1

Be Creative 2

2

Here is the second edition of Be Creative magazine written by UCS students for UCs students.

We hope you enjoy reading our poems, short stories and articles as much as we did writing them!

We’ve decided to fit with UCS policies on sustainability and produce this edition online and save a few trees in the process!

If you have any contributions for the magazine please send them to us at literary@ucsunion.com.

Ruth, Annie and Jason.

===========================================================================================

3

A Love Story (of sorts)

Once, there was a beautiful Princess (aren’t they always) called Gertrude, who lived a life of luxury sponging off her parents, a King and Queen of some random Kingdom.

Every day Princess Gertrude demanded back rubs from naked courtiers and gourmet meals hand fed to her by a dwarf with a green beard. There being no dwarf with a green beard in the Kingdom, a small man was found, his legs cut off and some green cotton wool was tied around his face. Everything was done to satisfy the whims of Princess Gertrude.

One day the King was called to a board meeting by his accountants. After some umming and ahhing the King’s household overspending was mentioned. Sexual harassment litigation from the courtiers was slightly higher than normal and the dwarf who wasn’t really a dwarf had become so convinced of his own importance he insisted on a private retinue of a hundred staff to look after his every need. A suggestion was put forward that should Princess Gertrude be married, then even with a dowry, the Kingdom would be a million times better off without her.

The King was loath to farm his daughter off so unsentimentally, so he graciously gave Princess Gertrude the right to choose her Prince. He arranged a day of auditions to give every Prince in the world the opportunity to impress his only child.

On the appointed day 501 Princes lined up in a queue and one by one they talked, sang, danced or read sonnets to woo the Princess. Princess Gertrude, aware of the relative market value of her beauty, was in no rush to pick any old Prince. She dismissed any that were too fat, too thin, too little hair, too much hair, too dull, too smelly, too tall, too spotty or too anything. She also felt that it was important the Princes knew their limitations. Many of the Princes left the Kingdom weeping, realising for the first time that their lives had been a lie and that they were repulsive.

Finally, the 501st Prince stepped forward. He was a handsome creature, with fine bones, regal bearing and elegant costume. Princess Gertrude’s nostrils flared and a flush crept up her whole body. Finally, here was a Prince worthy of her! The Prince stepped forward and offered a single red rose to the Princess. There was silence in the court. Princess Gertrude, took the rose, dipped her nose towards it and breathed deeply. Then she looked up at the Prince, a coy smile spreading over her delicate features. The court broke out into a round of applause.

The orchestra began to play and the Prince took the hand of the Princess and they spent the whole evening dancing together and gazing into each other’s eyes. Whenever the Prince began a declaration of love to his Princess she put her hand on his lips and said, ‘Hush. We have forever to speak of love.’ And then, on and on they danced until dawn and it was time for bed.

Upon waking up the next afternoon, Princess Gertrude found the Prince curled up in an armchair outside her room. Ah, she thought. He is so chivalrous and so handsome. She kissed his cheek to wake him gently.

‘Ppppppppppppppppppp,’ said the Prince.

‘What?’ said Princess Gertrude.

‘Pppppppppppppppppppppppppppprrinsssssssssssssssssssssssssessssss Ggggggggggger’

Princess Gertrude looked confused.

‘ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttude.’

4

The Princess’s hangover was kicking in and she was not amused by the joke this Prince was playing on her.

‘What is wrong with you? Can’t you speak?’

‘I lllllllllllllluuuuuurve yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyooooooooou,’ stammered the Prince.

The Princess’s whole head took on a slight pink tinge, then scarlet, moving through the rainbow towards lilac and finally a dark ominous purple.

‘How DARE you!!!! You mean to tell me I’ve wasted a whole night on a Prince who takes half an hour to declare his love?!!!’ she screamed. Her eyes popped out, her tongue rolled about and bits of spittle hit the Prince in his left eye.

‘I want someone who can tell me how beautiful I am, whenever I want it! NOT some stammering, yammering FOOL!!! I don’t want to waste my life listening to mumbling.’ Spittle landed in the Prince’s other eye.

The Princess ran to her room, picked up the red rose and brought it out to the humiliated Prince. As she dashed it on the floor in front of him, the earth shook, pillars rocked and the marble floor split in two. Petals flew in all directions. The Prince’s heart smashed into a million tiny pieces. Jumping up, he stood staring at his broken gift, given with such love. Then he stared at the mental beast in front of him, turned and ran.

‘Come back here! You spineless CREEP! I haven’t finished with you yet!’

Behind him, the Prince could hear the thundering footsteps of his sweet Princess and could feel the heat of the fire from her cavernous nostrils. As soon as he got into the garden he jumped into a gigantic rose bush and climbed into its highest branches, heedless of the thorns stabbing him on the way. There he curled up in a ball, crying to himself as the Princess thrashed about below.

Later that night, when all was quiet, the Prince slipped down the rose bush, covered in scratches and full of thorns. He slunk out of the Kingdom and it was heard that some years later, when he had recovered from the trauma of his first love affair, he found a nice little Princess to marry. One who was kind, but extremely dull and spent hours listening to his stammer.

Princess Gertrude gave up on getting married much to the concern of the accountants, but they were pleased when she took up Bear Wrestling and became world champion, bringing in untold revenue in prizes. It was while defending her world title against the King of the Bears that she recognised a familiar hot flush seep through her body and her nostrils flared excitedly. She considered that as no man could ever satisfy her as she wished to be satisfied, why a bear would do nicely.

The moral of the story:

In love, dreams often get trashed

Agnes Brown

5

Autumn

In the orange dull dismal

Half-light of an autumn day

Leaves churn to mud

As deer pass our way.

Frolicking, dancing leaping the tracks

Dappled sunlight tattooing fawn backs.

Entwined, we survey mists of grey

Gathering storm clouds dulling our way.

Distant silence, sheets of bluebells

The ache in my heart is subdued.

 

I sit to recall deer of our youth

No longer remember much of the truth

As long as the happy times come to my mind

I shall be happy whatever I find.

The frost in the air makes me shiver

 Twists of silver tarnished river

Oh how I wish you had not gone.

 

I shall move no mountains now

Nor reach the foreign climes

It's too late to wish for elaborate rhymes.

As long as I can sit and recall

Memories of sweet honeysuckle days

Watching the deer through summer’s sunrays

Dance without music to think

I have seen heaven on earth through a chink

6

The promise is drawing me on my good friend

For you are with me beginning and end.

R Longhurst

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Frozen Thorns by J M stone

It was a beautiful day. Hannah was cleaning the house, as she often would after her rest day. There’s a storm coming. That will ruin the sunshine. The animals were grazing in the field, chewing on the rich green grass and the flowers were blooming in the rays of the sun. The foxes had been digging up the ground where the chickens used to be they would dig up a corpse if they were hungry enough. Those Frozen Thorns are looking beautiful. She could see w here her new roses got their names from. They had beautiful white petals and, although it looked like an ordinary stalk, the thorns were a bright shade of blue like the ocean.

Hannah walked towards the painting by the kitchen door and admired it; hundreds of people walking along a long corridor, made of a mud floor and blue walls. Hannah heard the clock chiming twelve and rushed out of the kitchen and straight down the hallway until she reached the third door on the right. Opening the door into her room, she looked in the corner where her bed stood. Fabric under the mattress, knife and plate behind the lantern ... no ... Fabric behind the lantern, knife under the mattress ... NO! Plate and knife behind the lantern, fabric and tongs under the mattress and the wood is under the bed. Yes...Yes. The back door slammed shut in the wind, she jumped with a gasp. I should be used to that happening by now. She left her room, closing the door behind her as she rushed back to the kitchen, catching her foot on her mother’s Egyptian urn, just inside the kitchen, falling to the ground as he came in the door. She lifted her head up and looked at the hieroglyphics and little building men on the urn. He started banging the mud off his black leather boots against the door frame. He looked out of the window in a daze. Arthur was a strong looking man, next to Hannah’s feeble frame. He walked over to the sink to wash his hands. She stood up and walked over to the table in the middle of the kitchen and started tapping her fingers together as she stood timidly waiting for him to finish washing. Once he had dried his hands, he sat down at the table with a self-exalting expression and a posture of a king as he waited for his lunch. She put some ham and bread together placed it on a small plate while he was waiting for the kettle to whistle.

*

Night had taken over as Hannah lay in her bed waiting to fall into a deep sleep. He looked through the crack in her bedroom door, which he would do every night. He had a need to make sure she had not run from him. He would open the door so slowly, so that the creaks were silenced to a minimum. He would close it just the same. She composed herself. She got ready for the worst. With each of his heavy steps getting closer and closer to her she could feel her heartbeat. He would do the usual; open the cover she had so tightly wrapped around her, having no thought for her on a winter’s night. He leaned over her shoulder. He started panting and spreading a foul smelling breath in her direction. She would hold her breath for as long as she could, sometimes until she felt faint. His hand stroked her shamefully hacked hair, which he decided to do himself.

He whispered into her right ear,

‘Why don’t you love me?’

He planted his hand on her right shoulder. She had tried to turn away from him, not tonight. Please not tonight. Pulling at her night gown, he sniffed her neck then, with his white coated tongue, licked it up to her ear. Hannah had started taking these things as signs. He needed to be satisfied and, usually, obligated herself to do just that. His hand then came to the front of her running over every part of her he could reach.

7

He reached over to his back pocket and pulled out four thick leather thongs. He tied two of them to her ankles and two of them to her wrists. Arthur’s father had taught him to tie knots, (Loop. Thread through from underneath. Go underneath both parts of the rope. Round and down through the loop again. And pull). He then proceeded to tie her limbs, one after the other, to the posts of the bed. She was secured like a bitch on heat. He placed himself on top of her and continued with his urges.

Hannah could feel the thong on her left wrist was loosening and, with the motion of the bed, pulled her hand free. While he was involved in his quest, she leaned over and untied the knot on her right wrist is he still doing these knots wrong? Without a thought in her mind she grabbed the wood she had placed under her bed and brought it upon his head. Stopped within an instant, he fell on top of Hannah’s feeble frame. While struggling to gasp for air she was able to get out from underneath him. Untying her ankles as she slid off the bed then brought the buttons of her nightdress together again.

He lay there unconscious for a brief time, but not so brief she couldn’t turn him on his back and tie him by his arms and legs to the posts of the bed in her place. His eyes flickered as they opened. A small trickle of blood, from where she had landed her blow, fell into his right eye, making it seem red rather than white. His face was now lit by a single lantern and she could see a slight deal of confusion, while trying to escape. She picked up the knife she had hidden and lifted it just high enough for him to see it shine in the dim light. He began to wriggle more violently. She brought it closer to his face. He tried to scream for help. Pulling the thongs. She had learnt well. She had untied herself hundreds of times and was able to tie the navy's strongest knots. While he was still wriggling, she placed the tongs, which she had hidden from his sight, within the lantern’s flame, warming them to an uncomfortable temperature. Once more she let him see the blade. Then cut open his britches and his warmers, grabbing it with the tongs. She brought it down upon a part of shame he should have kept to himself. He became breathless and pleaded with her. He had a few piteous tears fall down his face. Now you cry?

He seemed oblivious to what was so obvious to me. He couldn't possibly think it would be forgiven without a single punishment. This is the only way he can be stopped. For someone so educated, he seemed the dimmest of the class that day. She hungered for his screams as she cut the outer layers. Slowly. Surgically. With a strength in her stomach she did not know she had. But he was unconscious before she had completed her operation. She wasn't going to let that affect her, she continued with her mission to abstract that shame from his being. After cutting through the tissue and the tough sinew, she was one slice away. She had finished her operation. She felt like a goddess, with unbelievable power. She placed his dying organ upon the silver plate, trying not to drip anymore than what had already been spilled.

She walked to the kitchen. Her need to quench her thirst had been ignored long enough. Looking out of the window, she thought to herself, Here comes the storm. Looks like heavy rain. She waited patiently for the screams of a freshly made eunuch. She did, admittedly, smile when she heard the screams. Her excitement grew. Her beating heart was no longer an echo of single beats but a hum of success within her breast. She placed the cup she was drinking from on the table as she walked briskly back to her bedroom. She opened the door so slowly, so that the creaks were silenced to a minimum. She closed it, just the same. She held her chin as high as she could as she walked towards him. Well who wouldn't with a work of art like that? You would have been impressed!

He shook. He cried. He begged her.

‘Please.... pl....please don't kill me.'

His plea was met with silence. She was surprised he was still awake after all; he had just been through the worst experience of his life. She placed his detached shame on his chest, just to see if he would like to do what he had done the previous nights. Of course after what he had just endured, he felt he must regretfully decline the offer. Picking up the blade once more, with a sad face, Hannah fixed it onto his throat. The terror in his eyes excited her even more. His eyes were wide open. His wriggling had ceased, he knew his judgement had come. Her right hand moved from the left to the right and lifting it up high, as if readying an orchestra for the national anthem. The sounds of a man drowning in his own blood made the process so much more fascinating for her. I wish time could slow down. She wanted time to slow down, almost stop. She wanted to hear and see everything for long enough to have it engrain in her memory.

8

She wished for time to go so slowly, so she could hear and see every detachment of skin, ligament and vein in his throat. Hannah wanted to see his throat open up again. The parting reminded Hannah of the sea splitting in two. His face became very pale in colour. The body doesn’t usually lose colour very quickly. Even when drained of blood. She stood and stared at his blood soaked and lifeless body. His white shirt had been styled with a blood red waist coat. His eyes had rolled back into his brain. His hands hung lifeless like a weeping willow, with a slight death tinted colour to the finger tips.

*

The storm had become a magnificent sight. Lightning and thunder had become the percussion for the rain’s simchat melody. Hannah, now resting in the lounge, sat on her fathers’ mahogany chair in front of a newly made fire. Her eyes were fixed on the snake like flames as the crackling of the embers joined the amazing symphony as she started to hum. She thought back.

*

‘What are you doing Arthur?’

‘I’m learning a new knot, Mother’

‘What are you practising with?’ his Mother said as she looked out from the kitchen door

She would be worried about whatever Arthur did. She gazed towards the tree he was tying her to,

‘Untie her, Arthur’

His mother was not strict, but she did not like the children playing with ropes. Arthur had always like ropes and tying knots like his father, who had always told him to leave the animals alone.

Arthur repeated his father’s instruction,

“Loop. Thread through from underneath. Go underneath both parts of the rope. Round and down through the loop again. And pull”

‘Arthur. I told you to untie her’

He slowly untied the knots which he had taken time to perfect. One by one. Then he ran into the kitchen leaving one knot tied around her hands loosen. Out, through the loop. Up and pull. The rope fell to the floor and she walked to pick up the toy Khopesh, which he used to hold her hostage.

‘Arthur! Get your sister in! It’s lunch time!’ Mother ordered.

‘Hannah! Lunch!’ Arthur shouted.

*

A clash of thunder made her jump and snap back to reality. She sat silently for a while. Then removed her foot from under her and grasping the cup which had held her warm milk and hitting her toe on the Egyptian urn once more, walked towards the kitchen. The lightning lit up the sky, some branches were coming from above and some were ascending. Her eyes became fixed on to a fox outside. It sat and stared at the house that night. She stared back at this fox and stared. The rain was soaking it. Its dark eyes would twitch with every raindrop that fell onto its face. She zoomed, with a squint, as much as the human eye could and saw that the fox’s paws were filthy with mud, it had been digging at the ground next to the frozen thorns. What have you done little fox? She decided to go outside and shoo the creature. She took up her coat and put on her boots. Opening the door, she looked towards the fox once more and advanced through the mud, watching her step. She had arrived at the

9

fox’s destination and stroked its head. As she kicks over the object, filled it in with the mud beside the hole and bent down to speak to the animal,

‘You must be hungry. Come with me. You don’t want to bother Arthur’ and the fox followed her back into the

house. J M Stone

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your Pale Blue Frock

Your pale blue frock lay on the bed

The frock I bought for you that Spring

The one you'd cherish forever, you said.

What worth do you place upon it now?

Now our love is long since dead.

Well, dead for you there is no doubt

but every Spring I bring it out

and can't resist but bury my head

in your frock upon the bed.

You feel so soft, you smell so sweet.

If only it were you instead.

of a pale blue dress upon the bed.

Paul Audley

10

Trust Lost

I trusted you.I told you things:loose tongued secretsthat familiarity brings.I had no qualmsat what you knew.We had a pactbetween us two.You'd never tell,you promised me.Our love ensuredsecurity.

Now love has left,and so have you,along with secrets,they've gone tooto know not where,broadcast like seedupon the air.There's nothing nowthat I can do.

To think that Ionce trusted you.

How To Write A Poem

Think of a theme. It doesn't matter what.It might be a dream, it might be a pot.It might be incontinence. It really matters not,but give it a metre, that makes it neaterand it helps with the flow of the piece,But whatever you do, ensure at least twohidden meanings can be found in the text.This will ensure, that forever more,readers will always be vexedas to what the piece meanswhen quite frankly, it seems,that it’s just what it saysand not about sex.

11

How To Start A Revolution

You'll need to turn to left or right.Which way you go will all dependon the revolution that you intend.Is it clockwise or is it not?Just take a step and there you've gotthe very start of your revolution.Further steps should scribe an arc.Don't take too many, my warning is stark,you'll return from whence you did embarkand fail the task in its execution.You only had to start a revolution.

Little Man's Revolution

Are you ready to fight the fight?Will you stand for what is rightAnd go the distance to the end?Then join us on the street my friend.’

There's work to do to break the mouldAnd crush the power that they hold.Stand firm with us and do not bendAnd join us on the street my friend.

Take on the cause, you know you ought.Can we rely on your support?The status quo has got to endSo join us on the street my friend.

Yes, Oh Yes, I'll fight the fight.I'll fight for freedom and the rightTo go out on the street at night,If my mum says it’s all right.

Paul Audley

12

Seasons of Decay

Act 1: Origin of Decay

Fall fast and deep into a sleep of faint ghostly dreams

To taste the bliss you can’t resist of a flowing fantasy stream.

Glaze forth into a facultative fire

And be reborn an immaculate liar.

Establish a state of secular danger

And christen your castle the Daemon Manger.

Seven days pass before

Seasons, harvests and moons

Stretch the skies and blacken shores,

Bringing darkness too soon

Greed possessed, he shall molest the vulnerable youth of mind,

Thus breeding forth a vengeful storm where traditions won’t survive.

The howling hordes of Undead Slaves

Hunger for flesh and rusty chains,

For they seek the Architect

To worship whence their sins erect.

Dare not mourn the deceased tide

Of archaic arts romantic.

All lies are truth and truths are lies,

According to fraud dynamic

Fragile mortals crawl and pray

13

To the self-righteous clay.

The false idols

Break the cycle,

Bringing Seasons of Decay.

Act 2: Lord of the Cockroaches

In the crimson wasteland dirt

Rotting peasants without choice

Gain nothing of what they are worth,

For they have not a voice

In this limbo to be heard.

An apparent sympathiser approaches

One such unfortunate with a request:

‘Humour the mass with your tragic past,

For so woefully melancholic

Behind your mask you do cast

A figment most choleric…’

Which the Silenced Derelict comes to notice

The man’s depraved deception of interest,

Hence his reply:

‘This lost soul betrayed, to life enslaved

For all of wealth to shun

His skin all flayed, until the grave

Offers shelter for the Sun…

14

‘Till then, behold the wretch that blinds the eye

Of today’s ignorant youth;

Watch as it quivers from out of sight,

For observers are obtuse

In their misguided judgements of squalid lives

That are all blind to truth.’

Thus with anger expelled from the chest,

Of which like amoral toadies

Had contained, sealed and oppressed,

The Spoken Derelict now touches

A philosopher’s gain of success,

In the crowning of the Lord of the Cockroaches…

Act 3: Solace at last?

Tranquil sunset swallowed by

Purple vapours of western skies.

Essence of daylight’s last

Fades to diamond stars.

In dim rays broken beyond the embankment,

True angels rejoice some salvation,

Yet the never-ending search for glory

For the unspoken silent majority

Is surely another story…

The Fall of the Killer at the Trial of Damnation

In darkness he settles

15

Dreaming twisted fantasies.

Dripping venom from poisoned nettles,

He suckles from the Breast of Vanity.

Corrupt flesh and an iron chest

Serves cage to a stone heart.

Lest resist the Forbidden Sin,

He shall be torn in half.

Cruel Dark Man, dressed in black,

Pale face, eyes burning wrath,

Alas no mercy to cowering Weeper

As he pushes his blade deeper.

Glittering teeth, grinning rage,

Of sadist desires he is enslaved.

Of this malevolent beyond conscious control

Damnation seeks this abominable soul.

Before witness of the sect of Dunwich

In the cascade pits of Eldritch,

Where dwells crafts of a dreaded witch,

Come the Elders of Forgotten Aeons;

The Unspeakable begins his swansong

Of unearthly fluorescent chimes,

Calling from the Dawn of Time

Before the genesis of lies

And the curse of mankind.

16

No human judge has heart to call upon Damnation,

Yet they know not that mortal man is beyond Salvation.

By David C. S. Leah

Come give yourself to me tonight

Come give yourself to me tonight,Let not your conscience decide what’s wrong, or right.Look as the sky unfolds before you.Open your eyes as if you’re seeing something new.My love, take this perfect moment away.It isn’t created by Da Vinci, or Monet.Let me take you and I to feelings never felt,Let us think upon the deal not yet dealt.Come; give yourself to me this night,For in you, I know that I ignite,This inevitable, undeniable emotion,Of something that is honest and true,Of something that is simply, me and you.

Francesca Haydon

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dyslexic Hair

I've got curly hairwrapping roundcurly wires inside my headso when I try to curl the lettersI am writingroooooundthey go the other wayinsteab.

Geiorge Bronwick

17

Off The Shelf Book Reviews: OFF THE SHELF BOOK REVIEW:  Here is an ‘Off the Shelf’ book review of Sara Allerton’s first novel, Making Shore.

Bottom Line: From the memories of Brian Clarke in the merchant navy during World War II, the true tale of being torpedoed by a German U-boat and left to the mercy of the open seas in a lifeboat. The story of how the men survived is the main message of Making Shore, but the human interest and romantic elements will have you gripped from start to finish. It is also extremely well written by Sara Allerton and would be a good read for all.

Why buy it? Making Shore was the winning novel in the People's Book Prize for Summer 2010 and is a thoroughly good read.

Details: Paperback: 272 pages published by Saraband (Scotland) Ltd (May 26, 2010) ISBN-10: 1887354743

Ruth Longhurst

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Off the Shelf Book review - The Interceptor by Cameron Addicott

 

Cameron Addicott is The Interceptor. He is an undercover investigator with the intelligence gathering unit of Customs and Excise and the Serious Organised Crime Agency. His story offers an insight into an underworld of the activities of Britain's drug barons and their money laundering operations.

 The Interceptor’s task is to gather undercover surveillance evidence for the prosecution of these criminals and the reader is given detailed descriptions of many of the undercover operations undertaken by the surveillance team.

 Addicott describes his work in much the same way as if each of the chapters was an episode of The Sweeney or Starsky and Hutch: One operation 'needed some outstandingly fast driving beyond the ability of most mortals'. On another operation Addicott 'was watching the speedometer climb effortlessly past 110, 120, 130mph’. This would no doubt have been enabled because 'The cars had been souped-up so they could be driven insanely fast'. After one particular morning 'screaming round the M25 setting off all the cameras'.  Addicott tells the reader that most (but not all!) constabularies wrote them off' [the speeding tickets]. That's all right then! On another occasion, 'we were in a 70mph traffic jam yet Jed was still managing to pull 110mph. Up the speedometer climbed, 115, 120mph. I took delight in the shock and outrage we caused amongst other road users ...’

 'But they are trained police officers' I hear you say. 'They can break speed limits and drive 'insanely fast' can't they?' Well, not exactly. Time for a reality check I think. Cameron Addicott is not a policeman, nor has he ever been. He is describing his work for Customs and Excise. Addicott was a civil servant subject to the rule of law just like the rest of us.

 There can be no denying that the escapades of Cameron Addicott and his chums make an interesting yarn but the back cover of the book describes it as a true story. This is where there is something of a problem for me. Now call me an old cynic if you like, but having also worked as a civil servant, but in my case for thirty years, I can tell you that civil servants are subject to the Official Secrets Act which impacts on the publishing of details about their work activities. As for the Starsky and Hutch driving and repeated speeding tickets, bare in mind that it only takes four tickets within a three year period to receive an immediate driving ban. Where would that leave Addicott's crime fighting activities? Just one instance of speeding at the quoted 130mph would almost certainly generate an immediate ban.

 

18

The exciting testosterone fuelled driving and the colourful male macho banter between Addicott and his colleagues might make for an entertaining read at a certain level, but has Addicott served up a true story? I see it more as a blend of all our favourite cops and baddies TV series served up with a smidgen of Walter Mitty. 

Paul Audley

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Interview with debut Suffolk novelist Sara Allerton by Alison Perry 2nd Year UCS English student)

Sara Allerton, 40, from Suffolk has launched her writing career with Making Shore, a tale of friendship and survival with a profoundly moving love story sown into the epic drama. Sara lives in Wickham Market with her husband and three children. She is an Oxford English graduate and Making Shore is her first novel.

Where did the idea for the book come from?

An old family friend, Brian Clarke, approached me with his story of survival during World War II. He had taken a documentary account of his story to a publisher and had been advised that it would be better received if placed within a fictional setting. Having read a short story that I had written he asked me if I would be willing to write it.

How did you get started, what was the process?

Brian had recorded a CD of his account of the torpedoing of his ship the SS Sithonia and the ordeal that followed on board a lifeboat. It was such an inspiring story in its own right that I was immediately gripped and wrote Chapters 1, 2 and 4 immediately. I sent them to Brian, my father and the publisher, Sara Hunt at Saraband, and they were all very positive and so I ploughed on.

I didn’t write it chronologically; instead I concentrated on the sections that seemed to flow instinctively. I then went back and worked on pulling it all together. My research consisted of long lists of questions for Brian and long telephone conversations and I also referred to his contemporaneous records. My father’s geographical knowledge was invaluable and a great source of help with regard to researching wind speeds and ocean currents. I used the internet for the historical detail and folklore.

How long did it take to write?

It took eight to nine months to write from start to finish but another 18 months for rewrites and editing.

What did you find the most challenging and most rewarding?

The most rewarding moments came when Brian, Dad and the publisher liked my writing and encouraged me to keep going. Also when the writing seemed to come naturally and the words just flowed on to the page.

The challenge came when changes had to be made which at the time I felt were unnecessary. I recognise now however that they were necessary and the book has been improved by them.

The best moments have been winning the Peoples Book Prize’ and selling out of the first print run of Making Shore and it going for reprint. Walking into Waterstones and seeing my book on the shelf was amazing!

Who is your favourite writer(s)?

At the moment my favourites are Andrea Levy and Steph Penney but my favourites of all time are Henry James and Harper Lee, not forgetting Jane Austen.

19

What are you working on now?I’m currently writing a short story and also working on an idea for my next novel.

FLASH FICTION: THE MISTY SIGHT

Close your eyes. Close them! Don’t peep! Read once, close eyes. Read again, close eyes.

2007

A red mist. Splattered on your window, burning your eyes, lava-orange, almost white centre, black where it cannot reach. A destructive range of colours.

Your eyes are half open, half closed; half not bothered, half intrigued. The black gives way to orange, orange to yellow. The white walls that surround you remind you of your fall twenty years after now. How cold it must’ve been for your daughter. Travelling, like so many others, waiting in queues, wondering if she’ll be there in time for… …She sleeps off her grief, anger, frustration, hurt feelings. Plane from Hawaii,to New York,to London. When she’d arrived at her hotel in Hawaii, beautiful sun-lit room.When leaving, room felt empty. Distinguished. Green neon lights shining in, not a nice feeling. Cold, sick, Devil Doesn’t Care.

Beach was tranquil.Peaceful.Empty.Bright.Hot, arid, sky-blues, sea-blue see-through, yellowy-white sands.Left behind for other treading feet.

How could you, you think. But it’s too late now. Too late to change the Future, your Past, their Childhood.

Their Moon, Your Sun. The dusts, the rubble: your resting place.

An ending. A beginning.

Dark city. Plane lands… Too late… The sun has shone its last for you.You’re stupid, stupid woman!!

The blood pump halted,Your...…heart…rests…Your last breath stops…You’re Stupid. Stupid Woman!

BY CHRISTOPHER KENWORTHY

20

Inside Comfort

She took me to a place not far from the sea shore. Somewhere where you could hear the echoes of the

water pounding against the strong solid boulders outside. Enough to make me feel the waves from the

inside.

 She led me in as though we were entering somewhere out of bounds, somewhere which meant

something to her. Somewhere, which made her feel safe and protected. I didn’t ask any questions, it

wasn’t necessary. She knew what she wanted to show me and I was happy to go with it. I wasn’t afraid

of what she was going to show me, I was just happy that it was me that was there. I knew her well

enough to know that this place was special to her and I wanted to experience her invitation.

 The entrance and the first step in. I saw what she saw. The beauty of the interior in its naturalness. Its

untouched and unblemished walls and cavities which were not destroyed by human hands or science. I

appreciated and understood her secret place. The safety of it. It made me feel protected too. I wanted

this to be my find, but it was hers.

 We sat. Laid down. Listened. We were there for what seemed like an eternal bliss which ended with a

second invitation. An invitation I couldn’t turn down. There were no words exchanged. Just euphoria

alongside the sound of the water pounding against the strong solid boulders, becoming my new inside

comfort.

 Annie  Perez

21

You

 Hair resembling millions of Strands of muddy gold, Echoes the shimmer of any light That would be lucky Enough to catch its gleam. Skin like precious pearly velvet Unflawed and live with bubbles of expression,Bursting into charisma, beauty and appeal,Responds to the touch of my hand The swish of my hair,Your skin identifies you Deep selfless eyes, Swirling like chocolate and cream marbleConveying intensity,Twisting child like thoughts Into glistening fantasy,Your eyes define you. Soft, sensual lips With the plumpness of a tomato,They stole their colour from rubies.The supple texture of a baby’s cheeksmiles with the innocence of a child Your nose can be seenTo wrinkle when you smile,And heard to murmur A light whistle Whilst you peacefully Drift between dreams A voice of an unpolished seashell, Rough yet tender, coarse and soft,Humour, fantasy and charmSo often flowing out, That it’s hard to distinguish The man from the child. Who says love cannot be described?  Chantelle

22

Hotpot Day.

The Department of Algorithms at the Governmental research building. The department is contained in a single room. The smallest department in the institute. The room has an archaic appearance; filing cabinets, books charts and other curious articles, most from times forgotten adorn the room. The department is staffed by two researchers: Theo and Sam.

‘Can you remember that algorithm we made last year, the one for making the most people as happy as can be in a society,’ Theo lifts his spectacles onto his forehead as he says this.

‘Vaguely,’ replies Sam.

‘Where would it be?’

‘Filing cabinet?’

‘Under what?’

Sam sucks his teeth, ‘E for Egalitarianism?’

‘Maybe,’ Theo rattles hastily through the vast filing cabinet which is bursting with long forgotten work.

‘Funding was cut for that anyhow, was it not?’ As Sam says this Theo knocks a copy of Brave New World, prohibited for civilians, into a waste-paper bin.

‘Yes, but one of the new department heads requested to look at it.’

‘Forget it, it’s Compulsory Gathering later and I don’t want one of your little crusades eating into my lunch break today.’

‘What about Social Determinism?’ says Theo still busily rifling through the cabinet.

‘What about it? It was your project anyway,’ Sam stands up and waits by the door, ‘it’s hotpot day in the canteen, you know it’ll go quickly. What’s more important?’

Theo, now flustered, throws open the drawers of another, older looking filing cabinet. In frustration he throws A Brief History of Time across the room into a miniature bust of Karl Marx. More contraband and miscellaneous items find their way onto the floor: The Mayan Codices, Machiavelli, census lists, demographics, Dickens, Darwin, Nietzsche.

‘You can clear that junk up later. Come on, I’m hungry, Theo.’

Theo sighs. ‘OK,’ he gets up and goes to the door.

Sam playfully slaps him on the back, ‘It’s not like we get paid to care.’

They go to lunch.

By Jason

23

Hotpot Day.

The Department of Algorithms at the Governmental research building. The department is contained in a single room. The smallest department in the institute. The room has an archaic appearance; filing cabinets, books charts and other curious articles, most from times forgotten adorn the room. The department is staffed by two researchers: Theo and Sam.

‘Can you remember that algorithm we made last year, the one for making the most people as happy as can be in a society,’ Theo lifts his spectacles onto his forehead as he says this.

‘Vaguely,’ replies Sam.

‘Where would it be?’

‘Filing cabinet?’

‘Under what?’

Sam sucks his teeth, ‘E for Egalitarianism?’

‘Maybe,’ Theo rattles hastily through the vast filing cabinet which is bursting with long forgotten work.

‘Funding was cut for that anyhow, was it not?’ As Sam says this Theo knocks a copy of Brave New World, prohibited for civilians, into a waste-paper bin.

‘Yes, but one of the new department heads requested to look at it.’

‘Forget it, it’s Compulsory Gathering later and I don’t want one of your little crusades eating into my lunch break today.’

‘What about Social Determinism?’ says Theo still busily rifling through the cabinet.

‘What about it? It was your project anyway,’ Sam stands up and waits by the door, ‘it’s hotpot day in the canteen, you know it’ll go quickly. What’s more important?’

Theo, now flustered, throws open the drawers of another, older looking filing cabinet. In frustration he throws A Brief History of Time across the room into a miniature bust of Karl Marx. More contraband and miscellaneous items find their way onto the floor: The Mayan Codices, Machiavelli, census lists, demographics, Dickens, Darwin, Nietzsche.

‘You can clear that junk up later. Come on, I’m hungry, Theo.’

Theo sighs. ‘OK,’ he gets up and goes to the door.

Sam playfully slaps him on the back, ‘It’s not like we get paid to care.’

They go to lunch.

24

Jason

25

Paper DressesBy Chantelle Chapman

Millie, as her mother called her, didn’t see herself as a child. She generated an air of maturity. Not because she had chosen to act grown up, but because she had witnessed the detrimental side of her parent’s marriage more often than she had eaten a square meal. Her childhood disappeared as soon as she became aware that her father was a drunk and a wife-beater. Having witnessed atrocious violence and frequently picked her bruised mother up off the floor, she could not bring herself to recall those nights. Bile would collect in her throat just thinking about it, so she didn't. Instead she tried to ease her mother’s physical experience of this by helping her as much as possible with the everyday chores.Today she relieved her mother of the week’s shopping, which she dutifully did even though she had not been provided with enough money to cover the cost. Her father supplied them with fear, anxiety and bruises but never much money. Millie believed that he failed to uphold his status as head of the family as he allowed them to go cold and hungry whilst he spent the majority of the housekeeping money down at the tavern. However she wasn’t worried about the cost of the things they needed; she had learnt to be resourceful.Thanking the friends that she had made from the market stalls for their contributions to her bag of purchases, she anxiously made her way home. The freezing December wind bit her cheeks and chapped her lips, making her mouth look like a red smear across her face. She tucked her hair into her coat to make a hood for her ears. Turning the key in the lock she slipped in hurriedly, the smell of mildew chasing her as she closed the door. She blindly crept up the wooden stairs in the dark as it was better not to see the faded red patches testifying to her mother’s plight. The wallpaper had been rubbed away by her father’s staggering shoulders and looked shabby; Millie hated to be reminded and continued cautiously.The landing light blinked and Rose Fisher met her daughter’s gaze as she walked up the stairs. She glanced nervously over Millie’s shoulder; her voice as small and as gentle as herself, ‘Did you manage to get everything?’ Standing face to face, it was easily decided that although both mother and daughter shared the same slender build and height; everything else was of the deepest contrast. Whilst her mother’s hair was pale and tame, Millie’s was a fiery copper mane which complemented her large amber eyes. Her bold stance and expression set them further apart as Rose’s sea-blue eyes seem to reflect her feelings of despair. ‘Of course,’ Millie replied confidently; deciding against mentioning the donations received from Mrs Hotworth as well as the stall owners. ‘'You’re such a good girl' whispered Rose as she caressed Millie’'s cold face and reached for the bags burdening her child. As she took them she winced with the effort, causing Millie to dismiss her help and bound into the kitchen dumping them on the table with an air of satisfaction.

After freeing herself from her coat, Millie thumped herself down on the rug beside her mother’s chair. She sat quietly observing her mother whilst cutting the dresses she liked from magazines. She would stick these into a book where she would draw elegant figures to wear them. The book was thick, jammed with pages that had yet to be stuck, card and coloured paper. She would never run out of choices as Mrs Pickering from across the road would kindly leave a bundle for her almost each week. This book was her escape. Whenever she heard the chaos begin she would immerse herself into cutting, sticking and drawing. As it became worse she would put her hands over her ears. With hot tears soaking the knees of her nightdress, she would dream about being a famous seamstress making beautiful clothes. Then, when the noise stopped, she would climb out of bed and start to pick up the pieces that her father had broken her mother into.

Peeling the potato skins off in thick coils, Rose breathed in deeply and sighed. It was Monday. 'Worst day of the fucking week,’' Owen would growl. Once she had reprimanded him for his swearing in front of their daughter, in return she had been given a black eye. She was smart enough to not do it purposely again, however a slip of the tongue had contributed most of the scars on her body. Rose glanced over to Millie, catching her eye. Remembering her as a baby, before their financial worries and drink, she let a small smile creep onto her face. Owen always was a rogue, but a handsome charming one who would bounce Millie around on his shoulders in the park until he complained of backache and Rose would have to rub it, throwing in tickles for good measure. ‘Such happy times,’ she murmured. Her eyes wandered across the pictures perched on the mantelpiece, as she wondered where the happiness encapsulated in her wedding photo had gone, the clock caught her eye, her shoulders suddenly sagged and her eyes watered, ‘'He’ll be home soon',’ she said. The statement burned her tongue.

26

Shovelling all the loose pieces destined for the book inside its pages, Millie scrambled up and carefully placed the book on the arm of the settee, forgetting to put it back into her room as her mother continuously warned her. Taking the vegetables off the drainer on the sink she too set about peeling. Carving and coiling the skins of the carrots, she was suddenly very aware of the hardness of the knife in her hand. The dark thoughts she sometimes had were trespassing again. She shook her head clean. Across the room Rose’s thoughts were similar, ‘'No... No I couldn’t',’ she mumbled. ‘I don’t have it in me.’

* * *

It had just turned seven when they heard Owens’s feet on the stairs. The slow shuffling of his steps told them that he was drunk. Millie stiffened. Shooting a look of despair at her daughter, Rose moved quickly to the stove to pour the gravy into a jug. Millie promptly finished setting the table and as her father entered the room she mustered a false smile of welcome. Scanning the room, Owen Fisher had no reason to be immediately upset.His dinner was presented before him almost as soon as he sat down at the head of the table in the chair in which he always sat. Grunting something indeterminable he shot a scowl that smacked Millie in the face. Rose shook as she carried the jug of gravy over to the table. An atmosphere of tension and expectancy had swiftly developed in a small space above the table. The table, small and battered, was dented and rocked with instability; its hard contours were familiar with Rose’s head.

Millie spoke first. Attempting to amuse him she began to tell him how some young boys had managed to get old Sid looking like a shiny red Christmas bauble by setting off with a dozen of his, ‘Scrumptiously scrumptious Russet apples that are guaranteed to knock off yer socks.’ Giggling nervously she noticed the smirk on her father’s lips that never managed to make it to the rest of his face. Disheartened she began to eat her dinner. She wondered if there would be seconds and said so. He wasn’t listening; he was staring at Rose in disgust. Finding it hard to chew, Rose had begun to softly choke; the wiry piece of meat fell out of her mouth and slapped the table cloth. ‘'You dirty bitch!’' He muttered whipping his plate away from him.‘'How the hell am I supposed to enjoy my dinner with THAT ON THE TABLE?’' Both Rose and Millie felt each other’s angst and instinctively reached for one another’s hand beneath the table. ‘Sorry, It...it got stuck... in.....in my throat,’ she croaked in reply. ‘She couldn’t help it,’ Millie regretted her voice as soon as she heard herself. ‘'What the fuck did you say?’' Owen clamped her arm to the table, ‘'I said she couldn’t help it,'’ she squeaked, the vice on her arm tightened causing her pitch to increase.‘'Well no-one fucking asked you',’ he sneered. ‘'Get out of my sight'.’Releasing her he was surprised at her hesitating slightly in the doorway. He followed her eyes to her beloved book balancing on the arm of the settee.

‘'Is this what you want?'’ he said leaning over and picking up the book. ‘'Yes, please,’' was barely audible. She heard the tear of the binding before she saw the now halved pages and contents fluttering to the floor. ‘That’ll teach you not to answer me back.’ His voice was callous and cruel. Rose felt Millie’s devastation. As her daughter crumpled to the floor like the small pieces of paper that had failed to be saved, she was hot, but not with fear, with anger. It swelled up inside her raging and listless, she fought it briefly before it consumed her; she could not longer control it,‘'YOU BASTARD!’' she screamed. Millie, even in her inconsolable state was startled and looked sharply at her mother through teary windows. Although she found this act of courage heartening she felt in her stomach that her mother had picked the wrong time for this display of rebellion. She panicked, her mother didn’t speak up, and she didn’t do the protecting. She was sickly and frail. He was upon Rose before she could blink. Millie stifled a gasp as her father kicked her mother in the stomach. Her father’s fingers entwined with her mother’s pale hair as he clasped his hands around her face and slammed it into the floorboards. He did not stop; the blood came thickly, coating the floor and gathering around the chair legs. She darted forward pulling at her father’s arm to stop him, ‘You little whore,’ he snarled, twisting to face her. Grabbing her by the head he pushed her towards the table which donated cuts that oozed dark blood. Millie felt her copper curls drown in her father’s fist. Putting her arms up to shield her

27

face, she unwittingly bared her waist. A breathtaking blow licked at her skin. She felt a rib crack. Writhing with agony she curled herself into a position where she was sheltered by the table. She covered her head with her arms. Everything became muffled.

Rose groaned a protest and willed her failing body to stand. It did as it was instructed. Witnessing her husband’s brutality to her child was too much for Rose to bear, her anger and hatred towards Owen shattered all reason within her and she had seen the knife in front of her before she could convince her body otherwise. Grabbing the knife she thrust, twisted and carved. She savoured every motion. Watching glorious revenge take her husband and spread his blood like ink staining fabric. She sat. He fell. She watched the light in him deliciously depart. All was silent. Millie slowly took her hands away from her eyes. Something was very wrong. It wasn’t like the other times; there was no whimpering, no heavy footsteps slapping at the stairs.

A puddle of blood formed on the wooden floor collecting in the crevices. The knife lay on the table. Its hard sharp masculinity exposed. It had just torn a life from a body. He lay solid on the floor. Rose returned to the table; the blood, now a mere trickle from her nose had congealed with her hair.

‘Mama’, Millie whispered, slowly emerging from underneath the table. Seeing her father stare at her, she blinked furiously to remove the image. Rose poured the gravy and placed it back beside the knife. She savoured the instrument that had saved them. She sat with an ease she had previously not dared to adhere to. Her blue eyes blazed. Her mouth curved wickedly, ‘'Finish your tea baby, it’s getting cold.'’

Item Nine

Attending: Jonathon Turner, Scott Woots, Portia Keeble.

Apologies: see attached

Minutes: Dan Hicks

JT began meeting by offering apologies for those who could not attend. (See attached). PK interrupted JT and asked the meeting to move immediately to item nine. JT explained to PK that though item nine was important, it is equally important to follow the meeting guidelines set out in order to ensure the meeting has an appropriate and timely outcome. JT continued and apologised for the meeting facilities, explaining that the primary meeting room is being used for B Hunters retirement party and the secondary meeting room is being used for naps. The tertiary meeting room does not have the correct facilities for a meeting, but it does have the new dynamic red chairs and plastic flowers. SW confirmed the room was satisfactory but would have preferred it if the pro-active blue chairs from the primary meeting room had been brought in. The red chairs in the tertiary meeting room do not have swivel facilities or adjustable back massagers and do not seem pro-active enough. SW then explained that since he has been in the room, he has

28

not felt any where near as pro-active as he usually does. JT agreed that the pro-active blue chairs would have been more appropriate but they would not match the new transparent blinds or the battle ship grey silver table installed last week. This would give the room an ill deserved sense of mismanagement. SW agreed and wanted it noted in the minutes that the room’s management was not under question. It was decided that the meeting could continue using the red chairs but everyone has to imagine they are blue in order to be more pro-active.

JT handed out meeting agendas and apologised for the poor quality of the paper. He explained that though the new printers were installed last month, nobody realised they needed to be installed correctly. SW confirmed that the agenda’s paper was satisfactory but would liked to have seen more italics. JT made this an action point for next month’s emergency meeting. PK asked again that the meeting move immediately to item nine on the agenda.

SW confirmed with PK that it was not possible to move immediately to item nine as the agenda had taken many months to create and had been agreed upon by all parties. Therefore, item one should be under discussion followed by item two and so on in the usual fashion. JT agreed that things should continue in the usual fashion. PK protested that item one was not that important and could be moved further down the list to five or six and thus bring item nine to the front. SW stated that item six could not be moved as it is the most important item on the agenda. He also explained that if item one were to be moved it would make item two the more important item. If this is the case, SW asked why item two was not item one in the first place. JT made an action point for an immediate enquiry over how item one became the first item when it clearly is not as important as item two. SW confirmed he would support the action point and suggested it be placed in the agenda under item seven, A.O.B. PK suggested that item one was a small item anyway and perhaps it could be done quickly thus moving the meeting on to item nine. JT stated that this was fine but it would not explain why item one is there. JT decided that the original item one should remain where it was and item two should remain where it was and so on. SW agreed but wanted the investigation into item one to be carried out and a report given back for the emergency meeting next month. JT agreed, item one was brought to the table.

ITEM ONE – Agenda

It was agreed that the agenda was satisfactory. (Except for the lack of italics)

MEETING ADJOURNED FOR BISCUITS.

Meeting reconvened.

SW took some cakes from B Hunters retirement party to bring some fun to the meeting. JT agreed that the cakes created a fun atmosphere but thought it would be more fun to have hats. SW felt the use of party hats at

29

work was not suitable except on the special hat days. Even then hats have no place in emergency meetings. SW offered the cakes around. JT and DH accepted. PK did not.

PK asked that the meeting move on immediately as she had to report back the action points raised for item nine. SW felt that PK was being impatient but allowed JT to return to the agenda.

ITEM TWO – Lunch

JT asked those present where they wanted to go for lunch after the emergency meeting. SW suggested the restaurant opposite the cinema. JT asked if he meant the one with the red and blue umbrellas outside. SW explained this was not the one he was thinking of, he was thinking of the one without the red and blue umbrellas just next to the one with the red and blue umbrellas. JT stated that the one without the red and blue umbrellas has now closed down and it probably would not be possible to have lunch there. SW suggested that they might still do sandwiches. JT felt that this was unlikely but he would certainly launch an enquiry. JT then asked that a back up be found if it turned out that the restaurant had closed down and, in fact, does not still do sandwiches. SW suggested the restaurant with the red and green umbrellas outside. JT explained that this was the one he meant in the first place and had in fact made an error when suggesting the red and blue umbrellas. SW laughed and explained that this was something he will be telling his children later during his weekly phone call. JT and SW took a moment to enjoy the humour created by this misunderstanding. PK did not.

PK expressed serious concerns about the progress of the meeting. JT confirmed that the meeting will follow the agenda as set or there is very little point in having an agenda. If there were no agenda there would be no structure to the meeting and therefore it would be full of inconsequential consequences. Without the agenda no parties involved will know where they are having lunch, what the back up to the lunch plan is or if B Hunter can have karaoke at his retirement party.

PK wanted it noted that she felt the agenda was not important, that the meeting was not being used in a timely manner and that currently nothing was being achieved. SW explained to PK that if everyone achieved everything there would be nothing left to do and those who did achieve a lot would not get the recognition they deserved. Further, SW confirmed a lot of money has been spent on the meeting rooms in the last two years and it is important that these meeting rooms are used otherwise they were a waste of money. JT asked DH to close the door as the noise from B Hunters rendition of My Way was starting to give him a head ache. JT further explained that they should hurry to item four as the rendition of My Way, may turn out to be unauthorised.

PK asked if the meeting rooms were so important, why was meeting room two being used for naps. JT explained that this was because the nap room is being refurbished and it was decided that meeting room two be available for naps. SW praised this decision and added that regular naps make a happy and

30

productive work force. JT further mentioned that unfortunately the refurbishment of the nap room has taken longer than expected. Instead of the allocated thirty two months it has now been forty seven as the building plans have yet to be approved by the chief planner. SW agreed to speak to the chief planner, as soon as the chief planner finishes his nap.

SW asked that they return to the agenda as point two has still not been finalised thanks to PK’s constant interrupting. JT suggested they move on to item nine, simply to placate PK and it would mean they might be able to get through the other items faster without the distractions. SW disagreed. PK suggested that item nine was far too important. SW did not understand why this meant he had to have a disorganised lunch. JT confirmed that this is not ideal but as per agenda item eight, tea and biscuits would be provided again soon and perhaps it would be preferable to get item nine out of the way so the meeting can continue. SW asked what type of biscuits would be provided with the tea. JT explained they would be short bread. SW asked if they were the thick kind or the commercial type. JT explained he is hoping to hear about this soon. SW found this acceptable. JT agreed to bring item nine to the front of the meeting.

ITEM NINE – Contact

DH asked if item nine should now be called item three in the minutes. SW felt that it should not as it must be noted that item nine was brought forward at the expense of the other eight items. JT agreed, but did not want any more discrepancies in the agenda. Therefore, even though item nine was now technically item three, it would still be called item nine, but everyone knows that it is actually item three and it does not matter anyway as no one ever reads the minutes.

PK demanded to know what course of action had been agreed on for item nine. JT explained that no course of action had been agreed upon as this was the purpose of the meeting today. SW confirmed the meeting should simply be an informal discussion about the emergency action points, after which it will be decided if action is necessary. If action is required a vote will be taken by all parties and a meeting will be arranged in meeting room one. JT cannot make next month but was sure he could fit something in the following. SW is choc-o-bloc for the next six weeks but should be able to fit something in the middle of the month. JT and SW pulled out their diaries to organise the follow up to the emergency meeting. PK protested that they have not yet decided if there will be another emergency meeting. SW agreed but stated there is no point in organising the vote for an emergency meeting if no one can attend the meeting that is ultimately voted for. JT agreed. SW and JT agreed to check their diaries. SW got his diary from the Blue Box Stationers opposite the old Irish pub. SW wanted this in the minutes so that those who wanted a new diary did not have to waste important time looking for one, they could simply download the minutes to find out where to get the perfect one. JT confirmed this is a good idea and explained that he got his diary from Levell’s opposite the cinema. It is black and has gold braiding on the side. SW explained he is not a fan of gold braiding as it seems dated and unfashionable. JT admitted he was sceptical at first but after a while he got used to the gold braiding and could not possibly have a diary without it. He also believed they are now in fact very fashionable. However, if

31

someone where to want a gold braided diary they must hurry as they are very difficult to find and some shops do not even stock them.

SW and JT noticed that PK left the room. SW expressed concerns that this was going to hold up the action points considerably.

SW asked DH why he had stopped typing. DH explained this was because nothing was happening. SW confirmed with DH that everything must go into the minutes, even if nothing was happening. DH asked if the meeting was still happening as PK had left the room. SW explained that the meeting must still be continuing as they were still in the meeting room and whilst the meeting continues it is important for the minutes to reflect the activities of said meeting. DH apologised and agreed to continue recording the meeting until it had an outcome.

The room was silent. Nobody was saying anything. Nothing was happening. Nothing was happening at all.

Ben Akers

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Samaritan’s Purse:

THIRD WORLD COUNTRIES DO HAVE A LOT TO TEACH US

Imagine living in an area smaller than the size of Ipswich but with 800,000 people (Ipswich has a population of about 150,000). Now imagine no electricity or water supplies to your house, and open sewers where pigs and chickens forage for food. You might be asking what you could possibly learn from living like this.

In August I spent a week with Samaritan’s Purse working in the slums of Nairobi, Kenya, looking at the partnerships that they established following the shocking riots and ethnic fighting in 2007. We were a small team of 12 and only able to have a snapshot of the work that is being undertaken, but were especially impressed with two schemes that we saw in action. The first group, called the Centre for Urban Management, are teaching church based groups how to deliver HIV/ AIDS support and educational programmes, how to run savings clubs and start small businesses, and teaching people what their rights and expectations should be through a very effective advocacy programme.

32

Starting from a very low base, people have been inspired to start craft businesses, charcoal supplies, milk delivery, poultry rearing, furniture making, spinning and weaving with the help of a savings club loan. In essence, they agree to save a certain amount every week for 5 months (usually about £1), and at the end of that time can borrow up to 3 times their saved amount. Repayment is made with 10% interest that is then reinvested into the savings scheme.

The benefits of such schemes are employment, food, access to education for their children, dignity and self esteem.

The second scheme that we visited is reintegrating children from children’s homes into their families through a programme of training and ongoing support, together with financial support to provide food for the family and education for the child.

Many of the children that we saw were orphans as a direct result of the AIDS epidemic, but many of them had been abandoned on the streets of Nairobi simply because their parents could not afford to feed them. Time and effort is spent identifying family members and then approaching them to see if the opportunity to reintegrate the child exists. (Children are of course in most cases better off in a family environment than institutionalised in homes of up to 200 children.). We visited a 70 year old grandfather who had recently taken back two of his grandchildren who had been abandoned 10 years ago by his sick daughter. That grandfather is now bringing up 20 grandchildren with the help of one daughter. The children who are in their teens were very happy to be in a family environment and seemed well adjusted.

So what can we learn from these schemes?

In an environment where we expect cuts in government support for the more vulnerable in society, here is a model for Church and other community groups to step in and start small savings schemes which in turn could start small businesses. Our own history takes us back to savings clubs and cooperatives as Victorian models – maybe these need updating for the 21st century, but they are a very positive model for self help.

We can also learn a lot about dignity in adversity, self reliance and determination, and re-learn the skills of working together in community.

All in all it was a very inspirational visit that will have a continuing impact in my life and works.

Jan Armitage

That’s all for now!!!

33