Tuesday, 13 September 2016

the theme of this writing club story was "Not letting Go"

“Not Letting go”


Dear Mr Matchmaker,  

I am writing to complain about the number of matches in the box I bought today.  I had run out of matches to light my fire and had to wait until Thursday of this week to go to buy them.   Thursday is the day I do my shopping and although I know the shops are open all day every day in this country I do not allow my routine to be changed.    So I waited for the store to open - normally you open the door at 8 am sharp.   (and as it happens I know you from way back, in fact we were at school together but if you’ll excuse me for saying so, you were never a very precise person )   But on this particular Thursday it was all of 4 minutes past 8 when you deigned to open the door of your store . This late opening set my metabolism in a twist to say the least because I am a methodical person and do not like to upset my routine.   ( I’m out of work at the moment and have never had a job since leaving school in fact so time is on my hands -I can’t understand it really and all these rejections are depressing but this is another matter ) After having brought my box of matches home - I read on the box that there were 100 matches in it.  Being a well-ordered  person and liking to verify things I counted the matches.  I include two photographs I took this afternoon that show the box with the number 100 in clear black and white numbers.   I should like to inform you that there are in fact only 97 matches in this particular box. A number which is totally false and incorrect.  Matches cannot be matched with uneven numbers.   Also I have calculated that I need to light my fire in my sitting room plus light the gas three times a day which amounts to 100 matches to be struck every month.   Having only 97 matches in the box means that I shall have to go without food and warmth  for one day on this month - this very coldest month of the year ——January.  If it had been in the month of July for example or even August I wouldn’t have bothered you but really this inconvenience is just too much.  I do appreciate that your staff can possibly make mistakes in counting out the matches that you put in your boxes - but you are the boss after all and I really think it is your duty to check on the counting a little more frequently.   I am therefore asking you for a refund of the 80 cents I spent on this uneven box of matches.  


Dear David (may I call you that as you so kindly reminded me we were at school together although I don’t recollect any pleasant memories in your company - were you the boy with the thick glasses and slicked by brillantine hair style sitting at the back row checking that the number of pages in the exercise books were correct? Thumbing through them licking your finger and clicking your tongue to turn over the pages as you mumbled and grumbled preventing us all from concentrating on what the teacher was saying? )  I also do recall your raising havoc on the time it took to eat lunch.    In Mrs Jones’s class we had 15 minutes to eat our sandwiches and drink our milk - and if I recall you went round the lunch room with a timer to make sure we finished on the dot.    You then had your parents send in a letter to the school principal complaining of the fact that most boys took 17.5 minutes to finish lunch and threatened to make a further fuss to the town council if the lunch time wasn’t changed from this 15 minutes to 17.5 minutes.       It seems to me that we all have only one life to live and would it best not to live it counting out and checking number silly ocities.

I most humbly apologise for the lack of said matches in the box but as you know I am a busy man and counting matches is not on my schedule.   I really cannot understand why you are making such a hubbub about having 97 matches in a box instead of 100 -   I am happy to reimburse you the 80 cents if this makes you happy but if I may be so bold as to give you a little bit of advice  - just cool down relax and live without counting, calculating, and tallying up everything and everybody.   
Not letting go of your childhood maniacal phobias is hindering you in this world, preventing you from getting a job and moving forward.  
You’ll see life will improve and be a better place for you and especially for others.
Yours sincerely,

The matchmaker

Wednesday, 17 February 2016

Writing Club The Old Man is Snoring ....

It was a warning when you started snoring
The beginning of a life -  boring
As it reached right down into the flooring 
And soared to the ceiling this grunting and groaning

As time went on you became less alluring 
I less admiring and aspiring
But it was alright as we were retiring`
And our passion was slowly expiring
We became perhaps a little less caring
I,  not charming
You still unhearing 
What —   No more glances, admiring
But can I bear the disappearing 
I fear to be too domineering

So on this Valentine’s day  2016
When I’m no longer a teen
Let’s have the big clean
Without making a scene,
And be more calming without perspiring
I’m imploring,  let’s be more conspiring 
This will be a little tiring ….
We’ll do a little restoring, hope the rain will soon stop pouring
And behold the old man will stop snoring
we can be more adoring 

Now you can all cut out the yawning

Monday, 21 December 2015

Story Draft for our final lesson of the writing group


Bess woke to the sound of birds chirping under the eaves.   
Her feathered friends had come for breakfast.    The dawn tweet had invited its way over the red chimney pots and grey slate roofs, coiled itself through TV antennae and the many wires and metal rods which sprouted and rooted themselves to the rooftops of Paris.   
Bess’s various collection of birdhouses, perches, branches, balls of fat with sunflower seeds and peanuts, aroused a great chattering and chirruping that resembled an earthy feasting on her window sill.     This birdy chitchat radioed through her windows each morning and kept her company. 
  Bess had lived alone since her partner had passed away and she hadn’t set foot outside her fifth floor garret apartment since.  The 1790’s building was a typical Parisian walk up with its threadbare carpets and creaky curved staircase;  a little daunting for her 91 years.  Bess had lost her spritely movements to arthritis  but her lively spirit remained and she glowed from within, her eyes were “pools of joy” as she gazed adoringly at Mrs. Blue Tit, Miss Sparrow and Mr. blackbird who came regularly to her windowsill but there were times when she worried into her future wondering how it would be at the end … 
Photographs of her partner, family and her beloved “Lola” a Pekingese she had cherished in days gone by were preserved, museum like, in solid silver frames on her polished commode.   Tiny porcelain boxes, exquisite perfume bottles, a magnificent powder compact in mother of pearl were treasured,  together with her famous collection of bird paintings illustrated by the naturalist le Comte de Buffon (a famous French ornithologist), they decorated her walls and enchanted each and every day providing memories flooding through time like a river bursting its banks tossing her childhood souvenirs back and forth, visions of her life coming and going with the ebb and flow.
Her modest rooms were spotlessly clean and when her chores were done Bess spent most of her days wistfully following the lives of those in the building opposite hers.    A young girl with pigtails sitting at a table by the window doing her homework  - a couple of women perhaps mother and daughter squabbling about spaghetti sauce and other nonsenses ….……… the silver haired gentleman who also sat alone by his third floor window to whom she often smiled at, waved to, and to her great surprise and quite recently exchanged friendship and now love notes.   Their relationship had developed over the years – at first there were glances out of the window – balcony conversations  -  birdy prattle and informal chat - conversations sent by Blackbird and Blue Tit.    A Romeo and Juliette romance,  forbidden love at their stage of life.   So when that blessed carrier pigeon volunteered to take letters back and forth between them they rejoiced in word.  
It’s never too late for love.
A thump outside her front door and that would be the delivery boy with her daily dispatch of French deliciousness:   
Croissants, pain au chocolat,  saucisson, stuffed ham with parsley sage,  sausages from Toulouse,  baguettes of bread   ….yumm these were the things she loved and craved above all.    A little bit of Paris that also provided lots of titbits for her feathered companions.
The friends had gathered for their morning conference.   They were discussing what they were going to do for Christmas.
Pigeon fluffed his tail and spoke up;  I’m off to visit my girlfriend near the Eiffel Tower, there will be lots of tourists who will feed us peanuts and sunflower seeds 
Blackbird,  House Tit and Grey Wagtail were going to a feast in the Bois de Boulogne as there would be a special meal laid on in this marvellous park in the heart of Paris for the birds of the City.  Sparrow had no family so he thought he would help Santa deliver parcels.   Starling who had stars in his eyes wished for new spots on his feathers and  gingerbread crumbs and sang with excitement.  
Robin red breast who kept apart from the other birds showed his brightly coloured chest with authority and chirped that although he loved his red jacket,  wouldn’t it be nice to have some gold buttons down the front. 
They turned to Bess - and you Bess what do you wish for on Christmas day?
 I wish …oh I wish ..well I know its impossible but I wish I could come with you all just once and feel the air on my face - plummet down near the little square, soar up into the clouds and  - sit on the branches of the cherry tree and perch on a limb with ease.  Most of all I’d like to visit my romantic admirer who lives in the building opposite me - we watch out for each other every day and I know he’ll be alone for Christmas like myself.   I’d like to take him some chocolates and a slice of cake - we’d drink wine together …and give him a little kiss and provide some magical Christmas cheer.   
 They all looked at her in astonishment….and then Robin red breast came up with an idea …..
They peeped a plan.
Bess had a great collection of feathers that her friends had left her as they came and fed on the windowsill.    She had kept them in a long eaten honey jar where they tumbled together, a kaleidoscope of colours.        There were delicate shades of grey, white, blue, orange and there were even some speckled ones.  
   Morning light found her face to face with Blackbird.   Excuse me Miss Bess but me the others and myself have an idea.   He opened the jar of feathers and whispered in her ear.     She nodded and set to work immediately. 
Tearing up the cardboard boxes from her deliveries - she fashioned a shape, made a pattern - and started to arrange the precious collection.   She laid the first feather starting from the base working out the design, layering and shading. 
Looking in through the window her friends were happy to see her busy and watched as she started to undertake her project  - bit by bit they brought her more feathers, bits of straw, string, paper, mixed her some glue and found some wire scraps that could help consolidate her wings to be.     They flew in and out non-stop to fetch and gather while Bess grew increasingly excited and worked all day and a good part of the night.   She imagined herself floating over Paris presents in hand; she would look down on the Eiffel Tower and perch on one of the many Chestnut trees on the Champs Elysees and watch the flickering fairy lights, she couldn’t wait to see the surprise on the face of her “third floor love” as she magically appeared to deliver Christmas fare. 

Christmas morning and Bess attached her fairy wings her cheeks flushed with excitement.   Her basket groaned full to the brim with good tidings:  ice cream, chocolate cakes,  ginger bread, a bottle of good wine.   
  Flocks of birds from all parts of the City came to give a hand.   There were pigeons, bluebirds, blackbirds, gulls, robins, starlings, house tits, pigeons, doves and all her feathered friends who fluttered together to lift her out of the window and soar and guide her like a great kite into the sky.    She raised her face to the clouds her heart uplifted and swooped to greet her lover - and together with the help of their wonderful friends the birds, they winged their way up to where tinsel tipped angels awaited.  

Forever together,    Forever more