Bye Definitions

Spent some time reading the late, lamented Douglas Adam's and John Lloyd's (QI) 'Meaning of Liff' the other day.  This isn't in the same league, but I couldn't resist it:

Nork:  Mythical creature with immense powers of observation - "she watched him like a nork"

Cravat:  Noise made by frogs in public school grounds

Lariat:  Hat worn by Lawrence

Pepysshow:  Odd entertainment in which scantily-clad young women show men their diaries for money

per se:  Very affected pronunciation of the name 'Percy'

Carpet:  Small animal found in vehicle, usually on the parcel shelf. 


Scarf:  The answer to the question "What do you call a baby cow?"

Jambalaya - the cover has landed!

With grateful thanks to Emma Sly for her sterling work, this will be the cover of the new book 'Jambalaya' due for Kindle publication on 30th August, 2012.

It’s a time of Civil War; of cowboys and soldiers, riverboats and gamblers, genteel Southern Belles and dark deeds.

Celany Garden had it all – big house, doting wealthy parents and not one but two devoted lovers. So why is she being pursued by kidnappers? What has happened to her maid, and where does an Army Major called Agnes fit in? Can Celany beat the law, the army, and an enthusiastic posse in finding the answers? Everything hinges on a flatulent horse called Thunder, a General who hates loud noises and a psychopathic Marshall with a penchant for torture. Gone with the Wind was never like this! 

If you can't wait until August, you can get a sneak preview now at Jambalaya Prologue and there are a host of stories to be enjoyed at Steady Past Your Granny's and Crutches for Ducks

Putting on the stile?

I'm currently preparing for my annual Walking Weekend with "the Lads".  That sentence is incorrect on two counts.  Firstly, my 'preparations' consist of the occasional 3 mile walk, when I remember and can be bothered to get my boots out from the bottom of the wardrobe, where they slumber from one year to the next.  Secondly, the epithet "the Lads" was barely accurate 20 + years ago, when we started this tradition and is considerably less so now.  My wife says that we bear more resemblance to "Last of the Summer Wine" with each passing year.  You will have to take a look at the photograph and draw your own conclusions.

From l to r: Philip, Peter, Kevin (see Forty Years On) and Richard

I suppose the people who would be most surprised that I now willingly go for a walk in the country (albeit, only once a year and with a good deal of pub visiting thrown in) would be my cousins from Holbrook, Brenda, Kathryn and Frances.

   

Once a year I was sent to stay with my mum's eldest sister, Auntie Mabel, on the basis that it would "do me good to get some fresh country air into my lungs".  I had mixed feelings about this.  As a child, I was definitely a 'townie' at heart, never happier than when I was plodding the mean streets of my bit of Burton.  Countryside, for me, began and ended with the Anglesey Road recreation grounds.  Anything else was too foreign to contemplate.  My cousins, on the other hand, had always led an idyllic country existence in the tiny (as it was then) village of Holbrook.  We could not have been more worlds apart if we had come from different continents. 

In fact, to me, the trip from Burton to Holbrook might as well have constituted inter-continental travel.  It seemed to take ages in the days before dual-carriageways, particularly if we were travelling in my Uncle Jim's Ford Prefect, when we would have to set off back "before it gets dark" because (as we later found out) my Uncle Jim's night vision was not all it should have been.

When I was in Holbrook, I felt as if I had been cut off from the known world.  Nowadays, I actually pass Holbrook to get to Loscoe for a weekly night out with Pete (one of "the Lads").

Holbrook was ok as long as I didn't have to engage with all of that countryside, of which they seemed to have an obscene amount.  My absolute bête noir was 'going for a walk with your cousins'.  This wasn't so much because they really didn't want me dragging along behind them (although they didn't, and I could understand why) but primarily because this would involve muck, strenuous physical exercise and, worst of all, stiles.  I have said before that I don't really do heights.  I can stand any amount of width but height, as a dimension, is in my opinion overrated. 

It seemed to me that stiles were just another form of torture specifically designed by those in the country to make my life a misery.  Wasn't it bad enough to have to trudge over uneven ground, through mud and goodness knows what else, and with large animals of uncertain temperament staring at you, without being required to climb rickety wooden structures every 100 yards or so just, apparently, for the sheer fun of it?

I would love to be able to say that my opinion has changed over the years, but with regard to stiles, it hasn't.  Every Walking Weekend will see, at some point, everyone else waiting patiently in one field whist I perch precariously on top of some stile, legs locked in fear and desperately trying to work out how I'm going to get back down again.

I understand that Dartmoor is considering getting rid of stiles to facilitate access to the countryside.  Now there's a potential venue for our next walk!

Jambalaya 2nd and Final Excerpt

"Why, there you are my dear" said a voice from behind a bush.
"You're late father.  Why are you hiding in the shrubbery?"
Judge Garden fought his way out of the tangle of branches and brushed the leaves from his suit. He was an imposing figure, he imposed sentences mostly.
“Sorry about that, my dear.  I heard rustling and you know the problems we’ve had with rustlers around here.”
“I believe that is a somewhat different matter, father.  Ulolulo has gone to prepare dinner.”
"I hope it's gumbo tonight."
"It's gumbo every night, father."
"Well, she makes good gumbo does Ulvula"
"Its Ulolulo, father."
"You said  it was gumbo!"
Miss Celany sighed.  She was good at sighing.  It was something that was expected of southern belles.  Her mother before her had been good at sighing, so good in fact that she had won several prizes.   She was particularly known for her telling sighs whilst playing cards.  She had won the Sighs of Bridge cup three years running.
"Anyone home?"  It was Bedding the gardener from the A'Gent estate next door.
"Good evening, Miss Celany, Garden" he nodded to each in turn, " I've brought your Rhododendron, Garden"
"I'll thank you to call me Judge Garden" the Judge said, his face reddening and his trousers flaring, " And you promised me a rose."
"I never promised you a rose."
"I beg your pardon"
"I never promised you a rose, Garden."
Miss Celany quietly slipped away, these arguments could go on forever as she knew from bitter experience (7)  Besides, she needed time to think, her mind was in a turmoil, for she had a secret passion (8) .
For some time now (17.32 probably but she couldn't be sure) Max Vobiscus the ex -fruit tycoon (he was known as "Apple" Max to his friends and "that bloody greengrocer" to his enemies) and Riverboat gambler (so bad that he had lost three riverboats in this season alone, if he had been playing with anyone else heaven knows what might have happened) had been paying court to her.  How she despised him, how she spat whenever she even thought his name ( a practice that had won her no friends in polite society), how she kept dreaming about his tight, firm ......oh, God it was happening again!  No, this would not do, her heart belonged to Captain Verruca - they had a deal with the surgeon.
She found herself in the arbour where they had so many of their trysts (9).  Her feet sloshed through the water and her father's toy boats bobbed at their moorings.  Suddenly she heard a sound, had a twig snapped? (It was very likely, they were under a great deal of strain).

(7) She had also tried lager experience and mild experience but had plumped for the bitter.
(8) And we're not just talking rubberwear and chains here, I can tell you.
(9)  Which were a bit like cysts but marginally more pleasant.   

You can find an explanation for all of this nonsense at Jambalaya Prologue

And for those who prefer non-fiction, The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA and now read the new bumper collection of stories, Crutches For Ducks  also at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.

Jambalaya 1st Excerpt

It was a sultry, hot summer’s day.
They had tried cold summer’s days but, what the hell, you get a winning formula, you stick with it.
Miss Celany Garden lounged in the beautiful, manicured estate.
Every tree had a double coating of nail varnish on its leaves, every gnome its cuticles pushed back (1).
How she loved this house!  Built, as it had been, by her late father, Judge Garden.  A man of harsh punishments (2), he was known as "Hanging " Garden by those unfortunates who came before him (3).   He had so loved building this house.  Unfortunately, his skills, such as they were, lay in legal argument rather than brick laying and those parts of the house that had not fallen down immediately, now leaned precariously against each other like drunks after a very long night.
From the region of the servants quarters (4), came the merry sound of singing as Ulolulo Sødme, the Garden's devoted maid, beat the laundry with a lump of rock.  No amount of pleading could persuade her not to do this.  All of Miss Celany's expensive, imported dresses hung in tatters in her wardrobes.  Fortunately, the Garden family were held in such high regard locally that this was now regarded as the height of fashion and throughout the area, young ladies could be heard pounding their dresses with half bricks - sometimes while they were still in them.
No-one knew for sure where Ulolulo had come from, or even if that was her real name.  One night, all of the lights in the house had gone out and there, at the front door, was Ulolulo, her once blonde hair, blackened and standing straight from her head, sparks flying from the fillings in her teeth.  As they prised her finger from the electric bell-push that Judge Garden had installed that very day, they asked her name.
She had not spoken or moved again for a whole month after that. Now, she was a much valued member of the household staff.  In fact, she was the only member of the household staff.  The servants quarters had proved to be aptly named when they had collapsed on the butler, cook and kitchen maid.  Ulolulo had sensibly refused to sleep inside any building erected by the Judge and now lived happily but warily in a hole in the ground.
It was the time of the Civil War.  There had been many uncivil wars in the past and Miss Celany strongly disapproved of those, they were so common.  This was a much more ordered affair.  Currently, both armies were camped on Wilbur's Rise (5) and were resolutely refusing to talk to one another.  Apparently one army had called upon the other and failed to leave a visiting card and things had gone on from there.
Miss Celany thought of her beau, Captain Verucca of the Fourth Regiment of Foot.  He was serving in the Army of the South led by General Tendency.   Ah, but he was dashing and charming, although in truth he was mostly mashing and darning at present.  Mashing the potatoes and darning the socks for the rest of the Regiment.
"Landsakes, Miss Celany."  It was Ulolulo.  She always talked like that.  No-one knew why.
"Why, Ulolulo, you startled me."
"Yo been a mooning over your young blood missy?"
"Why I am sure I have been doing no such thing Ulolulo, whatever it was you said.  Tell me, is there any news, from the front?"
"No missy, but I got news from the font, seems the Jackson child breathed in while being baptised and they'se still trying to get the water out of it."
"Oh, but that is terrible!"
"Sho is missy, holy water is real hard to come by."(6)
"Is dinner served yet, Ulolulo?"
"Sho thing, you want gumbo?"
"I suppose it contains fish, does it?"
"Has to, else it ain't my kinda gumbo."
Miss Celany sighed. Four years Ulolulo had been with them and everything she cooked contained fish, even the marmalade.
"Look, could you make me something without fish?"
"Lawdy, all you have to do is ask missy, how 'bout a chicken sandwich?"
"Oh that would be wonderful, Ulolulo, prepared in your own special way I'll be bound?"
"What you do in yo' private life is your own affair missy, jes try not to get rope marks on the furniture is all I ask"
"I am not referring to anything as unpleasant as that Ulolulo, even if I did know to what you were alluding.”  Celany blushed, “I was hoping you were going to prepare my sandwich to a secret recipe handed down over generations.”
"Well, ain't you jes dang right missy, first you takes a prime piece of  real fresh southern fried chicken and you coats that with home made mayonnaise, add a hint of paprika and dust with a little thyme....."
"Mmm, sounds heavenly"
"Then you takes all that and puts it between two sardines."
"Perhaps not, bring on the gumbo."
Ulolulo stomped off, muttering to herself.  A strange thing to mutter, but then she was a strange woman.

(1) Which probably explains the peculiar expressions they always have
(2) His buttocks frequently looked like a relief map of Wales
(3) An offence in itself
(4) Which sounds vaguely disgusting, but you know what I mean
(5) Which inevitably, in later years, led to one of those unfortunate Army traditions that meant that new recruits for generations to come would dread the ritual of "camping on Wilbur's Rise"
(6) Quite why Ulolulo talked in this manner was a mystery.   No-one else did.  She seemed to have invented a dialect all of her own.   Which was just as well because nobody else would have wanted it.

You can find an explanation for all of this nonsense at Jambalaya Prologue and read the next part at Jambalaya 2nd and Final Excerpt

And for those who prefer non-fiction, The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA and now read the new bumper collection of stories, Crutches For Ducks  also at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.

Jambalaya Prologue

In 1999, I was made redundant from a job that I had enjoyed and a company that I loved after 20 years employment, following the takeover of that company.  As this was the first time in my life that I had ever been unemployed, I decided to take the opportunity to "write that book I've always meant to write" and, fortunately, my long-suffering wife agreed.  Apart from a few months littering the desks of various publishers and agents, this has remained in a drawer ever since.  This is the Prologue to it, let me know if you would like to see any more...

It is the time of a Civil War. 

This, I should point out, is not a story about a Civil War. 

So, if you’re hoping for the whiff of cordite, gory battle scenes and heaving bosoms, you’re likely to be disappointed. 

Come to that, you’re likely to be disappointed if you weren’t expecting all of those things. 

Of course, this being a book rather than a video or a computer game, it’s all down to your imagination anyway.  So, if you want heaving bosoms, you go ahead and imagine them.  While you’re doing that, we’ll get back to the story.

This Civil War is between the North and the South.

Civil Wars are always between the North and the South. 

That’s just the way it is. 

Scientists have noted that even in puddles no longer than a footprint, transparent jelly-like things, invisible to the human eye, will gather in the North and wave their fronds angrily at other transparent jelly-like things in the South of the puddle.  Years of painstaking analysis of their chemical signals have revealed messages that are remarkably like “If that shower of soft southern nancies think they own the place they’ve got another think coming” and “Oh, just ignore them Justin, they’re nothing but a bunch of black pudding waving proles”.  Which just goes to prove that:-

1.  Black pudding is a far more universally recognised delicacy than was first thought, and

2.  Surprisingly, Justin is quite a common name amongst jelly-like things.
Well, all right, perhaps not so surprisingly[1].
And then a dog comes along, drinks the puddle, urinates casually against a wall, and the whole process starts

again.  Which tends to annoy the scientists (and plays havoc with the dog).

This is not a puddle (of anything), it’s a country. 

You may think you know which country it is, but you would be wrong. 

It’s a country that could be any time, any place, anywhere. 

It happens to be here (wherever that is), now (whenever that is) and just ……….there.

- - - 0 - - -

Now read on Jambalya 1st Excerpt

---

[1] So, that’s wiped all of the Justin’s out of the potential audience.  Still, they were probably busy imagining heaving bosoms and never noticed.  Now, who else can I upset?

Snap!

Sometimes, you have to look back to see just how far you've come.  This thought struck me the other day when we were buying some new trainers for our grandson and wanted to check if these were ok with his mum.  Using my phone, I was able to take a photo of the proposed snazzy footwear and send it via SMS to her.  It's quite remarkable when you think about it, and certainly light years away from the Kodak camera with its rolls of film and metal viewfinder that I was telling you about last month.  Moreover, I didn't have to dress as Wee Willie Winkie to get my phone (see What a Picture!), which is a relief to all, I'm sure.

The beauty of capturing images now is that you can instantly see what you have got, and decide whether you want to keep it, or not.  This is a real boon to someone whose ability to take pictures of his own thumb is unmatched.  I see there is a camera now which will start taking pictures before you have even depressed the shutter.  This would be a boon to me as I nearly always take the photo just after the ideal moment, and thus have an unrivalled collection of pictures of the backs of peoples' heads.

Being rubbish at taking photographs is no longer the expensive and time-consuming pursuit that it was.  I could guarantee that at least a third of the exposures would not come out at all.  Of the remaining two-thirds, about half of these would be blurred, out of focus or the subject would be hopelessly out of range of the camera's limited scope (such as my Thor's Cave picture from What a Picture!).  If I was really lucky, I might have three or four snaps that actually depicted something recognisable.  It always used to grieve me that I had paid good money to print out such blurred and useless pictures as that shown here, again from my Manifold Valley trip.  This was supposed to capture, for posterity, my mates from our shared tent.  If you can recognise yourself in this photo, then I would strongly suggest you take more water with it in the future.

In an effort to improve matters, I took a huge technological leap forward in the 1970s and bought one of those slimline Kodak Instamatic cameras.  Remember them?  The beauty of this was that there was no longer a roll of film, instead a cartridge simply snapped into the back.  It was made even more idiot-proof by stopping the inadvertent taking of two exposures on the same frame of film.  You could even take photographs indoors, as the camera had the facility for using a flash cube either mounted on the camera itself or on a sort of black plastic tower for maximum effect.  When the cartridge was finished, you could send it to one of the new breed of cheaper and quicker photo processors that had sprung up.

Of course, all of this new 'point and click' technology could not guarantee a great photo if you were hopeless at framing a picture in the first place.  In evidence, I submit the picture taken by my mum (who was at least as bad as me, if not worse) of me sitting in our lounge.  I think the purpose of this was that I was all dressed up to go somewhere but, as you'll see, this will forever be a mystery.  Good shot of the light switch though!

The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA and now read the new bumper collection of stories, Crutches For Ducks  also at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.