Mag # 144 - Walking Man

Andrew Wyeth - 'Squall'  1986

Walking Man is a local character. He goes past every day, sometimes several times a day, and he walks everywhere. He is a tall, spare man in his seventies - possibly eighties. He's been walking past my house now for many years, getting a little slower as he gets older................. but then don't we all?

I think he has arthritis as his knees are swollen and one doesn't straighten properly when he walks. He travels miles. In summer he wears short shorts, a singlet and thongs and goes down early in the morning to the beach for a swim - I know this because he has a towel around his neck. Later in the day he will be passing with his shopping bag - empty in one direction and full in the other.

In winter he wears a yellow slicker and sou'wester. He's usually still in his shorts and thongs, but last winter when it was quite cold he did wear trackies and trainers. I've only seen him dressed up once. I think he must have been to a wedding or a funeral. He had shiny shoes on that day.

Walking Man 'wombles'. I love to see what he collects. One day I was out in the front garden and heard a rumbling sound and wondered what it was. I didn't have long to wait to find out. It was Walking Man with one of those small luggage trolleys and a bath balanced on it. A full-sized bath! Another day he was trundling along with a larger trolley and a recliner chair balanced on it. I saw him on a bike once, too - just the once.

I don't know whether he sells stuff on, or he's got a backyard like a tip. He usually comes back with some interesting items when it's 'bulk rubbish' time and people have put stuff on the side of the road for the council to collect.

I like characters. They make life interesting.

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This lovely painting prompt was supplied once again 

by Tess Kincaid of Magpie Tales.

The place for poems and prose.

Mag # 143 - The Great War

Verdun 1917 by Felix Vallotton

When I was about twenty years old, I worked for a very small concern as secretary to the two bosses - one male and one female. The only other people employed by the company were two retired pensioners. One was an elderly spinster, whose name escapes me, - she kept the accounts - and the other was Arthur, who was in charge of packing and postage. They both only worked in the mornings. They were both very nice people and were very kind to me.

Arthur is the only person I ever knew who had been in the First World War, who spoke about it - briefly.  He must have been in his seventies at the time. He had a limp and when we were having our tea break one morning I asked him about it.

'First World War,' he said. 'That's where I got this.'
'Oh,' I said, being young and not knowing what an appropriate response might be.
'Aye, Ypres.' (Except he called it Wipers). 'I shot meself in the foot.'
'Did your gun go off by accident?'
'No, love, I shot meself on purpose to get out of the bloody place. It was an 'ell 'ole. Only got half a foot, but I didn't have to go back. That's why I'm 'ere today. I'm not the only one who did it either.'

That's all he said. Nothing more.

I only stayed in that job for about six weeks. The male boss was creepy. He was a tall man with thinning hair and blue eyes that were almost colourless. Arthur did the teas in the morning and it was my job to make the teas in the afternoon, and the boss would follow me into the kitchen. When he put his arm around my shoulder one time, I shrugged him away and handed in my notice the next morning. I was very naive but have always gone with my instincts. I think the female boss fancied me too, but I didn't realise that until years later (she wore tweed skirts and comfortable shoes and gave me a leather covered diary/notebook thing). 'Gay' wasn't even on my radar back then.

My own grandfather died in the First World War - my mother's father- and when mum's brother, Uncle Bill, died in 2010, aged 93, I found among his papers documents telling where his father's remains were buried.


(click to enlarge)

My Grandfather, Arthur; my
Grandmother Ellen, my mum Ethel
and her younger brother Arthur, who
died aged 4 from meningitis

My other Uncle Bill - really my great uncle - went off to the Great War too. I think he could possibly have also served in the second Boer War (1899 - 1902). He was always known as 'Drummer' and was held in great regard by the locals in his town. I found this out a couple of years later when chatting to the manager of another place I worked for, and he told me he came from the same small town and knew him well. I got the impression that the nickname 'Drummer' had something to do with war, but I really don't know. I don't think drummers were used in WW1, so the nickname might have been from a previous war. Neither he, nor my other Uncle Bill, who spent the Second World War in Burma with the Chindits spoke about it.

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My eldest grandchild, Rhys, was born on 11 November and he turned 18 yesterday.

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Thanks for the visual prompt for this piece go to

Tess Kincaid of Magpie Tales, where more stories 

and poems about the image can be found.

Mag #142 - A Weekend at the Lake

Charis, Lake Ediza, California
1937 by Edward Weston

This was not exactly what I had in mind when Edgar invited me to Lake Ediza. I had visions of a cottage by the lake and relaxing with a book, or perhaps messing about in a boat and a little swimming. It was not until I had accepted the invitation that the details were disclosed. Hiking and
climbing and .......... roughing it!!  Seriously? I had no idea what 'roughing it' meant. The cottage would have been my idea of roughing it. But no, sleeping under canvas and exerting oneself is Edgar's idea of an exciting weekend.

I had only met Edgar two weeks prior. He was introduced to me at the Country Club by Edward (who took this photograph). I wrongly assumed that he was the type to enjoy dining and dancing, as Edward does, which is why I accepted the invitation to a weekend at the lake, knowing that Edward was one of the party, too.

After all was explained to me, it was suggested that I kit myself out with some appropriate attire and the other woman in our adventure group - Mary Turlington-Fitzgerald - helped with the selection. Apparently, this is her idea of an exciting weekend, too. She's one of those 'tweedy' women, and she smokes a pipe. I have a feeling she is not fond of men. Enough said.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I ended up with this glamorous outfit. The boots alone took ten minutes each to put on. All that lacing! The photo is of me sitting-it-out by the lake. The others had all gone in for a swim, but I was so bone-weary after the day's slog that I didn't have the energy or the will to cope with the boots. They had all stripped naked and gone in, but I could tell from the amount of shrinkage that the water was very cold, so I was glad I hadn't bothered.

Tents were erected after the swim. The ground was rock-hard, and I didn't get much sleep that night either. We had to relieve ourselves behind rocks, and hope that nothing bit us while we were about it! That was a first for me!

It was certainly an experience. One that I will, hopefully, never have to repeat. I shall be sure, next time I'm invited anywhere, to get more information before committing myself.

Roughing-it indeed!

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The visual prompt kindly supplied by Tess Kincaid of Magpie Tales

where you will find more, interesting takes on this image.

Mag # 129 - A Formal Affair

A Dinner Table at Night - 1884 John Singer Sargent

What on earth was he thinking, asking me to dinner to meet his parents? We've only been stepping out together for a few weeks. I had no idea it was going to be a formal affair. He could've warned me. I felt as if I ought to be serving rather than sitting at the table. I think they thought so too. I had to sneak looks to see which bit of cutlery I was supposed to be using. I've never seen so many different knives and spoons. We've only ordinary knives and forks at home.


There were a great many awkward silences throughout the meal - sprinkled with questions about my family and situation. Well, what can you talk about when you come from different worlds? I'd no idea! Bertie always dresses smart and is a thorough gentleman. I knew he wasn't a labouring man, but I'd no idea they were monied. Mam'll have a fit. She's no time for toffs. I think when this meal's over so's the friendship. They've all but checked my teeth to see how old I am.


No, this'll never do! 


He's a lovely fellow but I'd never be at ease here ................ not that they're about to let that happen anyway. She's had a right frosty look on her face all evening, but her good breeding has forced her to be polite. He's chosen to ignore me, which suits me fine. 


I'll not have any wine. It will go straight to my head and then I might say something unkind, and I don't want to hurt Bertie's feelings. 


Oh, good, Bertie's fetched my coat. He must be able to see how uncomfortable I am. I'll thank them for the lovely meal and say it was nice to meet them, and that'll be that. We Coopers might not have money but we do have manners.

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Visual prompt kindly supplied by Tess Kincaid of Magpie Tales

where you can read lots of other posts for the image.

For some reason Blogger has added extra space between paragraphs, which I find quite irritating.

Mag # 128 - The Street Artist

Image by Zelko Nedic

He slipped his black hoodie on, grabbed his backpack full of paints and headed out of the door. Shadow was right behind him as usual. It was not his dog, but he didn't mind. He'd got used to the company on his clandestine night excursions. In a way he was glad he came. The dog was silent unless he could hear someone approaching and then he gave a quiet, low growl. It was almost as if Shadow  knew that what he was doing was wrong. He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he couldn't seem to stop.

Street art was his addiction. Banksy was his hero. By day he was a legitimate painter of property, but by night his alter-ego emerged. Not every night. He wasn't stupid. He chose nights that were cold or wet or both. Nights when there would be few people about to notice him lurking in the shadows, and he avoided the full moon too. He was getting bolder and finding places closer to busy streets and alleys. Some pieces took several hours to complete. He kept to himself and, as far as possible, tried not to have anything to do with other street artists. He considered art to be a solitary pursuit rather than a group activity.

He hated the taggers, who just marked everything they passed, like tomcats spraying. All the other stuff he enjoyed and appreciated - the beautiful; the social messages; the protests - it all took skill and a good eye.

He knew that one day his luck would run out, but with Shadow watching his back, hopefully it wouldn't be tonight.

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Visit Tess Kincaid's 'Magpie Tales' for more takes on this image

Magpie #79 - Once More unto the Time Machine, Dear Friends

unidentified photo, found in a Missouri antique shop

Well, this took me zooming back to the 50s!

When I was growing up cars were few and far between among the people I knew.  In fact, the only person who had a car on the street was Mr Edwards. He was a traveller in confectionery so needed a car for his work.  For all I know the car possibly belonged to his employer.  It was a black Ford Prefect and the license plate number was NAL 64. . . It's funny the things your brain chooses to retain.  

All cars back then were black.  No big decisions to be made about the colour.  Mr and Mrs Edwards (Dolly and Eric) and their two kids June and . . . . Eric had a telly too, which were also thin on the ground back then.  We were allowed to go and watch Children's Hour (yes, just one single hour per day!) on their telly.  Mr Edwards arrived home as it was finishing and he always sang the Andy Pandy song 'Time to go Home' to us.  That was our cue to leave.  He would bring in the big glass sweet jars and sometimes there would be some of the sticky contents left in the bottom which he would let us have.

At some later stage our family shared a car - an Austin Ruby with a Klaxon horn - with Uncle Ray and his family.  Both my father and Uncle Ray worked for my grandfather and their jobs also included sales, which is why they got the car (I think).  It could ,of course have belonged to my grandfather. I really don't know who it belonged to, just that they would take turns on alternate weeks to use it.

When it was our turn to have it we would all - well three of us anyway - pile into the back and head out to Derbyshire on Sundays with mum and dad.  A cardboard carton with the fixings for tea was put in the boot and mum would pack a picnic and a grand time was had by all. We would sing songs, that were popular at the time, at the top of our voices and the most exciting part was going over hump-back bridges, which made your tummy turn, and splashing through fords.

There were a couple of trucks (lorries) on the street.  One belonged to my best friend Mal's dad.  He was a haulier and took stuff all over the place.  The other was driven by Jim, my godfather and next door neighbour.  Jim worked for the colliery and his job was to pick the miners up and take them to whichever pit head they were working from and pick them up again, when the shifts finished, and drive them home.  

Several of the neighbours had pushbikes and I think it was the Matthews and also dad's friend Edgar who had a motorbike and sidecar, which we all thought was an exciting way to travel.  The rest of us walked or caught the bus. . . . . but mostly walked as it was hard to get bus fare from parents.

Of course, we had our own forms of transport too.  Roller skates, scooters and tricycles got us all around quite well.  I remember one time being sent to the local shops for half-a-dozen eggs, with strict instructions to make sure I didn't drop them.  The butcher gave me the six eggs in a brown paper bag (no egg cartons back then), which I carefully placed in the small basket on the front of my blue Raleigh Winkie tricycle and then cycled home. . . . . bumping up and down every kerb on the way!  Mum was less than pleased, but I was ever so surprised that they were broken as I hadn't dropped them.  I was very young.  Probably about five.

I think we had one set of roller skates between us (family), and you could never find the skate key to adjust them when you wanted to use them.  They were the sort with a telescopic piece between the front and back wheels and straps for over your shoes and around your ankles.  If the skate key couldn't be found we would stick a Beano annual on the top and sit on them, going down the hill like the clappers, which was actually much more fun as two of you could race.

I often wonder if my kids would've liked life back then, and I think they would.

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Do click on this link for some old photos of what it was like back in the 50s in England. The one with the 'dinner ladies' is just how I remember it. We never had slates and chalk though.

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Thanks go once more to Tess Kincaid (Willow) of Magpie Tales for providing the visual prompt.

Magpie #76 - Handy Harry

Image - Skip Hunt

(Tut! . . . .bugger!)  'HARRY!  The bloody thing's fallen over again!  You'll have to sort it out.  The sheep'll die o' thirst at this rate, and so will we.' 


I knew it wouldn't stay up, but he knows best because he's a man.  That one leg is so much shorter than the others, it had no chance of staying upright for long.  'Oh, yes, it'll be fine', he said, 'things with three legs find their own level'.  I know that, but in my opinion they do have to be more or less the same length.  Shortening the other two, or lengthening the one, would have meant putting himself out a tad.  That's really why things with three legs find their own level.


'HARRY!  It's four thirty.  If you don't get on with it now it'll be dark and that means no water for a shower and no water for dinner, or even a cuppa.  If you want to eat tonight, get a move on.'

'Alright, alright, woman.  Don't come out yer collar.  I'll go and see if I can find some wood in the shed to sprag that short leg up with.  That should sort it out until I can do a proper job'

'You might try fastening it to something a bit weighty, too.  It's too top-heavy to stand on its own.  And we've had this discussion more than once.'

Harry wanders off to the shed, returning an hour later.

'All sorted!'

'Oh, aye.  And what have you done?'

'I've stuck a piece of wood on the short leg and fastened it with some baling twine.  That should hold it for a bit.'

'Did you fasten it to something weighty so it won't topple over again?'

'I did.  I've fastened it to the tractor.'

Unbelievable!

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Wind rattles the blades

Still no rain in sight today

Clear, blue, cloudless sky

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These weekly visual prompts are courtesy of Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales, where you can find more poems and prose.