One week to go!
Things are hotting up, a welcome late showing by San Francisco Kid, we still have the African stallion and Four Eyes running what appears to be neck and neck out front, with Ol’ Two Face in hot pursuit. It’s time to get those whips out.
(I have a feeling that Ol’ Two Face’s latest entry might just have put one of his noses in front, time will tell)
Allegedly a new Beeb series called White Heat is getting everybody excited about the swingin’ sixties. Danish TV will probably run it in five years or so, so I’ll let you know what I think. But meanwhile the Grauniad has asked some pundits how they have reacted to the show and one in particular has written this:
Roger McGough, poet, b.1937
“We never wore kaftans or put flowers in our hair Never made the hippy trail to San Francisco Our love-ins were a blushing tame affair Friday evenings at the local church hall disco Continue reading “The real ’60s”
And now for Something Completely Different!!
Below there is a list of questions for you to answer.
On a scrap of paper jot down a few ideas that spring from the questions and try not to look ahead to the next question until you have written your response to the previous one. Give yourself a couple of minutes at least for each question, if you can .
(I will insert picture spacers to help stop your eye jumping to the next Q)
Use the ideas that come from the questions to help you start a story… you can of course remould your answers as your story dictates.
Here goes:
QUESTION 1
Think of a person you know by sight but haven’t met properly. Describe that person – What he or she looks like, maybe their character traits, a favourite colour etc…
“Food, glorious food!”
I know we have done ‘Eat drink and be merry’, but this time I want the emphasis on the food itself. Photographs of food in any shape or form. It must be edible by most sensible humans. Points will be awarded for the deliciousnessness of the subject. Hint, I am not a vegan. I appreciate that OZ, for example, would be turned on by a bouncy woolly lamb gamboling in the meadow, but he is more likely to succeed if that lamb is photographed on a spit, slowly roasting over a fire. Continue reading “Photo Competition # 24”
Topical Limericks this month
Julius Malema’s been given the boot
The firebrands influence is now worth nowt
Zuma, was oh so peeved
the committee agreed
and kicked the young idiot out
Topical? Extra points for topical! Continue reading “Poetry, March 2012 – Limericks”
“Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical”
The elongated click of the railway sleepers ran a rhythm in Karl Marx’s head as the Edinburgh train heading towards Dundee, slowly approached the Tay Bridge. Continue reading “Tay Bridge 1878”
I may have mentioned that I was a war baby. If not, I was. That meant that Dad worked 12 hours at the Siddeley and Mum continued to cope when he spent half the night doing his duty as an air-raid warden. So bed, I understand, became very precious. And that feeling was passed on to me and my sister. Of course we rebelled a bit as teenagers but in general we respected the hours set aside for sleep. The evening ritual of blacking-out, locking up and filling the kettle lived with us for many years. Continue reading “Time for bed, said Zebedee”
The Journey’s Start
Even as we waited at the coach station I had misgivings. We had been planning this for months – but now Laura had a boyfriend, and that boyfriend, Sam, had come along to see her off on our trip. They stood under the bus shelter engrossed in one another, as if I wasn’t even there. He was tall and blond: slightly androgynous in my view. I suppose I could see what she saw in him, though was so completely not my type, he was very much hers. She fitted neatly under his arm when they walked along side by side, wrapped in each other, her thumb in his belt loop or fingers in his back jeans pocket. His height emphasised her petite frame and her delicate prettiness. He had to tilt his face down to her upturned one to kiss her. They said nothing much and I realised, when I looked up again from checking the tickets that she was crying. Continue reading “Short Story for Low Wattage”
It was a grey morning in November when my brother decided that enough was enough. Of course this wasn’t an instant decision; it had been creeping up on him for some years. Slowly, of course, but nevertheless it had been on his mind.
My journey of exploration through his life on reading the journals he kept, though painful, revealed such a miasma of tragic occurrences that I could not believe how the Church had kept a lid on all this.
On the whole, he had not been outwardly unhappy; one could almost have described him as contented. Good old Philip with the worthy job, the perfect wife and a couple of well-behaved children. The two girls had inherited their mother’s looks according to my brother, whose relationship with his daughters seemed tolerant but slightly distant.
Looking back, his parishioners did begin to see the changes, although being abroad at the time, I only discovered this at the funeral. He grew his hair, appeared unkempt and frequently relied on his Rector to conduct services at short notice. He grew more unreliable at time went on, and this inevitably was brought to the attention of the Dean.
Continue reading “The Journal: February Short Story Competition”
Boadicea's Chariot 
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