Re: My Caribbean Dream Chapter Two, or, Still No Bodice Ripping
Posted: Thu Jul 17, 2008 7:44 am
As she leapt into the van Cherry startled the eldest hippy, Moonflower, so much that he spilt goji berry juice all over his beard. This did not matter as goji berry juice is very nutritious and excellent for bringing a lustrous shine to hair and beards. It is very much favoured by male models with flowing blonde locks, some of whom even rub it into their pectorals and biceps, in the belief that it improves muscle tone.
There are people in this world, alas, who will believe anything.
Cherry’s hippy friends welcomed her into the brotherhood (or should that be brother and sisterhood?) and helped her to unpack, which did not take long as all she had was two blouses, two skirts, two dresses, a camisole, corset, several pairs of French knickers in a range of colours and patterns, pink pyjamas, fluffy pink dressing gown, furry pink slippers, multi-coloured non –matching socks and Doc Marten boots, which, though no longer in fashion elsewhere, were still all the rage in Wafflingham-in-the-Marsh.
Then there were books, including best-sellers such as: “How to Be a Good Librarian”, by Lorna Wormwood, “ The Secret life of an Internet Addict” by Charlie Strangenerd”, “My Life and Adventures as a Male Model”, by Frank Peacock, “Life on the Rocks: A Mermaid’s Tale”, by Kevinta Diver,” two recipe books; How to Cook Eggs”, by Davinia Smythe-Wilkinson, and “Olde Cornish Pasty Recipes ”by Jethro Penhaligon, and finally “Robinson Crusoe”, by Daniel Defoe, which Cherry had been meaning to read for years.
There was also a decorative map of the BBC Shipping Forecast, showing the areas of Rockall, Fitzroy, and Viking etc. which had been given her by a friend and which she hated, but kept out of loyalty to the rather sad friend. Most of Cherry’s friends were like that. Lastly there was the teapot decorated with Winnie the Pooh figures, which amused the hippies very much for some reason.
Moonflower started up the old van, but it stalled, juddered and stopped. He sighed and scratched his grey beard, now glossy from the goji berry juice. The van had been giving them trouble all week. He had tried to fix it, but it seemed that they would need to call the O.H.M.A. (the Oldsaddenham Hippy’s Motoring Association) to have its innards examined.
A yellow van arrived that was even older than the hippies’, and which was being driven by someone the like of whom Cherry had never seen before; a handsome young West Indian Rastafarian, wearing a yellow jacket with the legend “Oldsad Hippy” on the back. He was rather put out at having to wear this but his employers were not making much in the way of profits and could not afford to have the logo printed in full.
Cherry stared at this exotic being. He felt her gaze upon him and smiled at her, causing her knees to wobble and her hands to shake, so that she dropped her cup of goji berry juice, splashing it all over her Doc Martens. They both bent down to pick it up, and as his hand brushed against hers she felt a strange fluttering inside her stomach, and the blood rush to her cheeks.
They woke up in hospital some hours later, suffering from concussion where they had knocked their heads together on standing up. They were in separate wards, and Cherry never saw him again, although she heard that he had made a full recovery, and had changed his job, becoming a goji berry farmer on the Scottish Island of Rhum. She may not see him again, but the memory of that smile and those dark brown eyes remained with her, and stirred yet further restlessness in her bosom. Maybe it was the after-effects of the concussion.
Meanwhile the van was fixed by a spotty, surly young apprentice and they were ready to depart. Cherry climbed back inside the old van, still with a lump on her head, and gave a deep sigh, thinking of that wonderful moment before the concussion set in.
They stopped at the restaurant to say goodbye to the chef, but were informed by the rather disgruntled Maitre ‘D’ that he was busy in the dry store, helping a waitress reach something off the top shelf. Judging by the sniggering, giggling and squealing they could hear, he was very busy indeed. Oh well, at least he was happy for once.
For some reason the sounds coming from the dry store set Cherry’s mind to dreaming of her brief encounter with the Rasta. Next stop, the library, where Cherry waved to the tutting and disapproving queue, who were in agreement that they would ban all hippies from the village in future.
So Cherry left Wafflingham-in-the-Marsh, and headed towards her first adventure.
******************************************************************************************************************
They were most fortunate in that they found work in the neighbouring town of Dulbury where a new shopping mall had recently opened, owned by Alldasame Shopping Centres Ltd. Two of the hippies worked in a New Age Crystal shop, where they found that they had a talent for persuading customers that small and expensive pieces of rock would solve all their problems and cure all ills; the same customers who believed that rubbing lotions and potions into their skin would improve muscle tone, dissolve fat and make them look ten years younger. Moonflower worked in one of those shops that sell incense, plastic skulls, black tee shirts with bizarre images of fabulous creatures emblazoned on the front, crystal balls and ridiculously priced figurines of wizards and dragons. The others had to make do with much less worthwhile work in a greasy burger bar. Cherry found a job in a New Age bookshop, where she worked as shelf-stacker and customer adviser, dressed in long flowing skirts and the latest fashion trend; a bodice, which went very well with her by now waist- length auburn hair.
By September they had enough money to continue their travels, beginning with a belated trip to Stonehenge, which this time they were successful in locating, and where they witnessed the Autumn Equinox, which was not quite as romantic as the Summer Solstice, but at least there were no Druids or television journalists.
They travelled all around the English West Country, including Glastonbury, which was quiet as the festival had ended some three months earlier. Cherry began to realise that these were not very well-organised hippies, but never mind; at least she had escaped the library at Wafflingham-in-the-Marsh.
They headed south, eventually arriving in Hampshire just in time to spend Christmas in the new Forest, which was pretty, if a little cold and damp. They found work caring for the ponies and chopping wood, and Cherry found her Doc Martens very useful in the mud.
Then they crossed the Solent to the Isle of Wight; missing the festival, naturally, and there the hippies introduced Cherry to an old friend; a former hippy and musician called Semmitone Stargarden, who now made a living growing purple-sprouting broccoli and selling clothing made from the hair of Afghan goats, which were the descendants of a herd he had received as payment for selling his own hair during his travels many years earlier.
They stayed with Semmitone for three months, during which time he took Cherry under his wing and taught her all about Life, the World, Hippydom, and how to make socks from Afghan goat hair.
“Cherry “he said, “Life is like making socks from Afghan goat hair. You have to make the best of what you have”. Trouble was, Cherry was not very adept at making socks from Afghan goat hair. She did have a reasonable amount of skill with purple-sprouting broccoli however.
During this time Cherry caught up with her reading. She finished “Life on the Rocks, A Mermaid’s Tale”, and then, finally, she began “Robinson Crusoe”, a world famous eighteenth century story about a shipwrecked sailor who spends twenty-eight years marooned on a tropical island off Venezuela; probably the island of Tobago.
*********************************************************************************************************************
The characters in this story are fictitious. Whether they resemble any actual persons is entirely coincidental and I take no responsibility, so there.
There are people in this world, alas, who will believe anything.
Cherry’s hippy friends welcomed her into the brotherhood (or should that be brother and sisterhood?) and helped her to unpack, which did not take long as all she had was two blouses, two skirts, two dresses, a camisole, corset, several pairs of French knickers in a range of colours and patterns, pink pyjamas, fluffy pink dressing gown, furry pink slippers, multi-coloured non –matching socks and Doc Marten boots, which, though no longer in fashion elsewhere, were still all the rage in Wafflingham-in-the-Marsh.
Then there were books, including best-sellers such as: “How to Be a Good Librarian”, by Lorna Wormwood, “ The Secret life of an Internet Addict” by Charlie Strangenerd”, “My Life and Adventures as a Male Model”, by Frank Peacock, “Life on the Rocks: A Mermaid’s Tale”, by Kevinta Diver,” two recipe books; How to Cook Eggs”, by Davinia Smythe-Wilkinson, and “Olde Cornish Pasty Recipes ”by Jethro Penhaligon, and finally “Robinson Crusoe”, by Daniel Defoe, which Cherry had been meaning to read for years.
There was also a decorative map of the BBC Shipping Forecast, showing the areas of Rockall, Fitzroy, and Viking etc. which had been given her by a friend and which she hated, but kept out of loyalty to the rather sad friend. Most of Cherry’s friends were like that. Lastly there was the teapot decorated with Winnie the Pooh figures, which amused the hippies very much for some reason.
Moonflower started up the old van, but it stalled, juddered and stopped. He sighed and scratched his grey beard, now glossy from the goji berry juice. The van had been giving them trouble all week. He had tried to fix it, but it seemed that they would need to call the O.H.M.A. (the Oldsaddenham Hippy’s Motoring Association) to have its innards examined.
A yellow van arrived that was even older than the hippies’, and which was being driven by someone the like of whom Cherry had never seen before; a handsome young West Indian Rastafarian, wearing a yellow jacket with the legend “Oldsad Hippy” on the back. He was rather put out at having to wear this but his employers were not making much in the way of profits and could not afford to have the logo printed in full.
Cherry stared at this exotic being. He felt her gaze upon him and smiled at her, causing her knees to wobble and her hands to shake, so that she dropped her cup of goji berry juice, splashing it all over her Doc Martens. They both bent down to pick it up, and as his hand brushed against hers she felt a strange fluttering inside her stomach, and the blood rush to her cheeks.
They woke up in hospital some hours later, suffering from concussion where they had knocked their heads together on standing up. They were in separate wards, and Cherry never saw him again, although she heard that he had made a full recovery, and had changed his job, becoming a goji berry farmer on the Scottish Island of Rhum. She may not see him again, but the memory of that smile and those dark brown eyes remained with her, and stirred yet further restlessness in her bosom. Maybe it was the after-effects of the concussion.
Meanwhile the van was fixed by a spotty, surly young apprentice and they were ready to depart. Cherry climbed back inside the old van, still with a lump on her head, and gave a deep sigh, thinking of that wonderful moment before the concussion set in.
They stopped at the restaurant to say goodbye to the chef, but were informed by the rather disgruntled Maitre ‘D’ that he was busy in the dry store, helping a waitress reach something off the top shelf. Judging by the sniggering, giggling and squealing they could hear, he was very busy indeed. Oh well, at least he was happy for once.
For some reason the sounds coming from the dry store set Cherry’s mind to dreaming of her brief encounter with the Rasta. Next stop, the library, where Cherry waved to the tutting and disapproving queue, who were in agreement that they would ban all hippies from the village in future.
So Cherry left Wafflingham-in-the-Marsh, and headed towards her first adventure.
******************************************************************************************************************
They were most fortunate in that they found work in the neighbouring town of Dulbury where a new shopping mall had recently opened, owned by Alldasame Shopping Centres Ltd. Two of the hippies worked in a New Age Crystal shop, where they found that they had a talent for persuading customers that small and expensive pieces of rock would solve all their problems and cure all ills; the same customers who believed that rubbing lotions and potions into their skin would improve muscle tone, dissolve fat and make them look ten years younger. Moonflower worked in one of those shops that sell incense, plastic skulls, black tee shirts with bizarre images of fabulous creatures emblazoned on the front, crystal balls and ridiculously priced figurines of wizards and dragons. The others had to make do with much less worthwhile work in a greasy burger bar. Cherry found a job in a New Age bookshop, where she worked as shelf-stacker and customer adviser, dressed in long flowing skirts and the latest fashion trend; a bodice, which went very well with her by now waist- length auburn hair.
By September they had enough money to continue their travels, beginning with a belated trip to Stonehenge, which this time they were successful in locating, and where they witnessed the Autumn Equinox, which was not quite as romantic as the Summer Solstice, but at least there were no Druids or television journalists.
They travelled all around the English West Country, including Glastonbury, which was quiet as the festival had ended some three months earlier. Cherry began to realise that these were not very well-organised hippies, but never mind; at least she had escaped the library at Wafflingham-in-the-Marsh.
They headed south, eventually arriving in Hampshire just in time to spend Christmas in the new Forest, which was pretty, if a little cold and damp. They found work caring for the ponies and chopping wood, and Cherry found her Doc Martens very useful in the mud.
Then they crossed the Solent to the Isle of Wight; missing the festival, naturally, and there the hippies introduced Cherry to an old friend; a former hippy and musician called Semmitone Stargarden, who now made a living growing purple-sprouting broccoli and selling clothing made from the hair of Afghan goats, which were the descendants of a herd he had received as payment for selling his own hair during his travels many years earlier.
They stayed with Semmitone for three months, during which time he took Cherry under his wing and taught her all about Life, the World, Hippydom, and how to make socks from Afghan goat hair.
“Cherry “he said, “Life is like making socks from Afghan goat hair. You have to make the best of what you have”. Trouble was, Cherry was not very adept at making socks from Afghan goat hair. She did have a reasonable amount of skill with purple-sprouting broccoli however.
During this time Cherry caught up with her reading. She finished “Life on the Rocks, A Mermaid’s Tale”, and then, finally, she began “Robinson Crusoe”, a world famous eighteenth century story about a shipwrecked sailor who spends twenty-eight years marooned on a tropical island off Venezuela; probably the island of Tobago.
*********************************************************************************************************************
The characters in this story are fictitious. Whether they resemble any actual persons is entirely coincidental and I take no responsibility, so there.
Thank you Noe, 
) a wide berth. Hope the next chapter is already underway 
after a week of 32-36 with extremely high humidity.
Definately 'pants' weather here.
