On Tea and Writing (and biscuits)

A piece of whimsy (based on factual events) that I wrote and read at Firstsite Gallery, along with others, on Friday 3rd November 2017, as part of a readings evening to raise money for EducAid.

The scene: A day of writing at the family house, whilst I am waiting in for a delivery. There are two things present in the house that I do not have in  my flat; a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and a telly...

Arrive at the house

Get licked all over

By a very

excited Staffie.

Play with her

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make myself a cuppa

With biscuits for dunking

Get my writing stuff out

All over the table.

Write a few words down

Oh, what’s that one I’m looking for?

After a while

Get a bit distracted.

Scroll through the Sky menu.

Watch George Gently,

And American Pickers,

And Hercule Poirot,

And Wheeler Dealers,

(converting a vintage Chevy

a ’54 stepside).

Answer the door

Sign for the parcel

Play with the Staffie

(Who was woken by the delivery)

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make another cuppa

Eat a pack of kit kat snacks

Think about my cholesterol.

Write a few more words down

Is this a poem

Or a piece of flash fiction?

Have a little nap

Because writing is tiring

(that’s my excuse).

Get woken by the Staffie

Let her in the garden

Play ball with her

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make another cuppa

With some biscuits for dunking

Write a few more words down.

Why is it so hard

to say what I want to?

After a while

Get a bit distracted.

Start thinking about swords

That poem about Excalibur

I still haven’t written.

Try to remember

the name of Frodo’s sword

in Lord of the Rings

(that turns blue when Orcs are near).

Go on google

It’s called Sting

And it’s only a dagger,

Then go on you tube

And listen to some Police songs.

Make another cuppa

With some biscuits for dunking

Write a few more words down.

After a while

Get stuck with the story.

Read through what I’ve written

Think about my writing

Wish that I was better.

Have a pity-party

Indulge in some pointless

Self-recrimination.

Realise I’m being stared at

By a playful Staffie.

Give her some attention

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Realise I’m hungry.

Make myself a sandwich

And another cuppa.

I’ve eaten all the biscuits

so no more for dunking.

Make the Staffies dinner

Hope that she’ll stop pestering

While I eat my sarnie

And drink my cuppa

There’s not a hope in hell

Of that happening

She’s a multi-tasker

Where food is concerned.

Where has the time gone?

The day has flown by

I’ve managed to do some writing

Which will need an edit

And then another one

But that’s for another day

It’s bloody never ending

Why did I choose writing?

Pack all my things up

Then do the washing up

Hide the empty biscuit wrapper

In the bottom of the bin.

Hope no one notices.

Try to say goodbye

To the lovely Staffie

Who just wants to play

So we get her ball

I chase her round the room

Then she chases me.

Put the kettle on again

Make another cuppa.

Sit on the sofa

While she curls up on my lap

And starts snoring.

Get my book out

I’ll be here for a while now

Anyway there’s no hurry

Before I know it

I’m snoring too.

Writing days are lovely

With a sleepy Staffie

If I’m very lucky

There’ll be another soon.

And I can do more writing

And drink more tea

With biscuits for dunking.

The Day the Fish Died: A True Story

Written at Colchester Write Night, on Monday 22nd May 2017, the first meeting at our new venue, Firstsite Gallery. We looked at the story behind Grayson Perry's Julie Cope and did a writing exercise  inspired by this. Here is mine...

A young boy likes fishing in the river behind his house; that is a shop at the bottom and a flat at the top. He lives there with his mum and dad and sister, and a big white dog called Penny. Many years later the young boy’s dad remarries and his new wife is called Penny, which amuses the much older but still not very grown up man-boy, but not his dad when he reminds him of it.

The young boy used to fish in the river behind his house that was a shop at the bottom a lot. He would often walk up the road and buy maggots for bait. He (the young boy) used to put the maggots in the bin outside, until one day his mum lifted the bin lid to put some rubbish in and lots, and lots, and lots of big black flies came out. This was not the first, or the last time, that the young boys mum was cross with him, but it was the last time he put maggots in the bin.

One day, long ago, the young boy was fishing in the river behind his house that was a shop at the bottom, and the fish started to float to the top of the water, which was going blacker and blacker.

The young boy was upset, and went back to the bit of his house that was a shop, and told his mum and dad who worked in the shop (and who lived above it with their son and daughter) what had happened.

On the other side of the river that the young boy used to fish in, and loved to wade across in his bare feet and look down at the crayfish in the water and the fish he used to try and catch, was a factory. This factory had leaked some chemicals into the river which had poisoned the water and killed all the fish. The young boy never fished in that river again.

A walk Down The Lane

A fresh September Sunday morning and we set off down the lane. You have changed from your skirt into jeans and boots, wisely as it turns out, and I have my coat and hat on.

Either side of us the verdant hedgerow is lush with leaves and hawthorn berries, the last of the blackberries, and those delicate purple pink and white flowers that remind me of sweet peas but aren't.
At the metal gate we stop to feed the two horses the carrots and courgettes we have for them. One of them, the young playful black one, tries to take the bag with the food in but I am wise to him now and keep it out of his reach. The older white one nibbles at your sleeve as we stroke their long faces.
Then we continue to the boarded up cottage at the end of the lane, the witches cottage we call it, and as usual fantasise about what it must be like to live there, and who the witch was.
To your delight the overgrown path beyond has been cleared and so we carry on, into the marshland alongside the river. We have to lift our legs higher than usual to walk through but it is worth the effort. We both agree it is better than the gym and I say it is like the army yomping on some training exercise.
High up on the horizon to the right a white house stands like a lone sentinel, surrounded by trees, and there are more horses in the field. Too far away for the few carrots I have left in my pocket and they don't seem to notice us anyway. We have seen deer in this field, but none today though.
We follow the river as it bends round sharply to the left, the cows on the opposite bank watching us closely, and keep walking as is straightens out, the cows now behind us and more green stretching out ahead. I make my usual silly jokes and you laugh anyway. You always do.
By now it has started raining, making little splashes on the river, and the grass is slippery underfoot. But we don't let it stop us.