Hello, Hello folks, and Hello to Rochelle, and thank you to Rochelle for hosting this rabble of Wiley Wordsmiths in their endeavours to write the perfect little tale, with a start, middle and end; Well, I can always try! Thank you also to Anshu Bhojnagarwala who has provided this wonderfully evocative photograph, just wish I had some kindling or i’d be sat next to the fire, as it is it looks as though i’ll have to chop up some furniture to get it going. The actual story is in bold, so keep on reading, you’ll get there shortly!
This week I was reminded of a not so merry King Cole and his previous misadventures, catalogued here Cole’s back story. I’ve been running out of children’s characters to bastardise and hopefully ruin their reputations. With the invention of the internet, many of these folk have had to scratch around for another living.
The scene is set, the thinking cap on, the Gin poured and the starters pistol fired… Here goes.
The Coleford’s farmer’s market was dire before Brexit; used baby clothes, and dubious aphrodisiacs.
Poorly turned Wooden Bowls,”Cole’s Bowels“, hadn’t sold well and curse that bloody signwriter.
The Ancient Royal Hunting woodland kept folk warm as European fuel prices rocketed; “The Forest of Dean” plunged into economic free-fall after Brexit; Cole was looking for a new venture.
As Older King Cole sat gazing into the fire on his St Briavels allotment, his thoughts turned to Free-mining and the chimerical untapped coal seams under the forest.
He was going to need a different sign; “Coles Coals” and a different signwriter.
So there we are; 100 words on the nose, and maybe there is light at the end of the tunnel…