The group meets monthly on the last Wednesday of the month from 14:00 to 16:00
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We concentrate mainly on memoir writing, but also digress for variety into other types of writing, such as an article by a 'Grumpy Old Man/Woman' on one of the evils of modern society.
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The meetings comprise a lively discussion of members' pieces, which are first read out to the group. Constructive and gentle criticism is invited. This is followed by refreshments and then some 'warm-up' exercises for the next task, which often provoke much laughter.
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The group is currently full with a short waiting list.
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TREAD SOFTLY
I cannot climb back into my dream.
My fantasy which enveloped me like a warm bath,
Now Mutates.
Into an elusive butterfly which escapes the net.
A slip shadow returns.
My dream is broken,
And a fleeting aura reveals a sense
Of perfect safety in a womb-like cocoon.
My dream was of the sea.
I struggle to return to its consoling embrace
But daylight rides roughshod over me,
And I must tread softly to preserve the spell
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MEMOIRS
"Quick, get my coat" shrieked my mother to my sister, dragging on her wellington boots. "The cows have got into the garden".
I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. It wasn't as if there was anything growing in the garden, just rough grass and one or two neglected roses. We only visited our holiday cottage half a dozen times a year and didn't stay long enough to cultivate the garden.
But off went my mother into the garden shrieking and flapping a tea towel and probably making the situation worse.
My mother was always panicking about something: spiders, bats, cutlery. If a knife was dropped it meant a gentleman caller; if a fork, a woman. If the whole box of cutlery was dropped it meant a funeral. After all, what else could bring so many people to the house?
One of my earliest memories followed the gift from my Nana, my father's mother, of a pressure cooker. Like many country houses, our kitchen was furnished with a Rayburn cooker. Unfortunately, good as they are it is difficult to turn one of these cookers down to a very low heat. My mother clutched me and my sister to her in the far corner of the room. "It's going to explode" she shrieked, as the pressure cooker gushed out a noisy tower of stea. It didn't.
She was also terrified of thunder. At the start of a thunderstorm, all the mirrors had to be covered and all cutlery hidden. This was in case lightening was reflected. One day during a storm my sister complained of a headache. My father took out the largest, shiniest carving knife he could find to cut an aspirin in half. I leave it to you to imagine the effect this had on my mother.
Strangely, neither my sister nor I are afraid of thunderstorms, or bats, spiders or cows.
September 2010
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I GOT A LITTLE P*****
WS Gilbert and Sir Arthur Sullivan
(With apologies to the Author)
As it's already happened that some new sins have been found
I've got a little list, I've got a little list
Of these many modern nuisances you often see around
They never will be missed, they never will be missed
That Yuman Rights Act nonsense which denies our every thrill
To torture, maim, defame or even shoot and kill
And dumbing down in order that those other peoples' brats
Can seem as bright as ours are when they don their gowns and hats
And any one who's still not yen an Anti-Blairist
They'd none of them be missed, they'd none of them be missed
CHORUS He's got 'em on the list - be sure to jeer and hiss
We all must sneer at this - political correctniss
Those elf' n' safety folk myths in your Daily Telegraph
(Not people who believe them all who give me such a laugh)
Those public sector workers with their massive pensions which
Are stolen from our bankers to prevent them getting rich
And those who ask when driving that from phoning we desist
They'd none of them be missed, they'd none of them be missed
CHORUS He's got 'em on the list - be sure to jeer and hiss
We all must sneer at this - political correctniss
All those who disagree with us who have no common sense
Who cannot see the obvious because they're so thick and dense
Or say, 'I'm not a racist, but...' which always means we are
And those over-paid old 'jogsworths' who're always so ga-ga
Plus any other people of the sort that I have dissed
They'd none of them be missed, they'd none of them be missed
CHORUS He's got 'em on the list - be sure to jeer and hiss
We all must sneer at this - political correctniss
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THE WIRELESS
'Association Football.' An impressive pause. 'Football League, Division One.' The
words where delivered sententiously, in a fruity tone of voice which no-one uses
nowadays, certainly not in the broadcasting media. In the background, dying away,
the strains of a tune I knew very well, though I didn't know the name. Now I do. For
what it's worth, it's called 'Out of the Blue.' To me it simply meant football.
On Saturday evenings at five o'clock my father, grandfather and I would cluster
round the valve radio (or 'wireless' as we called it then) to hear 'Sports Report.' Then
as now it was not so much 'Sports Report' as Football Report. Of course we'd had to
switch on a minute or two early, to let it warm up.
On weekdays of course it was different. Six-forty-five was the magic hour, when
'Devil's Galop' would introduce the immortal Dick Barton, Special Agent. And on
Sunday evenings, facing the glum prospect of a return to school next morning, I
remember best 'Grand Hotel,' with Tom Jenkins and his palm court orchestra.
The wireless wasn't exactly state-of-the-art, even by the standards of the time. In fact
it was straight out of the nineteen-twenties, and my grandfather was very proud of the
fact that it was still in working order. Sometimes it would crackle and give up the
ghost for a while, only resuming transmission after my grandfather had given it a
hefty whack on the top with his stick.
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A MODERN DAY FAIRY TALE
A part time job putting burgers in a bun
Isn't everyone's idea of fun.
Robot asking would you like fries,
Reciting have a good day lies.
The perks are girls all legs and boobs,
Chewing over saucy clips from you tubes.
And there is free drinks and food.
All in all its pretty cool dude
Every day she sat texting her fone,
Surrounded by others never alone.
All he ever did was stare.
Speak to her he didn't dare.
Slurping on a strawberry thick shake,
He willed look up at me for goodness sake,
His so called mates mocked something rotten.
But she was not to be forgotten.
The teased-like you she is at Uni,
But too good looking for you puny.
They chatted her up it made him mad.
Man they were really something bad.
His best mate Dan sounded her out
Yeah he's ok she said mouth in a pout.
Then chewing gum stretched out a yard,
She promptly put up her guard.
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His mum said ask her to the prom,
You can use my car too and from.
Dan had done his best to be cupid,
She will say yes - if she's not stupid,
His luck it changed cos she said yes.
Mum was so right on I guess,
Step dad loaned him a tuxedo smart
Adding that's the way to win their heart.
Before he could get ready to go.
Step dad was grumbling full of woe.
You kids don't know you're born,
Go and finish mowing the lawn
Gazing into the looking glass
Hoping to be the envy of the class,
His grin it spread from ear to ear.
He sure looked the business in this gear
Oh no he hollered now I can't go,
As he searched hich and low.
ONe of his best trainers was lost.
Under his breath he counted the cost
The doorbell sent him in a spin,
Where is it he howled oh God I can't win
It's her and her dad
Man this is so bad.
Mum came flying up the stair.
Here it is it was under a chair
Your princess is a picture in blue.
Come on CINDERFELLA this night is for you.
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Why not join us and explore your own creative writing skills?
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