Tag Archives: history

Cheer Yourself Up With The Plague

In these days of Brexit and Trump, I have decided that it is my duty to hand out stirring advice. In fact, I’ve nominated myself as the cheerer upper of the people. It’s a role that I relish and in these coming days, I hope to erase your feelings of discontent once and for all. So without any further waffle let’s get stuck into cheering ourselves up.


However bad you may feel, be glad that you were not alive in Tudor England when there were three main illnesses which could easily kill you. In those days, influenza was a serious killer. In fact, it travelled through the army so quickly that the generals had to call off an attempt to recapture Calais in 1557 – 1558. No flu vaccinations there then.

Carried on a flea

Another option was the plague and to be fair, with the plague there was a choice: Bubonic or pneumonic. This was caused by a type of bacteria which was carried on a flea on a rat. There was no cure for it during the Tudor reign and outbreaks occurred from time to time. In 1603, 38,000 people died in London and the plague doctors were little more than useless. Henry VIII had the best way of dealing with the plague – he got out of London as quickly as he could. It also broke out again in 1665.


If the plague or the flu didn’t get you, you still couldn’t relax because the sweating sickness might not be far behind. This broke out in England in 1485, 1517 and 1551. Talk about living for the moment, you really needed to when this illness was about. You could be singing a ditty, having a tumble in the hay and knocking back the mead at lunchtime but be dead before you got your supper; that was how quickly it struck folks down. Although saying that, it did not always kill. It is now believed that it was a type of flu and was named Sudor Anglicus because for some strange reason only the English caught it.


If you did get ill, you had a choice of who to turn to. You could go to the apothecary who handled drugs and herbs. Much of what they handed out was experimental so it was a bit of a risk seeing them. However, if you visited a barber-surgeon you would get an amputation. Perhaps, a physician might be a better choice because they would just stick leeches on you to suck your blood.

Well, that concludes my cheering up session for today. I hope it stirred you.



Filed under About Loony Literature, Being Buoyant, The Cheerer Upper, The Peculiar Past

Trouble in the Coffee House? Get Writing.

Writing is good for your spirit and you don’t have to stay in to do it. It’s really good fun to go to a coffee house armed with your writing paraphernalia and to set your short story in there. If you really want to chance your arm you can create characters for your story from the other folks that are supping coffee around you. Whatever you do, don’t let them see. Coffee gets some people excited and you don’t want a black eye when all you are doing is creating a story.


Take down the details of the room you are sitting in and you have a setting readymade. Of course, if you wish to add or take away from that, you can do. This is the beauty of writing fiction; you can build the world to suit yourself.

Sneakily look at the people sitting nearest to you. Are they story fodder? If not, why not? If it’s an elderly couple that are talking about the cost of drinking chocolate, don’t forget that everyone has a past. She could have been a spy during World War II. He could be a retired private detective. Basically, they can be whatever you want them to be – run with your fantasy.


For those that love historical fiction, you will find that coffee houses have been around for a while and so if you wish to write a historical piece and set it in the coffee house then that is no problem. In fact, if you read on, you will find a true and hilarious situation that you can use as a basis for your story, if you so wish.

If you love popping out to the coffee house to have a good laugh and titillating gossip with your mates, you may be interested to know that this type of behaviour has been going on since the 17th century. However, back then it was purely the male that frequented the coffee house. Men would spend hours making business contacts and talking about politics in the coffee house. This did not go unnoticed by their female counterparts and trouble started to brew. (Do forgive the pun.)

Sterile and impotent

Women who were fed up of being coffee widows got together and published a hard hitting pamphlet. “The Women’s Petition Against Coffee” (1674) suggested that when men drank coffee daily it made then sterile and impotent. Obviously, this was a cause for concern in society because it would mean a reduction in the birth rate.

Women tearfully told how their husbands were turning their backs on them to enjoy the company of their peers in the coffee houses. They spoke of how this action threatened the social and economic future of the country because men were becoming incapable of fulfilling their marital duties. One woman even declared that all that coffee drinking ‘made men as unfruitful as the sandy deserts where the unhappy berry is said to be brought’.

For a moment, the men were truly speechless but only for a moment. They rallied back with “The Men’s Answer to the Women’s Petition.” They were having none of it and were rather blunt in their reply. The men suggested that drinking coffee made the erection more vigorous and then went into detail about how it actually made the sperm more potent. In other words, they fought back saying that coffee would actually make the birth rate rise.


Well that is certainly something to write about. You could write a television sitcom or a short play. It doesn’t have to be a short story. The whole idea of the exercise is to get you into the coffee shop setting and then to let your mind run wild. I think that you will be pleasantly surprised at how much you enjoy doing this. Just remember not to put pressure on yourself to produce War and Peace, this is meant to be fun.  Anything that has been written can always be improved upon at a later date if you so wish. For the time being, just have a giggle.



Filed under Creative Writing, Inspiration and Us, The Peculiar Past

Story Ideas To Get You Writing – Getting Married in the Buff!

Stuck for something to write about? Here at Loony Literature, we are pure suckers for history so when we come across something which we think might be a good springboard to get you folks writing, we will shout about it. Even if this doesn’t make you start writing frantically, it will inform and entertain you – hopefully.

To write or not to write.

To write or not to write.

In the 18th century ‘smock weddings’ were a type of ceremony. A ‘smock wedding’ would see a bride getting married in the nude or barefoot and wearing only a chemise or underskirt, as we call them these days. The idea was that if she brought no clothes or property to the marriage, her new husband to be was not liable for any of the debts of her past life.

The smock wedding was particularly useful for a widowed woman whose husband had died leaving a lot of debts. We know because of a newspaper report in September 1775 that a Mr Richard Elcock who was bricklayer married Mrs Judith Redding. It seems that so Mr Elcock would not be liable for any of the debts that Mrs Redding might have been left with from an earlier marriage, she went into one of the pews in the church and stripped off everything except her slip.

A few years earlier, at Saint Michael’s Church in Ashton under Lyne, Nathaniel Eller married the widow Hibbert. Both of them were around fifty years of age. The widow went through the ceremony with her hair tied behind with horse hair and wearing only a shift so that her new husband would not have to pay off any of her former husband’s debts.

In December 1797, several newspapers reported from St Philips parish church in Birmingham that the bride wore nothing. She was a woman of wealth and property but she was marrying a debt ridden husband and she believed that getting married in the nude would prevent her new husband’s creditors from seizing her property. She was not the only lady to be married in that fashion. It seems that some women would turn up to church in a cloak and nothing else. With a flourish they would remove the cloak and the ceremony would begin.

Happy writing.



Filed under Creative Writing, History, The Peculiar Past

Lincoln Gaol

Sometimes we take our children on days out which we think are educational but exciting for them.  All too often we pay out our hard earned cash and the only thing they are interested in is the shop at the venue.  Little ones mostly enjoy anything but the older ones are not so easy to impress.  Exciting excursions therefore looks at the more grisly side of our heritage.


The Victorian prison is set in the grounds of Lincoln Castle in the historical city of Lincoln.

The Lucy Tower is perhaps one of the most unusual graveyards that can be found.  The visitor has to climb many steep steps to get to the graveyard.  Once inside, we find ourselves in an enclosed cemetery.  The other bizarre aspect of the graveyard is that all the graves are of prisoners who were hanged in Lincoln Gaol.  One of whom was William Frederick Harry who was hanged on April 1st, 1872 for the murder of his wife.  Others who were hanged at Lincoln Gaol were : Peter Blanchard  -1875, William Clark – 1877, James Anderson -1883 and Thomas Garry in 1868.  The first private female hanging was that of Pricilla Biggerdyke in 1868.   Apparently she was having an affair with the lodger and her husband died of rat poisoning.  Although Priscilla actually bought the poison she maintained that she was innocent up until her execution.  Years later, the lodger confessed to the dastardly deed on his deathbed.  Priscilla was pardoned – too little, too late.

Older children seem to enjoy these grisly tales and it brings history to life for them when they actually visit the spot where it happened.  This case is well documented and it is good for their I.T. skills to do further research on real life historical cases.  Sometimes, older children also seem to be more interested in grisly tales of everyday people of the past.   The violence of the Kings and Queens often seems unreal and more like something from the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales.

There is a bench for visitors to sit upon in The Lucy Tower.  It could be imagined that sitting up there in unhallowed ground, amongst people who had suffered violent deaths, would cause an atmosphere of unrest – that is the strangest aspect of The Lucy Tower.  It offers a feeling of peace and tranquility bordering on sanctuary.

Lincoln Gate.


The original mound upon which The Lucy Tower stands was built in 1068.  It would have been built with a mixture of earth and stones and then covered in clay.  The first tower would have been made of wood.  If the enemy had taken over the castle, The Lucy Tower most probably would have been the last line of defence.  It was not made into a prison graveyard until 1824.

Standing in the pulpit of the prison chapel is intimidating; it is something which I will never forget.

In 1849 the Separate System came into force.  It was believed that if prisoners were kept in isolation they would become rehabilitated.  They were only let out of their cells to go to the Chapel and for exercise.  If strangely enough, The Lucy Tower gives the visitor a pleasant feeling, then the Chapel does the opposite.  It is said to be the only one of its kind left in the world.  The Separate System meant that the inmates would sit in closed in seats, in The Chapel, so that they could not see or speak to anyone else.  The seats are tilted, therefore if any prisoners dared to fall asleep during a sermon they would fall forward and be punished.  There was an open bench at the back which was especially for condemned criminals; obviously it was thought that they were beyond redemption.  Debtors also were not included in the separate system and they would be seated in the gallery with the men above and the female debtors below.  There were sloping seats at the front for the women.  Each criminal in the Separate System was locked into his seat before another could be let in.  In addition to not being allowed to see others, the prisoners also had to wear masks to cover their faces.  In 1851, it was realized that this system did not work and it was abandoned.

The remarkable aspect of all this is that visitors to the chapel today can stand in the pulpit and have the view which the prison chaplain would have.  Some seats are fitted with a dummy criminal wearing a mask.  The vision is intimidating and the atmosphere is awful, it gave me shivers down my back.  If it made me feel so uncomfortable when the situation was simply being portrayed, I can not imagine what it must have been like to be there in reality.  It is places like this which really help children understand what the past was like.

There is also the castle and the castle walls to visit.


Filed under Exciting Excursions


R.A.T. is formed.

An exclusive interview


Ambrose Pimple.

          Sales of the Groaningsea Gazette have almost doubled since Groaningsea’s premier crime correspondent, Ambrose Pimple, uncovered the  mob in our mist!  Residents were so shocked at the threat to their beloved seaside town that they have joined forces against crime with the Groaningsea Gazette.  The local people have banded together to form R.A.T. – residents against terror.  The chairlady is Mrs Croak.  In an exclusive interview by Ambrose Pimple, Mrs Croak warns criminals:

          “The residents of Groaningsea are respectable folks.  We will not put up with the underworld trying to spoil our beautiful town.  My teenage son, Elvis, known to his mates as The Toad, will be on watch during the early evening.  Anyone caught doing anything, anything whatsoever, will be done.  Us Croaks don’t take to criminals, especially ones as we don’t know.”

          Further action has been taken by the local librarians who also represent R.A.T.  They are closeting the latest telescopic umbrellas under the returns desk.  Anyone stepping out of line will feel the force of Mrs Chalk’s umbrella, be stamped on the forehead and get a fine.

          We want local residents to rest assured that they can count upon the Groaningsea Gazette to join forces with R.A.T. in the fight against crime.  Top crime correspondent, Ambrose Pimple, will be available anytime and anywhere – that is Monday –Friday (9a.m. to 5p.m. within the Groaningsea area.

Anyone with any information or in danger please ring:

Ambrose on Groaningsea 666.

Leave a comment

Filed under Groaningsea Gazette


Gangsters Go For  Gobber.


Ambrose Pimple.

Gobber’s Joke Shop has graced Groaningsea’s back streets since anyone can remember.  Gobber is Groaningsea and Groaningsea is Gobber.  We have to ask ourselves why is Groaningsea, and now Gobber, being targeted by the mob?   

To understand the intensity of this crime we must realise that it is not one single crime which Gobber has been victim of but a catalogue of them.  Regular readers will remember Ambrose Pimple, head crime consultant of the Groaningsea Gazette, dutifully reporting how Gobber suffered crime in the past.  For new readers of the Groaningsea Gazette, who we hope will become regular readers, let me explain. 

Being the principle joke shop owner of Groaningsea, well actually, he’s the only joke shop owner of Groaningsea, Gobber feels it is his duty to be a role model to his young customers.  As fresh air and exercise is the order of the day for a healthy mind and body, Gobber does a daily jaunt on the promenade.  Gobber’s celebrity status in this small town means that during the school holidays he is accompanied by his fans spurring him on. 

On the unfortunate day of the first crime, some hard nosed criminal attached a sign onto the back of Gobber’s anorak.  The sign read : 

Gobber smells. Yell if, you agree. 

Consequently,  a shouting mob stampeded the promenade with Gobber in front believing his own personal charisma was causing the racket.  Not that Gobber doesn’t have personal charisma, you understand.  Top crime correspondent, Ambrose Pimple charged through the crowd, whipped his windcheater off, flung it over Gobber’s head and made for the Drowning Fish Café.  Peace soon ensued but there was more to follow.

The next attack on the unfortunate Gobber was the advertisement in the Groaningsea Gazette.  A ruthless criminal masqueraded as Gobber and placed an advert in this very newspaper.  We have to be dealing with the professional underworld, otherwise how would the fake advert have gotten past Doris the cleaning lady who sells advertising space on her day off?  The advert, which looked very impressive with our new style headings read


Derek Frisk, the local St John’s Ambulance man resuscitated Gobber as his shelves emptied. 

Gobber wishes to warn the underworld that he has now taken arms and his mother Mavis is hiding in the back of the shop with her rolling pin and length of elastic, ready for action.

1 Comment

Filed under Groaningsea Gazette

Will Blyton’s Diary 5

January 1974

What a day to be on a mission!  The ice cold rain is launching itself from the heavy, black clouds of January but the wind is blowing it in all directions.  This means that when the rain hits you, it stings and is freezing cold.  No-one is about in Groaningsea except one lone shopper who is losing the fight with her umbrella which has been blown inside out.

A lone light shines in the Groaningsea Gazette office.  It is hard to peer through the windows as past stories are pasted all over them like wallpaper.  It does not reach to the top of the windows though; the light bulb glows dully, sad and naked without a light shade.

I open the door slowly; it creaks loudly as if to warn the occupant of the office that a stranger is entering.  He is there, an emperor in a small seaside town.  He waves his thin, bony fingers dismissively at me without looking up.  He is typing quickly and has the telephone trapped between his head and shoulders whilst he squeaks quickly into it.  I hold my breath; it must be a news breaking story.

“Right, Vera – I’ll pick my bacon sandwich up at twelve if you can have it ready, you cheeky minx,” says Pimple.  I am not sure what has shocked me the most – his high pitched voice or the fact that he sees Vera from the Drowning Fish Café as a cheeky minx, whatever that means.  He carries on stabbing the machine.  It whirrs and clicks in a strangled, tinny fashion, almost as if protesting about Pimple’s fingers prodding it at ten miles an hour.

After what seems like a lifetime to a boy desperate to speak, I realise that he has forgotten about me.  I am not sure what to do.  Should I go out and come back in again, thereby announcing myself?  It’s a bit difficult, because if I open the door it will creak, he will look up and he will think that I am leaving.  Unless, I open the door and pretend that I have just got there.  At first, this seems like a good idea but if the handle squeaks when I press it down, the door will still be closed and I will look like a person who has no idea whether he is coming or going.  I wish I had my deer stalker with me.  If I make the wrong impression on Pimple, he will not do what I want him to do.

“Are you going to stand there forever, boy or have you something to say.  Don’t waste my time now.  I am a very busy journalist,” he says and rises from his chair.  He comes towards me.  The bottom of his cardigan swings as he walks.  It has a hole in it.

“You are very lucky that I am granting you an audience boy, I am not simply a journalist – I am also the editor of the Groaningsea Gazette.  There, I bet I am the most important person you have ever met.  Am I boy?  Don’t be embarrassed,” he says and hikes himself up on the front of his desk.   The sole of his shoe is loose and it flaps as he crosses his legs.

I clear my throat, ready to surprise him with my newsworthy story.

“Of course, I won’t always be in Groaningsea.  Oh no!  I’m destined for greater things.  One of these days, I’ll get a county newspaper,” he sighs extravagantly.  “Now what do you want?  I’m busy.”

My mouth opens and then closes again.  Nothing will come out.  I make a decision.  I take the large, brown envelope, I’ve borrowed from dad and pull it from under my jacket.  I take the photograph out and slap it down into Pimple’s hand.  He looks down and frowns.

“So what’s this?” he asks.

“That, Mr Pimple, is a photograph I took at Boris Death’s old house the other day,” I say.  Pimple’s normally white face starts to colour and a large lump of dandruff falls onto his shoulder.  His cracked lips stretch out across his face.  I think he is smiling.

“Is this an exclusive boy?” he asks as he walks behind his desk and sits down.

Leave a comment

Filed under Will Blyton's Diary

Will Blyton’s Diary 4

January 1974


My most exciting moment has arrived.  I’m down in the cellar where I have my very own dark room.  I can see you’re wondering what a kid like me is doing with a room for developing photos in a cellar.  I’d better explain.  Dad is a serial hobby killer.  Every few months, he finds a book in his second hand bookshop which introduces him to something new to become obsessed by.  A gleam of madness shines in his eyes and he tells Mum he has to buy a camera or join Pig Fancier’s Anonymous immediately.

A couple of years ago, it was photography and he had to have a dark room in the cellar.  His argument was that his photographs were going to be so unique, there was no way he could wait a full week for them at Plopson’s the Chemist on the High Street.  Mum eventually agreed to the dark room if Dad would teach me how to develop photographs.  Dad came up with the argument that I could not be responsible enough to use the chemicals required.  Mum said that if I wasn’t responsible enough to be let loose in a dark room, then there was no way that Dad was anywhere near responsible enough.  Dad and I choose the equipment for the dark room together.

After three weeks, Dad found a book on Astrology in his shop. He dumped photography and the dark room  and started looking out for fellow Pisceans to enjoy water colours with, whatever they are.

Anyway, backstory over with.  My moments of glory have finally arrived.  I look fondly at my washing line of developed photos which are pegged up to dry.  Two photos stand out for me.  They are virtually the same but I am not one to be troubled by minor details.  I can see a candle flame and behind it is the face of the ghost from Boris Death’s old house.  She has to be dead; nobody living could look remotely like that.  I collapse down onto the high stool as I realise what I have done.  The creature might know I have taken an image of it and jump on me whilst I’m in bed.  My stomach turns somersaults and I gulp loudly.  I can not allow fear to take me over.  I must think how I can benefit from the spooky image staring at me.

My mind is blurred, I cannot think logically.  I will have to resort to putting my deerstalker on.  I have a notion it warms my brain and sends it springing into action.  I pace the room, I stop, I stare at the photos.  I need to make them work to the very best of my advantage.  What I want is publicity.  Ambrose Pimple of the Groaningsea Gazette is the most obvious choice.  If I allow him to publish the photograph and run a story on my escapades, I will become The Groaningsea Ghosthunter.   The public will be finally fighting for The Alternative Detective’s services.  I can’t go wrong.

My mind is like a hare speeding through the open fields, I see the faces of The Toad, Ferret and Snot.  The fools will think again before whopping someone as brave as me.

The question is… do I telephone Pimple or just arrive with the bait?

Leave a comment

Filed under Will Blyton's Diary

Will Blyton’s Diary 3

January 1974


I’m in Bongo’s secret shed stamping my feet to keep them warm.  He is banging away on the drums.  I blow on my hands, gently folding the image of the strange creature I saw over and over in my mind.  It is the only ghoul I have ever seen, apart from The Toad, Ferret and Snot and they don’t count because they are alive.  If only I could have gotten a photograph of the phantom.  I would be splashed all over the Gazette as The Groaningsea Ghosthunter.   Mum would be shocked, Dad would not notice and I would be proud.  I sigh heavily into my hands.

How can I be The Alternative Detective when I saw a ghost and didn’t get a photograph of it?  The faces of The Toad, Ferret and Snot appear in my mind singing “cowardy, cowardy, Blyton custard.”   I must be brave.  I must prove myself.  Another problem flings itself at me – maybe ghosts would not appear on photographs.  At least if I had been brave enough to click the camera, I would know that for sure.  I slap my palm onto my forehead – nothing is stopping me from trying to take a photo of the ghoul, except my fear.  I offer Bongo a Bull’s Eye to lure him into doing what I want.

It is getting dark and Bongo keeps looking behind him as we place our bikes against the oak tree.  I slap my inside jacket pocket heavily.  His eyes dart to it and his eyes light up at the thought of his beloveds. – that’s what he calls Bull’s Eyes.  Chocolate Limes are dearly beloveds – that is a secret between Bongo and myself – I had to swear on the cracking of my camera lens not to tell a soul.

I hand Bongo a tin of black shoe polish  – he takes the top off and smears it all over his face – his icy blue eyes look as if they are popping out of his head.  I take my specs off, colour my face in and then replace both specs and shoe polish to their rightful places.  I take my camera from my bag and remove the lens.

“You won’t be able to take any photos if that thing we saw flies at you,” says Bongo.  I wave a finger at him.

“It won’t see us, perhaps it can’t see us.  It might be from another dimension.  We could simply be wafts of wind to it.”  I sprout out so much rubbish, it even surprises me at times.

We bend down and creep across the wild overgrown garden onto the weedy terrace.  Suddenly, we see a light in one of the downstairs windows.  We crawl on hands and knees along the terrace and appear at the window which has the light in it.  It is faint, we can hardly see anything.

“It’s a candle,” whispers Bongo.

“I didn’t know that ghosts needed candlelight to see, did you?” I ask.

At that moment, a white, soulless face appears behind the candle and stares with large, luminous eyes through the window.  My legs want to run but my hands try to point the camera.  It will not go where I want it to.  After a shaking battle, I point and click.

“Come on Bongo, let’s go,” I say.  I turn to look for him but all I can see is his piglet wiggle moving with speed as far away from the house as he can go.

1 Comment

Filed under Will Blyton's Diary

Will Blyton’s Diary 2


January 1974

Sunday morning.  It’s pitch black.  I route around for my torch.  I can’t put the lights on, I might wake Mum and Dad and my cover will be blown.  I am having an early start with my pal Bongo.  The job is finding out what is going on at Boris Death’s old house.   Recently things seem to be happening there.  It has been empty for years.  No-one dares to go near it, in case the ghost of Boris as a werewolf jumps out at them.  It’s said that at midnight, he walks the grounds.  The Toad said that he once saw Boris as Frankenstein but he didn’t  flinch.  In fact, the Toad reckons that he pulled a face at Frankenboris who duly ran off.  I can’t say I blame him as The Toad is the ugliest person I have ever seen, apart from his mates Snot and Ferret.

I get dressed and  am ready to go.  I quietly open the bedroom door and sneak down the stairs.  Hopefully, I will be back before The Thunderous Mother wakes from her Sunday morning lie in.  I listen, I can hear Dad.  He sounds like a foghorn calling out to other ships in the mist.  No wonder Mum has to stuff her ears with dried up chewing gum.

Dad’s foghorn could have been a warning sound.  I stand in the street ready to mount my Chopper bike and look at the mist.  The sea fret dances around the street lights as if to music.  Bongo had better be up and waiting.  I’m starting to think this creeping around Boris Death’s old house at 6.30 on a Sunday morning is not such a great idea.  I must go.  I have to prove to myself that I’m not a total coward.  I see myself when I am cornered by The Toad, Ferret and Snot – cowardy, cowardy, Blyton custard.

I make myself peddle down the street.  Bongo sits on the wall with his chubby knees pulled up to his chest.  I’m a bit flummoxed as to why he’s wearing shorts on a cruel January morning.  I decide not to mention it but I can’t stop my eyes from staring at his muffin knees.

“Mum’s washed all my trousers except those bright orange ones Gran bought me for Christmas.  You can see me a mile off in those,” he mutters glumly.  It is hard not to laugh but I have to agree that we could hardly go undercover with Bongo resembling a giant tangerine.

The wind cuts into my cheeks as I pedal furiously against it.  We stop when we reach the woods which surround Boris’s old house.  The question is whether to leave our bikes at the edge of the wood and chance them being stolen or to wheel them with us to the house.   It is 6.30 on a Sunday morning, the idea that our bikes might be spotted or stolen is mad compared to the thought of having to wheel them through the woods.  We leave them propped up against an Oak tree.

I decide to go first.  I am proving myself.  I click my torch on and shine it in the clearing ahead.  The white tail of a rabbit scuttling away bobs up and down before my eyes.  The sea fret hangs around the trees like giant spiders’ webs.  I feel a strong pulling on my jacket sleeve.  Bongo has seen something.  I turn quickly, shivers run down my spine.  Who would have thought early morning could be as spooky as late nights?

“Have you got any Bull’s Eyes?” he hisses.  I might have known.  Bongo has two things on his mind – eating and playing the drums.   I rustle around in my pocket and pull the bag out.  Bongo’s crane like hand has a good rummage around and he grabs as many Bull’s Eyes as he can.  We have been friends for years so I have learned a way of holding the bag so that he can get no more than four of my delicious offerings at one time.  He crams them into his mouth so that his cheeks bulge.

We set off again.  When we reach the clearing for the house I stop sharp and Bongo knocks into me.

“What did you stop for?” he asks.  I put my finger to my lips and point towards the house.  We both strain to look.  The thinnest woman I have ever seen is standing on the weed covered terrace looking around.  She has long, black hair, a white face and very red lips.   We gulp.

“Is she a ghost?” whispers Bongo?

“No human dresses like that at 6.30a.m. on a Sunday morning,” I reply.  We run.

Leave a comment

Filed under Will Blyton's Diary