Sunday, 23 December 2012

Hungry Tom

As a babe in arms, his voracious appetite sucked his mother dry 'til she was desiccated, bloodied and exhausted. As Hungry Tom grew, his hunger did too, sadly, he scoffed all she had on her meager pie stall one too many times.
Something had to be done she decided, before they all end up destitute with not even a mouldy pie crust to their name. Heartbroken yet resolute, Molly turned him out to forage the dirty streets of old London town.

Blessed with his mother's resourcefulness and culinary talents, he quickly put the available produce to good use, fat, juicy, black slugs pickled in the gin syphoned from Maisie's bottle, when half-cut she took a snooze against a gas lamp.  A delicacy amongst the inebriates of Pig Swill lane, I'll have you know!
On a more fortunate day, he might chance upon a wormy apple, a leftover, fallen from Grocer Hardacre's cart, catch a delicious wiff of roasting chestnuts on a draft of stale city air, then slip into a slumber filled with blazing hearth fires, caramelised chestnuts and buttered turnip.
Poor soul, he always woke up hungry!

This time of year's particularly hard on the lad, what with this new  Christmastime celebration being all the rage, gaily coloured gifts under the tree and a big fat goose in the ovens of them that can afford it. His pickled slugs and wormy apples seem not so delicious now, leaving Hungry Tom with the bitter taste of pavement dirt in his mouth. Sobbing as the gin takes hold, he trudges through the grimy streets.

Monday, 3 December 2012

Agnes, A Wispy Haired Wanderer

 A wee slip of a wispy haired creature was Agnes-who-loved-to-wander. She was on the moors come rain or shine, unaware of the treacherous terrain at her feet.

Like a ghostly ball of tumble weed she rode the high winds, giggling as they tossed her, our pale young thing simply couldn't keep a thought in her head. Whilst wondering what was for tea, she quite forgot the direction she was going in.

Well, the fog descends fast in these parts and tiny, hollow voices are known to whisper "come hither, we'll take you home". Before long, a thick misty blanket hung in the air and Agnes could see no further, than the tip, of her running nose.

Shivering and confused she wandered further and further into the desolate moor, but fear not, dear reader, for a fog lamp was lit up ahead. Aye, it was the Ghastly Governessa come for our wispy wanderer.

Wednesday, 28 November 2012


Elsie was a kind and open hearted girl, so when she saw a small ground creeper in need, she offered it a lift on her shoe. This glum mollusc gradually slithered all the way up to her ear, where it promptly glued itself, so to speak.

 Delighted of it's captive audience, the shelled one whispered endlessly on.  What it said, we do not know, but looking at our dear Elsie's face it seemed to be a tale of woe.

 Even after they arrived at their destination she just couldn't get it off, no amount of juicy leaves or mossy beds could tempt it down. And, as you can see, a resident snail is not very good for ones hair!

Would this incessant droning never end? Pondered Elsie as she sank down, defeated, on the forest floor. There she sat until the Governessa stumbled upon her, nestled under a damp pile of leaf litter.

Sunday, 18 November 2012


A Highland miss, with a temperament to rival the wildcats that roam there and topped with a tangle of truly unruly hair.

Her mother, pleaded and cajoled to be allowed to tame that matted birds nest of a mane, but to no avail.

Flossie would run and hide in the bracken and fields and after her wriggling and rolling through heather and bog she'd return home, filthy and stinking.

 One particularly windy day, she had crawled right into a dense hedgerow and no amount of tugging could loosen the entanglement of thorn, twig and knotted hair.

Unable to free herself she remained. It was a twilight sometime later, that the cold and nimble fingers of the Ghastly Governessa, worked dilligently to claim this wild locked child, for her brood beneath the old twisted willow.


At least that's what the other children called her. It is true, one eye was considerably larger than the other, on account of her dreadful shyness. You see, whilst the other children played and shouted to one another, Orla would always be peeping around the corner watching and longing to join in. As you can imagine, she always had one eye wide open while the other squinted to catch up.

Dear Orla would follow behind secretly, shadow to shadow and wall to wall, our sweet shadowy wallflower lived a life entirely on the periphery.

The old abandoned house, had a sign which read, "DANGER, DO NOT ENTER!"  but Orla could not bear to miss the games played in the overgrown garden, games of lions, tigers and poisonous frogs. So, she squeezed through a crack in the broken door and spied through dusty window panes at the laughing, shrieking faces beyond.

 Until, at last, she was distracted by a particulary fat and hairy spider, which she followed from room to derelict room. A terrible crack was heard for miles around and the old house groaned it's last groan.

 Sometime later, our bone skirted Governessa dusted Orla down and bid her follow. It is said that you can sometimes see One-Eyed-Orla, squinting through the roots of the old willow tree.


 Marnie was Something of a loner, usually found behind a large rock counting lichen clusters.

 At other times she would sit for hours, scratching away with a tiny finger at the  mounds of earth and roots at the rock's base whilst pondering the plight of the world.

 Until one day however, when she delved a little too deeply and the inevitable happened.

It took the Governessa forever and a day to find tiny Marnie secreted away, under that rather large and knobbly slab of granite.

Monday, 6 August 2012

Millpond Mildred

Possessed by daydreams of Shakespeare's Ophelia and always verging, on the somewhat dramatic. Mildred took a tumble.

Down she went, into the dark green waters of the cold pond, one inquisitive spring day. 

As she gulped the murky depths, eyes staring at the disappearing sun, a lonely pond weed grasped her thrashing limbs.

 It held on oh, so tightly to it's only visitor, well, apart from the odd shoe that is.

 There she remained, her silvery cloak, mildewed to a delightful shade of pond scum green.


Fine slippers furred over and little toes, turned webbed and clawed.

Sometimes, when the moon is bright, Mildred can be seen walking the pond's edge. 

Water droplets shining, in the soggy tendrils of her hair. 

Dreaming, of joining the otters, in the river beyond the hill...

Tuesday, 31 July 2012

While The Beast Sleeps...

The working table,




And all the while,

 The beast,


Friday, 6 July 2012

A Truly Northern Maiden

You are Arya of Winterfell,
daughter of the North.
You told me you could be strong.
You have the wolf blood in you.
                    Ned Stark “A Clash of Kings” —George R.R. Martin 

My interpretation of George R.R. Martin's "A Game Of Thrones" character Arya Stark. She's been submitted for consideration in a literary character challenge, so keep your fingers crossed for me...

Friday, 15 June 2012

As Snails Progress Slowly A Little One Fattens Up

 First of all,  I want to thank everyone for their kind support with the dogs. The skinny little fellow has been wormed and is slowly fattening up, his situation is still complicated but progress is being made and two of the pups are ready and waiting to be re-homed   

There are new girls in progress and tales yet to tell...

A little peckish, time for some elderflower cordial

and fritters!