Friday Fictioneers – Cosmic Toilet
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. The photo this week was contributed by Roger Bultot.
I’ve gone for a silly, rather juvenile story this week. If you’re not familiar with “Dr Who”, all you need to know is that he travels through time in a TARDIS which is stuck looking like an old police box since its chameleon circuit jammed, and it’s bigger on the inside than the outside.
Click on the blue froggy to see this week’s other stories.

Copyright Roger Bultot
“Wow, look, that could be the TARDIS. Like off Dr Who!”
“It’s a portable toilet.”
“No, let’s go inside to see if he’s in there!”
“Who?”
“The Doctor, of course!”
“It’s a portable toilet.”
“Hmm, it is a bit of a tight squeeze. And very dark.”
“That’s because it’s a portable toilet. Hey, what’s that noise?”
“I thought since we’re in a portable toilet I’d offload that curry I had last night.”
“Oh my God. Let me out!”
“Aaaahhhh, that’s better. Hey, the door’s opening. Oy, occupied!”
Creeeaaak.
“What the Hell are you two doing in my TARDIS? And what is that smell?”
Vera Versus the Muggers
Here is my second story about Vera, the doddery old lady from “up North” (of England) who unwittingly gets herself into situations and, completely oblivious to the danger she’s in, extricates herself. The first story, “Vera Versus the Devil“, in which she outwits the Devil Himself, is here.
Vera Versus the Muggers
“Awright, Grandma. Hand over yer purse!”
“Eeh, you’re a bunch o’ strappin’ lads. Me grandson’s about your age, do you know ‘im? Nigel he’s called, probably goes to your school?”
“Um… jus’ hand over the money, Grandma.”
“Look, here’s a picture. Isn’t he lovely!”
“Hmm, he does ring a bell, um… hey, money!”
“Ooh, I can see your underpants. You need a belt. Why don’t we go belt shopping and then we can have a nice cuppa.”
“This is the fashion! Cash and cards or I slash ya!”
“Is that a Kitchen Master chopping knife? Good with carrots, that knife.”
“Um, what? Carrots?”
“Don’t I know you? Ooh, you’re Marjorie’s lad. Nathaniel.”
“It’s ‘Snake’! Jus’ hand over the money!”
“Eeh, I used to look after you when Marjorie was out shoppin’. You used to call me ‘Auntie Vera’. Did yer nappie rash ever clear up?”
“Auntie Vera, please! Not in front of my crew!”
“Who’s this? Is this your girlfriend? I’m Nathaniel’s Auntie Vera. I bathed him when he were knee-high to a grasshopper. Sorry about his tiny tinky winky, dear.”
“Oh Hell. Please, make her stop.”
“Why don’t you all come with me to bingo? They have smashing prizes and they do a lovely bit o’ Madeira cake and a tasty cuppa… ooh, where did they go? Youth today mutter mutter no respect for their elders mutter mutter I’ll be havin’ a word with Marjorie about this mutter mutter…”
Bah Humbug. Already.
The neighbouring house is lit up like a Christmas tree. I noticed it because that means my bathroom is lit up like a Christmas tree too. Well, it is Christmas, I suppose.

No, wait a minute. Or a month. It’s November. I guess these are the sorts of people who hide Easter eggs around the house in February.
Have you read “A Christmas Carol”? No, neither have I. I have, however, seen “The Muppet Christmas Carol”, which I’m sure remains faithful to the original. Though perhaps featuring more urchins and fewer frogs.
Dickens would have been proud.
I’m also visited by ghosts every Christmas. The ghosts of bank accounts past, present and future. I’ve even given them names. “Marginal”, “Shocking” and “Bankrupt”.
Never fear. I’m sure in three weeks I shall be “in the Christmas spirit” :-).
Friday Fictioneers – Vera Versus the Devil
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted as always by Rochelle. This week’s picture was contributed by FF stalwart Sandra Crook.
I’ve had a very odd and worrying week, so here’s a very odd story to go with it, best I can summon up right now.
Meet my heroine, doddery old Vera, as she sits on the beach enjoying a nice cup of tea. Feel free to apply a Northern English accent to her words :-).
To read the other stories, click on the blue froggy.

Copyright Sandra Crook
“Look at them cliffs, dearie. Lovely view!”
“I CARE NOTHING OF VIEWS! I AM COME…”
“Nice cup o’ tea?”
“… TO, um, TEAR YOUR REALM TO SHREDS…”
“And a tasty biscuit?”
“… um, AND DRAG YOU TO THE DEPTHS OF, um, yes, thank you… WAIT! I CARE NOTHING OF BISCUITS…”
“What did you say your name was, dearie?”
“Um, YOU WILL BURN, um, ‘Satan’, Ma’am.”
“Ooh, I knew some Seytons once, from over York way, are you related? Strange bunch. Nice bit o’ Madeira cake? Fresh this mornin’.”
“Um, BURN IN THE FIRES OF… oh, what’s the point.”
“Ooh, where’d he go? Odd fellow.”
Friday Fictioneers – People in Glass Houses
Here is my little story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted every week by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by C.E. Ayr.
To read the other stories, click on the blue froggy.

Copyright C.E. Ayr
“What’s that, Daddy?” asked little Sammie.
“That,” replied Daddy, “is a cattle grate for ants.”
“Geoffrey!” snapped Mummy. “It’s a drain, Sammie.”
“Ooh,” said Sammie. “Is Daddy a liar then, Mummy?”
“Yes, Sammie,” replied Mummy, “he is. That’s why I’m divorcing him.”
“Gahhhh!” yelled Daddy, eyeballs bulging. “You &&*$^%^% what?!”
“Language, Geoffrey,” said Mummy calmly.
“What’s ‘divorce’, Mummy?” asked Sammie.
“That’s when Mummy loved Daddy very much, but Daddy turned out to be a womanising asshat so she’s throwing him out,” explained Mummy.
“Ooh,” said Sammie. “Should I call Uncle Frank ‘Daddy’ from now on, then?”
“Frank from Accounting?!” yelled Daddy.
“Gahhhh!” exclaimed Mummy.
Friday Fictioneers – Those We Leave Behind
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers on this Armistice Day. Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle, and this week’s photo was kindly supplied by J. Hardy Carroll.
Click on the blue frog for this week’s other stories.

Copyright J Hardy Carroll
Cynthia watched, eyes damp, as her twin daughters scampered over to the grave. She saw them solemnly place the flowers before heading back.
They’d never met their father – he’d been deployed overseas while they were still living safe and unaware beneath her heart. This year they were old enough to place the flowers. In a few years’ time they would understand the sacrifice their father had made. They’d understand why he wasn’t there, why he’d never been there for them. Why he’d had to go.
Cynthia understood. But that didn’t make it any easier. There were some wounds even time couldn’t heal.










