Tag Archive: daily writing

On a recent walk in Surrey I came across a gravestone of an apparently ‘eccentric’ major who, at his own request, was buried head first in the woods, in 1800.

Made me think about the difference between mad and eccentric.

In the dictionay eccentric is decribed as :

Mad on the other hand is described as:
There must be an outdated law attached to these terms, a bit like voting. It used to be that you could only vote if you were of a certain standing or had enough dosh. When they changed the law to allow universal suffrage, I believe they forgot to include the mad/eccentric classification, a lesser known sub paragraph of the old law.
In this old law of 1422, which still exists today, clearly, only those earning an income above £50o a year (about £5 million in todays terms) are allowed to call themselves, or be referred to as, eccentric. Anyone else who is seen as ‘lacking retsraint’ or ‘deviating from a conventional norm’ must be refered to as Mad.
Its the law, sort of.


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S Club

Dressmaker’s S (Falmouth, MA)

Stop, she said
Sad severe Samantha

Stupid statement

Simon, she said
Stop saying such shit

Suddenly she stopped


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Sovereign meeting the people

‘Let’s get this straight, you think you’re wife here should have my job?’ said the Mayor.

‘Yeah I do,’ said the man with the hat. ‘Thing is, she may not look it, but she’s a dynamo.’

‘A dynamo?’


‘D’you mind not talking about me as if I wasn’t here,’ said the wife of the man with the hat.

‘See, I told ya,’ said the hat man.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the Mayor. ‘I’m just taken aback here. I feel insulted to be honest with you.’

‘Insulted?’ said the hat man.

‘Insulted?’ said the hat man’s wife.


‘Why ?’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘Well come on. I mean, here I am trying to be nice. I’m walking around, chatting with people, trying to find out what they want…’

‘Well, yeah but…’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘I’ve only been in the job for 5 days…’

‘I know but…’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘And this schmuck…’

‘Hey!’ said the hat man.

‘How dare you!’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘I don’t think he meant anything by that,’ said the Mayor’s aide.

‘Didn’t mean anything,’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘Just be a man,’ said the hat man.

‘Be a man? Be a goddamn man!’ said the Mayor.

‘I’m glad I didn’t vote for you…’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘Well, thank you but I didn’t need your vote and frankly…’

‘Mr Mayor…’

‘If anyone’s a schmuck…’ said the hat man brandishing his umbrella.

‘Sir, move away,’ said the Mayor’s security man grasping the umbrella.

‘You make me wanna puke,’ said the hat man’s wife. ‘Come on dear, we didn’t come here to be insulted. ‘

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Lone Cloud
Image by craigmdennis via Flickr

In the sky he could see his target. The fat fluffy cloud to the left, in fact, at that moment it was the only cloud in the sky. He wanted to reach the cloud quickly before it changed shape. He couldn’t believe it wouldn’t be as solid and comfortable and armchair-like as it appeared from the ground.

He stood up and stared at it some more before simply lifting from the ground, slowly at first and straight up, head first. He stopped at a few feet and came straight back down. He couldn’t work out how to change direction and landing was still a huge problem; last time he’d sprained his ankle and had to ring his Dad to pick him up, making some excuse about being attacked.

‘Who by, do you know them? You do don’t you I can tell?’

‘No Dad, I don’t know them, I’ve never seen them before.’

‘What did they take?’

‘Nothing, a police car drove by and they ran away.’

He’d not flown since. If only he had someone he could talk to about it, someone who could teach him. He had to keep it all to himself but he was dying to tell Harry, his best friend. Harry loved science fiction and superheroes. He’d know what to do. If he found out though Jack knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it to himself, no way.

Imagine if people found out, what would happen to him. He’d probably be hounded out of town or burnt for being a witch or his house would be surrounded by cameras and paparazzi and his Dad would be really cross and he would stop his pocket money.

Bu then, surely if he could fly, properly, once he’d got the hang of it and could land and change direction and swoop and all that, then it wouldn’t matter would it? If they came after him he’d just fly away. If his Dad stopped his pocket money he’d fly into the bank and steal some money and they wouldn’t be able to stop him.

But it wouldn’t end well. He imagined flying round and round being chased and shot at by helicopters and RAF jets and ground to air missiles and the whole of the army would be after him and he’d be hit high above the city and fall to the ground like a stone.

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Huge left hand

There was this little guy, with a huge left hand. Most of his life he’d made every effort to keep it hidden. Oversized left pockets in all his trousers played a significant role.

He was actually left handed so it led to considerable difficulties. At school or in any public place he used his right hand, so his writing was appalling and he had to avoid any kind of manual work, like carpentry for fear of injuring himself.

His parents helped him to hide, supplying regular notes and excuses on demand. His Dad had a giant left ear and his Mum a tiny left thumb, so they knew what he was going through.

When he was 25 he left home and moved into his own little flat. That day, he decided to come out. He waved that hand around like a huge shovel wherever he went. He always wrote with it in public and he discovered that if he ever got any backchat or abuse from the neighbourhood kids, he could muster an almighty cuff round the ear.

Within a year he had his first girlfriend, an enormous breasted woman with buttocks the size of beach balls. They lived a happy life together.

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Photographs of several "Final Fantasy XII...
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Sick of the castle keep, Grizzworst decided to work out in the open today. He’d forgotten though, how hideous he appeared to mere mortals, so much so that in the last few minutes he’d had two screamers, an attempted assault and a suspected self-fouling.

He remembered why he’d remained hidden for the last 50 odd years now.

Still, it was a bit of a laugh, he had to admit, a bit distracting from his real work, magic and associated potions and lotions, but he figured he deserved a bit of a break.

He wondered if he could actually kill  anyone simply by being hideously ugly. He hid behind a tree and decided to try it out on passers-by for the next hour or so  before resuming his work.

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Raw (unrefined, unbleached) sugar, bought at t...
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The town of Gallumptia, Idaho, was in many ways an idyllic and peaceful town. The population was only two thousand and there was plenty of room for everyone. Although the  houses varied, no one really had it bad. The Mayor, of course had he grandest house, with more than 100 acres of land, mostly forest, overlooking the river Gallump. The bank manager too had a massive house, three floors and 22 bedrooms and a lake as big as a small sea. No one minded, there was little jealously in Gallumptia because even the lowliest of townspeople, and lets be honest, Jack Hardacre was definitely the lowest, with his limp, his dimwittedness and his unusual shaped head, even Jack  had it pretty good.

He had a modest house with a modest garden and a substantial orchard where he grew the most delicious apples. Even though he was a bit unsightly, the good townspeople of Gallumptia frequently visited him, especially around September time when the apples started to ripen.

He didn’t mind that they only loved him for his apples, better than not having any attention was how he thought about it. He changed his mind though the year he had a bad crop, hardly anything edible and once word got round the stream of visitors almost immediately turned to a dribble and within a week, no one came at all.

He thought he wouldn’t mind but he was incredibly hurt by this and vowed to get his revenge on the fickle folk of Gallumptia.

Gallumptia, though beautiful, was remote. The nearest town was two hundred and fifty miles away and only the mayor and the bank manager had cars. They’d become very good at self sufficiency and hardly needed anything from anywhere. The exception to this was sugar. They all had a sweet tooth, they all loved their desserts and biscuits and tea with 3 sugars and luckily they had 6 dentists in the town so it wasn’t really a problem.  People were happy, mostly quite fat, but happy anyway, apart that was from Jack Hardacre.

He felt that he needed to share his unhappiness around a bit and come November after seething for a few weeks about his lack of apple inspired visitors, he hatched a plan. Took him a bit longer than most, what with his dimwittedness and all, but in the end the plan was simple and effective.

That night he stole the petrol tanker from Hank Jackson’s yard. He knew it was full because Hank always got back late after filling up and didn’t set off on his rounds until early Tuesday mornings, even dim old Jack knew this. It was small town, everyone knew everyone’s business.

He drove straight to the sugar tank and proceeded to pump a load of petrol in the top, ruining all the sugar.

He drove back to Hank’s, left the tanker, walked home and slept a contented sleep for the first time in weeks.

The mayor got the first call, he called the grocer and the bakers and the whole town soon knew what had happened. That night there was a crisis meeting. People shouted and screamed at the mayor demanding that he come up with a plan. Most of them had only a few days of sugar left…

To be continued

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Peeve is a small furry animal I found when holidaying in Outer Mongolia. I keep meaning to have him checked, to find out what he is, but but I’m afraid that if I do , someone will tell me I’m not allowed to keep Peeve – I did kind of smuggle him out of the country.

I had to put him in my underwear to make sure the customs didn’t find him. He seemed quite at home there.

Please dont tell anyone about Peeve.

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Debunk that

How exactly do you do that?

It was a question he was asked a lot but he never answered it.

He would distract them, or move on to the next person, or leave in a rush, with a swish of his cape and a raised eyebrow.

This was the norm in his profession- keep it in house, maintain the mystique. They don’t quite believe it’s really magic, but maybe, just maybe…

It was a pact between magician and thrill seeker – don’t look too close, don’to probe too much – they get the thrill, the magician maintains his semi-authentic status; everyone’s happy.

That wasn’t his reason though. He had no idea how he did it. With his colleagues, of course, it was all an elaborate hoax, sleight of hand, tricking the eye with diversions and suggestions. He was impressed with their skills, but it had nothing to do with his act.

He just found he could do things like this, one morning. It was after the storm six months ago. He’d been out in the garden trying desperately to get his washing off the line before it was soaked. He was running from the back of the garden to the house, when the lighting bolt struck him in the back of the head. He woke up face down in the mud with a slight headache and an enormous singe mark down the middle of his thick hair.

Since that day he’d been able to perform real magic. He could make things disappear, he could transport things and people over quite considerable distances and he could make something become another thing (hadn’t tried that with people yet, felt a bit risky, but he turned water into wine quite frequently rather than drive down to the off-licence.)

He only started the shows two months ago. It wasn’t the money so much; he could create that out of thin air whenever he wanted to, for him it was the thrill of confounding the sceptics, especially the smart-arsed ones who thought they knew how it was all done, and who delighted in telling the world.

He recognised this little know-it-all in front of him now, for instance. He had his own TV programme , based on debunking and humiliating what he called con-artists.  A lot of the magicians that he’d loved to watch as a child had been publicly humiliated by this smug-faced little shit.

So, he’d taken his cheap watch and turned it into a Rolex. No big deal. Obviously he didn’t believe it and was expecting some kind of switch to take place. Actually it was now a genuine Rolex. It seemed fair enough to give him a small gift to help him cope with the trauma which was just around the corner.

He had a much bigger surprise waiting for him when he went to the toilet.  In place of the traditional male genitalia he now had two chestnuts and a small cocktail sausage between his legs.

Debunk that Weiner boy!

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Make a wish

A decorated birthday cake
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Arms like tree trunks and a head the size of a boulder. His fantasy defender was strong and effective but kind of hideous looking. He didn’t really think it would come true when he wished on the birthday cake, but he closed his eyes like his weird auntie told him and this is what he wished for. Obvioulsy he had to keep it hidden and the shed was about the only place he could think of. Trouble was its head was too wide for the door.

He woke up the morning after his birthday and saw it: the enormous craggy head resting at the foot of his bed, tiny eyes staring straight at him.

After screaming like a girl and hiding under the covers for a while he realised what it was.

It didn’t talk but it seemed to understand what he said and followed instructions. After failing to hide it in the shed he told it to wait in the woods for him until tomorrow morning.

He would collect it on his way to school and annihilate anyone who gave him a second look. Freddie Jenkins was obviously the first on the hit list but now that he had the power, he realised there were quite a few others that he wanted to hurt.

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