@athelstone
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I’m not a huge fan of cosy crime, and I think that the television series of TTMC is rather better than the books, although only because the acting is good. However, there are many variations within that genre and I wouldn’t dismiss everything. The same goes for anthropomorphised animal stories. For instance, Charlotte’s Web and Animal Farm spring to mind as two of the best where it hardly matters that the protagonists aren’t human.
I’m off to listen to that review.
On a small scale, my daughter gave me a voucher for a foraging/cooking day for 2, for my birthday last year, and I’d just booked a day in March when I got ill. When the company heard I was in hospital, they gave me a six month extension on the voucher for free, so that I could book when I was completely recovered. I thought that was really thoughtful and I don’t imagine many companies would do that.
On a larger scale, we were going to celebrate my 70th in June with a trip to Pompeii. I’m not likely to be recovered enough for that, but we may well think again when autumn approaches.
I have some blood tests booked to determine my iron dose, and a referal to a specialist to see what to do about the blood clots and whether the anticoagulants are just for now, or forever. All the time I was in hospital there was the infection and the other things. Now it’s looking very like the other things are all part of the infection. Amazing the havoc a bacteria that coexists quite happily, often inside us, can do when it turns up a slight variation.
Hi Libby, a very big relief. And thank you. I had another read through my discharge notes. I don’t think they’d seen somebody so ill with such a mixed bag of symptoms before (who hadn’t been in an accident). They took advice from the teams at Guildford, Reading, and Kings. There was a consensus to deal with the immediate emergency which was the E-coli infection and set the rest aside until I was stable. I think the latest test was only the first step in the second stage. I have no idea what comes next, although I’m fairly sure my GP will have me on iron tablets straight away.
But I’m out, at home, and happy about that!
Thanks Jill. Yes, it is a big relief.
I’ve been on blood thinners (apixaban) since I was admitted to hospital. My problem is that the hospital doctors didn’t share any plan for dealing with the existing clots which have blocked two major veins to the liver. I strongly suspect that they were anticipating a worse outcome from the endoscopy and intended to deal with the clots when they dealt with that.
But that’s an issue for tomorrow (literally) when I see my GP.
I hope that this is a footnote, although I forsee a few more tests from my GP.
Today I had the endoscopy which I believe some of the doctors in my hospital thought would show cancer. The symptoms were all lined up. There was even consistent evidence from CAT scans and other X-rays. To be fair to them, they never said that, though they always pointed it out to me as a distinct possibility. When they invited questions, and I asked about the liklihood it was always confirmed as something I should prepare for. Alternative causes of the symptoms were never discussed, or received a sceptical hearing.
There’s something of an omertà amongst hospital doctors. They like to appear, take pulses, listen to lungs, press bits of you to see if it hurts, and then with your mind in a whirl over all the activity, ask if you have any questions. ‘Feel free to ask me anything that occurs to you’ they say as they disappear leaving no direct route to contact them even if you could remember their name.
So it was with some trepidation that I went to the colonoscopy suite this morning. The gastroenterologist who saw me was a cheerful man, who was straightforward with me. ‘Is that gas and air doing anything for you? No? Don’t bother with it then.’ Afterwards he rushed up and straight away said, ‘That all looked fine. No trace of cancer, just a few benign polyps, and not very big either. You’re off the cancer path.’
Relief is an understatement. The very first doctor who ran through my symptoms with me said that he had to be fair, the possibility of my dying was in the mix, so I was reconciled to that outcome. But it was amazing to have it taken away.
That leaves my blood clots and anaemia to explain. And, hopefully fix. I have nothing more from the hospital, so it’s back to my GP later this week. The hospital doctors may be relaxed about leaving the clots where they are ( I think they felt it wouldn’t matter) but I’m not. I also don’t enjoy running out of breath after moving around for a few minutes, so that’s on my hit list.
I have things to do.
Caution: Stuart’s language isn’t for polite company. The anniversary was my 18th birthday, June 21 1974.
Stuart’s story
People call me Plug ‘cos they reckon I look like Plug from the Bash Street Kids I ain’t never seen him, so I don’t know. Stuart’s my real name, and I just done three months in nick for something I ain’t done. Possession with intent to supply. I’m lucky ‘cos the first two months they kept me in the Bill’s lockups where at least you get some peace and quiet. Then I got moved to Wandsworth where they just want you out as fast as poss, ‘cos they ain’t got no room. Sentenced to six—out in three.
I had the stuff on me. Ten blues. But what nobody believed was that was my usual for a night out. I think the judge believed me. That sentence was more like possession. The Bill was pissed off.
I came back to my squat and, I couldn’t hardly believe it. Nobby and Tracy from upstairs had kept my room for me. I owe them big time. As usual when I’ve been without, I swore off stuff, well, apart from a bit of blow that Tracy gave me as welcome back. I skinned up and watched Top of the Pops. But it’s kind of depressing. I quite like the Sparks thing. I never heard of them before. A right weird looking geezer on keyboard. I’m humming it now cos I didn’t catch many of the words apart from this town ain’t big enough for the both of us. Something about tigers as well. And I like Judy Teen. But, God, the top three made me just sad. Gary Glitter number one! Some American geezer whose name I can’t remember with this crappy song about streaking, and Showaddywaddy.
Nobby says that music’s gotta loosen up. He says it’s gotta be taken back by the kids. He says there’s a scene starting up on the Kings Road that’s gonna shake things up. He cut his hair short like a skinhead, and Tracy’s taken the darts out of their jeans so they’re straight now. Honestly, lookin’ at the charts, I can’t see it takin’ off. Nobby’s had his ears pierced as well. He looks a proper clown, but I didn’t say that. I said it was cool. At least he ain’t like that knob Gary who had an eagle tattooed on his cheek then grew this stupid beard which don’t quite hide it.
*
Fell asleep in front of the telly and woke up with the sun coming through the curtains. I asked Tracy where she got the blow, and she said she’d try and get some more, but she came back in the evening with just a little bit for me, and some H. She said she got some because she was curious. You don’t have to inject it. You can snort it like speed. She won’t get any more. I’d got my giro, so I paid her, and she gave me a little bit of H. Just to try like.
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Thanks for the kind wishes, Jill. I know you’ve had your own burden lately, and I was so pleased to hear things were going well. At the moment, progress is good. I’m not using crutches or a frame now around the house and I can make it upstairs 2 or 3 times a week for a shower, all approved by the health visitors. I still have anaemia and run out of breath quite quickly though. I can’t start treatment for that just yet, so I’ll have to put up with it.
Tests for the scary beast start with a long appointment on 11 May.
Thanks for all the kind wishes. Please don’t think me rude that I haven’t responded individually. I still find messaging quite an effort. Your words are very much appreciated.
Honestly, nobody wants to get ill and go to hospital, but I don’t regret having met the staff. From the cleaner who I talked to a lot, to the nurses who tirelessly carried horrible pots away without a single complaint, to the consultant who (I now see) was joking/hinting about discharge when she said, ‘We must get this catheter out, unless you use one at home.’ they were all cheerful and friendly.
Thank you for such a satisfactory February topic, Libby, and for your generous appraisal! I loved the other two entries; they could easily have won.
Teabreak in love
Maureen Chapman. No, tell a lie, it was Chaplain, like a vicar. Her name, I mean—she wasn’t like a vicar. Anyway, Maureen Chaplain was perfect from my ten-year-old point of view. But I’m getting all jumbled up about how to start, so I’ll take a breath. See, it really began when the Brazells moved out from next door and the Chaplains moved in.
It was the first day of the new term at school. The school wanted to see my foster parents about all the stuff I was supposed to have but didn’t. Brina was at work, so Larry had to go with me on the bus. God, he bloody hated that. He hated most things, but official things more than most, and official things to do with me most of all. So the bus was packed apart from this tiny space on a sideways seat next to this gorgeous girl. She had a school uniform on, our school, but she was loads older than me.
‘Get up there!’ Larry growls in front of everybody. ‘Go on, get yer arse in there.’
Bloody embarrassing, but I did what he said. She sort of wiggled a bit to give me more room, and I blushed as her leg rubbed against mine.
‘Ere, you’re the Chapman girl, aint you?’ says Larry.
‘Chaplain,’ she says. ‘We’re next door.’
I thought about her on and off all day, and after school we went home on the same bus. I reckon it was then that I fell in love.
‘Sorry about Larry,’ I said. ‘The rude geezer I was with this morning.’
‘Larry?’ she says, ‘I thought he must be your grandad.
‘Foster dad. Anyway, sorry about him.’
She stood until the old girl pinning me in got off. Then she goes, ‘Budge up’, and parks herself next to me. Close to, she didn’t just look all wavy blonde hair and smooth skin, she smelled nice too.
‘You don’t have to apologise,’ she says. ‘We don’t get to choose.’
And then, like she was interested, and actually cared, she says, ‘How was school today?’
While I was stumbling a reply I thought, I hope she catches this bus with me tomorrow.
At home I said to Brina, ‘Have you met Maureen Chaplain from next door?’
Brina puts her hand on my head and smiles.
‘Oh, she’s pretty that one. Be careful my good boy.’
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Terrie, I had a tricky January but that’s no excuse. Sorry for missing a super monthly comp. Well done Libby, a really great entry. Well done all.
I know that feeling. I was also a government employee who found himself parcelled up and sold to the highest bidder, or at least the one that made the most empty promises and said the things that our betters at the high table wanted to hear. I recall now how our managers queued up to tell us what a good thing it was and, yes, they used that exact same mantra, ‘We’re all in this together.’ And how curious it was to see so many of them, almost without exception being unexpectedly found to be “vital” to the business of government and so retained instead of passing over to the massive US multi-national that swallowed the rest of us. And, of course, because of the fabulous work they had done in selling us off, their demonstration of skill “above and beyond” earned almost all of them promotions and bonuses.
Strange to see that, over the last few years, much of the work we did which we were told HAD to be privatised, because it was NOT CORE business, has quietly been taken back in house, because it is so much cheaper and far more efficient to have those who know the business doing the Information Technology for that business. It’s been done almost by subterfuge, with the establishment of private companies owned by government with civil servants as directors, so that it looks as though the work is still done by the private sector.
It’s a sad story, Richard. Some of the major cities are still well served by buses, but nationally and in rural areas the picture is not so good with some areas reduced to just a few buses a week or cut off altogether. And prices have soared everywhere. In my town, Stagecoach won the local bus contract with the promise of the “pulse” service, which would see a bus every ten minutes on all the arterial routes through the town. A few years down the line, with much wringing of hands and weasel words about fuel prices and the international scene, the pulse has been cancelled and a less-frequent through-town service has had its route adjusted to cover some of the stops. But not all. The push to privatise essential public services has very little to do with efficiency or the public good, but a lot to do with phenomenal personal greed and political ambition and prejudice.
Right, here we go.
Is there anybody who hasn’t had at least a small part in the production of a nativity play? Jill, that’s just how they go. A perfect evocation. And your story has a Christmas miracle as well – or was it a mischievous young actor?
Janette, I was there in that supermarket. No, really, I was actually there I think, barging past the shoppers and, worst of all, the personal shoppers with their massive trolleys parked right over the exact spot I needed to reach. Jona Lewie was diddle-diddle-dumming and I prayed it wouldn’t change to Wham!
Sandra, a snippet of reality and a view into the past. Really moving. Those memories that fade and change over the years but never really leave us. I very much enjoyed that.
Terrie, you made it! And you’ve blended a bit of this and a piece of that, some fact and some, well let’s not say fiction, let’s say imagination. The festivals of the old world may have been hijacked by the Romans as convenient dates, but it’s facinating to speculate on just what those old traditions meant.
As I said, I read all these last night, or rather, early this morning. I awarded each one first place at some point, but I have to make a decision. Terrie, take us into the next 12 months.
And a Very Happy New Year to us all!
OK, it’s a fraction after midnight so 2026. I’ve read them all. They’re annoyingly good. So sorry, you can all wait until tomorrow is well and truly underway. Happy New Year!
Ah, thank you Terrie. After reading the others I feel very lucky! I’m a bit late arriving – so apologies. I’ll get right to the December comp.
Percy.
Percy was old. I knew that because everybody knew that. I went to see him because I was invited, and young, ambitious journalists don’t refuse invitations from Percy Fullbig’s people. The man who had seen it all, and predicted much of it. Predicted the Second World War, Vietnam, various troubles in the Middle East, the Financial Crash—if the stories were true.
He greeted me himself, at the door. He was dressed in black velvet, as though he had dined well with friends, enjoyed the port, and now the day was drawing to a close. His appearance? I don’t know. As sophisticated as Olivier, as commonplace as a man in the street, but charming, and welcoming.
‘Come in, come in!’
I was ushered through an entrance hall into a large, and very warm sitting room, lit softly by wall lamps, but principally by a large open log fire. In front were two plump armchairs with side tables, each with a glass.
‘Here, make yourself comfortable. And do try the Laphroaig. It’s a ten-year-old but from their first batch of tens, which means it went into the bottle almost seventy years ago.’
He went on, excitedly pointing out aspects of the flavour, and then settled into a comfortable silence. I’m not a great whisky drinker, but I’ll admit that this one had an extraordinary taste I liked. Something flickered in the corner of my vision, just beyond him in the darkness.
‘So then, the future,’ he said. ‘We’re all told that pessimism is realism, but I have to say that for once, I’m optimistic.’
Again, the flicker. I wanted to make the most of this opportunity, but it distracted me.
‘Something the matter?’ he asked. ‘Oh, I know. It’s that digital picture frame. Present from the family. It keeps changing. Please, go and have a look.’
I walked over to the table where the picture frame stood. The current display was a sullen looking girl of about four dragging a Teddy Bear.
‘That’s my great granddaughter, or one of them. ‘
The image changed to a man in late middle-age laughing as he was caught in his vest washing a Bentley.
‘My youngest boy, Alfred. That was taken a few years back. Here have another drop.’
As I turned to see him topping up our glasses, I just caught sight of the next picture and I almost cried out, only stopping myself with the utmost effort. It was Percy, but it was hideous. His hands and mouth were red with blood and he was eating—
‘Here you go.’
He was setting my glass down. I looked back at the frame. A large family group dressed for tennis. Trembling, I resumed my seat, and took a large slug of the whisky. I needed it.
He smiled, and raised his glass.
‘Cheers!’
I couldn’t seem to raise my glass.
‘I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have seen that picture. I’m optimistic about my future, but in your case pessimism makes more sense.’
500 words with title.
The Estate Agent’s Appointment
I arrived at the house in pouring rain. The light was fading on a day that was already dark with cloud. I didn’t want to go in. I wanted to get in my car, drive home, shower, and settle down with a Scotch and whatever delicious microwave meal was next in the fridge. I had no choice. This old house wasn’t going to make the grieving relatives rich without my help. So, I patted my pockets for camera, notebook, and tape measure, turned up my collar and headed up the path.
To my surprise the door opened, and a young woman stepped out. There wasn’t supposed to be anybody here. Showy black dress; it must be one of the family.
‘Hello,’ I said, and tripped over a tile on the path, only just managing not to sprawl face first.
Embarrassed, I blurted out, ‘Sorry—’ but my voice died. There was nobody and the door was shut. She must have gone back in. Hah! Guilty conscience. Probably had the old girl’s jewellery in her handbag.
No bell, so I knocked. No reply. I tried again. Nothing. I had the key, and the house was supposed to be empty. In I went.
Yeah, the smell. You get used to the subtle, and not-so-subtle nuances. There’s the didn’t-quite-make-it background, and the tea and biscuits. If it was an old lady of a certain era, there’s a perfume too that nobody makes now. Not quite roses, not violets or lavender, although it’s pitched somewhere in there.
The darkness was a shock. Although I left the door open, what light there was seemed to resist venturing over the threshold, and the beam from my phone was somehow swallowed. Reaching about I shivered as my hand tore through a dense cobweb, but the light switch was there and a dingy hall appeared. It didn’t look as though it had been lived in for years.
A moment of terror. The woman was crouching at one end of the hall, but her eyes were on the front door. She ran, like a wild animal, past me and out. The door slammed.
I have lost track of time. Maybe it’s hours, but it could be weeks or months. I go out onto the step, but then, somehow, I’m back inside. In darkness. My phone is dead. Will some unlucky soul ever come to find me? To swap.
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Incidentally, Sandra’s comment is still there but she replied to the update on the activity page rather than directly to the thread
I think you’re right.
Of course, AI writing is effectively a sampling of other authors’ work, albeit with some sophisticated algorithms that hide the truth away. An author may say that they are using AI to produce something original, but AI simply won’t work with just small samples such as from one author. It needs a “large language model” as well, i.e. an absolutely colossal database of samples. The only way to acquire the millions of entries is to rip them from online/published sources.
I’m late with the congratulations – life has been frantic for a few days! Thanks so much for the prompt, @jillsted. A thoughtful piece from @libby is a more-than-worthy winner. And well done to @knickylaurelle for a splendidly acute story.
The Artist of Wexton
A gust of icy wind blew across the beach, and I turned to one side and pulled my coat tighter. Doing so, I saw that something was wrong, but I wasn’t quite sure what. An elderly woman stood about fifty yards to the west looking out to sea. There was something almost mournful about her, and, against my usual inclination I trudged in her direction. On the point of wishing her a good morning, I realised what I had seen but not taken in.
Carnage.
Let me explain. Since I have walked along this beach, which may be forty years, the gravel bank rising from the sandy beach to the coast path has had a stretch from just beyond the Starfish café running for around five hundred yards known as “The Art of Wexton”.
What is it? I should say, what was it? Simple. Stones arranged in circles. Also, in squares and diamonds. Colours matched and contrasted. Driftwood standing tall in jubilant statues. Patterned vistas competing with the finest Opus Signinum mosaics of ancient Rome growing about living plants as though they had cooperated. The delicate purple and pink of Erigeron glaucus peeping out from fabulous pebble constructions that cunningly play with the eye and the designs of nature.
If this was the Art of Wexton, then the mysterious creator was The Artist.
The art had been destroyed. The work of a lifetime was kicked, torn, thrown, tossed aside. Plants were uprooted. In their place were bottles, cans, chip wrappers, maybe a dozen disposable barbecues strewn from end to end. The stink of booze and stupidity replaced the brilliance that had never been acknowledged but all would miss.
So, instead of “Good Morning” I said, ‘You’re her, the Artist of Wexton.’
She looked at me and smiled the kindest smile. ‘I was,’ she said.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘Nothing has happened. The tide came in a little more, that’s all.’
‘What will you do?’ I couldn’t imagine her life without the beach.
‘Oh, goodness,’ she replied. ‘I’m so busy. I’m supervising children creating a mural in the park from Monday. It’s a new start for me.’
The salt air stung my eyes. The tang of seaweed was the scent of alarm.
‘But what about here?’
Again, that smile. ‘White stones are always white. The sea always has shells. Why not make a new start yourself?’
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Here I am, racked with guilt. I did sit down a couple of times to write an entry, but it just wouldn’t come. I had an idea yesterday that I liked, and it may end up as a scene in the WIP, but I had so much going on I couldn’t manage it. Apologies, it’s a fascinating idea and I should have done something. However, you have two very good entries to pick from.
Pretty much, these days.
Most of the pubs I’ve loved are long closed now. The Railway Hotel in Newbury where I first tasted Morland bitter at the grand old age of 15 (just). At 12p per pint even I could afford it. Then there was the Cambridge in Cambridge Circus. To be fair, the beer was dreadful – so bad that I drank bottled lager mainly – but the atmosphere was spot on. I think the Cambridge is still there and I’m told it serves decent beers now, but that’s after an IRA bombing and a refit by Nicholson’s Pubs. And the bar I frequented, upstairs, is the restaurant or something similar. Then there was the Bevois Town Hotel (pronounced Bee-Vuss) in Southampton. That was VERY plain, with little difference between the lounge and public bar. It was a Marstons pub, not to be confused with the interesting beers with that name today. The bitter was “ok” but their bottled light ale was a revelation: full of flavour. So for all the years I went there it it was, landlord already reaching for glass, ‘Evening Will, light and bitter?’
The Railway went when “Swampy” Hooper lost his protest against the A34 Newbury bypass. It’s part road and part Halfords now.
The Cambridge is still there, but not the one I knew.
The Bevois Town Hotel, one of those curious pubs that was just there at the end of a residential road, was absorbed as (about) three houses.
I feel I’ve short-changed a few others, but these were the regulars, the locals, the ones I felt at home having my drink.
Sounds glorious.
Just had a short break in France where nearly all the draft beer is lager style, with the exception of a few unpleasantly-sweet dark beers. To be fair, some of the lighter ones are drinkable, especially if it’s a hot day – which it usually is.
All this talk of real ale reminds me of that magical moment when you enter a plain-looking pub and spot proper pumps with badges that promise Bass, or Fullers, or maybe something not yet tried.
Oh for a decent pub nearby. There used to be a decent pub only a few hundred yards away from me. It was always The George as it stood by a roundabout on Worthing’s George V Avenue. A couple of years ago it was acquired by the Toby Carvery group. I see that they claim to serve real ale now, but I did try to beers they offered a few times and I wasn’t impressed. The names were unfamiliar and I don’t remember them now, but none of them were like a decent well-rounded bitter. In fact, one was so bad it reminded me of the awful keg bitters of the 70s.
I was hopeful when a micro-pub opened around the corner, selling beer from a linked micro-brewery. And yes, they have three beers, all good. Sadly it’s also packed with ex-Ibiza holiday makers and reform voters. Then a second micro-pub opened just 50 yards further on. Again, decent beer, but clientele cut from the same cloth.
So, I’m happy for you with your local. I hope you can hang on to it.
Teabreak tells it straight
I have been known to buff the truth a little, just to get a sparkle when a story is recounted. And if that helps somebody see the finer details a little more clearly, then who am I to deny them the opportunity? However, just as experts say we should resist the call of Mr. Sheen and microfibre when rare treasures are at hand, so there are some tales that deserve to stand as nature intended. There are also those that are left untouched because they are private and I seldom feel the urge to tell them.
My mother, I believe, was in the entertainment trade. Specifically, she danced, as it were, for the benefit of gentlemen. My father was a restaurateur. I never knew either of them. The person I called Mum, was a middle-aged Slovakian woman name of Brina. She was from Radava which was in Yugoslavia when she lived there. She fostered me for a few years—well, her and her husband, Larry. But he was a miserable geezer old enough to be her dad and the less said about him the better.
When I think of her, I remember her kindness and how she always saw the good in me.
‘Matty, you are good boy,’ she would say, even though I was a little swine like all my mates. Oh, and that was before I was Teabreak. But yeah, I was always her good boy. She saved and went without, just for me. Eventually Larry turfed me out and I never thought to go back and visit Brina again.
I bumped into a social worker I knew years later, and she told me to get down to Whitechapel ASAP because Brina was in the Royal London and not expected to last. I did, full of trepidation, but I was too late. She was asleep and she never woke up. If I’m honest I was glad. I was ashamed to have neglected her, and it saved me from having to say anything.
After, I went and sat in Weavers Fields where I knocked about as a kid. And I cried. The more my tears fell, the worse I felt about not saying goodbye to Brina. And I remembered that I would always be her good boy, whatever I did. And I realised that I loved her, and that’s what my tears meant. And—that’s it, really.
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