A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

ahd (acronym) – absolutely horrible dandruff

bastrad (noun) – asshole whose parents have disowned him

brather (noun) – inconsequential conversation with male relative

cncetrating (verb form) – of jelly to set very firm

colun (noun) – printer’s symbol indicating the above is gobbledygook print as it stands

delive (noun) – technical term for murder

ebfore (noun) – very low tide

fdribblingrom (noun) – the mouth of a very drunk person

fudhe (adjective) – squishy and smelling faintly of old underwear

grwon (noun) – supernatural being almost always invisible but discernible at all times by its galloping halitosis

hopefulyl (noun) – optimistic alien

hosemate (noun) – person who swings a mean length of rubber pipe

ireonic (adjective) – of facial expressions, annoyed in a long-suffering manner

irritaes (noun) – annoyed rodents with very sharp teeth

kake (noun) – strange green dessert made from honey and cabbage

lvoe (noun) – small furry armpit parasite

maoment (noun) – unit of time falling anywhere between twenty seconds and an hour as in ‘I’ll do it in a maoment’

migth (adjective) – applied generally to children – meaning small, pale, and given to developing strange illnesses

numer (noun) – bloke who sniffs dirty laundry

orefer (noun) – yellow bird with pink feet and an attitude problem

somethme (noun) – occasional herb

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

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

It was his grandmother’s final wish, formalised in her will:

And to Mungo, I bequeath the contents of my safety deposit box, provided he keeps his word to me and marries within the year.

Mungo, the eldest son of a duke and in his thirties, hadn’t shown interest in marriage, although often seen with various celebrity women but now speculation mounted.

A year after his grandmother’s funeral, at a private ceremony, Mungo married his secret commoner lover of many years. The ring, his grandmother’s, had been in the lockbox.

Mungo proudly introduced his new husband to the family soon after.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

Good morrow bambini mea.

It is oneself, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Author, teacher, bon viveur, and all-round example to the uncultured youth that surrounds one’s sainted head. Famed for the classic example of science fiction excellence ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

One is displeased aujourd’hui.
The climate displeases.
One’s maternal parent displeases.
And the taste of bile in one’s throat displeases even more.

One’s pater, it seems, is about to withdraw one’s allowance. Deeming, as his latest paramour declaims in tones of purest East Ham, that “thirty-whatever is fucking old enough for the useless twat to have a job and start supporting himself”. One’s mater, of course, finds the whole thing funny in the extreme. To quote her dulcet tones “I haven’t laughed so much since granny got her tits caught in the mangle.”

Such crudeness displeases almost beyond measure, and on many a night one has wet one’s pillow with tears of frustration and shame. But one shall survive. And the vulgarity of one’s progenitors brings one neatly to the topic of today’s lesson.

Euphemism

In the quest for literary perfection there are two parallel, but divergent, routes upon which one may set one’s delicate tootsies.

One may, if that is the limit of one’s creativity, embrace the route of sordid realism, whereupon every wart and wrinkle is described with anatomical precision. The road where a delicate sexual encounter may be described as a f**k. The dark alleyway along which bodily functions are both described and enjoyed. The foetid pit of filth and fecundity into which the crassly uncaring author pushes his anti-heroic characters with the sole aim of discerning whether they sink, swim, or come up smelling of hyacinths.

This, mes estudas, is not our way. It cannot be our way. It eschews the beauty of language and embraces the visceral. Should this be your inclination, why then one washes one’s hand of you. Should you wish to join the ranks of those penning ‘kitchen sink’ (pah! sewer more descriptively) fiction then avaunt ye. One will have thee no more in one’s tribe. The children of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV shall never sink to vulgarity. One’s daughters shall never develop three chins and a heaving dewlap of belly fat. One’s sons shall never bake in the tropical sun for so long that their skinny bodies resemble some wrinkled denizen of the reptile house in a low-rent zoological park. Oh no, mes estudas, we shall be beauteous until the day we tread sedately to Saint Peter’s golden gate. And in order to retain our beauty, we shall eschew all that is coarse, elemental and unlovely.

Here, then, is where the euphemism is your friend above all others. The gentle euphemism, that courteous suggestor whose orchidaceous syllables allow us to infer the crude, the ugly, the sexual, and the painful whilst protecting the delicate sensibilities of both artist and admirer.

We shall not speak of drunkenness – rather let our persons feel tiredness and emotion exacerbated by the intake of glorious nectar.

We shall not speak of the bodily functions of the bottom – rather infer that time spent in contemplation eases the pangs of the inner man.

We shall not enumerate the vulgar grunting of the joining of man and woman – rather shall we speak of the tenderest of caresses, and of the female lady garden and of the male’s fleshy sword.

Let our pens not dwell on the reproductive organs at all if that is possible – instead speak of sweet peaks and masculine heat.

We shall not speak of death – rather should we gently suggest a walk to the side of one’s maker.

We shall not enumerate pain – rather allude only to discomfort bravely borne.

We shall never speak of physical ugliness – no, let those who are plain of visage and ungraceful of form remain undescribed wherever possible and where description is unavoidable let ugliness be veiled under such kindly words as homely, honest-faced, strongly built, and even, dare one suggest, the damning of little physical beauty.

Indeed my children, consider my words of wisdom with care and never be swayed from following the primrose path of euphemistic glory. Let others dwell on the ugly and misshapen while we rise above such crudeness in our flying boat with the wings of the whitest swan and the beauty of a golden twilight.

Study your euphemisms, whilst your teacher goes fort in the vain attempt to detach his female parent from the public bar in the Beagle and Bumhole in sufficient time to converse with her own parent who is now our sole source of financial support.

Au revoir. Etudez bon

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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

They toss the coin and that decides
If you should live, or if you die
No matter who your family
Or whether good or bad you be
Your age to them is not a matter
Nor is how many lives they shatter
They flip the coin, won’t hesitate
Cold metal spins and lands your fate

©️jane jago 2024

Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends.

The next few days were horribly busy, and our workload was added to by a few journalistic hopefuls, and a considerable number of ghouls. We’d have had to close the pub if it wasn’t for what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of men and boys with hard hands and no sympathy for those who sought to undermine the serenity of the old orchard.
On the day the bones were carefully removed, our staff formed a guard of honour for the big plastic boxes that were loaded into the back of a van and driven away. I found myself with a huge lump in my throat and turned my face into Ben’s chest.
“She shouldn’t be in plastic boxes like she was recycling,” I muttered.
Roz appeared from nowhere and grasped my hand. “It’s all right Mummy, she doesn’t mind. And we can make her a better coffin when she comes back.”
I crouched down to her level. “Comes back?”
“Yes. Grandmother says she will be buried in the memorial garden. Me and Allie wants to plant a cherry tree on her grave.”
This was rather a lot to take in, but being a mother means taking stuff in and reacting appropriately.
“So you shall, my darling. But. Why a cherry tree?”
Roz gifted me a smile of blazing joy. “Because her name is Cherry.”
“Then a cherry tree it is.”
“Good, but it must be a proper fruiting tree not one that is just blossoms.”
Ben pulled his forelock. “It shall be as you command.”
Roz glared. “Stop it Daddy Beckett. This is important. Don’t make jokes.”
He was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, love, it’s just all a bit much.”
She patted his leg. “Never mind. Me and Mummy will take care of everything.”
I sighed inwardly and mentally straightened my shoulders.
Much later, when we had a few precious minutes of privacy, I leaned my forehead against Ben’s shoulder.
“And how the hell am I supposed to arrange a burial?”
He rubbed a big hand up and down my spine. “Seems like you won’t have to. The parish council has received a request to permit the private interment of the bones in the garden of remembrance. Wiser brains than mine deem it a bad idea to return the remains to the land of her fathers as it could become a rallying point for those who still seek violent solutions to their problems.”
I could see that. “But what about here? I’m not wanting this place to become a destination for paramilitary pilgrimage.”
“Me neither. But that has also been carefully thought through. The interment would be completely private. And there will be no headstone to mark the grave. Which is what makes the twins’ idea of a cherry tree about perfect.”
“Why am I only hearing about this now?”
“Because Jack Ellis phoned me an hour ago. Wants the go ahead from us before replying.”
“It’s a yes then, ain’t it.”
I felt the kiss of a pair of soft lips on my cheek and a voice whispered ‘thank you’ in my ear. I replied in kind. ‘You will be welcome. You and your child.’
The sense of a presence receded and I felt myself wilting. Ben’s antenna was on point and he gathered me gently.
“Is it going to be too much for you? If so then its a hard no from me.”
I thought for a moment before shaking my head. “It’s actually not a problem, now I can see it in my head it’s bringing me peace.”
He kissed me tenderly. “That’s how I was feeling, but I wasn’t sure there wasn’t something I was missing. I know I miss things sometimes.”
I touched his firm jaw with just the tips of my fingers. “You never miss what’s really important.”
It would be nice to report that we sneaked off for a romantic interlude right then, but we were just too busy and too knackered. Instead we went back to work. I don’t think I lifted my head from the twin demands of payroll and VAT until my phone burbled merrily. It was Sian.
“Gruesomes are all ready for bed and waiting for their goodnight mummy kiss.”
“Isn’t it a bit early?”
“No, Joss, it’s not. It’s actually late. And I don’t suppose you have even stopped to eat.”
A look at the clock persuaded me she was right and I closed down the computer with a bit of a sigh of relief. I was just getting up, when Ben poked his head round the door.
“You finished?”
“For today. Yes. I’m just going over to kiss the twins goodnight.”
“I’ll come too.”
He wrapped an affectionate arm around me and all but dragged me through the garden to our house, where Sian waited.
“They’re pooped right out, but a bit wound up about someone called Cherry. They seem to need to know she is coming home.”
“She is. Cherry is the name of the woman whose bones they found. She’s going to be buried privately in the memorial garden.”
“That’s okay then. Now I’m off home. Mum made Irish stew at lunchtime, and she saved mine.”
She kissed us both and slipped away.
We enjoyed goodnight kisses, plus reassurance, and a story with our sleepy girls. It was quiet in their bedroom and the peace seeped into my soul. Ben closed the door with elaborate quietness and I put my arms around him.
“I wish we weren’t so bloody busy, because right now I’d give my eye teeth for an evening off.”
He grinned down at me. “An evening off is precisely what you are going to have. Ellen and Morgan and Simeon have the helm over there. You and me are going to put our feet up.”
I could think of half a hundred reasons why this was impossible, but when we turned into the comfort of our kitchen/family room there were candles flickering on the table and the good smell of food assailed my nostrils.
“Benedict Bennett.”
He laughed. “Wasn’t my idea actually. It was Morgan. Reckons you are worn out.”
“She could be right. Now tell me what’s for supper.”
His grin was properly schoolboy. “I stole a small steak and stilton pie from the freezer, and I believe we have new potatoes and salad.”
He sort of shepherded me to my place and I relaxed while he opened a nice bottle of claret and brought the food to the table. The food was excellent, but even better was a stolen hour with Ben, to eat, drink and remember how much we love each other. We finished the bottle of wine sitting out in the garden where the dogs stretched out in the dusty grass and we could watch the stars wheeling overhead in their celestial ballet. By closing time I was more than ready for bed and when Morgan ran across the sleeping garden to say she and Simeon would lock up I hugged her fondly.
“Thanks love.”
She grinned impishly. “Nada boss lady. It’s part of my job, and Simeon is busy softening you up so he can ask for a job here when his bodyguard duties are done.”
“What sort of a job does he want?”
“Anything that lets us be together. We want to see where what we have is going. And we can’t do that if I’m here and he’s elsewhere thugging. But if you want to know what he’s qualified for…”
“I do.”
“He’s quite a clever boy,” she chuckled engagingly. “Got A level maths and accounting, and he’s a bit of a computer wizard. But he says he’s happy to carry on pushing a mop should that be what you can use him for.”
Ben lifted a hand. “So why has he been working for Mark?”
“Because, unlike his own dad, my dad appreciates skills other than slapping people.”
“Yes. I expect he does.” I held out my arms and she came for another quick hug. “Tell him to come and see me if we ever get a lull in proceedings and we’ll work something out.”
She went, skipping like a young deer.
Ben looked at me. “You sure about this, Joss?”
“Yup. I was near to pulling my hair out at the thought of losing Morgan. Now we won’t have to. And I think Simeon will be an asset.”
Ben thought it through. “I reckon he just might. He could be my Morgan. I need a brain and a quick pair of eyes front of house. Unless you…”
“I hadn’t begun to think.” I had a quick ponder then nodded. “That would be a very good idea. You do need an apprentice and I think he has the right sort of monumental patience alongside a cool head. Also it’d keep him and Morgan busy without being in areas where they will bump heads over work issues.”
The crows feet around Ben’s eyes leapt to life. “I’ll take that to mean you think they’ll bump heads in their private life.”
“Course they will. Neither one is built to say ‘yes dear’.”
“They surely aren’t.” He chuckled. “He won’t be henpecked like me.”
I laughed up into his eyes. “And she won’t be a stay at home mum like me.”
He cupped my face in his hands. “If they have half of what we’ve got.”
The rest of that conversation is entirely our business.

There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

Julia Lucia Maxilla stood up to her full four feet and eleven inches and stared at her co-investigator. She saw a tall, handsome man with black hair, pale skin and a square jawline. He glared down at her, and she was surprised by the blueness of his eyes. Her dogs came to lean against her, and this would have alerted her to the idea the man wasn’t precisely pleased to see her if her own intuition hadn’t already made that clear.
“Llewellyn, is it?” she kept her voice cool.
Behind him she could see another man trying to blend into the wall.
“Yes, domina.”
“If we are going to work together, I think we can dispense with such formality. The name is Julia.”
“Julia,” he hesitated fractionally, “I’m Dai Llewellyn. This is Decanus Bryn Cartivel, and is it permitted to ask what those dogs are?”
Julia decided to let the hesitation pass. She summoned a smile.
“Canis and Lupo are wolfhounds,” she turned and indicated the huge Saxon who stood at her shoulder. “The dogs and Edbert guard me. In case you missed it, I’m not very big so if I need to intimidate somebody they help with that too.”
For a moment the Briton actually grinned, then he must have remembered whatever grievance was wearing at him and he started looking sulky again. Julia sighed inwardly. He was going to be difficult and that was a shame because he was really, really pretty. Before she got chance to snap his handsome nose off for him, he surprised her by holding out a hand to Edbert.
“Greetings.”
Edbert actually grasped his wrist and the two tall men stood eye to eye for a moment.
“You play nicely with my lady. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
Her bodyguard spoke rarely, and when he did his uncomfortably deep voice always reminded Julia of a thunderstorm in some far valley. She winced inwardly, rather wishing he hadn’t chosen to speak now, and was surprised to hear a thread of amusement in the Briton’s response.
“You can be sure I’ll bear that in mind.”
“If you two have finished bonding, I have a visit to make.” Julia turned a carefully blank face to Dai. “You had better come with me. Edbert and your decanus can take a break.”
He frowned.
“Does it pertain to the investigation?”
“No. And yes. It’s a duty visit to the Tribune. The Prefect is just a time server and she’s a complete waste of time as far as I can see. The Tribune is a different matter. Aside from policy, he and I have known each other since we were children.”
“Since you were children?” Llewellyn frowned. “But wasn’t the Tribune born in the Suburra? I heard he was raised in the insulae at the foot of the Capitoline Hills before he was adopted.”
“He was. And so was I. Any questions?”
Dai shut his mouth with a snap. Julia could all but hear him thinking, and took pity on him. It would make little sense to a Briton, who was no doubt raised on TV crime dramas which featured the poverty and criminality of the poorest slum area in Rome, that someone from that place could be in any position of influence or power.
“My father was a soldier, but my mother was a lupa, I think you use the term ‘whore’. My father was killed when he was twenty, in a border skirmish with the Mongol Empire, my mother died soon after of an occupational disease – she succumbed to morbus insu, an STD. I was raised by my father’s family who took me in because I was his only child and I think they wanted something to remember him by.”
“Oh. But how did -?”
“How did I get to be an inquisitor? A long story. And mostly painful, so can we leave it?” She essayed a smile and her new colleague managed a half grin in response. Julia looked at him more closely.
“Your tunic,” she said severely, “is pretty grubby. That fish sauce must be days old. Do you have another?”
He nodded, wearing the expression of a schoolboy caught cheating in a class test.
“Good. Decimus is a fussy blighter. We’ll swing past yours on the way.”

Once Dai was tidied to her satisfaction, Julia led the way to the Tribune’s apartment, which backed onto the barracks housing the cohort of Praetorians that were stationed in Londinium under the Tribune’s command.
“There was a reason I didn’t bring Edbert and the hounds,” Julia admitted.
Dai raised an eyebrow.
“The Lady Lydia don’t like them.”
Dai grinned tautly.
“If rumour is correct, she isn’t seeing people right now.”
Julia treated him to a quick, incurious, glance.
“Oh. Who?”
“One Titillicus. Inquisitor and nasty piece of work. Sent home to his mother in a body bag.”
“Oh. Whoops.” Julia frowned. “Why doesn’t she realise he is never going to divorce her?”

Dai looked down at her, his expression suggesting a genuine curiosity.
“Is she stupid?”
“Probably…”
“I always think bed-hoppers must be the lowest of the low,” Dai told her. “If you can betray your avowed spouse, you are not going to find it too hard to do the dirty in other ways.”
Julia smiled, pleased that they were beginning to find common ground in their values. It eased the conversation as they waited for the Man himself.

Part IV will be here next week. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

A second of shocked quiet followed the destruction of Big Bigger’s greenhouse. Then the biggers ran from the house with wide eyes and open mouths, and three chastened nomes crawled out of the burning wreckage.
By the time they reached cover, Brenda was waiting for them.
She had discarded her knobkerrie, but her fists were sufficiently solid to hand out a painful and lasting lesson.
“When I said nobody makes no po-cheen, I meant you three eejits too. Capiche?”
“Yes ma’am,” the terrible trio chorused.
It is a matter of record that Oisin never played his fiddly-diddly again.

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

acupe (noun) – very small brassiere 

anumle (adjective) – of eggs being in that state when they may be edible or wholly rotten

bsaterd (noun) – unpleasant man with a motorcycle 

dtoard (adjective) – half shaven

ehro (noun) – the sound a politician makes when trying to avoid a question

evrsion (noun) – not a tree book

forule (noun) – committee of four 

gunad (noun) – single testicle hanging at a very strange angle

muther (noun) – female dog of dubious parentage 

panster (noun) – crap cook

promambly (verb) – walking to a school dance

realstionship (noun) – a small boat loaded with inebriated picnickers which is in imminent danger of capsize

sogra (noun) – toast that has been dropped into a cup of tea

snadle (noun) – twentieth century scolds bridle

thimk (adjective) – slow of thought and easily goshswoggled 

vorgun (noun) – little-known species of Star Trek villain

vxie (adjective) – of young women, spirited and liable to bite

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

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

The village bus used to run twice daily. Most days the bus was half-full. Then, to save money, it was made twice weekly – in one direction on Monday morning and back again on Thursday morning. Which was no good for anyone.

A year later they stopped it.

The Councillor gave me his vague political smile.

“We would reopen the bus service, but there is no demand. No one used it. If people wanted a bus service they’d have used it.” 

Irrefutable logic.

Then he got in his Mercedes and drove off.

Marie Antionette would have been so proud of him.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

Buenos dias mis hijos,

It is one, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author, pedagogue, genius, and all-round good egg. Out of the kindness of my heart, and the largeness of my soul, and the sharpness of my intellect, I have elected to brighten your darkness, educate your ignorance, and lift your aspirations. By following my simple guides to literate and effective script, you too may aspire to the success – both in the annals of Mamon and in the estimation of the intelligentsia – of my own seminal novel ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

My intention to write this piece crystalised in my mind just yesterday morning when Mumsie threw open the door to my bijou writing sanctuary, her face an interesting shade of puce and mouthed some words at me, which I could not quite discern as I had the climax of the 1812 Overture playing in the background at the volume such an impressive piece deserves.

Without so much as a warning, Mumsie pulled the plug and deafening silence ensued. In the polite and restrained conversation which followed, I learned that apparently, the cannon fire had been loud enough to disturb the neighbours and even waken dear Mummy from her post libatious slumber. But, as I kept repeating, very reasonably if to no avail, how was I to know? It was not as if I could read her thoughts.

Ah, but the world of fiction is so much more amenable to such things, as I shall reveal to you my dear Reader Who Writes. And thus, having established both my bona fides and my intentions, we can move on to this week’s lesson. Pay attention…

Point of View

There is a great deal of advice out there on the vexed topic of point of view. Should one write in first person? Or perhaps close third person? Or omniscient third person? Or? The arguments rage long and bitterly. Devotees of each and every style consider their own personal favourite the only possible option and bitterly denigrate anyone with the temerity to disagree.

I am here to demystify the process in my usual and inimitable style. My dear little bunnies… It doesn’t matter.

Set yourself a scene and write it however it feels most fitting.

Write as if you sat above your protagonists on a pink and champagne-laden cloud. Write as though your prose was dragged screaming and turgid from the entrails of your damaged hero. Write from the careless and unfeeling head of your beautiful female antagonist. Write all three at the same time – one’s own preferred method of procedure – at least then your millions of fans will miss none of the nuances of meaning and intention.

All I will say is that the head hop, so despised by the horde of amateur lectors out there in ‘gosh I’m a published writer’ land, is the finest tool in the hand of those with true talent and exquisite sensibility. How will one’s readers know the texture of a lover’s skin, but also appreciate the blackness at beauty’s heart? Or how shall the simple folk following the journey of your broken crusader understand both his magnificence and his utter bleakness?

No, my students, hop from head to head as the muse wills. It will result in a tapestry of textures and emotions, both beautiful to the eye and instructive to the soul. This is the only way to allow your reader to immerse deeply into the bubbling cauldron of relationships and experiences that you are crafting for their delight.

And what of those philistines who would decry when you choose to write some sections in the first person and some in the third? Or when you write successive characters in the first person? These deluded individuals would have it that such stylistic magnificence is both confusing to the reader and hard to follow. Or they berate it for breaking their reading immersion. Poor precious darlings, say I! They should learn to engage with the author’s carefully chosen blend of points of view. They are lazy readers and not worthy of your literary outpourings. Shake the dust of their denouncements from your metaphorical feet with disdain.

So be bold and brazen, ignore the ignorant self-proclaimed ‘masters’ of the literary art. Whilst their poor prose may only allow scant glimpses of the inner processes of their characters, except perchance their chosen hero, yours will be as sunlight through the thickets of thought and feeling for every character who steps upon the stage of your story.

Until next. Escribe bien…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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