Visit Life and Soul to see a wonderful variety of views on caring for the environment. Today’s blog is really intriguing – would you go for coffee here?
Year: 2019
Silly Saturday – Instant Instagram
Should you be on Instagram? Of course, you should be on everything, just in case you miss something.
What is Instagram for? I have absolutely no idea, but it is quite fun.
‘Instagram is a photo and video-sharing social networking service owned by Facebook, Inc. It was created by Kevin Systrom and Mike Krieger, and launched in October 2010.’
Any the wiser?
Don’t worry, as long as you have a mobile phone that takes pictures you can join. Post your picture and put some hashtags. Why, I’m not sure, but if you put #brightonpier you are linked with all the other people who have taken better pictures of Brighton Pier. Some people put a few hashtags, others a whole list of them, which is a teeny bit showing off.
But the most important thing, Rule One, is to take pictures instantly and send them off instantly. As soon as you arrive on holiday or you are in the middle of a big street demonstration, take a photo with your phone so that your followers will be envious, or impressed that you are protesting instead of sitting at home on the sofa looking at your phone. Don’t try to cheat by sending a picture of last year’s holiday; especially if it is a picture of you standing in front of Notre Dame. Someone is sure to find out…
Hey I’m in Venice at the moment and it’s raining not sunny.
Or That’s the Brexit march, not Extinction Rebellion.
Rule two, post pictures every day, or better still, every hour in case your followers wonder what has happened to you. If you are not going anywhere, or your life is unbelievably dull you can always pop in the garden, or someone else’s garden and take pictures of flowers. People like bright happy flowers to cheer their day. If you have a cat or puppy, even better, followers will never tire of endless pictures of your pet’s cuteness.
How do you get followers? Wait or follow other people and hope they follow you. Occasionally you may get a message
ilovemyself is now following you, why not follow them back.
Look at their gallery, if they only take pictures of themselves you may not want to follow them…
Hopefully you will soon see a little red heart flashing to tell you someone liked your picture. You can also share your pictures on Facebook and Twitter, though when you go on Facebook and see your picture on the big computer screen it may not look as good as it did on your little phone screen…
Happy Snapping
If you like looking at photos there are always plenty on my website.
https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-three-picture-gallery/
Do you like taking photographs?
Do you prefer phones or cameras?
Do you enjoy posting pictures on social media?
Friday Flash Fiction – Tomorrow
I hesitated before I answered my mobile, it was my sister again.
‘Tomorrow… perhaps’ I said curtly.
‘Andrew, you need to come now. John and I don’t care if we never see you again, but Mum would forgive you everything if you walked through that door now.’
I didn’t go the next day. I don’t like hospitals, my sister is better at that sort of thing and John has always been the reliable one. In the pub that evening no one asked how my mother was; no one there knew I had a mother.
Somehow conversation veered from sport and women to the end of the world.
‘It’s tomorrow… perhaps’ said Sean. ‘6pm according to this American bloke. I don’t know why you’re laughing Andrew. It’s not going to be the end of everything, it’s the Day of Judgement; the righteous will be taken to heaven and the wicked left in torment till the world really does end.’
‘How much have you had to drink?’
Ben had reached the maudlin state. ‘Sean’s right, I read it in the paper, not tomorrow perhaps, but soon, all the signs are there. Look at the news; every day a giant earthquake, flood, fire or volcano, we’re not even surprised any more.’
‘Not in England, the world’s not going to end here. If there was a day of judgement we’re all sinners, you two are no angels. Come on I’ll get the next round.’
They knew I’d done some bad things in my time; all my family, friends, if you could call them that, my colleagues, acquaintances and my enemies. They all thought they knew what sort of person I was, but each of them knew only a part of my life. Only I knew all the crimes and sins committed and people I’d hurt. That was the good thing about being an atheist; I was accountable only to myself. If the end of the world did come it would be by the careless hand of man and in the meantime I was going to enjoy myself. When Sean and Ben went home to their long suffering wives, both of whom had sought solace in my arms, I went to my club; the club I owned in everything but name. I needed to check if the new pole dancer was settling in.
The next morning I did my laundry, at the bank, then strolled out into the sunshine. I contemplated visiting the hospital, but first I needed to pop back to the club to finish some paperwork while it was quiet.
My mobile rang, it was my brother.
‘I’m on my way, give me half an hour.’
‘Andrew, it’s too late.’ His coldness sent a chill even to my stony heart. ‘If you have any grain of decency left come and collect the letter mother left you.’
Before I could reply, a shot rang out. I looked up shocked; it was broad daylight and no one I knew. A man was standing over a woman lying in a pool of blood, then he noticed me, he fired a wavering shot to warn me away. An eerie silence had descended; everyone else had melted into doorways or down the subway steps; except for a young woman who had tripped or dived for cover onto the pavement, now paralysed with fear.
I’m no hero, if the man actually knew how to aim a gun I would be the next victim. A few paces and I could dive down the steps into my club; the only obstacle was the woman. The muscles I used for strong arm tactics came in handy for rescuing a fallen woman. I locked and barred the door behind us and whisked her into my office. She was too frightened to speak, but I could feel her heart thumping. Through my shirt I could also feel her warm breasts pressed against my chest, soft, not a hint of silicone. Perhaps there would be a chance of grateful sex later, but suddenly any carnal thoughts left me, I felt cold inside. I only looked the gunman in the eyes for a second, but what I saw in those eyes terrified me; he wasn’t mad, nor was he drugged up. Anyone who saw his expression would know that we are all accountable for what we do.
The woman spoke. ‘I don’t know how to thank you; it’s not just me you’ve helped, I was widowed recently, it would be unbearable for the children if they lost me as well.’
Now she’d started talking she couldn’t stop. ‘Are we trapped in here? I need to pick the children up from school. Do you think we were caught on CCTV or someone’s mobile, my mother will be frantic if she sees me on the news, I’d rather no one knew this has happened…’
I put on my best vulnerable woman approach and hugged her gently.
‘Shsh, it’s okay, I’m CID.’ Lying came naturally to me. ‘We did a raid on this place, I know another way out. I’ll put a report in, say you left without giving your name.’
Outside I found a cab for her and gave the driver cash. Then, I don’t know why, I also wrote down my ‘safe’ mobile number. She was sensible enough not to give me her number.
There are two types of women I like; the hard ones who play by the same rules as me and the vulnerable ones who I can play with. But I knew I would treat this woman with respect, if I ever saw her again, a novel feeling for me.
I went to the hospital and met my brother in the corridor; he handed me the letter, I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, turned on my heel and walked out. At home I put the letter on the table, I would open it tomorrow, perhaps. I watched the news; the gunman had surrendered, too scared to kill himself. My phone rang, it was her.
‘I didn’t thank you properly, or tell you my name, Beth. This has really shaken me up, I can’t talk to anyone; just say no if you don’t want to, but it would be good to meet for a coffee while the kids are at school tomorrow.’
What will tomorrow bring? Find out next Friday.
The Blog of Many Colours
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter is brought to you today by the colour peacock blue, thanks to Kevin Parish who started the ball rolling last week by choosing one of the most exotic colours. You can visit Kevin’s blog here.
Other birds may have streaks or patches of the iridescent blue, in tropical waters we might find fish showing off that colour, I don’t think any flower could quite match it. So the male peafowl gets to have a colour named after him. His home was originally India, he may have arrived in Britain with the Romans, but most of us think of peacocks strolling proudly around the grounds of stately homes. I like to imagine the lord of the manor bringing some home as a gift for the lady of the manor, but would she be so enamoured after constantly hearing their mournful cry? Perhaps she would suggest a banquet; their beauty did not prevent them being eaten, a dish to impress at mediaeval feasts.
Would any creatures from the past have worn peacock blue? I have never been to New Zealand, but it fascinates me because it was blissfully devoid of human beings until a thousand years ago or less. Reminding us that other creatures are there because they are there, not for us to go on holiday to look at or have documentaries made about them. Did the various species of giant moas have wonderfully exotic plumage, with no predators to worry about? But they did…
‘The Haast’s eagle (Hieraaetus moorei) is an extinct species of eagle that once lived in the South Island of New Zealand, commonly accepted to be the Pouakai of Maori legend. The species was the largest eagle known to have existed. Its massive size is explained as an evolutionary response to the size of its prey, the flightless moa, the largest of which could weigh 230 kg (510 lb). Haast’s eagle became extinct around 1400, after the moa were hunted to extinction by the first Maori.’
I wonder what sights greeted the first Polynesian arrivals on these remote islands. How sad moas are no longer with us.
Further back are the species that humans can’t be blamed for making extinct. What colour were pterodactyls? It is now theorised that dinosaurs were not the shades of greens and greys they are given in pictures. Imagine a peacock blue diplodicus or could you take an irridescent blue Tyranosaurus Rex seriously?
Can artists recreate peacock blue? Artists have always sought ways to make blue pigment.
‘ Lapis first appeared as a “true blue” pigment in the 6th century, gracing Buddhist frescoes in Bamiyan, Afghanistan. Around 700 years later, the pigment traveled to Venice and soon became the most sought-after colour in mediaeval Europe. For centuries, the cost of lapis rivalled the price of gold, so the colour was reserved for only the most important figures, such as the Virgin Mary and the most lucrative commissions, the church.’
The Winchester flower festival in the cathedral last year had as its theme the Winchester Bible, the bright red and blue flowers refelecting the colours used for illuminated text.
Or perhaps stained glass best recreates nature’s blue.
Next week’s colour, purple, was chosen by Sandra. If you have a favourite colour you would like to see, tell me in the comments.
Silly Saturday – Unlucky Dip
One of these thirteen pictures, taken from my 99.8% full wordpress library, holds the clue to your luck this week. Which photograph has your name on it? Will it be good or bad luck waiting for you?
Dip into this book.
Friday Flash Fiction – 800 – Dream Machine
Seth tried to hang on to the memories before he opened his eyes; a whole film in technicolour. He had dreamed a whole movie, a brilliant idea for a novel if he could recall it; write a best seller with film makers flocking to his door… that would be a dream. If only he could connect his brain to his computer, time would not be wasted sleeping, unless it was the fact that he was sleeping that produced the ideas. He jumped as his phone vibrated under his pillow and played that irritating tune. Every morning he vowed to change the tune and every evening he forgot. Whatever the melody, it didn’t alter the fact that he had to get up for work.
The school Seth taught at bore no resemblance to the one in his dream, where young minds were nurtured and different talents exposed to produce a team of world changing teenagers with Seth sharing a little of the glory, or quite a lot as he was made Prime Minister. Who would play him in the film? He snapped out of his reverie and looked at the surly faces staring at him… and that was just the staff room. Seth put his empty coffee cup down and stood ready to face the afternoon.
‘Hey Seth, you’ve got a new kid in your English class, he’s in my form, Dad’s a scientist and polymath, seen him on television, goodness knows why he sent his son to this school, something about discovering real life.’
‘He was thrown out of his private school,’ said the head of science ‘too clever for his own good.’
Seth felt his hackles rise; they should be encouraging the clever kids, not putting them down. He strode down the corridor with an idea for the warm up pen and paper creative exercise.
The class was unusually quiet, gathered round the new boy who was talking enthusiastically, his long fingers gesticulating elegantly to illustrate his subject.
‘Without any discussion class, write for fifteen minutes imagining you could plug your brain into a computer while you slept.’
Unusually they settled down quickly. Seth sauntered casually between the desks, the new boy was scribbling furiously, words and hieroglyphics.
‘Isaac isn’t it?’
‘Yes Sir.’
At least the private school had taught him manners.
‘Named after Newton or Asimov?’
‘Both Sir.’
‘Do you enjoy writing?’
‘When it’s my favourite topic, good choice Sir, my father and I have just invented such a device. It didn’t go down too well at my last school, getting the pupils to volunteer; perhaps you would like to have a go?’
So on Friday evening Seth found himself relaxing on a comfortable bed in a very pleasant room with electrodes attached to his head; he didn’t expect it to work, but he did have an idea for a new short story about a writer who finds himself in the hands of mad father and son scientists. It was rather creepy being in the company of the two most intelligent people he had ever met.
‘Our initial aim is to discover if brain waves will translate into images or words or perhaps both’ said Isaac’s father.
Seth drifted off quickly. He was on board the International Space Station with Isaac and his father and the attractive married science teacher he fancied; also bizarrely his mother and the middle aged lady who worked on the till at the Co Op. They had a fantastic plan for saving the Earth from climate change, if only he could remember what the plan was… he woke up with a start.
‘Great, we’ve got some images already.’
Seth looked at the screen as he sipped a welcome cup of tea. A beautiful view of the earth, a view inside the space station, well anybody could get those images off the internet… but not pictures of his mother and everyone in his dream, the lady still in her Co Op uniform, the science teacher in a very short skirt and low cut blouse, floating around showing her figure to full effect. Isaac chuckled.
‘Hey Sir, you fancy Mrs Greening.’
Seth ignored the remark. ‘But we’re not talking, I’m not sure if we spoke in the dream, but we had a plan…’ he rubbed his temples ‘to save the earth.’
‘Let’s try the word document then’ said Isaac’s father.
Seth thrilled when he saw words come up on the screen, he’d written a book in his sleep, he peered closer, something was wrong…
I Captain odf the mosat brillainteam o severs sent up my mother fopr got to,mask me to get milkat the shops mrs greening saya her husband is dead so its okayforhet come up herthees the moonnt asbigasithoughtihave togobalc toearth itstime forscgool wonder if the shuttle is working todayknoitdoesb’tworkanymore ohohmyspacesuitdoesn;t fit ishallppbably implode otrisitsexplode ionspace………….
For more stories, have a look in the book.
What Colour is Your Blog?
Often we round off writers’ group with a timed exercise, the other week it was the colour yellow and it was surprising how much came to mind. I thought
Hey, I could have a different colour blog each week!
So we start with yellow.
Yellow is the oldest colour, the colour of the Sun, watery in winter, golden at sunset and over the equator. The yellow sun mixes with the blue sky to make nature’s green and among the green leaves are the flowers that mimic the sun. Bees love yellow; they wear it and seek it out. I felt guilty when bees bumped into our sun lounge windows, attracted by the bright yellow of the lamps on the windowsill.
Yellow makes a statement, banish cowardice; let yellow represent spring, summer, fun and happiness. It is also a designer statement, the stars on the European Union flag, the colour of smart raincoats, Ikea, our local buses, my website, my kitchen. When we ‘rebranded’ our north facing dining room we painted the walls yellow, went minimalist, replaced bookshelves with large plants and called it the garden room.
When you stroll down the road your spirits are lifted when you pass pretty gardens and at this time of year yellow is in abundance. As daffodils fade tulips come out and wallflowers with their delightful scent. Dandelions are unfairly treated as weeds and are apparently good for you medicinally and nutritionally.
You can seee more flowers at my website.
https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-two-coastal-views/
What is your favourite colour, suggest a colour and I’ll write about it next week.
Understanding The Game of Life
Today’s Game of Life reviews a new anthology; Stevie Turner invited writers and bloggers to contribute. She gave them questionaires about significant life events. I slipped in to this at the last moment, thinking our wedding by the elevated section of the M4 motorway without any parents present would not be significant enough! However I was invited to join in. You can read about some very different weddings in our family. If you want to buy the book all proceeds go to cancer charities. We are all interested in other people’s lives and this is a rare invitation to share some very diffferent lives from your own. Here is the Goodreads review I posted.
A simple idea; ask volunteers to answer a series of questions about a life experience. There are some experiences that most of us have, others that are certainly outside our realm. Even the same sort of experience will be different according to the person, where they live, the other folk in their lives. I loved the honesty of Abbie Johnson Taylor on becoming a carer – would she do it all again? I enjoyed the positivity of Lucy V. Hay on being a teenage mother. Readers may find comfort in knowing other people have undergone the same. We may face events in the future and remember how others in this book dealt with it. But whether you are facing illness or an addiction, one of the messages that seems to be common is that there are some things you have to want to do yourself, you need to help yourself before others can help you.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/44667522-understanding
A Letter to the Sun………
A letter to the Sun and a reply we should all read.
45 DEGREES – TEMPERATURE IN MANY PLACES AROUND THE GLOBE AND SOMEONE WROTE A BEAUTIFUL LETTER TO THE SUN:
Dear
Sun……….
If You may
Please go to Computer Settings
Kindly display Brightness and
Lower your Brightness
We are sweating like pigs
Temperatures are sky-rocketing
Please, it’s too hot to Handle You!
Sun’s
Reply…….
I have not changed any settings
Please go to your settings and
Increase the number of trees
Reduce carbon emission levels
Reduce concrete jungles
Increase number of lakes
Use water wisely and carefully
Instead of bikes, cars
Use bicycles whenever possible
Or go walking it is the best exercise
The
Sun further said…………
My dear children
Basically, You all need to Switch to
‘Human Mode’ from ‘Auto Mode’
Otherwise do not blame me
For the Global Warming
Simple as that…………..
Sunday Salon
Sunday Salon, the occasional blog that brings you all the arts.
Today a rattling good story, two very different theatre experiences and a concert.
She Who Goes Forth by Audrey Driscoll
I posted this review on Amazon.co.uk, but it was rejected! I also posted it on Goodreads, giving it five stars.
Whether you are young or can remember setting out in life on your own, you will connect with France our heroine in this ripping yarn. She is the new girl and nothing in Luxor, Egypt is as she was expecting. France finds herself with a complex set of colleagues and like anyone new does not know what is going on. But with her trusty cello by her side she does not let much daunt her. Although this novel is a fantasy, it portrays real people at an interesting time in history. We are not sure at first what is truth, what is France’s imagination or what part others have played in the strange happenings. Then events start to happen fast and there are terrifying page turning moments as France’s life changes forever.
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2792704117
Whatever your taste in music, drama or films; going out to a live event is always an experience.
The Pavilion, Bournemouth
The Pavilion has been celebrating its ninetieth birthday, not the oldest theatre in the country, but it has seen off two winter gardens and survived several attempts at closure or change.
The actual birthday night was celebrated with a trip back in time, three hours of varied entertainment for less than £10. A municipal orchestra was recreated and rose from the orchestra pit. This was followed by amateur silent film of Bournemouth in 1929 and newsreel films accompanied by the fantastic Compton theatre organ, which can also pop up and down and can make the whole theatre vibrate. At the many keyboards was Donald Mackenzie who plays its sister organ at the Odeon Leicester Square.
http://www.donaldmackenzie.org.uk/
After the interval was a showing of my favourite old musical, 42nd Street, made in 1933 when movies had made a great leap forward from silent to large scale musicals. The first time I watched it was when the lovely Art Deco cinema in Christchurch was having its eightieth birthday in 2011. On that occasion Mark Kermode, film critic from the BBC, introduced the movie and declared how great it was that the little cinema was still using real ( reel ) film. Shortly afterwards the cinema went digital; modern technology has to be embraced to keep these places busy and functioning…
Meanwhile back at the Pavilion I enjoyed the film again, great music and a show business story that is still relevant, the fat bloke with the cigar and the money was Weinstein. As the film finished the organ rose from the pit with a resounding chord and played the National Anthem and yes we did all stand. Happy Birthday followed to round off a good evening.
Lighthouse Arts Centre, Poole
The Lighthouse opened in 1978 and has a concert hall, theatre, studio and cinema. We went to the theatre to see ‘Dracula The Bloody Truth’ a family friendly show with the premise that Bram Stoker stole a true story. Exeter based Le Navet Bete are committed to creating hilarious, physical and totally accessible comedy theatre using creative and engaging storytelling. The four chaps played many roles between them, including all the ladies. Their timing was brilliant as they mistimed everything, knocked scenery over or spoke each other’s lines. By the end of the first half, most of the set had fallen onto the stage. It was hilarious for the adults, but even better, the theatre was filled with the genuine laughter of children.
http://lenavetbete.com/shows/dracula/
Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra, has not been based in Bournemouth since it moved to the Lighthouse; it plays its main season of concerts there and some are broadcast live on BBC Radio 3 – make sure you have your mobile phones turned off! But it still plays some concerts at the Pavilion and also in other towns all over the South West of England, as well as spreading out its members to work with schools and care homes.
Even if you are not interested in classical music you probably have an idea what happens at a live concert and you would be right… audience sits down as orchestra come on and start tuning, leader of orchestra comes on, more applause, conductor and perhaps the soloist comes on; even greater applause and they haven’t even done anything yet, but they look smart. If there are choir seats behind the orchestra and no singing planned the audience can sit up there and get a great view of the percussion section, although I always worry the huge cymbals are going to go flying backwards into the audience as the percussionist strikes them with gusto. I have never tried these seats as it involves lots of clambering around watched by everybody else in the auditorium and it would be embarrassing to trip. On broadcast nights you can watch the radio presenter chatting away silently to the microphone in his little booth at the side of the stage…
https://www.lighthousepoole.co.uk/about/
But every concert can be different and there is plenty to watch. Serious concert goers who all know each other, school parties, restless children and inevitably some people who fall asleep; even the most ardent music lover can find their eyelids, or worse, their head drooping as a busy day catches up with them and they sit in warm comfort soothed by the music… and what of those going for the first time? At one concert, as we all filed up the shallow steps to the exit doors at the back, I heard a woman behind me saying to her chap
‘I feel like I’ve been run over by a tractor.’
You have no soul, it was fantastic.
‘Don’t ever bring me to a live concert again, I don’t mind listening to Classic FM on the radio…’
At a recent concert nobody knew what to expect and the conductor gave us an introduction so we would be prepared. It was the third symphony by Armenian composer Avet Terterian. Two soloists played small wooden instruments called duduks. The piece started with total silence for a good few moments which was surprisingly moving; do we ever hear total silence? This was suddenly broken by the drums. I noticed some of the orchestra had ear plugs and a lady up in the choir seats kept her ears covered the whole time. The duduks, far from being overwhelmed by the orchestra, played piercing notes that took you back to ancient lands. There were other periods of silence and sweet lyrical parts. I could not describe the symphony, but I loved it. There was rapturous applause at the end; it had been an experience.
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 