Issue 360 2nd Nov 2014

Rising Brook/Holmcroft/

Baswich/Gnosall

Libraries are under threat.

Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy ...

Bet you could write a short story about

some travellers in the 1890s about to go to India on the steamer.

They are staying in one room of a hotel.

Who are they? What is their story? Why are they going to India? What is at stake?

What are the running away from or towards?

2

Burns was right: It would be wonderful if we had the power to see ourselves as others see us.

How often the memories of one person are entirely different to those of another of the

same event.

Happiness: when a car sails through its MOT.

How hard it is for some to accept that once relationships have ended ... move on.

―It ain‘t Disney out there.‖ Quote from unemployed person whose work experience placement had ended.

As folk get older, it seems inevitable that when they meet, their health issues feature in

their conversations. Thus, it was not surprising that when two elderly musicians met up, they began with an organ recital.

Three cheers for the humble Michaelmas daisy! When everything else is going over, thet

still provide welcome splashes of colour in the borders.

Brooding is destructive: much better to say what you have to say and be done with it.

Random words : river, Pinocchio, anti, cliff, circle, lollipop, fort,

discover, dog

Assignment : anger is more positive than apathy

Cover image

Laughing

Buddha

Wikipedia

Marking 100 days under windswept

canvas: Protest Campsite at

Stafford Hospital

Protestors want 24/7 A&E, Consult-

ant led Maternity, Acute & Children‘s Services Retained

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

NEW: 2015 poetry collection

“Defying Gravity” Submissions now open

Decorating – Oh Yes We Are Our bedroom is a mess, it's time to have a change, With paint from B & Q, furniture from Range. I think we'll do it blue as I'm bored with colour cream, A peaceful sort of blue, to encourage pleasant dream. We stripped the walls of paper last Wednesday two a.m. Well when you cannot sleep, what do you do then? I've tidied all the wardrobes and emptied all the drawers, Our local charity shop has opened two more floors! Now everything is covered, time to make a start. Look on husband's face tells me, he hasn't got the heart! So, instead of writing verses, I must go and supervise, Or I'll be dreaming paint cans, not glorious blue skies!.

Notebook Nightmare I wrote about my bedroom having a lick of paint, nice blue walls to dream in, you won‘t expect complaint! You‘ll think that all is sorted, I‘ll be back in my own bed, brand new carpet and curtains, fantastic knock-‗em-dead! I‘m afraid that you‘re mistaken, I‘ll grant you, walls are stripped, but as for paste or paint can, not a single drop has dripped. You see there is an order and these things can‘t be rushed, you cannot paint the ceiling before the carpet‘s brushed. The paint-work can‘t be started nor paper put on wall, without a lot of planning in a notebook small. It WILL be finished one day, my husband says it will, but not If I‘m complaining of that he‘s had his fill. If I can keep my mouth shut, not easy, this I know, perhaps his little notebook will say ready, GO! GO! GO!

Thank you for your interest, yes, there‘s paper on the wall, Plastered, painted, papered, not doing bad at all. Perhaps sometime this Tuesday or later in the week, Return to my own bedroom, for the kind of sleep I seek. Carpet must be fitted, new radiator fixed, Covers, curtains, cushions all quite tastefully mixed! I think we‘ll call a halt now, all plans put on clean shelf. Decorating‘s messy and takes its toll on mental health!

Web Announcement: 24th October 2014

The winners of this year’s Manchester Writing Competition are Martin Macinnes, Mona Arshi and Michael Hudson.

Two joint winners of the poetry section of the award, Michael Hudson and Mona Arshi, shared the first prize cheque for £10,000, while Martin Macinnes was the sole winner of the fiction prize, also

bagging £10,000.

Martin, who lives in Edinburgh, said: ―I'm astonished and humbled to have won, especially so given the outstanding quality of the stories shortlisted and highly commended. I'm struggling to accom-

modate it - this is the biggest moment of my life, extraordinary validation of my obsessions.

―I've worked part-time on near minimum wage for seven years, solely to give reasonable time and

space to writing, and to reading. I've struggled, badly at times, but persisted, because writing is the one thing I want to do, the most important thing I can imagine.‖

Poetry winners

On winning the poetry prize, Mona, a former lawyer for the human rights organisation Liberty, said: ―I‘m really overwhelmed, I am just really grateful that the three judges liked the poems enough and

what is really great is that it is a really special competition because you don‘t just send in one poem – I sent in five poems. It gives you a real range and opportunity to show them a cross-section of

your work and they liked it enough and that has given me such a boost to my confidence.‖

Michael Hudson, who lives in Indiana, said: ―I am overwhelmed and astonished. I am feeling quite

bedazzled at the moment, and in the throes of some really embarrassing Anglophila. I may even give soccer another chance (I already love Philip Larkin).‖

The Manchester Writing Competition is run by the Manchester Writing School, part of Manchester

Metropolitan University, and the prize-giving ceremony was part of the Manchester Literature Festival.

Since its launch in 2008, Carol Ann Duffy‘s Manchester Writing Competition has attracted almost 12,000 submissions from over 50 countries and awarded more than £75,000 to its winners. The

competition was designed to encourage new work and seek out the best creative writing from across the world, establishing Manchester as a focal point for a major international prize.

http://www.mmu.ac.uk/news/news-items/2957/

Random words: prescrip-tion,shadow,forethought,sea,something,devastate,brilliant open-ended

Lucy had been a brilliant student, with so much potential, but she had liked to burn the candle at both ends and with a little forethought, she would have gone easy on the alco-

hol, cigarettes and late nights. But then, when you‘re young, you don‘t think too far ahead, and you feel immortal. That is, until something comes along to devastate you and all your plans. When she went to the doctor, suffering from a persistent cough, she ex-

pected a prescription, not x-rays and scans. There was a shadow on her lung, it seemed. She researched her prognosis on the internet, and discovered a new, as yet unproven

treatment. What was there to lose? Besides, it sounded harmless enough, and didn‘t she have an open-ended invitation to visit her old university friend in Israel? She would give it

a go. She would bathe for seven consecutive nights at midnight in the Dead Sea in the hope of a cure.

Assignment : Flammable What an odd word ‗flammable‘ is! Why? Because it means exactly the same thing as its

opposite, namely ‗inflammable‘. And how confusing is that for our foreign friends, strug-gling to get to grips with a language so full of inconsistencies, contradictions and irregu-larities. I mean, take the word ‗cleave‘. It can mean both ‗cling together‘, as in the Biblical

‗A man shall leave his father and mother and shall cleave to his wife‘, and precisely the opposite: - ‗dividing in two.‘

As regards the former word, a dictionary definition runs as follows: - Usage note : Flammable and inflammable are interchangeable when used of the properties of materials. Flammable is, however, often preferred for warning labels as there is less likelihood of misunderstanding ( inflammable being sometimes taken to mean not flammable). Inflam-mable is preferred in figurative contexts: this could prove to be an inflammable situation

Other words which can give mixed messages and are known as ―Janus‖ words, or con-tranyms are:

dust: 1 to remove dust. 2 to cover with dust. hysterical: 1 frightened and out of control. 2 funny.

nervy: 1 showing nerve or courage. 2 excitable and volatile. moot: 1 debatable. 2 not worth debating.

fast: 1 moving quickly. 2 solid and unable to move. seed: 1 to sow seeds. 2 to remove seeds. weather: 1 to withstand a storm. 2 to wear away.

screen: 1 to show, e.g. a film. 2 to hide something. bound: 1 fastened to a spot. 2 heading for somewhere.

sanction: 1 to approve something. 2 to boycott something. apology: 1 an expression of regret for something. 2 a defence or justification of some-

thing. strike: 1 to hit. 2 to miss (in baseball).

Speaking as one who loves cricket because of its idiosyncratic nature, I find all of this de-lightful, and don‘t think we should apologize to anyone for the confusion it may produce.

6

RUBBING ALONG Anne Picken: Our House Blog.... Have you ever noticed that your house has its own character? That if its likes are not respected it will sulk, cause trouble? Probably not, if you‘ve been partners for some time because you would never dream of crossing it. Like us, I‘m sure you get along just fine and it‘s only when strangers butt in that trouble ensues. My friend Sarah came to stay last week, failed to respect my house‘s personality, and it responded by spitting a dirty yellow stain on to the ceiling of its utility room. No, there is no leak in the bathroom, the house does not spit at any of us, and that is be-cause we acknowledge its preference to have the shower curtain wrapped – trapped even – firmly between the hot tap and the wall. If this right is granted the house will be as good as gold. She also offended its laundry system, of which it is inordinately and under-standably proud. The element abused was the drying rack, sometimes known as a Sheila Maid, which rises and falls obediently on pulleys and dries the washing overnight with no risk of it getting rained on and without charging us a penny. However, if you do not release the ropes at a certain angle they object violently, leap off the pulley and sulk in a most uncooperative fashion as you heave and sweat to try to get them back on. Our house keeps us cosy with two very pleasant gas fires – when they are get-ting their own way, that is. Just turn one knob faster than the first likes, hold the other down for a shorter time than the second demands, and you could die of hypothermia. I came in from work on Tuesday to find a be-duveted Sarah gazing up from a sea of matches and practically in tears. ‗I‘m freezing,‘ she said. ‗These damn fires are useless.‘ Terrified at what horrors might ensue from such insults, I hastened to reassure her that these were the best fires you can get and just had to be treated in the proper way – ‗There!‘ I cried as first one then the other popped into glorious orange flame. ‗What did you do?‘ complained Sarah. ‗I did exactly what you did and I couldn‘t even get a spark.‘ Useless to try to explain, in the same way that it is useless for my husband to try

to explain to me what I am doing differently when dealing with a stubborn computer. Obviously not only the house, but elements within it have their own likes and dislikes, and the computer definitely likes him better than me. Not surprising perhaps, with the insults I have rained down on it over the years whilst he has been cosseting and caring and trying to understand its little problems. I still find it unreasonable that when I at-tempt to do the same – click here, click there – it maintains its unhelpfulness. But the minute he enters the room, I swear he doesn‘t even have to touch the thing, it springs to attention. The cooker though, is my darling. Only I can gauge the precise distance between 4 and 5 to set the dial when the recipe (or back of the packet) says 6. Only I can make the oven light up without losing my patience because I know it likes its little joke and always pretends it can‘t. It‘s only high spirits, just like the children used to dance

around to entertain us. Oh how we miss them when they‘ve gone, although there‘s no denying they had to be managed too, just like the house. I suppose any personality does. Even me. Even you.

8

The Gardening Tips series was produced by well known local gardening expert Mrs. FM Hartley as monthly gardening items which featured on an audio news-tape produced locally for partially sighted people. (Link To Stafford & Stone Talking Newspaper. Link To R.N.I.B.)

As such the articles are meant to be read individu-ally and not as chapters of a book. The articles were written over a period of some 7 years. RBW is absolutely delighted that Mrs Hartley has agreed to some of her words of gardening wisdom gathered over nine decades being reproduced for our benefit by her son, Alan.

Gardening Tips Week Ending 18th November

The weather is letting us know winter is here, there are high winds and heavy showers.

Time to line the greenhouse with bubble polythene, I shall be doing mine in the next

day or two. With metal framed greenhouses it is easy to do with plastic clips that are

sold in packets in garden centres. With wooden framed greenhouses I have found

drawing pins are better than staples. It is only necessary to insulate the roof and half

way down the sides as it is the roof and opening windows where the most heat is lost.

A curtain of insulation hung over the door is also a good idea.

The birds have stripped the berries off the Rowan trees and wait for me to put

their breakfast out each morning. I think they must have built in clocks as they come

flying out of the trees at the same time each day. With the berries gone and the leaves

falling, the trees are beginning to look quite bare now. The leaves on the trees do seem

to have stayed on longer this year though, probably because up till now we haven’t had

the high winds and there has been plenty of moisture in the stems. Leaves make lovely

compost, but they take about 18 months to 2 years to rot properly. They are best col-

lected and put in an old compost bag on their own to rot, not in the compost heap. If

you can find one or two worms put them in the bag, tie the top loosely and pierce a

few small holes to let excess moisture out. Then put the bag in a shady place.

I still have some red and pink Penstemons out in flower and against the dark

leaves of a Cotoneaster they look quite effective. It is best to leave the old growth on

over Winter. I know it looks a bit untidy over Winter, but the old growth will protect

the new shoots and next year it can be cut off in late Spring. Garden centres have

plenty of Cyclamen in now, but the large flowered ones are not hardy and like a cool

room where they are best stood on gravel, broken pots or an upturned saucer in another

container: they do not like their roots in water. Water them from the bottom, but do not

leave water in the container. The small flowered ones are not all

hardy either so check the labels. If you bought plants that were sold

as drought resistant earlier in the year be warned a lot of them are

not frost resistant. Some of them will take the cold as they are desert

plants, but will not stand the wet and cold together. They can be put

in a cold greenhouse, but keep them dry, or stand them on a window

ledge in a cold room.

Well that’s all for now. Frances Hartley.

Research into Sikh Royalty and Polygamy in the 19th Century ACW

The Sikh faith began in the Punjab region of India in the 15th Century.

Most of the Sikh kings married more than one wife in the 18th and 19th century. In Sikh scriptures (one of the youngest religions as only about 500 years old) women are regarded as equal to men.

In contrast to other faiths in India, the general population of Sikhs only married one wife and widows were allowed to remarry. The Sikh faith ended wearing the veil for Sikh women. Sikh women could lead an army into battle, be bishops in their faith and be involved in political life.

One Maharaja owed much of his success to a female relative‘s astute statesmanship and diplomacy. In the past Sikhs ruled their region with Moslems, Christians and Hindus sharing positions of powers.

The Sikh Empire was the last region conquered by The British Raj in the 19th century by the British East India Company. The Sikh Empire had stretched from the Khyber Pass right up to Tibet, from east to west. The British Raj separated the Sikh Empire into separate princely states and the British Raj province of Punjab.

Sikh princes were mostly in the Punjab and called their titles by Hindu names, like Maharaja that meant Great King. Maharani was the female title and they could rule as regents as widows of a king.

Although Sikhs tolerate other faiths, they are forbidden from marrying outside of their faith. Arranged marriage when mature, but not forcible under-age marriage was the norm, with no dowry required. Sikh marriage is an equal partnership.

Not all Sikhs are vegetarian. Non-Sikhs can be baptised into being Sikhs. In the 19th century, Maharajas and Maharanis travelled to England and the continent.

There was romantic love even in amongst the arranged marriage, with secret liaisons that eventually were accepted by the family, who could not force marriage on their daughters.

Please Note: RBW writers are trying very hard to understand background research into many different cultures in the Raj period.

We are trying to get this right. If anyone can spot any glaring errors in our research, which is mainly from online sources, then

we would be delighted to hear from them. The aim of the book is to laugh at ourselves and to

show we are more the same than we are different.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harmandir_Sahib#mediaviewer/File:Entrance_to_The_Golden_Temple.jpg

1907 Golden Temple Amritsa

RBW FICTION PROJECT FOR 2014/15 NOTES: ( CHANGES )

Story so far. Plotlines are developing ...

This is a listing of what we have so far ...

Place: Sometime in the 1890s The Grand Cosmopolitan Shipping Line Chain: The Nasturtium Hotel (GNH) in Trentby-on-Sea a place that has a similarity to Southampton, twinned with Murmansk and has a decided international flavour. Despite recent squabbles with Russia, France and certain other countries all rich spending foreigners are welcomed

Time Span: Between the arrival and departure of the steamship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. About 3 weeks.

Hotel: The GNH is owned by The Cosmopolitan Shipping Line and is the usual Victorian Hotel. It has three classes of accommoda-

tion, that are roughly: Suites [1st floor] for those with money and the POSH nobs. Rooms [2nd and 3rd floors] for the not so well off. Accommodation [tiny attic rooms, top floor back] for staff

Staff: Basil Bluddschott (70's) – Manager Mrs. Cynthia Bluddschott (20's) - 2nd (trophy) wife of Basil

Daniel Bluddschott (40) – Son of Basil by 1st wife Miss Marian Bluddschott (35) – Daughter of Basil by 1st wife Mrs. Natasha Bluddschott (34) – wife of Daniel — gambling debts up to mischief

Roberto Manchini - Italian chef; has the hots for Marian & Cynthia Mrs. Bertha Buckett – Breakfast Cook in Charge Peter the porter

Nancy the Scullery maid, Betty the Chambermaid Guests:

Lady Vera Accrington and Lady Gloria Stanley – a couple of old biddies with a chequered past who are enjoying themselves their Ward Dorothy ... much admired by the Maharajah and every other red-blooded male Major Martin – May be the ADC to the Prince of ??

The Russian Prince of ?? Referred to as Mr. Smith; even tho' everybody know who he is. Daphne Du Worrier - Writer Capt. Fowlnett – Recently appointed skipper of the clipper ship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. He may be a little short on experi-

ence as his last job was skipper of the IOW ferry. [Hey! How difficult can it be to find India or China?] St. John Smythe – Tea planter with holdings in Assam. The Maharajah of Loovinda and his wife and valet George (apologies to Shakespeare, you‘ll see why immediately)

The Sheik of the province of Kebab. (It‘s a farce!!) Walter Wales – hack writer for Capt. Thaddeus Hook travel books Murray Durrisdane (currently a Boots)— Jade Buddha/Stone of Kali seeker — (Jamie Burke — Alexander Mulrose — baddies)

Russians? in room 212 Russian Agent Capt. Wild Will Body and his travelling Wild Rodeo Show, Missy Clementine Jane, Big chief Light–in-the-Sky and Texas Jim

McGraw the shootist (may be subject to change) Music Hall turns playing at 'The Winter Gardens',

Also staying the GNH some in suites some in the Accommodation class. Miranda Barkley – maybe mistress of the Prince of ?? Dario Stanza – singer Vesta Currie – cross-dresser hot stuff on the stage -

Cystic Peg – Medium / Seances Dan Fatso – Charlie Chaplin type ALSO listed:

Diamond dealer — Boniface Monkface Jade - A rare Jade Buddha with a Kali Stone is specifically noted. A golden laughing Buddha also appears.

NOTES: CHECK THE DATE! Q. Victoria is Empress. Osborne House IoW is her fav. des. res. 1. Gas lighting or oil lamps – no public electricity supply about for another couple of decades; unless the hotel has its own

generator, electrical lighting is out. 2. Horses and carriages in the streets, steam trains for long distances and on the dockside. Trams in some areas. 3. Limited number of phones, usually locally between ministries or business offices. Messengers or Royal Mail normally used.

Telegrams are available.

RBW Library Workshop group are working on a script for the next book. The ideas so far include a hotel in

the 1890s with as diverse a mix of travellers about to de-part for the far east as it is possible to squeeze into the

plot. Obviously the action will take place in Trentby-on-Sea, twinned with Murmansk, and

the establishment will be man-aged by Basil Bluddschott and his new wife Cynthia. If you‘ve ever watched a Carry On film you will have had all the training you‘d need to join in.

The annual joint project ...

The joint comedy is good practice in group co-operation, character building, plotting, dialogue, storyline arc etc and

besides it‘s hilarious to write.

What is more people actually read our free e-books ... Some brave souls even give us LIKES on Facebook

How unexpected was that ...

OPPORTUNITY: Take a room in the hotel ... Who is waiting to go to India? Why are they going? What are they running away from or towards?

NASTURTIUM HOTEL MAHARAJA OF LOO VINDA FANCIES VESTA CURRIE The Maharaja of Loo Vinda was a worried man. This was because he was in the grip of a desire he could not resist. For most men, this particular desire would not be a matter for worry at all and they would not have even contemplated resistance. But he was not blest as most men. No, most men had wives who were obedient, modest, submissive, as wives should be. But his…! He cursed the day his parents had ever set eyes on the girl they had chosen.

It was all right to start with. Muni was beautiful, accommodating – not that she ever had anything to accommodate, for hadn’t he always been the most considerate of hus-bands, providing her with children, four boys and four girls, who could ask for more? He gave her a diamond with each of the boys and a gold chain with each of the girls. He gave her silk saris and moonstones and amethysts, and yet the woman was not content. She never actually said anything, but he always knew there would be trouble if he looked at another woman. And trouble with Muni meant trouble. First the silences, the downcast eyes, then the turning away, and then the throwing would begin. Goblets, plates, works of art, anything and everything could be flung. Into the wall they smashed, into the servants, and even, once or twice into his own sacred person. He could have had her executed for this last, but he was a modern man, a liberal intellectual, and he would have felt a fool.

But that night, as he wended his way back to the hotel from the Winter Gardens, he knew that something had to be done. For he had just witnessed the most wonderful woman in the world - performing on the stage of all places! Life was truly strange. But he would have her for a second wife, he would, he would! Of course she would have to give up dressing as a man, but that would only be a relief for her. What woman would do that sort of thing unless she were starving? He had only found out about it at breakfast as she spoke to her actor friends at the table behind his. He had been incredulous, but being, as stated, modern, intellectual and liberal, had determined to watch her act. And that eve-ning, at 9.34pm in the Winter Gardens, his heart had been lost.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded the Maharani as soon as her husband entered

their suite. ‘I have been sitting here for three hours alone whilst my husband who is sup-posed to be my protector is nowhere to be found. Only the gods know what could have befallen me in that time…’ She was removing his jacket as a good wife should when what should fall out of its pocket but half of one admission ticket to the glorious Gardens wherein he had just discovered his love. ‘Aha!’ she cried, pouncing, and within minutes the whole story had come out. Well, not the whole story, you understand. For some rea-son the Maharajah did not mention the woman he would shortly be marrying, but he did agree to take his present wife with him the next evening because that seemed to be the only way he would get to see his love again.

The Maharani was not impressed. ‘What a cold building,’ she cried on viewing the marble pillars, and potted palms. ‘No carvings, no crimsons and not a feather of gold. Where are the minarets and mosaics? I cannot see even a fountain in this miserable place, even a peacock, even one silken cushion. We have made a grave mistake. We must return to the hotel at once.’

But her husband’s heart was drumming in his throat and he pushed his wife through the door into their box. ‘Enough!’ he said, in a tone which shocked her into silence and before she had a chance to recover the lights were down and the show had started.

A person in the strangest clothes strolled on to the stage. The jacket, made of dif-ferent coloured squares, barely covered his ribs and his trousers were also made of squares but of different colours. He spoke in an incomprehensible accent which made the audience laugh and he carried a stick. This he twisted between his fingers, then dropped retrieved, and held before him as he shuffled his feet in great heavy wooden shoes that made so much noise the Maharani felt her head would burst. ‘We’re going,’ she hissed.

‘Quiet!’ her husband thundered in an undertone. Once again she was astonished. What had got into the man? Well, she would

soon sort him out when they did get back… a woman was singing now, something about following a van and getting lost. The Maharani could not for the life of her see how anybody following something might get lost and decided it was typical of these strange people who did not even know how to serve tea. A man had joined the woman now and both were singing, and linking arms and kicking their feet up. It was all quite weird and the Maharani wondered how her husband had taken to it at all. She stole a sideways glance at him and he looked as bored as she felt. But the audience were banging their hands together in the way these people do to signify their appreciation of the end of something and the man and woman bowed low and left the stage. The music started again and on swung a gentleman in a tall hat and cloak whose shoes shone like the silver top to his cane.

And that is when the Maharani stopped being annoyed. ‘Oh!’ she breathed, for the gentleman was truly exquisite. His figure was most pliant, his hair shone like coal and his eyes sparkled like the stars in the sky. He was Burlington Bertie, he sang, with such a sweet pure voice, that the Maharani’s heart melted within her and flowed out to join with his. Oh for a silken couch, a rising moon, a jasmine garden… Again she glanced sideways at her husband – such thoughts as were overwhelming her at the moment could mean certain death – but all his attention was on the stage. For once she was glad to be ignored and fanned herself with her sari. She hoped he wouldn’t notice. And he didn’t.

Husband and wife made their way back to the hotel in silence, or what they each

hoped was silence for were not both hearts banging fit to burst? The Maharani kept her eyes down as she tried desperately to think of a way to meet the exquisite young man again but the Maharajah thrust out his chin. I will no longer be a mouse he vowed to himself. Am I not master in my own house? She will accept my decision.

As they entered the foyer he drew in his breath sharply, for there, waiting for the lift, was the light of his life. Still in her stage costume, but desperate to be out of it he knew. There was no time to be lost. Not that his will would falter or anything, but all the same.

‘I would be delighted if you would take tea with us,’ he heard himself saying. At this the maharani raised her eyes, and nearly fainted.

As the lift clanked upwards husband and wife studied the floor. What will I do when the throwing starts? worried the Maharaja. What will I do when he observes my feelings? worried the Maharani. Only Burlington Bertie seemed at ease and was soon leaning back happily on the silken cushions of the couch which formed part of the Emperor Suite.

Oh how the Maharani yearned to snuggle up beside him, to stroke that rosy cheek, tangle her fingers in that shining hair, feel the caress of those delicate hands. How the Maharajah struggled to keep from leaping upon the marvellous creature as any

red blooded man would surely… But he knew he had to plan. At the back of his mind he was amazed things were going so smoothly. Not so

much as a glacial glance had been thrown. Perhaps it was because he had taken such a firm line at the theatre – yes that must be it. At last his wife realised he was a force to be reckoned with. At last she was going to be a proper dutiful wife and he was going to get his just deserts.

But their guest was saying goodnight. ‘Would you like to join us here tomorrow for tiffin?’ the Maharani was saying.

The Maharajah gaped, and then went to thank all the gods for the incredible joy they were about to bestow upon him.

The Maharajah’s love, Miss Vesta Currie, startled him by turning up for tiffin in her

stage outfit. ‘Saves time.’ She explained, which words satisfied him to some extent but completely bypassed the Maharani who was too entranced to even hear them. Her brace-lets tinkled as she motioned George forward with the tray of thali. Miss Currie regarded it and said, ‘No thanks, I’ll just have tea if it’s all the same to you.’

What! The Mahrani’s head jerked backwards. She must have insulted her beautiful guest with an inferior offering. She had not provided for his needs. She pushed back her bejewelled hair and regarded the golden tray. What could be missing? There was the rice, fragrant with saffron – nobody could provide better rice than George – the daal, the six types of vegetable, the roti, papad, curd, chutney, pickle… then it hit her - there was no meat! Oh, shame, upon shame, she had forgotten to provide meat for her English guest. He would not come again, never, never, never… Her dreams of ecstasy on silken cush-ions drifted into dust. What could she do? For do something she must. Never in her life had she felt such longings. Suddenly the perfect solution occurred to her.

‘Husband,’ she faltered. ‘May I speak with you in the bedroom?’ And, motioning the faithful George forward to serve the chai from its golden pot, she stepped through the bedroom door.

The Maharajah was bemused. Why was his wife behaving so nicely to his new woman? Had his forceful stand in the theatre the previous night tamed her once and for all? That must be it. He drew himself up tall, ready to receive her pleas for forgiveness. Already he fancied he could see tears in her eyes. As soon as the bedroom door was closed they began to fall in earnest. ‘Oh husband, Lord of my life, I have failed you. How can you forgive such a miserable sinner?’

‘Come, Come now, said the Maharajah, embarrassed as any modern liberal man would have been. He had no wish to make his wife suffer, for he was quite fond of her in spite of everything.

‘But I have insulted our guest.’ ‘Of course you haven’t. You offered abundance.’ ‘But no meat,’ wailed the Maharani. ‘Do you not see? I have insulted the culture of

our guest.’ ‘Meat?’ said the Maharajah, whose lips, of course, had never tasted the obscene

stuff. Did his love actually take dead creatures into her mouth…? No matter, when they were wed she would forget all such abomination and he would kiss those beautiful lips without the taint… He would run his hands down that beautiful body…the maharajah’s head was becoming quite hot, his fingers tightening into fists, but fresh wails from his wife brought him down to earth again.

‘Where will we get meat?’ moaned the Maharani.

‗D‘you know everybody upstairs?‘ asked Nancy staggering under the weight of nine pairs of boots.

Similarly loaded, Murray eyed her with suspicion. The pair were creeping along the corridor of the top guest floor and heading towards the Boots room, which doubled up as his new bedroom.

‗You are a smart young lady! A sharp blade in the box,‘ he said, ‗Be careful you don‘t cut yourself.‘ Nancy giggled. ‗Come on Murray, who‘m I going to tell? Who‘d believe the likes of me?‘

Murray pushed open the door and was glad he‘d earlier had the presence of mind to wedge open the tiny window. The fug of the room had dissipated somewhat. The stench of the dying throes of Old Dan had begun to lift. He was amazed to see a pair of fresh sheets left at the end of the stripped

cot. ‗I fetched ‗em,‘ explained Nancy, ‗Don‘t mention it to Mrs B, ‗er don‘t know I lifted ‗em.‘

Murray nodded his thanks. He‘d forgotten what it was like to have a friend and never in his fifty years had he had a friend like young Nancy.

‗Tell me then,‘ she said as nimble fingers sorted the boots and shoes into rows accord to their

floor and room number as Murray lit the small lamp burner used for melting the oil and wax mixture. As a former army officer he did know something about care of shoe leather.

‗About what my fine Lady?‘ Nancy chuckled and yawned. Murray didn‘t know how the girl was still awake, he was exhausted

himself: although the bowl of thick soup and bread had helped. Two meals a day was enough to sus-tain life below stairs but he wasn‘t going to get fat at the Nasturtium.

Nancy began spreading blacking on the first of the rows of footwear as he searched out the

brushes from old Dan‘s hoard of paraphernalia. ‗What‘s in here?‘ he asked opening the door of a built in cupboard under the eaves.

‗That‘ll be Dan‘s bits an bobs. I‘ll help you shift it, if you like. It might go on the fire.‘ The girl eyed the empty grate. Murray agreed, he was feeling the cold more than ever since his return to Blighty.

Folded up was a soldier‘s coat and a leather belt, a pair of much darned stockings and a tin box. Feeling uncertain Murray prized open the lid.

‗Not much for a life,‘ he said looking as the stack of folded papers.

Nancy fingered the pile with blackened fingers: ‗Pawn tickets. Crafty old devil.‘ Murray realised with so many tickets, old Dan had opened some line of credit. This was interest-

ing. If these items were still ‗in time‘ he might be able to retrieve them or if they‘d been sold there may well be an interest still to be recouped.

‗Half an‘ half,‘ grinned Nancy.

‗Smart as paint,‘ said Murray. ‗Aye, half and half, minx.‘

‗Now tell me about Mr Varanasi,‘ the girl said picking up a stiff brush and starting with vigour.

‗It‘s not a man, it‘s a place,‘ he replied as in his mind‘s eye he was transported back to a flower-strewn boat floating on Mother Ganga

through the oldest city on earth, older than Babylon some said, where temples lined the

banks and broad, stone Ghats, led throngs of worshippers down to bathe as a rite in the sa-

cred waters which also carried away the ashes of their dead and all their sins.

Shamed for a second in the gaze of the innocent child,

how he wished he was back there in Varanasi letting Mother Ganga cleanse his soul and wash away his trans-

gressions.

Dashashwamedha ghat on the Ganges, Varanasi

Wikipedia

Walter Wales had decided to push the boat out and the shipping line had also offered to help subsidise a suite for him, to gain a good write up in the esteemed Capt. Thaddeus Hook travel books. Selling the first class suites on board would also bring in cus-tomers for the cordon bleu French chef‘s restaurant., for the posh folk, who were port out and starboard back, to get the best views from their suite‘s cabin port holes. As India was amongst the longest voyages for the shipping line, such customers were the backbone of the business. Walter had aspired to the best things in life, and this writing career was bringing him that lifestyle. The suite looked out over a small square of garden of trees and roses, carefully tended and protected

by wrought ironwork fencing and gate. Inside, Walt‘s hotel suite had a its own finely tiled bathroom with fireplace stove, a

large bedroom with velvet curtained four poster bed and a sitting room each having an open fireplace with mantelpiece of marble atopped by gold coloured fashionable clock. The open fireplaces sported black and gold finely designed wrought ironwork fire screens.

There was a dressing room off the bedroom. The commode in the bathroom was hid-den beneath fine furniture. The marble topped furniture in the bathroom had a fine porcelain toilet set of basin and jug, in which hot water was placed by a dedicated ser-vant to the suite.

Walter was looking forward to the fine cigars and even finer food on offer in this 5 star hotel, the first class suite cabin on board the ship to India and being offered the finest suites in Calcutta‘s best hotels.

This was the life, thought Walt, sat on a comfy high backed armchair and feet up on a fine padded foot stool and wrapped in a complementary velvet dressing robe and fine leather slippers.

Walt was born of a butler and a lady‘s maid to a big house and so knew what was

class and what was not. His early life had been a coachman in his fine livery, on the best coach for the Lord and Lady of the stately home in the Hampshire countryside and their town house in London‘s fashionable St John‘s Wood.

Walt had already enjoyed the pleasures in the colonies, amongst the elite, waited on hand and foot. He had been the guest of the Sheikh of Kebab, who was the colonial Native Agent in the Arab colony, in a palace bedecked in gold and precious stones on wall and ceiling, cool marble colonnaded courtyards and jade and ivory ornaments eve-rywhere.

Walt then noticed that one of the occasional tables in the sitting room was Arabic in design, with ivory within the marquetry on the table top.

On it was, in stark contrast, was a small rotund jolly laughing gold Buddha looking back at him at eye level.

That incarnation of Buddha, with exposed pot belly and fine robe, Walt knew from his travels, symbolised contented joy, good luck and riches to come, which was why the Buddha statue was depicted carrying a sack that never empties, and was placed in homes to remind us not to work too hard or become greedy.

And more, this laughing Buddha also held the oogi, the wish giving fan, that was to

Latest Competitions: John Ruskin Poetry Prize | Closing Date: 01-Nov-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1644 Flash 500 Humour Verse Competition | Closing Date: 31-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1646 Magma Judges Prize 2014 | Closing Date: 19-Jan-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1650

Magma Editors' Prize 2014 | Closing Date: 19-Jan-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1651

The Society of Civil and Public Service Writers | Closing Date: 28-Feb-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1642

Latest News: Items added to the Poetry Library in September 2014 | 14-Oct-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1252

The Brunel University African Poetry Prize 2015 prize is open for entries | 13-Oct-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1251

Ian McMillan on poetry and the radio | 13-Oct-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1249

Poetry Magazines Received in September 2014 | 12-Oct-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1248

Call for papers - Institute of English Studies & Oxford Brookes Poetry Centre | 09-Oct-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1246

Forward Prize winners announced | 04-Oct-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1245

show an aristocrat‘s entourage that their wishes would be granted.

Not only that but this laughing Buddha was auspiciously placed on a corner table facing the main door of the suite, so activating manifold the Feng Shui energy to becoming highly prosperous.

Then Walt realised that by the Buddha depicted as carrying a sack, it was also the travelling Buddha.

Auspicious indeed for Walt, to gain wealth and good fortune from his travels.

But who in the hotel would know so much in placing this laughing Buddha just right for him, other than him who was so well travelled?

(ACW)

POETRY BOOK SOCIETY (Press Information)

The PBS is delighted to announce a wonderfully strong and varied shortlist for the 2014 T S Eliot Prize, with two poets from

the US, one from India, three previous winners and one debut collection.

Judges Helen Dunmore (Chair), Sean Borodale and Fiona Sampson have chosen the shortlist from 113 books submitted by publishers:

Fiona Benson - Bright Travellers (Jonathan Cape)

John Burnside - All One Breath (Jonathan Cape)

Louise Glück - Faithful and Virtuous Night (Carcanet)

David Harsent - Fire Songs (Faber)

Michael Longley - The Stairwell (Jonathan Cape)

Ruth Padel - Learning to Make an Oud in Nazareth (Chatto & Windus)

Pascale Petit - Fauverie (Seren)

Kevin Powers - Letter Composed During a Lull in the Fighting (Sceptre)

Arundhathi Subramaniam - When God is a Traveller (Bloodaxe)

Hugo Williams - I Knew the Bride (Faber)

Click here for a closer look at the poets on this year's shortlist.

Chair Helen Dunmore said: "After reading more than a hundred poetry collections the three judges for this year's T S Eliot Prize

were delighted - and excited - by the quality of the work submitted. Our shortlist reflects the musicality, mastery and ambition of

these ten chosen poets. It's worth saying that while our discussions were searching, our decisions were in all cases unanimous. As

one judge said when we surveyed the pile of shortlisted books at the end of our meeting: 'This is a box-set I'd love to have'."

To mark the 50th anniversary of T S Eliot's death on 4 January 2015, the T S Eliot Estate has increased the value of the Prize named in

his honour. From this year the winner will receive £20,000 and the ten shortlisted poets will each receive £1,500. The T S Eliot Estate

has also extended its support to become sole sponsor of the Prize. The T S Eliot Prize Readings will take place on Sunday 11 January

2015 in Southbank Centre's Royal Festival Hall. The shortlist readings are the largest annual poetry event in the UK. Tickets are now on

sale from Southbank Centre's ticket office on 0844 847 9910 or via their website.

The winner of the 2014 Prize will be announced at The Award Ceremony at the Wallace Collection on Monday 12 January 2015, where

the winning poet will be presented with a cheque for £20,000, donated by the T S Eliot Estate. This continues the tradition started by Mrs

Valerie Eliot, who gave the prize money from the inception of the Prize. The shortlisted poets will each receive £1,500.

The T S Eliot Prize Reading Groups Scheme will enable reading groups and individual readers to read and discuss the shortlist. Reading

group notes, together with three poems from each shortlisted collection, will be made available to download from the PBS website. This

year, reading groups can enter a new competition to win up to ten tickets for the Readings or a visit from one of the shortlisted poets.

The T S Eliot Prize Shadowing Scheme, run by the Poetry Book Society in partnership with the English and Media Centre's emagazine,

will offer ‘A' level students a chance to engage with the latest new poetry by shadowing the judges and taking part in a writ ing competi-

tion. This year's shortlisted poets In autumn 2013 the PBS completed a nationwide T S Eliot Prize 20th Anniversary Tour, taking

shortlisted and prize-winning poets to ten venues across the country. See the blog and accompanying short film at http://

poetrybooksoc.wordpress.com.

World Mental Health Day 10.10.2014

Announcement by Gary Longden Staffs Poet Laureate I am delighted to announce my appointment as Poet in Residence at Uttoxeter Races for 2014/15, the first such racecourse appointment in England. I shall

be composing, and performing live, a poem for the Midlands Grand National, amongst numerous other initiatives throughout the year. I would like to thank Uttoxeter races CEO David MacDonald for supporting this bold step. Anyone interested in working with me on this exciting project should contact me, and will be most welcome.

COSFORD AIR SHOW 2009

‘And next we have the spitfire…’

Dumpy, rounded, comfy as gran,

it sits there, drowsing in buttercups

till the men reach up and tweak its nose

Twist, tweak, twist…

with a startled snore, it wakes,

a muddled pause, and then

shaking off sleep, it trundles at its torment-

ers,

fury hardening.

They leap from its path as it sleeks to a dag-

ger

sweeps to skim, and finally lifts.

Seemingly slowly it climbs, turns and…

suddenly it’s in a roaring dive

a flash, a streak of steel –

then it flicks like a whip

and shoots up straight and smooth as a can-

dle.

It flattens, zips across the sky

a hunter, focussed, relentless

possessed, precise as a slicing scalpel.

It swerves, banks,

and plunges.

Then soars languid to roll in victory

as we applaud.

My son, bright and quick and keen,

might have piloted such a thing.

Is it a modern replica, I wonder,

or bits of several planes

salvaged from hillsides

and the sea.

Anne Picken

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