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Story Telling

Story Telling

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Story Telling

From me to you

 

A compilation of short stories,

yarns, rhymes and blogs.

 

 

Some are long

And some are true

There are ones

that are short

And others are blue

All are thought provoking

With funny ones worth a giggle or two

 

 

 

 

 

 

Story Telling

From me to you

 

ISBN 978 0 9956917 1 1

Published by

Percychatteybooks Publisher

© Percy W Chattey 2017

 

Percy W. Chattey has inserted his right under the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

 

All rights reserved

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental

Whilst Percy Chattey claims the Copyright to this work he acknowledges ownership of work submitted by others who have submitted articles for inclusion in this book.

 

 

As always for my lovely wife Jean, friend and soul mate, who has helped with the editing and all rewrites, also listening to all my ramblings whilst putting these articles together*.*

 

My appreciation to the following

Derek Cook for the cover

Christopher Wyatt

Richard Seal

Tony Brown

Pete Broadbent

All my friends on Social Media who send me their gems.

Contents

Guard dog 7

The Chancer 8

Somewhere in Paris 15

To end all wars 19

The Swarm 25

The Carbon Paper Scam 36

Health and Safety 39

Softly Softly to catch a Monkey 42

The Black Venus 45

When I was a boy 51

The Balkans 71

The Swiss French Boarder 91

Last Weekend 95

Charlie and Ian 98

Feline 104

Accident at Sea 106

Guard Dog!! I would bet the vision that has come to mind is an Alsatian, a Doberman or something similar snarling and showing its teeth whilst straining at a chain daring an intruder to go near it. Let me introduce Meg, a darling little black and white lady about the size of a Jack Russell, our Guard Dog! I would not say she is lazy but she does things very differently, not for her snarling and running up and down – no she sits on the settee and studies the CCTV monitors, and if anyone comes in sight then she barks even before they have got to the door bell.

MEG

Welcome to our book of short stories!” Let me introduce Meg our clever little furry lady friend who will help throughout this work to describe, where needed, the origin of certain stories.

 

lol’ arrived in the English Language via the texting requirement of keeping phrases short. It is recognised as meaning ‘laugh out loud’ but then again it could mean anything ‘Love of London’ for instance or Limerick. Sometimes it is a little confusing for example in the middle of a recent newspaper report there was the initials ‘GMP’ – it could be ‘Good Morning Padre’ or ‘Grey Men Parading’ it is possible to think of

many alternatives, however as one continued to read the story it meant ‘Greater Manchester Police.’

This reminds me of my Army Training when I was in the Royal Engineers as a Signals man in a Regiment. It was always made exceptionally clear to be certain what you are saying and cannot be misunderstood as something different to what is intended, their example of how a signal could be misread was ‘The regiment is going to advance’ be certain it cannot be interpreted as ‘The regiment is going to a dance.’

 

‘HAGRAPAGL’ – have a great read and perhaps a good laugh.

 

The Chancer

From Percy’s novel ‘Time Gentlemen’ this part of the novel may seem a bit strange and unbelievable but during the Second World War many civilians were killed and one in three properties destroyed. It follows that after the event there was not always a secure record of ownership.

In the early nineteen forties when the Second World War raged around Great Britain, with enemy bombers attacking in their swarms and causing mayhem to each of the cities. In a busy part of Guildford on the corner of a main road, stood a large furniture store, with a stunning eye-catching façade, called Donaldson’s after the owner, who was a man in his sixties. He was a person, although a regular visitor to the church, who earlier in his youth had avoided family life. Richard, frequently shortened to Dick was an exceptional person in that he strived to keep his independence, and shunned company.

On the top floor of his store, which had been built in the Victorian period, around the eighteen thirties, was a large comfortably furnished flat. This is where he spent most of his time, when he was not attending to the needs of his business in the substantial show room on the ground floor, with its generous size of space.

It was Autumn and late evening, he was sitting at his desk, going through the figures in the accounts, when the first wailing of an air raid warning sounded. After months of the familiar noise warning of an attack which sometimes did not happen, he took little notice and continued with what he was doing. In the distance he could hear gun fire perpetrated by the ground forces trying to repel the attackers. As time went past and the raid continued, he looked up as he was aware the air incursion was coming closer to where he was sitting. There was the detonation of an exploding bomb close by, the flash from the discharge lighting up the window frame where the blackout curtain did not quite fit. He quickly left the room and retired to the spot under the stairs, which he had previously made comfortable for such an event.

Although he had heard the initial whistle of the bomb which penetrated the centre of the furniture store, hurtling through it and finally exploding in the basement, Richard knew nothing of it as it had demolished the stairway. The following blaze consumed the building and the fire officer, who was overwhelmed by the amount of destruction the bombers were creating that night, instructed his men to abandon Donaldson’s to its fate and try to save other buildings which were not so badly damaged.

It was a few years after the war had come to an end, when the City Council took on the task of trying to link damaged properties, where the occupier was missing, to their rightful owner or relatives- However no matter how much they tried it was not possible to find a person who was related to Richard Donaldson. What was left of the unsupported structure of windowless brickwork standing as a memorial to its past glory, was deemed to be unsafe and was pulled down at the Councils expense, and the site levelled and cleared.

Harry Cox, whose father had been a car trader before the hostilities, with the strict restrictions on the use of cars at the start of the war, brought his activities in his endeavours to earn a living by this means, to an end, especially more so when the Army required his services in a foreign land from which he did not return.

Now, the War was over and the horrors of it were becoming a distant memory, his son was not one to miss an opportunity. Over a period of time he watched the area being cleared, and now the last of the council’s plant was leaving the site and the final lorry of rubble was being taken away. He lost no time in getting in touch with a friend and between them they moved two of the cars from his father’s old stock, which had been residing in a barn, since before the war. Cleaning them throughout so they sparkled and also trying to hide any rust, they moved them to the empty plot where they put a for sale sign on them. In the years after the war it was a period when there was a heavy demand for cars, as there were very few new ones being produced for the home market, trade was brisk.

Time drifted past and to Harry’s surprise no one questioned the use he had put the valuable location to, and as his confidence grew he erected an office and finally a brick structure. He had one problem and that was the lack of energy to work the lights, and as he was not too certain of

the tenure he had on the property, he did not want to go to the heavy cost of putting power lines in.

One morning he arrived to find the Local Authority was installing new street lighting. To achieve this they had dug deep trenches close to the boundary of the car plot to install the electric cables. Harry looked at the work and had an idea. After talking to another one of his buddies, who was in the know about electricity, they came to a decision. One Sunday afternoon when no Council work was being carried out on the lighting, a small gang of men made a connection to the new facility that was being installed, and ran a cable to the office of the car sales, disguising the work they had carried out so that it would not be seen. With some trepidation, Harry waited for the new street lighting to be activated, and when it was, to his total surprise, he pressed a switch and he had electricity.

And now fifteen years since selling his first car from the site, the place was a blaze of colour from its neon lighting declaring in giant red letters Harry’s Car Lot and a row of shining cars, lined up on the front, with bright plastic stickers showing the price and other detail.

It was the week before the Easter break, and Harry watched as two people entered the site and was looking at one of the American cars, which he specialised in. He left them for a little while to see if they were really interested before, dressed in a smart grey tailored suit, he went out to speak to them. The punter was opening the door of the Chevrolet Impala and peering inside the gleaming vehicle. Harry was walking slowly to them wondering if they had a car to part exchange, and what make and year it would be. The clatter of the outside telephone bell shook him out of his thoughts. Returning to the office he picked up the instrument, and immediately recognised who the caller was.

“Hello Harry, we missed you at the game last weekend, and what do you know that bloody Calvin, whatever his other name is, kept winning the pot – would you believe it?”

“The trouble is Charlie, I do believe it, I can’t help feeling, and I am sure others feel the same, he is cheating somehow.”

 

“Well some of us want to take him to the cleaners and we are hoping you will be there to help – what do you say?”

“Look Charlie, I have a punter on that piece of junk of a Yank, which I have regretted ever having bought as I paid too much money for it, so I must go – is the game going to be at the usual place and time?”

“Yeah, seven thirty in the Casino at The Black Rose, I have been ringing round and I think we will have a full house, as all the team will be there, see you Saturday.” Harry was putting the phone down when he heard the other speaking “We thought we would meet in the bar for a livener first”

“That is fine with me, now I must go as they are crawling over the car, I’ve got a feeling they are going to buy it.”

“In that case the first round will be on you. See you Saturday.”

Harry went back out to hopefully sell the vehicle. After taking the couple who were excited, in the car for a demonstration ride, they returned to the office where they parted with their money, and as the new owners drove away in their purchase.

 

****

Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be!’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Percy didn’t write that Abraham Lincoln did!

Mountain path
A thousand ago and more
this mountain path was here
the rocks beneath our feet unmoved
as humans disappear.

These stunning views are stilled in time
eternal valleys deep
beneath dark trees sink into peace
of everlasting sleep.

As generations pass this way
to stand in shock and awe
at nature’s wonders, mountains find
these people such a bore.

And deep within the chiselled crags
I sense a subtle mock -
This fool is glancing at his wrist
and thinking of the clock!
[Copyright Richard Seal 2014
Email: [email protected]
Tel: (0034) 622 299 367]

  • A Teachers Lament:

The children are sitting in class for a religious lesson and the teacher asks them, “If I sold my house and my Car, had a big jumble sale and gave all my Money to the church, would that get me into heaven?”[
**]“NO!” the children answered.[
**]“If I cleaned the church every day, mowed the garden and kept everything tidy, would that get me into heaven?”[
**][*Again, the answer was ‘No!’  *] [
**]By now she was starting to smile. “Well, then, if I was kind to animals and gave sweets to all the children and loved my husband, would that get me into heaven?”[
**][*Again, they all answered ‘No!’ *] [
**]She was just bursting with pride for them and continued, “Then how can I get into heaven?” 
p.  [*  A six year old boy shouted, ]  [     “Yuv got tae be dead”*]

****

My colleague and I were eating our lunch in our cafeteria, when we overheard an admin girl talking about the sunburn she got on her weekend drive to the beach. She drove down in a convertible, but said she ‘didn’t think she’d get sunburned because the car was moving’.

They Walk Among Us!

[]

[One day I was walking down the beach with
Some friends when someone shouted…..
‘Look at that dead bird!’
Someone looked up at the sky and said…‘where?’]

They walk among us!

Somewhere in Paris

*The forwo*rd from Percy’s thrilling Novel ‘A Common’s Mistake’

Just prior to the large increase in oil prices in 1974, an influential Arab, who had the ability to soften the blow for the industrial nations, sat at the head of the table in the boardroom of one of his many companies. His patience was wearing thin as the monthly meeting stretched beyond its time limit.

Outside the heavy curtained window that overlooked a narrow Paris street leading to the Champs Elysees, the sun was vying with the clouds in an attempt to warm the city. At the end of the turning, seated beneath a coloured awning amongst numerous tables and chairs, Paulo looked at his watch and noted that their schedule was starting to run late.

He looked down the street. Half-way along his companion waited in a Transit van, which had been acquired for the occasion. The bonnet was open, on the pretence that it had broken down. Sue, a pretty and yet nondescript-looking girl, was patiently waiting behind the wheel. Passersby and traffic police glanced at the stricken vehicle and without further thought continued about their business.

Paulo looked at his watch once more and pondered on the wisdom of ordering a third cup of coffee. His prey was nearly an hour late from the timings of his normal monthly meeting, and the agreed time limit between the partners had expired. He continued to wait, years of experience guiding him. At his feet a duffel bag concealed an automatic small arms weapon loaded and cocked, waiting to spit out its deadly missiles at the hands of the master who temporarily possessed it.

Beyond the van, patiently waiting in front of a tall office block in a small slip road, stood a limousine. Its owner a few floors up looked at the wall clock, and with firmness, as he came to a decision he stood up, declaring the meeting closed, adding that the matter being discussed was wasting his time, and could be put on the agenda for the next monthly meeting. Immaculately dressed in a dark business suit, he left the room.

Had anybody been observing that meeting, they would have noticed that there was one who had been trying to hurry matters along, knowing that time was short if the plan that had been devised to destroy the powerful objection to their course was to take place. Hastily looking at his watch as the meeting broke up, he hoped that the paid assassins had waited longer than arranged.

The light grey Mercedes edged away from the building into the street and slowly made its way towards Paris’s main thoroughfare less than two hundred metres from where it had waited. Nobody noticed that the bonnet of the van was closed and that the engine sprang into life as Sue regained the driving seat.

Discarding his third cup of coffee Paulo walked towards the junction with the famous street, his timing matching the pace of the big car.

The car and the gunman arrived at the junction at the same time. The Arab, busy studying papers in the rear, was not aware of his surroundings, only one of his two bodyguards taking any notice of Paulo, and then without any alarm. Sue pulled the van away from the kerb, following the larger car a short distance behind, the sliding side doors locked in the open position. The Mercedes stopped at the junction, and the driver looked in horror as the young person dropped the bag. In his hand the sterling sub machine gun looked black and ugly

The bodyguard, who had given the man but a cursory glance, suddenly realised the danger and loudly cursed his lack of alertness. He watched as the gun, which appeared to be moving in slow motion, swung round towards him. He swiftly went for his own revolver tucked in a holster under his arm, knowing that he would not make it.

His boss, sensing the danger, looked up, and as he did so he saw the flashes from the stubby barrel of the automatic as the weapon spat out its message. Pedestrians stopped and stared as the noise echoed around the busy streets and buildings. The windows of the car disintegrated, the blood sprayed its interior as the men died instantly. Only the chauffeur remained alive, severely wounded as he slumped over the wheel, setting the horn off in an incessant blast.

Paulo left the scene, knowing his mission was accomplished. Sprinting to the van that was gathering speed, he threw himself in through the open side door and disappeared, with Sue expertly steering the vehicle through the traffic. Minutes later, their disguises removed the van abandoned, the couple vanished.

From the novel ‘A Common’s Mistake’

Teacher to child in class

“How old is your father?

Child “He is six.”

Teacher “How is that possible?”

“He didn’t become a father until I was born.”

Flush
Spider’s legs wiggle
wriggle before body
in triumph emerges
from plug hole.
Escaped dark depths
to walls porcelain
sheer, footing faltering
on slip surfaces.
Lifted free by scoop
swift, swept from bath
to bowl and toilet
final flush.
[Copyright Richard Seal 2015
Email: [email protected]
Tel: (0034) 622 299 367]

 

****

[[I couldn’t find my luggage at the airport baggage area and went to the lost luggage office and reported the loss.
The woman there smiled and told me not to worry]] [[because she was a trained professional and said I was in good hands. ‘Now,’ she asked me,‘Has your plane arrived yet?’…
(I work with professionals like this.)]]

They Walk Among Us!

 

A thought provoking Poem by Tony Brown concerning the Great War, if only what he proposes could become true.

 

…to end all wars:

 

They called it The Great War

The war to end all wars

If only that were true

I’ll give you a few statistics

Maybe some you already knew

 

Eight and half million soldiers killed

Nine million civilians too

Twenty million wounded

These just the ones we knew

 

A whole generation of young men and boys

Wiped out and discarded like broken toys

In one battle alone sixty thousand men slain

And that was just on the first day

Nearly two million shells were fired in vain

And that was just going to be the way

 

Life in trenches was beyond all belief

Two weeks at a stretch without any relief

Up to their ankles in deep mud and water

Then over the top to engage in the slaughter

 

But on one Christmas Day the guns ceased to chatter

They decided that one day of peace wouldn’t matter

They came out of their holes to sing carols and chat

They played football, yes, football

How crazy was that

They gave gifts to each other as brother to brother

But the following day they were killing each other

Does this not inform us how futile is war

When men can kill men

They made friends with before

Simply because it is all one can do

If you don’t kill the enemy he will kill you

 

If we would strife to justify the killing and the pain

It can only be by lessons learned to not go there again

The war to end all wars it was supposed to set us free

A very sobering thought indeed but it was not to be

 

Just twenty one years later it all begun again

And millions more from every side

gave up their lives in vain

 

Why should any race or creed be made to follow orders

To maim and kill their fellow man

And invade each other’s borders

 

Another conflict, thousand dead

Woman and children in their beds

Beautiful cities left to burn…

When will we learn

 

Why can’t we share resources

That are found upon this earth

Then everyone around the world

would be of greater worth

Why can’t we lead our own lives,

not interfere with others

Maybe then and only then

there’ll be far fewer

Grieving mothers.

 

Tony Brown August 2014

 

****

 

One of Percy’s Blogs written December 2016

It is a great way to finish the year with a notification I have once more won my fifth NABE Award (National Association of Book Entrepreneur) this time for ‘Time Gentlemen’ in the ‘Adult Fiction’ Category. The novel is set in the 1970’s and is a thrilling story of how a group of people, unknown to each other are involved in a terrifying event. The book is available through Amazon and all eBook outlets.

Sometimes one has to smile, if not laugh, while some experts go on about global temperatures’ being on the rise and yet we have just had the coldest December in the sixteen plus years we have been in this beautiful part of Spain. We have vivid memories of our family visiting us in the last few or early months of the year and going back home with a tan, after lying in the sun by the pool. So I do not understand how the so called experts come to a conclusion it is getting warmer.

Yesterday I took our little mongrel dog down the campo to the rear of our villa. The almond trees are bare although the first buds are forming promising the valley to be covered in beautiful pink flowers. The sky was a perfect blue – a stunning sight in itself. I stopped for a while and there was not a sound – absolute silence. Somewhere down in the valley I could see a tractor, doing what tractors do going up and down a piece of ground, however the noise it was making did not carry to where I stood. It occurred to me that is what the totally detached property of Casa FuenteLargo represents, peace and quiet, a place to relax with nothing or no one to trouble our guests. No doubt that is why we have visitors, who lead a stressful life, coming back time after time to recharge their batteries and leave us once more to go home totally refreshed.

To complete the comfort of the Villa is the local village of Hondon de los Frailes nestling in the valley with its picturesque charm, small general stores and a variety of restaurants serving delightful food. For further information go into Facebook and look up ‘Whats on Hondon.’

 

 

Grandpa Story to Be Proud Of

 Last week, I took my grandchildren to a restaurant. Before we ate, my 8-year-old grandson asked if he could say grace.

[As we bowed our heads he said, “God is good, God is great. Thank you for the food, & I would thank you even more if Grandpa gets us ice cream for dessert  – and liberty & justice for all.   Amen!”
There was laughter from the other customers nearby, except one woman who I heard remark, “That’s what’s wrong with this country?] [_ Kids today don’t even know how to pray. Asking God for ice cream! Why I never!”_
Hearing this, my grandson burst into tears & asked me, “Did I do it wrong Grandpa? Is God mad at me?” After I assured him that he had done a terrific job & that God was certainly not mad at him, an elderly gentleman approached the table. _][_He winked at my grandson & said, “I happen to know that God thought that was a great prayer.” “Really?” my grandson asked.  “Cross my heart,” the man replied.] [_ Then, in a theatrical whisper, he added (indicating the woman whose remark had started this whole thing), “Too bad she never asks God for ice cream. A little ice cream is sometimes good for the soul.”Naturally, I bought my grandchildren ice cream at the end of the meal. My grandson stared at his ice cream for a moment, & then he did something I will remember the rest of my life._
_ He picked up his sundae &, without a word, walked over & placed it in front of the woman. With a big smile he told her, "Here, this is for you, you grumpy old bitch. _]

I hope you enjoy it!”

 

Climbdown
Her hot feelings ran so hard
and fast, red raw emotions,
searing and sore, escalated
rapidly around narrowed eyes
flashing, tongue lashing, words
slashing, flesh scarlet flushing ..

Calming slowly, gasp-grasping,
left teetering now over precipice
of high dudgeon. Knows painful
climb-down required, but too fired;
contrition be damned, this door
is begging to be slammed.

[Copyright Richard Seal 2016
Email: [email protected]
Tel: (0034) 622 299 367]

The Swarm:

By Christopher Wyatt

The setting: A house in Spain on a mountainside overlooking a small village with two old friends studying the valley and mulling over events with a glass of wine

 

Oxford Dictionary 1987 definitions

Swarm (swawm) n. 1 a large number of small animals, people etc., esp. when moving in a confused mass.

***

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Story Telling

‘Story Telling is the first of a similar series of books conveying in the main, short stories of about a thousand to two thousand words. Each narrative has been studied to ensure it is of general interest not political, pornographic or contentious. With the rhymes and jokes which are included they are all interesting and an easy read and as the verse on the rear says ‘Some are long and some are true, there are ones that are short and others are blue, they are all thought provoking with funny ones worth a giggle or two.

  • Author: Percy W. Chattey
  • Published: 2017-02-03 11:35:11
  • Words: 26320
Story Telling Story Telling