The Saturday Shed – Descending Order

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This is a scheduled post using the word LINE for inspiration.
All comments will be attended to after August 7th. I’m on a blogging break!


“I am a direct descendant of Alys de la Say,” he paused, obviously waiting for me to say something like gosh or how amazing. Instead, I said: “Who?”

“Alys was an important figure during the Second Baron’s War. She saved Henry of Devon and his men from an ambush. They would have been massacred.”

“Oh, that Alys,” I said, hoping he would shut up and go away, but he kept me trapped in the corner where I’d hidden, thinking I would be safe from bores like him. So I learnt about poor Alys, captured by the rebels, paraded through the streets in her shift and then walled up to die in a cave. It took weeks, and on the anniversary of her death, you can hear her weeping and begging for her freedom. It was unfortunate for me that before being immured, she’d been a bishop’s mistress and produced a son who reproduced in an unbroken line down to this idiot.

“Do you know who my ancestors are?” I interjected as the spawn of Alys paused for breath. “One of them is Sir Dickon of Redisham.”

That took the wind out of his sails. Dicky-Boy was the leader of the party that sent Alys to her doom. And he was married to the woman who became my great-grandmother many times over. So, in the top trumps of genealogy, I have knocked Alys’s posturing progeny into a cocked hat.

My forefathers were not just on the winning side, but also on the right side of the blanket. That puts me above the salt. And if I prove my ancient great-granny was born of noble blood, I’ll get a seat on the table of honour at the Annual Genealogist’s Ball this year.

Feudalism may be dead, but some ideas never die.

The Saturday Shed – Blown Out of Proportion

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This is a scheduled post using the word ESCALATION for inspiration.
All comments will be attended to after August 7th I’m on a blogging break!


“I’m not sure this is the right thing to do,” Dolly sat back, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“If this farty little job freaks you out,” Jim sneered. “I dread to think what the next level will do to you.”

“It’s not the work involved, it’s…”

“What?” Jim leaned forward. “Is it the damage and hurt?” He shook his head in disgust. “That is the whole point. This is the only way we can make them listen to us.”

“But the people—”

“Fuck the people, blank-eyed morons who follow edicts without questioning them. These sheeple are part of the problem, with their heads filled with rousing speeches and a blind belief in the lies. We spit on gullible fools like that.”

“Why not try dialogue and discourse rather than blowing them to bits? Non-violence worked for Gandhi.”

“And look what they did to him! Listen, Dolly, we tried the softly-softly approach, and nothing happened. Then we bombed government buildings at night. No one took us seriously. This is our only option, the last weapon in the arsenal. So shut the fuck up and get him strapped in.”

Dolly picked up the vest and approached the child standing in the corner. “Are you ready, Chicho?”

“Yes!” Shinning eyes turned to her. “You are weak. Only warriors like me are the true believers.”

Embarrassed at being chastised by a ten-year-old, Dolly thrust the vest at him and retreated to the far end of the room. As Chicho dressed, he began humming the song of revolution. Jim joined in, and the soldiers in the room next door added their voices. Before she knew it, she was singing along with the chorus, punching the air with both fists.

The Saturday Shed – Tightrope

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This is a scheduled post using the word DROP for inspiration.
All comments will be attended to after August 7th I’m on a blogging break!


“Jute or hemp?” The shopkeeper held up two lengths of rope.

“There’s a difference?” I couldn’t see one: both were a pale mess of twisted strands.

“Hemp is slightly stronger.” The guy nodded at me as if he were revealing the secrets of the universe.

“Slightly?” I snorted. “So, there is no difference?”

“Depends what you want it for,” he huffed.

“I need something to hold a weight of about sixty kilos.”

“Aha.” That put the smile back on his face. “Either will do the trick. Here,” he thrust them at me, “have a feel. Then decide which you prefer.”

I duly handled them. “This one,” I waved my right hand at him, “is very coarse.”

He took it. “Ah, jute, notorious for being a bit rough. If you wanted this one, I could throw in a pair of gloves for half price.”

“Sounds like a nice offer, but I’ll go for the hemp. Stronger and softer and no problems if I forget my hand protectors.”

“Smart move,” he winked as if we were both in on the secrets of the universe.

I didn’t wink back.

“How much do you need?” he asked after a moment of painful silence.

“How should I know? You’re the expert.” Oh dear, we weren’t friends again. His eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. I relented and told him the hoist was about three metres off the ground.

“Very good!” He smiled in anticipation. “What kind of pulley system do you have?”

I admitted my ignorance, and he dragged me to another part of the shop. “Which one does it look like?”

“The third one along.” I pointed to the simplest one.

“About ten metres should do you. Now, which grade rope?”

“The most comfortable,” I roared. Who knew arranging a quiet death would be so painful?

The Saturday Shed – The Job Fair

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This is a scheduled post using the word PAST for inspiration.
All comments will be attended to after August 7th. I’m on a blogging break!


The door to the office closed, and Keith leaned back in his chair.

“That’s all the candidates. Who should we choose?”

Bob flicked through his notes. “This one!” He pushed the pad across the table. “Got a good feeling about this guy.”

Keith put on his glasses and then sighed. “Are you sure? He has history. That could be a problem.”

“Stealing beer from an off-licence when he was fourteen. That was twenty years ago. And nothing on him since.”

“Nothing we could find.”

“You could say that about all the candidates.” Bob snatched back his notebook. “Look, he is the most promising applicant, ticking all the boxes and then some. But you are obsessed with his past. He has led an exemplary life since the police caught him with a six-pack of Fosters under his coat. I’m more concerned about his taste in beer than any light-fingered tendencies.”

“This is a serious situation.” Keith took off his glasses. “But I’m not convinced by him.

“Tough! Because he gets the job.” Bob slapped the table. “Besides, he’ll be on probation, and if anything dodgy happens, he’s out on his ear.”

“It’s not so simple.”

“Stop fiddling with your specs and tell me why we can’t give the guy a chance.”

“There are complications.”

“Like what?” Bob raised his eyebrows.

“Like when he recognises me.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah, he was the sucker who took the rap when I tried knocking off that beer twenty years ago.”

The Saturday Shed – Acting on Impulse

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This is a scheduled post using the word COWBOY for inspiration.
All comments will be attended to after August 7th. I’m on a blogging break!


“An extension!” Jason burst into the room. “Be cheaper than moving to a bigger house and this way we get the extra bedrooms and a dining room.”

“And what about your study and my hobby room?” Katie looked up from her knitting.

“The attic for you and the space under the stairs for me.” He flung himself onto the sofa next to her.

“When do you plan on doing this?”

“After the Bean is born.” He leaned over and patted her rounded belly.

“Great!” She knocked his hand away. “You expect me to spend my maternity leave with a newborn, a toddler, a four-year-old and a bunch of builders? Not to mention the dust and mess everywhere.”

“I have a cunning plan.” He waggled his eyebrows. “What if we borrowed your dad’s caravan and I put up a tent on the lawn?”

“I must be suffering from pregnancy-induced deafness because I thought you just suggested turning our garden into Glastonbury.”

“It’ll be fun, and only for a few weeks. The Extendables gave me a reasonable quote and promised they could do the work in under a month.”

“Bollocks.” She jabbed him with a knitting needle. “My brother’s extension took four. And his builders did a marvellous job. Why don’t you check them out?”

“I did; too expensive.”

“But highly recommended. Do these Extendable guys have any testimonials we can check out?”

“No.”

“Then we will not be using them.”

“Spoilsport,” mumbled Jason. Then his face lit up. “Does that mean you agree to the idea in principle?”

“Yes, but let’s talk this through before you go rushing off half-cocked. How do you think we ended up with baby number three on the way?”