MAGIC WAND

Here's a little story I wrote for a competition in the autumn. Needless to say it didn't win. So my loss is your gain as it were. Excuse the stories at the moment, real life just seems rather tedious and devoid of that facetious veneer that makes for interesting reading. Hope you like the story more.Happy New Year.

If you looked at Mary Holloway you would never think she was a witch. She seemed like a perfectly normal old lady. Her hair was grey, her face wrinkled - but she had kind blue eyes that twinkled and she always wore a pink cardigan and walked slowly with a long black walking stick with a carved handle in the shape of an otter. Ever since she had come to live in Middleton she had looked like this. She had always been helpful at the Harvest Festival and in baking cakes for the stall at the Women's Institute Market on Fridays. Everyone liked her.

She lived by herself in a little terraced house in the centre of town. True, no-one knew where she had come from, or who her family were; but she had lived so long in Middleton that nobody bothered to ask such questions any longer. True, also, that she had a black cat, but there must have been a hundred black cats in Middleton. She called it Fred, which wasn’t really the sort of name you might give to a witch’s cat, either. So, all in all, no-one suspected that she was a witch. But she was......

As the years went by Mary, sadly, grew frailer and frailer. She started to forget things. She could no longer remember who people were. She forgot their names. She would go shopping and forget what she had come out for. She would even forget whether she had had breakfast that morning.
Sometimes her friendly neighbour, Mrs Baker, would find her eating a second or even a third breakfast, for once Mary had eaten and then washed up and cleared away the things she couldn’t remember whether she had eaten or not.

Then one day Mary went shopping and Mrs Baker noticed, when she called around later that day, that she hadn’t returned home. She’d gone out in the morning and by tea-time there still wasn’t any sign of her. Mrs Baker began to be worried. “I’m going to call the police,” she said.

The police station agreed to send out a panda car to look for Mary Holloway. They looked in the shopping centre and they looked at the railway station and they looked on the buses and they asked lots of people. But they couldn’t find her and no-one remembered seeing her. Still they didn’t give up but went on looking.

At last they found her on a bench in the park, huddled in her pink cardigan. Mary was sitting with her head in her hands and she was crying. She’d been crying for quite some time. She had forgotten where she lived!

Well, after that, Mrs Baker had a quiet word with a Nice Woman that she knew who worked for the Council; the doctor was involved as well and he consulted a psychiatrist who came and asked Mary all sorts of difficult questions. At the end they all decided that it would be best if Mary left her little terraced house and moved somewhere called a ‘Home,’ where there would be friendly people to look after her and make sure that whenever she forgot something there would be someone close by to help.

Mary wasn’t quite sure whether she liked the sound of leaving her house.

There was only one problem: she wouldn’t be able to take Fred with her. Cats weren’t allowed in Homes, they said. And that’s when the trouble started.

“We’ll take Fred and find a lovely new home for him,” said the Nice Woman from the Council. “A new family will take care of him, feed him and look after him.”

But Mary would have none of it. She felt frightened at the thought of losing Fred (who had always looked after her even though he was only a cat), and because she was frightened and angry she started to wave her walking stick about her head. She also said some very bad things to the Nice Woman from the Council and used words which I’m afraid I can’t repeat in this story, words that nobody had ever heard her use before. The Nice Woman was shocked and felt very sad at this because she was really only trying to do her best for Mary and, of course, for Fred too. Mary might forget to feed him.

Then still waving her walking stick with the carved otter handle Mary began to shout strange things that the Nice Woman couldn’t understand and called to Fred who came up very close to Mary and wrapped himself around her frail old legs and then, all of a sudden, there was a big flash and a great puff of dirty smoke filled the room.

When it cleared, which took quite a few minutes, Mary saw that the Nice Woman from the Council had completely disappeared.

All she could see was the briefcase which the Nice Woman had carried (full of lots of papers and reports from the doctors) and the Nice Woman’s coat hanging over the back of her chair.

But where was the Nice Woman? Mary peered at the chair through her spectacles. Fred had also taken a sudden interest, too. For, on the chair, where the Nice Woman had been sitting a moment ago, Fred could now see a little dormouse.

“Oh dear!” said Mary.

Fred was about to spring on to the chair and if Mary hadn’t acted swiftly I think Fred would have caught the dormouse in his claws and eaten her all up and however then would Mary explain the situation to the doctor and the psychiatrist?

And not only the doctors! She imagined the whole Council, the Mayor and the Aldermen and all the Councillors in their robes and chains of office knocking on her door and demanding their Nice Woman back again. What was she to do?

The dormouse seemed quite tame, though it was chattering furiously and stamping its tiny feet as though it were quite vexed. Mary picked it up and put it in an empty shoebox for protection. Then she went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea and, in-between sips, she pondered her dilemma.

You see among the many things that Mary had forgotten was that she was a witch. True, she had only been a white witch: she had only done good; she’d been a kind of fairy godmother if you like. In her younger days she had woven all sorts of spells to help people in difficulties and especially to help children. She had never in her whole life done anything bad and certainly she had never turned anyone into a dormouse before.

That was the blackest of black magic and she knew that black magic was very, very wrong.

But sometimes when people get old not only do they forget things but they become changed and especially they become cross in a way in which they never would have dreamed of doing before. They forget the person they are; they forget their good manners, they forget even to be polite and kind. Not all the time, but just some of the time. When they are tired, for instance, or stressed or angry.

And this is what had happened to Mary. She had quite forgotten that she was not supposed to be a witch anymore, even a good witch. She had quite forgotten that she had handed in her pointed hat and her broomstick when she first came to Middleton thirty years ago. Since then she hadn’t cast a single spell.

But now, with all this upset and the doctors and the Nice Woman telling her she would have to leave her lovely home and that she wouldn’t see Mrs Baker anymore either and, above all, that Fred would have to go to some strange family, all of this had made her so angry, so angry, that she had forgotten she was not supposed to be a witch anymore. In her agitation she had whirled her walking stick about, quite overlooking how easy it is for sticks to become magic wands.

So suddenly there was no Nice Woman from the Council, but only a puff of smoke and a dormouse.

“Oh dear!” she thought. “That’s what comes of forgetting. Oh dearie me! Whatever can I do?”

Now spells can be reversed, but Mary had quite forgotten how to reverse spells. Nor did she have a single book on witchcraft to consult. And of course reversing spells is not something you can look up on the internet, even if you have a computer, which Mary sadly didn’t.

She began to cry into her cup of tea.

Fred tried to comfort her. He miaowed and he purred and he brushed his soft fur against her legs. And then she remembered that she hadn’t fed him!

That made her think of something else. Something was now coming back to her. What was it? Something about feeding the witch’s cat. Two lumps can transform a spell provided it is done quickly - yes, she remembered, it was something like that that.

Yes, but two lumps of what? Not sugar, surely? Cats didn’t like sugar. Two lumps - what did the memory mean by two lumps? Could it be two lumps of anything? Maybe.

She found the tin of cat food and carefully spooned out two distinct lumps of meat into Fred’s dish. She put the dish down and waited expectantly.

Fred circled the dish (as if the lumps of cat food were actually two dormice!) and he miaowed strangely and hissed. And then he pounced upon the food and began to gobble it all up!

And at that very moment, there came a cry from the sitting room; it was the voice of the Nice Woman from the Council.

“I must have fainted,” she said. “I came over all funny. I’m so, so sorry. Please, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you have such a thing as a cup of tea?”

Mary went back into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Fred had disappeared. “I wonder where he went,” she thought.

But just then came a knock at the door and it was Mrs Baker from next door. She was holding Fred in her arms and she’d come to give Mary some good news. So Mary made her a cup of tea as well.

When they were all sat down again Mrs Baker addressed herself to the Nice Woman from the Council. She said she had heard that they were proposing to put Mary into a Home for the elderly and how she would have to be parted from Fred.

Well, she and her husband, Mr Baker, had decided that it would be a better idea altogether if Mary moved next door to live with them and then Fred could come too and they could look after both of them and make sure that Mary didn’t forget anything anymore. And they’d make especially sure, she said, that Mary didn’t cook herself two breakfasts because she had forgotten that she’d already eaten the first one.

The Nice Woman from the Council listened carefully. And then she said that would be a Very Good Idea. Mary thought so too and thanked Mrs Baker and so everyone was happy.

And as for the spell and turning the Nice Woman into a dormouse, well, that will just have to be our secret, won’t it? Because Mary Holloway has quite forgotten that it ever occurred.

And no-one else ever knew, did they?

Picture which shows sections of a brain with Alzheimers and a healthy brain is courtesy of Wikipedia. If you like the story you might send a bob or two to the Alzheimers Society who one day might know the answer to what rots our brains like this.

HOW THE TUDORS CAME TO WALES

Someone posted some cruel pictures the other day of icicles hanging by a Northumbrian wall, just waiting to fall. Like vertical and down-pointing javelins. But they also seemed to look like the bars to a prison. Which triggered a sketch for a story.



"She was locked away for 1000 years by the ice queen, imprisoned in a cage made of icicles. There she waited for a handsome prince to breathe fire over the ice, to free her and melt her heart"

But if a prince wasn't up to it she'd be happy to settle for a dragon, which is what she did. A passing dragon, on a trade mission from Wales, spotted her entwined in her icicles and blew her a fiery kiss. The icicles melted and the princess was free at last.

But the ice queen was enraged at being tricked by the dragon. She summoned the prince (whose name was George) and told him to slay the dragon and she would make him patron saint of all England and give him a flag as well.

George, was flattered by this and accordingly gave battle; the dragon was sad at the prospect for he didn't like fighting that much; so was the princess, because she was becoming quite fond of the dragon and looking forward to living in Carmarthen where the dragon had a home. He told the princess that it had two doors and that if she came home and married him she would be a two door princess too and her sons would be two door princes and famous and would build lots of buildings with dragons on them to remind people how important dragons were.

But George had a long, sharp and pointy lance. And a horse. He pierced the dragon with his lance so his fiery breath came out of his side and not his mouth. The wound was very painful and so the dragon had to give up and crawl sadly away. George whisked the princess away and promised to marry her the next day. "This is worse than being in the ice castle" thought the princess and told George he really should at least take a shower.

That night it was very cold and snow tumbled out of the sky. The princess shivered. She was even colder than she'd been in the ice castle. Especially as her heart was frozen. And her bed had a lump in it.

The next day dawned. Sadly, she looked out of the window. Suddenly her heart leapt! For there in the sky she could see three dragons breathing fire, their wings beating and causing a great wind. The princess could feel the thaw when the dragons' fire swept over them and then everything froze once more. George rushed out of the Palace (it had lots of doors) and jumped on his horse. He grabbed his lance but in his hurry he had forgotten his helmet. In the Palace the princess could see that a long icicle had grown beneath her window. Now she hacked at it with a poker. She heard it crack and the icicle fell like an arrow. It fell and fell and went straight into the top of George's head. "I think he's dead!" said someone.

Hurrah! shouted the dragons. Hurrah! went the princess. One of the dragons came close to her window. She climbed on its back and they flew away over the border to Wales ('where there are no icicles,' said the dragon, 'and all the houses have two doors'.

And so they went in through one of them and lived happily ever after."

DRAGONS IN THE DARK

There’s a lot of hanging about in plays. Waiting to come on, as it were. You wait to exit the real world and enter the world of make-believe. From 74 to 47 and back again. Actually I’m not 74, as anyone paying attention would know, but nor am I 47 either. I just look like that.

So the question arises what do you do? While you are waiting. In the dark. You sit there in the wings or in the bar. You can’t talk for fear of disturbing the actors on stage. And reading is difficult (even if the lights weren't out!) because you are so full of adrenalin that it is coming out of your ears. Someone might run you through with a sword and you wouldn’t notice. I guess it must be like that in a battle. There you are fighting away and suddenly you notice that there seems to be a lot of blood around and then you fancy a sit down and before you know it you are dead.

I suppose it’s the same if you're eaten by wild animals. I doubt if you’d actually feel very much. I used to have a dream as a child in which I was lost in the jungle and a tiger appeared just as I had sat down to eat my sandwiches. Now, I knew that I could run, was a very good runner in fact, but the problem was I had inconveniently forgotten how. Which leg goes first? What? You take both legs off the ground at the same time? Without falling over?

This dream used to terrify me. The only comforting thing was that the tiger seemed to have forgetten how to run too. And so it just hung there in mid spring, as it were, terrifying the living daylights out of paralysed me until I woke up. Which I always did, covered in sweat.

One day I said to myself that, as an experiment, I wouldn’t try to run but would let the tiger catch me to see what it felt like. But the tiger then just refused to play and I had another dream instead. Perhaps I was older because this one involved stealing cars.

One moment I would be admiring a car and the next I would be driving it down the road. Or rather, since I was too young to drive, being in the uncomfortable position of sitting in the driving seat of a moving car of uncertain provenance with legs too short to reach the pedals and about to crash and of course the certainty of being arrested by policemen all with loud shoutey voices and truncheons. But of course I woke up. First.

You think of these things, waiting to go on. In the darkness. Reaching back into the memory I remembered last week I had blogged about a donkey called Pegasus, the original winged horse. Now winged horses are one of only two families of land animals with six limbs - if you don’t count insects, or spiders, or any arthropod come to that. Winged horses are beautiful but apart from Disney films there’s not much evidence that they existed at all. I have a suspicion that someone with imagination may have been telling fibs. It’s the feathers and hair on the same beast that give the game away.

So if there aren’t any winged horses that just leaves dragons, for which evidence is plentiful. In fact it seems as though the six limbed dragon (four legs, two wings) only died out in recent times. Still, owing to the beast's ability to bury itself in the ground and hibernate for excessively long periods you never know, one may yet come to light yet.

Most of what we know about dragons comes from the discovery of the remains of a whole family of dragons in a collapsed limestone cave at Llancofi in Carmarthenshire in 1882. Perfectly preserved and mummified. Examination of the stomach contents showed the beasts to be entirely vegetarian, contrary to popular suspicion that they would go a long way for a succulent morsel of young damsel. No, entirely vegetarian was your dragon but their digestive system was primitive and they produced a lot of methane (or so the researchers concluded) which the animal then belched out of its mouth.

So it seems likely that this is the origin of the fire-breathing legend, particularly as the dragons’ teeth were not made of calcium orthophosphate like those of other animals but of the iron compound, haematite. Such teeth were rather primitive but fast growing. They were also quite soft so dragons tended to get stones and grit stuck between their teeth. This was a noted feature of all the adult dragons found in the Llancofi cave.

Now if a dragon bit on a stone, the haematite would spark. If at the same time the dragon were belching methane, it would ignite. The researchers at Llancofi found distinctive scorch marks and thickening of the skin on the older dragons' noses.

As a defence mechanism this flame throwing ability would have been matchless and probably accounts for the dragon surviving so long down the evolutionary tree.

Interestingly the young dragons did not appear to have this fire-breathing capability. There was no evidence of scorching on their noses. The young unusually were also covered in hair as opposed to the scales of the older beasts. Their wings were larger in proportion and so they would have been able to fly, unlike the older dragons which, being heavier and covered with thick scales could probably not have got off the ground. The researchers concluded that this change from hair to scales and the almost complete loss of aerial ability occurred around the age of 40.

The most likely reason for the dragons’ eventual demise would have been its great destructive power, particularly in dry weather when it must accidentally have set ablaze whole fields of carefully cultivated crops. So almost certainly the beasts were hunted to extinction by man to protect their livelihoods.

The remains at Llancofi were dated to approximately 600 AD. They would therefore have been some of the last dragons to have lived in this remote corner of Wales.

I’d tell you more about dragons and what they found at Llancofi but I am already hearing my cue lines and so I’d better go on. If you have been, thanks for sharing this wait in the darkness.


Picture shows a sculpture of a dragon based on the remains of a larger dragon found at Llancofi. Note the relatively small size and scaly wings which in older dragons were useless for flight.

PEGASUS

It was mention of the dog-cart that attracted Edward. The idea of big wheels bouncing over the rutted lanes, the sun on his back and some docile equine trotting silkily along in front.

I suppose he had been reading too many Victoria novels, though he himself was in no sense Victorian. Rather the reverse. His profession of architect drove him to design buildings that would come to define the age and he tried to look to the future. Perhaps that was why he hankered so much to live in the past.

This year he had persuaded Sarah to rent an isolated farmhouse somewhere in West Cork for their August holiday. The children would love it, he said. Far from the madding crowd. The beauties of Bantry Bay. Edward could see it now. Walking in fields filled with wildflowers, bounded by extravagant fuchsia hedges. Fly-fishing for trout in the nearby lake (he would take his expensive greenheart rod). Some hill climbing perhaps. Trips in the dog cart.

The advertisement even mentioned the docile equine by name - Pegasus - which reinforced Edward’s idea of flying along the lanes. The advertisement didn’t mention that Pegasus was a donkey.

Still, he trotted over attentively when Edward and Sarah finally arrived at their holiday farmhouse in the late afternoon. Inevitably it was raining - a thin misty rain that seemed to drench them more than a downpour.

They called his name and the children tried to stroke him, but Pegasus’ long white ears just twitched in the rain and he turned away with a little kick of his heels. Already Pegasus was losing some of his allure. Edward made a mental note to buy carrots.

The next day Edward found the dog cart in the barn together with the collar and harness. He had made specific enquiries from the owners of the farmhouse and had been assured that nothing could be simpler. That no skill at all was needed to harness Pegasus - a sweet and mild-tempered beast, the owner had insisted - to the cart. “Just slip the collar on him and you’ll see where the shafts go and the harness buckles. Sure, a child of six could do it and then you’ll be flying along the lanes and above the hedge tops and the whole family will have a whale of a time.” Edward noted the word ‘flying’.

It was, in truth, a pretty little cart of an uncertain age, painted blue with yellow trimmings. Nevertheless it appeared sound. The wheels had all their spokes and the leather seats were still filled with horsehair. All seemed sound and serviceable.You mounted, Edward noted, with an the aid of an iron step.

The children asked persistent questions about the harness and about steering and braking, questions that Edward felt quite inadequate to answer. He’d never really considered the braking question before. But managing a cart couldn’t be difficult. He’d give it a try. Be trotting around the farmyard by lunch-time and they could go for their first drive en famille in the afternoon.

“Best put the halter on,” the owner had said. Edward now advanced across the field, calling ‘Pegasus, in a confident, bright and optimistic tone.’ Obediently, the animal left its browsing preoccupations and came towards him. Ten feet away Pegasus halted and sniffed. Then he turned and hawed and with the same little kick of his heels ran off across the field.

“Sure he’ll come if you call him,” the owner had said. Nothing he likes better now than a good run with the cart. If you want you can offer him a carrot but that shouldn’t be necessary at all.”

Indeed, it was necessary. For the next three hours Edward and Pegasus, both of whom possessed similarly stubborn character traits, engaged in a battle of wills that involved not only carrots but all manner of other comestibles as well. Edward devised a way of hiding the halter behind his back; Pegasus a way of taking the offered inducement while keeping safely beyond Edward’s darting reach.

Finally the donkey’s yearning for sugar lumps outweighed his hatred of being shackled. He yielded to the halter to be led, a prisoner, to the blue and yellow cart. Now for the harness. Far from being something a child of six could understand, the tangled and random collection of leather straps and brass buckles, of loops and eyes that now needed to be deployed to attach the donkey to the shafts of the cart seemed impossible to fathom. With Sarah’s help, however, Edward fixed the collar and buckled the shafts in what he hoped, without much conviction, might approach the correct way. Pegasus, his eyes closed, gave every appearance of slumber.

At last the task was completed. Edward put his foot in the iron step and swung himself into the driving seat, holding the reins as though he were at the helm of a battleship. These he now shook, an action he had seen actors do in cowboy films when the stagecoach left town. Of course nothing happened.

He shook the reins again and shouted, but Pegasus took absolutely no notice at all. Defeated, he climbed down again, intending to lead the animal but Pegasus, sensing the cart now had no driver, deemed this a satisfactory moment to wake up.

With a tremendous spring the donkey leapt forward. Unfortunately, the cart didn’t. Instead, to the accompaniment of loud tearing as the harness ripped apart, the donkey cantered happily off leaving the forlorn cart behind. Various bits of harness remained attached to both parties.

“I’m not sure that the dog cart was a very good idea” said Sarah when they had finally managed to persuade Pegasus to surrender his half of the harness in exchange for an exorbitant ransom of sugar and carrots. “Goodness know how much it will cost to repair.”

And to make sure that Edward wouldn’t involve him in any more holiday plans, Pegasus wandered into the barn one night and ate his fishing rod.

This is a first attempt at a 'Friday Fiction' a 1000 word short story, written on a Friday.

Picture courtesy of Wikipedia

LONDON TIMES

I am fortunate that I have never been entirely desk bound. Even today I still have occasion to make the occasional foray to London or elsewhere and so it was this week. I’d been at a meeting in one of those elegant houses just off The Mall, where Prime Minister William Ewart Gladstone lived in his hey day 150 years ago. He would cross St James Park on the brief walk to Downing Street and this week I found myself retracing his habitual steps only realising afterwards - when I saw his portrait - that this is what I had been doing.

It had been a good meeting as meetings go. Mostly they are tedious and boring and the only sensible work gets done anyway in what these days are called ‘the margins’ in private and informal conversations as you take your coffee or put on your coat to go home. So I was in buoyant mood descending the great steps to the Mall and crossing into St James Park which looked as fine as ever I had seen it, thronged with exotic vegetation and waterfowl.

Early in my career I used to work here - not in the Park, though I must have brought papers out, I suppose, now and again, and sat in the sun eating my lunch - but in the Old Admiralty Building that forms one side of Horseguards Parade.

Shortly after I arrived there new telephones were installed and I was delighted to find I had been given extension number 3. This caused endless amusement. I used to say that extension 1 was the Prime Minister (Edward Heath at the time); extension 2 was the Head of the Civil Service and extension 3 was the next most important person in the government.

Anyway important or not they let me park my car on occasions on Horseguards Parade and for several years after I had moved down to Wales whenever I drove up to town I would park on Horseguards and slip into the office where the girls would write out a permit for me. And then I could park all day in the middle of Central London without a penny to pay.

My mistake was not doing this sufficiently often. For one day they twigged that I no longer actually worked in the building. Security was of course becoming a lot tighter and the easy-come-easy-go days fast becoming a memory.

Today the whole of Horseguards Parade is cordoned off: protected by large steel bollards against, I suppose, lorries packed with explosives. How sad. Nevertheless the bollards are painted a tasteful dark green and outlined in gold and do look as though they belong.

As I didn’t have a car - I can’t remember the last time I ever drove into Central London - the bollards weren’t a problem, so I strolled across the Parade ground and through the archway past an extremely young looking trooper trying to remain motionless as a throng of tourists clicked and snapped in the semi-darkness.

He was dressed of course as for the battle of Waterloo. We have a fascination for that late Georgian period. The time of Pitt and Napoleon, of Talleyrand and Mad King George. The Queen lives in an eighteenth century palace, rides in an eighteenth century coach, escorted by eighteenth century soldiers to the accompaniment of eighteenth century music and along boulevards laid out in the eighteenth century. The French do much the same thing. Indeed swop the troops at the Elysée Palace for those at Horseguards and I doubt anyone would notice the difference.

In my day there were fewer tourists and (possibly the two are correlated) fewer pigeons. The visitors scrummed around the two mounted guards on their shining black horses. Above and behind the horses is the old Admiralty Boardroom with its famous table, a concave segment cut out to accommodate one particularly fat Sea Lord and across the way is Great Scotland Yard, once home to the Metropolitan Police, where the IRA exploded a car bomb in the early seventies. It always was a dingy backstreet and not the romantic sort of place portrayed in police thrillers. I am wondering whether the Quai des Orfèvres in Paris is equally forlorn.

With an hour to kill before leaving to catch my train I crossed Trafalgar Square, up past the statue of Edith Cavell, executed for treason in 1915 by the occupying German forces in Brussels, to the National Portrait Gallery.

I hadn’t been there for years and what a fascinating place it is. Here are Samuel Johnson and Jane Austen, Disraeli and Gladstone, Churchill and Queen Anne. Yet what struck me looking at the miscellany of faces was how the men were all recognisable. Take a modern man and stick him in an absurd wig and costume, let him pose for the artist and you will have an eighteenth century portrait. Not so the women. The women’s faces are bland, without character and mostly with charm. They are not so much real faces as an imagination of a face. Why?

Is it because most of the artists were men; or did women really carry that far away ‘lights-on-but-no-one-at-home look?’ A modern woman’s face would fit oddly on the shoulders of Queen Anne, say, or the Duchess of Devonshire, or even of Queen Elizabeth. And she was most certainly ‘at home’ even when the lights were off. Is this a general perception or is this just me? Compare Queen Anne with the photograph of Edith Cavell.


Main Picture is of Horseguards Parade.

THE OLD MONEY

I loved the old money and my weekly half-crown pocket money - a big heavy silver coin that almost seemed too perfect to spend. In those days some of the coins, and the florins and shillings had real silver in them and so they wore down and became quite smooth. It was comforting to see the different designs and to trace the kings and queens - Victoria, Edward, George, George again and then Elizabeth.

The money was very heavy of course and the poor conductors on the buses used to carry a weighty satchel full of 'coppers.' I used to take the bus from the station to get me to school and I would ask for 'a penny-halfpenny half' - in those days children used to get half-fare until the age of fourteen. The farthing (quarter penny) had gone by the time I started to spend money - as had the silver threepenny bit - but there were still plenty about. I remember in Glasgow offering two farthings for a half-penny when we were short of change to buy some potato scones, but the shop woman wouldn't accept them. They had ceased to be legal tender as had the silver threepennies some time before. So we had the 12 sided yellow coin with daisies on it, or later a portcullis, instead.

I lived near a railway and we loved putting these old coins on the line and letting the massive steam locomotives run over them so that they were flattened and rolled out like pastry. Pennies were all right but the railwaymen used to get very cross with us for trying to flatten threepenny bits. (I don't know why they were called 'bits,' nothing else was - except, I suppose, in America where they talked about cheap things as being 'two-bit;' but I never knew what that meant either) Apparently threepenny bits damaged the locomotive's 'tyres.' Now I didn't know that a locomotive had tyres but I suppose it is logical. They must wear and if you didn't take the outside of the wheel off occasionally and replace it with a new one then the engine would be running on the spokes of its wheels. Or so anyway I reasoned. So we didn't put threepenny bits on the line and we were too poor to afford to waste silver coins in this way.

Bank notes were far bigger than they are today. They really were bank notes then and you felt proud to own one. A pound note was the size of a business envelope and the five pound note the size of a small flag. Neither carried the Queen's head (or even the King's head when the King was alive. He smoked heavily and died of cancer but it didn't stop me or anyone else smoking when I was young. Even my great aunt smoked occasionally, insisting on a cigarette called 'Passing Clouds' - made by Wills, I think, like the Woodbines, whereas my step-mother, who didn't like smoking but did so to be fashionable, smoked du Maurier after the novelist, but only at parties. My father smoked cheroots, but not very often. My aunt made me buy him a packet every Christmas. They sounded very sophisticated. But I didn't smoke any of these when I grew up. I think they had gone out of fashion by then, like the money).

You could buy a great many cheroots for £5 in those days but the Bank of England dispensed with the old £5 note because it was so easy to forge, even with all its lovely black swirly writing which made it look more like a letter or contract than a banknote. Something big, blue and square with a picture of Britannia took its place. And the £1 note was similar but in green and then there was a ten shilling note (that was half a pound) in a reddish-brown sort of colour. The notes became smaller as the money lost its value and the design changed. That's when they put the Queen's head on it - as if that might stop the money losing its value. Then the notes disappeared altogether. First the ten shillings and then the pound and today's five pound note will disappear very soon as well I imagine.

Money has lost a lot of value. When I first went to France more than 50 years ago you could get 14 francs to the pound. That would be more than 2 euros. You could get 10 deutsche marks to the pound - that would be about 5 euros and you could get 2 dollars and 80 cents if you wanted American money. I know this figure because it was fixed. Fixed that is until the pound was devalued and the figure became 2 dollars 40 cents.

I still have a collection of the old money and some of the old notes and I suppose everyone thinks wistfully of the pounds shillings and pence that we used to think so logical and which so bemused visitors from overseas. We had a lot of visitors when I was young and I felt so sad for them when a shopkeeper would demand 'three and sevenpence ha'penny' They hadn't a clue what this meant and would just hand over a note or a purse full of change and invite the shopkeeper to take whatever she wanted. So in some ways things have improved. Though the money isn't what it used to be. In any way at all.

NONE NICER THAN NUNNEY

We had gone to stay with Elder Daughter whose husband had taken himself off to the London Film Festival as he does every year, he being a bit of a film buff. So the rest of the family moved in. Like mice. There was then a question about what we might do.

To tell the truth I didn't feel much like doing anything for I was ill, feeling really off colour and with little appetite. The dreaded stomach lurgi doing the rounds had stopped at my door. Still, one must battle on. Fly the flag, especially when there are those around whose health is far less robust, even if at the time I did wonder whether my own ailment might be the beginning of some mortal malady, you know the type of thing at which the black frock-coated gentlemen shake their heads and advise against the commencement of long books. Having just read Phillippa Gregory's 'The White Queen' I recognised my symptoms as just the ones that carried off King Edward IV, and he considerably younger than me, too.

Well, I thought, as I lay half awake a little before six in the morning that being the hour my grandson Theo deems appropriate for life to commence, I may just have time to finish the biography of Talleyrand that I am reading. He and I will then succumb - for the biography ends as most biographies do with his death - he and I will succumb together, but I shall never get round to reading 'The Road Home' by Rose Tremain, which I had bought at the Cowbridge Bookshop when I had gone in to ask whether they might take some copies of Chris's 'Turning the Tide.' I had wanted to buy this book anyway so it wasn't a special purchase and it was the same price as Amazon and no delivery charges and a good conversation with the bookseller thrown in. So why do we insist on buying from Amazon? That is one of life's little imponderables, I thought.

Still even when one is ill and on the point of thinking about putting one's affairs in order, Elder Daughter still wants to know where to go. She's not going to have us hanging about the house all day; we need to mount an expedition. "We'll go to the Castle," I say, thinking this a fool-proof option, only to be told that Frome - the pleasant little market town in jolly Somerset where she lives - doesn't run to a castle.
"Why not?" I asked. "Everywhere else has a castle. There must be a castle if you look hard enough." But there wasn't - or isn't.

So eventually we settled for Nunney castle - a mile or two down the road and as charming a little castle as you might ever hope to find this side of the English Channel. I say this side of the English Channel because Nunney Castle is French. It is as though it has been dug up and transplanted like London Bridge from the sunny folds of the Loire valley to this quaintly named chocolate box village in Somersetshire.


It is a small castle - almost a miniature or Doll's House (Doll's Castle?) castle. Just four pepperpot towers which once carried conical roofs. And with a beautiful regular square moat around it in which to view the shimmering reflection of its stones. One could easily fall in love with such a place and indeed many who lived there can't have done anything else. For it looks not really like a military castle at all, but a gentle-little-fairy-tale-Rapunzel-holding-princess-and-the-pea-sleeping-family-residence-of-a-minor-Baron-probably-called-Ludwig castle.

You can hear harps in the building and if you're really quiet, the fish calling to each other in the moat as you gaze on the far hills from those broad picture windows and imagine children and young folk chasing each other up and down the staircases and hiding behind turrets and shooting arrows at the villagers' pumpkins.


Nunney Castle was built in 1373 and would today be as good as new, but for Oliver Cromwell and his (sadly not at all merry) men who decided that the castle was altogether too blessed with sweetness and light and therefore that it was in need of a good ruination.

So he ruined it - pulling off the conical roofs - and turfing the young folk off the staircases and out into the country lanes. Then he bombarded the four towers with cannon - not altogether successfully for you can see where the cannonballs bounced off - before deciding it might be easier just to blow up the connecting walls with gunpowder. Which he did - gunpowder not being in short supply in 1646 - and, like Jericho, the walls came tumbling down.

Still, that didn't stop the castle being as charming and welcoming as a Dowager Duchess short of visitors. Cross the little wooden footbridge over the moat (surely jumpable if you were any sort of athlete) and you are welcomed into the central hall into which the sunlight is already streaming and where you can imagine yourself sitting down to dinner in Elizabethan robes with Gloriana herself, the Virgin Queen descending the great staircase and muttering about Spaniards.

Ah well, that was all a very long time ago.


I was still feeling ill when we left Nunney to go to Laycock, another bit of the Cotswolds that remains pickled in aspic and costume drama. There Elder Daughter bought me a lunch which sadly I couldn't eat but we sat first under a Eucalyptus and then under a strange tree like a magical walnut (except it wasn't a walnut). Some say it's a lilac but do lilacs - even Persian ones - bear nuts in green cases? A woman was selling apples at £1 a bag from a wheelbarrow in the street and put the money please through the letterbox. I ate an apple and immediately began to feel better.

I leave you with an image of little Theo literally (though on his elders' part quite unforgivably) dancing on the grave of some noble Laycock antecedent. Still, if the apple doesn't work, and I'm not here next week, I hereby give permission to infants under the age of two to dance on my grave to their hearts' content. There isn't much, after all, that one can do for the young when one is six feet under.