AN UNWRITTEN LETTER

This is the time of year is for families and reflection. This is a letter I wish I had written.

A letter to my….…Stepfather

Our first encounter took place on a railway station when I was almost twelve, a meeting my mother had arranged so we could get to know each other. You gave me a pink plastic handbag and I threw it back at you, shrieking that I loved my Dad, hated you, and didn’t want your bribes. Not an auspicious start.
My mother had left home two months previously, after what I can only describe in retrospect as living Hell. I don’t know what was worse, the stony silences, during which I was used as a go-between - “tell your father this” or “Tell you mother that”, - or the rows, which started off in in violent whispers and culminating in shouted insults and slammed doors, once or twice in physical blows - from both sides. Then suddenly it all stopped. I came home from school one day and Mum had gone. There was no explanation from my Dad, she just wasn’t there any more. Letters came, letters I learned to dread for the effect they had on my father, turning him morose and bad-tempered, but there was no word for me. It was left to an aunt to explain things and tell me about that proposed meeting. I didn’t want to go, and all the way there I tried to think of a way to escape, but when you are eleven, and especially in those days, there is no option but to do what adults tell you.
Some six weeks later, during which time I still had had no contact from my mother, I was told I was going on a visit to her. She was living with her elder sister, my favourite aunt, so it was with mixed feelings that I made the journey. I had been there for a week and was beginning to ask when I would be allowed to go home, when Aunty Rose told me that you and Mum were going to be married, and it had been agreed by all concerned that it would be better if I never saw my dad again. Of course, no-one had bothered to ask me. Philip Larkin was so right - they do fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.
You married abroad and I wasn’t at the wedding, opting instead to go to boarding school and thereby avoid living with you. Holidays were spent at a holiday home and Airmail forms were the only contact. Then came the news that I was going to have a baby brother or sister. Oh, the excruciating embarrassment that news caused me! Nevertheless I was thrilled to be asked to think of a name. I remember filling one of those letter forms with every name I could think of, using the smallest writing I could manage. There were hundreds of them and they must have been unreadable; I even added to the list in subsequent letters.
Eventually you came home on leave, took me away from school, and I came at last to share a home with you. Robin was born and we returned to Africa, a fledgling family, albeit one with a lot of baggage.
I’d never actually liked my mother, a feeling I think was mutual, and we were soon at loggerheads, especially as she treated me as an unpaid Nanny. You, however, were different. You never treated me with anything but kindness, going out of your way to help me keep up with my education, talking to me, sharing jokes and generally taking care of me. You introduced me to books I’d never have read without you, and nurtured an enquiring mind I didn’t know I had until then. But there was a distance between us, mainly caused by me. I never called you by name, never spoke to you, only at you.. If only I could have explained that my teenage truculence was really shyness and embarrassment about my behaviour at our first meeting. I was so ashamed; I couldn’t forgive myself and felt sure you couldn’t either. I didn’t realise that you were shy too and thought you sometimes stern and unapproachable. I was in awe of your intellect and I felt so inadequate beside you. How silly the young are!
In due course my resentment of my mother’s behaviour, both then and in the past, brought matters to a head. We had a row and I was sent back to England. A few years later you all came home, but still we were apart - me in London, you in the Midlands, and visits were rare. When my children came along I brought them all to meet you. You were a brilliant Grandfather, full of fun and laughter and shielding them when they fell below Mum’s strict standards. They loved you dearly, and I was more relaxed in your company, but still we never touched, never hugged, and even then I couldn’t bring myself to use your name
And then, aged forty-eight, you had a massive heart attack and died. I stood by your grave and grieved, not only for your death but for the lost chance to tell you how I felt. It’s nearly thirty years since then but whenever I think of you the pain of regret is as sharp as ever. Those two damned words “If Only”… again.
So that’s why I’m writing this letter. To let you know how much you meant to me, how much I grew to love and respect you, and how very much I miss you still.
I’m so sorry… Dad.

Tips from Hippie

A friend of mine posted this on a winemaking forum I belong to. It's such good advice that I thought I would share it with the world.
Thanks Hippie.


Holiday eating tips:
1. Avoid carrot sticks. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Christmas spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they're serving rum balls.
2. Drink as much eggnog as you can. And quickly, it's rare. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an eggnog-alcoholic or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas!
3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand-alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat
4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission.
5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello?
6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's. You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog.
7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.
8. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day?
9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have some standards.
10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Re-read tips; start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.

Remember this motto to live by: "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, wine in one hand, chocolate in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO what a ride!"

Writing Group

I belong to a writer's group called ScribesRus. Each week we meet to discuss how to get our work published (an anthology is due very shortly) and we set a writing topic and critique the results at the next meeting. Here are my contributions to the subject of 'Ice'

ICE

I’m lying in the dark, remembering.
“Ice?” he’d asked.
“Mm, please,” I’d answered.
He came from the bar, hands cradling the drinks. Before handing mine over he’d leant forward and kissed my eyelids.
“Keep them closed,” he’d whispered and pushed the glass into my hand.
I felt him stand away from me; “You can open them now,” he said.
As I did I looked at him, smiling quizzically.
“Drink up,” was all he said.
I raised the glass and then I saw them; earrings made from the biggest, most beautiful diamonds I had ever seen.
“Oh, Dave,” I breathed. They’re beautiful, but..?”
“Well you asked for ice,” he said, laughing, and held his arms open. “Come here and say ‘thank you’ nicely.”
As I moved to meet his embrace I exalted. At last I had the proof we needed and soon Dave Preston would be behind bars, where he belonged.
It had taken six months to reach this point. My boss at the Serious Crime Squad, DS Peter Ryan, had begun to despair of my ever getting the job done. We’d been given a tip off about Preston’s involvement in the robbery at Lord Kilthomas’s mansion. Not only jewels and paintings had been taken, but also the life of the elderly housekeeper. However, the witness was unreliable and DS Ryan had sent me undercover to get more evidence. The last time I’d reported in he’d told me I had a week.
“It’s not working Jo” he’d said. “We’ll have to try something else, and the longer you’re mixed up with him the more dangerous it is.”
“But I’m making progress” I’d said. “He’s beginning to trust me and I can nail him, just give me time.”
“One week and that’s it,” He’d been adamant.
Now out of the blue I’d been handed the proof on a plate - or in a glass!
I called Ryan the next morning; he was overjoyed.
“Great! Now you can get out. I’ll send an armed unit round and nab him. Well done, Jo.”
“No,” I’d argued. “That’s no good. Look, he’s giving a party tomorrow at his house in Essex. Send them there. It’ll only be his cronies so no members of the public will get involved. It’ll be safer, and I’ll stay till then so his suspicions won’t be aroused.”
Ryan hadn’t agreed at first, but eventually gave in.
The party had been in full swing when Dave took a phone call. Afterwards he came across to me and smiled.
“Drink? Ice?”
“Oh yes please, I need something to cool me down!”
“Yes, you do, don’t you sweetie?” His voice hardened as he held my arm. “Come with me,” and he propelled me from the room and downstairs.
“Dave, you’re hurting me. Where are we going?”
“Shut up! I’ve just had a call from a little bird, who told a very interesting tale. All about a beautiful lady copper. Well, bitch, they might be coming for me, but you won’t be around to see it.” He pushed me towards the large walk-in freezer.
I began to struggle and cried out.
“No point, darlin’. We’re all mates here so no-one’s interested. The helicopter’s revving up and I’ll be gone in 10 minutes.” He punched my face, pushed me in and slammed the door.
That was twenty minutes ago. Ryan isn’t due for another hour and already I can feel my body giving up. All I can think of is Preston’s parting shot.
“Keep your cool!” he’d sniggered as he walked away.

Second attempt

THE END?

Now’s the end of global warming.
We didn’t heed the urgent warning,
Drove our cars and flew our planes,
Overloaded all our mains;

Gas and oil we reckless used,
All resources we abused.
Wasted water and wasted food,
Never thought of planet’s good.

Icebergs melt and oceans rise,
Swamp the land and gain the prize.
Gulf stream’s gone and so is heat,
Now the process is complete.

Never more a summer’s day;
Permafrost is here to stay.
Cold as never known before,
Ice creeps over forest floor,

Hear the crack as branches splinter.
In the new and cruel winter
Rivers freeze, and lakes, and ponds.
Crystals form on the green fronds

Of palm trees in once tropic lands.
Hoar frost appears on desert sands;
Ice stifles all, six metres deep.
And none, not one, survives to weep.

Purple Prose

PURPLE PROSE

Bedecked with curlicues and scrolls.
Frilled and fancied,
Furbelowed beyond belief.
The golden nugget of
Verisimilitude obscured.
Ormulued with overblown opulence.
Gilded and garnished. Tarnished.

This is not something I aspire to and hope you won’t find any of it here!

THE WRITER

Autobiographical?
Maybe - you decide - I couldn't possibly comment.

All her life she had wanted to be a writer but because she was lazy and such a very bad typist, she’d never fulfilled her ambitions. She just couldn’t face all that rubbing out or re-typing. Then she got a computer.
Actually, all she had really wanted was a glorified typewriter, and she was terrified of the thing to begin with. However, she soon found she was able to play games on it and enjoyed these up to a point. Unfortunately, she eventually became bored with the games that were already installed and went in search of better ones.
She didn’t like war games or football, or, indeed, any sports games at all, so she was a bit puzzled as to what to get to amuse herself. Then she saw it.
A CD of various games of patience.
Brilliant!
She’d always loved playing cards and she rushed home with the CD, installed it on the machine, and began to play.
That was many years ago. She’s still not a writer, but she’s an expert at patience.

WHERE THE .... AM I?

The first thing I saw was a vast expanse of blue sky. The second was a face leaning over me.

“You all right, son?” said a deep resonant voice. It belonged to an old man with bushy white eyebrows and long flowing beard to match. His snowy hair curled gently over his brow and his deep blue eyes were full of concern.

“Where am I?” I cliché’d as I tried to sit up.

“Now just you take it easy,” he said, sitting down beside me.

“There’s no good way to tell you this, my son,” he continued, “But I’m afraid you’re dead.”

“What!” I shouted, “How?”

“A hit and run driver. They found you too late to help.” He shook his head sadly then brightened up. “Well, never mind all that, you’ll soon settle in. I’ll get someone to take you to the Quartermaster to get you kitted out.”

“Kitted out?” I queried.

“I think some clothes would help, don’t you?” he chuckled, and beckoned to an onlooker to take me to the stores, where I was issued with a long white robe and a harp.

A harp!

“But I can’t…” I began.
”You will,” grinned the QM and dismissed me.

That was ages ago, and I do mean ages.

They have this arrangement of soft fluffy cushions dotted about and on each sits a person ‘playing’ the harp. All you can hear is the tinkley, tinkley, plunk of miss-plucked strings. All day – every day.

I put in for a trumpet but they said they were only for the upper echelons.

“A clarinet, then?” I pleaded. “I’ve always wanted to learn clarinet.”

“No”, they said. “It’s a harp and lump it”.

Well, after another aeon I’d really had enough. I went to see some bloke called Peter, the second in command.

“Look”, I said. “I want a transfer. I know I’m supposed to be overjoyed to be here, but I can’t bear the boredom anymore. I want to move to The Other Place.

“What other place?”

“You know,” I hissed “Hell.”

Peter looked puzzled. “But this is Hell.”

I stared at him. “No”, I said, “It can’t be. There’s all those cloud things and the harps…”

“Oh, you people make me sick. Believe anything if you’re told often enough. Nah, this is definitely Hell.”

“But the Old Man”, I protested, “What about him? Surely he’s…?”

“You never thought he was…?” He shouted with laughter. “Oh, that’s priceless! Yeah, he’s ‘Old’ alright, Old Nick!” and he walked away, still giggling.

THE JOB

As he shut the door behind him Dave punched the air with delight.
“Yesss!” he crowed, dancing a little jig in the corridor. Pamela, the Sales Manager’s secretary, came out of her office and caught him in the act.
“I take it you got it then?” she grinned.
“Er, yes,” he replied, flushing. “How did you guess?”
“Can’t think.” she said, still smiling. “Anyway, congratulations, and I look forward to working with you. See you later.” and she carried on walking down the corridor.
He returned to his own desk thinking about his new job. He’d worked really hard for this promotion and he was full of ideas for the future of the department.
“My department” he amended to himself. When Mr. Anstruther retired at the end of the month he would be the new Sales Manager! He could hardly believe it.
All day he tried without success to keep the smile off his face. He didn’t want to appear too gloating when colleagues came over to congratulate him, but in the end the elation won and in a fit of euphoria he invited everyone to the office local for a drink at the end of the day.
He awoke next morning with the mother of all hangovers, but it being Saturday it didn’t matter. Even the hammering in his head couldn’t stop him savouring the thought of his new future. With the salary rise he’d be able to trade in his old car for something more sporty, perhaps sell the flat and get somewhere better, book that holiday he’d decided only last week he couldn’t afford. Oh, yes the world was truly his oyster now. He grinned at himself in the shaving mirror and resolved to make a start on improving his lifestyle to-day.
He spent a happy hour in the travel agent and booked the trip to Chile he’d thought would remain a dream for a very long time to come. It was a gratifying to realise that he would be able to explore the mountains while he was still young and fit enough to enjoy it.
From there he went to the estate agent and put his flat on the market. Armed with a handful of details of flats and houses he would now be able to afford he went to the local car showroom. He’d been drooling over one of the models on their forecourt for months. He did a deal with the salesman and put himself into debt, but when his new salary kicked in he would be able to afford the repayments - just.
The next few weeks at work he spent familiarising himself with his new responsibilities, sitting in with old Anstruther, getting up to speed on what had been happening in the department, and getting to know Pamela better. He’d always fancied her quite a lot, and was looking forward to working with her - and maybe taking the relationship further. In his spare time he went flat hunting. He’d found two he really liked and was having difficulty making his mind up as to which one to choose.
On the last weekend before taking up his new post he viewed the two flats and decided to take the smaller. It was nearer work and had a balcony and access to the roof. These advantages outweighed the charms of the other flat even though it was £5000 dearer and he would be very pushed to meet the mortgage. He put in his offer and it was accepted. On Sunday he started making plans for the move, sorting out a few belongings. During the evening he sat listening to music and reflected on how his life was going to be so much better in the future. New job, new flat and, hopefully, new girlfriend.
“Dave,” he told himself, smugly, “you’re a lucky bugger.” He finished his drink and went to bed, still smiling.
On Monday he went early to the office and sat at his new desk, grinning like a schoolboy at Christmas.
“All this,” he thought as he looked round his new office, “Is mine. All mine”
Just then his intercom buzzed.
“Ah, David. Good, you’re in,” The MD sounded sombre. “Could you step into my office straight away, please?” and he switched the machine off, giving Dave no time to ask questions.
“Well,” he thought, straightening his tie and making his way to the MD’s office, “Here comes the welcoming pep talk.”
Half an hour later he was back at his desk, slumped with his head in his hands. He couldn’t believe what he’d just been told.
“It’s got to be some sick joke. It can’t be true.” He shook his head and realised he was trembling. He felt sick and was afraid he was going to burst into tears.
He’d just been told there had been a takeover of the company. All the sales and marketing would be taking place at the new head office, and his job no longer existed. All his dreams and ambitions shattered. No job, no car, no new flat. Nothing. Just a whole lot of debt and no way to pay it.
He put on his jacket and, as if in a trance, slowly walked out of his office, out of the building and into a very uncertain future.

Poor kid.

Do you remember how embarrassing you parents could be when you were about 12 or so? If you do, perhaps you can empathise with this poor boy.

Halloween Party

I knew I’d end up here, hiding in the bog and wishing I was an orphan. I’m dreading tomorrow; Wayne and Terry will really be out to get me, even more than usual. It’s my Dad that’s the trouble. Why can’t he be like Mike’s Dad, and work shifts, so he can’t come to PTA things? Or better still like Susan’s. Her Dad’s in the Navy and doesn’t come back for months once he’s gone away.

I sussed there’d be trouble as soon as Mrs Hargreaves announced at assembly that the PTA was going to hold a Halloween party. Mum and Dad both belong even though I asked them not to. Mum said that parents should support the school, and Dad, who always pokes his nose into everything, said he was really looking forward to it and rubbed his hands together the way he does when he gets all excited. He even got himself elected on to the committee and he’s always going on about it at home. He knew I didn’t like it, but at least he could have warned me about the party. But no, he never thinks of me at all, doesn’t worry how his behaviour gets me taken the piss out of.

Well, he’s done it this time. When I saw him, I nearly died. I refused to come, but Mum said I’d got to. I begged her not to make me, but she got cross and dragged me into the car. Dad was full of it, telling me not to be an old spoilsport. “Lighten up, Tony,” he told me, “You’ll enjoy it once we get there.” Well he was wrong there; it’s been horrible, even worse than I thought it would be.

Most of the other parents have dressed up, the Mums as witches mainly, with black clothes and pointy hats, and the Dad’s are either ghosts or Dracula. They all look a bit naff really, but my Dad’s gone over to top, as usual.
He’s dyed... dyed... his hair green for God’s sake. Even Mum told him he was going too far, but he just laughed and said if a job was worth doing blah, blah, blah. Then he put this makeup on and made his eyebrows look bushy. Then he stuck some sort of white plastic thingy on which looks like a great big tooth sticking out of one side of his mouth. He doesn’t look like any sort of monster I’ve ever seen (except like my Dad, and that’s monster enough). Mum said he looked like the village idiot and he said “Exactly.” What that’s got to do with Halloween, who knows? Anyway, that’s what he’s doing now, running around the school hall with a big goofy grin, rushing up to people and prodding and laughing at them. You can see some of them don’t like it. I heard Wayne’s Dad say “Wanker!” as mine rushed away to pester someone else. Mind you, Sarah’s Mum, the one who’s got hardly any clothes on and says she’s come as Catwoman, she seems to like it. Her and my Dad have been flirting with each other. She’s sort of wriggling, and waving her fingers, like claws, at him, and trying to purr. Gross!
That’s when I came in here. I couldn’t stand it anymore, it was dead embarrassing. I’ll cop it from Wayne and Terry tomorrow, I just know I will. My Dad’s such a show up; I wish he’d just grow up.

On which side of the fence do you sit?

I was asked to write a piece on windfarms without giving my own opinion, this is the result.

Environmentalists are agreed that unless we do something very soon about climate change, life on Earth will become unsustainable. We must, they say, cease our reliance on fossil fuels and turn our attention to renewable energy. Unfortunately, they are not in agreement as to the best alternatives and no method causes more controversy than the effectiveness of wind farms.
Chief among the detractors are the scientists who argue that wind farms are not efficient enough. They cite the fact that in order to generate enough electricity to meet our needs, we would have so many turbines in place that the character of the countryside would be ineradicably altered.
However, a report by the Sustainable Development Commission has said it is possible to have wind turbines provide 10% of the UK's electricity by 2010. This would meet the government's target and take up only 1% of British land. Conversely, the Renewable Energy Foundation (REF) is dismayed at the report, believing too much focus on wind power is a mistake. John Constable, head of policy at REF, is quoted as saying "The report leads us to infer that wind turbines will avert climate change, but that is untrue. They have something to offer, but the question is whether we need to place as much reliance on what is actually a very high impact and costly means of emissions reduction.”
The RSPB and Greenpeace each voice concerns as to the effect the turbines would have on wildlife, particularly the possibility of birds flying into the blades and being killed. However, other organisations say that if care is taken in the siting of wind farms many of these problems could be alleviated. Health issues have also been raised, with one side of the argument saying that the low noise emissions of the turbines cause serious problems to people living nearby, and the other side saying that as long as they are at least 600 metres away from houses they are perfectly safe.
Another point of contention is their visual impact. In the opinion of some they are an eyesore while to others they are attractive. A certain amount of nimbyism creeps into the debate here; 80% of people polled said they thought wind farms were necessary, but of these, less than 10% said they would be happy to have a wind farm in their own neighbourhood.
So there we have it. In most debates the facts speak for themselves, but in this case the facts confuse. Meanwhile, as the argument rages on, the planet edges ever closer to destruction.

AN INVENTION OF THE DEVIL

They come in many sizes and all colours, some black, some striped, even some with dogs or flowers on, but they all have one thing in common. They are more nuisance than boon. They are a hazard to passers-by, a possible cause of death and almost guaranteed to get lost or mislaid.
I am, of course, talking about the ubiquitous umbrella, reputed to have been invented by one Samuel Fox, although it was an employee of his, Joseph Hayward, who was the actual perpetrator. The man should have been sacked and I am surprised his boss claimed responsibility for such a perilous creation.
Let me show you what I mean. Mr Smith, ready to go to work, glances out of the window and sees it is raining. “Aha” he thinks, “Brolly weather.” As he steps out of his front door he opens out the umbrella. Here luck is with us: he hasn’t got one of those automatic ones, which snap open sharply, and his front door does not abut the street. He has not, therefore, impaled anyone unfortunate enough to be walking past at the time. Yet. However, as it is raining heavily he holds the umbrella lower over his person and thus cannot properly see where he is going. Nevertheless, he reaches the station safely and, on entering the building, collapses his brolly and gives it a good shake. He has now showered everyone in the vicinity, so even those who have arrived by car are now wet through.
Mr Smith catches his train and as it is crowded he has to stand. He now has a problem. What to do with the brolly? He can either hook it over his arm while he strap-hangs, which means it is flapping about damply in the faces of other travellers, or he can use it as a walking stick and lean on it. Doing this on a jolting train can lead to the point stabbing either his own or other people’s feet.
Arriving at the terminus he joins the throng leaving the station. Up goes the umbrella and Mr Smith strides off to work, ignoring the fact that the spokes of the brolly are at eye level of people smaller than himself. He comes to a busy junction, and has to wait to cross the road. A sudden gust of wind fills the cover and, acting like a sail, the brolly tries to drag Mr. Smith under a passing bus. He is saved only by the quick action of a burly man who grabs hold of his arm and pulls him back. A much shaken Mr Smith continues on his way to the office.It is not raining when our hero leaves work but by the time he gets off the train it has started again. It is then he realises that, true to form, the damn thing has got lost. Pulling his collar up round his ears he hurries home and vows to buy a hat instead.

As you can no doubt gather, I hate the damn things.