Issue 430 25th March

Every storyline needs a

few good hooks ...

If yours look like these ... Come to workshop: every

Monday 1.30pm to 3.30pm (temporary home in Baptist Church Centre during April)

You‘ll soon have those

hooks sparkling again.

FLASH FICTION: empty, self, light, orange, ancient, woodland,

match, spring, daily, grandmother, basket, duck, afford

Assignment: two sentence storyline or overheard conversation

A warm welcome awaits. COME to WORKSHOP ...

LIBRARY CLOSURE There will be no workshop on Easter Monday

RBW Workshops will have a temporary home in Rising Brook BAPTIST church community centre

on Monday 4th April, Monday 11th April and Monday 18th April.

On Monday 25th April Workshops return to Rising Brook Library

which will be under new voluntary management.

EDITOR: Regularly, I am asked for submission tips. Hope these are helpful ...

Never force text to drop down a line by using the return key. Think of text as a river, it needs to be able

to flow. The return key slams in a „hard return‟ which is a text block.

Don‟t use bold letters.

Don‟t use all CAPITAL letters.

Don‟t underline titles.

Don‟t centre titles.

Don‟t use coloured ink in blocks of text.

Do research house styles before you submit anywhere; they can be very different.

Do learn how to punctuate speech. An editor can spot a „to be rejected‟ writer by the first line of badly

punctuated dialogue. Poor grammar costs time and money to correct. Writing is a business, be profes-

sional if you want to be published.

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

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

So sad to see it like this ...So sad to see it like this ...

Saying goodbye to our workshop home Saying goodbye to our workshop home

for the last 10 years ...for the last 10 years ...

Travel Blog: a Letter from South Korea:

There's nothing like the deep fugue of daily life to smother the creative spark, but travel has put the spring back in my pen, so to speak. It started Thursday afternoon, when I began my journey north. I was travel-ling to Seoul, that vast and sprawling capital of this foreign land I call home. I reached the airport late. My mother was waiting, wearing a bright pink wind-breaker. Even from behind I could tell it was her instantly. We took the bus to Seoul, an hour of catching up and watching farmland pass us by until suddenly the apartments loomed and we were swallowed by metropolis. We were spat out on the roadside in front of the police station and spent the usual five minutes trying to decipher our map. Then we wormed our way between the tower blocks, down a winding alley that brought us into Insadong. Insadong is strange chimeric district of Seoul, with one nostalgic foot in the past and the other firmly fitted into the tourist-minded present. Traditional house, hanoks to those in the know, are bunched together in tight, stubborn clusters. Most are restaurants, wafting their aromatic wares into the street to entice customers, some are hotels and some are nameless, perhaps even houses. It was in one of these clusters we found our hostel, homely, friendly and cheerful with the traditional heated floors of Korean houses and a clean, com-fortable, if a bit cozy, rooms. The receptionist directed us to a traditional restaurant where my mum had her first taste of Korean food. The seafood pancake was a winner. Afterwards we wan-dered the Main Street, peering through the closed and darkened windows at bright silks, delicate china, souvenir staples and the bourgeois bounty of a gently spiralling market. We strolled back to the hotel to sleep the weary sleep of travellers. We started Friday with a hearty breakfast and a walk. Our hostel was a stone's throw from one of Seoul's largest temple complexes - Gyeongbukgong Palace. The palace has been an unfortunate victim of the Japanese twice and sections have burned down more then once and yet it has been lovingly restored each time to its huge, garish, beautiful grandeur. Pillar box red columns keep up gently curving roofs, with their classic oriental overhangs. Each supporting roof tim-ber is painted in green and pink and red and white, with flowers at the end. The slate grey tiles are decorated at the end with embossed dragons. We wandered around the grounds and the museum before hunger politely informed us it was lunchtime. We decided to try the dumpling place that our receptionist had recommended. We gorged ourselves on all manner of dumplings; steamed, fried, pork, shrimp and beef; they were all delicious. Then we did what all good tourists do; we shopped. After that, we didn't have much time left for Seoul but we managed to squeeze in one more thing before our train to Busan. Bukchon Hanok Village. Near the palace is a small section of the city that has been untouched by skyscrapers and concrete blocks. Here traditional bungalows with their sweeping roofs and open courtyards are still loved and lived in, an hour and half walk can take you through the whole district, of course there's plenty to do one the way, amongst the residences you can find cafes, observatories, galleries, museums, workshops and plenty of hanbok (traditional clothing) photo opportunities. Certainly worth half a day exploring!

Assignment: Mothers

My mother was born in 1911 and she just missed the census by a few months so she wasn‟t

recorded until the next census ten years later.

She was christened Annie Evelyn but she did not like those names so everyone called her

Nance.

She was very accident prone and very lucky to have lived though her childhood. It is a

wonder I am here at all.

The first accident wasn‟t her fault. Her elder brother had been left in charge of her pram

and somehow he let go of it and it rolled down a hill with my mother a young baby, still in

it. Luckily it came safety to a stop at the bottom of the hill and she was unharmed.

My mother‟s earliest memory was, at the age of three, falling into her Grandmother‟s

washing tub and almost drowning. She was pulled out just in time. This was the first time

she almost drowned. I‟ll explain about the other time, later.

In the same kitchen she had another accident when she was about eight the gas cooker

blew up and the force shot my mother out to land in the garden. Luckily the kitchen door had

been open at the time and she was shocked but unhurt.

My mother should never had been allowed anywhere near to a cycle. A friend was teach-

ing her to ride, she set off okay but started going down hill forgetting how to stop she flew

off the cycle as it hit the wall of a house and she sailed through an open window into a room

where neighbours, a brother and sister, sat taking afternoon tea. My mother crashed onto the

bamboo table breaking it in two. The neighbours were struck dumb with shock and so was

my mother.

I am sure these tales are true because my mother told them over and over again.

The second time that she almost drowned came when she was almost twelve years old,

she was playing down by the canal and tried to jump onto a boat, slipped and fell between

the boat and the canal side. Luck was with her once again. An off duty Policeman was walk-

ing by and jumped in to rescue her.

As my mother grew older she had minor incidents and I was witness to a few of them.

She popped into the “ladies” at a well-known café and the towel dispenser came off the wall.

Just after Christmas in a shop in town she knocked against a row of empty glass shelving,

bringing the lot crashing down.

My mother lived until she was eighty-three, how she quite managed this I will never

know.

http://www.un.org/en/events/poetryday/ ©UNESCO

Young lambs run rings around their weary mum As blackbirds sit and call across the grass. The fishing gnome stands looking rather glum And friendly frogs croak greetings as they pass. Out on the farm the tractor ploughs the field And cows are led to barn down muddy track. The fox in hedge lies very well concealed, With hopeful plan to launch surprise attack. The warming sun shines bright in cloudless sky, As cherry tree sheds blossom on the park, Bees fill the hive and insects quickly fly, No more to work as daylight turns to dark. As creatures sleep in field and byre and farm, Nobody hears as chickens raise alarm.

A warm RBW

Welcome to

Clive Sanders.

Clive says he is retired

and now spends his

leisure time

as a landscape artist

and poet in

the idyllic county

of

Somerset.

Clive’s poems can

also be found on

his Facebook Page.

Growing Problems.

Most people have sown seeds of things like Parsnips, Carrots, Beetroot, etc directly

into the ground and on a little walk around the allotments it is easy to see neat rows

of seedlings coming up in most of the plots. On the other hand some people have

bought young bean plants to transplant and some have sown them directly in situ.

Last year I started all of mine off in trays and when they were transplanted they were

set back so much that those sown later, in the soil, on other plots, did better than

mine! This time I am not going to put full packets of everything in like last season,

because I had far too much of each vegetable and in the end a lot went to waste. Now

that people are getting to know each other a little better they are starting to pass part

seed packets and spare plants to each other a little more. What better excuse to have a

break from all that digging and go and have a chat with someone else and give them a

few seeds or plants at the same time.

To make a little more space on my plots I have started giving away young Current and Gooseberry

bushes as I had far too many that were grown from rooted cuttings. Gooseberries are very easy to

root and will often root themselves. All you need to do is peg down some long, trailing stems and

they will root in no time. Current bushes aren‟t much harder, although they are best done through

the winter when they are dormant.

I tried leaving a lot of the surplus Turnips, Carrots, Kale and Kohl Rabi in the ground over the win-

ter. Not a lot of it rotted, except a few Carrots, but as soon as things started to warm up it all started

to go to seed and the Turnips especially, went very woody. Because the Kohl Rabi survived the cold

I decided to plant some young seedlings out very early to get an early start. In a few weeks I will

sow another small batch to follow on and that way I should get an almost continuous crop all

through the season. There are quite a few other quick growing vegetables that are best done like

this, apart from the obvious salad crops like Lettuce.

The Garden Centres are full of all sorts of vegetables and have started reducing prices on plants, but

with this crazy weather we are having it is still advisable to be careful what you plant out, even into

May. If in doubt put some fleece or cloches over the young plants.

All the garden outlets are full of cloches of all sizes and shapes including large “Cold Frame,” sized

ones right up to mini greenhouses. At last my Sweet Potatoes have come so, being a bit delicate, I

am going to try them in one of these giant cloches to give them an extra boost.

As plot holders have started to dig their plots this season, a lot of them are finding grubs in the soil.

These may well be “Chafer,” grubs that over winter underground and munch on the roots of plants

in the Spring. If found they should be squashed, because being an organic site there really isn‟t any

other way of dealing with them as no chemicals can be used.

Underneath all the taps on the site are large plastic tubs to catch the spillages and prevent the slop-

ing paths from being washed away. However, I think as things warm up we may well get a problem

with midges around the tubs. Again we can‟t really use insecticides as such, but a tiny little bit of

soap of almost any kind will break the surface tension and prevent the midges from hanging from

the surface so they can‟t breathe and the soap won‟t harm any plants either. This is a good idea for

water tubs at home as well.

“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.

She was soaked through. Water was dripping from the bottom of her coat, her shoes were sod-

den, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes rimmed with red. Had she been crying? wondered Bar-rington.

He took up a non- threatening position beside her on the dingy stairs which led up to the staff quarters. She didn‘t acknowledge his arrival, but she didn‘t do the fight or flight response either. She

looked all in. He worried out a pair of cigarettes from a pack of Camels and lit them both. Hand dithering, she took one from him without a word.

Minutes passed in silence as smoke drifted upwards towards a ceiling which needed a coat of emulsion.

‗Not dancing tonight?‘ he said. ‗Not dancing,‘ she nodded, the movement causing drops to tumble from her bob onto the soaked

shoulders of the thin coat.

‗You should get out of those wet clothes,‘ he said looking straight ahead and not at her. Eye con-tact didn‘t seem a good idea.

‗I should,‘ she said. ‗But, I might not be staying.‘ ‗Your brother?‘

The bob nodded up and down sending out a spray of drops. ‗Come on. You can stay in my room,‘ he rose and held out a hand. ‗Come on. Do the prodigal‘s

return bit tomorrow. You‘ll feel better after some shut eye.‘

Exhausted, Jo-Jo blinked away tears, ‗You‘re a good man, Barry.‘ ‗High praise indeed, princess,‘ he said picking up the soggy suitcase and passing her his hip flask,

‗It‘s rot gut.‘ ‗But, it‘s free ...‘ she said, not that in her experience any gift from a man was entirely free.

There’s a new version of The Loop now playing on Radio Wildfire with another selection of tracks uploaded to the ‘Submit’ page of our website and sent to us on cd by writers, artists, musicians and listeners around the world. Listen to tracks from: Brendan Gallagher, Albarz, Dwane Reads, Michael Clifton, Jonathan Taylor, Bissecta de Kinsame, Ronald Jones, Kim Cayer, Superbard, Sara Clark, Bunbury Banter Theatre Co, Maneli Jamal, Ben Macnair, Stephen Mead, Christopher Templeton, and Chris Hoskins. Spoken word, stories, excellent musical interludes and not a chocolate egg in sight. So join us and listen by going to www.radiowildfire.com and clicking on The Loop – and see the full playlist on the website. We’ll be transmitting our live show as usual at 8.00pm on Monday 4th April with a full programme of pre-recorded tracks, guest interviews and conversation and, as usual, we’ll be sending out details of the show in advance. (You can upload soundfiles of your own work to the ‘Submit’ page of the Radio Wildfire website. Mp3s are our preferred format. You can also ensure you always get reminders of upcoming shows on Radio Wildfire by following us on Twitter @radiowildfire or by visiting us at facebook.com/radiowildfire) The Loop is curated by Vaughn Reeves and plays online continuously except during our live broadcasts. WHAT IS RADIO WILDFIRE? Radio Wildfire is an independent online radio station which blends spoken word, poetry, performance lit-erature, 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.

A Cold Shudder, I be Bound ... Ghostly pirates ... ACW

As they all sipped their supper coffee in the saloon of the motor yacht, Das Trossachs, Johann swore, ‗Quatsch und doppel quatsch.‘

Hugo swore in agreement and added, ‗All those years and our poor lost brother we thought survived the Great War, was replaced by a cuckoo in the nest, an imposter, a British spy. And she was a woman, to boot.‘

The family sat in respectful silence to their loss.

After a pregnant pause, Johann put forward a suggestion, to distract from the shock and bereavement, ‗Once we‘ve had the camp social and the hotel closes, shall we crane in the motor yacht into the cargo ship and all go to South America. There‘s no work back home. The English skipper and crew are keen.‘

They sat pensive over their evening supper. Brent observed, ‗I heard there‘s a fair few pretty, young and buxom girls from home out there with their émi-

gré families.‘ Disgustingly dirty laughter broke out, but seemed more than from six lusty throats. The shadows by cupboards and in corners where the lanterns‘ lights did not reach seem to deepen. Mist

swirled up from under the door. Hans remonstrated, ‗Ah, who left the hatch open to the upper deck?‘

And went to investigate, only to find the hatch shut tight against the night air. Scratching his head in puzzle-ment, he turned back to return to the saloon.

Coming face to face with a scarred, one eyed, ugly, heavily jowled man, face well weathered, who snarled,

‗Be bound to the deep jungles are ye, with fish that‘ll eat you up to your bones in a frenzied shoal, right quick. Aye, to be sure.‘

More sadistic laughter came from men behind this one, much as this fearsome fellow, barely able to be seen in the shadows in the corridor only lit from the lanterns through the open door of the saloon.

Hans shuddered from a damp frozen draught, yet all was battened down tight. Mist swirled in a haze and

about his feet. The fearsome face came towards him. Hans tried to step aside to let him pass.

Then. Nothing.

The men simply were not there, but the light mist turned into more blindingly thick sea fog, deeper, deeper. Enveloping him in boiling swirls.

Hans put his arms out to feel the walls and hand over hand felt his way back to the open door of the saloon.

He entered but found the saloon empty and, impossibly, another room beyond it with an open door and from it a growling voice demanding, ‗Come within, you craven scurvy dog.‘

The Glory of Speed ACW Beaumont and Christiana had enjoyed polishing up their recovered 4-wheel Bow-v-car and Bleriot motor cy-

cles, which had been well chained up and padlocked against further loss. One glorious morning as dawn rose, long before breakfast, Beaumont had put on tight fitting black cycle

leathers, leather flying cap and goggles.

Christiana‘s brown leathers were also tight fitting. ‗A bit too tight, darling,‘ chastised Beaumont.

‗O, no-one is about yet Beaumont.‘ In front of the hotel, they wheeled out their cycles til onto the road, got onto their vehicles, gunned the en-

gine and sped off two-abreast heading northbound.

The race was on as they weaved up the road. Faster and faster, head down and laughing uproarilessly.

Missing their way they swerved as hit dirt track, doing a great sideways rear wheel screeching of tyres. Slowing to compensate, the track got bumpier and full of chicanes. Until gravity resulted in turning the 4-wheeler on its side, disgorging Beaumont onto beach sand, legs askew.

Christiana tipped up too with legs akimbo onto the sands. Conjugal frivolity got them rolling about in glee on the beach. Something tight fitting leathers could not stand up against. Their leather trousers split behind and

before. Useful for begetting their first child of the marriage. But provided a problem for getting back into the ho-tel with decency.

‗O Beaumont, what are we to do?‘

‗Well you have your shawl to cover your modesty.‘ ‗But you‘ll get arrested, Beaumont,‘ giggled Christiana. Beaumont laughed and some more conjugals ensued.

As morning tea tempted, they thought of returning to the hotel.

Beaumont could sit within his motor cycle car for decency‘s sake.

On arrival at the hotel, Christiana nipped up to their hotel suite to fetch a pair of trousers. Marooning Beau-mont in front of the hotel in his vehicle.

Ladies taking the air before breakfast passed by causing Beaumont to hold what he held dear with spread out hands, unable to rise in politeness.

Then a delivery van arrived and Beaumont‘s vehicle was in the way.

The driver came to remonstrate, ‗Excuse me Sir, need to get closer to the side of the hotel. Can you just move aside.‘

‗I can‘t,‘ said Beaumont, ‗I‘ve split me breeches.‘

The driver laughed until Beaumont‘s face of thunder choked off further hilarity. ‗I‘ll fetch you a spare apron Sir.‘

‗And does that solve behind?‘ Beaumont was in a right pickle as there was no more room to manoeuvre the cycle between hotel and van,

but only to wheel it aside.

‗I‘ll fetch two aprons, Sir.‘ ‗Oh right, that‘ll have to do.‘

Once fully aproned front and rear, Beaumont got up to move the cycle, and stood aside as the van backed up round to the side of the hotel.

Christiana arrived with the trousers just as the apron strings expired from the well-muscled hips of Beau-

mont. Causing much hilarity amongst passing ladies.

The Entertainments ACW Now the Khaki Shorts camp was found not to hold even one Khaki Short revolting member, and everyone

had been undercover to seek those who were never there, a holiday mood took over for the few days before the hotel closed for the season.

The only folk left at camp now were working class of the tiny few communists and the far more numerous

hordes of trade unionists and Worker‘s Party members, and the ladies‘ branches of same. All at a loose end on how to enjoy their few days of camping holiday before returning to work, being mostly

self employed and not bound by the constraints of mill or shop work. They would soon be back to their own lives of chimney sweeps, selling from their stall handcarts, the bicycle driven handcart selling ice cream and freight wagon work or beer dray cart and horse still.

For fun, some set up a canvas sheet backing to a coconut shy as at fairgrounds, where coconuts were put up loosely on stick and plate support, to be knocked off by throwing a small ball.

Kevin Harvey asked Comrade St John, ‗Shall we stick a newspaper cutting of someone‘s face from the gov-

ernment on the coconuts?‘ Comrade St John agreed, ‗Yes, that‘d be a laugh. What about those clown faces that have open mouths for a ball throw game over a wooden box? Use a large newspaper cutting photo, stuck on

an old wooden board and then colour up the face as a clown and cut out an open mouth?‘ Comrade Greys-Windsor offered, ‗I‘ve got an wind-up gramophone on an old pram base, I was going to do-

nate to help an out of work former soldier to gain a few pennies by playing it in the street. We can play some

novelty funny songs on it? I‘ve got a couple of records.‘ Comrade Bunson-Smythe offered up also, ‗I‘ve got a street-organ that can be wound up to play that I was

going to donate for someone to get a few pennies to help in life. But how to use the street organ and the wind-up gramophone in the camp for a fun event?‘

Henry Heppelthwaite said, ‗Being just us, we can sing made up rude songs mocking the upper classes using

the street music?‘ Cooper Cowperthwaite suggested, ‗How about dancing silly versions of the Charleston, to make folk laugh

the most?‘ Kevin Harvey did a mock up of a town crier, shouting up, ‗Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. Come one, come all.‘ First answer from the lads, ‗You what? Shirrup.‘

Kevin Harvey persisted, ‗Fun to be had by all. Let‘s put together a fairground that costs nowt. Today!‘ An area in the middle of the camp was made into a fairground with stalls leaving an open area in its midst,

by the large old army marquee. Soon all vestige of organisation flew out the window and fun chaos ensued.

Being soft grass it did not matter when the lasses and lads kept falling over whilst trying to do ever worse versions of the Charleston, much to everyone‘s amusement and laugh until they cried.

The balls finding their mark and bowling over coconut shy or landing in the mouths of the clowns, with their solemn pictures of parliamentary worthies, causing hurrahs to erupt. Otis Muckleby escorted his lady fair, Letty, to the mock up fairground and they took turns at the coconut shy and clown ball game, missing them every

time, causing much hilarity. Back at the hotel, in the lounge at back of the hotel, Beaumont said to Christiana, ‗Are they having a revolu-

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tion at the camp, there‘s a huge noise coming from it, yet is so far off?‘

‗From the sound of the ladies, it sounds more like too much fun away from calming eyes of society?‘ observed Christiana.

Christiana was not far wrong, because hidden parts within the marquee had become love trysts, with such suppressed giggles from the ladies and deeper laughter from the lads, with ladies whispering such sentiments as, ‗Oh don‘t!‘ and ‗Oh, you are naughty!‘

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