Cautionary Tale

It’s not true that all women become invisible at 46. Some of us are never visible. Even as children, the world is blind to us. This is not a bad thing. It’s a superpower. When being noticed means jeers and insults and sticks and stones, passing through the world unseen becomes a skill. Not that it’s difficult to master. Simply fold yourself in half. And half again. And half again. And keep going until even the Jehovah’s stop knocking, and the postman would rather leave parcels in the rain than risk catching a glimpse of you. 

 

Yes, that’s right. I am the woman you dread becoming. So afraid are you of my fate you cross the road for fear of contagion. You lock yourself in an office, toiling beneath sickly striplights. You save up for a house that cripples you and lie next to a man who silences you. All so you can have a baby who eats you alive - and who will eventually spit you out. 

 

And you will find yourself alone some day. In a too-big house, with only echoes to keep you company. And you will think to yourself: maybe I’ll get a cat. And you will. And as it rubs itself blissfully against your legs and sees you in a way no human being ever has, you’ll find yourself purring with the purest pleasure. You’ll spoon out glistening mounds of meat and you’ll get down on all fours and thrill as your houseguest feasts on every morsel. And news will spread that all are welcome. You will throw open the door and they will gather, filling every room with purpose, albeit every surface with fur. The walls will vibrate with love. 

 

There’ll be no time to brush your hair, of course. No, your coat will be as matted as the three-legged tabby who arrives unannounced amidst a January storm. And who has time to consider clothes when there are bowls of water to replenish and cold wet noses to be nuzzled? An oversized blouse will suffice, thrown on over tracksuit bottoms that have long since lost their Lycra. But what you lose in pride over your appearance you’ll make up for in the pride of cats prowling through your heart, demanding to be loved. 

 

You are wanted. 

You are needed. 

You exist. 

 

Is that such a terrible fate, sister? Is that really what you fear? Look me in the eyes. You will see an endless river of love in which no stray will ever drown. While you, my friend, struggle within the confines of a sack of your own making… rocks weighing you down. And all the while the cord tightens. 

 

But what do I know? I’m just The Crazy Cat Lady.

 

 

 

Only 200 words? Couldn't do it

Ynys Môn      (Anglesey) 

I don’t know if it’s the mystical attraction involving the cult of the Druids or my family roots, but the need to visit the island was massive. 

Connected from the mainland Wales, crossing (spanning) the Menai Strait is the Menai suspension bridge, an impressive sight today, but originally a wooden construction, completed in 1826. 

It was mentioned by Lewis Carrol, in Through the Looking Glass: 

White Knight says to Alice,

'I heard him then, for I had just completed my design.

To keep the Menai Bridge from rust.

By boiling it in wine.'

The other bridge that crosses the strait is the Britania bridge, plans were drawn up for a new bridge by Robert Stephenson, son of the locomotive pioneer George Stephenson, and completed in March 1850. It’s not as impressive to look as the suspension bridge, but worth crossing on, as you can see the Menai suspension bridge. What you can’t see, if you’re travelling by car, are the train lines underneath, that link Wales to Holyhead. (pronounced holly-head) and on to Ireland. 

The Britania bridge was reconstructed after a disastrous fire in 1970.

I can’t find out why Holyhead is pronounce holly-head, but it’s the largest town, but officially not on Anglesey. It’s connected by a 4 mile bridge (yes it is 4 miles long) and is on Holy island, a major ferry port to Ireland. 

The Romans were attracted by the rich amounts of copper & the foundations of Caer Gybi, a fort at Holyhead are Roman and the road (the A5- probably an old Roman road) from Holyhead leads to Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch 

(yes that’s all one word and is the longest official place name in the U.K.) But 

it’s Llanfair pg for the non Welsh speakers.  

On the east side of Anglesey is Beaumaris, 'beautiful marsh' translated from Norman French workers.

The castle actually stands mostly within in a different and much older town, called Llanfaes, 

In the 1290s, when King Edward I of England moved to suppress the rebel Welsh on Anglesey, he naturally targeted Llanfaes. Not only did he conquer it, he removed it!

Edward uprooted all the village's residents and forcibly moved them across the island, to a brand new village the English called Newborough. Then he started to work on the castle.

A short distance from Beaumaris is Bryn Celli Ddu (the mound in the dark grove) a prehistoric site, with a burial chamber. Visitors can now enter the chamber, filled with patterned stones, a mysterious pillar, sinuous serpentine deigns, carved into the stone. The site was once a henge with a stone circle, constructed around 3000 BC. 

Either going to, or coming from Anglesey, it’s worth going to Conwy, a walled market town on the north coast of Wales. It faces Deganwy, across the river Conwy and it also has a castle.

Also built under the instruction of Edward the 1st, between 1283 and 1289. No villages where removed then.

It is also where the smallest house in Britain is. It’s in the Guinness book of world records and stands on the harbour of Conwy. The house was lived in until 1900, the owner was Robert James, a 6’ 3” fisherman, who couldn’t stand up fully in the house. He was forced to move out, as the council declared the house unfit for human habitation.The house is still owned by his descendants and for a small entrance fee, you can go inside. 

I couldn’t write about all the places to visit, I didn’t mention the beaches, mountain or coastline walks, there is so much to do on this historic island, I hope you can find the time to visit, you won’t regret it! 

Chris. 

Ye Blogge of ye Elizabethan, Johannef Bruufe

 

Verily and forfoothe. Att ye commande of ye moofte Perfecte Flower off Avon, for twaf by thine requeft, I ftareth nowe thif, ye Elizabethan Blogge of Johannef Bruufe. Herewith, and whattever followeth aftter, being nought butt a tru accounte of ye dayyef that paffeth af certainlie af ye celeftial boddies turneth and ye night becommef dayye.

Thuf, I maketh thif moofte humble dedicafioun and I deemeth itt moofte appropriyate that thif be compof’d for ye moofte efteem’d Ftratforde-upon-Avon, Wordfmith’f Writerf’ Grupe in apprerciatione ofe ther moofte treafur’d companie and grate jollitie ofe witte.

Being nought nowe but  ye moofte ag’d of anciente and graybearde menne, I had forgotte, being nowe poffeff’d on butte lyttle, fhrunkenn, wittes, that ye conventionf ofe ye Elizabethan fpeake demandeth that, notte onlie ye moofte astownding and gratte inconfiftancief off fpellyng, butt that ye “f” becometh ye “f” att alle tymef. Appologief if ye hereaftter, withe keenr brightter eye ofe youthe, fhould fpotteth fuch ane errour.

I throweth myn felf att thyne tendereft of mercief, fouldft I ftrayest frome fuch a courfe off actioun and forgiveth me if, inne thif ftayte ofe dotage I, perchance, flippeth inne fom Chaucer bye miftake.

Ye Dayye 1.

Thuf, I ftarteth oute nowe, as thoughe I were butt the meareft ftripplyng ofe midfhippemanne upon hif mayden voyage, bounde for ye moofte wondrouf Indief and before whom lieth ye moofte fearful perilf off ye oceane. Ye phyfeter and ye moofte drede Oliphant beaft that, by ye bankef of ye Nyle, fwalloweth wholle, by meanf of hif gygantic mouthe and ivorie tufkef, onnie manne foolifh enuf to ftandeth in hif pathe.

Twaf uppon thine comande I did discerne the onfe hydroptic Earth fpeweth forth her myftef and phantoums ofe ye Paft. For I was butt thenn fat ine ye inn, ye Fhakefeare Inn, upoun ye High Ftreet, in the afourmention’d pleasour’d companie ofe hackf. Att onfe, as tho ye gravef open’deft and, in myne cuppf, from within ye darkeft realm of ye colectif unconfoiufneff, arofe ye fpiritf of Ftratford, and they fpaketh with butt one voyce and in accorde faytheth too me, thuf;

“Johannef Bruufe! Fitteft nowe in Ftratford and ine thine pretence, pretendeth thine felf to be a hack of fuch meafour af wouldft moveth the pathf of all celeciftial bodief in th’ Univerf? Meaneft of hackf art thou if ye discerneft not ye gratte fpiritf of olde; Fhakefpeare, Marlowe, Ben Jonfoun and ye Metaphfyicall Poetf, Donne, et al, who hath op’d ye very Gatewyef of Humanityef Perceptioun to ye bejewell’d treafuryef of Philofophie! For fhame! Feefth thou not ye rankf of houfbandrie and ye tradefmenne ofe ye paft who fayte befott’d, verily, in that faym place af thou parkeft nowe thine gratte and mooft flatullante of arfef” Poppynjay! ‘Odsblod! Noddle of porke! Fhifteth it, thine fcaly buttockf from thif place and fet thine compaff on ye compofioun off a blogge as thou wer’t ask’d off. Twat.”. 

Thuf, nowe do I moofte humblie fetteth forthe on this vouyage of difcouverie and by ye meanf of ye magygic of electirickerie, and fouche alchemie as I poffeffeth, fend forth thru ye veryt’ble Fpheres of Heav,n ye email’d accounte of thefe travailef...

Ye Dayye 2

Earlie thif morn, waf I befet by fom forme ofe fpirit of ye paft who announceth himflef af “Will’m” and bade me underftand that, fomehow, I fould kno ofe him. Uponn expreffiounf of bewyldermente he turn’d to namyng me for, “clodpoll” and, “truckulent youthe”, “the mereft maggott fprung for ye fmall partf of ye ewef behind”. For fuch wordef I wouldft feign have fiez’d th’ doltard by hif privvie partf, but, vouchfay’d, forbade myfelf to the mutt’ryng of, “Bald’d loon. Thou haft ne’er a winfom ftrumpet knon! Ney, not e’en a dark haired one” and continu’d inne ye difcourf. By myne feeming fo unaffect’d by hif dyatribef, that deceav’d hif perceptiounf, and being thuf nouw playcated in his mufingf, he availeth me ofe hif opioun that I “muft fpeaketh pleyen to ye Hackf of Avon and bid them forfake all and ony opioun” other than, “Furedly, they muftte nameth ofe theyre blogge, ‘Ye more fool I’, bye refon ofe theyre refidenfe wythin ye ruftyck Gladef of Arden”. Addyng, at hif partyng, “Whence mony a wench, fool and creme fac’d loon hath dwelt, befotte’d, in theyre poetrie and philofophie, before ye”. Then, wyth the fpeakyng ofe, “A-ho! A-ho! Tra-lee!”, befoothe, he diffolveth into ayre af do ye Autmnal Fprytef of Arden att ye dawn’f funrife. Thinketh, I “Paltroon!”.

Ye Dayye 3

Being a difcorf upoun myne loathyng ofe Horace Fletcher.

Fince, by ye Grace of Godde, mine deareft Mother haft been depriv’d of her wittef and fought almf withyn myne humble dwellyng, I hav been encoumber’d by ye moofte horryd rememberancf. Befhreweth me if fhe doth not butt maketh the moofte loud and toothie noifef at ye breakyng of her faft, att her luncheoun, att alle tymf, by refon of thyf manne knon at hif tymef af, “Ye Gratte Mafticator”.

Verily, twaf mine Grandmother, that in her tender yeref ofe being noght butt a fimple Victoryan nymph and thuf plyable ofe mynd, that fhe availeth herfelf ofe hif phylofophie that, verily, a perfoun fhud cheweth upon eche morfel of theyre foode one hundred tymef a minit afore it defcendeth to ye ftoumuck. Thif, he theorifeth, affifteth ye digestioun.

“Ftrweth! I recolleceth myne Auntie Liz befeache me wyth grate dygnatie whylst I waf yet a youthe in fhortpantf of feven foummerf, “Thou mufte mafticate ev’ry mouthfule of thyne fupper no leff than eythie tymef yf’t thou wouldft be grac’d wyth ftrenth ofe arm and ofe wifdom”. Whence ye five Rigg fifterf (theyre being that mony female fiblyngf, and mightie fierf to butt a tinie laddie) wouldft partaketh ofe ye luncheoun wyth muche gnafyng ofe theyre teeth accompani’d by flurpyngf and floofhyngf of falivic juifef and ye luncheoun taketh three houref ‘fore confumptioun by refon of thyf dictat. Ev’ry dayye was I, ‘til I of layter yearf cud bedeck myne leggef in ye hofe and longpantf ofe manlyneff and make free from hence, fo befet bye thyf cullinarie pendantrie and bye fouch caufe, caft into Bedl’m.

Egad! butt doft nott myne deareft Mother do herefat’r af fhe waf taughte? Thuf, att dawn’f neuw dayye and att alle myne prandialf thereafter, do I lifteneth, echoyng lowder than ye mynfterlf and chorifterf in fulleft voyce in ye emptie’d cathedr’l of Ft. Palf’f, to ye munchyngf and clankyng of jawf and It taketh her five minitf to fwalloweth, pardoun drynketh, butt one bufcuit!

For fuch refon do I defpyeth Horace Fletcher and nameth him for nonce, fod, befhitter of bedf, weafel witte, and baftard fonne ofe a doxy. I fayeft, aftour Ye Gratte Ben Jonfoun, may he hath defcend’d into Hell and, thenceforeth for alle eternitie, be forc’d to licketh ye figgef that hangeth from ye Devil’f Arfe, fuckyng on ef’ry oun a hundred tymef a minit.

Ye Dayye 4

Thys blogge beginneth to peyneth me in myne hyndmofte partf and myne familiar, ye catte, Molly who, whence nature is betry’d at Hallow’f Eve, forfoothe, tranfformeth to ye imp, Black and Whyte Malkin, doth fouch a rackett make af fhe diftracteth me fromm purpoufe.

Thuf, bye God’f Graf I hope thys difcourf hath not a difpleafour’d countanance upoun thy fine ftarr’d browf caft fuch darkneff’f that bye fouch travailf it caufef myne lov’d labour’f to be loft upoun ye.

Fo nowe theef revellf are alle ended,

But, as of olde, a rhymef appended.

“Alle ye Worlde’f a blogge”, t’if faid.

Juft ye way to gette aheade.

In bufineff and in focial contacte

Get thee to keyeborde, make a contracte.

No longer if thyf Worlde a ftage,

Fuch ftuffe is off a biegone age.

And, thynketh thee who did not lyke it,

Ye ravyngf of thyf radddl’d idyot,

If thyf blogge hath fent thee madly,

I hope ye will nott take it badly.

For bardf ofe olde woulde alle nowe be

Quite lyt’rate in technologie.

(Exeunt left, quickly.)

Dodi and Di

Not really a stand alone piece, this one; I wrote it for inclusion in something else.  But it's inspired by the picture!

I was thirteen when the Paris tunnel crash happened.  I was a teenage boy: I couldn’t have given a flying fuck about Diana or Dodi or any of that crap.  But there was something palpable in the air the day the news broke – like something so profound had happened, the world would never be the same again.  The radio didn’t play any decent music for about a week, out of respect for the dead.  That really pissed me off at the time.

My dad said that the media coverage reminded him of when England won the World Cup – there was a feeling of collective emotion.  The event was so big, it formed a connection between people.  And my dad’s a raving socialist; he can’t stand the Royal Family.

I didn’t get it.  The funeral, with the carpet of flowers, was like watching a film.  Quite sad, I supposed, but just a poignant piece of fiction – there was nothing for me to relate to.  And later, when Mohammed Al Fayed kicked up the massive fuss and started spouting conspiracy theories and ranting about the royal family to anyone who would listen, I simply felt slight contempt.  Even my young teenage self knew that he was embarrassing himself, making himself look foolish.  Yes, he’d lost a child, but why couldn’t he grieve with dignity?  I remember saying quite scathingly during a form time debate (Miss Hanrahan was keen on covering current affairs), he just needs to maintain some self-respect.  He needs to man-up.  All this, at thirteen.

God, I was a little cock.





PSK

We need to talk

We do need to talk,

how can I put this,

it's not going well, 

you're not very happy, 

I can tell.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

It's been going on far too long, 

but I wrote you a song, 

it didn't take me long. 

It's not me, it's you.

I've tried my best, 

but still you need to test!

Was it consciously un-coupling you said?

Really can't get that thought out of my head.

For the kids, I'd like it to be tame,

then there will be no crying or blame.

I bet we still see each other,

we'll probably end up in bed, 

but the phrase consciously coupling 

is also going round in my head. 

Chris.

Did you know? Stories from long, long ago.

Did you know?

Stories from long, long ago.                                                                                                                       

(from Greek Mythology and later Roman Mythology)

A skull was found in the ground. This skull must have belonged to some sort of creature similar to man, as no current creature existed with a skull like this. It was a skull that had been turned into stone. There was a large hole in the middle of the large skull. That must have been where the eye socket was.                                                       

There was only one socket, so there must have been only one eye.

This creature must have been massive, as the skull was much bigger than any normal human skull, so it was a giant and it must have been such a horrible creature, terrorising villages and humans all around Greece, as the same skull was found in lots of areas close by.  

There must be a hero, who saved everybody from this horrible monster. He must have out witted it, tricked it, as he was clever and the creature wasn’t. He (not a she) must have done a good job, as the creature was not seen any more, anywhere.                     

There also must be a reason why it was a stone skull. Something must have turned it into stone, it must be another horrible creature, that was a ‘normal human’ before she (not a he) was punished and turned into this creature. (And another hero who killed her, with some help)

Who could do such an amazing transformation and given help to these heroes? (and without them, the result would have been the opposite)                                       

The Gods of course! Can’t they do everything when there is no known answer?                 
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The skull, assumed to be of the Cyclops (one killed by Apollo), was an extinct fossilised ancient elephant skull, not dissimilar to modern day elephants, now not found in Greece. (not the only mythical creature to be inspired by the discovery of fossilised bones) The assumed eye socket in the large skull was the nasal passage, where the trunk once extended. It was fossilised, so it was seen as being turned into stone. (need some more info from John about fossils) The creature that turned living things into stone was Medusa, turned into the hideous creature by the Gods, killed by the hero Perseus.   

                                                        

Chris.

                                                         

Krays Haiku

Ronnie and Reggie
K.I.L.L.I.N.G.
Get caught and get life.                                                        


                                                                                  Chris.