The Escape. #ShortStory

We trundled off in the motor home towards Dorset. A week in the West Country was just the ticket. Easy Rider belted out, Born to be Wild became the anthem of our trip. Four days in Dorset, parked at a clifftop campsite with wonderful views,

We caught up with the husband’s twin brother and wife; sharing food and stories. Laughs came thick and fast with our niece and her partner, we built new memories to last a lifetime. The sun beat down, dragon flies whizzed as stick insects sunned themselves in the bay tree; idyllic.

We Sat under the sunshade together reminiscing as we stuffed our faces, laughed and dozed. A woodpecker hid inside the hollowed Apple tree.

The days passed with a gusto we didn’t want to end.

We packed up and drove on to Salcombe Regis, on Devon’s beautiful coast. You couldn’t ask for a better spot, sunny, green, clean and friendly, a few miles from Sidmouth. We arrived the day of the ‘underwear revolution’ in Colyton (see link). A news worthy story that made us smile for the rest of the week.

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2018/06/12/town-rallies-around-mother-told-not-hang-washing-launching-laundry/

Off to Sidmouth on the local hopper, it was so civilized and easy. We enjoyed wandering around the picturesque Regency seaside town.

Back at the motor home, we familiarised ourselves with the layout, checked out the shower and toilet blocks, putting green and shop. There was a vigorous but pleasant stroll to the view of Salcombe hill and the sea.

Morning arrived, overcast and breezy as Hurricane Hector’s tail whipped through. We chose to get ready and catch a later hopper, giving the weather time to calm. Off I strode to the nearest block.

Most people had long gone, jumped on the bus for their day out; despite the weather ( as we Brits do). I however had choices to make, a wet room or single shower, a cubicle block, toilets with basins and even a bath. The facilities were superb, spotlessly clean, the water hot and it was … empty.

Armed with bubbles and potions I chose the best space and I have to admit to feeling a tiniest bit smug.

(See Giffy image below🔽)

This was where I found myself in a difficult situation. To bypass any visual parts of my ablutions … I sum up by saying, my bag was dropped in a cubicle and I rested my cheeks to porcelain; next door.

On the way in, I noticed the lock turned a couple of times before the latch closed. I ignored the fact that the lever dropped free and rocked as I released it. Both of the above should have made me aware that something was amiss. After a short sitting time, I used the beautifully scented hand foam and checked out the attractive smile of the older woman in the mirror; before moving on to the shower room.

My hand wrapped around the lever and turned … around and around it went, my finger twisted & it spun the lever as if it was a feather. My sports strap alerted me to the rise in my resting heartbeat. My breath gasped, my hands became clammy and a pulse rapidly tapped in my neck.

The bumbag that hung over my hip contained my meds, a phone, a change purse with a debit card and a hair grip. After a few seconds I shook myself and delved into the zips. Phone extracted I tried to call the husband; fifty yards away in the motor home. I stood on the seat with my four-foot eleven stature stretched to the extreme, trying to find a signal. No such luck, finding a phone signal in the countryside is hit or miss at the best of times. Inside a toilet block, in the most rural of spots in the west country is nigh on impossible.

Now serious stuff came into play! With all the prowess of an Enid Blyton famous five character I thrashed out a plan.

I set the WiFi to search on my smart phone. Soon it offered to sell me WiFi from the campsite. With the debit card extracted the purchase of WiFi complete, I sighed with relief. I sent a text to a friend via Facebook’s messenger. HELP. LOCKED IN LOO. Phone Jay urgently PLEASE. I pressed send as the light in the lavatory timed out.

Back up plan fell into place; “Enid Blyton I love you.”

Clutching a hair grip between my thumb and index finger, I poked as I twisted the lever, I shoved, rammed and scraped about in the vicinity of the latch by the light of my phone; which was clasped in my mouth. I had been incarcerated for fifty minutes! My sport’s strap vibrated and fireworks went off, it obviously believed me to be vigorously exercising. With the battery on my phone now showing five percent I had to move fast. Logged on to Face book I found the campsite page friended the site and sent a private message. Help! Plot 153 locked in toilet. Send! Help. Next I emailed my brother-in-law. Please. Help. Phone Jay. Trapped in the loo. The screen went off just after I pressed send, the room was in complete darkness now; my battery flat.

A second blind (pardon the pun) attempt with the hair grip eventually bore fruit. By now I had been in the loo for an hour! My bladder was swollen, my cheeks damp and my grip ruined as I rushed out and towards the motor home. I thought to sympathy and maybe a touch of pride at my ingenuity.

I heard the ringtone on my approach, then the unnecessary laugher. Soon I looked into the eyes of a very jovial husband. One who pressed his Samsung closer to his ear as I passed him. Relieved to be relieved of the contents of my bladder in the safety of the motor home … with my foot used as a lock on the door. Only the music emanating from the other side of the door was to puncture the relief I felt.

Standing tall (as tall as a four-foot eleven woman can) I walked past ‘The Husband,’ I pushed the charger into my phone. Bleep bleep! My friend answered with ‘are you free yet?

Ring ring!

My brother-in-law howled in unison with his wife on speaker phone.

All the time … ‘The Husband’ sang along to, “Oh dear what can the matter be, three old ladies were locked in the lavatory” whilst wrapping his arms around his aching ribs and wearing the most ridiculous grin.

Once composed, I walked to the reception, reported a faulty toilet lock. Numerous apologies later and the promise of fresh croissants to soften the edges of ‘The Escape.’ I found my own funny. Shhhh! *whispers* We won’t let on at least for a while *Huge grin*.

All photographs are mine taken on location … except the Gif from . https://giphy.com/explore/images

The news link from the telegraph UK. (the link in above text).

The Enid Blyton vintage first edition cover lifted kindly from the internet.

Have you ever used a book you read as a child, for such a good reason as I … ? Leave me something to smile at in the comments, I just love to chat.

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A Song or five.

A super blogger asked me to take part in a song for a day for five days, as we are moving house this will be difficut but I will take a twist on the rules and post 5 songs on one day so I can take part. Please visit Here  at the lovely ladiesthatlunchreviews

The rules are to post the lyrics of a favorite song five days in a row, explain what they mean to you and add the video if available. You then nominate two other bloggers who can participate if they wish and my choices are:  Steph Richmond and my lovely friend from unfolding the fog.

My choices are ecclectic and maybe my favorite colour is yellow, I love blues and jazz, Who wouldn’t love listening to Janice or coldplay…The world is a better place with music and tomorrow my favorites will be different because a memory was nudged or a note bought a tear for what ever reason enjoy my choices today.


 

Yellow is just the best.

 

I hope I  posted at least one you can dance to. So like nobody is watching let me know your favourite and why.

The Colour is Christmas.

Inside the tiny house that is nestled in the suburbs of London Emma looked up at her Mum. “Mummy the sunshine in my picture, ” she said pointing to the drawing on the fridge door “it is sunshine colour, isn’t it … And the grass with Daddy and Mummy, it is grass colour isn’t it?” A frown sat on her face as she pursed her lips; waiting for an answer. Mary crouched beside her daughter and explained about colour and name, she drew her a colour chart while her little brother straddled Mary’s hip. Mary told her the colours of their clothes and the cushions on the sofa. During the day they sang colour songs and told rainbow stories, drew rainbows to add to the already crowded fridge door. Emma and Tom Carpenter, went to bed that night tired and happy, knowing that tomorrow would be Christmas.

On Christmas morning Emma skipped into the Kitchen. “What colour is today mummy?” She lifted her head, wearing a huge smile Mary looked at the five-year-old who was clutching pencils and pursing her lips. Mary’s pride shone from her face, as she wiped her forehead with the back of her flour encrusted hand and bent to her daughter’s height. “What colour do you think it is?” Emma screwed her brow and as if contemplating the world and left the room.

Mary wiggled and hummed to the music on the radio as she cut the last sausage roll and wiped her hands on the tea towel stuck in her waistband. Throughout the house, the air was thick with the scent of pastry and cinnamon and the sounds of happiness. The question forgot in the excitement of the day.

Tom crawled up the hall chasing his new train giggling as he went.
Dad burst through the front door stamped his feet and brushed a light dusting of snow from his hair. Joe’s nose was red and he rubbed his hands briskly to warm them.”Kisses” he called as he smacked his lips and waved mistletoe above his head.”Kisses I want kisses” he roared. Emma and Tom rushed to be lifted in a sloppy lip smacking embrace.
There were lanterns, twinkling lights and paper decorations dangling from every space in the little house. Carols rang out from the kitchen radio and sparks snapped against the guard on their open fire.
Dropping everything Mary ran to join Joe for a kiss; Singing as she went. Flour covered kisses ended in chuckling and tickles. With all four sat breathlessly on the floor. Emma looked up into her Mothers eyes and quietly said
” I think the colour is Christmas mummy”.

This is a story I wrote last year re vamped, extended and wearing its very best party frock. I hope you like it and it gives you all you need to be put you firmly in the seasonal mood.

Do leave me a comment I love to chat.

A Favorite Christmas Decoration.

My idea for this came from here go check out her blog and handsome decoration.
Lindsey left a question on a post yesterday, asking “what is your favourite Christmas decoration and why”.

I thought about the Xmas pud my daughter made at four and the Santa boot my eldest made some thirty years or more ago. The snowflake, it was from my youngest son all white and sparkly made when five; I remember them well, their memories are the ones I treasure with a motherly equality and a sadness when each year I find them gone. The jointed Father Christmas who has pride of place stands two foot tall, he was my own first decoration. My daughter thought I’d like him as I had left so much behind; the beginning of a new life new Christmases to come.

But my own favourite, the one chosen by me… the me I am now, the one I purchased and placed here that is my best.  An angel in a red coat with sparkles on her wooden wings dark neat painted hair with a gold halo and a heart shaped cross body bag. I purchased her at a pop-up shop; a locally crafted display of all things Christmas. My visit was a surprise as I didn’t know it was there… it just popped up. She silently called me, at one point I do believe she winked; that part could be put down to artistic licence *sniff* but none the less drawn we were. At first, I stood her alone in the picture window facing the outside world, when I re-entered the room I turned her facing us. I have had her ten days now and we are getting the measure of each other, up to now she has been the only Christmas adornment to our home but today I will decorate the tree. And my scarlet angel will find her place as I have mine.

After Christmas, I may swap her heart shaped bag for a muff and make a fluffy headband to hide her halo but the wings elude me, maybe a classy fabric draped like a wrap to gently secrete them out of sight. I could put her betwixt my books in a bookcase to watch over us when Christmas has gone. I am not sure why I have become so attached to my scarlet angel but there it is; I am naming her as my favourite Christmas decoration.
What is yours? And why? Leave me a comment or just let me know what you think… And Merry Christmas.

The Sycamore

To climb a sycamore of which I have three,

the trunk so long too high for me.

I would  get up if I were a bee

Or a squirrel, that, I can see.

But, oh… to sway up high

amongst the leaves

where I could  grieve

for lost innocence.

A place to shed

My silent tears

Allow them to fill

These ageing ears.

Without a  care,

I would climb

skinning  knees

One at a time.

High above

where no one

Knows

no one

sees

And

No one

Goes.

My thanks goes once more to Bernadette for her sharing at the senior salon

press salon to find more amazing blogs.

My poetry is light, short and hopefully gives a bite to read like a wrap or sandwich at lunch. QUESTION ALERT! What do you read in your break? Or don’t you? Answers please in the comments I’d love to read them in my lunch break ;)😇.

Watch “Leonard Cohen recite “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae | Legion Magazine” on YouTube

John McCrae would be moved to hear this read today, and heaven knows them both now. Rest in Peace the Fallen, the tortured, and the maimed. We will remember so it never happens again.

Bristol Cathedral, a lone woman pays respects to the shrouded figures, these  represent the fallen British soldiers, on the first day at the Somme. This installation is by Somerset artist Rob Heard. Photograph by Matt Austin.

Having A Chin wag.

Prompt # 1905 the writing reader. The word of the week is chinwag  so here is my stab.

There they  were the two of em,  hanging over the garden fence arms folded, Florrie’s  were under her tiny breasts; maybe to push them up pretend like she had more. She were long, stringy almost, she wore a pinny and a cotton square covered her hair. What I could see of it err hair was yellow,  oh an them teeth… they  jiggled about as she spoke; me mam said it made er retch.  Mavis well she was different,  Gramps would say “like chalk and cheese those two” I loved Granddad he had lots of funny sayings.

‘Any owe, back on track where were I’ Oh yes Mavis short n’ stocky with fat knees, you’d see em when she cleaned the windus, ‘mam says tisn’t often…’ she’s got tight curls peekin from under her scarf, dirty grey colour from the coal fire i spect. Mavis as short as she is wide and wears a fancy wrap around pinny and wrinkled stockins. Her roundness comes from avin ten. yep ten kids, six were lads all gone and grown now. We lived in back t’ back houses and Monday Mornin if School was owt, I’d sit astride the cill wi a book the sun warms ya through glass and they think I’m readin. Really I am listenin, you’d be surprised what I ear; lookin down at the back them two over the fence  puttin t’ world to rites avin a good ole chin wag. Got ta go now Mam’s got me paa’s snappin ready, I’ll take it up the allotment to i’m, he’s busy after all diggin us tea. Catch you another time tatty bye.

He Was A Contradiction.

Your homework will be in on time”crack” it will be neat complete and constructed with … Care! “Crack.” Mr W marched the isles between the rows of quivering twelve year olds. His military stick slapped a desk and made you flinch. Each instruction would be punctuated with the stick against his thigh; as he roared red faced. If he was cross and he often was … spittle sprayed the air around him. A musty smell of damp socks eminated from his clothes. He blew the scent of ‘fisherman’s friend’ which he popped like narcotics; in the faces of those unlucky enough to catch his eye.

Mr.W had to drop his head to get through the door, his crumpled mismatched suit hung from a bony frame; raggy cuffs covered his fingers while his jacket stopped three inches higher.

I had to drag my eyes away from the giant highly polished round toed shoes, I ducked as he passed … we all did. His want for perfection and the highly polished shoes, were in direct contradiction to his gnarly face, wiry messy hair and the scarecrow appearance. He bellowed as the bell sounded end of day. Not a soul moved until he waved the stick to dismiss us. We filed out quietly to his final words, the ones we were used to hearing. “No leeway will be given, get it done … Or Else!”

“Could you feel her fear? Did you have a teacher like Mr.M?” Please leave a comment I will answer soonest.happy weekend 😇

                      Hear The Song.

The Daily post prompt today is  🔜 song    🔚 press it to read loads of wonderful entries or to participate.
  

I heard the beat the boom of the base

I could visualise the look on her face

 the moody frown the smoldering pout 

 as she mouthed the words as if in shout.


The song she thought  had been new

was done long before my baby grew.

A new band covered the tune

The one I hear pump out her room.


I sit on the stairs transported back

to Marc Bolan singing the track

my hand reaches for the curl of my perm

The platforms that made mum squirm.


Bright shaddow, the blush on my face

the sulky look off into space

The frills on my sleeves

The stars in my eyes.

 hopes and dreams
the forgotten lies.


I jump up as she opens the door

silent now , clothes on the floor

she wears a badge of girls of her time

her in Dm’s… me in mine.


Our lives so close

A mirror of me
 back in the day

when we were free.


I hope you enjoyed the video clip nostalgia plays such a big part in everyones lives.

Do you have a song that whips you back? Leave a comment and once I climb off my shoes Ill get right back. 

I Want To Turn The Clock Back.

image

I want to turn the clock back; to before you went away,

To get the chance to tell you, and beg of you to stay.

I want to turn the clock, to face against the wall

To hope that the sickle, this time, fails to fall.

 

I would cradle your tiny body and together we would sleep,

Beneath the comfy blanket with booties on your feet.

You would recognise me by the noises that I make,

The songs I’d be singing while I baked for you a cake.

 

The house would fill with laughter as I introduced to you,

A sister and two brothers, who would be in love with you.

They’d fight to let me hold you, and smother you in love,

You would have fitted in the family, like a hand into a glove.

 

But clocks don’t go backwards, time refuses to stand still,

Mothers can’t make it happen, we haven’t got free will.

If we did, we would have held you and never let you go,

But you got taken to a corner, of time we’ve yet to know.

 

The sun keeps on shining, as does the falling rain,

The sunflowers still blossom, though not the same.

Growing up a family, with your missing name,

Like gazing at a sunflower through a broken pane.

 

Today, a long past memory was jogged, a never forgotten moment recalled and tears were shed; but all is just as it should be.