Saturday. Around 2.30pm.

Image copyright Susan Rouchard

Cobbled streets. A market square. Nothing special. Closed to combustion engine traffic. And electric cars. The usual stalls: artisan bread, olives, local cheeses. And more. No surprises. Genteel folk seated under canopies nursing cappuccinos, counting blessings. Clean toilets behind the tithe barn. Town crier every hour on the hour.

Mock medieval clock tower. Complete with ornamental arrowslits. Ideal for the sheriff’s archers in the days of green-costumed merry men outlaws. Or for black-clad snipers in these days of mass shootings.

I step back into the shadows, nurse resentments, count disappointments, adjust my bullet proof vest.

Written in response to Maid Marion Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge found here.

A note for the pedants: I know that the plural of cappuccino is cappuccini but this marketplace is not in Italy. So no apologies.

New Year’s Lament

doggerelbanksy posted: ” A belated “Happy New Year” to everyone. I’ve somehow managed to let 2024 drift on for 10 days already, so here (if you need it in addition to Jules’ Holland’s “Hootenany”) is a way to know instantly when a new year has arrived. Just visit your local supe” doggerelbanksy doggerelbanksy Jan 10 A belated “Happy New Year” to everyone. I’ve somehow managed to let 2024 drift on for 10 days already, so here (if you need it in addition to Jules’ Holland’s “Hootenany”) is a way to know instantly when a new year has arrived. Just visit your local supermarket. Best wishes for a better year for the planet than 2023. New Year’s Lament Ring out the Old. Ring in the New. It’s New Year’s Day and time to queue. It’s time to leave mince pies unsold. Ring in the New. Ring out the Old, marked not with fireworks nor with guns. but Jan. 1st., store-baked, hot cross buns. Hot cross buns, Hot cross buns, January, February, Hot cross buns. If you have not bought them, now’s the right season. Any Friday is Good Friday, Hot cross buns. Hot cross buns, Hot cross buns, One for 10p, Second’s freebie, Hot cross buns. Everybody likes them. Place them on your tongues. Haven’t any? There are many Hot cross buns. Don’t do jokes from crackers though one sometimes puns? Pass the sherry. Let’s get merry. Hot cross buns. Get them before Easter. Eat them by the ton. Take a Rennie®. Spend a penny. Hot cross buns. Comment You can also reply to this email to leave a comment.

Happy New Year

Image copyright Dale Rogerson

“Stop looking at me,” I said, above the swish-swash of the windscreen wipers.

She said nothing.

I tapped my new satnav (North Korean, cheap on ebay).

“Have faith,” I said, wiping the windscreen with a Christmas cracker paper crown.

She said nothing.

“Love your frock,” I said. “Really festive.”

 “It’s a Nicole Spose! From Milan! Not a frock!” She scowled at the muddy track ahead of us. “Tosser!”

“We’re lost,” I said, looking for a turning place.

“Well, a blind date to remember,” she said.

She pulled the bubbly from under the seat. Popped it.

“Happy new year,” she said.

100 words written for the Friday Fictioneer weekly challenge found here.

Where there’s a way…

I knew there was a will. She, Bertha, told me so. I had no doubts, had read it, had watched it being witnessed by cousin Alba, who died before he could testify that there was indeed a will and that he could vouchsafe that she wanted me to have the house.

Bertha’s family said, “No will, she didn’t leave a will.”

The solicitor handed me the house keys. “Go look. Leave no stone unturned, no drawer unemptied, no tea caddie uninspected.”

I followed his advice, found it, got the house, evicted the family.

Life is good.

100 words written for a Macclesfield Writing Group read-around.

Bravve(rman) New World

doggerelbanksy posted: ” The first couple of lines of this poem emerged in the early hours a day or so ago, though the title after the rest revealed itself. I couldn’t make up my mind which of the alternatives to use for the last line of this supersized sonnet (3 x 5 +2 as oppso” doggerelbanksy doggerelbanksy Dec 7 The first couple of lines of this poem emerged in the early hours a day or so ago, though the title after the rest revealed itself. I couldn’t make up my mind which of the alternatives to use for the last line of this supersized sonnet (3 x 5 +2 as oppsosed to 3 x 4 +2). In case I don’t post anything else between now and the end of the year, I’d like to send everyone our ‘Seasons Greetings and Best Wishes for 2024’, albeit a little prematurely. Bravve(rman) New World In a shop doorway lies one life style choice, a sleeping-bagged mute, a thin cat with no voice. He’s opted to opt out, to dodge work and skive, live hand to mouth. He’ll see dawn’s glow arrive – if he gets through the night still half-alive. A few coins in his mug, his dog at his feet, they huddle together to share body heat. A card scrawl: ‘Please help me. Don’t just pass by’ He shrugs a faint hope that we won’t let him die and leave him all washed up and hung out to dry. Shop windows sparkle with tinsel and glitter. Christmas lights flash above this human litter. Think twice as you pass by. Do give a damn. Spare change in your pocket? Give what you can. Remember the tale of the Samaritan. Don’t judge him. Who knows what hardship’s he’s borne, what blows Fate has dealt him and left him forlorn or what blows Fate has dealt him to leave him careworn. Comment You can also reply to this email to leave a comment.

New post Photo of Autumn: A Sonnet

doggerelbanksy posted: ” This started as a writing burst in Rosanna McGlone’s Zoom session a couple of weeks ago before we looked at ‘To Autumn’ by John Keats and ‘My Autumn Leaves’ by Bruce Weigl (an ambiguous title by a Vietnam war veteran). One suggestion was that we also inc” doggerelbanksy Photo of Autumn: A Sonnet doggerelbanksy Dec 5 This started as a writing burst in Rosanna McGlone’s Zoom session a couple of weeks ago before we looked at ‘To Autumn’ by John Keats and ‘My Autumn Leaves’ by Bruce Weigl (an ambiguous title by a Vietnam war veteran). One suggestion was that we also include references to the senses. Photo of Autumn: A Sonnet It looks like Redesmere peeking through the trees, resounds with quacking ducks, no buzzing bees, the leaves, a fragile, golden curtain hung until by slightest whispering breeze unclung. Down, down they drop, branches naked, bare, stark skeletons till spring creeps in unaware, tiptoeing in a lifetime still away, sneaking green back in with lengthening day. We’ll stuff our mouths with turkey in the interim, Our hearing block with carols through the grim dark days ahead. Our sense of smell: the cinnamon spiced, mulled wine will cast its spell. The clock will finally restore an hour and spring leapfrog winter with an April shower. Comment You can also reply to this email to leave a comment.

New post 60 Years Ago Today

doggerelbanksy posted: ” It’s difficult to convey the impact that learning of JFK’s assassination on Friday, 22nd. November, 1963 in Dallas, Texas had on those of us around at the time. It was a 9/11 moment for the baby boomer generation. I was hitch hiking (for the first time) ” doggerelbanksy 60 Years Ago Today doggerelbanksy Nov 22 It’s difficult to convey the impact that learning of JFK’s assassination on Friday, 22nd. November, 1963 in Dallas, Texas had on those of us around at the time. It was a 9/11 moment for the baby boomer generation. I was hitch hiking (for the first time) from university in London back home to Farnsfield and then caught a bus from Newark on which my Aunt Margaret happened to be the conductress. I remember going into a house (hers?) and seeing the then Foreign Secretary, George Brown, being interviewed on TV. I think Private Eye would say that he appeared ‘tired and emotional’. Like the rest of us he had not been preparing for such an event, but his position in the government required him to give a semi-official reaction. The subsequent killing of Lee Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby who, I think, at a later date ‘died’ in prison all added to the multitude of conspiracy theories that are still a subject for debate to this very day. I felt I should write a 60th. anniversary tribute (below), though it’s rough around the edges and does little justice to the enormity of the aftershocks which rippled round the world. 60 Years Ago Today Way back in time in the US of A, 60 years ago to the very day, in Dallas a shot or shots rang out, echoed round the world, put all in doubt. So shocked that we remember where we were, a hard wired memory that we all share. John Fitzgerald Kennedy, JFK, known as ‘Jack’, charismatic, but feet of clay. 35th president at 44, debated Richard Nixon off the floor. Abroad adored, but at home much less so, behind the scenes so many things we didn’t know. The Cuban missile crisis gave us quite a scare. Brinksmanship with Krushchev, would lead to World War flare? This was all forgotten when JFK was shot, his foibles and his dalliances (‘Some Like It Hot’). Who marked his card? Who made America sob? Well, brother Bobby was investigating the mob. Jack’s friendship with Sinatra didn’t save his life and in that shot (or shots?) Jackie was a widow not a wife. Conspiracy theories to this day abound. How many shots were fired from Book Depo’ or ground? Jack Ruby silenced Oswald – was he lone assassin? LBJ took over. He was the only one to win. ‘Where were you?’ I hear you ask. I need a final rhyme. Hitch hiking home from uni’ for the very first time. Comment You can also reply to this email to leave a comment.

Subscribe Confirmed subscription to posts on doggerelbanksy

Welcome to doggerelbanksy! Cool, you are now subscribed to d‍o‍g‍g‍e‍r‍e‍l‍b‍a‍n‍k‍s‍y‍.‍w‍o‍r‍d‍p‍r‍e‍s‍s‍.‍c‍o‍m and will receive an email notification when a new post is published. Manage subscriptions Unsubscribe Great content you might have missed on doggerelbanksy Spooks in the Library Goldilocks Deserves Porridge Bonfire Sonnet

Confirm your subscription

Howdy, You recently subscribed to d‍o‍g‍g‍e‍r‍e‍l‍b‍a‍n‍k‍s‍y‍.‍w‍o‍r‍d‍p‍r‍e‍s‍s‍.‍c‍o‍m and we need to verify the email you provided. Once you confirm below, you’ll be able to receive and read new posts. If you believe this is an error, ignore this message and nothing more will happen. Confirm now

Patient Notes: Mr X

I went to a party earlier on. Uninvited. When a busybody guest asked me who I was, I had my story ready.

I said I was the host’s second cousin by marriage, and lived in Argentina. I’m the black sheep of the family, I said, and the family refuses to acknowledge me. Besides, I said, I’ve been gone so long they won’t recognize me. I’m here, I said, to effect a reconciliation.

I didn’t say I was there to steal the jewellery from the upstairs bedroom.

Nobody told me about that Doberman loitering at the top of the staircase.