tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17449056841405545972024-02-20T18:16:15.443-08:00A Roof Over Their HeadsLisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-19196099570861897622012-12-10T12:41:00.002-08:002012-12-10T12:41:20.041-08:00"Roof" Is Stocked at Nickel Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgimJsbHrn1_qpkrPtuSNITZs0o_Ck2Gfp4y9tIdt9Wz378saOHv6ddDCTOLrXPOjmptPLWkrFg6TzTk5JnRW3CM_Rqc8z2JVA2NQmj51v50dQi4oQl4e8KxC5KjlTbo5-H_JGGtKoH4g4/s1600/Nickel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgimJsbHrn1_qpkrPtuSNITZs0o_Ck2Gfp4y9tIdt9Wz378saOHv6ddDCTOLrXPOjmptPLWkrFg6TzTk5JnRW3CM_Rqc8z2JVA2NQmj51v50dQi4oQl4e8KxC5KjlTbo5-H_JGGtKoH4g4/s320/Nickel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://nickelbooks.co.uk/">Nickel Books</a> is a gorgeous treasure trove of an independent children's bookshop in Sittingbourne, Kent. Located on the high street, it is easy to find and hard to forget once you've stepped into its Aladdin's cave of interesting books, games, and toys. And if by any chance they don't have what you're looking for, Andrea, the incredibly friendly and helpful owner, will source it for you (assuming it's still in print, of course).<br />
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But it's not just a children's bookshop. Nickel Books is host to numerous events through the month, including <a href="http://www.musicalbumps.com/">Musical Bumps</a>, children's parties, and story time which takes place every Tuesday at 11am. Check their <a href="http://www.nickelbooks.co.uk/">website</a> for more events as they come up! There's always something going on.<br />
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Not only is Nickel Books a lovely place to visit, if you can't make it, their online ordering service is second to none. With an easy to navigate online shop, free postage, and a personal service, I cannot recommend it highly enough.<br />
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2012 is the year of the independent trader - buy local, support local. And Nickel Books <span class="GRcorrect" grcontextid="is:0" grmarkguid="51af5695-cfab-477c-872f-49de1c00aa25" gruiphraseguid="2e574aa4-cc6a-4ae8-92f5-5f0ffa4e6449">is</span> just the sort of shop that deserves our custom.<br />
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Now, you may wonder why our book about the places and the inhabitants of the Isle of Sheppey has anything to do with an independent children's bookshop... Well, there's another side to Nickel Books. They also sell local interest books and maps. Whether you want to learn about Victorian Kent, or you want to know more about which walks to <span class="GRcorrect" grcontextid="talk:0" grmarkguid="71efc64f-e7ca-44df-bbad-db87d6ae6ea5" gruiphraseguid="5f8a2e4d-9af9-4fc0-bcb8-0537efbf8a65">talk</span> small children <span class="GRcorrect" grcontextid="on:1" grmarkguid="041ea09a-cbca-47a2-8791-85006661ef2a" gruiphraseguid="5f8a2e4d-9af9-4fc0-bcb8-0537efbf8a65">on</span>, they've got the information.<br />
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And they've also now got A Roof Over Their Heads.<br />
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Please, take a look at this fabulous shop, and enjoy. Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-81824115074670153212012-11-26T06:08:00.000-08:002012-11-26T06:08:41.162-08:00Our First Review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQWvieyXgfG9FOCaYoHohJAfuDlLMIQYIeUtfFeDsnik6gma07XlpX8J_40_WTRkf83F-G2gAvQi_bGjL3Lsws9XKAj8ZURyVO3fnHjZ9KPz05ODAQsTeiWQOJ63lwhdMijyoQOqSgGs/s1600/Stars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQWvieyXgfG9FOCaYoHohJAfuDlLMIQYIeUtfFeDsnik6gma07XlpX8J_40_WTRkf83F-G2gAvQi_bGjL3Lsws9XKAj8ZURyVO3fnHjZ9KPz05ODAQsTeiWQOJ63lwhdMijyoQOqSgGs/s320/Stars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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A detailed review from one of our readers, Gabrielle:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Just as the hitherto thriving cultural life on the Isles of
Sheppey is in danger to be swept away by the tide of cut backs the local
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">council</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> has had to impose on culture a small book has been published on the
Island with the title ‘A Roof Over Their Heads’. The book owes its gestation to
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">a</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> local writer’s workshop (still financed by the council before the latest cuts
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">were</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> announced) where participants were asked to write about local houses. This
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">could</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> be either from personal memory or through research in local archives for
</span><span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="8ed577f4faa333f41b0de159a7aec8c3dd7d495f" grtype="null" id="GRmark_8ed577f4faa333f41b0de159a7aec8c3dd7d495f_any:0" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">any</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> information that could become the seed for a story to be written about.</span><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">This brief was enthusiastically taken up by all six writers with
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="0c049a13c952999b42d3ed4f927d3dca627d6cd7" grtype="null" id="GRmark_0c049a13c952999b42d3ed4f927d3dca627d6cd7_each:0">each</span> of them <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="0c049a13c952999b42d3ed4f927d3dca627d6cd7" grtype="null" id="GRmark_0c049a13c952999b42d3ed4f927d3dca627d6cd7_giving:1">giving</span> a short introduction to their story. Some of the stories
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="c83093b797739acc6de93eb035b4316277a7f3bd" grtype="null" id="GRmark_c83093b797739acc6de93eb035b4316277a7f3bd_are:0">are</span> from personal experience or witness account, the rest <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="c83093b797739acc6de93eb035b4316277a7f3bd" grtype="null" id="GRmark_c83093b797739acc6de93eb035b4316277a7f3bd_have been inspired:1">have been inspired</span> by
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="c823775381d0fa86e1ef432df3c525bd9e5de8c6" grtype="null" id="GRmark_c823775381d0fa86e1ef432df3c525bd9e5de8c6_some:0">some</span> historical fact the writer used for his imagination to shape into
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="73ee66e248d34c459a8a71d0235101cb790a51f9" grtype="null" id="GRmark_73ee66e248d34c459a8a71d0235101cb790a51f9_fictional:0">fictional</span> history. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The strength of each one of these stories is the vivid evocation
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="e85ac6a6c8b2ba2931dd9f4fbfdd520c88cb7b7b" grtype="null" id="GRmark_e85ac6a6c8b2ba2931dd9f4fbfdd520c88cb7b7b_of:0">of</span> life on the island during different epochs from the sixteenth to the 21th
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="3ad74e1c7019723f23bf738fc3150cd6ea281431" grtype="null" id="GRmark_3ad74e1c7019723f23bf738fc3150cd6ea281431_century:0">century</span>. Sometimes the narrative leads the reader back and forth in time, as in
‘Tales of Marine Parade’ which tells the story of one family over several
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="a2596c3b874a2b357ef0e2a371cdb34d9d70acaf" grtype="null" id="GRmark_a2596c3b874a2b357ef0e2a371cdb34d9d70acaf_generations:0">generations</span> in stories within the main narrative as told by the grandmother <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="a2596c3b874a2b357ef0e2a371cdb34d9d70acaf" grtype="null" id="GRmark_a2596c3b874a2b357ef0e2a371cdb34d9d70acaf_to:1">to</span>
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="de06f7a9cf90149fe00d393b6729e6fb02817c43" grtype="null" id="GRmark_de06f7a9cf90149fe00d393b6729e6fb02817c43_her:0">her</span> grandchildren in our time. The problem with this imaginative if complex way
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="7881c2d15dd11237d8b6ac3d2e0ba5fd9d79b78a" grtype="null" id="GRmark_7881c2d15dd11237d8b6ac3d2e0ba5fd9d79b78a_of:0">of</span> <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="7881c2d15dd11237d8b6ac3d2e0ba5fd9d79b78a" grtype="null" id="GRmark_7881c2d15dd11237d8b6ac3d2e0ba5fd9d79b78a_story telling:1">story telling</span> is that the reader might get confused by the characters now
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="c8a777d9e5b768fe88681dcfa01f88b68b0695f0" grtype="null" id="GRmark_c8a777d9e5b768fe88681dcfa01f88b68b0695f0_old:0">old</span>, now young, popping in and out of the narrative. It requires careful
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="866549e6d38689d2239fbe748ab0369b24e74175" grtype="null" id="GRmark_866549e6d38689d2239fbe748ab0369b24e74175_reading:0">reading</span> and sometimes re-reading not unlike reading a novel by Tolstoy that is
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="9c089a1bb148faec22c8a0595ba727202ae81d83" grtype="null" id="GRmark_9c089a1bb148faec22c8a0595ba727202ae81d83_peopled:0">peopled</span> by a multitude of characters, some of whom make a short appearance and
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="2b57f71df198adb7557a077c521b55217f5215e2" grtype="null" id="GRmark_2b57f71df198adb7557a077c521b55217f5215e2_disappear:0">disappear</span> only to make their <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="2b57f71df198adb7557a077c521b55217f5215e2" grtype="null" id="GRmark_2b57f71df198adb7557a077c521b55217f5215e2_come-back:1">come-back</span> much later in the narrative. However the
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="24c13330cba42edd4333c5af2d134dbc28824204" grtype="null" id="GRmark_24c13330cba42edd4333c5af2d134dbc28824204_dialogue:0">dialogue</span> in this story is a good guide through the different epochs and the
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="82e7f931a7c74fa78d1cab33c1f9ba0db8c26f61" grtype="null" id="GRmark_82e7f931a7c74fa78d1cab33c1f9ba0db8c26f61_social:0">social</span> standing of a character, as when Polly informs her granddaughter Sally
(<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="d203ca0375c8e04048d6d8387770e43033f5123f" grtype="null" id="GRmark_d203ca0375c8e04048d6d8387770e43033f5123f_the:0">the</span> main narrator of these stories) ‘I have <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="d203ca0375c8e04048d6d8387770e43033f5123f" grtype="null" id="GRmark_d203ca0375c8e04048d6d8387770e43033f5123f_ter:1">ter</span> say that being in service
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="ccc7e46a5e82b1206a44f8bedfe4043dfa04e004" grtype="null" id="GRmark_ccc7e46a5e82b1206a44f8bedfe4043dfa04e004_wasn’t:0">wasn’t</span> all that good if you got a rotten family, but the Sutherlands were a
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="61fa67a6d042b7f0b03d01eafee07534cc77a9ad" grtype="null" id="GRmark_61fa67a6d042b7f0b03d01eafee07534cc77a9ad_lovely:0">lovely</span> couple’. Polly’s tale and vernacular <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="e97c00908d71cd901392b228fe4545f6e1bbded4" grtype="null" id="GRmark_e97c00908d71cd901392b228fe4545f6e1bbded4_places:0">places</span> her clearly back to the <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="e97c00908d71cd901392b228fe4545f6e1bbded4" grtype="null" id="GRmark_e97c00908d71cd901392b228fe4545f6e1bbded4_turn:1">turn</span>
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="f0ec44523802baa3528d698ebded232041421353" grtype="null" id="GRmark_f0ec44523802baa3528d698ebded232041421353_of:0">of</span> the 19<sup><span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="fa6af6e97d010a98b5bfb9dc17862112afda402e" grtype="null" id="GRmark_fa6af6e97d010a98b5bfb9dc17862112afda402e_th:0">th</span></sup> <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="3ea42a0a134b7b30448d5db4c95b8f4f39dcfe62" grtype="null" id="GRmark_3ea42a0a134b7b30448d5db4c95b8f4f39dcfe62_to:0">to</span> the 20th cent. Whereas Polly’s
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="b5782117958ccdd004a361fecfcdb5913ae99f44" grtype="null" id="GRmark_b5782117958ccdd004a361fecfcdb5913ae99f44_great:0">great</span>-great-granddaughter Laura’s diction ‘ Mum says we are to leave you after
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="e1c48db69bb2058067e0afa64867ce46a7e8b364" grtype="null" id="GRmark_e1c48db69bb2058067e0afa64867ce46a7e8b364_lunch:0">lunch</span>’, is that of a middle class girl of our time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The title story ‘A roof over their heads’, takes a similar
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="fe0a67434131701d9bb9694bac04de99a2696f9c" grtype="null" id="GRmark_fe0a67434131701d9bb9694bac04de99a2696f9c_approach:0">approach</span> by letting the characters tell their tale, though contained over a
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="d25c2f60a73219479e561731a62866c4019f242d" grtype="null" id="GRmark_d25c2f60a73219479e561731a62866c4019f242d_shorter:0">shorter</span> time span of about twenty-seven years as the first narrator, Brian,
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="09775c711a5f03bd71d145c2bf602375b3b4d227" grtype="null" id="GRmark_09775c711a5f03bd71d145c2bf602375b3b4d227_indicates:0">indicates</span> at the beginning. Here the narrative roles are very clear and each
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="8c025f95e2c7b988486538c56c5c936b7ac162a8" grtype="null" id="GRmark_8c025f95e2c7b988486538c56c5c936b7ac162a8_character’s individuality:0">character’s individuality</span> well defined. Though at heart decent, Brian is <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="19eec4e593c691a903e1895706604902cf4d9076" grtype="null" id="GRmark_19eec4e593c691a903e1895706604902cf4d9076_easily:0">easily</span>
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="65bc9770bfb4311363a97ad0908eac71be7e002e" grtype="null" id="GRmark_65bc9770bfb4311363a97ad0908eac71be7e002e_led:0">led</span> by Carol into a life of deceit and criminality. When Brian’s resentment at
Carol finally leads to their final argument with him stating ‘I didn’t want to
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="d8eceb531d8e6727859b9fbd36eb789b60e9908c" grtype="null" id="GRmark_d8eceb531d8e6727859b9fbd36eb789b60e9908c_make:0">make</span> all those cons, that was you’ she replies ‘You’re so weak; I should have
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="6da20d2f9a9907681c76465f4df94841c1d1cb71" grtype="null" id="GRmark_6da20d2f9a9907681c76465f4df94841c1d1cb71_hired:0">hired</span> someone else, not a coward like you’ the reader is left in no doubt as to
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="b263d1353352c5cc21d39a3c3dcb6e35fb9cb944" grtype="null" id="GRmark_b263d1353352c5cc21d39a3c3dcb6e35fb9cb944_who:0">who</span> lacks moral scruples. Brian’s murder of Carol does not change this as his
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="7aa4c7baca3abdc26fa0b2430df25b05904b2f3a" grtype="null" id="GRmark_7aa4c7baca3abdc26fa0b2430df25b05904b2f3a_immediate:0">immediate</span> horror at what he’d done in self- defense, almost accidentally,
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="cd7cefdcf7ec0670a36dd1ef106e992c8cbce9b2" grtype="null" id="GRmark_cd7cefdcf7ec0670a36dd1ef106e992c8cbce9b2_overwhelms:0">overwhelms</span> him. The dramatic scene of the murder as told by both Brian and
Carol is riveting, the tension of the moment palpable, and each of their
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="73d506d417284d40f6e4f4b2de17325cf4f60254" grtype="null" id="GRmark_73d506d417284d40f6e4f4b2de17325cf4f60254_narratives:0">narratives</span> <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="73d506d417284d40f6e4f4b2de17325cf4f60254" grtype="null" id="GRmark_73d506d417284d40f6e4f4b2de17325cf4f60254_illuminates:1">illuminates</span> their very different character. The ending of Carol’s
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="cd9c9dddd9fe5a4daf0a8d69ad205c6eb0826f43" grtype="null" id="GRmark_cd9c9dddd9fe5a4daf0a8d69ad205c6eb0826f43_narrative:0">narrative</span> is particularly well constructed with the unfinished sentence ‘And
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="85916c826bf5cff58681cae1fabb4890dceff99a" grtype="null" id="GRmark_85916c826bf5cff58681cae1fabb4890dceff99a_now:0">now</span> I feel…’ mirroring her final thoughts <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="85916c826bf5cff58681cae1fabb4890dceff99a" grtype="null" id="GRmark_85916c826bf5cff58681cae1fabb4890dceff99a_being:1">being</span> cut short by death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The use of such taut prose, leaving it to the reader to infer what
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="81bcb07455558ec800b8a0796ed17f589b20558b" grtype="null" id="GRmark_81bcb07455558ec800b8a0796ed17f589b20558b_is:0">is</span> happening or how a character feels instead of over-detailed descriptive
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="666510bd8f2e8e7f2125c6fc2813ebacff94712e" grtype="null" id="GRmark_666510bd8f2e8e7f2125c6fc2813ebacff94712e_would:0">would</span> have made Mr. <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="065f70ad2cafeb57071bf0bd8870c53f5a4f9bd5" grtype="null" id="GRmark_065f70ad2cafeb57071bf0bd8870c53f5a4f9bd5_West’s account:0">West’s account</span> that follows Carol’s tale less
<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="4fdf96616cd00344fdef877f1a546885821f6ec8" grtype="null" id="GRmark_4fdf96616cd00344fdef877f1a546885821f6ec8_self-righteous:0">self-righteous</span>. The tension created by the irony of the murderer actually being
morally conscious, whereas his victim Carol is not, is weakened by Mr. West’s
somewhat patronizing contemplations that delegate the riveting narrative of the
two main characters to his own narrow minded moral judgment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Colorful characters, interesting juxtapositions of different
social backgrounds at the end of the 19<sup><span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="fa6af6e97d010a98b5bfb9dc17862112afda402e" grtype="null" id="GRmark_fa6af6e97d010a98b5bfb9dc17862112afda402e_th:0">th</span></sup> century dominate ‘Fleeting
Glimpses’. Emma, a prostitute, is pitted against the middle class in person of
‘Harridan Hall’, and the upper class as personified by Sir Cedric Greet, his
mother Lady Dora, and Lady Victoria his fiancé. They and Emma’s servant and
companion Bea are distinctly characterized. The aged Bea, suffering from a bad
back, is particularly well evoked when ‘she run her free hand over her hip and
across her spine, as far as she could reach, trying to squeeze the pain away,
knowing it was useless but only realizing she was doing it when it was already
done’. The climax of this story is the encounter between Emma and Lady Dora at
the ball. Emma’s defensive address to the assembled society in the ballroom is
splendid. She has all the sympathy of the reader and one hopes of some in the
audience too. Emma’s speech leaves no doubts about the gulf between her, the
despised prostitute and the so-called respectable society in front of her,
listening aghast to her outburst, which reveals them as hypocritical, since not
only Sir Cedric but also ‘several others’ present ‘pay very well for her
company’. The narrative is compelling, the structure of the story well thought
out, though sometimes a detail seems either unnecessary as when Sir Cedric
‘chewed his thumb’, or somewhat far-fetched as when Emma remembers her ‘time in
Africa, among the tribes in the wilderness’. Equally Emma’s emotional state of
mind is clear after her speech at the ball, the reader doesn’t need to be told
that her she has a broken heart. The end of this story finds Emma in Marrakesh,
ready for new adventure, a liberated woman more of our times one feels, for
what freedoms could be awaiting her in her time in this town peopled by a
strict patriarchal society and a few Europeans of largely dubious background. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The story of ‘29 Manor Road’ focuses on a local ‘upright common
English, British family’ and the issue of renting the house the family ‘dwelt’
in. The writer remembers what happened when his mother refused to pay the rent
until the landlord carried out long overdue repairs to the house. It is a story
of courage against injustice, and also about the question of trust and the lack
of it. ‘ What do honest upright people need receipts for? Our word is evident’
young Steve declares after the magistrate advised that the mother should have
got a receipt for paying the rent and rates. The story is told in 4 sections
that create a tableau of domestic life in the 1950<sup>th,</sup> as when the
family watches a repeat of the 1953 Coronation, or when the family celebrates
the mother’s return from prison with the table laid out plentiful for teatime.
This is a charming story, well told in lively scenes that illuminate the
situation of many a ‘lowly proud ordinary families’ who dwelt in rather than
owned their ‘roof over their heads’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">‘Groene Vitriool’ is narrated through a letter written by Mathias
Falconer in the 16<sup><span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="fa6af6e97d010a98b5bfb9dc17862112afda402e" grtype="null" id="GRmark_fa6af6e97d010a98b5bfb9dc17862112afda402e_th:0">th</span></sup> century to his wife Anna when he feels close to
death. The narrative offers a fascinating insight of the historical background
of that time which is well researched, though the characters, except for
Mathias, are fictional. Mathias and Anna are protestant Dutch immigrants who
escaped religious persecution in their country that was ruled by ‘those Papists’
of catholic Spain. Since he was a copperas processor in the reign of Elisabeth
the 1st, who ‘‘offered up monopolies ‘to certain Dutch Mynerall men’ he took up
this offer to start a new and safe life with his family. Copperas was used to
make gunpowder and men like Mathias were instrumental in the difficult and
dangerous production of this raw material. The description of how copperas was
extracted from copperas stones gathered on the beach below Minster and Warden
bay is captivating. The reader almost holds them in his hands ‘Those heavy,
knobbly, dull grey pebbles full of iron’. Then, when the stone is broken, ‘Pale
green globules like fish eggs lie on the cut grey-green surface which shines
like metal’ the dull stone’s mystery is exposed by the two imaginative similes
followed by the tangible ‘bad egg smell of Brimstone’ emerging from the stone
which makes the reader recoil. This is descriptive at its best, the reader can
literally feel, see and smell what is described as he follows the narrative. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">This story’s strength lays not only in its vivid descriptive but
also in the skillful juxtaposition of Mathias’ personal story with the historic
background of the copperas production. Mathias’ personal story is emotive but
never melodramatic. We feel for him when he implores Anna who’d only
reluctantly come to England and was never quite happy in her new home land
‘with all my heart, I am very sorry for the pain you have endured over the
years’. The well-informed account of the copperas production is fascinating
with the story of Toby, the ‘whippersnapper’ (a wonderful nick-name) who kept a
copperas stone in his pocket that ‘burnt a hole through his breeches and singed
his legs’ demonstrating just how dangerous these stones could be. The political
background, brought to the fore again and again in the story underlines the
importance of copperas production at that time since gunpowder became a vital
part in the defense of Elizabethan England, as well as a means to revolt as the
gunpowder plot shows. This story in the form of a relatively short letter, but
full of interesting facts and told in imaginative fiction is a pleasure to read
and proof that even an obscure theme can be brought to life by a truly creative
writer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">‘Flora A. Wisdom’ creates a vibrant picture of life in Sheerness
in about 1917 against the background of the Great War with its social and
political upheavals. The story as related by Flora, a servant in one of the
houses of Shrimp Terrace, is highly theatrical and full of wry humor as when
she lets the applicant for her position come into the house; ‘ Come for my job,
have you? My Job? Well you’re welcome to it’. The characterization of Flora is
vivid (she doesn’t need the stage directions that litter the narrative, though
her monologue would lend itself very well to a stage production!) she comes to
life as we see her stuff the chicken whilst explaining the duties awaiting the
new servant ‘otherwise I won’t get finished ‘til midnight’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Flora’s personal story is that of many girls at that time who had
to find a position early in life, she was only seventeen, usually to escape
difficult conditions at home ‘what with three brothers a step da and no room of
my own’. Finding a position and having to share a room with only one other girl
was ‘heaven’ for Flora and many servants like her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Flora’s language is forthright, daring ‘some of you (applicants)
looks a bit long in the tooth’ but she’s also caring and astute in her
observation of the world around her as the war destroys old certainties. She’s
not carried away by the general hysteria that makes people suspicious about
everything and of everybody. ‘We’ve gone spy mad’ she tells the job applicant
for she realizes that such hysteria unleashes hatred which can culminates in
tragic injustice as in the case of Mr. Losel, or in absurdity such as when the
postmaster of Eastchurch and his entire family were arrested for having a map
of new sewage pipes on the wall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">When we meet Flora she’s the only servant left at the house for,
as she says to the job applicant, ‘domestics aren’t so easy to come by’.
Flora’s story mirrors the social change, the end of an era that saw many
servants seek employment in industry and commerce rather than be tied to the
confines of domestic service. Flora herself is planning to emigrate to America
with the ‘young man I am seeing’. She’s not only ‘plain fed-up with all this
war’ but also adventurous and eager to start a new life. ‘ Oh, I know all about
me patriotic duty and all that’ she tells the applicant who looks at her
disapprovingly, but Flora is determined and eager to break with the past by
seeking a new if uncertain future. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Though this story is told from an entirely subjective viewpoint
Flora’s narrative moves seamlessly from the private to the wider public sphere,
intertwining both and creating a rich tapestry of local life during the war
that brilliantly mirrors the wider world outside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">This compendium of stories is a welcome addition to the existing
literature about Sheppey that ranges from Folklore to modern literature. From
Nicola Barker to Uwe Johnson, the East-German writer who came to live in
Sheerness, writers have taken the Island’s contrasting landscape and social
condition as inspiration for their writing. But their voice was that of the
outsider looking in. ‘A Roof Over Their Heads’ is as one of the contributing
writers in the book phrases it ‘that Sheppey voice speaking loud and clear’
from the island itself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-57947687656002761842012-11-17T23:47:00.003-08:002012-11-17T23:47:42.590-08:00Amazon - Paperback Available<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbarj8eAr-9shXWZl7TpvsNjCPEMbQq25PrJUwiZCXfDmgsZ-eod3ppJPD9TgCxSiGZAhgHWCDmU2tWyAFf4M1hH5QQlRSaWdgQhMpWO1sPRj6RG9gGMJvmBRxI-KdEHTwVmEuVkMbXr8/s1600/AMAZON-395.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbarj8eAr-9shXWZl7TpvsNjCPEMbQq25PrJUwiZCXfDmgsZ-eod3ppJPD9TgCxSiGZAhgHWCDmU2tWyAFf4M1hH5QQlRSaWdgQhMpWO1sPRj6RG9gGMJvmBRxI-KdEHTwVmEuVkMbXr8/s320/AMAZON-395.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Hooray! Finally, A Roof Over Their Heads is available in paperback through Amazon! It's taken months, but we've made it! Here's the .<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="41602c3a9c28e06aed02acf75b420eb1bde5feb8" grtype="null" id="GRmark_41602c3a9c28e06aed02acf75b420eb1bde5feb8_co.uk:0">co.uk</span> link:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1291002685/ref=cm_sw_em_r_am_ip_am_gb?ie=UTF8">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1291002685/ref=cm_sw_em_r_am_ip_am_gb?ie=UTF8</a><br />
<br />
And .<span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="185341afdaf9db42642e013a22961fa295e8e6ea" grtype="null" id="GRmark_185341afdaf9db42642e013a22961fa295e8e6ea_com:0">com</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1291002685/ref=cm_sw_em_r_am_ip_am_gb?ie=UTF8">http://www.amazon.com/dp/1291002685/ref=cm_sw_em_r_am_ip_am_gb?ie=UTF8</a><br />
<br />
Perfect timing for a great Christmas present!<br />
Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-25227906596531503162012-11-13T23:20:00.000-08:002012-11-13T23:20:02.685-08:00We're Famous Now! The Sheppey Writing Workshop found <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="c1a0a8a343ad927862ca3a4407cdd20e6bb9c949" grtype="null" id="GRmark_c1a0a8a343ad927862ca3a4407cdd20e6bb9c949_itself:0">itself</span> in the local newspaper (The Sheerness Times Guardian) this week.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDP5qfhVhnMMdVLkxr0Ys_zv9ouzDxM35CqmHs_Up31X5dPJdaI_b-ZKQD_QKqdOKqUJC0yUj5xArYF99aPhKSslCoktoBLUbAS3KWYhtmS73NQBfCFegwL4p38eeyRQPCL0P6Ze9QuKI/s1600/Sheerness+Times+Guardian+071112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDP5qfhVhnMMdVLkxr0Ys_zv9ouzDxM35CqmHs_Up31X5dPJdaI_b-ZKQD_QKqdOKqUJC0yUj5xArYF99aPhKSslCoktoBLUbAS3KWYhtmS73NQBfCFegwL4p38eeyRQPCL0P6Ze9QuKI/s320/Sheerness+Times+Guardian+071112.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
There we all are! This photo shoot was a lot of fun, even if I was holding the book back to front for half of it! Thankfully I <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="8a08eaa8b6b574499ba61c14ecebb33c3862b818" grtype="null" id="GRmark_8a08eaa8b6b574499ba61c14ecebb33c3862b818_realised:0">realised</span> and, rather red-faced, managed to get it the right way round (you'd never know I'd made an error from the photo though!).<br />
<br />
If you'd like to hold your own copy of this fascinating book about the Isle of Sheppey (although the stories are universal tales of smugglers, con artists, masked balls and struggles during <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="3257bbf4406c4a025ada79560f4170649673d3f4" grtype="null" id="GRmark_3257bbf4406c4a025ada79560f4170649673d3f4_war time:0">war time</span>), please click on this link: <a href="http://www.lulu.com/shop/lisamarie-lamb-and-geof-reed/a-roof-over-their-heads/paperback/product-20348882.html">http://www.lulu.com/shop/lisamarie-lamb-and-geof-reed/a-roof-over-their-heads/paperback/product-20348882.html</a><br />
<br />
And if you have <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="1dbcac09ed125fc52dd71f7673e64328e2740a03" grtype="null" id="GRmark_1dbcac09ed125fc52dd71f7673e64328e2740a03_an:0">an</span> <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="1dbcac09ed125fc52dd71f7673e64328e2740a03" grtype="null" id="GRmark_1dbcac09ed125fc52dd71f7673e64328e2740a03_eReader:1">eReader</span>, the eBook is available on Smashwords: <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/218801">http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/218801</a> <br />
<br />
If you do purchase it, please let us know what you thought by leaving a review - we'd love to hear from you!<br />
<br />
<br />Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-26688740049839508732012-10-28T01:00:00.001-07:002012-10-28T01:00:55.108-07:00We're Stocked!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQCkDV5Pu0y6jTm_1xsvMcOa6LSbcULj9esQK2V8laVkOVA2YR19gmvfqHgygrrMUC7m347nn13fX7IzbQcv-Mx9w_2GFmo3uTp-MuuqCxsmzUUAAAqMrRWHLZOfwH2J2wV9no1K0xhs/s1600/BTHeritage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="108" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQCkDV5Pu0y6jTm_1xsvMcOa6LSbcULj9esQK2V8laVkOVA2YR19gmvfqHgygrrMUC7m347nn13fX7IzbQcv-Mx9w_2GFmo3uTp-MuuqCxsmzUUAAAqMrRWHLZOfwH2J2wV9no1K0xhs/s320/BTHeritage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
The Sheppey Writing Workshop is pleased to announce that our book, <i>A Roof Over Their Heads, </i>is now available to buy from the <a href="http://proffittcenter.org/joomla/">Blue Town Heritage Centre</a>!<br />
<br />
The centre can be found at 69 High Street, Blue Town, Sheerness, ME12 1RW, and can be contacted on 01795 662981.<br />
<br />
It's well worth a visit (and not just to buy our book!), as it's a fascinating place to find out more about the Isle of Sheppey, its history, and upcoming plans for its future.Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-28856721021638588052012-09-23T02:05:00.003-07:002012-09-23T04:03:48.394-07:00The Launch!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1DzjE1ElZk-ECrQHFI9-hLupRHTyekzqlnmDtTjqVMWYPr6OdB_f_rij_WxySTd8PjkPuXjhj55YlKFxz2cezVanJjrDyKgPawC9k_TbaYjes6oqdNAEtLRmX_Bc-RAJvzQSeQ33kNc/s1600/roof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1DzjE1ElZk-ECrQHFI9-hLupRHTyekzqlnmDtTjqVMWYPr6OdB_f_rij_WxySTd8PjkPuXjhj55YlKFxz2cezVanJjrDyKgPawC9k_TbaYjes6oqdNAEtLRmX_Bc-RAJvzQSeQ33kNc/s320/roof.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
On Friday 21st September, we officially launched our beloved project as a paperback book - A Roof Over Their Heads!<br />
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As part of the Promenade 2012 events, the Sheppey Writing Workshop were invited to give a reading in front of Mayor of Swale Pat Sandle, MP Gordon Henderson, and an audience who were offered traditional cream teas for elevenses!<br />
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To start, Geof Reed, the man who organised the Roof Over Their Heads project, as well as Jo Eden, one of our writers, entertained us with a rousing rendition of the beautiful Summertime from Porgy and Bess. If you would like to hear Jo sing (and it's certainly worth it), she will, I'm sure, be engaged in events all over the island in the coming months.<br />
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We have sold out of our first run of books, but don't worry, we're taking orders for more! If you would like to buy a copy, you can do so through Lulu <a href="http://www.lulu.com/shop/lisamarie-lamb-and-geof-reed/a-roof-over-their-heads/paperback/product-20348882.html;jsessionid=4AAFDC370536D709B4F9C28E7A520936">http://www.lulu.com/shop/lisamarie-lamb-and-geof-reed/a-roof-over-their-heads/paperback/product-20348882.html;jsessionid=4AAFDC370536D709B4F9C28E7A520936</a><br />
<br />
It will soon be available through Amazon as well.<br />
<br />
Alternatively, you can contact me (<a href="mailto:lisamarie20010@gmail.com">lisamarie20010@gmail.com</a>) to order a copy (you never know, we may even sign it for you!).<br />
<br />
We hope to be stocking the book in local shops soon, and we will be updating this page as exciting new things happen!<br />
<br />
I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone involved for making this project come to life. Here's to the next one!Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-26809763630868616242012-08-24T01:16:00.000-07:002012-08-24T02:06:50.322-07:00A Roof Over Their Heads - Available as an eBook!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglepKCnKnUgse6bB84X48LVtmpePZvPf4VJj3eSjNaLx7Xe1rOyubvHRxQS7fcoFjXJRtmLf3kgQ6E1KfbXLuAvZPNir32zq37beAWkQR-cebCfJnshZZmIFFj7y9iDawdGxWJ3D5JFM0/s1600/roof+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglepKCnKnUgse6bB84X48LVtmpePZvPf4VJj3eSjNaLx7Xe1rOyubvHRxQS7fcoFjXJRtmLf3kgQ6E1KfbXLuAvZPNir32zq37beAWkQR-cebCfJnshZZmIFFj7y9iDawdGxWJ3D5JFM0/s1600/roof+(2).jpg" /></a></div>
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If you like to read your books electronically, A Roof Over Their Heads is now available for all eReaders including Kindle, Nook, and in pdf so you can read it on your phone or computer! How exciting is that?<br />
<br />
To download from Amazon.co.uk: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Roof-Over-Their-Heads-ebook/dp/B0091JN2YW/ref=sr_1_13?ie=UTF8&qid=1345796055&sr=8-13">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Roof-Over-Their-Heads-ebook/dp/B0091JN2YW/ref=sr_1_13?ie=UTF8&qid=1345796055&sr=8-13</a><br />
<br />
To download from Amazon.com: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Roof-Over-Their-Heads-ebook/dp/B0091JN2YW/ref=sr_1_13?ie=UTF8&qid=1345796055&sr=8-13">http://www.amazon.com/Roof-Over-Their-Heads-ebook/dp/B0091JN2YW/ref=sr_1_13?ie=UTF8&qid=1345796055&sr=8-13</a><br />
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To download from Smashwords (all formats): <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/218801">https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/218801</a><br />
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The paperback will be available from Amazon soon, but can currently be bought through Lulu.com: <a href="http://www.lulu.com/shop/lisamarie-lamb-and-geof-reed/a-roof-over-their-heads/paperback/product-20348882.html">http://www.lulu.com/shop/lisamarie-lamb-and-geof-reed/a-roof-over-their-heads/paperback/product-20348882.html</a>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-12393989891072692602012-08-04T07:47:00.000-07:002012-08-04T07:47:19.683-07:00We Have A Book!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6OdDHxL-9XLp9zwAs9oHXx41RGiOnIXSY7XLJlhHlF_SacLGiCfB_KYFOAFbKOssM8TVjQS90oW63e0K5VE9Cpv01ChOFQElz7ZQQW0_MlI8L4h7197u47Z2t9x6RxymXz0kqv12PSnE/s1600/LJ+Roof+Book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6OdDHxL-9XLp9zwAs9oHXx41RGiOnIXSY7XLJlhHlF_SacLGiCfB_KYFOAFbKOssM8TVjQS90oW63e0K5VE9Cpv01ChOFQElz7ZQQW0_MlI8L4h7197u47Z2t9x6RxymXz0kqv12PSnE/s320/LJ+Roof+Book.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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After months of hard work, meetings, research, more meetings, and of course writing, the Sheppey Writing Workshop has produced the paperback version of <i>A Roof Over Their Heads</i>.<br />
<br />
We think this is a great achievement! What better feeling than to have created something that started from nothing but an idea and a group of like-minded people? To see a project through from initial conception to finally being able to hold a physical copy of the book in our hands?<br />
<br />
And now, because we're so proud of it, we want everyone else to see our hard work and be able to hold a copy of the book (or download the eBook, if that's your preference!)...<br />
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The book will soon be available to buy from Amazon in paperback and Kindle versions, and Smashwords in other eBook formats (Nook, pdf, Epub, LTF, PDB, RTF, and HTML). As soon as the process is complete, we will put links here to where it is being sold.<br />
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In September, we will be taking part in the Sheppey Promenade event, and will be selling and signing copies of the book in Blue Town, at the Heritage Centre. More on that to come in a future blog post!<br />
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Next step: we'll be contacting local shops and libraries, museums and places of interest, to ask them if they would like to stock<i> A Roof Over Their Heads.</i>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-46028792281874237462012-06-29T12:46:00.001-07:002012-06-29T12:46:32.770-07:00Blue Town Heritage Centre - Have You Been?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHyio92ZRgbd_G5-F0XfsiluQ6fDKKfory2dHERSyzaitH3guu7Bqu6h_k9gSO5qTK_NxBScbh30mBi767mLZg4hlcbB2mYp8UdEXSv0A9bHSxRHSfuyFDVqlDRbkM3trDVetKzsa5OEY/s1600/BTHeritage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="108" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHyio92ZRgbd_G5-F0XfsiluQ6fDKKfory2dHERSyzaitH3guu7Bqu6h_k9gSO5qTK_NxBScbh30mBi767mLZg4hlcbB2mYp8UdEXSv0A9bHSxRHSfuyFDVqlDRbkM3trDVetKzsa5OEY/s320/BTHeritage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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It's been a while since we posted any news, but a lot has been happening recently, and the <i>A Roof Over Their Heads</i> project is nearing completion. The stories have been edited, checked and, as I type, are about to be double-checked. The cover is coming together and taking shape. The eBook is being formatted.<br />
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Exciting stuff!<br />
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And even more exciting is our launch for the book. The <a href="http://www.bluetownheritagecentre.com/">Blue Town Heritage Centre</a> in Sheerness is providing the Isle of Sheppey with entertainment this September, in the form of the <a href="http://www.sheppeylittletheatre.org/promenade2012.html">Promenade 2012</a>. In conjunction with the <a href="http://www.sheppeylittletheatre.org/">Sheppey Little Theatre</a>, the What the Dickens? themed festival will be open to everyone, and will share the history, nature, and people of this fascinating island in Kent. There will be talks, open houses, film screenings and much, much more, including us! Yes, the A Roof Over Their Heads writing group will be launching our special and Sheppey themed book during this event.<br />
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We will be available for readings, questions, and book signings, and you can walk away with a first edition copy of the finished product. It's a unique collection of stories, and you should be able to recognise many of the streets and places and buildings mentioned within it. Maybe even some of the characters, as some of them can be found in past census listings and so actually existed!<br />
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The Blue Town Heritage Centre is a stunning example of what people can achieve when they have love for a place. A TARDIS of a building, I certainly did not expect to find a cinema, music hall, cafe, <i>and</i> museum inside when I first visited.<br />
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Did you know all that existed in Blue Town?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JM23q_3cH4ifIYZr4rnrxt2ymp5V0q5FCALeC-B9og1eIExoTx17KLEdF7i8ijecML6N5NKSobjRRsXz79O5eXv6aLor41aGGMEF9mPph_KI_0vfFp5qcvdlQ3JIv9WPaOaomPWO6do/s1600/Bleu+Town.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JM23q_3cH4ifIYZr4rnrxt2ymp5V0q5FCALeC-B9og1eIExoTx17KLEdF7i8ijecML6N5NKSobjRRsXz79O5eXv6aLor41aGGMEF9mPph_KI_0vfFp5qcvdlQ3JIv9WPaOaomPWO6do/s1600/Bleu+Town.jpg" /></a></div>
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The cinema can hold up to one hundred people, and shows recent films on the first Friday of every month - and the prices are great. Where else can you pay £5 to see a film, and get tea and cake at the same time? In July, they are showing <a href="http://www.bluetownheritagecentre.com/cinema.php">The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel </a>which is well worth seeing. Not only this, but the cinema can be hired privately - contact <a href="mailto:BluetownHeritage@hotmail.co.uk">Jenny</a> for information (01795 662981).<br />
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The Blue Town Heritage Centre also hosts other <a href="http://www.bluetownheritagecentre.com/future-events.php">events</a>. They are currently running a model exhibition. Our very own Geof Reed is starring in a play bout Hogarth's drunken trip around Sheppey. There's a Laurel and Hardy film evening coming up in July, and it's only £1!<br />
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The centre is easy to find in Blue Town, and there is plenty of easy, free parking. So why not do yourself a favour, and pop in for a visit? There's so much going on, you're bound to find something that you're interested in.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmp9WKKfxLglWAf6XPc81E750Pyk3UxUQ8xdpXYkLucU3RaNAJhcXlJK6ZGJsPO2Skwd3T5w1h9Dt5kT3mvcaupt00Ub1keJEml-zMCb_RKyp6FFQvxgpWo75BJB6vtpBWVNcnNXuPB_4/s1600/bluetown009ed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmp9WKKfxLglWAf6XPc81E750Pyk3UxUQ8xdpXYkLucU3RaNAJhcXlJK6ZGJsPO2Skwd3T5w1h9Dt5kT3mvcaupt00Ub1keJEml-zMCb_RKyp6FFQvxgpWo75BJB6vtpBWVNcnNXuPB_4/s320/bluetown009ed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-52445300231746655392012-03-30T17:07:00.000-07:002012-03-30T17:07:13.741-07:00Video of Geof Reading Flora Wisdom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Click on the picture to see the video of Geof Reed's story of Flora Wisdom</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OlW8nH_yxpE&feature=youtu.be"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgPCZMgIjsbRnJ_R4ePh7qiYyY808VsCzy5_2oIUAPcB07rXa5hFnbngJcxIj0hsTR9Xj7Nu1_GzYWP6Dzq_l3tuxJvHAtrLQJxZ1t1JgZVEA1ftEr9AnQ_53DSuHh3ytQGlLzJ8uT38/s320/Singer,+Marie+Lloyd.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-54967104106307114272012-03-28T23:04:00.000-07:002012-03-28T23:04:26.242-07:00We Won The War, Didn't We? by James Apps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1YRMwI3KO9S2-6jM-42118ZMBKhyxPU95Qb_FyinuUHTdUY5mxDg_jfJlc0NlRmHA_kFC7IauesBXyAKcMO2XBKTvkrOZsWhb2Ou2QjXYEehraFoC_J31yoo-g-k2g5t8vfH5GGzcro/s1600/churchill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1YRMwI3KO9S2-6jM-42118ZMBKhyxPU95Qb_FyinuUHTdUY5mxDg_jfJlc0NlRmHA_kFC7IauesBXyAKcMO2XBKTvkrOZsWhb2Ou2QjXYEehraFoC_J31yoo-g-k2g5t8vfH5GGzcro/s320/churchill.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="Standard"><i>(This is a story based on the fragmented memories of my childhood immediately after WWII and is more or less centred my experiences at age five. Mixed in are memories of a retrospective nature as information about the Holocaust, the Atomic bombs and the Japanese POW camps became common knowledge. I was allowed to read newspapers from when I was a small child and if the tale seems to exclude my father that is because he was a working all hours he could and was often away until he worked locally.)<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="Standard"><br />
</div><div class="Standard"><b><i><o:p> </o:p></i></b><b><i>We won the War, didn't we?</i></b></div><div class="Standard"><br />
</div><div class="Standard">The first time I realised what had happened was when my parents and my uncles and aunts answered my questions. At my primary school we played a game of Us against the Nasties, in which only the rotten kids got to play the part of the Nasties and the rest played Us. The rotten kids ran away and hid so it was more of Us pretending and running around like five and six years olds do, full of energy and excitement, chanting “we won the war” and me wondering what on earth it was all about. I knew there was bombs and airplanes, and I had seen the tanks and armoured cars in Rochester being driven across the bridge. I had spoken shyly with the men who had marched in a column up the hill past our place and listened to the strange language, and seen the soldiers with shouldered rifles looking on disapprovingly when one of the men handed me a small bar of dar chocolate and ruffled my hair.</div><div class="Standard"> I was there at the party when the soldiers led the singing of Ten Green Bottles, and gave us tea-cakes and strange sweet tasting concoctions to drink and eat with real spoons. It was a magic time when all the grown-ups were happy and there was grown-up things going on and lights on so I was told. It was later when my aunts and uncles came back in uniforms that I had the idea something big was happening. It, the war was over, the sirens were silent and I remember magic things happening. We had bananas, half of one each and at first I wondered what they were but the delicious smell was so nice and eating my share was a treat almost as good as having an egg for breakfast, a real one that is, with the shell, runny in the centre and buttered soldiers to dip in the centre. The runny yellow yolk was too nice to miss and with a little salt and pepper, egg on Sunday morning was a breakfast to look forward to.</div><div class="Standard"> But, back to the school and the chanting children. I had an idea what was happening but no real idea of what had happened. I had to ask the questions. I wanted to know who We were and who were the Nasties we didn't like and had obviously beaten.</div><div class="Standard"> Mum explained that it was Hitler and his 'mob' the Nazi's and told me that We were the British and the Americans and explained about how Canada, and Australia and New Zealand had helped out and how Nanny and us had been saved by all of them, which was sweet of her. She was patient and answered more of my questions and told me about what had happened and how Hitler, and not a Charlie Chaplin lookalike had invaded Europe, attacked Russia and wanted to take over England. She told me about Winston Churchill, ignoring Stalin and for the Americans only told me about Eisenhower. She didn't mention the Japanese, or India, or anything about China. She told me about my uncle Sid who came back off the beaches in one of the so-called little boats arriving at Sheerness, half dead from exhaustion, his lungs contaminated by fumes and oil who years later had a large and second family, but at the time was unfit for combat although later he went off again. </div><div class="Standard"> I listened, I heard stories and always I recall our house was full of service uniforms as the war ended and relatives found their own homes. My uncle Sid and my cousin David lived with us for a while which was fun and at that time my two brothers were toddling around as well. What with me, my Mum and Dad and our Grandmother the house was crowded.</div><div class="Standard"> But we had won the war.</div><div class="Standard"> We had rationing.</div><div class="Standard"> Some parts of our town were rubble filled craters.</div><div class="Standard"> The Army and the Navy were there in numbers and most things we bought were what my Mum described as 'utility'. School was magic, the smell of pencils, the books and blackboards, sitting at desks, and Christmas when we gave a present and got one in return. The gift of packs of dried fruit from Australia, the singing and the fun of the Jungle Jim in the playground. It was idyllic for a small boy trying to make sense of things.</div><div class="Standard"> Slowly I heard about the atrocities carried out by the Japanese, the Italians in North Africa, the battles in Italy, and of course the two Atomic bombs. I began to read the newspapers not understanding much of it at first but the more I read the more I understood. One day I saw a picture that shocked me. It was in a paper my uncle had left laying on the table.</div><div class="Standard"> Men in pyjamas, men so thin and wasted they looked like the stick people we drew in our pictures, men and women and then further in I saw there were children, skinny, hollow eyed, staring and all wearing little more than rags. I saw a name. Belsen. I read about these stick people and learned the name Jews and thought then of Jesus, he was a Jew but in the pictures in our bible and at the church he didn't look like that. I was so absorbed that when a noise behind me was loud enough to startle me I turned away from the awful pictures and the writing to see my uncle standing looking at me.</div><div class="Standard"> “I'm sorry Jimmy, you should not have seen that,” he said and began to gather up the paper.</div><div class="Standard"> “Why not? Those people, are they real? And what happened to them? Who did that to them?” I asked and stood waiting, as a determined child does, for an answer.</div><div class="Standard"> He shrugged his shoulders and as if coming to a difficult decision he said: “All right, I'll tell you but let's go outside in the sunshine.”</div><div class="Standard"> And outside sitting on a scullery chair each he told me about the Nazis and Hitler, and the men, and women, who had allowed such a thing to happen. He told me how nasty our playground Nasties really were and showed me some of the pictures and explained what they meant. We fell silent for a while and watched the chickens scratching in the dirt of the shed and our ginger cat stretch in the sun, yawn and go back to his snoozing. Those people, those Jews, were like the chickens; all the time they were useful they lived but, as soon as they were too weak to work they were killed off. I shudder at the comparison. They too were consigned to the ovens. The difference was that we fed our chickens properly and when we had one for dinner it had been looked after before we – well, murdered it.</div><div class="Standard"> These people were not even fed properly.</div><div class="Standard"> “How many?” I asked.</div><div class="Standard"> “We don't know.” He said.</div><div class="Standard"> And then of course I asked the difficult question: “Why would people want to do such a dreadful thing?”</div><div class="Standard"> Again he shrugged his shoulders and fell silent staring bleakly into the distance and it was a long time before he spoke.</div><div class="Standard"> “I have no idea why,” he said.</div><div class="Standard"> My uncle wept.</div><div class="Standard"> I looked up at the house, the slate roof on top of the yellow and red brick and, knowing that, like my uncle had said those poor people had nowhere to go, I was glad of the roof over our heads; glad also that now my questions were in part answered. </div><div class="Standard"> Yes, We had won the war.</div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-21713048754548637522012-02-21T22:21:00.000-08:002012-02-21T22:21:11.162-08:00Video of Lisamarie Reading An Excerpt from Fleeting Shadows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
Click on the picture to see a video of Lisamarie reading an excerpt of Fleeing Glimpses...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://youtu.be/HiYVwfvhPMg"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkKJ624ZuZiXOW7JJvyr_EpZz4KKQUOEAPyKMfAAvDU8Y_2vd6k3UAhgLC-cpmZ_nl2WqJmSMSnKyeHuqzzW2j289Bo32be5ZO06ANz9rT6XDT3e8eHAvMpWTqTD12eUq_NYUpifv1zLU/s320/fencesleigh.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-65671448667270439652012-02-21T05:35:00.000-08:002012-02-21T05:35:10.817-08:00Flora Wisdom - An Overview<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbhoZ1_Y-sER4-Fre1oet0fFrA3AL_ghBrS2_VhfDD3UYV0baKSlfOdqzQipfBbgZbqOFL1yuzSZDXTj3fIQG5UtQd3fP5DqcTp6-bUE3c_hRApeCaicxSX1tkm4MhQzQkwWjyKsIeB7k/s1600/Flora+Info.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbhoZ1_Y-sER4-Fre1oet0fFrA3AL_ghBrS2_VhfDD3UYV0baKSlfOdqzQipfBbgZbqOFL1yuzSZDXTj3fIQG5UtQd3fP5DqcTp6-bUE3c_hRApeCaicxSX1tkm4MhQzQkwWjyKsIeB7k/s640/Flora+Info.jpg" width="449" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br />
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<!--[endif]--></span><!--[endif]--></div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-17294394205406120242012-02-20T22:54:00.000-08:002012-02-20T22:54:24.790-08:00Extract from Fleeting Shadows by Lisamarie Lamb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgClEkJRkWV6QBlFAi8yRJNfZMyL5jDVpg2T8-W5TL26HDZeXymPVQnwgXPFAmCXFsZ2Ag7g476mFZsAuq9Cr-zFmEMUoIjHjy3WfIQ-2Vbjmjt4vYrEfWlgr2NspKtey81w5z9P4UhULA/s1600/megaphone2_xenia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgClEkJRkWV6QBlFAi8yRJNfZMyL5jDVpg2T8-W5TL26HDZeXymPVQnwgXPFAmCXFsZ2Ag7g476mFZsAuq9Cr-zFmEMUoIjHjy3WfIQ-2Vbjmjt4vYrEfWlgr2NspKtey81w5z9P4UhULA/s320/megaphone2_xenia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center; text-indent: 26px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left; text-indent: 26px;"></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Emma carefully put her head out of the small gap in the door of the Hansom cab. “Are we there?” Knowing full well that they were not, knowing that they were a walk away from the Victoria Club yet, Emma’s heart jumped a little – what arduous issue was rearing up now? Why was nothing ever simple anymore? She wondered if it ever had been. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Not exactly, Miss.” The driver, John McDonald, shuffled from one foot to the other, turning his cap in his hands. “It’s just… There’s a bit of a commotion up ahead, and the horse won’t like waiting. I know it’s a liberty, Miss, but if the horse gets afeared and bolts I could lose my carriage. And there’s ever such a long line of cabs ahead of us.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“A commotion?” Emma was curious, so much so that she forgot to be annoyed at the delay. She could hear, now that she had been informed of it, a strange kind of chanting coming from further up the road. “What is it? What is everyone waiting for?” Chanting reminded her of her time in Africa, among the tribes in the wilderness, but this was not the same. This was not the comforting charm of old traditions. This was angry. This was scared.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oh, nothing much, I wouldn’t have thought. But whatever it is is in the road.” The man clearly wanted to say something more; his mouth was opening slightly and then clicking closed before any words that he might regret could escape. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Emma chose not to watch his discomfort any longer, even though it did amuse her. And she thought she knew what he was trying to say. “If you cannot take your animal any further, then perhaps you might escort me to the door of the club? I would appreciate it very much.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The smile that broke across the scruffy man’s face told Emma that yes, she had guessed correctly. She stepped from the carriage, being careful not to tread on the freshly stitched hem of her newly made dress, and took the driver’s arm, linking it with hers. “Shall we?” she said, indicating the Victoria Club, the red brick work and creamy corner stones that Emma could see a little way ahead of them. She could also see a gathering of people standing outside, and was that… could she see placards waving in the air? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“If you would rather, Miss, I could take you home again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Emma shook her head before she had considered the driver’s offer. She shook her head again, more slowly, when she had had time to digest it. “No, no, I shan’t do that.” She looked at the man and smiled. “I have been looking forward to this ball for some time.” She winked, and, flustered, John McDonald stepped forward, taking Emma with him, almost making her stumble with the sudden force of the movement. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As the pair drew closer to the Victoria Club they could make out the building bedecked with lanterns and baubles, fluttering flags and streaming ribbon decorations in various shades of gold and black. It looked as expensive as the invitation had. It looked rich. It looked, in other words, like Cedric Greet. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But the crowd gathered outside was not the usual group of curious spectators, wanting to see who was attending, wanting to stare in awe at the dresses, at the glamour, at those luckier than they were. Emma knew those people. She had, in her youth, been one of them. Before she realised that it was better to be watched than to be watching. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This crowd was loud. It was moving. It was stamping its feet and waving large wooden signs. It was not happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Emma squeezed the driver’s arm, stopping him before they were noticed. “I should put my mask on,” she explained. “The invitation states that it must be worn upon arrival, worn until Sir Cedric makes his speech and we are told that it can be removed.” She slipped the mask over her face, instantly feeling strangely anonymous, even though half of her face was still on show, and most likely recognisable. To some, at least. To a number, she imagined. To everyone if they could see her scar. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> As they approached the crowd they could see now that it was marching, in a circle, out across the Broadway, the road in front of the Victoria Club, thus preventing traffic from passing in either direction. Impatient carriage drivers shook their heads, shouted, cursed, as even more impatient horses stamped their hooves on the cobbles, snorting exhalations of furious breath. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But more impatient than all of these were the men and woman <i>within </i>the carriages. Dressed up, masked, excited, invitations clutched in expectation – and hope – of showing them to someone, anyone. Emma craned her neck as she passed the ones on her side of the blockade and discovered that she knew the names of some of the people within. “Mrs Jones!” she called out, “Miss Baker! Pay your drivers and follow me! Take to the streets, the walk is not far and whatever these people are protesting against surely won’t affect us!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But no one exited their carriages. No one dared. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And as Emma and her driver drew up to the circling protesters she could see why she was the only one. The anti–masquerade brigade had found Sheerness, preaching about the evils of a masked ball, and handing out crudely printed pamphlets, detailing exactly what they knew to happen at these wicked celebrations, with illustrations, to anyone who happened to pass by. Their placards, raised high in the air and bobbing up and down were brief and damning; <i>Ban this Foreign Influence! Masks are Immoral! We are Civilised in England!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-89299772773221199792012-02-20T05:12:00.000-08:002012-02-20T05:12:33.381-08:00Marie by James Apps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPeLL3cPOD-VEULrq95ds2vVC6PIyuWOWb64tY1LPYpwgNbHHklXM8atMrz4RDRFKG3i6tesj2OnknsOodv5uI9XBLR4kq682Mh1qrkslHXqdGZvg5lkH6CM-nIppdIJTZRfwLQTNOgw/s1600/Bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPeLL3cPOD-VEULrq95ds2vVC6PIyuWOWb64tY1LPYpwgNbHHklXM8atMrz4RDRFKG3i6tesj2OnknsOodv5uI9XBLR4kq682Mh1qrkslHXqdGZvg5lkH6CM-nIppdIJTZRfwLQTNOgw/s320/Bike.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU">When we heard the news there was silence.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> Marie was dead!</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> I felt a cold grip on my heart and tears came easily. The whole village stopped for a moment, shocked, people whispered.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> Marie’s dead!</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> She.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> The bright girl behind the Co-op counter. The lively voice in the gaslit shop with its stacked goods and filled shelves. The smell of her scent was a honeysuckle bloom in a kerosene heated room with clean sawdust on the floor adding to the musk magic aroma.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> I saw her laying pale on the road.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> She was surrounded by young men, frightened young faces and two sobbing girls. I saw her from the bus seat and I knew. Death has a way of saying ‘I am here mortal’. Death and funerals bring rain. It was raining, a fine rain that drenched with its persistence, wetting everything under lowering clouds. The bus eased past moving down the hill on the wrong side of the road and there was not an eye that didn’t look at the sadness on the wet road. We looked at each other before the bus pulled in to the last stop. Daft Colin was at the terminal waiting to direct the bus. He wore a slickered raincoat and Al Jolson gloves and as soon as the bus moved from the stop to turn around he began his hand waving. </span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> The driver stopped the bus and spoke quietly to him. Colin visibly slumped and with his hand folded across his chest he walked slowly off. I watched him go and walked quietly with my mother across the road and on up the hill.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> Marie was dead.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> Later we found out what happened. She was riding with a bunch of cyclists down Brake’s hill and her front wheel hit something, they said, and she wobbled across the centre line at high speed. She bounced off the unforgiving side of a car crawling up the hill and flipped over the top to smash against the tarmac. Her friends tried to help her but it was too late.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> Marie was dead.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> She was going to be married to one of the young cyclists. Had all her life before her. What a lovely girl! Such a shame that one so young should.... The whole village talked about her, said how they had last spoken to her. So unexpected, tragic, a loss. The village mourned and so did I.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> But I didn’t know her.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> And yet I will never forget that pale face on the wet road.</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU"> Marie was dead. </span></div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-38872430360686011912012-02-19T12:38:00.000-08:002012-02-19T12:38:15.787-08:00Extract from Groene Vitriool by Jo Eden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbKWaRh-d6e8Hh8Bc0sRN6LudakQM5wzLfwmK0yF7RBBtiP16OxkraM8g9f9LITXYxq4fXBBM3S1Af5fgmGYE4Y1L_6PKKk6VYEKXEL_PiVfVG9Pe6xdXkujJbyJdbQhKh9uMhN41wLk0/s1600/Quill+etc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbKWaRh-d6e8Hh8Bc0sRN6LudakQM5wzLfwmK0yF7RBBtiP16OxkraM8g9f9LITXYxq4fXBBM3S1Af5fgmGYE4Y1L_6PKKk6VYEKXEL_PiVfVG9Pe6xdXkujJbyJdbQhKh9uMhN41wLk0/s320/Quill+etc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When I first came to live on Sheppey in October 2008, I started to research the Island’s ecology and history. One of the many things I discovered was that a substance called copperas was processed here on quite a large scale in the 16<sup>th</sup> C and even up to the 19<sup>th</sup> Century. Copperas was a very important commodity, with many commercial uses, bringing wealth to England and in particular to Queenborough. I found a very short reference to a man named Mathias Falconer, by historian </span><span style="color: #231f20; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">William Lambard in his “Perambulations of Kent”, written in 1570.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Falconer was a Dutch immigrant who started processing copperas at Queenborough. </span><span style="color: #231f20; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">It is thought to be the earliest known reference to a chemical factory in Britain<i>.</i></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> This is my imagining of his story.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A Reading from a Letter locked in a small iron box, which was dug from a trench, during the archaeological excavation of Queenborough Castle in 2005. It was addressed to Anna Falconer, closed with the seal of Mathias Falconer.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My Dear Anna,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Before I am laid in my grave, I am compelled to write this letter to you as my dear wife. It has come to you sealed with instructions “To be opened by you alone after my death”. There’s a dreadful ache in the sinews in my old hands, which makes this all the harder to write, but I must try to set things right by you, before it is too late.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I know that you have always shared with me a deep love of the flat heath-lands around the home we built together back in Brabant, in our Dutch motherland in the year 1545.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You were my companion and help through the years I spent learning my trade as an alchemical engineer, working with what to you was the accursed copperas. In truth, I wished only to give the best support I could to our little family. But you know it became impossible for us to worship as our consciences saw fit, because the Spaniards still ruled North Brabant.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Oh Anna, I remember you fondly as a young woman of 20, dressed all in white and pink for our wedding day, what a joyous day that was! And do you remember that Christmas-time when we visited your cousins in Antwerp? The goose was so fat we thought it would not be cooked in time for the festive meal. The trees were all dressed in white and the bells were ringing out when we took our little Pieter tobogganing for the first time after morning church. How he loved it! Reluctant as you were, but brave woman that you are, you took a turn on the sled, and how you laughed when you fell into that snowdrift and came out looking like a snow-woman, with your bright red nose!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ah yes, we had some happiness in our years together and I was reluctant to take you and our beloved Pieter, who was then but seven years old, to England, against your wishes, but I felt it was for the best. I believed it would give us freedom from religious persecution, and give us the chance to build a better quality of life. And it did give us those things, did it not, Anna?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Think what a guileful Act the Pope decreed, to make Antwerp the only place where copperas could be bought! Hah, those Papists sowed up the market as tight as a duck’s arse! So, in the year of ‘65, when the Sovereign Lady Queen Elizabeth of England offered up monopolies to “certain Dutch Mynerall men”, I had to take the chance to come to England. I am proud to be one of those few men charged by the English Crown with the task of seeking places which yielded the stones to make copperas. Aye, that was the same year that the Spaniards sent their Armada against the English fleet, and were defeated by the clever strategies of Drake and our Queen.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I won’t forget what a time of unease and triumph that was! Stalwart fishermen from Queenborough, Leysdown, and Minster were called to sail with Drake for their country in 11 small ships, such a time!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself. So it was that, in ‘73, I fetched up with you and Pieter at Queenborough on the Isles of Sheppey, and we were furnished with very serviceable quarters, at the Castle. I had found that copperas stones were indeed plentiful on the Minster and Warden shores.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Those </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">heavy, knobbly, dull grey pebbles, full of iron. Only when they are broken open and exposed to the air and sea-water, do you see their true essence. Pale green globules like fish eggs lie on the cut grey-green surface which shines like metal. Your nostrils pick up the faint but unwholesome bad-egg smell of brimstone. Peuch - and it has a nauseous taste!</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> You didn’t know what copperas was at that time, and God knows you always hated it after! But I still think it is almost a magical substance!<o:p></o:p></span></div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-82262450509855506532012-02-18T07:02:00.000-08:002012-02-18T07:02:21.046-08:00Flora A. Wisdom by Geof Reed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoOP6qXO1Ex1TMYENzWteimgrRVEVMdi3goko3JA3m7QAZn_D8IKHrDbi_MaD4kSR4pFspnE1KKp3PzVSTIkRB4OZOFlXcLaYnxMxwmkgvfb95-5FRSwU2M0GXZV4QbqJwMUdpv1-koQ/s1600/MiniKitchen1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoOP6qXO1Ex1TMYENzWteimgrRVEVMdi3goko3JA3m7QAZn_D8IKHrDbi_MaD4kSR4pFspnE1KKp3PzVSTIkRB4OZOFlXcLaYnxMxwmkgvfb95-5FRSwU2M0GXZV4QbqJwMUdpv1-koQ/s320/MiniKitchen1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: red; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">(Flora in the kitchen 1917)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Come in, come in stop <st1:sn w:st="on">mauldin</st1:sn> at the door. That’ll do. Keep off that damp floor you lot I’ve just washed it and I haven’t time or patience to do it again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Come for the job, have you? My job? Well, you’re welcome to it. Been upstairs? Spoken with <st2:personname w:st="on"><st1:title w:st="on">Mr</st1:title> <st1:sn w:st="on">Woolmer</st1:sn></st2:personname>? What’s up, cat got your tongues? Well I suppose you ‘ave. So I’ve got to tell you what it entails? Hmm. <span style="color: red;">(L</span><span style="color: red;">ooks at the audience dissatisfied) </span> I know there’s a war on and every able-bodied person and some that ain’t have either volunteered by now or else they’re doing the jobs that were left, but you lot? Are you sure? I mean there’s a lot of graft in this job. Up before six because that bloody thing <span style="color: red;">(poi</span><span style="color: red;">nting at the stove) </span>never stays in over-night, cooking , cleaning, washing - yes cleaning and washing as well as the cooking –I know there used to be two or three of us a couple of years back but them days are long gone so you’ll be on your own now. Are you sure you’re up to it? I don’t want to be rude but some of you looks a bit long in the tooth. No offence. Oh well, you knows what’s what, I suppose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Well I’ve got ten minutes to give you but I’ll have to carry on with this<span style="color: red;"> (indicates the chicken she is stuffing) </span>while I talk to you otherwise I won’t get finished ‘til mid-night. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I suppose you must need the money. What are you offered? Twenty eight? Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs. That’s three quid a year more than I’m getting! <span style="color: red;">(</span><span style="color: red;">sniffs)</span> Oh well, domestics aren’t so easy to come by what with one thing and another. Twenty eight? When I first started, 1901, the old Queen had just died, seven pound ten I got. Seventeen and just up from <st2:city w:st="on"><st2:place w:st="on">Dover</st2:place></st2:city> and as green as grass. First time away from home. Mind you what with three brothers a step Da and no room of my own I was pleased to go, know what I mean? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Oh but I did love my little room upstairs as soon as I saw it. Plain it was but clean and over the kitchen so it was warm - and only sharing with one other girl. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. <st1:givenname w:st="on">Sarah</st1:givenname>, the one in with me, was jolly enough, she’d been to <st2:country-region w:st="on"><st2:place w:st="on">India</st2:place></st2:country-region>, you know, father in the army. She’d tell such stories I didn’t know what was true and what was fibs but I didn’t care: India, Australia, Canada, Africa well a lot of it anyway, they were all ours and the furthest I’d ever gone was from Dover to Sheerness! That’s not right – I knew I was going to see some of these places myself before I got too old. But there was another one, a nurse see, older and snooty, thought she was better than us. <st2:personname w:st="on"><st1:givenname w:st="on">Emma</st1:givenname> <st1:sn w:st="on">Paine</st1:sn></st2:personname> were her name – <st1:sn w:st="on">Paine</st1:sn> by name and pain by nature – and you know where! Must have her own room and wouldn’t speak to us except to find fault and always running to the master with tales about something or other until even he got fed up with it - you’d have thought she was the mistress. Me and <st1:givenname w:st="on">Sarah</st1:givenname> were always giggling – well you got to, haven’t you? - but I never saw Madam Muck crack her face once. Mind you she didn’t last long. Looking back I can see she was lonely. Didn’t fit in, see? Neither fish nor fowl. Talking of which if I don’t get this in that oven there’ll be no lunch and then there’d be trouble. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Don’t look so worried they’re alright <span style="color: red;">(n</span><span style="color: red;">odding upstairs) </span> You’ve met Mr Woolmer. Good as gold. Like most of ‘em along here officer in the navy. In charge of the stores or something. They come and go see. Mostly two or three years before the Navy hoiks ’em off somewhere else and then somebody new moves in. Well the married ones like to live a step away from the docks where they work and <st2:place w:st="on"><st2:placename w:st="on">Blue</st2:placename> <st2:placetype w:st="on">Town</st2:placetype></st2:place> of course what with all the pubs and the music hall and the...well you know what I mean. And full of <st1:sn w:st="on">Tommies</st1:sn> and Blue Jacks – rough as rough some of ‘em especially when they’d had a few. They’re not always respectful to the officers when they go by especially if they’d got the missus with ‘em. Well it’s a funny thing that when they’re single Blue Town’s “got a bit of life to it” and they’re happy to stay but as soon as they’re married they’re after somewhere respectable so as to not offend the missus. Mind you some of this lot along here, her up at 69 for example well...<span style="color: red;">(p</span><span style="color: red;">ulls face)</span> The new tenants don’t always keep us on but they usually do – well it depends if they brought a domestic with them or not. The thing is we know the ropes and they don’t <span style="color: red;">(t</span><span style="color: red;">aps her nose)</span>. Best to always try and keep it like that. <span style="color: red;">(L</span><span style="color: red;">owers her voice) </span>When the new master moved in a I remember him saying <span style="color: red;">(a</span><span style="color: red;">dopts posh voice) </span>“I see that there’s a new provisions store opened in the High Street. I would like to offer them our trade”. Well, I had to knock that on the ‘ead straight away. I mean Dudley Grout’s has always given me good service and very particular at Christmas<span style="color: red;"> (p</span><span style="color: red;">ause)</span> about dropping off a consideration, <span style="color: red;">(p</span><span style="color: red;">ause, audience hasn’t understood)</span> for me <span style="color: red;">(</span><span style="color: red;">pause and then with further emphasis) </span>what chinks. Oh don’t worry – you’ll pick it up.<span style="color: red;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I miss <st1:givenname w:st="on">Sarah</st1:givenname>. Been gone three, no four years. Married. So that’s the end of her. Her husband wont let her see me. Says I’m a bad influence! Me! That’s a laugh. We used to go out together though it was difficult to get the same day off we could manage the evenings quite regular. Just walking up and down the prom was good enough, what with the docks it was so exciting. And <st1:givenname w:st="on">Sarah</st1:givenname>! She told me to take her arm and to hold on no matter what. And then we’d go into <st2:place w:st="on"><st2:placename w:st="on">Blue</st2:placename> <st2:placetype w:st="on">Town</st2:placetype></st2:place>. She was so brazen. She’d give the <st1:sn w:st="on">Tommies</st1:sn> as good as she got. I’d thought I’d die of embarrassment at first so I just tuck my head in to her armpit. But I soon got the hang of it. It was all just messing about. And if the blokes got too, insistent, we’d just walk away. I mean there were a lot of other girls ready to oblige. To be honest we could take or leave the blokes but we loved the music hall. What’s his name? The manager of the Hippodrome? <st2:personname w:st="on"><st1:givenname w:st="on">Fred</st1:givenname> <st1:sn w:st="on">Leighton</st1:sn></st2:personname>. Used to live down at 67, would slip us a couple of tickets<span style="color: red;"> (ad</span><span style="color: red;">opting a theatrical voice) </span>“always room for a couple of “respectable” girls in my palace of varieties”. And the way he’d say “respectable” would make us laugh. Well, he’s gone so no more free tickets and no <st1:givenname w:st="on">Sarah</st1:givenname> to go with but I still goes, on me own if I have too. <span style="color: red;">(Excited) </span>Oh I went to see Marie Lloyd a month ago, Marie Lloyd, and it weren’t the stalls neither. Sixpence I paid, in the plush seats. I’ve never done that before but it was worth every penny. She was brilliant. The way everybody looked at her. Usually there’s a lot of backchat and calling out to the acts, that’s why some of the fellas go, to show off how clever they are. But not that night, not when <st1:givenname w:st="on">Marie</st1:givenname>’s on stage. Not only were they not talking I’d swear some of the men weren’t even breathing – red-faced and sweating they were. And when some bloke did say something, something about her getting too old and fat to show her legs off like that, a Blue Jack in front turned round and laid him out there and then. There was general cheering and then she said, quick as a flash, “it’s always gratifying to see at least one gentleman in the house”. The place went mad. I know what those suffragetes want, a fair deal for women, and I agree with ‘em, of course I do, but when I saw the power that <st2:personname w:st="on"><st1:givenname w:st="on">Marie</st1:givenname> <st1:sn w:st="on">Lloyd</st1:sn></st2:personname> had, especially over the men, I thought, there’s more than one way of skinning a cat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Talking of women, what about the tram eh? Talking of being knocked down by a feather! There I was, up by the Clock Tower, when along it comes regular as Beechams Pills on the quarter of an hour and there she was with curly hair and lipstick taking the fares. Well. And she helped me off with the shopping outside. I don’t know why I was surprised. Is there a job we’re not doing? Working in the docks, in the factories I hear they’ve even got women in the mines: the only job that is too much for us is scrawling an x on a piece of paper – now that’s man’s work! <span style="color: red;">(sniffs)</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-28869643978565730442012-02-18T06:53:00.000-08:002012-02-18T06:53:20.357-08:00Daft Colin by James Apps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfa463wfvvEkRBzLewAz8Eh54VoaafcbXT6ThHMficzGTnjU65LAtWY95k4ZXkeuEXl-M7QEOVP1cgy_ALdIFMMGIf91SBcA_tfzs0AXTIB9zhdQ4IakPyu3_K3TmjAsEeJd7qiAAyhqM/s1600/Buns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfa463wfvvEkRBzLewAz8Eh54VoaafcbXT6ThHMficzGTnjU65LAtWY95k4ZXkeuEXl-M7QEOVP1cgy_ALdIFMMGIf91SBcA_tfzs0AXTIB9zhdQ4IakPyu3_K3TmjAsEeJd7qiAAyhqM/s320/Buns.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="Standard"><br />
</div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The trouble with Colin was that nobody took him seriously. Not that taking him seriously was easy, you had to look deeper than the surface. In the days when he walked the lanes of our village the pace of life was slower the hill was steeper and not many vehicles made it further than half way up. Those that did make it most of the way zig-zagged and turned where the coalman’s horse and cart finished his round.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The day the bakers van tipped over and spilled its load we ate free cakes and buns. Colin a man sized child with a simple face stuffed them down his face joyfully and took those he couldn’t eat home to his Aunt. Everybody knew Colin was daft but he wasn’t stupid.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard"><br />
</div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He wore a brown button up jacket over his shirt and tie and neat grey slacks creased down to a proper pair of socks that filled his sturdy brogues. He was always polite and doffed his hat to all the ladies. Manners, said his maiden aunt, maketh man. He was a big man and not very active, simple in his ways and although we children could have made fun of him we didn't; we realised that upsetting him hurt him more than it did others. Colin's happy smile was a reward for kind words, and besides, if we upset him we risked a whacking from our Dad and another from his Aunt. He wasn't the village idiot, but more the village pet; a poor unfortunate to be cared for.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">In the summer and on kinder winter days Colin stood at the bottom of the hill directing traffic. The half hourly bus was his special joy and mostly the drivers would let him direct them as they turned around for the journey back to town. Sometimes other drivers abused him or made to run him down and Colin would stand on the sidewalk tearful and scared. Not understanding. Often’ as if making up for their fellow's human failings the bus drivers or conductors would give him lollies. And then Colin and the world was happy blessed by his sunny child like smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Now Colin is long dead and where he used to stand and wave his arms there is a traffic island. Black rubber tyre marks smear its smooth surface and litter dances on the asphalt covering. Yellow and white lines divide the road and where there was once a house and a pond with a Bullace plum tree hanging dreamily over the water there is a neon lit tavern.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I stood on the island waiting for a gap in the traffic intending to cross the road and have a drink in the new plastic fantastic pub. And then Colin was there stopping the local bus on it way up the hill with one purposeful hand raised, and a smile on his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Thank you Colin, I said, thank you, officer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Thank you, driver, he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I smiled and walked easily across the road knowing I was in safe hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-14701459631006303352012-02-17T22:35:00.000-08:002012-02-17T22:35:25.448-08:00Being A 'Roofer' by James Apps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqz8H9b-sxDGLRZYS2Hz0aNX83jtOaSsNoXP6tTbEsAeF1wSrs6Kd2j3HhTSugm8lbxhrNgGNSVs4zEC8ZJfK3BJ9YeIwUYPTDSsz2YNxMWfO8DUJRNwCp9ybisQwUwX7aXUEMw935z_Q/s1600/Roof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqz8H9b-sxDGLRZYS2Hz0aNX83jtOaSsNoXP6tTbEsAeF1wSrs6Kd2j3HhTSugm8lbxhrNgGNSVs4zEC8ZJfK3BJ9YeIwUYPTDSsz2YNxMWfO8DUJRNwCp9ybisQwUwX7aXUEMw935z_Q/s320/Roof.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div class="Standard">I suppose now that the project, <i>A Roof Over Their Heads</i>, is well under way; the stories finished and the post production process started we who could be termed as “<i>Roofers” </i>need to look at what is next. For me the project has opened up new ways of expressing myself, offered a clearer focus for stories about the place I live.</div><div class="Standard"><br />
</div><div class="Standard">I remember some years back as a mature student at Auckland University being asked to write a short piece about my home projected from today back through memories of my childhood. It was a strange experience to suddenly recall a story that popped out of my memory complete with the images that impinged on my mind of the time. There was a girl, a popular and pretty girl the local lads swarmed around who, as far as I can remember worked at the local Co-op shop and taught at Sunday school. She was part of a local cycling club and was one of those girls whose personality and presence in the village turned heads; young men admired her, parents thought much of her and she was one who all, in their way loved. She was always a happy, friendly face behind the counter when we went to spend our pocket money and always seemed patient and kind to us scruffy herberts. Marie was a much loved personality. </div><div class="Standard"><br />
</div><div class="Standard">The day that all ended as far as I remember when my Mother and I were coming home on the bus from Chatham to Walderslade, our village. We had to stop at the top of Brakes Hill and move slowly past a stopped car and cyclists standing around with another of their number laying, pale and still on the road. I cannot remember what age I was but I was very young but I knew who it was and I remember the shock of seeing her so still and knew I would never see her again. I think I was about six, a little while before we trudged off to Canada. </div><div class="Standard"><br />
</div><div class="Standard">I was right, we did not see her again and I remember how shocked and grieved was the whole village at Marie's loss. No more would her pleasant smile grace the shop counter, adding to the magic of the gas heaters and the smell of foods and spices, the rattle of the sweet jars, the sawdust on the wooden floor and the mystery of the ration book coupons.</div><div class="Standard"><br />
</div><div class="Standard">Writing as a “Roofer” has unlocked the memory of the University exercise taken during a demanding Creative Writing course and shown me a different way of presenting those memories. In that little tale I had to put myself in the scene and although I was tempted to fictionalise the tale I kept to what I truly felt of the time. In all such stories the mind has time to sort out the chronological sequence and although it is a vignette of what may have been written it does have a beginning, an end and a middle although it is circular. In effect it is a mind and memory re-visited. Which, I believe is what we have done in the <i>Roof Over Their Heads </i>project, excepting that we have taken historical memories and created stories around them.</div><div class="Standard"><br />
</div><div class="Standard">Also, as part of the same exercise we were asked to write about the same place re-visited as an adult. I had made a journey back to the UK to visit my father and family and had a chance to use the bus from Chatham to Walderslade and then to walk up to Lordswood where my Sister and my Father lived. The village had changed; the dreaded steep hill, the first section of Robin Hood Lane, was no longer the killer slope it used to be for the modern vehicle. The memory of the baker's van, a three wheeled Trojan that had to zig-zag to reach the cottages above our house, or the cars that could only manage halfway came back to me as I watched vehicles drive up and down easily. The wide turning space the busses used when I was a child was gone, and the house that used to be there was now a pub all plastic and anonymous décor, and the village was a small shopping centre. The old church hall was gone, the post office and store with its fine Silver Birches was no more yet some of the older houses remained. I saw the house where the man I will call Colin lived with his Aunt; the man who at forty or more was still a child. In those days when I was a child he would direct the traffic and nobody minded. He used to guide the busses as they turned although most drivers didn't need his help. In a less politically correct time we would describe him as “retarded” but I never knew what it was that was wrong with him, we just accepted him.</div><div class="Standard"><br />
</div><div class="Standard">Now, I have two short tales; one about Marie and the other about Colin. </div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-39760158164208435292012-02-01T09:08:00.000-08:002012-02-02T22:05:58.295-08:00Our BRFM Radio Interview!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJtFOJCwWdT7qDSuxy8W6LYoHwL4lKt-PGv4SUroKHlEi0O4TpMQpF3atvVeaW_FnZYjzGaDYZWVU8PHOpCYYViHQkfucIiC1lz4enXelzueAIlFDFGSQTodMg2JCny87xRHMF-THmBD8/s1600/link_BRFM.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJtFOJCwWdT7qDSuxy8W6LYoHwL4lKt-PGv4SUroKHlEi0O4TpMQpF3atvVeaW_FnZYjzGaDYZWVU8PHOpCYYViHQkfucIiC1lz4enXelzueAIlFDFGSQTodMg2JCny87xRHMF-THmBD8/s320/link_BRFM.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br />
On Monday 30th January, our group made its way to the Isle of Sheppey's own community radio station, BRFM (95.6FM or listen through the internet at <a href="http://brfm.net/">BRFM.net</a>), to chat with Daniel Nash on his Monday night community programme.<br />
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The radio station, as with most of Sheppey's gems, is hidden, high up in Minster, at the top of a farm track. Broadcasting from its vantage point on 'Windy Ridge' above the island, it plays music, details traffic and news reports, and interviews local residents about what they've been doing in the community.<br />
<br />
Which is where we came in.<br />
<br />
I think all of us (Geof, James, Bob, Jo and me) were a little nervous at the prospect of speaking live to the whole of Sheppey, and beyond, into Swale, since we are so passionate about our project, and were keen to let others know what we'd been doing, and what we planned to do.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Wr4gSs0hYSGsivkKx-zBLLWpBypKPnIzDhg0O9zXJliiLTiOZVgs3m19NDuPGmxd51n5TN65U8A3XEGY_PHd9ZcTniYjkFe9Tlx-WEVi6x_0vbeIdGpnSYw6EDnPVeDyfCnR5uYVcMM/s1600/Radio+Jo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Wr4gSs0hYSGsivkKx-zBLLWpBypKPnIzDhg0O9zXJliiLTiOZVgs3m19NDuPGmxd51n5TN65U8A3XEGY_PHd9ZcTniYjkFe9Tlx-WEVi6x_0vbeIdGpnSYw6EDnPVeDyfCnR5uYVcMM/s200/Radio+Jo.jpg" width="150" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2CWIuWiFQwCc1AgovHq6CGJC7ABEBNiJi4Xww-fY_nuO-f0wqTvKKMhMLAd_sWnpd7Xv0HakDhsEgCTkOOAEojy-6D0pePbL37d72HohEagSjOSNc7rZfGiXpTNgLBox4WtAUOi3uBw/s1600/Radio+Geof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2CWIuWiFQwCc1AgovHq6CGJC7ABEBNiJi4Xww-fY_nuO-f0wqTvKKMhMLAd_sWnpd7Xv0HakDhsEgCTkOOAEojy-6D0pePbL37d72HohEagSjOSNc7rZfGiXpTNgLBox4WtAUOi3uBw/s200/Radio+Geof.jpg" width="150" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZTcZDlCGm5knC_1u-Re6zLSuAUEzzM6aMioDYF8aSKZ4LsdNF4f7FmkdNBOCIqiTAygSrMfRorIEymyMfSapRZteP75PwIEY__JRTTPJfp580LulBSG49fBxS3cIUkGCkTpDv8ifNppo/s1600/Radio+Bob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZTcZDlCGm5knC_1u-Re6zLSuAUEzzM6aMioDYF8aSKZ4LsdNF4f7FmkdNBOCIqiTAygSrMfRorIEymyMfSapRZteP75PwIEY__JRTTPJfp580LulBSG49fBxS3cIUkGCkTpDv8ifNppo/s200/Radio+Bob.jpg" width="150" /></a> </div><br />
But it went all right. In fact, it went better than that. It went perfectly!<br />
<br />
Daniel Nash, the presenter, had some interesting questions for us, and we were able to speak about why we love writing, how we became involved in the project, and what we expected to do next. We could get our points across about enjoying the community, and about finding out more about not only the area in which we live, but more about ourselves as writers (and researchers!).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigrpIUtgDUdoa4j-x-fXQOCTeQi5M8KaM6owMjGG4NN8zsqcEWdzK2w1JPmRE8FxQka2V6SBX3vd8FJraCyA_NagQmcmVuKjvWRZ2w-SsvOYMfdVV3t1Vutw1-W1v4TK20auETcCmlhcU/s1600/Radio+LJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigrpIUtgDUdoa4j-x-fXQOCTeQi5M8KaM6owMjGG4NN8zsqcEWdzK2w1JPmRE8FxQka2V6SBX3vd8FJraCyA_NagQmcmVuKjvWRZ2w-SsvOYMfdVV3t1Vutw1-W1v4TK20auETcCmlhcU/s200/Radio+LJ.jpg" width="150" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqybJB2dsv60Nrjf0DZ_AThepZdsR4yogcB2vvhQb3HMjCUmhyphenhyphenYB7KWY_dGD5ggYix291WUqJ19QTDo1y8LiK3oP0UvH4mOXzrznVr6adsbcxZWnsrarU1JRwCnVOZpdRE3x2ijIohhjQ/s1600/Radio+James.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqybJB2dsv60Nrjf0DZ_AThepZdsR4yogcB2vvhQb3HMjCUmhyphenhyphenYB7KWY_dGD5ggYix291WUqJ19QTDo1y8LiK3oP0UvH4mOXzrznVr6adsbcxZWnsrarU1JRwCnVOZpdRE3x2ijIohhjQ/s200/Radio+James.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br />
And then came the <i>really</i> exciting part; we were given the opportunity to read a short extract of our stories from the A Roof Over Their Heads anthology. This was a chance to show the community the result of all our hard work, and to get them interested in our stories.<br />
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I hope it did. I'm sure it did. If you heard it, and would like to let us know what you thought, please leave a comment on the blog!<br />
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If you missed it, you can listen at any time through the <a href="http://dpn.me.uk/danielmn/">BRFM podcast</a>, or on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL22B4B606965EB7D7">YouTube</a> so why not download it and get in touch to tell us what you thought of it?<br />
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The details are also on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Daniel-Monday-Night-Community-Show-On-BRFM/118055191549943">Daniel's Facebook page</a> and his own <a href="http://dpn.me.uk/danielmn/">blog</a>. There's a wealth of other local information on these sites as well, so it's worth clicking through.Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-60785205053303168412012-01-31T22:15:00.000-08:002012-02-10T03:45:13.689-08:00Meet the Writers: Bob Collins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ANwYYKayXGP2aB75c2Xol_M_Iz0iIXpqNXyDMmIQBlmG_T0tOC3_WyikLCNaCKk8X3iP1zZXwYFeZ7nowYBQig40RJ9qTNNzH2bHhun-r5IQEIWbcm8Z5w18xU6EEEUcxmiH8jQhe-I/s1600/Bob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ANwYYKayXGP2aB75c2Xol_M_Iz0iIXpqNXyDMmIQBlmG_T0tOC3_WyikLCNaCKk8X3iP1zZXwYFeZ7nowYBQig40RJ9qTNNzH2bHhun-r5IQEIWbcm8Z5w18xU6EEEUcxmiH8jQhe-I/s320/Bob.jpg" width="288" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="Standard"> Robert (Bob) Collins is a Sheppey poet and is published in Arrival Press, Anchor Books and Poetry Now, a Christian Press. Bob was born on Sheppey and is proud to be a Swampy. Widely travelled both painting and writing his subjects include, the Colosseum in Rome, Bernkastal in Germany, Keukenhot Gardens in Holland and poems entitled <i> Weald of Kent, Puddles and The Boy Who Traps The Sunshine</i>, now out of print, but ever writing as is evident by taking part in A Roof Over Their Heads project. </div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-34320132050616683602012-01-29T23:16:00.000-08:002012-01-29T23:16:11.420-08:00Meet the Writers: Marie West<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA5gDavBullvAlJwEwDUrAaDVotOPwuoNXftUn2aD5tFY6YTRMYo9E2E4zgo_gUJLkihVBYMaGFz8qWsjOOL1wUgumYT9sTQNYxi4d05U4AM9fxjEM16mmGNZYsUjUjdS5b6pdNYDyfGw/s1600/Marie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA5gDavBullvAlJwEwDUrAaDVotOPwuoNXftUn2aD5tFY6YTRMYo9E2E4zgo_gUJLkihVBYMaGFz8qWsjOOL1wUgumYT9sTQNYxi4d05U4AM9fxjEM16mmGNZYsUjUjdS5b6pdNYDyfGw/s320/Marie.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Biography coming soon...</div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-37048168550498488362012-01-28T07:51:00.000-08:002012-01-28T07:51:59.447-08:00Meet the Writers: Bill Anthony<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Zl40artJzBC2_HJE0-NVGcR_c-mkz-ApeJwQEdpXvHza4BAAGS5RfEhL43G9zqtvsrMNMhactsuwjGu5is3csQYzrAwjkYCC4cfXy0aTemOFzU2QoPxeQbJD_7SvJLIRCWuNqVUxQD0/s1600/Wild+Bill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Zl40artJzBC2_HJE0-NVGcR_c-mkz-ApeJwQEdpXvHza4BAAGS5RfEhL43G9zqtvsrMNMhactsuwjGu5is3csQYzrAwjkYCC4cfXy0aTemOFzU2QoPxeQbJD_7SvJLIRCWuNqVUxQD0/s320/Wild+Bill.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="Standard"><span lang="EN-US">Retired and qualified Mechanical Engineer in Project Engineering. B. Sc degree from the Open University. Lived and worked in India, England, Ethiopia, Zambia, Saudi Arabia and Botswana. Mixed and mingled with 20 plus nationalities to date. Widely </span>travelled<span lang="EN-US"> in Western Europe, Central Africa and South Asia. Activities and interests: Local and Foreign affairs, DIY jobs, gardening, socializing, into short story writing, poetry, drawing, sketching and painting.</span></div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-80304484205012215302012-01-25T06:33:00.000-08:002012-01-25T06:33:20.794-08:00Meet the Writers: Lisamarie Lamb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4QU5N8wmyix2SOjFo679RK4Kwk8Wyi9PlUxM_MM4lOmxuukt45IOZ1HgXbPf3vPxgLhcHOCIgZmwYa1k8aZ2sOg1bM0ALayAigr85e9vTIDFb78zdygMDdRyTNfIqbhWkT130pF4uns/s1600/Author_2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4QU5N8wmyix2SOjFo679RK4Kwk8Wyi9PlUxM_MM4lOmxuukt45IOZ1HgXbPf3vPxgLhcHOCIgZmwYa1k8aZ2sOg1bM0ALayAigr85e9vTIDFb78zdygMDdRyTNfIqbhWkT130pF4uns/s320/Author_2011.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">I was five when I wrote my first short story - it involved a car going over a cliff, Jessica Fletcher and the Phantom Raspberry Blower. It didn't have much of a plot (he did it, she solved it) but it did have rather colourful (crayon) illustrations and it did make me realise that writing was for me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 12 I wrote my first novel during the school summer holidays. Loosely based on the Famous Five, with a bit of James Bond thrown in, it was an adventure story and my English teacher made me read some of it out in class. And that's when I realised that I wanted people to hear my stories and read my work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the intervening years, I have written various short stories, plays, poems and novels in different genres, including romance and children’s books. I have a blog in which I showcase flash fiction (<a href="http://www.themoonlitdoor.blogspot.com/">www.themoonlitdoor.blogspot.com</a>). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have self-published a horror novel, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/MotherS-Helper-Lisamarie-Lamb/dp/1446710939/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1327501722&sr=8-1">Mother’s Helper</a>, and a collection of short stories entitled <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Some-BodyS-Door-Lisamarie-Lamb/dp/1447875710/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1327501722&sr=8-7">Some Body’s At The Door</a>. I am also part of the anthologies <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Satans-Toybox-Demonic-Blaze-McRob/dp/1466427000/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1327501776&sr=8-2">Satan’s Toybox: Demonic Dolls</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Satans-Toybox-Toy-Soldiers-ebook/dp/B006U9JHQI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1327501776&sr=8-1">Satan's Toybox: Toy Soldiers</a>, <a href="http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/skeletal-remains/18798922?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/2">Skeletal Remains</a>, and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/At-Waters-Edge-Ann-Partridge/dp/1937477835/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1327501938&sr=8-8">At The Water's Edge. </a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have been accepted into eight more anthologies due to be released throughout 2012.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I promise I’m better at plots now, and I use my own characters, but the excitement, fun and just a little wonder are still there. My crayon skills have not improved.</div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1744905684140554597.post-78742816255771041182012-01-25T06:26:00.000-08:002012-01-25T06:26:06.715-08:00Meet the Writers: James Apps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifqh6UMlid87Tj6pewknm_AAMW5LqiHfZNkcG8mQjCzFWPaD_LPBgDF7S3SXguoA4WmGO9gh0G1gd1zT9QGZCwmxNqpv3gC_OFUqQDxziAaGvrjBhn1HAPPw1lEcIxSBlcoFRX8syD1T0/s1600/Photo+on+2011-03-13+at+12+58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifqh6UMlid87Tj6pewknm_AAMW5LqiHfZNkcG8mQjCzFWPaD_LPBgDF7S3SXguoA4WmGO9gh0G1gd1zT9QGZCwmxNqpv3gC_OFUqQDxziAaGvrjBhn1HAPPw1lEcIxSBlcoFRX8syD1T0/s320/Photo+on+2011-03-13+at+12+58.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="Standard"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">I describe myself as a writer, a poet and an artist no longer subject to the everyday work grind, with a degree in English Literature which really equates to being a well educated bum. I like to be known as a Wandering Poet or as an Island Artist, raving loony and cat lover. I drifted toward the Isle of Sheppey where I found some friends and a reason for using my camera, writing about the place and getting involved in projects such as <i>A Roof Over Their Heads</i>. I would like to be a grumpy old man, but I cannot be bothered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Lisamarie Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13044677750551861221noreply@blogger.com0