A piece of cake

 Geraldine's story

A PIECE OF CAKE

 

What happened when Hercules, driven into a fit of madness by Hera, killed his wife and children , and when, returned to his sense, was horrified and full of guilt ?

The Oracle of Delphi told him to serve the King Eurystheus for twelve years and complete the labours….which would lead to the purification of his sins.

He found out the first Labour consisted of killing the Nemean Lion : a piece of cake !

This Lion had skin that weapons couldn’t cut which meant, no swords or arrows.  Being cute and strong, Hercules decided to strangle the lion and wear his skin as an armor.

For the second labour, he is to definitely cut off all the Hydra’s heads : a piece of cake !

As you cut the head, another one automaticaly grows, then another and another. This time, he asked the help of his nephew Lolaus and burnt the necks after cutting each head to stop them growing, also helping himself with the Hydra’s poisonous blood.

The third labour is catching the Cyryneian Hind : a piece of cake for Hercules !

This sacred dear with golden horns belongs to the goddess Artemis and has to be captured alive without being hurt.  It will take Herecules a very long time before catching it gently but he succeeds.

The fourth Labour is expected to catch the Erymanthian Boar : a piece of cake !

Here again, he needs to convoke strenght and wisdom.  He cleverly frightens the animal and forces it into the snowy mountains.  There, when the boar becomes exhausted and weak, he manages to capture it alive and brings it back.

The fifth Labour is about cleaning stables : easy, a piece of cake !

King Augeas stables are really filthy as they have not been cleaned for many years.  Done in one day by Hercules by diverting 2 rivers flowing higher than the stables, getting the water to rush through the stables at high speed and pressure just in the one day !

Labour number 6 is to get rid of the Stymphalian Birds : Another piece of cake.

These birds who have sharp bronze feathers attack the people and destroy the land.  Using a special noise-maker, Hercules scares them all into a corner and then shoots them with poisoned arrows.

Labour number 7 : Capturing the Cretan Bull : also a piece of cake !

This Bull, wild and destructive comes from the island of Crete.  Here Hercules has to reckon on his herculean strength to wrestle with the bull and capture it before bringing it back to King Eurystheus.

The eighth Labour is The Mares of Diomedes. A piece of cake !

King Diomedes owns horses that eat humans. What can Hercules do ?  He will defeat Diomedes in battle, then feed him to his own horses.  This will calm the horses who will thus stop eating humans.

Labour 9 : Hercules must rid Hippolyta from her magical belt. Piece of cake !

Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons owns a magical belt given to her by the God Ares.  At first, when asked for the belt by Hercules, she agrees to give him it, but then starts defending it.  They start a fight, won of course by Hercules who takes the belt from her.

Labour 10 / The Cattle of Geryon.  Just a piece of cake !

Geryon is a giant with three bodies who lives way out in the West.  Hercules spots him, kills him as well as his guard dog and returns with the cattle.

The eleventh Labour is The Golden Apples of the Hesperides. Just such a piece of cake !

The apples are magical and belong to the gods.  They are guarded by a dragon and nymphs.  Considering the difficulty, Hercules asks Atlas for help and while Hercules, with his renound strenght, holds up the sky,  Atlas can pick the golden apples.

And last, but not least, and still just a piece of cake for Hercules, Cerberus.

Cerberus is a 3 headed dog with a snake tail. He is the gardian of the entrance to the Underworld.  But Hercules will manage to go to the land of the dead while still alive and there, will capture Cerberus with only his strenght and bring him back.

What a path to redemption, even if it sounded easy. But he did it all and  got there !

 

-------------------

Jackie's story 

A Piece of Cake

A piece of cake?
It’s delicious, isn’t it?
Shall I share the recipe?

Ingredients
1 generous cup of love
½ cup of patience
4 large eggs of fertility
A handful of social gatherings

Whisk lightly with tenderness,
then fold in 100 grams of passion.
Add:
1½ cups of joy
2 cups of travel and holidays

Mix well, allowing laughter to rise.

Preheat the oven to 180°.
Bake gently over a lifetime,
remembering to pause and savour each moment.

For the icing on the cake
Prepare slowly, with care.
Blend happiness and gratitude until smooth.
Add a pinch of spice for excitement,
a swirl of discovery and adventure,
and a generous layer of compassion.

Spread generously,
let it settle with time,
and remember—
it’s the icing that turns a good life
into a truly unforgettable one.

 

--------------

Paula's story

In a land where the cupcakes dance and sway,
Lived a cheerful baker named Madame McRay.
With flour on her nose and a smile so sweet,
She baked up a storm that could not be beat!

One day she declared, “Let’s have a grand bake,
I’ll whip up a treat, it’ll be a piece of cake!”

She mixed in some giggles, a sprinkle of fun,
And soon there were pastries for everyone!

There were muffins that jiggled, and cookies that sang,
A pie that did cartwheels, and breads with tang.
But the star of the show, with frosting so bright,
Was a cake of twelve tiers, a marvelous sight!

“Come one, come all, let’s eat and partake,
For life is too short, let’s have our piece of cake!”
So they laughed and they cheered, with crumbs in their hair,
In Madame McRay’s kitchen, joy filled the air!

So if you feel gloomy, just remember this rhyme,
A piece of cake can make everything sublime!
With sprinkles of laughter and a dash of delight,
Life’s sweetest moments are always in sight!

-----------------

Annemarie's story

A Piece of Cake  (Bob's Your Uncle denied as a title!)

My twenty-first birthday and Ma was determined to make it a special occasion, me being the youngest of the family; seven siblings and most of them had left home. James and Robert still lived with us but the others were coming from all over England, including Auntie Vi and Ma's two brothers, who  both have the same hook nose and moustaches, which makes it difficult to tell them apart; but best of all, my favourite and oldest sister, Sally. We  hadn't seen her for several years as she lives and works in New Zealand - so twelve of us altogether.

The party.

The table groaned under the mountainous display of food - so much you could barely see the flower-embroidered tablecloth. Savoury sandwiches, stuffed eggs, succulent pigs-in-blankets(.."savoury before you eat cake.." Ma always chimed), cinnamon and maple syrup slices oozing on an antique china plate, a banana and walnut loaf and the crowning glory - my favourite chocolate cake layered in caramel, then covered in chocolate and decorated with a swirly design and 21 candles - my wonderful traditional Ma and her 'right true' Yorkshire high tea. Standing tall and grand were three bottles of  champagne - none of your Italian prosecco for Ma - some elderberry fizz (made by Ma of course) and tea (must be for Auntie Vi). We all sat round the table like the twelve disciples awaiting Christ's blessing.

'"Let's get the party started" exclaimed Dad, taking a bottle of champagne and easing the cork until it shot off hitting Tosca, our Labrador dog cowering in the corner of the room.

 Everyone grabbed glasses to hold beneath the foaming bottle.

"Congratulations to the baby of the family," they all chorused accompanied by a loud clinking of glasses, slurps, sips and laughter.

  A very noisy affair ensued as we caught up with each other's news between mouthfuls of stuffed egg, sausage and sandwich until Ma permitted us to start on the sweet stuff; it was just like the old times when we were all kids.

 But first before the sweet stuff the ceremonial blowing out of candles (3 left alight and a chorus of "three boyfriends" just we had always shrieked);  then cutting the cake whilst I made a wish - please, please a car for my twenty-first.

Ma handed round her Crown Derby plates, all rich blues and reds, now hidden beneath huge wedges of chocolate and caramel cake.

"Quiet everyone, please," she suddenly said, "Sally and I have something to tell you." She looked knowingly at Dad who had been comforting the dog after the champagne cork attack  but now Dad looked quiet and the dog looked apprehensive.  Then she turned her eyes on me, everyone else silent and expectant, me thinking 'they're going to tell me there's a Mini wrapped in a ribbon outside for my birthday.' 

I bit into the delicious, soft, gooey cake, my lips getting covered in caramel and crumbs, and I gazed expectantly at Ma.

Looking at Dad again then at me she said without preamble "Your Dad's not your dad and I'm not your mum..."

I gasped and started choking; I couldn't catch my breath, coughing,  choking, spluttering and getting red in the face until Robert yanked me round the waist, Heimlicher manoeuvre style, and kept pressing above my belly until a piece of cake shot out, hitting the poor dog in the face and sending him yelping behind Auntie Vi's chair.

So no car, just some really shocking information brutally told in front of all the family...and on my birthday.

I stuttered, my mouth still sticky from cake, "Am I adopted then? Who are my real parents?"

"I'm your mother," announced my (once) sister, Sally. "I was only 15 when you were born so it was decided it would be best for all if you were brought up by Ma and Dad as one of us kids. But now I think it's important we all to know the truth." Brutal.

Stunned and still finding it hard to breathe I could only gape at her and at the shocked faces round the table ... so many hands still holding pieces of chocolate cake, chocolate melting down their wrists, indrawn breaths and "oh my  God"s. Yes, brutal.

Swallowing a huge swig of champagne, hoping the bubbles would ease my throat and clear the crumbs, I gulped  "Are there any more surprises?"  Might there be a car - a soupçon of hope still remaining?

"Yes, " said Auntie V 

 pushing her chair back and trapping the dog's tail, sending the poor thing  into anguished  squeals and yelps again.  "Robert's not your brother. He ...well -  Bob's your uncle. Your grandfather got a woman into trouble and your Ma, I mean grandmother now, took the baby in... but that's another story."

 

A birthday I would never forget...nor would Tosca, the dog.

Just go naked

Annemarie's story You Could go Naked 

Melanie stood in her dining room, in her bra and knickers while her friend Eva whisked the tape measure up and down and around and around. Today was the cutting out of the latest outfit her friend was making for Melanie. - green silk with a draped neckline to compliment her deep auburn hair which framed a creamy complexion and limped dark eyes. " I'll do it in centimetres then we won't know your size," said her friend, pencil, clenched between her lips. " And what is the event this time?" she asked. "We'll he's just landed a new job and we've been invited to dinner by his future boss to meet the rest of the group. I just hope I do him proud after all those months he's been without a job. So humiliating...my poor old Tony." "You worry too much about how you'll look, what to wear etc. but with your gorgeous face and figure you could just go naked! Forget about 'poor old Tony', he's lucky to have you. And you don't have to wear this green silk dress, you may feel more comfortable in your burnt orange one that like so much. Just whatever makes you feel really good." Measurements noted they both sat down to Melanie's toffee and apple cake, which was always tastier than other apple cakes. She prided herself on being a stay-at-home mum; her three boys off to school wrapped in crisp , freshly ironed shirts and their mother's hugs, lunchboxes filled with home cooked leek flan, banana loaf and fruit. Eva was not too keen on Tony, well she really didn't like him at all; she thought him extremely selfish. When he was made redundant recently, for months he stubbornly took the commuter train...and a fair part of their budget...into London each day (so nobody would know he was out of work) while Melanie took on extra aromatherapy work to keep the money coming in. A couple of weeks later Melanie and Eva met for a final fitting and handover of the dress. Melanie arrived late, her face red and blotchy, tear-dampened strands of auburn hair clinging to her cheeks. "What on earth's the matter?" "It's Tony," Melanie sobbed. "All the time he was going into London 'to see about a job' he was meeting up with some woman. And the dinner with his new boss is just a week away.. I don't know how I will cope... I don't know what to do," she whimpered. "Well, if you ask me," said Eva " he has always been utterly selfish. You let him walk all over you and you're worth so much more. You'll look stunning in your new dress and maybe he'll realise what he's risking - a fabulous wife and three gorgeous boys. Take your time and don't act rashly; think about what YOU really deserve. You'll get through it. Let's have lunch together afterwards and you can tell me how things are between you. Now let's try on the killer dress." As predicted Melanie looked a dream, even with her blotchy face and rather bedraggled hair. Eva couldn't believe she had had three children. " Just be brave and beautiful - you'll be fine," said her friend putting a comforting arm around Melanie. Two days after the dinner they met up for lunch in a cosy Italian bistro, Eva was anxious to know how her friend was feeling, how she was coping. Melanie arrived looking buoyant, taller somehow and yes, with a look of defiance. "We'll, how did it go? How are you feeling? How are things with Tony?... and the dinner.. were you okay? Which dress did d you wear?..." "Too many questions, Eva," Melanie interrupted. "First I'm fine. Dinner was a blast and I didn't wear either dress." "Well what did you wear?" asked Eva. "Nothing! Well not exactly nothing - I wore a wig." "But Melanie your hair is your crowning glory..." "Not on my head, down below, a merkin - you should have seen their faces when I took my coat off... and Tony ..well he was furious, grabbed my coat, threw it round me and apologising profusely that I was ill, he tried to push me through the front door. I refused and asked the host to call me a taxi so that Tony could continue with the dinner. I have never felt so empowered or laughed so much, seeing those shocked faces. Hmm, I wonder if Tony will work with them after all. So, yes, I took your advice, Eva."

 Paula's stories   (2)

The famous fashion designer stood with his favorite model of the moment at the top of the main staircase of Le Grand Palais in Paris. “You are going to end the show,” he told her. “You are going to bring about the grand finale. And here’s how you will do that.”

Pierre Marc turned her so that she was facing the vast room from the top of the stairs. “After all the models have completed their final walks on the runway,” and he gestured to the elevated stage and walkway far below them, “you will return backstage with the others, but you, and only you, will get into the white silk robe that all of you wear while being made ready for your entrances.”

She waited, as he took a deep breath. His excitement was almost palpable, and she was intrigued by what he might say next. He moved to stand behind her as he said, “You will walk out here, just here, just at this very spot, and I will be here. I will be behind you, just as I am now. I will take the silk of your robe into my hands and elegantly cast it off your body in one fell swoop.”

She nodded, wondering what was coming. “So, I will be standing here, at the top of the grand staircase, with nothing on?” she asked.

“Oui, just so!” Pierre enthused, as he returned to her side. “You will be wearing nothing but a pair of sky-high heels. Then if you just go naked, slowly, ever so slowly, down the steps to the landing, you will be met there by my top dresser, who will quickly and deftly clothe you in my piece de resistance: the gown that is sure to be on the next cover of French Vogue! Then, you will continue down the stairs to the stage, where I will be there to greet you. And we will walk together down the runway, to the cheers and whistles of everyone assembled to see this, my masterpiece!”

Again, she nodded, once, twice. “I think I understand,” she said. “You are illustrating in real time how a design goes from nothing, from the nude model, to everything, the dress that will define the very season.”

“You do understand!” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “That is the very concept I am trying to convey: how a designer takes the empty dress form and transforms it, with time and textiles and talent, into a gown that every woman desires. I knew I had made the right choice in you.”

She shrugged her bony shoulders, and said, “I trust you. I’ll do it.”

The designer’s No. 1 dresser, watching nearby, whispered to herself, “Of course you will. He is going to make you a star, an overnight sensation.” Clad in her normal dowdy working attire of a pin-marked apron and flats, Edith muttered, “It’s not fair. We toil for months on his vision, we work around the clock, we give everything we’ve got to this work, and who gets the spotlight? The models. The models get to take the final bow with the great designer. And we get nothing. And the day after the collection is shown to global acclaim, we immediately begin work on the next year’s designs. And these models, they all go off to relax on some exotic beach. It’s not fair.” She shook her head bitterly and turned away.

Two days later, all was ready. Le Grand Palais sparkled from top to bottom. Chairs were arrayed fifteen deep from the U-shaped runway to the edges of the huge room. As hundreds of fashionistas, journalists, and hangers-on poured into the room, engraved invitations in hand, white-coated and white-gloved servers passed among them with coupes of Champagne. As the lights dimmed, everyone took their seats, and the show began.

All went smoothy. The front row was packed with the fashion icons of the moment: Chloe Sevigny, Kate Moss, Anna Wintour, Zoe Saldana, Charlotte Gainsborough, all looking magazine-perfect in their trend-setting garb. They crossed their long, elegant legs in their impossibly high heels and squinted through their fashionable sunglasses at the incredible outfits parading past them, some making notes in their programs, others taking photos for their Instagram accounts, but only Wintour calmly and thoroughly assessing each look as it passed her.

And then, it was time for the grand finale. The house lights went down again, and a spotlight picked out a single model at the top of the grand staircase. Very tall and very slender, she wore a simple white silk robe. The crowd murmured as Pierre, almost hidden in the darkness behind her, snatched the garment from her shoulders. For an instant, she stood nude, in the blinding light, then she began a slow descent. Camera flashes constantly split the darkness as she walked sedately down the 20 steps to the landing.

There, Edith stood in the shadows with the masterpiece in her hands. As the model faced the spellbound audience, she held her chin high, waiting for the expert dresser to quickly fasten the gown around her. Instead, Edith, hidden from view, stretched a steady hand out toward the naked woman, and shoved hard. The model’s skinny body convulsed, and flew down the stairs, bouncing and tumbling until she reached the bottom of the steps in a motionless heap.

A collective gasp went up, and the flashes continued to strobe. Pierre, waiting backstage, rushed to the model’s side, and cried out, “But it is not possible! She is dead!”

During the ensuing pandemonium, the dresser, disguised in designer duds, stiletto heels, and dark glasses, slipped into the shocked crowd. She melted right into the fashionable audience; no one noticed that her designer outfit was a knock-off, her heels were cheap, and her sunglasses were from a sidewalk stand. In a flash, she was out onto the street, where she walked calmly toward the Seine and a waiting taxi, her ticket to Ibiza nestled next to her passport in her fake Prada bag, right next to the large pile of cash she had lifted from her boss’s studio safe.

*****************************************************************************

How to please a woman:

Compliment her.

Bring her flowers.

Spend time with her.

Rub her back.

Rub her feet.

Make dinner for her.

Tell her how much you adore her.

Write her a poem.

Give her your undivided attention.

Watch old movies with her.

Run her a bubble bath, then leave her alone with a book, a candle, and a glass of wine.

Take long walks with her.

Surprise her.

Take her to her favorite restaurant.

Plan trips with her.

Do the laundry.

Buy her jewelry.

Protect her.

Support her.

Go shopping with her.

Make a big deal of her birthday.

Anticipate her needs.

Be proud of her.

Love her unconditionally.

 

How to please a man:

If you just go naked …

_____________________________________________

 

Sarah's story

If you just go naked 1
(03.12.2025, rev. 04.01.2026 – for January 2026)

"But what can I possibly wear?" whined Sheila.  This was just as usual.  Clio summoned up her reserves of patience and said evenly, "The turquoise full-length is lovely.  And just right for the occasion."
"No, it's not!  I've already worn it several times.  It'll look as if I can't afford anything new."
"Well, then, buy something new."
"But I can't afford it!"
"Well, then how about the black one with the lace?  It's very elegant, and so discreet no-one will be able to remember if they've ever seen it before."
"That's just the problem.  It has no dash.  This is no ordinary occasion, as you know.  The chairman is counting on me to woo the funds we need.  I want to 'wow' them.  Knock them for a loop!"
"Well," said Clio, who was losing patience, "if you just go naked you'll knock 'em dead."
Sheila didn't laugh, but put on one of her sour, older-sister looks of commiseration.
"Time I was going," said Clio, and she was gone.  But she had an idea.

On the evening of the fund-raiser, Clio, who had been invited solely as an impecunious family relative who could not be ignored but who was not expected to donate much and who knew absolutely no-one else in the vast reception room, looked around her with satisfaction.  Boring lot, the whole of them.  So much the better.  Then she caught sight of her sister, looking at her from across the room, and that look had in it not only a questioning disapproval but a commanding invitation to cross the room and offer up an explanation.
"Wherever did you get that?" she hissed when Clio was in hearing range.
"It was Grandma's.  Mink.  Don't you remember?"  A coat, nearly ankle-length that had probably cost thousands but which even their mother and their aunts had never dared to wear.
"You simpleton. Especially not in this season, it's already April."
"Yes, the air did seem balmy as I was coming along the Portland Road."
"You didn't walk here!  That sort of thing is just inviting the animal lovers to attack you in the street."
"They're none of them out there any more.  They don't expect to find people nowadays wearing furs."  
"And it looks terrible.  Don't you realize coats like that are no longer in fashion?  I'm not going to let on that I know you.  Remain discreet!"  
And Sheila gave a little flick of her hand as if to shoo away her sister, who only laughed and gave a little wave in return, and made her way back to where she had been standing before.  But she would amaze Sheila before the evening was over, she thought, and turned her gaze to the gathering throng.  Such an unattractive lot as a whole, she thought.  The women's heavy jewelry only accentuated the lines in their leathery faces, and as for the men, well, she pitied their wives.
People had felt sorry for her, and sympathized deeply with her when she had lost her husband three years before in a climbing accident, a handsome and intelligent man, and of course she had grieved deeply, but there had been no children for her to raise on her own, and she had her job to make her financially secure.  And she had her memories.  Then friends had begun to organize chance and not-so-chance meetings with men who could in no way rival with those memories, and it seemed to her now she had been right.  They would all have turned out to be like these, wouldn't they?
As she took a glass of champagne from a passing tray, a voice said, 'Oh!  I was just going to offer you one of those myself."
She turned and a man of late middle age was bowing so obsequiously that she almost laughed.  "Thank you anyway," she said, instead.  "It's as if you had."
He was looking curiously at the fur coat.
"You must be very warm," he said.  "Allow me?"  
But she jumped back skittishly.  "Oh, no, I couldn't!  You see, I've got nothing underneath."
As his eyes widened, she added conspiratorily, "Not a stitch."
She could see the greedy curiosity leaking out of the corner of his eyes, so she followed this up with "Would you like a peek?" and before his shocked reaction could put itself into words she added meaningfully, "For the cause.  £50."  And she winked.
This was too much for him and he followed her meekly behind the potted palms.  She held out her hand and he put the banknote in it which she stowed in the pocket of the coat, and then slowly, archly, she pulled away the lapels to reveal, as she well knew, the tops of a snowy breast with a deep cleavage and the slightest glimpse of rosy tits.  Then she snapped them shut again, and laughed prettily.  "That's it.  All for the cause!" and led the way determinedly back to the crowd.  
As she expected, not a minute passed before she was approached by another one of the unprepossessing males who had probably been hauled here by their wives and were trying to fight the boredom as well as they could.
"Are you ...  Is it ...?"
"Yes," she said and led him towards the potted palms.  There were two or three more like that, and she patted her pocket with satisfaction.  Then there was one who looked quite flustered.  He almost pushed her towards the palms.  Once they were reasonably out of sight of the mob, she turned, to see him gazing at her fifth button down.  She put out her hand, for he surely must know that this was a fund-raising action.
"Er, ah," he said, fumbling again, "could one see, er, the bottom?"
"Now that would be a hundred," she said and took it, then, pretending not to understand, she turned round and pulled up the coat to reveal, as she knew, some very white, very well-rounded buttocks, but only for a moment.
"Ah, but I meant ..."  It was almost painful to see a person so at a loss for words.  But she made as if to understand at last.  "But that would be another hundred," she said.
And having pocketed that she slowly pulled apart and up the lower pans of the coat to reveal, as she well knew, an exceptionally fine pair of legs and a magnificent black brush.  And then the curtain came down again.
His disappointed look, along with the gesture towards his wallet once again made her interrupt quickly.  "No, no," she said.  "Remember, this is a charity event.  Let's not get carried away!" and she led him out again, gave him a bright smile and turned the other way.
In less than an hour, she must have taken in a huge amount, she thought, and as there was a lull in the visitors she retired behind the palms to count it.  She had got to well over a thousand and there was more to count when it occurred to her that there was a downside to this fund-raising activity.  Despite the unattractiveness of the various bidders for a glance at her charms, all that Peeping Tom business was in fact making her feel horny, and she could tell that she was already moist between the legs.
Just then a face poked itself around the palms.  An arresting face, younger than most of the others, not strictly handsome but attractive, perhaps because of the sly humour glinting from the dark eyes.  She recognized him as someone she had seen before and had thought she rather fancied.  He came fully round and she stashed the banknotes in the coat pockets which were, fortunately, wide and deep.
"How much?"
"That depends," she began, but he was already undoing his belt. "No, no," she said in alarm.
"Shhh," he said, "don't make a scandal.  Let's have some fun.  It's all for charity, isn't it then?"  His hands were already under the coat, softly playing with her firm but pliable breasts.  As they brushed her nipples she felt her legs weakening.
"Besides," he said, "we'll both like it," as he slid easily into her.
And she did like it.  It had been so long ...  But how could she give way here?  As if he had read her thoughts, he was pushing them back gently into a small room, or closet rather, pushing the door shut behind them.  "Let yourself go," he whispered.  And the temptation was too much to resist.
But suddenly the door pushed open again behind them.
"Oops," somebody said, "Oh, Peter," and the door shut again.
"He didn't see you," Peter said.  "Nobody will know."  But the moment was broken, and she felt a decided shock of disappointment.  He must be a rake, this Peter.  But so attractive!  As she came gradually to herself again in what seemed to be a small kitchinette, he was already pushing out a sheaf of notes into her hand.  
"But you can't go back like that," he said, guiding her towards another door, and she realized she must be noticeably flushed.  The door, she saw, was marked "Ladies".  "Pull yourself together," he said, winked, and shut the door.
She sat there for a few minutes until she had calmed down, and looked at what he had given her.  £300!  That helped bring her to her senses, and she shook herself awake.  Mustn't stay out too long or it would look odd.
Re-entering the main room, she spied her sister, alone for once and not far from the door.  
"Where have you been?" Sheila asked accusingly, as Clio came up to her.
"The ladies," she said.  "And I'm very tired.  I'm going home."
"I can't take you home now!  There's still the speech to make and I was counting on you to go round and smile and coax them to give."  
"I can go by myself," Clio said, slipping the fat wad of notes into her hands. "And I haven't wasted my time.  See here: I've talked to lots of people, and convinced them of the worthiness of the cause."  
Sheila stood before her, open-mouthed. "How ... ?" she began, as Clio turned to go.
"Wait a minute," said a voice beside her.  It was Peter.  "You can't go home alone.  Not in that coat.  Let me drive you."
And as he steered her out of the room, he added conspiratorily.  "Unfinished business!"
_________________________________________ 

Jackie's story

 I just go naked

The old lady sat on the edge of the narrow bed, the palms of her hands spread out on her knees, head down, staring at the folds of her stomach which obstructed the view of her pubic hair and the top of her thighs.     She felt a slight tingling feeling in her toes - cold – a draught drifted over her body - she shivered -  She was totally naked and oblivious to the video camera whirring above her.

What was she doing sitting on this narrow couch – her bottom sticking to the leather type fabric – she gently lifted one buttock and then the other hoping that no moisture would soil the fabric.    

Her reflection stared back at her, the entire room mirrored from floor to ceiling;   that  plunged herself into a desperate longing to avoid looking up at her own reflection.   There was no escape from her naked self

Could she get up and leave when she wanted?   She looked around for some clothes – there were none neither blanket, towel or curtains to hide behind.      Could she leave this room totally naked.

 Who was she really in this skin of hers? 

She had never been totally naked before in front of anybody even husband and boyfriends.   Being of a prudish nature she started to worry about whom could come into this  room ….

Someone entered with a white paper and pen in hand.   

“What am I doing here?”

You don’t remember signing up for an internet questionnaire?  – we were looking for people to participate in the naked session – to see how they would react to be without any clothes.   Apparently you belong to a writing group - we found you there under the theme “I just go naked”–…how do you feel now - naked? 

 “Well,  I feel ashamed of how I have neglected my body over the years , I feel raw, stripped and uncomfortable,  cold and unprotected.

Most people find the real “me” when they are naked – is this the case with you?   

“I don’t feel like me,”  My body is pink with wrinkly skin, flabby underarms and dark sunspots and loads of ugly freckles.  

I’m me when I wear clothes and can turn myself into whom I want with a sweater or jacket, dress, or jewelry and shoes -                     So you are only yourself when you are hiding behind clothes?  

Its called expressing your personality.  Clothes give you dignity – clothes make the woman. 

Well you are free to go but there is one last test ;   next door there are 20 people having a cocktail party.   Walk into the room and pretend that you have clothes on – If you manage a conversation with at least 3 people then you will have won -…..

“What do I win?  You win a ticket to wellness and freedom and to feeling peaceful and beautiful from now on. 

   ( It came to her afterwards that she couldn’t remember whether the person who had come into the room was clothed or naked. !  )

The bend in the river

 

Paula's story: 

When Genevieve left her husband after 30 years of marriage — at least 10 of them good, she figured — she was determined to make for herself a sanctuary, a safe place of her very own: Solitary. Peaceful. Happy. She found a fifth-floor walkup in a narrow building on a cobblestone street in the oldest section of the city, which happened to be walking distance from her job. She lugged her linens, her cutlery, and her cats up the steep stairs, settled in as best she could, and waited, hoped, ached for her new life to begin.

Meanwhile, one of her closest friends, a man she had worked with for a few decades, and who, over the years, had become not just a drinking buddy but also a confidant, was dating a younger woman and, naturally, had become consumed with his new paramour. Genevieve and Lewis rarely spoke these days; he didn’t even know that she had left her husband.

Then, one afternoon, Genevieve, in the midst of her divorce, overcome with sadness and fear, had a mini-meltdown in the employee bathroom. Her sobs were witnessed by one of the young writers on Lewis’ staff, who immediately reported it to her manager, who then mentioned it to Lewis.

“What the fuck?” Lewis thought.

And thus was born his Grand Plan.

Within a few months, the younger woman in his life had been jettisoned, and Lewis had become singularly focused. On a new life. On a life with Genevieve. On a life he had always dreamed of.

They worked together so well. They liked each other so much. How could love not be far behind?

They started hanging out, just like the old days. Cocktails. Card games. Confidences. And when the short-term lease on Genevieve’s apartment was up, Lewis just happened to mention that there was a woman in his building who wanted to lease her apartment for six months while she went to Thailand. Genevieve shrugged, and thought, why not? And so it happened that Lewis moved all of Genevieve’s possessions, including her cats, into the apartment two doors down from him, one evening while she was at work. She was flabbergasted. She was charmed. She was wondering what he had up his sleeve.

This particular apartment was in old warehouse, sitting in the bend of the Mississippi River, in downtown New Orleans. Their apartments were on the top floor, and Genevieve sometimes would spend hours looking out at the river, wondering about her future. The ships reminded her of life. As they barreled down the river past the city skyline, larger than the skyscrapers on the bank, their bows were pointed straight at her apartment, and their rusty steel hulls would fill her vision. At night particularly, Genevieve would fear that disaster must be at hand. But always, just in time, the ships veered away south in a gentle, majestic arc, turning aside and sweeping down toward the Gulf of Mexico. You just had to have faith.

By the time her absentee landlord decided to come back home, Lewis had won Genevieve’s heart, and he had once again moved all of her stuff while she worked, but this time, just two doors down, into his spacious corner apartment. There, against all convention, they moved their bed into the immense front room, where they could lie in the moonlight and watch the river traffic, as the constant stream of ships traversed that treacherous bend in the mighty Mississippi.

They lived together, learned together, laughed together at that bend in the river. They fell madly in love at that bend in the river. He proposed marriage to her at that bend in the river.

And they finally understood that, even when life seemed to be barreling straight at them with malicious intent, if they held fast and believed in each other, the things that scared them would, finally, turn away, and leave only the starry sky.

 

 

Patrice's story

You know how when you are at the river getting ready to get into a kayak or plop into an inner tube?  

There’s all this noise around you.  Kids chasing each other, chattering, yelling.  Music playing from multiple sources.   Maybe even traffic sounds on an overpass, dogs barking.   A cacophony, auditory and visual.  Once you are in your kayak, canoe, or  inner-tube and have pushed yourself away from the shallows, letting the current move you along, the noise becomes background, or even ceases.  And if you are a little ambitious you can stroke faster with an oar, or kick your legs, and take a bend in the river ahead of the others and suddenly, there is tranquility, an entirely new sense of place.

Well, that’s how I’m going to treat the world of politics in my country, and maybe even family drama for the foreseeable future. I’m going to go ‘round the bend toward the tranquil space where the noise is background or inaudible.  I’m going to float where the river takes me, drifting in contemplation.  Perhaps like an otter I’ll relax on my back and when I sleep, lightly hold Robert’s hand and listen to the tinkle of water in my ears.

If I get too close to shore and the noise begins to intrude I will sing to myself, loud and proud. I will speak extemporaneous poetry to trees, and birds, and fish, and rocks.  I will live in the lacuna and find the drift, the float, that raises silence to an imperative,  where a soft approach serves both me and the river.  

Should I last on the river until the noise subsides I will step ashore, find some kindling, build a fire, and sit once again on the ground. 

 

Sarah's story

 Richard gazed idly out of the window.  Why were they creeping along at this lazy pace?  It was supposed to be a high-speed train, wasn't it?  The pride of the French railway system.
He began to notice, nevertheless, that in this way he remarked more things, for example this strange orchard running alongside the tracks, with spindly trees, how woefully thin!  Only a yard or so apart and help up by a sort of wire fence.  No wonder, how could one expect a tree to grow successfully in such conditions?  Leave it to the French!  Then it occured to him that perhaps it wasn't an orchard but a tree nursery, a vast tree-nursery, for it had been going on for several minutes, and stretched almost as far as the eye could see.
But the train was picking up speed now, leaving the trees behind, and they came to a river, with full-grown trees wildly lining its banks.  The trees, of various sizes now, mirrored themselves in the still waters—this was no raging stream, which was the way Richard preferred a river to be, and for a moment he wondered whether it was not a river at all, but a canal, so straight did it run.  The French were fond of canals.  As he lazily racked his brain, however, he did not remember any canals in this region.  He was bored again, and he sighed.
The train slowed again, and eased into a town.  Not a particularly attractive town.  The train stopped, a few passengers got off, others climbed on.  And, what ho! a young girl of 19 or 20 or so came in and chose to sit down in the very seat directly across from him.  As if she couldn't have chosen another seat, there were lots of them, and left him in peace.  Was he going to have to sit here and look at her for the rest of the journey?  
He was just about to suggest the idea to her when she smiled brightly and got a word in first.  "You wouldn't mind, would you," she began.  In French of course, but that was not a problem for Richard; he was fluent in several languages.  "You wouldn't mind changing seats?"
His look of stupefaction only encouraged her to go on.  "I mean, you don't seem very interested in the landscapes, you look as though you're just thinking your own thoughts."
How the dickens did she know what he was thinking or not thinking, or what interested him or not?  Besides, what 'landscapes' could she be referring to in this doddering town?  But before he had time to finish asking himself these questions, she had jumped ahead of him again, as the train slid out of the station.
"I mean, I love watching the countryside slide by, there are all the old familiar things, but also surprises.  You never know just what you're going to see."  She was looking at him expectantly.  What the devil did she want him to do?  Agree with her?
"So.  Can we change seats?  It's so much better looking out the window in the right direction!"
She stood up, still wearing her expectant smile, and he realized he was meant to stand up too.
Why should he do so? he asked himself with some irritation.  But it was less of a bore to comply than to start an argument, so he got up, not without a frown, and gave her his seat, sitting down in hers.  Too late he realized he could have taken a seat farther away.
"Look!" she said brightly before he could even get his thoughts together.  But how could he look, and at what?  He was now facing the wrong way to see what she was looking at, even if it were interesting.
"There's a bend in the river!  Who knows what's just beyond it?  I do, of course, because I've been here many times before.  But you don't.  Aren't you curious?"
Good lord, she expected him to converse with her as well?  He was about to reply that curiosity was not one of his defects, but she prevented him the ignominy of rising to her bait by continuing without interruption herself.
"Even so," she said, "there could be a surprise around the bend.  Look, we're almost there.  Yes!  Today there's a fisherman, he's got a long white beard, a real grandfather.  And he must be one, there's a little boy with him.  I imagine he tells the boy stories.  But why isn't the child in school?  Oh, right, it's Wednesday afternoon.  Ah, they're gone now.  Too bad."
Was she really going to chatter on like that for the rest of the journey?  In fact, she was, as he soon saw, but he needn't have worried about having to hold up his part in the conversation, for she valiantly took over the whole responsibility herself.  At every change in the landscape she found something to exclaim about or to marvel at.
"It's like life, isn't it?  Full of unexpected things.  You never know what's around the bend."
Ha!  She could say that, at 19.  But for him?  His course was mapped out in one straight line, to the next promotion, and the next raise in salary, and then another promotion, and another raise in salary ...  For what, he surprised himself by asking.  But she was bubbling away again.
"Look, beehives!  Over there at the end of the field.  So many of them!  They must make tons of honey.  I would like that.  I would like to raise bees some day.  Wouldn't you?"
No chance of that happening, he thought.  Or ...?
"The world is full of so many routes to take, so many doors to open ... don't you think?"
Of course she didn't expect him to reply.  But so much cheerfulness, Richard  grumbled automatically to himself, was irritating to one of his nature.  Yes, it was quite oppressive.  In fact it was, rather, somewhat disturbing.  But then the train began to slow down again, and after a minute or so came into a station, hardly less glum than the one before.
The girl jumped up.  "Well, this is where I get off.  It was so nice talking with you." (With me? he thought, to me you mean.)  "But you can get your seat back now."  She shouldered her small backpack and started to leave.
"Wait," he said, to his own surprise, " what's your name?"
"Judith," she said.  He had a momentary vision of her holding the head of Holophernes by the hair.  Dripping blood.  But girls didn't do that sort of thing any more.  Or did they?  But before he came back to the moment to say "Thank you" (now, why did he say that?) she was out the door, with a little wave.  He strained to see her out on the platform but she must have gone off in another direction; there was no-one to be seen but the station master, blowing his whistle.  
As the train pulled out, he stared at the seat across from him, which looked singularly empty.  He got up and crossed over, taking his original seat again.  And began to look out of the window, at the delightful French countryside, dotted with farmhouses, some of them with lighted windows now that dusk was setting in.  What could be behind those windows, he thought?  And he speculated.  On many things.
 

Geraldine's story

THE BEND IN THE RIVER

 

The river, still quite far from it’s estuary, was running alternatively through wild and smooth landscapes. 

In the early morning, Kate and John, after a wonderful night spent under the stars on one of the little sand island’s dotting the river, got up very smoothly, heated the water for their coffee and prepared a bowl of cereal and yoghourt.  It had become their daily routine before starting the rowing to the next step.

The itinerary had not really been prepared.  They would store their belongings in a waterproof container which was fixed in the middle of the canoë and start rowing in the early morning mist, making as little noise as possible in order not to break the charm : the river was like a mirror with just a few dots made by the insects waking up and taking their first sip.  The reverberation of the high trees was an invitation to follow them, reach them and catch them, between the few white clouds dancing in the water.

This deeply zen tempo would last untill the sun would set highly in the sky provoking a mild wind which would start moving the water they were sliding on.  The East wind was the most welcomed as it would help pushing the canoë and easing their efforts.

After a couple of hours, they would start watching out to see if there was a little village around where they could stop for the morning coffee , which invariably would show up.  They would hopp off the canoë, keeping their rows with them and connect to humanity again with a hot coffee and a croissant in a country bar, listening to barroom gossip : bliss ! 

Where will the luncheon stop be ?  Where there’s a church, or a castle, or something to visit. They would consider the distance, then, spotting it on the map, would hop back into the canoe and row peacefully along the shores.  What is there to see ?  Beavers bringing little branches of wood to consollidate their dams, blue kingfishers spotting fishes in the river and , if lucky, catching them,  otters swimming along, metallic blue or bright yellow dragonflies frantically flapping their wings, shoals of fishes gliding through the shimmering water and sometimes, herons crossing the blue or grey skyes above.

Lunch stop : back to civilization.  The canoë would be hidden in high grass under a bridge in the town, the rows taken with them, used as walking sticks, not that they needed them, but to make sure noone would sail off with the canoe.  Stroling along, they would invariably come accross a « brasserie » for lunch, near the castle or place they wanted to visit.  And back to the Middel-Ages or Renaissance period showing what life, for the rich, poweful and noble was like.  How incredible the constructions were, the huge chimneys in the great lounges, the stained glass for the windows, the stone or marble slabs, the terracotta or yellow tiles, and the richly designed furniture and woven drapery !

After a little pause in the minimarket to buy food for the evening dinner on the chosen island and the next morning’s yoghourt, the  trip would continue towards the sea where all rivers end up to, but it was still more than 500 kms away…

One afternoon, rowing vigorously to the West, they came to a bend in the river. As soon as the bend had been taken, what did they see, but a barbed wire crossing the river with a « no entrance » pannel and a signpost arrow showing where to leave the river…. And walk for 3 to 4 kilometers with the canoe and belongings to avoid…. The big nuclear power station built there in order to have enough water to cool down the system.  

Pulling up all the courage they had left, and regretting the big meal they had taken, they picked up their luggage, home, means of transportation and all and bending under the weight, struggled along the deviation of this power station on the wild river, erected there for mankind confort !

That evening, they landed on one of the scattered sand  island with no noise, hence the bird crys crossing over their heads, gathered a few branches, started their fire and when they had enough braise, took out their grill, and feeling like Robinson Crusoe, gently cooked the meat they had bought in town, the potatoes cooking in the charcoal, and a fruit.  So close to paradise !

 

Jackie's story

The bend in the river

Sitting in the courtroom that morning I reflected on the time we had spent scouring the internet  for a house for sale.   This one appeared one day on a freebie website.

“House for sale, 4 bedrooms, Large kitchen and fireplace with sitting room,  bay windows and a view on the river.     The photos looked too good to be true and the view from the sitting area onto the water was promising.

We leapt at the occasion.    A dream come true. We were transferred by my husbands work from North to the South and we leapt at the occasion to discover another part of the country.

 I had always wished somewhere to live with access to water, whether it be a lake, small pond or better yet a river.

We immediately phoned the agent and even without seeing the house we said YES we wanted to buy.   Cash and the only request was that we could move in before the month of June so as to enjoy maximum pleasure from the garden and especially the river.

Done.   Paid and we moved in.    Our first thoughts were delight as we walked into the house.   Impeccable condition, colours that we loved on the walls and the kitchen was to die for.

When though we got to the sitting room and looked for the so called view of the river – we couldn’t see any  water because of a bend in front of the garden sloping down and made the view impossible.    So,  no river view.

Should we take the owners and the real estate agent to court.    When is a bend not a bend?  A view onto the river obstructed by a bend?.

So here we are in front of a judge.    Examining the advertisement made by the real estate agent and approuved by the owner.     

She stated that :

The agent advertised a “view on the river”
If the physical reality (the bend) means the view doesn’t exist, the agent made a false representation.

The bend is simply the cause of the obstruction, not the person responsible.   In fact it is not the bends fault. The river’s bend blocks the view, so the property does not actually have a river view. Because the agent claimed it did, they made a false statement—regardless of whether they intended to mislead anyone.

Many months later we got our view having put up with tractors , scoupers, and men shoveling sand and earth to un-bend the bend in the river thus providing us with a fantastic view  !

If this story is driving you “round the bend “ You will be happy to know that this is the BEND ooops THE END