Live at the Osiris

Live at the Osiris

One of this week’s assignments on the Open University’s FutureLearn Start Writing Fiction course is to take a flat, stereotypical character and to re-imagine them in some unexpected way.

In my writer’s notebook, I had this sketch of a larger-than-life tattooed lady and her friend chatting at a table in a pizza restaurant. I could imagine her holding the stage as a stand-up comedian but I was struggling to find an unexpected twist until we got chatting to John, a dog walker, who always has a few odd stories to tell us.

‘They’ll hide behind a tree, next time they see us coming!’ his wife warned him, as he got into full flow.

He was telling us about a school friend who had gone on to take a degree in Egyptology but had then taken a job compiling bus timetables, as ‘there weren’t many opportunities around here for an Egyptologist’.

That could explain why some bus timetables are as hard to read as hieroglyphics.

Live at the Osiris

‘It went really well last night.’ Stephanie clinked her lime soda against Ruby’s Diet Coke.

‘You think so?’ Ruby seemed sceptical as she reached for another olive.

‘The audience did!’ Stephanie insisted, ‘Your riffs on using a hieroglyphic typewriter really got them going!’

A larger than life personality, Ruby could hold the floor on the stand-up circuit just by standing there. Every visible surface of her ample form was decorated with the baroque flourishes of extravagent tattoos. The strappy back to her baggy top revealed snaking designs running alongside her spine.

Her raggedly-cut blue hair with tousled grey-blonde ends wouldn’t have looked out of place on a kick-ass character in one of the big-screen blockbusters at the multiplex across the road.

Stephanie leaned forward, arms crossed, resting on the table, and hesitated, ‘Well, your closing routine went a bit above my head. That weird dog you were taking for a walk, Anna something? What was all that about?’

‘Anubis? I’m glad you mentioned him. Steph, there’s something I need to tell you: I wasn’t always in stand-up.’

‘I know; you worked in Cambridge before we met. Some kind of secretarial job at one of the colleges?’

‘Something like that. Yes, I did a lot of typing but it was at the Department of Archaeology. I was studying Egyptology: Anubis is the Egyptian god of the dead.’

‘So not a dog, like in your act?’

‘Sometimes a dog, sometimes a man with a dog’s head.’ Ruby leant forward and rested her left elbow on the table. She pulled back the top of her sleeve and looked up at Stephanie.

‘Oh, like your tattoo!’

‘All my tattoos are inscriptions from the tomb of Perenbast, a temple singer at Amarna.’

‘Wow! That’s incredible!’

‘Yes, and that’s just what my professor thought about my dissertation. He refused to accept it. And I refused to rewrite it. My doctorate was suspended. I’d put everything into that monograph and no way was I going to get dragged into pointless arbitration. Professor Dwyer’s word was law. I knew that I wouldn’t get a fair hearing. I fell back on what I’d loved doing with the crowd down at the ADC. I’ve made a good living from stand-up.

‘That’s why I need to talk to you, Steph. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to our sea, sand and sangria break at Makadi Bay. I’m afraid there’s been a slight change of plan. We’re still flying out to Cairo as planned but from there we’re heading south, through the desert, to Amarna.’

‘Amarna, what’s the big attraction of Amarna?’

‘Well, there’s no sea and sangria . . . but there’s plenty of sand! In March, Dr. Hawass and his team broke through a collapsed wall into a new chamber. What they’ve found there looks certain to rewrite everything we thought we knew about Akhenaten. They need the world’s leading expert there, on the spot.’

‘Don’t tell me, that awful Professor?’

‘No, Dwyer’s been totally discredited. There’s only one person they can turn to . . .’

Ruby shrugged modestly and raised an eyebrow in a distinctly conspiratorial fashion: ‘Tar-rah!’

‘And one more change of plan,’ she continued, ‘Can you pack your case now? We fly tomorrow: the thirteen ten Lufthansa flight from Manchester.’

Oil of Cloves

My latest assignment on the Open University’s ‘Start Writing Fiction’ course, is a study of an imagined character:

The effects of the oil of cloves were already wearing off as she wandered aimlessly around the aisles in the co-op. Shrink-wrapped displays of fruit and veg and a bargain bin of pumpkins that had missed out on halloween did nothing to lift her mood. Golden Delicious from Spain? Bobby beans from Kenya? What’s wrong with seasonal produce home-grown right here in the village? The Howgate Wonders from her orchard wouldn’t get held up at the Channel Tunnel and why pay for beans that have flown halfway around the world when you can save enough broads and scarlet runners to grow a crop for free each year? She was still growing the old varieties that her mother had grown thirty, no forty, years ago, when she’d kept the family allotment.

fruit shop

When people called her old-fashioned, she’d smile politely and suggest that sometimes the old ways were the best. But one old remedy really wasn’t working any more and very soon she’d have to face the consequences. The sharp ache deep in her lower jaw was coming back with a vengeance. She walked across the green to the church and paced around amongst the headstones.

She felt like a condemned prisoner awaiting execution. Perhaps, like them, she could allow herself one last cigarette. As she sat on the bench, going through the familiar routine of rolling her Golden Virginia, she felt a little calmer, even though, if anything, the throbbing pain was increasing.

The church bells chimed for quarter past. Tuneful, yes, but no character. Why had they melted down the old ones? When they’d hoisted them down from the belfry she’d seen an inscription on one which showed that it was as old as the church itself. Cracked and tarnished with age. Why can’t things stay just as they are?

She stubbed out her cigarette and dropped it in the bin. She couldn’t leave it any longer. Ten minutes later she was there in the waiting room. The last time she’d been in here, Mr Emmerson’s father had run the practice. Bored-looking goldfish pouted and flounced their diaphanous fins as they rose, then subsided, in the tank in the corner. Why did a creature with no teeth take pride of place in a dentist’s waiting room?

A soft but insistent beep. Her name came up on the screen:
‘Rosemary Lister, Benjamin Emmerson, Surgery 4.’

Mr McGuffin

Cover artwork from my art foundation course at Batley, 1967.

I’ve gone into writing pulp fiction for my latest assignment on the Open University’s FutureLearn Start Writing Fiction course. The prompt we were given this time, a couple of lines about a woman in red carrying a Pekinese in a handbag on a bus, immediately had me thinking of Hitchcock thrillers and, because of the red sweater she was wearing, Hitchcock’s Technicolor movies, such as North by Northwest. The sharp-suited man in the story is the Martin Landau character from that film.

Hilary appeared as a character in an editing exercise in Week 3 of the course.

Mr McGuffin

San Francisco, 1963

Every dude and his dog, every popsie and her pooch, was in town for the Mays Plaza Dog Show.

As the streetcar lurched away from the stop on the corner of Union Square, she watched as a lugubrious man with two Sealyhams strolled out of Davidson’s Pet Shop. He looked just like Alfred Hitchcock. In fact it was Mr Hitchcock: she’d heard that Universal were back filming on the Bay. She was slipping, she told herself: in her line of work, she should have spotted the camera crew, hidden in the studio truck, which they’d disguised as a furniture van to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

Guido, at the Turk Street club, insisted that Hilary was a dead ringer for Hitchcock’s latest leading lady, Tippi Hedren, but this morning, in her headscarf and red sweater, she was hoping that no-one would give her a second look. Certainly, with so many ladies with lapdogs here for the Show, no-one seemed to have noticed the little Pekinese that she was carrying in her handbag. Until now.

He’d jumped on board at the last stop: the tall guy in a sharp suit frowned as he glanced from side to side, passing several vacant seats before stopping next to her.

‘Is that seat taken?’ Not waiting for an answer, he pushed past her and sat by the window.

‘Hey, aren’t you a nice little fella!’ the little dog enjoyed his attention, ‘Big baby eyes and a cute snub nose.’

As he patted the dog with one hand, he reached down into her bag with the other and made a grab.

‘And I’ll take this little snub-nosed beauty!’

He’d found the Pico Baretta that she always kept in her handbag. He clicked off the safety catch and held it under his jacket, pointing right at her.

‘I’ll call the shots now! I’ve seen your magic act at Guido’s and I watched you at Mays this morning: just another of the dog-mad dames in the crowd at the press preview. Sooo clever the way you switched the mutt from your magic act with the Supreme Champion, Mr McGuffin, everyone’s favourite Pekinese. And what a nice touch, the way you switched those ribbons, so that McGuffin matches that sweater of yours. What I didn’t see was how you stashed away McGuffin’s silver-gilt lead: that would have been a dead giveaway.’

But Hilary was giving nothing away. She stared forwards, a blank expression on her face.

‘Silent type, huh?’ he snarled, ‘Well, my boss has a nice little sideline with a puppy farm out Bodega way, and he’s very keen to meet Mr McGuffin, so let’s take this nice and easy and no-one will get hurt.

‘Hey, the tourists might like these old streetcars but we’ve been sitting on these slatted seats for long enough. How about you and I take a walk in the park? Looks like Lafayette’s our next stop.

‘You get up with that precious pooch and remember that I’m right behind you.’

Still looking straight ahead, she touched his wrist as a signal she was ready, stood up and walked calmly down the aisle.

‘Hey!’ He’d been so intent on clutching the handgun that he hadn’t noticed her sleight of hand. Looking down he saw that his right hand was firmly tethered to the seat by Mr McGuffin’s silver-gilt lead.

A tap on the window. Hilary raised an eyebrow and blew him a kiss. It was a perfect day to take Mr McGuffin for a walk across Lafayette Park.

Links

Mr McGuffin PDF version

The Chair, a short story by Chloe Fox

Sometimes it never goes

Our latest assignment on the Open University’s Start Writing Fiction FutureLearn course was to write the start of a story in just 200 to 350 words. Even though this scarcely amounts to two pages in my PDF version (see link below), I’ve given it a moody, atmospheric cover taken on a moody, atmospheric, rainy day during our break in the Lake District last week. This was Calfclose Bay, Derwent Water, looking west towards Rampsholme Island (wild swimming ladies in their bright pink outfits cropped out because they didn’t really fit in with the Nordic Noir ambience!)

Sometimes it never goes

The couple at the door brought Carly out of her reverie. ‘Is it still raining out there?’ she asked them.
‘It comes and it goes,’ said the woman.
‘Sometimes it comes and it never goes,’ said Carly, as she showed them to a table, ‘You learn to deal with the rain if you live here.’


But the famous Cumbrian rain hadn’t doused the flames that destroyed Penhurst Grange.
She’d been shocked to see the photograph on the front page of the Westmorland Gazette: the gothic silhouette of the Grange picked out against sheets of orange flame.
It wasn’t that she’d never wished to see the old place destroyed, but she’d worked hard to put those disturbing memories behind her. The picture brought them all flooding back and now they wouldn’t leave her.


‘Sometimes it comes and it never goes.’


Gauzy streaks of rain hung over the lake, floating down from the craggy vale beyond.


Eric prided himself on finding even the most remote of farms without the aid of a sat nav but even he was struggling with Far Ings. As he drove along the narrow lane in the glowering light, the drystone walls loomed so close that it felt like one of the all-too-familiar corridors of Penhurst Grange.
He’d tried to put the place out of his mind. He’d got back on track at last and proved himself reliable and efficient at his new job with the mobile tyre-fitting service. But now he was lost.
He pulled into the next passing place, by the gates of a Victorian shooting lodge, Crossghyll, sheltered amongst tall, dark firs and lush hollies. He took out his phone to open the app.
No signal. Hardly surprising in this remote valley, ringed around by rugged fells.
Then he saw it. He could hardly forget that cerise Range Rover: he’d fitted it with a set of Pirellis just three weeks ago.


Boynton Doyle – the property developer who’d taken on the Penhurst Grange project – but what was he doing here?

Link

Sometimes it never goes PDF version

Open University Start Writing Fiction FutureLearn course

The Pines of Riabhach

The Pines of Riabhach

As an exercise in the Open University’s FutureLearn ‘Start Writing Fiction’ course, we were asked to write a story based on the first subject that we heard when we turned on the radio.

There was a bit of user bias in my starting point, as I knew that it was tuned to Radio 3 and that I was about on schedule for the afternoon concert. Sibelius’s 5th Symphony was described by his old friend Granville Bantock as bringing the listener ‘face to face with the wild and savage scenery of [Sibelius’s] native land, the rolling mists . . . that hover over the rocks, lakes and fir-clad forests . . .’

Perfect!

You can download the whole story, all three pages of it, via the link below. I used the ‘Modern Novel’ template in Pages and dropped in my text and the drawing of pine and juniper from my April 1977 sketchbook.

Link

The Pines of Riabhach PDF, a short story

Visualising Salt Content

Visualising Salt Content

This weekend’s homework in the University of Southampton’s ‘Exploring Our Ocean’ FutureLearn course. Some of the figures we had to work out for ourselves, so please let me know if I’ve gone wrong with them. For instance, the figure that I found on the internet for tons of rubbish going to landfill was 1.3 billion tons per year.

Comic strip designed on my desktop in Clip Studio Paint and drawn with an Apple Pencil on my iPad Pro in Procreate.

I’ve got to thank another FutureLearn course, the University of Dundee’s ‘Making and Understanding Web Comics’ for a few useful tips that I’ve used here: I’ve hand-lettered the strip but based on free fonts from the Blambot Comic Fonts and Lettering website. I set up the captions using two fonts from the site: Anime Ace 2.0 BB Italic and Noteworthy then used this as a guide, tracing the letters freehand, using the same pen tool in Procreate that I used for the drawings.

Link

University of Southampton’s ‘Exploring Our Ocean‘ FutureLearn course.

Blambot Comic Fonts and Lettering

Why is the Sea Salty?

Why is the sea salty

The sea is fed by the rivers which run into it. These rivers by gradually wearing away all kinds of soft rocks which contain salt and limestone, carry the salt to the sea. Owing to the action of the sun, the sea is continually evaporating. The sea becomes more and more salty by this process of gradual evaporation by the sun and the continual deposits of salt from rivers

Card no.22 in the ‘What do You Know?’ series of tea cards published by Lyons, 1957.
tea cards
Apologies for the state of these tea cards but they got a lot of handling when my brother and sister and I collected them in 1957.

I remembered the image on the tea card when I got to the section on salinity in the University of Southampton’s FutureLearn course Exploring Our Oceans.

Link

University of Southampton’s FutureLearn course Exploring Our Oceans

Published
Categorized as Coast Tagged ,

Character Sketch

There’s a rhythm to his brisk walk but it’s not a sassy swagger. His outfit is understated: blue jacket, grey trousers, so just a regular guy? But then there’s the flat cap: once a cliche of the down-to-earth Yorkshireman – along with whippets and racing pigeons – today it’s as likely to be an ironic touch.

Retro eyeglasses and a messenger bag complete the ensemble. He steadies the bag with his left hand as he walks amongst the shoppers on the precinct.

His innate rhythm and understated style make me think of jazz pianist and composer Thelonious Monk. Rather like Eric Morecambe, Monk insisted, “The piano ain’t got no wrong notes.”

But after an improvisation session that didn’t turn out well, he came to the conclusion:
“I’ve been making the wrong mistakes.”

My character, like Monk, seems like someone who’ll take things in his stride, accepting that occasionally we all need to make the right mistakes.

shoppers

I’ve just started an Open University FutureLearn course, Start Writing Fiction, and our assignment for the first week has been to describe a character from our writer’s notebook (or, in my case, sketchbook), so I’ve chosen a man who I glimpsed crossing the precinct as I waited for an appointment last week.

Link

Open University FutureLearn course, Start Writing Fiction

Published
Categorized as Drawing

Planet Procreate

Earth forms

‘A long time ago in a galaxy very, very close to us . . .’

Well, I’m not aiming for Stars Wars visuals here, in my illustration of the formation of Planet Earth, 4,600 million years ago. I’m trying out the airbrush in Procreate on my iPad Pro, but I don’t want it to look too smooth, so I’m using the pen tool to make it look hand drawn.

I’ve set up the illustration in three layers: sky, molten planet and surface crust. I painted in the crust as a featureless brown-black ball hanging in space, yellow highlights on one side, blue reflected light in the shadows on the other. I then used the eraser tool with a 6B pencil setting to scratch through to reveal the glowing lava beneath. Finally, I added spatters and pen lines.

As I drew the planet, I realised that I’d drawn something similar years before. This was part of the ‘Cosmic Zoom-in’ that I used to introduce my home patch in A Sketchbook of the Natural History of the Country Round Wakefield (Lion & Unicorn Press of the Royal College of Art, 1979).

I still have the bigger picture in my mind when I get close to local wildlife. During my time at college in London, I’d often call in during my lunch break to spend half an hour in the new Story of the Earth exhibition in the Geological Museum in South Kensington. I can see that exhibition’s influence here.

Link

Procreate: I’m looking forward to the new version Procreate 5, which will be launched soon.

Published
Categorized as Drawing