Competition

No. 1057: Sci Fi tiros

Set by Robin Chase: Now that science fiction is all the rage, one wonders what the classic authors might have made of the genre. Competitors are asked for extracts (limit, 150 words) from Sci Fi stories by Dickens, Jane Austen, Trollope or any other pre-twentieth-century novel-writer. Entries to 'Competition No. 1057' by 6 April.

No. 1054: The winners

Charles Seaton reports: Competitors were asked for verses suitable for inclusion In When We Are Very Old or Now We Are Eighty-Six. Competitors weren't obliged to imitate A.A. Milne, of course, though a good many did (and most of them seemed to go for Christopher Robin saying his prayers), nor did they have to be archly Oar ful about old age — witness Stephen Meadows's entry.

I was a little disappointed not to get an entry from our 97-year-old occasional competitor, but there were plenty of creditable entries — those of M. Fanning and J.C.M. Hepple particularly deserve mention — for which space could not be found. Five pounds to Paul Griffin and four pounds each to the others printed. Christopher Robin is drawing his pension;

He lives in a villa in Spain;

He suffers from chronic bronchitis and tension. And never goes out in the rain.

He never wears wellies; he has to eat jellies; He peers through a pair of bifocals;

He talks quite a lot to a bear that he's got Who is known as El Pu to the locals. Christopher Robin goes cougherty coughertY Cougherty cougherty cough; All sorts and conditions of Spanish physicians Have seen him and written him off.

But drowsily still in his house near Seville He dreams of the Forest, and Anne.

Who waits in the buttercups — deep in the buttercups Down by the stream — for her man. (Paul Griffin) I've got a little secret will you promise not to tell? It's something that I do when I'm not feeling very well. Of course, I've pills and medicines and things to take at night, Every colour of the rainbow, orange, purple, green and white, But most of them taste nasty, so I often have instead A great big swig of whisky from my bottk down the bed.

Now nursie has forbidden any alcoholic drink And brings me herbal tea or barley-water — Ugh! I think.

But my whisky makes me happy, puts the colour in my face

And, of course, I've got it hidden in a very Clever place.

I think if you're not jolly you might as well be dead, So give me a swig of whisky from my bottle down the bed.

(G.H. Harris) Grandpa lies all day in bed, Rests on the pillow his little grey head. Hush! Hush! Don't mention wills.

Lord, tell someone I'm needing my pills.

Wasn't it dull on the box tonight? That Ena Sharpies did it for spite. Thank you, God, for what! have been,

But life's now a shadow I see on a screen.

I had some glasses I'd find my specs, And read that book about young folks' sex Thank you, Lord, for my life was good, But now it's all slops, and I hate rice pud.

Little old fellow must pray where he lies; ,A grandchild of his has won a prize. ve so many, Lord, that I don't know which, But, Lord, please tell him: turn off my switch.'

(Pat Blackford) I cannot find my glasses, My memory is bad, But oh, the lovely lasses I courted when a lad!

I whistle through my dentures My hair is thin and white, But ah, the fine adventures I dream of every night!

My footsteps slide and stumble, I tremble at the knees, My fingers shake and fumble, But oh, my fantasies!

My grandsons think I'm dotty But envy have I none, Those fools, bejeaned and spotty, Can never guess my fun! (0. Smith)

('Christopher Robin is saying his prayers')

Weary old dears, near the end of our day, Hairless and toothless we mumble away — Blurred and sclerotic, our muddled old brains Repeating the same old befuddled refrains, (Bitchy old beldame, weak on her pins, Stubbing her toes and abrading her shins — Hush, hush, snigger who dares — Old Granny Robin has fallen downstairs!) Tetchy and torpid, our limbs in decay, We fumble and grumble our way through the day: Study us carefully if you'd behold

The infinite graces your years will unfold. (Garrulous gaffer, ever a curse — NOW, in his dotage, he's twenty times worse. Hark, hark, rejoicing's begun —

Old Mr Christopher's choked on a bun!) (Claude Spettigue) The old man's life from youth is cast. The childhood mould till death will last.

Happy the man in good or bad if in his youth happy the lad.

If he stood true to self and friend so will he stand through to the end.

This one of life's deep certainties — as the boy was the old man is. (Stephen Meadows) I remember the days when the waltz was the craze And plus-fours were the height of high fashion, When I took up the chase at a furious pace Down the path of promiscuous passion.

As I clearly recall, I was handsome and tall With the finest of pointed moustaches, How the maidens would primp and pretend to go limp At a wink from my sexy eyelashes!

Now I'm plagued with the gout and my hair's falling out And I'm long past erotic adventures; A quick cuddle and kiss would be infinite bliss But my jawbone's too weak for my dentures. When my judgment day comes and the downpointing thumbs Indicate that I'm heading for Hades, I'll be more than content just as long as I'm sent Where there's plenty of old-fashioned ladies.

(J.J. Webster)