Boadicea's Chariot

This is 92-year-old Edith Brickhill – kicked in the head and beaten black and blue on her own doorstep… for just £30.
A callous thug pounced on the part-blind gran as she let her dog out at home in Moston.
He kicked and punched her in the face before snatching the cash from her purse and fleeing – leaving her battered and bleeding on the ground. (Manchester Evening News)

This is an area in which I grew up. What the hell ihas happened to our society?

You have to dream before your dreams can come true.
Abdul Kalam

Goodnight everyone. Sleep well.

Val

I could not find the blog or comment I posted about the 60s, so I have jotted this down.

The Ford Zodiac and it’s silky smooth six cylinder engine purred like a well contented cat as it moved swiftly along the Brighton Road, slowing briefly the driver executed a U turn and stopped outside a large dance hall bearing the legend, ‘The Orchid Ballroom’. He remained in the car just long enough to light a cigarette and then opened the door and stepped out. Anyone passing would have seen a tall, well built man wearing a classic camel hair coat, open at the front and with belt hanging loose. The man locked the car and entered the dance hall, moving swiftly down the stairs into the warm, beating heart of the dance hall. He breathed deeply and inhaled the heady scent of perfume and cigarette smoke, he smiled to himself as the music skirled up the stairs to greet him, always the same song, ‘You’ve lost that loving feeling’, always the Righteous Brothers. He  checked his overcoat and over tipped the girl, knowing full well that she would give him his coat without him waiting in the usual Saturday night crush at the end of the evening. Anyone passing who cared to look and a few did, would have noticed his height, 6′ 4″ and  the beautifully cut Mohair suit that he carried off so well, together with the self assured way that he moved through the crowd. He went to walk into the Gentlemans toilet and as he did so three youths started to barge out, the tall man held his ground and said nothing but the youths looked down, standing back as he entered. He checked himself in the mirror and made a few minor adjustments to his gold silk tie before taking a comb from the top pocket of his jacket and running it back through his hair. Satisfied with what he saw he made his way out to the dance hall and his heart quickened a pace as he took in the bright lights, the swirl of sound, the scents and smells.. and the women, ah, the women, he smiled again, he was home, this is were he belonged, this was why he was the best salesman in the showroom, this was why he spent what he did on his clothing, this was what it all came to in the end, the Saturday night dance at the Orchid.. and he owned the place.

To Be Continued…

Seen in Canada

Where have all the flowers gone? – P, P and Mary

I unloaded my groceries onto the checkout conveyor and waited for the woman in front to pay. Glancing round I saw a man in his sixties with a can of beer in each hand.

‘Is that all you’ve got?’

He nodded.

‘Go on, then.’ I waved him ahead. He thanked me in a quiet, polite way and took his cans to the till. I weighed him up. He was clean, and his clothing was far from shabby, though cheap. I had seen him before, standing outside the same supermarket, drinking from a can of beer. Having paid, he nodded to me again, and left the store.

As I emerged from the shop he was wheeling a bicycle across the car park. I loaded my stuff into the car and watched him from the corner of my eye. He had stopped by a concrete block on the edge of the car park, leaned his bike against it and opened a can.

As I drove away, I could not help wondering about him. Clearly, he was not a tramp or a beggar, and was in no way rough. Yet, there he was, and had been before, standing alone on a cold day on a supermarket car park drinking his beer. Why? Did he live in a hostel where alcohol was forbidden, or perhaps he had a wife who would bend his ear for drinking at eleven in the morning.

At the moment, I don’t have the answers to these questions, nor am I likely to find them in reality. I am fairly certain though, that I shall answer them to my satisfaction when I meet him again: in one of my stories. He was custom made to become a ‘character’.

What has happened to members, authors and bog rolls on the main page? They appear to have disappeared.