Time Chapter 4

Photo by Nikola Nemeu0161 on Pexels.com

Continuing the Wordsmiths Round Robin story written collaboratively by Jane Pobgee, Val Chapman, Val Fish and Wendy Fletcher. This chapter was written by Wendy Fletcher.

Time

Chapter 4

Every day the leather cuffs seem to get a little looser. Of course, it is suddenly clear – even to my fuddled brain. Another day or two of the meagre rations and I will be able to slip free. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to the man that this is a possibility. Maybe if I eat even less, I could hurry the process. After all, they do say you could live without food for a few days as long as you have fluid.

As darkness falls outside, I start to implement my plan. He brings more sandwiches – cheese again – and puts them close to me. I almost weaken when I smelled pickle: my favourite. But now is no time for indulging my whims. Plenty of time for that once I am out of this place. I manage to push the sandwiches off the plate and nearer to the corner where shadows hide them from his view when he returns. Just to be sure, I lay out flat on the hard floor and scoop a heap of the dust over the top of them. The soil is gritty, reminding me of sand. I wonder if I might be somewhere on the coast.

Next day I manage to ignore the griping pains in my stomach and stretch across to hide the sandwiches in the corner.

Although I am feeling weaker by the hour, my mind is somehow clearing. Of course, the food has been drugged. Now it is getting out of my system. If I don’t eat, I can work out what to do – if I don’t starve first.

I reach for the spot where the girl had been and stretch my tied hands out to touch the wall. What is it made of?

The surface is cold and very rough.

I move my hands up and there is a crack running across; down, and there is another crack. I edge my way along, almost sure now what I will find. Similar cracks going upwards at regular intervals tell me it is built of blocks.

I push myself into the corner and know I am right. It isn’t a right-angled corner; walls are offset at an angle that means the structure is the shape of a fifty pence piece.

I don’t know where I am, but I know what the building is.

As a child I had played in these war-time pillboxes. They were strategically placed all over East Anglia to defend us from attack. So, whoever my assailant is, he has local knowledge as they are abandoned now and mostly overgrown.

I know there is no chance of slipping out of a window. They were shaped to deflect attack and the inner edges are little more than slits. No chance of breaking down a wall; these monuments are solid concrete. My only hope is the door – perhaps when another tray of food is brought to me.     

After a lot of struggling I am finally able to free myself from the chains. I have an idea how I can use the nail; my biggest problem will be how to keep my hands out of his sight until I make my move. It could all go horribly wrong, and then what? But I have to try. I could be free tomorrow!

It is such a relief to have the chains off, but still I have a restless night – so many thoughts going around in my head.

Time Chapter 3

Photo by Nikola Nemeu0161 on Pexels.com

Continuing the Wordsmiths Round Robin story written collaboratively by Jane Pobgee, Val Chapman, Val Fish and Wendy Fletcher. This chapter was written by Jane Pobgee.

Time

Chapter 3

I shuffle once again over to where the girl had been. In the half-light I was sure I had seen something. I was right, low down against the wall I can just see a small nail. It has been banged into the brickwork, barely visible. I’m not sure how this could be useful, but it is something.

Crouching low I manage to get my fingers to the nail; it feels tight in its hole. I knew I wouldn’t have the strength in my fingers alone to pull it out; I need something to help prise it out. I hear the man returning with the bucket so scurry over to my ‘place’ again.

Once he has left I go back to the nail. It is dark now; I have to feel for it.

I try putting a link of my chain over it, tugging at it; it immediately slips off. I triy again, this time keeping my finger over the nail to stop the link coming off. I don’t know how long I crouch here, pulling and tugging this way and that for what seems like hours until, eventually, the nail loosens.

I shuffle back, sit, and hid the nail in my bra. I try to get some sleep. It doesn’t come easy; I am too buzzed to settle. This could be my chance, a way out of this prison.

Eventually my eyelids drooped and I slept. Again I don’t know what time it is when I awake, the man comes, bringing another tray of food, not the usual slop. This time it is a sandwich: a cheese sandwich. I know I need to eat more even if it is drugged as I am too weak to think clearly. I eat every crumb, and it tastes so good. He replaces my water bottle, allows me to use the bucket and leaves.

I drink most of the water straight away; I figured that would help clear my head. Thankfully, it tastes clean and cold. I don’t think it is drugged but then what would drugged water taste like? I have no idea.

For a long time I sit, not doing or even thinking anything. Later the man comes back with another tray containing another cheese sandwich, slightly stale, and some more water. Again, I eat every crumb. Not quite as appetising as the first but still better than the slop they have been giving me.

Once he leaves, I know I have to have a plan. I need to think how to get out of here. He isn’t going to return for a while; I dig out the nail. It isn’t very long, but I wonder if I could somehow use it to free myself of the chains. I spend a long time looking at the leather cuffs that tie my hands, inspecting every bit of them, seeing how they connect to the chains.

An idea begins to form.

Time Chapter 2

Photo by Nikola Nemeu0161 on Pexels.com

Time

By Val Fish, Val Chapman, Jane Pobgee, and Wendy Fletcher

Here is Chapter 2 in the writing group’s excellent Round Robin story, Time. This Chapter was written by Val Chapman.

Chapter 2    –    Val Chapman

There used to be two of us here.

I can remember a girl. She was here before me and through my drug fuelled haze, I tried to talk to her, find out who she was, who had imprisoned us here, and why?

I had so many unanswered questions.

I never had a reply, she had just sat on the floor, knees pulled up to her chin and when she did lift her head I could see her tear stained face. Dirty, and with a look that once I imagine was defiance, but now was just defeat.

I could almost smell it on her.

Of course I had no idea how long she had been here, wherever ‘here’ was.

Jesus Christ, I had no idea how long I had been here, but I would make damned sure it won’t be for much longer.

I had discovered something about myself being here. 

Fear makes me bloody determined and angry.

I woke up one morning? afternoon? and I was on my own.

The girl had gone.

I had heard nothing and had no idea when, how, or why she had been taken away.

More fear gripped me and I shivered, not just with the cold, as my stomach twisted and churned.  

I would be next.

I forced the fog in my head to clear. My life depended on it.

Moving as far as my chains would allow me, I shuffled across towards the spot where the girl had been.

Maybe, hope upon hope, she had left a clue or something which could help me to get out of here.

His footsteps sound on the stone floor on the other side of the door and I quickly scuttle back to ‘my’ place.

The bastard unlocks the door and comes in with another tray. The last thing I want to do is eat it, but I have to keep my strength up if I’m going to get out of here.

And I will. 

I try to smile at him.

Maybe I can fool him into letting his guard down if he thinks I am friendly.

I say “try”, but my mouth is so dry my lip sticks to my teeth.

Still, he seems to accept it, and slides the tray in my direction. 

He stands, arms folded, and looks at me.

He says nothing, just watches me for an uncomfortable few minutes, then picks up the disgusting bucket and leaves.

Who is he?

I try not to think about what he wants with me. If it is just for a ransom then I hope it gets paid soon. 

There is still a small amount of watery light coming through the window and I take my chance to look around for something, anything I could use to get the hell out.

I had almost given up when I spotted something.

Time

Photo by Nikola Nemeu0161 on Pexels.com

Our writing group, Whittlesey Wordsmiths has been working collaboratively, in teams during the lock down, to produce Round Robin stories. These pieces are group efforts with each team member writing an individual chapter. This is the first chapter of Time, we will post the other chapters during the next few days and weeks. Enjoy!

Time

By Val Fish, Val Chapman, Jane Pobgee, and Wendy Fletcher

Chapter 1 Val F

Time means nothing to me, not the hours, the days, the weeks; I cannot tell you how long I have been here, I cannot tell you where I am, except in hell…

I only know that I wake up every morning, sometimes I wish that I would just go to sleep and never wake again, to free myself from this nightmare.

I have no wall to scratch out the days, and even if I did my hands are tied.

I could not even tell you the time of year, I’m guessing late spring, as, from the little light I do get from the tiny window  (it’s too high for me to see out) it does seem to stay light longer each day.  Nevertheless, it’s pretty cold down here; I only get a smidgeon of sun each day. I suppose I could work out which direction I’m facing if I thought about it, but what good would that do me? 

I try to remember how I got here, in this dungeon; I guess I was drugged. I think he’s possibly putting something in my food, I am constantly feeling dozy and lightheaded, although that could just be the lack of food, or drink.  He leaves me water, but I sip as little as possible, for fear of needing the toilet.

He comes in three times a day with my food, unappetising muck; my stomach is crying out for food, but still I can usually only manage a few mouthfuls before I start to feel nauseous.

At least my hands are free for a while.  Then the ultimate humiliation, he allows me to relieve myself in a bucket in the corner. 

When he’s gone, and the door bangs shut, and I hear a key turning in the lock, back in my chains, only then will I  cry.

The world out there must be looking for me, I must have hope.

Will I ever get out of here, or am I destined to die in this shithole? 

UP, UP AND AWAY

 

This piece has been written by Val Chapman and gives a slightly different perspective. The story has a local connection, who knew?

I had been standing in the field for ages. It was always the same at this time of year. I had been told to “hurry up, it’s nearly time to go”.

So I had left the warmth of the inside with the cosy blankets and smell of pine trees and ginger cookies and went in search of Comet and Prancer.

We were the oldest of this particular group of reindeers and as such we felt deserving of a little bit of respect and consideration, not being pushed around and hurried. I found them both finishing off lunch and we headed across to the big barn which housed the sleigh. It had been built years ago but still looked as new and fresh as ever, nestling between the workshop and Santa’s house.

We could see the elves going to and fro, filling the sleigh and the excitement was building. 

“Ah Cupid, there you all are. I thought we would give you a bit of time to pull yourselves together ready for the off”.

Vixen really fancied herself as something special, and she and I had crossed antlers on a number of occasions. Honestly, just because Santa had given her the left-over carrot back in ’97 Vixen thought she was the ‘chosen one’ and could do no wrong.

I mean, it was not as though she was ‘lead reindeer’. Everyone knew that Rudolph had that particular role. 

It wasn’t always like that of course.

We never used to have a ‘lead’ as such. The eight of us managed very well thank you and even when the last Dasher and Dancer retired, the new pair fitted in very well with the rest of us.

It was only when Rudolph grew up and became this freak of nature with that weird glowing nose that she got to head out at the front of the sleigh.

It took a bit of getting used to I will admit, but the elves had done a fantastic job in adapting the sleigh for the nine of us.

Santa had to have a few practice runs of course to get used to the difference. Well, he’s not as young as he once was, and needs a bit of help on occasions. I have to say though, it did work well and we have been together as a group ever since. 

We did worry at first that we would get more attention if people could see this red glow in the night, but apart from one or two close calls in the early days it had been pretty much plain sailing.

Still, no time to think about that now. We had work to do.

I finished off the bit of lichen I had been munching on, and along with Comet, Prancer and Dancer headed over to the sleigh shed and the magic dust booth where the elves were waiting.

Vixen was already there of course, ushering all of us along like a group of schoolchildren.

Rudolph, Blitzen and Dasher followed the four of us jostling to get to the front of the queue.

“Oh come on you two, let’s get a move on”. Vixen chastised us, while Donner behind them sheepishly shrugged.

I quite liked Donner. She was a pretty little thing, kind and helpful, very much like her mother.

After the magic dust had been applied to all of us, Bernard, Santa’s chief elf, walked with us to the sleigh.

We all took our places and Bernard and his crew had just finished fastening us in, when Santa arrived.

“Great timing as always boys”, the boss smiled.

Typical of Santa, he took time to talk to everyone and to make sure that all was well.

This seemed to take longer and longer each year and one or two of us were getting a little impatient.

Finally, the sleigh was given the all clear and with a final “hurrah” we headed off towards the stars.

The first stop as usual was the hotter countries. Even at night the temperature was warm and it was better for us to get those out of the way while we were still relatively fresh and raring to go.

To be honest it really was a relief to finish where it was colder, the heat does not suit reindeers especially when they are tired and a little grumpy.

Everything went as smoothly as usual although the sniping from Vixen was annoying.

“Come on girls, pull your weight, you can’t let us do all the work”.

“Oh for goodness sake, watch where you are going, we nearly missed Fiji.”

“Stop dragging your hooves, we’ll never get finished at this rate.”

What a nerve.

I had been doing this for longer than she had. Cheeky cow!

I glanced down.

Oh, lovely, we were almost at one of my favourite places.

It was always a pleasure to stop off at Whittlesey.

Sometimes we called a halt at Lattersey Nature reserve for a ‘comfort break’ but nevertheless, these days we would always pause for a while at The Manor field.

Santa was more than a little fond of this little Fenland town, and we always took a little break here to meet Diana.

He had been meeting Diana here for years.

She was just a little girl when he first met her.

One of those annoying children who pretended to be asleep just so they could meet Santa.

Only it turned out that Diana wasn’t annoying at all.

She had done her research, which meant that she was one of those rare people who left out moss and lichen for us reindeers instead of the usual carrots or apples. 

We’re really not fans of carrots, but they keep us going if there is nothing else. To be honest I quite like those mince pies people leave out for Santa. 

He can’t possibly eat them all of course, though in the early days he did try! So we take them back for the elves and they have the hot chocolate ready when we get back.

Sometimes we get thrown the crumbs and that’s how I found out how tasty they are.

Diana had soon sussed out Santa too. He looked forward to her cheese and onion pies, still warm from the oven. She had helped her mother to make them at first, but when she grew up she made them herself and waited for Santa so that they could share it.

Now though, she crept out of the house to meet us by the leisure centre, with bags full of pies to take on our journey.

Santa was a big fan of Diana’s meat pies too, maybe too big a fan, but had been warned not to eat them while in costume as the elves had had a terrible job trying to get the gravy stains out of his coat last year.

We had already delivered in Eastrea and Coates and looking across the rooftops, we could see the clock tower of St Mary’s close by, glistening in the early frost. 

It looked as though they had done a good job with the Christmas lights and the tree standing by the Buttercross looked very nice this year. A pretty Christmas card scene some people may say.

Seemingly some towns had decided to switch off their Christmas lights during the night. Something to do with saving energy, and money apparently. 

It was a shame, they don’t seem to realise how much it helps up along our way. Especially those of us who had tired eyes.

The moon was quite bright tonight though, and it lit up the water in the Bower. 

We started to take the sleigh down, and startled a fox as we often did..

Sure enough, Diana was waiting and with a beaming smile Santa stepped down from the sleigh and walked towards her.

Vixen looked across at me,

“No doubt you are glad of the rest, aren’t you Cupid?”

“It’s another long night tonight thanks to the storms over Thailand and China, and with all these new houses it takes a little longer every year Still, never mind, you’ll be able to put your hooves up when we get back. I heard that the new, young Cupid has been doing very well in training. You might find yourself cast aside sooner than you thought.

Although I don’t suppose you will mind. Your heart hasn’t been in it lately, has it?”

To imply that I had not been giving everything for Santa was the last straw. This is what I and the other reindeers had been born to do. It was an unimaginable honour to serve Santa in this way and I was cut to the quick to think that anyone, even Vixen could think that I was in any way disheartened, and not doing my very best.

Of course I realised that my turn at the sleigh was coming to a close, and as Vixen ‘kindly’ pointed out, the next Cupid was already waiting in the wings. A life of retirement was waiting for me and I wasn’t sure I was quite ready for that.

It seemed to me as though retirement was when the real work started. No longer part of the sleigh group, older reindeers weren’t valued much. They had to do a lot of the heavy hauling jobs, dragging wood to and from the workshops,  looking after the calves, making sure food was available for all. Let me tell you, life as a retired reindeer wasn’t much fun.

So while Santa was saying his goodbyes to Diana, I managed to free myself from the harness.

I was desperately sorry to leave Santa in the lurch like this, but I could not face being with Vixen any longer and wanted my own adventure.

I cast a glance at my friends and headed off.

They couldn’t follow me of course as they were still tethered, and I could fly much faster on my own.

I watched from a distance to make sure all was well with the others, well most of them, and Santa of course. Satisfied that with Diana’s help everything was under control, I continued on my little journey.

I had always enjoyed visiting Lattersey, and now suddenly I had decided that this was to be my future home. 

So far I had been able to keep well out of sight and only a few people were aware of my presence.

Diana came to visit and brought her children with her, which was lovely, but for the most part, I keep myself to myself. I have made friends with a lot of the Muntjac deer around here, and have learnt to keep away from the dogs and badgers.

I can’t fly anymore of course as the magic dust had worn off a long time ago, so if I wanted to go somewhere else it would mean a long walk, but I do visit King’s Dyke Nature Reserve and I may settle there for a while.

If I do I’ll make sure Diana knows so she doesn’t worry about me. 

Although for now I am happy enough at Lattersey, who knows where I might end up?

Val Chapman

Favourite Poems

A month or so back members of the Wordsmiths shared their favourite poems with the group. As an occasional feature we will publish their individual pieces, this one is by Val Chapman.

Not so much a song but more a poem

There wasn’t one particular poem that I could claim to be a favourite, so I decided to do a bit of research and still couldn’t come up with one that I enjoyed above all others.

It was when I was singing along to myself, as I do, that it occurred to me that songs were, for the most part, poems, set to music.

As I am one of those boring people who like their poetry to rhyme, otherwise it’s prose, this naturally opened up a lot more availability, which I am not altogether sure was a good thing, as I am hopeless at making decisions.

 

However, these two struck a chord (if you pardon the pun) for different reasons.

 

“It would never have worked,” I like as it seems to be taking the reader down one path, then veering off down another unexpected one, and finally, down yet another.

 

“Love song,” I can barely get through without a lump in my throat. I am sure this resonates with so many of our, though perhaps more so, the previous generations when feelings were often hard to express.

— Just a quick note,   I don’t know whether it is just a northern expression, but the words “I was tight” indicates a somewhat over-enjoyment of an alcoholic nature! —–

This one in particular came as a bit of a surprise, as they were both written by the same very talented writer, known more for her humour, and this poem is an unexpected offering from her I think.

 

They were written in 1978 (love song)

1987 (It would never have worked)

By the wonderful Victoria Wood.

Victoria Wood.jpg

Victoria Wood (Photo Credit Wikipedia)

 

IT WOULD NEVER HAVE WORKED

 

It’s over,

We missed the bus,

Nice idea, but not for us,

We didn’t click, let’s make it quick and say goodbye,

Don’t hold my hand,

And don’t demand a reason why.

No loving looks, no fond regards,

Tonight was always on the cards.

 

I wanted champagne and roses,  ’cause that’s the way I am,

You gave me vimto,

Tinned carrots,

And spam.

 

I wanted love to come and knock our blocks off,

But even Venus takes her cards and clocks off.

Your idea of foreplay was to take your socks off.

Things would never have worked

 

Rapport is a thing you just can’t manufacture,

You had your pin up girl, I couldn’t match her,

I didn’t want to, it was Margaret Thatcher.

Things would never have worked.

 

I wanted moonlight, romance and all that silly tosh,

You wanted gerbils,

A whippet,

A wash.

 

I wanted love songs but you wouldn’t write them,

My earlobe nibbled, but you wouldn’t  bite them,

You’d only fart and then attempt to light them,

Things would never have worked.

 

We’re not compatible,  let’s not get blue here,

At least we see each other’s point of view dear,

I like big, hunky men and so do you dear,

Things would never have worked.

 

LOVE SONG

 

Made your breakfast this morning,

Like any old day,

Then I remembered and I threw it away

 

I found an old photo,

In a kitchen drawer.

You by the seaside,  during the war.

You were laughing at something,

With the wind in your hair,

You were ever so slim then, and your hair was still fair.

 

And I wanted to kiss you,

But you always laughed,

And I wanted to tell you,

But I felt daft.

 

Still, we got married,

I was tight,

We both got embarrassed, played rummy all night

 

I remember the baby, and it’s sticky out ears,

But I can’t single out things,

Over the years.

 

On Woman’s surgical, sat by your bed,

I knew that I loved you,

But I never said.

 

I brought you Black Magic,

And they said you’d died,

I had a cup of tea there,

Came home and cried.

 

Got to go back to the hospital to collect your things,

Your nightie, your glasses, your wedding ring

 

Made your breakfast this morning,

Like any old day,

Then I remembered  and I threw it away.

 

Thank you Val, I find that every time I read Love Song I get something in my eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas past

The Memory of Christmas past
Photo by Susanne Jutzeler on Pexels.com

This post is by Val Chapman a reminiscance of her childhood Christmas.

It was never going to be the same again. My father had died suddenly just 3 months ago and although the festive season was upon us, I was feeling somewhat less than cheery.

It made matters worse that it was his birthday on Christmas Eve, and so it seemed that I had been dealt a double blow. The shops seemed to be full of things that dad would have loved to have received. Usually it was a struggle to find suitable gifts for my dad, after all, what do you get the man who has everything?  Knowing my dad would appreciate the joke, one year I found the answer to that question and gave him a bottle of antibiotics!

Of course it wasn’t just me.

My mum was understandably devastated and although she put on a brave face, she had little to no interest in anything.

My children, her grandchildren, were a godsend to us both on those dark days, and made us both realise that life does indeed go on.

I am now at the same age my mother was when she was widowed, and I took some ‘me time’ for a little reminiscing.

“It’s ok, I’ve got my gloves. Let’s get going.”

I looked up at my dad and took his hand.

“See you later mam”

We both gave her a kiss and she shushed us out of the house before turning back to busy herself with the Christmas dinner preparation.

This was our usual routine on Christmas morning. My mum sending us off to my Nana’s house, while she peeled potatoes, chopped carrots, made Yorkshire puddings and did everything that made for a perfect Christmas dinner.

I found out years later that mum had always regretted that decision, declaring that “children should not be taken away from their toys at Christmas”. One reason why she never let me bring my children to visit at Christmas. Oh it would have been very different if we had lived close to one another, and could have just popped round for a couple of hours, but as it was it was a 6-7 hour round trip, it meant at least one night’s stay.

A trip we did every 2-3 months, except at Christmas. The very time when families are supposed to be together. So why didn’t they come to us?

Well, mum once again declared that ” you would all have a much better time without us getting in the way”.

I can’t deny it hurt a little at the time, but she was a bit of a ‘home-bird’ and hated travelling. Nor can I deny that actually, she did have a point!

So, there we were, dad and I walking the two miles or so to my grandparents house. Dad didn’t drive, probably couldn’t have afforded a car even if he did, and of course, there were no busses on Christmas day.

I never minded, it always seemed to be snowing, but that is probably just my wishful thinking, and I was spending time with my dad.

I was definitely a ‘daddy’s girl’, and he in turn adored me.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my mum too. She was amazing, wonderful and a credit to her firm but fair miners daughter upbringing.

We walked down the path which runs alongside the semi-detached houses, and borders the playing field. Looking across this field we could see the sea, grey and threatening as it usually was at this time of year..

Before long we were at the main road. There were a few people about, often children who had just had a new bike from Santa, determined to ride despite the snow.

We walked beside the road for about a mile until we reached the railway crossing.

It was a place my father knew well. For all of his working life he had been at the docks and spent part of that time riding on the wagons which transported coal from one of the local pits to the docks where it was loaded onto ships to end up who knew where.

Crossing over the line, it was a fairly easy walk to my Nana’s house, past the Londonderry Arms where they were probably getting ready for another busy Christmas, and then turning right, with our destination straight ahead, just before the local working men’s club. A place where later my grandad, at the age of 97, and the oldest member, would be the guest of honour at its re-opening.

There were already some cousins there and we children delighted each other with stories of what Santa had left for us, and handing out presents for my Nana and grandad.

We didn’t seem to have been there for very long before we had to leave for home, with a promise that I would be good for my mum. We always took home a box of liquorice all-sorts, a gift to my dad from his in-laws.

Dad was the only son-in-law who was handed a present at Christmas. It was given by way of a “thank you” for the little jobs he did for them, fixing the toaster, putting up shelves, plumbing in a washing machine when the old twin tub gave up the ghost, that sort of thing.

As the ‘favoured’ son-in-law, my dad was also given the job of ‘first foot’ on New year’s Eve, being ushered out of the house before midnight and with a lump of coal for luck in his hand ready to re-enter once the church bells had struck. So whilst the rest of us were laughing and celebrating in the warmth, poor dad was outside, freezing cold and on his own.

Dad checked that I had fastened my coat up properly and we said our goodbyes and set off for home.

The terraced houses lining our route, normally blackened thanks to the coal dust which settled on the walls, took on a beautiful festive look with glittery snow settling on the tops of garden gates and privet hedges.

Getting back to the warmth of home and the welcoming smell of Christmas, the celebrations could start properly for our little family. Playing, eating, watching television. More or less just as I do today.

I often wonder what my Nana would think if she could see the piles of presents my grandchildren woke up to on Christmas morning. Would she be proud that her family were doing so well that they could afford all of these gifts, or horrified at the expense and ‘show’? I have no way of knowing obviously, but I suspect it would be the latter.

 

So yes, in a way, Christmas isn’t the same. But in many ways, thanks to children and grandchildren, it hasn’t changed very much, and I still love it, almost as much

 

Val Chapman

The Misspending of youth

Our dances weren’t quite this hectic

 

In this post, Val Chapman is sharing her thoughts on the changing world of school and aspects of life the young encounter now. Things that passed us by when we were of that age. A lovely thoughtful piece thank you, Val.

 

I was looking at a photograph of my neighbours’ grandson dressed up ready to go to his ‘School Prom’.

When did this become a ‘thing’?

We were lucky to get the occasional disco. It was always in the school hall though, no fancy hotel or stately home for us. I dare say the idea was the same, dressing ‘up to the nines’, one or two of us having a sneaky drink or cigarette before the teachers found out. Not me obviously, I was a real goody goody. Well, mostly…….

It felt quite anarchic, dancing in the school hall without it being ‘The Gay Gordons’, or ‘Dashing White Sergeant’!

I was born in 1957, so by the time my school discos came along, platform shoes and miniskirts were the order of the day.

That suited me fine though, I was a size 10-12, about 5’8″, and most of my height was in my legs!

Oh, how the mighty have fallen……….., and no, I’m not just talking about boobs here, my bum is definitely nearer the ground than it used to be.

See, that’s the thing though, isn’t it? ‘You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone,’ to quote Joni Mitchel, a favourite from back in the day. I was a bit of a hippy, so she was right up my street.

Then again, my musical tastes varied hugely. I would happily dance around to Mott the Hoople, Cream, Bread, T. Rex, Free, Stevie Wonder. Diversity doesn’t come close. Maybe I was just trying to find “my” band, but the truth is I just enjoyed being with my friends and didn’t have any particular favourite.

Anyway, back to the Prom.

It seems to me, that this idea has spread here from ‘over the pond’. It appears that we do pick up on more than a few American ideas.

Take Halloween for example.

Have you seen the stuff in the shops for Halloween from about August?

It will be taking over from Christmas soon! And as for the ‘trick or treat’ idea.

To my mind, it’s just getting money, or sweets by extortion. ‘Give me the goodies, or else’. I may be a killjoy, but I don’t want my children or grandchildren thinking this is a respectable way to behave.

Oh dear, I’m sounding more and more like my parents.

If you need me I’ll be in the kitchen, doing ‘the funky chicken’ to something ridiculous.

 

All my own work.

Plaigarism

Val Chapman tackles the issue of plagiarism in this post, raising issues and giving us her thoughts

……They accused me of plagiarism. Their words, not mine……..

 

I do sometimes wonder if I should include certain quotes in my stories. Obviously, I do not want anyone to think I have knowingly ‘stolen’ someone else’s work, passing it off as my own.

I have a little book where I write snippets of conversation I overhear, perhaps an interesting sentence or story I may read in a magazine. I look through this from time to time, looking for inspiration.

Sometimes it helps, mostly it does not.

But because these little prompts are ‘second hand’, should I use them at all?

I do wonder at times what constitutes plagiarism?

I think ‘knowingly’ is the keyword.

Surely we have all, at some point, used words from another body of work we have remembered and used in our own efforts, either consciously or unconsciously?

I assume that to be classed as ‘plagiarism’, it refers to a whole piece of work and not a few words or sentences here and there. Let’s face it, if it referred to ANYTHING then we wouldn’t be able to write at all!

So I’ll just continue along, in blissful ignorance and hope I don’t incur the wrath of someone with far more talent than me.

 

Val Chapman

SPELING

teacher
Read carefully and take note

Does anyone else get as irritated by bad spelling as I do?

Don’t get me wrong here, I freely admit to having to use help to check my spelling frequently.

The thing that bugs me though is, if I can do it, why don’t lots of other people?

I know I’m not the only one who sometimes needs help, and indeed there is plenty of help out there (thank you Alexa)

I have been looking at a lot of adverts online recently, where people try to sell things they no longer have a need for, or have made and want to sell on, and have been so frustrated, disappointed, and frankly quite angry about basic, relatively easy words which have been spelt incorrectly.

If people are unsure about how to spell something, why don’t they find out? Especially if you are putting it in the public domain. I’m not talking about a shopping list here.

It just strikes me as being lazy, and to be perfectly honest, If you can’t be bothered, I really don’t want to buy whatever it is you are selling, thank you very much!

I have been known to walk past a greengrocer’s shop to go to the nearest supermarket because the sign in the grocer’s window read ‘Collies 80p’.

And no, they weren’t selling dogs.

Talking of dogs, it was a website selling dogs that I was most recently annoyed by. The number of people who can’t spell ‘miniature’, ‘puppies’ or even the name of the breed they are selling was, in my opinion, shocking.

Someone was selling their shih-tzu, and yes, they did spell it the way they obviously say it, sh## zhu.

Anyway, rant over. I try to be forgiving, but sometimes, just sometimes, I despair of people’s lazy attitude towards English. Well, the spelling of it anyway. Apostrophes and grammar can wait for another day.

And don’t get me started on some cafe menus……………

 

 

Val Chapman