tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61982224367384333462024-02-19T11:36:12.805+00:00The Full StoryUniversal truths in bite-sized - 300 word - chunks.
(As you well imagine, the texts and the pictures are copyright of their respective authors.)Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-11291804932721956082012-06-13T11:45:00.001+01:002012-06-13T11:46:16.581+01:00The law of unintended consequences 3<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7aB-mfIkuPAto3nc_6ZWCFttyINaaafwQK2xMbGOCgTNgM7m7sL_dDpH9cl7XSYbYxFGMd8wl7toMmQcl0i486szOQ9mgXBm9Tshodmn70ZZv8xgonbtFD5-LVrjZCi8Qd4aeDkq2m8c/s1600/Awakening+e-mqil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7aB-mfIkuPAto3nc_6ZWCFttyINaaafwQK2xMbGOCgTNgM7m7sL_dDpH9cl7XSYbYxFGMd8wl7toMmQcl0i486szOQ9mgXBm9Tshodmn70ZZv8xgonbtFD5-LVrjZCi8Qd4aeDkq2m8c/s320/Awakening+e-mqil.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Hannah assumed she’d woken up in
someone’s spare room. It was small, had a flat-pack wardrobe and flimsy spare
room curtains. . The walls were in pastel lilac. There was, mercifully, no
potpourri. She didn’t think her hangover could cope with potpourri; coming to in
some unknown person’s spare room was tough enough.</div>
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Her clothes were neatly folded on
a chair beside the bed. She peered
rather anxiously beneath the floral sheets and was relieved to see she was still
wearing her knickers but disconcerted to find she was also wearing a rather
prim, floral nightie. It had lace finishing at the neck. She didn’t check the
hem.</div>
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Hannah tried to conjure up the
events of the previous night that had brought her there. She remembered just the
first two bars, and then the club. They’d switched clubs, more than once she
thought, and sometime Sheila had dropped out, and then Joanna. And there’d been
some guy called Rory, but he’d been seen off by an enormous... For a moment she
gasped in horror but then looked around her. No huge gangsta male would have a
faultlessly Ikea back-bedroom like this. It looked decidedly Born Again. </div>
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She shrugged and got up to put on
her dress, leaving the awful nightie on the coverlet. She’d go downstairs, make
a few apologies, find out where she was and get a cab back home. Her dress was
up over her head when the door open and a huge man walked in, covered in bling
and scars.</div>
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“Put your nightie back on,” he
bellowed, “You supposed to look like a house mouse not a tart! They pay extra
for house mice.”</div>
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The distant echo of some late
night compact sounded faintly in Hannah’s back brain. That last slammer had been
a slammer too many.</div>
</div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-82428828868658822952012-05-29T16:31:00.004+01:002012-05-29T16:32:50.354+01:00The law of unintended consequences 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Save the World arrived in a North
African country known to cognoscenti as Blowfly Central with a convoy of mining
engineers, artesian specialists and drilling equipment. They’d selected a
desolate corner by mineral survey partly paid for by an Ecumenical Foundation
(Known to the same cognoscenti as God’s Own Dowsers). Although set apart from
the traditional migrations<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6198222436738433346" name="_GoBack"></a> of nomadic herdsmen, they had
found considerable water resource beneath the baking earth.</div>
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Collection tins rattled, tax
deductible donations were wrung from the business sector, tax concessions were
shamed from home governments and local cooperation was bought outright. Save the World set out to produce sparkling
fresh water in the wilderness.</div>
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Although the depredations of
parasitic worms killed one of them and sent two back to Europe, comatose and
incurable, Save the World built its well-head. It then bribed one local warlord
to allow nomads to water their herds, while keeping other brigands away. The UN
sent a couple of Scandinavians to see fair play. They stood pink-faced and
blue-helmeted while the herdsmen queued with their spavined beasts for
water.</div>
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They’d broken all the tribal
patterns this way, and attracted a large number of goats, sheep and cattle to
one corner of the country, away from the seasonal treks from one meagre
waterhole to the next. There was water for all, though.</div>
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There just wasn’t enough grass.
The sheep cropped the grass so close the cattle couldn’t eat it, and there were
gun fights. The cattle walked farther and farther away to find fodder, and found
themselves unable to get back to drink. And they starved. The sheep and goats removed all the rest of
the sparse vegetation and then, in their turn, starved too. The water glistened
in its shiny new pipes and valves as their bones littered the scrubland. </div>
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This happens.</div>
</div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-14565359145935285342012-03-26T13:25:00.003+01:002012-03-26T13:26:35.997+01:00The law of unintended consequences 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-H0dApCvLHqJYyIDLY_piDg1yBS33WnqBEV21wihdQDrKoQaW4jl-1DGTmbZV8dYc-Y8QPCK_MFlvqbRLFCkkLNohQRSfGDrbmCXhH-Qid-_NidexmCcn160ghw75SBuuBUHlZIftZgk/s1600/Waves+e-mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724180988248548290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-H0dApCvLHqJYyIDLY_piDg1yBS33WnqBEV21wihdQDrKoQaW4jl-1DGTmbZV8dYc-Y8QPCK_MFlvqbRLFCkkLNohQRSfGDrbmCXhH-Qid-_NidexmCcn160ghw75SBuuBUHlZIftZgk/s400/Waves+e-mail.jpg" border="0" /></a> Butler sat on his usual bench at the appointed time, for his daily converse with the sea. Hands resting on his paunch, he gave the waves a benevolent smile. He found their eternal rhythm a source of deep satisfaction; the glinting highlights on their surfaces as they broke upon the beach both dazzled and delighted him. He shut his eyes for a moment to listen to their susurration and splashing as they broke and the drag and rattle of the pebbles beneath as they withdrew.<br /><br />Earlier, as he’d strolled along the promenade towards his bench, Butler had been so taken with the brilliance of the day and opulent swell of the waves, that he had absently patted a small boy on the head as he passed by. It had been an affable gesture but the child had run screaming to his mother, busy with a baby in a push-chair, and she had shouted something abusive after him. His reverie momentarily interrupted, Butler had paused to assure the red-faced women that his motives had been solely avuncular and that he deplored violence on anybody, especially children. He then had to explain, courteously but firmly, that while he did not know what a pudding-faced kiddy fiddler was, he thought voicing the sentiment might be slanderous.<br /><br />At this point the small boy returned and kicked him repeatedly in the shins and the serenity of his day was severely jeopardised. Unwillingly to keep the sea waiting, Butler had dealt with the problem with commendable speed and efficiency for a man of his bulk. He doffed his hat to the woman, but she was too busy peering over the sea wall and hyper-ventilating.<br /><br />A howling of sirens mingled with the rhythm of the waves. But for the moment Butler chose to keep his eyes shut.Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-24780372455043743912012-03-09T13:00:00.001+00:002012-03-09T13:02:01.877+00:00Where did that come from? 5<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2RiE5klYVifLZ7lGVQGyn0gnwi8XmnM4XbjssHtYYXWozwJdn9ijppbpL1oThk7W2Pns6faweR-AE1Kaa-ugZfQpgLFrfg1ut18P1K0T-UDHFrjw8C49AdoNQKpx73QKxKcZGefxT_t8/s1600/Class+e-mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717881849810100530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2RiE5klYVifLZ7lGVQGyn0gnwi8XmnM4XbjssHtYYXWozwJdn9ijppbpL1oThk7W2Pns6faweR-AE1Kaa-ugZfQpgLFrfg1ut18P1K0T-UDHFrjw8C49AdoNQKpx73QKxKcZGefxT_t8/s400/Class+e-mail.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>First day, first year in junior infants. There wasn’t much of an induction. It was a small village and even the children who hadn’t been able to afford to attend the nursery class, knew the others who had.<br /><br />They introduced themselves, nonetheless, and then they went round the class, calling out what jobs their parents had, if any. Mrs Isaacs had gone to some lengths to explain that being a housewife was as important job as any other. And that people who right now didn’t have a job, had been let down by the country, and were just as good as anybody who had a job. Despite this egalitarian manifesto, Richard called out proudly from the back of the class, “My dad hasn’t worked for twenty years and he’s damned if he’s going to start now.”<br /><br />Mrs Isaacs deplored the world “damned” but allowed the sentiment to pass otherwise unremarked upon. She looked for more positive contributions from the rest of the class. And they were quickly forthcoming.<br /><br />“My daddy’s a fireman and my mummy works in a pharmacist.”<br /><br />“Dad works for the Gas Company. And mummy helps out at the store.”<br /><br />“Mom stays home and dad’s a mechanic.”<br /><br />“Anybody else?” Mrs Isaacs invited brightly, as the trickle of jobs dried up.<br /><br />“Daddy works away on the oil rigs,” chimed in little Annie Mason, “And mummy screws anything in trousers.”<br /><br />Mrs Isaacs looked at Annie’s affable little face, and felt her throat constricting. Eventually she managed a husky, “I don’t think you can have that quite right, Annie.”<br /><br />“She’s got it wrong, Miss,” called out one of the girls.<br /><br />“OK, then,” Mrs Isaacs turned swiftly towards the blackboard, hoping to move on to the safer territory of spelling.<br /><br />“Her dad’s away in prison,” Richard offered by way of additional explanation.<br /><a name="_GoBack"></a></div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-570057070447785012012-02-17T17:09:00.001+00:002012-02-17T17:11:26.954+00:00Where did that come from? 4<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UHpbFlEZ6-FfZX3rgtIjy8dJfu3PNXwR-2eBwV1kVYinsJ_P_FAjsGC6Tg92tG1CIlxXM9IuvFeAW7MAfxA2kXDwSB3QVqv8HZ_cybaskPOukQgBhe74j6DShmkmLcYh1MphLFQ7NJA/s1600/Memorising+mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710153253676728338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 315px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UHpbFlEZ6-FfZX3rgtIjy8dJfu3PNXwR-2eBwV1kVYinsJ_P_FAjsGC6Tg92tG1CIlxXM9IuvFeAW7MAfxA2kXDwSB3QVqv8HZ_cybaskPOukQgBhe74j6DShmkmLcYh1MphLFQ7NJA/s400/Memorising+mail.jpg" border="0" /></a> Good afternoon, archbishop, as head girl and on behalf of the entire school, I’d like to thank you for gracing our annual prize giving with your presence. <br /><div></div><br /><div>Right. I’ll go again.<br /><br />Good archbishop, afternoon, no no no.<br /><br />Good afternoon, archbishop, as head girl and on behalf of the entire school, I’d like to thank you for gracing our annual prize giving with your presence. And, again.<br /><br />Good bishop, afternoon, Bugger.!<br /><br />Good afternoon, archbishop, as head school and all the girls. Now, come on. COME ON.<br /><br />He’s only a human being.<br /><br />Good afternoon, archbishop, as head girl and on behalf of the entire school, I’d like to thank you for gracing our annual prize giving with your presence.<br /><br />Oh Christ, he’s almost up on stage. Right, here I go…<br /><br />“I don’t care how Holy you are, I’m not touching your winky!” </div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-68538458604143163272012-02-17T16:04:00.005+00:002012-02-17T17:13:40.264+00:00A wrong illustration for the story above.<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtsfdBM4Dx0X7OMAD67HD7pPGXpPpAqqgygnesBUkC36XGmAvqCVqhzHjajQEr8c6M0NFpqf9mIFhql2htdhL6IZCVFcuncaI-d3GtvWsnou6_vIBkWHOJpopqGhZ3c2rtGGNKlwxmswc/s1600/Letter+Writing+e-mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710136555923652514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 315px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtsfdBM4Dx0X7OMAD67HD7pPGXpPpAqqgygnesBUkC36XGmAvqCVqhzHjajQEr8c6M0NFpqf9mIFhql2htdhL6IZCVFcuncaI-d3GtvWsnou6_vIBkWHOJpopqGhZ3c2rtGGNKlwxmswc/s400/Letter+Writing+e-mail.jpg" border="0" /></a>Chips says that Phillip Larkin would have loved it. </div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-24597214880598969692012-01-26T12:47:00.001+00:002012-01-26T12:49:22.697+00:00Where did that come from? 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9ad25eCSAlpLoQFDx5iSQ6Vrnv-e8APfHzoaEtxqjC29lyYTr004_vXyvm6iExOtBU6TYmyku05naYO6hRv4OhQR8G_NqNZDLl8FdNzThcpOOVupc2CkVpFOFJGF5mJdHLdMgY4S7Kc/s1600/chip+mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701921900432329490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9ad25eCSAlpLoQFDx5iSQ6Vrnv-e8APfHzoaEtxqjC29lyYTr004_vXyvm6iExOtBU6TYmyku05naYO6hRv4OhQR8G_NqNZDLl8FdNzThcpOOVupc2CkVpFOFJGF5mJdHLdMgY4S7Kc/s400/chip+mail.jpg" border="0" /></a> Hendricks returned to consciousness and the conviction he was in a submarine being tumbled about the seabed, his head swollen with the pressure, his stomach churning with acid fear and nauseating dislocation. This he might have accepted but for an implacable sense of foreboding welling up through the terror and bewilderment. The situation would disintegrate further. Whatever unspeakable deeds he had enacted, regardless of irreparable damage caused to himself and those close to him, he would soon be making things worse. Nothing he could do about it.<br /><br />His mouth tasted of corpses; his soul had left for the coast. He was crawling out of blackout. He didn’t know what terrified him more - what he’d done in this latest one, or when the next one would descend on him, He reached automatically for a bottle under the shabby, wet bed.<br /><br />Once he found the bottle, he discovered the room. It was a small room and smelled of things even worse than himself. There was a small notice affixed to the back of the door. Another hotel room, then. And, from the damp on the walls, not quite one star standard. He’d landed lucky.<br /><br />He pulled himself to his feet, gagging with the effort and crept over to try and decipher the language on the tariff notice on the door. It refused to swim into focus. The door was bolted, though. He’d had that much sense when he’d arrived.<br /><br />It was a mildly peevish gurgling that jerked him into feral alertness and sent him stumbling into the bathroom, horribly afraid that he wasn’t alone. And he wasn’t.<br /><br />There was a piglet in the bath, entangled in his top sheet and blankets. It looked reproachfully up at him. He sighed with relief. For a moment he’d thought he’d heard a baby.Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-19455689761454562062012-01-10T16:20:00.001+00:002012-01-10T16:22:09.582+00:00Where did that come from? 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyW5kXzeNsK9OdXPCbEwFxjkGuGldHJGv1e0zcTsLDMaN-mDE2WGXfq0E4sYvZkB8-iMYemPFUWp9cjWzx-yh9iybobzUelfX4CdvcN5D0_iv2EAS4CH6ZeP2dt54zQqm6H-Z-EGuHT4/s1600/Mountain+e-mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696039380206566786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 313px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyW5kXzeNsK9OdXPCbEwFxjkGuGldHJGv1e0zcTsLDMaN-mDE2WGXfq0E4sYvZkB8-iMYemPFUWp9cjWzx-yh9iybobzUelfX4CdvcN5D0_iv2EAS4CH6ZeP2dt54zQqm6H-Z-EGuHT4/s400/Mountain+e-mail.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Burkett had allowed a day’s rest before the assault on the summit. Any longer and their food reserves wouldn’t last the descent to mid-way camp, any less and they wouldn’t be guaranteed of sufficient momentum on the final climb. Tasker and Kemp would accompany him to the peak. Spinetti and Holmes had taken it well, all things considered. They’d put the success of the expedition before any personal ambition to be the first human beings to stand atop C3.<br /><br />From first light, the climbing party picked their way through freezing mist, across treacherous ice and vertiginous outcrops of rock. Hour after hour they fought the mountain until at last they gained the summit, breaking through the last vestiges of cloud to stand in fierce sunshine, exhausted and uplifted in equal measure. In every direction the world lay far beneath their feet. Something no man had seen before.<br /><br />Burkett threw an arm around Kemp’s shoulder while Tasker busied himself with the camera, before shuffling over to join them. Lungs bursting and limbs aching, they managed a reticent smile into the camera for posterity. They may be the first men to stand there, but they’d have no vulgar triumphalism.<br /><br />The snow at their feet was ever shifting as fierce cross-winds buffeted the summit. Burkett looked down as something scudded along the ground and bumped into his snow-boot.<br /><br />It was an empty packet of cheap cigarettes.<br /><br />Burkett scooped it up into his pocket. He saw the others staring at him in utter dejection.<br /><br />“Wondered where I’d dropped that,” he improvised hastily. “Never do to leave litter up here, would it?”<br /><br />On the way down, they all pretended Burkett was not a lifetime and almost fanatical non-smoker. When they reached base camp, his first request was for a cup of tea and a smoke.</div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-39477475535380444882011-12-28T12:11:00.003+00:002011-12-28T12:13:13.919+00:00Where did that come from? 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9TTT3Zz77Zhy87lkg91IJGuiG_p74m7Y5nEwrrX17uHWZTRe_gHN3ZXAr3io3gInwKs0eKYw3_CNSdwORT70rH_4PuTwwFtEApe07FNLw3NOhe-PwUdNnsTvrng55XkDuxEDjn3T2qzc/s1600/Fart+e-mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691151057799046242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9TTT3Zz77Zhy87lkg91IJGuiG_p74m7Y5nEwrrX17uHWZTRe_gHN3ZXAr3io3gInwKs0eKYw3_CNSdwORT70rH_4PuTwwFtEApe07FNLw3NOhe-PwUdNnsTvrng55XkDuxEDjn3T2qzc/s400/Fart+e-mail.jpg" border="0" /></a>Penelope sat in the front parlour and watched Simon Prendergast walk gingerly up the garden path. He was wearing his Sunday suit and was clutching a propitiatory bunch of tulips.<br /><br />Penelope was wearing her best tortoise shell comb, a souvenir from Paris from a long-dead uncle and never yet worn. She’d taken down an equally vintage frock from its tissue-papered reliquary perched on top of the wardrobe. The stage was set.<br /><br />She could hear her mother hovering outside the door, panting as heavily as Towser, the family’s asthmatic bulldog they’d locked in the kitchen for fear he would slobber on Mr Prendergast’s trousers. Her father would be hiding amongst his roses. Both parents would be on tenterhooks about the morning’s outcome. The impossible achieved; a home to themselves after long years. A spinster transformed. A daughter finally fledged.<br /><br />Penelope thought of the little terraced house she and Simon would aspire to. Of knitting while Simon read of an evening, beside their own prudently banked coal fire. She allowed herself a glimpse in the clock glass. She was, admittedly, not in the first flush. Not a slip of girl. But she’d got the lipstick to behave eventually. She felt she could afford to think of herself as a catch, just this once, on her special day.<br /><br />Her mother ushered a nervous Simon into the tiny parlour before retiring with unnecessarily theatrical discretion. Penelope stood up. There was a moment’s silence<br /><br />Then, without warning, Penelope felt her colon relax. As she struggled, poker-faced, to control it, she gave vent to a loud, lengthy and keening fart, owing more to Wagner perhaps than Purcell. They both stood transfixed as the noise reverberated around them, rattling the clock casing. Towser, being locked in the kitchen, was too far away plausibly to be blamed.Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-59168221140935802962011-12-12T17:40:00.004+00:002011-12-15T14:46:04.026+00:00Out of the question 4<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvZyt55_C1e-lw3fenBaMWam6i7yuUptR3cqV6lX1XzI6c7fOwMkXqqCjnLi30510ZyGP4iQ0eayQzHf0vA6TlnBxih3Bv4gyIOygODOT6M07WjIaJFV2uQyA86POAFoqvryEl4GgTJ8/s1600/Ukelele+e-mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685298400206657314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 308px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvZyt55_C1e-lw3fenBaMWam6i7yuUptR3cqV6lX1XzI6c7fOwMkXqqCjnLi30510ZyGP4iQ0eayQzHf0vA6TlnBxih3Bv4gyIOygODOT6M07WjIaJFV2uQyA86POAFoqvryEl4GgTJ8/s400/Ukelele+e-mail.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Ford-Roberts, the Prime Minister’s private secretary, stared morosely out of the window at the barrage balloons hanging low over Westminster. He sighed deeply and continued, “I’m afraid the Old Man’s insisting.”<br /><br />“Oh Christ,” Sir Brendan Cluster, the Cabinet Secretary, ran a hand over his patrician face in desolation. “The Germans at Calais. Europe supine beneath the jackboot. And now this.”<br /><br />Cluster lit a Players Navy Cut, exhaled streams of smoke down his nose and brought years of experience to bear on the problem, “Firstly, can he actually play the ukulele? He may just find it all too much for him.”<br /><br />“He’s taught himself,”Ford-Roberts admitted, “Badly.”<br /><br />“And when is he planning to perform?”<br /><br />Ford-Roberts spilled out the awful truth, “He’s going to do the full ‘I can promise you nothing but blood, toil tears and sweat’ right up to the big finish, then up with the ukulele and ‘If you can see what I can see when I’m cleaning windows.’.”<a name="_GoBack"></a><br /><br />He froze for a moment as the Cabinet Secretary appeared to be trying to control some kind of seizure. “He says it’ll lighten the mood, sir.”<br /><br />Cluster exploded, “Do you think the Americans are going to overcome their innate isolationism and the vested interests of generations to bail out a fat man with a cigar singing comic songs with a ukulele?! Will the Russians die obligingly in their millions because of what Winnie claims he saw when he was cleaning windows?”<br /><br />“Everybody likes a good laugh, sir,” Ford-Robbers offered feebly.<br /><br />“He’s your responsibility, Ford-Roberts,” Sir Bertrand replied icily, “Unless you’d prefer immediate reassignment to a one-man submarine in the Arctic circle.”<br /><br />Ford-Roberts returned to the Prime Minister’s private drawing room, found the new ukulele and stamped it into matchwood.The PM was too busy to notice. Britain was saved.</div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-33012227929514105662011-11-30T14:34:00.004+00:002011-11-30T16:30:11.087+00:00Out of the question 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitWrAIptUhVpQAZjfqAk8uVia6R9SmVOVUHSVXZ8BwD8Qlvob5MkngET566XZHgPziTrnIFlpOc53v00ljm_7ZJpupt8NPdPT3WFQFX01YWqCVwYIFYRuILkyLeOAQLhN6uLy65OSYYc/s1600/By+the+moonlight+e-mail.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 304px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680797468573572898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitWrAIptUhVpQAZjfqAk8uVia6R9SmVOVUHSVXZ8BwD8Qlvob5MkngET566XZHgPziTrnIFlpOc53v00ljm_7ZJpupt8NPdPT3WFQFX01YWqCVwYIFYRuILkyLeOAQLhN6uLy65OSYYc/s400/By+the+moonlight+e-mail.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Colonel Makepeace squatted in the depths of his rhododendrons, his dress trousers around his ankles, his whole being wracked with intestinal spasms. He stared balefully up at the moon and, between rectal convulsions, brought down esoteric curses upon his wife and her patrician attitudes.<br /><br />“It’s quite out of the question, Potts,” she had said that morning. “I’m sure you understand.”<br /><br />Mrs Potts, their irreplaceable cook and housekeeper, had requested the evening off. Her son had been posted overseas suddenly. She had just this one night to say goodbye.<br /><br />But the Bensons were coming for dinner, and the Oordes; prominent members of the community and not to be put off with some cold collation. Mrs Makepeace was adamant.<br /><br />That evening, about ten minutes after the consommé, Colonel Makepeace found himself charging through the French windows towards his rhododendrons, Mrs Oorde having wedged her fat self in the downstairs convenience and his wife having commandeered the upstairs bathroom.<br /><br />Mrs Benson had given up begging Mrs Oorde to evacuate quickly (in every sense) and had scrambled frantically into the herb garden. Colonel Makepeace could see the moon glinting on her diamond earrings, amongst rosemary and thyme. She appeared to be thrashing her head from side to side.<br /><br />Above his own imprecations, he heard Commander Benson and Sir Reginald Oorde, ensconced in the gardenias nearest the house, exhorting the Almighty in their extremis.<br /><br />Deirdre Makepeace held on to the toilet seat for dear life. Realising her current discomfort was nothing to the social ostracism that awaited her, her groans echoed about the upstairs landing.<br /><br />Mrs Potts hummed a little tune as she cycled down the lane, towards her son’s farewell do in the King’s Head. She’d left the rest of the meal on hotplates on the sideboard. They’d just have to fend for themselves. </div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-8250585764338848642011-11-15T15:09:00.002+00:002011-11-15T15:19:36.102+00:00Out of the question 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhks-A7Hj456OLM-9FlqibkknntkTg26LurfmHe6heLh9UsVNUPjUVeuSD90TG6EcXIVK4wkzLTc6N0JEhmI7py7el3-uo09K7Ahovxs4f2v5pqP7PZ1Wx0x3sykFdHtO9lvG5ogZbZvMo/s1600/Maitre.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhks-A7Hj456OLM-9FlqibkknntkTg26LurfmHe6heLh9UsVNUPjUVeuSD90TG6EcXIVK4wkzLTc6N0JEhmI7py7el3-uo09K7Ahovxs4f2v5pqP7PZ1Wx0x3sykFdHtO9lvG5ogZbZvMo/s400/Maitre.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675242119862153730" border="0" /></a> “If I made an exception for you, sir, I’d have to make an exception for everybody.”<div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">“Come now. Consistency is a principle valued only by forgers and serial killers.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">“It just wouldn’t be fair to other patrons, sir, would it?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">“Exceptional people require exceptional service. Why do you feel this questionable need to be fair to the rest of humanity?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">“Why, sir, do you feel the need to eat in this restaurant wearing neither trousers nor underpants?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><br />“Simple. I wish to dine al fresco.”</p></div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-9616749942106374562011-11-09T17:46:00.002+00:002011-11-09T18:14:45.053+00:00Out of the question 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBe5ox-oAmwt94JHLlLgWphC4RYt6bLc0q5zMoaiNFcfgwRUMZYYwf-dP-r8u8Z7PbolrySZjwai64nvP_M9ZaXMMe8Ke5HntfXCigkO_yVgMqBjQq4KxdxOYwAMR40Zv_VlPyVXZtzPI/s1600/Zoup+E-Mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673054142737224498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBe5ox-oAmwt94JHLlLgWphC4RYt6bLc0q5zMoaiNFcfgwRUMZYYwf-dP-r8u8Z7PbolrySZjwai64nvP_M9ZaXMMe8Ke5HntfXCigkO_yVgMqBjQq4KxdxOYwAMR40Zv_VlPyVXZtzPI/s400/Zoup+E-Mail.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>Hampton had paid a thousand dollars for his place at the Open Dialogue Forum’s Gala dinner in Manhattan’s most august hotel. He’d invested in a new tuxedo and an exquisitely subtle haircut from his uptown barbers, along with an equally discreet manicure. He’d sent his wife and daughter off on a long weekend to Aspen in case he had to invite some influential fellow diners back to his club for further deliberations, and not return home till the early hours. He’d spent long hours studying all economic and political turbulences impacting upon the Forum’s concerns and activities. Two interns from Harvard had briefed him comprehensively on any issue that might arise during loaded interchanges following the keynote speeches.<br /><br />The room was full of money and influence and opportunity. Hampton was prepared for any eventuality except for a former Secretary of State sitting in his allotted space, crumbling bread rolls into his lap in senile abstraction. The diners sitting either side of the misplaced political heavyweight refused to meet Hampton’s imploring eyes. Any social aberration here could destroy careers and fortunes.<br /><br />“Mr Secretary,” Hampton began cautiously.<br /><br />“Chustsom zoup,” the eminent dotard cut him with a peremptory flick of a skeletal hand. His voice retained the heavy Mittel-European cadence of all those famous newsreels.<br /><br />“I’m not a waiter, sir!” Anxiety broke over Hampton in waves.<br /><br />The Secretary glared at Hampton through his trademark heavy horn-rimmed spectacles, “Zoup, you moron!” he barked in a surprisingly loud voice.<br /><br />The Gala dinner turned in itswell-heeled totality to see what solecism had taken place. Hampton scurried away to the kitchen to find a bowl of soup.There was no other option. The old man had bombed large portions of Asia back into the Stone Age; Heaven knew what connections and occult power he still possessed.</div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-90508904411726917962011-10-24T12:12:00.001+01:002011-10-24T12:14:12.204+01:00The Kindness of Strangers 4<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667015288503040146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxdWKVsKiiHvZI07-ZagWY2cg9ENxb_Hws-Y8SNNDb6-HT3cwRTC6vyES_787d9sXRVpXwXJufmndJbZ6jBe9993mhb_Wghm-92MOWJfSnmfUI1KGwdZzdTs93d_5Irybmj6uM6-BJThk/s400/Cave-e-mail.jpg" border="0" /> He heard them before he saw them. Voices somewhere above him, up through the pressing weight of his seemingly endless captivity. He neither moved, nor made a sound. He was used now to waiting, to avoiding hopes, projections, anticipations and the inevitable body blows of disappointment and abandonment. But he listened to the sounds of movement, and the barely perceptible shifts and easing of the cloying mass that entombed him.<br /><br />“Careful, careful,” said a commanding voice, and he knew that someone was coming closer and he wasn’t alone. He stilled his mind.<br /><br />“I think there’s something here, sir,” said another, “Yes, there’s definitely something.”<br /><br />Rescue! He couldn’t prevent himself; the agonies of hope coursed through him. He tried to make a noise, but somehow none came. He felt of the earth, only light and the presence of other men could break him from this mud and clay, could transform him into flesh and laughter once more.<br /><br />Then a chink of light opened in the great darkness above, and in flooded a human presence with the simple words, “My God, we’ve found one.”<br /><br />“Go easy,” cried the commanding voice, “He’ll be in a hell of a state.”<br /><br />He lay back, while he heard them working patiently and painstakingly above him, trying to prepare himself for life on the surface, back in the haunts of men, and the demand of appetites and survival. When amidst all his preparations, they suddenly uncovered him.<br /><br />He smiled up at them as they clustered round him. They smiled down at him, welcoming, caring, affirming his life.<br /><br />“A hunter,” cried one, “Look at the arrows, and those pelts beside him.”<br /><br />He said nothing, but looked up at them fondly, his heart bursting with gratitude. They’d been three thousand years, but they’d finally come to get him out.Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-27630864814351193962011-10-10T10:57:00.000+01:002011-10-10T10:58:53.546+01:00The Kindness of Strangers 3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7J4mCnS8xOuNj8_mCT4I7mtn4F7ZjXhY0KqQTir6F91NED5QDZYWfm5eVHc-z-SxqnLNtYSoirnmYgO53_ppBdSBYnmALoJpr_BJwfvF8fdUC7sUkl7gwC0X-rtESwzl-0Thg4Q1Q06c/s1600/Reverend+e-mail.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7J4mCnS8xOuNj8_mCT4I7mtn4F7ZjXhY0KqQTir6F91NED5QDZYWfm5eVHc-z-SxqnLNtYSoirnmYgO53_ppBdSBYnmALoJpr_BJwfvF8fdUC7sUkl7gwC0X-rtESwzl-0Thg4Q1Q06c/s400/Reverend+e-mail.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661800804277641378" border="0" /></a><br /><div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">Pretty as a picture, Effie had worked Cable Street since she could remember. And, for all her tender age, she was making a fine job of it. She had her own room above the pawn shop where she’d take her regulars. A safe alleyway to accommodate passing trade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Some small savings. Her daily gin intake stopped just short of lethal. Even Jack the Ripper had passed her by, preferring older, tougher meat for his arcane purposes. The other girls, when they were disposed to be kind, said Effie led a charmed life. She had an angel on her shoulder.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">Perhaps it was that which first attracted the attention of the Reverend Esmond Petty who accompanied by his devoted cousin <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Lady Miranda Cossington, was on one of his regular trawls of the East End looking for vulnerable girls to take under his protective wing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">He straightway approached Effie and declared, “My dear child, your salvation is at hand.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">“Got years in me yet,” Effie protested, mistaking his offer of ecumenical support for some kind of medical diagnosis.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">“We’re here to help you,” cooed Lady Miranda, “We wish to lead you to Paradise.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">Effie regarded them sceptically. She wasn’t taking them both back to her room; they might make off with her savings. “Alright, a florin for a stand-up in the alley. Three bob if the lady needs attention too.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">“Gracious!” exclaimed the clergyman, “It’s your soul we wish to embrace.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">“My soul’s my own,” replied Effie, outraged. “Not for sale to the likes of you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">“Think we’re wasting our time here,” Petty confided quietly in his cousin.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%">Lady Miranda smiled wanly and rummaged in her handbag. She produced a florin and handed it to her cousin. “Go on, Esmond,” she muttered, “You might at least get a shag out of it.”</p></div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-68895575840652168752011-10-05T22:52:00.002+01:002011-10-05T22:53:37.274+01:00The Kindness of Strangers 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEN8HA8uiV4NmSyVyCct9FiRCrrQtJcld_LosTVlwGV3xTrlPEdh3qM_RJ2rHJXwr3S3_8jlry1ohnBYZABu3pax1y7AskwKnzlkWKvm8JAPvl6lslrUeHrHbw_fEn-XjgwUTbsE9yOlM/s1600/Hobo-E-Mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660129537071994226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEN8HA8uiV4NmSyVyCct9FiRCrrQtJcld_LosTVlwGV3xTrlPEdh3qM_RJ2rHJXwr3S3_8jlry1ohnBYZABu3pax1y7AskwKnzlkWKvm8JAPvl6lslrUeHrHbw_fEn-XjgwUTbsE9yOlM/s400/Hobo-E-Mail.jpg" border="0" /></a> Chester liked to flop out in the little square at lunchtime, when the office workers came out to bask in whatever sun the tall buildings allowed to permeate. The office workers would sit on the pale grass, undo their ties or hitch up constricting skirts a few inches and open up their sandwiches and takeaway coffees. They’d try to ignore Chester, his grime, his rags, the blackened toes protruding through his cutaway hobnail boots. If they couldn’t ignore his surly presence, they’d awkwardly hand over a coin or two in the hopes of watching him stumble away to leave them in peace.<br /><br />Chester made a reasonable living out of their embarrassment, a bottle of cheap wine, a lung kebab, a plug of black tobacco. And so he kept to his glowering routine.<br /><br />He was nonplussed when one day an attractive young woman sat down deliberately beside him and produced two separate lunch bags. She handed one to him, saying “There you are. Prawn salad, tiramisu, iced tea and a candy. Bon appétit.”<br /><br />He stared at her uncomprehendingly.<br /><br />“There’s a towelette in there and a plastic fork and spoon,” she added, “Better keep the cutlery for another time.”<br /><br />With that she ignored him, and ate her lunch, looking idly about her as the other regulars came and went. Chester ate the prawn salad in silence, and the tiramisu. He drank the iced tea and ate the chocolate truffle though he’d never liked them. He made what he felt was an appreciative grunt, but she ignored this.<br /><br />Finally, she got up, brushed down her dress and walked primly away. Chester watched her in amazement, daring to hope that perhaps this was the start of a regular thing.<br /><br />Ten minutes after she’d left, the agonising stomach cramps began.Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-27725199604268831882011-09-19T17:03:00.003+01:002011-09-19T17:05:14.610+01:00The Kindness of Strangers 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mHDInLDxYSVnu_zyse2thpnzPSdtuwPinfp9_csgah002cMn9bfx3Y4qXJonfm5nJnI_EjskxwnWhwhxqUFjZU7QI23db5AA2sOTMuB3bSrVozOJrGrx4-XHYG9-yImQJarwghgOXFU/s1600/Belvedere-e-mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654102278576886706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 294px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mHDInLDxYSVnu_zyse2thpnzPSdtuwPinfp9_csgah002cMn9bfx3Y4qXJonfm5nJnI_EjskxwnWhwhxqUFjZU7QI23db5AA2sOTMuB3bSrVozOJrGrx4-XHYG9-yImQJarwghgOXFU/s400/Belvedere-e-mail.jpg" border="0" /></a> Moments after he’d got off the train, Belvedere had lost his wallet. He’d stood in the middle of Kings Cross station trying to explain to a tearful grandmother that, having just arrived from the country himself, he had no idea where the nearest convent was, while her accomplice, a skeletal youth recessive to the point of invisibility, deftly transferred Belvedere’s last few pounds, driving license and bank card into his own safekeeping.<br /><br />Belvedere sat on his battered suitcase and pondered his next move. The address of his recently deceased mother’s best friend had been folded safe and secure amongst his few pounds, and he hadn’t the faintest idea now of where he was expected.<br /><br />Two urchins of indeterminate gender offered to conduct him to a nearby hotel. They mistook his shyness for resistance, and attempted further blandishments. Sex with either of them. With both. With himself while they watched, on his own while they sat in the bar downstairs. He sat, silent and crimson with embarrassment, until they walked off hissing abuse.<br /><br />Eventually a station official wandered over to point out Belvedere could not sit there all night, clogging up the place. Didn’t he have a home to go to?<br /><br />Belvedere acknowledged that he had but the address had been in his long gone wallet. He’d had another home in the country, until his mother’s recent demise. Currently, his home was Kings Cross.<br /><br />Alarmed at this, the official took him into a staff room and gave him a cup of tea.<br /><br />They put him on the milk train back to where he’d come from, in the care of the guard in the mail van. In truth, none of them knew whether it was the right thing to do, but they pretended it was for the best anyway.Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-38478803455021898232011-09-06T14:17:00.007+01:002011-09-06T14:32:49.354+01:00Закон веры.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649237881104043954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8elYt02h_jkAFeVotA1o9nk63Tp9fNNd-LHuwd1JylKL3vi5RE_yE_po0lsMrplgZzjjr2DnXZrUuBsB9vahIX3jCjovXvX8vI5hleq7fT8V_iHL3J-TGEnjnX7yqOVKV4N-WzzTXSAk/s400/Russian.jpg" border="0" /><span style="color:#663366;">Dear Chips. Because I haven't any more text to illustrate I let the usually unreliable Google's translator to translate an old "An Act Of Faith" into what may possible be Russian .Let's hope that someone might find this funny...Have a good holiday</span><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#663366;">Oscar</span></div><br /><div>Робин смотрел его дядя Андрей построить gyrocopter в течение пятнадцати лет. С тех пор как он был в маленькую мастерскую дяди Андрея позади старые наделы. Сначала он был слишком мал, чтобы помочь, кроме, может быть, чтобы забрать планы прототипа, когда дядя Андрей нарисовал их со своего рабочего места с странствующий локтя.<br />Но с течением времени он стал достаточно большим, чтобы держать вещи, важные вещи, как лучший плоскогубцами или горшки клей, который так часто скрылся. Его специальностью было найти гвозди, шурупы или скобы, которые упали на землю и потерял себя среди щепы и пыли. С раскаты полового созревания, она была его задача провести первый рабочий макет до футбольных полей, и удерживать топливо, а дядя Андрей готовил машину на его запуск стойкой. </div><br /><div>Это gyrocopter день дядя Эндрюс расчистили детский сад забор и уничтожил их дом Венди, но амбиции Робина были отправился к звездам. Он был Aeronaut в процессе становления. И так, в его позднем подростковом, и до сих пор не сообщая его мама, Робин сидел за штурвалом gyrocopter дяди Андрея, как он тяжело опустился на сайте первого натиска его понижает предшественника по тяжести. Это были сумерки; разумная предосторожность, потому что детский сад будет закрыт. "Готов?" Спросил дядя Андрей, всегда немногословный человек. Робин дал ему широкой улыбкой и большие пальцы. </div><br /><div>Дядя Андрей, то уволил его боком тебя сто метров, за превосходную скорость и прямо в стену Совета раздевалки, где он взорвался в огненный шар, который может рассматриваться в двадцати милях. Дядя Андрей вытащил из его планов задний карман и опрошенных ими. Он дал ruminative мало хрюкать, а затем с наклоном к себе в мастерскую. </div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-21120766451843539182011-08-11T12:52:00.001+01:002011-08-11T12:53:53.450+01:00Surprise! 4<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ZGK6PAyEtlU1xC1PAi76CAe0121XyHwtxSEm9G6II77BuF6YEouBkjX-Lo78ENHuXF1z16DpBdElWc5kl9sUak3T3IQ6iyaKEzvMQWqIkt0rErp73ydtS0gyRsAGlMBLw2oKrBF_Qi8/s1600/Halloween-e-mai.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639565308016887106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 318px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ZGK6PAyEtlU1xC1PAi76CAe0121XyHwtxSEm9G6II77BuF6YEouBkjX-Lo78ENHuXF1z16DpBdElWc5kl9sUak3T3IQ6iyaKEzvMQWqIkt0rErp73ydtS0gyRsAGlMBLw2oKrBF_Qi8/s400/Halloween-e-mai.jpg" border="0" /></a> Andrea knew the ghost thing wasn’t going to work, but she’d let Caroline and Babs talk her into it anyway. They’d appropriated one of Babs’ mother’s bed sheets, which now trailed on the ground all around her, and set off giggling and a wee bit tipsy to wait for Chloe outside the Anglers’ Arms.
<br />
<br />Everyone knew Chloe was superstitious. Everybody knew she crossed herself if a black cat crossed her path, and prayed fervidly each year to be delivered from ghouls and hobgoblins on Halloween. Everyone knew she took the five minute walk down the towpath to River Cottage and climbed in over back wall, if her mother had grounded her, which she did with monotonous regularity. But only Caroline and Babs believed that if Andrea leapt out of the shrubbery lining the towpath wailing and waving her arms under the voluminous sheet, that Chloe would wee herself and thus provide them all with a good laugh and a talking point for months if not years ahead.
<br />
<br />So, that night Andrea crouched in the riverside shrubbery, shivering and forlorn, while Sissy and Babs stayed snug in the pub, making sure Chloe took the usual way home and “didn’t ruin everything”.
<br />
<br />“What have we here?” asked a quiet but unsettling voice, and Andrea knew a man was standing over her. He seemed strangely tense.
<br />
<br />“Whoooo,” she mumbled awkwardly. Madness to think he might himself be terrified of the paranormal, but it seemed her only hope. “Whooooo.”
<br />
<br />“It’s a girlie,” he came to a weirdly delighted conclusion. “And what’s more, it’s gift wrapped.”
<br />
<br />The evening wasn’t a total failure for Caroline and Babs, or even Chloe. Of course, the prank didn’t take place, but they were the first to discover the crime scene. And got themselves on local television news.
<br />Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-40430012661326323412011-07-26T14:06:00.001+01:002011-07-26T14:08:27.338+01:00Surprise! 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv-710xRFGtuDQFnmgyU3L0OMUUZ0AqDWaOLLUQ5J18Iu4luAMqpuWRT4trhz7pzdBgOwl0NameylfXQRjakrbG5iU1vuC75ogY40cCTXKgcMoPiOZCLkz4SCYzsahbWIDaE3ZQWrLJv8/s1600/Reverend-e-mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633647125805578482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv-710xRFGtuDQFnmgyU3L0OMUUZ0AqDWaOLLUQ5J18Iu4luAMqpuWRT4trhz7pzdBgOwl0NameylfXQRjakrbG5iU1vuC75ogY40cCTXKgcMoPiOZCLkz4SCYzsahbWIDaE3ZQWrLJv8/s400/Reverend-e-mail.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>The Reverend Panderby, at St Barnabas’s, was a stickler for the traditional observation of the harvest festival. Other younger pastors in the diocese might grow beards and pluck guitars whilst extolling the Life Force or Mother Nature and advocating environmentalist pray-ins. Panderby preferred his celebration of God’s bounty to be more conservative. He turned a blind eye to the shameless priapism of Mayday with its maypoles and Morris Dancers, because he knew the same May Revellers would appear with fulsome offerings to his Harvest Festival when the time of plenty came.<br /><br />Then he would bedeck his church with their donations. Monstrous marrows and cabbages, boxes of juicy apples, piles of pears, punnets of strawberries, gargantuan loaves of bread, whole cheeses, even cascades of grapes and flagons of elder wine. They would hold a service of thanksgiving followed by tea on the vicarage lawn, while the Reverend Panderby supervised his curate, Mullens, in the storing of the choicest items in his outsize pantry. The residue went to the Cottage Hospital in a returnable basket.<br />One year, after the service the Reverend Panderby and Mullens returned to carry off the cornucopia of local produce, to find the church empty. Everything edible had been stripped away. And a note left which read, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’<br /><br />“Witchcraft! Blasphemy!” wheezed the Reverend Panderby as Mullens hastened him away.<br /><br />The Police could find no evidence of larceny. The vehicles necessary to effect such a theft would have been seen and weren’t. Panderby raged at them all.<br /><br />But it was only when filling in the insurance claim that Mullens suggested the affair might come under the category of Act of God that the Vicar succumbed to his final apoplexy.<br /><br />A fine sheath of corn and a mound of fruit are etched into his tombstone.</div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-43299697076770424292011-07-02T15:55:00.005+01:002011-07-02T15:57:22.662+01:00Surprise! 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_G7kSEJpMG95uRGS2qiCXOF_TMzTLa_D5JLqNviXatpO5dSuOP5IT6tqMZIiCX66YjYIZ4dHUdKOZVKYU_BvffvHgNfhpKSS7zhwjxejN1n_Ag5VHADJ2veLQTThuPDkg7Nd0zogN2b8/s1600/Boudoir-e-mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624768898744412546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_G7kSEJpMG95uRGS2qiCXOF_TMzTLa_D5JLqNviXatpO5dSuOP5IT6tqMZIiCX66YjYIZ4dHUdKOZVKYU_BvffvHgNfhpKSS7zhwjxejN1n_Ag5VHADJ2veLQTThuPDkg7Nd0zogN2b8/s400/Boudoir-e-mail.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>“He won’t know what hit ‘im,” Constable Hipkiss observed with some satisfaction as he and Sergeant Potts concealed themselves about the luxury suite in the Grand Hotel. “Gentleman Cat Burglar? Rat in a trap, more like!”<br /><br />Concealment was no easy matter; Potts had an ample figure which protruded beneath the floor length velvet drapes now drawn across the window. And Hipkiss, having received permission to take his helmet off, was still finding it difficult to fold himself into the wardrobe, hung with expensive Parisian frocks and exotically scented with Lady Lobelia Carson’s perfumes. What his wife was going to say, he shuddered to think.<br /><br />The drapes rose and fell with Potts stertorous breathing and his voice was muffled as he spoke, “Mind the language, Hipkiss, You’re working with the Yard now.”<br /><br />The Yard in the form of Inspector Cutler and Detective Sergeant Walsh was endeavouring to hide itself behind an enormous bouquet of roses set in a free-standing Chinese vase of Imperial dimensions. It was never going to work so Walsh yielded to rank and disconsolately crammed himself under the king-size bed.<br /><br />“Right, absolute silence,” commanded Inspector Cutler. “Nobody moves a muscle till he’s in and opened the safe.”<br /><br />And they waited. And waited.<br /><br />Until Lady Lobelia Carson staggered through the door clinging on to a young airman and a bottle of champagne. Giggling and tottering she pulled off her clothes and then dragged him down on the carpet with her.<br /><br />“But the bed...” he protested.<br /><br />“Too far away,” she replied and fell hungrily upon him.<br /><br />At one point in the proceedings she was down on all fours when, opening her eyes, she caught sight of Sergeant Walsh’s baleful stare from under the bed.<br /><br />“Oh, bugger,” she sighed, maintaining a firm grip on the carpet. “I knew I’d forgotten something.”</div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-23736673943401122722011-05-14T18:09:00.001+01:002011-05-14T18:11:15.057+01:00Surprise! 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Hu6mfFlQcb8lENVOjUg2OQJFjhIybinClbL9MBN3uHJZ56MYtN89JxrpOFL1WsYimZ0Yx9LuQ3GJbcd-r1TlCdPCRb-bjXJnSBu3y0GTUvNEc5ShJoiCQ9_ac78z8AGZ9AwOUprnCc0/s1600/Painter+e-mail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606620522388571762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Hu6mfFlQcb8lENVOjUg2OQJFjhIybinClbL9MBN3uHJZ56MYtN89JxrpOFL1WsYimZ0Yx9LuQ3GJbcd-r1TlCdPCRb-bjXJnSBu3y0GTUvNEc5ShJoiCQ9_ac78z8AGZ9AwOUprnCc0/s400/Painter+e-mail.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>The artist steadfastly refused to allow the Duke to look at his portrait.<br /><br />Day after endless day, the Duke had balanced precariously on a stuffed horse, wearing an elaborate periwig, burnished breast plate over a white topcoat with gold lace facings, a scarlet sash, knee boots, and belt with pistols. He’d refused to maintain his heavy cavalryman’s sword in the charge position so the artist had to make do with him pointing commandingly at the enemy forces, somewhere out of the studio window. His plumed hat bore down more heavily on him with every sitting. He was damned hot and damned uncomfortable.<br /><br />The painting commemorated a pivotal moment in his and nation’s history. And the Duke was naturally anxious to check on its progress. He hoped the dauber hadn’t made him look fat. His mistress had described his tendency to resemble a prizewinning pig when confronted with something contrary to his will. He’d permitted the observation because of the rapacity of her appetites and the depravity of her services. But if this artist fellow had captured that side of him, he was going to feel some Ducal steel through his kidney.<br /><br />With a martial snort, he slid off his mount and stomped over to the artist, snatching from him the cloth he always threw over his easel should anyone approach.<br /><br />“I insist on seeing my likeness,” he bellowed as the painter blanched.<br /><br />The Duke stared directly at his portrait and lost the power of speech.<br /><br />“I preferred you without clothes,” the artist tried to explain. “In the Classic mode.”<br /><br />The Duke, crimson with fury, could only point and splutter at the image that so offended him.<br /><br />“But look, your Grace,” the artist made one last effort to deflect the Ducal anger. “I have given you an impressive pair of testicles.”</div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-37883872530266377742011-05-05T11:48:00.005+01:002011-05-05T21:37:38.135+01:00That’s quite enough of that 4<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerPxsSNan84yAdNtldUYWHHO3k-eVP6ZgV8_LPHhMW910mYVN5RVRr6kwTQD2tH5SkBvp8vb27oTZ4YdnlcCE7rYXuZJoEvwqe200c-m-6mECstD3j-ikrHGoeMqOCqnd5xgzRJalMXo/s1600/Coven+e-mail.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603186394246943026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerPxsSNan84yAdNtldUYWHHO3k-eVP6ZgV8_LPHhMW910mYVN5RVRr6kwTQD2tH5SkBvp8vb27oTZ4YdnlcCE7rYXuZJoEvwqe200c-m-6mECstD3j-ikrHGoeMqOCqnd5xgzRJalMXo/s400/Coven+e-mail.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAA1i0x7fvXowGyE1Oi_iShbnDSXyEhcD7iFBVfg5lD5OG2dbjBFego2gl-5ISBGZpFAkf9Za1oT-Tmfk6UJKYtqjaJ0JzcZKd7w2-ymVNQDmeTCSiOdCwMwRPT4EkEYie_lWZs59spRc/s1600/Coven+e-mail.jpg"><span style="font-size:0;"></span></a>The Northallerton coven stood shivering in a circle while Agnes, her enormous buttocks blue with cold, knelt over the pile of wet brushwood and flicked petulantly at it with a disposable lighter. A dank fog wrapped itself around them. With their rain flecked, goose pimpled skin they resembled a consignment of oven-ready chickens rather than a convocation of the willing brides of Beelzebub.<br /><br />“I’ve got some paraffin in the van,” offered Janie, her hair corkscrewing out either side of her potato like features.<br /><br />“Will he come if we use artificial aids?” Glenda sounded anxious. She didn’t want to miss Asmodeus after all this waiting.<br /><br />“We don’t get that fire going, we’ll end up in bloody casualty,” pronounced big Cherie from the fish shop. “Hypo-bloody-whotsit, more than likely.”<br /><br />“I’m not ending up in A & E with me bum out,” said Agnes, breathing heavily through her mouth like a drowning chow. “Fetch that paraffin, Janie. Sharpish.”<br /><br />Witchcraft had a lot to recommend it, if the weather was clement. You got out of the house. You communed with demons. You did things the Women’s Institute would scarcely countenance. Like to see that lot jumping naked over a fire, or yielding themselves up to the barbarous phallus of Satan. But the Dales could be as unforgiving as Lucifer, if you didn’t afford them sufficient respect.<br /><br />Janie arrived with a plastic bottle which she sprinkled over the brushwood mound. Agnes flicked her lighter, the brush ignited and both witches jumped back immediately with their hair and hands on fire.<br /><br />The rest of the coven watched them run around screaming and flapping uselessly at themselves.<br /><br />“Is that supposed to happen?” asked Glenda.<br /><br />“Just showing off,” said another.<br /><br />And while Agnes and Janie combusted across the Dales, the coven called it a night and went home.</div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-47075729221048521382011-04-22T12:17:00.003+01:002011-05-02T14:45:13.698+01:00That's quite enough of that 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfhyX3qmuN3lqVyQeybDZo_rgUcdhENzol0G4wIFn8SqXBlC2jVa5cVyaINa4nxBVthazdYv9LSS8SbeqLMWUIgXfjYkXSp1AdHb5-MeL8krkRAPEdL0w12fSg-hdLXh26FVrjZ_sFUU/s1600/Garden-e-mail.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 310px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598365940393272210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfhyX3qmuN3lqVyQeybDZo_rgUcdhENzol0G4wIFn8SqXBlC2jVa5cVyaINa4nxBVthazdYv9LSS8SbeqLMWUIgXfjYkXSp1AdHb5-MeL8krkRAPEdL0w12fSg-hdLXh26FVrjZ_sFUU/s400/Garden-e-mail.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Amelia took great care of her garden. She’d modelled it on the gardens of Versailles, as far as the boundaries of her small bungalow would permit and as far as she could tell from the postcard of Versailles an aunt had sent her so many years before. Like her aunt, Amelia liked to think of herself as a hardy perennial, and in truth she had got by, under her own steam and without the help or interest of any man, through a variety of often harsh conditions.<br /><br />Every day she pottered about her borders, fussed about her shrubs, descaled her tiny sputtering fountain and deftly negotiated her rockery. Her days, though uneventful, were a balm to her ageing soul. It was her nights that had become a torment. No sooner had she pulled the quilt up to her chin and switched out the light than the grunting began.<br /><br />Urgent primal grunts they were, accompanied by scrubbings and rustlings. Hedgehogs, it had to be hedgehogs, fornicating amongst her primula. She tried to ignore them. She hummed school hymns, snatches of Gilbert and Sullivan, but to no avail. The nocturnal grunts bored into her head.<br /><br />After two weeks of sleepless nights, she was a nervous wreck. Even pruning her rose standards offered her no solace. Something had to be done.<br /><br />That night, after turning out the bedside light, she slipped out of the side door with a torch and a spray-can of oven cleaner. Cruel, she knew, but if they wouldn’t desist they were getting a blast. It was either them or her.<br /><br />Crouched beneath her bedroom window, his hands oddly employed inside his trousers, she found Mr. Pratchett from down the road.<br /><br />“Do you mind awfully?” he said. “Only I’ve been barred from the swimming baths.” </div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6198222436738433346.post-88889163954768136632011-04-15T16:16:00.010+01:002011-04-15T17:01:48.090+01:00That's quite enough of that 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7EdriGMvdM75hOxwCcbFA8JgUGjum-ZXsmf1AtRxFLP6wfwdGX3bJA7NZj3ixlyWbq7sCsSFoglWcoRWCyx9pidenSRcQmTKL9ToBWHDc6sNWlQMlzZAeJDIF7VwIRQVuIEtaI8yASAU/s1600/Li%2527l-Girl-E-Mail.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595831606310739858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7EdriGMvdM75hOxwCcbFA8JgUGjum-ZXsmf1AtRxFLP6wfwdGX3bJA7NZj3ixlyWbq7sCsSFoglWcoRWCyx9pidenSRcQmTKL9ToBWHDc6sNWlQMlzZAeJDIF7VwIRQVuIEtaI8yASAU/s400/Li%2527l-Girl-E-Mail.jpg" /></a> <br /><div>Barely six years old, Arrabella Fordyce-Mainwaring was the darling of the First Class lounge and indeed of the entire SS Gloriana, sailing majestically out towards Rangoon, bearing amongst her passengers Empire builders, administrators, military men and wives and well- bred sybarites, with people of lesser station at a suitable remove. Arrabella’s golden curls, angelic blue eyes and engaging lisp brightened every one’s day and put a smile on the face of even the most grizzled seadog. The only person on board not enchanted by her was Reginald Ormsby-Wallerton. He’d arrived at Southampton with apparent glandular fever and was immediately quarantined in the ship’s sickroom. It soon became apparent he was in fact suffering from acute alcoholic poisoning, (and, in the ship’s doctor’s view, extreme moral turpitude). Three weeks later he was delivered, pallid and disconsolate, to his stateroom. He cheered up immediately on realising his convalescence meant he’d made no inroads into the trunk full of brandy he’d brought along against the vagaries of room service. He set to, diligently, to make up for lost time. </div><br /><div>They were now cruising through balmy days in the Indian Ocean. On the First Class deck Arrabella, in the cutest of sailor suits, was dancing a diminutive hornpipe and trilling a sea-shanty, under the doting regard of all present. Sailors had stopped to gaze captivated at her darling performance; tally clerks and similar lined the steps up from Second Class to listen. </div><br /><div>Ormsby-Wallerton arrived on deck to take his first ruminative breath of sea air. He ignored the crowd of gawpers, but noticed something unpleasant bobbing about him at knee level. It was hairy and nimble and making some ghastly racket. Automatically, he seized it by an extremity and heaved it over the guard rail into the ocean below. </div><br /><div>"That’s quite enough of that.” </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">-Dear readers, wherever you are, I apologise for the hiatus in posting these tales of despair and lost false hopes. The hard disc of my computer commited suicide and I had lost all my files, thanks to Zoly now I recovered them and now we can and will continue posting periodically. All the best. Oscar Grillo</span></div>Chips Hardy and Oscar Grillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02221300878488310006noreply@blogger.com1