Friday Flash Fiction – Letter Box

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I must have ticked the wrong box, how else did I volunteer to deliver leaflets for a candidate in the local elections? New in the area, I recalled filling in an on line survey for opinions on what the council should do for us. I had plenty of ideas. I did not tick the box for the weekly gardening in the park, that was my craft morning. I did not tick the box for the Sunday morning litter pick, I was Facetiming Australia.

I did put my email address to avoid revealing where I actually lived, so that was how I came to receive a message from Nathan Nabor, standing for election once again.

Thanks so much for volunteering to deliver our leaflets, your support is greatly valued. I shall bring them round tomorrow evening, let me know if that’s convenient.

I replied Yes, after all he did not know where I lived, that was probably a generic message to all his supporters.

The next day I arrived home from my part time job and there he was on the doorstep with a hefty bag adorned with a ChatGPT improved image of himself.

‘Mrs Gullible, delighted to meet you. New in the area I gather, divorced or widowed?’

I was a little taken aback, was this an appropriate way for a pillar of the community to speak?

‘DFL’ I replied.

‘Divorced from London?’

‘Down From London, making a new start, getting involved.’

‘Excellent, excellent.’

What on earth possessed me to say involved when I had dreamed of a quiet life as an artist? I wasn’t actually an artist yet, but it was worth a try.

‘Is it okay if I come in so I can show you the ropes?’

He was already in the hall with one foot in my little kitchen diner. The small table barely had room for the mound of leaflets and envelopes spilling out of the bag.

‘Letters addressed to engaged voters we have spoken to, leaflets for every home and a map. You’ll need that being new, even our veteran leafleteers need a map.

So it was that I found myself in a strong south westerly blowing straight off the sea, wending my way round steep lanes, among the cottages that had looked so full of character when I was house hunting.  Every front door was accessible only by twisted flights of steps, worn down by generations of feet. Descent was more hazardous than the ascent. No two doors had their letter box in the same position. Occasionally a letter would drop in easily, but most involved a battle with the bristles. One was so tight I thought my hand was stuck. When I managed to pull it out, my engagement ring was missing.  Good riddance, I had tried to sell it, but it was not worth anything. Would the occupant notice a piece of jewellery on their doormat?

The front doors that put up the greatest battles were also the ones with ferocious dogs on the other side. I tried to get out through the front gate before an irate owner opened his front door. I stumbled a few times, how embarrassing if I fell down and broke something. The poor householder who didn’t want a leaflet and was probably cooking dinner, would be confronted with a 999 situation in their front garden.

I knew many householders in this town did not welcome strangers judging by the notices on the door or fixed nearby.

NO CALLERS

NO UNSOLICITED TRADERS

NO CANVASERS

NO JUNK MAIL

NO JW.ORG

WE DO NOT SPEAK TO PERSONS TOUTING FOR BUSINESS, PLEASE LEAVE AND DO NOT RETURN.

I hoped election leaflets were not junk mail, but were they canvassing? I omitted some homes, erring on the side of caution. It was now raining, but I only had one more lane to do, 12 letters, 36 leaflets and a lovely view of the sea, or would have been without the rainy mist rolling in.

My mistake was getting over confident in my new mountain goat agility, the rain was making stone steps slippery. The leaflet ripped as I tried to slip it in a wooden door that had not seen paint or varnish for decades. I stuffed the torn paper in my pocket and started again with a new leaflet. Ferocious barking was followed by bellowing.

‘WHO THE BLOODY HELL IS THAT AT THE DOOR … SHUT UP RUFUS’.

I beat a hasty retreat, but one foot got left behind and the other foot left me behind. I ended up in a crumpled heap against the rickety front gate. My brain said I could get up, but my body disagreed. Please body, don’t tell me I have a broken ankle.

My body replied ‘What do you think that loud crack was and that horrendous pain?’

My brain said ‘Get your mobile phone out and dial 999 before that man comes out.’

But my phone was tucked safely in my back pack and I was lying on my back pack. At that moment the front door opened.

Have you ever been a leafleteer?

Non digital visitors are coming Chez Tidalscribe for the Easter holidays, who knows what will happen to my blog or Mrs Gullible…

Monday Meandering at the Museum

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What’s on at the gallery?


All the notes for the paintings are on stapled sheets – To Be Returned – you may get confused who did which paintings, so just wander and enjoy looking.

This is Hengistbury Head

Waterloo Station

Hurst Lighthouse off the Isle of Wight. Which painting is in the exhibition and which is hanging in my living room, given to me in exchange for knitting the artist a scarf?

Time for a cup of tea

Which painting did you like best?

When you go to any exhibition do you like to read everything carefully or just look at the pictures?

Sunday Stroll under Sullen Skies

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The sky is not always blue and this is why the English always talk about the weather. Sunny, dreich (borrowed from the Scots) , torrential rain or howling gales; the photographer should capture them all.

Perhaps it’s time to go inside.

What might this be? Find out at the end.

Take a look in the gift shop.

If you want to peek in the gallery to see the exhibition you will have to wait for the next blog.

Where do you like to go on a dreary day?

Saying Grace

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And now, new on BBC Radio Four, a well known author, blogger and podcaster, brings her unique views to radio. Grace Darling says it as it is…

Hello and welcome. Here we are going to talk about anything and everything. Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night and wonder why it took humans so long to invent the bicycle or where Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor goes to do his shopping now?

My guests this week are not revealing their names in case they are persecuted in social media, but I’m sure they will chip in with some acerbic comments.

What careers did you aspire to when you were at school? I wanted to be a journalist, but my home town only had one newspaper and nothing happened to be reported anyway. Now we can all be journalists with the wonders of PressWords and suchlike. My blog Scribbletide. com has millions of followers, some of them even genuine.

My next career idea in sixth form was to be a Political Editor, they don’t seem to have to do much except talk a lot and occasionally stand out in the rain.  Where did all these talking heads come from? That girl you went to school with who wanted to be a hairdresser, suddenly appears on ‘Late Night News for Intelligent People’ as Chief Financial Editor of The Times. How on earth did she get there?

I blame it on Brexit. Endless discussions on what the results might be, followed by wailing and gnashing of teeth when the results came out and then interminable years of talking with the EU on how to do it. When Brexit was finally signed and sealed we had a world wide pandemic to commentate on plus Trump in Triumph and the game of musical chairs in our Cabinet.

My father loves to watch all the political and serious news programmes, with a running commentary

‘He’ll be gone next, she’ll be getting a vote of no confidence by the end of the week.’

My mother meanwhile will be busy knitting and making her own comments ‘I don’t care how clever that woman is, nobody with such an irritating voice should be allowed on television or radio. Oh for goodness sake, what does he look like, has he glanced in a mirror lately?’

Her knitting group once knitted the whole royal wedding, William and Catherine. While her friends created exquisite uniforms, beautiful dresses and realistic faces, Mother was consigned to knit the corgis. I don’t know if Sarah Fergusson, formerly known as The Duchess of York, knits, but she has apparently cottoned on to a more sophisticated method of copying corgis. The late Queen’s corgis were ill advisedly bequeathed to Andrew and Sarah and expected to live out their days in Windsor Great Park. We hear Sarah had plans to have them cloned and make money selling royal corgi cloned puppies. Do not try this at home, it is illegal in this country to clone your dog.

Another animal swept Trump from the headlines this week, the escape of a giant guineapig caused great excitement in Hampshire. Two Capybara sisters escaped soon after their arrival at Marwell Zoo, one huddled under a bush and was easily caught, while the other has been on the loose for over a week, with sightings but no chance of capture.

But let us finish today’s programme on a cultural note. The Bayeux tapestry is returning to England after more than 900 years in France. But whose idea was it? A French antique arts expert, defender of the tapestry, told me of his shock when watching President Macron and our Prime Minister having a jolly chat.  Then out of the blue, in a throw away remark, Macron says ‘We’re sending the Bayeux Tapestry to England.’

What!!! That has never been mentioned and art experts were never consulted. The whole tapestry will fall to pieces if it’s moved…

Watch this space. If it disintegrates in England we will have to make them a new one and how long will that take?

Well that’s it for this week folks, my thanks to my guests, oh I’ve just realised I did not give them a chance to speak….

If you would like to listen to this week’s episode again you can listen later on BBC Radio Four Extra, BBC World Service and anytime on your smart speaker or whatever devices you know how to work with BBC Sounds.

What ideas would you like Grace to ponder on next week?

Friday Fun – Follow a Footpath

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You could be anywhere, which way will you choose?

Walk or cycle?

You could stop for offee at the afe.

What have you come across now?

Perhaps you should check the signposts and make a decision.

Rough or smooth?

Time for a game?

How did you end up here?

Perhaps by magic?

Witch do you prefer to follow, footpaths, football or Whichcraft?

Perhaps by magic?

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Fear

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‘Daddy, can we go and watch the drones being shot down?’

‘What…oh er yes, just leave me in peace to relax by the pool.’

‘Archie Darling, are you sure it’s safe?’

‘Yes of course Fi, this is a top hotel, relax, we’re on holiday, the doctor told you to take it easy till the baby arrives.’

‘Daaad, if you had let us bring our phones on holiday we’d be able to see what’s going on.’

‘You don’t need to know what is going on Charlotte, the hotel management will let us know anything important. Don’t they look after us splendidly every year?’

‘Archie, it is a bit different this year.’

‘Yes, but it will all settle down as quickly as it blew up.’

‘Dad, that family on our floor were packing up this morning… and those people we were swimming with yesterday.’

‘Panicking, we’re British, we don’t panic.’

‘Oh God Arch, what was that?’

‘Way off in the distance, a drone they didn’t manage to shoot down, we’re fine up here. Anyway, it’s time we got dressed for dinner. Charlotte, go and find your little brothers.’

‘Oh look, those people on our floor are coming back with their suitcases. There are a lot of people at reception, asking the staff… I’m going to go over and find out what’s going on.’

‘Gossiping no doubt.’

 ‘Darling, they are all saying the airport is closed, they did not know what to do so they came back. That couple we were chatting to yesterday are talking about getting a driver, maybe forming a convoy. What do you think we should do?’

‘Fiona, we are not driving across the dessert with all the kids and you eight months pregnant. The airport will be up and running again by the time we’re due to leave. There you are kids, come on, dinner time.’

‘What do you mean the head chef didn’t turn up… limited menu and a delay? Ah here’s the manager, I’m going to complain.’

‘Down to the basement, don’t you think you are over reacting? I appreciate you have to think of the safety of your guests, but sending us down to the basement without any dinner is hardly going to help… 

…Fiona, pop up to our room and get a few things for the children if we’re going to be stuck in the basement for a couple of hours.’

‘Archie, the lifts are switched off.’

‘Will you be alright on the stairs?’

‘They are not letting anybody up to the ninth floor.’

‘Daddy, is this a real war? That boy said they are going to give us all guns.’

‘Don’t listen to what other children are saying, now you stay with Mummy while I pop outside to see for myself what is going on.’

‘… and we are going over to Gatwick Airport now as the first plane evacuating British holiday makers lands. Families are waiting to be reunited after days of worry.

Good Evening, are you glad to be back home?’

‘Oh yes, we were holed up in our hotel basement for a week, we did not have any idea what was going to happen.’

‘You of course had priority with the children.’

‘Yes it all happened very suddenly, we just grabbed a few things, the children thought it was a bit of an adventure, didn’t you kids?’

‘I left teddy behind…’

‘I had to leave my hair straighteners behind.’

‘.. and your father.’

‘Oh yes, we left Daddy behind.’

Tuesday Tiny Tale 250 – The Echo

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‘I don’t know why you bother buying the Echo, there’s never any news in it.’

‘I thought I would find out what happened round the corner yesterday, headline on the front page.’

‘Nothing happened yesterday.’

‘Why were there three police cars then? Here it is…

 Man Arrested in Dunholme Avenue. Charlie Sharp who lives in Dunholme Avenue said “We don’t usually get police cars around here, I don’t know what was going on.”

Masie Mason said “I was just returning from walking Alfie my poodle and I was astonished to see the commotion, it’s usually very quiet around here. I saw a man being put in the back of the police car.”

Another neighbour who wished to remain anonymous said “Someone just moved into that house. It’s very worrying, this used to be a nice neighbourhood.”

Jack, who did not want to give his surname, said “I was just coming out of my front door to take Bubbles my cockerpoo for a walk, we always go the same time each day, when he started barking and I said What’s up Bubbles? Then I saw three police cars driving off. The people that lived there before had a dog, Bubbles’ best friend, he was a caverpoo. I don’t think the new people have a dog.”

The Echo contacted Hambourne police station, but a spokesperson said they could not comment.

The Echo should have interviewed me, I could have told them about all those screams I heard the night before.’

Saturday Sunny Stroll

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It’s unremittingly grey here at Chez Tidalscribe, but jump into the time machine back to last Saturday.

Jump out of your car and follow the path to the sea.

Don’t fall off the pier…

Do you dare to go up to the zip wire?

How is your Saturday going?

Thursday Tiny Tale – Death Where is Thy Sting?

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Mrs De-Ath hurried along the high street on Monday morning to open her florists on time, but she stopped dead in her tracks as she passed the window of the new people.

We Put the Fun in Funerals said the bright yellow sign at the top of the display.  Filling the large bay shop window was what could only be described as a model fairground meeting a pop festival and all drenched in a rainbow.

They had heard only that a funeral directors was moving into the vape shop closed down by the police. That had seemed excellent news with the prospect of new customers ordering wreaths and perhaps the occasional imaginative arrangement. The shop had been boarded up for a few weeks with the hopeful noises of improvements.

She peered closer at the Barbie doll lying in a pink coffin. Above it was a rainbow shaped notice.

No need to wait for the Grim Reaper, pop in now for free coffee and cakes and meet our jolly crew.

As Mrs De-Ath shook her head in bewilderment and looked at her watch, the door flew open and a figure like an aging Alice in Wonderland stepped out.

‘Greetings, you’re Mrs Death from the flower shop aren’t you?’

‘Mrs Delia De-Ath from the florist.’

‘Well I’m sure we’re going to get along, I’m Morticia.  I hope you have lots of exotic flowers.’

‘Um, our customers are quite a conservative bunch… it’s all daffodils and tulips at the moment.’

‘I hope to change that then, I expect your locals could do with a good shake up.’

‘I think a good shake up might finish them off.’

‘All the better, more customers for me.’

Morticia went off into gales of laughter.

Delia scurried away, mumbling about opening times.

She did not have any customers that morning, everyone in town seemed to be popping in to meet Morticia. After lunch a gaunt young man dressed as a Goth sidled into the shop.

‘Greetings, Edwin, Edwin Drood, Morticia’s assistant, glad to meet you Delia. Now, do you have black daffodils?’

‘Goodness, no such thing. I thought bright colours were the er… theme of your establishment.’

‘Do I look as if I like bright colours? We cater for all tastes and our first customer is a Goth, was a Goth. We can get the black horses and the glass hearse, but his widow thought it would be a real laugh to have black flowers.’

‘The nearest I can do is dark purple tulips, or if there is time, perhaps I could see if my supplier could obtain a black orchid.’

Whatever Delia De-Ath thought of the new funeral directors, she felt she couldn’t turn down any business. The whole parade of shopkeepers and many locals turned out to see the Goth’s hearse leave. In a carriage behind, the widow and family all wore black orchids.

When Delia heard that they were going to have a biker’s funeral she wondered what the turnout would be and what the biker would be carried in. A large order of sunflowers did not fit the biker image.

On the day a huge line up of motorbikes blocked the high street and had shoppers gawping. They were all dressed in bright colours and greeting each other effusively, laughing and joking and sharing stories of Mad Mike. Delia approached Morticia who was even more colourful than usual.

‘What will his coffin come in?’

‘Oh no coffin, his bike’s on a trailer, as per Mike’s wishes. Ah here he is…’

Delia gasped. ‘That’s surely not him, sitting ON the bike, grinning?’

‘Yes, he wanted to be plasticized.’