After the rain ...

From Monica

After the rain.

Magical things happen after the rain even in our own garden's sometimes, what i think looks dead and wilting comes to life again after the rain stands straight and tall and  flowers again, no were is the magic quite as remarkable then in the deserts.

The Ataccama desert is one magical place after the rains, over 200 desert plants suddenly germinate creating a blanket of colour all colours of the rainbow it is a rare phenomenon, itis known as the Floway desert and is one of the direst deserts on earth .

Th sahara Arabic desert is the worlds largest and one of the dresiest covering the same size as America, it gets very little rain fall so doest prouduce the wow factor of rainbow filled flowers, what it does produce are plants called Poach Egg Plants.

Arabian desert after rain produces purple flowers and green grasses sometimes this desert gets weeks of rain not often, but after a rain spell the desert turns green.

Thaw desert the eastern side of the of the Sahara Desert which is the dryest hottest and sunniest place on Earth it gets very little rain fall, so the magic doest happen here after a few drops of rain very few flowers or green appear .

The nearest I have been to see this magic after rain is in Ireland it is so green called the Emerald Isle it really  lives up to its name, the green is just amazing in Ireland, the flowers trees and fields such a soft velvet green.

Monica Brennan

_________________
Geraldine's story:
AFTER THE RAIN



In the middle of a huge, dense and thick   forest, Jules et Jim lay deep underground, waking up from a long winter sleep and wondering when it would be time to go out for a walk.

-        What do you think it looks like up there, Jim ?  Do you think the leaves are out on the trees yet ?  It’s so dark in here, I want to get out now !
-        Well, Jules, you know we have to wait for the weather to warm up and it’s still damned cold down here.  Maybe we should go for another long sleep, and wait for the signs of spring to appear : when we wake up,  we will go and investigate outside and we’ll know better.

And so Jules et Jim settled back into their hole for another long long night, full of lovely dreams with the occasional nightmare waking them up in the night , but then, down there, it was night all the time…
And then, one day they woke up and knew somehow, it was the great day !  The earth around them was like muddy and there was like a slight glimmer that they started to try and reach… It took them right up and all of a sudden, there they were, out in the world…

-        Look ! cried Jules !  What a fantastic place… Let’s go and explore…
     Yes, answered Jim : it’s exactly as my Mum told me.  The green little strings are called grass and the larger green dishes are leaves : when they are wet, they are so confortable to sit on or to slither along.  And you see these very tall plants with such a wonderful smell, these are the stinging nettles that all our fellowships have told us about : if you stroll along their stems, humans will not try to catch you, for they get very badly stung when they touch them, so it’s a good place to go for a walk…

And so, off they went along the small path in the forest, stopping from time to time on heaps of cut grass and meeting friends who were also out for a stroll.

Without really noticing, they had walked for a while and  were already quite far from home.  All of a sudden, the sky became very very dark, the wind started blowing strongly , the leaves were shaking on the trees and a cloud burst just over their two little heads : they immediately shrunk and sheltered into their shells.

-        What’s going on out there, it rumbles so hard said Jules with a tiny trembling voice !

-                I think this is a storm : let’s just not move for the moment and wait untill all seems calmer…
      So, Jules et Jim ducked their heads : they could hear the noise, on their shells, made by huge hailstones that bounced and bounced and they felt very very frightened by rumblings and lightenings.  They suspended their breaths and stayed close to each other waiting for all this to come to an end.    After some time that felt like ages, the noise lowered,  the rumbling seemed to ward off and they felt that they could try and give the outside world a glance again.



-        What on earth was all this ?  cried Jim.  How terrifying !



-        I think that’s what humans call a storm !  It’s still raining a bit.  Oh ! Look over there, what a fantastic rainbow !  This often appears after the rain…when you look at the darkest part of the sky !



-        Would you say the danger is behind us ?  Maybe it’s time to start walking back home…I think it’s quite a long way now.


The rain had really got every bit of grass, earth or leave soaked.  But it was rather fun to walk around. They both poked their little eyes as far as they could out of their heads and started turning back to go home.  Beside the grass, in the ditches, were these large nettles they had already come accross on their way down.


All of a sudden, they felt vibrations on the ground and heard some voices : there was an elderly lady with a big taft of white hair hanging on her shoulders , walking along the path : she wore blue jeans, big brown shoes and  toc – toc – toc came the noise from the stick that helped her keep her balance.  She was holding hands with a young girl – that looked like her grand’child – with lovely dark brown hair, green eyes and a very smooth carnation, holding a large plastic bag, that seemed already quite full..

-        Granny, granny, lift the nettles with your stick : the snails love climbing up nettles !  And so, the lady started bashing the nettles with her stick : « here’s one ! pic it up quickly and put it in your bag !  And another one ! And look, 2 over there… Oh ! How wonderful to go out hunting snails after the rain : there are so many of them around.  If we manage to get 120 , then that means we’ve got enough from grandpapa’s birthday next week : a dozen each for us and our 8 guests : that’s great !

They  were getting closer and closer to Jules et Jim who were still slithering on the grass towards home.  When they caught up with them, the young girl shouted « and another 2 here Granny, oh ! but they are so small ! »  Well, you know, we shouldn’t take these yet : they will have to grow older and bigger – maybe next year !  Young snails are protected by law : « they need to grow to a certain size before you can pick them up, otherwise, we might extinct the species . OK Granny, and look, they are so sweet : she put her finger near their eyes and both Jules et Jim retracted into their shell for shelter.  Then they moved on toc – toc – toc went the stick.

 And ever since then Jules et Jim lived a very happy and long life, and because they knew that « after the rain » was the best time for hunting snails, they always hid far behind the nettles when they heard human  voices or sticks crossing their way !



  -----------------------------------


Paula's story:

After the rain came the howling winds. Those winds shook the three-story concrete newspaper building where we were working, and sheltering, during the storm. The sheer force of the gales shattered a huge floor-to-ceiling window in one of the executive offices, just across the atrium from our newsroom. If you stood in that atrium during the height of the storm, you could listen to the eerie moans and high-pitched shrieks of the winds as they buffeted the building.

In the morning, all was quiet. We had lost power to the building, and indeed the entire city. But, anticipating that, we had set up a generator-powered “bunker” in the photography lab, and editors took turns staffing the bank of computers and cell phones, taking dictation from reporters in the field. During one of my free hours, I took a sandwich and a book into the newsroom conference room, closed the door, and sat alone at the long table, facing the row of windows that looked out onto an elevated highway next to the building. I could see downed power lines, trees snapped at their bases, roadways littered with tree limbs and other debris. But there was no water. The streets were dry.

That evening, after the events of the day had been distilled into a handful of shocking stories, stunning photographs and explanatory graphics, and the newspaper had been finished and posted online, several of us gathered outside on the concrete loading dock, where the big trucks pulled in every day before dawn to receive their allotment of newspapers hot off the presses to deliver to homes and businesses across the city. But on this night, the presses, with no power, were quiet. There would be no traditional newspaper delivery the next morning. The paper existed online only. As we drank champagne and talked quietly about the storm and what might lie ahead, we noticed that water seemed to be slowly filling the parking lot below our makeshift bar. One editor began to time the rising water.

It turned out, of course, that the rain and the wind were not the problem. Earlier that day, a writer and an editor had left the newspaper building on their bicycles, which they had carted to the newsroom, along with the usual sleeping bags and ice chests, to ride out the storm. They decided they were going to head north, to the area of the city along Lake Pontchartrain, to check on their houses. What they discovered changed our lives forever.

*****

After the rain, the wind-driven storm surge weakened the walls of the federally built levee system that ringed New Orleans and kept the city safe and dry. Those walls had become unstable, and had gone years without the mandatory inspections designed to find any weaknesses in the system. And one by one, they began to crumble and fall, and seawater began to pour unfettered into the neighborhoods closest to the lake and the drainage canals. The two men on bicycles, drenched and bedraggled, barely made it back to the newsroom to tell us what they had discovered. Water was rushing in great torrents from the lake toward downtown New Orleans.

Early the next morning, the editor’s timed watch of the water rising in the parking lot of the newspaper building bore frightening fruit. The water was now lapping against the fifth step of the front entrance. The cars in the parking lot were almost submerged. He hurried to the office of the editor-in-chief to sound the alarm. Together with the publisher, they hatched a plan to empty our building using the huge newspaper delivery trucks. Taking no computers, no equipment, just what we could carry in one hand, the 150 of us, some with families in tow, climbed into the tall trucks and set off into the deluge that was getting deeper by the minute.

*****

That evening, we set up a makeshift newsroom in a strip shopping mall in Baton Rouge, 75 miles north of New Orleans. What followed was several weeks of sleepless nights; worries about our pets, our homes, our friends, our city; and endless, relentless days and nights of working to tell the story of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath to the world. After the rain of August 29 and everything that came afterward, I learned a lot about myself: about my ability to handle adversity, about my ability to help others who were suffering, about my ability to focus on the job at hand, almost to the exclusion of everything else. I also, finally, learned to ask for the help I needed.

After the rain, everything changed. And it took me a long time to enjoy the sound of the rain again.

Annemarie's story
After the Rains.
The four children squatted on the dry, dusty earth, each with a small pile of coloured marbles as

Donald, the eldest, concentrated on flicking his marble to hit the gobber, a large glass marble with three intertwirling colours of blue, purple and green. Donald and Lorraine Wells were to spend the next month with the Grenvilles while their father went back to the UK to sort out some legal business. Annette and James, of similar age, liked petite sweet-faced Lorraine, her short blonde hair bleached almost white by the sun but they always found Donald somewhat difficult. Tall and gangly, limbs baked brown, he was truly his father's son - the same surly expression, curly chestnut hair - and like his father quick to lose his temper and he always wanted to win. But as the other children in the expatriate community had been told, they must remember that Donald and Lorraine had lost their mother when six and four years old and that allowances should be made for them.

In much the same way their father, Roger Wells was not particularly popular, neither with the expats or the Africans who worked for him. He was quick to lose his temper and he could often be heard barking intolerantly at his workers, even as far the Grenvilles'home. However, he was universally admired for the way he had brought up the two children, how he managed the home and farm since the loss of Valerie; the children were always well dressed, well fed and they were adored by their father. Small and blonde like their daughter, Valerie had been the heart and soul of the family and at the club she was known for her vivacity, her love of parties and her dare-devil attitude. People wondered how on earth two such disparate people had made a life together. Then suddenly this vibrant wife and mother was gone from their lives. Three years previously Roger had driven Valerie to the station to catch a train to Cape Town, South Africa to help an aunt who was dangerously ill with malaria. Her friends in Kenya were unaware of Valerie's extended family and willingly lent a hand with the two children, the Grenvilles taking them into their home while Valerie was away so that Donald could concentrate on his farm.

It was only three weeks later that shocked friends heard from an even more shocked and grieving Roger that Valerie herself had contracted malaria and died just four days after her aunt. He went down to Cape Town where Valerie and her aunt were buried and he returned an even more morose and uncommunicative man, except where his children were concerned. To them he was unfailingly kind and patient.

Today Donald was leaving last minute instructions for the Grenvilles about his farm and the children before going to the UK. He sat on the verandah, long tanned legs stretched out, dressed in his khaki shorts and freshly ironed khaki shirt. Brown eyes squinting in his creased leathery face he watched the children scrabbling in the earth.. He would miss them, certainly. Yes, there was no doubt he was a good father although as a husband he had been a little less accommodating and somewhat critical of Valerie, eliciting raised eyebrows among her women friends on several occasions.

As he and the Grenvilles sat around the wooden log table drinking cold ‘Pembe' beer and chatting in a lazy, desultory fashion, lizards skittered down the walls and under stones. The dog lay panting in the heat, its pink tongue flopped out of the side of its muzzle. Even the red hibiscus flowers hung down limp and enervated. This heavy, sultry weather would have to break soon. It was nearly the end of February and this year had been excessively hot, the grass already dry, sparse and scrubby, the red earth baked into dusty ridges. Beyond the native cattle with their curious humped necks plucked at non-existent vegetation, their ribs prominent under dry, dirty white hides, their tails whipping at the hundreds of flies, flies which buzzed unchallenged around their eyes and over their faces.

Then like a loose strand of wool unravelling from an old jumper came the distant rumble of thunder and dark clouds rolled and gathered in the darkening sky. The thunder echoed against the surrounding hills. Big round blobs of rain spotted the verandah and bounced on the tin roof until the rain became a deluge drumming down deafeningly on the corrugated iron and beating the tired flowers into submission.

The adults quickly gathered up their drinks and moved indoors, The children abandoned their marbles, now gleaming and sparkling with a rainbow of colours in the lashing rain; they also ran indoors and changed into old swimsuits and as the rain gathered momentum they rushed outside, exuberant, jubilant and faces tilted upwards, energised by the rain splashing down. They ran to the side of the bungalow where there was a depression in the red, stony earth caused by years of use as a washing area by the Africans. The rain quickly filled the dusty trough and the children threw themselves into the water, rolling around in it and rejoicing in the coming of the wet season.

“There's à better place near your Dad's farm”, said James, “let's go there.”

The four of the them scuttled off to the Wells' farm next door, their hair and bodies streaked in orange as rivulets of earth-strained water cascaded down them.
“Look, up behind your house, Donald, near the damn.” enthused James. “The rain is pouring down like a river. I know we are not allowed to go near the dam but we can go to the bit where the earth has been washed away. It's left a huge hole. It'll make a fantastic pond.”

And so it did; for days they played and bathed in the red/orange water, exhilarating in the coolness and wetness. Above their bathing hole, the raw red earth which had fallen away during the storm was like a giant scar, accentuated by the fresh blades of grass sprouting all around. By the end of the week the bank was peppered with small yellow flowers and sprouting lantana bushes. By the third week the pool was slowly evaporating leaving a delicious squidgy, slippery sludge. The children slipped and slid, jumped and glided, pushing and pulling each other until Lorraine skidded face down pushing her hands in front of herself.

“Oh, there's something hard and smooth and round here and I’ve found something else,”she said and dragging herself out, face, hair and body plastered in the wet murram earth she held something in her hand.
“Look what I found,” she shouted, clinging on to a chain.

They took it down to the house and ran it under clean water and in the middle of the chain was a silver plaque engraved with the name 'Valerie' and a little heart at either end of the name. “Mummy's name!” shouted Lorraine
After the rains Roger arrived home from England, eager to see the children.The first thing he saw were two police cars in front of his home and up behind his house near the dam a skeleton was being carefully lifted onto a tarpaulin.




After the rain by Jackie

A non desirous virus

That I first heard about on the wireless

Wraps you up in your home

So you can’t roam

I’m like a clown in lockdown  

Don’t frown, I’ve kept on my gown

It’s brown,  so I won’t go downtown

To spend my crown and drown

After the rain I’ll go for a walk

I have to,  or I’ll squark

sorry,  I can't stop to talk

my lips are sealed

don’t gawk

I dream of taking an aeroplane or why not even a train

To stay sane

"What a pain" said

Mark  Twain

The rain is beating

Into my brain

Making it churn making it burn

I’ll do my tasks in the morn

After the rain I’ll be less worn

The sun will shine and I won’t be forlorn

The sky is blowing a rainbow

as I look out of my bow window

blue yellow green and red

Oh, I shall have to get out of bed

But after the rain

 _______________________________________

 Sarah's story 

After the rain  3
(05.06.2020)

"The kitchen must be cleaned, and thoroughly!.  It will be Easter in a few weeks and God expects a spotless house!" 
This command was addressed to the daughters.  The sons had other chores, such as chopping the wood and bringing it in, cleaning out the byre, clearing a path daily or almost daily through the snow to the road that led down into the valley.  The girls did their part willingly most of the time, milking the cows, churning the butter, making the cheese, helping with the cooking and cleaning up afterwards.  When spring came, they would be the ones to carry the dairy products down into the valley to sell them at the fairs.  All these things they enjoyed, some more or some less, but the one thing they detested was the spring cleaning.  Their mother was relentless, and not a speck of dust or grit would be allowed to remain when they had finished.
"Oh, Mother, it's still so grey out!  We can't see well enough.  We'd be sure to leave grime in the corners and dust in the shadows.  Let's wait a bit.  It's weeks still till Easter!"
There were other things to do, such as mending the tea towels—nothing was ever thrown away—or tearing into rags those that were too far gone to mend.  There were buttons to be sewn on trousers, there were seedling plants to prepare for when the snow would finally disappear and they could plant them so as to be grown by the time of the short summer season.  Best of all there were the Easter cookies to bake.  These were better made ahead, even a month before hand.
So their mother relented, and they all busied themselves with the numerous other tasks.  And in the evenings they studied.  Their mother could read, but just barely; their father was hardly better at it.  Their grandmother back in Austria could not read or write at all, but they wrote to her four times a year, and a neighbour read the letter to her.  God willing, this generation was going to know everything, and become prosperous!
The children had known no other life than this house and farm halfway up the mountainside, in a notch of the White Mountains of New Hampshire.  Their parents had known the old country and had brought with them from there a solid German philosophy of hard work, pious living and frugality.  Already things were far better here than the future that had awaited them back home.  And they would be better still, provided everyone did their part.
A week later, a thaw began to set in, a sure sign that spring was on its way.  But the skies were even greyer, and the clouds lower still than before. 
"Wait a little longer, Mother!" they said.  And in her desire for perfection, she agreed.  They would bake the cookies, and after that do the cleaning.  It was only logical.
But after the cookies, the rain began, and it was even more dismal and harder to see.  They burned the oil lamps even in the daytime.  "After the rain, Mother!"  And again she agreed.
One day a young man came up to the house.  "There's danger of an avalanche," he said.  "The rains are unsettling the snow.  You must all come down."
"And leave the cows?" thundered the father.
"And we haven't done the cleaning!" said the mother.
"Oh, let's go down, please!" begged the sons and the daughters, who loved the gayer life of the valley.
"Never!" replied their parents in unison.  The young man went away, for it was clear that nothing would change their minds.
The day grew darker, the rains fell faster.  Then one of the boys said, "Listen!"  There was a faint noise, indistinguishable, but as they listened it grew in force.  The father went to the door and peered out and up the slope where the noise, now almost deafening , was coming from. 
"It's on us!" he creid.  "it's coming straight for the house!  Out, everyone!"
Each grabbed a coat or a shawl, whatever was handy.  One of the girls snatched up her doll, one of the boys ran for his penknife, and they all rushed outside.  "Away!  Away from the house!" cried the father, and they followed him, stumbling and clutching each other, till they were a good distance away.
The rain was pelting down.  They were freezing with the wet, though it was much less cold, really, than the dead of winter in these parts.  They shivered, more from dread even than from the cold, and huddled together.  The mother sent up desperate prayers to a heaven that was now wholly invisible. 
And as they stared, mesmerized, at this roaring grey-white monster bearing down on them, it began to divide in two.  One part snaked around the farther side of the house and byre, and the nearer one, skirting the house and the byre, began to head straight in their direction.  They scattered left and right, ran back towards each other again, clasping each other in their arms, pushing and pulling resisting arms to the one side or the other, but there was nowhere to go.  The avalanche piled into them and over them, and continued on its relentless path down the slope.
When the valley people came up the next day to see how they had fared, they were amazed to see the house and byre unscathed.  The spring cleaning had not been done, but no-one noticed that.  The cookies were in their tin, the wood was piled next to the stove, and so far as anyone could see, the house was in perfect shape.  As to the family, they were nowhere to be seen.
It was only a week or so later, when the snows had half melted away, that the bodies began to be found.  Volunteer parties came out and recovered them all, and a tearful funeral was held.  The letter to the grandmother was found too, unfinished, but there was no address, and no-one knew how to contact the old woman to tell her of the tragedy. 
"Best not to," said one.
Finally, the village put up a stone on the valley road, to tell travellers from near and far, of the plight of this valorous family, and tourists would stop and muse on the irony of Fate.  My own childhood was haunted by the story.


+ 1065 wds
NB: if anybody wants to know what's true and what's fiction here, the family that fled their house in an avalanche and were killed while their house was spared, and the fact that the story haunted my childhood, are true; the rest is all  fiction.

 

The girl in the Blue dress (continued)

The Girl in The Blue dress by Geraldine

Charlotte    jumped on her bicycle and started cycling towards Massingy to meet Geneviève. 

Spring had put on her best show : so many different shades of green in the fields and along the roadside.

If you imagine all the different shades of green that nature can put on,

I’m not sure that man’s brain can really count them : they must be billions !



The climate had been particularly mild and warm and  the different fruit trees had blossomed

without any danger of frost.  The bees had done their job hopping from tree to tree and the

fruit crops this autumn would probably be very bountiful.



Charlotte was bringing salad  seedlings that she had grown to her friend  :

the idea was an exchange of different growths in these days of confinement

when you couldn’t just go and buy them from the local nursery, whereas Geneviève had some

wild garlic and onions to give her .  They had agreed to meet half way from their homes. 

Which they did.



Standing at a meter apart, each one put her packet down on the ground and then moved

back to let the other one pick it up.   And they started chatting at the required distance. 

The birds were happyly singing and a slight breeze caressing  their forheads and blowing their

hair in the wind.



They thought how stange these times were : they had been warned that « it was war-time back again »

and they couldn’t help but recall the passed days, during the French Occupation when these brave

women met casually with a bit of milk or butter or a few eggs in a basquet. 

But under these items, or somewhere hidden, they were passing messages against the ennemy for the

« Resistance ».  And, usually on bicycles…



Back home, after this little trip, Charlotte  planted her onions in her vegetable patch,

hoping for rain, but not really wishing so : this spring was so beautiful and warm to her body and heart. 

Then, she remembered a book – The Blue bicycle », written by Régine Deforge years ago, about

women in the South West of France « resisting ».  She sat in her garden, so green, with a few

dafodills still blossoming and the tulips starting their yearly show, and, with a nice cup of tea , 

started flicking through the book she hadn't read for ages.  And her mind was stunned by the

strenght of these women, who, although they kept on making  the house look  nice and clean,  `

bringing up and looking after their children, baking their bread, preparing meals with what they

could find during the ration period, had such an engaement in their belief in freedom that they put

themselves at risk to help deliver their country from the enemy…



What a lovely day it had been.  Bedtime had occured and Charlotte, happy and warm, ducked into her

confortable bed, kissed her husband goodnight  and slowly fell asleep.



Then, these horrible screams came around and woke her up in the middle of the night !

What’s wrong, darling, it’s OK came her husband’s soft voice.  Don’t worry, what happened ?

Why are you screaming like this.  Calm, calm.  Tell me what happened, ! You must have had a bad dream… Don’t worry, you’re in your bed, here with me, safe.



She was clinging to him, at last awaken by his gentle conforting cuddle and his soothing words.

She burst into tears, shaking all over and could still see that dreadfull Gestapo officer, with his horrible grin, in his kaki uniform  sceaming at her :

what’s the code, what’s the code ? If you don’t give me the code…. And threatening her of pulling her nails off as it had been done to so many before her. But, she had to keep strong and brave « don’t give in, don’t give in… Think of the other women and men of the resistance cell… don’t betray, don’t betray !

She finally calmed down, cuddling into her husband’s arms and, in a very faint voice said :

          -I didn’t give it away, I didn’t give it away !

         - What is it you didn’t give away sweetheart ?  Tell me, don’t be afraid anymore…

          -« The girl in the blue dress » !

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

Annemarie's story:

The Girl in the Blue Dress I am a creature of habit.;

I hear the village church sound out the somewhat dolorous midday hours,

I take a short stroll to the end of my lane to check if there is any post -

a rare occasion as I have few friends now. But today there is something;

“ The Garden “ has arrived, a little tardy but welcome nonetheless.

As I walk back to the house I catch sight of sight of a flicker of blue against the deep greens of the

hedgerow. It is the latter part of March and a summer heat has pervaded the last few weeks,

hot enough for me to shed my winter cords and fusty jumpers. The garden is already parched

and rib-hard, impossible to work, tulips bent double as though kowtowing to some invisible

Chinese emperor. I have few interests beside my garden, nature and my regular RHS magazine;

I have no family contact and as I mentioned before few friends, just a few acquaintances.

The villagers regard me as the crusty old foreigner; I get polite nods of the head when we

encounter one another but I have never been invited into any of their homes - but then

no one has been in mine. I pour myself a gin and settle into the lounger, unwrap the magazine,

noting the biodegradable wrapper made from vegetable matter, so perhaps my letter of

reprimand concerning plastics reached the right ears; I am about to light my cigarette but

I’m distracted by a fluttering - a quiver of blue again. It is early for the Adonis blue butterfly

but as the wavering wings settle on a nearby flower I marvel at its beauty. Wings folded

elegantly together, the black speckles on light brown and faintest haze of blue near the

thorax only hint at the spell-binding blue as the butterfly gently breathes open its wings.

The blue shimmers in the sunshine, each exquisite scale catching the midday sun.

And as I sip my gin and languidly contemplate this heavenly radiance I am sinking into a

long forgotten memory, a souvenir of childhood.... Under a warm tropical night the four of us -

our two mothers, myself and my childhood friend are strolling under the jacaranda trees,

their branches dripping with an efflorescence of plump lilac blue flowers echoing the colour

of my eleven year old friend's dress. As we pass under the street lamp my she cries out in

surprise and wonderment, « Peter, look at my new blue dress - it's a true blue but it turns lilac

under the lamplight; that's magic! » I can see her face now and I, too, shared that magic and

wonderment. Much of our childhood was spent together as our two families used to safari

together and we cantered the farmlands of her parents land on tough little ponies.

She was the sister I never had. It was a long time ago and I remember how our friendship

ebbed and flowed like the tide over the intervening years until we lost touch after the death

of our mothers, their own friendship having been the constant thread sewing us back to gather

in the haphazard patchwork of our far apart lives. Our meetings were like sequins on that patchwork -

catching up on our individual news, our children and she was always joyous, generous and

laughing with that same wonderment of the world so contrary to the life I led. I always had a

suspicion that she hankered after me when we were teenagers and in our twenties but I was

after more sophistication and moving up in the world.I thought back to my university days when t

he world was my oyster; I was I a gifted scholar, considered handsome by my peers and on

becoming a lawyer I had the pick of a bevy of beautiful women. Married to a glamorous wife,

we travelled to exotic places, went to expensive restaurants, saw all the latest plays and operas.

Yes you could say she was the trophy wife. One child later my life fell apart when she left me for a richer,

older, more powerful (and dare I say it less attractive) newspaper magnate.

I always held her culpable but now as I reflect on the past perhaps I was too involved

in my own ambitions. By my forties I was divorced, rarely saw my son, and after a very

public drunken and abusive row with my father during his 70th birthday dinner my family

disowned me, I withdrew from public life, moved to a foreign country and my world was

reduced to my garden, gin and translating legal documents. And two uneventful decades

later I sit alone with my third gin in hand, gazing at the butterfly and wonder how different

my life would have been if I had married my girl in the blue dress.

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

The Girl in the Blue dress

Jackies story

It was just a like I had always imagined it to be.   He said to her softly.  Not wanting to disturb the magic moment they had just experienced.  Lying side by side in her single university bed he stole a glance at her profile.  She must have fallen asleep as  her eyes were closed, her breath came slowly, her dark long lashes swept upwards into the curve of her eyelids – her mouth slightly open as it had been when they had first met.  Her lips were full and red, still moist,  bruised with desire of his ardor.    Her blond hair spread across the pillow  forming a fan of golden curls.

  They had met downstairs in the campus  lobby –talked and chatted all night over a bottle or two and ended up in her digs

Smothering their laughter as she smuggled him upstairs in the dark - half giggling half singing in their excitement they climbed the four flights  with whispered jokes and romped on the bed until dawn.  He had told her things he had never told another soul. 

As the sunlight hit the shades behind the door and light was reflected off the mirror spreading a shower of rainbow prisms  onto the worn pink bedspread Florent looked up to the ceiling. He thanked a God who he didn’t really believe in but thanked him anyway just in case he was wrong  … thanked whoever had organized this wonderful meeting of two people who were perhaps  meant to be with each other forever.   He was 27 years old could this be ‘her’ – the woman who was to be his future companion, wife and lover.  

He described to her his grandmother who had brought him up as her own child.   He showed her a photo that he always kept with him and she said “who is the girl in that blue dress”?    As he described his Grandmother, he was transported to the farm kitchen, the delicious smell of bread in the oven and just baked apple pie on the table.   Memories of his Granny in her  blue dress, as blue as cornflowers in August fields – dotted with tiny white flowers that she always wore.

The discussions and laughter they had together – the dogs, cats  and chickens coming in and out of the kitchen.   

He described when he had grown up on the farm and after having done his chores at 4 am each morning, milked the cows and mucked out the goats  – he studied hard and had managed to get the grades to apply for University and be accepted.  

His Granny had struggled out of bed that morning to accompany him to say goodbye and he had suddenly noticed how pale she was as she frowned In pain and struggled to bend him a kiss.

“She” listened intently and they decided to go the next holiday to meet this wonderful lady and this remarkable place.  

He hadn’t been able to tell his Granny in advance as to their arrival as her telephone seemed to be up to no good and so they set out one Saturday morning to Pembrokeshire.

As they arrived at the farm he sensed something was wrong – there was a eerie atmosphere,  chickens, goats and cats waited on the doorstep and their two farm dogs lay inert on the muddy path.    Their tongues hanging in thirst.  

There was no Granny to bustle out and greet them as he had imagined, and they opened the door with caution.    There she was sitting in her kitchen, head on her arms, her blue dress on as usual the little white flowers now faded and drooping in death.

________________________________________________

Paula's story

Audrey and Juliet were twin sisters, identical in every way but one. Their skin was pale, their eyes were green, and their hair was a glossy black, flowing in soft curls to their waists. They were sweet-natured, they were a help to their mother in the house, and they loved the family fish fries that had become a tradition on Friday evenings. The family didn’t have much money, but the girls didn’t notice. They were happy, good girls.

There was but one discernible difference between them: Audrey always wore red, and Juliet always wore yellow.

It was a puzzling thing that the two girls had developed such definite yet different ideas about which color set off their attributes best. Audrey, in her red dress, practically smoldered. The bright red of her dress made her eyes flash greener than ever, and her bearing became almost regal. Juliet, in her yellow dress, just sparkled. The sunshine yellow of her dress made her skin glow, and she seemed to float through the rooms of the house.

One day, their mother fell ill. It became the girls’ responsibility to take on more of the household chores, such as cooking dinner, doing the laundry, and ironing their fathers’ shirts. Their efforts, at first, were not great. But as the days went on, and their mother did not get any better, the girls did. They got better at making out grocery lists and putting ingredients together to create decent meals. They got better at understanding exactly how much soap to put into the washing machine and to take the clothes off the line if it looked like rain. They got better at figuring out how hot the iron would get, and their father got better at hiding the scorch stains on his shirts as he dressed for work.

But one fateful day, Audrey’s red dress and Juliet’s yellow dress ended up in the washing machine together. The result was two dresses, very clean and neat, but … blue.

There was nothing to do but smile bravely and put the dresses on. The family couldn’t afford to buy new clothes, and with their mother ill, there was no one to sew new dresses from red and yellow fabric.

But the hue did something to the girls. They became withdrawn, even sullen at times. In their walks around the neighborhood, they suddenly began noticing blue everywhere. The Walkers’ blue car. The Smiths’ bright blue house shutters. The blue mailbox at the curb of the Kirbys’ house. They girls looked at each other, and nodded, once.

That night, after their father kissed them goodnight, they dressed silently in their matching dresses, and crept from the house. They used their house key to scratch every surface of the blue car, then they let the air out of its tires. They squirted oil from their father’s deep-fat fryer all over the blue shutters, staining them horribly with grease. They rocked and rocked the pole that held up the mailbox until it fell, in a heap, onto the grass, where they used mud and rocks to obliterate it.

The next morning, as the girls took their usual walk, the neighborhood was in an uproar. No one could understand what had happened during the night. As the twins walked calmly, they saw a tiny beagle puppy, tethered to a tree in someone’s yard with a blue leash, leading to a bejeweled blue collar. In the blink of an eye, Audrey had clipped the leash from the tree, while a boy playing in his yard watched. Then Juliet cut the collar from the dog. Tasting freedom, the puppy jumped happily at the girls’ legs, then dashed into the street, where a huge blue pickup truck couldn’t stop in time.

The girls were horrified. They knew what they must do. They ran home, tore off their blue dresses, and threw them into the washing machine with anything dark they could find: their father’s denim jeans, the dark red throw from the back of the sofa, the ink-stained T-shirt their father wore on the weekends.

The puppy’s owners were distraught, and called the police. The boy across the street solemnly told the officers, “It was a girl in a bright blue dress.” He pointed down the street, in the direction of the girls’ house.

Later that day, a knock came at Audrey’s and Juliet’s door. The father opened it to find two police officers, who asked if they could speak to his daughter. As both girls shyly approached the door, the officers apologized, said goodbye, and turned to leave. The father looked at Audrey and Juliet in bewilderment. “Wherever did you get those purple dresses?” he asked.

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

Sarah's story 
The girl in the blue dress
(10.04.2020)

She had always been pious, and good, very good, that she knew, so when the time came for Muriel to go on, she accepted it with equanimity.  She hadn't expect to go at the age of 55, but at least, she thought, she now had the assurance of being among the right sort.  There was a lot of riff-rafff down there, she reflected as she began to mount the heavenly ladder.
As she passed through the pearly gates, she cast a look around her and saw that most of the people were carrying bibles or hymn books, and some had rosaries or holy pictures, so she knew she was in the right spot.  But she was anxious to see the celebrities.
"Where's Peter?" she asked.
"Peter?"
"Saint Peter, you know," she said, a little impatiently.  It should have been obvious.
"Didn't you see him when you came through?"
"At the gate?  No, all I saw was ..."  But her gaze followed that of her guide, and she now took note of the man at the door.  "Him?"  No, she had not paid any attention to the man in a porter's uniform.  She shook her head at this error in taste, and asked, "Well, where's Paul?"
Her guide pointed him out, surrounded by a crowd of people all listening to what he had to say.  He definitely looked imposing, and his long beard and bald head were just as she had imagined him.  She would come back later and join the crowd.  But for the moment she had another agenda.
"Where's Mary?"
"She's over there.  The girl in the blue dress."
A girl.  She rather liked that.  The idea of Mary not as the old woman she must have been when she died, but as the very very young woman of the nativity scenes or the mother-and-child pictures.  She headed in the direction indicated.
In fact there were two women in blue.  She went towards the one with flowing blond hair and blue eyes.  She was certainly the best-looking of the two.
"Hello, I'm Muriel.  I take it you're Mary?"
"Mary?  No, I'm Caroline Pinkum from Watertown.  Can I help you?"  She smiled pleasantly, but Muriel shook her head impatiently and began to walk towards the other woman.  Then she turned back abruptly to her guide.
“There's some mistake,” she said.  “That can't be her, not with that dark complexion and black eyes.  She looks foreign, in fact she's Jewish.  I'm sure of it.”
“Well, she was, remember?  That's her all right.”
Muriel began to look around her more carefully.  She hadn't noticed till then how mixed the population was. 
“'Those people over there,” she said.  “They look like Arabs.”
“Yes, they were good Muslims in life and now they're here.”
“And those, they're Chinese!”
“Vietnamese, in fact.  And those others are Japanese.  Good Buddhists, all of them.”
Muriel was becoming more and more aghast.  There were Mexicans and other South Americans, why they looked like illegal immigants.  And there were even blacks.  This was much less congenial than the gated community she had left behind.  She turned and was about to head in the other direction, but her guide stopped her.
“There's no going back,” it said.  And she noted with horror that the guide was transgender. 
“No,” it repeated, “once you're here you're here.”

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

Monica Brennan

Caroline and Jonathan Know (Lyn and Jonty)

Two older Children Rebecca and Michael and Baby Holly.

Lyn and Jonty, were having an unusual good morning  this particular Saturday morning, Jonty had dropped the older Children off at their usual, Saturday morning activities picking up a flyer from the paper shop advertising an Antique Fair with a section of modern day paintings, this sounds interesting  mused Jonty do hope I can persuade Lyn to come with me .

Three years ago an unbelievable tragedy happened to this ordinary middle class family it changed their whole lives three years of nightmares hell and back and back again how they had come this far is nothing short of a miracle.

Three years ago on a lovely hot idyllic sunny Sunday Jonty suggested instead of Lyn spending  all day  cooking in the kitchen the traditional Sunday roast, suggested they go for a picnic not far away  is a  National Trust property that  has given public use to a few acres of ground away from the house its self where  family's can picnic and play ball games .

Quickly Lyn went to get things organized going to the garage to sort out the picnic tables and chairs the rugs all neatly stored away  , baby Holly at her heels Holly was with out doubt the love child and she was the sweetest adorable beautiful little girl,, the whole  family loved  her.  Jonty dusted the items down and stacked them in the boot of the car already for the morning Lyn then began rading the fridge and freezer and found most things she needed for a slap up family picnic she was up early packed the picnic baskets and another cool bag for soft drinks she would have loved wine  but said to herself no one of us has to drive, all these preparations had the makings of being a happy memorable family  day and indeed it was all too soon it was time to pack up and make their way home both children and parents were tired they had played cricket rounder's and other games and the three children had had so much fun hiding Holly and finding her again.

Michael was helping his father carry the heavier things back to the car,  it would take two journeys  Lyn and the two girls were carrying some of the lighter things and walked a little way and then back for more, Suddenly this enormous dog appeared it came bonding towards them  at the same time Rebecca had called her mother to look at a patch of wild flowers she had seen, the dog stop when it saw them and just trotted to the bushes  and Holly ambled in to the bushes while mummy was looking at the wild flowers this was seconds  just seconds  Holly was no where to be seen  Rebecca and her mother put down what they were carrying and ran to the bushes no sign of Holly at all her blue dress will stand out in the darker bushes thought Lynn Blue was Holly's favroite colour she was a strong willed little girl and didt like pink dresses just blue, by this time Michael and Jonty were back  back for the rest of the the picnic things and to help carry everything Lyn was very distressed saying we cant find Holly Oh don't be sill said Jonty that little monkey is hiding from us and they all begin to crawl underneath the undergrowth  where exactly did she go asked Jonty right here  these bushes now there was more than a hint of hysteria in Lyn's voice  the next half an hour was a living nightmare straggling picnickers started to help  search the police were called the park was completely sealed off helicopters circling over head, to this day none of them knew how they got home they do remember a police escort, and that was the begging of the three year nightmare still on going and Holly would now be six and a half .

Lots of police organizations for missing lost and stolen children were involved as well as Interpool some chairtiable organizions, a women police lission officer was assigned to them and sheee the whole family on regalie lots of councilling and physiatrists were involved and most of these orgggggggggziations are still workin with the family, one can only imagine trying to live any sort of normal life with athese organzations involved and also trying to normalise life for the two older children.

Lynn threw herself in to here Career Jonty not so much so he now does consultancy work at home and is there for the children school runs parents days

The on going grief is unimaginable but this family have clung together and to outward appearance's are coping well the hardest time's are family events, birthdays Christmas Easters and family holidays which they just dont do anymore.

Jonty arrived home to find Lyn tidying up the two older children's rooms Holly's is just like she left it , showing her the flyer he had picked up, much to his surprise and delighted she said yes lets go we have a couple of hours before we need to pick up the children.

They looked around with semi interest still not in the mood to buy luxury  for the home they moved upstairs to where the paintings both old and modern, suddenly Jonty looked at Lynn she had gone so white he thought she was about to faint,he looked up to see what she was staring at so intently a little girl in a blue dress painted in the south of France unsigned.

This was not their imagination, it was their own baby Holly now age six in the painting, they quickly got them selves together enough to buy the painting Jonty and Lyn walked to the car par but the painting in the boot sat for a little while in the car and then locking the car went back to the stall holder by now Lyn was in floods of tears and Jonty just about holding  himself together  they asked if the could speak to here privately so in a corner of the cafe they told her the story, they asked her if she would mind as they would like to inform the police and all the other departments that were working with them she assured them through her own tears she would cooperated with them fully and any one of the organizations that would want to interview her through tears and hugs and good luck messages they all shock hands and in shock they drove home.They decided not to say a word to the older children so hiding the paintings went to pick up the children , if the children notice the strange mood their parents were in over that weekend they said nothing.

Monday they both took a week from work and then when the children were safely at school  began getting in touch with all the organizations working with them and for them , This began weeks and months of painstaking detective work world wide, not made any easier by discovering the artist was Russian, and now lives in America, he had been in the south of France all that summer doing painting classes and workshops, when he wast working he would just walk to the beech, or the local town  and paint what caught his eye , and this still beautiful little girl did catch his eye being one of his random paintings .

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

The theme for our writing group this month "Just a thought..."

Hello ladies,    This month we are restricted to our homes but we'll meet on zoom.us later on.  
I have concocted a meal called the "Buddha bowl" with spinach salad, quinoa, roasted chickpeas, grilled chicken, avocado, tomatoes, cucumbers, sesame seeds.  

Up to you to provide a nice Chablis well chilled please.  

 _________________________________________________________

Monica's story

Just a thought March 2020

When I say to my husband I have been thinking or  just a thought, his reply is with good humour  that sounds both dangerous or expensive or both so which is it?

When we have theses thoughts either serious or frivolous, we have no idea how hard our brains work to process these thoughts, in seconds the brain is processing our thoughts and  selecting, a logical choice heart from head kind of situation, a person must weigh the positives  and the negative options the brain is processing the positive and negative options each thought your mind and brain are working so hard to consider each thought carefully .

Thought process's can cause disorder and disturbance, remembering, reasoning  the thought process problem solve and try and judge the fear intuition and perception.

Thought processing is like a series of sparks constantly firing other parts of our brain our brains light up to make these process flow hence brain storming because it is like a storm in our brains

The game of chess is so good for our brains slow time considering not only our moves but our opponents moves.

Thoughts cannot be directly observed but can only be described by the person concern, not always easy for a Physicist or a councillor  trying to help people through traumatic thought process's they are desperately trying to process his or her patient  thoughts.

So next time I say to my husband just had a thought, I will tell him how hard my tiny brain has had to work.



_________________________________

From Sarah

Just a thought 3  Lead Role

(05.03.2020, rev. 01.04.2020)

Just a thought.  Not a nice one. But then she needn't follow up on it.  Of course she wouldn't.  She was not that sort of person.  
It was just a passing idea with no intention behind it.

Still, that Sybil really deserved a showing up.  Somebody should do it. 
But nobody would. Except herself, if she could really bring herself to it.  
How could the others bear the girl's constant preening and self-satisfaction? All right, she was, probably, the best dancer in the class.  
Probably. The teacher seemed to think she was the best, but she wasn't that good. She wasn't perfect.

“My arabesques are higher than hers, I'm sure of it!”  she thought to herself. “My pas de chats are crisper.  And my battements … !  
And I've worked so hard.  I really ought to have got the role.  But Sybil fawns, and smiles at the judges, and bows so gracefully at the end.  
Why she even fell down! And Madame even complimented her: 'Nobody falls so gracefully as you do.'  Falls so gracefully!”

There was an hour before the next lesson, or, more precisely, the dress rehearsal.  An hour to kill. 
She wandered around the dressing room, restless. Where were the others?  
With nothing better to do she went out to the cleaner's cupboard, which was left unlocked, as usual. 
 The wax was in its place. It stood there, almost staring at her. She clacked the cupboard door shut.  Such a mad idea. 
She went back to the dressing room and poked about. Really, so strange that she should be the only one there.  
As if it were planned for her.

Sybil's shoes were in her pigeon-hole.  Nobody had a locker in this school, which was run just as it had been when Madame was a pupil here.
  How very very easy it would be. Should she let this occasion pass? 
 Sybil would surely not notice anything different, she would be too concerned about getting her costume just right.

During the rehearsal, the most extraordinary thing happened. 
 On Sybil's first pirouette, her foot slid inexplicably out from under her and she lost her balance completely.  
She did not fall gracefully, but banged down on the floor with a crack, and then lay still. When she did not get up, everything stopped.  

“She's hit her head!” said her partner.

“Is it serious?” asked Madame, distraught.  

It seemed as though it were.  They had to call an ambulance and Sybil was taken away.  
Although this would cause serious problems for tomorrow's performance, their teacher seemed mostly concerned about Sybil, and 
seemed ready to drop everything and leave for the hospital.

“Excuse me, Madame, but who's going to play Giselle then?”

“Giselle?  Oh, tomorrow.  I don't know! You can do it can't you?”  And she was off.

She had the role!  Triumph! The rehearsal was over, but she practised for the rest of the afternoon.  
She would be better than Sybil could ever have been!

The next morning however, when she met the others, their faces were all cast down.  Some of them were crying.

“What's the matter?”

Someone pointed to a photocopied message posted on the wall.  The first words she read stopped her in her tracks.

“The performance cancelled!  How can they!”

Another weeping dancer shook her head and pointed back to the little sign.  Whatever was the matter with them? 
She was disappointed too; in fact, she was enraged.  But she wasn't going to cry over it. She was angry and she intended to protest.

“They can't do this!  I've worked, I mean we've worked so hard!  It's not as if we haven't got a lead!”

But the girls continued to point to the message.  So she went back and peered at it more closely. 
 And when she had finished the first few lines, she began to feel cold all over.

“Due to the untimely death of our dear pupil Sybil Dubois, the school will follow a period of mourning.  
All performances ...”

It couldn't be!  Only a slip, a fall!

“During the night,” someone said.  “She never woke up.”

She had never meant this.  It was just a thought, or had been, at least to start with.  Just a bad idea.

+ 710 wds 

___________________________________________

Paula's contribution: Just a thought:

If Cinderella’s shoe fit perfectly, why did it fall off?

On a poison’s expiration date, does that mean it is more poisonous, or no longer poisonous?

If you get scared half to death twice, do you die?

Why are blueberries purple?

In the word “scent,” which letter is silent, the “s” or the “c”?

Why is something sent by car called a shipment, but something sent by ship is called cargo?

If it’s called quicksand, why do you sink slowly?

Why is a ‘W’ called a double-U? Shouldn’t it really be called a double-V?

The word “swims” upside down is also “swims.”

One hundred years ago, most people owned horses, and only the rich owned cars. Now, most people own cars, and only the rich own horses.

Replacing the “w” with a “t” in what, where and when gives you the answer.

What: that

Where: there

When: then

If you rip a hole in a net, there are actually fewer holes in it than before.

Why did kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

Why do we say, “slept like a baby,” when babies wake up every few hours?

Why is the word for “fear of long words” one of the longest words in the dictionary?

 (It’s hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.)

If something goes without saying, why do people still say it?

We pass the anniversary of our death every year without knowing it.

Why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle?

If a spoon is made of gold, would it still be called silverware?

Why does the word “ambiguous” have only one meaning?

How do vampires always look so perfectly groomed when they can’t see themselves in a mirror?

The word “wrong” is spelled w-r-o-n-g in the dictionary.

The only time the word “incorrectly” isn’t spelled incorrectly, is when it’s spelled incorrectly.

Why is “bra” singular, but “panties” is plural?

Why are there so few synonyms for “thesaurus?”

Why can I remember song lyrics from the ’80s, but I can’t remember why I walked upstairs?

Why is it penny for your thoughts, but you have to put your two cents in?

Why isn’t a near-miss called a near-hit?

Remember, if Plan A fails, you have 25 letters left.

___________________________________________________

From Geraldine

It sounds better when read « alta voce »

JUST A THOUGHT

Just a thought

So, what if the Antarctic was to melt….

Just a thought

What if the oceans were to flood more and more…

Just a thought

And how come the winds would blow stronger and stronger…

Just a thought

And when will the floods reach the big towns on the sea-shore ?

Just a thought

When will the men and women on this earth come back to nature ?

Just a thought

What if they got help from a tiny  wyne virus

Just a thought

And what if this little virus decided to go on a round-trip around the world…

Just a though

Would it frighten all these people living on this beautiful planet ?

Just a thought

Would they think twice about wasting, polluting and destroying their lovely and lonely Planet ?

Just a thought

And if this incredible little virus opened people’s eyes to the future, the Planet’s future, their own future, considering we are all part of it all !

Just a thought

Or a dream !!!

_______________________________________________

Jackie's post:

Wait a minute ladies,

You want me to talk about “a thought”  talk about ” just a thought” well

Now hang on there, this is a far fetched impossiblity

Can’t you see I’m busy

We’re in the middle of a crisis here

A total lockdown on our movements – confined in our homes, apartments and rooms without balconies  with only our heads, hearts and souls  to preoccupy our virus prone selves.

Do you really think I have time for a thought?

Just a thought?  most certainly not,  I’ve never been busier.  

My day is full,  all stops pulled out,  from the time I get up at 7 am till I slip exhausted into the arms of Morpheus at 11pm

My name is not  “The Thinker” the statue by Auguste Rodin  – who has all the time in the world to sit on his stone pillar with arm on knee  thinking, pondering, reflecting , meditating and contemplating the tourists wandering  around the charming garden of a Paris museum.

I’m  busy doing what people do in a lockdown stuck in a rural  country village .   Making bread, pizzas and cakes, checking the wine stock, preparing  aperitifs, drinking bubbly, cooking dinner, visiting the virtual world on my computer, travelling in essence to far off countries I’ll never  physically visit, listening to Operas, concerts and visiting museums.  And watching Netflix!

Chatting with neighbours through the window of my workshop downstairs,  (keeping of course the reglementary spit free 2 meter distance)  Reading the newspapers, sending videos, talking on the phone…… all this takes  time –

Then there is the garden. 

 A patch of land has never been so weed free –

I now apply tweezers to grab that sun seeking little blade that dares poke his head above the soil I have so carefully primed.

I gave up having “just a thought” years ago as when I did have one, if not written down,  it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared lost forever  along with the millions of others spiraling into oblivion churning  like my washing machine round and round my aging brain.

   

Thoughts don’t stay – a second or more or an eighth or whatever is the smallest piece of time there is.     And there it is – that thought – gone then … for ever.    Or perhaps not forever as they creep back into my head slowly or like a flash when you are not expecting them and then you suddenly remember that image, or list, appointment  or that something that had to be fetched, cooked or washed.     

Just a thought then, is a timeless piece of uselessness -

______________________________________________________
Annemarie's post

What Do You Think?
Next weekend would be their eleventh wedding anniversary and Peter had hinted at a surprise
weekend. It was already arranged that the three children were spending the first week of the
holidays with her parents, happily exploring the hills and woods around the old farm nestled in the
Devon countryside but he failed to realise that she enjoyed time spent with the children during
their holidays. Her husband brushed aside her reservations, telling her she really needed to get
the kids ready and packed.
After a brisk shower she prepared muesli - Peter said it was important the children had
homemade muesli - not all those rubbish cereals encrusted with sugar - freshly squeezed orange
juice (after all 'we don't hyper children, do we ,darling?'. She watched them lovingly as they
spooned their way through breakfast, little Joshua's corn-coloured curls bobbing up and down as
his chubby three-year old hands struggled to balance the rather large spoon. Of course she
would miss them but she had a lot to do before taking them to her parents.
First it was a visit to the hairdresser - 'Joshua can't go around looking like a girl, it's about time he
had a proper haircut,' Peter had said yesterday. 'And why don't you get the girls some smart
shoes? They seem to wear those awful trainers all the time wherever they go. You could treat
yourself to a new coat as well - something blue and classy like Jeffrey Highberg's wife and treat
yourself to something special for the dinner. You could wear it to the restaurant on Wednesday
when I meet up with the Highbergs and the top man from head office. I really need to impress
them if I am to get this directorship.
Valerie thought about the expensive dresses in her wardrobe bought to impress at various
dinners, the extravagant necklaces Peter gave her at Christmas - precious shimmering pearls set
in platinum, the exquisitely Italian designed gold choker with matching earrings, always chosen by
Peter. With a sigh she cleaned the kitchen, bundled the three children in the car, decided against
curl-cutting at the hairdresser's and shoe-shopping for the girls and set off to her parents, where
she spent a leisurely hour chatting with her mother and admiring the tree house her father was
building for the grandchildren. A call from Peter to see how the shopping was going with a gentle
reminder to find something sophisticated to show off his lovely wife.
She really didn’t feel like trailing round the shops, trying on dresses and coats and later in the
week she would have to have her facial, have her nails done and go to the hairdresser - Peter
liked her to take pride in her appearance. Oh, how she would like to put some old clothes and
spend time in the garden, how she would like to spend time with old friends - friends she rarely
saw, friends “who weren't quite the right sort” as far as Peter was concerned.
Now that Peter was expecting to get the directorship he was planning on sending the children to
private schools as boarders - “to get a fine education and meet the right people”. Valerie could
not bear to think of her children away from home. This time she was determined to stand up to
Peter; he always succeeded in getting his own way and she felt increasingly submerged in her
husband's excessive ambition. Well she would spend the day in London do her shopping and she
might even meet an old friend or saunter round a gallery.
The morning of the dinner Peter phoned her to say he had an important meeting so he would
meet her at the London restaurant. Well she had all day to get ready ; a facial, manicure and then
the hairdresser - a different style tonight she thought.
When she arrived home she put on her favourite Nina Simone record, poured a deep bath of
foaming bubbles and with a glass of white wine relaxed in the suds. An hour later the doorbell
rang and Valerie put on her new blue coat , picked up her bag and left for the restaurant in the
taxi.
Outside the restaurant she could see Peter sitting at the table with, presumably, the top man from
head office. She waited until the Highbergs arrived and followed behind them as the waiter led
them to their table. table. Peter rose from his seat, greeted the Highbergs and turning to his wife
and with a shocked look on his face he stuttered, “V-Valerie, let me take your coat.” She carefully
removed the new coat and Peter gaped in astonishment - a semi-transparent, coral, lace dress,
low-cut and slashed almost to the waist, revealing a generous décolletage and bear arms
encircled with jangling bracelets. A gold leather belt cinched her waist. The dress was tight and
stopped a good 5 inches above her knees. His eyes continued to travel down her legs to the gold
six-inch heel shoes, leather straps encircling her ankles, finishing in an extravagant bow. His eyes
were drawn back up the length of her, took in the scarlet lipstick, the heavily made-up eyes with
extraordinary false eyelashes, her now unfamiliar face surrounded in a cloud of blond curls. Mouth
wide open he continued to gape at her. Victoria smiled at the Highbergs and the top man from
head office, turned to Peter and still smiling she said quietly, “Darling, what do you think?”