Issue 379 20th March 2015

2

Some days are utterly surreal.

Heard an early onset dementia sufferer (super chap, under 40 years of age) talking on the TV news and noticed another headline on how the ‘worried well’ are clogging up GPs surgeries need-ing reassurance that they haven’t got the onset of dementia. This young man explained how with his particular memory problem he could remember three pieces of fruit but if more were added he’d remember those, but forget the first three. It got me thinking: if there was an online test people could do for themselves to be reassured it could save significant surgery time, couldn’t it? Apple, Pear, Banana ... Strawberry, Raspberry, Blueberry ... Pineapple, Mango, Grape ... I’ve been running this fruit theme in my head like a mantra ... Perhaps I should be thinking about nuts ... Walnuts, Brazil Nuts, Peanuts ... Oh crikey, do I actually know nine sorts of nuts? ... Mother’s Day gifts: mine was a huge bag of rotting vegetation I will miss Terry Pratchett, his humour, knowl-edge and erudition. I will miss his sly digs at authors like Tolkien and C. S. Lewis. Once, I sent him a recipe for cabbage soufflé. His imaginary town of Sto Lat was based on a cab-bage economy. Every year we bought his new book I will miss him as if I knew him.

I will miss Terry Pratchett. He was brave and inspirational as a man and an excep-tionally talented author: ‘Going Postal’ is one of my favourite reads. Every time I read it I find something new that I hadn’t first realised. It is so multi-layered. COOL: The eclipse on Friday will have an effect on the power grid, so it is reported, because the UK now has so much more solar energy being produced and used than during the last such event. How cool is that ... Renewables are really making a difference.

Random Words: pendulum, asphodel, ladder, languid, perfect, indication, morph, gated, belief, danger Assignment: under the radar

Here’s an easy resolution COME to WORKSHOP ... Every Monday 1.30 start Rising Brook Library

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Staffordshire Knot Storytelling Club next event:

Tuesday 24th March Starts at 7.30pm at the Old Rose and Crown

(10 Market Street, Stafford ST16 2JZ, next to the Gatehouse Theatre) Arrive before 7.30 because you will want to get a seat and a drink.

Entrance fee £5.00

Stafford Knot presents a premier! The first public performance of The Diamond Girl and the Goathorn Bee by internationally acclaimed storyteller

Shonaleigh Cumbers. The Diamond Girl unravels the conundrum of a blessing that becomes a curse

that can only be lifted with the help of a goat-horn bee!

Latest Competitions: Red Shed Open Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 25-Apr-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1730 Poetry Competition: Poems for Queen Bess | Closing Date: 27-Apr-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1732 Spring 2015 Short Story and Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 23-May-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1733 The McLellan Poetry Prize 2015 | Closing Date: 30-Jun-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1729

New Magazines: Clear Poetry http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/emagazines/?id=745

Latest News: Items added to the Poetry Library in February 2015 | 11-Mar-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1311 African Poetry Prize Shortlist announced | 11-Mar-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1310 Poetry Magazines Received in February 2015 | 05-Mar-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1309 Poems on the Underground | 04-Mar-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1308 Ted Hughes Award Shortlist Announced | 04-Mar-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1307

Heritage: Going . . . Going . . . GONE!

They‟ve ceased discussing History,

in the red-brick university.

The Bard‟s „To be or not to be?‟

too non-PC apparently.

If bearded undergraduate don‟t hear of every past mistake,

and lessons learn and errors make,

burning midnight oil when eyes do ache,

so canst appreciate verily true from tawdry fake.

The board of sage Dons from on high

determined in wisdom: „But Why Oh Why?‟

Leaving dusty tomes sleeping long years to lie

unopened! Fragile heritage for sure will slowly die!

No more Henry! No more Bess!

Forgotten Cromwell and all his mess.

Cousin Mary‟s gone too and all head-less

But, I never liked her anyway! Must confess!

SMS 2009 Queen Bess Poem ... I shall not be entering it

in the competition ...

The foundation rock of family.

A house is just a pile of bricks, and then becomes a home,

A home is where the heart is, where you‟ve no more need to roam,

It‟s there to rear our family, it‟s full of love and joy,

The work and play remembered, our memories to deploy.

Mother in our household, her love was all around,

She was the kingpin of the family, she was our queen uncrowned,

For guidance and opinion, she would always do her best,

To keep us close around her, our home it was her nest.

She always filled the pantry, as if a famine was about to hit,

Would “feed the forty thousand”, it was her life‟s remit,

A slice of cake a cup of tea, was the least she ever gave,

Her laughter and her happiness, on our minds it is engraved.

She was generous and giving, and would give you her last dime,

“It would always come back in other ways” she told us many a time,

But now she‟s left us “home alone” and taught us how to live,

Be kind to all of those around you, and best of all forgive.

© FW March 2015

I am a great believer in the power of 'Creative Therapy'.

I love drawing and painting.

I‟d love to be an artist,

Paint just what I see,

Turn my words to pictures,

Let my brush fly free.

Last night a glorious sunset,

To see was to believe,

Splash it on the paper,

Let imagination breathe.

Colours intermingle,

Run and course and spread,

Purple, blue and orange,

Yellow green and red.

There‟s something on the paper,

A pretty mixture I am sure,

But nothing like the sunset

I saw from my front door.

Random Words: kittiwake, journey, sunny, thunderstorm, signal, hope, spirit, traipse, exhibition. In spring or early summer journey to Bempton Cliffs, on the North Yorkshire Coast, to see the kittiwake col-

ony; the traipse along the narrow path is well worthwhile. The white maws lift one’s spirit as they soar on the wind; be it sunny or a thunderstorm the birds are a signal of life’s hope in their glorious exhibition of flight.

Note: maws are a Northern dialect word for seagulls, especially in the Shetlands

Assignment: Nature’s Revenge

The crumbling stone tower stood out from the hill like a broken rotting tooth from a dry jawbone; the last remnant of a mighty lord’s castle. Its empty windows stared blindly at the cloudless blue sky where the sun

shone brightly. The earth’s yearly pulse around the sun, its slow but relentless yearly heartbeat had beaten the down the castle in its pride. Hummocks in the grass covered its broken bones where its stones were

slowly returning to their native rock. Proud, tall and white it had stood, filled with the noise of men, horses and the clash of armour. Long ago, its bright halls were filled with light and noise, which had hosted many a magnificent feast. Once, where

there had been music, singing and laughter is now quiet except for the calls of lapwings and skylark carolling and gambolling in the empty sky. Gone now the flag pole and flying pennant, no more trumpet calls, no more calls to arms, no more galloping forth to terrify the already cowed peasants. Who now in the village, at the

foot of the hill, can remember the names of the Lords and Ladies sleeping in the churchyard? Who can es-cape the grave’s grip, who can unring the tolling knell?

Yet still the earth flies round the sun like a moth round a candle. The sun itself making its own stately promenade around the Milky Way. Soon frost, rain, wind and sun will grind away the tower, soon to return to its place beneath the grass.

Gone now man’s proud ambition. Truly time is Nature’s revenge.

Gardening Tips for March

When I mentioned pruning shrubs previously I forgot to say some variegated shrubs

will sometimes produce plain green shoots that should be cut off completely, as if

left, they will grow more strongly and take over the plant leaving you with just a

plain green bush. Some golden varieties of plants will throw up the odd green shoot

as well. The most popular plants that will revert are: - Wiegelia, Golden Privet,

Lonicera, Golden Yew, Holly and Cotoneaster. There are others though, so take care

and remember to trim them regularly.

March is the time to start sowing some vegetable seeds now and a few of the more

popular are; - Broad Beans, early Carrot, Garlic cloves and Tomatoes. I usually sow

seed for most things although a lot of people like to buy small plants, especially of

things like Tomatoes that need a bit of warmth to start them off. When sowing To-

mato seeds it‟s best to plan, to allow, about 6 weeks from when you will prick them

out and pot them, until when you will put them in a cold greenhouse towards the end

of April. Potatoes can be put in some shallow compost in seed trays to start the eyes

into growth, or “Chit” them as it is called, before planting out later

My son is on the list for an allotment in our village this year so is getting fruit and

vegetables plants prepared by starting them off in pots which will be ready to go

straight out in the plot when it is ready to use, hopefully in April. One thing he is

growing in deep pots, besides fruit bushes from cuttings, is Jerusalem Artichokes.

These will make a change from potatoes and can also be used to make good soup. He

is not putting in ordinary potatoes as the top soil may not be deep enough to start

with, but will try Pink Fir Apple as they are smaller and more tasty than more tradi-

tional varieties.

Angelica grows quite well in our garden and can easily be grown from seed, but is

often sold as individual plants. We collected some seed from last year‟s plant back in

the Autumn and sowed it in a tray. There are now several dozen small plants, potted

and growing that will be ready for the allotment. Angelica can be boiled and used as a

vegetable, or the young leaves can be chopped and used cold in a salad. The stems

can be also candied and to do this they should be; - thinly peeled, boiled, then cut into

strips or shaped, boiled again in sugar water, coloured with food dye if you like, then

taken out and left to dry on grease proof paper. They can then be stored in a jar and

later used for cake, or biscuit decorations.

When the Tulips and Daffodils have flowered their leaves should be left on the bulbs

for at least 6 weeks as the foliage will feed the bulb and build it back up again for

flowering next year. I like to give mine a foliar feed using something like liquid Sea

Weed at this stage. Rose bushes will also need pruning later this month. Hybrid T‟s

need to go down, to just above a bud and to no more than 12 inches above the

ground, to encourage new stems to form, as the more new stems you get on them the

more flowers you will get. Floribunda roses only need a good trim and maybe thin-

ning out a bit. Climbers should be “dead headed” down to just above the next bud and

the same goes for standard roses.

Well that‟s all for now. Cheerio Frances Hartley

8

THEM BELLS (Extract from ‘Our House’ blog...)

Nobody can say the Marigold Hotels, both of them, aren‟t most enjoyable. Colour, sunshine,

architecture, humour, Judi, Maggie, Penny, Bill. What‟s not to like? I‟ll tell you what. That damn

Ring Out the Bells that Still can Ring philosophy.

It takes me right back to my childhood when, because of the vast social mobility opportu-

nities the 1944 Education Act offered, striving was compulsory. We had to Take Advantage and

were pilloried by guilt if we fell short on effort e.g. spent a summer evening playing out. We

were fixated on „passing the scholarship‟. Some of us didn‟t make it and bore the guilt all our

lives, but some of us did, received our bikes from gloating parents, and then had to work even

harder to get to university. Those who cleared that hurdle had then to achieve a decent degree.

Subsequently there was getting a job, promotion, and, of course, marriage. In those days we

worked hardest of all to avoid missing that one. Not like now when single women are recognised

as strong, free and make their shackled, hassled, rusk encrusted sisters spit with envy.

The motherhood phase brought the hardest work of all, with twin tub washing machines,

kitchens running with soapy water and lines in the garden that froze clothes stiff. Scant financial

or any other appreciation. Just more guilt. If nappies were not as white as those in the Persil

adverts you were obviously failing your child. Similarly if mud or grass stains were visible on

the white football shorts decreed by the school. Our offspring, not to mention the rest of the

world, seemed to have the sole aim of thwarting our good intentions, of challenging us to

achieve their wellbeing. A challenge that left us exhausted, especially if we were doing a bit of

the gainful to enable the family to have their week in Margate as well.

So when at last it finished and they were bank managers and PE teachers etc, wasn‟t our

job done? Who wouldn‟t want to relax, to have done with all that effort, to just lie down on the

couch and slob out? Not the folk in the Marigold Hotel. Not only did they rush to take up new

jobs, they also sought desperately to hook up with each other.

Now romance when the sap is rising and everything is defying gravity is one thing. You

don‟t even notice imperfections in each other because they‟re covered by the frantic fever cloud.

But as the sap loses momentum and things start to droop, not to mention bulge, and the said

cloud drifts away, well, you appreciate the merits of a good book. Men are OK for a bit of mus-

cle, I suppose. I would like a gardener, but one who is there solely to cut the grass, set up my

lounger, and go. The embarrassment of revealing myself in full degeneration to somebody who

has not taken in his stride the daily, and therefore less perceptible decline, is unthinkable.

But inhabitants of the Marigold do not think in terms of embarrassment. Or effort. „Why

has adultery not taken place?‟ Penny Wilton playing Bill Nighy‟s wife demands of Judi Dench.

She wants a divorce, you see. Judi has just revealed she is 79, but goes on to correct her omis-

sion. Here comes that guilt again! I must work harder. I must get out the lipstick, jettison the

jeans for a flowery frock, go on a diet, investigate Botox, join a gym…

And then I think rollocks! Why should I? Why not lounge in bed till midday, loll in the

bath, come down in my dressing gown and watch telly, then get out my purple coat and bus pass

and go to the pictures?

Surely I, and most people my age, have done enough? Our days of striving should be over.

We‟ve rung out enough bells. Let‟s have a bit of quiet in the amble up to the finishing line.

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

Place: 1897: The Grand Cosmopolitan Shipping Line Chain: The Nasturtium Hotel (GNH) in Trentby-on-Sea a place that has a

similarity to Southampton, twinned with Murmansk and has a decided international flavour. Despite recent squabbles with Russia, France, South Africa and certain other countries all rich spending guests are wel-

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

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

The GNH is owned by The Cosmopolitan Shipping Line and is the usual Victorian Hotel. It has three classes of accommoda-tion, that are roughly: Suites [1st floor] for those with money. Rooms [2nd and 3rd floors] for the not so well off. Accommoda-tion [tiny attic rooms, top floor back] for staff

Staff: Basil Bluddschott (70s) – Manager

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

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

Mrs. Bertha Buckett – Breakfast Cook in Charge — Peter the porter Nancy the Scullery maid the HEROINE of the story, Betty the Chambermaid

Guests: Lady Vera Accrington and Lady Gloria Stanley – a couple of old biddies with a chequered past who are enjoying themselves their Ward Dorothy ... much admired by the Maharajah and every other red-blooded male

Major Martin – May be the ADC to the Prince of ?? The Russian Prince of ?? Referred to as Mr. Smith; even tho' everybody know who he is. Daphne Du Worrier - Romance writer likes Walter Wales but is he a cad?

Capt. Toby Fowlnett – Recently appointed skipper of the clipper ship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. He may be a little short on experience as his last job was skipper of the IOW ferry. [Hey! How difficult can it be to find India or China?] John St. John-Smythe – Tea planter with holdings in Assam.

The Maharajah of Loovinda and his wife and valet George (apologies to Shakespeare, you’ll see why immediately) The Sheik of the province of Kebab. (It’s a farce!!) Sir Walter Wales – hack writer for Capt. Thaddeus Hook travel books hots for Daphne

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

Russians? in room 212 Russian Agent Capt. Wild Will Body and his travelling Wild Rodeo Show, Missy Clementine Jane, Big chief Light–in-the-Sky and Texas Jim McGraw the shootist (may be subject to change)

Graf Hubrecht Walther Falscheim, the Graf von Jagerlagerberg involved with Ward Dorothy Kugyrand Rippling South African diamond dealer nasty piece of work Princess Lotus Lily (concubine) and her retinue including Fu Chan her major-domo and a ninja — after the dragon boat

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

Music Hall turns playing at 'The Winter Gardens', staying the GNH in the accommodation class. Miranda Barkley – maybe mistress of the Prince of ??

Dario Stanza – singer Vesta Currie – cross-dresser hot stuff on the stage - Miss Maple piano-playing-Temperance Sister Cystic Peg – Medium / Seances Dan Fatso – Charlie Chaplin type Dr Kaur and his dozy accomplice and The Master and his accomplice — time travellers in a broom cupboard (HG Wells has

nothing to worry about) ALSO listed:

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

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

RBW Library Workshop group are working on a script for the next book. The ideas so far include a hotel in the 1890s with as di- verse a mix of travellers about to depart for the far east as it

is possible to squeeze

into the plot.

Obviously the ac- tion will take place in

Trentby-on-Sea, twinned with Mur-

mansk, and the es-

tablishment will be managed by Basil

Bluddschott and his new wife Cynthia.

NEXT Annual joint project ...

Short Story Collection See page 19 for details

Regarding her ignorance of the modern bicycle, Marian hadn’t been entirely truthful with Lady Julia. It was true that she was hardly a skilled rider, but she had been exposed previously to the machine when her father, concerned about her habit of reading and disinterest in fashion, had brought her before a doctor. Cycling had been prescribed as a method for invigorating the body that was suitable for a lady, as it involved a great deal of sitting down and would, unlike other forms of exercise, do little damage to the womb.

Therefore, as her brother was the only member of the family with a familiarity of cycling, it had fell to him to teach her. Pre-dictably, the patience of a twenty-two year old male with his dowdy sister lasted little over a week.

Those days a woman was expected to ride in full petticoats and so Marian had forever been getting into a muddle, stepping on her hem or getting the skirt trapped in the chain. The outfit Lady Julia had lent her was a radical improvement in more ways than one – the voluminous bloomers concealed her modesty but stopped at the shin so not to interfere with the cogs. The sight of a shapely calf beneath black stockings may have been shocking for some but clearly these were old stalwarts who were out of touch with the times.

Overall, Marian was finding the endeavour much smoother than her first experience. ‘Careful, old girl! You almost ran into the hedge!’ That being said, it wasn’t all plain-sailing. ‘Good heavens, what an infernal machine! It is determined to undermine me, I am sure!’ Marian proclaimed angrily. ‘Nonsense,’ Lady Julia disagreed, ‘tricksome, perhaps, or beliigerent; but I should say infernal is a bit strong.’ ‘I beg to differ.’ Marian replied. She rubbed her ribs, which were still sore from yesterday’s suffering and winced as her fingers

found the bruises. ‘Now, Miss Marian, that is hardly optimistic. I believe that with a need a little more speed and some perseverance, you’ll have it

tamed by noon.’ Lady Julia smiled encouragingly. Marian huffed out her frustration and gamely inhaled a determined calm. She pushed off the floor, contending with the now

familiar fright of balancing on a thin, wobbling contraption, three-foot in the air, with little between her and the floor but an un-comfortable saddle, a pair of pedals and her deficient sense of balance. At first the enterprise seemed likely to proceed on much the same terms as her previous attempts, but taking Lady Julia’s advice, she persisted pedalling and, incredibly, the acceleration somehow stabilised the apparatus, culminating in Marian’s first smooth transition from A to B.

She came to her first controlled stop and turned to face Lady Julia who was happily applauding her efforts, ‘Congratulations, Miss Marian! I’ve never seen a lady take to the bicycle so swiftly. You can now faithfully call yourself a fully-fledged velocipedistri-enne.’

Marian smiled beatifically and asked if that meant she would be able to join the ladies on their afternoon outing to which Lady Julia agreed with pleasure. ‘But first, dear Miss Marian, we must eat for I, myself, am famished and you must be quite starved after this morning’s activity.’

--- ‘Always a pleasure to see a new face on these old jaunts,’ one member of the Ladies Cycling Society declared. Marian had al-

ready forgotten her name. ‘Quite! It’s delightful to see the message spreading, don’t you agree, Bessy?’ A second asked a third. ‘Oh, certainly, and traversing even class boundaries now! It gives one such hope for the lower classes.’ ‘I’ve always said that good, clean exercise can do as much for virtue and moral steadfastness as a Sunday church service and

there are many in the lowest levels of society who could certainly do with a generous dose of both, wouldn’t agree Miss Bluddschott?’

Marian, who had already decided not to become involved in this discussion, was caught off guard but barely had time for a hasty agreement before another lady had swept the conversation up and added her own spin on the immorality of the lower class. Each lady seemed to agree on two points: that the poor were iniquitous and that cycling was the only remedy.

As the ladies walked to where their bicycles were being held in waiting by their servants, it is difficult to imagine their effect on the sensibility of those they passed. To see one lady in Victorian cycling attire was certainly a shock, but to see a troupe, in outfits of varying fit and fashion, must have been such a fantastical experience as to render the witness doubtful of his or her continuing existence in reality.

Seated at a table, the Victorian velocipedistrienne caused very little concern, for her torso was dressed in an ordinary blouse and jacket with voluminous sleeves and broad shoulders. It was upon standing that the lady produced censure for, rather than a modest, feminine skirt, she wore large, billowy trousers. Most reprehensibly of all, these ‘bloomer trousers’ finished at the shin with a cuff reminiscent of Oriental costume and there was then little between the onlooker’s eyes and the lady’s bare ankle but thick woollen stockings.

Rather than ashamed or indecent, Marian found herself emboldened. Here she was, a modern woman, who had seen the world for its true malignancy and thus had strode forth to change it. This was activism; not skulking in the shadows as a man, but walk-ing (or cycling) intrepidly as an enlightened woman. Bestride her bicycle, the wind coursing past her in joyous rebellion of her di-rection, the sky bright and grey, and autumn fading from red and gold to dullish brown, Marian truly believed this to be the first day of a new, active and unhindered life.

Marian, however, was not in full possession of the facts. Leading rather a sheltered existence had veiled her from that omnipo-tent law, laid down by Sod, which governs all such experimental ventures, especially when they are embarked upon with such optimism. They had been riding merely ten minutes and Marian was greatly enjoying herself, though the seat had begun to chafe and her legs to tire, when they turned into Winkle Street.

So far, their journey had remained within the sphere of the middle-class town, where their appearance did little more than ex-cite sneers, gasps and elderly matrons to faint. Winkle Street, contrastively, belonged to the lower classes, who were far more vocal in their defamations. Many of the ladies, who were quite unused to such abuse, rallied staunchly, crying condemnation from their wheeled thrones, which only seemed to amplify the hecklers’ ire.

Beyond Winkle Street, the ladies turned down Shamblecox Lane; a grave mistake for there was a small farmer’s market in pro-gress. Its customers and stallholders alike to umbrage to the ladies’ dress and occupation and joined the jeering of their peers. Marian struggled to maintain her composure as one woman made an attempt to pull her from the bicycle, almost swerving into a fellow cyclist to evade her.

That was when the artillery began. Local boys, who had been loitering near the market’s clientele in search of easy pickings,

took up the call of chaos with savage joy. Rushing for the mouldy produce thrown aside by vendors, they hurled it through the air like a rain of rotten mortar fire. Marian watched helpless as a woman ahead of her was thrown from her vehicle by a putrid potato and thus collided viciously with her neighbour. The other ladies tried to circumvent their obstacle, but being pressed by the crowd on both side and being mercilessly barraged with rotten vegetables, they were defenceless.

Marian slammed her feet down to brake, eager to avoid of the growing heap ahead of her, but the defensive manoeuvre left her vulnerable to attack. A fetid red cabbage smashed into her temple and dripped pink slime down her cheek. Stunned, she stumbled sideways, her legs tangling in the frame of the bicycle, and she shrieked in dismay as she fell. She landed on her out-stretched arms, which buckled immediately beneath the force and brought her crashing to her elbows. The bicycle landed heavily on her trapped leg, but the padding within her bulbous trousers protected her from any real damage.

Her heart beating frantically in her chest and her lungs panting like a bellows, she struggled away from the bicycle, desper-ately aware of her vulnerability. Darting her gaze around the scene, she saw she was one of the luckier ones. Some were still ensnared in the heap, a writhing pile of limbs and bicycles which was pelted relentlessly with anything the boys could grab. Many of those who, like Marian, had successfully eluded the crash, had made small heaps of their own, but some who had remained seated were pedalling furiously away, screeching for police.

Forcing herself into action, Marian dragged herself off the floor, arms folded protectively above her head and ran to the ladies still trapped. She pulled one out and then wrenched a bicycle out of the way to reach another, who happened to be Lady Julia.

‘Miss Marian! We must retreat!’ She yelled, grabbing hold of her rescuer’s hand and pulling her away from the fray. ‘Our bicycles!’ Marian called out in protest as Lady Julia forced them into a gruelling run. ‘Leave them!’ Lady Julia replied, determined to be as far from the event as possible. As they ran, they passed a couple of police officers from the nearby station running in the opposite direction, blowing hard on

their whistles and batons in hand. Behind them, they could hear the sound of the crowd change from scornful to outrage and Marian pulled Lady Julia to a stop, spinning to face the carnage. They watched the last of the other cyclists escape and the po-licemen begin to chase their young attackers.

Nobody spoke for several minutes, too in shock and too busy swallowing greedy lungfuls of air. Marian and Lady Julia were still holding hands and several others were leaning against each other. One wept against a friend’s shoulder. Never had Marian felt such rage nor such disappointment, the world she had built in her mind of feminine freedom crumbling away to reveal what it had always been: a fantasy.

Marian was just about to voice this epigram when another woman spoke, ‘I suppose we should be grateful they didn’t have any beetroots.’

‘Oh gosh yes, they leave dreadful stains,’ another woman replied and, much to Marian’s astonishment, the moment was lost in the ladies’ discussion of the evils of pink stains on white linen.

--- The Grand Departure Ball, when one considered the room and the building within which it was held, was a rather apt name

for the proceeding. The guests, of which there were but two dozen or so, milled around in small groups with huge gaping spaces between them which discouraged mingling. Through the centre was a dancefloor of which only four couples had full reign. The musicians, of whom there were only a pianist and violinist, were forced to add a couple of bar to each line for it took the small troupe so long to step from one end of the floor to the other. The musicians also seemed a little worse for wear if the impres-sionist renditions of popular reels, waltzes and polkas were anything to go by.

The guests had been provided with a complimentary dinner, but it had certainly been nothing to skip lunch for and now there was a waiter, in his new bowtie, standing ready at small table to serve a punch so watered down it was practically transparent. Fortunately, he also had beneath his table a small selection of the hotels’ finest wines and whiskeys, of which one could buy a glass for a reassuringly extortionate price.

Needless to say, Lord Charmant was enjoying himself immensely. Currently he had engaged the beautiful Lady Calcutt for a dance and was discovering her to be a very lively partner. She had, she informed him, briefly been part of Miss Neal’s ladies’ folk dancing club and its influence was plainly marked in her dancing style, though how she had the the breath for her skips and twirls given the elaborate gown she had been tied into was a mystery to him.

At first, the lady’s rambunctious manner had intimidated her many suitors, but the flush in her cheeks and the discovery of the wine beneath the punch table had persuaded them to join her. Now the whole line was gambolling through the dances they would usually perform so carefully – even the polka had been revived to its former Bohemian glory.

When the music stopped, Lord Charmant bowed low to his partner and she curtsied admirably. ‘I cannot remember when I last enjoyed a dance so well, Lady Calcutt. Thank you for the honour of gracing me with your

time.’ ‘Nah need t’ fahnk me, Lord Charman’. Oei ain’t ‘ad a dance like va’ f’ a long time.’ Lady Calcutt replied and then blushed red

as she realised her vowels had run away from her, ‘I mean - it was pleasure, Lord Charmant. You are an excellent dancer.’ ‘Thank you, Lady Calcutt. Please, allow me to escort you back to your aunts.’ ‘Of course.’ She replied as she laid a delicate hand across his forearm. They strolled over to the Ladies Gloria Stanley and

Vera Acrrington, who had claimed a small table for themselves, drinking the complimentary punch and enjoying themselves im-mensely.

‘Lha, Lhord Charmant! Hyou dhance whery whell. Bhetter van mhost mhen.’ Lady Accrington exclaimed as they came closer, each vowel gloriously aspirated as if to herald its grand arrival.

‘Thank you, Lady Accrington. However, it is your ward who most certainly stole the show on this occasion.’ He replied win-somely.

‘Ahr Dot knows ‘er way rahnd a dahnce floor, she does.’ Lady Stanley agreed proudly. Behind them, the band readied them-selves for another set and Lady Calcutt’s next partner came up to claim her. ‘’Er dance card’s all full up, y’know.’ Lady Stanley added as they watched her move away. ‘An’ to fink, just afore the ball starts, she turns rahnd t’ me and sez, Aunt Gloria, wha’ if none o’ vem want t’ dance wiv me?’

‘Her modesty does her credit.’ Lord Charmant replied with an amused smile. Noticing the two glasses on the table were empty, he added, ‘Perhaps I might refresh your drinks, ladies?.’

‘Vha’ whould bhe mhost khind, Lhord Charmant.’ Lady Accrington replied and Lord Charmant bowed formally before taking his

leave. Walking towards the punch table, he took a moment to observe the scene around him. A ball, even one as mediocre as this, was

a fascinating social event. There was nothing quite its equal in the social calendar. But for a plea to a floor manager, a gentleman might acquire the company of any lady present for the pleasure of a dance and, in the intimacy of those fifteen minutes, they are free to fall in and out of love at their leisure.

There are five couples now, turning a stately waltz to a somewhat lazy rendition of The Blue Danube. Two ladies were particu-larly noticeable for their rather extraordinary costume, following the latest art noveau style that was so popular in Paris and yet em-bellished by the English flair for garish colour and motif. One, a large Indian lady, was swathed in silver and gold adorned with styl-ised peacock feathers and finished with a bright velvet train in turquoise. The other was European, with an English rose complexion that complemented the powder blue of her gown but was lost amid the sequined butterflies and gold frill.

A gentleman arrived at the punch table before Lord Charmant and settled into a negotiation with the waiter for a glass of wine and a dram of whiskey. Lord Charmant waited patiently, studying the small groups of guests; the stately Scottish family he had heard announced as the Durrisdanes who sat close and quiet together as if relishing each other’s company; the Chinese retinue, its ‘princess’ glowing gold at the centre with a vicious lightning bolts embroidered into her silk European gown; the Lieutenant Gover-nor of India and his various associates, including two newly betrothed couples, the ladies glowing with success. Here too, the fash-ion for art noveau was prevalent, resulting in two quite arresting gowns, one of bright yellow, ornamented with pink, silk roses sewn onto the outer chiffon; the other of gold velvet and voluminous sleeves.

The gentleman finished his transaction and Lord Charmant ordered two glasses of punch and a 30-year-old whisky. As he waited for the waiter to pour, he cught a flash of gold in the corner of his eye. He turned to see its cause and sighted Mrs Bluddschott, resplendent in gold, turquoise and a plethora of lace ruffles down her front, walking towards him.

‘Good evening, Mrs Bluddschott,’ he greeted her civilly. ‘Good evening Lord Charmant. That was a very energetic reel you were dancing with Lady Calcutt. Tell me, have you too fallen

for her charms?’ She asked with a smirk. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Bluddschott, I am not so easily taken in.’ Lord Charmant replied. ‘I must say, that’s a rather striking gown, My

compliments to your seamstress – it must have taken her sometime to complete.’ ‘Several weeks,’ Mrs Bluddschott replied smugly, ‘the panel of ruffles were my idea, they rather make the piece, wouldn’t you

say?’ ‘Oh, quite,’ Lord Charmant replied drolly, ‘Particularly in conjunction with the layered frills round the skirt.’ ‘Yes, I thought the symmetry quite fetching.’ Mrs Bluddschott replied, apparently ignorant to the irony in his tone. ‘I must admit,

Lord Charmant, I was surprised to hear you were planning to join the ship to India.’ ‘As was my father,’ Lord Charmant replied, ‘Luckily, I remembered that we have some interests in India and was able to con-

vince him that my intention is to ascertain their situation.’ As he spoke, the waiter placed a glass of whisky and two of punch in front of him. ‘Thank you, my good man. The punch is for the two ladies sat in the corner just there.’

‘And so you’re setting out to India, alone, without so much as a manservant.’ Mrs Bluddschott commented once the servant had bowed and left with the drinks.

‘Well, I did advertise for a valet, but alas, all those that were willing were unsuitable and all those who were suitable were not desperate.’ Lord Charmant replied, watching the waiter deliver the punch to the table. Lady Accrington caught his gaze and gave him a little wave to which he bowed his head politely, giving Lady Stanley time to discretely fortify the insipid punch with the gin she had been hiding in her reticule.

‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. India sounds like a most disagreeable country, all heat and dust or monsoon.’ ‘How very British of you, to reduce a country’s merits to its weather. I’m rather looking forward to it all, personally.’ ‘I suppose, then, that you haven’t heard that your ship is now without its captain?’ ‘The fellow who couldn’t find the ship? How unfortunate, I was hoping I would have the opportunity to make his acquaintance

this evening. What happened?’ ‘He was made Commodore of the packet fleet, the one that runs the chain ferry to the Isle of Wight. I suppose they thought it

would be impossible for him to lose a boat that was literally chained in place.’ The laugh that Lord Charmant emitted was raucous and quite uncultured. It was the kind of laugh that his mother would have

scolded him for when in the presence of polite society for it was much more at home in the bawdy house than the ballroom, ‘What a glorious turn of events! I shall be greatly disappointed if the rest of the journey is not as ridiculous.’

‘Lord Charmant, you are an eccentric.’ ‘You are certainly not the first, nor, I suspect, shall you be the last to say so, Mrs Bluddschott.’ He bowed to her. As he stood he

became aware of a gentleman, stood alone to the side of the room, watching him. He was a sinister looking fellow, wearing an in-formal sack coat which was ill-suited to the propriety of the evening. He was neither particularly tall, nor particularly short, with dark hair combed over one side of his face in the effort to disguise the bruise that was stretching across his temple into his swollen eye. Noticing Lord Charmant’s gaze, the man glanced around furtively before gesturing for Lord Charmant to join him.

Intrigued Lord Charmant turned back to Mrs Bluddschott, ‘My apologies Mrs BLuddschott, but I must cut short our conversation. I have just recalled a previously arranged rendezvous with a gentleman of my acquaintance. If I may request the honour of the next dance that we might be able to continue this tete-a-tete?’

‘Of course, Lord Charmant,’ Mrs Bluddschott curtsied elegantly. ‘It would be my pleasure.’ Taking his leave, Lord Charmant strode purposefully towards the man who so rudely requested his presence. It was only as he

moved closer that he recognised the man’s features. ‘Mr Darcy, good heavens! What on Earth happened to your face?’ He exclaimed in lieu of greeting. ‘An altercation with a rotten cabbage.’ She informed him bluntly, ‘I didn’t bring you here to discuss my misadventures, however.’ ‘You cannot tell me such a thing and it expect me to go unsatisfied, Mr Darcy.’ ‘I can and I will. The purpose of my appearance is to inquire after the position of valet. Is it still available?’ ‘Is that your hair or is it a wig?’ ‘It is my own hair, but that is not the matter at hand. I wish to know if the position of valet is still available.’ ‘Why? At our last discussion on the subject I was left with the distinct impression that you could think of nothing worse than to

become my valet and yet here you stand before me with shorn hair and a new suit, demanding a job. Please excuse me if I am little confused.’

Mr Darcy sighed, ‘It has recently become very apparent to me that, though I have no wish to surrender my femininity, I shall have no freedom unless I do so. I am going to India, Lord Charmant, I already have an agreement with the restaurant manager that upon receipt of these references, I shall have a space aboard the ship as a waiter.’ She held up a sheaf of paper, ‘However, I thought perhaps a valet to a Lord was likely to receive better pay.’

‘That’s true enough, but I must ask, have you truly considered this? The men who work upon a ship most usually live and sleep together. It is a long journey to India, Mr Darcy, are you sure that you could keep your secret in such an environment for long?’

Mr Darcy’s face fell. It was clear that such a thought had not occurred to her, ‘Then… then I shall pay my way and find work on the other side.’ She declared wilfully.

‘And your family? Surely they would not allow you to disappear without needing some explanation?’ ‘It is already settled, I have left then a note claiming that iwas inspired by the recent flight of Vesta Currie and that I have gone

to live the the eternal life, married and devoted to God. My father has been dropping hints about the benefits of convent living since I turned five and twenty – no doubt he will be overjoyed.’

Lord Charmant considered her carefully, the resolute upturned nose, the defensive stance, the strong, hard mouth, and wondered how she had come to such a position, ‘You are determined then?’

‘I cannot remain here, shackled to spinsterhood, without freedom, without property, without respect, wholly dependent on a fam-ily that resents the expense.’ She informed him pompously, ‘Thank you, Lord Charmant, for your time and your advice. I shan’t keep you any longer.’ She began to curtsey, stopped and then bowed.

‘But Mr Darcy, I have not yet given you my answer to your job application.’ Lord Charmant commented with false surprise. Mr Darcy stared at him with narrow eyes, ‘You have not yet given me reason to think such a position was still available.’ ‘Indeed? How remiss of me.’ Lord Charmant smiled somewhat gleefully, ‘So tell me, Mr Darcy, why should I hire a man such as

yourself? Do you have experience in service?’ ‘Of course I don’t,’ she snapped, a rather marvellous shade of red beginning to spread across her cheeks. ‘As you well know! If

you wanted someone with experience then why ask me to begin with? Might I remind you, sir, that it was you who suggested it in the first place?’

‘Ah so it was, but as you declined the position, I am well within my rights to question your re-application.’ Lord Charmant replied innocently.

Mr Darcy was less than impressed, ‘Is everything a game to you?’ ‘My dear Darcy, life is a game.’ Lord Charmant replied with a wink, ‘But to be truthful, I have no intention of refusing you, my

search for a valet proving itself quite futile, but I was rather hoping you would produce your references for my perusal.’ ‘Oh,’ Mr Darcy replied with surprise, ‘then, I am hired?’ ‘You are, Mr Darcy. Upon receipt of your papers.’ Lord Charmant answered with a smile. He held at a hand and Mr Darcy passed

over her references. They were excellently executed and even signed in her father’s hand. ‘Might I ask how you were able to come by these?’

‘My father never reads a document he needs to sign unless it concerns money. I merely slipped the papers in with the others in his office.’

‘Rather daring of you; a commendable trait for a valet about to venture into unknown territory.’ Lord Charmant replied admiringly. ‘Would like to know your duties?’

‘I am well aware of the duties of a valet, being as they are but the male version of the lady’s maid, but I hope you do not expect me to dress you.’

‘There is no need to worry on that account; I am more than capable of dressing myself. Are there any other conditions to this arrangement – I suppose I should hear them now.’

‘There is one that comes to mind,’ Mr Darcy replied with a small smile, ‘If we were, by some strange circumstance, to stumble upon a game of elephant polo, you will not expect me to stand idly by whilst you gallivant about the pitch without me.’

Lord Charmant grinned, ‘Mr Darcy, please rest assured that I would never dream of it.’

The book first draft is now being edited.

New pieces cannot now be accepted.

All taking part know well that for the storyline to work

there will have to be some adaptation

and with luck

the inclusion of lots of

pictures of those times.

Oh yes ... and him ...

Dr Kaun set forth for his appointment with destiny. His Gladstone bag was heavy with the statues and

replica boat. The bag felt the heavy weight and was not glad but glum; thus, from now on it will be called a Glumstone bag. Methi dressed for the part of the heroine in a cheap novella. White, flimsy

clothes that are totally impractical but show off the figure, especially if wet. On cue it started raining. Dr Kaun wished his Glumstone bag were lighter or had wheels. Down the dark streets and alleys Kaun

and Methi crept. Looking very furtive. Indeed they were furtive, after all they had eaten at the Grand Metropolitan Nasturtium Hotel; the food there made one’s digestive system furtive and one’s compan-ions open all the windows or leave the room. Anyway, there they are furtiving down dark alleys looking

for a basement Dr Kaun’s iBlower6 was glowing and whispering quietly, ‘make a U turn, you are driving down a one

way street’ or ‘BEEP, you are in a 30mph zone’. Methi asked what these strange words meant, Kaun replied that the machine was working in the wrong century, or more likely, that it had a software fault. Methi nodded knowingly and wisely kept quiet. The rain started in earnest. Why in earnest why not in

‘William’ or ‘Mathilda’? Never mind back to the story. The wet clothing showed off Methi’s figure very well indeed, even the Glumstone bag cheered up a little and Dr Kaun’s heart beat a little faster. On-

ward the intrepid pair sloshed and galoshed into the darkest and narrowest alley in Trentby. Galoshes were essentially because being a sea port sailors used the alley for their convenience and other incon-

venience, the rain being nature’s flush. Grope alley was its name, I suppose the people who named it could not spell and meant Grape Alley. However, if a sailor had seen Methi there it would have been Grope Alley. I digress. On to the basement and destiny.

’You have arrived at your destination,’ said the IBlower6. ’Good,’ said Dr Kaun.

He took out his trusty all-purpose key, a large jemmy. ’I thought you were going to be scientific,’ whispered Methi.

’Give me long enough lever and I’ll move any door,’ confided Dr Kaun Crash, crunch and the door opened. ’It was not locked so why break in?’ asked Methi

’I have to have fun sometimes, besides we can’t be locked in now,’ replied Dr Kr Kaun. Down the steps they tiptoed, not easy in galoshes you know. A large chest was rocking and glowing.

Dr Kaun opened the chest and took out the Sankarats and Dragon Boat and replaced them with his replicas from the Glumstone bag. The bag was even glummer now because the originals were even heavier.

Back to the hotel they crept or should that be crapped, sorry about that, but they were in Grope al-ley, a maritime convenience. The Glumstone bag grumbled all the way back but was ignored by our

intrepid travellers. Into the hotel foyer they walked. The wet clothing of Dr Kaun caused no comment but Methi’s wet flimsy dress caused several gentlemen’s hearts to flutter. Those men who were not

gentlemen had more earthy thoughts but we will gloss over this. Up the steps to their room they went. Dr Kaun opened his corner cabinet, he and Methi went in and shut the door. A blue light started flash-ing and a weird hooting noise started. The cabinet faded from view just leaving a triangular mark on

the floor. What happened to the retrieved Sankarats is another story. Dr Kaun’s arch enemy Sardaar also set off into the wet night accompanied by his trusty servant

Tehlua. He had a Glumstone bag with his replica Sankarats and dragon boat. Let us hope his Glum-stone bag was waterproof because his replication process had made statues that were made of sugar

even though they looked just like stone. Sardaar’s iBlower3 was glowing and whispering instructions just like Dr Kaun’s iBlower6. ’BEEP, you are exceeding the 70mph limit.’

’Prepare to take the next right turn in 10 miles.’ ’What does all that mean?’ asked Tehlua.

’The machine needs re-booting,’ replied Sardaar and promptly booted it. On they went in the wet night down alleyways and through people’s back gardens. This was not wise because they inadvertently discovered well-rotted compost heaps, several cess pits and a large

dog, a cross between a grizzly bear and a Rottenweiler. A budding author, Bob Noman, saw the state of their trousers after this last encounter and used the scene for a title of his book, ‘The Generous

Chaps with Tatty Britches.’ The Glumstone bag was even glummer after this encounter having been dragged through dirt, dung and gnawed by what appeared to be sabre toothed tiger. Onward the in-

trepid villains went, onward to their destiny and destination, onward to the fountain containing a small

reptile. More gardens, misadventures and dogs finished at a circus, ‘The Mild Bill Cody Show’. The iBlower3 resentful of being frequently booted and rebooted used the opportunity to get its own

back. Through lion’s cages, elephants’ dung heaps, past spitting camels and the terrifying apparition that was Mild Bill Cody’s wife. She who was feared by all living creatures and had been discovered by

Mild Bill Cody whale hurling. She still holds the world record for throwing a Hump Backed whale 102 yards 3 feet 2 inches. After all their misadventures they looked the worse for wear. If they had applied to the Beggars’

Guild their application would have been rejected because they looked too scruffy. The iBlower3 even-tually led them to the fountain. Now we know what small reptile is in this fountain, it is the dreaded

sewer living crocodile. They approached the fountain looking for the real Sankarats. ’They must be hidden in the water,’ said Sardaar thoughtfully. ’In you go Tehlua.’

’No we go in together, at least we will get a good wash. We need one,’ Tehlua sniffed meaningfully. Into the water they jumped, Glumstone bag held high.

The crocodile lay quietly waiting for his late supper wading towards him. The crocodile leaped out of the water, his jaws wide.

Tehlua screamed, Sardaar screamed louder. Without thinking Sardaar hurled the Glumstone bag into gaping mouth. The crocodile clamped his jaws shut, the sugar sankarats, dragon boat and even Glum-merstone bag were chewed mightily. The sugar went sticky, the crocodile’s teeth were glued together.

Sardaar and Tehlua fled from the fountain. Our ragged villains sprinted back to the hotel dripping and wailing. Upstairs they ran and into their room. A quick wash and brush up, use of a first aid kit and

clean trousers and then they stepped into their corner cabinet. A flashing light a weird hooting and off they went for their next adventure or misadventure, in time and space.

The Bluddschotts were not best pleased, two rooms vacated but no bill paid, but all’s well that ends well.

Image credit © Luigi Novi / Wikimedia Commons. Pratchett 2012 New York Comic Con.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terry_Pratchett#/media/File:10.12.12TerryPratchettByLuigiNovi1.jpg

Grieving Terry Pratchett fans immediately started an online petition asking DEATH to give him back ...

Sir Terence David John "Terry" Pratchett, OBE (28 April 1948 – 12 March 2015)

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