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Showing posts from May, 2011

The Seventh Seal (a poem)

The best thing about Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey – if you haven’t yet seen it - comes when our eponymous heroes encounter Death personified - white face, black robes: exactly what we’ve come to expect the Grim Reaper to look like.

Bill S. Preston Esquire and Ted Theodore Logan (I didn't even have to look their names up!) aren't entirely happy about this and convince Death to a game of chess. If Death wins, the pair will be whisked away on a train bound for the other side. If The Wild Stallions win, they get to keep their lives.

The pair goes on to lose their game, but announce that it should be best of three, and as such other games are played in deciding their fate. When they lose the majority of those games, they convince Death that it should be best of five, and so on and so forth.

Among other things, the Grim Reaper plays Battleships, Clue, Electric Football and Twister. I can’t remember the outcome, but the Bill and Ted survived, which either means they eventuall…

The Winter of ’63 (aged 7½) (a poem)

“The winter of 1962–1963 (also known as The Big Freeze of 1963) was one of the coldest winters on record in the United Kingdom. Temperatures plummeted and lakes and rivers began to freeze over. In the Central England Temperature (CET) record, extending back to 1659, only the winter (defined as the months of December, January and February) of 1683–84 has been significantly colder, with 1739–40 being slightly colder than 1962–63.”


In January 1963, the sea froze for one mile.”


The Winter of ’63 (aged 7½)

Our mum, our kid asked me to ask you.
What does he want?

He wants the fire on.
Ask your father.

Shut that door.
Our dad, our kid asked―

Shut that door.
Our dad, our kid asked me to ask you.

What does he want?
He asked could we have the fire on please?

-
Dad?

Ask your mother.
I’ve asked our mum.

And what did she say?
She asked me to ask you.

Why do you want the fire on?
I’m cold. Our kid’s cold.

If you’re cold, put a coat on.
I’ve got a coat on. And our kid’s got a coat on.

Then what’s your probl…

Out on the Tiles (a short story)

We slammed shut more doors than we’d opened.  It felt that way, what with there being more purpose in one action than the other.  In my defence, an attempt was made to slam each door as softly as I could, but we were both hell-bent on decibels.  Inevitably, this whole furore escalated and culminated as door frame-bending slamming madness.  There were lots of things to throw – in fact, we were spoilt for choice - but we both had a great respect for the antiques in the house.  Neither of us dared touch the china, but I’d imagine we shook the blue and white to the bone, and those dainty porcelain figurines may have complained over a peculiarity of feeling had looks not been shooting all around them.  Indeed, if the Wade Whimsies could have been woken from their still glaze, I don’t suppose they would have worried themselves over witnesses.  Personally, I wouldn’t have blamed them if they had marched in twos back to where they came from.  All throughout this episode, the unspoken rule rem…