Angels on Oil Drums
As I started writing this week’s blog, the flag of St George was flying from the flagpole on the top of our village church for St George’s Day, England’s patron saint.
I have good reason to celebrate St George’s Day because it was the inspiration behind the very first story I ever sold.
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t write. As soon as I was old enough to hold a pencil, I was writing. Plays, stories, comic books, poems and even a pageant or two. Throughout our childhood, I bullied my three younger brothers into appearing in various ‘plays’ I’d written which we’d then perform for all our neighbours – at least, the ones who weren’t quick enough to come up with a decent excuse.
My first publicly performed work was a bit of a cheat as it didn’t involve any original writing. It was a pageant, enacted to the words of the hymn “For all the saints, who from their labours rest…” to celebrate St. George’s Day.
The ‘stage’ was to be our front lawn, the backdrop Mum’s washing line with a couple of old grey blankets draped over it. I’d filled two large jugs with armfuls of pink and white blossom which stood at the front. It looked perfect. Except for the oil drums. One on either side of the ‘stage’.
My mother drove a hard bargain and insisted that if she was going to allow her garden and washing line to be turned into a stage, then my two youngest brothers (three year old twins) had to be given parts in the pageant. I was not keen. But, in the end I capitulated and said they could have non-speaking parts as angels – as big a piece of miscasting as Tom Cruise as Jack Reacher.
But there was a slight problem (and I’m not talking Tom Cruise here). The twins were quite small and so would not be seen. So I had the brilliant idea of standing them on upended oil drums, one either side of the stage. (Now why didn’t Tom Cruise think of that?)
I then tied one of Mum’s sheets around their necks to cover both them and the oil drums and commanded them to hold their arms up as wings. I also made them beautiful blonde wigs from unravelled binder twine which, they complained, itched. (Did I say I was also the costume and set designer? Not to mention writer, producer and chief press-gang officer).
I was St George, of course. After all, it was my pageant. And my other brother, Mike was the unfortunate dragon who spent most of the time being beaten around the stage by me wielding a wooden sword.
We were about half way through the first verse of “For all the saints...” when the left hand ‘angel’ started to fidget and fell off his oil drum. The right hand ‘angel’, who probably had more sense than his brother, decided he was bailing out before he too fell off his oil drum and made a dash for freedom across the garden, trailing his sheet behind him and ending up hiding in the middle of the raspberry canes. He was closely followed by the family dog who thought this was the best game ever.
I, like the trouper I was, carried on singing. And beating the dragon about. Until he decided that he, too, had had enough. So there I was, St George, victorious and alone, singing away to myself and failing to notice that my mother had disappeared into the raspberry canes after my brother and the dog. And the rest of the audience was falling about with laughter.
After all these years my brothers still claim they were traumatised by the event, which gets told and retold at every family gathering. So when, about twelve years ago I was looking to break into the short fiction market and trying to follow the advice ‘write about what you know’, I wrote this short story based around my ill fated pageant.
“Angels on Oil Drums” was the first of many stories I sold to Woman’s Weekly and it still remains one of my favourites. Not such a favourite with my brothers, though – although I did buy all three of them their very own copy of Woman’s Weekly which I’d like to tell you they have treasured to this day. But I very much doubt it!
A few years ago now, my brother Mike (the ex-dragon) came to one of the pantomimes I’d written for our village theatre group (link here to my thoughts on writing this year’s). He remarked what a relief it was for him to come and see something I’d written that he hadn’t been bullied into appearing in.
My story, Angels on Oil Drums, will be in my first collection of short stories, entitled “Selling My Grandmother” which will be published later this year. Watch this space!
I’m finishing the final edits of the final chapter of my serial, The Primrose Path, this week – and am at that stage where I think I’m never going to be able to cut it down to the required word length. Although I always do, somehow. As for tying in all those loose ends…
Duke, the Dalmatian has had a poorly paw and after a week on anti-inflammatories and antibiotics is now confined to lead only walking for another two weeks. Trying to keep a Dalmatian quiet and rested is like trying to contain a Jack-in-the-box with a faulty lid. But if you’ve got to do an on-lead-only walk, then the beautiful Bishop’s Palace Gardens, in Wells, Somerset has got the be the place to do it.
Daily Prompts. May 1st to 15th
I hope you’re enjoying the daily prompts. (For details of how to use them, follow this link) I have now caught up with myself, so below are the prompts for the first fifteen days of May.
I always keep a note in my journal of where the ideas for each new story came from and I can see that of the fifteen, four made it as completed (and sold) stories. So it does work!
- Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May (Shakespeare)
- A time when you wanted to leave but couldn’t
- Being discovered in the wrong place at the wrong time.
- “I have spread my dreams beneath your feet/ Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” (WB Yeats)
- Suffering the consequences of doing something to excess.
- Write about a premonition
- Your first day at school, work.
- Look back in anger. (John Osborne’s play of this name opened in 1956)
- Fear of getting old.
- Things done in the heat of the moment.
- He/she is the sort of person who….
- Write about your earliest memory
- Living the dream
- Through the open window comes the sound of someone playing the piano.
- On this day in 1918 the first regular air mail service began. Write about receiving an unexpected letter.
Thanks for reading this far. Each time I post, I promise myself that I’ll keep it short and snappy this time. But I never do. And that’s what I love about blogging. After three days of trying to cut 5800 words down to 3300, writing this has been sheer bliss!