Funny Of The Week

😂only answer I can give to this!!

estherchiltonblog

So, as long as you’re quiet, it’s okay…

50 Of The Worst Spelling Mistakes Ever | Bored Panda

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The Fairy At The Bottom Of The Garden Part Three

As usual absolutely great story, though the ending wasn’t what I expected, sorry 😬 I expected Grace to believe it was a real fairy so it made it feel special for kids her age.

Still, like I said a great story as usual 👍🏻

estherchiltonblog

For part one, click here

For part two, click here

“Well, I was a dab hand at making models when I was a lad and remember when times were hard and I crafted all those toys for Colin? I’m sure I can handle a fairy,” Peter said, rubbing his hands together.

“She’s beautiful, absolutely beautiful,” Annie exclaimed, wiping a tear away a little later.

Peter hugged Annie to him. “She’s not bad if I say so myself. But as I said, times have changed. Children aren’t so easily convinced these days.”

Annie nodded. “At least your fairy stands a better chance of convincing her than mine.”

Peter laughed. “I have to agree. I’ll hang her up in one of the trees tomorrow morning and then we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Grace’s mouth gaped open as she pointed up to Peter’s fairy. Grandmother and granddaughter looked back…

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Funny Of The Week

Very funny sign, but the caption by Esther is much funnier for me 😂 having another go at reblogging…..🤞🏻

estherchiltonblog

I’ve booked my mum and dad in for next week…

Funny Billboard Mistakes | The Best Billboard Misspellings and Errors

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The fairy at the bottom of the garden part 2 by Esther

By Sharon Harvey

So we were delighted by another short by Esther and for me we wasn’t disappointed. Really enjoyed part one and below is part 2 – enjoy the read 😃

Love from me 🤓👩🏻‍💻

Read away 👇🏻

For part one, click here

The years fell away as Annie remembered her own tears on finding out that the fairy she had seen flitting from tree to tree was, in fact, a dragonfly. Her dear mother had wiped away her tears.

“If you believe hard enough, then you’ll see a real fairy. Just you wait and see,” she had soothed a young Annie.

Annie had spent the rest of that day and half the night believing. Then the next morning when she had pulled back her curtains, sure enough, there was a fairy swinging to and fro high up in the apple tree.

Annie grinned, shaking her head at the memory. She had believed in that fairy for years, just as she had the tooth fairy and Father Christmas. The fairy in the apple tree had long since disappeared, but young Annie had always believed she would return one day. That was until she discovered that the tooth fairy was her mother and Father Christmas her father.

“So who was the fairy in the tree?” Annie had asked her mother.

“Me. Well, I made her and your father hooked her onto the apple tree. I was sure the wind would carry her away or the rain would ruin her, but she lasted rather well,” Annie’s mother had said, smiling down at her.

How Annie had hugged her. She’d always been so thoughtful and very clever at making things. Unfortunately, Annie didn’t take after her, but she would have a good go – for Grace.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked, “I thought I’d better come and see what was going on. For the last hour, all I’ve heard is grumbling and groaning.”

Annie frowned and looked down at the sea of craft materials sprawled across the kitchen table.

“What on earth is that?” Peter leaned forward, peering at Annie’s handiwork.

 “Stop your prodding and poking,” Annie said crossly, swatting Peter’s hand away, “anyone can see she’s a fairy.”

“Well, I suppose fairies have moved on a bit since our day, but even so, I don’t think that could ever be called a fairy,” Peter said, patting Annie’s shoulder gently. “Besides, fairies are supposed to have a little more sparkle to them and most importantly of all – wings.”

“The wings! I knew I’d forgotten something,” Annie cried.

She told Peter her treasured story about her mother’s fairy.

“What am I going to do, Peter? I wanted to make it special for Grace, like my mother did for me.”

Part three next week

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Coming home by Esther.

By Sharon Harvey

Well I didn’t see THAT ending! Good twist 👏🏻

Part 4 and the final part below 👇🏻 Enjoy the read

 

 

For part one, click here

For part two, click here

For part three, click here.

“Phillip got himself a job window cleaning. He loved it and was even talking about setting up his own business. Then he went and fell from the ladder. He broke his leg in two places. It’s just not healing properly. It’s now been six months and he’s still not been able to get back up that ladder. He took such care of your house as well and now it’s gone to pot,” Mrs Minchin said, dunking a biscuit into her tea.

Sarah nodded.

“Like mine,” Mrs Minchin continued, “did you see my fence? We had some bad winds a couple of months ago and the wind knocked it right down. It’s top of Phillip’s list to do when his leg’s all better.”

Sarah blushed. She hadn’t noticed Mrs Minchin’s garden. She had been too busy moaning about her own.

“But don’t you worry, I’ve made sure the inside has been kept spotless. You’ve been really lucky with the tenants. They didn’t make any mess. And they knew not to touch the girls’ bedrooms, especially not Miss Abigail’s cuddly toy collection,” Mrs Minchin said, winking at Abigail.

“Cuddly toys are for babies,” Abigail said, chomping on a Bourbon biscuit.

“Can I have them, then? I love cuddly toys,” Gemma said, grinning.

“Well, perhaps they’re not all for babies,” Abigail stammered.

Sarah smiled at Mrs Minchin. How could she have doubted her?

“I want to see Abigail’s cuddly toys. Can we go home now?” Gemma said, her mouth laden with crumbs. Thank you for the treats, Mrs Minchin.”

Gemma and Abigail jumped up, both leading the way.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs Minchin said, squeezing Sarah’s hand. “It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back. I don’t know how to thank you,” Sarah said, feeling guilty.

“Just get that garden of yours in order and then you can pick me some of your flowers. Like you used to. My bay window has been quite bare since you’ve been gone,” Mrs Minchin said.

Sarah watched the girls go on round and brave the back garden. She joined them and inserted the key into the lock. She pushed the door open and the girls raced up the stairs to their rooms. Shrieks of delight came to her from the floor above and she smiled, savouring the smell of home.

And it was home. Paintwork could be repainted, the tile replaced, the lawn mowed and the number two nailed down. All it needed now was Duncan. It didn’t feel right without him. She remembered his words after her outburst in Spain.

“Thank goodness for that. I loved it at first. I got swept up in the moment, the job, the freshness of it all. And then I got homesick. All I wanted was England. But I thought you and the girls were happy here. I’ve been putting on a brave face for you and all the while you’ve been doing the same for me,” he’d said.

And there she was, thinking it was her and that she’d ruined everything. How they had laughed then. When the opportunity came for them to return to England before the two years were up, they grabbed the chance. It was a shame Duncan had been called back at the last minute to finish a project, but he would be back by the end of the week.

Sarah looked round the house and smiled. Then they would truly be home.

The End

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Coming Home part 3

By Sharon Harvey 

Here’s the next part of Esther’s story. Unusual for a 4 parter but I certain it won’t disappoint!

Enjoy!

Read on 👇🏻

 

She hadn’t meant to say it. Time was ticking away. Weeks were passing, months, then a year. Time ticking down to their return to England. It wasn’t long. Surely she could cope, just a little bit longer? But he had asked her. And she couldn’t lie.

“You don’t like it here, do you?” Duncan asked her one evening as the sun was setting.

She hadn’t replied straightaway. She had fiddled with an imaginary speck on her skirt, fumbling and flicking at it.

“You can tell me,” he said.

And then it all came tumbling out. How she couldn’t get a job there, how Abigail hadn’t made friends at school and how the heat was affecting Gemma’s eczema. She couldn’t stop. The mosquito bites, the food and most important of all, no matter what she did, their house didn’t feel like home.

She had meant that to be the end of it. And yet, still she went on.

“I can’t stand it. I want to go home. To England.”

She had felt embarrassed then, but relieved too. It was out. She had said it.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs Minchin said, interrupting her thoughts, “is something wrong with Duncan?”

“No, he’s fine, thank you, just fine,” she said, forcing her reminiscences away, “you were about to tell me about the house…”

“That’s right. Well, it’s Phillip. You see it isn’t really his fault,” Mrs Minchin said, handing Sarah a cup of tea.

The image of Mrs Minchin’s strapping six-foot-four son filled Sarah’s mind. He had promised he would look after the exterior of the house while they were away. He was such a conscientious lad. Sarah wondered what had gone wrong.

Part four next week

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Coming Home part 2 – Esthers short story.

By Sharon Harvey

Hmm, I’m thinking maybe an affair on Sarah’s part….? 🤔

First Part is here

Second part 👇🏻

She looked at the front door key in her hand and closed her fist round it. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t pluck up the courage to go in.

“Something moved! There are tigers in there,” Gemma screamed and clung to Sarah’s leg.

A black cat sauntered out of the undergrowth. He paused to look up at them with his wide green eyes, and then stuck his tail in the air before walking nonchalantly off in the opposite direction.

Sarah laughed.

“Sarah! Gemma! Abigail!”

Sarah swung round at the sound of their names. A face was beaming at them from over the fence.

“My dears, you’re back. How wonderful.”

Sarah smiled. Mrs Minchin. There was no finer neighbour than Mrs Minchin.

“Come in, come in. You must be gasping for a cup of tea and I know there’s nothing in that larder of yours. I thought you were coming back tomorrow. I’d got it all planned. Tea bags, milk, bread. You name it, it was all going to be there, lined up just so on the larder shelves. Never mind. And don’t you screw up that nose of yours, Miss Abigail, I know you don’t like tea. I’ve plenty of Ribena for you girls,” Mrs Minchin said, already half-way through her front door.

“I don’t like Ribena. Ribena is for babies,” Abigail said as Sarah ushered them in the direction of Mrs Minchin’s.

Sarah rolled her eyes up to the sky. Eight-going-on-eighteen, that was her Abigail.

“What’s Ribena?” Gemma asked.

Sarah looked at her youngest daughter. Gemma had only been three-and-a-half when they had left for Spain. Eighteen months. That was a long time to a child. Gemma couldn’t remember much about England. All she really knew was Spain. And Sarah had forced them to come back. She chewed her lip. She had been so sure she was doing the right thing. What on earth had she done?

Sarah helped Mrs Minchin with plates of biscuits, cakes and sandwiches, an enormous pot of tea and gigantic glasses of Ribena. Her mood couldn’t stay sombre for long. Mrs Minchin hadn’t changed and neither had her house, with its beautiful antique furniture and quaint knick-knacks collected over the years.

Something soggy splashed her leg. Sarah looked down.

“Amy!” she cried, bending down to hug the Westie who was ferociously licking her leg. She buried her face in the dog’s wiry white coat.

No, some things never changed. But her home had. Would it ever be the same again?

“Now, I know just what you’re going to say,” Mrs Minchin said, as they all sat down in the lounge, “you’re going to say what a state your lovely home is in.”

Sarah’s head snapped up.

“Before I start my tale about your house, how’s that Duncan? How rude of me not to ask about him,” Mrs Minchin said, handing round the biscuits.

Sarah watched two pairs of eyes hungrily hover over the delights being offered and two pairs of equally hungry hands taking those delights and filling their plates with them. At least the girls seemed happier now.

Duncan had loved Spain. He had taken to it from the moment they set foot in the country. They’d been abroad before, on holidays to Corfu, Greece, Majorca and Cyprus. But this was different. It wasn’t just for a week or two. She had hated it. She had longed for England, for her garden full of flowers, for the charm of the changing seasons, for walks in the woods, feeding the ducks at the lakes with the girls, for her job at the school. Her list was endless. Deep down, she knew the children hadn’t settled either. Perhaps Gemma had more than Abigail, but Duncan was the reason they had stayed. And then she had ruined everything.

Part three next week

Till next time Take Care everyone and Stay Safe.

Love

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5 word weekly challenge.

By Sharon Harvey

Yes!! Can you tell I’m excited at my submission being accepted again?! 

My submission is right at the bottom and in bold (Couldn’t work out how to just circle it…😒🙃🤓🤦🏻‍♀️

So without further ado, here’s Esther’s post regarding it all

 

It’s Thursday and your new five-word challenge is here. This week, your prompt is MISTAKES. So can you tell a story in five words, using the word MISTAKES in it somewhere?

Here are your SECRET stories from last week:

Sarian Lady:

Secret Seven books childhood bliss.

Keith Channing:

Always secrete your secret secretions!

Trent’s World:

A secret in five words?

Secret path to hidden world…

Tell me all your secrets…

Ritu:

It’s no secret. I think…

Can you keep my secret?

Secret stash of chocolate – FOUND!

Annette Rochelle Aben:

She was Mother’s shameful secret.

Christine Mallaband-Brown:

My secret recipe for chaos!

Secret service seals special storage?

They secretly brewed Gin here!

My secret? Wear no makeup.

Kim Smyth:

Poison was her deadly secret.

I can’t keep a secret.

Don’t secret your talents away!

Joy Smith:

Aunt’s my Mother, Birth Secrets.

Secret comes out of closet.

Inter-Continental Adoption-State Secret.

Secret Seven, favourite childhood reads.

Victoria’s half secrets, that’s pants.

Secret lover whispers sweet nothings.

Covid annihilated influenza, Top Secret.

Quilts hold secret freedom message.

EDC Writing:

Talked easy, spilled secret, unwise.

Paul Mastaglio:

The recipe is a secret.

Can’t tell you the secret.

It’s not a secret anymore!

Lance Greenfield:

This week’s word is secret.

Dover cliffs rise: cretaceous rocks.

The monstrous secret of Loch Ness.

Stonehenge stones harbour ancient secrets.

Priest hole: Roman Catholic secret.

Gran’s diaries revealed family secrets.

The Home Secretary played away.

Her secret lover prefers secrecy.

Natural secrets of personal grooming.

Your secret’s safe with me.

Magic Circle won’t disclose secrets.

Discrete secretaries keep your secrets.

Everyone heard the secretary’s screams.

Thirty year rule: Cabinet secrets.

The secret of immortality is . . .

Escape down the secret tunnel.

Social media holds no secrets.

James Bond: charismatic secret agent.

Linking People 2003:

Secret kept by office secretary!

Silence keeps a secret untold.

Sharing secret with faithful friends.

Revealed secret can create unrest.

Roberta Writes:

Her face revealed her secret.

She shared her success secrets.

Sharon Tingle:

Unsurprisingly, secrets have many secrets.

Sharon Harvey:

You don’t give secrets away.

There’s a secret I know.

What a very big secret.

Secrets can tear families apart.

Secrets always come out.

Thanks for reading as usual and until next time, take care and stay safe.

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A new short story from Esther.

Another short story from Esther, nice easy first part, unsure of what the rest of the journey consists of..

“I’m not going in there. Not if there are great, big, ferocious tigers,” Gemma cried.

Eight-year-old Abigail tutted at her younger sister and shook her head.

“Tigers, indeed. Of course there aren’t any tigers. It’s a garden, not a jungle,” she said, folding her arms.

Sarah tried not to laugh. Despite her bravado, Abigail didn’t exactly look keen to set forth into the garden and lead the way.

She sighed. But then, neither did she. She looked from the overgrown garden to the house. Each time she looked at the building, she noticed something else wrong. First she had spotted the chipped paintwork. Then she noticed a tile had fallen from the roof and been left smashed to smithereens on the path. And now she could see that the number two on the door was hanging listlessly, as if it were making up its mind whether to stay put or to leap into the tangled mass of moss, earth, weeds and grass beyond.

Sarah pushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. The tears weren’t going to come. She wouldn’t let them. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“I want to go home to Spain. It’s cold here and there isn’t a swimming pool. I want to go home,” Gemma said, stamping her feet.

“This is home,” Sarah said, feeling the anguish building inside, “this is our house. We lived here before we went to Spain. Our house has been looked after while we were away and now we’re back home.”

“Well, whoever looked after it hasn’t done a very good job,” Abigail moaned.

Sarah shook her head. She couldn’t argue with that. She closed her eyes and eighteen months fell away.

The four of them were standing there: Sarah, Abigail, Gemma and Duncan. Oh, how she needed Duncan now, right now. They were looking up at the house – the house they had cared for and loved for the past ten years. It was perfect. They had worked so hard to get it just as they wanted. And there they were leaving it behind.

“Are you sure about this?” Duncan had said, wrapping his arms around Sarah.

She had looked into her husband’s eyes. She hadn’t been. No, she hadn’t been sure at all when he’d first come home from work and told her he was being transferred to the Spanish office.

But she had seen the fire in his eyes, the passion and the love for his work. She didn’t want to stand in his way. And she loved him. She couldn’t imagine being anywhere other than by his side. She had smiled that day, standing there, staring up at the house.

“It’s only for two years. Then we’ll be back home. Our home. It’ll be just as we left it, you’ll see,” Duncan assured her.

But it wasn’t. Not at all. And she hadn’t even been inside yet. Goodness knows what state that would be in.

She knew they shouldn’t have agreed to let it. She should have stayed here. Everything would be all right if they hadn’t gone to Spain.

Part 2 next week.

Enjoy the read

Thanks for your company

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Beautiful love story by Murray Clarke

By Sharon Harvey

 

I’m doing things a little different this time. Instead of putting a link in to take you to the short story, for something different, I am just going to place it right here

This is from a gentleman called Murray, I havent been able to ask his permission to post it so I’m just going to put his name as credit.

Its a beautiful story for Valentines Day and a standalone love story. Enjoy the read, I did.

****

Roses are Red

By

Murray Clarke

Violet, ninety-six, stared thoughtfully out of the window, a tear in her eye. The other senior citizens in the room were either asleep, reading or watching television. It may have been Valentine’s Day, but there wasn’t a card in sight. It had been a long time since the residents of the care home had received a romantic card from anyone.

Memories came flooding back of the happy times enjoyed when she was young. She smiled to herself. Those were the days. World War Two. Food rationing was the order of the day, but everyone rallied around and supported each other. Violet was just twenty years old – her whole life spread out in front of her like uncharted territory. She was so pretty, long blonde hair flowing down to her waist. Sapphire blue eyes. Full of fun and vitality. Always laughing.

Oh yes! Violet smiled again – she’d had her fair share of admirers . . . and Valentine’s cards; many of them handmade. Tall handsome men declared their undying love for her. Bunches of flowers, chocolates, jewellery – even silk stockings from the American G.I.s. Some of the Valentine cards were signed only with a kiss; smitten young men too bashful to reveal their names!

Boyfriends came and went. But no serious relationships . . . until the day she met Jacko in late 1944 — Squadron Leader Jack Gibson. She remembered how dashing the young pilot had looked in his smartly pressed dark blue RAF uniform. Every bit an officer and a gentleman. She fell madly in love with him from the moment she saw him.

Violet remembered their first proper date, just before Christmas 1944. Jacko had arranged to meet at a dance in the local village hall. He walked in, a beaming smile on his kindly face. In his hand he grasped a huge bunch of the finest red roses Violet had ever seen. ‘For a lovely lady,’ Jacko said, gallantly. No man had ever given her red roses before!

And, later, when he bent down to kiss her, his neatly trimmed moustache tickled her face and made her squeal with girlish delight. Violet recalled the fun she’d had dancing the night away in his arms. Happy, happy memories!

‘Jacko, you were my only true love,’ Violet said out loud.

‘Did you say something, Violet, my dear?’ A carer was walking past and shook her head: talking to herself again!

Violet and Jacko enjoyed a blissful few weeks in each other’s company, and then one morning, the following February, he took off in his single-engine aeroplane on a flight to France . . . And disappeared. Violet was heartbroken and prayed that Jacko, one day, would return to her loving arms. But he never did, and she remained a spinster for the rest of her life.

Violet let out a long loud sigh, remembering what might have been. It was at that moment that she happened to glance down. She gasped. Lying on the small wooden coffee table beside her, she saw a beautiful bouquet of red roses. A handwritten card was pinned to them. Violet bent down and read the message: “To Violet. Love you always, my darling. Jacko xx”

A tear came into her eye. ‘Oh, Jacko, you’ve not forgotten me,’ she whispered.

‘Everything okay, Violet?’ The carer had returned.

‘It’s Jack – he’s remembered me on Valentine’s Day,’ she replied with glee, and pointed towards the coffee table.

The carer, Linda, looked, a blank expression on her face.

‘Don’t you see – the red roses?’ insisted Violet.

Linda rested her hand lightly on Violet’s shoulder. ‘There’s nothing there, my dear. Now, why don’t you come and sit over there with the others? There’s a romantic World War Two film about to start. I think you’ll enjoy it.’

***

POSTSCRIPT: AN INTERNAL MEMO, CIRCULATED LATER, STATED: SQUADRON LEADER JACK (JACKO) GIBSON HAD TAKEN OFF FROM AN AIRFIELD IN DORSET ON A SECRET RECONNAISANCE MISSION TO FRANCE. HIS SPITFIRE WAS SHOT DOWN BY ENEMY FIRE SOMEWHERE OVER THE ENGLISH CHANNEL. HIS BODY WAS NEVER RECOVERED.

DATE: 14th. FEBRUARY 1945. VALENTINE’S DAY.

I thought this was an absolutely beautiful love story, a standalone love story if its not Valentine’s Day. I thought the story in itself was beautiful till I read the Postscript which I felt was the icing on the cake

Hope you enjoyed the read as much as I did.

Till next time, Take Care

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