Aunt Alice and Spot. By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and me.

Dear all, 

I’m afraid that Aunt Alice is indisposed at present as a direct result of these communications from that mischievous child, Spot. Despite repeated attempts from friends, relatives and neighbours she will not cease to immerse herself with his constant misdemeanors and downright stupidity. She is far too benevolent where he is concerned! Our dearest friend, Aunt Alice, is resting ahead of the festive season and we can only hope that no more missives of incredulous brainlessness can reach her.

For those that find an interest in this boy’s foolishness, then please fortify yourself with whatever it is that you need to fortify yourself with, and read on. Don’t blame me if your Christmas is ruined!

Dearest Auntie,

Spot has had another mishap, this time not entirely his fault. Let me explain, and show the rudiments of time travel to you oh great, learned one.

It is not a machine as such, nor recognizable as one. It is a raw opal, which has to be rubbed. Now comes the problem. I was tutored in the rubbing by Dickie, he from the Branson pickle jar and related to Richard. One is supposed to rub and then wait, rub and wait, rub and wait for each number of the year one wishes to travel to. I hope that’s clear, otherwise we both will be in a pickle…Laugh there, eh! Spot is a bit of a joker, what!

Back to the nitty-gritty of things.

It’s a rhythmical thing you understand, but somewhat embarrassing. Hmm, standing, or sitting, rubbing a stone does look somewhat strange, so I put it in my trouser pocket. Yes, I have pants on as you so often advised, you were right in that respect, they keep my legs warm. However, I did get one or two odd glances from some elderly women who saw me rubbing away inside my pocket!

That’s what put me off my stroke, as it were. I rubbed once, then waited as instructed, then rubbed again but Spot became confused and lost count. I intended to rub eight times, therefore having a one and an eight, with intentions of adding a seven and then a three, making it 1873, thereby coming to find you dearest. I ended up with the year 1773 instead. I had made a miscalculation in the rubs, but that was not all. No longer was I in dear old England.

I had landed in a place where a version of my native language was spoken; with a mixture of Irish and native nuance ….Yeah Man, and Howdy were more often heard than…Watcha Cock. In actual fact no Watcha Cock did I hear. I was in a port where a ship was being unloaded. I innocently asked, as anyone would, what was in the sacks being lifted from the decks of the sea-clipper. On being told that it was my favourite drink; tea, I started into my little ditty, which is well-known to you of course:

 I love a cup of tea, but then I’ll need a pee. I hope there isn’t a queue before I need that W.

I sung a couple of choruses, all sung very melodic and tunefully you understand, but it caused a bit of a sensation. As night fell, the dockers, having no public conveniences nearby, promptly threw the sacks of tea into …the sea. (I really do rival old Percy Shelly in the poetry stakes, don’t you agree)

Well, I was flabbergasted I must tell you, such a waste, and the foul language being used was simply disgusting. Something about ..Up your ass King George. They then danced around a flag pole, (they had a huge one, unlike poor Spot) with feathers in their hair, mumbling in an unintelligible manner.

I thought it best to get the hell out of there; and fast.

Whilst I was having another rub, I thought of Brenda and Myrtle. I will send a message to lovely Tracey (I’m sure you’re wrong on your maths, Auntie. She would never cheat Spot) sending that pair, plus that mad Mack, on some stupid chase after me. I shall think of some dastardly place, oh yes I will!

Spot.

Auntie,

I was worried about all this rubbing going on inside my pocket so I booked an appointment with Dickie, he of the Branson variety and the two of us had a browse through the workshop manual of this time traveling thingy. Apparently, I was rubbing too hard. It’s a stroke that’s required rather than a rub, a slight delicate difference you understand. Whilst with him, I spoke highly of his brother, and all virgins in general, guess what, he then kindly added an application hitherto unknown. (I just had to find a use for that spectacular word; hitherto, loved it when I came across the ‘h’s’ in the old dictionary) I can now hover over a time and place, until happily landing wherever I want and, wait for it, invisibility. I used that recently, but with a great degree of dissatisfaction. More of that later, let’s be happy to begin with, and first I must tell you of Tracey, and the path I am leading Brenda up.

There is still a price on my head so I must avoid contact with the authorities at all cost and despite your rebuke of Giggles, (my nickname for Tracey) I have plans in her direction.

On Sunday morning last, during her worldwide broadcast from Siren FM (http://www.sirenonline.co.uk/section/shows/sunday-girl) she moved the first pawn, in the opening gambit, of the game I shall play with Brenda, Mack and the gum sucking, all conniving….Myrtle!

She reported, over the airwaves, that Spot had been seen boarding a Virgin plane at Heathrow airport, heading for Greenland….Da Dum Da Do! Let the game begin and off we go. Who will follow, and who will say….NO. Instantaneous poetry again, Auntie. Bet you’re impressed and hugging Sherry now in adulation? 

That falsehood wasn’t too far from the truth. I did travel, but not by plane. I went to Lapland, and visited Santa Claus by courtesy of the time traveller. It wasn’t a completely happy experience though. I’m afraid that I had a bit of a chill when I arrived, somehow infecting a reindeer there. I wonder if it was because I kissed him? He now has a runny nose, and it’s looking quite red by all accounts. I did manage to get my father a Christmas present though, one that I know he will JUST love to pieces. It’s a block of wood, six six-inch nails and a hammer. Let me explain. He often told me of a game he played when younger than me. He and a friend drove six-inch nails through a piece of wood, attached it to a string, then threw it into the road for cars to run over. Great fun, so he said. Hope he can play again if he ever gets a chance to stop playing games with Mrs. Ellis in the bedroom. They are still at it you know. I saw her car outside the family home, and the bedroom curtains moved when I left dad’s present outside. I think they have moved on from scramble and now playing monopoly, as I heard him say that he loves being handcuffed. One would think that they would be bored with board games by now.

I almost forgot to tell you about my time being invisible. Well, I saw a sign for a Music Hall and thought it would be a whizz to have a look inside, but it said; ‘Adults Only.’ So I switched the invisibility on. I wish I hadn’t. In fact I wish I had never entered. I shall never be able to look at a tassel in the same way again, nor pull a blind down in all my life! I’m not completely sure what song was playing in that Music Hall while tassels were whirling, and flabby bellies wobbling, but it had a line in it something like this….In the summer of sixty-four. Spot then had a brain wave.

What I intend to do, is visit England in the summer of 1964 and see just how hot it was that made women wear tassels! Brilliant eh? This will of course kill two birds with one stone. Not that I want to kill any birds or throw any stones. (That was another game dad told me he played when young, Auntie. He would stand at the roadside throwing stones at passing cars. Quite a hoot, I imagine) It will cure any common cold that maybe affecting me and I can then report back to you dearest one. Perhaps, if it is convenient for you, we could all visit that year and sunbathe.

You will note that I used a plural there: we. I have made some investigations, and it appears that a third is more than a quarter. However, I disagree with you over Tracey, and your allegation that she swindled the now rich Spot. I look upon it as a blessing as she must have hidden qualities when it comes to fractions. I was wondering if her aptitude with the odd….fraction…could, in the heat of that summer of sixty-four, be turned into an act of friction and directed in my direction, if you catch my drift.

Dizzily yours,

Spot

Meanwhile, in some far distant, evil, foreboding place, known to only Brenda, Mack and Myrtle.

Brenda is standing beside Seamus, the shire horse, eating a leek and sharing bites with him. She, along with Myrtle and Mack are standing in a field, not too far from Brenda’s pub the Castle Harlech, and looking into an eight-foot deep hole:

Brenda says, “Stop saying grave, Myrtle! Calm yourself. What is here is a pit,one that Mack dug. Now help him unload both Phyllis the Younger and your father from the horse cart. I would gladly have killed that tart, but I need the woman alive. Her pigeons will be used to help us find that gum chewing fool who left you. Her trained pigeons will act as spies and track down that boy named, Spot! She’s out cold due to her attempt to escape my rage by running through the door, which I then blocked with my magnificent body! She bounced off my buxom bosom, bumped her head and ever since she’s been resting for all of nine hours.

Eight-feet is a shallow pit I know, but Mack is old and it was the best he could do in an hour’s notice and all done with his bare hands. Hurry up….toss her in, then hand me another leek to share with my beautiful big, Seamus.

Myrtle, are you crying? That’s not blood on the sheet your father’s wrap in! It’s motor oil left over from the shower he had no time to take after he completed that task he owed me. After all, I would never have learned from the English pilots, you know… the ones you so carelessly lost, just how much your father made me unaware of, and do without! Payback’s a bitch and yeah, he learned hours of suppressing, for this soon to be Queen of Wales, was a little more than tiring as you can tell. The burns on his face will heal, in time. When after I had my fill, he was hysterical and crying. Some men don’t take well to overdoing it. I was annoyed! And so I gave him fourteen shots of stun gun. He’s peacefully sleeping it off. Stop worrying… If you drop him while he’s sleeping, it doesn’t hurt. You didn’t hear a word from Phyllis, after the thud her body made, did you?

Oh, that’s nice. Right on his head. Great! Now Mack, because protocol says six-feet for a proper burial, just fill the pit with two-feet of dirt. That way when they wake, they won’t have to be consoled from freaking out for thinking they were buried alive.That’s right my Myrtle dear, your mum’s not a monster. Fetch me and Seamus a barrel of smelly leeks and then meet us inside the Castle Harlech We can all enjoy some tea, while plotting a way to capture, SPOT in Greenland. We had better wrap-up warm!

******

Oh dear, oh dear, oh triple dear! What has Spot in mind in regards to innocent Tracey and will she escape suspicion of being in cohorts with Spot? Will Thomas The Tank Engine, and Phyllis The Younger, ever see the light of day again? Will Greenland turn BLUE when Buxom Brenda finds she has been led down The Desolate Garden path? (sorry, just could not help that) Last but not least, will Aunt Alice survive Christmas, shared with Sherry?

All these questions, and no doubt more, will be addressed in the New Year in Female First magazine. May all of us, wish all of you…..A Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Advertisements

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.
This entry was posted in Author/Writer, Raconteur. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Aunt Alice and Spot. By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and me.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s