KING OFFA'S HA-HA

Well, well, well. After 1200 years, archaeologists decide that Offa's Dyke was a misnomer.

The mistake, of course, was due to the capitalisation and misapplication of the word dyke.

The media puts a rather biased anti-monarchy slant* on it . According to them, it's nothing to do with King Offa. After all,  a King wouldn't demean himself to do building work, they say; he simply claimed credit for what was already there. Nor was it intended as border control. If it had been, the EU would have filled it in by now

What has long been known in Mercia's  LGBT** community is that, in fact, it had been built by  a tribe of statuesque women to keep out men.

King Offa was a hairy, burly chap of manly appetites; he and  his court liked nothing better than a bit of a romp in the ha-ha (see?)

The dykes of Mercia, led by Offa's unyielding missus, Cynethryth (legend has it that he'd agreed to take her off her father's hands in exchange for a plot of fertile  land at Highgrove), were having none of that sort of thing and in a grand uprising, the likes of which we wouldn't see again until Greenham Common, they set to with their shovels, extending and deepening the King's ha-ha, thus  creating this monument of gigantic proportions.

So you see, what started out as King Offa's  ha- ha where he and his mates liked a bit of a laugh after a few meads, became this enormous trench thanks to some well-built females, and the court scribes, in what may be the only Anglo-Saxon pun to survive into modern language, named it after the King's consort, Offa's Dyke.

Disclaimers:
*The author points out that there are no persons of  Far Eastern origin in this tale
** If you are offended by anything in this tale, please take your woossiness elsewhere.

© Avril King

NOTHING NEW TONIGHT

      “Why did you never marry, Benny?” I asked as I plumped up his pillows and made him comfortable.
Benny smiled, toothless, “I was waiting for you me darling.”
      “Oh come on, you old devil, I'm serious. That photo of you in your uniform shows you were a handsome fellow.”
      “Don't want to talk about it.” His smile faded and he feigned sleep.
I checked his pulse and left the room quietly.
There were several of these old soldiers here now. It was a garrison town and many of its inhabitants had stayed on after their service.

Two o'clock in the morning and, as he did every night, Benny shuffled down the corridor to my desk. He liked to sit and have a cup of tea with me.
Tonight he looked sheepish,”I'm sorry, darling, I was rude earlier.”
     “It's OK, Benny, it's none of my business.”
     “No, it's not, but I shouldn't have been rude. That's always been my trouble.”
He sat down and wrapped his arthritic hands around the mug, “You know I nearly did. Marry I mean.”
I held my breath and said nothing. I waited for him to speak.
    “She was an usherette, you know. Down the Regal. She looked a bit like you, green eyes, golden hair, and pretty as a picture. We were courting for a couple of years and then she got in the family way. Her dad beat the hell out of me. By the time I got back from Malaya, they'd moved and I never saw her again.”
    “Oh Benny, I'm sorry. You have a child you never saw.” It wasn't a question.
     “I don't know, don't know if she had it,” he sighed. He stood up and shuffled back to his room.
I couldn't tell him now.
Sister Jackman took over at 6.
    “Everything OK?” she asked.
    “Nothing to report,” I replied as I put my coat on.
There was nothing new tonight.

© Avril King

A WELL KNOWN PHRASE OR SAYING

I was reading a children’s book I found in a charity shop. It was a bit “Girl’s Own” about a group of gymnasts who were competing for a place in a national team. The writing was deceptively simple, yet there were moments of sheer poetry: "Jessica’s mother brushed her daughter’s hair to a glorious shimmering cascade of pale honey , then with a practised twist , transformed it into a ball of woven gold."
Some of the tactics these girls used to knobble their competition would freeze your blood! Well, make you cross your legs, anyway. I liked the insight it gave into their minds. Having been a twelve year old girl once, albeit not sporty or competitive, I could relate to the ideas they have and the creative ways they think up to get the upper hand. Even so, I would never have guessed that those sweet little girls could be so vicious!
I’ll give you a summary of the story:
Four girls, all about twelve years old, were a team which had won competitions at local and county level. Of course, the national team would only select the very best girls from many teams all over the country.
The four in the story were from diverse backgrounds and we are shown, rather than told, what these were. I did think the names, such as Jessica  Ashley, Lauren and Kylie were unnecessarily stereotypical, and dated the story. All the same, their parents (and step-parents) were all supportive at some level, from buying the team’s outfits, to transporting them to competition venues.
Their instructor was an ex-army man whose own daughter had competed at national level. He was a hard man who demanded the best efforts and had no patience with excuses.
However, he was so focussed, he could not see the battle for supremacy which was going on under his nose.
The tale is almost an elimination contest, relating what was done to each girl, how she handled it and what she did to the others.
Although some of the sabotage was childish – and rather unlikely – such as clipping the seams in one girl’s leotard so that it came apart at a crucial moment; other incidents were downright ingenious. An example being the girl who came in early and spread Vaseline on the beam, then made sure she would not to be first to do that exercise. That one made my eyes water!

Gradually, each girl is foiled in her quest, until only one has a chance. Contrary to my expectations in a story for children, it is not the best girl who wins. It seems girls' fiction is no longer about morality tales.
The last chapter follows her to the final selection process in London, where she comes up against gymnasts who are not only better than her, but are even more competitive opponents. She comes home beaten but one gets the impression that she will be upping her game all round when she competes in the under 15s next year.

And that is how this book, called “On Her Beam”, ends.

© Avril King

NO KIDDING

      Carol enjoyed playing practical jokes but she didn't like being the butt of them.
We'd all been her victims and when she didn't turn up for our monthly girls' night out we, as girls do, talked about her.

It was Jeannie who came up with the idea. We would get our own back.

It took us the whole evening to work out the intricate plot. Maureen would direct and Susie offered to be our star player.

Next day I phoned Carol and, sounding treacherous, told her she was going to get tricked. I said “But we could turn it around and make Susie the patsy.”
She loved the idea and promised to play the innocent.
It was three weeks later that Carol invited us to her house. She would cook dinner for our girlie night.
We all met up and took a taxi to Carol's. When we arrived, the house was in darkness, but the door was ajar. We called out, but there was no reply. In stage whispers, we told Susie to go in and see what was what. She grinned and opened the kitchen door. There was Carol, on the floor with a carving knife handle sticking out of her chest. Susie gave a loud scream and fell into a dramatic faint.
We rushed in and all crowded round Susie, ignoring Carol completely. Maureen gasped, “She's dead! Susie's dead! She must have cracked her head when she fell!”
At this, Carol suddenly sat up. “What! What? It was a joke!” she cried.
We turned and looked at her, our mouths open dramatically. Then we burst out laughing. Carol looked stunned “You bitches!”

The we looked round and Susie was still lying there, blood pooling around her head.

© Avril King

ANYTHING YOU DO SAY...

 I'm the first to admit it, I'm not easy to get on with; a bit opinionated, to be honest. Mouthy, my mother used to say. Still, we all have our little quirks, don't we? Well, don't we? Do you want to tell me you're perfect? No, of course not.
They're used to me at work. I've been there since I left school, when God was a boy himself, my missus says. It's been good. Changed a bit of course. We haven't got a canteen any more. People bring in sandwiches and sit out in the smokers' shelter. We don't all smoke, only four of us actually, but I don't see why they should separate like, just 'cos it's not allowed indoors. Fancy making it illegal. Never heard the like. Never upset me and I'm the first to moan about anything.
Anyway, it seems I'm not flavour of the month with the new boss. The old one, well I say old one, but he's only been here ten years, he's decided to step back from the day to day running of the place and he's brought in somebody to run it for him.

TEASE

He wants me, I know that. He’s no different from the others, the hundreds, who’ve come here, watching me, hoping to take me home.

It’s been over a week now, since he first sat there, always in the same place. I love to tease him, moving closer and then, just as I see his eyes widen, I shimmy away. He must be new to this because he looks so hopeful and he concentrates on my every move.
The regulars simply pretend they aren’t interested, laughing and talking to the others sitting near them; but not him, he’s always alone. Oh, how he wants me.

He thinks I’m brainless; after all, I’m here, in this place, shimmering and moving sinuously in front of them, because I know nothing else. He doesn’t realise that I’ve been here a long time and I’m older than I look. I am at home here and he is not.
Ah yes, I’ve come close to being caught a few times, but I change like the breeze and it keeps them all coming back.

This one hopes he’s in with a chance, because he has something he thinks will lure me within reach. It looks tempting, I’ll admit, and he seems to have so much of it. He can afford to waste a lot on me before he gives up.

It’s getting late now and the atmosphere is changing; time for me to leave. He will pack up his rod and line and go home - disappointed again. 

©Avril King

Goodbye

His gnarled and calloused hand moves towards the soft, but deformed, fingers and gently squeezes, without pressure, but in a way that she knows it is him and that he is there, as he has been for fifty years; to care, to love, and just to be with her.
She feels him raise her hand to his dry lips – as she feels the tear that falls from his rheumy eye on to the parchment skin of her hand.
She sighs a last, long sigh.
He whispers, “See you soon.”

© Avril King 

Tristan

It had never occurred to Tristan that any ladies of his congregation would attend a hen night.
Their average age was 67 and they were typical country gentlewomen.
All the same, he thought it best to play safe so he always wore the fake moustache for his
routine, just in case any young people from the area were in the audience.
He was a clean cut blond young man of 35, and a country vicar’s stipend doesn’t go far, so
the £40 or £50 once or twice a week came in handy.

TOMO

For Tomo, who was born to an Ethiopian Jewish mother and an Eritrean Moslem father, life was never going to be easy.

Mr ICENI

That’s the third time she’s come back with the chariot bent to buggery.
Ever since she got tied up with Queen Boudicca’s gang, she’s been hell to live with.