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It was such a lovely day I thought it was a pity to get up.

Somerset Maugham.

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The Memory Book.

As soon as I got to the home and saw that Elisha's bags were in the hall, I knew that another fostering placement had broken down. In the office, the manager was dealing was a pile of paperwork. 'Do me a favour', he said, inclining his head towards the lounge, 'and see if you can find out what went wrong.'

We both knew what had gone wrong - she'd been seeing 'ghosts' again - but all I said was Tm just a trainee. I'm not sure I can...'

'You're a lot nearer her age that I am, and besides, she might talk to another female', he said dismissively, so I went to see if I could get any sense out of Elisha.

She was quite tall for a twelve-year-old, a bit overweight and probably none too bright, but she wasn't any bother really, apart from all the hysterical screaming about seeing ghosts. It had been decided that it was just attention-seeking, but no-one wants to put up with that in the middle of the night.

I remembered my training and tried to engage her by accepting what she said. 'So you've seen a ghost?' I asked.

'Yes'

'What does this ghost look like?'

'It looks like my Mum. It's how I remember her.'

'Why is that so frightening?'

'Because my Mum's dead.'

'Elisha, your Mum's not dead. You know that.'

'She is!'

'No, no, she went to Ireland, with a... a friend. You Gran told us.'

'She wouldn't have left. She wouldn't!' Elisha was almost shouting now.

'I know it's hard to think about that, but she probably thought you'd be alright with your Gran. She couldn't have known that your Gran was going to become so unwell.'

Elisha spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. 'She wouldn't have left because she couldn't manage on her own. She needed my Gran to help her take her pills and things.'

'But even so', I said, 'you can't possibly be sure that she's dead.'

'Yes I can' she said.

'How?'

'Because I killed her!'

I felt as if crystals of ice were forming under my skin. Suddenly, the interview was out of control and I had no idea how to retrieve it. I covered my ears with my hands to block out further revelations, but then I realized that I was the adult in that situation. 'That can't be true Elisha', I said firmly. 'You were just a little girl.'

'I was ten.'

Tell me what you think happened.' I was sure that I would be able to demolish any story she came up with.

'I was making toast with my Gran. We couldn't get the crusts into the toaster, but my Gran said that when she was a little girl, they used to toast bread on the fire. I wanted to try it, so we stuck a fork into a crust and tried to toast it on Gran's gas fire.'

'Did it work?'

'No, course not. But we had a great laugh.'

'Then what happened?'

'She came home.'

'Your mum?'

'Yes, her. She was... she was definitely drunk. And she'd been with a man. She had one of those marks on her neck. Gran had to try and calm her down.'

'How did you feel?'

Elisha seemed to be concentrating hard about on the question, then she shrugged.

'Did your Gran manage to calm her down?'

'Sort of. She could hardly stand, anyway, and she just collapsed onto the couch. That's when I did it.'

'No Elisha, you didn't do anything.' I was aware of the pleading in my voice.

'I did. She knocked a cushion onto the floor, and I picked it up. Then I held it over her face.'

'No Elisha. No! That didn't happen. You wouldn't have been strong enough.'

'She was very drunk. She put her hands up to grab the pillow, but she couldn't pull it off.' Elisha's hands were kneading the fabric at the hem of her school shirt, and then she let them fall limply into her lap.

I took a deep breath, but the air didn't have enough substance to fill my lungs. My voice sounded high and strained, even to myself.. 'So Elisha let's get this straight. You killed your mother, and then what? The body just disappeared. Is that what you're trying to tell me?'

'Things don't just disappear.'

'I know that but...'

'Well why did you say it? You think I'm stupid, but I'm not! What do think my Gran would do? Call the police?' Elisha paused briefly, as if waiting for an answer, then said flatly, 'She knew what I'd done, all right, so she called my Uncle Joe.'

'Is he the one who...'

'Yes, him. He won't say anything. When he gets out he'll want to stay out.'

'What did he do?'

'He said that they should bury her, so they wrapped the... my Mum... up in an old curtain. Then they put it in the back of Joe's van. They were gone ages, and when they came back they said that they had done it. Buried her. I didn't know where at the time. They never said. They told me I had to forget all about it, but my Gran never forgot.'

I tried to work out what she'd said. 'You didn't know at the time?' I asked.

'I do now!' she said in triumph, and before I could stop her, she ran out and rummaged in one of her bags. When she came back, she handed me a piece of yellowed newsprint. I didn't want to read it, but I had to. A man walking his dog in the woods had found some human remains. The unknown woman had been buried in a shallow grave, but the body had probably been disturbed by animals. It was impossible to tell how she had died. An appeal was made to the public for help, but the only clue was the piece of fabric she was wrapped in, which had a distinctive pattern of a blue trellis with yellow roses intertwined through it.

Suddenly, I could see what must have happened. She had found out about the discovery and had woven a fantasy around it. She hadn't realized that her attempt to get attention could mean that she had to spend the rest of her childhood in a children's home.

I left her sitting there and went to the office to report on our conversation, but the manager wasn't much interested. He handed me a few photographs and an album. 'Be a love and stick these in for me', he said.

The album was Elisha's memory book. All the young people had them. They were meant to help them keep track of where they've been and who's been looking after them. I flicked through Elisha's. There wasn't a lot in it, but I was suddenly curious to see what her mother -'the ghost'- looked like. I found one of the two of them sitting on a blanket, probably in the grandmother's garden. Elisha was smiling dutifully at the camera, but her mother was staring into the middle distance. I was just about to close the book when I noticed something that made me gasp out loud. They weren't sitting on a blanket. They were sitting on an old curtain or bedspread, which had an distinctive pattern of a blue trellis entwined with yellow roses

Joyce Phillips

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Half the world does not know how the other half lives, but is trying to find out.

Edgar W Howe.

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Tantalising by Janette Alexander

My two friends and I were meeting for our the first shopping expo since the festive season. The afternoon jaunt always included a pot of tea for two, one coffee and three danish pastries, in our favourite store. Heading towards the large glass doors we paused to pity the once vivacious 'models' now looking cold and lonely in the empty windows. Covered in dust cloths with the undignified word, 'sale' running in red vertical strips the full length of the cloth, they posed against a back-drop bereft of colourful displays. In all, a clear statement that it was definitely the end of the festive season.

We laughed as we remembered our last meeting. One of our trio had pulled us to a halt as we passed the festive window, crying 'Oh, how tantalising!' We paused to look at the Christmas window^bedecked with sparkling garlands. Shining gold bobbles and silver spheres swung lightly in a shimmering profusion. Rainbows of ever- changing hues from overhead strobes encompassed the scene, a gimmick that emphasised the wonder in the display of the 'sooo,' expensive toys. It most certainly was tantalising.

'Tantalising? That wasn't the words I'd use.' I’d thought as I’d observed young mothers, exhausted from tugging ineffectually at wailing off- springs, screaming the pre-Christmas chant, 'But, I want…' noses glued to the window. 'Sorry, definitely not tantalising, but pure and simply, harassing !'

Between munching on our weekly iced buns, my friends and I'd discussed the window's contents, and the unbelievable range of expensive toys, to that of our children's generation.

Laughing, we reminisced at their thrill on discovering Santa had been, leaving an orange, an apple, a bar of chocolate, and a shilling, or, if dad had a Christmas bonus, a whole two shillings, in their stocking, and of course the traditional favourite comic annuals from mum and dad. But the great excitement came in discovering Santa had really delivered the dream toy, as requested in their letter to him.

Memories flowing, we talked of the happiness of clearing up, and folding away where possible for re-use, gift paper ripped open by the hands of children eager to find out what relations and friends had sent by way of necessary bits of clothing or simply, some small toy, in order to swell the load of gifts filling the pillow case. Then came the big family dinner at Granny's. This was a tune of further exchange of little gifts, and a chance to compare Santa's present with the cousins.

The treasure chest of memories emptying we'd shared wonderful- past memories. When it came to the one, when our kids, their great day over, hot water bottles, safely wrapped in their woollen blankets warming their beds, they'd snuggled down in their new night clothes, eye lids dropping as they fought sleep, and how our hearts bursting with love, tenderly, we'd kissed flushed cheeks, as we bade them.' Sweet dreams,' our own eyes had become just a little bit too sparkly, we'd blown our noses, while nodding to each other as we longed for Christmases past.

Retracing our steps, we'd looked again at the ultimate in Christmas windows. Somehow it hadn't seemed so tantalising, in fact it was downright sad. Somewhere in its futuristic display it had it lost the theme of Christmas, and sorry, while we'd appreciated the hard work and long hours put in designing it by the window dressers, - no doubt to earn the cash to buy such gifts- all it had said to us was. 'Welcome to the festival of "Hard sell," designed specifically to give the lets get rich manufacturers and retailers, a very merry Christmas. Walking away agreeing, just as we did again, to-day, that our trip that day down memory lane over our cuppas and 'iceds' had been far more tantalising.

All the things I really like are either immoral, illegal or fattening.

Cecil Beaton.

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SOMETHING I WISH I HADN'T SAID

Larry Johnson was a well known actor. He had returned from a tour around major European cities, Paris, Berlin and Brussels. The tour had been a success but he was exhausted He had also been in comedy serials on the T.V. but was taking a well earned rest in the Dominican Republic with a party of friends.

"Here's a large envelope for you marked urgent," his wife Sandra said handing it to him. Inside was the script for a new adventure film.

"I've read the script and it isn't the type of person I like to play. It isn't suitable for me. I need romance. The character gets caught in an avalanche and does dangerous things. It's not my type of acting so I 'm sending the script back," Larry said. "Send a letter to my Agent. Tell him the script is unsuitable for me. I need more comedy with a little light romance. Stories more like Inspector Blackton."

Months later the film was made and it was a world wide success. It was the first James Bond film shown and was full of daring stunts, love affairs and lots of danger, beautiful scenery and outrageous puns.

"Turning down that James Bond script, which was a world wide success, was a big mistake. I wish I hadn't said it wasn't suitable for my personality. I would have found world wide fame and become a hero," Larry said.

The telephone rang. It was his Agent. "Are you O.K. Situation still the same?"

"Yes. I need to rest."

" O.K. fine. However there's a job for you in New York They'll pay you well, rent an apartment for you and drive you to the set and back. I won't pressure you. I know you're feeling tired but think about it. It's a very good deal and could even win an American award. You've got to think of the future."

"The answer is no. I'm not interested in going to America."

Stella Rutherford.

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Anybody who has to ask what is the upkeep of a yacht cannot afford one.

J.P.Morgan.

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HYPNOCHROME: arriving at an idea for a futuristic Crime Thriller

These days on t.v., it seems that there's a growing amount of implausible science fiction - giving good s.f. a bad name. I would include the relaunched Dr. Who in that, but as it is my wife likes it, together with Heroes and this formed my none preferred weekend evening viewing for sometime. 'Heroes' is where everyone goes about their 20th century contemporary business and in their midst are the central characters with superpowers, and not just those of the Champions of the 60's -1 mean I saw one of them fly straight up like a rocket in the middle of a session on an electoral podium, with only the background explanation mat they had a genetic difference. Yet this was not significant enough for them to look any different in their inactive state. Plus the fact that none amongst the enormous variety of life on Earth exploit, as this example, a method of rocket propulsion which tends to suggest it is impossible. The nearest may be the flea and its enormous jump in relation to its size, but then this is more like spring loading, whereas this guy from other exploits and episodes, has a means of defying gravity. I see these tilings as more designed to show us how clever they are with CGI (Computer Graphics Interfacing) man anything else.

It was with my wife's preferences in mind that I started watching 'Fast Forward'. For her sake as she was late in the bath and I intended to bring her up to the minute when she returned to the living room, our 'pause live tv' device not doing that as an old scrapper (no scrap allowance though). Anyway this one is about something happening seemingly deliberate, by some evil genius, giving citizens a preview of their lives some months ahead. The chaos in their life plans seem to disrupt society, future affairs with the unlikely, policemen glimpsing future murder investigations and trying to stop events, also some with a blank - believing therefore they didn't have a future, and they can be dangerous - worse than just live-for-the-moment type people.

So then a bathrobed image walks across my view and almost before I had given my personal playback she said, 'Oh well that's no good then what's on the other side?' as she immediately started channel surfing. 'I thought you'd be ok with that, or at least give it a chance,' I responded. 'No! If s not exiting enough - too plain.'

I didn't need to do much more than pull a face, as she knows my view of Dr. Who, expecting you to accept a hospital building with folks looking out of the open windows finding themselves having been transported intact to the moon. I remember my remark too, 'Whey! Wonders never cease', and her's, 'Shut up you, your spoiling it!'

'Anyway,' she said presently, 'write yourself... what you might expect of such a story,'

Prompted I became, with thinking cap on in the echoey quiet of my soak in the bath (one of my best times and places for creative thought) and it wasn't long before it was there :-

In our world of one-per-desk/one-per-most home computing, and the ubiqitous internet, this must be a way to mass or indeed a selective hypnosis... and whilst I knew from two voluntary experiences at the Dentist, when I was kid that it worked, I was also aware of the apparent total takeover in stage hypnotism - getting people to appear to do anything and not remember.

So then hypnotism through the screen. It would have to be subliminal for it to be say recruiting assassins. Doesn't matter if they're caught - means they're one job only, but then they're most unlikely ordinary folk, and with no motive and no readily evident link... I know it means men only, but using colour blindness. Those colour dot images where normal vision sees one tiling and they see another - the instruction where to pick up the weapon and where to target! Having been lured by a self help or a club type website. That's where to do the hypnotic thing , triggered later - that's it!

Do they get found out? Maybe through a spouse of a female investigator, staring at the dot pic, realises its something her husband got tested on when he wanted to be an electrical apprentice in the old days, and failed the requirements. She brings him over to the screens with her colleagues permission, to hopefully prove something, and there he sees the instruction. Sure enough, medical records of the assassins show this, although not all, as there is no treatment and some may not have known of this chromosomal abnormality.

They may have difficult getting to the 'Evil Genius', but interception and deprogramming is their first way to stop it.

There you are! A thriller, a bit of science which is plausible, what else do you need? After I covered this with my closest critic, as we lay back on the pillows in the dark, her reply wasn't negative. It was just light remarks really, in the form mild reassuring snores.

Mike Atkinson.

This is a free country. Folks have the right to send me letters, and I have the right not to open them.

William Faulkner.

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Graffiti

‘Hoy! You, get out of it!’

Johnny looked down, or was that up? Since he was hanging upside down over the top of the bridge as he put the finishing touches to his latest piece of urban art, he supposed it was up. The two Transport cops down below had split up and were climbing the embankment on either side of the bridge in an attempt to cut off his escape. A pointless exercise since they had forewarned him by shouting out. Unhurriedly he completed his tag - smiling red lips - and packed his equipment into his backpack. A quick glance over the parapet - the cops were only halfway up - and he was off along the track like a linty.

On reaching home he dropped his pack in the kitchen, grabbed a can from the fridge, made his way to the bedroom and sipped the coke while he undressed. It was three o’clock in the morning and he needed to be up by nine, his shift at the Happy Burger began at ten. He had worked at the Happy Burger since he left school three years ago and in that time had worked his way up from clearing tables to short order chef. It wasn’t much of a job but it the hours ten till four, six days a week, suited him. It fed and clothed him bought his paints and left him free to carry out his real work as a graffiti artist.

He’d gotten the bug while he was still at school and over the years had graduated from inane scribbles to the work he now carried out. Not for him four foot high multi coloured wording or cityscapes; all that was behind him; now, he was into landscapes, big sunny panoramas that brought a smile to the lips and cheer to a dreary day. Easygoing, with his only ambition being to improve and share his art with all, he was happy with his way of life.

Or he was, until he sat watching the six o‘clock news and the report of a murder, the body being found beneath a railway bridge; his railway bridge. Well not exactly his, it actually belonged to the railway, but it was the same bridge he had worked on last night. Now what was he to do? The police were not fools. It wouldn’t be long before they were contacted by the transport cops and then the search for the graffiti artist would begin. Johnny’s problem was, should he contact the police before they found him, as they undoubtedly would, or should he just let matters take there own course?

He really didn’t have a choice, after all it was a murder enquiry so he turned himself in to the police the next day and ended up, as they say, ‘helping the police with their enquiries‘. At the end of two day of questioning he left the station having been informed that the rail authorities were determined to bring a prosecution for defacing railway property. Well so much for helping the police. If he was going to be prosecuted, he might as well leave out his tag and hit a few more bridges anyway. He couldn’t and wouldn’t want to change his style, but without his tag the only way they could prove that it was him, was to catch him in the act.

A week later he picked another bridge in a different part of town and set to work. By two-thirty he had finished the background and had just begun to fill in the detail when he heard a sound. As before he looked up, but this time there was no one in sight. However he knew it wasn’t the Transport cops because he could hear a woman singing. As the voice grew near he could make out the words, it was a badly sung version of Cheryl Cole’s ’Fight for this Love’. As the woman emerged from beneath the bridge and passed under a street lamp he could see that she was young, skimpily dressed and obviously the worse for wear after a night on the town. How stupid could she get, didn’t she know that a woman had been murdered only a week ago under another railway bridge just like this one? He was about to call out to her when he saw a shadow behind her detach itself from the fence at the bottom of the embankment.

‘Hey look out,’ he shouted as he launched himself down the embankment, vaulted the fence at the bottom and hit the street running. The man grappling with the woman pushed her to one side and made off with Johnny in pursuit. He hadn’t done more than ten yards when the woman, now minus her stilettos, flashed past him, brought the man down with a flying tackle and suddenly Johnny found himself surrounded by police. The man was cuffed and taken away and Johnny was given a rollicking for almost blowing the trap. When they had left he went back to the bridge to finish his latest piece of art.

Fred Watson.

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He was the sort of man who would throw a drowning man both ends of the rope.

Arthur Baer.

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HISSSSSSING SYDNEY

Once upon a time there was a little snake called Sydney. He lived with his mummy and daddy in a pit at the edge of the forest.

One morning Sydney crawled out of bed, squirmed his way to the kitchen table and asked, 'What's for breakfasssst?'

'Same as every morning,' his mother replied. 'Fangfurters. And mind your manners son. You're always forgetting your pleassssses and fangcues.'

Ignoring his mother and tucking in to his food, little Syd hissed, 'Dad, can I asp you a quessssstion?'

'Serpently, son. What is it?' replied his father.

'Why do I have to go to school every day dad?'

'Well, for a start, lad, you have to learn your multiplication tables.'

'No I don't dad. Remember I'm only an adder.'

'True son but you still have to learn your hissssstory. And your literature you know - William Snakessssspeare and all that.'

'Oh, but dad, I don't like literature - 'to boa or not to boa, that is the quessssstion,' - it's a right load of cobras.'

'Now shut up lad and stop pulling your father's leg,' interrupted his mother.

'Don't be silly mam. He hasn't got a leg to pull. He's a snake, remember?'

'Enough of that you little twissssster,' she replied. 'You must go to school and pass your exams and get a good job like your uncle Silas. He was the first in our family to become a civil serpent. And then there was your cousssssin Vincent.'

'Well he didn't do much did he?' said Syd. 'He died when he was still at school.'

'Yes, that was a pity. He should have looked when he crosssssed the road and got flung up by that car's front wheel onto the bonnet. Still, it made him famous. He was the very first vindssssscreen viper, you know.'

Father spoke up again: 'We don't wish to know that mum but this snakelet's got to think about what he wants to be when he grows up.'

'I'm nearly grown up now, dad. I'm forty-eight inches long.'

'You mean four feet, lad, don't you?'

'No, you silly dad, snakes don't have feet. We're taught to measure in inches only at school nowadays.'

'Enough of that nonsensssse son. Don't wriggle away from the question. What do you want to do when you leave school?'

'Well I've got a few ideas. How about me becoming a policcccce informer - a grass snake? No, I didn't think you'd like that idea. I could be a magicccccian. I've already been practissssing some magic words like addercadabra and abradacobra. Alright then, how about an opera singer? I love singing those twiddly bits in Wriggletto.'

His mother lashed out at him with her tail but couldn't help laughing. She lay on the floor having a hissy fit.

'Now then mother,' said father, 'be careful or you'll split your sides and have to go to hossssspital for a hisssssterectomy.'

Mother pulled herself together and said, 'That's enough of the silly talk you two. You've finished your breakfast Sydney so get your snake bag and off to school with you. You might make friends with one of the children from the new family that's jussssst moved into the pit beside the fir tree.'

'I've already done that mother. The boy's called Billy and he's a bus conductor - whatever that might mean.'

Father chuckled and said, 'He's not a bus conductor lad, he's a boa conssssstrictor.'

'Oh is he? That must be why his little sissssster Bertha said she had a crush on me. I'd better put my boa tie on then to make them welcome. Only joking. I'm off then. See you at tea time.'

When Sydney got home from school he was always very excited and couldn't stop running all over the pit hissing as he went. And today was no exception. He flung his satchel down and had a good hiss in the corner. He hissed on the new reptiles his father had just laid on the floor. He hissed under the table and he hissed under the bed.

His mother shouted at him, 'How many times have I to tell you to stop that disssssgusssssting behaviour. If you must hiss get outside and do it among the trees.'

So Sydney went out and when he'd finished hissing in the bushes he wandered down the path and paid a visit to Mrs Pott the python. She had a lovely pit and Sydney was usually on his best behaviour but this time he was no sooner inside than he began hissing all over her beautiful, shining, spick and span pit.

Mrs Pott was very pit-proud and would not tolerate such behaviour so she shooed him out with her sweeping brush. Young Sydney tucked his tail between his legs (well, he would have done if he'd had any) and scampered (ditto) back home.

His mother could see he was upset and when he'd told her what had happened she replied, 'Oh, don't you bother about that high and mighty pythoness, son. I knew Mrs Pott when she didn't have a pit to hiss in.'

Bryan Harbottle.

Start off every day with a smile and get it over with.

W. C. Fields.

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FREE REIN

‘It’s easy for you Don, prattling on about free rein, your life is just a primrose path and it is through you I am in the predicament I find myself in.’

‘Calm down Eddy take a rational look at your present situation. All right, Marjorie may have found out about Lottie or she may only be guessing. But all is not lost, go home to Marjorie, tell her you were unfortunately and had to book an overnight stay at a hotel, and Eddy don’t take her flowers she may smell a rat.’

‘OK Don that may solve that piece of jiggery pokey but what about Lottie?’

‘That may take a bit more explaining Eddy, but remember we are on a free rein.’

‘Yes Don, I remember, but we are dealing with Marjory not a bloody horse.’

‘Eddy saying we are on a free rein does not mean horse riding, it is another way of giving ourselves a bit of leeway to work with.’

‘What leeway do we give Lottie?’

‘Well that may take a bit of planning but don’t worry Eddy, have I ever let you down?’

‘I won’t answer that Don, just sort Lottie out.’

‘Alright, we will play it this way, tell Marjorie you ran into Lottie in Kings Cross when she was on her way to visit her sister.’

‘She has not got a sister.’

‘I know that but Marjorie doesn’t, so stop interrupting me when I am in full flow. So you both went into the buffet bar for a coffee and to chat about old times, while waiting for your respective trains. There Eddy I have given the ground work, all you have to do inow is to decorate it a bit and you will be home free without the reins.’

Some days later, in Marjorie and Eddies semi detached.

‘Eddy.’

‘Yes dearest?’

‘Who is Lottie?’

‘Oh, I told you about meeting her in Kings Cross station.’

‘Yes you did, it must have slipped my mind.’

‘Why, is there a problem?’

‘Not for me, but maybe for you Eddykins.’

‘Why me?’

‘Could you explain why the mysterious Lottie has sent a parcel addressed to me, with your underpants inside?’

‘Put that vase down Marge, it is your brothers fault, it’s his idea of a joke, look at today’s date Marge, the first of April.’

Thinks; If I see Don again I’ll strangle him with his free rein

Bob Mather.

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Blessed is he who expects no gratitude, for he shall not be disappointed.

W. C. Bennett.

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WRITING ON WALLS AND THINGS John Frostick

'The sod! He should have his hands chopped off.'

Joe Arcot was seething. It was 1989 and he had recently bought a steel garden shed with sliding doors. Inside, tools hung clean and oiled. The floor was spotless, just waiting for a deck chair on which he planned to fulfil an ambition that involved turning off the world for hours on end.

After finishing work, Joe felt a tingle of pleasure as he approached his pride and joy but walking past he found the back covered in multi-coloured graffiti. Initially he wanted to paint over the hideous, childish offering but on consideration he realised it would just present further anti-social opportunities, so he left the mess for everyone to see.

In fact he misjudged the situation. Wall-scrawlers are competitive, they are drawn,(excuse the pun)to a fellow vandal's mess and try to compete, using any nearby surface, like sliding doors on garden sheds.

You can imagine Joe's response when he looked out of the bedroom window to see his doors despoiled. Approaching, he found the picture of a young girl kneeling on the right door, with a dominant, standing-male on the left.

Fuming, he ran to get paint and brush but on returning, realised the pictures were representational and very good, so he left them, reasoning that the next effort would probably be rubbish. At first he got used to them, then he enjoyed positive comments from friends and passers-by; finally the figures disappeared through familiarity.

Three years later Joe did decide to paint the shed leaf green. It was a warm Saturday morning, when intentions were thwarted by a long session in his deck chair but conscience overcame torpid pleasure and at eleven o'clock he painted back and sides, leaving the doors until after enjoying a leisurely lunch.

It was between his second tomato sandwich and a chunky Kit Kat that the door bell rang. 'Hello Sir. I see you are painting your shed. Would you consider selling those doors? I pass them every day and would miss the pictures, they have become part of my life I will fit new doors and give you ten pounds.'

Joe couldn't believe anybody could be so daft but he agreed. Within days the agreement was honoured and an envelope containing ten pounds rested on the hall floor.

Six months later, Joe was watching the local news, when his shed doors appeared, along with the man who had bought them. The interviewer asked. 'Mr Simpson, how did you know these were, Banksy paintings?'

'Banksy has been my passion for years, to stumble upon these originals was like winning the lottery.'

'Did you pay a very high price?'

'That's a private matter.'

'Well Mr Simpson, International interest is high. It is said you will make over one hundred thousand pounds at the sale tomorrow, best of luck.'

Joe gasped. 'The cheeky devil. I don't know who is worse, Mr rotten Simpson or the layabout, Banksy.'

PROFILE OF BANKSY Banksy, a British graffiti vandal whose satirical paintings and later, his stencils made him. darling of art collectors all over the world. He has managed to keep his identity secret. Banksy hates rich collectors who manipulate art for profit, but he himself is very rich. 'Oh the irony of life and art.'

We drink to another's health and spoil our own.

Jerome K Jerome.

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DARE THE DEVIL TALE

"George, are you a recklessly bold person?"

"You mean a daredevil, Sid."

"That's it George, but I never mention the second part of that word, it's a bit like Shakespeare's Scottish Play."

"So you never say, the devil?"

"No, not since he actually dared me."

"You're joking, I wouldn't have thought you believed in such rubbish."

"Listen George how do you know what the top of Everest looks like? Photographs and film records can be faked, only people who have reached the summit can vouch for its existence. Well I have seen the prince of darkness in person, it was a painful experience, one that up to now I've kept to myself, do you want me to explain?"

"Go on then."

"Three years ago on a lovely June evening I was walking along Collingwood Street, when a man approached me. He was smart, middle aged, with a pleasant smile. A young man in his twenties, who was obviously his companion moved three feet away as the man addressed me. "Sid, I am the devil and this young man is training to be my next,'Furnace Logistics Manager' and he is assisting me in a recruitment drive."

"Naturally, I thought, 'Happy Hour' and humoured the nuisance but suddenly unease set in, how did he know my name?"

We were standing at the top of Dean Street beside a bearded man waiting in his wheelchair to cross towards Grey Street when the joking devil said. "Sid, that man has just been to church, turn him round and give him a push."

"Shocked by the vehemence in his voice my temper rose and I struck the idiot in the mouth. He seemed to feel no pain and said, "Naught naughty silly Sid. Boy, you do it."

"Without a second thought the young man sent the poor soul careering down steep Dean Street into the path of an on-coming car."

"Well done boy. Sid you should have carried out that task as I told you." "Naturally I ran to assist the man who was on the floor motionless, in fact he was dead. When I turned, both men had disappeared but I was placed under arrest because a witness said I was alone with the man. Later they released me because that witness didn't think I pushed the wheelchair."

"Hells Flames Sid, what a shock."

"I know George and not a tale I want to tell, more a tail I want to hide."

George almost fainted as Sid dropped his pants to display a three foot, hairy sinuous tail growing from where tails once grew, strapped tightly to his leg.

John Frostick.

___________________________________________________________

A week is a long time in politics.

Harold Wilson.

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Necessity of War

1st Lt. Denny O'Toole, R.N. struggled to keep his head above the oily ocean as he watched his beloved H.M.S. Penelope sink beneath, taking his skipper and several comrade officers with her. They had been either too badly injured to be moved in the time allowed, or trapped in the flaming wreckage.

From being torpedoed to submerging forever, took Penelope four minutes, barely time for Commander Henry Dryden to give the order to abandon ship before being fatally injured by flying debris. Denny and another officer, Joe Pinkerton managed to get two life boats away, both crowded with injured personnel. At the last moment, the two officers joined the remaining six able-bodied men in the sea, and struck out towards the lifeboats.

To their horror, both boats were fired upon by marksmen from the Japanese warship, murdering all the occupants. O'Toole and his shipmates were in absolute shock as they were plucked, struggling and screaming, from the sea by the crew of a motor boat and taken on board the Japanese Destroyer.

They stood cold and wet on the deck and were addressed by a junior officer in Japanese, which incensed O'Toole and his men. In mid-sentence, Denny screamed at the Japanese officer. "I am 1st. Lieutenant O'Toole senior surviving officer of H.M.S. Penelope, British Royal Navy. I want to speak to your captain NOW."

The junior officer, clearly taken aback, slapped Denny three times across his face and said in perfect English, "I am in charge. You will answer to me in respectful tones."

The brawny red-haired Irishman looked directly into his adversary's eyes, straining to maintain discipline. "Listen to me, you murdering little ba****d, I do not talk to anyone below my own rank, and any respect I might have had for the Japanese Navy went down with my men whom you just killed. Now take me to your Commanding Officer."

"That's done it," said Able Seaman White."

"My money's on the Number One," Pinkerton answered.

O'Toole pushed his way towards the stairway to the bridge but was clubbed by a rifle butt. Uproar ensued as his men crowded round Denny and his attakcker. A pistol shot rang out, and the men looked up to see about a dozen cocked rifles pointing at them.

"Enough!" The Captain appeared on the Bridge, his gun still smoking in his hand

"Leave it, I'll sort it out later," Moaned Denny.

The Captain yelled an order and O'Toole and co. were herded below into an empty store room. It was not long before Denny was taken before the captain. He was a diminutive man, about fifty and had a thick black moustache. "You wanted to speak to me."

"I want to know why you murdered my men."

The Japanese captain turned his back for a moment then turned swiftly round to glower at Denny. Finally he snapped at the Irishman.

"1 could have you shot for that!"

"Then do it. The Internationa! Red Cross Agreement clearly means nothing to the Japanese."

"1 know all about your Red Cross Agreement. This is a necessity of war. The men in the boats were badly injured. You will be taken to a labour camp and they could not work. Indeed most of them would not survive the three days it will take to the nearest port. We are desperately short of food for ourselves; just having you on board for three days means reducing the already meagre rations for my crew."

'My heart bleeds,' thought O'Toole.'

"You also may not survive until you reach the camp. It will take several weeks over jungle terrain, much of which you will have to walk."

"And if we are too weak to work, presumably we will be shot," snorted O'Toole

The captain shrugged. "That is not my decision. Japanese work harder than you and are not so well fed. If we cannot or will not work, we get no food and are left to starve. You are a courageous officer, Lieutenant, but you can learn much from us."

Three days later, O'Toole and his men were taken off the ship and transported by lorry to the Malayan jungle where they marched for more than six weeks to the labour camp.

Jay T.Kay

What you said hurt me very much, I cried all the way to the bank.

Liberace.

__________________________________________________________

MARATHON

Sam staggered through the gate, up the garden path and into the kitchen. There, she removed her trainers and stood hunched over the sink gasping.

"Had a hard session, love?" asked her mother, clicking the button of the electric kettle.

"Unable to answer, Sam just nodded. After a few minutes, her breathing became less laboured, but panting still, she announced that 'bed called' and disappeared up to her room. Sam's parents were a little concerned. Three times this week, their daughter had arrived home after training and had all but collapsed into bed. It was atypical of Sam. Eighteen years old and a fine athlete, Sam Walton was the star of her athletic club and tipped to turn in a good time in the forthcoming London Marathon.

"It's just a virus, there's a lot of it about," Dr. Nicola Holt told her. "Skip the training for a couple of weeks and take some paracetamol if you need it. Let me know if there's no improvement."

"This isn't a cold or 'flu, Doctor, I've never felt so lethargic in my life. Even walking to the next room tires me."

The doctor just shrugged and pressed the buzzer on her desk. Sam left the surgery and made for the bus shelter, not feeling able to walk the short distance home. As the bus approached, She began to feel dizzy and passed out just as it came to a standstill. A school friend and neighbour Mickey was on the bus, saw what happened and immediately called an ambulance on his mobile phone. He then phoned Sam's parents, and said he would go with her to the hospital, and see them there.

All our tests show you may have a heart condition. We are transferring you to the Cardiac Department where you will undergo more procedures." The physician told her.

"No way! I'm eighteen, have never smoked or drank alcohol and am extremely fit. I'm a marathon runner for God's sake."

Over the next few days, Sam was diagnosed as having the rare but increasingly common condition Cardiomyopathy, a disease which attacks the heart muscles, eventually causing it to go into failure.

"What happens now?" asked Sam's father, clearly stunned.

"A few years ago, you would have been untreatable," the Cardiologist Said. "I'm going to put you on the Urgent Transplant list Sam. You will meet the Cardiac Surgeon, Transplant Co-ordinator, also patients who have had this surgery, and others like yourself who are waiting. Because of the severity of your condition, you will be operated upon as soon as possible."

Because of her rapidly deteriorating condition, Sam was kept in hospital, awaiting a donor heart. She did not have the luxury some patients have of going about their business, until their radio-pager announces a possible heart has been found. Sam lay in bed for three weeks, several times being made ready for possible surgery only to be told it was a 'false alarm', that the donor heart was incompatible. Once, she even went down to 'Theatre' and was at the point of anaesthesia when a last minute decision was made to abort the donor retrieval. That experience put Sam and her family at their lowest point of desperation.

She finally lost conscientiousness and was put on Life Support until, when it seemed there was no hope, a healthy, compatible donor heart was found. After several hours of difficult surgery, Sam was taken to the I.C.U. and her waiting parents. Mickey was also allowed in and was sitting holding her hand when she awoke.

Nine months later, she proudly held her baby Close to her, gazing lovingly at it. The 'baby' was the Transplant Games Marathon Cup

John Kitching

_______________________________________________________

Because it's there.

George Mallory.

________________________________________________________

A HEATED AFFAIR

'Steve, last night was a waste of time even those two old grannies turned us down.'

'I know Ken. We'll never score, should have been bloody monks.'

The forty-year old pair sat on a park bench waiting at the bus-stop of love without a female excursion in sight. They had even been shunned by, 'Sadie the lady' with her single front tooth and a face shaved more times than any man but you could say it was little wonder.

Both were unattractive. I know beauty, or good looks are in the eyes of the beholder but other than their mothers, nobody loved them and boy their mums did love them to bits, waiting on the pair hand and foot and force-feeding them like farmers producing veal.

Both men weighed well over fifteen stone adding to difficulties dating because initially we are attracted to an individual by sight whereas these two had merged into a modern amorphous mass called obesity.

It must be said that neither gave up hope completely, they dressed in vertical stripes and bought trousers with illusory, thirty-four inch waists, hung precariously beneath, 'Lard-white' overhangs but these measures did nothing to obtain a cuddle.

Of course the men were aware of the reasons for their involuntary celibacy but love of food slowed down any active measures to reduce weight, until Ken said. 'Steve, we must join Weight Watchers to stand a hope with the women.'

Ken was less enthusiastic but came round to the idea within a few months sending them to the church hall for a shaming course. To assist in the process they joined a fitness club pounding the poor walking machines into submission. Unused to any physical exercise, that included walking, the men sweated cobs, allowing scales to record rapid weight loss but like the trousers it was all in the mind, fluid loss was no good and feeling smug they allowed their mothers to resume serving dumplings with Wednesday's mince.

The harridans at Weight Watchers who were, out-of-time Nazi torturers, stormed as the scales leapt five pounds in three weeks. 'Oh you two what a disgrace, there's Mrs Green who lost a stone in two months, you are out of control.' The class leader, whose husband was made to wash-up using economy liquid reddening his poor hands continued. 'If you don't try harder I will have to ask you to leave the course.'

The results were that they did not return or tread the machines, instead they supplemented huge, mothers-meals with evening kebabs and chips when leaving the Black Bull.

Their normal insignificance along with invisibility to women and the general population ended dramatically one warm June evening. Steve and Ken had left the pub after a very heavy session. Staggering a short distance using walls and ornate fences for support, they found themselves in the deserted park, where on, 'Brown ale' autopilot they reached their seat to settle for a night of very little darkness. Both men slumped on either ends and slept like babes.

Human spontaneous combustion is a rare event and as yet not fully explained but chemical reaction turns the body into a mini internal furnace, often leaving outer extremities untouched, as it did Steve. Of course the poor man had gone to heaven before his mate woke to the awful event. Shock was monumental, causing Ken to run, best as he could for help but the stress proved too much and he dropped dead of a massive heart attack.

John Frostick

Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.

Dorothy Parker.

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THE PATH INTO THE GARDEN

Sheila was walking her dogs along Blaydon Burn. Originally a Colliery had been there and the path was the old rail track The dogs raced up and down the sides which were covered with dense trees. Zebedee ran up and disappeared over the top. Dusty followed and also vanished.

Sheila moved nearer and saw decrepit wooden steps overgrown with weeds. "I'll have to go up the steps to find the dogs," she thought. She reached the top and came onto a narrow path. She looked down onto a forest of trees. She called the dog's names but they didn't bark A tree had been blown, down presumably in a gale, and fungus was growing from the rotten trunk. It was covered with trailing blackberry branches. She climbed over and scratched her hands. As she turned at the next bend she saw an isolated rambling stone house surrounded by a high wooden fence.

The path ended at the gate. She gently pushed and it slowly opened. In the right hand corner was a children's play area. There was a climbing frame, a trampoline, a play house, swings, and a sea-saw. "I wonder who lives here? Is it some sort of orphanage or hospital?" She heard the thunder of hooves behind her and into view came a man riding a beautiful brown horse. He stared at her in amazement.

"Who are you and where did you come from?" he asked.

"I was walking my dogs in Blaydon Burn and they vanished. I found this path and walked along shouting for them. I stopped here because I can't go any further. I didn't know the house and beautiful gardens existed until now."

"I'm Tom Evans and that's my house. Come in and have a cup of tea and I'll explain. Originally this house was built by the owner of The Mary and Bessie Colliery which was in Blaydon Burn. He had five daughters and built five rows of houses nearby each one called after them. They were for Colliery Officials. This house has been passed down through the generations and finally became mine"

"I was a Captain in the Army for 30 years and came to live here when I retired. However the house was too big for me so I had a bungalow built nearby. I thought long and hard what to do with the house. It has 10 bedrooms, an extra large dining room, a magnificent ball room, two lounges, a large kitchen, and several smaller rooms. There's also a block of stables."

"I've seen marriages break up in Countries around the world. The wives and children of the Armed Forces return to England, after being abroad for years. Some have no-where to live, no family and are very lonely and unhappy. I turned this house into five separate furnished apartments for those people. They can stay here for a few weeks or months until they can re-organise their lives. They are given help and advice to get their children into school, shown where the Doctors, Dentists, shops etc are and given counselling, if necessary. I must admit the scheme has been a great success."

"It's a marvellous idea and what a lovely surprise I got when I saw the garden. There's a play area on one side and a large lawn surrounded by flowers and bushes."

Zebedee and Dusty came running from the back of the building frantically jumping around and wagging their tails at the sound of Sheila's voice "Come on, let's go home" Sheila shouted shaking their leaders.

Stella Rutherford.

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Where law ends, tyranny begins.

William Pitt.

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Castaway

Gwen was the reluctant queen of all she surveyed, which wasn’t a lot, just a small island set in an azure sea that was part of a chain of even smaller islands. Luckily the island she was stranded on had source of fresh water. A clear spring that bubbled out from a crag, ran down to fill a rock basin and then spilled over into a small stream that ran down to the shore. She thanked God for that and the fact that there were berries on the bushes, birds in the trees and small animals in the undergrowth. Though whether she could bring herself kill such small creatures, even to survive, was another matter altogether.

The shore was a better bet, sprinkled as it was with that staple of all castaways the coconut palm, could she live on coconuts and water? she wondered, and dismissed the idea. Besides even if she could, the monotony of it would surely drive her mad if she were here for any length of time. She needed variety, the berries alone wouldn’t suffice and since she had more or less dismissed the killing of birds and small animals, she would have to hunt the reef and lagoon. Strangely she didn’t have the same aversion to killing and eating marine creatures and she had only hesitated because she had a fear of sharks beneath the water and stonefish amongst the coral, either one could cause a painful death.

***

They had been island hopping around the Solomon’s in Greg’s Cessna 175 Hawk, when the storm had come up out of nowhere and blasted them off course. For five hours Greg had fought the controls as the elements tried to tear the small plane apart and Gwen had sent Mayday signals in a continuous stream praying that someone, somewhere, would hear them.

Then five-hours in when the tempest was at its peak, the fuel gauge had registered empty and they were flying on fumes. Greg lost altitude, maybe, just maybe, they would find better weather and an island down there. It was a vain hope, if anything conditions were worse and they found themselves skimming the tops of mountainous waves.

The plane was fitted with a set of amphibious floats but they were torn off, as were the wings, as they ploughed into and under the storm ravaged sea. Down, down, they sank in a cockpit that was mostly intact and just when they thought they were about breath their last, the air in the cabin dragged them back to the mayhem of the surface. Luckily Greg had insisted that they wore lifejackets when they set out on the trip and it was as well, since shortly afterwards the cockpit began to take on water and they had to abandon themselves to the elements.

They managed to stay together at first but then a wave bigger than the rest crashed down on them and when Gwen finally came spluttering to the surface, Greg and the plane were gone. She screamed his name until she was hoarse and when she could scream no more she cried inside. All through the rest of the day and most of the night she was tossed every which way and then sometime in the middle hours, the storm began to abate and the stars winked into existence in a clearing sky.

Morning came in an instant as the golden globe of the sun seemed to rise from the very depths of the sea and all that remained of the storm was a heavy swell. Each time she reach a crest she scanned the sea around her. She had survived, why shouldn’t Greg have too? she searched without success, there was no sign him, but not more than a mile away she could make out an island ringed by a coral reef. So far she had drifted, allowing the current to take her, but now she struck out for the reef. As she drew near she could see the white water as the waves broke on the coral and to her left a gap where the sea flowed into the lagoon. Increasing her pace she headed for the break, hoping that Greg had made it too and would be waiting with open arms on the beach.

The swell picked her up, swept her right through the gap into the lagoon and there was no Greg, but the fuselage of the plane was lying on its side on the beach. It must have stayed afloat somehow, despite the best efforts of the storm and had been tossed over the reef to end up half buried in the sand. Gwen swam to the beach, staggered over to the plane and looked inside, other that their rucksacks, it was empty. As the disappointment hit home so too did the exhaustion of her ordeal, and slumping to the sand she was asleep before she realised that she was falling.

When she awoke, her first thought was that she should circumnavigate the island in case Greg had come ashore on another part of the beach but as it was so late in the day she realised that it would be dark before she got even part way around. Having resign herself to beginning the search the next day, she pulled out Greg’s rucksack, tipped the contents onto the sand and could have danced with joy. There wasn’t a lot, but it was all good, apart from a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, talk about travelling light, there were two bars of toffee, a first aid box, a flare, an empty Evian water bottle and to her joy, a small plastic case that contained a half full box of Swan Vesta matches.

That night, she sat in front of a comforting drift wood fire, chewing a piece of toffee and dreamed of finding Greg in the morning. Rising with the sun the next day Gwen popped what was left of the first bar of toffee into her pocket, filled the bottle with water and set off to circle the island. It didn’t take long. Within two hours she arrived back where she began without seeing any trace or sign to indicate that Greg had come ashore and she had no choice but to resign herself to the fact that she was marooned alone.

***

A month later, wild haired and tanned brown, she had adapted to the lonely life of a castaway. She had fashioned a spear from a branch, hardened the point in the fire and ate a diet of coconuts, cracked open with a rock, berries, fish and the various shelled creatures that inhabited the reef. She didn’t think she would starve, but neither did she think there was much chance of being rescued either. In thirty days of watching the sea and sky, not one ship or plane had come near and it was obvious that the island was way off the air and sea lanes. However, as they say, hope springs eternal, and she believed that one day she would be rescued, and that day came sooner than she thought.

In fact it was midmorning the very next day that she heard the drone of an aircraft engine, the sound came from the south and grew in volume as the morning wore on, until she could see a small dot in the sky. Slowly the plane drew near and she could see that it was circling the other islands in the chain. ‘Come on, I’m here.’ she shouted, despite knowing that the pilot couldn’t possibly hear. Then she remembered the flare and holding it aloft fired it into the sky, for moment she held her breath, as the plane continued to circle one of the islands and then let it out in a rush, as it turned and came towards her.

The plane a Cessna with floats, was white like the one she Greg had crashed in and a small shiver went through her as it flashed overhead. Banking into a turn, it returned, landed in the lagoon, motored right up to the beach, the door opened and Greg stepped out. For a moment Gwen was gob smacked, then she gave out howl of pure joy and raced over to fling herself into his arms. Greg had survived somehow and like a knight flying in a white charger had return to rescue her from a fate worse than death.

***

As they flew towards Fiji, on the first stage of their journey home Greg recounted his story. When they had been torn apart by the storm, he must have struck head on fuselage and been knocked unconscious, because when he awoke it was three day later and he was in the sickbay of a container ship that was on its way to New Zealand. He’d asked the captain to turn around, but he said it was too late, besides he had already radioed the position to the authorities, carried out a search of the location and there was nothing more he could do.

On reaching New Zealand Greg was determined to go back and look for Gwen himself but he had wait for a new passport to arrive before the authorities would let him leave the country. However, he finally got the go ahead and caught a direct flight to Fiji, where he hired a Cessna with extra fuel tanks, and began his search. The rest of the tale you already know.

Fred Watson. November 2009.

I am just going outside and may be some time.

Capt Lawrence Oates.

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The Lesser of Two Evils

No one heard her screaming; but they could see her. As Toni lifted her arm, they saw her face crease in anguish. Her eyes stretched wide in fright, and her mouth taught with fear as she let out a silent howl. As her crewmates watched helplessly, the horror took hold of her. Sweat began, slowly at first, to fall down her left cheek. She instinctively tried to wipe it free, but her cumbersome hand could not penetrate the heavy helmet which surrounded her waif like features. She began to hyperventilate.

"Toni," shouted a voice inside her head. "Toni, stay calm, don't worry - we can fix this." The voice belonged to Grant, the First Officer aboard the Phoenix space shuttle. He turned off the mike connected to Toni's headset and leaped up to the main console. "Christ, what are we going to do? She's only got five minuets of oxygen left."

The five astronauts had been orbiting the earth for the last eight months. Two hundred miles above the planet, they were the latest intake of engineers employed to complete the final mission of Phoenix.

Space was beautiful, sterile and unforgiving. It engulfed them, surrounded them and enveloped them in its grace. But in all its magnificence, it controlled them. They were imprisoned in its grasp and were just visitors to its lonely shores.

An air leak had been discovered earlier that morning, and as members of the crew gathered they watched in horror as the gauge began to drop in pressure. The consul warning lights began to rapidly blink on and off.

"We need to get this fixed now; if that doesn't happen fast our oxygen will run out in a few hours."

"I'll go," said Toni, "it's my turn anyway". They were her last words before she made her way down to the airlock. She pulled on the specially designed suit and began to select the tools needed to fix the problem. After a few minuets, Toni gingerly began to clamber down the ladder. As her breath came in short gasps she stood up straight and began to try and calm herself. Images of her children playing in the garden raced through her head as they mingled with memories of her parents, smiling at the camera one Christmas morning. She took a deep breath and slapped the green disk on the wall. The doorway began to slide back and she was presented with the deep abyss of space once more. The pipe providing her precious oxygen began to roll out behind her, an umbilical cord attaching her to life. This was not new to Toni, all the astronauts were familiar with outside repairs, so she made her way to the pressure valves, and turned to wave to her crewmates.

"I'll be as quick as I can, see you in a bit."

She reached down to her pocket, undid the press studs and pulled out her tool kit. It was cold out there; her body temperature began to drop and her teeth began to chatter in a familiar story of nervous reaction. Once the repair was nearly complete Toni began to relax and looked around her. The earth below seemed a comfort as she gazed at its beauty. She lent down and began to finish the final stages but her glove became caught. As she looked in horror, part of her tool kit began to drift off into the distance. It was a gut reaction, she lent out to grab it and in that instant felt a wrench from the oxygen pipe. She turned again and tried to stretch over and catch it but, in her panic, Toni's microphone detached from her headset.

"Toni, get back in here, we'll sort something out" shouted the captain, but she could not hear him.

Her heart began to hammer in her chest; she clenched her hands and let out a low animal moan. "NO......" she howled.

"Toni, can you hear me?" shouted the Captain. But Toni was in a tormented world of her own. All she could hear was the hammering of her heart and her ragged gasps for breath. She was going to run out of oxygen.

Toni bent her head and stared down at the glaring red letters in front of her. PHOENIX III. She turned to the window and saw her crewmates shout and plead with her. She saw their fear and she saw their tears, but she could no longer hear their words. They were pleading with her to come back into the ship. Once again she looked down and read the bold words in front of her.

She took a deep breath, and clamped her hand down onto the pressure valve. It would not budge. Her tools now floating around the craft; with every last ounce of her strength she turned the dial. It clicked home with a jolt, and as she watched, the cabin pressure began to rise with every passing second. The crew would be safe; they would get home.

Toni stopped screaming and turned to her friends. As her air supply began to fail, she unclipped her lifeline, tears coursed down her cheek replacing the sweat from minutes before. She blew them a kiss as her life's breath began to drift away from her. She turned to greet the deep enveloping arms of space as her last thoughts turned to her children as they ran through the leaves in winter.

Nikki lee 01-12-08

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The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Rudyard Kipling.

__________________________________________________________

NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN

The date was indelibly stamped on John's mind - March 12th 1975. The events of that evening and the following few days would remain with him for the rest of his life. For a start there was that football match between England and Germany at Wembley. Though he was no fan, John would never forget that England won 2-0 and that Colin Bell and SuperMac scored the goals. Then there was the crossword puzzle clue, the morning tragedy and finally the sunbeam and the butterfly.

When he got home that evening after installing a hot-water tank at the village school, John was surprised to find his ailing father, who had never shown much o enthusiasm for soccer, watching the match on the box.

'Hello dad,’ he said. 'What's up with your telescope tonight? You're surely not putting the stars on the pitch before the ones in the sky, are you?'

'Don't be daft, son. I'm just whiling away the time until it's dark enough to get a really clear view of Venus. But I've got to confess that this game's a real humdinger. There's only quarter of an hour left so I'll hang on till the end.'

While the hungry plumber was tucking into his mother's steak and kidney pie, he tried to ignore the action on television and concentrate on the Guardian crossword. The daily puzzle was an ongoing trial of strength between father and son. It was part of a good-natured never-ending contest between two men with different strengths and weaknesses. George, the retired teacher, was a thinker; John, the artisan, a practical man. In a never-ending white versus blue-collar competition they delighted in scoring points against each other. John's victories were won in places like the garden shed where he could redeem his father's clumsy efforts with chisel and saw. His Achilles' heel, however, was spelling and the old man loved to correct his written efforts. On this particular evening when the match was finished George came over to see how he was progressing with the puzzle and was soon drawing John's attention to 12 across - "preserved after death".

He smiled and said, 'Yes lad, the answer is embalmed but you've spelled it with an n instead of the first m and that's what's held you up with the other clues - silly boy! But I can't stand here wasting good scanning time. My telescope's getting the fidgets. I'll be in the attic till the small hours, so I'll say goodnight now.'

As soon as George had gone Madge came in from the kitchen to clear away the dishes. John jokingly offered his mother the Guardian, knowing what her reaction would be: 'Tush, that highbrow rag's no good to me son. You know there's no horoscope in it. I've already had a good read of Madam Zaraboni in my Daily Gossip and she says the stars are promising me a big surprise tomorrow.' Next morning would prove the prediction correct but not in the way she imagined.

John chuckled as Madge busied her way back into the kitchen. He had nothing against stargazing. In fact he enjoyed the occasional midnight stroll to the bench by the hawthorn tree at the top of the lane to sit and consider the insignificance of his brief forty years against the ageless background of the moon and a myriad stars. But he didn't let the heavens rule his life as his parents did. There was his star-struck mother eagerly waiting for the tabloid every morning to get her daily fix of Saturn or Pluto wending their way through her star sign, Virgo; or Mars, perhaps, moving into her love zone (she was pushing eighty) to fill her with expectations of journeys, riches or romances with handsome strangers. And up there in his observatory at the top of the house was his equally-addicted father with his charts and diagrams, his books, his Celestron Nex telescope and a head stuffed full of pulsars, quasars, red giants, white dwarves, supernovae, nebulae, black holes and dark matter.

His wife's enthusiasm for astrology mortified the scientific but intolerant George, who deplored her interest in what he considered superstitious rubbish. But he could never dissuade her from the happy pursuit of an interest that had millions of worldwide devotees. And indeed he was not entirely correct when he carped at her: 'Do you realise Madge that the distance to the nearest star outside the solar system is more than four light years while our sun, is just eight minutes away. From that short distance it's got more power over us than Proxima Centauri and all the other stars put together. When did you last get star-burnt on your holidays? The only power hitting us from up there is solar power. And if, when I'm dead and gone, I find I can communicate with you, I bet the sun'll have something to do with it, not some daft astral nonsense in a newspaper!’

It was true that for the past few months George had been contemplating his mortality. Since the series of coronary thromboses two years before, his weakened heart had flickered uncertainly and it chose the night of the football match to beat its last. Madge and John found him in the morning lying apparently at peace and although the death was not unexpected, it still came as a shock to them. Later that day during the funeral arrangements the director asked John (for his mother was too distressed to cope) if he wanted his father's body embalmed. 'How strange,' he thought, 'that that word from last night's puzzle should crop up again this morning.' Embalming, that ancient technique that down the ages had vainly attempted to ward off physical decay, reminded him of the discussions he and his father had had about the durability, not of the flesh, but of the spirit and how, remembering Hamlet's words about the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns, they had left the subject unresolved. And yet as recently as last week George had returned, even though light-heartedly, to the idea of messages from beyond the grave.

After the funeral service in the crematorium when John put a farewell hand on his father's coffin, a sunbeam shone through the stained-glass window onto the nameplate and a peacock butterfly fluttered down to rest in the patch of light. John shook his head and wondered if his father was already trying to tell him something. 'No, no,' he thought. 'I must get a grip. It's only coincidence.'

Ten years later John was installing central-heating to a house in the city centre. It was bedlam. The house was empty and the whole family was there scrubbing floors, cleaning windows, painting and wallpapering. In the room next to John a nephew was removing an old carpet. He picked up a yellowing newspaper lying underneath it.

'1975,' John heard him say. 'I wonder if that was a good year for the old occupants?'

John couldn't help himself. 'It was a bad one for me,' he replied.

The nephew, clutching the paper, came into the room where John was struggling with a radiator. 'Why was that then?' he asked.

'Because my father died in March that year.'

'Aye, well this paper's a March one - the twelfth.'

'Never in the world!' exclaimed John.

'What are you getting excited about?' asked Nephew.

"That was the date my father died. '

'Cor! How can you remember?'

'Well for one thing, England was playing Germany that night.'

'Is that right? We'll soon see. I'll have a look at the sports page.'

Nephew ruffled the faded sheets. There was a silence before he whispered, 'Blow me down. You're right. There's a preview here and the teams are listed.'

'There's another thing,' said John, '- but that paper can't be a Guardian?'

'It is! It is!' said Nephew getting excited.

The raised voices brought the whole family in from their chores in the other rooms to see what the noise was about. They all crowded round the newspaper.

'Well,' said John, 'I did the crossword that day and I couldn't spell the answer to 12 across. I spelled embalmed with an n. See if somebody's done the puzzle. '

Nephew turned the pages to the puzzle grid. 'No,' he said, 'it's empty.'

'That doesn't matter though,' shouted John. 'Look at the clues! Look at 12 across!' '12 across - preserved after death' said Nephew. Then after a pause he continued in a hushed voice, 'And you've just used the word - embalmed.'

The paper fell to the floor and in the long silence that followed everybody stared, stupefied, at John. And then the February sun began to shine. Through a small hole in the window blind a torch-like beam fell on the puzzle grid and from a crack in the skirting-board a peacock butterfly emerged from hibernation and inched its way towards the pool of light.

Bryan Harbottle

There are two things no man will admit he can't do well: drive and make love.

Stirling Moss.

___________________________________________________________

SURPRISE OR SHOCK

Mary and her friend Hazel were at the single club's Christmas dinner/dance. "Do you mind if I sit next to you?" a man's voice said.

"No I don't mind," Mary replied.

After an excellent meal the band came onto the stage and the music flowed over the room.

The man who had sat next to Mary came over to her, "May I have the pleasure of this dance please?"

"Certainly," she replied.

"My friend has flu and he gave me his ticket. I don't know anyone but my daughter persuaded me to come and enjoy the dinner. By the way my name is Eric. I haven't danced for years since my wife died."

After the dance ended Mary said, "I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening," and returned to Hazel.

Later Eric came across "May I have another dance please?" he asked and off they waltzed.

At the end of the evening they stood in the foyer waiting for their taxi home. "I've thoroughly enjoyed myself, Goodnight." Eric said, and left.

Mary and Eric had been dancing together for four months. Unexpectedly he said, "Do you fancy coming with me to Paris for a long week-end. I've won quite a bit of money on bingo. Will you?"

"I don't know what to say. We're just good friends, nothing more."

"I know we are and I would like to take you to see the sights of Paris."

"I'll come with you on one condition. We must have single rooms. We're both 60 but I'm still a prude," Mary said.

Eric nodded his head and smiled. When Mary told Hazel she said "Go with him and enjoy yourself. Don't expect anything. Qui Sera Sera." Hazel replied.

"I'm nervous, I don't know what to expect."

Eric and Mary left General De Gaulle Airport and took a taxi to their hotel. They unpacked then went for a meal. The restaurant was candlelit and a crooner sang softly as he played the piano. The setting was so romantic. "I've had a gorgeous meal and I feel as if I'm floating in the clouds," Mary said.

Eric laughed "I feel the same way." As they danced he gently kissed her cheek and nibbled her ear. It felt nice and unconsciously she mover closer to him. Holding hands they strolled back to their hotel. He bent to kiss the top of her hair "I liked you the first time I set eyes on you. You looked elegant in that red chiffon blouse and black velvet skirt. Your dark hair with silvery streaks was shining in the light and I adored your slim figure and shapely legs. You looked like a teenager and I felt like one when I danced with you the first time."

They stood outside Mary's room. He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. She felt herself respond, "Can I come into your room Mary," Eric whispered looking deeply into her eyes.

"I'm very nervous and not quite sure,"

"I won't hurt you or do anything you don't want me to do. We'll have champagne sent up and relax and get to know each other better."

They entered the room, kissed and slowly made their way to the bed. Gently they undressed each other. They lay on the bed and Eric recited beautiful poetry kissing her neck and breasts between lines. Mary was spellbound, she felt delicious. He was caressing her body and she loved every moment. She was responding, her inhibitions forgotten. He slowed down and stopped. Mary looked at him. He had fallen asleep.

She laughed hilariously and remembered Hazel's words. "Don't expect anything, enjoy yourself.”

"I certainly didn't expect him to fall asleep, " she thought.

Stella Rutherford.

__________________________________________________________

Candy is dandy but liquer is quicker.

Ogden Nash.

_____________________________________________________________

Green Fingers?

Granny McDonald, shook her head, sighed and her brow crumpled into even deeper furrows than normal. The object that caused her to frown, sat with blackened stem and leafless twisted branches, in a pot on the windowsill. Another plant had bitten the dust never to rise again.

She had thought -not for the first time - that this was ‘The One‘. But despite lavishing it with oodles of loving care, it had gone the way of all the others and now looked like some grotesque dead thing from the land of nightmares. What was it with her and plants? She loved flowers and greenery, but give her anything growing in a pot and it was like giving the poor thing a death sentence.

Over the years, despite reading hundreds of books and writing dozens of letters to ‘Gardener’s Question Time’, she must have inadvertently murdered many thousands of plants. I say inadvertently, because she never set out to decimate the plant population, quite the opposite in fact, her aim was simply to be able to successfully grow just one plant, any plant. She longed for green fingers, but on her performance to date, felt that any green in her system must have come from the ‘Wicked Witch of the West’.

Still, she wouldn’t give up. All she needed was to find a strong plant, one so tough that even she couldn’t kill. ‘There has to be one that I haven’t tried before.’ she thought, as she began to search through her gardening books. She had little success and was still searching when Rory her grandson called by after school. ‘What’s up Granny?’ he asked, ‘another plant gone and died on you?’

‘Aye son, but I’m not giving up, I’m looking for something really tough, something that’s hard to kill, but I’ve had no luck so far.’

‘What kind of plant are you after?’

‘Anything, anything at all, just so long as it doesn’t died on me son.’

‘Tell you what, Granny I’ll ask around at school, some of my friends, dads, are into gardening.’

The next night, Rory brought around four pots, each containing a small plant. ‘This one is a Japonicas, that one is a Fuchsia and that’s a Lavender,’ he explained.

‘And what’s that weedy looking one called?’

‘I’m not sure Granny, I got it off Tom, who got it off his brother Charlie’s mate, John, who said he didn‘t know what it was called.’

‘Never mind son, here’s a couple of pounds, get some sweets and share them your friends. Now, off you go home for your tea.’

For the next few weeks Granny McDonald mollycoddled those four small plants. Each was watered, fed, placed in a warm sunny position on the windowsill where they all died; bar one. That’s right, the weedy looking one survived. Not only did it survive, but over time it grew into a strong vigorous plant, with distinctive green variegated leaves and small lilac flowers.

Granny was so please with her magnificent achievement that she placed the plant on a table in the bay window of the front room and preened as neighbours waved and pointed it out to their friends. The plant thrived in it’s new sunny location and grew until it practically filled the bay with it’s greenery. As word spread people came from miles around to admire Granny McDonalds horticultural wonder. But like all good things her green fingered delight didn’t last long. One morning the police came calling, the plant was confiscated and granny was threatened with prison if she ever attempted to grow Cannabis again.

F Watson.

A comedian does funny things; a good comedian does things funny.

Buster Keaton.

_________________________________________________________

ON THE STROKE OF ELEVEN

Five doors down the street lived Garth. Tall, muscular and younger than Billy, Garth was married to Tessa's best friend, Annie. Until recently Tessa had rarely spoken to Garth, except to share the usual pleasantries, although she had certainly noticed his rugged good looks. Then just after Christmas, Tessa slipped off the icy kerb outside her house, as she wheeled her twins across the road in a pushchair. Garth saw her fall and hurried to her.

After moving the twin girls safely inside the gateway, he gently helped Tessa into the house. Leaning heavily on Garth, she lowered herself onto the settee, his strong arms supporting her.

"Looks like your ankle is badly sprained," he told her. "I'll put a cold compress on it then take the kids to my place. Annie will take care of them while I run you to A&E. You'll need an X-Ray in case it's more than a sprain."

"No, It's OK. Really... I'll manage."

"Oh yeah, how? What time does Billy get home?"

"About ten thirty. He's on 'two to ten' shift".

"Look, the kids can stay the night with us. My two will love having them."

Tessa protested, but ignoring her, he wheeled the twins home and told Annie what had happened. Naturally, she was happy to organise supper, baths and beds for the toddlers.

Over the next few weeks, Garth and Annie helped Tessa to cope with her broken ankle. Billy always seemed to be at work when she needed help. Garth ran his own landscaping business, so he was mostly at home at this time of year.

Tessa shocked herself by giving outrageous signals to Garth, but he seemed not to notice. For weeks she smiled, winked and hinted. Then one evening in February, a power failure put all lights out in the neighbourhood, as she was attempting to put the children to bed. Garth arrived with torches and candles. He saw in the dim light that Tessa had been weeping. He said nothing, but took the twins up to bed, tucked them in and waited till they were asleep.

When he came down, Tessa had lit the candles and was sat on the sofa, resting her injured ankle on a footstool. She had poured two glasses of wine which glinted in the candlelight. Beckoning him to sit beside her, she offered him a glass. As he sat, she put the glass back on the side table and kissed him on the cheek. The bathrobe she wore fell open revealing her nakedness.

"Tessa, you know I can't. There's too much at stake."

She took his hand and put it into her gown. He kissed her gently, stood up and left.

Later, the power was restored, and Tessa went to bed. She lay awake envying the girls' slumbers. Their restful tones, deep and rhythmical from the next room, should have helped their mother achieve relaxing sleep. Instead, she fidgeted as her mind raced out of control. The fantasies that had beset her for many weeks, were relentless.

The bedroom door creaked as it opened, at first startling Tessa. Then, street light shining through a slit in the curtains, revealed Garth standing naked in the doorway. After a moment, he walked to the bed and slipped in beside her. She took him to her as the clock struck eleven.

At six a.m. Tessa arose refreshed and fulfilled. Billy would be home soon. There was just time to shower, make breakfast and get the girls organized. She smiled wistfully in the shower as she caught the scent of Garth on her, and carefully washed him away. He had been worth waiting for.

"Who's dead?" inquired Billy as he ate his bacon and eggs.

"What are you talking about?" asked Tessa.

"Well, as I was turning into the street just now, a hearse was turning out."

When the hearse arrived at the crematorium, it bore a thick layer of snow like the icing on a cake. Tessa and Billy huddled together, waiting to go in. As the bearers solemnly did their duty, Annie and her parents slowly followed the coffin through the doorway. Annie turned once to look at Tessa, who paused before entering.

"This is one of the saddest days of my life," she sobbed.

"I know love, he was a good bloke."

'If only you knew,' she thought, then said aloud, "He didn't deserve this."

"At least he died happy."

"You don't know that. He had a heart attack for Pete's sake."

"Well, that's the way I want to go. In bed, on top of me wife."

"Don't be so crass!"

"Well according to Annie's mother, that's what happened. Dead on the stroke of eleven. And I mean, 'dead'!"

Jay T.Kay.

_________________________________________________________

Whoever is not against us is with us.

Janos Kadar.

_________________________________________________________

THE COUNTRY BOY

Nigel Prentice, a country boy whose education centred around things natural. Seasons were greeted like old friends, embraced, not excluded by artificial urban light, noise and heat.

January's pristine snow, when chewed made the teeth ache and left a funny taste. Frozen bed sheets brought in from the linen line, smelling of the air were stood in the living room until they collapsed like ballerinas taking a bow.

Ghostly moonlight turned the bedroom into a funereal scene, with last rights exchanged between two tawny owls a mile apart. There were often quiet nights, when smoke spiralled into the air like the, Beadsman's breath in, Keats, Eve of St Agnus, where the old man was paid by gentry to say prayers, while they themselves wined and dined. Winter's fist was reluctantly unclenched, allowing delicate snowdrops to emerge and push their way through, still-frozen hedgerows.

Spring came in too big, like a busy fairground of noise and colour. Birds sang almost night and day and nature painted a picture of garish colours, defying fashion statement that, 'blue and green should never be seen.'

Summer, then and now looked back to yesteryears when days and nights were hot, Nigel remembered his father talking of non-stop sun but Nigel just rusted in the cold rain.

Autumn was a time for stealing apples, throwing sticks high into the horse chestnut trees to dislodge the champion conker. Chrysanth's filled the air with fresh delight but days were deceptively warm and evenings shivering cold as winter waited at the end of every street.

That was then but Nigel left the country to seek fame and fortune under the lights of city life, soon his country sensitivity faded. Sodium streetlights washed away moonlight, seasons were marked by brief television reference, cold weather was compensated by his wall thermostat. A resounding success at his job brought high wages along with a profile that made him attractive not only to employers but girls who found the personable, good looking young man worth pursuing.

Sara Lessop captured his heart, soon the pair were inseparable and Mr Lessop, a wealthy businessman gave his blessings when asked to give marriage consent. No expense was spared making their wedding the local event of the year.

Married life lasted for as long as it took tofealise that compromise should have been the key issue. Neither of them budged. Sara would not cook or do housework, Nigel considered getting married was a passport to end domestic chores which resulted in neither of them doing anything.

The house soon deteriorated into a no-go area for friends and family, both of them suffered the filth in silence until they contracted serious food poisoning, almost died, then parted and divorced.

Trauma encountered made Nigel re-evaluate life. He gave up his job, signed on at the Job Centre; bought a broken-down caravan that he parked in a farmers field and is now reunited with nature. The moon has re-appeared, seasons have arrived in their stark contrast and Nigel is the happiest man on earth.

John Frostick

The moving finger writes and having writ moves on.

Omar Khayyam.

_______________________________________________________

NOW AND THEN

Shopping malls fill, cars queue to be close to the entrance doors preventing tee-shirt discomfort in sub-zero temperatures and drivers glower at each other as they spot a pair of reversing lights. The winner then herds his family to join a late night jamboree.

Before working class affluence, young people hurried home from work, gobbled tea, grabbed a sledge made from discarded timber with, bed-slat steel runners nailed in position, polished to a mirror finish. Chatter was light-hearted as they headed for a snow-covered hill down which they swooped all evening, illusion of speed increased by their bodies being so close to the snow. The smell of wet wood and joy walking home red-faced under a pale moon remaining with them for life.

They fought and hated then as they do today, with one common link being the, F word.

.

Granddad reverses his car off the drive, pulls the visor down to prevent sun blindness and drives half a mile to collect his pasty-faced grandson sitting behind closed curtains, engrossed in Bob the Builder.

Before television, a little boy walked along a cliff-top to school. The spring-sun lifted itself lazily from the sea leaving behind an undulating vermillion pool promising low bright light to show off a season's cascade of cherry blossom. The boy did not see nature's beauty, he dreamt of a day dad could afford their first superhet radio.

.

A family worry when the taxi is late, their stress levels off the scale. All year they had planned the holiday in Spain with military precision. Packed bags surround them in the hall when the cab arrives and they speed off laughing, to lay immoveable on a beach, turn brown and return home capable of pronouncing Fuengirola without being sick.

Before package deals, holidays were spent washing off Ceilingite, colouring walls with distemper and beating the mats that released clouds of dust from open fires.

.

A bearded thirty year old and his family from Birmingham, in sandals travel to Cornwall by train to reduce their carbon footprint, arriving at an expensive rented cottage in gale force winds accompanied by horizontal rain. Washed dirty plates and cutlery left by previous holidaymakers, ate a calorie-free meal, after which they spent the evening playing scrabble, feeding an insatiable slot meter to keep warm.

In the morning they woke to a sky, scattered with cirrus clouds presenting no resistance to a glorious sun, shining on their winter-white bodies bent over rock pools that gave up tiny crabs to be transported in bright red buckets to an unfamiliar, but safe watery home close by.

The little boy that lived in the cottage before tourism did exactly the same thing every summer, he too ate very little. His bucket was made of tin.

John Frostick.

_________________________________________________________

Procrastination is the thief of time.

Edward Young.

_______________________________________________________

A CHILDHOOD MEMORY

Gordon was pushing his Grandma around the Metro Centre in a wheel chair. She had slipped from the kerb and broken her foot.

"I heard a man talking on the Regional News yesterday saying he was going to hold an egg jarping competition on Monday evening at his pub and was inviting any-one interested to come along. The reporter didn't know what he was talking about so he explained what it was. This brought back to me memories of Easter Sunday going back about 65 years ago. Our parents had no money for luxuries so we made our own Easter eggs. We boiled a hens egg then decorated it. This is why it is so memorable."

***

"Every Sunday morning my Dad two brothers and I went walking either though the dene along the riverside or to outlying farms. To-day was special. It was Easter Sunday and the egg jarping competition was to be held. Our mother boiled them then we drew patterns and squiggles on the eggs with a candle. The paste egg, as it was called, was painted and covered with patterns. Sometimes Mam boiled the eggs with onion skins and they turned brown with the white pattern they had drawn showing. It was an exciting time. They wandered through bracken and stopped at the bottom of Shadons Hill beside the Gypsy encampment. Several palomino horses were tethered and grazing nearby. Groups of dishevelled children and barking dogs were running around the colourful caravans. Scattered up the hillside were lots of bright spring flowers and as the sun shone through the brilliant blue sky the scene looked like a painting. An old man with a weather beaten face walked towards us smoke wafting from a pipe in his mouth. He wore a bright red bandanna around his neck and a battered brown trilby over his long black curly hair.

As Dad and the Gypsy greeted each other we ran to a spring gurgling from the hillside and cupped our hands and drank the cool crystal water.

"That was delicious. I always think it's magical water. Let's have a race to the top." I shouted as we ran to join the crowds of people.

All the children were dancing about with excitement holding their decorated eggs up for others to see.

"Time for the race to start. Get ready, steady, go" shouted a fat man in a sombre suit, He waived a blue scarf. The children laid down their eggs and watched them quivering to the bottom of the hill. They were screaming and laughing with delight as they ran after the eggs.

The man boomed out "Anyone with a cracked egg is out of the race. Can I have any children who have unbroken eggs to pair them off. Now jarp each others eggs until one remains unbroken."

"I've won. I've won. Mine is the only egg not broken" I shouted joyously and held it up for everyone to see.

"I'm so glad you won hinny You spent hours decorating it," Dad said.

The same Gypsy who had spoken to Dad earlier came over to me. His large white teeth gleamed as he smiled and said, "Here is your prize for winning the egg jarping competition." and he gave me a struggling tiny brown puppy.

"Oh it's so cute. I love it. I've always wanted one. Thank you very much. I'm so happy I won't ever forget this day," I replied snuggling my face into the cuddly puppy.

***

Turning to Gordon Grandma said, "I've never seen such a selection of chocolate eggs before. They're all different shapes and sizes. The ribbons, the fabulous boxes they're in and the decorations are wonderful. However I think we had more fun making our own eggs than buying the ones here and don't laugh at me. It's true."

" The Metro Centre is certainly a popular place. They come in busloads from all over the Country. It's packed now so let's go home. I hate crowds."

Stella Rutherford.

________________________________________________________

Television is an invention that permits you to be entertained in your living room by people you wouldn't have in your home.

Sir David Frost.

_______________________________________________________

ORTHODONTICS

World renowned, Professor Maximillian Faxington had made his fortune as an Orthodontist in California. After returning to the U.K., he married ex. model Penny Chambers, who had been jettisoned by a premiership footballer some years before. Prior to Max, many 'kiss and tell' stories had appeared in the tabloids which all pointed to the fact that one man was never going to be enough for her. It was lust at first sight; Money and power for Penny, and well, just lust for Max, who by now was in the throes of his second divorce.

All was fine for a while, then the cracks in the marriage started to surface. She would stay out late with 'friends' and be invited to parties to which Max was not. Sometimes Max would be away on lecture tours for weeks at a time. One evening, at a medical conference in Paris, Max was sitting in the bar of his hotel after delivering a lecture on his specialist subject, The Rebuilding and Realignment of the Human Mandible'. Several colleagues sat around 'talking shop', but Max was uncharacteristically quiet. He sat swirling his whisky around, peering into the bottom of the glass. He was suddenly aware that he was being spoken to.

"Pardon?" he said to Bob Noakes, who was looking at him expectantly.

"I said what's yours?" replied Bob.

"Oh, I'm fine, thanks," he raised a hand over his glass,

"I'm not offering you a drink Max, we were talking about surgery, and the fastest operation we ever did. What is your quickest Dental Extraction?"

"Ten Seconds."

"WOW!" He was clearly impressed.

"Yeah. Total Mandibular realignment and all teeth out in one go."

"Impossible."

"Well watch this!" He grabbed Noakes by the throat and applied a mighty uppercut to the tip of the jaw. "And the next time you're in bed with my wife, give her my regards!"

Jay.T.Kay.

The secret of success is sincerity, once you can fake that you've got it made.

Arthur Bloch.

_________________________________________________________

EROTICA

‘Hello Jonty, what fettle?’

‘Not bad at the moment Chalkie, but to tell the truth I think I’m suffering from an overdose of erotica.’

‘Overdose of erotica? Never heard of it, but if you say so Jonty it must be true. What does it entail? Spots on the backside or can’t keep off the lavatory?’

‘Naw, Nowt like that, it means everything I see or do is tied to sex it’s erotica.’

‘Blimey Jonty you are in a pickle, if you see your lass in her shift, all fourteen stone of her, you call it erotica. Myself I would call it…’

‘Never mind what you would call it Chalkie, I’m serious. Let me explain, do you remember that lass we had on at the club a few weeks ago?’

‘Yes, I do, her with the big snake.’

‘Well, she was called an erotic dancer, but my point is, if she stood stock still with the snake, she was not erotic, but here is the punch line, if she moved her body with the snake that is erotica.’

‘Well I never knew that.’

‘Just cast your mind back to when we were in Port Said all them years ago. Remember them shows we went to with the performing donkey?’

‘Yes, Jonty, but they were filthy.’

‘You are right, Chalkie, they were filthy then. But they are now erotica to the viewing public.’

‘Well, Jonty this does not explain your erotica, and what are you doing about it?’

‘Well, I’m doing two things, first I’m posing nude in the art class, and I have joined a strip club as a male pole dancer, which according to my doctor should go a long way towards effecting a cure.’

‘Jonty, far be it from me to question your judgement, but as I see it. You have not got erotica or any other ca, but a straight forward case of Viagra overdose.’

‘Well Chalkie it just goes to show that a little knowledge is dangerous. Because I’m not suffering from erotica or Viagra overdose, I’m quite all right. I was just pulling your leg, because I get sick of you saying, “are you alright Jonty?’

Bob Mather.

__________________________________________________________

Youth is wasted on the young.

G. B. Shaw.

__________________________________________________________

Pregnant Pause

I looked at my watch as the ear piercing tones of the school bell heralded the end of the break. As I cleared out my desk, I couldn't help thinking that shortly I'd be saying, 'Be good, be careful of the traffic, and have a lovely holiday,' for the last time.

The silence of the little class-room was shattered by the ever increasing volume of voices and running feet. Somewhere the voice of a colleague on door duty called, ' Can we have a little less noise please?' A lump formed in my throat.

The classroom door flew open and a herd of six-year-olds crashed into the room, scraping seats and floor-boards as they took their places, for once I said nothing about the din. I looked across at the sea of faces. It seemed like only yesterday since I had taken up my post here. In reality it was quite a few years, just enough to let me see a few young families pass through my class.

Friday was art day, a convenient day for both teacher and pupils to unwind as we headed towards our respective weekends. Today, however I would be moving among my little charges, having a last chat, a personal moment with each of them.

Watching the bowed heads intent on their drawings, I felt a great sadness at leaving the little village school I'd come to love. Still, I told myself, health had to come before all else.

When the home pregnancy kit first confirmed that a baby was on the way, I saw no immediate problems. Most mothers found a good child minder and returned to work quite quickly. Nothing had loomed on the horizon to give thought to anything being different.

'Please Miss,' a voice cut into my thoughts. 'I've finished.'

'Good,' I said absently, looking across the class, 'please, bring it out.' Roddy, a lively red headed child, with a sprinkling of freckles rushed out, as always, anxious to be first, grinning in anticipation of my re-actions to his work of art. I looked at the piece of light grey drawing paper. A fuzz of blonde air overshadowed a skeletal lady filled in with purple, sprouting a rather large Christmas pudding tummy.

'Please Miss,’ Roddy explained, 'this is you when you get fat. You do know the baby grows in you?' he finished in his matter of fact way.

'Yes,' I smiled, 'I do believe your right.' I ruffled the carroty head. 'It's a lovely picture, can I take it home with me?'

The floodgates were opened. My desk besieged with multicoloured hands dropping drawing after drawing, forming an untidy pile.

‘Thank you all.' I gulped, tears not far away.' 'Now if everyone will return to their seats, I shall study them while Roddy hands out some sweets.'

I settled down to my task. The drawings covered a plump me. Me with a baby. Me with a pram, even one of me with a pram and a child on each side plus another pudding on the way.

'Well I said,' looking up, 'I don't know what to say.' I smiled lovingly at the bright eager faces of my small charges. 'They're all quite wonderful. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to make a special book for them, so I can keep them forever.'

'Please Miss,' Rudy's hand shot up again, the tell tale signs of embarrassment causing floods of red to rush upward from under his white collar. ' We've a present for you.'

'Oh!’ I cried, unshed tears sticking in my throat.

'We all put our money together and have bought you something for the baby. We didn't want our mums to know in case they'd tell you and spoil the surprise.'

I was so touched that for a moment I couldn't speak as with trembling fingers I accepted the package, my smile embracing the whole class. 'Why thank you, thank you all, what a lovely thought.'

'Aren't you going to open it?' someone called.

'Of course I am.' Slowly I unwrapped the gift. A hand-made card fell out. The drawing was that of a baby in a pram and signed by an assortment of childish printing with letters scored out, corrected, then re-printed. A record for posterity, of the names of class, primary one. Nestling in some recycled white tissue, was a baby matinee jacket, bootees, mittens, and a little shawl-type cot cover, all with the labels of the local charity chop still attached. How small they were, I thought, I'd forgotten how tiny new babies were.'Baby will love these.' I assured them.

Again the shrill scream of the bell rang through the school. An uncomfortable silence lay across the room. Then 'Will you bring the new baby to see us?' Someone asked.

I promised I would as I kissed each up turned face good-bye, at the same time praying that God would allow me to bring all three. Once my emotions settled I realised it was quite a compliment that at fifty-four my pupils had seen me as young enough to have another baby. No way would I have spoiled their day by trying to explain it was my daughter who was expecting, and now that triplets had been confirmed I was needed at home.

Once the babies were safely in the world I would bring them to the school, each wearing part of the little out-fit. When they were old enough I'd tell them this little story.

Janette Alexander.

__________________________________________________________

The lion and the calf shall lie down together, but the calf won't get much sleep.

Woody Allen.

________________________________________________________

Worried About Geordie

It was grand out, one of those May mornings when the sun was shining, the birds were singing and the gardens were full of spring flowers. Earlier Bob Metcalf had called on his old mate John Simpson and as usual when the weather was fine, they were taking a mid morning stroll around the town, before taking a walk through the park and on to the Red Lion for a pint before lunch.

‘I’m a bit worried about old Geordie,’ said Bob.

‘Geordie?’ enquired John.

‘Aye, you know who I mean, old Geordie Green, three doors up.’

‘Oh, that Geordie, the one with the gammy knees.’

‘It’s not just his knees, the poor old boy’s rife with the rheumatism.’

‘He’s not that old you know, he’s only a year or so older than me, beside I’ve got a touch of the old rheumatism myself.’

‘Oh, you’d have something wrong with you as well.’

‘Are you incinerating that I haven’t got rheumatism?’

‘No, I know you’ve got rheumatism, but we were talking about Geordie’s rheumatism and it’s much worse than yours. Have you seen how long it takes him to sit down?’

‘Aye, I suppose your right, but mine hurts as well.’

‘It’s not just his knees, his memory’s going as well, poor old codger.’

‘Who?’

‘Geordie, the one we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes.’

‘Oh, aye, I passed him in the park on Tuesday. No, I tell a lie it was Monday…or was it Wednesday? … well, whenever, and he was talking to his mate Tomo.’

‘See, that’s what I mean, he’s losing it, Tomo’s been dead for over a year now.’

‘Who has?’

‘Tomo.’

‘Oh, Aye.’

Their circuit of the town complete, they turned into the park gates and were heading for the boating lake when Bob came to a sudden stop. ‘Oh, my God, he’s gone completely gaga.’

‘Who?’ asked John and then exclaimed. ‘Oh, aye.’ As his eyes followed Bob’s pointing finger.

There at the other side of the boating lake was the man they’d been talking about, Geordie Green. He was sitting on one of those little folding stools, with a fishing rod in his hand and his line cast into the middle of a large circular flowerbed.

‘Now what’re we going to do? We can’t just leave him sitting there,’ said Bob.

‘I’d tell him not to be so daft and to get off home.’

‘No, that would be cruel. We’ll ask him to come for a pint.’

‘Good morning, Geordie,’ said Bob, when they reached the seated figure.

‘It is that,’ replied Geordie.

‘It’s thirsty work fishing when it’s hot and we were wondering if you fancied coming for a pint?’

‘Aye, I wouldn’t mind,’ said Geordie and before you could say, Red Lion, he had folded his stool, reeled in his line, closed his telescopic rod and was ready to go.

When they reached the Red Lion, Bob and John got the beers in and they sat at a table. Geordie took a sip of the dark brown brew, smacked his lips and said, ‘By that’s a grand drop of stuff.’

‘Aye, the landlord keeps a good pint of ale in here,’ said Bob.

They quaffed their pints in silence for a while and then John decided to humour old Geordie, ‘Did you catch many today, Geordie?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Geordie. ‘Only two.’

F. Watson.

A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Oscar Wilde.

__________________________________________________________

MYCELEUM IS NOT A GREEK GOD

'Simon Vivian Lowes you have been acknowledged for rescuing a blackbird trapped in strawberry netting.'

Fourteen year old Simon had seen the bird while walking to school. The garden owner impressed by the boy's care notified his headmaster resulting in an announcement taking place during assembly. It was a shock; not the recognition but for all the school to hear his second name. For him it was a burden placed on his back by thoughtless parents who could never have foreseen problems that would arise.

Trouble came just four hours after the announcement. Fifteen year old Dave Prentice, school bully to whom Simon had previously been invisible came over and within inches of his face sneeringly said. 'Hello Vivian, would you like to be my girlfriend?' Simon froze, he had seen the mental torture Prentice could inflict. One young boy with protruding ears was driven to despair and re-christened, 'Jumbo,' a name he would take to his grave. The misery was made worse by Prentice's feral followers who did as they were told to prevent becoming victims themselves.

Simon didn't answer. It seemed the best defence but Preston snarled. 'You little creep, nobody shuns me, from today my mission is to make your life a misery from morning until night, you will be as safe as a pheasant in December.'

Prentice was a typical bully; big, self assured, aggressive, and Simon made the perfect victim. A small boy with aquiline features, quietly clever with a love of the natural world. His family was modest working class while Prentice, whose father owned a scrap yard had grown up in a house of plenty where modesty would have presented opportunities for competitors. The moment he became number one victim Simon's movements and habits were watched. He hated contact sports, could never hurt an animal, kick a proud ink cap mushroom or tear the heads off municipal daffodils, all things that made a boy a man in the eyes of his aggressor.

'Lowes darling, I would love to get you in the boxing ring to carve up that girlie face.'

Fortunately the non stop persecution only lasted a year, cruel enough but after six months Simon was counting the days to Prentice's admission into a future of life-expired cars and blackened scrap yard dogs. Sadly what should have been an end turned out to be a continuation of verbal torture by the ascendant bully guided by Dave Prentice.

All good and bad things do come to an end, eventually Simon left the misery behind to attend university where he read English and enjoyed individual freedom. He passed with honours and decided to take up a teaching career two hundred miles from his home town, where he settled to be both proficient and popular.

Love of nature continued. Simon joined walking groups, one of which included an autumn mushroom hunt that he found fascinating even exciting because of the beauty within these strange growths. Not only do they provide delicious accompaniment to a meal, they also pose a threat deadly as Cleopatra's Asp; a fungi capable of changing its appearance to give false security to the unwary. Such was his interest that Simon took up studies and visited many lectures given by experts and he eventually qualified as an instructor on autumn trips.

Sue Henderson booked up to join Simon on one of his first forays. Twenty one year old Sue was a vivacious girl, good looking rather than beautiful, with dark eyes that bored into your soul.

After introductions they set off for the two hour trek but it was only twenty minutes before those eyes had grasped Simon, turning his stomach into a turmoil. Women had never rated in his life. He admired them but they were slightly mystical unnerving creatures that had the ability to hide their emotions like a chameleon changes its colour. He was not good looking or charismatic, encounters with girls saw them compare him with others in his group after which they gave him an unmistakably dismissive look.

Sue did not dismiss her teacher, in fact a focussed smile heightened emotions including possessive fear that the magic moment would pass. Fortunately it didn't and on the third walk they had bonded. From then the world became a magic bubble from which everyone else was excluded; looks and limitations became love and admiration.

Simon was buying an apartment that Sue visited and over time subtly changed. Furnishings that clashed along with walls coloured acid green and midnight blue disappeared to convert a manly pad into somewhere they could marry and settle.

Dave Prentice couldn't believe his luck as he drove his lorry full of copper wire almost stolen from a vulnerable elderly businessman when he saw effeminate Vivian Lowes walking alone two hundred miles from his home town. Prentice stopped the lorry, wound down the window and called. 'Fancy seeing you alone. Where's your boyfriend?'

Simon froze but didn't respond and carried on walking as the lorry swept past. It was a horrible experience but soon forgotten as he prepared for the first evening mushroom introduction.

The class was well attended. Sue stayed at home and Simon lay a large basket of mushrooms picked earlier that day to interest, feed and terrify his audience.

'First, Agaricus campestrice, posh name for the field mushroom; delicious. Simon continued to describe most of the basket's content. He then boiled a kettle, got the students to chop up a pile of shaggy ink caps, place them in a bowl with two stock cubes and lots of croutons, inviting everyone to dive in and after many, 'Oh no's' the class enjoyed a trip into the unknown.

They were halfway through the feast when the door opened to frame the big body of Dave Prentice. 'Hello Vivian I am staying the night. Found out about your class and thought I would join in. Can I have a word?'

Simon moved out of earshot to hear what the uncouth Prentice had to say.

'You didn't ask my permission to move away from home. I had not finished with you. The hotel told me you are a teacher. Do the parents know their children are being taught by a perv? This is great, I have been waiting a long time to see you again. Come on, I will join your class to watch you squirm; in fact there's another load to pick up here in a month, you can stew until I come back to warn the school.'

Prentice made his way to where the students were eating the soup. 'Hi everyone, can I have some?'

A bowl was passed over and he hungrily downed the contents asking if there were seconds. To oblige, six ink caps were chopped up, the basket emptied and Prentice's bowl was refilled, the contents devoured greedily.

The evening continued. Prentice became the heart and soul, chatting with everyone.

'You knew Simon before he came here?'

'Yes we were at school together.'

'Have you met Sue, his girlfriend?'

'No but I expect I will next month.'

The class finished and Prentice whispered to Simon as he left. 'That's rich. Sue! Does she wear size ten shoes?'

Simon had no option but to tell Sue the full story of Prentice and she introduced herself to him as he staggered in to the hall four weeks later. 'Hello Dave I'm Sue and my shoes are size five.'

She made the soup adding five extra pale-gilled mushrooms to Dave's bowl. They were meant to be the subject of terror. Instead, the final speech shown below was omitted and the class departed.

'Class! Before you leave, these are Amanitaphaloides, the death cap mushroom. Eat them and it's sickness and diahorrea for a day, recovery for a day, finaly death within two days. If they are eaten with other mushrooms true diagnosis is difficult. Good night.'

John Frostick.

___________________________________________________________

You can make a throne from bayonets but you can't sit on it long.

Boris Yeltsin.

___________________________________________________________

SUPERSTAR

"We need to catch this maniac, and now!" exclaimed the D.C.I.

There had been a spate of attacks on women in or near the vicinity of Bracewell woods. The latest, a young woman of twenty had been sexually assaulted and choked almost to death whilst out running. She had only survived because her attacker heard a dog walker approaching and had fled. The dog walker, a youth, had called the Police on his mobile phone. He stayed with the woman until they arrived but was unable to give much information. The lady was seriously injured and he needed to give immediate first aid, rather than chase the attacker.

An operation was set up to insert officers into the woods to monitor an undercover 'dog walker'. As P.C Jones walked, lead in hand, no dog was visible, and it wasn't long before the trap was sprung. She turned off the path into the woods and heard someone behind.

She increased her pace until she was about fifty yards from a clump of bushes where she knew her backup was. As she turned round to face her assailant, he grabbed both her wrists, pinned them by her sides and backed her up against a tree.

Looking at the dog lead, he smirked, "Where's the dog then?"

"She's run off into the bushes, but you'd better not be touching me when I call her."

He suddenly grabbed the pink dog lead and yanked her arm upwards and around her neck, so she let go and elbowed his face, bringing her knee into his groin at the same time. He lurched back from her, wincing with pain and rage. This time he darted behind her, winding the lead around her neck.

"Here Twinkle," She called.

"Twinkle?" The man laughed, momentarily forgetting his aching balls. "What sort of a name's that?"

"Twinkle, come here now. Mummy needs you," She choked.

His humour evaporated as the Bull Mastiff pounced on him from his right placing itself between victim and assailant, knocking him to the floor, back legs on his crotch and mouth firmly clamped around his throat.

Rubbing her neck, she looked down at where the dog was standing, shaking her head.

"They're really not having a happy day, are they?" She grinned.

"Stupid name for a bloody dog like that, Twinkle!"

"Well, you must admit, she's a star. But her real name is Buster, and if you look closely, She's a He!"

"Result, Jones. If your dog would like to join the dog section, I'm sure they'd snap him up," the Inspector said, as 'uniform' took the hapless villain away.

"Other way round Gov. and there's no chance. He's my Superstar."

Jay T.Kay.

O what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.

Sir Walter Scott.

________________________________________________________

HENRY’S INTRUDER

Wrapping the last of his sandwiches in cling film, Henry poured himself a glass of wine then settled down on the recliner for a few stress free hours in the sun. He sighed contentedly, knowing that after tonight, this would be his life's pattern.

His experienced eye caught the flicker of a shadow. He first thought a bird had landed a bit to heavily on a branch, causing the disturbance. Then came a more obvious movement and he realised he had company. His brain, used to situations like this, sprung into action. He smiled to himself, although verging on retirement, he knew he could still out think and out run, many younger than himself. Like a lynx he eased his long legs off the recliner. Hidden from the intruder by high bushes, he watched a jean-clad youth, head covered in the symbolic hood of this generation, slip furtively across the lawn. He sprang into action.

'Please don't hurt me! I ain't gonna steal nofin!' came the sniffled plea as Henry grabbed the boy by the arm. 'Ah was just curious to see inside one of them big houses.'

Henry gave a belly laugh. 'Aye son, and I'm the curator.' He tightened his hold. ' Keep this up son and you'll see inside a much bigger house, courtesy of her majesty.'

‘Onest!' he pleaded, obviously scared out of his pants he tried to break away from Henry's strong grip.

'Not so fast, young man.' Henry cautioned .

Pushing back his hood, he moaned, close to tears 'My ma's gonna go balistic if she finds out about this.'

Henry studied the boy. His "I know it all" stance, reminding him of himself at that age. Then he thought, 'What an apt ending to my career it would, be to persuade this boy to change his life's direction.'

'What' s your name son?' he asked kindly, indicating the boy join him on the recliner's edge.

The boy hesitated, waiting on Henry producing his little black book.

He laid a gentle hand on the thin shoulder, 'You’re on a winner to-day son, I'm practicing soaking up the sun.' Studying the thin frame, he indicated the sandwiches, 'Have some.'

The boy reached out, his eyes never leaving Henry's face, just in case...

'I promise you son, you've got me on a really good day.'

As he spoke the boy was eating the food as though it had gone out of fashion.

Henry smiled. 'Your name son?'

'Jamie, and that's all 'am telling.'

'Fine by me.'

The boy shrugged. 'I wasn't gonna steal, mister. Well maybe just a few things you wouldn't miss from such a big house.'

'Really?' Henry laughed . 'At least your honest about it. 'Tell me, do you make a habit of breaking into other folks homes son?'

Mouth full, Jamie shook his head

'Can I take that as a no? You know thieving nowadays is a mugs game. Today’s coppers brains, are in their heads, not their boots.' Henry winked 'Believe me, stealing is a bad habit to break, and can lead to big trouble.'

'Ah don't know about that.' Jamie gave Henry a knowledgeable look. 'I've this mate, his da told us, all you need is a good hedge to get rid of the stuff.'

Henry kept his face straight' I think you mean, a fence'

Ignoring the correction, Jamie carried on with a confident flick of his shoulder. ' Anyway, my mate's da seems to be making a good enough living out of it. They've just bought a house in Spain.'

'Maybe Jamie, but listen to an old man, the day of the petty thief is over. Would you believe, today, forensics can name when your nan bought the underpants you were wearing, when you committed the crime?’

'I'm not stupid you know, got three A's and a couple of B's' The boy bragged. ' I reckon I've got what it takes.'

'Look Jamie, if you think you have brains enough to plan a heist and get away with it, then turn that same talent into solving crime.'

Jamie was horrified, 'Are you suggesting, what I'm thinking?'

'Yes, why not join the police? And by the way, why the sudden change in speech?'

Jamie shrugged, 'Other way's the way we talk to each other.'

'By we, I gather you mean your mates?'

'Well if you want to hang out with them you've gotta act, well, like, cool.'

' Jamie, listen to an old man who knows what he's talking about. Get out of this gang, make new friends. You’re bright and have your a whole life ahead of you. Please, don't waste it on crime.'

Henry looked at his watch, his afternoon almost gone. Time to make a move. Lifting a napkin, he wrapped what was left of his alfresco lunch, corked the wine bottle and handed them to the boy 'Here, take these home to your ma. Tell her you’re toasting you, and your new start.' He gave the youth a long, meaningful look.

Jamie took the gifts. ‘I’ll think about it, and thanks for not reporting me.'

Henry let the boy out the back gate. Locked it. Tidied up before walking back to the house, checking everything was secure.

Although fraught with danger, he'd enjoyed his working life. Tomorrow started his official retirement, then he and his long suffering wife Meg would head off to a new life in Cyprus.

Locking the front door, he lifted his bulging overnight bag and stepped on to the path. He looked up at the sign, "Country House To rent- Fully furnished and equipped". The young woman, viewing, had been so eager to chat, making arrangements on her mobile, that she had entrusted him with the keys. How easy it had been to take soap images. With a sigh and thinking of the good old days, he walked away, from this, his last job.

Neta Alexander

___________________________________________________________

Nothing is certain but death and taxes.

Benjjamin Franklin,

___________________________________________________________

THE BET

It had rained all morning and by the look of the clouds it would continue into the afternoon. Joe Catlin kicked out at a discarded beer can, which according to the law of the land, should have been lying in a recycled bin. As Joe continued on his way home, miserable and full of hell, he bumped into Harry Smith an old school mate.

‘Hello Joe, you look like a drowned dog.’

‘I feel like one,’ Joe replied. ‘And I will be glad to get home believe you me.’

‘Well, before you b****r off lend me a fiver I have a sure thing for the two thirty at Chepstow,’ Harry said grasping Joe’s arm.

‘You and your sure things Harry Smith; but to show you I hate your guts, here is a tenner, put a fiver on for me and bring the winning around tonight, if any.’

Grasping the tenner Hary took his departure, disappearing into the afternoon gloom, heading for the betting shop in the arcade.

Joe stepped into the kitchen divesting himself of his wet coat and hat and turning to Mildred his wife said, ‘I could eat a horse.’

Mildred retorted, ‘Your dinner is in the oven, burnt mince and dumplings, they have been there since one o’clock, sorry I haven’t a horse.’

‘Don’t worry Pet, I’ll warm it up and then you can tell me what sort of morning you have had.’

Joe and Mildred were nicely settled down by the television and Joe remarked how good it was to be by your own fireside, after a hard days work. Joe’s remark was greeted by silence from Mildred. Their married bliss was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell, ‘Who in the name of God could that be ringing the doorbell?’ Joe grumbled as he got out of the chair.

Opening the door he was confronted by Harry, ‘Well!’ Joe demanded. ‘Where are the winnings?’

‘Sorry Joe,’ Harry said. ‘ “Splash The Money” was nowhere, I’ll give you your fiver back at the weekend.’

‘Well, that is something I suppose.’ He said, and went to close the door on the bringer of bad news. ‘By the way, what did win the two thirty?’

You’ll never believe it,’ Harry said. ‘ “Cold Dinner” goodnight Joe.’

Bob Mather.