A Selection of Work
A Selection of Work from U3A Creative Writing Group
A Day at the Races. A Rant from Graham Witherick
If one wanted to sum up the workings of the City of London as the major financial centre of the world in a phrase it would be ‘It succeeds despite itself’.
Over paid people with large egos and expense accounts to match feel that they are entitled to the rewards they receive by virtue of the vast sums of money they move around. One aspect of their world which plays to the illusion that they are the masters of the universe is the field of corporate entertainment. I can say this because for 13 crazy years I lived in that world, was swept up into the myth that we were special, invincible.
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A Walk on the Beach by Michael Chissick
Desmond was an unusual name, even in the sixties. Of course, there was Desmond Morris the zoologist, Desmond Carrington the square headed actor from Emergency Ward 10 and apart from Desmond Tutu - who was neither a zoologist nor an actor and whose head was oval shaped - that was it. Whether the Head of the French Department, of the North London Grammar School, Mr Dez Ball, was actually a ‘Desmond’ was questionable. Frankly, whether Dez was his real name, anyway, equally questionable. It is entirely possible that it was a name that he chose for himself. After all he had trained French Canadian Commandoes in the war.
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The New Shoes by Mary Smith
School was over for another day! I enjoyed the walk from there to the train station. It was a relief to be free of study for a while, although my heavy satchel reminded me that I had plenty of homework to face in the evening. But it was good to be able to wander in a carefree way with a friend or two. We would try out various routes to the town centre and then onto Station Road. Often, we would go into Woolworths through its back entrance and take our time looking at the various counters before coming out of the main front door. If we were reasonably quick, we had time to look in a few shop windows without missing our train.
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The Dream, A Poem by Sandra Witherick
I dreamed of a world that was perfect
Where nothing bad ever occurred
Where harsh words never were spoken
And only kind ones were heard.
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The Parcel, a Poem by Sandra Witherick
In a road there lived a woman of eighty years or so
No one ever called on her or knocked to say hello.
She felt so very lonely and then one rainy day
A knock came, and a voice said
“Your neighbours are away.
“Will you take this parcel please?
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A Memorable Journey by David Johnson
Memory is strange; it is an obvious cliché, the source of many jokes, both good and feeble, the realisation that you can still recall in detail your first day at school, but not where you left your reading glasses two minutes ago. The strongest memories, both good and bad are often vivid because they imprinted themselves as a first, as an initial shock or surprise or simply they were when anticipation turned into reality. And what and why you remember can be surprising as well.
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A Brief Encounter by Marion Shepherd
Mary was in Marks and Spencer when it happened. She was browsing the underwear department when she became aware of a woman staring at her. She gave her a half smile in sympathy as if to say, “what a bore this is looking for men’s underpants”. The woman was about 65 and was dressed in black and had a fashionable haircut. She approached Mary and said, “Hello darling – I thought that was you, how lovely to meet you again after all this time – how are you?”
Now this is where Mary made her big mistake…
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Family Skeletons by Ros Smith
They say be prepared for skeletons to come out of the cupboard when researching your family history, l thought I knew mine. My Dad’s sister always dressed as a man, she was a chauffeur and I can remember seeing her driving very grand cars in her cap and uniform. What I didn’t know was she called herself John and married another female in 1946. I only knew her as Auntie and just accepted her, so this was not the skeleton.
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BLACK HOLES’ by Brenda Sabin (A ‘First Person’ account – for a friend)
Blind? Had he really said that I could go completely blind? At 76 isn’t age and widowhood challenge enough without an increasing loss of sight? Senile Macular Degeneration he called it. His name was Mr. Cryer. Appropriate for an eye specialist I thought. I’d have preferred to be examined by a doctor; I’ve never felt the same degree of confidence in a Mister. Could he be wrong? Maybe I should seek a second opinion? When I went to see him I thought I had cataracts. Thought it would mean an operation. Wondered who would feed the cat. But it seems there is no treatment for senile eyes, mine didn’t even respond to laser beams. The retinas shed cells, which are not replaced. A bit like a mirror that needs re-silvering.
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