I am Not Roald Dahl! Read online

of getting out from the rushing waters alive. I searched frantically for any handhold that I could use to pull myself out from the waterfall. By this time I was cold, so cold my hands were turning numb, but I persisted nevertheless until after, what seemed like an eternally, I managed to find a handhold secure enough to trust my life with. As I held onto it, I prayed to my God, imploring him to save me from the cruel waters around me. Then, then, my right foot broke free of the rocks that had saved me, and I slowly, ever so slowly pulled myself out from the cruel waters. I drove all the way home wearing only my underwear. My brother said everyone was looking at me, but I was so happy to be alive, to have escaped that terrible waterfall; I cared not what anyone thought of me driving my car, so. This really did happen. It is a true story, which I am only now recording onto paper. Moreover, to this day, despite returning to that spot on several occasions since then, I have never, ever ventured any closer to it than the par parking area.

  Hickory Dickory Dock

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck one,

  The mouse ran down,

  Hickory dickory dock.

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck two,

  He grew wings and flew,

  Hickory dickory dock.

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck three,

  The mouse roamed free,

  Hickory dickory dock.

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck four,

  He plays some more,

  Hickory dickory dock.

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck five,

  “I’m glad to be alive!”

  Hickory dickory dock.

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck six,

  The mouse, he slipped,

  Hickory dickory dock.

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck seven,

  The mouse went to heaven,

  Hickory dickory dock.

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck eight,

  Mouse at the Pearly Gates,

  Hickory dickory dock

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck nine,

  The mouse now dines,

  Hickory dickory dock.

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck ten,

  Off we go again,

  Hickory dickory dock,

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck eleven,

  The mouse, still in heaven,

  Hickory dickory dock.

  Hickory dickory dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock,

  The clock struck twelve,

  The mouse fell down to hell,

  Hickory dickory dock: he’s gone.

  Suddenly Alone

  Suddenly I find myself alone on a strange beach. Not far out, directly in front of me, a huge oil tanker, one of ever so many that transport the lifeblood of our increasingly industrialised world, sluggishly passes. Watching it cut its way through the dark, murky waters, I do not see even one sign of life along its entire length.

  Taking note of my surroundings, the situation I find myself in, I cast my eyes left and then right. The beach I am on is flat, stretching away far into the distance. Looking down at my feet, at the cold, damp sand beneath them, I think of the warm, golden beaches of sunnier climes. This one – wherever it is – is certainly not one of them. It reminds me of Dollymount Strand, a few miles from the city of Dublin, a beach that, because of its huge size and splendid isolation, on first sight always energises my soul. However, it is a beach that on closer inspection of its grey, cold, compacted sand and abundance of litter, creates within my soul a sigh of pensive melancholy at how uncaring a large section of humanity truly is.

  Directly in front of my shoe, almost touching it, a green plastic bottle rests, waiting for eternity to erase its unwanted presence. I grab hold of the spade (I do not know where it came from) and begin digging a hole. Only a couple of inches down, and the sand has already changed dramatically. It is now a congealed sticky blackness. It turns my stomach that threatens to expel its last meal. With the help of the spade’s sharp blade, trying to ignore this imminent expulsion, I tap the offending article into the newly excavated hole. It has no sooner fallen into the hole, than the seawaters run in, covering it in a slimy mess of liquefied grunge.

  Watching the demise of the green plastic bottle, my senses are suddenly jolted. My heart skips a beat. Where is this water coming from? Only a moment earlier the waterline was several yards away. Now, with the hole well and truly consigned to the annals of oblivion, the lapping waters are surrounding my feet. It is lucky that I am wearing these Wellingtons –heaven knows where I got them! Why, I have not owned a pair off Wellingtons for years! However, here I am, on a strange beach, (is it really Dollymount Strand?) facing the imminent arrival of a new tide, wearing them!

  The tide and its rushing waters continue, relentlessly, waiting for neither man nor beast, as it has done for millennia. I cannot stay here. I turn around. Only then do I realise how far from shore I am. Wasting no time, walking with a brisk pace, I head for the safety of dry land. With large strides and equally large determination of mind, I splash through the encroaching waters, remembering days long ago when I was splashing through the puddles of my childhood. It is fun! Life should always be so. Why do we lose so much of the magic of youth in our journey through life? I am giddy.

  After a while, I find it harder to walk, the fast-moving waters having advanced several feet in front of me. The splashing about that I enjoyed so much only a few minutes earlier takes on an entirely different renown. My pace is too slow. I will have to speed up, to try and out run it. Breaking into a saunter, I soon catch up with the waters’ vanguard, and even outpace it. The promise of dry land, however, is still a long way off.

  Almost halfway across the huge, cold beach of my eternal winter, ahead of the incoming waters, I see a problem. Twenty or so yards in front of me, there is a dip in the land. It is only a couple of feet deep – three at most, but enough to pose a real danger.

  I quicken my pace. I try to outrun the fast-moving waters. I must cross the depression before the tide fills it in. As I race into the sunken area, I can feel the sand slipping, sliding beneath my feet. It is hard to keep my speed up. I try. It is so difficult. Afraid, I glance over my shoulder. I can see the waters tumbling down the slope, churning the sand, bubbling and boiling. I am still ahead of it, though. I still have a chance of outrunning it! Shifting my gaze to the far side of the dip, to the safety of its brow, I head towards it with renewed vigour. I can outrun it. I know I can. Soon I am striding, boots splashing, up the far side. The sand here is also loose underfoot. My sped slows down. I cannot slow down. I must reach the top, and be over it. The waters rising, my feet are churning, the sand, I am clinging, fighting, climbing. No, I am lying. The water is reaching over my boots, and into. My feet are freezing – I am losing, tripping. Beneath the water, I am slipping, sliding, dying; finished, I am gone...

  Beneath warm, dry sheets, sweet smelling linen, I am in my bed, oh how I am smiling. How did this happen? Was I only dreaming? It must be so; it is still not morning. I roll over and cuddle up anew. What is happening, spilling out? Where did this water come from? Why am I wearing Wellingtons?

  Dawning Has Woken

  Dawning has woken, my spirit is yearning,

  Sunrise has broken first light of the day,

  I sing forth in
honour,

  I sing for the dawning,

  I sing forth in hope this month of the May.

  A time of pure magic, of light in the garden,

  Gone is the darkness, winter’s cold chill,

  I sing for God’s love ever so near us,

  Here to protect us while life still remains.

  Give me the springtime,

  Give me the warming,

  Life’s precious magic,

  Returning anew,

  I sing for the season,

  I sing with this reason,

  God’s closer us now this month of the May.

  Dawning has woken my spirit, it’s yearning,

  Sunrise has broken first light of the day,

  I sing forth in honour,

  I sing for the dawning,

  I sing forth in hope all month of the May.

  A Walk on the Beach

  Whenever I am asked what is the most memorable thing that I can remember from my childhood days, I always in no doubt as to what the answer should be. It is Dollymount Strand. I was ten years of age, when it happened. Even after all of these years, I can still remember it so clearly. We were on holiday, in Ireland, out walking, taking a stroll on a wonderful stretch of deserted coastline. As I walked along, ahead of my parents and my brother and sister, the scene beneath my feet enthralled me. I marvelled at the rocks, the pools, the sea weed—everything amazed me.

  Suddenly, my attention was drawn away from this natural wonder; to something decidedly manmade, reflecting the sun’s rays – and so brilliantly. I leant over to see what it could be. Spying a golden-coloured locket and chain, amongst the beach debris, I picked it up, so I might inspect it in more detail.

  The locket and chain were highly detailed and exquisitely crafted. On one side of the locket there were five glass domes that surrounded a larger one in the middle of it. Beneath each of the smaller domes a lock of human hair had