humour

The Game of Life

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Warning: Do you dare to play the game of life? If you don’t want to read about illness and death or you dislike dark humour please avoid this blog, but I hope you will continue to visit my Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday blogs.

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Cyberspouse is feeling rather a fraud; having initiated drama, compassionate leave, flight booked, Christmas brought forward, he is feeling fine. But a letter arrives with NHS on the envelope; the copy of the letter sent to his GP from the oncologist. It wasn’t a joke after all, there it is in black and white. But there are still plenty of jokes in the house. We catch up with a film on television, looks like a good British comedy, winter comfort watching, all the familiar actors. ‘Finding your Feet’, retired people having fun, we know all about that. Our retired friends dash around the world, passionately pursue hobbies, whiz around with their bus passes or lounge at their beach hut. We do all of those except the first. But the film has included all the cliches, the sad widower, the wife with dementia and then… one of the characters has cancer, but of course doesn’t want to tell anybody and spoil their fun… you have to laugh, that was a good choice of film…

 

 

 

Silly Saturday – Brother Bernard’s Blog

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Brother Bernard’s Blog

Translated from the original Latin.

Greetings from the north. How hast thy week been? I send news to brother bloggers of unholy happenings. Until last week the name of Johannes Gutenberg had never been uttered inside these walls and I hope it never will be again.

I had just returned from my daily constitutional, gazing upon the wondrous waters of the North Sea, contemplating completing Leviticus today, when Brother Franz hove into sight, calling out in a most undignified manner as he dismounted. We had not seen him for many months so were we not eager to hear what news from the continent?

‘Gutenberg is coming’ were his words.

After being enclosed with the Abbot for a fair while he broke bread with us in the refectory and spoke strange words… of printing presses and moveable metal type. I now understand this to mean there are those who would replace men of God writing The Word of God with a contraption to produce many Holy Bibles.

How can a machine write elegant text and illuminate with cinnabar, saffron, verdigris, lapis lazuli, silver and gold? No my friends, it cannot, so therefore I tell you we have nothing to fear, the name of Johannes Gutenberg will soon be forgotten , Gutenberg has not arrived, nor ever will. We shall carry on with our Holy written work as before.

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Tackling Taboos

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Mum and Dad bought their first house when I was six; they were very happy to live on the ground and have a garden and Mum said we wouldn’t move again now we had our own house. But the new estate was a long walk from the shopping parade in the little town. Luckily the greengrocer came round in his van, the butcher’s boy came round on his bike and the milkman delivered a box of groceries weekly.

 When I was old enough to go cycling off on my own I would be sent on urgent errands to the little parade of shops on the next estate. Sometimes Mum would give me a note to hand to the lady in the drapers. She would reach under the counter, put a packet in a brown paper bag and give it to me, these were Mum’s sanitary towels.

We emigrated to Western Australia when I was eleven, exactly five years after Mum said we weren’t going to move again. After a few weeks at school the summer holidays started and so did my first period. I was not shocked because my mother had told me what to expect, but I was mortified and furious that it had happened so soon, ruining the holidays. One day I came home and said Christine’s mother wanted to take us all swimming. Mum said Did you tell her you had your period. I replied that I had been too embarrassed. Going to the local chemist was also nerve racking, the sanitary products were not hidden away, far from it, illuminated signs advertised Modess in larger stores. But if I went into the chemist and there was a man behind the counter, or a male customer walked in, I sneaked out empty handed.

I started at my new high school of fourteen hundred pupils. One day all the boys were ordered to stay in the classrooms and all the girls ordered to the largest quadrangle to be addressed by the headmistress. The talk was about the correct use of the new incinerets being installed in the girls’ toilets. I was always rather nervous of these machines.

By strange coincidence they were discussing periods on Woman’s Hour, BBC Radio Four, just as I started writing this blog; no taboos on this daily programme, they talk about everything, but modern schoolgirls still feel periods aren’t treated a normal.

 Men would not put up with it, or perhaps not survive. Forty years or more of our bodies getting ready to conceive every month, keeping the equipment working when we may want to use it only once, twice or never. Suffering varying from cramps to endometriosis laying you up every month. In my mother’s young days at the bank she was dispatched every month in a cab to deliver her poor colleague home, ill with her period. They must have had an understanding boss. Modern life has not dispatched with the age old problems, but recently there has been a flurry of discussion from every angle.

A while ago a marathon runner apparently decided to run without period protection, I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. It sounds like my worst school PE nightmare come true and I’m not sure what she was trying to prove, that we shouldn’t be ashamed presumably. There are plenty of cultures where women were and still are ( according to the posters in Ladies’ toilets at motorway services ) expected to go and sit out in the desert till their period has finished. Some major religions connect menstruation to spiritual impurity.

But even when periods are treated as normal and healthy there are other aspects which have come up for serious discussion lately.

 There is the environmental issue and some women are making their own reusable pads; things have turned full circle, my mother and her sisters made their own pads out of torn up old sheets and had to soak them in a bucket of salt water.

Then there is period poverty. At first we smugly thought it only happened in third world countries and to refugees on the move with none of life’s necessities. Then it turned out many school girls in Britain can’t afford to buy sanitary protection, making my teenage trials and tribulations seem petty. Scotland is leading the world in supplying free products to all schools and colleges. In the rest of Britain charities are donating products to schools and food banks. 

My novel Quarter Acre Block is inspired by our family’s migation to Austalia. The story is told from two points of view, eleven year old Jennifer’s and her mother’s.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quarter-Acre-Block-Janet-Gogerty-ebook/dp/B00A6XDUQM

Sunday Salon – Astraens and Agents

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Two novels, a short story collection and a film to take your mind off the real world.

The book reviews have been posted on Amazon and Goodreads.

A Marriage of Convenience by Stevie Turner

4.0 out of 5 stars A modern fairy tale for adults.

By Janet Gogerty on 17 October 2018

Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

This could be described as a fairy tale for our age; a story that crosses from last century into the present. There is a love story, but there is also the bad fairy. Here is a tale of young people making rash decisions and bizarre plans which the reader knows can’t go well, which we hope they won’t go through with… There are dreams that come true and dreams that fade. The final part of the tale keeps us in suspense; can the dark spell be lifted from our heroine, can she ever forgive?

Coffee BreakEscapes: Twenty Short Stories To Set You Free  by Phillip Howlett

5.0 out of 5 stars Twenty tales lyrical or snappy, often taking you where you did not expect to go.

15 November 2018  Verified Purchase

A blackbird singing in the garden, a sure bet at the racecourse, poignant memories and a young lad’s sixpence. All life is here, though not always confined to the living. Secret meetings, terrible mistakes and deaths that shouldn’t have happened. Spare time for the last two longer stories ‘Radio Man’ and ‘Your Turn Will Come’, two very different tales exploring beyond our earthly limits.

Harmony ( Sanctuary Part Two ) by Maureen Turner

5.0 out of 5 stars Science fiction for all…

18 November 2018

Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

I bought Harmony as soon as it came out as I had been waiting in suspense since reading Sanctuary. It was good to be back amongst the two communities, humans and Astraens. They are not so different from each other, which makes this such agood story. Can harmony be achieved when both sides have various agendas andthe Astraens are not as angelic as their appearance suggests? The tentative peace between the two races is constantly at risk because of the action of some individuals. But this is also a story of good characters trying to do their best and a tale of love blossoming.
Cosy science fiction perhaps? We don’t need to know how the motherships work, though we learn more about their travels since having to leave their own planet, nor why the aliens are conveniently sexually combatible with humans… lucky the woman who has a chap with wings to shelter her on a chilly night. But don’t get too cosy, the pace of the story escalates to a stunning ending.

Johnny English Strikes Again

‘Rowan Atkinson returns as the much-loved accidental secret agent in “Johnny English Strikes Again”. When a cyber-attack reveals the identity of all active undercover agents in Britain, the country’s only hope is called out of retirement. English’s new mission is his most critical to date: Dive head first into action to find the mastermind hacker. A man with few skills and analogue methods, English must overcome the challenges of modern technology-or his newest mission will become the Secret Service’s last.’

 Would you go to the cinema at 11am? One of my favourite places in Christchurch is the Regent Centre, a rescued and restored Art Deco cinema. On a damp grey winter day why not go and watch a film guaranteed to take your mind off the real problems of the world… and Johnny English has to save the world from a very big disaster. The film was silly but very funny. Just under an hour and a half, a sensible length for any film and certainly for this sort of film which is non stop slapstick send up with lashings of wit. Our hero creates nearly as much collateral damage as James Bond and doesn’t get the girl. A clever plot line somehow turns every disaster to advantage and Johnny saves the day.

Friday Flash Fiction – Pudsey Bear Goes Missing

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Despite his mother’s misgivings, Oscar enjoyed his new nursery. He was nearly three, very bright and very lively. The nursery teacher had assured Oscar’s mother that ‘Busy Bees Nursery’ had a very active programme and his energies would be directed.

‘We don’t keep them cooped up, we go for a walk every day.’

His mother had been alarmed.

‘You do keep them safe? We never take him out without his reins.’

‘I’m sure you have seen us out in the high street, no more than four children per helper, double reins; we certainly don’t want to lose anybody.

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As Christine reached the post office counter, she noticed the sign.

‘Pocket Calendar, ten pence for Children in Need.’

After the ordeal of trying to post a parcel overseas, with Mrs Grumpy behind the window, she thought she would earn a few brownie points.

‘…and a calendar please.’

‘Ten pence in the bucket’ came the terse reply.

The calendar would not be released until she moved along the counter to the bucket. Already holding up the queue, she fumbled in her purse. It was a good cause, so she emptied all her small change with a satisfying clatter into the empty bucket; then collected the flimsy piece of card with dates much too small to read.

Ten minutes later, staggering out of the greengrocers, she saw a couple of women struggling in the wind to tie up their banner.

‘Children in Need Cake Sale.’

Good idea,  that would save her baking before her sister came round for tea tomorrow. If she donated here as well, she could, with a clear conscience, keep the television turned off all night and avoid those irritating celebrities with their grand totals.

 

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Busy Bees Nursery was humming with activity; six children were to be chosen to go and help at the cake stall. Dressing up was involved and one child must don the yellow fur suit. Oscar was chosen for his outgoing personality.

‘Remember to hold his hand as we can’t get the reins on over his outfit’ were the teacher’s last words to her young assistants.

 

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As Christine chose her cakes, a posse arrived, two young women and six strangely attired little children, firmly attached to reins and adult hands. The little ones gathered behind the wooden trestle table.

‘Would you like to guess the weight of Pudsey Bear?’ asked one of the cake ladies.

Christine looked around for a teddy, then her attention was drawn to a sweet little boy in a yellow furry suit. The other children were eyeing up the cakes and one of the young ladies was trying to take photographs.

‘Shall I still hold on to them?’ asked the other girl.

‘I should certainly hope so’ Christine replied, uninvited.

Cake lady produced a flimsy sheet of paper that flapped in the wind.

‘Just put your name and phone number and the weight.’ She turned to her friend. ‘Are we doing Imperial or metric?’

‘You should have a clip board’ said Christina as she deliberated. ‘How old is he?’

She wrote down three stone and set off for the butchers. When she emerged, laden down with shopping, she caught a glimpse of yellow out of the corner of her eye. It was Pudsey Bear, about to walk into the road. She had no free hands to grab him and looked around for his companions. There was no one else in sight. She put two bags down and tried to locate a hand inside his suit, hoping no one thought she was a kidnapper. If she edged him back towards the cake stall, she was sure to meet a search party. The child’s hands had disappeared back inside the suit and the best she could do was place herself between Pudsey and the road.

‘Anyone seen the nursery outing?’ she asked passers by, but they just smiled and said how sweet her grandson was.

The cake stall had gone, only an empty trestle table remained. Even if Christine had any hands free to dial her mobile, she had left it at home. Lost children should go to a police station, but that was miles away. Pudsey was bouncing around in excitement at his adventure, at any moment he could bolt. She herded him into the newsagents, they could phone the police. The lone man was busy serving. Christine tried to get his attention and block the doorway at the same time. Finally he looked up.

‘One pound twenty five, thankyou.’

She looked down to see Pudsey had found his hands and was holding packets of sweets and crisps.

‘No, you don’t understand, he’s not mine, we have to ring the police.’

At that very moment, two policemen swept into the shop. One talked into his radio.

‘Can you confirm description; white male, three foot tall, wearing a yellow furry suit.’

The other officer thanked the shopkeeper for looking after Oscar. Christine slipped out of the shop; perhaps it was better to be a guardian angel than be arrested. Though if the shop had CCTV, that could be a problem.

 

 

 

 

Bed and Breakfast

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Why stay in airbnb when you can pay more for the same chance of not knowing what to expect at traditional bed and breakfast establishments? We have stayed in strange hotels and at the ubiquitous Premiere Inns, where you know exactly what to expect and we have stayed in a variety of B&Bs all over the British Isles. They are all different, that’s the fun. Some are wonderful, better than your own home. There are strange hosts and strange guests. We arrived at one place in a seaside terrace to find no one at home, the landlady was out walking her dogs.

But my most embarrassing near disaster was the second night of a holiday to Scotland with my daughter, sister and sister’s friend. This part was my responsibility as I had booked us to stay at a B&B in Blackpool, owned by relatives of an in-law, we had even met them once at a family wedding. When the door opened we were met with blank expressions, they didn’t seem to recognise us, let alone be expecting us. They weren’t, the booking had been forgotten, but that wasn’t the worst, the ceiling in one of the guest rooms had just collapsed.

All was not lost ‘I’ll pop across the road and ask the boys’ said the lady of the house. And so we found ourselves at the superior Hotel Babylon with delightful landlords Craig and David who kindly charged us only what we would have paid. The bedrooms were very swanky with red nets draped from the ceiling in one room and similar pink decor in the other. I’ve just looked them up and they are still in business, so if you are going to Blackpool I can recommend Hotel Babylon.

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Our stay at the weekend was in a guest house in Hythe, Kent, a lovely old house with beautiful gardens. Satnav got us there, but the usually available private parking, a small triangle of gravel at the back of the house, was blocked with a huge horse box and a couple of cars. Further up the steep hill we found a side road. We then slid back down the hill, with our luggage, on a pavement carpeted in wet autumn leaves. A car was backing out of the guest house; it drove back in and a woman half climbed out, we assumed she was our hostess but she said ‘Mother will look after you’ and drove off.

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At the back door we were greeted by an elderly lady who showed us into the hall and up to the landing; all the walls were covered in shiny silver flowery wallpaper. Upstairs everything was a pink time warp and the three rooms and guest lounge were named after Winnie the Pooh characters. In our room there was a 14inch television perched on the dressing table with lots of interference, but there was WiFi. The For Sale signs we had seen outside did make us wonder if the place was being gently run down.

We left from the front door to find somewhere for dinner, but as it was dark by then the descent of the uneven, steep front path was an adventure.

At breakfast four guests were seated at the other table, we were all sitting in the hall and the daughter and granddaughter wandered back and forth in their dressing gowns with mugs of tea. The other guests asked the elderly lady if she ran the place by herself.

‘Oh yes, I’ve been doing it for forty years’ she answered cheerfully as she brought us tea and coffee; no pots, the cups rattled in their saucers as they shakily descended to the table.

As we left on the second morning we asked if the place was for sale because she was retiring.

‘I am 82, so I suppose I’ll have to retire sometime, but I don’t want to.’

https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-four-travel-diary/

Visit my website ‘Travel Notes From a Small Island’       if you enjoy looking at other people’s holiday snaps   and want to read about some very different places.

 

 

The Game of Life

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Warning: Do you dare to play the game of life? If you don’t want to read about illness and death or you dislike dark humour please avoid this blog, but I hope you will continue to visit my Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday blogs.

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Round One: No word from Dagenham yet.

Game Rules:

Everyone’s life is a story and every story has an ending.

It is generally agreed that life is not fair, at least from our earth bound perspective.

Life is a game without rules, or if there are any we don’t understand them.

The further round the board you get, the less you should complain when you’re OUT.

Tragedy is when children or young parents die, by the hand of nature or by the hand of man.

When they say everybody is living longer, they don’t actually mean every person.

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We have to leave Summertown, the days of being recycled teenagers are over.There is a very real possibility that Cyberspouse will be outlived by the Duke of Edinburgh and my mother.

His attitude? These things happen, don’t get upset.

None of us REALLY thinks they will happen to us.

How is the game of life playing out in our families?

We heard only third hand via Facebook that someone in Cyberspouse’s large family had lost their only daughter, who leaves behind two young children. We know little about her life or death.

My mother is the only one left of her generation in the immediate family.

I am the first grandchild on both sides, the next one down, my bachelor cousin in Australia, had already cheated death after a massive stroke and just as our bad news was sinking in we heard he had died in an horrific accident. He had become the first one OUT in my generation of the family, Cyberspouse moved on an extra space.

You get the prognosis and you have to start telling people. Cyberspouse, as is the modern way, e-mailed one of his best friends, who was recently widowed, with the up date. He replied with suitably sympathetic words ( modern men do talk ) but without pause added ‘no word from Dagenham yet’. When Cyberspouse read it out from his phone we both burst out laughing. This was a reference to the annual ‘boy’s outing’ to collect friend’s new car. He loves cars and when his wife was in hospital he had said ‘we might not get to Dagenham this week’.

Today we went to the group workshop on understanding treatment, patients could take one ‘friend’. It was like being back in the classroom, but quite jolly. Next week it all starts. In the meantime he says we should carry on as normal, although he has now got a good excuse for getting out of my writers’ group Christmas dinner and splashing out on Sky sport.

 

Silly Saturday – Baz the Bad Blogger

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In the first and last of my series of author interviews my guest is Baz the Bad Blogger who was happy to answer my questions as nobody else wanted him on their blog.

Welcome Baz, thanks for coming along.

It was a hell of a journey, I hope I’m going to get lots of book sales out of this.

Er, well it’s more a case of meeting lots of other interesting readers and writers. How did you come to start blogging?

THEY said it was a good way to sell my book.

What do you like to write about in your blogs?

ME.

Tell us about your new novel.

It is a dystopian fantasy set in an unnamed capital city. The government has been taken over by zombies and androids, but no one can tell the difference as none of them have any personality.

That must have made character development rather difficult.

I decided not to bother with character development.

So do you consider the plot line to be important?

I guess so, I just go for dead straight…

Moving on, what advice would you give to other bloggers?

When I started I wrote very long blogs so everyone would think I was highly intelligent.

And did they?

I don’t know, I never had any comments, so I decided to make my posts brief. I recommend two sentences at most, as no one reads past the first two lines anyway…

My second piece of advice is to have lots of pictures of fluffy kittens or cute puppies. I haven’t got any pets, but I found a dead rat in the back yard one rainy morning and he looked quite photogenic once he had been blow dried.

Your blog certainly has a unique style.  How many followers do you have now?

Umm… one, Tidetables something or other.

We had to cut the interview short as Baz had somewhere more interesting to be, but you can find out more about him and his novel ‘I Zomboid’ at his author page.

Baz has changed his cover photo…

The Dark Web

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Today I have a guest who has just started blogging on the dark web. Because of his situation he prefers to remain annonymous, but is looking forward to posting about the problems faced by minority groups. As an appropriate introduction he describes a typical experience on his favourite night of the year.

Treat or Trick

Time for my annual visit home; weather’s taken a cold turn, that’s good, everyone’s wrapped up so I don’t look out of place. Busy down my road. Couple of new families moved in, children whizzing around on wheels of various sorts, new people at number 53 and here we are. Oh, new front door, hmm, doesn’t really suit the lovely old house. No car parked out the front, hope they are not all out. Big poster by the front door… NO TRICK OR TREATERS   That’s a bit mean, too stingy to buy a few sweets. I’ll take it down.

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There’s nobody at home anyway; everything locked up as if they had gone on holiday. Still, after the reception I got last year perhaps they have decided to avoid me.

Getting dark, shouldn’t be long till the Trick and Treaters come round, five groups last year. The final group were hardly children, all ghastly teenagers, reckon they were dared to come by their younger siblings. Hang on, I can hear the front door being unlocked, it’s Rory, must have decided not to go away with his parents and sisters.

‘Hi Rory, you’ve grown since last year.’

That’s strange, he’s rushed back out again. All on my own, well I’m used to that. At least I can watch what I like on television. All these channels they have now, you’d think there would be something on worth watching.

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There goes the doorbell, visitors at last, I’ll have a peek out the window. Little kids, rubbish costumes, anxious parent hovering on the pavement. Right, time to open the front door, slowly, keep them in suspense. They are very sweet, I’ll lower my hood gently.

‘Hello children, treat or TRICK… no don’t run away.’

That was fun, pity they didn’t stay, but hopefully the new families will be out and about. I can see a few strangely attired short people across the road. Here we go, they’re coming up the driveway. No need for them to ring the doorbell…

‘Good Evening, you gave me quite a fright, are you ghosts or ghouls… hey, come back, you’ve dropped your bucket with all the money.’

This is boring, no callers for half an hour … oh at last. Peep out of the window, let them see the curtain moving, their costumes are brilliant… they’re ringing the door bell again.

‘Hello Vampires, I’ve got some nice fresh blood for you… don’t go next door yet, you haven’t shown me your trick…’

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Blue lights flashing and sirens, must be something going on outside, might as well have a look. Police officer coming up the path, close the door pronto. Ringing and knocking.

Can you open the door please Sir?

Me a Sir, that’s a laugh.

‘I don’t open the door to strangers, especially at night.’

I’m a police officer, can I just have a word?

‘About what, haven’t you any criminals to arrest?’

We had a suspected on going burglary call from neighbours, concerned because the owners of the house are away. If you could open the door so we can confirm your identity.

Better open the door, perhaps he is a Trick or Treater.

Can I have your name and date of birth Sir… umm perhaps it would be easier to talk if you uncovered your face.

‘I have a medical condition, I need to keep covered up.’

We’ll need a doctor to confirm that at the station, we’ll need proper ID.

He’s whispering into his radio now, calling for back up, possible terrorist situation!

Now, if I could have your name, address and date of birth.

‘Certainly, Anthony John Worsley, 29th February, 1873. Now constable, it really is time I was leaving, I need to go and get a good year’s sleep.’

 

Tuesday Tiny Tale 500 – The Unkindest Cut

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‘Have you self harmed before Mr. Andrews?’

‘What? … ow!’

‘Local anaesthetic, please keep still while I do the sutures. Would you like to talk to someone?’

‘Talk to who? I just need to be sewn up and get home’ I pleaded.

Shock was beginning to set in and I couldn’t take in what the young woman doctor was saying. I looked at the clock on the wall.

‘I think I left the gas on.’

She frowned. ‘Gas as well and yet at the last moment you didn’t go through with it, that’s good, but you need to speak with one of our counsellors.’

‘Look, embarrassing as it is, I’m a doctor too…’

‘No need to be ashamed, statistically doctors are more likely to attempt suicide and more likely to succeed.’

I sat up straight, knocking the tray of equipment.

‘No, no, this was an accident. I’ve done that course, Thinking About Mental Health… I work in this department, you must be new?’

‘Four weeks.’

‘In four months time the only mental health you’ll be thinking about is your own, thanks you for your concern but…’

‘I am concerned there could be nerve damage Doctor Andrews, we need to refer you for further treatment.’

‘The only damage to my nerves will be my wife’s reaction when I get home, how can I explain this was all the pumpkin’s fault?’

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It all started last week when the children were pestering us. They ‘needed’ Halloween costumes and rubber spiders etc. The advantage of being older parents? We have enough sense not to be sucked into blatant commercialism. No trick or treat, no ghost masks. My wife suggested the All Hallows’ Eve Festival of Light at the local church, being held to counter commercial exploitation of children, or was it to pray for deliverance from evil? Either way I did not want to spend my precious day off going to church, so I promised a surprise and tasty supper on their return.

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Late this afternoon pumpkins were being sold off cheap at the greengrocers and I had it all planned. A circle of happy pumpkin faces dangling from the trees in the front garden, pumpkin soup recipe off the internet.

The first two orange heads were impressive, the third a bit tough, but the soup smelt nice. The fourth pumpkin was impenetrable, sharper knife and more force needed.

Purlicue… thena web… that piece of loose skin betwixt thumb and forefinger. I didn’t feel any pain as the knife sliced straight through… my energetic attack on the pumpkin meant the force carried the blade straight on down my palm and left wrist before my right hand thought to drop the knife. Blood spurted everywhere as I tried to tie a makeshift bandage with one hand and my teeth.

Now I looked again at the clock in the cubicle. My family were about to arrive home to a burnt out saucepan, a vivid trail of blood and no sign of me.