THE DROP INN

Albert & Veronica Wrigglethwaite
ic nc d to sel by ret il al in oxi ating liqu rs
f r co suptio on or ff the prem es.

Apart from the names of mine hosts, which had obviously been written within the last twenty years, the words can just be faintly made out on the rotten, crumbling sign above the door of The Drop Inn.

The Wrigglethwaites have been the landlords of The Drop Inn for generations. The census of 1841 gave the head of the household as Joshua Wrigglethwaite, farmer and innkeeper.

The Drop Inn stands in the huddle of ancient buildings, which is the sleepy hamlet of Little Hampton. The building has seen better days. The rotting window frames with the paint peeling off. The signs of many slates missing from the roof, which has witnessed many a winter-storm. The ivy growing over the walls is probably the only thing that keeps the fabric of the building together. To the left of the doorway a sign states that, " The Offcumdendale Rotary Club meet here on the first Tuesday of the month."
Although seemingly on its last legs it has a certain charm and welcoming appearance to it. The door is always open (it had got jammed fifteen years ago.) There is the give-a-way sign of an open fire, with the news that a new pope had been elected coming from the chimneystack, and a mellow glow shining through the cracked uncleaned windowpanes of the taproom.

Bigger than it looks from outside it is like stepping into a time warp. On entering through the open door into the pub, the eye is immediately drawn to the roaring log-fire in the inglenook fireplace, with its original bread-oven still in place, although its only use nowadays is to keep the chalk dry for the dart's blackboard. This is The Snug, the "posh" bit. Its cold flagged-floor highly polished with the feet of many generations past. The cobwebbed; smoke blackened oak beams in the roof, the bare whitewashed walls with the obligatory print of Monarch of the Glen by Landseer, a nicotine stained photograph of the Little Hampton Morris Side of 1912, of which Albert's great
Grandfather was The Squire. A stag's head looking nervously around.
An assortment of ancient furniture spread around the room, an old settle with JW 1834 carved in the back, a rickety oak table with a folded beer mat under one leg. A simple wooden bar, the white ring-marks of the many beer mugs that had stained it over the years. No hand-pumps here, just two barrels against the wall, one bitter, one mild, with a steady drip from each spigot into the slops tray beneath. Screwed to the wall, optics for whisky, gin, brandy and rum and underneath a work surface on which stands a half-full bottle of cherries, a browning slice of lemon and a sherry schooner with three toothpicks in it. Beneath are shelves stacked with bottles of beer, which stand on pages of The Daily Express dated Tuesday 17th April 1954.

To the right of the bar, an always-closed door, which leads to the pubs male bastion, The Taproom. It is said in the folklore of Little Hampton that if ever a female person enters the Taproom the crops will fail, the hens will stop laying and the landlord will have to buy drinks all round.
The Taproom, like The Snug, has flag floors, the same whitewashed walls, now stained a yellow brown, and its only trappings a large table, scattered with the remnants of last nights domino game, and six chairs. On a shelf next to the dart's scoreboard stands, gleaming in the light from the shadeless bulb, the Ancient Order of Froth Blowers dart's trophy, which The Drop Inn team has won for the last 32 years in succession.

This then is The Drop Inn. No modern trappings here, no loud piped music, no paper umbrellas to adorn a fancy drink, and no one can spell lasagne, so that's off the menu.

Albert was born in the room above the Snug some 63 summers ago, the only son of Horace and Monica Wrigglethwaite. He grew up within the environs of a small-village pub, attended the village school, helped his mates with their father's haymaking in summer and skated on the village pond in winter. After leaving school he helped his father in the pub and did odd jobs around the village. Albert was growing-up now, and his thoughts turned to the important things in life, namely girls. Albert only had eyes for one, Veronica Hepplewhite. A quiet, pretty girl, Veronica lived with her parents at the farm next to the blacksmith's forge on the road out of the village. They could be seen most days, talking at the farm gate, walking along the lane and, once a month, would dance closely at the socials held in the village hall.

Albert was nineteen when his father's coffin was carried off to the Parish Church graveyard on the back of a brewers dray. That night Albert's mother took to her bed, to grieve for Horace for the rest of her life. The only time she is seen is on the anniversary of Horace's death. She puts on her make-up and her wedding gown and makes a grand entrance into The Snug, makes her way to the seat by the fire, and sits, Miss Haversham like, sipping a barley wine and staring into the fire, making out the outline of Horace in the flames. No one speaks, and then, her drink finished, she makes her way, more slowly with each passing year, back up the stairs to her room.

Albert, now landlord of The Drop Inn, settled into a gentle routine which was violently disturbed one February when Veronica proposed to him.
The wedding took place in the Village church; the whole of Offcumdendale seemed to be there, for nearly everyone was related somehow to each other. The tables at The Drop Inn groaned with food, beer was drunk and spilt, there was much laughing and crying until the early hours, until, finally, Albert and Veronica fell into the bed that Albert had been born in.

And so began the daily routine at The Drop Inn with mine hosts, Albert and Veronica Wrigglethwaite

"Pint John?"
"Please, and half a dozen eggs."
"Quiet tonight?"
"Been like this all day. Only Dewdrop and Danny Boy in."
"Want these on your tab?"
"Please."

Dewdrop aka William (Billy) Thompson is sat, as he always is, on the old settle in the corner. Billy would spend the day here, his dog lying patiently at his feet, half a pint of mild in front of him, the ash on his unsmoked cigarette now three inches long and the dewdrop dribbling from his nose.
Billy never speaks, no one sees him eat. His wife died some years ago and he has never got over the shock of having no one to nag him.

Patrick O'Hanlon, a native of Clifden in County Clare, crossed the sea to find seasonal work some 50 years ago and stayed. Patrick worked hard, saved his money and settled down in a small cottage next to the village post-office.
Never married, he would spend his time, and his money, at The Drop Inn. Now, in his twilight years, he would spend the days sat on "his" stool at the end of the bar, his glass seemingly never empty, the white froth of his Guinness always on his top lip. The craic came thick and fast with all around him, until he would suddenly go quiet, his eyes would partly close and his chin slowly droop onto his chest and very, very faintly, there could be heard, "Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes the pipes are..." at which, Albert gently removed Patrick's glass from his hand, walked round to the front of the bar, helped Patrick to his feet, walked him to the door and turned him in the direction of the village post office.
"Night Pat."

"A bit parky tonight."
"Aye, time I got that door fixed."

"One, two." "One, two." "Turn it up a bit Albert, they won't be able to hear me in the Tap Room."

It's Quiz Night and Percy Palfreyman is tonight's Quiz Master. Percy, a quiet studious man of 61, had been born in the village. Very bright from an early age, he passed the entrance exam to the Offcumdendale Grammar School. Attaining many A-Level passes he went-on to study theology at Oxford.
Percy seemed destined for a career "in the cloth" until, and, this is only hearsay, Percy left college suddenly, amidst whisperings about car parks, barmaids, sheep... Percy took on the village post-office, spending his days franking letters, entering small sums of money in Post Office Savings account-books, whiling away the hours, until, dead on 5 o'clock he would put the "closed" sign up in the door window, rush upstairs, have a quick wash, make himself a sandwich, and then settle down to read - "The monster book of pub quizzes."

"Good evening everyone, welcome to The Drop Inn Quiz."
The buzz of talking halts immediately, a sharp intake of breath can be heard, and a noticeable tightening of fingers on pens can be seen from each team's scribe. The quiz is about to start, the weekly battle between the three teams that make up "Quiz Night at The Drop Inn" every Thursday night. By the door (on Albert's orders) sit The Sheep Dogs, local farmers, just returned from the weekly auction-mart, still reeking with the smell of cow muck, who's combined IQ totals 54. By the window sit The Smarthouses who, in the time between questions, place bets on the time that elapses between each of Billy's dewdrops leaving his nose and hitting the table.
The third team, which is made up of three brothers, Allan, John and Brian King, call themselves Of Orient Are.

"Question number one. What is the capital of the American state of Arizona?"
"Phoenix, I think it's Phoenix!!"
"You sure?" " I thought it was Carson City."
"Well...What do you think Eric?"
"I don't know. Stupid bloody question."
"It could be Lincoln City."
"Nah, that's the capital of Oregan, I've just seen a programme on the telly about it. Leave it blank, we'll come back to that one."

"Question number two..."

"That's the end of the first round. Two minutes then I'll give you the answers."
"OK, swap your papers and I'll give you the answers."
"Question number one, the capital of Arizona is... Phoenix."
"I bloody told you it was!! You won't listen, will you?"
"OK, we'll now have some supper and then we'll do the second half."

Veronica hurriedly brings round the supper, to cries of, "not bloody Spam and Branston again", to each table, and quickly disappears upstairs to catch the end of Coronation Street.

"Full house tonight Albert."
"Aye, it brings 'em in. Another pint?"

"Ok everyone lets do the second half. By the way, Deirdre's fallen out with Ken again."

"OK, here is question number one of the second half. What is the capital of the American state of...?"

"OK, I have now got the results of the quiz."
The buzz of talking halted immediately, a sharp intake of breath could be heard, and a noticeable tightening of fingers on pens could be seen from each team's scribe.
"The winners of the booby prize tonight are..." Percy pauses, a glint in his eyes, an almost scornful look on his face, "...The Sheep Dogs."
There is an audible gasp of relief from The Smarthouses and Of Orient Are, and a resigned look from The Sheep Dogs, for they win the booby prize every week.

"And the winners tonight are ..." Percy pauses, and then slowly and deliberately unfolds a small scrap of paper on which is written the name of the winning team, this is Percy's moment of power and he is going to milk-it for all it is worth, "...The Smarthouses."
"YES!!" "YES!!" "YES!!"

"Think they'd won the World Cup."
"Aye. Another pint?"

In the corner behind Percy, sit, almost unnoticed, Michael and Mandy Metcalfe. Today is their 20th wedding anniversary, and, as they do every year, have come-out to celebrate. Both have made an effort tonight, Mandy has put on her lemon twin-set, which she knit for herself only three years ago, and Michael is looking very dapper in the Fair Isle sweater his mother bought for him on his 21'st birthday. On the table in front of them is their anniversary feast, a half-pint bitter shandy, a Britvic orange juice and two half-empty bags of cheese and onion crisps.
Throughout the quiz, Michael (Phoenix?) and Mandy (Carson City?) had sat motionless, apart from a shuffling of feet and the occasional glance at the clock on the wall, both praying for the clock to strike ten, and then they could go home.
The clock struck ten and, in perfect harmony, Michael and Mandy stood up, put on their coats, and with a weak wave towards the bar, walked out of the pub, their duty done for another year.

"Miserable sods them two."
"Aye. Another pint?"

Afternoon trade at The Drop Inn is always very quiet, usually just Dewdrop and Danny Boy sat in "their" places. Now and then a travelling salesman, lost, looking for directions to Upper Grumblethorpe, stays for a pint and a spam and Branston sandwich

On the first Tuesday of the month the Offcumdendale Rotary Club meet in the village hall in Little Hampton. Prompt at 10am the speaker would begin their talk, "Butterfly collecting for left-handed people," "My collection of Asda receipts," "Taxidermy for beginners," after which, lunch would be taken at The Drop Inn. Doctors, lawyers, retired JPs, all mingled in The Snug, whisky and water, gin and tonic and halves of best bitter in hand, discussing the mornings talk, the weather, money.

"Posh lot them."
"Aye. Another pint?"

Veronica had been slaving away all morning, de-frosting Bird's Eye Steak and Kidney pies, cooking oven-chips and warming peas. The Rotary Club has only six members, so lunch is held in the Taproom.
Lunch over (thankfully), Veronica clears the table, places a cup of instant coffee in front of each one and leaves, carefully closing the door behind her.
Now comes the serious part of the day, the meeting. Dr James Dykewater is the chairman, and, tapping his spoon against the side of his coffee cup (the reason all the coffee-cups in The Drop Inn are cracked), brings the meeting to order. "Gentlemen, good afternoon and thank you all for your attendance."
"Manny would you read the minutes of the last meeting?" Emmanuel Lofthouse, the secretary, reads out the report in his slow, sleep inducing voice, which makes the Steak and Kidney pie lie more heavily on stomachs already crying out for release.
"Just one item on the agenda. The annual trip. Any thoughts?"
"What about going to the brewery?"
"All those in favour?"
"Passed."
"Any other business?"
"See you all next month."

" Bet you a tenner they are going to the brewery again!"
"Another pint?"

Tonight is the final of the Offcumdendale Dart's League cup. The Drop Inn are playing The Muckspreader's Arms (the only two teams in the league), for the Ancient Order of Froth Blowers trophy.

"Quiet please, game on."

A hush descended over the pub. This was it, The Final. The air was static with tension, from both players and non-players. The Drop Inn had been unbeaten for the last 32 years but it was whispered in many circles, that this year was going to be the one when The Muckspreader's Arms came of age. Their team was made up of three of the best dart-players in the dale, who practiced every hour they could, didn't drink on match-nights and, during the week of the final, refused to go shopping to the local Asda store with their wives.

The Drop Inn team had been together now for 38 years and it was telling.
Hair had gone, teeth had gone, but worst of all, the eyes had gone. No young blood came through the ranks of The Drop Inn taproom, just a continual drain of the depleted ranks of the aging darts team.

One hour later it was all over. On a shelf next to the dart's scoreboard, gleaming in the light from the shadeless bulb, could be seen the dustless circle of the outline of the base of the Ancient Order of Froth Blowers dart's trophy.

"No Albert today?"
"Nah, his mother died last night. Pint?"
"Please, and six eggs. Put them on my tab."

Monica was laid to rest by the side of her beloved Horace, buried in her wedding-gown with a bottle of barley wine in her hand; she was now at peace with the world.

"Sorry to hear about your mother."
"Aye, thanks. Another pint?"

Now in his 70th year Albert was tired, he and Veronica needed a well-earned rest. He had seen many changes at The Drop Inn, not always for the better. The dart's team had lost The Ancient Order of Froth Blower's trophy. Dewdrop had met a woman from the next village, and now goes disco-ing every night. Danny Boy had met a violent end, walking home from The Drop Inn one rainy night; he mistook the gate to the village-well for his garden gate. He had mended the front door. The Sheep Dogs finally won the quiz, only Percy knows how, but he suddenly bought a new car!
The Rotary Club President broke a crown on one of Veronica's chips so they now hold their meetings at The Muckspreaders Arms. Michael and Mandy Metcalfe both got drunk celebrating their Ruby wedding-anniversary and have never been seen since.

No children to carry on the Wrigglethwaite name, Albert and Veronica talked long into the night, both knowing that a decision had to be made.

"So, you're leaving?"
"Aye. Another pint?"

The Drop Inn was packed, standing room only, the air thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, it was Albert's last night. The relief barman had been engaged; and Veronica had made her last buffet. The evening drew to a climax, much ale had been drunk, Veronica's buffet of Spam and Branston sandwiches, corn beef fritters and pickled Scotch Eggs lay untouched on the table.

"Ladies and gentlemen could I have your attention please?"
The firm refined voice, of Lord Dufflewick, Lord of the Manor of Offcumdendale, drew immediate hush from the packed Snug. A kindly and revered man, Lord Dufflewick owned all the property in Little Hampton, except for The Drop Inn, which his g-g-g-g-grandfather had lost in a wager over a game of dominoes with the Wrigglethwaites.
"Ladies and gentlemen I would like to thank you all for coming tonight, to say farewell to our dear friends, Albert and Veronica. It is with great ..." feet were shuffled, watches were surreptitiously looked at, throats were cleared, "...and in 1961 I remember Albert..." there were many glazed eyes now, queues were forming at the toilets, Veronica had disappeared upstairs (under the pretext of needing an aspirin) to catch the end of Coronation Street, "...and so it is with great pleasure that I would like to present Albert and Veronica with these wonderful presents that everyone has contributed to."

After many words of farewell, handshakes and kisses, the crowd finally left, to leave Albert and Veronica alone in The Snug. They smiled tiredly at each other, took each other's hand and walked slowly up the stairs, to fall, for the last time, into the bed that Albert was born in.

The following morning Albert and Veronica walked out of the door, turned slowly around and looked up, with a tear in their eye, at the sign above the door of The Drop Inn:

Alb rt & Ve on ca W ig le hw ite
L c nc d t s l y r t il al in ox ating l qu rs
f r co su io on or f t e pr m s.

"You never met Albert, did you?
"No. Another pint?"

HEY MISTER

I sat motionless; not daring to move; for even the slightest movement in these dank humid conditions brought sweat streaming from every pore of the body. I sat with my eyes tightly shut not daring to look around; for no matter in which direction I looked; it sent my head spinning; in fact the whole world seemed to be spinning as if released from its aeons of captivity.

A sweet sickly scent hung around; which at times became
overwhelming and brought on bouts of nausea; which made me long
for the sweet fresh air that I once knew and loved.

Although not alone I was alone; alone with my thoughts which no one
else could share; thoughts which turned to green fields and blue skies;
of escape from my predicament; which although self inflicted; was
necessary; but hindered my freedom. Escape! I must escape.

Time passed slowly by and as I sat; with eyes tightly shut; the slow
rhythmic churning sound all around brought on a hypnotic trance-like
state; which in itself was a blessing; for it allowed me to dream of
better times; times when life was good, times when the air was sweet
and cool.

Although in a trance I was always vaguely aware of movement and; at
irregular intervals; distant thudding sounds until a prodding sensation in
my shoulder awoke me from my trance with a start; and a voice said:

" Hey mister your washing's finished "

ON REFLECTION

Why does he stare so much? Every time I see him he just stares at me, his eyes follow mine with uncanny precision. They are not pretty eyes, darkly circled and baggy and not really fully opened. And that hair! What a mess. It looks as if it hasn't been combed for days. He's losing his hair, but growing it everywhere else, those bushy eyebrows, hair sprouting out of his nose and ears and boy does he need a shave.

He has a small scar on his top lip just like I have, I tried to eat an open tin can when I was a kid. There's a pock mark on his forehead, we all have them. Chicken Pox!! A kids(and mothers) nightmare, hours of itching and shouts from your mother "don't scratch", and then the cooling relief of calamine lotion.

Thought he smiled then, nah, just a bit of wind.

Hang on! Think he's trying to send me a message, his eye is twitching like a sailors signalling lamp sending a message in Morse Code. It's stopped now, won't send him a reply.

He looks quite worried now, his forehead is furrowed like a ploughed field. He's turned his head to one side and is running his hand over his bristles.

Sod it, I'll shave in the morning.

CANAL

The Leeds and Liverpool Canal runs through our town and the countryside around it. It was built between 1770 and 1816 and was used for the transportation of many things until 1972.It really is a thing of beauty, as it winds sinuously around the contours of the land, with new vistas around every corner.

Everything about it has that "worn-in" look with the tree-laden banks and litchen covered stone walls, it looks as if it has been here for ever. The numerous bridges, usually only used to get cattle from one side to the other, the odd canalside pub.


The canal is at its best at the end of May when nature is showing off its new mantle of green. The edges full of new growth, the heady scent of the May blossom on the Hawthorn that look snow laden. Scores of wild flowers, Buttercups, Bugle, Teasel, Old Mother Hubbard, Vetch and many, many more. The grass in the adjoining meadows waving in the breeze with the odd glimpse of Clover, both white and purple.It's a perfect place for wildlife. Ducks and their fabulous newly born ducklings, the Heron who always seems to be on his/her own, who is such an ugly bird really but so gainly in flight.Squirrels, weasles, I even saw an otter/mink once. The occasional flash of incandescent blue of the Kingfisher. Majestic Swans and their dowdy offspring. In a hot summer Dragonflies with a six inch translucent wingspan. Swallows playing at "I can skim lower over the canal than you can".

But best of all, The Quiet! It is so quiet, no sound of traffic, noisy music. Just the sound of the wash of the occasional barge against the bank. The "plop" of fish as they leap out and back into the water, and it is always behind you, you never see them. Even the barking of farm dogs doesn't bother me like it does at home.

The Canal. So near yet so far.

PET LOG

My Grandson has a pet log, he calls it Woody. He has had it for a while now, it followed him home from school one day and wouldn't leaf him alone.

It's quite an old log, the elder of a litter of six. It's got a horrible bark which doesn't make it very poplar with the neighbours.He takes it for a walk every day, which, despite a brief paws now and then, sometimes turns into a root-march which really saps his strength.

When on holiday it likes to have a run along the beech or sit at the elm of a boat.Although it doesn't generally like being handled it will allow yew to spruce it up when needed.

A word of warning!! If you want to keep a pet log you must twig-on to its every need or it will pine away.

THE WALLER

A tanner a yard the Wallers they earned,

Their monuments still stand for their trade was well learned.

For mile after mile over hill and through dale,

They can withstand the storm and the gale.

They sweated through Summer and froze in the cold,

To earn a living their labour they sold.

Six days a week they would toil at their craft,

Until Sunday gave respite from their graft.

Strange terms and words these men they would use,

The Batter, Fillings, Top-stones and Throughs.

But now not many Wallers have their skill to hire,

For farmers mend their walls with rolls of barbed-wire.

IT'S RAINING

It's raining, in fact it never seems to stop raining. It's that very fine steady drizzle that, for some reason, is wetter than other types of rain.

It's a quiet rain, I cannot hear it above rains other noises, the swishing of car windowscreen wipers, the dripping from the trees, the constant gurgle of the downspout, the splashing of children in the puddlles.

It makes the roofs and road glisten as if they have been polished.

A solitary dog-walker passes, his head bent against the rain, on his daily mission. The Postman is coming up the garden path, he is dressed for the rain, for he knows that whilst on his "walk" it will
never stop raining.

Kids coming home from school, most of them drenched, for no kid
looks cool with a school blazer on.

At least I'm dry, sat looking out of the window.

THE ONE

A ray of sunshine shone through the window; but a cloud of gloom lay heavy all around.

Although everyone was on; at least; nodding terms; no one spoke; but just gave a brief sign of recognition.

No sparkle of eyes, just a glazed; resigned stare. No smile; just a tautness of the lips that said it all. A shuffling of feet and crossing and uncrossing of legs were the only sign of life; apart from the occasional nervous clearing of the throat.

Above the rustling of turning pages and the ticking of the clock; could be heard a dull; monotonous sound and the occasional murmur of voices; followed by the closing of a door and the fading footsteps of someone in a hurry.

Then; all at once; without warning; the door opened. All eyes turned and looked fearfully to the apparition that stood there. The apparition spoke; in a soft but authoritative voice; the words that no one wanted to hear, and an audible release of the breath in relief could be heard from all but one. The "one" stood; on legs that seemed not to belong to him; paused for a second; looked around with watery eyes seeking solace from all around him. No solace came; for all other eyes were busily seeking out scratches on their owners shoes.

The "one"; seemingly all alone in the world; walked unsteadily; with shoulders drooped; out of the door never to be seen again.

Still the sun shone through the window, but the cloud of gloom lay more heavily now than at any other time, for now you are the "one".

And then; for the last time; the door opened and the apparition said
" the dentist will see you now".

THE PLOT THICKENS

I have an allotment, known affectionately as "The Plot".

I live on a very busy main road and the noise from the traffic is horrendous, as it pounds past my house from morning until night. The Plot is just across this busy road, and then a hundred yards along a track, it's a different world. There is just a faint hum of the traffic, the rippling of the beck at the side of the allotment and the singing of birds.I spend hours there every day, whether digging, weeding, planting or just pottering about, not really doing anything, but it's so relaxing, the fresh air, the sun on your face, your mind cleared of every worry, your only thought is the next sod to turn over or the next branch to prune.

There is always something to do, even when the major digging work is done, but there is always time to relax. I take my newspaper and crossword, and always(don't tell my wife) have some cans of beer floating in the water butt to keep cool.

My plot is at the end of the track, its a journey I make four times or more a day. It's a journey that lets me size up the oppositions efforts. Though you don't do it intentionally, you do tend to say to yourself, "Basil's rhubarb looks a bit weary.", "Rosemary's strawberries are way in front of mine."

Whosh!! There he goes again. The Flasher!! Artie Choke has the plot next to mine. A youngish guy who has a large garden at his house and only uses his allotment for growing vegetables. He has obviously read many gardening books. His plot is immaculate. Everything how an allotment should be. He flashes in, flashes around, then flashes away. Within the space of ten minutes from there being a bare patch of ground there is now a fully grown vegetable plot. Whilst I have only just planted my peas, his are two feet tall, my cabbage seedlings in the greenhouse are three inches tall, his are nearly ready for eating. But which one of us enjoys his plot the most?

There they are again, two pairs of eyes watching my every movement, they are like vultures waiting for death, waiting to swoop down and devour anything and everything as soon as I leave the site, a pair of pigeons."Coo" bloody "coo" all day long, the most boring sound in the animal kingdom.

The largest alloment on the site belongs to old Tom Hato, he's had it for many years and it's a mess. It's all overgrown, the buildings are falling down, it's a wasteland. Tom is in his eighties, has had two heart by-passes, but still he comes to his plot, not often, but just often enough to dig a small piece of land about 2m square, and every year he will produce three of the finest onions on the site.

Looked over the fence yesterday, and the foreign guy who has the next door plot had obviously been down. He sounds Scandinavian, think he's a Swede. He had been planting out his Brussels Sprouts and around them there were literally thousands of bright blue slug pellets. This left me totally amazed for I just sprinkle a handful around. Then, one early evening when it was just going dark, I went to The Plot to lock up, and as I approached I saw the faint glow of a torch in the Swede's plot, and there he was with a large box of slug pellets throwing handfuls of them at the slugs, trying to stone them to death.

Here's a secret, I pee behind the small shrub next to the Forsythia. Spending many hours at The Plot and drinking a beer or two leaves me wanting to pee, so I can just position myself behind the bush to make sure no one can see me.

Angelica appears now and then, a small busty lady who obviously enjoys sunbathing, but doesn't enjoy gardening. She has the poshest plot on the site. Half her plot is covered by an horrendous array of decking, which takes up enough room to grow vegetables on to keep half the town in vegetables for a year. The other half is covered in weeds, until her husband, who is a gardener by trade and it's the last thing in the world he wants to do with his free time, comes and digs it over for her. And she has a dog! A bloody great big Alsation. I hate dogs, I'm frightened to death of them, they crap all over the place and worst of all they bark. All I want from The Plot is a bit of peace and quiet, but I have nightmares about this coming summer, of this quite large lady in a bikini, or even worse topless, and a bloody barking dog.

Then there's Fred The Shed. What a man. He escapes from his wife to his shed. He doesn't grow much for his wife won't let him take anything home. He just has a shed full of onions. He has the allotment at the end of the track. It takes him twenty minutes to walk the hundred yards along the track, for he stops and peers, with a critical look on his face, at every allotment. Fred tells me of times in the past when he used to bring his home brewed beer to the allotment and kept it cold in the beck, until one hot summers day he drank too much and staggered through his onion patch and ruined them all. There are always "smells" in an allotment, but there is a strange one comes from Fred's shed, it's a sort of alcoholly, parsnippy smell. One day I'll ask him.

We are in the middle of a drought, it hasn't rained for weeks and all the crops are looking very limp. The other day I saw the Jewish guy from plot seven, Kohl Rabbi, think he works in a synagogue, down on his knees with his hands outstretched to Heaven shouting, "Lettuce pray to The Lord for salvation and rain".

But my favourite people of all at the allotments are Dan Delion and his wife. They appeared from nowhere and took over a piece of land that could have been used as a backcloth for a film about the trenches in World War 1. They grafted from morning till night until slowly, but surely, out of a scene of desolation there appeared a model plot, complete with greenhouse, sunken pool, raised beds, but best of all a BBQ. They don't grow many vegetables but their BigDan Burgers are to die for.

SUMMER

In England it rains for nine months of the year, for the remaining three months it has either just stopped raining or it is just going to start raining. And then all of a sudden The Sun shines and the whole country goes crazy.

We live wrapped up in a bubble, the windows and doors shut, the only time we breath fresh air is the dash from the house to the car and from the car to work or the shops. As soon as The Sun shines the windows and doors are flung open, and what do we get? The sounds of Summer!


Barking dogs, loud music through open doors and windows, bloody lawn mowers buzzing away at all time of day and night. Thirtysomethings having designer BBQ's, dressed in their designer long shorts, showing off their designer Benidorm tans, with The Sun flashing off their designer gold necklaces and ear studs, wafting their designer BBQ smoke through my open door and windows and playing their designer loud music.

The kids start playing out in the street, football, skipping, just generally running about in the soon to be gone sunshine, they make a noise but its a nice noise, apart from The Screamers, that's awful.The plonker at number 15 who spends all day cleaning and polishing his car and listening to The Rolling Stones Greatest Hits(a one-sided single) not through earphones connected to a Walkman but from a 1960's portable tape deck so we all can hear it.


Alarms! What a waste of time, does anybody take any notice of them? Car alarms going off every twenty minutes, the alarm at the restaurant up the street that sets off at 4-30am, no-one lives above the shop so it's the next morning before it's turned off.

Mrs Next Door, whom you never see all year round, going out to her washing machine in the garage twenty times a day, she slams the kitchen door, goes into the garage and slams that door, comes out of the garage and slams the door and then slams the door when she goes back into the kitchen.

Wish it would rain then I could close my door and windows.

COMBAT

Their eyes met with an unwavering steelness, neither of them willing to
look down first; which would be a blow to their manliness. All around a
sea of noise immersed them like waves upon the shore, but for all this;
they could have been locked in their own bubble; which neither one of
them was willing to burst.

As they drew nearer; tiny beads of perspiration could be seen on each
brow; and the clenching of their hands was a sure sign of the tension
that they both felt; but would not let each other see.

Behind them; and on both sides; people went about their own
business; completely unaware of the drama that was about to unfold,
a drama, that whilst being a common occurrence, was life or death to
the actors that were to take part in it, a drama that to the winner;
was not so much the physical part of winning; but a mental triumph
that meant he could hold his head uphigh until his next encounter.

The seconds ticked by as the two players in this modern gladitorial
contest slowly, but steadfastly, drew near to the point of no return. The
no-mans-land between them slowly diminished with each unfaltering
step; until a point would be reached when a decision had to be made.
An instant decision. A decision that once made was irretrievable, a
decision that could have a bearing on his life forever. A wrong decision
would mean shame, a shame that would be ingrained on his memory
for ever, and never more would he be able to walk with his head held
high and look anyone in the eye again.

The time had come; as the two combatants halted and looked each
other unfaltering in the eye. This was the point of no return, the point
when a winner and a loser would be chosen; and no one wants to be a
loser.

Then when an impasse seemed to be the only outcome; the losers
eyes lowered and in a voice that quivered with emotion said " these
supermarket aisles aren't wide enough for two trolleys " as he
sheepishly moved aside to let the winner go past.

FEAR

I've stood looking at it for hours, but it just stares impassively back at me.

I've tried walking up to it but I just break out in a cold sweat.


Once I thought of taking it by surprise by creeping up on it when it
was dark but it spotted me and I had to run.


I've had this phobia for years now; and it really depresses me; for I
think I'm the only person in the world who is afraid of it. I've sat

for hours on end talking my way through a course of actions to

conquer my fear without any success.

Day after day I go past it and see other people not afraid; I even

asked someone to come with me once but I shied away in terror

at the last minute. It's now got to the point when it fills my

thoughts all day long but if I am to keep my sanity I will have

to do it.

If I walk slowly up to it with my eyes closed and keep saying to
myself " I can do it " over and over again perhaps that will do it.

Today I am going to do it(I think).

Today I am going to get some money out of that hole in the wall.

THE QUIFF**

Tony Curtis was to blame, followed by Cliff Richard and Billy Fury, The Quiff!
All the young lads in town had a quiff. Hours were spent in front
of the mirror with a comb and a jar of Brylcream, teasing up The
Quiff until it stood proud and greasy. I have never been able to
understand how a cricketer, Dennis Compton, should be a role
model for Brylcream instead of a pop star.

Unless you were a Teddy Boy with long hair, a quiff and a "DA", haircuts were a fairly regular affair, providing your mum had the money to spare and you managed to fend her off sitting you down with a towel around your neck and attacking your Barnet with scissors and a pudding bowl.

Our demon barber was Dougie. He first had a shop at the rear
of a sweet shop on the corner across from The Station Hotel
then moved to a small shop adjacent to the railway crossing at
our railway station. The shop was furnished with several tip-up
seats which had been taken from the local cinema, the
obligatory large mirror on the wall, and of course Dougie.
Dougie? How this man could talk, and his main topic of talking
was fishing. Now apart from being boring, it was also
dangerous, for Douggie spoke with his hands, no-one went to
Dougie for a shave or asked to have their eyebrows trimmed.
Many a time when he was "squaring off" your hair at the back
he would tell of hauling in a twopounder and his trimmers would
leave a patch up the back of your head.

Years went by and we all grew up (well some of us) and the day
came when the decision was made to get rid of The Quiff. I can
still remember the day when, with intrepidation, I went into
Dougies and said the immortal words "cut the quiff off please".
The next day was the only time I was glad to wear the stupid
little cap that my Grammar school insisted we wear.

More years came and went, marriage, children, the hair doesn't matter now and you just get it cut and comb it now and then, until one day on a trip out we called into a store, and all of a sudden I let out an almighty scream, for there in front of me was a TV screen and the CCTV camera had caught the back of my head and there for all the world, no, not them, but ME to see, was The Tonsure in all its glory. Why had no-one told me? How
long had it been like this?

The baldness has now long been forgotten, I don't know I'm bald when I look in the mirror and the only time it's mentioned is when my seven year old grandson creeps up behind me, pats The Tonsure and shouts out at the top of his voice, "Baldie"!

BARGHEES**

I am the Chairman of the Totally Independent Tackers Society, known locally as the TITS. We meet the last Thursday of the month at The Anchor Inn next to the wharf on the canal. I run a two berth cruiser which is that old it's painted in sepia.
Membership has dramatically fallen over the last few years due to ill health, the odd drowning or two, the bottom falling out of the boating business, until there is just the three of us. Nanuke is The Secretary, he is an out of work igloo-thatcher, due to global warming eskimos now live in tents. He runs a kayak.Nemo is The Treasurer, he works as a wringer-outer for a one-armed window cleaner, he runs a rowing boat, which his boss once had a go in, but he just kept going round in circles.

Items for the agenda:

1. Indian barge owners, we call them Bhargees, are not to be allowed to use their crafts as take-aways.

2. A complaint from a member of the public about the size of fishermens tackle.

3. The annual outing of TITS.
Decided on by The Chairmans casting vote that it would be to the locks and back. Just three men in a boat(sounds like a good title for a book), The Chairman to plot the course, Nanuke to fetch a flask and sandwiches and The Treasurer to pay for the beer.

After the meeting we adjourn to the bar where we all share stories. Eskimo Rollers, Bhargees,cruisers, rowers.
We share a beer, sing songs, and tell jokes. We are all happy to share the water and the outdoors

THE BATHS**

It's Saturday morning, and shouts can be heard coming from
numerous houses on the estate, "Mum? can I have some
money for the baths?"
Within minutes (it's amazing how quickly a mother will part with
her money to get some peace and quiet) a dozen young boys
could be seen running down the steep hill that led from the
estate, occasionally stopping to pick up dropped towels and
swimming costumes.

Standing at the bus stop the boys laughter and chattering grew
louder and louder until it reached a crescendo when, from
around the corner, there appeared, to a mighty cheer from the
boys, THE X43.
The X43!! Every young boys dream, the creamy coloured
double-decker Ribble bus that ran every two hours.
The bus had hardly drawn to a halt before the young boys were
pushing and shoving each other, all desperate to climb the
stairs and take possession of their own driving seat at the front of the bus.

The trip to the neighbouring large town, although only a short
distance, seemed to take forever, for The X43 stopped at
every bus stop along the route (people travelling to
Manchester, a distance of some forty miles, were known to
have stopped overnight in Ramsbottom) and when the boys
disembarked there were audible gasps of relief from all.

The journey from the bus stop to the swimming baths was
made on the run, thankfully in those days traffic was very light
and the only danger was slipping in the piles of horse dung that
littered the streets.

The swimming baths was a large Victorian edifice, now black
and grimy with years of smoke from the houses and nearby
mills. The boys ran up the entrance steps to the glass-
opening(should there be an hyphen there?) in the wall, and
one by one said the words that made Saturday morning
dreams come true, "Child, swimming, please."

To a small child the baths must have seemed enormous. True
it was a large building, a typical Victorian "we've got a large
Empire" building, with a large pool and changing cubicles on
two levels with curtains to hide one's modesty, but which were
never wide enough, obviously having shrunk with many years
in a damp atmosphere, so much time was taken up hopping on
one leg trying to put on/take off clothing whilst trying to close
the gap at each side of the curtain with one hand. One side of
the room was for females and the other for males.


Clothes were quickly removed and swimming costumes put on,
with many ribald comments about willys. Then with a loud
splash a dozen bodies hit the surface of the water as one, to
the consternation of the other occupants of the baths.

Three hours quickly passed, with much laughter, diving and
splashing with the occasional break to try and peep under the
curtains of the female changing cubicles, until a dozen wrinkled
bodies left the pool and rushed to get dressed, for to miss the
bus back meant waiting for two hours for the next one.

The Saturday morning dream was still not finished, for as
always the end of a perfect day was rounded off by purchasing
a meat and potatoe pie which, although piping hot, was
consumed before the bus stop was reached.

The journey home was a subdued affair, the boys energy
having been expended, some even fell asleep possibly to relive
the morning in their dreams.
"Your stop lads" came a shout from the conductor, and the
boys alighted from the X43 and wound their weary way back up
the steep, and getting steeper, hill to the estate.

"Had a good time"?

"Super mum".

A TRIP TO ASDA

“There’s one”, “Too late; someone’s taken it”. “There’s someone
coming out now; follow them”. So you stealthily track the person
with the laden trolley; stop and nonchalantly look around you
until the trolley is unloaded into the boot of the car; watch as the
car reverses out and then; just as you are about to enter the
vacant spot; another car; which has been stopped with its driver
nonchalantly looking around; streaks into the spot you were about
to go into. This goes on and on, until in despair you let your wife
go and start the shopping (which in itself is a blessing in disguise)
whilst you slowly drive around the car park until you find a spot to
park in. A word of caution if doing this, do not wear dark glasses or you are likely to be apprehended by the Law for stalking.

Who the hell designs supermarket car parks? Bet he’s never seen
a car in his life. Bet he has a pushbike and so makes parking spots
just wide enough to park a bike in, the passenger has to get out
before you park unless you want to invoke the wrath of the owner
of the car next to you by taking off his paint with your door, not
only that it takes a fifteen point turn to get in or out because the
spots are at right-angles to each other instead of being at an
angle.

Ever bought a box of paper clips? You open the box and it takes three hours to unravel all the clips that are entangled together
before you finally separate one. It’s the same with trolleys.
There can be up to thirty all stacked together but can you just
pull the first one out on its own? Can you hell!
You can pull the first five out together, or even the first twenty
but never the first one, so you end up waiting for someone to
finish unloading theirs and politely ask them if they have finished
with it.
“ Tell me what you want, what you really really want ”. I hate
the person who decided that playing pop music in a supermarket at 120 decibels would induce me to buy anything.
Isn’t there enough noise in today’s life without having to endure
rubbish like this for an hour or more? Why can’t I be bored and
miserable in silence? And then there are the announcements
over the PA system; “Wolud vgsdh hjsdyc plaese anshdjf tdh
nsjdhfy urgetnly”. Do the employees of Asda speak a different
language to the rest of us?

It’s the middle of August, 90 degrees in the shade and you are dressed in T shirt, shorts and flip flops. You get quickly past the
fresh veg section and then what do you hit? The freezer
section!! Within nanoseconds the temperature drops 40 degrees
and immediately you start shivering.Frost bite starts attacking
your feet and you are feeling totally miserable; cursing your wife
under your breath for wanting you to bring her here, after all
didn’t you bring her three years ago, how often do you need to
shop?

The only thing that keeps you going is the sudden appearance of the outline of dozens of nipples that mysteriously appear from
nowhere.

Observation: Wife to husband: “ Whilst I go for some bananas
you go and get some lemons, they are usually packed but if
they aren’t packed you will have to get some loose ones”.
“Would you please get me half a dozen eggs and a loaf of
bread”, A fairly simple request from your wife; but have you ever
tried to buy half a dozen eggs and a loaf of bread in a
supermarket. When I was a lad, if that’s what you asked for
that’s what you got. Not today!! There’s white, brown, organic,
large, small, free range, sliced, crusty, cob, wholemeal et al.

Observation: You can always tell a child that is taken shopping to a supermarket and pushed around in the trolley. At the age of
four his reading skills consist not of “The cat sat on the mat” but
“Heinz Tomato Soup, Bero Flour, Asda own label Spaghetti"

Imagine eavesdropping on The Planning Committee sat around
a large table with a plan of the proposed new store.
Managing Director: "Ok guys, our budget is £1,500,000 to build a store and fit it out with storage racking."
Store Manager: "I need storage space for a daily turnover of £300,000."
Planner: "For that turnover you will need a storage area of 162,000 square feet, which means we would have to build a bigger building."
Managing Director: "Budget, guys."
Store Manager: "I suppose I could manage on a daily turnover of £299,999."
Managing Director: "Profit, guys."
Planner: "Lets make the aisles only just wide enough for two trolleys to pass each other, providing the trolley pushers have
a) 20/20 vision,
b) no kids with them,
c) and the shelf stackers are on their tea break.

Observation: I have a friend who is on a very tight budget, and who, having been to the beer aisle, has not much money left for
food, so he walks around the store six times, always stopping at
the sales person who is giving free food samples away to
entice you to buy something. He never feels really full,
but he'll never run out of cream crackers.

You've finally made it, you've been up and down all the aisles until you are dizzy, you have banged into a dozen other trolleys,
the loud incessant music has made you deaf, and you and your
wife aren't speaking(the only good thing that has come out of
the shopping trip), but no, you haven't made it, you have only
reached "The Check Out."

"That didn't take long love, we will be back home in time to watch Coronation Street." Two hours later and you have moved
three feet, you have celebrated another two birthdays, and you
have missed bloody Coronation Street.It's finally your turn at
"The Check Out". "Hello sir, would you like some help with your
packing?" Bet she would curse if I said, "Yes please".

Your shopping is finally loaded into your trolley and here comes the moment your wife has been dreading ever since you left home, "Please enter your PIN number madam." You can see
the numbers rolling around in her mind like the cherries on a
one armed bandit, even though it was only yesterday that we
changed all her credit card PIN numbers to the year of her birth.

Nearly there now, only the queue for The National Lottery tickets to be manoeuvred, good bit of planning that to sell Lottery tickets adjacent to the exit. The end is in sight and you can see your car, and as you

approach it you can sense a dozen pairs of eyes watching your every move.

AS WE OFTEN DO ON WEEKENDS**

As we often do on weekends, we found ourselves on the canal
bank. It's our favourite spot, just beyond the bridge with the
foundry behind us. It's a very windy spot, but there is usually
a South-Westerly wind which blows the fumes from the
foundry chimney away from us.

After spending ten minutes struggling to put up the deck
chairs, which always seem to have a mind of their own, we
settled down, with a rug around our knees, to enjoy a cup of
tea from the new flask that we had only bought this morning
from the "Everything a pound" shop on the high street in
town.
As we sat drinking our tea a large canal barge came slowly
chugging by, obviously a hired holiday barge for its name was
www.bargesRuz.com. The person at the tiller(no clues as to
it being male or female), dressed up in oilskins and
sou'wester, gave a frozen looking smile and a half hearted
wave and obviously wished he/she was moored up at the next
pub, sat in front of a log fire with a foaming pint in hand.
Whilst musing over three down("starting order for a rice
pudding race?"), a movement caught my eye to the right, a
young lad, possibly about thirteen years old came down off
the road and leant against the underside of the bridge. His
hand went into his jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled
cigarette, and after much fumbling through all his pockets
came up with a match with which he lit the cigarette. Whilst
puffing away he proceeded to pace up and down under the
bridge stopping every now and then to peer up to the top of
the path to the bridge.
He finished his cigarette and I finished another cup of
tea(three down, "sago"), and still he paced. And then a broad
smile broke upon his face and he made a movement towards
the path to the bridge where a young girl, possibly about
thirteen, came running down, shouting "sorry I'm late". The
pair walked off hand in hand, a courting couple.

BE HOME BEFORE IT GETS DARK...

I was always a loner. Although happy to play with other kids I always enjoyed my own company, and still do.

The house I lived in as a kid, was surrounded by fields and, in the distance, heathery hills, which, in summer, were an absolute heaven for a young boy with an imagination. Packing-up a paper bag full of jam sandwiches and a bottle of pop, Dandelion and Burdock was my favourite, I would set off, climb over the barbed-wire fence that separated my house from the fields and head off into an unfolding adventure.

Never told my mum or anyone else where I was going, for the simple reason I never knew, and on the very few occasions that I did, the only answer was "be home before it gets dark." Imagine any young kid doing that nowadays? But let's not talk about the present the past is much more interesting.

Now the first obstacle in my path were the cows! Dozens of them and weren't they big, or was I small? Although a very docile animal they were always steered clear of as much as possible, as were the large piles of muck that they produced, (the first time my mother told me to "watch the cows clap" I had a mental image of a herd of cows lining up and applauding me with their front hooves as I walked past), although this wasn't always successful and my shoes, my only shoes,
usually had an odour of cow about them. Pity the mums of today that have to clean the modern kids-shoes which have soles with a network of ridges which take days to clean - but let's not talk about the present the past is much more interesting.

Just reached the first field fence and, being too lazy to walk to the stile, I always climbed over the barbed-wire fence. One day I left my finger behind on a barb which curtailed instantly that days adventure and resulted in a long tearful walk with mum to the doctor's surgery. I still, when in a pensive mood, trace the outline of the scar with my thumb nail and think back to those days.

In "those days" many of the field boundary fences still had lots of trees within them, remnants of the early field systems. They had many uses, for cows to ease an itch with, birds to nest in, for young lads to prove how brave they were by climbing to the top(yes I do admit I had a birds egg collection), but most usefully they gave shelter, to both man and beast, from the rain and sun. On many an occasion this fence would be the limit of my days excursion, for it would start raining and I would take shelter, eat my jam sandwiches, drink my Dandelion and Burdock, and then run home. Can never remember wearing a raincoat!

Today is bright and sunny, the first fence has been successfully negotiated and things are looking good. A bit peckish so munching on a jam sandwich, also a bit thirsty so sipping at my pop, on many an expedition I would have to resort to "bush meat" to sustain me throughout the day swilled down with beck water.
These journeys of discovery really did last all day, for I have now been gone from home over an hour and only reached the second fence. But the "second fence" was an important milestone on my journey for it was here that I got my first sight of "The Beck"!! I would usually spend time leaning on the fence to take in all the delights of the beck as it wound its sinuous weaving course through the fields until it disappeared with a sensual motion into the tunnel under the railway line.

"The Beck", every boy's delight, not very deep, not very wide, but a thing of great beauty, with its flower-coated banks, the rare incandescent blue flash of a Kingfisher, the shoals of tiddlers, the lone Bull-head, which we would spend hours trying to catch and then take home in a jam jar. The cows lazily chewing the grass along the banks and wading in for a much needed, satisfying drink. With luck you would spy a Heron standing rock still in the water, patiently waiting for its lunch to come swimming unwarily by. This section of the beck was very slow moving and was never very clean, but there were no qualms about taking off shoes and socks, and in very hot summers everything else, and paddling in the cool water. Hours could be passed looking under stones for strange looking insects that would dart away as their shelter was invaded.

Time to move on, the shadow of the lone oak tree in the field by the beck is shortening, and there are many miles to walk, and many things to see and do before I have to turn around to make sure I am "...home before it's dark".

Being a bit peckish I munch on a jam sandwich and swill it down with Dandelion and Burdock.

Through the tunnel under the railway I arrive at the main road, the frontier of the wilderness that lay ahead of me. Once negotiated I was then alone. Alone to pick my wits against whatever nature may throw at me, but I was up for it, for no one would see if I was afraid or frightened unless they saw the dried tear stains under my eyes.

I am now Jungle Jim, ahead is a long meandering track up through the fields heading towards the hills. There are wild beasts on every side of me and I have to hack my way through the undergrowth(hope the farmer doesn't see me in his meadow). A brief respite at a watering hole, a quick drink out of a trough as I sped through a farmyard. I was never happy about walking through farmyards. They are full of so many hidden dangers, dogs that bite, farmers that shout, cows that clap(thank you, you are so kind), geese that hiss et al.

Now been gone from home for four hours. Time for lunch. Munching on my last jam sandwich and swilling it down with my last drop of Dandelion and Burdock I take stock of the day so far. It's nice and sunny. Managed to get over the barbed-wire fence unscathed. Didn't fall in the beck. Got applauded by cows just for walking through a field. A good day so far.

Not far to go now, my journeys end, the wood in the dell. A mysterious wood full of rustles, cries and shadows. This is the place where, to my shame in later life, I collected birds eggs. Every boy had a birds egg collection, kept in a wooden box stuffed with cotton wool. This is the place I collected my other scar. It's three inches long on the left hand side of my stomach. I climbed to the top of a tall tree where a bird's nest could be seen, put my hand inside the nest and a young bird bit me. I fell down the tree gashing my side as I fell "...which curtailed instantly that day's adventure and resulted in a long tearful walk with mum to the doctor's surgery".

I am now Robin Hood, I have my trusty bow and my band of merry men.
Deer are killed, The Sheriff of Nottingham is captured and held to ransom and I steal a kiss off Maid Marion.

I am now tired and, I must admit, a bit scared, the day has suddenly started to go dark and the wood in the dell is now a frightening place.

All my jam sandwiches are gone, my bottle of Dandelion and Burdock is empty. I want to go home "...before it gets dark".