Two Women and Some Books
I gave him the glad eye years ago
He clearly remembers the occasion
When he chased me beneath the mistletoe
And I had no thought of evasion
And all through the years as they tumble by
And we tumble into the hay
He reminds me it’s all the fault of my eye
As it noticed him gladly that day
The Working Title crew bring you the opportunity to enjoy wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica…
Aries.
The mythical ram is surprisingly fond of roast lamb with all the accompaniments. If you want to start a fight with an Aries suggest that redcurrant jelly is a more proper condiment than mint sauce
Taurus.
Taureans are not, by nature, attracted to gourmet dishes. They are prone to consider food as fuel rather than pleasure. Generally speaking Taurus cooks consider any food that takes longer to prepare than eat a waste of time
Gemini.
For a sign represented by twins Gemini people have remarkably restrained appetites. They can, however, always be tempted by chocolate – particularly in the shape of a certain biscuit and caramel bar, which comes conveniently two to a packet
Cancer.
Cancerians tend to look sideways at any food they consider to be ‘messed about’ – by which they mean anything that isn’t served with chips and peas. Fish in batter is a favourite although they are willing to allow a sausage with the proviso it contains neither herbs nor garlic
Leo.
Leo’s appetites are as large and genial as those of the sign’s spirit animal. Shepherds pie, beef stew, and anything on which you might sensibly pour custard are all greeted with roars of delight
Virgo.
Sushi, sashimi, raw vegetables and hummus. For some inexplicable reason the zodiac’s virgins like their food raw. It has been postulated that they equate cooking food with the removal of its virtue
Libra.
Baked goods of a complex nature appeal to this sign’s affinity with measuring devices. If you would ensnare a Libra with your culinary skills one would humbly suggest the croquembouche
Scorpio.
Just shove an unfeasibly large amount of booze in whatever you propose to feed a Scorpion. Boeuf bourguignon. Champagne sorbet. Chicken in cider. Get the buggers drunk and they will sing your praises forever.
Sagittarius.
The archer sees himself as a gourmet of endlessly refined tastes. Sadly, though, this illusion masks an insane desire for the pub grub incarnation of lasagne – complete with chips (fries if you are a colonial)
Capricorn.
This sign is characterised by the inability to sit still for more than five minutes. Ideally, then, hand held food of simple pedigree. Give the goat a pasty and he will be your slave forever.
Aquarius.
The house of responsibility. Requires to read the food map before eating anything. Ideal meal is locally sourced and heavily vegetable based. Borsch and spelt bread is an ideal. But do stand back when an Aquarian belched
Pisces.
It is perhaps surprising that Pisceans love to eat fish. It seems to resonate with some masochistic inner swimming thing. Salmon en croute is the absolute apogee of their imagination.
Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…
Caldwell was the newest gnome in the Garden, and he wasn’t making himself popular with his constant questioning. Today it was Ernie’s turn, but even that worthy’s monumental patience was wearing thin.
“You casts your hook into the pond. And you sits.”
“Wassa point of that?”
“If you sticks around you might even find out.”
Caldwell sat on the mossy bank moodily throwing twigs into the water. He was completely unprepared for the arrival of Big Bertha with a wheelbarrow.
“Oh good. You’re doing nothing. There’s manure to be shifted.”
Caldwell quickly learned the benefits of fishing as a hobby.
That day of all days when making bloody silly jokes is all right.
Only it isn’t. It isn’t funny to send your sister a photoshopped image of her boyfriend in bed with a blonde. It isn’t funny to put an announcement of your mother’s death in the local paper. It isn’t funny to befriend somebody online only to make them the but of your annual ‘humour’ fest.
Just stop it.
It’s not funny. You’re not funny. Leave humour to those who don’t equate being funny with making people cry. Stop being an asshat for ten minutes and consider how you would enjoy being the but of one of your own ‘jokes’.
For those of you who find themselves on the receiving end of one of these gems of sparkling ‘wit’ I have the following advice.
If the perpetrator is an online acquaintance, by all means retweet or reblog the offensive item adding one or more of the following hashtags:
#sentbytheguywiththegherkindick
#sentbyadiscardedlover
#sentbythebitchwhohasnofriends
#thanksasshole
I think you get the idea.
However, should the ‘joker’ be known to you outside cyberspace, vengeance is perfectly acceptable. Consider one of the following:
Itching powder in the underwear.
Chilli in the wine
Pepper in the chocolates
And the classic – A kipper wired to the exhaust pipe of their car
Soooooo. To recap. Don’t do personal April Fools jokes. They are seldom kindly and never funny.
But.
If you do. Expect vengeance…
Have fun until the next thing pisses me off.
Granny
Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…
You are old and the fast passing years
Should fill you with sorrow and fears
It shouldn’t be you
With a camera crew
And a blog about sex and craft beers
There are many obligations which fall on the broad shoulders of a temple warden. Not only are there the endless administrative duties, the constant chasing for funds, the arbitrary dispensing of justice, and the providing of grave spaces for those whose bodies will never be found, there is also the
visiting of the sick.
In this, as in everything else, Maljie was assiduous in performing her duties.
The visiting of the sick has many aspects. It isn’t merely boosting the morale of the invalid, (or in the case of those enjoying ill-health, their long suffering family) it is also ensuring that proper medical help has been summoned and that the patient is being properly cared for.
Thus in some households the arrival of Maljie was on a par with the arrival of an avenging angel. In some cases it was the family who feared the arrival, in other cases it was the invalid.
But one afternoon will give you a feel for the role Maljie played. I had been encouraged to accompany her. First on the list for the day was Gamma Dilwin. A lady of immense age, so old in fact that it is one of her granddaughters, a respectable married woman with children of her own, who cares for her. Gamma has her own home and refuses to leave. As Maljie and I arrived, she met the granddaughter leaving. The younger woman was carrying a tray on which her grandmother’s mid-day meal had been served. I surveyed the tray, even empty the aroma that lingered was appetising. There had been soup, followed by minced horrocks and vegetables. There was still a slice of new bread, generously buttered, which the old lady hadn’t wanted. This was followed by a bread and butter pudding.
We went in and the old lady was sitting by the fire.
“Ha, somebody come to see if the old woman’s dead yet.”
“Hello Gamma, how are you doing?”
“Badly Maljie, badly. Nobody ever visits, I survive of crusts and whatever that slut of a granddaughter can spare.”
“Things are so bad?”
“Worse.”
I noticed the pot of tea keeping warm on the hearth, the well banked up fire and the fact that the room was warm and clean. Maljie diverted Gamma’s talk to mutual acquaintances, (all dead, hanged and rightly so) Gamma’s offspring, (drunkards and ne’er do wells,) and the doings in the city. These latter provided Gamma with infinite satisfaction, things were collapsing into chaos in a most gratifying manner.
On our way out we met Gamma’s oldest son who was paying his daily visit, he brought with him more coal and some cakes his wife had baked.
Then it was on to our next destination, the home of Artos Wellbeck. Maljie had to detour to collect something so I went directly there. I was admitted by his daughter, Artos was in bed. He was suffering from ague, something that had come up from the river and left him prone to bouts of shivering and fever. When he learned Maljie was arriving he immediately threw back the bed clothes.
“Daughter, where’s me britches?”
“What do you want your britches for, Father, you’re in bed.”
“Be damned if I’m going to have Maljie see me lying in bed like an old man.”
“You’ll kill yourself.”
“So that way she’ll see me in a shroud and I won’t be there to feel embarrassed about it.”
With me acting as his valet, we got the old man dressed and through into the front room. As he sat in from of the fire I shaved him and we even trimmed his hair. I stepped back and looked at him then glanced at his daughter. She winked at me. Certainly he looked presentable. He was obviously unwell but he looked better for being out of bed.
At this point Maljie arrived. Here we sat and drank a selection of infusions the daughter served and we spent a pleasant hour. Artos seemed to be bearing up well, but I did notice there were times he would put his mug down and clutch the arms of his chair to keep himself from shivering too obviously.
Finally we felt we ought to make our apologies and leave.
The daughter asked, “Maljie, could you get him into bed please, he’ll not take any notice of me.”
Maljie, in her sternest and most formal manner said, “I am a respectable lady, what will people say if word gets out I have been seen whisking Artos Wellbeck off to bed.”
Old Artos hooted with laughter, his daughter blushed and Maljie left. I helped them get Artos back to bed and caught up with Maljie at the home of Jinatte Mallerstang. Madam Jinatte was of the same generation as Maljie.
Normally an active lady she had suffered from various complaints. Her doctor was Mord Filch so we had no worries about the medical care she was receiving, but her morale was poor. Maljie had taken to visiting her every afternoon to lift her spirits.
Jinatte was cared for by her husband, a decent enough chap although not the most competent person around the house. A daughter-in-law used to drop in daily to make sure that he didn’t inadvertently poison her.
As the husband went out to fetch us coffee, Maljie reached cross to Jinatte’s medicine bottle and hastily topped it up with plum brandy. By the time the husband arrived back we were all sitting innocently chatting about minor matters at the shrine.
When we left I asked Maljie, “Have you been topping her up with brandy every day?”
“Yes, but she’s had to be careful, she has to make sure that when her husband puts everything away in an evening, there’s a little bit less in the bottle than there was the day before.”
It was a few weeks later when Jinatte and her husband graced one of the events the shrine had put on. I asked the husband how Jinatte was.
“She’s fine. That Doctor Filch is a wonderful doctor, one bottle of his medicine got her back on her feet in a week.”
And now a brief note from Jim Webster. It’s really just to inform you that I’ve just published a full Tallis Steelyard novel. Yes, the rumours are true.
Tallis Steelyard, the man who considered jotting down a couple of anecdotes to be ridiculously hard work, and considered the novella form to be the very pinnacle of literary labour, has been cozened into producing a novel.
It is, ‘Tallis Steelyard. A Fear of Heights.’
“What’s this?”
Granny Mim picked up Tom.
“It’s called a cassette tape and it has songs on it.”
Tom held it to his ear but he heard no music.
“Do it play?”
“Not any more love. Even if I had a player it would be too old.”
Tom frowned.
“Why Granna keep it then?”
Granny Mim put Tom back on the floor and gently took the cassette from his chubby fingers.
“Somethings we still keep even when they are useless, pet. This cassette has love songs your Grandad recorded from the radio for me back when we were first married.”
The librarian raised a weary brow. “You may not demand anything of me. I am my own mistress. I do this because I so choose. This night is to give hope to the children and the small things. It is the one night they may safely leave their story books and be happy.”
Damballa Ouedo actually shuffled his feet. “Sorry ma’am. Never thought about it like that. Can we come and listen then?”
“If you can take forms less likely to cause distress.”
The light shattered before it coalesced into two toddlers who stood hand in hand with identical hopeful looks on their faces.
“Very well. You may come.”
They followed her sturdy little figure to the edge of the gathering where they were easily absorbed into the waiting crowd.
The librarian took her seat and opened the Book. Her audience grew silently attentive as she began to read.
“And it came to pass…”
As the story unfolded those spoken of left the pages of the Book and enacted their parts as they stood on an invisible stage high in the cold air. Each was greeted with an outpouring of love from those who listened, even the sweet-faced donkey, and the herders of sheep, and the eastern gentlemen bringing unsuitable gifts brought gasps of delight from the children, and the small creatures, who heard the story at this time every year and loved it more each time they heard it.
All too soon, it seemed, the story ended and the librarian closed the book – leaving only a star shining brightly high in the dome of the library ceiling.
A dragonish voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd. “Even though I know it ends badly, I like that story.”
From ‘The Night Library at Christmas’ one of the stories in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago which is available for pre-order now and is out on 10 April.
Cover design is an original artwork by Ian Bristow, an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action on ART with IAN
Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…
I am old as you rightly suggest
And often I don’t look at my best
But I just think sod that
And shove on a hat
And stick out my oversized chest
The series in now complete with the release of Iconoclast: A Necessary End by E.M Swift-Hook, the final book of Fortune’s Fools.
The trip around MyRyDyn was not as big a success as Durban had hoped it might be, although it did have its moments. Avilon was distant, seeming preoccupied a lot of the time and Raine alternated between enthusiastic child and sulky teen, which made the outing a trying challenge even to Durban with his natural buoyancy and good humour. They visited an outlying pod which housed a fitness suite, including a swimming pool, then spent a while flying around and getting some spectacular views before Raine got bored and restless.
“Why can’t we go to the main hub?” she demanded. “It looks like the only place on this prison-planet that might have someone under the age of ninety.”
“It’s also the only place on the planet where they have any kind of half-way decent surveillance,” Durban explained.
“And what’s with that? You criminals?”
Her disconcertingly direct stare held something more. An edge of what could even be fear. Durban had to remind himself that this was a child who had been ripped from the only life she really knew and hurled into a maelstrom of confusing messages and expectations. Avilon looked away and out of the window. She clearly felt it was not in her remit to deal with such things.
“No,” he said firmly. “Criminals are people who break the law to profit from the misery of others.” It wasn’t going to help anyone if he went into detailed explanations about how in the past they had indeed been criminals by any measure of the word and were still seen as such by the authorities.
“Then what’s with all the secrecy?”
The small vehicle they were in wove at speed through the pillars and stanchions that supported the habitation pods. Below, the eternal green and grey mist concealed whatever the surface might have to offer, whilst above the sky was a clear unclouded turquoise.
“If you look over there,” Durban pointed. “You can see the observation platform. That’s where we’ll have lunch. It has an impressive collection of artefacts that were found on the planet from early attempts to colonise. There were even a couple of domed settlements here once.”
Avilon gave a brief laugh.
“I’m sure Raine will love that.”
Raine herself looked sharply at Avilon then pushed out her lower lip, shoulders hardening.
“What would I want with some old shit like that? And you didn’t answer my question”
Durban pushed a smile onto his face.
“Well, that’s because it’s not something I can talk about at the moment. And you might even like the artefact collection as they have some early settlement weaponry there.”
He was spared a riposte by a sudden drop in height as their vehicle dipped sharply to manoeuvre under the main hub and avoid the cluster of traffic there. For a few moments they were in the green-grey mist and the eerie lighting effect took Raine’s attention. By the time they were lifting out of it again they were getting alerts for landing and the small flyer was being sprayed with decontaminants as it passed through a docking tunnel on the observation platform. The spray of jets created a dramatic effect with droplets cascading over the windows and the lighting added a prismatic effect, splitting into rainbow colours. Raine was grinning when they finally got out.
“That was well weird,” she said, and Durban had to smile at the sudden childlike enthusiasm in her voice as she went on. “You see those freaky clouds? And when we went vroop…” she moved her whole body into an imitation of the plunging vehicle, “…that was top madica.”
It was good to see her being her age, even if for only a few moments.
“Top madica,” he agreed, guessing the usage of the words from their context.
Raine’s mood shifted in an instant and she frowned at him.
“Like you’d have any idea what that means.”
He gave a small shrug and lifted both hands.
“You have me there. Why don’t you tell me?”
“The catch-phrase of the main protagonist in Outbound and Starwards. A science-fiction series aimed at teens and young adults about exploring other galaxies and meeting aliens,” Avilon provided unexpectedly, having most likely pulled the information from link as they’d been talking, but that was not how Raine saw it.
The girl’s eyes widened and Durban realised the early stage hero worship had just notched up another level.
“You link-stream the OAS?”
Avilon inclined her head.
“I’ve seen the odd episode.”
“That’s just… Like just…”
“Top madica?” Durban suggested gently.
Which for some reason made Raine furious.
“What do you know about anything? You’re just weird and creepy.”
Durban drew a steadying breath.
“The docking bay of the Observation Platform is probably not the best place for having a row. So tell you what, you and Avilon go eat lunch and see what they have by way of weaponry in the collection here and I’ll head home.”
Q1. Do you see writing as an escape from the sorrows of existence, an exercise in futility, or an excuse to tell lies and get paid for it? Or is there another option…
For me writing is the chance to tell a story. I find that writing is – and for me has always been – the ultimate escapism, in much the same way as reading. The difference is that writing is a lot more proactive and you have to keep one foot fully unimmersed so you can put it all into words.
Q2. You are going to meet your literary hero and you are told to bring a gift. What do you take?
A bunch of flowers for her grave. Dorothy Dunnett will always be she to whom I can only aspire. My new project, a series of six books set in the opening months of the first English Civil War, is by way of a tribute to her and the inspiration she has given me as a writer.
Q3. Who was the first musician/singer to make an impact on your life? And can you remember the song? Similarly can you recall the first book that grabbed you by the gonads and shook your world?
The first muscician was a group – Queen. My bother had a copy of Queen II and I was entranced and sold on prog. rock ever since.
Book is harder. I can’t recall ever not being utterly captivated by them. But the first major book of note would have to be Lord of the Rings. I was nine years old, off sick from school and out of reading material so a friend of my mother’s lent me her hardback Fellowship of the Ring and then the rest in short order.
E.M Swift-Hook is the author of the Fortune’s Fools dark space opera series, co-author of the alternate history whodunits the Dai and Julia Mysteries and presently working on a historical fiction series set at the start of the First English Civil War.
In the words that Robert Heinlein put into the mouth of Lazarus Long: ‘Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.’
Having tried a number of different careers, before settling in the North-East of England with family, three dogs, cats and a small flock of rescued chickens, she now spends a lot of time in private and has very clean hands.
You can find her Twitter, Goodreads and, of course, here on the Working Title Blog.
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