Issue 375 20th February 2015

What really happens when libraries go ‘voluntary’?

Case Study: Trentham library was closed by

Stoke-on-Trent City Council in May last year to save a paltry £6,000.

Local people vigorously campaigned but still their, much loved and much used, library closed.

In Jan 2015 - TRENTHAM READS - opened. A volunteer led book lending service opened by the

grace and kindness of a local doctor who has temporarily allowed public use of his practice conserva-tory one afternoon a week for three hours. 600 books were supplied by Stoke library and three senior citizens

have volunteered to run the book loan service.

COMMENT: Is this really a future

deserved by Staffordshire Branch Libraries? Is this well-meaning project sustainable? What happens when the good GP needs his space returned? What happens if/when elderly volunteers have to cease volunteering? Are there free computers? Is it

only a book loan service? If so, is much of the usual library user e-footfall not being catered for? Three cheers for the three good ladies of Trentham who deserve praise and recognition for their social commit-

ment but the loss of Trentham‘s longstanding professional full library service is going to be hard for local voters to forgive, or forget, especially those who relied on free access to the internet.

Trentham

Library

provided-

Books

Free

internet

Toddler

group

2

Bloggers! It is all too easy to fall into the trap of mixing fact and fiction! A blog — a

personal diary entry being published — does that cruel thing: it allows publication of facts and real people to be merged into fantasy. Only trouble is once that clear divide is

crossed libel laws step in. Writers often do not realize that by sharing their fantasy which includes another real person they are opening the door to big trouble. Likewise amateur

writers often use characters from books they have loved in their own work … perhaps okay if those characters are Victorian and the writer long dead and the work out of copy-right not so good if they were found in a book ten years ago with a still living author who

will not be so delighted. Libel, copyright and plagiarism is serious stuff.

I watched a TV documentary in which a young couple was travelling to Las Vegas to marry. The person conducting the ceremony was reciting the familiar lines for them to copy. But it sounded somewhat peculiar to my ear, because of instead of ‗till death us do

part‘ the American take on it was ‗till death we do part‘, I‘m not sure how they were ex-pected to part death!

Opening hours at Birming-ham's iconic £189m library are to be cut to save

money, Birmingham city council confirmed. The li-brary, opened in September

2013, will only open 40 hours a week - down from 73 hours. Plans to make

redundant 100 of the 188 library staff are being dis-cussed, at least 90 people

could lose their jobs.

READERS and viewers often love the efforts of writers and actors who do not seem to appreciate the value of their own work: CS Lewis is famously renowned for his brilliant children‘s stories yet it is said he himself

did not realise their cultural impact and would have preferred to be better known for his academic tomes — likewise it has been said that Sir Alec Guinness perhaps did not realise Obi-wan Kenobi would endear him to a whole new generation of fans who had not been born early enough to see his earlier triumphs in films

such as the Ladykillers and Kind Hearts and Coronets.

Bloggers ... Do be careful: cheery family anecdotes can make one‘s family look like a complete idiots and

show up a multitude of unfortunate prejudices and predilections.

This winter‘s flu virus has been a bad one, or two, or even three different strains. This is the virus that keeps on taking coming back time after time with slight variations. Over 16,000 people have died.

Random words: town, kilt, scallop, stuffy, pedestrian, pro-test, innards, jinx, escapade, pelf Assignment: Pancakes

Here‘s an easy resolution COME to WORKSHOP ... Every Monday 1.30 start

Rising Brook Library

Balancing the books? Hours slashed! Redundancies!

Cover :

Source:

Local

media

web-outlets

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

I WAS THERE ... Says Mick Horsenail

UP HELLY AaUP HELLY Aa

The adventure begins with a ferry

crossing to Shetland and Lerwick. Surprisingly ―Up Helly Aa‖ is a

relatively modern festival. For gen-erations Shetland folk celebrated ―Up

Helly Night‖ 24 days after Christmas and it is recorded by a Missionary as a rowdy night of uproar as early as

1824 — burning tar barrels arrived by the 1840s and the rest is history ...

“Up Helly A” 2015

All images © M Horsenail

A poem To me, a would-be writer, Limericks are interesting not just for their humour and absurdity but for their clever use of words. Here is a great example. There was a young lady from Ryde Who ate some green apples and died. The apples fermented inside the lamented And made cider insid'er inside.

What love requires A young man whose name was John Myers Asked his Ma what it is love requires. "Perseverance comes first Through life's best and life's worst, And kindness comes next - However you're vexed. And you need to be humble Because in pride you will stumble Then comes courage and trust With forgiving a must. You'll also need help 'Cause you're only a whelp All these they require Who to true love aspire" Random Words With no apology I say that Mr Stevenson's bestselling locomotives changed the people's lives as has the IPhone in our present age. Crossing our world not least through Dartmoor's wilds, they beat their brisk tattoo as iron wheels crossed unsealed iron joints along the track. A chance for wiling masses to explore a world they'd never seen. They also brought them freight from far afield including barrels, gates and seals and aspidistras.

Assignment: What love requires

Love is hard. Love is costly. In 1972 I met someone. We had a connection. Neither of us was free. He was happy; I was not, so were we friends. I will not call it love. Love is hard; true love, unlike ro-mantic attraction and emotion. Love is the biggest thing a human can do.

Then 26 years later, our circumstances changed. Love requires patience. Destiny had plans for us, and we didn‘t resist.

We had taken a step into the unknown. ‗Off into the world we go‘,- as more than friends, though still that too. It had taken time; love requires fortitude; but what we made was extraordinary. Love came easily then.

He had been blessed with a wonderful voice, and sang in a choir. Once, they performed ‗Love changes everything‘, a hit for Michael Ball, and it became our song. When he sang it, he sang it to

me. But fate was cruel. Love was tested. Tested by hostility; love requires sensitivity. Tested by ill-

ness; love requires fortitude. Oh so much fortitude. Handing him over to others, who did not care so much as I. Watching the inevitable decline, powerless. And feeling it was happening to me, and wishing it was. Hating being a part of it, yet wanting to be nowhere else. Growing even closer

through the pain. Love requires sharing of the worst the world can dole out. Watching death creep in to claim her prize and begging her to go elsewhere, in vain.

And then- the parting. Sweet sorrow it is not. The hardest thing to do, to say ‗goodbye‘. Yes, love does change everything, including how you live and how you die.

Latest Competitions: Quarterly Templar Portfolio Awards: 1st Quarter | Closing Date: 02-Mar-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1701 Poets & Players Poetry Competition 2015 | Closing Date: 09-Mar-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1706 2015 Straid Collection Award | Closing Date: 23-Mar-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1703 Poetic Republic Poetry Prize 2015 | Closing Date: 30-Apr-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1711 The erbacce-prize for 2015 | Closing Date: 01-May-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1699

Latest News: Items added to the Poetry Library in January 2015 | 11-Feb-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1304 Poetry Magazines Received in January 2015 | 11-Feb-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1303 New Generation to Next Generation: Three Decades of British and Irish Poetry | 10-Feb-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1302 Cowboy Story by Richard Tuttle | 03-Feb-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/acquisitions/?id=1301

At the time of writing this we are having a bit of winter weather again with more than a little snow. Hopefully, it will help to kill off many of the bugs and diseases that seem to be appearing. I think so many of them are being brought in on imported plants which have not been certified clean, although all imported plants are supposed to be thoroughly inspected and some prob-

lems may be coming in with cuttings that are often smuggled in. If you want to grow something unusual that you see abroad, it is better to buy seed from well-known seed firms rather than bringing seeds and cuttings into the country in coat pockets etc. I have gained two more Amaryllis, or to give them their correct name, Hippeas-trums. I changed one bulb with a friend who doesn‘t like them, for something I had

which I didn‘t like, and one I bought because it was going cheap as it was the last they had and had lost its box. I now have 8 bulbs leafing up, so have given them all a feed of

tomato feed that helps with flowering. The others I have are all different ages from about 5 years old onwards. As soon as the snow goes Broad Beans can be sown directly into the ground and

the ground can also be prepared ready for general seed sowing a littler later for things like climbing and Runner Beans. Both need plenty of moisture as they grow so it is best

to make a trench about 8inches deep where you intend to grow them. Then put a few sheets of newspaper in the bottom and if you can get it, a layer of horse manure, or if not, use some good garden compost and add some pelleted feed such as Growmore, or

processed Chicken Manure pellets which you can see being sold everywhere now. Finally, top up with soil and leave for the worms to mix it all up until planting time comes.

It is still too cold at the moment of writing, but by the time you hear this it may have warmed up a little and may be time to start to wake up things like Chrysanthe-

mums, Fuchsias and Geraniums. As the shoots start to appear they can be given a little water, but not too much and certainly not if there are still a lot of frosts about and they are in a cold greenhouse. Too much water will encourage any cut stems and old leaves

to rot that will in turn will spread around your greenhouse on to your other plants. As your old Chrysanthemum stools start to shoot you can cut some of the young shoots that

will appear from below the soil. If done at the right time these should be ready rooted and when potted will grow quickly. Another thing that might like a tiny spot of water oc-

casionally are Dahlia tubers. Do not give them a proper drink yet, but on the other hand they should not be allowed to get too dry, especially if they are in a warm house. Again if the weather is starting to show signs of improving you can Chit potatoes in shallow com-

post in seed trays. These will then get off to a flying start when they are finally planted out after the worst of the frosts have gone. When they are planted in the ground though

they may need ―Earthing Up,‖ straight away if any frosts are forecast to protect the ten-der foliage. Another job for late February is hard pruning grape vines to shape them ready for

the new season and also pruning ―Late,‖ fruiting Raspberries. Unlike the ―Summer,‖ fruit-ing types these should be cut down hard, right to the ground now, as they will fruit on

the new canes grown in the new season.

That is all for now. Cheerio. Frances Hartley.

Pelagonium

Wikipedia : A Massyn 10

The Girl of Cadiz

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

(Composed: August 1809, onboard a ship from

Spain to Sardinia)

1

Oh never talk again to me Of northern climes and British ladies;

It has not been your lot to see, Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz Although her eye be not of blue,

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, How far its own expressive hue

The languid azure eye surpasses!

2 Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole

The fire, that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seem to roll, From eyes that cannot hide their flashes:

And as along her bosom steal In lengthen‘d flow her raven tresses,

You‘d swear each clustering lock could feel, And curl‘d to give her neck caresses.

3

Our English maids are long to woo, And frigid even in possession; And if their charms be fair to view,

Their lips are slow at Loves confession: But, born beneath a brighter sun,

For love ordain‘d the Spanish maid is, And who,—when fondly, fairly won,— Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz?

4 The Spanish maid is no coquette,

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, And if she love, or if she hate, Alike she knows not to dissemble.

Her heart can ne‘er be bought or sold— Howe‘er it beats, it beats sincerely; And, though it will not bend to gold,

‘Twill love you long and love you dearly.

5

The Spanish girl that meets your love Ne‘er taunts you with a mock denial, For every thought is bent to prove

Her passion in the hour of trial. When thronging foemen menace Spain,

She dares the deed and shares the danger; And should her lover press the plain, She hurls the spear, her love‘s avenger.

6

And when, beneath the evening star, She mingles in the gay Bolero, Or sings to her attuned guitar

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, Or counts her beads with fairy hand

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, Or joins Devotion‘s choral band, To chaunt the sweet and hallow‘d vesper;

7 In each her charms the heart must move

Of all who venture to behold her; Then let not maids less fair reprove Because her bosom is not colder:

Through many a clime ‘tis mine to roam Where many a soft and melting maid is, But none abroad, and few at home,

May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz.

AN EYE FOR AN EYE short story by SHOSHA CLARE

My Great Uncle Charlie, my grandmothers‘ brother was, to put it mildly, a character. In fact, in Black

Country parlance, he was a ‗Devil up the back,‘ a phrase which, I hasten to add, has no obscene mean-ing in its common local usage.

Much older than my grandmother who was born very definitely the unexpected last of a very large Victorian family, her adult brother was a figure who inspired awe. Gran, a miraculous little afterthought, unfortunately was never the indulged baby of the family, petted and adored by all her adult siblings but

became instead the family skivvy and by some members of the family seemed to have been treated with jealousy and suspicion. Charlie was one of these.

Described by my mother as a tall, well-set up, handsome man, he had blazing red hair, piercing blue eyes, a large hooked nose and an arrogant, overbearing demeanour. Always dressed in the smartest of

attire and stylishly wielding a silver topped cane, he would come striding down the lane on a visit, every sinew demonstrating that he meant business.

On sight of his approach, my mother, knowing trouble was on its way, would dash into the house,

forewarning all inside and then would run for cover for Charlie had a temper to match his hair and rows were his meat and drink.

I doubt if there were any visits where he did not create mayhem, upsetting all within, the cause of most contretemps being his continuing ire that on a belated move to a home of her own, his ‗baby‘ sis-

ter had naturally taken some of the family furniture with her. Filled with jealousy and anger, he ignored the undeniable fact that the items she had acquired were worth little, and that she had also taken into her modestly sized home her very elderly mother and a bachelor brother. The fact that the exercising of

such filial duty obviated Charlie taking any responsibility for them, either financial or otherwise, in his eyes apparently, made no reparation for what he deemed a bare-faced theft of his inheritance and noth-

ing could shift him from this view-point. The fact that he had a very responsible, well-paid job and could not possibly need so much as a splin-

ter from the said furniture, having a comfortably furnished home of his own and a good life-style, held no mitigating factors for this fireball. In his eyes, his sister had swindled him out of his due and that was that!

Having moved to Wales in his youth, for much of his life he was too far away to visit very often, but when his wife died he moved back to his native patch and the proverbial hit the fan on an all too regular

basis. How my poor Grandmother coped with this I shall never know, for she was in poor health, dealing

with an irresponsible husband and overburdened with shortage of money and the gruelling hard work of

an extra-large family in a small house. Certainly my mother always claimed that her turbulent childhood had been the cause of her lifelong nervousness. Great Uncle Charlie has a lot to answer for.

There is, however, an example of his devilish temperament that I cannot help but laugh at. Beset with an utterly excruciating tooth abscess, he unwillingly took himself off to a local dentist for the only

thing that was possible in those days, an extraction. This must have been an unimaginable endurance test, with no anaesthetic and the assault of brute force, just the thought alone would make the bravest soul blanch and go weak at the knees, but, as I can testify, the agony of a full-blown abscess is such

that death begins to seem a palatable alternative! After suffering the pains of hell, he staggered home,

checked in the mirror and found the incompetent moron of a dentist has taken out the wrong tooth! Charlie nursed the

bruising, pain and misery typical of an extraction performed in those times, plus still having to endure the continuing shriekingly painful abscess. One can imagine how he felt!

Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold and Char-lie waited his time, simmering to a boil, one might imagine,

like a slowly erupting volcano. Walking along the canal towpath some time later, he saw

in the distance the author of his misery, strolling along with

not a care in the world, or so it seemed to the now utterly

incensed, direly-treated patient!

Being handily close to a bridge, he dodged into its shadows and waited for his prey. Whether Mr. Dentist emerged from that bridge on his own two feet or whether he had to be carried out, I don‘t

know. All I do know is that Charlie had his revenge which might have, at the very least, made the negligent dentist decide to, in future, spruce up his act.

Of course, there are a thousand moral arguments against him taking the law into his own hands, all of them sensible, ethical and, of course, on the side of the said law, BUT I can‘t help a sneaking feel-ing of triumph, especially as I have, in the past, suffered badly at the hands of dreaded dentists, one

drilling an enormous hole in a tooth without analgesic, then adding insult to injury by spraying the cavity with icy cold water. Weeks of this torture followed, but being a powerless small child brought

up in the stiff upper lip, never make a fuss tradition, I suffered it all with growing dread, in buttock and knuckle clenching agonised silence. Incensed, at last unable to stand any more, I complained and to my amazement and fury was blithely told by the dentist that as I had said nothing, he as-

sumed I had felt no pain! Again, a few years ago, when I was much less inclined to suffer in silence, another sadist was so brutal and ill-mannered, I asked if he had been trained by the SS School of

Dentistry, changing dentists as soon as possible. Charlie might have been an evil, vile-tempered and unreasonable man, but on this front, Good On‘

Him. Though normally deprecating such actions, in this case I can‘t help but feel the operation of bib-lical justice; an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, had its place and just for once, Charlie, I can‘t help but give you my full accolade with no reservations.

A corner of the Elephant and Castle and Taylors cake shop .... The best choc éclairs and buns in

Stafford ... All long gone now demolished for the sake of a traffic roundabout. Town planners, eh! is there an alternative world of concrete-worship they come from one wonders? (What is that woman

doing by that lamp post?)

We wus brung up proper (1940s) writes Owd Fred Looking at kids of today all pampered and molly coddled, with all the mobile phones and Ipods, Nintendo Wii. X

-boxes and video games, it seems it's everything you can think of to keep them inside and isolated from social interaction with other children.

After all I was brung up in a cot painted with lead paint, and medicine was always a liquid in different col-oured bottles, no child proof lids. In purple bottles was poison, and I know there was some sort of colour code as to, whether you swallowed the medicine or rubbed it in, just can't remember. But we survived

In the car we never had seat belts, and the tyres wore out down to the inner tubes, and the parking brake was often a half house brick carried with you. No winking indicators, only an illuminated orange finger

that lifted out of the door pillar, this often got knocked off when left on when it shouldn't be. When we were old enough (11) we had an air gun. Must say there was a mishap when one of our gang popped his head up and copped a slug to his forehead, we did try to get it out by holding him down but the

lead slug had flattened on his skull, so we had to let him run home and then to hospital and we got into deep trouble. And when we were reported to the police, our parents were all on the side of the law, and did not stick up for us.

But we survived (and the one who copped the slug, he's 75 now and still got the mark on his forehead). We got caned at school, in my opinion for nowt, but then we did try to do thing our way at times, and on

the way home we fell out of trees, got plenty bumps and bruises, but then you learn to hold tight and not fall. When we played football, it seemed everyone was a centre forward, with a great group of us lads milling round the ball all competing to have a shot at goal, no one passed the ball, it was every mon for himself. If you did

not get a kick and were not bold enough to charge in, it was no use canting and moaning to your parents. But we all survived

We went tracking, two or three would set out with half an hour lead, laying down arrows along the way of twigs or grass or stones indicating the way they had gone. This would last for hours, arriving back dirty wet and often blooded from the excursions through woods and brambles, remember we all wore short trousers

back then. This lasted all day and no one ever came looking for us and I don't think anyone was lost. (or died to my knowledge). And we all still survived. Dad‘s farm workshop would be taken over at times when he was not about, the tools came in handy for

converting old prams into go carts, where one on the front would sit with his feet on the front axle and a cord to steer with and the other ‗man' would sit with his back to the driver and provide the propulsion, even going

down bank it would be important to go faster than your rival, best place was on the public roads, down a bank with a blind bend in our back lane by the ford. Until of course the village bobby, who was about on his bike nabbed us, and gave the cheeky ones a

sharp clip round the ear with the back of his hand. The police man, our village police man never held back when punishment was to be handed out, again our parents seemed pleased we had been caught, and never

seemed to defend us against him. But we survived We wus brung up on bacon for breakfast, bacon that was half fat and lean, and slices hand cut from the flitch (half pig) hanging in the pantry. Hand cut thick slices of bread, (sliced bread had not been invented)

floating in almost an inch deep bacon fat, and fried until it smoked, but it never killed us. Cheese, no slice cheese then, it was cut from a huge wedge in great lumps and eaten with crusty bread,

if you had cheese you did not have butter as well, nowadays they call it plough man‘s lunch. We learned to swim in the river, and just for fun would plaster black mud all over ourselves, and then dive in, in the deepest corners of the river, narrowly missing what we thought was a whirlpool, to wash clean

again. The old railway cottage down where the river and railway almost meet, lived a family. In the summer their well would run dry, and when they wanted a bath they would got to the river with a bar of soap and towel. No one worried about diseases back then in the rivers, it was a matter of being upstream from where

the cattle watered and they always stood in the river when the gad flies were about. (Cattle almost invariably lift their tails while standing in the river and it was said gad flies never crossed water) And we survived.

You could only get Easter eggs and hot cross buns at Easter time, strawberries only in late June July time, turkey was only at Christmas and goose for New Year. There were no pizza shops, no McDonalds, no KFC, or Indian restaurants, but some bright spark did loaded up a fish and chip fry pan outfit into a van, and

toured the out laying villages having a regular round visiting our village on one evening a week. It was coal fired and after he had served his customer at their front gate, before moving on would put a bit more coal on

his fire, I expect he could get a good draw on the fire with the speed, he always had a plume of black smoke from his chimney where ever he went, he did a regular trade for quite a few years. We all survived including the fish and chip man who drove from village to village with ten gallons of boil-

ing fat behind him. He would have been fried himself if ever he had had an emergency stop.

Looking back them years ago

Looking back them years ago, when we were little boys,

We bumped our knees and elbows, and father made us toys, Played around the farmyard, in and out the sheds,

Testing all the puddles, thick mud into the house it treads.

When at first we started school, father trimmed our hair,

Combed and washed with new cap, new shoes without compare Short trousers and new jacket, a satchel on our back,

We all went there to study, but often got a smack.

Times tables chanted every morning, and the alphabet,

Till we knew them off by heart, of this I‗ve no regret, Isn't till you leave school, that you realise,

How useful school and education, help to make us wise.

Father showed us all his skills, from very early age,

Studied Farmers‘ Weekly, read almost every page, The pictures they were mainly, of interest to us,

News and reports on prices, what a blooming fuss.

We also had the Beano, a comic for us kids, Dandy and the Eagle, must have cost dad quid's,

Him he had his Farmers‘ Weekly, it must be only fair,

Mother had a knitting book, for inspiration n' flare.

It must have taken fifteen years, till we felt grown up, Left alone at home at night, parents meeting as a group,

In fact it was a whist drive every Friday night, We supposed to be in bed, but sometimes had a fright.

(Our farm house was out on its own and scary at night)

An owl it hooted in bright moonlight, scared us all to death, Door that blew in wind, with fright we nearly lost our breath,

Scooted up the stairs so fast, and under the bedclothes dove, In darkness we were frightened, it was for courage that we strove.

On hearing the back door open, it was never locked, Footsteps in the kitchen, bedroom door we chocked,

Then we heard mothers Coo-eee, relieved to hear her call, Have you missed me duckies, we bloomin have an all.

So our sheltered life was over, sometimes fended for ourselves, Mother learned us basic cooking, as long as plenty on the shelves,

One at a time we left home, with basic thing that we were taught, This knowledge we're to build on, foundations life not bought.

Owd Fred

RBW FICTION PROJECT FOR 2014/15 NOTES: Story so far. Plotlines ...

Place: 1897: 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, South Africa and certain other countries all rich spending guests are wel-

comed its rival is the Imperial Hotel which is almost next door on the prom. Time Span:

Between guests 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. Rooms [2nd and 3rd floors] for the not so well off. Accommoda-tion [tiny attic rooms, top floor back] for staff

Staff: Basil Bluddschott (70s) – Manager

Mrs. Cynthia Bluddschott (20s) - 2nd (trophy) wife of Basil — affair with Manchini and others Daniel Bluddschott (40) – Son of Basil by 1st wife Miss Marian Bluddschott (35) – Daughter of Basil by 1st wife - cross dresser

Mrs. Natasha Bluddschott (34) – wife of Daniel — gambling debts - up to mischief Antonio Roberto Manchini - Italian chef; has the hots for Marian & Cynthia

Mrs. Bertha Buckett – Breakfast Cook in Charge — Peter the porter Nancy the Scullery maid the HEROINE of the story, 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 - Romance writer likes Walter Wales but is he a cad?

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?] John 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!!) Sir Walter Wales – hack writer for Capt. Thaddeus Hook travel books hots for Daphne

Murray Durrisdane (currently a Boots)— Jamie Burke — Alexander Mulrose: baddies with Estella Murray‘s wife & Mulrose sis-ter — Murray‘s mother Lady Durrisdane also arrives

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 Princess Lotus Lily (concubine) and her retinue including Fu Chan her major-domo and a ninja — after the dragon boat

Lord Charmant ... Already knows Cynthia ... meets Marian in drag

Music Hall turns playing at 'The Winter Gardens', staying the GNH 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 Dr Kaur and his dozy accomplice and The Master and his accomplice — time travellers in a broom cupboard (HG Wells has

nothing to worry about) ALSO listed:

Diamond dealer Boniface Monkface and Rippling a South African gem dealer A rare Sankarat jade statuette with a Kali Stone (and lots more) - A nicked imperial dragon boat — a trinket from the Emperor‘s private collection worth a very large reward

(NB Sankarat is completely fictional — yes we made it up!!) Did we mention Lenin? He‘s there as well ...

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 depart 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 establish-ment will be managed 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?

After a brief snifter in the one of the guest lounges to chase away the chill of the English winter, Lord Charmant had found

himself at liberty to explore. The hotel was a delightful disaster – home to two guest lounges that seemed to fuel a constant stream of fugitive husbands, the rather palmless Grand Palm Court, a diminutive Reading Room, which was over-crowded with ladies and romance novels, the restaurant with decoration no doubt inspired by the gin palaces of Cheapside, and last, but not

least, was the well-fumigated billiards room, which he had mistaken for a servant‘s access until a gentleman in a velvet smok-ing jacket had reluctantly descended the rickety stairs.

All he could have wished for was a camera with which to document the place. Alas, his had been lost some months ago during an ill-fortuned gondola ride through Venice.

He dined at the hotel, was pleasantly surprised by the flavours of the meal and the guests. There was a beautiful Chinese

lady, with her small retinue, a group of American performers, the lady velocipedists now in less scandalous attire, and two old ladies and their beautiful ward on the table beside him, dressed in the latest fashions but addressing each other in a manner more befitting fisherwomen.

After dinner, he returned to his room, selected an evening jacket and a top hat from his meagre wardrobe before heading back downstairs. Mr Bluddshcott had abandoned his post at the reception desk and had been replaced by a rather handsome woman in her thirties.

‗Good evening, madam.‘ ‗Good evening, sir.‘ ‗I was wondering if you might be able to assist me. Just this morning I checked into a suite here and rather carelessly for-

got to inquire after the evening enjoyments of your fair city. Would you perhaps be able to suggest some place where a gen-tlemen might amuse himself for a few hours?‘

‗Lord Charmant, I presume?‘ She asked, her eyes appraising him shrewdly.

‗I am he.‘ He confirmed jovially. ‗Well, perhaps if you could share your interests, my Lord, I might be of assistance.‘ She replied, but before he had a chance

to do so, she continued talking, ‗We have plenty to offer then man of culture, our music hall, for example, is currently billing

the great tenor Dario Stanza, or if your tastes are more to the occult, you may also see there the great mystic, Cystic Peg. Of course, if prefer the bright lights and drama of the stage, our little Trentby Theatre is currently performing a play by one of

Trentby's very own - Arthur Wardsmythe. They‘ve been performing the same play for five years now – they‘re very good at it.‘ She smiled encouragingly.

‗Five years? Why for so long?‘ asked an astonished Lord Charmant.

‗They say that Wardsmythe‘s ghost still haunts the theatre and refuses to let them perform anything else – but that‘s just nonsense, of course! These theatre folks will say anything for publicity. It‘s just an excellent play, everybody in town has seen at least twice.‘ She informed him, chuckling a little at her own wit and worldliness. She glanced from side to side quickly, as if

looking for potential eavesdroppers before continuing, ‗Of course, theatre and music halls aren‘t for everyone. Some gentle-men, and gentlewomen, of distinction, I know, sometime prefer pastimes with a little more adventure.‘ She trailed off signifi-cantly, waiting for his answer.

Lord Charmant admitted that he had been known to seek out a little danger from time to time. ‗Indeed, my Lord. Such things are, what‘s the phrase, the herbs of life?‘ ‗I believe the quote is ‗the spice of life‘ – one of Cowper‘s, I think.‘ Lord Charmant replied.

‗Oh I‘m sure, I‘m sure,‘ the woman replied flippantly, ‗The meaning is the same, yes? What is important here is that I know two or three gentlemen with a similar view on life, who, of an evening, like to engage in a game of cards and the odd friendly wager. Off the books, you might say.‘ She paused meaningfully, ‗Would your Lordship be interested in such a pursuit this eve-

ning?‘ ‗I must admit, I am intrigued by your proposition.‘ Lord Charmant answered, and then because the woman seemed unsure

whether this was an affirmative, he added, ‗How might a gentleman join this friendly table?‘ The woman smiled and surreptitiously produced a key from beneath the desk, she leant forward conspiratorially and whis-

pered, ‗This‘ll let you into the room, but first, there are a couple of rules. The buy-in‘s a pony and the dealer takes five percent

– anything else is yours to play with. Add-ons are allowed, but we don‘t do credit. The game starts at ten; you can arrive later but don‘t come early. Does that sound good to you?‘

‗Sounds perfect.‘ He replied and was rewarded by a key slid across the desk.

‗Excellent choice, Lord Charmant,‘ the woman replied, leaning back and returning her voice to its usual volume, ‗We hope you enjoy your evening.‘

Elegantly attired and yet without destination, Lord Charmant, as most men in his situation often do, gravitated towards the

nearest bar. As he approached the guest lounge, he noticed a fellow stood a little way back from the door, peering inside as if

building up the courage to enter. Walking closer, he recognised him as the chap who‘d given him directions to this exact guest lounge just that afternoon.

‗Hello there, sir. Are you alright?‘

The fellow jumped in surprised and turned towards Lord Charmant a little guiltily, ‗I‘m quite well.‘ He replied, before adding a hasty, ‗Thank you.‘

‗Then why are you just stood in the corridor, staring longingly at the drink?‘ Lord Charmant joked. Now that he could see

him properly, Lord Charmant decided he was an odd looking fellow, with delicate features and a clean chin which belied the years suggested by the crow‘s feet at the corner of his eyes.

‗I… I was just looking for a friend. But he doesn‘t seem to be here so…‘ ‗Oh I see, looking for a drinking companion.‘ Lord Charmant nodded sympathetically, ‗You are the fellow who directed me

to this room this morning, are you not? Are you staying in the hotel too?‘

‗Oh, er… yes, yes, I am.‘

‗And your friend?‘

‗Who?‘ The fellow frowned in confusion. ‗Your friend, the one you‘re supposed to be meeting, is he staying here too?‘ Lord Charmant clarified, wondering if per-

haps the chap had had a few to drink already.

‗Oh! Yes, yes, he is, but I didn‘t know if he was here or in his room. He must be in his room.‘ The fellow finished lamely, ‗I guess, I should be going.‘

Lord Charmant, who was the type of man to prefer company than not and always rather pitied those who were forced to

drink alone, stopped him. ‗Well, if you‘re looking for a drinking companion, sir, I have an hour free. I‘d be happy to buy you a

drink as thanks for your help earlier.‘ The man tried to politely decline but Lord Charmant refused to allow him. Taking the fellow‘s arm, he directed him into

the smoking drinking den and sat him down at a table. A few seconds later a waiter arrived to take their order. Lord Char-

mant ordered a decent whiskey – something he‘d missed on the continent – and his companion, a little haltingly, ordered a glass of port.

‗So, I‘ve been dreadfully ill-mannered,‘ Lord Charmant declared, holding out his hand to shake, ‗the name‘s Charmant.‘

The man hesitantly took his hand, which did not bode well for the quality of the handshake and so Lord Charmant was pleas-antly surprised by the firmness of the man‘s grip.

‗I‘m Darcy,‘ the man said.

‗Well, Darcy, what brings you to this fine establishment?‘ Darcy snorted, he clearly didn‘t agree with Lord Charmant‘s opinion of the place ‗I‘m… looking for work.‘ He replied even-

tually.

‗Oh really, in what line?‘ ‗Err… anything, I guess.‘ The man shrugged, which suggested that he‘d not thought the plan out particularly well. He

shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

‗So where are you from, originally?‘ Lord Charmant asked as their drinks arrive. The conversation rested as Darcy took a delicate sip of his wine.

‗It‘s a place called Cranford – you wouldn‘t know it, it‘s a tiny village, quite close to here. Nothing there but farms.‘ ‗Ah, so you came to the city to seek your fortune away from cow manure and the crowing of cockerels at the break of

dawn.‘ Lord Charmant replied and was rewarded with a chuckle and a relaxing of the man‘s ramrod posture.

‗Exactly. Except there‘s not much here but fish and bad hotels.‘ Lord Charmant laughed, ‗Come now, you‘re just not looking at it the right way. This hotel is quite excellent.‘ ‗Have you had your eyes examined at all recently, sir?‘

‗Strangely, you are not the first to ask me that.‘ Lord Charmant replied, still grinning, ‗But seriously, look around – have you ever been anywhere so patently absurd? In this very room, the furniture does not match, the walls are practically black from tobacco and the drinks are housed behind the bar on a bookshelf.‘

‗Well, this used to be the library, before they pulled it all out and squeezed the books into the old porter‘s office.‘ Darcy replied casually, before seeming to realise that it was information he wasn‘t supposed to have, ‗I heard it from my friend.‘ He explained quickly, ‗he stayed here a few years ago.‘

‗Is that so,‘ Lord Charmant said, his suspicion growing that this Darcy fellow was not quite what he made out to be, ‗What else does your friend know about the hotel?‘

‗That‘s all really.‘ Darcy replied, looking away as he took another sip of his wine. His stiff posture had returned and Lord

Charmant could see that his guard was back up. Abandoning his attempt to discover the truth about this unusual fellow, he changed the subject to travel. Finding that Darcy had never left this tiny part of the world, he was free to partake in one of

his favourite conversations: his adventurous exploits, an enthralled audience of which he found in his new companion. In part due to his enjoyment in his regalement and in part because of Darcy‘s interest, Lord Charmant was half an hour

late to his ten o‘clock engagement, but nobody seemed to mind. The dealer, it transpired, was the woman who had recruited him and his fellow players were a large South African man, a portly Indian princeling and, implausibly, the two old ladies who had been sat on the table next to his at dinner.

He left the table £20 down, but as he reasoned it was his father‘s money he was gambling, rather than his own, and his old man was more than capable of making it back, he could hardly feel too downhearted by it all. In fact, he‘d say the eve-ning was completely success in its aim of diversion. The two ladies alone were entertainment enough for any man.

‗Mrs Withers is unconscious downstairs.‘ Cythia Bluddschott declared, walking into her step-daughter‘s room unannounced

and unwanted. Marian, who had decided to take the day off from being a man after the evening‘s adventures, looked up from her book at the clock on her mantelpiece.

‗Mrs Withers always sleeps after lunch, she‘ll be awake in an hour or so.‘

‗Oh. I see.‘ Mrs Bluddschott replied, frowning prettily. Marian waited patiently for her to come to an explanation for her sudden appearance. Contrary to popular opinion on a step-daughter‘s feeling towards her step-mother, Marian did not dislike the woman. She had hardly expected the woman to be sensible, and she had not been disappointed there, and what woman

expected to mothered by someone ten years their junior? The most she could have hoped for in Cynthia Sindebey was a friend, and as Marian was a realist, she hadn‘t expected much from that area either.

Mostly the two of them had developed a system of mutual ignorance and, excepting the occasional circumstance, had gone about their daily lives with little effect on the other. Therefore Cynthia‘s intrusion now left them both a little lost for words.

‗Aren‘t you usually busy after lunch?‘ Marian asked.

‗Yes, well, I need to go to town.‘ Cynthia declared abruptly.

‗I see.‘ ‗Natasha is discomposed. Apparently she had rather a heavy night. Mrs Withers is unconscious and your father and brother

both refuse to come with me.‘

‗What about Laura?‘ Marian asked, understanding where this conversation was heading and hoping to prevent it. ‗The maid? Honestly, the girl‘s got enough to do without me dragging her about town. And I‘ve given her some alterations

for my gowns – the girl‘s a dream with a needle and thread, you know. Besides, it‘d do you good to get out a bit more.‘ Sensing it was useless to argue, Marian grudgingly acquiesced, wondering what Cynthia would say if she knew just how

much Marian had been ‗getting out‘ recently, and allowed her step-mother to pin a dreary, old hat to her hair, whilst cheerfully

declaring to find her a new one in town. Marian mentioned that actually, hat not-withstanding, there were a few things that she could do with, as they were going. More of Mrs Withers headache pills, for example, as she was likely to need some when she woke up.

‗That‘s the spirit!‘ Cynthia cried enthusiastically and locked arms with her step-daughter before dragging her from the room.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man who has spent the evening indulging in recreational pursuits is entitled for late following morning. How this had escaped the notice of the management of the Grand Nasturtium Hotel was a mystery to an aggrieved Lord Charmant, who, on appearing downstairs in search of that great ballast of the English diet, was disap-

pointed to discover that he had missed breakfast. As he was far too English to contest this issue with said management, this grievous wrong-doing went unresolved and Lord

Charmant to the nearest public house still serving. Due to the nature and habits of its clientele, the Foaming Flagon served

breakfast from 6 until 2, accommodating both those who saw morning from the wrong side and those that loathed seeing morning at all. From 2 onwards, they served only that other great British institution: the meat pie.

Though an unsavoury establishment by all accounts, the Foaming Flagon was perhaps saved by its exemplary English

breakfast, especially formulated for the gentleman of sore head and sore regrets, dripping with flavoursome grease and parsi-moniously including almost every part of a pig. Most importantly for Lord Charmant, there was not a single sickly croissant in

sight. Leaving the tavern thus fortified, Lord Charmant sallied forth into town, feeling very much a new man, with little direction

and absolutely no purpose. As often occurs in such a situation, by mid-afternoon his pockets were full with orders to be deliv-

ered back to the hotel. Hungry work to be sure and so he stopped for a late lunch at a more reputable inn than his last, where he found an old sailor happy to swap adventure stories.

He was feeling rather pleased with his day and was just thinking of returning to the hotel to bathe and change before din-

ner when he perceived Mrs Bluddschott, arm in arm with a rather plain-looking woman, walking towards him. Mrs Bluddschott was watching him a trifle anxiously, societal mores regarding their disparity in station preventing her from doing any more to attract his attention. Lord Charmant decided to end her anguish by tipping his hat towards them, consequently allowing her to

raise her hand in greeting. The woman on her arm, catching sight of the salutation, followed Mrs Bluddschott‘s gaze to discern its recipient and upon

sighting Lord Charmant, seemed somewhat taken aback. It was not an uncommon reaction in women he had noticed, being,

as he knew, a handsome fellow and usually richly attired, he cut a rather striking figure. He may, therefore, have been tempted to thus explain the lady‘s behaviour, had her own features not looked so familiar to him.

‗Why, hello Lord Charmant,‘ Mrs Bluddschott said once they were close enough to be heard without vulgarity. Lord Char-

mant bowed graciously in response, for which he received somewhat unrefined curtseys in return. ‗Lord Charmant, allow me to introduce my step-daughter, Miss Marian Bluddschott. Marian, this gentleman is Lord Charmant, an old acquaintance of

mine from London.‘ ‗Enchanté, Miss Bluddschott,‘ Lord Charmant replied, holding out a somewhat avant-garde hand. He wondered if perhaps

he had seen the woman in passing at the hotel and was ready to accept this as explanation for her familiarity until her hand-

shake, beginning timid and then surprising with conviction and firmness, rather disapproved the theory. It was a handshake he recognised but he could place neither its occasion nor its owner.

‗How do you do, my Lord, I‘m pleased to meet you.‘ Miss Bluddschott replied formally. Her voice was deep with a husky

quality that was strange to hear in a woman. It too tickled his memory tantalisingly and he was rather rankled that a woman of such remarkable traits had somehow been forgotten.

Civilities now aside, Mrs Bluddschott felt it time to bring the conversation around to herself, ‗How surprising to meet you so.

We have just been to my dress-makers for a fitting, I‘m having a new gown fashioned for the Departure Ball. What has brought you into a town?‘

‗Well, breakfast to begin with – I‘m ashamed to admit I slept too late for the delights of the hotel kitchen – and then it was

a desire to see what your city had to offer.‘ ‗And were you pleased with it?‘ Mrs Bluddschott asked a little slyly. ‗Exceedingly.‘ Lord Charmant replied sincerely.

‗You do surprise me, Lord Charmant! Why, Trentby has nothing on the amusements of London.‘ Mrs Bluddschott exclaimed and it seemed to Lord Charmant that there was a note of nostalgia in her tone.

‗No, indeed, but England has already has one such town as London, what need has it of another? No, no, I‘d rather a dif-

ference, be it smaller or even be it larger, but let not one town be its equal.‘ Lord Charmant declared with wry grin. ‗As you like, Lord Charmant, as you like,‘ Mrs Bluddschott said diplomatically, but it clear she didn‘t share his opinion. Miss

Bluddschott stayed silent, avoiding eye contact by intently studying the pavement. ‗We were just about to return to the hotel. Perhaps you would like to ride with us? Or are you still sampling the delights of our little seaside town?‘ Mrs Bluddschott fin-ished a little ironically.

‗Actually I was just heading that way myself.‘ Lord Charmant answered, pleased at the opportunity to study Mrs

Bluddschott‘s mysterious companion, ‗I would be glad to join you. Do you have a carriage or would you like me to find us a

cab?‘ ‗We have a carriage waiting just at the far end of this street,‘ Mrs Bluddschott replied happily, for this had been her goal

from when she had first observed him stepping from the inn. She was even more pleased when he held out an arm for her to

take before they set off carriage-wards, greatly irritating their fellow pedestrians by walking three-abreast along a narrow pathway.

Mrs Bluddschott was full of conversation; unfortunately, it was all details of the upcoming Departure Ball and her own role in organising it. In contrast, Miss Bluddschott was decidedly taciturn, spending the entire journey staring out at the passing sights and venturing nothing to save him from her step-mother‘s dreary monologue.

Distracted as he was by his entrenched civility, Lord Charmant was so preoccupied with appearing interested in Mrs Bluddschott‘s subject matter that he had little to devote to the puzzle of Miss Bluddschott until they were parting. The clue to the entire mystery was purely incidental and elegantly simple; Miss Bluddschott smiled politely as they shook hands and it

deepened the lines around her eyes just as Lord Charmant had observed only last night on Mr Darcy. He waited until they were out of earshot before offending a pious elderly lady, the only habitant of the foyer at the time,

with an exclamation of ‗Good God!‘

Why on earth had she ever agreed to go out? The whole thing had been a disaster from start to finish.

First, she had been forced to sit on a diabolically uncomfortable stool whilst her step-mother cooed and sighed over a rather frothy concoction with fashionable bulbous sleeves that gave the shoulders a look that would not be revived until the 1980s power suit but tapered at the elbow to show-off a dainty forearm. The alterations took hours as Cynthia kept changing

her mind over the depth of the neckline and border of the hem. Then secondly, of course, they just had to run into the very man with whom she had spent a highly scandalous hour and

a half with drinking and talking just the previous evening. She could only hope that her natural invisibility, which had such a

potent effect on her family, had worked its magic on him also. That or the sheer absurdity of the truth had made it impossi-ble for him to ever consider it.

And finally, in inviting Lord Charmant to journey back with them, Cynthia had effectively prevented any chance of Marian carrying out the few errands she had hoped to run, not least of which was the replenishment of Mrs Withers‘ headache pills. Therefore, when the old woman awoke from her medicated slumber and found that she was without, she looked to her usual

panacea. The consequence of which was a family dinner at which Marian was robbed of her usual interlocutor due to Mrs Withers difficulty concentrating on anything being said.

Such a situation was usually enough to send her reaching for the escape hidden at the back of her wardrobe but tonight,

the fear of discovery stayed her hand. She retired to her room after dinner in the hopes that a good book would calm her nerves but found that the words on the page were determined to stay there. Certainly they had no effect on her mind, which was deep in the grips of nightmarish scenarios featuring her unmasking. For once, Marian found herself in a situation that

was too grave to be ignored. Laying aside her book, Marian settled down into a serious contemplation of the consequence of her actions. Of course,

she had always been aware of the potential ramifications, but like all those who had never before actually faced the reality of

said ramifications, her idea of them had always been distant and surreal. Now, suddenly, they were very near and very tangi-ble.

Of course, she could always deny any claims that Lord Charmant made, except a simple search of her wardrobe would

soon unveil her. The simplest recourse, therefore, would be to destroy the evidence but the thought wrenched in her chest. In the few weeks since her daring exploits had begun, she had become dependent on her disguise as a lifeline, a freedom

that had never tasted so sweet as it had that previous evening, when she had been free to speak and do as she chose. As a woman, she had been unable to walk down a street alone without exciting commentary. As a man, the world was boundless.

It seemed that the only solution would be to hide it somewhere that no-one would think of looking and Marian was fortu-

nate enough to know of just such a place. Tomorrow, she resolved, the evidence would disappear into the undergrowth of the hotel‘s impassable garden until Lord Charmant was safely abroad elsewhere. (ZG)

Darren Stanway sat, alone, in the Jade Idol Tea Room and moped. The lunch had been... the term dis-

astrous went, he thought, somewhere towards it. He couldn't think of what he'd done wrong, but the love of his life had turned him down.

‗Darren,‘ Petronella had said as she leaned over and stroked his hand, ‗You're a nice man, I like you and I'm sure that, once she'd got you properly house trained, you'd make some woman a good hus-

band. But that woman isn't me, not by a long chalk. You need a young woman with some fire in her bones. One who will help you in your career, not

some worn-out never-has-been like me. I'm very flattered, but the answer is, no, I won't marry you.‘

Privately she thought, You're a good singer but you've had it too easy. What you really need is some-body to kick your back-side on a daily basis.

‗Take this American trip,‘ Petronella continued. ‗We both know that it's a good idea, and that you'll be

singing to full houses over there, but I don't think that taking a wife along is a good idea. It just doubles the expenses and robs you of a fascination for the unmarried women. Backsides on seats is all the thea-

tre owners think about; and a married man isn't going to do that half as well as a single one.‘ Then she'd risen, kissed his forehead, just like his mother used to do, and left to meet one of her

friends. The tea shop‘s owner, known to many as 'Mad' Madge Carew, had ordered his table cleared and then

sat across it to talk to him.

‗What's this that Peg tells me about you going to America then Darren? I can't see you in a shoot out in that town… what's it called? Deadhead City? You faint at the sight of blood, and as for shooting any-

thing you'd just close your eyes, pull the trigger, and hope they'd go away.‘ ‗And I suppose you can do better, Mrs. Carew,‘ Darren, stung by her appraisal of his character, said

stiffly. Madge Carew tutted at him and gestured around the room. ‗You see those heads and horns set

around my walls, Darren? I shot them myself. Can I do better? Judge for yourself.‘

With a breaking heart Darren posted his, carefully packaged, recording to an agent in New York; one suggested by his London agent, and even taking tea with Lady Dorothy and her 'Guardian Gargoyles', as he privately thought of them, between performances failed to entirely lift his sprits.

That evening the audience went wild at his performance of 'The Departing' aria from Der Soldaten. The theatre critic in the Trentby Gazette & Chronicle, never the easiest man to please, called it ―Majestic

and Awe Inspiring‖. 'Percy! How on earth did that 'theatre cricket' get in', he said to the Maestro later the following morn-

ing. 'The place's been sold out for ages.' 'Well I hope,' Percy replied, in an acerbic tone, 'they found him a broken seat, behind a pillar, on the

back row of the gods. But we can't be that lucky, Stanza!'

He snorted in disgust. 'It would have been a box seat with free drinks, waiter service and a bunch of flowers for his wife.'

'You've met him then, Percy! What's he like?' 'Oh, it's not HIM you have to worry about, Stanza. According to my dear wife, HE only writes what

SHE tells him to.' 'Under her thumb you mean?!' 'Totally obliterated, my dear fellow, totally obliterated,

nothing left but a husk.' Strangely, Darren felt immensely cheered by the revelation

and, to Percy's disgust, sauntered off singing a comic song about a man who, ‗Hadn't been married te-tiddlety-tum-te-tum, right beneath her thumb goes him! And isn't it pity that

the likes of her, la-di-di-da diddly-dum-te-dum, should put upon the likes of him!‘ (CMH)

Dr Kaun and Methi had afternoon tea in their room in the hotel. A wonderful institution for which

we must thank the 7th Duchess of Bedford who complained of a sinking feeling during the late after-noon. After tea and sandwiches Kaun went into his strange corner cupboard. There was a strange glow

coming from around door and a few heavy clonking noises. He was gone for some time. Meanwhile Methi drank tea and read the latest book by Daphne duWorrier entitled ‗Bermuda Bistro‘ which was all

about a lot of tax dodgers and a mad accountant who worshipped the gold standard. After some time Dr Kaun emerged carrying several strange statues.

‗What are those?‘ asked Methi

‗Replica sankarats and a replica dragon boat‘. ‗They look just like the real antiques.‘

‗Why should I bother making replicas which don‘t look real?‘ grumbled Kaun In a nearby room Sardaar was doing much the same thing: making replicas of sankarats and a

dragon boat. He did not do the job himself but left it to his assistant, Tehlua, because he did not want

to get his hands dirty. Unfortunately for Sardaar, Tehlua has as much technical expertise in artefact replication as Beniamino Gigli had expertise in arc welding. Sardaar was drinking tea and reading the

latest book by Walter Wales, a long poem called ‗The Woman in the Pond‘. After much noise, flashing lights and swearing Tehlua emerged from his master‘s wardrobe with replica sankarats and a dragon

boat. What neither master nor servant realised was that although the replicas looked wonderful they were actually made from boiled sweet mixture. Once exposed to water and they would dissolve away.

Dr Kaun re-entered his cupboard and brought out a small, strange, oblong device with a screen that

glowed dimly. On the back of the device was a picture of banana. ‗What‘s that‘ asked Methi

‗That is my iBlower6 , it is tracking the real sankarats and dragon boat‘ ‗They appear to be in a nearby basement‘

Nearby Sardaar also possessed an iBlower but it was an earlier model, an iBlower3 and so much less accurate. He had located the sankarats or so he thought but a problem with the iBlower3 meant it could give false information.

‗The sankarats appear to be in a nearby fountain‘ said Sardaar ‗The information is a little vague but there appears to be a small reptile in the fountain as well.‘

‗No problem then Master‘ said Tehlua Dr Kaun and Methi wrapped up the replicas and put them in a Gladstone bag and went off to find

the basement.

Sardaar and Tehlua also wrapped their replicas and put them into carpet bag and off they went to find the fountain and the small reptile. (NP)

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, drama and interview playing 24/7 @ www.radiowildfire.com This edition of The Loop features tracks of spoken word, poetry, music and song by Robert Fran-cis; H.C.Turk; Kinsame; Robert MacInnes; Kenton Field; Cynthia Morrison; Madison Shadwell; Ben Westwood; and Pro-ject Lono with Carl Walton. Plus there's a double dose of drama from the Bunbury Banter Theatre Company. So join us and listen by going to www.radiowildfire.com and clicking on The Loop - and see the full playlist on the website. (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 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 2nd March 2015 starting at 8.00pm UK time with a full programme of pre-recorded tracks, guest interviews and conversation. WHAT IS RADIO WILDFIRE? Radio Wildfire is an independent online radio station which blends spoken word, poetry, performance literature, comedy, storytelling, short stories and more with a novel selection of word/music fusion and an eclectic mix of musical styles. www.radiowildfire.com currently broadcasts live 8.00-10.00pm (UK time) on the first Monday of every month.

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

Final library proposals confirmed Publicity Release Posted on Tuesday 10th February 2015 Final proposals for the reorganisation of Staffordshire‘s library service have been un-veiled. Mike Lawrence, Staffordshire County Council cabinet member responsible for the consultation, said: ―After three consultations spread over 12 months we have listened to people and created a structure able to invigorate our libraries, so they are better used within their communities and can respond to changing needs in future.‖ Under the proposal to be considered by the authority‘s cabinet on February 18th, 20 of the council‘s 43 libraries will be managed and staffed by the library service, while the remainder will be supported in the community. Some community groups will take responsibility for managing and delivering their local library service as soon as they have satisfied the necessary conditions – and will have access to support from library staff. Others will go to a transitional stage where volunteers staff the library on a day-to-day basis and the library will be part of a cluster which will have support from a mem-ber of library staff. Mike Lawrence said: ―We are adopting a twin-track approach to give communities time to take charge of their libraries at their pace, but it remains my intention that all these 23 libraries will be eventually be managed and delivered by the community. ―It‘s important to emphasise that these library‘s will still be a part of Staffordshire‘s service and will have access to support and help. ―We‘ve learned from experience in other parts of the country. No library will be cut adrift and left to its own devices, they will all remain part of our family.‖ Mike Lawrence added: ―This has never been about the money, it‘s been about reshap-ing a service which is suffering as people move towards electronic media, and keep-ing it relevant to local needs for the next 10, 15, 20 years, while we also develop our online library service to meet rising demand..‖

The report also proposes that opening hours be considered at several libraries which will remain council managed and staffed and have not been subject to previous review. A review of the mobile and travelling library service will also be under-taken during 2015.

QUOTE “It‟s never been about money.”

COMMENT: It‟s never been about what the people want either.

The big questions ... Will Labour reinstate our „voluntary‟ libraries if they

oust the Tories in the election? Will independent Cllrs campaign on just

the hospital as their „one-issue‟ or will they back our libraries?

THE NEXT BATTLE WILL BE TO SAVE THE MOBILES!

Which library has been allocated to which category? http://www.staffordshire.gov.uk/leisure/librariesnew/Help-shape-library-service/Whats-the-proposal.aspx

The County Council‟s Cabinet will review the final proposals below on the 18th February.

Should Cabinet agree to proceed, the Library Service will continue to manage and deliver 20 libraries, as Staffordshire County Council

Managed and Delivered Libraries.

The Library Service will support 23 communities to either deliver (Staffordshire County Council Managed/Community Delivered Li-

braries) or manage their local library (Community Managed/Community Delivered).

Should Cabinet give permission to continue, we will ask all community groups in all 23 areas to put forward a formal expression of in-

terest to manage and deliver their library.

An evaluation process in September will determine who will be awarded the contracts. If no one is awarded a contract, that Library will

be supported as a Staffordshire County Council Managed/Community Delivered library.

During the consultation, community organisations inBarton under Needwood, Hednesford, Loggerheads, Shenstone, Silverdale and Wer-

ringtoncame forward and are informally interested in managing their library. It is hoped that the libraries in these locations will become-

the first Community Managed/Community Delivered libraries.

Libraries proposed to be Staffordshire County

Council Managed and Delivered libraries.

Libraries proposed to be either be Staffordshire

County Council Managed/Community Delivered

Libraries or Community Managed/Community

Delivered Libraries

Burton Audley

Lichfield Barton Under Needwood

Newcastle Baswich

Tamworth Blythe Bridge

Biddulph Brereton

Burntwood Brewood

Cannock Cheslyn Hay

Cheadle Heath Hayes

Clayton Hednesford

Codsall Holmcroft,

Eccleshall Glascote

Leek Gnosall

Kidsgrove Great Wyrley

Perton Loggerheads

Penkridge Norton Canes

Rugeley Knutton

Stafford Kinver

Stone Shenstone

Uttoxeter Silverdale

Wombourne Rising Brook

Talke

Wilnecote

Werrington

Rumour has it, in view of the outcry, policy is softening and many

more branches now would be County Managed and Volunteer

Staffed which should make it far less difficult to achieve a positive

outcome: however, still falling short of the

optimum SCC managed and SCC fully staffed.

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