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Chairman: John MonaghanAddress: 189, Canterbury Road, Harrow, HAl 4PA
Tel: 020 8863 4826
E-Mail: John Monaghan
Maggie
When I saw the news about you, Maggie, on Facebook,I immediately passed it on to friends;
like a quick joke with an easy punchline
that anyone might enjoy. Then learning
that you lived your last at the Ritz,
I thought, well, that says a lot
about the legacy of care you’ve left
for older people in this country.
I dig my memory, to find your place in it,
And it slowly dawns, how your dogma
dogged my childhood, and your bouffant
over-shadowed my teens.
“A Libran, just like dad” mum would tease;
we’d see his nostrils flare. But somehow
we knew not to mock you beyond our four walls,
as many around us during those years -
neighbours, family, schoolfriends’ parents -
continued, quietly, ticking the Tory box; sanctioning
three times your steely rule.
In the 80’s we had the news on nightly,
And I learnt names like Goose Green and Stanley.
One summer, one night, on our 3rd year Juniors trip
to Cwm Pennant in Wales - after dubbing boots
and scoffing our jam sandwich supper,
Mrs Broadribb in pink hand-knitted mohair
came up to our dormitory: “Wonderful news children!
The Argentinians have surrendered!” and all my classmates cheered,
it was like the Jubilee.
I felt left out as I watched victorious 9 year olds
jumping on bunks, and heard dad’s disgust ring in my ears,
“What does Britain want with an island 8000 miles away?”
The Libran’s sense of natural justice, for seeing both sides,
yet you, Mrs T, were never one for turning.
Today, I feel detached from the tributes and the vitriol.
Powerless to prevent your lavish state funeral: spare me the details of who’s attending and what they have to say.
Your time on earth has passed Maggie, you left your job well done.
And now like the silent pit machinery, there’s nowt left for you to do.
This time next week you’ll be more buried than the Belgrano.
İTazeem Moledina 2013
Richard Foreman
Speaker Richard Foreman at Harrow Writers' Circle meeting speaking about EndeavourPress.com and his book Warsaw to author and member Angela Lansburycopyright Angela Lansbury
Harrow Station, School & Shops
verse 1237ba performance poem
by Angela Lansbury
Harrow!*
Take the Met line train to Harrow
Bouncing like an old wheel barrow
Quicker than walking - or a horse
Beats bikes puffing uphill, of course
Glimpse the church spire, or, if stopping
Cost a coffee, do prime shopping*
Maybe have tea in Harrow School
’though some boys hated canes and rules
See where Churchill and schoolboys ate
With future kings and heads of state
Most think fondly of their school days
The Sinner’s Bible’s on display
The one where the printer forgot
To insert the vital word not
Commanded all readers to sin
Now, punctuation - don’t begin!
That school founded to teach the poor
Is not restricted any more
It’s known worldwide for its success
’though boys still wear rich fancy dress
Their gift to us which I like most
The pillar box for the penny post
When you mail off worldwide or near
Trollope, who thought of that, schooled here!
Plenty for tourists to admire
Byron wrote, sat on a tombstone
He loved the church and Allegra
So it’s his five-year-old’s last home
When your train bounces off again
Look back at the hillside and stare
Point out the landmark to your friends
A heritage which we all share
Quicker than walking - or a horse
Beats bikes puffing uphill, of course
Bouncing like an old wheel barrow
Take fast Met line trains, to - Harrow!
(alternative ending)
Forget the other surly blighters
Meet the happy Harrow Writers.
-ends-
copyright Angela Lansbury 2012
The New Apprentice By Peter Lowthian
The sun had yet to rise when Sergius took the new apprentice into his crowded workshop. As he opened the door the fresh smell of newly worked wood reached them. Some pale light coming through a narrow window revealed a clean-looking beam on Sergius’ workbench. The apprentice looked vaguely interested:
‘What kind of wood is that?’ he asked.
‘The expensive kind,’ said Sergius.
‘Do you mean cedar?’
‘No, not that expensive, and remember what I told you yesterday, cedar has a pungent smell. This is olive wood.’
‘Why olive?’
‘Well we don’t use cheap soft woods - they don’t last long enough.’
‘Oh.’
Sergius frowned. He was not sure if this new apprentice was intelligent enough. He spoke: ‘Well young man, I hear that you’re good at writing. Is that correct?’
‘Yes sir, I can write in four languages.’
‘Hmm, that could be useful. Anyway, standing over there in the corner are some long beams - do you see them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you strong enough to lift one?’
‘Well, yeah, I think so.’
‘Then bring one over here to the bench, will you?’
At this the young man went over and struggled to lift one of the beams. ‘All right,’ said Sergius, ‘drag it if you can’t lift it.’ The apprentice duly dragged it.
‘Now this one’s been used many times,’ explained the older man, as he picked up a narrow length of clean wood, and a small iron nail, from a pot on the back of his bench.
‘As you can see,’ he continued, ‘there’s a sort of tongue on the end of the beam. Do you know what that is?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s a tenon. It’s made to fit into a hole in our new beam.’
‘What hole - I don’t see no hole?’
As he said this Sergius slapped him across his ear. ‘Just use your tongue a bit less and your ears a bit more,’ he snapped. ‘Haven’t I already told you that my first job today is to finish this new beam?’
‘Yeah,’ mumbled the apprentice, as he rubbed his ear.
‘Right, then watch closely.’
Sergius then showed his apprentice the narrow length of wood, and pointed out three notches on it:
‘Now this piece of wood is a cubit long. This first notch, near the end, measures half the length of the hole I’m about to make, and the other two notches, close to the other end, measure the width of the hole. Can you tell me what we call the hole?’
‘No.’
‘Well it’s a mortise. Now, how long is the olive beam?’
‘Over two cubits I guess.’
‘Good, and my stick here is how long?’
‘Er, a cubit?’
‘That’s right, so how do I find the centre of the beam?
‘I know - you put it on a small piece of wood and see where it balances.’
Sergius smacked him again. ‘Don’t try to be smart,’ he growled, ‘balancing won’t always give you the dead centre anyway; but I can quickly find the centre with this stick of mine.’
With that, he placed the stick on the olive beam, and judged how far it had to be placed from each end. He then scratched a mark, using the iron nail. Having done this, he marked out the width of the mortise hole. Then as he turned to the apprentice, he suddenly recalled his name.
‘Right Andy,’ he said, ‘how long is this hole going to be, and how are we going to cut it out?’
‘Er, I don’t know.’
Sergius sighed. ‘Didn’t I show you this notch,’ he shouted, ‘this notch which measures half the length of the hole?’
‘Er, oh yeah, but if that t-tenon has to be in the m-mortise, why not use the tenon to mark off the size of the hole?’
‘Ah,’ said Sergius, ‘I’m glad that you can think for yourself. I was beginning to doubt it. But, as you’ve already discovered, that beam is heavy. So, it’s much easier to use this stick to mark out the mortise. Does that make sense?’
‘I guess so.’
‘There’s no guessing involved,’ grunted Sergius. ‘Now, what do we use to make the hole?’
‘A chisel?’
‘Yes, what else?’
‘A mallet.’
‘Uh huh, what else?’ Andy looked blank.
‘Well,’ said Sergius, ‘we don’t have all day. We need something to speed up the process - any ideas?’ The apprentice had no ideas.
‘Do you know what a bow drill is?’ prompted Sergius.
‘Oh yeah, there’s one hanging up over there,’ said Andy, as he went to get it. He had, however, forgotten what was on the floor. His toe caught the beam, and he fell heavily towards the workshop wall. While desperately trying to save himself, he grabbed at an adze that was hanging there. Although this helped him avoid hitting a large nail sticking out of the wall, the adze was pulled off its hook. It landed on the tiled floor with a crash.
‘You clumsy fool!’ shouted Sergius. ‘What have you done to my adze? Bring it here to me.’
When Andy had done this, Sergius examined it. Surprisingly it seemed undamaged. Yet something had broken. Sergius went over to the spot where the adze had fallen. A large clay tile had shattered.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Andy, ‘I didn’t mean to damage anything, I ...’
‘Be quiet,’ interrupted Sergius, ‘and bring me the lamp.’
With the workshop’s oil lamp in his hand, the old carpenter bent down to examine the broken tile. He soon assessed that it had broken because there was a void beneath it. A part of the tile had fallen into this void, leaving just enough room for Sergius’ hand. Gingerly, he inserted his fingers. He felt a hard leather bag. As he tried to lift it, the leather tore away. Some dust rose from the hole, and he heard the soft tinkling of metal.
‘What is it?’ asked Andy.
‘My boy,’ said Sergius, in a soft voice, ‘I think your fall has uncovered a hidden treasure.’
‘Wow!’
‘Yes, my boy, it’s worth a wow.’ said Sergius, as he pulled a metal coin from the hole. It glittered in the light of the oil lamp.
‘Is it g-gold?’ stammered Andy. Sergius wasn’t sure, but when he had taken the coin over to the narrow window, he announced that it was electrum. Andy’s face dropped, but Sergius smiled.
‘Don’t be disappointed,’ said Sergius. ‘Electrum is a mixture of silver and gold, and there’s quite a lot of gold in this coin.’
Soon, Sergius had recovered 43 coins from the hoard: some electrum, some silver, and a few gold ones.
‘How did they get there?’ Andy enquired.
‘Well, I think that this room was once part of a priest’s house - about eighty years ago. My guess is that he buried the coins there for safety, but never had chance to retrieve them.’
‘Can we keep them?’
‘Well, we found them, but don’t tell anyone about this. We don’t want some greedy priest claiming that they are his.’
As he said this he heard heavy footsteps approaching. Motioning Andy to stand in front of the hole in the floor, Sergius tightened his waistband and scooped all the coins into the top of his tunic. The door opened. A soldier stood there.
‘Hello Sergius,’ said the soldier. ‘I suppose you know what we want this morning?’
‘Yes, I have been told,’ said Sergius. ‘How many do you need?’
‘We’re not sure yet,’ said the soldier, ‘but you had better have four assemblies ready.’
‘Right.’
The soldier turned on his heels and departed.
Andy’s heart was beating fast: ‘Can I tell my mother about the coins?’ he whispered. Sergius pondered this for a moment.
‘No,’ he said, ‘but, as I owe you something for finding them, I’ll give you twice the wages I normally pay, for the next six moons. How’s that?’
‘Fine,’ said Andy, who knew little about the value of the coins. ‘Thanks a lot.’
Sergius, however, was already contemplating his return to Rome. He was sure that this cache of coins would be sufficient to pay for his passage, and with enough left over to buy a small villa. Abruptly, he remembered the mortise.
‘Right,’ said Sergius, ‘get the drill, don’t fall over again, and cover up that hole with a length of wood.’
Having got the drill, Sergius quickly drilled out the mortise, and finished it off with a chisel. He then got Andy to check that it fitted the tenon.
‘Wow,’ said Andy, ‘it’s a perfect fit.’
‘That comes from experience,’ commented Sergius.
‘Why does the tongue stick out so much, beyond the beam?’ asked Andy.
‘You should know the answer to that,’ snapped Sergius. He was about to admonish his apprentice once more, when he heard the clink of armour outside. The soldier had returned. He came in and gave Sergius a wax writing pad, telling him to return this when he had finished with it. Sergius nodded, and confirmed that everything would be ready in an hour’s time.
The next hour flew swiftly by, as Sergius and his apprentice worked hard to meet their deadline. They made it with moments to spare then, after another hour or so of intense instruction from Sergius, Andy was sent home for the rest of the day. He was hot and tired.
It was late that afternoon when Andy was roused from a deep sleep, by his mother. ‘How long have you been asleep?’ she demanded.
‘Er, since before noon,’ answered the yawning Andy.
‘Did you have anything to eat?’
‘Er, no, you weren’t here and, er, well, I was so tired I went straight to bed.’
His mother looked annoyed: ‘Do you know where I’ve been?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Well I recognized your writing today, but I didn’t feel any pride.’
‘Oh, I thought it was all right - did I make a mistake?’
‘No, I made a mistake in getting you involved with that Sergius.’
‘Well he’s been all right really, we made up three complete assemblies today, and he’s er, paying me very well.’
‘Assemblies is it? I suppose that’s what Sergius calls them. Well, changing the name doesn’t make them less odious than they are. I saw the whole business today. Your writing, in three languages, nailed to one of those so-called “assemblies”. Yes, “the King of the Jews”. Do you know why Pilate called him that?’
‘No.’
‘Well, your father saw it too, and he thinks it was a joke, but we saw how that man died. He was no criminal you know. In fact, I’m convinced that he really was our long-promised king.’
As she said this, tears ran down her cheek.
‘Wow,’ thought Andy, ‘how was I supposed to know that?’ but he put his arm around his mother, and shared her sobs.
‘What will happen now?’ he asked.
Iron Is Not Immortal - Peter Lowthian
Set during the dramatic and exciting period of the reign of Alexander the Great the new novel by author P T Lowthian is full of the historical detail and depth of description that the modern reader demands. All the action takes place during Alexander’s seven-month siege of the fortified island of Tyre, in 332 BC, and is closely based on the known history of that time, with a plot impelled forward by the advancing Greek army and the mission of its hero. The main protagonist Zahdel is to learn from many adventures before he is changed forever by his profound experience in Galilee, that changes him in a way he could never imagine. Although an exciting and well told story Iron is not Immortal holds true as a strong moral tale of our times when many are at the mercy of the forces of History and must make their own stand as best they can.
ROAD WORKS - Drives of a Lifetime - Brian Bold
In 1964 Brian Bold hitchhikes from London to Geneva to find his fourth girlfriend and so begins a journey of over forty years. Driving more than twenty cars, nearly every one he's owned, he travels along the minor roads of personal fortune and the motorways of social and technological change. Travelling but never quite arriving, he breaks down on the way to the Beatles' Cavern Club in Liverpool on the night of Kennedy's assassination, races an Austin Maestro at the Silverstone Grand Prix circuit, has a secret meeting with John Major the Prime Minister, and dresses up in another man's clothes. Often hilarious, sometimes poignant, always engaging, these stories of a family, told through the car journeys they make, will probably provide echoes to your own driving history. Read this as a love story, a travelogue, a memoir,as well as perhaps a mirror of your own life's journeys.Print: £7.99
Download: £3.00
To buy click on: lulu.com
Also Available from Amazon
To buy click on: amazon.com
FIRST COARSE - Brian Bold
Looking for a diversion? Take a few flights of fancy with FIRST COARSE - Tales of murder,mystery and intrigue, with a touch of sex and humour, laced with technology Read how developments in virtual reality might let you visit long lost relatives. Meet David who may be losing his masculinity, and Dotto, the pixalating artist. Follow the search for a first love and hear the golfer's story that involves more than playing a round. In between, discover how to write in the dark, what the government could do about texting and catch up with a few characters facing problems.Print: £5.70
Download: £2.37
To buy click on: lulu.com
