Granny’s A-Z – I is for Intentions

Things that make us go poop…

Granny and the ‘ladies’ darts team of The Dog and Trumpet alphabetically collate their collective contempt for the inhabitants of the twenty-first century.

I is for Intentions, and why the very best ones usually go wrong…

I know, even as I sit here with a large glass of something restorative, a new packet of ciggies, and Gyp beside my feet snoring and farting gently, that all around the world there will be people who are about to begin 2025 with their good intentions firmed up into New Year’s Resolutions….

*pauses for a large drink and wonders where to begin the diatribe that is burning her brain*

Okay. Here goes.

Whatever possesses anybody with even half a brain to think drunken promise made to their other half in the pub (in the vain hope of oral gratification) is going to last beyond Tuesday? Worse though are those persons of a prim self-improving mindset who will have written down their plans/resolutions at some time in mid-November. (In my opinion they just need a slap/a life.)

Anyway, whoever you are and whatever you have resolved to do. You. Won’t. Do. It.

The gym membership card will grow dust on the mantelpiece and, by August, you will throw it in the bin thinking wistfully about the amount of Prosecco/Doom Bar/WHY that seventy-four quid could have bought you.

The packet of ciggies you dramatically throw in the dustbin at 12.01am will be retrieved and tenderly cleaned before breakfast time.

The jog you set out on will only result in you laying by the footpath bringing up your toenails, while a whole slew of elderly ladies will walk their dogs past you and make no attempt to disguise their mirth. (Some of the dogs will piss on you as you lay there sunk in your own misery. Do not attempt chastisement. Old ladies will set about you with their walking sticks if you abuse Tinkerbell or Fluffy.)

The bicycle you were going to ride to work will appear on Craig’s List before the end of February.

The bread ingredients will just sit in the cupboard until they are so far past their sell-by date even my friend Ruby would think twice before ingesting them.

The strange computer thing that you were going to use as an aid to exercise will have become the property of your teenage son/husband and will now be either a golf course or something I wouldn’t pretend to understand – or want to.

And the book on self-improvement (by whatever skinny prune-faced female is currently in fashion) will join hundreds of others in the window of whatever charity shop you hate the most.

So you see, whatever way you cut it, making New Year’s Resolutions is the last resort of the pathetic – and is absofreakinglutely not the way to sort out your life.

Go away and have a proper think about what you need to do, and stop wasting money on crap to make yourself think you are seriously taking charge….

December 31, 2024 0

Ian Bristow Inspires – George

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

George was a gentle creature, slow moving even for one of his kind and deliberate of thought and speech.
When Mabel was introduced to the group, all the males hustled around her puffing out their cheeks and making their most macho grunting noises.
She ignored them, choosing instead to come and munch some fresh greens at George’s side.
When Alfred attempted to mount her she flipped him over onto his back and continued munching.
“A girl likes to be asked,” she said quietly.
It was many days before George did ask, shyly.
Mabel nodded, and they tended the eggs together.

Jane Jago

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design.

December 30, 2024 0

Hale and Hearty Cheer!

In come I, December, with hale and hearty cheer!
With mulled wine and with wassails
With claret, port and beer.
With winter winds and woollen scarves
My breath in air a-misting
I’ve chocolate treats and holly wreaths
And presents all a-gifting
I’ve hot mince pies and sweet plum pud
And bulbs on wires a-hanging
See my pine trees in tinsel gowns
And children on drums a-banging
My carollers sing the ancient songs
That frame this time of cheer,
I bring you joy and laughter in
And leave with the new year.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

December 29, 2024 0

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV Reviews: ‘A Christmas Carol’ by Charles John Huffam Dickens

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.

December 28, 2024 0

The Night Librarian at Christmas

You can listen to this being read on YouTube.

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.
Back beneath the tree an overstuffed armchair had materialised. It smiled and beckoned her into its wide lap. As she sat and opened the huge Book, there came a loud bang and a furious face appeared.
“No,” the creature cried in a voice like thunder. “No. You shall not read this lie.”
“And is it any more of a lie than that which your children purvey on Walpurgisnacht? Or at any sabbat in any sacred grove?”
It lifted its insubstantial muzzle and howled defiance and misery. “I will drag that book from your hands and rend it to pieces with my bare claws. I will make it burn as it sits on your frail human legs. I will…”
The creatures around the Christmas tree began to be afraid and the librarian held up a hand to stop the enraged grumbling of the shadow demon.
“You will,” she said firmly, “do nothing. You can do nothing. You are a creature of smoke and mirrors not even as substantial as the book children gathered at my knee. Now begone with you before you make me angry.”
The demon attempted a sneer, but it was of very little consequence when faced with the strong will and common sense that defined the straight backed little human who faced him without a shred of fear. Even as he made an effort to draw in his will she pointed a finger.
“Did I not just tell you to go away?”
It seemed as if the sending would defy her and she frowned, muttering a brief incantation under her breath. There was a strong smell of sulphur then the face collapsed into itself leaving only a momentary pool of blackness before even that disappeared.
The Night Librarian stood up. She put the Book on the soft chair and smiled at the little ones.
“I just need to make sure there are no interruptions to your story. I shall not be a moment. You all can sing the candle song while you wait.”
A chorus of small, and it has to be said mostly tuneless, voices followed her as she crossed the shadowed stacks. When she reached the section devoted to dark magicks she clapped her hands sharply.
“Who was responsible for that little outburst?”
There was no answer, only a feeling of oppression in the air. The librarian sighed and took a small knobbly stick from her pocket. She held it in both hands whilst turning a careful three-sixty degree circle. Widdershins.
“Now then. I asked a question.”
Two figures materialised behind the locked gates of the shelves where the grimoires squatted.
“Oh. I might have known it was you two. You may come out to explain your actions.”
Beelzebub and Dambala Ouedo shouldered their way out from behind the grating and came to tower over the small human.
“It isn’t fair,” Beelzebub said, and his voice sounded surprisingly like a toddler whining. “This place is for all faiths. You should not read them that thing.”
“You never,” his companion by contrast was both smooth and insinuating, “tell the children our stories. We are here to demand our moment in the candlelight.”
The librarian sighed. “Did we not burn candles to you on All Hallows Night? Were there not stories enough for you then?”
“But you did not read them.”
“You did not come from your warm bed in the dead of night, on a day when even you are not needed here, just to read our stories.”
“No. I did not.”
“And what if we demand that you do?” Beelzebub drew himself up to his full seven feet and reached out a burning and cicatrised claw to grab the librarian’s upper arm.
There was a smell of burning flesh, but it was the demon who flinched.
The librarian raised a weary brow. “You may not demand anything of me. I am my own mistress. I do this because I so choose. This night is to give hope to the children and the small things. It is the one night they may safely leave their story books and be happy.”
Damballa Ouedo actually shuffled his feet. “Sorry ma’am. Never thought about it like that. Can we come and listen then?”
“If you can take forms less likely to cause distress.”
The light shattered before it coalesced into two toddlers who stood hand in hand with identical hopeful looks on their faces.
“Very well. You may come.”
They followed her sturdy little figure to the edge of the gathering where they were easily absorbed into the waiting crowd.
The librarian took her seat and opened the Book. Her audience grew silently attentive as she began to read.
“And it came to pass…”
As the story unfolded those spoken of left the pages of the Book and enacted their parts as they stood on an invisible stage high in the cold air. Each was greeted with an outpouring of love from those who listened, even the sweet-faced donkey, and the herders of sheep, and the eastern gentlemen bringing unsuitable gifts brought gasps of delight from the children, and the small creatures, who heard the story at this time every year and loved it more each time they heard it.
All too soon, it seemed, the story ended and the librarian closed the book – leaving only a star shining brightly high in the dome of the library ceiling.
A dragonish voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd. “Even though I know it ends badly, I like that story.”
There was a wave of laughter, and the audience settled back with an aura of expectation that almost broke the librarian’s heart.
And now, she thought sadly, we wait and eventually the little ones will go to bed disappointed. I wish he would come. Just once. Just for the little ones.
The silence was stretching a little thin when, from somewhere and nowhere, there came the sound of silver bells. The librarian clasped her small square hands, hardly daring to believe, as the bells came closer and hearty laughter filled the air.
They came with a rush and the smell of snow: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph. They came with the sound of bells and his laughter warming the hearts of the tinies around the librarian’s warmly slippered feet.
He turned his ruddy cheeked, snowy bearded face towards her and smiled.
“Have your charges been good children?”
She nodded, hardly trusting her voice, but it seemed he understood because he thrust a hand into his sack and broadcast shiny wrapped presents with seemingly no regard for what went where. But he must have known as each creature and each child got a gift suitable to themselves. Nothing was ostentatious but nobody was missed. Even the dragons got chocolate wrapped in gold paper.
The librarian watched them play for a while before getting up from her chair and returning a slightly disapproving Book to its place on the shelves. She turned her back on the happy children and made her way up the worn stone stairs to her tower room where she fell into bed smiling.
As she slept, a gnarled hand smoothed the sandy hair from her broad brow before placing a hand knitted sock bulging with treats at the foot of her prim little bed.

From ‘The Night Library at Christmas’ one of the stories in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago

December 27, 2024 0

🎶 🎶 🎶 On the 26th day of December my true love sent to me 🎶 🎶 🎶

Yes, we said there would be a free book for you every day in December UNTIL Christmas, but the Working Title Blog has one final free book for you to enjoy! So Happy Boxing Day to all who celebrate it!

🎶 On the twenty-sixth day of December, my true love sent to me…

Streets of Payne by Jeff Brackett – Free on Amazon today!

In 2236 Detective Amber Payne lost her eyes in the line of duty. Her employer replaced them with Cybernetic implants but their inhuman appearance often causes her to doubt her self-worth.

Rookie detective Kevin Glass is her partner. And though he may be new, Kevin’s unparalleled skill as an elite cyber-surfer makes him an invaluable asset.

When Alta Corp contracts the two of them to solve a case of high-stakes data theft, they will need every bit of skill, experience, and determination to succeed. For the more they investigate, the more it becomes evident that this case is much more than it appears, and its resolution may forever alter the world in which they live.

December 26, 2024 1

Shining Star

They followed a newborn star
Seeking a child in a stable
Weary camels travelled far
Carrying all they were able
Unsuitable gifts for the poor
Shining and scented of death
Mages at the humble door
Of a child who drew his first breath

©️jj 2024

***