Monday 26 March 2018

Scoff by Owen Townend





           
The royal family were quick to accept the role of 'prize' on The UK's Finest Fillets TV show.
            When the family sat down to sample the cod of Ezra Williamson, the Duke of Edinburgh made a passing comment. Unusually everyone was inclined to agree with it: if only they could organise a meal like this every year.
            A proper meal, of course, requires a dessert. The Rule Britannia Cake Bake had been going strong for a little under a decade and the Duke of York had admitted to fancying a lemon drizzle cake made by an ambitious minority.
            An agreement was reached with the producers and the Duchess of Cambridge was volunteered to sample the winner of that year: an overly-rich upside-down cake. She had to prove her worth somehow.
            When it was agreed that a prolonged deal would be worthwhile, more family members became involved. However there was one dish missing: the starter.
            A new niche was discovered: England's Green and Pleasant Salads. The royal family had to fund this show themselves initially but the British public ate it right up, so to speak.
            The Queen herself sampled the victorious Peach, Pancetta and Mozzarella Salad. As soon as it was revealed that the culinary artist was openly effete, most of her older male relatives were promptly kept away.
            It took some years to carefully marshal all three shows' conclusions to the same date but it was achieved without much notice. The average watcher thrived in flipping channels to catch up with the latest tray slips, collapsing dough and general drama. 
            At last the royal family had their desired three course meal. Furthermore the salad competition was paying tremendous dividends. In spite of its ravenous beginnings, their dinnertime plan turned out to be a sage business venture.
            That all being said, the meal was found to be more filling than originally hoped. The Queen herself was particularly discomfited: her appetite has shrunk with age.
            Her husband, sons and grandsons however are now eager to eat the best sandwich that their subjects can create.
            The next show title is expected to involve a pun on the famed Earl.

Monday 19 March 2018

A Strange and Unexpected Gift by Jo Cameron-Symes


I am about to tell you a story. It is the kind of story which, if I entered for a competition, I feel that people would think that this would never happen in real life, because it sounds so far-fetched. They would likely feel that this story is too unrealistic. The irony is, that they would be wrong, because every word of this story is true…

         It was one of those blisteringly hot, long days of summer. The days that melted tarmac in the road to the consistency of cookie dough. The air was thick with humidity. Humidity, that seeped into your bones and weighed you down. These were the facts of my childhood summers. Hosepipe bans, dried out, scratchy, sickly yellow-coloured grass that looked as if it had never once been lush and green. Clay baked earth that dried rock-hard and became covered in fissures like mini earthquakes. On days like these, there was nothing to be done but to try to cool off, any way you could. No one had air conditioning in their houses then. Almost all houses owned an electric fan, though all they really seemed to do was re-circulate hot air. All you could do was pray for the rain which arrived with occasional, mythical-type thunderstorms. One storm was so powerful, it set off a cacophony of car alarms on our road by physically moving the cars. The problem was, once the storm had passed, it was cooler for a day or two, then became insufferably hot again.

          Supermarkets provided some refuge from the heat if you were lucky enough to be near one. The refreshing coolness of the freezer aisle was bliss; like walking into a mountain of pure air where you could breathe easily and where the air seemed weightless. But there was only so much time you could spend in a supermarket, especially if you were a teenage girl accompanied by her peers. No, if you spent too long with friends in a supermarket then you only seemed to generate suspicion and were tailed by the security guards, who watched you like a hawk until you left their hunting ground. This always made me angry and I wanted to tell the security guards that all the time that they had wasted watching us would be better used following the people in suits, who were more likely stealing the goods scot free. I never said this, though I wanted to. The only other place to stay cool was at the local outdoor swimming pool. Swim sessions were cheap then and you could stay for a whole afternoon then wander into town afterwards.

           It was after one of these outdoor swims with my friends when something truly odd happened. The four of us had got changed and were walking out of the leisure centre down a long corridor. This corridor fed into the main building from the women’s’ and men’s’ changing rooms and the squash courts at the rear of the building. We were chatting and laughing, talking about where we were going to go in town when two men in their thirties hurried by holding squash rackets. One of them seemed really stressed and (for some reason I was unaware of) singled me out, approaching me with something in his hand and said loudly and very insistently "Take it, please take it!"
           I looked down and saw that it was a women's ring. Thinking that he'd mistakenly thought that I'd dropped it I replied, "No, it's not mine."
           "I know!" he aggressively insisted "Just take it!"
           So I did.  
           He hurried off, followed by his concerned friend. "Oh my God!" I said, "That was weird!" I looked more closely at the ring with my friends, it was 24 carat gold, had a hallmark and what looked like a diamond in the centre. It didn't look brand new, but we assumed it looked a lot like an engagement ring, though being aged thirteen we were a fair few years from getting one of those ourselves. I had no idea what to do next, so stored it in the pocket of my rucksack.

           When I got home, I showed my mother and recounted this strange tale. The whole situation had felt so bizarre and strange that I felt odd keeping the ring, it wasn’t really something that I wanted to have in my possession. My mother agreed that it looked very valuable and took it to the police station where she handed it in. That was the last I ever heard of it.

          To this day, I find myself wondering what the real story was behind that mystery ring? Was it a case of a relationship gone sour? A terrible break-up perhaps, where the woman was unfaithful to her partner? This seems like the most realistic explanation, but perhaps instead, it was an antique ring from an unsuccessful proposal? The writerly side of me also imagines, the most sinister possibility. That it was the ring from a victim's hand, perhaps a murder victim? Of course, that's not likely though...is it?

Monday 12 March 2018

Mother’s Love by Annabel Howarth


From crack and snip,
On blue-white sheets,
To ash above or dust beneath,
There is a force which can’t be broken,
By distance or harsh words once spoken.

Mother’s touch,
The loving touch,
The one you crave and need so much,
Whose cradling arms stopped wailing cries,
When life was merely suckling milk.

Whose tender hands caressed your brow,
In childhood fever and disease,
Those arms which lifted you when down,
With ointments and her gentle touch,
She kissed away your screaming tears.

When you were young your sunny days,
Were filled with her sweet singing voice,
Her warm eyes gazing down on you,
Her Mona Lisa smile of love,
To make things right, it was enough.

And in achievement, up you’ll look
And catch her proud eyes smiling there,
When failure nags you in its midst,
She’ll smile and tell you not to care,
For mother’s love is always there.

When time and seas divide your flesh,
The cord which still holds fast your souls,
Will lengthen, strengthen, and in dreams,
She’ll wipe away your sleeping tears,
And whisper wisdom’s tales of love.

Even when your hurtful tongue,
May slash deep wounds within her heart,
When time comes that you need her most,
She’ll heal those words and play her part,
Mother’s love, her work of art.

And when you’re old, senile or frail,
And she has walked through heaven’s door,
The force of love will still be there,
When out you cry her name again,
Her touch will reach beyond the grave.

From crack and snip,
On blue-white sheets,
To ash above or dust beneath,
There is a force which can’t be broken,
By distance or harsh words once spoken.





This is from a poem I wrote in 1995.  I was 21.  This version is very slightly adapted, with changes to the last two lines of the first and last verses.  At the time, I was in my final year of university, in England.  My mother was living in the USA.  I missed her terribly, but always felt she was there.  We had terrible rows too, back then, but that was how our relationship always was.  Passionate.  She loved fiercely and felt pain in equal measure.  My paternal grandmother was in hospital, suffering from senile dementia.  She called out often for her sisters, Alice and Sarah, rather than her mother, but that bond was still there, and inspired me.  Sadly, my own mother died in December of last year.  It has been the first Mothering Sunday without her.  I miss her so much, but she speaks to me in my dreams.  In memory of my beloved mother, Ann, and to thank her for her unbreakable force of love.


Monday 5 March 2018

A Poem to end all Poems, by Ian F White


A Poem to end all Poems



I relished this War,
Like no war before,
'Cause it got me away from the wife.
There'd be noise, there'd be mud,
There'd be buckets of blood,
And a stench you could cut with a knife.

My two pals and I,
Waved Blighty goodbye,
And caught the first steamer to France.
We were met at Calais,
By a band in full play,
And a Mademoiselle called Constance.

I got a new cap,
A compass a map,
A rifle, and grew a moustache.
Within a few weeks,
I got trench foot at 'Eeps',
And Willie developed a rash.

Some newfangled tanks,
Bolstered our ranks,
The expected big push was nigh
We mowed down the Hun,
With a big machine gun,
Their bodies piled two or three high.

It shook me a tad,
And it drove some men mad,
Bombs exploding around us all day.
There was this one fella,
They said he was yella,
And shot him the last day in May.

On Hill Sixty-One,
Our ammo all gone,
We fixed bayonets and stood firm,
They pressed us quite hard,
Well, it was their back yard,
When recalling that day, I just squirm.

But we had some good times,
Me, Hargreaves and Symes,
Especially that Christmas weekend.
A game of football,
It ended two-all,
For a time Hans called Tommy "good friend".

Four years had soon passed,
Home beckoned at last,
But for thousands their home was now here.
So many lives lost,
Freedoms heavy cost,
White crosses, red poppies, a tear.


Ian F White 2018
We shall never forget.