Environmental heroes of the week. Would you like to live in an Agrihood?
Author: tidalscribe.com
Silly Saturday – Little to Large
A clever corvid who knows there is something in the pipeline.
Pigeons of the Tudor period.
May look sweet, but sought in connection with criminal damage to plants.
Too sweet to eat.
Too fluffy…
Designer coats.
Smart dog about town.
Litttle and large
Field with a view.
Choosing a new coat.
Large
Friday Flash Fiction 369
Trapped
So this was it, what I had always dreaded; this was what it felt like to be paralysed, trapped in a useless body completely at the mercy of others. I wanted to say Well I’ll be off then, but I was going nowhere. I could move my head and arms, I could speak, but I was flat on my back and the rest of my body felt like a trussed oven-ready chicken. No amount of concentration could make my leg move or my body lean over. How dreadful for those left totally paralysed or struck down by a stroke; unable to speak, left to listen fully aware while doctors discuss whether you are a vegetable, alive or dead. I tried to cast these dark thoughts from my mind and concentrate on my own predicament. I had such plans for this year, only this morning I had been strolling in the sunshine, but after tonight my life would never be the same.
I breathed slowly, taking it all in; bright lights, murmuring voices, figures in green moving calmly around, equipment with buttons and red numbers. Perhaps I was experiencing the ultimate human nightmare; the figures all wore masks, everything felt unreal – I could be on an alien spaceship. Had I lost minutes, hours, days of my life?
One of the figures was talking to me. ‘Can you feel that?’
‘Feel what?’ I replied, relieved that he sounded human.
He turned to speak to another figure. ‘No sensation in lower body, blood pressure okay.’ He turned back to me. ‘This is Doctor Campbell, we’re ready to proceed, how are you feeling?’
My surroundings closed in on me. A screen went up, there was only my head which the masked face was talking to, my arms which he was poking things into and a machine above me with its bleeping and flashing numbers. I tried to make intelligent replies, hoping to be seen as an individual not a lump of meat strapped to the table.
The murmurs beyond the screen were getting louder and more excited. Another masked face spoke to me ‘Nearly there now.’
There was a general sigh of relief and satisfaction. ‘Here we are, it’s a Boy!’
Visiting Jane
On Monday we paid a long overdue visit to Jane’s house; Jane Austen’s House in Chawton, Hampshire. I had always imagined the little cottage under siege by coach loads of tourists, timed tickets and queues. Perhaps a Monday school day, arriving soon after opening time, made it a simple and civilised visit that Jane would appreciate.
We parked in the free car park as instructed on the website; all was quiet, rain threatened, but never happened. The wet winter has left the gentle Hampshire countryside lush and green.
Jane’s friends were cheerful and welcoming, the tulips and primroses in the pretty gardens were at their best. It was a bit early to call on the Misses Austen so we roamed the gardens, looked around the bakehouse, enjoyed a moving picture of family life and admired the beautiful quilt given to Jane for her anniversary last year. Everything was seemly, nothing tawdry presented to visitors.
We felt immediately at home when we stepped inside the red brick cottage. The Austen ladies do not own this house, but I would never let on that I knew this. What does that matter when Jane feels so at home here, at peace to write while Cassandra and their aptly named friend Martha take care of the housekeeping. Left an orphan, with just a little money I gather Martha Lloyd became part of the family long ago, not in a position to be independent or find a husband.
The Drawing Room is newly papered in a pretty yellow pattern, Chawton Vine. It was here we met a relative of Jane’s brother Edward, Jeremy Knight, who invited us up to the Great House, as Jane calls it, for lunch later. Who could have foreseen when the Austens sent their son to be adopted by the Knight family that he would be instrumental in making sure his sister’s novels were published.
Upstairs the floorboards creaked and Jane will not have the creaky door fixed as it is a warning of someone coming so she may hide her writing. Mrs. Austen’s room is the largest and is newly decorated with a pretty ribbon trellis pattern wallpaper. The ladies have stitched a beautiful patchwork coverlet. Every window sill had a pretty cup with a posy of spring flowers, testament to how beautifully the ladies keep the cottage.
We didn’t stay too long, Jane’s health has not been good and like all authors she probably can’t wait for visitors to leave so she can return to her writing.
Back outside the rain still held off and we walked up the road in Jane’s footsteps to Chawton House, the merry sound of the local children at playtime ringing in our ears as we passed their school. With fields all around one can see why Jane and Cassandra enjoy two hour walks every afternoon. Up the long driveway to the house it was very quiet, we rang the doorbell and it was quickly answered; we were welcomed inside and shown into the cosy kitchen. We only had time for a scone and tea, as we had another appointment, but promised to come again when we return to see Jane.
Lower Your Expectations!
I always envy Grace when she sets off on one of her journeys – we don’t have a camper van, but I also abhor organised trips. This weekend we only made it as far as Stratford upon Avon – when we were asked at the hotel if we were with the Bridge Group – ‘Certainly Not’ I replied. Looking round Shakespeare’s birthplace and sitting by the river in the sun writing was more my scene.
A wonderful lady I worked with years ago sometimes used to say ‘Lower your expectations’. She would use this phrase whenever we felt jaded or that events were taking a downward turn. It was intended to be droll-and it was, because it always brought a smile to our faces.
But the idea of lowering expectations is not without advantage. If I consider a worst case scenario in life then the outcome will either be a] as I expected or b] not as bad as I expected, both of which are better than a disappointment.
I can apply this approach to all aspects of life. We have just embarked on a new expedition into Europe, intending to travel in directions hitherto unexplored [by us]. The preparations for this odyssey seem endless and difficult, partly due to it’s being the first major road trip of the year and partly because my brain…
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Silly Saturday Sees Signs
Fancy a walk, which way will you go?
Looks like a nice day for the seaside,
but make sure you read the signs.
Perhaps you should move further on…
…or maybe higher up?
…or further inland.
But don’t worry, maybe Someone is looking after you.
Have a good weekend.
Friday Flash Fiction – SixSixty
In Good Spirits
I had hoped to get on the computer this evening to follow up my research at the local library, but my husband’s idiot friend Paul was coming round for dinner with some new update, App or whatever they call them. For all I know he could be a computer genius; as I am a technophobe who only knows how to Google I have no way of judging. Both men dispatched the meal quickly, eager to play with the grown up toy. I was only half listening to what Paul was saying with his mouth full.
‘I’ve really done it this time, what Houdini and Arthur Connan Doyle failed to do; you two are going to be the first to try it out. You both must know some dead people.’
‘What are you talking about Paul?’ I finally asked.
‘Ouija-App, Soulbook, Ethernet; not sure what I’m going to call it yet, that doesn’t matter, the point is it works, it’s true.’
‘What is?’ asked my husband.
‘Haven’t you been listening? I started from the premise that there is nothing out there, only electricity and the radio waves living people have broadcast. Then I formulated the search on the theory that if we did survive after death we would most likely be in a form of electrical energy, after all, don’t our brains work with electrical impulses?’
‘You are no scientist, nor a doctor’ laughed my husband.
‘That’s an advantage, my ideas are fresh and unfettered.’
‘So who did you contact?’
‘Somebody I had never heard of… all the better, I could not know anything about him.’
‘No proof that he ever existed.’
‘Yes, he told me where to find his gravestone.’
‘Another computer geek is just having you on, he was their great granddad or they looked him up on the internet.’
‘No reference to him on Wikipedia, a nobody who lived and died and left nothing behind except the epitaph.’
‘Not a very interesting person to chat to on the other side’ I said.
‘On the contrary, he had fantastic ideas when he was alive, but nobody listened to him. He has been waiting for someone like me to get in touch.’
‘Pudding, coffee?’
‘Bring coffee upstairs to the computer, let’s get started.’
I felt the first misgivings. ‘Are you actually serious?’
‘There he is, my Facebook friend Nathanial.’
Indeed, there was a black and white picture of a Dickensian character.
‘People put old photos on Facebook all the time’ said my husband.
‘But the photos don’t usually write their own comment… look.’
Hello Paul, couldn’t find a better photo than this, I see you have your two cynical friends with you.
Paul tapped at the keyboard, words appeared in the comment box.
‘Give them a chance, this is all new to them.’
A reply came back straight away.
Perhaps they would like to meet the original inhabitants of this house?
A shiver went down my spine, we lived in an old house, I had been researching its history, but perhaps I could play Paul at his own game.
‘Let me type a comment.’
I tapped in ‘Yes I would, if they tell me their names and when they lived here.’
Words appeared instantly in the comments box.
Benjamin and Martha Helston, married 20th June 1876, took the lease on this house 5th July 1876, were blessed with a son Samuel James 8th September1877 and two daughters…
‘Stop, this is creepy, have you been looking at my research notes Paul?’
The writing on the screen continued, while I found the paper notes I had taken at the local library just that afternoon.
…and you can see where he marked his height on his tenth birthday – on the scullery wall where you stripped off that ghastly wallpaper recently.
My husband gasped. ‘Of course SJH, those markings prompted your interest in the history, didn’t they Love, but we haven’t shown Paul yet what we’re doing in that room…’
Every Picture Tells a Story
We have shelves full of them, boxes in the loft; barring a house fire or aircraft crashing onto our roof, a large collection of photograph albums, some inherited, could be passed on into history. Black and white pictures on black pages, sticky pages unpeeling, flip up albums of 6×4 prints. But the days of calling at the chemist to collect a packet of prints, the hoped for best shot out of focus, are a mere memory.
When we joined a camera club over a decade ago, only half the members had converted to digital, now the colour slide show has been replaced by digital images projected from a computer onto a screen. Charity shops are full of old cameras. The real enthusiast used to be someone who had his own dark room, now he has a computer, sophisticated software packages and a good quality printer. Digital photos can be printed out by anyone, a trip to the supermarket machine, put in your memory device and collect.
Unlike a roll of film, digital never runs out. Many computers are full of thousands of unseen images, lost to history as technology changes. From pictures taken on mobile phones of news as it happens, to bumble bees captured with the most expensive macro lens; everyone is a photographer now. I prefer compact cameras that point and shoot. But for the ‘technowhiz’ with the right software and a lot of patience, there is nothing that can’t be done to a digital image; cut down to size, lamp posts erased, colours altered, several snaps melded together or the photograph turned into a painting. My book covers are all created with digital designs using original photographs.
Authors are advised to have a website; you can build your own or find a website provider. I found myself with a template; a digital scrapbook waiting to be filled, not just with words, but with pictures. The means to an end became an end in itself.
Visit my website for seasonal pictures, travel views and a picture quiz.
https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/
Facebook; social interface, time waster, or something more sinister? It does not need to be filled with family photos and intimate details of your life. Artists and photographers just enjoy sharing pictures and many of us relish seeing places we are never likely to visit ourselves.
I have my camera or my smart phone with me all the time, still recording holidays and family events, but looking out for the unusual and interesting, snapping anything that might be suitable for future blogs or Instagram.
Ironically, despite this revolution and the explosion of digital colour everywhere we look, people love old black and white photographs; most of us are intrigued if we visit an exhibition. We enjoy the iconic images and the best photographers of that era took beautiful pictures. There is a clarity and sharpness in black and white photographs that has never been present in colour images. The other attraction is that past lives are captured, whether it is a crowded city street or an individual’s gaze, every picture tells a story.
It might seem that in modern life onlookers are all too ready to snap or even film disasters with their smart phones, but keen photographers are often reluctant to take photographs of people going about their normal day, fearful they will be seen as terror suspects or unsavoury characters. It would be a shame if the early Twenty First Century was represented by rural scenes and cityscapes devoid of human beings, I enjoy taking natural shots of people.
Visit my Beachwriter’s Blog to see my latest pictures of people and places.
https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-five-beach-writer-s-blog/
Silly Saturday – Strange Species
Is your computer safe?
Are you safe?
Or are you having flights of fancy?
Who’s at your window?
… at your door?
…or in your garden?
Trotting by your house?
In your neighbour’s garden or…
…dropping by for dinner.
…and if you get the chance, don’t forget to check who has access to your computer.
Friday Flash Fiction – Fortunes
On The Pier
I did the test that morning, it was positive. I should have been pleased, but all I could think about was last night’s Crimewatch. Of course I had no proof, just a gut feeling, so instead of phoning I went for a walk down to the sea front to clear my head. I wandered onto the pier and that’s when I had the idea.
I stood beside the gypsy caravan and read the sign.
LET ROSA TELL YOUR FORTUNE… AND GIVE ADVICE
Nervously I climbed the two wooden steps and opened the creaky door. It was pretty and cosy inside, not scary at all. A grandmotherly figure beckoned me to sit down; her cheeks were rosy and her dark eyes sympathetic. She took my hands but did not look at them.
‘Er… do I have to pay?’
‘No dear, I would never take money from one so deeply troubled.’
My mouth was dry, I didn’t speak.
‘You will have your wish, a beautiful son; but if you want to see him grow up you know what you must do today. Go now.’
‘But I don’t understand…’ I mumbled, as she motioned me out.
But I did understand. I climbed down the steps, closing the door behind me and reached into my bag for my mobile. I tapped in the number that was etched on my brain, the Crimewatch number.
More flash fiction and longer stories in Someone Somewhere.
Take a peek.
