YesBut it looks big enough.

For YesBut's Image on 5th July 2007, Victorya suggested the caption -

“Yes, a new letter of the alphabet has landed”


The photo and Victorya's caption suggested to me the story:

From the time as a child he saw the film Jurassic Park he was fascinated by dinosaurs. His bedroom was full of dinosaur models, there were posters and illustrations on all the walls - he truly had a fixation with them. He knew one of the largest collections of dinosaur skeletons could be seen in London, it was his ambition to see it one day.

The opportunity came when he won first prize in a talent competition on his local TV station - his second passion was imitating bird and animal calls. It was rumoured all the male lesser spotted chiffchaffs would go into a frenzy when he imitated a female chiffchaffs mating call.

If only he a had been as rigorous in planning his visit as he was in researching the mating call of dinosaurs; he would have known the dinosaur skeleton collection is held in the Natural Science Museum in Kensington.

As he stood in the Grand Court of the British Museum, Bloomsbury, he looked in awe at what he assumed was the tongue of a Brontosaurus or possibly a Terex. He was partially correct when he exclaimed “I’ve seen nothing like it before”. If he hadn’t been so fixated by the image he might have seen the plaque informing visitors they were viewing a piece by the foremost Iranian sculptor Paris Tanavoli. The sculpture is based on three Persian letters which together make up the word “heech” meaning ’nothing’.

YesBut it works

For YesButs Images on 29th June 2007 b.t. bear (esq.) suggested the caption: -

"Oh bugger it. Let's buy one."

The caption and the photograph suggested the following story to me:

His father was both his hero and best friend. He would spend hours watching him perform magic, making toys for him and furniture for the house out: of scraps of wood and at what at first sight looked like rubbish. The garden shed was the most exciting place in the whole world, the workbench and the rows of tools hanging from the walls. Shelves of jars containing screws, nails, nuts, bolts and other unidentifiable things that one day might be useful. He dreamt of the day when he too would have his own garden shed and be accompanied by his own son.

Unfortunately he was unlikely to have a son. That dream faded when his wife walked out on him. She objected to him constructing a garden shed. He tried to explain that living in a multi-storey block of flats he had no garden, and had no alternative but to build the shed in the lounge. He thought her unreasonable, after all it wasn’t a big shed, and there was still room in the lounge for her chair and TV.

In truth he didn’t really miss her; he was contented tinkering in his shed. He was both skilful with his hands and imaginative in his designs. He was so excited with his latest creation, that he applied for a patent. He had even managed to sell one of them, all be it to a bear. He was convinced he was “on to a winner” which would make him a fortune.

He gave up his job to devote his time to develop the product. Already, (since the photograph was taken) he had added to it an implement to remove stones from horse’s hooves. And was considering the potential of other modifications, possibly a bottle opener and cork screw. Ultimately he would like to transfer it onto an integrated circuit, (not that he knew what an integrated circuit was, but everything seemed to contain them, or something called a microchip).

He was so disappointed when he received a letter from the patent office rejecting his patent application; on the grounds that it contravened an existing patent for something apparently called a “Swiss Army Knife”.

YesBut It's Mother's Cupboard Love - Part 2

Continued from yesterday.

For YesBut’s Image on 10th August 2007 Chewy suggested the caption -

"Old Mother YesBut went to the cupboard to get her poor dog a bone."

The photo suggested the following story to me, (continued from yesterday):

I had put £20 aside to give Terry his monthly pocket money, but I hadn’t bought the chocolate biscuits. I had had to pay the gas and the electricity bill, so I was short of money. What was I to do? Terry would have been so disappointed if he didn’t have biscuits. I thought of asking Mrs Frances, next door, to lend me a few pound to tide me over until the next pension day. But she’s such an old busybody always pocking her nose in where its not wanted.

Honestly I’ve never done it before in my life, and I wouldn’t have done it now, but I was so desperate. When I went shopping in the supermarket, I slipped a packet of chocolate biscuits into my bag. I thought no one had seen me. But when I got to the checkout desk, a child started to shout “Mammy, mammy . . . chocolate biscuits.” I could have died on the spot. My head started to swing, and I thought I was going to faint again. I realise now the little boy was asking for a biscuit, but I thought he was saying I had stolen the biscuits.

The Supervisor saw something wasn’t right and took hold of my arm. I thought she was arresting me, and I just broke down and cried. But she was the woman who had called for an ambulance before and thought I had been taken ill again. She was very kind. Took me to the manager’s office and gave me a cup of tea with plenty of sugar.

They told me to forget about the biscuits, and I should start looking after myself. They wanted to know if I had children. I told them about Terry - it so happened the Assistant Manager knew him. As I said, they were very kind, even got a taxi to take me home.

The next night Terry came around, right away I could see something was wrong. Before I could open my mouth; he told me the Supermarket Assistant Manager had seen him in the pub, and told him what had happened. He was furious with me, said how ashamed he was that his mother was a criminal, and how he was so embarrassed he wouldn’t be able to use that pub again. He wanted to know whether I had any consideration at all for him and his family. How was he to explain to his children that their Grandmother was a thief. Told me never to try and see him or his family again. With that he left the house, slamming the front door behind him.

I’ll write a letter to him, perhaps he’ll forgive me.

YesBut It's Mother's Cupboard Love - Part 1

For YesBut’s Image on 10th August 2007 Chewy suggested the caption -

"Old Mother YesBut went to the cupboard to get her poor dog a bone."

The photo suggested the following story to me:

In the summer you can save some money, there’s no need for heating or lighting. Actually to say save, isn’t accurate. When you’re living on a Widows Pension, you need every penny to survive. So in the summer I can buy myself some more food, and importantly give Terry a little bit more.

Mind I’m not complaining, there are a lot of people a lot worse off than me. If you’re careful you can survive. I normally buy my vegetables on Saturday afternoon. If you go late enough to the market, when the stallholders are packing up, they sell things cheaply. And there’s always a shelf in the supermarket where they sell things, close to or past their sell-by-date, cheap.

I get all my cloths, except for my underwear from charity shops. Now the winter is about to start I’ll have to put on another layer of cloths. In the middle of winter I spend a lot of time in the shopping centre, it’s nice and warm there. I normally go to bed early and that saves heating costs.

When my friend Mabel died her son said I could have her television. That would have been nice, but I couldn’t afford to pay for a TV Licence every year, its over £100. So I told him I didn’t want it. But I do have my little radio. So that allows me to keep in touch with what’s happing in the world.

But it doesn’t matter how short of money I am, I always make sure I got coffee and chocolate biscuits for Terry’s visits. Terry, that’s my son, he’s a good boy and without fail comes to visit his mum every month, on the day I collect my pension money. Well he’s a good boy and the £20 helps him buy cigarettes. Though I do wish he’d bring his children with him, but he says their stuck in front of their computers playing games. But, one time he did bring me a photograph. I should really send them some money, but I can hardly make things meet as it is. Sometimes I’m tempted to eat one of the chocolate biscuits myself, but I send them with Terry to the children, as a little present from me.

Last week when I was in the shopping centre I fainted. I told them I was alright, but they insisted on getting an ambulance to take me to hospital for a check-up. I told them not to fuss, but they insisted. They said I was suffering from malnutrition. It’s easy for them to talk, but it’s not so easy to stretch a pension beyond its breaking point.

I don’t think what happened was all my fault.

To be continued tomorrow - Bookmark this page

YesBut who are they? - Part 2

Continued from yesterday

For YesBut's Image on 28th June 2007, Chewy posted the caption

“We're not the first in line to buy concert tickets, but we're sure to get great seats.”


The photo and caption suggested the following story to me (continued from yesterday) :-


After retiring she took here time to make plans. The first decision was to decide where to live. She finally decided to return to the seaside town where she had attended university. Her few friends thought she was returning there because it was a place where she had been happy, but that was far from the case. She didn’t know why she felt she had to return there, she knew it would bring back painful memories, streets and parks would be peopled by ghosts from her past. But uncharacteristically defying logic she went ahead and sold her house and bought a two bedroom flat in the seaside town. She thought the spare bedroom could be used by friends visiting her.

It was 2005, the television news was dominated by reports of the forthcoming General election. She wasn’t particularly interested, the Conservative Party were incompetent and unelectable while the Labour Party couldn’t be trusted. She had already decided she wouldn’t vote. Party political leaflets pushed through her letter box were dumped unread in her waste bin.

One evening she had just settled down to reading a book when the front door bell rang. “Who could that be?”. She had few visitors, and when she did they would always phone beforehand to check it was convenient to call. When she opened the door she was greeted by the smiling face of a woman canvassing for the Labour Party. Her first reaction was to make an excuse, possibly say she hadn’t registered for a vote. But the woman’s appearance seemed very familiar. Could she possibly be one of her former pupils? Perhaps from the time when she was doing teacher practice, nearly 35 years ago. The woman looked in her mid thirties.

“Good evening, I hope we can rely on you to vote for Labour.”
“Actually I‘m not sure if I’ll bother to vote”.
”Oh you got to vote. Please give me five minutes of your time”.

She felt like having company so she invited her in.

“Before you start trying to convince me to vote for Labour, I must ask which primary school did you go to?”

The visitor was startled by the question, “um St Mary’s, why?”

”Oh I am sorry for asking it’s just your face seems familiar and I thought I might have taught you, but I never taught at St Mary’s”
“Well I must confess when you opened the door, I thought I knew you. Perhaps I‘ve seen you around town”.
“No I don’t think so, I’ve only recently moved back to live here.”
“Oh, you’re originally from here?”
“No I spent four years here in the late sixties at the university.”
“In which case you might have known my mother.”
“What was her name?”
“I don’t know; I should explain, I’m adopted. All I know about my birth mother is she was a student who gave me away at birth”

Now Pat was becoming uneasy, she debated whether to ask the young woman her age, but was fearful she’d say 13th August 1967.

“You’ve never tried to find her?”.
”There was a time when the boys were born, but not since. Now it wouldn’t be right.”
“Not right?”
“My Mom, that’s my adopted Mom has Alzimours, I feel if I asked Dad for more information, I would be betraying Mom.”
“You said boys.”.
“Yes, David and Peter, they’re thirteen. Just before they were born their father did a runner, couldn‘t face up to the responsibility . I was worried about having to bring up twins by myself, but never considered getting rid of them. It was then I wanted to know why my mother got rid of me”.

There was a silence, the thought “let sleeping dogs lie” passed through Pat’s mind.

“Yes well they were different times then. Look its been nice talking to you, but I’m sure you want to carry on with your conversing.”
“Yes, somehow I feel. . . Well relieved that I’ve spoken to you. I know it’s a stupid question, but can I call again?“

Pat was fearful, she was going to places best left far in the past.

“I don’t know . . . you don’t want to hang around an old biddie like me.”
“It’s just, with Mom as she is I can’t talk to her and I so miss our chats.”
“Well ok. Perhaps you could bring the boys for tea one day”.
“How about Saturday?”

That was sooner than Pat had thought, but why not. “Yes, that would be nice”.

An immediate rapport was formed between Pat and the two boys. Like their mother they too had missed the relationship they had with their grandmother; but in Pat, they seemed to have found another. For her part Pat was delighted to have their company. She loved taking them to London for the day, to visit museums and see the sights. They even introduced her to the joys of watching football. Sometimes she would catch herself looking at them and thinking:

“Look at their nose and eyes, the spiting image of my fathers; surely the sons I never had would look like them. Also the grandchildren I never had. How things would have been different; if only my daughter hadn’t been stillborn; or so the midwife had told me. But I swear I saw her move as she was taken away”.

YesBut who are they? - Part 1

For YesBut's Image on 28th June 2007, Chewy posted the caption

“We're not the first in line to buy concert tickets, but we're sure to get great seats.”

The photo and caption suggested the following story to me:-

It was1966 the time of love and revolution the world belonged to the young. Yet strangely she was disappointed with life at the university. She expected stimulating conversation, meeting interesting new friends to stimulate her intellect. Instead she encountered dreary lectures, the grind of producing essays and people who were only interested in getting drunk in the Student Union bar. If you were lucky to be in the right place at the right time you might get an invitation to a party on Saturday night. But even these were mainly populated by drunken students. If it was the time of free love none was coming Pat’s way.

It was therefore a surprise when one evening sitting at the Student Union coffee bar she was joined at her table by a young man. She didn’t take much notice of him; she was deep in thought deciding whether to go home to her parents for the weekend. Even when he asked for the sugar bowl she handed it to him without looking.

“Deep in thought”.
“Sorry”.
“You looked deep in thought”.
“Yes”.

It was only then that she looked at him. Reasonably attractive, not the usual unwashed scruffy hair. They had the usual meaningless small talk. She was surprised when he said he was reading engineering; she had the inpression all engineering students were Neanderthals who dragged their knuckles on the ground when they walked. They went together into the refractory for their evening meal, afterwards they talked about everything but nothing.

It was six weeks before they slept together, they were both virgins embarrassed and clumsy. They were also stupid, not taking any precautions. Perhaps out of naivety she wasn’t particularly worried when she didn’t have her monthly period. It was only when she started to have morning sickness that her roommate who was more worldly, started to get suspicious. When the nurse in the medical centre told her she was pregnant, she was reassured that an abortion would be arranged quietly and neither the university authorities nor her parents need ever know. When she told her boyfriend he assumed she would have an abortion, and reassured her that he would be there for her. But for her the choice wasn’t that simple. She had been brought up a Christian and believed in the sanctity of life. She told him she was going to have the baby and give it up for adoption. He said he wasn’t prepared to sacrifice his education and career for some kid who was going to be given away. That was the last conversation they had.

She went home and told her parents of her decision. They were both shocked and disappointed that she had been so stupid to jeopardize her future. She tried to explain that nothing had changed; after the baby was adopted she would get her degree. The thought that she would give away their grandchild was even more shocking than getting pregnant in the first place. From that day their relationship was never the same; no more would she be their little girl. Her parents blamed themselves, questioning each other “where did we go wrong?” For the next seven months she led a lonely life, only her room-mate gave any support. She felt as if everyone was looking at her and talking about her.

She gave birth during the long summer vacation. She went unaccompanied to the hospital. She had previously signed all the documentation for the baby to be adopted and she had agreed with the Midwife that she would neither be shown nor hold the baby. She did however catch a glimpse of the baby as it was taken away, it was a girl.

During the remaining period at university she dedicated herself to her studies. Her roommate who was a year ahead had graduated and she was left alone. She saw the baby’s father but they never spoke. On the infrequent visits home her parents remained remote. But her loneliness didn’t account for the feeling of total emptiness. The midwife had taken something more than a child from her - the exchange of love between the mother and child, had been taken from her leaving a void. After graduating, not knowing or even caring what job she wanted to do, she deferred the decision by returning to do a teacher training certificate. So by default she drifted into teaching.

She was surprised how much she enjoyed teaching and working with children. And her pupils really liked her. She remained unmarried, her only friends were fellow spinster school teachers. Her past did come to visit her on occasions when she found herself looking at little girls. As the years went by she would think, my daughter has started nursery school, then primary school. Christmas time she found particularly difficult and would wander around shops imagining what presents she would have bought. However she was careful never to give her lost child a name.

When she was 55, she was given the opportunity to retire. She would miss the children, but she felt it was time to find new challenges. Perhaps she might even sell her house and buy a flat in another town.

(To be continued tomorrow- Bookmark the page).

YesBut those were the days

For YesBut’s Image on 11th August 2007, the following captions were posted -

david mcmahon 's suggested caption - See gulls and Pigeon pair

Pope Terry 's caption - bird on left: "Oh man... four hours getting ready and someone turns up in the exact same outfit!"


Chewy 's suggestion - How do you like your new job at air traffic control?

ozlady 's caption - Ready, aim... FIRE! and

I can do a triple backflip with a half twist... and you?

Doug 's suggestion - You flew up here? So there is another way up other than using a ladder!

Siddharth Khandelwal's caption - Good you came.. two of us have a better chance of getting a passer by than me alone.

The photo suggested the following story to me:

“Tell me Dad the story when seagulls used to live on rocks and fly over the sea.”
“Well that, if it is true that is, happened a long long time ago.”
“Even before Granddad was a chick?”
“Yes even before then”.
“Were there rubbish dumps in the sea”.
“Well I’ve never seen the sea myself, but I don’t think so”.
“But if there are no rubbish dumps, where did they get food?”
“Now that is a mystery to me. I did hear about them fishing”.
“Fishing? What’s that Dad?”
“Well I’ve seen men sit by a river for hours and hours, and they call that fishing. But I don’t see how that gets them food like we get.”

“But what did they do for fun Dad?”
“Ah in those days seagulls didn’t have fun”.
“So they didn’t sit on posts so they could poop on people walking underneath.”
“No back then Town Councils had no consideration for seagulls. Its only in the last twenty years that they’ve provided posts for us to sit on”
“It must have been boring”.
“I guess so son, I guess so.”

YesBut birds the word - Part 2

Continued from yesterday.

For YesBut’s Image posted on 6th August 2007, ozlady 's suggestion the caption -

“Having slayed the dreaded Backpacker, the pigeon sauntered across the railway station, disappearing into the flock of docile pigeons like the trained assassin he was.”

The photo suggested to me the following story, (continued from yesterday):

So your back. If you think I’m going to tell you dirty stories about what I’ve seen through bedroom windows, your mistaken. Though, there was the time . . . no, no, get behind me Saturn. Mustn’t give in to temptation. I’ve got my reputation to protect. And lets face it, us pigeons haven’t got much reputation left.

Myself, I blame that Ken Livingstone. What is he? Mayor of London or something. All I know he has it in for us pigeons, calls us “Flying rats”. This is the man who keeps newts as pets. Come on lets be serious, who would keep newts as pets? Can’t take them for a walk. Can’t teach them to talk. Can’t through sticks for them to chase. What earthly use are they? What earthly use is he? Its because of him, I had to leave Trafalgar Square. Had a real nice life down there, tourists to feed you, nip onto the windowsills of the National Gallery whenever I wanted a bit of culture. Then there were the protest rallies held there. Many a time I’ve left a white blob on a politicians head. Perhaps one of them was Ken - hope so.

Bit of luck, at the time I was looking for a new place to live, I met a distant cousin, nice lad. He mentioned the potentials of living in railway stations. Around about the same time, I was having a stroll through Green Park when I heard a mother tell her son the story of Paddington Bear. I thought, that sounds good; perhaps if I go there someone might take me home.

Been here three months, and still waiting. But its an interesting place, meet some interesting people. Last week there was a fellow over there reading a book, looked over his shoulder. All about karma. Do you believe in that? Was being born a pigeon a reward or a punishment? And if I’m a good well behaved pigeon, what will I be born as in the next life? Gives you something to think about. Tried to discuss it with the chap reading the book, but all he did was shoo me away, and complained to his wife about that damn bird’s cooing stopping him read.

Just look over my shoulder see her. Going to a pop festival. Catching up on her sleep before the raving starts. Though I reckon she’s on drugs. Well lets face it, who’d sleep in a railway station. I know what your thinking - me. But this is only temporary. I was thinking of moving on and taking the Heathrow Express, but I’ve since heard the airport is chaotic, queues everywhere, lost luggage. So I’ve decided to stay here a little bit longer.

Look if you’re intending to stay, let me give you a little advice. If you want to survive you got to have attitude. No not attitude but ATTITUDE. You know what I mean, you’ve got to walk the walk and talk the talk. No skulking around corners. Let me show you. See that woman over there eating a sandwich, watch this.

See what happened, she had to give me a piece, not only of bread but the meat inside. You walk up to them look straight in their eyes, and by shear willpower challenge them to dare not to give you food. Works every time.

Well wasted enough time talking to you, I’ve got to meet my bird for a little bit of cooing and cuddling. Might see you again. But don’t forget ATTITUDE.

YesBut birds the word - Part 1

For YesBut’s Image posted on 6th August 2007, ozlady 's suggestion the caption -

“Having slayed the dreaded Backpacker, the pigeon sauntered across the railway station, disappearing into the flock of docile pigeons like the trained assassin he was.”

The photo suggested to me the following story:

Do you mind, I say do you mind, who do you think you are, take that camera out of my face! Typical human, taking my picture without a by your leave. I’m not one of your common a garden pigeons you know, I’ve got Royal blood flowing through my veins, oh yes. My Great, great, great, great, (well lots of greats) Grandfather was a war hero. He won the Second World War for the British, got himself a medal to prove it. After the war he went to live in Buckingham Palace, treated like a Lord he was.

Yes, our family was setup for life. Then my Great, great, great (you know what I mean), Grandmother got herself mixed up with this bad lot from Trafalgar Square - real street trash. Well next thing she knows, she’s up the duff - as they say “with eggs“. Got thrown out of the big house at the end of the Mall and finished up being a homeless single parent.

But I still go back to visit the old ancestral home. Last time for the Queens birthday. There they all were on the balcony waiting for the flypast, when I flew over. Saw a photo in the papers, of Prince Phillip pointing up at the planes flying over. Rubbish, he was pointing at me and telling Liz, “watch out for that bird he’ll shit on anybody”. He got no class, as if I would poop on Her Majesty.

I’ve not always lived in a railway station. Lived at some high class addresses I have. Well not so much at, more on the windowsills. For a time I lived at Harrods store. The things I’ve seen through Mohamed Al-Fayed’s office, you wouldn’t believe. But I’m no stoolpigeon, in any case one tweet and I’d finish up sold in the Harrods Food Hall as the innards to a pigeon pie. You know, he don’t get on with Prince Philip, thinks he arranged for Diana and Dody to be murdered.

Yes, the things I’ve seen through windows. There was the time I lived, I think it was in Eaton Square, real posh place, they had servants, butler, housemaid and a cook. Don’t know what the butler saw, but I saw what the butler did. Must admire someone with that much stamina; to be able to keep not only the Mistress, but the young mistress and the housemaid happy.

Look I’m talking too much here, might say something I ort not to.

To be continued tomorrow - Bookmark this page.

YesBut is this It? - Part 3

Continued from yesterday.

For YesBut’s Image on 19th July 2007, Brian in Oxford 's suggested the caption -

"Not fags. We've bags. Get used to it!"

The photo suggested the following story to me, (continued from yesterday):

After lunch the kids had a sleep, around 3:00 o’clock he decided to put Lucy in her pram and take her and her brother Darren down to the seafront.

It was quite pleasant for the time of year, the sun was shining and there was a gentle breeze coming off the sea. He sat on the seawall and watched the kids build a sandcastle.

“Come on Gramps help us.”

“You should”. That was the second time that day that he’d been startled by someone speaking to him. He turned around to see a well dressed, some would say prim lady, he guessed, in her late sixties.

“Yes I should”.
“The little girl already has her mothers ways”
“I’m sorry do I know you”.
“No, but I’ve seen you in town with Jane and the children”

He wondered how she knew his daughters name.

“I am Miss Roberts, I taught Jane in Form 2, at Lakeside Primary School”.
“Miss Roberts. Gosh I remember I’ve heard about you from my wife.”
“Yes, I see her in town, she’s looking well”.

“Mr Williams do you . . .”
“Please call me Glyn“.
“Yes, well, Glyn, I cannot help but notice the resemblance between the little boy with your father”.
“My Dad?”
“Yes, some days he would come to take Jane home from school”.

“Perhaps its because I was a teacher having no children of my own, I became fascinated by the influence parents, and even grandparents have on children. You know children are mimics they learn by example. They pickup their accent from the people around them, even small mannerisms. What are their names?”

“Darren and Lucy”.

“Look at the way Lucy holds her left hand behind her head when she’s thinking, Jane used to do the same thing. And from what I remember so did your mother”.

“Your right, yes Mam would stand like that”.

“This is the fourth generation of your family that I’ve known, and I have seen the influence of one on the other on the other. Children are our future isn’t a meaningless saying. They really are. Those two are your future. Not only will they have your DNA, but they will have some of your mannerisms, thoughts, prejudices and preferences. Gosh listen to me I sound more like a preacher than an ex-teacher”.

“No, it’s alright; you’ll never know how timely it was talking to you, thanks, thanks very much”.

“Well I must be off, nice meeting you Glyn, please pass my good wishes to Jane and your wife, goodbye”.

“Goodbye Miss Roberts. Come on kids lets finish the sandcastle then we’ll go for ice-cream”

That evening when Jane was putting Darren to bed, he turned to his mom. “You know Gramps is a secret agent.”
She laughed “Gramps a secret agent, why do you say that?”
“He can see the Invisible Man.”
“Don’t be silly”.
“Yes, yes he can, he can I saw him talk to him this morning and on the beach this afternoon, so there”.
“OK clever what did he look like?”
“I couldn’t see him, I only saw Gramps talking to him”.

Jane had been worried about her Father for sometime, he didn’t seem to be his old self.

She wondered if she should discuss her concern with her Mom, “Better not it will only worry here”.

Tucking the bedclothes around Darren she told him, “Perhaps its best if Gramps doesn’t take you for more walks, we don’t want a Secret Agent to get too tired”.

YesBut is this It? - Part 2

Continued from yesterday.

For YesBut’s Image on 19th July 2007, Brian in Oxford 's suggested the caption -

"Not fags. We've bags. Get used to it!"

The photo suggested the following story to me, (continued from yesterday):

Being a Wednesday it was his duty to look after his grandchildren while his wife and daughter went “out for the day”. It was sunny so he thought he’d take them out to the park to feed the ducks.

While Darren fed the ducks he spoke to Lucy. He really liked the conversations he had with her, she was the only person who listened to him - well it wasn’t a conversation, being only fourteen months old she didn’t have much to say. And he only assumed she listened because she smiled.

“Look, look at Darren feeding the ducks. Darren there’s a good boy, don’t go too close the water. There, now where was I? I was telling you about the time I was an important manager in the works where your daddy works. Yes, they didn’t want me to retire. I’m sorry now that I did. Apart for taking you and Darren for walks, the last three years have been the most boring in my life, and I can’t see things improving, in fact its probably going to be a lot worst. Already I notice I can’t walk as far as I used to.”

“Don’t sound so gloomy”. He jumped because he hadn’t noticed the man come and sit by him on the bench.

“You startled me”.
“Sorry. You sounded down.”
“That’s life”.
“Surely not that bad”.
“No, but, well? Do you ever think what its all about?”
“All about?”
“Yes, the meaning of life”.

The stranger laughed. “I just get on with it”.
“But, there must be some reason, otherwise what’s the point?”
“Has there got to be a point”.
“Surely, yes. Otherwise I might as well walk into the lake now and drown myself”.

The stranger laughed again. “And the point of your life so far?”
“I suppose, these two young ones. ”
“That sounds good enough for me.”
“But don’t you feel you want to do something, to be remembered?”

The stranger turned to look at him. “Remembered? Whose remembered?”
“Famous people”.
“Look just think about it. Who are these so called famous people? Let me tell you about my China test”.
“China test?”
“Yes, its simple, just imagine showing a photo of someone you think is famous to a person living in the middle of China. What do you think are the chances of them recognising them?”
“Put that way, not very high”.
“So much for famous people”.

The stranger got up to move away, “be happy, it’s the only life you’ll have”.

“Come on kids, lets go home for lunch”.

As he walked home pushing the pram he thought, ”I’ve got some decisions to take”.

To be continued tomorrow - Bookmark this page

YesBut is this It? - Part 1

For YesBut’s Image on 19th July 2007, Brian in Oxford 's suggested the caption -

"Not fags. We've bags. Get used to it!"

The photo suggested the following story to me:

He thought, “After 68 years, is this all I have to look forward to? The highlight of my day, going shopping with my wife and grandchildren”.

“I really looked forward to retirement, I imagined it would give me freedom to do what I liked, and importantly, I wouldn’t have to get up at 6:15 each morning”.

“But the anticipation was far better than the realisation. OK, I was only a Foreman of a small group of men, but I had their respect. I think even the managers valued my opinion. But as soon as I retired, I became ‘yesterday’s man‘. I went back to visit the old work place a couple of times, but it was obvious they were, for some reason, embarrassed to see me.”

“In the house, I feel I’m only in the way. Its my wife’s domain, and she isn’t prepared to share it with me. We’ve been married over forty-five years, but to be honest we haven’t been intimate for - well lets say a long time. At best we only tolerate each other, the only thing we share is the love for our daughter and grandchildren.”

“Even when I go around to my daughter’s house to see the kids, I feel uncomfortable, especially if Terry, Jane’s husband is around. We don’t get on, I know its mainly my fault, I can’t keep my mouth closed and speak my mind.”

“If it wasn’t for little Darren and Lucy - well I’m not sure what I’d do. Sometimes I think its not worth carrying on. What have I got to look forward to? Perhaps if I’m lucky seven more years, then drop dead from a heart attack. If I’m unlucky fourteen years, the last two in a old peoples home, sitting in the corner doped up to the eyeballs with tranquillisers, incontinent and unloved.”

“And after I’m dead, will anybody remember me? Perhaps my daughter. Hopefully the grandchildren, but I doubt it, I’ll just fade in their memory as they start thinking about their own children and partners. Partners, I hate that word, why not husbands and wives?”

A voice brought him back to the present moment. “Dad, we’re going for a coffee, we’ll see you tomorrow”.

He nodded his head in acknowledgement. “I’m not even asked if I would like to join them. I’m just the bag carrier”.

To be continued tomorrow - Bookmark this page.

YesBut we're high and dry - Part 3

Continued from yesterday.

For YesBut’s Image posted on 12th June 2007 David McMahon suggested the caption: -

“Up the creek without a puddle”.


The photo suggested to me the following story, (continued from yesterday):

I tell you thank goodness for Pete’s quick thinking, he responded in a flash, “Annual inspection”. That seemed to satisfy the cops, but we still had the problem of re-floating the boat and returning it to its owner.

Pete thought Dave’s suggestion of digging a big hole around the boat wouldn’t work. He suggested getting a rope and a pulley. Tying the pulley to a tree on the other bank, then use the rope to pull the boat to the water.

Barry thought the pulley idea was good, but to use it to lift up the boat, rather than pull it. Though he had difficulty in coming up with a solution on what to hang the pulley. After a long discussion I said we couldn’t waste more time, we had to decide now. I went along with Dave’s plan.

So Dave and me went off to look for some shovels, while Barry and Pete decided to conserve their energies and go back on the boat for a kip. Dave and I set off to look for a building site to “borrow four shovels”. Then I had a flash of inspiration - if we were to dig a big hole we’d better first get a good full English Breakfast.

We soon came upon an old fashion “greasy spoon” café, catering mainly for workers. Big steaming mug of sweet tea, plate full of: bacon, two eggs, fried bread and tomatoes, mushrooms and a big dollop of baked beans. One word to describe the feast - mighty. We got to talk to some Irish lads, they said they knew where they could get hold of some shovels for us. They suggest, we should also take a pickaxe because the river bed could be hard. So off we went to collect the stuff.

They were a grand bunch of lads on the building site, they even lent us a wheelbarrow to transport the tools. Why do wheelbarrows have squeaky wheels?

When we got back to the river, we couldn’t believe our eyes. Who had stolen the water had been more successful in returning it, than we had in returning the boat. Now coming to think about it, we might not have been all that careful in tying up the boat, for there it was floating in midstream. Unfortunately moored next to it was the police launch. We couldn’t see whether Pete and Barry were still onboard.

I looked at my watch and told Dave, “if we are quick we could get these tools back to the lads, go home for a shower and shave; and still be not too late for work”. He agreed.

YesBut we're high and dry - Part 2

Continued from yesterday.

For YesBut’s Image posted on 12th June 2007 David McMahon suggested the caption: -

“Up the creek without a puddle”.


The photo suggested to me the following story, (continued from yesterday):

I remember opening my eyes, and not recognizing where I was. It certainly wasn’t my bedroom; the only familiar things were the comatose bodies of my mates. I wish I had had a camera to photograph Pete sucking his thumb as he slept; Barry was snoring like an old bull on heat while Dave was slumped on the floor.

It took a few moments to recall - all be it very vaguely the events of the previous night. Shit! We had stolen a boat. There was only one thing to do, get it back before anyone noticed it was missing. Despite my thumping head I managed to get up and go out on deck. Now I’m not stupid, I knew there was something wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it immediately. Then I realized the wharf was a lot taller than the one we had tied alongside the night before. Last night we had just stepped off the boat onto the wharf, but now the wharf was up in the sky. Looking over the side I realized someone had stolen the river, it was gone leaving us and the boat high and dry.

They might have been my mates, but they are a cantankerous lot in the morning. Finally I got them to recognize we had to take action, and pretty darn quick. We threw a rope over the side and Dave and me climbed down. Things were looking bad, even though the pointy end of the boat was in the water, even that was touching the bottom. We had to get more brain power to tackle the problem.

When we were joined by Pete and Barry we agreed it was “un-gentlemanly” to do a runner, we had to get the boat back to its owner. Dave being the most practical said it was obvious, all we had to do is to dig a big hole around the boat, the water would flow in and “Bob’s your uncle Fanny’s your aunt” we could float the boat.

Just then a police launch passed. “Ahoy there what’s up?”. Can you believe it that people still say “ahoy there”?

To be continued tomorrow - Bookmark this page.

YesBut we're high and dry - Part 1

For YesBut’s Image posted on 12th June 2007 David McMahon suggested the caption: -

“Up the creek without a puddle”.


The photo suggested to me the following story:

I don’t normally go out for a drink mid week, but it was Pete’s birthday, so a couple of us lads went out for a few pints. You know how it goes; start slowly, then someone buys a round of shorts and before you know it, all semblance of common sense is urinated out at a visit to the toilet.

Can’t remember now who made the suggestion we should go for a swim. But the next thing I remember is being down by the river. I rate myself quite a good swimmer so I challenged the others to a race to the boat moored in the middle. With ten pints and a few whiskies in your belly doesn’t make climbing aboard after a swimming race. But somehow there we all were onboard a tourist boat in the middle of the Thames.

Snooping around we found the bar, but the cupboards were empty. Dave went up to the bridge to do his Captain Pugwash act. Meanwhile Barry was down in the engine room doing his “I’m a motor mechanic” thing.

A puff of exhaust smoke, let go forward let go aft and there we were like little boys playing Pirates of the Caribbean. It was more of a gentle drift down stream, soon we were passing the Houses of Parliament. I must admit, Dave isn’t all mouth, he steered that boat sweetly through the centre arches of Westminster and Hungerford bridges. I think it was as we were passing under Waterloo bridge, Pete woke up and suggested we should finish the night off at a nightclub.

OK, coming alongside Gabriel’s Wharf wasn’t the most perfect of operations, and we might have scraped some paint off the side of the boat. But we were careful in tying up the boat.

Can’t remember much about being in the nightclub, or even finding our way back to the boat. The only thing I recall is waking up with a thumping headache and feeling like “spewing my guts up” (pardon the expression).

To be continued tomorrow - Bookmark this page.

The shame of Sister Mary

Sister Mary could hardly remember a time when she wasn’t a nun. She had entered the doors of the convent, aged 18, to become a novice in 1958. In the subsequent 49 years she had not left the convent, not even for the funeral of her father in 1972 and of her mother’s thirteen years later.

When she entered the convent Dwight D. Eisenhower was President of America, Harold Macmillan Prime Minister of Great Britain and Nikita Khrushchev was the first secretary of the Central Committee of the Soviet Union. It was four years before the Cuban missile crises. The Everly Brothers had the first of their four chart toppers with “All I have to do is dream”; and Elvis Presley had his second No1 with “Jailhouse Rock”.

Since 1958, not only hadn’t she left the convent she hadn’t watched television, listened to the radio, or read a newspaper. In reality she had truly cut herself off from the outside world. In addition she had joined a silent order, so the only time she heard a human voce was: during the act of worship, at her weekly confession and at interviews with Mother Superior. It was at such an interview that she was asked to become The Guest Nun, to look after the needs of visitors staying on retreat at the convent. Following her vow of obedience she could not refuse, but she did indicate her trepidation of having to interact with the outside world. Mother Superior reassured her that her contact with outsiders would be minimum. The brunt of the duties would be performed by Novices; her role would primarily be to provide supervision and guidance.

So it was, she had minimum contact with visitors, continuing to dedicate her life to devotion, pray and contemplation. So it would have remained had it not been for Kathaleen, a deeply disturbed young girl, who came to stay at the convent. She was disruptive and mischievous. After a week, Mother Superior decided enough was enough, and she was asked to leave. Her final act before leaving was to trash her bedroom.

There were tears in Sister Mary’s eyes as she viewed the damage, how could such a young woman have such hatred for the world. She picked up an upturned chair and placed it besides the bed. She saw on the floor a newspaper, something she hadn’t seen for nearly 50 years. She pick it up, and was appalled by the photograph of a scantily clad woman on the front page. As she threw it in the wastepaper bin it opened at a page with a matrix. Matrix, her mind flashed back to her school days and her favourite teacher Sister Agnes who taught her maths. It was through her influence she had become a nun. She looked at the matrix and saw a word she had never seen or heard of before Sudoku. It sounded foreign possibly oriental. Sitting at the edge of the bed she was expecting to read an article on mathematics, and was surprised to see it was some type of puzzle!

Involuntary she picked up a pencil from the table and filled in the first square, then the next, then the next. Soon brain cells which were about to die from the lack of use were sparking in full flight. She gave a little chuckle as she filled in the last square. What had she done? She felt a sense of shame! What if a Novice or Mother Superior had seen her! As she stood up she saw the puzzle she had completed was only the first of three, there was another labelled tough and one difficult. She hadn’t had to face temptation for over fifty years, the last time involved, she couldn’t remember. Like a little child sticking their finger in a honey pot, she quickly cut out the other two puzzles stuffing the piece of paper up her sleeve, she then threw the newspaper in the bin. She then set about tidying the room.

Returning to her own room she was in torment. Should she give in to her longing to complete the other two puzzles or destroy the piece of paper secreted up her sleeve?

YesBut the price is right - Part 5

Continued from yesterday

For YesBut’s Image posted on 23rd July 2007, David McMahon suggested the caption -

“Triple art bypass”

While Doug suggested -

"Cindy's art class were so low on funds that the sidewalk was their only canvas. That is until the rains came."

The photo suggested the following story to me, (continued from yesterday): -

Was there a clue in the painting itself? She didn’t have to look at the painting, she had an image of it seared in her brain. It was a painting of two Frenchmen, Jean de Winterville and Georges de Selve, standing either side of shelves which display a number of objects, the most intriguing, but at first not the most noticable feature, is a long whitish elongated object in the forefront of the painting. Viewed from the side the distorted perspective corrects itself and is seen to be a skull - a sign of mortality. Was the skull the reason for the commission?

In February she phoned him to say the painting was finished. His secretary informed her he was in the USA and he would contact her on his return.

She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t informed the other members of the artist group of the commission, and now that the painting was finished she wanted to show it to them, but felt embarrassed that she hadn’t told them about the painting; and especially who had commissioned it. So she said nothing.

Two months later he came to view the work, he was pleased with the finished painting and immediately wrote a cheque for £10,000 and arranged for the painting to be collected the next day. She banked the money, and was relieved by the sense of security it provided.

She didn’t think about the painting. She continued to try and find and develop her own painting style, but all in vain. The summer would again be spent on the South Bank, painting a copy of an “Old Masters” work, and collecting money from tourists.

One evening she was in the flat of the artist who had introduced her to the Artist Group, the other members of the group were there sharing a couple of bottles of red wine. One of them got up and walked over to the TV,

“Do you mind if I put on the box, there’s a review on of the Damien Hirst’ retrospective exhibition”.

She turned towards the screen, and involuntarily blurted out “That’s my . . .”.


Her words were drowned by cries and hoots of laughter, as the artists heard the art critic justify the price tag of £7.5 million for Damien Hirst’s copy of Holbein’s “The Ambassadors” mounted in a diamond studded platinum frame.

YesBut the price is right - Part 4

Continued from yesterday

For YesBut’s Image posted on 23rd July 2007, David McMahon suggested the caption -

“Triple art bypass”

While Doug suggested -

"Cindy's art class were so low on funds that the sidewalk was their only canvas. That is until the rains came."

The photo suggested the following story to me, (continued from yesterday): -

Seeing her looking at him, he approached her.

“I’ve been looking at your work, I’d like to commission you to paint a copy of Holbein’s ‘The Ambassadors‘, exhibited in the National Gallery.”
“I don’t know, I’m committed to working here for the summer, and I was planning to spend the winter working on my own work”.
“I’ll make it worth your while”.
“What did you have in mind?”
“£20,000”.
“Twenty thousand pounds, when do I start!”. They both laughed.

The next day he was back with a contract for her to sign. She undertook to complete the painting by 31st March, and to relinquish all intellectual or copyrights for the work. In return she got a down payment of £10,000, the balance to be paid on completion. She was more than happy to sign.

She started copying the painting in early November, she made frequent visits to the National Gallery to check on details of the painting, and to ensure she was matching the colours. But as she worked, she had the nagging thought at the back of her mind, why had he chosen her to do the painting, why this particular painting and most puzzling of all what possible reason did he have to want a copy of the painting?

To be continued tomorrow - Bookmark this page

YesBut the price is right - Part 3

Continued from yesterday

For YesBut’s Image posted on 23rd July 2007, David McMahon suggested the caption -

“Triple art bypass”

Doug suggested -

"Cindy's art class were so low on funds that the sidewalk was their only canvas. That is until the rains came."

The photo suggested the following story to me, (continued from yesterday): -

At his studio he unrolled onto the floor a number of large canvasses, each a copy of an “Old Master” painting. There was Leonardo Ad Vinci’s “Last Supper”, Monticello’s “The Birth of Venus” and Goya’s “The Execution of the 3rd of May 1808”.

He explained there were a group of artists who to assist each other use the paintings to collect money which is shared amongst the group. He said if she joined the group he would lend one of the paintings to her while she painted her own. She was delighted as this would allow her to collect money from tourists visiting London in the summer, and she could then devote the winter to her own work.

Within days she had found a suitable pitch on London’s South Bank. Each day she taped the borrowed painting on the pavement, and set up a new canvas to paint a copy of Rembrandt’s “The Night Watch”.

She was so happy to be able to give up working at the hamburger joint, and to be earning good money each day, in addition it allowed her to do what she wanted to. Also the tourists were so nice, they stopped to take her photo and talk to her. There was one person she saw on several occasions, he appeared to be taking a great deal of interest in her work, but made no effort to speak to her. After a few weeks she realised the man wasn’t merely showing a passing interest, he quite obviously had an ulterior motive, but what? The next time he passed she took particular notice, then she realised who he was. She was shocked, why should he, of all people, have an interest in her work?

To be continued tomorrow - bookmark this page.

YesBut the price is right - Part 2

Continued from yesterday

For YesBut’s Image posted on 23rd July 2007, David McMahon suggested the caption -

“Triple art bypass”

While Doug suggested -

"Cindy's art class were so low on funds that the sidewalk was their only canvas. That is until the rains came."

The photo suggested the following story to me, (continued from yesterday): -

At work late one night, she became annoyed with a young man who just sat at the corner table, nursing an empty coffee mug. She wanted to go home, but she couldn’t finish until she had cleaned all the tables. She got hold of a wet mop and started washing the floor getting closer and closer to the corner table, suddenly he looked up.

“I’m sorry, I’m keeping you . .”.

When he turned to speak to her she recognised him. She had seen him at the Atlantis art material store.

“No problem, its just I need to close up”.
“Haven’t I seen you at Atlantis?”.
“Yes, I only work here part-time . . .”
“Ah a fellow artist, what gallery are you with”?
“I’m not”.

“No it’s not easy at the start”. “Look let me get out of your way, and perhaps after you’ve finished you could meet me at the pub opposite”.
“OK, see you in half an hour”.

That chance meeting was to change the direction of her life.

They met at the pub, taking their drinks to a quiet corner table they settled down for a long talk. She felt such a relief to be able to talk to someone who would understand her problems, and perhaps provide some advice.

She told him about her lifelong desire to become an artist, and the difficulty she was experiencing creating original work. He explained he had had the same problem, but had found a solution.

“Look I’m not promising anything until I see your work, but I might have a solution.”

He arranged to visit her studio the next day to look at her work.

“You’re certainly a talented painter, given time I’m sure you’ll develop your own style.”
“Yes but in the mean time I have to live, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life cleaning tables at a hamburger joint”.
“Don’t worry you will not”.
“Let’s go across to my studio and I’ll show you the solution.”

This sounded to her like a “come up and see my etchings type invitation!”. Should she trust him?

To be continued tomorrow - Bookmark this page.