Guardian of the Forest

One morning as I was walking my dogs I saw a shape in the bark of a tree.

IMG_1165 (Edited)

Silent, suspicious, standing sentinel,

Watchful, waiting, vision keen.

Woodland guardian,

Night time gate-keeper,

Protector of wild life,

Unmoving, unseen.

Eyes alert, darting, demonic.

His statue-like form says ‘trespasser beware!’

Entry here won’t go unnoted,

Every footstep will be noticed.

Only fools will take their chances,

As perched up high amongst the branches

The guardian of the forest sits

Frozen by time.




My Silent Noisy World


I awake each day to a tinnitus drone

Put in my aids – then sound explodes!

I hear birdsong, the joy of children laughing,

Car engines, music and dogs that are barking.

My head’s alive with noise – but from where?

I’m not sure of the direction but I don’t care!

Checkout girls in shops think me crazy!

Waiters hover but their questions are too hazy.

‘Supply all the information, so questions they won’t need!’

This is what they tell us– but others never heed!

‘What size of glass – and would you like water?

How would you like it cooked?’

When you don’t reply they look so hurt

And give you a quizzical look.

People speak with heads turned away –

Well, you may ask, why shouldn’t they?

Or their hand hides their mouth so their lips I can’t read!

No, I’m not being rude – I just need to see!

But my real hate above all other – is BEARDS!


Beards should be banned or carry a warning to say –


Gatherings I used to love are now viewed with dread.

Rooms full of chanting people – the sound amplified in my head.

When I don’t hear, people SHOUT

Making distortion more pronounced!

Then such welcome silence when I am home   –

But all I hear is the tinnitus drone!



The Machine

     STEAMPUNK   – Horror


 If you don’t like horror I would give this one a miss!

 Professor Shakeshaft gradually stood up unwinding his stiff muscles. He turned away from the operating table and dropped the bullet into the enamel kidney dish that his assistant held out in front of him. He then looked down at the patient lying before him.

‘That’s all I can do John,’ he said to his assistant, ‘the other bullet is lodged too deep for me to get at. If I try to remove it I could kill him.’

‘What about the machine Professor, wouldn’t that be worth a try?’

‘No John, it’s not ready. There are several adjustments that need to be made before it can be used on a patient.’

‘He’ll die anyway if you don’t use it Sir. Surely it’s worth the risk!’

‘No John, I dare not. I daren’t!’

‘But he’ll die Sir if you don’t remove the other bullet! You can’t get to it – but the machine might! That must be worth a try Sir!’

Professor Shakeshaft looked across at his assistant’s eager face, so full of youth and enthusiasm. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was the only way – but if it went wrong the consequences would be enormous! He scratched his head and looked once more at the 3rd Marquess of Salisbury lying on the operating table. If the machine worked he may not only save the Prime Minister’s life but he may also acquire funding for his experimental research work. Perhaps after all the young John was right!

He looked back into the young man’s anxious eyes and spoke quietly.

‘You are right John! Go and fetch the machine!’

Without any hesitation John hurried out of the room, while the professor, hands clasped, muttered a silent prayer and waited.  John returned pushing a large, ungainly object that squeaked and grunted its way across the floor of the operating theatre, until it reached the Professor’s side.

The Professor leaned his tall, gaunt body across the operating table. The flickering gaslight reflected in his small, round, rimless spectacles as he took hold of the machine’s telescopic end. His gnarled fingers positioned the implement into the open wound that had been created by the removal of the first bullet. He then strapped the contraption across the Prime Minister’s chest.

‘Switch it on John,’ he said in a soft, deep voice as he straightened his back and moved away from the bed.

John moved behind the machine and turned a dial, bringing the machine to life. It coughed and spluttered and the two men watched as blood, bone and gristle were sucked inside the machine, before running along a clear glass tube and then being deposited into a bucket by the side of the bed.

They waited for a few moments longer, until the Professor suddenly shouted, ‘It’s not going to work John! I dare not leave it on any longer – it will suck out his organs if I do! Quickly, switch it off!’

John moved swiftly across to switch off the machine – but just as he was about to do so they both heard a clang, as the metal bullet that had been sucked along the glass tube fell out hitting the side of the bucket.


It had been four months since Professor Shakeshaft and John Baker had performed the lifesaving operation on Prime Minister Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, the 3rd Marquess of Salisbury. They stood there now, in his office at 10 Downing Street, as he pinned a medal onto each of their jackets. They felt proud and delighted that the rotund, balding and bearded figure before them was looking so well, only because of their actions.

The P.M, wearing a dark frock coat with matching waste coat, along with light grey pin striped trousers, shook them both by the hand. He then took his pocket watch out of his waste coat pocket to check the time before asking them both to take the seats set out in front of his desk. He then put on the spectacles that were hanging from a chain around his neck and peered across at them.

‘I cannot tell you gentlemen how grateful I am! I understand such an operation has never been carried out before! Pray, tell me about it Professor, please explain to me the process that saved my life. They tell me a new machine was used, one that has never been used before. Is that correct?’

The Professor explained the operation and described how he had used the machine to extract the bullet lodged close to the Prime Minister’s heart. The P.M. listened attentively and after the Professor had finished speaking he rubbed his bearded chin.

‘Remarkable! I was indeed fortunate to be in the hands of such a talented physician.’ He coughed to clear his throat before continuing.  ‘I have heard it rumoured that the machine could have other possible uses. If it could suck out a bullet lodged in such a dangerous and difficult place, then surely it could be used to suck out other foreign bodies.’ He then sat forward in his chair before lowering his voice and continuing.

‘I am going to be straight with you gentlemen – and, of course, whatever I say to you while you are in this room must never be repeated! You are sworn to secrecy. I have no need to tell you the consequences if you were to break your silence!’

The two men listened, intrigued to hear what the great man had to tell them – and as they did, fear began to grip them.

‘As you know I am keen to promote the Prevention of Cruelty to Children Act, enabling us for the first time to intervene between parent and child. I am also aware, while so many unwanted children are being brought into our world, cruelty will never be wiped out. Our workhouses are becoming overloaded. Each day more and more young, fallen women are being taken into them. We look after them, offering them food and work, until their bastard children are born. The girl children then grow up and produce more illegitimate children of their own and so the whole cycle begins again! It cannot be allowed to go on! It is an affront to morality! Our country cannot afford to keep these wayward women!’

‘I understand your problem Prime Minister but I don’t quite see how we can help.’

‘Ah, but you can, Professor! That machine of yours – the one that sucked the bullet out of my body – could be used to suck out these unwanted embryos! Those that are not needed could be discarded – but others could be used for research! Imagine it Professor, you would be in charge of some of the greatest experimental medicine ever done in this country! We, the United Kingdom, could be the forerunner of medical research!’

The P.Ms eyes were wild with excitement as he set out his vision for the future.

‘I’m not sure Prime Minister – it does sound a little unethical.’

‘Unethical be damned! Think of the money we will be saving with no unwanted mouths to feed! Our workhouse bills would be cut by half!’

‘I don’t know Sir.’

‘This is not a choice you have to make Professor. It has already been decided. You will be given all the funds you need to make any adjustments to your machine. You will work for your country – and you will remember that your work is top secret. This must not become public knowledge. A laboratory will be set up for you with the most advanced medical equipment. As a doctor you must realise it will offer you an enormous opportunity to help mankind!’

As the Professor and John left 10 Downing Street they didn’t know whether to be excited or to feel very afraid!


It was decided the girls that had their babies aborted would stay in the workhouse forever. They would cook and clean and never be allowed to go back into the outside world ever again, so they would be unable to tell their story.

Professor Shakeshaft became engrossed with his research work on the embryos and he soon forgot about his initial dilemma. He had a wonderful new laboratory attached to the workhouse, where he and John could carry on their work unseen. Many of the embryos were discarded but those kept for experimental purposes were initially kept alive and preserved in special glass containers. These containers of different sizes lined the walls of the laboratory, and infants at various stages of development gazed out.

As they got older a research crèche was needed and it was there that infants, who had never seen the outside world, played together. During the night a few of the workhouse girls were brought in to help look after the children, not realising that one of these children could be their own, as they thought their babies had been aborted or miscarried. As long as neither the workhouse girls nor their babies left the workhouse, the research programme was safe.

There were four infants in the crèche at that time, each being worked upon by the Professor, as he looked for a cure for diphtheria. As he and John left the lab that evening and handed over to the workhouse girls, everything looked to be under control. They padlocked the door behind them and let themselves out into the dull and dingy night. The lamplight reflected pools of warmth onto the rain soaked cobbles, as they walked along Cleveland Street to their respective lodgings, chatting amiably about their work.

The following morning was cold and damp as they walked under the workhouse arch to let themselves back into the austere three storey brick building. The gatehouse porter acknowledged their passing.  Shutting out the city’s gloomy greyness they unlocked the door leading to their laboratory – unprepared for the bloodbath that awaited them!

The Workhouse Carers they had left happy and healthy the evening before, were now lying on the floor in pools of blood, their stomachs having been eaten away, leaving a gaping hole. Inside the bloody hole, curled up, sucking their tiny fingers and gurgling contentedly, lay the research babies, blood still dripping from their rosebud lips.

One baby stirred and looked up at them.

‘Mama, Mama,’ it gurgled, before snuggling itself back down into the womb.


Revenge of the Daffodils


 THE NEWSCASTER looked very serious as he stared into the lens of the camera during the news flash.
 ‘Today the BBC have learnt that an unusual amount of daffodils have been sighted in the Lake District. One observer told of seeing at least ten thousand of the plants, which seemed to be putting down seeds beside one of the lakes. In Roman times, daffodils were thought to have special healing powers but scientists later proved they did in fact have the opposite effect, as their sap contains crystals that can severely irritate the skin.’

Bill immediately started itching when he heard this and was transported back with horror, to the time when he, as a young boy at boarding school, was subjected to the ridicule of the class clown, Simpson minor, who put sap crystals down his back, causing him to be thrown out of a history class and given a detention, for extreme fidgeting!

‘The bulbs are believed,’ continued the newscaster, ‘to have been brought into this country from the Mediterranean regions of Spain and Portugal. It is thought they have now mutated in some way and their purpose is at present unknown. However, it is possible that an invasion is imminent and we are all asked to immediately report any daffodil sightings. Police advice is ‘anybody coming across these plants should not go anywhere near them as they are thought to be dangerous’. There will be more on this topic later in our ten o’clock news programme.’

Bill Wyndworth, a daffodilologist, listened angrily to the news – his unruly red hair flopping over his solemn face.

‘This is exactly what I warned the government would happen months ago!’ he shouted angrily at the television. ‘The yellow monsters have begun their invasion! But no, they just wrote me off as a clumsy, absent minded eccentric and no one listened –  now they’ve left it too late!’

Bill had initially become interested in the small trumpeted invaders, when he had been wandering alone in Grasmere and saw before him so many daffodils, that he had to shield his eyes from their acid brightness. They appeared to be doing some sort of ritualistic dance, accompanied by a mind blowing hum, rendering him temporally paralysed and deaf as a post for some weeks.

Bill had then taken time out to research the plant. He understood many years ago the flower was supposed to symbolise friendship – but something must have annoyed them, causing them to change their mind and Bill was determined to find out what that was.

During his research he had discovered that Roman soldiers used to carry the bulb of the plant into battle with them, and if they were mortally wounded they would chew upon it, as its narcotic tendencies would allow the soldier to die painlessly. It was also a known fact that, if enclosed in a room with them, their pungent scent could induce extreme headaches – hardly an act of friendship surely!

However, what worried Bill most of all, was they were believed to be a symbol of rebirth and new beginnings!

Had they decided to change their ways and become reborn? Was rebirth the reason why they were amassing on the banks of Lake Grasmere? Could they be missing the starring role they had played in the hippy Flower Power culture of the late 1960’s?  Were activist Abbie Hoffman’s words still ringing through their trumpets – ‘We shall not die, let a thousand flowers bloom’? Do they wish to rekindle that popularity? Or are they just be fed up with being referred to by poets, as dancing, head-tossing, twinkling effeminates and wish to change their image?

People were soon ringing the BBC’s switchboard with reported sightings.

 ‘I’ve seen a crowd – no, more like a host of them! They were all marching across the field in a huge swathe. It was like a rippling river of gold, coming towards me, closer and closer! I was terrified and ran home like the clappers!’ said farmer Giles MacDonald, who was obviously still traumatised by what he had seen.

 ‘I saw hundreds and hundreds of them, fluttering and dancing in the breeze, while I was taking my little dog for her walk this morning,’ said Millicent Lilley, a very nervous little old lady. ‘They seemed to be gathering in strength as more and more appeared. They were tossing their heads as they moved along. My little Tilly started whining and hid under a bush and it took me ages to coax her out!’

Plumber Kevin Leake, with his girlfriend Tracy standing lovingly by his side, was the next to ring and tell of his encounter. ‘Because of their size we didn’t see um coming. They sort of crept up on us. We were just having a kiss and a cuddle beside the lake and beneath the trees, when they were all but on top of us. There was ten thousand of um at a guess. We just had to grab what clothes we could and run, didn’t we Babe?’

Before long the switchboards were jammed, as more and more sightings were reported. The yellow armies had been seen all over England and soon they had outnumbered the human population of Great Britain.

As they nodded their way down the country, eventually entering London, people locked their doors and hid behind their curtains, terrified these head-nodding spring assassins would enter their homes. Those unfortunate enough to be caught in their pathway were found lying in the streets chanting helplessly –  ‘I’m dancing with the daffodils! I’m dancing with the daffodils!’

Over and over and over again their words poured out, gradually driving the poor powerless creature insane, as the sticky substance that had been ejected through the daffodil’s trumpet-like corona, covered them and left them stuck wherever they fell – a tasty meal to be saved for later, to fertilise the new developing bulbs perhaps?

The army were useless. When interviewed on television one soldier admitted, ‘If we fire down on them their trumpets turn bright orange and they return with a volley of golden yellow powder, which fills the air, choking anyone within range. We tried using gas masks but they just blocked up and our goggles clouded over until we couldn’t see! Pesky little beggars! They certainly pack a punch for something so small!’

‘Are they really shooting at eighteen inch high daffodils?’ thought Bill, ‘Really? This is bizarre!’

The next morning Bill set off to catch the train to the capital, armed with his briefcase, which held the lunch box containing his sandwiches. He was dressed in the only suit he owned, a brown Harris Tweed check, teamed with a stained mustard coloured waistcoat, with a crumpled yellow cravat tucked into his neck. When he arrived in London he passed bodies littered along Oxford Street and draped over the sides of the fountain in Trafalgar Square. He’d long given up trying to give aid to these poor helpless people, as he knew if he touched them he too would become adhered. Those not totally stuck waved their arms about like chanting maniacs, as the sap began to do its work.

  ‘I’m dancing with the daffodils! I’m dancing with the daffodils’. Their repetitive, zombie-like refrain could be heard all over the city. It was as if they too, like the daffodils he had seen in Grasmere, were joining in with some type of ritualistic dancing, as the irritating powder stained their skin, leaving the helpless victims the colour of a banana, itching incessantly and begging with wild eyes for release.

Bill saw a young girl, distressed by what she was witnessing, go across to try and help someone in trouble and he had to quickly rugby tackle her to the ground to prevent her from getting glued down too. She was indignant at having been brought so unceremonially down by this odd-looking stranger and in such an undignified manner.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing!’ she shouted as she tried to release her ankles from his grasp.

‘I’m sorry Miss but if you touch them, you will stick to them too. I was only trying to protect you.’

She soon realised Bill only had her best interests at heart and so she forgave his over enthusiasm – although, she thought, perhaps if he had been able to restrain himself a little more, it would have avoided having her new trousers ruined!

‘I’m on my way to the University of London, my dear, to try to find a solution to this problem – some sort of deterrent we could use against these confounded daffodils. Why don’t you come along with me? It’s really not safe to be alone on the streets at the moment.’

After giving it some consideration she eventually agreed, so they set off together. They looked an ill-matched couple as they walked along the London streets – Bill, looking rather like Mr Toad, with his mad professor air and ruddy country squire complexion and the young trendy, sexy girl, dressed in a smart business trouser suit, high stiletto heels, perfectly quaffed blonde hair and impeccably applied make up.

When they reached the university they found it was busy with other folk, also trying to come up with a solution – learned folk! One tall, grey haired man was standing on a platform, speaking to a group of people standing below him.

‘It has been decided those of you trying to get away from town are to be put into male and female pairs, as we believe it will be much safer to hide out in small groups, rather than one large one. Each woman will then have the strength of a man beside her if needed, and she can also play her part by supplying nourishing food to keep up her male’s strength.’

This in itself caused a great many arguments, as once all the pretty, desirable women had been used up, some of the men were not satisfied with the woman to whom they had been allotted – and indeed some of the women would not have chosen the men they were now tethered to!

Bill, and the girl he now knew as Mary, chose to be paired together as they had arrived together. They decided they would make their way to the Royal Horticultural Society at Kew, in an attempt to find a way to kill off their enemies – domestic weed killer was clearly not working! They realised they would need to find a far stronger deterrent to use on the yellow perils.

After Mary had ditched her stiletto heels for a more sensible pair of borrowed trainers, they took a couple of old bikes that had been abandoned outside the university. For a while it seemed like fun as they cycled through the country lanes chatting and laughing – and looking even more ill-suited, as Bill wobbled along on his upright ladies bicycle, complete with a wicker shopping basket, which now precariously held his briefcase.

Soon it was dark. It had been a long day and they were tired and as they cycled into a deserted village, they saw a farmhouse.

‘Bill, I’m exhausted! Can’t we stop here for a bit please and start off again in the morning?’ begged Mary. ‘We need to rest somewhere and this place looks totally deserted.’

They got off their bikes and looked around. The owners appeared to have left in haste as the front door stood wide open. Fear was rife and people were taking their families as far away as they could from the city.

They went inside the farmhouse and once they had decided it was safe made themselves comfortable. After munching on Bill’s cheese and pickle sandwiches they raided the fridge for milk, in order for Mary to make a cup of tea – which Bill managed to spill down his waistcoat, adding yet another stain to the mustard coloured garment. He then undid his shoe laces as he prepared to settle down for the night. It had been a long day and, after securing the front door, it wasn’t long before they were both fast asleep in the armchairs, with Bill accompanying the ticking clock with the sound of his snoring.

At about 3am, Mary, who had been unable to sleep with the noise, suddenly shook Bill awake.

‘I can hear something Bill!’ she whispered urgently.

Bill looked out of the window and couldn’t believe his eyes.

‘Good heavens! There are hundreds of them!’

Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of daffodils surrounded the house, humming and swarming like angry bees that had been disturbed from their hive. They were pounding against the doors and spraying a sticky stream of thick yellow acid, which was dribbling down the window.

‘Upstairs, quickly!’ shouted Bill. They took the stairs two at a time – well Mary did – Bill tripped over his undone shoelaces and had to recover his composure, before he headed upstairs on all fours like an overweight bulldog. They barricaded themselves in behind the bedroom door – just in time before they heard one of the windows smash!

‘They’re in the house!’ yelled a frightened Mary, ‘They’re coming up the stairs!’

They could hear them sniffing and shuffling about outside the bedroom door. Then a sudden shrill noise made Bill nearly jump out of his skin, causing him to knock over an ornament and send it crashing to the floor and Mary to let out a scream of terror !  The high-pitched, ear-splitting sound of the alarm clock on the bedside table was going off loudly behind them! In that moment everything seemed to change. First a deathly shocked silence – followed by agonised screams from the daffodils – and then nothing!

They waited for a while, not daring to venture from the safety of the bedroom.

‘I can’t hear anything. Do you think they’ve gone?’ whispered Mary.

‘There’s only one way to find out, my dear, are you prepared to take a look?’

Mary nodded. When they finally built up enough courage to peer around the bedroom door, the sight that met them was of a staircase littered with dead daffodils. They picked their way through them and over them, as they went down the stairs hand in hand, frightened that at any moment one of these wilted weeds would come back to life and devour them.

Outside the house, they found the rest of the yellow army had disappeared and they raced for their bikes and set off again, cycling at top speed. It wasn’t long, however, before they found out where the army had gone to. They were all drinking from a stream about half a mile away and as soon as they spotted Bill and Mary they became very angry, nodding their heads madly and dancing. They began hissing and spitting and spraying yellow pollen up into the air in an attempt to choke them. Bill and Mary were coughing and struggling to breathe as the angry mobs humming noise filled their heads. Sticky acid syrup was spat at them and now hung in threads from their bicycles. As soon as this golden goo hit the metal handlebars it sizzled as its acid reacted with the bikes metal.

‘If we stay here we’ll be covered in the goo ourselves! We’ll have to leave the bikes here and try to make a run for it!’ shouted Bill.

They began to run but could see the daffodils drifting swiftly after them, a turbulent golden river, spitting out their vile smelling secretions.

Suddenly another sound filled the air and they saw a battered, brightly coloured old car, pop music blaring from its CD player, come into view as it rattled around the corner, displaying a pop band logo on the side of each rear passenger door.

‘Get in!’ shouted the long blonde haired driver, who was dressed in denim jacket and jeans and, with the car still moving, Bill and Mary leapt in the back and were off. ‘Hold tight!’ he yelled as the car jerked into action.

Beside the driver sat another young man, dressed all in black, apart from the red handkerchief that he wore pirate style around his forehead. Behind him was a young dark skinned, designer-stubbled lad, wearing Bermuda shorts and wearing enormous sun glasses – obviously a Will-i-am devotee.

The car seemed to disturb the flowers and they shook wildly, as if in a frenzy, as they tried to hide their heads to retreat from the awful sound.

The driver turned the steering wheel this way and that, hurling Bill from one side of the back seat to the other. At first he was being intimate with Will-i-am and then with Mary but there was nothing he could do about it, apart from shout out his apologies as he crashed first into one and then into the other.

As the car passed through the yellow mass it parted like the Red Sea to let them by. They were obviously shaken, but by what?

‘We’ve had no trouble with them,’ said the young driver, who could only have been about nineteen, ‘they seem either to like us or to fear us, we haven’t hung around long enough to find out which!’

‘We did lose one girl though who had gone for a wander on her own,’ said look-a-like Will-i-am, ‘but as long as we stay in the car and keep playing our music, we seem to be left alone.’

Bill thought back to the sound of the alarm clock going off in the bedroom and then to the car’s excruciating music – could it be? Could it? Could it be sound that triggered the daffodils frightened behaviour?

 He decided there and then not to go to the Horticultural Society.

‘We need to double back to London University – Music Research Department. Will you take us there young man?’

 The three young musicians’ in the car were only too pleased to take him and Mary back into the city, particularly when they knew they had probably hit upon the way to save the world! Bill needed their CD in order to have it analysed, to see what it was in their sound that had caused such a dramatic reaction from the daffodils.

Once the sound had been researched and its sound waves analysed, the musicians were quickly taken to a recording studio and CD’s were made, so the sound could be broadcast all over London – and every other city where it was needed.

Bill became a hero and the three boys, who changed the name of their band to ‘Lost Direction’, were delighted when they became an overnight success, not caring their dreadful sound was the reason people wanted to play them.

Soon hosts of golden daffodils were seen to wilt and crumble all over Britain, as their sensitive ear trumpets struggled to cope with the boy bands decibels. At first, they tried to combat the sound by raising their own trumpeting qualities but they soon realised the boys vibrations were too much for them to bear and they gradually withered and died.

This had all happened 40 years ago and Bill often reflected upon it. One day, as he lay upon his couch, in a pensive mood, his daughter Jonquilla entered the room. As he looked at her beautiful blonde hair, he was reminded of meeting her mother for the first time, all those years before. His vacant, daydreaming eyes drifted over to the window and he looked out upon the vales and hills of Grasmere once more.

The vase of daffodils that Jonquilla had placed upon the windowsill then caught his eye – and he smiled – and then he screwed up his eyes and frowned. Was there a draft – or did one of those daffodils really nod back at him?


All the Worlds a Stage – Ladies Beware!


All the worlds a stage,

A space – A platform – An area – A room – A home,

 Our world! A stage where we play out our life!

Sometimes happy, sometimes sad, sometimes it’s a farce!

Or a love story, or an adventure – with drama not meant to last.

But it’s our stage and we are the players!

Big pot-bellied players, small inadequate players,

Rich players, poor players, funny and serious players –

They are all part of our cast.

They may, when they enter, be fair a’ face,

Looking like one of their kin!

Or they may enter stealthily, in disgrace,

 Or boldly or shyly or  appear out of place,

However they do it, they’ll look their audience in the face!

As the first act begins!

We wait to see what their exit will bring,

What will develop, be they pauper or king?

Will it be unexpected or can we foresee?

Will we still like them? Oh, what will it be?

When will the final act end?

The Seven Ages begins with the infant so small,

Who nurse coddles and cuddles all day.

He learns very early that making a noise

Will eventually get his own way.

He learns that his puking will, after a while,

Mean someone will wash him – after a night on the tiles!

And so with this knowledge very carefully filed

The first age ends.

He found mewling didn’t work as the years went by,

So developed the ‘art of whining’ – thought he’d give that a try.

Did he pack his own satchel – remember he’s a boy –

Or did mummy do it for him, for her pride and joy?

And did he always walk to school – it really wasn’t far,

Or did daddy hear the mewling and take him in the car?

The childhood years went quickly, as they so often do

And it wasn’t long before he had completed his stage two.

Stage three is the lover – Oh women please beware!

The woeful ballad never leaves them and their sighing fills the air.

If they lose one of their possessions it’s always you to blame,

Be it screw or be it hammer or something much the same.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that your lover will be kind

But once married I bet your eyebrows will be the last thing on his mind!

Stage four becomes the soldier – his language seems to change,

He swears and shouts and curses in an ungentlemanly rage.

His temper may flair in no more than a trice,

When a more peaceful method could have often sufficed!

Don’t worry girls, it’s just a phase, it won’t stay –

It’s just the foul and fearful image that he’s trying to portray!

The designer stubble’s grown to make him look so strong –

Yet if he gets a cold you’ll soon know where you belong!

By stage five it’s all over, his figure now is round,

He’s full of wise sayings, his wisdom profound.

His eyes now severe, his beard well dyed.

He’s a pillar of society, who now walks with pride.

Has he really changed – or has he intended

To take up the cudgel that life has presented?

The fiery youth is no longer a fighter,

He gets beaten in battle – so turned into ‘adviser’.

The sixth age appears as he sits in his chair

Bemoaning the loss of his luxuriant hair!

He sits by the fire, – yes I know! I know!

 I know it’s the summer, but now cold is his foe.

And he wears comfy slippers as he sips his cocoa –

Things he wouldn’t be seen dead in years ago!

Oh girls, when did your sighing lover go?

He now prefers soup, because of his teeth –

He discovered it easier than chewing tough meat.

He peers over his spectacles as he takes his cup,

Offering a heart breaking smile to make us well up!

He then takes out his teeth to remove a pip

Before putting them back in, and then taking a sip.

Last scene of all to end the show –

Where did the dashing young soldier go?

Why do we do it? For love – or rather

 To bring the world more boy infants -that turn out like their father!

What happened to the child that sauntered to school?

What happened to the young man that dressed oh, so cool?

Don’t be surprised as our play takes its bow –

Because he’s probably sitting next to you, right now!






It should all have been so easy!


A Monologue

How the hell did I get into this mess? The last 24 hours have been an absolute nightmare! If only I could blank it out of my memory and start again – but I can’t!

I stormed into that spotty faced morons office, so full of determination, with my fists clenched, teeth grinding and jaw clamped and saw him sitting there, in his bright, modern room, with his legs sprawled out across his desk, looking so supercilious, so relaxed. I guess I should have known right away to keep my mouth shut!

But as usual I was unable to control myself! My words poured out as those pale, piggy eyes bore into me! I knew he wasn’t listening to a word I said! He thinks because his father owns the place and has money and he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, that he’s something special!

Maybe I did burst in all guns blazing but when you’re top salesman of the year, why not? Surely that should count for something! The commission they pay me for all the jobs I get for them to line their hand-made suit pockets is a joke! I deserved a rise! I deserved some recognition!

But did he see it – did he want to see it – did he hell! All he went on about, in that high pitched, whiney voice of his, was ‘targets’.

Well, I told him where to put his targets! I gave him a few home truths all right! ‘I’ve had enough.’ I said. ‘I’m not going to answer to you anymore! Bloody mummies boy! Find someone else to hit your targets!’

That made him sit up and turn around – and I walked out and slammed the door into that smarmy face of his and boy did that feel good! Bet he was on the phone to Daddy even before I left the building.


Trouble is, when I got home and I opened the front door, she rushed up to me and threw her arms around my neck …… and my heart sank. I knew what she was going to say even before she said it. She’s been on about having a baby long enough – endless whingeing at those interminable dinner parties she arranges with her ‘professional’ so called friends, where they talk about how much money they earn and where I act as glorified wine waiter. I hadn’t taken that much notice up till then, tried to ignore it, hoping the feeling would pass. It hadn’t seemed real till now – but suddenly I feel trapped!

I DON’T WANT THIS! I don’t want to be tied down with nappies – in a house smelling of sick. I don’t want to come home each night to mess and noise! Constantly hard up! Responsibility! For LIFE!

But I can’t tell her that. I can’t tell her that I’ve just walked out of my job – not now. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just the two of us – but a baby….

Her parents already think I’m not good enough for her. When they visit the house (the one they never tire of reminding me they’ve paid for) I can feel them watching me, judging me, their eyes telling me how inadequate I am. Well, they’ll have plenty to judge me for now! I can hear them, as they drive home in their precious Mercedes saying, ‘Fancy doing this to her. He knows how to pick his time! You’d think he’d be more considerate. I knew that temper of his would be his downfall! She should never have married him. I did warn her!’ Oh yes, I can hear them already twisting the knife, as they sip their gin and tonics on the balcony of their sunny holiday home in Spain.


How smug he looks as I walk back into his office, cap in hand, to ask for my job back – and that high pitched voice, like a girls, tells me they’ve already offered my job to someone else – and given them my list of contacts. The contacts I worked my backside off to get! He takes great pleasure in telling me, with a sneer, the only job they can offer me ‘at this time’ is at a much reduced rate.

….and worst of all I smile and I thank him … and I tell him how grateful I am and apologise for my temper tantrum …. And I walk out slowly, softly closing the door behind me, knowing the smirk on his face is expanding on the other side.

….. And I now face the prospect of going home to tell her! The verbal abuse, the inquest, the tears, the recriminations, the apologies! The days of silent treatment, as she sits knitting baby clothes, knitting needles clacking, like the women by the guillotine, just in case I forget this dreadful wrong I have done, not only to her but also to our child!


What went wrong? What happened to the carefree lad I used to be? What have I done to deserve this? What has life done to me? What have I done with my life? What have I become?

I had such high hopes. I don’t ask for much, just a well-paid job, real friends, foreign holidays……

All I see now are rows of nappies flapping in the breeze, waving, as if they are laughing at me and stretching out into infinity.

It should all have been so easy!



Paper Chains – A story for Christmas. Parody


 HE LEFT the office buzzing. He’d given all his workers a bonus AND Christmas presents and they’d all said how much they’d enjoyed the office Christmas party – well almost all. The young girl from the filing department, who had hovered hopefully by the mistletoe and drooled each time the accounts clerk came near, was sadly still destined to go home alone – and the cleaner would certainly not be impressed at having to remove the vomit stain from the boardroom carpet! But Hey-Ho! Christmas was meant to be fun!

This was Matthew’s first Christmas since taking over from his deceased father, and he had been determined to make it a success, and to make a good impression on his staff. The firm ‘Jacob R Lee Money Lenders’ had been in the family for several generations and Matthew was proud to be next in line to carry on the family’s good name.

Matthew loved Christmas. He thought it to be the one time in the year when you could socialise alongside your fellow man, regardless of class. Well, he’d done all he could to make them happy at work, now it was time for him to go home and to spoil his family.

The children’s Christmas present lists had been long – and expensive – but it was Christmas after all and Matthew wanted it to be one they would always remember. He was looking forward to getting home, kicking off his shoes and opening a well-earned bottle of Merlot.

He was humming a Christmas tune to himself as he drove into Beach Tree Avenue and turned his car into the tree-lined driveway of number 77. As he parked his car he noticed the first few flakes of snow beginning to drift slowly down. Perfect, it was going to be a magical white Christmas!

With a feeling of excitement gradually building inside him, he walked up the path and unlocked the front door – to be greeted by a dishevelled looking wife, whining children and a house that looked as if a bomb had just exploded! Through the open doors in the hallway he could see Christmas decorations and wrapping paper littered over every inch of the thick pile carpet in the lounge. The dining table was groaning with presents waiting to be wrapped. The kitchen sink was piled high with dirty washing up waiting to be done and the kitchen floor was covered with mud that the dog had brought in. Drying clothes hung over every radiator that he could see, as well as from the banisters going up the stairs.

‘The lights have gone out on the Christmas tree again!’ were the first welcoming words Matthew heard issuing from his wife Amanda as she came down the stairs, in a tone implying it was his fault, and he had meant this to happen just to annoy her.

‘O.K, I’ll sort them. Don’t worry, it won’t take long.’

‘And the kids need feeding. I haven’t had time!’ she continued, obviously close to tears.

‘O.K, I’ll do that as well! Come on kids. Let’s see what we can find,’ he offered cheerily.

‘And your mother’s rung to say she’s arriving early!’ she spat out, providing yet another situation for which he was obviously to blame, and causing her to finally lose control and to break down.

‘O.K, just take a deep breath and calm down!’

‘Calm down! Calm down after the day I’ve had!’ screamed Amanda hysterically.

So much for his well-earned bottle of Merlot! The only wine he was likely to get tonight was from his whining wife and kids!

Well, this is Christmas! Keep smiling, it will be fun! Everyone will enjoy it – eventually!

After mending the Christmas tree lights, feeding the children, washing up the dishes, walking the dog and folding up the now dry clothes, he finally dropped into bed, exhausted, just after midnight. Amanda wasn’t talking to him, making this quite obvious by turning abruptly away from him as he got into bed. The kids were unwashed and too excited to sleep and they were all still whining! However, after reading the riot act one more time, they eventually settled down and Matthew was allowed to rest at last.

He slept fitfully, his mind still whirling and while he slept he began to dream.

Into his view came a hazy image of Jacob R Lee, his great great-grandfather, who he recognised from the huge portrait hanging above his office desk. The old man appeared to be being choked by gold Christmas paper chains!

‘Life put this chain around my neck! I tried to give them everything they wanted and what good did it do me? The workers were never satisfied with their Christmas bonuses or their gifts – they wanted more. More, more, more! You could tell by the disappointed expressions on their faces. Don’t let this happen to you my boy, or you will also be going to an early grave!’ he warned. ‘I quite like it here though. There’s no one here to get at you!’ he laughed and with that the vision disappeared in a puff of blue smoke.

Then another vision gradually came into his view, of a young boy – a bit like his own young lad. Did he recognise him? YES! Of course! It was a vision of him when he was young. He even remembered the red jumper he was wearing. He was opening his Christmas sack and tearing the paper off one present after the next, hardly allowing him time to see what was inside.

‘Well, look at your presents Son!’ exclaimed his father.

‘Seen them!’ replied Matthew.

‘Well you should be a bit more grateful then! They cost a lot of money and a lot of thought went into buying them.’

‘Didn’t want them anyway,’ he replied, ‘wanted a helicopter.’

The scene then misted over and changed once more as Matthew recognised his family seated around their dining table.

‘Oh look!’ exclaimed his mother, clapping her hands in glee, as his father carried in the silver platter containing an enormous turkey.

‘I don’t like turkey. I don’t want any!’ said Matthew, glowering at the bird.

‘Come on now boy, it took ages for your mother to cook it for you. Some children are starving you know.’

‘Well post it to them then! I don’t want any!’ he replied rudely.

The picture then dissolved and Matthew woke feeling rather upset but he couldn’t explain why. ‘I must just be overtired,’ he thought, as he drifted back off to sleep once more.

It wasn’t long before he was tossing and turning again. Although this time he was in the present, dreaming of yet another charity envelope falling onto his doormat, containing a pen, Christmas cards and a picture of desperately thin, wide eyed, little children. He heard his own children telling him they didn’t like the expensive presents he had bought for them – and he saw his mother’s sour face because of the late hour Christmas dinner was being served.

He watched as she sat, arms folded, rocking back and forth, her nose turned up as if she had a nasty smell under it. She pointed out that, ‘Turkeys aren’t what they used to be. There’s no flavour in them anymore!’ She continued her rant with, ‘Where are the sprouts? It isn’t Christmas without sprouts!’ No one liked sprouts or ever ate them when they were offered – and he prayed his wife would bite her tongue for once, as hostilities boiled up around the dining table.

He held his breath as Amanda brought in the ‘Not flaming’ Christmas pudding’, with the omission of the ‘not PC’ coins, for fear someone may choke on them. Matthew heard the familiar, ‘No one ever choked on the coins in my Christmas puddings,’ cry once more. Oh how he wished his mother would choke on one right now!

Just as Amanda slammed down the ‘not flaming Christmas pudding’ onto the table Matthew woke with a start. What was the matter with him? Why all these dreams? It must be the mince pies the kids had put out for Santa (the ones Amanda had force fed to him) that were keeping him awake all night and making him dream.

However, his next dream was the strangest dream of all.

He was at a funeral. HIS funeral!

As he hovered weightlessly above the heads of the congregation, he wondered why no one was looking particularly upset.

He drifted over to listen to his children, who were now grown up and huddled together, whispering.

‘I wonder how much he’s left us in his Will. My kitchen needs a face lift. I hope he’s left enough for that!’ said his son greedily.

‘Don’t count your chickens. He was never one to give too much away was he? Remember those awful Christmas presents we used to get? So uninspired!’ mocked his daughter, ‘Still I hope he’s left enough for a skiing holiday.’

Matthew, enraged, glided across to his wife. She was dripping in black and speaking very quietly to the distinguished looking man sitting by her side.

‘I thought he’d never go Gerald! At last we can be together! After all those years trying to pretend I liked him! I suppose I better keep the old girl happy for a bit longer though, just until I get what’s due to me.’

Shocked by this admission, Matthew floated over to his mother, who was talking to her daughter. Surely, she would have something nice to say about him.

‘He didn’t have a business head, not like his father. His father could turn his hand to anything. He would have turned in his grave if he’d seen how the company was being run. Every Christmas – EVERY Christmas I was expected to go there! I didn’t want to stay there! Kids spoilt rotten and HER, ugh! Lady Muck! I was glad to get back to the nursing home I can tell you!’

Matthew woke up sweating and he looked across at his sleeping wife, in her black nightdress.

Amanda and Gerald! How could she? Why hadn’t he noticed it before?

Gathering his wits about him, he quietly got out of bed, went over to the window, opened it and took a long, deep breath of fresh air to clear his head.

Things were about to change!

It was early Christmas morning. He dressed very quickly, finally throwing on a red jumper, then he crept down the stairs.

He gathered together all the Christmas presents from around the tree and put them into three large sacks, which he carried outside and placed in the boot of his car.

He then drove to the homeless shelter on the other side of town, where he found children, queuing up for their breakfast, delighted to see this funny ‘Surprise Santa’, dressed in a red jumper – and bound like a mummy with yards and yards of golden Christmas paper chains. He unwound them symbolically in front of them and placed them amongst their sparse decorations and wrapped them around their tiny Christmas tree. He smiled as he looked at their appreciative faces, their eyes full of wonder.

When his family awoke later that morning, the first thing they noticed, after they’d rushed down the stairs to see what presents had been left for them, was the bare Christmas tree standing in their hallway – with not a single decoration left upon it. They then noticed all the beautifully wrapped presents that had been left around the tree had gone! Finally, they realised Matthew was nowhere to be found.

Hysterical once more, his sobbing wife called the police.

‘Help us! We’ve been burgled! Everything has been taken! All the presents that were around the Christmas tree have gone! My children are heart-broken; they’ll have no presents to open now! What are we going to do?’ She then added as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and by the way, my husband seems to be missing too.’

Matthew was never found – but on New Year’s Eve a postcard dropped onto the mat at 77 Beach Tree Avenue. On the front was a picture of palm trees, with a shimmering blue sea and beautiful golden sand and the words ‘‘A message from the Seychelles’’. On the back were just two words:-