This week I am a guest at Sally’s wonderful Smorgasbord blog where she regularly promotes other writers, as well as writing her own interesting blogs.
Do pop over and find out which of my novels Sally is sharing.
https://smorgasbordinvitation.wordpress.com/2025/05/15/smorgasbord-book-promotions-2025-
‘Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own Mum with Dad in the Antarctic?’
‘Everest base camp.’
‘Wherever, I know it’s somewhere cold and far away.’
I was of course looking forward to the peace and quiet. Naturally I had the normal worries about Amy going off to Australia for her gap year, but I was sure she had inherited her father’s adventurous but capable spirit. She was going with Lizzy her sensible best friend, inseparable since nursery.
The first week it was strange, but friends at work suggested a few outings, glad to have a break from their own husbands who showed no inclination to leave Ealing, let alone go on adventures broad.
I had always had Amy and Ben keeping me busy when Kit was away. Now Ben was grown up, in theory at least and teaching English as a foreign language somewhere nearer to Everest than Ealing.
The new girl at work was very quiet, but apparently she was highly regarded down in packing, where I used to work as a part timer when the children were in primary school. She was dexterous and quick and could pack anything. The company specialised in delivering high quality food in designer biodegradable boxes. We would source and deliver any request from romantic ready dinners to Tower Bridge birthday cakes.
I had progressed to tasting and testing and then upwards to the busy office, where we would source unlikely ingredients and make sure no delivery was ever late. I don’t think Kit or the children ever appreciated what a high powered and stressful job I did, especially in the last half a dozen years with all the world’s troubles affecting supplies.
Our boss likes to look after his staff, it’s why I have stayed so long. I was the first to agree we should hang on to Flinty, the new girl. What I didn’t expect was to become a foster mother.
When the boss said ‘You have a spare room now you’re an empty nester?’
I replied ‘…sort of.’
Flinty had never revealed much about her life and everyone in packing seemed to have heard a different version. Her family lived up north, her mother had gone off to Spain to find herself, her father had just gone off. She was house sharing with uni students, she was house sharing with drug addicts, she was living with her boyfriend’s parents, an aunt had taken her in.
Whatever the truth, it now seemed she was not living anywhere and there was no longer a boyfriend. All she needed was somewhere to sleep for a few nights and HR were going to look into finding her somewhere. She came home with me that evening.
I wasn’t sure how to be a landlady, was I in loco parentis or was she just a lodger? I made us both dinner, thinking of the cosy TV meal I had planned for myself. While it was in the oven I rushed up to Amy’s room and grabbed her personal things and some of the clothes in her wardrobe and stashed everything in Kit’s office that had one been Ben’s bedroom.
Flinty was happy with the room and approved of Amy’s décor. I was thankful I had persuaded Kit last year we should absorb the box room into our bedroom and create an en-suite shower room. Flint was very happy to have exclusive use of the family bathroom.
The next morning we established she would help herself to breakfast, especially as she started work earlier than me. She also assured me that she did not expect me to cook for her and she would ‘sort herself out’.
Over the next few days I realised this meant endless ready meals, mainly eaten in her/Amy’s room. She really wasn’t too much trouble, except for the bin filling up with the ready meal packaging and the washing machine being on when I was in bed. It wasn’t for long, I consoled myself and I only had to call the police once.
I don’t know how the angry ex boyfriend found out where she lived, but she was not pleased to see him, hysterical in fact. The poor neighbours wondered what all the shouting and breaking glass was about and also called the police. We were quite impressed how quickly they turned up. I think old Audrey next door had mentioned guns. The main thing was they took him away and I made coffee for the three of us as the nice woman police officer stayed for a good while. Strangely she had apparently met Flinty before and was surprised I did not know ‘what was going on.’
Flinty retreated to bed as soon as the officer had left. The next morning she sat eating her cereal as if nothing had happened and was soon out the door and off to work.
I checked my phone, not expecting any messages yet from Kit. It was long agreed that I would only hear if there was an emergency when communication was so difficult, so I got a fright when I saw a text message home tonight, broken ankle, don’t worry.
Kit had a charmed life, no harm ever seemed to come to him. At least he wasn’t in hospital and an ankle was hardly the end of the world, but what a time for it to happen. I messaged back to get some idea what time he might arrive, then I had to get myself off to work.
No mention was made of last night’s adventure, if Flinty had told them down in packing, the gossip had not made it upstairs. I got one text from Kit and decided I could just get home before he arrived back.
As I walked up my garden path the front door was flung open, it was not Kit, but Amy.
‘Mum, we’ve had burglars, my room!’
Before I could explain I saw a police car come round the corner followed by a taxi. It was the police woman from last night.
‘Nothing to worry about, this is just a welfare visit.’
Kit was hobbling up the garden path behind her.
Flinty disappeared, she did not return to our house and was never seen at work again. Somehow that made it harder to explain to Kit and Amy what had been going on, when it was as if she had never existed.
The police officer questioned me as if I was hiding her and questioned Amy and Kit as to whether they were involved in ‘all this business.’
Kit questioned Amy as to why on earth she was back so soon. It transpired that she had realised she didn’t like travelling, especially when Lizzie met a chap in the first week and decided to cross the Nullabor Plain with him in his camper van.
I was left to try and explain to the neighbours.
This tale continues from last week’s…
It’s bad enough still having your parents as your next of kin when you’re my age, but how will I explain my dreadful situation when they arrive at my hospital bed?
I can’t eat or move much yet and it would be lonely in this isolation room if it weren’t for the constant stream of medical experts coming to peer and probe. Beside me is the incubator containing my tiny identical twin, still attached by the faux umbilical cord that formed out of goodness knows which bits of my insides. Apparently he was well tangled up in my viscera, hence the complicated and dangerous surgery, which I may or may not survive.
At least I am not responsible for him now. My parents, his parents are his official guardians, good luck with that Bro. I was an only child, a surprise, an afterthought, not a good surprise as I overheard mother say to aunty and another time telling a friend they came to parenthood ‘too late in the day’.
Anyway, they need to come into the hospital for a medical, moral and legal discussion about what should happen to Little Bro. Oh no, here they are, what am I going to say, I thought my team would be with them.
‘Oh my God what happened, not that wretched motorbike of yours?’
‘No Mother, I have never had an accident and it’s a moped not a motorbike.’
‘That’s a relief, so what did happen?’
‘There is no easy way to say this. I had a parasitic conjoined twin inside me for years, well all of my life and now he’s in that incubator.’
I pressed the emergency button, my father had fainted when he looked in the Perspex case. Mother had rushed out of the room screaming, causing chaos in the corridor, no doubt staff and visitors alike wondering what was going on. There was even more chaos in my room with the crash team thinking I was the emergency. It must have been in all the confusion that a visitor popped his head round the door and took a few snaps on his phone. That’s how we ended up a social media sensation and headlines on the evening news.
Unfortunately they got the story completely wrong.
BABY USED AS LIVING DONOR TO CURE TERMINALLY ILL MILLIONAIRE
The only positive was that they did not have my name and they could not know Baby Bro’s name, because he had not been given one. That was up to my parents, but they wanted nothing to do with him, especially when it was broached to them at an urgent meeting with the hospital lawyers that the facts should be given to the public to stop the awful speculation that was ruining the hospital’s reputation.
The family court decided they would not be fit parents and it was recommended I should be Bro’s guardian as I was his next of kin.
Baby Bro was now three days old, or the same age as me, opinion was divided. We were still joined, but doctors were worried he was gaining strength and weight, while I was becoming weaker. As Bro could not read or write only I could sign the consent form for the uncertain medical procedure to separate us.
I forced myself to look at him. After all, there was a strong possibility he would not survive. I don’t much like babies anyway, though I always presumed if I had one of my own I might like it. Baby Bro did not look like a baby, he looked just like me only tiny. I was repelled. If he lived, no one knew what would happen, would he grow, did he have a mind? As I grappled with these thoughts he smiled at me. I felt sick, could he read my mind, our mind?
He lived. I was put in a recovery room by myself, a nurse reassured me I could go to the special care unit and see him soon.
Baby Bro was made a ward of court as I was considered not fit to care for him yet. In fact no one was sure how his care should be handled, it was a complex case that must go to the high court. Various groups started gathering outside the hospital, none of them quite sure what they were protesting about.
I was soon fit to leave hospital. I had never felt so well physically, after all, for the first time in my life I was no longer supporting another body. I had been subject to a barrage of tests, my DNA samples given, now I wanted to get on with my life. I was smuggled out of the hospital and returned to my flat, not completely free, I was warned not to leave the local area and advised to keep a low profile, someone had leaked my name.
So here I am, walking down the street, the late afternoon sun behind me, feeling like a normal person. I hope Baby Bro is in good hands, the experts know what they are doing… well there’s nothing I can do until, until what I’m not sure.
Have you ever had that experience when the sun is low in the sky and you think someone is behind you, but it is just the long shadow of a person yards behind. A shadow caught up with me and was beside my shadow on the pavement, identical to my shadow. I turned to look. There was nobody beside me or behind me. I quickened my pace, the shadow kept level alongside my shadow.
When you let your partner pick your holiday hotel.
When your wish for a pony comes true at last.
Which is your garden – rewilding or OCD?
When you wonder if it was a good idea to have coffee at the garden centre.
Artist denies paintings were actually done by his toddler.
Scientist close to bringing back extinct species…
It’s the sort of article you read in the tabloids or the rabbit hole you fall into when you are tempted to scroll down on the internet. There was a boy at junior school who always had ghoulish ‘true stories’ to tell. I was never sure whether to believe him, but we wanted to and it was a bit dull in class after he moved away.
When I became a sardonic teenager I realised how ridiculous his tales had been, though I would have given him credit for his imagination if we ever met again.
As I turned into a sensible adult a strange thing happened; television documentaries, tiny cameras in operating theatres and Wikipedia provided real true stories. It turned out that there were girls with two heads and boys with four legs. The stuffed two headed lamb we saw in a glass case at the ‘House of Horrors’ on holiday had nothing on real two headed people who talked on television and went to school. Yes, real life could be truly bizarre and nature played jokes.
When I started getting mystery pains, or rather when I could no longer ignore mystery pains and the strange lump I could feel, I went to the doctor. An appointment came through for my scan, can’t remember which machine it was, but it made lots of noise and I did not like being in it. Of course the operator is not allowed to tell you anything and just mumbled something about a report going to my GP. I was just glad to get dressed and get out of there down to the hospital Costa Coffee. I was beginning to relax with my strong coffee and a lemon tart poised towards my mouth when my mobile rang.
‘This is Doctor Jekyll, are you still in the hospital grounds? Good. Have you eaten anything in the past couple of hours?’
Puzzled I put my lemon tart down.
‘Good, now there’s nothing to worry about, but I would like to examine you and possibly do an exploratory operation. As soon as possible. Now. No you don’t need to know where to go, I’m sending someone down to fetch you.’
I didn’t even get a chance to finish my coffee before someone in a uniform appeared and guided me into the depths of the hospital. It was not long before I was undressed and lying on a couch, being prodded and monitors applied. One good thing, I knew I was in good health, heart and everything working properly and fit for surgery. I was just about to ask when the operation was going to take place when the next thing I knew I was waking up in the recovery room with all sorts of tubes attached to me.
Doctor Jekyll was at my side promptly.
‘The good news is, it was not a malignant tumour. The bad news, it was a very complicated operation and the surgery was invasive.’
‘I don’t understand, what did you find?’
‘A baby.’
This would be a shock for most people. It was certainly a shock for me as I am a man.
‘How on earth…are you trying to tell me I’m a hermaphrodite?’
‘We don’t use that term these days, but you are not. Now you have heard of conjoined twins? Yes of course, but have you heard of parasitic twins? So you have seen old drawings and photos of people with partially formed bodies appended to themselves on Beetleypete’s blog… who or what is that? No I’m not a blogger, never heard of WordPress. Now I need you to pay attention. Your parasitic twin just happened to be completely inside you, very unusual and it… he seems to have been having a development spurt, otherwise you would not have noticed.’
‘This is a bit hard to take in, but at least I’m rid of it. How soon can I go home, I’m feeling okay.’
‘That’s all the pain killers, you have had a very serious operation and you will be monitored in intensive care. But we also have an ethical problem. We managed to save the baby.’
‘WHAT! Um what are you going to do with it?’
‘Him… well at the moment he is still attached to you by his, for want of a better word, his umbilical cord. Now do you want to see him before we discuss how to proceed? ‘
I thought of that boy at school, he would have wanted me to look, ready to relate the story to anyone who would listen. Somehow my schoolboy morbid curiosity took over and as instructed by the doctor I turned my head to the other side of the bed and there in an incubator was my baby brother. Or more accurately, if you put a pair of glasses on him he would be an exact miniature replica of me.
My guest today is one of our local authors, Greg Duncan.
J: Greg, you have recently published a historical novel with the intriguing title Champagne in a Broken Teacup. What’s the book about?
G: Without giving too much away, here’s a short summary I wrote for Amazon.
In the spring of 1940 recently married Marie-Claire is blissfully pursuing her career as a freelance artist in Paris. She has no idea that in early May Hitler’s armies will invade France and rip her life apart. In the book we follow her life as tragedies strike and she is forced to flee Paris to escape from the Gestapo. Using a false name and identity she begins a new life in the small provincial French town of Nevers. She finds unexpected inner strength as a resistance worker but her previous life in Paris catches up with her.
J: What inspired you to write it?
G: As a young boy growing up in Canada I was fascinated by the stories I was told about my French aunt. During WW2 she was an art teacher living in the small French town of Nevers where she became a document forger and fighter in the French resistance. As if that wasn’t fascinating enough for a young boy, even more exciting were some of the stories of her escape from the Germans.
Fast forward several decades to the time I retired and started to focus on my interest in writing and inevitably the stories of my aunt’s adventures came to mind. However, I realized I didn’t know enough detail about her life to turn it into a stand alone story and unfortunately she had passed away many years earlier. I decided I needed to find out more about the world she would have lived in and what life would have been like for her in occupied France.
Mare-Therese Pellissier 1949
Thanks to the internet and the digitization of many documents I was able to find out far more than I expected. I found it quite moving to be able to read the very newspapers my aunt would have been reading nearly a century ago. I was even able to look at copies of leaflets that the RAF dropped over France during the war – leaflets that my aunt would have picked up in the streets of Nevers and read. I was amazed to find out that the RAF dropped over 640 million such leaflets over France.
Like most of us I had been taught about the big battles and political aspects of the war but virtually nothing about the lives of the ordinary citizens. As my research progressed I became more and more fascinated reading about the things which affected people’s daily lives and the things they did to fight back against the German occupation. I decided that what I wanted to do was write a fictional novel that incorporated the stories I’d been told about my aunt interwoven with historical reality.
J: How much of the novel is true and how much is fiction?
G: That’s a good question. In one sense, being a fictional novel my characters are fictional. On the other hand some of the events included in the story are portrayals of events which involved my aunt – but obviously I can’t tell you what they are right now as that would give away too much of the plot. What I can say is that the picture on the back cover of the book, of German soldiers in the rain, was actually drawn by my aunt in Nevers in 1941 when she was a resistance forger. It is one of the few things I have of hers. It hangs on the wall beside my desk and helped inspire me to write the book.
The historical events mentioned in the book are real as I wanted my characters to react to the actual events of the time. Although a lot of what my characters experience and do may not have happened to my aunt they are based on my research and on true stories of what people actually did in the resistance at that time.
J: Did you spend a long time doing the research?
G: Yes, and I enjoyed the research almost as much as writing the book. I became engrossed in reading about such things as forging techniques, rat bombs and pencil detonators as well as more dramatic activities such as derailing trains and blowing up fuel dumps.
I was also fascinated by the small details I discovered during my research which I’ve never seen in a history book. For example, the fact that within six weeks of the fall of France the newspapers reported that it was now illegal for bakers to make croissant or brioche.
J: Illegal for the French to make croissant?
G: Yes, at first I thought the report might be some sort of joke by the newspaper, but thanks to the internet I was able to access and read the actual regulations issued by the Vichy government..
Also thanks to the internet I was able to research locations in Nevers. I even found a 1940’s picture of the steps of the Rue de Calvaire – a place which plays an important part in the story.
Nevers 1940 Rue de Calvaire
J: Tell me about the title. It’s so unusual.
G: The title is critical to the story so I can’t tell you too much about it. All I can say is I needed a title which would be unique and yet fit in the plot as plausible.
J: I enjoyed reading your novel and gave it a five star review on Amazon as a ‘cracking good read’. What have other people said?
G: I’ve had a lot of positive feedback. In fact several people have said the whole story would make a great film.
J: I agree. And before you go, that important question. Where can people get a copy of Champagne in a Broken Teacup?
G: The book is available via Amazon as a paperback, a hardback, a Kindle eBook or via Kindle Unlimited. Our website https://www.kenebec.com?d has a direct link to Amazon for this book and our other books.
I’d like to thank you for asking me to talk about Champagne in a Broken Teacup. I’m not sure how many of your readers are local but if they’re interested I’d just like to add that I’ll be giving a talk about the research behind the book in June at the Sturminster Newton Literary Festival.
Thanks for coming along Greg and good luck with your book sales and festival talk.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 15 March 2025
This is a cracking good story and a very well written novel. Paris under German occupation in World War Two is the setting. This is history, but the novel goes far deeper than the classic black and white photographs of German soldiers marching past the Arc de Triomphe. The author takes us into the lives of happy young newly-weds and their friends. This novel is inspired by the author’s aunt who worked for the resistance and is backed up by careful research. Far from being a dry recounting of the times, we are soon wrapped up in the lives of young and older Parisiens determined to fight for their country as violence and the death of friends and family becomes a reality. The Germans are not the only enemy as informers and traitors make it impossible to know who to trust, keeping us in suspense in every chapter.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Champagne-Broken-Teacup-Adventures-resistante-ebook/dp/B0DPVJNZRM/
Scrambled and bloggled words looking back on the week.
Why not go off on a Mermaid Tail Trail, which would be more environmentally friendly than blasting off in a toy rocket for eleven minutes. How does the all women ‘crew’ who presumably didn’t know how to steer it let alone orbit, inspire girls?
Valentina Vladimirovna Tereshkova is the real heroine. She was the first woman in space, having flown a solo mission on Vostok 6 on 16 June 1963. She orbited the Earth 48 times, spent almost three days in space and is the only woman to have been on a solo space mission.
At least one person has been enjoying dipping into my new book with their coffee and cake. Actually it is my sister in Australia, but Amazon don’t know that, so how come Amazon would not let her post a review?!
It has been a long while since I reviewed books, well not just in my head… and back when I was reviewing, Amazon constantly rejected my reviews. I posted them in my Sunday Salon blog, but obviously the authors would want them on Amazon. When I recently finished reading an excellent book by a member of our writers’ group, I warned him about review problems, but hey presto, I soon had the email to announce it was live. This inspired me to write long overdue reviews for the other three published writers in our group and as a handy experiment to see how many reviews Amazon accepts. Two went live straight away, while I heard nothing about the third. What to do, it’s enough to give any writer a complex. Thankfully THREE days later I got the good news email.
So here are my reviews, take the opportunity to have a look at the very different books we write.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Champagne-Broken-Teacup-Adventures-resistante-ebook/dp/B0DPVJNZRM
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Camino-Three-Journeys-Tricia-Fairclough/dp/1916193390
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Pocket-Full-Pennys-collection-poems/dp/B0BLFWPMZW
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Pick-Up-Pieces-Didi-Dundee-ebook/dp/B0CTWC4CGP
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tidalscribe-Tales-Janet-Gogerty-ebook/dp/B0DWV9J83V
Good news ( for me ) I just this moment discovered I have my first review for Tidalscribe Tales, from Canada, thanks Audrey.
You can soon read a ‘live’ interview with Greg Duncan, author of ‘Champagne in a Broken Teacup’.
Do you review books on Amazon, what has your experience been?
Look out soon for the Tail Trail there are 45 to find in Christchurch, Bournemouth and Poole, so if you are local you might beat me to it.
If you read the April 1st post, it wasn’t a joke…
It was Tuesday 14th April, only two weeks to go until the start of the new thirteenth month; it had not been an April Fool’s joke. In the USA plans and celebrations were well under way to welcome Trumpril, the new late spring month.
In Israel it was 10 Nissan Anno Mundi 5785, in China it was Ding Wei Day, Geng Chen month, Yi Si year, Year of the Snake. Other lands were waking up to 9, Shawwal, AH 1446…
There were few countries who were well organised or willing enough to change to the new Trumpian calendar in such a short amount of time. In truth many were saying to themselves, whose idea was it anyway to start using the Gregorian calendar in the first place?
In Britain it was 3025 and soon time to celebrate renewal at Pink Moon. The return to the Druid calendar had been the subject of much discussion. Brexiteers and atheists alike took some pleasure in dismissing a calendar that was a European construct and classic example of the church telling everyone what to do. The Prime Minister reminded the people of the United Kingdom that they had already celebrated Ostara, the spring equinox, so there was nothing strange about the Druid Calendar.
The Druids had been a little uncertain, or felt no need to put a date on creation, so after consultation with experts from such Radio Four programmes as ‘The Infinite Monkey Cage’ and ‘More or Less’, a Cabinet meeting was held. It was decided the easiest way to work out the year the Druid calendar started was to round it up to the nearest thousand years. While BBC Verify were still checking out the facts, the Prime Minister had already announced that Westminster would be moving to Stonehenge. The Chancellor confirmed this would save a great deal of taxpayers’ money as Stonehenge needed less repairs than the Houses Of Parliament.
Joy had news for our art group, she had her new bus pass… at the age of eighty.
We all had something to say.
About time too, wouldn’t be without mine.
Why did you wait so long. I am looking forward to getting mine, but I’ve got to wait another thirty years.
Are you serious, you have never been on a bus?
‘Unless you count being born on one.’
Our imaginations went into overdrive…
‘At least my mother used to say You must have been born on a bus every time I left a door open.’
Buses have doors these days Joy, the Routemaster has been out of service for twenty years.
Our group varied in age and athletic ability and conversation progressed to discussion of various forms of transport from bicycles to E-scooters and back to cars and buses. Joy was joined at the hip to her car, but it transpired that Joy and the car had both failed their MOT.
‘I didn’t say I was actually going to go on a bus, the bus pass is just in case.’
You must at least have a go.
We all had bus stories, Mandy was expert at manoeuvring her double buggy and six shopping bags on board and I exclaimed how lucky she was to have floors that lowered and space to park. No folding up McClarren buggies for her. Maggie’s bus journey to the hospital to have her baby was equalled by Ron’s travelling from Land’s End to Berwick upon Tweed, using only his bus pass.
The next day I stood at the bus stop with Joy. She had reluctantly agreed to a trial run with moral support. We were at the second stop at the beginning of the route so Joy would be eased gently into the experience. The sunny spring day belied a sharp east wind and I prayed we wouldn’t have to wait long, having told Joy we had two frequent routes to choose from.
‘Why are we going into town, aren’t all the shops closing down?’
‘Not all of them, anyway that’s where the bus goes.’
‘How long do we have to wait?’
‘Not long, look at the bus ap on my phone, you can see the bus coming up the hill.’
Joy peered at my phone screen, failing to see the tiny toy bus shaped arrow moving along the map. We were so busy looking, a bus sailed by before I had a chance to put my hand out.
I always have my bus pass safely in my pocket, ready to produce immediately I’m on board. I hadn’t thought to prepare Joy for the operation. The next bus soon came along, but she spent five minutes fumbling in her handbag for her purse, then five minutes fumbling in her purse for her bus pass. It would have to be that grumpy driver.
I always head straight for the back half of the bus, or better still, upstairs on a double decker, smugly glad I don’t yet have to sit in the front seats with their little signs ‘Please offer these seats to elderly or disabled passengers’. Not actually forbidden so Joy happily plonked herself down in the front seat. I tried to tactfully urge her further back.
‘What was wrong with those seats?’
‘They’re for the elderly and…’
‘How old do you have to be, I’m a pensioner.’
‘But a spritely one, it’s only your eyes that failed the MOT.’
She crossed over the aisle and pulled down a folding seat.
‘The elderly won’t be wanting these ones.’
‘We can’t sit there, that’s the space for wheelchairs and prams.’
‘At least you didn’t make me go upstairs.’
Fortunately the bus soon started filling up with baby buggies, walking sticks and crutches to prove my point.
‘Goodness, how many more walking wounded are coming on board, oh surely she’s not allowed on board with that!’
A lady in a large designer motorised wheelchair/scooter contraption had just about made it up the ramp the driver had put down for her, but it looked as if she was also having her maiden bus trip. Grumpy bus driver set off looking firmly ahead, ignoring the fact that the embarrassed woman was having great trouble manoeuvring into the permitted space. Her face flushed with embarrassment, she pressed buttons and moved a few inches in each direction, ramming a passenger next to the aisle. Her ensuing panic resulted in her being firmly wedged in, preventing anyone getting on or off. I looked across the aisle at the emergency door and back to the window next to Joy, where a sign said In Emergency Break Glass with Hammer. Iwondered where the hammer was.
One passenger did get on and manage to squeeze by, or rather climb over the poor woman. To my horror it was our local ‘character’ Davo. We locals did not need to use the politically incorrect descriptions that came to mind with Davo. Just the mere mention of his name ‘Davo was in the shop’ or ‘Davo came up to our table in the restaurant’ was enough to illicit sympathy and horror.
‘Joy’ I whispered urgently ‘do not look that chap in the eye.’
Unfortunately he started talking in that bellowing voice of his to a young chap behind us, who obviously knew how to wind up Davo for entertainment. That’s when the baby, who had been sleeping peacefully strapped to his mother’s chest, started crying. By this time we had arrived at the stop planned for our disembarking, handy for the few shops in town that hadn’t closed down. It turned out the wheelchair was literally jammed and the driver was radioing his base for help. Luckily it transpired that Davo was an expert at smashing windows and opening emergency doors and the driver couldn’t reach us to stop him.
It was a long way down, but Davo helped us descend, albeit in a rather undignified manner, bellowing ‘Age before beauty’ before assisting the young mum and other passengers.
Once safely on the pavement, Joy tapped into her phone. ‘Thanks goodness my nephew put the local taxi number into my new phone.’
The White House has just announced changes to the Gregorian Calendar, the calendar most people are familiar with. President Donald Trump stated that it was time it was tidied up. From now on all months will be 28 days long as they were originally intended, marking the cycle of the moon. Thus it is now 6th April. The 29 spare days will become the thirteenth month which will be named Trumpril and follow April. When asked by a reporter how he justified causing a great deal of confusion he replied ‘If Pope Gregory could change the Julian calendar in 1582 without upsetting Julie what’s the problem changing to the Trumpian calendar?’
A BBC expert explained what these changes will mean. ‘Leap year has been cancelled, it was always considered to be unfair for those born on the 29th February. They will join all the people born on 29th, 30th and 31st of any month who will no longer have birthdays. BBC Verify is checking the facts and figures, but has already confirmed that April Fool’s Day has been cancelled.
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 