Harry's jots

Lewdness and bad language in creative writing by harry Riley

2010-08-01T09:20:00.000-07:00

‘Lewdness and bad language in creative writing’

by Harry Riley

This is a thorny issue and has got a lot of good writers in trouble in the past. There are so many conflicting views on the subject and now that official censorship has been abandoned it is up to the individual to choose his or her own course. It may depend on the market they are aiming for, or as in my case, based on their own moral convictions. I grew up in an age when a man would not swear in front of a woman and a simple blasphemy like Bloody-Hell was frowned upon. Flipping Heck and Flopping-Heck were preferred alternatives. D.H. Lawrence got into bother and was ostracized with his sexual descriptions that today many folk would think laughable. I taught my kids that foul language belonged in the gutter and should not be brought into the home and I still believe in that principle. There are though, people who break all the rules, who can use the most extreme expletives and still get away with it, whilst others would be severely castigated. One such person who springs to mind is the comedian Billy Connolly. He has such a mischievous way with his performance that millions adore his comedy-genius in spite of his lewd behaviour and outrageous language on stage.

My formative years were spent in a pleasant but straight-laced Methodist community; leaving a deep impression and a moralistic outlook. The England I now inhabit is not the England grew up in. That environment has gone forever along with many of its core values. It is no use bemoaning this fact, we all have to move on, adapt and change or become extinct like the Dinosaur.

A writer though, has to remain loyal to his own values. If he can do that and live with himself he shouldn’t have to worry too much about what others may think. With D.H. Lawrence possibly his own natural talent got the better of him. As he unlocked the door to creativity, maybe he found himself, like his namesake: Lawrence of Arabia; caught up on the tail of a whirlwind and blown right into the eye of the storm; unconventional trailblazers; years ahead of their time; both being blessed with the spirit of intellectual genius. They didn’t follow public opinion but instead, showed us another way to travel, if only we had eyes to see. All around me I see the influence of American culture and wonder if we have truly become a satellite state. As we grow older it is often said the father becomes the child of his offspring. So maybe it is the same with great States, The Pilgrim Fathers set off from England to export our culture to a foreign land and now it seems the wheel has turned full circle, we have been swallowed up by the culture of America.

The Phantom Staircase by Harry Riley

2010-01-21T03:03:00.000-08:00

‘The Phantom Staircase’

A ghost story by Harry Riley

(This is fiction and resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidental)

A short while ago William Smithurst, a salesman friend of mine was passing through the West - Country on business and looking for a place to stay. It was to be a regular journey for him and he was seeking a base where he might stop over for a few days or a week at a time. As he drove into a pleasant rural village called Lower Grafton he saw the sign in the window of a pretty little, ancient stone cottage.

It read simply ‘Lilac cottage (holiday-let) Contact Ashton agency. Main Street. Lower Grafton.’ The cottage possessed a sturdy thatched roof typical of the area and had a small, somewhat neglected garden complete with Lilac tree in bloom surrounded by a low white painted picket fence. Purely on instinct he pulled over and parked up in a lay – bye, walking back to obtain a closer view. ‘Yes this looked promising with its Clematis twisting around the solid oak door.’ The place seemed empty and there was a short gravelled area off the road to park his car. Looking through the front bay window that reached almost to ground level he saw it was furnished in a pleasant manner. All exposed beams and inglenook open fire. This had probably been built as a dwelling for an agricultural worker and family. The open staircase came down into the room. The cottage seemed to be welcoming him, ‘saying come inside why don’t you?’ He went around the back and peered in through the small kitchen window and all the main amenities seemed to be present, with a butler sink and gas hob. ‘Yes, if the price suited his budget this could be his home from home, and better still there was a quaint village pub across the road. He could have a drink and practically fall right into bed.’

Visiting the agency shop in the village he saw a middle-aged woman typing at a desk who seemed genuinely surprised he was enquiring about Lilac cottage, just down the road.

“Surely you don’t want to stay there? Nobody ever does.”

“Why on earth not? Is it too costly?”

The woman shrugged ignoring his question and became more businesslike, asking him to wait while she consulted her list.

“It’s £300 for a short break and £500 by the week and we don’t allow pets.”

“Okay!” He made up his mind on the spot. “Okay I’ll take it for a trial of one week please.”

The agent seemed incredulous, “Eh, oh well, if you say so, it’s your funeral!”

She handed over the keys with a dry mirthless smile and a cryptic warning: “Sleep well!”

And sleep well he did for the first four nights anyway. The tranquil location suited him down to the ground and he rang his wife to say he thought it would be an ideal place for them to stay for a family holiday. He was getting to know the area quite well as he drove around and the landlord of the ‘Pig and Whistle’ public house just across the road was a very amiable chap and was providing superb, low cost evening meals. All in all, this cottage was turning out to be an inspired choice in spite of the agency woman’s comments. If only he had known what was in store for him!

He had a few drinks in the pub after his Vegan curry and was feeling quite mellow as he fell into bed on the fifth night. It must have been about two o’clock in the morning when he awoke in a sweat. ‘Was it the curry?’ You know how deathly quiet it can be in the country during the dark hours, well as he gazed around the room he realised with a shock that the bedroom light was on. He was certain he had switched it off before turning in. As he listened for the usual silence, something was different. He could hear voices, a man and woman quarrelling violently. Then without warning the light went out again. He lay there for a moment or two hardly daring to breath. He was not a coward but like many people he was nervous of things that seemed to have no logical foundation. The voices could still be heard and now they were just outside his door. The woman was screaming in anger and the man sounded drunk as he lumbered up the stairs. William was puzzled and scared but his hand located the torch on the bedside table and he switched it on, not caring to try the light switch that was obviously faulty. Opening the bedroom door he shone the light on a scene that almost drove him mad. A young woman in a long white nightdress was haranguing a man outside his door. William shouted out in alarm but they ignored him and with a frenzied rush the woman thrust a large kitchen knife into the man’s chest just as he mounted the top step. His eyes opened wide in amazement and he fell backwards down the stairs. But there was something strange. The staircase was in the wrong place! Just to the side of William’s bedroom door should have been a short landing with the other bedroom leading off and where had the bathroom door gone? There was something else; the two protagonists hadn’t seen him…they didn’t know he was there. Their clothes looked so old fashioned. The young woman was wearing a strange lace hat and the man, presumably her husband or partner was wearing a waistcoat and collarless shirt. The woman had collapsed in a heap on the floor by William’s side, moaning softly to herself. He reached out to comfort her but his hand passed right through her shoulder. He could see the bottom stair where the drunken man lay dead or dying. A big pool of blood was leaking across his stomach and onto the plain floorboards, but William was powerless to go to help. It seemed his feet were glued to the spot. He knew he wasn’t dreaming but he also knew this was an unnatural occurrence. He ran back inside his bedroom and climbed into bed. He awoke the next day with the memory still bright and clear. It was as he sat in the pub that evening, relating his strange experience that the publican shook his head and said William had just solved a 200 year old murder that had been haunting folk for generations. They all knew the story of the death house called Lilac Cottage. But nobody had been able to say how it really happened.

Until William came along no one had dared to stay and find out. The story goes that the wife claimed she was away at her sister’s when it happened and a burglar must have done the dreadful deed. Folk never locked their homes in those days. Another couple eventually bought the house and changed the layout, moving the staircase to create an upstairs bathroom. One day they ran away screaming and were never seen again.

End.

'Choosing your publisher'

2009-12-11T10:11:00.000-08:00

‘Choosing your publisher’

By Harry Riley of Nottingham

Having written ‘Sins of the Father’ my first mystery ghost novel I was faced with a ‘common’ writer’s dilemma, how to get the manuscript into print. You are a celebrity?

Have a friend or relative in publishing? No problem! Mainstream publishers are probably falling over themselves in the rush to sign you up, and with a big advance into the bargain.

I used to run a commercial printing company but only took up creative writing on retirement as a stimulating challenge and to try and ward off the evil curse of Dementia that seems to be lurking around every corner for people of my age. So seeing my name on a book was not my overriding ambition. What was important was to research mainstream publishers to seek out the right one for me and to find out how other writers had won through. This was a chastening experience. Many established writers had spent months or even years submitting manuscripts to publishers and literary agents only to have them returned, rejected or even unopened. More than this I now understood that many publishers and agents do not take work from ‘first timers’ or unpublished writers. As a pensioner I couldn’t wait for several years as my allotted time on this earth was fast running out. I already had another two anthologies and a follow up novel waiting in the wings. So I consulted a hi-tech guru (my son) whose advice was simple: In his opinion the future of publishing lies with the Internet and the global community. He advised me to seek out a publisher on the Web. Once I chose this path another problem loomed large; could I afford to try the well publicised, avenue of self-publishing? The short answer was no, and even if I had taken that course, could I have justified the high cost, time and effort involved? There are plenty of Internet Companies who will undertake this task and who offer a range of services that can range from basic to a more comprehensive package depending on work involved and the amount that you are prepared to pay. This option is often called ‘Vanity Printing’ and the name put me off. However over recent years I have seen many fine and old established printing and packaging companies go to the wall and this must surely have been the same with publishers and bookstores so I am realistic enough to know that to succeed, a publisher has a duty to make money in order to stay in business and to promote the cause of his writers. So where did I go from there? What does self-publishing entail? It would seem an ISBN number is essential for a book to be officially listed and searchable. To be sold and distributed in the UK a ‘Bar-Code’ is required and the book has to be catalogued with the British Library. This is just for starters! Then there is the huge task of marketing and promotion. Although I have been a sales manager with a national company I have always been a square peg in a round hole when it comes to ‘Self-Promotion.’ I am not an extrovert and find the whole subject uncomfortable. My natural inclination is to slink around unseen in the shadows, lifting my head above the parapet only to draw breath and before scuttling off again to my quiet peaceful corner. I have heard of ‘E’ books and this might become a new and exciting outlet for writers. I am watching this phenomenon very closely. Anyway My story was written and still I vacillated until I came across an item on the Internet about a writer who had been interviewed by the BBC. This writer had chosen a publisher called Pneuma Springs of Dartford Kent.

Maybe I could try them? I found their website: www.pneumasprings.co.uk and after some cross-checking-research, read that they seem to offer a straight-forward, no-nonsense contract for stories they consider satisfactory. For a small fee they will do all the work of getting the book listed, typeset, printed, published and registered with the major online outlets, wholesalers etc. They have their own on-line bookstore and assist with promotion, the author keeps copyright and receives a sales based commission.

Well ‘for my sins’ I chose this way for my first novel and honestly believe that having invested a ‘token-outlay’ I have received excellent value for money, with a product (paperback) of good commercial quality, perfectly fit for today’s market and released on time. Yes, I had to put a little money where my mouth is, as a commitment and a belief in my novel and was pleased to do so (I have learned there are no free lunches in this life!)

Doing my best to assist book sales with a few ideas of my own is no great hardship and I have written this guide for other writers in the hope that it may bring a little light and hope to their efforts.

Prologue to Sins of the Father novel

2009-11-18T10:10:00.000-08:00

Hello I’m Harry Riley, of Nottingham England.

This is a prologue (830 words) to my forthcoming mystery thriller novel,

available in December 2009 called:

‘Sins of the Father’

(The haunted life of Doctor James Parker)

This tale concerns the lives of two young men whose paths were doomed to clash even before they were born, with devastating results for all concerned.

It is set in a small village in Northumberland, a village once considered to be the most dangerous place in England.

Now it is only the eerie call of the curlews and oystercatchers circling high above the river that pleasantly disturbs the clean air and tranquillity.

Nestling in a valley on the banks of a famous salmon fishing river…the River Tweed in the Scottish Borders, it is incidentally the village where I once owned a small cottage, I have simply made a few fictional additions such as a village pond and a Wesleyan Chapel to aid the storyline and changed the name of the village lightly, calling it Norbridge.

The ruined castle where John De Baliol, Lord of Barnard Castle was judged King of Scotland…swearing fealty to The English King Edward…the ancient church, still bearing the scars of Cromwell’s musket balls on its outer walls and where Robert the Bruce once sheltered…and the school in the village, really do exist, as does the old stone bridge across the Tweed…separating England from Scotland.

My story opens just after the end of the Second World War and progresses into the 1960’s; to a Britain still advocating the ‘hang-mans rope’ for the most wilful acts of murder.

For those who do not know this northerly clime it is a land where the smallest whisper of wind blowing quietly over the hills and glens awakens the sleeping ghosts of history, and where the mighty clash of battle from two ancient armies still rings loud and clear.

Ruined castles spring up abundantly around almost every bend in the road and large fortified stone houses with high towers bear witness to the protection once needed from the ‘Border Reivers’ those lawless bands of raiders who crossed the borders mounted on swift horses to hack and wreck and rob and plunder, showing no mercy to man or beast. It is a special land that has produced and inspired some of the world’s most gifted writers like Sir Walter Scott with his classic ‘Marmion’ James Hogg (the Ettrick Shepherd.) with his many plays, poems and novels, John Buchan, he of ‘The Thirty Nine Steps’ and latterly Nigel Tranter, with his brilliantly researched historical adventure novels, plus artists such as L.S. Lowry with his iconic paintings of Berwick Upon Tweed and the poet…the National Bard of Scotland; ‘Rabbie Burns’ who upon crossing the bridge at Coldstream in 1787, alighted from his horse and recited part of ‘The Cotter’s Tale’ before walking over to the English side. The bridge bears a plaque commemorating his visit.

I have chosen the beautiful Coldstream Bridge between England and Scotland for the cover of my novel as it spans the winding banks of the silver River Tweed and is evocative of that fabled land; now thankfully at peace with itself after centuries of violent turmoil.

A long way from home and in a very bad place; the unadventurous James Parker tries to forget his troubles as he conveys the love of his home country to Carl Brandon, his new American friend in adversity. Such is James Parker’s passion for the fresh clean air and the small friendly communities of his native land that the sad and lonely American from The Bronx listens fascinated and becomes filled with a desire to see it all for himself. If only with his failing health he could survive the cruel treachery of the African Jungle.

I put James Parker, my main character, into life threatening situations. I also bring in a sub plot or two to create mischief and muddy the water. There is Billy Turpin, a powerful friend who is really a vicious enemy burning up with hate and eventually there is the underlying suggestion of strange spiritual activity going on in the background. Doctor James Parker has often suffered from depression and at times of extreme stress has been known to hallucinate. It is at these times that his mind seeks the comfort of the supernatural and conjures up visions of lost friends and family and in particular of Rosie, his beloved younger sister. They say every story needs a hero but James Parker is not cast in the heroic mould and if there is a hero to my story it has to be the awesome historical countryside of Northumberland and the Scottish Borders and in particular the silver, winding, River Tweed.

End.

The author will be pleased to sign and dedicate books directly purchased through him-email: harryriley@gmx.co.uk

www.harrysjots.blogspot.com

Harryriley Nottingham on ‘facebook’

Sins of the Father: ISBN 978-1-905809-77-6

Pneuma Springs Publishing

www.pneumasprings.co.uk

Available from Publisher, Bookshops, Amazon and good online stores-search by ISBN from November 30^th. 2009

RRP: £9.99

The Beauty of Berwick Upon Tweed

2009-11-16T06:10:00.000-08:00

‘The Beauty of Berwick Upon Tweed’

By Harry Riley

Over thirty years ago we took a family holiday in Northumberland and whilst there decided to spend a day on Lindisfarne (Holy Island)

On arrival at the causeway-crossing the tides were against us and there was to be a two-hour delay. We were only a twenty-minute drive from Berwick Upon Tweed so we thought we could wander around England’s most northerly town to fill up the time. Little did we know as we parked up in the centre of this fascinating coastal market town that it would be the start of a life-long journey of discovery. We had no idea what to expect as we popped into the tourist information centre to obtain a simple town map.

The air was bracing and the sky was a clear sunny blue as we sauntered along the wide footpaths of the grassy, Elizabethan Walls, now in the care of English Heritage…admiring ancient cannons (one from the Crimean War) and spectacular sea views over the cliffs.

The historic town of Berwick Upon Tweed is situated at the mouth of the River Tweed (a famous salmon river) where it joins the sea at the end of its winding path through the glorious Scottish Border Country. So absorbing was this rugged land with its ruined castles and troubled history hiding under every stone and grassy knoll that we would return annually for extended holidays, culminating in the purchase of a second home in a little village called Norham, nestling on the banks of the River Tweed and only eight miles from Berwick.

Berwick has three bridges spanning the river and has been fought over many times by the English and Scots including being taken by the great Scottish hero: William Wallace.

One of his limbs was gruesomely displayed, hanging from the old bridge after his execution…as a warning to all. Berwick remains an English town for the present at least.

Our walk around the outer perimeter of the town took us less than two hours but was surprisingly relaxing…quiet and invigorating with an indefinable atmosphere of welcoming peacefulness away from the hustle and bustle of the busy A1 motorway traffic which at that time ran through the town centre. We passed the Cromwellian Holy Trinity Church, said to be built from the stones of Berwick Castle, and the imposing Barracks of The Kings Own Scottish Borderers with its fine regimental museum and on towards the lighthouse, the Main Guard and the old Quay Walls. We were now approaching Palace Green wher the Military Governor one lived and we could see across the harbour to the golden holiday sands of Spittal…once famous for its health giving Spa Wells. On our right was the large decorative crest over the old Customs House, reminder of Berwick’s important maritime past.

The large colony of Berwick Swans with their distinctive patch of yellow above the beak was in evidence by the pink sandstone Berwick Old Bridge and then we were walking along the banks of the Tweed with the ancient settlement of Tweedmouth across the other side, towards the Royal Border Bridge built by Robert Stephenson and up the slope of Megs Mount, overlooking the wide river estuary. The town hall with its tall, sky-splitting clock tower comprises of a greyish-pink stone and was once the gaol from where men and women were taken to a place of execution, sometimes for seemingly trivial offences.

The majority of town buildings have cheerful red pan-tile roofs with some of grey slate and have been painted by many artists including L.S.Lowry. Eventually turning into the town we found the shopkeepers helpful and friendly. This completed our welcoming experience and created an abiding memory. Berwick upon Tweed became our base as we hunted out the wondrous gems of the Borders.

End.

'Return to Northumberland'

2009-11-15T08:49:00.000-08:00

Hello I’m Harry Riley

Welcome to Harry’s Ten-Minute Tales

This story is called:

‘Return to Northumberland ’

This is a review of a recent event with the addition of one or two comments of a possible ghostly significance. I leave it to you to decide.

To set the scene I have to go back over forty years to a time when big new roads were the coming thing. In 1959 Ernest Marples (Transport Minister) inaugurated the new M1 motorway in a big fanfare of publicity and the railways were considered by the

Government of the day to be loss-making relics of a bygone Victorian era.

As a result many Railway Stations were closed in 1965 during the savage railway purges prescribed by ‘Doctor Richard Beeching’ as the cure for the Nation’s Railway System and thus blighting the lives of thousands of rural folk. Much of the country’s valuable line stock was viciously ripped up by uncaring hands and sold for scrap along with irreplaceable buildings and transportation links that had taken many years of dedicated work to build.

In Northumberland much of the line had been planned by George Stephenson (he of the Rocket Engine fame) and had been commissioned by the York, Newcastle and Berwick Railway Co. in 1849.

It was his son Robert who was later to complete the magnificent Royal Border Bridge at Berwick Upon Tweed with its 28 elegant stone arches spanning the salmon-rich River Tweed.

On a recent October night we had the good fortune to attend an evening performance at a disused Northumberland Station, of a ghost story about a haunted railwayman who is tormented by the prospect of imminent tragedy along the line.

This was only one of a number of events taking place as part of the 150^th. Stephenson Celebrations.

It was fitting that as we set off at dusk a thick autumn mist should descend, swirling over the hills and across the Scottish Borders (the direction we were travelling from) making driving more difficult as we crossed the River Tweed into England.

Fortunately we arrived at our destination on time and saw the large banner proclaiming the ‘150^th. Stephenson Anniversary Celebrations.’

Coming towards us as the mist waxed and waned was a tall man carrying a torch and looking for the world like a Funeral Director in his long black frock coat and top hat..

Tim Kirton (the Stephenson Project Officer) introduced Chris Green (the man in the Frock Coat and Top Hat) and the performance of the ghost story began. It was inspired and all credit to the Organisers. The show made for an enjoyable and unforgettable experience in a perfect railway setting, the murky darkness being broken only by the yellow light from a few Victorian station lamps. We even heard an owl hooting in the background.

Taking our leave afterwards with heads still full of ghostly images from the drama and with the car’s main lights cutting a swathe through the foggy night we drove towards the exit and just for a fleeting moment caught sight of a man standing alone on the platform. He appeared to be an old-fashioned railway employee, wearing a bowler hat, short jacket and kerchief round his neck. He was carrying a guard’s lantern and had a confused look on his countenance, as if he was waiting for his train.

We wondered as we drove home if we had imagined it…if this was part of the stage-managed production…or if it could have been just another lost soul waiting for a train that would never come.

End.

2009-11-14T10:59:00.000-08:00

Sins of the Father

The haunted life of Doctor James Parker

ISBN 978-1-905809-77-6

Pneuma Springs Publishing

W: www.pneumasprings.co.uk

E: admin@pneumasprings.co.uk

Available from Publisher, Bookshops, Wholesalers and good

Online stores - search by ISBN

RRP - £9.99

About the Book

Harry Riley releases a gripping and suspenseful page-turner

that will defy your efforts to put it down.

Ruthlessly manipulated for most of his adult life by a cunning enemy

posing as his friend, Doctor James Parker slides into a deep pit of

depression. He is past listening to reason and believes he has every

reason to kill his generous benefactor, the man he blames for all his

misfortunes. But the gallows await!

After a cruel start in life, abandoned outside an orphanage as a baby, Billy

Turpin grows up to be a handsome and successful entrepreneur running

several companies. Many are hypnotized by his wealth and charismatic

charm. But one person suspects he is also a psychopathic killer.

Two people whose paths were doomed to cross even before they were

born, with the most tragic consequences imaginable for all concerned.

…Find out more…visit book web page @

http://www.pneumasprings.co.uk/SinsoftheFather.htm

This thrilling fictional novel will intrigue and shock you in equal measure.

2009-11-14T10:52:00.000-08:00

‘God’s Waiting Room’

by Harry Riley.

Authors note: I wrote this article whilst the memory was still fresh in my mind and within a few hours of visiting a nursing home. It was my first visit to such a place and made me wonder; ‘is this the best we can do?’

Here, in this big room they sit in rows, hour after hour, mainly women, two-dozen lonely patients, waiting for death, just a small assortment of the nations geriatrics. There is no conversation. Some appear to be asleep with their eyes and mouths wide-open, sad eyes that are glazed over.

The eyes, they say, are the windows to the soul, but these eyes are empty and soulless. Any sign of real life has long since flown. A few of these tired old faces though, with skin that has turned to dried up, powdery and yellowed parchment, look up with vague interest as the three visitors walk into the room. One tries to force a weak smile but mostly their dejected expressions reflect the hopeless abandonment of a busy society.

Blotchy, blue swollen legs are moved with difficulty and wasted arms twitch uncontrollably.

They each wear clothing that was hurriedly thrown over frail bones by someone else and which quite possibly belonged to someone else.

Once these sad creatures were mothers, wives and daughters, cared for, loved and admired. Now they are the unwanted detritus of uncaring society - shut away out of sight and out of mind. Here is the distinct smell of the faeces and urinal, hardly disguised by chemical intervention. Suddenly a clear and articulate voice cuts through the silence, rising hysterically high. ‘Somebody, will somebody please help me?’ There is a tragic desperation about the request as if the speaker is appealing directly to the newcomers.

We must not to make eye contact, there is nothing we can do and it only encourages them to false hope.

Another old lady starts crying pitiably, fidgeting painfully in her chair and then she screams out repeatedly for a nurse. Now there is coughing and choking as half dead bodies are disturbed by the noise and start to writhe about. Wheel chairs begin to spin around aimlessly as their occupant’s frantically jerk into furniture. This is harrowing stuff, a vision of purgatory. Two hard-pressed young nurses run in wearing full body plastic aprons, and their stressed out voices try to quell the uprising. It’s a while before some sort of temporary peace is restored. Unwanted and unobserved, a television has been left switched on in a corner but the sound is turned right down.

The person we have come to see is a woman in her seventieth year. She has dementia and the doctors can do no more for her. We spot her vacant face and empty eyes, among the other women as she sits there, fully dressed, silently enduring and upright in her chair, arms out stretched and resting on her knee’s…starring straight ahead in passive acceptance of her miserable fate. I wonder how long she has been sitting there. She is a close relative and until a year ago we thought she had another ten or fifteen years ahead of her. We help her into a wheelchair, take her up to her room and sit with her as she tries to tell us how she hates this place.

Her bedroom is ‘L’ shaped, with a bed and a wardrobe, two plastic chairs and a commode. The room has flowered wallpaper, the fitted beige carpet is badly stained and this is her home! She was once a schoolteacher with a sharp brain, and she deserves better than this. From somewhere deep in her mind she summons up a few sensible words and appeals for help, ‘Oh, come on…please take me home?’ We know this is impossible.

She has to stay here until the doctors say otherwise. We’ve been told her condition is terminal, a few more weeks or possibly months if her constitution proves stubborn.

She asks to be lifted up so we try and accommodate her by providing her walking frame. She makes a Herculean attempt to rise as I support her weight.

Then we ask where she is going. Eventually she mutters; ‘we are going home” but she cannot move. Her ankles are swollen and there is no strength left in her feeble body to take her anywhere, so we assist her to settle down again in her wheelchair.

We know it’s hopeless but does she? I think not. A fit and healthy person for most of her life: the weight has fallen off her and she has no strength to lift herself up. She’s frustrated and confused, and asks why her mother and father didn’t come with us. They couldn’t come today or any other day for they have been dead for over twenty years. The poisons have gone to her brain. The tears start to come and we have to leave her husband to comfort her. She drinks a lot but cannot eat and just wants to get back in bed and shut out the misery. We must wait for the inevitable end and hope it is not too prolonged.

I am glad to be outside, breathing in the fresh clean air again, away from such misery. This is not some vile Victorian Bedlam but a purpose built nursing home in a modern, civilised country in 2009.

This is one of the better nursing homes, with caring staff that do the best for their patients and she is lucky to have a bed here. I don’t know how the nurses handle this abominable torture day after day. If this is God’s waiting room then where the devil has he gone? harryriley@gmx.co.uk

2009-11-14T10:02:00.000-08:00

Hello I’m Harry Riley

Welcome to Harry’s Five-Minute Ponder: ‘What if and When.’

This is called:

‘Pilgrim County’

You know one of the great things about getting older is that you have something to look back on. Thirty or even twenty years ago we had an occasional news item from the States. Not so now.

Now we get to know what President Obama has for breakfast even before he knows it himself! Don’t get me wrong I’m not complaining; communication just got so much better now we are all part of the Global Village.

As regards politics in the UK a Federal Europe has been given a big thumbs down. It seems we…the general public, just do not want to be a part of it. Trading is fine and the European Community has given us some big benefits… like…er…like…well you know…let me think?

Anyway pondering on some of the big issues, as I am wont to do, I began to wonder what if and when?

What if Great Britain ever did become a part of the USA, you know-the Fifty First State of the Union.

Our kids play American games on their computers. They are dressed in American style gear with baseball caps stuck on sideways; dissing all and sundry as they skateboard along to the Academy Campus.

Our lives get handed down second hand from America. This is not the country I grew up in! Things have changed so much since we, as children proudly waved our Union Flags and knew the sun would never set on a glorious British Empire.

So I got out the old crystal ball and asked it to show me the future in say a hundred years time…

The picture came out bright and clear. Old television programmes showed how Britain had become just another state of the union.

When?

Well it had happened so gradually that we’d hardly noticed it. Our computers had American software that spat out American words and spellings. Our troops had joined forces in Iraq and Afghanistan and stood together over terrorist threats…and following a succession of British lacklustre political leaders with their un-lacklustre liking for self aggrandizement and get-rich-quickedness (rhyme it with wickedness) we had not rejected our powerful suitor, but like the hapless turkey, had voted for Christmas!

A cash-strapped, near bankrupt Britain had opted for the bed-pan-warmth of Wall Street. London had been discredited as a financial institution.

After a furious national debate to see which town in Britain had most in common with America and the right to be our new capital city,

a surprising winner was the tropical city of Nottingham. Not because of the beauty of Nottingham Lace or Kevin Cosner’s portrayal of Robin Hood in ‘The Prince of Thieves’ or even Notts County Football Club (consecutive winners of the Premier League for the past three years) but for Nottinghamshire’s unrivalled position as birthplace of the Separatists, founders of the most powerful democracy in the modern world. Believe it or not, the Pilgrim Fathers came from Nottinghamshire, South Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, East Midlands!

From villages such as Austerfield, Bawtry, Sturton le-steeple, Scrooby and Babworth came free-thinkers; Richard Clyfton, William Brewster, John Smith, William Bradford and John Robinson, principle leaders of the Puritan Movement.

As Separatists they had rejected Kings James’s command to worship the Sabbath in High Church (the law put anyone on pain of death for preaching sedition) they could not support a form of religion they believed to be corrupt and in sixteen hundred and twenty the Founding Fathers had set off on a perilous journey to America in the good ship Mayflower, eventually to set up camp at Plymouth Rock, Cape Cod; there to create the Mayflower Compact. This document, enshrined in the history of the American Constitution and accepted in all states became the symbol of democratic freedom.

Now in my futuristic crystal ball, Nottinghamians were thrust to the forefront of world affairs.

With new-found wealth and investment, Nottingham Castle had been rebuilt in its original medieval style, a British ‘Thanksgiving’ holiday had been approved for the fourth Thursday of November and the world and his wife wanted to live at Babworth and Austerfield and Scrooby villages…We had all become citizens instead of subjects and the cosy American greeting of ‘Have a nice day!’ had been suitably adapted to ‘Have a nice day Me Duck!’

What if and When. End.

2009-11-14T09:56:00.000-08:00

Afghanistan and the British people’

There must be many ordinary people like me who are beginning to question our government’s policy on Afghanistan.

Mr. Brown informs us our troop’s presence in Afghanistan is essential to protect us from terrorism.

The media constantly refers to the unacceptable cost in human lives.

I believe our soldiers are the best in the world but I also think they are being sacrificed by this government for a flawed ideal. I know we are not alone but we are too small a country to try and police the world: and assuming we defeat the Taliban, will that mean the end of terrorism? Not on this earth it won’t! The argument just doesn’t wash!

Imagine I am an ordinary Afghan civilian and I hear the British Prime Minister speaking on the wireless. He says foreign troops are necessary in Afghanistan to keep terrorism off the streets of Britain: So what? Do I care? Not a jot! I am only interested in protecting my own family from any sort of violence; foreign troops with their noisy tanks and guns keep me awake at night and threaten my peace of mind. And I am still living in the dark ages after years of promises and foreign intrusion.

We the British have had other failed adventures in Afghanistan over centuries past; do our politicians never learn from history?

Thirty years ago I saw a plaque in York Minster commemorating a young officer who died over there, in a battle by the Kyber pass, strangely enough I had been reading about this battle in a John Masters novel and this is why it caught my attention. It had been a long forgotten battle from another day and age…the mention on the plaque of this young officer’s lost life was one too many but we still keep on sacrificing brave young soldiers for what? If the recent elections in Helmand Province were anything to go by all we were defending were a few dusty fields! Soldiers need real battle experience or it is no use keeping an army but you do not throw away young lives for nothing. Have we learned nothing over the years?

Surely there must be a better way to defend our shores. What about tighter border controls, sharper intelligence and tougher surveillance? We could spend the money in other ways without this horrendous loss of life. I am sure he means well but the sooner Mr. Brown resigns the better it will be for us all. We desperately need a more inspired hand on the tiller.

Harry Riley email: harryriley@gmx.co.uk

2009-11-14T09:54:00.000-08:00

Hello I’m Harry Riley

Welcome to Harry’s five-minute rant

This is called:

‘All Power to the Union’

by Harry Riley

Become an apprentice and then get the strength of the unions behind you son!’

These were the words spoken to me as a raw youth leaving school at fifteen.

But it wasn’t until twenty-five years later as a commercial printing manager and director of the firm that I became a card-carrying member of a printing union listing me as a fully qualified lithographic printer. I was told by the union branch secretary that if I ever wished to come out of management I could get a job anywhere in the country with that card. The union was a closed shop.

As an indentured apprentice in a large printing company I leaned more towards the graphics side of printing so I went on to ‘Day-Release Art College’ which included three nights a week at the college night school. This was intensive training, covering all aspects of print and design and which was to give me a good overall grounding of the graphics trade.

At work we had a ‘Father of the Chapel’ and he was head-man for the union. All disputes regarding pay and conditions of the brothers had to go through him. The company bosses on their side employed a ‘Time and Motion’ expert and he would stand at the side of a tradesman and time every job to the second. Likewise we all had to comply with his ruling. We had outside toilets at work in the 1950’s and this Time and Motion man would stand in the cold outside with his stopwatch, checking that we took no longer than the allotted five minutes, even for a number-two. Then he would call out ‘come on Eric, you’ve been in there too long and bring that newspaper out with you!’ Most apprentices were in the union but our department was exempt for some reason and we were slightly set apart from the compositors and the machine minders. At that time compositors and ‘Linotype’ men were kings-of-the-heap.

It was exciting to be a small part of a big company and not long after I had started work a tradesman in our department left the company. Shortly after we had a new arrival. He was an ex-Bevin Boy and told me he was a communist and proud of it. He had been forced to work down the mines during the war as he had refused to fight. He was a superb craftsman but had some very fixed ideas. We used to clock-in each day and he didn’t like this, he told me that where there was a clocking-in machine it meant the bosses didn’t trust the workers and the workers didn’t trust the bosses! He was right of course. Things were very polarised in those days.

Pop music was getting a grip on us youngsters and at lunch times we apprentices would gather in the finishing room with the young girls and listen to the latest music. I didn’t have much money and so I used to buy records that mimicked the popular artist of the day. They sounded good to me, possibly because I was tone deaf but these cheap Woolworth’s ‘tribute’ records to Elvis Presley and other singers were not very acceptable to the girls and so some of us sought other lunchtime amusement. Within the same room in this old building there were some large overhead beams and whilst the records were playing several of us lads would hang down from the beams like monkeys to see who could hang there the longest and to try and impress the girls. For some reason they didn’t rise to the bait and I personally found I was getting quite irritated just hanging there…ten or fifteen minutes is a long time, still it was something to do and I did put on an extra six inches of height that year. The older apprentice who was currently the apple of the girl’s eyes was a lad who owned a ‘Lambretta Scooter’ and had learned to jive at ‘Butlins’ holiday camp. Whilst we were hanging from the beams he was strutting his stuff and dazzling them all. Determined to join in the fun I went to a local dancing academy and the proprietor’s wife taught me to execute a ‘Syncopated Chassis’ movement with her, however there just wasn’t the room at the overcrowded ‘Palais-de-Danse’ to demonstrate this elaborate performance without taking the legs off several other dancers and so it remained my only real and private success.

Moving on to the 1980’s when I had become production manager of a printing firm in another town, I was informed by the Managing Director that our company was under attack by the local branch of the ‘National Graphical Association’ and that we would be closed down. They had given us an ultimatum: ‘become an NGA house or be blacked and closed down. They had full control of that town and claimed they could stop us getting work. The Managing Director and owner of the company had already caved in to their demands. Invited to meet the branch secretary I gave him a tour of the works. He seemed a reasonable man and we got on quite well. We had just bought a new printing press and I had trained a woman to run it occasionally. I was told in no uncertain terms this practice had to stop immediately. The Branch Secretary had a Letterpress Printer available and we had to employ him and train him on the press so that in six month’s time he could be given a full litho card. I resisted this but again the M.D. caved in and so began my tussles with the union.

I became a card-carrying member of the union but was not allowed to speak at the union meetings as I was a manager. I still tried to get my female worker accepted into the union and the branch secretary eventually put it on the agenda. I could not believe the outrageous spleen that came out that night as one after the other; newspaper printers stood up and condemned female workers. ‘This is the filthy end of the stick! Let one woman in and we will all be out of a job. We have to protect ourselves and remain a closed shop or we are done for!’ I got some really vicious looks and wondered if I would get home that night without a bloody nose or worse. They knew I was behind the failed proposal. Not long afterwards our new printer breezed into my office full of confidence and said: “Listen Sunshine, you do anything to stop me working and you’ll live to regret it!” It was a clear threat of union intimidation and I had to concede he was right. Within the obligatory six months I sent off a favourable report to the union so that he got his full litho printer’s card. If my M.D. with all his money couldn’t fight the union what chance did I have?

Disillusioned, I left the company not long after that and my career took another turn as I accepted a job selling printing presses for a National Manufacturer.

Recently I got hold of an old copy of Andrew Neil’s book ‘Full Disclosure’ where he writes about life during Margaret Thatcher’s regime. This struck a cord with me because it revived memories of my own three years of tussles with the NGA. The brothers were fighting against new technology with every weapon in their armoury and this book reminded me of my own experiences in a little provincial market town. So why, knowing what I do, do I feel sorry that the NGA no longer exists? I never really felt a part of it even when I carried a union card.

End.

email: harryriley@gmx.co.uk

2009-11-14T09:51:00.000-08:00

Hello I’m Harry Riley

This is an introduction to my forthcoming novel called:

‘Sins of the Father’

(The haunted life of Doctor James Parker)

This tale concerns the lives of two young men whose paths were doomed to clash even before they were born, with devastating results for all concerned.

It is set in a small village in Northumberland, a village once considered to be the most dangerous place in England.

Now it is only the eerie call of the curlews and oystercatchers circling high above the river that pleasantly disturbs the clean air and tranquillity.

My story opens just after the end of the Second World War and progresses into the 1960’s; to a Britain still advocating the ‘hang-mans rope’ for the most wilful acts of murder.

For those who do not know this northerly clime it is a land where the smallest whisper of wind blowing gently over the hills and glens awakens the sleeping ghosts of history, and where the mighty clash of battle from two ancient armies still rings loud and clear.

In my story Billy Turpin is a big strong orphan with a secret hate that sits on his broad shoulders like an invisible monster screaming revenge into his tortured brain. By a stroke of good fortune and evil cunning he acquires great wealth and builds a successful business empire. Slowly and with infinite patience he destroys his victims one by one until he has his main target-James Parker, securely in his grasp.

Someone recently likened this melodrama of mine with its twists and turns and suggestion of ghostly intervention, as akin to ‘The Woman in White’ by Wilkie Collins. I did not know that story but have since listened to a version of it on audiotape and am surprised at the points of comparison. In my story I have an enchanted graveyard and a white angel and I make use of the device of important letters. I put James Parker, my main character, into life threatening situations that are almost impossible to escape from. I also bring in a sub plot or two to create mischief and muddy the water. There is Billy Turpin, a powerful friend who is really a vicious enemy burning up with hate and eventually there is the underlying suggestion of strange spiritual activity going on in the background. Doctor James Parker has often suffered from depression and at times of extreme stress he has been known to hallucinate. It is at these times that his mind seeks the comfort of the supernatural and conjures up visions of lost friends and family and in particular of Rosie, his dead and beloved younger sister. They say every story needs a hero but James Parker is not cast in the heroic mould and if there is a hero to my story it has to be the awesome historical countryside of Northumberland and the Scottish Borders and in particular the graceful winding River Tweed.

The author will be pleased to sign and dedicate books directly purchased through him-email: harryriley@gmx.co.uk

www.harryriley321.com

on ‘myspace and harryriley nottingham on ‘facebook’

ISBN 978-1-905809-77-6

Pneuma Springs Publishing

www.pneumasprings.co.uk

Available from Publisher, Bookshops, Wholesalers and good online stores-search by ISBN from November 30^th. 2009

RRP: £9.99

This is a fast, unusual read for mystery thriller lovers, with many twists and turns from Northumberland and the Scottish Borders to Africa and the USA.

Plots to entertain and grip you. An ideal present!

it's a dog's life

2008-08-16T04:42:00.000-07:00

Hello again, I want to tell you about Little Nelson. The kids had grown up and were off, doing their own thing, so we thought as there was just the two of us going up to our holiday cottage regularly in the glorious Scottish Borders, that we would like a dog. Not a bloody great Dane, but a smallish dog for our smallish house. Well we went along to our nearest dog rescue centre and walked along the isle between two rows of tall steel wire cages. There were several noisy dogs in each, all baying for attention. Our daughter was with us to help make a choice. We told the smiling young girl we were disappointed but she said to do another walk-by. We did so, we didn't want a pup, but a three or four year old. Then amongst the big noisy hounds we spotted a quiet Jack Russell dog that was at the front. He was quietly strutting up and down importantly as if inspecting his troops. He had a certain presence and I remarked that he was like a general. We asked for a lead and it was attached to his collar as my daughter walked him out in the isle. He had his head up imperiously and was still inspecting the other dogs who had quietened down as he passed. We bought him and called him little Nelson. We had him until his death more than ten years later and he was so much fun and had a heart as big as a lion. From the moment we put him in the car to take him home he became one of the family. Once home, we shut the gate behind us and he made a grab for a large round stone and started dribbling it through his back legs. We had to buy him a ball.