Better result!

19/06/2009 by Aileen.

Our Birding tutor texted me today asking me if it would be okay if my Bearded Tit photo appeared in the Yorkshire Post. Er. Yes. I think so. However, there is a lot of discussion going on among amateur photographers as to whether it is right that newspapers and tv don’t pay their contributors. I suppose if I had a lot of really great photos appearing regularly in the mass media it would be only fair to be paid. But I haven’t, so I am delighted. I have to choose 10 photos for presenting on my T189 course, and this has given me confidence.

Today’s Creative Writing was so entertaining. We had to write a description leading up to a murder. Everyone is so clever and original. we had a good laugh. As mine is short I’ll reproduce it here

Murder Most Fowl

From the dining room came the subdued noise of forty nuns delicately stabbing their boiled potatoes and ham with their polished knives and forks.

Sister Blanche crept past, congratulating herself that her plan was working. She had been excused dinner because of a supposed blinding headache, and now she headed for the library. Great scholarly tomes scented the air with must and mildew and leather. Oblivious of the deep and ancient peace she made for a little drawer in a heavy writing desk and pulled out the rope. Two quick steps took her to the window. Reaching out, she found the old lead piping, part of the ancient guttering, and secured her makeshift ladder. It would serve as a getaway if the worst came to the worst.

Her skirts swished as she left the library and continued along the polished corridor. The ornamental dagger, gift of a visiting foreign bishop, glinted from its place on the wall. That might come in useful, she thought, and snatched it up, placing it with the revolver in the folds of her habit.

In a moment she had reached the chapel. Empty. Or so she thought. By the flickering candlelight she could make out the dim shape of the altar. She approached, and genuflected devoutly out of habit. Turning to the side chapel, she was unaware of the tall black figure who emerged from behind the altar, brandishing a brass candlestick. Hearing a sound, she swung round. You! She gasped, and picking up her skirts fled out of the chapel, along the corridor, to her escape route. But she was too late. The Reverend Green killed her with the candlestick in the library.

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