December Rain

I’ve been enjoying a writing course called Writing for Young Readers, on the Coursera platform. One of the exercises was to write a 500 word autobiographical vignette, about something that happened when you were young – this brought back so many memories!

Here it is; December Rain.

The girl emerged onto the top of the plane steps, that first holiday from school, and the heat hit her with a flatiron.

Wow! she thought – have I been turned into an English person already, all red and sweaty?

December weather was supposed to be cool and pleasant, just right for going on safari. The bush, newly green from the October rains, should be full of the whole animal kingdom showing off their new babies – her favourite time of year.

She walked over the tarmac to the large tin shed that was the airport building, admiring the way her uniform shoes sank a little into the melting blackness with each footstep, then released with a tiny pucker. She could see her Dad standing at the open doorway, as close as he could get to the tarmac without breaking the rules, waiting for her. His favourite purple and grey checked shirt was pulled out of his shorts, dark circles of sweat under his armpits. Thank god, he’s hot too! Behind him, half-hidden in the shade, was her Mum, waving.

She ran the last few steps, and they hugged so hard it was like they were one person thick, the girl in the middle. When they let go, she slipped her hands into theirs. Her horrid white English skin was hidden inside her Dad’s huge, freckly grasp, and her Mum’s hand fitted hers exactly. They waited until the luggage handlers brought out her case, then walked together round the shady side of the building to the car, still holding hands.

The touch of the car seat on her back made her sweat rivers. She kicked off her shoes, then wound down the window and leaned forward to let the wind cool her. Her Dad was sticking his elbow out of his window so the material of his sleeve bellied full, funnelling the cooler air over his chest.

“The rains haven’t come yet!” he said, plucking the shirt material away from his body. “Bloody ridiculous heat, for December! No safari until it breaks, I’m afraid.”

She must have made a noise, because her Mum reached back and squeezed her knee.

“Don’t worry, pet – I’m sure they’ll break soon!”

The girl stared out of the window, seeing how brown and dry everything was. They might not break all holiday! The thought of a family safari was what had kept her sane, when she was lying sleepless in the stuffy dorm in England night after night, too cold even with the windows jammed shut, listening to all the others snore. She squeezed her eyes shut, so as not to cry.

She went to bed straight after supper. She woke when it was still dark. There was a breeze, and she leapt up to enjoy that magical air just before dawn, when the world feels alive – but it was better than that! As she stuck her head out of the window, a gloriously spicy smell of wet dust filled the room, and a fat drop hit her face, then another, then another. The rains had come!

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The Tendring Show

I love my local agricultural show! I’ve been going to it for donkeys’ years, and the only change is that I now pay a little more to belong to the farmers’ club that run it, so I get access to a nice shady (or sheltering) marquee, and some decent loos.

Here are the highlights as I saw it of this year’s show. If you click on one, you get a slide show.

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A rose by any other name would smell as sweet…

I am shamefully behind on the reading material in the loo. So many things creep in, insisting on precedence – gardening catalogues, glowing with promise, are generally on top during the winter; English Heritage or similar, siren calls to a day’s adventure, during the summer. At some point, holiday brochures pile up, blue-and-white photos of places promising warmth, sea, and history jostling with usually rustic interiors offering courses in jewellery making or writing.

At the base of it all, though, percolating through as the truest inhabitants of the small bookcase, are the New Scientists. I bring you this article from a timewarp; a whole year ago, to be precise! The article’s entitled “Everything’s coming up roses with scent gene”, and is discussing the breeding programmes attempting to give today’s gorgeous roses the scent of the old-fashioned ones.

The part that made me smile – and has kept me smiling all day – is the discovery that it’s a single gene expression that does the job; a beast called RhNUDX1 – “known in other organisms to produce an enzyme that helps cells handle stress”.

So get out there and smell the roses whilst you may – it WILL reduce your stress levels🙂


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Random poem

Two events have come together to make something I’m reasonably happy with; a good amount of time on a train, and an interesting MOOC.

The course is an interesting one on the Coursera platform, called “Writing for Young Readers: Opening the Treasure Chest”, from the Commonwealth Education Trust – full of delicious New Zealand accents, sometimes it’s hard to concentrate on the content🙂

And I generally love train journeys. All that lovely time, to read, or to write – if I’m writing, too, I’m often happy with the quality of what gets produced. This is not entirely polished, but as I’ve just submitted it for Assignment 2, it’ll have to do !

To my lovely daughters

By Nicola Moxey


When I first met you,

It was my Grandmother’s face I saw.

You yawned, and your face settled

Into my sister’s, watching you in awe.

When your sister came along,

She looked like you.


Reflections of other relatives

Manifested as you grew;

Your uncle’s mischievous grin;

Striding with your father – fast!


Now you are grown,

These shards of faces past

Have kaleidoscoped together,

To make each uniquely perfect you;

But still from time to time

Our heritage shines through.


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Easter traditions – painted eggs

Easter eggsEvery year, my family hard-boil eggs, and paint them with watercolours whilst they’re hot; it’s a Russian tradition. They’re rubbed with butter to make them shiny, and to preserve them for a few days. The eldest female gets to paint an all-red one, representing the Virgin Mary.

Then we have egg fights – highly formalised; the aggressor gets one blow with their egg onto the end of yours. If either egg cracks, it’s turned over; then the other person gets a turn. If both ends of your egg crack, you lose, but you get to eat it; if you have an uncracked end, or even two, you win, and you need a new opponent before lunch! The Virgin Mary is the last egg to be fought with.

Decorating techniques are often highly individual – personally, I like colour blocks and jagged lines, having the artistic ability of a dead duck; my father’s eggs were swirly purple abstract art, and my animation-trained elder daughter goes for realism. We did catch my younger daughter one year painting extra layers on the ends of hers, just to reinforce them; egg fighting is very competitive indeed, not for the faint-hearted!

Imagine my delight when I found this super article on egg painting through the ages – not only are there designs which I shall shamelessly nick on Sunday, but how fabulous to be taking part in a tradition dating back to the Paleolithic!

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Kings and Bishops – The Uhtred Charter and Anglo-Saxon Land Rights

What an exciting find! And a fascinating insight into land ownership in the 8thC. I didn’t realise that the “Farm” in the court rolls was a Saxon term, nor that it meant “food rent”.

Worcester Cathedral Library and Archive Blog

In early 2015, prior to the renovation work on the library ceiling, we undertook a comprehensive stock-check of Worcester cathedral library. This was a stock-check like no other I’ve experienced. In addition to the “ordinary” (did I say ordinary?) shelved items on the open shelves (predominantly late 15th to 18th century books), it involved a comprehensive check of our outstanding collection of medieval books and manuscripts. As box after box was unpacked and checked treasure after treasure was revealed, blinking uncertainly in the unfamiliar light.

DSC_3566 Staff and volunteers in their Herculean effort to inventory, wrap and move all the books in in the library in 2015. Image copyright the Dean and Chapter of Worcester Cathedral (UK).

. I remember one box especially. After several previous ones, containing mainly 12th and 13th century manuscripts, I opened this one expecting more of the same; another collection of Norman…

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Why historians should write fiction

A well-argued piece by Ian Mortimer (James Forrester) – the case for historians immersing themselves in the past by writing historical fiction, and reflecting what they want to say about the human condition in the mirror of times in history when certain beliefs, mores, or behaviours were much more prevalent. There’s a simlar argument for good science fiction, too.

Novel approaches


 Ian Mortimer

“Your book reads like a novel,” is a comment that popular historians often hear. When said by a general reader, it is a compliment: an acknowledgement of the fluency of the writing and a compelling story. If a historian uses those same words, however, it is an insult. It means ‘you cannot be trusted on your facts’. Hence the title of this piece is bound to infuriate every reader of this journal, for it implies that historians should tell lies. After all, that is what novelists do, isn’t it? Make it all up if they don’t know the facts?

I ought to explain at the outset that I am a novelist (James Forrester) as well as a historian (Ian Mortimer), and I write history for the mass market as well as scholarly articles. As a novelist, I tell lies. Whoppers. All historical novelists do. In my…

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Field walk, Moores Lane, East Bergholt

Just to complete the story – this is what the lovely volunteers who got my lecture on how to identify a flint tool – complete with the supersized example from the blog post below – achieved🙂

Field walk report, field adjacent to Moores Lane development


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One blow away from a teaching tool…

Found a lovely big flint nodule in a field the other day, and have just been sat outside in the sunshine attempting to turn it into an axe.

Got impatient with a ridge, hit it far too hard, split the axe down the middle (taking a slice of finger with it), and cursed horribly – until I realised that I’d made the perfect teaching tool for field walkers🙂

THIS is a striking platform; this is a bulb of percussion (although they’re usually much smaller than this *blush*), and look, on this side I’ve taken the edge down with just an antler horn, note the size of the indentations; and on this side, the same with a bronze point.


Bulb of percussion & bronze tip work (on right)

Antler work on the flip side

Antler work on the flip side

Super! Now off to bleed on another hobby, had enough knapping excitement for one day🙂

Whilst I’m thinking about it, here’s a very uselful little guide to fieldwalking. Thank you, Cambridge Archaeology Field Group🙂

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On nuns and rocks

I came across a most interesting article today.

Even if you aren’t interested in mediaeval fighting (ARE any of my friends not interested in mediaeval fighting? What does that say about us? lol), the article rocks for this statement alone. And scroll down to the first illustration to see it in action🙂

“The manual includes instruction on all sorts of weapons and covers a wide arrange of scenarios, including, brilliantly, how to fight a nun who has a rock wrapped in her veil while you are standing up to your waist in a hole. (Whether or not Tolhoffer intended it, the description also works as a lesson for nuns: how to fight a man standing up to his waist in a hole while you have only a rock and your veil).”

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