Southend U3A

October 2022 - Open Day

Flight Of Destiny - Anne Wilson

‘I want a flight and I want it now,’ he shouted at the implacable face before him.

‘I’ll do my best, Sir,’ the Face said, before returning several interminable minutes later. ‘I’ve secured one seat,’ it confirmed.

Once on board, the fraught passenger found beads of perspiration forming on his face, despite the change from the heatwave to more Autumnal weather.

Tapping the arm rest nervously, he prayed silently that he would make it in time.

His phone went. It was the sombre voice of his father.

‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid.’

It was news he must keep to himself for at least an hour or so, he reckoned. It was a family matter and he merited the same courtesy of initial privacy as the rest of them. But no more than five minutes later he detected the buzzing sound of the other passengers talking.

‘God Save The King’ called out one.

At that moment, he knew his fate and where his future lay.

Transport Of Delight (Flanders & Swann) - Diane Silverston

The old bus with its faded paintwork of yellow and green trundled into the bus station of the sleepy town. It was preparing for its afternoon journey around the local villages. The driver, Tom and conductress, Jenny knew their route so well. They had been on this service most of their working life. They knew most of their passengers and had since those people had been children travelling to school each day. Today was a little different. This was Tom and Jenny’s last day, their final journey, they were retiring.

2:30, ready for the off. Jenny saw the passengers on, ladies with their shopping baskets full, mums with small children, an odd stranger. She took their fares, rang the bell to tell Tom ‘It’s time to set off.’

Out of the town and soon into the countryside. The bus rattled over bridges, down narrow lanes and through wooded areas. A lovely sunny day, superb views either side of the Cotswolds. Slowly at each village passengers left the bus, saying their goodbyes to Tom and Jenny.

By 5pm they had reached their final destination, with an empty bus, pulling into the large bus station, where Tom and Jenny passed the bus onto the next crew. With a last look and a little sigh, they went into the office, gave their cash over, said goodbye to the office staff, changed out of their uniforms and left. Ready for the next chapter of their life . . . retirement . . . together, enjoying their garden at their thatched cottage. Perhaps occasionally taking a bus journey . . . further afield.

Trains & Buses & Boats & Ferries . . . and a dog - Jenni Bowers

We took the steam train from Kingswear to Paignton, beginning a round trip on four forms of transport – eight of us plus spaniel, enjoyed the rattling ride. At Paignton we had lunch al’fresco, then wandered to the bus station to continue onwards to Totnes, riding upstairs we admired the lovely countryside. Totnes was a busy little town, we perused the shops, took photos and headed down to the small key area to find our boat back to Dartmouth, riding out on deck, more gorgeous views to admire. From Dartmouth we took the ferry back to Kingswear and a pub meal.

The Car - Jan Norman

James sat patiently waiting for his mother to sort out her keys and start the car. A day of shopping beckoned as Christmas was only two weeks away. He knew what he would love for a present: the car of his dreams, a low slung coupe just like the one parked in next door’s driveway. Pillar box red with chrome trim and cream leather seats. He sighed. How he longed to be independent of his parents and have his own means transport.

The sound of his Mother’s battered Fiat bursting into life broke his reverie. Gravel spurted from under the wheels and they were off . . .

Christmas day dawned and James’s excitement mounted as he eyed the parcels under the Christmas tree. Which one was his he wondered?

His Mother seeing the eager look of enquiry on his face took him by the hand and pulled him forward.

‘This one is yours James. Happy Christmas darling.’

He found himself facing a huge oblong shape wrapped in brightly coloured Christmas paper. His restraint evaporated and he ripped off the wrapping. Gasping in astonishment and rocking in excitement he stumbled back, fell over his own feet and sat down with a bump and burst into tears. He had his very own red coupe pedal car.

The Raft - Jan Norman

The raging storm had been buffeting the frail little butterfly for hours. With lashing rain weighing down her tiny jewelled wings her wingbeats were now slow and erratic. She was nearly spent. In one last heroic effort she fluttered downwards frantically scanning the heavy seas below in search of salvation amongst the spray and spume of the roiling waters. There, there, as the waves rolled she spied a floating branch.

Summoning all her reserves she flapped and strained every muscle and every sinew in an effort to effect a safe landing. Reaching out with near numb appendages she grabbed and held on tightly. Safe at last she examined her raft. A sturdy branch with a few battered leaves and some decaying fruits. She could survive until landfall.

The Last Journey - Lynn Gale

One cold, wet October night, Howie Goldman, a London Taxi driver of some thirty-five years, saw the unmistakable silhouette of Sir Bartholomew, Barty, Greystone. Resplendent in his iconic black top hat, waiting outside the Globe theatre.

Howie rubbed his hands together. The famous Shakespearean actor, a regular black cab user, was renowned for his generous tips. Howie pulled over next to him and opened the door.

‘Evening, Sir. Rotten weather tonight.’

Sir Barty doffed his hat and climbed inside.

‘Home, Sir?’

Sir Barty nodded.

‘How about a bit of music?’ Howie switched on the radio.

He knew Sir Barty loved listening to the classics on the drive home to his West London flat. The soothing sound of Liszt was interrupted when a female voice announced that national treasure, Sir Barty Greystone, had died this morning.

Shocked, Howie looked into his rear-view mirror.

A black top hat sat on the seat.

Icon – Pete Norman

I am beautiful – stunningly beautiful. It is not vanity to add that, with a mere glimpse of my iconic profile I am instantly recognisable.

Yet, I am powerful – supremely powerful. I was the scourge of the Luftwaffe – the saviour of the Battle of Britain – had it not been for my kind you would all most likely be speaking German.

And so, quite rightly, I stand, here, on my pedestal. You might argue that my pedestal is in fact the top of an Airfix construction kit box but, once the glue is dry and the RAF roundels are attached to my uniquely sculptured wings, I, the Supermarine Spitfire, will be placed in a prominent position for the whole world to adore.

Bust Bus - Pete Norman

At the Group Leaders’ Meeting it was suggested that ‘The Wheels On The Bus’ would be appropriate for ‘Transport’ Well . . . Here goes . . .

The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round,

And the wheels on the tarmac make a whispering sound, All day long.

If the wheels on the bus were square not round, square not round, square not round,

Then the wheels on the bus go crash, bang, thump, clang, clatter, boom, wallop, clash, bash, BOING!

The Walking Palm - PETE nORMAN

Socratea exorrhiza lives in the tropical rainforests of Central and South America.

It ‘walks’ from shade to sunlight by growing roots in the direction it wants to travel and then allowing the old roots to lift into the air and die.

Is it ‘walking’? Well, the jury’s out on that but you have to agree that it is ‘transporting’ itself.