Okay, so this is the state of play so far as Sleepy Hamlet is concerned: I've had so much outside stuff to deal with lately I haven't had the time or the energy to get on with what I really want to get on with and as a result projects like the Night of the Village Idiots has taken a most undeserved back seat. But that is about to change.
Over the past few days I have been piling through the editing; chapters have fallen like nine pins against my perusing eye and I am well and truly past the half way stage.
Once I have completed this it will to go to a proof reader---which should a few days---before coming back to me to put up on Kindle and CreateSpace.
Now plenty of authors state that you must put it on Kindle for a few months before releasing it on CreateSpace; I guess this is more to do with creating two sales events rather than one. But I see it this way: If I have something to publish I will publish it on as many platforms as possible at the same time, so you can go out, there and then, and purchase my books in your chosen format.
It's not like I wont ever mention it again. A bit like I about to mention my first POD project: Ryan's Dinosaur Dreams, which is a lovely little book for children and can be viewed and purchased by clicking
here or on the books image on the side bar.
See, I did that after the event and no one was bothered. So no fancy gimmicks with me; simply write it, publish it, and announce it!
Now because I haven't exactly gotten up to speed on this whole book thing I've decided to give you another sample chapter read. This will be the second chapter, but if you're new to the whole concept of Sleepy Hamlet then pop along to my previous post and read
chapter 1, which can be found at the bottom of the article.
But for those of you who are familiar with my odd-ball, eccentric, nut-job villagers, and are raring to get on with this next freebie chapter, then zoom away and enjoy my friends.
Chapter II
Down
in the large expansive kitchens of Hamlet Hall a trio of servants huddled
against the raging storms outside. They were variously: Mrs Bothy, the
flatulent head cook, Cheri, the maid with a curtsying fixation and the very
solid form of Jennings, Hamlet Hall’s staunch head butler.
Cheri
was fussing around Mrs Bothy who was in a state of severe anxiety--- due to the
fact that she was terrified of thunder and lightning--- always had been, ever
since a bolt had come through her bedroom window as a child and done
unmentionable things to her Smurf collection. As a result every time lightning
turned the sky white, she panicked; and when she panicked, her bodily functions
panicked too and with volcanic ramifications.
Jennings,
ever the diplomat so far as Mrs Bothy’s prolonged and sustained bodily function
fits were concerned, had suggested opening the window slightly, but his
suggestion had been met with hysteria and sounds not unlike the tuba section of
an Orchestra tuning up. So Mr. Jennings had retired to his pantry, shut the
door and busied himself polishing the family silver; a very therapeutic pastime
and one with which he enjoyed to levels of near curative ecstasy.
But
several times during his self imposed confinement Mr Jennings had been
interrupted by the hysterical Mrs Bothy. He’d heard pots and pans being dashed
to the floor as she ran herself into a frenzy and the klaxon call of her
screams could be heard above the storm that raged and beat with an unrelenting
ferocity outside.
Eventually
Jennings could take no more. He put down his polishing cloth and resealed the
tin of silver powder he used to get that extra shine on his cutlery. He sighed
and resigned himself to the fact he was not going to get any more peace that
night. He stood, righted his waist coat, set his jaw into a state of formality
and headed towards the door to his Butler’s pantry.
As he
opened it wide, his eyes filled with alarm as the portly, flour encrusted shape
of Mrs. Bothy honed into view at a distressing speed and density--- looking and
sounding like an inflated balloon that has just been released to fly around the
room.
Jennings
tried to avoid her by enacting some kind of dodging tactics and leaped to his
left. Unfortunately, Mrs Bothy, catching site of the butler, had the exact same
idea and dived to her right; the result was a mid air collision of the
downstairs hierarchy.
Mrs
Bothy, although much shorter in stature, had the consistency and shape of a
cannon ball. And when in full flight she was very hard to stop. Add to this the
air that was expelling violently from her behind and she was now more akin to a
surface to air missile: Jennings, it was fair to say, stood no chance.
The
impact was resounding.
They
alighted in an embrace of pomposity and flour; they flew through the air with
as much decorum as one could elicit under the circumstances and their landing
was not a fitting one for a head cook and a butler of forty years experience.
They crashed through the pantry door and rolled several times before coming to
a confusing, if not tangled mass of arms, legs, pinnies and highly polished
shoes--- with Mrs Bothy on top.
Jennings,
always the consummate professional, tried to regain some propriety but before
he could issue his regal cough, a thunderous clap filled their ears; Mrs Bothy
released a lightning crack of her own and launched them a further two feet into
the room. Jennings groaned.
Cheri
the maid came bursting in, transfixed with horror at the scene set out before
her. A scene that had the head cook trying to disentangle herself from the very
haughty form of Mr Jennings. She, not knowing what to do next, did what she
always did when uncertain, and curtsied herself into a frenzy.
Eventually,
and after the confusing and complicated disentanglement process of the senior
down stairs staff had been completed satisfactorily to all the participating
parties concerned, Mrs Bothy and Mr. Jennings retired to the large scrub top
kitchen table where they both sat, chastened and more than a little shaken by
their experience. Cheri, once her curtsying fit could be curtailed, was
dispatched to the larder to bring a strong bottle of restorative red wine and
two glasses. While Cheri could be heard clattering around in the wine cellar, Jennings
took the opportunity to straighten his tie and posture while Mrs Bothy adjusted
her piny, flicked off a few more layers of flour and generally fussed around
her personal fixtures and fittings. Cheri came back in due course with the wine
and Jennings administered the sedatives to both himself and Mrs Bothy. Cheri
looked on in hopeful attendance and the butler acquiesced with a sigh and
poured her a small measure into an old chipped Jubilee mug, which was received
gratefully to another encore of curtsies.
Jennings
cleared his throat, placed his still half full glass on the table and cradled
the stem as if in deep and ponderous thought. Mrs Bothy looked up and awaited
the butler’s pearls of wisdom.
“Mrs
Bothy” he began “I feel that your fear of lightening has reached a point that
it can no longer be ignored. I know, that is to say, we all have stood by and
forgiven you your, ah, eccentricities, so far as the rumblings of the elements
are concerned, but what has just occurred crossed all boundaries of decorum
and, most would say, taste. It is one thing, Mrs Bothy, to run around screaming
and generally setting the fillings of your audience’s teeth on edge, but when
you bring me into your phobic world of panic, ending up as it did with the pair
of us in a position that can only be described as ‘compromising’ and in front of the lower servants, Something, I’m
sure you’ll agree, has to be done”
Mrs
Bothy opened her mouth, as if to reply, when the air was rent to a thunder-clap
of biblical proportions. Mrs Bothy leaped off her seat; her chubby little legs
collided with the tables’ underbelly, sending the glasses and bottle leaping an
inch or two off the surface. All, that is, except for Mr Jennings’s wine
glass---that made it all the way above his noble brow where it halted, did a
little spin, and liberated its contents about his features.
The
room fell into silence. All that could be heard were the drip-drip-dripping
sounds of a fine Bordeaux and Mrs Bothy as she let out a low-level emission
that sounded like a deflating whoopee cushion.
Mr
Jennings was mentally verbalising a dressing down and would indeed have delivered
it with his best sermon-on-the-mount intonation. But something held his anger
in check. Ever the diplomat and consummate professional, he rose above the cave
man and held his tongue.
Instead
he sought to solve the problem. He knew his head cook had genuine concerns with
thunder and lightning--- it was indeed an affliction that gripped a great deal
of the worlds’ population---but he was also aware that something had to be done
to alleviate his head cooks predicament.
As he was pondering the seemingly
imponderable, the room lit up once more. Jennings absent mindedly counted off
the seconds, five...six...seven...eight...nine...ten... then a rumble of
thunder rippled its way across the night sky and Mrs Bothy baritoned in reply.
Jennings
looked up, the semblance of a light bulb haloing above his shiny domed head. A
faint flicker of a smile twitched apprehensively at the corner of his mouth and
his eyes looked heaven wards as if in exultation. In that simple act of absent
minded counting, Jennings had had his eureka moment. He had had his ‘great’ idea. He was aware he could probably
never cure Mrs Bothy of her fear of lightning, but he thought he’d at least
found a way of controlling it; and that was better that nothing.
Once
Mrs Bothy had calmed down from the last thunder-clap and was once again in her
seat, and he was sure he had her full attention; Jennings began to outline his
thoughts.
He
told Mrs Bothy of the theory--- as far as he understood it--- that for every
second that lapsed between the bright light and the resultant rumbling or
thunder-clap it represented a mile in distance between it and them, and so long
as the light and the thunder-clap were never in the same time or space she had
nothing to fear, and that if such an occurrence did happen, then she had his
full permission to panic to whatever levels she saw fit.
But Mrs Bothy, aware as she was of Mr
Jennings’ great mind and wealth of knowledge, was still not fully convinced. So
he smiled and patted her shaking hands with fatherly kindness and asked her to
at least conduct a little scientific experiment with him and count the seconds
off. This she tentatively agreed to do, but reserved the right to raise holy
hell if it came through the window and disintegrated something again. Mr
Jennings agreed to her terms and they waited.
No
sooner had Jennings stated that the last one had been to the count of ten, the
room lit up once more. They all began to count, Mr Jennings and Cheri counted
to eleven, Mrs Bothy, who was counting in a state of severe agitation, had
reached four hundred and twenty eight by the time the thunder clap came. The
next rumble reached twelve and the third, fifteen.
“You
see” reasoned Jennings “it’s getting further away, not closer. You’re quite
safe now.”
Mrs
Bothy seemed to visibly un-knot. Her shoulders slackened and she took a
relief-filled deep breath, releasing it with a relaxing smile. For the first
time since her Smurf collection had been vaporised, Mrs Bothy began to feel a
little better about thunder and lightning.
But
not for long.
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