

http://rywiki.tsadra.org/index.php/File:Yeshe_Tsogyal.jpg#filelinks

RESEARCH BACKGROUND: Another BUDDHA

Yeshe Tsogyal - A Female Buddha ACW

It is said in Tibet, Yeshe Tsogyal is a Buddha who takes the form of an ordinary woman.

This middle way says that a woman's body was an asset not a hindrance to enlightenment. According to legend, Yeshe Tsogyal is considered to be a rein-

carnation of Buddha's own mother, Maya. How Yeshe Tsogval re-ceived initiation is in various legends, which also include being robbed

by seven bandits whom she then converts to Buddhism. She takes them with her on a magic carpet to a place where they all gain peaceful and wrathful deity practice initiations.

Part of prayer to her is:

Grant your blessings so that this Aeon of disease, famine, and war may be pacified Grant your blessings so that the casting of curses, spells and sorcery may be pacified

Grant your blessings so that our wishes may be fulfilled spontaneously.

Yeshe Tsogyal is also an incarnation of the Hindu goddess Saraswati, goddess of perfect wisdom, who is the patroness of learning, giver of intelligence to the newborn, bestower of poetic skill, and granter of knowledge and wisdom.

Yeshe Tsogyal also has the same beautiful singing voice as Saraswati. By arranged marriage, she was married to an Emperor, where she was educated in languages arts and sciences, secular and religious arts. It was in the Emperor's palace she encountered her guru.

The emperor granted Yeshe Tsogyal to the guru in return for the guru teaching the emperor the shortest path to enlightenment in one lifetime.

After initiation and teaching by the guru, Yeshe Tsogyal travelled to Nepal, where she found another consort, who was a slave at the time, and liberated him from slavery and they stayed together for the rest of her life.

Buddhist statues are empty, but filled with rolls of mantras blessed by a Buddhist monk, otherwise keeping an empty statue in your home means fortune (energy, health, material things, long life) will de-

crease. The enlightened body is the statue, but the enlightened speech is the mantras placed inside the shell of the body.

Vesta and the confusion cross-dressing can cause .... we resume where the Maha-rani needs a pork pie for her guest‘s tiffin ...

Actually she knew very well from where. On the way to the theatre last night they

had walked down a small alley and passed one of those shops with fowl hanging by the

claws and pieces of flesh and bone and head strewn across the counter in the window. She had, of course averted her eyes, but in doing so had noticed some tiny pastries la-belled ‗pork pies‘. Meat, but invisible meat, and the very thing. She waited respectfully for her husband to achieve this solution, and as he did not, she was forced to construct a ladder of clues.

‗If only there were a meat shop nearby,‘ she began. But the Maharajah the previous night had been too excited at the thought of seeing his beloved to see the butcher‘s and merely shook his head in companionable despair.

‗I wonder where those people who live around here get their meat?‘ the Maharani continued. Again the Maharajah had no idea.

‗Surely such an offensive shop would not be on display in a main street,‘ said the Ma-harani. ‗Are there any small alleys in the vicinity, do you know?‘

At last the penny dropped. ‗I know of the very place,‘ cried the Maharajah. And with-out thought for his wife, whizzed off to obtain the omitted sustenance.

The Maharani gave a sigh of relief and went back into the salon where her love was trying to make conversation with George.

‗George,‘ said the Maharani. ‗His Highness has gone on an errand. Please go and carry his purchases. He went eastwards.‘ She ushered the bemused George from the room and, alone at last, turned to Vesta.

‗Lovely tea,‘ said Vesta. ‗And the food looks great too. But I have an allergy to spicy

stuff, sorry. Brings me out in bumps.‘ ‗No matter,‘ murmured the Maharani. ‗I wish only for your comfort.‘ She smoothed the

cover on which Vesta reclined, stroked the cushion. Then slowly she took her seat be-

side her love. Herr end of the couch sank as Vesta‘s rose. The Maharani gazed into pools of deepest blue and was bewitched. She forgot she was wife of the stodgy ruler of Loo Vinda, mother of his eight podgy offspring. She was a girl again, lithe and light as the beautiful creature beside her and the promise of ecstasy was flaming between them. Just one hint, and her lover would fold her in his arms and bear her away from this wearisome life to the world of theatre, excitement, passion where she belonged.

‗Very nice suite you have here,‘ said Vesta. ‗Love the view over the harbour.‘ The Maharani lay back in the cushions and contemplated deliciously what that hint

should be. Should she run her fingers down the peach-bloom skin? ‗How many rooms have you got?‘ asked Vesta. Should she caress the hair like a raven‘s wing? ‗I‘ve only got half a one,‘ said Vesta. ‗Have to share with Marie.‘

The Maharani stared in rapture. Vesta was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Was there something wrong

with the woman? She decided to escape. ‗Well, thanks very much,‘ she said. ‗Got to get to the theatre now, I‘m afraid.‘ What? The Maharani sat bolt upright. ‗But there is still tea in the pot,‘ she said wildly.

‗It is very unlucky to leave tea in the pot. The gods become angry and… and… Please,‘

she lurched for the teapot, leaning over Vesta and pinning her to the couch. ‗The gods will be angry with me if I miss my call,‘ cried Vesta, struggling under the

Maharani‘s bulk. Buttons popped. The Maharani grasped cup and pot now and was en-deavouring to unite them. Vesta twisted, the Maharani stretched, and there was a loud ripping sound. The Maharani failed to notice this, as she failed to notice the door

bursting open and her husband, bearing a paper bag, falling into the room. ‗There you are,‘ said the Maharani to Vesta, sitting back triumphantly with a brim-

ming cup. The Maharajah stared at Vesta. Gone was the stiff collar, gone the starched shirt

front, gone in fact most of the shirt. It fell away as she slowly stood up. Smooth creamy flesh burgeoned from a froth of lace above a silk corset. He gulped. Had his wife really done this for him? Persuaded his love to present herself ready for para-dise? ‗There you are,‘ she had said, proffering also tea to refresh him after what she knew had been a frantic scramble. Was it all right then? Did she not mind his having another wife?

By this time the Maharani too had raised her eyes, and she could not believe them. There, where her lover had been, was a tousled, half naked woman. Was she dream-

ing? And there was her husband, gaping like the fool he was. Then he turned his eyes to herself. They were brimming with tears. ‗Oh my first wife,‘ he said. ‗Thank you a million times for this gift.‘

‗First‘…? ‗Gift‘…? The Maharani let out the scream of an impaled parrot and flung the cup of tea at the Maharajah‘s head. Then the pot, then the tray, then the table.

Vesta flew. They were mad. These people were stark, raving mad. Along the corri-dor she raced up one set of stairs after another until she reached her room. There she dressed, packed, and caught the next train to anywhere.

Vesta Currie‘s theatrical career quickly petered out, and when she tried to write her autobiography no publisher would take it because of one totally unbelievable incident which she refused to omit, maintaining it was perfectly true. Her allergy to spicy food increased until she could not eat so much as a slice of Christmas cake and she spent

the rest of her life in a home for those who had gone out of their minds, funded, alleg-edly, by an anonymous gentleman who was rumoured to be somebody in the glorious sub-continent.

Murray was glad of old Dan‘s army overcoat even smelling of his tired bones and days of toil. The soles of his boots were paper thin and leaking but four pennies was four pennies so no horse tram for him. When he arrived at Wellington Street a wave of annoyance passed through him, there was no way the lassie should have broached here on her own. The shop sign said ―Curiosity and Lending‖ Uncle M. O‘Riotai proprie-tor. Murray rubbed one of the many small panes of glass which made up the shop-window and peered inside through a grime of ages.

There was no sign of anything of value. A woman, gaunt and wizened beyond her years, wrapped in a shawl came out of the door in a hurry her face streaked with tears and her fist tight around the coppers she had been lent by Uncle O‘Riotai for whatever she had parted with for a pittance, probably forever.

Murray looked away, there was no eye-contact required in a pawn brokers. He en-tered quickly and thrust forward the tickets from Dan‘s box.

‗You‘re not Dan!‘ said the man behind the wire mesh screen. It was hard to make out his features in the dim light given off from a flickering gas lamp. The velvet and silk cap had at one time been embroidered and sewn with seed pearls, but that was in another lifetime and another place. His whiskers were a testament to his habits and tinged with an oily brown stain as were the ends of his fingernails which poked out aggressively from

fingerless gloves. ‗I am now,‘ said Murray. ‗Where‘s the girl?‘ ‗Are we to engaged in polite conversation or do business?‘ replied Murray patting his

chest where a pocket might have been hidden away. O‘Riotai took the tickets clearly an-noyed that the items were being recovered. Murray read him like a book. These items were worth money.

‗That‘ll be five guineas,‘ he said. ‗Are you sure? Let me see the book.‘ The man‘s eyes wrinkled behind bottle thick spectacles, he glanced at the ledger. ‗Five

pounds: easy mistake.‘ ‗Let me see the items,‘ said Murray who was in no mood to be hoodwinked by the

crook. Five pounds was all that stood between him and the workhouse. O‘Riotai shuffled crab-like towards an ancient safe at the rear of the premises which was

so dark and so overcrowded with junk that Murray had failed to notice it when he first en-tered. A safe. Of course, Dan‘s treasures wouldn‘t be in the window they‘d be in secure lodgings.

The old man produced a wooden box. Murray stiffened, he seen boxes like that before. The lid was inlaid with mother of pearl and ivory. His heart almost stopped beating as the lid opened and the contents were revealed.

‗Trinkets,‘ he said, ‗two a penny in the bazaar. And you want five pounds.‘ ‗If you don‘t want ‗em ...‘ the lid closed. ‗Naah, a transaction should be honoured.‘ Murray passed over the precious five pound

note, ‗Don‘t bother to gift wrap it,‘ he said removing the box from the man‘s trembling

hands. ‗I‘ll be having a receipt though, and a borrow of a pen and ink.‘ O‘Riotai frowned and began writing in a spider‘s hand on a sheet torn from a copy book.

Murray waited. Finished, O‘Riotai handed him the receipt and the ink loaded pen. ‗I want it back mind.‘ ‗I‘m doing you a favour,‘ said Murray as he wrote what looked like squiggles with a tiny

hand on the back of the receipt. What he did next perplexed the pawnbroker for many a year.

Opening the box, Murray extricated one of the objects, a stone carving of a Buddha and slid the folded paper inside through an almost hidden crevice. He closed the box and secreted it under his arm inside the great coat. As the door closed, there was a spluttering sound and the gas jet sud-denly sprang into full light, the sun seemed to flood the interior through the

ingrained windows, the old man felt a great weight lifting from his shoulders and a smile tried to find hold on his lips, that proved to be too hard, but his

eyes did find their twinkle. From that day forth there was a change in Uncle M. O‘Riotai that his customers all noted and in this new found bonhomie came even greater riches. He never understood what the Scotsman did to that eastern trinket but he did recognise it was something not of this world.

Debut Dagger Bulletin No 1 (Publicity Release)

Welcome to our first Bulletin of the 2014-15 competition. Hello and welcome to the 2015 Debut Dagger Competition. My name is Lucy Santos and I’ll be running the competition again this year. For those of you who are unfamiliar with these bulletins, they will be issued every two weeks whilst the competition is running. It’s been an exciting year for the Crime Writers’ Association with three of our Daggers (The Goldsboro Gold, The Ian Fleming Steel and the John Creasey) being presented at the Specsavers Crime Thriller Awards in London in October. Those of you in the UK may have seen the Awards Ceremony on ITV3. This can only help to raise the profile of crime writing (and writers) and since I know you want to join them, let’s get back to the Debut Dagger. As you know by now, the 2014 winner was Jody Sabral with her novel ‘The Movement’. You can read it here and I hope you enjoy it as much as we did. Tim Baker and Peter Hayes were highly commended for their entries. The award was presented at the CWA Dagger Awards Dinner and we were delighted that so many shortlisted authors were able to attend. The 2014 competition attracted hundreds and hundreds of entries. The timelines stretched from the tenth cen-tury to the future. I must say you’re a very inventive lot with some cracking plots. In the end it was desperately hard to pick a short list and there were a lot of entries that very nearly made it. How often have we heard it said that, when it comes to getting your work noticed, being short listed is as good as winning? And also, that acquiring a good literary agent is almost as hard as finding a publisher? Both are true. The CWA circulates short listed candidates to agents and editors and I personally know of several writers who gained agents that way. The Debut Dagger competition is highly regarded because it’s international in scope and its jurors are consid-ered the top of their field in the industry. But winning isn’t everything. Nor is being short listed or long listed. The discipline of trying out, the learning curve, networking, helping hands you meet as you hone your craft, are rewarding in themselves. Opt to take the journey. You’ll find it worth every step. Best wishes Lucy Santos Director, CWA Copyright © 2014 The CWA, All rights reserved. A newsletter for anyone interested in the CWA's Debut Dagger competition. Our mailing address is: The CWA PO Box 3408 Norwich, Eng NR3 3WE

Dave Gibbons, becomes UK first comics laureate:

‘They’re not just cheap, lurid entertainment’

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/oct/20/dave-gibbons-comics-laureate-

child-literacy-watchmen?CMP=twt_gu

Watchmen artist spearheads campaign to improve child literacy in

the UK by using comics and graphic novels

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