Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

It was the best part of an hour later when we descended the vertiginous steps that were the only route to the plateau on which the cottage stood. When we reached flatter land where two camouflaged storage sheds were cut into the living rock Mandrake looked up the way we had just come.
“If nobody minds I’ll be flying us back up there.”
Moth nodded vigorous agreement. “Seventy-six steps there are.”
“There are indeed. My master prized his privacy almost as much as his safety.”
Mandrake lifted his chin. “Oh yes, it’s eminently defensible. I wouldn’t give too much for the chances of charging, or sneaking, up that staircase.”
“No. Precisely.”
I input the code on the double doors of the biggest store. My precious quad bike was plugged into the battery bank that fed from an array of photovoltaic panels in the cliff face. I unplugged and wheeled it out. Mandrake closed the doors, which locked with a satisfactory sort of a clonk.
“I’ll drive until we get to the road, then you can have a go.”
He grinned and Moth contracted herself to small enough to pack herself inside his fur-lined jacket. They sat behind me and I switched on. The quad ran silently through the quiet woods. It was a tricky path, so I concentrated on the task in hand, only vaguely aware of Moth chattering away at Mandrake. When we reached the metalled road I drew us to a halt and looked over my shoulder at Mandrake. He was looking shell-shocked and I wondered what, precisely, Moth had been telling him.”
“What moonbeams have you been spinning, Mothwing?” I demanded.
She glared at me. “Moth tells only truth.”
“Okay then. Which truth?”
But she turned her back and refused to speak to me. Mandrake, however, was more forthcoming.
“Moth says that it is necessary to be careful around humans. She says they don’t like us much.”
“Sorry, Moth. You were right to say. He needs to know.” My sister forgave me immediately, and came to my shoulder where she sat to her full height and offered me a sad smile.
“Tell beloved dragon,” she said.
She rubbed my hair while I collected my thoughts.
“First off. How much do you know about humans?”
“Not a lot. The dragon priesthood reckons them beneath contempt, and battle wings have little time for anybody but their own tight-knit groups.”
“Quick history lesson then. This place is our home. Us being trueborn of all sorts. Some of our number were accustomed to visit the lands of the humans but they were usually either scientists, interested in the technologies of the human species, or outcasts, or the very young and foolish. Anyway, visiting the place of humans fell out of fashion and the skill to make portals was lost. But one was kept in good repair in case of need. Somehow, some idiot left it open and unguarded, and a group of humans found their way here. They seemed harmless so they were allowed to stay. The oversight was not keeping an eye on them. By the time anybody thought to look they numbered themselves in hundreds and they had built themselves a life in this place. They called it NunYa.”
Mandrake stared at me and made a noise deep in his chest.
“NunYa. Now there’s an irony.” He saw my puzzled frown and explained. “The only human things the dragon priesthood has any truck with is some of the writings they revere. There is a story passed from mother to child that tells of a magical land called NunYa – where animals and strange beings talk to their human masters.”
That left a sort of a sickly taste in my mouth, but I ploughed on.
“After a couple of centuries or so somebody woke up and noticed that the humans had bred prolifically. The decision was taken to chase them back where they came from. But the portal was smashed beyond repair. Genocide being against the tenets of decency there was nothing to be done about the humans. And that’s why Humans and Trueborn coexist uneasily in this place.
“Can I ask questions?”
“Course you can.”
“The big one has to be why lycanthropes mostly have a human form alongside their beast.”
“Nobody actually knows. But my master, who was very old and very wise, always said we had probably evolved from the same ancestor.”
“Like dragons and water lizards?”
“Precisely like that.”
“It would make sense. And now I’m wondering what happened to the portal.”
“The humans smashed it. Not wishing to share ‘their’ new homeland with anyone else.”
“I see.” I rather thought he did see because he looked as grim as I had ever seen him look.
I pressed on. “Humans are mostly odd. Some manage to interact with other races in a perfectly sensible manner, but they are the minority. The rest fall into two camps. One thinks lycanthropy is a disease and considers lycans to be no more worthy of consideration than oxen or feral cats. The other lot flat out don’t believe in us.”

Jane Jago

Ponies and Progeny or the graceless art of equine management as envisaged by the pen of Jane Jago and inspired by the genius of Norman Thelwell (1923-2004)

Today we consider the importance of rationing treats for your pony…

***** ***** *****

A sarcastic person once said,
There are dust bunnies under your bed.
To which I replies,
That them ‘bunnies’
In size
Is more like a kangaroo 
Or two

Jane Jago

Ginny felt a little helpless as the removers (or were they movers since it was the first time they’d moved her things?) huffed and struggled with her large white oak dresser.
“Please be careful with…”
“It’s alright Mrs. Withers, me boys know ‘ow to do it just fine.”
She cringed at the use of her married name. It was something she had hoped to leave behind in London, but as all the documents for the house she was selling had been in the name of Virginia Withers, she had found it more practical to do everything around the move in the same name. One of her less good life-choices had been to maintain her married name in daily life to avoid the issue of having people recognise her.
The first thing she planned to do when she had settled in was change the name on everything from her bank account to her utility bills to Cropper. She had been out of the limelight for five years, more than long enough to have sunk from view in the fast moving world of celebrity social media – besides who even read blogs nowadays. All the millennials preferred video format.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the dresser’s built-in mirror as it was carried into the house, Ginny suppressed a shudder at the thought of appearing on a video. She had put on more weight than was acceptable and her thinning hair, now mostly concealed under a brightly coloured scarf, had once been brilliant coppery waves and part of her trademark look.
“Any chance of a cuppa, missus?”
The chief remover who was called Stan or Dan – or was it Ian? – she hadn’t really listened when he introduced himself as she’d been worrying about the standing harp (shewas going to learn to play in the peace of the countryside) at the time.
“A cuppa?” She wondered if she would find her selection of organic detoxers in the ‘ready box’ she had prepared for the kitchen. A nice cup of rooibos would be nice or maybe a comforting ginger flake and lemon peel.
“Yeah. You know. Tea bags. Sugar. Milk. Mine’s two and leave it until its got a colour like it’s been in Ibiza a month.”
Ginny felt her mouth fall open into an O shape and that was the sound that came out of it too.
“Me and the lads been working pretty hard today. Cuppa would be nice. Wouldn’t mind a couple of bourbons or custard creams to go with it neither.”
“Custard creams?” Ginny started panicking. She was sure she had a few oatmeal and natural fruit biscuits in the ready box, but custard creams and builder’s tea?
“There an echo in here?” Ian – or was it Stan, she so wished she had been paying more attention – gave her a cheerful grin. “Passed a shop up the road, if you’re needing milk you could try there,” he said helpfully. “We’ll carry on here, don’t you worry.”
It was one of those situations Ginny loathed. 
The last thing she wanted to do was go to the local shop looking like this. She knew these communities could be very judgemental on first impressions and if she made a bad one it might be years before they accepted her here. But if she didn’t provide the refreshments Dan was demanding, who knew how he’d treat her furniture?
Giving way in the face of grim inevitability, she rescued her shoulder bag from her car and headed back along the road towards the village shop. It had been one of the selling points of both the cottage and the village for her. Firstly that there was a thriving village shop – complete with a post office counter at the back – and secondly that the cottage was no more than five minutes walk away from it. 
The walk took her past the little church which was apparently one of the finest examples of some style of architecture in the country. Looking at it she had to wonder if that was brutalist or utilitarian, then she realised that she was studying the church hall and the church itself was on the other side of the road. 
Feeling embarrassed by her mistake, even though no one need ever know she had made it, Ginny put her head down and increased her pace. Which was why she nearly ran into a solid muscular torso, covered with manly hair coming in the other direction, attached to a pair of equally hirsute legs in shorts and trainers.
Gasping out an apology, she stepped aside at the last moment and glanced up to see a face that belonged on the set of the latest BBC period drama. That made her miss the fact she was on the edge of the pavement and had a strong arm not shot out to catch her, she would have wound up sitting in the road very likely with a twisted ankle.
“S-sorry,” she said and the face gave her a tolerant smile. The sort it probably gave to elderly ladies, young children and journalists. Then she was standing on the pavement again and the runner had gone.
She reached the village shop feeling a little overwhelmed and took a moment to sit on the bench outside. A plaque proudly declared it had been provided by the Little Botheringham Ladies Association and she felt oddly grateful to them for allowing her a place to gather her wits after bumping into Ross Poldark and before braving the village postmistress.
In fact she found the owner of the shop to be quite charming and not at all the severe and judgemental type. Her style was smart casual denim, dark designer jeans with a grey worsted jacket.
“Angela Pendle-Burton,” she said and held out a hand. “You must be she who has taken on Flo Maybush’s cottage.”
“Taken on?” Ginny suddenly realised she was beginning to resemble a mynah bird. But people kept saying such odd things.
“Oh, so you didn’t know?”
“There’s something wrong with it? I had all the checks done so…”
“No. No.” Angela held up both hands displaying a heavy gold link bracelet as she did so. “It’s just Florence was in the Ladies Association so I sort of thought…” She trailed off and smiled then went back to scanning and packing Ginny’s purchases.
“The Ladies’ Association seems to be very active here.”
“Oh yes, very. They look after the village very well. They  funded the cricket pavilion being rebuilt and the new children’s playground. And when there was talk of closing the school they organised a huge campaign to save it. And we are the only outlying village which still has an hourly bus service into Bedchester. Everyone appreciates the work they do for us.”
It came to Ginny that if she wanted local acceptance then maybe this offered a way to get it.
“That sounds very worthy,” she said, swiping her card to pay for the tea, milk and biscuits. “How does one join the Association? I’d love to be involved in village life like that.”
Angela gave her the same strange look as before.
“I’m not sure you’d… But still. Here.” She reached under the counter and produced what looked to be a business card.
The bell that announced someone had opened the shop door jangled and Ginny turned to see the jogger come in, still clad in shorts.
“Oh hello, vicar,” Angela greeted him cheerfully. “Come for your usual?”
“Yes please, Mrs. Pendle-Burton and I’m hoping for something a bit extra today.”
His voice was deep and as he spoke his gaze locked with Ginny’s stirring something uneasy somewhere below her navel. She snatched up her shopping and took the card Angela was holding out, dropping it into the bag as she scurried out of the shop.
Vicar?
Seriously?

Part 4 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Having a Blast

The secret of living, I know,
Is all about having a go.
You don’t have to be fast
If you’re having a blast
A comfortable screw can be slow!

Eleanor Swift-Hook

One encountered this book back in one’s tender teens when it was a set text for some examination or another. One’s peer group was set the task of reading this dull tome and writing about its dystopian view of nuclear holocaust.

Being a child of extreme sensitivity one approached the story of the end of the world with some trepidation. But one need not have worried, sailing through this pages affected one with no more than brain-crippling boredom…

My review of On the Beach by Nevil Shute:

This is a book in which nothing happens. Repeatedly. Nobody does anything much. Basically they all stooge around waiting to die. There is no romance, no sex, no adventure, nothing to stir the soul. Just some people are in Australia waiting to die. In the end they do so.

Our teachers attempted to inculcate in us the belief that this was a case of masterly understatement. They failed. Even one’s contemporaries, whose hard-handed masculinity sent shivers of excitement and fear down one’s spine to one little pink toeses, apostrophed this as dull and uninteresting. Although one clearly remembers that it was not they who were bent over the headmaster’s skinny thighs and beaten for their opinions.

This book would be an excellent cure for insomnia.

Zero stars (one can still feel the cane across one’s tender flesh).

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

It’s better to have loved and lost
is that not what they say
Who have not loved to count the cost
of one heartbroken day
A day when time and tide are out
a day to stand alone
A time to understand the doubt
the lie in the word home
Naked born and shed we tears
upon the barren earth
Cry, is it better yet to love
no matter what our birth
Should we turn our back on chance
for fear of bitter sorrow
Or open up our hearts and minds
and love again tomorrow

©️ Jane Jago

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

I had to admire the hint of pathos in his voice and Moth looked at him narrowly.
“Can. Maybe. Do old dragon love Mothwing?”
“Dear heart. Of course I love you. Do I not let you bully me and swear at me?”
She chuckled then, deep in her belly. “Dragon do love Mothwing.” She flew to his shoulder and whispered something in his ear.
“We will have to ask our beloved. But if she would allow I will show you.”
“Allow what?” I was instantly suspicious.
Mandrake explained. “Our beloved fae feels left out when we make love. She would like to touch our skin when we are together but we are afraid you might find the intimacy too much.”
I thought briefly and it came to me that Moth wanted to be a full member of our three in the same way Mandrake did. I smiled at them both.
“I think it would be perfect if Mothwing does whatever she needs to feel part of us being together.”
For a moment, I could feel Moth’s joy like a blazing comet but she banked it down and I knew she was thinking through her emotions.
“For now, food,” she said firmly.
In the warmth of the kitchen we sat down to eat. Mandrake and I had bowls of thick vegetable stew with oatcakes and sharp cheese, while Moth enjoyed honey and oats. When we had eaten our fill, I went to the still room and brought out a bottle of my own metheglin. Moth squealed her delight. Mandrake looked less delighted and I grinned at him.
“Do you not like metheglin?”
“I only tried it one time and that was too brown herby. It seemed more like soup than booze.”
Moth laughed. “Try a small.”
I poured a tiny drop into a glass and he took it with very much the expression of a man about to drink medicine. He barely wet his lips, but then his tongue flicked out to taste the spiced mead. He bowed his head in a very dragonish gesture.
“Mea culpa. This is a thing of beauty.”
Moth flew to his shoulder. “So beloved fae may not have dragon’s share?”
I laughed. “That wasn’t happening anyway, my love. Mothwing with a thick head is no fun to be around.”
I poured drinks geared to our sizes, and I noticed Moth looking suspiciously at the glasses. It seemed, however, that she was mollified by the simple fact that Mandrake’s portion was larger than my own. I grinned at her and she toasted me with the tiny crystal glass I had bought for her when we lived in Dragonheart trying to tutor the princess.
With the sort of unspoken consent that gave me hope for a true blending, we moved into the sitting room, where a noble fire gave warmth and light. For a moment I wondered how the fires in the cottage were so well established when we had been home for less than a day. Mandrake followed my train of thought because he laughed quietly. Moth looked from him to me before she cottoned on.
“Beloved dragon has kinship with fire even in his human form,” she explained.
“Oh. I have never met a true fire lizard before. No wonder they wanted you for the priesthood.”
“I was never cut out for such celibate rigidity. Nor for the idea of superiority to others.”
I touched his cheek. “No. I don’t read you as one of those mean spirited petty priestlings.”
He smiled but there was pain at the back of his smile.
Moth looked at him and when understanding came to her she gave a little cry of distress. She stood on his thighs and patted his face with gentle palms.
“Not be sad. Dragon has us now.”
He couldn’t resist her overflowing love and his smile deepened and warmed. His mouth was beautiful and I put up a finger to trace the outline of his full lips.
“Feel, Moth,” I said. “Our dragon’s lips are as soft as the finest silk.”
She put her hand alongside my finger and, as she was leaning against my chest I felt the thrill of her discovery.
“Smooth.” She laid her own lips against his mouth and licked gently. “Our dragon is beautiful,” she said in an awed voice.
I looked at Mandrake. “Garment off.”
“You too,” his voice was deep and sexy, “and beloved fae”.
So it was that we learned the texture of each other’s skin as the firelight painted our bodies with flickering patterns. Moth was the most surprised of us, not having understood that human skin has many forms and textures. I don’t think I need to explain which of Mandrake’s textures pleased her most…
The three of us eventually retired to the welcoming whiteness of the big bed I had always slept alone in, tumbling into sleep with all the uncomplicated affection of a basket of puppies.
We awoke to sunshine and one of those winter skies that is the palest and clearest of blues and looks as if it goes on forever.
Moth sat up and poked me with a determined forefinger. “Hot springs,” she said.
“Hot springs?” Mandrake was visibly fascinated by the idea.
“It’s a human thing. Two valleys over. They have dammed a set of hot springs and it is possible to swim in the hot water even when it is snowing.”
“Not snow today.”
“No, Moth, I never said it would. I was just explaining the hot springs.”
She thought for a minute. “So you was. We go swimming?”
“I don’t see why not. Mandrake?”
“Oh yes. I’d love to.”
“That’s settled then. A quick breakfast and we can be off.”
“Will we be flying there?”
“No. We go there as human, and it would be next to impossible to explain a dragon. We can use the quad bike that sits in the shed at the bottom of the steps most of the time. I’ll even let you drive.”
He looked a bit embarrassed. “Two things. How does Moth pass as human? And I don’t know how to drive.”
“Moth doesn’t need to pass, she just discourages human people from noticing her. And driving isn’t a problem.”
Moth patted his face. “Beloved will teach.” She became brisk. “Up now.”
Mandrake rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, leaving me to be prodded and pushed by a tiny tyrant.
“Stop it, Moth, or we won’t go. Let me at least piss and wash my face before you start in with the bullying.”
She giggled as I had intended, but she did at least stop poking at me with her pointy little fingers.

Jane Jago

Ponies and Progeny or the graceless art of equine management as envisaged by the pen of Jane Jago and inspired by the genius of Norman Thelwell (1923-2004)

Today we consider the importance of catching your pony…

***** ***** *****

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

When I was young I’d touch my toes
To prove my elasticity
Now I can barely find my nose
With any authenticity
I was so proud of my blonde locks
All smooth and shiny bright
Now I’m more about the socks
I wear in bed at  night
Back in the day I wanted more
Excitement no safe bets
But that was in the days before
Arthritis and night sweats

Jane Jago