Sunday, November 26, 2017

Two walks

On Saturday I took my daughter’s dog out for a walk in nearby woods. She snuffled amongst the undergrowth, sniffing each piss-glistened leaf, rummaging through the debris for scents and stories – doggie social media.

I crunched along the path, beech nut husks brittle, new fallen leaves crisp, earlier casualties slippery with dew and ripe for rotting.  The ground was green with nettles and ivy, and the wind turned from autumn chill to cold winter gusts. 
On Sunday I took her on a walk in the fields of Hundon.  The sky was bright, the air clear and clean – lacking only the hint of snow to make it perfect.  Let off the lead the little dog ran helter skelter along the muddy path, letting off steam whilst also stopping to investigate each intriguing odour.



Tonight she lies sleepily – doggie dreams twitching her paws. Whilst my cat awaits his chance once again to show her that she is the interloper. It won’t be for long, she’ll go home soon, but she’s had a few adventures with me.

Photos (C) Me.

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Sunday, November 19, 2017

Troublesome angels

This week's Writers Circle exercise was to write something inspired by a paragraph from 'Girl on a Train'.  As usual, all the stories were different - from childhood memories to attempted murder. Here's my contribution.


My head was slowly fogging as the muggy air in the carriage warmed up my cold face and hands. I was lucky, I’d got a seat today.  I sat at the end by the window, with the luggage rack at my back and, as was my preference, facing forwards down the carriage. Humanity before me.  I watched the Hertfordshire countryside fly by as we drew nearer to London; at each stop more bodies piled in. Long, smart black coats on shaven headed men; scarves wrapped around skinny necks to defy the heat loss that fashion was gifting them. They swayed like winter trees as the train took the huge curve by the golf course.  Dead eyes, the audible beat of music from headphones. They looked at phones, newspapers, laptops – anything but the other commuters.

Women in short skirts, thin tights and high heels. Woollen coats and cardigans, coloured scarves and bright pom pom hats. Severe suits and emulation. Cheeks as red as their lips from the cold winter air until they hit the ambient temperature of the heaving carriages, and then their faces burned with the warmth of too many, too close, and no space to shed a layer or two.

Here we come King’s Cross.  A red kite, a buzzard, and a football pitch teamed with pigeons and gulls. These drew my lazy eyes as I struggled to stay awake.  The rich green fields, the skeleton trees on grey horizon, replaced by the silhouettes of suburbia. My head nodded, and I snatched it up again with a startled jerk.

We had just pulled into Finsbury Park and the carriage suddenly hummed with life. People were moving, collecting, shifting, departing and joining. A rearrangement of humanity.  Two men dressed in long white robes boarded. I thought it odd. Angels, I mentally tagged them.  Both beautiful, but no wings.  A Christmas party in the offing, no doubt.  They moved towards a four square in front of me and, without a word, the incumbents vacated, finding other places to stand or sit, too close, too near to others.  The fancy dress duo took their places opposite each other and spread out in relative luxury in the jam-packed carriage.   I watched them carefully, they intrigued me.  I was sure my surveillance was obvious but the one who was facing me did not catch my eye.

King’s Cross. This train terminates here. Please take all your belongings with you.

I never hurry as the heaving mass surges to the doors even before we’ve hit the platform. My office is only five minutes’ walk away; plenty of time.  Dead eyes, deaf ears, cold legs and cold heads milled and spilled from the opened doors. With only stragglers remaining, I stood and stretched. The two angels were still there, deep in conversation.  I passed them on the way to the open door and muttered “better move or you’ll end up back where you came from.” A heinous crime, talking to a fellow passenger without invitation, but I didn’t care.  They looked up at me and back towards where I had been sitting, but I ambled on and out onto the platform. Hi vis and helmets constructing bicycles from confused concentrations of metal cluttered the platform briefly. Clattering suitcases dragged towards an unknown fate added to the cacophony of the station’s morning routine. A few slow movers – casual with age or indifference – were the last to join me as I hitched on the tail of the flood towards the exit gates.

Ticket in hand I was nearly at the gate, ready to swipe my season ticket, when I felt compelled to turn and see if the two idiots all in white had left the carriage. They had. They stood on the platform and were waving at someone.  It wasn’t a goodbye wave, but a come here, urgent flapping of perfect hands.  I’m not sure why but I felt they were waving at me. I pointed to my chest and mimed “Me?”  They indicated the affirmative.  I looked around – it had to be me. I stood for a second and then knew they wouldn’t come down the now almost deserted platform, so I trod my curious way back to them. Past the door – to the other side of the window where I had sat.  I looked in.

They gathered round me and put cool hands on my shoulders. Not a bad way to go, I thought, as I looked at my body, still at rest in the train as if sleeping.

Photos (C) Carolyn Sheppard

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Saturday, November 04, 2017

Ghost stories

Photo from Amazon.com
I like to tell stories, and I was asked to do two sessions with ghost stories this week. The first was at a bar in Norwich (all adult audience), and I told a personal story about Maurice, the ghost we used to live with.  It was an interesting experience, because it took me into very personal, emotional territory. Not something I'm used to doing!

But last night I was storytelling outside, to families at a camp site in Swanton Morley.  The first story I told was of the ghostly US airman on the nearby airfield, but given an audience of children in fancy dress, and after singing ‘Old MacDonald had a Haunted Farm’, I decided that some more ad lib stories involving the kids would be better.

I asked what they wanted, and the small boy dressed as a mad professor wanted a monster story. So we told the story of Frankenstein and his monster, and the kids acted out some parts. I had a 10 year old ‘zombie’ do a pretty good impression of the monster - lying on a picnic table as we 'winched' him up the tower to the lightning. Oh, I also got Burke and Hare involved too – but no historians on hand to correct me so I got away with it.

The second story we told was about Dracula (the small boy dressed as a vampire actually dozed off), and the final story request was for one about a skeleton. With no immediate skeleton stories in my memory, the ‘Skeleton who couldn’t sleep’ was born. The kids joined in and the adults joined in (their costumes adding to the cast of characters) and there was even a running race to see who go to sleep in the king’s bed.


I really enjoy story telling and though last night’s event was very unplanned, I knew that if I had enough kids, it would work. And I’m pleased to day it did.