Ian had very sad news for the
group. Ann Flynn’s husband died recently
and the funeral is on Friday at the Pilar Chapel of Rest at 1 p.m. Our thoughts are with her. Also Jane had very bad news about Pat, who she
was informed died yesterday. Having looked
so well when we last saw her, she unfortunately developed bronchitis back in
the UK. Also TJ has gone back to Ireland
because his sister is very ill and waiting for a transplant.
Last week it took Ian 20 minutes
to explain how the Secret Santa and the Christmas meal would be organised and
today it took another 20 minutes going through it again and picking out Secret
Santa slips.
Brenda told us that she had sent
3 sample chapters of her book to an agent and was asked to email her full
manuscript as a Word document along with a short synopsis and CV, and they would
be glad to consider her book, which is good news.
Ian will be sending an email out with the
subjects for the next 6 months, including hot pens with a twist. Ian is away for the next 2 weeks so someone
else will have to take the chair. Good
luck to whoever it is!
Darren read out part of his
novel. It was a gripping tale of mounds
of bodies, with twisted limbs, grimacing in death. The ‘repentees’ who were
clearing away the billions of bodies were prisoners who were given a devil’s
deal. If you did one year with the clean
up squad you were free. They all had to wear breathing apparatus and given
drugs to numb the pain to enable them to bear the burden. Very few survived the
ordeal. They had to wear wrist bands which would
explode if they did not check in for work.
It is set in the future and tells of an Armageddon awaiting the
world. A spellbinding story that I can’t
wait to read in full. There were some
good comments from the group about style change and characterization.
Maureen’s story was a
conversation with a computer. ‘Hello I
am Sarah from PayPal. I am your automated
customer support assistant.’ ‘I want to
send money to a UK bank but the fields don’t match’. ‘Please rephrase your
question and I will be able to give you a better response. Would you like more information on how to
send the money?’ She repeats what she wants to do. ‘Can you tell me more about
your issue?’ Request repeated again. ‘Was this helpful?' Me, ‘no’.
‘I am a virtual assistant and I cannot think. I do not know what you mean. Can you be more specific?’ Me ‘ha ha’. ‘ I am
sorry that was too complicated for me’. At that point Maureen switched
off.
Christine’s poem was about a
Christmas pudding.
It was the night before Christmas
the children were sleeping, the stockings on the mantle, mum was weeping. Her husband was a soldier in a war torn
foreign land helping people for a reason she didn’t understand. He was due home for Christmas but it was getting
quite late. She heard the doorbell, and her
returning husband was there. Thank
goodness for that, we were getting worried.
Ian’s story was called Santa
didn’t come. Because Santa never turned
up the little boy asked his mum ‘Was I really bad? He had to ask his mum
because he didn’t have a dad, who had just died. ‘No you have been very good.’ He took his mum’s hand; it is up to him to
take his father’s place. ‘I hope next
year is better, I wrote to Santa saying please bring my daddy back.’ Chris
said ‘where’s the knife?’ We were all
suicidal by this time.
A new member Pam Brennan
introduced herself; she likes to be amongst creative people, and is a painter
and artist,
Kathy had written a poem to Avril
who had presented us all with a handmade card, ‘I cannot express in words, it
is not in my power, Avril you are a star, a little flower’
Gerry’s story was read out by
Maureen. It is set in 1475. The storyteller’s father was a huge man with a
booming voice who controlled every aspect of his life while his mother was
timid, subservient. He had got to get
out from under his father’s dominance, so leaves to seek his fortune. After 2
hours of walking he was hit by loneliness and excitement. At 17 he was a boy entering the world of
men. He looked out for something to eat
in the forest and saw a young woman lying on her stomach
with her hands over the water like a statue. Her hands went into the water and
she pulled out a fish from the stream. She
picked up a large stone and hit the fish on the head. ‘Are you going to help? You behind the tree, come and help.’ Her face was dirty as were her hands and
feet. ‘Are you hungry? Follow me walking
upstream’. We hope he will be writing
more as we all wanted to know what happened next. It
is a voyage of discovery.
Jane wrote on ‘wait till I get
you home’, the subject from another week.
The narrator was walking home when she saw Ben, her son. What was he doing? Wait till I get you home. 12 year old Ben was taking flowers from Mrs Brown’s
garden. If I have found that you have thieved how can I face living here?’ ‘Mum she asked me to take her daffodils.’ When asked Mrs Brown said Ben brings her a lot
of joy. ‘You must be so proud.’ ‘I puffed up like a bird and held Ben close.’
Avril’s poem is from the point of
view of a fed up Christmas pudding. This
must be a first! There is a dead turkey
on the table. I will be set on
fire. How thrilling, they will take
their spoons to me to look for the coins.
I don’t like that grandpa, I am going to set alight his beard and make
him fart like thunder. Hilarious!
Mary’s story was about a
Christmas spree. Eating everything in
sight, it was a terrific night.’ The evening consisted of food with alcoholic
drinks at every stage of the meal. Several glasses of sherry with the turkey,
brandy with the Christmas pudding and rum with the mince pies. ‘I will probably spend tomorrow in bed. I was
only sick twice.’ That reminds me to
stock up with Rennies.
The next Mary’s story was about Christmas
puds again. I feel full up now. It was 30 years ago and she had to make a
Christmas cake as it was the done thing to produce homemade goodies. She had a brand new microwave and a sure fire
recipe for Christmas cake. There were a lot of ingredients to go in the magic
appliance for 20 minutes. She followed
the instructions and it smelled delicious but looked like pudding. Started again, there was a disruption and she
ended up with another pudding. Eventually she had enough Christmas pud to feed
the whole street. Her husband came in,
looked at the recipe and said that looks easy. ‘You do it then Mr. Smarty’. The result was a perfect cake. He read the instructions properly and found
that you had to use a different kind of flour.
Her family had pudding with cream, custard, yoghurt and ice cream. She hasn’t eaten Christmas pudding since.
Thank goodness Chris’s story was
not about Christmas pudding. It was
about Sweden and a recent visit to Stockholm.
Things happen on time in Sweden, there is no manana there; you have to be
punctual, Swedes remove shoes when they enter a house; some people take shoes
to change into, and you have to make sure your socks haven’t got any holes in them. Alcohol shops are few and far between. A bottle of gin costs 27 Euros. (Don’t go to Sweden Mary) They drink a lot of coffee and eat coffee
bread with it. Most shops have tickets with numbers on that you have to pick to
get served. Swedes line up properly in a bus queue. They speak English from an
early age. Chris’s Swedish is not
perfect, she thought she was asking the hairdresser for highlights when in fact
she was asking for her to put cornflakes in her hair! In Sweden you have the
right to hike across private land and friends will take you to a nearby lake or
forest and collect wild berries and mushrooms.
You have no daylight hours in winter but indoors is warm. Very
picturesque. The group thought it would
be a good article for such as the Sunday Telegraph.
Brenda read out the start of her
story about Lottie. The year was 1867. Her brother put her on to the horse drawn
trap. ‘Where are we going? We are going on a trip. Are we all going? No your brothers and I have work to do but we
will come and visit.’ Mum gave her a
squeeze. ‘It is a fine house you are
going to with kind people who will take care of you. Soon you will be strong and healthy and
return to your brothers and me.’ Lottie felt
frightened and looked back at her mother who looked small and frail. Her bloom had given place to despair on the
day Pa died. Pa had worked on a farm while ma ran the home. Her brothers helped
Pa while Lottie’s tasks were to help around the home. As the only girl she felt special and
protected. She was a sickly child and
had arrived early with lungs not fully formed, but had a zest for learning. Pa took to his bed, and died of a fever 8
days later. Ma grieved for a year and became withdrawn. She said to Lottie, ‘You
are an excellent seamstress and cook.
You will find a gentleman and make a good wife.’ Lottie wondered if she had been punished for her
weakness. ‘Why does Ma not love me anymore?’ Willy said ‘Lottie, Ma still loves you as we
all do, you will get strong and healthy and come back to us.’ Lottie remembered her family as she set out
that cold winter day. Very evocative. There were plenty of comments on Brenda’s
story and the group wish her success in her undoubted future career as a published
writer.
Next week is our Christmas
meal. I think I will be cancelling my
order for Christmas pudding as a dessert.
Cynthia
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