Social Media

Unlike many octogenarians, Gran here is well up with the youf and that which is laughingly called ‘social’ media. I like to think my Twitter feed is both informative and entertaining, while my Facebook page is a fountain of wisdom and wit. I’m not going to even attempt to teach you how to become a force like me, all I can hope for is to give you some hints about internet security.

Let us consider photographs… 

Holidays: tempting though it may be Do Not post photographs of your crew giving it large in Jamaica all over the web. You are only storing up trouble. For every person who enjoys your innocent joy there will be one who thinks you are an entitled bitch who deserves to be taken down a peg and another who reckons your empty house is ripe for being burgled.

Food: nobody gives a flying **** where you are eating, or what you are eating. Stop it. Now.

Selfies: unless you have managed to turn your hair green or you have climbed Everest unassisted, then one a week is more than plenty.

Children: yummies Stop Posting Endless Images of Wheatgerm and Claustrophobia. You are doing the poor little blighters a great disservice. What is cute when you are three will be nothing but an embarrassment when you are thirty-three. Unless you want one of your children to smother you in later life don’t document their lives for all the world to see.

Other content…

Inspirational quotes: just don’t…

Cute memes: these are okay as long as they are reasonably fresh. If you are gonna be the three millionth one to share – don’t 

Internet ‘chain letters’: nobody wants to copy and paste stuff no matter how worthy you think it is. Neither do most people want to share unamusingly PC perorations. And as for ‘I think I know which of my friends will share this’ – just send it to them ones then.

And finally…

Remember the internet is the twenty-first century incarnation of the saloon bar. The difference is that saloon bar trolls generally got their clocks cleaned by those they offended. Internet trolls hide behind keyboards and avatars and the like and are probably sitting in their bedrooms dressed only in crunchy underpants and mismatched socks while they criticise your sartorial efforts.

It’s a jungle out there kids, and sometimes even a Kardashian backside ain’t wide enough to deflect the bullets….

It doesn’t matter what you think – this is Granny’s opinion and it’s not up for discussion!

Kitty Gilthorpe never troubled about the weather, she walked her dog, Rolo, every day whether it was sunny or windy, sleeting or scorching, foggy or frosty. Her walking boots lived by the door with her sturdy stick.

Which was why Rolo found the couple stuck in their car in a snowdrift on the way to hospital with no signal for their phones.

Kitty Gilthorpe was born practical. Before you could say ‘got it sorted’ she had them back to her cottage and the babe born on her kitchen floor.

It was a boy and they called him Rolo Gilthorpe Brown.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Sam scooped up child and oxygen cylinder.
“Okay Bill, we’re gonna run. Is that OK? I won’t drop you.”
William nodded, and Sam set off down the stairs as fast as he could safely go. Out of the door they went, and across the grass to the waiting helicopter. Sam ran as fast as he could, silently thanking God for all the hours he spent in the gym. As he reached the chopper, the door opened and he handed his burden into the arms of one of the waiting crewmen. He jumped into the machine, hearing gunfire behind him and felt something sting his shoulder.
“Bastards,” he said. “Anybody else hit?”
“Yeah. One.” Rod said.
“Bad?”
“No. Shoulder. Flesh wound.”
“Okay. I’ll have a look after we’ve settled Bill. You come sit with him and hold him so he’s sitting up. And chat to him. I don’t want him going back to sleep yet.”
“Right. I will. But what about you? Are you hit?”
“Sort of. Just a scrape across the biceps. I’ll spray it and shove a plaster on it.”
He suited action to words, before turning his gaze towards the boss of the jumpsuit men.
“Is there any problem with them shooting at the chopper?”
“Nah. It’s armoured. Even the glass. And they don’t seem to have any serious shooters. Mostly sawn offs, a couple of two-twos and a few handguns.”
“Good. I’ll look at your bloke’s shoulder as soon as. Can you get him out of his jumpsuit?”
“Will do.”
Sam turned his attention to the child in Rod’s lap. He grinned down at him and carefully removed the oxygen mask.
“How you doing Billy Boy?”
“I feel awfully sick.”
“I can give you an injection to stop that.”
He saw William’s involuntarily wince.
“What is it little man? Did they hurt you when they injected you with their drugs?”
“Yes. They hurt me a lot.”
Sam stroked his head.
“Well we won’t give you an injection then. I have some pills, though they won’t work quite as well.”
William studied his face for a moment.
“Will you hurt me if you give me an injection?”
“No. I promise I won’t.”
The little boy held his sleeve.
“Then you can give me a shot. I feel so very sick.”
“That’s a boy.”
Sam took a local anaesthetic spray from his bag and lifted the sleeve of William’s T-shirt. What he saw there made him tighten his mouth.
“That arm looks a bit sore. Is the other one the same?”
“Yes.”
Rod hugged the small figure very tightly and his face was stony. Sam managed a grin for William.
“Leg then?’
William nodded and Sam sprayed the small thigh liberally. Then he prepared the anti-nausea shot. Before William had a chance to flinch the injection was done.
The little boy was jubilant.
“I didn’t feel a thing.”
“Good. So will you trust me enough to let me give you a shot of antibiotics? You are very cold and you might have picked up a bug.”
“Yes. You won’t hurt me.”
Sam swallowed around a big lump in his throat then gave his small patient a shot of penicillin.
“Can somebody open my bag?” he said. “There’s a red jumper in the top, and I need it.”
A hand passed him the soft wool and he pulled it over William’s head.
“Arms through. It’s much too big but it will help to warm you. And now, stick your legs inside this sleeping bag. Better?”
William actually managed a little giggle before rubbing his face in the softness of the sweater.
“It smells like my Daddy and it’s as soft as clouds. Can I go sleep now?”
“You can. Cuddle into uncle Rod and keep nice and snuggly.”
William turned into his uncle’s huge chest and gave a small sigh before falling asleep.
“Sam,” Rod said “this jumper is cashmere.”
“And? That child is cold. No contest. Now I’m going to look at this gunshot wound before the boomer boys get back.”

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago You can also listen to this on YouTube.

When the sensible wife of a well-to-do sheep farmer appeared at the back door with a request for a love philtre Nanny was surprised.
But she invited the woman in and sat her by the kitchen fire with a mug of camomile tea.
“It’s Amos. He don’t want me no more. Set his eyes on a chit of seventeen summers. With a big belly she swears is his.”
“Wouldn’t be Widow Wossname’s girl would it?”
“It would.”
Nanny sighed.
“You go on home and leave this to me.”
Once the woman was safely away, Nanny swore a bit and went out to talk to the bees.
An hour later a certain widow was banging frantically on the front door with a swarm of bees buzzing about her head.
“Help me, please.”
Nanny looked at her sternly.
“You and your daughter have got to stop trying to foist her brat on every farmer in the valley.”
“Well somebody has to take responsibility.”
“The actual father?”
“She don’t know who it is.”
“There has to be one that isn’t married…”
The widow spread her hands in a gesture of defeat.
“I’ll have her wed by Thursday.”
The bees flew away.

©janejago

… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

ahsa (noun) – of writers the dreadful feeling experienced in the moment when they realise a plot line is not going to work

awamped (adjective) – slightly damp and smelling of embrocation

lieks (noun) – soup vegetable with the flavour of elderly socks

berhand (adjective) ambidextrous when under the influence of rough cider

clamerous (adjective) – of children in the back of a car demanding to know if we are ‘there yet’

concrend (noun) – inferior building material

delting (verb) – of BDSM the beating of a willing slave with barely cooked spaghetti

enxt (adjective) – attempting to camouflage anxiety by the wearing of a lot of beige knitted clothing

finsih (noun) – minor Scandinavian dialect

nemies (noun) – small Andean rodents often kept as pets by geography teachers

perdick (adjective) – resembling a flaccid penis

probaly (adverb) – of finger pointing very specific threat level

taht (noun) – estuarine pronunciation of tart

wasteat (noun) – the pointed end of the right breast

wriign (verb) – of country dancing or folk singing the action of being persistently half a second behind the beat

yjay (adjective) – birdlike and maliciously inquisitive

Nobody was jealous of Morag.

She wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t young and she had a hard life travelling around, doing back breaking work on the land. She had no money for holidays or new clothes, no smartphone or smart TV, her tiny caravan was too hot in summer and too cold in winter. She had no human companionship, and spent her days working, knitting or walking with her dog.

Morag knew well no one envied her. But she was fine with that. All that mattered to Morag was there was nobody in the world she was jealous of at all.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The small round tent with it’s stippled canvas sat under the spread of an oak tree on the edge of the showground. All around rural folk talked rural patter about lambing and brewing, the price of rape by the acre and the eroding of environmental subsidies.
I didn’t feel as though I could bear another hail-fellow-well-met conversation with another farmer, which would begin with a friendly smile and end with a polite one, painted on just as they beat a rapid retreat back to the beer tent or the show ring.
the conversations followed an unavoidable and inevitable pattern.
“So what you going to do with those acres up on Claw Moor now you’ve bought them? Farm sheep?”
“Farm wind.”
A moment of confusion which would change to a quickly hidden hostility.
“The Moor is a beauty spot you know.”
“So is the world.”
A puzzled frown.
“I don’t see -“
“No. Very few do. I quite understand.”
Then the choice between rancour and retreat. Retreat winning most often, to my relief.
So the fortune teller’s tent seemed to me as much a place of temporary respite from all that as a possible entertainment for a few minutes. Besides, I could do with the promise of a tall, dark stranger – especially one who didn’t run away as soon as I started talking about my farm.
Inside it was cool and dim, the scent of verdigris and myrrh gentling the air. The fortune teller was young, not the wise old woman I had expected. She said nothing, nodding regally to the chair opposite her and then lifting a crystal ball from the table between us and holding it in her hands. Silence spread into the sounds outside and absorbed them as my gaze became fixed on the young woman’s dark eyes.
Was it vision or speech? I will never now know, but for a moment reality was banished to the sidelines and something happened. I saw a barren earth devoured by her children, embraced beneath the sleeping flood of rising oceans and the moon riding the skies as sole witness to the coming of a time that did not know humanity.
Then I was standing under the oak tree in the shade that cast me apart from the sun soaked showground, the jollity of ice cream vans and warm real ale, listening to the announcer telling us the winner of the Waggiest Tail contest…

E.M. Swift-Hook – You can listen to this on YouTube.

The vicar’s cousin Luigi turned up on a visit.
Where the vicar was a portly, blunt-nosed khaki-skinned utilitarian sort of a critter his cousin was svelte and smooth with eyes of burning gold.
The village sucked in a collective breath and the sensible female populace gossiped behind its work-roughened hands.
The silly ones fell like ninepins.
Matters came to a head when the daughter of the blacksmith and the niece of the lady of the manner indulged in a bout of face slapping and hair pulling outside church on a Sunday morning.
Luigi found it all highly amusing.
Nanny didn’t share his amusement. She wandered over and stood with her hands on her hips.
Luigi curled his lip. “Was there something, gnome?”
“There was. Knock it off. Or else.”
“Or else what?” He belched a small blue flame.
Nanny took a handful of something out of a pocket and blew.
It’s stupid to underestimate an earth witch, and it’s even stupider to flame a handful of potato flour. The explosion ignited the dragon’s eyebrows, and was the cause of much rustic humour.
Luigi hasn’t been to visit again.

©janejago

Rocky Road to Love by Cindy Tomamichel

The Past Meets The Future in The Present

I’m not much of a one for romance books but I do find the occasional dive into the genre to be a worthwhile diversion and this is a good example of that.
In her fascinating ‘Druid’s Portal’ series, the author is very much committed to the theme of men from the past and women from the present getting together – and in an odd way this is an extrapolation of that theme, only here it is the man obsessed with the past (an archaeologist) and a woman obsessed with the present/future (a prospecting) geologist.
Sandra is trying to save the town of Broken by finding a new source of mineral wealth in the surrounding desert, but Max is there to make sure that in doing so the mines don’t destroy any precious archaeological traces. It all plays out against the backdrop of the vast and harsh Australian landscape and with the warmth and tenderness of true friendships, love and betrayal.
The writing is excellent, the story is classic romance and the characters are a perfect fit for the plot and setting.
If romance is your thing, you should snag this right now, sit back, relax and be transported to the Outback.

E.M. Swift-Hook

This classic love story is redolent with the harshness of its desert setting whilst at the same time celebrating the twin values of love and friendship. A feisty heroine and a hero with issues have a lot to overcome on their rocky road.
Our heroine searches for her grandfather’s legacy, but this could put her in direct conflict with the hero who mistrusts her motivation.
Of course our archetypal hero and heroine fulfil their destiny, but they do have to overcome a lot of misunderstandings to get there.

Four stars and recommended for lovers of romance.

Jane Jago

The feud started when the neighbour painted their shared drainpipe a shade of puke green. Ron had objected, of course, but the neighbour just laughed. Ron got revenge by refusing to throw the children’s balls back and started a collection in his pigeon shed. 

The neighbour got a cat to hunt Ron’s pigeons. Ron got a dog to hunt the cat.

Ron’s grandchildren were bullied by the neighbours kids in school. And then one of the grandchildren was arrested for knifing a neighbour’s kid.

Ron’s daughter came to his house, tearful.

“I hope you’re bloody satisfied now, Dad ,” she said.

E.M. Swift-Hook