Watford Writers

ENTRY 1

THE TRUTH IS REVEALED – THE STORY OF WHAT IS REALLY GOING ON by Chris McDermott

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small, unregarded yellow sun.

It remained undiscovered until a rocket, having taken a wrong turn in an attempt to save time, landed on a planet close to that sun. The planet, which became known as Planet Zog, was the destination of our travellers, all escapees from Watford Writers.

During the period of Zoom meetings, many of the writers, known by our travellers as ‘The Gullible Ones’, had stayed at home, believing that the scenery behind each of our astronauts had been fake projections. How wrong they had been.

Those in the know, who called themselves ‘The Watford Wise’, knew better. They travelled to outer space on a regular basis, often Zooming in to the meetings from far-flung galaxies.

The Flash Fiction subject for that week was ‘Places I have visited’. This provided a great opportunity for our cosmic travellers to write about a far-flung planet.

So, the six writers took off in their rocket, seeking inspiration from far afield. They had calculated that the stimulation the journey would give them, would result in them, both literally and metaphorically, being rocketed to the top of the leader board in that week’s competition.

Having flown across millions of miles, our travellers landed on an unknown planet. It was at that moment that they realised that they had forgotten their computers, pens and paper, which had been left in a bag in a local pub. Undeterred, our heroes were determined to battle on. They were not going to miss the deadline for the next competition. ‘The Gullible Ones’ were still at home in Watford, in their comfortable dwellings, some even in sheds.

Having improvised pens and paper from the bushes that surrounded them, the six got to work. They knew they could not be spied from Watford at such a distance, so they decided to collaborate, concocting a story between them and agreeing to enter the competition under the name of their leader, Captain Black.

Delighted with their story of extra-terrestrial travel, the proud astronauts resolved to post their entry back to Watford. It was at that moment that Captain Black realised that there was no post box in such a far-flung part of the universe. Panic spread amongst the group, until Vice-Captain White suggested a solution.

‘If we take off now, we should be back in time for the first post tomorrow,’ he re-assured them, his booming voice echoing across the planet.

‘Genius!’ affirmed his captain. So all six clambered aboard the rocket once again, landing back on Earth just in time to meet the deadline and deposit their entry in a post box in Watford town centre.

The happy ending to the story is that their entry won first prize. But none of ‘The Gullible Ones’ ever understood how the bravery of these six had led to such a victory. The six knew, of course.

But who are they?

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First line from Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy by Douglas Adams

ENTRY 2

THE BEDSIT by Kay Hall

I have just returned from a visit to my landlord – the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. He lives on the first floor, up the patchy, lino-clad staircase, sticky with remnants of take-away coffees and scattered with flakes of sage green paint which have escaped the confines of the walls. I have taken one of the two downstairs bed-sits, the one at the front of the house. It’s a single-fronted, modest Victorian villa. It’s seen better days. There’s a single bed against the wall, facing a grand, though now chipped and stained, marble fireplace. A rickety wooden table and chair languish in the bay window, the edges of which are adorned with a pair of rather threadbare and faded curtains; I suspect they were once green. A stained, indeterminate-coloured carpet. And a sagging wardrobe, whose doors refuse to shut properly. I keep them together with a thin orange scarf; it adds a pop of colour to the otherwise drab surroundings.

A sliver of the room, leading straight from the doorway, has been partitioned off. It contains a tiny work surface, a sink, a water heater, a small fridge and an even tinier hob. At the far end, in the corner, there’s a shower cubicle. The bed-sit is all I can afford; the best of a bad bunch…

The shower was why I had to visit my landlord. I’d got back this afternoon, wanting nothing more than to ease the heat and dust of my journey on the hot and airless tube; I’d been sweltering all day. I turned on the shower. Nothing. Off, and on again. Still zilch. Wiggled the shower head; a couple of drops of brackish water crept out, hovering. But no more. I emerged from the cubicle, poured myself a glass of water; at least that tap was working. I quickly threw on a clean t-shirt and shorts, slipped my feet into a pair of sandals, and headed upstairs.

Hot, clammy and annoyed, my anger grew every step up that sticky staircase. I knocked on his door. He was in; strains of jazz filtered through the doorway though there was no answer. I tried again. And a third time. Eventually I heard a shuffling of feet and the door opened, just a crack. I pushed it wider. My landlord stood there, in a paint-spattered t-shirt and shorts, and bare feet. And I could smell his unwashed body from there. I wasn’t the only one who needed a shower.

‘I’m hot and sticky and my shower isn’t working!’ I shouted. I sounded whiny, even to myself. ‘It’s not good enough!’

And tears began appearing in the corners of his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘I’ll sort it, I promise. I just can’t seem to cope any more… Not since my girlfriend left…’

My thoughts of a cool, comforting shower faded. He was only a young man, not much older than myself. That was when I decided I ought to try and help.

***

My troubles have begun.

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First line taken from Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë (1847)

ENTRY 3

BROTHERS by Brian Bold

In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

My older brother David had just won a scholarship to Oxford whilst I had failed my 11-plus.

“David is destined to achieve extraordinary things. You must accept you’ll never be as clever. There’s no blame in that. Just enjoy being ordinary, you can still live a happy life.”

I wasn’t sure if my father was encouraging me to try harder or he really thought I was so ordinary. At first, I cried a lot then I did my best to prove him wrong. With perseverance, I played football and cricket for the school and passed six GCEs. But I couldn’t match David. He’d captained all the school teams and his ten GCEs, all with distinctions, were a prelude to his later Medical Science achievements.

By eighteen, I had to admit my father seemed to be right about us both.

David did do extraordinary things. His first book, Gene Editing – Rewriting Lives is still the bible of human re-engineering, thirty years after publication. Three times he has been chosen as Time Person of the Year and he was made a Lord in his forties.

I epitomised ordinary, run of the mill, middle of the road. I married Sally in my early twenties, had four children and became an average journalist, staying with the same paper for all my working life. At least, being in the news industry, I was able to share a broad knowledge of the world with my children.

I have been reflecting on my father’s comments this week, as Sally and I celebrate our Golden Wedding anniversary.

Our whole family are coming together for the first time in years. The children have arranged a reception at a local golf club. That doesn’t sound that special until you seen the Regency mansion that provides the clubhouse for Moor Park Golf Club.

I have lost count of how many grandchildren and great grandchildren we have, but I think there will be over fifty family members at our celebration meal.

We have invited David, of course, and hope he will be able to come. He never married, and after mum and dad died, we are his only family. My oldest son is collecting him from his care home. He’s in his eighties now. Unfortunately, his dementia has progressed, his brilliant mind dissolving into confusion. He is no longer safe living at home alone.

I can’t help feeling sad seeing him in his wheelchair, looking bewildered amongst the happy throng of my extended family. Around him, I see doctors, engineers, writers and many others who have made great contributions in their own way. It makes me think my father’s advice wasn’t quite right.

A person may be extraordinary himself but an ordinary life can bring extraordinary results too. My family is living proof. Sally and I are so proud.

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First line from The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald

ENTRY 4

WHATSAPP WITH MANDERLEY? by Sumi Watters

Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley again. I woke up thinking I was going into cardiac arrest.

Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. x

I hadn’t had a panic attack in ages, so I honestly thought I was over it.

I wish I could help you put that nightmare experience behind you once and for all.

Have you spoken to your therapist about this?

Not recently, but Manderley and Jeremy were all I talked about for the first year after I came home. Maggie says I’ve come a long way since those early days. She thinks I’m ready to cut back to one session a week, which, I guess, is a positive sign.

That’s encouraging. And how do you feel about that?

I thought I was okay with it, but I’m not so sure now.

Well, don’t rush into anything if you’re not ready.

Do what’s best for you, sis.

You’d think after three years, I’d stop having bloody nightmares.

What Jeremy did to you. The hell he put you through ….

He should be rotting in jail as far as I’m concerned.

Not jet-setting all over the world like he is. The nonce.

He can afford to pay people to turn a blind eye, can’t he?

You did the right thing, reporting him to the island authorities.

I’ve said this a million times, and I’ll say it again.

I’m proud of you, Becky. We all are.

I sometimes feel it was all for nothing.

That’s not true!

People are questioning Jeremy Goldstein’s innocence in all of this, aren’t they?

Everyone’s watching his every move.

Still. He walked away scot-free, even after everything he did to me. Meanwhile, the media made me out to be some kind of opportunist, gold-digging, shedevil. Whistleblowers always seem to get the short end of the stick, you know? It’s so unfair.

I know it didn’t go as you hoped, but your going public about his repeated sexual harassment and

gas-lighting should make young women think twice before accepting a job at his resort on Manderley. At the very least, they’ll know to keep their passports locked away so he can’t get his

creepy hands on them. His keeping employees against their will days are over, Becky.

You’ll see. Everything’ll come out in the wash.

All the money in the world won’t save him.

I hope you’re right.

You know I’m right. :)

Have you heard that he’s opening a new luxury hotel in Canary Wharf ? Apparently, a bunch of Hollywood A-listers and politicians are attending the grand opening this coming Friday.

I’ve been following the story closely.

The thought of him here, in my city, makes my stomach turn. I suppose his smug face will be in all the papers, too. Ugh!

I can arrange it so you won’t have to see his smug face ever again.

What do you mean?

Accidents happen all the time.

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First line taken from Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

ENTRY 5

ETON TO CAIUS by Ian Welland

Once a term the whole school went for a walk – that is to say the three masters took part as well as all the boys.

‘Come along Crimson and get your nose out of that damn book boy!’

‘Sir.’

‘Take in the sights, the sounds, you won’t have this when you go up to Cambridge. Mark my words!’ said Master Grimshaw in his coarse Yorkshire accent. Master Davis looked stern. Master Ellis looked at me and rolled his eyes skyward. He mouthed silently, ‘Best do as he says.’

Master Grimshaw had been the thorn in my side throughout my days at Eton; Master Davis less-so; but, Master Ellis had been something of an example, someone I looked up to. Unlike my father, who chose to stay in London and thus, have no influence on my schooling let alone my character, it was Ellis who saw me through, made me sit my entrance exam and ensured I wasted not a moment. As the other boys in my house grew tired of the classics and excelled on the rugby or cricket field, I held my books close and ensured I failed only in sports. Frivolity was not on my curriculum. As Ellis would say, ‘You shall have fun and frivolity when you have attained position as head of your house at Caius. Winners at sport are temporary holders of glory, but it is soon forgotten. You, my dear Crimson, shall be a stateman, and thus, remembered.'

Cambridge arrived soon enough and as the leaves turned golden, my first Michaelmas term started as strong and enthusiastic as the cloisters that enveloped Caius. It was an enchanting world on all fronts.

Ellis was soon replaced by a new master, Selwyn Partridge or “Selpart” as he preferred to be addressed or mocked in similar fashion. I wrote to Ellis to confirm I had settled in, with Quad rooms as functional as promised and a new set of comrades to help me take on the lecture hall. I joined the choir and found my voice as a strong baritone.

With the punting season over on the Cam, a few of us on Sunday afternoons would row down stream to Grantchester to pay homage to Rupert Brooke and take high tea at the Orchard Tea Rooms. On the outward journey, so each of us were charged to recite a short passage or poetic verse; and on the inward journey offer a subject for debate arising from one of the readings. It was as mouth-watering as the lemonade that would flow endlessly as under the oaks in the Old Vicarage as an aperitif to our afternoon high tea or taken from a carafe in our boats.

Those impressionable days of crisp white shirts, cravat, and grey flannels on Sundays were trouble-free days at Cambridge. Days when lifelong friendships were won and boys became men; men that in due course would fight for King and Country against the tyranny of fascism that soon raged in Europe.

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First line taken from Maurice by E. M. Forster.

ENTRY 6

FOR THE ATTENTION OF DR CYRIL by Andrea Neidle

Tuesday 16th May

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

I’ve no idea how I got here or why. At least, the sink is dry.

Wednesday 18th May

Yesterday a neighbour brought me back home. It appears I was wandering down the road in my nighty. I don’t remember a thing.

Friday 20th May

My daughter phoned me today. Our neighbour had the gall to phone her and tell her what happened a couple of days ago. What a nerve! I don’t phone her son when she does something stupid.

Monday 23rd May

The kids have been nagging me to do something about my forgetfulness so I’ve made an appointment to see my GP. In the meantime, the doctor suggests I keep notes – hence this journal.

Tuesday 24 May

I stayed home today. I feel a bit nervous about going out after what happened the other day.

Wed 25th May

Something odd happened today. I decided to drive into Watford to go shopping – the first time since the pandemic. I know the way backwards and found my way there easily. Parking was straightforward and I even remembered where I had left the car. BUT I couldn’t find my way home. I know this sounds crazy but I drove round and round the link road because I had no idea what exit to take. Yet I’ve done this thousands of times over the years. I ended up phoning my daughter Alice and having to ask her the way. I felt such a fool. I won’t repeat what she said to me but she made me feel like I was ten years old and that she was my mother. You would never have found me speaking to my parents like that.

Saturday 28th May

The children came round this afternoon for tea. All went well. At least I remembered they were coming!

Monday 30th May

I felt incredibly sad today – I don’t know why. I miss not seeing the children. It’s time I had them round for tea.

Wed 1 June

I had a phone call out of the blue today from our GP practice. They want me to come in and have some kind of test.

Monday 6 June

Well, that was a waste of time. I saw one of the practice nurses and she asked me lots of silly questions. I had to draw the numbers on a clock face and try to remember stuff she had said to me. As if!

Tuesday 7 June

It seems my GP has referred me to the hospital for a brain thingy though I don’t know what good that will do.

June 16th

I received a call from Watford General today. It seemed I missed an appointment there.

I didn’t know what they were talking about.

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First line from I capture the castle by Dodie Smith

ENTRY 7

BROKEN PROMISES by Sumi Watters

Marley was dead; to begin with. The concerned crowd gathered around her motionless body believed that to be true. ‘Why would she risk her life to save a dog?’ some muttered. ‘Such a brave girl. She still had her whole life ahead of her,’ others lamented. As paramedics worked to resuscitate the young heroine, Marley, who was in fact, not entirely dead, was at a crossroads.

A bell tinkled, releasing Marley Gilbert from a restful, dreamless sleep she had no recollection of settling down for. A smile spread across her face as she felt a lifetime’s worth of tender embraces envelop her with joy, comfort, and warmth. Pure bliss. Only when she opened her eyes and took in her ethereal surroundings, did Marley realise that something was amiss.

For starters, she was not alone.

‘Hello, Marley. I’m Alexis, your guide,’ the woman standing before her said. ‘Welcome to Arrivals.’

Marley gazed into the stranger’s sagacious brown eyes, trying to make sense of her words. Sensing Marley’s discombobulation, Alexis reached for Marley’s hands and held them tight.

‘I know how confused you must be. You’ve had quite a journey, my darling girl,’ Alexis said.

In that instant, Marley knew. ‘Oh, no. I’m dead, aren’t I?’

Alexis shook her head. ‘No. You’re hanging on. But only just. Tell me, Marley. What is the last thing you remember?’

Marley closed her eyes to retrieve what to Marley felt like a distant memory. ‘I jumped off a bridge into a river,’ she said. ‘To save a dog from being swept away in the current.’

‘The water was choppy and icy. Why would you do such a thing?’

‘I promised a little girl I’d save her pet.’

‘Did you always keep your promises?’

‘I tried my best,’ Marley replied.

‘Yes, you did. Statistically, you’ve honoured 97.82 % of the promises you’ve made. The highest number we’ve ever seen in Arrivals.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘Of course! Only those who score above 95% are given complete control of how they want to spend their Afterlife. Unfortunately, in your case …,’ Alexis paused.

‘What …?’

‘Whilst you almost always fulfilled promises you made to others, you were not good at keeping promises you made to yourself. You’ve only scored 12.5%, bringing your average to 55%. Which, I’m sorry to say, typically means a Do-Over.’

‘What’s a Do-Over?’

‘Reborn. Start from scratch.’

Marley lowered her gaze, troubled by thoughts of having to live through another adolescence. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘However, seeing that you’ve lived your life well thus far, we’d like to offer you a second chance. But only if you swear to fulfil your own promises and dreams. Go backpacking through the Andes. Write that novel. Learn Swedish. The cello. Salsa. Exercise more. Eat less. Fall in love. Trust. What do you say? It’s your call.’

Marley nodded. ‘I promise.’

The paramedics let out a sigh of relief. ‘We have a pulse, folks.'

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First line taken from Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.

ENTRY 8

HEAVY IS THE HEAD THAT WEARS THE CROWN by Louise Welland

All children except one grow up. Do you remember reading this to me? I do; How ironic.

I am truly sorry for taking so long to reach out to you. It has been difficult finding “the right time”.

I haven’t known what to say, but looking back I realise that leaving it for fifteen years is so wrong. I have no real excuse or explanation.

I am also sorry for leaving the way I did. People leave their friends and families behind for many

different reasons. Some plan for months, or weeks ahead of time, whilst others make a

spontaneous decision. I had no plans to leave ahead of that day, it just happened. It felt totally out

of my control. I can’t recall much about it now; it is like having a vivid dream which fades into

oblivion upon awakening. What I do know is that my leaving caused you all such devastating

sorrow and pain.

All the questions and accusations that you have had to cope with – and of course you don’t know

the truth, so how could you possibly ever explain to anyone else?

I so wish that I could have protected you from the onslaught that you tortuously endured, it breaks

my heart that you have suffered far more than I have; or ever will.

I know that your faith in God has been sorely tested, but please don’t ever worry about that. If God

exists, then he will fully understand your doubts. If she does not exist, then you have no

retribution to fear…and yes, I did say ‘he’ and ‘she’ deliberately so that you would know that even

after all these years I still question everything!

I have been able to see a little of what Sean and Amelie have been up to! Social media has its uses.

Amelie is beautiful and looks so much like you Mum, except that she doesn’t have that tortured

look in her eyes. My greatest regret is seeing the damage that has been caused to you.

I am so proud of all the charity work you do Mum, and Dad – well what can I say? You are doing so well with your work too.

Although I am finally writing, I am finding it so difficult, and I really don’t know what to say to you except; Please don’t ever, not even for one moment, think that I don’t miss you every moment of every day. If there was any way I could get back to you I would - in a heartbeat.

When you light a candle for me, I sense it. When you think of me, I feel it. When you dream of me,

I am right there alongside you.

Remember what the Priest said - James 1:12 “Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under

trial, for when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life.”

Until we meet again, I remain your loving daughter, Madeline.

****************************

First line from Peter Pan by J.M.Barrie

ENTRY 9

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH by Geoff Brown

Once upon a time there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person.

Her name was Grace Pearson and in her first fifty years on earth she had been a passive vessel into which others had poured their ideas and demands about how she should live her life. Her domineering mother had stamped on any incipient signs of independence or individuality. No, she couldn't wear mini skirts No, going to art school to burnish her obvious talent for painting was

out of the question. Instead, she had to take sensible subjects like Maths, Economics and Chemistry. No, she couldn't go to university because she would be subject to bad influences and would probably end up on drugs. Instead, her mother arranged for her to be articled to a local firm of Chartered Accountants run by one of her father's golf club cronies. That way, she could stay at home under her mother's watchful if not benevolent eye.

She married in her late twenties and thereby exchanged a coercive mother for a tyrannical husband. He had camouflaged his true nature during their courtship but as soon as he slid the wedding band onto her finger he assumed total command of her life. The "no's" started up again with a vengeance. No, take that dress off it shows too much cleavage.. No, that hairstyle doesn't suit you. You're not a girl anymore, you need to have a short, grown-up cut.

There was no physical abuse but bit-by-bit Martin tightened his grip on what she wore, who she met and what she did. She loved Bridge and had enjoyed twice weekly sessions at her local club before her marriage. No, she couldn't do that anymore. Martin said that as a couple they must do things together and she had to cancel her subscription.

On her fiftieth birthday she made a startling discovery. Martin had gone to get the papers and had left his mobile phone on the bedside table. It pinged and without thinking Grace picked it up. She saw there was a WhatsApp message. It was from Wendy saying she couldn't wait to see Martin later and would be wearing the nurse's uniform he loved so much. Trawling through the phone's archive she realised that he'd been having affairs for years and Wendy was the latest in a long line of paramours.

Far from reducing her to tears this revelation was a liberating catharsis for her. She suddenly saw how her compliant nature had been traduced by the person she should have been able to trust the most. Further reflection on her now rich widowed mother's malign influence on her life and career hardened her resolve to exact revenge on both her tormentors.

Three months later she was ensconced in an artist's colony in Goa living her dream of being a painter. Her accountancy skills had finally paid off. After she vanished without trace, Martin and her mother discovered that their bank and investment accounts had been stripped to the bone.

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Opening line from Back When We were Grownups by Anne Tyler

ENTRY 10

PRESSURE TO PERFORM by Jo Morgan

James Bond, with two double bourbons inside him, sat in the final departure lounge at Miami airport and thought about life. Or to be more precise, the lack of new life growing in his wife’s uterus.

James thought back twelve months, to their first wedding anniversary. The day they had chosen to start a family. Their day started with strawberries, bucks-fizz and the biggest bunch of red roses Penny had ever seen. They spent the whole day in bed, their caresses full of love, passion, tenderness and excitement for their future. They had smiled and commented on how lucky humans were to have such a pleasurable procreation process. This lead to more kissing and another round of love making.

James reflected on how different things are now. Now it’s all ovulation charts, vitamins, no alcohol and James favourite designer boxer shorts being replaced with ones made out of bamboo. James doesn’t actually mind these as much as he thought he would. They’re quite comfortable and, surprisingly, do stop things getting over heated.

His nether regions aren’t they only things that have cooled down though. The romance, tenderness and spontaneity has gone from their relationship. In fact, as of seven months ago, spontaneity is forbidden. Penny heard somewhere that romantic encounters outside of the ovulation window should be limited to help increase sperm production. But as with everything, Penny has taken this to the extreme. She’s placed a complete ban on any activity outside of ovulation. Life felts like a monthly cycle from feast to famine and back again. At first the famine was the thing James struggled with. But now the pressure of the feast is taking its toll.

Three weeks ago, on the morning of Penny’s last day of ovulation, James woke Penny up with a cup of herbal tea and a kiss, as he always does. “Good morning my gorgeous wife” he still loved the way “wife” sounded in his mouth, “how are you this morning?”

“Oh we haven’t got time for all that, jump on, but be quick. I can’t be late for work and I’ve read an article saying I need lay with my legs in the air for 10 minutes after you’ve finished.”

James was so taken aback by penny’s instruction, he was unable to meet the speedy deadline that morning, nor was he up for the performance that evening either. Penny had been so cross she refused to speak to him for 3 days afterwards. James wished he could make her understand how much he was feeling the pressure to perform, without her accusing him of not finding her attractive any more.

Being MD of a large pensions company meant James was use to pressure and deadlines but this was another level.

Ovulation starts again tomorrow. He knows he’ll be expected to do his bit the moment he returns to England. There’ll be no consideration given for jet lag or how hard he’s been working.

“Oh sod it. Waiter, another bourbon.”

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First line is from Goldfinger by Ian Fleming

ENTRY 11

ALL FOR THE LOVE OF MILK BOTTLE TOPS by Chris McDermott

I have just returned from a visit to my landlord – the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with.

I don’t think you could call it a visit, and my return remains wishful thinking, as you shall discover. My landlord’s name is Erwinder Scrubs and I am not surprised he is solitary. Since he became my landlord there have been numerous petty crimes committed in our neighbourhood, from the purloining of daffodils to the removal of milk bottle tops. Call me a cynic, but I feel sure he is the culprit.

The year is 1977. Just yesterday there was a street party to celebrate the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. We were asked to come in fancy dress. But what did this man, Mr. Erwinder Scrubs, dress as? He had a drooping daffodil perched daintily from his top hat so that it hung over his nose, with bracelets consisting of milk bottle tops.

Now I think you are beginning to understand. During the celebrations, being the bold and courageous person that I am, I confronted him down a dark alley, where we could not be seen by anyone else.

‘Erwinder, I hope that I am not winding you up, when I say this, but have you stolen the tops from my milk bottles?’

I felt I was lifting the lid on the whole issue. (I have always been proud of my great wit in playing on words).

Erwinder’s reaction was that of a guilty man.

‘Er, yes, er no, I don’t… I believe that the British people’s love of milk bottle tops…’

Erwinder Scrubs might be my landlord, in his view my social superior, but he had been caught red-handed.

Just at that moment I looked up into the sky to spot a passing cuckoo. This proved to be an error on my part, as Erwinder used this opportunity to grab me by the scruff of the neck and drag me off into the cellar of his home, where I have become a prisoner.

This is a visit to my landlord that was never planned. I am suffering mental torture, as Erwinder regularly insists on slipping photographs of drooping daffodils and milk bottle tops under the door of my prison, always accompanied by a cackling laugh.

But wait a minute! Whose voice can I hear?

‘That will be one pound fifty pence for the week,’ said the voice, which I recognised to be that of our local milkman.

‘Let me free! Let me free!’ I screamed in a vain attempt to attract his attention.

‘That’s the trouble with the modern world. Too many people shouting about their freedom,’ replied Erwinder. ‘My teenage son is causing us so many problems.’

‘I understand,’ replied the milkman. ‘I believe there’s been a spate of milk-bottle top stealing recently. They say that the cream rises to the top. Perhaps that’s what the thief wanted access to.’

I then realised that I might never escape, a sane man caught in a trap by a daffodil-drooping, milk-bottle-top-obsessed, madman.

**********************************

First line is from Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

ENTRY 12

TURNING BACK THE YEARS by Lesley Kerr

Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realised it when caught by her charm. Amber put her hand on the poster and stared at the famous face with the startling green eyes looking back at her. Her own eyes were a mix of green with flecks of amber, hence her name, while her sisters were sky blue.

Amber felt like a failure, having to come back home but at least after ten long lost years, she was finally clean.

Her AA meeting sponsor had told her that often when you get sober your brain reverts to the age when your addictions started; so, it seemed fitting that she was back in her teenage bedroom staring at posters on her wall.

The room seemed frozen in time, with her side displaying icons of the silver screen: a black and white Marilyn Monroe hung next to Scarlett O’Hara with a leather jacketed Marlon Brando brooding on the other side.

Her mother joked that Amber’s posters summed up her daughters: Kerry was Marilyn - dizzy, beautiful, and blonde and Amber was Scarlett: wilful, but charming and resourceful. Privately Amber thought that she had the better deal and while she was not as beautiful as Kerry, she was her dad’s favourite; he would swing her around whilst singing the Van Morrison song, changing the words to ‘my green-eyed girl’.

All was perfect until their dad died suddenly at work. The moment her mum’s anguished screams echoed throughout the house, their lives changed forever. Kerry distracted herself with books and boys, while Amber numbed her grief drinking with friends in the park and then later by herself in her room. Their grieving mother would hover outside not knowing how to talk to this stranger who was now in the home.

Kerry soon spent more time at her friends’ houses rather than their devastated home and by the time she left for university the girls were barely speaking to each other.

Amber left home shortly after to live in a squat with a boyfriend ten years older than her who promised to take care of her and fill the void in her heart. The reality was very different of course, and Amber found herself living a squalid life of drugs and prostitution. It would take her two failed suicide attempts and one incarceration to bring her to her knees.

Her mother’s words when she visited her in prison: “I’ve lost your dad, I’m not losing you too” shocked Amber so severely that she docilely agreed to return to her childhood home for a new start.

She inhaled sharply as her mum came heavily up the stairs interrupting her thoughts. “Someone to see you love”, she said poking her head around the door.

Amber looked up; behind her mum, with less blond curls than she remembered but unmistakable all the same, stood Kerry. Blue eyes met green, and both filled with tears as the years melted away and the sisters fell into each other’s arms.

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First line from Gone with The Wind by Margaret Mitchell

ENTRY 13

THE LAST WORD by Geoff Brown

The last thing papa said to me, the last word from his lips was "Kamchatka."

My father was an inveterate quizmaster with an unquenchable thirst for gathering knowledge across a bewildering array of subject s. Whenever we were out walking or driving he couldn't resist firing a salvo of general knowledge questions or arithmetic conundrums at my brother Diego and me.

"How far is it from the earth to the moon or from the earth to the sun...Give me six animals beginning with the letter 'S'....Name all the colours of the rainbow."

These typified his eclectic questioning style. If we managed to come up with the right answers a smile of undiluted pleasure would crease his broad, bronzed face. Strange that I've never forgotten the answers to any of his questions no matter how arcane they were. It's as if they are immutably fixed in my mental archive. I still retain the not altogether useful facts that the moon is roughly 384,000 kilometres from our planet and the sun is 150 million kilometres away.

Diego and I lived for the bear hugs papa gave us when we did well on his quizzes. We had to answer questions alternately and I now recognise, with kids of my own, that my father gave me easier questions than those my brother, two years my senior, had to contend wit h. He created a level playing field so that I would not be disadvantaged in what usually became an over-heated competition for quiz supremacy.

My father was away at sea for long stretches of my childhood. But when he was at home he focused all his time and attention on us. Even then I realised that he was different from the fathers of my school friends. Most of them abdicated their responsibility for child rearing to their compliant wives. They seemed to regard spending time playing and bonding with their offspring as women's' work, inconsistent with their self-image as macho patriarchs.

The last question papa ever posed was that day in the spring of 1982 when we walked with him along the quayside just before he boarded his ship. "What is the name of the peninsula in the far east of Russia?" I was stumped and when he handed the question over to Diego he shook his head too. Papa didn't prolong the agony. He hoisted his kit bag over his shoulder, gave us both a hug and said, "Kamchatka" before striding up the gangplank.

Fifteen days later, our headmaster sent for me. When I entered his study I saw that Diego was already there looking very apprehensive.

"Boys, I have some terrible news from the Islas Malvinas. Your father along with three hundred and twenty-two of his crewmates was killed when the General Belgrano was sunk on 2nd May after being hit by British torpedoes.

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Opening sentence is from Kamchatka by Marcelo Figueras. This is a hauntingly beautiful novella with a ten year old boy as its narrator. It is set during the years of the brutal military junta in Argentina in the 1970's.

ENTRY 14

MY FATHER'S WISH by Jo Morgan

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. Turning over and working my hardest not to live by.

Despite being a blue collar worker, my fathers wish was for me to attend finishing school and become, as he put it, “A proper lady”. While my brothers were allowed out to play, climb trees and to be “strong boys”, I was instructed to stay in the house. To learn how to cook, sew, keep the house, and most importantly how to be demure. My father wasn’t a bad man. He truly believed by raising me in this way, I would find myself an upper class husband to look after me and to give me the life he couldn’t give my mother.

I agree with my fathers reasoning. My mother is a loving, selfless woman who spent her life attending to others. Constantly working out ways to make the little money they have stretch. Creating meals out nothing, making clothes from scraps of fabric left over from the sewing jobs she took on to boost the housekeeping. I remember a time when my brothers and I were young, all of our clothes were the same shade of light blue. Mother made them all out of uniforms my grandfather had liberated from his work place. That is not a life I wanted. I didn’t want to scrimp and make do, nor did I want to serve others. I wanted to be independent.

While my father tried to teach my disinterested brothers how to lay bricks and work every aspect of a building site, I watched quietly. I took it all in. I was forbidden to take part, which only fuelled my desire to learn. Although I never handled any tools I learnt their names and what each of them did. I learnt what good work looked like but most importantly how to spot poor workmanship. Ironically, my lazy brothers would use more effort trying to find short cuts and ways to skive then they would have done just doing the job properly in the first place.

I have never gone against my fathers wishes. I still don’t touch the tools but I do work on building sites. I’ve just signed the paperwork selling off the last of the 250 dwelling and 5 shops in Watford, leaving me with just 3 sites across Hertfordshire, at the moment. I have submitted tenders on 5 more proposals. When I win these, which I will, my company will be the largest in the southeast.

I hope my father would be proud. I may have learnt expletives, in 7 different languages, which a “proper lady” shouldn’t know, but look after my mother the way he wished he could. Neither of us want for anything, as he wanted. But I had to do it my way, not his.

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First line from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925)

ENTRY 15

DADDIOES by David Elliott

It was a pleasure to burn. To see things eaten.

Yellow tentacles lick up in-between and fill the gaps, snatch oxygen from the void. The kiln dried Beechwood warms, tickled by the heat. No crackling and popping here. As the temperature rises, the wood gives off flammable vapours. It is these that burn. Add to the conflagration and tinge the flames with a more orange hue. The chimney draws what smoke there is, up and then throws it out into the atmosphere.

Time to delicately place more wood, then sit back with a glass of something cold. Look into the eye of the storm as air, is sucked through the cave like entrance. The cast-iron wood-fired oven stands tall. A Norse god, not of thunder, but of culinary excellence. Its oval entrance, now eyes you, with the white heat of its fire, shaded with a black central eye-ball yet to be inflamed.

It needs to be hot. Not Fahrenheit 451 hot, but hotter. Try Fahrenheit 900. It’s only then that your pizza’s will gain that crisp outer crust.

Let the fire settle. You need to cook with the heat of the coals and the occasional flame that cuts through; Thor’s gastronomic lightning strike.

Now for the dough. It has been made hours before in the KitchenAid bought especially for the purpose. Perfect, a yeasty beery scent wafts towards the oven as the dough is punched down – knocked back. It has more than doubled in size. A fist size clump is torn away and floured to within an inch of its life. The rolling pin gets to work and there is soon, an almost circular base, awaiting decoration.

Our secret tomato sauce is spread. Remember less is more. Grated cheese is sprinkled. Will it be pepperoni or salmon and anchovies? Do you add chillies or that old conundrum, are ham and pineapple allowed? Howsabout a plain margherita? Topped with mozzarella and basil of course.

The pizza slides onto the peel, with a deft flick it slides off into the oven. Here it immediately starts to sizzle and bake. Air bubbles lift in the dough, the cheese melts and flows out to puddle around the other toppings. A slide of the peel, a twist of the pizza, we don’t want the edges burnt. Spin it 180, almost done. With a final flourish, a scoop of the wrist, the pizza is lifted, offered to the roof and high heat of the oven. Why? Because they did that once on a TV cookery programme.

Served on a wooden paddle with a side-salad of tomato and onion. You even get your very own pizza-wheel to cut as big a triangle as you can fit in your gob. Careful though, it’s just come from a hot place. Only problem now; one down eight more to go. Thirsty work this, I’ll be pickled by the time I’ve finished.

Chuck on a further log to keep the fire ticking over.

The kids love it.

Not Dominoes but Daddioes.

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First line taken from Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.

ENTRY 16

ASHORE by Ian Welland

Nobody saw the lugger creep into the bay, nor the boatload of degenerate men come ashore…

We had all been at sea for nearly three years and Havers, our midshipman, had given his final command as Plymouth came into view. From the five ships that set sail, only two remained. One had been lost in the Straits of Magellan; a second lost in the Pacific; and a third captured by the Spanish just coming out of Spanish waters. Our lugger, The Admiral Herald, was laden with treasure and time was of the essence to get it ashore and hidden in the cove.

We had weighed anchor on a crisp autumn day in 1687. The King was James II. We had no need to worry about his cause. Didn’t matter what religion we, the crew, were. If you wanted to bring your bible on board, that was your affair. Made no difference to the daily routines. We were all chiselled seafarers.

We’ve returned to the news that a Dutch prince is now our King – well fancy that. We’d taken a Dutch ship just off Africa only a year ago. Took her load. Set adrift the last Dutch survivors – no doubt they made it to land; and, of course grabbed any treasure that was held in her hull. Can’t remember there being much. A bit of gold and jewels, but no pieces of eight so they had not run into the Spanish in those blue waters.

‘One last push ‘ear lads, one last push and we can get the bounty onto shore,’ bellowed Havers. ‘I ‘ope you lads have full bellies for you won’t eat until we reach The Harrow.'

Our Captain, Everard-Shelling, was nowhere to be seen. Rumour has it, he’s gone ashore early to meet up with the Mayor and declare us void of any bounty, such was his way. We were heading for Lilac Cove, just round Par Head. A group of trusty locals had been rounded up to help us get our bounty ashore quickly. For a few shillings, a man could be bought for a night’s work and keep his tongue, for if he didn’t, we would find him and quarter him.

A light shone out from the clifftop. No doubt Maiden Amy. That wasn’t her real name, but Maiden Amy was well known as the lady with the lamplight. Few of us had actually met her. Thought to be some old crow of a woman who lived a life untroubled. She was well protected by friends of the sea and was unknown to the Magistrate.

We dropped anchor as dusk fell into night. The sea was as black as the sky. A storm was brewing and although conditions were favourable to get ashore if the wash started whipping against the rocks, our lugger could be wrecked.

‘Edger get a rope to land and get six lads to tug,’ shouted Havers.

We were on our way to shore.

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First line taken from Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson.

FLASH FICTION - THE CLASSIC

ENTRY 1

THE TRUTH IS REVEALED – THE STORY OF WHAT IS REALLY GOING ON by Chris McDermott

ENTRY 2

THE BEDSIT by Kay Hall

ENTRY 3

BROTHERS by Brian Bold

ENTRY 4

WHATSAPP WITH MANDERLEY? by Sumi Watters

ENTRY 5

ETON TO CAIUS by Ian Welland

ENTRY 6

FOR THE ATTENTION OF DR CYRIL by Andrea Neidle

ENTRY 7

BROKEN PROMISES by Sumi Watters

ENTRY 8

HEAVY IS THE HEAD THAT WEARS THE CROWN by Louise Welland

ENTRY 9

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH by Geoff Brown

ENTRY 10

PRESSURE TO PERFORM by Jo Morgan

ENTRY 11

ALL FOR THE LOVE OF MILK BOTTLE TOPS by Chris McDermott

ENTRY 12

TURNING BACK THE YEARS by Lesley Kerr

ENTRY 13

THE LAST WORD by Geoff Brown

ENTRY 14

MY FATHER'S WISH by Jo Morgan

ENTRY 15

DADDIOES by David Elliott

ENTRY 16

ASHORE by Ian Welland