New Knickers

It did not look like it would rain this afternoon. It had in fact, rained three days already this week so she had put off doing the washing until today. There was not much to do anyway. Just a couple of bras, a blouse, some tights and a few pairs of drawers. She used to separate her washing but nowadays she just put it all in together and used a cold wash. Nothing was ever that dirty anyway.

The sky was clear and bright as she walked down the garden path with the washing basket in her arms. She used wooden pegs to hang her American tan tights on the line. It was not easy to get them nowadays, whereas once upon a time they were all any women would wear it seemed. She still wore them.

A wire had half come out of one of the bras and patiently she threaded it back in, mentally noting to stitch it later on. Bras were not cheap. This particular one she had had a number of years. It did not fit her like it should anymore but she was not about to waste money on a new bra. She pushed the washing basket along the path with her leg as she moved sideways down the washing line and hung up the blouse. It was white. Not as white as it had once been but white enough to still be seen as white rather than that greyish white that white blouses tend to go. It was plain and simple and had cost eight pounds ninety-nine from Ali’s stall on the Thursday market about five years ago.

She moved down the path pushing the basket with her feet as she went along. She pegged out her knickers. They were comfortable drawers, mostly plain but one or two pairs had a flower pattern on, small daisy’s or tiny red roses. The knickers themselves were enormous. That is compared to hers from the house behind. Their gardens backed on to one another. She just wore tangas that one. She had red shoulder length hair and a foreign sounding name. The neighbours all referred to her as Red, after the colour of her hair. She was not foreign, just her name was. Her parents had been on holiday somewhere on the continent and brought it back with them so to speak. There was never a bra on her line oh no. She did not own one. Slut!!!

Rows and rows of tangas or sexy undies hung on her washing line. Plastic pegs she used. She was single obviously. She was the type men dated but never married. They might live with her even – for a while. But never a ring. She sun bathed topless in the garden. The boys next door loved it of course. They were nine and eleven years old. She did not care that they were watching from an upstairs bedroom window. She seemed to encourage them even. Pervert!!! Tangas – little tiny bits of material or lace. Leopard skin pattern ones she had and all sorts. Nothing ordinary, nothing plain, all her knickers craved attention, demanded it they did, just like her. And they and she got it.

The next pair she hung out had long since seen better days. They were no longer fit to wear. Once they were dry, she would put them in the cupboard under the sink. They were about to start their new life as a duster. Well, there was no point in buying them when a pair of old drawers would do just as good. Jenny, who lived next door and was in fact the mother of the two junior peeping toms, washed her dusters and hung them on the line. Bright yellow they were. That was good housekeeping. But then, being a mother and running a family needed good housekeeping. They were very happily married Jenny and Mike. He was a painter and decorator, she worked part time in the school.

Jenny did not own a tanga. Or at least if she did one never showed itself on her washing line. Private things should be kept private. She had nice knickers. Pretty pairs of lace and cotton, some quite small but nothing vulgar, nothing cheap looking. Sexy yes, but not cheap looking, not slutty.

She knew they were very happily married because their bedroom shared a wall with hers. They did not make a great noise, no song and dance act but the headboard kept a regular rhythm several times a week. She didn’t mind. She thought of moving her bed to the other side of the room or even moving into another bedroom, she had two spare ones. But no, somehow, she had got used to it. It would have been different if they were arguing all the time, screaming and shouting at one another half the night. But they were not. In fact she had never heard them row.

It was comforting in a way. It was nice to be almost included in their happiness. It reminded her of her late husband John and her. They had been happy. They had had three children who had now grown up and moved away. Her youngest son lived in Australia, her daughter in Scotland and her other son in Spain on some Costa, she had never been to visit. She got letters and postcards and phone calls. They had their lives to lead, she understood that. She was excited for her youngest son when he came home and announced he was emigrating to Australia. Oh both John and she were concerned, up-set that they would not see him again but as John said, they could not stop him going out into the world and making a man himself. They did not try to stop him. It was his adventure, his journey, his life. The airport was perhaps too hard, too painful. It came out of nowhere really, one moment she was smiling and telling him to watch out for Kangaroos and the next she was shaking like a leaf and tears streaming down her face. She was losing her baby! John was a rock. She could never have got through it without him.

When their daughter told them that she was getting married to a man from Edinburgh and would be moving there, it did not seem too bad. It was at least in the UK. It is funny, her son had been back to visit twice over the years. Her daughter not once. Some distances are more emotional than miles.

It came as no surprise to either John or her that their eldest son moved off to Spain. He used to watch programmes about it on the telly. They could almost see it coming. It would mean cheap holidays too so great. They had been to Spain on a package holiday in 1980, she still had the straw donkey somewhere. Off he went to sun, sea and sangria with Sandra from the chip shop. She came back after three months, he did not. She works in the kebab shop now.

It was almost like being young again, having the house to themselves. No-one taking too long in the bathroom getting ready for work or to go out in the evening. No-one shouting down from upstairs, questions like “Mum, where’s my red shirt”? or “Mum, what time’s dinner”? Just her and John. There was hardly any mess to clean up with just the two of them. It was nice, comfortable, secure. John had a heart attack carrying vegetables home form the market. He should have caught the bus but he would walk. Just to save one pound ten.

Her youngest was not able to make it back from Australia in time for the funeral; he was very sorry and sent some lovely flowers. The other two came though. The daughter – just for the day, she could not stop over night as she was doing a course and had got special permission to miss the day but she could not miss two days. They hardly spoke, she was there and gone. And so was John. The house changed. It was not just quiet and tidy anymore but empty. Jam packed full of memories but completely empty. She did not know that silence could be so loud. Time heals – actually that’s bollocks you just cope, you go numb and you cope because you have to and that’s that.

Then suddenly, the sound of next door’s headboard knocking on the wall seems like a lovely sound. It brings back all those wonderful memories. Those feelings of happiness and security. It brings back the past in a most unexpected yet fabulous way. A quiet, comforting way that offers peace somehow. She would not move her bed to the other side of the room. Not yet anyway.

John had been dead twelve years and her headboard had not moved since. Not once. Red did not have a headboard, what would be the point? It would smash its way through to the house next door like a pneumatic drill and the screaming would be from her, not it. Oh she made a noise. When she dragged some bloke up her stairs the entire area knew about it. She made sure they did. She took some strange pleasure in grabbing as much attention as she could. God knows why. It’s not something most normal people would want to do. But she was like it in every aspect of her life. Attention grabbing. Wherever she was she would talk loudly and instead of keeping her eyes fixed on the person she was talking to, she would scour the vicinity to see if anyone was listening and then pounce. She would direct a comment right at them and bring them into the conversation. Even when they clearly did not want to be a part of it. All the attention had to be on her. Even when she was alone in her own garden. Why else sun bath topless? Perhaps it was not just the little boys next door who were looking.

Despite the tangas and flowing locks, she had spent more and more nights alone as the years rolled by had Red. There had been a time when there was a procession of young men climbing her stairs, it was almost like a local rite of passage. But as the years passed by the men started to do so too. Nowadays she was left with very meagre pickings and as the number of men dwindled, the amount of vodka she consumed increased. Once she been a bit of a slut. Now, she was a drunken lonely slut desperate for attention – even from the neighbours’ little boys. But even so, there were still nights when the bedroom window would be open and her orgasmic orchestra played to the residents of the three surrounding streets. Isn’t KY jelly marvellous?

One of the pairs of knickers she was hanging out had a hole in the gusset. They would do for polishing too so it did not matter. She looked around the gardens, to the other washing lines. It seemed the entire neighbourhood had decided that today was wash day. Well, a dry day is almost always wash day here. So many pairs of knickers! Red’s tangas, Jenny’s slips, and her old tired bloomers. It hit her like a thunder bolt. You could tell the kind of life these women had by looking at their underwear. Of course she wore tired out old drawers, she was tired out. Hang on. No she was not. Why on earth was she wearing these horrible baggy old things? She might never have worn tangas but she used to wear nice knickers, nice knickers like Jenny’s. Her life had become so dull, so uninteresting, so lonely that she simply did not care about her underwear. No-one was going go see it, it did not matter.

So that was that. She had given up living. But she did not know she had given up. She had not meant to. After John died, she must have just drifted into a kind of getting by mode and somehow, she had stayed that way. Just getting by, but not actually living. John was dead. He had been dead for twelve years but she was not dead. She looked at Red’s tangas and laughed. That definitely was not her, but she would never think badly of Red again. Red had always been single and had always wanted not to be. And she was still trying not to be even now, in her early fifties. When she looked at Jenny’s washing line, she prayed that she would never see bloomers on it – ever.

She walked down the garden path grabbing the knickers off the line. She went indoors, threw them into the rubbish bin, went upstairs and moved her bed to the other side of the room. Then, she went out to get a new life and some new knickers.

This is one of the stories in my book, The Image of a word, which is available through Amazon in both ebook form or paperback.

Walking Through Doors.

This is my novel, available through Amazon, for kindle or in paperback. It's called Walking Through Doors.  Those who regularly check back here may have read the first chapter here.  However, now you can read the entire novel!!!

Walking Through Doors, is the story of a group of friends who when they leave school realise the world isn't exactly as they thought it would be.  We follow them and in particular the heroine, on a journey that is often very funny and sometimes rather sad.  This book, deals with the years in which people change from being school children into mature responsible adults, and all the hassles, joys and laughs that brings.

I hope you enjoy it.  To get hands on a copy either the ebook for kindle or a paperback, just go to Amazon and search my name, 'Len Bateman', My titles will all appear.

The Image of a word.

This is s series of short stories.

Seven pieces, seven stories, seven views of life. In this book you will find seven short, some very short, stories that depict different life experiences. From a child terrified of the dark, to dealing with depression, loneliness and even the loss of a child. There are moments of amusement and others of sadness and perhaps even madness. They are moments in time, in life, in this journey, they are view points, they are portraits, they are snap shots, they are pictures, they are images and they are words. They are an image of a word.

You can get a copy of this book, either an ebook for Kindle or a paperback copy, via Amazon. Just type 'Len Bateman' in the search bar under books. 

This is the first chapter to one of my books for young readers set in the magical land of Buntonia

Gretchen and Her Super Soup

Chapter 1

Buntonia is a magical land. A place where dreams can come true if you love enough and nightmares do if you don’t. Some say it is safest not to dream at all, that way, nothing will happen to you. Gretchen didn’t approve of that. It was her opinion that in this hard and sometimes lonely life, it was your dreams that kept you going. After all if you do not have a reason for doing something, then there is no point in doing anything at all.

‘Gretchen, Gretchen, where’s my soup Gretchen?’ Her father was calling for her from the kitchen downstairs. Gretchen made her way down the old rickety staircase, which led down into a round room off which all the other rooms, such as they were, led. The kitchen door was open and Gretchen could see the skinny, twisted old frame of her father sat at the wooden table eating his soup. ‘Gretchen’, he slurped, ‘where’s my soup’,

‘You’re eating it father’, Gretchen informed him as she entered the kitchen.

‘But I’m still hungry Gretchen, I’m still hungry girl, I’m withering away’. The old man declared whilst he shovelled spoonful after spoonful of Gretchen’s pumpkin soup down his wrinkled throat.

‘Why not have some bread father?’ Gretchen suggested moving the bowl of bread that was already on the table a bit nearer to him.

‘Some bread girl?’, her father questioned her with a look of horror on his face yet still keeping up the rhythm of his soup guzzling.

‘Yes father have some bread.’ Her father could not believe his cauliflower ears.

‘Some bread with my soup do you say, are you mad?’

Calmly Gretchen answered ‘No father I am not mad, try some bread with your soup.’ The old codger moved his large knobbly old hand over to the bread, shaking his almost entirely bald head and pulling a face that showed he was expecting to taste the worst medicine in the world. He picked up a piece of bread and sniffed it with his bulbous nose. Gretchen held her breath as he dipped the bread into the soup and raised it out again. Soup dripped off the bread and fell back into the bowl and her father looked at Gretchen like a child wanting encouragement from his mother to take the nasty medicine. ‘Go on father, eat It.’ said Gretchen nodding her head. The old man raised his hands above his head and held the soup sodden bread high up in the air. The soup dripping down on to his face. Then he pushed his head back, opened his mouth, his eyes as big as dinner plates. Staring at it as though it was an axe about to chop his head off. Then in one movement, he forced the hunk of bread into his open mouth and sat there waiting for something to happen. His mouth was so full of bread he could not talk. So he gave a little groan instead. ‘Chew it father’, said Gretchen, ‘chew it’. The old man gave another little groan and began the task of chewing. Finally, when all the bread was swallowed he declared, ‘Oh Gretchen, that was the loveliest thing I have ever eaten.’

‘Thank you father’, replied Gretchen and made her way back upstairs to her bedroom.

She looked out of her small window down into the valley, across the river and over to the hills. They were covered in trees and by day she could see not one house. But at night when the moon shone and the stars came out, the hills were ablaze with hundreds of tiny lights that lit the homes of the people who lived there. The Grobbly-Boblins, the Shoodoos, the Crickalicks and even the Humans, Gretchen had never met a human before, even though she was one herself. Her father was a Grobbly-Boblin. He wasn’t her real father; he’d looked after her ever since she could remember. She didn’t even know why. All she knew was that this kind, lovely Grobbly-Boblin had always been there for her. So now that she was older, she would return the kindness and always be there for him. Besides, she loved him and he loved her. He was not as clever as Gretchen was. He could not read or write, but he made sure Gretchen could by sending her to Mrs Mickle for lessons every day when she was young.

Mrs Mickle lived in a sort of cave that her husband had dug out of the side of the hill. It had lots of rooms and was lovely and warm. It was the nicest home Gretchen had ever been in. Mr and Mrs Mickle were not Grobbly-Boblins, nor were they Humans. They were Shoodoos, and Gretchen liked them very much. They had six children of their own so Gretchen loved going there for her lessons because although she did not much like to do her school work, she loved playing with the other children when Mrs Mickle said it was break time.

The sun shone down on to the countryside and Gretchen day dreamed as she often did, about her real parents. Maybe she had a brother or sister and her family were rich and one day they would come for her and take her to live in their huge castle and have servants. Gretchen would not have to make soup any more. How lovely. ‘Gretchen, Gretchen, there’s no more soup Gretchen.’ Came the old man’s voice. And so as she always did, Gretchen went down the stairs into the kitchen, picked up her basket and said, ‘Don’t worry father I’ll get some things to make more soup for you.’

‘Oh Gretchen you are good to me, what would I do without you?’ said her father getting up from the table and shuffling his way through the doorway in the way that all Grobbly-Boblins shuffled their thin bodies along, as if they were polishing the floor with the soles of their slippers. ‘What would I have done without you father’, replied Gretchen.

‘Indeed Gretchen, we must belong together you and I.’ The old man said smiling back at her.

‘Yes father,’ she agreed, ‘I think we probably do.’ And with that she left the house through the kitchen door that led outside down the garden path and into the valley. Carrying her basket and thinking how lucky she was to have that lumpy old faced Grobbly-Boblin to make soup for. For if it was not for him who knows what would have become of her.

Gretchen liked to surprise her father with her soup. She could make it out of almost anything. Her father’s favourite was her sweet nutty soup, but she did not like that one much herself. Today she decided to try something new, though what exactly she did not know. She had made soup with so many things she wasn’t sure that there was anything left that she had not already used. But she would know what to use when she saw it, and so off she went in search of her new and exciting ingredients.

She took the path to the left that led into the part of the forest where no one lived, except of course for the animals and birds. Most people lived on the other side of the valley, but that was too expensive for Gretchen and her father, still she liked their little house. It was old and sometimes draughty but it was also very cosy and it was home. Other people may have bigger and better houses but Gretchen knew that you should never be ashamed of where you live. For every home is just as special to the people who live there, no matter how big, no matter how small, it is the people inside that count. Gretchen was not jealous of those folks who were richer than her and her father. He had always, very wisely told her, that some people are so poor that all they have is money.

Sitting on a branch of a tree was a yellow and turquoise bird. Gretchen had not seen one of these birds before. She stopped still in her tracks and watched the bird for a few seconds, ‘How beautiful it is’; she thought gazing at it. Presently the bird began to sing and the most beautiful tune that Gretchen had ever heard entered her delicate ears and filled her head and heart with happiness. As she listened she walked forward, stepping on a twig that lay on the forest floor. It gave a crack as she passed over it. The bird was startled by this and looking round saw Gretchen and flew off. Gretchen followed as fast as she could. Through the forest she followed the bird, hoping it would rest a while and sing once more. But after ten minutes of trying, she could not keep up and the mysterious yellow and turquoise bird vanished deep into the forest.

Gretchen decided to sit down on a nearby fallen tree and catch her breath. It was only then that she realised, she did not know where she was. She had been so busy trying to keep up with the bird, that she had not noticed which direction she had come from. She looked around her hoping to recognise something. But nothing looked familiar at all. The only thing to do was to try and make her way back home as best she could. It could not be too far after all, she’d only been running a few minutes. So off she went carrying her basket and trying to retrace her steps through the forest. As she did so she sang the lovely tune she had heard the bird singing. She walked and walked for half an hour and still could not find her way. Every twist and turn brought new places into view. She ought to have been worried and upset at being so lost, but somehow, as long as she sang the birds song, she was quite, quite happy. Rabbits and squirrels kept hoping and running in front of her and she even saw a badger watching her from a bunch of ferns. Birds were lining tree branches and butterflies and bees perched on the small delicate blooms of the forest flowers. Gretchen kept walking and singing. Smiling all the time at the creatures of the forest that came out from their secret places to see her. She had never known the animals to be so bold before, and despite being lost, was having a truly lovely time.

Suddenly Gretchen heard a soft fanfare of flutes and a golden light beamed out from a huge oak tree. All the animals, birds and insects that had been following her stood still and each one bowed his or her head. Gretchen herself stopped singing and stared at the illuminated tree. Now she was frightened. The branches of the tree shook and then out from the light stepped a beautiful woman with long flowing hair. She was not like any creature Gretchen could have imagined never mind actually seen before. For she was made entirely of the beautiful golden light that shone from every branch of the oak tree. Her dress sparkled as though it was made from gold coloured diamonds. Her hair was shining and went right down her back, so if she wished, she could sit on it. It was so perfect it looked like liquid gold. She smiled at Gretchen, but Gretchen being so nervous and scared, could not smile back. Her mouth was wide open and her eyes as big as big could be. ‘Hello young lady, my name is Oakleen’, said the soft-spoken woman as she approached. ‘And who might you be?’

‘Gr., Gretchen ma’am’, replied Gretchen in complete wonder at the lady before her.

‘Tell me Gretchen, where did you hear the tune you were singing?’

‘I heard a bird singing it, as I walked through the forest, a most beautiful bird.’ Oakleens’ eyes sparkled,

‘You saw this you say?’

‘Yes Ma’am it was truly beautiful, yellow and blue, a turquoise blue really, I’ve never seen one before.’

‘And now you have both seen and heard it. Well Gretchen you are a very fortunate young lady indeed. How did you feel when you heard this bird?’ Gretchen feeling a little easier said ‘Oh happy, it was strange but as soon as the bird began to sing I felt my heart lift and my spirits soar. I couldn’t help but feel the world was wonderful.’

‘It is true Gretchen’, Oakleen proclaimed ‘You are a very, very fortunate girl. For not everyone that sees and hears the Terbert bird feels like that. Only truly good people are so uplifted. Bad people can feel very unhappy and miserable, for the Terbert bird is the most magical creature in all creation. He can bring great joy and great sorrow by reflecting that which is in your soul. If you are good, he will make you happy, if you are bad; he will make you sad. But all are better for knowing him. Although very few do so. It is a great privilege that you have encountered him.’

‘I was a trying to follow him, but I couldn’t and now I’m lost.’ Said Gretchen hoping to show the way home. Oakleen laughed, ‘Everybody tries to follow the Terbert bird my dear, but it is impossible. He will allow you to see him only for as long as he wants to and once he has made up his mind that it is time to go, he simply vanishes. Some people are too sad to try to find him again; others look for a while but soon tire and are distracted by another of the forest creatures. But you Gretchen, you have kept his song alive in your voice and in your heart longer than any other has. What will you do with his song Gretchen?’ Asked Oakleen.

‘Do with it?’ Enquired Gretchen, ‘Why I won’t do anything, except sing it to myself and remember how beautiful the Terbert bird was, and how happy he made me feel.’

The light began to shine from the oak tree once again and Oakleen said, ‘Then Gretchen, you have found the new ingredient you need. When you make your soup, sing the song of the Terbert bird, and the love and happiness within you will go into your soup and touch all those who eat it. And one day, if you keep his song in your voice and love in your heart, you may know the Terbert bird once more. The rabbits will show you the way home. Goodbye Gretchen, you are a very special young lady.’ And with that Oakleen stepped back into the golden light, the glowing branches shook once more and the light faded and died. Gretchen felt strange. She knew she should be frightened still, but instead she was calm and peaceful. She followed the rabbits as they hopped along the forest floor, looking back towards her occasionally to check that she was still there. After a while they came to a path that Gretchen knew and the rabbits hopped off into the undergrowth of the forest.

Gretchen picked some mushrooms and edible berries and made her way back home to the little house to make some more soup for her father. This soup was going to be the best yet, for it had a new and magical ingredient, the song of the Terbert bird and her love.

The sun was beginning to set by the time Gretchen arrived home, and the hillside across the valley was being lit up by hundreds of tiny lights inside hundreds of homes. From Gretchen’s bedroom window the hillside looked beautiful and magical. ‘Ah Gretchen you’re home girl’, said her father as she entered the kitchen door. ‘Will you make some soup for your poor old father? I’m starving you know.’ Grobbly-Boblins despite always being very skinny ate almost constantly. ‘Yes father’, Gretchen replied putting her basket down on the kitchen side, ‘I’m going to make you some very special soup indeed this evening.’ ‘That’s a good girl, very special soup aye, well I can’t wait to try it, with some bread aye Gretchen, with some bread.’ The old Grobbly-Boblin said excitedly. Gretchen began making her wild mushroom and very berry soup, with her new magical ingredient.

This is the first chapter of my novel - Shades of Light

Shades of Light

By Len Bateman

There are things in this world. Things that are not known or seen by all. Things that are more terrible than a hurricane, more powerful than a tsunami. Things that are more painful than a lie and more frightening than the worst nightmare. These things are truths. But perhaps I have said too much- Maybe you are not prepared to share this knowledge yet. Shall I risk telling you more? Dare you risk learning of such things, such knowledge, such truths?

How beautiful is the sun on a summer’s day, when it shines down and casts it’s golden brilliance across the landscape. Scientists say that colours do not exist until they are registered by the eye. Colour is light, and sight does not exist until it enters the eye. Those same scientists teach that light is found on something called the electromagnetic spectrum. It ranges from AM radio to Gamma rays. Human beings see that light which falls between 10.6 and 10.7 on that spectrum. This is called Visible light. Just below it at 10.5 is Infrared light and just above it at 10.8 is Ultra Violet light. But as advanced as your scientists are, they are as yet, unaware that their electromagnetic spectrum is incomplete. Hidden within its’ range is something else.

Visible light waves are measured in nanometres. Your scientists measure those rays as they reflect and refract and are aware of the effects of constructive and destructive interference as well diffraction. So much they have learnt, so much more they have to learn still.

You see, there is, on that very electromagnetic spectrum, something that might surprise, shock, please or even terrify you. Perhaps it is a blessing that you do not know. And therefore, close this book immediately and put it out of your head, out of mind and remain ignorant. Perhaps one truth is, that ignorance really is bliss. At least for the stupid, the unadventurous, the unquestioning.

There are theories of other dimensions, other realms and parallel universes. All very interesting and all so nearly true, yet not. The truth has been in fact, known for centuries. Books have been written containing it. Television programmes and films have made it a part of their storyline. But so far, whilst it has been written about, talked about in urban myths and acted out in theatres since Shakespeare’s time and even before, the reality, the truth both wonderful and petrifying has escaped your actual knowledge.

I warn you now. Reading further may change your perception, your sense of security and of who and what you are. Please, I beg you to consider before continuing. Are you ready? Do you really want to know? Are you mentally and spiritually strong enough to share this truth?

I have already mentioned the electromagnetic spectrum. Within Visible light are colours. White light contains all the colours and possible combinations that make up the colours your human brains conceive through your eyes. There is however, another form of white light and where it is absent, within its’ range, blackness. Perhaps now, you are beginning to understand?

I am going to try to tell you, to explain that knowledge which your soul already knows but your conscious mind does not. I say try because I do so at great peril. They don’t want you to know. If I am discovered I risk everything! But where to begin? It would I realise be usual to begin at the beginning. But that is not possible. You could not possibly understand. I think, I shall explain by shades, shades of light.

One can never be certain when it happens. But there is warning. There’s a change in vibration, not a great change at first but enough to inform you your time is drawing near. The vibration slows and you slip through the shades, either duller and duller or lighter and lighter. A warm, pleasant love embracing experience or an agony of screaming, hollering pain and fear, panic and hope. Then, there is calm. A warm swimming cosy fantastic sense of comfort and love. It’s a truly beautiful dream like state. The sense of love grows over time forming a bond that is so consuming that it wipes out almost all conscious memory and knowledge. A beating sound is joined by another beating sound and sometimes by more! The world is sound, texture, warmth and love. Then movement. Ha ha ha oh What joy! What bliss! Actual movement! It’s so difficult at first, but such fun! Then, when the space is used, the pressure changes and the watery comfort drains away and pressure and pushing and suddenly everything is different.

The rest you know. That is, you know up to a certain point. I have briefly described the journey, the transition from our world, our realm, our plane, which is in fact, your world, your realm, your plane, to that which you now occupy. This process is known here as ‘returning’. However, you know it, as being born.

I will concentrate this first communication, (I say first but if they catch me it will be the last or maybe never even reach you), to the one subject most of you wonder about, even fear. I fully understand that you have a deep desire to know what it is like. How it feels. But I wish to tell you what happens next. We optimistically call it ‘coming back to the light’ because that is what we hope it is. A return to ‘light’ because if one does not come back to light then one goes to darkness. I have not the heart to tell you about that yet.

Light passes through the atmosphere and illuminates all that falls within its’ path. But only that light which you can perceive. The other does the same, but you, or at least not all of you, can see that light, but it’s there, omnipresent. Sometimes you feel it, sense it. It even penetrates your sleep and appears in your dreams. Vibrating, resonating all around and through you. It is a part of you and you a part of it. And yet you remain ignorant of its actual presence. Make excuses for it – coincidence.

A moment, an instant, is all it takes. It happens fast. The vibration slows and soon the light becomes duller and those around you have remained behind. They have wished you luck and told you they love you. It is sad and beautiful, exciting and a little frightening. One passes through the shades receiving good wishes and growing ever more excited and nervous. This is another chance. Another opportunity to improve, to learn, to be better and eventually to leave some love and knowledge for those that follow. It is marvellous, it is a challenge, it is an honour and a duty.

Certain things are not decided straight away. It seems strange really but there are other factors at play that need to be taken into account. That is why gender, physical gender is not established for some little time. Sex and sexuality are very important and must be decided not by the vibration passing through the experience but by the light itself. You are vibrations, we all are. Your skin colour means nothing. Your gender means nothing. Your sexuality means nothing. Your religion means nothing. Your nationality means even less, it is more than anything else, something to overcome. These things that I said mean nothing are in fact very important. You see they mean nothing to us but on your plane they still continue to have significance. How sad. How tragic. How basic. But as the vibration moves through the shades and into the spectrum of visible light it takes with it something precious. Something that it must learn to hold on to. Must learn to listen to. This precious thing, this most valuable treasure is a sense of conscious. For it is the key to the path the vibration must follow in this incarnation, in this lesson, in this experience, in order to grow and vibrate at a higher level and become a greater part of existence.

The bond forms and with it, as I mentioned before the knowledge of our plane is lessened in order to help the vibration to adjust and follow its’ path in human life. It is born. It’s first cries are heard and the lesson begins not just for that particular vibration for it forms part of the lesson of thousands or even millions of other vibrations teaching and learning from one another. And here is a very crucial part of this process. Influence. A powerful tool that can be used to teach right and wrong. Listen to your conscious, for only it can truly distinguish between the two. It will guide you, if you let it, to the right path. But that is the trick. Many fail to listen to it or choose to ignore it. If you knew the consequence of this, you would strive to listen very hard indeed.

The House by the School. There is always a scary house ont he way to school - this is what lives in it!!

The house by the school

The house by the school,

Wherein lives a ghoul,

Who considers it a treat,

To eat baby meat.

She doesn’t eat potatoes,

She doesn’t eat rice,

But thinks kids from 5 to 10,

Taste really nice.

When they’re playing in the playground,

They can’t relax at all,

For that rustling in the bushes,

Might just be the ghoul.

Millie disappeared on Monday,

Her Mum appealed for her on the telly,

She hasn’t been seen since,

But now, the ghoul has a full belly.

Josh disappeared last Friday,

His dad just cried and cried,

I don’t have any proof,

But I believe poor Josh was fried.

She grabs them in the morning,

When they’re fresh out of their beds,

She chops them up and slices them,

And even roasts their heads!

She likes year six salad,

Year eight on a plate,

Year nine she finds divine,

And always wants more of year four.

The police won’t try to stop her,

They’re far too freighted you see,

Someone told them that to ghouls,

Coppers taste like toffee.

So be careful little children,

When walking to or home from school,

Don’t talk to any strangers,

For they might just be a ghoul!!!!

Tart!

Tart! 

Her hair is a jungle, 

of gels, mouses and sprays, 

her face is put together, 

in the most outrageous ways. 

Her clothes all come from top shop, 

and she always looks her best, 

and when it comes to standing out, 

she sinks in with the rest. 

Her attributes are outstanding, 

she has the figure of an hour glass, 

but there's usually a defect, 

and a fiver says it's her arse. 

Her leather skirt and fishnet tights, 

promise you, you're in for a good night, 

but her back combed hair and come to bed eyes, 

just turn out to be guise. 

Her make-up covers her acne, 

so none of her spots show, 

she flashes a smile of smeared lipstick, 

and you're wondering if she'll go? 

You buy her half a lager, 

and offer her a fag, 

she carries a ton of make-up, 

in her matching hand bag. 

She takes her friend off to the loo, 

you're wondering what you're gonna do, 

her conversations hardly great, 

and you wish you'd got off with her mate. 

So there you are with this boring chick, 

no personality - you feel a right prick. 

But you offer to take home, 

just to be polite, 

and then she thinks your're thinking,

you're gonna stay the night. 

She offers you a coffee, 

and although you're bored to tears, 

you say you'll have a quick one, 

and that highlights her fears. 

You drink the coffee she's made you, 

though it tastes more like tar, 

and you think you may as well carry on, 

now you've come that far. 

Your lips embrace, 

your bodies entwine,

and your only hope is that you cum on time, 

she hears a noise, 

you sit up straight, 

she tells you, you'd beter go coz it getting late. 

Kiss her goodbye, 

wishing it was her friend you'd dated, 

get in your car, 

totally frustrated.