LucyMGreenfield Blog

I decided that I would give this week’s Countdown Word Game a miss, after I had innocently tweeted @miblo_ “What does todger mean?” I’d scarcely pressed ‘tweet’ when @tearose68 replied with a brief and perfunctory answer: Penis! And then I thought I must be able to pop one in somewhere, surely? I read @tearose68’s excellent entry; she managed to slide a todger in easily, so why not? Here goes:

Susan, Amanda, Ann, Kathleen and Lorraine, ‘the gang’ were larking about on the train from Norwich. Some boys they recognised from their school got on at Cambridge. Bored, Susan sat quietly, hugging her shopping bags with her new shoes and day-dreaming about her forthcoming 16th birthday party. The train whizzed past the backs of houses, elegant, posh, all patios and conservatories, vast gardens and even some swimming pools. A far cry from the block of flats she lived in. Most of the Irish were housed in the old part of town, or up on the heath near the race course, and she wished she lived nearer to them. She was always afraid she was missing something.

Colin Cocksedge, a red-headed, freckled boy, gives a whoop; apparently he’s won some sort of game that they’re playing. This piques Amanda’s curiosity and she gets up from her chair and stands on it to try and see what they’re up to. She sees Timothy Dewes, todger in hand, wanking himself off to the boisterous encouragement of his friends. His ejaculatum shot along the aisle, but didn’t get anywhere near the intended target, a coke can. “Ew!” she exclaimed, turning her back on them, embarrassed, she sits back in her chair. “What? What?” Asks Lorraine; she and Kathleen now jumping up to see what all the fuss is about. “Boys are so disgusting!” Susan says, knowingly.

The train arrives in Ely and passengers get on and off. A ticket inspector gets on and as the train pulls off again, they root around in their pockets for their tickets and the boys hastily halt their spunk-shooting contest; Colin being hailed the Spunk-King: much spunkier than all his mates!!

“Tickets please!” the uniformed man shouts as he enters the carriage. He works his way down the aisle, examining each ticket carefully and punching and returning them. He comes to the girls and they all hand over their tickets.
The inspector looks at the tickets and then back at the girls. “You’re not under sixteen!” He says accusingly to Susan, before turning to Kathleen and Lorraine. He went on, “Nor are you, or you!” Looking contemptuously at Amanda, who was a good foot shorter than the rest of them, he pointed at her saying “She might be!”

The indignation of the girls was palpable. The boys, having heard the confrontation, now standing behind the inspector making all manner of obscene gestures, were trying to make the girls laugh. Arguing with him was futile, and he was becoming increasingly annoyed with them. He was beginning to gnash and grind his teeth as they tried all known tactics on him. Nothing worked, neither defiance, nor pleading, not even coquettish flirting had the least effect upon him, much to the amusement of the boys.

The inspector demands they pay the extra amount for adult tickets and when they say, truthfully that they haven’t got it (they’d spent every single penny of their baby-sitting money on this day out), he actually stops the train and makes them get off. Lorraine got a fit of the giggles and it was all she could do not to wet herself. The boys waved and geared at them at the window as the train continued on to Newmarket and the girls doubled over with hysterical laughter watched as it vanished from view and they were faced with the walk back home.

They scrambled up the muddy embankment, hoping they would be able to hitch a lift the rest of the way to town. After an unnaturally wet summer, the ground was saturated and it was the muddiest and most slippery slope imaginable. The girls couldn’t believe that he’d had the cheek to leave them here in the middle of nowhere; who knew how far they were from Newmarket?

Lorraine found a convenient bush and squatted down behind it much to the hilarity of the others, who threw stones at her bear arse and tried to make her pee on her shoes or trousers which were round her ankles.

Amanda thought the whole thing was hilarious, as she was much the oldest one of them and yet he’d said she could stay on the train as he believed her to be only fifteen; there were some benefits to being so diminutive. There was no way she was going to stay on the train on her own though, not with those boys, and anyway, her friends would never speak to her again, which would rather negate the benefit of being home on time; warm and dry!

Ann, always a bit of a worrier, began fretting about what her father would say when she didn’t get off the train. He would be there, waiting for her, a strict man he didn’t like her to be off with her friends for too long a time.

Susan, declining one of Amanda’s ciggies, took out a crumbly stick of Orbit sugar-free gum instead; she was trying to give up smoking. She would still be trying to give up smoking forty years later!

These events are all true (though not necessarily all at once) All names have been changed: oh, wait, actually they haven’t! I see law suits ensuing! Hahaha!!!

Matt’s Countdown Word Game for Monday 8th April 2013, from @miblo_ (Matt Mascarenhas)’s Countdown Scorecard

Tonight’s words are:

Patios/piques/gnash/orbit/spunkier/todger/muddiest/housed/negate/arrives

Rules and examples of the game can be found on Matt’s website:
- http://miblodelcarpio.blog.co.uk/ The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio

The two rather mature ladies were sitting along from me, and I could hardly help over-hearing their conversation. The thinner one had a rather haughty air about her and I tried to imagine who she might be; a librarian perhaps or a school mistress. I imagined her wearing sensible ‘drawers’ to match her sensible brogues. The rather plump friend was friendlier-looking with a cheeky twinkle in her warm eyes and I imagined her behind a bar, chatting up the pint-swilling men, but meaning nothing by it; she would be no threat to their wives and would be friends with most of them I reckoned.

“Well that’s the end of play for today! How lucky it stayed fine! And two maidens! Imagine!”

“Why are they called ‘maidens’? Tis difficult to imagine a manlier group of men! White panted, they are a fine spectacle in anyone’s language!”

“They’re not called maidens you idiot! The ‘overs’ were maidens!”

“Now you’ve lost me utterly!”

“I don’t know why I bring you out, really I don’t! For the enth time: An ‘over’ is six balls! Six ‘good’ balls that is....”

“Well, I counted eleven-a-side” She interrupted, ”that’s twenty-two; times two that makes forty-four Good Balls from where I’m sitting!”

“..Look here! Do you want to know about the innings or don’t you?”

“Not especially! I just thought we’d meet a better class of chap than the ones in garish clothing over on the golf links!"

She clearly enjoyed needling her friend and did so expertly. I wondered how they knew each other as they seemed very different from one another.

I had taken out a six-month lease on a pretty little thatched cottage; chocolate box pretty, over-looking the village green and within a stone’s throw from the lovely old church yard complete with kissing gate.

After the day’s play was over, too shy to introduce myself to the two ladies, reluctantly I made my way back to my little cottage with thoughts of tea and perhaps a slice or two of the fruit cake I’d bought at the fete yesterday. Is this what village life is really like? It all seems so impossibly idyllic! Can it really be this twee? I feel as though I am an extra in a ‘period’ drama! It’s such a contrast from the city; the incessant cars bumper to bumper! Sirens that scream throughout the night, flashing lights; alarms, neon signs, advertising some God-awful tackiness! I felt as though I’d slipped through a black hole and gone backwards in time, at least forty years!

I took the enormous key out of my handbag on my doorstep and opened the iron lock. I expect this is the sort of place that one can leave their door unlocked; even wide open, without anyone stealing anything! But as a Londoner, I am not quite ready to put that theory to the test yet, not with my new novel half-finished on my computer!

I went through to the funny little kitchen with its small, deep windows, their tiny panes thick and irregular, offering a dim, distorted view, greenish and with tiny bubbles, trapped for hundreds of years.

I marvelled at how on earth ‘they’ had fitted the Aga in here! I could see no possible means of its coming through either door! I glanced up at the low beamed ceiling, dismissing the notion of their having taken the roof off, and noticing as I did so strange symbols carved in the dark, ancient oak. Clink, a loose tile noised as though someone had trodden on it and the hair stood up on the back of my neck. I felt a cat rub the back of my legs and looked down fully expecting to see one, but there was nothing. I made a mental note to buy some tiling adhesive. There were dozens of tiles that were loose all throughout the cottage and I found their different sounds, frankly quite creepy. They were stuck down with some kind of lime mortar; there was no cement in those days or the fancy coloured grouts you can buy nowadays.

I don’t believe in ghosts, which is just as well really or I’d never be able to sleep in this house with all its strange, unexplained, creaking, scratching noises.

As I rinsed my tea cup at the huge butler’s sink, my thoughts drifted back to the two interesting ladies I’d studied earlier on and I wondered if they’d come back again tomorrow. Where did they live? Did they go to the church next door? Were they in the W.I? I could imagine the thinner one making jams and marmalades; the plumper one seemed more of a ‘calendar girl’!

I reached for the warm tea-towel hanging on the rail of the Aga and smiled to myself as I read what was emblazoned upon it! Funny that I hadn’t noticed it before! I wish I could have shown it to the two ladies!

Matt’s Countdown Word Game for Monday 8th April 2013, from @miblo_ (Matt Mascarenhas)’s Countdown Scorecard
Tonight’s words are:
Maidens/Fitted/Lease/Bumper/Manlier/Grouts/Garish/Drawers/Needling/Panted
Rules and examples of the game can be found on Matt’s website:
- http://miblodelcarpio.blog.co.uk/ The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio

She stands at the kitchen top, her thoughts miles away as she stirs the Christmas puddings, chewing on a piece of candied peel. Mindlessly. Bovine. Though she never admits it to anyone, she misses some parts of the life she lived while he was away. He was a rear gunner in the war. Shot down twice and both times landed in the channel. He wears his scars as badges of honour. And though he hides it expertly, he is altered. And so is she.

She wraps a tanner or two tightly into tiny pieces of greaseproof paper and pushes them into the puddings; and briefly remembers her excitement when she was a child and her father would make sure the sixpence piece was in her serving.

She knows he is making an enormous effort to be a good father to their two children, but mastering the subtleties of parenting is much more difficult for someone like him who is more used to barking orders at subordinates.

She refuses to allow herself to slip back into an existence where she will be completely reliant on him or anyone. She had been that person once and it had ended disastrously. It had been so easy to let go of her independence. She had felt so warm and safe and loved.

It seemed a life-time ago, homeless, cold and hungry she had coasted down the proverbial slippery slope. A downwards spiral of desperation and hopelessness. When she’d reached the bottom and had resigned herself to her fate, that’s when the toadies had crawled out of the woodwork. With promises of food and warmth and shelter, she’d fallen for their flattery and easy kindness. Like a stray puppy she had rolled over and let them do as they wished. Before she knew what had happened she found she owed them so much and there was only one possible way to pay them.

No, this time she would keep her egg money; the tiny amounts of spare cash she made secretly by cleverly making her rations go just that little bit further than he would budget for. Sell a spare pudding here a jar of marmalade there. Half a dozen preserved eggs taken from their isinglass bucket. Anything she could do to accrue her little nest egg. Anything.

Matt’s Countdown Word Game for Monday 1st April 2013, from @miblo_ (Matt Mascarenhas)’s Countdown Scorecard

Tonight’s words are:
Bovine/Peel/Mastering/Admits/Tanner/Reliant/Toadies/Coasted/Badges/Gunner

Rules and examples of the game can be found on Matt’s website:
- http://miblodelcarpio.blog.co.uk/ The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio

Peter Grant was born in 1916 (possibly on the 10th of May 1916) (1) in Doncaster, Yorkshire to William George Grant(2) (Draper/Clothier) and Harriet Grant nee Jones(3).

He was married at 23 Melville Street, The Haymarket, Edinburgh on 18th September 1937, aged 21, where he declares that his profession is Musician(4). His bride was the 18 year old Ballet Dancer(5), Rosemary Yolanda Clegg; the name given to her when she was adopted. Her birth name had been Rose Amy Wolf. They were both living in Chelsea at that time; he, at 11 Stanley Studios (or Mansions)(6) Park Walk, and she at 86 Beaufort Street.

In 1941, on 19th June, Peter registered the birth of their daughter, Rosemary, who was born on 5th June 1941 at 321 Upper Richmond Road. He names his profession as Author, also Rifleman,(it was in the middle of WWII) with the Kings Royal Rifles(7) giving his serial number as 6850801. Rosemary Grant, formerly Clegg is registered as the mother. His address at that time was given as 39 Lower Richmond Road, Putney.

His mother died on 20th April 1945(8) at the Royal Infirmary, Doncaster, leaving an estate of £2099 s2 d2 to her husband, William George Grant (Draper) and her son William Peter Grant (Author)

There are two possible dates for his death; there is a Peter Grant who died in Leeds in 1969 (and who was born ‘about 1916’, ref 2c 879 (9), and a Peter William Grant who died in Cuckfield, Sussex, in 1980, ref 18 1881 (10)

I am persuaded into accepting the latter as *our* Peter Grant, because there is a death record(11) of a William George Grant in Cuckfield in 1951, whose birth year matches that of his father, and a record(12) of his estate, at the time of his death, 8th October, 1951 at Barn Cottage, West Hoathly, near East Grinstead, Sussex, of £2764 s4 d3 which goes to his son William Peter Grant ‘of no occupation’.

Phone records put Peter at Barn Cottage, West Hoathly from 1949 to 1968 (with a few gaps either in the record collection or as books weren’t published every year)

West Hoathly is a very picturesque little hamlet, with a strong community. There is almost certainly information to be found there, perhaps in the local pub, the Cat, or in the parish records.

We have discovered (I must credit my niece Danu @danuiseult entirely for this research), that during the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, Peter recorded the late traditional musician, Lewis ‘Scan’ Tester(13) at his home, Barn Cottage and at The Cat. He collaborated on these collections with Mervyn Plunkett and Reg Hall.

Oxford Reference dot Com has archival evidence of a quarterly periodical called ‘Ethnic’ subtitled ‘A Quarterly Survey of English Folk Music, Dance and Drama’, published by Mervyn Plunkett, Reg Hall and Peter Grant.

The sole piece of evidence I have of him myself is an ancient piece of hand-written music, with a note at the bottom, to Yolanda, signed Peter.

This is the sum total of my knowledge of Peter William Grant.

I should be enormously grateful for any information YOU may have of him. You may leave a comment on this blog or contact me via Twitter @LucyMJG

Notes:
1. Death Register
2,3,4,5,6. Marriage record
7. Birth Record, Rosemary Grant
8. Wills & Probate record
9. Death Register (Leeds)
10. Death Register (Cuckfield)
11. Death Register (Cuckfield)
12. Wills & Probate record
13. Credits on Album sleeve

Francisco, the little Dominican friar knelt on the cold stone floor of his cell in prayer. His mind was troubled and his heart was heavy with sorrow. The Church, the ancient, beautiful Church to whom he’d dedicated his life was in crisis. The actions of a few; no, perhaps a great many, evil men who chose to debase themselves and their Mother, the Church in the most detestable sin he could imagine; the abuse of the little ones. Tears ran from his eyes as he prayed for forgiveness.

He thought back through the history of his own ancestors. He was directly descended from Vincente de Valverde, an Hidalgo; landed gentry without a title, who with Pizarro, the great Conquistador, had vanquished the Incas and brought back untold wealth, gold that could hardly be imagined, in God’s name, to the King of Spain. Instead of converting and preaching, they had oppressed and enslaved. Always abuse. Five hundred years and still men abused their power and offended God’s Holy name.

A knock came at his door, bringing him back into the present; the mundane, as Brother Ambrosio, a big, jolly man, came in with a new bottle of butane for the little gas fire. “Brrr! Hace frío Aquí”

The kind-hearted intruder teased and cajoled the little friar until he agreed to come down to the Repository and let Ambrosio make him something warm to eat. “El ayuno no puebo nada!” he cautioned; ‘Fasting proves nothing!' Brother Francisco shook his head sadly, stunned and wounded by Ambrosio’s words, which of course he could never have agreed with. They had argued many, many times, and even Fr. Cadoré had suggested, kindly, that he might be more suited to a Contemplative Order than a Mendicant one. If he stayed he would sooner or later be forced out into the world to preach; such is the vocation of a Dominican.

After Francisco had eaten his broth, he went to see if he could help one of the other brothers. He found Brother Sebastián leading the Casina cow, an excellent milker, into the parlour. Silently, he seated himself on the three-legged stool and gently pulled at her udders, releasing the warm creamy milk into the battered old galvanised bucket. Sebastián thanked him, smiling, and took the pail from him, suggesting that he might like to go and help Brother Javier in the glass houses.

He walked down through the walled garden, nodding to the other brothers as he passed, until he reached the beautiful greenhouse. There he found the elderly friar, bent over his orchids with a tiny feather. Javier looked up as he heard the great iron door open and standing up slowly and straightening his back, he greeted his young brother-in-Christ warmly. Francisco took the little feather from the older man, who sat down gratefully on an old wooden bench, and with the delicate accuracy of a laboratory technician he manually pollinated the stamens of each plant. Such back-breaking work. And what was the point of it all? He could see the sense with the melons but what was the point of going to all this effort just to make a flower?

As though reading his mind, Br. Javier answered his unspoken question “Para la glorificacíon de Dios!” For the glorification of God!

Matt’s Countdown Word Game for Monday 18th March 2013, from @miblo_ (Matt Mascarenhas)’s Countdown Scorecard

Tonight’s words are:

Proves/Debase/Stamens/Hidalgo/Stunned/Friar/Milker/Course/Butane/Teased

Rules and examples of the game can be found on Matt’s website:
- http://miblodelcarpio.blog.co.uk/ The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio

Elizabeth was always so beautiful to my eyes, not, perhaps that ‘classic’ ‘Hollywood’ beauty, more your ‘ugly beautiful’ of today’s high-end fashion models; girls who’d scare you if you met them down a dark alley in broad daylight, but strutting their crazy, bold costumes, hair standing high up on their heads and wild, make-up eye-popping and psychedelic: they are beautiful. At school she’d been gap-toothed and our music mistress said it was a sign of a good singer. This turned out to be a lie as she was tone-deaf with a voice like a corncrake. And her teeth had become even gappier in adulthood. She’d never been what you might call ‘healthy’ but the waif look certainly suited her to a tee, and won her many roles usually better suited to much younger girls.

But recently she had been completely off her food, pukier than a breast-fed baby, and unable to keep anything down.

I think we both knew, but were scared to say it out loud. That bastard had got her up-the-pole!

She’d met him when she was standing in for Aurora in Sleeping Beauty last Christmas one rehearsal. He would hardly have bothered with her if he knew she was really only playing the Lilac Fairy, she’d have been beneath him! He was a dancer too, unusual in that he was much manlier than most. Don’t get me wrong, they are all incredibly muscular and strong, but they aren’t all ‘manly’. He had been foreign, Russian I think, a lot of them were, and he had ‘swept her off her feet’ both literally and figuratively. He was also an arrogant oaf.

After their brief affair, he’d moved on and now if they met he held his gaze steadily fixed over her head as though she were invisible and unworthy of his acknowledgement.

Who could she turn to? Pyotr was married. And not just an ordinary marriage. He was married to someone with royal connections, lady someone-or-other. If she exposed him they would both be ruined. No, she would have to bear the burden of her foolishness all alone.

She wasn’t the sort of girl who rebounds easily, bounces back, as I did. She was the kind who broods and bottles things up; takes it all to heart, is crushed.

I watched, helplessly, as she gradually faded, like Tinker Bell, who drank the poison to save Peter Pan, her light diminishing, she could still be saved if only children believed in fairies!

I thought about going to see him myself, but I couldn’t get anywhere near him. He was so important by now, had risen to the very top of his dancing career, and someone like me was viewed with contempt and suspicion. There are hoaxes played on the rich and famous on a daily basis; people make all kinds of wild claims about them, so that when someone comes along who has a true claim no-one will believe it and they are protected from such unpleasantness by an army of guardians.

If we could have swapped places I would have sought a back-street abortion. I broached the subject with her, even made discreet enquiries, and encouraged her to make a hasty decision, for obvious reasons, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

As it began to show, and she could no longer dance, she took to her bed and I became her full-time carer. I coaxed her into eating a tiny cup of home-made consommé, but it was scarcely enough to keep body and soul together and certainly not sufficient for someone who is supposed to be eating for two.

One freezing mid-March day, I ventured out to buy a nice piece of liver for dinner, to see if I could get some colour back into her. It was snowing and there were high winds; flurries blowing up into my face, burning it with the icy coldness, when I spotted a tiny creature cowering behind the bins. The poor little mite. I picked it up and tucked it into my coat and with my head down I made my way home as fast as I could go without slipping over.

I slammed shut the door against the elements and took of my coat, shaking off the damp snow and hanging it up to dry. Putting the packet of liver on the kitchen top I went to light the fire in the sitting room and then went to find a box. I put a cushion in it and sat the cold, wet, shivering puppy as close to the fire as I dared whilst I fried up the liver and onions.

The puppy ate greedily and I was surprised at how much its tiny stomach would hold. It swelled up like a little balloon and she burped to show her appreciation. Warm and dry now, I began to brush her matted fur; how she moults now by the warmth of the fire.

My Lilac Fairy, my Tinker Bell, passed away that night. Just slipped away silently, along with her unborn child. The undertaker came by the next day to collect her remains and I was pleased at how many of her old company came to pay their respects. No sign of himself though.

Some years later, I slipped into the back of the theatre during a rehearsal and witnessed the Director, a witty, good-humoured chap normally, giving Pyotr the heave-ho! “When the plums are dry on your tree, it is time to prune!” he punned, laughing at his own joke. The great Pyotr was being pruned from the company! And not only that. It was all over the daily papers; his wife, you remember, Lady so-and-so, had run off with a much younger man. Another dancer! That really must have rubbed salt in the wounds!

Serves you jolly well right I thought as I led my loyal companion, Betty, back out into the sunlit street. We were on our way to visit Elizabeth’s grave and lay some flowers on it in remembrance.

Matt’s Countdown Word Game for Monday 18th March 2013, from @miblo_ (Matt Mascarenhas)’s Countdown Scorecard

Tonight’s words are:

Housed/Advise/mangoes/Tramp/Active/Psyched/Built/Nettled/Potion/Cliffs/Swearer

Rules and examples of the game can be found on Matt’s website:
- http://miblodelcarpio.blog.co.uk/ The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio

As we sat, once again, around the kitchen table, me passing her tissues and listening sympathetically, she pouring herself another large glass of white wine, my sweet patient partner quietly loaded the dishwasher and slipped off upstairs to bed, leaving me to it.

Her boyfriend is a shit! I don’t understand why she stays with him. He’s never going to commit to their relationship. She’s too good for him. I don’t know how someone so intelligent can be so stupid.

I don’t say any of this as I hold her hand and nod as she relates her latest drama.

She looks at me with her impossibly round, owl-like eyes, as blue as sapphires, pupils as black as ink. I’ve never been any good at saying no to her. “Will you help me?” she pleads, like an appealing puppy or small child. “What do you want me to do?” I ask, already knowing that whatever it is I’ll agree; I can’t not. “Will you come with me now, while he’s asleep, and let all his tyres down?” She laughed as she said the last part, already feeling better about having exacted her revenge on him. “Oh for fuck’s sake Nikki! Are you mad? His apartment is built like Fort fucking Knox! His car is housed in a camera-ridden,multi- alarmed security complex, with armed fucking guards patrolling it every five Fucking minutes!” (as you can see, I’m a bit of a swearer!)

Well, I did my best to advise her against it, but she was determined to go through with it. She was so psyched up by the plan, she seemed to be quite over her earlier broken-heartedness, which nettled me somewhat.

So she made me tramp over to the base housing, sneak my way into the building, hood pulled down over my face, we went along empty corridors, praying that no-one would come out of their dorms, and eventually found a back stairwell to the cars. Like two ninjas we stole along between concrete pillars, she purposeful and suddenly come over all Xena (Warrior Princess) me, heart in throat, having palpitations! She found his car and like some sort of deranged girl guide, produced a school compass, you know the little brass things we used to use in geometry! She knelt down as calm as you please, screwed off the valve cap and hiss went the air as the tyre got flatter and flatter. I was a bundle of nerves by the time she’d finished the last one and as soon as she’d got up off her knees we fled! We pushed open the fire-door and ran for our lives as the alarm went off and was rapidly followed by police sirens; Military Police, and not to be pissed about with!

So that was it! No going back now! He’d have heard the commotion and discovered his car and he’d know it was us! “I know!” She said, through her hysterical laughter, “we’ll do a Thelma & Louise! But without the cliffs!”

So we slipped into the house and I wrote a note for my sweet, patient partner, grabbed my passport and credit cards, popped a few essentials into a small case and was gone!

Five minutes later she was back. With the boot of her ancient MG Midget bulging we sailed off into the darkness together, heading to the airport and quite prepared to go on the first available flight to wherever it took us. She fiddled about with the radio as we lost our local radio station and ‘Love Potion Number Nine’ comes blaring out as we laughed and sang at the top of our voices.

Florida! That’s where we found ourselves. Driving on the wrong side of the road. Now I’ve always had a pretty active imagination, but nothing prepared me for the everglades. It was like being on another planet. We found a hotel on Pompano beach and drove north, briefly stopping in Fort Lauderdale before booting on to Orlando. We did Disney World, the Epcot Centre, Sea World and all the usual touristy things, having the time of our lives. When we flopped down onto our twin beds in the motel, it was only then that I thought about my lovely, patient partner. I felt a momentary pang of guilt, which was short-lived as Nikki threw a dozen tiny bottles from the mini-bar into my lap!

Next day we headed south again and spent the day in Miami, soaking in the amazing colours of the sky-scrapers and the fabulous art deco buildings on Miami Beach district. The constant background noise of incessant sirens was like something out of a tv cop show but also reminded me of ‘the night of the vandalism’!

Everywhere we went there was the most fantastic food! Fresh spiny lobster; sweet and succulent, crab and all manner of other fresh sea food. Some places advertised as-much-as-you-can-eat deals and we thought, sarcastically, no wonder Americans are all so fat! The fruit was like something from the garden of Eden! I was expecting oranges and grapefruits, maybe pineapples and bananas, but there was such an array of Florida-grown tropical fruits of every imaginable kind; coconuts, warm from the tree, star fruits, avocados, passion fruits, papayas, mangoes, hearts of palm (known locally as swamp cabbage and absolutely delicious), kumquats and key limes (smaller and sweeter than the ones we have).

We drove down to the Keys, right down to Key West, where we had our photos taken by a sign declaring this the’ Westernmost point of continental USA’. We went to Sloppy Joes where Ernest Hemingway hung out back in the day and drank frozen Strawberry Daiquiris. “This is the life” Nikki said, clinking glasses with me. “We can’t leave here without trying the Key Lime pie!” My shorts were already beginning to feel tighter round the middle, but as I admired her long now very brown legs I thought oh what the heck, you only live once.

When at last we got back to our base camp at Pompano Beach, I decided it was high time I phoned home, so, armed with a glass of Margarita, I dialled my number.

My gorgeous partner was so pleased to hear from me and asked about Nikki. Apparently her boyfriend had been around every single night since we left. He mentioned that the tyres had been let down on his car but he made absolutely no connection with the two events! He’d sent a dozen red roses to her place of work; they were probably now dried out and brown on her desk! Nikki was so relieved and we were both flabbergasted that we’d run away, half way round the world, for nothing! He’d begged for our hotel, so at last he would be able to phone Nikki.

After a couple of days had gone by and he still hadn’t rung we were beginning to make plans to return home, when there was a knock at our room door. I was painting my toenails so Nikki sauntered over to the door, no make-up on, towel on her head, and who should be there when she opened the door but her troublesome boyfriend. She leapt into his arms and they hugged and kissed while I downed my drink, noisily. Then to my eternal astonishment, he got down on one knee and proposed to her! Right there and then! In front of me! “Well! Fuck me!” I said, “Congratulations!”

Matt’s Countdown Word Game for Monday 11th March 2013, from @miblo_ (Matt Mascarenhas)’s Countdown Scorecard
Tonight’s words are:
Housed/Advise/mangoes/Tramp/Active/Psyched/Built/Nettled/Potion/Cliffs/Swearer

Rules and examples of the game can be found on Matt’s website:
- http://miblodelcarpio.blog.co.uk/ The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio

The boy stood at his bedroom window, gazing out at the spring morning. It was the beginning of March, his birthday in a few days time, but he had arrived at an impasse in his relationship with his mother.

A plane cut a white stripe through the deep blue sky, as the vapour trailed in its wake. For a moment he wondered where the people on board might be going, and allowed himself to imagine them; babies fractious and irritating at the front, their mothers in and out of the overhead lockers, annoying those nearby, older children, their feet pushing the seats in front of them, a girl, a student maybe, with a book, the business man engrossed in sales sheets; planes left Manchester airport every few minutes to every imaginable destination.

He thought back to the old house which had been nearer to the flight path and was much noisier than this leafy suburb.

His sister, tripping along beside his mother, both of them laden with shopping bags, noticed him at the window and pointed at him, waving. His mother looked up as he withdrew from view.

He sat down on the bed heavily. He loved his mother very much, but she refused to let him grow into a man and make his own choices. He had always confided in her before, but her attitude was making this impossible now and he felt sorrowful as he picked up the book he was reading: All The Conspirators by Christopher Isherwood; now there was a man who understood about having a controlling mother.

Usually he took comfort in the prose of Isherwood’s writing, but he found he couldn’t concentrate and having read the same paragraph four times he laid it aside and turned on the radio instead: Last fm; Kelsey Grammer, Autechre, Peter McConnell, Tortoise; all his favourites. He lay down on his bed and let the familiarity of the music sooth his soul.

He woke up suddenly, as his phone beeped, shrilly. Damn, he thought crossly. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He hoped it was a message from Rosie. He so wanted to hear her wise and reassuring words. But it was from some silly, casual acquaintance. The rotter had somehow got his mobile number and kept texting him stupid jokes.

He got up and went to make himself a cup of coffee. There was enough water in his kettle, and this pleased him, as he had not wanted to have to go into the kitchen and listen to his mother’s sighs as he filled the kettle the wrong way. Anyway the birthday preparations would be underway. The kitchen would be full of all kinds of fruits and vegetables; green mangoes for chutney, ripe ones for ice-cream. He felt sorry for his sister who would be expected to help with the preparations now that his mother had become so fussy and rigid in her ways.

He looked forward to seeing his uncles; they always treated him like a man and would be generous with their presents. His aunts would fuss over him and feign worrying about him “When are you going to choose a nice girl and settle down?” “Time to stop dreaming you silly poet.” His cousins though, were a bunch of wankers, and he hoped they would make some excuse not to come.

On the morning of his birthday, he ran down the stairs, his long legs taking two at a time, and got to the front door before his mother. He looked through the letters, taking the ones which were addressed to him and leaving the others on the hall table. There was a small parcel too, in brown paper and tied up with string. He recognised the hand-writing and his heart leapt. He ran back to his room and, savouring the moment, he slowly untied the string and unfolded the stiff, crisp paper. Inside he found a book so old that the golden lettering was barely decipherable. He opened it to discover that it was a first edition of poetry by Robert Browning. A page was marked and he went to it. He read the words which he had read many times before and as he went to put back the bookmark he realised that it was hand-made. It was beautifully embroidered with his name entwined with hers and surrounded with birds of paradise and love-birds. He smiled. A subtle little joke between them. She was and had always been, scared of birds.

He opened his cards next, searching through them for her writing. He found it and held it to his nose. As he knew she might, she had fragranced the envelope with her favourite perfume; gentle and lovely, as she herself.

The card was beautiful, and had been hand-crafted; a one-off, uniquely special, just for him. As he opened the card, a ticket fell out. He looked at the booking. It was for two. The accompanying note told him that a car would pick him up at 7 O’clock tomorrow morning and take him to the airport, where she would be waiting for him.

His head swam. He took down his case form the wardrobe and began to pack his things; his new suit, clean socks and pants. He searched his bedside table and found his passport; lucky, as it had less than a year left on it.

His birthday passed in a blur of activity. He seemed like a person detached from his body as he sailed through the day; an automaton going through the motions, responding to pleasantries, his manners as always impeccable. But all the time his thoughts were with Rosie and tomorrow’s adventure.

Happy Birthday Matt! Hope all your dreams come true!

Matt’s Countdown Word Game for Monday 4th March 2013, from @miblo_ (Matt Mascarenhas)’s Countdown Scorecard

Tonight’s words are:
Planes/trailed/Pointed/Impasse/radio/wankers/uncles/meant/noisier/rotter/mangoes

Rules and examples of the game can be found on Matt’s website:
- http://miblodelcarpio.blog.co.uk/ The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio

“Hit him again, he’s no relation” Johnnie said, laughing at me as I brought the axe down on to the huge, round section of tree trunk, to little effect. I’d never heard that expression before but it made me laugh and stop what I was doing. “Hold on a minute, I’ll be back” he said, and ran back to his Land Rover.

He handed me a heavy metal wedge and showed me where there was a tiny crack already appearing across the rings of the wood. I knocked the wedge into the crack with a lump hammer and then struck it with all I was worth with the sledge-hammer. The wedge vanished as the wood broke into two.

He helped me stack me firewood into a neat pile by the front door, where I covered it with an opened out fertiliser sack, held in place with a large stone.

“There!” I said, holding the small of my back and straightening. Looking up at the sky I could see that I hadn’t beaten the rain by much. “Come on in and have a cup of tea with me, please”

He came in, shyly. Confident on his own terms, as Forestry boss, he now seemed quiet and awkward and I began to feel nervous too and wish I hadn’t forced him to come in.

I was staying at The Lodge, a log cabin, that my American friend owned, right in the middle of the forest! Of course, when her husband had built it, it hadn’t been a plantation. It was farmland, and Paul had intended to do up the ruin of an old crofter’s cottage. It had proven too costly and far cheaper to build the cabin instead. And then the land had been sold to the Forestry Commission and the whole place was now a plantation.

Jody had gone back ‘State-side’ for the winter, and asked me if I would be interested in living her life for six months. I had her house, her car, her dog, Benjy and cat Scooter (named after a Muppet!). I had met her through her husband Paul, who I knew from University days. He was a writer. It was this that had attracted him to the solitude of this location, and why I had jumped at the chance to come. I too was trying to finish my first novel and welcomed the escape from all the distractions of the city.

“I see you’re settling in nicely” he said, removing his tweed cap and looking around. Fortunately for me, it was Saturday, and I had swept the floor, beaten the rugs outside and dusted. I had even made a batch of cookies, which I now offered Johnnie, when the kettle had come to the boil.
“You know, strictly speaking” he said, looking gravely at me across the little pine table, “I’m not really supposed to give you the timber at all!”

“Oh!” I said, genuinely surprised. It had never occurred to me before that this might be an unusual thing for a head forester to do. “Oh dear, well I wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble over it. I’d be quite happy to buy it from you”

“Well, I was thinking that we might come to some sort of arrangement” He said.

“What had you in mind?” I asked, arching my brow at him.

He reddened furiously, and then continued, recovering his composure, “No, well, um, what I mean is, when Paul was here, we used to pay him a hundred pounds a year to care-take the forest for us, you know, report any fires, watch out for people stealing Christmas trees, poaching game, shepherds letting their sheep into the forest, that sort of thing. What do you reckon? Do you think you might be interested? I don’t think we could pay you, but perhaps we can pay you in kind, you know, with fire wood?”

So that’s was my fire wood sorted.

The evenings were beginning to close in and I was glad to have the range and the open coal-fire lit before dark. There was no electricity in the cabin, although there was a telephone. Lights downstairs were beautiful antique gas lamps and upstairs were kerosene lamps. The little range heated the hot water and my bedroom directly above, where the copper cylinder was, and the coal-fire had a back-boiler that heated chunky radiators; gravity fed, upstairs.

My water came from a tiny stream, and constantly conked out when leaves got stuck in the pipe and I frequently had to climb up the hill and unblock it and clear the airlocks. Benjy and I tread that path so often we could have walked it blindfolded.

When my chores were done, we would go for a walk. Every day we’d take a different route and the cat, Scooter, a beautiful ginger Tom, followed us, meowing piteously if we got too far ahead of him.

One day while we were exploring the woodland walkways, we came upon a little clearing. It was dank and musty, and it had an eerie feel about it. I went on as the smell grew mustier and I took stock of my surroundings realising that I was standing in the middle of a ringfort. I stood, respectful and silent, wondering who the people were, Bronze age? A thousand years ago? I wondered how they lived and what they were defending themselves from? Benjy was very excited too and was snuffling around in the undergrowth, stirring up leaves, scenting foxes or badgers, when he suddenly yelped so loud it made me jump and brought me from my reverie. His yelps grew louder as I rushed to him and discovered to my horror that he had caught his leg in a snare. What kind of fucking nutter would leave a snare here in the middle of a publicly owned forestry? Panic welled up inside me as I tried to prize the evil teeth apart. I found a stone, wider than his leg and used it to keep the thing open while I carefully withdrew his leg, which hung broken and bleeding. Scooter must have thought I had hurt her pal and he sank his claws into my arm as I tried to help poor Benjy. I tried my best to stabilise the fracture, using my torn off shirt sleeve and two sticks as splints. I wrapped him, now trembling, inside my coat and carried him, as quickly as I could, back to the cabin. I decided it would be better to find the forestry road, and hoped I might meet someone and get help quicker, although it was further than the way we’d come. The fog was beginning to roll in on that upper road and I thought I could make out a figure in the distance. I quickened my pace and grew hoarse from calling out for help. My muscles were aching as I tried to ignore the pain and eventually the figure of a man came into plain view. I recognised him as one of the local shepherds, an amiable man, who had told me I could bring my car batteries down to his shearing shed to charge them (they powered the radio and the tiny black and white television). He took the dog from my arms, surprisingly gently for such a large man, and I was grateful to stretch out my arms. I told him what had happened and a frown broke out on his kind face. We came to his jeep and he put the dog in the boot. “Shhhh, boy” he said kindly to the dog, and went to get some kind of drugs from the glove box in the front.

“Here” he said I’ll give him this and see if it deadens the pain a bit, and then we’ll take him straight to the vets”

He drove Benjy, going past the cabin en route so that I might grab a coat and my purse. I thought it would be best if I took Jody’s car too, so that he didn’t have to wait for me or bring me all the way back up here again.

The vet kept Benjy in overnight and I drove back to a house without light or a fire. It was a dark and creepy place to come upon at night.

I groped around for matches and lit the gas light, then lit a fire in the range. It was then that I realised I’d forgotten all about the cat. I opened the front door and called “puss, puss puss puss, puss, here pussy, here Scooter” but there was no sound of him anywhere and it was pitch black, without the smallest trace of a moon or a star.

The house, usually so warm and cosy, felt cold and empty without my two four-footed friends and I wondered if I should phone Jody in America and tell her. I decided against it.

I tossed and turned all night, a broken sleep, disturbed by dark thoughts about the cat and dog, and as soon as first light crept over the horizon I got up and dressed and went back to the ringfort. As I neared it I heard a pitiful mewing and my heart sank as I thought he must have fallen foul of another trap. But he hadn’t. He’d been waiting for me to come back for him. He wrapped himself around my legs as I laughed at his mad behaviour. Why hadn’t he just come home by himself? Was it stubbornness or confusion? I wished I could have asked him. I went to look for the trap, found its rusty chain and post which had been hammered deep into the ground and knocked it with all my might from one side and then another until I had loosened it. I carried it, with Scooter behind me, following me closely, right up to the top of the hill to the tarn, and there I threw it out into the black, peaty water, where I hoped it would never be found.

When we got back to the cabin, my shepherd was there, with a present of a leg of lamb. He said he’d sold his wethers at the mart last week and had a couple of them butchered for the freezer.

So that was my meat sorted.

He asked after Benjy and I had to confess that I hadn’t called the vets yet as I had first to find the cat and dispose of the trap.

“You know those things are illegal, don’t you?” He said, a worried expression on his face. “You don’t think you should have taken it in to the police?” I realised that he was probably right, that is what I should have done, but as I tried to explain to him I had just wanted to make sure it could never be used again. He nodded “Perhaps it’s just as well. The kind of people who’d use a trap like that aren’t the sort of people you’d want to tangle with”

“I don’t have a freezer” I said, nodding towards the plastic bag with the leg of lamb in, “so it’ll have to be cooked quite soon. How about coming for Sunday lunch?” A broad smile crossed his face, and I noticed a twinkle in his lovely blue eyes as he answered that he’d hoped I might say that, and he’d also got some cooking apples if I was interested in making a pie!

We went to the vets together that afternoon and collected Benjy in his jeep. Despite a cast and bandages, Benjy romped, lopsidedly into the house and he and Scooter greeted each other with licks and nuzzles.

After a hastily brewed jug of coffee, he left me with “See you on Sunday, around one?” “Yeah!” I called out to his back.

On Sunday morning I got up extra early. Truth be told I couldn’t sleep anyway and was relieved when daylight finally arrived.

I busied myself getting fires lit and in the absence of any flowers I filled a vase with some lovely holly, bursting with red berries. A scarlet ribbon finished the affect perfectly. I found a rather lovely old damask table-cloth in the airing cupboard and laid the table, opening a bottle of claret to let it ‘breathe’.

When the range was ready I put in the leg of lamb, a good coating of freshly milled black pepper and sea salt and little pieces of rosemary and garlic stuck in it here and there.

After about half an hour, when a good colour had been achieved, and the house smelt delicious when I opened the oven door, I covered it in foil and damped down the range as best I could.

I began to peel my potatoes (another donation from my guest) and get all the vegetables ready to go on. I decided to make an apple crumble (it’s easier!) but thought I’d make up for it by making some delicious home-made custard, with free-range eggs (more offerings!) and a vanilla pod.

It was a horrible day, the rain was pelting down, so the front door was shut and I hadn’t heard him pull up outside. Benjy’s bark alerted me to his arrival seconds before he came in and the cat vanished upstairs.

Several hours later, when all the washing-up was done and put away, he hovered in the doorway, reluctant to go back out into the awful, dark and wet night. Eventually, he plucked up the courage to ask me to come dancing with him later on.

He has been my dance-partner these four and twenty years!

Matt’s Countdown Word Game for Monday 25th February 2013, from @miblo_ (Matt Mascarenhas)’s Countdown Scorecard

Tonight’s words are:
Fires/Louder/Plain/Hoarse/Claws/Relation/Muppet/Deadens/Tread/Nutter/Mustier

Rules and examples of the game can be found on Matt’s website:
- http://miblodelcarpio.blog.co.uk/ The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio

There were two old boys, Mikey-Pat-Dan and Danny-Pat-Dan, who lived together in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t have electricity or even piped water! They went with an old galvanised bucket to a near-by stream to get enough water to fill the kettle, which was always on, and to cook the spuds, in a huge black pot, hanging on a crane in the vast open fire. They were deaf mutes.

What they lacked in conversation, they made up for in craftsmanship and their work as roofers took them far and wide.

My first encounter with them was when I bought the old barn, at an exorbitant price, miles from anywhere, and went about the restoration. Everyone I spoke to about the roof recommended the two brothers, so I never vetted them; I just went by the local knowledge.

I got hopelessly lost up a maze of tiny roads and had to knock on several doors for help with bewildering directions.

This is without doubt one of the most beautiful counties on this island, but the lack of signage is lamentable.

At last I spotted the old lime kiln with a gigantic sycamore tree growing on top of it and pulled the Land Rover off into a lay-by. I could still see no sign of a house, but judged it must be within walking-distance from the kiln and decided the ground was too boggy and full of giant boulders to risk driving any further.

As I came over the brow of a hill and begun my ascent, I saw a reassuring wisp of smoke and then a chimney and, at last a sweet little cottage alongside a stream.

When I was a hundred or so yards away, a dog, taller, longer and altogether bonier than anything I’d ever seen came barking and galumphing over to me. Just as I had resigned myself to a grisly end, it stopped dead it its tracks. Its lips curled and a low growl emanated as, grudgingly it trotted along, all ribs and legs, beside me.

One of the two old men tucked a dog-whistle back into the breast-pocket of a threadbare tweed waistcoat as I approached the house. With a silent gesture he bid the dog back into his kennel; an old barrel. Stones alongside it prevented it from rolling off, and straw spewed out of it.

He greeted me warmly, taking my hand in both of his and smiling a broad, toothless grin. He steered me into the dark little kitchen and showed me to a beautiful old rocking-chair by the fire. My appearance startled his brother, who leapt to his feet, as though remembering his manners; he wiped his hand on the back of his trousers and shook hands with me vigorously before beckoning me to sit down.

He pushed the enormous cauldron over to one side and brought the kettle over the flames and in no time at all it boiled, spilling water from its loose lid as it bubbled violently. He took an old cloth from the back of his chair and carefully lifted the kettle off the crane and carried over to the old pine table where the other, the first one, was spooning tea-leaves into a stained old teapot. I watched as the two of them went about this ritual of tea-making; one of them getting down the cups from a Welsh-dresser, while the other found the sugar, one stood on a chair and brought down a tin, from which he produced a fruit cake; the other came with a knife. When they were satisfied with the arrangements, conscious of my eyes upon them, they signalled for me to come up to the table.

Ordinarily, I am fastidiously fussy about cleanliness and hygiene, but I tried to put images firmly out of my head; if they washed up? How? Where did they do their ‘business’? How did they wash their hands afterwards? I tried not to think about these things as I drank my tea and ate the surprisingly moist cake.

Their own silence had somehow silenced me too, but I thought I had better broach the subject of who I was and what I was doing here, so I opened my bag and took out the blue-prints for the barn conversion, with accompanying photographs so that they might work out where it was.

They studied my plans, nodding and pointing and smiling up at me from time to time. At last one of them, the second one, went over to a little drawer in the dresser and brought back a pen and paper. He jotted down a list of all the timber I would need, the number and type of slates and all the sundry items like nails etc. At the top of the page was the name of the local hardware store and I realised that I was to take them the list.

The first one went to a cupboard under the dresser and brought out a bottle of some kind. He poured us all three a measure of it and filled up the glass with boiling water and a spoon of sugar. We clinked our glasses, a pact, agreed over a hot punch!

As I nursed my warm glass in my hands, gradually getting through it, I watched as the second one took down his pipe from a huge oak beam above the fire. He fished a penknife from his pocket and began to shave tobacco off a huge slab; “Clarke’s Perfect Plug” was emblazoned on the tin. He tamped it down and then, taking a long thin stick he brought up a flame from the open fire. He puffed away as the pipe began to glow red and the molasses smell filled the little room.

I felt so peaceful and at home. No radios or televisions to break the soporific affect I was feeling from the warmth of the fire (and the poitin), the aromatic pipe smoke, the absolute silence.

I got up to go and went to take up my papers, but the first one, putting his hand firmly on the blueprint, told me that they were holding on to them.

They offered to share their huge pot of stew with me but I declined. As I left, I was glad to see the poor skinny dog was given a huge bowl of steaming meat and a large bone of some kind.

I walked back the way I’d come, which, in the diminishing light began to look more like the edge of a field than an actual lane. I reached the Land Rover just before it was completely dark and managed to do a three-point turn without falling into a deep gulley. I hoped that I would be able to remember all the turn-offs, which had been difficult enough in broad daylight. At last I was home.

Home, for the time being was a caravan outside the now entirely roofless barn. A welcome dry spell saw my two silent old boys cycle over every day and in a few weeks all the complicated timbers were in place and the felt and battens were up.

I watched, through the lens of my camera, in fascination as the two of them worked side by side, fashioning copper soakers, narrow strips that curled up under the slates, protecting the gap, and diverting the rain back out, thus keeping the roof completely dry. The lead flashing was next, expertly cut and softly hammered around the contours of the chimney breast.

By the end of the fine weather, when the rains finally came, the roof was finished and I stood outside as it lashed, relentlessly against the shiny new slates. The gutters and drainpipes flowed with water and it gushed out into the water-butts, which were full to the brim in no time.

Wet-through, I dashed back inside and stripped off my things, jumping into the blissful shower. When I had finished and dressed again, I sat at the kitchen table, watching as the sun burst through the clouds again and everything shone with renewed lustre.

I got up and opened the door, leaning against the frame and breathing in the fresh, green smell.
What a beautiful place this was.

I thumbed through a stack of mail-order catalogues, racking my brains to find something to give my two new friends.

I wondered if they missed me as much as I did them. I flattered myself that they missed having their meals cooked for them, and I bet that old dog, who’d grown thick fat over summer, despite running along with them on their bicycles, missed his dinners!

Eventually I found something and telephoned the number in the catalogue.

It was weeks before anything came, by which time I’d got on with my life and forgotten all about them, and then one day, the postman arrived with his arms full of postal-mailers; those padded envelopes, stuffed with something that I’m assured isn’t asbestos! At last!

I took the mailers straight over to my old friends. I didn’t even peek into them first! I couldn’t wait to see their faces when they opened their gifts!

Matt’s Countdown Word Game for Monday 18th February 2013, from @miblo_ (Matt Mascarenhas)’s Countdown Scorecard

Tonight’s words are:
Mutes/ Tamped/ Help/ Radios/ Mailers/ Soakers/ Vetted/ Pact/ Counties/ Bonier

Rules and examples of the game can be found on Matt’s website:
- http://miblodelcarpio.blog.co.uk/ The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio