be a better storyteller

... There lived a family in a great land. The father came from burghers and had some noble blood. The mother was of noble blood, and of a different people than the father’s. Yet the two loved each other, or so they thought at first.

They had a son, born to them in the time of the apple blossoms. They had another son, who died the third day of a hole in the heart. Then a daughter was born to them. She grew at first so very beautifully, and so to this day is thus, but at the age of two or three the family realized she would not be one who spoke and reasoned as others.

Then they had another boy, and a baby girl; and when the oldest son was six going on seven, they moved from the old Edwardian house with the stained glass windows and turret, from the little town whose name was the same as one of the Protestant reformers of Europe, to a town somewhat larger, on the railways, where the county seat established the courts.

And the oldest began to attend Catholic school in the north end of town, in one of the parcels where Catholics had been allowed to build.

(To be continued…)

I was discussing the Zidane/Materazzi incident with the two newcomers who had joined us to play chess. I told them I thought the most plausable report was that Materazzi grabbed Zidane’s shirt. Zidane jeered at Materazzi saying he could have the shirt after the match. Then Materazzi said “I’d rather take your mother’s shirt off!” That amused everyone. But also one report mentioned that Materazzi’s mother died when he was young. And one of the guy’s jokingly agreed, well if he hasn’t got a mother that’s why he wants Zidane’s.

• The time I accidently shaved a square into my friends hair so he had to take his exams with a hat on.
• The time when my car caught fire on the M4 near Aldershot.
• The urine in a pot.
• The time we climbed the fences to get into a festival.
• The dirty plates under the sofa incident.