Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

John And Gillian

“John! Gillian!” their mother called, “Go up the hill and fetch a paler water for me.”

“What, now, Mum?” moaned John.

“Yeah. Scooby-Do’s on in a minit and we doan wanna miss it!” added Gillian.

“Yes now! I’m thirsty, and Scooby-Do is all repeats anyway.”

“Yeah, but …”

“No but’s, just do as you’re told!”

“Oh, alright; but what’s the point of going up the hill? The well and the stream are at the bottom – much shorter walk too,” pointed out John.

“Because I want you to go to Mrs Glumface and she lives at the top of the hill that’s why. That’s the only place to get paler water.”

“Nonsense, Mother!” interrupted Gillian. “Why doancha just geddit outa the tap; and for heaven’s sake, no one calls it a pail anymore, not outside of nursery rhymes anyway. Call it a bukkitt, like everyone else does.”

“Firstly, this is a nursery rhyme we’re in. Secondly who said anything about buckets? And thirdly, … actually I’ve forgotten thirdly.”

“You did. You said get a pail of water. And I said, ‘why not get it out of the tap?’”

“You’re talking nonsense, girl! I can’t get paler water out of the tap!”

“Oh no! You forgot to pay the water bill again, didn’t you?” moaned John – he was quite good at moaning.

“No, I didn’t forget! There’s nothing wrong with the water supply.”

“Then why do you want us to go to Mrs Glumface to fetch a bucket of water?”

“Who said anything about a bucket? And what would I want you to get water from Mrs Glumface for when we’ve got plenty in the tap?”

“But you SAID go up the hill to fetch a pail of water!”

“No I didn’t! … Ah, I see, you didn’t listen properly; not a PAIL OF water – a PALER water. Mrs Glumface has her still running again, and ‘Paler Water’ is what she calls her best gin – short for ‘paler than water’ or something no doubt. Now go and fetch me a bottle of it.”

“But Mum, we’re too young to buy alcohol in a shop.”

“Well, Mrs Glumface’s business isn’t exactly a registered one is it? She doesn’t have to worry about losing her licence for selling to minors, ‘cos she hasn’t got a licence to lose! Her worry is the police or excise men finding the still. If she knows who someone is, and she certainly knows you two, she’ll sell to anyone as long as they’ve got cash. Oh, and ask her to put it on the slate ‘til the end of the month.

“Now, off you go.”

“Awri’ Mum,” muttered Gillian.

Mrs Glumface somehow managed to always match her name – and then some.

When Gillian and her brother knocked at her door, she answered it with a look that said, ‘As if today wasn’t bad enough already, now you arrive.’

What she actually said was, “Hello, what can I do for you?” But she said it in a glum voice.

“Mum sent us to get some Paler Water,” said John as politely as possible.

“Why don’t you just get water out of the tap at home, dears. And people call it a bucket these days.”

She waited until their faces were contorted with frustration and then said, “Or do you mean a bottle of my best gin? Just my little joke up about the tap and the bucket.” She laughed heartily but humourlessly. Like many people with no sense of humour, she prided herself on being funny.

John thought it safest to just nod – there was little chance she could make a ‘joke’ from that!

Mrs Glumface disappeared for a minute and returned with a bottle which she slipped into a brown paper bag. “Don’t want Constable Bigplates seeing what you’ve got, do we?”

“Oh, and Mum said please put it on the slate,” remembered John.

“Will do, dearie. I can always tell what sort of a month she’s having by how much gets onto the slate. Looks like a pretty bad month this time. Eh?”

This time Gillian nodded and mumbled something almost undecipherable as John took the bag holding the bottle of gin.

“Goodbye then,” called Mrs Glumface as she shut the door.

John and Gillian started slowly down the hill.

“I wonder what ‘Paler water’ gin tastes like,” pondered John.

“We shouldn’t try it should we?” whispered Gillian.

“No!” agreed John.

“But we’re going to aren’t we?” continued Gillian with a wicked smile.

“Oh, yes!” replied John with a smile that was even more wicked.

They sat down beside the road in a nook in the hedge that bordered it. John pulled the bottle from the paper bag.

“Oh, classy!” said Gillian on seeing that the gin was contained in an old beer bottle, “And not even a label on it.”

“Hmm,” said John, “It’s got a “P’ written on the crown cap; I s’pose that that’s her code for what’s in it.”

“Worl, le’s find out waoz innit,” urged his sister. “You gotta bottle opener?”

“Nah, but I can use my belt buckle,” replied John. “I’ve seen some people use their teeth – but it’s always scared me; I have visions of ending up with a mouthful of broken teeth.” He undid his belt and moved the buckle over the bottle top.

“Justa minit! Won’t Mum notice we’ve opened it?”

“Nah! Just ease all round carefully and then I can bang it back on.”

“What about the bottle not being full?”

“As long as we don’t take too much, I can top it up with water; she won’t notice.”

Gillian giggled again and watched John expertly remove the cap with minimal damage to it.

John was well brought-up so he said, “Ladies first,” and handed the bottle across.

Gillian took a tentative sip and passed the bottle back. “Mmm, nice! I see why Mum likes it.”

John took a rather larger sip. “Yes, it sort of burns as it goes down; but in a nice way.”

The bottle passed back to Gillian who decided it was safe to take a larger gulp this time. Unfortunately, she overdid it and coughed and spluttered. “Not too much at a time, John,” she managed as she handed the bottle back.

John took a more moderate swig and only spluttered a little. “Do you want some more?” he asked.

“Maybe just a li’l bit; we don’t wanna water it too much so Mum notices. Besides we …” She stopped and tipped her head. “Can you hear that?”

John listened carefully and soon could hear the heavy clump and crunch of gravel as someone wearing size twelve shoes and walking flat-footed proceeded down the road. There was only one person locally who walked like that.

“Constable Bigplates!” they cried in unison.

John forced his way through the hedge. In his rush he completely forgot there was a steep bank the other side of it and he promptly fell down it and landed with a thump. “Oh no!” he wailed, “I’ve broken my crown!”

“Sshh!” hissed Gillian as she tumbled down the bank after him, carefully holding the bottle upright so none was spilt. “He’ll hear us!” she whispered.

They huddled at the bottom of the bank in silence until the sound of the mighty kippers of the unsuspecting constable began to recede. Then Gillian asked her brother, “Are you hurt?”

“No, not really, just a bit shocked.”

“What was that about breaking your crown then?”

“Well, not MY crown; I meant the crown cap from the gin bottle.”

“It’s broken?”

“Well, not so much broken as bent. I landed on it when I fell; look.”

“Oops! It is bent! How are we going to get that back onto the bottle?”

“I think I can straighten it out, but the wad from inside the cap has gone – I’ll have to make a new one. Let’s get home.”

“You start. I’ve got loads of burrs in my skirt from the bank. I’ll hafta pick “em out or Mum will ask awkward questions.”

“Alright, but hurry.”

Up John got and home did trot. Actually, John hoped to be a clown or a jester when he was older and he liked to practice his funny walks, so he decided that this was an ideal time to practice his fastest caper.

He topped up the gin bottle from the garden tap and then sneaked in through the back door and hurried to his bedroom, being careful that his mother didn’t see him. He sat down and used pliers from his tool box to straighten out the crown cap.

Replacing the wad was going to be more difficult. There were things in the kitchen and in the shed that he could use, but he couldn’t risk sneaking past his mother again. Then he saw some brown paper in his waste bin. It had been the plain wrapper from the girlie magazine he had received the day before.

In no time he had cut a couple of circles just the right size – but it didn’t look right. Hmm. He would need to soak it in something to make it pulpier. No liquids in his room. Yes, there was! Last night he had been eating hot chips in bed, and there was a saucer with a little vinegar left in it. He quickly soaked the brown paper in the vinegar to make a sort of plaster. Now it looked just right! He prepared to slip it into the crown cap and then reseal the bottle.

Just at that point Gillian came in, and she did grin to see his paper plaster.

“That’s clever,” she said, still smiling.

At that moment their mother came in – wondering why that had taken so long.

She whipped Gillian’s legs with her dressing gown cord. Not for causing John’s disaster – she knew nothing about that, and it wasn’t Gillian’s fault anyway. Just because she was grumpy for having to wait so long for her gin.