The Pages
Issue 11
Spring/Summer 2011
Brought to you by The Apprentice Writer http://www.theapprenticewriter.webs.com 1
The front cover image is the cover design, by Marie Fullerton, for Trevor Forest’s children’s book Peggy Larkin’s War.
The Pages and and Friends Bookshelf and Blog. http://www.thepagesandfriends.blogspot.com
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The Pages
Contents:
CONTRIBUTORS……………………………………………………….p 4 EDITORIAL:………………..Marit……………………………………..p 6 nd
COMPETITION: ………The Pages 2
Annual Competition…………...p 7
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: …….Foreign Flavours……………………p 8 POETRY:
.. .……Furor Loquendi………………..Rosa Johnson……..p13
.……...blue and bright …………….......Myra King ……….p22 ………Baby Pink Lipstick ……………Chris Nedahl ……..p26 ………...Haiku ………………………….Chris Nedahl……...p35 FROM LIFE: ………Hostage in Piccadilly …………June Gundlack……p10 nd
SHORT STORIES: .The 2
Valentine’s Day Massacre ..T. Belshaw …..p19 ..Girl in the Scarlet Dress…….. Chris Nedahl ………p27 ..Churk’s Graduation………….Rosa Johnson……….p36
FLASH FICTION: ...As Fast as You Can………….Rebecca Emin……...p12
ARTICLES: ……...Travel Article: La Alhambra…Chris Nedahl……….p14
……...A Game of Confidence ……..Marilyn Sylvester…...p18 …………………..Garden at Little Oak 11………Rosa Johnson ………p23 ………A Little Loan Can Make a Big Difference..Jean Knill…………..p30 …………………..The Concert………………….Trevor Belshaw ….....p32 ………….Musings: The Good Old Days………..June Gundlack……….p34 ……………………Tarango………………………Paola Fornari……….p42 ……….Author Interview: Trevor Forest interviewed by Rebecca Emin..p40 DIARY PAGES:………….DWBP…Before it All Began…Anna Reiers…..p45
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The Pages
Contributors
Marit Meredith (aka Anna Reiers) was born and brought up in Norway, but settled in South Wales,UK, in 1972. Married, with six daughters and eight grandchildren, she’s kept very busy on the family front – but whenever she can, she writes, edits and publishes anthologies in aid of various charities under the umbrella of The Pages. She is a published writer, aiming to be a published novelist, even if that will be self-published. www.thepages.spruz.com See also: www.thepagesandfriends.blogspot.com and www.wherefactfandfictionfuse.blogspot.com
Kristina Meredith (Stina) was born and brought up in sunny South Wales, to a Norwegian mother (see above!) and Welsh father. A brief interlude to London to study fashion, didn’t quell the cravings for the green, green grass of… well, Valley’s or Fjords - it just added to her identity crisis. Now a mother to a very lively and curious 3 year old boy, life keeps her very busy. Design has taken firmly to the backseat, leaving her time to pursue her ambition to write. The Apprentice Writer was set up by Kristina and Marit, in order to interact with likeminded souls, and to help Kristina as she pursues her writing ambition. www.theapprenticewriter.webs.com Rosa Johnson was born in Hampshire. She taught agriculture and animal husbandry. She is married to a horticulturist and has two grown up children. Writing has been a hobby since she was in her teens. She wrote (writes) short plays, dialogues and character studies for children. Short stories, articles and several attempts at novels came much later. Keen sportswoman until her spine rebelled; she was forced to adopt a more sedentary way of life when surgery failed in 1986. Rosa must now be content to follow international tennis, rugby and cricket on the radio. She’s a dabbler and will have a go at anything. Sewing, bonzai-ing, decorating, art and crafts, acting, writing. Anything but singing! Her ambition is one day to find that she can excel at something.
Paola Fornari was born on an island in Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania. Having lived in almost a dozen countries over three continents, she speaks five and half languages, describing herself as an ‘expatriate sin patria’ She explains her itinerant life by saying: ‘Some lead; others follow.’ She recently took up writing, and her articles have featured in diverse publications. Wherever she goes, she makes it her business to get involved in local activities, explore, and learn the language, making each new destination a real home. She lived in Montevideo between 2004 and 2008, but now lives in Bangladesh. http://www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/Chausiku/
Myra King is an Australian writer living in Encounter Bay, Australia. Between 1980 and 2003 she wrote for several Australian magazines and had a fortnightly advice column in a Tampa Bay (Florida) newspaper. Most recently she was lucky enough to be awarded first prize in the UK-based Global Short Story Competition and shortlisted for the EJ Brady Short Story Award. Her stories, articles and poetry have been published in the UK, Australia, USA and New Zealand. myra1055@gmail.com
Jean began her career as a freelance writer in the early 1980s. Her work has been published in many UK magazines and newspapers – including SHE, The Lady, My Weekly, Sports Industries, and Church Times – as well as in writing and travel e-zines. Now she showcases some of her work on constant-content.com and has made a number of sales there. Jean believes the writing life is very different now, with so many supportive on-line communities and websites like The Apprentice Writer – a far cry from the writer’s isolation only a couple of decades ago. Until recently, Jean’s writing has been slotted in besideteaching and marketing projects. Now she has retired from these sidelines and is rejoicing in the freedom to write as much as she wants. www.jakilljeansmusings.blogspot.com
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June Gundlack’s love of writing started when following a Start Writing Fiction course at the Open University. She has won prizes for non-fiction articles in magazines and national papers and is currently working on a novel aimed at young teens. She is a regular Reader’s Letters contributor to The Daily Mail.
Marilyn Sylvester’s BA (Hons) first teaching assignment was based within her home town of Guisborough, where she was employed by the local college, in collaboration with the University of Teesside, to facilitate a creative writing course. She then became part of an editorial team to help produce a community magazine entitled: Guisborough Life and joined the online Writelink community for writers. Since then she has had poems published and been paid. One of those poems entitled: The Memorial Trees, is featured in Issue 4 of The Pages on page 8, as Marilyn won this magazine’s first poetry competition.
Chris Nedahl is a retired teacher with thirty three years experience in education. She has a master's degree in educational psychology. She spent much of her career in the primary sector but for the last ten years was in special needs and alternative education. She lives in Spain for most of the year but retains her home in the U.K. She writes short stories and poetry and is more than half way through her first novel.
REBECCA EMIN lives in Oxfordshire, with her husband and three small children. Her first novel for children, ‘New Beginnings,’ will be published by Grimoire Books in January 2012. She is currently working on her second novel. Rebecca enjoys writing flash fiction and short stories and has had several stories included in fundraising anthologies, including ‘50 Stories for Pakistan’ and ‘Literary Mix Tapes: Nothing But Flowers.’ Rebecca is also an author for Ether Books who publish short stories and essays via their APP. You can find out more about Rebecca’s writing by following her on Twitter @RebeccaEmin, connecting with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/RebeccaEminPage or by following her blog at: www.rebeccaemin.com
Trevor Belshaw , aka Trevor Forest, is a writer of both adult and children's fiction. He lives in Nottingham, UK with his wife Doreen and two mad Springer Spaniels, Molly and Maisie. Trevor is the creator of Tracy’s Hot Mail and has just released a book of short stories entitled, Designer Shorts. Trevor has released four children’s books writing under the name, Trevor Forest; Magic Molly, Abigail Pink’s Angel, Faylinn Frost and the Snow Fairies and Peggy Larkin's War are available in paperback and eBook formats. He is currently working on his new book, The Duck Pond Lane Detectives. Trevor’s short stories and articles have appeared in various magazines including The Best of British, Ireland’s Own and First Edition. His poem My Mistake was awarded a highly commended status and included in the Farringdon Poetry competition best entries anthology. His children’s poem Clicking Gran, was longlisted in the Plough Poetry competition 2009. Trevor’s short stories have been published in many anthologies including the charity anthologies. 100 Stories for Haiti, 50 Stories for Pakistan, 100 Stories for Queensland, Another Haircut, Shambelurkling and other stories and 24 Stories for Advent. Many of his short stories have been published by Ether Books. Trevor is a regular contributor to The Pages. Twitter@tbelshaw Facebook Trevor Belshaw and Trevor Forest Email: Trevor@trevorbelshaw.com Website: http://www.trevorbelshaw.com Blog: http://www.trevorbelshaw.com/blog Trevor Forest: http://www.trevorforest.com
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The Pages
Editorial
Well, we finally got here, and that means that we’re back on track, albeit in a slightly different, simpler format. Health difficulties on one side and a defunct (hopefully a temporary state) laptop on the other, meant we needed to put out thinking caps on to work something out. The bookshelf – with reviews, members’ news etc, has been moved to its own dedicated blog: http://www.thepagesandfriends.blogspot.com . We initially attempted to get the bookshelf up on The Pages website, but we couldn’t get it to work satisfactorily, whereas Blogger has delivered on all counts – at least this far. Lots of books have been posted up, with more waiting to be added, and all linked to where they can be purchased. I was tempted to get rid of the contents page, but it’s nice to know what there is to read in each issue, so it stays. Other than that it is all meant to be a good read and nothing else. The Pages and Friends blog will take care of the rest. We have pencilled in an issue for January, but hope to get in an issue in between now and then, depending on ‘a date’ with my (Marit’s) hand surgeon. The promised 2010 anthology ‘Yesterday’ was published some time ago, and we sold some 30 books very quickly. It’s still for sale, and the profit goes to Ty Hafan Children’s Hospice, South Wales, UK.
See: http://www.thepagesandfriends.blogspot.com for link to Lulu. But - without further ado, we’ll let you delve in to enjoy the varied read of articles, poetry and stories in Issue 11.
Marit and Kristina
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The Pages
2nd Annual Competition
Short Story Competition: This time we are going to stick to the short story, and we’re inviting you to submit stories inspired by Shakespear’ Sister song ‘Stay’. As with last year’s theme ‘Yesterday’, you are welcome to interpret this in any way you wish. You could look at the refrain and go all gothic – or even venture into other worlds in science fiction stories: You'd better hope and pray that you make it safe Back to your own world You'd better hope and pray that you'll wake one day In your own world... ...or just take your lead from the actual word ’Stay’. Maximum 1000 words. Fee: £3 for one entry, £5 for 2 entries. Payable through PayPal, to maritmeredith@aol.com Please add the Transaction ID from PayPal at the top of your email. Stories to be sent as attachments to maritmeredith@aol.com DEADLINE: 31st December 2011 1st prize: £50 + copy of the anthology ’Stay’ 2nd prize: £25 + copy of ’Stay’ 3rd prize: copy of ’Stay’. The proceeds of the anthology will be donated to the homelessness charity Shelter.
Good Luck everyone!
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The Pages
Call for Submissions
Foreign Flavours Anthology Open for Submissions
FOREIGN FLAVOURS ANTHOLOGY 2011 We are seeking submissions of short stories and non-fiction pieces on the general theme of food, drink and cooking from around the world. This year Writers Abroad will be donating any profits made to The Book Bus charity. Well-known author, Alexander McCall Smith, will be writing the foreword for the Anthology. To see our first Anthology (2010) see our Books Page. Title: Foreign Flavours Genre:Short Stories and Non-Fiction Theme: Food, drink and cooking - around the world. Contributions: Expat writers, or those writers who have been an expat at some time or another. Word Count: Fiction – up to 1700 words (flash fiction is welcome) Non-Fiction – up to 1000 words. Submissions and Entry Rules: ● All submissions must be previously unpublished. ● Submissions should be received by midnight Friday 9th September 2011. ● Submissions must be in English. ● References to pornography or racism will not be accepted. ● Manuscripts must be submitted via the link at http://www.writersabroad.com/foreignflavours-submissions.htm ● The approximate word count should be inserted at the end of the submission. ● Author name and title of the story or non-fiction piece should be placed in the left header of the document and page numbers in the right footer. ● Manuscripts should be presented with double spacing and Times New Roman Font size 12. ● Queries only can be made via the contact button on the Submissions page. ● Entries are free, only one entry per author, plus a short bio of 30 words. ● Successful authors will be informed within two weeks of the closing date. ● It will not be possible to provide feedback on submissions but successful stories will be edited and authors may be required to undertake minor changes for publication purposes. 8
â—? Copyright will remain with the author and the stories will be published in an anthology in a number of formats. â—? All proceeds from publication will be donated to the chosen charity. http://www.writersabroad.com/foreign-flavours-submissions.htm All Submissions will be via Submishmash where you will be required to set up a username and password and will be able to track your submission. Please click on the icon on the submission page on the website (link above) to be taken to the Submissions Page on Submishmash.
Any queries? Email WA at expatwritersabroad@gmail.com with Foreign Flavours Query in the subject line.
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The Pages
From Life…
Hostage in Piccadilly For reasons of confidentiality, I cannot divulge who my employer was on this rather exciting day in March, almost seven years ago. Suffice to say my role as a legal PA was in an amazing building in the upmarket Piccadilly, London. The property had amazing artwork wired to the police – which should give an idea of the kind of quality I was surrounded by. On my first day, I was advised that one of the pictures was deliberately crooked on the wall and under no circumstances should I try to ‘correct’ it as it would ensure a speedy arrival of mounted police! I was almost tempted, but did heed the warning as I did not want to be separated from my salary. I arrived at my building, a rather beautiful Victorian townhouse. The solicitor I was working with had many deeds and plans stretched over his desk and some on mine. They were ancient, and looked like works of art. I often think that modern technology has removed this from legal documents of today. Sorry, I am digressing. “I need to get these to the prospective purchasers of the land,” the solicitor says. He stopped for a moment and walked to the window to think and take in the view of mews life in Piccadilly. “They look so fragile, will they travel without damage?” I enquired. “No, they will not travel, it is not safe and I do not want to lose them. They will have to be copied. Please phone Geezer Printers (name obviously disguised for confidentiality) and get a quote.” To save ink, I will refer to this firm as ‘GP’ from here. I telephoned ‘GP’ and explained my quest and asked for a ‘quote’. They needed more information on sizes. Normally, the documents I have copied have not exceeded A3 but we were talking very large plans here needing paper A0 size. Most of the plans were in black and white, although I had not realised that some towards the bottom of the pile had a few blobs of colour. The man from ‘GP’ called me back with a price, a rather gobsmacking one too, I had to take a seat. “It will be £300.” He said. “G-g-gosh, for ten pieces of copy?” I stammered. “It’s highly specialised. We have to stop all other print runs to accommodate the bespoke size of paper. Oh, and we prefer cash.” “I’ll speak to my boss and call you back.” I said. I expected a shocked response, but the solicitor was happy with the price, said it was better than losing the antique plans. He contacted the accounts department and arranged for the required £300 cash for my visit to ‘GP’. I was told to wait for the plans to be copied; I supposed to ensure the papers were not left to one side when finished. I went duly armed with my daily paper. 10
The staff at the shop welcomed me and asked me to take a seat while they copied the plans. After the printing was done, the total cost was £400, considerably more than I had been given. I asked why and was told it was because some of the plans had ‘small areas of colour’ and the machines had to be loaded with special coloured ink to capture it. I was surprised the cost of the ink was so high for such little colour blobs. I said I would bring back the extra money. At this suggestion I was informed that the manager of the printing company would prefer me to call the office and ask someone to meet me with the money at the printing premises. I laughed and thought I was being held to ransom for some photocopying. It was obvious from the papers that my employer was someone of ‘very high-regard’ and unlikely to be trying dodging tactics! My laugh was wasted - whilst not being a hostage per se, I was in a position where I needed to phone for assistance. Fortunately the security guy at the firm I worked for arrived with speed and the necessary cash to secure a quick and painless release for me and the photocopying. He thought it rather amusing... as did I. I imagine the firm had possibly been caught out before, or maybe the member of staff was just being a jobs worth – who knows, but it was certainly an amusing day at the office.
© June Gundlack
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The Pages
Flash Fiction
As Fast As You Can Run, run. My feet sink into dew-soaked grass; a soft sensation in contrast to the frosted crunching of a week ago. I inhale deeply then exhale, looking for evidence of steam. There is none. Spring is here. As my pace increases, I think of him. No longer an ‘us,’ now a ‘him’ and a ‘me.’ A fork in the road; a choice. We all make choices. He made his. Past blossoming fruit trees and the first glow of daffodils, I enjoy the sensation as lactic acid makes my muscles ache. My pace slows as I reach the village. *** “I’m off to the shops,” he’d said as I’d tied my laces. A cold December evening, wrapped in layers of wicking fabrics and fluorescent bands, I’d headed out into the night without a second thought. Thirty minutes later, in a neighbouring village, my eye had been drawn towards a brightly-lit window. A woman laughed into the face of her lover as he fed her a piece of gingerbread man and kissed her in front of a glowing fire. The snap of a twig underfoot at the exact moment he’d removed both an edible leg and the love from my heart. Why do I come back this way? The ‘For Sale’ sign is up outside that cottage. But is it a ‘she’ or a ‘they’ moving on? Curiosity. Nothing learned, I run past and regain my pace. Run, run. I head back through fields of the gently-pushing green of this year’s crops. Up into the woodland, where the paths are well trodden. Then back down the other side; into the homeward straight. Run, run, as fast as you can. Through the garden, frequently tended and soon to be full of colour. Back home. Only ‘mine’ no longer ‘ours.’ The board here declares ‘Sold.’ Soon there will be different routes to run. My new life will begin. © Rebecca Emin
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The Pages
Poetry
Furor Loquendi I talk too much, I know I do, I'm a monumental bore, I hold forth on anything, though it causes a furore. Why am I so talkative? Why must I have my say? My opinions astound me and embarrassed people round me Try to look the other way. How I wish I didn't talk so much, I long to be subdued, But contemplative breathing makes me feel I'm being rude. Some people gape, some walk away, they think I am a joke; this really isn’t what I planned, some sneer and laugh behind a hand, and some darned nearly choke. Why do I think I know it all? I am no authority on supernatural beings or appendisectomy. Such dreadful yarns I have to tell, such gossip to impart, my fervour won’t diminish, I don't know when to finish if I'm once allowed to start. I'm trying hard to curb my tongue, it's a battle I must win. There's nobody who wants to know the awful state I'm in. So now I've done, I've had my say, I'm trying to impress; I wish I could be nice to know, I think I might be nice to know, I'm trying to put on a show, to beat menopausal stress.
Š Rosa Johnson
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The Pages
Travel Article La Alhambra
Many people seldom visit places of interest or importance in their own countries. This is true of expats settled here in sunny Spain. Having our granddaughter visit last summer prompted us to book tickets, highly recommended due to the number of visitors, for the Alhambra in Granada. From our adopted home of Arboleas in the Almanzora Valley it is a two hour drive to Granada. The journey itself is rewarding as you see the changing countryside, and sight close up the Sierra Nevada with its vast areas of snow, even in the height of summer. The Alhambra, Arabic for ‘red castle’, is well sign posted, but don’t get caught by the men at the road side as you approach the hill to the parking area. They are convincing when slowing you down and directing you into a lay-by, they explain there is no room left at the Alhambra. Once you lock your car they guide you across the road onto a rough path saying it is a short cut. Some metres along they attempt to elicit money from you for parking! The path is leading you away from the palace entrance and one wonders what might happen to vulnerable people when they don’t wish to part with any Euros. Once at the Alhambra access is easy. We placed the credit card used to purchase our online tickets into a machine and hey presto our paper copies were in our hands. We had to wait for our entry time but once in we wandered at our leisure through the beautiful gardens and the different areas of the Moorish fortress. The construction of this immense creation began in 1338 during the period of the Nasrid Dynasty but its architect is unknown. The Palacios de Nazarenes contains many rooms and once housed the personal chambers of the king and queen, the baths, the harem, a number of halls and superb gardens. We could only wonder at the skill of those workmen of centuries ago. The intricacies of the tiled decoration and carving were outstanding. Here there is some evidence of Christian influence in the Patio de los Leones or Patio of the Lions. Entry into this old Royal House is at a specific time and whilst we could spend as much time inside as we wished, once we exited we could not return. The Generalife, set on the slopes of Cerro del Sol, Hill of the Sun, commands a view over the whole city of Granada and the valleys of the rivers Genil and Darro. History does not tell us the meaning of the name but it was a place where the kings of the city could relax, away from affairs of state. The building is plainer and lacks the ornate decoration of the Nasrid Palaces. It lends itself more to the intimate leisure of its royal occupants. It is outside the Generalife that a channel carries water from the irrigation ditch of the Alhambra. El Patio de la Acequia or the Patio of the Irrigation Ditch is the most important part of the Generalife, dividing it lengthways. On the right hand side is the Patio de los Cipreses, Patio of the Cypresses where the famous Ciprés de la Sultana or Cypress of the Sultana stands. It is here, legend tells us, the wife of Boabdil, the last Nasrid ruler of Granada, would meet her lover. Believed to be a knight of the Abencerrajes family, their love affair resulted in the bloodied death of his noble people whose throats were cut. The rest of the terrace is planted with orange trees, myrtle and rose bushes but has seen its vegetation change over the centuries according to the taste of the times. 14
The Lower Gardens with typically Muslim central pools - Generalife
Lower Gardens – Generalife
Detailed Archway
The array of plants and trees in the many gardens which make up the Alhambra were stunning. The landscaping was spectacular and gazing from on high, through the narrow openings in the ancient walls or the wide balconies, its splendour could be appreciated in all its glory. Walking through the gardens there was little shade for a hot, Spanish summer day so the water that runs in narrow channels along the many sloping walkways served visitors well in cooling hands and brows. Drinking fountains strategically placed were also a blessing.
Courtyard
View over Granada
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Hotel Restaurant America We decided to eat at the America Hotel Restaurant within the grounds of the fortress. It caught our eye from the outside with its rambling greenery over the door. Inside, the main eating area was a conservatory with a cobbled floor. The menu was quite expensive but we had eaten previously so merely ordered a large portion of chips which cost five Euros. Our granddaughter had an ice-cream to follow which she found delicious but it was served in a sundae glass and was about the size of a two finger Kit Kat. Despite it being costly we would love to stay at the America Hotel sometime in the future, visiting the Alhambra for more than one day and enjoying the historical city of Granada.
A Pavillion in the Courtyard of the Lions
Garden View
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The Palace of Carlos V
Granada from the Alhambra
We will definitely go back and we hope you too will find the time to visit the greatest example of Moorish architecture in existence and enjoy its history and its vibrance. http://www.alhambradegranada.org/en/info/ticketsale.asp www.hotelamericagranada.com/ C / Real de la Alhambra, 53 - Granada 18009 - Tlfo: 958 22 74 71 - Fax. 958 22 74 70 Customer Service: 958 96 October 1992 E-mail: reservas@hotelamericagranada.com
Š Chris Nedahl
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The Pages
The Writer’s Life A Writer’s Game of Confidence
What was it Shakespeare said? ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players’. All very well, but how do you progress from behind that computer screen, cease playing: Solitaire and creatively partake in a writer’s game of confidence? Call My Bluff if you like, but if you’re reading this, there will be no turning back and finding time to play: Monopoly. A bit frightening perhaps when faced with the decision whether to get out of jail free, miss the next chance, or dip into the World Wide Web community chest. If you are feeling shy, I can understand that too, but hey, this is not: University Challenge so try not to worry about what you may, or may not know. And, once you have taken a deep breath: 3-2-1 and submitted your best party-piece, you will no longer feel like: The Weakest Link. A bout of the collywobbles is to be expected, especially when thinking about the hundreds, possibly thousands of surfers reading what you have to say. But if you: Play Your Cards Right and realise that you are about to have a life changing, enjoyable experience, then you’re well on the way to: Countdown. You may be thinking that experienced writers don’t have the collywobbles: Have I Got News For You, as even a great literary: Mastermind has those to contend with. Whereas there will be those who are more confident than others, let us not forget that we are all prone to: Blankety Blank days – a: Catchphrase which is synonymous with - I haven’t got a: Cluedo. Not to worry, all you need do is remember to live and learn, but most of all enjoy and make like-minded friends in the process. Whatever you choose to write, do not forget that your opinion counts and has currency value anywhere. However, to make sure I have not misguided you in any way, this does not necessarily mean it will earn you much in the way of: Family Fortunes. Did I hear you say: Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Yes? – No? Supermarket Sweep or: Double Your Money? Just testing. It was not really my intention to sound too much like a game show host. If you are: Game for a Laugh though, you will find humour aplenty. Who knows, you may have the: X Factor and: Strike It Lucky. This is how a networking community exists, by attracting those who like nothing better than to: Scrabble words together. Why not look on this as a universal: Generation Game which appeals to everyone and where: Opportunity Knocks. Finally, read any feedback you may receive with an open mind. Just think you may get spotlighted: Bingo!
© Marilyn Sylvester.
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The Pages
Short Story
The 2nd Valentine’s Day Massacre I climbed out of the model A Ford, closed the door behind me and tapped on the side of the car to signal Jimmy to pull away. We chose the Ford deliberately, a car so common that no one would remember. I would have liked to have travelled in style but we couldn’t risk Luigi’s Cadillac, someone would be sure to notice it. I turned up my collar against the biting wind, pulled my hat down over my eyes and crossed the slush-covered street. It was quiet, but I was still wary. I looked around to check that I wasn’t being followed. I needn’t have worried, only a few people braved the cold February night. I rapped on a glass panelled door and it was opened almost immediately by a guy wearing greasy trousers and a vest. He was sweating profusely, even though it was freezing cold in the hallway. He noticed my quizzical expression. ‘Laundry,’ he muttered. ‘We have a laundry at the back.’ I grunted and followed him upstairs to a room overlooking the street. My host nodded to the window and turned to leave, but before he reached the door I’d slipped the cheese wire round this throat. He died a minute or so later. The dirty, single curtain was pulled across, so I stood to the side of the window and inched it open. Whoever had selected the vantage point had chosen well, I had a clear, unhindered view of the restaurant over the road. I pulled up a chair, lit a cigarette, checked my pocket watch and waited for Mary to signal. At 8.30 I saw the light in the room at the side of the restaurant flick on and off twice. My audience had arrived, it was time to get the show on the road. I took the stairs two at a time, then stood for a moment to give the adrenalin time to settle. Satisfied, I let myself out, checked the street as I crossed, then walked down the alley at the side of the restaurant. Mary was at the back door with a smile on her lips and a glint in her eye. She looked good, even in her waitress clothes. She leaned forward and our lips touched. Her scent took me straight back to her bedroom, to one of the many nights we had spent together over the past few weeks. My eyes dropped to that wonderful chest, I felt the sap rise, I wanted her there and then, on the cold floor tiles. Mary sensed what was going through my mind. ‘Easy Tiger.’ I nodded and forced my mind back to the job in hand.
‘They all here now?’ ‘Yep. Frankie arrived through the back about ten minutes ago. He’s at the table with the others.’ ‘No one else here?’ ‘Only the cook, and he’s drunk.’ I eased open the door to the restaurant and peered in. They were sat in the centre, laughing, drinking the last whiskey they would ever drink. 19
‘Where is it?’ I whispered. Mary dragged a case from under the worktable. I opened it and pulled out the Tommy gun. I pushed in a magazine, flicked off the safety catch and smiled at her. ‘OK, Honeybunch. Let’s get this thing done.’ Mary nodded and stood by the door. I winked and she threw it open. I took a deep breath, stepped into the room and opened fire. The four diners were dead before they had a chance to turn their heads. I fired off another volley to make sure, then turned and hurried back to the prep room. Mary was by the worktable, a Valentine card in her hand. ‘For you,’ she said. I took the card and pushed it into my pocket, then pointed the gun at Mary. ‘Marco, no...’ I took in that look, the fear in those baby blue eyes and felt a sharp pang of regret, but pulled the trigger anyway. Mary was thrown across the room, almost cut in two by the hail of bullets. The cook staggered in from the kitchen, a bottle of hooch in his right hand. I opened up and let him have it too. No witnesses, that’s just how it should be. I stepped smartly out of the back door and walked further down the alley. I could hear raised voices coming from the front of the restaurant. At the end of the alley I checked the street, then ran to the Ford where Jimmy was waiting, engine running. We drove to a quiet place by the Chicago river where I shot Jimmy in the back and tossed both him and the gun into the icy water. I got back into the car, drove to a call box and rang Carla. ‘Hi, Carla, it’s done.’ ‘You got them all.’ ‘Every single one.’ ‘Witnesses?’ ‘Well, let’s just say there’s no one left to clean up.’ ‘Great, Honey. Come over tonight. As it’s Valentine’s day, and you’ve been such a good boy, I have a nice little something for you.’ It was the way she emphasised the ‘little something.’ I grinned, as my hormones kicked in and visions of a long steamy night filled my head. ‘Give me an hour,’ I croaked. Carla laughed. ‘You can have all night, baby.’ I put down the phone and hurried home. I needed to change my suit, get the smell of gunfire out of my nose. I pulled off my jacket, took the card from my pocket and flipped it open. ‘Who loves ya baby,’ it read. I tossed it onto the table. It might come in useful later. I ran a bath and thought about Carla. Sweet Carla, the best thing I’d ever seen on two legs. She only had to look at me to get me going. She had brains too, a broad didn’t get that far up the chain of command in Bugs Malone’s organisation without having brains. She was a tough cookie though, failure was punished hard. There were four or five guys wearing concrete under the new highway because they didn’t carry out her instructions to the letter. Bugs wanted revenge for last year’s Valentine’s Day massacre, when most of his top people were butchered. It was down to Carla to make sure he got it. 20
I dried my hair on a towel and sprayed on some of the cologne that Mary gave me for Christmas. This was my big chance. I had proved myself as an asset, now I would have the chance to prove myself as a lover. I stuffed Mary’s card into my pocket and hailed a cab to Carla’s place. She lived above one of the better speakeasy’s in the flash part of town. There was a lot of activity around the front of the building so I slipped round the back and climbed the iron staircase. The fire escape was open. I stopped on the top step when I heard voices. ‘You up for this?’ It was Carla. ‘Sure, baby, I’m ready.’ ‘No mistakes, Greggo, take Mickey with you. Waste him, then drop him in the river. We need to clean up all the crap tonight.’ I cursed under my breath as I realised what Carla meant by ‘a little something.’ I took Mary’s card, tore it up and threw the pieces into the cold night, then pulled the pistol from my inside pocket and flicked off the safety. I took a deep breath and stepped through the open door. ‘Who loves ya Baby,’ I roared.
© Trevor Belshaw
21
The Pages
Poetry
blue and bright above my head in blue and bright a butterfly and bird fast waltz in dance of life and death wing tip to wing tip one leads no partner though a breath ahead a twist and dive a flickered flight both disappear behind dark branch shadows of a tree
Š Myra King
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The Pages
Garden at Little Oak 11
Spring 2011 Those of you in the north were not the only ones who experienced heavy falls of snow in 2010, we cosseted beings in the south also felt the ire of winter’s cold breath. The worst falls were in November. We complained then and went on complaining until the warm sunshine came out in March 2011. We had only 16mm of rain during the whole month. Just when we thought Spring had arrived, temperatures dropped once more with ground frosts and winds and we griped again. We are not used to it and we don’t like it. I am late writing this Spring bulletin for The Pages, snowdrops and many of the daffodils are already over. —A host of dying daffodils! — and now there’s a lot of de-heading to do. The hellebores are fantastic, though we shall never manage to get Christmas Roses for Christmas. I don’t know anyone who does. My dear husband, the gardener, says bulbs and some seed have benefited from the cold spell. Some seeds flower earlier if they have been subjected to low temperatures before germination, a process known as vernalization. I have found little pots and packets of garden seeds in the fridge on many occasions. We continued to feed birds all through the winter and are still putting seed out now, though we have recently cut off the supply of nuts. The seed is there to please a pair of sparrows who have joined us this year. They are nesting locally but we aren’t sure where and we don’t want to lose them. Sparrows were last here about twenty years ago. Starlings are still not befriending us. Green finches and gold finches are here but in smaller numbers than last year though the long tailed tits are crowding in. We also have a nesting pair of coal tits. The mallards had another two or three glances at the garden this year but weren’t tempted to stay. On the day we decided to put out the final batch of nuts there must have been a squirrel listening. On that very day when we were both out he swooped in and capsized the whole caboodle and brought the nut container crashing to the ground. Then he made off with it and it hasn’t been seen since. I returned home to find it missing and though David had removed it but no it was that clever little grey b****rd who watches and listens on the other side of the garden. We heard that owls had suffered during the cold weather due to a lack of small mammals for their food. However we were pleased to see one of our barn owls a few days ago looking fat and glossy, so we’re hoping he has a mate and they will manage to rear some young. We saw freshly hatched tortoiseshell butterflies in the warm spell in mid-March. There was a peacock and some whites but they were tatty and had been in hibernation. Today April 5th, I saw a pristine speckled wood butterfly.
We have two Honeysuckles - loniceras, in the soft fruit bed and both have flowered abundantly. We are hoping to get the taste of/for a different flavour. These plants have edible fruit. The goji berry Lycium Barbarium has grown to twice last year’s size and is a lovely shape. Slender arched branches which we hope will have beautiful red berries shining on them in the summer.
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Sprouting broccoli has supplied us well and though the sprouts virtually failed they produced lots of sprouting.. er - sprouts... well you know what I mean. Not quite as good as the broccoli. Leeks have been good too. We started buying beetroot in October, having run through our crop. The carrots lasted well too. The flavour is not matched by anything in the shops. David treated the lawns with fertilizer and moss killer through the winter and has landed himself with beautiful lush green, fast growing grass which needs to be cut every other day it seems. He hasn’t time to do the edges but they often break with stones which spoil them so maybe we shouldn’t mind too much. The big silver birch had to be pollarded for the second time in its thirty year life. It was fun watching a tall thin man with dread locks leaping through the branches with his safety gear and his little chain saw. He shaped it beautifully and the tiny heavenly green leaves are just breaking through. Pollarding is done in an attempt to stop it going higher. Next time it will have to be felled. We had a raised bed behind the hedge on the South corner of the garden. Compost bins were always put there and heaps of rubbish for bonfires. I made the bed years ago and it was never of much use because it needed too much water to keep anything herbaceous growing. It remained for a number of years with holly and a Clematis in it. This year the wall has been removed and the soil levelled. The holly is still there, if a bit spindly and the Clematis Montana Alba has been rejuvenated by the light which has been let in with the removal of an un-named conifer. There is new lush grass and it is a nice little corner for sitting and thinking or just sitting. David sowed broad beans in cells a few weeks back and they are now about eight inches high in the garden. I expect the jays will be keeping an eye on them. As soon as the bean pods are a good size they shred them from top to bottom and eat the beans inside. Netting is a must. The greenhouse is filling up with cells of seedlings ready to go out when the weather is slightly warmer. This system works well for us, particularly with such stony ground. It is a great way of bringing on vegetables earlier and when they go out they are substantial plants ready to grow on. I noticed the heavily perfumed Viburnum Burkwoodii is fully out in the sunshine today beware anyone with allergies! The leaves are fully out on the Rambling Rector rose climbing all over the pergola. He is perfumed as well but doesn’t affect hay fever sufferers. 24
We have germinated some diorama seeds given to us by a friend. We are told they are like dancing strings of pearls, known to some as angels’ fishing rods. We shall see. At the moment they are about eight inches high and grass-green. They have been thinned and are now four to a pot. Watch this space. The Kerria (bachelor’s button) is magnificent. When I walked round the garden today I noticed the dark blue Umphalodes or the navel plant flowering profusely and the Dicentras. The common small pink one with soft sage green leaves and Dicentra Spectabilis (bleeding hearts) are both in full bloom together but in different parts of the garden. The Camellia is doing well too. I never can remember its name. Is it temptation, sensation... no it is Anticipation. Every bloom seems perfect.
Now all the hard work begins, with dead-heading daffodils. This will go on for some time because some varieties are already over other varieties are only just coming out. Weeding so that annuals can be planted out into clean beds, hanging baskets to be set up, slug baiting, trailing and climbing plants to be tied in, and all the time the endless lawn-mowing. The pond needs to be cleaned out too, but that will have to be another story, there are already several frogs living in and around it so the cleaning process must wait until they move on.
Plan of the Garden at Little Oak.
© Rosa Johnson (… and then May arrived, and an early summer, when we expected spring. Ed.) 25
The Pages
Poetry Baby Pink Lipstick
I saw it at the make-up counter, the tester, pale as rosebuds. The years tumbled away like buffeted clouds and I stood again in that holiday town. Friends and strangers milling around, demanding but the boy and I were all alone.
I smell that night in its scent, feel the colour on my lips. Forty years melted away like the lipstick pink passion-kissed on that holiday night. I feel you so close to me, as though you had never gone and my heart flutters with youth.
Š Chris Nedahl
26
The Pages
Short Story Girl in the Scarlet Dress
It’s said one man’s treasure is another man’s junk. Well I’m in the middle of the junk of my life. Looking down at the loft ladder I wonder if I could end it all by throwing myself though the narrow gap. Knowing my luck, I’d just get a bad headache! It had come as a bit of a shock when Dave had announced we should sell the house. I thought he’d meant move somewhere new, try to start afresh. It was, in fact, his delicate way of telling me he wanted me out of his life. That was no surprise. For years our relationship had been no more than a grunt or on really bad days, a growl. Still, I felt he should have tried to let me down more gently. Shar, short for Sharon, is the new woman in his life. I saw her once or twice and wanted to laugh out loud – in fact I think I might have. She’s a Barbie doll. Dave is twenty two stone, mid fifties and balding at the rate of knots. Her bottle-blonde hair framed a heart shaped, little-girl face. Anyone can see though she’ll develop jowls and that voluptuous bosom will need a harness when she’s forty. Things are getting moved from one corner to another. Occasionally I pick up something for a closer look. It’s a lifetime’s living, locked away in the attic of dreams. Keepsakes and mementos stay the same but glance at yourself in the dusty, 1980’s mirror relegated to the surplus of happier times and horror of horrors you are an old woman. I do a twirl. Perhaps not too old. A bit worn maybe but worn down, not worn out. Think I’ll grab a cuppa before heading for the charity shop with the few bags I’ve filled. It’s sad to be getting rid of clothes that were worn in happy times. Ah well! I’m three stone heavier and, despite retro being in, I’m never going to get them on my back again. Strange thing though, there’s not much of Dave’s up here. He always wore his things until they made it to the bin of their own accord. The tea can wait. I’ve got to glance through this I’ve just found. It’s an envelope of bits and pieces. Some snaps, a couple of letters, tickets to some special events and receipts to remind us of meals at super restaurants on special occasions. Did I say us? I mean me. Just me. Dave has no time for sentiment or precious things. The only bit of precious he understands is money in the bank. The last of the big spenders, that’s Dave. Look at that – a metro ticket from the trip the kids gave us to Paris for our thirtieth anniversary. It was a disaster of course. Dave didn’t stop moaning about how many times we were using the hole in the wall for the entire four days. Granted it was an expensive place but we were celebrating a milestone for goodness sake. More like a millstone thinking back! Is that the phone? Best answer it. It might be Camelot congratulating me on my ten million jackpot. Do you reckon I’d have to share it with Dave? He’d no doubt claim the pound was half his so by default half the winnings. Perhaps I could bribe Camelot with some of my money to keep mum until the decree absolute plus a bit of extra time for decency. “Hi Janie. Yes come over. I could do with some company.”
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Two hours of fun. Janie’s a good friend. We chatted about everything and had a few laughs over some of the attic paraphernalia. We both got a bit sentimental over a ball gown. It was in an old suitcase and despite the lid being closed it needed a good shake to get rid of the dust. “This is the real you, girl,” Janie spun around holding the dress in front of her. I laughed. “No Ally, I mean it. Red was always your colour and it’s your personality as well. You’re clever and vibrant and fun to be with. He drained you my love. Sapped you and it’s bloody well time to hit back.” Looking at Janie I blinked back a tear. I fingered the silk and memories came flooding back. I could hear the music playing in the background and Dave holding me as if he never wanted to let me go. I couldn’t stop the tears flowing and we both sat in silence, apart from my sobs and sniffly nose, until I was spent. Janie hugged me. “I didn’t mean to upset you but you needed that.” She was right and she was right about another thing too. I was going to be me again. I wasn’t quite sure how - that daunting task was for another day but I knew for sure, the chore in hand was my starting point. One item caught Janie’s eye. “This is good,” she said thoughtfully holding a framed picture at arms length. She’d gone to art school but never finished her course. She’d met Rob in her second year and the rest is history. Nevertheless she had a good eye and dear Rob, who had a small gallery in the far corner of a quite a prestigious art and craft shop in town, had never stopped encouraging Janie’s artistic talent. “Do you think so?” I looked at the rural scene and thought it a bit ordinary. The colours were subdued and not being horsey, I didn’t think much of the riders and their hounds. “I’m going to show this to Rob.” Janie was emphatic. “It could be worth something Ally.” A couple of weeks went by before I got a call from Rob. “Can you come over to the gallery tomorrow, Ally? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” At ten the next morning I made my way across town to Las Bellas Artes. Rob greeted me with a hug and introduced me to Esteban Oller. We sat and had coffee while Señor Oller, in perfect English with an incredibly sexy accent, asked my permission to have the painting examined at Sotheby’s. In his opinion it was by the artist Sartorius and could be worth a healthy sum of money. I left the gallery on air. It would solve so many problems for me. Then I thought of Dave. Damn! He’d expect at least half of anything it was worth even though the painting had belonged to my grandmother. It wasn’t fair because all I really wanted was to keep the house. Despite overweight, grumpy Dave, the house was my home and held happy memories. The lovely years when the children were growing up, laughter filling every room and special times, birthday parties and Christmas, summer holidays when we spent as much time as the weather permitted in the garden. I don’t suppose there was much I could do about the outcome. Half an hour later I was putting my key in the door and the phone rang. I made a dash and heard Janie on the other end. “I’ve been thinking honey. We need to stop that greedy, soon to be ex, getting his grubby hands on a penny of your money.” “Hang on Janie it might be worth zilch.” “No chance kiddo. If Estaban thinks it’s a Sartorius then it is a Sartorius.” 28
I took a couple of deep breaths. So we were truly looking at some financial return here. Later that evening, curled up on armchairs, favourite wine in hand, we mulled over possible plans. Everything we thought of had its downside. Legally, if it was worth anything, Dave could fight to get his share. Fast forward six months and such a lot has happened. Barbie doll Sharon dumped her Ken. Not a long romantic liaison but longer than it took for heart throb Dave to come knocking. It’s not a pretty sight seeing a grown man snivel. If he was grieving the loss of his blonde bombshell he didn’t look it. His beer belly still hung over his belt and there was a genuine belief in his ruddy face that I would welcome him back with open arms. I shook my head disbelievingly. “I’m back Dave. Remember me? The girl in the scarlet dress?” I have to say he looked bemused. I think I forgot to mention he was never the brightest of the bunch. I sent him on his way rather rapidly. I didn’t want to loose what I’d got for a twotiming, aging Lothario did I? The painting? Oh! Estaban was wrong. It made a few thousand pounds at auction as an excellent example of a work in the master’s style but by that time I wasn’t interested in staying in the house. Life here in Granada and soon to be Señora Oller de Castillo is much more to my liking. It’s not a big house as Spanish villas go but my little three bedroom semi would fit into it more than once. Then there’s the apartment on the Mijas Costa and of course the family home in Madrid, the Castillo de Oro. Olly’s Mamá thinks I am good for her son and calls me ‘preciosa’. At last I am treasured and it makes me feel good about myself. The solitaire on my left hand sure as hell sparkles in this Spanish sun - testament to my new love, new life, new me.
© Chris Nedahl
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The Pages
Article
A Little Loan Can Make a Big Difference For many of us it’s heartbreaking to hear about the ongoing suffering of poor people in the developing countries around the world. And, apart from donating to the charities that help from time to time, it seems there is not much we can do about it. Some people have been sponsoring a child and getting feedback about it, but there hasn’t been another way to contribute for those who can’t afford that kind of regular commitment. Or has there? Did you know that, for as little as US$25, you could actually help to change someone’s life and set them on a route out of poverty? You could even get your $25 back if you needed it. This is possible via a US based organisation called Kiva, which finances micro loans to 3rd world budding entrepreneurs through its field partners all around the world. Kiva is a nonprofit making micro lending business which collects small amounts from lenders to fund the loans requested. The field partners add a small amount of interest to cover their costs of issuing the cash and collecting the repayments, which they pass back to Kiva. Once a loan is repaid the individual lenders can have their money back or transfer it to help change someone else’s life. One of the Kiva beneficiaries is Holishon Sainazarova from Aravan, Kyrgyzstan. After the death of her husband a few years ago, Holishon needed to find a way to support herself and her daughter who was still a teenager. She started in a small way, and through cattle and poultry farming, as well as growing fruit and vegetables, has achieved an income of around US$46 a month. This doesn’t leave any spare and her micro loan is for buying an additional calf for future breeding. She aims to earn enough money to be able to save a decent amount for her daughter’s wedding. It was Bangladeshi banker and Nobel Peace Prize Winner, Muhammed Yunus, who first proposed the idea of micro loans. He set up the Grameen Bank in his home country and became a ‘Banker to the Poor’ because he recognised that very small amounts of money would be enough to make an enormous difference to their lives. His recent controversial removal from his position as its managing director by the Bangladeshi Central Bank, supposedly because of alleged irregularities and tax evasion, is believed by some to be because the government wishes to control it. Whatever the reasons behind this, they don't detract from the value of his role in the introduction of micro lending. In his own words, “If you look at financial systems around the globe, more than half the population of the world - out of six billion people, more than three billion - do not qualify to take out a loan from a bank”. He explained the fact that over 90% of the bank’s loans were issued to women, by saying, “Soon we saw that money going to women brought much more benefit to the family than money going to the men. So we changed our policy and gave a high priority to women.” His policies have rolled out worldwide and he was a founding member of The Grameen Foundation, a US based charity that organises microcredit around the globe. A loan of just US$100 from the Foundation turned around the life of an Indonesian victim of the horrific tsunami of December 2004.
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Ibu Samsariah Ruko lost her husband on that fateful day, and she and her two sons were lucky to survive. The help they received after that kept them alive and Samsariah eked out her resources to take in two boys orphaned by the disaster, as well as herself and her own two sons. Before this she had derived some of the family’s income from selling fish and oysters she caught from a canal and the sea near the home that she lost. With just US$100 of micro lending she was able to set herself up with the equipment she needed to start up again and get an immediate independent income from the work that she knew. Her aim is eventually to open her own market stall and employ someone else to do the fishing. She would like to earn enough so that her two adopted sons will be able to complete their education and have a better start in life than any of the previous members of the family. Nairobi in Kenya is the headquarters of another micro finance charitable trust. Jamii Bora issues microcredit to members across Africa who, in groups of five people, guarantee each others loans. Successful members inspire others to follow their examples. One such is Beatrice Ngendo, who has supported 12 grandchildren, in the slums of the Mathare Valley in Nairobi, since the heartbreak of losing all their parents to aids. A member of Jamii Bora for 10 years, she now employs others in her grocery business, butcher’s store and restaurant, as well as owning a building with rooms for rent. Her oldest grandchild has a nursing qualification and the others are all in school. In 2006, Sam Daley-Harris, Director of the Microcredit Summit Campaign wrote in the Campaign Report, “While not a panacea, microcredit is one of the most powerful tools to address global poverty, and it does so in a way that builds self-esteem in the individual and self-sufficiency in the institution providing the financial services. It works in synergy with other development interventions such as those that promote health, nutrition, democracy, and education and offers a hand up, not a hand out. Microcredit is an intervention capable of producing a quadruple bottom line. When executed effectively, it can 1) relieve suffering, 2) bring dignity, 3) become sustainable, and 4) inspire supporters.” Several years on, it’s all just as true. As you can see from the examples above, a little loan can certainly make a big difference.
© Jean Knill
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The Pages
Article
The Concert Looking through my documents folder this morning I discovered my review of an Eric Clapton concert I attended in Nottingham, about two years ago. It bought back some happy memories and some very disturbing ones. Last night we went to see the legendary guitar hero, Eric Clapton, in Nottingham. The show was staged at the Nottingham Arena, which also doubles up as an ice stadium. For those of you having strange visions of the great man skating around the stage in Lycra pants and a frilly shirt whilst belting out Layla, let me put your minds at rest. He didn’t. The ice is covered over for the concert and the fans who want to be closer to the stage sit above it. As I was in row Z, high up at the back of the arena, I can’t really say whether the people on the floor were dancing about because of the fabulous music, or because they were trying to keep their feet warm. Whichever it was they certainly cut a groove. From where I sat Eric looked like one of the smaller residents of Lilliput viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. He was so small in fact that when I got a speck of dust on my glasses he disappeared completely along with two thirds of the stage. Eric may have been minuscule but the sound he put out more than made up for that, he isn’t classed as the world’s best for nothing. Anyone that tiny who can make the lens in my glasses vibrate so much that I feared they might shatter, is something special. There were two huge screens either side of the stage for those of us who didn’t have 50-1 zoom lens instead of eyes. It is tempting to make an appointment with a laser treatment company and get both my eyes done so that next time Eric comes to town he won’t look like a jelly baby standing at the far end of a long conference table. Before the concert we spent a happy hour at the pub just round the corner from the stadium. The bar was packed and by the look of the cheery, but unsteady, clientele, many of them had been there for quite some time. The jukebox was set to Clapton mode, no other artist was allowed. One woman, in the bar for a soothing after-work drink, was clearly puzzled to hear Eric croon his way through, ‘White Room’ and ‘Wonderful Tonight’ when she had actually selected Boyzone and Lena Zavaroni. No matter how much money was shoved in the slot, and no matter what selections were made, the jukebox stubbornly pumped out Eric, song after song after song. There was studio Eric, 60s Eric, Eric as Derek, and lots of live Eric. So much so that by the time we left the pub I felt we didn’t really need to go to the concert at all. Once inside the concert hall I stood patiently in the rip off queue waiting to hand over my £20 for a £5 t-shirt which proudly boasted that I had been to the ‘Eric is Derek’ USA tour 1970. I could have had one that said ‘EC tour 2008,′ but that didn’t have the same kudos really. When out wearing the USA shirt people might look at me with a little more respect.
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While I was in rip off queue one, fantasising over my soon to be acquired kudos, my wife was shuffling along in rip off queue two, the cold drinks and cold, hot snacks queue. The line was enormous. One man grew a beard while reading his concert program, (acquired from rip off queue three,) and by the time she got to the front all that remained was a narrow choice between expensive Derbyshire Pennine water, and the more expensive, but obviously better class, Cumbrian spring water. My wife being my wife, got the Cumbrian. She wouldn’t be seen dead with anything less than top notch, designer water. So, clutching our purchases we set forth to climb the North face of the Eiger. Luckily I grabbed hold of an out of work Sherpa, (or steward as they are known at the arena,) and off we set. Stopping only for oxygen we made it to the top without further incident. The Sherpa didn’t laugh when I asked if I was allowed to plant the Union flag when we reached the summit. The man behind us did and caused some alarm as he choked on his nicely chilled, pre-packed, hot sausage roll. Luckily a doctor was on hand and a slap on the back soon had him breathing easily and he was able to join us again on the ascent. I don’t know why it is, but my wife attracts nutters, they flock to her like flies around a jam pot. Every time we go to the pub, a concert, or out for a meal, the local nutter is chatting her up before she’s had time to complain about the seat, the view, or the smell. Last night was no exception. She had only just taken her seat when a guy from the row in front climbed over and plonked himself down next to her. Within seconds they were deep in conversation about a Gracie Fields concert he had attended in Munich 1945. ‘Now she COULD play the guitar...’ It wasn’t quite a sell out but near enough. Seldom can there have been so many grey, bald (or grey and bald,) ex hippies gathered in one place. For some reason people revert back to their youth when they go to a rock concert. Men of almost pensionable age swap their cardis and slippers for leather jackets and tight, sky blue jeans. Everywhere I looked there were sagging, partially covered bellies hanging over ridiculously tight waistbands. Everyone seemed to wear a thick leather belt with a huge brass buckle. Thousands of bovines must have died in order to service this belt fest. The women were as bad. No matter where I rested my eyes, there were 50-60 year old boobs on show. The more modest of them had one button too many undone on their blouses, but others had decided to go bra-less. Everywhere I looked there were wrinkled, crinkled, sagging women, all convinced that for this one night of joyous revelry, they could reclaim their youth. They were of course sadly deluded, this was a wrinklies paradise. There were wrinkled necks, faces, elbows and thighs and although the majority of their garments were impeccably pressed, the bodies inside them looked like they could benefit from a good ironing. I never really did get on with the tie - dyed look from the 60s. It always looked washed out and faded to me, though I’ve since learned that was the whole idea. Looking around the concert hall last night, it seemed as though a good many people had tied dyed their partners. After the show we descended from our lofty peak and joined the sweaty multitude as they made their back aching, knee cracking way out of the arena. Some were still singing along to Eric’s encore, ‘I’ve got my Mojo working.’ Sadly, for most of them, their Mojo won’t work anywhere near as well as it used to. Everyone had enjoyed it, that was evident. A few of the meaner, less free spirited revellers made spiteful comments about their fellow Claptonites, especially the bra-less ones. All in all though it was a happy crowd that trooped out of the arena and onto the streets. © Trevor Belshaw 33
The Pages
Musings
The Good Old Days Some people talk about ‘the good old days’, how they would love to go back to the way it was, but I wonder how many people who have enjoyed the fruits, freedoms and luxuries that progress brings, would happily revert to all the old ways of 'the good old days'? This musing of whether the majority of us would really like to go back to those good old days was started by a recent supermarket shopping trip. …Insert soothing supermarket music My access to the easy-peasy thickening granules was obstructed by a woman dithering over whether to buy stone-ground or whole-wheat flour. Mid-dither she decided to tell me how she hated the laziness of modern-day folk. Her preference I was to learn, was that of living a more natural life – choosing to bake her own bread, only bought fresh local produce, did bulk cooking like her grandmother used to, collected her eggs from a farm a mile or so from her home and bought good quality clothes to make them last. I felt I was talking to a modern-day old-fashioned woman. I said I was impressed that she would walk miles to collect her eggs and cooked in batches while continuing my attempt to squeeze past her to reach the granules - but oh no, not so easy, she was determined to talk. … …Increase level of soothing supermarket music The woman appeared to be about ten years younger than my 50+ years. Her artistically coloured hair and lengthy acrylic nail extensions seemed at loggerheads with her ‘good life’ ideals. She gave a few derisory nods towards a passing child enthusiastically sticking its fingers into a crisp bag. I eventually grabbed my granules and escaped managing to successfully complete my mission to reach the till-point with my groceries. … … …Lessen level of soothing supermarket music As I walked away from the supermarket, I wondered how easy most modern-day women would find living the life our great grandparents had… like the woman I had been talking with led. My wondering didn’t last long, as when I got to the car park with my trolley of goods containing a modern-day mix, reduced sugar recipes, low cholesterol and easy fare; I realised my car was parked two vehicles away from the woman who lived ‘the good life’. Her car a thirsty 2+ litre 4 x 4 into which she was unloading her supermarket shopping containing dishwasher essentials, BOGOF loaves of bread, frozen chips and pizzas. I didn’t notice any eggs! A man walked towards the car, passing her a modern-day paper drinking vessel. My trolley clanked against another as I pushed it into the trolley-bay at the same moment she started to drink from the famous fast-food variety of flavoured milk – causing her to stop mid-suck on the straw. I was amused at her cheeks which were fighting not to be swallowed by her embarrassment. Walking past her on the way back to my car, I smiled. ‘Well, milk IS good for you’, I said. The woman nodded. Our history teaches us how to enjoy the future, giving opportunity to make changes. We still have much to learn, and experiencing progress is part of it – including variety – with a healthy mix of fresh food, milkshakes … and not forgetting thickening granules! …
…
…
…Quick beep from my Micra as I drive away ☺
© June Gundlack
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The Pages
Poetry
Haiku Changing over days Summer soon to Autumn fades Winter chill, Spring birth.
Distant rumbling Forking flashes piercing earth Welcome wet droplets.
Brown and yellow bee Bloom uplifted to the sun Awaits your visit.
Liquid sun of Spring Warming frozen soil beneath Kindling and stirring.
Š Chris Nedahl
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The Pages
Short (Fairy) Story
CHURK'S GRADUATION `Fetch them new secateurs from the tool shed, will you Boy? I could chew this dang peacock into shape better'n I can trim 'im with these.' The boy shaded his eyes and looked up at old Alec perched on a step-ladder trimming the crest on the peacock's head. Topiary was his greatest pleasure in the garden, the peacock his pride and joy. `Yeah.' Ben dropped an armful of clippings into the wheelbarrow. As student gardener he was allowed to cut the straight edges while the master craftsman sculpted the decorative parts of the garden screens. `Go now! I can't wait all day, Boy.' `O.K.! I'm going,' Ben grumbled. He found the secateurs in the tool shed, pocketed them, and slipped into the potting shed for a drink from the flask in his snap bag. He thrust his hand inside. `Steady on!' Who said that? - Ben thought he was alone. He could see no one. Carefully lifting his Thermos out of the haversack he poured some tea, all the time wondering who had spoken. When he replaced the flask someone said, `Can't you be more careful, you clumsy nurd?' It was then Ben caught sight of a tiny man shinning up the shoulder-strap by which the haversack hung. `Skiving again I see,' he said. `Who says?' `I've seen you sloping off each time Alec turns his back. I don't blame you. He takes all the cushy jobs himself... am I right?' Strands of spiky red hair were escaping from under the little man's flat cap. The small face was dimpled and rosy, the smile showed a palisade of minute, well-spaced, white teeth. He wore dungarees, a check shirt and boots. Everything about him was diminutive, yet so ordinary Ben couldn't believe his eyes. `Well say something?' Ben sipped his tea. `I think I'm going nuts!' he said. `Don't be like that. Seeing is believing.' `I don't know.' Ben stuffed the cup into the bag and made for the door. `I'm going,' he said. `See you later... Ben.' `Not if I can help it.' He slammed the door and slid the bolt across. Better hurry, he thought or Alec'll have something to say about the good-for-nothing youth of today. He wasn't above complaining to the head gardener. Alec was standing on the top of the ladder with his back to Ben as he approached. `Here they are Mr Boulter.' Ben held out the secateurs and was surprised when Alec said, `By Jove Boy you can move when you want to. You're back afore I could blink; better clear them clippin's off the gravel, the Boss don't like clippin's lyin' around when visitors is due.' Ben set to work and in no time at all it seemed the afternoon was over. `Like I say Boy,' said the older man, you're not a bad lad at a job when you puts yer mind to it.' `I'll put the steps away,' said Ben. `See you tomorrow.' `Bright and early mind, 'tis the public openin'.' 36
Ben went into the potting shed. Leaning the step ladder against the wall he reached for his haversack and cautiously peered inside. There was a howl of laughter. `Over here.' The little man waved from the top of a pile of freshly mixed compost. He slid to the ground, crossed the floor, scrambled onto the bench and sat on a clay flower pot swinging his legs. `Did you tell Alec we've met?' `No I didn't! He already thinks I'm a sandwich short of a picnic.' `Alec knows we're here.' `We?' `Me and my family. We have families same as you, ya know.' `And Alec's seen you?' `Yes, but he wont admit we're what we are.' `Well, what are you?' Ben challenged. `Fairies of course. Except I'm not qualified. `Qualified? How can a fairy qualify?' There was scorn in Ben's voice. `You take exams don't you? We have to graduate to gain our wings. My task is to convince you, I exist.' `Well, tough!' `I know it won't be easy. As soon as you're through that door, you'll think you've been dreaming, like this afternoon; but you noticed I'd put a stop on Alec didn't you?' `A stop?' `What did he say when you got back?' Ben thought for a moment. `You were surprised, I know you were,' insisted the fairy. `He said I'd been quick.' `Yes. See!' `Mmmm,' Ben was thoughtful. `He said I was back before he could blink.' `But you weren't were you? You were skiving.' Ben took his bag down from the nail and put on his jacket. `I'm going.' `See you... I can be useful... if you believe in me. Just call Churk.' Outside in the light of day Ben fetched his motor bike and roared off home. He supposed it was the gloom of the potting shed had set his imagination whirring; - he knew there weren't such things as fairies! Next morning was wet. Alec was working in the conservatory. Ben's instructions were to prick out six boxes of cineraria seedlings into pots. Then to clean out the potting shed, sorting all the nearly empty fertilizer bags and putting odd bits of the same compound into one bag. There'd be dirty flower pots to clean, tools to oil and broken cloches to throw into the skip. As a rule he enjoyed making the place look ship shape but today anywhere would be better than the potting shed. He opened both doors so the dust would quickly disperse. Of course new health and safety regulations required him to wear a mask. `I see you've caught the mucky end of the stick again.' Churk was back. `Alec's warm and dry in the sweet smelling conservatory while you're mucking out this dusty old potting shed. - Stone the crows! Mind where you're shaking that nitro chalk,' he said, coughing. `You should be used to dust and dirt.' Ben laughed. `Did you tell anyone you'd seen me?' `No.' `Why not? I told you Alec knows about us.' `I don't believe in you any more than Alec does. Fairies aren't real - ask anybody.' `Is this real?' Churk launched himself at Ben landing a sharp blow with his boot under Ben's chin. 37
`You little swine.' Ben's right hand went to his face and the left came down hard on the bench trapping Churk's legs under his fingers. Gotcha!' he exclaimed. `Now then let's have a proper look at you.' He grabbed the struggling fairy but was left with nothing more than a sticky yellow stain in his palm as though he'd squashed an insect. `Is the lump on your chin real, Mr Clever?' chided Churk, keeping well out of sight. `An insect bite,' Ben said, and went on sorting the sacks. When he'd finished sweeping the floor a great gust of wind blew through the doors and sent the paper sacks into a spin. Several trug baskets, hanging from the beams, fell to the floor and a rake tumbled off its hook. In his haste to prevent more tools falling Ben trod on the rake, and the handle hit him in the mouth. He staggered and caught hold of the bench which collapsed sending pots, compost, seedlings and seed trays flying. `What's going on?' Ben ran for cover. `Revenge!' shouted Churk swinging wildly on the light flex. A pile of flower pots stacked in the corner toppled and shattered, bags of peat emptied themselves on the floor, and a sack of meat-and-bone-meal exploded. `Stop!' Ben peered from behind a wheelbarrow. Ping, ping, ping... three onion sets bounced off the barrow. `Stop, please,' He peeped out. Ping! `Have you had enough?' Churk called. `Yes. I surrender.' `And do you believe in fairies?' Ben emerged from his hiding place. `Hell-fire!' he said. `How can I explain this mess? I'll lose my job if I tell the Boss fairies did it; our first visitors are due.' A wasp landed on Ben's head. He swiped at it but it became trapped in his hair and then he realized the wasp was none other than the dreaded Churk. `I hate you Churk.' `So you do believe in me.' `I didn't say that.' `Say it and I'll tidy this place up before you can blink. Tell Alec we've met and I'll promise not to do it again tomorrow,' he grinned. `You wouldn't!' `Not if you say you believe in fairies.' Ben was reluctant to give in but if Alec saw this mess he'd report it, if it was there tomorrow he'd get the sack. `O.K. then.' He said reluctantly `Go on, say it, say it.' Churk jumped up and down on an upturned bucket. `I said O.K.' `O.K. what?' `O.K. I believe in fairies.' Ben said it quickly for fear someone would hear. It sounded so silly. `Yippee!' Churk caught some strands of raffia hanging above his head and hauled himself up. As Ben watched two small swellings rippled on Churk's shoulder blades. They forced their way through his shirt and stretched out behind him, like unicorn horns - pointed and shining in the half-light. `My wings! I've got 'em.' Churk cried. Turning his head to look over his shoulder he watched them unfurling. He tested them – moving them back and forth, up and down; took a trial flight to the next beam and then launched himself into a series of aerobatic manoeuvres. `Yippee!' he yelled. Ben clapped for all he was worth until he heard voices. `Look out, someone's coming,' he shouted. 38
At once fertilizer bags organized themselves into a neat pile. Broken flower pots came together and returned to the corner, tools went back to their places, baskets rose to the beams and the broom swept the floor, quite unaided. When Alec reached the doorway even seedlings in their pots were regimented on the bench like soldiers. `By Jove Boy you've worked hard.' `Yes Mr Boulter.' A basket fell out of the roof. `All done quicker'n I could blink.' `Yes, Mr Boulter.' A spade fell with a clatter. `Who helped you?' `Nobody, I‌' Ben saw Churk poised to topple a pile of clay pots. `Don't say them fairies has bin here again.' `No... er,' A watering-can tipped over. `Do you believe in fairies, Mr Boulter?' Ben said hurriedly. The pile of clay pots swayed and he added, `I do.' Alec was transfixed. His eyes were glazed and a smile spread across his face, as can, basket and spade returned to their places. Churk had well and truly graduated. `Don't forget "Boy",' said Churk, `Once a believer, always a believer.' `Natch,' said Ben. Alec blinked. `You're a good lad, when you puts yer mind to it,' he said.
Š Rosa Johnson
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The Pages
Author Interview
Trevor Forest (aka Belshaw) interviewed by Rebecca Emin on her blog.
I have just finished reading the most wonderful book called Peggy Larkin's War by my friend Trevor Forest. The book is meant to be for 8-12 year olds but as I am quite a few years older than that, I think anyone could read it really. I'm pleased to say, Trevor has agreed to take part in an interview, and has also said he will give away a free book to one lucky reader of my blog. So here we go: Hello Trevor, and thank you for visiting my blog! What are your books about? All kinds of things, but most of them are adventure stories. Peggy Larkin’s War is about a young girl who has to leave her family behind to go to live in the country during the war. Magic Molly is about a young girl who becomes a witch so she can rescue her mother from a place called, The Void. She’s been captured by a ghost who got stuck in a jelly mould in the fridge and is now big green and wobbly. Abigail Pink’s Angel is about someone who wakes up to find a Guardian Angel has crash landed on her bedroom carpet. She dresses up in Abigail’s clothes and gets her into all sort of trouble. Faylinn Frost has to help the snow fairies bring winter back to their land after a nasty man called Nathaniel steals all the magic dust. The book I’m writing at the moment, The Duck Pond Lane Detectives, is about a group of kids who enter a village treasure hunt competition and find a clue that was buried thirty years before, instead if the one they were looking for. The prize is still unclaimed and worth two hundred thousand pounds. A nasty crook, called, Fritz Fellows, steals the precious clue from Agatha’s house and enlists the help of the Brickley Bears, team to help him find it. Agatha, Freddy, Jake, Gabby and Sarah, think they can solve the puzzle and claim the prize themselves. How long did it take you to write your books? That’s a difficult question as they all take a different amount of time. The first version of a new story takes about a month to six weeks to write. Then I leave it for a few weeks before I read it again and make corrections to it. After that I go over it all again to polish it up. Then I send it off to my editor to check for spelling mistakes and missing full stops and commas. While it’s at the editors I get my artist friend to make me a nice cover. When the book comes back from the editor it’s ready to go to the printers. So, the answer is, anything up to six months.
Which of your characters do you like the most? Ooh there are some difficult questions here. I like all my characters and it would be very hard to choose between them. If I’m forced to choose I think I’ll have to say, Molly Miggins and Peggy Larkin as both are very brave, very clever and very nice people. Both of them are good at solving puzzles too.
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Do you have a favourite place to write? I have a workshop-office at the side of my house. In there I have a desk with two computers and screens on it. One is just for writing and the other is to do everything else, like email, chat on Twitter and Facebook, add things to my website (www.trevorforest.com) and surf the Internet. I like to have two computers because if I only had one, I’d be distracted by all my internet friends and I wouldn’t get any writing done. How many books have you written? I’ve written four children’s books and I’m now writing the fifth. The books are called. Magic Molly, Abigail Pink’s Angel, Faylinn Frost and the Snow Fairies, and Peggy Larkin’s War. The new book is called The Duck Pond Lane Detectives. Where do you get your inspiration from when you are writing? I try to remember what it was like when I was a child. What excited me, what scared me, what made me want to go out and have an adventure of my own. I read lots and lots of books when I was young and I try to recapture the feeling I had when I was reading them all those years ago. If I can make a young reader feel they are part of the adventure, then I’ve done my job. Do you think it is easier to write about things you have experienced? I know some writers do that, but I don’t. I like to write adventure stories but unfortunately I haven’t been involved in very many, so I have to make most things up myself. I do use things I’ve spotted in my everyday life to help make a scene funny now and then though. For instance, I used to know a woman who had a pet rat, so I used that to help create Aunt Matilda in Magic Molly. The lady I knew kept her pet rat in a cage, not in her handbag like Aunt Matilda...oh and the rat didn’t eat cornflakes either. Do you have any tips for younger writers? All youngsters are blessed with fabulous imaginations, but a lot of people lose that as they get older. So, while you have it, use it. Write about anything you find interesting. Don’t write a pirate story just because everyone else is writing one Write it because you really want to write it. When you do write your pirate story, make sure yours is just that little bit different. Instead of him having one eye, let him have a one eyed parrot. Instead of being fearless, make him a bit of a scaredy cat. Give him a ship with a leak, and let the sharks circle it every night before he goes to bed. As you can see, it isn’t too hard to make things just that little bit different and stories that are different get noticed. Just for fun, try to think up the craziest, funniest, most out of the ordinary thing you could possibly imagine, and build a story around it. Once the main part of the story is in place, you’ll find the ordinary, run of the mill details you need to fill out the tale, will come easily. My best tip would be to keep a notebook and jot down your ideas while they are fresh in your mind. That way you won’t forget them. Notebooks are worth keeping, especially if for those times when you’ve had a strange dream and you can still remember it in the morning. I’d advise anyone who wants to be an author when they grow up to do everything they can to keep that fantastic ability to believe and to imagine, alive. Keep writing, keep going to those exciting places you keep in the back of your mind, then, when you grow up, you’ll probably be able to go there whenever you want to. © Rebecca Emin See or bookshelf for details of Trevor’s books, and a link to Rebecca’s blog: Ramblings of a Rusty Writer. www.thepagesandfriends.blogspot.com
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The Pages
Article
Tarango Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh, is not the easiest overseas posting. Beautiful houses everywhere are being torn down to give way to ugly tower blocks. And this means noise - constant hammering and drilling. The traffic must be among the worst in the world: it can take an hour an a half to go from the 'expat area' to the city centre, a distance of about eight miles. After a while even the most adventurous expats give up, and stick to the home-office-club triangle. The climate is hot and humid, and during the monsoon season half the country is under water. Security is an issue. Beggars constantly tap at windows of gridlocked cars, and we are advised not to give to them, as many are governed by criminal gangs. Then there's the guilt factor: how can you accept the poverty surrounding you? But there are incredible opportunities to discover a completely new and exciting culture, and to find out how other people live. For example, we have Tarango. When I arrived I noticed that all the bideshis - foreigners - were sporting beautiful bags and wallets, of varying sizes, shapes and colours, made of jute or recycled plastic. 'Tarango,' someone told me. And it didn't take long before I was hooked. At this time of year, when bideshis are getting ready for the summer break, there are lots of Tarango sales organised within the expat community. Recently I went to a talk, display and sale to discover what Tarango is all about. I bought this beach bag,
and three laptop bags for my kids,
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and several wallets,
and a couple of handbags
and a massive laundry basket.
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Several of the craftswomen were at the event, and a couple told stories of how poor and marginalised they had been before they got involved with Tarango. Tarango stands for Training, Assistance and Rural Advancement Non-Government Organisation. It was established in 1989, with the aim of eradicating poverty and empowering women, and is now established in ten districts of Bangladesh. It works with some of the most marginalised women in the country, training them and helping them change their lives and provide a future for their children by undertaking sustainable economic activity. Its mission is ‘to contribute to the establishment of a just and poverty-free society by organising organizing and training the most disadvantaged women through its committed, dedicated and skilled workers. It further aims to make the women resourceful, skilled and production oriented by assisting them to develop their human potential and talents to promote leadership and entrepreneurship so that they can take up the responsibilities of sustainable economic activities to establish a self-reliant and gender-balanced society'. Its handicraft programme, uses natural, renewable raw materials such as sea grass, jute and water hyacinth, as well as recycled flour bags. Tarango also has a village savings and loan programme, managed by the women themselves, which charges a minimal interest - the women decide who is eligible for a loan each month. And it offers courses in business, and social empowerment. All its work is based on the principles of Fair Trade as defined by the International Fair Trade Association. Tarango offers work to society’s most economically disadvantaged people. It is transparent and accountable. It pays the craftspeople a fair wage. It does not employ children. It provides healthy working conditions. It uses eco-friendly materials. It encourages gender equality. The products are not sold in commercial outlets in Bangladesh; this is to avoid large-scale copying. But they are exported. If ever you come across a Tarango bag in Harrods or elsewhere, buy it (I can vouch for the quality, usefulness, and style - I own more than half a dozen). And spare a thought for the rural woman who can now send her child to school thanks to your purchase.
For more information, see http://www.tarango-bd.org/ Š Paola Fornari
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The Pages
DWBP
The Diary of a Would-Be-Protagonist (Jumping eight entries: WBP doesn’t want to give it all away. He has permission from Hubble Org. for a front cover image for the book that will be written.)
Before It All Began ‘Well, hello. You’ve decided to put in an appearance, have you? I was beginning to think I’d seen the last of you.’ What does she mean by that? I never went anywhere. If anyone took their leave, it was Anna herself - or perhaps her alter ego. But not me; I was here all along. ‘Did you miss me then?’ ‘I don’t know about that. You can be a bit of a pain in the proverbial, you know.’ I don’t know whether to feel hurt or not. How can she consider me a pain? I’m just trying to get her motivated into getting on with things… Oops, I didn’t say that out loud, did I? ‘You might as well have done.’ She reads minds, too, you know. Mine, anyway. I’d better watch myself. ‘It’s not trying to motivate me that’s propelling you, though, is it?’ How can she possibly know what’s driving me? ‘I’ll have you know, there’s nothing I want more than for you to get on with what you are supposed to be doing.’ ‘Which is?’ ‘Oh, come on, you don’t need me to tell you that there’s a story to be told and you need to write it - and that the story is mine… Why are you smiling?’ ‘Well, I find it quite amusing, really. You don’t even realise, do you, that by your actions you have made sure that the writing of that first manuscript will never be completed?’ I’m lost for words. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ ‘I have nothing to say. I feel - worthless.’ I think I’ll to go and hide somewhere … ‘Don’t be silly.’ ‘How would you feel if someone told you that your life wasn’t worth the paper it was written on?’ ‘That‘s not what I said!’ ‘You didn’t need to, did you?’ I’m not going to make this easy for her. ‘Look, all I meant is that you are so curious about everything between heaven and earth that you have brought a whole new manuscript into being.’ Me? I did that? I feel myself glowing. Perhaps things aren’t so bad after all. ‘But what about that first manuscript? All that preparation you made me go through?’ ‘Perhaps it was a kind of apprenticeship for both of us.’ ‘You mean the three of us.’ ‘If you want to be absolutely correct, yes. You seem to like splitting hairs.’ ‘I’d rather split the atom.’ ‘See? That’s what I mean. You’ve gone off at a tangent again - and I have to follow.’ That’s not quite what she means, you know. She’s not following me as much as she’s reining me in when she feels things are becoming too complicated. ‘I’d be grateful if you could try to keep it simple, though.’ Hm. See what I mean? ‘Yes, but… what if something simply isn’t simple?’ 45
‘You don’t have to make fun of me.’ That’s what she thinks. Sometimes I do. ‘Anyway, what were you doing just then?’ ‘When?’ ‘When I spotted you staring into space…’ ‘Oh, then! When you thought I’d reappeared in your life even though I had never left?’ ‘Yeah, yeah.’ ‘Okay. Well, I was just looking.’ I can’t make it any plainer than that, can I? ‘Looking at what?’ ‘At nothing.’ ‘You can’t look at nothing. There has to be something for you to be looking at it.’ We all know that, don’t we? But what’s happened to her imagination? ‘I’m trying to conjure up what it would be like to look at nothingness. Will that do?’ ‘But that’s contradictory to the meaning of the word. You can’t possibly look into nothingness. Nothingness implies that there is nothing - but there would have to be something there for you to see it.’ ‘You just said that.’ ‘I thought you didn’t get it the first time around.’ ‘Oh, so you think I’m stupid?’ Either that, or she is enjoying stepping on my toes (that is if I had any) this evening. ‘Oh, behave, will you - and just tell me why you are standing there pretending to be looking into nothingness.’ Anna’s sighing again. Perhaps I’d better get on with it or she might ‘lose’ me again! ‘It’s the Creation thing. You know, how it all started.’ ‘Haven’t we already been through all that?’ ‘You think that we have covered Creation in a few words?’ ‘Well, no - but do you really want to go back there?’ ‘Well, don’t you want to find out more?’ ‘As long as you keep maths out of it.’ ‘Don’t look so worried.’ I snigger just a little. ‘Physics all right?’ She shrugs her shoulders. ‘As long as you make it interesting.’ ‘I’ll do my best. And by the way, we didn’t really look at the beginning as such. Only what’s been perceived as the beginning. The Big Bang.’ ‘I seem to remember that you favoured the Big Expansion.’ ‘Well, yes, but they belong together, don’t they? But what about what started it all off?’ ‘What do you mean?’ She’s got that confused look again. ‘Well, was it the hand of God, or some particles colliding, setting off a chain of events?’ ‘That old chestnut. I’d have thought that you would have looked for something new, something different, by now.’ ‘I was trying to when you disturbed me.’ If she could just sit back and take it all in, it would be something. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’ She can quit the sarcasm any time she likes. ‘I was imagining a vacuum: A big non-existent bubble enclosing no matter what so ever…’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Oh, let me think, will you?’ She’s not exactly blessed with patience, is she? ‘I wasn’t aware that I was pushing you.’ ‘No, no, never mind, but Anna, tell me how particles could have set off the chain of events that caused the Big Bang - when there weren’t any particles?’ ‘How do we know that there weren’t any atoms floating about?’ ‘We don’t. But if there were, there wouldn’t have been a vacuum. No nothingness. Perhaps not even a beginning.’ ‘Everything has a beginning.’ 46
‘Yes, in your world, I suppose you’re right. But it’s not possible, is it, for there to have been nothing? Everything comes from something. Nothing is nothing - whichever way you ’look’ at it. Nothing can be created from nothing.’ ‘People have said all this before.’ ‘I know, I know, but it’s still a conundrum.’ ‘So what about God?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well, if he was there in the beginning, where did he come from?’ ‘Don’t you think that whatever God is might be the one constant throughout all existence?’ ‘I thought you might know.’ Well, I wish… ‘I tried to see him face to face, to ask him, you know.’ Anna suddenly looked more alert. ‘You did?’ ‘Don’t get excited. I didn’t get anywhere.’ ‘So you’ve never seen him?’ Anna looks positively disappointed. ‘Nope. But I tell you this: I did feel a presence, and ...’ ‘You don’t have to prove anything to me.’ ‘In that case you won’t mind me returning to the Big Bang and the Nebulous clouds that seem to have given birth to our Universe, will you? Perhaps I can penetrate the dust-clouds and get to view the other side.’ ‘Is that where you are going now?’ ‘Yep. I’m going to look into what they used to tell us was nothingness, to see if I can see something after all.’ ‘That would be preferable to staring into an empty abyss.’ ‘I don’t equate an empty abyss with nothingness.’ ‘No?’ Anna looks perplexed. ‘Well, if an abyss is a bottomless hole, it has to at least have something around its circumference to be described as a hole in the first place.’ ‘Oh, all right, I see what you mean - sort of - but then the bottomless part of it must have something to do with nothingness.’ Does she ever give up? ‘Are you trying to distract me from the task at hand?’ I don’t like the look in her eyes. I think I’ll scarper while I still have the chance. ‘Hey!’ ‘What?’ She needn’t bother trying to stop me. ‘Take a dust-mask!’ ‘Oh, ha ha, very funny.’ As I am, in theory, non-existent - apart from in Anna‘s imagination, those dust-clouds aren’t going to be a problem, are they? *** ‘It’s all right for some! Feeling relaxed, are you? Here’s me…’ ‘Shh!’ Ah, she’s not asleep, but I have to be quiet. Well, if she doesn’t want to know… I’ll just shake off some of this dust… ‘Stop it! You’re making me cough. You could have done that before you came in.’ ‘It’s all in your imagination, Anna. I’m imaginary. How can dust stick to me?’ ‘In the same way that you exist in the first place.’ ‘Oh, I see. Ah well, back to whatever you were doing then, while I go and clean myself up.’ ‘I can’t get back into it just like that. You broke the “spell”.’ ‘Spell? What do you mean? You’re not messing with magic, are you?’ 47
‘Oh, for goodness sake, it’s just a figure of speech. I was meditating.’ ‘Can’t you just say that you were thinking?’ ‘It’s a bit more than that. I was listening to a recording, to help me relax and energise me at the same time.’ ‘Don’t get too relaxed, will you?’ ‘I won’t get the chance, will I - if you keep popping up.’ ‘I’ll be quiet next time, as long as it doesn’t take too long.’ ‘Right. I believe that when it happens. Now go shake that dust off, will you?’ *** ‘Are you ready?’ Well, she looks laid back enough. Laid back? ‘Hello, are you asleep?’ She’s not supposed to be asleep. ‘Oi, Anna! Wake up!’ ‘I wasn’t sleeping, I was thinking.’ ‘Not meditating?’ ‘Oh, be quiet.’ ‘I thought you wanted me to tell you about what I’ve seen.’ ‘Go on then; I’m all ears.’ ‘Well, have you seen pictures of the Eagle Nebula, for instance?’ I have to start somewhere. ‘Yes, I have. Fantastic colours, don’t you think?’ ‘Colours?’ ‘Yes, lovely, glowing colours in the pictures. Quite painterly.’ ‘Ah, you must have looked at the digitally enhanced photographs.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well, if they didn’t add some tints to the dust clouds, they wouldn’t really show up in photographs. Adding colour helps to make it look three dimensional, too.’ ‘Well, it must be three dimensional at least.’ ‘Five dimensional even.’ ‘I can’t imagine that.’ ‘Just like you can’t imagine it without colour?’ ‘Well, no, that’s easier, somehow. Before there was light, there couldn’t be any colour, could there?’ ‘Ah, but there might have been light, in another cosmos, before the nebulas of the Big Bang and subsequent expansion.’ ‘You mean a parallel universe?’ ‘Apparently some think that, but that’s not what I mean. This cosmos seems to be contracting at much the same speed as our universe is expanding. I think. It’s got a sort of symmetry about it anyway. Not much left of it now.’ ‘That sounds as though we might be about to go pop, as a universe, I mean.’ ‘Perhaps we will - and give birth to another universe - another fresh start.’ ‘Is that a possibility?’ ‘Anything’s possible - but in this case, it seems probable, apparently.’ ‘So, should be we worried?’ ‘What’s the point in that? It’s not exactly imminent, is it?’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Well, I don’t know personally, but I think science would have it that it’s a long time off. To do with the sun burning out. Way beyond the time span of the imagination.’ ‘I suppose you might be right. But the possible lifespan of the universe itself doesn’t necessarily mean that humankind will survive as long.’ ‘No. Humankind will probably put pay to itself long before then.’ 48
‘I wish you wouldn’t say that.’ ‘Well, it’s what it looks like, we both know that.’ ‘No hope for us mere humans then, is it?’ ‘There’s always hope. You never know, future generations may see the error of their forefathers’ ways and do something to change it for the better.’ ‘You are depressing me. Let’s get back to what you observed when you penetrated that cloud.’ ‘It took a while to see anything, with all that dust, but then I spotted it. Where there should be nothingness, there was a crack. I’m sure it was.’ ‘Which means?’ ‘Well, like a hole has to have some kind of substance around it to be a hole at all - so a crack has to be a crack in something - which means that the Big Bang didn’t explode out of nothingness after all.’ ‘Well, you mentioned a contracting cosmos on the other side of the Big Bang. Did you find out anything else about it?’ ‘Hm, yes, I had to pay a visit to an old friend - to see what he had to say about it. You know, where it stands in relation to the Theory of Relativity. He told me something interesting.’ ‘What was that?’ ‘Well, in essence, that it goes beyond that theory, but that theory, together with a new mathematical model, makes it possible to work out what might have come before.’ ‘But it hasn’t yet been seen?’ ‘I don’t think so, but I dare say it’s just a matter of time.’ ‘So what is supposed to have happened?’ ‘Well, I’m sure someone will correct me, but I think that somehow the preceding universe bounced as it sort of went into reverse, setting off a spark that went on to more sparks and then the Big Bang itself and the miraculous creation of everything we know as the natural world and everything in our own solar system started evolving.’ ‘So what about the shrinking cosmos? Anybody know what it was like?’ ‘They seem to think it was much like ours.’ ‘You mean that there might have been an earlier humankind?’ ‘I can see it being a possibility.’ ‘But why don’t you know?’ ‘Who do you think I am?’ ‘Well, you seem to be able to get back to the beginning and travel through time at will, so it’s not so strange that I ask you these things, is it?’ ‘No, but remember, I am tied within what you know as Time. If you go back beyond that, I have to look to others for information.’ ‘But you peeked through the ’crack’.’ ‘But I couldn’t step through. That’s the difference. I couldn’t explore in the same way as within our current Time-Space continuum.’ ‘Wouldn’t it be simpler if we ignored all this and just got on with living?’ ‘Yeah, yeah, you’d be bored out of your mind if you didn’t have something to ponder, and something to take your interest. I’ve seen your eyes light up when something’s caught your attention. Don’t tell me you’d be satisfied with just putting one foot in front of the other, from birth to death…’ ‘Well, there are other things in life…’ ‘Yes, and for you, this is just another aspect of what forms part of your life, don’t you think?’
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‘Yes, yes - I was just saying … Oh, never mind. Tell me instead about these particles. I remember you saying some time ago about being entangled in super strings when you became aware of your own existence.’ ‘Oh, the Loop Quantum Gravity Theory?’ ‘Another theory?’ ‘Well, it’s all theoretical, I suppose. Anyway, the Loop Quantum Theory helps explain what Einstein’s Theory of Relativity couldn’t do.’ ‘And that is?’ ‘Well, for starters, scientists have found that the beginning of our universe was not nothingness; it had a minimum volume of some sort, as well as a maximum energy which was not infinite.’ ‘You’ve lost me.’ ‘Well, with Einstein’s theory the beginning, as the Big Bang happened, consisted of zero volume, that is nothing, which at the same time was supposed to contain infinite density and energy.’ ‘Which, if applying common sense, is impossible.’ ‘Exactly!’ ‘So this emerging theory shows that there was something after all.’ ‘Yes, it indicates an existence of some kind of Quantum Gravity which caused the Universe to rebound - as in the Big Bounce - which then went on to give birth to our universe - at the same time revealing the contracting universe that came before the Big Bounce itself.’ ‘Wow. And how do they find all this out?’ ‘Mathematical equations, I should think.’ ‘Oh no, don’t.’ ‘Take your hands from your ears. You don’t have to look at the mathematics, do you? Others are doing that for you. You just have to look at their findings - if you want to - and try to understand the implications of what they have worked out.’ ‘That’s hard enough, if you ask me. It all sounds like science fiction to me.’ ‘Well, science non-fiction may be a better term. Oh, and I forgot to tell you about cosmic forgetfulness.’ ‘You forgot to tell me about forgetfulness. That’s a good one.’ ‘Well, apparently, it would seem that because of this cosmic forgetfulness, it’s not likely that each successive universe - if that’s what happens - will be identical to the last - or the one following. Which in turn means that this universe is unique - and probably humankind is, too.’ ‘That sounds more likely to me. I seem to remember reading somewhere that there’s a slight asymmetry in Creation, which allows everything to continue to grow and evolve, if you like. Total symmetry would make everything too static. Well, it makes sense to me, anyway.’ ‘So what do you reckon, a series of Big Bangs or Big Bounces?’ ‘Or Bounce-Bang -Bounce -Bang ad infinitum?’ ‘Sounds like child’s play.’ ‘Well, I think perhaps that’s oversimplifying it a bit.’ ‘I’m all for a simple life.’
© Anna Reiers (aka Marit Meredith)
http://www.theapprenticewriter.webs.com 50