Issue 436 6th May 2016

Rising Brook Library Closure Rising Brook Writers’ Monday Workshop is still taking place in the RBBC Community Cafe. Remedial building works are delaying the library take over by Rising Brook Baptist Church voluntary team.

FLASH FICTION: drone, door, pot, sorry, doorway, saucepan,

difficult, chisel

Assignment: Between the gate posts, or George and the Dragon

A warm welcome awaits. COME to WORKSHOP ... Temp home: Rising Brook Baptist Church Cafe

Workshops same time 1.30 Monday.

Observation:- What is it with

modern clouds, that weathermen

say the „bubble up‟ everywhere?

Why can‟t they behave like

clouds of my youth did?

Learning is not compulsory........ Neither is survival

W. Edwards Deming (1900 - 1993)

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=15

All That Jazz! The RBW workshop comedy for 2016 is now online as a free e-book. www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=15 and on RBW Facebook page where it is free to like and share

Sonnet 18 in the

1609 Quarto of

Shakespeare's

sonnets

Translation

(Source Wikipedia)

Sonnet 18, often alternatively titled

Shall I compare thee to a summer's

day?, is one of the best-known of

154 sonnets written by

William Shakespeare.

Part of the Fair Youth sequence (which

comprises sonnets 1–126 in the accepted

numbering stemming from the first

edition in 1609), it is the first of the

cycle after the opening sequence

often described as the

procreation sonnets.

PRACTISING

Gina didn‟t notice the tank bursting through the hawthorn. It crushed the rampart of tangled twigs

with a great crackle and sent a million tiny white petals catapulting into the blue to dispatch the sweet scent of May blossom everywhere, but Gina was trying to get her right heel to tap at the same

time as her left toe and then do it vice-versa whilst simultaneously moving sideways. This needed to be performed in strict tempo with a radiant smile or tomorrow Annabel Ashley would get the lead in „Oklahoma‟.

Wednesday afternoons on the Performing Arts course were lecture-free so Gina had been clatter-ing away since lunchtime on the steel sheet placed beside her caravan for that purpose. She took a

gulp of special lemonade to refresh herself from time to time but it didn't actually help - although she thought it did - because she had put in far too much borage. Borage, of course, is the Happy Herb even though it tastes of cucumber, and has been used since Roman times by those who begrudge

the price of cannabis. But Gina had never made special lemonade before, had overdosed and thus failed to register the invasion of the tank.

Private Howard Evans was supposed to be in command of it. His entire division—almost—had been laid low by a fiercely marauding bug and a nervous young Lieutenant, the most senior officer

still standing, had felt his hand was forced. The orders had been to get the tank up to the opening of the Staffordshire Spring Show and if Private Evans H was the only soldier available, Private Evans H would have to take it. Navigation, however, was not Howard's strength, and as he had only recently

been thrust into the rural Midlands he got lost. For a while he tried to remember directions as he me-andered the low loader through various identically sun-splashed and bluebell-fringed lanes, but even-

tually he decided to consult his map. He slowed down, cast about for a suitable stopping place, and while he was doing this he became aware of a glittering shower of sound. The shower stopped, then

started again, stopped, started... Howard, not recognising the initial strivings of a tap-dancer, leaned forward in curiosity, accidentally depressed the accelerator, nutted the side of the cab as it leapt, and slumped unconscious. The loader with tank shot right through the hedge and careered on through

Gina's field until it hit a large patch of bog and stopped. Although Gina was totally absorbed as re-counted, the hound she kept for security reasons was not. He sprang up baying ferociously and

raced off into the petal storm without even considering the odds. He boomed his outrage to the world until even Gina noticed. “What's that in my field?” she thought, in a borage-glazed way. Decid-ing it was a tank, she fetched her camera.

Gina, although only 17, is normally a very „careful‟ person, which is why she lives in an airy field instead of paying good money for a stuffy bed-sit nearer the college like all those idiots with whom

she‟s forced to study. But that afternoon, being overcome with nonchalance, she used up a whole roll of film and then set off on her bike to the village down the road where an enterprising lad has

been given a grant by the Prince's Trust to set up a developing and printing service at the back of the Spar.

“Express service please,” Gina said, for he has a very up-to-date machine, and then she wandered

out to look at the river for an hour. When she returned the Spar was spilling with frantic babble and a pink Constable Mervyn Billingsworth was trying to look official. A new recruit, Mervyn was out pa-

trolling on his own for the first time and had nearly been knocked flying by the enterprising lad. Now Gina normally takes good care to look respectable. Her bright Titian hair (inherited from her

grandmother) is always tidy because it is so short. Long hair, she says, is awkward with wigs and therefore a bad career move. Her clothes regularly spring fresh and smooth from the tumble dryer in the college launderette and most people don‟t even realise she‟s a student, but that afternoon she

was wearing trousers she‟d picked up for 10p at a jumble sale. Of thinning cotton, thinned right through in places, they were ideal for coolness-without-sunburn-whilst-practising but not for much

else, and in her herbal stupor she'd forgotten she had them on. She'd forgotten about her top too. PC Billingsworth, guardian of the Law, who knew that tatty trousers plus indecent T-shirt plus semi-shaven orange head equals subversive, realised immediately that the enterprising lad had been

right—Gina was a spy. “H-how do you explain these photographs?” he stammered, for it was his first arrest. “W-why

have you snapped this tank from all possible angles? Th-that's C-Crown Property that is.” Then he

escorted her to the little Police Station at the bottom of the High Street and showed her into the cell.

“Will you wait here please?” he said. The Station was deserted because Sergeant Stoker had popped out for a pie.

“I want my solicitor,” said Gina. Gina really has a solicitor. It‟s her Mum. Naturally Mum dropped everything, covered 30 miles in as

many minutes, arrived in a swish of Alexon, and could hardly contain her amusement. “Is that it?” she asked. “She showed interest in a tank that landed in her field? Wouldn't you?” Mervyn shuffled his feet and coughed.

“Are you going to charge her?” Mum demanded. Mervyn wasn‟t sure if he was or he wasn‟t. He wished the sergeant would hurry up.

“You'll be facing a charge of wrongful arrest yourself if you do,” warned Mum. “What sort of spy takes photographs to the Spar? My client will make a statement and expects to be released on police bail immediately.”

“I‟ll give you a lift if you like darling,” said Mum as they walked out into the sunshine, so they went

and got Gina‟s bike, popped it into the back of the Volvo, and set off for the field. The scene was almost as Gina had left it, the tank rakish with flowery boughs and a joyful blackbird

but otherwise alone. Except for a dishevelled figure in khaki who was staggering around in its lee. “Adonis!” cried Mum. “What?” said Gina, for she, preferring men with more obvious charms as the young do, considered

Howard a rather skimpy specimen. He was clutching his head, not looking where he was going, so he tripped over a tussock, fell flat and lay still. Mum flew to his aid, and as she and Gina got him inside

the caravan they were nearly knocked out themselves by a smell like fermenting cucumber. “You‟ve been very generous there darling,” said Mum. “Perhaps a drop would bring the poor boy

round.” So they laid him on the bed and dosed him until he opened his eyes. Slowly his thin little face blos-

somed into an enormous grin. Total appreciation was in that grin—gratitude for the joy of simply be-

ing alive, delight at the dazzling blue sky, the golden warmth of sunlight, the heavenly scent of cu-cumber, then his huge eyes widened even further and his grin became a gape of awe as he noticed

the ravishing beauty leaning over him. “Are you feeling better?” asked Mum. He attempted an ecstatic leap into her arms, but she gently

restrained him.

“No need to rush things,” she smiled. “What were you doing with that tank?” Howard sank back to worship from his pillows

“I was taking it to the Show,” he murmured absently. “Couldn‟t you find a better one than that? It looks clapped out to me. Couldn‟t you have found find

a newer one?” joked Mum, smoothing back his sandy hair. “The new one‟s only just been delivered,” he started to giggle. “It‟s still in the hangar.” “The hangar?”

“The old hangar out at Seighford aerodrome.” His giggles hushed, into whispered 'oo' and he put his finger to his lips, “It‟s top secret, nobody's supposed to know, not even us. Don't breathe a word

or we'll be court-married…court-mangled…court-marched - yes! Court marched.” He collapsed into giggles again. “Especially when all the guards are off with flu.”

Mum patted his shoulder. “You have a little sleep. We‟ll go outside and give you a bit of peace,” she said, propelling Gina through the door.

“Not bad, sweetheart,” she went on as she guided her daughter across the field to the car. “You

showed a bit of initiative there. But that tank‟s an old Adonis and it‟s never used in action. On the other hand,” she stopped and took out her mobile, “the new Apollo appears to be stashed up only a

few miles from here with a very meagre guard. That intelligence could be worth a bob or two. Shall we go and have a look?”

ENDS

Memories: Washday blues As a young child I can remember staying

with an aunt in a country village in the late 1950s.

She was still using a dolly tub for doing her washing and relished having an extra pair of hands to help with the sheets and blan-

kets. So she stood me on an orange box and set me to work thumping the laundry in the dolly as if it was perfectly normal for a

child to be expected to do. This was some-what of an eye-opener as my mother pos-sessed a washing machine with its own

mangle which heated its own water and had a pump to empty into the sink with a

hose. I viewed the loaded dolly tub on the yard with dismay as steam was rising sky-wards.

The free standing mangle my aunty used wasn‟t as heavy duty as the one pictured

but it was mauling pushing the wet clothes through without getting your fingers trapped.

My aunt had a yard pump for water and heated the water on a coal fired range: she

didn‟t possess a grand wash boiler like the one pictured.

Wash

ing E

quip

ment

images ta

ken a

t Wig

htw

ick M

anor,

near W

olve

rham

pto

n, a

Natio

nal T

rust p

roperty.

These images are of equipment being used in the Victorian period but not much had changed some 50 years

later in some rural places. Monday washday was still a hard slog.

The laundry was often soaked with soda crystals prior to washing and a

little tied up blue bag was dunked in with the whites, I cannot remember what was in it. The tongues pictured

are exactly the same as some my mother had for dipping into the scald-ing water as the kitchen filled with

steam and the smell of OMO, DAZ or PERSIL filled the air.

I can remember the day when my mother‟s central action agitator wash-ing machine was replaced by a twin

tub with a centrifugal spinner. No more noisy, arm-wrenching man-gling ... Sheer bliss.

And, when the automatic washing

machine finally arrived (for me as a young mum in the 1970s) it was as if a great weight had been lifted. Pity it

was after lines and lines of twin-tubbed nappies had finished, but even so the freedom an automatic washer

provided was so appreciated. (SMS)

Seeds and Propagation.

Although it is getting late for some seed sowing I am still putting the odd things in

to germinate, and when I say odd I do mean odd! After the interesting crop of Scor-

zonera that I grew last season I have re-sown some of the seed that was left over,

directly in the soil instead of in trays this time, in the hopes that the roots won’t

fork. After the eternal trouble with rabbits on the other site, I was determined to get

some Monarda which are supposed to be rabbit resistant. Eventually I found some

seeds that germinated in the warm house only a few days after sowing. They are

supposed to produce a good crop of flowers for cutting, but now everything is go-

ing in on my Hixon allotment the fact that they are rabbit resistant isn’t really

needed.

My brother recently went to the Gardeners World Live show at the NEC and came

back with a packet of Pomegranate seed for me, but I am not convinced there was

really anything in it. There was supposed to be 100 seeds, but when I opened it I

couldn’t see anything. I knew some seeds are so tiny that they look like little more

than dust, so I carefully opened the packet folding it completely flat and brushed

the “Empty” packet over the compost as instructed, but I have 1-4 months before

the supposed germination to see if there really was anything there!

On the subject of growing plants from seeds, Sweet potatoes are a member of the

Convolvulus family and on the instructions that came with them it said that you

can’t save the tubers from one season to the next as you might ordinary potatoes.

So, my thoughts were why can’t you save and sow the seeds? It said they flower

easily before dying in the autumn and flowers mean seeds. Even potatoes produce

flowers and seed although you grow them from tubers, but seed must be used com-

mercially to produce different varieties of potatoes as new varieties have to be pro-

duced genetically and not vegetatively. Sweet Potatoes slips are horrendously ex-

pensive to buy and I realise that if you could save your own seed, the resulting

plants may not be true to type, but if they are basically free I am all for giving it a

try.

The “Free,” seeds from various fruit bought in supermarkets have produced some

great little Asian Pear and Kumquat seedlings, and my Feijoas seedlings (from a

bought packet of seeds) are doing well and are all standing outside to toughen them

up before winter. I did put in a new batch of “free” London Plane tree seeds after

the first batch damped off and they are doing better this time. They will not go on

the allotment as I am growing them just for fun, but when they are much bigger and

have been potted on they will probably be donated to the Staffordshire Wildlife, or

Alrewas Memorial Arboretum as it is “Plant A Tree For Jubilee”.

Not only I am busy with seed sowing, but I am trying a few cuttings. My two

Honey-berry plants have put on a lot of growth this year and are producing their

first real crop of berries, although no-one is very impressed with their taste!

So, I gave them a good trim to shape them up and put some cuttings in to try and root, after all

they are only another type of Honeysuckle plant which are easy to grow. I did

keep the cuttings from the two different plants separate as the instructions that

came with them said that you needed two different plants to give good pollination

and that means two genetically different plants, not two plants produced from the

same plant. The Goji Berry cuttings that went in earlier have rooted well and as

with many other fruit plants don’t need such cross pollination to fruit though.

Honeysuckles (Lonicera, Caprifolium ) are arching shrubs or twining bines in the family Caprifoli-

aceae, native to the Northern Hemisphere. Approximately 180 species of honeysuckle have been iden-tified. About 100 of these species can be found in China and approximately 20 native species have been identified in Europe, 20 in India, and 20 in North America. Widely known species include Lonicera periclymenum (honeysuckle or woodbine), Lonicera japonica (Japanese honeysuckle, white honey-suckle, or Chinese honeysuckle) and Lonicera sempervirens (coral honeysuckle, trumpet honeysuckle,

or woodbine honeysuckle. Honeysuckle gets its name because edible sweet nectar can be sucked from the flowers. The name Lonicera stems from Adam Lonicer, a Renaissance botanist.

Sunday, 6 June 2010

The Library Van

an extract from Peter Shilston’s Blog

Between leaving school and going to university, I worked for six months at the County Library

in Carlisle. One of the duties was to go out on the travelling library van, which once a fortnight

toured round some of the most isolated places in the country: the lonely villages and isolated

farmhouses towards the Scottish border, where I encountered some unusual people. Aside from

such standard library fare as the woman who used a kipper’s backbone as a bookmark, and the

man who kept a book on archaeology out on loan for over a year because he found it was ex-

actly the right size to prop up a broken leg on his table, there were customers who would rely

on us not only to bring the books, but to select suitable reading material from our shelves for

their tastes. The procedure of one woman was invariable. “I want 5 murders, 3 romances and a

western”, she would say, and leave us to choose them for her. She would then cast her eye over

our selection, discarding a few because “they didn’t look very good“, or because she thought

she might have read them before. (other customers had their own systems for dealing with the

latter problem; such as making a pencil mark on a certain page once they’d read one of our

books). In cold weather she would bring us a mug of tea each, though since she invariably

stirred in large quantities of sugar, I could never drink mine.

She wasn’t the only customer who let us choose her books, and some of the choices we

made must have caused some surprise. Harold the van driver once persuaded a lady at a remote

farm to take home James Joyce’s “Ulysses”. “Is it a good book?” she asked. “It’s a very famous

book”, said Harold. “I want something I can read in bed”, she said. “It’s probably best if you

read this in bed”, Harold told her. I never found out what she made of it, since I don’t recall we

ever saw her again.

Harold explained to me the perils of engaging these people in conversation. They probably

never saw anyone except us and the postman for weeks at a time, and they were often desperate

for a talk, but we had a tight schedule to keep, and if we let them stay on the van for too long,

we’d never get round in time. Harold’s policy was to agree with everything they said. “You

can’t have a proper conversation with someone who always agrees with you”, he said. I wit-

nessed this technique in action at a farmhouse up near Kershopefoot border; the home of an art-

ist who appeared to hold extreme right–wing views. He clambered onto the van in his paint-

stained overalls. “Things are bad!” he told us, “There’s them in high places bleeding this coun-

try white!” “You’re right there!” said Harold. The man soon went away.

But I’m afraid I forgot Harold’s advice on one occasion, when once an old farm labourer got

on the van and told us, without any provocation, that all farm land should be nationalised.

“You’ll be a socialist then”, I dutifully said. Oh no, he always voted Conservative.

I couldn’t retrain myself from asking why, and he told me this long story about how, when

he was a boy on the Earl of Lonsdale’s estate back before the First World War, he once opened

a gate for the Earl’s carriage to come through, and there sitting beside the Earl was the Kaiser,

who had come to spend Christmas up at the castle. The Earl had given him half-a-sovereign and

said, “You look a promising young chap. If you ever want a job, come up to the hall and see

me“. But then he’d gone off to the trenches, and it was only in the 1920s that he’d met the Earl

at a county show and the earl had said to him, “I recognise you! You’re the lad who opened the

gate for me back before the war! Why didn’t you come up to the hall and take the job I offered

you?” And ever since then he’d voted Conservative. Politics was still a bit feudal up on the Bor-

der. I’ve often reflected that my vote could be cancelled out by someone like that.

Random Words, May 9th : silent, gorge, bacon, flower/flour, trespass, bottle, hard, hammer

“Look, I don‟t want to trespass on your sensibilities or trample on your emotions, but you need to heat this.” The medic spoke with gravity. “If you continue to gorge on bacon and other fatty foods, eat bread

and pastries made from refined flour, when you are celiac, and hit the bottle like there‟s no tomor-row….well, there may be no tomorrow!” The patient shuffled uncomfortably and hung his head.

“Diabetes is a silent killer. I know this is hard to hear, but I need to hammer home to you the seriousness of the situation. You need to make some lifestyle changes…and pretty quick too! Anyway, now that I‟ve sorted

out the dog, let‟s turn to you!”

Assignment: Between the gate posts, or George and the Dragon

The Legend of St. George and the Dragon (Source material: web) The most famous legend of Saint George is of him slaying a dragon. In the Middle Ages the dragon was

commonly used to represent the Devil. The slaying of the dragon by St George was first credited to him in the twelfth century, long after his death.

There are many versions of story of St George slaying the dragon, but most agree on the following: A town was terrorised by a dragon. A young princess was offered to the dragon

When George heard about this he rode into the village George slayed the dragon and rescued the princess

The story goes ... St. George travelled for many months by land and sea until he came to Libya. Here he met a poor hermit who told him that everyone in that land was in great distress, for a dragon had long rav-aged the country.

'Every day,' said the old man, 'he demands the sacrifice of a beautiful maiden and now all the young girls have been killed. The king's daughter alone remains, and unless we can find a knight who can slay the dragon she will be sacrificed tomorrow. The king of Egypt will give his daughter in marriage to the cham-

pion who overcomes this terrible monster.' When St. George heard this story, he was determined to try and save the princess, so he rested that

night in the hermit's hut, and at daybreak set out to the valley where the dragon lived. When he drew near he saw a little procession of women, headed by a beautiful girl dressed in pure Arabian silk. The princess Sabra was being led by her attendants to the place of death. The knight spurred his horse and overtook the

ladies. He comforted them with brave words and persuaded the princess to return to the palace. Then he entered the valley.

As soon as the dragon saw him it rushed from its cave, roaring with a sound louder than thunder. Its head was immense and its tail fifty feet long. But St. George was not afraid. He struck the monster with his spear, hoping he would wound it. The dragon's scales were so hard that the spear broke into a thousand

pieces. and St. George fell from his horse. Fortunately he rolled under an enchanted orange tree against which poison could not prevail, so that the venomous dragon was unable to hurt him. Within a few minutes

he had recovered his strength and was able to fight again. He smote the beast with his sword, but the dragon poured poison on him and his armour split in two. Once more he refreshed himself from the orange tree and then, with his sword in his hand, he rushed at

the dragon and pierced it under the wing where there were no scales, so that it fell dead at his feet.

Rose and Crown £5.00 entry 7.00 for 7.30 start

In the twilight of their years comes great wisdom ...

A gardening tip from old gamps, passed down through

the yearn.

If yous pees on yorn compost, the magic it be made all

the quicker,

as the fiery old salts splurge, yorn kidneys t’will purge,

you’ll learn,

old leaves and weeds’ll turn, into sommat far richer.

Though it’s a truth men can pee higher and further

and stronger wi’ flow and with aim.

As composting goes, tis steamy n’ valued with fervour

In goodness, why all pee is equal: from baby’s poe, or

an old dame.

Aye. Thrown on from what goesunder the springs

The strength of black gold magics up in the heap

is down to yorn kidneys and yorn waterworks things.

Always on tap, ever so good, an’ darn cheap!

Here is a history of when I were a child I went to nursery and drove them all so wild

Remembering dressing up as Wee Willie Winky But couldn‟t help it as I played on my Dinky

Another time I dressed up as Mr Square Trapped inside cardboard box, didn‟t half despair?

Despaired of being trapped inside a giant box And I‟ll never forget that dreaded chicken pox

In bed I was covered with Calamine lotion Everyone had this, caused a huge commotion

I remember when my tooth came out Upon a boiled potato, I doth shout Green, pink, orange, thick custard

Luckily there was no mustard For now thou I must end

Before this poem does extend Extend into equilibrium

Before thy get to Shakespearean

SUPPORT LOCAL POETRY and MUSIC EVENTS Announcement: A poetry, song and music event at the New Vic - Monday, 16th May, 7 30pm. All proceeds to the Cystic Fibrosis charity.

'Hawk Rising' Official launch of Peter Branson's new 2016 poetry & song collection The New Vic, Etruria Road, Newcastle-under-Lyme, ST5 0JG

Monday, 16th May

7pm for 7 30pm. 10pm close M.C. for the evening, the celebrated poet and poems 'n' pints organiser, JOHN LINDLEY

with songs & music from Martin D'Arcy, Martin Waters & Mel Ellis

aka ‘Parish Lantern’

& cellist Sally Walker £5 entry. Pay at the door – complimentary glass of wine or soft drink.

Free parking on site All proceeds, after drinks and other costs (including £3 from every copy of ‘Hawk Rising’ purchased), will go to the Cystic Fibrosis Charity

We wus brung up proper (1940s)

Looking at the kids of today many pampered and molly coddled, with all the mobile phones and ipods, Nintendo Wii. X -boxes and video games, it seems it's everything you can think of to keep

them inside and isolated from social interaction with other children. After all I was brung up in a cot painted with lead paint, and medicine was always a liquid in different coloured bottles, no child proof lids. In Purple bottles was poison, and I know there was

some sort of colour code as to, whether you swallowed the medicine or rubbed it in, just can't re-member.

But we survived In the car we never had seat belts, and the tyres wore out down to the inner tubes, and the parking brake

was often a half house brick carried with you. No winking indicators, only an illuminated orange finger that lifted out of the door pillar, this often got knocked off when left on when it shouldn't be.

When we were old enough (11) we had an air gun. Must say there was a mishap when one of our gang popped his head up and copped a slug to his forehead, (he was re-placing the target, a spud on the tractor exhaust pipe), we did try to get it out with a pin by holding him down but the lead slug had flattened

on his skull, so we had to let him run home and then to hospital and we got into deep trouble And when we were reported to the police, our parents were all on the side of the law, and did not stick up for us.

But we survived (and the one who copped the slug, has kept it all his life and has it in a tin from almost seventy years ago he's 77 now and still got the mark on his forehead).

We got caned at school, in my opinion for nowt, but then we did try to do thing our way at times, and on the way home we fell out of trees, got plenty bumps and bruises, but then you learn to hold tight and not fall.

When we played football, it seemed everyone was a centre forward, with a great group of us lads milling round the ball all competing to have a shot at goal, no one passed the ball, it was every mon for

himself. If you did not get a kick and were not bold enough to charge in, it was no use canting and moaning to your parents. But we all survived

We went tracking, two or three would set out with half an hour lead, laying down arrows along the way of twigs or grass or stones indicating the way they had gone. This would last for hours, arriving back dirty wet and often blooded from the excursions through woods and brambles, remember we all wore short

trousers back then. This lasted all day and no one ever came looking for us and I don't think anyone was lost. (or died to my knowledge).

And we all still survived. Dad‟s farm workshop would be taken over at times when he was not about, the tools came in handy for

converting old prams into go carts, where one on the front would sit with his feet on the front axle and a cord to steer with and the other „man' would sit with his back to the driver and provide the propulsion, even

going down bank it would be important to go faster than your rival, best place was on the public roads, down a bank with a blind bend in our back lane by the ford. Until, of course, the village bobby, who was about on his bike nabbed us, and gave the cheeky ones a

sharp clip round the ear with the back of his hand. The police man, our village police man never held back when punishment was to be handed out, again our parents seemed pleased we had been caught, and

never seemed to defend us against him. But we survived

We wus brung up on bacon for breakfast, bacon that was half fat and lean, and slices hand cut from the flitch (half pig) hanging in the pantry. Hand cut thick slices of bread, (sliced bread had not been invented) floating in almost an inch deep bacon fat, and fried until it smoked, but it never killed us.

Cheese, no sliced cheese then, it was cut from a huge wedge in great lumps and eaten with crusty bread, if you had cheese you did not have butter as well, nowadays they call it plough man‟s lunch.

We learned to swim in the river, and just for fun would plaster black mud all over ourselves, and then dive in, in the deepest corners of the river, narrowly missing what we thought was a whirlpool, to wash clean again. The old railway cottage down where the river and railway almost meet, lived a family. In the

summer their well would run dry, and when they wanted a bath they would got to the river with a bar of soap

and towel. No one worried about diseases back then in the rivers, it was a matter of being upstream from where the cattle watered and they always stood in the river when the gad flies were about. (Cattle almost in-

variably lift their tails while standing in the river and it was said gad flies never crossed water) And we survived that as well.

You could only get Easter eggs and hot cross buns at Easter time, strawberries only in late June/July time, tur-key was only at Christmas and goose for New Year. There were no pizza shops, no McDonalds, no KFC, or In-dian restaurants, but some bright spark did loaded up a fish and chip fry pan outfit into a van, and toured the

out laying villages having a regular round visiting our village on one evening a week. It was coal fired and after he had served his customer at their front gate, before moving on would put a

bit more coal on his fire, I expect he could get a good draw on the fire with the speed, he always had a plume of black smoke from his chimney where ever he went, he did a regular trade for quite a few years.

We all survived, --- including the fish and chip man who drove from village to village with ten gallons of boiling fat behind him. He would have been fried himself if ever he had had an emergency stop.

Looking back them years ago

Looking back them years ago, when we were little boys,

We bumped our knees and elbows, and father made us toys, Played around the farmyard, in and out the sheds,

Testing all the puddles, thick mud into the house it treads.

When at first we started school, father trimmed our hair, Combed and washed with new cap, new shoes without compare

Short trousers and new jacket, a satchel on our back,

We all went there to study, but often got a smack. Times tables chanted every morning, and the alphabet,

Till we knew them off by heart, of this I„ve no regret, Isn't till you leave school, that you realise,

How useful school and education, help to make us wise.

Father showed us all his skills, from very early age,

Studied Farmers‟ Weekly, read almost every page, The pictures they were mainly, of interest to us,

News and reports on prices, what a blooming fuss.

We also had the Beano, a comic for us kids, Dandy and the Eagle, must have cost dad quid's,

Him, he had his Farmers‟ Weekly, it must be only fare, Mother had a knitting book, for inspiration n' flare.

It must have taken fifteen years, til we felt grown up,

Left alone at home at night, parents meeting as a group, In fact it was a whist drive every Friday night,

We supposed to be in bed, but sometimes had a fright.

(Our farm house was out on its own and scary at night) An owl it hooted in bright moonlight, scared us all to death,

Door that blew in wind, with fright we nearly lost our breath, Scooted up the stairs so fast, and under the bedclothes dove,

In darkness we were frightened, it was for courage that we strove.

On hearing the back door open, it was never locked, Footsteps in the kitchen, bedroom door we chocked,

Then we heard mothers, Coo-eee, relieved to hear her call, “Have you missed me, Duckies?” we bloomin have an all.

So our sheltered life was over, sometimes fended for ourselves,

Mother learned us basic cooking, as long as plenty on the shelves, One at a time we left home, with basic thing that we were taught,

This knowledge we're to build on, foundations life not bought.

1st Staffs Poet Laureate

Voting will be taking place at the next workshop on the theme for the next comedy: options are ...

Pirates/1065/ French Revolution/

Roman Britain

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http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-36153037

Interested in local history? Then this BBC magazine article might be of interest.

An article with images of RUDYARD LAKE in Victorian/Edwardian times.

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