Monthly Archives: October 2020

Happy Halloween – Pump(kin) Up The Volume!

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Happy Halloween, vintage mates!

Usually I make a bit of a party of it on Halloween, but alas not much of a celebration this weekend as I’m working long shifts. So I’m getting my celebration post in early today.

At least I found time to carve a pumpkin 🙂 🎃🎃

Here it is, I call it Med-Hed, a sort of Tim Burton-esque / David Bowie Blackstar mashup. And a kind of post-surgey Jack O’Lantern presented fresh from the lab!

Here are some of my carved pumpkins from previous Halloweens.

Star Wars – Yoda

Star Wars – Ewok, Chief Chirpa

Demon Black Pumpkin with party table friends

A pumpkin parade – mine is top left panel in centre of pic

Med-Hed with art filters

Med-Hed by candlelight

Anyone else carve a pumpkin this year?

Thanks for looking 🎃🎃

Keep pump(kin) up the volume!

I leave you with M.A.R.R.S.

50 Shades of Bodice-ripping Halloween Cheese

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Here be a Halloween short tale to ever so slightly chill the blood yet warm the cockles of your hearts, me dearies. Late-night fun and frolics in the bedroom? Bodice-ripping yarns and things that go bump in the night? And with generous slices of cheese!

It’s all happening in yet another audacious episode of Six Sentence Stories

And this week’s cue word is…

foundation

 

Madge knew something was terribly wrong that Halloween night when she awoke to the bedroom lights switching on of their own accord, and the Teasmaid kettle (which she and Victor had received as a wedding gift in 1978) started spluttering out a liquid which could only be described as blood, and when her collection of porcelain dolls began spinning their heads and cackling: “Die Mama, die!”, and the flowery patterns of the wallpaper Victor had put up last spring changed into grimacing spiders and slithering snakes … and she half expected the reassuring tones of Victor who was sleeping next to her to say: Go back to sleep, Madge, it’s just a bad dream, but Victor remained asleep, blissfully unaware of the drama playing out in the bedroom.

Perhaps it was all just a horrid dream, Madge supposed – a nightmare brought about no doubt by that generous wedge of Wensleydale cheese she had foolishly indulged in before bedtime, and on Halloween of all nights, and what with her overactive imagination… and so she swiftly fell back to sleep and thought no more of the nightmare.

Moments later she was woken by Victor’s fingers caressing the back of her new black nightie she had purchased in the summer sales, and his heavy and sultry breathing which he reserved for impending amorous moments – usually on anniversaries or Valentine’s Day, but rarely – if ever – on Halloween.

“Mmm, stop that, Victor… it tickles, you saucy devil you,” she purred, and she turned over to meet him, the warm tingles inside her blossoming with the promise of a slow seduction followed by a hot and full-blooded 60% Cotton 40% Polyester nightie-ripping romp… but… oh… my… how quickly Madge’s passion dissolved into horror… for next to her in bed was a man with the face of Victor – yet gaunt and deathly pale, as though he had smothered his features with her foundation; and with crude black lines like scars etched across his sunken cheeks, like he had criss-crossed himself with her eyeliner; and then the vulgar red circles ringed around his eye sockets, like he had smeared himself with her new lipstick (Ripe Red Rosy Apples™, an environmentally friendly brand she had discovered recently on Amazon Prime).

“Victor!” she yelled, “You’ve been possessed by some kind of Voodoo magic, I’m calling an exorcist!” and at which her husband awoke with a start, and the Teasmaid kettle stopped spluttering blood, and the porcelain dolls stopped spinning their heads, and the creepy designs on the wallpaper turned back to pretty flowers, and her husband said: “Victor? Who the Dickens is Victor? I’m Harold for goodness sake. You’d think after forty years of marriage you’d get my name right! Go back to sleep. You’re having a nightmare.”

“Sorry, Harold,” said Madge, “I don’t know what came over me. I knew I shouldn’t have had that slice of Wensleydale before bed on Halloween.”

***

“As writers it is our duty, nay, nay, and thrice nay, our spiritual calling, to explore every literary genre available to us, dammit, even if that means delving into erotic suburban romance.”

 

W.A.E.R. Hobbe-Spaniel,

author of: Rubbish Quotes and Rubbish Invented Genres and Other Such Rubbish Rubbish and Pulling Faces at The Flying Egg which Cried Crocodile Tears in a Thunderstorm in a Japanese Tea Cup in Timbuktu.

Editor’s note: I really wanted to write a rampant stonkingly good bodice-ripping erotic suburban romance sex jamboree, pulsating with pent-up passion and lingerie and blindfolds and riding crops and gliding throbbery notched up to eleven. However, I ended up mostly writing about cheese.

Happy Halloween 🎃🎃😄

The Pandemic and I (13) – positive cases and a new lockdown

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President Macron of France has just announced we are going into our second lockdown of this year.

It’s been 4 long months since my last ‘Covid’ report in June of this year when I wrote about how I was looking forward to a week off work and my first socially-distanced coffee at a café terrace following the lifting of national lockdown measures.

As a reminder, I work in a multi-disciplinary team at a private French medical retirement home for 80+ elderly people with a range of pathologies.

But back to the coffee on the terrace in June, and dare I say ‘happier times’… this was the pic back then:

Infection, hospital admission and death rate figures were down in June, and the holiday season was beginning in earnest. And for me back then at work, no positive cases for the residents or staff. Indeed, throughout all of my pandemic posts to that point, I was both proud and relieved to report no cases where I work.

And then after June? The figures in France continued to drop, and the holiday season went into full swing in the heavily touristic region I live in. And still, no cases at work.

Until now.

I’m sorry to report that since last week we now have 7 positive cases of Covid-19 among our current residents. No staff confirmed positive – we were tested the week prior and came back negative, but we still has to take a retest in light of the confirmation of cases.

I’m happy to report all staff again tested negative. To say I was anxious for myself and my colleagues is an understatement. Now I can only hope we stay virus free and offer the best for our residents who are sick, and keep the healthy ones healthy.

Two of the confirmed cases are residents on my unit. Working with these residents prior to their Covid state I was wearing my normal protective equipment of uniform, mask and gloves.

Like this:

Since last week I have been working like this:

Forgive me my selfies. I’m not a ‘selfie person’ and these are only to illustrate what a typical health care worker might have to do to protect themselves and others in a clinical environment with Covid cases.

Question: if all staff were tested the week before the discovery of Covid cases, and then retested the same week – and both time frame results came back negative, then who brought the infection in? Visitors… for who visiting frequencies and times had been increased over the latter part of summer? Outside agencies such as doctors, drug deliveries, maintenance, oxygen, medical equipment and food deliveries? Meh. Who can say.

My nostrils were smarting for ages when the doctor took my tests. A nose swab is no fun. Then there is the soreness to face and ears from having to wear the upgraded masks issued recently. And the heat and discomfort of having to wear all that protective clothing. But you know, I’ll happily put up with all of that if it means no more residents are infected and no staff return positive. To be honest, it’s been somewhat a miracle we’ve gone all year without a case up to now – like angels were looking down on us; or Rhiannon the Celtic Goddess was our protector; or Superman, Wonder Woman, Judge Anderson and Sister Night each had our backs …

One of the themes of my pandemic posts is to stay upbeat. So even if I one day soon catch our dear Covid-19 (and that likelihood is now a one-step-closer risk than ever it was before) you can be sure your humble editor will remain as chirpy as chirpy can be as he scrambles to stay alive and kicking.
Pandemic humour is not so different than gallows humour, non?

Let us go to a quick commercial break to see how your TVTA editor is doing during the pandemic…

TVTA editor current health status VS anticipated worst case scenario health status as seen in this handy flow picture chart!

Chart N°01

TVTA editor health status – as seen in September 2020 in a photoshoot for the Spira/Ford art project. Chart shows Ford healthy, relatively fit, and able to look at picture books and concentrate for short periods; can answer simple questions.

CHART N°02

Chart shows Ford haunted by Halloween-inspired hallucinations, attention span impaired by delusions of apocalyptic holocaust survival. Has pair of fake scissors sticking from head.

CHART N°03

Chart shows Ford and art-partner-in-crime Spira holding  a conference call to discuss their latest project; and proving once again that socially-distanced art collaborations can be undertaken successfully in a pandemic situation. Ford is in good spirits, though looking pale and more dishevelled than normal. Spira, too, is not looking his usual self… best get some medical attention, mate! PS – an email coming your way soon.

CHART N°4

Chart shows Ford in state of near death and unable to work efficiently and successfully as editor of TVTA [many would argue this has always been the case since TVTA began]. All editorial duties handed over to office cat Wooof – who himself is showing symptoms but bravely cat-soldiering on. Mrs Coldkettle the TVTA tea lady appointed as new chairperson of the board, and immediately orders new tea urn and designates scanning room 2 as a canteen for light refreshments.

CHART N°5

Chart shows Ford and now Wooof in advanced state of death and unable to work. Mrs Coldkettle becomes new editor of TVTA and announces the site will become a part pop-culture part cooking blog.

CHART N°6

Chart shows Ford and Wooof reanimated by means of advances in science and medical technology involving time travel, bowls of spaghetti, French cheese, tea and chocolate biscuits. Mrs Coldkettle hails their cure as a miracle of vintage advertising and announces the pair will soon be able to resume their TVTA duties [once replacement organs, skin and fur etc has been sourced]. Great news for TVTA’s vintage mates everywhere!!.

I’m LOL-ing now, yes, but later? Better to have LOL-ed and lost than not LOL-ed at all?
Non?

The temperature right here right now:

  • Last week – France extended its curfews as cases surged – 47 departments were under orders to stay at home between 9pm and 6am for six weeks because of rapid spreading of the virus across the country. These curfews affected 46 million people: two-thirds of the French population.
  • Tonight, 20 heures, France – President Macron announces a national lockdown for the duration of one month.
  • The second wave is not coming – it’s already here.
  • And still my next-door neighbour is insisting the entire thing is a hoax and a nefarious plan by world governments to control the population.
  • It’s a mad world…

Tang MAD offer. 1997.

  • Yes, it’s a mad world and 2020 has been one heck of a long and ever-changing year.
  • I hope all of you stay safe and healthy out there, and can navigate successfully through these extraordinary times we live in.
  • A final word… and a new feature here at TVTA which Wooof is calling “TVTA Thinks”
TVTA Thinks:

Disclaimer. This report is meant to offer an overview of the fluid impact upon a care worker in the French medical system. No names of any persons or institutions are given, and the reportage here concerns decisions made at a French national level which is available to the public at any time. No breach of confidentiality or professional workplace standards is made or implied. Any health advice stated here is exactly the same as that given by the World Health Organization public advice pages 

Skeleton images by Biodicac and Revealing Paws. Telephone images from Dawn of the Dead and Halloween.

October horror shorts: The Boutique for Lost Souls

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I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story, poem or article constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Boutique

 

Editor’s note: I’m placing my note this week up front instead of at the end. This is so I can thank in advance our wonderful word hostess Denise for allowing me the honour of choosing this week’s cue word (thank you so much, D, joy 😁). The word I have chosen is boutique – I love how sweetly it rolls off the tongue. A French word – but one used in the English language.

My entry for boutique goes down a somewhat typical route for me: a dark and ghostly tale, but one I think is ever so tender and loving. The Boutique for Lost Souls is a tale about ghosts and running and dancing and falling in love. It’s origins are in a story I was once working on about a secret shop in which the visiting customers had to shrink to the size of a mouse before entering. It was loosely inspired by tales such as Tom Thumb, Thumbelina, and The Borrowers. The Boutique for Lost Souls has ended up a much different beast, though it still explores the theme of being or becoming small. And so here I present to you two versions of it: the long version, and the short version.

Enjoy.

Ford 🙂

The Boutique for Lost Souls (long version)

I once was a dancer who learned how to run, to run from a monster who was after my blood, and each time I turned he was one pace closer, and I felt his vile breath like fingers on my back, as I ran and ran until I thought I might collapse, on and on, and on, the monster always there, bigger than I, taller, wicked and agile, with spinning discs of barbarous eyes, with cutlas teeth and grotesque smile, a tongue versed in spells and ancient rhymes – it was all I could do but run for my life, like a dog with its tail set alight.

And at last, near-destroyed, my lungs seething with fire, I came to a town at the end of the world, and in it a boutique with windows aglow – a hideout I prayed might save my soul; a shelter, a safe house, a temple for the pursued – and so I pushed open the door and asked for refuge.

And inside was a woman who smoked a cigar, and her eyes brimmed with wisdom, perception and guile, and she said to me: “You’ll be safe here in my little boutique, if you hide somewhere good and don’t make a peep!”

And I saw many objects of antiquity and art: instruments and barometers, timepieces and charts; optical lenses for near and far; microscopes for bugs, telescopes for stars; violins and cellos, pianos and harps; paintings and drawings, books and cards; and a music box which when opened by the woman, held a tiny ballerina spinning to Swan Lake, and I – a dancer alike – beheld this twirling figure with my lovestruck eyes, as the woman urged me on: “Hurry up and join her, there isn’t much time!”

And I duly obliged, and scampered inside, not questioning how I shrank to such a small size, as the woman closed the lid and stepped aside, and puffed on her cigar as the beast stormed inside her little boutique at the end of the world, and how he hollered and bellowed and boomed and yelled: “Where is that fool dancer, tell me, old crone, or I’ll break your boutique into thousands of pieces, and then one by one your snappity-snap bones!”

And the woman pointed a finger to a door which said: LAST EXIT FOR FOOLS, and there the beast fled into a boundless chase of the phantom of a dancer which I once was – and may he chase my steadfast ghost as the fool master of the hunt he will always be – while I, safe forevermore in the music box, with my ballerina soulmate dancing at my side, ballerina, ballerina, O angels did you see her, how she mended my heart when it was broken in two, and a pirouette later, said: “My beautiful dancer, I so love you.”

***

The Boutique for Lost Souls (short version)

“Take heart if you are running from an ancient curse

For here is a love story set in verse

About monsters and ghosts and a charming boutique

And how love and dancing may set you free

Do not despair you will find that place

Of sanctuary and a loving soulmate.”

***

Godzilla vs King Ghidorah – 1991 movie programme

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Cover. Godzilla VS. King Ghidorah 1991 Movie Program. Japan.

This Japanese movie programme for the 1991 film Godzilla vs King Ghidorah is a most welcome addition to the TVTA archives. The attractive programme features stills and background on the production of the Kazuki Ōmori / Toho Studios film, as well as advertising for some of the cool toys and merchandise related to the release.

Enjoy the selected scans 🙂

Toys and merchandise 

Godzilla VS. King Ghidorah toys by Bandai.

Godzilla VS. King Ghidorah toys by Bandai.

Encyclopedia of Godzilla.

Godzilla 1992 Calendar.

The Art of Godzilla.

Max Factory Custom Craft Godzilla models.

Advert from Godzilla VS. King Ghidorah 1991 Movie Program. Japan.

Detail from rear cover of programme.

Thanks for looking 🙂 More Godzilla here

October horror shorts: Diary of a Weekend Vampire

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I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story, article or poem constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Field

 

warning: contains vampire lust

Diary of a Weekend Vampire

I

Suzy trimmed my hair on Monday after work when it was dark
(I’ve promised her a book of poems and picnic in the park)
She cut her index finger on the edge of her scissors
And I gave a little snigger as I watched her in the mirror
Run into the kitchen searching for Elastoplast
And it got me set to thinking that nothing ever lasts
And roses that are red to her to me always turn black.

II

On Tuesday I was stuck in traffic and very late for work
Some scoundrel driver cut me up and made me go berserk
I fantasised about his neck and drinking road rage blood
Then at the perfect moment as he was just about to turn
I’d slash an artery here or there and leave him for the worms
Rotting in a field in the English countryside
Good for him I wasn’t on duty and only work part-time.

III

On Wednesday Alicia from accounts did my Tarot cards
She said she learnt them from a man who was a Russian Tsar
I played her up and drew for fun ol’ Death and The Hanged Man
And she rattled on ‘bout new beginnings and being the best you can
How my chakras needed aligning and my aura looked like mud
And all the while I was thinking I’d like to suck her blood
But Wednesday’s only half the week and I’m meant to be good.

IV

Thursday after work I volunteered at the skate park
The kids there think I’m very cool and call me Mrs Sharp
Or Northern Vamp in Aviators, Vans and skinny jeans
With links to Bauhaus, SoM and Siouxsie And the Banshees,
And I tell ’em go listen to the Cure’s Carnage Visors
While flashing them my fingernails and sexy incisors
Yeah, I know it’s cool to be a kid – as I once was before being bit.

V

Thank Fuck It’s Friday for I was horny as hell
Was dress-down-day at work and Alicia sure looked swell:
Alicia in black stockings and an off-the-shoulder number
And thoughts of gorging on her neck stirred me from my slumber
And after knocking off at four I met her in the pub
Should never mix my Gin and Tonic with my colleagues’ blood
Coz around midnight later on, Alicia was supped up.

VI

Saturday I woke up late with an epic hangover
Virgin blood and toasted bread, a nice refreshing shower
Then at the discotheque that night I spied my vamps-to-be
Gave invitations to my castle overlooking the sea:
A beauty queen, a nurse from Leeds, a cosplay Wolverine
Sacred rites, blood and lust all night… yes Saturday is the best!
Then precious sleep in ancient caskets, for Sunday is our day of rest.

***

***

***

***

Dedicated to weekend vampires the world over.

Poem and art card by Ford.

Editor’s note: disclosure – normally my Six Sentence Stories are written on demand subject to inspiration found from the weekly cue word. However, my poem Diary of a Weekend Vampire has been sitting in the Six Sentence Story reception area for more than a month, its impatient author waiting for our wonderful word mistress D to unleash a cue word applicable to my, erm, vampire urges, and all fine and dandy and in time for Halloween 😁 🎃

But time passed, and the cue words wouldn’t marry the spirit of my vampiric tale, and before I knew it we were almost halfway through October. Could I risk waiting for the following week’s cue word? Or worse, risk it with the last date in October? Not on your holy water! It had to be this week’s Six Sentence Story, or my protagonist lady vamp Mrs Sharp might be consigned to the perils of next October.

So, this Sunday, came the announcement of the cue word… and it was… wait for it, hah, oh, wait, what… Field. Umm?!? How do I fit part-time vampire lust into a field? Or a field into part-time vampire lust? It seemed our fearless word mistress D had delivered to your humble editor a deadly word-blow – akin to a stake through the heart at midnight while the coffin was still warm.

What could I do? Who could I turn to? Nothing at my Writing & Bakery School classes (micro stories while making tarts) had prepared me for this; nor were there any chapters devoted to my dilemma in the 1001 Ways To Get Your Sorry Ass Out Of Writing Trouble which Wooof bought me last Christmas; and my clandestine seances with the spirits of Edgar Allan Poe, Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker (The Three Dead Literary Spooks and a Rubbish Living Writer Society) garnered no advice nor wisdom other than: “Don’t give up the day job, mate, and can you get us any laudanum?”.

Only one thing for it… the word field simply had to fit! Somewhere, anywhere, even if it didn’t make sense! Well, luckily it did, in a way. And you know, on reflection, the word field ended up stamping itself with some authority inside the swaggering sentence: “Rotting in a field in the English countryside”. I really like that line. It also sums up Brexit quite nicely. Fuck you, Brexit.

I’m glad now that it was field as the cue word; and this is the beauty of Six Sentence Stories – you have to work with what is given, and this is not a constraint really but a liberation. And I love it. And I love our word chooser D for taking time each week to challenge us all ♥. If you enjoy writing, then come on over to Six Sentence Stories and try your craft. We’re a lovely bunch here, and we don’t bite (apart from the part-time vampires among us 😉)

SomEone  eLse’S  countRy,  SomEone eLSe’s CriME

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Jacques Richez. Colour trap.

I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story, poem or article constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Resistance

 

SomEone   eLse’S   countRy,   SomEone   eLSe’s   CriME

Proudman L. had never murdered a soul in his life, nor tried to, nor threatened to… okay, sure, beaten a few up, yes, plenty: a lousy drug dealer once, a filthy pimp, a mouthy biker, his ex-boss (three ex-bosses to be exact), a gas station clerk, four liquor store owners, four mechanics, a dozen or so doormen at various bars, a professional hockey player, a scientologist, numerous racists and queer-bashers, and his own father – that drunken, sick bastard.

And these were just the ones he remembered.

Proudman wasn’t proud of what he had done with his fists over the years, but neither was he ashamed; he felt grounded in his belief that sometimes people got what was coming to them – and standing at six feet ten inches tall, and broad enough to take up two seats on a bus, Proudman usually gave what was deserved with little resistance.

So what was coming for him?

What had he done so bad to deserve being locked up in a police cell in a country he had never even visited before?

For sure it wasn’t because he tried to murder some people called Henry S. and Iris S. – hell, no, above all things, and let’s be brutal here… things right now were as crazy as the craziness in crazyland on a crazy night, Proudman was certain he was no murderer.

***

Editor’s note: the story SomEone eLse’S countRy, SomEone eLSe’s CriME is an extract from my WIP gothic ghost novel, and features the character Proudman L. from Vancouver, Canada, who awakes one morning to find himself in a jail in London, England, accused of attempted double murder.

Thank you for breaking out of chokey with us 🙂