NOVIOMAGUS REGINORUM

The most recent Leeds Savages writing session had the rather improbable topic of 'Chichester Fortescue'...!  Wikipedia informed me that the Right Honorable Mr Fortescue was actually a 19th century politician, but this didn't exact inspire me, so I instead wrote a short poem which is arguably 50% on topic given that it's based on growing up in Chichester.

Unfortunately tonsil troubles meant that I didn't get to hear any of my fellow Savages efforts to tackle the topic, but am hoping that some might have found their way onto the forum at www.leedssavage.com  as it never fails to amaze me how such a broad range of works springs out of each topic. There are some truly talented people in the group (definitely not including myself in this category - would instead define myself as 'rusty!') so it's definitely worth checking out the website. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll add it to your favourites....

Now, on to the rhyming.....!

NOVIOMAGUS REGINORUM

 

We often felt this was no place to be young

A haven for the blue rinsed but no hotbed of fun

We didn’t care for the long dead Romans

Their renowned walls and their feted gates

All we longed for was a bit of excitement

To travel on roads which were far less straight.

 

Not a second glance as we danced past the Arundel tomb

Upon which Larkin mused about love

To the choir stalls where we’d gossip and scheme

With little thought for the big man above.

 

Outside we’d congregate around the Cross

Where for 500 years our forebears had been meeting

Little did we appreciate the yet unrevealed truth

That the freedom of youth would be fleeting.

 

We’d bemoan the fact that there was nowhere to go

Unless tearooms and charity shops were your style

The nearest nightclub was a tipsy bus ride away

The nearest multiplex many a mile.

 

Most of us never grew into the ill-fitting

blazers bought to serve 5 years of school

Hitched our skirts bum-cheek high in an attempt to project

The slightest semblance of cool.

 

And most of our days were idyllic

Though at the time we hadn’t a clue

How precious were happiness, health, the freedom to build

The very foundations of You.

 

Until dark times taught us that the cards we are dealt

Are not always the ones we’d choose

Reality sets in and childhood is cast

Away like yesterday’s news;

In that time, in that place, in the history we made

We learned that life is built from light and shade.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being not at all cool at least a decade ago....

 

Mr Power

This is a short piece I wrote a couple of months back for a writers group session on the topic of 'Mr Power' - a 'bedtime story' of sorts......

Mr Power

By the time Marian belatedly sidled on the bandwagon it seemed like the world and his wife had been swept off their feet by the enigmatic Mr Power. Even Doris at the WI, who had celebrated her 90^th birthday some years ago, was a card carrying advocate of his work. “You really must read it, my dear. Turns out that even this old dog isn’t beyond learning a few new tricks; whoever would have thought it?” Doris turned her gaze lovingly towards the side of the room where her fourth husband was loudly snoring; his nose hairs fluttering with each shallow breath like grass blowing in the wind

“Honestly; you wouldn’t believe how things are for me and Ernie in the bedroom these days; I only wish that that Mr Power had been around 70 years ago!”

Marian raised an eyebrow but kept her scepticism to herself. She’d learned by now that there was no point in so much as challenging the converted; better to let them evangelise away whilst diverting her thoughts to something else; say the latest plot twist in her favourite Scandinavian crime drama or what she needed to pick up in this week’s big shop. As a small trail of drool crept down Ernie’s chin and pooled in his jowls; Marian wondered exactly how much benefit he could really be obtaining from Mr Power’s teaching.

For months it had seemed as if she couldn’t turn on the TV or open a newspaper or magazine without that blasted book being mentioned. She’d always like to think herself something of an intellectual; certainly not the kind of person who was swept up by popular culture. Her daughter Penelope had on multiple occasions accused her of being a snob, but Marian herself hated that word, preferring the altogether more genteel ‘discerning’.  In her experience if something was wholeheartedly embraced by the masses that wasn’t generally an indication of merit; more a suggestion that it was pitched at a level suitable for those with the most rudimentary level of education.

The main point she had grasped around the phenomenon was that although readers were encouraged to rhapsodise to their family and friends about how great the book was, it was strictly forbidden to speak of the nature of Mr Power’s philosophy or methods. There were a few key expressions that she’d heard time and time again, but little beyond what sounded like new age mumbo jumbo. Nonetheless as she went about her day to day business she found herself studying the expressions and body language of everyone in sight; trying to figure out who had ‘harnessed the power of their Sacred Spaces’. Julie in the Post Office certainly had, a well thumbed copy permanently sat on the counter so that she could ingest snippets in between dishing out pensions and renewing tax discs. Marian had only gone into the branch to buy a book of stamps, but it was a good fifteen minutes before she re-emerged into the sunlight after making the schoolboy error of asking Julie if she was enjoying the book. “Granted it’s dark;” Julie had whispered after ten minutes of effectively saying yes in as many different ways as possible; “but don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.  I didn’t think it was for me but I was so wrong. I didn’t feel comfortable with all that ‘restraint’ business at first; and as for the blindfolds; well I’d only come across them at kids’ parties before. But once you’ve experienced that kind of pleasure, believe me you won’t be able to go back to your old ways.”

On the day on which the headlines proclaimed that Mr Power’s Bedroom Secrets was now the highest selling paperback of all time; Marian decided that she’d been biting the bullet for long enough. Even though she knew that she could obtain a copy for half the price in the supermarket; she made her way to the only local independent bookshop that had managed to weather both the recession and the exponential growth of certain internet retailers. She slowly browsed the store, marvelling in the fact that this small room contained more books than she would ever be able to read in her lifetime. It was a shame that most of these works would never reach a wide audience; alas these days it seemed that the majority of people preferred to pick up their reading material in the same basket as bananas and loo rolls. It wouldn’t be so bad if the mass merchants were peddling literary masterpieces; but a textbook for optimal bedroom performance becoming the nation’s favourite talking point? So much for traditional British reserve.

Eventually her path reached a small crowd of customers and in the middle of them a table piled high with the volume that was currently outselling everything else in the entire shop added together. Fingering the cover of the infamous tome she felt in spite of herself a frisson of excitement. She doubted that the eponymous Mr Power had been christened with that moniker; however the unmistakable red and yellow cover probably wouldn’t make the same impact if it were to bear the name of Smith, Jones or Brown.

“Go on, buy it;” urged a bearded man of undeterminable age, who seemed to take the very fact that she was holding the book as reason enough to lay his clammy hand on her arm. “It’ll change your life, honestly it will. Since I opened that book I’ve never looked back; my partner even says it’s taken 20 years off me! And it’s not just for the bedroom either; we’ve been at it in the sitting room, on a flight to Alicante; why, I’ve even given it a go in the office!”

Marian snatched her arm away. The man had exceptionally hairy arms that reminded her of a baboon; she wondered whether his partner actually liked the fact that he looked like he belonged in a zoo, or whether he had some other qualities which compensated for it. His endorsement was almost enough to make her flee the shop empty handed, but with the memory of her daughter’s words echoing around her mind – “Don’t be a snob, mother” she reluctantly walked to the sales counter and handed over her £8.99.

That night Marian retired early; carrying her brown paper shopping bag upstairs whilst her husband watched Match of the Day. She slipped into her best silk nightie and dimmed the lights, plumping up the pillows before slipping under the polyester duvet. Time to see what all the fuss was about.

“This book will teach you to harness the power of your most sacred space. Through a combination of techniques you will achieve the status of master practitioner and your bedroom will become a temple devoted to the most precious activity we can experience both as individuals or within a couple; pure, uninterrupted sleep.”

Sleep? SLEEP? Marian laughed out loud. She’d been hoping for athletics beneath the sheets, a few ideas to spice things up after a lifetime of the monotony of monogamy. She felt like she’d been had, conned, but she could hardly demand her money back for lack of sauce.

“John, are you coming up?” she shouted. “Fancy a cuddle?”

“Just watching the last match, love;” came the reply from downstairs. “I’ll be up in five.”

Five minutes turned to fifteen but John was sure that Marian wouldn’t mind; she could sit there in bed with a book for hours; reading had always been her favourite pastime.

“Alright love?” he called out as he checked the doors and turned off the sockets; but there was no response. Upon entering the bedroom he found Marian laid on her back with her eyes closed and a blissful smile on her face; and at her side was a copy of that book that everyone seemed to be reading these days. He carefully picked it up, trying his hardest not to disturb her, as Marian was a light sleeper at the best of times and it was most unusual her to drift off without tossing and turning for hours. He climbed in beside her and flicked off the light; a smile on his face. Cuddles could wait; after twenty years of marriage to a fidgety insomniac, sleep, blessed uninterrupted sleep, was the best bedroom activity in his book.   

 

'Call my Bluff'

The theme of this week's writing group was 'Bluff'. Unfortunately I won't be attending the actual meeting due to the ravages of what seems to be the world's most persistent cold, however I did manage to put together a quick little poem on the topic...

CALL MY BLUFF

When I told you that I didn’t care
I was really just calling your bluff
You should know by now what we guys are like
When it comes to love and all that stuff
Sometimes it seems like a weakness
To admit to falling so hard
For once that truth has been laid bare
You’ve dealt your final card
Far better to act a bit nonchalant
Far wiser to play it cool
Follow your head instead of your heart
And you’ll never be anyone’s fool
So that’s why I pretended not to notice
When you flicked your hair in that way
Why I tried not to rise to the challenge of
Those seductive games you’d play
When you suggested we talk about ‘feelings’
I’d rather stick on Match of the Day
Preferred to focus on 22 men in short shorts
Than face up to what you might have to say
When you questioned where I thought we were going
My shrugs didn’t give the slightest clue
That inside I was screaming, you need not question at all
That I’d go to the ends of the earth for you
So it’s no surprise that you tired of the silent approach
Weren't won over by my master plan
But I’ll never forget those last words as you walked out the door
Be less of a bloke - and more of a man
Now I wait in the hope that one day I'll find
That you were really just pretending
Tell me two can play the bluffing game
And raise me a happy ending

Whodunnit?!

The theme of this weeks creative writing group was 'Whodunnit'; here's my effort at a short story on the topic....


A crime had been committed in Broadley Avenue last night, of that there was no doubt. What was in dispute amongst the residents was the exact nature of the said offence.

“Disturbance of the peace” proclaimed Audrey Daley from the throne of her mobility scooter. “The amount of banging and clattering that was going on in the street; my poor Roger didn’t sleep a wink.”

A small mutt gazed dolefully out of the basket, whimpering as if on cue.

“There, there Roger” said Audrey’s neighbour Eric Jones. Although Eric personally couldn’t stand dogs he’d always held something of a soft spot for the redoubtable Mrs Daley, and it was with this in mind that he forced himself to stroke the hairy beast.

“There was certainly some kind of affray;” Mr Jones declared to many nods of agreement from the crowd that was continuing to mass on the meticulously tended lawn of number 23. “Raised voices, foul language, certainly nothing I would repeat in the company of ladies. The kind of behaviour you might expect in the estates, perhaps, but certainly not what we’re used to round here.”

“I didn’t hear anything” said Patricia Fleming; “But I can tell you for a fact that there was some kind of pervert on the prowl last night. Why, I had my best undergarments hanging out to dry and when I went to fetch them in after watching the end of my soaps they’d disappeared from sight! The dirty scoundrel hadn’t touched Albert’s Y-fronts; they were only interested in my flowery bloomers!”

The thought of a pervert in their midst sent the ladies of Broadley Avenue into a chattering frenzy.

“Certainly sounds like a most unsavoury character;” proclaimed the most recent new addition to the avenue. Jacqui was a bottle blonde whose addiction to injecting botulism into her face and weakness for toyboys several decades her junior did little to mask the fact that youth was long behind her. She languidly swept her peroxide fringe out of eyes whilst pouting at Bill; something of a silver fox and although several decades older than her usual prey the only man on the street that she considered worthy of her well honed flirting skills. “And I thought this was such a lovely safe neighbourhood....”

Bill forced out a small smile, not having the heart to tell Jacqui that her talents were wasted on him. Pedro the postman had been providing Bill with a very efficient early morning service for a number of years, although they’d both cursed the day that they scrapped the second post.

“Not just an unsavoury character, Jacqueline, but an outright criminal!” butted in busybody and resident of thirty years Wendy Walker. “The most terrible damage was inflicted on my hedges last night. You all know how much time and effort I put into trimming my ornamental bush; it’s not for nothing that I won the Winfordshire Topiary Championships in 1989, 1994 and, on appeal, 1997. What kind of man would do such a thing?”

“Who’s to say that it’s definitely a man though?” pondered Bill. “It could be a woman...”

“A lady knicker pincher? Pretty unlikely I would say;” argued Patricia. “Oh, the very thought of some stranger getting his filthy hands on my drawers; it’s enough to make me shudder.”

“The thought of her drawers makes me shudder too;” whispered the long suffering Albert to his neighbour and drinking companion of many years Eric. “But not in a good way. Whoever it is that’s been on the rampage, they’re welcome to her extra extra large smalls.”

Tony and Albert’s mirth was met with disapproving stares from the assembled ladies. “Not sure what you’re laughing about;” said Wendy sternly. “This is a very serious matter.”

“AGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

A wail came from five doors down. With the maximum speed possible on Zimmer frames, mobility scooters and dodgy hips, the group made towards its source.

Penny, the owner of number 11, was stood on her drive in front of a large red stain.

“I just came outside to see what was going on and; and; and this!”

“Is that?”

“It looks like...”

“Blood?”

“Blood!”

Screams and gasps filled the street. “I’m calling the police!” exclaimed Wendy, fumbling in her handbag to try to find the mobile phone that her daughter had passed on to her but she never actually bothered to turn on.

“Wait a second;” said Bill; pressing a single finger to his lips. “Can you hear something?”

Ignoring him, the women kept on shrieking.

Eschewing Bill’s polite style Albert bellowed; “Look, for one godforsaken second can you ladies just shut up?!”

In an instant, silence fell on the street. A good ten seconds must have passed before Jacqui whispered “I can’t hear anything?”. The rest of the group were in the process of opening their mouths in a chorus of agreement when a loud sneeze came from inside the garage.

“He’s in there! The pervert’s in there!” Patricia cried.

“The dog disturber!”

“The noisy hoodlum!”

“The bush saboteur!”

“The murderer!” Penny shrieked hysterically.

Wendy pressed her mouth to the garage door. “The police are on their way; there’s no point in trying to escape” she shouted, although in reality she had still failed to locate her phone, and was beginning to question whether it was even in her cavernous bag at all.

“Right, let’s find out exactly who we’re dealing with;” declared Eric. “Put your hands up, whoever you are, we’re going in!”

The women gasped as the men edged forward. Eric turned the handle of the door then pushed it open with a single determined shove. Audrey, Wendy and Patricia covered their eyes, afraid of what they might see, and even Roger, who certainly would never have made a guard dog, buried his head.

Jacqui leaned forward with morbid curiosity whilst Penny peeked through her fingers, fearful of what dreadful act had been committed on her property.

“Derek?! Derek!” repeated Penny. “What are you doing here? I thought you were still working down in Banbury?! You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards!”

“Happy anniversary, love;” said Penny’s husband, stepping out of the garage sheepishly, a pale red liquid trickling between his legs. Draped from the ceiling was some DIY bunting made from some flowery material that was suspiciously familiar to Patricia; and the bucket normally used to wash the car housed a particularly feeble attempt at a flower arrangement which creatively combined some of Penny’s own begonias with the phallic horn of Wendy’s unicorn hedge. “I came back a night early to try to surprise you, but whilst I was trying to set things up I managed to get myself locked in!”

“Derek Fish, you’ve always been a tight bastard but this truly takes the biscuit!” Penny exclaimed.

“Oooh, language;” injected Eric. “Clearly runs in the family.”

“Too bloody right it does;” Derek replied; “and I was certainly cursing last at 4 o clock this morning when I tripped over that bleeding ugly garden gnome you insist on keeping guard outside your house, Eric. I’d parked round the bloody corner so Penny didn’t realise that I was home; didn’t realise that the 1 minute walk from Chapel Drive would be so fraught with danger, did I?. And the air certainly turned fifty shades of blue again when I was trying to string up this bollocking bunting that our Penny’s so fond of and managed to knock a whole crate of Mateus Rose on the floor. It’s your favourite too, isn’t it Pen?”

Blushing redder than her usual tipple of choice, Penny gave the slightest of nods.

“Well, get on your way, the lot of you, get back to your Daily Mail’s. There’s nothing more to see here;” Derek said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“And having heard all your accusations” – he looked from face to face before landing on his wife – “I might as well prove them true. After what I’ve bleeding put meself through last night I could really MURDER a beer.”

38,000 Words

When I was just a little girl,
I asked my mother, what should I be.....

As a child I would spend hours reading and writing. From a very young age I created characters and stories that I would share with my family, friends and teachers, and everyone who had the (perhaps dubious) honour of experiencing my burgeoning literary ambitions agreed that without a doubt I would one day have a book to my name.

Now at the tail end of my twenties, that debut novel is still a distant dream and my career to date has been based around crunching numbers more than playing with words. A couple of years ago however I was lucky enough to get introduced to a merry band of Savages who have ensured that as well as Excel Spreadsheets and Powerpoint presentations there is still room in my life to enjoy the pleasures of putting pen to paper (or the slightly less romantic sounding finger to keyboard).

Since joining the Leeds Savages and its pre Savage writing group incarnation I've had the honour of meeting many talented, interesting and above all creative individuals. There are a number of 'regulars' at the meets but their writing (and art) is anything but - the contributions showcased every other Wednesday never fail to surprise and entertain. One of the biggest joys of the meets is that although a set topic or theme has been prescribed in advance, you really have no idea of what aural treats you will experience on any given occasion. Poetry and prose receive equal weighting; deeply personal and moving narratives sit comfortably alongside fantastical tales of other worlds. More likely than not the big topics of love and death (well, death in particular) will be featured somewhere; and it's rare to not experience a few belly laughs at some point.

Whilst listening to the contributions of others is always rewarding, the greatest sense of satisfaction comes from creating and sharing your own work. I am continually envious of those who produce something for every single task, with many of the members being prolific way beyond knocking out a fortnightly masterpiece. I can sometimes feel a bit despondent, disappointed in myself even, when I fail to find the time / motivation to write something for a meet, however its not the be all and end all. The experience of listening to others, offering constructive criticism and encouragement, is just as key to being a 'Savage' as putting pen to paper; it is after all not simply a writing and sketching group but a 'social and developmental forum for artistically minded people'.

Virginia Woolf stated that in order to write a woman needs 'A Room of One's Own'. Nice sentiment, but I have a house of my own and still I can never finrd the space to write. To me, rhe issue isn 't physical space, but mental space. A state of mind where one can be free of distractions; where the realities of life both profound and mundane melt away to create the perfect conditions for productivity.

This weekend was yet another where I had intentions to get writing but other things got in the way - washing, ironing, mowing the lawn, preparing for holiday - doing anything other than write. What I did get round to doing however was reviewing everything that I've written in my two and a bit years with the writing group, and after I copied all of completed poems and stories into a single file I was pleasantly surprised to find that they came to an almost respectable 38,000 words. 26 short stories and 16 poems later I've got a 100 page file to which I can turn whenever I feel like my creative juices have run dry and say - 'In the first four years after you left university and entered the big wide world you didn't write a single thing. Look how much you've achieved since then!'

Admittedly 38,000 words over 28 months might not be much compared to those who knock out a few thousand every day, but as someone who works long hours and leads a busy life, I think that's still something to be proud of. I've got at least another 10,000 words of unfinished work kicking around, so my aim now is to complete some of those pieces that for one reason or other were cast aside and get that total up to 50,000 words by the end of the summer. . Time to recapture the spirit of that little girl who would frantically write about talking pigs and entire worlds within filing cabinets, writing for the sheer joy of it rather than anxiously fretting about deadlines and word counts.

Who knows, I could even hit 100,000 words within the next twelve months.....

Summertime Blues

So here it is, yet another damp, dull bank holiday weekend where dreams of BBQS and sunbathing are cast aside for cagoules and sturdy shoes... Last week presented us with a freakish treat in the form of almost tropical temperatures and a brief escape from reality. Today it's business as usual and the flipflops and vest tops look like they can go back into storage for a while. Anyhow, the joys of British weather inspired a short and hopefully sweet poem that I wrote for this week's writers group. Enjoy.....


SUMMERTIME BLUES

The second the thermometer passes 20 degrees
There’s far too much flesh on display
From the kiddies park to the supermarket aisle
The short shorts have come out to play
Boob tubes and bare moobs are pounding the street
Young and old parade round without caring
For the daily routine, swept aside as they strive
For their white bits to get a good airing  

Like mad dogs they flock to secure a good spot
Blankets spread stake their claim on the sun
Some drift away to blissful dreams
Others revel in Bacchanalian fun
Glorious days rush by; summer’s sweet haze
But alas, all good things come to an end
Seven days later the memory fades
Washed away by a wet weekend

An Argument / Waiting for Spring

For the most recent writing group meetings I've been turning my pen to poetry. Here's my contributions for the themes 'Argument' and 'Waiting for Spring'; as ever all feedback very welcome...

AN ARGUMENT

Sage advice given to us long ago

By one of those ostensibly perfect pairs

“Never go to bed on an argument;” they said
“And if you’ve problems, be sure to share.
Now we’re here and there’s been not a sole angry word
No voices raised, certainly no punches thrown
But laid back to back a deafening silence reigns
Mere inches apart, yet completely alone.

The gentle murmurs of semi sleep
Your heartbeat keeping time
Slow and steady its constant pace
Next to the anxious race of mine.
And I wish I knew where your thoughts go each night
When the whirring cogs of your dreamtime are turning
Could creep into your skull and know once and for sure
Whether the flame I once lit is still burning.

No union is impenetrable
It’s not rare to grow apart
Yet how can we already have reached our end
When we’ve barely passed the start?
You just go through your routines; flannel, teeth, bed
Then slip taciturn under the sheet
Telling me all that I need to know
Through the distance of your heat.

We lived by the advice passed on years ago

By a seemingly perfect pair
But I wish we’d gone to bed on an argument
For at least there’d be some passion there.

WAITING FOR SPRING

One by one russet leaves fall

Cast away on autumns chill
Night consumes day; memories slip
Further and further from reach
And the sun barely tries - she knows her place
When arrogant winter cracks its whip
And I am still, anaesthetized
As frost dances over my skin
Numb is my natural state, these days
So long since I felt anything at all
That I revelled in the simple touch
Of a comfortingly familiar other
So long it seems since I lived a life led
By trusting heart not fearing head
Bathing in the light of those eyes
That used to bathe on me.

The certainty of the seasons has gone
Green shoots seem an impossible dream
How could anything possibly grow
When frost permeates so deep?
Yet through it all; the longest nights,
The challenge of the cruellest days
You are there, not even caring
If your promises fall on deaf ears
Fertile friendship grows stronger yet
In the darkest, most bleak of times    
Telling me there’s no point in dwelling
On that taken, but embracing the given
Whole world spread out, an infinite road
A new life to begin living
A once creative mind begins to stir
To awake from hibernation

And suddenly the clouds disperse
And I look to your smiles and it’s clear
I’ve spent so long waiting for spring
Yet summer’s already here.