Boxing Day.

Had a lovely day, yesterday, over my youngest daughter's and her partner Tom. His friend Stuart came over too, as he has recently lost his partner also. We all had such a laugh, despite the circumstances, but as I said, Paul would not want me to be miserable on my own, on Christmas day.

A beautiful Christmas dinner and a few tipples made it very special. Grandson Ryan and girlfriend Hannah visited and brought me lovely presents, as did my daughter Karen.

A lovely Christmas day.

Christmas Eve Ramblings..

I woke up early this morning with the theme to  "Dances with Wolves"  playing in my mind. It was the last piece of beautiful music at your funeral, so peaceful and serene.  Does that mean you are around and approve of my choice? -  or is it because I'm always thinking of you, especially on waking. More likely the latter.

I still talk to you and tell you the latest trivial news, such as what's happening in Eastenders. I remember how we always took the piss out of some of the ridiculous storylines, but still felt compelled to carry on watching it. Like many others I suspect!  Soaps can be addictive.  Apparently they are bringing back Lofty and punk Mary. Scriptwriters must be getting desperate.

Going in town later to pick up my prescription from Boots, as they sent me a text to say it was ready - hope there isn't too much of a queue. Anna coming round this afternoon, so want to get back early and cook the rest of the sausage rolls. Pity you're not here to have some as they are very moreish.

Must go now - time for a shower, then breakfast. Not sure whether to dye my hair a shade of red for a change, but at my age, maybe best not to, but then again...

"Just do what you want, Wilson, though I prefer it blonde"  I hear you say.

I'll think about it..

Christmas.

Well, it won't be the same without Paul, that's for sure. He was a real larger than life character, always the optimist and I loved him for that.

We liked doing our own thing at Christmas, opening our presents, mostly watching tv, having a good laugh, eating too much, glugging a few drinks and generally enjoying our own company.

Last year we decided to have a holiday over Christmas and went to a hotel in Wales on a coach holiday. We had a great time and  had hoped to do it again this year, but couldn't afford it in the end.  Just as well, in hindsight, as Paul became ill overnight and ended up in A&E on remembrance Sunday, when he suffered that heart attack.

Everything changed that fateful day and he was only to spend one more night with me, when he was taken ill again, after being discharged from Papworth Hospital and ended up in Bedford hospital once more.

I was too late to say goodbye to him on that awful morning on November 22nd,  when he suffered that fatal cardiac arrest.  I had a call from the hospital about 6 09am, when they told me he was very poorly, so I rang for a taxi, but he had passed by the time I arrived. He was still warm and looked like he was sleeping. I kept stroking his hair and cheek and told him I loved him and always would.

I hope he heard me.

Little Things...

It's always the little things you miss about a lost loved one and maybe they could be things that even irritated you at times.

I miss Paul's laugh. It was very loud and hearty and I often used to tell him to quieten it down a bit, especially if we were watching some late night comedy.
My next door neighbours have since told me how much they miss his laugh. Not half as much as me, I'll bet.

I miss him saying God bless you and the children, plus the childrens' children every night when we were lying in bed.  I miss him constantly telling me he loved me. I miss those lovely cuddles and his oh so heavy arm, around my shoulder.

He could be a little bit domineering at times, but never in a nasty way. He was just used to taking charge and getting things done. It was just his way and I miss all that.

I miss him washing up and me having to do half of it again, as his eyesight was not so good and he missed bits!  I miss how he watered down the washing up liquid, though it drove me bonkers at the time!  I miss him rubbing Vick vapour on his nose at night, as I used to joke that I was fed up with having Vic in bed with us every night and we'd both laugh about it.

I miss our trips to town most days, going in Betfred, having a modest win on a horse or dog I picked, if I liked the name. I miss his practically illegible writing on his betting slips.  Kierian mentioned it, when I popped in yesterday with a card and chocs for the staff.   It made me smile.  I miss the meals we enjoyed together in our favourite cafe - our days out on the buses. Our holidays together, that we'll never have again. I miss those simple pleasures most of all. I miss how comfortable we were together.  He always made me feel safe.

There is so much I could still say, too personal to share.  Love and miss him so much. It's so hard to bear and difficult to appear okay to other people, though I have to try to get on with the rest of my life.

Paul would not want me to be unhappy.

CARDS

CARDS


Humble folk, with weathered faces, trampling through the snow
Sparkling Christmas tree baubles and church candles that glow
Cheery red-breasted robins that are merrily singing,
In the lane the sound of church bells, joyously ringing.

Carol singers in unison, with their lanterns so bright
Gather in the town square, on a dark snowy night
An old fashioned coach, pulled by a white horse.
Little children playing,  with snowballs of course!

Baby Jesus lying in a manger, amid a stable so bare
Wise men, and shepherds,  in wonder they stare,
Mary and Joseph, their hearts filled with love
While Angels smile down from the heavens above.

These winter scenes and there are many more
Adorn Christmas cards, that we buy by the score.
We send to our loved ones and friends, far and near.
To wish them Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

 


©  Ann Wilson

More Saturday Ramblings.

Feel better after getting to sleep in the early hours -  eventually!
Up and dressed now.

Karen is popping round later with a few bits and pieces for me, ie newspaper with Christmas tv mag in it, plus essential milk and bread.
Not bothering going to town this am.

I haven't been able to face going in our favourite cafe, as we spent so much time in there, albeit happy ones.
My friend has booked Christmas lunch there for 21st, so will definitely make it then. We will have a toast to absent friends no doubt ❤

My life is having to take a different path now, without my lovely Paul.

He would not want me to be unhappy. 

Everyone has been so kind and supportive. Thanks to you all for that.

Saturday Morning Ramblings.

Well here I am at 12 30am in the morning, sad, alone and almost destitute, until my housing benefit is sorted. I expect I will have to ring them up soon, as heard nothing yet.  My friend Brenda says it takes them ages to sort it out. Hope they do by the time my rent goes through in January 2019.

If Paul could see me now, bless him, he'd be horrified as he thought, mistakenly as it turns out, that I would benefit from his private pension.  I won't get a penny - though I always suspected as much, so it wasn't a total shock. Our happy 24 years together count for nothing in the eyes of the law.  His dying so suddenly was a total shock. I miss him so much. I wish I'd told him I loved him more often, though of course he knew I did.

This time last year we were getting ready for our holiday over Christmas in beautiful Wales. Little did I know then, it would be our last one together.

Life is truly a bitch at times.  I'm writing this blog post at well past midnight, as I can't bloody well sleep -  thinking if only I could have known his heart was about to give out, should I have been more observant ? - did the hospital really look after him that well, was there more they could have done?  All pointless now - it won't bring him back.

Then I keep worrying about how I'm going to manage financially and I feel selfish for thinking it, because I am at least still alive and kicking and I suppose I should be grateful for that.

I will carry on with my ramblings, as they are a kind of therapy! Depressing reading though, for anyone who bothers!

I fell asleep eventually. It's now 9 36 am. Still in my night attire, lazy daisy that I am - Paul would not approve.

Time for breakfast.

Happy Christmas all x

Life

As we go through life, it's our little everyday actions that can mean so much.
A few kind words can make someone feel their worth and know they are appreciated.
A loving hug to someone who has lost their way, can help to lessen anguish and make that person feel they are not alone, especially in those awful times of bereavement and sorrow.
A strong arm around a shoulder can give another the strength to carry on.
A few wise words can mean so much and will be remembered in times of trouble and give comfort.

Never be afraid to say you are sorry to someone. We are all human, we make mistakes and will have many regrets, but it is never too late to heal rifts whilst people are still living. Remember that.

Knowing that you are loved and the ability to love in return, are the  greatest gifts in life.
If you can, try to be kind.
If you can, be just and fair.
If you can, as none of us will live for ever, make each day the best possible.
Love the seasons and never cease to wonder at the beauty of our universe.

Our days on earth are numbered. Make each one count.

Enjoy your one life, try to be happy, laugh a great deal, despite all the odds, plus the adversity that life often throws at us, without warning - but most of all,  just LOVE

Ann Wilson

11th December 2018.

Over one hundred years on. Life is Precious.

I'm growing old, but as a young man, you died.
Each November the eleventh, I wear a poppy, with pride.
For I can still see the moon, golden sunshine and showers.
Whilst you never survived, to spend precious hours.

Future plans were denied you, didn't see your children play.
You never woke to their giggles, at the break of each day.
See them jump on a swing,  blow bubbles in the air - or do all the mad things that only kids dare!

You missed all the trials of seeing them grow, the excitement of Christmas -  their first pantomime show.
Opening small presents, with joy in their eyes.
Unaware of their mother, softly stifling her cries.

She wept for her soldier, who didn't return,  that pain in her heart would continually burn.
A wedding ring to cherish, a photo or two.
She kept his memory, for her children, it's all she could do.

So when I look back at my life, the good and the bad.
I'm thankful I survived, though sometimes feel sad.
For a hundred years have pased, since your great sacrifice.
But we still have not learned, how precious is LIFE.

Ann Wilson  November 3rd 2018.

WELCOME, THE AUTUMN

A farewell from the Summer.
as Autumn takes the stage.
Pretty blooms are fading fast,
spent annuals start to age.

A prelude to the Winter,
pleasant breeze before the chill.
With colours ever changing,
Autumn's promise will fulfil.

Late asters in their element,
vibrant dahlias, grasses tall;
adding beauty to the garden
as the gilded leaves now fall.

I watch them softly shedding
as they greet the waiting earth.
Knowing nature will recycle.
Nature is rebirth.

Reflections in the Night Garden.

A poem in progress.

I love the serenity of the dark, sensual night

An indigo sky - a full moon so bright

A myriad of stars twinkling up above,

Reminds me of the past and the angst of lost love.

One special love - I thought we'd never be parted - 

My world shattered in pieces
and left me broken hearted.

But time heals pain, a cliche, I know.

As the years roll on, you have to let it go.

Summer nights, in the garden, I reflect on it all.

Wondering why, it was so easy to fall.

But so obvious looking back,
with an amber moon above.

The night time allure
was ideal for young love.

Now I just admire the beauty of the night time display.

Happy to be here still,
I've come a long way.

Intoxicating scents from flowers all around.

Brushing past me in the darkness, moths barely make a sound.

The gentle colour changes, from a pretty solar light.

Fascinate them so, on their late evening flight.

In the dark trees above
I hear the rustling of the leaves.

It fires imagination, of the stories I might weave.

Such as witches on their broomsticks
With black cats by their side.

In the coolest, blackest sky
Their favoured territory -  they ride.

The night time garden never ceases to amaze.

A whole new world appears,
So very different from the days.

Sentimental Summers.

Dedicated to my Dad.

How I loved the Summer
Jewel-like flowers and lush green trees.
A walk along the countryside
As I ambled at my ease.

Butterflies -  a- darting
From a myriad of flowers.
How I loved to watch them all,
as I whiled away the hours.

Ripe strawberries with a tin of cream
Fresh apples, pears and plums
Delicious crumbles to be made.
All would satisfy our tums!

My favourite place is in the garden,
at this special time of year
It reminds me of my father,
whose memory I hold dear

He grew so many vegetables
and lovely flowers by the score.
His dahlias and roses
are the plants I still adore.

With affection I remember,
Our rose garden at the side.
It's probably a driveway now,
Where once was Father's pride.

Then, summers seemed so magical
Playing out in meadows green.
Now houses stand in rows
And our childhood -  just a dream.

Time is....

Another poem on the subject of time.

It's running out, it's wasted.
It's precious, so they say.
It's musical, it's happy
and it rules our every day.

It's waiting, it's forgiving.
It passes quickly, so they say.
It's looking forward, looking backward
and will never go away.

It's sadness and it's healing.
It's always marching on, they say.
It's motivation, it's in the future,
of a kinder world, a better way.

MISSING YOU

This poem has been published in an anthology by Forward Press. ANIMAL ANTICS 2008 under my former name Potkins.



MISSING YOU



In memory of Shannon April 11th 2007


...

I miss your head upon my lap,
I miss your grunts and groans.
I miss your bark, I miss your whine.
Oh, how I miss your doggy moans.


I miss seeing you in the mornings,
I miss your presence in the night.
I miss your little tufts of hair.
I miss you so, it isn't right.


I miss your lovely greeting,
I miss you treading on my feet.
I miss these little things so much
And I miss, watching you eat.


I miss seeing you in the garden,
I miss the way you'd run and play.
I miss you, when I'm home from work.
Oh, how I miss you every day.

Holiday

We had a great holiday in Weston -super- Mare. The New Ocean Hotel is very nice, although our room was a tad small and if I was any bigger,  I would have had a job to squeeze past the end of the bed to reach the kettle, in order to make a cuppa!

The meals were really nice, especially the buffet style breakfasts with a good selection of food that you could pick and choose. Many of the staff were eastern europeans, lovely people and very helpful.

Our 2 trips out were lovely as the weather stayed warm, though a bit windy, but often the way in coastal areas.
We had a few hours in Burnham-on -Sea, on Tuesday, quite a quaint place, not too commercialized. A lovely sea front and a selection of gift shops, plus a handy B&M that I couldn't resist visiting. I bought a solar "mooning" gnome, very tasteful!!  It works.

We couldn't leave without indulging in substantial ice creams with added clotted cream - sheer bliss and such a hit to the taste buds.

On the Thursday we went to the UK's smallest city of Wells and visited the beautiful cathedral and although I'm an atheist, I appreciated the gothic architecture, its history and stunning stained glass windows. We had a homemade buttered scone and tea in the cafe. Very nice.

We had an hour or so in Wells, which had to include a quick visit to Ladbrokes - we didn't see a Betfred there. The young lady working in Ladbrokes lived in the village of Street where we were going next and was very informative, as to its charm.

Clark's retail outlet in Street was the highlight of my week and even Paul, who normally hates shopping, had to admit it was nice there. It was built on the site of the old Clark's shoe factory. Loads of great discount outlets, including Gap, French Connection, M&S and many more. Tried a top on in FC, but looked like a whale in it, so went to M&S and bought a lovely royal blue top for £15 and actually got into a 14 as the 16 was voluminous! A complete fluke of course. Paul got some new jogging bottoms.

We had a real Cornish pastie between us,  they were huge, in one of the lovely cafès. The whole place is beautifully set out with everything to hand - including very clean loos - well worth a visit if you're visiting Somerset ( not just for the loos) though loos are very important to the over 70s!

The Grand Pier in Weston that we visited on Wednesday,  was rather disappointing, as it was full of noisy slot machines and not much else - what a waste of a great space. Hopefully they have  shows there later this month.

We had a go on a machine and put in a couple of quid, not realizing it only spewed out tickets and no cash prizes.

After redeeming them, we got 2 pkts of love hearts and a lolly!!  Big deal.

A redeeming feature was The Tiffany Tearooms at the end of the pier where we had a lovely warm, fresh homemade scone with clotted cream and jam. All  washed down with tea, loose leaf variety, with a strainer - there's posh!

One of the great highlights of our holiday, was that our particular coach party had free drinks every night between 6 and 10 pm. I'm not a big drinker, but got a few bacardi and diet cokes in!  What more could you want on a holiday?

We had entertainment most nights, mostly good, one not so good, but hey, they have to make a living - and we weren't expecting Tom Jones or any other top acts and after a few bevvies, funnily enough, they all sounded great!

Sadly, the five lovely days were soon over and back home again. Here's to the next time...

MY PHILOSOPHY UPDATED VERSION

1. When you feel sad and dying inside,...
   those tears of sorrow, you feel you must hide.
2. But let them flow, in that most private place
   Where no one else sees the stains on your face.
3. When you think of loved ones who have sadly passed.
   Happy days, that were never to last.
4. As the years pass by and you slowly progress,
   That aching pain, will hurt a little less.
5. Cherished memories stay with you for ever.
   The close bond that you had will not sever.
6. Those precious ties, live on in your heart
   Even death, will not keep you apart.
7. Enjoy the life, that they'd wish for you.
   Learn from your mistakes, we all make a few!
8. One life is all we have, I truly believe.
   Live, love and be kind, before we all leave.
9. 
   

MORE PET HATES

Morons who fly-tip.
Taps that drip, drip, drip.

Teenagers who are surly.
My hair, all straight, not curly.

Rap "music" and hip hop
It just gets me in a strop.

Golf, cricket and football.
I admit I hate them all.

Slender girls who stuff their faces.
Old men wearing gaudy braces.

Pigeon droppings everywhere.
Litter louts who do not care.

That strange person on the bus.
Public toilets that won't flush.

Cold callers on your 'phone.
Junk mail offering a loan.

That toothpaste top left off
and the irritating cough.

Drivers, blinding with headlights.
Thuggish yobbos picking fights.

Two lottery numbers on each line.
Healthy folk who whinge and whine.

Dog owners who don't "scoop"
when their pooches do a "poop"

Poetry that's twee.
Could apply to me!

MY PHILOSOPHY

When you feel sad and dying inside,
those tears of sorrow, you try to hide.

Let them flow in that private place
Where no one else can see your face.

Thinking of loved ones who have sadly passed
and happy days that weren't to last.

As the years pass by and you progress
That aching pain, will hurt a little less.

Cherished memories will stay for ever.
The close bond you had will not sever.

Those precious ties, live on in your heart
You will never feel apart.

Enjoy the life, they'd wish for you.
Learn from mistakes, we all make a few!

One life is all you have, I truly believe.
Live, love, try to be kind, before you leave.


Ann Wilson 3rd June 2018.

SHANNON AND THE LITTLE GREY CAT. STORY 2

SHANNON AND THE LITTLE GREY CAT, STORY 2



  It was a lovely summer’s day and Shannon, the cross-breed dog was relaxing in her garden. She had picked a shady spot under the cherry tree and was just dozing off, dreaming of chasing cats and other canine pursuits, when she heard an almighty commotion further down the garden.

She leaped to her feet and rushed to investigate and saw fur flying everywhere and much hissing and spitting going on. It was two cats fighting and Shannon noticed that one was tiny and only had three legs. The other was a huge black and white brute.

“What a bully!” she thought and started barking furiously.

Shannon had never seen a cat fight before and felt rather sorry for the three-legged cat, so she rushed forward very bravely, snarling and bearing her teeth. The cowardly black and white cat ran off straight away, but the three-legged cat stood rooted to the spot, back arched and spitting at Shannon, its green eyes wide with fear and mistrust.

“Well, that’s gratitude for you, I must say!” said Shannon. “I wasn’t going to hurt you”

“I’m sorry, thanks for saving me from Jasper” replied the bedraggled cat, who was still trembling like a jelly, from his ordeal. “But most dogs chase cats, don’t they?”

“Maybe” said Shannon. “But I’m not most dogs” she added, a little hypocritically, considering all the cats she had chased , in the not so distant past!


“I haven’t chased - I mean I haven’t seen you before, have I ?” asked Shannon.

“No, I only moved in next door to you a couple of days ago and my humans have only just let me out” explained the little grey cat, who was feeling much bolder now. “What’s your name?”

“Shannon” said the heroic dog, who was wagging her tail in a friendly fashion now. “I’m named after a river, you know” she added, knowledgeably.

“Yes, I know” replied the cat. “It’s in Ireland”

Shannon was amazed, as up till now she had thought that cats were rather stupid creatures and didn’t know much at all; she knew they could run of course and had to concede they were good at it!

“What are you called then?” she asked.

“Smokey” he replied.

“Not terribly original, is it?” said Shannon, with more than a hint of sarcasm.


“Well, it’s because I’m grey and smoke is grey, you know” replied Smokey, who had picked up on the sarcastic vibes and was quite amused by Shannon’s slightly superior tones. “I didn’t choose my name any more than you did”

“True” conceded Shannon. “Err, do you mind me asking why you’ve only got three legs?” She was certain most cats had four and thought it strange.

“Not at all” replied Smokey, cheerfully. “I was shot at by a horrible boy with an air rifle and my leg was too badly damaged to save, but I can manage very well on three” and he did a little pirouette to prove it!

“Very impressive” said Shannon. “I’m sorry you lost your leg though”

She was shocked at the cruelty of some humans and was glad of her kind ones, who had rescued her from a horrible place, some years earlier. She still remembered the man hitting her on the nose with a stick when she barked and shuddered at the memory.

Suddenly, they heard a human voice calling from the house next door.

“Come on Smokey, puss, puss, come and get your dinner, kitty, kitty!”

“Can you hear that?” said Smokey “It’s so embarrassing the way they talk to me, anyone would think I’m a baby”

“Know exactly what you mean” agreed Shannon, nodding her head. “My humans call me by so many names, I forget who I am sometimes, but I know they love me, so I don’t mind”

“Yes, they mean well, don’t they?” said Smokey.

As they were discussing the more noble aspects of the human race, a very loud male voice, bellowed down the garden. “ Come on in, Shanny-pan, dinner’s ready. Stop teasing that poor little pussy-cat, you naughty girl, come on in now, Shanny!”

“See what I mean!” said Shannon and they both started to laugh.

“We’d better go in” said Smokey. “Otherwise, they might sulk! It’s good though, that we’ve both got such good homes and that we’re neighbours. Shall I see you in your garden tomorrow?”

“Of course” said Shannon “and don’t forget to let me know if that big black and white cat, Jasper, ever bothers you again”

She hadn’t planned to give up chasing cats entirely!

SHANNON AND THE BABY HEDGEHOG

This is the first of four short stories for children, featuring a lovely dog we had who sadly died in 2007.




Shannon was half German Shepherd and half black Labrador, though she looked more German Shepherd than anything else, apart from her floppy ears, but had the good nature and gentleness that most Labrador dogs have.

One evening, Shannon was running around the borders of her large garden. She did this ritual most days, to see if any cats were hiding in the hedges, as she often chased them to keep them “on their toes!” She never actually caught one though; they were much too fast!

That evening, Shannon noticed something small, rustling in the bushes towards the end of the garden. She nosed towards it and heard a whimper and weird snuffling sounds. Her tail was wagging furiously with excitement at the find!

“Please don’t hurt me” squeaked a tiny creature.

“I wasn’t going to” replied Shannon, calmly. “But who and what are you?”

“My name is Harry and I’m a hedgehog” replied the nervous, soft-prickled little fellow.

“What are you doing here?” asked Shannon, who had never seen a hedgehog before.

“Well” explained Harry “I’ve lost my parents; they went off to see if there was any left-over cat food, outside your neighbour’s back door and told me to wait here, but it’s been ages now”

At this point poor Harry started to blubber “Anyway, who are you?” he snuffled, his little piggy-eyes red with crying.

“My name is Shannon and I’m a cross-breed” replied Shannon, proudly wagging her long bushy tail.

“You look perfectly happy to me” observed the little hedgehog, tearfully.

“No silly!” laughed Shannon “It doesn’t mean I’m angry or cross, it just means I’m a mixed breed dog”

“Oh, I see' murmured Harry, cheering up a little, though he didn’t really understand, as he was much too young. He hadn’t seen a dog before and this creature was enormous, had huge sharp teeth and a strange swishing tail.

“Which neighbours did your parents visit?' asked Shannon. “Left or right side of my house, as they both have cats?”

“The ones on the left, I think” sighed Harry, who was feeling quite exhausted by now. “They have three cats and a very fancy cat-flap, you know"




Shannon liked the idea of a fancy cat-flap and wondered if they made fancy dog-flaps, big enough for her to get through. Must ask my humans about that, she thought, but just then Harry started to whimper again.

“Don’t worry” she said “I’ll give you a lift”

With that, she picked a trembling Harry up in her soft, gentle mouth and carried him all the way to the gate near the house. Then she put Harry down very slowly and carefully.

“Hurray, I can see them!” yelled Harry excitedly, miraculously revived all of a sudden!

“Hey! Mr and Mrs Hedgehog” shouted Shannon, “I’ve got your son here. You really should take more care of him, you know. He’s still only a baby'

“Oh no I’m not!” retorted Harry, indignantly. 'I’m three weeks old now and anyway, I’m a hog-let, not a baby!”

“Thank goodness, you’re OK son!' roared Harry Hedgehog Senior, who had a very loud booming voice - for a hedgehog.

Harry junior started to cry again. “There, there,” cooed Harry’s mother, soothingly. “But I did tell you to wait for us under the bushes, that we wouldn’t be long and we’d bring you back a tasty morsel or two”

“I’m sorry Mum” sniffed Harry. “This kind cross-breed dog, helped me find you and Dad”

“Cross-breed, cross-breed!” exclaimed Mr and Mrs Hedgehog, in unison. “What’s a cross-breed? - it looks cheerful enough to us; why is it so cross?”

Shannon sighed wearily, having to explain again to Harry’s parents, what a cross-breed was!

“Well, anyhow, thanks for looking after him” they said 'But it would have been best to leave him where he was, as we always know where to find him then”

“OK” replied Shannon, good natured as always. “I was glad to help”

“Thanks” squeaked Harry. “I hope I’ll see you again soon, Shannon”

“Me too” said Shannon, “Cheerio Harry, see you soon”

“Make sure you have a good bath and a flea spraying!” chortled Harry’s Mum and Dad.

“Why’s that?” asked Shannon, looking rather puzzled.

“Because we’re full of fleas, you know!' laughed Harry and his parents.

'Oh wonderful” groaned Shannon, having a jolly good scratch!

A Little Love Story!

Gordon was a garden gnome,
who led a lonely life.
He only had his fishing rod,
what he really wanted was a wife.

He sat upon a rustic bridge,
fishing all day long.
The other gnomes all laughed at him,
as they sang this little song.

"Our Gordon is a lonesome gnome,
all he does, is keep on fishing.
But he really needs a girlfriend
and indulge in lots of kissing!"

Poor Gordon blushed a brilliant red,
his face all flushed and hot.
Salty tears rolled down those rosy cheeks;
A happy gnome? No he was not!

One day a lovely fairy came,
with wings of silk, so pure.
She gazed at Gordon, sitting there,
her smile sweet and so demure.

She thought he was so handsome,
they fell in love that day;
They married in the Springtime.
A five-piece gnome band, came to play!

Now they sit upon that bridge
and cast their lines together.
Gordon is the happiest gnome,
now he's found true love, forever.

SUNDAY RAMBLINGS

It's a while since I posted anything on here apart from my poems or stories. probably because nothing particularly exciting happens in my life, but you never know, it's always possible that may change.
I have been quite busy in the garden, mowed the back lawn yesterday and potted up a magnolia I bought from LIDL and a hydrangea that I got from the local hospice charity shop. With a bit of luck they will survive.

We are thinking of getting another dog, as I still miss our lovely Rosie, it's been over two years since we lost her; maybe a slightly smaller breed or a mixture, as I don't mind a cross, as long as it's sociable with people and more importantly - other dogs.  The trouble is, we have got into the habit of going out most days since Paul fully retired and have to take that into consideration if we do, at least till the dog gets used to us and feels at home.  I'd be happy with a little Jack Russell, but Paul isn't keen on small breeds.

I haven't had any joy trying to trace any kin in Canada re. my Grandfather Robert Wilson who emigrated there in 1923 and subsequently "re-married"  I noticed on the Ancestry site I'm on, that several people were also researching him and I got in touch, but heard nothing from them. 

Oh well..

Bye for now

APRIL BEAUTY

I have recovered this acrostic poem I wrote in 2012 from an old Facebook post as I couldn't find it anywhere, as I must have accidentally deleted it.





APRIL BEAUTY

1. A pril - month of yellow flowers
   P lentiful refreshing showers
   R enewal signs are all around
   ...
   

   I n bulbs emerging from the ground
   L ove the sights, the scents, the sound.
   B uds - now leafing on the trees
   E ver to delight and please
   A robin chirps a new song too
   U nder skies of pale grey- blue
   T elling us that Spring is here
   Y oung and fresh and full of cheer.

Regrets

This poem is personal. I lost my mum just before my 17th birthday. I didn't always treat her with the respect she deserved, being a stroppy teenager at the time, something I will always regret. She died in January 1959 but we knew in the Autumn of 1958 that it was terminal cancer. She was 46.

I miss you in the Autumn
when the season's red and gold.
For that is when my father
broke the news that left me cold.
I found it hard to contemplate;
life, without you anymore.
Those memories, of leaving school,
rushing, hungry, through our door.


I took your love for granted.
How selfish I had been.
I put it down to youthfulness,
I was nearly seventeen. 
All throughout your illness
you never said 'you knew'
But I was being over cheerful.
It must have given you a clue.


I tried so hard to hide it.
I was crying so inside.
So sad I wasn't with you
on the very day you died.
Time has dulled the pain
of that memory, life goes by.
But on those Autumn anniversaries
that's when I'm liable to cry.


Wherever you may be, dear Mum
forgive my youthful ways.
You know I really loved you,
thanks for happy childhood days. 



In memory of Ethel May Wilson   1912 - 1959

A Summer Garden

In a Summer garden,
nature's beauty can be seen.
The fiery red-breast of the robin
and the blackbird's glossy sheen.

Bold, iridescent starlings
and the pretty speckled thrush.
Frantic darting of the sparrows,
in and out the holly bush.

A myriad of flowers, float
like jewels in the breeze.
The perfume in the evening air,
sets a troubled mind at ease.

Busy honey-bees and butterflies
are so enchanting to our eyes,
scarlet, spotted ladybirds
and multi-coloured dragonflies.

Little miracles of Summer,
are in gardens everywhere.
The natural beauty all around us,
is a treasure we can share.

Captured in Seconds

This poem is based on snapshots taken years ago with my Kodak Brownie camera, mostly in glorious black and white as colour film was too expensive.  No selfies in those days!

Sun-drenched August greased my hair.
Salt-sweat dripped from half-shut eyes.
"Fresh from the vine, those peas!"
my father bellowed.
They were too - small and sweet,
some never made it to the pot
as I shelled them.

Me, showing off on my new bike,
wearing my new red check slacks.
"Cool!" they'd say now or "Wicked!"
I was carefree, but like black clouds
before the storm, guilt and grief
were gathering fast.


My mother, looking so well, sun-browned,
not jaundiced.
Her smile sweet, with less than six months
of smiling left.
Captured, happy and contented; none
of us knowing then.


My sister, in the freedom of fields,
where tree-dappled light swathed the old
farmhouse, now levelled.
Our wild flower meadows soon to be sacrificed
for no-character houses and strangers, but
captured that day.


My ex, but not then, standing tall by his
old Vauxhall 14 car, a cigarette drooping from
unsmiling lips.
Posing 'teddy-boy' fashion, handsome yet dangerous.
I courted danger then.

The Brownie captured it all

I used to go to a few car boot sales but not lately.  Here's a little poem on the subject.

Car Boot Fever

Other people's rubbish
is someone's treasure
so they say.
You may find it at the
car boot on a bright
and sunny day.

Grotty cassettes, tatty
records,compact discs
and pirate tapes.
Dubious scents in pretty
bottles.
Are they genuine or fakes?

Grimy old electrics, greasy,
working sandwich toasters.
Unwanted foot spas, water
filters and former free-gift
plated coasters.

I've never found an item
that's worth more than
I've paid.
But I've seen them on that
'road show', where a fortune
has been made.

So I'll continue on my quest,
to find that hidden treasure.
Meanwhile I'll do a car boot
one fine Sunday at my leisure!

The River In Summer

Graceful willows line her bank,
branches drifting in the flow.

Regal swans glide softly by,
bright mallards come and go.

Silver ripples in the sunlight
mini whirlpools, crystal clear.

Fish, darting to the surface,
for a welcome morsel here.

Young lovers on the grass
throw in a crumb or two.

I smile, as I remember,
I did the same with you.

The little cafe by the river
still does a thriving trade.

Fresh cream teas and doughnuts;
the cakes are all home made.

A rowing boat streaks past,
so powerful, yet serene.

Splash of oars on water,
a splendid summer scene.

Relaxing by the river,
a tranquil place to be.

Sights and sounds on water,
simple pleasures and all free.

Still Here.

One of my poems on loss.

I know we are as one, despite
the passing of the years.
I sense you think of me, as I do you.
I feel your presence in my heart
You are still here.

I see you in the bluest skies;
in a hazy morning's sun.
On a balmy summer evening,
or blackest pitch of night.
You are still here.

On waking in the morning;
to a blackbird's cheerful song.
I think of you - we are as one;
though parted all these years,
You are still here.

When I stood before this place
You were no longer there.
Ashes, dust and earth may be,
but you live on, in my heart.
You are still here.

ENDANGERED

A poem about my favourite wild animal - the beautiful tiger.


Endangered.


Sleek-striped sinewy beast,
my constant fascination.
For me, you are the King
of a far off destination.

In a swamp or jungle deep
nothing can compare.
Your majestic lope prevails,
when others would not dare.

The envy of the fur trade;
your pelt coveted by fools
and a body-part for man's desire,
is breaking Nature's rules.

J

WE ARE UNIQUE

To understand the sound of laughter,
a sigh, a shout, a baby’s cry.
The composing of sweet music,
to rock a cradle by.

To speak those tender words,
“I love you, I just do”
Separates us from all life forms,
we are unique, this me and you.

To hear a Prima Donna sing,
or see Leonardo’s work, so fine.
Yes, we people have been artists,
from the beginning of all time.

To plough the land and grow the produce,
for a hungry world to eat.
Fields of waving barley
and a haze of golden wheat.

To hear a voice so far away,
from a telephone so near.
The internet at our fingertips,
a welcome e-mail brings us cheer.

To understand and keep on learning
Is so natural for us all;
always striving for a better life,
till greed and avarice comes to call.

We pollute our beautiful planet,

Oceans, land, the air we breathe.

Can we reverse the damage? 

It's far too late, I do believe.

To be indifferent to the suffering,

Exporting arms that kill or maim.
Yes, as humans we're inventive,

but we must take the blame.

This is another of my poems written about 12 years ago when I worked as a care assistant. These are my own thoughts and observations.

Inside/ Outside

Your memories are many,
locked up inside your head.
Sometimes you don't remember
the wife you love is dead.

Inside you're young and able
but your mind is telling tales.
You're in a wheelchair at the table
and your bed has safety rails.

Your care plan doesn't mention
that you fought a bloody war.
Now your elbows take the battering
as they wheel you through the door.

Your care plan never mentions
hopes and dreams you planned to share.
Those life savings you worked hard for,
now pay towards your care.

The carers try their hardest
to keep you clean and smart.
So many regulations now,
no wonder they lose heart.

Sometimes you may remember,
your children visit you.
You're lucky if they stay an hour
but it's hard for them to do.

It breaks their hearts to see you now,
this frail person you've become.
Old photographs bring memories
of a personality, now gone.

Sometimes a little flashback
will give you some recall.
Though few and far between now
as dementia takes it's toll.

So with affection, they remember,
the great man you used to be.
A kind and loving father
Still there inside, but sometimes hard to see.
 

And all this for what?

This poem is pretty graphic but it is short. 

Wrenched from her finger,
her gold wedding band,
from a bloodied and torn,
paper tissue thin hand.

Stray coins on the carpet,
lay steeped in her blood.
Brain matter seeps..
in her curls, like black mud.

Twenty pounds has gone missing,
It’s all she had left.
The thug, in his violence,
leaves a daughter, bereft.

And all this for what -
Just a smoke or a snort?
He’s gone  - job accomplished
and gives them no thought.

©  Ann Wilson

I wrote this poem a few years ago when we lived in a house with a very large, wild garden.  We had lots of bats flying around at night. It was quite creepy, but I loved walking down the full length of the garden at night and hearing the foxes calling, owls hooting etc.  I let my imagination run riot, hence the poem.

The Wild Garden

It's totally wild - out of control,
haven for hedgehog, mouse or vole.

But come out rodents, if you dare,
the vixen's stirring in her lair!

Dark trees are looming up above,
Do I feel a hand, giving me a shove?

Eerie sounds, I hear this night,
would give the bravest soul a fright,

A cat, as black as coal glides by,
only visible by her glinting eye.

And on this ink-black, starry night,
I sense the swish of broomstick's flight.

That cackling witch, she's on the prowl,
alerted by a hooting owl.

Large bats are circling overhead
I'm feeling sick and full of dread.

Will I make it to my house?
I'm just glad I'm not a mouse!



 

THE TALE OF PENGUIN PETE.

Little penguin Pete,
was quite wobbly on his feet,
but on contact with the ocean;
he swam with stream-lined motion.

From steep rocks he made a dash
and produced a mighty splash
and Pete soon got his wish;
with a beak of tasty fish.

Pete loved to play and lark;
one day he chased a baby shark.
Mrs Shark was not too happy;
being protective, made her snappy.

She didn't think to pause,
as she snapped Pete in her jaws.
Pete became a quivering jelly,
as he passed from jaws to belly!

But Mrs Shark was off her food;
spat Pete out, which was quite rude.
He was battered, bruised and beaten,
but at least he wasn't eaten.

The experience left its mark,
he'd never chase another shark.
The moral of this little story?
don't get mauled and end up gory.

Whilst little penguins are delightful
Adult sharks can be quite spiteful!

One Life

I wrote this poem a while back. I must have written well over 300, most on AllPoetry.  I'm adding a few more poems and stories from there to my blog.  All comments welcome.   

 

You only have one crack at it
So make the best of life.
You never know when it may end,
Beware! - the reaper with his scythe.

He is always in the shadows
Hoping for your sticky end.
So cherish waking moments,
Let kind thoughts be your friend.

Treasure friends and family
And never let them go.
They will care on darkest days
When life deals a fatal blow.

Face up to disappointments;
Appreciate those simple things
Like ever changing seasons
And the beauty each one brings.

Your life is full of chances,
But blink and they are lost.
Grab every opportunity
Or regret it at your cost.
 

SWEET, DARK, DESIRE

I feel your silky cover
and my body starts to shake.
You're better than my lover
for with you I keep awake.

Then when I caress you
as you lay serene and dark.
You fill me with desire
and ignite that hidden spark.

My lust is getting stronger
and I feel the searing heat.
I want you in my eager mouth,
my dark, delicious chocolate
treat



I wrote this about 12 years ago, way before my type 2 diabetes diagnosis.

A poem about lost love.
I have "tweaked" this poem many times, so there maybe different versions elsewhere. Not all poetry has to rhyme as you can see.

Bluebell Weeks.

Those few precious weeks
we shared that summer.

 Remember?

I blame the weather,
hot and heady,
unusual for early May.

A profusion of bluebells had
burst forth,
as did our passion.

Their sweetness intoxicated
our senses, made us reckless, oblivious to reality.

We lost track of time as we lay in bluebell woods.


Afterwards, we gathered many.
I held some  to your face..
You smiled.

Those delicate blue trumpets
 reflected in your grey eyes,
making them blue.

I remember you saying,
"I'll always love you"


Soon those smiling eyes
became sad.

Our weeks of passion quickly passed,
as did the bluebells.

It was over.
The parting wasn't sweet.

We were not free.
You made a choice;
it wasn't mine.

Now when I see a mass of bluebells,
I think of you.

Still feel a sadness,
for what might have been.

THAT WAS THE CAKE, THAT WAS!

This short story is basically true with a little poetic license.  Written with kids in mind.

  Note - sultanas and any grape products are poisonous to dogs, not sure about cats. Mine didn't eat as much of the cake as in the story and were fine.

That was the Cake, that was! (short story)

 This incident happened many, many years ago. I think it was in the 1970's.  In those days, I had more time on my hands than I do now! 

I used to do a lot of baking then and loved making fairy cakes and chocolate crispies for my children, they used to love them and I made a rich fruit cake at least once a week.

At the time we had a feisty Jack Russell dog, called Peter and two cats called Moppet and Honda. Moppet was a pretty, fluffy little tortoiseshell cat and Honda - well, she was named after a motorbike, by my eldest daughter!  The two cats were sisters and partners-in-crime as we shall discover.

On one particular day, I decided to make the biggest, richest fruit cake ever. It took a while to mix and well over an hour to bake. When it was cooked, I proudly turned it out on the cooling rack on the kitchen worktop and stood and admired it for a few seconds. Then I went off to finish some household chores.
This is what happened in my absence...

"There's a lovely smell in the kitchen" piped up Peter, the Jack Russell, who had just trotted in from the garden and was feeling decidedly peckish!

"Yes, yummy isn't it" agreed Moppet and Honda in unison.

"It smells like fruit cake" observed the little dog, "Do you two fancy some?"

"We'd love some" replied the pair, "but we shouldn't, should we?"

"A little bit won't hurt" said Peter, confidently, "but I can't get up there to get it, but you two can" he added, encouragingly.

With that, Moppet and Honda leaped up on the worktop and clawed at the cake. They had to be careful, as it was still quite hot, but the aroma was so delicious, they didn't care! They pushed an enormous lump on the floor for Peter and he gobbled it up, greedily.

"More, more!" he barked. The cats jumped, they were a bit scared of Peter, who was rather bossy and inclined to nip them sometimes. Obediently they pushed another huge chunk of fruit cake on the floor. Peter wolfed it down, almost choking in the process!

Soon all the cake was eaten and only a few crumbs remained.

"Oh, I do feel a bit sick now" wailed Peter, who had expanded enormously round his middle!  The cats felt somewhat queasy too, and slunk off in their basket to sleep it off.

When I returned and saw the cake gone, I wondered who could have scoffed it all, knowing my daughters were still at school. Then I took one look at my rather rotund Jack Russell and the bloated bellies of my cats and knew who the culprits were. They were all groaning with terrible tummy-ache!

"Serves you right for being so greedy!" I shouted at them.

The moral of this little tale is; - never leave your delicious, rich fruit cake unattended, if you have pets. They are very partial to it!



The End.       

THAT FEELING!

A little poem remembering a first love.




That delicious, tingling feeling
When first your eyes meet his.
You pretend to be aloof, so cool
But your heart is thumping so.
You're breathless, feeling faint now
And you think that he must know.


As you try to speak, words fail you
For your throat is dry and parched.
So you smile, eyes all a flutter
And hope he doesn't notice.
Then you hear his nervous mutter...

Er.. are you doing anything tonight?

Heart in a Cage.

There will always be a part of me,
that I keep locked away.
Where my desires lie dormant,
just waiting for the day...

When someone will awaken them
and set my heart aflame;
but until then I'm waiting
and life goes on the same.

Will I ever find that love,
to free this inner rage?
Or must I stay alone and sad,
my heart locked in a cage.

Ditto the Dalmatian

Ditto, the Dalmatian
only had one spot.
He wasn't very happy
as his siblings had a lot.

His mum and dad had plenty,
his cousins did as well.
His aunt resembled chicken pox,
Though didn't itch like hell!

Ditto was so fed up,
he found a black felt pen.
He painted on enormous spots
and was well-splattered then.

Now Ditto's sporting many spots
and struts around, so vain.
Though he has to be quite careful,
when he goes out in the rain!

THE SUMMER HOUSE - A TRUE STORY

One day many years ago, a young boy was playing at the bottom of his grandparent’s garden. Geoffrey was ten years old, the year was 1924 and it was a glorious late summer day. He often wandered into the shady summer house to relax and get away from the glare of the sun. One day he noticed a beautiful, though quite frail young woman, lying on a hammock. She looked very relaxed and smiled across at him. Although he didn’t know her, he didn’t feel it was that strange to see her there.

When he went in he mentioned it to his grandparents, after describing the lady. They went very quiet, appeared upset, but offered no explanation as to who she was and Geoffrey did not question them, as it wasn’t the done thing in those days.

Many years later he discovered that his father’s sister, his aunt Stella had contracted tuberculosis and spent many hours, relaxing in the summer house. Fresh air was believed to be the best treatment then, before the days of penicillin. She had died in the summer house. Geoffrey had never met his aunt, or even know of her existence.

Geoffrey grew up to be a rational, intelligent man who became a journalist. He never saw another apparition or had any other occult experiences. The ghost he saw of his aunt that day was not transparent and appeared as a substantial human being. He was a shy, nervous child, but the apparition made no attempt to frighten him and he always thought of her, years later, as a “kindly ghost”

Geoffrey was my father and this little story is true and is based on a letter found in my dad's effects, written by a colleague who was investigating occult experiences.

© Ann Wilson

Winter magic

Winter's icy fingers freeze
the earth, yet grace the trees.
With frost, like finest lace,
pure white.
Spun by ghostly weavers
in the night.


How magical, this winter scene,
swathed in moonlight's silver
spangled sheen.
Snow-laden days that she
may bring....

A prelude to a glorious
Spring.

The Birthday Cake

THE BIRTHDAY CAKE



Joanne was looking forward to seeing her father after all these years. It would be his birthday soon. She had moved away from home to work up north, after her pretty younger sister Annabelle had died so unexpectedly at seventeen. Their mother June had died ten years earlier after a long and courageous battle with cancer and Joanne had virtually brought Annabelle up single-handedly. Their father had started drinking heavily after June died and family life deteriorated rapidly.

Joanne had been twenty-one at the time of Annabelle’s death.

Her father was the only close relative she had now and she couldn’t wait to make up for lost time. She gazed at an old snapshot of him in the family photo album. He had been a good looking young man and she could see herself in him, with his dark curly hair and charismatic smile. She took after her mother, nature-wise and had inherited her strong character and determined nature. Joanne made a promise to herself that she would find her father one day. She knew it was what her mum and sister would have wanted. She had to put things right; she owed it to them - and to him.

Joanne would be forty-one next year. She’d never married and had worked as a pharmacy assistant for many years at the local hospital. Despite having to miss many school lessons when she was younger, due to the family situation, she had studied hard at college and had done well in her exams. Her father had not been around to see how well she had recovered from all the trauma. He would be nearly seventy-three now, Joanne thought and she wondered how much he had changed.

Would he even remember her? She so wanted him to remember, or would he still be a hopeless drunk, his brain now addled from years of abuse?

She’d found out he was living in a bed-sit in Luton, thanks to the Salvation Army’s help and had decided to go and visit him. She was feeling very apprehensive and wondered what she could take as a sort of ice-breaker, so she made a large chocolate sponge for his imminent seventy-third birthday. She clearly remembered from all those years ago, that it was her dad’s favourite, when he hadn’t been too drunk to bother with eating!. The cake turned out as light as a feather with all the special and expensive ingredients she’d used.

When Joanne arrived at the address she’ d been given, she was surprised, as she had expected the building to be in a state of disrepair and quite dilapidated. The tastefully renovated building was situated in a quiet road, surrounded by elegant gardens and had a spacious car park.. Her father’s bed-sit was on the ground floor. After parking her car, she rang the bell and the smart double-glazed door was opened almost immediately, as if he had been expecting her.

“Hello Dad” she said, beaming at him warmly “Long time no see!”

“Is that really you Joanne?” he gasped “ I can hardly believe my eyes girl, come on in, won’t you”

Joanne struggled to swallow, her throat started to feel very dry, making it difficult to speak and she felt overwhelmed with emotion at seeing him again. She stepped nervously over the threshold into a small hall, off which was a large well kept bed-sit area.


“ Thanks, I’ve made you a chocolate cake for your birthday, your favourite, I think”

“It most certainly is love” he replied “I’ll make us a nice cup of tea to wash it down with” and he disappeared into the small kitchenette, humming contentedly to himself.

Joanne sat down on one of the two comfortable arm-chairs and unwrapped the huge and very inviting looking sponge cake. She looked around for any signs of alcohol abuse, but there was nothing to indicate that he was still drinking heavily.

He came back shortly with two teas in bright china mugs and a couple of plates, complete with white serviettes. She watched him closely as he handed her a mug of steaming tea. His hair was still as curly as she remembered, though silvery grey now and slightly thin on top. She recalled sadly how much she’d loved him when she was a little girl.

She quickly observed how the strong hands that had mauled her young body so many times, all those years ago, were a little shaky now. She also recalled how she had said nothing and learned to live with the abuse, as he had gone no further, and she had felt so confused, with all the conflicting emotions and loyalties of a child. Then it all suddenly stopped.

But years later when she’d found Annabelle’s note, after finding her dead from a massive overdose that awful day, she knew that she herself had got off lightly.
Annabelle was not such a strong character and keeping the secret had driven her to despair. She felt she couldn’t tell anyone, even Joanne as she didn’t think she would be believed. It was all in the note.

Though Joanne was sick with grief and felt such personal guilt, the shame of it all coming out was too much to bear. How could she not have suspected what Annabelle was going through? Joanne destroyed the note and a verdict of “suicide whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed” was recorded. Pressures of college work, boyfriend trouble - everyone assumed those were the reasons.



He noticed Joanne’s penetrating look, disguised by the sweet, but false smile.

“Just a touch of Parkinson’s dear - and my ticker’s a bit dodgy too, but I saw the doc only yesterday and he says I’m doing Ok for a man of my age” he said, cheerfully.

They chatted for a while, just small talk about his health, his rehabilitation, her pharmacy job, her flat and her life in general - until Joanne could stand the pretence no longer.

“When did you get out of prison Dad?” she asked abruptly.

“About fifteen years ago and I’ve never touched a drop since, in case you‘re wondering” he said, rather too smugly, as he reached for a second slice of the delicious cake.

He had killed a young lad through drink driving, shortly after selling the family home when Joanne left. He had disappeared into oblivion after being released from prison He doesn’t seem that remorseful, thought Joanne, but then he’d never said sorry to anyone. Perhaps he thinks he has paid his debts to society. She knew better.



“Have another slice of cake Dad, it’ll only go stale” she said “I can’t have it anyway, as I’m diabetic - and I did make it specially for you”

He didn’t really need any encouragement and helped himself to another huge slice - and then another.

“God help my arteries!” he joked to Joanne. “All this cholesterol!”

She smiled broadly at him and laughed “Don’t worry about that Dad, that’s the least of your worries - I hope you rot in hell, you bastard!”

“What was that you said love, didn’t quite catch that last bit?” He had started to feel a little bit woozy now and slightly nauseous. Everything, including Joanne seemed hazy and far away.


The cake had been delicious, topped with chocolate fondant icing and hundreds and thousands, in fact just how he liked it and extremely sweet; well - perhaps just a little bit too sweet, he thought…

as he slowly drifted into unconsciousness.


Joanne was pleased - her boring, underpaid and slightly repetitive job in the pharmacy department had proved useful and she didn't care about herself now. The debt she owed her sister had been paid.

Two days later she made the call and waited for a knock on her door.

Granny's Vases

I have a pair of late Victorian vases that my grandmother left me, but I know very little about them so I made up this story.


Carly had been left the vases by her favourite grandmother, who’d died when Carly was in her mid thirties. The pair, which were in perfect condition, depicted scenes of lovers in idyllic country house settings. They were on a dark green background and beautifully hand-painted with gilding around the edges. Carly really loved them, as they were the only treasures she had to remind her of happy days spent as a child at her Grandma’s house in Lincolnshire. She remembered seeing the vases on her grandparent’s high black mantelpiece and recalled looking deeply into the pictures and fantasising about the handsome Victorian couple depicted in the scenes..

The vases had travelled with Carly on various moves over the years when she had fled from her violent and abusive husband into another bad relationship with a compulsive gambler, who also turned out to be an alcoholic and a womaniser. Eventually she moved to another town and re-married, which also proved disastrous. Finally she’d come back to her home town to settle after meeting her partner and soul-mate Peter.

Unfortunately over the years Carly and Peter had very bad luck financially and had massive debts to contend with. Admittedly, neither of them were very good with money and having low paid, though rewarding jobs over the years, they’d not been able to accrue any savings or a decent pension to fall back on when they reached pensionable age. Carly, now sixty-five, had reluctantly given her job up due to severe arthritis in both hips and Peter who was nearly seventy, but still in good health, had two part-time jobs to keep them going and keep creditors off their back.

It had occurred to Carly to sell the vases to raise some much needed cash, but she was reluctant to do this for sentimental reasons. Their financial situation was getting desperate though and needs must, she thought. She knew that they could be worth as much as £2000. She discussed it with Peter and he suggested they sleep on it for a while before making any hasty decisions.



Over a century earlier...



Charlotte was awakened by the warm morning sun filtering through the latticed bedroom window of the large country house she shared with her husband Pierre. Her life was idyllic; she was twenty-one and in robust health. Her long fair tresses gleamed in the sunlight, framing her small and exquisitely beautiful features. The house was beautiful too and stood in acres of formal, expertly landscaped gardens, with box hedges neatly containing the charming flower beds. The heady scent of the rose gardens wafted through the windows on that June day in 1895. Nothing could spoil the peace and tranquillity of her perfect life - or so Charlotte thought. Pierre was the perfect husband, rich and good looking and so kind and gentle - and they were soon to be proud parents of their first child.

Unfortunately, the French-born Pierre was a gambling man, though he kept the secret well away from his wife. Charlotte assumed his long absences from home were due to lucrative business deals and commitments and did not dream of questioning him. At seven months pregnant she had more important things on her mind, like instructing the haberdashers on the fine soft furnishings for the nursery.
She had always been artistically inclined and had embroidered all the linen for the cradle and Pierre had commissioned a beautiful rocking horse to be completed for when the baby was older.

Charlotte’s personal maid Jessie, had laid out her emerald green velvet gown that had been made specially for the pregnancy and which suited her colouring. It went so well with the expensive jade necklace that Pierre had brought back from China a few years earlier for her birthday. Charlotte loved the cool feel of the green jade on her skin. After washing and dressing she went down to the ornately decorated dining room for breakfast. After her meal she retired to the elegant drawing room to carry on with her embroidery.

Later on that morning there was a loud and very persistent knocking on the large oak door. It was answered by Martha, who was head maid to Charlotte and Pierre. She was a stern, though handsome looking woman, who was very loyal to the family as were all the servants.

“There’s a policeman to see you Ma’am” She spoke in a whisper almost, to her apprehensive mistress. A policeman knocking on the door of the gentry was a very rare sight indeed, so she knew it had to be something of great importance.

“I’m afraid I have some very grave news for you Ma’am; please sit down and I will endeavour to explain what has happened. Your husband, Pierre Le Grande was found shot dead in his office this morning - by his own hand it appears. Apparently the tragedy involved heavy gambling debts that he was unable to pay. He left this letter addressed to you, but I’m afraid we had to open it as part of our investigations. I am so sorry to be the bearer of such tragic news”

Charlotte hesitantly reached out for the letter with a shaking hand and read the words that she would never forget till her dying day.

“ My dearest Charlotte, greatest love of my life. I hate to leave you and our innocent unborn child, who alas I will never know, but I cannot bear to live with the shame and disgrace that will now ensue. We are indeed ruined, due to my reckless business deals and gambling. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me one day. Till we meet again - your loving husband, Pierre.”

Dropping the letter, Charlotte wept uncontrollably and suddenly became breathless with the terrible revelations and slumped into the arms of the vigilant policeman. Martha rushed to get the smelling salts and helped the trembling Charlotte to her bed when she came round from the faint. Billy Brice, one of the stable lads was sent to fetch the doctor. Luckily as Charlotte was a healthy young woman, she and the baby were fine and two months later she gave birth to a healthy baby boy and named him Peter - the English version of her husband’s name.

Eventually the big house had to be sold to pay off the debts and Charlotte had to move to a small cottage with just one servant - the loyal Martha. Life was hard for her and Peter, as she had inherited very little, but she began to make a reasonable living as a potter and artist - hand-painting various pieces. Later on she began to specialise in pairs of vases depicting Victorian lovers, which became very popular at that time.



Carly woke up with a start from the incredible dream she’d just had. Certainly the vases had been on her mind lately, but the dream had been so vivid she felt a kinship to all the people involved and it made her want to know more about the history of them. She did some extensive research on the internet and discovered the potter and artist’s name. She was amazed when she discovered it was Charlotte Le Grande, who it appeared was her great grandmother on her granddad's side. He had died when she was small so nothing was known about the family connection with Charlotte. A little more research of the family tree revealed everything that happened in Carly’s dream was absolutely true!

Needless to say the vases have remained in Carly’s family and for some reason their luck has changed for the better, with a small inheritance from Peter’s late uncle. Carly is certain when she glances at the vases, that the pretty fair-haired Victorian lady wearing the emerald dress in the hand-painted picture, is smiling at her!

_________________

From Russia with Love

This is one of my short stories that I wrote a few years ago. I wrote it for a competition on a poetry site, where we had to write a story based on a book title.  Coincidence is a funny thing, as there is a Tracy in my story and a Tracey working in one of our betting shops in the High Street, in my home town, but long after I wrote this.   Comments welcome.



Phil Watson wasn’t a heavy gambler - well not normally, but he’d had a very trying morning at work and was relieved to pop to the bookies in his lunch hour. His boss, Dave Masterson had been in a foul mood all morning, moaning about everything and everyone. He ran a house clearance business, complete with a sprawling junk shop - or “Dave’s Emporium” as he preferred it to be known. They’d only cleared a couple of houses so far this week and the pickings from the last one didn’t look up to much.

The elderly lady who’d owned the house had been a bit of a recluse and the house was in a poor state of repair as were most of the contents. The house was extremely dark with tattered drapes covering the shabby latticed windows; its contents and ancient furniture all covered in decades of dust and cobwebs, mingled with its secrets and memories. It reminded Phil of Miss Havisham’s house in Dicken’s "Great Expectations" and he couldn’t help feeling upset about the fate of the old lady, who it seemed had nobody in the world to care about her. It was only when the neighbours complained about the putrid smell that the police were called. She had been dead well over a month and this was the height of summer. Although the bedroom where she’d been found had been cleared and fumigated, it still reeked of decay and the odd dead fly remained, embedded in the remnants of a grubby carpet, an unwelcome reminder of its inhabitant’s sad demise. Her funeral was a sad affair as no living relatives could be traced.


Phil glanced up at the screen to check the runners in the 2 - 50pm at Chepstow. He didn’t know that much about form and mostly went by the odds and names of the horses he fancied. He was feeling fed up and more than a little reckless and decided to put £20 to win on a 50/1 chance, something he’d never done before, as the most he’d ever betted was £5 each way on a horse that at least stood a chance of a place. He had a weird, excited sort of feeling in his gut about this particular horse, for some reason. His wife Mia had never approved of gambling. God knows what she would have to say about this, Phil thought to himself and smiled wryly. He took a deep breath as he handed over his betting slip and cash to Tracy, the attractive cashier.

“See you later Trace, when I pick up me winnings!” he joked, as he furtively ran his eyes over what he could see of her breasts. She was wearing a very low necked pale blue top which showed off her  cleavage and complimented her deep blue eyes.

“Yeah, you can take me out for a slap-up meal at Alphonso’s if that one comes in first, Phil!” She smiled at him and giggled, as she tossed her long strawberry blonde hair back with a flick of a wrist.

As if she could read his mind, Phil felt himself redden. He’d always rather fancied Tracy; she was half the reason he came in here so much. As he walked back to “Dave’s Emporium” he felt guilty about his lustful thoughts and vowed to buy some flowers for Mia after work, on his way home.


“You took ya bloody time, you’re five minutes late!” growled Dave, as Phil walked through the old door, which was in dire need of a lick of paint, in order to smarten the dingy shop frontage up a bit, which might have possibly attracted a more discerning clientèle. Still, there were quite a few customers rummaging through the junk, which was encouraging, not that it made Dave’s mood any more pleasant.

Phil ignored the remark; it was pointless arguing with Dave as he always thought he was right about everything and conveniently forgot about all the unpaid hours that Phil often put in after the shop had closed and the many errands he’d made to the local tip, which was not exactly on his route home.

“ I’ve sorted out some bloody rubbish from that old dear’s house” snarled the disgruntled Dave “Mostly broken crockery and other bloody useless bits; you can drop it off at the tip on your way home”

A please would be nice, thought Phil, but he just sighed and muttered “OK” He couldn’t afford to lose his job by telling his boss to flaming well sod off, stick the boxes where the sun don’t shine, and stop being such an ignorant, ungrateful, miserable bastard!! - well not with the way things were at the moment, credit crunch and all. He lugged the two large boxes of rubbish that the churlish Dave had stacked up in the yard at the back of the shop and loaded them in the truck. When he arrived there was nobody else using the tip, so he had plenty of time to have a little snout through the boxes.

He was just about to throw the second one in when he noticed something glinting in an old broken jug. It was wrapped in some torn and faded, yellowing tissue paper. Phil carefully unwrapped the object from the paper and gasped. The object was a pretty heart-shaped box, possibly made of gold, he thought. It appeared to be beautifully enamelled and encrusted with stones of some sort. He looked around quickly and shoved it in his pocket and drove home, completely forgetting Mia’s flowers. When he got home he took it out and viewed it under his jeweller’s eye glass and confirmed it was indeed gold, but more importantly - and he could hardly contain his excitement, discovered the maker’s name.

That magical name of names “FABERGE”

Phil decided to find out more about the little box; he couldn’t locate anything like it on the internet and thought about contacting the big auction houses. He knew that Faberge pieces fetched very high prices, especially the rarer ones and he hoped this might possibly be one. He got the number of Christie’s Auction House in London and spoke to a very helpful man, who seemed interested, but slightly cautious, pointing out that forgeries were rife in the antiques trade. Of course this fact had crossed Phil’s mind also, he’d seen a few fake pieces in his line of work, but he agreed to bring the box up to London for official authentication the following week, when he had a couple of days holiday and leave it with the experts for a while.




“Well, blow me, here he is at last” said Tracy “ thought you’d emigrated or something. I’m still waiting for that slap-up meal you promised me Phil”

“What! It actually flipping won,  well blow me!” In his excitement over the “Faberge” box, which he’d not mentioned to a soul, he’d completely forgotten about the bet he’d put on two weeks ago and had hardly expected it to win anyway. He’d not been in the betting shop since and they all wondered why.

“You must be so well off, you don’t really need this money” laughed Tracy as she handed over his winnings.

“I wish” replied Phil “to be honest, it slipped my mind, I’ve been a bit busy and preoccupied the last couple of weeks, but I’ll book a meal at Alphonso’s for tomorrow night, if that’s OK with you? “

“You’re on” she replied enthusiastically and Phil said he’d arrange a taxi for them both at 7 30pm the following evening and go for a couple of drinks first. He felt rather nervous as he had not dated anybody since Mia. It had been two years now, since she had died from a rare and undetected heart condition. Her totally unexpected ending had been a terrible shock, especially as she had been a couple of months or so into her first pregnancy and looked a picture of health. He’d not only lost his wife, but their unborn child.

As he left the betting shop he suddenly remembered the flowers for her grave that he’d promised to get a week or so earlier and felt very guilty, so decided to take some to the cemetery on the way home. He picked the largest, prettiest bouquet he could find - money no object today!

He decided he would take things slowly with Tracy, he really liked her, she was a lovely girl, but he didn’t want to hurt her. It was very early days for him, as Mia’s death had hit him so hard. He knew Tracy liked him too and who knows, she may turn out to be just what he needed to make changes in his life. He had ambitions to open his own antiques and collectibles shop, but needed funds to do this and was it really practical in a financial slump? Would he even be considered for a bank loan? It was hard enough trying to sell the junk in Dave’s Emporium at times, but he thought his employers off - hand, unsociable manner had more to do with lack of sales than the current financial climate!

The following evening he and Tracy had a great night out. The meal was delicious and a complete success as they both loved Italian food, washed down with a bottle of fine red wine. Phil explained his situation and Tracy said she already knew about his late wife and understood how he must feel. She’d just come out of a relationship herself so “taking it slowly” suited her too.

“The main thing is we have a good laugh and enjoy each other’s company” she said and Phil had to agree. Tracy had a wicked sense of humour that matched his own. They didn’t know it yet, but they were really made for each other.. They both liked the same rock bands and had so much more in common, it was uncanny. He felt he'd known her for ages.




The phone call came earlier than expected. Phil had just got in from another harrowing day at Dave’s Emporium; his boss seemed to get grumpier and grumpier and more insulting every day and Phil didn’t think he could continue working for him much longer, without decking him! He wasn’t a violent man, but Dave could try the patience of the most saintly person on earth.
Phil could scarcely believe what the Christie’s agent was telling him and had to ask him several times to repeat what he’d said.

“You’re telling me it’s genuine then and could be worth as much as a quarter of a million pounds at auction?” Wow! - Blimey - and something that small - I can hardly believe it!”


It actually went for over a million, as two wealthy Russian clients battled it out in the auction room, in front of an awe-struck Philip Watson. He turned a whiter shade of pale - as the song goes.

“Bloody hell, I’m a millionaire!”


The other thing was the name of his unlikely 50/1 winning horse that lucky day, a couple of years ago now of course. It was - and I’m sure you’ve all guessed…


“ Russia with Love”


Philip Watson became a very successful businessman and a great benefactor to many charities and always remembers to make sure that the grave of Miss Leila Kaminska, (the original owner of the little box) is well tended and has a beautiful headstone, where once was a plain wooden cross.


AS for Dave - well, he went bust!

Dusty Boots

There he goes again
as he struggles on his way.
His back is bent,
his clothes are ragged.
It's just another day.

At night he needs a shelter
to lay his weary body down.
People pass and glare at him
with hostile stares - and frown..

as they don't want to know
if heartbreak caused his pain.
He holds it all inside, but
feels his life blood drain.

They found him dead one morning
but no one gave two hoots, and
someone stole his pride and joy,
those well-worn dusty boots.

Years ago he was a teacher,
with a wife and son, aged three.
A driver mowed them down one day
and killed both - instantly.

I wrote this one ages ago for a contest that had to have the title "Dusty Boots, so this is what I came up with.   The subject of the homeless is always relevant, even more now I think with government cuts and austere measures.  There are many reasons why people become homeless, grief is just one.

Love and Pain

A short poem of extremes. Not all poetry has to rhyme.


Love is...




The quickening of the heart,
rose-flushed cheeks aflame.
Star-bright eyes that light your smile.
The smile, that leaves me breathless.


Pain is...




The last moments of this rendezvous
and final agony of parting.
Tears welling, overflowing;
salt smarting on my face.
This is our finale...


We, shall be no more

Hope for 2018

A happy new year to one and all
I hope some good luck comes to call.
Whether a new born child, a lottery win
or a silly joke to make you grin.

I hope this year there will be less sadness
Fewer evil acts and mindless badness.
But I see the horrors have already started
with loved ones left so broken hearted.

It seems mankind will never be free
Of all the violence we still see.
So all we can do is hope and pray
That a better world will come to stay.

More tolerance for other's choices
The freedom to hear all voices.
To express an opinion without fear
And keep the values we hold dear.