Doing Nothing

I was inspired to get all poetical about Professor Gillian Leng, when I developed a bit of an empathetic itch after reading all about her inspirational NHS savings’ plan (SkyNews, June 30, 2018):  

‘Doing nothing’
is ‘best.’
Promising zilch
is fine.
Talking with May
is fair.

It’s fair to
chop
an op
or two.

It’s fine to
withdraw
a grommet.

It’s best to let the old man  s  n  o  r  e ……
And fair for the kid’s
with their tonsils so sore.

It’s best for the breast –
it’s okay to dr
o
o
p

It’s fine to be Gillian,
who scans well with Giles;
and it’s cheap to do ‘nothing’ –
when she ends up with piles!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, June 28th 2018

Source article: https://www.msn.com/en-gb/news/uknews/nhs-may-cut-back-on-unnecessary-ops-to-save-cash/ar-AAzmDtQ?ocid=spartanntp

Wonky Perfection

My right brow soars
As the left falls flat
deflated.

My left eye winks
Whilst its partner stares
immobile.

My right lip sinks
As the left-twin gloats
ecstatic.
My left jowl sags
Whilst its sibling lifts
delighted.
My shoulder shrugs and swipes my right ear,
As my hat
fuzzes and
free-falls
to my

left.

 

Cocky.

Wonky.

Assured.

Perfect.


Copyright of text and photography owned by Jay Cool, June 2018

Day 4.2: Booted out of Whittington by Ancestor Dick!

Richard Whittington, courtesy of Wikipedia.org (Creative Commons)

Start, stutter, stall ….. STOP!

And herein lies the problem. I left you on the B5009, claiming that my Dacia Sandero was taking its Cool occupants from Queen’s Head to Chirk. I left you on a wave of excitement, as you thought I was about to take you for a Cool perspective viewing of a world-famous aqueduct. Well, with a view to pacifying my about-to-be-very-disgruntled audience, here is the view:

‘Chirk aqueduct & viaduct’ by Peter Craine
Creative Commons

The problem?

As Peter Craine himself states: ‘You can never have too many pictures of a dog on an aqueduct, next to a viaduct.’ So this is not really a problem as such, and I’m sure that the dog is, or was, very friendly. But, to my knowledge, this dog is not one of my ancestors (correct me, if you must, cousin Darwin!) and, more to the point, this dog is not me! Neither is my name Peter Craine. By now, you are very likely thinking that I am a cheat – that I’ve never actually been anywhere beyond the borders of my current abode in Suffolk.

You are right.

And you are wrong.

I am posting Peter Craine’s photograph on a pre-emptive basis. That is to say that: Here is the view that I will undoubtedly see when my Dacia Sandero decides to take me to my ultimate destination. But, in the meantime, l am slave to the whims of the aforesaid Dacia.

My Dacia stutters and stumbles around a bend on the B5009, and I’m thinking about Chirk, when …..

STOP!

‘Why are we stopping, Mum? Is this Chirk?’

‘Er … not exactly. But I’m just popping out to take a quick look at this splendid invitation to the high life! You coming? No? Okay, won’t be a minute! Back in a jiffy!’

And with that, I leap out of my prison, and take off on a run ….

I can’t believe this place – it’s the stuff of fairytales. My fairytale. Jay Cool’s fairytale. It was built here on this spot, around this bend, just for me. It’s mine. All mine.


I leap around, snapping away, and only just avoiding stepping back into the moat. And think it’s just a bit too much that some opportunistic land-grabber, has constructed a commoner’s dwelling, right inside my property. But, putting that thought out of my mind, I try to focus. There’s an awful lot of water here. It glistens and it tempts. I can’t swim, so I’m not going to jump right on in. But there’s a rather attractive looking and gigantic barrel of what surely must be Aspall’s cider right in front of me:


And, the slightly more realistic option of a very conveniently-placed pub over the road:
In fact, it’s so convenient, it’s literally a road away from my doorstep!
I consider contending with the traffic lights and attempting a modern-day crossing of my moat:


But I’m thwarted by a safety barrier. My horse will just have to jump it!



‘Lacy in Red Dress’ courtesy of deviantart.com

 

A premonition makes an appearance in my small brain. It reminds me that I am, in some future life, a mother. This is shocking enough. But then things turn sinister and the premonition goes AWOL:
‘YOU ARE A MOTHER! IT IS APRIL 2018. AND TWO OF YOUR SPROGS AND A HUBBY ARE WAITING FOR YOU IN A FINE SPECIMEN OF A DACIA SANDERO!’

I get the hint and sludge back to my duties. But .. the Dacia’s empty. My prisoners have escaped. I get back on my fine stallion (or perhaps it’s a mare?) and prepare for the hunt. My hunting grounds are pretty cool. I am the Lady of … Lady of ….

?



Oh yes, if the information board is anything to go by, then it seems that we are in Whittington.

Whittington?

Whittington?

The Whittington?

Realisation dawns, and I look over my dominions with a new-found pride. Whittington Castle, you see, was the home of a number of my ancestors, as Ancestry.com reveals. I’m keen to relate to you the story in full, but you will need to read my associated blog ‘From the Myddle, to Everywhere and Back Again’ for that pleasure. In the meantime, here is a summary:
‘William the Conqueror’ courtesy of Wikipedia.org (Creative Commons)

William the Conqueror, by 28th Great Grandfather, stole lots of land from the Saxons and granted it to his family and friends in true Cool style. Roger de Montgomery, a loyal follower, and my step-fourth-great-grandfather-of-my-twenty-third Great Grandfather, proceeded to build a motte and bailey castle at Whittington.

Payn Peverel, it is speculated, adopted the illegitimate son of William the Conqueror, who became known as William Peverel (half-brother of one my Great-Something-Uncles!) William Peverel gifted Whittington Castle to his niece, Melette (who may or may not have been his blood relative!) . Regardless, then Melette married Guarin de Metz Warine, and they had a son – Fulk I Fitz Warine.

Now, this Fulk I was none other than my 24th Great Grandfather. He had a son, Fulk II Fitz Warine, my 23rd Great Grandfather.

Arms of Fitz Warine, courtesy of Wikipedia.com (Creative Commons)



Rather coincidentally, Fulk II Fitz Warine, went to live with another of my 23rd Great Grandfathers – Sir Josce de Dynan. Sir Josce taught Fulk II how to be a Knight. Fulk II returned the favour by defending Sir Josce in a tiff Sir Josce had with a neighbour, Sir Gilbert de Lacy (of Ludlow Castle). Fulk II was suitably rewarded by a marriage to Sir Josce’s daughter, Hawyse de Dynan (my 23rd Great Grandmother). Fulk II was the best of friends with my 25th Great Grandfather, King Henry II.

Fulk II and Hawyse produced a son – Fulk III Fitz Warine (my 22nd Great Grandfather).

Fulk III was raised in court, alongside Henry II’s son, Prince John. This was not a happy union of personalities. But, the story of Fulk III and Prince John can wait awhile. The real point is that Fulk III went on to marry Maud le Vavasour, wealthy widow of Lancastrian baron, Theobold Walter – making Maud my 22nd Great Grandmother.

Fulk III and Maud, after a few misadventures, ended up by reasserting their claim to Whittinghton Castle.

And at the end of this very long short summary of my ancestral connections. Here I am, Jay Cool – ready to put my arthritic foot back in the door.

But the door’s shut. A wedding is taking place and the couple seem to believe that they’ve paid for the right to keep tourists out of their camera shots. Everywhere I try to place my foot, I am barred. And, when I sneak around, to find a back route through the front door, I am greeted with this:





I get the message. Fulk III’s efforts to reclaim his castle for his descendants were all in vain. No-one knows who I am. I am just one of many. And there are so many of the many, that no-ones bothered to find out who all Fulk’s descendants are. No ‘Heir Hunters’ are looking out for us, or even just for me. What does it take around here to get noticed. A day in the stocks perhaps?

I’m out. Back to the Dacia. And the Sprogs? My lost Sprogs? Did you find them? I hear you ask. Well, no. No, I didn’t find them because, if truth be told, I got a little distracted again – distracted by the spirits. But, it’s no matter. The Sprogs have returned, complete with Hubby. Angry faces glare at me from the steamed-up windows of my Dacia.

‘Mum, we’ve been looking for you everywhere! Where have you been? Dad wants to get to Chirk before midnight! Come on! Get in!’

I feel the weight of a boot up my backside (1).

Start, stutter, stall …..

I take one last look back at …

It’s time.

Time to move on.

P.S. In case you are wondering how on Earth, Payn Peverel, came to own a castle built by Roger de Montgomery, then I haven’t got the foggiest clue! So, if you are wiser than myself (highly likely), please write a message in response to my blog post. Any hints appreciated!

Copyright of text and photographs owned by Jay Cool, June 2018


References:

(1) ‘Cousin Dick?’ refers to the legendary Dick Whittington. Dick had no known direct descendants but, like myself, he boasts the Fulk Fitz Warines in his family tree. Indeed, this son of a blacksmith from Newnes (near Ellesmere) married Alice Fitz Warine; henceforth, I claim Dick as a true Cool cousin! And no (unless it was ginger), I am not related to Dick’s rat-catcher!

Sources: Image of Princess in Red Dress, labelled Creative Commons,  from deviantart.com

Reading materials:

‘The A-Z of Curious Shropshire: Strange Stories of Mysteries, Crimes and Eccentrics’ by John Shipley (The History Press, 2017)

‘Shropshire Legends & People’ by Tim Carrington (Shropshire Promotions, undated)

Websites:   Ancestry.com

Day 4.1: Queen’s Head – Wig to Water!

Game’s up!
wikispaces.com
The Game being up in Shrewsbury, we spend a temporary retirement in our ancestral home – Great Auntie Louie’s late abode, The Red Lion Inn in Myddle, Shropshire. And with Auntie Louie’s spirit having worked wonders, we are up and ready to be off again. Auntie Louie, by all accounts, always did rejuvenate the locals, and the visitors, with a few good pints of local ale. And, in my case, an Aspall’s cider hangover has much the same effect.
Hubby’s got a plan. Apparently, we are heading off to Chirk, home to a castle built by Edward I, 700 years ago. Edward I, for those not in the know, is none other than my 23rd Great Grandfather!

 

 

One of Jay Cool’s handsome ginger-bearded ancestors,
a likely suspect in her investigation to identify
 the carrier of the gene responsible for the red-grey hair
 currently sprouting out of the mole on her chin!
Although my priority really ought to be to reclaim my inheritance, the thing that really gets me excited is the prospect of viewing the aqueduct (Does anyone know anything at all about aqueducts? It’s been a long time since I studied O’ Level Geography!).
Start, stutter, stall, stop. Start, stutter, stall, stop.
Okay, so I’m attempting to reach my destination in a Dacia Sandero, with a 900 cc engine, laden down by a cargo of walking boots and sprogs. But, anything’s possible!
Chirk – here we come!
I’m taking that last exclamatory back, withdrawing it so to speak, because the Dacia has taken a bit of detour, and is now parking up next to an enticing-looking pub called the ‘Queen’s Head’.
A cider lover’s pit stop!
I can see the attraction for my Dacia – the pub, judging by it’s name, is clearly anticipating my imminent arrival (Anne Boleyn being none other than my third-cousin-fourteen-times removed and Catherine Howard being my third-cousin-eighteen-times removed!). And my deluded Dacia (poor wee thing) clearly is under the impression it will be given the red-carpet treatment for its services in delivering me up to the block.
A Creative Commons image available from Bing
But, Hubby, unlike the Dacia, has ideas below his status as my consort. With the sprogs in tow, complaining about hunger pangs and discussing the probable cost of pork scratchings, crisps and lemonade, Hubby nips over the road, takes flight, and soars off down the Montgomery Canal’s towpath.
Out of respect for my aching neck with it’s inherited spondylitis, I give in to family-peer pressure, and say ‘farewell’ to the pub. And, thanks to a very inconveniently-placed-for-a-cranky-neck-tourist-information board, I discover that I am now on location at Acton Locks.
I’d like to tell you more about the writings on this board, but – it’s all little hazy!
And the dull-cloudy April morning brightens up at the sight of a brightly-painted Rosie & Jim style, house boat. Could it’s inhabitants be none other than my reincarnated boat-people ancestors?
A remember-us moment from my travelling ancestors!
My Motorola comes out and I snap away, making feeble attempts to appear like I am not really an irritating and extremely nosy tourist by taking a few token shots of the canals’ non-human travellers.
‘Mum, why are you taking a photo of a dead frog? That’s not a very nice thing to do is it?’
Fortunately, neither sprog has fallen victim to teachings about ethics – as yet – so I continue to act on my convictions. And, as you can see, the resulting pic is well worth the effort:
A dead frog taking it’s last float in a Shropshire Union Canal!
In the meantime, my human ancestors wave a ghostly goodbye as they disappear around a meander, as do my living ancestors who – fed up with waiting for me – jaunt on ahead up the towpath. My Motorola takes on its own separate identity, forcing me to make many, many stops to shoot away at my surroundings. And it really would be selfish not to share these moments with you, so here goes:
A gaggle of ladies, the one’s responsible for stealing Jay Cool’s
wig collection – begging for mercy!
Off with their heads! (Why should I suffer alone?)
The same gaggle of ladies, after giving up their fight for survival!
A pair of fascinating tree trunks!
Nanna Joan Cool’s hat pins making a last stand!
(Read http://backtomyddle.blogspot.com/2018/02/bone-chin.html)
Swans?
Jay Cool’s mole hairs comparing split
ends with each other!
A selection of peculiar protrusions!
Spot the dandelion!
Did I walk the length of this canal trail? No!
Stowaway Cool sprogs!
Anyone out there in need a boat-sitting family?

Now that I am totally in love with Acton Locks, with all its pins and protrusions, this seems an opportune moment to pull in a few favours. One of more of my ancestors must have given you a helping hand with the loading and lugging of your nineteenth-century limestone and coal cargoes, and I really fancy a canal boat holiday!

Anybody out there willing to lend the Cool family a houseboat?

In return, I will write a ‘viral’ blog about the experience, and you will be inundated with millionaires offering you huge sums of dosh for your accommodation!

Sounds like a good exchange?

 

See, the de-wigged Jay Cool does look quite ‘normal’ and trustworthy (ish)!

 

Tweet JayCool@JayBangCool, and we’ll do a deal!

But first, I realise that it’s essential to check out whether Aspall’s cider tastes as good at the Queen’s Head as it does at The Red Lion, and proceed to a logical conclusion for this particular pit stop. (It’s okay, Mum – they don’t have mango cider by the barrel here – that’s back in Suffolk, at The Brewery Tap! And, anyway, today’s budget will only stretch to a half-pint! And, yes, the sprogs are safe – why else do you think I have a Hubby, if not to make use of of his Chaffeuring skills? Also, as said previously, the Dacia drives itself! Okay, so perhaps I’m not saying much to reassure you!) Time to get the drinks in.

‘Half an Aspall’s please? And three Pepsi Cola’s!’

Hubby?

‘Hubby, you did say you wanted a Pepsi didn’t you? Hubby?’

Against all probability, Hubby hasn’t vanished. I find him tucked away in a snug, hiding from our squabbling sprogs, and scrutinising an Ordnance Survey map. Will the Dacia really make it another fourteen miles to Chirk? At this point, the reader will be wondering how we made it all the way from Suffolk to Shropshire, if we can’t get from Myddle to Chirk. But, us Cools are in touch with our ancestors. We can slip in and out of different time zones and alternative realities within a moment. And, this Dacia Sandero really is special. It might not be much of a road runner, but it can give Harry Potter’s Nimbus 2000 a flight for its money! But, back to the here and now.

Aspall’s.

Dacia Sandero.

B5009.

Start, stutter, stall ….. STOP!

 

Copyright of text and photographs owned by Jay Cool, June 2018

Other sources: 

The image of Edward I is labelled Creative Commons and available on Bing.

The ‘executioner’s block’ is Creative Commons http://magicalrealism.wikispaces.com/Execution

Find out more about the excellent Queen’s Head pub at https://www.the-queens-head-oswestry.co.uk/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Stand

 

Golden locks matted and mounted upon

an upturned tripod.
Remnants of a life lived, displaying itself on the belly of a
monster desperate for survival, desperate for another chance at
living, dancing, twirling – desperate for just one more
spin.
Just one
more
stand.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, June 2018

Sagging Rear

Rear hanging in the balance, sagging through the split
panels of a garden perch
stuck,
unliftable,
wedged in and
permanently
planted and
fused into
an in-law’s trunk.

A family tree conjoined –
sprouting.


Copyright of text & photography owned by Jay Cool,
June 2018

Mind the Gap

White-gloved, a flower head beckons and directs
me towards the     gap.
I look and I
don’t mind the
gap
don’t mind being directed, bossed
at, waved over, and persuaded by
the delicate, by the fragile, by a neck
condemned
by one sweep of a gentle breeze
to follow, to fall-flow, and to bleed

down

the

gap.

Copyright of text and photography owned by Jay Cool, June 2018

Rooted

Deprived of roots,
she lets her hair loose,
shakes it down over roofs and
doorways to
other people’s mocked-up hovels.
Homes without foundations,
plastic walls floating – on
clogged-up clay.
Chalked-up purples and
felt-tipped reds clamour for a hold,
reaching up to tug down
on strands of twisted cells –
on tangled death –
wanting, needing, willing
her
in.
Rooted, buried – in
clay.
.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, June 2018

 

Hot Heather

Purple.
A girl named Heather.
A fine lady, dressed in purple silk, skirts stretched over the wire frame of a lampshade.
A fit lady, lit from within.
Fit for one’s bottom, and fit for display, but not
fit for its purpose.
The fine-fit lady, wired up and lit up, is hot.
Hot, she
bursts into flames.
Purple flames – lit up, on
Scottish moor and mountain
A lady in season.
Scorched.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, June 2018
(Inspired by memories of childhood years living in Aberdeen, Scotland, and by a small garden in Suffolk!)
Heather, courtesy of Pixabay.com

The Laughing Barnacles

An inspirational garden scene!
Renewed by
seaweed cloak, I gallop out from
inland home,
determined and brave, and
seeking to find,
the coast,
the home of my barnacle ancestors, and
my old friend, my fellow
Salopian –
Darwin.
But, I’m held back, my path barred by
a washing line, and
no feet,
no mare to mount, and
no means
to run.
Footless, I    f l o a t …
And my barnacles, safe –
secure in their rocky stuck-ness –
footed –
laugh!
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, June 2018