The Tae Kwon-Do Tales

My other self publishing journey, currently boasting a catalogue of four books, three available from Amazon (Tales From The Tenets Volume 1; Tales From The Tenets Volume 2, the Shakespeare Edition; Kwon And The Four Directional Punch) and one that I have to get out of a box and take to a post office (The Time Travelling Tae Kwon-Do Tour Bus And Other Stories).

I am a 4th degree Black Belt and fully qualified Instructor with the Tae Kwon-Do Association of Great Britain, South West area. I use Korean terminology with a West Country burr, it's a niche skill.

For more information follow link:

www.blackbeltbooks.com

(Website neglected of late - but this enterprise is ongoing!)

Me (2nd from left) celebrating with a small group of students after outdoor training on Dartmoor -
locked out of sports halls due to global pandemic, being responsibly distanced,
being lashed by rain, being happy :-)

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Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...

In Spring Our Thoughts Turn To Loss

I'm not sure this poem is quite right, but out it goes. I keep writing and forgetting to post any of it- today I remember a very beautiful ghost, a YOLO blend of care free and care full. She would be- she is- rolling her eyes, pretending not to love the attention. Fare thee well dear one, wherever you wander you are settled in our hearts xxx

Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

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