humour

Thursday Tiny Tale – Lottie’s Weekend

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Today’s tale follows on from last week.

Thursday Tiny Tale – Have You Stayed With Us Before?

Charlotte sat by the river, the sun on her face, note book on her lap. She was living the dream; not just coping with her new life, but actually a full time writer writing. Full time because she hadn’t found a job yet, but nevertheless she was like any writer or artist on the way up… now she just had to put pen to paper. She had no idea what was in the note that Lottie received, but if she just started scribbling…

Lottie looked round the gloomy hotel room and realised she should have splashed out on a luxury room not a cosy room. Cousin Ruth’s idea of posh hotel should not have been relied upon. She opened the envelope, hoping to find out what and where was happening next on this strange weekend.

Hello Cousin Lottie, so looking forward to meeting you and it is so good of you to come after everything that happened in the past. I don’t know how much Callum told you. I hoped we would hear from him one day, but it was not to be and we had no way of getting in touch.

I’m sure they wouldn’t want us lot in that posh restaurant at your hotel so we’re meeting at a nice family pub round the corner that has a soft play area. Malc my nephew will wait for you in the hotel foyer 6.30pm.

It was already six, not much time to get ready with her things still in her case, but it was hardly a book launch or one of Callum’s business diners. She would probably be back in the cheerless room quite early so she checked the television, or at least stood there wondering how it worked. Callum used to like playing with televisions and remotes so it was taken for granted he would start fiddling with buttons while she arranged her toiletries in the bathroom. Then they would watch a bit of news while looking at the menu to see what the hotel restaurant was offering. The soulless room brought home to her how much she missed Callum and their shared life, she couldn’t even arrange her toiletries in an en-suite obviously created out of a cupboard.

Please bear with us while modernisation proceeds to make your favourite hotel even more comfortable. Read the message on the welcome card. Lottie scrolled down to room instructions and pressed the button on the television. It came on at full volume with a quiz show hosted by that bloke on TV she couldn’t stand. The numbers on the remote did not relate to changing channels. She switched off and prepared to do battle with the heavy fire door.

In the foyer a middle aged man stood looking like he didn’t want to be there.

‘I’m Malc, you must be Lottie? Come on, let’s get this show on the road.’

He ushered her first through the double doors onto the pavement where it was now pouring with rain, though he didn’t seem to notice. The place was just round the corner to her relief. Through the door past a life size model of a highland stag and Lottie wondered how much stranger the evening could get. She also wondered which of the many families eating and wandering back and forth to the carvery were Callum’s relatives. Suddenly a woman with a halo of red hair and flowing garments rushed forward and clasped her in her ample arms.

‘Well here we are at last, come this way.’

As they approached a long table laden with food the folk gathered round it seemed more interested in eating than greeting. Lottie imagined how she would describe the scene to Callum, then realised she could never tell him. Suddenly a figure stood up.

‘Lottie Lincoln, I’m so excited to meet you, I’ve read all your books.’

A young woman, smartly dressed with a sleek elfin haircut, squeezed past the others.

‘You lot make room for Lottie while I take her to the carvery and show her what’s what.’

She guided Lottie in what seemed a complicated route past tables and a strange cage containing bouncing children.

‘Soft play area, godsend, some of those kids are ours apparently. I’m new in the family, in law like you. We have something in common. I’m Tilly, my husband’s a vicar, not here yet, been called out to some pastoral emergency.’

‘Good to meet you, I am rather overwhelmed.’

‘Not surprised, but I think I can rescue you, coming to us for morning coffee tomorrow and I’ll fill you in. Must look after my favourite author.’

Lottie had found a new friend and inspiration for a new novel, her head was spinning, but she just had to get through this evening and stay close to Tilly.

Charlotte felt quite excited, what an interesting family, hard to believe she had just created them herself and what on earth had happened in the past? She had no idea.

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

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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.

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Chairs

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Elizabeth sipped her latte gratefully after regaling her three friends with her latest adventures. The Cosy Toastie was the favourite café for their regular coffee mornings. Cheerful young staff served them at the table, a great help and there was plenty of space for their wheeled contraptions. The café was popular with Yummy Mummies and their baby conveyances and helped the senior ladies feel they were getting away from ‘old people.’

‘Lucky you Elizabeth, I wish I had a bachelor son coming to live with me and sort things out.’

‘A divorced son would be just as helpful,’ suggested Abigail ‘not that you would want your son’s marriage to break up just to have help with computer stuff.’

‘It could be a nightmare, look what happened to my poor sister, sixty year old homeless son, made it clear he did not want to be living with his mother. She had his two car wrecks in her driveway and his drum kits in her dining room.’

‘Is he still in that band?’

‘Yes, the audiences are our age.’

‘Might you not get in each other’s way Liz in your dear little cottage’ said Abigail.

Elizabeth ignored the implication that Abigail pitied her for living in a ‘cramped little bungalow’.

‘No, John has his own space, the spare bedroom is comfortable and he is having the back room as his office and sitting room. He works from home now and he’s got his television in there.’

‘Isn’t that where you keep all your craft and art things?’

‘That room did need a good sort out, lots of stuff I don’t use any more with my hands. He put some of the things on the ‘Upcycle’ Facebook page, and took other stuff to the charity shops. It looks quite smart now with the new carpet and book shelves. A suitable background for conference calls.’

‘What do they actually do on conference calls, I’ve always wondered.’

‘No idea, I just have to remember not to barge in the room with cups of tea and keep Mitsy quiet when he’s talking to New York. Not easy when the postman comes and all his Amazon deliveries and she gets in a real state when the Sainsbury delivery comes.’

‘I thought you had Waitrose?’

‘I shall still pop in and get the bits I like, if I can fit them in the fridge, though I think we’re getting a bigger fridge freezer.’

‘Still, it will be nice to have the company, though if he has his own television…’

‘I don’t actually see him that much so I still have my sanctuary in the sitting room, though I can’t get the hang of the new big screen television he said I needed, especially since he got rid of the Virgin box so we could have Sky. As long as he doesn’t get rid of my comfy arm chairs. He said the National Trust would like them they are so ancient. I told him they don’t make good solid furniture like the Victorians did. Reg inherited them from his parents, we had them reupholstered a couple of times. John thinks I should have a recliner.’

‘Is John picking you up?’

‘No, he gave me a lift here, but he’s working now and waiting in for some more deliveries. He went to Ikea yesterday to look around, don’t know what he ordered. I’ll get my taxi, same as usual.’

When the taxi drew up outside Elizabeth’s house she was busy concentrating on getting out of the cab with dignity and positioning herself ready for the driver to bring her wheels round. When she finally looked up she was surprised to see a pile of large cardboard boxes in her narrow driveway. As she squeezed carefully by she read strange names on the boxes that gave no clue as to what might have been inside. Ekolsund, Strandmon, Rocksjon, Landskrona, Klubbfors….

John appeared at the front door.

‘Ah Mother, there you are at last.’

‘I told you what time I would be back.’

‘Don’t worry about all this stuff, Joe’s coming round with his big van to take it all to the tip.’

‘What have you bought this time?’

‘Come inside and see.’

‘Where’s Mitsy?’

‘In the back garden, she got a bit over excited.’

In the hall Elizabeth had a feeling of something being very different. John led her into the sitting room with a grin. She leant on the door frame to steady herself as she tried to take in the sight before her and even wondered if she was in her own home. Where her two small arm chairs had been either side of the fireplace sat two very large bright red chairs and by the window a turquoise seat.

‘One of them is a recliner like you wanted.’

‘I never said I wan…’

‘But it’s just what you need to keep your feet up like the doctor said. Try it and you will love it.’

With some difficulty she hoisted herself onto the wide chair and her son handed her a wire with a remote control attached.

‘Now just press the green button, I mean the orange…’

Her legs shot up and she found herself plunged backwards and subject to G force like an astronaut taking off in a space rocket.

‘Sorry Mother, the orange button makes it recline slowly.’

When she got her breath back she asked him where her old armchairs had gone.

‘Underneath the piles of cardboard, Joe reckons he should be able to fit them in his van.’

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Colour Consultant

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Christine Brown perused the local Facebook page; Colour Consultant, what was that supposed to be? Improve your well being by learning which are your colours, your special colour. Free consultation offer, today only, drop in at the Emporium. Why not, Christine had a free day and she had never been inside the emporium.

A feast of colour met her eyes as she walked through the door; fabrics, exotic clothes, cushions, occasional furniture and stunning rugs. How very different from the taupe walls and grey carpets at home. Why did she always agree to Geoffrey’s choice and demure to his supposed superior decorating skills?

Lindy DeSilver had her cosy consulting corner upstairs near the Tropical Jungle café. It looked like a cross between a tent and a grotto. Christine approached hesitantly, not sure if another customer might be hidden in the depths. A jangle of earrings heralded the appearance of Lindy at the entrance.

‘Yellow, yes definitely yellow, come in, come in.’

Wall hangings, mirrors and odd dangling objects adorned the interior which was larger than Christine had expected.

‘Sit down dear.’

Christine looked around for a chair, there were none. Lindy was pointing to a pile of cushions, sitting down on them was a lower drop than Christine was expecting and she found herself semi prone.

‘That’s it, make yourself at home. I see your life is lacking in colour.’

Christine’s sensible beige clothes were a bit of a giveaway she guessed, but no doubt Lindy said that to everyone, hoping for business.

‘Yellow is your prime colour and your band is citrus. Do you align with the Mediterranean, South America?’

‘Umm, more Rottingdean, though we sometimes venture up to Yorkshire.’ 

‘Sorry to hear that, but never mind, you don’t need to visit colourful places to raise your spirits. Look around the emporium, who would have guessed it used to be a Screwfix warehouse?’

‘My poor husband was very upset when they closed this branch, but I certainly prefer the emporium.’

‘I sense your husband is on the grey band, prime Warm Pewter?’

‘Dulux, how did you guess, at least that is what he is doing the feature wall in the living room at this very moment, polished pebble for the other walls.’

‘My dear, you have to get out of there or at least decide whether to change your décor or your husband.’

Christine was beginning to wonder if the woman was insane, or a mind reader and at which point she earned money.

‘This is all very interesting and you have inspired me to look around the emporium and perhaps buy a couple of scatter cushions.’

‘More drastic action is required, but don’t worry, that is where my skills come in. I can help you choose a new wardrobe and my interior design skills will then come to the fore. My total home makeover comes at a very reasonable price.’

Perhaps it was the fact that Geoffrey had a week’s golf holiday in Rottingdean or Christine’s pay rise, but somehow she found her life taken over by Lindy. In moments of sanity she wondered if there was a helpline for vulnerable beige people, but as the results of Lindy’s energetic plans became obvious Christine no longer felt beige, brown or grey, she felt invigorated. Nothing escaped Lindy’s attention and soon the neighbours and even the postman were paying attention.

Chris, what wonderful hanging baskets.

Love your yellow front door Mrs Brown.

I adore that dress Christine, I wish I had the confidence to wear colours like that.

Goodness, what will your Geoffrey say when he gets home?

‘I suspect he might be speechless, do you want to come in for a golden smoothie?’

Mr Tickle, what fun, and this room is so bright, how brave of you to choose yellow and that wallpaper on the feature wall reminds me of our wonderful trip to Peru. You must give me the name of your interior designer.

‘She’s very persuasive, I was just going to buy a couple of cushions and one of those talking sunflowers in a pot, then the next thing I knew… come and see our lime green bedroom.’

Seasonal Short Story – Music Festival

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Julian Mountjoy was on top of the world, or at least almost at the top of the Royal Albert Hall. At last his dream to be a BBC presenter at The Proms had come true. He could combine his two dearest interests, music and talking. In his eerie close to the gods he could look around the glorious plush red interior and the tiers of seating, then down at the tiny figures of the Prommers in the arena. With the first piece of music just finished there was time to chat with his two musician guests while the orchestra jiggled positions and the grand piano was carefully wheeled into place.

‘Ariadne, what did you think of that stunning premiere of John Smith’s Symphony in one movement for strings and mobile phones?’

‘I had thought five minutes would be a little short, but there was so much to take in, it was quite long enough.’

‘George?’

‘What an amazing sound picture, I felt… ’

‘Now let’s move on to the piece we are about to hear for the first time at the Proms. Composed in 1911 by Anton Slivervitz it is not often played, perhaps because of its reputation for being fiendishly difficult?’

‘Yes Julian, Slivervitz was famously polydactylous, having five fingers on each hand plus his thumbs. In addition, he was also unusually tall at six foot six, so he was blessed with long slender fingers.’

‘No wonder this piano concerto has always been such a challenge. Tonight’s soloist has waited till this mature stage of his career to add it to his repertoire and this will be the first time he has performed it in Britain. Ariadne, what do we know about Torvig Absalom?’

‘He has been acclaimed as the greatest pianist of his generation and is also a polymath, speaking half a dozen languages fluently and having a masters degree in physics. His upbringing and studies in different parts of the world have made him popular with many great orchestras and he brings his unique personality and energy to every piece.’

‘Well the piano is in place now, there is growing excitement and anticipation in the audience as we wait for Torvig Absalom to step onto the stage. The leader of the orchestra has taken up his position and played that all important note to lead the orchestra in tuning up. All the players will need to be on their toes for this marathon piano concerto that lasts one hour and twenty minutes. Now we wait for the conductor to lead tonight’s soloist onto the stage. The string section are turning their heads obviously expecting tonight’s young conductor, Melody Fairweather, to lead her guest soloist on at any moment. Excitement is building as we all wait for the grand entrance. Daisy Fairweather is making her first appearance at the Proms and this will be a thrilling moment in her career no doubt. We can imagine the excitement back stage as they prepare for their entrance. At rehearsals this afternoon you could see and hear the very special connection she has made with this world famous pianist. If tonight’s performance repeats the wonderfully energetic rehearsal, we are all in for a treat. As we wait for them to appear, Ariadne can you tell us what it’s like in those last moments as you wait for the go ahead to walk on stage and be greeted by the best audience in the world?’

‘Nervous and excited, however many times you have played in a prom. But Torvig is a such a natural performer he knows how to build the excitement, keeping the audience waiting just that little bit longer.’

Backstage at the Royal Albert Hall there was a very different kind of excitement and tension. Daisy Fairweather was getting very nervous with the delay, she just wanted to get on stage and raise her baton. The bossy woman who seemed to be in charge of the crew was also getting edgy.

‘Alison, are you sure you gave Mr Absalom his final call? Is the intercom working, did you knock on his dressing room door?’

‘Yes but he didn’t answer, maybe he got lost.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous and where’s Jerry, it’s his job to escort him so he doesn’t get lost, ah you’re here Jerry, where is Mr. Absalom?’

‘We seem to have lost him, he didn’t answer when I knocked so he must have slipped out.’

‘Alison go and check all the corridors and you too Ben. Jerry go and knock loudly and if he doesn’t answer open the door.’

‘The door was locked.’

‘I think we need to call security, we can’t keep the audience waiting or the BBC, this is a live television broadcast. Ben get hold of security, Jerry get yourself back to his dressing room and… and…’

‘And this is Julian Mountjoy live at the proms for this very special concert. There seems to be a delay bringing on tonight’s highly esteemed soloist… George, as an orchestra leader tell us what it is like as you wait for your conductor and soloist to step forward to the front of the stage…’

‘Jerry, there you are, what the hell is going on?’

‘I’m afraid it’s bad news.’

‘How bad?’

‘The worst, he’s… he’s dead.’

‘What do you mean, who’s dead?’

‘Mr Absalom, dead in his dressing room.’