‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Em heard footsteps and Agnes grinned at her with the sort of evil anticipation that might have earned a clip across the earhole – if there had been time. But given the imminent appearance of their new seventh Em contented herself by snarking at her oldest friend.
When the door opened Em at least had the satisfaction of winning the private bet she had with herself about what Ginny would choose to wear.
“Come in and sit yourself down.”
She waved Ginny to a chair and Agnes sat opposite her. Em poured Bloody Marys for the three of them, keeping the glasses hidden from view while she added an unconventional ingredient to the one she put in front of Ginny.
“Bottoms up,” Agnes said cheerily, downing half her drink in one gulp. 
Ginny Cropper seemed less keen, stirring the thick red mixture with its accompanying celery stick and looking about her with slightly narrowed eyes.
“Do you not care for Bloody Mary?” Em took a slug of her own drink and gave Ginny her least threatening stare.
Ginny stared back then seemed to reach some sort of a decision. “Oh well,” she muttered, “in for a penny.”
She all but upended the glass over her nose, draining every last drop before she crunched the celery. 
“Seems to me that I’m being led someplace, and I find I don’t much care so long as somebody feeds me.”
Em went over to the Aga and took three plates of food out of the warming oven. The plates held large slices of tortilla with grilled tomatoes and mushrooms on the side. There was also a dish of bacon and a basket of warm rolls. The three of them set to with good appetites.
They had about cleared their plates, when Ginny broke the quiet with a tiny, genteel belch. “Oops. Sorry about that, but I think it’s been twenty years since I had anything other than granola and almond milk for breakfast.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “Would somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?”
Em found herself feeling the tiniest tad of respect for an odd, wispy female who was far away from what she had any hope of understanding, but was keeping her chin up.
“Yes. I suppose somebody does owe you an explanation. But where to begin? How much do you remember about last night?”
“I remember following the vicar into church. I knew he was after the bats. I remember him screaming at me and pushing me to the ground. And I think I remember a rabbit – but that might just be a consequence of hitting my head on a stone floor.”
Agnes took over with a smoothness that Em could see wasn’t lost on Ginny. “We were about a minute behind you. Or Em was. I’m too fat to run. The vicar completely lost it, and he shot you in the neck. When we had subdued him sufficiently to be able to look at you, your heart had stopped…”
“That’s perfectly possible. I have suffered with a vagal arrhythmia for most of my life. I’m just glad there’s a defibrillator in the village. Who shocked me back to life?”
“There is a defibrillator in the foyer of the village hall,” Agnes said, “but nobody thought of that. Em Fed you with her own blood…”
There was an appalled silence.
“Fed me? Blood? Shot in the neck?” For a second Ginny teetered on the verge of hysteria, but then her fingers found the scar where the pellet had been. She flinched, but made a visible effort to hold herself together. “Is this some sort of Twilight thing?”
Em’s respect was growing. “Sort of,” she admitted. “But the difference is we’re real.”
Ginny studied her hands for a moment then gave Em a glare. “Okay, if I buy this, and I’m still deciding whether I do or not, what was in the Bloody Mary? The moment I drank it I felt as if I saw a lot of things clearer, and I also felt physically stronger than I have for years.”
Agnes chortled.
“Shut up Agnes.” Em ducked her head to disguise her own amusement. “Well, Ginny, it was a Bloody Mary. A real one. Yours just contained a thimbleful of blood. A drop from each of your six sisters to welcome you to our seven.” She watched Ginny’s face carefully as she dropped the last piece of the puzzle into place. “Virginia Cropper, vampire. How does that sound to you?”
Ginny shook her head as if to clear it. “Would you mind saying that again?”
“Virginia Cropper. Vampire.” Em and Agnes spoke together.
Ginny dropped her head into her hands then looked up with an exasperated expression. “But I’m a vegetarian…  Doesn’t there have to be a joke in there somewhere?”
Agnes was obviously making up her own jokes, so Em leaned over and clipped her smartly over the ear before she could share them.

Part 18 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

They took our hopes
They took our dreams
They took our freedom too
They took the laughter
Took the tears
Took ‘me’ away from ‘you’
They took the sun
They took the moon
And painted oe’r the sky
With heartless lies
They clipped our wings
So we would never fly
They spoke of ‘us’
But we were ‘them’
Across a great divide
They built a wall
With just one gate
And us on the outside
They set the goals
We could not meet
They barred the way ahead
They took our future
They took our past
They commandeered our dead
They took our wealth
They took our world
And thought that they were done
But they couldn’t take
Our hearts and minds
So they have never won…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Alice’s Choice by Jane Jago is out today

When Alice Lancaster woke up on the morning of her twenty-third day of widowhood, she felt as if she had somehow pulled herself out of an uncomprehending fog, and into the pitiless brightness of sunlight. Although this awakening sharpened the pain she welcomed it as a sign of returning life. Alaric was gone and she had to somehow create an existence without him. She dressed herself in the unbecoming clothes that were all she currently owned, and frowned at her reflection.
During an uncomfortable morning, being watched by her husband’s family, Alice considered her options. She could remain in the family home, under the eye of Alaric’s mother, who disliked her, and his brother who liked her rather more than was comfortable. She could go back to her father’s house, but she now had a stepmother younger than herself. Or. She could stand on her own two feet.
None of it appealed, but striking out on her own, although both frightening and confusing, felt like the least of a fistful of evils. Tapping her fingernails against the wooden arm of her chair, she thought grim thoughts. Mother-in-law turned a perfectly coiffed head, atop a long neck decorated, as always, with a six-strand pearl choker – whose ruby clasp shone almost as balefully as Mama’s basilisk stare.
“Will you stop making that infernal noise!”
As this was nominally Alice’s sitting room, it would have been both easy and satisfying to snap back. But she didn’t; instead, she got up and left the room. Picking up her coat and handbag, she walked out of the front door, past the hovering porter, and down to the street corner where she hailed a taxi.
“Where to, love?”
“Hildebrand and Watkins on the Strand, please.”
When the cab dropped her outside the scrupulously whitened office steps, her courage almost failed her, but the thought of ‘Mama’s’ cold gooseberry green gaze stiffened her spine. The stiffly coiffured receptionist spared barely a glance for the hatless young woman who came in so timidly.
“Visitors by appointment only,” she barked.
For some reason, this rudeness emboldened Alice far more than kindness would have and she stalked over to a handsome door that bore the name Augustus Hildebrand LLB. She tapped twice and walked in, leaving the receptionist gobbling like a turkey in her wake.
The man at the desk looked up from his newspaper. His incipient frown changed to a smile.
“Hello, Uncle Gus,” she said softly.
“My dear Alice. Come in, sit down, and tell me how I can help you.”
Alice went to one of the wing chairs beside the fireplace and folded into its cushioned embrace. Her host wrinkled his forehead before going out to reception. His deep voice contrasted with the receptionist’s staccato counterpoint but she was too weary to even try to make out what was being said. Instead, she laid her head against the snowy whiteness of the old-fashioned antimacassar and let her thoughts drift. When she came back to herself, her mother’s only surviving brother was in the other fireside chair watching her with concerned eyes. She summoned a smile for him.
“They told me,” he said, “that you didn’t want to see me.”
“Oh. Which ‘they’ would that have been? Mother-in-law and baby brother?”
He nodded. “I rather think they are hoping to keep you under their thumbs.”
Alice pushed her hair away from her face with a shaking hand. “I’m beginning to think that myself. However, ‘Mama’ can’t resist pinching and poking at me. Thinks that because I won’t argue she can push me around. Only she can’t. And today, it came to me that I have had enough.”
“So, you came to me.”
“I’m sorry for that. If it’s going to cause trouble I will go.”
He held up a hand. “Don’t be silly. We aren’t living in the dark ages. They have no hold on you. You are of age. And besides which, even if there was trouble, you are all I have left of my dear sister so I would help you anyway.”
Tears pricked the back of her eyes. “Alaric always said I should come to you if anything happened to him.”
He smiled and his face lightened. “What took you so long then?”
“I had to get over the shock of losing him first. I rather thought he was immortal, you know.”
“He always behaved like he thought he was immortal too.”
“Maybe he did.” She sighed. “Maybe he did.”
Uncle Gus remained quiet for a while, then spoke gently. “What can I do to help you?”
“I need somewhere to live. I decided just now that I cannot spend another moment in that house.”
She waited for him to tell her not to be dramatic and to just go home and get on with it. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded his leonine head.
“We can’t do much about finding you a home today, and I’m not exactly set up to receive guests.”
His cheeks pinked, and Alice laughed.
“Do we have a young lady in residence Uncle Gus?”
“She isn’t that young, and she’d be very insulted to be called a lady.”
“I’d like to meet her, then. She sounds as if she would be the perfect antidote to the stultifying pretended gentility of Alaric’s dreadful Mama.”
His bark of delighted amusement made Alice feel much better about herself. When he stopped chuckling, he looked at her for what seemed like an age.
“If you really mean that, then by all means come and stay with us. You would certainly be safe under Gabriella’s wing.”
“Safe?”
Uncle Gus sobered.“Yes, Alice, safe from the machinations of a woman who is already hinting that Alaric’s untimely death has left you mentally unbalanced.”

To keep reading Alice’s Choice, click here!

Is that the rainbow bridge
He asked
And if I cross, my life
Is past
And if I go
And if you stay
I hope we’ll meet
Again someday
I’ll put my feet
And I will climb
To wait for you
Until your time

©️Jane Jago 2020

Money. When was the last time you saw any actual cash money?

Me neither.

Until.

The other day I had to waddle down the village to the post office (now tastefully housed in a very hygienic corner of the funeral director’s hushed premises) and acquire some actual moolah, because the plumber very kindly knocks off the vat if you pay him cash. The little girl behind the plexiglass screen very sweetly shoved the notes into a brown envelope I provided, so it wasn’t until I got home that I discovered  that twenties are now plastic.

I laughed so much that I right about pissed myself.

You aren’t going to tell me that you missed that little irony are you?

You are?

Okay, then, let me elucidate.

All around me are females (and a few very put upon males) of a certain age. Many of these bloody fossils are vociferous in their condemnation of the cashless status of society.

In the days when a game of euchre and a pasty was a possibility, the lounge bar would be full of these crusty old naysayers. I see them now, bellied up to the bar and waving fivers at the sorely harassed barmaid.

“You’ll never see me paying with plastic,” is their mantra as they waste hours counting small denomination coins into piles on the scratched mahogany of the bar.

Seems as if karma has caught up with them good and proper. You declare your aversion to ‘plastic’ Mrs Frobisher I think to myself, and then you go and wave a note above your head never once seeing that it is ‘plastic’ too…

That is seriously funny. Or maybe not.

Me?

I run up a modest bar bill and slap my card on the screen before tottering home singing immodestly.

My mate Mabel watched me do this for about three months then bit the bullet. She still don’t have a credit card, as the silly old moo would get in a right mucking fuddle, but she slaps her contactless debit card with all the je ne sais quoi of a  Kardashian in a high-end boutique.

In a rare moment of sobriety, I conducted a straw poll of the halt, the lame, the feckless and the demented as they sat their asses down for the last village OAP dinner before Armageddon.

Being asked why they don’t like to pay by card I got the following responses.

“I won’t know what I’ve spent.”

“I will run up a huge bill.”

“I like the feel of money.”

“My son/daughter/other ‘concerned’ family member doesn’t want me to.”

Struck me as so sad that I bought the buggers a round of sov blanc.

In a nutshell then…

On very rare occasions progress is A Good Thing. This might be one of them. 

It’s liberating.

I no longer need a purse or a handbag.

Got my phone in one pocket. My keys in the other. And my American Express card up me knicker leg.

Oh yes, you sad lot.

Have plastic. Will travel…

To celebrate our third birthday at the beginning of July, the Working Title Blog held a drabble writing competition.

As it is our third birthday completion we have three runners up! This one is from Jerald Larson.

“You’ve arrived!” Sir enthused, upon landing the big account. “Now it’s time to break the mould!”

Time, alas, that elusive fiend: so much to prove, so no time for regret. Break the mould I did, and sod the consequences!

That mould, I soon found, protects the uncultivated; what blobbed without its walls was a babbling, egotistical doughy mess.

But still, the orders came. Awards, clients, launches, reputation, gone in a flash: everyone loved the new me…

…except me. Mirrors betrayed the booze, parties, pressure, until…

…I broke.

My resignation postscript declared: “You can’t have your cake and eat it. Sir.”

When Francesca met Richard they were predisposed by fate to like each other – even though neither of them knew it at the time. They were both blandly handsome, both successful, both good-humoured if a little humourless, and both laboured under the disadvantage of unimaginative parents who bestowed on their offspring the sort of names more sensibly found in burlesque than high finance.
Richard (Rich to his very few friends) Dripping was an investment banker. He was a whizz kid and a high flyer, if rather more risk-averse than his peers, who was tipped for an early seat on the board of the private bank for whom he worked. Francesca (no diminutives please, the name is Francesca) Phaart was a tax accountant whose forensically detail-orientated carefulness had already earned her a junior partnership and made her not a few enemies.
Quite who thought it might be funny to introduce them to each other is rather lost in the mists of time, although the best guess is an undeniably louche specimen rejoicing in the cognomen Francis Ffotheringham, who was rather in the habit of collecting people with odd names. In the end, of course, it matters not who did the deed because some puckish deity somewhere had decreed that they should not only meet but that they should also fall in love.

For a couple of months Francesca and Rich met every weekend, discovering mutual tastes, mutual interests, and mutual dislikes enough to persuade them that they were well on the way to becoming a serious item. With this in mind, Francesca took Richard to her family home in the Cotswolds, where her parents were favourably impressed by the rather stolid young man on whom their daughter’s fancy had lighted. Their only private caveat was his name. As Papa Phaart remarked to his lady wife in the privacy of their wide, white bed:
“Seems a reasonable sort of a chap, but I’m pretty sure he won’t make the top of the tree with a damned silly name like Dripping.”
His wife nodded wisely and passed him a digestive biscuit.
Two weeks later, Richard and Francesca were on an aeroplane heading for the glass and steel tower in New York which Mr Dripping, the second Mrs Dripping, and Richard’s young half siblings called home. By and large, the visit was a success, with the New York Drippings united in approval of Francesca’s bland blonde handsomeness and her placid uncomplaining nature. The entire family accompanied the young couple to the airport and waved them off with smiling fondness. However, once they were through the departures gate the whole American contingent burst into raucous laughter.
“Phaart. Francesca Phaart.” Papa Dripping was holding his sides and the young Drippings were actually rolling around on the floor of the concourse.
“It’s a very good job,” the second Mrs Dripping opined genially, “that Richard inherited his mother’s sense of humour”.
“The lady doesn’t have a sense of humour,” Dripping senior expostulated.
“Precisely.”
But none of this hilarity was apparent to either Richard or Francesca who sailed serenely towards the next phase of their relationship without a care in the world.
In due course, a reputable jeweller was visited and a diamond of suitable size was purchased. The young couple hosted a dinner party at a fashionable restaurant to celebrate their engagement, and Francesca moved into Richard’s home in leafy Richmond.
Certainly, Francesca was well aware that her name caused a great deal of ribaldry among those she mentally dismissed as the uneducated, but she could see no humour in it herself and nor could she quite understand why certain of her acquaintance seemed to think Richard’s surname a source of ill-bred sniggers.
She might have carried on in blissful ignorance, had she not been placed in a position where she could not avoid overhearing a conversation between two female interns at her place of work. She was in one of the stalls in the female restroom, in fact she was about to emerge, when the sound of two sets of clicking heels stopped her in her tracks.
“…madam Phaart,” the voice was loaded with spite, “and I suppose she thinks that becoming Mrs Dripping will make her less of a household joke”.
“You should watch your mouth,” the other voice was quieter and more refined. “You don’t know who might overhear you.”
“I don’t care. Can’t she even see it?”
See what? Francesca wondered. But she was disturbed enough to mention it to Richard over dinner that night. He shook his head bemusedly.
“I don’t know, dear. Does it worry you?”
Francesca shook her fair head.
“Not really. I suspect it was just more vulgarity.”
And that might have been the end of that had not the bank chairman called Richard into his inner sanctum. They were closeted together for the best part of an hour before the older man wrung Richard’s hand.
“You will think about it then, Richard?”
“I’ll do better than that sir. I will get onto it immediately.”
That night he spoke seriously to Francesca.
“It has been put to me that a seat on the board of the bank is being kept warm for me.”
She looked at his heavily handsome face and felt a glow of pride.
“However, there is a stipulation. It is felt that the name Dripping is unsuitable to elevation to the board.”
“Oh. So what will you do?”
“Choose another. With your assistance, my dear.”
“I don’t think it much matters what. Other than Phaart.”
He smiled his complete understanding.
“I am quite drawn to Smith.”
And so it was that, after a bit of legal sleight of hand, Francesca and Richard became Mr and Mrs Smith and enjoyed many years of happy, if unexciting, marriage.

©️ Jane Jago

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Selfies

Please explain the phenomenon of the selfie to me. People and cameras at beauty spots. Photographing the scenery?

Are they fuck.

It’s selfies. Why?

I might like to see a picture of cherry blossom in Japan. Without someone’s fecking stupid face dead centre of the shot.

I have a nephew who is a minor celebrity and his life has been rendered hideous by the constant demands for a selfie from airheaded young females.

He even had one perch on his lap while he was getting a haircut.

He managed not to tell her where to shove her selfie stick. Just.

…. or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

athanema (noun) – wheezing breath caused by running uphill when fat and unfit 

broing (verb) – the act of shyly suggesting a homosexual relationship 

depsite (noun) – place where ill-gotten gains are secreted

diea (noun)  – slightly wobbly locomotion caused by the ingestion of alcohol

feredom (verb) – of novels, the act of returning to the wild

infalt (verb) – to suck in air in preparation for giving somebody a right ear bashing

motger (noun) – small antipodean rodent that can be found in the holes in cheese

neote (adverb) – of speech weirdly hesitant and with an apologetic air

perguler (noun) – person paid to lie in court

rogjt (noun) – very hot chilli only eaten by the foolish or men at chucking out time on a Saturday night (yeah, okay, the foolish)

trud (noun) – very hard poo

upseide (adjective) – having the colour and texture of earwax

vitgun (noun) – peashooter loaded with vitamin pills

wjat (noun) – another term for a thingamajig

xplid (adjective) – pale green and about to vomit

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Ed was a hard man, so when everyone started wearing masks he laughed.

“I’m not hiding from no stupid virus,” he told his wife, Marilyn. “I’m fit as a fiddle so it won’t get me.”

If there was any justice in this world, Ed would have wound up gasping out his life in hospital. But because he didn’t wear a mask, Marilyn died and the eldest of their children, together with both Ed’s parents and Marilyn’s father.

And Ed?

Well, he spent four weeks in bed wishing he was dead and his heart was never right again – physically or emotionally.

E.M. Swift-Hook