Mostly Life Showcase

'Mrs Cheveley in the Conservatory at Tenby' by Emily Hinshelwood

2009-01-13T13:30:00.001Z

This piece won first prize in the Mostly Life Competition.

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Mrs Cheveley in the Conservatory at Tenby

Emily Hinshelwood

'From Romford with Love' by Paul Smith

2009-01-13T13:22:00.005Z

This piece was commended in the Mostly Life Competition.

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From Romford with Love

('From Romford with Love' is also available as a usable online greetings card. Clicking on the above link will take you directly to the card at www.hdgreetings.com.)

From Romford with Love

Paul Smith

'Ask Mairghread' by Clare Girvan

2009-01-13T13:15:00.001Z

This piece was commended in the Mostly Life Competition.

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Ask Mairghread

(To; ‘Ask Mairghread,’ Dunblane Herald, 50 - 55 Graymalkin Street, Forres.)

Dear Mairghread,

After twenty years of marriage, my husband and I are drifting apart. He hasn’t settled at all well to civilian life since he left the army, and seems to be having some kind of mid-life crisis.

I think we made a mistake moving out to the country. It’s a lovely big old house, and the agent said it had a pleasant seat, but he doesn’t have to live here. We can’t get really good staff and the grounds are going to rack and ruin. There seems to be an infestation of snakes in the flower beds and the wood outside is far too close – it gets very oppressive.

His job means we have to socialise a lot, of course, which I have found very difficult. I’m not used to entertaining on a grand scale, and the servants aren’t always sober. His boss came to stay a while ago, and – well, I won’t go into details, but there was a most unfortunate accident with the cutlery. We tried to hush it up as best we could, but his boss was a very influential man, and I think a lot of people felt we were largely to blame.

Not that we have visitors anymore. My husband’s started having hallucinations and I think he probably has some kind of food allergy that gives him embarrassing fits during meals. At our last dinner party, the guests even got up and went home – utter humiliation. I make allowances, since he isn’t a well man, but I suspect he is also bipolar, and although I’ve tried to hold everything together, I’ve developed an obsessive compulsive disorder and find everything very hard to cope with.

Since he took over the firm, he’s been daggers drawn with his friends, always picking quarrels with them for no reason that I can see. I’ve tried persuading him to invite them round for the evening and bury the hatchet, but he won’t hear of it. The only people he still sees are three of his old girlfriends. We had dinner with them at their commune once, but they were pretty weird, and what was in the casserole they gave us I didn’t dare to think.

Maybe things would have been better if we’d had children, but I never really got the hang of motherhood. We did have a son when we were first married. I loved him, of course, but I wasn’t very good with babies and he died. My husband doesn’t say, but I know he envies one of his old friends who is producing a whole line of heirs, left, right and centre.

I don’t know how much longer we can go on like this. There isn’t a moment’s peace, what with people knocking on the door at all hours, owls screaming, crickets crying, ravens croaking and martlets scratching about and building nests in the roof. It’s absolute murder trying to get a decent night’s sleep.

Please, Mairghread, what can I do? I’m absolutely at my wits’ end.

Yours desperately,

Gruach Macbeth of that ilk.

Clare Girvan

'Hi David Gaffney!' by Nadia Kingsley

2009-01-13T13:13:00.002Z

This piece was commended in the Mostly Life Competition.

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Hi David Gaffney!

Last month I ordered a book off Amazon Marketplace. It had scored five stars in its customer reviews, and I could purchase it for a penny (plus p&p) and so, in this instance, I had thrown caution to the wind.

When the book came through the post it carried a postcard, from the author, tucked away in its insides. It was addressed to me.

Since its arrival, I have read and reread this unsolicited communication. It doesn’t take long. The exclamation mark after my name is surprising, but I am particularly disconcerted by the kiss after his. I haven’t yet had time to read his book.

Nadia Kingsley

'The Care and Attention of Your Man' by Sally Quilford

2009-01-13T13:10:00.004Z

This piece was commended in the Mostly Life Competition.

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The Care and Attention of your Man

Congratulations! You are now the proud owner of Man. This product comes in Deluxe, Classic and Bog Standard. You have chosen the Bog Standard model with Integrated Bullshit Cache, which comes fully assembled. This product will bring you years of pleasure (see disclaimer).

Six Month Guarantee
If, in the first six months, your Man fails to send you flowers, open doors, say nice things and earn a good wage, you may return him for an exchange or full refund. After that you’re on your own. You may buy an extended two-year warranty for the cost of a wedding certificate.

Ingredients
Wind, water, flesh, blood, hair.

Features of the Bog Standard Model
Fully pose-able
Can sit in armchair
Able to work remote control
Equipped for sexual pleasure (may need extra programming)
Puts up shelves (may need extra nagging)
Eats
Sleeps
Pees
Poos
Integrated Bullshit Cache

Troubleshooting

My Man won’t mow the lawn
In the event of your man refusing to mow the lawn, it might help if you sit and watch various gardening programmes with him. Point out how good that Tommy Walsh looks when he’s pushing a lawnmower, and that if you had a man like him, your lawn would always be mown. Possible problems: your Man might suggest you go and find Tommy Walsh, then retire to the pub.

My Man insists on staying in the pub
There is only one remedy for this. Keep plenty of booze at home. Your Man needs lots of lubrication, and any dehydration through lack of alcohol may lead to him looking sullen and/or talking common sense.

My Man is no good in bed
This is a major problem with the Bog Standard model. You could try solving this software problem with an input of Viagra, but it could be that you really need the Deluxe model, who comes equipped with all relevant hardware.

My Man won’t go out to work
Some Bog Standard owners have succeeded in getting their man to work by bringing to his attention the Jobcentre, or by sending him out shopping with the dole money so he can see for himself how far it goes. Unfortunately, in most cases, Man returned with a six pack of beer and a tube of Pringles, insisting that the situation was ‘sorted’.

My Man keeps shutting down
Your Man will need at least eight hours downtime per day. Some Men may need longer. You can expect your Man to be out of action for anything up to twelve hours. You could remedy this by poking him in the ribs at seven o’clock in the morning, but there is a danger of his suffering from ‘Bearwithasorehead-itis’ for the rest of the day.

I want to delete my Man
Caution: Deleting your man may lead to a lengthy prison sentence as they are covered by several draconian laws regarding the deletion of anything that passes for a human being. You could sell him to another woman, and upgrade to the Deluxe or Classic model.

Caution: Side Effects

It has been brought to our attention that owning a Man can have side effects:

Sickness
Pregnancy
Single Motherhood
Martyrdom
Boredom
Loss of libido
Murder

Disclaimer:
We wish you many happy years with your Man. However, we are not responsible for any promises made to you by your Man, especially if you were stingy enough to buy the Bog Standard model with added Bullshit Cache. In our opinion, you really should aim higher, but that’s women for you. Always settling for second best. You really are your own worst enemies, you know.

Sally Quilford

'Forget-ful' by Jane Pearn

2009-01-13T13:10:00.001Z

This piece was commended in the Mostly Life Competition.

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Forget-ful

I go to get a thing and
why am I here?

In the doorway, baffled – get? for?
for what? get what?
what for?

Mind seems to have gone
(on a short break? a round-the-world trip?)
without me. I need to be re-
minded.

I ask it
Where did I put the keys? What’s
her name? Who wrote
the poem that made me laugh last week?

No answer.

Mind has no spaces for such stuff,
being so full of forget.

Jane Pearn

'And the Consequence was' by Jennifer Price

2009-01-13T13:06:00.001Z

This piece was commended in the Mostly Life Competition.

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And the Consequence was ....

Heaven. Fluffy cloud etc. God and the angel Gabriel play consequences.

Gabriel: God, have you ever played consequences?

God: Well, no, but I did create the world. I know it’s not playing but ....

Gabriel: Nah, I mean Consequences the game – at dinner parties and stuff?

God: Er, no, I suppose I haven’t. It’s quite a while since I went to a dinner party. People don’t like to invite me – it’s always Jesus who gets to go. You know the sort of thing; if you could invite anyone to a dinner party who would it be... it’s like I don’t exist.

Gabriel: Well, hey; we’ve got a couple of hours. Let’s kick back and play.

God: Okay. What do I have to do?

Gabriel: Oh, it’s great – you’ll love it. What you do is you have start with a descriptive word, like ‘cheeky’ –

God: Or God-fearing?

Gabriel: Yep, sure: cheeky, sexy, God-fearing … whatever floats your boat. And then we swap paper and list one person’s name, then the same for a second person, then where they met, what he said, what she said, what the consequence was, then the last one is what the world thought about it.

God: Then do they go to heaven or to hell?

Gabriel: Er … neither. It’s just a game.

God: Oh, alright. It’s just that it’s called ‘Consequences’-

Gabriel: I know, but it’s only meant for fun,

God: It’d be better if it actually had consequences.

Gabriel: Hmm. Why don’t we just play it without consequences? You know, just until you get the hang of it … I guess if you want to change the rules afterwards there’s not much any of us can do about it, is there? Ha ha!

God: Yes, alright. Let’s play.

Gabriel: [claps hands together] Alrighty then! Now, get your pencil ready ….

Some time passes ….

Gabriel: Okay, you read yours out, and then I’ll read mine.

God: Right. [God unfolds his piece of paper.] Ahem. The childlike George met the misguided Tony at a sushi bar. He said Hey, Bud, let’s start a war, he said Whatever you say, darling! And the consequence was a big old mess, and the world thought Isn’t that illegal? [God chuckles] Oh yes that’s funny – at a sushi bar! That’s a good one …

Gabriel: Okay, my go. [Gabriel unfolds his own piece of paper.] Right. Ha ha! Okay, the wrinkly John met the god-fearing [Gabriel clicks his finger and points at God] – liking that one, aren’t we? Where was I? Oh yes – the god-fearing Sarah in Kentucky Fried Chicken. He said Do you want to be president? She said What does that word mean? The consequence was the earth moved and the world thought We should’ve seen that coming!

[God and Gabriel look at each other and laugh.]

Gabriel: [wiping a tear from the corner of his eye] Oh, God, I do like this game. But maybe it’s a good thing it is only a game. I mean, humans who behaved like this – that’d be one for the ‘whoops’ bin, wouldn’t it?

God: Oh, I don’t know. I still think it’d be better with real consequences.

Jennifer Price

The Love Poem I Generated using Love Poem Generator - What's yours?

2008-08-20T13:56:00.001+01:00

My LoveYour skin glows like the banana, blossoms brown as the daisy in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your violin voice and leaps like a warthog at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great crane wing.
I am comforted by your knickers that I carry into the twilight of titbeams and hold next to my inner elbow.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of slime.
As my outer knee falls from my string vest, it reminds me of your pencil.
In the quiet, I listen for the last bang of the day.My heated pubic hair leaps to my gator.
I wait in the moonlight for your secret stick so that we may insert as one, pubic hair to pubic hair, in search of the magnificient green and mystical mud of love.

make your own wonderful poem at The Love Poem Generator

Horoscopes by Robert Wilton

2008-07-31T14:40:00.000+01:00

Taurus
A tall dark stranger will come into your life this week, offering the promise of stability tinged with a welcome dash of romance and adventure. Grab the chance, for God's sake. It's hardly likely to come again, is it? But don't blame us if it all goes wrong.
Lucky number: 214

Gemini
A friend will turn out this week to be an android working as the advance party for an imminent alien invasion of the planet earth and the subjugation of the human species in an eternal nightmare of soulless humiliation and servitude. Keep on her good side.
Lucky week: 43rd

Cancer
Relationship uncertainty this week is likely to become irretrievable separation before the weekend. Don't expect to survive in your current job beyond Thursday. That irritating sniffle is actually the precursor for something worse than you can possibly imagine. Feeling a bit down? It's hardly started, believe me.
Lucky day: Tuesday (except afternoons)

Leo
Why are you taking everything so seriously? Just snap out of it! Put down the knife. Put dow – no, this isn't about Terry. Seriously, put – ow, that hurt.
Lucky number: none

Virgo
Nothing to report.
Lucky pudding: fig roll

Libra
At 6.45 on Wednesday a man called Dennis will ask you the way to the Odeon. Feign ignorance. On Saturday evening you will forget to brush your teeth.
Lucky philosopher: John Stuart Mill

Scorpio
Job getting you down, money slipping through your fingers, can't make a relationship last, people seem to be avoiding you? Perhaps it's you. Seriously.
Lucky tube line: Hammersmith & City

The goat man thing
Complications arise when an old flame is released from prison early and begins a savage campaign of violence against you, your family and everyone you have ever met. Take things slowly for a bit; better times are around the corner.
Lucky Spice Girl: Mel C

Capricorn
On the zodiacal cusp, with traffic backing up on the M40 and light showers over East Anglia, it's not the time for dramatic new spending plans. To conserve money, eat cushions, fare-dodge on the bus, and spend less. A Korean will bring you spoons.
Lucky driving infringement: failing to come to a complete stop at the lights

Aquarius
Expect big wins on the financial and romantic fronts this week! Sounds implausible? You're taking advice from a newspaper column analysing a spurious and misunderstood set of ancient superstitions. What would you know?
Lucky form of government: theocracy

Pisces
The alignment of the planets makes this just the week to conduct a lightning invasion of Poland. Stall and placate rivals with empty diplomatic gestures and illusory shows of force, while concentrating the main force of your armoured troops in one massive blow on the Vistula before driving rapidly for Warsaw. Avoid new financial commitments on Monday and Tuesday.
Lucky UN Secretary-General: Dag Hammerskjöld

The other one
Venus is moving into Saturn this week. Not sure what that means. Best keep an eye out.
Lucky Cluedo piece: Mrs White

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(Horoscopes by Robert Wilton was the runner-up in the first Mostly Life Humour Competition.)

Nota Bene by Gearalt MacAodha

2008-07-31T14:33:00.000+01:00

A new edition of the works of John Keats gives one critic pause for thought about the role of the annotator.

There is furore in the realms of academe over a recently republished edition of Keats: the annotated poems. Scholars have taken issue with the idiosyncratic nature of editor B.B. Henbatter’s annotations, claiming that they are highly subjective and add little to our appreciation of the poems.

Anyone familiar with Henbatter’s seminal work, Oh, what can ail thee…? a medical critique of Romantic Poetry, published in 1969, will be aware that he is a man with a mission. In his own words from the preface to that volume, he intends: ‘to address the multifarious medical inaccuracies in Keats' poems, by researching the damage his work has done thus far and seeking first or second hand accounts from persons who have suffered injury or illness as a result of his irresponsible suggestions’. This fixation can clearly be seen in footnote 4, reproduced below.

'Ode to Melancholy'

Go not to Lethe(1), neither sip
Wolfsbane(2), tight rooted, for its hemlock(3) drops.
……………………………………
……………………………………….
………………………………………
………………………………………..
………………………………………….
And when the melancholy fit(4) shall fall

His particular form of pedantry was at odds with the spirit of the 60s and the companion volumes, Every which way but Hell: the geography of the inferno, in which he highlighted inconsistencies between Dante’s and Milton’s descriptions of Hell, and Slimy Things: a literary history of pest control from John Donne to William Burroughs, found little favour with publishers. But a half-century later, the octogenarian critic may be at one with the zeitgeist. In these litigious days, publishers and educators may find that they would do well to heed Henblatter’s admonitions. His approach may well come to be seen as a template for responsible editors in the noughties.

Notes

1 Lethe: an unattractive village on the outskirts of Barnsley. Best avoided.
2 Wolfsbane: either a particularly vile but potent real ale found at beer festivals or a long forgotten member of the BBC’s Gladiators.
3 Hemlock: as above: but may also be a reference to a mediaeval device clamped to a virgin’s nightdress with a similar purpose to the more cumbersome chastity belt.
4 Now more correctly expressed as an ‘episode of bi-polar disorder’. Here Keats is at odds with current medical practice, having used the politically incorrect term ‘fit’ instead of the preferred and less potentially offensive ‘seizure’. He then goes on to recommend a course of action that psychiatric practitioners would now find self-indulgent and counter-productive. As a result, this writer wishes to distance himself from any of the medical advice given in this, or others of Keats’ Odes and suggests that his publishers should attach a disclaimer to cover any untoward outcomes experienced by the end user of any guidance, intentional or otherwise, which may be inferred from the text within.

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(Nota Bene by Gearalt MacAodha was the winning entry in the first Mostly Life Humour Competition.)