The Wall, by Peter Morford

 A wind in October blew Winston’s fence down. It wrecked my mini-greenhouse, my box hedge and my wife’s prized flowerbeds.

Straight after breakfast I decided to ask him what he was going to do about it. I rang his bell. No answer, but his car was there and he never walked anywhere. I went to the back of his house. There he was, standing by the remains looking thoughtful. He saw me. “Sorry about the fence,” he said. We studied the damage. “It’ll have to be rebuilt,” he said. “I’ll never use timber again. It never lasts. Every ten years or so I have to replace it. I’ll build a wall instead.”

I said I didn’t think he’d go to all that trouble at his age. He said, “Brick walls are best. I’ve got a book on building. If Churchill could enclose his garden I can. It might take a little time, that’s all,” he said as Molly called us to coffee.

The next day a couple of men came to remove the wreckage. Hardly had they gone when a small foundation digger arrived and Winston quickly took his first lesson. Before long he had a nice neat trench going the whole length of the garden.

Two days later a contractor poured the concrete foundation and Winston was soon ready to start building. I politely offered to help but he said something about retired bank managers and their dainty hands. I was quite relieved.

As I said, it was October, and a wet one at that. The trench flooded and Christmas loomed. His incontinent dog had taken a liking to my garden. Winston, wanting to remain a good neighbour, planted a stout post in the middle of his lawn to hold the long chain and the dog. I thanked him.

New Year was no better. Building would have to wait for warmer weather. In the meantime he took the advanced building course at the old Polytechnic.

After six months of open plan gardens I was used to the illusion of great space. It was almost a disappointment when, just before Easter, the bricks, cement and mixer arrived. In his new safety jacket and hard hat Winston was ready to start.

Realising that our presence wasn’t needed, Sheila and I headed south for the sun. For reasons I won’t go into now, our month’s holiday became two until, at last, it was time to turn back.

We got home in the afternoon. The wall looked, shall I say, right. The recycled bricks matched the house; the pointing was perfect. Winston was mowing his lawn. Seeing us, he said, “Welcome home. Molly’s got the tea. Tell us about your holiday.”

We talked about French roads and Roman traffic. I praised his wall and he said he would espalier a line of fruit trees and I should do the same.

Sheila and I spent a happy week planting flower beds. We left space for Blenheim Oranges and Conference Pears. A month later an urgent call from our eldest son in Australia made it pleasantly necessary to go east. Adelaide in May is a pleasant place.

In June we were home again. The wall was twelve feet high. I dialled Winston’s number.

The side effects of waves, by Nathalie Hildegarde Liege

 He lives at night. 

Breakfast at 2.00pm, lunch at 5.00pm, dinner listening to midnight radio. 

So many hours on his Nexus 7 tablet too.

His optician told him that he had to start eye muscle exercises using cards with patterns including circles, and that a grey film in his lenses would ease the side effect of waves in screens he uses.

His home is a small rented flat, top floor, opened to the world as well as to every sunset through a wide window. The curtains are of a flat green material, closed all day as he sleeps.

He has read many books, made of not the simplest sentences, and now attempts to share with people his writing. 

He wishes they will perceive that in his studies, his eyes are like the rays of dawn.

 © Nathalie Hildegarde Liege  

Coda, by Annabelle Jane Palling

 CODA

Like a poem racing to the page

Like a gift for living, with living as your gift

Like love that tastes you when you cannot taste it

Bursting galaxies of bright stars on your tongue

Until they fizzle out and you return.

Your papers in order, your house tidied

Your goodbyes scribed on the creamiest linen

Like an elegant smile

Retracing itself.

Crisis Management, by Paul Francis

 Crisis Management

You can’t switch leaders in a time of war –

until Ukraine is sorted, hell or bust.

(It’s only happened fourteen times before).

We need a man that nobody can trust.

Looked at objectively, it can’t be right

to let this nonsense force him to resign.

The lion of Kyiv, withdrawing from the fight,

for something trivial, like a parking fine?

If he goes, you can bet the Kremlin cheers.

Putin is scared, he’s running for his life

because Brit sanctions hurt him, it appears

- no more mixed doubles with the donor’s wife.

Big Dog must stay. This is his finest hour.

We’re Tories, and we must cling on to power.

The Last Laugh, by Peter Morford

Did I want this return to The City? I could retire or, perhaps find a local job. But what would I find in a sleepy seaside town?

When I wrote this in my 2021 diary it seemed that we were beating Covid19 and “back to normal” was the catchphrase. Soon after I wrote that piece I was called to Head Office. My Senior Associate told me that Doctor Birkett, the Human Resources Director, had invited me to lunch in the directors’ restaurant.

Interesting, I thought.

She greeted me, all smiles at 1.30. We exchanged pleasantries like sparring partners. Eventually, over coffee she got down to business.

“I hear that you’re fed up with commuting and prefer to work from home,” she said. “That doesn’t fit in with the Bank’s plans for you. The Board wants a general return to office working. I’m afraid that if you decide to exercise your right to continue home-working it could have an effect on your career. Let’s see, you’re 57, due to retire in three years.” 

   She was all steel now. “I suggest you look at your options. You might like to take this summary and let me have your comments on Friday.”

She walked over to the window to admire the view of Canary Wharf. I decided that The Bank wanted me out.

  I went home and phoned my legal adviser. He said that I could obey orders and commute daily. Or lose money by insisting on “my rights”. Or I could retire early after negotiating a pension enhancement. As a last resort I could appeal against the threat of constructive dismissal and push for damages.

Three months later I had a deal. I won a pension boost, a redundancy lump sum and compensation for loss of office. To celebrate, Anna and I took our new car to France and beyond.

It was a couple of months later when Ken Dale called me. Seeing his name on my phone I had the usual feeling of concern. Ken, you see, owned the nursing home where my mother had lived for several years.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he said “Your mum’s fine. She’ll outlive us all. My problem is – Our DJ, Sam Polley, lost his voice somewhere. Could you step into the breach for a couple of sessions? You mum nominated you.”

I said I knew nothing about popular music “Remember your audience,” he said. “They’re into Anne Shelton, Vera Lynne, even Presley, Beatles, Sinatra, Caterina Valente.”

“I’ve heard of her singing Malaguena,” I said.

“There you are, You’re an expert already.”

I did the show and enjoyed it when they gave me a big hand at the end. When I heard that Sam would take another month to recover I happily carried on. I realised that I enjoyed being silly in public.

That was a year ago. Sam’s voice is still unreliable. I’ve joined the local AmDram. We’re doing No Sex Please, We’re British. I play Brian Runnicles, without the athletics.

I’m not paid but I do get the last laugh.

Pink Moon, by Bethany Rivers

Pink Moon 

 

This is where it all begins 

except it doesn’t; there has 

been a long gestation; but this 

is where you see it begin. 

 

There are two kinds of black 

hole; the creative kind and the 

destructive kind except 

there isn’t; as it’s all the same. 

 

The creeping ground phlox; 

the pink points of happiness 

appear like stars in the lush green 

& the shad come to spawn. 

 

Crimson Ripple & Cupani flower, 

two couples amble & chatter, 

their laughter ripples the canal 

as the silent swan nests. 

 

The mother duck leads her ten 

ducklings away from the large bowl 

of water, their first swimming lesson 

done for the day, one duckling lies 

 

dead by the side of the porcelain. 

This is the time to remember 

songs of the sacred & how 

everything begins in the dark.

Annunciation

March 25th is the Feast of the Annunciation, when the Archangel Gabriel appears to the Virgin Mary. This episode is only mentioned in St. Luke's gospel, and no date is given, but if the Christ-child was born at the winter solstice, he must have been conceived at the spring equinox.