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Christmas Stories

First Story

 

 

 

 Devon told his story first as we ate our canapes and drank champagne. He was quite animated, jabbing his finger as he spoke of his workmate and lover's betrayal. 

 

Lyssa was an outgoing and popular single mother, with a teenage daughter, Shelley, who had always been her priority. She had rigid ideas about parenting which meant she would sacrifice her own happiness in order to keep her relationship with Shelley exclusive. That said, she and Devon had for many years flirted with each other at work, half joking about setting up home together one day in the future when Shelley was independent. Devon lamented the day eighteen months ago when Lyssa, working with the elderly, met an undertaker called Frank who in spite of his dour demeanour, somehow swept her off her feet-she was smitten. 

 

 Within weeks they were looking at houses and planning an engagement. Devon was devastated. Lyssa forsook all her friends for Frank, even though he refused to socialise at all. He was jealous of her friendships, and Devon found that whenever he phoned, Lyssa would cut the conversation short saying Frank needed her. Weeks passed and there was no engagement ring, no party and no house purchase. 

Yet Lyssa persisted in telling her friends that there would be a wedding on 10.10.10 - a date she had long wished to be her wedding day, and that this would be a Sex and the City type wedding in New York. 

 Devon was concerned. It was apparent to him that Frank was a Walter Mitty character, pandering to her desires but never intending to follow through. She never went to the house he shared with his parents and brother. When his mother died she wasn't invited to the funeral (which Frank conducted). 

October 10th was approaching and still no flight was booked in fact Lyssa admitted to Devon that Frank had no passport. Shelley seemed to know nothing about the intended nuptials, yet Frank had won her round with an iPhone and an ipad. Lyssa was still professing her love for Frank when October drew to a close. Devon was getting increasingly concerned-Lyssa still hadn't been to Frank's house and he now had a key to her flat. 

 Lyssa forgot her friends' birthdays and for the first Christmas in 8 years hadn't sent Devon a card. Was she totally under this liar's spell? How could Devon rescue her? The only light in the tunnel came from an event at Lyssa's mother's death when Frank refused to drive her to her ex husband's house to pick up Shelley and take her to say goodbye to her dying grandma. 

 Lyssa couldn't understand his reluctance to help her, yet later he conducted the funeral and impressed the rest of her family. We all agreed that maybe soon, the scales would fall from her eyes and she would realise Frank was just stringing her along. 

 

There were more stories about Lyssa to unfold which Devon promised to tell us during the next course.

i blame alistair cooke

I Blame Alistair Cooke

 

 

 Written by hollycole1 

 

As he glanced out at the expanse of golden wheat, laying flat as newly pressed sheets, Jon pondered the chain of events that had led him to this fortuitous moment in his long life. He drew on the forbidden pleasure of his Cuban cigar and checked the arrivals board for the sixth time. The incoming flight from Winnipeg was still on time and a further 5 minutes to wait. In his excitement he had arrived far too early, but moments like this, at his age, and in his situation, were ones to savour like the cigar. 

 

Why was he here and why did he leave?

 There were answers to these questions which he was facing right now, in preparation for her arrival.

 He knew what he would say when she asked him why he was there…why Regina? And why the silence for 38 years.

 It was all Alistair Cooke’s fault.

 He hadn’t given Alistair a thought till he received her letter 2 years ago - how she had found him was a mystery, a miracle. God knows he’d done his best to cover his tracks. Alistair had said, after all, that Regina was the middle of everything-the furthest place from any ocean and the hardest place to find a person. If you wanted to make sure no one ever tracked you down, this was the place to go. 

Here in center of the flattest plain on earth, where the horizon was forever a flat unbroken yellow line and winters were merciless. He couldn’t remember when he had last seen a hill, possibly when that plane took off from Speke decades ago, bearing him away from his children, his life, to a new and anonymous existence.

 And now he was going to meet the strange belligerent child who had found him. She would be all grown up now, not the strong teenager he held in his memory, but a mother herself, married with a career. The other three had failed the test, hadn’t sought him out, believing their mother’s lies. Only this one, his favourite, his jingle bell, had solved the puzzle that led her here.

 

 Would they have anything in common at all now after being separated for so long by ocean and years? Would he recognise her? These doubts were new, and gave him pause; was this such a good idea after all? He wondered for the first time, if she would take her mother’s side and use this reunion as an opportunity for revenge. After all, he had deserted the four of them, allowing them to believe him dead for so long. But she was ever the tenacious one, his favourite, his jingle bell, and here she was, nervously passing through the gate, searching for him, an old dying man, her Jon, her daddy.

 As she fumbled for a cigarette from her bag, and asked him for a light, he silently thanked the American correspondent for the last gift he would have: a reunion with his daughter.

i blame alistair cooke

I Blame Alistair Cooke
Written by hollycole1


As he glanced out at the expanse of golden wheat, laying flat as newly pressed sheets, Jon pondered the chain of events that had led him to this fortuitous moment in his long life. He drew on the forbidden pleasure of his Cuban cigar and checked the arrivals board for the sixth time. The incoming flight from Winnipeg was still on time and a further 5 minutes to wait. In his excitement he had arrived far too early, but moments like this, at his age, and in his situation, were ones to savour like the cigar. Why was he here and why did he leave? There were answers to these questions which he was facing right now, in preparation for her arrival. He knew what he would say when she asked him why he was there…why Regina? And why the silence for 38 years.

It was all Alistair Cooke’s fault. He hadn’t given Alistair a thought till he received her letter 2 years ago - how she had found him was a mystery, a miracle. God knows he’d done his best to cover his tracks. Alistair had said, after all, that Regina was the middle of everything-the furthest place from any ocean and the hardest place to find a person. If you wanted to make sure no one ever tracked you down, this was the place to go. Here in center of the flattest plain on earth, where the horizon was forever a flat unbroken yellow line and winters were merciless. He couldn’t remember when he had last seen a hill, possibly when that plane took off from Speke decades ago, bearing him away from his children, his life, to a new and anonymous existence.


And now he was going to meet the strange belligerent child who had found him. She would be all grown up now, not the strong teenager he held in his memory, but a mother herself, married with a career. The other three had failed the test, hadn’t sought him out, believing their mother’s lies. Only this one, his favourite, his jingle bell, had solved the puzzle that led her here.

Would they have anything in common at all now after being separated for so long by ocean and years? Would he recognise her? These doubts were new, and gave him pause; was this such a good idea after all? He wondered for the first time, if she would take her mother’s side and use this reunion as an opportunity for revenge. After all, he had deserted the four of them, allowing them to believe him dead for so long.

But she was ever the tenacious one, his favourite, his jingle bell, and here she was, nervously passing through the gate, searching for him, an old dying man, her Jon, her daddy. As she fumbled for a cigarette from her bag, and asked him for a light, he silently thanked the American correspondent for the last gift he would have: a reunion with his daughter.

old school memories

I was asked about my memories of school and this is what poured out I always thought I had poor memories of school... I really have very few memories of my school days.

 

 I went to a Catholic mixed infant school in a Victorian building next to the Church built on a "gallows hill" so we were all convinced the building was haunted. I seem to recall outside toilets as well as indoor ones. School dinners were formal, we sat at tables of 8 and had a three course hot meal with a teacher at the head of each table (some nuns). There wasn't a uniform in the infants but we did all wear red berets or caps for the boys. Smells are always evocative aren't they-paste, crayons, damp. The juniors was next to the infant school and had a separate playground with a lovely banked garden where red hot pokers grew among other delightful plants and flowers and shrubs. The head of the juniors, which was all girls was the very formidable Mother Mary Mulburger who changed her name to Sister Margaret at some point. (I am sure there's some ecclesiastical reason for this change as she also traded in her full length gown for a knee length skirt.) .

 

 If you were well behaved and achieved top marks, she allowed you to walk through her garden with her after lunch when she would describe the types of flora in their Latin names. There was a grotto in it and a Shrine to Our Lady which you had to stop before and say the Hail mary. Needless to say i was one of her more frequent companions, though she terrified me.

 

 I was also allowed to arrange and tidy the books in the library and serve teas to teachers at break time as well as count the tuck shop money after every break. At some point I was also sent allowed to hear the younger girls read as well as those in my class who were struggling. And so my numeracy, literacy, teaching and waitressing skills were well honed buy the time I was 11!

 

 I remember a hard potato snack that we sold in the tuck shop-what was its name...potato something. Oh and Waggon Wheels which seemed huge and very american ( I was a great fan of westerns-remember Lancer and Laramie and laredo?) I wanted to be a cowboy and live in Arizona. I remember very few of the girls in my class except for my very best friend, Joan who I still write to now and again. And I most certainly remember the first black girl I ever spoke to. She came to our class in year 3 from St Vincent and her name was Sonia Morancy, she seemed very exotic.

 We had lots of Polish girls and later on an influx of Irish girls. The uniform i do remember because my older sister made mine and my younger sister's for us. In fact she made most of my clothes. I am the fifth of 6 and there's ten years between me and my older sister, and my three brothers were even older. 

The uniform was a red beret in winter and a straw hat in summer, the dress was red and white check in summer and winter was a grey tunic. Every day at midday the Church bell would toll and we would all have to stand up like robots and recite the Angelus which I can still do now over 40 years later! Actually it is odd how much I remember now! 

 

The 11 plus had been abandoned in Preston the year before I was 11 so we all went en masse to the nearest Catholic comprehensive school which was a new building with its own chapel. We walked to school always, in all weather- about half an hour each way. I can't say I have any strong feelings about secondary school, I know now I didn't achieve my potential as was typical for girls in the 70's. I was always top in science, maths, english and geography but didn't do well in O levels because I had discovered Northern Soul and Steve who is now my husband. My teenage years revolved around northern soul discos in Preston and Blackpool where me and a succession of athletic boyfriends tried to outdo each other in stamina, acrobatics and under age drinking! 

 

I was a school librarian and ran the school magazine for a while. The English teacher was a Mr Ward, he was irish, had a moustache and smoked a pipe. He used to beckon Joan and I with a "come into my room girrrllls" on a regular basis when he would get very very close to us. On one occasion, when we were having an English lesson in the library the boys contrived for the door handle to fall off trapping Joan, myself and three other girls inside with Mr Ward.

 

 We climbed out of the window, walked across flat roof and shimmied down the fire escape in order to get away from him. The rest of the class were out in the corridor in paroxysms of laughter. It's some thing you never forget. 

 My O level maths teacher used to set work then spend the lesson in the store cupboard smoking and drinking. We all failed Maths apart from Joan whose clever brother coached her. Three of us girls took Physics O level and we all failed. The teacher happily ignored us for two years, allowing us to sit at the back and listen to Radio One while he bestowed his knowledge upon the boys. 

 Summers always seemed hot and dry, we spent our breaks lounging on the grass trying to get rid of the milky hue of our northern skin.  My favourite activities at school were socialising with girl and boyfriends, hanging round the greenhouses to chat to Stephen, writing poetry and short stories, playing guitar, singing in the choir, and acting. One frequent occurrence that sticks in my mind was the evacuation of the school because of "bomb threats." I know we were led to believe these threats were Irish, but from whom? Loyalists I guess and we had a lot of Catholic refugees from northern Ireland. So I left St Thomas More in the late 70's to go to sixth form college with a handful of friends. There was a choice of two Catholic sixth forms, both attached to private convent (boarding and day) schools-I chose Winckley Square because it was where my mother went. 

 Those few of us from the Comps were treated by the nuns there as second class students. Even though Joan and I showed huge promise we were never invited to the special coaching classes for Oxbridge hopefuls. Both of us did far better in our A levels than most of the longstanding Convent girls. I left there with 4 A levels and an extra O level and was happy to have a place at Hull University to take European studies. When I discovered Philip Larkin was the librarian, just before I got my A level results, I convinced them to let me onto the French and English course instead. I left preston at 18 and never went back, I still don't visit that often and lost touch with lost of my school friends apart from some old boy friends who I talk to on facebook.

a bit of creative writing

This is just the beginning of something that needs expanding

 

 

 

 The Waiting

 

 

 Thursday evenings are often peculiarly predictable, particularly in winter months when daylight hours are in short supply. It was on such an evening that Maurice found himself in the waiting room of the newly opened walk in unit conveniently located opposite the cemetery. "Good grief!" he pondered, shaking the water off his roll up umbrella and tucking it, neatly rerolled, into the dedicated compartment in his leather laptop bag, "These whacky Brits sure have a weird way of locating their medical facilities. Maybe the success rate here isn't so good." 

Frowning, he pushed up the sleeves of the sweater mom had bought him last Christmas, admiring the taupe hues. They didn't celebrate Christmas of course, well, not in the religious sense. The building was definitely new, he noted, sustainable materials with solar panels. Nice to see the English were finally catching up with Canadian efforts to combat global warming. He observed how the reinforced wall length windows allowed an unnerving and eerie light from the car park and occasional car headlamp to illuminate the sallow solemn faces of the twenty other patients in waiting at regular intervals.

 How he longed for his neat apartment room with its spectacular views at night time of down town Toronto; the shiny skyscrapers pointing at the stars, glittering beacons of hope 

Maybe Maggie was right when she cynically remarked that his home was located in reality on the 13th floor, not the 14th as his mail and elevator stop indicated. Was he developing triskadecaphobia in his late middle age? Checking his watch for the 12th time (another of Mom's gifts) he moved a step from his place at the rear of the line, behind a rather large man whose jacket smelt vaguely of halibut and eels.

 

 Unexpectedly, a memory of a happy event in Halifax flashed through his mind. In his student days, he had acted the part of young Harrison Macbride, a Newfie apprentice haddock beheader, in a play by a local Nova Scotian, whose name he was unable to recall. Really he ought to have a better memory for names, given his ability to memorise huge swathes of dialogue. Sometimes he exasperated himself, he really did. Happy times- he was the first actor to top and tail a large live fish anywhere onstage in the world.

 It was his moment of glory which, unfortunately led to relative obscurity as far as stage acting was concerned. Which, he pondered, was why he was here in Portsmouth, 35 years later, delivering Shakespeare workshops to reluctant students in inner city schools. Yes it was rather like that quaint saying the Brits had, not quite an aphorism-taking coal to Newcastle. He preferred, if pushed, to sell ice to Inuit. but that was another story. 

The computer was humming; an IBM, he could see the logo even at this distance, through his heavy dark rimmed glasses that clung to the bridge of his angular nose and protruding ears. Someone behind him coughed deeply and loudly, then as everyone in front turned to look accusingly at him, covered his mouth with his sleeve. The croc shod Eastern European nurse pointed to the wall, drawing everyone's gaze to the 3foot by 5 foot swine flu alert poster. it was then that Maurice noticed that everyone in the waiting roon apart from himself, was wearing a large white mask.

Conundra

Contrary to expectations of me, I do enjoy Christmas. Mostly I love having a lie in. I have an addiction to my bed but only from the hours of 2am until well, anytime before midday really. I used to be very religious and the high point of Christmas would be Mass either at midnight, or when the children were small, dawn. It's spiritually uplifting to join in a community and celebrate some common belief together. The community I belonged to was very supportive and friendly and did embody all that Christianity should be about-that is coming together to help and support each other, the wider community and those in the world who are in need regardless of nationality or belief. It was a community that respected it's members and others and rejoiced in differences. It existed both within the framework of the Catholic Church and apart as it was led by a freethinking and challenging priest. unfortunately he challenged the bishop once too often and was removed from his parish and without a meeting place our community disintegrated. Which leads me on to contemplation of churches. Without our church and our leader we disbanded as a community and whenever I bump into former parishioners we all say the same thing. We have yet to find somewhere to go, we haven't found a new spiritual home and we all feel...abandoned and lost. I've tried other Churches and they are not the same- they don't seem to care as much. The focus is not on community and support and intellectual exploration of faith and the spiritual life, but on following rules and speaking the right words in the right order, on being led and following. So Sundays have been pretty empty for the past 6 years but on Christmas day we do try to make an effort and drive for half an hour to a retreat centre run by the most amazingly whacky nuns for a service that resembles in some part the community we lost.


The other reason I like Christmas is my boys come home and we have a group of friends at our table and we have something different to eat. Last year it was grouse and this year it will be wild boar with a vegetarian option of a chestnut and broccoli filo pie. And you never know, it may even snow for the first time ever on this salty windy island on an island.

Chicago

A tale of adultery

Wowed me for sure. So much better live on stage than the movie. Jimmy Osmond in a starring role- now didn't he sing Long Haired lover from Liverpool? And he knew not where Liverpool was? Now in his 40s touring English cities. And has found Liverpool at last....oh and Portsmouth. He was GOOD. Still got a great voice. Some wonderful tunes there. It's a great musical for women's parts and we know they are few and far between. Rock on Roxy hart.

First day Vally of the Kings and Queens

The first day we were woken up before dawn to have a sumptuous breakfast then piled onto coaches with our guides for a trip to The Valley of the Kings on the West Bank of the Nile. The landscape and the people were starting to look more familiar and the air conditioned coach was a welcome relief from the heat which was already building up. Someone mentioned that Luxor was having a heatwave that week. Our guide was a Coptic Christian from Alexandria called Marian, who was an extremely keen and knowledgeable Egyptologist and who was studying at Alexandria University. Our first stop after going through numerous guarded checkpoints was to see the Colossi of Memnon which are two massive stone statues of Pharaoh Amenhotep III. They were erected 1350 BC- amazing aren't they? proving I was there- it was incredibly busy everywhere we went as you can see. We drove past the Ramesseum (the ruined "temple of a million years" ) but did not visit it and also we drove past the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut - she was the female pharoah wife of Tutmose 11 who took over after his death. The Valley of the Kings is purported to be one of the hottest places on earth. It felt it too! Our guide was very good, seeking shade for us all the time and reminding us to drink water. I don't think I have ever drunk so much water. I felt like a camel. We were advised to buy only sealed bottled water to avoid bad stomachs and fortunately the coach drivers did a better deal on the water than the bar on the boat did. Mind you, sometimes it was that disgusting coke dasani water that's been banned in the UK. The tombs are from 16th to 11th century BC. The Valley of the Kings looks initially like a grouping of pyramid shaped sandy hills in the middle of a desert. No wonder it too the excavation teams so long to uncover the tombs. They are well hidden and camoflaged. Here is Howard Carter's house. I was surprised to find it was undeveloped, almost derelict. There is still some excavation work going on. We looked round three tombs which all had the most amazingly preserved wall and ceiling paintings. We decided not to go round Tutankhamun's tomb as Marian said the others were more interesting. We didn't really have time anyway as we were on to the Valley of the Queens next and had to be back on board for lunch

a trip on the Upper Nile

April 6th


We flew into Luxor on Monday afternoon and found the heat just bearable!






I am not used at all to temperatures over 23 degrees except very occasionally in Italy, and my fair skin is not at all suited. By the end of the week my fingers and ankles had swollen-back to normal now though. I have been sorting through my photos; MrH's are still to be uploaded and as he had the good camera, you will have to settle for the moment for my inferior ones! The boat was called MS DaVinci and was very smart and spotlessly clean. The meals were superb-catering mainly for the British tourist but using local ingredients. I particularly enjoyed the chance to have fresh dates which were on offer at all meals-oh and feta cheese and the best olives I have ever tasted.
Our cabin was on the lower deck-not the best position but we did get good views of the water and river bank from it. It was a reasonable size for the three of us. I had originally booked and paid for an upper deck cabin but was later told by the company (African Safari-I recommend them) that the only cabin left up there was near the engines and would be noisy. We got our extra money back but had to make do with this, the only other cabin left. I guess that's what happens when you book so late. Most people had booked way before Christmas-I booked at end of February. We were seated for all meals with another couple and their 15 year old son. She was a teacher too so we got on very well as a group and did not talk about work very often. They were celebrating her 50th and their wedding anniversary was 2 days after ours! Coincidence! (We were celebrating Mr H's 50th and our wedding anniversary).



After the expected introductory meeting outlining safety, tour itinerary and various boat like matters we were left to finish packing and enjoy the boat which had a huge lounge, sun deck, and lovely large swimming pool as well as a small shop. Mr H went to the shop to look at the galabaya's for the fancy dress party later in the week. We ended up each buying a costume of national dress. I was intrigued to see that many of the men were dresed in long dresses with head dresses in Luxor. Also most of the women were veiled-the married ones totally in black.

There were no women working on the boat at all. The boats there dock in an amusing way-side by side so if your boat isn't against the shore you have to walk through other boats offering you chance to compare!



We saw a lovely sunset that evening - sunset same time every day which again was odd for me to see.





My impressions of Egypt were that it's hot, dry, dusty and full of street noise. There are lots of vans and trucks and buses and taxis but not so many individually owned cars. Lots of people travel on motorbikes without helmets and I have never seen so many donkeys!


We were told under no circumstances to swim in the river, nor should we drink any water that isn't in a sealed bottle. All food was washed on the boat in mineral water.


Some scenes from along the river as we sailed south











People loved to wave as we passed by. The river is very peaceful yet full of industrious locals who fish and use the plants to make a living.













The river bank got rockier as we approached Aswan.

Some feeling

tchy
Tall and gangly
Itchy
Bushy eyebrowed
hairy toed
Nosethirls of iron,
Nuzzling.
Aching
Yearning
stretched out and sinewy
Wiry haired and lumpen

it didn't snow

Prague was superb, it always is. I love the trams, they are very efficient and very cheap and operate on a trust system that seems to work very well. Why can't we have trams here? Dined in the beautiful art deco municipal hall this time. Absolutely splendid.

Just how cold is it in Prague?

Going there in a week to get out of the doldrums. Absinthe....mmm

miss you

It's the fine details of your smile

 time passes 

it's the fine details in your features 

and vision fades 

it's the warm timbre of your voice 

and hearing dims

 it's the harsh caress of your hands

 the lines deepen 

it's the hidden meaning in your words

 and time again distorts 

it's the message behind what's spoken

 and the unspoken can only be guessed at

 it's the after image of your presence 

unnerving, uncanny 

Best forgotten 

Are you still living?

Oops, I haven't posted here in a long time. Now why not- Ah I remeber, I've been in Italy and then...oh heavenly trip, I was in Canada for a while. I want to emigrate so much. Regina was...flat with a blue dome of a sky. Hot in the day too cold at night. Too extreme. And all the trees have been plantes, they didn't natutrally grow there. God looked at Sasketchewan and thought, mmmmm I'll do something with that later. She painted it yellow and filed it down a bit, then totally forgot about it when the angels started playing up. My travelling companion however, declared undying l0ve and preferred it to Toronto! I tell youi, she's having treatment for her disorder as I type. Setraline I believe.

I can't cope with all that sky, and those creepy anvil clouds. And the only hills are dips in the ground called canyons which Regina-ites think are wonderful. Dan the man with the car even fetched me a local paper with all the drama jobs highlighted-here you are, get a job first and there'll be no problem getting citizenship. If only it had been a Vancouver or Toronto paper. Still, I have promised to be Marvin's agent in England and have to organise something for him with LAMDA. I guess Lamda owe Canadians a big favour after Sean subjected them to his hideous adaptation of Lord of the Rings.

Now Vancouver is my spiritual home, apart from the Hastings Street area, even though they were setting up to film Intelligence, it's rather distressing to see all those people on crystal meth. A sign of a government that just doesn't care. I'm told they'll be moved on before 2010 - but where to? Nainaimo? The arctic circle? There is such a contrast between the calm serenity of the Chinese gardens, to the homeless beggars on the street outside. Hey Vancouver authorities if you are reading, I have an idea. Why not open up the gardens to the homeless and let them recover their dignity and peace of mind in there. It might do the same for you.

Stanley Park was a piece of heaven too; we saw hardly any people by the lost lagoon and beaver lake,. Saw no beavers either but there were plenty of racoons.

Rambling aside, I must work on some poetry and complete my travel journal in a book with real pages.

tadpoles

Thought I would try my hand at a fib. So here goes...no lies! "Fibs" are six-line poems that used a mathematical progression known as the Fibonacci sequence to dictate the number of syllables in each line. So they go... 1-1-2-3-5-8 

 

 

 I

 have

 forty 

tadpoles in

 my murky little 

pond swimming without any legs

In Anticipation of the night

 

 In anticipation of the night she bought a new dress she showered thoroughly she cleaned and whitened her teeth she dried and styled and moussed her hair she put on her favourite earrings she hung her shinyest necklace round her neck she slipped into silk underwear she sprayed herself liberally with chanel she applied a thorough coat of makeup she pulled on silk stockings she slipped her feet into the highest most delicate heels she chose her most expensive handbag she filled it with mints, concealer, lipstick, money, sanitary protection, clean underwear, phone, tissues, pen and notebook she phoned a taxi in anticipation of the night

 

 

 

 In anticipation of the night he rubbed deodorant on his armpits he hurried a razor over his bristles he slapped on cheap cologne he slicked up his hair with gel he changed his shirt he packed a condom into his wallet he spat on his shoes and wiped them with a tissue he filled the tank with petrol he visited the ATM 

In anticipation of the night

New poem

 Change Change 

 

 

 

She wanted change. 

She wanted to change. 

She wants to change what happened all those years ago. 

When he said to her, come and see me, let’s have lunch, 

she should have said no. 

 She wants to change. She wants to be the no person 

When he said have a smoke, she should have said no. 

When he said, you are so beautiful, she should have left. 

 She wants to change.

 She wants to change history. 

 When he said, I won’t say what you want me to say, 

she should have said, I don’t care, I still love you. 

She wants to change history. 

When he said, I can’t ruin your life, she should have said, it is already ruined. 

You already ruined it. 

When he said I won’t ever hurt you again, 

she should have said, you will, they always do, 

but I forgive you.

 He wants things to stay the same 

but he said I can’t hurt them. 

She wants him to change the way it was, the way it could have been. 

 I’ve been hurt too many times He said.

 She wants to change. 

She wants to change him. 

When he said, I’m leaving, I have a new job.I have to go. 

 What should she have said?

 When he said, things are different now, that was then, this is now. 

I’m different, I have changed. 

 

 How could she have changed His mind?

A poem about snow

 

 

 

 It’s cold in here 

Shiny, a new place bereft 

How do you fill the emptiness inside

 That never ending pit of desire 

Where did the spirit go 

Robbed 

Belief taken leaving

 A heart of snow

 I know it needs a bit of work and it is remarkably short. I'd like to write a poem about the day Victor first saw snow in Bloomsbury. First snow in Bloomsbury will be the title. When I have time...

Francis has been writing poems which I must get him to type into a file because they really are good.

Dominic has had a poem published in an anthology at South Downs College.

The poetry group disbanded due to disinterest so I am confining myself to online composition in future.

Almost time for Italy where there will be nothing to do except be creative and review 5 romantic fiction books for foster grant.