The Work of John Chilton
John retired in 2000 and decided to develope his writing skills. He attended several creative writing classes, the best and most inspirational led by a local novelist and playwright. Subsequently he joined The Harrogate Writers' Circle and has been Secretary and Chairman. John has written several short stories some of which have been published in popular magazines and has won prizes for his humorous poetry.
MalingererI don’t want to go to school Mum,
Can’t you send a note ? My eyes have gone all swimmy, There’s a tickle in my throat. I don’t want to go to school Mum I’m feeling very hot. I’m shivering like a jelly I think I’ve got the lot. I don’t want to go to school Mum There’s a sharp pain in my head. It’s horrible on Thursday’s What is that you said ? Are you sure it’s Friday ? That’s the day for sports. I’ve got to get to school Mum Where’s my football shorts ? |
CheckoutThe supermarket checkout girl, Had eyes of glacial blue And her movements were so graceful As she’d slide my items through. My fervour was a fever Within my shopping cart And I’d feel the barcodes bleeping To the beating of my heart. I felt I must propose to her When all was said and done I hoped she would accept me And we’d be two for one. Alas she had to tell me, She had a boy friend Reg Who was in charge of stacking On the fruit and veg. I’d told her of my love for her And laid my feelings bare But now I’ll go to the DIY And see what’s going there |
Diagnosis - first published in Yours Magazine
Jim buttered his third piece of toast, spooned on some chunky marmalade and smeared it with the knife. "The cat’s not eating."
His wife, Joan, took a sip of her coffee and said "What?"
"Clarence, the cat. He hasn’t had a proper meal for three days."
"What makes you think that ?"
Jim snorted. "I ought to know. I’m the one who feeds him. Every morning he comes in about eight and goes straight to his dish. If I’m not up till after half past, he squeaks at me as if to say ‘you’re late’."
His wife started to clear the breakfast table.
Jim followed her into the kitchen. "Look. There’s his dish. He walks straight past it."
Joan started to load the dishwasher. " Perhaps he’s gone off the cat food. They do you know. The number of people I’ve seen at the supermarket fussing over what they think the cat will accept that week. Some of them say they spend more time deciding what to get for the moggy than on the rest of the shopping ."
Jim sighed. "Once, you said that he’d never touch anything but Kit e Kat and when he went off that he only tolerated Felix. How an animal that can eat a whole mouse, including its tail can be so fussy about cat food, I’ll never know. I’ll get some of that Gourmet stuff and see if he’ll eat that."
The following morning, Jim said "There’s no change. He looked at the Gourmet, sniffed and walked off with his tail in the air. You know if I get a kipper he does sentry duty by the fridge ‘til he gets his share."
Joan laughed and nodded.
"Well…"
"Not kipper ?"
"Not a sniff."
Joan said "I was talking to Mrs Braithwaite in the Post Office, yesterday. She said that, when their Fido didn’t eat, it was his teeth."
"That’s a daft name for a cat."
"Yes. It’s her husband’s idea of a joke. The amusing thing is that their three year old thinks it’s perfectly normal, that all cats should be called Fido. Mr. Braithwaite says they’ll call the next one Bonzo. Anyway, we’re having chicken tomorrow. Clarence loves that."
The following day, all the cat had was half a bowl of milk and turned his nose up at the best part of the chicken breast, cut up into small pieces and put in a clean dish.
Julia, their fourteen year old daughter, came in. Her hair gelled into little spikes with a red streak on top. Jim started to say something but his wife kicked him under the table. Julia said "Fiona says that when their Yul wasn’t eating it was his throat."
Jim looked up from his paper. "Yul ?"
"Yes. He’s a Siamese."
Jim said "He’s a Siamese ? Oh, I see. Is he bald ?"
Julia gave him a pitying look. Said "bye" and left the house, slamming the door behind her.
Joan shouted after her. "When will you be….. Oh, never mind."
The following day, Joan decided to take charge. She went to the supermarket and bought an expensive sachet of cat food with a picture of a white cat with blue eyes wearing a jewel studded collar and a tiara. Clarence sailed in the next morning looked suspiciously at Jim and Joan, who were both in the kitchen anxiously watching, examined his dish and put his head in the air and disappeared through the cat flap. He spent the rest of the morning, alternately washing himself and snoozing in the rose bed.
Mrs. Bracket came round collecting subscriptions for The Village Society.
"Not eating, eh ? Well sometimes they don’t, especially in the Spring. Five days ! Oh, That’s different. How old is he ? Mmm, could be his kidneys. Is he drinking
a lot ?"
Jim said "That’s all he is doing."
"Looks like kidneys, said Mrs. Bracket. "That’s what it was with Ayatolla."
"Ayatolla ?"
"Yes, he was a Persian."
Joan said "Of course. Silly of me to ask."
The next day, Thursday, Jim said "I’ve been talking to Charley Barnes in the pub. He definitely thinks it’s kidneys. Said Rangoon was exactly the same."
"Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Rangoon is a Burmese."
Jim shook his head. "No. Charley says he’s a stray that they found in his garage. He was in Burma during the war. No, not the cat. Charley."
"Well", said Joan. He’s going to have to go to the vet."
"That’ll cost us an arm and a leg and he’s not even our cat."
Joan laughed. "What do you mean he’s not our cat, we’ve had him over twelve years."
"Yes, but we didn’t buy him or anything. He was Fred Walshford’s cat and he decided to come and live with us. He had it made at Fred’s. His own electronic cat flap, stainless steel dishes and he decides to come and live in our garage in the middle of the Winter. You saying don’t encourage him and all the time you’re sneaking food out to him on the quiet.
"Well" said Joan, "He looked so pathetic. Then, one day he sneaked into the kitchen while I was out at the dustbin and we were his for life."
"You should have thrown him out."
"It was snowing."
Jim stood up "I suppose I’d better get the cat box out of the garage. That’ll be another performance, getting him in that. I’d swear he’s got six legs when we do try."
Joan said "I was talking to Marjorie on the ‘phone, yesterday. She said that when they want to get Carapace in the cat box, they put a towel over him and there’s no trouble."
"Carapace ?"
They both said together "He’s a tortoiseshell."
"Anyway," said Jim, If Clarence sees you pick up a towel, he’ll be out of that cat flap like a rat up a drainpipe."
Clarence was asleep on the settee when Jim and Joan approached him with the cat carrier, followed at a discreet distance by Julia. He woke and miaowed, deep in his throat, more like a growl and tried to escape but Jim had him firmly around his body. Jim said "There, hold it there. I’ve got him."
As he tried to push Clarence into the box, he realised that he had fastened a claw firmly into a scatter cushion and was dragging it with him. He detached the claw, desperately keeping his other arm around the body of the wriggling cat. Clarence dug the freed claw into Jim’s forearm just above his leather gardening gloves causing him to shout and say slanderous things about the cat’s doubtful parentage. Trying to get the struggling animal’s head into the box and follow it with his body was impossible as Clarence kept moving so that he was sideways on to the entrance.
Then Jim said " Stand the damn thing on its end. Never mind. Just do it." He picked the cat up and dropped him backwards into the carrier and closed the front while Clarence was trying to scrabble uphill to get out.
Julia said " You needn’t be so rough with him."
Jim looked at the blood oozing out of his arm and started to say something but then he shook his head and picked up the cat box and went out to his car.
He drove the three miles to the vet’s accompanied by continual pathetic whimpering from the cat. When they finally got to see the vet after an Alsatian, a Retriever, two other cats and a Guinea Pig had had their turn , Jim opened the front of the cat box and Clarence put just his head out and looked at the vet with some suspicion. For a cat that had resisted all attempts to get him into the box he now seemed equally reluctant to come out.
The vet, a tall young man, with a name tag that said ‘Andrew Macdonald’, pulled Clarence out and examined him, checking his teeth, his throat, his eyes, his belly and what Jim supposed to be his glands. "Do you know how old he is?" He asked.
Jim said that they were not sure but they thought about sixteen and explained the circumstances of the family’s adoption and the fact that his previous owner was vague about Clarence’s age. All this time the cat was purring like a well oiled sewing machine although Jim was not sure whether it was from pleasure or menace.
"Well," said Andrew Macdonald in a refined Scottish accent, "He’s in remarkably good condition for his age but I suggest a blood test just to make sure that there is nothing wrong. We can do the pathology in our own lab and ‘phone you this afternoon with the result."
A half hour later, having parted with £64, Jim let Clarence out of the cat box and the cat went haring up the avenue as if his tail was on fire.
The vet ‘phoned later and said that the results were well within the parameters for a cat of Clarence’s supposed age and suggested that Jim take him in for a ‘wee cocktail of injections’ that they called their senior cat treatment. This set Jim back another £ 20.
The following day there was no change but on Saturday Jim announced that Clarence had come in at 8 o’clock and polished off a full bowl of Kit e Kat and, for the rest of the week, he was eating as usual.
Jim said "I don’t know what was in those injections but they’ve certainly done the trick."
On the next Saturday, Jim was checking his roses for greenfly when the old man from next door looked over the fence. "How’s our cat then ?"
Jim was puzzled. "Our cat ?"
"Yes" said the old man. "We call him that because he seems to spend as much time with us as with you. A couple of weeks ago he sauntered into our kitchen when I was getting some sirloin ready for dinner. I cut some up for him and he loved it. Now, he comes in every morning about six o’clock for his breakfast. Loves raw steak and lamb and can’t get enough of herring. I bet it makes him thirsty, though. It can be very salty. Only we’ve been away since last Friday and we’ve been wondering how he’s getting on."
"Oh, he’s fine, said Jim. Couldn’t be better."
When he told Joan she said "Didn’t you tell him ?"
Jim held out his hands, palms upwards. "How could I ? The old feller meant well. Besides the savings we’re going to make on cat food will cover the vet’s bill in no time at all.
His wife, Joan, took a sip of her coffee and said "What?"
"Clarence, the cat. He hasn’t had a proper meal for three days."
"What makes you think that ?"
Jim snorted. "I ought to know. I’m the one who feeds him. Every morning he comes in about eight and goes straight to his dish. If I’m not up till after half past, he squeaks at me as if to say ‘you’re late’."
His wife started to clear the breakfast table.
Jim followed her into the kitchen. "Look. There’s his dish. He walks straight past it."
Joan started to load the dishwasher. " Perhaps he’s gone off the cat food. They do you know. The number of people I’ve seen at the supermarket fussing over what they think the cat will accept that week. Some of them say they spend more time deciding what to get for the moggy than on the rest of the shopping ."
Jim sighed. "Once, you said that he’d never touch anything but Kit e Kat and when he went off that he only tolerated Felix. How an animal that can eat a whole mouse, including its tail can be so fussy about cat food, I’ll never know. I’ll get some of that Gourmet stuff and see if he’ll eat that."
The following morning, Jim said "There’s no change. He looked at the Gourmet, sniffed and walked off with his tail in the air. You know if I get a kipper he does sentry duty by the fridge ‘til he gets his share."
Joan laughed and nodded.
"Well…"
"Not kipper ?"
"Not a sniff."
Joan said "I was talking to Mrs Braithwaite in the Post Office, yesterday. She said that, when their Fido didn’t eat, it was his teeth."
"That’s a daft name for a cat."
"Yes. It’s her husband’s idea of a joke. The amusing thing is that their three year old thinks it’s perfectly normal, that all cats should be called Fido. Mr. Braithwaite says they’ll call the next one Bonzo. Anyway, we’re having chicken tomorrow. Clarence loves that."
The following day, all the cat had was half a bowl of milk and turned his nose up at the best part of the chicken breast, cut up into small pieces and put in a clean dish.
Julia, their fourteen year old daughter, came in. Her hair gelled into little spikes with a red streak on top. Jim started to say something but his wife kicked him under the table. Julia said "Fiona says that when their Yul wasn’t eating it was his throat."
Jim looked up from his paper. "Yul ?"
"Yes. He’s a Siamese."
Jim said "He’s a Siamese ? Oh, I see. Is he bald ?"
Julia gave him a pitying look. Said "bye" and left the house, slamming the door behind her.
Joan shouted after her. "When will you be….. Oh, never mind."
The following day, Joan decided to take charge. She went to the supermarket and bought an expensive sachet of cat food with a picture of a white cat with blue eyes wearing a jewel studded collar and a tiara. Clarence sailed in the next morning looked suspiciously at Jim and Joan, who were both in the kitchen anxiously watching, examined his dish and put his head in the air and disappeared through the cat flap. He spent the rest of the morning, alternately washing himself and snoozing in the rose bed.
Mrs. Bracket came round collecting subscriptions for The Village Society.
"Not eating, eh ? Well sometimes they don’t, especially in the Spring. Five days ! Oh, That’s different. How old is he ? Mmm, could be his kidneys. Is he drinking
a lot ?"
Jim said "That’s all he is doing."
"Looks like kidneys, said Mrs. Bracket. "That’s what it was with Ayatolla."
"Ayatolla ?"
"Yes, he was a Persian."
Joan said "Of course. Silly of me to ask."
The next day, Thursday, Jim said "I’ve been talking to Charley Barnes in the pub. He definitely thinks it’s kidneys. Said Rangoon was exactly the same."
"Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Rangoon is a Burmese."
Jim shook his head. "No. Charley says he’s a stray that they found in his garage. He was in Burma during the war. No, not the cat. Charley."
"Well", said Joan. He’s going to have to go to the vet."
"That’ll cost us an arm and a leg and he’s not even our cat."
Joan laughed. "What do you mean he’s not our cat, we’ve had him over twelve years."
"Yes, but we didn’t buy him or anything. He was Fred Walshford’s cat and he decided to come and live with us. He had it made at Fred’s. His own electronic cat flap, stainless steel dishes and he decides to come and live in our garage in the middle of the Winter. You saying don’t encourage him and all the time you’re sneaking food out to him on the quiet.
"Well" said Joan, "He looked so pathetic. Then, one day he sneaked into the kitchen while I was out at the dustbin and we were his for life."
"You should have thrown him out."
"It was snowing."
Jim stood up "I suppose I’d better get the cat box out of the garage. That’ll be another performance, getting him in that. I’d swear he’s got six legs when we do try."
Joan said "I was talking to Marjorie on the ‘phone, yesterday. She said that when they want to get Carapace in the cat box, they put a towel over him and there’s no trouble."
"Carapace ?"
They both said together "He’s a tortoiseshell."
"Anyway," said Jim, If Clarence sees you pick up a towel, he’ll be out of that cat flap like a rat up a drainpipe."
Clarence was asleep on the settee when Jim and Joan approached him with the cat carrier, followed at a discreet distance by Julia. He woke and miaowed, deep in his throat, more like a growl and tried to escape but Jim had him firmly around his body. Jim said "There, hold it there. I’ve got him."
As he tried to push Clarence into the box, he realised that he had fastened a claw firmly into a scatter cushion and was dragging it with him. He detached the claw, desperately keeping his other arm around the body of the wriggling cat. Clarence dug the freed claw into Jim’s forearm just above his leather gardening gloves causing him to shout and say slanderous things about the cat’s doubtful parentage. Trying to get the struggling animal’s head into the box and follow it with his body was impossible as Clarence kept moving so that he was sideways on to the entrance.
Then Jim said " Stand the damn thing on its end. Never mind. Just do it." He picked the cat up and dropped him backwards into the carrier and closed the front while Clarence was trying to scrabble uphill to get out.
Julia said " You needn’t be so rough with him."
Jim looked at the blood oozing out of his arm and started to say something but then he shook his head and picked up the cat box and went out to his car.
He drove the three miles to the vet’s accompanied by continual pathetic whimpering from the cat. When they finally got to see the vet after an Alsatian, a Retriever, two other cats and a Guinea Pig had had their turn , Jim opened the front of the cat box and Clarence put just his head out and looked at the vet with some suspicion. For a cat that had resisted all attempts to get him into the box he now seemed equally reluctant to come out.
The vet, a tall young man, with a name tag that said ‘Andrew Macdonald’, pulled Clarence out and examined him, checking his teeth, his throat, his eyes, his belly and what Jim supposed to be his glands. "Do you know how old he is?" He asked.
Jim said that they were not sure but they thought about sixteen and explained the circumstances of the family’s adoption and the fact that his previous owner was vague about Clarence’s age. All this time the cat was purring like a well oiled sewing machine although Jim was not sure whether it was from pleasure or menace.
"Well," said Andrew Macdonald in a refined Scottish accent, "He’s in remarkably good condition for his age but I suggest a blood test just to make sure that there is nothing wrong. We can do the pathology in our own lab and ‘phone you this afternoon with the result."
A half hour later, having parted with £64, Jim let Clarence out of the cat box and the cat went haring up the avenue as if his tail was on fire.
The vet ‘phoned later and said that the results were well within the parameters for a cat of Clarence’s supposed age and suggested that Jim take him in for a ‘wee cocktail of injections’ that they called their senior cat treatment. This set Jim back another £ 20.
The following day there was no change but on Saturday Jim announced that Clarence had come in at 8 o’clock and polished off a full bowl of Kit e Kat and, for the rest of the week, he was eating as usual.
Jim said "I don’t know what was in those injections but they’ve certainly done the trick."
On the next Saturday, Jim was checking his roses for greenfly when the old man from next door looked over the fence. "How’s our cat then ?"
Jim was puzzled. "Our cat ?"
"Yes" said the old man. "We call him that because he seems to spend as much time with us as with you. A couple of weeks ago he sauntered into our kitchen when I was getting some sirloin ready for dinner. I cut some up for him and he loved it. Now, he comes in every morning about six o’clock for his breakfast. Loves raw steak and lamb and can’t get enough of herring. I bet it makes him thirsty, though. It can be very salty. Only we’ve been away since last Friday and we’ve been wondering how he’s getting on."
"Oh, he’s fine, said Jim. Couldn’t be better."
When he told Joan she said "Didn’t you tell him ?"
Jim held out his hands, palms upwards. "How could I ? The old feller meant well. Besides the savings we’re going to make on cat food will cover the vet’s bill in no time at all.