The Wind Waif of Weald Hall

“You’re not having a bike so don’t keep on about it!” “But Mum…” “Did you hear what I said?”

Celtic Legends Fell Feline

Since it was on in our village theatre we succumbed to temptation and forked out 25 euros to go and see Celtic Legends.

Two grey hairs and a splodge of BBQ sauce

“Chicken or lasagne?” says the stewardess in a challenging voice. “Vegetarian please young lady,” commands the peroxide septuagenarian blonde in row 30. With her surly face and total disregard for others she reminds me of my defunct mother-in-law, better known as the ‘unmentionable’.

No holds barred

My old man left school at the age of 12 after his own father had gone and got himself killed for king and poverty in the first battle of the Somme. As de facto head of the burgeoning Taylor household in Roman Rd, Ilford, there was to be no schooling for him. In wartime the only work available for a dead dad’s lad was labouring on a farm. It was there that was kindled in him a love of that noblest of beasts: the cart-horse – affectionate giants chock full of muscle and gentleness.

Left hand Lenny

“I thought you said you knew how to drive,” said Auntie Edith tartly, clutching the leather handbag containing all her money tightly to her chest. “A right pickle you’ve landed us in now!” Devoted as he was to his wife of 35 years standing, Lenny detested that superior air of hers. “Gawd, give me strength,” he muttered to himself as he turned to face the RAC man, the two traffic cops and the offended Friesian cow.

The man who couldn’t come

A man and his wife pushed open the doors of the fertility clinic, with hope in their hearts. It was 1984, the year in which Richard Burton and Truman Capote died and the AIDS virus was first identified. Perhaps, thought the couple, artificial means might succeed where the natural way had failed. 

Nowheresville

A long straight highway across the middle of nowhere approaches a small town out west in the USA. In my mind’s eye, influenced by the brash roadside hoardings that have been clamouring for my attention along the endless road for the last 10 miles, it is a bustling conurbation, full of life.

The Great British Army

Grandfather George was a cook in the Great British Army. A veteran of several campaigns with the Royal Kents in the Boer war, he was, by all accounts, a popular man. As a ten-year old child, my father, another George, was fiercely proud of his Dad in uniform. He cut such a fine figure, with his clipped moustache and row of medals along his chest, a glossy metal identification medallion hung hidden around his neck.

The Wan Zoreille

After making a brash exit from St Denis – the provincial capital of the French overseas département of La Réunion – the RN1 widens westwards into an anxious dual carriageway road, complete with worrying warning signs and dazzling danger lights. Thus alerted, it penetrates into a skinny coastal strip of strewn boulders that runs in the shadow of an imposing stand of sea-cliffs.

The Good Galleon

Stepping gingerly on Saturday around the dog dejections on the way back from La Poste, I found myself walking in the wake of an African lady. She was sheltering her considerable bulk under a multicoloured headscarf that had been wrapped about her noble prow in such a way as to make her seem taller than she really was.

Valentine’s End

Tis that time of year again. Today another bloom on the Valentine’s bush will drop to the ground and join the dust of yesteryear.

How many false I love you’s are circulating today, how much ephemeral desire evacuated?

The white bird’s final flight

Roy’s wife cried more tears into a flagon of grief on the day the great white bird so graceful rose for the last time into the skies.

Caramba, lumbago!

Grin and bear it señor and it will pass, that’s what I always say.  

Fancy a Pint in the Pink Lion?

The pristine interior walls of this pretty pub have been painted a dainty shade of pale prune, the windows are dressed with dainty lacy pinky curtains, the seats are comfortable, set at just the right height for dainty bums to perch upon with decorum. Placed tenderly in the middle of each table are little earthenware pots in which grow poinsettias, sitting atop freshly laundered doilies Made in England.

Le dernier vol de Concorde

La femme de Roy versa une larme de plus dans le grand seau de son chagrin le jour du dernier vol du grand oiseau blanc si beau. D’ordinaire, elle n’avait plus la force de pleurer car à force de pleurer, ses yeux se sont séchés. Elle en était tout de même à son dixième seau…

Spare a Tear or Two for Sophie

This Sunday April 15, 2007, as pearls of sorrow slide damply down the chill walls of a sad morgue somewhere near Nantes, where Sophie’s lovely smile is frozen timeless in death, 4000 people walk slowly sobbing through the streets of the Breton capital.

Ethel and Officer Merde

Back in the early seventies, my French wife Jos and I spent our honeymoon working in a street market not far from St Tropez. In those days our prized possession was a battered and dirty old grey Austin minivan called Ethel (named after a battered and dirty old grey aunt of mine).

Haggis the Centipede

He’s bright orange and won’t stand still long enough for me to count his legs. He’s an ugly little bugger is Haggis although no doubt lady centipedes find he has a certain je ne sais quoi.

The Time I met Mahomet

It was while he was serving tea in a Tunisian seaside hotel. Next to the hotel swimming pool was a cool, white-tiled tea-room in the moorish style. We tourists sat awkwardly in multi-cushioned easy chairs, set low in the north African way, while almond-eyed Mohamet, clad in rough but flowing white robes, politely aimed sweet tea from head height into small, thick, cheap glasses which had brightly coloured geometrical patterns painted around their rims.

The Finest Sparkplug Cleaner in the Land

When I was a lad we had an old ‘sit up and beg’ Ford called “Tinribs”. She was a deep, shiny, rich black colour with some tan-brown patches, which put you in mind of a Doberman dog.