The Writings and Thoughts of Gittus Miserabilis

 Call me John. I have been thinking a lot about Pru lately, I was the only one who could get away with calling her Pru, she was really Prudence Tremayne. Those who called her Pru were very quickly taken down, as only she could, and never, ever, called her Pru again. We started at a secondary modern school on the same day, both of us late because we had been down with chicken pox, and became firm friends very quickly, probably because we already knew each other and realised that we were both in a place that neither of us wanted to be. That we were the bane of our teachers lives goes without saying. Like myself Pru had been borderline at the eleven plus, and missed out on the Grammar School by a whisker. We were clever kids, just not good at exams. We were both of the opinion that we were surrounded by losers, and that included most of the teachers. That we were quick learners, and quick to question if we thought something didn't sound right did not go down well with the teachers gen...

  So, where are we now? Great Britain? No, not really, more like Little England. Our Prime Minister sees himself as having Churchillian qualities, I see them more as Trumpian ones. The only thing he shares with Churchill are that he is a racist bigot. Before you all start shouting that Churchill wasn’t I suggest you go and read some history. The PM is a liar, a cheat, a charlatan, and in saying that I have probably insulted all three. Don’t believe me? The facts are all there for scrutiny. He is more of a Fagin than a Churchill. It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t wake up every morning with the thought ‘ gotta pick a pocket or two ’. I am not joking! He’s robbing you blind. He is handing out your money to his Tory cronies and mates willy nilly, with a total lack of scrutiny. Thus his wealthy mates get richer, and you all get poorer. Alongside his pal Priti he wants to ensure that you are all shafted, screwed, and well and truly buggered. Between them they want ...

 I like the Haiku as a poetic form, and the Creative Writing module of my degree course is encouraging me to write a daily Haiku. I am not finding it diffficult, I already post a photo a day on Blipfoto , and it is quite easy to combine the two disciplines. The difficult bit is to write a Haiku that matches the subject matter of the image posted. Here are a few of my most recent ones:- Kitchen Shadows Shadows on the wall Show the wine glass at its worst State of emptiness. Sea Shell A little sea shell Out of its natural habitat It really knows its place Moonset The moon low in the sky A big white ball descending To let the sun rise The Tree Tree sits outside a Wonky gate against grey sky Lonely and forlorn. Port na Ba White sand with footprints People sitting in the sunshine Breathing fresh sea air. Loch Na Keal Rays of sun on rain Falling from a leaden sky Blocks a distant view. Abandoned Boat Derelict on rocks Awaiting winter storms Job is unfinished. Port Haun Clouds racing acro...

The private had been brought to the interview room from his cell. He knew why. They were coming to get him. To take him back to fight. He knew he would never fight again. Two years of pointless fighting and killing had had an effect, and had turned him into an anti-war supporter, and he knew nothing could change that. A month in this shithole had given him the time to think about how a war of defence and liberation had turned into one of aggression and conquest. He had come to the conclusion that those at the front getting killed and wounded on a daily basis were being lied to, whilst those running the show back at home were living it up very nicely, thank you very much. The door opened and two people entered, an officer, with the braggadocio of a strutting magpie, and an NCO. The officer spoke. “Do you not stand to attention and salute an officer, private?” The private said nothing and remained seated, he had no respect for these people. “You are going bac...

The Exercise Write down five sounds that you can hear. Then list the things that you associate with those sounds. Five sounds heard while sitting on the balcony. A pigeon. The Wind. Traffic Noise. A car horn. Unseen voices. A pigeon. A sound that has two quite conflicting connotations. Firstly, last night’s dinner, pigeon (Wood Pigeon) breasts on a warm mushroom and spinach salad with a blueberry vinaigrette. Secondly, the menace of the flying rat that is the bane of the urban environment, and with which we have an ongoing battle to keep away from our balcony. The wind. The sound of the wind sparks reminiscence and nostalgia. It transports me back to earlier, even childhood, days in Cornwall. It stirs memories of being beside the sea, sitting on a rock watching and listening to the symphony of sounds associated with a beach or harbour, and once more bringing those sounds clear in the mind. Traffic noise. Right now this is a sound very much associated with frustration. Why frustratio...

When I think of the seaside, I think of tranquillity, being beside the sea as calming for the soul, even in the roughest of weather, as it is a place where the elements are constantly changing. The seaside is a place of transitions. Peter Baldwin sums this up well: “The shore marks the border between the solid land and the fluid sea. The seaside is therefore a liminal space - a threshold - where people may move from one element to another” (Baldwin, 2008, p.215) In many ways the seaside has developed steadily, sometimes frantically, following changing societal conditions, and not always as a place of tranquillity. The tendency is to think of the seaside resort as a Victorian phenomenon, but it goes back to Georgian times when it was more a domain of the wealthy/privileged classes. The aristocracy went there for extended periods for the ‘cures’ on offer from the various spas etc., along with the ‘curative’ sea bathing, and all of the ‘rules’ that this entailed. Of course, these resorts...