Issue 367 19th December 2014

Look out for the

next issue of RBW Online in January 2015

2

The new electronic interdependence recreates the world in the image of a global village. Marshall McLuhan (1911 - 1980)

On a well-known TV early-evening quiz show, a contestant was asked to identify some railway stations from photographs. Delightfully, he chose one and identified it as ―St Pan-

creas Station‖. I‘ll never think of it as anything else again!

A young lad sitting shivering on the pavement begging, blessed me for giving him a drink of orange juice and a biscuit (the remains of my lunch) I shed silent tears all the way

home on the bus: what has the country come to ...

―Education is what is left when we‘ve forgotten everything we learnt in school‖ ~ Anon.

Random words : sails/sales, devious, summary, aftermath, glug,

haggis, tent, Ernie

Assignment : Avoiding resolutions (or revolutions)

Rising Brook/Holmcroft/

Baswich/Gnosall

Libraries are under threat.

That‘s all for 2014 ... All at RBW thank you for your continued support and

we will restart library workshops on 5th Jan at 1.30pm Please continue to send in bulletin submissions over the

holidays. Many thanks.

Annoyed at the library closure threats?

Have you emailed your local councillor and asked what they are doing about it? All the Cllrs email addresses can be found on the

Stafford Borough Council website ... Don‘t leave it to others to save the libraries ... We need

everyone to join in and to ask those awkward questions.

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

The Market Inspector Plodd Adventures ...

Plodd and Rob were on a mission. Not a 'Mission

Impossible' but Red Riding Hood's Granny had gone

missing again and they wanted the reward. ‗Peter Pipers Particularly Picked Pickled Pepper Peck

Packet Promotions are not to be sneezed at,‘ Plodd said

as they searched in the Wild Wood, the Slightly Wild Wood and the Very Tame Wood. 'What we need is a

clue.‘ ‗How about that hat up there in that tree,‘ Rob re-

marked, pointing to pointed red hat hanging from a

high branch. ‗That looks just like Granny's hat to me.‘ ‗Not that one, Rob. That's not Granny Red‘s, you can

tell that because there's no fruit around the rim. Hot on her 5-a-day is Granny Red.‘

‗Well, Inspector, where did they find her last time?

There could be a clue there, couldn't there?‘ ‗I don't think that that would work again, Rob. She

was hiding inside a disused wolf skin. It was only be-

cause that itinerant log, sticks, coal and smokeless fuel merchant was passing that we found her. She know

we're wise to that one.‘ ‗I heard that the wolf had swallowed her Inspector.

Nothing about a coal merchant and anyway what was a

coal merchant doing in the Wild-Wood?‘ ‗It was harvest time Rob, he was filling a few sacks

from the smokeless coal trees. Strictly against the rules of course; he should have waited until it fell and bought it from the Harvest Mice once they'd got the

shell off.‘ ‗What happened to him then, Inspector?‘

‗Nothing much. Got to take tea with the Red Quean, with extra pepper, played bowls against the Dormice; they were asleep at the time, but he still lost. Wockied

a few Jabbers with the rubber Band Ersnatch and was last seen trying to catch a plain.‘

Rob had seen that one coming and was ready for it.

‗A plain what. Inspector?‘ ‗Nobody knows, Rob. Heroes are like that, they fade

away into a back story somewhere. Although I have heard a rumour that his lorry is sometimes seen driving down the back roads of badly written ghost stories,

without a driver at the wheel.‘

Have they found Red Riding Hoods hat?! Has M.I.Plodd succeed in his latest QUEST? Will they find Granny, and her teeth?

For the next episode of this not at all action misadventure

Tune in sometime in the near future

[if you can stay awake long enough!!]

‗There they are boss. Hanging on that branch.‘

Rob exclaimed.

‗Are they?‘ Plodd, not at his brightest around lunchtime, said in Bewilderment. Rob didn't understand

him as she was listening in English.

‗Look boss a genuine set of teeth marked at £2.50 plus tacks. Could they be Granny Red's do

you think?‘ ‗Her spare set maybe Rob. They don't have that

lived in feeling about them. No jam roll in the spaces

and Granny Red likes her jam roll; two or three times a day if she can get it, and the custard's a dead give away.‘

Rob looked around. ‗But there isn't any Custard around here, boss. It's the wrong time of the year for

the Custard trees to flower. I suppose you could be lucky and find a Blancmange Bush in Bloom, but it's just not the same. Especially the Raspberry flavoured

ones.‘ ‗I know. That's the dead give away Rob. Well,

that and the semi-skimmed milk-bottle plants going into hibernation. All great clues if you sniff them out. The only way to do it is to keep your eyes peeled,

shoulders to the wheel, back to the wall and nose to the grindstone.‘

‗Ohh dear me, guv ... sounds most uncomfortable does that. The problem for us is, do we get them down and take them into custard(y) or get the Pflonk Town

Ffire and Rrescue Brigade and Mobile Fish and Chip Shop out?‘

Plodd was all for leaving it to the experts, but

they were on holiday so they so they had to settle for the Ffire and Rrescue characters.

‗Right then, Mr Plodd. Where's this Ffire we've been called out to deal with,‘ the Chief Ffireman, he was painted Red and Blue, with a big gold badge on his

hat, asked. ‗Sorry chief there isn't one. It's a case of Ddoing a

Ddaring Rrescue.‘ Plodd was quite good at Pflonking. ‗Risking your paintwork in getting those teeth down out of that Liquorice wheel and Rhubarb tart tree. Should

look good the headlines in the papers though. Specially the ones' you wrap the fish and chips in.‘

Has Mr. Plodd succeeded in his latest QUEST? Will they find Granny,

[and her get her teeth back home before the custard sets rock solid?]

Has the whole plot gone off the rails!

Does anybody know if there are any rails?

For the next episode of this adventure

Tune in sometime in

the near future.

(by Clive Hewitt)

GIRD UP YOUR LOINS ... Ready for another dose of the surreal? YES it’s even more from ... Clive Hewitt

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,‖ oh deared Market Inspec-tor Plodd to his side kick Rob. ―You were right. We

should never have brought in that dog to search for Granny's teeth.‖

―Well boss.‖ Rob replied, ―We'd got that nice fluffy knitted Rottweiller all lined up for it, but you insisted on getting that particularly petunia pink pottery Poodle

called Floss. Funny dogs them!‖ ―It's not that, Rob. It's the holes in Red Riding

Hoods lawn. What do we find? Grannies half buried toys, and I'm not even sure they're recyclable.‖

―I think I know the problem guv.‖ Rob replied. ―Is it

a Blue or Brown bin for a 40 tonne HGV?‖ ―That's only one of the problems Rob. The real

problem is where do we go from here?‖

―You know the old saying boss. If all else fails go back to the plot line - if you can remember where you

put it. I think we left this one in the hands of the Pflonk Ttown Ffire and Rrescue Brigade and Mobile Fish and Chip Shop at that Liquorice wheel and Rhubarb tart

tree.‖ ―Well remembered Rob. Did they get those teeth

down?‖ ―Sort of boss. The last time I saw them they were

trying to get them off the Chief Ffireman. They had a

particularly sticky custard on them that needed some of that special vinegar to shift it.‖

―Special vinegar Rob! What special vinegar would that be?‖

―Beetroot and Vodka vinegar I think they called it.

I'm not sure that it worked on the teeth but it brought the Chief Ffireman up to a good shine.‖

―Yet another triumph for the Pflonk Ttown Ffire and

Rrescue then Rob.‖ ―Not really, guv. They found a label on them; it said

Giant Teeth [Small size] return to Castle in the Clouds joke shop. Not to be used by humans. Warning, may contain beans.‖

―Bother! No jam roll and custard either. Will it never be lunch time?‖

Will Mr. Plodd succeeded in his latest QUEST? Will they get the teeth back home before the

beans go solid? Has what little plot there is left gone astray?

Sometime in the future we may find out.

―It's no good, we'll never find Granny at this rate

Rob.‖ Plodd was down in the dumps, and the ladder

wasn't long enough to reach the bottom. ―Never say dye boss,‖ Rob replied. ―We're near the

lair of the multicoloured twinkling-fairy-light making

elves. If anybody has a clue it'll be them. They get eve-rywhere.‖

―Fee fie forth thumb ... bother; that's not right, you don't happen to know the words do you?‖ said a small bush at the roadside.

Rob, who had been to the latest Pantomime at the Toytown Preforming Artists Off-centre [well that what the sign said] answered, ―It could be Fee fie fo fum but

you've got to be a giant to say it.‖ ―Yer that's the problem,‖ said the bush. ―Not being a

real giant I mean; and being on a training programme isn't the same.‖

―I'd know that voice anywhere,‖ said Plodd, ―It's

Rumplestiltskin! I didn't know they'd let you out of the Playtime Theatre.‖

―Nearly, very nearly,‖ the voice replied. ―He's still in-side, got another twenty seven and a half perform-ances to go before he's up for parole. Mind you we're

putting in a case for cruel and unusual punishment.‖ ―Will it succeed?‖ Plodd asked. ― I thought he was on

a no early release sentence.‖ ―It's not for him,‖ the voice said, ―it's for the audi-

ence! Even those guilty of committing badly written

poetry don't deserve that.‖ ―Well who are you then?‖ Rob wanted to know. ―I'm his younger brother, Rumpledonionskin,‖ said

the voice as a small person, dressed in a red coat, with blue bits, and brown boots, appeared around the side

of the bush. ―Mum and Dad where a bit lacking when it came to names. You're near the lair of the multicol-oured twinkling-fairy-light making elves and I've been

highered to frighten you away. But the highering didn't work.‖

―What would you like to do then?‖ Robb had a kind heart, no money but a kind heart.

―I'd like to be a fireman,‖ Rumpledonionskin con-

fessed. ―But they've been and sold off all the steam trains so I can't climb the ladders and rescue folks.‖

The confusion was, possibly, apparent. ―Wrong sort

of fireman Rumpledonionskin,‖ Plodd told him. ―I know the Cchief Ffireman of the Pflonk Town Ffire and Rres-

cue Bbrigade and Mmobile Ffish and Cchip Sshop though. I'll have a word with him if you can tell us where we left the plot line.‖

―Oh that's easy. Just go back to page 5, it's half way down on the left, behind the Green Door. You have to

know song to get in though.‖

Have our intrepid pair finally been beaten? Will they find the teeth before tea time?

Has Granny Red really lost them; or is she opting for the soft side.

What does the song say?

Tune in again, sometime.

6

It’s a job to know where to start, as the village and its occupants from years gone by

are in St Chad’s Churchyard, every time you walk through the grave stones you find

yet another family name and of a tradesman, farmer or farm workers and all their fami-

lies. Up until the 1940s we were almost self sufficient as a community writes Owd

Fred talking of Seighford Village.

The wheelwright made all the gates, built all the

farm carts wheel barrows and feed troughs and was also the undertaker.

The blacksmith as well as shoeing all the horses in the area repaired the machinery most of which was horse drawn, hooping wooden wheels with the

wheelwright, right down to making iron work in the old fire places trivets, chimney cranes and the like.

In The estate yard there was a handyman come builder come Thatcher who, a man who could do he

plumbing, most of that was lead pipe, the galvanized iron pipes were only just coming in.

The village shop carried most of the basic necessi-ties like salt sugar flour and also the Post Office, and also sold paraffin for the oil lamps in the houses and cot-tages, and for the tilly lamps used to carry outside and in the farm buildings.

The School. Children walked in from as far as two miles away in all directions, from the surrounding hamlets. The head teacher at one time was also the tax collector and would put pressure on the children when money

was due. The Pub. Beer was brought up from the cellar on big jugs, and the customers would sit at a scrubbed

wooden table with all sorts of oddment chairs. It would be all local people who walked or came on a bicycles.

There was also a Cobbler who made and repaired boots and shoes, as well as repaired horse harness, and all things leather.

There was six farms actually in the village, the land and fields belonging to them spread out in all direc-tions, although on the area of peat land on the east side of the estate, everyone had a portion, so it frag-mented all the farms. There would be around fourteen farm workers all in tied cottages, cottages that went

with the job, and as tractors came in the number of workers reduced, milking machines again reduced the labour force, old cottages in disrepair were eventually pulled down for a building site for new houses. The Landlord lived in the ―big‖ house on the bank just out of the village, rent was paid to him on rent

days ―Lady Day‖, and ―Michaelmas day‖ at the Holly Bush pub. When you had paid the rent to the agent, you were then invited to have a drink at the bar on him. I was told by my father that in his early days on the es-tate they all went to a hotel in town to pay their rent, and stayed for a slap-up meal. It was a change of es-

tate agent that change that to the pub in the village.

The Village Farm Cottages

Each farm worker had a cottage, went with work they did,

Work was hard, worked long hours, to earn an honest quid

Dug the garden to grow the food, all to feed the kids,

Milk and logs they came free, with the work they did.

Men left the land to get more money, cottages left empty,

Thatch it rotted let rain in, knocked them down for safety,

Tiled roof ones they lasted longer, eventually they succumb,

Rubble for field gateways, a new building plot become.

Owd Fred

Random Words: File, Athens, family, confidence, pantechnicon beetroot chronic tinsel

Sarah had never had much self-confidence, a chronic asthmatic, her cheeks burned beetroot crimson

whenever the teacher asked her a question. Her family had given up on her long ago. Sarah would be the spinster of the family, the one destined to stay at home and look after Pa. Funny how a few years

ago she‘d have agreed with them. But not today. As the last box of stuff from the attic, a worn out teddy and a thread bare tree with dodgy tinsel, was dumped in the skip she ticked the folder and closed the file. Now she was free. The removal man bolted the doors of the pantechnicon and waved

as he climbed into the driver‘s seat. It was finally real. She was off to Athens to a new job, a new flat and a new life. As the taxi arrived to take her to the airport she patted the inhaler in her pocket think-

ing hopefully she might not need it again. (SMS)

Jack was a long-distance lorry driver. It hadn‘t always been so. When he left school, he had worked for

a time in The Department of Pensions, dealing with superannuation, where all he did all day was fill out forms and file documents. He suffered from chronic boredom and longed for the open road, but

hadn‘t the confidence to make a career change. That was until he married Cas. She encouraged him to apply for his HGV licence and soon he had landed his dream job, driving his giant pantechnicon all

around Europe. The only disadvantage was that it meant days, and sometimes weeks away from his family. And it was this time of year that was most difficult. Here he was, on his way to Athens on Christmas morning. Whilst the rest of the world was at home with loved ones in frosty England, with a

glass of mulled wine and a log fire to warm them, he was alone, in bright sunshine, with just a couple of strings of tinsel to decorate his cab. He would open his presents and call Cas and the kids to wish

them Happy Christmas. Ah. He knew what this one from the girls was just by feeling the shape! A jar of his favourite pickled beetroot, no doubt! (PMW)

Latest Competitions: Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2014 | Closing Date: 21-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1676 Benchmark Creative Writing Competition | Closing Date: 19-Jan-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1679 York Literature Festival / YorkMix Open Poetry Competition 2015|Closing Date:28-Feb-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1678

Latest News: Christmas Opening times | 06-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1284 Items added to the Poetry Library in November 2014. | 05-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1283 Rug Rhymes at the Poetry Library | 05-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1282

An Aviary of Small Birds / Karen McCarthy Woolf | 04-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/acquisitions/?id=1281

Poetry Magazines Received in November 2014 | 02-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1280

Poetry Magazines Received in October 2014 | 02-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1279

8

Having Fun With Seeds.

My fascination with strange and unusual fruit trees started me thinking about the price I was having to pay for some specimens and that led to considering trying to grow them

from seeds. Talking to mom about it she remembered having dealt with a company called Chilterns many years ago when she had the garden centre. Naturally they now

have a website, so I soon found myself going through their catalogue, that doesn‘t have any pictures and ordering 10 packets of seeds for exotic, fruiting trees and bushes, for just under £30. That price might just pay for one pot grown specimen from a garden

centre, whereas the 10 packets could easily yield up to maybe 100 plants, with a decent germination rate. Admittedly, I might have to wait a good few years for some of them

to reach maturity, but at that price I think I can develop a little patience! After buying the assorted tree seeds and putting them in, I read a piece in a national

newspaper about a variety of lemon that hadn‘t been imported before and was going to be trialled by one of the big supermarket chains. The report said that the Meyer lemon

was thin skinned, peeled more like a Satsuma Orange and could be eaten like a grape-fruit, but was even less tangy. The claim was made that the Meyer lemon was hardier

than other varieties of Lemon standing temperatures of minus 5, or more as the tree matured. That immediately set me thinking, because if that is true, young plants should over winter in a cold greenhouse as you might over winter small Olive trees. The super-

market was offering a pack 4 lemons for just under £2 which made them very expensive Lemons, but they had seeds in and a normal packet of seeds is at least 2 or 3 pounds

without getting the fruit to eat as well! My only hope was that the seeds weren‘t sterile! Actually eating the Lemons was a bit of a let down, as although they were not anywhere

near as sharp as a normal Lemon, I think they had been over hyped as I thought they were still practically inedible unless sweetened with a lot of sugar. On the plus side though, the seeds did germinate well and I have over a dozen tiny Lemon trees growing

already!

At Christmas time I had bought some Sweet Chestnuts from a supermarket and I know that I have said before that it is not worth growing vegetables, etc from shop bought specimens, but I did put in a handful of the Chestnuts to germinate in some compost

and about a dozen little seedlings have come up.

One of the bought packets of seeds was of the Dioscoria Batatas, or Cinnamon Vine that I have been after for some time and they were amongst the first few pots of seeds to

germinate. If the tales about how big the single, edible root – tuber, gets, are true, I shall find out next year! Another plant that I have wanted for a while is Sea Buckthorn, which again was in my order and they too have started to germinate. The instructions

that came with the seeds advised me that some of them could take up to 2 years to germinate, so not to get impatient and throw the pots away if nothing happened for a

while. I was also advised that some of the seeds had been stored in a freezer to ―Stratify,‖ them and aid germination by making the seeds think that they had been

through a winter. In fact this was what I did with another batch of seeds that I had col-lected from our own garden. Things like Rowan and Cotoneaster berries, along with seeds from our Leycestaria, had all been placed in pots, in an outdoor cold frame to

―Stratify,‖ them some time before Christmas and after bringing the pots inside a little while ago, some of those seeds have started to germinate as well.

What I am going to do with all my surplus trees I don‘t know, but I think that I am go-ing to make a lot of new friends on the allotments next year!

Unable to resist the imported sweet fruits!

It had been a few weeks since we last visited ―that Supermarket,‖ so we decided to make another little trip to our neighbouring town and see what was on offer. The last couple of times we tried to be good

and paid a little more attention to the unusual vegetables on display ignoring the temptation to get our ―sugar fix,‖ from the exotic fruits. However, this time we could resist no more and went to the fruit sec-

tion. Strictly speaking that is not actually true because our first choice was a couple of large Plantains. Plantains are a member of the Banana family, but not so sweet and normally eaten cooked as a vegeta-ble. I expected to be able to peel it like a Banana, but it was much firmer than a Banana although the

skin looked very ripe and it was surprisingly difficult to peel really needing a sharp knife to cut the skin off and trim it. Mom hadn‘t a clue how they should be cooked, so I looked them up on the Internet and

most recipes said to slice and fry them. I decided to slice one lengthways and try roasting it for half an hour or so, with a liberal with coating of oil. It was cooked until golden brown and crisp on the outside, but turned out very dry inside really needing a sauce as the recipe had suggested. Maybe a lower cook-

ing temperature would have stopped it being so crisp, or maybe it would have been better boiled. I did keep one for another cooking attempt which I will try in a few days.

Our second purchase was a Dragonfruit that we have seen regularly on sale in other supermarkets, but

not tried before. It was quite a large fruit, the size and shape of a smallish, oblong Melon, but with a bright red skin and scaly appearance, hence the name I suppose. Nearly all of the exotic fruits that we have ever tried before have been listed with some detail in one of the popular series of expert gardening

books, but the exception was the Dragon fruit, so we didn‘t have a clue what to expect. I don‘t know if you are supposed to peel it, or let it ripen a little more and then scoop out the middle, but the thick skin

came off fairly easily in large pieces without squashing the firmish pulp inside. The centre of the fruit was grey looking and full of tiny black pips with a sweetness a little bit like a cross between the sweet-

ness of a melon and the appearance of a Kiwi, but the firmness and graininess of a pear. The Plantains worked out at about 60 pence each and at that price weren‘t worth the money in my opinion, but even though the Dragon fruit was £2 it was a much more interesting buy as a tasty treat and could easily

have been quartered to serve 4 people making the price a little easier to accept.

The fruit selection on display in the supermarket does change a little as the seasons go round, but I am surprised that we have not seen any fresh Goji Berries offered. We have been making the occasional picking at home from our bush over the winter, so they are obviously easy enough to grow, but all we

ever see are packets of dried berries. Fresh berries are as different to dried, as Grapes are to Sultanas, or Currents.

Another Winter fruit that we have never seen offered are the fruits of the Strawberry tree. One of the

local Garden Centres has a very large bush planted in its grounds near the entrance and before the snows came we used to enjoy being naughty by picking the odd ripe berry as we entered the centre be-fore they went to waste and the wildlife got them!

The gardening catalogues all seem to be advertising Pink Blueberries and they are on sale on the net,

but again I haven‘t seen any fruit offered in the shops even though vast quantities of ordinary Blueber-ries are everywhere. I have planted one bush in our garden, so I am looking forwards to next year and

a few berries of my own. It is still generally a good time to plant fruit bushes between the frosts and an-other ordinary tree with unusual coloured fruit that I planted recently was a red Hazel tree. It is sup-posed to have red leaves and red nuts, although disappointingly the inside of the nuts is still said to be

white. The tree should add a splash of colour though amongst the plain greens of the other bushes and trees around it.

I have written before about our Fig tree, Medlar tree and several others that happily bear fruit, so with it being possible to grow so many different fruits in this country maybe supermarkets could source some

unusual fruit from enterprising English growers instead of importing from overseas, just a thought ...

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: 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 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 (70s) – Manager Mrs. Cynthia Bluddschott (20s) - 2nd (trophy) wife of Basil — affair with Manchini

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

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, 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)— (Jamie Burke — Alexander Mulrose — baddies with Estella Murray‘s wife)

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 and her retinue including Fu Chan her major-domo — after a dragan boat and a female buddha

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 and lots more

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?

Darren, Peg, the mystery of the RED Paddington Buddha + Gooseberry Jam.

'Mrs. West, if there's anything in the old props room that you could use please take it away with you

to include in your Cystic Peg act.' Mr. McBallater, the Winter Garden General Manager gave his blessing to a change in the scenery.

'Take someone with you though, that room is full of dangerous stuff and the door sticks. That's why the stage manager has it locked.'

There had been a rusted up padlock holding the door shut, until Petronella West and Darren Stan-

way took turns battering it free from the woodwork by hitting it, in 2:4 time, with the pokers from their dressing rooms. Inside was a gloomy Aladdin's cave of second class props.

'Nought much of any use in here, me duck,' declared Darren. 'Not unless you want a grotty hat or a bent sword.'

'I'll have a look in that chest over there,' declared Petronella pointing it out. 'You never know what

some old Stage Manager hid away years ago. May be something.' Wrestling it out from under the junk took a few minutes, and overturned a heap of costumes under

which was a far eastern looking cupboard. 'It never rains but what it pours,' Petronella said as she tugged open the doors.

'Just a couple of old brown paper parcels in there,' Darren reported as the dust cloud subsided, 'Never been anything good in one of them yet!'

Petronella chuckled, 'Darren, this ain't a pawn shop. It could be anything. Fetch it into the light and

we'll see.' The larger parcel was, very carefully, taken to be opened in Darren‘s' dressing room. A multitude of

brown paper wrappings hid a red cloth bag whose draw strings were sealed with yellow wax. A paper label, issued by GWR Paddington Station Left Luggage Office, marked, 'Fragile. Pliez taak kaar!' was

tied to it. Inside the bag was an object wrapped in a fine yellow cloth.' 'You know, Darren, I'm sure that this yellow cloth is silk and not your ordinary silk either,' Petronella

said, as the bag was removed. 'And that cord holding it on ain't no normal string neither. Somebody

took a lot of care in wrapping this.' 'And we'll take a lot of care in undoing it, Pet. You could get a few bob for a good bit of silk like

that ... So they tell me.' Petronella, having been down to 'Uncles' a few times in her life, hid her smile. With careful fingers

she undid the complex of knots and laid bare the contents.

'What on earth is it?' Darren asked the empty air. A plump, squat, smiling figure sat on the table, surrounded by the silk wrappings.

'A statue you noodle, Darren, and in red stone as well. It's one of them Buddha things they worship out in India and places.'

'Yeah, but why's it smilin'? Don't like that at all!' Darren‘s' working class, Black Country Methodist, upbringing was showing through. 'Not right an' proper it ain't, them idols got no business to be smilin' at yer!'

Petronella wasn't having any of it. 'Maybe, but it's great for my act Darren. Just think, Cystic Peg now has Far Eastern Mystic connections, and there he is to prove it. Come on!' She hustle him out of

the room, 'Back to the old props room. There's that other parcel to be opened, and that chest in there as well and there's bound to be some costume to go with it.'

The smaller parcel, stiff and not well wrapped, proved to contain a dehydrated sandwich. After forc-ing the top off with a handy sword, because as Darren said, 'You can't be too careful. You know what that Mr. Darwin said about life? Whatever is in there may have sprung to life.'

But, on closer inspection, it turned out to be the long forgotten remains of somebody's tea, a goose-berry jam sandwich. The costumes in the heap would need some alteration to get anywhere nearly fit-

ting either of them; Petronella didn't see that as a problem. When they finally got the chest open it was a quarter full of large pots of gooseberry jam, almost

solid with age but, as Darren reported, very tasty, and a costume that sparkled as Petronella swirled it

in the gas light. 'My new costume, Darren. What do you think of it?'

Darren went down on his knees and proposed to her. She kissed him and replied, 'Maybe. We'll have to see in the next few weeks, my love.'

That evening her performance was enhanced when the new scene was set and the Buddha on its

pedestal, was seen to glow - very softly - in the semi-darkness.

We've lots of different Buddha‘s, around in Trentby Town

Now we've got another, upon which to frown, As their owners aren't up to too much good. But the artist says, ‗I'm special, I AM GOOD!‘

We've suffragists bicyclists on the town,

It's enough to make a Buddha frown. The Gooseberry Jam's there, thick as mud, And so the story wends away, singing into your blood.

Assignment - Mince Pies Who would Adam and Eve it? There was old George Jones, ma’s artful dodger, at the foot of the apples and pears. On his plates of meat, black daisy roots. On his Barnet fair, he had a long white Irish pig, and on his boat race, a set of white whiskers. You couldn’t see his north and south for them. He wore big, baggy red round-the-houses, held up with a pair of Ascot races. He saw me staring and giving him a butcher’s hook, but never said a dicky bird. We always thought of him as a bit of a baked bean, after all. Then George’s whiskers must have tickled him, He let out a huge bread and cheese and sent the whole lot flying across the room. Well, bubble bath… . I’d have given serious bees and honey to have had a photo of him to show my old china plates, Stan, my baker’s dozen and the old trouble and strife! I should have grabbed my mobile dog and bone.

I couldn’t believe my mince pies. (PMW)

‗I heard him,‘ said George, the valet of the Maharaja. ‗Plain as day. Monkface wants to get his ‗ands on a

Buddha. He‘s in the market.‘ ‗He‘s not on his own,‘ added Peter, the front of house Porter, slurping loudly. ‗That Chinese ‗Princess‘,

if her‘s a princess so‘s my Aunt Fanny, her‘s after a Buddha as well an‘ a boat. I mean to say, what would the likes of her do with a boat. All my eye and Betty Martin.‘ Peter‘s remarks always had an edge

of female supremacy about them. Nancy was all ears. She put down her soup spoon and from under the table, nudged Murray, who

was saying nothing, his face a mask of indifference. Trying to catch his eye Mrs Bucket had taken a

shine to Murray, it was clear to all as the high flush of colour rose into those chubby cheeks whenever he sat down to sup with them below stairs in the kitchen. The main staff ‗meal‘ of the day (thick soup

and bread with whatever bits and pieces was left over from lunch) was taken at 5.00pm as by then Mrs Bucket‘s jobs were done and the scrubbed down kitchen about to be handed over to the chef ready for the evening dinners. By rights he should have done lunches as well, and put the casseroles in, and

made the pastry, but he couldn‘t be bothered, so it fell on Mrs B to do all the heavy work for him. It didn‘t make for a happy working relationship in the kitchen. Fair to say Mrs B hated the lazy chef,

who she suspected was spending his afternoons entertaining Mrs Cynthia Bluddschott in the arts of French something ... definitely not patisserie. If he knew of this mistrust, he never bothered to acknowl-

edge it, he gave out an air of arrogance and superiority which all the other staff found irritating, after all he was only a glorified cook. He was at this moment missing though, and still having a nap to get over the afternoon‘s exertion. Cynthia could be exacting in her requirements.

‗A boat,‘ whispered Nancy. Murray blinked in annoyance and the child returned to her soup suitably admonished.

However, a little later found Nancy and Murray in Suite Six which was as yet empty, where Murray was writing a note on the hotel‘s headed notepaper. Nancy was all smiles. She could hardly contain her

excitement. ‗I‘ll take it,‘ she grinned bobbing up and down like a jack-in-a-box. ‗No. No, that won‘t do at all, lassie,‘ he said as he secreted the note in his pocket. ‗These are danger-

ous people, it won‘t do for them to get a so much as a smell of where an imperial dragon boat is to be found. You leave all the cloak and dagger work to Uncle Murray.‘

Crest fallen Nancy nodded, but her imagination as running wild, she‘d seen all the noughts on that note and the word guineas. She loved that word, a sovereign and a shilling. She be happy with that many shillings never mind the sovereigns.

Fu Chan, the major-domo to Princess Lotus Lily delivered the note pushed under the door of Suite Five the following morning. He had, of course, read the note and checked it for any form of poison or

secret code. ‗It seems authentic, your highness.‘ Lily loved Fu Chan for his correctness, he never let his guard down, he never called her Lily or reminded her of her roots. He was a rock in a hard world. ‗This person seems to feign an acquaintance.‘

She read the note and a smile flickered: ‗If it is really Murray, the acquaintance is not feigned. Odd though, I thought he was dead.‘

So did I, thought Fu Chan. Didn‘t Burke say the man was dead. But then he was a rogue who chased the dragon. What kind of man traded in opiates and was foolish enough to indulge his own weaknesses.

‗Can you trust what he says?‘ asked Fu Chan. ‗If it is Murray, with my life,‘ she replied putting down a cup of strong black coffee and lighting up a

cheroot a difficult piece of work with elongated nails painted with elaborate designs and split seed

pearls, which made several personal daily tasks interesting to accomplish. ‗His word is his bond. And it‘s not expensive.‘

‗Highness, it‘s not expensive if it truly is the tang dragon boat with the imperial seal stolen from the Forbidden Palace four hundred years ago. But how do we know without seeing with our own eyes?‘

Fu Chan had hit the nail on the head once again. What they needed was that fat fool, Boniface Monk-

face, to act as a go-between and that would cost even more money. She did, after all, only have a lim-ited budget and a long shopping list for Li Wang, the Tong overload awaiting her return: Kowloon har-

bour was wide and deep as he often enjoyed whispering to her across their shared satin pillows.

The lady author doesn‘t want crab

Oh no! Not crab! Daphne thought to herself. It plays havoc with my digestion. ‗I think I‘ll try the Dover sole,‘ she told Walter, as he poured wine into two glasses and passed one of them over to her.

‗As you wish,‘ he muttered through his whiskers. ‗I had it on Tuesday and I don‘t know about Dover sole; - it tasted more like the sole of Bluddschott‘s boots to me!‘

Daphne smiled. ‗I‘ll risk it,‘ she said, bravely. ‗Madam, you are made of sterner stuff than I had previously credited you with,‘ Walter Wales looked

admiringly at his dinner companion. His eyes twinkled – and Daphne realised they were a quite startling

blue, and the only facial features that weren‘t shrouded and obscured by hair. They were rather nice! She giggled, and immediately felt embarrassed. After all, she was a highly respectable middle-aged author-

ess, not a silly schoolgirl. ‗It must be the wine,‘ she explained. ‗Some cheap stuff Bluddschott acquired through one of his dubious contacts, no doubt.‘ Walter told

her, sympathetically. ‗More than likely fell of the back of a steamer in Trentby harbour! Here, have some more!‘ He refilled her glass, and his own.

Daphne giggled again, at the thought, but this time, didn‘t try to cover it up. She was rapidly having to reassess her opinion of Sir Walter. He wasn‘t the dreadful old bore she had anticipated. In fact, she was

finding her dining experience and her dining companion much more to her liking than she had imagined. They discussed everything; - everything that is, except for their literary works, and found that they

were largely in agreement about all topics. They even touched on physical complaints which are all too

familiar to those approaching the twilight of their lives. ‗Trentby must be the worst place on the planet for rheumatism. Whenever I stay here, my joints play

up,‘ Sir Walter opined. ‗So damp, so low-lying, don‘t ya know. Can‘t wait to get away to warmer climes when that darned boat comes in.‘ Daphne nodded. ‗To be brutally honest, I have a few problems of my

own. My left hip, for one!‘ ‗Have you ever tried embrocation, my dear? You know, the stuff they use on horse riders when they‘re

saddle sore? I have some in my luggage. Never go anywhere without it. I‘d be as rigid as a five-bar gate

without my daily rub. I‘d be very willing to come up to your room and help rub it in, if there are any parts you can‘t reach, my dear lady. You‘ve only to ask.‘

You old scoundrel! Daphne thought to herself. But the idea was nevertheless quite appealing. ‗No. I can‘t say I have heard of its efficacy, but speaking of saddle sores, have you heard about the lady cyclists staying in the hotel this week?‘

‗Really? Well I never did! Whatever next? I don‘t know what the world is coming to. Females on bicy-cles!‘

Monkface looked baffled. The Chinaman was clearly in deadly earnest. He obviously thought that

Monkface knew this Laird Durrisdane. He also wanted Murray to act on behalf of the so-called Princess. This seemed perfectly normal, such a pity he had no idea who this Scottish Laird was. If only he had

paid more attention to who was it? Oh yes that mouselike little scullery maid. Monkface grinned. 'No problem, your ermm ... erm ... ,' he had no idea by what title he should address the man in the

yellow slippers without giving offence. Something one should never do when confronted by a person of advanced years carrying such a large knife at their waist as if it weren't an ornament. 'Fu Chan,' said the man with a slight bow.

Monkface struggled to his feet from the armchair and tried to return the stiff bow. At which point Fu Chan returned the bow. Monkface was sweating, should he return the returned bow or not. He bowed

again. Fu Chan ever gracious, bowed in return. Oh gracious thought Bluddschott, as he almost sprinted across the foyer to intervene as the pair of nodding fools bowed on ever more deeply and more formally eager not to be outdone in good manners.

'Good afternoon, good sirs, perhaps a dish of tea and a few pastries?' At which both men turned to nod and bow towards himself and of course he had to bow in return. Pe-

ter was silently creased with laughter in his cubby hole and took advantage of the opportunity to slip outside to sneak a drag on a roll up. He was enjoying the hot smoke gurgling round his chest and

coughing in response when a little hand tugged his sleeve.

'Pete, could you do us a favour,' it was little Nancy. Peter the porter had a soft spot for Nancy he had

known her mother better than most at the Nasturtium. It was such a shame poor lamb. Not that her poor mother was alone in being driven into the workhouse to lie in. He'd been born in the workhouse

himself. He lowered his voice like men do when speaking about halloed things like football teams and Na-

tional winners. 'Go on what are you up to now?' 'Could you give this note to Mr Monkface, the fat one in the window.' 'I knows Monkface,' said Peter. 'He's a rogue, you should stay away from him.'

'It ain't from me,' laughed Nancy. 'I'm only passing a message, only thunder guts will skin me if I get seen above stairs again.'

Peter ruffled her hair, which needed a brush through it most days, 'Give it here, I'll make sure he gets it, whenever he stops bobbing up and down with that Fu Chan chap.'

The Strange Guests, Part 2

(The story so far: Betty Worthing, a chambermaid, has got to know a mysterious foreign couple, who call

themselves Ilych and Nadezhda, staying at her hotel. Now another foreigner has tried to persuade her to inter-cept and hand over the couple‘s letters. Betty is unsure what to do)

One morning Betty came down to the foyer of the hotel and found the place empty, apart from one guest sit-ting in an armchair in a far corner reading a newspaper. Behind the deserted reception desk was the board with the letters waiting to be collected, including one with a foreign stamp. She stepped behind the desk and

examined it. Yes: it must be for the couple in room 212! This was her chance! Quickly she took the letter from the board and slipped it into the pocket of her apron. She was still undecided what to do next; whether to de-

liver the letter to room 212 or to pass it on to the stranger who had offered her money for such letters; but all that could come later! There were footsteps behind her. The guest had dropped his newspaper and risen from his chair, and was

now looking at her intently. He was a shortish man, bearded, wearing a tweed suit. ‗I see you‘ve picked up the letter for our Russian friends‘, he said. He had a strong Scottish accent, and his

voice was firm but unthreatening. ‗Yes, sir‘, Betty replied, since it was pointless to deny it. ‗I was just going to take it up to them, sir‘, she added impulsively. She sensed that she was now in a situation beyond her control. What on earth should she

do? Suddenly coming to a decision, she told the gentleman how she had been asked to intercept and pass on letters. ‗But I wasn‘t going to do it, sir! And I was afraid if I didn‘t take the letter, he might come and take it

himself, now there‘s no-one about.‘ ‗Are you with us, then?‘ he asked. ‗Oh yes, sir!‘ replied Betty emphatically. Now she was really committing herself; getting in deeper and

deeper! ‗Good. I‘ll go up there with you then. It‘ll save me the trouble of waiting for one of them to come down.‘ He returned to his chair to pick up his coat and a large bag.

He let her lead the way up the stairs. At the end of the corridor he stopped. ‗Now, lassie, you go and knock on

their door and tell them the Scotsman‘s come with the pamphlets. I‘ll bide here to make sure the coast‘s clear‘. Despite her fears, Betty could not help feeling a tremor of excitement as she knocked on the door. She really was in an adventure now! As usual, the door opened just a crack at first, but then Nadezhda recognized her.

‗If you please, miss: I‘ve a letter for you,‘ Betty said, ‗and the Scotsman says he‘s brought the pamphlets‘. Nadezhda opened the door, and Betty signalled to her waiting companion to come in. He glanced down the

stairs to check they were not being followed before walking to the room. He greeted Nadezhda and Ilych, and then produced a large pile of pamphlets from his bag. Betty noticed that they were printed in strange foreign letters. Ilych thumbed through one of them eagerly, purring to himself with pleasure as he did so.

‗Very good, very good!‘ he said at last, ‗I shall arrange for these to be sent into Russia. But tell me: why did you bring the chambermaid up with you? Is she to be trusted?‘ The Scotsman briefly recounted what Betty had told him. The two foreign guests were silent for a while, then

Ilych asked her to describe the stranger who had asked her to pass on the letters. ‗But I wouldn‘t do it, sir!‘ said Betty, ‗I didn‘t like him!‘

Nadeszda still looked distrustful, but Ilych chuckled, pinched Betty on the cheek and called her ―a true prole-

tarian heroine‖. Betty had no idea what this meant, but gathered that it was intended as a compliment. Ilych then sighed. ‗So they have found us!‘ he said. ‗So we must be moving on again, Nadezhda and me. I

think we must leave England. Now, child, you may tell your police spy we have gone, and you do not know where. Because, of course, you do not know! Do not tell him this until next week: give us time to get away. We shall take these pamphlets, but I shall give you one. You cannot read Russian, but one day you may learn. I

shall write my name on it in your alphabet, so that you will remember me.‘ He picked up his pen and on the first page of the pamphlet wrote very carefully: Vladimir Ilych Lenin.

‗Good afternoon Madam,‘ smarmed Basil Bluddschott in that winning mannerism that made his dear wife Cynthia

linger outside the apothecary‘s window eyeing the poison bottles wistfully every time she sashayed up the High Street. ‗You have a registration?‘

‗Aye, I do. Here‘s the letter of confirmation from Angus McFinneon, of McFinneon and Dalglish Solicitors of Durrisdane.‘

Boniface Monkface, blinked. Nagh ... he‘d misheard. That frail old lady dressed in the mourning weeds wasn‘t

the Laird of Durrisdane. That jet necklace was worth a few bob though, as was the mourning broach holding the swag of black lace over a demure bonnet. He appraised every glittering item from the ebony walking cane with the silver swan handle, to the display of diamond rings when she took off her glove to sign the register.

‗Peter, take Lady Durrisdane‘s trunk to Room 14,‘ snapped Basil, dismissing the old lady to attend once again to the Spanish riders who clearly weren‘t taking any notice of his opinions regarding the wearing of spurs in the

hotel at all seriously. Monkface registered the room number in his pocket book, just in case. Her Ladyship didn‘t seem to notice as she dutifully followed Peter up the staircase. ‗You off to India on the

packet, ma‘am?‘ he asked struggling with the trunk which was almost as big as he was. ‗Holiday, is it?‘

Her Ladyship smiled, it wasn‘t her usual practice to be questioned by servants but nothing was ‗usual‘ about this unwanted adventure.

‗Aye, I‘m for the packet,‘ she replied, pausing to rest on the landing, it had been a long train journey from the Highlands to the south coast and she‘d not slept at all in London, how could she in such a city of iniquity. ‗Family business I‘m afraid, not a holiday at all,‘ she suddenly needed to dab her eyes with a fine lace handkerchief.

‗There, there ma‘am, have I spoke out of turn?‘ asked the porter who like so many was instantly drawn to the silver-haired old lady who had a certain resemblance to good Queen Vic, heaven bless her.

‗Not at all,‘ she replied. ‗Forgive the silliness of an old woman. I have to go and settle my late son‘s estate out in Bombay. I shall hopefully return within a few weeks.‘

‗I‘m so sorry to hear that,‘ puffed Peter arriving at the door to Room 14. ‗Died out there, did he? So many do

with the company.‘ Subtlety had never been his strong point. ‗That‘s the worry of it, we just don‘t know. He disappeared seven years ago.‘ Peter frowned. ‗Disappeared? Crikey, ma‘am. That‘s a strange one.‘

She nodded, ‗It is indeed, but as it is now over seven years, I have to legally presume him dead, settle his affairs and will lose the estate, which is entailed to his cousin if he has no heir.‘ At which the widow of Durris-

dane burst into floods of tears as the enormity of her task overcame stoic Scottish resolve. This outburst proper upset Peter so much so that he couldn‘t help but relate the event at staff dinner time.

He wasn‘t expecting the affect the tale would have on the new boots.

‗What‘s the name?‘ asked Murray who normally didn‘t say a word at food time and gave the soup his entire attention much to the annoyance of Bertha Bucket who inveigled to seat him and Nancy next to her good self

whenever possible. Peter wasn‘t the sharpest knife in the box and useless at remembering names: tips yes, names, no. ‗Canny

remember, Scottish though. Solicitors sommat, Finnon Haddie or some such.‘

‗McFinneon?‘ asked Murray tipping back his seat and pushing himself up from the table his meal forgotten. ‗Could be, yes I think so. Durres sommat?‘ agreed Peter helping himself to Murray‘s slice of bread. Nancy‘s

eyes turned to saucers brimming with tears as Murray strode from the kitchen his back straight as a ramrod and

the years and the mileage suddenly dropped away. ‗What‘s going on now?‘ whispered Bertha Bucket sensing another budding relationship being nipped away

from her eager grasp.

Background to Book: Crystal Therapy – Colour Therapy (ACW)

In the 1890s the Curies discovered that pressure on quartz

causes a small electric current to flow if it was hit. An electric charge applied to a piece of quartz will make it expand slightly.

Apparently, a US University did some research (1960s) and that found that psychic abilities are latent in most people, but natu-ral talent needs training.

Brain waves are on the electromagnetic spectrum as are radio and light waves. Quartz responds to virtually every other wave in the spectrum.

Crystals are also used within colour therapy for alternative healing, but also can raise awareness within some of supposed

spiritual aspects. Further reading: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/

File:ColouredChakraswithDescriptions.jpg

EDITORIAL COMMENT: Well done

to Chris for this research into ‗alternative therapies‘ etc.

Let us not be judgemental ...

Let‘s recall the words of the late great Frankie Howerd :

―Titter ye not!‖ Or what the bard had Hamlet say when holding Yoric‘s skull** ...

**There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt

of in your philosophy.

Sewing Class

Every week I go to sewing class

At the hall on Football Green.

We sew and knit and talk a lot

About the local scene.

We shiver in the winter,

Till radiators warm,

Wrapped up in woolly fleeces,

Usually the norm.

On the tables, bags are emptied,

Their treasures to display,

Glorious coloured patchwork,

Take your breath away.

There’s knitting and embroidery,

And sewing to inspire,

A hanging for the wall,

All laid out to admire.

Experts in neat stitching

Will show you what to do,

And a cup of tea or coffee

With a chocolate biscuit too!

Yes! Monday it is sewing class

No place I’d rather be,

So pack your sewing boxes

To come along and see.

Threading Needles

How long to thread a needle?

How much time do I spend?

Peering through my glasses

To find the cotton’s end.

I won’t be defeated

Through eye that thread will go

A good job I have patience

For I’m immensely slow.

I can sit for ages,

All I need nearby,

Only to get started

When thread is through the eye.

Thank goodness I have done it,

Sewing can begin!

But needle like a poker,

With cotton far too thin.

Out it slips at the first stitch,

And before it reaches floor,

I vow I’ll give up sewing,

‘Cos threading needles is a bore!

Seasonal Greetings

to one and all from all at RBW

Hope to see

YOU at workshop

in 2015.

Jan 5th 1.30pm

Saving the Planet Forget saving the planet. The planet will be just fine. It's those pesky bipeds on it who have reached the end of the line. Forget saving the rain forest hardwoods will strongly regrow, once the loggers' bones are dust and pure waters can again flow. Forget saving the oceans, fish shoals will quickly restock, when rows of whale oil potions aren't stocking every shop. Forget saving tigers and lions, big cats will again roam the earth, long after the fall of pylons at Gaia's awaited rebirth.

Published 2008 Mad Jock Publishers(Liverpool, UK) ―Chatting to the driver‖ ISBN 978-1-906439-29-3

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