Deprivation and destruction now await as the fate of man,
Having built a world of lies where once truth did stand.
Using words of falsification, grasping for weak minds to reach,
Truth and compassion are no longer the words in his speech.
If greed and materialism are the sole intent of man’s aim,
Then no more can intelligent, be something he can claim!
A Stroll In The Park.
It has recently become worldwide common knowledge that I am sharing a bench in London’s Hyde Park with Jenny Burley. If this sudden fall from my once pivotable place amongst the writing profession has surprised you, then now would be a good time to tell of my disgrace. This secret has been gnawing away at me, for far too long. Be seated, and have whatever you need to protect you from the disgusting disclosure close at hand! I guarantee what I am about to confess will scandalise those of you who had dreams of emulating me.
***
I had, as most of you are aware, a suite of rooms in the Ritz Hotel overlooking Green Park and the very world at my fingertips. Fame was my right as a bestseller author of so many books that my memory fails to recall the astronomical number.
Everything was within my grasp. There was the obligatory Rolls Royce, just a simple internal phone call away. I had endorsements of my prowess from Presidents to Premier Inns. There were free meals at The Happy Chef, and a permanent table readied for my patronage at any Toby restaurant countrywide, morning, evening or night. My wardrobe was full. The rooms housing my clothing twice having to be enlarged. My many offshore banking accounts overflowed with cash so much so that I made contributions to the Queen. That was not the Queen at the local club you understand. I had pride. I also had the ultimate trappings of grandeur; coordinated hide covers for my iPad and laptop, corresponding to whatever I wore, including my leopard skin housecoat. If you think that was the epitome of class, then think again…..The solid gold pencil, worn outside of my breast pocket, announced to the world that I had success by the bucket load, and my agent knew it all.
It was he who called me with the news of my empires imminent collapse.
“Hi Danny, how’s it all going?” Thinking that he was after another World Cup ticket plus flight or perhaps the use of my four masted schooner, I merely grunted my reply. He made no comment, nor disguised his a pique.
“You’ve got a one star review on that latest novel of yours; The Desolate Garden. New Generation Publishing are far from pleased.”
“A single star? WHY?” I screamed down the phone at him.
“You used an adverb. And badly!” he forcefully announced.
It was futile to ask how the expert teams of editors had missed this career ending mistake, because he had rung off by the time I had thought of it. Apparently one of those unpaid priggish, bastions of the written word, calling himself a reviewer, who really was frustrated by not being able to stick his own finger up his own bum, had spotted my use of an “archly” where “teasingly” would have been more appropriate. He became famous and had an extra, movable digit surgically attached to his bottom.
It was on twitter where the attack on my credentials started. Overnight my in excess of seven million followers dwindled to one. He, the surviver, was in hospital when he too joined the exodus, before being sedated and only agreeing to the life saving operation after being allowed to press “unfollow” on the staff nurse’s Blackberry.”
With the arrival of the red envelope from The Honourable Society Of Scribes on the concierge desk at the prestigious hotel, an eviction notice was pushed under my door.
It was the cruellest of times and then things got worse. Face Book banned me! On hearing this, ever one of my banks suspend the accounts. My Coutts card was cancelled and none of my oversized bespoke clothes, nor shoes, were accepted on eBay for sale. I was too big they informed me, but I was tiny in the reading publics estimation. New Generation demanded their advance back and there was no way I could repay them, so they seized my assets. It was extraordinarily painful, something I would advise you from never trying at home.
Penniless and powerless I was evicted via the kitchens of the Ritz, making my way across Green Park towards the place of my destiny; Hyde “Jenny Burnley” Park.
“Zenzoris?” she said sweetly, in an enquiring manner.
As I was dressed in the only clothes that remained mine own, a tattered cowboy outfit which I was wearing when that devastating phone call came, (I cannot tell you why, but there was a lady present who now has disowned me) I assumed this was a form of esoteric communication reserved principally for vagrants. She, incidentally, was dressed in a ballerina’s costume underneath a torn and shabby red overcoat that ended at her ankles. The size eleven, steel capped boots she wore looked somewhat incongruous, if practical, beneath. I eyed them enviously. My carpet slippers, at this time, having no soles.
We chatted amicably for sometime, and although she had a pronounced, strange accent I could comprehend most of her speech. The word, Zenzoris, was not a welcome as such, more an explanation and search for others from that unknown planet, far from our galaxy. Yes, she was, and is an alien, albeit a friendly one. That was her downfall, her friendliness.
Now don’t get too far ahead of me here, jumping to unfounded conclusions. Her weakness, if indeed that was such, had been shown-up on that parallel solar system to our own. She was a spy, but lacked that intrinsic characteristic necessary in espionage; the detachment from others. She had sympathy for the oppressed.
Our conversation lasted hours as the night set in, with me paying careful attention her story until, at last, hunger overtook us both.
This is where serendipity played its fateful hand, coming to our aide. In our quest for sustenance she began to sing in such a melodious tone that blackbirds and thrush sang along with her, forcing me to add my voice. We found musicality together as we approached the packed Orangery Restaurant. The diners, in unison, all turned their attention away from mere food, listening avidly to our heavenly song….Fly To Me Zenzoris, Where I Will Be Victorious.
Dazzling dishes of fare were fostered upon us and that night, the first we shared on bench number 5, was spent in dreams of happiness and contentment. But that’s not all, there’s more!
We landed a permanent spot as in-house entertainment at that fine restaurant, gainfully spending our nights hypnotising the clientele with an array of adaptations, and originals penned during the light of day.
There is a sting in the tail to this recount of mine, one in which you can please Jenny, but return my life to the misery I experienced back when that phone call came. There is a space mission being planned as I type to guess where? Yes, the very planet that once was home to my new musically gifted friend. She needs money to reserve a seat. The official history of Zenzoris, written by Jenny as an autobiography, is on sale worldwide. Buy it to make her happy again, her time here on earth has made her as cynical as she needs be to resume her undercover work back home!
Danny Kemp
Aunt Alice and Spot. By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp.
Yes, yes. I know what you are thinking. (And for those who sent words of encouragement regarding my acquisition of a small dog, I am very grateful. But the cute dog pictures and cat drawings are now overwhelming, so stop it. Apparently, it’s a form of bonding to fuss a bit over this new contraption photography, especially of pugs, but I don’t know any of you enough to bother with this.)
Spot’s correspondence never fails to amuse so hang on tight, friends. I believe we are approaching a turning point.
Aunt Alice
THE END APPROACHES
A message from Brenda to her daughter, Myrtle.
“That’s right Myrtle, I think the people of India have their shores rigged with bombs because that motorized life-saver I rode, exploded the very second it made contact with the tip of their country. I tucked and rolled. Yes, all the way through India… And Pakistan. Well, as the future Queen of Wales, I must always be a positive example for the world. I sure influenced these men here in Afghanistan. Yes, yes I did! That’s true… I will be the best Queen, ever!
These men understood sleeping on the ground was no way to treat the landlady of the great Castle Harlech. They wove baskets together and made a flatbed surface for me to lay on top whilst they weaved around my resting figure. With my comfort and safety in mind, they worked all night to create a carriage that lifted my massively gorgeous body from the ground.
You should see how beautiful the canopy of many colours is! Because canopies keep away the hot sun. Oh, and they attached a fire making device so I stay warm at night. It pushes air into the canopy and keeps me not only warm, but off the ground too.
No, Myrtle. I can’t fall. The men secured rope around me that fits like a second skin. Yes… I told you they learned from me, to be safety conscious. From head to toe. My phone is at my ear and mouth. Rope holds it there. How else do you think I called you? You need to start thinking for yourself, Myrtle… I used my tongue to click send. They worked so hard to care for me, I couldn’t complain— Even though my big toe is itching. It’s okay… I’ll just wait until they bring me the buckets of food and then I’ll have ’em scratch it for me.
Of course you’re jealous of me. I feel like I am sailing through the sky!”
AND SHE DID.
***
A warm, gentle breeze blew her inflated balloon steadily on a southeasterly course. Intoxicated by the slow burning stems of the Papaver somniferum plant, infusing with the gases given out by the vast amounts of food gorged on whilst luxuriating in the comforts of Afghanistan, Brenda slept soundly, bravely ignoring the discomfort of an itching big toe. Until, on reaching the Sahara desert…..
***
AUNTIE, AUNTIE, wherefore art thou, Auntie? Spot needs you.
Guess what I see! There’s a psychedelic coloured hot-air balloon on the horizon and by judiciously (such a juicy word. Do I love an adverb, or what!) using my telescope, bought it from that friendly Arab I told you of, I spy a person beginning with the letter B. Yes it’s Brenda. She’s all tied up laying on the floor. There’s hole in the side and I can clearly see that it’s her. Oh yes, my golly gosh it is! What luck.
I have my vinegar soaked, oven-baked, winning conkers and catapult with me, carry them everywhere, they’re as hard as steel. I will launch an attack. Standby, Auntie. Going in now. Tally ho, tally ho. Bandits one-five, and closing!
***
Auntie, Auntie, the deed is done.
My aim was spot-on, the deed is done. My Exocet conkers pierced the gas-bag like butter through a knife. (is that the other way round) Anyway, no matter, I have captured the evil one. She is slung across the back of Betsy. Didn’t notice that; done and one rhyming. Seems a natural ability this poetry thing of mine.
I’m getting lots of comments riding along the High Street of Cairo on my way to the British embassy, one would think they had never seen a camel before. I googled the address on the way, so know exactly where I’m going. On the journey I happened to mention that I had bought all that sand to Brenda, she called me a nincompoop, adding that the sand could not be mine. As I have never heard of a nincompoop, and having lost my dictionary, could you enlighten Spot on its meaning, Auntie? Also, could I really have been misled by the turban wearing Arab?
That’s strange, there’s a hell of a lot of traffic coming in my direction. Ah, I see why. It’s a one-way road. Google earth is making a bit of a mares-nest about all this. Oh dear, a lot rude gestures coming my way. One does not have to know Arabic to understand them.
Help is at hand. I see the jolly old Union Jack ahead…Half a league, half a league to go. Let’s give them an ending, let’s put on a show! (there, I’m off again)
We’re at the gallop! Cars crashing all around us, thundering into each other. Bodies strewn everywhere. We are untouched as we charge through the Valley Of Cars. This is very heroic, brings a sense of purpose into life, must do it again sometime.
We are there and we are unscathed, not so Brenda. She is a mass of bruising, Auntie. I hope I don’t regret this day.
Right, mission accomplished. I have left her tied to the Embassy gates with a note of explanation around her neck. I would imagine that once they find her, and that won’t take long by the noise she is making, she will be sent to a secure English prison, and put on a diet of dried bread and water. One way or another, I believe this is the last we’ll see of the Queen of Wales.
***
Dear Spot:
Thank God! I for one was starting to truly fear for your safety! And what a terrible use for a lovely balloon! I’m so glad you thwarted her at last. I myself have never been on a balloon but I saw a print of a photograph of one sailing over the Parisian skies and was quite inspired.
And it is good to know that things are settling down since I am about to head out on holiday. Lord and Lady Winters have invited me on a tour of the country, and thanks to your endless courageous impulses, I am determined to abandon caution and go. (I realise of course there are hardly any dangers to be found in a tour of the Lake Country but I’m a bit older so I’ll measure my adventures on a smaller scale, if you don’t mind.)
In my absence, I know that you will continue to be a very good boy. Or that you will try to be a very good boy. Or that you will at least, remember what I’ve told you about being a very good boy. One of those will prevail.
Eat healthy, keep your pants on, and never stick your chewing gum under your host’s tables. It’s very rude, Spot. Also, stop trying to marry every girl you meet. It will make it very difficult for your future wife to understand and forgive. Trust me.
All my love,
Aunt Alice
Will Aunt Alice return from her holiday? Is this the last that will be seen of Brenda? Can Spot get a refund from the Arab, and will Betsy find a new home? Discover the answers to these ridiculous questions in next weeks edition of Female First, the UK’s most popular online celebrity gossip and lifestyle magazine.
(Top secret establishment called GCHQ, or…The Doughnut)
The adventures of Aunt Alice and Spot.
Recently rudely interrupted by the usurper to the Crown of Wales, one Brenda Gobstopper, landlady of the public house The Castle Harlech.
Written by Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp. All mention to Tracey Edges is permitted by the BBC. (The Besieged Bride Collaboration)
***
Dear all suffering souls,
It’s a tangle, dear reader. All of it. And if you have any sense of self-preservation, you’ll head over to the society pages of the Times or open a good book. Yes, I highly recommend a good book!
Aunt Alice
***
Dearest Auntie,
Why do you presume that no one likes watching socks dry? I do. If you can remember I did so when camping with the Boys Brigade the first time I visited that leek infested country of Brenda’s; Wales. My socks were saturated after that Australian basket ball team, The Sheila’s, dumped me in the river. They steamed beautifully beside the blaze, and I managed not to set fire to them! Such memories of that place, especially the prunes! I almost forgot Lovely Lionel. Would never had met him without that exploding bonfire. You see, Auntie, watching drying socks can be glorious fun!
I am so sorry that you felt obliged to decline the invitation to the country party because of Mr. Topper. If you give me his address I could deliver some tins of said prunes and somehow disguise them, forcing him to eat the devilish things. That should sort him out…..Oh, Spot’s in a humorous mood.
Auntie, you must not feel depressed with your situation as I’m totally sure that Sherry has your best interests at heart. I can assure you, I also do. If it seems as though I ignore your wants and desires then I most humbly apologise. Would it please you if I were to travel to Peking and acquire a Pekinese for you? Would I need to speak Mandarin, Cantonese, or Xiang? Just say the word and I’m sure my beloved Tracey can educate me in the appropriate language, she is so clever at everything. I am so looking forward to her tutoring methods! (Oh, am I just!)
Did I tell you that she paints? Perhaps it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that she could paint your portrait one day, as well as painting the outside of your house. I could hold the ladders. I just know that you, with such a kind, caring heart, will adore her as much as I.
You mentioned warmer climes and past times. There it goes again, this natural ability of mine to write poetry. It could be a good idea to visit Percy Shelly and give him a few tips. Lord Alfred Tenny what’s his name, could benefit I’m sure. The Charge of The Light Brigade was a bit unimaginative I thought. That line of his: Into the Valley of Death, Rode the Six Hundred, would look so much better with: On horses they travelled, that thundered and thundered, looking around they wondered and wondered, so on and so forth…… I’ll look him up one day and pass on my advice!
I am spending less time on the telephone, but not through choice. Tracey’s number keeps coming up as unattainable, however, she explained why that was. She sent me this message, from Brenda to Myrtle, along with a note saying that she would be incommunicado for a while, visiting the Outer Hebrides. Such an intrepid girl she is! I may just drop in and say hello after my latest escapade.
I bought a very English Panama hat, gave the Dickie thingy a rub and ended up in the Sahara. You did suggest that I needed the sun and the sea.
I must say King Tut’s father struck an imposing figure, shame his name vanished over time. King Tit Tut would have made an unusual exhibition had he not fallen through that sinkhole. (There was a bit of an English deluge at the time) I have never seen such enormous what’s its in all my life!
I have a new friend. He, or she, I can’t quite decide which sex it is, is called Betsy and I’m riding it in search of the sea which apparently is a long way from here. It is a big sandy beach, but I have no means to make sand castles. A friendly man in a Turban sold the animal to me, along with a bit of kit for the journey. He said not to make it cross in any way, as it would get the hump. Stupid man, it already had a hump! I bought the whole load of sand as well, lucky me, eh! I now have my own private retreat.
Lawrence, Lawrence where are you hiding? Do you think he is playing cards with Omar Sharif, Auntie? Tatty bye for now.
Spot
***
Message intercepted at The Doughnut, dated 14 February 2014. TOP, TOP SECRET. Eyes Only For: Members Of The Ocean Going Unidentified Creatures Society……(Let’s see if they can make any sense of it)
I don’t care if sucking on a mouthful reminds you of Spot, Myrtle, you have too much gum in your mouth! Take it out, and repeat what you just asked. No dear… Gum does not cure strep-throat—Eh—Uh… Unless, you share it! Yes, share. You have to split what’s in your mouth with your father. I know. Me too, but sharing with your father will give him a reason to forget all about passing out and missing his rock climbing trip. I prayed he’d at least make it up the mountain. You don’t have to tell me… I know I’m the sweetest and most caring wife in the whole world.
Don’t read the tabloids, Myrtle! What missile? Those aboard the great Prince of Wales certainly did not fire a missile! A submarine? No. I never saw a submarine. After the fire alarms sounded and during my tuck ‘n rolls, two English sailors came to me with chains and cuffs. Because, they wanted to protect me. The ship was swaying! They wanted to keep me and they—What? Yes! You know I can’t go nowhere in this world without some man in uniform trying to capture me. You’re right, they are… They are very selfish. No, not at all. Because I don’t think they have a military here in Afghanistan.
These men are the sensitive, flower-growing types. I don’t know, maybe they plan to use the flowers to lure women here. No. They are scared to death of me. Won’t even look me in the eyes. I keep my voluptuous-self covered with these purple sheets they threw to me when I came out of the lady’s room. Skittish? No, they’re more like terrified, and fortunately the sheets are like some sort of camouflage. Because if I take them off, the men scream, scatter and hide. I’m telling ya, while wearing these, I can walk right up to ’em and they never notice me. It’s like I’m not even there! Well yeah, they always hear me say the word, Virgin. They really, really like my phone. Yes, yes… Quite unusual. That could be why they don’t have any women here, if ya know what I’m sayin’.
Forget about them, Myrtle. On the ship, and as the two sailors neared where I came up from rolling, and whilst I prepared to re-tuck, the side of the ship, dipped. Yes, it dipped! Myrtle, I was waist-high in sea water when the two sailors got swept overboard and sucked into the ocean. I grabbed each one by an ankle… I was going to save ’em, but somebody got trigger happy with the fire-hose and the next thing I knew, I was rocketing at least fifty-metres into the sky! And when I came down, it was feet first! Right, right… You know your mum well! I did sink into the ocean like a boulder! But English sailors think fast, Myrtle… They sent a motorized cylinder-shaped life-saver for me, and once I cleared the school of penguins—What? Yes, penguins. Did you know they could swim? Me neither. And, they bite. Yes, bite! I didn’t know it until one bit me. No, because I ate him, and the dozen around him just in case they had any ideas. I, Brenda, shall one day reign as Queen of Wales. How would it look if I allowed penguins to get the better of me?
I saw the motorized, cylinder-shaped life-saver coming to my aid, but it came too dang fast! Well yeah, I know that’s what happens when men get too excited about something. What do you mean? I did the only thing I could do: I turned my backside to its approach and captured it between my thighs. It was long and thick and so, easily my thighs gripped and squeezed while my bottom-flaps clutched, and together we rose to the surface and then glided across the ocean.
I have no idea. Because I didn’t have a way to clock the speed, Myrtle. I don’t recall what happened to Africa, but I was able to squeeze and then swerve and miss crashing in to the tip of India. I ended up in the Arabian Sea with Pakistan coming up, and I think everything would have been fine if not for the Humpback whales getting in the way. Not even a little taste. No. I was way too full after snatching up a couple Silky sharks near the Red Sea. Well, that’s because I WAS going in circles!
The Bay of Bengal is where that-which I gripped, smashed into India! Huh? Because I can read signs. I don’t know who runs around sticking signs in the oceans, Myrtle! How about you shut up! No, no, Myrtle! I’m trying to tell you that I uncovered some sort of secret weapon the people of India have been hiding from—Geez… Fine. No, no. You go ahead. What about Spot and Tracey? You heard her say that on the Sunday Girl show? She didn’t? I didn’t know you had Spot’s phone number! Who’s evil Danny Kemp and how’d Spot get his IPad? Well, I don’t care what Spot has planned! He cannot be permitted to go to the moon! Because that has got to be expensive! Myrtle, you have to get Mack off his old slow butt! I have to capture and rob Spot before he spends my war mongering money on a trip to the dang moon! Stop talking on your phone! I want you to set a fire under Mack. No, I won’t tell you more. Not until you tell me that Mack is about to land here, in Afghanistan! Bye!
***
Auntie,
I’m almost there. Half a league from the sea, half a league more. Betsy and Spot will get there for sure…..Oh Auntie, aren’t I a wit!
Spot
***
Dear Spot,
To protect my sanity, I have decided to pay attention only to the most positive points of your letters. First, I shall thank you for your tender offer to secure me a small Pekinese but, there is no need. My niece, Lady Winters, has indicated that she looks forward to assisting me with my selection and it is a lovely excuse to spend time with her. She is very dear to me and since her marriage, our visits are naturally fewer—so puppy shopping is a brilliant stroke of luck!
I will let you know what I settle on. Mrs. Ambrose swears by her pugs…but I think I am too frail to haul one about and I’m not sure my conversation is lively enough to draw attention away from some dark-faced little clown mugging on my lap. I may lose what social appeal I still have!
Betsy seems a delight. I have read that they can be very loyal companions and that if you can overlook their tendency to spit at anyone they deem “unworthy”. (Reminds me of a few British Peers I know…)
When you can, don’t forget to drop by the Afghanistan Ambassador’s home with yet another apology for the intrusion of your archenemy in their territory. Frankly, you may wish to just create a blank form of some kind for all future apologies to foreign princes as that woman travels. It may save you some time.
Your poetry is improving. If only because you’ve abandoned the need to create limericks involving—well, let’s leave the subject. I’m no critic of literary efforts. (Though I think I have a talent for letters.)
And finally, you are to be Commended Greatly for acquiring a hat and taking better care of your person. It is a sign of intelligence to do so and it warms my heart to see you so mature and so elegantly appointed. When you reach the ocean, be sure to enjoy a nice swim.
Your one and only,
Aunt Alice
p.s. If you see that dreaded woman climbing out of the water like a kraken, RUN!
***
Will Aunt Alice’s constitution stand the strain? Will Spot fall off Betsy or, will he reach the sea? Can the Afghanistan nation recover from Brenda? Finally, will Tracey reunite with her beau?……(or will arrows be more to her liking?)
If you are foolish enough, then tune into Female First, the UK’s most popular online celebrity gossip and life style magazine, for the next addition to this insane comedy.
Huddled, sodden people bending with the strain,
Under sturdy umbrellas, unyielding to the rain.
Homes across the country flooded and forlorn,
Land left defenceless, against this winters storm.
An afternoon of sunshine that swept away the gloom.
A return of the rain for the evening. I spoke too soon!
But shadows of remembrance as the crocus came alive,
As elsewhere animals, and the undergrowth, struggle to survive.
As wintertime nears over, and spring waits in the wings,
Will I hear a cuckoo this summer, and listen to the melody it sings?
I wrote this whilst in hospital recently.
Call life by its proper name,
Call it what it be!
Don’t hide behind the niceties,
Of respectability.
Sound out the truth,
Tell all what you see.
Are you engulfed in pain,
Or is it only misery?
Is your life a trial
Where the scales are unjust?
In one sits the unreachable,
And in the other your living dust?
Is your body empty?
Has it died first?
Leaving your spirit
With an unquenchable thirst?
When you take your last breath
How will you be remembered?
Will it be for the life you lived,
Or the one you surrendered?
This is the only life one has,
And Hope, the only remedy.
Put aside the negatives,
Embracing love in all its purity.
The fool is the one who can’t comprehend,
that to make a beginning one must have no fear of the end.
End comes in death but when does that take place?
Is that at the beginning, and in the hope of saving face?
To try is so worthy, to not; a worthless choice.
Be bold, announce your value in the highest of voice!
Knocks come a plenty in a life that has been led to the full.
No knocks are enough for one who has been a fool.
Anything But Hackneyed.. Amazon.co.uk
Anything But Hackneyed… Amazon.com
Creases Of The Mind.
Ideas in the mind are like furrows in a field
Some thoughts grow, whilst others yield
To the memories of a life lived in pain
Where nothing was tried, and nothing was to gain.
Along came a seed, and it sprouted into life.
The mind started to crease, the forehead frowned,
The eyes looked down and a pencil was found.
Words flowed, they would not cease
Until at last the mind found its release.
A poet was born, the words travelled far
They crossed the land, opening doors ajar.
the love entered minds, it lowered the shield.
Ideas in the mind are like furrows in a field.
Danny Kemp
Aunt Alice and Spot. By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp. All mention to Tracey Edges and The Arts and Craft Society are top-secret.
Ah, Readers!
Ridiculous. For the record, if anyone is seeking a sane person in the midst of all of this, you can just stop after this. Well, certainly after reading any account I make of my own orderly life. Not that Spot ever asks—or any of you, for that matter—but I am in the midst of a very lively time of my own. Not that it involves anything as robust as bouncing about in time and space and bothering penguins.
Mrs. James Ellis Carter has invited me to her country party which flattered me terribly. Naturally I had to decline because she also invited Sir Anthony Fordham who has been in sordid pursuit of me since I was a young girl. And no, it’s not romantic! He has the face of a very concerned draft horse and the manners of one to match. I don’t care how old a woman is, she is never so old that she’s willing to be pawed by a man whose nickname is “Tony Toppers”.
Though I have decided that since I am a woman of a certain age, I shall now acquire a small dog.
There! See? Isn’t that more delightful news than whatever chaotic nonsense Spot and his arch nemesis are up to? Oh, well. I can see that you don’t agree and are now comparing my life to the thrilling excitements of watching socks dry. Very well. I have dutifully provided the latest below.
Hmm…. Perhaps a Pekinese?
Aunt Alice
***
Dearest Auntie Alice,
What must you think of Spot? Did you really imagine that I wore a jar of Branson Pickles on my finger! I fear that my confusing behaviour may have temporarily played havoc with your ball bearings, and mixed them up with your marbles. Please seek out Sherry, and rest more. It is of course the opal that Dickie gave me that’s attached to my left index finger and that’s what I rub, not a sticky jar of pickles.
Speaking of rings, well, I wasn’t but I am now, I messaged Tracey the other day and her reply was somewhat baffling. Perhaps I should explain what a message is, Auntie, as mobile telephones are unheard of in your day. One simply types the message one wishes to send, then selects the recipient of said message and sends it, by pressing a button. There, now you know. Easy really, even I can do it.
Anyway, I was messaging about our ….HONEYMOON….I was getting rather excited but I controlled it well; I think, as when I suggested camping on Bodmin Moor (a lovely spot when it doesn’t rain) her returned message said that she would run a million miles before…..then it cut off. I don’t know from what my dear Tracey would run a million miles from. I must surmise that canvas and radio executives don’t mix well. I shall think of somewhere more becoming before messaging again.
Dearest, you mentioned that perhaps I should find a school and return to educational ways, well I think that problem may have been overcome. Tracey’s position within the radio broadcasting industry is, I believe, strengthening. If I’m right, then shortly she will be head of all the British wavebands emanating from this great island of ours. She is just so clever, Auntie, that I know my education will be enhanced in her hands. Did you know, well, of course you didn’t but will now, that on her Sunday morning radio show she asks these impossible questions, that almost no one gets right. However, she knows the answers. Just how clever is that!
The other week the puzzle set was a real tease: what once was measured as 2.97 miles thick? It had my mind buzzing all over the place I can tell you.
The answer was a block of ice. Never floated across my brain at all.
Speaking of ice, which we are now, (joke there) I hope Antarctica can withstand Brenda’s considerable weight if she ever arrives. It’s those poor penguins I feel sorry for.
Bye for now, Auntie. Tuning in to the international, celestial ether to intercept any Naval updates on that obnoxious person’s whereabouts. Let’s hope that ship of the line, the Prince Of Wales, sank her tugboat.
Spot
***
Intercepted message from Her Majesty’s Submarine HMS Resolute. For Senior Members of The Arts and Crafts Society ONLY. TOP TOP SECRET!
***
Myrtle, might you have been a wee-bit intoxicated when you saw Mack use mind powers to bend his cell bars and escape that prison? Admit it; you helped yourself to my precious stash of fermented Leek juice. Inebriated, means the same thing!Don’t talk to me about unicorns and colours! Explain what you meant by a Chinook helicopter, that was used in the Falklands War. How could I know if it’ll work? That conflict was around 32-years-ago. Tell Mack, to find a newer helicopter! Oh my dear daughter, if Mack, has parked the Chinook, outside a petrol station, and you can see the tandem rotors twirling, then yes! Yes, that does mean the engine is on. You need to put down my gallon jug of fermented Leek ju— Better yet; hand it to your father, and tell him he must finish it off before he does his rock climbing event. Because, it will give him super human strength. Well, you know I do care deeply about my husband’s abilities to succeed in all of what he desires in life.
Back to business, Myrtle: Why did Mack leave the Chinook’s engine running while parked outside a petrol station? Okay, yes… He’s right; I have gained a few-feet around the belly area, and I will require a rubbing of motor oil and a push in order to board the Chinook. I’m concerned about the fact you can understand what Mack, says. You are wise to snag phones from random Virgins. The one’s they got at the airport are vicious! Never mind what they did to Mack’s, man-bits. No, I’m not going to believe you can understand him when he speaks to you while using the Virgin’s, phone. Because there’s no such thing as Virgin magic, Myrtle. You gotta stop talking like that. I’m not going to argue with you. Just tell Mack to hurry!
Being in Afghanistan isn’t making me grumpy… You are! Yes, I’m sure of my whereabouts. Because, it’s the one of two words I can understand when these men talk. I believe ’em Myrtle. Because I think they would know the name of their own country. If you ask me, the name of this place should be: No-Women-Aroundland. I’ve been here for two days and have yet to see one woman. I know I had said three days, but the first 24-hours I spent relieving myself of that-which I had contained for all those weeks, doesn’t count! Stop your worrying… The years I spent as a psycho in the ward due to the vacation gift-package that the thoughtful people of Harlech, gave me for Christmas, has trained me to handle-well events like these.
The men here are very accommodating. You should have seen how happy they became when I told ’em my phone belonged to a Virgin. They cleaned it and charged it for me. Virgin, is the second of the two words that I can understand. And, it’s the only English, word they understand. That’s right, Myrtle… When I’m hungry, I say, Virgin is hungry, and I point to my mouth. Yes, it works… So far, I’ve been served 15 buckets of food. Now, now Myrtle, a lady who is about to become Queen of Wales, does not insist on knowing what’s in the bucket before she eats from it. You need to learn royal etiquette! Haven’t you heard the saying – When in Rome? I just crouch and slurp as far down as my head will fit, and then I pick it up and I guz—You gotta not talk when I’m sayin’ stuff! What about Spot and Tracey Edges?
Alright… Calm down. We can use this news of Spot’s, impending wedding against him. How? Myrtle, to have a wedding you need a place and a time. Don’t you see? Both Spot and Tracey, in the same place and at the same time. Exactly. Two for one, baby! And all their money will be mine! Yes, Myrtle, I shall build a dungeon where you can keep your, Spot. You are welcome.
Was there any news on the whereabouts of that royal ship the English call – the Prince of Wales? Okay, good. I didn’t think it was sunk. What do you mean, they blame me for its tipping? They’re the ones who caused all the panic by setting off the fire alarm! I would never do anything to cause harm to the Prince of Wales! It’s a fine vessel, and one I shall proudly take into custody when I have conquered England. Once I am crowned Queen of Wales, the Prince of Wales, will belong to me just like as if I had given birth to it. It does make sense Myrtle, if you pay attention!
The news is wrong, Myrtle! I did not jump out of the sea and land on the deck of that ship. I was busy paddling my way passed Africa when they harpooned me and then pulled me aboard! I wouldn’t call it a scar. Because it’s too little and hides neatly beneath my folds! Willful destruction of Naval property? Of course I bent it! How else you think a person removes a spear from their backside? So what, Myrtle… Almost sinking a ship isn’t the same as sinking it. The English sailors are to blame for over-reacting! I realize that once I flopped on deck, it was a glorious occasion for them. I understand the needs of the English, fightin’ men. I am very—Yes, Myrtle… They were totally elated by my presence, and I must admit; when I saw their idea of a celebratory-welcoming—What? Honored? Myrtle dear, the moment I pulled my sticky head off that deck and smiled at my would-be Masters of Bondage, the hoards in uniform jumped back and brought out the Hose-of-Appreciation. No, no… Myrtle, this one was thicker than what the London firemen, treated me to. Oh yes… I did get a bit carried away. The anticipation overwhelmed me and all that jumping up and down I did, rocked the ship a bit, and that’s what I’ll admit to, but I gotta assume somebody aboard was smoking, and that’s what caused the alarms to go off!
No, Myrtle… Fire alarms don’t tip giant naval ships. When they sounded, I did what all intelligent people were taught to do: I tucked and then I rolled! No, not one sailor tucked nor rolled, unless you mean the two who rolled off the ship when it tipped. Is that what you meant? Wait, Myrtle… I’m going to have to call you back. Of course I know Afghanistan, is far from the Antarctic! I’ll explain how the English sailor’s, fitted between my legs a—Oh! How wonderful! I see three buckets this time around… Yay! Every hour, like clockwork… Buckets come! I’m so hungry and—Shut up, Myrtle! You listen to the Sunday Girl show, and don’t lose track of Spot’s, whereabouts! I’ll call you back after feeding time. Bye!
***
Auntie,
What can one say about such drivel, except that it’s all a load of smelly balderdash! However, having said that, Tracey was informed of a missile launch from the Atlantic and landing in Afghanistan. In another secret message she was told that apparently one of our Chinooks is missing! The RAF had a stock take the other day and we only have one left!
By way of an aside, dear one, Dickie has told me that his brother is laying plans to run an airline service to the moon. I think it could be a great place for me to visit and check out. What do you think?
PS. At least the penguins are okay.
Spot
***
Dear Spot,
I had no idea that things could go so wrong. Brenda is turning into a bovine of some kind which I hardly think possible. Or a whale? I’m confused. In any case, stop eavesdropping on the ranting bluster of mad Welsh women. From what you’ve conveyed, Myrtle’s punishment is attempting to keep up with her mother’s antics and since neither has any chance of catching you, I’d say you are better off.
Certainly better off than those poor men within reach of that creature!
As for reaching, I should slap your hands for bothering poor Tracy as you do. You are not honeymooning with anyone. You are gadding about and saving the world, one pickle at a time, from the looks of it. She’s sensible to attempt to cool your ardor by maintaining a good distance.
Pay closer attention to what you are doing and less time on that contraption you call a telephone. You spend a great deal of time on those gadgets and I worry for your mental health.
The servants, who enjoy your letters, took a vote and think you should make a grand tour of better locations while you are out and about. The maids think you will be far happier in warmer climes. And I agree. It will improve your physique and your attitude if you see more of the sun. But remember, you are English so be sure to wear a hat and protective gear at all times. Englishmen are notoriously flammable.
All the best,
Aunt Alice
Does Tony Topper wear a top hat? Is there a hat big enough to fit Spot? Has Mack a plan to rescue Brenda from Afghanistan? Can a Pekinese save Aunt Alice from unwanted guests?
These, and no doubt more, insane questions may be answered in next weeks thrilling instalment of……Aunt Alice and Spot. Read it first in Female First. (Oops, that wasn’t meant to rhyme)
A Valentines Heart.
If love could be sung, then that I would sing
To open your heart, to the love that I bring.
Words maybe useless to express my desire,
But try I would do for your love to inspire.
I offer my all for your heart to entwine
My life I will give to you for all time.
Daniel Kemp 