Grannie Elizabeth and the Soldier

Grannie Elizabeth and the Soldier ©

By

Michael Casey

Grannie Elizabeth wasn’t a real grannie at all but to a lot of kids that’s what she was. She was Grannie Elizabeth, Elizabeth wasn’t her real name either, she just had an English accent like the Queen of England so she was Christened Elizabeth, Grannie Elizabeth. She was in fact a widow who used to babysit, babysit a lot and she was cheap, so she was very popular. As she walked down the street she would get nods and smiles and kisses from generations of kids. She was loved by a unites nations of faces, in New York. You see she had married a Yank as they used to be called and was transplanted to USA. Only her Yankie Soldier had died.

Her heart was broken so she could never marry again, her Wayne was the only man she had ever loved so how could she marry another. She had a widow’s pension and she proudly had a Stars and Stripes in her front lawn alongside a Union Jack, she was from England after all, and despite 50 years in USA she kept her accent. Her Wayne was special to her and he worked in Special Forces but they never really spoke about that. She just loved him to death, and when he died she miscarried, so her heart was doubly broken. So babysitting was some consolation.

Her kids were her kids and told to call her mum, but as time progressed she became Grannie, Grannie Elizabeth and loved by everybody. She got Birthday cards and Christmas cards and Mother’s Day cards, though the mother’s day cards did make her shed a tear, but she made sure nobody saw those tears.

Now she liked to jump on the bus and have an adventure, and that’s how she ended up in 26^th and 2^nd Berry Juice cafe. In fact she got off at the wrong stop and her feet needed a rest so she went and had a berry juice drink. It was while she was there that she met the soldier. He was in normal clothes but she knew a soldier when she saw one, besides he had a tiny tiny badge on his shirt collar. The exact same one her husband wore. It may have been the sore feet or the sight of the badge, or the jaw line. But Grannie Elizabeth started to cry.

The soldier looked over concerned. Mam can I assist he asked? Grannie Elizabeth replied in he Queen of England accent, sorry but you remind me of my poor dead husband. In England Mam? Grannie Elizabeth explained she had married a Yank, and he was in Special Services, she recognised his badge. She recited her Wayne’s service number. It turned out that the Soldier was called Wayne too, this made Grannie Elizabeth cry. Two Waynes, it was impossible.

So they chatted and the Soldier gave nothing away, but he did remember the service number. When they had finished their berry drinks Wayne put Grannie Elizabeth on the correct bus and waved goodbye. He also phoned a friend who checked out the service number, and he was shocked and awed to see who the original Wayne was. It turned out that the original Wayne has been a Legend decades before.

A week later a bowl of berries and a card arrived at Grannie Elizabeth’s house, gift wrapped in Union Jack and Stars and Stripes gift wrap. The other Wayne was a surveillance expert, so he had checked her out before sending the berries. From then onwards Grannie Elizabeth received berries on her Birthday and at Christmas, she also got a present at Honaker too as the new Wayne was Jewish. Grannie Elizabeth was pleased by the attention, she also started to pray for him every day, she did not want to lose two Waynes it would be too much.

This went on for a few years, Grannie Elizabeth had a fall and was hospitalised, only her flags fluttered in the wind. In the dark on the night some slime decided to break into to her home. But what you all need to remember is that the service is a family. So as the burglar entered her home he had the shock of his life. Wayne was there all dressed in black, he was not a cowboy, he was there with two buddies also dressed all in black quietly playing cards, waiting just waiting for such an eventually.

The next morning the burglar was found stripped naked and hanging between two flag poles. The Stars and Stripes fluttering alongside the Union Jack. The NYPD know a good deterrent when they see one, so they slowly replied to the call. Then they pretend argued about Health and Safety and who should climb the flag pole to cut the felon down. One bright spark said it was a Fire Department issue, so the Police had a coffee while the Fire Department came slowly, it was not a fire after all. Fox News got a tip off and Shep Smith featured  it on his show, live as well, it was a slow news day so it got the most exposure as did the burglar.

The neighbours all came out to say how disgusted they were with the felon, and then all the children she had babysat over the years rung Shep Smith to say just how disgusted they were trying to rob a Veteran’s Widow like that. The VA had a lot to say when they discovered it was a veteran’s widow’s home that had an attempted burglary.

Shep Smith wondered who were the good citizens who had caught the burglar. Shep interiewed the burglar while he was still strung up, but the felon was very highly strung, as you would be if you had met the Devil in the night, 3 devils in fact. All the burglar would say and could say was it was the Devil and I confess. He had a major confession to make, as would anybody who met three poker playing Devils in the night. Enough for twenty years in jail, but it would be better that meeting those 3 Devils again.

Grannie Elizabeth switched on the tv in hospital from her bed. She saw her own home, but before she could be shocked Wayne was there with berries for her. He was with Jesse and Billy his buddies from the night before. That’s naughty what you did chided Grannie Elizabeth, but my Wayne would have done the same. So they all laughed. Meanwhile Shep Smith had worked it all out, a Grannie with a husband in the Special Services, Shep just smiled, he was off to England soon to Old Forge and Singing Anvil, maybe he’d tell the tale then in a bar.

As for Wayne and Jessie and Billy they kissed Grannie Elizabeth and disappeared, they had to return the doctor’s clothes they had “borrowed” they would flying out on a mission that very night. Wayne passed a piece of paper to Grannie Elizabeth as he left. It just said ring this number if ever you need a friend. 555 5555 With that they were gone.

Grannie Elizabeth got home and had a hero’s reception, she just waved like the Queen of England and sat inside to finish her berries, lots and lots of berries. Now the night her Wayne had died she had had a feeling and now she had the very same feeling. Her Wayne, Wayne number two was in trouble, she just knew it, but what could she do? She did think of he phone number but she was not in trouble it was Wayne, she felt it in her English water, or maybe she had had too many berries. So she went to the bathroom and then to bed.

She dreampt of her Wayne and then of the new Wayne, she dreampt of an orchard too, perhaps it was the Garden of Eden, perhaps she would die soon and be with her husband again. Meanwhile Wayne’s mission had gone wrong. He was hiding hoping to stay alive, only he was captured, things would be bad and end in darkness.

Elizabeth watched Fox news and a small item catch her attention, she knew it Wayne must be there in that place far far away. She was right Wayne was, he was being tortured as he lay chained and bruised and bleeding he thought about Elizabeth and he hoped he could die with as much honour as her husband. The torturers teased him, do you want to speak to your family before you die?

The Devil was there waiting in the dark for Wayne, but Wayne had half an idea in his blood soaked head. Can I speak to my grannie before I die? So they teased him and beat him before allowing him to phone his grannie. Only he phoned Grannie Elizabeth instead. Grannie Smith its so good to hear your voice, just rung to say I will always remember sharing berries at 372 on 12 or was it at 456 on 18 I’m sorrow if I’m all mixed up, but I do love you. Then she heard him being beaten before the phone went dead.

Grannie Elizabeth might be old but she was not stupid, with tears in her eyes she rung that number if only she could find the piece of paper. In the end it was under the berries. She shouted down the phone. This is and she gave her dead husband’s service number, and then she explained. It was a map reference, and a grannie smith is a variety of apple. Wayne must be near an orchard. Grannie Elizabeth called an emergency Prayerathon at her house, everybody came. They did not ask what it was for, when a grannie calls you come running. The NYPD and the Fire Service came too. Grannie Elizabeth had called a Prayathon so everybody got there.

High high above in the sky right over an orchard all dressed in black Jesse and Billy exited the plane with a few other Devils, they were going to a house warming. They were going to set fire to a house. Wayne was carried out by Jesse and Billy while the other gunslingers fired off their laser guided six shooters.

In New York Grannie Elizabeth fainted, everybody was concerned, but she was happy, she could feel it. In fact her husband’s ghost was beside her smiling. Wayne was alive, Wayne was alive.

The next day a general arrived at the house carrying berries, followed by soldiers also caring berries, as well as a bag of grannie smith apples. Nothing was said, it was all top secret after all. But when a general and loads of soldiers salute and go away laughing you can tell it’s a happy ending.

So I hope you all enjoyed today’s story 25^th March 2018, which also happens to be Totoro our cat’s 3^rd Birthday. My kids wanted a pet, I said they could have a dog if I died or a cat if I had a heart attack. A few weeks later I had an unplanned quadruple heart bypass, at least my kids didn’t get a dog. So a cat was a happier ending.

You Before Me

Just watched the film You Before Me on Netflix, so I would recommend it to you all. Don't forget Summer Time begins in the morning. I could emphasise a lot with the guy in the film.

So I'll try and write a new piece tomorrow, today was a family chill day, even Totoro our cat is chilling sat near a warm radiator.

to keep you going here's a piece from 5years ago (I have a 1300 to 1600 back catalogue)

Casey Film School ©

By Michael Casey

Now in our house we watch loads of films, 5 a week and more maybe, and with Sky+ box you can record many more. I watched loads as a child too, in black and white in them days. I think I was 25 before I bought a colour  tv for the family. Children nowadays won’t watch anything not in colour.

I saw a documentary on tv with Keanu Reeves, the programme was all about Film, as in the physical piece of material that goes through the camera. It was comparing film to digital. There always is a “look” to a film, I used to say you can tell if a film is rubbish just by the credits.

The old fashioned Technicolor as in Robin Hood, had colours so rich it was as if a child had used wax crayons. Then there are washed out colours for effect, to give a feel and a meaning to a film. Some films are so dark you can hardly see a thing. Alien the first one seemed so especially dark.

Most films I’ve seen on tv, we do have a good tv, I spoilt myself 20 years ago and got a good tv, I was earning good money then and I had interest free credit for a year. Toshiba is all I will say, just go to John Lewis, get free 5 year guarantee and get a Toshiba. Our current Toshiba replaced the old one a few years ago.

Now does the average person notice all the nuances of the cinematography? I’ll say no, though I’m still on a learning curve myself. I’ve watched a ton of films and as my girls grow up we  talk about Film in the advert breaks, 3 mins on satellite, but if we have recorded the film we zap through the ads.

Do  you like the way the actor does this or does that, could you see where the scary bit was going to happen. Could you see how something was telegraphed? Telegraphed things are probably the most we’ve talked about. I hope I don’t spoil the joy of the thing with all this “Casey film school” material.

When you have seen Maltila, or Willy Winka or The Mummy, all versions, then you too will become a little film buff. We really hate it when ITV4 cuts the bit from the Mummy where they haggle for O’Connor’s life, just before he joins them.

Getting back to the documentary, can modern digital technology be trusted to give a good look? Technology gets better and better and will be good enough for everybody in 10 to 15 years time. This is what I’m guessing after listening to the experts. You also have to save some of the machinery so that in the future you can actually read the film in whatever technological format it has been shot.

Modern cameras, digital cameras are so light that you can go anywhere with them, Danny Boyle was talking about one of his films and he had 10 cameras for one section of one of his films. I didn’t know that normally film cameras only have enough film in them for 10mins of acting normally. Then they have to cut.

So imagine the actor has to get himself all worked up and in the zone then the film camera has to be reloaded. How can the actor get back to where he was emotionally after being stopped in mid flow.  It’s like having a streaker in the middle of an event, it would certainly put the vicar off his matins. So how can an actor be expected to get back to where he was.

Now with digital the actor, male or female or both, can keep on performing without fear, it’s not as if mom is knocking at the bedroom door demanding entrance, while sonny is with Cher doing the same. So digital allows uninterrupted performance.

The look and feel of the film is almost the same as Film, because digital is improving so much. As an audience we may hate the look however filmed because the film may look too trashy, or too slick, and so on. The director and the cinematographer must have loads of discussions on how to get it right, but when it IS right it really IS right.

But this now brings me on to the most important thing of all, THE WRITING, speaking as a writer, awaiting news on my 1^st screenplay for a film, I think it’s the writing which is the most important thing. If the story is weak or badly told then no amount of pretty looks will save it.

It will look like a commercial, a bad commercial. Film scripts as such are very bare, mine isn’t it gives plenty of direction. I’m hoping its idiot proof and that the director and cinematographer can just tell the actors “say the words” and if they follow their nose WE will have a success.

Perhaps I’m a little naïve, a virgin on the bed of cinema. However a writer is taking a chance that the film of his book &/or script matches what was in his head and was put on paper. In a way the writer writes the score and the director then has it in his head. And just like a conductor the director is getting actors and cinematographers and everybody else to play their instruments, their bodies if you like, so that the result is Mozart.

When it works it really works, just as Amadeus really worked, the look, the style, the music, the words, the everything. A director has to be like a general, a prostitute or a pimp, just to squeeze out the right performance.

It all starts with words on a page, then with pictures and together you have FILM.

Trash TV

just saw Dynasty remake it's funny so I've dug this piece out 

Trash Tv ©

By Michael Casey

I’m hiding in the other room while my girls watch Trash Tv, by which I mean a tv show that is so bad it makes you cringe. It might be KUWTK or anything else which has z listers in it trying to make enough to get out of the trailer park and back into an apartment, overlooking the trailer park.

You have girls, or should I say Botox pumped girls poured into swimsuits who keep on bending over to reveal their assets, front and rear, along with their gleaming painted white teeth. We all love pretty girls, otherwise the human race would just disappear. However a classic beauty of any size and combination is always far far prettier than a Trash Tv girl.

 You have men too, pumped full of iron and their designer drugs, with muscles and designer stubble galore, not to mention the latest shades, and bulging shorts, with or without shuttlecocks if you are old enough to remember Wham.

No I’m not jealous, I know a pretty girl is pretty because of her smile, because of her eyes, and not what lies between her….. As for men, girls want a bloke who’ll stick around and talk and actually listen to her. Then passion is better, it’s not fast food where you feel hungry afterwards, it’s more like a banquet.

However on Trash tv it’s all fast everything which just leads to heartburn and heart ache. Yes we all watch the rubbish tv, just to see did they really say that do they really love their reflection that much, is the high life really that high or just the arrogant self-centred people high on their egos.

It’s nice seeing nice places, just like in the James Bond movies, but what would be really nice, really really nice would be seeing him give the z listers a push, and not into a swimming pool but somewhere far far deeper, such as the Grand Canyon.  

Growing Up as a Writer

Growing Up as a Writer ©

By

Michael Casey

As usual I didn’t have an idea to talk about, then I was talking to my daughter, as all dad’s should, and she said my material, my writer was for a higher age certificate as the years had progressed. And this is true, I cannot talk about kittens all the time, and no I don’t now talk about sex kittens, though Trump does seem to be the expert. I hope all my material is still no more than 12 certificate or PG, you never need to be explicit when a metaphor will do, or a pantomime phrase.

Coroline is very good as is the Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman if I’ve spelt his name right, but that is not all he writes. The same goes with me, I follow where the muse takes me to amuse you all, and myself. I could never write to order, it would kill my spirit and my muse, and my Muse is not some naked woman a la Picasso. I just pick an idea from space and then away I go. I am an Astronaut floating through ideas in the spaces in my brain. I hope my Russian readers enjoyed the story about the Spaceman and the Archangel which was on my site a while back and may still be live on one of my sites, I have 6 altogether I think.I never know what I write till it hits the page with the first wave and then the tide of words soaks up the page or all over your screen.

I am no Canute either controlling the words and commanding them to obey me, I set the words free and hope you all enjoy them. I did of course mispronounce Canute when I was in Mr Reading’s History lesson back in 1970, my friend Big D PhD and yes he really is a PhD still reminds me of this. He also reminds me that I stopped his heart by a friendly punch the same year. But now he is a PhD and I am a penniless writer, even though I’ve reached 1.27 million words now.

So just as I’ve grown up, or sideways as Big D PhD will attest, so our likes and dislikes and tastes grow too. So I’ve had the dad experience and I’ve written a lot about it in my first few books, which should make you all laugh a lot, try 300 and Not OUT for examples. You can only write so much about this subject or that subject then you move on.

Though I do have themes. Such as the “weak” guy winning  the girl, because some girls are not just vacuous reality tv wannabes, a real man has character not just muscles or a flash car and no personality. How I ended up with a Shanghai model looking wife you’ll have to ask Almighty God himself, though nobody believes me when I said she made me laugh. Having a good brain did help too, but again nobody believes that either. However my Chinese family in Shanghai know me, I was even called 1 in 1,000,000 and no they were not all drunk. Or then again it could be that I’m cursed, you decide.

And on it goes, Life, Love and Passion and Arguing all measure for measure that ends in pleasure. Family life has all these things and I bring them to the page in a variety of ways. Its not a crime to display this or that and let you all imagine the other. I was thinking should I write a horror piece, though some of you might already be saying my writing is horrible. I did write Michael and the Chink in the Wall a while ago and I did get a lot of good reactions to that, so I never know which way I will go.

My writing is an amusement arcade, some words go up and down, others go from side to side, others over the top, and no this is not a metaphor of some kind, its all in your mind. I put words to page and when I reread from start to finish I’m always pleased that the piece is better than envisaged. I might think I’m riding on a bus, as Foster wrote in a clever piece about Life and Religion in the school magazine 44 years ago, see I remember everything. But when I finish the piece and read it back I discover I’ve been riding in a chauffeur driven car and the words have taken me further than I thought and I’ve landed in a far far better place.

So I hope the journey for all my readers all over the place in 26 plus different countries is enjoyable. I also hope that though I really am the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham that I am Ukrainian or Polish or Russian or French or Belgium or whatever nationality you are. Even English or American or a stray Canadian. Because I a Fool you can all relate too, and hopefully forgive, because I am one of you, though you may just say he’s from next door, wherever next door is.

I have to go now as Lech, Boris and Gregorgi want to bury me at night in the woods, just to see if their hounds can track me down. Otherwise they would have to blindfold their dogs, no they wouldn’t do that, they love their dogs so much. They may just blindfold me instead. This is my cartoon writing, if you are a cartoonist why not do some drawings then together we could be published in someplace far far away. Maybe I’ll get published in the Antarctic Times with cartoons by Uri from Russia, stranger things have happened, so bye for now I have to put my blindfold on, we are reenacting 50 Shades…

    

A Quiet Night In something appropriate from a few years ago

A Quiet Night In  ©

By

Michael Casey

A quiet night in, now thats’ what we all need from time to time. The wife and the girls are at Nancy’s Mum’s, Nancy’s mum does have a name but my wife knows I couldn’t possibly pronounce the Chinese, so remains Nancy’s mum. While they are there the girls will go to an upper room and do some painting with Nancy, Nancy is 17 and an A* everything, with the help of God and 2 policemen she’ll go to Oxford.

In the lower room is a Jesus evening, everybody gets fed by Nancy’s mum then there are Bible readings and “Sharing” where the friends talk about Jesus at work in their lives. Me I’m here, listening to Genesis and Genesis are singing “Jesus he knows Me.” I’m a Catholic from the nipple, with added an added inheritance of my mother’s faith when she died. Doesn’t make me special, just makes me me. “Can you hear Me, Can you see” sing Genesis, it all seems on cue, but that’s how my writing comes out. A mixture of luck and hard work and a pinch of salt or angel dust, then I’ve got a piece to put on my blog www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com and in MyTelegraph.co.uk were I am the dunce in the class.

Back to my girls, they are no doubt painting with Nancy and she is good enough to sell her paintings at a car boot sale or wherever is the place they should be sold. They are picking up some great tips, I want them to experience as many things as possible, then they may find things they can keep with them throughout their lives. My wife has no doubt had a good old gossip and is now boasting how God had helped us this week. Other families are sharing their experiences too. I did travel to Nancy’s mum’s a few weeks ago, just to show my face, but their path is not my path. So while they pray I’ve been trying to find some way of getting somebody, anybody to go to Amazon Kindle and sample my 4 wares on sale. Traffic is the word they use nowadays, if only I were a corrupt journalist, or a hacker then I’d make a few bob, or is it just a prison sentence. There would be a full stop to my works.

I have found a few folks via Linkedin and Facebook but are they interested in a fat Charles Dickens, with 1000^th of the ability of good old Charlie. Strange things do happen on the Internet, if only I were allowed to blog for a Sunday newspaper, then I’d have a profile, though my profile at the moment is more like Falstaff, full of sack and a hapworth of bread, you’ll have to find my photo and judge for yourselves, well I do hope more than 1 person IS reading this.

I did have time to look at www.rightmove.co.uk and dream of where I’d like to live IF I made it as a writer. I have only moved a mile and a half from where I was born and IF I had money I’d only move a mile and a half more. Near the woods for me and Subway the dog is my dream, though my daughters would rather have a gerbil. It is so quiet here while they are praying and painting, that does give me a picture of God as Banksy, would God use lightning bolts and rainbows to leave his art?

Well its after 10pm now so I’ll love you and leave you, Genesis are still playing on the computer, “Dreaming in my sleep”  they sing, which we all will be soon. So off to beddie bybys as my mother used to say.

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my daughter dreamt last night of me holding a big dog maybe it is time for a Subway 6 or 7 years afterwards

just to let you know

ednesday, 21 March 2018

just to let you know

i've just finished piece about toilet seat and now i'm screaming in pain. because my chest and shoulders suddenly started to hurt.

this is my real life, writing is an oasis of humour that helps balance all the pain.

so pain relief clinic really is one of dreams.

at least i should have a pain clinic referral soon.

The Toilet Seat

The Toilet Seat ©

By

Michael Casey

A Toilet Seat is a thing of beauty, it is also a thing that can provoke almost Nuclear War. Some people people may even worship them, and flushing a toilet is their religious practice as they scatter rose petals down the bog. I would say if people want to do that then so long as there is no coercion let them be, in the lavatory. All faiths should be left alone to be what they want to be, so long as they don’t drive the rest of us around the Ubend.

But all of that is an aside, but don’t mock me if I worship my toilet, I have cKd so you too could end up like me. Where was I, sprinkling  and blessing my bathroom floor with my yellow holy water. Now there’s nothing wrong with that, so long as you wipe your bathroom mat, before the mushrooms start to grow.

Now once you share your home, your pad, with girl things change. They have too. She fills your bathroom with loads of lotions and potions and your pad is filled with her pads. And now you have to observe toilet etiquette, the seat and the lid must come down, and the toilet must be flushed every time, otherwise its a big big crime.

Attila the Hun would be classed as meek and mild compared to your girl if the toilet seat is not down and the lid closed too. And no sprinkles left all over the floor either. But you are a lad and you forget, and her revenge may lead you needing to see a vet. So beware or you could get a kick down there.

But all is forgiven and you catch her unawares, and so now she is pregnant, and you have to massage her back, but you love her. Even if you have to pee in the bath or even sink because she is the queen always on the throne. And then the months pass and her waters burst all over your favourite Wonder Woman bathroom toilet mat. Wonder Woman is drenched, and it is far far worse than hair gel. Then you have no time, you have to deliver your baby on the bathroom floor, with only a bedraggled Wonder Woman there to help you.

Its a girl. You are so happy you cry, your girl thinks you are just a drip, as you place the newborn baby girl in her arms before finally dialing for the ambulance. So your new life as a dad begins, scraping pooh down the toilet before bagging the soiled nappies so they can go as far away as possible from you, thanks to the bin men. And on it goes.

Then just when your daughter is potty trained, your now wife decides she wants passion, so she is pregnant again, and it’s all your fault. You could have improvised with cling film, but now you will be a dad of two in several months time. And yes is a second daughter, so your chances  of getting into the bathroom are now less and less.

Your wife insists you can use a potty so buys you a bucket to use when she and your daughters invade your bathroom. This goes on for years and years. Little wonder you become a toilet worshiper, its such a relief when you can relieve yourself in the bathroom, down your own blessed toilet.    

But the worm turns and sprinkles everywhere, there is screaming and shouting, but dad just smiles and holds up something pink, pink paper not toilet paper. Dad has won the lottery and bought a mansion with 3 bathrooms and a spare toilet. Perfect, just as his old mother said, many mansions in Heaven. Though this one was in the posh part of Birmingham.

Then dad wakes up, he’d been sleep walking and sprinkled down his pyjama trouser’s leg. He leaked, not won the lottery at all. But at least he bathroom toilet paper was pink. 

***********