During the 70’s L.S.Dunone collected cuttings from the readers letters page of the Sheffield Informer and kept them in a series of scrap books. Over thirty years later these books were re-discovered and revealed details of a lost bygone age. Some of these letters can be found here. Reading these accounts is like taking a view into a past you always wish you had but sadly didn’t.

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1162577813.doc

During the 70’s L.S.Dunone collected cuttings from the letters page of the Sheffield Informer and kept them in a series of scrap books. Over thirty years later these books were re-discovered and revealed details of a lost bygone age. The very best of these letters have been compiled book, some of which can be found here. Reading these letters is like taking a view into a past you always wish you had but sadly didn’t.

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1162577813.doc


One word, seriessix, brilliant. :thumbsup:

Isn't seriessix just inspirational, pattricia? He/she is a true joy to read with every contribution. :)

Isn't seriessix just inspirational, pattricia? He/she is a true joy to read with every contribution. :)


I think seriessix is a she.I didnt quite "get her" at first but once I got used to her style,I thought she was a brilliant, descriptive writer. In a class of her own.

Honourable Dishonour versus Life’s Ambitions

Dear Sir,
I’d like to share a short tale with the readers. Many years ago, before my arthritis really set in, I had an allotment up in Hillsborough. I’d go up there most evenings and all day on Sundays to tend to my vegetables, I think I must have saved my husband and I quite a bit of money as my green fingers provided quite a harvest.

Anyway, one day when I got to the allotment I noticed that the shed door was open, this was odd as I always kept it locked with a padlock my husband had given to me for Christmas. I cautiously opened the door to discover a midget fast asleep on one of my deck chairs, I got my rake and prodded him until he woke. He looked as startled as I was and quickly explained that he was a travelling man and just needed a place to stay for the night. He also explained that he loved gardening and was always drawn to allotments as their calm atmosphere’s provided him with a relaxed environment in an otherwise hectic world.

To be honest I quickly warmed to this chap, we talked till late in the evening about soil, roses and compost. Soon it was time for me to leave for home but this man seemed genuine so I offered him the shed to sleep in for as long as he wanted. Well the next few weeks were like a whirlwind. Together we tended the allotment – Oddly though my new friend would never take me up on the offer of supper at my home. Then one day he revealed a very personal secret to me. He told me that he’d always wanted to grow a parsnip that was taller than he was. Well as you can imagine I was quite taken aback by this revelation, but that evening we decided to go for it and try to fulfill his ambitious dream and grown a prize parsnip.

So that summer we spent all our spare time up at the allotment tending to our crop of parsnips, towards the end of that hot summer the parsnips were looking very big. I remember me and my new friend looking over those vegetables with a feeling of joy and pride, we didn’t know for sure but we definitely had the feeling that his life’s ambition could soon be realised.
The following day I was woken by a loud knock at the door. I was greeted on the door step by two officers of the law. They showed me a photograph and asked me if I recognised the man in the picture, it was my new friend. Apparently he had been selling hedgehogs to the local butcher pretending that they were rabbits. He was also wanted in several other counties for other similar crimes. As you can imagine I was shocked to the core but I still managed to escort the officers up to my allotment. When we arrived the man had gone. The officers found the bones of several ducks and swans around the back of the shed, they guessed he’d caught them at the local park for food. But sitting on the deck chair in the shed was one of our giant parsnips, it was slightly deformed and looked like it had two small arms and some little legs. I looked at it closely and could swear it had a likeness to my fugitive friend it even looked to have his small beard. Next to the parsnip was a brand new padlock, I suppose to replace the one he damaged when he broke into my shed.

He was a dishonest but honorable man and I remember him fondly, I feel that his spirit is never far away though especially when I set my eyes upon the tank that I pickled that parsnip in, it sits on top of the TV in the front room.

Edna Ramsbothom.

Stunned, seriessix, what can I say...that's not been said before? :thumbsup:

Yes, love it. Why not write a book ? You probably have done.

Hi...
Could you tell me more about L.S.Dunone's collected cuttings? Have they been compiled into a book? And is the compiler based in Sheffield....?

I am currently doing some research on writing that deals with the city of Sheffield.... hence, the questions.....

This writing is hilarious.

It’s like reading the review of a mental asylum garden fete, written by a bemused, whimsical, courteous Englishman whose tolerance of eccentricity knows no bounds.

Tom Sharpe is another writer that does this very well - on the back cover of his book “Riotous Assembly” it warns you not to read the book on a train, library or public place where you have to stay quiet as you may rupture yourself laughing.

If you ever publish a book of these musings Seriessix, you may have to include the same warning. Excellent writing! :thumbsup:

That is quite brilliant, seriessix. Tom Sharpe comparisons are well justified, especially in that last letter.

I think this would work great as a book, particularly using the kind of 'running discussion' like the woman in the animal bikini.

Here it is, thanks to SF for putting up with my nonsense.....


http://www.lulu.com/content/469776

Hi...
Could you tell me more about L.S.Dunone's collected cuttings? Have they been compiled into a book? And is the compiler based in Sheffield....?

I am currently doing some research on writing that deals with the city of Sheffield.... hence, the questions.....

Hi rinz,
This is all fiction (well most of it).

I might have just enough imagination to conjure up one such letter (at nothing like seriessix standard of course!) , but to manage a whole book-full and more is quite mind-bogglingly impressive!

Believe it or not I do remember - for real - a bagpipes-practiser in the botanical gardens. And in true British fashion he was studiously ignored by all.

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1163703822.doc

Dear Sir,
I was walking past Heeley baths the other day during one of my aimless meanders through our fine city. As I cast my eyes over its crumbling Victorian exterior I was instantly reminded of my old friend Charles Moore.

Charlie was just one of my many friends that took a keen interest in nature. His knowledge of this subject was exhaustive; I would have to say that his best loved animal was the Blue Whale. To be honest he seemed to know more about these animals than they did themselves.

What has this all got to do with Heeley baths I hear you say. Well, as we all know during the spring months the Blue Whale likes to migrate between the south and north poles. So during this same time Charlie would emulate this whale’s behavior at the baths. He’d swim under water on his back up and down the length of the pool. At about the half way point he’d ascend to the surface and blow a great jet of water out through his nose – he’d then take in a large mouthful of water and sink back down and continue on his way. It was indeed a majestic sight, probably more so than seeing the real thing from a sanitized viewing platform on a boat full of imbecilic tourists who are only interested in filling their photo albums with inane amateurish shots of gormless friends and relatives standing in front of whatever they pass by on their holidays.

Thanks,

Ken Unsworth.

Unexpected Café Wife Encounter

Sir,
Some folk just don’t know they were born. Driving around in their flashy cars, with white teeth playing their radios at full blast at all times of the day. Look at the price of plimsolls! I could buy a house back in Dundee with the money people spend on their kids. It’s all flavored crisps, fizzy pop and mindless comics for kids these days.

When I was lad growing up in Scotland my mother used to cook a vat of porridge every Sunday, when it was cooked she’d pour it into the top drawer of the dresser and leave it to cool off. Every morning we’d cut out a chunk for our breakfast and a chunk for our lunch. I couldn’t believe it when I finally moved down to the city of Steel, it seemed like everyone was a millionaire. As a bonus at work we’d be given luncheon vouchers which I saved up for six months as I planned to ask my land lady’s daughter out for a posh dinner in the town. The relentless voices in my head still goaded me back then.

I finally plucked up the courage and to my surprise she accepted. Anyway, the evening seemed to be going well until I tried to pay with my wad of vouchers, they flatly refused them. I had to leave my companion at the restaurant and run all the way home and back to get my rent money. Needless to say that was the last time we went out together, that night the sky was as black as a Stormy Petrel’s egg. It rained for two weeks non stop and no one can see the tears when you’re crying in the rain.

After that incident I couldn’t afford the rent so I had to live in the outside toilet for a week but at least I had my vouchers. I ate at a different café everyday and it was at one of these fine establishments, over an egg butty, that I met the woman who would later become my first wife. So as you can see lightning can strike in more than one area on any given occasion and like life can manifest itself in many amorphous shapes and colours.

Richard Mothers.

[QUOTE=Mantaspook]

It’s like reading the review of a mental asylum garden fete, written by a bemused, whimsical, courteous Englishman whose tolerance of eccentricity knows no bounds.
[QUOTE]


I'd buy you pint if you could post the above quote or whatever you see fit on the review's list here.:)

http://www.lulu.com/content/469776

Well done, seriessix, I enjoyed it immensely

Terrance-Anne

Dear Sir,
Recently I was eating a loaf of bread that I had brought from the local supermarket and let me tell you it tasted terrible. I can’t believe the rubbish they pass off for food these days! Anyway, as I gazed at the loaf in its plastic packaging I was transported back to my youth, when I lived on the edge of the city near a place called Attercliffe.

Back then there was a windmill near our house that was run by farmer Ralph Dickens. He was a lovely kind fellow who once made a snooker table for the village out of an old dining table, six socks, a worn out truck tyre and an old coat that he was issued with whilst in the army. This shy man also employed the village hermaphrodite, Terrance Anderson (who was known as Terry-Ann to her mother and just plain Terry to his father).

Well one day, just before a terrible storm, some of the local children tied Terry to one of the sails of the windmill, children can be so cruel. She spun round and round for hours before farmer Ralph Dickens lassoed her to safety.
The funny thing was though that nine months later she gave birth to a baby, the excitement on the windmill made Terrance impregnate herself. Mother and baby moved into an out house on farmer Ralph’s farm, to my knowledge they still live happily there today.

Mrs Goddey Coats.

http://i120.photobucket.com/albums/o172/seriessix/windmill3.jpg

http://i120.photobucket.com/albums/o172/seriessix/windmill3.jpg

I can picture Terrance-Anne on there now, thanks to the link!

Can I open my eyes now, please? :o

Double Walking

Sir,
The other day I was reading yet another article in the paper concerning the many advantages of getting up early in the morning and was soon fuming with anger, this subject has been done to death by the papers recently. Have they got nothing else to write about I thought to myself, so I decided to write a story of own to the paper concerning an old school friend of mine called Allan Hoyle.

Allan was maybe the kindest, gentlest person I have ever laid eyes on, he walked silently and when he spoke it sounded like a choir of angels. Allan would also like to make foreign visitors to Sheffield feel welcome by feigning interest in their home country. He would ask to learn some basic’s of their mother tongue, simple words like hello and thank you. He’d smilingly repeat back these words in pigeon fashion with no intention of remembering them.

In addition to these qualities Allan also invented a fitness regime that he called Double Walking, this regime was based around personal convenience. Double Walking involved going about your daily life but at the same time flailing your arms vigorously back and forth and quickly flapping your legs together (a bit like the knocking of knees). The effect was to combine exercise with normal day to day chores and thus burn twice the amount of calories. Whist Double Walking Allan appeared, to the uninitiated, as if he was experiencing some kind of seizure. But the really amazing thing was the damp patch that formed on the back of his trousers after a heavy session. As he always wore the same trousers these recurring wet areas would dry and leave fascinating marks that rather resembled the rings on a tree stump.

After Allan died his trousers were donated to the city Museum, where their heavily patterned behind was put on display for all to enjoy. In those trousers Allan and Double Walking will live on forever.

Thanks,


Cyril Edwards.

Sir,

These delightful reminiscences remind me of the brief time I owned a copy of “Sheffield Memories” by Mr Dunone, it lasted approximately fourteen minutes and I can remember it like it was yesterday, for that was when my copy arrived through the post.

I had just returned from taking my ungrateful children to school, on the journey my young daughter remarked that she had acquired tickets to the school nativity play and my presence would be mandatory this year as she had calculated that the coincidental funerals of all five of my grandparents that I had been using as an excuse since 2001 no longer stood up to scrutiny.

Upon my return I sat down with my usual brew and a warm slice of wholemeal toast, the aroma of which brings my rottewiler from wherever she is hiding to a point approximately 8 inches away from my face where she growls in an endearingly intimidating manner until I feed her the crusts.

At this point the postman arrived; he’s a cheery sort of chap that likes nothing better than inserting important correspondence straight into the jaws of an excitable canine whilst protected by a two inch thick slab of Upvc. Sometimes he playfully holds on to the mail whilst the dog does an impression of a cross cut shredder and at other times he simply pushes it through the door and saunters away whistling ‘Colonel Bogey’

Thanks to the laminated plywood packaging the book survived the initial assault but I then made the error of leaving the book on the dining room table where it was discovered by a visiting mother in law. After laughing her socks off at the ‘Frozen Eels in the river Don’ story she then asked to borrow the book and a length of copper pipe, making her escape whilst I was distracted by a dwarf that had come to read the gas meter.

Sir,

These delightful reminiscences remind me of the brief time I owned a copy of “Sheffield Memories” by Mr Dunone, it lasted approximately fourteen minutes and I can remember it like it was yesterday, for that was when my copy arrived through the post.

I had just returned from taking my ungrateful children to school, on the journey my young daughter remarked that she had acquired tickets to the school nativity play and my presence would be mandatory this year as she had calculated that the coincidental funerals of all five of my grandparents that I had been using as an excuse since 2001 no longer stood up to scrutiny.

Upon my return I sat down with my usual brew and a warm slice of wholemeal toast, the aroma of which brings my rottewiler from wherever she is hiding to a point approximately 8 inches away from my face where she growls in an endearingly intimidating manner until I feed her the crusts.

At this point the postman arrived; he’s a cheery sort of chap that likes nothing better than inserting important correspondence straight into the jaws of an excitable canine whilst protected by a two inch thick slab of Upvc. Sometimes he playfully holds on to the mail whilst the dog does an impression of a cross cut shredder and at other times he simply pushes it through the door and saunters away whistling ‘Colonel Bogey’

Thanks to the laminated plywood packaging the book survived the initial assault but I then made the error of leaving the book on the dining room table where it was discovered by a visiting mother in law. After laughing her socks off at the ‘Frozen Eels in the river Don’ story she then asked to borrow the book and a length of copper pipe, making her escape whilst I was distracted by a dwarf that had come to read the gas meter.

:) :hihi: :D

Damn, I trust the said mother in law will return it?

I’m still waiting for the promised dowry for marrying her daughter in 1990. :D

Let’s say its unlikely.

Seriessix ,You are far too intelligent for this Forum.:hihi:

A Welcome Pie

Dear Sir,
Tina Galster’s mention of the Mecca Bingo Hall had me reminiscing all weekend. I used to live up in that area of town before it got knocked down to make way for the bus station. The day I moved in was a tiring experience, after I’d got most of my belongings unpacked I sat down to watch one of my favourite TV detective shows Cadmere P.I. The opening credits were rolling when I heard a knock at the back door. I was greeted at the door by a representative of the local community, a one Fredrick Barns, who welcomed me to the area with a home baked egg pie presented in a bowl made from clay that he had gathered from the banks of the river Don. To this day I have no idea what happened to that bowl.

Sadly, Fred got burnt to death not two weeks later. He’d fallen asleep in his shed whilst firing a new set of lunch plates in his home made kiln. This tragic household accident had a profound effect on his wife Doris. Not long after Fred’s death she decided to set up a Health and Safety museum in her under utilised attic; this was clearly an altruistic quest to prevent further household tragedies.

One day I was lucky enough to be invited to come and visit her attic museum, it was really something special. She had installed a turnstile and provided pamphlets and refreshments – it was really quite professional. The concept behind the museum was to highlight potentially dangerous household activities that could easily be avoided. The attic was set up like a bed sitter with all the regular appliances and furniture. But on one of the elements of the gas stove was a boiling pan of chip oil, the other element was on but not lit making the whole room smell of gas. In the corner was an electric heater turned up to maximum that was covered in damp tights, next to this was a savage dog on a very long lead. The bed was really just a mattress on the filthy floor with no sheets, however there were six fleas pinned (with hat pins) into one of the pillows. Doris had also cleverly overloaded a single electric socket with twelve appliances. The crowning glory was the water seeping in from a skylight, down the wall into another electric socket that had exposed wiring. I learnt a lot that day I can tell you.

Doris later extended an invitation to local schools to come and visit her museum but I’m not sure if any took her up on the offer.
It would seem that luck wasn’t on the side of the Barns’s. Eva’s house went the same way as the shed – it got burnt to the ground. The reports said something about an electric fire and one of the firemen got attacked by her dog while trying to save it. Still I’ll never forget the Barns’s, they made me feel welcome when I first moved to the area and taught me to be safe around the house and for that I owe them everything.

Mark Barry.

Are you really writing these ? Yourself I mean ? You are brilliant.Are you a proffessional writer ?

pattricia, this writer's contributions are a mixture of Goon Show-type scripts, Round the Horne humour, Up Pompeii and similar, all written in a uniquely wistful style.

Added to the mix are the oft-tragic results of someone lacking "gumption".

The tales here literally crease me up every time I read them. :hihi:

I revisit them three or four times each to extract the full brilliance of the humour and writing style. In a few months time I will revisit them, as one does with any good book.

My apologies for seeming to eulogise. Keep 'em coming seriessix! :thumbsup:

pattricia, this writer's contributions are a mixture of Goon Show-type scripts, Round the Horne humour, Up Pompeii and similar, all written in a uniquely wistful style.

Added to the mix are the oft-tragic results of someone lacking "gumption".

The tales here literally crease me up every time I read them. :hihi:

I revisit them three or four times each to extract the full brilliance of the humour and writing style. In a few months time I will revisit them, as one does with any good book.

My apologies for seeming to eulogise. Keep 'em coming seriessix! :thumbsup:
These stories should be printed in a book,then I can read them at leisure in my favourite place,bed. :D

These stories should be printed in a book,then I can read them at leisure in my favourite place,bed. :D

They are -> Here http://www.lulu.com/content/469776 :)

These stories should be printed in a book, then I can read them at leisure in my favourite place, bed. :D

My mother in law borrowed my copy and did just that.

Quote : “The beds not rocked that much for years” unquote.

I trust she meant with mirth.

Mantaspook...that made me smile!

I think Im off to get this book as it'll be a great pressie for someone. Anyone know how quickly/reliable the 'lulu' (surely no relation to the real one!!??) site is for delivery?

Cheers seriessix for a quick pressie off my list..I'll need a sequel for next year please.

RE: LULU.

I opted for the non-express delivery option and was quoted ‘delivery before 25-12-06’ the book arrived seven days later. The website quotes all the prices in dollars, the book plus P & P came to £9.02.

I have studied the matter and can confirm that £9.02 would only buy a small container of nitrous oxide ("laughing gas") that would leave you paralytic for 22 minutes whereas Mr Dunones book represents much better value for money, even when you take into account potential dry cleaning bills whilst losing control of your bodily functions, its still only a shilling per laugh.

My copy has finally returned from my mother in law, although the length of copper pipe is still missing, which is a shame as I became quite attached to it over the years - the superglue website being no help whatsoever.

Anyone know how quickly/reliable the 'lulu' (surely no relation to the real one!!??) site is for delivery?

Cheers seriessix for a quick pressie off my list..I'll need a sequel for next year please.

Thank you!
The average is just over a week.

The sequel (Volume II) has begun....:)

Thank you!
The average is just over a week.

The sequel (Volume II) has begun....:)


I dont like buying off the internet.Can this be got at the Library or a book shop ? Oh, and are you L.S.Dunone ? :huh:

I dont like buying off the internet.Can this be got at the Library or a book shop ? Oh, and are you L.S.Dunone ? :huh:

I know what you mean.

At the moment it is only available via this site. I am indeed L.S. Dunone (but don’t tell anyone).:)

I know what you mean.

At the moment it is only available via this site. I am indeed L.S. Dunone (but don’t tell anyone).:)


Now youve made my day by admitting that. :D I will have to wait until I buy a printer and print your stories off.You are indeed brilliant. :thumbsup:

A Very Sheffield Christmas

Dear Sir,
I'd like to share an old tale (no pun intended) with the readers, but before I embark (whoops, there I go again) on this story I first need to render some background details.

Many years ago a baby girl was left abandoned in a Ford Cortina on Abbeydale Road, however the hapless police did not notice the child and the rusting car was eventually taken to a scrap dealers in Hillsborough. Here it sat ignored at the back of the yard. This poor child would of starved if wasn’t for a couple of Alsatians that roamed the yard at night barking maniacally at anything that moved or made a sound. They shared their food with the child and over the months and years reared it as their own. Eventually the inevitable happened, one Christmas a customer looking for a pair of Cortina doors (a present for his wife) discovered her living on the festering back seat of the car.

News quickly spread of this amazing story, it even made the front page of the Sheffield Informer, the story included portrait pictures of the two dogs, Sabre and Kim. The child was named Holly and went to live in a house with a kindly, cosy local couple.

Holly kept the news paper cutting and had the two pictures of Sabre and Kim framed to preserve their images forever. They sat on her bedroom window sill; they were the only real parents she’d ever known.

Her first year living with people in a house had been a difficult experience. On the first anniversary of her discovery in the scrap yard, as she gazed at the images of Sabre and Kim, Holly felt sadder and more alone than ever.

That’s when she decided that she’d go and find her two surrogate canine parents and spend Christmas with them.

To be Continued....

I certainly do hope it is to be continued.Do people realise who this writer is and read other peoples reviews of her books from her website ?

One Christmas a customer looking for a pair of Cortina doors (a present for his wife)

A man after my own heart, d’you know I’ve just bought the wife a new oven and she is refusing to acknowledge that it is her main Christmas present, there’s no pleasing some women…

A man after my own heart, d’you know I’ve just bought the wife a new oven and she is refusing to acknowledge that it is her main Christmas present, there’s no pleasing some women…

Glad so see that romance is still alive:hihi:

A Very Sheffield Christmas cont....

She headed out for the scrap yard, and after an arduous journey arrived. However the scrap yard had dissolved into thin air and in its place stood a Chiropodists. Holly went inside and asked the receptionist what had happened to the scrap yard. Apparently the owner had recently retired and sold up; he’d barley had any time to himself during his adult life as he had dedicated so much time to the scrap yard. So he decided to buy a Crofters cottage in the Shetland islands where he planned to spend quality time intimately exploring his own body. The receptionist also went on to tell her that the dogs had been sold to a Father Christmas impersonator, who intended to use them as fake Reindeer.

This news hit Holly like a big-bang planetary explosion in outer space. But this was not the time for self indulgent sorrow; this was time for action. After employing honed skills of deduction she quickly surmised that the fake Santa would be in the city somewhere. She headed off by bus determined to find her misplaced parents. After a short ride she was in heart of the city of steel, she alighted the bus and headed towards the Moor, it was as if a giant yuletide magnate was pulling her along.

Sheffield, like all cities across England, had been enveloped by the spirit of Christmas, decorations filled window displays, irate shopper’s bustled from shop to shop and hordes of drunken shouting men marauded the streets. With no time for season indulgencies Holly made her way down to the Moor, stopping only for a portion of chips on the way. As she harpooned her first chip she heard the ringing of a bell which was quickly followed by a loud Ho-Ho-Ho. After unceremoniously slinging her chip paper onto the floor Holly made her way towards these sounds. And there, through the crowds, she could at last see not only the ruddy faced Santa but also Sabre and Kim, who were indeed in full Reindeer disguise complete with red noses made from hollowed out cricket balls.

I do like this. And I also like reading it in short bits.You seem to be able to capture the spirit of Sheffield,but I suppose you could swap any name town in its place. Do you originally come from here ?

Men Are Women

Dear Sir,
I was thumbing through some of my old school text books the other day and noticed one of my old biology books. I opened it on a random page and slowly scanned the yellowing pages, I then came across the following statement “Genetically, men are modified women.” This statement sent my mind racing; My husband was a woman. Both my parents are/were women. As I pondered this exciting news I noticed an old raffle ticket in my Manual of Human Services. I brought the ticket many years ago when Sid Edwards opened up his newsagents in Longley.

Sid didn’t know what to call his shop so he decided to have a raffle and let the winner have the honour of choosing the name. I clearly remember buying my ticket on my way to school, I also remember the sulphuric smell of Sid’s medicated dandruff shampoo, the pungent aroma filled the shop and added a pleansant clinical feel to the place. I considered buying two tickets at the time but decided on one ticket and a toffee bar instead. We were so flippant in those days.

The draw for the raffle was held in the town center on a sunny Sunday afternoon, a local radio presenter selected the winning ticket. I could not believe it, the winner was number 826 and my ticket was 825. Since this event I have always had an uneasy feeling at the back of mind, had I bought two tickets I would have one (sic). That day changed me forever. Mark Pheelan, who was origionally female for six weeks, won the raffle and chose to call the shop The Oriental Theater, Sid didn’t like this name so he decided to call the shop Edwards News instead.

Thanks,

Gwen McArthur.

Great, Great,Great. Made me laugh out loud again. :thumbsup:

Am I reading this thread, or have I died and gone to Heaven? :huh: :help: :hihi:

Knowledge and Understanding at Christmas

Dear Sir,
Christmas is strange time, it’s a time for joy and giving and also a time for thanks and intense reflection. My present always presents a dilemma for my wife, it’s not that she cannot decide on a gift, the problem is she has simply no idea what to get me. You would of thought after 22 years of marriage she’d know what I’d like; I suppose we don’t really know each other at all and nor do I want to.

This year though is an exception. They say that imitation is the best form of flattery and this Christmas I am going to flatter my friend and neighbor Roy Pikering by copying what he got given last year.

I remember the scene as if were yesterday, it was Boxing day and I was out in my front garden digging a hole when I looked up the street and saw Roy’s stout boaters legs carrying him down our road. I immediately noticed his gift at his side, it was a brand new gleaming bucket. Roy had used it to carry his packed lunch to work, I was lost for words when he passed by. The following weekend I was doing some washing up in the kitchen and I saw him getting his bike out of the shed, he was probably going fishing or maybe fancied some exercise. Just before he rode off he placed his bucket on his head, employing it as a safety helmet, I watched in rapt wonder. The following day was bitterly cold and rainy, this didn’t stop Roy though, out he went for his morning constitutional again wearing the bucket on his head, using this time as a rain resistant bonnet.

Roy’s gain will also be mine on the 25th, his wife’s knowledge and understanding should serve and food for thought for other wives. After all, a little time and thought go a long long way these days.


Yours,

Alf Stovepipe.

Oh, seriessix, we are drowned in professional stories.(Have I spelt professional right ?) But they are always tip top.

Men Are Women:Retort

Dear Sir,
I read Gwen Macarthur’s letter in last weeks paper with keen interest. So now, at last, we all know that we were once female. Let that put an end to all this family tree nonsense, who cares who your gran’s mothers mother was? To me it’s all just a narcissistic charade, just another way for people to think that they are somehow important, when they are not. My daughter spends hours in the local library looking up our ancestors, she may as well be running through the streets shouting ‘Look at me, I’m better than you’. We all are, or were, women, let that put and end to it once and for all.

Thanks,

Langton Tallyway.

Men Are Women:Retort

Dear Sir,
I read Gwen Macarthur’s letter in last weeks paper with keen interest. So now, at last, we all know that we were once female. Let that put an end to all his family tree nonsense, who cares who your gran’s mothers mother was? To me it’s all just a narcissistic charade, just another way for people to think that they are somehow important, when they are not. My daughter spends hours in the local library looking up out ancestors, she may as well be running through the streets shouting ‘Look at me, I’m better than you’. We all are, or were, women, let that put and end to it once and for all.

Thanks,

Langton Tallyway.Very good as usual Seriessix. :thumbsup:

The thing that makes these delightful ditties wonderful is when the author of the letter rambles on in a completely random manner then inadvertently blows themselves out of the water by ending their letter like this like this:

Mark Pheelan, who was female at birth, won the raffle and chose to call the shop The Oriental Theater, Sid didn’t like this name so he decided to call the shop Edwards News instead.

Thus rendering the preceding paragraphs perfectly pointless.

Simple but brilliant!

The thing that makes these delightful ditties wonderful is when the author of the letter rambles on in a completely random manner then inadvertently blows themselves out of the water by ending their letter like this like this:



Thus rendering the preceding paragraphs perfectly pointless.

Simple but brilliant!
Absolutely agree with you here. I was going to quote the exact passage that you have done.I mean I read it over & over again,and laugh out loud. A true writer here, and what a gift this lady has.

Dear Sir,
I was wondering if any of the readers remember when they used to sell Bat Cheese down at Castle Market. I remember the cheese fondly; it had a lovely creamy texture, a slight yellowy tinge and a rich crusty skin that reeked of ammonia.

Ted Willis use to run the stall but it was his son Paul who used to make the produce. They converted one of the lesser used back stair wells of the Kelvin flats into a breeding ground for the Bats. There were hundreds of the buggers; the noise they made was terrible. Those bats would of also made an awful mess of the stairs were it not for the rich flavor of their currants. After the morning milking Ted’s son would sweep up all the droppings and haul them over to Richard Teatleys bakery where they were used to make his famous Bat Currant Buns.

My how times change, some big wig in the council brought in new health and safety regulations and put an end to the Willis’s Cheese and Teatley’s buns. I think I can safely say that I have never tasted anything quite like those delicious treats ever since.

Thanks,


Antonio Marquez.

My auntie Edith used to live in the Kelvin flats on Edith Walk, an ironic address as she was wheelchair bound, this caused all sorts of confusion with the social services.

Her flat was right next to the stair well where Paul used to keep the bats and the noise was indeed terrible; however, Auntie Edith was also as deaf as a four poster bed so it didn’t bother her.

She used to feed the bats from her window as they erupted from the stairwell to hunt insects at dusk. Sadly she once turned her back on them and the little beggars flew off with her prized model of the Graf Zeppelin that had been presented to her by Hermann Goering.

After that she went rapidly downhill, ending up in a flat on Portland Walk two floors below.

Regulars from ‘The Halfpenny’ may remember her haranguing the bats at closing time, as would the milkman the following morning. And her neighbours in between.

The bats refused to return the airship and would taunt her with it on Bank holidays.

Jonathan Concrete-Spalling.

Have we got a virus running here ? :hihi: :hihi: Both of them excellent stories. I would join in myself but I havent the know how, I do have a currant bun though. Delicious.!!!! :thumbsup:

Dear Mr. Concrete-Spalling,
I read your recent letter concerning the bats in rapt wonder, but mention also of the Graf Zeppelin turned my mood from one of sombre tense introspection to one of unmitigated joyous abandon. I feel that it is no surprise that it is January 3rd, at this time of year we all have one half of ourselves looking into the darkness and one half gaping out to the light.

These feelings bring up many thoughts in my mind, especially early in the mornings before it gets light. I lie there for hours trying to block out the sound of my wife's snoring, alone, thinking.

It is amazing what the mind can regurgitate, and at seemingly the most unlikely of moments. This morning I drempt of an old friend of my fathers, a one Anthony Cobham. To be honest I haven't given this character a second thought in over 40 years. Anthony used to breed greyhounds, and after every litter was born would make Cornish style Clotted Cream from the unused dogs milk which he'd sell to the neighbors on our street. My mother would bake up some scones, open some jam and we'd have a feast fit for a king.

Later this afternoon I smiled to myself as I perused the isles of the local supermarket, there in amongst the margarine and butter were tubs of Cobham's Clotted Cream, and I am pleased to report Mr. Concrete-Spalling that it is still faithfully made with using the milk of lactating greyhounds.

It is indeed a funny old world, but it's not a world that I'd trade or swap.

Tonight I'm looking forward to yet another sleepless night in hope that more fond memories come back to me.

Thanks,

Steven Keith Unk.

Later this afternoon I smiled to myself as I perused the isles of the local supermarket

Dear Mr Unk,

I would just like to say that the above sentence brought back many happy memories for me of the time I was assistant manager of the co-op on Upwell Street.

As I’m sure fellow Sheffieldiers are aware our branch was particularly prone to flooding due to a combination of factors, huge volumes of turbulent water just being one of them.

It was during one such flood that Mr Marciano, the manager, implemented his “boat around the aisles” service to prevent his customer’s feet from getting wet.

We had two boats that were hastily constructed from bread trays; myself and Henrietta Cooper were press ganged into ferrying the customers around the store to collect their shopping.

We had a dicey moment when Henrietta ran aground on the sugar in aisle 4; Mr Marciano, completely disregarding his own safety, gallantly waded in until the water was lapping dangerously around his ankles and pulled her free.

He was awarded an MBE for his bravery, but it was later withdrawn when the Queen was informed that he drove a car like a complete and utter pillock.

Happy Days.

George Foreman.

Dear Mr. Foreman,

Do you remember when you where my boss at T.W.Wards on Saville St, Sheffield?.My thick stockings kept falling down, as I was collecting the post at night. You used to have cucumber & salmon(tinned of course) sandwiches, and because I was the office junior,you used to leave me some salmon bones and skin in your wooden post box.I devoured it ravenously, never bothering to pull my thick stockings up.Yes, it was I, who stole that whole cucumber out of your drawer, as I wanted to enter it for my local vegetable show.I won actually,and still owe you the prize I got. A packet of broad bean seeds(now sadly shrivelled up) just like your goodself I expect.:D

My late mothers recipes...

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1168276635.doc

It would seem that my misplaced enthusiasm was having a mournful effect on my colleagues.

I have been told exactly the same thing on numerous occasions, in fact head office now send our payslips directly to the Samaritans, but the upside is that my holiday requests are authorised instantly with gleeful anticipation and on the odd occasion, party-poppers.

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1168899578.doc

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1168899578.doc

Worth the wait. What a recipe !:hihi:

Dear Sir,

Re the Crow Recipe.

In the absence of crows at my local supermarket, will the use ofchicken be in order? I don't posess a lump hammer and I'm not sure if they stock them at Abbotts. Will it be permissable to drive my car over them to tenderise the meat - if so, should I drive forwards or backwards?

"Steep crows in a bath of Oats and Stout." As I come from a long line of teetotallers and as I myself signed the pledge, can I use lemonade - if so, any particular brand?

Re the use of onions: Will it work with red onions?


Yours faithfully,
The Garroting Gourmet

Dear Garotting Gourmet,

I don't know if you are aware of it, but one of the Ready Steady Cook'ers offered a similar "secret" recipe to yours truly during my culinary training at Fred Parsley's Krisp and Kool Takeaway on Staniforth Road many years ago.

Ostrich was the main ingredient he advised, and the bone-crushing machine used during my culinary trials at the time was a traditional Steam Roller. The ghost of this cheery piece of roadware (long since gone to the Great Macadam in the sky) can still oft be seen at dead of night trundling down Darnall Road on its way to where Fred's cafe used to be.

The Ready Steady Cook bloke went on to build his magnificent empire elsewhere. I believe he retains the recipe (in a bank vault) to this day.

I went on to greater things. I am the Food Consultant advising on Nutrition and Dietary Affairs at the Middlechester NHS Trust.

Fred Parsley's ghost is reputed to be the driver of the ghostly Steam Roller.

I hope this information will be of absolutely no use to you whatsoever.

There are too many cooks spoiling Broths these days.

Yours sincerely

Augustus Slipper

I went on to greater things. I am the Food Consultant advising on Nutrition and Dietary Affairs at the Middlechester NHS Trust.


Dear Augustus Slipper,

I sincerely hope that you are able to advise on food additives. So many foods nowadays have a whole load of E numbers and it gets very confusing.

For some reason my local hospital now adds monosodium glutamate to everything, and certain dished are liberally dosed with MRSA.

Only last week I saw that a ready meal of rigatoni contained E180. On enquiring on the internet just what this is, I see that it is a three hour videotape.

Yours etc
The Garroting Gourmet

Dear The Garroting Gourmet

I regret that the Conditions of my Consultancy Contract with the Middlechester NHS Trust forbids me to disclose matters pertaining to my experimental use of E-number compounds within, or without the geographical area and remit of it's medical facilities.

You may wish to seek full details under the Freedom of Information Act in a little less that 100 years time.

My apologies for having to answer your enquiry in such a seemingly negative manner.

Yours sincerely

Augustus Slipper

I'll take that with a pinch of sodium chloride.

Dear Augustus Slipper,

Do you not realise that MRSA combined with Crow Pie is now the recipe to get rid of all the Silver Surfers on the Internet.? They will disappear without delay, and no one will ask where they have gone. The younger members of The Writing Group will then have the section to themselves. Amen Augustus.:lol:

Dear Sir,
Several yeas ago I decided to take control of my future and persue my dreams. I sold my house and bought a large run down three level building on a quiet edge of the city. The profits from the house also went on the renovations to this huge property and I also had to take out a large loan to cover the myriad of costs. Within four months I was able to start letting out the space to local business’s. Within a year my role as property developer transitioned to building manager. Even so, I still entered the building through a special half size door round the back.

Now I employ a building manager and have time to deal with the ultimate nature of reality, my transcendental journeys take me far away from my building to places that no one else has ever visited. I live the metaphysical world beyond the physical realm, and everyday I immerse myself in the benign nature of our existence. My dream has been realised and I am finally free. There is an old saying that goes ‘In the Kingdom of the blind the one eyed man is king’. This statement has seen me through many difficult and embarrassing moments, maybe it can help others.

Greg Oodetta.

Dear Greg Oodetta,

I reply to your letter through the good offices of the Editor of the "Property Developer's Guide for Short A*se, One-eye'd Landlords (Withernsea Area)" Magazine.

I am delighted you have, metaphorically speaking, seen the light at last, albeit through one shuttered lens only.

I too have been through the same hoop, or should I better qualify that, "through the half-height door to the metaphysical world". In my case, the door to enlightenment opened whilst returning home after a hefty evening in a local Public House sampling too much of the "Russian Whisky".

If you should return to the non-metaphysical world in the near future, will you please ensure that useless Building Manager, currently in your employ, arranges the affixation of a sign above your mini-portal indicating "MIND YOUR HEAD!

Yours etc

Max Headroom Esq.

Ridlington, East Yorks....

ps The writ is in the Post!

Dear Greg Oodetta,

I reply to your letter through the good offices of the Editor of the "Property Developer's Guide for Short A*se, One-eye'd Landlords (Withernsea Area)" Magazine.

I am delighted you have, metaphorically speaking, seen the light at last, albeit through one shuttered lens only.

I too have been through the same hoop, or should I better qualify that, "through the half-height door to the metaphysical world". In my case, the door to enlightenment opened whilst returning home after a hefty evening in a local Public House sampling too much of the "Russian Whisky".

If you should return to the non-metaphysical world in the near future, will you please ensure that useless Building Manager, currently in your employ, arranges the affixation of a sign above your mini-portal indicating "MIND YOUR HEAD!

Yours etc

Max Headroom Esq.

Ridlington, East Yorks....

ps The writ is in the Post!Do you realise,shoeshine,that this is one of the best things you have written.

Do you realise,shoeshine,that this is one of the best things you have written.

That wasn't me, pattricia! :o

Some wally came through Mr. Oodetta's portal and posted on our Group. :o :o

Said "wally" is now the Managing Editor of "Property Developer's Guide for Short etc etc....(Withernsea Area) Magazine".

Some people always seem to fall on their feet, don't they? **sigh**

Now wouldnt this make an interesting published book, with shoeshine replying to Seriessix in this manner ? He is obviously in his element here.

Now wouldnt this make an interesting published book, with shoeshine replying to Seriessix in this manner ? He is obviously in his element here.

Which begs the question, pattricia:-

Which one of us would be Ray Allan, and the other Lord Charles? :confused:

Which begs the question, pattricia:-

Which one of us would be Ray Allan, and the other Lord Charles? :confused:

I feel in this case : The teacher enters, and the pupil will follow.(If you follow my meaning) :hihi:

Small Door Paul

Dear Sir,
Mention of a half sized door in last weeks paper got me reminiscing. Many years ago I lucky enough to be a tenant in a house in Beaucheif, this residence was run by an elderly couple called Mr. & Mrs. Gilmour. They rented out their two spare rooms to me and a chap called Paul Millings.

Paul’s room was in the attic and thus had a sloping ceiling that followed the camber of the roof. This ceiling was walled off a few feet before its slope met the floor, this short wall had a small door fitted to allow access to the area inside which could be used for storage.

Back then we had very little spare cash and used to stay in most evenings entertaining ourselves. On Sundays, like clockwork, the next door neighbor used to throw out the week’s papers which also included the Radio Times, I used creep round when it got dark and fish this out the dustbin. I could then refer to it the following week to schedule my evenings viewing on my portable black and white television. I would often ask Paul to join me in my room but he always declined, he favored threading himself through the small door and passing his time in the storage space fondling soft fruits between the pads of his index finger and thumb. But on Saturdays he would confide his deepest secrets and constantly reassured me that my judgment was very similar to that of his late grandmother, which was quite an accolade although I had never met her.

It’s funny but you just do not appreciate things till they are gone. I look back incredulously on my evenings in that house; I cannot fathom how cavalier I was then. If there was a change in programme schedule from the week before a T.V. show would come on totally unexpectedly and I’d have quickly decide to either watch it or change the channel. And all the while Paul would be in the storage space rolling plump juicy orbs of fruit betwixt his digits. Those were indeed halcyon days.

Yours,

Greg Mathews.

Come on Shoe, we are waiting for you.(that rhymes) :D

Dear Mr. Greg Matthews.

I am distraught to learn of your travails in Beachief, and in particular with "Small Door Paul".

I recall being a Sales Representative for London Road Hydraulic and General Ltd., Abbeydale Road, Sheffield during the 1970's.

I vividly remember "Small Door Paul". He called me out to his abode one Easter Sunday, on the premise that it was urgent. I scrubbed up, finished the last of my 29 Milk Chocolate Cadbury Easter Eggs, put my pinstripes on and hastened to his address.

I describe the place in hushed tones. It was not my kind of place at all. What a mess!

He was housed in a chicken shed! :o

Nevertheless, being the total professional required of my employer, I braved the detritus of the yard to scramble through a 10" opening to respond to his SOS.

Apparently he'd been the subject of an assault by "Jimmy The Rooster", fresh from his appearance in a Walt Disney Cartoon. I arrrived to find feathers everywhere, and the plaintiff echo of "Cock-a Doodle-Do" everywhere around the empty chicken sheds. The girls in there had fled, never to return.

Jimmy, fresh from his triumph was parading round the chicken wire proclaimining " I say! I say! I say!" and was too busy preening at his success with the ladies and "Small Door Paul" to notice me.

I dragged "Sm... Door Paul" out through the tiny door, and in the best practice of the Sheffield Social Services Dept. managed to home the poor beggar in a chicken run in Beauchief.

Sheffield Social Services can accept no responsibility for anything arising from their actions so long ago.

You just happened to seek economic housing in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

London Road Hydraulic and General Ltd. went bust years ago, following a legal suit from your sibling "Large Door William" heard in the Chancery Division of the Law Courts, London in 1987.....which, by perjury, he managed to win.

Yours faithfully

Arbuthnot Williams-Smyffe O.B.E, C.M.G, Bart.,GMWU and you too! :)

ps my Mobile No. (for contact purposes is 04079..................I'm not gonna tell ya! :hihi: )

shoe, brilliant. Where has all this writing ability suddenly sprung from.? Youre not seriessix long lost father are you ? I wondered if it was in the genes.:D

shoe, brilliant. Where has all this writing ability suddenly sprung from.? Youre not seriessix long lost father are you ? I wondered if it was in the genes.:D

The contents of my genes, dear lady, are known only by myself, my wife, and the Civil Servants employed at great expense in New Scotland Yard.

My spelling can sometimes be rather remiss. Errors and Omissions Excepted! :thumbsup:

No its marvellous really. The interaction between the two of you is terrific.(dont get too excited shoe) :D

No its marvellous really. The interaction between the two of you is terrific.(dont get too excited shoe) :D

I will continue to saunter down Bridge Street, Worksop kicking a tin can (and the occasional tramp) whenever the fancy takes me, dear lady. :)

Next week I have planned a perfect scam to render my inimicable wit and wisdom upon the inhabitants of the Ingoldmells "Sunshine Forever" Old Folks Home of their life savings.

If you should deign to forewarn the local Constabulary of my intended visit, and thus foil my Master Plan.......I shall know who squawked! :suspect:

The writing gets more intellectual by the minute. :cool:

We all need a purpose in life....

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1173122986.doc

We all need a purpose in life....

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1173122986.doc

Wait until shoeshine sees this.He will love the name of the tribute band called"Whisky in The Bra".:hihi:

Wait until shoeshine sees this.He will love the name of the tribute band called"Whisky in The Bra".:hihi:

I may have seen it somewhere recently, pattricia. Not far from here. I can't remember quite where it was spotted though! :)

seriessix, another brilliant contribution. Thanks......from a fan......






240volt, 3000 rpm........adjustable base! :hihi:

I may have seen it somewhere recently, pattricia. Not far from here. I can't remember quite where it was spotted though! :)

seriessix, another brilliant contribution. Thanks......from a fan......






240volt, 3000 rpm........adjustable base! :hihi:

We are now official "groupies" !! :hihi: :hihi:

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1174057120.doc

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1174663826.doc

seriessix, where have you been ? Ive missed your stories so much.Im going to read the two above at my leisure, and ponder at you brilliance.:)

seriessix, where have you been ? Ive missed your stories so much.Im going to read the two above at my leisure, and ponder at you brilliance.:)

You are too kind.
Had a bit of a dry patch, #88 isn't up to much. I think things are back to normal now.:)

You are too kind.
Had a bit of a dry patch, #88 isn't up to much. I think things are back to normal now.:)

Thank goodness for that. Shoeshine will be glad.:)

Now that Ive read them at my leisure, they are still as comical as ever.We have a published author here folks.

Dunone gets a mention in a Scottish paper!

http://s120.photobucket.com/albums/o172/seriessix/?action=view&current=ScotlandOnSundayShelfLife11_4_07.jpg

Dunone gets a mention in a Scottish paper!

http://s120.photobucket.com/albums/o172/seriessix/?action=view&current=ScotlandOnSundayShelfLife11_4_07.jpg

Ive looked up the link, and am really proud to have you on SF. :)

Could you imagine being a fly on the wall of an office with seriessix and Spike Milligan writing a comedy script, pattricia? :)

Within 30 seconds you'd have fallen off the wall and been carried away to the local Asylum in an old Black Maria driven by Bluebottle, never to be let out again. :o

Could you imagine being a fly on the wall of an office with seriessix and Spike Milligan writing a comedy script, pattricia? :)

Within 30 seconds you'd have fallen off the wall and been carried away to the local Asylum in an old Black Maria driven by Bluebottle, never to be let out again. :o

It would be quite funny with just the two of you. :D

Would that it were, pattricia, would that it were. (Sigh)

Would that it were, pattricia, would that it were. (Sigh)Oh, dear, shoeshine thats a big sigh. Remember never under any circumstances take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.. ( Joke) :D

Many years ago, before her untimely and violent demise, my grandmother gave me a leather bound ledger. For years this remained unopened in the book case of my spare room, then one day I felt an almost ungodly compulsion to reveal its contents to myself.

Every page contained what appeared to be a mixture of text and images, like a visually
phonetic language. For months I tried to decipher these pages and after multiple attempts found the key to the mystery, ultimately it would seem that the whole book was a kind of smokescreen, a subterfuge. By my definition all those pages condensed into what we would regard to be just a simple recipe. Please take a moment out of your busy day to read the following interpretation of her journal.


Adamantly hollow out and sew together 12 goose necks.

Wrap around any wifes torso to cure for a month.

Dry necks along the length of your stairs.

When dry and stiff remove and place in garden like a zig zagging faceless snake.

I have oft seen similar fences around the gardens I frequented at dead of night many years ago, searching for an unsuspecting free-range goose at Yuletide 1943. There must have been many old ladies like your grandma with similar recipes. I wasn't asked, but commanded to search out such delicious (though somewhat greasy) additions to the Christmas Feast at my grandma's house.

My researches lead me to believe it was a direct result of the U.S. Army's being based in the U.K. during the war years. Their inevitable presence on British soil led directly to the phrase (first appearing in the Oxford English Dictionary of Popular Phrases, 1943) of "Them blo*dy" Yanks are overpaid, over-sexed, and over here!"

I remember (as a short, stumbly and rather grateful youth of those days) the pleasure of chewing free-issue Gum in a garden littered with zig-zagging, snake-like fence works as my grandma entertained what I now know to be a G.I. to tea and arrowroot biscuits in the hovel she called "home".

I remember vividly the Christmas of that year opening a package from my Grandma which was to become my prized possession........the nearest thing by then to a goose neck she could get at the Co-op Store


A Snake Belt.

Talking of snakes...

May 12th....

A few months ago my husband entered into a voluntary research program at the Hallamshire Hospital that was investigating the benefits of regression hypnotherapy. Whilst under he mumbled on about a hat and his mothers garden but later, back at home, he seemed to think that he had somehow been connected with his pre-reincarnated origins. In fact he believed that he was once a snake in a previous life.

Some days later in the middle of the night I noticed a dark shadow slithering across the the bedroom floor, when I switched the light on it saw it was him, trying to get to the bathroom. After that he insisted on me putting his evening meal on the floor for him to eat which he'd consume slowly with his arms tightly by his sides. He later had his mum make a rubber mold in the shape of a rat, I then had to line this with hairs from the cat basket and then push his meals into it before I'd turn it out onto a plate. If it wasn't to his satisfaction he'd hiss and stare at me with an emotionless blank sideways gaze.

Brilliant, seriessix, and shoeshine also. You seem to bring the best writing out of him. :)

Y'see, seriessix, it's easy for you! Nose in the air, women shot out of a cannon under the influence of a smooth-talking bloke years ago! Remininscences of goose-neck fencing, and all that!

But what of the vast majority of kids like me?

Grandmothers in those days had a "whisper" of a dark moustache, brown eyes, lots of facial wrinkles and a "certain" gleam which was best not explored by an innocent grandchild. Certainly not by a kid who believed their grandma's explanation of where lamb's kidney really came from!

Snake belts were King!

I have taken to wandering around the Sheffield streets these days in a desperate search for wrinkly grandmas.

They don't exist any more! They are taking the "Swingin' Sixties" to the extreme, with Botox injections, uplifts (quite what they pay to have uplifted I have no idea) and worst of all, pre-ordering tickets for Jeanette McDonald and Nelson Eddy's Swansong performance of "When I'm calling yoo..who...oo..oo. oo.ooo" performance on "YouTubeMemories.com. circa 1952".

So you can stuff your Grandma's gooseneck fencing up wherever it causes the most discomfort!

Dear Sir,
The other morning I was eating breakfast in bed when I noticed some flea eggs in my husbands chest hairs. I quickly retrieved Rodgers (my son) flea comb and used it to brush my husband down. After some moments of tense analysis I ascertained that they were not flea eggs at all but poppy seeds that must of fallen from the edges of the toast that he had made for breakfast that morning.

Thanks,

Julia Damplegge.

Dear Sir,
I was recently wondering if any of the local residents of the city of steel remember old Arnold Scuttle? We used to attend the same school many years ago and I was there when, whilst on a class trip to a farm out in peaks, he witnessed the birth of a baby lamb. The effect of the obvious shock of this event had such a profound effect on Arnold that all his teeth fell out.

Back then we didn't have fancy medical care so his father carved him some teeth from a mahogany chair leg. He then had to mallet these into the socket holes in Arnold jaw. These teeth would last about a year before his father had to repeat the process using whatever woods he could find at the time. I have to say Arnold did strike a rather suave figure with his exotic looking smile, the ladies where quick to notice his new look too.

But a man cannot live on his smile alone and soon he discovered something that would not only allow him to leave school but also make him a modest living for the rest of his life. Arnold had a backside akin to a nut cracker, it exhibited almost supernatural strength but also amazing dexterity. This information was soon picked up by the corner electrical shop who utilized his backside as an in house wire stripping and crimping tool. As far as I know he still works there to this day.

Thanks,

Barton B.Mankey.

:hihi: :hihi: :hihi: :hihi:

Here we go again! :hihi: :hihi:

Another "cracking" contribution from the Master of Muse! :thumbsup: :)

Dear Sir,
As a boy I always loved drawing and making models. However, these skills where never encouraged by my parents. They had been bought up in poor conditions and naturally wished for a better life for me, to them this would not be achieved by messing around with clay and paint.

So I was forced to peruse my hobbies in secret. This secrecy made me yearn to find other people with similar interests, but to no avail. My contemporaries at school seemed to enjoy perusing more plebeian activities. As the years passed my interests broadened, I progressed from making exact scale replicas of aeroplanes and buildings to creating real size facsimiles of day to day objects. My need for validation and even praise for my efforts lead me to surreptitiously introduce some of my objects to the public.

The first of these expeditions involved a model of an apple that I had made with a suitably weighted plaster of Paris mix, I had spent days modeling, painting and varnishing this piece until it appeared to be real. Even back then I believed that if an object looked real then for all intents and purposes it was real. So after school one rainy afternoon I headed into town and on towards the train station, soon I spied my target, a disheveled tramp sifting aimlessly through a dustbin. As I approached he asked me for some spare change, I said I didn't have any but offered him the apple which he ungraciously took. He immediately tried to sink what teeth he had into the apple but to no avail, I carried walking with an elated smile on my face. The subterfuge had been a success.

The next year was a blur. I placed models of exotic birds into peoples gardens, left fake bottles on milk on door steps, purchased items with counterfeit money, peppered the upper floor of the library with cow pats and planted modeled boxes of custard powder into supermarkets. I even managed to secrete a mannequin that I stole from Debenhams onto one of the tables in the mortuary of the Hallamshire Hospital.

Soon my energies and interests seemed progress once more. I was able to easily replicate even the most complicated letter-head so I started sending out University acceptance letters to octogenarians in local old peoples homes, notifications of winning prizes in unentered competitions and call-up papers to the French Foreign Legion. I then took to dressing up, most Saturdays I would mutate into a hunched old woman, and would shuffle around town. I also often faked accidents where I, the victim, would be discovered in a bloody mess on a quite roadside.

Perhaps my greatest achievement was tricking my parents into thinking I had a successful career as an Administrative Assistant at the Ministry of Agriculture, while all the time I was simply eking out a living as a community social worker, even my genuine employers never knew my real identity. But still throughout all these years I never encountered people with a like mind or that I could join where I could share all my discoveries and desires. So I decided to peruse my ultimate dream and create a Illusionist Society that didn't really exist.

I rented a small room in some local halls and created the societies strict entry requirements, rules and regulations, a time table of the years events, a fancy mystical looking logo and letter-head. I bound all of these into a hard backed ledger and sent them to myself in the post, and so it began. I knew I was tricking no-one but myself but once again if it looked real then for all intents and purposes it was real and who was I to argue as finally I felt that I belonged. For the first time in my life I felt at ease.

This is why I am writing this letter, it is to give hope to the people of Sheffield. Whoever you are and whatever you do there is always a somewhere available where you will not feel oddly alone or out of place. Just keep looking and you will eventually find it and if not simply invent it for yourself.

Thanks,

Sabre Platts.


Sir,
I was astounded to read the letter by 'Sabre Platts' in last weeks paper. Has this tedious character no shame? Sabres real name is in fact Tony, and he has lived down the road from me all my life. He has indeed attempted to create trick objects over the years but let me inform the readers that they have all been ham-fisted, talentless, embarrassing failures. When he was a young 'un we'd play along and pretend that he'd tricked us with his spring loaded Wrigley's chewing gum packet or fake blood, but his tricks wore thin as he got older.

He works on the the other side of town in a sweet shop in Heeley, and he still lives with his parents. He does rent a room in the town hall where he practices balloon bending and ventriloquism on his own. I know this as I'm in the badminton club that uses the room after him.

Tony is simply a master of delusion, don't be fooled.

Yours,

Gerald Trunk.

The truth behind Hendersons Relish...


http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1180905873.doc

Now those two tales really creased me up bigtime! :hihi:

Absolutely magic!

The simple days of youth...

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1181187167.doc

pattricia's going to need strapping down in a darkened room when she reads your most recent submissions to the Group, series six. :hihi:

:) :) :) :)

Dear Sir,
The debate has been going on for years, is it the environment or parents that have the major influence on children? To be honest I feel that we all play a huge influencing factor in our communities, our very presence and the essence of our nature have an almost day to day impact on where we are and what we seem to want to do with our time.

These thoughts were validated recently when I took a walk out to the Peaks. Unusually the outbound trip was nothing special, however the walk back towards the city was when my revelation came. It's a strange feeling when you reach the crest of a hill or turn a corner to be presented with a view that is in striking contrast to where you have just emerged from. It was early evening and with no street lights my path was as black as pitch, but when I reached the top of Stanage Edge and looked down towards Sheffield I felt weak at the knees. As I looked out over the city of steel I felt breathless and giddy, 'What have I done' I said out loud.

Our influence has shaped the city over the years and made it what it is today, and from that vantage point, glistening on the horizon, the sparkling jewel, the diamonds of Yorkshire, I suddenly felt that it had been all worth while.

When I finally returned to my house I noticed a man sitting on the front wall of my garden. He had a fair complexion and was also extremely hairy, it was as if his whole body was covered in blond fur. I had to smile as I double locked my door, we are here for what seems an eternity, but really it's not all that long, and we can make strides to improve the everyday aspects of not only our own lives but the lives of many others.

Thanks,

Craig Mason.

Wow Seriessix just absorbing........

You are too kind.
Had a bit of a dry patch, #88 isn't up to much. I think things are back to normal now.:)

How do you get your inspiration?

How do you get your inspiration?

All manner of things. A lot of these are based on real stories though.

This one is not though:)

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1181792152.doc

Brilliant as usual. :)

This one is not though:)

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1181792152.doc

I believe this idea to have originated in the area of London around Canary Wharf (popularly known as the "Isle of Dogs" where at one time the nappy had to be produced at Post Offices when purchasing Dog Licences.
The former local MP, who won more elections than any other local politician, Herbert "Winalot" Watkinson, campaigned for a local by-law which would require the nappy to carry the number of the licence. Sadly this idea never caught on and proved to be his undoing. He was hounded from office at the next election and retired to a position at a retirement home in Barking.

Was this deleted from the other forum?

Dear Sir,
There is nothing more inspiring and heart warming than seeing two people who genuinely belong together. I know we all like to revel in other peoples happiness, this is why I'd like to nominate Mr and Mrs Shale Mews as Yorkshires couple of the decade.

The first time I saw this pair they were fast asleep in bed, Mrs Mews's tiny pin-head was as white as a Bedouins cataract, her randomly placed brown eye's looked like currants in bread cake. Mr Mews had a somewhat sparse nebulous face, that resembled a ball of semi melted cheese. His eye's were a primal pre-evolved version of what we know today, they were simply bluey veins that threaded through his head, these were no ordinary veins though as they could react to sun light.

Watching these two walking to the shops or eating chips on the corner was almost an overbearing experience, all senses and emotions would go into overdrive. They could best be described as a two piece jigsaw puzzle that was fashioned from the same piece of cardboard.

Mr Mews was also blessed with keen analytical abilities that he applied in the most subtle of ways. He was stoic in his approach to problem solving, level-headed and unbiased. But more than anything he believed that we all intrinsically know the answers to life's problems, that we all posses this unconsience knowledge that can empower and enable us to do amazing things. He would allow people to have time to think and dig deeply within themselves to find solutions to the issues that were causing them dismay. 'The answer is in the question', he would often quip as we talked at the bus stop.

One time I found him in my back garden listening to ground, 'Music is as much about the silence between the notes as the notes themselves', he remarked. I would talk for hours and he would just sit, seemingly dazed, silent and uninterested, his cheesey face looking at me bereft of emotion but I would leave those sessions feeling like I had been re-born.

I would therefore like to reiterate the above sentiments - Mr and Mrs Shale Mews - Yorkshires couple of the decade.

Thanks,

Mr E. Trouthly.

Dear Sir,
A lot of attention has quite rightly been focused on Mr and Mrs Shale Mews but I would like to point out to people that we are defined first and foremost as individuals. Much has been said about Shale the man, so I would like to take this opportunity to say a few words about the woman who would become Mrs Mews.

Ms Mews was bought up on a mixture of new age beliefs and hypnotherapy, to this day she stills spends a lot of time in a flotation tank. She was a poor student during her years at school, but later excelled when given the freedom to choose what she studied.

We all need to make a living but it was no surprise when I discovered she had gone into business on her own. Everyone loves a piece of toast after a night at the pub and Ms Mews knew this more than anyone and could see a gap in the market. So she rigged up battery powered six toasters to her mothers push bike and fixed a bread board to the basket. She would cycle around the bars at closing time selling toast to the hungry regulars before they'd stagger off home to wake up their families.

This employment freed up her time during the day so she could concentrate on developing ideas for a new belief system based on space exploration, shape shifting and time travel. It was during one of her more ambitious psychological experiments that she met Shale and the rest, as they say, is history.

Mr and Mrs Shale Mews, I salute you!

Thanks,

Gichelle Monka.

It's probably been removed for re-siting at some stage on this Section of the Forum, seriessix.

It is not unusual for some threads to be moved from one Section to another adjudged more "suitable" one based on the type of content. In retrospect the OP would perhaps have been better placed on this, your very own area and Thread, rather than "General Discussions".

Your fans, and there are many on SF, know exactly where to find your brilliant contributions. :thumbsup:

SF has streamlined placement of contributions into specific areas of the Forum. It aids those who visit the Forum seeking the type of subject matter represented by the Section Headings.

I will make enquiries and PM you when I have further information regarding the Thread's status. :)

Im sure I read this under " General Discussions" I may be wrong.

Part 1...

The other day I was taking my normal Wednesday afternoon walk through the town when my ears where alerted to probably the most unpleasant sound they had ever heard. Initially I thought that its source must have been a cloven hoofed youngster baking a rich pie but how wrong I was, it was in fact it was an elderly man busking with a six stringed guitar. His strumming was so terrible that I had no choice but to tell him about my old friend Bernard Freil, who at a late stage in life had taken up playing the clarinet and managed to pass his Performing Arts stage five clarinet exams before I found him dead in his rock-pool living room.

Years before, when he was in his twenties, Bernard had decided to take the plunge and visit Marrakesh. He had wanted to make the trip to Morocco for years but had never found anyone interested in going with him to Africa, so like all intrepid travelers he decided to go alone.

On his very first day in the city Bernard decided to take a stroll through the streets surrounding his hotel, they were alive with sounds and smells. On every corner was a wailing woman accompanied by a man playing a high pitched wind instrument trying to musically coaxes a cobra from a wicker basket. The heat was searing but not completely unpleasant, soon Bernard came across the market area that served the local district. It offered a colorful assortment of rugs, incense, vegetables and silverware. Bernard was mesmerized by the kaleidoscope that lay before him, somewhat hypnotized by the sights and sounds he was subliminally led to a small stall deep within the market place. The stall sold a plethora of different items, within this array of goods was a tank that contained an infant octopus.

At first Bernard was indifferent towards this creature of sea floating before him in a tank, but just as he was about to walk away it spoke. 'Hello Bernard', it said in a slurred slightly effeminate tone. Most normal people would have put this aquatic encounter down to sun stroke or maybe too much incense in the air, but Bernard was not that kind of person, he knew that the Octopus had spoken to him. There was no doubt about it.

So for the rest of his holiday, every morning and evening Bernard visited the small market stall to see his new friend. On his arrival the Octopus, clearly elated, would try to express his joy by swimming in tight circles but couldn't as the tank was so small. Bernard would sit and tell the creature all about Sheffield, his life and family he also shared his dreams and aspirations and probably revealed details of a personal nature that his new friend really didn’t need to know.

All holidays have to come to an end and on his last day Bernard went to see the Octopus who clearly sensed that something was wrong; the colour drained from his body as he sat in a ball in the corner of his small tank.

Ive laughed all way through havent I ? Come in shoeshine.:D

After reading my first Beano from front to back, I said to my mother "I liked that, Mam. I'll read everything I can till I finally read a story about a talking Octopus in a Marrakesh Market! Then I'll have read everything".

My reading days are now over. :)

After reading my first Beano from front to back, I said to my mother "I liked that, Mam. I'll read everything I can till I finally read a story about a talking Octopus in a Marrakesh Market! Then I'll have read everything".

My reading days are now over. :)

Are you not adding to the story ,shoeshine ? :)

Are you not adding to the story ,shoeshine ? :)

What story? :confused::hihi:

What story? :confused::hihi:

Come on now, join your partner, and follow on from the octopus story.:D

Part Dos...

Just before Bernard left for Marrakesh his Peace Lilly had grown a flower for the first time since he inherited it from his diminutive grey-haired cousin some four years before. Like many plant owners he had done his best by the Lilly but had, on occasion, forgot to water it and discovered it wilting. After some water the plant always made a recovery but these episodes always left Bernard feeling somewhat empty and cruel. This same feeling overwhelmed him as he gazed upon the octopus. Action had to be taken, the moment required seizing.

Six hours later Bernard was on rickety train heading north through Spain, packed within his luggage was tank containing the octopus. As he looked out over the parched plains he mused over a selection of names for his new pet. He changed trains in Toulouse and was headed towards Paris when he settled on Tom Collins, it was indeed a fine name for such a majestic creature of the sea.

After a ferry ride across the English channel Bernard finally reached British soil, seven hours later he was in Sheffield and headed home in a miasmic taxi. As soon as he closed the front door he began to fill the bath with water, as this would be the temporary home for Tom Collins. The following day he set about making a rock pool in his living room using materials from his neighbors pond. After lining the rocky structure with his childhood paddling pool he filled it water and emptied over two thousand sachets of salt (stolen from Sting Rays chip shop) into the water. He them ceremoniously placed Tom Collins into his new home, who gingerly swan about finding his bearings to get familiar with his new surroundings.

It took Tom Collins some time to adapt to his new life and Bernard would stop at nothing to find ways to make him feel more at ease. He looked high and low to find a similar wind instrument to the one that was played by the snake charmers, but to no avail. So he settled on a Clarinet and this is how I, a music teacher, first made his acquaintance. For years I gave him lessons on Saturday mornings, he was not the fastest of student but as they say, slow and steady wins the race.

The ticking hands of father time rotate around the clock face of life and yet we are still here. People come and go, fads and fashions rise and fall like the tides of the sea and still, during all this time, Bernard and Tom Collins always remained the best of friends. Every morning Bernard would rush down the stairs to wake Tom Collins, once roused from his salty slumber he would swim in an excited figure of eight. Bernard would make them both breakfast and then sit on the sofa and play his Clarinet, whilst Tom Collins would swim along with the music. After work Bernard would sit at the side of the rock pool and share the details of his day before making them both fish based dinner. Most evenings before bed he'd read Tom Collins a chapter or two from one of the classics – they both especially loved Hemingway, Keats, Byron and Lawrence.

Bernard had always been a very proud and independent man, so much so that his latter years were often filled with frustration as he could no longer do the things that he had always taken for granted. This realisation had to be faced quickly as the reality was that Bernard could no longer look after himself on his own. Within weeks his son had decided that it would be best if he moved into into an old peoples home, and so a date was set and the house put on the market. However none of the plans that were being made on his behalf included Tom Collins, he could accept his house being sold and having his freedom and independence taken away but he could not see Tom Collins being donated to a shop like Sting Rays or perhaps some other more terrible fate.

So once again, for one last time on a rainy Friday autumn morning, Bernard packed Tom Collins up and took him on a train to Whitby and set him free into sea. In all those years Tom Collins had only spoken once, when they had first met in Marrakesh, but as he floated in the sea looking back at Bernard he spoke again, 'Goodbye Bernard' and with that he disappeared into the murky depths of the North Sea. Bernard quietly made his way back home to Sheffield, and that night he penned the story of his life with his friend Tom Collins. The following morning I went around as usual for his music lesson to find him dead next to the rock pool in the living room, the papers containing the story was by his side.

The elderly busker seemed to take my story on board. 'With effort we can all be whatever we want to be', he seemed to say through his filthy knotted beard. He silently waved a portion of chips towards my face which I took to be an offer so I took one and then left him to contemplate the guitar lessons that I had suggested.

Thanks,

Malc Trinoth.

I smile so much when I read these tales my cheeks actually ache!

Wouldn’t it be great to send some of these stories to the makers of “Jackanory” – I can just imagine the befuddled looks of all the kids & adults as someone with the gravitas of Sir Antony Hopkins reads them in a very, very serious voice.

Of course, there would be a few technical problems like recording the show without him laughing his head off – this may be difficult but surely it could be overcome somehow. (Maybe they could drug him?)

You are far too good for us, seriessix arent you ?

What a touching story of companionship and hope.

It begs the question, are dogs really mans best friend?

What a touching story of companionship and hope.

It begs the question, are dogs really mans best friend?

I guess it's all subjective...like the tour de france.

I guess it's all subjective...like the tour de france.

No I think we can actually develop objective metrics to leverage the synergies between sciences and mans best friend.

For instance, if a dog saves a mans life, that going to score high. getting his morning paper less high, but still this is an objective show of love and respect from the dog, a sign of dear friendship, if you will.

Using this scoring system, we can attribute a "friendliness index" for all of god creatures, thus creating a scoreboard of friendliness, that may looks something as follows;

1) Octopi.
2) Dogs.
3).......
29003902) Bears.
29002903) Cats.

Now there ill be some who rate the saving of ones life, lower than the fetching of ones paper, however likefans of the Tour of France they would be incorrect.

Dear Sir,
The other day I was wearing a new pair of slacks and decided to take a walk through the city, on my way back I noticed that the sun was just starting to rise, it's light spread a pink sheen over the bricks and concrete. Just as I reached the corner of my road I noticed a paper boy delivering what I can only imagine was more bad news through the letter boxes of my neighbors. The dawn chorus was in full swing as I walked the last few yards towards my home, then suddenly an empty feeling pervaded my soul. This sensory miasma was so overwhelming that I had to take a seat on a wall, I felt quite faint and could literally feel myself dissolving down through the gaps in the pavement.

Thanks,

Father Greg O'Donnellelly.

Dear Sir,
The other day I was wearing a new pair of slacks and decided to take a walk through the city, on my way back I noticed that the sun was just starting to rise, it's light spread a pink sheen over the bricks and concrete. Just as I reached the corner of my road I noticed a paper boy delivering what I can only imagine was more bad news through the letter boxes of my neighbors. The dawn chorus was in full swing as I walked the last few yards towards my home, then suddenly an empty feeling pervaded my soul. This sensory miasma was so overwhelming that I had to take a seat on a wall, I felt quite faint and could literally feel myself dissolving down through the gaps in the pavement.

Thanks,

Father Greg O'Donnellelly.

Is there a follow on to this ? I hope so. :)

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1185413514.doc

:hihi::hihi::hihi:

Serves you right for asking, pattricia! :)

http://sheffieldwriters.ath.cx/SFStoryArchive/1185413514.doc

I imagine myself writing like this when I have been on speed or cannibis.!!! I would never take them , so I am never going to write like this am I ? :D:D

I imagine myself writing like this when I have been on speed or cannibis.!!! I would never take them , so I am never going to write like this am I ? :D:D

pattricia...... there is only one seriessix......and the writer lives on tea and toast only! :)

So get the toaster out........:hihi:

pattricia...... there is only one seriessix......and the writer lives on tea and toast only! :)

Just shows how dopey we are doesnt it ?

I imagine myself writing like this when I have been on speed or cannibis.!!!

I fear L.S Dunone is taking something far worse than speed or cannabis. Possibly the demenita muscaria from the rain forests of Afghanistan. Or the Putasis Toad from coastal regions of Chad. Possibly even the St Paulius cactus from Iceland.

My bet is the Special brewiskus from Barnsley.

I fear L.S Dunone is taking something far worse than speed or cannabis. Possibly the demenita muscaria from the rain forests of Afghanistan. Or the Putasis Toad from coastal regions of Chad. Possibly even the St Paulius cactus from Iceland.

My bet is the Special brewiskus from Barnsley.

It strikes me you are as barmy as seriessix, b2b! :hihi:

Dark was the night. The fire flickered as we talked. Shadows danced around the room as the curtains twitched from the balmy summer air.

“It’s the PC brigade!”, my father exclaimed.

“No it’s liberal do-gooders!”, I responded.

“You have a lot to learn son, but the hate is strong in you. You are coming along just fine.” With that my father stood, and slowly walked to the mantle on the fireplace. He set the cup down and pulled out his pipe. “You know the Muslims probably have something to do with it as well.”

“Must have. It’s all of them trying to take our life style away from us.”

“Eye lad, for sure.”, raising his voice he almost shouted, “But they wont win lad! Churchill didn’t destroy the Nazis to let some hippie scum change my life”. He was agitated now, shifting backwards and forwards. He lifted the cup and slammed it down, sending earl grey spraying in every direction. Suddenly he fell, convulsing on the floor. Twitching and writhing in agony. I panicked. Searching for direction. My head spinning, my life passing through my mind like the number 72 bus to Woodseats.

“Dad? Are you ok?”. There was no response other than a muffled stutter. What should I do? The hospital was out, they have been infiltrated by terrorist Muslim doctors. The doctor’s office was closed, and the NHS helpline was useless, everybody knew that. It struck me like a lightening bolt from the clouds. My face flushed, I quickly I ran upstairs, skipping three stairs at a time. Using my arm as leverage on the banister I swiveled round the landing towards my room. The door opened easily, perhaps too easily. My tunnel like vision finally focusing on my PC. It was switched on, thank god. Time was of the essence, everything happening is slow motion. Quickly I typed.

s..h..e..f..f..i..e…l..d..f..o..r…u..m.c..o..u..k. I slammed the enter key down as if my life depended on it. Faster and faster I typed. I knew somebody on Sheffield forum could help. Deftly I explained the situation, asking for help and advice. What should I do? I waited. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. Nothing. Then it came. The first response.

“It’s probably heartburn. Give him some milk.”

REFRESH

“Have you tried aspirin?”

REFRESH

“Take him to the hospital!”, stupid hippie I thought, always sympathizing with the terrorists.

REFRESH.

“Take him down to see the witch on London Road. She also does healing, reads tea leafs, crystal balls and does horoscopes”. There is was. I knew what had to be done. I leapt to me feet, my head now pounding. My veins almost bursting. I only touched two steps on the way down. I burst back in to the living room….

“What the hells wrong with you?”, said my dad, leaning against the fireplace.

“But… i…. you were….” I stammered.

“Are you going soft son? What on earths the matter? You know back in the war when the bombs were falling, we never got this worked up. It’s just these liberals, they make me so mad.”

I laughed, collapsing on the sofa.

“You know it’s the kids these days as well. Bloody chavs. Have you seen the graffiti everywhere these days?”

“Eye” I said. “It’s a bloody disgrace.”

The story and characters contained within are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

I do think you are very good. I enjoyed this.

You see! You see!

b2b is as barmy as seriessix......:hihi:

You see! You see!

b2b is as barmy as seriessix......:hihi:

The more the merrier,barmy people I say. They say genius and madness are closely linked.

But can we cope with 2 maniacs, pattricia? :hihi:

But can we cope with 2 maniacs, pattricia? :hihi:

there are 3 arent there, when you join in with seriessix ?