This is from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
(Omar Khayyam is O.K.)

One Moment in Annihilation’s Waste,
One Moment of the Well of Life to taste--
The Stars are setting and the Caravan
Starts for the Dawn of Nothing
--Oh, make haste!



THE BEASTIE

MonsieurFantasy is fed up with writing his journal, so I have taken over. Do not attempt to control your computer; I control the horizontal and the vertical. I will take you from the innermost mind to… Tony Bungalow part time window cleaner, at your service. Monsieur F. has paid me ten quid to do this job for him. I reckon it’s money for old rope; I mean, how difficult can it be? Artists make such a song and dance about what they do. I wouldn’t give you the skin off a rice pudding for most of what you call art, and as far as I’m concerned artists are a waste of space. Take MonsieurFantasy. For starters, he’s no more French than I am, no more French than a Lancashire hot pot. But do you know what he said to me? “Tony,” he sez, “Tony, the wallpaper is no less real than the wall. We are what we pretend to be.” My eye we are! He’d be spouting a lot less of that sort of rubbish if he had to run up and down a ladder all day for a living the way I do.
I’ll have to tell my wife Betty about this journal-writing though; it’ll give her a right laugh. She’s got a sense of humour has Betty Bungalow. “Hey Bet,” I’ll say, “I’m a Deviant artist now. Maybe I should start a deviant window cleaner’s site. What do you think Bet?”

But I digress, that’s what they say isn’t it, I digress. I’d best get on with the job in hand, that being Monsieur F’s journal. Well, it seems MonsieurFantasy and his Missis are riding along on their caravan through an alamagorical forest, when they fetch up in front of a little beastie standing in the middle of the road. The thing says that he is lost, and could they possibly give him a ride out of the forest, and take him back to some place resembling civilisation. The Beastie is very polite, if a little bit smarmy. Well, not being one to leave a fellow traveler in difficulties, Monsieur F gets out and gives the thing a leg up onto the seat. So now there’s this thing, this ominous presence crouching between Mr and Mrs F, and Monsieur F. has already begun to get a nasty feeling that he has made a big mistake. And he’s not wrong, because straight off Beastie grabs the reigns, and gives the old horse an almighty crack on the backside with the whip! Of course poor Vie not being used to this kind of treatment is, to put it mildly, somewhat startled. She shoots off down the track like an express train with the caravan rattling along behind her in a great wild whirl of multicoloured leaves. The noise is deafening, and you’d swear blind that all four wheels are about to fall off at any minute. And all the while the horrible Beastie is growing bigger and biggerer. He is terrifying to behold, he is for sure. But the funny thing is that the Beastie is impossible to describe, you look at him one time and you see maybe something resembling a big ugly toad, you look again and he’s more like a great black vampire bat. In fact every time you look at Beastie he looks a little different. There is only one thing for certain about Beastie, and that is that he is nobody’s friend! Before long the critter is so large that Monsieur F and his Missus barely have half a cheek each on the seat. They’re hanging on for dear life, and expecting every moment to be their last, and all the while they have to put up with Beastie who is screaming and shouting fit to burst their ear drums. A torrent of all kinds of strangeness is gushing out of him, like…………

“I am the Beastie from under the bed,
A visit impending from Mad Uncle Fred.”

Well to be one hundred percent honest, Beastie didn’t really say the Mad Uncle Fred bit, I made that up. It’s poetry like what that Omar Khayyam wrote… but better! I think that chap was taking it all way too seriously. The thing is he’s pushing up daises now, and where I ask you did all his philosophising get him? Nowhere that’s where!

I tell you what, I would just love to put in some sex and violence into this story, I think it could really do with something like that to spice it up a bit, perhaps a naked wood nymph or two, and maybe a gang of goblins armed to the teeth with machine guns, you know the sort of thing. I think that kind of approach could get Monsieur F’s journal turned into a computer game, and there’s money to be made from that. Ah, but I know the old stick-in-the-mud wouldn’t go for it, so I suppose I’ll just have to leave it out.

Oh well… this is where my bit of journalism ends. It’s all done and dusted now, so I will leave the faux Frenchman and his Missus hurtling away into the night, heading for the dawn of nothing as O.K. would have it. And as for me, well I must make haste, and hurry myself up a bit. I’ve spent far too long on this job and there’s more than enough window cleaning to be done before I’m finished for the day.

Cheerio.

Nothing Extraordinary

It was just an ordinary afternoon and I was working in our vegetable patch, turning over the earth and pulling out the weeds. A breeze was blowing through the big wild cherry tree, carrying away the blossom and scattering it around the garden, a little of it was falling over me. It was one of those times when, perhaps because my mind wasn’t occupied with other things, I became properly aware of how amazing the world is, and that there is really nothing ordinary about any of it. I wish I could always feel that way!


The Magic Stew Pot

Jane and I are sitting at a campfire close by our caravan. I’m feeling better for my nap and the rabbit stew smells fantastic!
What does it take to make a stew that’s good enough to eat?
A carrot a turnip some onions and spuds and a nice bit of loverly meat” burbles the magic stew pot.

(Please note that the views expressed by the magic stew pot are his alone and do not necessarily reflect those of the author. Nor will the author be held responsible for anything the aforementioned magic stew pot might do.)

Now I think that I really ought to tell you a little about this remarkable stew pot. For your information, he is one of those very special all-singing, all-dancing stew pots which appear in a goodly number of bona fide, true-life fairytales. Hang him over any campfire and he will at once be filled with delicious, bubbling stew.
(For those who are interested, the magic stew pot can be purchased for the price of a penny or two at www .fairylandkitchenware. com. An amazing special offer is available for this month only. Buy the magic stew pot and get a dishwasher fairy totally free. Money back guaranteed if not completely satisfied!!!!.
Sad to say, the aforementioned website is only online every seventh Friday of the month and alternate Pontefract Thursdays.)

But to continue with the tale, the stew tastes every bit as good as it smells, and of course Jane and I polish it off with no bother at all, with me acting like a right old porker by indulging in second helpings, and then mopping up the gravy with a bit of bread. By the time we are finished eating evening is falling, and the tops of the trees are silhouetted against a glowing orange fringe of sky, where the sun is slipping down. It occurs to me that I had better shape myself! I get up and go about lighting the oil lamps which hang from the four corners of Amnésie’s roof. Within a moment or two each of the glowing lamps has attracted dozens of tiny moth-like fairies. I stand looking at them for awhile, kind of mesmerized. But some small sound, perhaps an owl calling in the wood, breaks the spell, and I wander over to where Jane is sitting by the embers of the fire, and I settle myself down beside her to enjoy the cooling air, and watch for shooting stars.

Meanwhile, and all in the twinkling of an eye, the pretty little dishwasher fairy does her stuff, and the magic stew pot all spruced up and clean, leaps into the back of the caravan, taking the plates and cutlery with him, and obligingly tidies himself away! Hey Diddle Diddle. Absolute magic!” Well now,” sez I. “I think it’s high time we were off on our travels.” I gaze across at Vie who is standing in the gloaming a little way off, contentedly munching away on the daises. Then, with the heavy sigh of an impractical sort of man in a practical sort of world, I hoist myself to my feet and go and collect the old horse, and I begin my attempt to hitch her up to the caravan. You’d best cover your ears at this point because there is an awful lot of swearing going on. Well I mean, all these chains and straps and stuff, they get in a right old tangle!

I give myself a pat on the back here (which is a clever trick when you think about it) because I am nothing if not persistent, and I finally get the job done. Jane and I climb up onto the driver’s seat of the caravan and for the sake of appearances I take up the reins. As I think I may have already mentioned, I am only a notional kind of driver, Vie always goes entirely her own way. We brace ourselves for take-off, but we are taken pleasantly by surprise, this time rather than lurching into the air, Vie moves sedately away on foot, or perhaps I should say on the hoof. So off we go, happy little stew-filled travellers, trundling down a woodland path, through whispering trees and whirling leaves, the caravan rolling slightly from side to side, like a boat on a gentle sea, and the silver sickle moon scything its way across the twinkling black velvet heavens…….

There is a happy land far, far away
Where sorrow is a stranger,
And skies are never grey.
Roll the wheels, roll the wheels,
All through the night.
We’ll be there in the morning,
We’ll see it at first light.




OK this is the intermission. I will be showing naff ads for local restaurants etc. You can take the opportunity to go for a pee, and buy some popcorn or a choc ice.

Star date 11 April 2008……. These are the voyages of the caravan of forgetfulness.

At 50,000 feet it can get quite cold, and I can’t help wishing I had a nice pair of mittens and a balaclava. And tell me this, just where exactly are the inflight peanuts? I am thinking these little thoughts when I am startled by a terrible clattering coming from behind me…from inside Amnésie! I swivel round and am horrified to see my most prized processions flying out of the caravan window. My God there goes my signed copy of the Hawthorne’s Wonder Book. “Bloody Hell!” Jane and I scramble hurriedly into the back, where we are amazed to discover two identical red-bearded stowaway dwarves.

“Tick and Tock, Tock and Tick,” This is by way of an introduction, but it’s made without ceremony or pause. Tick’s and Tock’s arms continue to whirl around and our most treasured processions continue to disappear out of the window.

Look around and they will be gone, all those things you love and lean on.

“STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” ……That’s me shouting, and strangely enough it works. The dwarves’ hands are stilled and the two vandals stand staring at us in dismay, completely uncomprehending of our obvious distress. For a wonderful moment everything appears to be under control… but then all of a surprising suddelynness the spell is broken, and like a stomach-churning fairground roller coaster, the caravan lurches and plunges earthward. We grab what we can to hold ourselves steady, and prepare for what looks like it’s going to be an extremely rough landing.

Yep, Vie is bringing us down again.

No parachutes on this flight. It’s a bumpity-bump kind of landing but not nearly so bad as I had feared. Well I suppose what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Mind you I have to say, it doesn’t always feel that way. At any rate, Jane and I and our two dwarfish acquaintances tumble weak-kneed out onto terra firma. We find ourselves standing (if a bit on the wobbly side) in a small clearing in a forest, but this is by no means your average kind of forest. You’d forage a long time before you found another forest like this one. Look and Listen.

Take a walk in the forest. There are all kinds of trees in this place, no need to name them all, no need to describe them, but just look at their leaves. Look at their leaves, growing and falling continuously as you watch; leaves of many shapes and colours. Some fall upon the ground where they lie in a thick carpet untouched by time and decay, others are caught up by the restless, weaving wind. A wind which blows endlessly through the forest, gentle yet tireless, following its own unfathomable patterns. Stand and listen for a moment, the trees are whispering each to each… “What a beautiful leaf.” “What amazing colours.” “Awesome.” “Awesome.” “Awesome.”

“Tread softly for you tread on our dreams” (W.B.Y.)

Jane wanders around looking at the flowers, but beauty can be such an exhausting thing and I have had a beauty overload. I throw my notebook and pencil down amongst the leaves, and sprawl under an oak tree, considering in a vague sort of a way where Tick and Tock might have gone… and I fall asleep.

I dream of night, of cold moonbeams slicing between trees, of a field mouse running panic-stricken through long grass, and an owl hovering silently a moment before the kill.

When I wake up it is to the reality where there are things that want doing. I must make some batter for the Yorkshire puds… my contribution to dinner. You can’t beat a good Yorkshire pud, but you bet you’d better beat the batter.




(W.B.Y.) slightly adapted quote from W.B. Yeats.

So… here we sit in the fantastic glittery garden, and it feels just like a bad joke. There are dark days sometimes when you just get stuck. You can’t go back because your home has exploded. You look down the road and all you see is the thick cold fog coming down. And you know the present can be a difficult place to be. At these times all you can do is wait for the future to come and find you. So we wait, and we wait, and we wait some more.

And after a time we hear the sound of a clip clop clip clop……. and out from the fog comes an old horse drawn caravan. Yes and look who’s sitting up there on the driver’s seat… Ms Moon, the spiky haired, jingle jangle jewellery wearing, lone ranger of magic. And wow this thing looks just like old Toad’s caravan from Wind in the Willows. It’s just beautiful! It’s painted in bright optimistic sunshine yellow and carefully hand lettered on its side, and woven around with red dew beaded roses is the caravan’s name “AMNÉSIE”.

“Whoa Vie,” calls Ms Moon, and the old horse pulls up obediently in front of us. I am amazed, of course I am. I go to stroke the horse’s head, just like anyone would, I feel the warmth of Vie’s breath and smell its sweetness. The smell of long forgotten meadows. It makes me sneeze. I have hay fever. Is this real or is it not? It reminds me of my earliest memory. Little i with his grandfather standing by, a big man felt more than seen. Little i reaching out feeding crusts to a great big enormous farm horse. Does imagination reconstruct the memory, turning it all into this misty pastel picture postcard thing? Did that really happen? Who knows?

“Life, what is it but a dream?”

“This is your new home,” declares Ms Moon. But I’m of a suspicious turn of mind, “What’s the catch?” I ask. “What’s the price?” “All in good time,” answers the spiky haired one. “That can wait until the final page. If I told you now it would spoil all the fun.”

What do we do? Stay here in our tent, or climb up onto the mysterious caravan? No surprises… up we get. I take hold of the reins, and Ms Moon whispers something into old Vie’s velvet ear. “And our mission should we choose to accept it,” I joke nervously. ”Giddy up Vie!” cries Ms Moon, ignoring me completely. And Vie and Amnésie and wayfarers all take off. Up, up and away we fly into the future filled with wonders, a future which awaits with open arms. “Don’t be afraid,” says Jane… because she knows me well.

Green-eyed, peevish faced goblins run out from the bushes throwing stones at us. We look down laughing; we are well out of range.

High above an awakening world flying through clouds of miniature diamond-eyed rainbow dragons. I hold Vie’s reins but the old horse flies where she will… on a mission most mysterious and strange.

Gone quiet.....