The Pages Issue 6

The Pages

Issue 6 May/June 2009

The Pages Contents

CONTRIBUTORS…………………………………………….. 4

EDITORIAL, including Competition Update…Marit and Stina. 7

POETRY

At my own Expense……..Trevor Belshaw…………………….. 8

Clockwise……………….Marilyn Sylvester……………………28

Mushroom Sauce………..Marilyn Sylvester……………………28

I Held You………………Trevor Belshaw……………………...42

Kisses……………………Linda Daunter……………………….42

The Soothsayer, Sage, Proclaimed….Marilyn Sylvester………..50

SHORT STORIES

Cider, Plots and Camomile Tea……….Diane Rayburn………… 9

James, The Displaced Person………….Rosa Johnson………….14

Vince Vern…………………………….Kristina Meredith………29

Yours Virtually ………………………...Gillian Brown…………33

ARTICLES

Insoles ………………………David Robinson…………………..15

A vélo, Mesdames!………….Paola Fornari Hanna………………17

The Garden at Little Oak 4…..Rosa Johnson……………………..19

Travel Article………………..Paola Fornari Hanna………………31

Travel Article………………..Marc Latham………………………37

Travel Rant/Anecdote……….June Gundlack……………………..41

PRESS RELEASES

Love and Its Disappointments……………David Brazier…………22

We’re gonna be famous…………………..Graham Sclater……….24

How to Remember North American Regions Through Storytelling and

Acronym Creation ………………………..Marc Latham…………26

The Guns ‘n Roses… Worker Traveller…..Marc Latham…………27

THE WRITING LIFE

To Write…………………………..Diane Rayburn…………………43

OUT NOW

Kudos 76 May/June 2009…………………………………………..45

BOOKS……………………………………………………………..47

DIARY OF A WOULD-BE-PROTAGONIST

Forever Nameless…………………….Anna Reiers………………..49

The Pages Contributors

Kristina Meredith (Stina) was born and brought up in sunny South Wales, to a Norwegian

mother and Welsh father. A brief interlude to London to study fashion, didn’t quell the

cravings for the green, green grass of… well, Valley’s or Fjords - it just added to her identity

crisis. Now a mother to a very lively and curious 20 month old boy, life keeps her very busy.

Design has taken firmly to the backseat, leaving her time to pursue her ambition to write. The

Apprentice Writer was set up by Kristina and Marit, in order to interact with likeminded

souls, and to help Kristina as she pursues her writing ambition.

www.theapprenticewriter.webs.com

Marit Meredith (aka Anna Reiers) was born and brought up in Norway, but settled in

South Wales,UK in 1972. Married, with six daughters and eight grandchildren, she’s kept

very busy on the family front –and at almost all other times, she writes.

She’s had comments, articles, poems, true-life stories and short stories published, as well as

having work in anthologies published in aid of charities. She published a collaborative book

of poems and prose, Another Haircut? in aid of charity, through Lulu, earlier this year.

She has also published Tea Time Morsels: A Collection of Short Stories and has several projects on the go.

www.annareiers.webs.com www.redroom.com/member/Marit www.thehouseofmeredithpublishing.com

David Robinson has been a writer since his teens, and semi-professional since the mid-

eighties. He is extensively published both in his local newspaper and across the web and

small press magazines. He turned out over 80 pieces for Kwickee, the mobile phone

information service. He published his first two novels in 2002, and his third novel, The

Haunting of Melmerby Manor was published in 2008 by Virtual Tales (USA). Usually

writing either humour or supernatural fact/fiction, he is currently engaged on several

projects including the sequel to The Haunting of Melmerby Manor. He lives with his wife

and crazy West Highland White called Max, on the edge of the moors northeast of Manchester.

June Gundlack lives in Essex with her husband. She has had a number of articles, reader

stories, and letters published in magazines and national papers, winning a few prizes along

the way. June is a member of a writers' forum and is currently writing a novel aimed at

young teens.

Marilyn Sylvester BA (Hons) is a part-time FE tutor. Her first teaching assignment was

based within her home town of Guisborough, where she was employed by the local college,

in collaboration with the University of Teesside, to facilitate a creative writing course.

Marilyn says: the students were mainly established writers, which turned out to be a

reciprocal experience that both they and I enjoyed very much. She then became part of an

editorial team to help produce a community magazine entitled: Guisborough Life and

joined the online Writelink community for writers. She has so far had three poems

published and been paid. One of those poems entitled: The Memorial Trees, is featured in

Issue 4 of The Pages on page 8, as Marilyn won this magazine’s first poetry competition.

Many of her poems have also been shortlisted.

After spending his twenties travelling the world, Marc Latham studied history and

communications studies at university, and graduated with a PhD in 2005. He has since been

building a freelance writing career from the www.greenygrey.co.uk website, and has had

several articles published.

Booklocker is publishing an eBook memoir about his first travel around Europe and the

Middle-East, including time spent amongst the 1980s Worker-Traveller communities that

nomadically followed the seasonal work.

Contact: [email protected] - www.greenygrey.co.uk/blog

David Brazier, philosopher, psychotherapist, poet, spiritual teacher, woodsman, husband,

father, traveller, person of letters, gardener, critic, founder of communities and social aid

projects, inventor of pandramatics, educator, lover of the richness of life, its joys, challenges

and paradoxes. He holds a doctorate from Keele University and professional qualifications

in psychodrama, social work and management, but is extensively self-educated in the

matters that most interest him - the vicissitudes of the human spirit and its expression in life,

society and art. Contact information on press release pages.

Graham Sclater studied at the Phoenix Arts Centre in Exeter, where he concentrated on

creative writing for the screen and television. His key interests are teleplays, and screenplays

as well as developing and writing original drama series’ for television. Those recently

completed include “Street life”- Buskers, “The Other Side of the Tracks” and an

action/drama series “Pebble on the Beach,” set on the beautiful island of Cyprus.

See press release pages for more information and contact details.

At 54 after bringing up two children, caring for her parents and running a successful

business buying and selling antiques and collectables, Diane Rayburn had a couple of

brushes with the grim reaper. Bored to tears with sitting around, she decided to begin writing

and started by jotting down all the memories from her very happy childhood. Encouraged by

winning a competition for a story based on her sisters birth, she joined a writers’ circle. The

next step was to try her hand at fiction although she is ashamed to admit she’s too lazy once

the stories are written, to do anything with them. Now age 65, she is grateful for her still

sharp, long term memory, and thanks to Best of British magazine, is having some success

with stories about her childhood.

Paola Fornari was born on an island in Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania.

Having lived in almost a dozen countries over three continents, she speaks five and half

languages, describing herself as an ‘expatriate sin patria’ She explains her itinerant life by

saying: ‘Some lead; others follow.’ She recently took up writing, and her articles have

featured in diverse publications. Wherever she goes, she makes it her business to get

involved in local activities, explore, and learn the language, making each new destination a

real home. She lived in Montevideo between 2004 and 2008, but now lives in Belgium.

http://www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/Chausiku/

Rosa Johnson was born in Hampshire. She taught agriculture and animal

husbandry. She is married to a horticulturist and has two grown up children. Writing has

been a hobby since she was in her teens. She wrote (writes) short plays, dialogues and

character studies for children. Short stories, articles and several attempts at novels came

much later. Keen sportswoman until her spine rebelled; she was forced to adopt a more

sedentary way of life when surgery failed in 1986. Rosa must now be content to follow

international tennis, rugby and cricket on the radio. She’s a dabbler and will have a go at

anything. Sewing, bonzai-ing, decorating, art and crafts, acting, writing. Anything but singing! Her ambition is one

day to find that she can excel at something.

Linda Daunter is a freelance writer and photographer who has had short stories and

articles published in national and local magazines. She is currently working on two novels

and has been known to break into verse on occasion - although she can’t honestly call

herself a poet. http://www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/linda

Gillian Brown was born and educated in Scotland. Her further education consisted of

travelling and working around the world, notably in Australia. Finally she ended up in

France where she worked in tourism for several years. Nearing retirement, she took a

creative writing course and has had travel articles and short stories published both online

and in print, and won the odd competition. The novel is still inside her head.

www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/steerpike

Trevor Belshaw has, after years of talking about it, finally taken up the writer’s

challenge. He was born in Ilkeston, Derbyshire, in 1953, but moved to Nottinghamshire

after he left school in 1970. His working life has, in his own words, seen him ‘change

careers with alarming regularity’, although for the last 12 years he has been working for

himself, building, repairing and upgrading computers after getting a City and Guilds

award in the subject. The urge to write, however, remains. His passions include his dogs

(Molly and Maisie; a constant source of inspiration for his writing) and Nottingham

Forest Football Club. www.trevorbelshaw.com (Under construction.)

The Pages Editorial

We’ve got a bumper issue this time. Come mid-May, we had to put out a call for more

contributions, and you came up trumps. We couldn’t put it all in this issue, so some will be

carried forward. Thank you all!

Trevor Belshaw’s poem At My Own Expense is a great sideways glance – and swipe – at

our wayward politicians and their greedy claims. The poem says it all – as I’m sure you’ll

agree – and gives us a laugh as a bonus. (Trevor – this should go into a national paper!)

We have new contributors this time around, too – and stories to entertain, to puzzle, and to

make us think. Rosa Johnson returns, treating us to the delights of her garden in The Garden

at Little Oak, and Paola Fornari Hanna takes us for a ride round Brussels, as well as on a

journey to Italy.

I could go on, but I’ll let you discover the delights of the stories, articles and poems for

yourself – and if you have any feedback, please let us know. From Issue 7, we’ll publish

Myra King’s review on the previous issue.

We have new plans afoot for our competitions, which will be revealed in the next issue. We

haven’t got enough submissions to make it a fair competition this time round, so we will roll

it over – meaning that the new deadline is 15th July. We’re looking for short stories of no

more than 1000 words, with the prompt ‘Travelling North’. The competition is free this time

and the prize is a copy of Su Laws Baccino’s book ‘Birthrights’ and £15, plus publication in

the next issue of The Pages.

Submissions to [email protected] by midnight 15th July.

Enjoy your read!

Marit and Stina

Cover Image by Ingrid Smith-Johnsen.

The Pages Poetry

At My Own Expense

I put in a claim for expenses,

The boss said I asked far too much.

He said. 'You can't claim for the light bulbs.'

I said. 'You are right out of touch.'

Look at our MP's expenses

and then look at what you give me.

They get to claim for security locks,

I can't even claim for the key.

MP's get to claim for two houses,

some of them claim up to three.

I tried to claim for a biro,

and you give me the third degree.

I'd love to own a nice duck house,

with a man to clean up the lake.

But when I claim for some Wellington boots,

you reckon that I'm on the take.

I'd like to watch adult movies,

and send all the bills in to you.

But the tax man says I can't do that,

He's turning me all shades of blue.

The hedges at my house need pruning,

my garden shed needs some repair.

I'd flip my houses for capital gain,

But I need to get hold of a spare.

You see where I put travel items?

I'm claiming for buses to work

I know I don't have all the tickets,

This really is starting to irk.

MP's don't have to use paper receipts,

For them it's a matter of trust.

They say that they haven't abused their own rules,

and they're only just making a crust.

Gordon Brown claimed for a cleaner

Cameron claimed for his pile,

All of them claimed they weren’t breaking the rules,

You have to admire their style.

I only claimed for some coffee

and a meal or two out with a client

I didn't claim for a chauffeur, or maid

I claimed for my Robin Reliant.

Can I just claim for the stationary then?

and the parcels I sent to Madrid?

The MP's get forty grand, office expenses.

Can't I just claim twenty quid?

How come accountants fees aren’t on the list?

That's one bill I have to include.

If Alistair Darling can't do his own books,

No wonder the country is screwed.

© Trevor Belshaw

The Pages Short Story

Cider, Plots and Camomile Tea

Ted poked disconsolately at the clump of hair clogging the plughole, and chucked his bottle

of miracle hair-restorer in the bin.

He squirted a blob of firm hold hair gel on the long strands growing by his right ear, coaxed

them over to his left, checked his watch which read eight fifteen then closed his eyes and

waited.

The bathroom door handle rattled. “Edward dear, breakfast is ready; don’t be late.”

During the week at precisely eight fifteen, ever since Ted had left university his mother had

called the same words through the door.

“Yes mother, just coming.”

He hated how he looked, that he was unmarried and without the guts to move into his own

place, and loathed his job in the obituary section of a regional newspaper.

All the rusty jibes about ‘dead end job’ were right. No one noticed or cared if he was late.

The poor devils he wrote about certainly didn’t, and he was sick to death writing flowery

phrases about dead people, although lately being dead was beginning to look attractive. All

your cares and worries ended and having nice things said about you.

Ted was so depressed even ‘Good Riddance’ sounded better than not being noticed at all.

Avoiding his reflection in the mirror, he sidled around the bathroom door, and as he made his

way down to breakfast vowed to make another visit to his editor and beg for an assignment.

He didn’t care what, where, or who, as long as it got him out of the windowless cubby hole

which passed as his office and away from his mother’s solicitous voice prodding him through

the bathroom door every morning.

***

Ted was jubilant.

Leaving the Daily Record building, he checked his notebook where he’d scribbled ‘Much

Norton.’

His editor George Bender had given him little to go on and had been even more terse than

usual, saying only:

“Subversive organisation - go undercover - keep your expenses down.”

George was edging his bets. He didn’t think there was anything to the so-called ‘hot tip’

whispered in his ear by a drunken board member at the paper’s annual Dinner Dance, but

board members wielded a lot of power and could not be ignored.

George’s problem was that due to summer holidays and yet another scandal about a

politician’s secret sex life, there was no one to spare for what he thought was a wild goose

chase.

And then, out of the blue, Ted had turned up in his office offering to use his own holidays in

pursuit of a story.

“Tell you what old man. Suppose you represent the paper as our roving reporter. We’ll

call it a trial period shall we?” George said.

Stuttering his thanks, Ted stumbled numbly out of the office door, while George, patting

himself on the back for his quick thinking, turned back to reading his top reporter’s salubrious

speculation on how many times a week, and whom, the minister for sport was bonking.

***

The picturesque village of Much Norton was slumbering in the midday heat as Ted pulled

into the forecourt of the village pub.

The Wanderer’s Inn, with its hanging baskets and rustic wooden seats lining the walls under

the windows was the pride of the village, but Ted was impervious to its charm as he sat in his

car going over the finer details of the false identity he’d decided on during the long drive from

Bracknell.

He was going to pose as an author; they were always making notes. He could pretend to look

for a cottage to rent or buy. He felt expansive. Hell... He might even do it for real; reporters

were always writing books.

***

Later, having checked in, eaten a passable steak and kidney pie and taken a short nap, Ted sat

in the saloon bar under an open window. It was a good vantage point for eavesdropping on

the customers sitting outside, but as he strained to hear the muted conversation that drifted in,

he was distracted by the wasps and bees that had begun to swarm thirstily over his glass of

cider.

Irritated, he picked up a discarded newspaper and began swatting at them.

***

His first intimate contact with a villager was the doctor who treated him for multiple stings at

evening surgery. Curiosity about his throbbing swollen nose as he walked back to the pub,

helped break the ice with the other residents, but his plans to rent a cottage came to an abrupt

halt when he enquired about rents and added up his expense account. It would have to be bed

and breakfast on the edge of the village, where, for an extra charge, Mrs Jefferson the owner

would supply an evening meal as well as his breakfast.

***

After six days forcing down Mrs Jefferson’s overcooked stodgy food, the pub’s steak and

kidney pie was a fond memory and he had such a severe pain in his chest he needed another

trip to the surgery.

Without being asked, the Doctor knew where he was lodging. “You’re not the first,” he

grunted. “Anyone who stays with Mrs Jefferson for more than a few days ends up seeing me.

I’ll prescribe an extra large bottle of indigestion mixture for you. Has she bored you with her

photograph albums and scrap books yet?” Ted shook his head no.

“She will,” the doctor predicted. “She has photos of just about everyone who’s lived in the

village since they invented cameras - and she knows where all the skeletons are buried.”

Ted could have spit. He’d overlooked the one person who could help him.

While he waited in the chemist for his prescription, he brought two extra packets of

indigestion tablets just to be on the safe side and then stopped off at the village shop and

bought a large box of Milk Tray for his landlady.

***

“This is Squire Tremain. Taken in 1933. He was a rascal. He liked the ladies.”

It was Ted’s sixth day sitting in Mrs Jefferson’s hot, over furnished front room with a fat

album of yellowing photographs on his knee. Wincing as he peeled the back of his legs away

from the leatherette arm chair, Ted wondered how to switch his landlady onto fast forward,

because at this rate it would take the rest of the summer before there was a chance of digging

up dirt on any of the living villagers.

***

Later, slumped over a half pint of lager - he was steering clear of Cider – Ted’s eyes drooped

as the heat and drone of relaxed conversation nudged him towards sleep but just as he was

about to nod off, he caught a hurried snatch of conversation.

“New plan --- allotments --- this afternoon.”

Excitedly trying to spot the owner of the voice, he leapt from his seat then realising all eyes

was on him blurted, “I thought it was a wasp.”

Looking at his still swollen nose, the locals roared with laughter and ribald comments about

‘once bitten’ followed him out of the pub, but he didn’t care. He was on a mission. It was

five past one and he needed to find the allotments and a place to hide.

****

On the way he stopped at a telephone kiosk, gasped to the news desk that he was following a

hot lead and then wheezed his way to the allotments at the end of a track behind a five bar

gate.

A large shed standing in the middle plot had a notice on its door giving details of the of the

Gardening club’s next meeting. The date and time was that day at two p.m.

That was clever, Ted thought. What better cover for a terrorist organisation than a gardeners

club? But where could he hide? There were no hedges or trees; if he crouched behind the

shed he’d be unable to see who went in, and the windows were too high to look through.

Then he noticed that one of the allotments was covered in squares of black polythene. He

didn’t know what it was for but decided it would make a good hiding place. Lifting up the

edge of the plastic and trying not to think about what might be crawling around underneath it,

he lay down on his stomach and carefully backed in.

****

It was unbearably hot under the polythene. Dribbles of sweat ran into his eyes and tracked

down his ribs, and insects tickled as they crawled on his bare skin.

Driven to distraction by a persistent beetle crawling towards his ear, Ted attempted to

dislodge it with a finger, but froze as feet thudded past his hiding place, then thumped

hollowly on the wooden floor of the shed.

He swore and instinctively flattening out as they passed, carefully lifted the edge of the

polythene, but only managed a brief glimpse of two pairs of stout boots before burying his

face back into the soft earth.

A few minutes later he breathed out with relief and cautiously peered out again. To his horror

someone wearing green Wellingtons came out of the shed and came to a halt by his head.

Time stood still. Ted felt the sweat dry on his body; the beetle stopped its determined path

around his neck and the myriad rustles from insects going about their daily business under the

polythene, faded away.

As he closed his eyes in dread, the sharp tines of a garden fork thudded into the earth by his

right ear and Ted, to his eternal shame, wet himself with fear, and fainted.

***

He came to propped against a bag of well rotted manure on the floor of the shed with his feet

amongst a pile of flowerpots and his clothes and hair smeared with earth and bits of half

rotted vegetation.

The insides of a squashed slug glistened on his elbow, wet trousers stuck to his legs and the

beetle was squirming inside his collar.

Eight wrinkled faces stared down at him.

“What on earth were you doing under Mrs Walsh’s weed suppressor?”

“Weed suppressor?”

“The Polythene you idiot!” An old man who strongly resembled the womanising squire in

Mrs Jefferson’s photo album glared down at Ted.

“Steady Steven, the poor man’s had an awful shock; I’ll make him a cup of camomile tea

it’s good for the nerves,” the only woman in the group said, and bustled off to the back of the

hut.

“Um… I was studying insects and things for my book.” Ted sat up and wriggled as the

sudden movement caused the beetle slither down to his shoulder. “I’m fine. No harm done so

I’ll be getting along.”

Ignoring him, she set about lighting a battered primus stove and despite his repeated protests

that he was perfectly ok, the elderly gardeners stood around him in a silent, disapproving

circle while he forced down a cup of evil tasting tea.

*****

Burping gently and feeling increasingly ill as he walked back to his lodgings, Ted decided the

old folks were obviously harmless and had swallowed his story about research for a book.

The old dear wouldn’t have made him tea if they’d guessed his real motive for being there.

Weakly resisting Mrs Jefferson’s lure of a scandal involving the Vicar and the Mothers Union

in 1933, he dragged himself upstairs and collapsed onto his bed.

Scratching at the beetle crawling around the waistband of his trousers and wrinkling his nose

in shame at his smell, he briefly thought about having a bath, but couldn’t find the strength to

get up.

His feet and hands were tingling, pains were tearing at his stomach and he felt feverish.

His last thought as blackness descended was that he had totally wasted his holidays.

***

“Mr Wiggins, wake up.”

It was dark. Thinking he was still under the polythene, Ted panicked until a light switch

clicked bringing a bare hospital room into focus.

“That’s better we can see what we’re doing now. Don’t fidget you’ll pull your tubes.”

The blurry outline of a nurse loomed over Ted, who felt as if he’d been run over by a

steamroller.

“What happened?” he croaked.

“You were poisoned. It’s in all the papers.”

“Poisoned?” His croak rose to a squeak.

“You can have visitors now. I’ll let your friend tell you.”

The door opened and Marty Simms the Daily Records top reporter breezed into the room.

“Back in the land of the living? So --- fill me in.” Marty pulled out his notebook and

began to write, while Ted shakily recounted what he could remember of the day’s events.

After apologising for phoning in a useless lead, Ted wanted to know how Marty had arrived

so quickly.

“You’ve been out of it for three days. George asked me to check things out after you’d

phoned in because I happened to be in the area investigating the latest MPs secret love nest. I

went to your lodgings first. It was a good thing I did. The docs reckoned you’d been

poisoned. After they took you off in the ambulance, I found a beetle and bits of compost in

your bed and you’d been seen by the allotments earlier. There were signs of a disturbance

around the shed and someone had forgotten to take the notice off the door. It was obvious the

gardening club was at the centre of things, so I got on to the local police and voila! Another

scoop by yours truly.

Did you know the fork was meant to kill you? They kept watch from inside the shed before

every meeting and saw you hide under the polythene. No one would suspect they knew you

were underneath it when the fork went in. It would have been the perfect murder if the old

boy hadn’t missed.

Poison in the camomile tea was Mrs Walsh’s idea. Lucky for you she muddled the dose. It’s

pathetic. They were fifth columnists left over from the war and giving financial support to an

extreme right wing group while they waited for Hitler’s successor. The police found wartime

radio equipment, guns and books about the Third Reich when they searched the shed. Like a

time warp it was. Silly old fools!”

“So I didn’t get my name on the story after all I’ve been through”

Ted was bitter. The feel of a tube being roughly pushed down his throat was still fresh in his

memory.

Marty looked surprised. “How could you write about it? You were unconscious. For

a couple of days it was doubtful you’d make it. I got quite excited - it would have

made good headlines. Oh and by the way, I’ve been staying in your old room. There

was no point in wasting the rent. Your landlady is a treasure. She’s given me some

juicy material for the book I’m going to write when I start my sabbatical next month.

I like the village so much I’m going to rent a cottage. See you later.”

As the Daily Records top crime reporter swept from the room, Ted’s misery eased just a little

as he saw Marty rub his chest, take a packet of indigestion tablets out of his pocket and pop

three in his mouth.

© Diane Rayburn


Short Story (with a pinch of truth)

James , The Displaced Person.

I joined a friend to look over a house in the village, she and her husband were thinking of

buying. It belonged to a retired gentleman called Arthur Mitchell, who allowed his nephew to

use it when he wanted a weekend by the sea. We found the safety chain was on the door and

guessed James was in.

Jan instructed me in how to release the safety chain from outside, because my hand

was small and went easily through the gap in the doorway. Jan who had met James once or

twice called cheerfully up the stairs. 'Hello, We've come to look round the house. We won't

interrupt anything, James.'

A young man in only his boxer shorts was in the kitchen making coffee. ''Morning,'

called Jan, hearing kitchen noises, 'Excuse us won't you?' She seemed a bit surprised but

didn't comment. We looked round downstairs, and then made our way upstairs. By this time

James was in the bathroom. In the main bedroom we encountered a young woman hiding her

nakedness beneath a duvet.

To my surprise Jan pressed on in, 'Excuse us,' she said looking in the cupboards. She

showed me the view from the window. I was slightly embarrassed but Jan continued her tour.

She had the key… a very large one with a label bearing the name of the owner, given to her

by the Estate Agent and she was using it with his permission. I supposed as she knew James,

all was in order.

While we looked around the rest of the bedrooms, James transferred from the

bathroom to the main bedroom so we looked in the steamy bathroom and opened the window.

We completed our tour of the house in the kitchen. We emerged just as the young man

reached the bottom of the stairs with a weekend case.

Jan extended her hand. 'Hello, you must be James, how do you do,’ she said. ‘I know

your Uncle well. Sorry if we disturbed you but I have an arrangement. Funny the Estate

Agent forgot to let you know.' The young man smiled and said very little.

'Coming to the Agent's with me?' Jan said when we were outside. 'That young man isn’t

James. He's an impostor. I have no idea how he got the key.'

The agent went straight round to the cottage and turned the couple out. It transpired

Sophie, James's girlfriend had 'borrowed' the key to the cottage from his flat and invited

another friend to join her for the weekend. The agent had called James to tell him there would

be someone looking round.

'As it happens I shan't be there this weekend, I seem to have mislaid the key, so make

all the appointments you like.' he had told him.

When she became the owner of the house Jan often talked and laughed about her last

look round before she and Ben signed on the dotted line.

Jan recently attended James’s marriage to a lovely young woman called Melissa.

© Rosa Johnson

The Pages Article/Rant

Insoles

For my sins I suffer osteoarthritis in both knees. I swear it comes of kneeling in all that damp

grass when I was a teenager (we won’t go into what I was doing kneeling in the grass.)

Pushing up to the big 6-0 I pass my life in constant, unremitting pain. Walking is a trial,

getting in and out of the car is a tax on both physical capability and temper, and climbing

stairs is like tackling the north face of the Eiger. As a heavy smoker, it’s like tackling the

north face of the Eiger without oxygen.

Being an obedient little soldier, I do as I am told. “Swim,” said my physiotherapist, so I swim

twice a week and it does no good at all. The knees are fine while I’m in the water, but when I

climb out, they hurt even more. It’s as if they’re saying, “You think we’re that easy to get rid

of? Here’s a reminder.”

“Buy a rowing machine and use it,” said another physio, so I did. The result is, I have arms

like Popeye and knees like Mam Tor, which if you don’t know it is a hill in Derbyshire that

regular crumbles away and blocks the local road.

The idiot surgeon I saw at our local hospital said, “take regular, light exercise and keep the

knees moving. But no marathon running.”

“I’ll give it up right away,” I told him.

Berk. I weigh nearly 15 stones and I can’t even run away from the rent man anymore, never

mind tackle the Flora jog round London.

During one session my physio noticed that I have flat feet. “The British Army never noticed

35 years ago,” I protested. Wrong kind of flat feet. Mine are acquired flat feet. I think it’s

Isaac Newton’s fault. After all, he invented gravity, didn’t he? And I think that during my 59+

years, gravity has been pressing down on me and flattened my arches.

“Don’t worry,” said the physio, “I’ll send you to podiatry.”

“Is it as sunny as Benidorm?” I wanted to know.

A couple of weeks later, I tootled off to the podiatry clinic where the consultant asked me

stand barefoot and promptly declared, “you have flat feet.”

I pointed out that the physio had already told me this. “I didn’t have to waste petrol coming

here to have you repeat it,” I said.

He disappeared, taking my shoes with him. He was obviously concerned that I might do a

runner while he was gone. When he came back he had fitted my shoes with insoles. “Those

will help you walk properly and they should help the problems with your knees.

They did. They made matters worse. Before the insoles, my knees hurt, after the insoles they

hurt like hell.

At the next consultation with my physio, I pointed this out and she said, “Altering the shape

of your foot has altered the mechanics of the way your legs work. We have to wonder

whether, after all these years, the insoles are a good idea.”

“But you sent me.”

“Did I? Oh yes I did. Oops.”

Now I know where they get the idea that the road to hell is paved with good intention.

© David Robinson

The Pages Article

A vélo, mesdames!

First published in 'The Oldie', March 2009

Shortly after I arrived in Brussels a few weeks ago, it was ‘car-free Sunday’ – from dawn till

dusk, no motorised vehicles were allowed into the city centre, apart from public transport.

The streets filled up with smiling happy cyclists, trikers, Nordic walkers, roller-bladers,

joggers and strollers.

What a great opportunity to explore my new surroundings, I thought. I rented a bike,

and joined the throngs. Within ten minutes I was flat on my back with my leg caught under

the twisted wreckage of my chain guard. My wheel had caught in a tramline.

My daughter scolded me over the phone from London. ‘But Mum, you have to hit

the tramlines at right angles!’ Fine, but what if you want to go in the same direction as the

tram?

‘Take lessons,’ she advised. And although I’ve been cycling for almost half a century, I

figured she was probably right. It would be a great way to gain confidence, get exercise, and

meet a few people. I called the bike rental shop.

‘You’d better join the beginners’ group on Monday,’ the receptionist said, ‘so we can

assess your level.’ She probably remembered what I’d done to the last bike she’d let me

loose with. My fellow-bikers at my first lesson were from Algeria, Congo, Togo, Algeria and

Lebanon. Clad in fluorescent yellow jackets with elegant matching leg-bands, we pushed our

bikes to the Parc Royal, where Carmen, our Spanish instructor, yelled ‘A vélo, mesdames! On

yer bikes, ladies!’

For some, this was only the second or third time they’d ever been on a bike, so they

practised rolling down gentle slopes with their feet on the ground. Carmen soon had me

changing gears, riding up and down mounds, and slaloming through trees. I was quickly

promoted to the Wednesday group.

My companions in the advanced class two days later were a friendly, confident group

of ladies, mostly from Morocco. This time, after a quick warm-up in the park, Carmen led us

from the bike shop through busy avenues past the European Institutions. ‘Come on, girls!

Remember, this is the European Year of Cross-Cultural Dialogue! That means eye contact!

And smile!’ We passed the Royal Palace, the Synagogue, and St Michel Cathedral. ‘Never

let a vehicle break up our pack,’ Carmen said. ‘Always stop in front of all the other cars at

traffic lights.’ Terrified, I stayed as close to her as I could. We hurtled down cobbled

alleyways: ‘Pedals parallel! Let your feet take the weight!’ We paused to admire that

wonderful Belgian icon, the Mannequin Pis, and rode past the Guild Houses in the

Grand’Place, where preparations were under way for the Christmas light show. We left the

city centre and charged on towards Midi Station.

‘Maintain eye-contact! Show them who’s boss!’ called Carmen, as we spun round a

roundabout four times, veils and scarves flying. ‘Hit the tramlines at right angles!’ Well, I

wasn’t going to make that mistake again, especially not while we were crossing six lanes of

juggernaut-packed traffic.

After an hour and a half, we locked our bikes in a neat line outside a branch of Exki,

the tastiest and healthiest fast-food chain in Brussels. Inside, we recovered over a coffee and

a slice of tart. Soon we were on our bikes again for the last, steep leg back up to the bike

shop. An exhilarating, adrenalin-filled morning, and all for five Euro, bike rental, coffee and

tart included. Well, I know I shall not be twiddling my thumbs on Wednesday mornings for

the next few years.

If you would like to see the group in action, check out this link:

http://www.provelo.org/IMG/pdf/avmdfr.pdf

© Paola Fornari Hanna

The Pages The Garden at little Oak 4

Just as the garden was looking desolate when I last wrote, things are looking promising now,

and have been for some time. Have you head the old adage - Ash before Oak we’re in for a

soak, Oak before Ash we’re in for a splash? If this is accurate forecasting, then, since the oaks

are almost in leaf and the ash has hardly any split buds we should be in for a good summer

this year. Well, don’t we deserve it? I should think so!

Wild life has kept us busy, feeding and watching through the winter months and we are

pleased to report several pairs of song thrushes courting on the lawns and gold finches taking

lavender seeds… we always leave lavender heads which look very untidy but are eventually

stripped out by gold finches.

Bumblebees of all shapes and sizes have been around on every sunny day or half day we’ve

had. I still can’t figure out how those very large insets can fly on those tiny wings. We had

butterflies on February 28th. Obviously they had found a warm spot in which they over-

wintered. I recorded a brimstone and a large cabbage white on my National garden Butterfly

Count form when it arrived at the beginning of March.

The hedgehogs… well at least one of them has hibernated and successfully survived the

winter. Liza, our pointer bitch, encountered it after dark at the end of March. Liza was

interested but the hedgehog paid no attention to her at all and they parted on good terms. They

no longer live in Hedgehog Villa.

We’ve had sweet violets in the garden for about ten years. They just arrived and have

proliferated since. Now they are all through the garden, on the sides of the drive, even in the

lawns, which doesn’t please my husband too much. The daffodils have been brilliant and have

lasted longer than usual. The weather was better and the wind didn’t destroy them as it often

does.

It is now the beginning of May. Peonies are in bud, Berberis is out and looking startlingly

bright, dicentra formosa, which I love is a delicate pale mauve with a bluey green foliage. It

grows by the birdbath and blue tits find it very useful take-off-point for a dip. The cultivated

version, dicentra spectabilis, which some people call bleeding hearts, is flowering well but it

is ‘brassy’ compared with the other form.

Dicentra Formosa Berberis Davidii Dicentra Spectabilis

The paeonies were given to us by a friend, Jean, who was moving into a house with a smaller

garden. They remind us of Jean like many other plants, which remind us of friends. Thelma

gave us the witch hazel, Gordon the Bramley, and so it goes on. Felicity gave us Lily of the

valley plants, which are just coming out. She gave us several white ones and one pink plant.

This year the patch has far more pink ones and a few white, which are larger but later

flowering. The honesty was given to us by Flo, who was a very dear writing friend. Hers was

bright pink, though many are white. A walk round the garden brings back happy memories.

Lily of the Valley Butcher’s Broom Perennial Candytuft

Pink is the predominant colour in the garden at the moment. There is a small geranium, which

tries to fill the borders, campions, which are wild flowers and have a white opposite numbers

also growing in the garden and around the footpaths. I thought they were chalk loving but our

land is not calcareous. The cercis is also in full bloom. A mass of small flowers on large

branches and even trunks but with no smaller flower stems.

Cercis – Judas Tree Viburnum Burkwoodii

We have perennial candy tuft outside the back door. It is a spectacular plant particularly in the

half light just before dark. It is whiter than anything you will ever see. Very easy to propagate

too. Break a bit off and stuff it in.

Butcher’s broom is an interesting wild plant, which we nurture. It has red berries for

Christmas and since the birds don’t appear to covet them as they do holly we often use them

in its place. This plant is a cladode. It has flattened stems which look like small, dark green

leaves and it is at the base of these the berries are found. Legend has it the spiky stems of this

plant were at one time used by butchers to sweep the floors of their premises.

Our clematis Montana was struggling last year. It is growing in a dry spot in the garden, near

to the compost bins, which is well trampled on and is not hospitable even to a vigorous

climber. This year after a little TLC in the autumn it has reached the top of a large strawberry

tree. It looks good.

We also have two ‘freebie’ clematis in place on a rose arch which once supported a New

Dawn rose. We hope they will appreciate their new home and flower from this month through

to August. A Rambling Rector rose and an Albertine cover the pergola. They should be in

flower by the first week in June.

The rockery is suddenly covered in bluebells. There is a tough job there for someone. Far too

many of them and it looks a mess and will be worse when they finish flowering. Alongside

bluebells is the pasque flower. London Pride appears where there is little soil and some shade

at one end. Attractive delicate dark red stems of small white flowers rising from rosettes of

small, thick green leaves.

Pasque Flower Solomon’s Seal Euphorbia

This is the time of year for baby birds in the garden. Squealing in small groups behind busy

parents the garden has become a veritable nursery.

It has been pleasing to see two broods of fat song thrushes, blackbirds who we have noticed

have a one way system to their nests. When one parent comes out of the back door having fed

the youngsters, the other is ready to go in at the front. There are numerous tits, long tailed tits

in largest numbers. We’ve had a first in the garden this week. We think it’s a dusky warbler,

though it hasn’t been verified. Somewhat reminiscent of a wren with a cocked tail it is reddish

brown in colour on top and slightly lighter underneath.

It is now the end of May and I’m happy to report the Australian bottle Brush plants, which we

thought had been brutally murdered by the frost, are actually shooting. The garden is now full

of poppies and irises. We had a pair of mallards in the garden this morning but they have

thought better places can be found and have disappeared again. Aquilegia and osteospermum

growing together in one of the borders look wonderful. They have chosen each other. Wine

coloured columbines and osteospermum tinted with mauve.

The white lily of the valley have come into their own and look great with a dark red weigela

behind them.

As a postscript to the Australian plant story. Not only have bottle brushes sprouted but we

found some very old seed and have seedlings of Tea Trees

Kangaroo paws and Eucalyptus. Mother Nature is certainly resilient.

© Rosa Johnson

The Pages Press Release

Love and Its Disappointments by

David Brazier

compelling... power house... brilliant...

convincing... nourishing... hopeful...

enlightening... wise... insightful... compassionate

CONTENT: What is life about? Love. Does love run smoothly? No. To whom does this

matter? Everybody. Simply facts with enormous implications. This book advances in clear

and specific terms a radical and practical theory of human functioning. Explore the

relationships between beauty and love, frustration and creativity, perception and healing.

Essential reading for psycho-

therapists, it is also full of insights for the critic of culture and society.

ENDORSEMENTS AND REVIEWS:

Julia Samuel, Metanoia Institute Tutor, Honorary Fellow of Imperial College:

A compelling book, like a power house of thought that has been building up over a long time

and successfully found its voice, as it pulled me the reader along. The clarity of the author's

thought is rare indeed. His overall thesis that as loving beings we are inevitably thwarted, and

how art and therapy can help, inform and occasionally heal us finds a way of saying what I

have felt for a long time. His skill at drawing on other theorists, writers, philosophers, and his

own thinking and integrating it into one clear treatise is brilliant. The risk he takes in standing

up and banging the drum for love as the main motivation in man is convincing and lays bare

our defences against it, and of course its frustration.

Robert Wicks, Author of Riding the Dragon (Sorin Books) and The Resilient Clinician

(Oxford University Press). Catholic. Professor, Loyola University Maryland:

In Love and Disappointment David Brazier calls us to see what is at the core of life in

refreshing, vitalizing ways. He offers new insights that seminal thinker Carl Rogers might

have offered himself if he were alive today. It is thought provoking, nourishing of the inner

life, and ideal reflective material for both professionals and searchers seeking to live "the

honourable life". This book is about the possibility of love in a world that fails to really

recognize the true import of its motivating force. Brazier's approach not only educates and

helps us think differently but also, in Iris Murdoch's words, it " inspires love in the part of us

that is most worthy." What more can you ask of a book than this?

Nathan Katz, Jewish, Professor of Religious Studies, Florida International University:

This is just what we need: a psychology based not on raw sex, or power, or fear, or mystical

obscurantism, but on love and beauty. Here a skilled psychologist, artist and priest opens us to

hopeful, enlightening and heretofore unanticipated possibilities. It is a book for all of us,

professional and lay, western and eastern, skeptical and credulous.

Gregg Krech Buddhist, author of Naikan: Gratitude, Grace and the Japanese Art of Self-

reflection; and of other books on Naikan and Constructive Living:

Wise, insightful, compassionate observations that teach us that we find love not in ourselves

but in that which we are devoted to. Brazier has created a thought-provoking paradigm in

which love, art, spirituality and psychotherapy attempt to dance together to the symphony of

life's meaning, conducted passionately within the corridor of the human heart.

http://www.o-books.com/contact_us.php

http://www.amazon.com/Love-Its-Disappoin...

http://www.conscious.tv/psychology.html?...

http://www.facebook.com/pages/David-Braz...


“We’re gonna be famous” by Graham Sclater

Following the success of the novel “Ticket to Ride” published by Flame Books in 2006, the

second novel by Devon based music publisher, musician and “pop” author Graham Sclater

was published by Tabitha Books in April 2009 it costs £4.99 plus p & p and is available from

http://www.tabithabooks.webs.com

“We’re gonna be famous” is set in the deepest Westcountry where young sisters

Hannah and Abi are faced with a dilemma that would not be wished on anyone.

How do they help their seriously ill mother who is in desperate need of life saving

and expensive treatment in America when all they have is their pocket money?

Perhaps their love of music will help them but can they do anything in

time?

Although this is Graham’s first novella aimed at young people it has already received

wonderful reviews from readers of all ages and he is currently carrying out book readings and

radio promotion around the UK.

‘I cried several times while I was reading this book…sometimes with happiness.’

‘A feel-good story that will make everyone smile.’

The first novel, “Ticket to Ride” ISBN 0-9545945-7-6, by Devon based author,

musician and music publisher Graham Sclater was published by UK publisher

Flame Books - www.flamebooks.com

Graham studied at the Phoenix Arts Centre in Exeter, where he concentrated on

creative writing for the screen and television. His key interests are teleplays, and

screenplays as well as developing and writing original drama series’ for television.

Those recently completed include “Street life”- Buskers, “The Other Side of the

Tracks” and an action/drama series “Pebble on the Beach,” set on the beautiful island

of Cyprus.

Dave Penn. Adam Faith, John Altman and a number of actors, directors and producers have

favourably reviewed his work and several television companies including Central Television

have taken options on other television series’.

Born in Exeter in 1947 he spent many years living and playing Hammond organ in a

number of groups in Germany and Scandinavia during the sixties. He returned to

England in the early seventies where he worked as a session musician in many of the

London studios.

An accomplished songwriter and musician, Graham has been featured in a number of

arts and musical programmes and has performed and recorded with many artists

including Jimi Hendrix, Fats Domino, Ritchie Blackmore, James Taylor, Elton John

and numerous name musicians. Many of his songs have won competitions in France,

Spain, Gibraltar and Japan as well as being recorded by many well-known artists.

Tabitha Music Limited, the independent music publishing company formed by

Graham in 1975, has a catalogue of more than five hundred songs and has published

hit records in much of Europe and the Far East including Japan. The company’s songs

have been featured in a number of films, television programmes, documentaries and

releases on major record labels including EMI, CBS and Phonogram.

Graham has produced records in varying styles as diverse as punk, folk, country,

heavy rock and MOR in studi

productions were released on the Tabitha Record label in the Benelux and Spain and

major or independent labels around the World. Graham’s production credits have

resulted in a number of hit records by

Graham has recently completed his first historical novel “Hatred is the key” set in

Dartmoor prison in 1812-14 which is due for publication towards the end of 2009 and

is now working on the novels “Love Shack” based in the east end of Lond

red light district of Amsterdam and “Receivers” based around the current recession.

Active on developing a number of projects at any one time, Graham is a prolific

writer who carefully researches his subject before reaching for the PC. Many of

projects involve music and his background enables him to combine an unusual mix of

original music and script.

Graham Sclater enjoys working in many arenas, using first hand experience of as

many subjects as possible, often spending time researching ov

He is at home writing and developing any concept. He has an understanding of

budgeting, the logistics of production, location and direction.

Graham is currently working on a number of film scripts including the titles:

than a woman and Lying eyes.

For interviews and press contact Graham

Tel: 01392 279914 Mobile: 0781 215 2651 e


heavy rock and MOR in studios as far afield as Trinidad and Jamaica. Many of these



resulted in a number of hit records by many artists.


14 which is due for publication towards the end of 2009 and

is now working on the novels “Love Shack” based in the east end of Lond



writer who carefully researches his subject before reaching for the PC. Many of



many subjects as possible, often spending time researching overseas.


budgeting, the logistics of production, location and direction.

Graham is currently working on a number of film scripts including the titles:

g eyes.

For interviews and press contact Graham -

Tel: 01392 279914 Mobile: 0781 215 2651 e-mail: [email protected]


os as far afield as Trinidad and Jamaica. Many of these




14 which is due for publication towards the end of 2009 and

is now working on the novels “Love Shack” based in the east end of London and the



writer who carefully researches his subject before reaching for the PC. Many of his




Graham is currently working on a number of film scripts including the titles: More

mail: [email protected]


eBooks

Check out these two very reasonable e-Books by Marc Latham, aka The

Greenygrey.

How to Remember North American Regions Through

Storytelling and Acronym Creation The Greenygrey, a mythological

vegetarian werewolf, reports its amazing adventures and experiences while virtually

travelling across North America by memorable acronyms. These are analysed by Dr.

Marc Latham, with ideas about how to memorise the North American regions. Starting off just having fun and hoping to learn the regions of North America over the course

of a year, the Greenygrey started virtually travelling in January 2008. Waking in British

Columbia with amnesia, GG was a blank slate. As the journey progressed over the year, from

province to province, territory to territory, and state to state, so did the writing and story. The

incredible experiences and enlightening events enrich GG, and this is reflected in the

character, comedy and wordplay of its blogs. The Greenygrey found life and beauty within

our world, and came alive.

ALSO by Marc Latham:

The Guns ‘n Roses … Worker Traveller 1987-88

Marc’s Abstract for this book:

This book was meant to be all done and dusted by the twentieth anniversary of the

release of Guns n’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction in 2007. It was also the 20th

anniversary of this journey’s beginning, and the fiftieth anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s

On The Road being published.

However, perhaps suffering the same quest for perfection as ol’ Axl; or maybe just

not being a very good writer when it was started and spending too much time on other

stuff it has taken until late 2008 for this first version to be published. The first three

rough chapters were blogged on www.myspace.com/outlaw_traveller

To tell you the truth, it has only been published now to coincide with the imminent

release of Guns n’ Roses long awaited Chinese Democracy album, but I am happy

with the contents.

As well as being the diary/journal of a Heavy Metal fan who’d been inspired to travel

by Kerouac and those who followed him, it is also the first account as far as the author

knows of the 1980s worker-traveller communities in Europe and the Middle-East.

As well as the rock n’ roll, and cultural relevance, it hopefully also contains a lot of

nice travel writing, as a small town working class youth encountered the big wide

beautiful world for the first extended length of time and distance.

Some of those living a nomadic existence working and travelling with the seasons that

I encountered were Britons escaping unemployment and injustice at the hands of the

longstanding government. Others just wanted to chase the sun and party. Many desired both, and I was one of them.

Available at:

http://www.greenygrey.co.uk/blog/ 90p each, payable through PayPal.

Missed out on hiking round Europe – or anywhere – in your youth? Hitch a lift with Marc,

and enjoy his travel-tales. I did!

The Pages Poetry

Clockwise

Past seconds make days.

Past minutes make weeks.

Past hours make months

and the years run on and on.

Hickory dickory dock - tick tock tick tock tick

tock - Wait!

tick - Stop!

I want to rewind - tock

Take stock of my fate - tick

Is it too late? - tock

I haven’t got time – tick

Restart the clock – tick tock tick tock tick…

© Marilyn Sylvester

The Pages Poetry

Mushroom Sauce

Clusters of oyster, semi-

circular skirted fungi,

have lodged in my crocodile-

skinned bark

and are deliciously tempting

when pouting their soft,

plump and edible, curly-

edged lips.



Vince Vern

The doors swung open with a bang almost toppling the men who stood solemnly beside them.

And there he was Vince Vern, the legendary, the infamous, the has-been - Vince Vern.

Stumbling and staggering like a captain in a storm desperately trying to keep his ship afloat.

The judge coughed loudly and signalled for him to take his seat. Vince rubbed his hand

precariously laden with chunky silver slowly across his face, only one digit left bare.

He flopped heavily into his chair, a look that could turn meat at twenty paces shot at any who

dared glance in his direction. He leant over and hissed a little too loudly into his council’s ear

- RUIN HER.

***

He walked into the bedroom and found Mya arranging her wardrobe into the Louis Vuitton.

‘Why are you doing this? I given you everything you could possibly want haven’t I?’ She

ignored him busying herself folding her designer underwear into tissue paper parcels.

‘Well your not taking my son, he stays with me.’

She sat down on the antique chaise lounge she had chosen on a recent trip to Paris, of course,

he hated it, she knew he would – the ridiculous old man, no taste at all. Carefully

straightening out her skirt, she looked up at her husband, an aging Pete Doherty with accents

of Johnny Rotten circa. 2009 - Utterly vulgar.

‘Do you remember that time when the barriers broke Vince?’ He shook his head and sat

back waiting for the torrent.

‘Here we go,’

She straightened her back, ‘...a tidal wave, a tidal wave of fans Vince, sweeping across the

stage toward us,’

He sniggered, ‘You were backstage love, so don’t lets get it out of proportion.’

‘Your son was on my arm, do you remember? - he was just a baby Vince, I didn’t even

want to take him, but you insisted.’

‘Christ Mya, you’ve got a real flair for the dramatic, perhaps you should apply your skills-

Hollyoaks maybe?’ She rolled her eyes skyward; at least she was still young enough, to enjoy

the possibility.

‘You went back for you guitar, do you remember Vince?’

‘Of course, I nearly lost it.’

‘You nearly lost us Vince. We were drowning, drowning in a sea of sprawling, stampeding,

bloodthirsty animals!’

‘We call them fans love, they prefer that.’

She sighed, pausing dramatically, ‘and you went back for your guitar – not your infant son,

not for me – YOUR GUITAR!’

‘You know what it means to me Mya, it’s my amulet.’

‘You and your, pathetic rituals, you were prepared to sacrifice your son once before, and

now you want to do it again, well it’s not happening. He’s too valuable to me; believe me you

won’t be taking him from me.’

‘I hardly think I’ll be sacrificing him. He’ll have everything he could ever want, if he stays

with me. What can you give him? They’ll rule in my favour, and do you know why? Because

you’re nothing Mya, nothing without me.’ He shrunk back into his chair and rubbed his

wedding ring, as though a genie might pop out and grant him all his wishes. But it was too

late for all that, normality was a hazy dream washed out by the fluorescent glare of fame. He

sighed and took a deep breath in, then exhaled any lingering remnants of Andrew Mayberry –

he was Vince Vern.

She turned away, she thought perhaps tears would help, but they wouldn’t come.

‘Listen love, you ought to wake up and see which side your breads buttered on. The gravy

train is pulling out of the station darling, and this is your last chance to jump back on... so

how about it?’

She pitied him really, how much longer did he think he could continue? It was humiliating.

Now his looks had gone, and his performance on stage was no better than his performance in

the bedroom - well the money’s not going to be far behind. When she turned to face him she

was laughing, when she walked away, she was still laughing.

***

Of course after that entrance and a little something extra in his tequila for assurance, the judge

was never going to rule in his favour – poor Vince. But Mya had everything she needed from

him now; his son, his millions and his roadie, to keep her amused – for the time being at least.

Leaning down she firmly took her sons hand away from his father’s. ‘Come on Amadeus -

Mummy’s little Midas Prince.’

© Kristina Meredith

The Pages Travel Article

Five Go Off to Abruzzo

Pope Celestine V didn’t much like the glitz and glamour of the Papacy. He issued a decree

allowing Popes to abdicate, and after only five months ‘the desire for humility, for a purer

life’ pushed him to return to his hermit’s life on the rugged Mount Maiella in Abruzzo.

Mount Maiella The Maiella Casa Giumentina

Not a bad spot to find tranquility, especially in November. Last week my parents, in their

eighties, drove their three fifty-plus children a hundred and twenty miles east from Rome to

the Casa Giumentina, a carefully restored stone house on the hillside above the village of

Abbateggio, with views over Mount Maiella and the Adriatic.

Like Celestine, the owners, Ezio and Mariangela, got fed up with city life, and followed their

dream. But their B&B is rather more comfortable than his cave. Not a detail has

been overlooked: even the curtains are hand-crocheted by Mariangela. Ezio and Mariangela

shared breakfast with us each day, and took us to visit the surrounding area, from the

hermitages nestled on the hillsides to the mountain village of Roccacaramanico where until

recently only one inhabitant remained. We played in the snow. We sampled local wines,

cheeses and farro, the local cereal. We visited Pacentro, which apart from being Madonna’s

ancestral home, is one of the ‘borghi piú belli d’Italia’ – Italy’s most beautiful towns. We

went to Sulmona, Italy’s centre for confetti, the sugared almonds offered traditionally at

weddings and christenings. We explored the tholos, stone structures built in the nineteenth

century by shepherds as shelters.

Snow! Siblings Cheese Pacentro

Confetti Tholos Abbateggio

And in the evenings, we relaxed in the large kitchen at the Casa Giumentina, a group of

villagers from Abbateggio joined us, including the mayor. We played cards and sang songs

while Ezio and my father strummed their guitar and mandolin.

The mayor is a dynamic young man, hell-bent on putting his 450-people-strong village on the

map. He is determined to maintain local traditions, but to share the area’s rich heritage with

visitors. Go on, try it.

Village View

www.casagiumentina.it

Ryanair flies from London to Pescara, which is less than an hour’s drive from the Casa

Giumentina.

© Paola Fornari Hanna


Yours Virtually

To: running [email protected]

From: [email protected]

''Hi runningfeet

What's with the crazy name? You sound like an Indian Chief... Whatever. It's cool that you

want to chat on line and hear about Australia.

Where should I begin? What about the scary stuff.? Check this out. Yesterday a monster

python slithered by right beneath our kitchen window. You wouldn't believe it, mate! They

can squeeze you to death. Slowly. Then they swallow you whole.

My own life sucks. Had another wasted weekend, out on the razz. Parents away in Brisbane.

Can't remember half of it. Felt like shit all Sunday and couldn't get out of bed.

When I get serious (believe me, it's not often) I like to write fiction. Short stories and stuff.

What about you?

Cheers Wombat.''

*

''Wombat

You make me laugh! A rare event these days. I'd forgotten how good it felt, even if you did

make me choke on my tea.

It's not clear if you met some guy during your razz?

You must have a wild imagination to write fiction. Do you invent it all?

My passion is sport. Hence… 'runningfeet'! Not so imaginative, I know. I've entered next

month's London Marathon. Can't wait. Do they have marathons in Queensland?

runningfeet''

*

''Hi runningfeet

Clear? Not the word I'd use. I still feel crook and it's already Tuesday. Some guy you say?

Mmm… interesting. That might explain who left the bloody toilet seat up on Sunday

morning. Be shocked if you like, I'm not proud of myself.

Yeah, invention's great isn't it? Not much at sport myself although this country's crazy for it.

Cricket Bloody Cricket! Bores me senseless.

Can't imagine running all that way. Amazing! How do you do it? You must have mega

determination.

Cheers W''

*

''Hi Wombat

So you did meet a guy. Great. Although I'm never sure if you're just having a laugh. In fact

I've met someone myself who's really cool. He's called George - very British! You'd have a

right laugh at his polite manners.

Almost forgot. My brother is going to Oz. I've told him about you and he wants to meet you.

Wow! Imagine! What do you think?

runningfeet''

*

''Hi Wombat

Are you still there? It's been two days and I've not heard. You are all right aren't you?

runningfeet''

*

''Wombat!

Answer me, please! I miss the chat. Have you done that thing you do in Australia? Gone

walkabout? Ha Ha.

runningfeet''

*

''Sorry rf

I'm still here. Been a bit choked. It seems a lot more happened than I remember over the

weekend. The guy I met turned out to be my best friend's boyfriend. Bloody hell! I've got

virtual scars all down my cheeks where she verbally attacked me. Felt terrible. Depressed.

Got to get my act together. Have you anything to cheer me up?

W''

*

''Hi Wombat

I'm so relieved to hear from you. You do get yourself in a mess.

This might cheer you up. Guess what? I dyed my hair this morning. Supposed to be bright

orange but it came out like the fur on our new mongrel puppy, a kind of dung colour. Oh God

you should see it! Don't know what George will say. He only likes blondes.

runningfeet''

*

''Hi rf

Sounds hilarious. Don't worry. In any case, you have to live your own life, hair colour is just

one of those choices.

Hey, we've got a pet joey, really cute. That's a baby kangaroo, in case you didn't know. It's

mother died and the vet's a mate of my dad's. He thought it would channel my mind into

something meaningful, I guess.

I'm a bit nervous about meeting your brother. What's he like?

W''

*

''Hi Wombat

You'll find out next week when he arrives. Better give me your address.

Hey! Shopping binge today. You should see the shoes I bought. Got heels on them so high I

can hardly walk. Not good for my feet, I know. Too bad.

My brother wants to know how hot it is out there, and if the surf's good?

runningfeet''

*

''Wombat? You gone walkabout again?!

runningfeet''

*

''Hi rf

Look. I lied. I don't live in Oz. I live in England. I invented all the Aussie stuff. Thought it

would make me sound more exotic, make you keener to chat with me. The only truth is I

write fiction. Lol.

Forgive and forget? Please! Look, I've a great idea. Why don't we meet? I reckon we'll get on

brilliant together. Can't wait to hear. Let me know soon.

W''

*

''rf?

Have you gone away? Are you upset? If you don't want to meet that's okay. Just let me know.

I'd like to keep in touch at least.

W''

*

''Wombat

I don't care about your lies. Just good fiction, isn't it? But we can't meet. I don't want to tell

you why as it'll spoil everything. Let's just say that it's our chats that keep me going. Even

happy. Hang on. I'm heading for quicksand here… I'll finish and send this later.''

*

''Hi rf

Where the bloody hell are you? It's okay you know, I'm not a monster. Just a monster liar!

W''

*

''That makes two of us, Wombat. Only my brother was real. The truth is I'm in a wheelchair.

For a short while chatting to you, I wasn't even sick, deformed or dying. Certainly not an

object of pity. In many ways we are so alike, but now you've admitted the truth I realise we

can't go on. There's no point.

It was fun while it lasted, wasn't it? No point being sad, I'll soon find somebody else. So will

you.

runningfeet''

© Gillian Brown

The Pages

Following a monk’s life. Kirkstall Abbey, Leeds, England.

Sitting in the tranquil green grounds of Kirkstall Abbey, with the medieval building to one

side and swans gliding somewhere between the River Aire and the lowering sun to the other,

it wasn’t difficult to imagine why the Cistercian monks chose to build t

there in the twelfth century.

Copied from: http://cistercians.shef.ac.uk/kirkstall/history/rise_and_fall/fortune5.php

The Pages Travel Article




it wasn’t difficult to imagine why the Cistercian monks chose to build their new community

there in the twelfth century.

© Cistercians in Yorkshire


Travel Article




heir new community


The abbey was one of eight built by the Cistercians in Yorkshire after the monks expanded

northwards from France; they had previously broken away from the Benedictine order

because they did not consider them pious enough.

Copied from: http://cistercians.shef.ac.uk/cistercian_life/the_cistercians/yorkshire/index.php

Aire Valley was of course a very different place at that time, and the abbey community was

situated in a wooded hamlet separate from any other civilisation. The forest provided wood

for construction, while stone from a local quarry and water from the River Aire provided the

other vital materials needed to build the church, cloister and community buildings. This was

completed before the first abbot, Alexander, died in 1182.

Kirkstall Abbey, by Thomas Girtin (1801). Image in the public domain copied from

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Thomas_Girtin_003.jpg

Over the centuries the city of Leeds has expanded to the north-eastern edge of the abbey

grounds, and the busy Abbey Road now passes to the north of the church. The main

thoroughfare to Leeds actually passed through the nave after the monks were removed during

the dissolution of the monasteries ordered by Henry VIII in the sixteenth century. However,

the abbey and its beautiful grounds drew the attention of Romantic artists such as John Turner

in the 1800s, and it was restored by the council during the next century. The road was outside

the grounds when it opened to the public in 1895.

The museum and car park are across the road from the abbey, on the site of the abbey

complex’s original inner gate.

I approached on foot from Leeds, via Bridge Road on the eastern side of the Abbey. Entering

the grounds just above a war memorial, there is a scenic walk that takes you along a mill race,

or as it is known locally, a goit: a stream that is thought to have been diverted from the Aire

by the monks to power their corn mill.

Along the walk you pass a wildflower meadow that features plants as colourful as their

names, such as Birdsfoot Trefoil and Hay Rattle. Red Admiral and Painted Lady butterflies

flutter between the flowers, and birds like the Grey Wagtail, which is noticeably yellow, also

brighten the path. After dusk, Pipistrelle and Daubenton bats take over the sky.

After crossing the goit via a wooden bridge the abbey soon comes into view, with the tower’s

size making the first impression, followed by the haunting historic splendour of the whole

abbey, and the idyllic setting. Austerity meant the monks’ church did not have such a

majestic tower, and theirs is thought to have been only a little higher than the nave roof; the

present tower was added in the sixteenth century.

Tall trees line the approach, with the tarmac path meandering up and down, and left and right,

before reaching the abbey. To my left, the mute swans and goosander ducks above and below

the weir on the River Aire seemed to be enjoying the sun as much as the people feeding them.

After passing along the southern side of the abbey I turned to my right, passing the visitor

centre on my way to the nave. There are free guided tours from the visitor centre each

Thursday, and there is information, refreshments and amenities both there and in the museum.

Entering the nave, where the monks used to pray, made me wonder what it must have been

like for them, waking for the first service at 2am, and then diligently going about their studies

through the dark morning. They did this right through the winter too, with each monk only

allowed ten minutes a day in the warming room.

Walking the 200 feet length of the nave past eight columned arches to the tower and

presbytery, the shade provided by the high roofless walls seemed to noticeably lower the

temperature. As if the sun was trying to enter and warm the room, rays of light filtered

through a spider’s web on one of the gates to the cloister, illuminating the intricate weaving

that had created it. Overhead, pigeons flew from nave to presbytery, and between transepts

either side of the tower; the four points that give the church its cruciform shape.

Exiting the nave via the south transept I entered the cloister; it features a stone walkway

framing a verdant lawn. There was an orchard there in its heyday, and the inhabitants would

work or relax on the grass. The monks also ritually bathed their feet each Saturday for

Maundy in the cloister, and used the wall basins for general washing. It was nice to be bathed

in warm sunshine again after only being out of it for half an hour, so I imagine the monks

must have looked forward to spending time there in the spring and summer.

Strolling around with the lawn to my right, I passed the chapter-house and parlour on my left,

with the monks’ dormitory above them. Confessions took place in the chapter-house each

Sunday, and there were also daily readings from the rule of St. Benedict there. The parlour

was the only place that the monks were allowed to speak. The abbot’s lodgings and infirmary

were behind the parlour and chapter-house, but due to safety precautions they are only

accessible on guided tours at the moment.

Continuing to circle the cloister, I passed the aforementioned warming house, before the

refectory, malt house and lay-brothers’ dormitory. The abbey was divided between the

educated Latin-speaking monks and the lay-brothers, who did the labouring and domestic

chores; it was apparently quite a rigid segregation, with even space on the cloister lawn

divided very much in the monks’ favour.

After exiting via the nave a short walk took me to the location of the guest house, although

only the foundations remain; it is thought there was also a forge, stable, bakery and infirmary

on the site.

If you decide to venture further west on the abbey road, there are panoramic views across

picturesque green fields between Horsforth and Rawdon; and just past the airport there is the

Chevin Forest Park, where the 925 feet high ridge was part of a Roman road linking the towns

of Otley, Ilkley and Tadcaster.

On this occasion I returned to a wooden riverside seat to the south of the abbey, and as I’m

sure the inhabitants of the abbey did 800 years before, watched the sun set over the Aire.

© Marc Latham

If You Go:

Entrance to the Abbey and Museum:

Entrance to the abbey is free, and there are free guided tours on Thursdays. Please ring

01132305492 to book.

The Abbey Museum is open at the following times: Monday closed all day, Tuesday to Friday

10am - 5pm, Saturday 12noon - 5pm, Sunday 10am - 5pm.

Admission charges apply:

Adults £3, Concessions £2 (senior citizens and students), Children £1 (16 and under), Family

ticket £5 (2 adults and up to 3 children).

Travel to Leeds and Kirkstall Abbey:

Leeds-Bradford international airport has regular flights to many airports in the UK and

Europe, and has just started providing long-haul flights.

Information at: http://www.lbia.co.uk/

Being at the centre of the UK, and the transport system, means Leeds has regular buses and

trains to the north and south.

For details of buses visit: http://www.nationalexpress.com/home/hp.cfm

For details of trains visit: http://nationalrail.co.uk/index.html

The 757 bus links the airport with the centre of Leeds, and travels past Kirkstall Abbey. The

33 bus service also runs from the centre of Leeds to the abbey. Both buses have very scenic

routes.

A one-way bus ticket from Leeds centre to the abbey will cost between £1.50 and £2. Day-

rider tickets for all day travel in the Leeds area are available for £2.70.

For the times of buses see: http://www.firstgroup.com/ukbus/yorkhumber/leeds/home/

Accommodation:

Leeds offers a multitude of accommodation possibilities, from cheap and cheerful ‘bed and

breakfasts’ to expensive five star hotels. For more information visit:

http://www.yorkshire.com/cps/rde/xchg/SID-3F57FEF5-149D02B3/ytb/hs.xsl/where-to-stay-

in-yorkshire.htm

There is further information on Kirkstall and the abbey at:

http://www.leeds.gov.uk/kirkstallabbey/kirk_intro.html

http://cistercians.shef.ac.uk/kirkstall/

http://www.vrleeds.co.uk/tours_kirkstall/abbey_house_museum/

http://www.kirkstall.org.uk/abbey/

http://www.illo.demon.co.uk/nature.htm

Bio

Marc Latham travelled to all the populated continents between 1987-1994. From 1995-2005

he studied for a BA in History and an MA and PhD in Communications Studies. He is now

trying to build a career as a freelance writer from the www.greenygrey.co.uk website.

Contact: [email protected]

All photos taken by Marc Latham.

The Pages Travel Rant

Please don’t fill the gap

It’s January and the weather cooler than in previous months. That means the return of

commuters who favour the puffa jacket; and I’ve noticed that over the years, the quilt part

appears to have become thicker. The wearers of these items are immediately transformed

from sleek, to Mitchelin-tyre type person. Some of these people have a penchant for the ….

Backpack bag too. This is not a simple bag containing their shoes, or training gear; the tight

packing and overspill suggests the contents of half a house and emergency kit for the next

twelve months. Now, I have no problem with puffa jackets, or backpack bags, but put them

together, on a tube – and hey, we’re talking serious space occupancy. It doesn’t stop there

either.

One such commuter today had an MP3 player and as he attempted to insert the earpiece, he

jerked his free arm at a right angle, resulting in his heavily padded elbow sticking into another

passenger’s ear. Then the music started its journey from the MP3 to the earphones until it

reached the ears of the wearer, and many others too. The person complete with backpack bag

started moving in time to the music. He is now taking up the space of approximately four

people breathing out, or six people holding their breath.

The tube has just left St Paul’s and I want to get out at Chancery Lane, the next station. Puffa

jacket person with backpack is obstructing me and the very tiny exit route from the carriage to

the platform. I ask if I can get past. He cannot hear me (remember MP3), I try to tap him, to

no avail, the padding is so thick he can feel nothing. Over the station loudspeaker the words

announcing, ‘mind the closing doors, please stand behind the yellow line’. I try to kick puffa

jacket person, but the padding and the backpack meant I would need to have 40 inch legs for

my foot to make contact with any part of him not covered by quilt or backpack.

Eventually, a man in front of him hears my pleas and waves at puffa jacket man – who then

turns around to see who he’s blocking, almost knocking the man out with his backpack. Puffa

jacket person then loses his balance and lands on an unsuspecting passenger sitting reading

his newspaper. It was a moment of light relief for me, although I appreciate not for the man

reading. I suspect the puffa jacket man felt nothing, quite likely not even embarrassment – the

padding would have protected that emotion too. I grab my chance to escape and slip past the

fallen man. Then with a communal effort from the other passengers to keep doors open just

long enough for me to get off the train – I make my break for freedom.

© June Gundlack

The Pages Poetry

I Held You

We danced beside the river as the sun broke through the mist,

In the warming of the morning, I held you and we kissed.

And later that same afternoon, I held you as you slept,

Then you had to leave me and I held you as you wept.

I held you when we met again, back home in winter rain,

I held you in your ecstasy and in your guilty pain.

I held you when you broke away, to end the secrecy,

I held you as, when giving birth, you screamed and cursed at me.

I held you when the verdict came, that devastating call,

when fate tore away our happiness that morning in the hall.

I held you through the anger, through the fear and misery,

I held you on our final night, as you slipped away from me.

I dream we dance an endless waltz, your head upon my cheek,

I hold you close, you comfort me when everything seems bleak.

I bless you for our daughter, there's so much of you in her,

We hold you in our memories, You never leave us there.

© Trevor Belshaw

The Pages Poetry

KISSES

I blew a kiss,

he ducked, ‘Missed!’

I aimed again,

groaning, he fell.

‘Kisses don’t kill,’ I said.

His laughter speared my heart.

Kisses don’t kill

- not the kissed.

© Linda Daunter

The Pages The Writing Life

To Write

To write is to tumble from the dubious heights of old age, down through the years to my

youth.

What began as an act of vanity; to leave a record of my life after I had open heart surgery, has

become an insatiable monster eating up reams of paper for a never ending story.

It has become a voyage of discovery, a feast of childhood experiences deciphered, enjoyed,

analysed.

As my stiff fingers peck out the words and my eyes become strained, tears, laughter and

precious memories scramble and fight for space on my computer screen.

New words like format and font have had to be learned along with skills to save and print the

precious work I’ve slaved over for so long.

Forty three years after leaving school, I was dismayed to find that I had forgotten all the rules

of English grammar that was dinned into me week after week, year after year.

Now as one year has passed swiftly into ten, I have finally regained long forgotten skills and

my confidence has grown.

When I began to dip into my past, I wondered if this was how one began the slide into what is

called second childhood. It would be so easy to walk into it and not return. It’s tempting

because it is such a comforting place to be, but then I remember that second childhood brings

bad behaviour and forgetfulness and distresses loved ones, and I have too many stories left to

write to let that happen to me.

My heart swells when I receive praise, but I have had to learn that not everyone appreciates

what I write. At those times I retreat into the security of my years, for along with the

inconvenience of stiffening joints, comes a stiffening of attitude that can brush off and ignore

negative comments. Nothing can stop the flow of words when episodes long forgotten ease

their way into my mind as I crouch over the keyboard.

Some days my recall is extra sharp and then the glow of a happy childhood enfolds me like a

warm woollen cloak. On those days I can hear, see and smell my mother and father, my

grandmother and my sister, our house and garden. I can see the myriad of cracks on the

garden path and feel the furry ginger caterpillars I plucked from the bronze chrysanthemums

that lined our garden path. I can smell the aroma of long ago meals cooking and know once

again that intense feeling of love as my mother wraps me in her arms.

I know I cannot relive my youth. As I look into the mirror it warns me that my life is winding

down. It shows with brutal honesty that I have had my turn. I am getting old and must make

way for precious new life.

I hate the thought of leaving the world and my family, but when it is time to climb the ladder

of my memories for the last time and take that final leap into the unknown, I am satisfied and

comforted that I am leaving behind the best possible memorial to those who made my life so

good. For I shall be leaving the written word and best of all beloved grandchildren to read it.

© Diane Rayburn

The Pages Out Now

Kudos 76

MAY/JUNE 2009.

Announcing our brand new website…

www.kudoswritingcompetitions.com

Yes, I know, it looks exactly the same as the old one; only the names

have been changed (slightly) so it’s still an excellent, up-to-date

resource, though but a fraction of the information in the magazine itself.

So to celebrate, you are welcome to sample a free back issue of Kudos, emailed as a pdf – or,

if you’d like to be quids in, the current issue is now reduced to just £2.

The cost of subs is largely offset because several entry forms are enclosed, which adds up to

quite a saving on postage: around 70p each time when sending off to competitions.

Plus of course, it saves you time and energy. Likewise, the magazine: we do all the work in

order for you to be able to concentrate on doing yours - making the most of the wide variety

of competitions, as well as umpteen opportunities for publication.

www.kudoswritingcompetitions.com

Many congratulations to our subscribers (Orbis and Kudos)

Roger Elkin: 1st, Diversity House Poetry Competition Barbara Daniels: 1st, Writer’s Bureau

Poetry & Short Story Competition (poetry)

Julia Painter: 1st, Writeonsite

Jeremy Woman, 1st, Cinnamon Press Short Story Competition

Derek Taylor, 1st, Carillon Minisaga Competiton

Gol McAdam, 1st, Sussex Playwrights Club 2008 Television Screenplay Competition

Annette Keen, Winner of The Yeovil Literary Prize (novel category)

Oz Hardwick, Winner of the Dawntreader Poetry Award;

Alan Spencer, Joint Winner of the Indigo Dreams Booklet Competition

Kudos 76

Runs mostly from the end of this month right up to mid July, and beyond.

Answers on a postcard... to Leaf Books. And more traveling hopefully for Alexander Cordell, along

with Bradt and the British Czech & Slovak Association.

Sounds good; mmm? There’s more from Mere (poetry), plus prose for Meridian, Mabel Barber, and the

BBC; both, for Bridport.

You can attribute essays to David Rattray*, Sir Peter Ustinov for TV scripts, Tony Lothian for

biography; poetry entries to Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Edwin Morgan.

Further afield: Oregon based Calyx for the ladies, Michigan’s Mcguffin is hunting down poems, and

so are Blue Mountain.

Chapbooks for Hotmetal Press, and lots and lots of things for Literal Latte.

*And it’s free, as are several others.

Want to know about what’s ‘Lost’ and what is ‘Find’?

Or about Moccus, Cazart, Review Fuse, Vulgari or Fish Pie –

they’re all here, in the May/June issue of Kudos

BOOKS

The Haunting of Melmerby Manor by David Robinson

Available from:

http://www.virtualtales.com/vmchk/Mystery/Crime/Haunting-of-

Melmerby-Manor

http://www.amazon.co.uk

http://www.amazon.com

Birthrights

by Su Laws Baccino (Susan Baccino)

Available from:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/

http://www.waterstones.com

http://www.amazon.com/

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/

GUILT by Caroline Brazier

Available from:



Tea Time Morsels: A Collection of Short Stories

by Marit Meredith

Available from:



http://www.lulu.com/uk

The Letters

by Fiona Robins

Available from:


http://www.snowbooks.com/shop

Tangled Roots

by Sue Guiney

Avalable from:


Another HairCut?

A collaboration by various writers,

written in aid of The Children’s Chronic Arthritis Association

Available from:

http://www.lulu.com/uk

AND FINALLY, AVAILABLE NOW:

The Blue Handbag

by Fiona Robyn

Available from:


The Pages DWBP

DIARY OF A WOULD-BE-PROTAGONIST

Forever Nameless

It’s nearing midnight and Anna’s still working. On the other manuscript! At least mine got a

mention somewhere today, although she didn‘t seem to take all that much notice. I’ll have

to be grateful for small mercies, I suppose.

But I sense her eyelids beginning to droop. I’d better get ready for that mind to mind

moment and hope she doesn’t cop out and fall asleep on me.

Well, it looked promising. She drifted, without really going to sleep, but I had to bide my

time. As you know, I have plenty of practice. And did it work? Yes and no. At least I

seemed to get one point across. As for a resolution, well…

She knows that I’m not happy with the state of affairs. It’s not what I was led to believe

would happen when she started to form my character. And, I prodded her shoulder (Anna

doesn’t like that), how would she like to go through what seems like forever, nameless? No

decision’s been made, in case you wondered. I’m still the Would-Be-Protagonist. A bit of a

mouthful, don’t you think?

She didn’t have any idea for a name when she started out with my story, but thought it

would come naturally as she wrote. It generally does. But this time it didn’t. How do you

name what essentially is nothing, except in spirit? There again, how could she show me

growing and gaining in substance, without ever referring to me by name? She resorted to

’little one’. That could be a child - any child. But not me. It’s not quite what I was then and

certainly not what I am now.

For a while she toyed with the idea of calling me Omega, as she thought she might make me

one of the last ones. But she’s making assumptions. Besides, once she’d penned it, she saw

the name used in all sorts of ways, even on the side of vans, for goodness sake. My name is

supposed to be a bit more special than that. At least we agreed on that point.

Staying with the Greek alphabet (why Greek?), she thought perhaps Upsilon would do.

Towards the end, but not the end. I vetoed that. Sounds archaic to me. So I was left

nameless then and I still am now.

Anna argued that as I was genderless at the very beginning, being named didn’t matter, nor

was it appropriate, in her opinion. But it does matter. It matters to me. A name would

distinguish me from all those other nameless entities floating about in her head, waiting for

a story to attach themselves to. It would set me apart.

So, did we come up with any ideas? Well, I wouldn’t have a clue, would I? Anna didn’t

seem to have any either. How do people name their children if it’s so difficult? So we got

nowhere, but at least it set her thinking, and that must be a step forward.

I didn’t mean for the whole question to pursue her into her sleep though, giving her a

restless night. Honest. And I am honest, you know. I don’t have the capability to lie - at

least not yet. As far as I can understand, anyway. Something to do with my make-up, I think

(no, not the kind girls wear on their faces - although I was tempted to try, before I knew

what I was).

Anyway, her eyes are red and sore this morning. She looks like she’s been on a bender.

Perhaps she made a visit to that virtual bar. I was out of it, so I don’t know. I can’t always

be wide awake and aware - and I found last night’s session exhausting. Nothing disturbed

my sleep!

We stayed on the subject of naming my character far too long and I almost lost sight of what

I really wanted her to take on board - my actual plight. Being a nameless entity is bad

enough, but to be without a purpose or destination is even worse. It was all in place once

and I want it back. I want to move on, like the characters in the other story she’s writing.

They’ve got names and dialogues. Their story is moving forward. It’s time she took me a bit

further, too.

I think she got the message, but I didn’t expect her to lose sleep over our little session. Isn’t

that just the way? I’ve addled her brain. Hope it’s temporary.

© Anna Reiers (aka Marit Meredith)

The Pages And finally…

The Soothsayer, Sage, proclaimed:

‘Let us raise our young

to embrace the sun and rhythmical purrs

of soothing rain.

‘Let its ooze spread and warmly soak:

a multi-mix of seeded herbs

to nourish their tender growth.

‘Let them flourish in diverse

colours, shapes, aromas, textures

and tastes.

‘Then let us celebrate their enrichments

and healing properties:

to value the quality of cultural difference.’


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The Pages Issue 6

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Transcript of The Pages Issue 6