"September"

 Geraldine's poem

SEPTEMBER

 

 

Summer melting in September

As autumnal equinox approaches

Winds blow and rains fall

As the days shorten to  equivalent length

As sun dims from bright to pale yellow.

 

September brings harvest days

From vegetables to fruit

From potatoes to pumpkins

Some need canning or freezing

Others straight down the cellar.

 

Grapes are picked to change to juice or wine

Pears and apples get stacked on wooden racks

Peaches and plums undergo transformations

For the long coming  winter chutneys and deserts

Summer is behind and winter is ahead !

 

The rising sun, shines gently through the morning mist

The setting sun plays  with orange or pink cows in the fields

The birds gather to fly to milder shores

The leaves turn gold for their October show

And the first logs glow in the fireplaces.

 

Annemarie's story

September

Valerie put the pleated grey pinafore, the crisp white blouse and French navy cardigan on the chair and kissed her daughter goodnight. Tomorrow, the 3rd September, she would walk her daughter to school for her first day. A special day for her daughter, bittersweet for herself as it brought back long-forgotten memories of her own first day.

  For Valerie school had meant going away from the family for the first time at the age of six. She would not see them again for three months.  Although her life up country had been idyllic it was remote and the thought of meeting so many other children like herself had filled her with eager anticipation. And what about the train journey, her father had said. Two days chugging past wild animals, past lakes and jungles; bunk beds which folded down for the night, and a bag which her mother had filled with tangerines - naartjes she’d called them, a tube of Nestlé's condensed milk, and two bars of Turkish Delight, her favourite sweet. So young she hadn't, couldn’t, imagine three months without seeing them.

  Her excitement was clouded when on the day of departure their nearest neighbour had climbed into the car beside her. As he had business in town her father had offered him a lift. Sandy Wilson, or Mr Wilson as she called him. She still remembered his dark hair, straight dark eyebrows and his pursed round mouth but most of all she remembered the day after her sixth birthday. She had spied him talking to her father and had asked if it was necessary to write him a thank you letter for her present.  Just like the time when he’d seen her playing by herself under the jacaranda tree he said, “just give me a kiss.” She had run away then and had done so again.

   On the big day she recalled getting up very early, her father loading her new school tin trunk with her name stencilled in white across the top, into the boot. Mr Wilson had manoeuvred his big body into the car right next to her;  he had been wearing khaki shorts and khaki shirt, his pink legs close to hers; she had propped her toy gentleman rabbit between them.

   No aircon in those days it had been a long, dusty journey from the lush mountain foothills of the Mountains of the Moon to the bustling town of Kampala and Mr Wilson had kept talking to her about learning maths and geography until she pretended to be asleep. She could still recollect his Scottish burr, his rolling r's, his ruddy face and beetle brows bent towards her. It should have been a special day with her parents; instead she had listened to the murmured talk of the adults and flinched when Mr. Wilson stroked her head or put his hot hand on her knee. He had even joined them for a grownup  lunch at Chez Joseph, and had accompanied them to the railway station - after all, he had said, he was still due a kiss.

   Looking back Valerie was surprised  her parents hadn’t registered her disquietude. Perhaps they’d attributed it to her trepidation about leaving home for the first time.

   At the station children of all ages, dressed in checked blue dresses or shirts and grey shorts milled around their parents, the young ones grasping parental hands. Valerie had been so happy, so relieved, to see one of her friends who was also starting school so far away and had dragged her mother to follow them into the same compartment.

   Once there she had remained firmly ensconced in her seat clutching her rabbit. Beside her, still reclining on a bed of white tissue paper lay an exquisite doll, dressed as a Spanish dancer, which her parents had given her. She had stubbornly refused to come out again even to say goodbye to her father because Mr Wilson was still there, still demanding a kiss. She had sobbed as her father came into the compartment to give her a last cuddle before the whistle sounded and the train chugged off with its cargo of children through the African savannah. The worst September of her young life.

 

 

Jackie:   

September

 

Excuse me Sir, 

Yes, Madam,

 

I think you’ve made a mistake with my bill

Oh how is that? I very much doubt it

Lets have a look

 

Well you see,  I received this bill from you dated 09/25/2023

 and I am sorry to tell you that I don’t understand the date of your invoice.   Did you put the month before the day? There are only a maximum of months in a year in my understanding, and here you are exceeding the amount by 13 months of which in fact do not exist.   No calendars in the world have 25 months in a year.    Today is the 25^th of September 2023 and your bill states that it is the 9^th of the 25^h which is ridiculous.  This bill should be  written as 25/09/2023.  

 

No Sir, In America, I might remind you, we write the month first so 09/25/2023 is totally correct.      In America we put the month first so 09 is the month of September of course and 25 is the day. 

 

If you were writing it out in letters in Europe and the rest of the world it would 25^th of September 2023.  25/09/2023 Not the 9^th of the 25^th day.  

Yes Sir, but you see in this country we put the month before the day, it is quite logical you know our very sophisticated computer only understands this and that is the way it is. 

Yes, but I am British you see and I don’t understand your method. Your computer should adjust to all types of people, in fact the rest of the world – those of us coming from another country cannot spend hours trying to work out the date of an invoice.   You must inform your computer person to correct this and then I can pay your bill – maybe giving me a discount too as  it is you who have made a mistake.   Making a mistake on an invoice is

 an official error and I regret to tell you that I cannot pay this bill as it is not conform to the normal.  

 

 

Excuse me Sir, but I have completed the work and now you must pay the bill otherwise…

I have a family to feed and cannot wait to get paid.

 

Yes, but let’s face it, you must admit its weird.   Despite the variety of date formats used around the world, the US is the only country to insist on using month/day/year.  

 

As an American, I've wondered this myself. Here is my thought on why we do it.

Because context is king here. And the month is the most contextual part of the date info, among day, month and year. Here's how I mean.

If I were to give just one part of the date, how much emotion, memory and sense of "what's going on" would each evoke?

The Month/Day/Year format definitely goes back a very, very long way, as you can see by the original Declaration of Independence:

The month-day-year format, or mm/dd/yy matches the way that we verbally cite dates. We rarely say “the ninth of May, twenty-nineteen.” It is far more common for us to recite the date as “May ninth, twenty-nineteen.” If you write down that almost universal (in the US) way of citing the date using numerals instead of words, it is directly rendered as “5/9/2019,” or “05/09/2019” if you insist on using leading zeroes. This way of writing the date out using numerals simply mirrors the way that we verbally cite dates. This style seems natural and intuitive to most Americans.

Clearly Americans prefer things that are irrational, jumbled and confusing

 That is just the way we like it.”

 

 

Six words for a story

Sarah's story

Gold/batter/lugubrious/sex/vanquish/bandage 3 – Quaityle
(14.08.2023)


“And what again is the name of this place?” asked the newcomer.  There were many newcomers to this island, for it was advertised as a paradise; what they did not know in advance was that it was in fact a very lugubrious place, in that all of the islanders were at least 50% dissatisfied, without knowing why.
“”Quaityle” said the islander.
“”Plaît-il?” asked the newcomer, because he was French.
But the islander did not reply because he did not speak French.  Foreign language study and even the use of foreign languages were forbidden on the island, on the grounds that some people did not understand them and that made them feel inferior.  Only English was therefore allowed, but nobody who came to the island ever left there to go anywhere else, so English was sufficient.  The country had been recently founded by a small and very progressive group of thinkers.
The constitution of this new republic consisted in a single sentence: “No-one shall be or have any more than anyone else.”
The place was indeed a natural paradise.  Though of course the sea water could not be used for drinking, it rained every night and recipients were left out so that fresh water was never  lacking.  The sea was stocked with savory fish, luscious fruits grew on the trees in all seasons, a sort of tuberose grew in the soil and when dug up could be pounded into a meal that, when mixed with water, made a sort of batter that could be fried into a delicious pancake.  
Gold and silver were not needed, because nothing was bought and sold: everything was there for the taking.
There were problems, however.  The fruits on the trees grew on very high branches, so only the tall islanders could reach them, and the short islanders had to go without.  A short-lived proposal was to cut the legs of the tall islanders, but that would have deprived everyone of fruit, so the idea was abandoned and the short islanders were therefore supplied with wooden stilts.  But not all of them were able to manage these, and very few of them were able to walk on the stilts and pick the fruit at the same time.  As for the fishing, many of the islanders could not swim, and therefore it was the swimmers that had all the fish.  It was therefore decreed that fish could be eaten only on Mondays and Fridays, lessening the number of days on which the non-swimmers would feel deprived..  
Other problems were solved in the same way.  In the schools only a certain amount of knowledge was allowed to be acquired every day.  When the brighter pupils had mastered this, which was very quickly, they were banished from the classroom and sent out to play.  The slower pupils were kept in and the masters tried vainly to drum this knowledge into their recalcitrant heads.  For they too would have liked to go out and play, and they resented being kept in to do something they were not really very good at.  And the brighter pupils were frustrated, for they would have liked to go on learning.
As for health and medicine, it was decided that drugs and operations were against nature, and therefore they were no longer given or practised.  Besides, those things cost money, and money was no longer in fashion.  In these ways the republic hoped to  vanquish inequality.
There was more of a problem with sex, however.  Naturally, the more beautiful women were the most in demand, and got the most handsome men.  The heads of the beautiful women were therefore shaved and they were forbidden to wear makeup and made to wear shapeless brown sack dresses.  That did not really deter the men from preferring them, however.  So the less beautiful women were advised to become lesbians, and the less handsome men were told to be gays among themselves.  Most of these women, however, did not want to be lesbians, and the men in question, if they did not object to becoming gay, wanted the more handsome men.
One day an islander cut a gash in his leg.  According to the rules of medicine of the place, a nurse put a bandage on it.  But the blood soaked through and was running all over the ground.  The man in question suddenly cried out, “This is not the way!  I am going to bleed to death, and that is not necessary.  I need stitches and disinfectant!”  For he remembered a few things from his life before, and he had seen too many people on the island die unnecessarily.  
A woman in the crowd, to whom this remark seemed brilliant, cried out in turn, “Hear, hear!”  And soon a former doctor came up, made a needle out of a thorn and some thread from some vine tendrils, bathed the wound with sea-water and sewed it up.  The man got better in no time, and everyone, awed by this miracle, elected him president.  Not that there had been a president before, but they now decided it was a good idea to have one.
He told them, “We could have different rules.  We could say that those who collect the fruits and those who catch the fish must put them in common and we all share them.  We could furnish beauty aids and sex counsellors to the less favoured to increase their chances in the pursuit of love.  We could say that everyone can and should learn all that he can and wants to but no more, and help him to find an activity that suits his abilities and taste.”
Everyone agreed, but then someone suggested, “And the constitution?”
“Yes,” said the new president, “we shall change that too.  From now on it will say, everyone shall have, as far as possible, as much as he needs or wants, without depriving other people.”
And after that, the island really began to deserve its name, which was an anagram of “Equality.”

 

 

Geraldine's story

GOLD –BATTER – LUGUBRIOUS – SEX – BANDAGE – VANQUISH

 

I think I must vanquish the heat-wave and accept my grandaughter’s invitation to see the play she has worked on and is performing in Rocamadour.  But oh ! it’s so hot ! so terribly weakening!  And just to think of the six hour drive to get there with a sun like gold in the face and over 35°C heat !

My last niece and her family were leaving that day, so we decided Michel would stay cool in the house, tidying up, watering the garden and looking after Naïka, the dog.

As for me, I would set off at 5 a.m. long before day-time, even if the driving through the Morvan would sound a bit lugubrious at the end of the night.  This could let me reach Malinalli’s home around 11 in the morning , before the heat crushes hard on you.

My alarm went off at half past four, and I made myself a coffee and started putting my suitcase and a basket of veggies from the garden in the boot.  Plus an extra pair of walking shoes and sandals.  I shut the boot very slowly : everyone was still fast alseep at home or, who knows, maybe very discretely having sex….  But not to be revealed !

And, as programmed, off I started driving towards the West, looking forward to the evening where the show was to take place.  The play was called « Watson meets Sherlock » and with Arsène Lupin’s help, they  elucidate how MonaLisa was robbed from the Louvre.

After a few emptying and filling stops during the trip, I finally arrived at Reilhaguet around 11 o’clock as  planned.  My son had texted me nobody was there before noon, but I got a lovely greating by Néou, the big white dog with almost green eyes.

« Hello Néou » I patted him while he was waggling his tail and pushing his head against me.  How are you doing ?  Sorry, I’ve not brought your friend Naïka this time.  I walked into the house, got myself a large glass of fresh water, put my bag down and back to the car for the veggies and my suitcase.  I opened the boot, started taking my suitcase out, turned back to watch Néou, and believe who he was playing with now : NAIKA !!!

-       What ! How did you get here ! I screamed surprised !

So, I realized she had jumped into the the car boot like a clandestine passenger…  « Oh dear !  I didn’t want you with me as I know Mariana doesn’t really appreciate dogs in the house.  And of course, I didn’t bring your basked, your food, your leash and your eating and drinking bowls…Naughty girl ! »

After a good cool long siesta, we set off to Rocamadour.  As we reached the place outdoors where the Show was due to take place, in the ruins of an old castle, we saw a big group of priests and young people singing psalms in front of the church just opposite.

-       « Oh ! are these the people involved in the Play ? I asked » 

-       No, there is a religious procession starting from here, so they’ve postponed the play for half an hour….

-       One of the participants doesn’t look that bright.  He’s got a big bandage on his left ankle….  Hope he’ll be able to walk the whole procession I thought.

 

The night was setting.  We were all sitting on the benches waiting for the show.  The church clock chimed 9 times – twice – and it began.

Malinalli was the first one on the stage and was introducing the Art pieces that had got stolen – Milo’s Venus,  The Raft of the Medusa, Touthankamon and Mona Lisa.  And then, the Theater Troup gathered in front of us and started singing an introduction on the « Threepenny Opera » aria. 

The performance was really very good, with sequences of dancing, circus arts, text, pantomime etc…  Loads of well-deserved applauses at the end with an encore for a scene.

The young ones were very happy with such a numerous public and such strong encouragements. Then came the time for the theatre troup to dislocate, every member  going back home to their parents after that exciting and fulfiling 9 day  experience.  A few tears were shed, addresses were exchanged, shadows moved away one by one or two by two into the night.

We found the car, started driving home through the winding roads and talking about the play, the characters, the songs, the way they chose their parts, what seamed easy, what had been difficult and Malinalli making arrangements already to go back next year.

As we reached home, I had a feeling I had forgotten something….I had this weird sensation of something missing, but yet what could it be ?  Alzheimer, Alzheimer, I do so hate you !

And oh yes ! I knew now what it was !

I had forgotten to make the batter for the doughnuts I had promised to cook for us all when returning home. !

 

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

Annemarie's story

What? Six Words!

The summer has been exceedingly hot. We have had many visitors. And like the garden my brain is drying out. Could I remember the words for our next writing club story… at the moment, which is more important, I cannot even recall the way to Paula's, let alone Jackie's six writing words.  What better opportunity to use ‘What3words’ the new app on my phone, that finds every 3metres square in the world with three words. I’m sitting on my sofa  (involves.widely.flapper.) - that must be me! I punch the three words I think I remember for Paula’s  address into my phone. For some reason only the sound is working - no visuals.

Gold.bandage.butter. and off I go. It’s a long way. I’m surprised nobody mentioned that Paula was hosting whilst on one of her jaunts.  536 kilometres later and I hear “You have arrived at your destination”. As I said it’s a very long drive to a very flat and can I say, a rather boring location in the middle of a country road. I exit the car, really needing a wee…and some lunch and, of course, a glass of wine but I haven’t a clue where I am until an old man appears out of nowhere.

“Kan ik u helpen, mevrouw? je ziet er verloren en verlaten uit.”

Fortunately I understand he is asking, in a polite manner,  ' can he help me and that I’m looking lost and frazzled, perhaps a little mad'.  It turns out the three words have sent me to the mouse-sounding town of Eeklo in Flanders and the only thing I know about Eeklo is about emperor Charles V who was known for his sexual appetite. The story goes that when he travelled through the region people hid their daughters and their attractive young women, making emperor Charles think this region was full of old women. Perhaps that’s why I can’t find Paula here - James has hidden her!

I must have put in the wrong words.  Gold.bandage.hatter. Yes, of course it was hatter not butter. It appears I will need a plane for this trip - ttzt, ttzt, ttzt…Paula and her holidays. Leaving my car at the airport I manage, incredibly,  to grab a seat at the last moment on a flight to Maquehue airport in Chile. Scrunched up in a short-legged seat with nothing to see but oceans of blue ocean I settle down to a good long rest. I awake  to dense, verdant views over jungles, glimpses of the muddy, winding Amazon river, followed by the  savannah grasslands and flooded swamps of Bolivia, before finally lofting over the soaring Andes to arrive in Chile.  Once I have hired a rather ramshackle car I’m back back on the road with my three words and at last I hear  “ You have arrived at your destination”. So a mere 12,214 kilometres. Distance is obviously  nothing to the O'Byrnes!

I'm in the middle of a forest clearing near Temuco,  where a group of indigenous people are dressing what looks like a dead person in brightly woven clothes and adorning them with silver jewellery.

“Mary mary wenul” , spoken in a friendly manner to me by one of the women and I understand it to be a welcome. Fortunately one of the men speaks a little English. He explains that I have arrived during the preparations for the traditional Mapuche burial ceremony of their  people, people who resisted three and half centuries of conquest, and never quite vanquished by Spanish invaders and Chilean colonisation. It’s highly unlikely  and, I think  in rather poor taste, that Paula would have arranged this; why would a Chilean tribe want to hear some nonsense stories in English during their burial funeral? I cannot see any of the others. I am bewildered … and frazzled, perhaps a little mad. The  tribe invite me to stay, to participate with the loan of a colourful woven poncho. I'm really quite sad to refuse such an invitation but I am already extremely late for Paula’s lunch so with lugubrious face I give my thanks, wave goodbye and retrace my wandering voyage.

 My memory has obviously been obliterated by the summer sun. Now what were the words for Paula’s address? I batter my brain - think! think! She oozes charm, her glass must never be void of champagne and there’s no tobacco in her home. Of course, now I remember- oozes.void.tobacco. Yes! They take me right to the door …but I can’t park. 

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

Jackie

 I have to tell you about a very bad dream I had.    It felt like it had lasted a week – a long hot breathless week.  In my dream it was 34.5 degrees outside.  All was calm but a certain heavy oppressiveness reigned and gave the impression of being on a different planet.   

 

It was impossible to go outside during the day so I was taking out the dogs earlier than usual to avoid the excessive warmth.      But where were the animals I usually met?   The sly fox over the hill, cows , usually alert and searching the best grass, now in the corner of the field already sheltering under trees – the quiet of the woods was eerie as there was no bird song.   Had they flown away to cooler weather – they might have to go far now or perhaps just over the channel to England where it was raining all week and chilly.  Or perhaps nestling down into cool leaves and branches saving their energy.   Nothing stirred –dizzy waves of heat washed over me as I emerged from the woods.  

 

IN my dream my sunglasses were slipping off my nose as sweat poured off my forehead (I never sweat) and upon returning home which became as hot as outside

the ventilator started its interminable sound of swishing, wishing the air to respite.   The colony of bees who have lived under my roof for decades were buzzing listlessly and few ventured out into the sunshine.

 

The sky had a golden hue and gave the impression that it was wrapped in a white bandage.

Hugging my sofa, fan blasting unable to do anything else, I watched a film

 

The couple on screen were having sex, probably in an air conditioned film set.  battering each other into submission determined to vanquish one another.

 

Too hot for that I thought and fell into a languorous sleep waking to the sound of rain pattering on my windowpanes – going outside I drenched myself in the relief of cool fresh air. This past heat wave felt like a bad dream but it had been real and was definitely one I hope never to have again.  

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

 Paula's story

“I guess no life can ever be perfect,” Patricia sighed, as she gazed out of the window of the tiny bistro where she had met her old friends Lisbeth and Valerie for lunch on a blustery Saturday.

 

“If you have your health, you have everything!” Lisbeth chirped, then ducked her head as her two friends scowled at her. “Well, you know what I mean,” she said defensively.

 

“I have my health, but my sex life sucks,” the lugubrious Valerie muttered glumly.

 

The three women lifted their wine glasses, but none could think of one good thing to toast to.

 

“Well,” Lisbeth said. “I guess the weather has affected all of our moods…”

 

“No,” Patricia murmured. “It’s not the gloomy weather, although it certainly doesn’t help. I just can’t stop thinking about how our lives are defined by our relationships, and how you never can really know a person. Someone does good deeds, but isn’t really a good person. Someone acts like he cares deeply, but deep down, he’s shallow. I just don’t know who to trust, anymore.”

 

“Oh, Patsy,“ Lisbeth turned to her friend. “What’s happened? You’re usually such an optimist! What has happened to vanquish your normally sunny outlook?”

 

Patricia smoothed the tablecloth in front of her, then lifted her wine glass to take another sip. “It’s just that, well, not all that glitters is gold,” she said.

 

Valerie and Lisbeth exchanged a glance. “Sounds like someone needs to tear off the bandage and expose the wound,” Valerie said, placing her hand softly on Patricia’s. “Talk to us. We’re your oldest and dearest friends, and we just want you to be happy.”

 

Patricia sighed again. How could she begin to explain?

 

‘I’ll try,” she murmured, with a slight smile. “Say you’re making a batter for a cake. You have all the ingredients you need for yummy deliciousness: the butter, the milk, the flour, the salt, the vanilla … but something is missing. And you just can’t put your finger on it.”

 

“The baking powder?” Lisbeth piped up, as Valerie kicked her under the table.

 

“Maybe,” Valerie said softly, “it’s not a matter of ingredients. Maybe, it’s a matter of baking time.”

 

Patricia, startled, stared at her old friend, and said, “My god, I think that’s it, Val. He just doesn’t have the staying power!”

 

“Well, good riddance, I say,” Valerie laughed, as the three friends finally toasted to friendship and the uncanny ability to finish each other’s thoughts. “But, Patsy,” she whispered with a grin as she leaned forward toward her friend. “Could you send him my way? I’m not so picky.”

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

 

 

  

I Opened the suitcase and was horrified...

K's story

When I opened the case I was horrified

When I was a child I spent a lot of time on my own. My younger brother was often poorly and needed constant care, and  more attention than me, so I was told. I didn’t always agree with that, but no-one really listened to what I had to say. So, most of the time I was left to my on devices, which resulted in me becoming an avid reader.

My Mother made it her mission to teach us both to read at a very early age, so I have always found comfort in a good book.

I was one of those kids that read under the bed sheets with my torch, as a teenager I would pick up a book and read all night long.

The escapism of a good book, for me as an adult, is a tool to control the madness of my life!! 

I rarely read anymore and that upsets me deeply.

But, as I was thinking about the title of todays writing group I found myself, coming up with so many possibilities that I just couldn’t make up my mind as to which idea I should choose.

As I kneaded dough in the wee hours of the morning, I thought back to some of my favourite books and what I loved about them,and what I would have imagined in the suitcase that would have made me so horrified.

If I was my 5 year old self I would be in the enchanted wood with Joe, Beth and Frannie, with Moonface, Saucpan man and Silky the Fairy up in the Magic Faraway tree

Climbing up to the top of the tree with my friends and waiting for the new adventure to start what would we have thought was in the case and who would dare to open it !! What could possibly have been inside? I’m pretty sure Joe would think it could be treasure, Beth probably something very practical and I’m pretty certain Frannie would hope it would be full of toys and sweets!!

As they gathered the courage to open the case imagine how horrified they were to see it was full of old school books! Definately not what they wanted to see in the middle of the summer holidays!

A little older I would have been with the Swallows and Amazons pack of friends,

Four children who escaped the tedium of a summer holiday with their mother as they camped on their own on an island in the middle of a vast lake. But, what did they find in the case that was so horrifying? Upon opening they could not believe what they saw. It was a spiral staircase leading down into the darkness with a message written in what looked like blood and on the first step was a map and a compass. When they unfolded the parchment a brass key fell to the floor. As the intrepid explorers headed off on their adventure the battles and obsticles they encounted along the way would teach them  skills of survival, the value of friendship and the importance of holding your nerve.

Of course I was addicted to the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, I couldn’t stop reading the  fantasy books about a talking Lion, a wicked Witch who turned the country, Nania, into perpetual  Winter.

As the four children who were evacuated from London during the Blitz, batteled to save the Faun Mr Tumnus they discovered an enourmous case that was just appeared overnight. Once they dug it out of the snow they were horrified when it sprung open and lying in it was the King of the Lions Asled. The most ferocious, the most revired leader of all Nania and the only one who could save them from the White Witch.

Can you see a theme here?

As I get older I still love the thrill of a good book.
I have always found that a book is so much better than a film as there are so many possibilites to imagine what could be in a case that would make you horrified!!

On a final note, if I opened a case today I would be horrified to fine I had been given the treaty to world peace and harmony!

Sadly, this is just a dream, but we must have hope!

 

 

 Paula's story

All he wanted was to live an honest life. No more cheating, no more lying, no more secrets from his wife. He had a wonderful life, a wonderful wife, two wonderful kids, a wonderful house and the job of his dreams. What made him put all that at risk, by consistently stepping out, seeking sex with women he really didn’t care about once they were no longer moaning underneath him in a musty hotel room? He knew, intellectually, that he was mimicking the behavior of his father, and look how that ended up: dad on the sidewalk in front of the family home, kicked out by his mom who finally couldn’t take his unfaithfulness any longer, shunned by family, friends, neighbors, and the churchgoers who profess to be Christian and forgiving of all sins.

 

It had to stop. He could make it stop. He would live an honest life, the life he was blessed to have, the life he was grateful to share with a beautiful woman who loved him deeply. Who loved him deeply because she didn’t know.

 

He sighed, and wrenched open the little door to the closet under the stairs, looking for his fishing tackle box. He always felt most like himself out on the water, alone with his rod and reel, casting for trout or bass. Just him, the boat, the open water, the fish. Solace. Happiness.

 

As he fumbled among the rain boots and skateboards, the hiking sticks and umbrellas, he came upon a small case nestled in a corner of the closet. He had never noticed it before, and he hauled it out into the hallway to take a look. He didn’t recognize the neat little case, a tidy plaid canvas bag with a tiny lock. It wasn’t very heavy, and it wasn’t hard to force open the lock. 

 

When he opened the suitcase, he was horrified. It was filled with all the essentials for a romantic picnic: wine glasses, plates, silverware, a pretty little cloth, a bottle of Champagne, a book of love poems … His heart caught in his throat. And he realized at that moment that he wasn’t the only liar in the family. As he sat, dumbfounded, looking at the proof that his wife, that sweet, good, above-reproach woman, was cheating on him, he heard footsteps on the staircase above him.

 

“Oh, no!” his wife cried. “You weren’t supposed to find that! I was going to surprise you with a romantic picnic, just the two of us. You’ve been working so hard lately, such long hours away from home, and I thought if I could get you away, just us, we could reconnect and remember how much we love each other.”

 

He was flooded with relief, with guilt, with remorse, with love. “Yes, my love,” he said. “Let’s do exactly that.”

 

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Jackie

Waiting rooms can be the most tiresome of places. When you’re tired of looking at your phone, finished the last chapter of your book and read all the peeling ads on the walls, time is endless.

It was tempting then to pass these hours wondering what was in that tattered suitcase peeking out from under the seat next to me.    I had been waiting for a while – the local train from Florence to Rome was delayed for a ‘technical fault’ and the announcements in the small town where I had been staying were undecipherable as I didn’t understand a word of Italian.     

The suitcase was in leather with straps fastened by big brass buckles.  Corners were rounded out using brass or leather caps.

 

 A long recent scratch against the front had left a white mark which could have been caused when it was pushed under the metal seat perhaps in a hurry.   You could still see fluffy bits of cover that were obviously new.      The leather was faded in parts and a little cracked.    And, wait a minute, a label attached by very thick rough string tied as if to the very worn handle in a hurry.   Strangeley though the label was blank.      I moved a little in my seat and stretched out my foot – pushed it a little – it didn’t move.    Must be heavy I thought.   Whatever could be inside it?.   My mind started to play tricks on me as I imagined;  first a bomb,  I couldn’t hear it ticking ( but then perhaps bombs didn’t tick any more as they were activated by an application or sum such on smartphones) perhaps a dead body but then no blood seeped out from under the case and it didn’t smell from where I was sitting.   Perhaps it contained a pile of bank notes – someone robbed a bank then being chased by police threw it into the waiting room and then ran off to hide.     This was the most plausible theory but meant that the person who it belonged to would be back to pick it up in no time at all.

 

Having ruled out these possibilities I started to study the other people sitting in the room to figure out who this suitcase belonged to.      The nearest person next to me was an elderly man holding on to a knobly wooden walking stick and drummed his fingers on the curved handle.    Brown moth eaten coat, trilby hat and sad eyes.     He seemed nervous and kept looking at his watch which was loose on his wrist.   He flicked it round again to check on the time and sighed.    

A young woman in mini skirt and fluoescent top with earplugs danced gently to whatever was in her ears.

And a middle aged man in tight jeans and leather coat . He wore dark glasses on an already somber day which was suspicious.   Perhaps the suitcase belonged to him and he was waiting for us all to get on the train so he could recuperate the loot.

Then there was the young couple with a baby – who was sleeping – and the woman rocked it to and thro while the (presumable) father re arranged their belongings   Mind you, they could have stolen the baby as an alibi and were just waiting to grab the loot and be off.   

Oh dear, now I was determined to see what the suitcase held.  

I reached down and began to undo the brass buckles holding the straps in place.

They were very stiff from unuse and it wasn’t until ten minutes of trying that I realized that in fact there were two big press studs holding the straps in place.   Having unclicked these I proceeded to open the lid.    I hadn’t noticed before but there were two brass hinges at the back of the lid and as I prised it open they squeeked uncontrollably.     The other people in the waiting room hearing this looked up for a minute or two and then went back to waiting.   No one seemed bothered that I was trying to open the suitcase so I proceeded.

I tugged and lifted the lid bending length ways in my seat to give extra pull.

 

 I pulled it round to face me and tugged with all my strength – which I didn’t have a lot of these days ;    Finally I suceeded in opening a tiny gap and peered in but to no avail it was too narrow to be able to see anything.  

Using all my force and placing a foot on the straps and another on the handle I managed to pry it open but ……….”When I opened the suitcase I was horrified”…

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

 Geraldine's story

"When I opened the suitcase I was horrified..."

 

On my last trip back from Australia, the stop in Shanghai airport was scheduled for 7 hours.

What was I going to do to kill the time ? First, maybe look at the Airport with the architec’s eye.  I knew it had been designed by Paul ANDREU at the begining of the 21st century and that, looking at it from outside, it was shaped like a bird, a glass bird.

And indeed, it was a huge glass and steel building. As I couldn’t leave the place because I didn’t really have time to get a 72 hour pass to China, I wandered in the huge enlightened hall with the impression of lightness given by the height and the lights falling like bird from the dome.  I took pictures from all sorts of different angles and then decided to stroll in the Duty Free area to see what gifts I could take back home for my friends who had been looking after the dog.,

Small coloured China tea sets, the most wonferful range of fans with black and white drawings, read and gold motives or just plain bamboo, ying and yang balls for meditation, the most delicately decorated ivory eating sticks, the very vivid coloured silk scraves, the fantastic range of different tins of chinese teas…. It was hard to make a choice.

Finally, remembering the little space left in my suitcase, I decided to chose the smallest items in order to make sure they would fit.  So I bought a few eating sticks, a couple of silk scarves and 3 fans, one with a red and white tree when opened, and the two others with a black and white landscape. 

I put them all in the front compartment of the small backpack I always kept with me and went to find a quiet place to try and get a couple of hours sleep before the next plain.  Luckily, I found a kind of long chair with a zipped cover to it where I , set my alarm clock, cuddled in , shut the cover and let the arms of Morpheus carry me into the world of dreams.

The alarm clock went off, I jumped to my feet quickly enough to have a bit of spare time for a morning coffee (having no idea of when morning could be !) and aiming towards Gate nr.3 as printed on my boarding ticket.

Another 10 hours to go before reaching Charles de Gaulle Airport, getting my suitcase and running through the Airport to the TGV to Montbard… The journey was far from being over yet !

A couple of films later, interspersed with dreams, food and little walks to the loo and back, the pilot announced we were starting the landing in Paris, where it was raining with temperatures around 8°. Brrr.

I looked at my watch trying to make out what the time was in Paris, the jetlag making me feel  a bit dizzy.  OK. I probably will be there in time to dash to the TGV station.  If not too long waiting at the luggage reception.  Fingers crossed.

The plane finally stopped after a very rough landing and I started heading to the luggage claim.  It wasn’t too far.  Would this be my lucky day ?  It was dark outside, and looked quite cold. Not only did we have to cope with jetlag on these return trips, but also with seasons, coming from hot sunny days to dark cold rainy days… I could foresee a couple of days dozing indoors to accomodate to the new situation…

I snatched a trolley, ran to recuperate my suitcase and, what luck, as I reached it, my suitcase was there just in front of me, ready for snatching.  Which I did, and started running to the station.  The Gods were with me : I would catch that train.

Hopped on to it, set the alarm on my phone in order not to miss Montbard, found my seat and started reorganizing my bags etc.  I thought it might be better to put my gifts in the suitcase, so went to fetch it and put it on the seat next to mine where noone was sitting.

When I opened the suitcase I was horrified, restrained a scream, looked around to see if anybody was or had been looking, and almost fainted.  I kept my eyes shut for a while, trying as hard as I could not to shake and waiting for my heart to come back to a reasonable beating.

I opened my eyes very slowly, turned my head left and right to see if anybody was looking my way and decided to lift the top of the suitcase gently to find out about this nightmeare.

I very carefully lifted a corner of the suitcase, got this foul odor climbing up my nostrills, and the sight of what looked like dozens of small cut hands lying close to each other like sardines in a tin !!! My god it’s not a nightmeare, but yes, it is and a huge one !

I promptly shut the case again and looked at it : it was exactly the same as mine, dark grey with a black handle.  But how many dark grey suitcases with black handles are vomited each day by hundreds of factories ?  Who can answer this one ?

Meanwhile, here I am, in the TGV, obviously  with the wrong one and a huge enigma to solve !

Shall I call the police, shall I hide it and burry the hands in the middle of some deep forest ? , shall I try and find my own suitcase tomorrow, calling the airport, shall I ???...

Too tired, too tired to think.  Bed, bed, bed and as Scarlett says : « tomorrow is another day »