Jennifer, Guinevere, Gwenhwyfar.



Jennifer, Guinevere, Gwenhwyfar.
You are the woman of my dreams,
you are the captain on my team,
you pull on my heart strings and make it beam;
when my coffee is black you are my cream.

Oh Jennifer, Guinevere, Gwenhwyfar.
You have a heart of gold,
when we first met you had me sold;
your body keeps me warm when the weather is cold;
you are so beautiful, you have to be told.

Oh Jennifer, Guinevere, Gwenhwyfar.
You make my mind swirl,
you make my knees twirl
and if I had hair you would make it curl,
but most of all, in my oyster you are my pearl.

The Chronicles of Gordon and Betty


For those of you that follow my writing adventure you will know that I come up with a lot of different characters and they don’t fall into one genre. I have a strange sense of humour; if you’ve read The Surprisingly Funny Adventure of Captain Lardarse you will know what I mean!

Whilst looking through my many note books in the writing room I came across two characters that my wife, Jeni, and I made up. I started writing some stories about the couple back in 2016 and this is when I came up with The Chronicles of Gordon and Betty.

Gordon and Betty are married and live in Manchester, although Gordon originates from Northampton and was a professor of science and Betty was born and bred in Manchester. The couple are in their seventies but very young at heart. Most of their conversations regard the past. They are not based on anybody, but on everyday life situations as well as mine and Jeni’s imaginations. We talk and laugh about certain things that they would come up with, but I have not written anything down since 2016, since then it’s all in our heads!

I want to share with you just two diary entries from Gordon’s diary.

Please feel free to comment, and most of all, enjoy…



The Chronicles of Gordon and Betty


Summer 1972. Uphill fencing.


My fascination with uphill fencing started in the summer of 1972 when I was walking my pet dog, Rufus. He was an old dog and had to stop a lot to pee, on this particular walk he stopped, and I leant on an old rickety wooden fence and noticed it was going up the hill. Well that was me hooked on uphill fencing!

In 1973 I was with my good lady wife, Betty, and we were enjoying a walk in the countryside when we stopped to admire yet another fence, Betty was a tad fitter than me and walked up the hill. It was then that I decided to mention my fascination with uphill fencing, she replied to me that this such fence was downhill, as Betty was at the top of the hill, and of course I was at the bottom. We debated on this for a while then concluded that it was a very fine fence.

My next encounter with a fence was in 1974, but this one was a downhill fence, or it was until Betty dropped her Babybel cheese and went to retrieve it at the bottom of the hill, then she changed her mind and said it was an uphill fence. Again, we debated on this whilst eating our Babybel cheeses, not the one that Betty dropped due to it landing in a soft cow pat.

Nineteen seventy-five came, I must point out it did not take us that long to debate and eat our cheese, we finished that in 1974. But Betty is still debating that fact saying she still has a Babybel cheese in the fridge from 1974.

We’ll that’s it for now, I hope to report more on uphill fencing in the future.



  1. The job interview


I remember going for a job interview, it was with a company that I shall not name. Whilst at the interview, and I might add three people were doing the asking of the questions, one chap asked, “If you could invite three people to a dinner party, one person living, one person that inspires you and one person that is no longer living, who would you invite?”

I thought long and hard and replied, “Well, the living person would, of course, be my wife, Betty. The second person would be Richard Branson, he inspires me because he wears the most fantastic jumpers. But I decline the third person because a dead person would not be a very good conversationalist.”

The chap then explained to me that the person from the past would be alive again. I was shocked.

I said, “That would be like inviting a zombie to dinner and that would be no fun at all.”

After this they explained that the person from the past would be like they were when they were alive.

I said, “OK, I’ve got it! I would like to invite Paul McCartney.”

After a few bizarre glances between the three interviewers I was asked if it was only Richard Branson’s fantastic knitwear that inspired me or was it his world record balloon flights, his involvement in over two-hundred businesses or his global brand?

I quickly replied, “I didn’t know that about him. I only ever saw him on the House Party.”

Then the chap replied, “That’s Noel Edmonds!”

A silly kind of love

Chapter 1. First love.

I remember the event well.
It was a cold and damp November evening. My tweed leather-elbowed jacket was as wet as next doors cat.
Just then a light brightened up the second floor window.
I hid behind a very small bush hoping I would not be seen. Then I saw the love of my life; her rollers kept her hair up tight against her soft skull and her dressing gown draped over her thin boney shoulders.
With a quick swipe she pulled the curtains right off the rails and fell, disappearing out of view.

Chapter 2. The forgotten chapter.

Chapter 3. The meeting.

The next day I went to the barber shop to get my hair trimmed.
I knew that the love of my life would be there because it was a Tuesday and she would get her arm-pit hair waxed.


Have you ever thought what it would be like to be lost in the jungle?
I was watching a film the other night, a true story of an ex-soldier lost in the jungle in Bolivia. It was a good film where Daniel Radcliffe (Harry Potter) played the soldier.
When I went to bed that night I could not stop thinking about what would happen if I got lost, and then I came up with this poem.

I would love to hear from you about how you would cope or any stories you might have.


Jungle life is every day,
jungle life we live and play,
jungle life I want to stay,
jungle life I hope and pray.

The jungle trip was great until
our guide, he took us for a ride,
he left us to one side,
he took off with all our cash
and treated us like garbage trash.

Now that we are all alone,
just me, the wife and Mrs Slone,
we must make it on our own.

The river flows rough down the valley below,
we must carry on walking we’re going too slow.
Can we build a raft? Or are we being daft?
Make it from timber, our sailing craft.

The rapids are dangerous the raft breaks up,
it hits a rock and we come unstuck,
the craft is no more so we swim for shore.
We must walk from here, but I sense great fear.

The leopards hide and wait for dark,
the red ants cover the towering tree’s bark.
I hear the cry of a jungle lark.

The blowfly burrows under your skin,
my canister of water is running thin.
Will this nightmare ever end?
This jungle is driving me around the bend.
Can I text? My phone won’t send.

Mrs Slone, she lost her hat,
down from the trees came a bat
and took off with her floral hat,
then she tripped on a large rat,
T#@t…I never heard her swear like that!

The night draws near,
and so does the fear.
Mrs Slone, you are dear,
out from her handbag three bottles of beer.

I go for a pee behind a tree,
I cannot believe it, I’m full of glee,
you wouldn’t believe what I can see…
a coach load of tourists staring back at me!

World Attacked


The poem below comes out of my imagination as I think back to when I was about 9 years old and listening to my brother’s long-playing vinyl, ‘The War Of The Worlds’. It was Jeff Wayne’s musical interpretation from 1978 of HG Wells’ science-fiction novel that first was published in 1897.
It has always been a fascination of mine about what else is out there in the universe.
Would they come to our earth with war in mind, or peace?
I would love to hear if you have any views, please let me know.
World Attacked
The sky burns orange with glimmers of red,
I can feel this strange feeling pounding my head.
The climate seems sticky and hard to breathe,
I look at the people, they’re ready to leave.
Then the rocks of fire come falling from the sky,
the clouds roll back and vanish so high.
We run for our lives whilst ducking and diving,
will anyone be left? It’s a fight for surviving.
The clothes are burning while still on people’s backs,
I think the earth is under attack.
I hide under a tree to shelter the hail,
one hits the tree and then splinters, I bail.
Laser rays appear from afar,
the roads are now molten tar.
It’s hard to run, then I look towards the sun.
I can’t believe my eyes, I can’t believe the size.
Is that a spaceship?
Then I trip
and fall to my knees,
oh my God, no…please….

Three shovels and a bucket

The year 1665 was hell for London town.
It was very hot the August heat,
the bells rang many times over the muck-covered street.
There was death and pain everywhere.
More cats and dogs had to die,
but that left rats to run and be sly.
The fleas fed on the blood of the weak.
Red cross on the door and a chain locked you in.
Why would that be? You’ve committed no sin.
Blood from your nose; being sick in a bin.
Locked in your home to die in pain.

Death pits dug whilst the town folk shrug.
The grave-digger digs whilst his father dies.
Cysts under your arms or on the groin.
I search daily then I find; my time has come for me to die.
The frost falls thick from way up high, it ends the plague; we say goodbye.

I was the grave-digger and my tools are now sold,
my poor old mother must bow and fold.
Offered four shillings for the tools of the trade;
three shovels and a bucket,
that’s all she made.


There is more out there for you and me.
There is more out there, you will see.
There is more out there, when we die.
There are more out there, we’ll be up high.

Wisps in the dark, we will be.
Wisps in the dark, we will be free.
Wisps in the dark, we will see
other wisps in the dark full of glee.

They wisp about the moonlit sky.
They wisp about so very high.
They wisp about, I do not lie.

In and out of space they go.
Maybe four or five in a row.

So next time you feel all alone.
Do not moan and do not groan.
For look to the sky and you might see,
a little bright wisp smiling down on thee.


This is how sometimes I feel when I can’t see where I’m heading with projects.

Everything I do is for a reason; I can see it in my minds eye. The tunnel before me giving me excitement everytime I feel I’m on the move down the tunnel, knowing that at the end of that tunnel I’ve reached what I’ve meant to reach; there might be another start of a tunnel leading me to something new, but the feeling of the journey gives me great excitement and pleasure.
It frustrates me if I can’t see the opening to the end of the tunnel and everything I do feels like it is clogging up the tunnel; when the surfer’s mind is on surfing that’s all he sees at the end of the tunnel so no matter what happens he can see the waves at the tunnel’s end and he is happy.

Mind vision poem for the above.

I awake in the morning I can’t see the trees,
I can’t even smell the honey or hear the bees.
My mind’s eye vision is blocked by the dark,
I feel like I’m treading water being, followed by a shark.
Why can’t I just be like the surfer dude,
I’m not complaining or being rude.
I just need vision on where I need to be,
but nobody understands and they cannot see.
I feel like my mind is going to explode,
nobody can help me, I will not be told.


via Daily Prompt: Broken


If you feel broken or down in the dumps,
don’t despair;
raise your arms in the air;
say these words so everyone can hear.

“If I am broken l can be fixed,
l don’t need a box of fancy tricks;
l don’t need a wand or a magic stick;
I will not stay broken,
I will be fixed.”

Now wiggle your fingers and wiggle your nose,
touch your feet and tickle your toes.
Do you feel better?
I bet you do.
You are not broken,
you’re just you!

Light at the end of the tunnel

Everyday gets a little bit better,
everything seems to be more brighter,
the weight on my shoulders is getting lighter.
I can see light at the end of the tunnel.

My mood is getting sharper,
my nerves are getting stronger,
my breathing is getting clearer.
I can see light at the end of the tunnel.

My joints are getting smoother,
my mind is not so foggy,
my tears are starting to dry.
I can see light at the end of the tunnel.

My worries are starting to fade,
my bitterness is in the shade,
my friends come to my aid.
I can see light at the end of the tunnel.

The light shines bright,
I know I’ll be all right.
I have found the light at the end of the tunnel.