The start of something...

 This is the very day that I start a year long project with a dear friend. She has I would say infinite knowledge of the town in which we both live...me for fifty three years...she since birth.

We write together every Thursday morning at a group called..."The Bold Street Writers". A prompt is delivered...and we write. This morning seven of us wrote about the words..."The Journey" ...each person's writing was so different...which I think is a joy in all that we share and have shared for more than twenty years.

Then we set off after a lovely cup of flat white coffee in a favourite cafe and a natter about our lives and a catching up after a busy week....on as Winnie the Poo always said.."A very great adventure". 

I'm going to save the journey for another blog...but this first day touched my heart at quite a deep level as we explored the streets we thought we both knew so well...and found new business in old places and old people in hard places.

Just this pic says it all maybe...a little miniature fern taking hold in a tiny crack in the stone work of an abanboned old 1800s property. 

Here is life.

Eileen is Missing....Sunday's Short Stories

I love the Bold Street Writers group that I go to here in Warrington. We are a mixed lot of women writing out of life experiences, writing out of imagination….just writing because we have to!

Eileen is one of the oldest who write each week. But never let it be said that she writes anything boring…ah no. Her wonderful stories could have your toes curling one moment and your sides splitting with laughter another!

So when it was Eileen’s prompt on Thursday and she wasn’t there…we worried.

 So we took as our new prompt…”Eileen is missing”!

Eileen is missing. People are worried. Eileen is always there prompt at ten, ordering her coffee, chatting about her week,

No, Eileen is always here.

As sure as eggs are eggs we could set our watches on her appearance. Always know if we had the right day, the right place, prepared the right prompt. For if Eileen said she would be there, she was…and Eileen is missing.

Every week we look forward to hearing some gritty news that no one else has heard, because Eileen doesn’t waste a minute of her life moping around. No, she is out and about with a cheery hello to her neighbours. Out and about at her coffee and tea gatherings with old friends from her professional life. Meeting up at bus stations and train stations and catching transport to theatres and concert halls and taking in the history of some local grand house. And then passing on her nuggets of golden information to us all. And making us think that we needed to be there, go there, hear that, see that. Instead of moping around and moaning about. Well you know how it is!!!

So that’s how it is now. Eileen is missing and unless I’m very much mistaken or missing the point…someone is keeping something back from us all. And I at least intend to find out what, winkle the information from them, ply them with flattery and even seccumb to a bribe or a spot of alcohol as it’s so important to find out why Eileen is missing.

There’s a space in this that only Eileen can fill. That’s not to say she’s a big woman, no, not big in size.  But yes big.  Big in heart, big in enthusiasm, big in ideas. Yes now I come to think of it, Eileen is a big woman. Someone like Eileen can fill a room, let alone a chair. So when Eileen is missing the empty space is vast. The room may be full yet it seems strangely empty.

My, my!… I’m getting rather metaphysical here!

 But no, it’s a fact and anyone who knows her knows it’s a fact. No getting away from it. I’m putting it down here on the page and it gets plainer with every mark.

 Eileen is missing and so we are missing out.

But hang on, wait a minute, there must be someone who knows why Eileen is missing. Someone always knows. In my experience of life, though I acknowledge that’s not vast, not international, not particularly academic, yes in my experience there is always someone who knows. And very often the knowing person and their knowingness is right under your nose. Not like a bad smell under your nose. No ? I wouldn’t say that. More like a feather tickling or a bit of fluff that won’t go away until you sneeze and your eyes water and you reach for a tissue.

But I digress.

 Yes someone always knows something. Well just think of all the media stories appearing at the moment.  Someone knew.  Knew about the pay packets of those nice men on the radio, on the TV news, on the BBC. And what about those coloured roads that are due to appear locally, all over the banks of the Mersey…someone knew. Yes but did someone else have to winkle out the information and post it up for us to see….even if it was all a bit too late for us to do anything?

As for Eileen, she is still missing. Though I’ve heard that the electrician knows where she is….

But he’s not telling.

Sunday's Short Story...Dan's Breakfast

Out he marched.

Out of the stuffy house and

Away out into his garden.

Off he went with his belly full.

Off with a lightness of step.

It was a good feeling to take into the new day.

Now Dan was no spring chicken.

Well to tell the truth, he was closer to ninety than eighty.

But a wee bit of a creak in the joints would surely only be improved with a jaunt out into the fresh air. 

Out into his beloved veggie patch.

And there he would stand, arms crossed over his chest and lovingly survey his domain 

with the pride of a king,

 an emperor, 

a ruler of nations.

O.k....that might be a bit over the top that last thought.

But nevertheless his pride in his garden abounded.

Mags, in the home, was a great cook.

There were no two ways about it.

She could take a few wee ingredients, throw them in a pot, add a spot of water and a smidgen of a stock cube and produce a soup to knock your socks off!

And when it came to breakfasts, well there was noone, not man nor beast could beat her breakfasts.

So on this morning she had truly excelled herself.... and Dan's expectations... and had presented him with the breakfast to beat all breakfasts.

Here's a taste of what lay glistening on his plate.

Two slices of best back bacon, crisped on the edges where a spot of fat lingered smelling of heaven.

Two fried eggs winking at him from eggy paradise with whites firm and yolks soft and runny enough to dip a toasty soldier in and bring it up to his mouth with the delicious chance that a golden drop might roll gently down his chin ...to be savoured at a later time.

A plump red tomato, halved and left sizzling in the pan 'til the edges browned with the crustiness left in the bottom of the frying pan from the cooked bacon.

And succulent sliced mushrooms sauted in butter and placed gleaming on the side of the plate.

But....creme de la creme, there on his plate a fat slice of his favourite black pudding, peppery and salted.

That was surely to replace the iron in his system.....just call me "Ironman", he thought.

So with a belly content with a full Irish breakfast and a pot of strong tea heavily laced with a spoonful...make that two or three spoonfuls...of sugar....

Out he marched.

Out into the sharpness of the January air.

Frost had left the grass with a grey green hue.

It reminded him of the colour of the classroom walls in the old school where he had been caretaker for fifty years.

It made him stop and consider how lucky he had been in life.

Well ...except for the times the school toilets had blocked, or that time the lab had been set on fire by the mad scientist of a teacher or....

Ah, that's what he would do this fine morning.

He would take all the dead wood and the autumn gatherings of dried bean stalks, dead asparagus grass and the sweetcorn stooks and have a fire.

A really big, glorious, joyous bonfire.

He would take two of the old wooden garden chairs and set them together upwind away from the smoke.

He would pop back down to the kitchen and bring Mags up and together they would sit and watch the sparks make their way up into the grey January sky.

He gathered the thinnings of autumn.. 

Stuffed paper into the empty spaces, laid the wood in a pattern as he had learnt as a boy from his dad, and who had in turn learnt from his dad.

So history progresses.

So skills are passed on.

So he took his lighter, the redundant lighter since he had given up smoking, and lit the paper.

Watched with anticipation as the dried vegetation caught fire and listened as it talked to him of times gone by, as it crackled and popped .

Mags looked out of

the kitchen window and sighed.

Another bloody bonfire!

So no washing hanging on the line again today!

Thursday Writers At The Gateway in Warrington.

Thursday writers at Bold Street writers

and

Today Pat F. offered us two bags of thoughts.

One full of taste words

and one full of smell words

Our prompt was to write using whatever words we had picked out.

Mine were ...bonfire and full English breakfast.

I demurred and changed that to Irish!!

Out he marched.

Out of the stuffy house and

Away out into his garden.

Off he went with his belly full.

Off with a lightness of step.

It was a good feeling to take into the new day.

Now Dan was no spring chicken.

Well to tell the truth, he was closer to ninety than eighty.

But a wee bit of a creak in the joints would surely only be improved with a jaunt out into the fresh air. 

Out into his beloved veggie patch.

And there he would stand, arms crossed over his chest and lovingly survey his domain 

with the pride of a king,

 an emperor, 

a ruler of nations.

O.k....that might be a bit over the top that last thought.

But nevertheless his pride in his garden abounded.

Mags, in the home, was a great cook.

There were no two ways about it.

She could take a few wee ingredients, throw them in a pot, add a spot of water and a smidgen of a stock cube and produce a soup to knock your socks off!

And when it came to breakfasts, well there was noone, not man nor beast could beat her breakfasts.

So on this morning she had truly excelled herself.... and Dan's expectations... and had presented him with the breakfast to beat all breakfasts.

Here's a taste of what lay glistening on his plate.

Two slices of best back bacon, crisped on the edges where a spot of fat lingered smelling of heaven.

Two fried eggs winking at him from eggy paradise with whites firm and yolks soft and runny enough to dip a toasty soldier in and bring it up to his mouth with the delicious chance that a golden drop might roll gently down his chin ...to be savoured at a later time.

A plump red tomato, halved and left sizzling in the pan 'til the edges browned with the crustiness left in the bottom of the frying pan from the cooked bacon.

And succulent sliced mushrooms sauted in butter and placed gleaming on the side of the plate.

But....creme de la creme, there on his plate a fat slice of his favourite black pudding, peppery and salted.

That was surely to replace the iron in his system.....just call me "Ironman", he thought.

So with a belly content with a full Irish breakfast and a pot of strong tea heavily laced with a spoonful...make that two or three spoonfuls...of sugar....

Out he marched.

Out into the sharpness of the January air.

Frost had left the grass with a grey green hue.

It reminded him of the colour of the classroom walls in the old school where he had been caretakeer for fifty years.

It made him stop and consider how lucky he had been in life.

Well ...except for the times the school toilets had blocked, or that time the lab had been set on fire by the mad scientist of a teacher or....

Ah, that's what he would do this fine morning.

He would take all the dead wood and the autumn gatherings of dried bean stalks, dead asparagus grass and the sweetcorn stooks and have a fire.

A really big, glorious, joyous bonfire.

He would take two of the old wooden garden chairs and set them together upwind away from the smoke.

He would pop back down to the kitchen and bring Mags up and together they would sit and watch the sparks make their way up into the grey January sky.

He gathered the thinnings of autumn.. 

Stuffed paper into the empty spaces, laid the wood in a pattern as he had learnt as a boy from his dad, And who had in turn learnt from his dad.

So history progresses.

So skills are passed on.

So he took his lighter, the redundant lighter since he had given up smoking, and lit the paper.

Watched with anticipation as the dried vegetation caught fire and listened as it talked to him of times gone by, as it crackled and popped .

Mags looked out of

the kitchen window and sighed.

Another bloody bonfire!

So no washing hanging on the line again today!

a Poem for Thursday...The Noise of Heavy Traffic.

Margaret U. brought the prompt today. 

She offered us an envelope with strips of paper and each had a noise written on it.

So... waterfall, drip drip, laughter and mine....the noise of heavy traffic.

There's always a panic moment when you know that you have no more than an hour to put down your best thoughts and make some creativity with words!

We have just come back from another motorway trip...this time to see the southern family down the M6 and M1 and traffic, traffic, traffic...so I had something to work with.

It's "brumm brumm" and "beep beep"

As the child on the back seat sang.

And the young woman in the driver's seat

Does her best to avoid a prang.

While out on the road in the busy traffic

Screaming accelerators shout.

And the tired commuters in the early morning

Play chicken, without a doubt.

Brumm brumms the sound of the traffic

And the beeps are heard all around.

While the child strapped into his seat at the back

Turns his toy wheel around and around.

The H.G.V. in the line in front

Is revving it's engine again.

The driver frustrated, is paid by the hour

And the number of trips he has made.

A middle aged business man lost in  reverie

Sighs as the lights turn to red.

That's another ten minutes of idling in neutral

He may as well stay in his bed.

Then a smart-ass young woman gesticulates

Wildly and raises her B.P. again.

She lifts up two fingers and points them at someone

With a blankety blank blank refrain.

The light blinks on green and they're off on the road

Well at least they can make second gear.

And the child in the back seat smiles

At the woman and 

Raises his fingers as well.

God's name is called upon there in the traffic,

Well, called may not be the right term.

But for folk who declare they are atheist/agnostics

They regularly mention him there.

Then the traffic starts moving and hope springs eternal

They may yet make the school run,the meeting,

The shopping, the doctor's, the dentist's the job

And get home again sometime this evening.

Now the child on the back seat is singing again

And the smart-ass young woman calms down.

While the heavy goods driver thinks maybe he'll make it

And the business man ceases to frown.

For they'll drive down the roads

Where the traffic is heaving

And tomorrow they'll do it again.

...there are more!!

Thursday Writers Group

Bold Street Writers

Today Margaret was the prompt giver and she laid out a number of strips of paper each with an opening sentence from which we had to write a dialogue.

This was mine!

So just about fifty minutes later and a lot of scribbling...well you can see that from the pic!...this was the script I came up with.......

(...Belfast voice...)

Dad:- "What have you done with my pills? I need them! I know you've moved them mother, you're a bloomin' nuisance with your tidying up all the time. Land's sake let the dust lie, It'll be there when we're dead and gone. And I'll be dead and gone if I can't find my pills.

 I can feel myself comin' over all faint already. I'm gonna sit down a wee while and collect my thoughts, pull myself together.

Mum:-  "Sorry"

Dad:-   "And what the heck has happened to that cushion? You know I have to have yon there cushion at my back otherwise I will end up with one of my agonizing backs again, and I'll be laid up in bed for a fortnight and then you'll know all about it.When you're traipsing up and down those stairs! I can't be sitting in that chair with that cushion there...even if it does match the chair better that mine. 

I know how your mind works, I really do."

Mum:-  "Sorry".

Dad:-  "Has the paper arrived? I haven't seen it anywhere. Don't tell me that paper boy has given up again.

 I can't stand lazy people like him, no get up and go and no loyalty to his customers. 

Well mum you'll just have to pop across to the newsagent and get it, and while you're at it tear a strip of  that woman over there for not making sure her best customers get their Dailies on time. 

What's the point at getting the paper at ten in the morning? Sure it's old news by then. I'd go myself but I'm feeling a bit woosey,  I need to get those wee red pills. 

What have you done with them you auld fool?"

Mum:-  "Sorry".

Dad:-  While you're over at the shop get me some ciggies. I'd give you the money but sure my wallet's up the stairs in the other jacket pocket and I couldn't make it up there at the moment. Sure I can pay you later after I get over this wee bout of dizziness.A cup of tea before you go would see me through 'til you're back, and make sure you put the three sugars in, last time I'll swear there was none, and the tea was flipping bitter.

 I'll just have a wee bit of shuteye 'til you're back."

Mum:-  "Sorry".

Dad:-  "Have you gone yet? 

Mother do you hear me? 

You're deaf you auld biddy!

 Deaf as a doorpost.

 I could be dying here and you'd not give two hoots!

 Do you hear me?

 I'm not going to shout! Sure I don't have the energy.

 I would have the energy if I could get hold of those bloody pills.

Are they down the side of the couch where you sit? Why would you move them?

 I said why would you move them?

 I may as well talk to the wall for all you care.

 Is that cup of tea coming? Three sugars mind. And the paper would be grand before lunch for crying out loud.

If that's you by the front door I'll do without the tea, if you're on your way across. 

Ciggies, remember ciggies.

 Mind like a sieve mother, mind like a sieve.

God I feel lousy. Where the heck are those wee red devils? If I were a fit man I'd be up looking for them. I would. I know I would. That's the kind of man that I am. That's the kind of fellow, feeelooow, fellooo.....".( falls to the ground).

Mum:-  "Sorry!!"  (Slams the front door and gets into a taxi with a suitcase )

We are often a gruesome lot of writers at the group...we women!!!

Sunday's Short Story....."The Rustle of Silk"

Thursday morning writers group and Liz gave the prompt....

"A rustle of Silk"

I was going to write about my first silk dress when a memory from my early days as a teacher came to me...and after the first sentence the story arrived...... 

We lived on the top floor of an Edwardian house. A window looked out over the park opposite with it’s treelined  walkways. It was a good district in the southern coastal town.

We were three girls, young women, professional workers.

Val the theatre nurse in the local hospital, Jill the fashion buyer for the big store in the middle of the town and me, teacher of a reception class of little ones in the old school up in the village on the top of the white cliffs.

Always laughter and friends, that’s my memory of the flat. Maybe at times too much laughter and too many friends marching up and down the stairs at all times of the day …and often the night.

Madame Durant lived below us. We were young and not inclined to tenderness in our observations. She was, at least to us, old and squat and rather hairy in places we women are not suppposed to be hairy.

She regularly complained bitterly about us to the landlord, probably the owner of the property. He came to see us to plead for mercy for Madame. He invited us to his home to chat to us about thoughtfulness. We had tea and cake and he smiled at us. We were young.

Madame Durant was a writer of love stories. Passionate, lustful, full blown love on every page. We wondered if there had ever been a Monsieur Durant. We gave him a title….Mr. D.O.Durant! Such is the cruelty of the young.

We had a friend who was basing much of his life on the philosophies written within the book by A..A.Milne….”Winnie the Pooh”

Often in an evening we gathered in the lounge, sprawling on sofas, prone on cushions laid out on the floor, chins tucked on to knees, balanced on the edge of chairs and listened while he read. He read the escapades of Pooh and Eyore, Ro and Kanga, and most of all Christopher Robin. Each character’s voice was matched to it’s personality. Squeak of Ro, depression of Eyore, sensibility of Christopher Robin. We laughed and cried with the wonderful renditions and stomped our delight on the floor. Poor Madame Durant. I cannot read it now without hearing Eyore’s mournful tones.

I was given the task of organising the décor in the flat. I embroidered seat covers, bought furniture from the local junk shops, made curtains for windows from best Robinson and Cleavers fabrics mum had brought over on one of her visits. It was my contribution to the general feel  of the place.  I looked for ways to decorate, but we had little money left over once the rent was paid. And we each had our weekly bus fare and lunches to think about,  as well as all those little extras in a girl’s life. At twentyone my teacher's salary was £40 a month. It stretched quite nicely and there was always a bit there for Saturday morning coffee and cake in the southern coastal town .

I was in a finding-out mood when I decided to have a look into the little dark cupboard under the eaves. I went in headfirst,then body and then pulled in my long legs. No light switch in the cubby-hole, no torch in the flat, just feeling around with my hands to try and find anything interesting . As I think back I’m sure there could have been dead birds, mice or at the very least big hairy spiders!

But I found none of these. However tightly packed into the fartherest corner where roof and floor met was a roll of something soft. I grabbed it as best I could.

Without wanting to damage the contents, I eased my way back to the opening holding the roll of fabric carefully in my free hand. It was covered in dust and grime as was I. My knees were raw with crawling on the bare boards.

The roll of silk in my hands had writing on it and more than that it also had some design printed there.  I laid it out flat on the hall rug and examined what I had found. A map of part of Europe. A square of silk as large as a man’s handkerchief, with the map of Germany printed on it. An airman’s escape map with escape routes marked clearly. Thin enough to be able to screw it up tight or fold it flat. Small enough to be hidden in the lining of a jacket or cached in the hollow heel of a boot. Still perfect, still usable. But who had been the owner of it?

Was it Madame Durant’s lover? Had he been a Frenchman in the resistance? Maybe an airman based in the airfield up on the cliffs where the school was. History hidden in a dark cupboard in an attic in an old house in a town on the south coast of England. A town looking over the Channel to France. On a fine day in good weather you felt you could almost throw a beach pebble and hit the far shore.

And Madame?.....is that why she wrote her stories of love and lust? I will never know after all these years later…

But the prompt…prompted me to go back there in my memories, into that cupboard and find treasure.

So much unknown in a rolled up map of rustling silk. 

Sunday's Short Story

...another from two hours of Thursday mornings at the Writers Workshop...

" An ado about nothing"

(Thanks to W. Shakespeare)

What a fuss, I thought, pursing my lips and frowning. Honestly, don't people have more important things to think about than to start complaining over such a trivial occurance?

 I may have believed that painting the house pink was a good idea. I had done it in a spur of the moment decision. The paint at B&Qs was reduced. The store was closing down and although most of the goods on the shelves were to be carted off up the road to the hyperstore on the outskirts of town, the tins of pink paint were reduced to 50p a tin.

How could I resist such a bargain? Always known as a cherry picker in the local charity shops and jumble sales, this offer was too good to walk away from.

So I didn't!

Ian helped me to prepare the walls by sanding down the brickwork with an electric drill attachment. A good lad, he's always ready to help, if not exactly the brightest star in the bunch. But he is kindly. And as I get older, it's kindness that becomes more and more important to me. 

It only took us two days to finish the job. And very good it looked, if I say so myself. 

Yes, yes,  we missed the mark a few times and Ian painted over the keyhole in the front door. Oh yes and I'll have to take a sharp blade and try to remove the rim of paint on the glass windows. Yes, yes, some things like that. But when I stand on the other side of the street and look across at what we've done I'm jolly pleased.

So, what on earth is all this fuss about? It's not as if this is the grandest of streets. Not the "right" side of town. And most of the other houses are boring. Yes that's right, boring! Nothing adventurous in any of them. 

Nothing to catch the eye, or make me smile as I walk home in an evening from the local Tesco, my shopping bags full of the day's bargains. You have to time that exactly. Too early...nothing. Too late...the dregs! I'm a cherry picker there as well. It makes for exciting meals as I never know what has been reduced 'til I get there.

Anyway, look out, here they come.  Those neighbours, with their lace curtains, acceptably painted front doors and pots of boring plants placed neatly in front. Here they come knocking on my pink  door. Bright pink I mean .

" Well", I ask, " what do you want?"..... as I smile at them and think...

What an ado about nothing!

A Poem for Thursday

The Midsummer Knight's Dream

This morning at the Thursday morning writers group the prompt was  from Margaret K.

" Brush up your Shakespeare"

.

But some of us were grieving for another writer of both comedy and tragedy ....

Victoria Woods. 

Then on top of it being Shakespeare's birthday this week...a double whammy with The Queen's 90th. today. What a week! Now whether you are for or against the Monarchy...to celebrate a 90th birthday and be the longest reigning Queen ever, deserves at the very least a mention.

 But my thoughts were about Victoria...the Queen of Comedy since the 70s......and this one is for her...and for her beloved Morecambe...and in particular Lubin's...a place of inspiration. We were lucky enough to eat there  many times before it closed its doors for good. 

I have read that..." Is it on the trolley?"... maybe a quote from Lubin's !!!!!

Some artistic licence in this mad sonnet.

The Midsummer Knights Dream

We sat on the crimson red sofa,

The potter, the daughter and me.

We ordered a platter with cheeses

Some bread and a big pot of tea.

When who should come in through the doorway

With her children and husband in tow

Victoria and the Magician

In his best Sunday suit and his bow.

The sun caught the top of his bald pate,

She heaved up her boobs from below.

Her kids ordered meat pie at Lubin's

And icecream to have on the go.

But the dream was just Midsummer Madness

For she's gone, and we're left with our sadness.

Sunday's Short Story.

I know it's Monday...but we left the house on the Bay...Sunday evening, and scudded down the old M6 to catch The Durrell's on the box...so no time to post as we cope very nicely without WiFi in the Bay house.

(...an aside...
...the bay sunset, which is renowned anyway, was especially beautiful on Saturday because of the stormy weather....I just had to run out and catch the end of it before the sun went down.)

Prompt

The prompt from Pat F.on Thursday at The Writer's Workshop was a challenge. Not that it isn't always a challenge for me...but this one stumped me for a while. But the only thing to do in that situation is to go with the first idea that comes .. and run with it. We only have a bit over an hour to write before we read the results to each other....so here it is...

Albert was not yet ready to share his age with Ivy. She had been told that his birthday was coming up, But as his secretary she needed to be careful about broadcasting it around the office. After all Albert was the boss.The company had been good to her. Life was difficult enough since Syd died. She was still coming to terms with an empty house every evening.Ivy felt angry about it all although she knew that his family had a history of heart attacks. Nevertheless, being who she was, one who copes, it was just a few weeks after Syd's funeral that she determined to get herself a job, and get back into a daily routine.To have Albert as her boss was more that she had dared to hope for.She did have a lot of experience noted down on her c.v. But with so many people applying for so few positions, she realised that in this she had fallen on her feet.....or to be more precise...on the office chair!

Her office wall abutted Albert's office wall. And regularly she would either be in his room taking notes or receiving lists of jobs to be achieved, Or Albert would breeze into her office. No knock of course, just striding in and sitting on the edge of her desk with a file or USB to peruse But recently often it had often been with a mug of coffee at the start of the business day. That was quite a thing! In her last job she had always been expected to be both office worker and tea girl for the whole  floor. 

He was no Adonis, Albert P. Shingle. Sometimes when she thought about it she had a giggle over the name...Shingle! Was it an illness or a beach? She preferred to think it was a beach.And what did the P stand for if anything? Some people put a middle letter into their signature to make it more memorable. Of course it might just be Peter or Paul or maybe Phillip. But she liked to think it was exotic...maybe Peregrine to counteract the blandness of Albert.! Oh dear as the months had gone by that she was thinking more and more about his life outside of the office, And today she knew that he would celebrate his fiftieth. Surely it couldn't pass by unmentioned?

Someone elsewhere in the company must be planning a surprise. No word of this forthcoming...at least none that she had heard of. Her job was precious. She loved the work. She was good at it she discovered. Better than she ever imagined she would be She would let the day pass by.

Every day Ivy made sure that all she did and even what she wore was as professional and efficient as she could make it. She was taking much more thought over her appearance than she had done for many years. Was that her being professional, or did she feel at forty three she still had a lot of living ahead of her? With no children from her marriage to care for life was starting anew .So there would be no way she was going to throw a spanner in the works and step forward now to plan something for Albert's birthday.

But there were little things she could do without making an issue of it. She put a bunch of spring flowers in a pretty jug on the side of the desk - not too ostentatious just enough to sweeten the often stale office air. She bought a packet of triple chocolate biscuits to offer when he arrived  with her coffee. She wore a new blouse she had bought at the weekend. Still a crisp white cotton but with a little pie crust collar on it. And in these small ways she hoped her boss would know that she recognized both the day and also the position she held in the company.

At nine fifteen as usual Albert stepped into her office. Coffee in hand, he smiled. She offered him a cookie. He took one and hesitated. 

"It's my birthday Ivy. I was wondering if you would join me this evening for dinner? I've taken a chance that you might say yes and booked a table at a local restaurant...what do you say?"

The flowers bloomed and shared their perfume in the room, out through the door and into the rest of the building!

Oh dear...cheesy end...but what to do when Pat says.."Five more minutes and then we shall read!"

Well you bring it all to conclusion...and who doesn't love a happy ending anyway!!

By the way you could see more of my pics on my Instagram site...if you were of such a mind!!

geraldinesnape...documenting the mundane

A Story for Sunday..."Keys"

Thursday morning is writer's workshop day. I may have mentioned it before. We are given a prompt to use. It may be a word or a cutting from the paper or even a picture cut out of a magazine.

This short story started with the prompt word..."keys"

I find if I think too much I never get started...so I tend to go with the first idea in my head and write on from there...sometimes it makes sense and sometimes it even surprises me as the story enfolds.

"Keys"

Another cold damp day. I pulled the dusty velvet curtains apart...reluctantly. 

Yesterday's busking had been an utter failure. Standing for hours on the corner of high street. 

That was no fun.

The wintry winds came at me from both directions.

"Go South"...the family had said. "You'll make more money down there. Folk have more cash than us'nes up here in this god-forsaken northern coastal town."

So I went. Did what they suggested. Took their advice. Boarded the bus. Suitcase, handbag, guitar and all. What a palaver! Still I made it. Found a place to lay my head. Not grand you know, but enough. A person can live on a lot less that they think, I've discovered!

And here was another day. I gathered my equipment into a large cotton bag. Carefully stached  the sheet music in a folder... for some things are more precious than others, and the music is one of them. Most of this had been collected during college days. Precious notes bought at the city music store. Carefully chosen to suit my voice and simple enough to be fit for busking. Well what else can a musician do after the heady years of training.? I followed the trend.

The bus stopped in the town centre and I made my way to my usual spot. I'd taken a few days after arriving in the port to look for a good site. This seemed the best. It was on a corner where the two busiest shopping streets met. A good little overhang jutting out from a roof giving me some protection from the rain.Never mind that I hadn't reckoned on a pesky southern wind that couldn't make up it's mind which way to blow. Life  throws a googley or two to catch us unawares!

The town was just starting to get busy. Office workers and school children hurried along with heads down preparing mentally for another day behind a desk. Early shoppers were out for bargains. Scanning the shop windows , looking for the best sales, the 2 for 1, the great bargain. All intent on getting somewhere. this was not the time of day for lingering. Nevertheless I set up the stand and pegged some music to it. I'd brought extra pegs just to defy the wind! Dad always said ,"Be prepared"! I slipped the guitar out of the case, slung the strap around one shoulder and tuned the strings. It's hard to keep them in tune in such weather...but noone would notice if it was slightly out.as they hurried past.

She wasn't hurrying. The young mum. She looked lost I'd say. A child clutched her legs with a fierceness of possession. There are many like her in this southern port. They slide quietly in from trucks and boats. Looking for what I was looking for as well I suppose. A life, some hope, peace and security. Or at least a place of safety to lay their head at the end of the day.

I had been singing for a good hour when I saw her again. The child with his wild eyes. Her face white  and her clothes mismatched. It marked her out as a stranger. She came shyly up to me and made a request. "Did I know this?...did I have the words and music?

" Yes." I asked her for a key...it was the key of C if I remember... and she started to sing to my quitar accompaniment.

A soulful voice, pure on the notes, beautiful with meaning, leaving me breathless.....poured out of the young woman.Tear filled my eyes and I was unable to speak as she finished.

And then she walked away.  The child whimpered and clutched her hand as she led him .

I gained some composure and glanced down at the money cap by my feet. For the first time that week it was full of coins.  

A Poem for Thursday.

A Poem for Thursday

Today at the writers' workshop the prompt was from Shauna. She gave each of us some pages with interesting lists, to make us think about our lives and the people associated with us at various stages of it.

Time Line..............I choose 10 - 15. ...it was the 50s, it was Co Down, and all was well in my world.

Before the Fall

Time was endless, friends were many.

Vicky and Sandy, and I was Gerry.

We laughed a lot, linked arms and talked

About boys we fancied and those we stalked.

A caravan was where we gathered 

Under the stars at Ballyferris

Our bare feet kicking the silver sand.

Where time was endless, nothing planned.

"There's  Cassiopeia and there's the Plough".

"Oh your luck's in, there's a shooting star!"

We raced down maran covered dunes

And harmonised on Western tunes.

And miles away on the far horizon

Were ships bound for ports in the land of England.

We seldom thought of our futures then,

But time and tide don't wait for man.

They pass unseen and never waver

Then gather up all in their net without favour.

And I daren't go back to that holy place

Where time stood still. A time when space

And mercy was real, before the fall

That enveloped and overwhelmed us all.