Auntie Doris’s Road To Publication #3: Talking to Grandma

GrandmaI have never been asked so many ruddy questions. I thought that I was in for a quiet life after I stopped writing a little homily every day, and let my nephew Michael edit the ones that I have already written. But ohh no! That would be too much to ask. Now he’s at me even more than he was before, incessant questioning about stuff. “What did they call my mother’s brothers and sisters? Did I know both my grandmas and granddads? Where did they live? When did they die? What did they ruddy well do for a living. How the hell should I know? It was all such a long time ago. Some of the people he is asking about have been dead that long that they have gone into The Meld.

For those of you that haven’t read all my little homilies, The Meld is the place where people go after they feel that they have been on the other side for long enough. When you decide to go into The Meld, you lose your personal identity, you just meld with everyone else in there. You can find out all about it in my little series “Auntie Doris’s Life on the Other Side

Any road once people have gone into the meld, it is difficult to ask them questions. Difficult, but not impossible. I have been learning how to do it. I suppose it’s nice to have a little hobby, and like I say, I am not writing every day now, so I have a bit of time on my hands, and it helps me answer all those ruddy questions our Michael keeps asking.

When I discovered that I could contact the land of the living from the other side (through my nephew) it was like learning a new skill. A bit like when young kids go to ruddy Hai Karate classes or whatever it is they do when they aren’t ruddy skateboarding in virtual reality or whatever it is that they get up these days. The thing is, they get better and better at it with practice and they get different coloured belts to show everyone how good they are.

Some of them don’t progress much. Some of them collect all the ruddy belts, and then give up. But some of them progress to the next level and start doing kung fu, and maybe even go on to become ninjas, and then do secret missions or what nots for the government or other ruddy clandestine organisations.

Any road, I have progressed to the next level of contacting other dimensions where you start learning how to contact The Meld. Course, I’m not much good at it yet. I’m only a beginner, and it’s not all that easy. You have to know what to ask, and how to ask it, but I can now just about manage summon up and speak to people who have gone into it. Well, as long as I have some connection to them. Family and that.

It’s not really them of course. It’s a version of them created by all the knowledge in The Meld. But then again, its as near as you are going to get, without actually going in yourself. And I’m not ready for that yet. I’m having too much fun where I am.

Any road, I had a chat with my Grandmother the other day. Or some spirit that was to all intents and purposes pretty much like my grandmother (on my mother’s side) It was a funny ruddy business, because I hadn’t seen her since about 1918 when I was about 4 years old. She seemed a nice old soul though, and was able to fill me in on one or two things that the nephew had been asking me about.

I reckon that eventually I might be able to do people that I have no connection with. Like Napoleon, or Genghis Khan. Not that I am all that bothered. I wouldn’t know what I would even have to say to either one of them, although I have always been fascinated by the Mongol Empire, I wouldn’t actually want to spend any time with its ruddy instigator. But you never know. I might be able to do requests one day. That would be a lark. But not until my nephew has finished the business in hand and got that ruddy book written!

Auntie Doris’s They Died Too Young #32: Thomas Etholen Selfridge – Died September 17th 1908, aged 26


Sometimes people get so wrapped up in an obsession, they are blind to the ruddy risks involved. Like my nephew Michael. Who became so involved with trying on the tights of the dead that the totally disregarded the possibility that his filthy behaviour could open a conduit between this world and the next, which would allow me to manifest myself through his body, eventually taking it over so regularly that he doesn’t know whether it’s Good Friday or Easter Monday, let alone whether he is a living 53 year old man, or a long dead 100 year old woman. But that’s his ruddy problem, we know which table our bread is buttered under, don’t we, readers?
Any road, Thomas Selfridges obsession was flying, and in the early years of the Twentieth century he had been up in airships, strapped to kites, on gliders and all sorts. His motto was “I wish I could fly!” So nobody was ruddy surprised when he teamed up with Orville Wright, the famous airline pilot, and volunteered himself to be a passenger in one of the planes that he was trying to sell to the US Army. (There was no such thing as the US Air Force in those days, because there weren’t all that many aeroplanes knocking about.
Any road, Orville took him up in one of them ruddy old fashioned planes made out of waxed cloth and sticks, only in those days it wasn’t old fashioned at all, in fact it was new fangled. They did three or four laps around Fort Myer in Golden Virginia, when one of the ruddy propellers smashed of and the whole kaboodle smashed into the ground.
That put the dampers on the day. Orville smashed his leg and half of his ribs and had all blood coming out of his nose, but poor old Thomas split his ruddy head open and never regained consciousness. He was pronounced dead soon afterwards, and was awarded the posthumous Iron Cross, or whatever they ruddy had in America in them days, for being the first man ever to die in an aeroplane crash.
His heroic actions paved the way for Glenn Miller, Buddy Holly, Jim Reeves, and hundreds of other ruddy idiots with no more sense than they were born with to defy the Good Lord and try and fly, rather than stay on the ruddy ground where they belonged.
I can’t understand the ruddy fascination with flying anywhere. If it was of any ruddy use they would have opened an Airport at Withernsea before now. But they haven’t, and they have ruddy loads in London; Heathrow, Stansted, Gatwick, Piccadilly Circus, the ruddy lot. And you can only catch planes to foreign places from them. Which just shows how much London thinks of the rest of Britain. If old Selfridge had known how things would turn out, he probably wouldn’t have bothered getting himself killed.
As it was, the Americans passed a law in his honour, that said that no one was allowed to ride in an aeroplane in future unless they were wearing a crash helmet. That didn’t last more than five ruddy minutes though. Now, modern airports the world over are full of Americans with cameras hanging around their necks, wearing golf trousers and sunglasses, and asking where the Starbucks is in very loud voices. Poor old Thomas, it looks like he died in ruddy vain.