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skendong · 1 year ago

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Labour Party Landslide 2024?

Tears for Fears

Oh, Labour, champions of the working class, Tangled in a web of compromise, alas! A pound shop Tory tribute act, Selling your soul again and that’s fact.

Corbyn. Left-wing pride you deputized. You banished and callously cast him aside. Director of Prosecution’s certified tone, If members don’t like it, be gone he drones.

Cold truth is, in the run-up to an election, Britain needs a change for we are stuck. In a two-party system, Rishi or Sir Keir? A weird intersection and the options suck.

Who votes Conservative? We know what the Whigs are all about. Working class hearts gave Boris trust – The Red Wall tumbling down was a must.

They look for their own and detest the poor. Billions wiped off Covid-19 fraud? But earn an extra penny on universal credit, And the spies catch you? It’s Gordon Bennett!

Shadow Cabinet MP’s in flux. For the sake of power speaking doublespeak. Gone is the promise of change and renewal. All Tory faces. No.10 the coveted jewel.

For in May ’97, a triumph was declared, 179-seat majority. Tony Blair’s entry and glee filled the air, But 30 years on, The Iraq War his legacy.

Straightaway he tried to secure an exemption, Hours after meeting Mr. Bernie Ecclestone. Advertising tobacco ban on Formula 1 relief, A rising stench activists couldn’t believe.

Growing his fortune and millions amassed – Tarnished Labour to the core and now outcast. Property portfolio stained in bloody stealth. On his legacy the poor lay a Lilium wreath.

Remember Baron Peter Mandelson’s disdain, Rothschild yacht vacations, living in the fast lane? Desire for fame and the company of elite, Indiscreet lifestyles and morals on a heap.

Under their stewardship wealth became a theme, Ministers pursue paths lucrative in extreme. Chancellor Gordon Brown stern in his reign? A lot of people lost while bankers duly gained.

A light-handed touch on financial regulation, Who’s friends with who? The same old superstition. Labour will struggle to break free from its cast, Blair-Brown years and the black shadow past.

Their antics leaked proud support across society, No longer can they shout we’re The People’s Party. Leadership need not equate to propel poverty’s role, Skepticism towards the rich an inevitable toll.

Now Crucial by-elections will very soon unroll, A chance to reveal strategy, policies to be told. Yet clarity eludes, and the narrative still unclear, Rishi starts fight back, exploiting Keir’s fears.

But voices of the Red Wall speak ever so dim, Levelled up towns still remain quite grim. National debt, distrust, cynicism within, Labour and economy are words that never twin.

Inflation’s high digits and the economy is weak, Labour Party schtum fearing Conservative critique. In their tepid wariness, hope is what they seek, Reserving forked tongues and navigating sleek.

“Hard choices,” we’ll do “what’s possible,” Delivered in a monotone and eyes so dull. The crowning is near, he says what is feasible. A single wrong word could wreck his home run.

But the Party’s stance lacks inspiration, Claw back voters but where’s the foundation? Whole party concept questioned and ignored. “Economic growth!” is the shout from the floor.

The threat of a whip and unspoken holds sway, Cuts still favored; investment in disarray. Left and right of shoulder they cannot forge, Purging the left leaves Corbynism in a gorge.

Oh, Labour Party, what has become of thee! Devoid of authenticity, tribute act we see. Will compromise lead to your victory’s gleam, Or shatter your soul, party lost in the dream?

Leadership’s response may claim it’s too soon, Policies undisclosed yet to fully bloom. The narrative formed as Ramadan’s new moon, Stalwarts pray for Churchill to be exhumed.

Tactics like Highland’s mineral water: clear. No manifesto is needed here! After crooked Tories, we’ve a right to know, ray for better days and desire real growth.

Will you pay for public sector pay rise demands? Will the water companies be nationalized? Will child benefits, school meals be exempt and stand? Will taxes rise to care for the elder generation?

What about your stance on skunk weed? The stoners getting stoned but still not free. In every neighborhood drift clouds of marijuana, Aura that wafts ruins lives of your neighbors?

In the 1950s, Butskellism took hold. A blend of two chancellors and principles bold. Butler for Tories, and Gaitskell for Labour, Had to compromise in the post-war era.

Differences existed yet a common cause, Mixed economy, a welfare state, put the people first! Full employment was cherished of course, Utopia approached on a pure white horse.

But the tide shifted, cloaks and daggers sway, Stagflation and Thatcher kicked Butskellism out of play. Edward Heath and Harold Wilson grappling for ease – Waned Utopia’s patience and left without delay.

Whispered through the grapevine, Reevuntism. Archaic words, reborn, transformed. Philosophizing in a bond that discerns, As Keir leads Labour into another schism.

We heard this -ism has a centrist hue, Labour and Tories even closer than before! Post-Brexit vision, divisions slew, Shift to the center, consensus to explore.

So Scottish democracy vowed to be denied, Cuts and privatization in a different guise. Limited trade friction, a united brand. Striving together but Keir will be crowned.

The election calls for change resound, Distance and progress and solutions profound. Cost of living burden grows bloated by the day, The poor yearn the coming of a true sage.

End benefit sanctions, fair housing in sight. Cut child poverty and shine a beacon of light. Increase top earners’ income and FT companies’ share, End punitive charges at home for social care.

(Please speak up, Sir Keir). (Please speak up, Sir Keir).

Oh, Labour, champions of the working class, Now tangled in a web of compromise, alas! A pound shop Tory tribute act? Or a hung Parliament and a Liberal pact?

#uk politics #poetryiwrite #free verse

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f1 · 2 years ago

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F1's Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix WON'T have to pay a hosting fee of up to 20m

F1's Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix WON'T have to pay a hosting fee of up to £20m after it was cancelled due to killer floods in Imola - and it will have NO impact on TV rights deals despite the season dropping to 22 races This weekend's Emilia Romagna Grand Prix has been called off due to flooding The F1 calendar will most likely drop to 22 races amid fears of a packed schedule Formula One Group will pick up the the £20m bill for the cancellation of the race By Jonathan McEvoy For Mailonine Published: 09:23 EDT, 17 May 2023 | Updated: 09:23 EDT, 17 May 2023 Formula One Group (F1G) will themselves pick up the bill for the cancellation of Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix in Imola, by not even asking the circuit for the hosting fee of up to £20million. A source close to the situation told Mail Sport: ‘Nobody wants to bankrupt anyone.’ While anything between the estimated £15m and £20m fee is a significant amount for F1G to miss out on, it is less than a third of the cash paid by venues such as Qatar and Saudi Arabia as new ‘jewels’ of the £2billion-a-year sport. Even after Imola was called off on Wednesday as terrible rain left the region prone to landslides and parts of Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari flooded, the season is still a bursting 22 races long. Local organisers will refund ticket prices to fans, but this outlay is offset by F1G’s decision not to demand the fee. This weekend's Emilia Romagna Grand Prix was cancelled due to extreme rain in Imola, Italy Formula One Group (F1G) will pick up the bill and won't ask the circuit for the £20m hosting fee The race was cancelled after Stefano Domenicali, F1’s chief executive, thought it would be a bad look for his plutocratic sport to play on in such grim circumstances It is the second time in recent years that a race has been cancelled at the 11th hour. The other was the 2020 Australian Grand Prix, which fell victim to Covid after the travelling circus of some 2,000 people had flown Down Under. That was because one McLaren mechanic tested positive for Covid, and only a small minority of those there thought it responsible to press head in those febrile days as the world locked down. At issue then was a fee closer to £50m. This time the danger around is clear. Two people died earlier in the month and hundreds have been evacuated from their houses. It is understood that Stefano Domenicali, F1’s chief executive who grew up in the region and worked in the Imola car park as a boy directing Bernie Ecclestone to his space, thought it would be a bad look for his plutocratic sport to play on in such grim circumstances. And what if someone had been swept away while walking to the race by the adjacent and swollen Santerno river? Who would have been liable? Qatar Airways, who pay up to £50m as one of F1’s global partners and were due to be title sponsors of the race, will be offered further exposure during the season to compensate. The TV rights deals are not impacted because, at 22 races, F1G, who are owned by American conglomerate Liberty Media, are well above the required threshold to receive full payment for the season. Imola was evacuated on Tuesday due to flood risks just days before the scheduled Grand Prix A picture shared on Twitter today (left) showed the waters of the Santerno rising dangerously close to the edge of the famed circuit – but the area has seen flooding throughout May (right) Share or comment on this article: F1's Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix WON'T have to pay a hosting fee of up to £20m via Formula One | Mail Online https://www.dailymail.co.uk?ns_mchannel=rss&ns_campaign=1490&ito=1490

#F1 #F1's Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix WON'T have to pay a hosting fee of up to £20m #Formula 1

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minatoiskyuubismate · 2 years ago

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Here is a portrait of the steam twins Rusty and Frosty with their Elemental Spirits Hermin and Phoenix. I like to experiment with Snowflake stickers and jewel stickers adding them to drawings of these two.. They are not looking always good cause of the scanning. Reference for this picture is a musical poster of Stex with Rusty and Electra looking at each other. Its some years ago, when they had this image on the Program and the posters. Bernie Blanks played Rusty then I remember. And Electra looked serious.

#starlight express #rusty stex #Rusty steam engine #own character

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luckyluan · 6 months ago

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CHAPTER 8.1: THE CHASE

CHAPTER 8

Maxim climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door of the Bronco shut. A glimmer of a smile traced Antwan’s cheeks as he looked him over. Maxim held up a hand. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

“Don’t. Just do not.” he breathed. “Did you get it?”

“Of course, I have it. Who are you taking to?” Antwan reprimanded.

Maxim noticed his change clothes. Antwan replaced his khaki boiler suit with a plain white t-shirt, khaki trousers, and navy cardigan.

“You cut off Bernie’s hand, Ant?!” he groaned.

Maxim’s eyes widened when his husband held out a severed hand. Its olive skin was patterned with large circles of gelatinous, bronze blood and the severed nerves whispered painful groans.

“Like it won’t grow back? He’s half Hekaton on his daddy’s side.” Antwan defended.

“Yes, Antwan. HALF. Meaning he’s mixed; meaning he may not have his father’s regenerative abnormality.” Maxim clarified.

“Abnormal is abnormal. We needed Bernie’s fingerprint. I brought some of Bernard’s fingers. I solved a problem. What am I missing?” Antwan scolded.

“You could’ve just used a piece of tape to copy his fingerprint, baby.” sighed Maxim.

“Well, dear,” Antwan japed. “The tape wasn’t on his desk. The scissors, however, were.”

Maxim rolled his eyes and took Bernard’s jewel-laden left hand cautiously into his gloved palms. He squeezed the wrinkled digits into a fist and placed a beefy index finger on the keypad.

“We have company.” Antwan murmured.

Maxim lifted his gaze to the rearview mirror. He saw a woman in the distance, and she spoke with two impossibly thin women with violent crimson eyes and slimy black scales. The shopkeeper jammed a finger at the white bronco and their red slit eyes focused on him. Maxim cursed.

“How much longer?” called his husband.

“Calm heads, darlin.’ You get ready to move and I’ll handle this. Don’t flip the key yet.” Maxim crooned.

“We don’t have time for your parables, Shakespeare. What bones through yonder window break!” Antwan hissed.

“I need a minute!”

Maxim growled at his husband. He checked the rearview mirror again and the Slender women floated toward them. The scene around them distorted into a sphere of slow motion and Antwan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Maxim’s fingers began to tremble. He pressed Bernie’s index finger to the keypad, and it turned a bright gold. The lid popped open, and his heart sank again. Maxim stared down at another closed lid.

“It’s a heptalock case.” stated Maxim.

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lboogie1906 · 7 months ago

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Michael Santiago Render (born April 20, 1975) known by his stage name Killer Mike, is a rapper, actor, and activist. He made his debut on Outkast’s 2000 LP Stankonia and appeared on their Grammy-winning single “The Whole World” from their greatest hits album Big Boi and Dre Present... Outkast (2001). He has since released five full-length albums as a solo artist. He is the founder of Grind Time Official Records, which he launched through SMC and Fontana Distribution.

In December 2008, he signed with Grand Hustle Records. In 2012, he released R.A.P. Music, produced by rapper and producer El-P. He and El-P formed the duo Run the Jewels in 2013; they were signed to Fool’s Gold Records and released their self-titled debut in June of that year.

He is known as a social and political activist, focusing on subjects including social inequality, police brutality, and systemic racism. He has delivered several lectures at colleges and universities, written about social justice topics for publications such as Billboard, and been the subject of interviews regarding police misconduct and race relations. He was a visible and vocal supporter of Bernie Sanders’ 2016 presidential campaign, refusing to support Hillary Clinton after Sanders left the race, and again supporting Sanders in his 2020 presidential campaign.

He has appeared in films such as Idlewild, Baby Driver, and ATL. The documentary series Trigger Warning with Killer Mike, in which he explores issues in the US that affect the African American community, premiered in January 2019.

He was born in Atlanta, the son of a policeman father and a florist mother. He was partly raised by his grandparents in the Collier Heights neighborhood of Atlanta and attended Douglass High School.

He married Shana (2006). He has four children. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

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college-girl199328 · 9 months ago

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Killer Mike was detained at the Grammy Awards on Sunday after the rapper and activist won three Grammy awards including his first in more than two decades.

A police spokesperson didn't offer a name or additional details but confirmed a black male was detained. A representative for Mike did not immediately respond to emails or text messages requesting a comment.

Mike's first win came after he won for best rap performance for "Scientists & Engineers," which also took home best rap song. The single features Andre 3000, Future, and Eryn Allen Kane. He won best rap album for "Michael."

Before Sunday, Mike's last Grammy came in 2003, when he won for "The Whole World" for best rap performance by a duo or group. When he collected the third award, the Atlanta-based rapper shouted out, "Sweep! Atlanta, it's a sweep!"

He doesn't care, he said, using an expletive, "If you're 78 and rapping about how many gals you got in the nursing home, make sure we keep hip-hop alive."

As a member of Run the Jewels, Mike, along with producer El-P, pumped out four critically acclaimed albums. He made noise outside of music as a social-political activist who has spoken out against inequality for black people and race relations and became a vocal supporter of Sen. Bernie Sanders' 2016 U.S. presidential campaign.

The Grammy-winner hosted Netflix's "Trigger Warning with Killer Mike," a 2019 documentary series about issues that affect the black community. He also made an emotional plea to calm a protest against police brutality that turned violent in Atlanta.

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carolinemillerbooks · 10 months ago

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New Post has been published on Books by Caroline Miller

New Post has been published on https://www.booksbycarolinemiller.com/musings/the-rapture-and-the-inferno/

The Rapture And The Inferno

Some people can be fooled some of the time, but not all of the people can be fooled all of the time unless they want to be. Evangelical Christians seem to be among the latter. They have every reason to doubt Donald Trump’s religious convictions. The number of fraud cases he has lost should be a clue: Trump University, his charitable foundation, and the E. Jean Carroll rape charge. The 91 current criminal indictments ought to be a red flag, too. Nonetheless, if polls speak true, a majority of the religious right gives the former president their unwavering support. Why they put their faith in him is unfathomable. Until 2016 when he ran for President, he had little commerce with them and identified as a Presbyterian. Even now, what he seems to admire most about evangelicals is the ability of their pastors to squeeze vast sums of money from the flock. “They’re all hustlers,” Trump says of them, the highest form of praise a con man can give to someone he believes is in the trade. In private, however, his remarks are anything but flattering. Despite his duplicity, evangelical pastors struggle to create what amounts to a squared circle, allying themselves with a man whose shenanigans rival those of Bernie Madow. Instead, they turn a blind eye to his conduct or choose to see him as a “flawed vessel of God’s will.” An equivocation like the last one is a confession. They know they have made a Faustian bargain, but given their priorities, they have no choice. Under Trump’s leadership, they hope to drag the United States into the past, a period when women had few rights and LGBTQ was no more than a set of alphabet letters. So far, aligning themselves with an “infidel” has had its rewards. Trump chose an evangelical as his 2016 Presidential running mate, and after winning the election, he filled his Cabinet with people like Mike Pompeo who believe in the Rapture. Then he gave them the jewel they sought most. He appointed three Supreme Court judges who were happy to overturn Rove v. Wade and deny women sovereignty over their bodies. When opposites conspire with one another, outcomes are unpredictable. Trump and the pastors have cobbled together a wide net meant to ensnare an army of true believers. They’ve forgotten, however, that the same net circumscribes their boundaries and failed to foresee how a changed environment would alter their flock. One pastor complains his parishioners have begun to reject Christ’s teachings, finding them to be too weak. They seem to prefer the strum and dang of their new savior, Donald Trump. He not only embodies righteousness but also promises revenge. No doubt the former president thrills to the roar of the crowd, but the stage upon which he struts is a narrow one. The audience that gathers at his feet comes not to praise him but to hear their worst instincts validated. Moderate the message to the slightest degree and will they boo, as they did when he urged them to get a Covid 19 vaccine. Trump and the pastors have come to realize that their suppliants are more to be feared than exhorted. No longer a disorganized band of malcontents, they swell with the promise of the coming Rapture. To be ready, they’ve formed themselves into mindless hammers and are prepared to crush anyone who fails to share their frenzy. Trump’s rhetoric has grown more violent in response to their bloodlust. They may hurry him along the path he has chosen, but these suppliants demand of him a never-ending cycle of extremes, a demand that may appall some of the unscrupulous pastors and ambitious politicians who have been dragged within his wake like Marley’s chains. Having pledged their troth to a flawed vessel, these former luminaries must tread in their master’s footsteps or lose all import. Surely, a compact this perfidious begs for a circle in Dante’s hell.

#Donald Trump's faith #Donald Trump's trials #E. Jean Carroll #Evangelical Christians' alliance with Donald Trump #The Rapture #Trump's public and private opinion of evangelicals #Trump's religion of revenge #unholy alliance between Trump and evangelical pastors

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itsyourbizme · 1 year ago

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#leadership #growth strategies

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joekellyotcglobalholdings · 1 year ago

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These Jewelry Store Owners Are Handing Ownership of the Business to Their Employees When They Retire Next Year

These Jewelry Store Owners Are Handing Ownership of the Business to Their Employees When They Retire Next Year https://www.entrepreneur.com/business-news/jewelry-store-owner-to-give-60-year-old-business-to/465672 Harvey and Maddy Rovinsky, the owners of Bernie Robbins Jewelers, are retiring after nearly six decades on the job. via Entrepreneur: Latest Articles https://www.entrepreneur.com/latest November 20, 2023 at 11:55AM

#Entrepreneur: Latest Articles

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nevalizona · 1 year ago

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Grumpy the Clown

-He is the leader of the clowns, but he got picked up after a particularly bad drunken night. He is back and does not like that Pickles has taken over as the leader of the Clown troupe. He is infatuated with Bernadette, the bearded lady, and she likes him just the same. Even if he is a rotten drunk, he's her rotten drunk.

Pickles the Clown

-He is the new leader and is just as much as a drinker as Grumpy was. He just doesn't have a knack for fighting the way Grumpy did. Pickles is still stupidly in love with Peony despite her dumping his drunk ass months ago. He has a tendency to try to scare away any new suitors. He makes a fine leader, but now that Grumpy is back in the picture, he's worried he'll be expected to fall back in as a mere follower rather than the leader he is meant to be.

Bernie the Mime

-He doesn't fit in with the clowns, but has to work closely with them. He stays in character when he's around the clowns. He is closest to Jewels and loves talking to her. She's a mom figure to him.

#stevie.txt #text #stevie's carnival #grumpy #pickles #bernie #carnival bios

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birchkillchronicles · 2 years ago

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Getting to Marigold

Chapter Six

Ruby-red, Grape, Fuchsia

A Costa Rican holiday would be best.

Sun, sand, palm trees galore. Passion fruit and coconut crème cocktails by the pool. Natural hot springs, jewel-throated hummingbirds, and rainforest tours…

What other vacation could be more appealing?

Jeanie and Sylvie had loved to pull out her scrapbooks to play the game of ‘Would You Rather?’ It was relaxing—yet revealing—and they’d often laughed a blue streak over the unforeseen results.

Don was a workhorse who had to be tricked into taking his vacation days. And Bernie was, predictably, a difficult and often queasy traveller. So, Jeanie had left most of the actual bon voyage-ing to Sylvie and her intrepid son, Nick.

Over the years, she’d relished her pal’s stories about Alpine hikes and Caribbean sunsets and the Venetian carnevale. She’d dreamed of the day when she and Sylvie, both retired, could hop a cruise ship and, together, sail all around the world. And—until that happy moment arrived—she’d loved to hear Sylvie’s honest reports about the local colour that her women’s magazine so unfailingly romanticized.

On the whole, Sylvie had revealed, it had been cheaper to backpack in Austria than in Switzerland. And Jamaica wasn’t particularly friendly to gays. And the ‘all-inclusive rates’ on Mediterranean cruises really weren’t…

Gosh, thought Jeanie, who would have known those little snippets of truth from simply reading the enthusiastic descriptions of those places in her magazine? It really took hearing from someone who’d spent actual face-time there to find out…

Sadly, however, Jeanie reflected, playing ‘Would You Rather?’ by herself wasn’t nearly as much fun. But—even without Sylvie sitting beside her to second-guess her choices—it had been better than doing nothing.

This afternoon, therefore, she’d lifted down the scrapbook where she’d pasted her favourite fantasy vacation articles from its designated shelf. Comparing one page with the next—and the winner from that pair with the next—had determined in the end that a Costa Rican holiday would be best.

It was a narrow thing, though.

Paris had been the winner for much of the scrapbook. And then Maui had briefly come out on top. But, in the final round, Costa Rica had trounced the Hawaiian island. So, that’s where Jeanie was vacation-bound…

Except, she wasn’t really planning a vacation.

She was simply taking a break from designing her invitations to The Dinmont-Todd Roaring Twenties Family Reunion. Invitations that would be critical to upping the number of participants that they could expect to attend…

Actually, she’d already decided what kind of stationery she wanted and figured out the basic design. But she hadn’t yet finalized the week’s program on her inspiration board, so she hadn’t finished planning the inside of the cards.

Predictably, neither Don nor Bernie had proven to be of any use when it came to good suggestions. And so she’d accepted that the onus was entirely on her to come up with a full slate of enticing unplugged activities to fill her relatives’ days.

Like a mini-golf tournament. Or a volleyball at the beach. A family tree planting ceremony. Or an apple-picking trip. A classic picnic with children’s games. Or an all-adult pub-crawl. An outing to Gatineau Park. Or a visit to Upper Canada Village. An old-fashioned photo booth. Or a portrait-crayoning cartoonist’s stand...

Or any of them. Or all of them…

All to be savoured in a ‘Roaring Twenties’ unplugged atmosphere.

And the pièce de resistance?

The Roaring Twenties Family Skit written and adapted for the Reunion by Lindy Styre and performed solely for their relatives by the skillful actors of Excursion Theatre.

It was going to be amazing!

Of course—as yet, Jeanie hadn’t actually asked Lindy whether she’d edit down her play. She was waiting to catch her neighbour when she, Don and Bernie attended the early August performance at Windsor Park tonight. But she couldn’t see why there would be any problem…

Around four o’clock, she heard her daughter’s reedy voice.

“Mom?”

“In here, kidlet.”

Bernie poked her head around the craft room door.

“What time are we going? Dad wants to know.”

“Right after supper. We want to get a good view of the show.”

Bernie sighed and sidled halfway through the doorway. “And what time’s supper?”

“A little early. Around five-thirty. And then we’ll toddle over to the park around half past six.”

“But the show starts at seven. All the good spots will be gone. Shouldn’t we just go before six and take some sandwiches?”

Jeanie smiled tolerantly and shook her head.

“Bernie,” she said, “if you wanted to picnic at the play, you should have told me sooner. I would have oven-baked some chicken. Whipped up a niçoise salad or maybe a pot of ratatouille. And bought a watermelon to cut up. Then we could have dined al fresco in style.” Bernie was still such a naïve little girl sometimes, thought Jeanie, fondly. She really didn’t have a clue about these things. “So, we’ll just eat here and then dash off in plenty of time. Okay?”

“Mm, I guess…” Her face screwed into a scowl, Bernie slid back out of the room and slipped down the back stairs to relay the news to her dad.

A titch after five o’clock, Jeanie took a couple more minutes to tidy up her scrapbooks, clear her desk and visit her en-suite bathroom. And then she nipped down to the kitchen to prepare a light supper.

She opened the fridge and pulled out a plastic container of mixed greens from the crisper drawer and a plate of cooked lamb and a triangle of blue cheese from the refrigerator shelf. Carefully, she placed the food on the granite-topped kitchen island. And it was only when she reached over to retrieve her favourite salad bowl from a lower cupboard that she spied the note…

Dated from 5:05pm and written in her husband’s crabbed longhand, it was addressed to her and said, ‘Decided to picnic after all. Took some sandwiches. See you there, Don and Bernie.’

For an endless second, Jeanie forgot to breathe. Then all the air went out of her lungs in a rush and she gasped for oxygen. Clawing her way around the end of the island, she collapsed on a leather-topped stool.

What in the heck was going on?

It was almost too preposterous to believe!

For—instead of simply letting her know what they were up to—her husband and her daughter had thrown a fly-by-night-snack into a bag—and left!

Without. Even. Telling her.

Good gravy! Why?

Because—if she’d known that that’s what Bernie and Don had wanted to do—she could have easily tidied up much earlier, made a decent picnic supper and walked over to the park…

So why hadn’t they just come up to her craft room and said, ‘Hey, we’ve decided to make some sandwiches and go have a picnic at the play. Want to come along?’

But they hadn’t even given her a choice.

No, they’d snuck out like a couple of little kids running away from home—with a plastic sack of sandwiches and a favourite teddy bear tucked under their arms—and had never even had the courtesy to give her a heads-up!

What was it with Don and Bernie, anyways?

Was she the only functioning adult in this house?

Jeanie’s chin went up defiantly.

Other women might whimper or cry over this kind of rubbish. But not me! she vowed. I’ll show them how a mature adult acts when she’s scorned and excluded—!

It only took a few moments for Jeanie to throw together a truly delicious single serving of lamb and blue cheese salad and tuck it into a clear plastic container with a ruby-red lid. So that the greens wouldn’t get soggy, she poured a light dressing into a small jar. She also wrapped up a few multi-wheat crackers and half-a-dozen homemade oatmeal cookies—those dummies Don and Bernie had probably forgotten to bring any dessert!—and added a small thermos of apple juice, a fork and a napkin to her pile. Everything went neatly into a reusable lunch bag, and then Jeanie was ready to freshen her lipstick, tuck her picnic into her light summer tote, grab her folding chair and zip out the door.

Windsor Park was a fifteen-minute stroll away and, on her pleasant walk, Jeanie enjoyed checking out the state of her Old Ottawa South neighbours’ houses. Now, there were a few contemporary stone, glass and steel in-fill homes, plus a number of townhouse lanes stretching down to the Rideau River. But the tree-lined streets mainly featured charming brick or stucco two- and three-storey homes from the early twentieth century, many with long, deep porches and orderly front gardens and lawns. The occasional place looked a bit less well-maintained but, on the whole, Jeanie approved of the tidy domestic streetscape as she loped by.

Crossing busy Bank Street at the massive red-brick Anglican Church, Jeanie headed past the dry cleaner store that had been there long before she and Don had bought into the neighbourhood. She then continued down several more streets to reach the parking lot entry to Windsor Park.

Once onto the green, she immediately spotted the neon-yellow-roped audience area in front of Excursion Theatre’s portable stage. And there, seated on folding chairs and munching on sandwiches—while staring fixedly at their electronic devices—she spied her callous husband and heartless child.

“Hello!” Jeanie cried cheerfully—all hail-fellow-well-met!—as she invaded their camp from behind and proceeded to unfurl and plunk her chair down between their treacherous bodies.

“Oh, hi—” mumbled Don, shifting his chair half a metre to the left, his mouth full of peanut butter sandwich.

“Oh, please don’t get up!” implored Jeanie, cutting him off.

“Want a sandwich?” He gestured toward the plastic bag at his feet.

“No thanks. I’ve brought everything I need."

She arranged her napkin on her knee, pulled out her scrumptious salad-for-one, snapped off its ruby-red lid and dumped dressing all over it.

“Anybody want an oatmeal cookie?” she blandly asked.

Bernie looked up briefly from her phone and skipped to the chase.

“Right. You’re mad at us, Mom. Obviously. But you always want to make such a big deal over everything. This was so much easier.”

“Sneaking out without telling me was ‘so much easier?’ Oh, yes, I can see that,” replied Jeanie, with a vicious smile, as she ferociously forked a chunk of pink lamb and stuck it in her mouth.

“Easier than carrying a watermelon,” muttered Don, going back to his tablet again.

“Well, I hope the peanut butter sandwiches are tasty. I’m enjoying my gourmet salad, thank you very much.” Jeanie crunched into a cracker with a show of delight. “Mmm. So good. Any takers for those cookies?”

“Did you inject them with arsenic?” asked Don.

“I should have…”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” said Bernie, reaching to take a couple from her mother’s outstretched hand.

Don took a pair too and, for a moment, there was family peace as everyone munched on their homemade oatmeal treats and then washed them down with sips of their chosen beverages.

“You know, Jeanie,” sighed Don, at last, “I’m sorry. But Bernie is right. You turn even the simplest of activities into major campaigns. We just needed something to fill our bellies before the play started—and, well—”

“—ratatouille was not it,” Bernie completed the observation for her dad.

“But we could have all had lovely lamb and blue cheese salads—” Jeanie protested, not ready to give up.

“But that’s not what this situation calls for,” stated Don, as he watched his wife tidy up her lunch bag like a fastidious jigsaw puzzler. “It’s summer theatre on folding chairs in the park—”

“—and we wanted to be spontaneous and casual,” added Bernie.

“But I like to plan—”

“Yes, we’re well aware of that,” muttered Don, returning his attention to the game on his tablet.

“Planning makes things go smoothly—"

“But if you would learn to relax a little, Mom, we’d both appreciate it. And stuff would still turn out just fine,” maintained Bernie, once more staring at her phone.

“I doubt that—” began Jeanie. But the others had gone back into their screens. So she left off trying to argue with them and had a look around for Lindy.

The grassy hollow where the stage was set up made for a slightly different setting, but the same black-tee-shirted teenagers were performing the same tasks she’d seen them doing the last time she’d attended the play. Carrying on the bench, hanging the fabric on the metal pipes, setting up the props table. The only difference that Jeanie could see was that there seemed to be portable standards for lighting being installed for this evening’s show.

So far, no Lindy, though.

Don and Bernie had arrived too early to obtain programs, so when Jeanie took everyone’s trash to the garbage and recycling bins, she got them one to share.

Don just gave the thin pamphlet a cursory glance. But, surprisingly, when he passed it over to Bernie, his daughter settled in to read with what Jeanie took to be avid interest.

“There’s not much of importance in there,” offered Jeanie, but Bernie seemed engrossed by the text.

“Rochelle Orangette and Philippe Tangor are in this, Mom,” she murmured with approval. “And Chuckie Calamansi. I’ve seen a couple of plays he’s done since I left university. And me and my friends from work saw him at the Fimbria Festival last year as Chuckie the Clown. He was a riot. And his blog is a total scream.” A tentative smile flickered wanly on Bernie’s pale face at some hilarious recollection. And then she flipped the program over to scan the director’s notes on the back.

The audience had begun to thicken, but Jeanie still couldn’t spy Lindy anywhere.

Maybe she doesn’t always come to every performance, she thought. She must get pretty tired of seeing the same old play over and over again...

Eventually, the plump and pretty woman in black arrived on stage to ask the spectators to turn off their phones and handheld devices. In her haste, Jeanie had forgotten to bring hers, but Don and Bernie obediently powered off. Then, to the live music of flute and violin, the show began.

On her second viewing, Jeanie wasn’t bored, exactly. She laughed and chuckled along with her family and the rest of the audience. And she understood the story line a bit better this time through.

But, in her opinion, it was all still pretty stupid.

Once more, Jeanie was entirely unable—or unwilling—to empathize with the girl on stage. She wasn’t one for navel-gazing, and she’d never been forced to grasp the rosy reality of her deep-dyed social advantage. So, Loopy Lindy’s dysfunctional-father-and-daughter plot remained unreasonable to her.

Good gosh! Just tell your dad he’s out of line! she counselled the cringing daughter in her head. You don’t need to be such a Nervous Nelly about it!

During the intermission, Bernie insisted on standing in line to buy an overpriced grape tee-shirt. It displayed the logo of the production prominently on its front and a long list of tour dates on its back.

Jeanie figured that her daughter might just as well toss her cash in the river. Where would she want to wear such gaudy attire? But the cease-fire with her daughter seemed to be presently holding so, uncharacteristically, she decided not to comment on the foolish purchase out loud.

Meanwhile, Don had gotten into a convivial conversation with the man seated beside him and had to dash at the last minute to the portable restrooms. When he returned, the plump and pretty stage manager was already admonishing the audience to stifle their phones once more.

Unfortunately, Lindy hadn’t appeared during the break. So, as the second act began, Jeanie was wishing that—instead of insisting on accompanying them—she’d been smart enough to just send Don and Bernie to the play and stay comfortably at home.

What a phenomenal waste of time! she privately lamented. I could have spent three more hours planning my Reunion! There’s no help for it now, though. I’ll just have to wait the pathetic thing out…

Twenty-five minutes later, the show was bubbling along towards its finale. The nasty father—who’d just found out that the money that he’d expected from a sure-fire investment had vanished—was having an apoplectic fit. His doctor was ready to appear with the bogus news that the itchy rash from which he’d been suffering meant certain death. And all the while, his daughter was snickering with their ultramarine-haired neighbour behind the very solid white wooden bench.

That’s when a phone two rows over sounded a clarion call.

Panicking, the owner scrambled to find her device so she could shut it off. But she wasn’t having much luck, and the phone continued to blare.

Suddenly, the actor with the chihuahua tucked under his arm blew out from behind the set. He stormed into the audience and, snatching the phone from its startled owner’s hand, powered it off with a vicious jab.

“Madame!” he thundered, tossing the contraption back with a fierce scowl. “Your disruption of our entertainment is despicable! Never again do as you have done tonight!”

As their colleague hustled backstage with his canine friend, the actors on stage, who’d halted mid-scene, applauded. Much of the audience cheered. Meanwhile, a number of spectators hastened to recheck their phones, and the mortified transgressor, red as a beet, cowered back in her chair. And then the play seamlessly resumed from the moment from which it had been so rudely interrupted.

Jeanie glanced over at her daughter and was taken aback to find Bernie glowering balefully at the negligent phone owner. In fact, her normally anaemic daughter looked as if she’d like to hop over there and smack the woman upside-the-head! When Bernie noticed that her mother was watching her, however, she gave a tight little grimace and turned her full attention to the action on stage.

Nothing else—not even the slight chilly breeze that stirred the air as the sun set behind the trees—spoilt the rest of the play. And the show concluded, flood lamps aglow, on the same triumphant note as when Jeanie had seen it last performed.

In the darkened audience, people surged to their feet in a standing ovation. And, realizing that both Don and Bernie had leapt up clapping like mad, Jeanie hauled herself slowly out of her chair to add her applause to the general acclaim.

But just like last time, she noted—once the racket cooled down and the flood lights were swivelled to illuminate the audience area—even before the spectators picked up their blankets or folded their chairs, most of them reached for their phones.

Jeanie was going to point this out to Don and Bernie, but they were already too busy with their screens to care.

However, as she was reaching for her lunch bag and preparing to depart, the lanky actor, Chuckie Calamansi—who had played the mean father with what Jeanie felt was an unnecessary serving of ham—trotted by shaking his fedora and chanting a cheeky, “Alms for the poor? Alms for the poor?”

“Over here!” exclaimed Don and, to Jeanie’s dismay, her husband dropped three crisp twenty-dollar bills into the hat.

“Thank you, sir!” cried the actor, sweeping Don a deep bow. “You, sir, are a gentleman and a schooner!”

Really Don? frowned Jeanie. You thought the show was worth that much?

But Bernie was beckoning the actor over to her too.

“I think you guys deserve an extra special tip,” she breathed, lightly tossing in another twenty.

“Hey, thanks, Toots!” exclaimed the actor with a broad grin. “You’re my kinda gal!” And he blew her a kiss before dancing away to intercept another audience member who was waving a fistful of cash.

Watching this last scene unfold, Jeanie was stunned.

But not by the incredible and entirely gratuitous generosity of her daughter.

Rather, she was astonished to see her dour and introverted kidlet react to the actor’s extravagant flirting with a smirk and a giggle behind her raised hand. Her daughter’s normally dull hazel-grey eyes were glistening like smoky-brown quartz. And were those fuchsia dots on her pallid cheeks Bernie’s version of a maidenly blush?

“Okay,” announced Don, shouldering his chair. “Are we ready to split?”

“Sure,” sighed Bernie, but her gaze still followed the actor’s brash progress through the crowd.

“Ooh, it’s getting cool,” shivered Jeanie, trying to get her daughter’s attention. “Anyone else up for a mug of hot chocolate when we get home?”

“That’s sounds nice,” agreed Don, but Bernie was too busy craning her neck to watch the fedora disappear backstage to reply.

Once the actor was out of sight, however, Jeanie saw the fuchsia dots fade and the sparkle die in Bernie’s eyes. Stooping languidly to retrieve her chair, she immediately reverted to her usual colourless self.

“Hot chocolate? Sure,” she sighed and, tagging after her parents out of the park, plodded back to their big, old, empty house.

#gettingtomarigold #original novel #satire #summer theatre #parenting #grief/mourning

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