This blog is now defunct, not going anywhere, has breathed its last, dropped off the twig and gone to join the choir invisible. 

After its leap up to around 300 in the daily pageview charts in mid-November and through till March, it has slumped into single figures, so is clearly not worth continuing. 

I now leave it undisturbed to concentrate on finishing my novel, initially inspired by the Bonfiglioli himself and now into its 29th chapter with the final five or six already planned.

Let's get back to humorous verse. I could do with a good laugh. Perhaps my readers in USA could do with one too. Where have you all disappeared to, guys?

The Magnificent Attenboroughs

That chap David Attenborough   

Is inordinately thorough                                                                     

When searching out new species.                                                                  

He studies everything                                                                             

From the colour of their skin                                                              

To the individual texture of their faeces.                                              

                                                                                                         

Now Dickie, on the other hand, he                                                      

Made the film entitled “Gandhi”,                                                        

That architect of India’s freedom.                                                      

Although a man of fame and note, he’s                                               

Remembered most for skinny legs                                                      

And freshly-laundered dhotis.                                                            

That’s Gandhi, by the way, not Dickie;                           

Wearing loincloths would be tricky                                 

In “Rillington” or Kringle’s fable,                          

Okay in “Great Escape”, perhaps,                                   

But not for pukka English chaps         

Who’d find it most un-pal-a-table.

In science fact and filmic fiction,

These brothers shone with rare conviction.   

On movies and on TV screen,

So hard, you say, to choose between.

You’d vote for Dick or Dave, alright. 

But which one is your favou-rite?

Here's my third place winner (if that's not a contradiction in terms) for Flash Fiction at the Scottish Association of Writers annual conference. 

I was about to give up on this blog when the pageviews slumped from about 300 a day to single figures and tens. But there was a welcome spike of 64 at 10 am on Wednesday (thank you, Japan), so I am encouraged to to carry on.

Now if I can just find a tasteful illustration of a skull on Pinterest - or a bonfire with dark overtones of impending doom . . .

In Sure and Certain Hope

             

He came in from the back garden sweating, though the night was cold.  Walking on the newspapers, he peeled off his overalls and gloves and all his clothes and placed them neatly in the middle of the 

papers, muddy shoes on top.  She’d had a thing about keeping the kitchen clean.

     The dog cowered down in its basket, trembling.

     After a thorough shower, he came back and knelt to bundle up the papers and the clothes.  There 

would be a load of rubbish to burn tomorrow.  The huge pile of fallen leaves and old cuttings at the bottom of the garden was covered with a tarpaulin to keep it dry.  She’d had plenty to say about that. 

     Funny, she didn’t say much about the text from Denise, the one confirming the flight time and the hotel booking.  Just shoved the phone in front of him and walked away with her face shut tight.

     A shoe had fallen off the pile.  But he’d placed them so carefully.  No mistakes now.  He checked the clothing.

     One blood-stained glove was missing.

     Cold air came in from the garden.  That bloody door!  Never did close properly.  He looked around . Jack wasn’t in his basket. 

     ‘Oh, Christ, he’s got the glove!  He’s going to bury it.  I’ll kill the yapping little bastard.’

     He was still in the garden, naked, digging frantically along the borders, shouting ‘Jack!  Come here, Jack!’ when frightened neighbours dialled 999.