We’ve got a long way to go

There’s a long road ahead

But we’ve got a whole box of wishes that are gonna come true

And I‘ve got a pocketful of stars

That I’m going to put back into your eyes

So that when you smile

You’ll out-shine Mr Moo_______n

There’s a battle ahead

And I’m gonna fight it with you

Remember all the things we said we’re gonna do?

And if you look down deep inside

That’s where Mr Courage hides

And when tears sting your eyes

He’ll come out for you_________

We’ve got a long way to go

There’s a long road ahead

But we’ve got a whole box of wishes that are gonna come true_____

We squeezed round the table eight friends all from school

Four sat on dining chairs, four sat on stools

Our fingers all touching the glass in the middle

Instructions agreed, no one to fiddle

Ouija boards are not to be played

It’s serious stuff where contacts are made

Is anyone there we hear Paul say

The glass edges forwards and stops at the J

We all ask in unison does anyone know

The glass moves sideways and stops at the O

Alan breaks rank and runs for the door

The glass bangs the table, Alan falls to the floor

I’m stuck to the glass I hear someone say

The glass just ignores him and moves to the A

Someone starts crying with fear, it is Ben

Wind whistles past us as the glass stops at N

Ian’s dog starts to bark and gives one monstrous roar

As an old ladies photograph falls from the wall

We manage to escape leaving Ian alone

The last words he screamed – Please no Aunty Joan

- Alan’s death was recorded as death by natural causes.

- Ian remains on the police missing persons list to this day, they have never found his body!

©Julian Race 04/09/2021

Twitter @JulianRace1

Never thought I'd say this,

But thank you for the pain.

Thank you for all the tears,

That fell down my face like rain.

Thank you for the names,

All the insults,

The dirt on my name.

Thank you for the scars.

Thank you for everything.

If it wasn't for you,

Where would I be?

Probably not here,

Writing a masterpiece.

I probably wouldn't be as strong as I am.

Ivincible,

Because the only way they can destroy me is if I let them in.

And after trusting you and being hurt,

I don't let anyone else in.

Not because I'm afraid,

But because I am experienced.

Never thought I'd say this,

But thank you for the pain.

Thank you for the memories.

The nightmares.

The sleepless nights.

The screams in my head,

Telling me I have to fight.

When I was drowning,

Oxygen leaving,

Got me wishing for death.

Fight, I was told.

But you can only fight so long.

So, again, thank you.

I love the rain,

But I hate the rainy days.

All my feelings come up to the surface,

Tryna come out and play.

Ring around the rosey,

Pockets full of 'help mes'

Ashes, ashes,

We all cry out.

We all fall down.

We all drown.

I love the rain,

But I hate the rainy days.

All my feelings come up to the surface,

Tryna come out and play.

Tag.

Miss me by a mile,

Chase me down,

The race is on,

Come get me now.

Hide and Seek,

You can´t find me,

I'll be hiding behind these walls for eternity.

I love the rain,

But I hate the rainy days.

My walls are going back up,

my tear ducks are drying.

My smiles are dimming,

The light in my eyes dying.

I should thank my mind for protecting me.

But I loved feeling so free.

It's hard for me to go back to being the old me.

Pray for me,

My head's going under.

Pray for me,

I'm drowning again and no one can save me.

Downton Abbey or is it Downright Shabby Hits The Big Screen: © Worditch News – Film Review By Julian Race

Just when you thought it was safe to come out of that dark yet cozy closet, the fifth TV re-run of the six series had finally finished on ITV3 and your sanity had been restored to “almost normal”, that flippin Julian Fellows comes up with the film version of Downright Shabby.

Being headline news and pasted all over the front pages of Worditch News, I braced myself for the question I knew would inevitably roll off my wife’s tongue. “Can we go and see Downton at the flicks”? Shit, I did not think it would be that quick but fortunately, I still had a few tabs of valium left that saw me through the screening of the full series on TV. For reasons that now escape me, I found my head nodding rather than shaking which is something I must add to the ever growing list of ailments that I needed to inform my doctor about when he had fully recovered from my previous visit! It’s possibly the onset of St Vitus Dance I thought, knowing my current health conditions; however, I’d done it, I’d agreed to go and see Downright Shabby.

Following the agreement, which was quickly set in fast drying concrete, I tried on several occasions to call my psychiatrist, but he had possibly suffered the same fate as I had and was currently residing on another planet!

The following day arrived so quickly and being sufficiently medicinally subdued, we entered screen 8 of the cinema and took our pre booked seats. All in the name of consumer interest I repeated to myself over and over.

Once all the long-term calorie abusing consumers had settled down with their family bucket of popcorn in one fist, their foot-long sausage roll in another, or at least that’s what I hoped it was and every pocket bulging with potato crisps and sweets including a two litre cardboard jug of “diet” coke hooked between their teeth, the introductory music bellowed out of the Dolby system!

The film begins with a letter being signed and then sealed down by some royal equerry or other who then hands it to a servant who then runs it down to the post office where it is shoved uncerimoniously into a sack and loaded onto the night train.

As the train thunders through the night, the post is eagerly sorted by the ever so humble postal staff and the letter makes another appearance as it is put into a pigeon hole. I wondered if it had an equity card.

The scene changes to a Post Office van trundling through traffic free streets with not an E Scooter in sight!

The scene then cuts a postman on a motorcycle heading up the long and winding driveway to Downright Shabby, it could be a BSA but I’ll stand corrected. The motorbike squeaks to a halt and the letter which appears at this point to be the star of the film is handed to Daisy’s dopey love interest Andrew who then rushes it to Barrow who just happened to be waiting for the postal delivery near the tradesman’s entrance, which given Barrows disposition is somewhere he always longs to be.

Barrow or Wheelie as I’ve nicknamed him, hands the letter to Hugh Bunny boiler or Robert Bawdy as he is named in the film who surprisingly looks twenty years younger than when he was in series six and Barrow tells him that it is a letter “from the palace”.

Unimpressed, Bob walks off with it muttering, “So it is”. Barrow who is sporting a new haircut with a tinge of grey at the sides looks bemused and returns to attend to his other duties, no doubt as amazed as I was that it only cost 1d for a red stamp to send the envelope all that way and with so many people handling it! It was at this point that I mentally noted that the gender realignment injections Barrow had taken in series six must have worked a treat as he never tried to chat up the postman!

And so, it came to pass that the royal letter revealed that the King and Queen were to visit Downright on a tour. Was Freddie Mercury to make an appearance I mused; Barrow will be pleased! The story drags on and like Bob did in series six, switches to below stairs for a change of scenery.

Now, bearing in mind the royal couple were a month away from the visit, Mrs. Fatmore, Daisy and the other kitchen staff who never utter a word, were running around with a few headless chickens or was it like headless chickens, never mind, they were eagerly preparing food like the royals were already in residence!

Plans were immediately put in place in preparation for the King and Queens visit to Downright. Unfortunately, the staff below stairs was to have their noses pushed out of joint as the royal duo always took their own staff wherever they went so were subsequently banned from serving the royal visitors.

Surprisingly, yet reassuringly caustic Cora “the borer - yawn” has very few lines in this film but decides at a family meeting to discuss the visit that Wheelie (Barrow) is incontinent, she may have said incompetent, but the ever-expanding person sat directly behind me opened another family size bag of cheese and vinegar potato crisps just as Cora spoke. I quickly ran the scene back through my mind to get back on track and decided that Barrow is either A) going to France, B) requires a few wine corks from Parsoles (Carson’s) stash to stem the flow or 3) is not up to the job! (Did you see what I did there?)

Whichever it was, the scene changes to Mrs. Shoes (Hughes) walking down the long driveway of Downright and into her garden where she catches Parsoles in the garden scraping his prize carrot or that’s what he said he was doing! Following a short discussion and after wiping his hands and his carrot on his pinnie, he launches himself fully costumed in his butlers outfit up to Downright to save the day.

The film reveals that Lady Edith is suddenly married to a right Herbert and funnily enough that’s his name in the film and is wealthier now than any of the Bawdy family put together which is another thorn in the side of Lady Mary.

Apparently, somewhere along the TV series he must have accepted Marigold the “bastard child” as the Bawdy family referred to it as.

The Dowager Violet reveals at the age of 192 she has had the results of tests and they are not good; she cannot go to university after all and even if she did, she’d never pay off the student loan or complete the course as she is ill and will pass away shortly. Did I see Robert check his watch in the background?

The royal servants arrive and imediately take over the running of the house, much to the disdain of the downstairs Downright staff.

Suddenly, and totally out of the blue, the central heating broke down and because Parsoles had cancelled the service contract with British Gas to save money, a local plumber was called in to sort it out.

With his ball cock in his hand the plumber tries his best chat up lines on Daisy which just goes to prove that men can multi task after all! The dope that Daisy is pondering on marrying gets jealous of the plumber and in his rage smashes the central heating system after the plumber leaves the house so that everyone would think the plumber was about as much use as a 12mm washer in a 13mm joint. But people were wiser than he thought and because of it Daisy promises to marry him? (Work that one out!)

The day of the royal visit arrives, caustic Cora warns Bob that he had better not do his duodenal ulcer party trick on the King or he’s banned from the marital bed and back into the spare room.

The next scene cuts to Molsley who is acting as if he badly needs a wee. Obviously overwhelmed at serving royalty, Molsley proceeds to wet himself and as if on cue caustic Cora is not amused and gives him one of her stern looks which causes his reserve tank to empty also.

The devious Downright staff downstairs decide to drug the royal chef with a double dose of sleeping draft and the royal butler is then locked in his bedroom. The result of which sees the Downright staff serving the King and Queen. With Molsley sporting a well placed washing peg to prevent spillage, all goes well.

That is except for Barrow who agrees to go out with one of the male staff that is supposed to be looking after the royals. They agree to meet at a pub later that evening.

Barrow bowls up to the pub, but his male companion is nowhere to be seen. So, being a budding promiscuous type, he is quickly chatted up by another bloke who asks him to go with him to a club.

Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather boa when they go in to this gay club where men dance with other men for Christ’s sake and when Barrow kisses this bloke full on the mouth and I suspect there were tongues involved, the woman behind me nearly choked on her fifth bag of salted nuts and proceeded to fire a machine gun of salted nuts into my right ear!

Barrow was really getting into the scene and I presume he was aroused and was about to do his “Jake the Peg” impression when in storms the local plod or police to give the finer translation and all the “Perverts” as the police called them were arrested and carted off to clink and not one of them collected £200 for passing “Go”!

The bloke who originally supposed to have met Barrow at the pub turns up at the nick and gets Barrow out without a charge and Barrow gets his first real boyfriend “to write to”! Ahhhh.

Lady Mary, who has only smiled once in the whole six series on TV as far as my memory serves me remains fairly quiet throughout and decides to marry Henry Talbot. Henry, who sports a rather long spoon neck in my opinion is yet another racing driver. However, following some one to one training with Branson in series one, she was fully up to speed with which brake pipe to cut if Henry as much as looks at her incorrectly.

But Branson, what about Branson shouts the person behind me whilst simultaneously showering my head with a mixture of popcorn, diet coke and the half sucked corner of a snickers bar. My wife hands me a tissue without averting her eyes from the screen and as if by magic, Branson appears.

An IRA member is furtively chatting to Branson who immediately gets drawn into a plot to kill the King. Branson, being the full shilling in the brains department sees through the ruse and saves the King from being shot. Branson however had secretly wanted to kill the King himself but had to ditch the idea when two undercover policemen arrested the IRA member.

After all that action we finally come to the finale, Barrow got his beau without the need to feel the full force of a coppers truncheon, Lady Mary agrees to marry Henry and buys some new metal snippers, Dowager Violet is definitely a goner but will miraculously reappear in fine health in the new series and Bob is counting her wealth, Bates still has his limp but has a classic collection of walking sticks under his belt if that is possible, Parsoles retires again to grow cucumbers, Mrs. Shoes refuses to eat his carrots, Daisy is engaged, the plumber is out on his ear, Lady Edith is thinking of modelling lingerie, Herbert is still a right Herbert, Mrs. Patmore invents a new recipe, Cora is promised that she can have more lines to speak in the next series along with several new facial expressions, the postman manages to kick start the BSA and the letter is screwed up and thrown in the trash, never to act again!

The credits roll………….

Go and see the film and tell me this review isn’t spot on!

©Julian Race 16/6/2021

Twitter @JulianRace1

The band stood on the sinking deck

Playing music but nothing too sad

The last of the lifeboats were over the side

The situation was bad

The waiter brought the band a drink

Which they thought was rather nice

But the cello player who was rather posh

Had the audacity to ask for ice

The water reached their waist line

It was getting rather cold

Of all the times to lose his hat

The violin player was bald

The ship it is unsinkable

Ships engineer was sure

Shouting above the mania

Whilst waving the ships brochure

The ship it tipped up on its stern

They were almost in the sea

Without a worry for themselves

Played “Nearer My God to Thee”

© Julian Race 02/06/2021

Twitter @JulianRace1

William’s whatchemacallit wavered in the wind. Willhamena wondered what was wrong with it. William put willy away and he walked Willhamena to Westward Way as winter was where the season was at, and waving one’s willy was wasteful of one’s time in this weather.

The waterfall was worthwhile seeing on the way back to Willhamena’s. However, William’s waterworks were not watertight as he was wanting to water the wildflowers urgently, his bladder as wide as a watermelon.

When William had waggled it, his wristwatch was wet so he wiped it on his wankerchief a word known only to men!

Witchcraft was at hand as William walked into a wheelbarrow left by the woodcutter making wickerwork by the wayside.

Work people, Willy whined get right up my waterspout. Willhamena’s eyes wondered down to his willy which had left its wet mark on his Y fronts so left her wondering.

William dropped off Willhamena and walked back to Warrington West, stripped down to his vest and slept.

Celia Poppinjay 28/5/2021

I once bought a girl an eternity ring

Eternity I thought was forever

It lasted another month or two

Then she left for someone more clever

It took a while before the pain had gone

And then I met sweet little Mary

At six foot two and eyes of blue

And a chin that always looked hairy

Mary and I were made for each other

And decided to marry in spring

Our love would last for eternity

And I’d already got a spare ring

©Julian Race 24/5/2021

It has been a while since writing a story on Prose, my eyes are not what they used to be and to be honest, just never found inspiration from any of the prompts that suited my writing style.

I suppose this is quite a strange prompt really from Prose, but hey, who am I to criticise?

The best outcome of it is that it has prompted me put finger to qwerty keyboard and write a short story of one of my many escapades in France which from how I see it, should fall into the guidelines of this prompt.

The house we owned in France was edged, land wise by our nearest neighbour, Christian, whose farmhouse was some 3 km’s away. Christian would wave at me and my wife as he passed along the public lane in his trusty old Ford tractor leaving a cloud of black diesel smoke behind him.

One Sunday, we were having lunch alfresco with a couple of French friends Patrick and his wife Blandine. We were about to sample our third bottle of wine each, when Patrick asked if we had heard of the French pass time of cloud spotting, which for those uninitiated in the art form is staring at the clouds and finding shapes that look like objects, people, babies, dogs etc. We told him that we had and that obviously the English had stolen the idea from the French at some point in history. Still staring at the sky, Patrick indicated with his left arm that he had spotted a puppy which we assumed was his contribution and commencement of the game. My wife pointed at another cloud and said look, there’s a tree. I was looking around the sky and frankly couldn’t make a shape of anything. Worm shouted Blandine pointing at the remnants of an aeroplanes exhaust that had passed by earlier that morning. After taking another large gulp of wine I heard Christian’s tractor coming along the lane in our direction. Still scouring the sky, I waved at Christian as he passed without taking my eyes off the sky. The aroma of diesel fumes filled the air before rising into the sky dispersing slightly with the light breeze. Come on Julian shouted Patrick impatiently, the wine’s effect making him slur slightly. With all my might, I scrunched my eyes together and there it was, as clear as day and right above us. Bob Marley I shouted pointing at the shape of the diesel fumes above our head and there are the Wailers to the left of Bob. I couldn’t help but start singing Buffalo Soldier...... It appears I won the game as Blandine quickly changed the subject leaving Patrick nodding his head in agreement at the vision in the sky.

Christian’s tractor had turned at the end of the lane and from the plumes of smoke was heading in our direction, down our driveway. Suddenly, from out of the smokescreen, Christian came bounding over the lawn and kissed all the ladies four times on each cheek in that French custom of greeting and then proceeded to shake mine and Patrick’s hand. Julian said Christian putting his hand on my shoulder and gently coercing me away from the table and the others so he could speak in some privacy.

His Breton dialect was always difficult to interpret and on this occasion was not helped by the garlic snails he had eaten for lunch causing his breath to almost singe the hairs on my ears as he spoke. When he had finished speaking and I had managed to gulp in a garlic free inhalation of his body odour which for a split second was a welcome relief, I noticed that he was staring at me intently, waiting for an answer. I thought for a few seconds and once I had deciphered what I thought he had said, I weighed up the pros and cons of what I had mentally translated from what he had asked.

Cava he asked impatiently? After several moments of thought and in my best guttural French replied Oui! Demain he pressed? Oui, demain matin, tomorrow morning. With a satisfied grin on his face, he shook my hand firmly and left as quickly as he had arrived; his hand waiving his au revoir’s to Patrick, Blandine and my wife.

With another Bob Marley and The Wailers taking shape above our heads, Christian disappeared down the lane.

As I took my place back at the table, an air of anticipation was apparent and the baying crowd before me wanted to know what all the secrecy was about with Christian. As I had been asked to “ferme le bouche” regarding the agreement, I could not reveal what it was I was speaking about with Christian. However, not wishing to ruin the atmosphere of what up until now was a very convivial lunch, I quickly thought of an excuse that fitted in with the body language that everyone had witnessed and said, well Christian is going to cut the field next to our garden the next day and had said that it would not be too much of a chore for him to run our lawn over with his machine while he was there. His only proviso being that I arrange for my wife’s underwear to be on the washing line at the time of cutting as it made rather a boring job that little more interesting. Thankfully, Blandine, Patrick and my wife found the request more than amusing and their laughter passed over the need for further interrogation.

As with all lunches in France, lunch turned into an afternoon session of drinking and well more drinking really and before you know where you are, the evening aperitif hour has arrived, and out comes the kir royale’s and salty nibbles.

The offer of a traditional 5 course French evening meal was declined by Blandine and Patrick as it would “interfere with the natural flow of drinking”. However, this did not stop them requesting the wine list!

Following the conclusion of two bottles of Saint - Emilion Grande Cru, and a bottle of Premier Cru Champagne to liven up the liver, Patrick wandered off to check the functioning of our fosse septic by way of using our loo whilst my wife and I hastily carried out a stock check on our fast depreciating stock of wine. After ten minutes and several “raising of glasses”, I noticed through the one remaining open eye that Patrick had not returned. Fearing he had collapsed or fallen asleep on the loo, I unsteadily traced his steps to find that he was not in the loo! I noticed our bedroom door was open and fully expected to find him spread eagled on the bed, but no. I saw the sliding glass doors which led to the patio and the garden were open and I could hear faint singing in the distance. When I reached the end of the patio, I could see Patrick hanging washing on the washing line in the garden.

I shouted to him and asked what he was doing. He replied but I could not understand what he was slurring. As I approached him, I could see he was hanging underwear on the washing line. Pour demain Julian, pour demain he slurred. With both of us unable to stand, more because of us laughing than through the effects of the drink, we both sat on the grass to recover. After confirming that we were not “pompette”, we both managed to stand on all seven legs, we decided to leave the other non conforming legs where they were and made our way back to the house.

With the effects of the day’s drinking waning, yes, it is possible to drink yourself sober ish, Blandine and Patrick decided they should make their way home which was a relief because we were down to our last bottle of alcohol which as it turned out was cooking sherry, but I doubt anyone would have noticed anyway!

The following morning I was up and dressed with the lark. Bolstered by several strong cups of coffee and my pacemaker beating at double time due to the caffeine intake, I loaded up my van and made my way to Christian’s house.

On arrival I was met by Christian who was holding two glasses of red wine which is another French custom in the morning. After handing me a glass, we chinked the glasses together and downed the rather rough cloudy looking liquid with one body dithering gulp. Chateau du Boite Julian juste le Chateau du Boite! I must admit that cheap wine from a box is not my first choice of morning drink but the warmth I felt as it settled inside my stomach eased my slightly fuzzy head and changed my opinion of wine in a box somewhat!

Alors said Christian leading me over to the rear of the barn. He stopped suddenly and stood open armed as if presenting someone. Along the edge of a dilapidated old fence was a mound of old stonework and an attempt at a concrete footing obviously thrown down during the aperitif hour with not a spirit level in sight. Ici une mure, he continued, il commence ici et fini ici. He said pointing down the line, une metre cinq haute ok? Thank the lord he spoke in French and not Breton! So he wants a wall, to border his land at this point and to end at the bottom of his yard some 40 meters away and one point five meters high I thought to myself. Cava Julian, vous et comprenez said Christian unsure if I understood what he wanted. Oui Christain oui je comprende. I asked if he was still having trouble with his neighbour and he spat on the floor, stamping the guttural sticky mess into the mud, voisans, merde! Surely not I said in reply, but the hatred in his eyes said it all. He was absolute in his feelings, his neighbour was shit!

Over the next week I merrily plodded along, building the wall to the strict instructions as laid down by Christian. The neighbour of Christian with whom Christian was in dispute, came to look at the work whilst Christian was away from the farm on his tractor. He could spot the plume of smoke in the distance indicting Christian’s position at any point ensuring his safety. Michel, the neighbour who was friendly with me was laughing and rubbing his chin as he looked at the wall. Tres bien Julian, vous etes une macon du premiere classe. I thanked him for his comments and asked why he was smiling. He just shrugged his shoulders and smiled again, Vite, vite he said before disappearing to the safety of his land border. Blimey, I’m going as fast as I can I thought.

I must admit, in those days my eyes were a natural spirit level so the need to use one was only to confirm what I already knew and that was the wall was as straight and upright as it could be. These day’s unfortunately, the eyes are not that sharp!

On completion of the wall, Christian insisted I celebrate with a bottle of homemade cider or Domestos as I called it. It was as cloudy as a pea souper in London in the 1960’s. Michel, the neighbour had kindly waited for me to complete the works before opening the pig shed doors, something I was grateful to him for. However, the stench hit us like a barn door slamming in your face and the aroma coupled with the homemade cider, strangely made the whole bouquet more pleasant, even palatable! We drank to the weather, and each meter of stonework that had been laid. He even christened the wall by spitting a fizzy cider laden mouthful of spit which caused the spittle to froth up as it hit the stonework. An empty cider bottle followed it and smashed against the top course of stones. Time to go I said to Christian and packed up my tools and made my way home.

The next day I was woken by four cords of oak logs sliding from Christian’s trailer onto our car parking area. I heard a thud; something had hit the glass sliding doors of the bedroom. I pretended to be asleep for fear of finding Christian standing outside the doors with 2 glasses of Chateau du Boite or worse still wearing my wife’s underwear on his head. I waited until I had heard the familiar sound of a tractor engine start then its “put putting ”diminish as he drove into the distance.

I got out of bed and pulled the curtain to one side to see what had hit the glass doors, and there on the ground was a bottle of homemade cider and a dead rabbit its eyes still open as if gazing across the garden. Payday had surely arrived. I looked at the mound of oak sitting in our car park but could not face the toil it would take to stack it all in the woodshed.

Three days later, two blisters and several splinters later, I had almost finished stacking the wood when a Renault 4 skidded to a halt in our driveway. The door flew open and Christian jumped out waving a letter and swearing in both Breton and French and sometimes in Brench when he mixed up his dialects! Julian, Julian what have you done he shouted angrily! I took the letter from him; it was a letter from a Notaire including a map of the land registry stating a wall had been erected in such a way that the boundary had been breached between Christian’s land and his troublesome neighbours land. We climbed into the Renault 4 and Christian drove us at some speed and it has to be said with very little regard to other road users. We screeched to a halt near the offending wall which was a relief as I thought we were going to hit it! I checked everything regarding the wall’s construction and it was to the exact specification that Christian had demanded. Christian said that the wall breached the boundary at approximately 30 meters leaving 10 meters on his shit neighbours land. I looked at the concrete footings which Christian had laid himself and the wall fell well within the footings. I pointed out this minor detail to him and alarm spread across his face. What I witnessed next was both bizarre to say the least and most alarming. Christian’s face blushed to a bright shade of purple as his blood pressure mounted within the confines of his skull. The purple darkened to damson, I was fully expecting him to turn into “The Hulk” at any second. He then proceeded to punch himself in the face repeatedly whilst jigging about like a boxer in the ring. Jab followed uppercut followed by a haymaker, the sheer force of which, spread his own nose across his face and he went to the floor like une sac du pommes de terre. He was scrambling to get up as if in his mind he was trying to beat the count of ten by some imaginary referee. Not wishing to interfere, I was leaning against my masterpiece of a wall watching in sheer amazement and have to admit, amusement at Christian’s actions. Christian lay flat on his back, his attempts to stand up diminished as exhaustion set in. His eyes were closed and blood ran from the side of his nose down his cheek and into the orifice of his ear. He was motionless now, so I called out his name, but there was no response. I went over and shook him, but he remained motionless. By the edge of one of his barns I could see a bucket of rainwater and like in all good films emptied its contents over his head. The black mud in the bottom of the bucket followed the clear rainwater leaving Christian’s head covered in rotting leaves. A not too rotted oak tree leaf was expelled from Christian’s mouth as he coughed and spluttered back to life, wiping his eyes clear of the stinking black sludge. Merde he shouted as he scrambled to his feet and ran in double quick time to the outside tap.

Fully cleansed, with one swollen eye and lips to match, we walked back to the offending wall. We inspected the length of it and came across a pile of yellow plastic pegs approximately 10 meters from the end of the wall. I asked Christian what the pegs were and he shrugged and said that they were old land markings someone had put in the wrong place. I checked the map from the Notaire and it was exactly where the boundary had been breached and clearly where the wall entered the shit neighbours land. Did you remove these when you laid the footings Christian I asked? Yes he said, they were in the way of where I wanted the wall.

After a brief discussion and pointing out the fact that he was liable to reinstate his neighbours land by removing the offending 10 meters of wall within 3 days or face a court order, Christian negotiated another two cords of wood, this time stacked neatly in the woodshed if I could assist him with his plight.

Luckily, Christian’s wide footings were enough to contain the modification of the wall and the offending section was demolished and rebuilt with a gradual curve to the left which was not out of keeping. Michel made an appearance to check the wall when Christian was not on site. He eyed up the wall as I put the final top stone in and said “exact Julian, exact” before leaving.

When I returned home, I explained the situation to my wife over an aperitif and said that Christian would be putting two more cords of oak into the woodshed in the morning. Will he want my mother’s old knickers on the washing line when he does it she asked only I had forgotten I had them and brought them to France by mistake, they were meant to go to the recycling centre in her old suitcase and must have found their way into the removal van. They were under the bed in our bedroom, I’m glad we found a use for them, mother would be pleased!

........................................................

As an aside I just found my spectacles, they were down the side of the chair. Well I hope this story fits the prose prompt of the longest alter....... SHIT, the prompt says alliteration not alteration, sod it I’m entering it anyway!