Brake failure

This is a story about a narrow escape I had when I was a student, and how the incident came back to haunt me many years later!

A student at Bangor

The picture shows the main Arts Building of Bangor University, North Wales, where I was a student in the early 1970s. It’s the cathedral-like structure at the top of the hill in the background – the actual Cathedral is the less impressive building in the foreground! You might also be able to see the steep slope in front of the Arts Building.

In my final year my regular route to college was across a road and up that hill – and quite often to the top floor of the College as well – I was lot fitter in those days!

Crossing the road

At that time the road was part of the main A5 route that snaked through Bangor on its way to the Menai Bridge and Anglesey, and was hence quite a busy road. Fortunately there was a pedestrian crossing that I could use, and that is where my story begins.

For anyone not in the know about UK traffic laws, a “zebra” crossing is one on which pedestrians have right of way – if somebody steps on to the crossing the traffic must stop. It is, however, up to pedestrians to be sensible about this – if you don’t give a car enough time to stop and you end up in hospital, that is your fault!

One morning I reached the crossing as a car was approaching slowly with plenty of time to stop. However, when I stepped into the road it became clear that the driver had no intention of stopping and would have hit me if I had not got a move on to get clear. I turned round to shout some choice words at the driver of the car, which was still trundling slowly forwards. “Sorry, mate”, he yelled, “I can’t stop, my brakes have failed!”

“What are you driving it for, then?” I shouted back, to which the reply was: “Well, I’ve got to get it to the garage somehow, haven’t I?”

For years afterwards I used to tell this story as an illustration of just how stupid some car drivers can be – until the day that the boot was on the other foot!

A flashback

I inherited my late father’s black VW Beetle in 1983, which was the impetus I needed to learn to drive. I was living near Salisbury in Wiltshire at the time and, after passing my driving test, made several solo trips to explore the countryside of that part of the world. Salisbury sits at the confluence of several rivers that have cut quite deep valleys in the chalk landscape, which means that most of the routes out of town have to go up appreciably steep hills. I was going down one such hill when I was suddenly made aware that pressing the brake pedal was having no effect at all.

I did know enough about cars to appreciate that “pumping” the brake pedal can sometimes work if there has been a loss of brake fluid, so this is what I did, as well as driving in low gear. However, in order to get to a repair garage I had to drive right through the middle of the city of Salisbury, complete with its pedestrian crossings.

As I approached one such crossing, with people looking ready to cross, I pumped the pedal as hard as I could, but it was clear that I would not be able to stop in time. I therefore sounded the horn, flashed the lights, and opened the window to explain the situation to the people standing on the pavement.

My mind flashed back ten years and I found myself calling out, “Sorry I can’t stop, my brakes have failed!”

I’m not Welsh, but I caught myself shouting in a distinctly Welsh accent!

© John Welford

Single-sentence stories

(The challenge was to write stories that began and ended within a single sentence. Here are my suggestions!)

The fruits of modern education

I watched as a 30-year-old woman stopped in the street, tapped out the numbers on her smartphone and proudly announced to her husband, “seven and six are thirteen”.

Fall of One Empire, Rise of Another

Cleopatra died, apparently from a self-inflicted snakebite, in a deed that added the Empire of Egypt to that of Rome and which was once aptly described as the biggest asp disaster in the world.

Othello

When Desdemona dropped her handkerchief, evil Iago used it to cause mayhem, lay false accusations and cause the death of several principal characters, including himself.

Nostalgia

Once upon a time they all lived happily ever after.

Strategy and tactics

He got the strategy right by buying a bottle of expensive wine for her to drink at dinner, but his tactics went awry when she refused to drink it.

Writers block

He had high hopes of becoming a successful writer but had to live in a bungalow when he realised that he was only good for one storey.

The name’s the same

The new housing estate was built after they cut down a lovely old piece of woodland to make space for it, but now you can live in Oak Close, Birch Drive or Sycamore Avenue.

Hands up

After the school inspector had left, immensely impressed by the fact that every time the teacher asked a question all the pupils raised a hand and a correct answer was given, the teacher revealed that his classroom practice was for a right hand to be raised if you knew the answer and a left hand went up if you didn’t.

Missed opportunity

When the dessert trolley came along, loaded with the most delicious-looking cakes and puds, she waved it by and therefore missed a last chance of real delight before the big ship hit an iceberg.

Emergency exit

When the Cabinet Secretary got into a panic on the day of the Twin Towers disaster in New York, he asked about arrangements for using the secret underground escape tunnel from 10 Downing Street, only to be told that the man who looked after the key had gone on holiday without telling anyone where he kept it.

Christmas shopping

He thought long and hard about what to give his mother, who lived more than 100 miles away, as her Christmas present, going through every gift catalogue he could lay his hands on, but none of them had the one gift that he knew was what she really wanted, namely him turning up on her doorstep and saying “I love you, Merry Christmas”.

© John Welford

Over The Wall

As views went, this was one that went nowhere. Just a few yards from her bedroom window, across the narrow street, the light was blocked by a massive brick wall thirty feet high.

This was the rear wall of the city prison, built in Victorian times to keep people like her safe from the worst examples of human depravity. Beyond that wall were armed robbers, murderers and rapists who could harm no-one – apart from each other, if they had a mind to. The view from the window might have been depressing, but it offered a high degree of reassurance. It also kept the rent low on her tiny terraced house built in the shadow of the prison.

As she got ready to go to bed at about ten o’clock she did what she did every night – turned on her light and drew the curtains before getting undressed. Her eyes did not usually do more than take in a cursory glimpse of the prison wall, which had after all looked exactly the same for far longer than her lifetime, but tonight there was good reason for them to take a closer look, aided by the streetlights that were now flickering on. Surely there was something moving on the wall, almost exactly opposite her house?

She stopped still and watched as her suspicion was confirmed. Something was dangling from the top of the wall. It looked like a length of rope, getting longer by the second and reaching further and further down the wall. She had scarcely taking in this extraordinary fact when she saw something even more remarkable – a figure of a man had appeared at the top of the wall and was now descending the rope. She realised to her horror that she was witnessing a prison escape, right outside her house.

Her first thought was that she had to phone the police immediately to report what she was seeing, but two things held her back. One was the belief that the prison authorities must surely know that an escape attempt was being made – the place bristled with TV cameras, including ones that scanned the entire length of the prison walls, inside and out – but the second reason was sheer fascination at what she was witnessing. Any move away from the window to grab her phone would mean that she would miss seeing what must surely be a once-in-a–lifetime experience, namely a real live prison breakout.

She was therefore able to see the man on the rope get to within ten feet or so of the ground when a second figure appeared at the top of the wall. This must be the first man’s companion. No doubt the two had been planning this escape for months - getting hold of the rope, working out how to fix it on the other side of the wall, not to mention contriving to be out of their cells at a time when their presence near the wall would not be detected.

She was still watching and working out the scenario when things took an even more dramatic turn. Something must have gone very wrong on the inside of the wall because suddenly the rope broke loose and both men fell on to the pavement. The man who had fallen nearly the full height of the wall lay motionless on the ground, but the other one was soon on his feet and looking wildly about him. He was clearly in two minds about what he should do – help his companion or make good his escape.

The woman at the window could work out for herself that there was little to be gained by trying to get the man on the ground to get up – in what light there was she could see a dark patch spreading from where his head must have been. It was clear that the other man had come to the same conclusion, although as he moved away it was also obvious that his shorter fall had had consequences – he limped badly, possibly the result of a broken ankle. He must be in considerable pain, thought the woman.

And then her emotions did a U-turn. Whereas she had always felt immense gratitude that the dregs of society were safely inside the wall and she was on the outside, now that one of their number was no longer inside she found herself hoping that he would get away. It had been like the time she had visited a turkey farm and one of the birds escaped through a hole in the fence – although no vegetarian, she could not help but wish that somebody’s Christmas dinner would be denied them.

It was now clear that the escape had been noticed by the prison authorities. Sirens wailed inside the prison, lights blazed, and police cars could be heard approaching from several directions. The escapee could hear these too, and the woman could see him panicking over what to do next. The police would surely seal off both ends of the street within seconds, so he took the only course open to him, which was to drag his injured foot though the tunnel passageway that separated the woman’s house from that of her neighbour.

“Oh my God”, she thought to herself, “did I remember to lock my back door?”

She rushed downstairs and into her kitchen, but a few seconds too late. Just as she reached it, the back door was thrown open, knocking her to the floor. When she got up she was face to face with the prisoner.

The man she saw could best be described with the word “vulnerable”. If you had asked her to sum up an average inmate of the prison, in the days before the escape, she would have produced all the usual clichés – dangerous, desperate, dregs of society, getting their just desserts – but seeing one of them in her kitchen produced very different emotions in her.

Before, when she had seen the men fall from the wall, she had empathised with them as escapees, but with no more fellow feeling than she had felt for the escaped turkey, but now she was seeing an individual person. All turkeys look alike, but this was one man, and one who was in pain and afraid.

He was also very young. There was little time for analysing the situation, but the woman could not help wondering what story lay behind this young man ending up behind bars.

They stared at each other, but he was the first one to speak.

“I didn’t do it”, he said.

And that was all he said. As might have been expected, the whole area was now awash with police and prison officers, who had wasted little time in following the young man down the passageway and to the woman’s back door. He was soon in handcuffs and being dragged away, screaming with pain as his damaged ankle was given little sympathy.

She was left with a general feeling of helplessness. She also wanted to know so much more. Perhaps every escaped prisoner claimed to be innocent, but the look in that young man’s eyes, during the brief moment they were in communication, seemed to be telling the truth.

© John Welford

Vote For Me!

Vote For Me – you know it makes sense

I’ll scale every wall and climb every fence

I’ll swim every moat and fight every foe

I’ll take on your fears and lay them all low

There’s no noble deed that I wouldn’t do

And, needless to say, you know it’s all true

Vote For Me – I’m pure as the snow

When temptation comes I always say No

My record is free of sordid affair

In skeleton terms my cupboard is bare

My years behind bars stand proudly at nought

Well, let’s just say that I’ve never been caught

Vote For Me – the other lot’s worse

None to be found in the whole universe

They’re cads and they’re rotters – not very nice

Murder your granny? They wouldn’t think twice

They’ll take all your cash and land you in debt

Which I wouldn’t do, so never you fret

Vote For Me – the obvious choice

Loudly express your political voice

Turn out in numbers and give me your Yes

What I’ll do with it is anyone’s guess

When I’m in office what good will I do?

Frankly, dear voters, I haven’t a clue.

© John Welford

Remember, remember

I have never served in a military unit or had direct experience of warfare. There are no war memorials that bear the names of family members from past generations, because all those who served came back to tell the tale. Remembrance Day does not therefore have a direct impact on me.

However, that is not to say that there was no family involvement in the wars of the 20^th century, because my father’s two older brothers served in World War I, and one of these uncles lived in the family home when I was growing up. Uncle Frank, who was 56 years old when I was born, was not like many veterans who refused to speak about their experiences – instead, he was more than happy to tell me about what happened to him during his early 20s on the Western Front.

Apart from that, he kept diaries for the time that he served in the Army, and those diaries have been preserved to the present day. They were written in pencil that has become smudged over the years and are therefore difficult to read, so it is fortunate that in later life he summarised them in ink and this summary is much more accessible.

When war was declared on 4^th August 1914 Frank Welford was 18 years old and living with his parents and brothers in Frome, Somerset, where his father was the Methodist Minister. The diary entry read: “Saw water polo at Baths – Frome 6, Gloucester City 2. Standard very high – match very exciting”. His later comments were: “No mention of War declaration in diary. I had no idea then that it would affect me”.

Soon afterwards he started his student life at Reading University College, his intention being to qualify as a teacher. However, during his second term (in March 1915) he volunteered to join the Army but was rejected on the grounds that he wore glasses.

The following year he volunteered again and was accepted under a scheme that allowed students to defer their service until they had finished their exams.

In July 1916, having passed his second year exams and gained a teacher’s certificate, he joined up and began his Army training at Plymouth. His medical category was B1, which was defined as “fit for Garrison duty abroad”, and he was promptly assigned to the Royal Garrison Artillery.

His first experience of Army life was on Spike Island in Queenstown Harbour, southern Ireland, during the tense period following the Easter Rising, although he stated that he “wasted a month or so as Library and Post Orderly”.  There were also gun and shell drills to be undertaken, but no shots were fired in anger at anyone.

In January 1917 he was moved back to England (Prees Heath, Shropshire), joined the 321 siege battery and trained to become a “Battery Commander’s Assistant”. After more firing practice in March at Lydd in Kent his unit was mobilised and sent to France on a troop ship that sailed from Southampton to Le Havre.

He was stationed near the Lille Gate in Ypres, a city that was largely in ruins. On 2^nd June an enemy shell landed uncomfortably close to him as he crossed the town square and he suffered three puncture wounds to his leg. He was transported back to England for treatment and recovery and in September was sent to Catterick Camp in North Yorkshire. His duties, due to his low medical status at that time, were light and consisted mostly of playing the piano in the concert party that entertained the troops and performed at dances and other musical events.

He returned to active service in March 1918 as a member of the 179 siege battery at Agny, near Arras. After serving as a gunner he became a Battery Commander’s Assistant, positioned near the officer’s mess, and described his fighting from that point on as being done “with maps, range tables and slide rules”.

As the war progressed towards its conclusion, the battery was constantly on the move as it took up fresh positions in order to provide artillery cover for the advancing troops. However, Frank had another spell of incapacity in October, this time due to a skin infection that was probably caused by lice. By the time he had recovered and rejoined his unit the war was nearly over and the battery’s last rounds were fired on 25^th October.

After the Armistice was signed on 11^th November the Army had to stay where it was for several months. Frank was lucky in that, as a student, he was in a high category for demobilisation. Even so, it was not until late January 1919 that he was able to return home, which was now in Blandford, Dorset, and his official date of discharge was 25^th February.

In October he returned to Reading to finish his degree, but was greeted with the news that he had been included on the college’s “list of the dead” – an error that he was happy to correct. He stayed at Reading until the autumn of 1921, taking his finals in November. Although he qualified to teach Geography, his interest in Music was unabated and he later recounted that rubbed shoulders at one time with the composer Edmund Rubbra and also met Gustav Holst.

In January 1922 he started his first teaching job, at Gillingham Grammar School in Dorset, and his post-war career was under way.

As we all know, another war came along in 1939, but by this time Frank was 43. He served in the Home Guard at Weymouth, where he was teaching at the time, but that was the closest he ever got to fighting an enemy.

As war stories go, Frank Welford’s was not the most enthralling. He never went “over the top” or even saw a German soldier except during his sojourn at Catterick where a number of prisoners of war were held in confinement. His actual time spent on the Western Front only amounted to a few months out of the four years of World War I. Nevertheless, he did serve his country and his story is just as valid as any other and deserves to be remembered alongside all the rest.

© John Welford

An Artist's Inspiration

(The idea was to imagine the events that might have led to what is portrayed in a well-known work of art. My choice here was one of the best-known of all, namely The Scream by Edvard Munch)

An Artist’s Inspiration

The day started off absolutely fine, but then I made a fundamental error – I woke up and got out of bed. Normally this is not too much of a problem; it is, after all, what I have done every day of my life for as long as I can remember. I knew from the outset that I would have one small difficulty to overcome, which was clearing up the mess that I knew the cat had deposited somewhere in the room when it was sick in the middle of the night. He’s getting on in years and his digestion is not as robust as it used to be, so this is not unusual.

All I have to do is grab a piece of kitchen paper, collect the mess, bin it, and then apply a wet-wipe to the affected piece of carpet. In order to do this I get out of bed, put on my slippers and go and fetch what I need. The difference today was that my beloved feline had decided to throw up not on the carpet but in my left slipper. As starts to the day go, I could have wished for better.

Another thing I have done with scarcely a thought for more years than I care to remember is wash, shave and get dressed. Today, for no apparent reason, my razor slipped sideways and I suffered one of those cuts that goes on bleeding for far longer than is either necessary or convenient. It seemed to take for ever to get things under control.

I had promised a friend that I would deliver a piece of work that I knew was urgent for him. His printer was on the blink so I said I would print it at home and take the sheets over to him as soon as I could. With time being a bit shorter than expected today, thanks to cat and razor, I needed to make short work of breakfast if I was going to catch the bus in time. One quick bowl of muesli plus a generous dollop of milk would fit the bill.

OK – I knew that there were two bottles of milk in the fridge and that one of them was somewhat past its use-by date. I had spotted that it was slightly “off” the night before, so why didn’t I chuck it out when I had the chance? You may well ask. Needless to say, I grabbed hold of the wrong bottle, splashed it all over the muesli and took a generous mouthful. It may well have been slightly off eight hours previously, but now it was completely off. It tasted so awful that in my disgust I spat out the mouthful and made a mess on the table that was similar in appearance to that produced in my slipper by the cat.

With breakfast abandoned I hurriedly threw feet into shoes and broke a shoelace. I couldn’t find a suitable replacement pair and so had to fasten my shoes with laces that were far too long. No matter. I still had time to grab the file of papers for my friend and rush outside to the bus stop.  I was just in time as the bus came round the corner.

I should have watched my feet more carefully, because I tripped over my too-long shoelaces and measured my length on the pavement. The file flew out of my hand and the sheets scattered in all directions, some of them landing in a nearby puddle. As I picked myself up and desperately tried to gather the papers, the bus tootled merrily on its way without stopping.

I had no choice but to rush back home and print off another set, with a view to catching the next bus twenty minutes later. Or at least I would have done if it had just been the papers that escaped from me as I fell. I hadn’t noticed that my front-door key had also gone missing, so I had no choice but to go back and search for it. Fortunately it had not disappeared down a storm drain, but it was at least five minutes before I found it.

Back home, I started to run off the second set of prints when the printer ran out of ink. I knew I had a replacement cartridge somewhere, but could I find it? The answer to that question was -Eventually, but not in time for me to catch the next bus.

It was therefore an hour after my intended arrival that I knocked on my friend’s door with papers in hand, ready to apologise profusely for the delay. The response I got was not exactly what I was expecting.

“Oh, that was so good of you to go to all that trouble”, he said, “but I managed to get the printer fixed last night and I’ve done everything I needed to do. I suppose I should have phoned you to tell you not to bother, but it completely slipped my mind.”

That was when I lost control. I ran down the road and across the bridge, where I saw an artist at work with his easel. I hope he didn’t mind when I let out a lengthy and ear-piercing SCREEEEAM!!!!!!

© John Welford

Another Dimension: a story

Barry had been a fan of Doctor Who ever since the character’s original incarnation in the colourless guise of William Hartnell. He had suffered severe withdrawal symptoms in 1989, when the Doctor had presumably departed to right wrongs in a parallel Universe, and was delighted to the point of ecstasy when the Time Lord came back, in glorious technicolour, in 2005. Barry now felt safe. With the Doctor in charge, surely everyone would be protected from any monster or machine with which alien worlds could threaten Planet Earth.

Barry was particularly troubled by the crack in Amy Pond’s bedroom wall. The Doctor first met Amy when she was seven years old and she pointed out to him that a large crack had appeared just above her bed. The Doctor had to return to the Tardis, promising to return in five minutes but actually doing so twelve years later, when Amy, aged 19, was working as a kissogram girl. She became his companion and off they went.

However, the crack in the wall turned out to be a lot more than the result of building subsidence or drying-out plaster. It seemed to follow Amy and the Doctor and turn up in all sorts of places. It was always the same shape – generally horizontal but turning up at both ends. The Doctor eventually worked out what it was, namely a crack in the Universe through which space and time were leaking and with the ability to erase memories. In one episode, Amy’s fiancé Rory was sucked through it and lost to Amy’s memory, and the Doctor realised that it was caused by the Tardis exploding, which of course had not yet happened!

Barry had to admit to himself that he did not understand exactly what the crack was, but he knew that it was extremely important and that it could appear at any time and any place. The shape of the crack impinged itself on his mind. Given his general inability to distinguish fact from fiction, his subconscious self was now, years later, always on the lookout in case that particular shape came into view. Fortunately, before today that is, it never had.

On the day that he went to the cashpoint he did not have cracks in a wall in mind, at least not consciously. His sole intention had been to use this particular hole in the wall of his bank to get £50 out of his account to cover that part of the week’s general expenses for which folding money was most appropriate. The notes had just been pushed from the machine when he felt something poking him in the back.

A voice spoke, teenaged and menacing.

“I’ll have that cash if you don’t mind”, said the voice in his left ear. “And the card too, of course. I saw you punch in your number so it shouldn’t take me long to help myself to rest of what’s in your bank account. Oh, and to save you the bother of asking me if this is a particularly sharp knife pointing at your spine, the answer is Yes – it is”.

One of Barry’s problems, apart from believing that Dr Who was a documentary series, was an equally futile belief in his abilities as a practitioner of the martial arts – all of them. He was quite convinced that, should the need arise, he would be able to defend himself by exercising his skills in judo, karate, taekwondo, kendo and – quite probably – sudoku, should the need arise. The fact that he had no skills in any of these, apart from the last one on the list, was neither here nor there.

His self-deception extended to the conviction that his assailant was lying when he said he was armed with a sharp knife. It was probably nothing more lethal than a stick that the youth had just picked up from the ground. In fact, Barry remembered there had been just such a stick a foot or two from where he was standing. The would-be thief had clearly acted on a whim on seeing Barry at the cashpoint – he had picked up the stick, watched Barry tap in his PIN and was ready to strike.

In that case, thought Barry, so was he. He decided that his best course of action was to whip round with cobra-like speed, knock the stick out of the young man’s grip with one hand and rain down a few karate blows with the other. One, two, three … Go!

Unfortunately for Barry he was incorrect in one very important particular. The young man did indeed have a sharp-bladed knife in his hand, and as Barry’s intended karate hand came across it was the knife with which it made contact and not the assailant’s head. Barry therefore sustained a deep cut across one of his fingers and was lucky not to have been injured much more severely.

Give Barry his due, he did then switch to Plan B, the aim of which was to grab hold of the thief and display a bit of judo technique on him, even though this had been learned more from watching the Olympics on TV than from any practice in the gym. Despite the searing pain in his finger, Barry at least made the effort, and he might have been successful had he not tripped over a large stick that was lying on the pavement and which Barry had fondly imagined was playing the role of large knife.

As it was, the thief got clean away, complete with Barry’s cash and card. At least Barry was able to report the loss to the bank, although the cashiers complained bitterly about the trail of blood that he left across the floor on his way to the counter.

That was six weeks ago. Barry had had a bit of first aid from the people at the bank and someone very kindly took him down the road to A&E where his finger was deftly stitched. He had to report to his local medical centre every week after that to have the dressing changed, and now the moment had arrived when the final bandage could be removed and he could see just badly his finger was scarred.

He got the shock of his life.

He had expected a scar on his finger. What he did not expect to see was a scar that was the exact shape of the crack in Amy Pond’s bedroom wall. The crack in the Universe, the link to another, unknown, dimension, was there on his own finger. The whole future of time and space now depended on him. Should that scar ever open again, who knew what might happen? 

It was quite a responsibility.

© John Welford

The reduced Canterbury Tales: Monk's Tale to Parson's Tale

(The challenge was to write a complete story in exactly 100 words. So here is Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tale with each tale reduced to 100 words. This post contains Tales nineteen to twenty-four.)

Follow these links for the other Tales in "100 word" versions:

Prologue and Knight's Tale to Wife of Bath's Tale
Friar's Tale to Franklin's Tale
Physician's Tale to Tale of Melibee

Click the titles for fuller accounts of each Tale

Monk's Tale

This is not one tale but seventeen short ones, all telling how various people from history and mythology have come a cropper. Some of them are well-known characters, such as Nero and Alexander the Great, some are from the Bible or Apocrypha, such as Samson, Belshazzar and Antiochus, and some are characters that were better known in the 14^th century than they are now, such as Bernabo Visconti and Ugolino of Pisa. Eventually the Knight has had enough and tells the Monk to stop because he would prefer to hear stories of rises to greatness rather than falls from it.

Nun's Priest's Tale

Chauntecleer the cockerel has a long debate with Pertelote, one of his hens, about the power of dreams and how they can be portents of disaster, with each of them quoting extensively from literature, history and mythology. Some weeks later Chauntecleer is caught by a fox and the farm people give chase. Chauntecleer tells the fox that he should face his pursuers and tell them to back off. When the fox opens his mouth to do so, Chauntecleer escapes and flies up into a tree. The fox tries to inveigle him back down but Chauntecleer refuses to be caught twice.

Second Nun's Tale

In Roman times, Cecilia marries Valerian but tells him that her virginity is guarded by an angel. She advises him to consult Pope Urban, who baptizes him so that he can now see the angel. Valerian persuades his brother Tibertius to become a Christian. Almachius the Roman prefect arrests the brothers and condemns them to death, but Maximus the executioner says that he saw their souls ascend to Heaven and is himself converted but then executed. Cecilia survives being boiled alive and lives for three days after an attempt to behead her. She uses this time to make more converts.

Canon's Yeoman's Tale

There are two tales. In the first the yeoman reveals the secrets of his employer who has a sideline as an alchemist who cheats people out of their money when he persuades them that he can find the “philosopher’s stone” to cure all illnesses. In second tale a different canon/alchemist tells a priest that he can change quicksilver into real silver. This is done with trickery and sleight of hand that nevertheless convinces the priest that a real change has taken place. The priest pays a huge sum of money for the “recipe”, after which the canon makes himself scarce.

Manciple's Tale

Phoebus the sun god once lived on Earth where he kept a white crow with a beautiful song and the ability to speak. He also had a young wife whom he loved and treated well but guarded closely. Once, when he was out, his wife entertained a lover. The crow saw everything and told Phoebus, who killed his wife by shooting her with an arrow. Phoebus immediately regretted this and blamed the crow for telling him lies. The crow’s punishment was to have his white feathers turned to black and to lose the power of speech and his singing voice.

Parson's Tale

This is a long sermon based on a text from Jeremiah, supposedly preached by a reformist Lollard priest. It is a disquisition on the Seven Deadly Sins, for each of which there is a long list of actions that can be counted as committing the sin together with recommended remedies, such that, for example, gentleness and patience are the cure for anger. The terms of confession and penitence for each sin are laid out, but there is also a warning against making false confessions of sins that have not been committed. Given the length of the list, this sounds improbable!

© John Welford

The reduced Canterbury Tales: Physician's Tale to Tale of Melibee

(The challenge was to write a complete story in exactly 100 words. So here is Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tale with each tale reduced to 100 words. This post contains Tales thirteen to eighteen.)

Click on the titles for fuller accounts of each Tale

Physician's Tale

Virginia is the beautiful young daughter of Virginius. Apius, a corrupt judge, fancies her and persuades Claudius to bring a charge against Virginius claiming that Virginia is in fact an escaped servant of his. Apius finds in Claudius’s favour, but rather than release Virginia to the court, he tells her that death is preferable to dishonour and he must therefore kill her, a fate that she accepts. Virginius takes her head to Apius who demands that Virginius be hanged for murder but the people rise up against Apius who is thrown in prison and commits suicide. Virginius has Claudius exiled.

Pardoner's Tale

When a friend dies of the plague, three young men pledge to find and kill Death. An old man tells them where Death can be found, but instead they find a pile of gold. Two of them send the third to fetch food and wine while they guard the treasure. However, the two plan to kill the third so that they can share the gold between themselves. Meanwhile the third man puts poison in their wine so that he can claim all the gold himself. When he returns he is killed and the other two drink the wine to celebrate.

Shipman's Tale 

John, a monk, regularly visits a merchant and his wife. The wife complains to John that her husband is mean, and asks him for a loan of a hundred franks. John goes to the husband and asks for a hundred franks loan, which he gets. When the monk gives the money to the wife he gets a night of passion for his reward. When the merchant calls in the loan, the monk says that he has already paid it to the wife. The wife tells her husband that she thought it was a gift, but repays him in bed instead.

Prioress's Tale 

A young Christian boy has to walk through the Jewish quarter on his way to school. As he walks he sings a Christian hymn that so annoys the Jews that they murder him and throw his body into a cesspit. His mother finds his body, which is still singing despite him being dead. He is taken to the abbey for burial and the Jews are condemned and executed. The boy says that he can only go to Heaven if a seed, placed on his tongue by the Virgin Mary, is removed. This is done and his body is then buried.

Chaucer's Tale of Sir Thopas 

Sir Thopas rides out to meet a fairy queen along a route lined with flowers and with birds singing, but the giant Sir Oliphant stands in his way. He offers to fight the giant but says that he has not got his proper armour and so must go home and get it. The giant throws a few stones at him. Once back home, Sir Thopas tells his men about the giant, who now has three heads. At this point the Host tells Chaucer that he can’t stand any more of this nonsense and would he please stop – which he does.

Chaucer's Tale of Melibee 

Melibee comes home to discover that three men have broken in and attacked his wife, Prudence, and Sophie their daughter, leaving the latter very badly injured. Melibee and Prudence then debate what action Melibee should take, and they call in a number of friends to offer advice, much of which is conflicting. Melibee is all for meeting violence with violence, but Prudence is not so sure. She advises patience, making peace, and the rule of law. Eventually he calls in the three attackers and forgives them after they apologise. Does Sophie recover? We are not told, but it seems unlikely!

© John Welford

The reduced Canterbury Tales: Friar's Tale to Franklin's Tale

(The challenge was to write a complete story in exactly 100 words. So here is Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales with each tale reduced to 100 words. This post contains Tales seven to twelve.)

Friar’s Tale

A corrupt summoner meets a yeoman, who says he is a “fiend from hell”. The summoner reckons he might learn a few new tricks. The yeoman explains that he can only fulfil a curse if someone really means what they say and is not just expressing exasperation. The summoner tries to trick an old woman and take her new pan as well as her money. She tells the summoner to go to hell, so the yeoman asks her if she really means it, which she does unless the summoner repents. He does not, so is promptly whisked off to hell.

 

Summoner’s Tale

A friar visits Thomas and his wife, who have recently lost their child. Thomas is lying on a couch. He complains that they have paid money to many friars for prayers, without success, but the friar explains that they should have given their money to only one friar, namely himself. Thomas says that he has a special gift that the friar must reach for underneath him. This is an enormous fart. The pilgrims decide that a fart could be shared between friary members if delivered at the hub of a cartwheel with a friar at the end of each spoke.

Clerk’s Tale

Lord Walter marries Griselda, a poor village woman. When a daughter is born Walter takes her from Griselda and says that the baby will be killed, although this is not true. Four years later Griselda has a boy baby, but he is taken away when aged two and again Walter says he will be killed. Throughout, Griselda remains perfectly obedient to her husband. Later still, Walter says he will divorce Griselda and take a new wife, who is actually her daughter, now aged twelve. Griselda appeals to Walter not to treat her the same way, at which Walter comes clean.

 

Merchant’s Tale

Old man January has married young and pretty May. His young squire Damian fancies May and vice versa. Time passes. January, who has lost his sight, has a walled private garden but May makes a copy of the key to the gate and gives it to Damian. She suggests to Damian that he climb a pear tree in the garden when January takes May there. She offers to fetch a pear for January and has her wicked way with Damian. The god Pluto restores January’s sight, but goddess Proserpine ensures that January does not believe what he thinks he sees.

Squire’s Tale

At King Cambuskan’s birthday feast, a knight rides into his hall astride a magic brass horse, a gift from the King of Araby. The knight shows Cambuskan how it works. He also gives Princess Candace a magic ring that allows her to understand the speech of birds and to make herbal medicines. The next day Candace finds a wounded female falcon that tells a story of blighted love. She takes the falcon home and cures her.

That is all we get, although the Squire implies that more magical adventures are in store for the king, his daughter and his sons.

 

Franklin’s Tale

The lady Dorigen fears that her husband Arviragus will be shipwrecked on the Brittany rocks when he returns to her from fighting in Britain. Aurelius claims her if he can make the rocks disappear, and she agrees in jest. He offers to pays a magician to cause an exceptionally high tide that covers all the rocks, which he does.  Arviragus returns safely, Dorigen confesses what she has agreed to, and Arviragus says that she must do what she has promised. Aurelius sees how distressed Dorigen is and releases her from her bond. The magician also releases Dorigen from his debt.

© John Welford

The reduced Canterbury Tales: Prologue to Wife of Bath's Tale

(The challenge was to write a complete story in exactly 100 words. So here is Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tale with each tale reduced to 100 words. This post contains the Prologue and the first six Tales.)

Prologue 

Farewell March, hello April. It’s Pilgrimage time! Off we go to Canterbury. This is a rum lot gathered at the Tabard in Southwark – a knight, his squire, a miller, a reeve, a whole load of religious people – most of whom are probably up to no good – and there’s a woman from Bath who’s got a few skeletons in the cupboard. I’m coming too of course - the name’s Geoffrey Chaucer.

Mine Host has a thought - suppose we pass the time by telling stories as we ride to Canterbury? I’ll write them down if you like – it could be fun!

Knight's Tale 

Palamon and Arcite are two knights imprisoned in a tower in Athens by Theseus. Both see Lady Emily from the tower and claim “dibs”. Arcite is released and exiled but returns to Athens and gets a job in Emily’s house. Palamon later escapes, meets Arcite and they agree to duel over their claim to Emily. Theseus finds out and the duel becomes a staged pitched battle. Emily prays that the winner will be the one who loves her most. The gods Venus and Saturn get involved, such that Palamon loses but Arcite dies from a fall. Palamon therefore marries Emily.

Miller's Tale 

Elderly carpenter John has young wife Alison who is much fancied by lodger Nicholas (an astrologer) and neighbour Absolon. Alison fancies Nicholas. Nicholas tell John that Noah’s Flood will happen again and persuades him to spend the night in a barrel tied to the rafters. Absolon asks Alison for a midnight kiss at the window, but she sticks her bare backside out at him instead. Absolon asks for another kiss later but plans to whack her rear end with a piece of hot metal. However, this time it’s Nicholas’s arse. He shouts “Water”, John cuts his rope and crashes down.

Reeve's Tale 

Students John and Aleyn think that Symkyn the miller is cheating their college. They spend the night at the mill, with everyone sleeping in the same room. Aleyn slips into bed with the miller’s teenage daughter, but John moves the baby’s cradle so that the miller’s wife gets into John’s bed on returning after getting up for a pee. Aleyn also gets it wrong by getting into bed with the miller and telling him (thinking it’s John) what he has just done to his daughter. Huge fight ends when the miller’s wife mistakenly hits the miller with a big stick.

Cook's Tale 

Apprentice Perkin, known as Reveller, drinks, dances and plays dice, but funds his gambling by stealing money from his employer, a grocer. The grocer thinks that he is likely to be a bad influence on the other apprentices and throws him out. Perkin finds new lodgings with a friend who is also a gambler. The friend’s wife runs a shop and substitutes her income with prostitution.

And that is all that Chaucer tells us. Did he ever finish the story? Was the manuscript lost? The chances are that the tale, involving gamblers and prostitutes, would have been another saucy one.

Man of Law's Tale 

Constance, daughter of the Christian Emperor of Rome, is shipwrecked in Northumberland and rescued by the constable of a nearby castle and his wife. When the wife is murdered, Constance is tried for the crime but found not guilty and King Alla marries her. As a result of trickery by the king’s mother, Constance and her son are set adrift at sea and end up in the Mediterranean. Her ship is discovered by a Roman senator, who, accompanied by Constance’s son, later meets King Alla who is visiting Rome. Constance is reunited with her father but then returns to England.

Wife of Bath's Tale 

On pain of death, a knight of King Arthur has a year to discover what women most desire and take his answer to the Queen. His time is nearly up when a witch tells him that the answer is “sovereignty in marriage”. The Queen says he’s right, but the witch then demands her side of the bargain, which is that the knight must marry her. The witch says that he can have her foul and old (and loyal) or fair and young (and flighty). He leaves the choice to her and she rewards him by being fair, young and true.

© John Welford

Clerihews

(A set of clerihews written for a writing group session) 

Queen Elizabeth the First
Was by no means the worst
It was best to be wary
Of her sister Queen Mary

Queen Victoria
Went to a trattoria
Albert sat down and snoozed
She wasn’t amused

Jeremy Corbyn
Found it absorbin’
To take copious notes
When campaigning for votes

Theresa May
Was discovered one day
In search of an exit
Other than Brexit

Nigel Farage
Went to his garage
His car was resplendent
And, of course, independent

Sam Allardyce
Does not need asking twice
He’ll declare black is white
If the money is right

William the Second
Was generally reckoned
A total disgrace
As well as red in the face

Edmund Clerihew Bentley
Always did things gently
When it came to writing verse
He was never less than terse

Margaret Thatcher?
No-one could catch her
As everyone would learn
She was not one to turn

Anthony Sher
Did not star in Ben Hur
His talents shone clear
In his Stratford King Lear

General George Gorringe
Was eating an orange
To celebrate the time
He provided a rhyme

Donald J Trump
Was given a thump
His chances are shrinking
Or is this wishful thinking?

Hillary Clinton
Was putting a tint on
When seeking votes, east or west
It’s always good to look your best

William Shakespeare
Often makes appear
For me, lots and lots
Of ideas for good plots

Charles John Huffam Dickens
The plot often thickens
In Bleak House there’s thick mist
But not in Oliver Twist

Geoffrey Chaucer
Drank from a saucer
As did most of the males
In his Canterbury Tales

King Richard the Third
Might have thought it absurd
That his bones would long fester
Neath a car park in Leicester

Percy Bysshe Shelley
Was putting on a welly
When out popped a toad –
But it didn’t get an ode

Emperor Nero
Was never a hero
He wrote many a Latin idyll
But he never played the fiddle

Emperor Commodus
Never kept the job in focus
He thought himself a doughty fighter
Instead? A nasty little blighter

Alistair McGowan
Has audiences wowin’
Footy’s his obsession
But he makes a good impression

© John Welford

A Bad Spell

The three witches were sitting round the cauldron on the blasted heath when Witch One felt her thumbs get a bit itchy. For reasons best left unexplored, this appeared to be the equivalent of the doorbell ringing in more conventional domestic situations.

“By the pricking of my thumbs”, she said, “something literary this way comes”.

“Don’t you mean ‘something wicked’?” asked Witch Two. “That’s what you usually say.”

“No”, said Witch One, “wicked produces quite a different thumb itch. The guy coming up the hill is someone who writes, I’m sure of it”.

And she was perfectly correct. A man emerged through the fog and filthy air who was quite clearly none other than the greatest writer of them all, namely William Shakespeare.

His reception was a little less friendly than he might have expected from three of his better-known creations.

“And what might you be after?” asked Witch Three. “If you want us to do a sequel to the Scottish play you’ve missed your chance. J K Rowling has scooped the witches in Scotland scene big time, and I don’t think that even you could get one over on her.”

“I’m sure you’re right”, said Bill. “But that’s not why I’m here. You see, I’ve got a bit of a problem that I think you can help me with”.

“If it’s anything in the bedroom department, count us out”, said Witch One. “What you get up to in your second best bed is entirely your problem”.

“No, it’s nothing like that”, said Bill. “Just listen for a minute and I’ll tell you.”

“OK”, said Witch Two. “Have a seat. Do you want a bit of supper while you’re here?  We’re trying out a few new ingredients – all those dogs’ tongues and newts’ eyes are so 11^th century. How does ‘librarian’s finger’ grab you? We sent our favourite hell hound to gather a few samples, although a few weeks ago he only got a nibble at quite a good one in Leicestershire. He’s a bit miffed about that.”

“If it’s all the same to you”, said Bill, “I’ll give it a miss this time”.

Instead, he turned to the matter that was bothering him.

“The problem”, he said, “is that I don’t seem to be very good at spelling. Even when I write my own name I can’t make up my mind how to spell it. I’d like to be a bit more consistent, and I was wondering if you could help me.”

“Of course we can,” said Witch Two. “Nothing could be easier once we use our magic ingredient.”

“Which is?”

“Alphabetti spaghetti”, said Witch Three. “We keep a large quantity in reserve for just such an occasion, plus the fact that we quite like it.”

“I’ve got just the spell for this”, said Witch Two. “You remember I mentioned librarians’ fingers?”

“I’m unlikely to forget”, said Bill.

“Well”, said Witch Two, “we’ll just throw a load of alphabetti spaghetti into the pot, add a generous quantity of librarians’ fingers and, because librarians are so clever, when we say the magic words the fingers will stir all the letters into the right order and you’ll never spell another word wrongly ever again.”

“And what is better”, said Witch One, “if we get it right this will apply to absolutely everyone in the English-speaking world - even Americans if we’re lucky”.

“And if you’re wrong?”

All three witches studiously pretended not to hear this.

Witch One poured a large quantity of alphabetti spaghetti into the cauldron, Witch Two added the librarians’ fingers, and Witch Three uttered the magic words:

“Hocus pocus bogus logus.”

“Just a second”, said Bill. “Did you say ‘bogus’ just then?”

“Don’t think so”, said Witch Three.

“Surely not”, said Witch Two.

“She said ‘hocus pocus bocus locus”, said Witch One. “I’m sure she did. It would be a bit odd if we cast a spell to make everyone spell properly and we couldn’t even spell the words of the spell.”

She laughed uproariously at this, as did the other two witches. William Shakespeare didn’t laugh.

The cauldron bubbled away for about five minutes, then it gave a wheezy sort of cough and spat out a number of spaghetti letters that fell on to the ground and spelled the words: “Spell complete – patent applied for”.

“So,” Bill said, “You are telling me that every time anyone writes a word from now on it will be spelled the same way in all circumstances, whatever the context and whoever is doing the writing.”

“That’s write”, said Witch One. “The librarians’ fingers have determined that their is now only won way of righting every word in the English language.”

“But sometimes you need too”, said Bill.

“Wye?” asked Witch Three.

“And sometimes you knead moor”, said Bill, “because some words sound the same but mein something different. Will you’re spell make shore that nobody ever gets it wrong?”

“Oh deer”, said Witch Two. “Probably knot”.

“Wee didn’t think of that”, said Witch One.

“Wheel get people writing lead instead of led and piece instead of peace,” said Witch Three.

“I’ve only won thing two say”, said Bill Shakespeare.

“Witch is?”

“Bloody Liberians”.

© John Welford