A blog about things -- not necessarily beautiful -- that at least jolted me out of my tram-lined train of thought. They may be funny, poignant, disgusting or beautiful, but they will be personal. You, dear reader, may not give a damn about an image of a crisp packet at the edge of a river but I might think it so delightful that I cry with gratitude. And a few poems. A a book plug or two.
The restless dead are all around in the air and on the ground. It’s just as well that Julie’s here to chivvy spirits and bring cheer to all those long-departed souls that haunt the park and graveyard holes without her there would never be a spiritual cup of tea.
Emily Partridge was a broken writer no words came though deadlines got tighter. Her mystery novel ‘A Shot in the Head” had gone to the morgue, the storyline dead. Her fantasies vanished, her cowboys went west; her FBI hero still lounged in his vest. Her demons and angels had gone for their tea and her double-O agent had nowhere to be. With no plot in her pocket; no words in her head, Emily wrote vampire romance instead.
Quite why he thought the need to diet, nobody could say, but Jimmy Parker bought a book – began that very day “Away with burgers, chips and fries and all that stands between the healthy and good looking chap that my mum had said I’d been. From now on I’ll eat carrots and a cup of steaming rice I’ll stay away from chocolate bars and everything that’s nice. When I go out to restaurants, a salad I’ll devour instead of birianis and a nan with leavened flour.” His mother asked the doctor who responded with a sigh “He misread my report,” he said. “I wrote that Jim should die.”
Edward Edwards loved to eat the sweetest things of all he wouldn’t touch his veg or meat, his mother wouldn’t call young Edward to the table ‘til the pudding was set out (though bread and butter made him ill and custard gave him gout.)
Edward ate ice-cream and fudge and toffee in the wrappers; for cake and biscuits wouldn’t budge and milkshakes like the clappers. You might be worried that his teeth would rot from all the sugar he had them taken out beneath a dental surgeon mugger.
He’s more than happy with his gums to suck at sweets and cakes He still lives at his dad and mums and current buns he makes. A heart attack at twenty four a news reel on the telly. They would have saved his life before but couldn’t pass his belly.
‘SACRED’ declares the mossy stone set with the others, not alone in stating such a forthright plea without such words where would we be? but someone needed to be told the message carved on stones of old the mournful plea of those long dead who’ve had their gravestones moved instead. “Gravestones grate the public hearted – they don’t want their dear departed trodden on by beer-soaked youths and so the graves have been removed. It’s better now, this fine green space has meant a bigger market place.”
Clocks tick in the House of Dread as Samuel Holdstock irons a shirt a little starch to lift the head and keep it from the graveling dirt. The corpse embalmed and fit to view and dressed in stern Victorian fit So relatives can gape anew and talk of death and stand, and sit. But such a waste of work it feels to scour the dead below the ground better still to fit some wheels so clockwork motors whirl around.
Dead five years this coming spring he still remembers tea grinding acrid leaves in pots just like he showed to me Steeped with the hours upon the rim of coal-fired Aga stove, a brew to stand your spoon up in and watch it soon dissolve. Is that sound a burglar rattling the hinges on the door? Or the ghost of Uncle Frederick making tea at four?
Inspector White took half an hour to bring the man to trial. Mr. Jeeves of thirty-three stood in the dock and smiled. “I’ll admit to nothing, sir,” he said when asked his plea; the trinkets in my house were all just given me, you see. “The watch you found of diamond face for services I rendered: the rings and necklaces of jade were pay for bills I tendered. Every bit of jewelery, when pushing comes to shove was given me by ladies: I think, therefore I love.