Category Archives: prose

Dream Sequences – Part 2 (a story in creation)


NB please read Part 1 first at: 

Dream Sequences (a story in creation) via

thank you


Part 2

Henry’s mind considered these things during the waking hours; to the detriment of his paying attention to his work and his driving skills – which were relatively called into question ‘twice’ on the way into the office; ‘many’ times ‘in’ his office; and ‘three’ times on the way back – once with almost disastrous consequences for an intrepid motorcyclist on a courier ‘Mission from G.O. Deliveries’ where he, the dispatch rider, had almost met his Almighty Employer.

Henry parked his dilapidated Ford Belligerent in an unusually empty space only a hundred and fifty yards from his flat, and ventured away from sanctuary and towards the quietude of the public library.

Henry was pleased to see it still there; he always assumed it would become a cut-price something-or-other overnight and his refuge from society’s babble would disappear like a traffic warden’s cologne after he’d photographed your car V.I.N. number not three seconds since you’d parked and popped into the newsagents for some Aspirin.

Henry found a table with seat near the Motoring section and dumped twelve back-issues of Exchange and Mart upon grubby surface.

It took him the effort of retracing eight issues before he found what he was looking for.

1926 Bentley, 3.0 Litre, British Racing Green, yada yada yada… up for auction at Rialto (Automobiles) Auction Rooms, Tuesday 7th, lot 458, estimate of £300K-£320K.

Henry whistled – and received a look of disapproval / approbation from a nearby librarian who was replacing ‘Humbly’s Diesel Engines of the 1950s’ or some-such tome.

‘Well, that detail was right.’ he thought. ‘A 1926 Bentley in reality looks just like the one in my dream – apart from the colour.’

Henry could have Googled this information in seconds; but, being of the sort of disposition that feels a book to be paper and words first – any other format (if you must) is a poor second.

However, finding A.R.P. might require a little of today’s modern-magic. He knew that needles in haystacks were a mouse-click away when the Interweb was put to use – Henry replaced the E&Ms correctly (in chronological order) and decided ‘now’ would be the time to seek out ‘Warden’ for any truths in ‘her’ story.

Henry had not had any dreams continuing his encounter with this enigma of a pretty, young lady who ‘they’ called ‘The mechanic’ or had that been a joke? He tried to visualise her face; arrange her features in proper order; remember her hair colour, style, length, but he was hopelessly hopeless at that sort of thing unless taking detailed notes at the time – which he hadn’t.

Not having had any more chances to gaze upon her smiling face, Henry had just taken to noting down the words spoken and the detail of the… the what? Hardly a date. She had been a knight in shining armour to his broken down damsel in distress – then she had galloped into the sunset without as much as a: ‘See you Tuesday; Rialto? Seven?’

Today was Tuesday. The 7th. Rialto! Where were the Rialto (Automobile) Auction Rooms?


NB how do you think it’s going? No dreams in this bit; but, that is fine IMO. G:)

Where Did All The Money Go?


As inheritances go, this one soon went. The millions were lost (never to be found) in various non-profit-making adventures – though that hadn’t been the intention – and within a year there were no visible a signs of the fortune – and very few signs that ‘he’ had had the misfortune to lack the business acumen to cope with it.
This meant that life had to get back to a reduced reality that only seemed to rub his snub nose into the dirt and shout at him ‘You idiot!’ on a regular basis. Circumstances had meant that he returned to a windowless ground floor (basement, if you like) of an apartment block, where he used to have a pleasant south-facing third-floor suite; and, until recently, owned the whole top-floor penthouse suite with its 360 degree views of the hoi-polloi below – literally as well as figuratively.

Times change. And, sometimes, all too quickly.

Dream Sequences (a story in creation)

A 1926 Bentley

A 1926 Bentley

If he’d turned that starting-handle once, he’d turned it a thousand times – truth be told, he’d never ‘cranked’ an engine into life, in his life; but, in his dreams, still he tried.
“Damn and blast this heap of junk!” he cried to the world. The world seemed to ignore him – then sent him a saviour in the form of Alice Pevensey.

“Hullo! Can I be of some help?” came the soft voice to the ears of Henry Hoshper. “It could be your plugs need a clean.”

Henry looked to where the voice was coming from; and had to gather his composure quite an amount before he could remove the caustic reply he had intended and replaced it with the slightly tame: “Be my guest.”

As is the case with dreams, a lot of the details are cloudy, inconsistent, or outright nonsensical; so, the fact that she had exactly the right size spanners and feeler-gauges to remove, clean, adjust and refit the plugs in the matter of minutes was par for the course.

Obviously the engine now started with the lightest of cranks and purred into life.

“Thanks.” Henry offered. Then added, with a bit more control (and a lot less fluster) “Thank you; that was efficient. Most impressive, Miss…?”

“Pevensey, Alice Pevensey; my friends call me ‘The Mechanic!’ ” she laughed. “Actually, they call me ‘Warden’ due to my initials – Rowan being my middle name.”
There was a twinkling lightness to her voice as if it we’re announcing the arrival of angels.

“I’m Henry Hoshper,” he offered, “as if I was Christened whilst the vicar was under the influence – though it’s never ever been ‘Hotspur’ in my family… I checked.” The offering seemed pretty lame even to him, but Alice kept smiling and patted the bonnet of the 1926 Bentley with a polishing cloth that had appeared in her spotless hand courtesy of the dream’s continuing providence.

Then Henry woke. This was the way of dreams, he thought; just start getting interesting and… “Good morning! Reality here.”

Henry thought for a while. He considered the significance of his dream. Then he quickly realised he didn’t have a clue about the significance of dreams. And why a 1926 Bentley? Did that signify his father, born in 1926, but, long gone now? ARP – there was a Second World War reference for instance; or did they have ARPs in the First World War – for the Zeppelins? No, the Bentley meant in or after 1926. Alice? Was she (or her name) relevant? Wonderland was surely a dream for Alice in Lewis Carroll.

Henry’s head had started hurting. It did that when he thought too hard. He went in search of a pen and some paper – or, even better, a notebook.

Armed with these, and a steaming mug of coffee, (always ‘steaming’ as an adjective, he thought – then dismissed that as being ‘off topic’) he went into the sitting-room (‘old-fashioned term’ he thought – almost called it a ‘parlour’). It was going to be one of ‘those’ days.

Anyway, his dad was never a Bentley; an Austin 7 perhaps; but, never a Bentley.

And why would Henry have one? His tastes didn’t stretch to (or couldn’t afford to) the price of classic cars.

NB this is just the start of an idea written whilst on my walks this morning. If it has any hopes for continuation, then my work gas just begun. Any thoughts on the above please let me know. Thank you, G:)

An Interview with the Boss #MayInvolveNaughtyBits


Boz: You’re half-past decent!

App: Oh, you’re quarter-too kind!

Boz: Your CV is recent?

App: Is the Pope a Catholic? Does he worship God?

Boz: It is rumoured so. Not that ‘that’ is relevant.

App: Humour breaks the ice, I find.

Boz: Well, if you do use humour as an ice-pick, please let me know.

App: Right, I shall do just so. My CV is as fit as my Cardio-Vascular system. I work out a bit.

Boz: Always good to do your workings-out on a piece of paper, I find; there’s often a piece about.

App: I don’t follow you.

Boz: That is as it should be – I could well do without a stalker.

App: Ha! What I meant was, I ‘don’t understand all that you are saying to me.’

Boz: Which is exactly right when it comes to the relationship between employer and ‘potential’ employee.

App: I have ‘potential?’

Boz: I think that there is more a ‘potential’ of a ‘potential.’

App: Thanks. I am now glowing in the almost warmth of a nearly compliment.

Boz: I have to put you through this wordplay; if you pass with your colours flying I shall be in a position to think about possibly short-listing you for the long-list.

App: It keeps getting better.

Boz: You would start at the bottom and gradually work sideways.

App: sounds reasonable.

Boz: Really? I was thinking you would insist on promotion within a reasonable time scale… and wages.

App: Well, yes; promotion in lieu of my inevitable experience and enthusia- did you mean there aren’t any wages.

Boz: It’s like an internship in that you do lots of work for me (if I give you the opportunity) and I pay you with experience and the prestige of having been associated with me. You might even get yourself a job with all the graft to help you on your way.

App: I’ve gone off the idea.

Boz: The ‘idea?’

App: Yes, the ‘idea’ that you were a company I could work for.

Boz: I will survive without you.

App: I dare say. And I can think of a hundred companies that would ‘love’ to have me as a CEO.

Boz: You can?

App: Yes. I am already fully qualified to be one – judging from you.

Boz: Charming!

App: No, I certainly wouldn’t have to be that.

Boz: In that case… you’re fired!

App: You haven’t even ‘hired’ me, yet. Idiot!

Boz: No, you are right. I seem to be getting some of this wrong.

App: Yes. Tell you what; I’ll be the boss now – you be the applicant.

Boz: Very well, Miss Long-Stopping. But, as your boss I do take these scenarios very seriously. I shall have to… well, consider your position in the company.

App: And, I, as your partner in ‘our’ relationship, shall have to consider ‘well’ what punishment I can give a naughty boss who has gone beyond her powers.

They stood there covered in a sheen of perspiration and nothing else. Then, after a quick recap, carried on their role-play / love-making.

Boz2: so, Miss Happenstance, I think that I can put you to work immediately.

App2: You can?

Boz2: Certainly. Let’s get down to some business.

App2: Yes, Boss.

A Secret Message in an Agatha Christie Novel


The note that I found slipped between the pages of my book (Agatha’s ‘They Do It With Mirrors’) gave me the terse message:

‘We are no further from the truth. 87a.’

I disposed of this slip of paper in the time-honoured way – I ate it – then set to thinking upon this latest ‘lack of’ development.

We had been passing messages this way for all of two months. I, receiving a thin strand of rice-paper with short missives; my counterpart having the benefit of my replies and questions in a similar form, attached to various items or concealed at random points where we knew each other to be. These destinations had been set up by the number/letter arrangement on the end of the message – ’87a’ meant I was to be at Henri’s Wednesday at 14:45. We had a series of locations, days and times that we had conceived as our drop-off codes; anytime we had a feeling that the code had been *infiltrated* we would use one of our ‘curtail’ keywords. We rarely met. The system in its simple way worked – though, at the moment, there seemed that there was little of anything for anybody to infiltrate.

Tbc (possibly)

Tails From The New Forest #1 Squirrel’s Detective Agency?

In the forest
The mighty forest
The squirrel sleeps tonight.

Except for this one night
When he was awoken
By a strange ‘un-forest-like’ noise…

“Ker-a-vick! Ker-a-vick! Ker-a-vick-ma!”

Squizzel (for that was his name) rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and shook his head to clear away his dreams of hidden treasure. He leant out of his bole-hole in an old Oak tree and listened carefully for the sound to happen once more.

In a short time…

“Ker-a-vick! Ker-a-vick! Ker-a-vick-ma-da-na!”

He heard the sound – which was more a single voice – coming from the direction of the fallen tree-trunk.

“I shall have to go take a looksie.” Proclaimed Squizzel, to nobody in particular. And he prepared himself for… “An ‘adventure!’ ”

Squizzel was an only child.

And he lived on his own.

But, he was a good squirrel, a red one at that, with a sense of humour and a love of squirrel-life.

He was also particularly brave. Or stupid about the dangerousness of danger. However, he had reached the ripe old age of three, and was an essential part of the forest scene.

Squizzel uttered his battle-cry “Chir-a-chir-chip!” and set forth.


“Complaints Department; How May I Help You?”


I am upset with you. I don’t know why; but, I am upset with you for something you said or did; or did or said. I can’t remember what it was; and although, at the time I think that I thought that I was okay with it, I feel that I am actually upset about it now – whatever it was.
So, if you have any idea what it was that caused my upsetedness, please refrain from doing (or saying) or saying (or doing) such a thing (or things, maybe) again.
I’m really not that happy about what you may (or may not, possibly) have done or said (or not said).
Let us not talk of this again.

(I’m just a) Time-Traveller (in Lifts).

Or is it?

Or is it?

Time-Traveller (in lifts)

I stepped in
And the doors closed together
Behind me.
Before me was the future.
I pressed a button
It was numbered ‘3’
The lift moved upwards
In dimension
And forwards
In time.
The lift stopped
The doors opened before me
(I had turned around)
And there was the future.
Admittedly, only 30 seconds into the future
But, I was there.
Dum-de-dum, dum-de-dum, I started humming, a theme tune from my youth
When I was younger
But, still relevant today
Wee-eeeeee yoooooo!
I was a traveller in time
And a relative dimension in space
The lift was my Tardis.

I realised that I had pressed the wrong button; I needed to go to the second floor.

I pressed the button numbered ‘2’
The lift doors closed
The lift descended
And stopped
The doors opened
And I was back in 1485.

Poetry for the weak (for the week)


Poetry for the weak (for the week)

The sun shone benignly
Warming bones and spirits
Alleviating ailments and
Adding a little je n’ai sais quoi to the occasion
(Which is always handy).

The cool breeze was empathetic
As it was largely innocuous in its bearing
And it soon curtailed it’s efforts
As the people neither needed
Nor wanted it anyway.

They say, that if you look directly into the sun
Through some smoked salmon and cream cheese
You will be considered mad
I know this to be so.

That was prose.
I was being kind to you
Though, no-one ever
Took such kindness to ‘my’ brain
As my brain well knows.

‘Poetry’ is a curse
And, much worse,
It is often written
In contulambraic verse
Or some suchlike nonsense.

I have, sadly, been bitten; nay, smitten
By the ‘lack of commonsensical,
Whimsical, tra-la-la mimsical’
There is no hope of release
For one with this pernicious disease
“Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?”
By which ‘priest’ I mean ‘poetry.’

So, my advice
For what it is worth
To you
Who are seeking a poetry dearth
Is to stick to fiction
Avoid an addiction
Or a pesky predilection
To rhyming in your diction
And your reading habits
For the evil curse
Of the open poetry purse
Will cause the verse
To breed like rabbits.
And you wouldn’t want that now,
Would you?

Story To Be Written Here… (Updated)


I was sat stirring my wooden coffee with my wooden coffee stirrer, when…
… I thought ‘it was a break for only 15 minutes.’ It meant I could only get to see her for 15 minutes…. But she didn’t come… I waited for her… just to ask her if she would like to come with me tonight to the concert… It would be the first time I could really talk with her… I waited… and she never came.

Next day, I learned that she had left the company…

… I still think of her. Her pale blue eyes, blue hair, blue demeanour… Her name had been Skye – it probably still was – but, like the lightness she was, her absence made all the shades of blue… well, less blue, if you know what I mean. She had spread her wings and had flown away.

I sat there everyday for those 15 minutes, stirring my wooden coffee, gazing hopefully at the revolting doors in the hope that Skye would return…

Please continue the story, as NiaSunset ( has done, and I have done ( in the comments box below and I shall update the post with your words. Just a bit of fun. G:)

Thank you