November 18, 2004

• First, The Three-Headed Sarahs’ have been told to clean up their site. The Moral Right is everywhere today.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Now for two more pieces. Charlie had written two, but I thought I’ll give you prose for a change. The first is in dialect. any words you need explained, ask in the comment box.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  ___________

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Ethel and I.

  
  

  __________

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  When I got home from alloutment, I saw Ethel by yon window.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    You know, some folk move about a lot, and their memories get diluted in new realities. Ethel & I, we’ve lived in same house nigh on 55 years, that is a lot of memories, a ruddy lot of memories.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    On the mantlepiece, at last over a gas fire to make it easier for us in mornin’, is a photograph of whom were the pup of our three sons; David on his motorbike. Why is it there? For it were same ruddy bike that had ended his young life, that it were, weren’t his fault they say, charlies found the stolen van what did it some mile ahead.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    Twenty-two were lad, David’s bike had hardly a mark on it, and I expect as poor pup lay dying he noticed that his pride & joy were still A-One.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    Ethel, house-proud in most ways, didn’t like dusting, said dust were bits of those who once walked the Earth. Said we make the dust & we will become the dust, dust were sacred like.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    Royt sentimental Ethel be, suppose I were too. Anyroad, I came back from digging, with two cabbages and a few parsnips, I put veg in kitchen and walked to window. “Alroyt me duck?” I asked.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “Just thinking Fred,” she sighed, “thinking of the past.”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    Later on as she were cooking the parsnips and the smell flooded house, belonged to railway, house did, I bought it, rest in row is private too.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    Now railways gone, pit gone, steel-works all but gone. We get fair bit of trouble from youngsters, but they only be bored with Renishaw.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    Anyroad, Ethel were cooking parsnips in kitchen when I heard her go upstairs.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “Royt strange” I thought, and I followed her up. She were bleating on bed.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    In the distance were sound of motorbike reving up, only other sound were Fluffy, our cat, snoring on bedroom mat.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “Come on luv, make you a nice cuppa!”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    Lass looked at me and lit a fag, “Hab thou forgotten what today be Fred?”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “Nay lass” I said, “Would have been pup’s birthday, I ain’t forgotten.”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    The motorbike roared past our house and melted into the distance, when it were gone, birds were singing on our garden tree.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “Better see to dinner” Ethel said, smoke drifting up towards the ceiling.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —

  
  

  Horace Smith Esq.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  _________________

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Text Barkertown.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  ______________

  
  

  
  

  
  

    On the Oxford-London bus, I fell asleep. As I had a freedom ticket, I decided to break my journey along the way at a small town on the edge of the Smoke. After a cup of tea in a cafe, I fell better and I wondered where I was, I looked for a name, but upon pillar-boxes, telephone kiosks or manhole covers, there was no name of the place that I was in.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    I looked at my cafe-receipt, it said on it “Barkertown”. Where??? I had never heard of a Barkertown! I stopped a policeman and lied to him to try and save face, “I’ve just driven down here” I said, “And I am not quite sure where I am.”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “You are in Barkertown Sir.”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “But Officer” I continued, “I have never heard of this place!”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “Let’s look at your car, did anyone die with you?”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    I sat down, the Officer moved on, I heard a child crying, I realised then that was the first child I had seen, and most of the people here were very old.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    I frowned, and found a pub, and I started to chat with a sad looking young woman feeding her infant.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “New to Barkertown too?” She sighed. “No fun being dead.”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “Sorry?” I asked.

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “We were murdered you know, Stacey here and I, how did you die?”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    This woman was clearly no nutcase, so I said to her “I must have died in my sleep.”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    A man came up to me and said “There has been a terrible mistake Sir, you are still alive, I’ll put you on a bus.”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “What about these poor people?”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “The lady and her child will have to stay, they will get used to it, this is Heaven, we’ll take care of them!”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    I woke up, the bus was at Notting Hill Gate. I had been dreaming again, then I looked in my pocket, there was a cafe receipt marked “Barkertown” and a note saying “Tell the police that Tracy and Stacey Holdsworthy of Thurrock, Essex were murdered by Tom Lewis, and proof is in a box buried in his garden.”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “It was true Sir” a policeman said a few days later, “But how did you get the note?”

  
  

  
  

  
  

    “I went to Barkertown” I replied, “Have you ever been in love with a dead person?”

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —

  
  

  Horace Smith Esq.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  (Note: that user name was the anti-hero of a novel I had written!)

  • 2:30 pm
  • 49 Comments