Issue 428 11th March 2016

BLOG OPPORTUNITY!

FLASH FICTION: pinch, blue, dance, alphabet, telegraph, children, carbun-

cle, rock 150 words

Assignment: mothers or empty shelves 400 words

A warm welcome awaits. COME to WORKSHOP ... Every Monday 1.30 start Rising Brook Library

Crisp, bright, frosty winter mornings are a delight. So much

nicer than mild dampness.

I wish I’d been born on Feb. 29th. Then I could have a second

go at being 17!

An 80-year-old visiting an antiques fair at St Georges Hall, Liverpool suddenly found

themselves confronted by a right wing demonstration clashing with a group of people with

different views along with loud noise, violence, tear gas and riot police trying to restore

order on the steps of the building. The stall holders and antique fair patrons were bundled

out to safety by a rear entrance. How was the 80-year-old spoon collector? ... He was fine,

he said he quite enjoyed all the excitement ... Men, I’ll never understand them ...

We hear the library is to get a bit of a spruce up before the

handover to the Rising Brook Baptist Church Management team in late

Spring, for how long the library will be closed is as yet unknown.

On the 6 o'clock news the newsreader was talking about the Irish Political Election and she came out with this little gem - "The initial polls have confirmed the uncertainty about the outcome." Surely this is incorrect! I am reminded of another gem I came across some years ago: a renowned language expert was giving a lecture on the use of posi-tive and negative words and how their usage can alter meaning. He stated that there were numerous instances where the use in everyday language of a double negative would become a positive. It oc-curred in various languages around the World and even in the field of science and maths, but (he stated quite clearly) nowhere in any usage does a double positive become a negative. Then came a loud response from the back of the room - Yeah, Right! Enough said!

http://www.literacytrust.org.uk/

news/7074_celebrating_world_book_day_2

016_at_the_national_literacy_trust

Celebrating World Book Day 2016 at

the National Literacy Trust 3 Mar 2016

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=15

Assignment: All the lights were green

Yes, all the lights were green. We were in it head over heels and all the lights were

green. I look at her picture now from sixty years ago and smile and then as now I see that answering

smile and thought perhaps the first and and fiercest traffic light was turned to green as hand reached out for hand. The first red light has turned to green. We're on our way to glory. But what will our parents think? I'm twenty one and she is not quite twenty, and she's not even

English! And I'm not even Dutch! Our families have never met - there could be a red light here, an or-ange first perhaps but soon it's green again.

But how would we pay our way? £300 per year that's all I earn in 1952, just starting, then, to learn the ropes in the family business. Father consults his brothers. They own and run the firm. "He needs some more," they think, "We'll up his rate." £450 they decide! 50% not a bad increase you'll

agree. So there's another light that's turned to green. But where would we live? A simple house would cost £3,000.That's way beyond our means.

Behind our big old house an empty stable with a loft above. "We'll make a cottage," father says. You pay the going rent and then when you move out there'll be a place for lonely ageing relatives and

such. Another light is green. Where will we wed? It's got to be in her home town The Hague. Most of my tribe have never been abroad before. But there they are, all in their Sunday best, parents, uncles, aunts, brother sisters,

and cousins by the score. The Bethel Kirk, the Dutch Town Hall, hotel reception by the sea. The last green light is passed.

The last green light? Of course it wasn't. For life in all its forms knows lights of orange, green and red and promises of love are sometimes stretched and strained to breaking point. But still the

green light comes and opportunities return. For all the lights are green to any road worth travelling.

Random words: cracks, doppelganger, alibi, worm, hitchhike, fortune, shrinking, freedom, well, prescription,

pancake, achievements, simple, victim (PMW)

Pippa liked to hitchhike. She enjoyed the sense of freedom, and well, it was quite simple, she could save a fortune

by thumbing a lift up and down the country in the company of some very interesting people.

Her mother wasn’t so keen on the idea though.

“It’s a prescription for trouble,” she warned Pippa. “You hear such terrible stories these days!”

“Mum, you watch too much daytime television.” Pippa teased. She wasn’t a shrinking violet and exuded a

quiet confidence, for amongst her many achievements, Pippa was a black belt at judo.

One day, as she waited for a lift, she witnessed an incident. A young man was set upon by another, who

threw a vicious left hook and left his victim flat as a pancake on the ground, and stealing his wallet and mobile

phone. Pippa called an ambulance and the police.

“We’ll need a statement. Worms like him crawl out of the cracks and prey on unsuspecting folk. Easy tar-

gets.”

A week later, she was contacted to attend an identification parade. Pippa picked out the attacker. Unfortunately, it

turned out that he had a watertight alibi. Then, a few days later, she saw him again and rang the police. This time,

it was the right man. It turned out that luckily for him, the guilty man had a doppelganger, who had been falsely

accused of several crimes in the past.

Early eve Jupiter

Standing observing early evening sky

Jupiter arising climbing high Brighter than all the stars Unlike ruddy planet Mars Jupiter rises very bright

Upon this Welsh eve night

Poem by Lee Fones

Image courtesy of Keith O'Brien

March madness? Watch for Grammar Police in 2016!!!!

A report in the Independent of 7th March stating the government is decreeing rules on exclamation marks in the

writing of 7 year olds put the “Grammar Police” issue up for discussion. The ministry decreed that acceptable

scripts must “conform to the syntax of an exclamation” and that examples showing “one of the grammatical pat-

terns shown above” taking guidance into a new area of control. There is an increasingly Orwellian desire to dic-

tate how people should write.

At the beginning of March on the Academic blog site The Conversation I came across an academic arguing in a

remarkably convoluted manner against “grammar pedants”. Rob Drummond, an expert in Linguistics, took um-

brage on March 3rd against the Grammar Day which started in the USA and happens on March 4th (“March

Forth”.... puns are never a good sign). The argument was against pedantry and I should be an ally. No one should

want a straitjacket on language.

Strictures like the one about never ending a sentence with a preposition are nonsense, as Winston Churchill once

made clear. Churchill, unquestionably a master of communication, once wrote a speech and sent it to the Down-

ing Street typing pool. A civil servant returned it with the comment “Prime Minister, you have ended a sentence

with a preposition”. Churchill replied with the classic riposte, “This is mere pedantry, up with which I will not

put”.

I should be an ally of Rob Drummond, but he argues from a very narrow perspective. He criticises people for

ignoring “the context in which the language is used”, but immediately gives an example which shows that con-

text is not the important issue. He quotes an exchange which runs

Student Can I borrow a pencil?

Teacher. I don't know. Can you?

And the student responds with a blast that concludes that “being particular about the distinction between 'can'

and 'may' is purely pedantic and arguably pretentious”. But it is not, and the teacher is correct.

“May” is permissive and simply means “am I allowed to?” while “can” has two different meanings. It might be a

version of “May” asking permission, but also has the meaning “Am I able to?” Thus “May I climb the North

Face of the Eiger” is asking permission to do something that the speaker thinks is achievable, while “Can I climb

the North Face...?” is casting doubt on whether the climb is possible. The first version addresses someone who

has power to grant or deny, while the second involves questions of ability. The question can be posed internally,

and always involves doubt about whether the outcome is possible, and is never answerable by 'yes' or 'no',

whereas a question involving 'may' could be answerable 'yes' or 'no'.

Rob Drummond makes the statement that “English does have rules, lots of them ... like the order of adjectives.

But these aren't the rules that pedants generally think about”. I will come back to the order of adjectives in a

sentence in a moment, but he is wrong about English having rules. Rules always involve referees to police them,

but in English there are no referees. In France, where the Academie Francaise seeks to police the language – on a

voluntary basis – it has had mixed results. In 1997 40% of documents at the European Commission were in

French, 45% in English. By 2006 the ratio was 14% to 72%. Unpoliced English is a world language and is sim-

ply better for communicating than the self absorbed French approach, though French may be more precise.

The absurdity of trying to lay down rules is underlined by Drummond attempting to prescribe the order of put-

ting adjectives in sentences. He provides a link to a website run by an organisation called “English Grammar

Today” which is curtly titled “Adjectives: Order”, which lays down rules which Drummond thinks proves that

adjectives can be prescribed. The site lists 10 rules, and in making the claims they provide “the most usual se-

quence of adjectives” put shape (#4) over origin (#7), and material (#8). But the examples given make this very

dubious.

Two sentences given show the problems, firstly “It's a long, narrow, plastic brush” and secondly “Panettone is a

round, Italian, bread like Christmas cake”. In the latter example the material and origin of the cake may be seen

as more important, making the sentence “Panettone is an Italian, bread like, round Christmas cake” the pre-

ferred option. For the brush, the shape of the brush may be less important than its material, so that sentence can

be written “It's a plastic brush, long and narrow”. While this takes us into the use of clauses and the word

“and”, there is nothing ungrammatical about this construction.

I find it particularly odd that opinion is regarded as the priority issue while purpose is the least important at #10.

If we were to write about a weapon of aesthetic appeal, as some find a Samurai sword to be, we might write the

sword was “a lethal, seductive Japanese artefact” and while the opinion that it was 'seductive' might be ques-

tioned, no one can doubt the sword is potentially lethal as it is the objective fact defining its use.

It is worth looking at the article in The Conversation and its methodology, and what the Department for Educa-

tion put down as their rationale – which I have yet to find. I contend that as both Rob Drummond and the gov-

ernment are showing, trying to lay down rigid formulae is distinctly Orwellian. Drummond goes on to discuss

accent and dialect, which are equal minefields where correctness is invoked – as a Brummy, I found myself us-

ing three accents by the time I was 23 depending on what part of the universe I was living in, though what I

said never changed.

But that is a different story. When I wrote, it was always grammatical and easily understood. And as the title of

this piece shows, using the exclamation mark and the other parts of speech are cannot be reduced to rules. The

purpose of language is to be understood, thus conventions that all understand to make comprehension possible

are the only real criterion. Politicians and academics are not the arbiters of how to write.

Trevor Fisher 8th March 2016

Allotments and their Rules.

When the allotments were set up it was decided that plot holders shouldn’t grow

flowers and the site would just be used for vegetables, however last year several peo-

ple did put a few flowers of one sort or another in. It was pointed out that all fruiting

plants have to have flowers before they can produce fruit. This is most obvious where

some plants have one variety that has been bred for their flowers, such as the

“Flowering Cherry,” and one for their fruit such as the “Morrello Cherry.” The same

can be said for “Ornamental Pear Trees” and many others. This doesn’t just apply to

fruit trees though, but also to a few vegetables. The “Globe Artichoke,” is one of the

most obvious that springs to mind, as it is really just an edible thistle. Also a new

“Runner Bean,” has been developed that has the best of both worlds as it is said to be

ideal for the back of borders, with its stunning, long lasting flowers that eventually

fade and produce a good crop of beans!

With these in mind I decided to plant some old Chrysanthemum stools in my

plot that had been over wintering in my greenhouse, so that I could make a little

space under the staging to start off some more vegetables such as Potatoes and Jeru-

salem Artichokes, Etc. There was, and still is a good risk of frost as it is still very

early in the new season, but I took a chance and as yet they have been OK. However,

the pot of Sweet Peas that I bought, have been individually potted so that I can hold

them back in the greenhouse until the risk of frosts has diminished. If they had been

left in one pot, I would have had to divide a tightly grown pot full when they are

eventually planted out and this would really set them back as they do not like their

roots disturbed. Where the Runner Beans and Sweet Peas are to be planted on the al-

lotment, I dug out trenches and filled them with lots of very rough, home made com-

post, that was produced from the waste stalks of last years Tomatoes and Cape

Gooseberries as well as other assorted “Rubbish.” I did this because both Beans and

Sweet Peas need moisture retentive soil to perform well, especially if watering is go-

ing to be a little more infrequent that it might be.

When the allotments were first set up it was decided that were to be no hedges

or fences on the site, however since then, the rule has been amended to allow, low,

open, fencing to divide up plots. I decided to plant a few young, edible, Bay Trees

which can obviously have their leaves picked as they get a little bigger for use in the

kitchen. So as not to fall foul of the “ No Hedges” ruling I planted 3 or 4 Bays in a

row, which according to the Governments “High Hedges,” legislation, is not a long

enough row to be classed as a hedge.

The whole site has been rabbit fenced at some cost to the parish council, but a

few weeks ago there were signs of what looked like rabbit damage. Some plot holders

blamed badgers, foxes and dogs, but I assumed that the gate had been left open and a

lone rabbit had got on to the site. However, on one visit, when no one else was up

there, I saw and heard a movement to one side of the site in some growth by the fenc-

ing. Watching closely, a few seconds later I had the closest view of

a “Hare,” that I had ever seen! It scurried, or rather “hared” across

the open field next to the allotments and was gone in a couple of

seconds. Some days later I saw it again so it has obviously decided

that the allotments produce some tasty food!

Every Friday morning in Seighford between 10am and 12am two ladies Gloria and Sally run the village cof-

fee morning in the old village hall. The cakes are all freshly baked and any left over we are able to take home to enjoy. The problem for me is I am trying to loose weight, and creates a near impossible situation. If I refuse cake they would be offended, so now I am on a diet for only six days a week.

It‘s the in between meals bait I should be on a diet, cus om putting on some weight, Blame the coffee morning gang, with in between meals bait, Onna doin much exercise, it‘s what they put on me plate, Chocolate cake n‘ toasted fruit loaf, buttered, tastes so great. It‘s all prepared with the greatest care, best ingredients create, Coffee and tea to swill it down, impossible to berate, Can‘t resist, cut a big slice, me belly will dilate, Will sort it out when I get home, and all round the garden gyrate. I can‘t be just the only one, should skip a meal, frustrate, A calorie count is what we want, to make the numbers equate, A slimmer me, oh what joy, me pants they will, relocate, So av a good think to sort it out, or I‘ll inebriate. So overall it‘s my own fault, I just want to rejuvenate, And get back how I was years ago, meks me procrastinate, Twelve and half stone, skinny legs, run miles round the estate, At seventy seven I‘ve got no hope, of losing all that weight. So come on Gloria, cut a slice, aif as big as you ate, Take the lead, show us how to feed, before it‘s too damn late, Seven small slices last me a week, our calories re-calibrate, We‘ve solved the problem, here and now, just need a bigger plate.

“ALL THAT

JAZZ”

Won the vote and

will be the next

RBW farce.

ALL THAT JAZZ. CAST OF CHARACTERS

Many of these characters are two dimensional as yet: where you have a physical description in mind please write it in some-where so that we all know about it. AND check these notes for updates and send in any updates please.

Hotel staff free for all to use - opening gambits by CMH. Nigel Thomas Bluddschott – Manager part owner of ‗Hotel Bluddschott'. Married to Winifred. Tubby, balding, brown hair,

brown eyes, 34, 5' 7‖ tall. Tenor voice but wobbly and hesitant unless using a prepared script. Not good at thinking on his feet. If something CAN go wrong it WILL. Smuggles brandy, fags and other taxable goods as a part time job.

Winfred Alice Bluddschott (nee Gray) – Manager part owner of ‗Hotel Bluddschott'. Wife of Nigel. Plump more than tubby, brown hair bleached blonde, brown eyes, 35, 5' 6‖ tall. MUCH more capable than hubby with a hard edge to her speech.

CMH.

Sally Gray. - A MYSTERY WOMAN in any case. Don't know (yet) if she's staff, entertainer (torch singer or fan dancer) or

guest. Youngish woman. Tall, hazel eyes, auburn hair, very capable. I have her earmarked as an ex-QA/WRNS/WRAF

officer who has just completed her time & wants to 'get away from it all'. BUT, she could be something entirely different! Norbert Bunbury. Staff, driver and odd job man at the HB. Was Infantryman – possibly W.O.2 (Sgt. Maj.) or higher. I fancy a field promotion, mid 1918, not a Sandhurst man – with a few gongs to his credit. Tall, brown eyes, dark brown hair. Well built.

Blackleg Bill Bluddschott - the ghost of. AT and CMH Comic relief characters. You never know! These ladies may, possibly, be descended from those who went with Captain Fowlnett onboard 'The Star' in 'Packet to India'. They are middle aged, overweight, often slightly 1-over-the-8 and about to be tented! Vera Accrington -

Gloria Stanley - Dorothy Calcutt (their much younger niece) Ronnie Manservant only lasts a day.

NP Griggleswade (Griggles). Flyboy. Ex-RAF now working for M.I.5 (or something) as some kind of 'Air Detective'. Ch. Supt. Chorlton-cum-Hardy. Previously Colonel. Griggles superior officer in M.I.5

Mossy. Working with Griggles. Windle. Working with Griggles. Jones. Aircraft mechanic works for Griggles.

Wilhelm von Eisenbahn, aka Osbert Lessly or 'Big Shorts'. Khaki Shorts leader. Comrade 'Ironside' aka Joseph. Lenin boys leader. Comrade Plotskie aka Leon. Assistant to 'Ironside'.

ACW.

Christiana Aggott posing as Lady Arbuthnot Christian. Novelist. Actually married to Col. Beaumont Walsgrave but using a nom-de-plume for secrecy; & for advertising purposes about her new book, 'The man who shed crocodile tears'. (This neatly gets the requisite reptile into the plot line)

Arbuthnot Aggott or Uncle Arbuthnot. Head of a Security Organisation (Home Office?) Christiana is working for him.

General Arbuthnot Aggott. Christiana's father and brother of Arbuthnott Aggott. Something in the War Office (as the

MoD (Army) was known then) to do with Counter Espionage. Col. Beaumont Walsgrave. Christiana's sorely missed hubby.

Bright Young Things: Ruby Rawlings, Charlotte Ponsonby-Smythe & Katherine Wallasey. Bright Young Things brothers: Everet Rawlings, Eugene Ponsonby-Smythe & Virgil Wallasey.

Communists et al ACW Comrade St. John. Lenin boys Comrade Bunson-Smythe. Lenin boys

Bro.?? Muckleby. Leader of 'The Workers Party' also something to do with Arbuthnot Aggott. Bruder Wilhelm Bergmann. German trades union leader.

Bro. Kevin Harvey. A Workers Party member. (Changed from Hardy) Ernst Graf von Rockenbaker. Sir John Keithly.

Lord John Markham. Sir Martin Wickham.

SMS. Barnard Hot Sax Player Musician and nice guy. Errol Holiday. Band leader and piano player Tallulah tubby torch singer Errol‘s girl friend, hates Jo-Jo Jo-Jo. Fan dancer from Red Parrot Club, Paris sister of Errol. Hates Tallulah.

Cpt Digby Makepeace — hotel guest Barrington nephew of Makepeace knew Jo-Jo in Paris and knows PoWales.

LF Rooster Pearmaine detective — drunkard

Balsom Fry valet Cpt Hove-Brighton assistant on trail of missing novelist

AP

Boys and Girls Camp‘s characters and storyline Gilbert and Walter

Simon Bligh pack leader Jenny H.B. STAFF LIST. Awaiting names/descriptions and free to use. Head Waiter. Head Gardener. Head Chef. (Unnamed but has been used) Geordie pretending to be a French Chef, as they get paid more. No good at accents. Head porter/Concierge. 'Dell boy'. He knows about the smuggling racket. Wine Waiter/Sommelier/barman. All on the take from the 'duty free' wine.

CMH Helpful ? NOTE 1. If you are going to involve Security Forces (police and military) then please note that there was nothing like the MoD, it was FOUR (4) separate organisations. Admiralty for the Royal Navy. War Office for the Army. Air Ministry for the RAF. The Home Office for the Police. However, Policing was done by County/Borough. The Home Secretary couldn't give orders to the Chief Constable and the Met. was ―Asked to assist‖ if he thought they were required. I would think that Trentby, being a City or Borough would have its own Police force. Just to make things interesting H.M.Customs was – still is - a part of the Treasury. As civil servants, they did NOT have military rank equivalence or titles nor, except for two of the higher grades, dress uniforms. It gets complicated because in 1923 there were a few organisational 'hold-overs' from earlier times and some officers did get working uniforms issued.

The Prussian Motor Yacht ACW

Comrade Bunson Smythe was led about the Eisenbahn‘s family motor yacht, ‗Only built from 1920 to 1923 in Germany.‘ Hugo Eisenbahn informed, ‗She can sleep 10 people in 5 cabins, and 4 crew in 2

crew cabins. Gute, Ja.‘ Having been in the British navy in The Great War, and come from a naval family, Bunson Smythe

looked in awe as he was taken, in turn, to the Grand Saloon, the front saloon, the sitting room-cum-dining room that had place settings for 14, but enough furnishings, he reckoned, for up to 40 guests. On the upper deck were the captain‘s quarters, the wheel house and a promenade deck.

Comrade Bunson Smythe, at the end of the tour, exclaimed, ‗Most impressive Herr Eisenbahn. But you still enjoy Art Nouveau, I see.‘

‗Ja, well Bauhaus is a bit severe for me, yet. I have used it only in the crew cabins.‘ ‗You must come up for tea, as we gained Prince Harald‘s already all paid up en suite room at the

hotel.‘

‗Most delighted to visit with your comrades.‘

The Strategies ACW The Comrades had gathered in the German‘s motor yacht‘s Grand Saloon for breakfast and an in-

formal meeting. Comrade St John informed, ‗Comrade Henry Heppelthwaite and I have returned with the missing

third box lorry. We had seen it in the bushes aback of the harbour whilst we returned with you

Brother Muckleby.‘ Otis suggested, ‗We can float out and crane in the 3 vans onto the cargo ship, so all in camp can

travel home, what with the general strike. I doubt council workers will break the strike and fix the causeway.‘

Cowperthwaite observed, ‗I‘m sure union workers will find us petrol, if we transfer union officials about.‘

Hugo then suggested, ‗I doubt we will be invited to the upper class end of season ball at the hotel,

on the last Friday. We must do a social for ourselves that evening in camp. With our own marquee, in case of bad weather.‘

The Skipper informed, ‗There‘s a big ex-army tent on the cargo ship that should do the trick. The sides can roll up.‘

Johann informed, ‗There is aplenty supply of Bavarian German beers, Sekt sparkling white wine like

champagne and Pear Schnapps on board. The Kristallweizen will be a great fruity and spicy beer for our warm summer here, with the taste of bananas and cloves in the flavour.‘

Brother Kevin Harvey observed, ‗The temperance ladies will have returned home to tend to their families before then, so we can indulge.‘

Smiles all round. Brent Baum volunteered, ‗My cousins and I can play our Bavarian music, singing yodelling songs. You may not have seen our Bayern folk dances, between men dressed in leathers and slapping each other‘s behinds. Oh, here is a picture of my cousin and me when we were young in

the lederhosen.‘ Heidi informed, ‗The instruments are a harmonica buttonbox accordian, the Alpine zither you pluck

its strings over a flat thin body, clarinets and brass horns and an upright glockenspiel with its steel bars played with a couple of small metal-headed mallets.‘

Otis‘ paramour Letitia La Penumbra wondered, ‗What about a hog roast?‘ ‗Excellent idea, Letty,‘ agreed Otis. Nods all round.

The skipper volunteered, ‗We can get lamb, veal and succulent young pork direct from the farmers on the mainland.‘

Comrade Greys-Windsor offered, ‗The French musicians have done what solidarity they can and will be at the fancy hotel ball on that night. Might my comrades offer to provide a gramophone and the popular dance songs on records, even the Charleston just come this year of 1923.‘

Otis concluded, ‗Good food, good ale, women we love. Life doesn‘t get better than that.‘

Editor note: I don‘t know why but this bumbling lot of misfits reminds me of ‗Allo ‗Allo ... Well done to ACW for researching so much period detail.

At the ball (CMH)

Blistering blue-black barnacles, what's going on here? thought the spectre of Blackleg Bill Bluddschott as he

floated down to the hotel entrance from his favourite haunting spot by the causeway. He muttered, 'Never seen so much hurry, bustle and general hoo-ha since they hung my Uncle Theo the Kindly for multiple murder, ex-tortion, and highway robbery; and that was unfair 'cos he only did it to tax collectors, accountants, excise men

and lawyers, mainly.' Not being invited inside was causing him problems, again, so he resorted, as usual, to trickery. Two ladies of

a certain age were welcoming another, much younger and, to Bill's eyes, much prettier woman inside. He knew

they'd play the usual game of ‗After you, dear girl! No, after you dear lady‘, and he'd played that game before. 'Brrr … it's gone cold out here all of a sudden,' the first of the ladies remarked waving the other two ahead

of her. 'Come on, let's get inside quick! After you!' It wasn't really a good invitation, but it got him through the door. Although he'd seen it being built, it was

his first time actually inside the hotel. 'Not too dusty,' he mused as he floated along; giving the spiders on the

ceiling a tough time and causing a sudden down pour of quick-frozen flies, well out of the way of the humans milling about on the floor. He was uncomfortable when he was walked through.

'I wonder what this ‗Grand End of Season Ball‘ is all about,' he heard one-woman say to another; at least he thought they were women, he was having difficulties with modern dress.

'What it says I should think, dear.' Finger counting was committed.

'One. He'll hire a few, cheap of course, second rate so called musicians from somewhere.' Another finger, 'Throw up some flags or something equally dreary.'

A third finger joined the group, 'Put out some finger food that's so tired you'll need a fish knife to get it off the plate.' With four fingers being waved together, 'Raise the bar prices, and ...'

The fifth joined the triumphant group, 'Over-charge us for daring to attend.'

'Oh well nothing unusual then. I was getting worried that Bluddschott was being innovative for a change.' 'No chance of that! Not with that wife of his leaning over his shoulder. The only thing I haven't been able to

fathom out is where he gets his 15-year old brandy. He seems to have lashings of it about.'

'Smuggled do you think?' There was a cinematic, furtive, look-around, guaranteed to draw attention in any company. 'Second grade drain cleaner smuggled all the way from the Marygate Monastery on a handcart. Run

across the Trentby Sound at dead of night; about nine-forty-five in the morning, in a disguised pirate boat fly-ing the Jolly Roger, from a secret base in the Railway station. That would be a lark, dear. Great to get on film though.'

'Humph … You're letting your imagination run away with you! Not a chance in the world of that! He's too timid to sneeze without her permission. At least, now that this silly strike's over, and the causeway's fixed, we

can get on with our hol's.' There was a quirking of eyebrows and the suggestion, 'Tennis?' Sally Gray, MISS Gray as she insisted on being called, stood at the concierges‘ desk talking to Norbert Bun-

bury about the way that the Hotel Bluddschott was to be refurbished over the ‗closed season‘. 'Once we've got the place to ourselves we can call the decorators in and get things really in tip-top condition

for next year, Norbert. With those pair,' she meant the Bluddschotts, 'out of the way we can move into the

managers‘ quarters and really get things moving.' Norbert was astounded. This was the first time he'd heard about both of them moving into that set of

rooms. It was, he decided, definitely time he put his foot down! 'Sally, when you say ‗we can move into the managers quarters‘ do you mean you and me; together?!' Sally nodded. 'Yes, WE can move into the managers quarters, you,' she tapped his chest to show who she

meant, 'and me,' a tap on her own chest, 'together, at the same time! Do you have any objections to the plan?' 'But, Sally, we're not married nor even engaged yet!'

Sally's grin turned into laughter and she hugged him too her, 'Oh Norbert, you're a dear man, and I think I love you, but you're hopeless when you're startled. You see there's being married and then there's being, well, married. They are not the same thing at all. Sort of. We'll be married and then ... well; at Christmas, you can

ask me to marry you. Then I may say yes. There; is that clear now?!' A confused Norbert nodded, 'Clear as mud! But I suppose you'll be explaining it all to me as we go along.'

That led to another hugging, kissing and laughing session before they went their ways; Norbert having diffi-culty in not dancing and singing as he walked along, and Sally chuckling at the explanation she'd almost under-stood herself.

The Fog ACW

The Skipper on the bridge of the cargo ship gave orders to anchor just off the harbour, and took to the row boat with a couple of his men to take possession of the Eisenbahn brothers‘ motor yacht Das

Trossachs, moored on the quayside. One of the sailors observed, ‗Not too much damage from the gunfire we strafed the bridge, hey

Skipper?‘ ‗Nope. Go below and check the hull lads. But she shows no sign of sinking or other signs of being

holed from our attempts to ram her.‘

‗No, Skipper,‘ and the men went below. The sun began to fade as the darkness of night encroached and a sea fog swirled onto the dock,

even cloaking the cargo ship but a short way offshore. The melancholy sound of a fog horn sounded muffled through the deepening mist. A small boat under sail sped past the harbour mouth, hugging the coastline with an expert eye and

but a lantern for light. One dark silhouette of a man holding the tiller with a sure hand.

As the Skipper looked after the boat as it oddly did not come into safe harbour but continued on where he knew the causeway blocked passage, he heard first the sound of straining canvas, then the

creak of timber, then the sound of cleaving bow wave. The fog parted and out of the mist came an old 3-masted ship appearing to be sailing herself, as he

could see no crew on deck nor a hand of a helmsman on her ship‘s 8-spoked wheel towards the stern

nor hear a captain give him tiller orders. Then he saw them, as the moon came out from the skudding clouds, mere spectral vestiges of men

dressed in centuries old sailors‘ garb. And a captain steadying the wheel with a hook for one hand.

Dread moans came from the apparitions, it appeared to him, and the ship drew close to the other quayside, the sails furled up to berth her softly to the mooring, the plank put out smartly and the ship lashed to the mooring bollards.

The men looked more like the fog come to life as they poured onto the land. A spectral tavern rose up behind the dock, into which the lost souls poured.

Just then a ship‘s bell sounded, ‗Skipper, all‘s well below.‘ ‗You what?‘ From out of the pea-souper fog so thick you could scarce see your hand before your face, an unseen

voice said again, ‗She‘s all sound below Skipper, shall we set off?‘ The Skipped looked across to the opposite dockside and saw no other ship moored.

‗Ah there‘s more gravy than grave about what fancied saw. Methinks a poor cheese or underdone beef has upset my digestion, for nightmares roll in with this infernal fog. Batten down the hatches and

we‘ll await the dawn to set sail.‘ ‗Right you are, Cap‘n Sir.‘

Is It Her? ACW Christiana Aggot sat in the arbour seat in the parkland behind the hotel, getting back to catching up

with reading the American newly published novel, ‗The Lost Lady‘ by Willy Catcher. She felt sure she was being watched somehow, looked up and saw an earnest man looking quizzi-

cally at her, then her book cover and back again. She put her book in her bag and made to stride out for the path around pretty flowerbeds, only for

the man to follow her, then another man to come and then join in following her, like some comic po-

licemen in popular moving pictures. So she changed tack and walked towards the beach path, only for yet another man to join the other

two and all follow her. She quickened her pace, only for them to hasten after her. Ducking behind a garden bronze depicting the ancient Greek mythological god of writing Cadmus,

she hid so she could turn back along the path. ‗I‘m sure that was her, that missing novelist, Fry.‘

‗Yes Sir, Inspector Pearmaine.‘

‗I‘m sure she was heading into the hotel.‘

‗Well Hove-Brighton, there‘s a labyrinth of paths, which way?‘ ‗Darned if I know which way she went, Rooster.‘

And they moved off. Christiana ducked through a copse of trees and went through the front doors of the hotel and into a

lounge where Beaumont was taking tea and reading the newspaper, with screaming headlines of Com-munist Coup a Hoax. Spreads Strike More Solidly. Worse to come.

‗Beaumont, Beaumont. Some men were following me in the garden. I‘ve overheard them. They‘ve

maybe rumbled its me, making believe I‘ve gone missing to sell more of my wretched new book.‘ ‗I‘ll sort them out, show me.‘

They stood behind a large potted bush on the terrace, as the men approached the steps up to the back of the hotel.

Beaumont leapt over the side low wall of the terrace onto the grassy knell below and came up be-

hind the men unsighted and laid about them with vigour. Staggering about, dazed from blows to the back and side of their heads, all the men and Beaumont

now in full red mist of battle rage, ended up into the woods aback of the hotel gardens. One dazed man tripped and fell into the pool, cursed, ‗Ah ….. Drat and Blast, I‘m all wet.‘

As he flailed to get his footing, spluttering as he sank and rose from the waters. ‗Oh Sir, let me assist you.‘ Only for this other man to sink waist deep into the soft mud hidden beneath the rushes girthing the

pool, trapping him fast. The last man was left alone facing Beaumont, who smirked cruelly and grabbed a wing and a leg

and whirled him round and round and hurled him into the deepest centre of the pool.

The Happenchance Find ACW Beaumont watched the men getting into ever more trouble in trying to extricate themselves from the

pool, waterside muddy bulrushes and tangled bushes.

Laughter bursting from his lips, whenever further calamity befell them. He backed off, then turned to follow a little used path, by its overgrown nature, to make his way

back to the hotel. Glancing back often when further dismaying language erupted from the unfortunates. Until he himself came acropper and fell to earth, going head over heels, but army hand to hand

combat training and experience brought him safe to the ground with no jury. As he sat on the ground cursing his luck, he looked up as he made to rise to his feet and espied a

bright reflection of light coming from within the trees, off to the side of the path. He cautiously approached the treeline and then uttered surprise, ‗Oh wonderful.‘

He strode into the forest to inspect his missing 2-seater motor cycle. Some repair had been done, but the kick starter fired fine first time. He rolled the powerful machine onto the path and gunned the engine into a satisfying roar, spurting earth and grass sods high as he sped off.

A 1924 Brough Superior SS80 at the 2014 Seattle

International Motorcycle Show.

Image Dennis Bratland Wikipedia

The prodigal‘s return (SMS)

It was a dark and storm-tossed night at sea: rain was coming down in stair rods, a huddled figure

clung to the side of a rowing boat being tossed about in the swell. With only the oarsman‘s cursing

for company it seemed like forever until the har-bour mouth came into view from the flooded cause-way.

Bedraggled and shivering, a forlorn scrap of hu-manity struggled along the beach towards the hotel

clutching a soaked suitcase being tugged at by the whims of the storm. The lights were on in the ball-room, Bernard was playing Bye Bye Birdie for all his

might, she pictured Errol blasting away on the up-right jo-anna his fingers racing over the furious ivo-

ries and then, snatched by the wind from the bal-cony‘s open windows, Tallulah was singing haunted

lyrics as only she could. Oh how Tallulah was going to love this ...

My head says I can‘t do it, there is no possible way, I have to face the facts, instead of GO, I‘ll STAY! It would be quite remarkable to prove my brain was wrong And I emerged victorious! I DID it! I‘m so strong. But with my brain I must agree, I really won‘t be able, To take a journey on my own, when general-health unstable. Imagine all the pitfalls, I do and I am scared! I cannot go; I cannot go, feeling unprepared. I‘d love to think that I was brave but truly, I am not, Accept restrictions on my life! Stay at home and rot!

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