Describe your favorite/memorable/precious object and bring it with you

 

Kakanyero's Fire Stick by Annemarie

     I was seven when I learnt that you could make fire with a magnifying glass...and I  was fascinated. My parents still asleep I found my father's magnifying glass, in a carved box on the sideboard. I sat on the front lawn, focussed the early morning sun on the black centres of the anemone flower prints of my new baby doll pyjamas. Little swirls of smoke began to curl upwards; I moved from one flower to the next - seven holes and seven red marks on my thighs. My parents were cross, actually they were very cross...and sad, at my spoilt new pyjamas  and my father, in a stern voice,  decided a visit to Kakanyero's forge to learn 'to respect fire', was necessary.

     I was fascinated by this always happy man - his name, Kakanyero, actually means laughter in the Acholi tribal language. He had suffered from elephantiasis and shuffled everywhere on his heavy, swollen legs, always in a crouching position. He had huge upper body strength, muscled arms swinging round to pick up a piece of metal. He had come to my father asking for work, work of any kind.

     With colonisation a huge number of tea estates were cultivated in northern Uganda and numerous trucks, tractors and factory machinery were introduced to the region, which all required upkeep. Discovering that Kakanyero had been involved in forging scrap metal into essential tools for daily life, agriculture, hunting and defence - pangas, spears, axes etc. -  my father put him charge of the forge - although apart from occasional help with heavier objects he was really the sole worker. My father found him a small native hut close by to the forge in respect of his disability.

     The forge was a simple wooden structure with a corrugated roof and a beaten earth floor covered with a plethora of discarded metal. A shallow pit was dug directly into the earth floor next to which were two hollowed logs capped with goatskin and two long, thin wooden rods attached to the skins. But most important, Kakanyero told us, was the fire stick. A great talent was required to use the fire stick. No fire stick , no fire, no working forge, no tools or tractors mended. For a fire stick to actually create a glowing ember instead of just smoke, there is a hidden trick. Kakanyero showed us a tiny, vertical V-shaped notch in the side of the shallow dip.   Without the notch, the hot wood dust gets trapped under the spinning stick and gets smothered. He must have made hundreds of fire sticks in his time, this being just one of them.

Operating a fire stick successfully requires incredible physical stamina and hard, calloused hands. He held the stick directly between his open palms, pointing it into the conical hole in the length of wood and spun it very fast, his hands travelling, up and down the stick in a fluid, continuous motion—never letting the stick stop rotating. If he stopped spinning to move his hands back to the top of the stick, the wood would cool down instantly, and he would have to start over. Once that little black pile started smoking heavily he would stop spinning, carefully lift the fire stick and gently blow that glowing dust pile into a flame! Magic!  Before he started using the fire stick he had already prepared a small bundle made from shredded dry banana fibres, bone-dry savanna grass, or crushed tree bark. He shaped it into a loose ball that looked like a bird's nest. He used a flat piece of bark as a tiny shovel to slide the glowing pile of dust directly into the centre of his tinder bundle, wrapping it round the glowing ember. Then with long steady, gentle breaths he blew into it and...quite suddenly it blew into flames!🔥 - more magic!He placed the gently flaming nest over a layer of very small, crushed bits of charcoal and dry twigs in the floor level forge pit. Sitting cross-legged before his bellows he began to pump the long thin swivel handles very gently, creating a soft, rhythmic puff of air which fed the flames and forced the heat downward into the tiny charcoal pieces. Then he gently piled larger, thumb-sized pieces of hardwood charcoal over the top, creating a mound. Next he increased the speed of the swivelling bellows handle. The continuous blast of air raised the temperature of the charcoal until it was hot enough for the forging iron.

     But always the magic of the fire stick was my favourite part. I can't tell you how many early morning visits over the years I made with my father to watch this miracle. Having been forbidden to take matches after we children set a tree on fire while trying to roast our mealie cobs it was to Kakanyero we would go. He roasted our cobs in the dying embers of his forge and told us stories of his earlier life.

     He may have had lifeless feeble legs but his hands were his life force and he was always laughing. He absolutely rejected my father's offer of matches and performed his magic fire trick every working morning. In the almost seventy years since, no one in the family has ever managed the tiniest whiff of smoke, dust and certainly no sparks on Kakanyero's firestick.
 

Jackie's story

`

Talk about an object dear to yourself

I have moved house a lot in my life. Many countries, long distances and changed schools, cultures and different social ties.   Something, though,  that has travelled everywhere with me and has been of great comfort through thick and thin is my “Chaffinch”

How that he came to me is un explanatory and where he came from – well I hate that I cannot remember except vague visions of Xmas morning with him wrapped up and the best thing about him apart from his name is that he is useful because he is a pyjamas case dog.

As a little girl perhaps young as 6  he sat on my pillow protecting and keeping my pyjamas safe from any sort of  danger that a stuffed dog keeping pyjamas in his tummy could come across.    A smile was always on his face long fluffy ears not to be confused with a rabbit (God forbid) and black button nose which stayed solidly on his head even with chewing    – his tummy shut with press studs which opened onto a pretty pink flowered lining .

I have loved him, kissed him,  snuffled my flue germs on him and even been sick over him, cuddled him to death and stowed away precious secrets in his belly.   He has remained faithful to this day.  Of course he has had a few life accidents;  left for a week in the washing machine,  being dragged into the mud – left out in the rain, lost in a train,  mauled by various puppies …left for months in a suitcase but always surrounded by teddy  and other stuffed friends.       

We have aged together from a fully brown coat of silky fur to a now faded beige with scratchy bald patches but to me he is just as beautiful and comforting as before.      

He sits above my bed to this day 70 years later bringing comfort and happy memories. `

 

 

 

 

 

A pot of geraniums

Paula's story

One month after the wedding festivities of the retired dentist and the young widow, a chic former Parisian shop owner, Alicia Mépris, who had abandoned Paris in the aftermath of a love affair gone sour, arrived  in St. Martin-sur-Flumes, a sleepy little village in Burgundy. Or so she thought. Her plan was to hide away from city life by opening an eight-room boutique  inn, and she imagined rustic charm, discerning guests, and leisurely dinners served on her terrace at sunset.

Instead, shortly after she opened her doors for business, she was cited by the mayor’s office for repeatedly leaving her trash bins outside long after collection day.

Alicia was incensed. She was convinced she was the victim of a campaign by the villagers who resented “la Parisienne.” Now, it’s true that she showed nothing but disdain for the villagers. She ignored them because they were not paying customers. And it’s true that she insulted the village by hanging a sign on her spacious terrace on the Rue de l’Aventure, proclaiming “Privé: Only for guests of the hotel.” It’s also true that the bar in the hotel reception often played loud music past the hour of curfew. And it’s true that she allowed her guests, against strict regulations, to park their cars around the inn, clogging the small village lanes.

But she decided that in the matter of the trash bins, she was being singled out, and that she must prove it by documenting every infraction she saw. Armed with a camera and a notebook, Alicia stalked the village like a nature photographer, hiding behind walls and hedges to get the perfect shot to prove her point.

For example: Monsieur Bernard routinely parks in a non-legal space. The widow Hugette's hedge is several centimeters too high. The baker leaves flour sacks blocking the lane. The deputy mayor's dog roams the village off-leash. Madame Fournier puts glass in the recycling on the wrong day.

Unfortunately, Alicia was terrible at surveillance. And the villagers quickly noticed. But, being French, they decided not to confront her. Instead, they began posing for her. When her neighbors saw her approaching, they dramatically dragged their poubelles in with military precision. Or someone measured the exact distance between their pots of geraniums with a tape measure. Or the village children made funny faces for her. Or the church secretary swung the huge iron gates of the sanctuary open exactly on time. Even the mayor cheerfully saluted her. 

Soon everyone in the village began to compete to appear in what they were calling  “Le Collection de Mademoiselle Mépris.” But Alicia Mépris was clueless. She continued to collect evidence she considered incontrovertible, and when she finally submitted it to the village council, she expected to immediately expose the hypocrisy of the village. Instead, two days later, the mayor announced an upcoming photo exhibition celebrating village life. Alicia’s hundreds of photographs were mounted in the salle des fetes as an affectionate portrait of the community.

She was dumbfounded. She could hardly believe it as the villagers, instead of being ashamed of themselves, crowded around to laugh at themselves in the pictures. The only absent photograph in the exhibit was one of Alicia — because she was always behind the camera. Until the villagers unveiled dozens of photos they secretly had been taking of her: Crawling through bushes. Hiding behind bins. Standing in a ditch with binoculars. Balanced precariously on a ladder. Sprinting after the recycling truck.

Red-faced, she realized she had been the village's favorite entertainment all along. And as her neighbors gathered around her to congratulate her on her photos, she finally came to understand that perhaps the best part of village life was simply to be a part of the village.

A week later, Alicia hung one last framed photograph, this time in the hotel reception, where the raucous bar had been shuttered for good. It was a picture of herself rolling her bins inside immediately after the weekly collection — while half the village applauded from their windows.

 

 

 

 Geraldine's story.   

A POT OF GERANIUMS

 

I was staring at the crowd entering the marquee where we were all dispatched looking forward to a  fast adoption. 

This is going to be my day. I’ve gone through so much during the last 6 months that surely the winds will become more favorable to my future.

It started when I was just one millimeter and had been rescued from a general floor sweep and put in a little pot of earth, in the shed for the winter.

I wasn’t alone though !  Lots of little pots were sitting side by side in the shed and regularly scrutinized by a human eye.  Every now and again a little pot would be emptied and I would change neighbours.

The days became shorter and shorter.  The skys looked grey.  Little light appeared less and less for what seemed  a very long time.  Then, suddenly, the sun shone again and I was taken to a bigger pot as a few leaves had grown with the miracle of photosynthesis. From that day, I started watching my next to kins and, each time we were given a bigger pot, we would start talking together trying to imagine what would happen to us in the near and far future.  We usually came to the conclusion that the best thing to do would be to keep close to keep safe and face life together.

Time went by, the sun shone more and more brilliantly, the nights shortened and I got looked after more carefully, with water being shed twice a day. 

The inhabitants of the other pots seemed to have darker leaves than me and day after day,  little red coloured blossoms started appearing.

I began to feel lost and sad.  Why wasn’t anything like that happening to me ?  Till the day where a very fragile stem started growing and at the top of it, finally, a little white flower made it’s way through.

Although the plants next to me were growing faster, we spent good times together discussing about what we looked like, who was the prettiest, our different shades of red and why was I left out like an albinos, not turning any other colour than white.  But they were nice to me, very supporting !

Then, a nice pretty deep red geranium explained to us that around Ascension, she had heard that a lot of people really enjoyed displaying us in windowboxes all around their houses and were usually very nice and looked after us very well.  We would be scattered in different places, but never alone in a pot, so our friendships could expand.

One day, we had been moved around a lot and put in large trays, very tight but given water.  A very high pitched sound was heard as a huge green and white truck stopped in front of where we were waiting and started loading us tightly in this huge dark space.  Bang ! We were in the dark.  Bumping up and down, then sideways, getting knocked around but still standing straight cause we’d been gathered together so tightly !

It seemed ages untill we came to a stop.  The doors opened.  Sun and light came streaming in and we got unloaded quite gently untill we got displayed.

So many of us waiting to see where we were going to land ! A house, an appartment, a garden, indoors in an office, a shop?  And who would be looking after us : nice people, negligent ones, loving ones ?

The rush hour was there.  My friends, the ones I knew, seemed so far. As time went by, pot after pot was picked up, looked at, evaluated and taken away.  Nobody even gave me a glance !  What is a white albinos geranium doing on this shelf hoping to compete with all the different shades of red !  No way ! The days went by, the shelves got scattered and emptied.  Finally I was left alone , unwatered, no one to talk to, my dreams of adoption fading away.  Untill an ultimate hand took me, looked busy clearing the mess up and threw me in a big dark bin where all my hopes evaporated.

___________________________

Jackie's story     

 

A pot of geraniums

The 6^th floor tenant was admiring the view from her apartment overlooking the Eiffel Tower.    she placed the bright red geraniums in their blue pot precariously on her balcony ledge  as she admired the lights starting to flicker on and off that showed off the glorious ironwork like a protective fairy godmother

– a present for her birthday – so pretty she mused but as her hand gave a sudden jerk she watched with horror as the pot went over the edge and started to fall – a long way down to the pavement below. 

The 5 th floor family were getting the children ready for bed – the sliding door of the balcony was open, not enough for an adult but a four year old could easily slip through and seeing the red pot of flowers fly past the window he quickly slipped through to see if he could catch it.  Mum busy at the stove and Dad watching a football match was just in time to see his only son running along the balcony of their apartment arms outstretched and looking for a way to climb higher and catch it – in a flash he was outside son in arms safe and sound the red pot continued on their way down

4^th floor couple having just met the previous evening were still in bed and had just opened the sliding window to get in some fresh air when a strange object flew past their window in slow motion;   the lovers  rushed out onto the balcony in their birthday suits much to the delight of the opposite neighbors

 3^rd floor – Mrs Wilson was stone deaf, lived alone with her 12 year old poodle Amelia who barked incessantly at her mistress who screeched at her  - driving the inhabitants in the apartment building mad.    It was time for the evening walk    She liked to go out early before it got really dark and then could relax in front of her favorite series on tv.   Putting on her coat and the dog on her lease she stepped outside to wait for the lift to arrive,  she pressed the down button – somewhere above her the pot was falling.  

2^nd floor    

_the pot of geraniums continued its reckless fall and as it passed by the patio door of the 2^nd floor apartment no one seemed to notice as it was a family gathering and candles of the birthday cake were lit.   90 year old granny saw out of the corner of her eye something red with leaves and a large pot pass by outside – pointing and gabbling she was dismissed as having an illusion and everyone laughed at her increasing nonsense

1^st floor    Reaching now speedy proportions the pot whizzed past 11 year old Jan who was frantically trying to finish her homework before Mum got home from work – as the bowl of flowers flashed by she thought goodness it must be time to stop as she was seeing things now.    But would her schoolteacher accept her excuse?

Ground floor

Just as Mrs Wilson and Amelia got out of the lift and into the entrance of the building the pot of geraniums arrived at destination the barking and screeching ceased immediately much to the relief of the inhabitants and miraculously in the mixed up mash of bodies and blood the pretty heart shaped flowers floated free in the breeze

 

Annemarie's story

 

 

The Pot of Red Geraniums

The morning sun hit the flowers on the kitchen windowsill, casting a crimson glow against the tiles. Arthur stared at them, his chest tightening. They had been his mother’s favourite. She had nurtured them for years, a bright burst of life against the grey backdrop of her long illness. Now, three days after her funeral, they were the only living thing left in her apartment.

Arthur was supposed to be packing her life into cardboard boxes. He stood surveying the interwar brown furniture, the books, some still unread. Without the presence of his long-suffering but always positive mother he was overwhelmed by the silence.

The knock at the door was sharp and unexpected.

When Arthur opened it, he found her landlord, Mr. Henderson, holding a clipboard and looking aggressively efficient.

"Morning, Arthur. Just checking on the timeline. The new tenants want to move in by Friday, so I need the keys back by Thursday night."

"Thursday?" Arthur swallowed hard. "The lease runs through to the end of the month."

"Legally, yes, but your mother passed, and we agreed—"

"We didn't agree on Thursday," Arthur said, his voice rising slightly. The grief he had been keeping under tight control threatened to spill over.

Henderson sighed - a practiced sound of administrative patience. "Look, I’m trying to be flexible, but business is business. Just get it done."

He turned to leave, but stopped, gesturing toward the windowsill. "And make sure you clear out the plants. Building policy doesn't allow pots on the exterior sills anyway. Dirt gets everywhere and they're a danger to passers-by."

Something snapped inside Arthur. He left the half-packed boxes and walked over to the window, picked up the heavy clay pot, and cradled it against his chest.

"I'm leaving now," Arthur said, shuffling out towards the

 narrow stairwell. He was quickly pursued by the landlord still

 clutching his clipboard, checking a list of moving-out penalties.

"Hold on a minute, Arthur," Henderson said, blocking the narrow landing. He peered suspiciously at the vibrant red blossoms. "Those flowers from flat 30?"

"Yes," Arthur said, shifting the weight of the pot. "Just taking it to my car."

"Did you check the building bylaws?" Henderson tapped his clipboard with a pen.

"Section 4, Paragraph B. No live vegetation or organic matter is permitted in the communal stairwells. It’s a slipping hazard due to potential soil spillage. That will be 100€ deduction from the security deposit."

Arthur stared at him and between gritted teeth he said

 "The plant is in a sealed pot; I’m holding it; I’m not spilling anything."

"Rules are rules", Henderson said, already carefully noting the infraction.

Before Arthur could argue, a loud, scraping thud echoed from the floor above. A pair of college students were struggling to manoeuvre a heavy, oak wardrobe down the tight space of the narrow stairwell.

"Watch out below!" one of them shouted.

The wardrobe slipped. It tipped forward, sliding down the steps like a runaway boulder. Arthur, seeing it coming, flattened himself against the brick wall, pulling the geraniums tightly against his chest.

Henderson, still noting the 'infraction' on his clipboard, looked up a second too late. It smashed against his back, and sent him tumbling down the stairs, the wardrobe wedging itself firmly across the stairs.

Arthur looked up at the two frozen faces of the students peering over the toppled wardrobe.

"You need to call an ambulance. I would help but Section 4, Paragraph B says I have to get this organic matter to the curb immediately. Wouldn't want to break any more rules."

He smiled as he stepped over Henderson. The pot of red geraniums was completely unscathed.

 

5 words : Yellow. Expedient cord. tears dentist

Paula's story

The village baker believed in a perfect baguette, peerless pains au chocolats, and punctual croissants.

Every morning at precisely six-thirty, Monsieur Josef Moreau removed the first tray from the oven and then surveyed the square of St. Martin-sur-Flumes as though he were inspecting the troops. If Madame Fournier's yellow shutters opened before the church bells rang, she had slept poorly and would be anxious all day. If old Monsieur Delormé walked his dog before buying his brioche, he had quarreled with his wife. If the mayor crossed the square without stopping for a baguette, some committee had invented a new problem.

The village contained four hundred and eighty-three souls, five thousand opinions, and one unwavering conviction: that everyone else's life would improve considerably if it were conducted according to one's own advice. It was a harmonious arrangement.

Until the hydrangeas disappeared.

The hydrangeas belonged to Mademoiselle Isabelle Dinde, a retired theater professor and undefeated champion of winning arguments after the other party had long since forgotten what they were discussing. Every spring she cultivated spectacular hydrangeas that covered every inch of the small front garden of her rose-covered cottage.

One Monday morning, she woke to discover that they were gone. Every blossom had been snipped from its stem.

By eight o'clock, the entire village knew. By nine, everyone had solved the mystery. By ten, no two theories were the same.

"I am not accusing anyone," Mademoiselle Dinde announced from her garden gate, with the solemnity of a queen greeting her subjects. "I merely observe that someone possessing both gardening shears and questionable judgment entered my property."

"The question," said the cheesemaker, "is motive."

"The question," corrected the widow Hugette, "is opportunity."

"The question," interrupted Madame Fournier, "is why no one trims that hedge  properly."

She pointed across the lane at an entirely unrelated hedge. The village nodded. It did need trimming.

Mayor Étienne Martin disliked conflict because it delayed paperwork, and paperwork was predictable. Conflict required eye contact.

"My friends and fellow citizens," he proclaimed at an emergency gathering outside the village hall, "we shall approach this rationally."

Everyone agreed. They then proceeded irrationally.

The tea shop owner suggested tourists were at fault. "There are no tourists that early in the morning,” the mayor said. "Precisely,” said Madame Fournier. “No one would suspect them."

The butcher blamed the neighboring village. "They envy our flower festival,” he declared. "They have won the flower festival three years running," someone observed. "Which proves ambition,” the butcher nodded.

The mayor rubbed his forehead.

Someone suggested it was the gendarmes. "No," Mademoiselle Dinde said firmly. "If the state becomes involved in gardening, France is finished." This statement received broad approval.

Only Colette Bernard remained silent. Colette owned the tiny bookshop where hardly anyone bought books but everyone sought gossip. She was good at noticing details.

For example, she noticed that the retired dentist, Monsieur René LeBoeuf, had acquired an unusual number of scratches on his hands. She also noticed he became remarkably interested in examining his shirt cuffs whenever the hydrangeas were mentioned. Most importantly, she noticed that he had recently begun visiting the newcomer, the young widow Claire Dubois, who had moved to the village only ten years ago.

She wondered.

Meanwhile, the annual village dinner in honor of the Ascension approached. In St. Martin-sur-Flumes, this was less a celebration than a competitive exhibition of modesty.

"Oh, it's only a simple tart." (He had peeled fruit for six hours.)

"I just threw together a little duck." (She had worked for two days.)

"I hope the wine is drinkable." (It had won awards.)

At sunset, long tables filled the square. The mayor prepared another speech. The villagers prepared to not listen to it.

Then Claire Dubois arrived. She carried an enormous arch woven from hydrangeas.

Mademoiselle Dinde’s hydrangeas.

A collective gasp traveled through the square with remarkable efficiency.

René LeBoeuf stood and nervously cleared his throat. "I should explain,” he said. "You certainly should," five villagers said simultaneously. “You see,” he said, "there was a proposal of marriage."

Everyone turned. Claire DeBois blushed. Monsieur LeBoeuf continued. "I wanted to make an arch of hydrangeas because Madame DuBois once mentioned that, as a child, she had always imagined one in a dream.”

"So you stole mine," Mademoiselle Dinde got straight to the point.

LeBoeuf turned to her and bowed. "I intended to replace every bloom before sunrise,” he said. "But the proposal occurred three days ago?” she asked. "It took me longer than expected,” he said. "There were, ah, emotions."

The villagers considered this. Emotions were notoriously bad at following schedules.

Mademoiselle Dinde stared at the arch. Then at the couple. Then back at the arch. "Why didn’t you just ask me?” she said. “You assumed I would oppose romance?"

"You once said marriage is merely a comedy with administrative consequences," Monsieur LeBoeuf reminded her.

Mademoiselle Dinde sighed. “You aren't angry?” the retired dentist asked. “I am furious,” she replied. The couple bowed their heads. “Because,” she said, “you deprived me of making a dramatic sacrifice.’

The villagers blinked.

Mademoiselle Dinde continued. “Imagine it. You ask for my hydrangeas. I refuse in no uncertain terms. You appeal to sentiment. There may be tears. I finally relent, reluctantly. Everyone admires my generosity while pretending not to notice.” She gestured at the arch. “Instead you’ve made me the victim. It is theatrically disappointing.”

The tea shop owner nodded. “She has a point.”

“The staging was weak,” agreed the widow Hugette.

“The timing,” added the butcher, “needed rehearsal.”

The mayor quietly folded away the speech no one had intended to hear and tucked it into the cord at his waist.

Six weeks later, the wedding took place beneath a fresh arch. This time, the hydrangeas had been donated by half the village. The other half insisted they would have donated hydrangeas if someone had informed them in time.

Mademoiselle Dinde delivered the final toast. She stood and told everyone that true love was extremely inconvenient but occasionally perfectly decorated. No one entirely agreed with her. No one entirely disagreed. Such distinctions were considered excellent manners in St. Martin-sur-Flumes.

And so, the baker resumed observing the square every morning. The hydrangeas bloomed again. And the hedge remained untrimmed,

 

 

 

Annemarie's story

Could it be?

Henri Rousseau never left France; so we are told. Despite a popular rumour during his lifetime that he had travelled to Mexico, he eventually admitted that the story was not true. Famous for his lush jungle scenes with exotic animals, he based his paintings on his own imagination and visits to the Jardin des Plantes and natural history books and museums.

However, just like Agatha Christie's mysterious disappearance, there was also a mysterious missing fortnight in 1897 when Rousseau was fifty-four years old. He had retired from his job as a toll collector and was concentrating on his art. Did he decide to take a secret holiday?

I ask this because a few years ago in a Parisian flea market I bought an 19th century art book - "Scènes de la vie privée et publique des animaux" by P.J. Stahland - and tucked between the pages were a few  battered leaves from an old note book. Predominantly a travel journal but a few sketches as well.

Since childhood I've always been an admirer of Rousseau's art and on the off chance decided to get the tattered pages investigated by Juliette Degennes, Heritage curator at the Musée de l'Orangerie and a leading expert on Henri Rousseau. Finally, and with the additional help of a renowned handwriting expert, those  battered leaves have been pronounced genuine. I will read just a couple of his somewhat scribbled pages, which, I think, proves that he did leave France during that vital fortnight and he spent the days somewhere in North Africa... And inspired one of his most famous paintings.

I have brought one of the original pages, which I have translated - excuse my translation.

 

From Marrakesh I travelled into an ancient land of desert sands, with my easel, chair and paints. The nights were chilling cold, the days were blazing hot, my blistering feet on burning ochre sands. Beneath a distant range of ghostly mountains I rested in the lengthening shade of a solitary tamarisk tree. Then came a gypsy woman, skin like ebony, hennaed hair in twisted cords. She wore a robe of rainbow stripes - azure, orange, greens and scarlets melting into indigos and violets, amethysts and golds. Slowly she tilted her gargoulette and placed it carefully to her lips as I imagined  the water gurgling from that terracotta pitcher. And carefully again she placed the pitcher on the yielding sand, the red against the yellow.  With slender fingers she picked up her lute and plucked a chord across six strings, then gently laid the lute beside the pitcher. She placed a folded bundle beneath her head and lay full-stretched on the shifting sands, her wooden cane grasped firmly in one hand.    The  evening  sky descended, and a  hunters moon arose, the opalescent disc illuminating the gypsy. From the darkness a tawny lion walked into our desert camp. Perhaps it would have been expedient to leave the scene but mesmerised I watched the creature standing behind the sleeper, tail pitched high in the air. It bent its head and smelt the sleeper; it turned its head and looked at me, bared its teeth and growled. Then tears fell from this mighty lion's eyes. Those teeth were rotten, the stench was putrid and he left the sleeping gypsy with her dreams. This lion was going cold turkey, this lion required a dentist.

The Sleeping Gypsy    by Henri Rousseau

________________________________

Jackie.  

Yellow,  Expedient, Cord, Turkey, Dream, Dentist, Tears_______

He knew something was wrong the moment he walked into the surgery. The screen beside the entrance scanned him from head to toe, taking in all his information simply in a second.  Then, to his horror, it wrapped a long spiral around him, made up entirely of words.

A friend had recommended this new surgeon, but judging by the yellow curtains, yellow chairs and yellow carpet, the surgery felt less like a dentist’s office and more like being trapped inside a giant lemon.  

There was no receptionist, cloaked figures filled the waiting room, he wondered whether he was in the right place.   As he sat in the dentist’s chair he closed his eyes and opened his mouth.  The dentist examined his tooth and picked up a very large drill.   Don’t worry said the dentist this drill is programmed to alleviate the pain.   “programmed !!!  he screamed looking at the size of it and hearing the whirring of blades.   Tears started to pour down his cheeks – this must be a dream”  how can you program a drill.      A metal smile crossed the surgeons face ,  screws and bolts and nails that made up his head churned and spun in different directions.    A robot he thought in terror as he perceived bio plastic wheels with flashing yellow lights and just behind the right ear it was turning red to purple.       The transparent eyes were looking straight ahead and not at his teeth  

In the end the dentist had to pull out his patients tooth with a cord as the drill had disfunctioned – the turkey in the garden next door screamed so loudly the rest of  the patients in the waiting room turned yellow with fear, and he decided that the most expedient thing to do was to run before  the machine removed his whole head!

 

 

Why did you lie to me

Paula's story

Chapter One

There were four hundred and eighty-three people living in St. Martin-sur-Flumes — 483-and-a-half if you counted Patrice and Marcel’s new baby — and Mademoiselle Dinde knew everything worth knowing about every one of them. If there was anything Mademoiselle Dinde didn’t know, the priest knew it. And if there was something neither of those two knew, then, well, it probably wasn’t worth knowing.

It was early Friday morning, and Mademoiselle Dinde was humming a little tune as she misted her prize hydrangeas in her front garden. The tune was Clair de Lune, and during the difficult parts of the melody, she would break off and coo to her blooms. She believed her cooing was integral to their growth, much more integral than those arduous passages of Debussy that she had never quite been able to master.

Isabelle Dinde was a vigorous 89 years old, and because she had never married, she insisted on being called mademoiselle. Her rose-draped cottage was on the Grande Rue, which led from the village gates directly to the weekly market in the church square. She always managed to be in her small front garden with her watering can on Fridays at 8 a.m., which was later than she usually tended to her plants. All decent people should be out of bed and into their day by 7 a.m., she believed. But by waiting until 8 on Fridays, she was able to see most of the comings and goings on market day. Not that she was interested in the least.

All morning, vendors had been passing her cottage, heading to the square laden with their wares. The baker. The cheesemaker. The florist. The bookseller. The monk with his religious tracts, which were free but somehow never brought him any interest. Unlike the fishmonger, who sold more poisson each week than Jesus fed to the multitudes in the second miracle. The monk decided he must pray harder for customers, and, perhaps ask the mayor’s office if he could take the stall next to the fishmonger.

The air was thick with the scent of lavender, sweetened with a hint of coming scandal.

Madame Claudette Bois, whose husband of 30 years had up and disappeared one day several years ago, by happenstance on the same day that the police chief’s 25-year-old daughter also vanished, walked briskly past Mademoiselle Dinde’s cottage, nodded briefly to the old woman, and continued into the square. She stopped at each vendor’s booth to sniff here, squeeze there, squint here, savor there. No one in the village would think of contradicting this village matriarch, and that included the vendors, who swore to her that their produce, their croissants, their roses were first-rate, the freshest, the finest.

As she strode up to the cheesemaker’s booth to inspect the fromages on offer, she noticed a peculiar absence: Where was the huge wheel of the spectacular Camembert that usually had pride of place front and center, the cheese she was planning to buy for a special family lunch on Sunday?

“Alors. Monsieur Bardot,” she began, as the cheesemaker looked up from his packaging of a purchase, and, wiping his hands on his apron, turned expectantly to Madame Bois. “Oui, madame?” he asked. “Where is my Camembert, monsieur?” Claudette asked, an imperious note creeping into her none-too-quiet voice. “What is the meaning of this? I ordered it last week, and you said it would be here for me. Have you put it away for me? Or, perhaps you have sold it to someone else?”

Mais, non, madame,” Bardot said. “It is right there, in the front, as always.” And the big man reached across the display to pick up the large wooden box. Which was no longer there.

“Ah, putain!” Bardot cried. “C’est incroyable! It was there 10 minutes ago, I swear it.”

Claudette nodded, and a note sounding vaguely of triumph crept into her voice. “There is a thief loose in the village, preying on the market,” she declared. “I will alert the gendarmes, I will tell the mayor’s office, I will call the newspaper!”

One could not call Claudette’s voice soft at this point, and the disturbance caused Mademoiselle Dinde to abandon her hydrangeas and head into the square, where people were already gathered around the cheesemaker’s booth. The dramatically outraged Claudette inspired outrage among the others. “A theft! Of cheese! Mon Dieu!” one man cried. “In our little village,” an elderly woman moaned. “This must be stopped!” Claudette trilled, as shocked villagers rallied around her, muttering to each other in disbelief.

“Oh, madame, perhaps we should not be too hasty,” Bardot murmured to Claudette.  “Perhaps the thief was hungry.”

“Hunger is one thing,” sniffed Claudette. “Theft is another. We are French. We have rules for consumption."

 Just then, the priest appeared from around the corner, holding an empty wooden box, a box that had just moments before contained a very large wheel of Camembert.  “I am so very sorry,” he whispered to the cheesemaker. “My cat has learned to lift the latch on the door, and he escaped this morning. I found this near his bed. And he is looking very satisfied, indeed, monsieur, if that is any small consolation.”

 Mademoiselle Dinde let loose a small smile. As a cat lover herself, the case of the Camembert Cat Caper was the most entertaining thing that had happened in St.-Martin-sur-Flumes in quite some time. Most of the villagers dispersed almost immediately, but Mademoiselle Dinde and a few others lingered, indulging their palates with an order of a round of local Epoisses or a wedge of excellent tomme de Pyrenees. The wronged Claudette suppressed a tiny grin as she loudly asked Monsieur Bardot if he would be able to provide another wheel of his superb Camembert in time for her Sunday luncheon. “Bien sur, madame, but of course, of course,” Bardot said, as he accepted coins from the contrite priest’s purse.

After all, the villagers could forgive a theft if the thief, like the priest’s cat, was a connoisseur.

 

Annemarie's story

Why Did You Lie to Me?

You told me angelica (which I loved) was candied celery - so that I would eat celery - it did not taste like angelica.

You told me that I would see you soon when you put me on the train to go to my first school - it was 3 months!

You told me it wouldn't hurt when you dug the jigger from foot - it did - a LOT,

You said the fairies would give me 6d. for each tooth I lost - they may be magic but they never found the hidden drawer where I had put the teeth. (I did when I was 22 and the fairies don't give backpay.)

You said you would write a note so I didn't have to eat swedes or turnips. You never wrote the note and I ate, or put in my skirt pocket, swedes and turnips for 7 years at boarding school.

You said I looked lovely in my tulip fairy costume - not after the crepe was drenched in orange juice and fell apart leaving me in my knickers and all the other kids started laughing

You told us the meal was roast chicken - it was the shape of Snugglebug, our pet duck who was frightened of water and couldn't swim.

For my first job  you said 'it was just an interview, just be calm' - I wrote my birthdate wrongly and it was announced to all the interviewees " where is Annemarie Page - you say you are 7 months old." - I was not calm , I was very embarrassed and became red.

They said I could have braces, you told me I should be pleased with the teeth God gave me, so no braces. 1, God didn't give them to me, my parents did. 2. My parents would have let me have braces.

You told me it was easy to hop up into the attic - yes but I waited two hours for help to get down.

You told me childbirth was easy...oh! Oh! Oh! What a lie!

You told me I could easily give a talk to your women's group. I said I was hopeless at that sort of thing. Afterwards you said " Oh , you meant it."

'Go on,'  you said, 'it's fun and you'll love it;  it's the highest slide in the water park.' A 5-minute climb and no turning back, I could see into another country. Down I was pushed and ended up drowned with the biggest wedgie ...and I was red AGAIN.

You said I would love golf and gave me 3 lessons for Christmas. I didn't... but the long lunches and the people are great.

You told me we'd queued 3 times and the bobsleigh ride would be such fun...it wasn't; I was traumatised so was youth gripped by my legs?

You said I looked good in that tangerine swimsuit I bought for our Italian holiday. Well, maybe but not when we won the botcha and a bottle of cava was sprayed over us - the costume became transparent. I became red...again.

 

Oh, why did you  lie to me?

_________________________________________________-

Jackie

The  sixteen year old girl watched as her mother filled a suitcase with clothes, photos and various bits of her personal items.   Puzzled she asked her mother where she was going.   Oh don’t worry I’m just going away for a few weeks – it’s the school holidays soon and if you like you can join me later on.     But it was the end of May, graduation day was coming and mother going away meant that she wouldn’t be there for the big day.   She said nothing and waved goodbye.   After a few weeks the young girl received a letter saying everything was fine and that if she liked she could get herself a plane ticket and go to be with her mother.     Arriving in the UK from the USA she was met by her mothers family and on the way to the north of England on that long car journey she learnt that in fact her mother was in hospital in a special palliative care hospital;  Not really understanding what it was until her father arrived unexpectedly in the country that her parents told her the truth.  Her mother had an incurable blood disease called leukaemia and wouldn’t recover.  

Why did you lie to me?  She sobbed I’m quite capable of knowing about life at my age she argued why didn’t you tell me about my mothers illness.    It wasn’t really a lie you see we just thought it best to let you live as happily as possible and thought that a 16 year old wasn’t able to take in that kind of information.      We were  protecting you and we thought once you knew you would fail your exams and ruin your future.   So it wasn’t a lie.

I was brought up as a Catholic and a lie was a black mark on your soul.    Confession of even the smallest most insignificant lie (white lie) was expected.   Absolution after confession was a relief and a special prayer to God expected.        To me, now, this is an excessive behavior which has made me move away from Catholicism.

Which led me to research what is a lie and a white lie.   I found out that in general lying is a normal human behavior almost everyone lies occasionally.  But there can be a loss of trust if the lie is discovered and damage to relationships.

   The 16 year old girls parents were acting on being protective and so therefore not telling her about her mother was not really a lie or a bad thing.  

Whether it truly benefits someone depends on the situation, and in many cases, the long-term costs outweigh the short term.