Wordpress Weekly Writing Challenge: Ice, Water, Steam

For this week’s writing challenge, take on the theme of H2O. What does it mean to be the same thing, in different forms?

Action TV reporting on the H2O developments.

“Good morning Mrs. Bird, could you give me your thoughts about the H2O situation?”

*No, problem. Just a minute while I ruffle my feathers, am I on TV. Yes, H2O, like you mean water, wet, cold or just steamy. Well as a bird I have my preferences. Now look at this stuff laying around at the moment, think it is called snow. It is OK, I don’t mind it really as long as the humans put some food stations up in the garden. It is not so easy to find worms they disappear in the warmer regions of the earth. We have to rely on outside help. This snow just covers everything and I get a cold beak sticking into it searching for a few seeds. Mind you, some of these humans overdo it. I mean we birds like to be fed but I saw a sparrow a few days ago. They are a greedy bunch and he just stuffed himself full of seeds. It started to snow and he feel off his perch on the tree through the weight of the snow, but his own fault. He just got a little overweight. Now I don’t mind a bit of rain, fills up the holes in the ground with some water. Yes, the liquid stuff is fine as far as I am concerned. Even take a bath during the warmer months to freshen up the feathers and get rid of some of the lively stuff that gets in between. We don’t do the steamy stuff. If it becomes hot an steamy we migrate to the river down the road. There is always something to drink, if you know where to find it.”

“Thank you Mrs. Bird, and now I see Tabby cat having a drink of water.”

“Hello Tabby cat, do you have a contribution to our H2O theme?”

“Oh yes, definitely. If you are taking a photo, make sure you include my right paw, that is my water paw. To continue, I must say that they frozen stuff is not my sort of thing, no definitely not, You cannot drink it and walking on it is not very inviting to the paw. We have sensitive paws and it is too cold, not to mention ice, that is a cat skid and does not look very good. Even my friends the birds would agree. Have you ever see a bird land on ice? Not very often, they avoid it when they can. I would also add that we felines do not like water that comes from above, no definitely not, Our fur becomes wet, it is cold, and we begin to smell. Water from below, now that is something completely different. It might lay for a few hours until we discover it, but then yesss. It is as if you discover an old rare wine in your cellar that you forgot. It is to be savoured, much better than that rubbish that humans get from a tap. Of course we do not just gulp it down, no we lap it up gently and might lick it from the paw. Forget the steamy stuff, we are sensitive creatures and that burns our whiskers. 

“Hello Mrs. Angloswiss, what is your opinion of H2O?”

“I drink it, it is healthy. I am careful with water, it is an expensive commodity in my country and I sometime wonder if we have enough. We rely on the rain of course. You notice when it is scarce in Summer and the gardens have brown and parched lawns. Otherwise what is there to say. The water that arrives from the tap is not just water. It is treated to ensure that it contains no impurities. Some might prefer water with gas, but I just like it pure. In its frozen state, ice is fine to cool a drink, but ice on the road or on the pavement - no thank you. I am accident prone and prefer to avoid it. If only the car would be invented that could operate with water, that would be a good development. I believe a steam engine exists, but it is not a sensible solution as the back seat of the car would have to be replaced by the tank. 

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WordPress Weekly Challenge: Digging for Roots

Whether your journey of self-discovery is more of a metaphorical one or if you’ve traveled far and wide to find out more about who you are, let that influence you in this week’s Weekly Writing Challenge.

I should dig for my roots, in spite of the fact that the roots might be fraying at the edges, roots of a weedy past growing haywire in the human history of me.

Oh, I have been there and done it. It was all the rage a few years ago to dive into the records of your past, chase through the census documents, beginning at the end of course, meaning I, me and myself. Yes, the publicity machine had found a new source of money. Buy your way through the research of your past.

Of course, I wanted to discover if I really was the fruity result of a past King of England that could not and would not marry his servant girl just because she was stupid enough to be in the family way. I decided this was probably not the case, as my family did not work in palaces, but  mainly in factories. So I began my search. It was partially based on the famous words of my Aunt Lil who said we were descended from rich French wine merchants that owned a lot of property and the deed were burnt in a church fire. Aunt Lil always did have a vivid imagination.  She even mentioned the that the name was “De Lu Cameru”. Armed with this family rumour of French aristocratic descent I took my first steps on the path.

I ordered my Family History software online, being a CD with a family history programme. Where to start? No problem, just put your name in and then your mum and dad. That is where the journey begins. The next obstacle is conquering further steps.

“Mum, when was grandad born?”

If you were lucky mum remembered that yes, her father was born.

“Did he have any brothers or sisters?”

“I think so” and so the third degree of my parents continued. I eventually discovered that my parents knew next to nothing about my ancestors. Further investment was necessary, and I signed up in a site called ancestry.com. And then, yes, I discovered the missing french aristocratic link. My grandfather maternal side had a mother who was married to his father and her maiden name was Camroux. Not quite “De Lu Cameru” but understandable, my grandfather no really knowing the correct french pronouciation of his mother’s name. His french knowledge was more limited to uttering various profanities. 

Further steps in the Camroux line discovered that I was related to every living member of the Camroux clan in England, thanks to the ggg grandfather (or something like that) who decided to travel from his Huguenot exile in Germany to London, marry a Huguenot lady (yes I have a copy of the marriage certificate from the protestant huguenot church in London - in French) and establish my dynasty. Were they rich? Of course most of them were, but there are always exceptions. I was descended from the exceptions. The rich ones all emigrated to Canada. The rich wine merchant existed, but not for wine. He had a few ships and invested in other such lucrative business, but contact was never made. I do not think he even knew our part of his family existed. Yes, he was a snob.

Through the inspiration of having a Huguenot past, I joined a course for improving my French. I was sure that it was in my genes and I would be the best in the class. This was not the case, so I left the course after a year and decided that roots were not enough if these long lost relations had no interest in meeting me.

One problem with old census details was the the people sent from door to door to register the names of the people living in the houses, were somewhat analphabetic. They could barely write (this was in the 19th century). I discovered that the search for my grandfathers sisters and brothers was increasingly difficult. Granddad’s name was “Lay”, but the census containing Lay variations of Day and Say did not help and I travelled many entwining paths until I discovered his 7-8 sisters and brothers.

The paternal side of my family were not very much better. Gran had 11 surviving brothers.  She originated in the country and they were mostly farm hands. My dad knew a few, but he put them into sections of “uncle X liked his drink” or “uncle Y loved a bet on the horses” showing that their qualities were not exactly on the positive side of life.

Eventually I gave up the circus of finding who I think I might be. It costs money, and I asked if it was worth it. I did find 6th cousin Marge in Canada and we now and again had a chat via Skype over the computer. Her mother was one of the Camroux clan.

So do you really want to know who you are? I found approximately 900 long lost relations in my search for fame and fortune. I was spending money for membership of the various ancestry groups. Now and again I might be contacted by someone that finds a thread on my cyber path, but do we really want to know where we come from? If I trace back far enough I am sure that I will find a lonely Neanderthal dragging a female Neanderthal by her hair into his rocky cave and deciding yes, this is it and there we have the real and true roots of my family. Or perhaps it was a wayward space ship that landed and I am one of the direct descendants of someone from Planet X243 on the right side of the milky way. 

The only thing I dig today is my garden to find a few slugs and worms.

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: Pie

This week I invite you to write about pie. 

My mum made pies, but like everything else she made the ingredients were top secret. No list of ingredients existed, I think she made it up as she went on her pie making journey. Not that she made the pie of all pies, but her idea of a pie was pastry with something inside. She always made the pastry herself. Unfortunately mum belonged to a generation where measuring instruments in the kitchen were an unknown tool. It was all done with judgement. 

I was a kid and was watching. I was not allowed to help, because I did not now how it worked, I was unskilled and not inaugurated into the secret of pie making. We are back in the good old days of the fifties. Mum would take out a large china bowl, that had been hovering in the family from her mother’s days. As this bowl was almost antique, I had to appreciated the cracks and discolouration and recognise them as symbols of something solid and everlasting.

Mum took a packet of flour and emptied some into the bowl. Here again, do not ask how much, mum did not know either. I think she probably poured it into our family heirloom bowl to a certain mark, that only she knew. She took a handful of fat, and mixed it into the flour to resemble a breadcrumb state of substance. The fat probably originated in an animal known as pig and I believe the english name was suet. Butter was only used for spreading on bread in our home. It was not for financial reasons that she used no butter, but it did not enter into her culinary talents that butter might be better. If she found that the consistency of the pastry was too oily, then another few handfuls of flour were throw into the mixture. I think somewhere in the process she threw an egg or two into the mixture, adding more flour if it was too wet. Of course she could have added some sugar if the pie was covering apples, but i do not think she did. She just thew a couple of handfuls of sugar over the pie when it left the oven.

I am now jumping a few valuable steps of pie making according to mum. The pastry was ready. She took an oven pan, another family antique, showing the scars of usage over many years and filled it with the ingredients to be covered by the pastry. If it was an apple pie, it was OK. What could possibly go wrong? Peeling and chopping an apple was no big deal and the sizes of the pieces made no difference. You did not actually see the apple when it was hidden beneath a thick layer of pastry, and believe me, it was thick. 

Of course we had a so-called rolling pin for rolling out the pastry. For some unknown reason mum always kept this rolling pin wrapped in a flour covered greaseproof paper. I do not remember her ever renewing this paper, but I survived. I was probably immune. Mum only ever used self-raising flour. This was an english flour already containing backing powder, so you did not have to worry about the pastry rising or not although my ideas of pastry today is that it does not have to rise, it forms a firm cover for the pie ingredients. Mum made pies like her mother made them and probably  like her mother’s mother etc. etc. so the recipe originated from the english Elizabethan days, and I mean Queen Elizabeth I in the 17th century. 

Mum might have made a meat pie. This was really something individual. She filled the pie dish with anonymous pieces of meat, mainly  beef, filled the spaces with sliced onion and carrot, and buried it all beneath the pastry. Whether she made an apple pie or meat pie, it made no difference, the pastry rose to untold dimensions. To allow the steam to escape from the pie filling and to avoid the pastry cover exploding she made a hole in the middle and placed a sort of special earthenware steam escaping device in the middle of the pie, yet another relic from the previous century. 

The finished pie was edible if you liked eating pastry. The ratio of the pie was approximately 10% filling at the base, and 90% pastry as a cover. Yes mum’s pies were unique. I feel no wave of nostalgia when reflecting on mum’s pies, but they were something completely different.

The nice thing about Swiss pies is that they do not really exist as such. A pastry base, filled with fruit and a beaten mixture of egg, sugar, cream, and milk and baked. And who makes pastry today? I do not. It can be bought already rolled out in the correct form. In any case, my husband, Mr. Swiss, is the pie maker of our family. Yes, see photo of one of this special apple flan pies.

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: My Dear Watson

Life just isn’t the same without your trusty sidekick. For this week’s writing challenge, tell us about your partner in crime.

“Wait! Stop!”

“Who is shouting?”

“It’s me, your spaghetti string. You are not going to eat me like that! How do you expect me to enter your digestive system without my partner?”

My plate of spaghetti is talking to me, at least one string? What am I doing wrong? This is stupid, spaghetti does not talk.

“Who says we don’t talk. In an emergency situation we have to talk.”

“Ok, spaghetti string, so what is the problem?”

“Do you really intend to eat me without my partner.”

“You have a partner?”

“Of course. He is very worried sitting in the fridge all on his own. He thought his big break had arrived and we spaghetti strings were quivering with delight awaiting the arrival.”

“I still do not know what you are talking about.”

“The parmesan cheese of course: during the short life of a spaghetti, before we are digested by the human body, we have little pleasures, but one is to be eaten with a sprinkling of parmesan cheese, so go get him.”

My spaghettis were now standing up on the plate and trembling in unison. I rushed to the fridge and found the parmesan cheese in a glass dish. Did I see a movement on the surface? No it was just my imagination. I put the parmesan on the table and a loud sigh of relief came from the spaghetti strings. Suddenly a cloud of parmesan rose and dusted the spaghetti with a layer.

“Oh, at last” and the spaghettis and they all seemed to breathe a communal sigh of relief.

“I am so glad” said the parmesan. “We thought she was going all healthy and decided to leave us in the fridge, but now we are here spaghetti. Let us be digested together. We belong together.”

The spaghetti and the parmesan cheese seemed to be involved in a scientific discussion about complementary tastes.

“Excuse me spaghetti and parmesan, may I now eat you with the meat balls, or shall I ask the meat balls for permission.?

“No, that’s OK” answered the spaghetti and the parmesan together. “The meatballs are just an extra to fill the plate, but we spaghettis and parmesan are a team. We belong together. Would you eat spaghetti without parmesan?” asked the spaghetti.

“And would you eat parmesan without spaghetti” said the parmesan.

“No, I suppose I would not. But I am now going to eat you both. I hope you do not mind?”

“No problem, it is our fate and after the digestive process we are at last united and will be reborn.”

I was a little unsure of the spaghetti-parmesan logic, but I must admit spaghetti with a sprinkling of parmesan cheese is a perfect partnership, they belong together like me and Mr. Swiss.

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: Manifesto

This week make a forceful case for something

Bloggism

There are rules to observe to avoid annoying other bloggers.

1. Do not plaster your blogs with videos of music. You will love the music I am sure, but not all enjoy the thud, thud, thud of Punk or the girlie screams of twerking. Some of us prefer the more subdued golden oldie rhythms of the olden days, Frank Sinatra also had his qualities. Some of us grey haired almost brain dead even appreciate the sounds of Rock and Roll. Bill Haley was one of us and we shared his talent for swinging our hips, we could even swing them in the fifties when he first appeared. Elvis Presley had his appeal, although we did not combine the word “sex” to appeal at that time. Sex only existed on the back seat of a car, in a quiet layby in the woods or in the back seat of the movies. If mum and dad were away, then it was more luck than judgement. Restraining music tastes is a welcome effect to soothe your blog. Unless you wrote the song and performed it yourself, then keep your recycled YouTube videos for private viewing.

2. Do not begin every sentence or paragraph with the word “I”. We know it is all about you, otherwise you would not know what to write. “I killed my boyfriend because I saw him kiss my girlfriend” is not a very inviting sentence in a blog. It only interests if you explain the details. Was it a stabbing, did you decapitate him, strangle him or was it just an accident when you pointed the gun and it went off. You might have poisoned him, then make your blog more interesting by telling us all about the method you used. Strychnine is a bit old fashioned, the celebrity murderers of the 19^th century used strychnine. Perhaps you used a fashion drug such as Ecstasy, Ketamine, PCP or Ephedrine which take longer to work, but when you go you go with a bang. It makes headlines and your blogging public will cling to every word. One of the reasons that you should absolutely write under a false name. We do not want the site closed by the Federal police.

3. Do not talk about politics. We all have our own ideas about the best man to run the country. If he is assassinated because you criticised his ruling method, you will definitely be included in the Top Ten FBI Most Wanted List and would also discredit your blogging site host.

4. Steer away from religion. We do not all belong to the same club and some of us do not even have a club. Someone might want to convert you, you might be drawn into a complicated discussion where you do not know what the other person is talking about and eventually you do not remember why you started it all.

5. Read the other blogs. They might bore you. They might be blogs you have seen before because the writer was too lazy to think of something new, so he just reposted showing at least 50 likes at the bottom. Avoid these blogs and do not be confused. The 50 likes were collected in various other places. His blog is not more popular than yours; it has just been reblogged more. These trolling bloggers spoil it for others. There is a lot of good stuff out there, not as good as your own. You are always the best, do not forget this. You should always be open for the other ideas. It will widen your spectrum of blog, even if you are upset when closing the computer, realising that what you had written is bollocks and what the other smarty pants wrote was a perfect example of an intelligent blog. Remember to ignore his blog the next time he writes, that will teach him a lesson.

6. By all means decorate your blog with a photo, but with your own photo, unique, never been seen before. Do not copy paste from Wikipedia or another web site without good reason. Do not forget, if the title of the blog subject might be “My favourite film star” and you decide to copy a photo of Brad Pitt, remember Brad Pitt is loved and adored by a lot of the feminine blog fans. On almost every blog on the subject you visit there will be a photo of Brad Pitt, each one the same. If you use one of your own photos, then put your copyright on it. You do not want your children being shown on a blog theme about juvenile delinquents, even if they are.

7. Above all, be nice to each other, even if you hate the other and are jealous of their success. You never know, they might be hackers, and having your blog hacked is not very pleasant. I would advise ordering a t-shirt from your blog hoster (two sizes larger than you generally wear, just to be sure it will fit – I am speaking from personal experience). Wear this t-shirt in the supermarket, in town, on the train, at a sports meeting. Other bloggers might recognise you as a fellow blogger and parties will be organised, perhaps even blogging competitions. Yes, life can be fun if you are a blogger, love your fellow bloggers almost like yourself, but always remember you are the best.

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: The Ray Bradbury Noun Twist List

For today’s challenge, try a twist on a technique Ray Bradbury used to beat writer’s block. 

Your Mission is to write a new piece that includes at least five nouns: Garden, grass, slugs, cat, salt

Today was the day. I am having my back garden revamped. Everything is planned for an early morning start, Mr. Swiss confirming that he would be up and ready to go at the crack of dawn. I was glad. If I told you that my prize winning collection of photos have many showing the golden sun sinking slowly in the West, but none showing the rising sun in the East, you will understand what I mean. No sunrises in the collection but plenty of sunsets.

We had decided to have the grass removed from the garden as it was no longer grass but a superb botanic mixture of all plants generally qualified as weeds, although I always found daisies and clover to have a mystical meaning. The reason why fairies would definitely be at the bottom of my garden, but unfortunately due to the damp summer the slugs ate the fairies. Every evening when I entered the garden to take breathes of the scent of the flowers; I heard a fairy scream somewhere. She was being attacked again by the brute of a slug. She had no defence and his slimy body held the fairy in a tight embrace. I decided to take action.

Armed with a kilo box of salt, iodine and fluor free, I began my search for a long brown, or perhaps black, shiny body. I carefully approached the fairy killer on tip toe, not wanting to alert the slug into a quick getaway. I am no longer the youngest and was not sure that I would be fast enough to surround this killer. It had double strength being both male and female. Probably this was the reason for slugs to be so unsatisfied with their life. They did not feel that Spring was in the air, they had no reason. Their sexual needs were combined in one body. They could not even get a divorce if they were unhappy with their partner, their partner being themselves. How boring the life of a slug must be.

Suddenly another high pitched scream filled the air at the bottom of the garden. I now knew no mercy and I lifted the leaf from where it came. There it was. A long slimy slug that was about to entwine a poor defenceless fairy and cover it in slime. This could not be, fairies also have a right to live. I shook some salt in my hand and sprinkled it on the slug. The slug twitched and was then still. A pattern of white spots formed on its skin where it had been hit by the salt grains. The fairy escaped to be met by my cat Tabby who decided they tasted even better than butterflies. Yes, so is the life of a fairy, out of the slug into the cat as the old saying goes. Actually it would be out of the frying pan into the fire, but I adapted the sense of the words.

I have now used all my words, so now to tell the rest of this story full of suspense, murder and shock.

The fairies now hid from the stealthy steps of my pet cat and the slugs were slowly disintegrating in a sea of slime caused by a salt attack when the gardener arrived. As a new lawn was planned, he scooped away the old grass surface and the pools of dying slug slime disappeared as well. I again heard a few fairies scream, I think he scooped some of them up as well, but as he did not believe in fairies, he never noticed it.

To make the job worthwhile and to ensure that I paid enough, the gardener also fitted a nice stone border around the vanquished lawn and made some stone paths. I organised the stone paths for the fairies to make it easier for them to escape from the slugs and my cat, but I did not tell the gardener. He may not have believed me.

To put the icing on the garden cake, the hedge was also trimmed. Then the head chief gardener, capo di tutti gardeners arrived to tell me the bad news. It seemed due to unexpected amounts of rain our new lawn could not be delivered tomorrow. It was too wet to be transported. I must explain. We were not having seeds of grass planted for a new lawn. That would have taken two months and the fairies did not have so much time. The complete tribe would have died for lack of grass. We organised a lawn that was already grown and would be delivered in meters. Unfortunately this prefabricated lawn was now delayed and we would have to wait one to two days. I asked the fairies and they said it would be OK. I did not ask the slugs, as most of them were now liquid slime and the remainders were all standing at the edge of a barren garden where there was nothing specific to eat for slugs in any case. I had placed a line of salt around the fairy settlement to protect them from a slug invasion.

Now we have a nice border with bushes and flowers, edged with tiles and an empty barren space where the lawn will be planted. One of the disappointments in life: the gardener told me to spread anti slug pellets around the edge to keep them out. I checked the packet of pellets and it said fairy and cat friendly, meaning that the two species would have to live with the problem until the new lawn arrived.

Now I am sure Ray Bradbury never had the success I had with the fairies and I do not remember reading a book where he told us how he wiped out the slug population of a planet with one kilo of salt. He always did it so complicated with firemen and books and thermometers. I am sure a packet of salt would have done the trick. He forgot to put salt on his list. 

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: Leftovers

Tell us about something — an object, a memory, a story — you haven’t touched in a while.

The asparagus peelings, leftover when preparing a dish of asparagus.

Many years ago, forty-five to be exact, I had a bump: number one son was on the way. Due to my proportions, my working life was paused for a year and I was not in the mood for heavy duty work. Suddenly I had an idea. I do not know where it originated, it was there. I thought up a story about a fish. My only relationship to fish at the time was an eating relationship. I cooked fish and it was a weekly meal. For some strange reason I began to think about the fish that escaped. I gave him the name Rocky. He was a goldfish.

At this time computers were not household gadgets. Mr. Swiss would bring one home now and again from work. I remember it was an IBM, one of the first, and we all had a little fun with it, but it was nothing to be compared with today’s laptops.

We had an electric typewriter which was rarely used; bought at the local supermarket for a reasonable price. I found the machine at home with together with some paper and placed it on the table. First of all I wiped the layer of dust off the cover. It was in a compact box. I removed the lid and plugged it into the electricity supply and it was alive. It summed and breathed and sat waiting for my first movement. I began to write. My fishy ideas were formed into words and I wrote and wrote and wrote. I formed a real fishy world. Rocky escaped from the bowl whilst it was being cleaned and took a dive into the sink. He was free and landed in the watery world where all the waste lands when the sink is emptied.

He met other fishy friends, he found a girlfriend and I was in my own little world. Now and again the bump made itself noticeable, little feet kicking and attacks of indigestion. It was growing and telling me only a month to go. I hurried with my story and one day it was finished before the bump arrived. I was always very good at beginnings, but not so good with finishings. This time I had written a complete story. I know I was not the J.K.Rowling of the 1960’s (it was 1969) but I felt a little proud feeling of ending something I had begun.

My husband asked what I was writing on the typewriter. I confessed and he read my story. He said I should read it through for corrections, which I did, feeling very professional. My husband sent it to a magazine in London for printing: not my idea, but he found why not? Naturally it was not my breakthrough, it was rejected and with time I was too occupied with changing diapers and feeding a baby that cried for more when hungry. I also had two other step-children to take care of and I gave up my idea of becoming a writer. The pages disappeared somewhere. There was another unfinished story about Sam Squirrel discovers the world, at least his world.

I will now fast forward in time. In the meanwhile the computer had become a household appliance, although not yet movable. The laptop had not yet arrived, but the fixed version with a large box on the floor was taking up room under the desk. Bill Gates had discovered another sort of windows and a little later I discovered blogging. I remember the first time I heard the word and asked Mr. Swiss (my husband) “What is a Blog”. He did not really know, but said some writing on the computer. I began my search for blog and found it. There were not so many platforms available, but I found one. What to write: I had no idea. I decided it was something like a diary, but did not want to diverge to many private moments of my life. I remembered my Rocky story. Where was it?

“Mr. Swiss, do you know where my Rocky story is.”

“Yes, of course (he is Swiss – they are very well organised). I put it in the celler in a folder with some other stuff you wrote.”

So Mr. Swiss, being Swiss, went to the celler and naturally found it still in the large folder with all my writing attempts, the Rocky story being amongst them. By now the kids were all at school during the day and in a spare moment I typed it into the computer and uploaded it on a blogging site. I even found some suitable illustrations on the web. Today after completing a Web assistant course, I would probably adapt my own photos to the story, but this was some time ago and html and css were not in my vocabulary.

My first blogging site closed down, the second blogging site I found also closed and now I am in WordPress and Rocky is still here, as well as Sam the Squirrel which I had completed in the meanwhile. In the meanwhile I removed the illustrations.

Here they are:
The Adventures of Rocky the Fish 
Sam Squirrel discovers the world 

I still have the orginal transcripts written on our old electric typewriter. I suppose the crude beginnings of my blogging hobby. At least it is a quiet hobby and now I have my own (third) laptop to write my creations. 

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Weekly Writing Challenge: The Death of a Jabberwock

If you’re not moved by any of these stories, write about inspiration in general.Where do you find it? Who is your muse?

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

I do not really do inspiration. I write for the fun of writing. I do not have a muse, I am I, me and myself, but I can be fascinated by something. I read a lot, some books I love, others are ok and there might be something that stays. How can anyone be inspired by a nonsense poem, Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll, but I am.

The thought of a slithy tove , finding its way through the murkiness of a wabe. Not only did it squirm, worm its way along, but it was gyring and gimbling. Imagine the moment of inspiration of this strange animal. It was not slimy, but slithy. Naturally there was an obstacle in the way, not an oak tree, or even a hawthorne, no, it was a borogove. We all know how a borogove can be an interference. If you take a walk in a wabe and your path if blocked by something indefinable, something large and above all mimsy, then it can destroy your honest intentions. You are now attacked by a mome rath outgrabing, its vines entwining your legs, and bringing you to a fall. Oh the problems when on a Jabberwock hunt.

You are warned by your father to beware, there is a Jabberwock hiding in the undergrowth. It might even be riding a slithy tove, but no problem. If you have a vorpal sword in your hand, this is a protection against all Jabberwocks as well as a Jubjub bird and the indelible, horrific, frumious Bandersnatch. It might even be that the Jabberwock has sharpened his teeth and claws, they bite and scratch, hanging onto your armoured clothing.

The Jabberwock is a crafty foe, even manxome and is not something to be taken on the light shoulder. The hunter was tired carrying such a heavy vorpal sword and decided to rest. Did he lean on the trunk of an oak tree? No, he was a clever hunter. He thought about the problem. The Tumtum tree gave him protection and relaxation whilst dealing with the trouble and was food for the brain. A Jabberwock is not something to be taken on the light shoulder.

Suddenly it appeared charging out of the tulgey forest, his eyes glowing red and he could smell its whiff of burbling. Jabberwocks tend to burble with nauseating side effects.  They cannot hide, they smell, especially when moving. Our hero did not hesitate, it was now or never and so he thrust with his vorpal sword, up and down, from side to side. Vorpal swords are the best thrusting weapons you can have. Our hero was so sure of himself, he did not even decapitate the monster, he knew it was dead and there was no point. He did not need a head as proof of the slaughter, his clothes were covered in green blood. He immediately returned to his father in a galumphing gallop. The success of the mission was sure.  “At last” said the father, he was ecstatic. The son had killed the Jabberwock. He did not know whether to laugh or cry, such happiness. No longer would the wood be threatened by the Jabberwock. In the meanwhile the Jubjub bird flew to the Bandersnatch and grimpled in his ear of the passing of the Jabberwock..

The Bandersnatch was grinnged, champly plonked by the news, and fraggled to a momrath, hoping for help. Without a Jabberwock there was no hope. The Bandersnatch and the Momrath searched for a Kloggle. It was the only chance. The Kloggles had gone, they were plamed by the abscence of a Jabberwock. Many years later a baby Jabberwock was found in the Wabe. He was clonking and bleething,. A Kloggle returned and found the baby Jabberwock , so he drew his vorpal sword and ……… - to be continued?

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: A Lost Art Stenography

Your take on lost arts

Can anyone read this. I will have a try, it is many years, but I can still write it.

“How are you going to improve your shorthand when you do not have a single extra minute in the day? You cannot make the day any longer although a lot of ………. feel different that you were looking forward to. You were happy to get everything on your list done and be home in time for tea with all the items crossed through as accomplished. If ou get up every early hour  you are then feeling  ….. by the end of the afternoon. The ... way to stretch ones experience of time is through etc.etc.”

Ok, I learnt it when I was 17 years old and that was many years ago. Please forgive some of the gaps, but I no longer have everything in my memory. It is shorthand, stenography, a way of writing: what is said immediately and quickly and recorded by hand. You are working in an office and your boss wants to write a letter. The computer has not yet been invented and the dictating machines are not yet in existence, so what does the boss do? He dictates with words and you write as he talks. No problem, but it is if you cannot write stenography. There were many different systems, but the system I learnt was called Pitmans named after the inventor. I believe in the states a system called “Gregg” was fashionable, but this was more an abbreviation of letters.

Pitmans is written either on the line, through the line or above the line according to how the vowel should sound and there are thicker signs with more pressure and those that are with normal. It had to be written with pencil at the beginning to be able to read it clearly. For a more professional writer, it could be written with pen, if you could read it and that was the idea. Write it but make sure you could read what you had written. I will not go into details, but it is quick and efficient. It is based on the 500 most used words in the English language, and they are not only shortened by shorthand, but in shorthand itself, even more abbreviated. An example “We thank you for your letter” becomes “We thank for your letter” which become four lines, curved or straight. I am not giving here a lesson on how to write Pitmans.

I learned it for a year in the commercial course at school and took my examinations, based on the speed. I hit an average of 120 words per minute, which is not bad, but a fully blooded expert would probably reach 180 words per minute if not more. When the boss is dictating you are not writing what he is now saying, that is being put into your memory box in your brain. You are writing probably what he said a few seconds ago, You are almost always behind, if he is a quick dictator, and the idea is to be able to cope with what he said and what he is saying.

This was the way all good secretaries did their work during the first half of the 19^th century and probably into the sixties. We did not have electric typewriters, although they were just around the corner and if you were a chief executive secretary, you might have one. I leaned on a manual typewriter – but I am forgetting typewriters no longer exist, we now have a keyboard.

Is this a lost art? In a way I think it is. Modern office organisation has no room for manual machines or handwritten notes, although to say it is extinct is perhaps not the truth. I can still write it. I worked all my life in an office. My last job was an export clerk, but being an English speaking person in a German speaking environment, my knowledge was often called for if there was correspondence in english. My boss would tell me in German what to write and I would simultaneously translate in my brain and jot it down in Pitmans stenography, English style . Afterwards I wrote the necessary correspondence on the computer, but I had my notes to write from. Perhaps there are journalists amongst us. This would have been the priceless tool of their work and their steno would have even been more abbreviated to get all the facts for their articles.

I could also write Pitmans in German and French, although I had my own system, a little more exact, as these foreign languages were not in my blood.

So RIP steno, but I hope you are not yet buried. I no longer need you, my office working days are past, and I am sure that the younger generation now working in the offices of the world do not even know you existed. I still have my original Pitmans Shorthand Writing Exercises and Examination Test book, from which I learned this strange hieroglyphical writing style. They have never been rewritten, how could they, they are unique.

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: List Lesson

Things that your felines should know

1. Bastet did not exist, he was just a story made up by the Egyptians.

2. Felines were never worshipped as Gods, the statues just looked good for the history books.

3. That feline is not your sister. It was just a coincidence she was born with you in the same litter. She had a different father because mummy was feeling randy.

4. Spraying in the garden might impress other felines, but it does not impress the humans that you own.

5. You do not really own the humans, that adopted you but they let you think you are in charge.

6. Humans are not there for the sole purposes of keeping your tray clean.

7. Kneading on your human with protruded claws pulls threads in their pullover.

8. Vitamin filled pellets are healthier than tinned tuna fish.

9. Jersey sheets are not suitable for sharpening claws, they have to be thrown away when they have holes.

10. The toilet is not an extra supply of vintage water.

11. Dogs are equal to felines, they just think differently.

12. Humans like to know when felines are planning to return from a walk. They worry.

13. Resting on a snail should be avoided. They stick to the fur.

14. You know when your human loves you if they let you sleep on their bed, but you will sleep on their bed if you want to in any case.

15. If your human gives a command, it is not to be ignored or forgotten and above all just do not think about it and report back after a few hours.

16. Sleeping on clean washing is not hygienic for human use, but probably the ideal sleeping place for a feline.

17. It is not the idea to sleep for 23 hours and spend the remaining hour looking for a place to sleep.

18. The table leg is not a scratching post.

19. If you have a hairball moment, spend it on a washable surface and not a carpet.

20. If you have to take medicine, then it is good for you. Do not spit it out or hiss and try to amputate the human finger with your teeth in the process.

21. Every bite on a human is rewarded by a visit to the doctor for a tetanus jab.

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Weekly Writing Challenge: Blog your Block

For this week’s challenge, take a hike.

Where the hedgehogs and mice say good night to each other, but be careful where you tread.

“Good night mouse”

“Good night hedgehog”

and everything is well in their sheltered burrows and nests somewhere in the Swiss countryside. I just wave to them when I walk through the area and ask myself what am I doing here?

Via London and its dusty smelling streets to Zürich in Switzerland with its dusty smelling streets, although the streets in Zürich had a hint of gold dust in the air, most likely from the banks where no-one really lives: just a few gnomes hoarding their treasures in the vaults. If you are lucky and know a person from Zürich you might be able to live in their house for a couple of years. If you are more than lucky, you can move away from Zürich to the Swiss countryside. You might even be lucky enough to meet the man of your dreams, marry and ground a family and then the fun starts. Where do you live, another town? Yes, but you wait for the opportunity and move into the countryside and there we meet the mice and hedgehogs.

Take a walk in the evening, family hedgehog are preparing for the night on the tiles, or in the grass. There are humans also living in the area. There are no shops. The postman only rings if he collects money or has a registered parcel, otherwise he will not even ring once or twice. He drops the letters in your own personal letter box at the entrance to your block where your name is engrave in large black letters. You know when he has been, he arrives once a day at the same time, he is Swiss.

It might be that a neighbour will be seen when you remove the post. Greet your neighbour, if she is dressed in her dressing gown, tights, casual clothes or the man of the apartment before he goes to work in his office somewhere in the city, dressed in a suit. Greeting is a Swiss habit, and not to be ignored.Remember, if you are younger you must greet. I am greeted first of all, I have grey hair and probably qualify as a senior citizen. You know “old” Mrs. Angloswiss, when the neighbours talk of me and they do. Neighbours are a large source of conversation. What else is there to discuss in the middle of the country. Perhaps Mrs. X has done something head turning to her front garden. The lawn it too long, shabby, too much moss and clover in all the corners. Mr. Y avoided this problem and no longer has a lawn but a Japanese type stone garden. He is yet to comb it with the rake to ensure that the stones are in a symmetrical pattern. Even Mrs. Angloswiss expelled the toad infested damp front garden and now has a lookalike Versaille garden, at least she thinks so.

The village is a unit, a compact community and all are respectable people. They pay their taxes, clean their windows, mow their lawns and observe perhaps through blind slits, or net curtains the movements of the day. If they do not pay their taxes, they keep it for themselves, or try to. It is a small village.

A millionaire moves into the village and builds a villa, just a villa amongst others and is the salvation of the low council tax rate, keeping it low: a boon to those that have no villa, enabling them to save tax money. The village youth meet at the local hall for a dance, a rock band is appearing, or at the worst, rappers. They are searched at the door, the innocent village youth, but they are innocent. Their cigarette ends and beer cans have been deposited before the door. Does it smell of weed?

And so the sun descends on the village, I spray my plants in the garden to cool them down from the hot sun rays of the day and of course, I say goodnight to the mice and hedgehogs.

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WordPress Weekly Challenge: The Setting's The Thing

Today, we challenge you to create a compelling setting for your story.

It was a job just made for him and for his talents. It was a night job, it could not be better. The day was boring, the streets full of people pushing, no time to wait, all in a stress and of course the daylight. It took him many years to realise that this was poison to his way of life. He preferred to take things easy, to be his own chief, to decide when and where he could carry out his purpose I life and this was just what he wanted, as if the job was waiting for him. After examining his qualifications, and his boundless knowledge in connection with the requirements necessary, he was chosen. Not everyone was prepared to work only at night, but this man was ideal. He only wanted to work at night. The only stipulation he made was that he would like to have one night free monthly. This was no problem and he was engaged.

So Mr. Vlad Drake was employed at the local hospital in the Blood Bank. He was a happy person, at last he could forget the endless walks through the streets only meeting half drunken louts and sick drug addicts. They were no reward for a genuine vampire who had roamed the streets of countries no longer existing. Today it was no longer enjoyment. There were people dressed in black, sporting white shirts with frills and long greasy black hair. Even the women were painting their fingernails black and sporting a black lipstick. To his day the women had wonderful blood red lips, an invitation to any pair of fangs. The name Goth was mentioned in connection with these strange members of the human race and he must admit, such necks were not inviting to a fully-fledged 100% vampire as he was. He could remember the days when his castle was being built in a dark corner of the Transylvanian mountains, but times change and so do vampires. Enough wallowing in this nostalgic frame of mind, he was now the chief in his department, although at night he was on his own and had no staff.

“Your nocturnal work will probably mainly consist of handling emergency needs from the blood bank” said the doctor responsible for transfusions. “You will have to work quickly in stress situations. There might be a large pile up accident on the motor way and there will be a great need for blood. It is important that you select the correct blood group.”

“No problem, Dr., I can literally smell the various blood groups. This is not my first job looking after blood reserves.”

“Ah yes” answered the doctor “I believe you were working in your mother country of Romania before you came to our country. I remember you have a profound experience in dealing with blood and the results of your qualification test were the best we have ever had. In that case I will leave you to your work and wish you a good start.”

“Thank you doctor, I am very much looking forward to the logistical side of the work. Blood has always interested me, from a scientific point of view of course. I can almost smell the various groups.”

And Vlad Drake was left alone in the department to his own devices. He regularly received supplies of blood, packed neatly in plastic pouches and labelled with the blood group. It was his job to list the quantity received according to the group name, which he did with no problem. Now and again he perhaps wrote ten received, instead of twelve, but this was no problem. The two not listed were his own private supply which he took home when he left early in the morning, before the sun rose.

Things were developing perfectly. He now had his own little blood bank at home and no longer had to depend on the rabble, on the unhealthy who roamed the streets. His blood supplies were clinically packed and inspected for any impurities.

Once a month he had his free evening. Strangely this evening coincided with the full moon. No self-respecting vampire would work on a full moon night; it was perhaps equivalent to the week-end for the mortals. They enjoyed their free time and so did a vampire. He usually took a flight to the local forest or graveyard and exchanged fond memories with others belonging to the undead. He was admired by others of his race, being the person with most experience and his stories of the old days in Transylvania where wolves were wolves and the victims died with a wooden stake driven through the place where their heart should have been, were held in respect by his fellow vampires.

Vlad Drake soon became a respected person in his job. There was nothing he did not know about blood, and many students were sent at night to learn from him. Some students had to treated for anaemia from time to time, but as Vlad was such a well-known capacity in his job, this was ignored.

The strange thing was that after fifty years working as head of the department, he made no signs of wanting to be retired. Indeed his appearance did not seem to change and he remained the same Vlad Drake as ever. This was probably also due to the fact that he outlived most of the other doctors.

When he arrived home in the morning he was a happy vampire. He could relax, have a drink from his personal reserve and relax in his silk lined coffin in the cellar. This was different from the days when he was hunted by vampire slayers, and avoiding the garlic that the local peasants hung at their window. He never liked the stuff, and no-one would willingly be bitten by a vampire smelling of garlic. Times were great in this twentieth century world. He did miss the family, most of them being transformed into dust many years ago. It was their own fault, they just did not know when to call it a night, and if the sun crept over the horizon, well ……

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WordPress Weekly Challenge: The New Business

For this week’s challenge, use one of the images in this gallery as a starting point for a short story, poem, free-write, or musing on whatever you’d like.

“It’s ideal. I can use the space between the first two arches for storage. Nice and dry and with the air circulation, the wood will remain crisp and fresh. At the back ……”

“Just a minute Nick, are you sure. You know everyone will see our stock before they entire our establishment and they might find it a little distasteful.”

“Oh come on Morticia, that’s the way things are. No good trying to hide the bare truth. My daddy, his daddy and all the ancestors have been in the trade for a few years, but they never had the opportunity to buy something like this. This is a dream come true.”

Morticia had to agree with her husband Nick. Their old business premises were being demolished to be replaced by a supermarket. It had been a difficult search, but when they heard that the old crypt of the abbey was up for sale Nick knew this was the answer to his dreams. The abbey had been deconsecrated many years before and used as a storage room for a carpenter in the meanwhile.

“But Nick, we will have to clean it up.”

“No problem Morticia, the front recesses are perfect, it is at the back where it is damp, but when I fit in the air conditioner, it will be perfect.”

“You think so Nick, but it smells a bit mouldy.”

“That is just the air stagnation. The carpenter never used the back part. He said something about it being too dark and damp and things making noises while he was working, although I don’t know what he meant by that. With modern machines we will soon dry it all out and there will be no strange noises.”

“What was that Nick?” said Morticia

“What was what?” asked Nick

“I thought I heard something like high pitched squeak.”

“Probably a mouse, but we will soon be rid of them.”

In the meanwhile Nick and Morticia did not see the two figures watching them from the darker part of the arches. They could not see them, they were invisible, as ghosts of the past usually are.

“What did he say Ethel, he will be using it all for his business.”

“I think he did Edgar, but we can change that. As soon as he sees us wandering around with our heads under our arms and chains on our legs, he will alter his mind about using our home for his work. Our bones have been resting here for many years and no modern supermarket or fancy computer shop will move in.”

“Ethel he didn’t mention what it will be. Perhaps it will be a flower shop or a pet shop. You know you always liked flowers when you was amongst the living and I have never forgotten good old Belladonna, my faithful black cat. It was a shame they burnt her with me.”

“Meow, someone talking about me?” and a long black cat with staring yellow eyes appeared.

“Hello Belladonna, we were discussing that our cryptical home will now be used for something new.”

“Meow, if it will be a pet shop, all the better. Perhaps there might be a little black kitten there I could train to carry on with my good work.”

Later in the week work began on the old crypt of the abbey. The old ground was covered with lovely wooden flooring and carpets. The walls were painted and comfortable chairs were placed in the middle of the room. The insides were finished. Nick and Morticia were pleased with the result. An air conditioner was also supplied and the back rooms were complete.

Edgar, Ethel and the feline Belladonna were watching. Now and again they gave a little scream, but Nick and Morticia decided it was the wooden floor that was making the noises. They knew from experience in their trade that wood tended to sqeak and creak now and again.

The day arrived when the entrance rooms were fitted with their stock and a sign was put over the entrance – Nick and Morticia’s Funeral Parlour. The coffins fitted nicely in the first recesses. All good undertakers must have a good selection for their customers.

And the three undead: they were happy, looking forward to a comfortable sleep in an empty coffin. Nick and Morticia carried on their business and never noticed the guests.

WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: Multi Media Story Telling

For this week’s challenge, let’s celebrate and use the online tools we have and create a multimedia post: it can be a story, a photo essay, a poem, an experimental and sensory piece, and anything else. The one requirement is to include at least three elements

Everything was wrong from the beginning. Mr. Matlock decided that the foundation for his new project, high rise appartment blocks for the working population, would be built here. Exactly, over the swamp. It was not exactly a swamp: land that no-one wanted, because of its habit to attract water which stayed and festered on the grass base. It was a paradise for frogs, dragon flies, worms and even slugs. Their days were counted when the excavators and dredgers arrived. They also had to use pumps to dry the land completely, but undaunted they carried on. It rained from time to time and so they began at the beginning. There was a toad migration, but this was no problem. They found new pastures in the local park. There were many parents objecting to their children bringing home their new pets. The children at the school had a new game, toad racing.

To continue, work had to be done. The next small problem was when they discovered the skeletal remains.

The locals were a little worried to say the least. First a swamp complete with toads and now a skeleton, a beheaded skeleton to say the least. The problem was given to the police who passed it on to the archeologists, where they discovered that the bones were at least one hundred years old. The remains were afterwards exhibited in the local museum.

Work continued.

Bring me, fetch me, give me a hammer
Don’t just stand there, what did you stammer?
Slave away, all day if we must
Just keep on moving, or your bones will rust
What did you say, you want a drink
We have programmes to complete
So think, think, think
After work we have time to sit down and relax
So just keep on moving and please no wisecracks
This house must be built before winter arrives
So act like men and not old wives
Where is the drill, now start to bore
You lazy bunch, I want more, more, more
We are here to labour and work, work, work
So use your muscles and don’t be a jerk
The whistle is blowing, it is now time to go
Tomorrow be here for another work show

It was becoming a problematic building scheme. Fist of all drain the swamp, then wait for a few months until the monument preservation society was switched in when the skeletons were found, as well as a police investigation. Evenutally a helicopter had to be employed when the building started to sink into the soft underlying damp ground and concrete had to be dumped along the supports to stop this.

When the buildings were finished the families moved into the new appartments. There were large windows and in the evening they could watch the crows gather in the sky around the trees bordering the houses calling in loud cackles, as if they were bewitched . The people did not stay long and moved out after a few months. It seems there was a strange damp smell rising through the walls and floorboards. Some of the people even saw misty figures passing through walls and screams were often heard, especially at midnight. It was when a glass vase was pushed from a table, as if by an unseen hand, or a fried egg was suddently thrown onto a wall for no reason, that the inhabitants ran from their new appartments, never to return.

The new estate is now empty, no families could be found to move in, although the appartments would cost very little.

A year later the new estate was demolished and today only a green swamp can be seen – and sometimes people say there are bones floating on the surface.

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: Haikoo Catchoo!

Your mission is to write five haikus 

Begin with a plunge

Cleaning windows on Monday

Makes for clarity

Excitement arrives

Seeing clearly with new eyes

Pick up spectacles

Supermarket calls

A battle for the taste buds

Dearly purchased food

Let it blog today

Haikus numbing my thoughts

in syllable counts

Unknown tomorrow

stimulates thoughts, finally

My haikus are done

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: Characters that Haunt You

When the alarm rang in the morning, Alice was immediately awake, she had a purpose and a job to do and there was no time to be lost. Joe was still sleeping, six o’clock in the morning was not yet his time. He could lay back and rest whilst Alice was busy with her morning work.

The children were also still sleeping and now Alice could make the most of the hour she had before the house was alive with stress and jobs that had to be done. The computer was ready and waiting and she switched it on. She knew where she was going, the page opened and she fed her Facebook co-ordinates into the page. She was in, online, and had a purpose. Her kitchen in the restaurant had fifty dishes ready cooked to be removed from the stoves and served to the waiting guests. Alice was an experienced restaurant manager in Cafeville and knew exactly how to plan everything to sell the most, get the most and this time a new 10 + stove would be the reward, but she had to plan the time. If she rose an hour later, the dishes would be spoiled and she would either have to ask other game colleagues to rescue the dishes or throw them away. One of the reasons why the alarm was always set for six, you never know.

There was a breath of relief when she saw that all was well in the restaurant. Alice’s café was ready to go. The seats were already fully occupied and her fifty portions of ratatouille were ready to be served. She could now pick up her new stove, cook more and quicker. It was a 50% speedy stove, cooking ten dishes at once in half of the time.

Now she left her café, after setting another 50 dishes for cooking and decided to see what was happening in the rest of the world.

“Oh no” she exclaimed when she saw that Patricia in the States was in despair because her boyfriend had left her for her best friend. Alice wrote a few words of reassurance and Patricia answered. Alice then saw that Jean was telling everyone how much she loved her sister and was showing a very pretty photo of a angel with a pink frame surrounding the love declaration.

“I must do that as well” thought Alice. Although she hated her sister and had not seen her for the past ten years, she decided it would look good on her Facebook wall. Alice was just going to look in on her farm to see if the crops were ready to be harvested when her daughter Sally was calling from the door.

“Mummy, we still havn’t got any milk for the cornflakes. You said you would buy some. What shall I eat for breakfast?”

This was annoying, just when Alice was thinking about planting some monster pumpkins in her fields on her farm. It would soon be Halloween and that would look so good.

“Don’t bother me with such trivial stuff Sally. You can see that I am busy. If you cannot eat the cornflakes, then have a slice of bread and jam.”

“But mummy, the bread is at least two days old: when are you buying some fresh bread?”

“I will have a look today, I should be able to fit it in some time this morning.”

Alice was sure there would be time. The dishes now cooking in her café would be ready by lunchtime and so she could fetch some supplies during the morning. In the afternoon she had no time. There was another load of cooking to do and her flowers in the restaurant had to be renewed. The water only lasted for twelve hours and the time was running short.

Joe was no up and in the bathroom.

“Alice I was wondering…..”

“I will go shopping this morning Joe, in the meanwhile you can make some coffee and have some chocolate to fill you up until lunch time. OK?”

Joe said nothing, he was used to Alice interest in her Facebook land and left the house. He could pop in at the local real café before arriving at work-

And so life continued in Alice’s household.

Lunchtime the family were all assembled for dinner at home. Alice served a meal of chicken nuggets with pasta and a cheese sauce. The local supermarket had a wonderful range of ready food, so she did not have to lose time cooking. After all there was another challenge on her farm, she had to plant two fields of beans until midnight and would be rewarded with a blue unicorn. She could imagine the jealousy on the computers of her gaming friends when they would see that.

An unforeseen problem occurred during the afternoon. The computer had a breakdown. Nothing would move, she had no connection to Internet. She called the provider and they apologised and promised they were working on it. Alice became nervous, her crops would fail meaning no blue unicorn and she was sure all her dishes in the restaurant would spoil. She tried the computer again, but no success.

When Joe came home from work she was a crumpled mass of disappointment and was crying.

“What’s up honey, something happened?”

“The computer server is out of action and I don’t know what to do.”

Joe lost the thread and something snapped.

“What about putting clean linen on the beds, cleaning the kitchen and tidying up the living room. It looks like a refugee home. You are sick woman, pull yourself together and leave that stupid Facebook clan.”

Alice was devastated. How could she live without Facebook. She made a decision. She went to the bathroom and swallowed a whole packet of sleeping tablets.

She had a quiet funeral, just the family and on the gravestone was engraved 

Rest in Peace Alice

www.facebook.com.

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