must have bet his only shirt and lost -

holds his collar to his naked throat

to ward off rain and early winter frost.

Spends afternoons in Ladbrokes studying form,

glued to endless racing on the screens,

sits by the radiator to keep warm,

has no credit for the gambling machines.

You wouldn’t put a penny on his chances

of making good or cleaning up a bit.

He’s the underdog no decent punter fancies.

He’s the double when you know you should have quit,

he’s life’s pony limping home without its rider,

the torn betting slip, the hundred-to-one outsider.

by
Jeff Phelps

how are you? Where’s this year gone - already at its end

and Christmas upon us. Please excuse the lateness of this note

but I’ve had a bad shock/ dream/ bank balance/ throat.

Doesn’t time fly? Next year I promise to write

and arrange a meet-up. How about Wetherspoon’s/ Tesco’s/ The Isle of Wight?

Jason/ Kevin/ Tara/ Kate did the GCSE’s this summer,

got twelve/ six/ none/ other. Well done to him/ her/ What a bummer!

Family hols were in Tenerife/ Tenby/ the Transit/ Korea.

We swam/ golfed/ argued, got lucky/ arrested/ lost/ diarrhoea.

Peter/ Alice/ Richard/ Jill says she/ he loved/ despised it there

so we’re suing the company/ emigrating/ buying timeshare.

Mother is still working/ grappling/ sleeping with her poodle/ psychiatrist/ debt adviser,

but none of us are getting any younger/ nookie/ richer/ wiser.

That’s all from me, sending joy and peace

from your loving cousin/ uncle/ auntie/ nephew/ niece

for a Christmas that’s happy/ fantastic/ festive/ neat,

and full of seasonal love/ love/ love (no need to delete)

by Jeff Phelps

It reminded me how powerful a first draft can be. A short story or novel isn’t the same as a letter to a friend (usually), but one thing you can say about an informal letter is that it's written as if you were speaking directly to the reader. Your ‘voice’ is threaded through the whole thing, direct and uncensored.

We writers can spend decades trying to find our ‘voice’. Perhaps we should look at our letters with all their idiosyncrasies and informalities. We might find our authentic voices right there, though I also remember how someone, admiring the spontaneity in a well-known author’s work, received the reply: ‘Yes, it’s taken me years to become that spontaneous.’

What would happen if we began all our stories with: ‘Dear Jane,’? We could always cross it out later.

What better, when someone reads your work, for them to feel like a friend being addressed personally, and to think: ‘thanks for your lovely story’?

Jeff Phelps

Box of Tricks

Jeff Phelps

I was hooked. It is a nostalgic 1960s seaside tale with a set of endearing characters in a coming of age story that drew me straight in -- Sarah Broadhurst ― The Bookseller

ONE    

The first thing we heard was laughter, then the slamming of taxi doors. So it was pretty obvious they’d finally arrived – the Rodney Cooper Light Opera Company. From inside Vi’s boarding house I could tell it was like they were the opera, even if they weren’t actually doing it at the time. You could hear the noise following them round. I wouldn’t have been surprised if an orchestra had come out of the taxi with them.

My Auntie Vi, who was in the kitchen, walked down the hall when she heard them, trying to take her pinny off as she went. But somebody had already pushed the front door open and was standing in the hall singing, ‘Coo-ee’ at the top of her voice. ‘Coo-ee. Vi? Anyone at home?’

This was a pretty stupid question. There was always someone at home in Vi’s boarding house, the front door was open and there was Vi coming down the hall. Even my cousin Ray had crawled out of his pit and come to the top of the stairs rubbing his eyes. Quarter past eleven on his day off was early for him.

I stood in the hall like someone waiting to be overwhelmed by a giant wave. The Coo-ee woman had a fake fur coat and bangles that slid up and down one elegant, freckled arm when she talked. ‘Oh, my god, Vi, you look fantastic. What have you been doing with yourself?’ she said. She squeezed her and let her go again like she was a sponge.

This was hard to take because Vi was only a little woman and her face was tight and screwed up from years of scrubbing floors and shopping and cooking and looking after the place with only a bit of help from her mother, Nanny, and a lot of hindrance from Ray. To me she always looked the same. She still had that ingrained smell of disinfectant and spud peelings.

Then the rest of them were in the hall, filling it up. I counted five not including Vi, and an increasing flow of luggage. It was as if they were on a stage that was too small for them, jostling for the middle in case they fell off it. There were two youngish women called Maisie and Irene and, hovering near the door, a bloke with winkle picker shoes and a pleasant face. He reached through and shook Vi’s hand. ‘Alastair,’ he said and laughed nervously.

Charles was at the front, of course. Auntie Vi kept a framed photo of Charles on the sideboard in the kitchen. In the photo Charles was done up as Koko out of the Mikado. It was a real close-up of his face. It had been powdered white. His lips were dark and his eyes had been extended with slanted pencil lines. He had his hair pulled back under a little hat and wore a tunic with a Chinese collar. Handwritten in the bottom corner of the photo were the words, ‘To Vi with love as always’ and a squiggle which said ‘Charles’ and three neat kisses, all in black ink. So I recognised Charles as soon as I saw him. Except for his hair. Now there was no hat to restrain it, it sprang up round his head like a halo, the colour of a baby orang-utan. It contrasted with his bushy grey eyebrows.

Charles waited until the noise had died down before he held his arms out to Vi. She came and put her arms inside his coat which he had draped round his shoulders in a way that made me think he was just waiting for someone to take it off for him – some dresser or whatever they had in theatres.  ‘How are you, my Violet?’ he asked in a voice as sharp as a gramophone needle.

‘Glad to see you, Charles. At last. Just pleased to see you all.’ She only came up to the level of the purple handkerchief in the top pocket of his shirt.

Box of Tricks (Tindal Street Press) is available as an e-book from Amazon or from World of Books & other online book stores.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Box-Tricks-Jeff-Phelps/dp/095564769X

Of women who say ‘I’ll call you back’,
of botulism, Little Chef, Big Mac,
of dandruff, pyorrhoea, plaque,
be careful.

Of the condom borrowed from a well-meaning friend,
of accelerating into an unlit bend,
of staying at the party till the bitter end,
please, be careful.

When mixing metaphors, mixing drinks,
avenging pranks, creating stinks,
studying all night or unblocking sinks,
at least try to be careful.

Of being self-righteous, intolerant of vice,
of being impatient, of being too nice,
and regarding poems spiked with advice,
son, be careful.

……………………………..

Note of caution for a son going off to university is from Jeff’s poetry collection, Wolverhampton Madonna, published and available from Offa’s Press.

https://offaspress.co.uk/shop/

Jeff's poetry books Falling and Flying and Wolverhampton Madonna are available to buy from Offa's Press. https://offaspress.co.uk/shop/