Issue 365 5th December 2014

2

Heard at Xmas lunch … this chap obviously wasn’t destined for a career in catering

… when being a temporary waiter at a posh wedding he unwittingly served custard

as a sauce for the prawn cocktails.

Sad but true: A chap from Gnosall needed to have a hospital test. He opted to go to

Stafford Hospital (7.3 miles) but his doctor told him to go to Cannock Hospital. He

drove to Cannock (14.7 miles). Cannock Hospital sent him immediately by ambu-

lance to Stafford Hospital (9.6 miles) where he stayed for several days while his car

remained in Cannock on a car-park.. (nice!). When released from Stafford he had to

arrange to get to Cannock (9.6 miles) to collect his car so he could drive home to

Gnosall… (14.6 miles) That wasn’t stressful at all, was it? Could have been worse,

he could have been sent to Stoke or Wolverhampton …

When watching the acclaimed film about the Enigma Machine it demonstrated so

clearly the homophobia, blatant sexism and racism of the 1940s in Britain… weren’t

these evils supposedly all the things the public were told our lads were fighting

against overseas?

A homeless man complete with shopping trolley and dog was sitting in an empty

shop doorway in Princes Street.

Please donate and don’t dump: When one fills a plastic collection bag with unwanted

clothes for charities spare a thought for those volunteers emptying those bags. Don’t

dump single shoes, old knickers, handbags or trousers or coats with broken zips.

Imagine you were going to be the grateful recipient. Things covered in blood and

vomit really should go in the bin not a collection bag ... AND please don’t leave tab-

lets or sharp things inside items

either ... Thank you.

Random words : same as last week

Assignment : meals on wheels

Rising Brook/Holmcroft/

Baswich/Gnosall

Libraries are under threat.

MINCEPIE MONDAY 15th Dec 1.30 pm

Rising Brook Library Last RBW Workshop of 2014

WHAT is the point of a ‘public consultation’ period

on the future of Rising Brook Library

If plans are already in place to move their computers

to the Baptist Church Hall?

Would, perhaps, a Senior Citizen

POETRY SIT DOWN WITH A CUPPA

afternoon, a few days before the General Election

concentrate the minds of local Councillors

that people want their library kept open?

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

My Old Ration Book from WW2 I still have my old Ration book, mother who was in charge of all our ration

books had saved it from when rationing finished in 1953-4 and returned it back to me a few years before she died.

Coupons had to be cut out with a pair of scissors on the relevant page by the shop keeper, and he had a rubber stamp to say which shop you had been to. In my book the top stamp was Eric Gos-

ling butchers, all other headed items came from the Co-op at Doxey The nearest thing to a super market back then was the local Co-op which always seemed to have the greatest range of goods on its shelves, and an assistant had to find and bring all items to the

counter for you. Here the items were totted up with a pencil written on the wrapping paper used for your goods. The old tills flagged up the total that the assistant put in the till and when the cash draw

sprang open with great haste it rang a bell, paper money went under over centred spring clasps and farthing‘s, half pennies, pennies, thrupenny pieces, six penny pieces, shillings often called a bob, flo-

rins a two bob piece, and half-crowns worth thirty old pence, all went in separate compartments in the same draw, these were added up into pounds shillings and pence £. s. d. No adding machines, no computers, just a pencil (not even ball point pens, they had not been invented back then) and paper.

In the most part of rationing we were self-sufficient in bacon and frying fats, beef and beef suet had to be bought in, eggs, we always had a lot of hens, and always had so called chicken for dinner

at least once a week every week. In fact it would be old hen, you know there was always one or two out of a couple or three hundred, that looked a bit pale in the wattle and not laying, or got a chalky a**e end, they were never allowed to die, mother could see the ones that just stared looking that

way then she would ‗neck‘ them and in the pot without even going cold. I don‘t know how come the egg coupons had been removed from my book, but she was in control of all the ration books.

I can hardly remember having sweets as a kid, not that they were never bought, I never craved for sweets or chocolate, but I can recall a time in my very young days being encouraged, nay forced

to eat a square of dark chocolate. This put me off chocolate and sweets for life, it‘s only in recent years (fifty years down the line) that I have become partial to some now and then and quite enjoy the taste. The reason for the dark

chocolate was, and we each had to have a square, was that it was for worms, we had worms, itchy bums, could not sit still, and like mothers do she up turned us to have a closer look to confirm her

suspicions. She went to the Boots chemists next time she was in town, (she went every Tuesday and Friday)

and asked the pharmacy what to have to clear the problem up. It was a bar of dark chocolate all in a chocolate wrapper as would any other chocolate, and that night before we went to bed, for a treat she gave each of us a square of this chocolate, one at a time, and without the others seeing the reac-

tions of the first one. It was strong and dark, nothing like the milk chocolate we had been used to, and she had to make sure we chewed and swallowed it without spitting it back out. The taste lin-

gered in your mouth what seemed to be all night and that put me off chocolate for life. I suspect the remaining squares of chocolate would not be saved until Christmas and handed round to the relatives, or used up by the all-knowing adults of the house hold.

To the credit of that incident, I still have all my teeth, and only go to the dentist for them to be counted and polished every six months or so, and that is because when I had two new knee replace-

ment‘s in the year 2000 the surgeon instructed me to get my teeth checked before the operation, as a rotten tooth could make the replacement knee joint to reject and in that way could lose my leg.

They found no rot in my teeth then and still find no rot, and that must be all thanks to my mother giving us a square of dark chocolate in 1942.

The staples are going

rusty, but its all com-plete as it was when rationing finished in

1953/1954

6

THE FOOD OF LOVE BY SHOSHA CLARE

Now she wondered exactly why she had chosen to move to this place. Perhaps it was her son‘s urging bossi-ness, reading the riot act on her from Australia that made her reject her original and much more sensible idea of

an apartment in a retirement complex. With the money from the house sale, she could have bought herself a luxurious, comfortable flat and have

the choice of companionship and group activities whenever she wanted them. Several places she viewed had

seemed quite perfect for her needs and then an advertisement for a flat in a large converted Georgian vicarage set in ten acres of parkland had caught her eye and something impelled her to buy a first floor property with a

large south facing living room overlooking a swathe of parkland set with mature trees. Graciously proportioned rooms, high ceilings embellished with leafy plaster mouldings, walls decorated in

trendy yet traditional grey-greens complimented by soft eggshell white woodwork had made the purchase all but

irresistible. Certainly, the decor and fitments in every way demonstrated both good taste and an acknowledg-ment of the period, justifying the rather eye-watering price.

Once settled in, she found the high ceilinged rooms difficult to heat, the big square living areas somehow in-

imical to the kind of cosy snugness she had always preferred, the first Winter becoming a trial which she en-dured wrapped in shawls, feet in a sleeping bag, finding herself terribly isolated in this barn of a building.

She had no idea, even, how many people actually lived in the place. Squinting sideways out of her large living room window each morning, she caught sight of various people rushing for their cars parked out on the gravel oval before the imposing front door. There were several women of differing ages, but all well over thirty, smartly

clad in severe business outfits, carrying lap-tops or briefcases, one or two couples, middle aged, obviously child-less and a few single men. They were all far too bent on their race to work to notice an elderly retired lady and

so far, the only people she had met socially were a similarly retired gay couple who had one of the downstairs apartments. Invited in for afternoon tea, she was stunned by the perfection of their living room, with its superb collection of antiques, feeling too intimidated to reciprocate.

Strolling in the grounds, she seldom met anyone except the contractors who came regularly to mow, prune and weed. As Spring approached, she had to own to herself that she was lonely and her stubborn insistence on this purchase had been a mistake, as her son had great pleasure in telling her during every phone call.

It was one bright, promising Spring morning, just as the sun was streaming gold and red across the sky when she heard it, the flute. Someone was playing a flute! Straining her ears to catch the faint notes, she ventured

into the corridor, forgetting she was in her dressing gown, but in that warren of a place, sounds echoed, rever-berated, and she couldn‘t place the direction from which it came. No matter, it was alluring,-yes- that was the word for it, alluring. Who could be up and playing the flute at 5am! Standing in the cold corridor, her bare feet

turning blue in the draught, she stood, listening for as long as she could bear before reluctantly going back to the electric coals to toast warmth into her feet.

Some mornings, drugged with sleeping pills and a gin and tonic nightcap, she slept on, missing dawn chorus of both birds and flute, but on the nights she felt strong enough to endure the waking and dozing that com-prised her sleeping pattern, she was wide-awake, alert for the first clear notes, like white pebbles dropping gen-

tly into a crystal clear bubbling spring. What was that tune, so eloquently elegant, so plangent and heart-wrenchingly sweet yet with an aching edge of sensuality and longing? It seemed to fountain inside her body like

internalised champagne, jetting and foaming a long lost longing upwards from the heart she had thought locked in its deadbeat, dead beating. Her throat tightened and tightened to choking sobs and tears. Salt tears ran from her closed eyes, eyes she thought could never cry again and she was lost, freezing feet ignored, her hands

clasped at her heaving breast. The silence seemed long and inexorable as the sounds of the flute died away and, at last, she dragged her-

self back into her room to sit inconsolable over a bitter black coffee, feeling both incensed and sneakingly, sub-

tley, a goading gratitude that she had been drawn to an awakening she had neither needed or desired. The flute called her morning after morning, making her heartbeat thunder inside her chest, its allure, its lure,

calling her to sidle the corridors to get nearer and nearer to the other lost-seeming soul who poured out their joy and pain into those exquisite notes, embroidering the unheeding dawn, prompting her slowly opening heart on a voyage of exploration.

Dressed at five am, she roamed round the houses‘ exterior, peering shamelessly into the ground floor win-dows, feeling embarrassed to find herself looking at the gay couple snuggled asleep in a double bed sumptu-

ously draped with a gold and red satin bedspread, their curtains flagrantly undrawn. Rushing past averting her eyes from their innocent and rather touching slumber she frantically caught and then lost the sounds she sought. Defeated, she walked the grounds, shoulders slumped, hands buried deep in her coat pockets, feeling

beaten. Next morning, determination in her step, she walked the floors of the house, passing silent closed door after

silent closed door, feeling a creeping guilt at patrolling a territory that did not, somehow, belong to her-other

tenants corridors, other tenants doors when, by rights she had no business here. Silence filled the high ceilinged empty anonymous corridors that once must have been walked by harassed and overworked maids, the numer-

ous children of the era and their parents. How strange that the place seemed-so empty when every apartment was taken. Did they all encapsulate people who had not heard the flute and were still dead to the world just had she had been?

Then it came again, again, so achingly beautiful she felt her heart fail within her but far away, faint, in some distant, distant room, her search finding her running for the first time for years, dressing gown flying, her slip-pered feet soundless on the parquet flooring. Where oh where was it coming from, sometimes growing loud,

sometimes fading to barely audible notes, then thrillingly rising so that she felt drowned in sounds of sumptuous deliciousness.

That morning, inexorably drawn out into the grounds by the crisp brightness of the early morning, her joy filled heart almost bursting within her, so inspired by her early morning experience that she flung out her arms and whirled in a mad dance out across the lawn, ignoring the paths she usually trod, hugging the slender

birches that edged the spinney into which she‘d never before ventured. Oh, but there were snowdrops, drifts and drifts of them, as far as the eye could see. How beautiful, how

beautiful! Slowing down and treading carefully so that she crushed as few as possible under foot, she bent to admire these treasures, tipping their tiny green embellished bells up to her gaze. How could she not have seen these before, so cool and exquisite, like the cool exquisite sounds of the flute.

And at the far edge of the wood she could see a patch of glowing yellow, yes, aconites, fragile yet bold, with their wide open cups gleaming in the sun, resting securely on the green frilled ruff of their sepals. She had never

seen so many, a carpet of gold beneath the birches, a treasure indeed. Suddenly, this place, this move that had seemed the worst choice she had ever made in her life, became in-

stantly changed. What more could she ask for in her life than all that was now being given to her? And why had

she shut herself away, feeling locked in a mausoleum, when there was a whole world waiting for her to explore full of such wonderful gifts she should never tire of the exploration!

This morning she would drive in to town, go to the public library and find out what was going on. She could

join things, meet people, come alive again. In the crowded coffee shop, perched uncomfortably on a stool, she became aware of the elderly Indian man sipping coffee beside her, neatly dressed in suit and tie, slender, with

thinning grey hair and a narrow ascetic face, staring fixedly in front of him as if he dared not look at anyone. Last week, she would hardly have noticed him, so locked into her own dehydrated world, but today, she could feel, so keenly his tension, his unease, a man holding himself so still, so tight, as if, loosening in the slightest

would disintegrate him totally. For long minutes she knew she had to do it, speak to him, extend to him the enlivenment, knowledge and inspiration that had changed her world that morning, but convention held her

back, several times taking in a deep breath and opening her mouth but no words would come out. Then in a rush, she ventured, ‗Wonderful morning, isn‘t it?‘ offering him a brilliant smile to emphasize her words. He turned, uncertain, as if he either had not heard, or could not believe she‘d directed her words at him.

She smiled again and repeated the question. For a second the man hesitated and then answered, with a shy smile. ‗Oh yes, very beautiful!‘ looking away immediately.

‗Doesn‘t it make you feel alive? Oh I feel so alive today!‘

This time he turned to face her, smiling, still slightly uncertain, but obviously attracted by her words. ‗That is good.‘ he answered.

‗Isn‘t it!‘ she bubbled, and before she knew it, the story of her move, her disappointment, difficulty in settling and her feelings of loneliness, and how this morning suddenly changed her mind, making her feel alive again was slowly confessed, prompted by his understanding nodding, his wise eyes, shy smile and his obvious empa-

thy. ‗Oh dear.‘ she excused herself. ‗I‘m so sorry, I‘ve bombarded you with all of myself and my concerns and I

haven‘t asked a thing about you! How awful, what must you think of me? I‘m so sorry.‘ ‗Please, no matter.‘ His shrug and spread hands spoke volumes, as well as his smile. ‗I am pleased, so

pleased to hear your happy story. This is good.‘

‗Oh, thank you for being so forgiving and tolerant, but I have been selfish and rude. Please tell me about yourself.‘

‗May I buy you another coffee? Mine is finished and I think yours‘ may well be too.‘ ‗Thank you. That is so nice of you.‘ When he returned she urged him to tell her his story and, slowly, hesitatingly, he revealed the grief at the

death of his beloved wife leaving him lonely with most of his extended family settled in Britain, his retirement from his teaching job and his family‘s subsequent insistence on him joining them.

As she listened, she envied him his embracing, caring family. She supposed her son cared about her, or he

wouldn‘t feel so inclined to boss and organise her, but as for asking her to join him in Australia, that seemed a

bridge to far for his filial love.

‗So was it a good move?‘ she asked. ‗Oh, of course it is very nice to be reunited with the family, but oh I have missed India also. Britain does not

feel like my home.‘ ‗Oh, that I can understand. I visited India with a girl-friend in the swinging sixties. I went to visit Maharishi

Mahesh Yogi, you know, the Transcendental Meditation Guru.‘

‗Oh yes, I know.‘ ‗I did love India and seriously thought about staying longer, but

-you know......‘

‗Yes, of course.‘ ‗So much colour, so much beauty, so much spirituality as well

as all the poverty and dirt and confusion.‘ ‗Yes, it is the colour and the beauty I miss so deeply. This

town has no beauty and no colour. My family are so kind, but I am

heartsick, I‘m afraid.‘ It was an impulse that took her by surprise which she never

regretted. ‗Let me take you to see what I saw this morning. I live in an apartment set in extensive grounds. Well, it was one of the reasons I took the place, but this morning, this lovely morning, I

explored parts of the parkland I‘d never seen before and-oh-oh! Well I won‘t tell you. I want to show you. Will you come? Please

say yes. It might help to change your mind about Britain and I‘d like to help to change your mind.‘

For a few seconds, he hesitated and then agreed. ‗Yes, I will come. I feel in my heart that it is written that we

meet this morning and that all is well.‘ It was a short drive and in the warm sun, they walked, chatting comfortably together across the park. Devi spread his arms wide at the ancient trees, the spreading grass-land with peacefully grazing sheep, tak-

ing deep breaths of the exhilarating air. ‗Thank you so very much. I feel renewed. This is so different from India but has its own glory.‘

‗Oh you haven‘t seen the best yet!‘ and she lead him into the spinney, watching his face as he gazed in de-light at the sheets of snowdrops spread at his feet, exclaiming as she got him to kneel and tip the flowers to see the delicate green veining within. The aconites, a panoply of gold left him speechless.

‗Thank you, that has made me feel so much better. Your England is beautiful. Now I see!‘ Inviting him in for coffee was only polite after their walk and suddenly she could not help telling him of the

flute and how it had changed her heart. ‗Lord Krishna has his mysterious ways.‘ Devi smiled, his wise brown eyes looking at her kindly. ‗I was regret-

ting so deeply leaving India, even though, as I said, I am glad to be with my family again. Now I feel some hope

at last. You are a kind lady. Thank you.‘ Talking to him was easy and driving him back into town, they arranged to meet for coffee again next week.

Before they parted, he handed her a small amulet and on it was picture.

‗Oh, is this a god? He is so very beautiful and he has a flute!‘ she exclaimed. ‗Keep it please. This is Lord Krishna, our beloved Lord Krishna and he will always help you. I know he is not

your god but he is mine, and he loves all. Who knows, maybe it was his flute you heard and his flute that called you to life again. There are many mysteries in this world dear lady, and we are very foolish not to marvel at the coincidences that bring people together and change lives. I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart.‘

‗Perhaps we should thank Lord Krishna too!‘ she smiled as she shook his hand on parting. ‗That is a very sensible thing to say.‘ he smiled back. ‗May I come to see the flowers again next week? That is

if I am not being too forward and being a nuisance?‘ ‗You‘re welcome, of course, and soon there will be bluebells.‘

TO A YOUNG LOVER Should we not meet again What would I remember? The month we met? September. Still water where a bridge spanned wide; You didn‘t step aside To let me pass, That I will remember. You leant towards my little dog, The words you spoke elude me now But still I see the shape of you, That too I will remember. And some time on A gentle brush of lips on mine, A sweetness never dulled by time; So painful to remember. How could you know, As days passed quickly by, How little time remained To play the game, Because it is September? This always I remember.

Scrooge in the Modern World : ACW’s austerity blog Having enjoyed a nice Christmas meal in a warm pub, went in search of warm cardigans and jumpers now it is bitter cold, to

survive my home without central heating as unaffordable. Tootling along in my Shopmobility scooter along a line of charity shops, I was going past yet another shut down shop in Stafford, another one that opens and closes in a matter of weeks. In the recessed doorway was a rough sleeper, in a thin coat, sat in a frozen foyer to gain cover from any freezing rain, with

his supermarket trolley of pitiful belongs. Our eyes met. Mine in shock and his returned with aching sadness.

About in his 30s I would say, with no outward sign of the usual reason, as of old, of the gaunt face of the tramp by choice. Then I found my charity shop. Well lit and heated, plenty of bedroom furniture, gaining free employees from the en-slavement of workfare and placements, threatened as they are by Bedroom Tax with the self same homelessness and the

hunger of food banks only able to offer 3 food vouchers in a year, as Fareshare gains no state subsidy so only get about 5,000 tonnes of surplus food, whilst private profit making energy from waste burn Around 400,000 tonnes of edible food with huge government subsidies.

The socialist parties and The Greens offer the sole hope for the poor on the 20% lowest income, in or out of work, on works pensions not even 4% lowest income denied state pension payout of 7 years for a couple, and the 2.6 million pension-ers far below the breadline or only just on it.

Homeless people that can be for example an epileptic with a broken hip in a wheelchair, in danger by their prescription of painkillers to violent robbery, yet left to rough sleep. Of councils who do not copy other councils and social housing companies, who have prevented the Bedroom Tax on

their tenants by the simply and permitted ploy of designating all their property stock as one-bedroomed, with all other rooms upstairs called ‗undesignated‘. Of the starving caused by the near million benefit sanctions, many months long, when it takes only a month to starve

to death, with doctors in England and Wales saying again and again of the huge rise in malnutrition hospital admissions and in Rickets in kids. And look about you. Where are the Victorian clean drinking public fountains for the homeless to get a drink of water?

Even The Times had a two thirds page article stating welfare reform gave a predictable and entirely avoidable impoverish-ment to people.

When we pay millionaire politicians second home allowance of £25,000 a year, plus all the expenses, that include over a grand to have a relative stay overnight in their extra bedroom, then flip said homes, for which the taxpayer has paid coun-cil tax, when selling said houses to avoid capital gains tax.

The Greens did something, which the socialists could not bring themselves to vote into policy in their Spring Confer-ences. The Greens end the need for benefits admin altogether, including the Jobcentres sanctioning for the most trivial rea-sons, and solve the 70 per cent rise in starvation since 2010:

The Greens‘ new and unique policy from their 2014 Spring Conference offers, with a supplement for the disabled:

- universal, automatic Citizen Income, non-withdrawable

- to the level of the basic tax allowance (2015-2016 will be £10,500 but could rise to £12,500).

- Full State Pension to all citizens, regardless of National Insurance contribution or credit history, which has been lost

mostly by benefit rule changes and the huge austerity job cuts.

The flat rate pension is the biggest con in UK history and will bring about, for the first time since the state pension be-gan, the poorest people with nil state pension for life and three quarters of the rest with less state pension than even now

being the lowest level of all rich nations bar poor Mexico, when for a great many the state pension is their sole food and fuel money in old age.

See how you lose out if you are a woman born from 1953 and man born from 1951: https://you.38degrees.org.uk/petitions/state-pension-at-60-now

If only The Greens realised that their new, unique policy gives them anything up to a third of the electorate. The Greens on November 29th, won in the financial capital of Australia, Melbourne and now run that city.

If the UK Greens entirely focused on the poor, then The Greens would bring about a majority government in 2015 of at least 326 MPs in England and Wales (and the 4 or 5 left over seats in Scotland from the Scottish Nationalist Party landslide coming in 2015) with no need of a coalition with any other party.

As it is, few will vote in 2015, bringing about anything up to a 4 party coalition, which even then will continue the Tory spending cuts and welfare reform, when the United Nations will return after the general election to bring the nation into dis-repute when it proves, like it did with the Bedroom Tax, that the UK government's wealthy politicians are causing starvation

by design to all ages. The rich know their own history, that when most of the poor are freezing and starving, then the poor rise up against a system of Marie Antoinette mentality, of What! They‘ve no bread. Well … Let them eat cake!!

So the rich might care to tell the electorate of The Greens‘ new and unique policies and do like the Roman Caesars, who ensured not one Roman citizen starved.

Comment: ACW raises an interesting dilemma ... What is the correct response by a caring member of the public

upon seeing a rough sleeper? Does one give food? What does one do?

12

The Gardening Tips series was produced by well known local gardening expert Mrs. FM Hartley as monthly gardening items which featured on an audio news-tape produced locally for partially sighted people. (Link To Stafford & Stone Talking Newspaper. Link To R.N.I.B.)

As such the articles are meant to be read individu-ally and not as chapters of a book. The articles were written over a period of some 7 years. RBW is absolutely delighted that Mrs Hartley has agreed to some of her words of gardening wisdom gathered over nine decades being reproduced for our benefit by her son, Alan.

Gardening Extra – Composts. Bulbs: here is a little information about compost. Bulb Fibre is light, cheap, clean to handle and is fine if you don‘t want to save the bulbs for flowering next year as it contains no fertilizer. If you

want to keep the bulbs and get flowers in the following season you need to add some fertilizer to the bulb fibre to feed the bulbs, so that they can build themselves up again, or use ordinary potting compost to pot them up in. Bulb Fibre is just a simple growing medium that is de-signed to hold moisture and provide something for the bulbs roots to anchor themselves down in. Remember,

then that Bulb Fibre maybe cheaper than ordinary bags of compost, but it is no good at all for potting ordinary plants in. There are other cheap composts that are no good for general potting and one that deceives a lot of people is the compost in Tomato Grow Bags. Again this type of compost has been specially designed for a single purpose

– in this case for growing Tomatoes and similar crops. Grow Bag compost has a very short life and gets quickly used up by the plants. That is fine for things like Tomatoes, because as the plants develop you start feeding them with things like Liquid Seaweed, or Tomorite, but ordinary plants need a

long lasting and slow release fertilizer. Seed sowing and cutting compost is another compost that is fine for up to about a month after the seeds have germinated and when they should be ready for potting on. However, this type of compost contains a short lasting fertilizer as well, so developing plants must be quickly potted on into ordi-

nary potting compost. Seed compost is much finer in texture than most types of com-post so that tiny seedlings can root better into it making it more expensive to buy than normal potting compost and as you will use less of it, it is normally sold in fairly small bags.

We cannot get Peat based compost now, so most compost is made from re-cycled mate-rial such as ground Bark Chippings and we find that some of it needs a lot of Horticul-tural grit added to it, or it seems to go ―Claggy,‖ when watered and gets sodden. We have tried several different ones and some are very good, but a lot are very coarse and lumpy, so sometimes you need to sieve the compost from the bags before you can use it. The lumpy bits from the sieve can always be put in the bottom of big pots and tubs before filling them. One plus feature from all of the afore mentioned composts is that they are light to handle, whereas John Innes is a Loam, or soil based compost and is very heavy. This does have the advantage that large pots left standing outside are less likely to blow over, but it does make it hard work to move lots of pots. John Innes com-posts actually come in a range of types to cover seed sowing and all other types of pot-ting.

We have found that a lot of the bags of ordinary compost that are generally sold are getting more expensive now and the bags are also getting a lot smaller than they used to be. Many years ago, when we used to sell them at our garden centre, some bags contained 80 litres and now the biggest offered for sale in most places are often only 50 litres. Perhaps people should listen to the TV gardeners who are always saying that you should make your own compost. Admittedly you will need to add some slow release fer-tilizer such as Growmore, or Chicken Pellets to homemade garden compost and maybe a little garden lime. Perhaps you will also need to add a little Horticultural Grit, or Perlite to improve the drainage and you probably wouldn‘t want to use it for seed sowing and seedlings, but for potting bigger things such as garden tubs it could save you a fortune in bought compost as big tubs need a lot to fill them.

A compost heap to make your own compost does not take up much room and if looked after properly does not smell. You can add most things to it such as grass cuttings scat-tered thinly amongst vegetable peelings and general weeds, but do not include Docks, Dandelions, or Nettles. Do not put cooked food in either. The rubbish will soon rot down to make compost that is very good for general mulching and bulking up the soil in raised beds. Instead of buying good quality Top Soil to do the job using your own compost could save you a small fortune. Most Top soil that you can buy is only skimmed off from where houses, or shops etc are going to be built and is nothing special anyway unless you buy the premium bagged sort. Well, I hope this is useful to you.

Cheerio Frances Hartley.

RBW FICTION PROJECT FOR 2014/15 NOTES: ( CHANGES )

Story so far. Plotlines are developing ...

This is a listing of what we have so far ...

Place: Sometime in the 1890s 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 and certain other countries all rich spending foreigners are welcomed

Time Span: Between the 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 and the POSH nobs. Rooms [2nd and 3rd floors] for the not so well off. Accommodation [tiny attic rooms, top floor back] for staff

Staff: Basil Bluddschott (70's) – Manager Mrs. Cynthia Bluddschott (20's) - 2nd (trophy) wife of Basil

Daniel Bluddschott (40) – Son of Basil by 1st wife Miss Marian Bluddschott (35) – Daughter of Basil by 1st wife Mrs. Natasha Bluddschott (34) – wife of Daniel — gambling debts up to mischief

Roberto Manchini - Italian chef; has the hots for Marian & Cynthia Mrs. Bertha Buckett – Breakfast Cook in Charge Peter the porter

Nancy the Scullery maid, 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 - Writer 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?] 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!!) Walter Wales – hack writer for Capt. Thaddeus Hook travel books Murray Durrisdane (currently a Boots)— Jade Buddha/Stone of Kali seeker — (Jamie Burke — Alexander Mulrose — baddies)

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

Music Hall turns playing at 'The Winter Gardens', Also staying the GNH some in suites some 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

ALSO listed: Diamond dealer — Boniface Monkface

Jade - A rare Jade Buddha with a Kali Stone is specifically noted. A golden laughing Buddha also appears. NOTES:

CHECK THE DATE! Q. Victoria is Empress. Osborne House IoW is her fav. des. res. 1. Gas lighting or oil lamps – no public electricity supply about for another couple of decades; unless the hotel has its own generator, electrical lighting is out.

2. Horses and carriages in the streets, steam trains for long distances and on the dockside. Trams in some areas. 3. Limited number of phones, usually locally between ministries or business offices. Messengers or Royal Mail normally used.

Telegrams are available.

RBW Library Workshop group are working on a script for the next book. The ideas so far include a hotel in

the 1890s with as diverse a mix of travellers about to de-part for the far east as it is possible to squeeze into the

plot. Obviously the action will take place in Trentby-on-Sea, twinned with Murmansk, and

the establishment will be man-aged by Basil Bluddschott and his new wife Cynthia. If you‘ve ever watched a Carry On film you will have had all the training you‘d need to join in.

The annual joint project ...

The joint comedy is good practice in group co-operation, character building, plotting, dialogue, storyline arc etc and

besides it‘s hilarious to write an un-PC plot which pokes fun at everybody. Here outrageous stereotypes are encouraged!

What is more people actually read our free e-books ... Some brave souls even give us LIKES on Facebook

OPPORTUNITY: Take a room in the hotel ... Who is waiting to go to India? Why are they going? What are they running away from or towards?

Done A Bunk ACW After the much bent and pitted breakfast pewter plates, mugs and cutlery had been

gathered and washed, the publican of The Crocodile then realised the top lodging room had not come down.

He went up to the room to find it cleared out of personal belongings. Downstairs, he asked the wife, who informed, foreign naval came, saying the men had

done a bunk from naval duty and had been taken back to service. The naval crewmen took all the personal belongings of the guests.

‗What about them paying for the room, woman?‘ ‗No worries there, the Officer gave half a crown, he did, for our troubles, and they left

an empty good class steamer trunk we can sell at the port auction house.‘ Always A Silver Lining ACW Billy Boy and Long Shanks enjoyed being able to drink a beer together with all folk in

The Crocodile Inn, that their Seminole tribal blood forbade in their native Florida in Amer-ica.

But they had only had enough money for a couple of pints each, to have enough left for the set dinner of meat pie and baked potato.

They could not get used to sleeping in a teepee, but as it was the supplied lodgings with the circus and they had so little pay, it had to suffice.

So they had dragged out their last pint of beer and eaten their meal slow, to stay as long as they, especially as it had been raining hard. Once the rain abated, they walked slow to wend their way along the alleyways back to the circus.

Their tribe were famed for alligator wrestling, but here they only had a stuffed critter to make a comic turn, along with the circus clowns, so could not get the good wage of the battle re-enacting Sioux and other tribes.

Then they heard what was not possible. The deep rumble from the throat of what could be a ‗gator, and a big one at that. ‗He‘s a big critter, Long Shanks.‘ ‗Yeah, seems like Billy Boy. There‘s some old lumber and rope by them handcarts.‘ A rat squealed and others ran about the men‘s feet in panic. The Seminoles strode against the tide of terrified rats, until they saw the tell-tale glint

of ‗gator‘s eyes that were far apart enough to show the ‗gator was a big one. ‗We‘re in luck, Billy Boy.‘ Then they came upon the beast, who tried to escape down the sewer drains, but his

shout, with his jaws yawned open in threat, was lassoed, wrapped around with the long piece of lumber and rope, and the Seminole warriors flipped him over on his back, caus-ing the ‗gator to fall into a faint.

They lashing up the beast‘s mouth, tied the beast still belly up so as to stay in its faint, to an old hand cart, and wheeled off their bounty.

‗We‘ll get our own ‗gator wrestling and menagerie viewing fees out of the beast, and he‘ll be cheap to feed with all these rats about, Billy Boy.‘

Long Shanks and Billy Boy beamed happily as they pulled the hand cart past its useful working life, to the circus. Once at the circus compound entrance, the night guard made to make sure they were entertainers, only to step back quick, aghast.

‗Jee-up, where did you steal that from, London Zoo?‘ Billy Boy smirked, ‗No, it came out of the sewers. And we wrestled and caught it,‘

crowed Long Shanks. The guard struck dumb, then found his voice, ‗Well, you boys are studs, and no mis-

take. The boss will be right pleased, if the beast don‘t eat someone first.‘ ‗Hey, that‘s an idea,‘ joked Billy Boy.

The Palace Invite ACW Prince Rupert could not take his eyes off Miranda. Miranda looked back, unable to look away. A candle spluttered and cast a rainbow hue

through the crystal candelabra, casting a double rainbow. Speech was impossible between them. Prince Rupert rose and offered his hand to help

Miranda rise from her seat and escorted her to the bedroom. The four-poster bed now had voile curtains and was covered in best linen.

Golly, this is the real thing, thought Miranda. ‗I love you darling Miranda, now and forever.‘ ‗Oh Rupert,‘ whispered Miranda. ‗Oh Miranda.‘ Their embrace lasted the night.

At morning‘s light, Prince Rupert‘s carriage awaited. A cloaked figure was helped up into the closed carriage by the footman, who then regained his place and stood behind the carriage.

Prince Rupert was helped into the coach by the second footman. The carriage drew up to a small summer palace set in its own parkland, rolling down to a beach encircled by cliffs, just beyond Trentby. No other homes were near, as the parkland was all bounded by forest land.

Prince Rupert and Miranda alighted the coach and, to Miranda‘s astonishment, both walked through the front entrance together, bowed through by a livered butler. Prince Rupert escorted Miranda to the conservatory with panoramic views over the sea, millpond calm. There, set upon a glass table, was a lavish breakfast. They were seated and served by the footmen supervised by the butler.

Miranda amazed even more to be seated first. After breakfast, Miranda retired to a liv-ing room, after Prince Rupert said he could not get out of needed correspondence.

Miranda asked, ‗Will I return to the Winter Gardens?‘ ‗Today is your rest day, is it not my dear? We‘ve a fortnight before the steamer sets sail

for Calcutta. You‘ll have the adjoining cabin to mine, my dear. Perhaps I might permit you, to do a matinee performance at the Winter Gardens, every other day.‘

‗Oh thank you. But the scandal of us travelling together, Prince Rupert?‘ ‗Miranda dear, please call me Rupert, here where we‘re alone.‘ ‗Oh Rupert,‘ murmured Miranda. ‗You‘ll see, there‘ll be no scandal, my darling dear Miranda.‘ Whilst Miranda idly looked about the living room, her eyes alighted on a painting of an-

other Royal, stood before a palace surrounded by vineyards. By it was a long gilded mir-

ror. She mused on the likeness between them. Prince Rupert, from behind her, spoke, ‗See my dear, we can make you an aristocrat

and marry, my darling dear.‘ ‗Marry! Oh Rupert!‘ ‗Oh Miranda.‘ Their kiss sealed their love.

Latest Competitions: The Slipstream Poets Open Poetry Competition 2015 | Closing Date: 31-Jan-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1664

Teignmouth Poetry Festival Competition 2015 | Closing Date: 31-Jan-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1665

New Magazines: Night & Day http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/emagazines/?id=735

Latest News: #Afterhours Blog 2: After Tom Leonard's Unrelated Incidents | 07-Nov-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1261

#Afterhours Blog 1 | 04-Nov-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1260

VICTORIAN MONEY RESEARCH (CMH)

Pounds, shillings and pence in use.

As a reminder 20 shillings (s) equals one pound (£).

Twelve pence (d) equals one shilling. Guineas (Gn) = 21s [£1/1/0d] were also in use, mainly by the aristocracy etc.

Copper coins: Penny's [1d], Halfpennies [½d], Farthings [¼d] and lower values are common.

Coinage. Unlike today's token currency this was, essen-

tially, bullion in small chunks. There were some £1, £5 and £10 bank notes in circulation but

weren‘t trusted & thus little used. Five pound (£5) gold coin.

Two pound (£2) gold coin. £1 coin or known as a Sovereign. Half Sovereign = Ten shillings (10/-) (Ten bob).

Crown = 5/- piece, also called a Dollar. Double florin (4/-).

Half Crown = Two shillings and six pence (2/6d). Two shilling (2/-) piece also called a Florin.

Shilling (1/-) piece, also called a 'Bob'. Six penny piece (6d), also called a 'tanner'. Three penny piece (3d) also called a thrupenny bit

[not the 12 sided brass one which came later]. One Penny (1d).

Half penny (½d) called a ha'penny. Farthing (¼d) called a Farden or Farthin'. Half farthing (1/8th penny).

There were a few others in circulation: Silver Groat (4d).

Silver two pence (2d) pieces. Three-half-penny (1½d) pieces.

WAGES. These varied wildly all over the country.

A farm worker would earn 6/- to 10/- a WEEK plus

have a rent free (tied) cottage & whatever food could be scrounged. A 24/7 job when required.

A navvy on the railways could earn 4/- to 8/- a DAY.

Railway employees – about 200 different types & grades – were better paid than farm labourers,

even when their jobs where identical, and often had more time off. A 10 hour day wasn't unusual for lower grades.

Factory workers were often exploited at about

farming wages. 6 day week, up to 14 hour days. Dockers/coal heavers and the like are on day

rates – not full time employees [basically true for another 40 years or so].

Domestics could earn £1/10/- a week plus uniform and accommodation, but mostly they didn't. £20

to £30 a year was quite good. The chef and other high ranking servants could earn £300 p.a.

‗Oh you didn‘t,‘ wailed Nancy her eyes filling with tears. ‗Not all the money. Not all of it!‘ Murray‘s stomach twisted. ‗Trust me, Nancy. This is a good thing, lassie.‘ ‗Mrs B says to run away when a man says trust me,‘ her lower lip quivered. ‗She says

that‘s how good girls get into trouble.‘ Murray tried not to smile. ‗And she‘s a good woman, and that‘s good advice. But this

is different and I promise, you have my solemn word as a gentleman, this is the right thing to do.‘

‗A gentleman?‘ said Nancy. ‗A proper gentleman?‘ ‗Aye,‘ nodded Murray shovelling coal into the scuttle, his hands and face smeared

with coal dust. ‗I‘ll prove it to you, come to the Boot Room later and I‘ll show you.‘ ‗Same deal?‘ grudged Nancy wiping her hands on her pinny and holding open the

door to the coal shed with her hip. ‗Aye, lassie but I promise, much more than two pounds, ten shillings and four pen-

nies.‘ ‗Cross your heart and ...‘ ‗Aye, aye, hope to die,‘ sighed Murray squeezing out into the sunlight his arms strain-

ing under the weight of the coal buckets. He‘d started sweating again and his back told

him it was going to be a long day. Later As the church clock called out the eleventh hour Nancy knocked on Murray‘s door

and slid inside. ‗What is it?‘ she asked jumping on his bed and sliding her toes under the blanket as Murray lay down the blacking brush and opened Dan‘s secret hiding place under the eaves.

‗A box? Is that all?‘ she said with a frown of disappointment. ‗Nay lassie, patience.‘ Boot blackened fingers reached inside and pulled out a long ob-

ject wrapped in silk. ‗This is what we‘re going to sell. Sort of?‘ Nancy watched fascinated as Murray unwrapped the object. Her eyes on stalks as the intricate details of the carved jade came into

view. ‗What is it?‘ she asked stroking the carving with a nervous finger. ‗A dragon boat,‘ replied. ‗Tang,‘ probably. ‗Spinach jade, very, very old and of great value to the right person.‘ ‗Whadda you mean, sort of?‘ the girl asked pulling her shawl

closer and staring hard into his face for any sign of deception. Nancy still smarting at the lost of her stake in the five pound note wasn‘t giving any quarter: ‗I don‘t know where Tang is either, you know I don‘t. You say stuff I don‘t know nuffin about...‘

Murray winced under the spell of her innocence: ‗Someone wants this back,‘ he re-plied carefully rewrapping the jade. ‗Someone will pay a recovery fee. Tang is a time, long ago, a thousand years ago, in China. An emperor called Yang of Sui did amazing things.‘

‗Not around here then ... What if they stick us with the Rozzers for fencin‘,‘ she sniffed. ‗An how d‘we know who‘d want it back? Gawd knows when Dan nicked it.‘

‗Now that‘s the easy part. It‘s clearly from a specialist collector. What we need is a ..‘ ‗Chinaman,‘ said Nancy with the authority of a 50/50 partner. ‗We get lot of them in

here. Big tippers. There‘s some Shanghai Princess due in on Friday so Mrs Bluddschott was telling the chef, he‘s got to do sweet and sour pork and a hot pepper sommat, he

ain‘t happy.‘ Murray nodded in agreement. He hadn‘t noticed many Princesses the last time he

was in Shanghai, but there were certainly concubines and many families with diverse business interests who collected prized items from their looted cultural history. How they collected them was worrying but he always had a knife hidden in his boot.

The next morning on the coal run.

‗I can‘t go in there,‘ Murray said to Nancy dropping the coal scut-tle outside the door to Suite Three. ‗It‘s alright, he went out early. I saw him get in an Hansom. It‘ll be empty,‘ she said pushing open the heavy door. Murray‘s eye-brows raised. Surely Burke wouldn‘t be stupid enough to leave the Buddha unattended. He was arrogant though, always had been. It was worth a look.

As Nancy started scraping ashes out of the dead hearth Murray edged towards the bedroom. The last time he‘d seen the Buddha it was on full view on a table in the bay window next to a Smith and Wesson pistol.

‗Go on then,‘ Nancy chided. ‗We ain‘t got all day.‘ ‗The bedroom door yielded under his touch and he stepped into the darkened interior

of the bedroom. The table was empty, both the statuette and the gun had gone. A lace negligee was draped over a chair. Horrified, he swivelled his gaze towards the dishev-elled bed. A rainbow of raven wing curls was spread over the pillowcase, a delicate arm hung loose across the eiderdown.

‗Is that you, Jaime?‘ asked a sleepy voice he knew so well. A pair of dilated pupils sought out the face of the man in the doorway, the arm laced with the telltale rivers of indigo shrank away from sight. ‗Murray? No, it can‘t be. You‘re dead!‘ The eye‘s flut-

tered and closed tight. Murray backed out of the room and fled before those globes death tinged with lauda-

num could focus. Nancy watched in surprise as Murray ran from the Suite, she‘d better do something.

‗It‘s only me, ma‘am,‘ she said, hand on the door handle. ‗I‘m lighting the fire, sorry if I woke you. Please don‘t tell on me to Mr Bluddschott.‘

Consoled and saved from the enormity of the waking dream. The woman smiled and closed her eyes as Nancy pulled the door closed.

Phew that was a close one, the maid thought, blowing on the kindling. Another mys-tery to ponder about. Who was the woman? How did Murray know her? Wiping a sooty hand across her forehead, Nancy hoped he‘d taken shelter in the coal shed, again. It was becoming his hiding place of choice and she hoped he was filling buckets instead

of trembling in a corner like last time he went off on one of his shaking sessions. Murray shouldn‘t be out on his own, he needed looking after, poor old sausage.

The Tang dynasty (618–907 AD) was an imperial dynasty of China preceded by the Sui dynasty

and followed by the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period. It was founded by the Li family who seized power during the collapse of the Sui Empire. The dynasty was briefly interrupted

when Empress Wu Zetian seized the throne, proclaiming the Second Zhou dynasty (October 8, 690 – March 3, 705) she was the only Chinese empress regnant.

The Tang dynasty, with its capital at Chang'an (present-day Xi'an), the most populous city in the world, is regarded as a high point in Chinese civilization: a golden age of cosmopolitan culture.

Its territory, acquired through the military campaigns, rivalled that of the Han dynasty. In two censuses of

the 7th and 8th centuries, Tang records estimated the population by number of registered households at 50 million people. Yet, even when the central government was unable to compile an accurate census of the population in the 9th century, it is estimated the population had grown to about 80 million. With its

large population base, the dynasty was able to raise professional and conscripted armies of hundreds of thousands of troops to contend with nomadic powers in dominating Inner Asia and the lucrative trade

routes along the Silk Road. Various kingdoms paid tribute to the Tang court, while the Tang also con-quered or subdued several regions which it controlled through a protectorate system. Besides political he-gemony, the Tang also exerted a powerful cultural influence over neighbouring states such as those in Ko-

rea, Japan, and Vietnam.

The Tang dynasty was largely a period of progress and stability, except during the An Lushan Rebellion

and the decline of central authority in the later half of the dynasty. Like the previous Sui dynasty, the Tang dynasty maintained a civil service system by recruiting scholar-officials through standardized examinations and recommendations to office. This civil order was undermined by the rise of regional military governors

known as ―jiedushi‖ during the 9th century. Chinese culture flourished and further matured during the Tang era; it is considered the greatest age for Chinese poetry. Two of China's most famous poets, Li Bai and Du Fu, belonged to this age, as did many famous painters such as Han Gan, Zhang Xuan, and Zhou

Fang. A rich variety of historical literature was compiled by scholars, as well as encyclopedias.

There were many notable innovations during the Tang, including the development of woodblock printing.

Buddhism became a major influence in Chinese culture, with native Chinese sects gaining prominence. Al-though the dynasty and central government were in decline by the 9th century, art and culture continued to flourish. The weakened central government largely withdrew from managing the economy, though the

country's mercantile affairs stayed intact and commercial trade continued to thrive.

Emperor Yang of Sui, the founder and first emperor of the Tang dynasty. Background research Source Wikipedia and other web outlets

(AMENDED: AP) The Maharaja of Loo Vinda was a worried man. This was because he was in the grip of a desire he could not resist. For most men, this particular desire would not be a matter for worry at all and they would not have even contemplated resistance. But he was not blessed as most men. No, most men had wives who were obedient, mod-est, submissive, as wives should be. But his! He cursed the day his parents had ever set eyes on the girl.

It had been all right to start with. Muni was beautiful in those days, not the massive lump she was now. She was also accommodating – not that she ever had anything to ac-commodate, for hadn‘t he always been the most considerate of husbands? Eight children, four boys and four girls, who could ask for more? Actually there was more – he‘d given her a diamond with each of the boys and a gold chain with each of the girls. Frequently he gave her silk saris and moonstones and amethysts, and yet the woman was not con-tent. She never actually said anything, but he always knew there would be trouble if he ever looked at another woman. And trouble with Muni meant trouble. First the silences, the downcast eyes, then the turning away, and then the throwing would begin. Goblets, plates, works of art, anything and everything could be flung. Into the wall they smashed, into the servants, especially poor George, and even, once or twice into his own sacred person. He could have had her executed for this last, but he considered himself a modern man, a liberal intellectual, and he would have felt a fool.

But that night, as he wended his way back to the hotel from the Winter Gardens, he knew that something had to be done. For he had just witnessed the most wonderful woman in the world - performing on the stage of all places. Life was truly strange. But he would have her for a second wife, he would, he would! Of course she would have to give up dressing as a man, but that would only be a relief for her. What woman would do that sort of thing unless she were starving? He had only found out about it at breakfast. A vi-sion of absolute loveliness had come into the room, causing the Maharajah to catch his breath. This vision passed very close to him and he caught the scent of roses as she sat with some actors at the table behind his. Then she began to talk in beautiful silver tones of a stage appearance that he gradually gathered was her own. He gaped at his toast. Top hat? Trousers? Shirt? But being, as stated, modern, intellectual and liberal, he had determined to watch her act. And that evening, at 9.34pm in the Winter Gardens, his heart had been lost.

‗Where have you been?‘ demanded the Maharani as soon as her husband entered their

suite. ‗I have been sitting here for three hours alone whilst my husband who is supposed to be my protector is nowhere to be found. Only the gods know what could have befallen me in that time…‘ She had heaved herself up and was removing his jacket as a good wife should when what should fall out of its pocket but half of one admission ticket to the glo-rious Gardens wherein he had just discovered his love. ‗Aha!‘ she cried, pouncing, and within minutes the whole story had come out. Well, not the whole story, you understand. For the Maharajah did not mention the woman he would shortly be marrying, but he did agree to take his present wife with him the next evening because that seemed to be the only way he would get to see his love again.

The Maharani was not impressed. ‗What a cold building,‘ she cried on viewing the mar-ble pillars, and potted palms. ‗No carvings, no crimsons and not a feather of gold. Where are the minarets and mosaics? I cannot see even a fountain in this miserable place, even

a peacock, even one silken cushion. We have made a grave mistake. We must return to the hotel at once.‘

But her husband‘s heart was drumming in his throat and he pushed his wife through the door into their box. ‗Enough!‘ he said, in a tone which shocked her into silence and before she had a chance to recover the lights were down and the show had started.

A person in the strangest clothes strolled on to the stage. The jacket, made of differ-ent coloured squares, barely covered his ribs and his trousers were also made of squares but of different colours. He spoke in an incomprehensible accent which made the audi-ence laugh and he carried a stick. This he twisted between his fingers, then dropped re-trieved, and held before him as he shuffled his feet in great heavy wooden shoes that made so much noise the Maharani felt her head would burst. ‗We‘re going,‘ she hissed.

‗Quiet!‘ her husband thundered in an undertone. Once again she was astonished. What had got into the man? Well, she would soon

sort him out when they did get back… a woman was singing now, something about fol-lowing a van and getting lost. The Maharani could not for the life of her see how any-body following something might get lost and decided it was typical of these strange peo-ple who did not even know how to serve tea. A man had joined the woman now and both were singing, and linking arms and kicking their feet up. It was all quite weird and the Maharani wondered how her husband had taken to it at all. She stole a sideways glance at him and he looked as bored as she felt. But the audience were banging their hands together in the way these people do to signify their appreciation of the end of something and the man and woman bowed low and left the stage. The music started again and on swung a gentleman in a tall hat and cloak whose shoes shone like the sil-ver top to his cane.

And that is when the Maharani stopped being bored. ‗Oh!‘ she breathed, for the gen-tleman was truly exquisite. His figure was most pliant, his hair shone like coal and his eyes sparkled like the stars in the sky. He was Burlington Bertie, he sang, with such a sweet pure voice, that the Maharani‘s heart melted within her and flowed out to join his. Oh for a silken couch, a rising moon, a jasmine garden… Again she glanced sideways at her husband – such thoughts as were overwhelming her at the moment could mean death – but all his attention was on the stage. For once she was glad to be ignored and fanned herself with her sari. She hoped he wouldn‘t notice. And he didn‘t.

Husband and wife made their way back to the hotel in silence, or what they each

hoped was silence for were not both hearts banging fit to burst? The Maharani kept her eyes down as she tried desperately to think of a way to meet the exquisite young man again but the Maharajah thrust out his chin. I will no longer be a mouse he vowed to himself. Am I not master in my own house? She will accept my decision.

As they entered the foyer he drew in his breath sharply, for there, waiting for the lift, was the light of his life. Still in her stage costume, but desperate to be out of it he knew. There was no time to be lost. Not that his will would falter or anything, but all the same.

‗I would be delighted if you would take tea with us,‘ he heard himself saying. At this the maharani raised her eyes, and nearly fainted. As the lift clanked upwards husband and wife studied the floor. What will I do when

the throwing starts? worried the Maharaja. What will I do when he observes my feelings? worried the Maharani. Only Burlington Bertie seemed at ease and was soon leaning back

happily on the silken cushions of the couch which formed part of the Emperor Suite. Oh how the Maharani yearned to snuggle up beside him, to stroke that rosy cheek,

tangle her fingers in that shining hair, feel the caress of those delicate hands. How the Maharajah struggled to keep from leaping upon the marvellous creature as any red blooded man would surely… But he knew he had to plan.

At the back of his mind he was amazed things were going so smoothly. Not so much as a glacial glance had been thrown. Perhaps it was because he had taken such a firm line at the theatre – yes that must be it. At last his wife realised he was a force to be reckoned with. At last she was going to be a proper dutiful wife and he was going to get his just deserts.

But their guest was saying goodnight. ‗Would you like to join us here tomorrow for tiffin?‘ the Maharani was saying.

The Maharajah gaped, and then went to thank all the gods for the incredible joy they were about to bestow upon him.

Miss Vesta Currie, startled the Maharajah by turning up for tiffin in her stage outfit.

‗Saves time.‘ She explained, ‗Got a matinee.‘ Which words satisfied him to some extent but completely bypassed the Maharani who was too entranced even to hear them. Her bracelets tinkled as she motioned George forward with the tray of thali. Miss Currie re-garded it and said, ‗No thanks, I‘ll just have tea if it‘s all the same to you.‘

What! The Mahrani‘s head jerked backwards. She must have insulted her love with an inferior offering. She had not provided for his needs. She pushed back her bejew-elled hair and scrutinised the golden tray. What could be missing? There was the rice, fragrant with saffron – nobody could provide better rice than George – the daal, the six types of vegetable, the roti, papad, curd, chutney, pickle… then it hit her - there was no meat! Oh, shame, upon shame, she had forgotten to provide meat for an English guest. He would not come again, never, never, never… Her dreams of ecstasy on silken cush-ions drifted into dust. What could she do? For do something she must. Never in her life had she felt such longings. Suddenly the perfect solution occurred to her.

‗Husband,‘ she faltered. ‗May I speak with you in the bedroom?‘ And, bowing to Vesta, then motioning the faithful George forward to serve the chai from its golden pot, she stepped through the bedroom door.

The Maharajah was still not completely at ease with his wife‘s behaviour to his new woman, still not completely convinced he had tamed her once and for all, but he fan-cied he could see tears in her eyes. Was she really about to plead for forgiveness for her unbecoming behaviour of the past 20 years? As soon as the bedroom door was closed the tears began to fall in earnest. ‗Oh husband, Lord of my life, I have failed you. How can you forgive such a miserable sinner?‘

‗Come, Come now, said the Maharajah, embarrassed as any modern liberal man would have been. He had no wish to make his wife suffer, for he was quite fond of her in spite of everything.

‗I have insulted our guest.‘ ‗Of course you haven‘t. You offered abundance.‘ ‗But no meat,‘ wailed the Maharani. ‗Do you not see? I have insulted the culture of

our guest.‘ ‗Meat?‘ said the Maharajah, whose lips, of course, had never tasted the stuff. Did his

love actually take dead creatures into her mouth…? No matter, when they were wed

she would forget all such abomination and he would kiss those beautiful lips without the taint… He would run his hands down that beautiful body…the maharajah‘s head was be-coming quite hot, his fingers tightening into fists, but fresh wails from his wife brought him down to earth again.

‗From where will we get meat?‘ moaned the Maharani.

Actually she knew very well from where. On the way to the theatre last night they had

driven down a small alley and passed one of those shops with fowl hanging by the claws and pieces of flesh and bone and head strewn across the counter in the window. She had, of course averted her eyes, but in doing so had noticed some tiny pastries labelled ‗pork pies‘. Meat, but invisible meat, and the very thing. She waited respectfully for her husband to achieve this solution, and as he did not, she was forced to construct a ladder of clues.

‗If only there were a meat shop nearby,‘ she began. But the Maharajah the previous night had been too excited at the thought of seeing his beloved to see the butcher‘s and merely shook his head in companionable despair.

‗I wonder where those people who live around here get their meat?‘ the Maharani

continued. Again the Maharajah had no idea. ‗Surely such an offensive shop would not be on display in a main street,‘ said the Ma-

harani. ‗Are there any small alleys in the vicinity, do you know?‘ At last the penny dropped. ‗I know of the very place,‘ cried the Maharajah. And with-

out thought for his wife, whizzed off to obtain the omitted sustenance. The Maharani gave a sigh of relief and went back into the salon where her love was

trying to make conversation with George. ‗George,‘ said the Maharani. ‗His Highness has gone on an errand. Please go and carry

his purchases. He went eastwards.‘ She ushered the bemused George from the room and, alone at last, turned to Vesta.

‗Lovely tea,‘ said Vesta. ‗And the food looks great too. But I have an allergy to spicy

stuff, sorry. Brings me out in bumps.‘ ‗No matter,‘ murmured the Maharani. ‗I wish only for your comfort.‘ She smoothed the

silk on which Vesta reclined then slowly took her seat beside her love. Her end of the couch sank as Vesta‘s rose. The Maharani gazed into pools of deepest blue and was be-witched. She forgot she was wife of the stodgy ruler of Loo Vinda, mother of his wailing offspring. She was a girl again, lithe and light as the beautiful creature beside her and the promise of ecstasy was flaming between them. Just one hint, and her lover would fold her in his arms and bear her away from this wearisome life to the world of excitement, passion where she belonged.

‗Very nice suite you have here,‘ said Vesta. ‗Love the view over the harbour.‘ The Maharani lay back in the cushions and contemplated deliciously what that hint

should be. Should she run her fingers down the peach-bloom skin?

‗How many rooms have you got?‘ asked Vesta. Should she caress the gleaming hair? ‗I‘ve only got half a one,‘ said Vesta. ‗Have to share with Miranda.‘ The Maharani stared in rapture. Vesta was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Was there something wrong with

the woman? She decided to escape.

‗Well, thanks very much,‘ she said. ‗Got to get to the theatre now, I‘m afraid.‘ What? The Maharani sat bolt upright. ‗But there is still tea in the pot,‘ she said

wildly. ‗It is very unlucky to leave tea in the pot. The gods become angry and… and… Please,‘ she lurched for the teapot, leaning over Vesta and pinning her to the couch.

‗The gods will be angry with me if I miss my call,‘ gasped Vesta, struggling under

the Maharani‘s bulk. Buttons popped. The Maharani had grabbed both cup and pot now and was endeavouring to unite them. The Maharani stretched, Vesta twisted and there was a loud ripping sound. The Maharani failed to notice this, as she failed to no-tice the door bursting open and her husband, bearing a paper bag, falling into the room.

‗There you are,‘ said the Maharani to Vesta, sitting back triumphantly with a brim-ming cup.

The Maharajah stared at Vesta. Gone was the stiff collar, gone the starched shirt front, gone in fact most of the shirt. It fell away as she slowly stood up. Smooth creamy flesh burgeoned from a froth of lace above a silk corset. He gulped. Had his wife really done this for him? Persuaded his love to present herself ready for para-dise? ‗There you are,‘ she had said, proffering also tea to refresh him, to invigorate

him. Was it all right then? Did she not mind his having another wife? By this time the Maharani too had raised her eyes, and she could not believe them.

There, where her lover had been, was a tousled, half naked woman. Was she dream-ing? And there was her husband, gaping like the fool he was. Then he turned his eyes to herself. They were brimming with tears. ‗Oh my first wife,‘ he said. ‗Thank you a million times for this gift.‘

‗First‘…? ‗Gift‘…? The Maharani stood. The Maharani turned away. Then she let out the scream of an impaled parrot and hurled the cup of tea at the Maharajah‘s head. Then the pot, then the tray, then the table.

Vesta flew. They were mad. These people were stark, raving mad. Along the corri-dor she raced up one set of stairs after another until she reached her room. There she dressed, packed, and caught the next train to anywhere.

Vesta Currie‘s theatrical career quickly petered out, and when she tried to write her autobiography no publisher would take it because of one totally unbelievable incident which she refused to omit, maintaining it was perfectly true. Her allergy to spicy food increased until she could not eat so much as a slice of Christmas cake and she spent the rest of her life in a home for those who had gone out of their minds, funded, alleg-edly, by an anonymous gentleman who was rumoured to be somebody in the glorious sub-continent.

RESEARCH: Tiffin was an English slang term applied to a light meal. It originated in British India during the Raj. The word originated when Indian custom superseded the British practice of afternoon tea. It is derived from obsolete English slang tiffing, for "taking a little drink or sip".

In South India and in Nepal, the term is used for between-meals snacks. In Mumbai, the word refers to a packed lunch in particular to light lunches prepared for working men by their wives after they have left for work, or for schoolchildren. In Mumbai, it is forwarded by dabbawalas, sometimes known as tiffin wallahs, who use a complex system to get thou-sands of tiffin-boxes to their rightful destinations. Tiffin often consists of rice, dal, curry, vegetables, chapatis or "spicy meats". The lunch boxes are called tiffin carriers, tiffin-boxes or simply tiffins.

Monkface is summoned ‗Princess Lotus Lily wishes to extend an invitation to you to visit her suite for tea at

3.00 o‘clock,‘ said Basil Bluddschott with a note of distain in his voice. Boniface Monkface blinked. He was having a very strange day. He set down the

newspaper crossword and stuttered, ‗Who? Where? What does she want?‘ He had

watched with great interest the arrival of the oriental Princess and her retinue as had every other guest in the vicinity of the foyer. He‘d never seen a woman so slender covered head to toe in silks and with such a way of walking. Princess Lily glided through reception like a swan on a still and darkling lake.

‗I am not in the confidence of the Princess, but I can tell you she is in residence in both suites four and five overlooking the sea. Tea will be served at 3.00 o‘clock pre-cisely in suite five.‘ Having delivered the message Basil shuffled away clearly dis-pleased. He obviously thought Monkface was below the dignity of the Nasturtium but clearly he was useful to a variety of his guests‘ business interests and as such must be tolerated.

This piece has been amended ... trying to keep up with the room numbers is proving challenging

Celebrations, In Flanders Fields and Poems for Children Winners

Announced : FORWARD POETRY UPDATE Congratulations to our Celebrations winner Lynne Emmerson, In Flanders Fields winner Tom Irvine and Poems for Chil-

dren winner Daniel Bate who have all been chosen as the best poem in their publication winning them £25!

Read More

Great British Write Off Shortlist Announced

Did you enter The Great British Write Off this year? Our judges Mark Grist, MC Mixy and Penny Pepper have looked all

of the shortlisted entries and we will be announcing the 1st, 2nd and 3rd place winners in late December so keep an eye

out, you could be one of our winners!

Read More

Forward Poetry Social Top Five

Throughout the month of October we had amazing poems being added to FP Social, which made it very hard to pick our

Top Five and Poet of the Month...

Schizophrenic by Gaza (Poet of the month)

You and Me by Gyrocaptain

Decomposing by Jagush

Cusp of Womanhood Observed by Jennie Charles

Ouch! by Joanne Hayle

Join FP Social

Featured Poetry Book – Faber & Faber War Poets Collection - 6 Books (Collection)

In the year that marks the centenary of the First World War, this six-book collection brings together the work of some of

the finest poets of the era.

Compiled by Faber & Faber, the books all feature specially commissioned covers by leading print makers and contain

introductions to the famous poems by some of the leading poets and biographers of the present day.

The likes of Rupert Brooke, Robert Graves, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, David Jones and Edward Thomas are all

poets synonymous with the Great War and this set showcases the poignant poems from them that provided a glimpse into

life in the trenches.

Titles in this collection: David Jones, Siegfried Sassoon, Rupert Brooke, Robert Graves, Wilfred Owen and Edward

Thomas.Publisher: Faber & Faber ISBN: 9780571316106

Poetry Rivals Finalists Announced Next Month!

It’s nearly time to announce who has been chosen as our top 100 finalists in Poetry Rivals 2014! Our slam host, Mark

Grist has read through all of the entries and has selected the top 100, who will be invited to perform their selected poem

at the live slam final in 2015 in front of a panel of judges and a live audience. The winner at the slam final will be

awarded the amazing top prize, a book publishing contract! Keep any eye out for the finalist announcement in early De-

cember on the Poetry Rivals website.

http://www.thepoetrytrust.org/images/uploads/flipbooks/the_poetry_paper_issue_11/

index.html#/1/

Free to read flippingbook

Come and join us for the last workshop of 2014

bring goodies and join in the fun.

If you are a subscribing email recipient to leave RBW Online is easy just email and say ‘unsubscribe’ and you will be immediately removed from the list. If you have any suggestions for improvement to this service please let us know. You don't have to take an active part to receive this workshop bulletin you can just sit back and enjoy the ride, but if you could send feedback, it is greatly appreciated. RBW Privacy Promise: A few simple contact details are all that are required and they will only be used for this bulletin service. RBW promise to:

Only send you details via the newsletter.

To never pass on your details to anyone else.

To always allow recipients to opt-out and unsubscribe at any time.

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk

To contact RBW please use the website contact box.

PATRON Ian McMillan www.ian-mcmillan.co.uk

Present and Previous Memberships and Funders.

Rising Brook Writers strives to be compliant with the requirements of the Data Protection Act. RBW strives for accu-

racy and fairness, however, can take no responsibility for any error, misinterpretation or inaccuracy in any message

sent by this mode of publishing. The opinions expressed are not necessarily in accordance with the policy of the char-

ity. E-mails and attachments sent out by RBW are believed to be free from viruses which might affect computer sys-

tems into which they are received or opened but it is the responsibility of the recipient to ensure that they are virus

free. Rising Brook Writers accepts no responsibility for any loss or damage arising in any way from their receipt, open-

ing or use. Environment/ Recycling: Please consider carefully if you need to print out any part or all of this message.

To the best of our knowledge and belief all the material included in this publication is free to use in the public domain,

or has been reproduced with permission, and/or source acknowledgement. RBW have researched rights where possible,

if anyone’s copyright is accidentally breached please inform us and we will remove the item with apologies. RBW is a

community organisation, whose aims are purely educational, and is entirely non-profit making. If using material from

this collection for educational purposes please be so kind as to acknowledge RBW as the source. Contributors retain the

copyright to their own work. Fiction: names, characters, places and incidents are imaginary or are being used in a ficti-

tious way. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

This bulletin is produced by volunteers. The editor’s decisions are final and not open to discussion.

© Rising Brook Writers 2014 — RCN 1117227 A voluntary charitable trust.