Issue 414 20th November 2015

REMINDERREMINDER

There will not be a library workshop on Monday 23rd NovemberThere will not be a library workshop on Monday 23rd November

due to the annual festive season lunch.due to the annual festive season lunch.

ANDAND

Don’t Forget: Mince Pie Monday Don’t Forget: Mince Pie Monday

14th December.14th December.

2

FLASH FICTION: project, windmill, bookkeeper, jubilant, scarf, post,

leaves, diminished

Assignment: Party

A warm welcome awaits. COME to WORKSHOP ... Every Monday 1.30 start Rising Brook Library

Oddfellows Hall, Green-

gate Street, Stafford

ART Group Exhibition

Friday 27th November

10am – 4.00pm

Saturday

28th November

10am – 4.00pm

DIARY DATES: Please note:

There will not be a workshop on 23rd November

due to RBW annual lunch.

Mince Pie Monday will be December 14th

which will be the final workshop for 2015

Rising Brook Library News:

Rising Brook Baptist Church

Library Management Team

Have given verbal assurances that

those Community Groups that already use

Rising Brook Library will be

welcome to continue to

use the free community space

after the change over from the

County Council management

in Spring 2016

They will be recruiting volunteers

in the near future.

Observation: CRICKET …

In the Third Test Match versus Pakistan, captain Alistair

Cook said he had asked his bowlers „to lead from the front.‟ Maybe they‟d be more successful if they led from behind!

Fareshare - the charity that supplies the foodbanks

Asking for just 3 hours volunteers in December at local Tesco stores to help collect food for

their foodbanks as a Christmas special.

More details and to sign up at http://www.fareshare.org.uk/food-collection-2015/

Paris

Friday 13th Nov 2015

Picture Credit: Jean Jullien

Thousands and thousands of

shares on Facebook

and here one more ...

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

The Watchmaker Isn't it annoying when you know you've got a book but you can't find where you've put it? Recently I started listing all my books on a spreadsheet noting where each one is on my book shelves. So far I've got to number 709!! Well, I have been col-lecting books all my life! And I have been around on this earth for quite a long time. 709 - by my arithmetic that's only about one every six weeks since the day I was born! My favourite books are those which describe the lives of real people par-ticularly "ordinary" people facing extraordinary circumstances and I think my all time favourite is one called, "The Hiding Place" by a Dutch lady called Corrie Ten Boom. My wife was Dutch and perhaps it is because of her descriptions of life in Holland during the Nazi occupation in the last war that I find the events described in "The Hiding Place" so fascinating. But the characters we're introduced to don't seem to promise much excite-ment. A harmless old man who loves to read his Bible and loves to lose himself in the intricacies of the watches and clocks that are brought to his shop for repair but who is far more expert in making and mending clocks than he is in running his business, and his two middle aged daughters, both spinsters, who keep his house in downtown Haarlem and help him in the shop. The pastor from the church calls and is horrified to find that they are sheltering a Jewish child. The Germans are rounding up all the Jewish people, men, women and children, and shipping them off to the so-called labour camps. The punish-ment for anyone caught helping Jewish people to escape is rapid transportation to the same camps. "You mustn't do it." The pastor tells them, "it's far too danger-ous." They look at the child and know that for them the Pastor is wrong. That child becomes the first of many Jews that they hide and shelter in their home over many months as the underground struggle to find places out in the country where they can be hidden more permanently. And then they are betrayed. There are handsome rewards for those who are prepared to betray their fellow countrymen to the Germans. Now it's their turn to be taken off in the back of a lorry under armed guard. "But wait a minute," says the German officer in charge, looking at the be-wildered old man. "We don't want to put you in prison, do we? Just promise me that you'll behave yourself from now on and you can go home." The old man scarcely hesi-tates. "If there's a knock on my door tonight and someone needs help, my door will be open," he replies. The officer has no answer. He shrugs and turns away and the prisoners are taken away. So, in a single sentence, this bumbling, old man puts the whole Nazi philosophy to shame and also puts down a marker for the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. Within weeks the old man was dead, and buried in an unmarked grave. Not long afterwards the two sisters were sent off on their nightmare journey to the hor-rors of Ravensruck concentration camp. If you want to know what happened to them there you'd better get hold of the book and read it for yourself. It's a really good read. But a haunting question hovers in the mind. What would I have done? What would you have done? Would we, should we, have followed in the track of that bum-bling old man and his two middle aged spinster daughters? Would we?

Random Words: gate, leaf-mould, dementia, Barbara, poppy, lover, portable, Siamese, ghost, catastrophe,

mood Barbara was a Siamese twin. Beryl, her sister, suffered from dementia. For Beryl, it was very sad, though she

didn‟t know much about it, but for Barbara, who felt as if she had lost her other half, it was a catastrophe.

The person she was closest to, who knew what she was thinking and what she would say before she said it

was gone. But Barbara had heard about music therapy being helpful in re-connecting sufferers with their past.

When she visited Beryl in her care home, she took in a portable CD player. Beryl had been a lover of Johann

Strauss, and when she heard the strains of „The Blue Danube‟, her mood immediately lightened, and she be-

gan to sway gently to the music. The ghost of the person she had once been, appeared for a few moments. Barbara was thrilled, and decided to go a step further. The following week, the November day was mild, and

she took her sister for a country walk, something they had often enjoyed together before the dementia struck. Barbara opened the gate into the wood, and Beryl kicked the piles of fallen autumn leaves and breathed in the

delicious earthy smell of the leaf mould. Then she turned to Barbara and noticed the poppy pinned to her sister‟s coat. “Poppy!” she said, joyfully. Barbara‟s heart leapt.

Assignment: Remembrance My darling husband died in August 2010. It had been a traumatic time, not least because we

had recently lost his only brother and his wife, and we were part of the Robert Francis

enquiry into poor care at Stafford Hospital. We had a very loving and close marriage, and when we learnt the prognosis, had dis-

cussed quite openly, what Colin‟s wishes were for his funeral arrangements. I find writing

therapeutic, and part of who I am. Unbeknownst to him, I had already begun making a few

brief notes, with the idea of writing some sort of tribute to a splendid human being, who

never blew his own trumpet. And it was also a way of recalling and recording all the myriad

problems he had with the medical professionals. The funeral was held at the church where we had worshipped together every week

since 1998, and despite it being holiday time, was packed, with folk in the foyer and stand-

ing at the sides and back. I knew where Colin wanted his final resting place to be. He had shown me a spot on a

rise on top of Cannock Chase where we often strolled with our little dog, and where he had

taken his three children tobogganing in the winter. But I wondered when was the right time

to scatter his ashes. I had to leave enough time to contact his family, and to allow mine to

make the necessary arrangements for travel, as none of them lived locally. But I didn‟t want

to leave it too long either. Such things are obviously very painful, and putting them off just

exacerbates the situation. And then it struck me. Remembrance Sunday was the perfect day! Thankfully, it was

dry that lunchtime, and there were no other people about, walking their dogs on the Chase,

so we were able to gather quietly for the short prayer and benediction my pastor had sug-

gested I use. My voice broke with emotion as I read those final words, and my legs buckled.

My eldest daughter‟s partner grasped my arm and I held firm and got through it all. Then we scattered the ashes beneath a young oak sapling, and I planted spring bulbs

around its base; something Colin would have loved, as he was a passionate gardener and

nature-lover. That was to be the last time Colin‟s family and I saw one another. It has become even

more poignant and special for me. I try to visit the spot regularly, midweek, when it is quiet

and I can be alone with my thoughts and memories and grief. But I know that what Colin so

often told me is true. “There‟s no need to feel you have to visit this place. Don‟t be sad, my love. I‟m not

there.” And in my heart, I know it‟s true, and his spirit has flown. The book about his life came out almost a year to the day later, in 2011.

The Irish Potato Famine, part 1 Peter Shilston‟s blog, an extract ...

This great disaster, unlike anything else occurring in Western. Europe for centu-

ries, devastated Ireland between 1845 and 1851; permanently affecting the history

of the country. In point of fact, it was a catastrophe waiting to happen: there had

already been warnings, such as the famine of 1816; and disaster had been foreseen

by the great Irish nationalist leader Daniel O‟Connell amongst others, but nobody

seemed to have any idea of what could be done to avert it.

The census of 1841 found an Irish population of 8 million (compared with 4 ½ million in 1801: by 1901 it

would be back to the earlier figure!) Of these, 80% lived in the countryside, mostly in villages of less than 20

homes, usually without shops or a church. Ulster had the densest population, but here there were mostly small

but prosperous farms. Elsewhere the densest population was in Connaught and other western areas, where the

real problems lay.

There the census found the biggest class was half a million “cottiers": labourers who rented land annually,

with no further security of tenure, often paying with labour-service rather than with money. Just above them in

the class structure were 400,000 smallholders, of whom 65,000 had less than one acre of land. Many of these

were no more than squatters, who held onto their tiny farms only because nobody bothered to remove them;

and few having any legal security of tenure. There was no industry in Connaught to attract people away from

the land, very few good harbours on the coast, and bad roads.

40% of Irish homes were one-room cabins, with earth floors and without windows or a chimney. (It was

suggested that the census-takers actually underestimated the population of western Ireland, because they re-

fused to believe that any human beings could inhabit the worst of these squalid huts, and so did not investigate

them!). Families slept on straw. Women and children usually went barefoot, and clothes were second-hand.

Many families would keep a pig (which might live in the hut with them), feed it on scraps, and sell it to pay

the rent.

One third of all land grew potatoes, and three million Irish ate little except potatoes; up to 14 lb a day for a

labourer, plus some milk, with very little meat or bread. This wasn't too unhealthy a diet, since it contained

sufficient vitamins and protein; so scurvy and rickets were rare in rural Ireland. But disaster was always likely

if the potato crop failed; not just because of shortage of the main diet, but because the poor Irish had no money

to buy anything else!

The land structure was very different from that found in England. Almost all Irish land was held in vast es-

tates, owned mostly by Protestants, (many being English, who rarely visited Ireland) or by institutions such as

the Anglican church or Trinity College Dublin. Landlords in Ireland had long been criticized by agricultural

experts for their financial irresponsibility and failure to make improvements. Many estates were mortgaged

after their owners spent too much on grandiose building projects and imported luxuries, while many landown-

ers preferred taking a steady if low income from rents rather than attempting expensive investments in agricul-

tural improvements.

97% of land was let, and then often sublet, passing through hands of middlemen, so landlords were cut off

from any direct link with the land and left without any responsibilities. Trinity College Dublin had 12,000 ten-

ants, but only 1% paid rents direct to the college; 45% were subtenants of middlemen and others were sub-sub

tenants! The rising population led to endless division and subdivision of holdings, especially in Connaught,

where 75% of all farms were less than 5 acres in size and hardly any were over 15 acres! The 1836 Report

from the Irish Board of Works found almost 2 ½ million Irish living in “abject poverty”

The system of farming was also unique to Ireland. Conacre was a procedure common in Connaught, where

a labourer made annual arrangements to grow potatoes on a patch of land. Often middlemen made arrange-

ments with a village collective called a Clachan, who farmed the land communally and were communally re-

sponsible for collecting the rent. This system was sometimes called Rundale. All these systems seem very me-

diaeval, though they can be compared with sharecropping in America. In Ulster there was more security of

tenure, and compensation could be paid for evictions; for instance, reimbursement to a tenant for any improve-

ments made to the property at his own expense. But in the west, annual tenure meant no security. Middlemen

acting for landlords encouraged constant subdivision into tiny holdings: this being profitable because a rapidly

rising population meant constant competition for land. Reliance on monoculture of potatoes would bring disaster

if the crop failed: especially since supplementary earnings from traditional cottage industries (such as in textiles)

were declining in the face of mechanized factory production.

The situation was not so much absentee landlords "grinding the faces of the poor" as landlords having no

contact with the poor at all: instead leaving everything in hands of middlemen, and being themselves merely in-

active proprietors; receiving money from middlemen and themselves contributing nothing!

Many people foresaw disaster - but what could be done? Feeding the starving in bad years could only be a

very short-term policy. The only real remedy would be a massive reduction of population in the poorest areas.

But in the poverty-stricken west a high proportion of the people were illiterate, spoke no English, and had no

money: they would find it very difficult to move even to other parts of Ireland, let alone to England or overseas.

Someone with money and organisational skills would have to organize and pay them to emigrate - but who

would do this? the landlords? the church? the government? Daniel O‟Connell and the Irish Nationalists? Without

any such radical action the same problems would simply re-emerge the next time the crop failed! There had been

warnings in previous years: such as the complete crop failure of 1816, when the aftermath of the eruption of the

Tambora volcano brought starvation all over western Europe and even in America.

(In the view of the Marxist economists, history shows that the subsistence farmer is inevitably doomed: he

never makes enough profit in good years to pay back the debts and arrears of rent incurred in bad years)

The 1838 Poor Law for Ireland set up 130 “Unions” of parishes, each with own workhouse. The system was

organised and financed purely on a local basis: the Poor Rate being paid by landowners and better-off tenants.

“Outdoor relief” (that is, the giving of cash handouts) was supposed to be banned: instead anyone wanting help

had to go and live in the local workhouse, each of which could house about 1000 people. In order to discourage

idlers and scroungers, food was no better than in prison, and discipline was harsh. This was much the same as in

England, but there was also much governmental prejudice against the Irish. Secretary Trevelyan spoke of the

“selfish, perverse and turbulent character of the people”, who were naturally lazy and would always prefer free

handouts to working. Therefore there must be no free handouts: the Irish must be encouraged to work, to earn

money to buy food!

The potato blight first appeared in August 1845, coming from America via continental Europe. Many coun-

tries were affected, but Ireland suffered worst. It was

a fungus, spread by spores: the leaves of the plant

withered, and the potatoes were found to be black

and rotten.

Nowadays the fungus is treated with copper sul-

phate to kill the spores, but at that time it was a mys-

tery. There was not much effect in the first year, be-

cause most of the crop had already been harvested.

The British government authorized the importation

of American maize to cover shortages. But 1846 was

warm and wet, encouraging the fungus, and the har-

vest failed totally. 1847 was rather better, but then

there was another complete failure in 1848. The

situation in that year was complicated by bad grain

harvests all over Europe, leading to revolutions and

the collapse of governments in many countries.

Soon reports were coming in of mass starvation in

western Ireland. How would the government try to

deal with the situation? This will be discussed in my

next essay.

The scene at Skibbereen, west Cork, in 1847. From a series

of illustrations by Cork artist James Mahony (1810-1879),

commissioned by Illustrated London News 1847.

Image source wikipedia

THE TYGER (from Songs Of Experience) By William Blake Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art. Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 1794

TRAVEL BLOG: A LETTER FROM SOUTH KOREA I'm now in South Korea! Living in a city called Daegu and I wondered if you'd be interested in an infrequent blog for the bulletin. This is the first little piece that I wrote when I got here. (I've also added a couple of pictures). So it turns out it's already been almost a week since I left England - how does that happen? It feels like I dragged my suitcase into Daegu station and was being driven through the maze of wide busy streets of Korea's third biggest city only yesterday. (To give you some idea of what 3rd largest means, it's 3 million people and a space four times as big as Birmingham.) My hotel is in downtown, a rabbit warren of built up streets that flog food, clothes, make-up and coffee from morning til night. Here, every other shop is a coffee house and to make things even more confusing, every big brand shop has a store on every street. Here, the cars and pedestrians co-exist in a strangely peaceful cohabita-tion. Here the shops are still doing a good trade when I leave work at 9 p.m. Here the karaoke bars are still ad-mitting new customers at 3 am (And yes, I now know that personally). It's a peculiar, perpetual place. Even Mon-days don't deter the crowds that flow from restaurant to bar. At night, the noise is ceaseless; I now live to a soundtrack of permanent murmur. In the day, the streets thrum with the music that blasts from the open doors of shops, occasionally undercut by the cries of the promot-ers outside of them. There also surprises around every corner. One day, I walked out of work to a live action compilation of musical theatre. Amazingly, almost everything can be found in English. If the first shop doesn't have English translations, then the next will. Many products come with English explanations and many restaurants provide a (admittedly inconsistent) English menu. You can generally get by with "Annyeong haseyo" (hello) and pointing at what you want. A "kamsahamnida" at the end usually helps too. Although a bartender did teach me "Maeg-ju chom juseyo", so I'm sure I'll be fine. (For you none Korean-speakers out there, that apparently means 'Can I have beer please.')

I had some pâté for my lunch the kind that they call Brussels. It made my nose all shiny

and opened up corpuscles. It was full of garlic and many more good things pork fat, eggs, cream and butter tasty goodies that a deli brings. Feasting, I filled my face and salivated piling up a big plate with glee which according to Dr Patel is why I‘m now wired up in A&E. (SMS)

Before breakfast: Sandown IoW 2012 Watery dawn, nacre on the roof ridges, sneaks with shards of mandarin, across dark sand. White cliffs, wearing streaks of magenta, waiting, silent, rebuffing all comers. Find damp seat, cover with newspaper. Spindrift pillows, floats across salt-blackened groynes, No gulls cry. A lonely black-headed bird circles. Wait by reeds. Any time now. Caged, alpha male, Snoopy, stirs. Bellows his lungs to announce the day. Sniffs the air for prey. Lion king, despite circumstances. Window panes tremble. Dew glisters on mown grass. Sands sigh their secrets, and porridge boils and bacon sizzles in all the B&Bs along the front. Welcome to Thursday. Going home tomorrow. (SMS)

11

Gardening Tips for November ... Frances Hartley

What terrible dull days we have had, but it seemed bright first

thing this morning, so when all the chores were done we

decided to go out for a little excursion. We have had carpets of

leaves that I think seem to have dropped early this year and they

were giving such a lovely display of colour when I wrote this,

so I took my camera out with me hoping to get some nice

pictures before all the leaves had fallen, but when we got to where the best trees

were for their colours, the weather had changed, it was too dark and was spitting

with rain. Just my luck once again! I am not very good at photography and have an

elderly camera, but it does me, to keep a record of our garden, etc each year, so that

I can see what changes there have been.

Alan has put in even more different fruit trees and bushes and is hoping for a

better year next year, weather wise. Many people have said that the fruit harvest

hasn‟t been very good this year and I must admit we haven‟t picked as much as

usual, but we have enjoyed some Apricots, Peaches, Figs, Apples, Kumquats,

Pears, Apples and various soft fruits. We are now enjoying some unusual vegeta-

bles from the allotment including Jerusalem Artichokes. If you have space in the

garden where something tall can grow why not try one, or two roots, as they don‟t

need much attention and are very rarely seen for sale. There is also Elephant Garlic

that is milder in flavour than the normal type, and is served whole and eaten a bit

like a baked Onion, or perhaps an apple.

Now we have had the first real frosts, Alan is starting to dig up the Chrysan-

themum roots as the allotment is rather an exposed, windy site. They have given

some lovely flowers and I have 6 vases full even now. He has already dug up the

smaller roots which I helped him pot and we are keeping them under the staging in

the cold greenhouse. They will be joined later by the larger plants with big clumps

of roots, or “Stools,” that Alan will dig up as it gets colder. They will be kept just

slightly damp, until about the end of February when there should be some nice little

shoots for cuttings. We shall probably root far more than we need ourselves, but we

can always give some to family and friends.

I think most of the bedding plants will have been finished off by the cold by

the time you hear this. I like to clear all the dead plants debris out of the tubs and

then Alan tidies everything up and puts the rubbish on the compost heap. After-

wards, I add some more compost to what is left in the tubs, along with some fertil-

izer, before re-planting them with some ornamental Cabbages and Ivies, or bulbs

instead and Pansies that will add colour for the Winter.

By the way not only can you buy young plants of Winter vegetables in the gar-

den centres, such as Cabbages, Cauliflower, etc, now, but if you like Broad Beans

some varieties can be sown straight outside in the ground, as well, along with Win-

ter hardy Lettuce.

Well think that‟s All For Now.

Cheerio. Frances Hartley

(2012)

“ALL THAT

JAZZ”

Won the vote and

will be the next

RBW farce.

ALL THAT JAZZ. CAST OF CHARACTERS

Many of these characters are two dimensional as yet: where you have a physical description in mind please write it in some-where so that we all know about it. AND check these notes for updates and send in any updates please.

Hotel staff free for all to use - opening gambits by CMH. Nigel Thomas Bluddschott – Manager part owner of ‗Hotel Bluddschott'. Married to Winifred. Tubby, balding, brown hair,

brown eyes, 34, 5' 7‖ tall. Tenor voice but wobbly and hesitant unless using a prepared script. Not good at thinking on his feet. If something CAN go wrong it WILL. Smuggles brandy, fags and other taxable goods as a part time job.

Winfred Alice Bluddschott (nee Gray) – Manager part owner of ‗Hotel Bluddschott'. Wife of Nigel. Plump more than tubby, brown hair bleached blonde, brown eyes, 35, 5' 6‖ tall. MUCH more capable than hubby with a hard edge to her speech.

CMH.

Sally Gray. - A MYSTERY WOMAN in any case. Don't know (yet) if she's staff, entertainer (torch singer or fan dancer) or

guest. Youngish woman. Tall, hazel eyes, auburn hair, very capable. I have her earmarked as an ex-QA/WRNS/WRAF

officer who has just completed her time & wants to 'get away from it all'. BUT, she could be something entirely different! Norbert Bunbury. Staff, driver and odd job man at the HB. Was Infantryman – possibly W.O.2 (Sgt. Maj.) or higher. I fancy a field promotion, mid 1918, not a Sandhurst man – with a few gongs to his credit. Tall, brown eyes, dark brown hair. Well built.

Blackleg Bill Bluddschott - the ghost of. AT and CMH Comic relief characters. You never know! These ladies may, possibly, be descended from those who went with Captain Fowlnett onboard 'The Star' in 'Packet to India'. They are middle aged, overweight, often slightly 1-over-the-8 and about to be tented! Vera Accrington -

Gloria Stanley - Dorothy Calcutt (their much younger niece) Ronnie Manservant only lasts a day.

NP Griggleswade (Griggles). Flyboy. Ex-RAF now working for M.I.5 (or something) as some kind of 'Air Detective'. Ch. Supt. Chorlton-cum-Hardy. Previously Colonel. Griggles superior officer in M.I.5

Mossy. Working with Griggles. Windle. Working with Griggles. Jones. Aircraft mechanic works for Griggles.

Wilhelm von Eisenbahn, aka Osbert Lessly or 'Big Shorts'. Khaki Shorts leader. Comrade 'Ironside' aka Joseph. Lenin boys leader. Comrade Plotskie aka Leon. Assistant to 'Ironside'.

ACW.

Christiana Aggott posing as Lady Arbuthnot Christian. Novelist. Actually married to Col. Beaumont Walsgrave but using a nom-de-plume for secrecy; & for advertising purposes about her new book, 'The man who shed crocodile tears'. (This neatly gets the requisite reptile into the plot line)

Arbuthnot Aggott or Uncle Arbuthnot. Head of a Security Organisation (Home Office?) Christiana is working for him.

General Arbuthnot Aggott. Christiana's father and brother of Arbuthnott Aggott. Something in the War Office (as the

MoD (Army) was known then) to do with Counter Espionage. Col. Beaumont Walsgrave. Christiana's sorely missed hubby.

Bright Young Things: Ruby Rawlings, Charlotte Ponsonby-Smythe & Katherine Wallasey. Bright Young Things brothers: Everet Rawlings, Eugene Ponsonby-Smythe & Virgil Wallasey.

Communists et al ACW Comrade St. John. Lenin boys Comrade Bunson-Smythe. Lenin boys

Bro.?? Muckleby. Leader of 'The Workers Party' also something to do with Arbuthnot Aggott. Bruder Wilhelm Bergmann. German trades union leader.

Bro. Kevin Harvey. A Workers Party member. (Changed from Hardy) Ernst Graf von Rockenbaker. Sir John Keithly.

Lord John Markham. Sir Martin Wickham.

SMS. Barnard Hot Sax Player Musician and nice guy. Errol Holiday. Band leader and piano player Tallulah tubby torch singer Errol‘s girl friend, hates Jo-Jo Jo-Jo. Fan dancer from Red Parrot Club, Paris sister of Errol. Hates Tallulah.

Cpt Digby Makepeace — hotel guest Barrington nephew of Makepeace knew Jo-Jo in Paris and knows PoWales.

LF Rooster Pearmaine detective — drunkard

Balsom Fry valet Cpt Hove-Brighton assistant on trail of missing novelist

AP

Boys and Girls Camp‘s characters and storyline Gilbert and Walter

Simon Bligh pack leader Jenny H.B. STAFF LIST. Awaiting names/descriptions and free to use. Head Waiter. Head Gardener. Head Chef. (Unnamed but has been used) Geordie pretending to be a French Chef, as they get paid more. No good at accents. Head porter/Concierge. 'Dell boy'. He knows about the smuggling racket. Wine Waiter/Sommelier/barman. All on the take from the 'duty free' wine.

CMH Helpful ? NOTE 1. If you are going to involve Security Forces (police and military) then please note that there was nothing like the MoD, it was FOUR (4) separate organisations. Admiralty for the Royal Navy. War Office for the Army. Air Ministry for the RAF. The Home Office for the Police. However, Policing was done by County/Borough. The Home Secretary couldn't give orders to the Chief Constable and the Met. was ―Asked to assist‖ if he thought they were required. I would think that Trentby, being a City or Borough would have its own Police force. Just to make things interesting H.M.Customs was – still is - a part of the Treasury. As civil servants, they did NOT have military rank equivalence or titles nor, except for two of the higher grades, dress uniforms. It gets complicated because in 1923 there were a few organisational 'hold-overs' from earlier times and some officers did get working uniforms issued.

The Communist Cabal ACW

Comrade St John, Comrade Bunson-Smythe and Comrade Greys-Windsor had made the acquaint-ance whilst out walking below the hotel, of Wilhelm Bergmann, of the German trade union movement,

and Kevin Harvey of the New Modellers Union, as they had concluded their business for the sale of a 1920 Bleriot motor cycle to a lady of some means, obviously staying at the luxury hotel.

Once the posh lady had gone out of earshot, Comrade St John had queried, ‗And who is doing capi-talist ventures comrades?‘

Kevin Harvey recognised the men from a conference he had attended and shook them each warmly

by the hand, introducing them to Herr Bergmann. At the Khaki Shorts camp they made out they were not known to each other, to help in their infil-

trating the Khaki Shorts who might be plotting a possible coup that would have made any revolution ever more difficult.

The beer from the horse drawn dray that Kevin and Wilhelm had brought to the Khaki Shorts camp,

soon was drunk up by the camp dwellers with their evening meal round the camp fires. The two Shire mares Bess and Bertha were tied on a long rope to graze beyond the camp.

After a few days of physical exercise and boring speeches, the men were beginning to lose the will to live.

The sentiments expressed by Eisenbahn made them want to slit his throat, but they had to smile and agree in their quest to find out how the coup might be actioned.

Then came the night of the terrible gale.

Kevin Harvey had great difficulty in harnessing up the two Shires to the beer dray cart, driven mad by the lightning and the noise of the raging sea beyond. The beer kegs acted as ballast to stop the

Shires running away with the cart. The freight lorries had been driven away from the camp by the Comrades, seeking to shelter them

now that their tents had blown away and finding old garages beneath the hotel. They all met up at the back of the hotel, and the shire horses were found shelter in old coach sta-

bles, after they had backed the beer dray cart into the garages by the freight lorries.

Kevin remarked to Wilhelm, ‗Hey there‘s the 1920 Bleriot we sold and by jove, there‘s a fine bit of kit, the exclusive Bow-v-car four wheel motor cycle by it.‘

‗Capitalist swine.‘ They all agreed and made their way into the hotel and up the servants stairs. Kevin had found a good sized bedroom behind a cleaners large cupboard, which was the norm in

fancy hotels, that was nice and warm from the boiling copper on the open fire in the laundry down in the basement.

They all put their wet clothes on chairs by the walls that held the chimney flues to dry them and put on hotel towelling dressing gowns from the towel cupboard.

They were nicely settled for the night when loud voices roused them coming from across the hall-way.

They peered out from the cleaners‘ cupboard door and could hear what was being said through the

open door of a hotel room opposite. Wilhelm was agog to learn Ruckenbacker was a fellow German trade unionist.

Kevin Harvey and the Comrades looked at each other in amazement as they learned that the posh aristocratic men supposedly part of the Khaki Shorts, were in fact spies for various secret service de-

partments for Britain. Then they heard the man they had believed to be The Lord Marchant of Northumbria, now over-

heard to be Colonel Beaumont Walsgrave, come across another man, who he then addressed as, ‗Oh

Your Royal Highness.‘ Out of the room hurried the Prince of Wales, who was then set upon by the Comrades and Kevin

Harvey and Wilhelm Bergmann, who demanded, ‗Where is your room, take us there immediately?‘ In the Prince of Wales‘ room, Comrade Greys-Windsor, of royal blood himself, informed the rest of

his comrades, ‗We have our revolution brothers. We will take the heir to the throne hostage and we

will be paid off to keep his dalliance with a married lady secret.‘ ‗And where will we keep him hostage Comrade?‘ queried Comrade Bunson-Smythe.

Comrade St John informed, ‗A comrade of ours is the lighthouse keeper and there are rooms in the

tower we can keep him incognito.‘

All the comrades together packed the Prince of Wales‘ valises and chests and just as dawn brought the gale to the end, with a clear morning sky, they went past the Khaki Shorts camp to the light-

house. Having let the Shire horses out to graze in a field that still had good fencing, beyond what had obviously been coach stables in days of old.

The Wrong Royal ACW The lighthouse keeper was surprised to hear an urgent bell rung at his door in the early hours.

‗Who is it?‘ enquired the lighthouse keeper. ‗It‘s me, St John, comrade, open the door Lamplighter‘, informed Comrade St John. Opening the door, a whole horde surged in with St John, carrying various fine leather valises and

chests or holding onto an obviously well heeled gentleman in his fine sleeping attire and dressing gown, upon which was a royal crest at top pocket.

‗Oh my God, what‘ve you done now. We‘re all for the gallows, to be sure‘, lamented Lamplighter. ‗Where can we lock him in?‘ enquired St John.

‗He‘s not stopping here, look ye. Be off with ye right now, I tell you‘, wailed Lamplighter. A general argument between the various comrades raged around the resigned Royal personage,

with no-one listening to the other, having the front door still left a little ajar.

Ruckenbacker strode in. Wilhelm Bergmann greeted him in German and then said in English, ‗Here is my fellow German

trade unionist‘. Ruckenbacker looked at the royal man and clicked his heels, bowed and said, ‗Greetings Prince Har-

ald of Mont de Mons et Bellais. How is your father, the Emperor?‘ Kevin Harvey cried, ‗He‘s not the Prince of Wales‘. ‗Ach Ja, so many marriages, the royals look so similar. But as I am a Graf myself, I see them

enough to know by sight,‘ informed Ruckenbacker. Comrade Greys-Windsor observed, ‗Well I never. He‘s the spitting image.‘

Prince Harald bowed back to Ruckenbacker and informed all gathered, ‗I am here on behalf of the secret service for my Emperor father, to find out what Eisenbahn and his Khaki Shorts were up to, as England is not the only nation Eisenbahn may be plotting to bring down in a coup. We will all go back

to my hotel suite, that has an adjoining suite. Come, before the hotel rouses for the day.‘

30th NOV

will be the final

Bring&Buy

In workshop

YET ANOTHE RANT FROM CMH Eee ... Who said that? Hello me fellow writers!

It's me your favourite reader what's atalking to you from this here page – good this i'n'it? You read my other rant I 'spects, probably ignored it too. Well us readers can't have everything, can us!? Me topic this time ain't about what YOUR characters looks like – even though that's important – it's about what they sounds like. Well, yes, now I can just hear you say, ―He's flipped his lid! Stone bonkers poor feller! He's gone daft! You can't get sound off a page!‖ True, it's a bit difficult to get your real longtitudinal air compressions to actually jump out of the page at you, but – there's always a but kicking about somewhere – you can give us readers some clues. Using a large leap of imagination - no problem there, you're a writer. You can long jump a clear three genre from a standing start or eight with a run-up – just imagine that you are being paid, by the word, at 10p/word including titles, excluding footnotes. You're not, this is an exercise in imagination so it's an imaginary figure [at about 5x the going rate] just to make the maths easy. There's one thing that I'll bet you wouldn't do and that is throw good money away by under describing a conversation. Okay! So, ―He said‖ or ―She said‖ or ―They shouted‖, might do the job, but they're only worth 20p, however, ―Stanley shouted at Effie in an angry tone‖ is worth 80p and if you add, ―waving his arms about like a demented windmill‖, you're up to £1.60 with-out any effort. Also, you've told me that Stanley isn't well pleased, and, as a bonus, it could get violent; which may be good plot development. You've got a Win-Win situa-tion there! Don't ignore the 20p bits though! ―Simon said‖ and ―Joe replied‖ stuck in three times during a conversation is £1.20 for nothing, and, importantly, it saves my poor reading head having to tire itself out trying to keep up with who said what, to whom, and why. So, dear writer, please, please keep in mind that I - your reader (it's part of the job description) - need to know not only who is talking to whom, but also how he or she is saying it. Until me nex' rant I'm awishin' you fair writing with the wind at your back.

Editor‘s note: Of course, anyone who adds useless adverbs may not be taken seriously. However, I find the trouble with attempting to tell people how to write is that if they follow the advice they could end up absorbing an inferior style which is not their own ... No publisher wants a style copier, they want new and fresh styles which are unique to the voice of that particular writer, in my humble opinion. There is the modern school of thought which says every word needs to work for its place and padding of any kind is to be avoided, that‘s the trouble with advice ... there are always other points of view ...

ARNOLD MACHIN

Arnold Machin O.B.E., R.A.

(30 September 1911 – 9 March 1999) was a British artist, sculptor, coin and stamp designer

Local Artist Profile:

In September 2008, there was a country house auction at Garmelow

Manor in Eccleshall. This was the Staffordshire home of the artist Arnold Machin.

Arnold Machin was the local unsung hero who created

probably the world‘s most re-produced image. Contrary to popular belief the most commonly reproduced

image in the world isn‘t an old Dutch master, it‘s actually the cameo of HRH Queen Elizabeth II on British postage stamps and coins.

Originally designed in 1967, it is estimated the image has appeared on over 2 billion stamps. The man responsible for

creating this iconic image was Staffordshire artist Arnold Machin.

Arnold Machin R.A., O.B.E. was born in Stoke-on-Trent in 1911. He was a prolific artist and sculptor. Machin began work as an apprentice, hand-painting china at the Minton

Pottery, aged 14. During the Depression he studied sculpture at the Stoke-on-Trent Art School, followed by spells at

the Derby School of Art and, finally, the Royal College of Art in 1937. During the ‗40s he continued his career at Wedgwood. He became a Fellow of the Royal Society of British Sculptors in 1956.In 1947 he was elected an associate member of the Royal Academy, was appointed a Master of

Sculpture from 1959 to 1966 and became the longest-serving member of the Academy. He was elected an Academician in 1956 and a Fellow of the Royal Society of British Sculptors. From 1951 he was a tutor at the Royal College of Art.

It is reported that Machin‘s method for creating the Queen‘s image was complex. He began by sculpting a bust which he then photographed to create a profile. The finished design recalled the original ―Penny Black‖ stamp, the result

creates an almost three dimensional image that for the time of production was a remarkable artistic achievement. Following the death of his son in 2007 a local auction house was commissioned to sell the remarkable collection that filled the rambling Garmelow Manor. The entire contents, which included original art, sculpture, antique furniture, vintage farm machinery and plane engines sold for in excess of £300,000. The lots were auctioned over two special-

ist sales, one at Garmelow Manor and the other at the Moat House, Acton Trussell. Highlights included an original plaster cast of the Queen‘s head, over which a bidding war ensued, the hammer falling at £15,700 and the lot going to a UK institution.

It is reported that Machin held strong pacifist opinion and was not afraid of controversy: in the 1956, while resident at number 15, The Villas, Stokeville, (an estate of 24 Victorian houses in Stoke-upon-Trent) Machin received national

publicity when he chained himself to an old metal lamp-post in protest at its planned removal. Machin's protest, "against the destruction of all the beautiful things which is going on in this country" did not prevent the lamp-post from being replaced; however, apparently, it was given to him for his own garden.

Source material and image Wikipedia

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