Tag Archives: #vss

Solly the Dover Sole #SoCS @LindaGHill

Solly the Dover Sole

#SoCS @LindaGHill

Prompt: Soul / Sole

See Linda’s Site here for more info

Solly was a lonely soul; being the last Sole in the sea. He swam around in the English Channel, a Dover Sole was he. He swam around other places , too – he believed in swimming diversity, ever since he was at school, and all through university.

He sought a like-minded Sole to be his soul-mate; but, he couldn’t find a single Sole, Solly got into a state.

Swimming the seas from Britain to France, Dover to Calais, Solly sought a Sole called Sally; but she had fled, a tad too late, and ended up upon a ceramic plate with a slice of lemon upon her head – in one short word, Sally was dead. Sad face.

Solly didn’t know this, he couldn’t read; he hadn’t learnt, didn’t heed his mum’s advice to learn the Classics, Plato, Dickens, Agatha Christie – where the plot thickens, like gravy or a Béchamel Sauce ladled upon a fish who is now a main course. Sad face with tear.

Solly swam up and down; with a happy face (not) that resembled* a frown (because it was) until he met Annette. Very Sad Face with Tears.

*10-minute timer went off here. Sad face.

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Tom Jones? Henry Fielding? George Orwell? Me?

Tom Jones? Henry Fielding? George Orwell? Me?

“Please release me…

from this dystopian hell!”

I had had the misfortune to stay in a number of large hotels – what ‘misfortune’ is that?, you ask – well…

… every time that they allocated me a room, I was given room number one-hundred and one. Spookily, every time. And. Being knowledgeable about George Orwell’s 1984 and all that went on within the novel, I was a little freaked out that it kept on happening.

So, I decided to stay in a smaller hotel the next time so that they wouldn’t have a hundred and one rooms. That should sort it.

I turned up at the Binary Hotel and, upon checking in, I was given the keys to the fifth of their five rooms.

“Art” #SoCS @LindaGHill

“Art” #SoCS @LindaGHill

Find @LindaGHill’s #SoCS here!

I popped some “Art” in the cart, and headed for the checkout.

Self-service, I think.

Brought my own bag? – yup!

15 items or less? -yup!

Each one is a carrot.

I pop 15 carrots into my bag.

Each one weighs approximately the same as my 15 pieces of “Art”.

I pay – cash.

Not going to be traced by using plastic.

I am in disguise, too.

Nobody notices a white, middle-aged, well-dressed, politely-spoken nobody.

Nobody.

I pop my “Carrots” into the back of my ‘invisible’ van, and drive to the warehouse.

My “Art” is quickly offloaded and carefully packed in recyclable plastic and bubble-wrap. All 15 items (counted once more) are then placed inside a hollow suitcase (empty) and this is taken to a locker at Paddington Station. Placed inside the locker, the suitcase is left for over a hundred years without any disturbance. The key to the locker is posted (2nd class) to an address in Singapore that doesn’t exist.

One hundred years later, Paddington Station is subject to an explosive device that blows the door off of a single locker. Not the one that the suitcase is in; but, for the look of things, all the lockers are removed to be melted down for the war effort – there wasn’t a war, but it’s best to be prepared.

The 15 “Carrots” are discovered by a labourer who was labouring under the misapprehension that he was not going to discover* a life-changing discovery.

He did, and it did.

The “Art” was returned to its owner – the State.

All in all – it had been a pointless exercise.

Art for Art’s Sake.

–//–

*is where my self-regulating 10-minutes ran out.

G:)

#SoCS – ‘Ask somebody for a prompt’ Prompt @LindaGHill

#SoCS – ‘Ask somebody for a prompt’ Prompt @LindaGHill

See Here for Linda’s blog and info for #SoCS

‘Ask ‘somebody what my prompt is!”

Do you think I have prompt-buddies on speed dial? Is there an assistant that I can turn to?

“Ask somebody what my prompt is, Mr Daniels!” Without please or thank you.

I might pop to a neighbours and ask them what my prompt is – but, the hard of hearing and the hard of understanding won’t be much use to me in this dire emergency.

Hold a seance and ask the dead what my prompt is – mmmmm? Well, that may not work without a room full of gulls called Ibble. And the widgee board could be said to have been fixed. Knock once for ‘my prompt is ‘fire’!

And on it goes.

And I only have ten minutes from when I set the 10-minute timer to do all of this!

I’m on a strict deadline here, folks!

I need a prompt, and I need it now – or yesterday would be even better.

Where is it – I’ll check the post box, under the settee, behind the cooker… no, no, and a big fat NO!

None of those places is where my prompt is. Perhaps I. Oils just use last week’s and say that ‘I’m terribly sorry, but my house was ill and my cat fell down.’

That might work in some other,, less stringent, Universe – but not this one – Oh, no.

I shall just have to wing it and work on the basis that if I choose any old prompt there is a 1 in 50,000,009 chance of it being the one – it’s probably a better chance than that, but if you put 50,000,009 on a calculator and turn it upside down you will find the word ‘oooooo’ – now isn’t that interesting? Rhetorical! Question!

Oh, well, I shall have to admit the feet (de feet) and just await a proper prompt so that I can write a proper stream* of Consciousness Saturday piece.

G:)

*Is where my 10-minutes ended.

In The Leaky Teapot (Episode 1)

In The Leaky Teapot (Episode 1)

The rusty bucket in The Leaky Teapot had sprung a leak.

Therefore, water

was all across the floor.

Mopping up was soon discussed –

and disregarded as an option;

so, a ‘Slippery When Wet’

sign was set.

This worked well,

until somebody tripped over it.

Yet, the day was saved,

when all agreed

that no harm had been done –

The Leaky Teapot was that sort of place.

Episode 2 of ‘In The Leaky Teapot’ here

A Boxing Day Story (Part 3) Boxing Day 2018 #16 (15:00)

A Boxing Day Story (Part 3)

Boxing Day 2018 #16 (15:00)

I wanted go back to scrumping, Tom wanted to peer in the windows of Griffin Mansion. I persuaded her that apples were our best option. So, five minutes later, we found ourselves looking through one of the tall picture windows of the mansion’s library – we guessed it was a library ‘ so many books!’ – and what we saw was not for the faint-hearted. There was a body on the rug in the centre of the library, and when we say ‘body’ we mean one of the ‘no longer going to dance the hornpipe’ ones. The top-hat next to the body was also decidedly the worse for wear, though it could possibly pull through to live another day.

We decided to return to our viewpoint behind the hawthorn hedge and await further developments.

It was a long time before anything at all happened. We were almost decided to take our apple haul and leave the situation to resolve itself when a horse-drawn carriage turned into the driveway and decanted its occupants to the doorstep so recently vacated by the top-hat man.

The ‘ cortege’ – one of Tom’s words, meaning procession or retinue (I tried to keep up with her words) – of Griffin Mansion’s master, his mistress (his wife, we were being naughty there) their ‘very girly’ daughter (we guessed) and the two assisting servants all removed themselves and their luggage from the carriage to the realm of the mansion’s entrance.

It was less than five minutes (but definitely more than one – we counted to sixty before just waiting) before there was a huge commotion inside.

We watched the comings and goings of the next couple of hours, until our position behind the hedge was spotted by an observant policeman. As he popped in to let the investigating officer know of our presence, we legged it.

Although we would be apprehended soon enough, we were out of there as quick as a fleeing gazelle (a type of deer, stated Tom).

Anyway, for now we headed to our homes, each for a telling-off for being late,again.

TBC

A Boxing Day Story (Part 2) Boxing Day 2018 #15 (14:00)

A Boxing Day Story (Part 2)

Boxing Day 2018 #15 (14:00)

“He looks like a real no-gooder, Tom.”

“Likely as not he is after some kind of retribution. Tom was always keen to use long words to show her education to its best effect – I was more of your ‘apples and pears’ type of oik.

“If he keeps knocking like that he’ll either beat the door down… or drop down dead!” I think that there may have been other options; but, two would do for now.

“Can’t he tell there is nobody home?” Tom turned to look back at the orchard. “Shall we just get our apples and go?”

“We could do…” I hesitated, “But, I want to see him beat the door in!” ‘or drop down dead’ I thought.

“Okay, let’s give him a while longer.” Tom agreed to wait.

The man continued his ‘barrap-a-rap-tat!’ upon the unyielding door. There was something of a rhythm to it, as if by getting a beat going the man could keep up his insistency.

After a while, even I got bored with nothing but noise and no action. I signalled to Tom that we should get back and we turned to go.

It was just at that moment that the door-knocking (hammering) stopped and a few seconds later there was the sound of the front door slamming shut with a finality that reeked of an ending.

I looked at Tom, she looked at me – we turned back once more and the man was gone!

“He couldn’t have gone away, so he must have gone in.” deduced Tom.

“Poor blighter!” I said. “I doubt he’ll ever come out again.”

Tom looked at me with a bit of a thoughtful stare. “How can you be so bleak about a man who has only entered a house – even though it is Griffin Mansion – he’ll like as not be out and on his way in no time. Once his business is complete, of course.” Tom was sure that it would all work out well for the man.

How wrong she was.

TBC