Hartside in the Eden Valley was one of the first places our daughter took my wife and I to view when visiting her in the the Lakes a few years ago. She was disappointed that although the views were wonderful, they would be better seen on a clearer day. A second visit has, since then, been on my list of must do’s.
I decided that before age dictated my means of transport, I would follow the example normally set by my daughter and make the arduous journey from Stainton by BIKE.
After resurrecting, cleaning and oiling the bike, which was thought by some to be a family heirloom, the journey began. I quickly left the busy streets and roads of Penrith and hit the country roads. Head down, sweating profusely, I forged onwards and upwards. Without warning a fox darted across my path, I swerved, lost control, left the tarmac and ended up bloody and wounded in a deep ditch at the side of the lane.
I managed to climb back to the road, staggering dizzily, but staying on my feet. Time wasn’t resonating and as if in a mirage, a red BMW drop head coupe pulled up alongside me. The driver was a very attractive woman with a dark flow of hair, wearing a half-buttoned blouse. She asked what had happened and if she could help.
Having explained about the fox and the ditch, she shouted ‘get in the car, I live not far from here, I can bathe and dress your forehead and get you some help.’ ‘Oh, no!’ I replied, staring at the half-buttoned blouse, ‘I don’t think my wife would approve.’ ‘Don’t be silly,’ she replied, ‘surely your wife would want you to get help’ – after which I climbed into the front passenger seat.
Her home was at the end of about a five mile journey, during which I noticed she undid more buttons on her blouse, exposing more of the soft skin of her breasts and arousing a long subdued feeling in my loins.
Half an hour and three cold lagers later, my forehead cleaned and treated, she suggested I take off my shirt and even perhaps my trousers to see if there were any other injuries requiring attention. ‘Oh, no,’ I retorted, ‘my wife certainly would not approve of that.’ ‘Why ever not,’ she replied, ‘and in any case, you don’t have to tell her, do you? And by the way, where is your wife?’
‘Still in the ditch with the tandem, I suppose,’ I replied.
New shoots seeds with needs
Hedgerows home to the broody hen
Stirrings in the loins of young men
The Season of the Hormonal Male
Shorter skirts and softer dresses
Encouraging thoughts of sweet caresses
Female bodies released from winter cocoon
Will be turning heads very soon
Resolutions now easier to keep
Thoughts of loves one is hoping to reap
The season has sprung, there is no going back
Desire is there, it’s the route one might lack
Hedgerows bristling with new life at a pace
Shoots, buds and eggs all caught up in the race
Matches, hatches, it’s a time for them all
Memories made you will forever recall
A prelude to summer, don’t let it waste
Time will soon pass, go to it in haste
With someone to love, you will feel on a throne
Much better than spending time all alone
If all else fails don’t give up on the spree
Lower your sights and spend time with me.
Most infants owned a Pea Shooter. I remember calling at the small general store opposite our infant school to purchase a halfpenny worth of grey peas, ammunition required urgently for the first playtime break.
With no paper bags until a later delivery, I was happy to improvise and had the peas wrapped carefully into my clean handkerchief.
Our teacher, having noticed most boys using their coat sleeves on which to wipe their noses, had urged us to always carry a clean hanky and it was on this fateful day he requested we prove we had taken his advice.
In my exuberation, I snatched out my lovely clean hanky, without a thought for my recent purchase, to see dozens of my much needed “grey farters” explore the whole of the classroom floor.
Humanity, imagination’s flow, and variety connect members of Mungrisdale Writers. Each of these qualities can be enjoyed in this little miscellany of Trevor Coleman’s recently shared work.
A powerful character
A powerful character can be a modest person who can articulate their feelings and whose very presence brings joy and warmth to others’ lives. To be powerful person you don’t have to be the best at anything, simply a person able to cope with any situation in a way which pleases all.
Strengths and weaknesses in my writing
Where do I fit in as a writer?
I don’t feel I fit in. Having gatecrashed Mungrisdale Writers I now feel very welcome.
My strengths are few, a fertile imagination, an eagerness to put pen to paper, my search for humour.
My weaknesses are many, lack of belief, lack of English in my education, and possibly my search for humour.
What on earth can I write about “Lily”?
There’s Lily the Pink, the ones who are called Lily-Livered, the name of a flower, and I know it is a girl’s name, but I know not a girl named Lily.
I can I suppose write about an imaginary person named Lily, but I don’t trust my twisted imaginary powers, and my wife may not understand what I was doing in Lily’s bedroom.
I know I was only reading out my homework, but she may not believe me.
Perhaps I’ll write about a Lily Pond and play it safe.
i) A female executive entered the meeting room to attend the firm’s monthly sales meeting.
She was the only female, no one gifted her a glance as she tried in vain to mingle. After several circuits of the crowded room, she opted for a seat, feeling completely invisible.
The managing director arrived, announced and rewarded the salesperson of the month, before introducing, after only one month’s probation, the new female sales manager.
She was asked to step forward. No longer invisible, she was centre stage, with everyone anxious to make her acquaintance.
ii) Another day at the office. The usual feeling of being completely invisible – despite the feeling of importance her input made. Once again a very sound suggestion, made by her and ignored by male counterparts a few days earlier, was today heralded and acted upon, when put forward by one of the men.
At the end of a long day she made her way home dispirited, feeling completely invisible.
Opening the front door she heard a stampede of small feet, delighted squeals with small arms clamouring for a hug. Not only was she now very visible, but an imaginary spotlight had picked her out.
iii) Working in a male environment had taken its toll; she now felt completely invisible.
By the time of Donald Trump’s election, still not being seen or heard, she decided to join an anti-Trump rally and revolt against the chief female invisibility maker.
Expecting to be one of a few hundred, she was amazed to find millions had joined the march to voice their concern.
The TV coverage next day was staggering. It showed the mass procession so vast its trail could be seen from the moon.
If seen from the moon, she was no longer invisible.
Wow! The pens of eighteen inspired writers all but set fire to their papers in Mungrisdale this morning. Some of their work will be posted here over the next couple of weeks.
A huge welcome for those who have taken the big – and important – step of joining us for the first time. You thought you were looking for something from Mungrisdale Writers. Everyone else gained a huge amount from you! Welcome aboard.
Thanks, as ever, to those who kindly sent apologies. You were missed.
Heartfelt thanks, of course, for the inspirational Angela Locke, whose timely meditations call forth works from us that are nothing short of miracles at times. We’ve had such fun today (who could forget Trevor’s ‘Lily’?) – and been deeply moved, too.
And thanks to our chair Cathy Johnson who set us an interesting piece of homework for presentation at our next meeting on the 23rd March. Cathy proposed
In 100 words write a short scene in which a woman becomes invisible, briefly, for no explained reason … no one can see or hear her … she is not a ghost (prose or poetry)
A much loved Mungrisdale Writer sets forth his feelings
Confessions of a married man
I am a happily married man of many years and wish to confess an incestuous relationship with my new mistress. The affair has been rife for almost a year, my feelings are passionate, I write to her most days even if only in my thoughts.
My yearning for her disrupts my daily routine and affects the very rhythm of my life, but I am not a fool, I realise she cares little for me, she has many admirers both male and female, she is indifferent to whether I please her or not, she cares not for the agony I suffer searching for the perfect word, sentence or phrase just to please her.
We meet now every two weeks on a Thursday morning in a remote village, away from prying eyes other than those of other lovers using the same cover. I always do my best to impress her, but I always encounter others far more capable of holding her attention.
Whether she responds to my affection or spurns my future advances, my love is undying; her tentacles have a relentless grip.
My mistress is “Creative Writing” – our hideaway is Mungrisdale Village Hall.
I remember pillow fighting with my brother, with whom I shared a bed, being told by an anxious mom, not to break the wall mounted gas light mantle.
I remember swapping some old clothes for baby chickens from the handcart of a rag and bone man.
I remember mom and dad letting us keep the chickens in the back room of our terraced house, picking them up and placing them inside the hearth fender boxes when they became inconvenient.
I remember refusing to wear some of my Granny’s shoes to senior school after she had died, they were a good fit, but my pride let down my struggling mother very badly.
I remember delivering newspapers on my bike in a very strong wind which blew and turned my paper bag inside out, and I remember watching all of the newspapers wave goodbye very merrily
Alone in my Trump tower I am locked in a discourse with my own
Conscience doth make cowards of us all.
Will it be nobler to accept the presented poisoned chalice?
Or die on my sword nobly blaming my many critics in true Trump style.
The predicament I am facing is not of my choosing,
The blame must rest firmly upon the shoulders of Hillary Clinton,
She should have won the election, my rantings designed to make it so,
Thus not causing the heartache of a thousand shocks.
I should now be happily engaged in what I am good at,
Wronging the oppressors, claiming a rigged vote, stirring up even more
In this regard currents have turned awry.
Seven score and eleven years ago, our fathers brought forth, on this
continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the
proposition that all men are created Un-Equal
There – I have re-written some of our great history, Trump style.