Month: September 2024

Thursday Tiny Tale – Have You Stayed With Us Before?

~ tidalscribe.com ~ 15 Comments

While I have been on holiday Charlotte Charlington has been writing more about her new leading character, Lottie Lincoln.

Lottie nearly fell out of the train. The platform seemed a long way down and she had got flustered trying to work out whether her wheelie weekend case should go before or after her. At least she had arrived at the right station.

The invitation to visit had come from some vague cousin of her late husband; neither of them had many relatives and Callum had never mentioned a cousin Ruth. She had been lurking on the last page of his old address book, so Lottie had added her to the list of people to write and inform of her husband’s sudden death. There was no way of knowing if she was still living at the same address near Peterborough or even if she was still alive, so Lottie was surprised to soon receive a reply and an invitation to visit. Her writer’s mind suspected an ulterior motive, did they assume she was a rich widow? But her author’s mind also thought Ruth’s family could provide excellent inspiration for her writing. She had been relieved to hear the large blended family had no room for her to stay in comfort and had booked the recommended local posh hotel.

Lottie checked her phone again. The latest of several text messages said Si would pick her up at the front of the little station in five minutes. No other passengers were loitering looking out for lifts so presumably he would find her. When she saw a young man jump out of a scruffy white van she wished she had taken a taxi.

‘Hey Lottie, over here.’

Her case twisted sideways as she stepped off the curb. Husbands were so useful for dealing with luggage.

Si quickly appeared at her side.

‘I was coming over to help.’

He picked the case up with ease and slung it into the back of the van, setting a dog barking. Lottie winced. Si led her to the passenger door.

‘I hope you’re more athletic than Gran.’

Lottie hoped he didn’t think she was as old as his grandmother.

‘Step’s a bit high up, just swing yourself in, sorry about the mess.’

He swept crisp packets off the seat and made an attempt to move empty water bottles and drink cans out of the way of her feet. A larger fury head suddenly appeared between the seats. Lottie hastily moved her right arm away from the drooling mouth.

‘That’s Brutus, quite harmless. Hey Brute, you haven’t been furtling around in Lottie’s luggage have you?’

Lottie shuddered.

They swung out of the car park at full speed and hurtled through featureless streets till they pulled up at a straggling building that could be a pub, a hotel or an office block. Si left her to clamber out while he fetched her case and let Brutus out.

‘Okay Brute, you can get back in the front seat now.’

He strode up to the glass doors and Lottie hoped he would leave her at the steps to regain her composure.

‘Never been inside this place before, um reception this way, I’ll leave you at the desk. Oh I nearly forgot, Gran gave me a note for you, just to tell you where we’re all meeting up for dinner. Right, gotta go, see you later.’

A young woman behind the desk smiled then rattled off some questions by rote. ‘Have you stayed with us before? What was your name? Is it just yourself staying? Would you like to book breakfast, any allergies?’

Lottie supposed this was what it would be like, going on holiday by oneself. She didn’t count this as a holiday and hoped she looked like she was away on business. Lottie realised the girl was still talking and handing her a blank rectangle of white plastic.

‘It hasn’t got any writing on it.’

‘For security, just swipe it over the lock, the door is a bit heavy, fire door.. Through the double doors, turn left and you’ll see the lift, room 424.’

The phone on the desk rang and the girl answered before Lottie had a chance to say she didn’t like lifts. She reminded herself she was a successful author who had stayed in hotels for conferences, but Callum had always come along as well.

She pulled her shoulders back and tried to look blasé as other guests sauntered past. In the lift she pressed the button for the fourth floor, held her breath and closed her eyes. Stepping out she was confronted by three doors with room numbers and selected 413-429. She entered a dark corridor, squeezing past a trolley full of sheets and toiletries and cups. 414, 415… the corridor took a sharp turn and became darker and narrower. 419, 420… she was confronted by a set of steps and another corner. How would she ever find her way out again.

Once more she held her breath as she pressed the plastic card against the lock. On the second try there was a flash of green light and with great difficulty she pushed the door open, tripping over the case as she squeezed through, the door was determined to slam shut.

Inside, the décor was the latest in interior trends, grey. Lottie thought longingly of her little cottage, then reprimanded herself. Ladies her age were still out reporting in terrible war zones so she should cope with this weekend. She opened the note, wondering where or when she was actually going to meet Ruth.

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Roses

~ tidalscribe.com ~ 18 Comments

When I arrived, Uncle Brian was furtling around in the compost heaps.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Potpourri potential.’

He was a man of few words.

‘I can’t imagine you will find anything fragrant there.’

‘Potpourri for insects, a quick way to attract all sorts of creatures when you are rewilding your garden.’

‘The customers who come to Grandma’s rose nursery are unlikely to be into rewilding are they?’

‘Sell on the internet, besides, roses are going.’

‘Going?’

‘Yup, going same way as your gran.’

He turned his head and nodded towards the Victorian brick tool shed, behind which smoke spiralled into the air. Now he had drawn my attention I noticed the divine scent of wood smoke and wandered in that direction. My grandmother, his mother, had requested she be cremated and her ashes placed in her favourite rose bed, but the cremation was not taking place till next week. I tiptoed round into the yard to be confronted by a tangle of burning rose wood.

‘Has there been some kind of rose disease?’

I did not know much about Grandma’s beloved roses, but I knew she inspected every leaf and petal for signs of spottling.

‘No, told you, roses are going, getting a rotavator in, then let the grass grow, the seeds blow and the weeds return.’

It was the longest speech he had ever made.

‘Does Mum know what you are doing?’

‘Nope, doesn’t need to, this was left to me.’

It was true that Brian had been the one who lived and worked here and frankly we assumed Grandma left the nursery and house to him as the prospect of him working or living elsewhere was unlikely.

A few weeks later we took Grandma’s ashes with us to the Chelsea Flower Show where she had had many successes with her prize roses. We met up with her good friend Gerald, a Chelsea Pensioner who had a red rose named after him. He was wearing a ‘Captain Gerald’ rose bud in his button hole and took us to a quiet spot in a rose garden where the Pensioners liked to sit and where three of his rose bushes took pride of place. No one was around so we quickly interred the ashes in the bed and left Gerald to his memories.

A few more weeks passed and we hadn’t heard much from Uncle Brian, but that wasn’t unusual. Mum thought we should pay a duty visit soon. That evening we sat down to watch Gardeners’ World, commenting on roses that weren’t as wonderful as Grandma’s.

‘Actually, I never really liked roses in the garden,’ said Mum ‘all that trouble and most of the year they are prickly skeletons. But birthdays, Xmas, new babies what did I always get? Another rose; climbers, ramblers, patio pots, bushes, old classics, new varieties named after us….’

‘How come we have so few in the garden then?’

‘I don’t think roses liked me, they never thrived and often died. Brian had the right idea.’

As if he had heard her the presenter moved on to the next segment.

‘While many people treasure their roses, others feel the need for a change. We visit a former rose nursery in Surrey where all the roses have been dug up and the whole area rewilded. Brian Floribunda has just been recognised as holding the national collection of dandelions.’

There was Uncle Brian standing amongst waist high grass surrounded by tall dandelions waving in the breeze.

‘How long did it take you to establish this wonderful collection?’

‘Few weeks, they pop up everywhere given the chance, quick turn around, not long to breed new varieties.’

‘How many varieties are there?’

‘Fifty Seven so far, just working on creating a blue dandelion.’

‘That sounds incredible or impossible.’

‘Not as difficult as producing a true black… got to get on…’

Uncle Brian turned away and the presenter was unable to get any more conversation out of him. The camera panned round the Field of Gold.

‘Grandma must be turning in her rose bed’ I said.

‘Especially as she never managed to appear on Gardeners World’ said Mum.

Unblogging the Drain

~ tidalscribe.com ~ 41 Comments

Are you completely bloggled? Lots of us are apparently. WordPress changes things every day, or perhaps in the middle of the night, depending on which continent you live. Writing on your phone on a bus going over potholes is not the best way to do things on line, but I can read a blog such as Sally on Smorgasbord, the Like button works, I write a comment and it is published, probably with typos because of the rattly bus and Sally has answered before I get off the bus… Back at home on my trusty desk top with big television screen I write an erudite comment on an intelligent blog, WP asks me to log in, even though I am logged in. I do that and the comment disappears… I’m sure all the blogs I follow seem to work differently and of course we cannot se what our own blogs look like to others.

If I disappear into the clouds, it might not be WordPress’s fault. My sister is over from Australia and staying with me for a month. We are going to do some trips if the trains are working… I might persuade her to write a guest blog.

What else do you do on line and wonder why – like always losing Wordblitz…

Or are you in a controlling relationship with an owl who has promised to teach you another language?

Or are you addicted to Wordle?

Tell us what is leaving you bloggled this week.