Aunt Alice And Spot. Part-Three.

Dear Readers, I have been busy this past week with Ulysses S. Grant seeking my wisdom over two matters of national concern and I hasten to tell you that he will be signing the Amnesty Act restoring civil rights to any of you Confederate sympathizers. I told him as well that the nomination of Victoria Woodhull, as a nominee for President, is something he should keep his eye on. Us women are in the ascendancy!

Onwards and upwards ladies.

However, It would seem that my immediate destiny involves a young boy by the name of Spot, living in some future age. I cannot escape him. He seems a pleasant enough lad but woefully lacking in social skills and distressingly lax when it comes to personal hygiene.

Oh well what’s an advice columnist for but to offer advice!

As you will be aware he is camping with friends and, ah, well, there we have it. Spot and friends, not a good mixture. I fear that there will be more disturbing revelations to come in the following weeks but for now I must deal with the problems at hand…… Broccoli…and…Spot! Pull up a chair…..And brace yourself, darlings…..This could get very interesting. Enjoy.

Dear Boy,

Before we address the more…pungent problems facing you, I would love to compliment you on your improving use of the English language. It certainly makes you sound more educated. As for “more intelligent”…let’s leave that topic for another day. I am so glad that your figure is improving but I apologize for the unanticipated side effects. Broccoli has been the bane of many a poor man. Since you are being so frank with me, then I will be frank with your answer. Sugared ginger and muscular control. Try eating sugared ginger to help with your digestive issues. And practice retaining the….um….offensive emissions with the strength of your…..internal muscles, and if you feel an attack coming on, excuse yourself from the room and find a private and well-ventilated area to …..relax.

There. That should do it. DO NOT stop eating healthy foods as I’ve advised, but add a new awareness of the evils of kale and you should persevere. It’s very good for cattle and you do know what cows do a lot of, I sincerely hope. Just between us, I believe flatulence is the Genuine Source and Real Reason people love lap dogs. It gives them a small furry companion, certainly, but also a Very Culpable Creature to BLAME for all of their own transgressions!!

You, however, are in NO POSITION to take on the care of a Pomeranian, so don’t even think about it! I think we’ve covered it. As for the cold, wear extra layers and try jogging about to stay warm (the exercise will do you good, my child) Good Luck,

Aunt Alice Dear all wise Auntie Alice,

I must first ask what is a Pomeranian? My dictionary is only small and as you must be aware that someone my size has difficulties getting hands in and out of pockets, so anything large tends to protrude. (I do sooooooooo love a P) That complication has caused one or two problems in the past, but less of that at this stage you have enough to worry about as it is. Dad has advised that I consult a doctor, or a behaviour specialist about that in any case, so worry not. I did find, however, pomegranate. Why would anyone want one of those on their lap? Full of pips, as I understand, messy.

Whilst I am here showing-off my new found grasp of the English language, you say you are a Maven? Do you mean a raven? Only I cannot find the meaning of maven? I have heard the word ‘tavern’ used though. Dad goes to one all the time. He says that it is my fault, but he lost me on that one, as on the transvestite thing. Must hurry to the T’s in this dictionary.

I tried jogging for a while but I’m not really the shape to run. I tend to bounce along with wobbly bits shaking all over me. I would imagine, that for someone looking on, it is not a pretty sight at all. My ‘wind’ problem seems to have passed, in more ways than one..ha ha. I am a wag aren’t I? I make myself laugh at times and can’t quite understand why others merely smile and walk away. I have heard some say that I give them a headache. That must mean that they find me funny and laugh too much, I presume. (There’s another P for you. I do sooooo like a P. Have I said that before?)

My stutter seems to be getting better. I am just creeping back into the tent as all seem to be asleep, so will leave you now for your time with sherry.

Spot. PS Jake’s Dad said I could keep this IPad. He said that he didn’t want it back after a klutz of a donkey had touched it. Can’t quite understand that, as I have not been near any animals and cannot find the word klutz.

Dear Spot,

I cannot decide whether I am helping or making things worse with this correspondence, but I’ve never been one to quit and since you are so eager to please, I am happy to live with a headache. (Thank god for sherry…) A Pomeranian is a kind of little dog. It was a conversation about lap dogs. Try to stay focused dear boy.

I’ll keep my fingers crossed that the T’s are as kind to you as the P’s. Humor is always better shared and if you are alone in your merriment, then best to keep the punchlines to yourself. That’s my advice there… If jogging doesn’t suit, may I suggest a brisk walk? Just don’t get lost in the wilds while camping and hike off into the unknown, dear Spot. Complaints aside, I would miss your letters.

Jack’s father sounds very brusque and I am not impressed with the man and his insults. Keep the iPad (whatever it is) and don’t waste a moment thinking about the dolt’s hateful slurs. Until next time,

Aunt Alice

PS I’m not sure about the mention of pockets. I’m going to try not to think about it too much.

Dear Auntie Alice,

We have been betrayed, you are no longer my secret. Whilst I slept, easier now that the wind has passed, (there goes that wicked sense of humour again) someone, I believe Jack, powered up my Ipad. I know this to be true, because I was getting notifications from twitter but that has stopped, and I now have no way to contact my Mrytle. You more than likely do not know what twitter is, but don’t worry, I’ll tell you another time. Incidentally, (you see I learnt well when browsing through the I’s) you spell humour without a ‘u,’ how strange you are. Is that because are so ancient or is it your beloved sherry? She must be a very good friend. (Look no stammer with ‘so’)

I hope you do not become too inundated (there I go again, inundated, sounds so posh) and have no time for Spot your disciple and devotee. (D’s are so good aren’t they?) I must go now as the breakfast bell has been rung. I hope we have beans again.

I learnt a new song last night: “Beans, beans are good for your heart. The more you eat the more you fart.” It was very kind of them to make me stand in the middle whilst they sang it. Made me feel wanted. I almost cried.

Spot.

Spot, What is this twitter? Is that a bird gossiping or a reference to schoolgirl giggles? Well, betrayed or outed, I will always be here for you, Spot. My supply of sherry is vast… By all means, let your friends know that if they ever need advice of any kind, here I am. At the ready. Spot, please don’t sing that song ever again. I beg you.

Your friend, Aunt Alice

Dearest, most treasured Auntie Alice,

Aren’t you wonderful to people you don’t know! Inviting then into your private domain; astounding. I’m so pleased that Sherry is vast, she must be a great comfort to you on a cold night. Which brings me, aptly, up-to-date in a strange way.

I found T in the dictionary. To some extent Dad was right about the transvestite thingy. I have worn women’s clothing, other than those shoes, on one occasion before but it was through absolute need. It was a very cold morning and I had to walk to School as the buses were on a ‘shuttle’ service. The trains were not running because there were leaves on the line. I thought leaves belonged on a tree, but there you go. How could they stop a train anyway? Another thing confused me that day. How can buses play badminton with a shuttlecock, do you know the answer to that, oh wise maven that you are?

Anyway, on the washing-line, at home, were Mum’s earmuffs, so I used them in an appropriate fashion. I knew that they were not Dad’s, his are blue. He had them on once when Mrs Ellis called, and they went to the bedroom to play scramble. I saw them on his head when I was in the garden and looked up to the bedroom window on my way out to meet Mum and carry the shopping home. Dad had told me to go, he’s caring that way.

That was just a little while before the divorce.

The ones I took were plain white, and not very snug around the ears, a bit floppy in fact. They had bony bits in them, and hooks and eyes as fasteners, so all in all, completely unsuitable. I presume they were some sort of prototype as I have not seen them again and my Step-Mum seemed a little put-out when I came home.

I DO NOT like this Danny Kemp, Auntie Alice, I think he is a prig. There I go with those P’s again, do love a good P. I should stop saying that, but it trips off the tongue, as it were. I hope he has not upset you, and spoiled this lovely cordial (hmm, nice word choice there) relationship we have.

Catch up on all things camping later. Do you think I was wrong to wear the earmuff things Auntie?

Spot. PS I made up a poem about a P. I’ll save it as a surprise for next time. I bet you can’t wait to hear it!

What is this poem and how will Aunt Alice solve the riddle of….. Transvestite tendencies?

Tune into Female First next week and find out. By Renee Bernard and Danny Kemp

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About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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