There has been a lot of news this week, but I don’t want to devote too much time thinking about the convicted criminal, Trump. I am quite sure the jury’s decision will have no impact on the millions who, for some reason, believe he is an anti-establishment hero facing discrimination from the government. They seem to believe so many other lies. Neither do I want to discuss much of the nonsense spouted in the election campaign other than ask why the BBC gives so much time to Farage. He spouts nothing but lies and rubbish, has never won an election for a personal seat in parliament and never held a post with any responsibility.
So what else has happened this week. Well, last week we went to hear Caroline Lucas, retiring Green Party MP and former leader of the Green Party, speak about her latest book and obviously other aspects of her career. Her book is about finding what it means to be English in various parts of the country and trying to claim Englishness back from the right wing bigots who took us out of Europe. I’m not that interested in the English although I am sure her analysis and suggested responses make interesting reading. She did however come across as a very intelligent and knowledgeable person with endless patience for putting green ideas across. How she coped with fourteen years in Parliament as the sole representative of the Green party, dealing with every issue that came before MPs, I do not know. In a country where representation in parliament is a reflection of the views of the electorate we would have a sizeable number of Green Party MPs able to influence policies. That country is not the UK and never will be – no ruling party will ever support proportional representation. So, we are stuck with main parties which still think that climate change and environmental issues are topics that can be pushed to one side and are not going to be the major drivers of economic and social change/disaster in the future.
I feel rather despondent about the future of the human race and civilisation because of the worsening environmental and political situation. I don’t think it is a consequence of ageing and being in the final quarter or third of one’s life. I keep on asking myself – are things really getting worse or is it just my perception of world and local events. As my personal life is happy, settled and rewarding, I have to conclude that my anxieties are real and that everyone should be striving to put things right before we reach the apocalypse. Unfortunately, I think that, in general, people are just like those frogs in the saucepan – not noticing that the heat is increasing.
Despite various things happening this week I have got on with a bit of writing. Another area of despondency is the lack of sales of my books – The Jasmine Frame crime novels and my two anthologies through Amazon Kindle (paperbacks from me – contact paintedladiesnovel@btinternet.com) and my five fantasy novels published by Elsewhen. I know that a major part of the problem is my laziness and ineptitude in marketing and advertising but it is disappointing. The thing is that I enjoy the planning and the writing far more than the work needed on promotion, although standing up and talking about my books is fun.
This week I have made progress with my SF novel that has been three or four years in the writing. The end is almost in sight – well, the climax is. Then there is this week’s writers’ group effort, a bit of frivolity. The topic suggested was “hair”, but how was it spelt? My story covers all possibilities. but perhaps not as cleverly or humorously as I would have liked. It’s historical and I did do some googling and wikipediaring to check certain facts. So here it is.
The tale of the hare, the hair, the heir and Herr Herr
Harold acquired his nickname not because of the appeal of alliteration but because he was fleet of foot and sometimes seen running at twilight or dawn. Harold the Hare also had conspicuous ears with very fine hearing and a useful pair of fists. All of which attributes contributed to the success of his career as a thief. In 1780s London, Harold’s reputation grew as more and more of the large houses of the lords and ladies at court had a nocturnal visitation from him.
On a dim, misty morning, Harold was making his way across Green Park having spent an unproductive night in Mayfair, where many of the wealthy had taken up residence. As he crossed Constitution Hill he saw the Queen’s Palace looming ahead of him. A fancy that his luck may be in, took hold of him. He ran silently through the grass to the grand building and noticed a sash window was open. He climbed inside and perused his surroundings in the semi-darkness. It appeared that he had entered the workshop of a master wigmaker because hanks of hair hung from the walls and a very fine specimen was draped over the head of a mannequin in the centre of the room.
Just then, Harold’s keen ears picked up the faint footsteps of someone approaching along the corridor beyond the door to the room. He grabbed the wig off the stand and dived through the window. He lay in the grass, out of sight, until he was certain that no one in the Palace would see him. He stuffed the wig of soft, curly, brilliant white human hair in his jerkin so that it would not be seen and he scampered away, resuming his morning stroll back to his lodgings in Westminster.
It was considerably later that morning, when the heir to the throne arose from his bed. It had been another late night of carousing with his rich, young friends. After a substantial breakfast, his manservant helped him dress. Prince George had been called to an audience with his father, the King.
“I suppose I will have to wear a wig,” the young heir muttered, “It is so out of fashion, but papa still expects one to be worn at court. Where is that nice white one that Here Herr has made for me? Summon the wigmaker. I must have it immediately.”
The message was carried from the grand bedroom down to the ground floor. Herr Herr looked around his work room in vain. Where was his newest and finest creation? Reluctantly, he made his way to the prince’s bedroom empty handed.
“Where is my wig,” Prince George demanded.
Herr Herr bowed low and spoke in a thick Hanoverian accent. “Pardon me, your Royal Highness. It has gone. It has been stolen.”
“Call the guards!” cried the heir. “The thief must be caught. Place a notice with a reward in the newssheets.”
“What a calamity,” Herr Herr cried, “I do not have another wig completed for you to wear before the King.”
“Oh, do not concern yourself,” Prince George said. “I didn’t want to wear one anyway. Who does these days? My father will have to become accustomed to seeing gentlemen with their own hair on view, or turn mad.”
A day later, a copy of the London Courant came into Harold’s hands. He read the comings and goings of the wealthy with interest and then noticed a report of the theft from the Queen’s Palace of a fine, white wig. There was a reward for the apprehension of the thief of the same. Harold the Hare snorted. No one would claim that sum. He had already discovered that the market for wigs had diminished considerably and that he would be unlikely to find a trustworthy buyer for such a distinctive example as he had in his possession. He tore the wig apart and used the very fine human hair to supplement the feathers in his favourite pillow. Harold the Hare resolved not to steal wigs again, but the newspaper gave him ideas for a substitute. Apparently, hats were now the rage for ladies and gentlemen. Harold saw opportunities, for, of course, hats were always being mislaid.
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ellifont 