One Young Man Goes Looking For Cows And enlist the help of some Germans

J. D. Vervoorn and the Dutch Resistance

I was very privileged to have met and personally thank Professor J.D Vervoorn (Hans) and he has read; in most part what I have written here. I was told that he was surprised that I remembered or knew about him, and was amused that he had four pages to himself. I hope to soon go to Oosterbeek and pay my deepest respects to all.

    

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Sitting in the summer sun eating Mr Springs peas while reading, I was aware that I could get caught. Although I knew his daily routine, through the summer months they were a little unpredictable. I knew, he knew I ate his peas and have no idea why he tolerated me so, but he did. Hidden well beneath an old man’s grumpiness, was a whole spectrum of humour and understanding, I am sure he planted more peas near my side of the hedge.

          

I was suddenly was aware of his presence; it was too late to make a dash for it. On the back of his house was a big rain butt on a brick and slab plinth, perched upon it was the man himself. I felt a little guilty watching him, studying his face as I did but I knew that if I moved it would break the trance he was in and this would be a bad thing. So I sat there and in those moments I witnessed the legacy that war bestows on the ones that survive.

          

On his taught cheek bones his muscles flexed and his unseeing eyes of the here and now were in the memories of the past. I have no idea why I thought this as a child, but somehow, deep down I know this to be true. For each year I saw the same expression and I recall it was in those summer months of reflection that his stories flowed at their best. This face has stayed with me not haunting exactly but ever present in my consciousness. In my time of need and strength I pull this face to my mind’s eye to strengthen and to remember his teaching.

          

Shortly after the pea-pod moment I had walked over to say hello as I often did, I remember I was in my teens and wanted to get away quickly but didn’t want to appear rude so entered into a conversation.

           

That taught face took over the normal congenial face that I was used to seeing. I knew that I couldn’t ask questions as this would break that trance state, and he would abruptly finish the conversation. I had asked him once to write down his accounts of the war but he told me that it was quite enough to have lived and survived it. I had no right to ask more from a man that had seen and felt what he had. So I would intently cling on to every word to keep, while searching his face for meaning.

He started by telling me how astonished he was over the resilience of the Dutch people. How their country had been bombarded. I held in my mind that he was talking about operation ‘Market Garden’ the drop over Arnhem of the allied troops. I had seen the pictures. He recounted how men were shot from the skies as they parachuted down and inadequate gliders stumbled and stalled to the ground. Men burning while trying to save others, each had imprinted how futile war was on him. 

           

I knew Mr Spring was dropped off un-ceremonially at Arnhem. Caught by some hot shrapnel his glider had caught fire. The pilot hit an over head cable to slow down the glider. This man was on fire and knew he was dying. Having made sure all his men jumped as safely as he could, he then went to the cockpit where the American pilots were trying to control the aircraft while burning. He was ordered to jump out and join his men. 

           

After bailing out and before he rounded his men up he searched for one of his comrades, he had noticed that his parachute had caught alight. Having dropped 200 ft with no parachute to speak of, he found this man in a very bad way and so he gave him morphine to ease the man’s passing. His name was Alfred Penwill and was a Norfolk lad who was expecting his first child.

           

It would have taken Mr Spring very little time to assess the situation on the ground, he, by now had enough experience to know that - weather, communication difficulties, and the amount of Germans on the ground meant he would be lucky if he or any of his men would survive that day. 

           

Rounding up his men they found the glider and recovered both pilot’s; the co pilot had broken both legs and wrists but was still alive. by this time the Dutch resistance were already on the scene, Mr Spring was ready to shoot not knowing whether they were friend or foe and this is where he met Hans for the first time as Hans whistled the national Anthem to indicate that they were freinds. Hans he said was very important boy to his men, as he spoke very good English. He showed me a paper telling me a few of these facts. In those days we had no photo copiers so I could not keep a copy, it is with my memory checking what I know with what others have written on the internet that I’m able substantiate events. After he folded the paper and put it away he continued, with one of the greatest escapes I have ever heard.

           

He set the scene of five or six men made up from the Dutch resistance and his regiment going for a bike ride in the Dutch countryside. He was dressed in civi clothes of that region and played the part of a deaf dumb Dutchman. As he couldn’t speak the language nor understand it, the part suited him he would tell me, with that humours twinkle. When they came across ‘a few Germans out on patrol’ he would say. It was the way he said this that always got me hooked, and on less stressed days we would always laugh at that throw away comment. But this day as I looked into those globes of that other world, I saw an intensity that gave away the true tension of the situation. He would tell how little details made all the difference like; remembering that you had to get on and off the bike the opposite way to what you were used to. These small details would arouse curiosity and suspicion of the soldiers who were on high alert. 

           

At some point Mr. Spring felt that things were getting tricky so he pulled the pin out of a hand grenade that he held it in his pocket; I’m not sure how much he had thought this through. He would say it was ‘fool hardy’ with a glint in his eye that would forever perplex me. 

           

Hans and Harri Tomason of the Dutch resistance had worked their magic and talked the soldiers into letting them pass. A way down the road and out of earshot Mr. Spring asked for some advice on what to do. He would say to me ‘It takes fifteen pounds of pressure to hold the leaver down, you know’ and I would think and only seconds for it to explode. His hand was getting tired and cramp had set in. Hans commented that the soldiers didn’t know how close they were to being killed and suggested that Mr Spring lob it in the dyke.

           

Now this is where my version of the events take a slightly different path. As I am under the impression that they caught some fish that day but as no one else reports this in their telling I may have got it wrong. You see Mr Spring liked to throw a humorous twist to things. Now many years have passed and I’m not sure if this particular twist is in my imagination. Perhaps, what he meant was that they should have caught some fish. A spot of poaching under the noses of the Germans and to have made good use of the limited amount of hand grenades they had, would have made it worthwhile in his opinion. But it was how he told me how they ate the fish and the family who were looking after the co-pilot were grateful and the fact so many of my remembered stories have been proven facts, that I think this could be true and highly likely. 

           

One thing that has puzzled me through the years was why did they take the risk in the first place? Even more so when I found out later that the Germans were bombarding anything that moved or that the allied forces could hide behind, leaving Oosterbeek resembling a pile of matchsticks. All Mr Spring and his comrades had, were their bren machine guns and grenades, no room in their backpack for a tank or two. It was for a funeral or funerals under the watchful eyes of the German soldiers. There you have it, humanity in adversity with humour showing us the light. Thanks to Hans and the Dutch resistance Albert was able to attend the funeral of Alfred Penwill; the father to be, radio operator Hollis and pilot Spurrier who had gallantly fought to save his passengers and land as safely as possible.

           

He tried to re-join his platoon and was in some skirmishes around Opheasden, Kesteren and Dodeward but on this point I could never get him to open up and talk.

           

Now after a little banter about the fish there came another story that he only ever told me once. It was short and simply told. The Germans were hot on their tail and a few of the men could not swim or not that well at any rate. Good men that would rather have been drowned than be caught by the Gestapo. His concentrated face held a meaning behind this story that I can only guess at. With five or more men clinging to him he lost one. This man had saved his life and his regret in the telling of this made me numb and still does.

Piecing together accounts off Wikipedia, my dad (Mike Alderman) and Phillip (Mr Springs youngest son) version, gives some background to these events. They were only days apart. Mr Spring was dropped on 18th September 1944 and due to bad weather a lot of the backup and equipment never made it. The 10th Battalion were fragmented and communication was poor. They were ordered to get to Oosterbeek and were to hold their positions and wait for reinforcements. The Germans unleashed a self-propelled gun up and down the battalions, shooting high explosives shells into any building, followed by infantry fighting at close quarters forcing the allies out of their defensive positions. Small isolated units managed to hold until the 22nd September for the Pathfinders 21st independent Parachute Company and the 1st Polish Parachute Brigade to drop down. Although they drew off some of the Germans attention, they still had 100 or so artillery guns firing onto their positions. They were then ordered to with draw. The last few men were evacuated over the nights of the 25th and 26th of September 1944. Out of 582 men that were dropped from this regiment 404 were taken as prisoners, many of which were injured, some critical, 92 were killed and 96 were evacuated. Due to this the 10th Battalion was disbanded. 

           

Without the Dutch resistance the numbers would have been much worse and Mr Spring became reliant on that one young Dutchman who was resourceful, determined and probably most importantly of all had a good sound sense of humanity and humour. This young man took that swim with Mr Spring and it was the last time they saw each other for many years, although they did keep in touch from time to time. It was across the River Waal that was as big as the river Rhine. Searchlights were looking for anything that moved and after a cup of tea Hans swam back….. Hold that thought, Yep, he swam back over the river, where agitated Germans were shooting anything that moved in the dark!

           

When he reached the other side he laid low until the morning and when the Germans caught him he explained that he was a farmer’s boy who had lost his COWS! And that the farmer would be very cross with him. So there they were, German SAS soldiers’, one young medical student who had just helped the allied forces to escape, looking for non-existing cows together. 

           

Whenever Hans name cropped up Mr Spring would marvel at the warmth that the Dutch people showed him. Looking at the few pictures I found on the internet I have begun to understand his reasoning behind this more. In his opinion whenever he turned up it was bad news but for the civilians of this area in particular, it was catastrophic.        

           

It was Hans’s humanity and humour that touched Mr Spring and through the years and the telling of his stories, Hans and the Dutch people have dwelt through my thoughts, shining a light on my path. I would like to convey my deepest and heartfelt thanks.

           

Having learnt that his brother Albert had made it back from Arnham and not seeing him at all from 1941 John paid Mr Spring a visit just outside Grantham. John Wrote “In Albert’s corner hanging up behind a blanket were numerous rabbits, pheasants, and bundles of snares. On top of the black coke-fired stove was a Dixie full of rabbit stew. I only had to close my eyes and I was back in the humble cottage at Winwick hill. I thought, good God, he will never change. Talking to his comrades I gathered that my brother was held in very high esteem because with the help of the wartime Dutch Resistance he had been mainly responsible for their escape from the enemy-occupied Holland, but one of his fellow men told me, ‘It’s terrible being back; I never know when I am going to get into one of his bloody snares.’ I can just see the amusement on Mr Springs face as he read his brothers words.       

           

Albert wrote to Penwills family to let them know what had happened to him and made a point of going to his grave whenever he could and laid flowers there, Phil and Danny now carries on that tradition.

           

In Oosterbeek it was estimated 10,000 people attended 65^th commemorative service of the battle. The Dutch children are told of how it was and flowers have always been laid for the men who fought courageously and yet were defeated. The Dutch suffered many hardships after the Allied Forces left. So yet again I can see Mr Spring reluctance to say too much about it all. But like the Dutch people I think this event in History should be noted. Because of these men women and children, who at great personal cost both physically and mentally, with so many paying the ultimate price, we can without tyrant or oppressors stamp our feet in indignation and oust the government!

Tina Rodwell © All rights reserved.

The Unsung Heros Of Arnham and one mans parth that took him there.

On the 6^th May 1916 Edith May Spring gave birth to one of the many unsung heroes of the Second World War, Albert Edward Spring. Borne in a humble cottage on the top of Winwick Hill, he was the second child and her first son, his sister Grace being the Eldest. His father Edward Spring was to die in the First World War and just before his third child John was borne.

             (At this point I will apologise to Mr Spring as from now on I will call him Albert, which I never did when he was alive, though he asked me too once. I know it’s a bit silly maybe, as sadly he will never get to read this and to him it would not matter one jot but for me it’s a respect thing).

            He was brought up; he would say ‘lean and mean’. He was an outdoors person from the very start with a good ear and eye on detail in every respect. Reading his two books ‘Gamekeeping at Hamerton’ and ‘Characters’ and papers that he had given to my dad, who passed them on to me you can see that clearly. These papers and books have made up most of what I have written about the 10^th Para and how it was formed. His youngest son Phil has also kindly given me his account so that a more rounded version of some of his exploits in the Second World War. Albert himself had a wonderful gift of telling you dry facts in a humours way. Feelings such as respect with a sense of fun were always present and I have done my best to carry that on.

            So by 1921 Edith had married again and now had five step sons to contend with. That closely knit community on top of Winwick hill could and did field their own football and cricket teams. His mother who was by all accounts the kindest person and had a big influence on her son and most of the people she met, including my dad. Unfortunately the man that became Albert’s stepdad was not and due possibly to a head injury sustained in the First World War and drink, his character could turn ugly.

            Albert from an early age helped out with the filling of the family cook pot by catching with his catapult and snares, all manor of wildlife, sometimes this would get him a spot of bother in a very Albert way. For instance there was an elderly gentleman who lived in one of the eight cottages, who worked for farmers that needed hedges trimmed and ditches cleaned. So at the bottom of his garden he had constructed an earthen shed with a wood and straw roof to store his tools in. Another of his neighbours, Arthur White was thirteen years Albert’s’ senior. Arthur had a muzzle loader gun that Albert would watch intently, gleaning everything there was to know about the gun by observing.

            Arthur had come up with a cunning plan to draw some sparrows in the line of fire so that as many of these birds could be killed with one shot. Yes they did eat the sparrows and glad of them, they were tasty but you had to be careful how you ate them apparently, not much meat on them and you had to nibble not munch. I never pressed him on that point, having a vivid imagination and a delicate disposition.

            So there they were on a dry and windy day putting bread crumbs on the roof. Now at this point in the story he would find something to do while I sat there building the scene in my mind.  He left me thinking so long sometimes I was sure I smelt the dry earth and straw. I knew what was coming but his pause always added to the story, that and his smile as he would recount the happenings in his minds eye. Now they were fifteen yards away when the gun was deployed. The thing is a mussel shot was a very messy affair, shot and burning paper went all over John’s shed killing a lot of sparrows. Albert’s grin spread all over his face and his eyes would sparkle at this point. In the first instance they were out to retrieve the barbequing birds until they thought about Old John’s tools.

            Sadly by the time they had taken a few tools each it was well alight and the heat too much for the boys to go back in. They saw Old John coming up the path with a youngster’s vigour and there was no doubt in Albert’s mind that if he had caught them they would suffer the same fate as the sparrows. ‘Not sure he would’ve ate us afterwards’ he would wink at me ‘I was a bit tough even as a youngster’. I know he enjoyed seeing the contortions on my face at the telling of this story and as I write it down I still marvel at his antics that could have gone so horribly wrong. As it was John Jolly’s livelihood had been taken away in that instant and if it had happened today allsorts of mayhem would have been caused with social workers and police claiming lots of overtime on his behalf.

             As it was everyone rallied around with each family finding at least one tool for John Jolly. This story goes to demonstrate Mr Springs Character. He always thought of himself as a rogue heading for trouble in his younger days and even to his last breath he was a hunter gatherer, it was his biggest passion in life. But if he had been caught that day he would have taken what was coming to him without qualm or disquiet on his part. It would have played on his mind that this man was put out by his actions but it would have not deterred him from trying other foolish ideas or enjoying the fun of it.

            As a young man he was still living at home but now there were, just his mum, stepfather, younger brother John, their half brother Victor and himself. They would go cycle on Sunday afternoon’s weather permitting. On one such afternoon they met two sisters, Ivy and Olive Taylor. After finding out her name and spending some years getting to know Olive they got married in April 1939. By that September war was declared and on 7^th February 1940 he was a conscript of what was known as the 23 Group at Spring Hill Barracks in Lincon.

            He was Six feet tall and a lean mean fighter and had trained with an ex-boxer named Jack Sharman at Kettering, biking the twenty miles there and back, so it was no wonder he made Lance Corporal in the Eleventh Scottish Commando by Christmas. By the time Dunkirk had taken place Lincolnshire had become part of the frontline with Norfolk and Kent. Being the closest to the enemy territory, aircraft was now part of the daily scene in the sky. Now the new recruits were issued with live ammunition and their fighting skills were sharpened and made ready to fight.

            There was a notice put up asking for volunteers for a specialist unit that was being formed. So 200 of them; incited no doubt by each others banter to put their names down, had packed their kitbags to go to join The Sixth Battalion Seaforth Highlanders, who had lost heavily at Dunkirk.

            Having spent two weeks at Fort George they were then off to Doune in Perthshire for a very pleasant yet all too short time. He was camped next to a river with lovely fish in it, and I’m sure when he left it had quiet a few less lovely fish and many more contented tummies. Up on the board again came his name; he was now to become one of the commandos and went off to Netherdale Mill at Galshiels.

            In his account of what happened shortly after they arrived he wrote “Our commanding Officer who had marched with us, addressed us like this, his first words was ‘Gentlemen, you are all volunteers and, as such you must be ready to fight against all tyrants and oppressors, so when we are welded into a well trained body of men, I hope it will be my privilege to lead you’. His name was Lt. Col R. N Pedder who was from the Black Watch Regiment, who then told us that we were the Eleven Scottis Commandos.” When ever he spoke of Col Pedder and Black Watch you could tell that he had felt he had met his calling, he understood and respect Col Pedder as all his men did.

            They then trained hard for almost a year to form 10 troops and trained on three well equipped ships Glen Gyle, Glen Roy and Glen Hearn. One night in Lamlash Bay Isle of Arron they loaded up to set sail on those ships. The ships were capable of 28 knots and were taking them to Egypt. The sea was rough and sick or not the training continued.

            Their base was at Kabrit and this is where the First Special Air Services was formed that is the S.A.S It was the idea of Lt. Col Stirling who had gone to great lengths to get his idea up and running. Looking back this is an extraordinary thought that someone had to convince the powers to be, that the S.A.S should be formed. I found this on Wikipedia and thought you might like to have a look. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Stirling  this website is of Lt. Col Pedder http://www.commandoveterans.org/cdoGallery/v/units/11/Dick+Pedder+HLI++copy.jpg.html

Training in Egypt, he had told me was enjoyable and was he privilege to have bathed in the same river as Cleopatra had. He asked me if I could tell turning his face to see if any of her beauty had rubbed off. I told him he had to use milk to make a difference, we both found this most amusing and given the chance I’m sure he would have given bathing in milk a go.

            Of the Egyptians he said that they were resourceful and his type of people. He would have studies their ways and found out how to get the best out of his new surroundings. He wrote that he was “fortunate enough to be on a couple of four week patrols; I loved it. There was wonderful variety of wild life in the western desert. There were sand plover and wild turkey, a lot of gazelle, these usually weighed about 30lb and, of course, snakes and lizards, also foxes. It was the foxes that were captured when they asked him to get something very special for some visiting brass. He asked the Chef (who was a local of the area) to spice it up (if you have ever smelt a fox you will understand how musky the creature is and must have been fairly unpalatable). He said that the chef smiled a knowing smile. He would not tell me why those poor guests were going to get a desert fox for their just deserts? He would always say ‘Now look, I have met many idiots in my time but the worst idiots, it has ever been my misfortunes to know have been covered in brass.’ I would ask if they ate the meal and apparently they not only ate it but enjoyed it! ‘No accounting for taste’ he would say. This episode would have lightened the step and load he knew his men had been carrying and am sure this was his intention.

            When wondering out on one patrol, he and his mate came across some old mattresses stacked up in piles, now being resourceful and not ever wasting any opportunity they grabbed them and took them back to base. He told me that he got a restful nights’ sleep but his friend did not fare as well, he had been eaten alive by fleas. We should have known, he would say that they were put out for a reason; they were burning them the next morning. ‘I’ve always known I had bad blood, not even the fleas would touch me.’ We would chuckle knowing how unpleasant that would have been for his mate and jolly glad he had not suffered the same fate.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

            In the Month of May 1941 the Germans Airborne Forces attacked and captured the Island of Crete, so sailing on Lord Louis Mountbatten’s destroyer, The Kelly they set off to lend a hand but they were under constant attack and ordered to turn back to Alexandria. The men knew how lucky they were to arrive. They disembarked and The Kelly was refuelled, re-armed and set off to see if they could evacuate any of the troops. By the time they reached the island it was under German control and The Kelly was sunk.

             It was thought that the Germans would try to joint up with the Vichy French holding the northern end of the Mediterranean. Having lost many of their finest Officers in the battle for Crete the Germans found it hard and time consuming to regroup, the numbers are truly staggering http://www.explorecrete.com/preveli/battle-of-crete.html gives you a full flavour of the battle.

            With the generosity of the United States the allied forces were building up their fighting strength once again while the Germans licked their wounds. The U.S sent tanks, aircraft and Lorries loaded with beer; a present by the workers and greatly received and enjoyed. Even many years later Albert fondly remembered the strong taste of the bottles of Dow and Black Label.

            The 11^th Scottish Commando’s were called in to help the Austrailian forces that were jammed on the one vehicle track leading up to the iron bridge that was still intact. The Vichy troops had dug into the banks of the Litani that were approximately two hundred feet above the river bed. This caused a stalemate. It was decided to attack from the sea and on the west side. It was the first time Col Pedder was to lead his commandos into action. He was killed within the first ten minutes of the battle. He was 36 and had indeed welded his men into a well trained body that could carry on; even though their leaders were shot. Albert wrote that he believed 176 men died with Col Pedder that day. Another 200 men were wounded with many dying later of their wounds. Albert himself was hit by a piece of shrapnel in his left thigh, he was patched up and carried on the best he could. “They had nowhere to run to” he wrote

            Knowing Albert some years, I knew there was more to it than what he wrote. Putting the Litani river 1941 I came across http://www.combinedops.com and marvelled and smiled at it all.

            I gathered from reading this site that as they were sailing out, there were hasty meetings to organise their plan of action with heated arguments about the timing. One thing that Albert said of Pedder was that he trained the men hard and made sure everything was in place, this was not always under his control though. Reading through this web site you can see why it all went wrong and how the men must have felt about the maps not being adequate enough.

            There were highly trained snipers that seemed to target the higher ranks. Col Pedder had been given a map that did not cover the full area and others were not aware that a small dot on a map could be so big on the ground. These small facts make all the difference to the men on the fighting and could have been responsible for many of the deaths that day.  

            The French blew up the bridge and captured many men. The Australians built a pontoon bridge and freed them again. Albert wrote it took the Australian’s a further three months to gain control of the Syrian coast road.

            When they went back to their training headquarter at Kabrit, there was a change in the atmosphere. They had suffered a great loss as so many good men had been let down by the rush to get the job done. So I have begun to understand why Albert fed the top brass the foxes. Albert chose to put his name down to join the 10^th Para.

            Albert wrote about The Rommel’s Raid which took some of the men 200 miles behind the German’s front line. Albert put it down like this “Understand that General Rommel’s brilliant and courageous way of leading his highly mobile Africa Corp had allowed the Eighth Army to regard his as invincible, which meant that the moral of the whole of that force were very disheartened.” So with as much intelligence (no doubt some gleaned out on patrol) as they could muster the attack was planned and reading through the accounts of the men as ever, you are left with your mouth open in wonderment. It was found out later that Rummel was in Rome when they tried to track him down.

            Albert and his comrades were now becoming experienced soldiers together and were going through a terrible time in the western Desert. The African Corp had driven them out of Lybia. At this point General Montgfomery came and took over. He told the men “From this day on, the only movement will be forward”. Albert would tell me in his straight forward factual voice ‘He was absolutely correct for the simple reason he would never make a move until everything was in place for his men.’

            The next bit in his write up of how the 10^th Par was formed explains what they got up to as the Commandos disbanded and the official forming of the 10^th para was made and is so typical of the man and the men around him. He begins ‘In the waiting’ a flippant use of the word waiting I must say. They carried out a lot of patrols to try to obtain as much knowledge as they could about the Africa Corp’s and caused a lot of irritation to them I would hazard a guess. They also trained with the newly formed S.A.S Commanded by Lt.Col Jock Stirling. At the end of this training they gained their wings. In November 1942 he was given the opportunity to join, not everyone was asked to.

            They were soon in action gaining enemy information, strength and armaments. Training was usually from a submarine. In his son Phil’s account; apparently they would ‘jump overboard into fell boats with full kit on their backs; it was so dark they could not tell whether they had made the safety of the boats to go ashore or not. So they use to tie a rope to their pack and on to the rail of the submarine and if the rope stayed tight for two minutes the crew knew they had missed the fell boat and would pull them out of the water and they would have another go.’ This must have been a bit like the blind leading the blind I would guess and where trust played a big part.

            After they had defeated the German Afrika Korps his Company Commander told them to tighten up on discipline and generally smarten up. When the platoon officer and Albert were inspecting the troops they told Joe Beet to get a hair cut. The next morning parading in battle order, they were inspected again. When they got almost abreast of Joe, Joe stepped forward, took off his helmet and showed off his new haircut. His comrades had shaved his head until it was as Albert would say ‘as bald as a pound of lard.’ Joe was so well liked and it caused a lot of amusement within the platoon.

            They were then off to Taranto and then onto Casttstellanceta. I wrote a piece in my blog about this and the link below will take you there.

http://tillymoments.blogspot.com/2010/11/my-humble-tribute.html

            When they advanced to the out skirts of the town, by Albert’s account they advanced section by section he wrote “there was a road that went off to the right at that point a machine gun opened up from our immediate front and another from the side street. We did not have any real cover and two of my men were hit, one of them a young soldier, his surname was Martin: he always looked so boyish and young that we always called him young Martin: he died during the night. The other wounded man eventually made a good recovery and came back to the unit after we returned to England. That is war and that is how it goes. Also lost that day by machine gun fire was their divisional commander General Hopkinson. When we were ambushed, the first man to get his machine gun into action was Jim Westbury.”

            I find it so chilling, hidden under these words are the emotions of a man who understood the consequence of those scattered life’s littered around him. There is no mention of the sight, sound or smell of it all. He would have considered it too dramatic but I know he would have relived every one of his senses that were highly tuned from a very young age. He is quite correct, to have lived through it for him was enough.

            Their next objective was Goiya, they advanced but were driven back so they pushed harder, eventually driving out the Germans. There they found a fiat lorry that had broken down which they got going again, they loaded it up with supplies and set off again, forever the resourceful hunter gatherer.

            As they entered Bari they were met by Italian civilians headed by the Lord Mayor, this would have pleased Albert. They stopped and had some food and took a bath in hot water with plenty of soap and he recalled how good it felt.

            At Bari they were to get ready for a seaborne attack but their heavier units advanced more quickly than expected he wrote “We thanked them in our minds and toasted them in wine. The Comfort Funds Officer used 3 pounds sterling to buy 75 gallons of red wine for the unit.” So they would have thanked them well!

            They stayed for a month in Bari in luxury and comfort a much needed rest and recoup for them. 19^th December 1943 they were back in England. The Tenth Para Campaign in Italy was over and it was back to waiting and training. On their journeys he was fortunate enough to pass by Col Pedders grave and a Comrade of his one Q.M Sgt. Knobby Clarke took a few photographs of the graves there.

            One very telling sentence Albert put “Little did we think of the carnage that we were to be sent into in the following September at Arnhem.

            After all he had been through, for him to use the words ‘carnage’ it must have been a hell on earth and reading a lot of accounts by all who took part, he was as ever, correct.

I give my thanks to all that have helped me with getting Mr Springs facts together. All the websites I visited I have added as I looked them up. They in the most part are run on a voulantry basis and great reads, they have included as many orriginal accounts as possible. I have written with Mr Springs facts, as he requested no facts to be changed.

www.pegasusarchive.org/arnhem I have found out from Mark that Joe Beet was taken prisoner at Arnham and if anyone has any information about him I would be very greatful indead.

Tina Rodwell © All rights reserved

I Gave My Mum Tourettes - Short story 3 pages long

This story is dedicated to Oscar, who is my nephew and has been patiently waiting for a poem or story to call his own. Hope you like it x

            It is, as ever based on true events but with a Tilly twist but I’m not saying which ones.

            While writing this I have read a lot about Tourette Syndrome. Reading about the research going on I have been stunned by how little we know and how far we have come, a paradox that is life. Reading the diagnosis and symptoms I can see that a few of the traits are in us all. I also know how embarrassed I feel when on the school holidays and pushed to the limit how very hard a verbal tic is to suppress and sometime I just don’t manage to control it at all. To live in that state must be stressful and am grateful that any muscular or verbal tics I have soon passes.  

            So who ever reads this I hope it brings a little understanding, empathy and a smile.

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I Gave My Mum Tourettes

My mum says I gave her Tourettes over the summer holiday. I looked it up on wikipedia and it said it was syndrome that was inherited. It is a neuropsychiatric disorder. It has a spectrum of tics with at least one being verbal. Mum defiantly has a verbal tic that’s for sure. She really blew her gasket last week and went for the world record of most swearwords used in the shortest period of time.

            I really did try to think it through this holiday. How could I make my mum’s life a little easier? I wondered what I could do that wouldn’t cause any problems, accidents and will keep me out of bother. Fishing! Now what could possibly go wrong with a few lads fishing? A quiet and pleasurable way to pass the time or so I thought.

            Being responsible is what got me into this mess, that and my laughing mechanism. It started with maggots. We mostly use sweet corn as bait, but we asked mum if this once we could use maggots. I promised with the face my mum finds hard to resist that I would not do anything silly with them and she relented and smiled making me promise to be good. 

            We had a good days fishing and swopping stories about fisherman that put maggots in their mouths and how those maggots would then burrow into their cheeks to come out weeks later as blow flies. It really grossed us out.

            Being responsible though and knowing money was tight and that we would be off fishing again tomorrow, I decided to keep the maggots and not throw them away. I made sure the container had a tight fitting lid and then put them securely in my fishing tackle box. I had cleaned and put everything away, which I must admit I don’t always do, so I was really, really trying to get it right.

            Mum, as she often did when she had time, had cooked our favourite, a roast with extra gravy and Yorkshires. She is the best mum ever! We were going to be up yearly the next morning so I went to bed without being asked and was defiantly looking forward to the morning. A perfect end to a perfect day, mum having no verbal tics at all.

           

*1*

            I was woken in the morning by a most horrendous scream, followed by a string of words that I could not hear but felt sure they were not the kind for young ears. Obviously mums verbal tic was back and worse than ever.

            We have a lot of mice come in at harvest time so it’s not too unusual to hear this early morning wake up call. Mum is extremely house proud, mostly softly spoken and would never use a swearword unless severely provoked. Well there she stood in the middle of our conservatory, the two black labs trying to get in through the window

to protect her and no matter how hard I tried I could not stop my laughing mechanism from firing up. I knew that look of horror but all those words that seem ‘so dude like’ coming out like machine gun fire from my mums mouth was so so wrong, it had me in fits. Mum’s verbal tic was progressively getting worse and beyond her control.

            My brother and sister stood crippled with laughter too at my mum’s contorted face that held disgust, horror and anger, until she shouted about the maggots. Our little sister, who we had told those stories too, now was behaving like mum.

            I tried to go in to the conservatory to help but the stories about maggots growing under skin freaked me out so much I just stood there. My older brother went in to capture the little beasties, while my mum stood in her pure white dressing gown and matching fluffy slippers with little maggots crawling up them. Rude words were bouncing off the walls. She was rooted to the spot and hysterical.

            Mum spent the next hour in the shower trying to wash away the thoughts of maggots. I helped clear and disaffect every thing after my brother had got rid of most of the little creatures but they seem to get everywhere and I felt sure they were hiding

and I could feel them waiting for their opportunity to jump out at me.

            Now this put my mum in a very tricky dilemma. She wanted to ground me for the rest of the holiday but needed time to calm down and this is best achieved if I’m not around. After I had explained that I had kept the maggots to save money she softened a little. We were being picked up by our friend’s dad to go fishing at a different lake. So my mum relented and I promised no more maggots and to be good, what ever good meant.

            I had never been to this lake before and my friend’s dad, who is a keen fisherman, came with us. It was great, we were using the flies and hooks he had given us and had caught a load of fish including the biggest one I had ever caught.

            When we got home we helped as much as we could and I asked mum if I could just tidy up a few things out in the conservatory. I got my tackle box looking neat and tidy and again put everything away hoping this would make amends for the morning’s trauma. Mum and dad came in with their coffees dressed in their costumes for the party and we laughed, as mum retold to dad what had happened with the maggots. She turned to me with her bright face that I like the best and I knew I had been forgiven although it will never be forgotten.

            That was when mum felt a bee sting her and went to get up the cushion went with her and I could see the line dangling down like a semi invisible tail. I knew I was in trouble. Fishing hooks are made to go in and not come out unless expertly removed. This was all bad but the worst thing of all was that my dad was dressed in drag. They were off to a tarts themed party for my mum’s best friend fortieth. As he bent down to try to unhook my mum, it looked so wrong on so many levels that we were all in convulsive fits of laughter.

*2*

           

            Mum who was dressed as flirty floozy with fish net stockings and thigh high kinky leather boots now looked desperately at my dad who had tried everything but only made the situation worse. There was nothing else for it he had to take her to accident and emergency at the local hospital. Dad wanted to change but mum was having none of it. She got the verbal tic and said that if she had to go dressed looking life a tart with a fish hook stuck to her arse, he had to go in drag. Her language was a lot more extreme.

            Getting into our car was difficult and very funny. She couldn’t sit down and every movement she made, the deeper the hook went in. She had to bend over the back seat and hold onto the head rest, not easy to do dressed in tight skirt and high boots.

            I had tried to help and felt sure I could have got the hook out given the chance but I was not allowed anywhere close. So off to A&E they went, Mum bent over the seat shouting with full blown Tourettes saying I would not survive to my next birthday! I did manage to get a few pictures on my phone discreetly. Even if I got busted it would be worth it!

            They were stopped by the police who thought they had seen it all. They took pity on my mum though and gave my dad a lot of stick about his dress sense, blond wig and shade of lipstick. They even managed to make my mum smile getting them to hospital quickly. Once the doctors had calmed down enough, they expertly removed the hook closing the wound left, with a few stitches.  

            I felt sorry for my mum because every time we tried to give her sympathy we would all fall about laughing. Facebook and the phone were full of people who could not believe what had happened and who appreciating the pictures. My mum looked good as a tart and as ever is a really good sport, given time.

            I consoled my mum that at least she wasn’t born with Tourettes and one day the cause of it all will leave home and she will be free from that involuntary verbal tic.

*3*

Tina Rodwell © All rights reserved

           

I Will Wake up Laughing

They had given me another shot of morphine but the pain still exploded like those pretty fireworks that expand out like an opening hydrangea. I wished that the pain would move to a place giving the clueless doctors a hint to what was causing it. But having just been told by the very observant surgical team; who all week had been sticking things in me, up and down me, that I was a woman and could have and I quote ‘slightly differing bits and bobs that could cause gynaecological problems.’ Stunned by this admission, I let hope and faith silently slip away into the never, never.

            I hate morphine. The first time they gave it to me, it made me sick. So now they give it to me then stab me with the anti-sickness drug. I asked them very politely to give me some of the stuff that drug users have, to at least give me some fun while I  lay incapacitated but they just laughed.

            I now have a racing heart and feel sure it will jump out of my chest like one of those wind up toys you can get around valentines. My eyes are shut and colours jump around my head as a warm and soft blanket slowly pulls itself up my toes and I panic. Is this what its like to die? I could see the light that’s for sure.

            I try to open my eyes and reach for the buzzer to call for help but the warm, soft and very heavy blanket make it impossible to shake it off, no movement can I make nor sound. I felt a tear push from my eye, its forever expanding form lay between my eye and my nose as the blanket pulled itself over my head and I thought of my mum who died last year, her death was nothing like this though. My poor dad was going to be left alone. Cocooned in this warm deep feeling the deepness devoured me.

           

__________________________________

Gods voice was nothing how I imagined it. It was far away and I strained my ears to hear what was said. I tried to think of all the things I had done wrong and how I could account for my actions.

‘Miss Longbottom.’ As the warmth of the blanket fell away the pain came back. This could not be heaven it must be hell! You wouldn’t feel pain if you were in heaven, I felt sure of that.

‘Miss Longbottom, could you open your eyes for me. It’s Mr. Pratt and I need to discus what we found on your scan.’

‘Not another Pratt!’ I heard several voices ripple with amusement. I Smelt spice to my left but the voice was on my right. ‘I just got rid of one Pratt, I told him to sling his hook.’ I wanted to explain but I had no energy left.

‘Hear what I have to say and then you can tell me to sling my hook too, if you like.’ His gentle humour made a faint smile come to my face and he seized his opportunity. ‘It will be worth while I promise.’ I opened one eye and his face circled like a vortex making me queasy. I couldn’t be sick not in-front of all these people, anyhow I had nothing to eat now for days or was it weeks? So nothing would come up, not really any cancelation in that though.

‘It weren’t worth it!’ I pathetically and churlishly responded.  

‘I know I’m not the most attractive person but give it another go’ everyone appreciated that one. My smile had broken across my face and I knew I was going to like him and somehow trust him.

            I also knew it was going to bad news. I knew every subtle tone doctors use to convay the difference between hopeful and terminal. I had experienced them all through my mother’s battle with cancer.

‘No! Just tell me while I have my eyes closed. I don’t want to be sick over someone who makes me smile.’ I felt a hand gently squeeze mine and the smell of spice soothed the needling sensation of anxiety.

‘I would prefer it if you have your eyes open.’ This meant treatment and he needed to know that I understood what he had to say.

‘Bugger, it’s going to hurt, I have an aversion to pain.’ Another ripple politely went in the semi circle around my bed. I felt the cooling hand soothing. The exploding knot expanded. ‘Could you just give me a mo so I can stop the world from spinning?’ I could sense him looking at Mr Spicy hand and hesitating.

‘I have a few more people to see and will get back to you. Not a problem.’

‘Thanks’ He lingered and then they all shifted body weight to follow Mr. Pratt in his wake. The hand still was over mine and I made an effort to gain control of my body and open my eyes, grateful I didn’t have an audience at my pathetic state.

‘Would you mind me calling you by your first name?’

‘No I don’t mind’ I laughed ‘anything is better than Miss Longbottom.’

‘My name is Professor Anthony James and’ I cut in

‘Wow a Professor I must be in a bad way, just let me get my eyes open.’ A sickening thud held my heart captive as my eyes began to work I looked up at the Professor. He was striking, tall and bald, which suited him. His dress sense was sharp distinctive and unique. I was stunned. He smiled a little uncomfortable with my reaction.

‘Can I call you Anthony?’ I asked ‘professor freaks me out?’ His face relaxed and gentle humour touched his eyes.

‘You can call me what you like as long as it’s not Longbottom. My Christian name is Freya.’ I told him.

‘Freya is a nice name.’

‘Not at school with Longbottom. I was called ‘frayed your long bottom? Sometimes they would put knickers into the equation for extra kicks. He raised his eyebrows in the most captivating way. This mellow feeling I had now with the drugs was a good place to be, if only it would last and put the exploding fireworks out.

‘I was the one they called when they took your ultra sound scan’ I cringed; I would have preferred never to have met anyone again who had been there.

‘Sorry’ I said

‘You have nothing to reproach yourself over.’ Normally, when a doctor or Professor said that, it was said as a matter of course, a pleasantry but he meant it.

‘You’ve had a pretty rough deal over the last month or so.’ He nodded to my notes that now reached a foot high of a man with size thirteen feet. I blushed, having no idea what was written in those notes.

‘Good reading?’ I asked. He looked at me with such sorrow; I knew he had fully read my history. I felt so angry. All this pain was so unnecessary, avoidable even. He squeezed my hand.

‘Mr. Pratt will be back soon. He has his young team with him. Would you like me to ask them to stay behind while he has a word with you?’

‘No. I’ll be ok’

‘Right then, I’ll just go and tell him you’re ready.’ He squeezed my hand with his calm cool one and off he strode. His purple pinstriped suit accentuated his body in all the right places. The same shade of purple was used on his shoes. He could have looked as though he was a conceited peacock but as my mum would have said he looked ‘dashing’ he was considerate and kind. I smiled at her voice inside my head ‘We need more people like him. And he sure is sweet eye candy’.

His best quality though was that he understood people and wanted to change things and would go to extraordinary lengths to make things right. He had shown me that in the little room where I found out that I mirrored my mum’s diagnosis in everyway detail.

            I was a lot younger than her and had no children and likely never to have any, I may be lucky and have a life though, unlike my poor mum. It was time to show my true colours, hold onto my beliefs and put my money where my mouth was.

            Professor James was talking to Mr. Pratt and they both looked over to me from time to time. Their entourage following closely holding onto every word they spoke learning, understanding and willing. I closed my eyes to shut out the emotional and physical pain, to become who I am. I had one chance to make a difference to these impressionable people to tell a truth that rarely gets aired, to give them raw unyielding and honest reality. I knew the drill better than most.

            Professor James on my left who’s spicy tones gave me strength and vitality with Mr. Pratt on my right with his open face.

            ‘Miss Fraya Longbottom.’ There was a boyish look concealed in formality between them not lost on me or the rest of the team. My eyebrows rose at a schoolmistress angle, they both apologist immediately. ‘Fraya is able to keep her eyes open now.’ The Professor began.

‘May I call you Fraya?’

‘If you call me anything else I’ll be very angry and you won’t like it!’ We all laughed softly. The tone of light and dark was set for the relaying information. None of us, even with our collective experiences found this conversation easy.

‘We found, what we hope is a dermoid cyst. This’

‘This does not mean it is cancerous as most dermoid or cysts are benign. My mother died of one last year.’ I tried so hard to let him carry on with his speech but I just couldn’t handle it. ‘There is only about a 2% risk I know, but as I had an ectopic pregnancy last year and this year I have a possible dermoid. Luck is not on my side.

            I have spent the last months trying to convince my GP I needed a scan. He said I had psychosomatic pain. Understandable considering that my mum had just died riddled with cancer because she got her diagnosis too late. My boyfriend walked over me to get to work because he thought I was a drama queen and I had to pass out at the surgery to get anyone to take me seriously.           

            I was sent to a surgical ward because the GP had to send me in with something so questioned appendicitis. I spent a week with the surgical team examining every orifice, looking for the cause of my demise only for them to miss the one that I kept telling them about.

            Don’t you people talk to each other? Do you not see patients as humans instead as a list of symptoms? Are we just fragmented bit and pieces. To see the full picture you have to have all the pieces joined together, communicate what you know. They then in their infinite wisdom decided that patience came in two forms male and female and sent me down to the gynaecological ward to have my extra bits looked into.

            They observed me, waiting for the pain to go away, instead it increased. If they had just read through my notes but they couldn’t find them or couldn’t read them.

            Sorry but this patient has become in-patient and in too much pain to go over old insignificant ground. The big picture is that I am a woman I have a possible dermoid cyst on her right ovary and wants to know where we go from here.’

            Mr. Pratt nodded at me. ‘We will perform the operation to-day to remove it. I’m trying to fit you in for this afternoon. I have asked Professor James to perform the operation and I will be assisting. This is his field of expertise and we are lucky to have him. Professor James would you like to take over.’

            ‘Thank you. We will send a sample off for analysis, which is standard procedure and takes a couple of weeks to get the results back. We will look thoroughly I promise, for anything we feel needs further investigation. You are in an incredible amount of pain because I believe that the cyst is wrapped around your fallopian tube and engulfs your ovary. In these cases we may find that it has bounced on and off other organs in your body, hence the unusual places that the pain has affected you.’

‘We are all unusual, as individuals we are unique, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes I would’ He looked down at me and I felt a rising crush developing. Everyone gets a crush on their Doctor; my mum said it was the thing that kept her going, all the lovely doctors and surgeons. I thought Professors were infinitely better and my crush was deepening into love. You had to love the man that was about to save your life.

‘You know and understand that I may not be able to save any part of your only ovary?’

‘Yep, I sort of figured that.’

‘If I can, you may have a better chance than you think of being fertile. It depends on you as a unique individual and what I find’. He squeezed my hand. I love him, I really, really do.

‘I need to go and sort a few things out, get the relevant forms then I will be back and go into more detail about the operation and its consequences. Your father is coming in and has asked if he stay with you. Is that Ok?’ Tears well up in my eyes, my poor, poor dad. I nod, he squeezes, my heart swells.

            They leave and the nurse comes over. She is my around my age yearly to mid thirties, confident, fun and caring and told me how she listened into the conversation.

‘You were very good. Mr Pratt will do what he can and Professor James is excellent and is working on some new procedures with conditions like this, you’re in safe hands now’.

‘Safe and caring,’ I smile, ‘it makes the difference just to be believed and listened to. Do doctors never get a full picture of what happened to their patient? Can’t see how they can make proper diagnosis unless they know the full story.’

            I’m given all the ammunition they have against the pain. My heart pounds as though it is about to leap out and take flight and I force myself into a sleep.

                _____________________________

            In my dream, I’m back home as a child. The smell of fresh laundry blowing in the wind caresses my face and I climb into the sheet hanging on the line, hoping that it would feel like a cloud and for a while I swing in the breeze. I so wanted to float on a cloud. Softness brushes my cheek and I feel my mother holding me, her smell engulfing me. I feel elated and the warmth of her smile gave a golden light as she called me ‘Pumpkin’. I opened my eyes and my dad’s tear stained face looked down. A forced smile never reached his sorrowful eyes as he kissed me lightly on the cheek.

            I smelt spice, delicate and tantalising. I looked around for him and there he stood. He introduced the anaesthetist, we went through the forms. I was prepared for theatre and rolled down the now familiar corridor.

            I looked at their faces ranging in age and gender. All gowned up, explaining what was going to happen next. I was having a spinal tap so that I wouldn’t have to put up with too much morphine. Hanging over the bed, stretching my back to make it easier for the needle to hit the spot, I took a good look at them.

‘You lot look worse than I do.’ They looked exhausted. ‘Leave me until Monday.’ They laughed. Robert who had expertly and without trouble administered the epidural asked me to swing my legs back onto the bed. I looked at him as though he was daft.

‘You have just given me a cocktail of god knows what to stop all sensation in my lower body and are now telling me to swing my legs, that I no longer feel. How am I to do that then?’ The good looking blond whose clear blue eyes shone with humour took pity on me. She gently helped me back on the bed. Arranged the sheets so my dignity was kept intact and a mask was placed over my face. I will wake up laughing was my last thought as the blanket of sleep engulfed me.

The End

Tina Rodwell © Reserves all rights.

The Affair

I think I should put a warning on this one. It is a first draft but so full of fun my fairy could not wait to put this one out, naughty naughty fairy! It is definitely a Chick Lit that will bring a smile to your face with its little twist at the end.

            Let me know if you enjoyed it with the comment box at the end.

____________________X______________________

After being married for over twenty years, I can’t remember what I was thinking when I walked down the isle. I knew that life was going to be full of routine. But I did think I would see my husband from time to time. Silly me! Oh young love so innocent, it makes me laugh. 

            I have turned into that which I despise the most, a lame and dysfunctional person, thing. Mothers often are and need to be I guess. Life’s needs are, at the moment, needier than my own personal womanhood. That was until I went to a wedding a month ago. I met a man…… a gorgeous, attractive and very seductive man. He reminded me that I was all woman!! ‘Mmmmmm... ohhhh yaaaaaaa’           

            I am a big dreamer but I live in reality, mores the pity. I knew he was being kind. I’m no great looker and my body has taken a bit of a tumble after the kids and general neglect. Not that I had much to start with, buxom is what my husband calls me. I never asked whether that was good, perhaps I should. Anyhow, there I was standing admiring the beautiful setting, drinking in the atmosphere and the Champagne. When this vision walked over to me, a bubbled haze engulfed us and no other life existed before or will ever exist again, it seemed.

            That night for the first time ever, love, time, and space meant something to me other than, this is what happens in life. I understood what they meant in romantic novels when they say electrifying. Each touch or brush with this man was painfully erotic. My senses awakened once more, after their long and dormant coma they vibrated with tingly sensations that I just wanted to close my eyes to enjoy. His laugh rendered me incapable of thought or movement and I looked in ore over his ability to be himself. Just at this point of loosing myself to this dream of a man, I hear the call of ‘He’s just been sick mum!’ Realism came crashing down, my bubble was burst and off I ran to my child who had, apparently, for a dare put his head under the chocolate fountain, for 3 minuets!! 

            Well I promised my self that I would have my night back, I needed that before I became a totally wizened old hag, emotionally and physically. I just had to track that man down. My friends kept asking if anything was wrong, I just couldn’t tell them the truth. How could I explain what was plainly ridiculous? A person like me wanting, needing an affair, now that was silly! Beyond belief!

            After many attempts I did track him down and he agreed to meet me at a rather wonderful restaurant. I had left strict orders that champagne was on ice for when we arrived, I had already ordered our meal. Presumptions of me I know but I didn’t want to waste one second on the plenary of looking through the menu or wine, discussing this or that, I just wanted him, all of him! I had pre booked a room at the hotel. Childcare arranged and I had no mobile phone or contact details and I was a jabbering wreck. He was half an hour late and I was sat in a rather sumptuous lounger the staff were on stand by as though the most important guest was about to arrive. 

            I was on my third glass of bubbly and crippled with anxiety over the cost and what will happen when my husband finds out. As soon as I saw his silhouette coming through the doorway, all other existent lives were shut out. That most beautiful sphere surrounded me again and as he entered it, my husband became my lover and our marrage came of age.

            As he held my face and kissed me as he had in-front of all those people at our wedding, I remembered what I had been thinking when I walked up the isle twenty one years ago to-day. I always needed to be a woman to him and as he sat down I could see the passion that had been suppressed. The true thrill of an affair was as my kids would say OMG, like truly awesome. It felt so good to be young free and single again!

The End

What are you waiting for go book the hotel all you married ladies? I love my fairy :-)



How do I Write?

So how do I write and where do my ideas come from? My friends often ask me and I have to admit I like it too when writers tell you their little ways. I tend to shy away from this question, preferring not to think about it too much and possibly acutely embarrassed by the reality of how I set about things.  When I had read ‘Stephen King’s ‘On Writing’ He explained how you need to grow a set of male appendages (which is rather difficult I must say and very painful!) I decided to stop hiding, bare all and man up to the consequences…… so here goes!

 I write while I do practically everything else. I have pieces of paper scattered about the house with started thoughts and sentences. Hoping that maybe at some point through the day I will get time to write them up, getting more and more frustrated as the day goes on. Every time I sit down at my laptop a more important issue needs to be addressed, this can be anything from needing to fetch a broken disc cutter, the accounts or administering love, care and attention to a grazed knee.

            Yesterday was a bad day for writing but a good day for thoughts, so this morning I am determined to write about my three sentences written yesterday and one written earlier in the year they were: -

            Like a pack of cards the washing fell.

            My life is like running a constant marathon.

            I catch my thoughts in a butterfly net, it’s just a pity my net had a whole in it.

            As a child I had once tried to climb into a sheet on the washing line, thinking I could get an idea of how it must feel to sit on a cloud (when I wrote that sentence down I knew there was a story there but as yet the idea is still only a seed). 

Now for the fun part, trying to weave a story around those thoughts and including the sentences.  

It was six in the morning and the house was quiet, still and anticipation hit the air. The laptop choked into action and started the weekly scan process that would take more of those precious moments of silence.

            You see I had caught the most beautiful purple butterfly in my net and wanted to save its vision deep within my files to explore its true uniqueness. As it crept to the gaping tear in my net to freedom, my anticipation quickly turned to frustration. The mask like pattern on its wings held my fascination. I tried to hold on to this precious fragile creature but too afraid of crumpling those paper thin wings, released my grasp a little, it hung to the outer edge a while, flapping it wings, showing me its true beauty. Hoping to hold on to its vision my eyes held every movement, colour, reason and thought. It persistently sought its freedom of free flight, through and out of the open window it glided. This masked veil of beauty caught the breeze and flew out of vision and although not forgotten, would never be remembered as it was.

            Saddened at the loss I took my laptop with me as I answered a child’s cry of ‘Mummy where are you?’ which meant the starting pistol on my days marathon had started. As he climbed into my bed snuggling up for a morning story I put my laptop on the ironing board.

            With a trail of impatience my daughter came in and attempted to find her favourite top amongst the neatly stacked ironing pile, hidden in the corner of my bedroom. As she took the red t-shirt and before I would run and catch it, it all came crashing down like pack of cards. ‘Oh my days’ she exclaimed turning to smile at me as bright as the morning sun. The acceptance washed over me albeit tinged with a little resentment, as we picked the washing up and as neatly as possible stacked them up again.

            I go back to my laptop and tick the relevant options on my little dog icon that protects my computer from harm and eats the spam. I jump on the bed and we read a story my little son and me. I then explain I have some work to do so he must run along and play for a while.

            Take a deep breath of calming influence and start to type catching the essence of what I had seen earlier. Like little baby chicks they call their hunger and I, like the house martin outside my window fly to their needs. The cupboards are bare so to the shops I run at a steady constant pace I shop and bring home my booty as they swoon and swoop eating with delight and soon the bags are empty, their stomachs full and contentment spreads over them as a blanket on a sleeping baby.

            To the ironing board I rush to and tap the fading memory. I look up I catch a glimpse of that dancing butterfly with joyous relish I join in its frolics in the beams of sun until the phone calls for my attention.

THE END

That was as far as I got. Now I didn’t get around to the climbing into the sheet on the washing line as a child and the piece is incomplete, as it’s the first draft and there may be typos and allsorts that need ironing out but that was the point I gues?

Please leave a comment. It doesn’t have to be very long, as a gut reaction is always best, there is a click tally at the bottom and no one will know you clicked it. Not for me would suffice or it made me smile in the comment box. You may have to sign in for that, as they are trying to cut down on spam that the bloggers get. Which ever you decide to do, Thank you.

Are the English Verbal Androids??

Tilly is floating in her own little world again try to make sense of it all

We don’t speak in that female mescaline way of other tongs ‘you’ is the person who is being addressed ‘you’ is a bit of an android word don’t you think? Is this why our language has taken bits from here, there and everywhere? As a consequence we have built a complex language for sure but one in which forgets the sexuality of the people who it is referring to. Is that why we Brits have a stiff upper lip? We are just pondering on whether we are talking about a man or a woman that our lips stay in a stiffened state.

            But our tapestry of speech goes way back and is very eclectic. With each generation adding their own usage, words change their meaning as we go. Some academics do not like this one little bit, believing language should be set in stone and hung around the neck of each of us, to understand the universe as they see it, with clarity and meaning. I like change, although I admit there are some changes to our language I do not approve of, mostly the words that I do not understand or ones that are unnecessarily abusive to my ears and thoughts but I keep it to myself.

            It seems to me each time we were invaded, as they pilfered and plundered we rummaged through their language and used it against them. They say that Chinese and Mandarin will be the next language invasion. Can’t wait to see what effect that has on our lingo and for the esteemed language boffins to blow their collective gaskets. Come to think about it, if they were ever to read my blog, they will surely have a coronary explosion.

            Don’t get me wrong we need people to tell us how it all began, why we use the words we do and indeed how to use them properly. But the joy for me as a dyslexic writer is the sound of them, not their patterns on the paper. Those patterns and their changing rules, on a good day, make a hazy sense, on a bad day totally confuddle me.

            Now let’s take the word confuddled (while skipping over the usage of ‘let’s’ instead of ‘let us’), It is a blend of confused; Tilly’s meaning- unable to think or reason in any logical or sensible way and befuddled; Tilly’s- meaning; to make someone in a state of perplexed and muddled mind. Neither word would suffice or convey how I feel on a bad day with dyslexia. I can spend hours looking and not seeing a word, sounding out each letter but as my eyes track them I will miss a few and not be able to make sense of the word written. I also get this when people speak but have learnt a trick of lip-reading so that between the ear and the visual I can, pretty much, guess what is being said. You see the words befuddle me with confusion so I need to be able to use confuddled!!!! Nothing what so ever to do with the fact I’ve always liked its soft sound of ticklish fun that it produces in my mind and ear.

            So us English may be verbal androids but with our stiff upper lip, we do like to have a bit of verbal fun, albeit in an android sort of way!

Albeit, is a conjunction word a fusion of thoughts and a connective word like a door between two rooms of the same house. Apparently, it is going out of fashion which is sad as I like its sound and it is better than furthermore which is harsh and boring!! Furthermore is an adverb that modifies verbs, which leads onto another thought. So it does connect but not in the same way so can’t be called a conjunction word? I’ve blown a gasket and am having too much fun? So I will quietly go for a lie down.

From your English android Tilly x