Alexander Averin

Thursday, 27 December 2012

My Favourite Christmas (Book) Present

Dear Diary,

A Fortunate Child by Elizabeth Wix

Don’t you just love it when a book grips you and you just cannot put it down?  It doesn’t happen enough these days but A Fortunate Child is one and I consider myself fortunate to have been sent a copy for Christmas.

I always find in life that things seem to happen in threes and in the latter part of this year I have read books published by two of my favourite bloggers, one from the UK and one from the USA.  I ‘reviewed’ them both in earlier posts as I was so impressed by them.

Now I have the third!  A Fortunate Child  is a novel by Elizabeth Wix, who, apart from being a great writer, also happens to be a wonderful photographer.  She lives in New York and writes here.   I ‘met’ Elizabeth in Blogland and through reading each other’s blogs we discovered that we had quite a few things in common.  

I was totally absorbed by her novel and read it in only two sittings. Well I started it in bed and read late into the night until I just had to give in and go reluctantly to sleep. I finished the book the next morning in just one more ‘sitting’, after I had got up and finished only the most pressing household chores.

The book is a novel but it is based upon a true story of  two women, one English, one German and  there is also a woman who has been adopted.  But it is more than just an adoption story, it is a weaving tale of mystery and coincidence and there are real characters to warm to and to care about.  I didn’t know where it was taking me either which was another plus; so often stories today can be too ‘predictable’.

The writing is beautiful, it flowed so well and carried me into its world of many years ago and it held me there while at the same time it educated me about  the events leading up to World War II in Germany, (this information was an added and unexpected bonus for me).

I cannot fault the writing or the story and feel it really would make an excellent film, if only it were to be discovered.  So many books are hyped up these days and turn out to be real disappointments, this one has never been hyped  but should have in my opinion.  As an ex-librarian I know that this book would go down really well with borrowers and would make a very popular addition to any library.  I am going to put it forward as a suggestion to our local library service.

I am emotionally involved in the adoption aspect of this book and indeed there were some amazing personal similarities within the story to my own experience regarding its London location and the time in which the story is set.  But one does not have to be ‘involved’ with the subject to be touched by the story of love, loss and survival in difficult times which are its main themes.  There is humour in it too, (essential in life, in my opinion).

I am so pleased that the main character’s life turned out so happily.  This book would make a great read at this time of year, it may be just the thing to read as the year turns and would hopefully please many more readers in the way that it has captured me.   I lent it to my daughter and she echoes everything that I have written.  A Fortunate Child certainly deserves a wider readership and I am sure it will appeal to a host of readers on this side of the Pond............. and beyond.........

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait O’Connor

Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Monday, 24 December 2012

He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother

Just a song for Christmas, the number one Christmas single in the UK, a charity single to raise money to help towards the huge legal costs for the many who need it in order to gain justice for the many victims of Hillsborough.

Wishing everyone a Happy Christmas and a Happy, Peaceful New Year.

Sunday, 16 December 2012

Connemara Child

Augustus Nicholas Burke

Connemara Child

She is of the mountain, her backdrop pure beauty:
purple mountain, blue ocean, green marbled rocks.
But beauty will not sustain the starving Connemara child,
her small frame hidden beneath a tattered shawl,
this girl-not-quite-woman. Her feet are bare, but underfoot,
summer’s heather is kind and warm, soft as the tale
her voice might tell, if inclined to speak.
Her gaze is clear, her moods like clouds,
forever transient, gleaning what may lie ahead. 
For an ancient wisdom dwells within her, wrapped in a language
washed with tears.  Ancestors sing to her, 
sometimes a prayer,

sometimes a dirge, sometimes a song of serenity 
which rings in the mountains and rides on the waves.
In times of holy stillness you may hear it, deep
and haunting, like a melancholic Irish serenade.

Cait O’Connor

Sunday, 9 December 2012

For Finbar

Dear Diary,

I have recently bought a copy of A Thousand Mornings, a selection of poems by my favourite poet, Mary Oliver. I cannot choose a favourite poem from this book as I love every one but I was inspired to write one today about my dog Finn in the way Mary Oliver has written a poem about her dog Percy.  She admits to copying the format from the poet Christopher Smart and his poem For I will consider my cat Jeoffrey. So  this ‘idea’ goes on.  I spent an hour of this Sunday morning writing it and I must admit that while doing so I shed many tears ...   but then tears are always healing, often a sign that the spirits of those who have passed are close to us. I apologise because this is the second (sad) poem I have posted in a row! 

Finbar 1997-2012

For Finbar

For I will consider our dog Finn.
For I loved  him and am still bereft.
For he was kind and never hurt one soul.
For he  had a golden coat, a pure, soft, honeyed caramel.
For his nutbrown eyes were deep and wise.
For he read my thoughts.
For I read his mind.
For he understood my words.
For he had such powers to wrap himself around me.
For he was a  healer of the sick, a friend and guardian of our home.
For he would howl if ever I would weep.
For he held a mirror to my soul and shared my pain.
For he was brave and thought he was a man.
For he was cunning, like a gypsy’s dog.
For he was full of joys and jokes and loved to dance.
For he loved to run and race and play in snow.
For he loved to eat and lived for food.
For he would watch and wait for my return and know when I was close.
For he was kind to young ones: kitten,  pup or child.
For the cat and he were friends, cwched up before the fire, they washed each other’s coats.
For he was tolerant to a tiny fault.
For he treated my son as a brother.
For he considered himself one of us, a human.
For he suffered stoically at the end and was so brave.
For he is buried by the riverbank.
For his grave is marked by heavy stones of white.
For I still greet him as I pass and always wipe a tear.
For he loved me
For I loved him.
For he still waits for us.

Cait O’Connor

Bye for now,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,


Thursday, 6 December 2012

Just a poem

For Elizabeth


On a silent, irridescent, cobweb morning
I laid my indigo baby in a
cradle of crystal, her wrap was pure love,
intractable and true, like her beauty.
Be under no illusion, she was born
from an illicit assignation, but to
a world  where forgiveness was forbidden.
I was labelled loose, wild, irrational
but my life had always been impervious to hope,
and happiness incomprehensible.
Unable to speak, or break our silence,
I held her hand as I breathed my goodbyes
and wished for her a life more illustrious.
When she had been taken I could breathe no more;
for I was suffocating slowly under
lumps of hardstone, which became lodged in my heart
with an inextricable, forever kind of pain.
in a locked-in, forever kind of silence.

Cait O’Connor

Monday, 3 December 2012

Tax Evasion


I wasn’t sure what to blog about today as I am cross about two items in the news. One is the NHS. One concerns the tax evaders like Starbucks, Amazon and Google and all the many others  -  the overpaid individuals as well as companies who have cunning accountants to help them escape paying any tax in this country. This morning I hear a politician saying that they can’t do anything about it because what the tax evaders are doing is not illegal and they can’t do anything about international law.  Well I understand that it is legal but I would like to know who made these international  laws? (Corporations most likely). And why did we not have say in it?

In her next breath this politician says we should be like her and  boycott Amazon, Starbucks and Google. Oh Yes, here we go again,  put the onus on us to change things? (Always 'the victim’s fault, whatever happens' mentality).  I thought we had politicians to act on our behalf?  There is a principle here which should be tackled head on.

Now the government have today found millions of pounds to give the Inland Revenue so they can ‘look at the problem’.  Why should it cost millions? Surely these tax experts already get a salary?  I ask you this, surely it should not be beyond the ability of a country to bring in a law to make all the people pay tax?  It would surely not be opposed by any party.  And if the non tax-payers say they will leave the country, then tough... let them go.  There should never be any acceptable moral or legal reason for the individual to pay taxes on the little s/he earns and the rich to get away with blatant fiddling, because that is what it is.  And every individual and company  not paying a penny in tax should be named and shamed.

And change the law, try governing for the people and not for the corporations.  And that goes for everything in this country, not just this matter.

Friday, 23 November 2012

Tokens for the Foundlings

Drawing by Mary Husted

The Foundling Museum in London is somewhere I have never got around to visiting but I hope to do so. I was recently visiting the Dylan Thomas Centre in Swansea and spotted this book of poems for sale. I just had to buy it as the subject is close to my heart.

Tokens for the Foundlings

Edited by Tony Curtis

The royalties from sales of this book are donated to The Foundling Museum, in support of its work.

Established in 1741, The Foundling Hospital was essentially Britain’s first orphanage; admissions to it were catalogued by tokens left by the children’s parents. The book is an anthology of poems about orphans, childhood and family inspired by and supporting the work of The Foundling Museum in Bloomsbury.  Contributors include Seamus Heaney, Carl Ann Duffy, Gillian Clarke, Carol Rumens, Michael Longley, George Szirtes and Charles Simic.

Tokens given by mothers to their children on leaving them at the Foundling Hospital. 18th Century

I want to post two poems today from the book, the first is a prose poem by Mary Husted  -   the drawing at the top of this post is one of many made by Mary Husted before she was forced to give up her baby for adoption (they have since been reunited).  

The Shawl

A memory haunts me.  It is the wrapping of a shawl.  I am leaving the nursing home, following two women; one of them has the baby in the shawl.  Snow is thick beneath our feet.  It started snowing on Boxing Day and in early February it is still falling.

The women turn left – I follow.  We walk up a driveway into an empty waiting room.  the doctor comes to meet us, searches my face and looks at the child she delivered ten days ago.  We sit on hard chairs and exchange awkward pleasantries.  The baby is unwrapped from his shawl.  He sleeps.  I ask to hold him – here he is in my arms.

In a corner of the room near the door is a fish tank.  A stream of bubbles rises slowly and continually to the surface as the colourful fish swim to and fro. to and fro.  The three older women watch me with guarded glances.  They do not know what I will do. ‘It is time,’ says one.  I take the shawl, soft and woollen, and very slowly, carefully, with studied tranquillity, I wrap it around the child, before standing and handing him to one of the women.  She takes him and turns, followed by the other woman, to go out of the door.  I watch them go.  I am one of the bubbles in the fish tank.

Mary Husted.


The day I let you go there were floods
in Wroxeter and Bishopstown.
Leaves, caramel coloured, were swallowed
by the rivers and as weather travelled north
windows ran grey for hours.

Far from that tiny parlour room,
prams were being pushed around still dry
parks or else their thin wheels were hissing
on wide, wet paths and mothers were thinking
of feeding times, baths.

The moment of goodbye was soon over.
Woollen blankets soft between my fingers;
the silk hem of the parting dress a breath
on my skin, and your weight, like kilos of sweet
apples, swung in my arms.

And then, I was cradling air and dust
and stood near the grate, in an awkward tableau
listening to rain falling into soot.
Each clear drop sent dark motes into the room
and the terrible space in my arms gathered all of them in.

Roz Goddard

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

A Warming Winter Recipe

Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all. 

Harriet Van Horne

The Love Cook

Let me cook you some dinner.   
Sit down and take off your shoes   
and socks and in fact the rest   
of your clothes, have a daquiri,   
turn on some music and dance   
around the house, inside and out,   
it’s night and the neighbours   
are sleeping, those dolts, and   
the stars are shining bright,   
and I’ve got the burners lit   
for you, you hungry thing.

Ron Padgett

Artist Natalie Tur
Cooking Jam

I just liked the above poem and the picture and although I have not been making jam, or entertaining naked visitors, I have been cooking.  My own recipe, something I always make when parsnips are around. I hope you like it.

Parsnip, Potato and Onion Bake

Parboil for around ten minutes or so some fairly big chunks of potato and parsnip (have more parsnip than potato as they are so flavoursome).  At the same time gently fry two largish sliced onions or several small ones.  Vary amounts of all veg. depending on how many mouths you are feeding.

While they are cooking make a cheese sauce:

In a small metal saucepan, melt a piece of margarine (or butter)about the size of a small egg, with  two heapedish tablespoons of plain flour, a good pinch of dry mustard (or a smidgeon of ready made), salt and pepper and half a pint of milk. Use a metal whisk and stir and heat all of this but not too fiercely and when it thickens turn it down to simmer for a minute or so.  If it is too thick add some water, not milk.  Add a goodish heap of tasty grated cheese and a good squeeze of lemon juice.  Mix all together and turn off  heat, allowing cheese to melt.

Drain parboiled vegetables and put in a casserole dish.  Mix around  gently and add cheese sauce.  If too dry add a bit of milk.

Sprinkle a Weetabix over the top to give a delicious crisp topping.  (More than one if you are making a big dish).  Also sprinkle some cayenne pepper amongst the Weetabix as it will make the topping extra  tasty.

Bake in the middle of a preheated oven at 200 C or Gas 6 for 30 minutes covered and another 30 minutes uncovered at the lower temperature of  180 C or Gas 4.

Serve when vegetables are soft (check throughout).  Nice with a green vegetable like sprouts or cabbage.


Tuesday, 13 November 2012

My Book of the Year

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.

Dear Diary,

Two of my favourite bloggers have had  excellent books published recently; one, Counting Steps by Mark Charlton, I have already written about and the second  From the House of Edward, Essays by Pamela Terry, arrived in the post a few weeks ago from the USA, a signed copy, beautifully wrapped in my favourite wrapping which happens to be plain brown paper.   First of all this book, I was really pleased to see, was just the right size, it fits in the palm easily, only everso slightly smaller than the average book nowadays; this is always a plus point with me. Secondly, it is a thing of beauty, both in its layout and in  its exquisite understated illustrations  -   it is strewn throughout with four leaf clovers and every book has its own four leaf clover bookmark (and dear Edward is on that too). (When I first looked at the bookmark  I thought they were shamrocks!).

I have delayed writing a ‘review’ of the book, not I hasten to add because I have an ounce of hesitation in recommending it to you but because I am enjoying just 'savouring' a book that is so special.  I keep it by my bedside and like to read a small section last thing at night before I go to sleep as Pamela’s words are so soothing and strangely healing.  Within it are many essays of myth, magic, celebrations of the seasons, of literature and art, sensual delights, scenes from her life, poems, quotations, much much more and her own beautiful prose which is poetry in itself.

If I had the power to I would prescribe this book to anyone who suffers when the Black Dog comes calling,  or to anybody at all on those poorly days, fluey days, weepy days, boring days, cold days etc but also the happy and definitely high days and holidays – there is so much within both to cheer and to inspire.

Today I am curled up by the Rayburn, fleeced and scarved around my throat, feeling a little under the weather.  I have the dog and the cat at my feet who are also enjoying the warmth of the fire. Pamela’s words take me to her land and to many places, many seasons. I am dipping into the book, it is the best way to experience it I feel, rather than reading it straight through.  I am currently in December.  Some essays I remember from her fine blog, some are new to me. Some lines I yearn to copy out for you, some essays too but you will just have to buy the book -  why not put it in your letter to Santa?

I was just one of the people who told Pamela that she should get her writing published in book form so I am thrilled that she has done so and I can’t wait for her next one.   She is one of life’s true ‘sweet hearts’, a gifted  writer who sees all that is magical and beautiful in the world and creates it for us, so poetically, in her writings.  An artist in the true sense in that her heart touches others.

I wish I lived near to her as our interests are so similar and I am sure we would be friends but her blog is unlike mine in that it is  pleasantly rant-free and wholly positive and I follow it religiously.  Please keep writing Pamela.

From the House of Edward is my ‘book of the year’.

 (And Edward is a sweetie too).

Bye for now,

Sunday, 11 November 2012

The Hangman - Maurice Ogden

They came first for the Communists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew.
Then they came for me
and by that time no one was left to speak up.

Martin Niemöller

Friday, 2 November 2012

Don't Stop The Dance

Don’t Stop The Dance

Don’t stop the dance.
Who was it said that the dance was the body, dreaming?
Sometimes words will dance from such a wilder-ness,
stirring, wraithed in music, or emerging
from behind a New Moon, seeping into 
my wakefulness.

Always there is longing, shaded by loss.
Let us dance away our tunes of despair
into places of loving; and speaking of loving - 
Don’t stop the dance.

Cait O'Connor

Apologies to Brian Ferry but I swear to you that as I sat down to type up this already written (but untitled) poem, this song came on my random player.  Thank you angels.

Wednesday, 31 October 2012

Counting Steps

A Journey through Landscape and Fatherhood

Cinnamon Press

There is a new book out written by Mark Charlton of the fine blog Views from the Bike Shed fame. I finished the book this morning, somewhat sadly really as I would have liked it to have been longer.  You know what it’s like when you have a really good book, you sometimes want to make it last and to savour it slowly.  The writing was very fine and the book is full of emotion.   I can recommend it highly. Particularly poignant was one of the pieces the author wrote about his father, it had forgiveness, wisdom and understanding within and Mark’s words will stay with me. It is a worthy book for that alone but also for the writings about Wales, many areas of which I know well, (but not all which was a bonus). I am not into climbing, I love walking but unfortunately my husband, because of health problems, is not up to long walks any more. However I could visualise many of the more remote places he visits which was an added bonus.

There is everything I love in this book;  nature and very personal reflections combined – this appeals to me as I too find it easier to reflect amongst nature and do not feel happy if I am away from it. Put me in a town or a city and I do not feel the same ease.  These places are fine to visit but I cannot stand crowds and traffic for too long any more.

So this book will appeal to many: walkers, climbers, lovers of Wales, wildlife and nature, fathers,  husbands ........and wives too.  

For sons of fathers and fathers of sons, there is much that is touching within it.

(There is a quiet humour too).

Most of all I love the book for its honesty.

I look forward to another.

Cait O’Connor

Friday, 26 October 2012

I Hope You'll Dance

Dance till the stars come down from the rafters
Dance, Dance, Dance, till you drop.
W H Auden.

Dear Diary,

I start most of my days with a yoga session – after I have showered I put my Music Library on the computer - which you can find in the right hand column of this blog – just click on Playlist in the top right hand corner – then dismiss the little window that comes up and click on My Library Radio – I have saved a lot of my favourite records on there – there will be some ‘foreign’ ones in there but you can skip those.  Have a listen yourself.  I know a few people who enjoy working  along to my music.

I learned yoga when  I was in my thirties when my children were small.  I’ve been practising it  ever since ( yes I am getting  a bit tired now!).
Anyway, I do my daily yoga routine to the first three songs which come up randomly on the computer, they are always a surprise as I never know what will play but I know I will like the tunes.  If I don’t fancy a particular one I can always skip it.   My routine consists  mainly of Prayers to the Sun, also known as Salutes to the Sun.  I prefer Prayers as they  sound a bit less ‘military’ to me. 

This sequence of poses uses all the body bits – my old yoga teacher said that we could get away with only doing half a dozen of these every day and it would be enough – along with the Corpse posture which is very relaxing.  I often do that in the evening or when I felt the need!   I also do daily neck and shoulder poses as I have had a very serious neck injury in the past.  I try and do yoga every day unless I am feeling  very tired or unwell.  My teacher advised us not to practise it on Sundays, she said we should have one day off a week.  Wise woman.    Even if I am a little tired beforehand  I always feel energised after doing my yoga,’ looser’ too and ‘brighter’.  I recommend it.

This morning the fourth song this morning happened to be Staying Alive by the Bee Gees so I just had to dance; how could anyone NOT dance to that song?   

Another song which is inspiring is Time of My Life from the wonderful film Dirty Dancing.   I usually end my routine with a bit of dancing as I love it so -  it’s quite safe, no-one can see me upstairs in the little study.;  well only the dog and she seems to approve of everything I do, bless her.

I am into Strictly Come Dancing at the moment, nowhere near as obsessed as I was at this time last year but I was poorly then while waiting too long for a gall bladder op.  (another story).   I really love dancing and envy the celebrities who are being trained to dance by such professional people.

Anyway I hope you will enjoy my music and I hope  you will dance.

Which takes me nicely back to the beginning.

Have a nice day,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,


Sunday, 21 October 2012

You've Been Trumped

Try and watch this documentary if you missed it on BBC2 tonight (Sunday)

It has impressed cinema audiences around the world. 

The journalist who made the film writes in the link below.

Monday, 15 October 2012

Rip Off Britain- car insurance

I am thinking of having a special section for this subject.

Rip Off  Britain.

This is a copy of an email I sent to this website

You asked for stories concerning car insurance renewal quotes as in the article on your website you say:

Evidence suggests that some car insurers are offering sky-high renewal quotes even when they are willing to insure for a lower price.

Drivers have found their insurer offering cheaper quotes for the same cover as their renewal offer through comparison websites. 

It means that rather than quoting prices based on a driver's circumstances, insurers are taking a punt that loyal customers will accept a higher price without question, even if it could afford to insure them for less.

(

This is my experience.

My renewal notice came through recently at £205 from Swintons, I have been with them for some years now.

My husband rang and tried to get a lower quote from the brokers, Swinton Insurance,....... and was quoted £170.

I went on to the great website money supermarket, found a quote for £105 and purchased it online. I was pleasantly surprised as this quote was for fully comprehensive and we had only asked Swintons for third party, fire and theft on the phone as that is what we always have. .

Guess who this lower quote for a more comprehensive insurance package was with?  (£100 lower).  Swinton Insurance.

I received in the post a schedule of insurance today for £170 so as you probably understand (Swintons pretended not to!) I was very worried and confused as I had only paid (I hoped!) £105 online to purchase the cheaper policy.

It took two phone calls to Swinton Insurance for it not to be explained  what was going on.  I have demanded that a receipt and an explanatory letter (in plain English) are sent to me today.

While I was on the phone to Swintons my husband checked our bank account and thank God only £105 had been taken.  The insurance doesn't run out till the end of the month so they are a bit eager aren't they?

The first woman at Swintons treated me like a child and the second man was more helpful and spoke English but he called it getting a discount.  He had called it cashback to my husband in an earlier call.

Not what I call it.  How about you?

Wednesday, 10 October 2012


I am cheating a bit by posting this on my blog because it is another piece of homework set last month at our writing group. We each had to choose a word beginning with the letter 'F'. We chose Felicity, feckless, finickity,  fettle, frank, felucca and one other which I have forgotten. 

We then had to write a piece of prose or poetry using these F words. (an earlier post, a poem of mine, gives this away somewhat!).

Trouble is on this piece of prose I got a bit carried away (but I wasn't the only one).

A Fictonal But Fairly Factual Story of Fun and Foreboding.

First and foremost let’s face facts.  I am not a fan of Felicity Fairweather and I may be politically incorrect in saying this but I am known for being forthright and I am only being fair to you by sharing my true feelings and saying that I have found out that for some modes of transport, Felicity was far too fat.  Floating ferries maybe, but a felucca?  No.

Apart from being far too large, Felicity was French and a feisty female,  a bit facile, a bit of of a flbbertigibbet and far too gossipy and flighty. She was also flushed of face, fair of hair, and probably still fairly fertile for she was not yet forty-five.  Her latest beau Frank O’ Flaherty was a fop (a bit of a fool) to be honest (as they say far too often here in Wales); not forceful  at all but full of the flannel.  He was rich though and quite funny, if you like that  sort of thing and he had certainly played the field, sometimes in formal circles too; (his father had once won the fixed odds on the football pools, but that’s a fable I shall save for another day).  Frank was unfortunately prone to fixations and he fell far too fast for feisty Felicity and she, being without the talent for fascinating the male sex which some fortunate females possess, could  never dare to be finickity enough when it came to finding friends or would-be lovers. She didn’t really fancy Frank but for a while she feigned favourable feelings towards him, fawning over him in a slightly feline way (for she was far too susceptible to his flattery).

Patrick Francis O’Flaherty (Patrick being his first forename) was  of Fenian stock and was frankly feckless, especially on that fatal  foggy day on the fourth Friday in February last year. The couple were sailing on the Nile in a felucca during a frightful monsoon when their flimsy makeshift flag came adrift and floated far away downstream. Felicity had got in a flap, had fainted right off her feet and the felucca started leaking like a fountain.  Poor old Frank was never one to flip and feeling in such fine fettle, flexed his muscles and made a foolhardy attempt at fixing it by sticking his finger in the fissure.

To cut this far too frenetic story short, a frantic family feud , not the first, ensued between the ferocious owners of the felucca  (who had captured it all on film) and the fecking insurance company, (their ‘F’ words, not mine, the air was very frosty I can tell you and more than faintly blue)……..

Frank and Felicity’s relationship was somewhat shortlived and faded swiftly after that fateful date.

And Felicity?  Would she ever achieve fulfilment? I did wonder. However, she was never one to fret or be frightened of anything so she soon recovered and with no need for rehabilitation she quickly returned to her previous good form.  She never forgot Frank, she never forgave  him either but she  didn’t give a flying fig……………..she  just looked forward to her freedom.

And  Frank?  He may never be a high flyer but he wasn’t fearful of life either, rather the opposite.  He  looked forward to visiting France on the next available flight (he had a fear of boats) and to exploring fresh pastures and to fighting new frontiers…..and more than anything he relished finding a few fresh and more faithful French females (the fresher the better)…..

Cait O’Connor

If you would like to comment feel free to use F words (but only clean ones).