Silly Saturday – Strange Stanzas

June 30, 2018June 30, 2018 ~ tidalscribe.com ~ 1 Comment

I’m not averse to writing verse,

Or the occasional stanza.

Chapters, blog, Captain’s Log;

Language is a bonanza.

Bus Stop

He doesn’t have a shiny car,

I met him on the bus.

He asked me if I came from far,

Upstairs was only us.

Next morning at my stop we met,

He asked me where I worked.

Lunchtime in the park was set,

The sun shone and we talked.

He walked me to the bus stop,

When my day’s work was done.

He took my hand, we sat up top

And soon my heart was won.

Shout

I hear a shout,

I turn about.

Two figures dark,

Out of the park.

Two shadows meet

Across the street.

Loud voices talking,

Best keep walking.

Across the road

Cigarettes glowed.

Could take a chance,

Another glance.

Calling, waving,

Are they raving?

Tough drug dealers

Or car stealers?

Leather jackets

What’s their racket?

Home no nearer

Voices clearer.

‘Hey Mum wait,

You’re out late!’

Friday Flash Fiction – Inner Monologue

June 29, 2018June 29, 2018 ~ tidalscribe.com ~ 6 Comments

I look out of the window, wondering what it would be like to live an ordinary life. As the coach leaves the town I catch tantalising glimpses of other people’s lives, hanging out the washing, hoisting up the sheets to flap like sails. A young woman pushes her baby buggy purposefully, several Sainsbury’s bags hanging from the handle. Presumably she has a home to go to and an identity, she is a mother. I’ve always felt as if I exist on the outskirts of real life, I can’t imagine myself doing the things other people take for granted; actually knowing what job I want to do, getting married or making a positive decision not to get married, having a baby.

I pop another chewy fruit in my mouth as we speed up on the motorway, definitely the last one, I’ve nearly eaten the whole bag and I’m beginning to feel sick. I only chose them to avoid chocolate. Cows are meandering across the motorway bridge, followed by a young man who does not realise how lucky he is to know what he is; a farmer bound to the fields and twice daily milking. Would my life have been different if I had been born to the rural life? I feel in my bones that is where I belong, in tune with the seasons, in harmony with the earth.

The coach is slowing down, we could be anywhere, motorway service areas all look the same. Not much chance of any exciting or meaningful experiences happening here. My imagination starts working, my other life where all sorts of events can take place. At the counter, in front of me in the queue, will be a rugged looking man with sensitive eyes. I will instantly know that he is troubled. The motorway restaurant being crowded he motions me to sit at his table. He will intuitively know that I am a woman who will understand him. Because of his work, unspecified, there have been no serious relationships, although he has a deep physical and spiritual need for a kindred spirit – me.

The coach brakes to a halt, I blink back to mundane reality and wonder if I am unique in running a parallel universe for myself. I follow the other passengers slowly off the coach, I must be the youngest on board, 22 years old last week. I step off trying to look interesting; an intriguing background, I am on a journey of some import…

I sit alone at a table reading the paper. What am I doing here? I enjoyed my week’s stay with Great Uncle Stan and Great Aunt Ellie and fell in love with the Cornish countryside. But they hadn’t seen me since I was six and indulged me as if I was twelve; it will be a relief to get to my next destination. I’m living nowhere in particular, seeing as much of the country as possible on a strict budget. Christine’s family will put me up for a few days, she is my only friend left from infant school days; we will have deep discussions about our futures, but talking won’t make a future for me.

Isn’t it terrible.

I look up, startled, to see an old lady easing herself into the chair opposite, her tray shakily descending towards the table.

Isn’t it terrible the prices in here, you don’t even get the milk in a jug. I’m exhausted, been to visit the grandchildren. I expect you’ve been gallivanting around the countryside, make the most of it while you’re young, you don’t want to settle down too soon.

No chance of that I think, but I just smile.

Other Families

June 28, 2018 ~ tidalscribe.com ~ Leave a comment

Teenagers always think other people’s families are more interesting than their own, but Marjorie’s family really were. Marjorie was my best friend in second and third year high school in Perth, Western Australia. In first year Janice had been my best friend, mainly because neither of us knew anybody else on the first day; I was new in the country, she was new in the area. But Janice was a bit boring, confirmed by the fact that she wanted to do shorthand and typing and sidestepped to the commercial course. Our ways parted.

Marjorie was much more fun and for the next two years leading up to our Junior Exams we must have driven the teachers mad with our incessant giggling and occasional pranks. Our English teacher was driven to comment in front of the whole class

Do you two want to ruin your whole lives?

In time, it turned out that Marjorie had a photographic memory and had no need to pay any attention in class to sail through her exams.

But back to the beginning and the first time I cycled round to Marjorie’s house. Her parents were Dutch and had brought her to Australia as a baby; I don’t think being Dutch had any relevance to the way their home was run, though to me it seemed more exotic than being English or Australian. I was fascinated by the way they pronounced Marjorie and to this day I think of the name with that accent and love the way the Dutch speak.

She had two Australian born brothers, Johnnie and Steve, indistinguishable with their blonde crew cuts. Their house was the only one in the street with a boat and three geese in the front garden. I don’t think the boat ever made it to the Swan River, let alone Fremantle Harbour or the Indian Ocean.

The geese made good guards; somehow I made it to the front door. Inside, the house was dark; that was not unusual, most of the Australian houses were kept in Venetian blinded gloom, shielded from the glaring sun.

Marjorie’s house was SHC, State Housing Commission. It was years before I realised some Australians were very resentful that migrants were housed ahead of them.

We headed for the bedroom to inspect her pop pin ups and she opened her wardrobe to reveal more pictures on the inside of the door. Sitting on a pile of clothes on the shelf was a packet of spaghetti; kept safe from her brothers who liked to eat it raw. When we went back to the lounge her brother was sitting on the settee eating dry cornflakes from a large green bucket. The visit was also more adventurous as her mother was out at work, a novel concept for me.

When my new friend came round to my house for the first time Mum offered her a cool drink and Marjorie said Oh, isn’t your fridge clean.

Ever after Mum wondered what their family fridge was like; empty probably. Her mother only cooked a proper meal on Sundays, when they always had steak, another reason for disapproval by my mother.

Marjorie was the first person I knew who worried about being fat and filled up with bottles of Coke to avoid hunger pangs. In our house meals were regular as clockwork and always delicious. Coca Cola never darkened our fridge, nor did I have any money to buy it from the corner shop near Marjorie’s house.

My novel Quarter Acre Block is not autobiographical, but is inspired by our family’s experience of emigrating to Australia. You can read more about that time at my website.

https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-six-fiction-focus/

Read about the time leading up to our family’s departure to Australia in a previous blog.

https://tidalscribe.wordpress.com/2018/03/19/quarter-acre-blog/

Friday Flash Fiction – Dreadlocks and the Four Bears

June 22, 2018June 17, 2018 ~ tidalscribe.com ~ 6 Comments

Delia answered the phone promptly, it was her agent.

I’ve got you a star role, back to the cinema.

Initial excitement was followed by disappointment.

You won’t have to leave London, it’s a voice over.

It still rankled with Delia that she had been passed over for Marigold Hotel.

‘Advertisements?’

No, no CGI.

‘A spy film?’

No computer generated image, like Toy Story, Paddington Bear…

Delia wondered how much worse it could get. ‘A children’s film?’

Nothing wrong with that, all the stars do them now.

‘Who else is doing it?’

Tamara James.

‘Who?’

You know, she sent that Twitter and hasn’t worked since.

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On Thursday Delia turned up at what her agent called a bijou studio. She had not dared ask any more details, she could not afford to turn it down, but the young strangely attired young man who greeted her was friendly, enthusiastic and solicitous.

‘First one here, great, now how much do you know about the film?’

‘Nothing, I like surprises, this is just a bit of fun for me, I do like to support up and coming talent.’

‘…and we are very honoured to have you on board. Basically we’re going back to basics, a classic tale not yet retold, want to get in before Disney; Goldilocks and The Three Bears.’

Delia laughed. ‘I know it’s only a voice over, but I think my voice may be a little too mature for Goldilocks.’

He joined in the laughter. ‘Brunhilda… the brown bear, not the Valkyrie; you will be magnificent as Mother Bear.’

The smile froze on Delia’s face. ‘Who is playing Father Bear?’

‘There is no father bear, we have to reflect the modern family.’

‘I don’t understand, there have to be three bears.’

‘Yes, Big Mama Bear, that’s you, Mama Bear and Baby Bear.’

‘Very funny and how did they manage to produce baby bear?’

‘AID.’

‘I thought this was a children’s film, now you’re telling me the family has aids?’

‘No, artificial insemination by donor, Big Mama’s egg, Polo, the only gay Polar Bear in the Arctic, was the sperm donor and Pandora, Mama Bear, was the surrogate mother.’

‘Polar bears in the wood, this gets more and more bizarre.’

‘We have to show diversity.’

‘So what is Pandora?’

‘A Panda of course.’

‘Pandas are not real bears.’

‘I know, but we can’t be seen to be prejudiced. Pandora escaped from the zoo, it wasn’t working out with her husband, this was her only chance of becoming a mother.’

‘So what is the cub, a Teddy Bear?’

‘I love your sense of humour; I’ll show you the first rushes on the lap top.’

Despite her reservations, Delia found herself taken by the lively colourful characters. ‘It is rather lovely, someone must be good at drawing. How sweet, a coffee coloured cub who’s afraid of the water and refuses to learn to fish. What’s happening now?’

‘The family have gone down to the lake in the woods, where Polo has lived since being ostracized by the Arctic community. Every Sunday they invite him back for breakfast, the access visit to see his son.’

‘Leaving the porridge to cool off?’

‘Vegie Kedgeree actually.’

Delia was getting into the spirit of the film. ‘Can I see what’s going on back at the cabin? …who on earth is that?’

‘We could hardly have the stereotype young blonde girl, that is Dannie Dreadlocks, she’s left home because her parents won’t take her to the gender reassignment clinic. We have to make sure the film is inclusive of the GLBT community.’

‘What has any of this to do with sandwiches?’

‘Sandwiches? Oh, you’re so funny Delia, you mean BLT, bacon lettuce and tomato. I’m talking about gay, lesbian, bi-sexual and transgender.’

‘I think you are making this film too inclusive, can’t you just have a nice story?’

‘It will be, most of this stuff is back story, only the parents will understand. Let’s skip to the next scene, we’ve already added the sound track.’

Delia watched as the androgynous Dannie Dreadlocks skipped up the wooden stairs inside the cosy cabin, complaining in a strong Glaswegian accent that they should have gone to Ikea. In the first room she found a tiny wooden bed and sat down, but it snapped in half. In the big room she found the enormous four poster bed that Big Mama and Mama shared. At that moment a huge shadow filled the room and Dannie turned to see Big Mama blocking the doorway. The frame froze on the lap top screen.

‘Oh, what happens next?’

‘We haven’t written that part yet, we thought we’d let you all go down the Mike Leigh route and make up the script.’

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Saints and Sinners

June 20, 2018June 16, 2018 ~ tidalscribe.com ~ Leave a comment

If you enjoy anything that is free you have probably been to a free lunchtime concert. I have been to them in all sorts of places; theatres, town halls, cathedrals. Cathedrals are particularly good for accidentally enjoying free entertainment if you come upon a rehearsal. Even wrong notes sound great when pounded out on the pipe organ in a beautiful cathedral, the organist hidden from view up in the organ loft. Many cathedrals invite you to ‘make a donation’ or just charge you to go in; these historic buildings are expensive to care for. Exactly how this happens varies.

At Lincoln Cathedral you can walk in, stand at the back and take in the view. To go any further you have to pay. One day while visiting relatives in Lincoln we were walking back to their house and decided to pop in to the cathedral. We were greeted with singing that sounded familiar from the past. The Swingle Singers, are they still alive? We saw them at the London Palladium in Something BC ( Before Children ). Yes indeed and they were rehearsing for a concert that evening, we stood at the back and listened. Another time at Lincoln Cathedral we popped in and came across Mark Elder conducting Tchaikovsky with the Halle Orchestra, in rehearsal for that evening’s concert. The relatives wondered why we took so long to get back to their house.

Last week was Christchurch’s Music Festival. The Priory is the parish church with the longest nave in England, larger than many cathedrals and is over nine hundred years old; a beautiful place for music of all sorts and there are concerts all year round. I managed to get to three very different lunchtime concerts, the Bournemouth University Big Band, a lone tenor and two organists; described as Four hands, Four Feet and Four Thousand Pipes. The Priory was packed and of course they do like you to put some money in the plate on the way out. There were ticketed evening concerts as well.

The Priory has regular organ lunchtime concerts all year round and it was these that inspired my short story ‘Saints and Sinners’. What would happen if the resident organist was jealous of the guest organist, if the priest in charge was so protective of his historic church and its music that he would do anything to protect its reputation? Hambourne is a delightful riverside town and Hamboune Abbey is its treasure. Father Jonathon’s love of his church and music left no room for marriage or a partner of any sort.

In the free concerts I have been to no disasters have occurred beyond someone’s phone going off during the quiet movement, or rather strange people wandering around looking lost. But at Hambourne Abbey something very dark happens, in ancient churches, who knows what happened in the past? What restless spirits inhabit the organ loft?

At weekly writers’ group I found myself writing more stories about Hambourne and the people that live there; separate stories, but with a link. I didn’t want them to become a novella instead I included them as The Hambourne Chronicles in my second collection of short stories. I was going to call the collection Saints and Sinners until I discovered how many other books on Amazon had the same title, so it became Hallows and Heretics. There are five chronicles in amongst twenty four tales that take you through the year.

You can download Hallows and Heretics on Amazon Kindle for £1.48 or buy the paperback for £5.99.

$us 2.01 $us 7.29 from amazon.com

Friday Flash Fiction – Novel

June 15, 2018June 13, 2018 ~ tidalscribe.com ~ 2 Comments

‘Are you alright Laura, you look worried.’

‘Oh Jason, I wasnt expecting you. Yes I’m okay, just having a genre crisis. She doesn’t know whether she’s writing Orange Booker or chic lit. I don’t know whether to talk about my tortured past or shopping.’

Jason massaged her shoulders. ‘I know the feeling; am I the romantic lead or the hapless victim in a darkly comic thriller? We just have to go with the flow.’

A sharp rap on the door broke into their thoughts. Jason opened the door and a man of about forty, with a crumpled suit and close cropped hair, marched in uninvited.

‘Sergeant Jenkins, CID; am I addressing Mr. Jason Wood?’

‘Yes’ replied Jason curtly.

‘Do you own a vehicle?’

‘No.’

The sergeant frowned. ‘That’s one line of enquiry gone. Do you recognise the man in this photo?’

‘Yes.’

‘His name would be…?’

‘I only know him by sight’ replied Jason, suddenly gasping as he felt a sharp pain in his head. He sat down and closed his eyes, trying to ward off the dizziness. Laura gently laid her hand on his arm.

‘Its okay, she just wiped that scene off the screen, you’ll feel better in a moment. Come on, we’ve got to get to the tube station.’

‘Why, where are we going?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Laura ‘but she wants us out of the office.’

Ten minutes later Jason and Laura were running down the escalator, squeezing past others less hurried. As they approached the archway into the tunnel they heard the rush of wind and squealing of brakes that heralded the arrival of another tube train.

‘Mind the doors.’

They were too late to push through the jostling crowd on the platform. Jason swore in frustration, but Laura pointed to the indicator board.

Circle Line 2 minutes

‘That will do, but I don’t know how she expects us to be there in ten minutes.’

‘That’s her problem, not ours’ Laura reassured him.

The couple squeezed onto the next train and stood pressed together near the door. Laura smelt the sweet scent of aftershave and sweat; she smiled to herself, she was going to enjoy this chapter. They clattered along and at each station it was a struggle to stay on the train as passengers pushed past getting on and off. At last Jason motioned to the door and grabbed her hand as they stumbled onto the platform. They surged with the crowd to the long escalator and finally arrived at the station exit, but as they stepped with relief out onto the street a familiar face appeared, Sergeant Jenkins.

‘Perhaps you would both care to accompany me to the police station.’

The couple hesitated, tempted to make a dash for it, but settled for playing it cool and followed the policeman to his office.

‘Don’t know why you two are so nervous, I just need your help; private detectives can be very useful.’

Jason and Laura looked at each other in surprise, but before they could protest he handed them a piece of paper and a set of car keys. Jason frowned as he read.

‘Cornwall? We’ll need a map book.’

‘Sat-nav in the car,’ replied Jenkins, ushering them out of the door ‘you’ve got my mobile number.’

‘What are we letting ourselves in for?’ exclaimed Lara as they got into the car.

‘I don’t know, but I’m up for it,’ Jason winked ‘perhaps a weekend in the country is just what we need to get to know each other better.’

The sat-nav voice was irritating, but the long journey was pleasant.

‘Strange,’ said Laura ‘I’d forgotten it was autumn.’

‘What happened to summer?’ replied her companion.

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As they drew up outside a little cottage the couple felt almost in a holiday mood. The key was under the pot and they looked around carefully as they entered.

‘What are we supposed to do now’ pondered Jason.

‘I remember’ smiled Laura putting her hands on his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her.

‘Oh Jason, I’m really warming to this scene, I’m glad we came here.’

She felt his hands ardently exploring her body and began to undo the buttons of his shirt. He slid his hands inside her blouse.

‘How far are we supposed to go?’ he murmured.

She did not answer, instead she closed her eyes and let her hands slide down further.

Suddenly Jason clasped her hands and pushed her gently away.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked huskily.

‘I’m not sure, its too soon… I’m sorry, I think Im suffering from performance anxiety.’

Frustrated Lara turned away. ‘You’ll just have to fake it then, otherwise we’ll have to start the whole chapter over again.’

The tension was broken by the sound of the door being thrust open violently. A wild eyed scruffy man waved a pistol at them. They stood paralysed with fear.

‘You won’t get hurt if you just tell me where the stuff is’ said the stranger.

‘We don’t know anything,’ pleaded Jason ‘let her go, she hasn’t done anything wrong.’

The gunman turned his head as they heard the sound of tyres on gravel.

‘Put the gun down’ said Sergeant Jenkins, standing in the doorway, unarmed.

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The stranger pointed the pistol and fired. The policeman lay crumpled in the doorway as the gunman stepped over his body and escaped. Jason fumbled for his mobile, while Lara knelt in the spreading pool of blood. She tried to apply pressure to the gaping hole in his side.

‘Just hang in there. No that sounds like an American movie. Don’t try to talk, the ambulance will be here soon.’

‘Laura, where’s that piece of paper, the control room want to know where we are?’

She held the hand of the policeman as he struggled to speak.

‘Sergeant, we don’t even know your first name.’

‘I dont have one,’ he groaned ‘we never do in novels.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry, I should have realised.’

‘Jason, tell them to hurry, we haven’t got much time’ she pleaded as the sergeant closed his eyes.

She prayed someone would press SAVE before it was too late.

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Novel is one of the flash fiction tales in Someone Somewhere

A Room of One’s Own?

June 14, 2018June 13, 2018 ~ tidalscribe.com ~ 8 Comments

‘A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.’ A quote from Virginia Woolf at the beginning of ‘A Room of One’s Own’ which I have just finished reading, I have been dipping into it on my Kindle over a period of time. Virginia was invited to give a series of lectures on women and fiction in 1928 and they were published in 1929.

Of course we imagine the Bloomsbury Group had plenty of rooms and money, not to mention more time than ordinary folk and I can hear fellow writers of both sexes saying we would all like a room of our own and some money.

But looking back into the past with Virginia Woolf we would surely agree that the dominance of men in the field of literature was not due to the lack of talent among women, but absence of opportunity. Even Jane Austen did not have a room of her own, she never had a home of her own, just a kind rich brother. In the Jane Austen museum in Bath I saw an example of her tiny handwriting, small pieces of paper could be quickly hidden if someone came into the room. In the Chawton, Hampshire house, where Jane spent her final years and did her most productive writing, she did not allow the creaky door to be fixed because it acted as a warning that someone was about to enter the room. She always shared a bedroom with her sister. How peaceful the house was we cannot know for sure, but with a household of four ladies and a couple of servants, it should have been quiet and certainly she did not have to contend with toddlers running riot or teenage boys clumping up and down the stairs. One of Woolf’s other theories is that women became novelists rather than poets, because it takes more concentration to write a poem and women were more likely to be interrupted. Of course the great poets that have come down through history were usually well off men.

But for Virginia Woolf, Jane Austen stands out because she writes about women’s lives, not about them as background to men’s lives. She wrote what she wanted to write. The Austen family lived through the Napoleonic Wars, but there is no mention of them. Soldiers are important only for young ladies to fall in love with or run away with.

Writing ninety years ago Wolfe lived in a world where everything had been changed by the Great War. Women now had the vote, they had been important in the workforce during the war and with the loss of so many men, motherhood and domestic bliss, or domestic confines were no longer an option for many women. There was still poverty and hardship, the welfare state was a long way off, but Woolf wanted women to take any opportunities for education and to write. What would she have made of the Twenty First Century?

With her husband Leonard she founded the Hogarth Press in 1917, so she was able to publish her own books and certainly didn’t need to decide on a genre. She could never have imagined the internet and digital publishing, but she would surely have been impressed that so many women of all ages are writing, and writing whatever they want. But do we still need a room of our own and £500 a year to be able to write? Many of us didn’t start writing till after A Levels, our children’s A Levels; how many students come home for the university holidays to discover their bedroom has been turned into a sewing room or a computer room? Many writers don’t start till they have retired.

I wrote my first novel on a lap top on the dining table, progressed to a desk top computer in the corner of the bedroom, last year we rearranged the house; junior visitors now have to sleep on air beds, Cyberspouse has a computer room and I have a writer’s den; Virginia Woolf didn’t say a room of your own requires a visit to Ikea, but mine did.

But if you have to write on a lap top curled up on the end of the sofa while the football is on television, you can still enter the digital room or the ethereal mansion where there is room for every writer. Is your blog a room of your own?

Do you have a room of your own or can you forget your surroundings once you are in your characters’ heads?

Help! I’m Living with a Blogger

June 7, 2018June 7, 2018 ~ tidalscribe.com ~ 5 Comments

You are sitting watching the football cup final you’ve been looking forward to all week, or catching up with your favourite soap and a voice keeps disturbing your enjoyment with remarks such as the following.

Fifteen Likes

I’ve been reblogged in German

My first Hugs

Oh, another new follower

Seven flags, the map’s looking good this evening, Palestinian Territories, Thailand…

You are living with a blogger and need to get help.

If you are both concentrating on a Scandi Noir drama your beloved blogger will still sneak a look at their phone or iPad and ruin the tension by missing the sub titles and asking what they just said.

Kindly ask them if they would like a cup of coffee before the news comes on and there will be no immediate response.

Oh sorry, I was just making an intelligent comment on someone’s blog.

It’s important to try and draw your blogger back into reality and engage in conversation. ‘When shall we invite Debs and Dave round for dinner?’

What? Hang on, I’ve got to reply to this comment.

To check if they are listening to you at all try some test remarks. ‘I’ve ordered that £4,000 pound camera / designer handbag, Amazon are delivering it tomorrow, will you be in?’

Okay.

Or be more drastic. ‘I’m leaving you.’

If they remain glued to their screen or start laughing it’s likely they have not listened to you for at least a week.

A get away from it all holiday may be a good idea. But tell Blogger the taxi / train / plane will be two hours earlier than it actually is, because they will not pack until the last moment, too busy scheduling blogs so their ten followers won’t miss them.

At last you will be sitting looking out over a beautiful lake or more adventurously climbing a mountain pass. Look behind to see if Blogger is still following you; there is no sign of them. They have to keep stopping to take photos for the blog series they are planning on mountain walking.

Later, when you are sipping your cocktails and warming up in front of a roaring fire or cooling off on a tropical veranda, you will hear a cry of anguish, they can’t get any wifi. You remind them their blogs are scheduled, but they still want to check if the blogs have gone on, if they have any Likes or comments. They also have to read the blogs of the two thousand people they follow.

In the luxury hotel room you can’t afford, because your other half has given up their job to write full time, you hope for romance, but the starry look in Blogger’s eyes is due to the brilliant idea they have just had for a totally original blog.

The only way to survive living with a blogger is to join them. If you only go on line to order your Tesco shop or book concert tickets you need to expand your horizons. Join Facebook and make friends with hundreds of strangers, then regale details of their boring lives to your other half when they are trying to write their next blog. Or you could go on Instagram, that’s very addictive; soon you will be obsessed with taking photographs and getting Likes and followers and you won’t be talking to each other at all except on line.

But maybe such drastic action won’t be necessary. Either the novelty will wear off and Blogger will be feeling bloggered and unblogged, or they will gain thousands of followers from all around the world, including North Korea and will be so busy answering clever comments with intelligent answers, they won’t have time to give you a running commentary.

Flash Fiction Friday – Fact or Fiction?

June 1, 2018May 31, 2018 ~ tidalscribe.com ~ Leave a comment

In Charge

You will be working as part of a team, ensuring our guests have a relaxing holiday experience. Full training will be given. Other languages will be an advantage, but people skills and personality are more important.

A job that was a holiday sounded easy and working as part of a team was just what Sandra needed, no responsibility. She had no languages and her people skills depended on the people, but how did they define personality? In her last job, promoted to team leader, she only had two people to supervise, but motivating Kevin the cleaner proved to be an impossible task.

Well it wasn’t an interview to be a television presenter, so Sandra decided to go for it; she was not cut out for stressful work so the relaxed atmosphere of Uncoached Tours – holidays for the discerning traveller with the good company that provides good company, sounded just up her street and the travelling would get her out of a rut.

The first holiday was wonderful and she could not believe she was being paid to go on steam train rides, visit cathedral cities and stay at smart hotels. Andrew the tour guide could have been on television, his wonderful personality made up for Sandra’s lack of it. Helen, the PCO ( pastoral care officer ) was made for the job, the guests loved her and she listened to all their problems; rather too avidly Sandra thought, but dismissed such disloyal thoughts. Employees, or rather colleagues of Uncoached Tours were always loyal, that’s what made the company great. Sandra had absorbed all the words of wisdom on induction day.

Bringing up the rear, that was her job and she had acquired her own little group of fans by the end of the first day. They teased her as she urged them to keep up, but enjoyed chatting with Sandra more than listening to Andrew’s commentary through their earphones. As long as she kept the parrot on a stick in sight all was well. Andrew carried it aloft, so he was easily identified when they found themselves with other tour groups.

‘I only came for the steam trains’ confided John, the lovely old widower.

‘This holiday is a birthday present from my children,’ explained Hannah the quiet divorcee ‘they expect me to be out and about meeting interesting people.’

The last day of the holiday was spent watching the royal wedding on the hotel’s big screen, followed by a champagne lunch. Sandra felt bereft as they waved goodbye to the guests, but there was the next assignment to look forward to, five days of London and the River Thames.

Sandra was just packing to go down to London when she got the phone call.

…well done on passing your probationary period. Slight change of plan, you’re doing Beautiful Berkshire, bank holiday Monday, pick up the guests at Slough railway station, first stop Windsor Castle.

Sandra could hardly quell her excitement, she had never been to Windsor, never seen a royal castle, now she would visit the scene of the royal wedding. As the train from Paddington drew into the station she spotted a chap in the company uniform.

‘Sandra? Did you get the tour pack. Is it your first time as a guide?’

‘Guide?’ the first misgivings sank in. ‘I don’t lead, I just round up.’

‘Gavin won’t be leading for a while with his broken leg, didn’t they tell you? But you’ll be fine, you can’t get lost, the branch line goes frequently, straight into Windsor and Eton Central. Walk out and the castle is right in front of you, apparently, haven’t actually been there myself. Here’s the tour agenda, tonight’s hotel is near the castle and the crib sheet for the castle visit is on the front page, or would be if we had a ring file like we used to. All the gen is on a tablet now. Oh, mustn’t forget the parrot.’

Sandra had still not got a word in edgeways as he handed her the azure and scarlet feathered creature on its long stick. Suddenly he was gone and an assortment of people were gathering around her. She tried not to panic, they all had their pre booked train tickets and it was not difficult to find the platform, hordes of bank holiday trippers were heading that way, along with other tour parties.

The train had made two return journeys before they got on board, but at least she had time to chat to an English speaking tour guide. The other woman laughed when Sandra told her tale.

‘Uncoached Tours, are they still in business? I got out as soon as I could. It’s going to be manic today, tours from every nation, but as long as you have your tickets booked for the castle…’

‘Tickets, do you need tickets?’

‘They’ll be a code number if UT booked on line, anyway, just keep an eye on my Saint George’s flag and you won’t get lost, turn left at Queen Victoria’s statue.’

Passengers poured off the little train as it pulled up at the end of the line. Only a few people got stabbed as Sandra tried to manoeuvre her parrot on a stick. There was no sign of a castle, only designer shops, eating places and crowds. She had no idea if her guests were all following as they were swept along.

At last they were outside and before them on the other side of the road was a castle, and on the pavement was a queue of people stretching back down the hill further than she could see. The day was grey and drab, not like the sunny wedding weather. She tried to speak into the tiny microphone with no idea if her guests could hear. Ahead, the white flag was progressing and Sandra felt a little hopeful as Queen Victoria glared down at her. There were more people around than for the wedding, uniforms and yellow jackets steered people and they followed to the end of the pre booked tickets queue, further from the castle than when they started.

Not all Sandra’s guests were wearing their parrot badge, but the ones that were did not seem happy as the queue shuffled along. She tried to read interesting facts from the tablet, but the guests started fiddling with the audio boxes hanging round their necks. A man in uniform asked for her group’s name and booking details, as she fumbled with the tablet and shook her head he strode off, only to return ten minutes later with a frown.

‘No record of booking for your company, the best thing you can do is come back at nine o’clock tomorrow.’

Sandra felt panic rising. The guests had all heard the conversation on their audio equipment as the uniform ushered Sandra out of the queue. A man with his parrot badge upside down stepped forward.

‘He’s right, did you see the queue to buy tickets. Why don’t you take us to see some other sights, such as where Charles and Camilla got married?’

‘The only sight I want to see is a sign for the Ladies’ said another voice.

‘That’s okay, they got married above the public toilets, come on, this way folks.’

Sandra tottered to catch up with him, it had occurred to her to run away, but she could do with a comfort stop as well.

The man grinned at her. ‘I only come on Uncoached Tours because they are such fun, something always goes wrong, but they pick reasonable hotels. A drink, a meal and material for my novels is all I ask.’ He turned to the others, grasping the parrot out of Sandra’s hand. ‘Here we are at The Guildhall. After our comfort stop we’ll stroll down to the Long Walk and see where the royal carriage processed last week, at least the sun is coming out now.’

Sandra wondered if he purposely wore his parrot badge upside down.

Read about Windsor in yesterday’s blog ‘Windsor After That Wedding’

and as it’s Windsor Week at Tidalscribe look out for Silly Saturday –

‘Not The Royal Wedding’

See more pictures of Windsor at Beachwriter’s Blog

https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-five-beach-writer-s-blog/

Windsor After That Wedding

May 31, 2018 ~ tidalscribe.com ~ Leave a comment

Eight days after the royal wedding we are in Windsor to catch up with friends, not at the castle, though they are staying opposite the castle. We are down the road in a pub bed and breakfast. Flags are flying everywhere and Windsor is busy, like it is every weekend, especially a bank holiday weekend. A sunny Sunday afternoon and everybody is happy, except the odd crying child; crowds, sightseeing and family outings don’t always work. We hear a father saying to his young son ‘We are here to discover the town, not to go to Legoland.’

Legoland is way out of town, though you can catch the bus near the castle. We had already seen signs for motorists saying Legoland was full. But Windsor is not about plastic bricks, the castle is made of real stone with thick walls to keep out the aircraft noise; along with many other people the Queen lives under the flight path to Heathrow. The blue sky today is heaven for plane spotters. We sit on the footbridge over the River Thames, the bridge links Windsor and Eton, the little town is part of the school rather than the school being in the town and is well worth a wander. Today the river is busy, you can dine aboard a big boat or hire a little boat and get in the way of the sightseeing riverboats. You can also ride in the Windsor Duck for an amphibious tour.

On Bank Holiday Monday morning the sky is heavy, the air misty. We can hear the roar as we step outside, but the clouds are so low the aeroplanes above us are invisible. We stroll the same way the royal wedding carriage drove and arrive at Windsor Great Park. The scaffolding is coming down where the cameras were last week and the Long Walk is back to normal, no crowds, just people and dogs enjoying The Queen’s back garden. If you wanted to you could keep going towards the bronze horse, away from the crowds; beyond lie gardens, forests and lakes. We walk up to the castle gates, open for royals, locked to the public. Everyone is taking photographs. Round the town side there is a queue for the castle, but only for ticket holders. There is another queue for people wanting to buy a ticket, it stretches down the hill out of sight, but all is civilised, plenty of people in uniforms to direct or advise you to come back first thing in the morning. Everyone wants to see the setting of the wedding.

Opposite the castle is Windsor and Eton Central railway station, the branch line from Slough was built for Queen Victoria. The three carriages go back and forth all day, curving across the river. Below the station is the main coach park; visitors are funnelled in through the station concourse and out onto the busy street. We sit with our coffee just inside the entrance and people watch. Tour guides now have microphones and their followers have earpieces and a receiver hanging round their necks. Each guide has their own flag or totem to wave above their heads, we wonder if there will be jostling or fighting for the best spots.

Down by the river the sun has come out. In the gardens there are fountains and children’s play areas, lots of families are having big picnics, or big families are having picnics. We buy an ice cream and watch a chap potting up plants for the roof of his narrow boat. The scene is peaceful and far removed from the tourist frenzy at the top of the town. On the other side of the river boat owners enjoy picnics on the fields of Eton.

You can see more pictures of Windsor on my Beachwriter’s Blog at my website.

https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-five-beach-writer-s-blog/

As it’s Windsor Week at Tidalscribe look out for Flash Fiction Friday

and Silly Saturday – Not The Royal Wedding

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