Things that Go Bump in the Night

Things that Go Bump in the Night

 

My senses were on full alert, but there was nothing to awaken them other than the mysterious noises of the countryside, the breathy night air, and the shifting moonlit sky. No house showed the smallest glimmer of light: the occupants were either in bed or their blackout was well in place.

I reached Gables Corner without mishap. The screech of an owl startled me. Owls are a bad omen. Other than that, nothing stirred. I turned myself into a spectre of the night and glided ahead, ready to freeze or flee at the slightest alarm.

From under the railway bridge I scanned the road across the water meadows to the footbridge. Was there someone lurking in the shifting shadows of the hedge? Of course not, I reassured myself. I slid silently along to the footbridge over the river, and crouched in the uncertain shelter of the parapet. The river gurgled ominously below.

The church spire was close now. It lanced through the torn clouds and stabbed awake my unavowed apprehension. I would have to go under its fang into the funereal graveyard. I began to regret my incautious boasting to Selena and my subsequent wager. Perhaps the shades of those buried there really do slither at night from their ghastly tombs in the lurking loom of moonlight.

I tiptoed to the graveyard gate. It was nearly invisible in the sombre shadow of two huge guardian yew trees. I must pass through the inky void between them. Should I run?

I crouched by the gate, trying to still the deafening tom-tom of my heart. Every woeful wraith beneath every baleful tombstone must hear it. My hand shook as I reached for the handle.

The latch flew up with a clack to waken the dead. I trembled. I could go no further. The emptiness between the yew trees was an evil, black barrier.

God lived in the church. God was my father. He loved me. I'd be safe in there.

This frail comfort got me through the gate. I sprinted for the porch. Gravel scattered under my feet to deter the waiting wraiths. The porch engulfed me in its gloom. I clutched a pillar of the inner door and hugged it, panting. Nothing had got me. But they were waiting— just waiting—

I slipped inside and leaned against the inner door. The church was cool, and quiet, and dark, and— spooky. My heart hammered. This was my father's house; I ought to feel safe. But I didn't feel safe; not safe at all. I felt terrifyingly alone. I didn't want to stay; so please help me, God!

Exactly how I did it, I don't know. I made no specific resolution to defy the demons. I began to walk slowly and deliberately to the centre aisle and then up to the chancel. There was just enough light from the moon flickering through the windows, to see my way between the black rows of pews.

I felt my way up the three chancel steps.
 

The familiar choir stalls gave some slight protection from the terrors of the dark. I collapsed trembling into Selena's seat, and listened intently.

My thumping heart covered all other noise. I must find the envelope and get out of here. Fearfully, I switched on my torch and found the hymn book. There were two envelopes inside. One was marked, ‘Selena’; the other bore my name. I stuffed them into my pocket and prepared to flee.

There came a soft thump from the nave.

I switched off my torch and cowered, terrified, in my seat. My ears, like huge alert saucers, turned towards the sound. I heard a stealthy, horrifying shuffling. I became an icy block. I stopped breathing. The shuffling came closer. Something awful was coming. My heart stopped.

‘Peter?’ it whispered.

I died. It knew my name. Was it God calling me?

‘Peter?’ it whispered again. ‘B'ist thee?’

My heart restarted. I drew a deep shuddering breath as I recognised a friend. ‘Daniel?’ I murmured.

‘Aye lad— 'tis ol' Dan'l.’

‘Are you dead?’

‘Nay, Peter lad. Shine a bit o' light so's ol' Dan'l c'n see the steps.’

I switched on my torch. Daniel came up the steps, eased his bulk into the choir stalls, and sat beside me with a sigh.

‘What are you doing here, Daniel? I've never seen you in church before.’

‘Nay lad— the church bain't fer the loikes o' ol' Dan'l: all them fine folks in their fancy clothes. Better fer Dan'l when there bain't be nobody else around.’

‘You only come to church at night?’

‘Aye— at night.’

‘Aren't you afraid?’

‘Dan'l frighted? Frighted o' what, Peter lad?’

‘All those dead people in the graveyard.’

‘Dan'l bain't be frighted o' the dead. 'Ee be more frighted o' them wot's livin'. O' them wot'll turn 'im off'n the allotments an' outta 'is hut.’

‘Is that why you came to the church: to pray?’

‘Pray? Nay, Peter lad. Dan'l bain't be 'avin' the words. 'Ee don't rightly know 'ow to be a-prayin'.’

‘Why do you come to church then?’

‘Arrgh. It be roight peaceful in 'ere when there bain't be no other folks around. Ol' Dan'l c'n rake together 'is thinkin'— loike 'ee does the leaves, come autumn, afore they be burned up. An' loike when little lettuces come a-pokin' through the dirt.

‘An' there's that feller Jesus, wot they put up on the cross in the olden days. Arrgh— reckon as 'ow 'ee were worse off 'n ol' Dan'l.’

‘You think of all that, and then you feel better?’

‘Arrgh— reckon as 'ow we both be a-diggin' in the self-same patch.’

‘I reckon, Daniel.’

‘Didst come too ter rake up some leaves?’

‘Not exactly, Daniel— not exactly.’

I was tempted to tell him about the bet and the money for our project. But suppose we failed. It would be cruel to raise his hopes until we were more certain of success.

‘No need ter be a-tellin' ol' Dan'l. Heh, heh— loike my dad allus said: A seed is all secret 'till it shoots. Bain't it be so?’

‘Aye, Daniel— it be just so. Are you going home now?’

‘'Ome? Ol' Dan'l bain't roightly got no 'ome. Not now the allotments be a-goin'.’

‘Sorry, Daniel— I meant back to the lockup; or rather, your room above.’

‘Heh, heh— When Dan'l drinks a pint 'o beer, folks shake their 'eads, an' then tis one or t'other. Wicked ol' Dummy, they say. Don't faze ol' Dan'l overmuch. Then them wot shakes their 'eads when 'ee sings a bit in The Street, they comes in 'ere an' they drinks some wine an' they sings their sober 'eads off. They be good, straight an' narrer folks they be. Heh, heh— That don't faze ol' Dan'l none neither.’

‘Daniel, I need to be getting back. If my aunt finds out I'm not in bed, I'll be for the lockup too.’

‘Heh, heh— Loike ol' Dan'l said: we both be a-diggin' in the self-same patch.’

‘Yes, except you don't have an aunt to keep you on the straight and narrow.’

‘Ye bain't be wrong tha: ol' Dan'l's got the whole village agin 'im 'cept thee an' thy friends.’

‘Like Molly an' Winnifred?’

‘Aye, an' the others in thy gang.’

We moved towards the door. The church was calm and peaceful. The silver-black of the graveyard welcomed us. It was not in the least threatening. Why had I been so frightened before?

(Adapted from "Gang Petition" chapter 11.
http://www.peterstjohn.net/index_6.htm)

 

 

Gang America

Jennospot 106  Gang America

 

Aw cripes, 'ee's at it again: P St J is preparin' ter write anuvver book. Well that's orroight Oi suppose, 'cos 'ee said as 'ow Oi c'd be in it, but wiv 'im it's jus' loike all them ovver boys; they say one fing an' then they go off an' do somefink quite diff'rent.

Still an' all, 'ee's made a start on a plot outline. But Oi don't know as 'ow 'ee really needs one o' them plot fings. Loike Oi always tell 'im: why not write it jus' the way it 'appens, 'cos Oi c'n always remind 'im if'n 'ee gets somefink wrong. Trouble is 'ee's real pig-'eaded when it comes ter advice, 'cos 'ee reckons as 'ow 'ee knows best; but 'ee don't never listen. 'Ee goes rushin' at ev'ryfink, but then in the finish 'ee always 'as ter ask an' then put fings roight afterwards so's it comes out true. Dunno why 'ee can't listen ter me in the first place; it'd save us all a whole lot o' work.

Any'ow, 'ee's says as 'ow 'ee's goin' ter write about the American invasion of Widdlin'ton (wot is the village where Oi live). Now don't yew go runnin' away wiv the wrong idea. Oi say it's an invasion, an' so it is, 'cos 'ere they come wiv great big aeroplanes, build an airbase, and are takin' over most ev'ryfink wot is in Widdlin'ton. All that 'as some real roistering' repercussions, Oi c'n tell yew. Only it's a friendly invasion loike (though sometimes yew wouldn't fink it) not loike the 'orrible one wot we was always expectin' from 'Itler an' 'is Nazi thugs, only it ain't 'appened yet.

Any'ow, Oi'm gettin' off the point, wot is that wiv all these American Army Air Force chaps around the place, in their super smooth uniforms, it upsets a whole lot o' apple carts, an' it upsets our soapbox cart racin' an' all. Us kids 'ave got a real ol' battle on our 'ands over it, an' the adults don't seem able ter see our point o' view, wot wiv the war an' ev'ryfink.

The only one wot seems ter be able ter see 'ow it is wiv our problem is a real noice American airman wiv an 'appy black face, only nobody 'cept us seems ter take much notice of 'im, even though 'ee 'as got a ribbon on 'is chest. 'Ee don't go up a-flyin' over Germany neither, wot also makes a diff'rence, Oi suppose.

Any'ow, PStJ is goin' ter write it all down, but it'll take a real long toime, 'ee says; so maybe the war will be over by then. Oi 'ope so, 'cos it ain't noice when yew see them shiny new bombers come back from raidin' Germany wiv big 'oles in 'em. An' lots of 'em don't never ever come back at all…

Yeah, it's sad, an' it makes yew fink real big thoughts, even when yew don't want to…

But it don't do no good ter get too upset 'cos "Gang America", is goin' ter be about a real big gang, even if'n it makes problems fer our little one. So don't worry too much; yew c'n leave the worryin' ter PStJ.

Luv from Jenno.

Barfrooms

Jennospot 105  Barfrooms

'Ave yew got a barfroom?

We ain't got one neither, loike most of them wot live in Widdlin'ton village, but some of 'em 'ave got piped water so's they don't 'ave ter go ter the well no more.

We didn't never 'ave no well, 'cos our 'ouse is new compared wiv them up The Street, but then The Street is real old, loike the church, but the church is even older.

My 'ouse were built around the toime wot the railway come, 'cos they 'ad ter 'ave some place fer the people ter live wot 'ad jobs in the works up Pepper Mill Lane out towards Clayton. That were afore Oi were born o' corse, 'cos them works ain't a-workin' no more. They left some good places in the soide of the valley though, loike the Clay Pit, an' the Mountain Glide where we race our soapbox carts.

Any'ow, that ain't got nuffink ter do wiv barfrooms, 'cept when yew get a bit mucky from fallin' off yer cart. When that 'appens (or even when it don't) an' moi mum stops fussin', Oi 'ave ter 'ave a good wash all over. So Oi go outside ter fetch the big tin barf wot's 'anging on the wall by the shed an' bring it in ter the kitchen. Moi mum takes the big kettle an' several of our biggest cookin' pots; she fills 'em wiv water, an' puts 'em on the stove ter 'eat up.

When they're good an' 'ot, she calls me an' moi bruvver ter come inter the kitchen an' get undressed, only moi bruvver goes first 'cos 'ee's a year older than wot Oi am. Oi reckon as 'ow that ain't altergevver fair 'cos Oi ought ter 'ave first go sometoimes. But it ain't no good me complainin' too much, 'cos moi mum don't take no notice. Mum pours the 'ot water inter the tin barf but it's too small ter sit down in now, so we 'ave ter stand up so's she c'n soap us all over, scrub us down wiv a rough bit o' cloth, an' then rinse off the suds.

Loike Oi said, moi bruvver goes first, an' cripes, the water ain't 'alf dirty sometimes, by the toime 'ee's finished wiv it.

The best is Mondays when it's a school 'oliday, 'cos then we c'n wash in the copper laundry tub, when mum'as finished doin' the clothes, 'cos you c'n sit on the edge of the copper an' put yer feet in the water. It's noice an' warm too wiv the fire underneath an' all. It ain't no good on schooldays though, 'cos by the toime we get 'ome, mum 'as finished the laundry an' its all 'angin' on the line outside. If'n it's rainin' on a Monday, an' yew've got big stuff ter wash, loike bed sheets, well yew jus' 'ave ter wait till the wevver improves. Yew 'ave ter wait a long toime sometimes, in the winter.

Peter's lucky, 'cos 'ee lives in one o' them new posh 'ouses up Lions Avenue. Bungalows they call 'em, an' they got barfrooms wiv a geyser wot goes by gas. Must be noice ter be able ter 'ave a barf any ol' toime wot yew loike, but Peter ain't so 'appy about it. 'Ee 'as ter 'ave 'is barf on Saturday evenin' so's 'ee's all noice an' clean ter go ter church next day. The fing 'is, it's 'is aunt wot takes 'er barf a-fore 'im. She's a real stickler fer doin' things real correct, an' yew're only supposed ter 'ave three inches o' water so's we c'n win the war by savin' gas, an' that at the deep end an' all. She's got a special depth gauge 'angin' by the geyser so she c'n make sure she's obeyin' the regulation.

So Peter 'as ter take 'is barf after 'is aunt, in three inches of gray, second-'and water wot's nearly cold. Cripes, it ain't much fun.

 Winnie, wot lives in an old 'ouse up The Street, 'as got a barfroom. It were put in by 'er dad in the junk room at the top o' the stairs. That were jus' before the war, when the electricity came. The water gets 'eated by a posh electric system wot 'angs on the wall. Winnie says she takes a barf real often wiv proper perfumed soap an' not the carbolic kind. P'raps that's why she always smells so noice.

 

P'raps one day after the war we c'n 'ave a proper barfroom too. Maybe Peter'll 'elp me bring the geyser in…

If'n yew want ter know more about Peter an' Winnie's barfrooms, yew could read "Gang Territory" http://www.peterstjohn.net/index_2.htm, but only if'n yew've got a barfroom yerself, 'cos Oi wouldn't want ter make yew envious; wot is a sin.

Luv from Jenno.

Evacuees, Pigs and Castles

Jennospot 104  Evacuees, Pigs and Castles

 Leighton Buzzard ain't a real big place. Leastways, that's wot Peter says, 'cos Oi ain't never been there. But it ain't all that small neither, 'cos its got an animal market, an abattoir fer pigs, an' the Grand Union Canal at the bottom of the High Street. Oi know all that 'cos Peter 'as seen 'em.

Did yew know that Peter, wot come ter moi village o' Widdlin'ton in October 1940, is an evacuee? Well cripes, 'ee is, 'cos the orphanage in London where 'ee were when the war broke out, got 'it by a bomb. 'Ee don't loike much ter tell about it, but 'ee told me, 'cos the garden of 'is 'ouse backs on ter mine, down where the chickens are. That's where we talk; only don't tell nobody, 'cos it's secret, see.

After the bomb, all them kids wot were in the orphanage, 'cept fer them wot was killed or injured, lived first-off in a convent wiv some nuns. But nuns an' kids are loike coffee an' bananas; they don't mix too good tergevver. So they was soon sent off as evacuees ter different places. Peter was sent off loike a parcel, in the guard's van of a train ter Leighton Buzzard. 'Ee 'ad a label tied around 'is neck addressed ter the Billetin' Officer, an' 'ee 'ad a paper bag wiv a bun an' 'alf a bar o' chocolate. 'Ee didn't 'ave no ovver luggage ter speak of, 'cept a three-legged piggy bank wiv tuppence in it, an' a pocket knife wiv a slightly bent blade.

In the guard's van of the train were a whole lot of ovver parcels, though 'ee were the only one wot 'ad legs. Any'ow, 'ee tried ter straighten the blade of 'is knife in a crack in one the parcels, but the guard weren't too 'appy about that, an' stopped 'im. So the blade stayed bent.

There was a real lot o' confusion most ev'rywhere because of the war, an' when 'ee got ter Leighton Buzzard, nobody didn't really know wot ter do wiv 'im at first. So 'ee ate 'is bun an' chocolate, afore sleepin' the night on a bench in the station waitin' room. The next mornin', nobody still didn't come fer 'im, so 'ee broke the piggy bank an' bought a sandwich fer 'is breakfast at the station buffet.

Then the Billetin' Oficer, come fer 'im. She were a short lady, wiv a short temper. Peter reckons as 'ow she were a bit short on a few ovver fings an' all. Any'ow, she shoved 'im, temp'ry loike, in the 'ouse of a couple of real old people of about forty-five. They was all roight, but their 'ouse backed on ter the abattoir fer pigs, an' the squealin' wot went on from there were somefink terrible. From the upstairs winder, Peter could see wot was goin' on. It certainly weren't all roight. 'Ee still don't loike ter talk about it

Any'ow, the next day, the short, short lady come round fer 'im, an' off they went ter the Town Hall wot were at the top end of the market place. It were market day fer animals, an' the pens were full o' sheep, an' cows, an' pigs, an' such. Peter went over ter 'ave a look.

There were a pen wiv lots o' pigs in it. The fact is, it were so full o' pigs, that yew couldn't of got anuvver one in if'n yew tried, not even a little'un; not even wiv a shoe'orn. There was some men looking at the pigs an' a-pokin' at 'em wiv sticks. The pigs was so tight squeezed in that they couldn't move away. They jus' squealed. The men laughed. Peter were standin' there, all morose loike, by the gate of the pen, near the latch. 'Ee reckoned as 'ow 'ee could straigten the blade of 'is pocket knife by workin' it gently under the latch. So 'ee got the knife out, opened it, an' pushed it under the latch. Wot 'ee didn't expect were that the latch would spring open, an' wiv it, the gate. That's wot 'ee makes out, any'ow.

Well, them pigs didn't wait ter be asked twice, they jus rushed out o' there, like as 'ow they were were the Gadarine swine wot Jesus put all them demons into. But they didn't jump over no cliff, loike in Saint Marks Gospel, 'cos there weren't one. They jus' went rushin' down through the market towards the canal, knockin' people over, an' upsettin' the stands.

Peter didn't stay much longer in Leighton Buzzard after that. They put 'im on a train goin' ter Launceston, an' yew can't get much further away from Leighton Buzzard than that wivvout fallin' inter the Atlantic ocean. P'raps they 'oped 'ee'd go over the cliff loike them pigs in the Bible.

Peter ain't never told me wot 'ee done in Launceston; 'ee didn't jump over no cliff any'ow. 'Ee got evacuated ter Widdlinton in the finish, wot is a real long way from Launceston. Hmm, Oi ain't never thought of that before…

If'n yew want ter know more about wot 'appened then in Widdlin'ton, yew could read the "gang" books. http://www.peterstjohn.net/. If'n yew want, that is.

Luv from Jenno.

PS. Peter says as 'ow there's a real noice castle at Launceston up on a steep 'ill. Oi didn't say nuffink about it before 'cos it don't roightly fit inter the story. But Debbie Brown an the English History Fiction Authors http://www.linkytools.com/basic_linky_include.aspx?id=210634 'ave got a fing about castles, an' so Oi jus' thought yew'd loike ter know…

Bees

Jennospot 103  Bees

A beekeepin' lady from Leigh

Got stung by a bee on the knee.
As she ran from the hive,
She cried: "I’ve to survive;
No more 'oney fer me!"

'Ave yew ever been stung by a bee? It ain't never 'appened ter me yet, an' Oi 'ope it never won't, 'cos Oi loike bees, 'specially them 'airy-bumbly ones, an' Oi loike 'oney an' all.

Bees ain't loike wasps, 'cos Oi've been stung several toimes by wasps. But they're diff'rent 'cos, not loike bees, they come around when yew're eating, an' try ter pinch bits o' food when yew ain't lookin'. If'n yew flap at 'em, they don't take the 'int an' go away. Mostly they seem ter call up reinforcements, an' it's usually then that yew c'n get stung.

Any'ow, it weren't moi intention ter talk about wasps 'cos there's plenty of 'em around, an' they go a-scavengin' not pollinatin'. It's the bees wot worry me 'cos, 'ave yew noticed, there don't seem ter be so many of 'em around these days. Fewer bees, means less 'oney, an' it also means that there c'd be less of ev'ryfink, 'cos flowers need the bees ter pollinate 'em, ovverwise they don't give no fruit an' seeds wot we eat.

There seem ter be fewer flowers around an' all, 'cos there are fewer meadows. Meadows are more an' more plowed up ter grow vegetables an' stuff, but clover's all roight an' ovver kinds o' flowers too, 'cos bees loike flowers. P'raps that's why Oi sometimes get follered by bees. They probably see me as a walkin' sunflower or somefink.

Well, there was that toime when Oi were wearin' moi poppy costume ter collect fer the Earl Haig Fund, an' Oi got follered fer ages by a big bumble-bee. That were real strange 'cos November ain't the toime fer bees ter be about. Wasps neither, fer that matter.

Any'ow, wot Oi wanted ter say is: keep a lookout fer the bees, it's important. An' don't get stung.

Luv from Jenno.

J.J.

Jennospot 102  J.J.

John Jay is moi gang leader, only nobody don't never ever call 'im John, 'cept 'is mum when 'ee's at 'ome, an' that don't count. Ev'rybody else calls 'im J.J. even the teachers at school, 'cos if'n they jus' called 'im Jay… well it sounds a bit odd don't it, 'specially when yew fink of that stuff wot they use fer cleaning the toilets wot is called "J's fluid". It makes us laugh, wot ain't good fer discipline.

Loike Oi said, J.J. is moi gang leader, wot is called the Pepper Mill Lane Mob, 'cos that's where all the mob's members live, includin' me. There's ovver places in moi village of Widdlin'ton, but them wot live there can't be belong ter the Mob, 'cos yew got ter live along the Lane or yew can't be in it.

It ain't loike Peter's gang. The bottom of Peter's back garden ajoins (cripes, OI loike that word) the top o' moi yard where the chicken run is, only Oi ain't supposed ter talk wiv 'im across the fence 'cos fraternisin' wiv over gangs ain't allowed 'cept in neutral places loike the school; wot don't stop us talkin', only we 'ave ter be careful that nobody don't see us. Peter's gang is called the Lions Avenue Lot, wot 'as some members wot don't live along the avenue. Dunno why really, 'cept that the Lot let girls in as full members, an' some o' the village gangs don't let any girls in 'em at all. That makes fer problems: Cripes, don't it 'alf…!

 

Any'ow, Oi'm gettin' off the subject. J.J. is real big, an' 'ee's real old, 'cos 'ee'll be eighteen on 'is next birfday. 'Ee's got a dog called Satan, an' 'ee treats girls, leastways, girls loike me, as though they was dirt 'cos 'ee don't allow us ter be full members of the Mob. The boys keep all the best stuff fer themselves, an' they 'ave secrets wot they don't share wiv us. So yew c'n see that J.J.an' me, we don't really see fings eye ter eye as it were.

That's about all there is ter say about J.J. 'cept that 'ee gave Peter a black eye one noight in the blackout. There's some, even Peter 'imself, wot says it were an accident, but Oi ain't never been real sure. Still an' all, that started a roight war in Widdlin'ton, when Peter's aunt went fer Mrs Jay, callin' 'er an irresponsible 'arridan, an' J.J. a mongrel loike wot 'is dog is. Well yew c'n imagine! It took 'Itler 'imself ter sort that one out, an' J.J. ain't the kind that c'd 'elp none, well not until 'ee gets called up inter the army, that is…

Oi ain't a-goin' ter tell yew the whole 'ist'ry 'ere, 'cos it 'ad important consequences. If'n yew want more, yew c'd take a look at http://www.peterstjohn.net/index_3.htm or better still, read the book. Yeah, there's even a whole series of books about it, an' Oi'm in 'em as well as J.J. an' the rest o' the gangs…

Till next toime, luv from Jenno.

Gang Loyalty

Jennospot 101  Gang Loyalty

Peter St John's 'as written an 'istorical book wot is called "Gang Loyalty" (well, it's jus' a bit 'istorical) an' it were published on 1st July by SilverWood Books in paperback. Actually, Oi reckon as 'ow it ought ter be called Gang Disloyalty, 'cos ter moi moind it's more about bein' betrayed than about anyfink else.

Any'ow, it's the 'istory of wot 'appened in our village when Oi set up a gang wot were jus' fer girls. There's several gangs in Widdlin'ton, an' they 'ave likely been around ever since Widdlin'ton were first started by the Normans a long toime ago, only nobody don't remember that no more, 'cos that sort o' fing ain't never written down, 'cept by Peter St John, an' 'ee's only done the last recent bit.

The fing is, most of the gangs don't let girls in, or even if'n they do, loike moi Pepper Mill Lane Mob, the girls are only sort o’ second class, if'n yew see wot Oi mean. That means the girls 'ave ter keep quiet when the boys are decidin' fings. Well, after a while that really got on moi wick, 'cos girls ain't never second class no'ow, no matter wot the boys moight fink. So Oi got tergevver wiv Winnifred an' some o' the ovver girls in the village, 'specially them from up The Street wot don't let girls in at all, ter set up a gang fer girls only.

We called it the "Go-Getter Girls", or GGG. fer short, wot Molly painted on 'er soapbox cart, an' we set out ter beat the boys at ev'ryfink wot they do loike cricket, an' marbles, an' soapbox cart racin' an' all stuff loike that. Well, nobody can't expect ter be world champion at nuffink straight off, so it took a little while an' a lot of 'ard practicin' afore we was able ter do much good against the boys. Not only that, we 'ad some no-'opers in the GGG (Oi won't mention no names) as well as some real champions. So we 'ad jus' a few little problems getting' fings goin' well, ter say nuffink of that tough Heebie Jeebie Jackson, but then me an' Heebie Jeebie didn't never get on tergevver even before the girls' gang were set up.

 

Any'ow, moi racin' cart ain't called "Emmeline P." fer nuffink, 'cos Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst were a real determined lady, an' we was real determined too. Still an all, fings don't 'ardly never turn out the way yew expect do they? An' so no more didn't the GGG…

Oi ain't a-goin' ter tell yew no more 'ere, but if'n yew'd loike a bit more, yew c'd do worse'n take a look at http://www.amazon.com/dp/1781321132 or even http://www.peterstjohn.net/index_5.htm

Luv from Jenno.