Outside the glass window and inside the forest....

Konfessioner's word

Rockstar!

Anirudh Goswami is someone who intrigued me with his first scrap, after ten scraps, which involved me insisting he write for us, we lost touch! Partly because of the traffic in my scrapbook and my mind and partly because he is one BUSY student of law.. I'm charmed by his poetry..something does stir. Inside the forest is my absolute favourite... You can visit his blog at

http://scorpimage.blogspot.com

Thanks for putting up with Late Lolita Anirudh haha...

Cheers,
Shinjini

Author's intro:

(He never gave me one, and stole this picture from his album..and yeah it's him!!shhhh)

Outside the Glass Window

Outside the glass window have I seen…

Sea of clouds calm and serene…

Divinity flows in their every vein…

Melting away all your pain…

Layers of seamless waves of life…

Stairs to endless caves come alive…

Sitting atop this city of blue …

I’m finally beginning to have a clue…

That in this life I have to be…

The rays of the Sun and the infinite sea…

The emerald mountain and the solitary stream…

Where drops of life together flow…

And everything around it begins to glow…

Astonished by this miraculous show…

Let’s pledge to be the Sun’s Rainbow…

In The Forest

Verse 1

You never see the same river twice..

Be prepared! You gotta be wise..

The next time you go outta that door..

Don’t know what’s there for you in store..

Verse 2

Touching trees and falling leaves..

She smiles as she serenely sees..

The forest full of them who glow..

In pitch darkness they let their light flow..

Chorus

Seamless orbs of water fall..

In myriad ways looking tall..

You try your best to catch them all..

In front of them you feel so small..

Verse 3

I chose these lines for you to see..

The forest glow worms are you and me..

Looking at them I’ve found the key..

Immersed in light I’m finally free..

Structure:

Intro (Main Riff) – 8 bars.

1^st Verse

2^nd Verse

Chorus

Main Riff - 4 bars

3^rd Verse

Chorus

Interlude (violin solo leading along with vocals reciting something in either French/Spanish etc except Punjabi!)

Guitar solo

Chorus sung thrice

(Once over the interlude and twice on the normal music)

Outro with strains of vocal melody - 8 bars.

The Blue Lamp..

Konfessioner's word

Ajita, wow... The sanest Lucknavi lady on the www, a thinker (she's got the neurons guys!!) and someone I still haven't figured out... !! This girl isn't the one next door...and yeah, she likes F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Shelley. A prism for a smile and a spirit... ok !! read on!

"This poem is a narration of a poet’s journey and the forms of ‘thirst’ that a man experiences. Man by the law of society gives up his interests and chooses the ‘RIGHT’ path that is in favour of the ‘Need of The Hour’. As time passes he starts looking for various reasons to feel that he chose the right path, he did the right thing. ‘The Blue Lamp’ is a description of these mixed emotions and thoughts that this warrior [who was once our poet…] experiences on his way back from a battle. All that he knows is that his horse has fought a lot of battles and he has been on the right path until the time he finds himself ‘thirsty’, after one of his battles… in this dusty desert…. That looks familiar…. "

--Shinjini Singh

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Author's intro:

I always thought that I could write well. It was a personal opinion, as there never was an audience. And then, there came a day when this guy [who has been very familiar for no familiar reason] gave me a title and a background to write on… At first, I found it stupid, really… and then I realized how interesting it can be to find out that a lamp [which happens to be blue in colour] which that guy had just seen at a friends place, could help me gather so many thoughts that were always there but were craving to be expressed…

This poem is dedicated to:

Megaware Technologies, for giving me a computer and no work during internship, due to which I had enough time gather and put my thoughts

Ehsan, for the title and background…

Sushma, for giving the most honest review …'I loved it… but I did not understand it!’

‘The Blue Lamp’ talks about a man’s journey in time… It is as imaginative as it is practical.

Virginity, I believe, is a state of mind and I have always agreed with Kipling for putting it so simply

‘We have only virginity to lose,
And where we lose it, there our hearts will be!!’

-Ajita Mishra

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The Blue Lamp

Down a lonely desert,
Speeding on a horse,
With the dust trying to touch the sky,
Yearning…. For an Oasis
A Reflection… A Thought…
Blue Reflection.. Or Blue Thought?
Pensive… Realization…. The Reflection brought the thought,
But my horse had many a battles fought…
Distraction… concentrated weapon of thought
Understanding… the Mother of Confusion…
Tells me all this is just a fusion,
But my horse had many a battles fought…
Attraction… Desire… Madness…
The clutter of past was somewhere lost
Oh!!! How much can a reflection cost?
But my horse had many a battles fought.
The force was with a feeling fraught…
In which my soul was caged when caught…
This is the land of lost content
This is where a poet once was lost…
This is where he made his camp,
The guy, the thoughts and the Blue Lamp….
Oasis, sure, it seemed to be…
His thirst was quenched as he as free…
The place, the Lamp…. Didn’t seem so new…
The Lamp was always kind of Blue…
Oh ask me not how the war was won…
As my horse…. Had many a battles lost…

Running For...

Konfessioner’s Word

It's a bird, it's a plane... no!! it's Anahita Dordi... She's a BE in IT and is studying to be a commercial pilot. I've never spoken to 'Ana' but know her so well courtesy NM and now Sarang. A gorgeous lady with a name that means "the immaculate one".

Anahita's poem this week is strong, and stirs the runner in each one of us. Proud to have you grace the wall Ana!

- Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro

I am an IT engineer from Aurangabad currently in Pune, perusing studies to be a commercial pilot. Writing is my hobby, something I enjoy, something that relaxes me.

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RUNNING FOR...

Running down the lane, I wonder if I can make it.
With the crush of the pebbles under my shoes, I wonder if I can reach there.
Would running help?
Can I run and leave my sorrows behind?
I get a quiet wishper saying NO.
But still I continue running....
Running for hope.
Running for joy.
Running for happiness.
Running for fulfillment.
Running for victory.
Running to forget the past.
Running to make a new start.
Running because;
now its impossible to stop.
As the perspiration trickles down my brow;
I learn, its not going to be easy.
I still RUN.........Later as I continue running I realise that all myquestions are being answered.
Answered by the pain my legs were bearing.
By the cold wind which kissed my face and answereda million questions at a time.
By the soft and tender green grass which I stepped on.
By the sun rays which hit me straight into my eyesand said," Its difficult to face me, but the one who does, never fails".
It taught me that you dont get things on a platter and that hardwork always pays.
Soon I realise that running is not goin to be waste.
I'll definitely get what I wanted.
I will reach there.....There where no one has ever tread.
There where all my whishes will be granted.
There where dreams are realised.
There where the letter ' I ' derives its signiificance and people know me not by my name, but by the way I have come.

Stop!

Konfessioner’s Word

Mandappa, (Mandi to me!) is the archetypal writer-dude... I met him in an orkut community for Dylan fans, his pic (which was Dylan's) made me scrap him a dozen messages in a day...poor guy figured I'd ruin his life! Alas...!! and no I didn't eh Mandi? haha.. he's a copywriter, a poet, a nature lover, with a festish for folk music and pretty girls...lethal lethal!!

He's begun his journey with the word and being a lazy bounder, doesn't really show off his skills...but here's some Coorg curry for you guys.. Read Stop! and tell Mandi what you think.

Welcome to Knk Mandi!

p.s. You sure there aren't no Kings inside the gates of Eden?! :)

cheers,
Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro

Honestly, this is one wierd question. Are two words or a page enough to describe every fleeting moment of my 21 years of existence. From the gentle breeze that blew me from munnar, from home to boarding school in ooty to finally land up in a city called madras. if i say the breeze, will the breeze be the same in the different states. it neveer will, so the words will never do to introduce every tangent of mixed emotions and molecules that make me. i love my confusion, workin as a writer in advertising. a jack of all trades, a king of queens. deeper than the 6 feet of earth they will bury me in. thats about me.

[mandappa to the left with his brother in traditional warrior "costumes" haha..!]
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Stop!

It was just another ordinary day. The sun rose at the usual time. Though the moon came up a little late last night. I was up till four last night. Well not working hard as such, just out wasting some money on those so called pleasures of life. As I spent the previous evening with some friends of mine, talking about the things money could buy. The music player I wanted, the latest gaming gizmo, the pretty frock for my girlfriend, these were the things that swam in my mind. And as we indulged more that night, these things kept hounding me. How was I going to get them? Work, of course. Oops! Almost forgot. Had to be in office early the next day. Was late the entire week and I wont be surprised if I loose my job soon. Hard enough I was training in a top firm.

As any hung over morning I woke up late. Woke up, brushed, cleaned up, got ready as soon as I could, but it wasn’t fast enough. And sure enough I was late. Now I just had two things in my mind as I sat in the bus creaking along to office in peak hour traffic. I wanted to scream out to every one to move. Couldn’t they see I was in a hurry? I could loose my job, for god’s sake. Move, I yelled in my mind. I looked out and realised that most people were in a hurry. And any witness to Indian peak hour traffic would know the chaos that ensues. Honks here, abuses there, cops and cars everywhere. It was maddening and saddening.

This was supposed to be the rat race, the life in the fast line in a big urban town. Sure, it was fast! I could see. There I was, sitting in a metro-bus snaking along at 10 km/h, to a big box, that had no natural air or light. Just a/c and light bulbs! I would then spend the rest of the day flipping through files on a moaning computer. I could eat lunch, and watch a movie by the time a file opened. I spent the day staring at other people’s money. At their accounts. How they made money and how much they made. And if I was to get a salary doing that, you can imagine the kind of money those people must have. Now it does get frustrating. You keep looking at the pittance that fills your bank account at the beginning of every month while the rest of the month you stare at other people’s accounts being filled with pots of gold, literally. Anyway, I had that to worry about the rest of the day. So I filled my thoughts with sugar coated dreams.

Of how, I’d earn and save and buy all those things I dreamt of. How I would write a book and become a famous author. Sell millions of books and make pots of gold. And I could have anything in the world. So I dreamed.

And I dreamed some more. Of how I’d be so rich that I’d buy three four houses. And the one dream house that I would build on a little property in my hometown. Of how I’d be allowed to marry the girl of my dreams, irrelevant of caste or creed. Because I’d be famous and rich, now who can resist that? Of CD players, cars, dining in expensive places. It’s a dream, so I even threw in a trip to Azerbaijan (I don’t even know where that is.)

Yelling. Screaming. Honking. Oops! Back to reality. I am running late. Why isn’t the traffic moving? Oh, the government! Couldn’t they do anything? There again my mind began to race and my heart to pound. Why? Why was every one so incompetent? The roads were traffic-choked, the people had no place to walk, there were squatters on the side walk, four policemen staring into oblivion. Why?

I was thinking about the corruption. The power. The money. The world had become so materialistic that no one cared beyond themselves. No one, not the squatters, not the drivers, nor the policemen. In this so-called hub of activity and new paced life, there was death. Nobody spoke or shared or cared. And to call this modernism!

Finally, after what seemed like eternity I reached my stop. I jumped out and ran. I had to get across the road to reach my office. I was standing amidst a bunch of people as a haggled old man, with one leg, ragged and dirty came up behind me, I tried moving as far as I could from him, within the group so as to not carry his disease.

The light was red. But a few of the group decided to run across, as the traffic was just slowly coming. They ran across. I almost followed suit. I felt a hand stop me from behind, and whoosh! A bus just crossed in front of me. I turned to see the man in rags, who smiled at me and said, “slow down, the worlds going too fast to nowhere.”

The comforts of retribution

Konfessioner’s Word

Amandeep Singh Parmar sounds rebellious. Reads certainly so. His words are straight from the heart and they make sense. They reflect his clarity of thoughts, sensitive nature, and a volcano suppressed within. This gifted young man from Delhi has a striking style of writing and an impressive skill with words.

The little piece he has graced the Korner this week with will be but a taste of his character.

- Sarang Mahajan
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Author Intro

I'm Amandeep Singh Parmar (Aman), 24 years of age, working as a Customer Relationship manager with a small time IT firm, born and brought up in a conservative Sikh family in New Delhi. Most of my writings talk about women, darkness, things which people conceal and voice agnostic sentiments. I've been writing since grade school (5th standard) but it's only now that I've risen above stolen lollipops. I am a rebel with a keyboard & internet access, have been hated for my audacity and a liberal head

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The comforts of retribution

It's been ages since we've felt something...anything! We have become what we feared the most but we're still scared, because what we feared the most has risen to a level which we fear the most now! We all know that this is not the point where we've decided to stop. We'll go further and hence, farther in our delusions of greatness.

The question here is, WHAT do we fear the most? Our infantile feelings of personal omnipotence are helpful enough to search for the answer(s) to the above question. We fear our own breed. A farce called god was created to pacify those who never wanted to accept the truth about their fellow humans.

Who created this farce? 'The One'...for he knew, there's a point some people won't go beyond. So he limited their universe to a few holy verses and books. He then sat back and enjoyed them kill each other in the name of his gift to them.

People call me blasphemous. And who are they?

Puppy Love Set on Fire

The Konfessioner's Word:

Saying Prerna Gupta is a crazy girl would be an understatement! She's a firecracker that keeps getting brighter... We haven't met each other since seven years, she's still a little girl inside and Lucifer incarnate on the outside...horns et al! Currently a business management studies undergrad a Singapore...

This wild one is called "Pixu", and yeah she's cute and short... has nothing to do with writing, no aims in the field.. this is just an honest konfession.

Glad to have you here Prerna!

--Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro:

"I wanna meet my fairy god mother,
the guy that prints money,
a truly honest guy ( That's right lets all laugh on the count of 3. 1... 2... 3...??? booo u all cuz i found one),
Oprah, so she can take pity on me and donate to my charity.
FOr all those wanting, to donate 10 dollars, please call 1800-PixuNeedsMoney-567........"-- Stolen from her Orkut profile because "Pixu" disappeared soon after submitting an article.

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1.5 years of mails, pictures, silly cards, shoe-laces, movie tickets... set it on fire. Hahaha.
Silly movie ticket. The first time we went for a movie, I kept his as a souvenir. Obsessed, I guess. Puppy love. Set it on fire? Damn right I did.

1.5 years of mail. Snail-mail and email. How do you delete 693 emails? His first email that said- "I think we can make it work if only you give us a chance", it hurt just as much as my last email that said- "Don’t you think its just not working out?" And through it all, his replies were- "as long as you are happy". I thought - but that’s not it. What about us? Through it all we faked our insensitivity and composure. When I deleted everything, I prepared myself for a series of relations. Many came n went but it still felt empty.

I thought life would be fine, and it did.

Its been 2 years and now. It doesn't feel empty anymore. Finally I met someone just like him, yet so unlike him. He gave me his shoulder to cry on when my last fling got over. He said, "let us make it work out. Come to my world". Damn right I did. I went with the flow. He's just the guy I always wanted. Things are just the way I've always dreamt of. Luck, I guess.

I did lie to myself once. Cheated on myself. But it’s all gone. All over.
No more do I find strange love notes reappear from unsurprising nooks and corners. No more do I turn to look at any guy who smells like him. Though I still have the 2 inch burn mark on my right arm - an aftermath of me burning myself while proving my ironing skills to him. But every now and then the scar whispers to me - things have cooled down, jus the way they did when he iced your arm.

I thought I would never fall in love again. But I did. Fate and destiny, I guess.

Konfessioner's word:
Gracing the Konfessioner’s Korner this week is another traveler, of lands and of life. Mallika Mehra, a young and talented, dreamy poetess is outwardly just as usual as you and me, but a sea of thoughts and feelings, and of an art to express them, from within.

Her verse, A Drop of Life, is her wonderful perspective of looking at things that would normally be missed in mundane life.

The three Komrades of KnK are Grateful to her for the submission.

- Sarang Mahajan

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The Introduction of the poetess:
Hello everyone,

I am an engineering student from, Cummins College, Pune. I Hate monotony in life and like to challenge conventions. I am passionate about traveling, as in - without direction maps. Without books and music, life would be a desert. I stick to no certain philosophy, wouldn’t it make life monotonous?

And… I wish to know more of myself till the day I die.

- Mallika Mehra

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A drop of life.....

I Lay on my couch, lazily, flipping through the pages of a half torn novel....
The satin curtain teases me every time the wind blows....so tender yet so artificial....
I gaze outside the window....the earth seems still....is it the stillness within?
A pause....and the silence is broken by a thunder....and here it is....
The leaves dance with the wind more gracefully than a couple dancing salsa....
Folding the tip of the page of the novel, placing it on the table beside....I walk barefooted towards the middle of the garden....
I open my palms and a drop comes within....placed so peacefully....
I wonder how the drop adapted to change....
A change from the heaven where it was made to reach the earth....its destination....

Do I feel the burden of that one drop on my palm....?
Just as I wonder a thousand more follow....

A drop of hope....
A drop of joy....
A drop of thrill....
A drop of passion....

A drop of life....

- Mallika Mehra

The Konfessioner's word:

Karma's prodigal daughter graces the walls of the Konfession Korner this week. Welcome Mekhala Chaubal, the invisible msn friend I've had for over two years.... At 20, "The Biskoot Smuggler" as she calls herself, is the quintessential writer...

Forever in love, muse and moon and shine doter, creator of beauty in verse and prose, sinfully sweet and true...The girl brings it all across in her doggerel and her short stories. It's never been so hard to select work for the Korner, we finally zeroed in on "Opium",

"The poem is meant to be from the point of view of Afghani women forced to live under the Taliban regime and what I see as their only means of escape."--Mekhala.

Currently a columnist with "The Gulf News", you can visit the author's column archive at:--

http://archive.gulfnews.com/search/result.jsp?query=mekhala%20chaubal&filters=all&page=1&RadChoice=all

Thanks 'Chorni' for the treat!

- Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro:

Hello All,

My name's Mekhala and I'm a Creative Writing and Global Studies major at Randolph-Macon Woman's College in Virginia in the USA. To me, writing's not a hobby, a passion or even a way of life- it's my reason to wake up everyday. If anyone were to ask me why I write, my reply would be, 'Because, really,what else is there?' Oh, that, and the fact that I want to start a new revolution of the soul.

Laughs, hope, peace everyone.

Mekhala.

In the picture: Mekhala to the right, with a friend at Central Park, New York.
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Opium

Sweet poppies drifting in the wind,

and I taste their charm.

Bittersweet, like love lost,

time and motion mould into one.

Let’s pick some, brew them,

lose ourselves in them.

And maybe, feel free,

if only for a moment.

Tears of Aphrodite,

Ambrosia to our souls,

enchantment in a seed,

we’ll die young, you say

but we say, “We’ve kissed God.”

Veils hide all,

sins are but truths twisted,

Crush the body,

but the spirit soars even now!

Fabric transforms into wings,

like birds we fly,

until at last

sorrow seeps in,

reality rushes back.

And like a bolt from the blue,

fabric weighs me down.

My chador, my Afghanistan,

my poppies, my opium.

The Konfessioner's Word:

Another beautiful mind engages you this week, welcome Janie from England! The first poem I read by this amazing lady was one called "yellow" a passage from which I take the liberty to quote--

"Yellow is the sky
Yellow is the colour
Of daisy centres
That catch my eye
As we walk in yellow fields
Spilling our secrets
Like poppy seeds on Sunday..."

And this is Janie in her element...bright, beautiful and friendly, the yellow sunflower this week at Karma n Konfessions. Cake wars is something deliciously different from what we've featured in the Konfession Korner in the past few weeks... Who's cake wins? Cynthia or Margaret? did your tastebuds tingle? mine did! read on!

- Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro:

Hello, my name is Janie and I live in England. I started writing in February 2006 and found out that I quite enjoy it. Now just I can’t stop and my house, which used to be like a Wimpy show home, is a total mess because I’m too busy writing. I only do housework when my Mother is due to visit, she is a cleaning freak and would go ballistic saw it now…please somebody help me!! Is there a writers anonymous group I can attend where I can get help?…preferably with the vacuuming.

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Cake Wars

The scent of raspberries and baking filled the kitchen. Margaret hummed along to ‘Blake’s Jerusalem’ as she bustled about. She was making cakes and her famous prize winning jam for the church jumble later that day.

“There’s no way that Cynthia is going beat me this time. Who does she think she is anyway?” she said to herself, stirring yet more sugar into the scarlet vat of bubbling globules. “She comes along as brazen as you like, fluttering her eyelashes, chatting up the vicar. She has no idea of church protocol. She’s shameless is that one! Her in her low cut blouses and lacy under slip hanging below her skirt… like a harlot!” Her face hardened and turned the colour of a damson plum when she thought of her rival.

Cynthia had enrolled with the WI not long ago when she’d moved into the area. A widow, looking for time to fill, she’d joined the women’s institute in the hopes of making new friends, but Margaret, the chairperson, had taken an instant disliking to her, when, at the monthly church jumble sale, Cynthia had set up a cake stall. That was Margaret’s department, nobody could bake like Margaret, the woman prided herself on her cream horns and éclairs like you wouldn’t believe and hadn’t taken kindly to the competition at all. Her face had been like stone when all the blue rinse regulars had tried out Cynthia’s wares and then she’d heard them gushing about her chocolate muffins later.

Margaret had spoken to Vicar about it afterwards but had gotten nowhere

“Vicar, I’m sure we don’t need two cake stalls at the jumble,” she’d said, giving him the evils. Margaret had proper fallen out with him of late, he’d ignored her a lot since Cynthia had arrived on the scene and her nose felt distinctly out of joint. Margaret had always prided herself on being his blue-eyed girl but it seemed to her that Cynthia had taken over that slot too.

“One can never have enough cake Margaret,” he’d replied, nibbling voraciously on one of Cynthia’s cream puffs, "besides, it’s all good for business, we’ll have that new church roof in no time at all.”

And so it came to pass that the cake wars began.

Every month, the women would each try to outdo the other by coming up with more and more exotic recipes and fancies than the last time. The one with the most cakes left over at the end of the day was deemed to be the loser. The one whose big cake was chosen for the raffle would glance across at the other with a knowing smirk, as if to say “ yes you bitch, my coffee gateaux pissed all over that pathetic lemon torte of yours.”

Cynthia wasn’t usually so competitive about things, but she’d decided that Margaret needed pulling down a peg and that she was the one to do it. This month would be different; she had a secret ingredient to add to her cakes, ensuring her victory. Her nephew had dropped by as she was baking and she’d told him about Margaret and the cake wars.

“Never fear Auntie, I have just the thing, this will keep the punters coming back to your stall all afternoon, I guarantee it,” he’d said producing a bag of green crushed leaves. “It’s a special herb, you know how cats love catnip? Well, this has the same effect, only on humans. Nobody will be able to stop eating your cakes once they’ve tried one, you’ll be sold out in no time at all, I‘d bake extra if I were you”

Cynthia sniffed it. “It smells strange,” she’d said looking dubious.

“Trust me,” he’d replied, “if you don’t sell the lot I’ll buy them myself.”

Cynthia liberally sprinkled the herbs into each of her batches of cake mixture. Her eyes gleamed when she saw her butterfly buns and rock cakes rising n the oven, they looked fantastic. Now all she had to do was decorate her gateaux, and if that got picked for the raffle, well, that would truly be the icing on the cake for her, equivalent to sticking vees up to that old battleaxe.

The stalls were all set up ready and waiting for the church doors to open as the vicar did his final inspection. Margaret and Cynthia’s stalls were bang opposite across the hall. Their eyes met and they stared daggers at each other through the haze of potted plants, old crockery and wind chimes. A rowdy mob of pensioners could be heard outside, all chomping at the bit to get in and snap up the bargains.

“Right, battle stations ladies,” the vicar addressed his harem of fundraisers as he unbolted the huge wooden doors.

He was almost crushed against the font as the blue rinsers barged through, knocking him flying.

It was always the same; first they browsed the stalls, arguing over who’d seen what first and who should buy it. Sometimes fisticuffs would ensue as hands grabbed at things already being considered by others. Maureen went home with a black eye once, and all over a crimplene frock too. They were like animals. Then it was tea and cake time. It was a bit quieter then, once they’d got cream doughnut or two down them.

Trade was brisk at both stalls initially, Cynthia was rushed off her feet, she’d already sold half of her stock. It was about twenty minutes later when she noticed a strange glazed look in the vicar’s eyes as he munched on one of her butterfly buns.. his third actually. The blue rinse brigade looked distinctly chilled too as they sat supping tea and munching her cakes like there was no tomorrow.

Gloria and Doris approached Cynthia for yet more scones, their uncontrollable giggles could be heard as they stuffed themselves silly. Soon word got around about how fabulous Cynthia’s cakes were. The queue stretched from the organ to the altar as Cynthia bagged up the remains of her bakes and then Vicar slurred his announcement.

“Raffle tickets are now on sale for Cynthia’s wonderful chocolate gateaux.”

Everyone went into a ticket buying frenzy then. Vicar even had to send out for more ticket books, such was the demand.

“By Jove I think you’ve done it Cynthia, the roof is sight!” he cried, gazing at her ample breasts. A strange feeling washed over him, he could feel his erection growing beneath his cassock. “Would you like to stay and have a sherry with me afterwards?”

“I’d love to vicar,” Cynthia smiled triumphantly, fluttering her lashes profusely.

Margaret stood behind her cake stall looking like an ice maiden. Her full trays of scones, cream horns and éclairs stared sadly back at her. Her jars of unsold prize winning jam with their frilly gingham caps seemed to mock her. She was the only one in the room without a smile plastered from ear to ear.

Margaret did smile sometime later. It was after she’d eaten her third slice of chocolate gateaux, the one she won in the raffle.