Pins and Needles

 Paula's story

Marjorie was a regal woman of means in London, traveling to and from her friends’ country homes for long weekends of games of tennis and gin rummy, followed by long, sumptuous candlelit dinners served by uniformed staff members. At home during the week, she would sweep down the stairs every morning after being clothed and perfumed by her ladies’ maid, to breakfast alone at the massive dining room table, to read and answer her letters in her sun-filled library, and to walk out to the private, flower-filled park across the street from her townhouse, a beautifully ordered garden to which she owned the only key.

Most mornings, after her toilette, her breakfast, and her letter-writing, she would put on one of her many beribboned hats, take up her ruffled silk parasol, make sure her elegant calling cards were snugly inside her bag, and sail out into the street, bound for any of a number of townhouses similar to hers where she would be graciously admitted and where she and a friend would share tea and gossip. What was Lady Haffling thinking, wearing that atrocious get-up to the opera the other night? Is Lord Tinkle really stepping out on his wife, and with the chambermaid, at that? Who is the handsome new barrister in town, and is he looking for a wife? And what on earth could have gotten into Tilly Madison, bobbing her hair like that? It’s quite unseemly, they agreed.

When all topics had been exhausted, and all sweets had been consumed, she would say her good-byes, adjust her hat and her frock, and walk the few miles home, to be greeted by soft music, a soothing bath drawn for her in the perfect temperature, a satin dressing gown, and a light meal, taken in her rooms upstairs beside the fire. 

One afternoon, hurrying home as a light rain began to fall (thank goodness for her parasol!) she passed a tiny girl, dressed in rags, sheltering in a doorway. As she passed, the child called out to her, “Madam, buy some pins?” and held out a paper packet filled with straight pins. Marjorie ignored her, and passed quickly, her skirts rustling.

That evening, as she climbed into bed after a very satisfying meal of a perfectly broiled lamb chop, cheese and toast, accompanied by a glass of fine red wine, she turned off her bedside lamp and settled comfortably into the crisp cotton sheets. But the comfort was short-lived. Suddenly, she felt as if her hands were being pricked by a thousand tiny needles. She rubbed them, she washed them, she spread lotion on them; nothing helped. She tossed and turned all night, and when dawn broke, the pain disappeared. She examined her hands; they looked perfectly normal, and they felt perfectly normal. She wondered if perhaps she had had some kind of reaction to something she ate, or drank.

Soon enough, she forgot the episode, and continued on in her daily routine. Each afternoon, as she walked the same route home, rain or shine, the same child would venture out from the same doorway to plead, “Please, madam, buy my pins,” shakily holding out the paper packets. And each afternoon, she rushed past, muttering under her breath, “As if!”

And each night, as she climbed into bed, the thousands of pricking needles under the skin of her hands would begin, and she would spend the night in pain and agony. And each morning, as her hands returned to normal, she would forget what had happened.

Several days later, as she strolled home from a most satisfying tea of scones and jams and a most satisfying talk with Sally Dearborn (Lord Tinkle was indeed having an affair, and conducting it in a very public, disgusting way!) the ragged child stepped out of the doorway and pleaded, “Please, madam, buy my pins? I can’t go home until they’re all sold.” This time, Marjorie stopped, and a look of enlightenment replaced the glance of disgust that was there just a moment before.

She stared at the tear-stained face of the little girl and said, “I’ll buy them all, every single packet.” It cost her 10 shillings, but it was money well spent. That night, she drifted off into a dreamless, needle-free sleep for the first time in weeks. 

And every day after that, she stopped and bought every packet of pins from the disheveled child, and every night, she slept like a baby. She left it to her ladies’ maid to figure out what to do with the thousands of pins found in her bag.

 

Annemarie's story

He knelt on the rickety chair, elbows on  the dining room table as he watched his mother deftly extract a pin from her mouth and pin her latest creation. Sometimes she said something her lips pursed together over several pins. He never understood what she said wondered how she didn’t swallow any pins. Chop, chop, chop…pin, pin, pin… try it on, then sew, sew, sew …and from flat pieces of fabric she'd made a dress or a fancy costume or even the tiniest blue-striped pyjamas for his teddy bear. When he was four she let him remove the pins which he then carefully replaced in her antique pin cushion, a slightly battered silver hedgehog, that only finished looking like a proper hedgehog once the pins were carefully pushed into the soft velvet body to make the prickles.

   Her ingenuity with needle and thread had provided her with enough income for the two of them and him with a fascination for needles and pins. The only time he remembered his mother being remotely angry with him was when she had a rush job for a film costume and she discovered her pins were rusty and they snagged the delicate thread in the patterned satin fabric for Queen Bess's  ivory cloak.

   He had used the pins for his first experiment. It entailed spreading the skin of a recently skinned, small snake on a long piece of balsa wood, pinning it all round with his mother's best sewing pins and rubbing salt all over the skin. She had not appreciated the fact that he’d returned both the pins and the salt after curing his snakeskin! When he stuck safety pins through his awkward adolescent nose and pushed needles through his tender teenage ears she had gently admonished “just make sure the pins or needles are sterilised first.”

    Twenty years later he sat at the same old oak table, his black eyes flashing with anger remembering her most recent work for a well known couturier. All over the newspapers and on the tv news were photos of the dress - a slinky black number held together with safety pins, worn by a famous actress  for a first night. It was just a year after his mother's tragically early death and the couturier was taking all the credit, with absolutely no mention of his mother who had spent hours looping and pinning the slippery fabric.

     He bent over the table, a tiny sculpting hook in his hand and finished fashioning the clay figure, accurately carving the thin lips, aquiline nose and bushy eyebrows and he regarded it; yes, his mother would have been proud of the likeness.

     He picked up the dented, silver hedgehog pincushion and pulled out -  not a fine pin for delicate muslin, not a flower head pin for thick velvets but a strong nickle-plated steel pin, 1⅜” length, and not bendy - and stuck it firmly into the hand of the clay figure. He pulled out a second strong pin and stuck it in one eye, then a third for the second eye. He vehemently stabbed the clay couturier until it bristled with steel pins and he could almost hear it shrieking; on the table the silver  hedgehog gazed at him, lifeless, it’s faded velvet body deflated and devoid of feeling.

 

Jackie's story

 

There I was in fluffy bedroom slippers wearing a colourful décoltée nightdress with spaghetti straps in poppy red attending “the” social event of the year in the advertising world, surrounded by very fabulous, very chic and so so very influential people. 

I arrived in France at the end of 1971 as an au pair girl,  I was 19.    I went to work for a family living in the new suburbs of Paris.    Cute little pretty houses with 30 year olds and young children, garden lawns and a train  station to central Paris ½ an hour by foot from their house.  It was a little too twee for me and also didn’t live up to my idea of being “in” Paris.   I moved to work for a family closer to the city and met my future husband, Anthony, who was half Greek, from London, and had just got a job working for an advertising company in Paris.  

     In my suitcase as an au pair girl I had brought with me two pairs of jeans, a few tops and warm sweater and a coat.   I had two pairs of shoes though;  a pair of well worn favorite sneakers and a pair of black Mary Jane shoes you know the kind with round toes and ankle strap.     Nothing very suitable for an evening in the very grand Conciergerie of Paris.   We had been invited to a party in this famous Paris monument as part of an advertising agency product launch – we needed to be in evening dress.    But it was a dilemma for me as I was housed and fed as an au pair plus had a little pocket money but I had no such salary as such to afford a new outfit.

 

At a friends house they suggested I try on a pair of pink fluffy slippers, they had feathers sprouting all over the front and were a little too small for me.  I couldn’t possibly wear slippers to this big event but in the end,  if I walked slowly they might just do.   The dress part was a problem but I was able to borrow something.   It was an itsy-bitsy nightdress.    I was young though,  it was long enough but it was certainly not the kind of thing I normally wear, even to bed.    A little torn, unwashed and the colour red was faded but it would have to do.    We found a box of pins and needles, quickly patched up the dress as best we could.

Walking into the magical palace on the ile de la Cité, the medieval residence of French kings and a prison during the French revolution I was in awe.  So many beautiful people, ladies with beehive hair do’s and fabulous dresses and wafts of expensive powders and perfumes.   Taffetas, silks and velvets flowed past in and out of the beautiful venue.    And the men;  so dark, so handsome “so very French” in their evening clothes.      My so-called dress was politely admired and I remember being looked at closely from time to time but I kept my head up high I managed to keep my feet in those “evening shoes”.   I declined dancing though as that could have been catastrophic. To this day I don’t think I realized just how daring it was to turn up to an evening like this in a nightdress and slippers but it remains in my memory and was the very happy beginning of a fabulous time in Paris. 

Geraldine's story

Kathleen was a fine dressmaker and her main skill was cutting and sewing evening gowns, wedding and bridesmaids dresses.

 

This early spring day, at the end of Tuesday morning,  she received a young woman in her workroom who was very upset, nervous and told her, almost in tears :

-       Oh ! Please, please, can you help me.  I’m invited to a very important party next Saturday and I haven’t had time to think of what I was going to wear.  The man I secretely love will be there and I really need to look good.

-       Well, dear Madam, what’s your name ?

-       Judith,  answered the woman.  Her long dark hair lay casually upon her shoulders.  Her complexion was  dark, her almond eyes slit – she could well have been from Asia – and her slender figure reminded one of a reed bending in the wind.

-       Well Judith, what kind of dress would you like and do you have the fabric.  You’re only giving me 3 days, which would make it a fantastic miracle if I succeeded.  By the way, my name’s Kathleen.

-       Judith opened a rough plastic bag out of which she pulled a beautifull vivid orange organdie cloth.  From the bottom of the bag she brought out  a selection of pearls, buttons and beeds of all sorts.  Here she said, still sniffing a bit, do you think you could make someting with this !

-       Well, lets see : is there enough material to  get a dress !  She unfolded the orange organdie and lifted it in front of Judith.  If you don’t want sleeves, this will be all right.  Have you any idea of the style you would like ?

-       No, I havn’t had time to think about it but maybe you have some kind of idea !

-       Well, just stand still and I’ll take your main measurements !  Leave it to me and come back on Thursday morning : we’ll try it on then.

Judith almost kissed Kathleen with relief : her face had calmed down, her tears had dried and oh ! what a lovely woman though Kathleen.  I surely will do my best to make her happy.

As soon as she had left the workshop, Kathleen looked at the organdie, buttons and all and took a pencil and paper and started drawing.  She started designing different shapes, imagining what Judith would look like and after a while, set her choice on the one model she believed would be the best.  Then she looked and the buttons, pearls and beeds and started drawing them around the collar band, the waist and down the skirt at the top of the pleats. 

Then she cut the dress, started  assembling the different parts and getting an idea of what it was going to look like.  By the time she got all this done, she left it all on the table, had a light meal and warned out, went to bed.

On Wednesday morning, the weather was fine, the air transparent, the birds singing and the sun rising quickly above the horizon.  She went downstairs, had a quick coffe and a bowl of cereals and walked straight into the workshop.  As she got nearer the table, she looked at the the dress and oh ! surprise ! it was all basted with a yellow thread.  She was extremely puzzled, as she couldn’t remember going through this stage yesterday.  She thought « Maybe I have a guardian angel » or…

 

Well, let’s not try and think too hard and just take things as they come.  This is a supreme surprise and leaves me a bit of time to do all the other things on my plate.

Again, after a very busy day, Kathleen had a light dinner and exhausted, went up to bed.  Judith was due to come and try the dress next morning.

She woke up feeling good, went down to breakfast and after cleaning up the kitchen, walked into her workshop.

To find what ?  Another surprise !  There were two rows of pearls and buttons around the collar of Judith’s dress, which made it look so smart.  They had been so meticulously sewn on the organdie fabric that, even looking at it closely, you couldn’t see the stitches.  It was as if no pins or needles had been used!

-       Well, this Guardian Angel is just too fantastic.  I wonder how he got in !  Lets wait for Judith to try it on  and see how it fits !

And around 10 o’clock, in walked Judith, looking much happier than the first time.

-       Hello Kathleen, how are you ?  Are we going to be able to try the dress ?

-       Here it is.  If it fits, I’ll be able to sew it.

She pulled the dress over Judith’s head, and they both looked at her in the mirror.  It was just perfectly cut and suited her fine.  The contrast of the orange and her complexion was fantastic and the way the collar was underligned with the mix of pearls and buttons was gorgeous.

-       Ok. My dear.  This is perfect.  Just give me one more day to get it finished and come and fetch it tomorrow around tea-time.  It should be ready by then.  Judith just couldn’t believe how quickly and smoothly it had all gone and didn’t know how to thank Kathleen.  So, she just gave her har largest smile and left.

In the afternoon, Kathleen gathered pins, needles, sewing-machine and spent 3 hours working on the dress.  What if my guardian angel would still be around to help me ?  So, she left the dress on the tabel once more overnight.  There was still a lot of completions and embroidery to do, but, who knows, maybe tomorrow morning will be another one with a surprise ?

Again, up she went to bed, had a good night’s sleep and woke up in the morning feeling good.  She didn’t stop for breakfast, too impatient and dashed in to the workshop.  And there hung the dress, completely finished, looking tremendous ! 

Yes, the Guardian Angel had come once more to help ! It was the first time in Kathleen’s life that such a thing had happened !  How come ?  She couldn’t make out for it, but remembered a story her mother used to tell her when she was a child.  It was called « The Elves and the Shoemaker » .

So maybe helping a tearful woman, giving her priority and just being confident and resilient are the right ingredients for a « little miracle » !

When Judith walked in at tea-time, she was handed over her beautiful orange dress, greeted with a cup of tea and a few scones and made the happiest ever damsel.

 

 

 

 

Free writing

 

Geraldine

FREEDOM  FREE STYLE  FREE SUBJECT

 

I can hardly remember the story that was brought back to my mind last week by my favourite nephew, Rémy.  Sometimes, you are reminded of facts that lie between reality and fiction and it’s really hard to untangle them all.  So, I’ll give it a try…

 

It happened in the 1970 when Remy was only a very young boy, around his fourteenth birthday.  He used to like playing with his palls and in those days, the big game was to try and find and old moped apparently lost for all, and give it a try in the small streets of their neighbourhood.

 

Rémy and his family lived in a small suburd of Grenoble, with little 1930 year houses and their small gardens with a lilac tree here, 2 or 3 rose bushes there , a few flowerbeds and a little gravelled lane towards the garage.  Here and there a few new blocks of flats had risen with small parking places and ranges of garages.

So, these friends would gather in a little square, some with bicycles, others with boards or scooters.  And some of them remained « pedestrians » and would give anything to become motorized…

It was on a Wednesday afternoon where Remy and Oliver had spotted an old shaby looking moped in the garage of one of those blocks :

-        What about trying this one ?  Do you think it’s safe Remy asked Oliver ?

-        Well, apparently there’s noone around.  We could try and give it a go.

They creeped into the garage, Oliver on the watch near the door, and Rémy grabbing the old blue scooter and pushing it quietly into the street in order to start it a little further because of the noise.

Gosh !  It was heavy ! They pushed it through the small streets for a while until they got to the nearby park.  This should do.  We can try and start it now !

I don’t know if you remember, but in those days, starting a moped didn’t involve a key, but a lot of strenght and sweat : You turned the gas knob, got your foot on a pedal and turned the throttle twist grip in order to get it stared .  This could take 4 or 5 tries before any success.  And make quite a lot of noise !

So, Rémy gave it a go, once, twice, three times or more and  hurrah… the engine started throbbing and they both climbed on it and slowly started riding around the park.  It was great !  What a fantastic feeling of power and freedom and whealth ! They were so aware that in their family  they couldn’t have afforded to buy one of these for ages.  They went a bit further, out of their area and found themselves driving towards the outskirts of town, towards the country.  And Remy then accelerated as they began to feel the thrill of the race.  They could feel the warm wind on their faces and taste the tang of nature.  Oliver started tapping Rémy on the shoulder to make him stop.

So, Rémy slowed down and finally stopped on a parking area.

-        What is it ? he asked Oliver

-        Well, I also want to try.  And maybe it’s time to turn back before we get lost.  Could I drive now ?

-        Yes, OK.  Your turn.  Make sure you slow down before the curves.  It’s not that safe and, being two boys on it, we could easily skid !

-        Don’t worry, I know how to handle a scooter as well as you can !

So, Oliver took over, they turned back and as he was accelarating to feel once more the warm air on their faces, he didn’t have time to slow down enough before the curve, lost control and the bike went straight through a fence onto a  wasteland and they both fell backs over their heads.  They tried to stand up, feeling completely groggy, above all Rémy who had been ejected from the back and fallen more  heavily.   After a few minutes, they looked at each other and spontaneously shouted out :

« And now !  What on earth are we to do ? »

They looked at the scooter : the front wheel was twisted, one of the pedals had got ripped off, the seat laid a meter apart in the gravel and the tank was emptying itself on the ground !

« Let’s move away before it catches fire, said Oliver.  This is dangerous ! »

-        « Oh my God !  How do we get back now.  What are my parents going to say… and do ? Yes, and look, my trousers are torn at the knees and you have a mark on your right arm : it looks as if it is bleeding ! »

-        « Yes, but it’s not too bad and I’ll be able to hide it.  But what about the scooter ?  We are going to have to leave it here ».

They left the moped, straightened themselves up and went back to the road and started walking towards the town putting their thumbs up in hope that a car would stop.  Which happened, except it wasn’t a car, but a small Police Van which opened the window and asked the boys where they were going.  « Back to our suburb in Grenoble » said the boys.  Ok climb in behind.  The boys were absolutely petrified, but couldn’t refuse.  So, in they climbed.

«  Where exactly do you live ? said the driver. « 

« Oh ! you can just leave us at the park, that’s where we meet our friends in the afternoons ! »

« Well, we think it’s best to take you back to your homes and make sure your parents recover you.  You look as if you’ve gone through some kind of trauma ».  By the way, what were you doing alone along the road so far from home ? »

The boys were taken short, they didn’t know what kind of a lie they could tell and hadn’t had time to anticipate the situation.  So they remained quiet and closed their eyes.

Next they knew when they opened them was they were being taken into the Police Station, separated, and Remy was sat on a chair and questionned.  What’s your name ?  address ?  parents phone number ? ».

« Where’s my friend Oliver ? »

« He’s in the other room.  One of our police officer is asking him the same questions.  How did you get to the place we found you ? »

Remy decided to tell the truth.  He didn’t know what to say, how to lie, what story to tell, so he just explained what had happened.

Then, later, the  door opened and in walked the Police Officer with both his Mum and Dad !

 Rémy went blank ! He felt as if he was going to faint.

« Well, Rémy, said his Dad.  We’ve been told about how you stole the moped and the accident.  You are so terribly lucky not to have been hurt … or…. Killed !  You will have to explain why… and above all find out who the moped belonged to and buy another one.  The best will be to find small jobs at week-ends and during the holidays. Your Mum and I really hope you’ll realize how wrong you got it all and will knock some sense into you.  And they left the Police Station together.

So, that was the reason Rémy spent a whole year washing our windows, mowing our lawn, and washing our car and caravan. That’s what made us close , but I had forgotten the story..,

 

  

Annemarie

What’s in a Name

 

Kenya’s first president, Jomo Kenyatta (among many other figures), is credited with saying: “When the missionaries arrived, the Africans had the land and the missionaries had the Bible. They taught us how to pray with our eyes closed. When we opened them, they had the land and we had the Bible.”

I have always wondered how are given names affect us growing up and as adults. Parents name their children for many diverse reasons - to denote our origin, to honour someone in the family or in the past; nowadays, after a celebrity or conversely just to be different or maybe imbibing those names with their own hopes and ambitions.

 Will John Smith grow up very ordinary? Will Paul Getty 111 be expected to follow in his father's footsteps? Will Fifi Trixibelle have bouffant hairstyles and breed poodles? Certainly an unusual name attracts attention and is easily recognisable; take  Damion Grammaticas the correspondent. There’s gravitas! Proselytising missionaries travelled round the world renaming children and adults alike to bring them into line with the Christian faith and at the same time indigenous people lost their own cultural background.

Akello was one such. Rescued from a brutal life as a child soldier with the Lord’s Resistance Army in the far reaches of northern Uganda he was Christianised with the name Raphael (the patron saint of healing) by his adoptive missionary family before starting  new life in Wales. The only black boy in his Welsh school Raphael achieved both great grades and an equanimity of spirit  despite the sing-song taunts of some of his contemporaries.

Now Raphael sat with his wife in the evening sun on the rough wooden bench in their allotment. Garments flickered and danced in the coastal breeze behind the old stone house. A trug filled with beans, cascades of crimson cherry tomatoes and plump scarlet strawberries nestled on the ground in a clump of aromatic thyme. And it was here that Vision, Grit and Whimsy found them  when they arrived for the family pow-wow initiated by the three children.

You may well ask why these names. For Raphael and his wife, Kenyangi, their hopes and fears were instilled in the names. The firstborn of the twins appeared in her white Welsh world with long black eyelashes framing a faraway look in her brown eyes. “Oh, with a look like that she could be an architect, a philosopher - who knows,“ said Raphael, “let’s  call her Vision. “

Her twin brother, after an epic struggle to arrive, lay in his cot, fists clenched and shiny black face screwed up. “Such a determined little baby,” Raphael said with admiration. “What about Grit? It’s a strong masculine name. Maybe a doctor or even a surgeon when you look at those long, strong fingers and such perseverance. “

Two years later a long, lean bean of baby with a mound of curly black hair and luminous mahogany eyes was born.   Conceived after a magical, unplanned visit to Venice, they named her Whimsy. Surely an artist or a great writer thought her parents.

As it happened all three children lived out their parents dreams/hopes. Vision was an architect working with the town planners, Grit had studied long years to become a lawyer and Whimsy? Well she tried her hand at writing, failed as an artist but excelled as a modern dancer.

As the setting sun drew down the darkening skies to the distant ocean, Vision began in a somewhat hesitant manner.

“We…er .. all three appreciate what you as parents have done for us, especially  knowing  your childhood, Dad. I have now been  working with the town planning for five years but my heart's no longer in it.”

  “And I’m fed up with the law, stuck in courtrooms, endless paperwork etc. “ added Grit.

“As for me, I have tried various things without much success,” said Whimsy “and although I love dancing, you, Mama, have given me an even greater love for gardening. So… we are gathered together, as they say, not to distress you in any way but to tell you the three of us have chucked in our jobs and we are setting up our own little business. Vision will design homes and I will design the gardens while Grit does the physical work, with my help of course.  We haven't even had to find a name or logo as you two have already done that perfectly. 'Vision, Grit and Whimsy'!  And we have two projects in the offing!”

“And one more thing - we have officially changed our given names. We love them; they have made us strong but now we have  chosen  Ugandan names to recall our Ugandan heritage. But more about that after the delicious dinner Ma has cooked!” promised Vision.

Sarah story

 “So, kids, what do you want?”

“I’ll have, um, I’ll have chocolate.  No, strawberry.”
“And you, Princess?”
“I want banana.”
“Well, they don’t actually have banana, Princess.  Choose something else.”
“Um, um, pineapple?”
“I’m afraid they don’t have that either, sweetie.  How about pistachio?”
“But I don’t like pistachio!”
In the meantime, Ricky had changed his mind, just as the man was scooping the strawberry ice cream into the cone.  “I want vanilla.”
The man gave him a sour look before changing the contents of the scoop, while their mother chose orange sherbet for Princess, who made a fuss and threw it on the ground as soon as she received it.
“Put these kids to bed,” ordered their father as soon as they got home.  “I have to order that new pump for the furnace.”
So Evelyn put them to bed and Bruce settled down at his computer.  He looked at one model of pump, then he looked at another and then another.   He compared their descriptions, he compared their prices, and he was still at it when Evelyn got back an hour later after she had gone through a choice of ten bedtime stories.
“Just take that first one,” she said.  “It looks sturdy.”
“But it’s awfully expensive.”
“Then take that one, it’s the cheapest.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good pick—I’m not sure it’ll last.”
And so they argued about it for another hour, and finally decided on a pump and ordered it.  (When it came, five days later, they discovered it was not the right choice after all.)
In the meantime Evelyn went to her computer.  “O dear,” she said.  “It’s writing group on Monday and I haven’t even begun.  And I’ll never be able to do it this time!”
“Why not?  You always come up with at least three or four stories on every theme.”
“That’s just the point,” she said.  “This month there’s no theme.”
“No theme?”
“That’s right.  They made the horrible decision of suggesting free choice.  We have to pick our own theme.  And that doesn’t inspire me at all!  I can’t do it!”
Such is life in our times, an era of (almost) unlimited choice.  Sometimes, or so it seems, it’s better to have something simply imposed on you, and you make do.  That’s the way it used to be, and things didn’t turn out so badly most of the time.

 

Jackie 

 

I hit the yellow round panic button and immediately regretted it as it exploded in my face – showering tiny particles of plastic that went flying all over the ski cabin.

We were stuck 500 meters high, 28 jammed into a capacity rate of only 20 in this dilapidated ski lift which was supposedly taking us up to the Swiss mountain top in safety.   There were Italian boys careering about in this small space being very loud and disturbing everyone, a grandmother and her young grandson, married couples with older children , school children and teenagers in groups              There was only room for standing so we were cramped to say the least.

The yellow button which had big letters written on it “Push in case of an emergency” was sorely out of date.    I could see scratchy handwriting that the last revision was in 1995.    What… this is outrageous I thought but kept the news to myself not wanting to alarm an already panicky group of people.   Somebody is going to pay for this I thought.   

One of the Italian boys dropped to his knees, hands together pointing up to the heavens, started to pray out loud.  This didn’t help matters at all.  I flipped - keep your voice down I hissed and he blabbered out loud in Italian taking no notice.  I did hope God understood Italian.

The wind started and the groaning and screeching of the now overly stretched cables holding up the ski cabin was a little worrying to say the least.   

 

There had been a storm forecast but as the ski station was computerized,  ski lifts  obeyed machines and not the weather man heading up to 2000 meters automatically.     

 

 Swaying above glistening ski slopes where skiers swished down the slopes screaming their joy at the powdered snow and freedom of movement.   We all watched in envy as a group of people saw us and started to wave – we waved back frantically although so high up it was impossible to tell whether they could see us or not.    Tell them to send help I mouthed through the glass.

The hours went by and it became increasingly cold the wind started howling through the large cracks of the cabin door and windows – I remembered the forecast had been stormy with well below 0° temperatures   I checked the weather app on my phone -10° already at 5pm.    Fingers and toes started to feel numb.   Something had to calm people down so I started to sing –Christmas carols.   Easy really as it was end of November and the festive season round the corner.  But passengers were too stressed to continue for long.     We suggested putting women and children in the middle of the cabin to keep warm and the men on the outside  as they seemed more likely to bear up to the cold drafts   

Eventually at dawn after a long painful night of moaning, groaning trying to reassure people we heard the blades of a helicopter rescue and one by one we were hauled to safety.  The ski resort was sued by 28 people but the company argued that as we were 28 people and not the 20 allowed as maximum capacity we didn’t have a hope of winning but we argued the yellow button was out of order …and it took so long to get help etc. etc.

 This was 5 years ago now and the case is still being battered in the courts.

Do you think we have a case?

 

I hit the button

 Geraldine

I hit the Button

But it went wrong !!!

What a challenge ! On day 33 after the begining of the Ukranian war, on day 670 after the begining of Covid pandemia in France,  the topic is « Hit the Button ».

 

Well, I hit the button.  « I » have a feeling that nothing will ever be the same since these events are changing the face of the world.  Like other future events linked with climate changes, globalization, North/Southern relations, feeding populations, educating children etc…

 

Hitting a button could do so much good or bring so much sorrow in this world :

I hit the button, and off went my space capsule taking me to the moon.

I hit the button and I heard the most fantastic recording of Mozart’s  40th Symphony, I closed my eyes and there, the music transported me into another world.

I hit the button and just bought, on internet a round the world ticket for a two year trip.

I hit the button and my Magimix cooker just made, in no time,  a very tasty chicken and rice risotto.

I hit the button and the GPS decided in a split second which was the best route to take to go visit my sister in Kent.

I hit the button and began a whattsap conversation with my great friend Christine, in Illinois.  When would she next be in Paris  for our future visits to Museum and exhibitions.

I hit the button and the garage door opened and let me park my car without having to support a drop of the heavy rain around us.

I hit the button, sat confortably in the settee, and watched for, maybe the sixth time in my life, Giulietta Masina and Anthony Quin in Fellini’s masterpiece « La Strada ».

I hit the button and, oh ! it was the wrong one and it brought me down to the second lower ground floor instead of the 67th floor were I wanted to catch the view over Hong Kong’s Bay !

I hit the button and I thought….

Why do I have to depend on a button to get thnigs done.  How did mankind manage before.  And when was before ?

_______________________________________________________________

Jackie

 

I hit the button and regretted it immediately.    It was yellow, shiny, round and plastic and I hit it with strength I didn’t know I had.       Let me tell you why.

I was travelling up a Swiss mountain in a ski lift this winter.     It was over full 20 people maximum allowed ….28 cramped together including children   –it was the start of the season.

We were standing up as there were too many people to allow seating.   All laughing and joking at 9 in the morning, the smell of coffee breath and new ski shoes.  Oww I thought the rented ski boots shoes hurt already and I’d only had them on for an hour  …If you have ever worn these remember that they cover the beginning part of your shins and scrape them as you walk – so you have to learn to put your heel down first and then the toe which takes a little learning to do.  But, in the meantime, your shins get scraped and dug into and they hurt like hell.  I must have bruises or cuts already I imagined.

The doors slid shut and the motor purred a reassuring noise as we started up to the top of the mountain – first in full sunshine then as the cable car made its slow way up into fog and then even thicker fog excluding all views and the atmosphere in the ski cabin became subdued.  

 

 I gripped my ski poles and made to steady myself as the box like  cabin ……swayed from side to side, to and fro above the rocky snowy alps some of which, from where I was,  looked jagged and pointy.     I looked straight down between the clouds and felt dizzy – heights have never been my favorite and I wondered just how long this ride would take

Now everyone knows that Italians are noisy and in this small cabin there were a group of 5 Italian young men, very excited at the prospect of their first day skiing;  gesticulating and practicing their prowess on the slopes showing off how they could bend and take turns but the trouble was we weren’t not yet on the slopes just 600 meters above sharp pointy mountains that seem to stretch into the distance forever.  We were in a small box attached to a steel cable that we couldn’t see but hoped would hold.   

Another passenger overcome with claustrophobia or anxiety couldn’t wait apparently to smoke her cigarette and the cabin was soon filled with fumes and others started to cough and wave away the smoke in front of their eyes.    That is when the uncomfortable situation started to feel itself.    People started to eye each other up and down and as we were all standing up and squashed together the only place you could look was in fact into someone else’s eyes.  Or…in my case being taller than the average on top on someone’s head /helmet.

The Italian group now started to practice jumps – they would hold onto one another’s shoulders and pretend to jump down an imaginary ski slope … until the inevitable happened.  One of them crashed landed knocked someone over and people started to drift over to one side of the cabin car until all 20 people were all piled one on top of the other on the now lopsided right side  – the cable car stopped.   Yes,  just stopped in mid air…it took a few seconds to realize that it had come to a halt and we were swaying gently in the breeze – the gusts of wind that were forecast were to come later on.   There was an eerie silence on board.  Someone started to cry….  The whirring sound that had accompanied until then our ascent into the mountains had ceased.     The Italians now with a worried look on their faces and the lady who smoked had her cigarette knocked onto the floor and squashed.

Panic could be read on everyone’s faces as slowly we realized our situation.   With another 500 meters to the top station and safety we were for the moment stuck in the air – and by the grace of God, held there by a cable, which hopefully was made of some strong something or other to hold up 28 now very scared people.     Black clouds appeared through the now swirling fog and perhaps a storm was on its way …

 

So as I told you at the beginning of this story short may it be …I hit the yellow round plastic button and immediately regretted it.

(to be continued)

 

Annemarie

I Pressed the Button

Little Vovo sat in a bowl of water in the warm summer sun, tipping cupfuls over himself. Just two years old, the blond toddler looked up at his mother:

“Mama, what is this for?” he asked pointing to his stomach.

“That, my dear  Vovo, is your belly button; when you are hungry you just press it and Mama will get you some food,” Vera said laughing and looking at her son fondly.

Vovo experimented with his belly push- button and, yes, it worked. Mama always indulged him.  She made pastries when he wouldn’t eat his bread for breakfast; succumbed to his tantrums and generally allowed his every whim.  Until that is,  his unmarried mother met, fell in love with and married a man from Georgia.

Young Vovo, used to having his own way, had a very unsatisfactory relationship  with  his stepfather and took little notice of him. Vera was given an ultimatum - “either the boy goes or I do.” After much heart-searching and still very much in love with her husband, Vera sent her son to live with his grandparents.  They, however, died soon after his tenth birthday and he was taken in by elderly foster parents who had lost their own two sons when babies.

Life was very different for the boy. A crowded room in a cramped, shared flat; a 'father' who worked in the factory, both his legs having been blown off during the war. His elderly 'mother', he recounted, swept the streets and did odd jobs to earn extra money. The boy's fun lay in harassing the rogue rats around the building's  stairwells until one day he cornered an exceedingly large one. The rat  suddenly turned and jumped on him. Never let yourself be cornered was the lesson learned from this incident.

At school he excelled at history and German but spent most of the time disrupting classes, playing truant, hurling blackboard rubbers at classmates and haranguing the teachers. One teacher realised his potential, harnessed his abilities and helped him enter a school for the gifted. With his blond hair, pouting lips and sleepy eyes there was no lack of female admiration for the sporty, ambitious young man but he had his own romantic  ambition to be a spy, which he realised after he had completed law school.

He had it all - secrets, machinations, dead drops, ciphers. He had leather briefcases with codes, with buttons to press with satisfying clicks. Knowledge was what he  stole or what he withheld from others.

Onwards and upwards he went  right to the top, ordering the elimination of journalists, sending  planes crashing down, ordering wars.

Now he has unleashed a devastatingly cruel attack, one not going his way and  he sits at one end of his  20 foot long, beech table, decorated with gold leaves, the table where world leaders, where his own advisors are distanced from him.

They watch as he puts in the  code with trembling, shaking fingers, they watch as he presses the button. Nothing happens. He tries again , his trembling, quivering hand shaking, his body almost convulsing, but cannot hit the right code. He shouts ‘I pressed the button! Why no bomb?'

“Mr President, Vladimir, you have Parkinson’s and for some time we have been substituting  your medication. You are finished.”