Quick quiz. You’re reading a book out loud to a group of young listeners, and two of them turn to each other and start whispering. Out of the following three options, should you…

1. say something like, ​“Er, you should be listening. Attention this way please.”

2. look at them enthusiastically and say ​“Exactly! And then…” before continuing to read.

3. wait for them to finish.

Since this piece is written by a storyteller, you’re probably expecting the answer to be ​‘B’ – and you’d be right.

But I’d be willing to bet that, in practice, you often choose ​‘A’. That’s the natural choice. If we’re trying to hold an audience’s attention, we expect them to focus on us.

However, with almost two decades of experience as an oral storyteller, I can assure you: if two listeners start whispering with each other, 99 times out of 10, they’re commenting on the story.

And no, that’s not a typo.

So if you say, ​“you should be listening”, what you’re actually saying is, ​“Please stop engaging with this story. I’d rather you focus on me.”

Is that really your aim?

That said, ​‘C’ isn’t great either. Waiting risks losing the engagement of everyone else…

The Keyring skill for reading aloud

Fortunately, because you can be sure that the story you’re reading is the inspiration for any activity among your audience – be it chatting, miming, making a sound effect, etc – you can also be confident with the idea behind ​‘B’: acknowledge and share their excitement, then read on.

The trick is in recognising that engagement looks different for every listener. Yes, some will smile and watch you intently – but others may gaze out the window as they picture the action you’re describing. Yet others may doodle an illustration as you speak.

And so the real secret to great group reading is…

Discover the Secret on BookTrust

WAIT! Don’t worry – this isn’t a sneaky way to get you paying to continue this article. BookTrust is a charity founded for the sole purpose of inspiring reading for pleasure, and the rest of this article is free!

I just felt, since I wrote this article to support the charity, I should probably send you to their website to read it in full. $;-)

Plus, that’s not all you’ll find from me on BookTrust’s website. We also recorded one of my storytelling sessions at John Ball Primary School as part of a free video course on the features of engaging storytelling. It goes into a little more depth than the article, but of course requires a little more of your time.

So if you only have a few minutes spare,

Finish the Article

If you have at least 20min,

Check Out the Short Course

And whichever you choose, I’d love to hear how you and your learners get on with these resources! Please…

Leave a comment

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We begin with the introduction to my first ever book, Cambridgeshire Folk Tales for Children, which couldn’t have been a more fitting introduction to this podcast as…

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Reedsy’s selection process isn’t easy. Despite being a Costa-nominated novellist, my good friend Matt Killeen got turned down – as did I on my first attempt. I had to prove my credentials with a wide array of client feedback – published clients – before they would judge that, yes, I can help writers make their work marketable.

That took me four full months from first application to onboarding. So now I think I’m justified in my pride at being accepted as a Reedsy Editor.

Book Me on Reedsy

The best part is that it means you now have an easy way to apply for my editing services, using a platform that has done some of the credential-checking for you, and will also give you confidence that both your payments and your intellectual property are safe.

So whatever stage your work is at, come to me when you want to ensure your writing finds, enthrals, and/or remains in the hearts of young readers.

➤ Got an idea but elements are missing? Pick Book Coaching.

➤ Nearly finished, and want to check it’s working? Pick Editorial Assessment for a written report, or Book Coaching to talk it through.

➤ Pretty sure you’ve finished, but want to make it the best it can be? Pick Developmental Edit for an in-depth assessment, or Book Coaching to thrash it out.

➤ Want help approaching agents and editors? Pick Query Letter editing.

If, like Reedsy, you’d like to see some of the feedback I’ve had from published authors who can vouch for the benefits I’ll bring to your work, here’s a selection – more than could fit on my Reedsy profile page…

“Chip is detailed, organised, and reliable. He takes a patient and professional approach, and left me in a good position to submit marketable work. He has the gift of immediately seeing what isn’t working in a story and how to fix it. Rather than trying to change my vision, he astutely advised on how to make my existing ideas stronger.”
– Children’s author Rebecca Colby, published by Penguin Random House, Nosy Crow, et al

“The structure of Chip’s sessions are excellent. Each was tailored to my needs, clearly detailed, and gently brought me through the process of transferring my storytelling style to printed format. I was given some excellent tools to use, and discovering the science surrounding the art of storytelling was really useful. Chip gave me the confidence to keep going when I felt stuck.”
– Actor Martina McCormack

“Chip’s sessions were the best prepared and most enjoyable I’ve attended. He gave very detailed feedback and advice. He was always upbeat and encouraging, but I was given sound advice on how to improve my writing. It was excellent value for money!”
– Author Maureen Boon, published by Jessica Kingsley Publishers

I also had some lovely input from a former Programme Manager at the National Centre for Writing…

“Chip has the ability to convey complex messages simply and effectively. He is an excellent tutor, and is patient and dedicated to the work ahead of him. He builds trusting relationships quickly and effectively, is conscientious in everything he does, and has an ethos of service that I find deeply inspiring.”
– Sam Ruddock, Former Programme Manager, National Centre for Writing

So when you’re ready to start really honing your writing for publication – or even before then – hit the “Request a quote” button on my Reedsy page, which you can find by hitting the button below…

Book Me on Reedsy

I look forward to sharing words with you soon…! $;-)

This is a chance to support seriously ill children whilst simultaneously boosting the creativity of the young people you care about.

The prizes are…

1. a Full Day of Storytelling for a School of Your Choice (including after-school teacher CPD)

2. a Full Collection of the Fables & Fairy Tales Series Signed by Illustrator Korky Paul (and also me…)

See below for details and links – and please share this with anyone you think might be interested in any of the above prizes. $:-)

Just a quick note, though: I don’t stand to gain anything from your bids. As it says on the auction website, 100% of your bid goes to the charity, and will therefore fund specialist nurses to support seriously ill children and their families – support that is desperately needed by families across the country.

That said, maybe I would gain something if you win the bid: a chance to say hi in person to one of my website readers…! $:-D

Here’re the fuller details…

A Full Day of Storytelling for a School of Your Choice

Send me to a school of your choice so every one of their learners can enjoy a full day of interactive storytelling, followed by an hour of after-school staff training in the use of storytelling as a teaching tool.

Bid On a School Storytelling Day

Signed Collection of Chip Colquhoun & Korky Paul’s Fables & Fairy Tales Series

All 30 stories in the series so far are especially designed for shared reading, and have been proven to entice children into reading for pleasure. Suitable for all ages from 5+, they have brought together families with siblings aged 5 and 11 enjoying them at the same time as their parents. For this unique gift, all 15 books are signed by both Korky and me. $:-)

Bid On Signed Children's Books

This is a chance to support seriously ill children whilst simultaneously boosting the creativity of yourself (or a loved one, for that matter).

Just a quick note, though: I don’t stand to gain anything from your bids. As it says on the auction website, 100% of your bid goes to the charity, and will therefore fund specialist nurses to support seriously ill children and their families – support that is desperately needed by families across the country.

That said, maybe I would gain something if you win the bid: a chance to say hi in person to one of my online readers! $:-D

Here’re the fuller details – and please share this with anyone else you think might be interested in the prize. $;-)

1Hr Online Book Coaching

Do you have a story to tell, and want to be sure other readers will love it too? Whether you’re looking for the best route to publication, struggling to fill the last plot holes, or even looking for your voice to get started, my mentoring package from the National Centre for Writing will help you along.

Bid On an Hour's Online Book Coaching

I still haven’t heard from Father.

It is owing largely to that concern that I somewhat drifted through this week. Things at the office were quiet, largely thanks to the King adjourning Parliament on Tuesday.

I didn’t stay for the ceremony. I was curious to see how the King might resolve the conflict between the Commons and the Lords, the latter of whom are objecting to a Commons bill for their homes to be searched for seditious material (I wonder why?). Ultimately, I preferred to travel by water to dine with my Lady Sandwich at the Wardrobe – though I did greet His Majesty as he travelled by barge in the opposite direction.

There were notable moments. Sunday, our old friend Mrs Ramsey called around, and dined with us between church services. That evening, Elisabeth and I drank with Sir William Penn, who took Elisabeth back with him to meet his daughter Peg, recently returned from Ireland. Elisabeth was expecting a beauty, but reported to me that she is in fact a very plain girl.

Tuesday, I was involved a little in the business of England gaining Tangier as part of our Queen Catherine’s dowry. Perhaps I’ll be able to have more involvement in that one day.

More special to me in this time, though, was another chance meeting with manuscript illustrator Mr Salisbury, now so great in his profession that he is become excellent, and gets a great deal of money from it. He introduced me to his friend Mr Whore, a very ingenious fellow, and I enjoyed staying with them for several drinks at the Hercules Pillars.

Wednesday, I saw The Tamer Tamed for the second time, though this time at my favourite theatre on Vere Street. Happily, it was as well-acted as it had been last October.

And on Thursday, Elisabeth and I went to Walthamstowe with both Sir Williams and that “plain” daughter of Sir William Penn’s. There, at the home of our friend Mrs Brown, we had a merry afternoon over venison pie and plenty of gossip, and I passed six silver spoons to my godson.

I also overheard Mrs Brown’s nurse referring to Sir William Batten’s wife as “a man’s whore,” because she has her own estate from a previous marriage and so is not beholden to Sir William for her comings and goings. Elisabeth and I failed to find proof of these words, but from my own observations I believe that the story is too true.

Other than that, though, the week was mostly routine: singing lesson with Mr Goodgroome first thing every morning; off to the office; home for supper and bed.

Ah – but I finally had words with my mother, who I fear has lately been excitedly spending an inheritance from my Uncle Robert that simply doesn’t exist. I’d been putting off confronting her tattle, but I now came clean with her how things fell short of our expectations. Not easy, but necessary.

Mother has since gone to care for Aunt Fenner, who has fallen ill. Cousin Charles Glascoke is also ill, but is off to care for his brother John who is also ill. Illness abounds in our family at present!

My brother Tom gave me cause for consternation this week too. He is keen to follow in our father’s footsteps as a tailor, but only if father leaves him his house and business in London. I know not what to do with him.

So in some ways, I was glad to get away back to Cambridgeshire, where I am now. I timed my arrival by the assizes at Shire Hall in Cambridge, so I could be sure of meeting my cousin Roger for his counsel in the matters of my Uncle’s estate. That meant an overstay in Ware last night, to which I rode alongside a Quaker who regaled me with tales of how wicked he had been up until the past two years.

I had an early start to Barkway this morning, but my horse tired and I was wet with rain – so I was hugely grateful to the letter carrier who invited me to ride with him.

I hope this journey was an indicator of how things are to turn: long, arduous, but with interesting and helpful companions who get me comfortably to my destination in good time.

Still, as I said: I haven’t heard from Father all week. So I suppose the journey isn’t all over yet…

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word sums up a concern you’ve had at the back of your mind all this week?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

As it was, this week began quite fairly in comparison to the last few. The Stankes prepared a fine Sunday dinner for father and me. That evening, the stepcousins came around, along with our mutual friend Mr Greene and our lawyer Mr Phillips, and we all began to argue – but, at last, we came to some agreement: that my aunt would quit the house in return for 10£.

Since I was to leave my father in Brampton to return to London the following day, that was a huge relief to both of us; he needed suffer her base hypocritical tricks no more. In that moment, it failed to cross my mind that this would leave him in that house alone save for the maid and our cousin Jane…

All other matters around the estate, though, were to be left to the law, which pleased us all, and we broke up pretty well satisfied. Indeed, that same evening I collected 20£ from a William Luffe for the surrender of land in Stirtloe as promised in my Uncle’s Will.

Though my return to London began early (around 4 a-clock), I stopped at Hatfield on the way back to meet a friend of Mr Eglin, my old Magdelene friend. This Mr Looker is gardener for the Earl of Salisbury, and he enabled and accompanied me to view the very beautiful vineyard, house, chapel with rare pictures, and above all the gardens – such as I never saw in all my life, nor so good flowers. Nor so great gooseberries! They were as big as nutmegs…!

The remainder of Monday is something of a blur, as I popped in on various friends and family to let them know I was back, including my Lady Sandwich and my mother. Fortunately, at home Elisabeth made the appearance that all things were as well as I could expect – and so, weary, I fell swiftly to bed.

It wasn’t until later in the week that, during one of our early morning conversations, Elisabeth revealed to me that our home was invaded during my absence, and our silver tankard stolen. This vexed me somewhat – less from the loss of the property, but more from Elisabeth’s admission that the theft was due to the negligence of my people to leave the door open.

My vexation didn’t last long, though, since I learned that the thief had also made off with my man Will Hewer’s cloak as well. Thanks to the thief having as poor a judgement of fashion, there is one less unsightly thing hanging in my hallway.

Speaking of cloaks, it was on Tuesday morning that I finally had a chance to clothe myself from my own wardrobe for mourning. I had a good chat with Mrs Michell, the bookseller’s wife, before dinner that day – but come the afternoon, finding myself unfit for business, I went to the Theatre Royal on Vere Street to watch Breneralt.

It seemed a good play, but ill-acted. Luckily, my need for distraction was still satiated – by the presence of Mrs Palmer, the King’s mistress, who sat before me. So I filled my eyes with her, which much pleased me.

I needed that pleasure to carry me through much of the family anguish which continued to follow me around. Uncle Wight continues to groan about my father not including him in his half-brother’s funeral (or maybe he’s groaning about not being included in the Will…). Mother also kept up a persistent tattle, so I felt I couldn’t stay at her home either.

Oh, and Pall – my sister Pall! It troubles me to hear how proud and idle she is grown. I am resolved not to keep her in our home much longer.

My cousin Thomas, once a magistrate, could give little extra light at all into my Uncle Robert’s estate, though he did believe my Uncle has 500£ to his name – a little more than my father and I have found thus far. I wrote to my father midweek, full of thoughts of the trouble we shall go through before we come to see what will remain to us of our expectations…

And so I continued to seek distractions. The Theatre Royal did not disappoint a second time: The Jovial Crew is as merry and the most innocent play that ever I saw, and was well-performed.

A greater distraction, though, was being back in the office. Ah, what a pleasure that was! To talk with persons of Quality, and to be in command!

Of course, I told them that the estate left me is 200£ a year in land, besides money. I wanted to put an esteem upon myself…

Oh, the delight to throwing myself back amongst the gossip of Westminster! And at such a controversial time, too: Parliament expected to adjourn for a few months, but has been hindered for a day or two. George Montagu told me that many envy Lord Chancellor Edward Hyde, in particular the Duke of Buckingham – but Sir Edward is unlikely to be undermined, not least because the King cannot be without him for his policy and service.

Of course, it was in throwing myself into this world anew that my vow was broken out of necessity. I met Mr Hill, a fellow of my old college, at the Pope’s Head Alley. He had women with him, and took me into the tavern there for wine. He then proceeded to gush forth about how this week saw a change to the whole state of England as to the Church: the King feels now forced to favour Presbytery, or else the City will leave him.

I doubted this news, especially coming from a Presbyterian such as Mr Hill. But perhaps there is some truth to it, given the great disorder in which I later found Parliament to be…

The finest distraction, though? Being among my Lady Sandwich’s household again. She shows my wife and me the wonderfullest favour in the world, in which I take great content. All today, my Lord’s birthday (but he of course away), we celebrated around Westminster and the Royal Wardrobe.

A Frenchman played this new instrument, I believe they call ‘the gittar’. He played it extremely well, but the instrument itself is but a bawble – I doubt it will catch on. Luckily, we had Captain Cooke call on us with a song or two – and without doubt, he hath the best manner of singing in the world.

We ended our delight just a few hours ago, after Elisabeth and I took my Lord’s daughters Jemima and Pall by water under the bridge to show them our home. We were all very merry.

And yet… I still have not heard back from my father, who, poor man, is still in Brampton all alone. It troubles me: Did he receive my letter and fall ill because of its contents? Have my stepcousins or my aunt reneged on their promises to hassle him no more?

Oh, for these concerns to be a thing of the past…!

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word could you share right now to offer me hope, or humour… or both?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

The sights were glorious, though. We saw Portholme, purportedly England’s largest meadow, and the impressive construction works underway around my Lord’s manor at Hinchingbrooke.

I also made it into Cambridge early in the week, prompted by needing a haircut. I was up at 3 a-clock, at the barber’s by 7, and knocking on my brother John’s door at Christ’s College by 8, only to find the sloth in bed. Ah, it vexed me so – how can he ever hope to achieve all a Cambridge education has to offer if he isn’t up before sunrise? My elder brother John wouldn’t have succumbed to such slovenliness, had he not succumbed to sickness in his youth.

Still, I took the opportunity to visit some old sights of beauty – such as King’s College Chapel. In my time at Magdelene College – heavens, only 11 years ago – there had been but one chorister and no organ. Now the instrument is restored, and the scholars in their surplices are at the service in abundance! It would be my wish for everyone to have a chance to see and hear that very Chapel in all its resonant glory – though I suppose it would need some marvel of technology that would allow for audiences greater than the 600 or so that the Chapel has capacity for.

I also looked in on some old friends – Dr Fairbrother, Clement Sankey, Lewis Phillips, Dr Symcottes, Robert Ethell, John Davenport, and many more – and took them to either The Crown in Huntingdon or Rose Tavern in Cambridge.

At the latter, as luck would have it, we bumped into Mr Turner and his wife as well on Monday, they being come to settle their son at Trinity. And so, with good friends old and new, we were very merry, and I treated them as well as I could.

But alas, this was a dot of joy amid a canvass of discontent. My aunt continued in her base hypocritical tricks even when my father and I were abroad from the house – which we knew because my cousin Jane Perkin (of whom we’ve been making great use) and the maid did tell us every day – and of course my stepcousins Jasper and Tom persisted in their caveat against the Will.

In an attempt to resolve things amicably, I appealed to Sergeant Bernard, the Recorder of Huntingdon who resides at Brampton Manor, to host and preside over a meeting between Jasper and me. Our discourse was as fair as I could desire, but in the end Jasper would let no issue come of our discourse till his brother Tom would come.

Sir Bernard also advised me that a mortgage due on my Uncle Robert’s estate from one Richard Piggott will likely got to my Uncle Thomas as the heir-at-law, which broke my heart on the other side. What woes our family can bring us!

Ah, but speaking of family… I also paid a visit to my Great Uncle Talbot in Impington. Despite setting all alone, he was like a man out of the world. He can hardly see, but all things he does pretty livelily. Such an inspiration. Together with his son John, I felt buoyed up as I journeyed from there to Gravely to enquire for a surrender of my Uncle Robert’s in some of the copyholders’ hands there.

But alas, I heard of none, and so was again put in very great trouble of mind, and with a sad heart rode home to Brampton.

Things came to a head earlier today, when I found my father in Goody Goreham’s alehouse (once owned by my Uncle Robert, now owned by my father and I!) together with stepcousins Jasper and Tom. Our discourse was calm – but again, came to no issue.

How I despise the uncertainty! In all this, I have remained as cheerful as I can be in front of my father, for want of easing his troubles. And at least I can say that has been made somewhat easier with the help of the Stankes – Will and his wife Joan (or Goody), who have cared for our business in our absence. We think ourselves nothing but happy for having lighted upon them to be our caretakers; they are wonderful, joyful people.

Oh – and I am now pretty well again of my left hand. Lord, I am grateful for such small mercies.

Scold me not for desiring some more substantial ones?

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word describes a small niggle that can often absorb your entire focus?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

We had spent the morning getting things like ribbons and gloves, and so then had to make shift to serve the great number of guests with what we had of wine and other things. The bill eventually came to 80£ or more – but at least we had several volunteers to assist with carrying him to the church.

Mr Taylor, the master of my old grammar school in Huntingdon, stepped forward to bury my Uncle. A rector from the nearby village of Eynesbury, my Lord’s chaplain John Turner, preached the sermon. He spoke not particularly of him anything, but that he was one so well-known for his honesty – “which speaks for itself above all that I could say for it,” he said. And so made a very good sermon.

Back at my Uncle’s house, we supped in silence before bed. Ah, but perhaps I should now say my father’s house – for that morning, my father and I had walked in the garden and read the Will.

At the time, I recall feeling nothing but gratitude to my Uncle. Though he gave me nothing till my father’s death, or at least very little, yet I was glad to see that he had done so well for us all. My father is to inherit the greater part of his estate, partly on trust for me – and in addition, I am to receive a 30£ annuity (after debts and legacies) for the lifetime of my Uncle Thomas, after which I shall receive even more of the estate.

“He hath done so well to his kindred,” I remember remarking to my father, and he agreed. Both of us had completely overlooked the one relation to whom my Uncle had given nothing:

His wife.

For this rest of this week, we were much troubled with my aunt’s base ugly humours. One of her sons, my stepcousin Jasper, once observed that she could be quite sullen and quiet for a time, then of a sudden she would be in a passion, decrying betrayal from everyone around her, and refusing any offer of assistance.

So she was now. And her discontent continued well into the night, sharing its symptoms with everyone else in the household.

At first, I thought this deep grief was for her much-loved husband. But I soon discovered it more likely due to the deep grievance between them before his death…

You see, as is the law, the estate of her first husband was to pass to my Uncle after their marriage. This would have left her sons from her first marriage unprovided for, and so she had entreated my Uncle to enter a bond of 200£ on her behalf that she could leave to her children.

My compassionate (and doubtlessly doting) Uncle had swiftly done so. But when it came to be calculated, my aunt’s first husband had left far more debt than estate, costing my Uncle over 300£ in addition to that bond.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, my Uncle felt he had been dealt with unworthily – yet still my aunt refused to relinquish the advantage of the bond. Thus my Uncle bequeathed nothing to her, except that his executors “be very civil to her in all respects – although she knows she hath done me much wrong.”

Now my aunt is feeling the loss – as are my stepcousins. And so Jasper and the other, Tom, have put in a caveat against the Will. Them being lawyers, I am troubled as to what this portends.

Ah, for the troubles to stop there! Alas, my Uncle’s papers were not so well sorted as I would have had them. I spent most of this week looking over them with my father, and even now it breaks my brains trying to understand them.

The result of all the confusion? We missed the surrenders of his copyhold land, without which the land could not come to my father and me as per my Uncle’s Will, but rather went to the heir-at-law – in other words, my Uncle Thomas, the elder of Uncle Robert’s two brothers.

This dispute will doubtless compound that of my stepcousins, and I can’t imagine when these troubles will be settled. What with all this, and the badness of the drink, the ill opinion I have of the meat, and the biting of the gnats by night… I am almost out of my wits with trouble.

Only… I appear the more contented. I would not have my father troubled.

I’ll try to end with a glimmer of light. The latter end of the week, Mr Phillips of Brampton, our attorney for this affair, returned home from London. He gave us the best counsel he could.

But for all that, we are not yet quiet in our minds…

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. If there could be only one word on your gravestone other than your name and lifespan, what would you wish it to be?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

Now I write to you from a bed far from home, my father snoring beside me, the stench of death still occasionally repulsing my nostrils on its way to the windows, and a feeling of…

…what? What am I feeling? Sadness? Gladness?

Maybe there’s a reason those feelings share a rhyme, so close they are in my heart right now.

In this semi-putrid haze, I can’t help but think of all the signs this week that pointed to how it would end. Even on the Lord’s Day, as I hummed to myself on a walk through Gray’s Inn, admiring the fine ladies beneath the hot sun, reflecting on how I had lately enjoyed a great expanse of money thanks to the responsibilities my Lord Sandwich had entrusted unto me, and resolving to make it up to see my poorly Uncle Robert after I was done getting things ready for the Queen’s upcoming journey to England… Even then was I meeting with the Duke of York to explain how our fleet had been unable to obey his orders the day before due to the direction of the wind.

A sign, you see, of how the real control is always in the hands of God and Nature.

This is the way the week toyed with me: moments of joy, but with an undercurrent of unease. On Tuesday, I went to the new theatre in Lincoln’s Inn, where Sir William Davenant has taken the bold approach of staging an opera, with all its machinery, in a small building once used for tennis.

The start was delayed due to a long wait for the King and his aunt – already an ominous portent – but the opening was indeed very fine and magnificent. Well-acted, too, but for a eunuch who was so much out of key that he was hissed off the stage.

Amongst the merriment, though, a board broke over our heads. A great deal of dust fell into the ladies’ necks and the men’s hair, and we made good sport of it – but looking back now, that moment had all the hallmarks of an omen.

Elisabeth was well again by midweek, only to join Lady Batten for the burial of John Lawson’s daughter. I couldn’t attend myself because of work, the schedule for which included dinner with my Lady Sandwich. My Lady was mourning her brother Sam, who died the day before of the spotted fever. That’s three omens so far.

Even my old favourite, the Theatre Royal on Vere Street, seemed on the road to ruin. I watched Thomas Killigrew’s tragicomedy Claracilla, which was well-acted – but this house, that used to be so thronged, was empty now Davenant’s opera had begun. A trend I believe will continue, unless they refurbish to accommodate machinery of painted scenery like that now found in Lincoln’s Inn.

By then, my father had sent word that Uncle Robert was by fits stupid, like a man that is drunk, and sometimes speechless. In an effort to cheer myself, I went to The Mitre with Uncle Wight – but he brought the tone down again by complaining about my father travelling to see Uncle Robert without him.

Ah, and that was wherein I encountered the most obvious omen: we happened upon Mr Batersby the apothecary. He had a great deal to say on my uncle’s condition. “I’ll lay my life,” he said, “that bleeding by leeches will cure him. Latch ‘em on his behind, that’s the place.”

It might have been sound advice. But in the moment, I felt sure my father and the doctors in Huntingdonshire would have everything under control, and I resolved not to meddle in it.

The very next day, my Uncle Robert was dead.

I was waked by a messenger this morning with the news. I instantly rose to let others know – in particular Uncle Wight, and of course my Lady, who observed with compassion my need to leave at once. Knowing the marshy lands to which I was headed, I bought myself some new boots from St Martin’s, and joined the messenger in his return coach about noon.

The journey to Brampton took around nine hours. Upon entering, I was immediately hit by the smell – my Uncle’s corpse was laid in a coffin, standing upon joint-stools in the chimney in the hall. How my father hadn’t already caused it to be taken from the house, I do not know – cared he not for the miasma, the stench of putrefaction infecting us all with the Plague?!

I set my Uncle forth in the yard, to be watched all night by two men. My aunt was already in bed, in a most nasty ugly pickle – it made me sick to see it. That she has lost one husband already might lead some to think she should be used to it by now. The strength of her grief regardless suggests she had great love for the most recently departed.

And so here I am, surrounded by sorrow, in the eerie peace of the Fenland countryside – and what is the only thing I can think of?

The Will! What is in the Will?!

Ah, I am so greedy to see it…! As I said at the start, I am of course sorry in some respect, but glad in another: my expectations…

Of course, I did not ask to see it. I shall wait till tomorrow. But sleep eludes me currently, kept at bay by my keen desire for the undercurrent of malaise to make way for pure happiness again.

That, and the fact that the auspices suggest it shan’t be so easy…

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word could help you fall asleep in a time of simultaneous sorrow and excitement?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

My father is gone to Brampton to attend to my Uncle Robert, who we learned this week is taken with a dizziness in the head. My sister Pal fared similarly, and so stayed with our father most of this week.

Perhaps worst of all, Elisabeth has a sore belly, which is now grown dangerous – or so Dr Williams spent Monday telling us.

How do I know this occurred on Monday? Well, partly because that was the Midsummer holiday, of course. But also because that was the day the doctor, my father, and I dined at the Exchange, as I can tell from my copy of the receipt.

Even without that slip, though, I would surely remember our great wrangling with the master of the house over the bill, which seemed exceedingly high.

You know what we need? Dining establishments to provide a written list of all the meals they can offer along with the prices for each. Then we would know what we’re signing up for when we place an order. Perhaps I should suggest it to the more friendly house masters…

Ah, but it would never catch on. House masters will never give up the freedom to adjust their prices to the look of their patrons’ apparel. Maybe that was the problem last Monday: I have started wearing clothes befitting the social heights I’ve climbed. Maybe I should send back the beaver-fur hat I purchased for a whole 4£ 5s from Mr Holden.

That, though, would go against one of my guiding principles: To acquire a position, one must act as if one has already acquired said position.

Yes, I am distracting myself from the continuing moans of agony from my wife, as I have indeed been doing all week – largely with work, or else out with colleagues old or new, seeing plays (Johnson’s Bartholomew Fayre again), wrestling in the park, admiring the great store of gallant beauties walking through Gray’s Inn, and of course drinking – much drinking.

That’s not to say I haven’t been here for Elisabeth. I’ve managed to be home for bed every night, and even invited my friends to be entertained in our parlour one evening, for which Jane prepared a very gallant collation.

But let’s face it – there’s little I can do for her. I believe she has been entertained, though, through my pursuit of a new hobby: I have purchased singing lessons from Mr Goodgroome, the tutor recommended by my good friend and royal musician Humphrey Madge, for 20s per month.

I was home all yesterday morning practising the first song he has given me – ‘La Cruda La Bella’. Were it in English, I believe the first line would translate as, “Why are you leaving me, o cruel, o beautiful one?”

Elisabeth joked, “Because Mr Goodgroome only gave you one song to practice!”

At least, I think she joked. However she meant it, I gently reminded her of my guiding principle, which indeed I taught her in the music instruction I gave her…

Oo, speaking of which… Before my father set off to care for my uncle, I asked him to pass on the news that I have 600£ in ready money to buy land adjoining his in Brampton. In truth, I am not worth above 500£ – but I hope he may think me to be a greater saver than I am, and so consider me a sure home for his inheritance.

Well, he is ill. One must consider these things…

One last illness to mention is James Chetwind’s consumption, though it had not stopped him from joining us at the Bell Tavern in the Strand earlier today. I mention him largely because I need to remember in my prayers that the remedies Dr Williams has prescribed for Elisabeth do not have the same effect as the tobacco James has been urged to chew. He has grown fat because of it…

Ah, but he was in good spirits – which surely could not all have stemmed from the book of Laws of Ecclesiastical Politie that he so earnestly recommended to me. And yet, just a few weeks ago, he was fearful of death.

That’s the way to look at it. Remember: act as if one has already acquired said position.

With that philosophy, I’m sure Elisabeth, Pal, and Uncle Robert will be right as rain in just a couple of weeks.

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word describes a fear of yours?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

We began a new schools project this week, in partnership with St Peter Mancroft Church in Norwich. It’s exciting for multiple reasons, but it’s had some unpredictable impact that I’m not sure I could share anywhere but here.

The church has commissioned artist Peter Walker to produce a sculpture entitled ‘HIDDEN’. My understanding is that he hopes to encapsulate the way we clothe the truth with story and symbolism to both hide it and make it easier to share.

My company is supporting this with just one of the project’s education-based offshoots. The church liked my idea of working with some Norwich care homes to collect reminiscences from their residents, sharing those with learners at local schools, and helping those learners turn those true tales into legends – by clothing them with story and symbolism.

Ultimately, both learners and residents will attend a presentation event in the presence of Walker’s sculpture, and hear the learners’ versions of the stories performed by professional storytellers – and, of course, get to meet each other.

The youngsters will have the chance to see the real heroes who inspired their creations. The elders can thank the youths who’ve turned them into heroes through their creativity. It’ll be a heartstring-tugger for sure.

I don’t think anything like this has ever been done before, though we designed the workshops around the existing ‘Writing for Pleasure’ series that I originated with Amy Scott Robinson – who excitingly joined me for these adaptations.

Adding to the excitement is that, for the first time, I’m getting to work alongside my amazing accountability partner, Costa Book Award-shortlistee Matthew Killeen. He and I were in a Norwich school together on Tuesday, letting learners know the incredible fact that, “…in a few hundred years’ time, your stories could still be getting told all around the world! You will have made a little piece of history.”

“That’s a lie!” came a cry from the back of the classroom, pulling up the handbrake on the reverie.

One of the most distinctive elements of storytelling as an artform is that it encourages heckling, recognising it as a form of engagement. A storyteller’s skill isn’t in being so enchanting that no-one wants/thinks to heckle. Rather, it’s in managing the heckles so the entire audience feels they’re crafting the story, while keeping everything on track.

Of course, this heckle didn’t arise during a story. I had just been extolling the virtues of sharing stories generally, and this young lady had issued her brazen challenge.

Even so, I smiled, and replied along the lines of,

“Oh, it sounds too good to be true, I know, but we’ve seen it happen before. Every folk tale you know – ‘Little Red Riding Hood’, ‘Cinderella’, ‘Goldilocks’ – they all started hundreds of years ago, and now they’re world famous. And some of those are based on true stories, as we’ve already shown.

“So there’s nothing to stop the same thing happening to stories you create – so long as you don’t keep them to yourself. And we’re here to help you share ‘em.”

Needless to say, the girl didn’t look convinced. For the remainder of the week, she continued to be among the most cynical – and most disruptive – individuals in the classroom.

The heat didn’t help, with temperatures in the pre-aircon classrooms pushing 30°C. The fact she was in Year 6 didn’t help either, as this class had completed their SATS – so technically they’re only in school now as free childcare. And boy don’t they know it.

But it was also clear that there was more going on with this young lady. Some sessions, she arrived at late, having been withdrawn from previous classes for her behaviour. The school had programmes to help, with children from disadvantaged backgrounds being given the chance to leave school for a while to watch a musical production performed by a local secondary – but she managed to disqualify herself by behaving poorly on the walk down to the school bus.

That missed musical was both the reason why she arrived late to our final session. She therefore had to join a group that was already halfway through their story creation – and immediately, she began disrupting their activities.

She brazenly did so under my nose, while I was gathering that group’s story. In these situations, all a visitor like me can do is direct her to the member of school staff – in this case, a teaching assistant.

She protested strongly, accusing me of picking on her when others in the group had been just as misbehaved.

“But you did it right under my nose,” I said, as the TA went to call for the headteacher. “As far as I could see, they were working on their story.”

“So was I!” she insisted.

“Really?” I asked. “What had you added to the story?”

“I named one of the characters,” she said.

Not the biggest contribution – but in that moment, I detected a desire in her to remain in the session. She hadn’t been withdrawn from any of our previous sessions, and although she often engaged in stories in a disruptive fashion, that had still been engagement.

She’d already lost one ‘treat’ the school had offered her. She really didn’t want to lose another, despite her behaviour.

As the head came through the door, I gave her one last chance. “Well, why don’t you sit over there and draw your character. If you do that, I’m sure your teacher will let you stay here.”

Catching the gist, the headteacher cannily added, “You’re good at drawing, aren’t you.”

She huffed. “They won’t use it. They didn’t use my name.”

“Oh yes they will,” I said. “Leave that to me. You’ll find clean paper over there.”

Beautifully, it didn’t take much for the group to use the girl’s suggested name for their character – they readily understood the kindness they were showing by accepting her contribution. And at the end, as the girl’s (pretty awesome) drawing was added to that group’s story display, she broke out in a smile and the uncontrolled arm movements of autism.

Up until that moment, anyone not knowing might’ve just seen her as troublesome. That unmistakable sign of autism explained a lot – including the fact that her delight in that moment was genuine.

For her, the project – and the week – had ended in a place of acceptance, empowerment, and joy.

The stories we’ll soon be telling in the church will be those of the elderly, blended with childhood imaginings to turn them into stories that may indeed see them told again and again and again, to inspire many a future generation.

This girl’s story can’t be included there. But… has it inspired you?

In return for me sharing these words with you, please pay just one word of yours. A simple yes/no will suffice this week: has this girl’s journey inspired you?

Want to know why I’m asking for this? Flip back to this post here.

Let’s share tales again soon. In the meantime, ciao for niao…
$;-)

But when the purser had still not arrived by the time I’d drunk the last drop of my morning draught, I asked my boy Will to look for him on the horizon. He returned with news that the King’s yacht had set forth with the Duke the night before.

The night before! It had probably left before the cloth arrived with me…!

Immediately, I was at a great loss what to do. Poor Will wore out his shoes as I sent him running up and down to investigate potential solutions. A carrier would only reach Deal on Wednesday. Water would be faster, but more expensive. Either meant trusting a stranger with 300£ of the finest materials.

Barely a week into the seeing of all things done in my Lord’s absence that he entrusted unto me so lovingly, and I was on the cusp of ruining it all.

In the end, I opted to send them by a hoy, whose sailor assured me he would get them to my Lord by the end of the very next day, not least because the wind was with them. The small sailing vessel was named Martha and Mary. With blessings from our Lord’s two most-favoured women, it would certainly arrive safely and on time, yes?

I’ll be honest. I didn’t check. I still haven’t. Right now, ignorance is bliss.

As if to honour that chosen state of mind, life bestowed plentiful instances of bliss upon me in the days that followed, including visits from two great old friends – Mr Carter (now a parson) and Mr Cole – who were each still of the old good humour that we were of at college and school respectively. I was very glad to see them.

On most of the other days, though, I had city friends to make merry with. One night, in fact, we sat and drank at Sir William Penn’s until 11 of the night!

Then there was Mrs Lambert, a beauty in oh so many regards. Elisabeth and I went by water on Tuesday to visit her husband, Captain Lambert, who proudly showed off their turret-garden – and we did indeed take great pleasure in that. But the fine needlework of Mrs Lambert was the best I ever saw in my life, and afterwards she gave us a very handsome treat: musique that she made upon the Harpsicon.

With a great deal of pleasure, we stayed with the Lamberts till 8 at night – a full three hours or so. But oh, the Lamberts have a pretty witty child that they keep in their house, and who grew quite attached to Elisabeth and me. She would not let us leave without her – and so she fell a-crying by the waterside when we had to depart, the darling.

I also got to enjoy Ben Johnson’s incomparable play that is The Alchemist, bought some exquisite green say for our parlour curtains (looks just like silk from the right angle), and had a jolly night at the Royal Exchange discussing the potential of purchasing a property in Brampton which would have expanded the estate I am to inherit there from my Uncle Robert (though in the end, I found it too much for me to buy).

The painful cold I’d been suffering since my foolish trip out with just one shirt last week finally subsided, and – oh! Oh, oh, oh! The painters are finished! Not only does our stairway look fresh and new, but our house is now clean after all this dirt and trouble, which was great content to me.

And yet…

In all my exchanges with friends and colleagues this week, I noticed that I am now become the most negligent man in the world as to the matter of news.

As a result, I can discuss none – and so while my friends make very much of me with their hospitality, I cannot reciprocate with the gossip that they have maybe come to expect of me.

So I am resolved to try harder. Fortune has placed me in the most fabulous circles – the son of a tailor regularly praying in the same chapel as the King! I should attempt to be in a better position to answer such questions as,

“How does the Duke of York feel about Princess Anne really?”

“What is the latest from Ireland?”

…and of course…

“So did Lord Sandwich receive that 300£-worth of material you sent him? Or is your head going to roll because it has gone astray…?”

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word makes you wonder if you’re living your life right?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

It was my great friend David Ault, the voice of many a renowned horror podcast, who first used the term ‘polymath’ to describe me, when I’d asked him for a reference. Since I’d only ever heard the term applied to the inimitable genius Stephen Fry, I shared my fear that David was speaking too highly of me.

He replied along the lines of, “Not at all! Being a polymath just means you have multiple interests, multiple skills, and can sometimes use your expertise in one area to help you in others. That absolutely describes you. It doesn’t mean you’re a genius, just that you’re capable of many things.”

I didn’t get the position I’d applied for, so the question of whether his reference helped or hindered has been posted into Schrödinger’s box. It’s possible they could have considered that there’s potentially a briefer definition of ‘polymath’:

Jack of all trades, master of none.

Having submitted my novel for a competition, I began this week determined to prove myself a productive writer. And I don’t think I did too badly. For starters, those of you who follow this newsletter in real-time will’ve seen two new posts for ‘The Blog of Samuel Pepys’ appear this week.

I also finished writing for a major Immersive project taking place in Norwich this month, edited my forthcoming article for BookTrust, met with a fabulous PhD student to plan an SEN edition of All the Better to Read You With, and attended my monthly writing group at Niche Books & Comics.

Wait, whoa! Rein that back a little. From my writing alone, you’ve seen my interests cross history, education, and short fiction. If writing was my job alone, polymathery would’ve been fine.

But these ol’ multiple skills and interests of mine extended beyond writing alone. Granted, some were still ‘work’ – school visits supporting the literacy of young learners. Others were technically ‘rent’ – providing a tour of Pepys House.

Yet others involved supporting those I care about, such as providing free storytelling for a local good cause, chatting with acting agents on behalf of Connie’s family to enthuse about her ineffable talent, and getting the last available ticket for my friends’ production of Jesus Christ Superstar despite it being my least favourite Lloyd Webber show. (Sorry, but the phrase “What’s the buzz, tell me what’s a-happening” repeating eight times straight is already on the verge of losing me. Repeating it a further 20 across the show, and using the same tune for other similarly short oft-repeated phrases? You ain’t ever getting me back…)

Anyhoo. So much for my commitment last year to ‘do less’. And the thing is, I wanted all of it. I wouldn’t cut any of it out of my life.

Well – except…

On Thursday morning, I attended a ‘pre-meeting’ for next Wednesday’s ‘multi-agency’ flood meeting. The agenda, I’d been told, was to discuss how that meeting would be recorded in the most effective way for transparency and encouragement of trust, since it had largely been failure to communicate which had heated temperatures to boiling point between Brampton residents and the publicly-funded bodies supposedly there to help.

Except it wasn’t. Instead, it was a meeting just to brief me that everyone else had already made up their minds – including, according to the councillor, the community flood group I’d arrived to represent. He’d claimed to have spoken with them separately, and they’d agreed to waive the request for an audio recording, on the understanding people would feel more comfortable being honest without it.

I get that some people get cagey around microphones. What I struggled to convince anyone else was that, if someone’s worried about being taken the wrong way by people who can’t attend the meeting, that worry is not going to be fixed by vetoing audio recording – especially when those who aren’t at the meeting are already prejudiced against them.

It was pointless making this argument, though, as I was suddenly alone with it. My intention had been to establish greater lines of communication between the authorities and our village, and to date I’d been successful in that. Without my open letter and my speech at the RFCC, some of the authorities attending Wednesday’s meeting wouldn’t be there. And given the flood group had clearly held a pre-pre-meeting with these agencies without me, my intention was clearly fulfilled.

So why was I so annoyed afterwards that I nearly turned Pippa Kitten bald by stroking her until I calmed down? Nothing to do with feeling I’d being ambushed.

No. My gripe? Another wasted morning, just like last week. I caught myself thinking, If I find myself putting energy and commitment into something for zero effect, that’s something I should drop.

That thought made me pause. Could… could ‘Hulk Chip’, the result of people wasting my time, be the hero I needed to cut down my commitments, leading to a more relaxed, satisfied existence…?

I worried about this for the remainder of the week. At what point could I drop a thing? Could I drop out of the multi-agency meeting next week, for example?

I wasn’t sure it’d be that easy. I remembered how disastrous the book launch for All the Better to Read You With had been, how that had felt like a waste of time. Yet if I’d’ve dropped that then, I wouldn’t be on the brink of seeing one of my articles on the BookTrust website.

It’s clearly less about whether there’s any impact at all, and more about the kind of impact possible.

But what kind of impact am I aiming for exactly?

This question was still playing on my mind when Mummy Rose and I went along to a cousin’s 40^th wedding anniversary at the end of the week. There, I had my first proper conversation with my cousin Pam’s husband Peter.

“What do you do then?” he asked.

“I’m a storyteller and children’s author.”

“How’s that then?”

I gave him an overview, to which people usually have one of two responses – either one expressing amazement that storytelling is actually a career choice, or the one that Peter had:

“And that pays you, does it?”

Peter himself had managed to retire early by selling the cucumber-growing business he’d inherited from his father. He freely admitted that he’d never much enjoyed his work, but the important thing was having the dinero to be comfortable.

“Do you make enough dinero to be comfortable, Chip?”

I hesitated – which of course he took to mean ‘No’. But really, I was wondering… Is comfort reliant on wealth? Is that how I need to measure my impact, by things that pay?

One heck of an Occam’s razor that would be to my task list. No more flood group. No more parish council. No more buying tickets to support friends in shows I didn’t think I’d like?

Ah, but there was a rub. I’d been completely wrong about Superstar – I ended up enjoying that show so much, I literally bruised my hand with my applause after. Couple that repeated phrase with joyous, energetic, and passionate choreography, and you never want it to end.

No. Avoiding something for a reason as obvious as ‘You won’t make any money’ or ‘You probably won’t like it’ would be like missing out on the perfect family photo just because a sign told you not to sit there.

What’s even more beautiful about that photo of so many of us sitting on the wall is that it was a member of the venue’s staff who took it. $;-)

Clearly my mission to cut down my activity and stressors is not over yet.

Again – watch this space…

In return for me sharing these words with you, please pay just one word of yours. What one word describes your measure for whether an activity is worth sticking with or not?

Want to know why I’m asking for this? Flip back to this post here.

Let’s share tales again soon. In the meantime, ciao for niao…
$;-)

In truth, of course, these details have no real connection – but I like to pretend they do. After all, Elisabeth looked very pretty in her outfit during our dinner with my Lord Sandwich on the Sunday at the start of this week, and ‘twas the very next day that my Lord took me aside to make a very special request…

…and now I am to be the chief manager of my Lord’s estate for the next year!

That’s right: he doth intrust me with the seeing of all things done in his absence. Sure, I shall receive orders from my Lord Chancellor and Edward Montagu – but my heart is above measure glad for the great respect my Lord clearly hath for me.

My Lord himself will be away on his most important mission since retrieving the King: retrieving our new Queen! I understand there is to be a rather large dowry paid to England in return for us sending our naval support to her native Portugal against their dealings with the Spanish – including trading privileges in the regions around North Africa and India.

Indeed, one of my Lord’s duties will be to secure free passage for our ships around that region, either by force or by negotiation. For his dealings with the Turks, he plans to offer 300£ of our finest cloth.

Given that Princess Catherine’s dowry also includes some 300,000£, we can spare that 300£ – and my Lord can spare the occasion of me earning something by it…

So it was that, with the help of my father (who, being a tailor, was the finest of advisors in the matter), I arranged for 300£ of cloth to be couriered by my William in readiness for the voyage: two pieces of scarlet, two of purple, two of blacks, and 50£ of linen.

The money is with me currently, after I collected it from Alderman Backwell’s earlier today. Oh, how mighty rich I felt carrying that coin back to my house!

Indeed, the whole week has been one of merriment – and not just the liquid kind I enjoyed with William Howe and Captain Rolt et al during raucous singing aboard the Dutch yacht to Greenwich.

When I took leave of my Lord from that same yacht, he gave me his hand – and as I set off in our little wherry not long later, he arranged for the crew to fire five guns in my honour.

I thought it was the greatest respect my Lord could do me, of which I was not a little proud. But then, come Friday, my Lord gave the order for me to receive his model of the Royal James, his flagship – a beautiful decoration – and… and…

Ah, forgive my hesitation – the joy doth make the words hard to write without a shudder of abundant delight:

…his triangle virginal!

The instrument hath such as exquisite sound! I’m sure I shall make much use of it.

My Lord’s family – my cousins all – also expanded my pride this week. My Lady Sandwich entertained me on Monday while my Lord was off accepting the invitation to be Master of Trinity House; and although my Lady had to beg her leave of me when persons of, let’s say, ‘greater condition’ arrived, I remained with her children for supper. We all got very merry, they professing to be mighty fond of me.

So it’s been a week of mirth. Wednesday morning, the bishops decreed a citywide fast to prevent the spread of disease following the bad weather. But the weather itself turned so quick that some church were receiving the same bishops’ proclamation that we should pray thanks for the fair weather in advance of the notice to fast!

That just went to show: something as droll as disease could never affect our fine city all that severely. God Himself seems to shine on it to prevent such a worry.

Ha – although, that said, part of my celebration involved pulling off my stockings and bathing my legs a great while in the Thames, which I had not done for years. While this was a cheerful way to spend the afternoon with Captain Ferrers, it was likely the cause of my painful cold the following day.

Nothing the warmth of bed and a good fart couldn’t ease, though. My spirits could not be dampened – not even knowing that, on Tuesday, I had to write to the Duke of York on behalf of my office for urgent funds, without which the Navy is losing men, and we officials are having to put up our own collateral to secure loans.

Nor even have my spirits been dampened by our needing to spend yet more time away from home for workmen – this time painters decorating our walls. In fact, this time Elisabeth and I spent a few nights with Sir Robert Slingsby, and when we were collected by my Lord on Thursday I overheard him thank Sir Robert for his kindness to me – to which Sir Robert answered much to my advantage…

Yes, it’s been a fine week all told. Father and Will have excelled themselves in arranging this cloth for me, and… would you believe it? The purser of the King’s Yacht stopped by for victuals earlier today, and I got him to promise stowage for the cloth… with him! On the King’s Yacht!

When that finest of ships arrives in Deal with the delivery for my Lord, how greater could his admiration for me climb?

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word means ‘excitement’ to you?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

Turns out they required a 1-page author bio too. D’oh. I thus didn’t make it to bed till 1am Monday morning.

Despite this, I felt oddly fresh when I hopped out of bed a mere three hours later. Indeed, I filled that Monday with more artistic zest than a cocktail bar.

If you’d asked me one day later, I’d’ve said the moral might actually be, Too much too soon?

That Monday afternoon, in return for the tour we gave her and her volunteers back in February, the unparallelled Evelyn Glennie gave Ermma and me a tour of her unrivalled collection of over 3,800 percussion instruments from around the world.

The exquisite rumbles when we stroked a massive tamtam, the unearthly aural wanderings when a bow was drawn across a waterphone, the nostalgia of a laser gun sound effect made by a spring in a cardboard tube sold as a kids’ toy from the ‘90s… Encouraged by Evelyn, we delighted in just picking up objects and seeing what sounds we could get from them.

That sense of creative play spilled into the conversation afterwards, during which I found myself brimming with ideas for how they could raise awareness and funds for their collection, some of which my company could help with. But it was fuelled by the immeasurable awe of being with Evelyn herself.

It was just so easy to forget she’s profoundly deaf. She holds eye contact with you, feeling the reverberations in the air from your speech to support her effortless lip-reading, and then responds fluently with inspiring stories from her travels. She essentially interacts with you in the same way she interacts with her instruments. She’s amazing.

For Ermma and me, the creativity continued into that evening, when we met with our own brilliant volunteers – our ‘Pepys Posse’, Cherry and Sarah – to brainstorm further fundraising events for Pepys House, with a view to making them even more successful than the previous week’s scavenger hunt.

As we got into bed that Monday night, I noticed a mark for this day in my calendar. Back when Gaggy had lived in Lincolnshire, it had been a 2^nd of June when he’d said something uncharacteristically optimistic – so I’d joked with my brother Jazz that we should hereafter call it ‘Optimism Day’.

Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that Times/Chicken House had set their deadline for this year’s Optimism Day. There and then, it felt like pure serendipity. I closed my eyes, ready to take this energy into the week ahead. Nothing could slow this train.

Note to self: It is really dangerous to use rail-based metaphors for verve when you live in the UK.

Tuesday was an expectedly less active day, as I needed to stay at home and prepare a new online presentation for delivery the following morning. This was the penultimate step of the ‘Writing For Pleasure’ commission my company received from English Hub back in February, and indeed had been on the same invoice as their WFP training back in April.

However, when I joined the video call on Wednesday, I was told they were expecting a presentation on Reading For Pleasure; that’s how they’d described it for their teachers.

This wasn’t a problem; I just opened up the RFP presentation from the year before. But afterwards, I was kicking myself over the bars. That mistake had cost me a whole day.

The mood of my week went into rapid decline – and yet, by Friday evening, I’d hit five further deadlines.

What was going on? What was the moral of the week now?

I had no choice but to plaster positivity onto my face on Saturday morning, though, since I needed to attend a meeting at a local facility about a community project. When I say ‘needed’, I’d actually been asked to set up the meeting – but the Project Leader asked me to be there, since I would know everyone present.

Fair enough, I thought. I pay to use that facility, and I get on well with the trustees who manage it. The community project seemed noble, and I’d likely benefit through my use of the facility too. I expected I’d just link up the two parties at this meeting, and then walk away.

Instead, I became a buckle. For entirely understandable legal reasons, the trustees weren’t able to agree anything right away – but the PL was just as understandably upset because they were effectively being told to curb their enthusiasm.

Sensing some confusion from the PL, I offered to write a summary of the meeting. Everyone gratefully accepted. I told the PL that I’d run it by the trustees first, just to make sure my understanding of their reasons wasn’t flawed. Within 15 minutes of the meeting, the trustees had my summary in their inboxes.

That afternoon, while still waiting for agreement from the trustees, the project leader emailed their summary of the meeting, asking me to check that with the trustees.

I shrugged, but forwarded it on anyhoo.

The trustees still hadn’t got back to me the following Sunday, when Ermma and I were out shopping with Mum and DadDad Sutcliffes, when I received another email from the project leader to the effect of,

“Are you going to respond to my summary, Chip? You seem to have a typing speed of one word an hour…”

One… what?! That was cheekier than a baboon’s arse!

I bit my lip. “Please bear with me,” I tapped into the Gmail app while queueing for a till. “I have a full-time job, I’m a custodial tenant for a heritage property, and I volunteer for the village flood group and our parish council. Even so, I did summarise the meeting right away. As promised, I sent it straight to the trustees for them to check. I’m now just waiting to hear from them.”

Within an hour, the PL replied with an unapologetic one-liner:

“Oh dear, Chip. Have you perhaps taken on too much?”

That was it. I exploded – albeit still via my thumbs into my mobile. “Thank you for your concern, but I have plenty of time for the activities I choose to take on. It’s the ones that come to me, and which are using me as a middleman, for which I think one day is a fair minimum for a response.”

In an attempt to defuse my ire, I added a “$;-)” to the end.

He didn’t reply.

Later, I reflected. I wasn’t sorry for my response – that project leader had been impatient and ungracious.

But… really all I’d needed to write was, “I’m still waiting to hear from the trustees.” Why had I bothered to say the whole bit about how busy I was?

Had I taken on too much? Had spending 15min on summarising that meeting tipped me over the edge?

Then it hit me. I hadn’t needed to summarise that meeting. The PL had gone and written their own. Writing my summary had been a waste of my time – just like the entirety of my Tuesday.

Completing tasks, only to have the point of that completion crushed.

That was my black kryptonite.

Of course, I learned this right at the end of the week, so the question remains: Will this knowledge empower me to overcome this side of me?

Watch this space…

In return for me sharing these words with you, please pay just one word of yours. What does it take to turn you into the evil version of yourself?

Want to know why I’m asking for this? Flip back to this post here.

Let’s share tales again soon. In the meantime, ciao for niao…
$;-)

The question in this title arose at the end of an encouraging meeting about establishing a youth council for our village. Just before leaving, I asked, “Will you be at the VE Day celebrations this Sunday?”

“I’m not sure there’s any point anymore,” my contact replied. “With the state of the world right now, can we really say we won peace in Europe? All these years of ‘lest we forget’ hasn’t seemed to change anything!”

This response jolted me a bit. Here was someone who’d just been speaking with me about the potential of the next generation, and they were being surprisingly pessimistic. It was like a surgeon moonlighting as an undertaker.

I was instantly thrown back to the Kingdom 1000 project I’d been part of in 2020, which was born out of my discovery that King Canute established Article 7 of the United Nations’ Declaration of Human Rights over nine centuries early (and almost two centuries before Magna Carta, which usually gets the credit).

That Article states, “All are equal before the law, and entitled without any discrimination to equal protection of the law.” Canute’s version read, “impartial justice may be enjoyed by all, noble and common”.

Yet, though the Declaration is described as “Universal”, many would say we’re not there yet. Even now in the UK, recent cuts to legal aid make it tough for impoverished groups to access the protection of representation.

In the Kingdom 1000 web series, I argued that it’s important to recognise we still have a long way to go, but it’s equally important to celebrate how far we’ve come. This reminds us that success is possible, giving us the drive to push for a better future.

I made a similar point to the pessimist now before me. She muttered in agreement, but didn’t look convinced.

I get why. When you’re walking through darkness, it’s easy to forget how things look in the light. I’d felt this with Mummy Rose just a week earlier, with the crushing outcome to her leg op saga.

What’s the point of celebrating a victory if, not long later, all your hard work gets undone?

We felt it in the Brampton Flood Group too. We tried to capitalise on my recent media attention by releasing an opening letter, calling out our local Councils for falsely claiming they provided welfare checks, insisting National Highways take responsibility for the work they’ve done which increased our village’s flood risk, and nudging others like the Environment Agency to pitch in with solutions.

It was supposed to be printed in the local rag. But instead, the newspaper published only their report on the letter – and online only rather than in print.

Following the ‘victory’ of capturing media interest, this felt like we’d shot in the dirt.

I tried to focus on work – at least that was fun this week. I recorded some training footage for BookTrust, explored possible road developments during a Parish Council planning meet (well, I found that fun…), and took some Roman myths to a school in Birmingham.

The school had booked me for VE Day itself, on Thursday, so all the children were dressed in red, white, or blue. I began by letting them know some 7% of Brits are said to have Roman DNA, and asked who liked the idea of having some Roman heritage. Almost everyone raised their hand, citing reasons like “They’re cool!” and “They were powerful!”

I proceeded to tell the Romans’ own origin myths, where they flee the defeated Troy, push out indigenous peoples to found Rome and (allegedly) Britain, then clearly forget about each other because it’s not long before Julius Caesar feels the need to attack Britain.

I ended with a summary of how Julius was killed for his corruption, and highlighted that, according to their own myths, Romans were losers and bullies who forgot their friends.

“Now who likes the idea of being descended from Romans?”

The children suddenly weren’t so sure.

I changed tack then, reminding them of some important advances the Romans made to roads, sewerage systems, farming, etc. And of course, I mentioned their love of good stories.

I finished with the tale of Hercules arriving at the court of King Admetus, where Herc behaves like a typical Roman – he ignores the misery of his royal friend, preferring to boast about his incredible deeds.

When he’s eventually told that Admetus is mourning the loss of his wife Alcestis, Herc nips out to find the king a new wife. Upon returning with a veiled bride, he proceeds to bully Admetus into accepting this gift.

The twist? Hercules has realised the error of his ways, and so risked his own life by retrieving Alcestis herself from the Underworld. His gift to Admetus is both an apology and the original queen.

The further twist? This is not a Roman story – it’s Greek. The Romans absorbed the Greek gods and legends into their culture and only really changed the names, in history’s most extensive example of flagrant plagiarism.

Why? Most likely because the Romans could identify with characters like Hercules – his failings and yearnings as well as his might. And maybe, just maybe, he inspired them to be better people.

For the school, I was highlighting how the Romans recognised their flaws, and celebrated whenever they overcame them. Yes, they were occasionally led by civilisation-slaughtering tyrants (most of whom were murdered for being that way) – but they also left many civilisations in a far better position than they found them. Some individual Romans behaved detestably, but Rome as a whole was an empire of eclectic individuals all trying to do their best.

Driving away, I considered: that’s why we should keep celebrating VE Day, too. It’s not just a reminder that we’ve overcome darkness before. It connects us with figures from history who can inspire us to be better people – better civilisations – today.

And it’s working. Since VE Day, we’ve had zero outright wars between developed states, and the percentage of the world population killed in wars has dropped from 0.3% to less than 0.001%.

But perhaps more importantly, the stories of those 0.001% are seen by everyone in the world – and hundreds of thousands of individuals worldwide volunteer or donate to ease the suffering wherever possible.

At our own VE Day celebrations in Brampton this weekend, a trio of young women entertained children and seniors alike with classic songs from the ‘40s.

And as Ermma and I returned home, we impulsively popped into St Mary’s Church to find a group of schoolchildren entertaining elderly parishioners with music and songs from Bach to the present day.

VE Day isn’t just about trying to use past successes to generate optimism in the face of present international tensions. It’s about celebrating the connections we have with each other now, which ultimately improves our ability to repress or overcome those tensions.

And come the end of the week, our open letter and media attention did result in long-sought replies from both our local county council and National Highways. Yet more proof of the power of connection… $;-)

In return for me sharing these words with you, please pay just one word of yours. How would you sum up your response to this post in just one word?

Want to know why I’m asking for this? Flip back to this post here.

Let’s share tales again soon. In the meantime, ciao for niao…
$;-)

Elisabeth has always had a rather sensitive soul. I sometimes think she felt the pain of my Stone just as much as me, and that this was the reason for our ‘old difference’ (which I hate to remember).

So perhaps I should have been prepared for her susceptibility to malady right from the beginning of this week, when we fell into an argument over the beauty of the wife of James Pearse the surgeon.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, agrees that Mrs Pearse is a marvel, a walking Eden – everyone, that is, except Elisabeth. This disagreement meant we passed the last miles of our return from Portsmouth in silence, and perhaps prepared her body for sickness to take root.

We returned to find no more work done in our absence, about which I was greatly troubled. This meant sending Elisabeth back to my father’s, while I continued to oversee the workmen.

The very next day, Mr Creed and I carried out a string of errands for our Lord Sandwich, albeit often stopped in our way by the City’s trained bands of militia heading for the displays before the King and Duke in Hyde Park. The presence of the Duke seemed to confirm the reports that he was not too troubled by the loss of his son of 7 months, which must upset those who dislike the Duke (or, more accurately, his wife), who were pleased that the royal couple had cause to suffer.

To escape the traffic, Mr Creed took me to an Ordinary by the Old Exchange, where all the meals have a fixed price. We had very good cheer for our 18d a piece. The host and his wife sung and played so well that I stayed a great while, and drank a great deal of wine.

That was the end of my joys for the week – and it was only Tuesday.

The following night, amidst the great dirt produced by the workmen, my Elisabeth returned. She was apparently desperate for my affection, having had a foretooth extracted and feeling unwell.

I could hardly send her back, though I let her know how greatly it vexed me that she should bring her frail form into such a dirt-ridden place. Sure enough, the following day, her old pain had returned as well – her particularly harsh form of womankind’s regular affliction.

Her condition deteriorated fast from there, and remains poor as I write these words for you.

Elisabeth’s condition isn’t the root of all my melancholy this week. Uncle Robert wrote to ask my help purchasing a fiddle for his cousin Perkin the Miller, who is hoping to earn from performing for a group of dancing country girls while his mill is broken.

I was happy to help, of course. But it worries me that my uncle didn’t seem able to help his cousin himself. He is my Lord’s bailiff in Brampton, and at one time his income was so high that he could afford a clock. What could have afflicted him now, that he has not the wealth to support his family, and must ask it of me?

Then there’s my boy, Will. I begin to fear he will not take the counsel of his uncle, my friend Robert Blackborne, who tried to reassure me yesterday that his nephew would ever give me good service. Too oft have I recently caught Will with bad company.

So alas, all this has rather outweighed the joys of this week, including that afternoon of merriment at the Ordinary.

My Lord Chamberlain agreeing to provide a job for our cookmaid’s father, the old waterman Payne? Barely registered.

Sir George Carteret promising to pay the remainder of Mr Creed’s bill of some 1,035£, ensuring none of it falls to me? No cause for celebration – though actually, I did celebrate that one, meeting William Child in the street after and feeling so euphoric that I treated him to drinks at The Swan…

In particular, the workmen finally finishing their work today, and to a very good condition? That should have been cause for celebration, but it only resulted in greater angst.

Why? The stresses of the delayed finish and Elisabeth’s affliction had only gone and put me in such a state as to lose my bill for this quarter’s salary, and I had to rush to get a new one signed this morning.

Fortunately, Mr Hater still arrived with my salary this very evening. But full relief is still far from my mind, due in part to Elisabeth’s continued suffering – and in part to the expectation that a significant proportion of that salary may end up in a doctor’s pocket…

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word sums up your thoughts on my week?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

TRIGGER WARNING: Alludes to attempted suicide.

DISCLAIMER: This post, while relating true events, is entirely one person’s perspective – i.e. mine. I don’t claim to know what’s going on in anyone else’s head. If I give an impression of someone else’s thoughts, it can only be my opinion.

By the Tuesday of this week, three whole villages had received my campaign leaflet, thanks to help from Ermma, our neighbours, another Green candidate taking time out from his division, and the family of nearby St Neots councillor Lara Davenport-Ray.

That left two – though those two took up over 60% of my division.

I could get campaign leaflets to those 3,000-odd letterboxes in two days, right?

I had to try. Some 300 or so in our village, Brampton, would know me from my efforts leading the Flood Defence Group. Some 10 or so in nearby Grafham would know me from a campaign to keep a local road open to all traffic. But for most voters, my leaflet would be their first introduction to me and all I could offer.

My leaflet stood a damn good chance at swaying anyone who wasn’t rigidly tied to a political party. Mine was the only one with ‘action shots’, showing me working on issues a councillor could help with: flooding, education, and improving communication.

My trouble? Unlike all other parties, I didn’t have a huge team or a budget to help.

Nor did I have much time. On Monday, I was opening the new school library for Ely St John’s Primary – albeit making a local front page.

I was on my own for those two days, too. Ermma was providing make-up for the Pied Pipers production of Pippin at the ADC in Cambridge, Lara and her family were focused on her own campaign, and our neighbours were busy.

Plus I still had a job to do. But in my lunchbreaks and while Ermma was at the theatre, I strode fervently from door to door, dropping as many leaflets as possible before sunset (probably not a good idea to seek people’s letterboxes with a torch after dark…).

If I met someone on my travels, they typically took a leaflet from me cheerily. On the eve of the election, though, I had my closest brush with the hypocrisy of the newest political party in our country: Reform.

Yes, hypocrisy. I’ll call it out. I was leafletting in the Brampton street which had suffered the most flooding, where I figured they’d appreciate my flood defence efforts. But as I approached one home, a large banner in their window read,

SAY NO TO NET ZERO

So… you’d rather burn gas and increase the frequency of your home getting flooded?!

Maybe my chances weren’t that good after all…

I’d taken election day itself off work to help with Lara’s campaign. She actually did stand a chance of winning, being a very popular district councillor in her town already.

That said, her town only made up one part of her division. She was almost an unknown in the surrounding villages. And since local elections don’t attract as high a turnout in the UK as the national ones, she needed us to rustle up as many of her voters to the ballot box as possible.

After a day knocking on doors to remind people what they had to do, it was off to a large sports hall in St Ives for the count. Several long tables circled the middle of the room, where folks in hi-vis sprinted in with boxes of votes from each polling station.

Each box was numbered, so the first job was to decode which was for where. The boxes were then taken and tipped out onto the tables, where teams of counting assistants began to count the voting slips.

Here, the assistants were only counting the quantity of slips – but the candidates and their teams watched like pounce-poised cats, desperately tallying up the marks for an early estimate of which way the vote was going.

At first, the atmosphere was quite genial, even electric. Georgie, Huntingdon’s Green councillor, was there with her brother, a Lib Dem. I caught up with Liam, the Lib Dem rival in my area, a very pleasant chap. I even shared a jolly chat with my Tory rival, who sits on the parish council for Buckden.

But as the estimating continued, the mood of over half the room began to darken.

Reform was receiving a substantial number of votes.

In the middle of all this, Mummy Rose sent me a message. The hospital she’d convinced to work on her leg had gone and changed their mind yet again – but for the last time.

Mum forwarded me a copy of their letter. They acknowledged that her mental health had improved, and placed the blame solely on their lack of capacity to support her themselves should the operation prompt her to relapse.

I couldn’t believe it. Mum had been so incredibly strong, and here she was dissolving into anger and teary emojis thanks to a medical team that just couldn’t accept her progress.

But myself, I was exhausted from half a week of walking, working, and little sleep, and was now surrounded by increasing despairing politicians.

In moments like this, my inner optimist lashes out like a cornered cat. I was trying to give hope to councillors left, right, and centre – everywhere but the extreme right.

Did I have any hope left to share with my mother?

Evidently not: I made a comment about how they’d worded their letter in such a way as to seem justified to an outsider, and Mum interpreted this as me saying they were right.

I wanted to call her – but it wasn’t the right place, and I wasn’t sure I had the energy. Instead, I took from the coherence of her replies that she wasn’t heading the way she had at the turn of the year, and tried to reassure her by WhatsApp that I stood absolutely on her side.

Now I felt guilty for being unable to be there fully for my mum… pressured to stay alert in case the WhatsApp exchange went further downhill… and distracted by the deepening depression all around me.

But I felt something else, too: purpose.

However difficult this was getting, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. I felt appreciated by all those around me, and appreciated by Mum sharing her news with me.

Whatever the outcome, I felt active, an agent of hope and agent.

I clung to that feeling like it was my sun.

After a brief break for sleep, we were all back in that sports hall for the count proper. The assistants now separated the slips into piles for each candidate, with a basket for ‘spoils’.

We were hoping for penises: the more experienced candidates had stories of real artistry among ballot spoilers. But most were just blank, or written across with phrases like, “What’s the point?” Hearteningly few, to be honest.

As candidates, the presiding officer called us to discuss the voting slips being discounted. While going through these slips for my division, a vote for me was discounted because the voter had also put a cross in a different box, but then scribbled it out before crossing next to my name.

“Er, I’m pretty sure that’s a clear vote for Green,” I said, echoed by Lara.

“We discounted those in the mayoral election,” the officer replied, then went on.

The same happened for Liam. I backed him up. The officer treated us the same as before.

Then the same happened for the Tory candidate. I backed her too.

“We’ve already discounted the others,” the officer pointed out.

“Then don’t!” I said. “Count that one, and count the others too!”

The Tory candidate and Liam echoed me. In the end, the officer relented. These were clearly papers where the voter had made a mistake, scribbled it out, then put a cross beside their intended choice.

In the end, this led to Liam and the Tory getting an extra vote each, me getting two extra votes… and one extra going to the Reform candidate, who wasn’t there to speak up for himself – but it was fair to agree the same for him.

“That really was democracy in action!” I said to my Lib Dem and Tory comrades, who eagerly agreed.

The final count came back, me with 7.6% of the vote.

Yes, I felt a twinge of disappointment. But given that Greens got only 0% in our previous local election, and I’d amassed as many votes as almost a third of the leaflets we’d delivered, and I’d beaten the candidate representing our incumbent government, and Reform hadn’t won either…

Actually, it wasn’t a bad result at all. The best part? Liam and I seemed to have struck up a friendship. As I congratulated him, I got him to agree to meet with our Flood Defence Group, which he cheerily accepted as his first duty as our new councillor.

Then I went to the table where Lara’s votes were being counted. Together with the other candidates and their teams, we keenly watched to check that a slip with a cross for Lara didn’t mistakenly land in someone else’s pile.

When the tally came back, Lara had 623 votes, easily beating all the other parties.

Except the Lib Dems. They had 638.

The difference was small enough for Lara to request a recount. I clocked the despair on the faces of the counting assistants, but I’d also heard stories of votes that needed recounting three or four times before being settled.

We all resumed our places to observe the count – except Lara, who stepped outside for some air.

I understood. For all other candidates in her area, councilling would be their second job – but for Lara, it was already her life. As a housewife with a son of schooling age, she’d made it her mission to devote pretty much every day to improving the living standards of her local community.

That community were obviously rewarding her with their support, as she had similar numbers of votes to those she took in the district election.

But that wasn’t enough to win the county election. Her campaign needed to overcome the Lib Dem assault on the surrounding areas if it was to succeed there.

I oversaw four counting assistants myself, and didn’t spot a single error. When the recount results came back, it was Lara 623, Lib Dems 638.

Exactly the same.

I commended the counting assistants for their diligence. They really did deserve it, and I was pleased to see smiles of relief at my comment. It wasn’t their fault that someone was about to feel the crush of disappointment.

Lara returned from the café with a Slushie. “Take heart,” I said. “The important thing is, you and the Liberals completely silenced the lies of Reform in your division.”

She didn’t respond to me that much in that moment. But when I checked in with her on WhatsApp the next day, she used words to the effect of, “I’m done with 2025.”

Very similar words to those Mummy Rose had been using at the start of this year.

But by then, I’d continued my chat with Mum, and agreed we’d call out the hospital publicly for their ineptitude. We also focused on the fact they had referred her to a public hospital – apparently so she’d be ‘closer’ to mental health support should she need it (albeit the same support she currently gets, which is all based online). She’d be getting her op three months late, but at least she’d still get it.

I channelled some of that positivity into my response to Lara, pointing out that her campaign had proved her support in her district, prompted many to publicly praise her work on the council’s climate committee, and encouraged folks like Georgie and me to put our names to ballot papers.

“So while you mayn’t be putting the roof on yet,” I wrote, “you’ve built an infallible house so far, and filled it with a team you’ve inspired to keep on goin’ till the world makes sense again.”

She responded to that with a smiley selfie of us both, and shortly after posted a thank you to her voters.

So although I’d failed as a county councillor, I seemed to be doing well as a counsellor to my friends and family.

Like councilling, though, that’s a job that never really ends…

In return for me sharing these words with you, please pay just one word of yours. How would you sum up your response to this post in just one word?

Want to know why I’m asking for this? Flip back to this post here.

Let’s share tales again soon. In the meantime, ciao for niao…
$;-)