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FOGGYDAVES CANTENNA 
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A FEW VERSES 

NAMES I CALL MY WIFE & SHAKESPEAREAN INSULTS

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REVOLUTION KITE MAKING

 

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STORIES BY HATTYMENDER  

STORIES BY HELEN WORRALL

 

STORIES  AND EBAY SALES

1     AN OLD LAND ROVER
2     EBAY
3     SELLING AN OLD LAND ROVER  
4     SELLING WHEELS AND TYRES
5     A NEW JOB AT THE FUNERAL PARLOUR
6     SELLING VIDEO CAMERA
7     MY BIRTHDAY TODAY
8     WITCHERY PART ONE
9     SELLING CANVAS HOOD
10   WITCHERY PART TWO
11   SELLING CARAVAN HITCHDRIVE 
12   WITCHERY PART THREE
13   SELLING RATCHET STRAPS  
14   WITCHERY PART FOUR
15   SELLING GOAL POSTS  
16   WITCHERY PART FIVE
17   SELLING A HI VIZ COAT
18   WITCHERY PART SIX

19   SELLING 3 TONNES OF CLAY    
2O  WITCHERY PART SEVEN
21   SELLING A WHEEL CLAMP
22   SHOPPING AND THE HESITANT DOORS
23   SELLING AN OLD PAIR OF BOOTS

24   THE REAL DE VINCI CODE

25   MY GUITAR AND AMP

26   SELLING MOTORBIKE PANNIERS

27   HALLOWEEN

28 SELLING A HIGHWAY CODE

29 ZEN AND THE ART OF  LAND ROVER MAINTENANCE

30  SELLING A CIGARETTE LIGHTER AND A TRIP TO SCOTLAND

31  CHRISTMAS LIGHT RAGE

32  METAMORPHOSIS

33 SELLING AN AMBER BEACON

34 THE UNIVERSE IS A  BIG PLACE

35 SELLING A  BLOW LAMP

36 SELLING BOOTS UPDATE

37 SELLING A  TORCH

38 SELLING A MOTORBIKE JACKET

39 SELLING A POWER JUICER

40 SELLING A HORSE WHIP

41 THE BOAT

42 SELLING LAND ROVER SIDE STEPS

43 SELLING A  TOW / RECOVERY CHAIN

44 SELLING LAND ROVER BULL BARS

45 SELLING THE FOGGYDAVE CARRIER BAG

46 CARAVAN RAGE OR AGINCOURT DEUXIEME PARTIE

 

 

 

STORY 16   WITCHERY PART FIVE

A HOME AT LAST

 Where the coven find a home, and trouble from the council 

 

 

Woman are stubborn creatures, once they have an idea they pursue it to the end, be it whinging about leaking gutters or obtaining a new lounge suite, like a dog with a very tasty bone they will never let it go. And so it was with my wife, the hunt was on for a venue, preferably fire proof.
There are some lovely words in the English language. I like the word “plinth”, and “skeleton”. There is another word and that is “serendipity”. It was “serendipity” or “chance”, which came to the wife’s rescue in the form of none other than Bernard Entwhistle, bachelor and postman of this parish with a predilection for engine oil in its many forms and applications, (most of them on his body). It transpired that Bernard had got to know somehow that my wife wanted to start a coven, and was on the lookout for a venue and new members. (I had a good idea of Bernard’s interpretation of “members” and it definitely had something to do with naked ladies, engine oil, and orgies). For my wife the clincher came when he mentioned he had a huge drinks cellar that would be ideal for meetings of this sort, the drums of oil would need clearing out along with the old tin bathtub but once this was done the room was theirs. My wife beaming with pleasure, (and when my wife’s happy every ones happy), made B into an honorary warlock first class.
Two nights later saw the first meeting of the coven, I was not privy to what went on as I do not agree with all this hokum pokum witchum scarum stuff and it also gave me a rest from the wife. On her return she seemed happy enough which was good enough for me. It would seem our long search for a location was over thank goodness. Life may now be a little more sedate, my dearest could pursue her hobby, and I mine which normally entailed avoiding the wife.
All went well for a few months, the coven membership grew as word spread and more meetings were held to accommodate every one. The best of it was, was that my dearest was absent for most of the time which meant peace and quiet for myself. All good things must come to an end for soon complaints were sent to the council regarding noisy parties and the banging of car doors, and the revving of mobility scooters late at night, these were all sent in by a Miss Clara Entwhistle, sister of Bernard and collector of stray cats. She lived two doors down and was becoming increasingly perplexed at the strange and steady disappearance of her cats, and was pretty sure it had something to do with these parties that younger brother Bernie was hosting and to which she was not invited. He had also been getting above his station, strutting about on his post rounds like a peacock all high and mighty. She thought he was being led astray by that big woman from the next street whom had too many airs and graces. He needed taking in hand and down a peg or two and she was the big sister to do it. Or so she thought!
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Letter from Mr. I P Daley Clerk to the Council
Dear Mr. Entwhistle
It has been bought to our attention by various concerned members of the public that you are running a bordello at no 90 Loxlet rd which is in contravention of various bylaws of this parish. Furthermore you are running it without planning consent. You must cease this activity immediately or suffer the consequences.
I remain your obedient servant  I P Daley etc etc.
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It was well known that Mr. Daley, and in fact most of the council were in the pay of the local Mafia. The consequences hinted at would either be concrete boots or a horses head in bed. The horses head would be a bloody one unless Councillor Bacon sent it. He was in charge of the local amateur dramatics group and would just send the front end of the pantomime horse. This letter caused much consternation in the Foggydave household as my wife wrestled with the mystery as to whom these “concerned members” may be. She had a good idea as “throwing the bones” had given her a fuzzy picture of an old woman, who although slightly out of focus looked very much like Bernards older sister, a wizened bitter busy body of a spinster who’s motherly instincts were lavished upon her cats, many of whom now resided in the coven as witches “familiars”, drinking cream and laying on silk cushions. The easy solution would be to allow Miss Clara to join the coven, but she would want to be boss, especially over her little brother, but there could only be one head honcho and that was my dearest. (A lesson I had learnt very early on in our relationship) And so the letters were ignored.                                                                                                                                                                            There comes a time when a person gets so strong and confident that they feel they should flex their muscles and break out into a new phase of their lives, and so it is with organizations. The coven had grown so much that their meetings were held every night except Sunday when most of them went to church. This strength of numbers gave it confidence, and this confidence manifested itself in defiance. I could see trouble looming on the horizon, trouble with a capital C that stood for Councilors. It could also stand for Church but the local vicar was overjoyed at the increasing numbers of his congregation. There comes a time (yes another “there comes a time” moment) when you reach an age when your three score years and ten are about over and you feel it may be better to hedge your bets just in case, and so a lot of the coven wished to balance out any possible wrong doing with goodness, and so went to church. Although they were having such a jolly time as witches heaven would seem a bit stale by comparison.
And so it was decided to defy the council, to fight for what they believed in. Why should councilors be allowed to spoil all their fun, surely after toiling all day in the fields (in the pension queue) they needed some relaxation, and every one knew it was not the council they were fighting, they were but puppets on strings pulled by the local Mafia, and the local Mafia were none other than the WI or Women’s Institute. A more dangerous bunch of fanatics and money grabbers you would not find this side of the M6. They were led by there “Chairwoman” Lady Penelope Garside the Capo known locally as “Big P” or behind her back “Urinal face”. Whereas the American Mafia wear dark suits and homburg hats the WI wore floral dresses and blue rinses, but their lead lined handbags are as lethal a weapon as the American machine gun and as feared by all the locals. They had their fingers in many pies not only the blackberry and steak and kidney kind, but most local shopkeepers taxi drivers and other money making people paid a levy to the WI. A levy was also creamed off the local parish tax paid by all the inhabitants, and any jumble sale, school fete and whist drive. It was about time this stranglehold was broken and it was my dearest and her cohorts who would do it. All the local councillors were either WI members or husbands and lovers of the WI members. Another bit of serendipity was that the Parish council elections were coming up in a few weeks. My wife’s plan would hopefully be quick but it certainly would not be pretty. Let battle commence.
 

Copyright © David B Forrester 2008


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