Yule love this!

It is the festive season,
The time December sees in
And that’s our very reason,
To grant each day for you
Something that’s old or new
Perhaps a gift or two!

TODAY’S DELIGHT –  A Giveaway!

Mistrust and Treason

“The thing you have to ask yourself is who is going to stop these people if we don’t, Grim?”

In the criminal jungle that is his turf, Grim is the apex predator. Now the Coalition Security Force is assigning him to the most lethal hunt he has yet faced. On this hunt, the predator may become the prey…

Defeat was always a bitter cup from which to have to swallow, but Kahina Sarava determined from the first that it should not define her.
True, she now had to endure exile in the grand house she liked the least of all she owned. It was a sprawling, over-ornate residence built in the heart of great natural beauty and originally intended as a place where she could entertain and impress the powers of Central. It suited her political enemies to have her there, isolated and cut off from any place of influence. But, it was not entirely without benefit. Freed from the endless need to joust for political advantage, she had considerably more time for some of the other things that mattered. Such as pursuing her lifetime’s work: Future Data.
So she stood, back straight, defying her age as the fussily dressed man climbed from his vehicle and walked the short distance to where she waited in front of the main door to her house. The security people who flanked her on either side, guards set to both protect and contain her, stiffened visibly as her visitor approached.
“Garn, what a delight to see you.” She had been expecting him. Though when the brief message informing her of a visitor had come through earlier that day, his name had not been mentioned. “I think this must be the first time we’ve had a get together since you arrested me. What would bring you all the way from Central to visit me in person? I am sure you could gloat quite adequately over link.”
He was a big man in many uses of the word, and it amused her to make him feel uncomfortable. There was little enough by way of human entertainment for her here and no small responsibility for her incarceration rested on his shoulders.
“Right,” he said, and she could see he was sweating despite the temperature being pleasantly cool. “Maybe we could go in and talk somewhere a little more private.”
“I can offer you anything here, except privacy.” She made an elegant gesture with her hands, unfolding them to indicate the attentive security detail. “I am not permitted that even when I sleep. My link connections are watched and my conversations monitored.”
Garn Jecks seemed unperturbed, but then his mind was not very flexible. If he had arrived with a fixed idea of some objective he wished to achieve, that would be both the full extent and narrow focus of his thinking. Laser like — if a laser were some solid substance and not fluid photons. Such inability to embrace the broadest view whilst still keeping the details in sight irritated Kahina. Her own mind suffered no such limitations, and she tolerated it poorly in others.
“I will make the necessary arrangements,” he told her. Matching actions to words, he turned to issue brief orders to the security detail, then added more by link to the invisible watchers who controlled the remote monitoring of her residence. They all moved quickly to obey, but then he was their supreme commander, the man in charge of the Coalition Security Force.
A short time later, Kahina found herself sitting in her favourite room, ambianced to remind her of her mother’s study with shelves of books and curios, heavy looping curtains at the windows and the antique wooden desk. She had chosen not to occupy the desk, Jecks wasn’t someone who would be in the slightest bit intimidated by her doing so. Instead, she sat in one of the comfortable, deep-cushioned chairs set either side of a beautifully carved and inlaid table. Jecks sat opposite her having just dismissed the last of his entourage. He was visibly discomfited. Kahina played the perfect hostess.
“Can I offer you any refreshments? It’s not the shortest of hops here from Central.”
“Right. It’s not. But thank you, no. I’m a bit pressed for time.”
She couldn’t resist another dig.
“I am fully accessible by link, you know.”
Jecks didn’t trouble to answer that. His preoccupation was blinding him and Kahina wondered if the poor man was even aware how much that showed.
“There has been a — a development.”
“A development?”
He almost squirmed.
“I have just received some information which has brought into question our previous conclusions regarding the Future Data project.”
Kahina considered feigning surprise.
“Oh?”
Jecks looked as if he had swallowed something that settled ill in his stomach. For a moment, he glared at her.
“So you already knew.”
She didn’t trouble to reply, instead allowing her expression to reflect the untroubled confidence she was feeling. Jecks muttered something under his breath then started pulling up a remote screen of what appeared to be some security surveillance. Not the best quality and from a static camera, but when he zoomed the image and froze it, the result was perfectly clear.
“Oh dear,” Kahina said gently. “How very embarrassing for you. I wonder what you plan to do about that?”
Jecks pulled at his neckline as if it were too close about his throat.
“It’s not what you…”
“Oh, but I rather think it is.” The first taste of victory after such a bitter defeat and three years of exile was so sweet. She leaned forward, unable to suppress her delight and not caring that it showed. “I rather think you need me again.”
Jecks physically recoiled from her.
“Kahina, I — “
“Var Sarava,” she corrected him. He looked as though she had slapped him hard across the face and Kahina smiled. “You are of course quite right. I knew already. Or should I be more accurate and say that Future Data informed me of there being a high probability that those two would resurface in this timeframe.”
“Then you know why I came.” Jecks sounded defeated now, resigned to some inevitable and inescapable fate. Which, Kahina supposed, was not too far from the truth of things.
“Of course I don’t know,” she snapped. “I’m not a mind reader. Future Data may inform me what is likely to occur, but it’s not yet capable of attributing motive to the behaviours it predicts. Why did you come?”
“It wasn’t my first choice, but Ilke Dray suggested…” Jecks stopped himself and took a breath instead. Wise man. Kahina could feel the pressure of her fingers closing into tight claws.
“How is dear Ilke these days?” Then she lifted a forbidding hand, forcing the fingers to uncurl, as Jecks opened his mouth to tell her. “No. I really don’t want to know. I’m sure she will be going about her busy little life in her busy little way. And of course you don’t need to tell me why you are here, that much is obvious. What I want to know is what do you have to offer me in exchange for my assistance at this time?”
Jecks wore the look of a man being asked to sell his mother.
“Var Sarava, you can’t seriously intend to turn the security of the Coalition into an auction?”
“Why not? I have what you need, and you can procure it nowhere else. That would seem to me the basis of a price negotiation. I am sure you have authorisation to offer me something or you wouldn’t have come.”
“I can’t reverse the decision of the courts. I can’t turn back the clock and restore your good name. I can’t undo what has happened.” He sounded quite upset about it too.
Kahina got to her feet as gracefully as her age allowed and crossed the room to the antique desk. She loved the smooth feel of the polished wood as she slid her hand beneath it to release a secret catch. It was a wonderfully archaic hiding place. She slipped the data stick into her hand and turned back to Jecks, holding it up for him to see.
“This is everything you need to know to deal with them — if you are willing to pay the price I ask.”
“I’m not authorised to offer you anything.” He sounded in pain.
“Then it’s good that I’m not asking you for any ‘thing’. I have only one demand to make.”
“The head of Ilke Dray?” Jecks suggested, his voice slightly strangled. And, for a moment, Kahina had to wonder if he was being serious. Perhaps he was.
“I have no idea what I might do with such a completely vacuous item,” she told him. “No. I couldn’t care less about Ilke. And the price I’m going to ask isn’t unduly expensive. I merely need to know you will pay it when the time comes.”
“What is it?”
“I want Durban Chola.”
She wasn’t sure if it was relief or appalled amusement that motivated his response. “Chola? What the…? I mean, why?”
“I really rather think that’s my business, don’t you?”
Jecks looked as though he was being forced to swallow a large, irregularly shaped solid object.
“Right. Yes. Of course. I think we can do that.”
It was that easy.
Crossing back to the chairs, she settled herself comfortably again before holding out the data stick to Jecks. He took it as if it were a sacred relic, then busied himself with his links for a few moments as he prepared it to read. She could tell when he had done so. His expression shifted. Hardened.
“This contains nothing. Just two names.”
“That is more than enough for now, I assure you. If you were intelligent enough it would be all you needed, but I am quite aware you will be returning to ask me for further guidance.” It was why she felt so confident that he would pay her price in the end.
Jecks was frowning as if trying to read some deeper meaning into what he had been given.
“One is someone I know quite well and I can see the sense in it, they’ve worked on this before — but who in the name of all sanity is Halkom Dugsdall?”
Kahina, her objective achieved, sat back serenely and smiled.

Mistrust and Treason by E.M. Swift-Hook is free to download for today and tomorrow!

Yule love this!

It is the festive season,
The time December sees in
And that’s our very reason,
To grant each day for you
Something that’s old or new
Perhaps a gift or two!

TODAY’S DELIGHT – A Giveaway!

In A Cold Frame by Jane Jago, Grace finds herself caught up in murder, mystery and mid-life romance in the beautiful Cornish coastal countryside…

It takes a certain sort of courage to change your life at fifty-five. But Grace had never lacked chutzpah, so she took redundancy as a sign from on high. Within a month of the factory closing she had rented out her house, bought a campervan, and acquired an oversized shaggy mutt called Jeremy.
Bright and early on one of those April mornings where the sky is pale blue and the world looks washed clean, she engaged first gear and set out to find adventure.
The first couple of weeks of campervan life was interesting, as Grace learned the ropes and Jeremy learned acceptable behaviour. However, by the time May poked its nose over the horizon they felt like a proper team. As the weather was unseasonably warm, they settled into a shady pitch on a tidy little campsite in north Cornwall and sat back to watch the surfers, and walk the coastal path.
On day two of their stay, they acquired neighbours, who had a big orange muscle truck and a silver bullet of a caravan. Geoff and Mona were large, loud and friendly and they had a French Bulldog who adored Jeremy, even if she did bully him.
Most of the rest of the campsite was filled with youngsters, in tents and beat-up vee dubs, whose only interests appeared to be surfing and getting laid.
Grace wasn’t surprised that most of these youngsters chose to ignore her, though she was always pleased to chat to any polite enough to pass the time of day with a middle-aged woman and her ugly dog. This wary politeness changed to something warmer the day a group of lads discovered that Jeremy could play football.
It happened like this. The waves weren’t cooperating and a dozen boys were playing what Grace mentally described as mini Australian Rules when one of them kicked the ball too enthusiastically and it bulleted towards a newly-arrived, very shiny, very white caravan. None of the lads were close enough to stop the inevitable, but Jeremy was
“Catch boy.”
The ball was just passing over his head when the big dog jumped, catching it in his powerful jaws.
He brought the ball to Grace and dropped it at her feet.
“Who’s a clever boy,” she said, as she rubbed his rough head.
By this time the surfers had jogged over and were standing in a rough line about six feet from Grace.
“You can come and get your ball,” she said. “He doesn’t bite.”
The boys crowded forwards. They seemed to have elected the skinniest of them as spokesperson. Because he hitched up his colourful shorts and gave Grace a sort of a half salute.
“That was some catch. I reckon Buffon here saved our bacon.” He indicated the red-faced and bristling caravanner with a rueful thumb. “Thanks buddy.”
Jeremy looked to Grace for permission, and when she nodded he went over the the group of lads and indicated that they might make much of him. When he knocked two over in his enthusiasm, Grace whistled sharply.
“Gently Jeremy.”
He wagged his tail frantically, but moderated his behaviour enough to stop knocking people over. When even he had had enough attention he ambled back to the camper for a long drink of water.
“That’s some dog missis, what is he?”
“Nobody knows. I adopted him from a shelter because he and me seemed to suit.”
The boys thought that one over for a minute.
“Is he really called Jeremy? That’s kinda cool.”
“He was called it when I got him. The kennel-maid thought he looked like her uncle Jeremy.”
Grace threw them their ball.
“You lot have a game to play, but I don’t recommend playing near here.”
“No. We can’t expect Jeremy here to save us twice. We’ll get him a bone to say thanks next time we go into town.”
“He’d rather join in your game of football. He’s a mean goalie.”
“Yay. Keen. Coming boy?”
Jeremy looked to Grace for permission, and when she agreed he went gladly to the games field at the bottom of the valley.
Predictably enough, mister shiny caravan bustled over – only he didn’t come to thank Grace for saving his pride and joy from a football. Instead he chose to stand over her as she sat in her comfortable chair and loudly berate her for ‘encouraging rowdyism’. She put up with him and his bristling moustache for a couple of minutes before standing up so he was no longer looming over her.
“Go away,” she said quietly. “You are on my pitch, uninvited, and you are being rude. I have no desire to listen to you.”

A Cold Frame by Jane Jago is free today and tomorrow so you can snag your copy and keep reading!

Yule love this!

It is the festive season,
The time December sees in
And that’s our very reason,
To grant each day for you
Something that’s old or new
Perhaps a gift or two!

TODAY’S DELIGHT – A classic song for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung up tempo and with verve to the tune of ‘Good King Wenceslas Looked Out‘)

All the family’s sparked out
Now the feast is eaten
Roast ‘taties and brussel sprouts
Left in heaps uneven
Brightly burned the brandy flame
When the pud was served up
But although I can’t complain
I’m so stuffed I could throw up.

‘One more mince pie, help yourself’
That was my undoing
Now I can’t see my feet no more
‘Cos of all that chewing
Washed it down with cherry schnapps
And some fine prosecco
Now I need a good long nap
As the carols e-echo.

Now its least an hour past
Since we all were dining
Memories of that repast
Rapidly declining
Then someone brings in the cake
And we all have slices
Oh yes, a second piece I’ll take
Or maybe three suffices…

Yule love this!

It is the festive season,
The time December sees in
And that’s our very reason,
To grant each day for you
Something that’s old or new
Perhaps a gift or two!

TODAY’S EXTRA SPECIAL FESTIVE DELIGHT – Fozzies’ First Christmas!

Fozzie doesn’t understand hoomans. They is very strange. They tells Fozzie this is Krissmuss. But Fozzie doesn’t know what Krissmuss is.
He does know that his hoomans is acting very strange.
First they puts up a thing in the evenings room. It’s green and fuzzy and it has red shiny dangles and teeny weeny stars. They says it is a tree. Fozzie knows it is not. But they doesn’t lissen to him.
Then the nice lady with the red van and the gravy bones keeps bringing things with squiggles on. Same like for hoomum’s barkday, but much more many. They shows them to Fozzie and he is not interested, until there is one that smells of Fozzie’s Scotland family and his dog mummy and his favourite litter sister. Fozzie wants to have that thing for his own self, but hoodad says no. Fozzie may have has a sulk…
Anyhoo, hoodad tells The Foz that a fat hooman in a red suit comes down the chimbelow to bring treatoes for good dogs. Fozzie says not on his watch. He isn’t having no strange man near his hoomum. Nohow. Contrariwise. Hoodad says not to worry, but Fozzie is on his guard,
There is much good foods being made and Fozzie has to do lots of kitchen helping. Fozzie likes kitchen helping. And he specially likes the look of the biggest chimkun you has ever seen. Hoomum says we shall roast it for Krissmuss dinner. Fozzie can hardly wait.
Tonight hoodad hangs three socks on the fireplace. They has squiggles on them and hoodad points Fozzie the squiggles. Hoomum, he says. Hoodad. And Fozzie! He tells Fozzie that the socks is where the fat man leaves treatoes for good hoomans and good dogs. Fozzie isn’t sure about that, but he supposes hoodad knows what he is telling.
Bedtime has come and the house is as quiet as a mouses. Fozzie sits up and has a think. He isn’t having no strange man near his hoomum, big horse protection is his duty. He sneaks onto the big bed quiet, quiet and lays down beside hoomum.
She nearly wakes up, but in the end only puts her front paw on Fozzie’s back.
She’s safe now and Fozzie can sleep, maybe he will dream of a sock full of treatoes just for him…

Gifts Galore (well FIVE of them) for you to enjoy!

If you need to entertain the children or the grand-children today, why not snag A Christmas Tail by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook with illustrations by Ian Bristow. A charming story set into rhyme as a mouse teaches a spoilt little girl the true meaning of Christmas…

Definitely for the grown-ups – a seasonal story of obsession, Team Holly by Jane Jago.

And for the grown-ups who have long since done growing (except sideways maybe), a humorous handbook for trainee pensioners: Growing Old (Dis)Gracefully: Limericks and Random Thoughts on Ageing by Jane Jago.

Or maybe you fancy a bit of escapism into a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left. Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises… for those who enjoy whodunnits and alternate history! Here are two Dai and Julia adventures free for you – Dying for a Vacation and Dying to be Fathers by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

All can be downloaded for free today (or tomorrow). Hoping these help you and yours have a fabulous day whether you are celebrating or not!

Yule love this!

It is the festive season,
The time December sees in
And that’s our very reason,
To grant each day for you
Something that’s old or new
Perhaps a gift or two!

TODAY’S DELIGHT – A poem for the season!

It was just past midnight, though the sky seemed extra dark
And all the little steam engines were gathered in the park
Then something broke the silence with a rattle and a creak
The oldest engine cleared his tubes, and he began to speak

“There are not many nights”, he said, “when we are gathered near
So I would tell a tale if you might have the will to hear”
The wheezing and the whistling was no louder than a breeze
And yet a tiny engine whispered, “Will you tell us please?”

“It happened very long ago, my father’s father’s story
When Owen Owen rode the rails to fame and shining glory
He was just an engine, and his livery quite worn
He pulled the ore from down the mine and worked from night to morn

But then one day in winter, he was give a big surprise
His driver and an engineer they fitted him with eyes
Clear and shining brass they were and bright to light the way
And driver said they made the mine as bright as any day

What Owen engine thought of them was never very clear
But those bright eyes they lit the miners way throughout the year
For two days every winter the pit was put to bed
And Owen Owen engine was left peaceful in his shed

He quite enjoyed the rest he felt his heavy toil had bought
And closing down his brassy eyes he sat in happy thought
Until one night when all around the fog was thick and yellow
His rest was interrupted by a fat and jolly fellow

‘Owen Owen’, said the man, ‘I’ve come to ask your aid
I’ve toys to take to children but the reindeer are afraid
They cannot see through this thick murk and fear to break their legs
Will you help us out dear chap? Or do I have to beg?’

And Owen Owen smiled a smile as wide as wide could be
‘Open up the shed’ he said, ‘that’s just the job for me’
And so it came about upon that darkling winter’s night
That Owen Owen guided Santa with his eyes so bright.”

And every engine in the park gave a quiet beep
Before they closed their iron minds and tumbled back to sleep.

Jane Jago

Yule love this!

It is the festive season,
The time December sees in
And that’s our very reason,
To grant each day for you
Something that’s old or new
Perhaps a gift or two!

TODAY’S DELIGHT –  Listen in – and a Giveaway!

The Night Library at Christmas by Jane Jago on Tall Tales TV.

It was Christmas Eve and the darkness of the library was alive with twinkling lights as children, and small creatures carrying glow worm lanterns, climbed the stacks to the floor and joined an ever-growing procession to where a noble Norway Spruce speared the darkness with its scented branches. As the crowd around its feet grew thicker, the Christmas tree seemed to grow ever taller and more majestic, then, one by one, the candles on its branches took light.
A dumpy little human female stepped into the light and immediately a clamour went up around her.
“Miss. Miss. Read us the story. Read us about the baby in the stable. Please miss.”
The librarian smiled and went to the place where Holy Books of many callings were shelved. A heavy, hand tooled volume leapt into her arms and for a second she staggered under its weight. She smoothed its tooled leather, reflecting on how the stories within its covers had conquered the world with more effectiveness than all the guns, and all the bombs, and all the wars…

From ‘The Night Library at Christmas’ one of the stories in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago that is free to download today and tomorrow.

Yule love this!

It is the festive season,
The time December sees in
And that’s our very reason,
To grant each day for you
Something that’s old or new
Perhaps a gift or two!

TODAY’S DELIGHT – A seasonal story of tragedy and hope!

Midwinter Miracle

I.

It was Midwinter.

Tegwyth reminded herself of that. A time for celebrating that the longest season had finally turned on its pivot and the warmth of summer, though short-lived, would come again. A time for gifts to be given and feasts to be eaten. In past years she had been given gifts by the owner of the caravan – her owner – trinkets to wear, bangles for her wrists and ankles, a fine scarf to protect her hair and pull over her face, keeping the dust from her nose and mouth, as it was thrown up by the caravan on the road. She had been pampered and cosseted, well treated and cared for. She had even believed she was loved.

Then last Midwinter she had become a gift.

She had seen it coming from the moment his true-born child had started speaking venom – one who would take no competition for her father’s affections. And he, in his turn, adored her and indulged her. Then the boy-child Tegwyth carried was born to live no more than a few gasping breaths, like all his sons before. She had failed him.

So at Midwinter she had been given away. A gift to seal a trading pledge with a merchant from across the ocean – a merchant from this city, from Keran. The merchant had taken her into his house and then taken almost all she cared about from her – even her hope. But when he threatened to take and sell the most precious thing in her life, she had risked everything and run away. It had been her Midwinter gift to herself.

So yes, Midwinter was about gifts and feasting, but sometimes, maybe, you had to take the gifts and help yourself to the food.

It sat on the table beside a smeared empty bowl with a lingering savoury smell of soup. Someone had bought it, eaten their fill and left half the loaf. Whoever it was did not want the bread and it had already been paid for, so it could not really be considered theft.

She had first seen it through the small window, as she stood, shivering, in the frozen white outside. Somebody had wiped away the condensation of the warmth within so they could look out, which had granted her a half-glimpse inside the tavern. That had been enough. Following a group of wealthy men and their whores through the briefly open door, then shrinking into the shadows to disguise the quality of her dress and the thin felt cloak that had been worn through in patches.

The loaf still sat unguarded. The boy clearing the tables did not seem to have noticed it yet. He was at the far side of the room, dodging between the patrons with their fine and fancy faces, plump from good eating. He ducked, avoiding a cuff aimed at his ear, as he picked up a jug someone had not yet deemed empty.

The loaf looked bigger than it had through the window. Tegwyth’s stomach called out to it and she was grateful for the sounds of raucous cheer. Without them, the man standing with his back to her, close by the fire, might have heard. He was tall and even from behind she could see the wider whiskers of his beard as they spread from his chin.

She knew who he was, of course, all of Keran had heard of him. They called him Drum. He was someone special here and his arrival the previous day had been talked of everywhere as she hunted for food. Not many sons of Temsevar, as she knew well, made their way to other worlds and even fewer of those who did ever came back as he did. Even here in Keran, where the twin domes of the spaceport humped high with snow dominated the city, it still seemed strange beyond imagining for Tegwyth. She struggled to believe that anyone could come from worlds beyond the stars.

Her eyes moved back to the loaf which seemed so far away – as if, it too, sat on another world. Beside it, cast aside onto the stool and partly pooling its fabric over the table, was an odd, sleeved garment that might be some kind of coat. It was the colour of freshly shed blood but had a sheen in its fabric which the flickering firelight caught and played with. She had seen the bearded man wearing it out in the snow on his way here. It must be warm to wear as he had needed no cloak. Even above the gripe of her stomach for food, she felt a sudden desire for the coat and the warmth it could give…

You can continue to read Midwinter Miracle by E.M. Swift-Hook for free, or it is available to purchase through Amazon as an audiobook, or specially designed text-art paperback, or on Kindle.

Yule love this!

It is the festive season,
The time December sees in
And that’s our very reason,
To grant each day for you
Something that’s old or new
Perhaps a gift or two!

TODAY’S DELIGHT – A Festive Poem!

With a belly full of turkey
And a slightly tarnished hat
She laid down in the sitting room
Feeling somewhat fat
I shall eat no more this day
And neither shall I booze
I’ll pull my hat over my eyes
And have a gentle snooze
But somebody made cocktails 
And they broke out the mince pies
And then they opened chocolates 
Before her very eyes
By the time the carol singers
Stood outside the door
She was almost certain 
She could eat and drink no more
But then they played some party games 
While granny snored and farted
Charades were loud and noisy
Just to get the party started
Then mum made turkey sandwiches
And rather lethal punch
She thought they may be hungry 
As it was three hours since lunch
With a belly full of turkey
And some tinsel round her head
She mused, bemused, that Christmas 
Made her wish that she was dead

Jane Jago

Yule love this!

It is the festive season,
The time December sees in
And that’s our very reason,
To grant each day for you
Something that’s old or new
Perhaps a gift or two!

TODAY’S DELIGHT –  Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer his review of a timeless classic!

This, for some obscure reason beyond one’s not inconsiderable intellect, is one of Mummy’s all-time favourites. She starts reading it on the first of December each year, carefully husbanding it so that she reads the last few pages on Christmas Eve – inevitably drunk and crying snottily. I have been a party to this inexplicable ritual for most of my life, and, until I reached adulthood, Mumsie was in the habit of sitting on the side of my bed and reading this to me in instalments. In retrospect, this may perhaps have coloured my perception of Mr Dickens’ slight little thing. However, we shall persevere – because discipline is good for the soul.

My Review of A Christmas Carol.

A Christmas classic.

Let us examine why.

In one’s estimation, this book taps into all the overused and overexposed ideas of Christmas sensibility. A major character called Scrooge. A major character notable for his meanness and lack of empathy…. Tell me how that is not jumping on the bandwagon of that name denoting meanness and lack of empathy. Yuletide ghosts. The deserving poor. A crippled child that is so sickeningly cute one almost wishes it would meet with an accident. The lack of originality in this thing almost beggars belief. And the story. The story is the apotheosis of predictability, it is the absolute nemesis of creative thought. Does it not glorify the mundane and deify that which is unbeautiful? Is it not the histoire of a plain old man with little to recommend him beyond his wealth? And by the end of this horrible little book is he not giving his wealth away? One. Does. Not. Comprehend.

In synopsis: An unpleasant old man meets some ghosts and becomes somewhat less unpleasant as a consequence. A story peopled with every overused Christmas stereotype the author could find.

Conclusion: Not for one of one’s exquisite sensibilities. However one must acknowledge its appeal to the undereducated, the maudlinly sentimental, the intoxicated, and those with an oleaginous attachment to an unrealistic ideal of Christmas.

Star rating: No stars for originality. No stars for narrative arc. No stars for one’s own literary tastes. However one must award this author many shiny bright celestial beings for his ability to grasp the populace by its collective scrotum and insert his scribbling into the conscious of a whole nation. One must bow one’s head in the face of such financial acumen.

Read it and weep tears of frustration.

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.

Yule love this!

It is the festive season,
The time December sees in
And that’s our very reason,
To grant each day for you
Something that’s old or new
Perhaps a gift or two!

TODAY’S DELIGHT – A short story!

The Christmas Angel

It was just about dusk on Christmas Eve when an army of cleaners, decorators and caterers moved out of the old farmhouse on the edge of Exmoor. They piled into their respective vans and headed home. As it turned out, they were not a moment too early. The nose of a silver Bentley poked its way onto the slightly rutted drive as the last white Ford Transit pulled out.
The woman in the passenger seat of the big car pulled a sour face.
‘I hope that was the last of them, they had strict instructions to be gone before we were due to arrive.’
Her companion patted her leg. ‘We are early, darling’ he said consolingly.
She shut her mouth with a snap, and anyone less infatuated might have seen a resemblance to a rat trap in the way her even white teeth closed together.
The Bentley rounded a bend in the drive and the occupants could see the long, low house. Every window was picked out with lights, a big tree in the front garden stood garlanded with sparkling icicles, and the smoking chimneys betokened traditional welcome. The driver held his breath for a second, before his passenger made a small sound of satisfaction rather like a pleased cat.
‘Oh yes’ she purred ‘it’s perfect isn’t it. Our American friends will be so impressed, won’t they?’
The man was bright enough to recognise a rhetorical question when he heard one, and contented himself with a covert study of her perfect profile.
As the car slid to a halt, the woman leapt out tripped up the steps, and put her hand on the big oak front door. She pushed it wide and walked into a massive flagstoned entrance hall. Inhaling deeply, she could smell cloves, cinnamon, ginger and the subtle scent of the evergreen garlands twined around the beams. She turned to face her husband as he came into the house.
‘Aren’t I a clever girl’ she gloated.
‘Oh. You are. Shall we look at the rest of the place?’

They wandered from room to room, admiring the decorations and the carefully prepared welcome. If the man swallowed uncomfortably when he saw his ex-wife’s treasured family heirlooms tastefully arranged on the huge Christmas tree, he said nothing.
As the house came without staff, the kitchen had to be visited – fortunately all was carefully arranged in readiness, even down to a punchbowl and glasses, which awaited the mulled wine sitting warming gently on the back of the Aga, and a folder of neatly typed instructions ensured that all would go without a hitch.
The man’s phone bleeped and his companion removed it from his pocket. She looked at the readout, and deleted the call with a flick of one perfectly manicured finger. He wondered briefly who he wasn’t to be allowed to speak to, but his young wife inhaled deeply and the creamy slopes of her breasts distracted his attention. He put a hand on her ass, and she smacked it away pettishly.
‘Not now….’ Her phone jingled festively and she looked at the screen.
‘Our guests have left Exeter. They will be here in just over an hour.’
She smiled, a smile of completely self-absorbed satisfaction, before turning her attention back to her spouse. He didn’t smile back, resentful that she had slapped away his questing hand. Catching on quickly, she patted his jowly and slightly pouting face before running the tip of a pink tongue over a pair of plump and glossy lips.
‘That gives us just enough time…’ she breathed.
Taking the end of his tie in one dainty hand, she led him towards the master bedroom: a fatuously smiling lamb to the slaughter.

By the time a luxurious minibus full of American visitors rolled up the drive it was full dark, and every window of the long low house blazed a welcome. The front door stood open, and the six occupants of the bus climbed out onto the centuries old cobbles.
One of the women spoke. ‘Gee, this is some place.’
‘Ain’t it just, honey.’
Their hostess came down the two worn steps to greet them.
‘Come in. Come in. We have mulled wine and mince pies to thaw you out.’
The Americans dropped their coats on an oak settle in the passage and followed their hostess’ undulating buttocks into a sitting room where a log fire blazed in an enormous inglenook fireplace and a sparkling Christmas tree reached to the ceiling.
‘Oh, isn’t this just quaint.’
The sound of wheels on flagstones announced the arrival of their host, pushing a trolley with a bowl of steaming mulled wine and a big dish of mince pies. When everyone was served, the men took station in front of the big log fire while the women poked around the room. The quartet stopped in front of the Christmas tree.
‘Gee. Those trimmings are real unusual.’
‘They are mostly Victorian, heirlooms in my husband’s family. We treasure them. The string of soldiers is handmade from wooden clothespins, the baubles are all hand-blown glass, the silver bird candle holders came from Asprey’s just before the turn of the century, and the angel has a porcelain head, and real feather wings.’
‘Isn’t that just lovely.’
As the women wandered back towards the fire, anyone who was bothering to notice might have seen that their host suddenly looked uncomfortable and shuffled his feet. But nobody looked, and nobody cared. A fat man in his middle fifties who actually marries the twenty-three-year-old ‘glamour model’ who has been warming his bed forfeits the right to be noticed – except as an object of derision.

An hour later hunger called, and the members of the house party were all bundled into coats and boots, and ready to tramp along the footpath leading to the village with its welcoming pub. Behind them the farmhouse remained ablaze with festive lights.

In the sitting room a gruff voice spoke from somewhere in the vicinity of the Christmas tree. It was one of the clothespin soldiers.
‘It ain’t right.’
‘What ain’t right?’ His left-hand neighbour asked.
‘Heirlooms in my husband’s family’ the voice was scornful. ‘Since when did we belong to that fat bastard or the overpainted tart?’
‘Since never.’
The soldiers grumbled amongst themselves for some time before they were interrupted by an ice-cold cut-glass voice from the apex of the tree.
‘This place displeases me. Why are we here?’
Nobody spoke for a while, then one of the silver birds found its voice. ‘We awoke once, to find ourselves lifted in the claws of that female. We thought she was about to dash us to the ground when another human spoke. It told her we were too valuable to destroy. Then it said if she wanted to cause hurt to our own lady she should keep us.’
There was another silence then a strangely echoing voice piped in.
‘Permission to speak ma’am?’
‘We do not know your voice. Who are you?’
‘We are the silver stars around your feet. We have seen this before. The fat male has repudiated your lady and taken the plastic one as his mate. In this world they call it a divorce.’
The angel hissed.
‘This is unsupportable.’
‘It is, ma’am’ the others spoke as one.
‘What are we prepared to do about it?’
‘Whatever it takes.’
‘Be silent then, and let me think.’
There was a pregnant silence, then the angel spoke again.
‘Are there candles in your claws, silver birds?’
‘Yes ma’am. There are.’
‘Very well. Wait.’

It was late, exceedingly late, when eight humans, in various states of inebriation, returned to the old house and rolled into bed. Nobody switched out the Christmas lights, and nobody bothered to put a guard around the blazing logs in the inglenook.
In a very short time the household was silent once more, except for a couple of very sonorous snores. Outside, the frost sparkled on the grass and the house lights blazed against the dark sky.
The cold cut-glass tones from the treetop spoke one word and the soldiers set to work.
Three hours later the frost still sparkled on the grass, but the lights that blazed against the sky now were the blue flashing lights on the roofs of fire engines.
A man in a yellow helmet shook his head sorrowfully.
‘No survivors?’
His colleague nodded.
‘None.’

Those with very sharp ears, and open minds, might have heard derisive laughter in crystal clear tones, high, wild bird song, and marching feet in perfect unison. But the firefighters were too busy to hear, and nobody else cared…

Jane Jago