Until relatively recently, I thought I had seen just about everything in the way of persuading silly women to part with their cash.

Oh boy was I wrong…

The wife of one of the more intelligent grandsons brought it to my attention with a snort of derision. It seems she had received a birthday present list from her sister – which included specific items of ‘yoga wear’ from a company we shall refer to as X to protect the innocent. Man, oh man, do they know how to charge. We could see nothing on their webshite under fifty quid, and as granddaughter-in-law so succinctly put it she certainly don’t like her sister in the financial bracket that madam’s specific wants fell into. 

We laughed a bit and sent the offending bitch a subscription to a cookery magazine (given that she don’t cook and barely eats).

However, this piqued my curiosity so I spent an instructive hour researching ‘exercise’ clothing. 

Sheesh.

Leggings ranging in price from a hundred quid to a grand.

Tit squashing ‘support tanks’ fifty quid to the sky.

Socks at fifty quid a pair. (Somebody is gonna be so pissed off when the sock fairy nicks one of them bastards.)

Cashmere ‘warm down’ suits (whatever the feck they are) with a starting price of around £250. 

Even my friend Mavis’ favourite granny shop sells these cashmere trackies by another name… I have now checked with Mave who says she wouldn’t be seen dead as the cashmere stuff is all beige – her taste runs more to hot pink, fuchsia and tomato red. But I digress.

I quick add up on m’fingers had me reaching for a ciggy.

I reckon that to join the yoga generation you have to spend upwards of a grand on clothing, plus a yoga mat, a course of classes presided over by a stringy man whose wedding tackle seems about to escape the confines of his strangely shapeless underkecks, and a Nissan Leaf (other electric cars with slightly less silly names are available) to arrive in.

I may be old. I may be fat. But flip me at least I have never spent a young fortune in order to be miserable…

London, 2030, an August night so hot the roads are soft underfoot and even the feral dogs are staying at home. The decoy stalks the meanest streets, wearing thigh-high needle-heeled boots and a whitish trenchcoat. The puddles underfoot are dirty and scummed with fuel oil, as she steps in them her feet fracture the rainbow reflections into millions of shards of light.

Above her, Jack looks down and his mouth spreads into a rictus grin.
“Such a naughty girl,” he mouths as his hand fidgets with the ten-inch blade he is holding. “Just a little closer. Please.”

The woman keeps on coming and the coat swings open exposing her bare flesh to his heated gaze. For a moment he wonders that she cannot feel his glance, but soon loses interest in that thought as the prostitute, for that is what she must be, steps into the pool of sulphurous light under his streetlamp.

He jumps, meaning to land on her back and bear her to the ground, but he misjudges his leap and lands beside her. She turns and he aims a slash at her unprotected throat. Only she isn’t there. She’s behind him.
“You are under arrest on suspicion…”
Before she can get out another word he leaps screaming wordlessly.

A straight-arm jab to the larynx kills him instantly.

The golem removes its mask and wig and its red eyes glow briefly before it reports.
“Suspect apprehended. Unfortunately he didn’t come quietly.”

© jane jago 

I was a very normal child. Like every other when I was at home in the holidays from boarding school, my darling Mummy would come upstairs at nine o’clock, sit on the side of my bed and read to me some something she thought I should like. Thus it was, when I was about fifteen, she came into my room without warning, to my consternation and embarrassment, and plopped herself down on the edge of my bed a treasured tome clutched in one hand and a glass of Pernod and Angostura bitters gripped in the other and said, in her loving motherly way: “Oh stop playing with it and just get your pajamas on, Moons. Twin Peaks starts in ten minutes and we have a whole chapter to read.”

Thus began my initiation into the phenomenon of Middle Earth with its elves, dragons, dwarves, trolls – and hobbits. It was revealed to me a half-chapter at a time and read in a monotone that preceded, but would be later reflected by, the satnav lady. And here is my review.

My Review of ‘The Hobbit’ by JRR Tolkien

My first thoughts are regarding the central character of the story which is a creature called ‘a hobbit’. I still recall my immense disgust at the concept of it having hairy feet. After that initial moment of repugnance, it was extremely difficult for me to feel any empathy for this creature at all. The hygiene issues were too overwhelming.

It also turns out later in the story that he is a cheat and a thief.

There are also some dwarves who seem to have escaped from another story about Snow White all called things like Loin and Groin and a dragon called Smirk or some such. I did feel for the poor little creature that lived in the caves and had to eat raw fish – I too despise sushi – especially when the hobbit stole his birthday present. That used to happen to me at my boarding school.

The subtitle of the book is ‘There and Back Again’ – which is, I believe, a pretty good summation of the pointlessness of the whole, except we never really know where ‘there’ is or why or who – or how.

Zero Stars.

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.

Kela looked at the babe lying peacefully asleep in the wooden cradle. Today had been the worst day. The villagers had come to her cottage and threatened to kill this innocent one because of her grey-green skin and long projecting ears.
“She’s demon spawn,” they said. “Cursed. Born cursed. And she’ll curse the whole village.”
If Kela hadn’t been the one who had brought so many of their own babes safely into this world and that they feared her reputation for magic, they might have set the place on fire. As it was they gave her a month to get rid of the child.
She had found the babe all alone in a small nest, lovingly woven by someone who clearly wanted to keep the infant safe from the creatures of the forest. A blanket of fur patches, scraps that had been sewn together in haste, her only covering from the elements, and an obsidian trinket on a piece of thong around her neck.
She knew what this child was and something of why it was left there. This was one of the Undermountain People, those her fellow humans deemed demons for their strange looks, incomprehensible language and inability to endure sunlight. She knew very little of their secretive ways, but she had seen their abandoned girl-babies sometimes, half-devoured by wild animals. Always girls. Perhaps some of their daughters were sacrificed to placate a heartless deity or rejected for some unknown imperfection.
It was a ten-day walk to the nearest entrance to their realm and in her mind, Kela could picture a young woman running alone through the dark and hiding in the day to find a place she could leave her beloved daughter where she might have the slightest chance of life. A chance she now indeed had. But not as she was.
Sighing, Kela lifted the babe in her arms and held her close. She could feel in her a future of greatness, a future in which she would lead and teach, a future she could never have if she remained as she was.
Summoning her magic, Kela shared her life-seared soul with the purity and innocence of the child’s and for a time nothing seemed to happen. Then she looked down and saw the human infant in her arms and the grey-green talons her own fingers had become.
She took very little before she set the cottage alight herself. Her life there was over. Walking all night, she left the human baby on the steps of a loving home for foundlings, before vanishing into the forest.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Namaste you wonderful, desirable and aspiring individual! This bijou blog is here to help you achieve your best ever ‘you’. Here, I offer my help and assistance in reshaping your shape and doctoring your decor internally and externally, to bring your lifestyle into line with your aspirations.

Names

When you think about it your name is more than just the specific noise that someone makes to attract your attention. It is also the most intimate aspect of your public self. The core of your essence summed up in a single word. It stands to reason that your name should be the summation of your aspirations – it should express to the world the way in which you wish to be seen.
This means that the first step to the new, glorious, bountiferous and amazing YOU has to be setting that goal and reorienting your whole being towards it by making that name change.
You must, of course, meditate deeply and dwell on the matter in the consensual sanctity of your own unclouded consciousness, but here are some suggestions to show how this works:

Pianoforte – this, you might think, is a name for one for whom music is central to their lives, but on the contrary it is a name for one who strives for balance and harmony, who seeks to show how the dark and light of life’s path can be combined into an upright, a grand – or at least baby-grand – lifestyle.

Avocado – once upon a time this beautiful green shade was the height of fashion for bathroom suites and as such the name is a wonderful reminder of the importance of history – and good plumbing – in our lives. Avocado is someone who wants to show they have strong connections with their roots and is seeking to live an ever greener lifestyle.

Serendipity – the perfect name for one who wants to let go of trying to organise their life, keep a good job, maintain relationships and have a tidy house. Instead they will allow blind faith in good fortune to determine their life, and let the world know that they have abandoned such old-fashioned notions as personal responsibility. Serendipity is a child of the universe and floating free on the breeze of random happenstance.

Prosecco – no, not a name for a wine lover, but for someone who seeks to bring cheer, laughter and bubbles to all around them. After all, who does not love Prosecco? Just to have your name on their guest list will bring a smile to someone’s face.

Lucida – and no, you may not take this one as it is all my own, chosen to express my fluid and fluent ability to communicate the essentials of improving your lifestyle and decorated with a charming letter ‘a’ to show that I am an A lister in my art.

So once you have made your new name choice, how do you tell the world that you have made this momentous step?
The best way is of course to have a reveal party and invite all your family and friends.
Picture the scene, you are all gathered around a pinata shaped to resemble you, and all your favourite people beat that old you with sticks until it bursts open and frees a rain of multicoloured cards each with your new name inscribed in a flourish of expensive calligraphy!
Could there be a more magical moment?
And once you have your new, motivational, name, you are ready to take on the challenge of changing your lifestyle to become the you that you always wanted to be!

Namaste!
Lucida the Lateral Lifestyle Coach

The first white frost awoke 
To beauty, flowers dead and iced with lace 
As overnight the days of autumn 
Died. And winter took their place

The first white frost bedaubed
The trees with silver shining bright
And round our feet the sucking mud 
Grew crisp, and turned from dark to light

The first white frost awoke
To beauty, nature as we walked
And all about our heads our voices
Misted as we talked

The first white frost, a harbinger
Of winter’s freezing bite
Made us lift our heads to to glory
And our hearts to feel delight

©jane jago 

“So, run this past me again, Drew – you want me to join a unit that does not exist to help babysit a group of the Vanguard’s freaks and failures? I am sure you have held back the bad news until last.”
Drew felt himself wince at the cutting tone. Prudence Armitage was not one to mince her words – it was more usual for her words to mince those she spoke with.
“Purdie, Purdie…”
“Don’t you ‘Purdie’ me, Andrew Gilroy! I have just got back from a reconnaissance mission and my mood is foul.”
He loved the way her slightly upper-class accent lingered over the last word, making it sound almost onomatopoeic. But then he adored almost everything about her and had as long as he knew her. Seeing her sitting in her mahogany and glass office, her back straight and her head slightly tilted up so the chisel sharpness of her profile was accentuated, he was irresistibly reminded of their first meeting in Rome. Then she had coal-black hair framing those amazing grey-blue eyes and a gloriously athletic body. She still had the body, but now her choppily short hair was steel, as if it had finally come to match every other aspect of her. For maybe the thousandth time he wondered why he had never asked her to marry him. Now it was twenty years and a hundred encounters too late.
Sighing slightly, Drew turned away from the piercing iron gaze which made him begin to feel uncomfortable like being under the twin barrels of a shotgun. He picked up something, anything, from her desk and looked at it without seeing.
“Silver medal. European Junior Gymnastics Championships. I was 13 years old and trying not to be seen as an overachiever. Even at Roedean that could lose you street cred. Coming second was my social salvation.”
He put the framed medal down quickly and pulled his attention back to the matter in hand. With Prudence, honesty and straight delivery were always the best policy.
“The thing is Purdie, we really are in a bit of a jam. The whole notion of apprentices and preparation for initiation, filtering out the unsuitable as we go is being made redundant by the present crisis. There has been nothing like it in centuries. Sanctorum was not designed to be a – mainstream operation unit. It was set up to be what its name suggests – an asylum for those we couldn’t risk in the open.”
“More like a semi-secure unit for the crazies who can’t adjust to being able to see demons.”
“That is an exaggeration. It has just managed those with adjustment issues. But the numbers recently…” he broke off. Then working to keep the slight trace of his near desperation from his voice, said: “It is getting very bad. You will have heard they opened a new training facility on the Perthshire Estate – already there is talk of a third being needed. And Sanctorum…”
“Sanctorum is being overrun by maladjusted post-millennials who think they are at Hogwarts?”
“Not quite.”
“But close enough?”
Drew just looked at her. He knew she was being deliberately difficult, but as always he had no idea why. The neat grey outfit gave away nothing of her personality. She wore it like armour. 
Sometimes he wondered how she felt when most of her peers – those she had been in training with and who had become her friends – and others much younger than herself, were now in the upper echelons of the Vanguard’s ranks and she was still a lowly commander. It was not that Purdie had ever lacked ability, but as Gita Sharma had read out of from Purdie’s psychological profile at the selection board for this post, she was not suited to take on the responsibility of an independent command. She was, Gita had observed, simply the best lieutenant – fiercely loyal, well able to give orders and run field-missions, so long as the ultimate authority was not herself. 
If Purdie was consciously aware of that aspect of her nature and the degree to which it defined her prospects, he had no idea. But she had never shown any sign of resentment even at the promotions of others who had once served under her – or any particular desire to seek a place higher than the one she had held now. Secretly, he suspected she had no wish to leave active service and trade her weapons for a desk and computer terminal.
“Really Drew, you know I have all the maternal instincts of a seahorse. Is a baby-sitting job the best use of my abilities? We are being overrun – what happened in Penrith is just the tip of a very ugly iceberg. We need every capable initiate in the field twenty-four seven. It is not the time for me to be sitting on my bum in a glorified…”
“Sanctorum is a fully operational unit within the Vanguard.” Drew spoke more sharply than he had intended “It has had the highest proportion of mission losses of any active unit in the Vanguard over the last year. They get sent in where anyone more…”
“You mean they are seen as disposable cannon-fodder? Or is their commander a useless wanker?”
“No. I mean it has stood where others would have run. Its CO is a highly competent woman, Janice Roslaird. She has been doing an incredible job with people that no one else can handle. Sanctorum is…”
Purdie lifted a hand to silence him.
“It’s alright Drew, you don’t need to give me the full heart-wringing oration – I have already heard the sound-byte.”
Gods, the woman could be so damn cold! Drew felt his anger rising, then saw the slightly mocking look in Purdie’s expression and bit back his intended retort.
“It’s an assignment, not a volunteer position,” he heard himself say tightly. “I didn’t come here to persuade you – only to inform you. A courtesy between old friends.”
She looked away then, for once perhaps shamed. He could only hope.
“Who put me up for this?” she asked, still avoiding his eyes.
“It’s not like we have many options. Roslaird needs a rottweiler – but she gets you instead.”
“She asked for support?”
“Of course not. She may even resent you – I am sure you would love that.”
Purdie shook her head briefly, but whether in denial or resignation, he could not tell. Then she got up and moved around the desk to stand with him. For the first time he noticed the gouges on her neck and the patch of naked scalp where a row of stitches ran into her hair. Close up he could see etched into her face the marks of exhaustion together with contained physical pain and…
“We lost Nish in the Penrith thing,” she said, as though reporting the loss of a cricket match rather than of her most trusted Sergeant for the last five years. Possibly, rumour had it, something more. “He was torn apart by demons – literally. Bits and pieces. Nothing left.”
Andrew swallowed, unsure now.
I’m s-sorry. I was not informed.”
“It’s alright, you are in good company. His twin sister can never be told and his parents will have no body to bury and be left to wonder forever why he didn’t come home.” She sounded almost offhand, but the storm-sky eyes were unfocused. “Still, you know what they say – the war must go on.”
“Purdie, I…” 
She moved her body slightly in easy evasion so his comforting hand reached only into air and he withdrew it quickly.
“So. Who? Who do I have to blame for this? Tell me.”
“I can’t tell you that. You know I can’t.”
“Karl? Christa? Josh?”
Drew shook his head. His silence determined and final. Purdie closed her eyes in resignation, head slightly bowed.
“When?”
“Tomorrow – unless you need medical attention? No? You are sure? Then you’ll get the orders tomorrow to report to Karl at HQ. He’s to brief you formally, after which you will be removed from our active files and transferred to Sanctorum.”
She nodded once, then managed to recapture a brief waspishness which Drew felt was almost entirely for his benefit.
“Does it have to be Karl? He is such an adolescent with attitude, and his cynicism…”
“…matches yours?”
It was always hard to know with Purdie, but it was just possible that the warmth in the smile she gave him then was more than just acknowledgement of his attempt at humour. Whilst he was still trying to decide if that was so, she reached over the desk and swept her grey jacket from the back of her chair.
“Take me for a drink, Drew, and I might even forgive you.”
Following her from the office, he wondered if Karl and Gita really knew what they were doing in pushing for Purdie to be given this assignment and wondered again if he had been wise to let himself be persuaded into supporting the notion…

E.M. Swift-Hook

A man with a very strange accent phoned me today. He seemed to be under the misapprehension that he could sell me an outdoor bath. That wasn’t what he called it, but what else is a fecking great tub of hot bubbling water in the garden…

It would, he assured me, be just the thing for family parties. And simply super for romantic evenings with my significant other. He was so enchanted by the picture he was painting that I put the phone out in the garden and went back to watching some halfwit trying to cook a hugely complicated chocolate sculpture – of which more another time. 

For now let us examine the idea that my life might be completed by the addition of a ‘hot tub’. There are so many holes in that hypothesis that I’m not even sure where to start. Let’s just jump in at the deep end shall we? 

*Laughs immoderately at her own joke and lights a ciggy*

Number one: romantic with my ‘hubby’ as the geezer on the phone referred to the late Mr Granny. The late rather points out the little

difficulty here.  Besides which, even if he was still favouring me with his presence and the occasional uprising of his wrinkled willy, what woman in their right mind wants to share a tub of hot water with a person who is going to fart in the water to make his own bubbles…

NB. My current significant other is a Jack Russell terrier whose water aversion is only equalled by how hard he bites anyone trying to introduce his rotund little person to anything wet.

Number two: family parties in a bubble bath? The thought of the bodies of most of my family without significant amounts of fabric coverage is sufficient to frighten the stoutest of heart. And those who aren’t already wrinkled and wobbly are young and randy.

Think about young and randy for a moment and consider what such persons might find to do in a tub full of hot bubbling water.

Precisely.

And then ask yourself how long young and randy’s bodily excretions might possibly live in warm water.

I rest my case.

I’m now off to rescue my phone from the flower bed…

Our king summoned us on his great crusade to bring right to the northern world, and to avenge his brother foully slain by the treasonous Slavs. We followed him with glad hearts and high courage, willing to endure the vicissitudes of war to serve our beloved homeland. But we found little glory and much pain. By the time we had crossed the harsh steppes of Slavia, and reached the border of Wolfland, many of us had died, many of us had run away, and most of those left were sorely afraid. There was worse to come…

Just before sunset on the day that changed many lives forever, we arrived in a broad, cold, flat-bottomed valley after running the gauntlet of the most frightening weather I have ever known: an ice storm of unprecedented ferocity in which sharpened spikes of frozen water as long as a man’s finger rained from the sky, piercing unprotected skin like vicious arrows. My companions and I were among the last arrivals as we were carrying several of those who had been injured by the cruel ice. We were cold and wet, but glad to get out of the screaming wind with its cargo of flying death. King Steven rode among us on his great horse, Deathbringer, lifting our spirits us with his very presence and promising victory would be ours on the very next day. I cheered and clapped along with my comrades, but a still, small voice inside my head insisted that our great king was lying, and that nothing lay before us except more pain and misery.

I was helping to tend the wounded, and my friends were occupied in a fruitless search for firewood, when the valley was filled with the strains of unearthly music. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere, it chilled and heated the blood, it uplifted the spirit and cast down the soul, it was beauty and ugliness, it was kindness and cruelty. I fell to my knees on the ground. A hand shook my shoulder. ‘Look up there.’

I forced my eyes upwards and I beheld her, silhouetted against a blood-red sunset. It was the Winter Queen in all her glory, mounted on her coal-black stallion, and with the Diadem of a Thousand Stars winking on her brow. As I watched, her horse rose on his hind legs and stayed there with the lady’s hair streaming behind her in the wind, and dyed crimson by the setting sun. Then I heard her voice, as cold and precise as the shards of ice that pierced our skin that afternoon. It went straight to my heart and lodged there like a dart.

‘Here is blasphemy dressed in the clothes of piety. Here is the brother of an oathbreaker bringing an army to do war on the innocent and the brave. Know that this will not be tolerated. Your forefathers in Valhalla spit upon your names. Men of Scandi, return to your homes and consider your sins, lest the wrath of the Gods fall on your heads. You have until sunrise tomorrow.’

And then the stallion rose into the air once more before disappearing as mysteriously as he arrived. The rocky promontory stood empty, and the song of the Gods slowly faded to nothing.

Our king fell back in his saddle with a face the colour of ashes. Then he rallied. ‘Trickery’ he cried in a great voice with spittle flying from his lips. ‘Trickery and witchcraft. I promise half my kingdom to the man who brings me the head of that foul sorceress.’

Some ran for the cliffside clutching weapons and ropes, but I, and many others, had heard what we had heard, and our hearts felt like shards of ice in our breasts.

It was a long night, a very long night, during which the discomfort of our bodies mirrored the disquiet of our souls. We were in a bad way, with little food, no firewood, and tents so sodden they froze as we tried to erect them. Even among the rawest recruits, it was noticed that the king and his Ox Guard did not share in the discomforts of the army. Savoury smells emanated from the tight circle of the royal encampment, a great fire burned to warm the royal heart, and the sound of drinking songs split the solemn night air. The mood in the camp grew more and more restive as the night wore on, and when the lords who had come here to support the king went to the circle of his guards to beg firing and sustenance for their men they were driven away with harsh words and sharp pikes. Nobody knew what the morrow would bring, and many of us endured a night of terror.

I sat alone on the frozen tundra with the words of the lady alternately burning and freezing in my breast. I wanted to run away, but I could not. I had to wait for morning in the hope of seeing the Winter Queen once more – even if it cost me my life.

From The Barefoot Runners by  Jane Jago

This is a story that hit me right between the eyes.

I always remember the first time I saw Mumsie crying. She was standing there with tears flowing from her eyes and holding a knife in her hand. At the time I was, mayhap, still a mere young teen but aware enough in the ways of the world to know that a weeping parent must mean an extreme of emotion and a knife gripped in one hand could only mean one thing. She was going to murder Daddy.

I ran into the room shrieking in my piping soprano voice (I was a late developer), begging her to put down the knife. She glared at me through red-rimmed eyes and stabbed the point into the chopping board.

“Oh for fuck’s sake Moons, I’m just chopping the sodding onions. Go and do something useful. Or do something – anything! Here!” and she grabbed a book from the shelf beside her and hurled it at me. The corner of the book hit me between the eyes causing a bruise that lasted several days and after I had redeemed it and found a solitary corner of the lounge, I read it.

My review of ‘The Little Prince’ by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

This is a book written by a Frenchman who clearly should have been born English as it is the most translated book in the French language. Had he been born English it would have needed less translating.

The story is very sweet and cloying.

An airman crashes in the desert and for some unbeknownst reason meets a small boy who is suffering from delusions of grandeur. Instead of telling the clearly deranged infant to leave him alone, our hero befriends him and has to listen to a load of unbelievable tales about life on other planets.

There is a fox in it too.

I never understood the point of it.

Nil stars.

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.