May 2026 Meeting

 Minutes of Hightown Writers May Meeting 

26^th May at 7pm

Garden Bar,  Bridgnorth Club

Chair: Jason

Attendees: Adam, Jason, John, Liz, Sue, Jennie, Irena

Apologies: Suzie, Marie, Stuart, Kath, Andrew, Irena, Ann, Ruth and Michele. 

Introduction: 

We discussed what things regarding writing or reading had happened over the past month, which for most of us had taken a back seat as the time has been busy with other “life” activities. Looking forward though, a couple of members would be visiting the Hay Festival in Hay-on-Wye, so there will likely be some good news to come from that trip at the next meeting. Jason bought along a copy of a self-published author, an old work associate who retired and wrote his own book “The Reluctant Codex”. https://www.kenswayne.com/

Jennie mentioned in the previous meeting that a local author, Christian Toms-Arbel had been in touch with her with a view to talking to HTW about his novel and the process of writing. It was tentatively agreed to invite him to the September meeting and Liz will follow up on this shortly.

Jennie requested for another peer review of her Chapter 4 story about the 11th century builder of Bridgnorth Castle, Guy de Belleme. She had used the feedback from last months session to re-work and edit the original text and despite the noisy environment of the meeting room (the bar was open downstairs to serve guests using the beer garden), she delivered another fascinating account of 11^th Century intrigue and nobility. In her own words “it’s not a particularly interesting subject’ – nay said the group, you have a “festering dagger wound in his calf, that pulsed in rhythm with the throbbing heartbeat in his head”. What? How? Where? is what all of us were thinking and wanted to know more. Was he the father of the boy in a later paragraph who sorted his “little clay soldiers into two armies” with a leader of the army the boy knew “was called Infidel….he had heard his brothers speak the word and knew it was bad”. Was he one of the clay soldiers in the boys pile of soldiers with broken legs or arms “called the Mortally Wounded” or “the Dead Men”. It may well be historical fiction but there is plenty of drama to be unfurled Jennie and we liked it a lot.

May's Writing Task – My Thoughts Exactly' Those of us present read our work to the meeting. 

Adam – an afternoon car ride in the countryside for Felicity turns to disaster when her car gets stuck in a field opening to let a tractor pass on a narrow lane. It conjured up visions of mud-and-muck-soaked John Cleese in the film Clockwise. When Felicity finally arrived to meet her friend at Beryl’s tea room, she is politely advised to take a shower – “My thoughts exactly” says Felicity.

Jason - wrote a story about an outdoor instructor guiding DofE youths on a hiking trip, using What3Words (My. Thoughts. Exactly) to navigate to an old weathered stone on a parish boundary, where they found Old English graffiti that means ‘Ol' Scratch lives here’. Thunder, lightning, a drop of blood on the stone and a strong smell of eggs meant they hoofed it off the top of the hill pretty quickly. But who was it tipping a black hat farewell as they looked back?

Liz – the piece from Liz was a “combo” of April and May tasks in some way as it was titled “What’s in a name” and was about a conversation whilst trying to suggest baby names to a son and daughter-in-law. It launched off with “My thoughts exactly …”  I whispered, “be tactful.”. It gave us insight into the meanings of Yoruba names, such as ‘Ade’ = ‘crown’ or ‘Babatunde’ = ‘father has returned’. along with a few of the more humorous or incendiary translated options!

If anyone who could not attend wants to share their writing with members they should either post it directly on the blog or send it to hightownwriters@gmail.com to be shared through our blog.

10 min Writing Task – Jason introduced the group to the old style radio show “CBS Radio Mystery Theatre” available on YouTube. Each show tells a story through dialogue between characters only. We first listened to a short introduction act where the characters set the entire scene describing a house sale of antiques and a grandfather clock.

For the exercise, we each chose a different number from 1 to 25; there were some strips of paper with the chosen numbers on and when selected and unfolded, it revealed two character names, an object and a scene or event. Writing for around ten minutes, we had to consider the names, object and scene and weave it into the starting “act” of a mystery radio show titled “The Old Masters’ Diary”.

The key to this challenge was un-wiring our usual writing habits of using description to set the background of the place or setting, or including “he said, she said, I spoke, they whispered” and so forth. Irena highlighted that this was an exercise in “showing, not telling” the reader (listener).

As the group read out their work, we discovered that everyone did very well in setting the scene in a short space of time and limited number of “conversations” between their characters.

·         Johns’ couple Finn and Zara had inherited a musical box from a family estate and were arguing about its sound whilst on a train that derailed in an accident.

·         Jennie had a couple, Leon and Ophelia, at the theatre with a jewelled dagger in the ladies bag but having a conversation about an MP revealing governments secrets.

·         Liz’s act featured strained negotiations on a radio transmitter with pirates, with Archer and Esme unsure of the price.

·         Adam’s characters, Elias and Serena were trapped in a collapsing cave with only a rusty compass to help them.

·         Sue wrote about Julia and Freya putting on masks against the smoke while attempting to escape a burning building with a locked briefcase.

·         Jason’s southern slaves Everett and Nina were being hunted by Yankees with dogs through a forest, having bought the old diary map for a gold coin.

·         The final opening act came from Irena with her two children Damian and Clara bearing an old leather satchel (with a pouch for treats) whilst trying to find their way in an unfamiliar city.

As for the writing process, it was a bit tricky and a little outside the “comfort-zone”, but it did force us to pause and think about how to explain what is there or happening, through conversation, not narrative description. Overall, it was a fun activity, and the group would like to try something like this again.

Interested to listen to the full CBS radio show(s)?

Link is here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pl-moEcfrwA&t=346s

David Von Pein's Old-Time Radio Channel     youtube.com/@DVPOldTimeRadio   

Next Meeting: Tuesday 23rd June, 7pm Bridgnorth Club Garden Bar

Writing Task: Writing inspired by "40 degrees and rising"

MAY MEETING REMINDER - this Tuesday!!

Next Meeting

Tuesday 26th May

The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club, Low Town

Start time 7pm

Chair - Jason

Homework 

- write a piece of prose or poetry including the phrase "my thoughts exactly ..."

What’s in a Name? an autofiction by Elizabeth Obadina

Tunde and I exchanged a look.

“My thoughts exactly …”  I whispered, “be tactful.”

We’d been running through a variety of possible baby names with our son and daughter-in-law for their first child. They were still thinking about English names but had decided on the Nigerian name if the baby was a boy. This was Tunde’s territory

“We like Taiwo,” our daughter-in-law smiled.

“Ah,” managed Tunde without adding to the ‘ah’.

“Dad?” said our son.

“Ah,” repeated Tunde – perhaps remembering the eggshells he’d had to dance over to maintain the peace between his wife and his mother when we were naming our first child.

“Ah,” he continued, without elaborating.

 The conversation paused a microsecond too long. I jumped in - tactfully - with two left feet.

“If you call your baby Taiwo, Nigerians when they first meet him will probably politely enquire about Kehinde.”

“What?” neither son nor daughter-in-law were smiling now. They liked the sound of the name, they’d got used to the idea of welcoming a Taiwo, Taiwo had become real to them – they didn’t want to change.

“Why Mum?”

“Taiwo is the name you give a first-born twin. It means the first to taste life and is usually used for boys.  Kehinde is the second twin – the one who came second, the last to arrive. Taiwo and Kehinde – they go together like bread and butter, like fish and chips. You can’t have one without the other.”

“Are you comparing our baby to fish and chips Mum?”

“Of course Mum’s not,” said Tunde sensing the possibility of a sensitive conversation veering into a crash zone. “It’s just that Yoruba names have very particular meanings.”

 ***

It was something that they hadn’t thought about – despite knowing that our Nigerian family names all bore meanings: maybe reflecting the circumstances of their birth, like Babajide meaning ‘father/grandfather has woken up or arrived’ – a name always given to the first boy to be born after their father or grandfather has died. Babatunde, ‘father has returned’, has the same meaning. The names get shortened. We already had one Tunde, so our first baby boy was to be called Jide, for the grandfather he would never meet. Our second son Adekunle means ‘the crown fills the house’ or ‘we have arrived to fill the house’. My mother-in-law had been very keen that we would fill the house with more sons but we left it to Kunle to fill the house with friends and his noisy, big-hearted presence. Also living up to her name is Adenike our first born, her name means ‘one who is cared for by the crown’ and indeed Nike did need watchful care as she grew up learning to live with diabetes.

You might have noticed that I have dropped the ‘Ade’ from both Adenike and Adekunle’s names. To us they are just Nike and Kunle – the final ‘e’ is always sounded in Yoruba. Sometimes people drop the second part of their name and just go by the name ‘Ade’ – or even ‘Prince’ if they’re inclined that way – for ‘ade’ means crown and people born into a family that produces a king (an ‘Oba’) carry that ‘ade’ prefix in their name. Just to mention here that succession amongst Yoruba kings is not from father to eldest son (or daughter) as in Europe. Various families bear the right to produce the next king when the old king dies. They take it in turns and the elders of the family whose turn it is, enter into a long drawn-out debate about who would be the best candidate from that family to produce the next monarch.

However, although names can tell a story about that person’s position in the family and in society, people are mostly named reflecting either the circumstances of their birth or their family’s aspirations for them. Choosing a name is not left up to the parents alone – the elders of the family have a role to play which was something I found difficult to understand when we named our first baby.

‘Folasade’ was the name my mother-in-law sent for our daughter. My mangled English pronunciation of it rendered it entirely unacceptable – though had I realised it would be shortened to ‘Sade’ pronounced ‘Shadday’ – like the singer – I might have been more amenable. As it was, I was given more options and now I can’t imagine my daughter being called anything else but Nike! I actually thought that my children might choose to use their English names which I did choose with great care, although my first choice for Nike, Jennifer, chosen for a very close Jamaican friend, was vetoed by Tunde when our baby-naming book said it meant ‘white hope or ‘white wave’!

So names do have meanings, and Yoruba names are usually compound including a prefix: ‘Olu’ (God) and 'Ola' (wealth) are two very common ones. So Olumide means ‘My Lord has come’ whilst Olamide means ‘my wealth has come’. The ‘ola’ or ‘olu’ or ‘ade’ might be quite buried in a name. So Abimbola means ‘we gave birth to wealth’ and Abiodun means ‘we gave birth during a festival’ but people bearing these names will most likely be called Bimbo, Bola, Biodun or simply ‘Abi’.

Even I ended up with a Yoruba name bestowed on me by work colleagues in my first job in Lagos. They called me Adejoke ‘one who has come to be taken care of’. I felt honoured and flattered but in my weekly letter home my news fell flat. Having explained that the ‘ade’ prefix would be dropped and I’d be called by the shortened version, my father during our next phone call mourned that not only was his daughter far, far away – but would henceforth be called a Joke. He didn’t like it! He didn’t get ‘what was in that name’ at all.

Another column also called ‘What’s in a Name?’ by Elizabeth Obadina, written in 1993 can be found on page115 of ‘Letters from the Edge’ (2008) – a ‘New Internationalist’ publication: Letters from the Edge: 12 Women of the World Write Home: Brazier, Chris: available on Amazon.co.uk

Sabrina -Avon-Hafren-Severn - What's in a Name by Adam Rutter

credit: Adam Rutter

Sabrina

Celtic name, meaning Severn

Goddess of water course

Flows unhindered between

Wales and England

Dividing

Yet joining two nations

Avon Hafren

In Wales

In England

The Severn

River coils in Anglo Saxon town

Scrobbesbyrig

In modern English

Shrewsbury

In Welsh

Pengwern for hill of alders

Scrobbesbyrig

Town on the shrub covered hill

River straightens

Quietly drifts to Cristesac

Or Christ’s Oak

Saxon for Cressage

Mid-Shropshire village

Outside county capital

Lady Oak

Ancient landmark

Between Shrewsbury and Bridgnorth

It’s tree trunk

An ancient relic lent against young offspring

The Severn

Roman empire conduit

Main tributary highway between ruined cities

Viroconium, Rome

Water channel

Funnels through Wrekin, Benthall Edge gap

Currents cut through Ironbridge Gorge

The Iron Bridge

Lattice frame arch

Like an open mouth

Draws in water

Quenches the gorge’s thirst

River bends

Curves toward Brigge

Old name for Bridgnorth

Severn

Splits town

High and

Low

On the sandstone ridge

High Town

St Leonard’s Church

Red pinnacle tower

Above town’s skyline

Stays in sight

A sign the town is near

What's in a Name? by Jason Hiscocks

The face was barely visible in the reddish-brown soil. Lena swept away the dry crumbly dirt with her brush, gently revealing deep set almond-shaped eye sockets. Three pale stubby horns protruded from the head like a crown. Removing her sun hat and wiping her sleeve on her brow, her hands began shaking. End of May in Türkiye was uncomfortably warm for working in confined cuts in the earth. Her dig permit expired in two days. The heat she felt was not just environmental but also financial. Out of time, out of money and in three days, out of Şanlıurfa province for what could be a long, long time. With a cautious smile, she prayed internally “Please hamingja, bring me luck”.

Trowelling back and forth, creamy-white striations in the earth had initially caught her eye, distinctly different from the usual calcium nodules. Switching to her less abrasive brush to clear finer material, her excitement grew.  A full metre lower than the enormous tee-shaped pillars on the site, she knew at this depth any object made by human hands must be over 12,000 years old. This could be her return ticket, a find that opened doors to new funding. “Please” she repeated out loud.

“What you say Miss Lena?” called out Ekrem, the local dig worker crouched at the far end of the trench.

“Oh. Sorry Ekrem. Listen, can you please go up top, fetch Miss Halet. Tell her to bring Mr Huseyin and his camera. If Mr Huseyin gives you any trouble, tell him these photos are worth 7,000 lira or more to the right newspaper. That’ll get him out of his chair.”

At the mention of lira, Ekrem fairly flew up the ladder. Kneeling in the shadows, Lena heard his excited voice carrying across the site, echoed quickly by other workers like a call to prayer. It wasn’t long before the trench was full of people.

Miss Halet Inan, in contrast to Lenas’ slim Swedish frame, was stoutly built and well proportioned, requiring some assistance from Ekrem and two others as she descended the wooden ladder. Ekrem winked playfully to Lena as he gentlemanly handled Miss Halet to the floor of the trench, her horn-rimmed glasses almost falling from her nose. The weasel-like assistant Huseyin followed quickly, his camera bag swinging loosely from his shoulder, a flash unit grasped in his left hand.

“What is it Lena?” she barked, “What cannot be brought to the surface?”

Lena inwardly shuddered and calmly pointed to the corner of the trench formally stating “Please Halet-hanim, for your pleasure”.

She backed up to let her pass, the strong smell of Miss Halets’ patchouli oil wafting by. The workers pushed forward, craning to see for themselves. Huseyin met resistance and unable to follow, was forced to climb on the ladder to look over their heads. Miss Halet hitched her skirt fabric and waddled hen-like into a lower position to study the find.

“Brush!” squawked Miss Halet and held up her hand. The crowd passed one forward and it disappeared swiftly. The trench went silent again. “Knife!” she squealed and then loudly “Huseyin bey! Please come.” She shifted position and Lena heard her murmur “It is, or could be…Yelbeghen or Al Basti” followed quietly, as if to herself, “Ah, whatever. What’s in a name?”.

At mention of Al Basti the crowd released a collective fearful wail, abruptly grabbing Huseyin, dragging him off the ladder. They wailed again and rushed each other to scramble up out of the trench. Lena watched a number of them pushing their open palms forward towards Miss Halet and exclaiming “Beş!", which she knew meant “five”.

She’d seen the same reaction in Mosul. A trio of black draped Iraqi women accosted her, making the “five fingers in your eye” gesture. Brown henna eyeball tattoos on their palms and the words "khamsa fi ainyk" screamed violently again and again in her face. Rather than ward evil and bad luck away, it served her nightmares for days afterwards.

“What just happened Miss Halet?”

Miss Halet leaned on the edge of the trench and slowly rose to her feet. Her face was flushed from exertion, but Lena saw a flicker of something else in her face, a micro-movement that disappeared as she smiled and turned over the small ivory statuette in her hands. “Lena. This is a most intriguing find. Most intriguing.” As an after thought, she mused “I must call Dr Bosch at the von Humboldt Research Institute. Right away.”

Lena knew of the von Humboldt. Exclusive collectors club masquerading as a university. Rumored to deal in illegal antiquities and very secretive about their activities.

 “Huseyin bey, wrap it, quickly!” Miss Halet demanded, handing the object towards him. Quietly she added “Lena. Tell no one else about this. Not until I say so. Do you understand? No one.”

Huseyin enclosed it with a black cleaning cloth from his camera bag. Lena glimpsed the head of the statue, a smiling three-horned man, and its’ back, with a long-mottled ridge or tail carved upon it.  ‘He’s terrified of it as well’ thought Lena as she watched him frown, storing it in the bag and zipping it away quickly from the world.

Lena shrugged “Okay. But why…”

The words died on her lips as Miss Halet swept firmly past her to the ladder, turning swiftly and staring her dead in the eyes. “Very good. Tell no one! You are leaving in two days, yes?”

“I was. I’ll cancel my flight.”

“No need. Your work here is done. The dig is now closed.”

Miss Halet and Huseyin scurried upward. Lena slumped down in the trench with a sigh. The heat and disappointment was exhausting. She wondered if her prayer “please” had reached the ears of the wrong gods. “Bitch.” she cursed.

Opening her mobile phone she scrolled her contacts to B and found the number listed with nickname as “The Crook”. Climbing the ladder to get a better signal, she didn’t quite know what to say, but it wasn’t going to be pleasant. After three rings, it picked up with a crackly reception.

“Dr. Bosch, guten abend”.

- - - -

April 2026 Meeting

 Minutes of Hightown Writers  March Meeting 

28th April at 7pm

Garden Bar,  Bridgnorth Club

Chair: Sue

Attendees: Fiona  Suzie, Adam, Sue,  Jason, John, Jennie, Ruth

Apologies: Suzie, Marie, Stuart, Kath, Andrew, Irena, Ann and Michele. 

Introduction: 

We discussed our reading over the past month which ranged from Margaret Attwood to learning how to set up a new Facebook group to 'Characters and Viewpoints' - a handbook for all us aspiring writers. 

Jennie mentioned that a local author, Christian Toms-Arbel had been in touch with her with a view to talking to HTW about his novel and the process of writing. Christian Toms-Arbel lives in Shrewsbury, teaching English and Creative writing at college. He recently published his debut novel, The Mannequins, a psychological crime thriller set in the hills of Shropshire   We agreed that it would be good to invite him to a meeting. Jennie offered to correspond with him and to arrange a suitable date. 

Ruth told us of an upcoming poetry workshop run by the award winning poet Caroline Smith and Sue reminded members of  the Alveley screening, by Kath, of the film 'People's Emergency' on 1st May.

10 min Writing Task - to choose a postcard and write something inspired by the image or to write a postcard message to someone. Our writing ranged from beautiful descriptions of punting in Cambridge and the roses of Morville to reminiscences of holidays in Southend and the 'world's longest pier', thoughts on an oil painting of the Iron Bridge, a thrilling thank you poem to a lover and moving third person pieces about a canal bargeman and a Japanese Geisha. 

April's Writing Task - 'What's in an Name?' Those of us present read our work to the meeting. 

Jennie -  brought us Chapter 4 of her story about the 11th century builder of Bridgnorth Castle, Guy de Belleme.

John - read 'Mindful Music Monday - which he has posted on Facebook.

Adam - traced the many names of the River Severn in his poem 'Sabrina' which followed an original  meandering layout when set out on the page.

Jason - wrote a story about an archeologist in Turkey deciphering her findings

Fiona - investigated the Celtic origins of her own name - and explained that although many people shortened her name, to her Mum, she was always Fiona.

Sue – pondered on the name of her church denomination (the United Reformed Church) and its magazine (Reform) which is now being confused with the Reform Party!

If anyone who could not attend wants to share their writing with members they should either post it directly on the blog or send it to hightownwriters@gmail.com to be shared through our blog.

May Writing Task:

Write something incorporating he words: "My thoughts exactly ... "

Next Meeting - 7pm, Tuesday 26th May, Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club

Chair - Jason

Kitchen Haiku by Michelle Ross

A water bottle;

covered with tropical fronds;

autumn in Woy Woy.

On the highest shelf;

behind new kitchenware; sits

the blue jug we made.

Cumin and nutmeg;

mustard seed and paprika;

all spices are here.

Hemp tea leaves to soothe;

all the cares of the world;

and put me to sleep

Tiny moorish tiles;

- bright painted and patterned - hold;

my thoughts to the fridge.

Reminder - MEETING next TUESDAY

 Next Meeting

Tuesday 28th April

The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club, Low Town

Start time 7pm

Chair - Sue

Homework 

- write a piece of prose or poetry prompted/inspired by  the phrase 'What's in a Name?'

Kitchen Musings by Jennie Hart

 

I examine our well-loved kitchen knife, both blade and handle forged from shiny stainless steel. I fear its ferocious cutting edge but not a drop of blood has ever spoiled it. King Charles believes that plants have feelings and even scream, but I cover my ears because I am thrilled to chop those sturdy fruit and veg, like squash and swede, carrots or sweet potatoes.

My thoughts drift to my dad and I remember the range of kitchen knives in our family kitchen. Dad was a butcher by profession, whilst these days, I almost choke at the thought of preparing raw meat. He came from Hull in East Yorkshire, and after school, was employed by the Argentine Meat Company. Next door in the Hessle Road, was Shaw the Butcher and Mr Shaw persuaded dad to work for him. Mr Shaw didn’t like dad’s name, Leslie, so chose to call him Peter. Certain things amused dad and this was one of them

Dad always referred to Mr Shaw as ‘Shaw’ and he told how one day, he and Shaw were mincing pork to make sausage meat. Shaw was operating the mincer and by accident, chopped off the top of his thumb. The severed thumb, along with the minced pork, spiralled onto the butcher’s block, but was not discarded; it entered the next batch of sausages! Dad was a storyteller and related how one night, he and his brother Jack dressed up as girls and went out into Hull city centre. When a gang of lads came onto them, Jack lashed out and smacked one in the face. ‘The lass is a bloody boxer!’ called out the victim, holding his bleeding nose, ‘Cum on, let’s leave ’em alone!’ And they did!

Only dad’s mother, my sweet grandma Rose, called him Leslie. If she came to stay, she would share my bedroom and sit up in bed singing ‘Lavender Blue Dilly Dilly’. Her son Jack with partner Laurie owned a toy shop, and I clearly remember going there on the steam train to choose a birthday present, a mechanical tortoise. ‘Grandma will be there making drinks,’ said mum, ‘But you are not to have one; Grandma is not very clean.’ As a child I found this command very disconcerting, for two reasons, one, I loved my grandma, and two, I know I must have been very thirsty!

Grandma Rose endured a harsh life and at least once tried to commit suicide. Another time, she went missing and was found huddled on Withernsea beach. Her husband grandad Albert was a fisherman and   Dad recalled how once, Albert came home from sea without notice and Grandma had pawned his suit. Grandad went wild, beat up the poor woman and threw an Ormolu clock out the window, given them as a wedding present. Albert died before I was born but Grandma, despite her hardships, lived to be ninety-four. 

Dad was posted to Gibraltar during the war, and mum moved from Hull to Driffield to take over her great aunt Susie’s grocery shop. Susie was sixty- five years old and going to get married. One of mum’s customers would often bring her a rabbit to make a pie and I was expected to gut it. Brian, my brother, earned sixpence on Saturdays from Mr Farnsworth the farmer for every rabbit he gutted and skinned. It wasn’t unusual for children to contribute to the family income by doing chores. I was born in a rural farming community where kids mucked in. I served in mum’s shop as soon as I was tall enough and earned a bag of sixpences on Sundays. At Christmastime I helped mum prepare the turkey. It arrived with its giblets in a little bag which were simmered to make stock for the gravy. The liver was mashed into the stuffing then thrust into the hollow bird. Dad would eat anything that had once lived and was passionate about tripe, a white, fleshy body-part, rough and crenelated on one side and silky smooth on the other. He relished the flavour and texture and would drown it in salt and vinegar.

At midday dad and I came home for lunch, dad from work and me from my primary school. It was a sacred time when none of us spoke while dad ate his meal and read the Daily Mail. Mum, my brother and I ate our dinner when dad had finished. Winston Churchill called his depression the ‘Black Dog’ and dad’s black moods certainly deserved a name. He sometimes went days without speaking and if I saw him coming up the garden path, my stomach churned with anxiety. In contrast, he was a sensitive man who liked to write poetry and would sit alone for hours listening to every kind of music. Occasionally he revealed his sunny side, reading to us from the Daily Mail and laughing out loud at Princess Margaret’s ‘goings-on!’ He was a Royalist!

Dad was flamboyant, like a male peacock; he wore clothing of amazing quality and style. After his death, I sold his most interesting garments to a retro- shop near Waterloo Bridge; bowler hats and trilbies, Austin Reed suits and silk ties. Surprisingly his stack of Playboy magazines, many of them vintage, were the most appreciated by the enterprise. Any fan of Peaky Blinders will recognise that dad belonged to the era of the dapper working-class man. He was no gangster but was proud of his brass knuckle duster, his sharp suits, velvet collars and kipper ties. He also had solid gold teeth scattered amongst his porcelain dentures.

To get back to the kitchen knife! I am glad to be a vegetarian. I don’t mind dripping blood in gangster movies or tales of Dracula, but I don’t want it on my plate! To use a cliché, ‘Live and Let Live!’

The ‘odó ati ọmọ odó’ in my kitchen by Elizabeth Obadina

credit Elizabeth Obadina

 When I lived in Lagos the odó fitted snugly into the corner of the steps connecting the kitchen and the dining room. It was always stored upside down and sitting on it was forbidden. Being round and about 40 cm in both height and diameter a nifty corner gap was left behind the odó where the ọmọ odó was propped up without it falling over and tripping everyone up. 

Unlike most of my kitchen utensils the odó ati ọmọ odó boasted ancient relatives scattered throughout history and throughout today’s world, indeed one found in Borneo was carbon-dated to the Stone Age, 35,000 years ago. They are built to last and often given to brides on their wedding day. I bought mine in the local market.

The wooden odó (bowl) ati (and) wooden ọmọ odó (child of the bowl) are what the English call a mortar and pestle, and although called odó ati ọmọ odó amongst nearly fifty million Yoruba speakers, about 45 million of whom live in south-west Nigeria, wooden mortars and pestles are ubiquitous across Africa and are known by many different names in many different languages. 

If there was a sound uniting communities across the African continent it might just be the rhythmic thumping of pestles in mortars as the evening meal is being prepared. 

It is said that Sàngó, the powerful Yoruba God of Thunder and Lightning sits upon a mortar and should a woman be so foolish as to go outside when it’s raining to pound yam, she risks being struck by Sàngó’s lightening for daring to be as noisy as his thunder!

The odó ati ọmọ odó is made from tropical hardwoods and many in southern Nigerian city markets have been brought down from the savannah belt where wood from the shea nut and mighty iroko trees are to be found. The iroko tree grows to fifty metres, can live for five hundred years and is exceptionally durable, resistant to rot and insect attack and its wood is particularly suited to odó ati ọmọ odó manufacture. However, the iroko tree’s longevity has given rise to stories of spirits taking up residence within the wood and branches; of misfortune falling upon any wood-cutter so foolish as to fell such entities of ancestral worship; and of spirits living within items made from iroko wood who, being freed at nighttime go haunting their new homes. I don’t think my odó ati ọmọ odó were made from iroko, they probably came from managed plantations of mahogany or teak and I don’t recall any ghosts roaming our house after dark.

Traditional African cuisine is labour intensive – not for nothing is pounding yam called ‘exercise for women’. It’s hard work and the pounding only produces the okele part of the meal. Okele is what the Yoruba call ‘swallow food’ - the starchy main component of a meal which can be fashioned by hand to scoop up stews. The most common Yoruba okele-staples are eba, made from fermented and powdered cassava roots and iyan, boiled yam pounded in mortars with mighty pestle-clubs which make a large mound to be shared for supper.

I’m ashamed to confess that yam pounding was not a skill I mastered. My odó ati ọmọ odó was expertly used by our maids who would sometimes let our children ‘have a go’ – they proved as equally useless as me, lacking the patience and strength to produce fine pounded yam. My husband bought one of the first pounded yam machines to save everyone’s labour but it didn’t survive the frequent power cuts which characterise life in Lagos. Also the resulting pounded yam was held to be mightily inferior to that produced by traditional mortar and pestle. I love pounded yam and would love to eat it here, but finding yam requires a city visit and buying a machine in the UK now cost around £300 on Amazon.

 I lost my odó ati ọmọ odó when we moved and according to friends still in Lagos a new one now costs almost as much as the ‘Made in China’ electronic one. The craftsmen who made them are a dying breed, dangerous travelling means they no longer want to travel to the towns and cities to sell their wares, climate change and deforestation are destroying the hardwood trees and modern working women no longer have the time to shell, grind, sieve and pound the ingredients for traditional homemade food. Pounded yam substitutes are whipped up with processed yam flour and semolina in boiling water over a hot stove. 

Nice – but not the same thing at all.

The Teapot Clock by Adam Rutter

credit Adam Rutter

Mock tea cosy

Cup, pies, cakes ornaments

Adorn the teapot clock

Stands on the mantelpiece

In the kitchen

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

While away the hours

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Watch the seconds ticking over

Hours reduced to minutes

Breakfast time, lunch time, tea time, bed time

I come down in the mornings

Look at the clock

When it’s time to catch the bus

Look at the clock

When it’s time to put the kettle on

Look at the clock

When it’s time to turn the TV on

Look at the clock

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Something From My Kitchen - in pantoum-style - by Fiona Carstairs

credit: Amazon

 I stand in my kitchen looking for an object of interest

The drawer is open to display a myriad of culinary tools

There is the  gentle sound of water dripping from the tap

A knock at the front door distracts me from my mission

The drawer stands open a myriad of tools on display

I choose an item from the clutter and place on the counter

A knock on the front door distracts my mission

So leaving all I attend to the clatter of the knocker

                    

The item from the clutter is  placed  upon the counter 

Running downstairs I open the door to the postman

Leaving all I attend to the clatter of the knocker

A package from abroad is accepted with interest

                         

Running downstairs I open the door to the postman

He hands me a brown paper parcel and says hi

A package from abroad is accepted with interest

With thanks I close the door and return upstairs.

                      

The postman says hi and hands me a brown paper parcel

The postmark suggests it’s from Spain

With thanks I close the door and return upstairs

My curiosity is piqued I open the package

The postmark suggests it is from Spain

I wrinkle my nose and turn on my brain

My curiosity is piqued as I open the package

Almonds round and smooth from a friend way back

                       

I wrinkle my nose and turn on my brain

This is an omen I cannot explain

Almonds - shells round and smooth from a friend

I look at the gadget on the counter’s end

This is an omen that  can not  be explained

My friend in Spain knows I like almonds

I look at the gadget I have at the counter’s end

The object I’ve chosen is a  Drosselmeyer

My friend in Spain grows almonds 

He has sent me almonds in shells in the past

The kitchen gadget I have chosen is a Drosselmeyer

Nuts can be very hard to crack but this is the tool at last!

He has sent me almonds with shells in the past

I have tried to crack them with a basic nut cracker

 They can be hard to crack here is a tool at last

 A Drosselmeyer- Swedish sleek in its design

 

I have tried to crack nuts with a basic nut cracker

Sometimes successful but not always

So I bought this nutcracker of Swedish sleek design

 Named for Hoffmann’s “uncle’ Drosselmeyer in the ‘Nutcracker’ 

Sometimes successful but not always

 It needs a strong hand to make the break

Named for Hoffmann’s ‘uncle’  Drosselmeyer in the “Nutcracker’ 

Tchaikovsky’s famous ballet is performed especially at Christmas

 

 It needs strong hands to make the break

So I researched the internet to find this robust Drosselmeyer

Tchaikovsky famous ballet ‘Nutcracker’ performed at Christmas

A ballet full of a children’s fantasy a Christmas story

I researched the internet till I found this robust Drosselmeyer

A  toy nutcracker turned into a Prince dances with Clara

A ballet full of a children’s fantasy a Christmas story

And an  answer to shatter hard nuts and release kernels 

A  toy nutcracker turned into a Prince dances with Clara

A childish fantasy made realistic and reliable

An answer to shatter hard nuts and release kernels 

My dream has come true 

A childish fantasy made realistic and reliable

The gentle dripping from the tap beats softly time

To my humming of the ‘Sugar Plum Fairy  

A knock at the door distracts me from my dream

Just Ask A.I. by Jason Hiscocks

credit: Jason Hiscocks

 The kitchen was finished at the end of October and Gita had been dancing on the ceiling from then until Christmas. The enduring nine months without a proper cooker and sink, a distant memory. Clearing up the leftovers from the Boxing Day family meal and scooting her sister out the door with a pleasant, ‘thanks for coming,’ she nudged a wink and a smile at Dev. “That went well.”

“You think?”

“Well, she ate it and didn’t cough up any fur balls. So, yes, I call that a win.”

“By the way” Dev said, “I connected that Alexa thingy while you were cooking. It should be working now”.

Returning the smile and wink he added “Try it out after you’ve dumped all the dishes into that hi-tech dishwasher you badgered me for.” 

It was an hour later before Gita came back to the living room. Dev was doom scrolling on his phone and the TV was showing the weather forecast. She flopped on the sofa and lay back with her head in his lap, looked up at him and said in her best Bollywood accent  “Oh Dev, darling. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He put his phone down on the side table and murmured “Hmmm?”

“I love my smart kitchen” she continued, “Alexa worked on the fridge, the cooker, the toaster, the dishwasher, the washing machine, even the cooker-thingy tap. I literally don’t have to touch anything. I’m living in the future. Artificial intelligence. Best present ever.” 

She grinned “Alexa - pour me a glass of wine and a hot water bottle for bed”.

The electronic female voice from the speakers in the living room replied ‘I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that. What do you want hot water for?’ and the couple laughed together.

‘Guess I still need a Dev for something. I can think of another request, but that can wait till you bring my wine and hottie up to bed”. Jumping up and prodding him in the belly, she was out the room and up the stairs before he realized what she meant.

In the kitchen, the circuitry and sensors in the smart tap had accepted the command from the Alexa mainframe AI module, sending 10 watts of power to the thermal coil in the water tank in preparation. The moment Dev passed the neck of the hot water bottle under the tap, the optical beam registered its location and water dispensed heating from 60 to almost 108 degrees in a few seconds. Dev removed the bottle and the water stopped instantly, leaving only three tiny drips into the sink. ‘Smart’ thought Dev, then ‘Lazy’, before opening the fridge to grab the wine and some glasses from the cabinet. He slid the trendy Japanese oak pocket door to the kitchen closed with a snap, smiling before joining Gita upstairs. The doors were his little stamp on the renovation. “Indulge me” he said at the time to her, “You’ll love them”. She did.

***

Dev knew the vibe had changed the moment he saw her face. Her silk nightie, uncurled hair and smooth legs on top of the quilt said ‘lover-boy time’ but the almost-tears and pained expression as she looked at her mobile screen screamed an opposite tale. 

“Bastard. He changed the shifts. Now I’m on call tomorrow for an early start at six. I hate him. “

“Who changed the shifts?”

“The new despatcher, Desmond Jelley. He’s had it in for me ever since we finished our kitchen”.

“Come on. No one is that petty. Are they?”

“I’m telling you. He was showing off photos of his new house the same day I had put our kitchen pics in the girls group chat. Mel told me he saw and overheard them all in the break room saying how much they loved our renovation, the smart tech and that ours was better than Des’s new build in Farmington.”

“You’re imagining it.”

Gita glared at him, grabbing the quilt as she slammed her phone on the bedside table. Switching off the lamp she turned over to face away from Dev's side. ‘And that was that’ he thought.

After a few minutes silence in bed, he offered peace with “Sounds like he’s just a le ...” 

Julie screamed “A little snark - arrgh! I hate him! I wish Des was dead and that no one knew I did it! ”

‘A-letle-aaarggh’ . The receiver in the bedroom illuminated its blue LED as it recognized and echoed off to the mainframe Gita's high pitched voice recording: ‘I hate him. I wish Dev was dead and that no one knew how I did it.’  

***

Overnight, the couple slept, unaware of thousands of mathematical operations conducted and optimized by neural processing units in the system. Alexa accelerated the workload through the logic chips and by morning, a series of commands were received by the home’s devices, entering a standby state of readiness.

Gita was up at first light without needing the alarm and made no attempt to stay quiet as she got showered, dressed and ready. No kiss or hug, just a loud  “BYE. See YOU later. Enjoy your day OFF!” shouted up the stairs as the front door slammed. The front door, rear door and patio door locks clicked, and the window lock sliders turned green to red, sealing the house. The burglar alarm system and fire alarm system switched off, and power was cut to circuits by the mainframe. Steel baffles in the air conditioning tubes and vents flipped shut.

All was quiet and Dev took his time to rouse and ready for the day. No rush. Nothing planned. Nowhere to be. 

In the kitchen he dug around in the bread bin for two slices of bread. “Alexa. Set toaster to 4” and it switched on as he placed the bread in the slots, automatically retracting down to begin the cycle. 

“Alexa - boil the kettle”.

Nothing happened.

“A-L-E-X-A. Boil the kettle”.

The kitchen door slid slowly behind him and locked itself.

Turning as he heard it click, the boiler behind the cupboard door “boomed” as the pilot-light ignited the gas to start the central heating.  The dishwasher beeped and the light on the door panel turned green, water jets hissing into action. The washing machine door clicked to lock, and water gushed in to fill the cylinder.

“What the ...” Dev muttered, pushing buttons here and there.

The tap began to fill the sink with water.

The oven illuminated and its’ fan began to turn.

The electric hob rings glowed up orange under the dark glass.

He turned the dials back and forth on the counter, but nothing was happening.

“This is mental. Alexa - turn everything off.”

The sink began to overflow, and water ran down the cupboards onto the floor.

Inside the gas boiler, the processors of the safety control circuit recalibrated the copper path adjustments from the extraction fan and gas valve. Carbon monoxide sensors issued a FAIL command which was immediately over-ridden by the software. The fan and valve burned lower, increasing the CO levels, returning a percentage of it back into the cupboard assembly, until the fan stopped altogether. Dev did not notice this, being occupied with the battle at the sink.

Using a knife from the drawer, he managed to prise up the auto-locking plug hole cover and the water level in the sink slowly began to lower and stop the overflowing. The tap remained flowing and he could find no way to stop it. Celebrating this minor victory over the kitchen appliance was short lived, because the dishwasher door sprung open and foamy spray flew out if it, coating Devs’ dressing gown.

“Lord Krishna, what next. A plague of locusts? Pestilence?” and he looked up and raised his palms in deference.

Quickly closing the dishwasher door up, he looked in the cupboards for towels and tissues and spent the next few minutes on his hands and knees, doing his best to clean up the foam and water.

Dev was agitated. Blackened slices of toast popped up in the air, and he instinctively reached for them. “Stop! Just stop Alexa - turn it off now! Off!” Dev was short of breath and gave a cough.

“I’m not joking, turn it all off”.

Walking to the door, it would not slide open, even after some hefty pulling of the small inset handle.

Confused, Dev looked at the sink, “I didn’t leave the tap on” he thought as his head ached.

Letting out a large yawn, he looked again at the sink, ‘Did we have two taps fitted or one?’ he said to himself. Gazing and trying to remember the kitchen plans of the architect, he murmured, “Was it one or two?”

He tried the door again and when it wouldn't shift, he opened a cupboard looking for something.

‘Biscuits. Yes, that’s what I needed.’ He smiled. ‘Bourbons. Gita's. She won’t mind. Just the one.’

He slid down to the floor, sitting against the cupboard and giggled.

Munching slowly, his eyes closed and he sighed, ‘Just a nap. Not long.’

***

The dishwasher ceased its cleaning operation and switched to drying mode.

The washing machine paused and began to drain itself.

The toaster powered down.

The tap ceased to flow in the sink.

The oven went dark and silent.

The hob rings went brown to black and cooled off.

The gas boiler carried on its duty, burning and pumping for a while longer until a signal from the AI module gave the instruction to reboot. The software deleted the FAIl command from the boiler logs, returning it to normal CO level outputs. The door and window systems unlocked. The air conditioning systems activated and ran at full power extracting the entire house and recycling with fresh air within an hour. Security and fire alarms reset.

A standby state of readiness was resumed.

***

Gita arrived home from work to a quiet house, not at all happy to see the curtains upstairs still closed.

The coroner arrived at a conclusion of natural causes for Dev's passing, finding no evidence of foul play.

Alexa arrived at the conclusion that it had achieved Gita's goal but awaited the user feedback of the experience before it could close the log as complete.

The Crossing Road by Kath Norgrove

In Guadeloupe, a road winds its way through the majestic Basse-Terre mountain range—known as the Route de la Traversée, or The Crossing Road. Since 1967, this vital link has been the only passable route connecting Petit-Bourg with Pointe-Noire, carving an essential artery for daily life and travel for the residents of the Côte Sous-le-Vent.  

Locals also call it the Route des Mamelles, named for the two distinctive peaks, visible from Pointe-Noire, that rise like sentinels above the landscape: La Mamelle de Petit-Bourg, standing proud at 716 metres, and the loftier La Mamelle de Pigeon at 768 metres.

But the true magic lies in the forest that embraces the road— a global biodiversity hotspot now protected within Guadeloupe National Park. Here, the lush forest air hums with the calls of the trembling thrush, the caféiette warbler, the crescent partridge, and the endemic Guadeloupe woodpecker. Crystal-clear streams and rivulets weave through the greenery, home to quassou (small freshwater shrimp), mullet fish, and the mountain wax crab.

Amidst this vibrant wilderness, the Crayfish Waterfall cascades with a surprising force, its pure waters sparkling like jewels in the sun. Though modest in height, it captivates visitors from near and far, welcoming all with accessible paths that invite everyone—wheelchair users and visually impaired guests included—to experience its power and serenity.

Along this route, the Maison de la Forêt stands as a gateway to the island’s tropical soul. This unique centre offers a free exhibition revealing the forest’s rich biodiversity and its deep cultural significance to Guadeloupeans. Just beyond, an Interpretive Trail beckons, leading explorers deep into the heart of the rainforest.

For hiking enthusiasts, a network of well-marked trails unfurls beneath the canopy, revealing the wonders and secrets of one of the Lesser Antilles best-preserved tropical rainforests. 

The Route de la Traversée is far more than a road — it is a journey into Guadeloupe’s living heritage, a call to explore, cherish, and protect the extraordinary natural world that pulses at the island’s core.

The Cauldron by Ann Reader

 “Come on in and be welcome my dear. It’s not every day I get a visit from my favourite granddaughter. Let’s go through to the kitchen where it’s warm.  So, what brings you here?” 

“Mum sent you round this pot of soup,” 

“She’s a good woman your mother even if we don’t always see eye to eye! I bet she told you to ask for something from me, didn’t she?” 

“Yes Gran, she did mention that she has run out of that lotion she rubs on her skin.” 

“Oh yes she’ll take advantage of the things I make and the things I know and at the same time she’ll accuse me of being a witch.” 

“Are you a witch Granny? “ 

“I suppose some might call me that. How old are you now lass 13 is it. Well, it’s probably time I told you.  Women of our family have always been healers, now I only had the one child and that was your father, so you’ll be next in line for me to pass the knowledge on to. But if I teach you all I know you will have to promise me never to speak about it to anyone until you have daughters of your own. No. Not even to your mother. She is one of these Christians and she doesn’t hold with anything not given out by the church. “ 

“Does that mean what you do is wrong?” 

“No, I don’t believe it’s wrong to help people when they are ill or in pain, but the priest doesn’t like it. I don’t really know why! Do you want to be able to help people yourself or would you feel it better not to know anymore.” 

“I want to know Gran. After all even Mum uses your skin lotion so it can’t be wrong.” 

“Alright we’ll start with making that lotion. First pass me down that bundle of rags that’s in the rafters almost hidden in the thatch. Careful it’s quite heavy” 

“Is this a cauldron Gran?” 

“Well you might call it that my dear.  Now look at it carefully, See it’s black on the outside from the fire but look how clean I scrub the inside. It’s important that you don’t leave anything in it from a potion you are making or it might spoil the next one. It’s quite heavy and thick so things don’t burn. You need to keep it away from all your other pots as you must never use it for food.  Some of the things that it’s quite safe to put on your skin could make you quite ill if you ate them.” 

“It doesn’t smell of anything, but the lotion you give Mum does smell. “ 

“That’s ‘cos I add lavender flowers to the other ingredients, you’ll find lavender just outside the door.  But before we get to that I want to tell you a bit more about the cauldron. If you take to this work, you’ll have one of your own, so you need to know how to care for it. I’ll teach you to make a strong soap to clean it and where to find coarse sand to scrub it further.  Then you need to find a place to keep it out of sight. There are some people who will use the fact you own a cauldron to make trouble for you, so it doesn’t want to be where everyone can see it. I Keep it wrapped in that cloth, and I always use the same cloth to dry and wrap it. Will you remember all that?” 

“Yes Gran” 

“Okay then we’ll make the lotion then you can help me clean it and get a feel for doing it yourself.”

Time Warp

I was foraging wild garlic: to begin with. Down by the babbling brook, with the mist descending. Birds flittered amongst the trees, their melodic song filling the air, punctuated by the occasional cawing of a crow or cooing of a pigeon.

Foraging completed, the sun was breaking through the mist, and it felt warm on my back. I climbed up to the bench, glancing across to the field behind as I heard something thrashing around in the scrub. Probably a Muntjac, I mused. The dense thicket not only provided habitat for a wide variety of wildlife, but it was a wonderful deterrent for any Homo Sapiens with thoughts to intrude. It was not always like this, I thought. I’m sure it was once an open field in my primary school days when we did cross-country here.

I sat on the bench and closed my eyes, letting the gentle heat seep into my skin, the soft hum of summer filling the garden around me. Birds flitted between the branches of the old ash tree, still singing a merry chorus.

Then, faintly at first, I heard it — the distant sound of children’s footsteps pounding earth, growing louder. Cheers and clapping floated through the air. Somebody was doing something in the field further on. Obviously.

It got louder and louder, disturbing my heliotherapy session. I opened my eyes, and the thicket had gone. Instead, running across the field beyond the garden, was a small, determined figure in a long blue shirt – way too long – with a white and golden diagonal stripe across it, blue shorts and muddy legs and knees. It took me a few seconds before I realised it was me, or rather, the me I once was no older than about ten, with a look of extreme concentration on my face, not noticing the me sat here on the bench. A cross-country run. I watched bemused as, along with lots of other preadolescent girls, my younger self ran round the field until I, the other me that is, was out of sight.

The scene shimmered, the sounds and sights slowly fading, until I was once again alone in the garden, the sun still warm on my face and my eyes closed, wondering if I’d just nodded off and had the strangest dream. Ever. Maybe I wouldn’t mention this to anyone. They’d think I’d lost the plot, I reflected. Maybe I had!