Absent.

Wait for me when I’m gone,

Don’t forget I was here.

Come and read a while

There’s nothing to fear.

Life has other idea’s

That keep me away.

But please don’t

stop coming,

I still have a lot

To say.

I am having to take a break for a while. I can’t say for how long, but I hope to pop back and read any comments and reply when I can. I look forward to continuing to read your posts and banter on your blogs where possible. I will be back once I am fit and able.

But when life gives you lemons … you need to stand back and take in the scent, look at the whole tree; not just the fruit.

A Suffolk Festival.

The motorhome thumped up the lane rocking and jerking over the hardened earth that shook our jaws. As the last curve was negotiated the campsite spread before us. Flags flapped against the mackerel sky. Swags and flags swirly Twizzlers rattled and spun as did novelty air filled sperm. Campers tugged miniature trailers, all polished looking their best. Unicorns flapped, bunting tangled and faces lit up and grinned.

We strolled around, caught a knowing look or two. Smiles and nods tossed our way, a greeting of strangers linked by destination and sounds. Kids and pups were happily pulled along in trailers packed with stuff for the day.

A squeal from the stage shocked our ears as the thump thump of a base backed the ‘ one two, one two’, called over the mike.

Flowers and glitter in hair and on faces caught the light as hula hoop girls spun in tiny sequined shorts. Toned bodies of aerial dancers arced and rolled precariously. Dancing under steel frames, suspended on strands of purple ribbon.

Goods displayed on trestle tables and rails spewed from the mouths of canvas shops. Old tut from dusty lofts became prized merchandise once more. Hats, bags, wigs and wings, wands and make believe; all at a price. Clothes from eras past with stories sewn into the weave. Love’s lost and consummated in the seams of an old mini skirt and psychedelic clothes. Cheese-cloth shirts and bell-bottom jeans, wait in hope as rushing winds flap at hems, like silent adverts vying for attention.

Giant robotic installations jerked and flashed to the beat. Bubbles shot across the giggling crowds and flames intermittently roared from an arm that shot skyward. Ooh’s and ahh’s join the music at each glow of the flame.

A folly watches from her view point snuggled in the trees. The festival and its entourage playing at her feet. Not so far from the days of Jousts and Jesters that took place in times gone by.

Girls danced with a freedom I long since lost. Dreadlocks and rainbow dyed hair mingled, with the French plaited girlies. Shaved heads bump and grind with hipster bearded men. Some smoke weed or swig artisan gin together. One place, one time, a shared experience. The music built up and bodies moved in unity, the youth and the aged together. All made new connections and memories alike.

Rain splashed bodies ran for shelter and kids tried to catch drops on their tongues. Even the weather became a game. Sticky and tired we turn in and watch the sun setting over Suffolk.

Until sizzling bacon awakened our taste buds then the enthusiasm bubbled up, begging us to do it once more, at a Suffolk festival.

#WhiteNoiseVwFestival #EaustonHallSuffolk

Reviewing ‘Not Thomas’ By Sara Gethin.

I purchased this book and had been looking forward to reading it, after twenty or so e-books that I had promised I’d read were finally finished. The books had been clogging my tablet and sitting heavily; as guilt does on my mind. Life gets in the way of promises and dreams and is oblivious to anything interrupting it. So we sold up in Somerset and relocated back once more to Suffolk, the doing of that move left things undone, books unread, friends uncalled, my blog bereft of fresh stories and my manuscript on hold.

So I purchased Not Thomas and was excited to read something fresh by a name I didn’t know. I was drawn to the cover, the boy at the window looked thoughtful the colours inviting. I had spotted the promotion popping up on Facebook and Twitter, I followed her name to see who she was on WordPress. I read it, the cover, ‘Imagine You’re Five, Alone In The House, And Someone Gets In’.

I purchased and waited for it to arrive. We are refurbishing and I may have waited, but in my head, as I say life cracks on. People are not always honest about their rituals on receiving a parcel of a book, but I read the outside of my package, stroked it a little *sigh* and removed the cardboard. Number one, I am not odd, or certifiable but I do love a book. Two, trusting my rituals to followers may make them ‘come out’, admit they have some as … diverse as mine, but hopefully won’t make them scarper. So, I now have my very own copy in my hands, I caress it with my eyes , sniff its perfume, ooh i love to smell books.

Well then things went a bit skewed the surveyor turned up and round two began, my reading time vanished with talk of bi-fold doors, dry-rot and bathrooms. To cut a story short; which really isn’t the way Ellen rocks, Thomas was put on hold. A bout of illness slowed my progress on the house as the husband put down his size nines and firmly but kindly made me stop. So amidst the dust and noise, I picked up Thomas and recovered by reading.

Firstly no spoilers! Just my thoughts and opinions.

The scariest thing is the way this five-year-old boy tells his story/nightmare as if it is normal. Although the fear is palpable there are moments of pure gold like his letters and post scripts. While you read, if you’re not careful you will need tissues both ends, because you can’t put it down even to pee.

Sara manages the language perfectly, it is simple and pure, as a child’s voice is. Most of the book is told by Tomos clearly, concisely and in an earth shattering simplistic way. The absolute horror going on around him, the neglect so casually passed over by his Mum. The attitude ofturn the other cheek the neighbour had across the street, she who looks back at him from her window. It is as if they have not a clue that it’s wrong. Mum, loves him in her way, she doesn’t allow him to reach her paraphernalia hidden in full view in the bathroom, she takes away his ladder so he doesn’t come from his high bed and see stuff or get hurt. You can feel Thomos’s love as he cwutches up with her on the sofa.

This book is by far one of the best reads I have had in five years, the writer is the most exciting new thing to come out of Wales since the Severn Bridge. If you read nothing else this year you simply have to read ‘Not Thomas’.

P.S. I see another book ready to spring from the ending.

It is the day after I finished reading the book but I am not ready to let him go just yet. So Not Thomas joins me for breakfast, a feast I would have fed Tomos if I could.

My review I know is a little different from the norm but I hope you enjoyed it, I am not known for writing book reviews on my blog which must tell you how passionate I am about this one, and hope you will be too. #LoveTomos

Please leave me a comment below.

 Dr Who?

This week there were tweets and news reports, conversations and flips about the New! Doctor Who. For the first time ever, or so I have been led to believe, a woman is to take the starring role. I have watched many Dr Who’s come and go my favourite has to be John Pertwee, mostly because I adored Worzel Gummidge.


Anyway I digress, The lovely Jodie Whittiker, ‘I know her from Broadchurch’. Just saying, anyway she has got the title, won the coveted prize, stepped up to evolve the cult programme further into the realms of wonder. Now don’t shoot, my hands are up. I became bored witless at the naysayers, the chauvinistic complaints and the Agg-Gh ahh! It was everywhere, the moaning. So I switched off unplugged and refused to look any more.

Personally, I think she will be an iconic Dr Who. A conversation with a good friend had some days after the self-imposed ban,  was to bring up the question once more of should the Doctor be a woman? That was when we took it to the pub. Yes, two women took a convo to the village pub to do what men have done for centuries,  and why not! If a woman can be The Doctor… we ordered fizz as we would, a pint of John Smiths (any other beer could be substituted in this spot) is not our taste after all. The following is my version, maybe embellished, but mine none the less. Of an overheard conversation.


Two Men In A pub
.

Stan was slurping the froth from the top of his beer when this exchange took place.

Stan looks at Tom… ‘I suppose it will be exfoliate what they say now’. Wipes his mouth on his sleeve and sniffs loudly.

Tom. ‘What, what do ya mean’

Stan. ‘Them Dalek’s … now it’s a woman doctor’

Tom. ‘Ave you gone doolally, exfoliate’.

Stan. ‘Instead of sayin exterminate as they’ve  always done’.

Tom shakes his head slowly ‘Tha’s a daft bugger; exfoliate’.

A few minutes pass, both men finish their beers and Stan says. ‘You for another’?

Tom nods, and as Stan lurches unsteadily towards the bar you can hear a penny drop when Tom begins to guffaw.

Tom. ‘ Dalek’s exfoliate that’s reet funny that’.

I would like to thank a dear friend Anna, you know who you are, for the gift. Nuf said, “I owe you some fizz now we have moved back”. The pictures courtesy of pixabay  and unsplash and the land of lost internet photos. And you tube for the marvleous vid of Dr John Pertwee, forever in my heart as the undeniably wonderful Worzel Gummidge and in this bit Una Stubs as Aunt Sally.

P.S.

For Dr Who aficionados out there…  the relevance of John Smiths in the pub is that it  was the name the Dr took while being a human in The Family of Blood. Coincidence? Or did some helpful blogger (Gary Jefferies ) unaware of my dastardly dealings let my coincidence become a clever twist? Thank you  cue time lord music and …cut!

I couldn’t resist writing this post and I hope I captured the scene. What is your opinion on women taking it to the pub? Or woman being the lead in a cult programme? Have you ever overheard a gem when you least expected it. Leave me a comment I love to talk.

Look what’s Coming on July the Twenty Fourth !

This is me being both excited and invincible.

I guest post on The recipe hunter press    Here  if you would like to peruse her fabulous foody blog in advance. Or if like me you would like to contribte I am sure she would love to hear from you all. 

 I want to thank Esme for inviting me, it will be my first guest post ever…  EVER! sorry just felt the need there to be excited in advance. 

I just love this world of blogs and blogishiousness. 

And it is my birthday what a better present could I have?

Happy happy birthday to me on July the twenty Fourth. 

THREE CHAIRS AT A TABLE.

 

peony photo by Alisa Anton on Unsplash,

window Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash Roses photos by ORNELLA BINNI on Unsplash

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Stan, my friend with the sad eyes and scarred hands walked in the park. His daughter giggled beside him. She twirled around holding out her tiny arm and clutching her wicker basket. She danced until the flowers inside bobbed, her cheeks flushed and eyes shone; I watched them from my window. He put out a protective arm to slow her while he mouthed words that I was never to hear. My fingers stroked the pretty net curtains as I watched the scene below; they flapped softly in the breeze as if to wave  hello.

 In preparation, I laid the table with my most attractive linen smoothed the fabric with my hands and placed the crockery precisely. I stacked nibbles, dainty cakes and treats in the centre on a three tiered stand, I remember being pleased with the appearance of my peony filled jug in the centre.

Going back to the window I noticed the traffic, it was particularly heavy as it buzzed to and fro beneath me. I glanced in the direction of the park in time to see them. Dad stretching his torso as he stood up, he ran his ragged fingers through his hair, tugged at his tie and put a hand towards the child. Still swinging the basket she held on to his fingers, and craned her neck; high enough to catch his eye, he stooped to speak, she nodded and smiled. Together hand in hand they walked towards the gate; it was a touching scene one I won’t forget.

I recall a smile played about my lips and a delicate fluttering sat in my stomach as I made the last minute checks. I placed a beaker of milk and two china cups and saucers on the table. The kitchen like the rest of my second-floor apartment was neat and pretty. My tiny breakfast table I’d dressed in a gingham cloth with three chairs tucked under, it gave the room a welcoming feel as if it had always had room for two more.

milada-vigerova-7276.jpg

That’s when… I vaguely remember hearing a dull thud come from outside. I had a hesitant thought making me stop for a second, but I rushed on to the bathroom to reapply my lipstick,  looked at my watch and thought they should be here by now. Agitated by both the tardiness of my visitors and the noise from the road I returned to the living room. I picked up the baby doll pleased with such a perfect gift. Looking down on confusion through the freshly cleaned glass, there were people and vehicles everywhere, shouting and crying, the squeal of a siren, a distant whining of an ambulance assaulted my ears. I backed away slowly dropping the doll to the floor, then turned to look at the table;  a jagged sound coming from my windpipe startled me, it made my heart race and my stomach clench. Through lashes clouded with unshed tears, I thought how nice three chairs at a table can look.

 

ornella-binni-148189

This should be a link to me reading it … fingers crossed that it works.

I need to know 1. If it works 

2. If it helps the sight impaired follower.

3. If you found it useful in any way. 

4. If you’d prefer me not to I’d like to know that also. 

Please leave a comment on the sound thank you in advance.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B7WJ-42kvYrWQ2RzRHgxUVFnRjNoOUlCNEE0TUlBTUZyWUVn/view?usp=drivesdk

If reading it is your thing I am very interested in your views.  leave me a comment as I simply love to talk, and will answer quick smart.

Into The Deep

 

He watched the moon glow red in the sky
Throw colour over ripples of  grey,

A whiff of a scent as if in a dream,

A flash, then he’s falling away.
Into the deep, green tentacles flap,

as if; happily waving goodbye.

A panic, an unheard scream,

bubbles bursting towards the sky.
Down in the grime the muck and the slime

beside the hull of an upturned boat,

Protrude  oars, like arms reaching out …

as if to get ahold of his throat.
An eel comes to look at the boy with a book,

who into the water was spilt.

Who struggles and fights,

his  legs disturbing the silt.
Deep down he plunges

The light disappears in a mist,

Like angelic detritus he floats,

intoxicated with heavenly bliss.
The dark clears, a nymph beckons

with barely a flick of her wrist,

A wisp of a thing, lures him deep

Her face he tenderly kissed.

He’s now way below,
Where tides ebb

And flow.

And dreams

Reappear

With

The

Fish.

This piece I have written in response to The Ink Owl with the prompt into the deep I plunge, using the theme of fantasy. Press Here to join in or read some fabulous entries.

Did I succeeded?  did my foray into fantasy work? or should I leave well alone? Answers will be most welcome *waves*

The Bird Was Witness.

 

ALERT! This flash does contain two swear words, I do not wish to offend therefore am letting you know before you read. This is a refreshed  #flash from Nov 2016.

Photograph by permission of Derrick J knight. Thank you once more.

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bird sat high on top of a telegraph pole, its black shape stark against the sky, I watched it through the steam on the window. With my palm flat against the glass, I cleared a better view; while my novel was clenched snug under my armpit. Sitting in the window seat reading I could zone out the sounds of the room and breathe easy.

Then it started… “Ange, Ange, come here now! come to me bitch”. I looked at the bird looking back at me and placed my book on the windowsill. The card game was getting rowdy, ”Angie” he shouted, warily I approached, “What Tom, what do you want? “ He grabbed my waist and tugged me into his lap, laughing, that sneery false laugh I grew to hate. Fear ran up my neck as he made a show of me in front of his mates.

He looked at them and pinched my chin as he forced my head to face them. Tom wrenched my hand between my shoulder blades. “Here boys, have you ever seen such a miserable cow… eh eh?” his grasp was cruel, his breath thick with stale booze and cigarettes. I felt the spray from his mouth warm as he spoke against my ear. Tom released my arm and pretended to tickle, but he dug and prodded with force, my cheeks flushed and prickles ran up my spine. My legs jerked as he stabbed his fingers deep between my ribs. The table caught by my ankle shifted, cards scattered as it righted itself with a thump. I struggled, kicking my denim clad legs in retaliation his fingers jab jabbing painfully; as his temper deteriorated.

The mood instantly changed, Stan leapt up threw his hand on the table, he kicked a spent chubby and took the Iou’s in his calloused hands and tore them; throwing the pieces like confetti in the air. “Fuck this you knob”, he booted the table over…”I’m off” he shouted. Pictures rattled as he banged the door. Mark and Des were worse for wear, swaying, they glanced from one to the other and back, both stumbled to the door in pursuit.

One swift movement had me flat on the floor with a swaying Tom above me. “You fuckin bitch, you just had to, didn’t you? Each word was punctuated with a kick and a gob from his mouth. The first one caught the bone of my hip the second connected with my thigh as I struggled lobster like across the carpet. A flurry of pokes, punches and kicks came thick and fast, he crushed my lips into my teeth with a direct punch. Stubbies bounced and rolled about like Otters at play, I spat two teeth onto the carpet which got his attention, it gave me a chance to swallow some air.

From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the bird, me looking at it, it looking at me. Ashamed at this spectacle being seen. Me, a weak victim, small and helpless. Somehow the thought made me gather myself. I grabbed a bottle and scrambled to my feet. Holding the neck with cramped fingers I drew my arm out to the side. I remember screaming “No” He lunged forward teeth barred.  I screwed my eyes tight and swinging right to left the bottle connected. Phlegm hit full in my face and mingled with the tears and blood that dripped from my jaw. As if I was a character in a novel,  in slow motion the bottle cracked him below his left ear and flipped from my grasp. His eyes bulged, snot flew from his nose as he fell back. Stretching myself forward fingers splayed I tried to grab him before he fell, but only caught air. His head thudded against the leg of the upturned table and he dropped. Blood puddled behind his head and a lone trickle dribbled from the side of his gaping mouth.

Unable to look, I turned my head to face the window. I could see him, the bird, looking at me. He seemed to bob his head like a gentleman does when he catches your eye in acknowledgement. He ruffled his feathers and continued his pose.

 I felt the vibration of feet through the floor when I dialled 999. “Police and ambulance, I can’t hear you… I think he is dead, we are at 42 Granby street, come quick *hiccough* please”. Still holding the phone the door flew from its hinges the room filled with uniforms and bodies. A policeman shook me, grabbed the phone and spoke into it. My ears and head were ringing but I could only see angry faces as lips moved silently and Tom lay still, and only the bird was witness.

 

What do you think, was she in the wrong ?  please leave any comments as they are my wages for writing and each one is valued and replied to swiftly. Have a great week.

 Ooh!Ahh!

Dan has taken on the lovely Linda Hill’s #soCs and the prompt is ooh! ah! press to join in HERE.  Pictures used here were obtained via google, but though I used all due dilligence,I am unable to credit the artist as the owner of the copyright evades me.

stream-of-conciousness

Ooh! Ahh! He cried as I launched myself at the guttersnipe. With a tug of his lobe and a boot firmly at his raggedy behind. It should have had him scurry up the nearest  drainpipe and out of my pockets. But no, he artistically flopped to the dirt lifeless, and stiff. Now his already grubby self was plastered in faecal matter of both human and horse from the gutter.

‘Stand up I tell you,’ his acting skills would have had Shakespear signing him a contract.  I kicked with my beautifully buckled shoe, the sight of the schitt’e smeared item and the stench, had me heave. If he didn’t move speedily, vomit would join the mess on himself. I have no doubt he’d be smelt from a mile away for more than a week.

*retch, heave* this time there was no stopping it. I wafted my lace kerchief in front of my nose, heard rather then felt the slop hit my other shoe then splash my breeches. Just at that precise moment, he rolled over, leapt up, grabbed my fob and showed his heels. I cried ‘Thief! Stop him!’ As i felt for my watch, it had gone, leaving me the stomach churning stench.  I cried for the loss of both face and watch… I sobbed ‘Ohh! noooo!’

a

I hope my interpretation tickled your sensibilities and maybe like me you were a trifle pleased at the comeuppance of such a fop. Do leave your comments I answer with vigour.