Diet, by Peter Morford

When Dr Bell retired he realised he would have to keep out of his wife’s way during the day. After all, she was used to having the house to herself – alone that is, except for the constant flow of WI members for coffee, Ladies’ groups for lunch and sewing groups for conversation.
  At first, the retired doctor bought himself a glorified garden shed, 12 x 12, insulated, heated, coffee maker in obedient reach. This didn’t work too well because when the female hordes descended, he would all too often be called on to collect stragglers, meet Mrs so and so who urgently but unreasonably wanted to meet him, or use his male muscle to unscrew lids. His answer was to go out.
Walk a mile to the town and enjoy coffee in the Hospice Coffee and Bookshop. Old friends, patients and colleagues would be there. Soon, refreshed, he could set off for a longer walk, lunch in The Swan and head for home when the coast was clear. Like many a comfortably-off retiree, he was mean about his spending. Waterstones were there to tempt him, but he told himself that he had much more choice in a second-hand bookshop, especially if it were a charity. Happily admitting to being a parasite, he collected on the cheap.
  One day, in the Hospice Shop, the manager joined him at his table where he was reading a book he intended to buy.
“You spend a lot of time in here, Dr Bell. How would you like to volunteer an hour or two per week. The books are not in perfect order, but you’d soon fix that.”
Bell stirred his coffee and pretended to think for a moment.
“OK. Monday and Wednesday mornings any help?”
“I’m grateful.” Dr Bell was now a Friend of the Hospice.
Very soon his hour or two became almost a daily duty. Then it became four days a week. His wife barely noticed because the summer tournaments had started.

He only read novels these days. When he took over, they were arranged in rough alphabetical order. Sometimes, to his annoyance, Frank Herbert would be standing next to Frayn; Hardy among the Ts. He set about curing this untidiness. Very soon customers remarked on how nice everything was – except the bottom shelf. He was upset by that area of disorder. He knew that every charity shop had no idea how to handle what he called non-books. Who brought them in the first place? Those gardening books were Dad’s Christmas presents, a few years ago. Since then his back has collapsed and he had to smuggle the books to charity. The aged road atlases; expensively self-published memoirs and generously-advanced politicians’ autobiographies had very limited shelf life. Worse still, were the ghosted footballers’ and actors’ stories; business and Self-improvement books, written by people who feel they have the divine right to tell us how to run our lives. The worst clutter, according to Dr Bell, was the gluttony of the cookery books. Most of us are too fat already. Then there are the diet gurus. Go Vegan; starve two days a week, live on seaweed and carrots; drink white wine. Diet or you die. The unwanted books collected dust and took up valuable selling space. The people who support the hospice wanted to read stories. For them the whole bottom shelf could be pulped.
   Dr Bell agreed. With no qualms, he removed a few, then a lot, day by day. Kind supporters brought more in. He suspected Oxfam when he saw an old National Trust publication which he had kindly slipped onto their shelf a week before.

Prometheus on his rock, by Martin White

Come in. come in. Welcome. I don’t see many people this days. Here let me give you some water. You must be thirsty after that long climb up the mountain. Beautiful Isn’t it ?

Sweet smelling herbs at this time of the year. And those magnificent eagles flying above. Did you see any vultures. No? That’s a mercy. We can do without vultures, I can tell you. So want do you want with me? I am very old now.. I live very simply as you can see. I keep myself in isolation now . I don’t think I would be welcome in the world of men in these tattered clothes .I forage away on the mountain and that gives me enough to eat. And of course I still have this, This little fire in this pit. I have to be very careful to keep it alight.

That flame has caused me a lot of trouble I can tell you. I spend a lot of time watching it pondering on those happenings all that time ago .But perhaps that is why you are here? To hear my story. I expect you know about my fifteen minutes of fame. Well it was more than fifteen minutes I can tell you. Thirty years on this rock. chained with heavy metal shackles. Look you can still see the scars on my wrists and ankles. And when the sun rose , that great vulture came with a terrible flapping of wings, and a cry that sounded as if it came from the depths of hell. That sharp beak pecked at my innards every day, every day for thirty years. I was in agony I can tell you. And every night I lay there waiting for the pain to subside  as my organs healed and I was able to have an hour or so of some respite. But when the sun rose the it all started again.  Back came that monstrous bird, pecking and gouging. I thought it would never end.

All this came about because of a disagreement the Great One, Zeus, He Who Had To Be Obeyed. When my brothers and I were giving gifts to men, he told us not to give them fire. I could see that men would never thrive denied this power. If it were up to Zeus he would have left them as clay. I suppose he was frightened that one day men would forget him and all the other gods. Talk about ego! But I knew I had to do something. And so one night when all the gods were asleep I stole into the temple where the divine flame burned, lit a taper  and smuggled it out past the keepers of the flame. They were all asleep they never saw me. As the sun rose the next day I gave the taper to the race  of men, and they had fire! 

Well, when Mr High and Mighty  saw what I had done he went into one of his rages. 

“Prometheus” he roared,”You‘ve gone too far this time, with all your tricks and subterfuges.“ And the next thing I knew here I was chained to this rock. And all my troubles and torments began.

When I thought about it, and I had a long time to think about it, I came to see the Great One had a point. Yes, men made iron with fire, which they could use for making ploughshares. But they also used the iron to make weapons to kill each other. That I did not foresee. But even that was Zeus’ doing. In his rage he had Pandora fashioned and the silly girl let all the evils of the world out of that jewelled box she was supposed to take care of. Men certainly got their fill of jealousy and greed. She a whole lot of disease was released as well and that’s causing a lot of trouble. But men also used to sit around their fires at night. And that’s when a lot of knowledge got shared I am sure.They learned to communicate with each other, and tell stories and have dreams.That’s how they started to build great civilisations. Perhaps Clever Clogs one was right, perhaps men were not ready for such a powerful tool, perhaps they lacked wisdom, and things would get out of hand. 

But I could not see why I had to suffer so. But once he gets into one of his rages anything can happen, and usually does. Well at long last the Great One must have relented. One beautiful morning I slept late, that was unusual. When I woke the sun had risen quite high in the sky and all was quiet, except for the rustling of the trees, water bubbling out of that spring there and lovely birdsong all around. My chains lay broken on the ground. In front of me was a man sitting there, holding a massive sword. He was not exactly old, but not young either. Well built. He said something about looking for the golden apples. Could I help? Some task he had to complete. I think he was an apprentice god, or some such thing. Hercules he said his name was. Anyway he had shot the vulture and freed me from my chains. I thanked him and told him I couldn’t help him find his apples. He looked a bit disappointed and went on his way. But best of all I was free of all that torment and I never saw a vulture again. I often wonder if he found those apples.

I have had a long time to reflect on what what Mister Know it All was trying to teach me. I think it was humility. Not that he does very well in that department either. So I live quietly here. I am able to see what men are doing in that world of theirs and it doesn’t seem to be going very well, does it? Sometimes people said I had the gift of forethought. Well that’s as may be. The way I look at it that in the world of men pride has taken hold, arrogance even, and a bit of humility would not go amiss. But I don’t know how to tell them this. I think they should sit down for a while and work it out for themselves. Perhaps you can suggest it to them when you go back down?

May, by Adrian Perks

Come now May, you stupid month, slipped away
into the lost dreams of consciousness.
I'm aware of the days but not the date.
I'm aware mostly of the hours. Love in quarantine.
A lonely boy sits in the field, waiting for his girl,
the few moments that they have got.
He picks flowers for her, but they cannot touch.
It's lots like this that pull at the heart
of the lonely poet who cannot write
words to sum up the boredom of this,
the frustration, the comfortableness that he has got.
the walks in the park that he enjoys
the trees that overgrow the path,
full of blossom, and flowers,and the lost teddy bears staring out of windows..

First Impressions, by Anthony Bloor

Doncaster and Darlington were lovers. Or so he thought. But he wasn’t even 10 yet, and what did he know about love? Mysterious bonds with parents and siblings, a mix of emotions too deep to explore, and a passion for football, his local team. And a passion for collecting things – lollipop wrappers and bubblegum cards. And football programmes, chosen for him by a mail order firm. A lucky dip, and in the beginning there they were – Doncaster and Darlington, always together in the pile, always in the same division, so close they seemed to be chasing each other – and they always seemed to be playing each other. They weren’t married, obviously, because they were football teams and also places, up north somewhere. But they were always paired in the tables, hand in hand, promoted together and relegated together – and with a name like darling, they must be lovers, he thought.

Occasionally there was Derby, popping up in the pile to disrupt the sequence. But Derby was familiar – a bus-ride away – and Derby was bad news. A friend had told him that Derby fans had head-butted him just because he was wearing the wrong-coloured scarf. That’s why they’re called the Rams, he said. Didn’t you know? No, he said, he didn’t know, but the programme had a ram’s head on the cover, butting in between Doncaster and Darlington, like a spoiler at the wedding who objects to the couple's joining. But the joining continued regardless.

Years later, what had changed? He knew now that Doncaster was near Sheffield and Darlington near Newcastle. Miles apart, and a slim chance of playing each other because Doncaster was still bouncing up and down the divisions, while Darlington had drifted into non-league obscurity, and they'd only be playing each other in the beginning in the programmes that had been chosen for him, supposedly at random. But he'd grown up with a mental picture of the UK, moulded by those kick-off snapshots of 92 teams which were also places.

And somewhere in the picture, there was Doncaster and Darlington, still paired, and joined at the hip like Siamese twins. Or rather, like a loving couple, the Don and his Darling; the man of steel with his consort, who wears a Quaker’s hat. Those mysterious bonds, that mix of emotions too deep to explore – had anything changed? Decades had passed; yet Doncaster and Darlington were still coupled. So perhaps it was a marriage after all, even though they were football teams and also places. It was a marriage because certain beginnings are creative times, times spanning who knows how long when anything is possible, and chance comes along to tie things together – tied with a knot that’s impossible to unravel, and stored in a mental cupboard for evermore. Doncaster and Darlington were lovers, and that was a fact.

A Letter from Boris, by Georgia Kelly

(This poem is called "A National Home", by Boris Johnson and me.  I tried to use blackout-style poetry for this in order to spread a more positive message than the one Boris Johnson sent out to 30 million homes. I also wanted to try and recreate the way in which the government used to censor soldiers' letters in other national crises , such as the First World War. Now we can all censor a letter from the government.
  The asterisks represent words blacked out.)


                                10 DOWNING STREET
                           LONDON SW1A 2AA

THE PRIME MINISTER


I am **************************************** taking *******
in *************** life ************************** dramatically.
We *** feel the profound impact of ****************************
love ***** and ******

******************************************* to **** live ***
*************************************************** for one
very simple reason.

********* people *******************************************
**********************************************************
**************** need *************************************
*********

*************************************************** a home
********** not ********************************************
****************************************************
********************** seeking ****** attention ***************
**********************************

**********************************************************
********************* from anyone. *************************
************************* people break **********************
********************

*********************************************** you ********
******************* will do whatever it takes *******************
*********

***********************************************************
****** to *************** find********************************

******************************* the right *********************

********************************************** advice********

*** we must do.

**** important ********************** things ********************
*************************************************************
************************************* so *** life can ***********
*******

********************************** be ************************
************ fantastic *****************************************
and *********************************************************
*************magnificent ***************

*************************************************** hundreds
of thousands ********* volunteer ** to help the most vulnerable ** with
that great **** spirit ********************** we will be *** together

************* a *********************national ******************
home ************************************


       Boris Johnson and Georgia Kelly

A Letter, by Peter Shilston

The envelope had fallen face downwards on the mat. Nigel ripped it open without bothering to turn it over. Inside was a single sheet of paper. There was no sender's address at the top, and the writing was in careful block capitals.
   "Mister Williams", he read. But that wasn't him: Mr Williams had been the previous occupant of the house. Really, the man should have informed the Post Office he was moving, not to mention telling his correspondents!
   "Mister Williams, you still haven't paid us the ten thousand. We will be sending someone round to collect it".
   He read the message three times, after which he was shaking with fear. What had this man Williams been up to? He knew nothing about him at all; had never even met him. The property was vacant when he moved in; the letting agent had shown him round an empty house. Now Williams's misdeeds, whatever they might have been, were catching up with him. That must have been why he'd left without a forwarding address. And here HE, Nigel, was; trapped and helpless, having to answer for someone else's crimes!      A chill crawled up his spine as he imagined what would happen: a couple of thugs would come to the door and he'd try to explain that he wasn't Williams but they wouldn't believe him and ......... No, he couldn't bear even to think about it! They were probably watching the house even now! He must escape! There wasn't a moment to lose!
   Without even bothering to pick up his coat, he ran to the kitchen door and outside to the rear garden, with some thought of getting away through the back hedge. But he was too late! There was a man, dark under the shadow of the trees, coming round the corner of the house and advancing towards him! Nigel stood there, tembling and quite incapable of movement, as time froze, and then the figure spoke.
"Morning, Nigel! How are you?"
"Michael! Oh thank goodness! You can't imagine how relieved I am it's you! But it was a rotten trick to play with that letter. You know what my nerves are like!"
"What trick? What letter?"
The cold panicky feeling started again, but at least he wasn't isolated and on his own any more.
"I got a letter just now, threatening me. Or not me exactly, but ......... Wait; I'll get it and show you".
But the letter wasn't there. He scrabbled around ineffectually for a while, and finally said, lamely, "I don't seem to be able to find it. But it was here!"
"That's all right, Nigel", said Michael. "I am your doctor, and I quite understand". Yes indeed: it was becoming more complex and fascinating by the day, the case of Nigel Williams.

Whitewash, by Peter Morford

When they found the first cave paintings, the experts thought they were about 20,000 years old. They praised the draughtsmanship and realism, and if one buffalo in Lascaux appears to have two rear and three front, legs, nobody worried.
As time went by they found ancient art in every continent. In Australia the dating was 28,000 years: Borneo 40-52,000, Iberia 64,000 years. Three thousand generations. In Borneo they were still painting in the last 100 years and palaeontologists are running classes on tv.
Silly question: Why did the cavemen paint their walls?
Answer – because canvas was too expensive.
Alternatively: Our ancestors had the same instincts as we do. They had imagination. They could see the galloping animal and carry the mental image back to the safety of their cave and draw it.
Well-decorated walls have always been a sign of cultural or economic power. I imagine a Neanderthal man, with a much bigger brain than mine, had the same instincts to outdo the Joneses. Later, the builders of cathedrals and pyramid had the same idea of aggrandizement.
Today, it’s expensive girlfriends, the fleets of expensive cars, the Old Masters, the ownership of Championship League football teams, the superyachts, Lear Jets and the £100m. houses in Belgravia which, declare the owner to be the big winner. Nothing changes.
Some time, perhaps during the Industrial Revolution, people living in mean houses in befouled industrial cities tried to improve their hovels by painting the walls with whitewash. It was cheap, easy to make and, when the smoke spoilt it; easy to repaint. The front step had to be scrubbed daily and repainted frequently if the lady of the house, mothering the survivors of her fertility, could earn respect in her neighbourhood.
Sunny Mediterranean houses are painted to reflect the heat. It isn’t art but it’s practical and, anyway, there were plenty of pictures in the museums.
Nowadays, whitewash doesn’t mean cleanliness but covering up the dirt. We’re all good at it, especially if we’re in public life. Persons of power or influence use it to the maximum. Governments and Ministries are especially liberal with the wide brush. When some blunder leads to loss of life or enormous expense to the taxpayer, there’s always someone demanding an Enquiry or Royal Commission. A big name is made chairman. Over well-paid months or years he digs enough dirt to justify further budget and time. Two or several million pounds later, he promises to publish his report- but not just yet. There’s the hope that the Public will have lost interest after all this time but there’s sometimes a pesky protester. In haste a bland and diluted report squirts forth and the Pesky Protester demands more.
Time for another barrel of whitewash. This type of whitewash is art. It’s the genius of cover-up and the freedom of the perpetrators to enjoy their pensions. It’s enough to make you proud if you’re a politician or a lawyer.