Jesus Cacophony dinner blood vertigo grandiose callow

 Paula's story

“Jesus,” Charles muttered as he threw the pages of the Times to the floor of the sitting room. “Is there no end to the cacophony of press coverage of this thing?”

Camilla looked up from liberally buttering a piece of toast at her place across the breakfast table, and smiled mischievously. “It certainly puts your wishing to be my tampon in a bit of perspective, doesn’t it, my bonny boy?”

“So true,” he grinned his special devilish grin at his wife, once a pariah herself in the press and now the queen of England, his queen, indeed. “Seems it was a simpler time then, wasn’t it? But now! Just think of it! Allegations of rape and pedophilia against a member of my own family!” He was getting heated up again. Camilla let him rant. She knew he would burn himself out eventually, and by dinner time that evening, he would be settled sedately with his Scotch in front of the fire, all thoughts of his ruinous younger brother far from his mind.

But for now, the king was incensed. He stood, drawing himself up to his full height of 1.78 meters. He sighed. He couldn’t appear grandiose no matter how he tried. Scepters, crowns, medals, swords: he still managed to look like the frightened little boy left at Groton in Scotland by his parents, a jug-eared adolescent at the mercy of his classmates. “It will toughen him up,” his father had assured the skeptical Elizabeth. Actually, all it did was provide blood sport for the upperclassmen.

“I’ve made a decision,” Charles announced to Camilla. “Andrew will be stripped of his title. He will no longer be a prince. He will henceforth be known as Mr. Andrew Mountbatten Windsor. Everything I have done up to now

, convincing mummy a few years ago to strip him of his public duties and keep him under wraps, has not been enough. His cavorting with a known sexual predator and convicted sex offender is just beyond the pale. I mean, really! It makes one’s head spin! It’s enough to give one vertigo!”

Camilla nodded. “I agree, darling. I completely agree. I say, let’s kick him out of his home in the Royal Lodge, too!”

“Yes, I fear that is necessary as well,” the king mused. “Although where Fergie will go, I couldn’t guess. Maybe she’ll bunk in with one of their daughters. I never understood why she continued to live with Andrew after their divorce, anyway. Maybe he’s still licking her toes…”

Charles sighed again. “I guess I should involve Will in this decision,” he said. “As the heir to the throne, he will have to deal with the repercussions. Especially if this cancer kills me as quickly as the doctors expect.”

Camilla wiped a small tear from her eye with a manicured pinky. “Oh, darling Fred. I simply cannot bear the thought.”

“I know, Gladys, I know,” the king said, as he moved behind her chair and took the opportunity to gently squeeze the robust breast peeking out from his wife’s silken robe.  “These doctors, they are all so young, so raw, so callow. But they seem so certain.”

“Well, we must keep a stiff upper lip, my king,” Camilla said, standing to curtsey, as she had been trained to do. As she knelt, one leg thrust elegantly behind her, her robe slipped from her shoulders, revealing her nakedness.

“I say,” King Charles proclaimed. “Not just the upper lip, now! Jolly good show, Cammie!”

 

Jackie's story

The dinner preceding the art exhibition was grandiose and as I walked into the room of guests in their fine evening wear a sudden bout of vertigo caused me to knock over a statue of Jesus – as it cascaded into a million pieces,  blood flooded the floor and my normal callow nature overcame me and I stood up and shouted to stop the cacophony in the room, my heart pounded like a drum in an African jungle but then I fainted in the midst of the crowd and everything went blank.     

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Geraldine's contribution:

In those days, boarding schools were separate !  Was the idea that girls among girls and boys among boys would discover the joys of blending their minds and bodys later ?  Maybe ! 

Or was it to protect the girls against the boys ?  Or was it to teach the girls that their future life was to attend the males they were to connect with later ? Or maybe only just to separate their body odours considering that the feminine were much lighter and pleasant.  Who knows !

Nevertheless, this related boarding school story took place in a girl’s boarding school.

It was late afternoon at the begining of December : the November winds had completely alliviated the trees of their colourfull autumn leaves and spred out their naked branches towards a dark grey sky.  A load of shiny black crows were furrowing the sky looking down for any leftovers that could feed them and  diving  to the ground in a terrific cacophony.

Santa Claus accompanied by Mr. Bogeyman were expected after dinner and the little girls were impatient, worried and excited.  Had they been good enough to deserve a present, was Mr. Bogeyman going to give them a cruel look and deprive them from their orange, what was to be expected ?

The 6th of December dinner was always grandiose : instead of the plain soup with a few potatoes usually served at night, there would be roast potatoes, cabbage, a bit of bacon and certainly a peace of cake and a tangerine.  Bliss !

Then, everyone would sing

 « Ô Grand Saint Nicolas, Patron des Ecoliers,

Apporte-moi des pommes dans mon petit panier

Je serai toujours sage comme un petit mouton

Je dirai mes prières pour avoir des bonbons »

This song would be followed by a prayer to Jesus asking him to rid our souls of any bad thought or any sin committed recently.  Also to take care of the beloved and make us good !

The nuns would clap in their hands to put the kiddys in a row, the lights would go out and who would walk in but Santa Claus in his red velvet gown with his tall bishop’s crosier, a miter on the head,  a large white beard and just behind him, Mr. Bogeyman, a dark coloured man wearing a turban with an austrage feather and a zouave uniform,  walking in the middle of the row lighted by candles. 

They sometimes provoked a kind of vertigo amongst the young public, the most undisciplined, also being greeted by butterflies in their tummy. 

The stage was set, the show was to start !  The little girls, one by one, went up the 3 steps that led to the stage and sometimes the callow ones didn’t understand what they were supposed to be doing.  But, then, the magic would begin and every single one was given a paquet of sweets, an orange, a gingerbread cake called speculoos, a smile from Santa and a wink from Mr. Bogeyman who clearly made them understand what a loving man he was and how he would never harm anyone of them.

Once all the little girls had been presented with their gifts, they would form a circle and begin to sing the songs that they had learnt at school during the term : happyness and joy were there : a communion of good feelings contrasting with the dull everyday life they were granted with, missing so deeply their homes and their  parents.

________________________________________________

 Annemarie's story

Shipping forecast for the Caribbean, 25 October 2025:  

General Forecast: Mix of clear skies and clouds with a few brief isolated light showers.

Wind Forecast:Moderate easterly breeze at around 30 km/h 

26 October 2025.  Tropical Storm Melissa rapidly strengthening into a powerful hurricane. Strong winds and torrential rainfall could lash the island. Melissa reclassified  as category 5 hurricane bringing devastation, storm surge, flash flooding and landslides

The Hurricane

The seas start to swell, waves climbing higher and higher.

Thé wind shrieks, twists, barrels over rolling waves, through tumultuous seas towards the island.

People run, as the surging storm screams over  beaches, over homes, over crops.

Beams tumble, as buildings jettison windows, tin and tiles.

 A callow youth caught cowering beside a wall is struck.

And blood flows slowly from the innocent boy.

As salty sea water rushes headlong through streets

Roofs ripped, rising, soaring over tempestuous skies.

A frightened family crouch around the table, 

Water crawling through a door; dinner left, going cold,.

The woman stands, trembles, tilts. Shadows slide across her vision.

The floor rises and falls beneath her, as she folds into vertigo’s whirl.

Radio unheard above howling winds, tumbling trees,  crashing waves of water. 

Wires cut, wires dancing, tangled lines flailing furiously over matchstick trees,

Glittering lights extinguished by nature's frenzy.

A blanket of blackness descends.

Outside the swirling storm captures trees, bricks, timber in a cacophony of escalating sound.

Grandiose Anglican Church is razed and Jesus falls from collapsing, fractured  walls.

Grey dawn breaks on broken homes, on shattered lives,

On fields flattened, food finished, soil eroded,

Streets awash with filth, destruction...

...And bodies washed from flooded shores.

The island is broken.

Oh Melissa! - as sweet a name as honey.

But the hurricane has  no guilt, she has no shame; 

Melissa is just a name.

(Cacophony, grandiose, callow, vertigo, dinner, blood, Jesus)

 

On Deck

 

 

Mary's story

The Voyage

Before sunrise, when the sea was still steel gray and coral, and golden light began to seep into the sky, I would climb out onto the deck — my only quiet time, my only solitude.

One morning, a strange boat sputtered into the port, coughing black smoke. It looked like a diving boat at first, packed with people in dark clothing. My brain was still foggy — why would a dive boat be coming in now, at this hour, when it should be heading out?

As it drew closer, I realized something was wrong. The boat was silent. Its windows were shattered, tattered sails hung limp from a broken mast, and sulfurous fumes billowed into the morning air. It looked haunted — not by ghosts, but by suffering.

No one moved on board.

The boat lurched up to the quay behind ours. I jumped out to catch their cords and tie them off. As they came into focus, my heart stopped. The vessel, built for maybe six people, held over seventy. Faces — gaunt, exhausted, hollow — stared back at me. Children clung to their parents. A little girl, gripping her mother’s hand, raised hers and gave me a shy wave. I smiled and waved back. Slowly, a few others did too — tentative, wary.

A siren screamed. Police vans pulled up, and officers spilled out, dressed in hooded jumpsuits, goggles, and masks.

“Are these your immigrants?” one asked. The question struck me as strange.

“No,” I said quickly. “I just tied them off.”

I wished I could do more.

I guessed they’d come from Libya or Tunisia — 300 kilometers or more, through last night’s brutal storms. No one risks a voyage like that unless there’s no other choice. Unless staying behind is more dangerous than the sea.

A Red Cross bus arrived. More people in jumpsuits helped the passengers disembark, one by one, and loaded them into the bus. Their faces were drawn tight with fear and exhaustion — and yet, I caught flickers of something else.

Relief. Maybe even hope.

I still think of them, now and then. The girl who waved. The silence. That shattered boat.

I wonder what life has brought them.

I hope they found safety.

I hope they found kindness.

 

 

 

Geraldine's story

ON THE DECK

My main, major and dearest hope is that, on Monday, we will be sitting on the
deck !
Just this suspended deck between the house and the landscape at 180 degrees
with it’s green fields scattered with a few bushes and some remarquable trees.
Land of and for horses who spend their days and nights out there grazing the
grass, galloping here and there, trotting towards the humans ready to pat them
on the nose and giving unexpected shows when running together to
unsuspected places : what are their codes ? Playing, showing off, exposing
their non revealed hierarchy ?
No matter ! Just a beautiful place to be sitting in !
And why not with budding writers who gather joyfully every now and again to
submit their delusional ramblings to each other.
And whatmore, make a point of preparing the most interesting, lovely and
tastfull meal to share.
And unforgettable deserts.
And coffee.
And stories revealing each one’s personnality, sensitivity, favourite themes,
concerns and tastes.
But, if it’s too cold, too damp or too unconforable, we surely will be happy to
sit inside, looking through the window on to the deck, at the framed landscape
and appreciating the warm welcome of our hostess, the fabulous food and
wine, our stomachs and feelings taking it all in.

 

Paula's story

Some of you might be familiar with something called vertigo.

Vertigo is different from dizziness. Dizziness is when you feel light-headed, weak, or a little unsteady on your feet. Vertigo is an out-of-control sensation of spinning, of the world around you spinning, of feeling completely off-balance.

I’ve been struggling with these sensations for the past four days. It’s much better now, but in the beginning, it brought with it incredible nausea, headaches, and, quite frankly, fear. It’s a scary thing to feel like you have lost control of the very ground beneath your feet.

The most common type of vertigo, and the kind I believe happened to me, comes from a problem in your inner ear, or the vestibular nerve in your brain: the structures that help you stay balanced. A typical cause of this type of peripheral vertigo is called BPPV, or benign paroxysmal positional vertigo, which is basically an inner ear disorder. It happens when you move your head a certain way, such as tipping it backward.

So, what causes this? An inner ear disorder can happen when tiny calcium particles get dislodged from their normal location and collect in the inner ear. This can occur for no known reason, and has been known to occur more often as we age. And because the inner ear is constantly sending signals to your brain about your head and body movements to help you keep your balance, these dislodged crystals wreak havoc with those signals. And your balance is suddenly shot.

For me, I sat up to get out of bed early Thursday morning, and the whole room around me spun, fast. All I could do was lie back down and wait for it to stop, which it did after a minute or two — the longest minutes of my life. James was at my side in a second, and I moved incredibly slowly, trying to keep my head at the same level, as he walked me to the bathroom. What followed over the next few days was a combination of brief instances of vertigo, yet a constant feeling of being off balance, like being on the deck of a ship in rolling seas, where you are continually grasping at any inanimate object just to stay upright, and to get from one place to the next.

James has suffered from a different, more serious form of vertigo, for years, something called cervical vertigo, which stems from inflammation of the cervical nerves in his neck. Thankfully, it has happened only three times since I have known him, but it’s serious enough to last for hours, and twice, to land him in the emergency room for IV fluids and sedatives. My point is, that he understood instinctively what was going on with me, and he was a huge help in managing the symptoms.

As the days went on, I found I felt best sitting in one position with a book held at a certain angle in front of me, so that I wasn’t moving my head; indeed, I wasn’t moving much at all. I got a lot of reading done! On the second day, I was desperate for a shower, so James stepped into the shower with me, and washed my hair as I sat on the tiled bench he had insisted on making when he renovated the bathroom, adding features like a seat and a safety handle that we thought we’d need only in a far distant future. And he had to dry my body because I couldn’t bend to towel off my legs. (That might have been a high point, actually.) Eventually, I found I could stand up and walk without the room spinning around me, as long as I held my head in the same position. I could watch television, but I couldn’t look down to eat off my plate at the same time. Bending down to pick something off the floor was out of the question. If James wanted to show me something on his phone, he had to hold it in front of me; I couldn’t turn my head to look at the images. Tipping my head back to drink was unthinkable. Getting into bed meant moving like a snail until my head gently reached the pillow, which was one of several piled up behind my shoulders, and then not turning from side to side.

Anyway, I have gradually improved, and I’m beyond grateful. It’s amazing the parts of our everyday life that we take for granted. We, all of us, stand on shaky ground as we age, and although we really don’t need the universe to remind us of that, it seems determined to do so.

Cheers!

________________________________________-

Annemarie's story

On thé Deck

One of my most exciting voyages was on the passenger liner SS Uganda. Usually the family's biennial trip to the uk was by plane, a journey at that time taking three intervening refuelling stops between Kampala and London. This time it was to be by boat, a part of our holiday.

SS Uganda  was built in 1952  as a passenger liner then became a cruise ship. During the Falkland's War she was called up for military duty while on a cruise and her 315 cabin passengers and 940 school children were immediately discharged(dumped!) in Naples, where on docking  the ship full of children could be heard singing "Rule Britannia".

I had just turned six and the children on the voyage had a certain amount of freedom to roam this vast ship, watched over and spoilt by the stewards. My most memorable moment was crossing the equator.

In the 18th century and earlier, the line-crossing ceremony was a brutal event, often involving beating pollywogs (those who have not crossed the equator before), with boards and wet ropes and sometimes throwing the victims over the side of the ship or dragging the pollywog through the surf from the stern as an initiation ceremony for the sailors. On the HMS Endeavour voyage of 1768, captained by James Cook there is a description of how the crew drew up a list of everyone on board, including cats and dogs and interrogated them as to whether they had crossed the equator. If the answer was 'no' they had to choose to give up their wine allowance for four days, or undergo a ceremony in which they were ducked three times into the ocean.

Fortunately for us crossing the equator was an excuse for a party and fancy dress. My baby brother was simply fitted with a pair of wings and went as a naked Eros.  The rest I don't remember so enamoured was I of my own costume representing the ship and lovingly made by mum.

Blue skies, tropical sun, the Indian ocean alive with white horses as we crossed the equator east of Somalia. With great expectations we left our cabin, my black and white crepe dress rustling and rasping, my hat, a funnel of two black rings encircling a white ring, tethered to my hair with countless Kirby grips. Both hands gripping my tottering hat we arrived on the deck. In place of colourful deckchairs were  crowds of  countless one-eyed, bare-chested pirates with cardboard cutlasses (my father one of them), Neptunes bearing wonky tridents and a number of biped mermaids in shimmering shells...but...only one SS Uganda!

Anticipation and apprehension filled my 6year old self until I heard ..."and first prize goes to the little girl dressed as our ship..." I ran to collect my prize - 10 African shillings - and without waiting to hear 2nd and 3rd prize announced I tore through pirates, mermaids and Neptunes to the onboard shop. Since the beginning of the voyage  I'd ogled a camouflaged army tank with a rotating gun turret. I had no idea what the vehicle was but the rotating turret had me mesmerised...and it was exactly 10 African shillings - the value of my prize. Of course the shop was closed, everyone else participating in the equator crossing ceremony. I had to wait an agonising 20 hours for my heart's desire. I loved that toy for a whole month only to have it crushed under the wheels of a car when we reached England. And I loved my funnel hat.

_______________

Jackie's story

ON the 29^Th of December 1959 a family left their home in Ferndown England climbed into the waiting taxi with all their worldly possessions and set off for Southampton.    The taxi was stuffed to the gills with suitcases,  three passengers and the driver and as it was very low on the ground,  got stuck on some railway tracks.    Several men rushed over to heave the taxi back on the road and tension mounted as the funnel of the boat started spewing white smoke and the horn bellowed announcing its departure.

Clutching their passenger ticket bought through Cook and Son Ltd. For 163.15 pounds sterling they boarded The Statendam cruise ship that went regularly from Southampton to New York

The family were directed to their 3 berth cabin n° 452  in tourist class and set off.  

Crossing the Atlantic at the end of December in a smallish ocean liner was no joke.    After the first few hours of calm weather in port and a good lunch the change was subtle, the air turned damp and heavy, the wind sharpened and the horizon darkened to a bruised slate gray.    The calm sea transformed itself heaving and churning, rolling in slow, muscular swells and rain started to lash the deck in horizontal sheets.

The cabin was small and for three people they just had enough room to move around.   As the parents were nailed to their sick beds the ten year old daughter  managed to climb up stairs onto the deck and find a place on a window seat of a shop where she managed to curl up and wait it out.  

She watched as the wind started to howl and send fine sprays of seawater high into the air. Waves towered over the railings, great walls of green seawater capped with foaming white, broke against the bow with explosions of spray. The horizon disappeared behind curtains of rain and sea mist.

The small girl clung to the window seat on deck calmly admiring the spectacle of the sea.    The seasickness abated as she was outside but the announcement that stabilizers were being lowered to try to steady the boat made her and the passengers worried.         Crew members tried to reassure the little girl and passed by her window seat regularly – “are you alright love, not too cold up here”?   She clutched her coat put her arm through a bar in the window to stabilize and decided to stay put.   The crew moved quickly and efficiently, their practiced calm offering reassurance to passengers, but even they paused to glance at the towering seas.

The boat pitched and rolled underfoot, sometimes with a lazy sway, sometimes with a sudden, stomach-dropping lurch. Plates rattled in the dining rooms. Doors slammed unexpectedly.   The low groan of stressed metal echoed through the corridors, and every so often, a deep shudder ran through the hull as a wave collided with it head-on.

Then a out of the mist with horn blowing and shouts of laughter and joy the Statue of Liberty emerged.     New York finally after  7 days that had seemed interminable.    The little family went through customs and taxied to the next part of the journey as they made their way to Chicago then onto the Pacific railroad Golden State train to San Diego California where a new life began.

The young girl avoided any cruises, ocean crossings, ferries and anything moving on water until this day.

 

_______________________________

Sarah's story

On the Deck 5 no falling
(18.09.2025)
As she lay back on the deck in her two piece bathing suit (topless was a little too risky), admiring the view of the beaches and
palm trees flying past her, occasionally glancing down at her trim figure (no bulges, like some), she felt more than satisfied.
She had never been clever, but she had beauty, or so she always consoled herself. She was still young (she paid no attention to
the years that were attributed to her, in fact, she no longer counted them), she would always be young. Not like some.
But when she stepped off onto the unfamiliar wharf (they always holidayed in new and different places now that they had the
money for it), she tripped , and fell flat on her face. The wharf attendants rushed up and excused themselves and the marina for
the unfortunate accident. But as it turned out, she was all right and thanked them stiffly. She hadn't liked their helping her up,
as if she were an older person.
As she stood in front of her mirror that evening, making up her face for dinner, she smiled complacently. No wrinkles on her
face! Not like some. She smoothed the cream over, and patted her cheeks. But as she left the bathroom, she felt a bit dizzy.
And she fell. She managed to scramble up before her husband could come in and see her ignominiously crumpled on the floor.
But he caught her as she was just straightening up.
“What's the matter? Did you fall?”
“Certainly not! Nothing's the matter. I was just readjusting my dress.”
He looked somewhat dubious, but took her arm as the went down to the hotel dining room.
Once seated at their table she glanced at the menu and then looked round at the other guests, who were already being served.
The menu had two propositions for the evening: salade au saumon fumée or biftek frites. Bob of course would take the steak
and fries. At the other tables she noticed that most of the younger, svelter diners were having the salmon.
“I'll have the salad,” she announced.
Bob looked surprised. “But you've never eaten that before! You hate raw fish!”
Actually, she couldn't say she hated raw fish because she had always refused to touch it. But there was always a first time.
She didn't really appreciate the soft, slimy stuff, but she got it down. Or at least most of it. And exchanged a glance of triumph
with the young woman at the next table, who seemed in reaction to be somewhat nonplussed.
The next day she went to have her hair done. The hairdresser washed it, trimmed it and then asked her gently, “Couleur,
Madame?”
“What?” she said, and he showed her a colour chart. Shocked, she replied vehemently, “No! I am naturally blond and I don't
dye my hair!” (Not like some.) For years she had had hair so blond it was almost white, which she attributed to her
Scandinavian forbears (she had a Swedish great-grandmother in her lineage). The hairdresser looked somewhat dubious, but he
let it go.
Out in the street she tripped over an irregular paving stone she hadn't seen and fell flat on her face. People rushed up. One
took out his phone to call an ambulance. Before she knew it she was on her way to the hospital. They kept her all evening and
said she would be staying through the night. She was furious, because they had planned to go to a cabaret and she was now
locked up like a prisoner.
“At your age, Madame ...” the doctor began in his careful English.
“At my age, ridiculous! I am perfectly all right, and you must let me out!”
“I am sorry, Madame, but we cannot let you out until we have the results of the tests.”
As it turned out, the tests revealed nothing seriously out of order, but the doctor warned her to be more careful. “It's probably
just age, but ...” She didn't even give him time to finish.
He did, however, give her a prescription, which she went to the pharmacy to have filled. As she stood in the queue waiting her
turn, her eyes took in the rows of products on the shelves beside her. “Anti-chute” said one lot, “fortifiant”. She knew enough
French to recognize that “fortifiant” meant fortifying, and racking her brains she finally dragged up a memory. “Chute”
meaning falling or something like that.
“I'll have one of those,” she said when her turn came.
“La lotion?”
“Oh. And something to, er, eat?” She made the motions of swallowing something.
“Les comprimés. Bien sûr. C'est pour votre mari?”
“Mari” meant husband. “No,” she said, before she could think, “it's for me.” And then of course she regretted it. Why admit
to weaknesses? It was bad enough to have bought the stuff.

The woman looked at her dubiously, and then made the motions of rubbing her hair. “Frottez bien,” she said. Whatever did
she say that for?
Their week in France was now up and they boarded the next boat, which would take them to Greece and Turkey and
thereabouts, and ten days later, home. Her sister and her sister's husband were joining them in Rhodes. (They couldn't afford
so long a cruise as herself, she thought with satisfaction; as a child she had always been jealous of her younger sister, but things
had changed.)
As they lay on the deck, she noticed how gray her sister's hair now was, how pudgy she had become, and there was no doubt
about the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She had never been clever like her sister, who had the brains of the family. But
she, she had the looks. She smiled internally and said nothing. But then her sister did.
“Your arms and legs have become very hairy,” she said. How typical of her sister to say whatever came into her head!
Annoyed, she looked at her arms, which she had been rubbing daily (along with the rest of her body) with the new lotion.
Indeed the hairs were longer, stronger and darker than before. She looked at her legs, which she had shaved only two days
earlier, and the hairs were already out again, sturdy and dark. “But your hair looks nice.”
Well, that was something. She had been doubtful about that part, but the package said something about “cheveux” so she had
thought she had better rub the lotion in there too. She was glad that some good had come of the product, because despite her
daily applications, she had fallen twice since she had begun the treatment.
“Let's go in to lunch,” said her sister then.
They stood up and, following her sister as the latter skipped nimbly along the deck, she tripped over a towel someone had
dropped, and fell once again flat on her face.
After the ship's doctor examined her and took her pulse, and after Bob had so inconsiderately told the man that she had fallen
several times lately, he prescribed rest. “At your age,” he began, until the gleam in her eye stopped him. “Anyway,” he
continued, “the captain has ordered that you not walk around where you might fall again. You can stay in your cabin or in this
deck chair, as you please.”
As she sat on the deck, fuming internally, she waited still for the medicine to take effect. She swallowed double doses, and in
her cabin rubbed the product furiously onto her skin. By the time they reached their home port, she was as hairy as a baboon,
but that didn't stop her falling as she stepped off the gangplank.
+ 1285 wds

My favorite memory

 

Geraldine's story

I was going to be nine : two years older than the « reason age » when you are supposed to understand what it’s all about !

I felt I was a big girl now and sometimes thought my parents were somewhat over protective.  Oh ! yes, I could go and play outside in the street and the close park,  I could meet up with my friends to walk to school together, I could go to the library all by myself and I could go to the cinema with my big sister, just the two of us.

But I wanted more. At Christmas, I had written this nice letter to Santa Claus explaining how the only gift I really wanted were roller skaters, even if my parents thought I was too young….

Christmas day had come, and I creeped out of bed to see which parcel had my name on it, and saw 3 little presents, too small to be roller skatters and went back to bed weeping and just looking through my stocking where I found a yoyo I started playing with , tears streaming down my cheecks, but no one noticing my despair.

When breakfast was over , the six of us gathered around the tree and Jackie, my eldest sister started the distribution.  By this time I had been able to put on a happy face again and was thankfull for the books and little bag which were to be discovered while tearing the wrapping paper !

Winter sat in with snow, cold and these periods I loved when we would fall ill and spend days in bed with fever,  our Mum bringing special food to us, smothering our chests with Vicks and other miracle creams and lotions, reading books, making puzzles and wobelling to the bathroom 3 or 4 times a day.

No school ! What bliss ! How I hated school !  Although I knew I was learning things that might be useful in a future life, it felt such a waste of time.  I remember when we all caught hooping cough, I was lucky to have a mild  version of it  and after a few days could go out playing and running around for another 5 weeks, for we were not allowed back to school because of contagion. 

My birthday was now close : a few snowdrops had poked their nose out in the park, some of the early dafodills scattered yellow stars in the garden, the days were longer and the sun was heating the last spells of frost : we could forget our gloves or caps without to much damage.

I went to bed on February 28th 1954, very excited : my birthday was on a week-end day so  there would be plenty of time to look at the present and play with it.  I really had no idea wrhat I was going to get, as I must admit, without being a spoiled child, I did have plenty of games, books, puzzles which I still love to-day, and didn’t really need more clothes.

I wake up on March 1st 1954 : I’m nine to-day ! Only one more year before 10 which still seems  like another  century !  Everything is calm in the house.  I lie calmly in bed before I hear my parents getting up, then dash to kiss them : I love that very special cuddle you get on your Birthday.

Breakfast for all.  My father always makes it long when there’s something special.  I think he likes watching us getting excited.  After ou compulsory porridge which I really don’t like, I enjoy the toast and home-made marmelade and wait for the others to finish.
At last, my Mum goes to fetch something behind the curtain : a large paquet sealed by a big red ribbon.  Happy Birthday !

The parcel is heavy.  I try to guess what could be in there : a big book – oh ! no it can’t be that heavy, a puzzle ? A doll ! but my paretns know I don’t really like dolls….

Finally I strip the paper and open a big box containing …. Roller skatters !  Beautiful ones with  shiny metal wheels fixed on a metallic base and long strong leather straps to fit them over the shoes.

My heart started beating very quickly and tears of joy came up to my eyes !  At last !  I was big enough now !  And did I use them, and use, them and use them.  There was a skatting rink in the nearby park and I think as from then, about 80% of my freetime was spent there !  What a day !

And, that’s how I found out,  from that day, I had become a « Big Girl » !

Patrice's story

Patrice Naparstek

18:31 (il y a 18 minutes)

	À moi

All of my memories are peppered with salt and sand.  

I have had great swathes of contented time in my life, overwhelming feelings of joy, immeasurable pleasure.   So many of those diamond memories when held still for examination have a shadow tributary running through like a tangled ball of wool.  I can’t separate my memories into favorites.  It feels that if I do I won’t be living this lovely life that I have lived but an edited version of my experience, of myself.  

As a young girl,  I remember the absolute joy of dancing, of being so good at what I loved that others noticed.  I was praised, and that was good.  I also remember the meanness of my peers that came along with recognition.  Stolen pointe shoes, tights found wet in the corner of the shower, the teasing that went like a knife to any soft part of one’s being.

When I turned twenty-one my parents took me to The Rainbow Room to celebrate - a wonderful old restaurant that was at the top of Rockefeller Center, in NY.  I wore an orange silk dress that I had made with a square neck and hidden pockets in the front.  I felt very beautiful in that dress - not a typical sensation for me at the time.  I had returned to live with my parents after a disastrous year with a boyfriend in an apartment on The Grand Concourse. 

 It was just the three of us.  The waiter was being sweet to me because it was my birthday.  My mother got up to use the toilet, and when she returned she said, “The waiter told me that I was the most beautiful woman in the room.”  

In that moment I understood so many things.  That I would always remember the sensation of feeling myself, not someone else telling me, as beautiful.  That my memory of the moment, the smell of champagne in a flute, the bubbles rising to the surface, the white table cloths, the lovely sense of occasion would remain with me always.  And that, though I loved my mother, nearly adored her, and she loved me, her wounds would always play in the space between us, and it was my job to find a way to live in the memory, the whole of it, and make of it what I could.

So memory for me has always been a complex chiaroscuro of sensation never simply a favorite, never flat, or even easy, but mine to do with what I could.

 

A Favourite Memory
(28.07.2025). Sarah's story

What is a happy memory?  Something that you call up from the depths of your past that makes you feel happy all over?  I don’t have that sort of memory or if I do is too private to write about publicly.  I live with the past, the past is important to me, but to say I have a favorite memory is a non-sense.  I do remember, however moments when I felt beauty and registered the fact.  So I will make a little necklace of those moments.
Two that come to mind are when I was travelling with my brother across Canada and down the Pacific coast, with an excursion of several days into Wyoming and Colorado.  One night, after driving all afternoon in sight of the jagged peaks of the Grand Tetons, which I found absolutely wonderful, we decided to camp out for the night.  We had a tent, which we used when we found a suitable place; otherwise we looked for the cheapest motel we could find.  Both of us were still students and we were going out West, me to find lodgings for my coming year at Berkeley, he to the six-months job in an airplane factory which he was using as a practical break from his studies at MIT.  We found a sandpit, where we could sleep out of the sight of passers-by if ever there were any, though the car of course was visible, but in fact there were none.  There were fewer tourists in the West in those days, and people did not drive that much at night.  And I think people were not so worried in those days about psychopaths out looking for victims.
In the end we did not put up the tent, because the weather was fine and looked to stay that way.  So we lay in our sleeping bags and looked up at the sky, which began to blacken and gradually came out all diamonds.  The sky over Flavigny is often wonderful at night, but this was sumptuously spectacular.
A week or so later we came to Oregon and went up to the top of Crater Lake National Park to look down on the lake in the crater below.  The irregular coastline, curving in and out into coves and around small peninsulas thick with spruce trees, enclosed water of such blueness as I had never seen before.  I would see it later near Naples and Capri, but now I could only compare it with the film Peter Pan.
Another memorable moment was, in fact, in that very region of Italy.  I was with a group that had just climbed Mount Vesuvius, and we were coming down, slightly light-headed because of the rapid changes in altitude, and I was mesmerized by the plasticity of the view before me.  What I saw was layer after layer of landscape unfolding before me, in what seemed like heightened three-dimension, all the way down to the sea beyond.  It was as if I could feel it sensorily.
On another trip to Italy, I was in a train, going probably from Rome back to Strasbourg, and at the end of the afternoon we came to the lake of Lugano, turning a deep blue in the approaching night.  On the farther shore the lights of Lugano came out, and the scene impressed me as a stretch of fairyland, which I gazed at until it disappeared.
I suppose I could go on and on, but that is not the point of this task.  We were to write of “a” memory, but mine are too brief for any one of them to make up a whole text on their own.  So that’s it for today!

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Annemarie's story

My Favourite Memory

You can have many favourite memories and I have too many of my immediate family and friends so I remember someone who was not the easiest person but it's a memory that always makes me smile fondly of her.

From the age of eleven to seventeen I spent most of the school holidays with my great grandmother and my great aunt. Great aunt Gwynneth was a strict, very religious and very critical woman. She was  very keen that we, my sister and I, do all our household duties to make us into 'good little mothers and housekeepers'. In her own way she was loving but severe; she took us out for weekend outings and treated us to the cinema but it was a strange life for us two teenagers.  Before World War II she worked as a nurse on an ocean-going liner to China. She fell passionately in love with the onboard doctor and end of cruise meant end of the love affair. (Great Granny told my fourteen-year-old self, my eyes agog, my ears flapping, and that "he was a married man and she never forgot his treachery"). I always supposed this made her the woman we knew.

  When Auntie Gwynneth (as I always had to call her,) reached 85 years and could no longer manage her bungalow she came to live with John and myself and our two teenagers. She was not the easiest of people; critical of our meals, of the books I read having discovered one that was on the banned Roman Catholic list, and quite demanding; the six years she remained with us required a degree of patience. Yes, the roles were now reversed and she had possibly felt the same about my sister and me all those many years before.

  When it came to her ninetieth birthday we tried hard to think of something special to celebrate it. Serendipitously  I heard on the news that a baby giraffe had been born at Whipsnade zoo. Auntie G loved a drive in the country and she loved a picnic. I packed up her favourite picnic foods, hauled the wheelchair into the boot and manhandled Auntie G into the passenger seat for her surprise birthday treat.

Whipsnade zoo is the largest zoo in the UK, with vast fields for the animals to roam...and we did roam throughout the day. Pushing a wheelchair up and down slopes is hard work but people were incredibly kind,  moving to allow this visibly old lady a good viewing position to see the giraffes.

 The giraffe was about seven feet from the fence; sixteen feet of star-shaped tan blotches on a creamy tan background right in front of us. It was the first day in front of the public for the foal. Below the height of its mother's tummy the baby giraffe had to reach up to drink from her teat. The mother giraffe  bent her long patterned neck downwards in a graceful arch to stroke her foal in gentle soothing movements of her bony head while the foal drank.

 Then we heard that the elephants were going to parade along the paths of the zoo and 'would anyone like to hold the last elephant's tail?' From the wheel chair came a shout accompanied by an uplifted arm ,"Yes, yes, I would", called out Auntie G. Lots of 'aahs' and she was given the honour of hanging on to baby elephant's tale. There were six elephants in all, each one gripping the tale of the one in front of it and myself taking up the rear pushing the wheelchair as we paraded the paths for 15 minutes, Auntie G hanging on with both hands and I desperately hoping the baby elephant was 'house-trained'. We ate our picnic lunch in front of Henry the hippo's enclosure, Auntie G throwing bits of her sandwich to the cavernous mouth of this enormous creature, just a few feet from us.

Yes, that is my favourite memory of my severe, difficult aunt having what she said was one of the best days of her life and remembering the childlike pleasure on her nonagenarian face.

 

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Jackie's story

My favorite memory

Living a long life one has thousands of great memories – some of them favorite ones and its difficult to imagine putting down on paper just one.    A favorite one is when you jump for joy and remember it I suppose.

 

So here is my list ;

Receiving my first teddy bear when I was 6 years old – he lives to this day above my bed in Viserny

Swimming in the Pacific Ocean and enjoying the sun after moving to the USA

Feeling proud to have graduated from High school

My first job in London

A favorite moment when I walked down the Champs Elysees in Paris and decided to spend the rest of my life here

A wonderful weekend discovering the Chateaux de la Loire

Going to St Tropez to sleep in a house that had no bathroom or hot water  

Getting married - Becoming a “Madame” and changing my last name

Birth of my son and then daughter

Returning to Paris after a short interval in the UK  -

Loving different dogs

Walking in the mornings at 8 am

My first shop

Getting appreciation for something I have made

Living in Paris was a permanent favorite memory

My most recent favorite memory was having my two older granddaughters visit for a few days – getting to know their grown selves and listening to their plans and projects for the future.