Easter Bunnies

There was a discussion on Breakfast TV this morning about giving real rabbits as presents for Easter. The Vet pointed out this should never be done without making sure the recipient is aware of the proper care required to keep the animal healthy. One common mistake many young pet owners make, is to feed the rabbit with muesli type mix, instead of the hay and a little fruit or vegetables which would be the more natural diet. The hay helps stop the rabbits teeth from growing abnormally long, as well as providing correct nutrients for overall health.
As I was listening to all the do's and don'ts, I knew I'd have to re-post the following poem that appeared last year, on this very subject, albeit from a slightly different perspective.

Easter Present

Mum talked on the telephone
to Auntie, yesterday.
'So you're bringing us a present',
I heard my Mummy say.

Now Easter eggs are in the shops,
Aunt might bring one for me,
all choc'latey and wrapped in foil.
I can't wait till I see!

P'r'aps Auntie will bring with her
an Easter rabbit treat,
up-standing on his chocolate legs,
just begging me to eat!

But wait - there's Auntie at the door
and now she's in the hall,
I can tell her Easter present
isn't chocolate at all!

She's brought a real live rabbit
inside a little hutch…
'Thank you, thank you, Auntie!
Thank you very, very much!'

Talking To Myself

Fear not, this is not another sign of jinksy lunacy that has suddenly engulfed me. No, it simply means that occasionally, when I happen across something I wrote some time back, whether in a notebook, on a scrap of paper or amongst the pages of my blog, the words suddenly take on an extra depth of meaning. It's almost as though they belonged to somebody else, and I was reading them for the first time.

This happened again yesterday and today I want to let you read them too.

Time is the warp of life and our stories the weft which creates the fabric of our existence. A cloth woven in such a manner has to link us, as weavers, each one to the other, in a global tapestry.

Spaces In Between

How have I managed to stay silent since Tuesday? Where did the space between then and today disappear? Perhaps there was a concertina effect, where little chunks of time and space cannoned into each other and ended up condensed - like soup.

Now I've actually seen these three words written down, my mind has done a double take, and set me thinking in my usual grasshopper manner. Between one breath and the next, the space is total calm - or can be, if you are trying to meditate and let the jumbling thoughts leave your mind in peace.

Between your teeth, spaces can be annoyingly small, so that a scrap of grape skin, should it become stuck, feels like a boulder in your mouth. Conversely, a wide gap - especially between the front teeth, can produce an unfortunate whistling effect, if you're not careful.

At art college, one of my tutors liked to create a haphazard mountain of wooden chairs for us to draw, from time to time. Anybody who has attempted to sketch a single one of these objects, will know how hard it is to make it appear structurally correct; multiply by six or ten chairs heaped up, and the only chance you have of the finished drawing making sense, is to draw the spaces in between.

You can see how varied 'spaces in between' can be. I wonder where yours are?
One of mine suggested the following few lines, which I share with you now.

In The Quiet

Silence whirls
in pastel curls;
spirals, fades
into infinity.

Mind unfurls
a noiseless world
in lucent shades
of similarity.

P.S. Hey! I just realise this is post number 300 - what a lot of spaces I've covered since my number one hit Blogland and set off running.

Ask A Silly Question...

This one should give you all carte blanche to come up with a silly answer or two...providing , of course , you have managed to locate your own one without the aid of a medical practitioner. I have a sneaking suspicion there are those amongst us who may not wish to admit to having one at all.

Consultation

Doctor, where's my funny bone?
We all have one; I'm not alone.
but where to find it, that's the rub?
It should be centred at our hub,
but books on bones don't seem to mention
one suffused with this intention.
So how should one attempt to trace
its mystifying hiding place?
Slap and tickle, jape or jest -
which would help us find it best?
Snort and snigger, laugh out loud -
how do we find it in the crowd
of all our great calciferous bones?
Please, can you tell me, Dr Jones?

Madness Returns

Can't keep it at bay for too long. Sorry, folks. Anyone who knows a of a remedy, please send it to me quickly, with instructions for use...

One For The Birds

Fardels and fol-de rols,
footloose and free
a jelly bean giggled
and leapt up a tree.
A bird on a twiglet
gobbled it down
but it wobbled inside him
and made Birdy frown.

"A wobble, a weeble
a splot and a splat"
Tree said to Birdy
"Regurgitate that
and once more your tum
will be peaceful and still."
When Birdy heard this
he opened his bill.

Out hopped the jelly bean
glad to be free,
and Birdy popped back
to his nest in the tree.
"A wobble, a weeble
a splot and a splat"
Tree said to Birdy
"And now, that is that!"

A Different Muse

Stasis

Despite daily search
signs of Spring remain hidden;
harsh Winter tarries.

A grey pall of gloom
descends to shroud the landscape,
leaves life in stasis.

Eventually,
Sun beams energy to earth
and plant life responds.

Eager leaves unfurl,
rising sap providing food
to aid burgeoning.

The season lays claim
to ancient vernal beauty
which inspires hope.

For another serious but beautiful poem, why not pop over to here, to get your brain even more into gear? They can't touch you for it...

End Of The Working Week

A Coping Strategy

Another week has now gone west;
and yes, for many, Friday's best.
So cast aside remnants of gloom,
let enjoyment have some room!

Though Saturday and Sunday too
may both slip by sans much ado
and Monday, sure as eggs is eggs,
will make you feel you've hit the dregs.

Where's the high life? Where's the fun?
Another work day week's begun!
Before we know it, time slips by.
Goodness, how the hours fly

as weeks and months turn into years.
But then, a novel thought appears.
Live in the NOW, no 'fore or after,
just enjoy the present laughter!

This attitude is guaranteed
to give you all the strength you need
to face the challenge of each day
and soldier onwards, come what may!

Invitation

Blogland friends are lovely,
Blogland friends are fun.
Next year, I'll plan a party
and ask you all to come,
to celebrate my seven-oh
by bringing me a rhyme -
(providing I am still around,
not gone into decline!)
This is an early warning!
Grab your thinking caps!
I'll not accept excuses
from anyone! Right, Chaps?!

Put the date in your diary now - 16 March 2011 - an all singing, all dancing jinksy shindig will be held at Napple Notes Mansions. The winner will get to blow out all my candles, so you'll need to start training to make sure you have enough puff. The Fire Brigade will be on standby, to comply with the latest health and safety regulations, and everyone is welcome to come, providing they can find their way through Blogland's intricate underground transport system which stretches throughout the known world.
Aliens from Unknown Worlds are acceptable, providing they speak my language.

Well, what in heaven's name did you expect me to come up with today, in the post BD Doldrums of OMG, I'm a year older again?!

Thank You, and You, and You

I think... AC, Doc and CJ for trying to spread the word about the 16th March. Luckily, Blogland ignored you!!!
I shall however, point people in the direction of here where a rival poet is attempting to undermine my healthy eating regime. The jury is out pondering a possible guilty verdict...

Start The Week In A Happy Way

Laugh. Go here, and if Doc's The Perfect Timing post doesn't make you laugh - then you deserve the big black cloud that must be hanging over you...
Till next time, folks... Ha, haha, hehehe, snort, giggle, guffaw, etc etc etc (jinksy wanders off in gales of laughter even thinking about it.)

Lower Than A Snake's Belly

In other words, Worms. As Friko seemed to believe the subject of feet took me to new levels of 'downwards', I thought I would see how low I could go in my quest for scintillating subject matter for a Saturday.

Eventually, you will be able to see the basement where my 'Lift going down' took me. but I must have one last stop on the floor where the metallic voice announces ' Footwear - Children, Ladies, Gents and Freaks', in order to thank you for your various contributions to the subject. Brenda found the most dire warning for ignoring the consequences of badly fitting shoes, and Hilary surpassed herself with this collection of quips:-

" Darn those big feet.. they're such heels. Arch enemies, they are. They never know when to toe the line. They have no sole, I tell ya."

While Titanium had the right idea when she added:-

" Oh, there's hijinks afoot! (runs away, laughing)"

and Doctor FTSE highlighted the only reasons for having feet in the first place :-

"You need feet to walk to Scunthorpe, and to stop your legs from fraying at the ends."

Without more ado, Ladies and Gentlemen, I present my latest flight of fancy...

Worms, Wonderful Worms

Snakes slither, slide and squiggle
around along the ground.
But juicy worms, they wriggle
and never make a sound,
squirming through delicious earth,
chomping it for all they're worth.

They act as nature's phoughmen,
have done for many years.
Will you please tell me how, then,
they trigger many fears?

Is it because they're cold and damp
that they give rise to shivers
in fraidy-cats, who, just like me,
soon end up with the quivers,
should an earthworm raise it's head
as we are scratching in a bed
of dainty flowers? Can't they tell,
we'd rather that they ran like hell?

Feet Won't Go Away

Mine have lead me back to the keyboard, and after reading the list of comments, prompted me immediately to write the following 'nearly 55 for Friday', as it's turned out to be a 54 for Thursday, entirely of its own volition.

Ode To Feet Everywhere

Oh, feet! You start off pink and small.
How you do change; for one and all
must wait until their feet be grown,
before the end result is known.

Some stay so tiny, slim and trim,
while others, maybe on a whim,
decide to elongate and spread.
What puts such ideas in their heads?

Shoes

There's a word to grab any girl's attention. For those people lucky enough to have 'standard' size and shape of feet, the world is their oyster, as you might say. Shoe shops must be like ever open Aladdin caves, tempting them at every tilt and turn to throw caution to the winds and indulge in yet another pair of delectable footwear. But what about us poor suckers, who through no fault of our own, have appendages of less than standard proportions: too narrow: too wide: to small: too large? And don't even start on things like corns, bunions, or fallen arches. Is it any wonder that shoes often prove to be thorns in the flesh? Literally.

I've often complained that my feet are more shoe-box shaped, than shoe-shaped. They don't taper to a point, but line up their toes in an almost straight line - only a hint of curve as they decrease in size. As if that's not bad enough, the big toes can only be described a curly. They turn chirpily upwards, so the front depth of my shoes is crucial. Elegant, pointy court shoes were never my choice. In fact, for many years, I used to buy little boy's lace ups for casual wear; one, they were available in wider fittings, and two, they were usually cheaper!

The youth of today has put paid to that by having larger feet, earlier, and shoe makers have jumped on the bandwagon and segregated sizes accordingly. Anyhow, enough of this preamble. It was only an excuse to do a repeat post of a poem I wrote one day, after contemplating a local Oxfam shop. Sorry to anyone who read it before - but thanks also to them for remaining such loyal followers as to see it for the second time around!

Second Hand Shoes

I stand outside the Oxfam shop
in front of rows of shoes.
I wonder, would I stand in yours,
if I had to choose?

Some tiny shoes aren’t very scuffed
because young feet outgrew them,
while those were such a comfy pair
their owner's half worn through them.

Not so these, they must have hurt;
they’re scarcely used - no speck of dirt –
and those with heels so high and thin
were never made for walking in?!

There are shoes quite narrow
and shoes like boats
with bulges made by bunions,
there are football boots that boys in specs
might tie with laces and string round their necks,
like the men who sell the onions.

See, those are the fashion of years gone by,
discarded on a whim.
Although they’re almost good as new,
it’s plain that they would never do,
for one must ‘keep up with the Jones’s.’

So all of these shoes, where invisible feet
have imprinted their character, careless or neat,
hold their stories to tell, if we listen and look,
just as clearly as if they appeared in a book.
And what would the story of our shoes be
if they, too, stood in line for the whole world to see?

A Passing Thought, Caught

Yesterday afternoon I wandered lonely as a cloud ...er...no I didn't, and that was somebody else who wrote that one, anyway. I toured a Blogland which was definitely showing signs of Spring, from Marisi to Maggie May, and several stations in between, photos of daffodils, crocuses, snowdrops, acted as harbingers of the approaching season.

Nothing strange in that, you might say. But what suddenly struck me, was the fact that houseplants, although they are carefully nurtured (by the green fingered among us, anyway - I could demonstrate otherwise, I'm sad to say) are always denied part of the life from which they originally evolved - total freedom to bloom as nature intended. In the wild, plants grow in a habitat best suited to their needs. In a house, they are at the mercy of their jailers.

Here then is the result of my thinking. The words bloomed with little effort on my part; I imagine napple notes had provided them with the perfect place to grow, and show their gentle faces in the fertile fields of Blogland.

Passing Thoughts

When flowers grow inside a house
do they ever want to grouse
at never being 'en plein air'?
Are they really unaware
how wide the world beyond them spreads?
What thoughts run sweetly through their heads?
Do they miss the rain and sun,
the changing light, the days that run
into each other, week by week?
Or is it merely love they seek;
a gentle hand, some loving care -
until they bloom to prove they are there...

A Bit Of Monday Madness

Thanks to N M Bodecker the ensuing lines follow this recipe to the letter...

Sing Me a Song of Teapots and Trumpets
By N M Bodecker NOT jinksy, folks! How much more clearly do I have to say this?!

Sing me a song
of teapots and trumpets:
Trumpots and teapets
and tippets and taps,
trippers and tappers
and jelly bean wrappers
and pigs in pyjamas
with zippers and snaps.

Sing me a song
of sneakers and snoopers:
Snookers and sneapers
and snappets and snacks,
snorkles and snarkles,
a seagull that gargles,
and gargoyles and gryphons
and other knickknacks.

Sing me a song
of parsnips and pickles:
Picsnips and parkles
and pumpkins and pears,
plumbers and mummers
and kettle drum drummers
and plum jam (yum-yum jam)
all over their chairs.

Sing me a song -
but never you mind it!
I've had enough
of this nonsense! Don't cry.
Criers and fliers
and onion ring fryers -
It's more than I want to put up with!
Good-bye!

Saturday Soup

Is on the menu here today, instead of at my place. That way, I shall have no washing up to do. Oh, and while I'm writing on the Menu Blackboard, and have a stick of chalk in my hand, I just wanted to tell you all that I had a call from the hospital yesterday afternoon, and all polyps were OK. I won't need a repeat performance for three years. Aren't you glad you won't have to read through another blow by blow account of the whole process for a very long time?! Hehehe!

Early Bird

Sometimes I get ahead of myself. This is one of those times, for, although it's still Thursday, I'm posting a 55 ready for the G-Man challenge tomorrow. You probably know the rules by now. You write a fifty five word offering, and tell Mr. Kowitall on his own Friday post, when it appears. He will then, like as not , come and kick you. I believe he shows sadistic tendencies, and rather wish he would choose to give out a few hugs instead, but Bloggers, it seems, have masochistic leanings and come to be kicked. No accounting for taste...

Not A Twitter Or Tweet

Diffused light surrounded me with a faint, pinkish glow. I struggled in the confined space to relieve my cramped limbs, but there was no relief. Incipient claustrophobia squeezed my mind and panic set my heart racing. I knew I had to break free - now! I struck out again and again... until, suddenly, CRACK!... I hatched!

Why don't you go away and write your own offering, then join the kicking circle? It really is perfectly painless, surprisingly enough.

Okay, you asked for it!

People, you amaze me! There's Bruce, Lakeviewer and Slamdunk asking for more, and Nancy wanting a prequel, as I believe it's called, not to mention all the other's concerned about Audrey! I shall now try to satisfy all comers with a retrospective look at the previous couple of days, which I found in no way horrendous - Nancy take note!

The sheet of instructions that arrived through my letterbox , with two sachets of Picolax, said 'a light residue diet' was required the day before the procedure. This was it's list:-

MEAT: lean meats, poultry, bacon, offal
FISH: frozen, fresh, tinned in brine
CHEESE: any type
EGGS: boiled, poached, scrambled
MILK: half pint daily
FATS: 1/2oz daily
BREAD: white only, max 4 slices per day
CHAPATTI: white flour max 4 per day
SWEETS/SUGARS: boiled sweets, mints, jellies, brown/white honey, syrup, jam
BEVERAGES: tea, coffee, lucozade, fizzy drinks, Oxo, marmite, water, clear stocks
SEASONING: salt, vinegar, ground pepper
CARBOHYDRATES: white pasta, white rice

Bearing in mind I'm being 'watched' for hovering type 2 diabetes, this was the sheet given to type 1 diabetic patients, together with instructions to stop insulin/tablets the day before, or if just tablets, then stop the morning of the procedure.

For me personally, this was potentially a bit heavy on the carbohydrates and sugars, and a whole day with no fruit or veg was a penance, definitely. Imagine, lusting after a plateful of cabbage? I kept having visions of a tender, pale green mountain of it sitting alongside my lonely, golden brown chicken thighs...I put it down to the colour green, for beans, peas, sprouts, courgettes would all have been just as welcome, and the Golden Delicious apples, and juicy green grapes taunted me every time I opened the fridge door to fetch my milk or butter.

Be that as it may, Tuesday morning arrived, and at 7am there was a foaming glass of water+Picolax to start the day with a bang, - in theory. My natural body rhythm had already done its part to ensure a clear bowel, so drinking this witch's brew only added the final touches, as you might say, and its fellow dose at 9pm ensured an inside as empty as a new vacuum cleaner. In no way would I describe this as horrendous, Nancy, but maybe it depends on how much food was lurking inside before the Picolax got to work?

My Blog has plumbed the lowest depths possible, folks, wouldn't you agree? You gotta laugh!What is more universal than toilet humour, or more taboo and hush hush?! I hereby caste aside all pre-conceived ideas of what jinksy may blog about next. I believe in keeping up the suspense - why else would you keep coming back to see me?!


P.S. Those of you who read carefully to the end of yesterday's post, will know Audrey was perfectly fine. Remember, she was just a passing acquaintance in a waiting room - and I only knew her name was Audrey, because that's what the Nurse called out when it was her turn to be seen! Sherlock Holmes isn't the only one with a sleuthing bug...

Back To The Mundane

Perhaps I should put a warning up at the start of this post, to let the squeamish amongst you hide your eyes and read no further. Let me assure you though, this would only be because of subject matter, not anything I write about it! The underlying subject is colonoscopy. If the mere word freaks you out, then now is the time to leave reading your screen and go and do something more constructive elsewhere.

If, on the other hand, I have grabbed your attention despite everything, here goes. In this part of the world, the NHS has set up an extremely sensible Bowel Cancer Screening Programme, which initially asked for volunteers. Guess who held her hand up? Correct. Me.

Last year, I had to put my money where my mouth is - um... bad metaphor there, but I expect you'll get the gist of my meaning - and report for the procedure in question at my local hospital. There I was treated to a unique television show, in which three little polyps met their demise and I was asked back this year for an encore.

The worst part of the whole thing, is that you have to be 'collected' like a parcel at the end of it, and 'babysat' at home for the following night. That is fine, if you have faithful lackeys or nearby family, but is a (different) pain in the butt when your poor daughter has to drive all the way from Sutton to comply with the directive. However, nothing phased, she organised her busy life as teacher and Mum, and scooped me up soon after five yesterday teatime.

But that is getting ahead of myself. You are not getting away without a long winded, jinksy eye view of the earlier part of the day. My appointment was for 2pm, but I got a 'phone call in the morning, asking if I could make that 1.30pm, instead. No problemo. Lovely Taxi firm caters to my every whim, and car rolls up to my front door betimes.

As I am no stranger to this particular firm, I have a fair working knowledge of their drivers, who range from the highly intelligent, vociferous sort, to the slightly monosyllabic automaton. Yesterday it was automaton man.

This meant the journey allowed me plenty of time to study the scenery, uninterrupted. Driving along the top of Portsdown hill, the city spread below us in the glorious sunshine, some rooftops glinting silver despite a slight smoky haze, as the angle of their rooves made horizontal dashes on the otherwise muted-colour map. The hump of the Isle of Wight swam like a giant whale on the horizon, across the pale waters of the Solent, the recently built Spinnaker Tower an easily discernible shape on the city outskirts.
On a scale of one to ten the view would rate little, compared to the seven wonders of the world, but to me it is home. Be that as it may.

The Queen Alexandra hospital has been undergoing a multi-million pound face lift and rebuilding onslaught. Its main entrance is now extremely imposing, with five stories of floors and windows towering above two huge, revolving, circular airlock doors on the sloping hillside. As the Taxi drew up, and I handed over the £8 fare, the sunshine lit the drivers face, and his eyelashes were temporarily transformed into translucent topaz. You never know where beauty may strike next...

The imposing vestibule is more like a multiplex cinema foyer than a reception area, and there are large billboards showing which department is on which level, rather than any forthcoming attractions of the cinematic kind.

Up to level D, first right then left and there's the Endoscopy reception and waiting area. Waiting being the operative word. A half a dozen or so people, mostly old wrinklies, are parked in elegant, pale blue chairs ranged against the most delicate of lavender-coloured walls. Flooring is warm cream or calming blue; everywhere pastel colors delight the senses. Only two of the patients are talking, the rest sit glumly.

A sprightly little white haired lady sits one chair away from me, and waves off her daughter until later. She has the most delightfully elfin face and delicate little nose. Despite wrinkles, which are allowable at her tender age of 84, Audrey, as I learned later, was as lively as a cricket, and an ideal companion to chat with and stave off boredom. I shifted one chair closer as we struck up more than a nodding acquaintance, and learned about her web cam exploits as she kept in touch with Oz relations each weekend.

Her name was called before mine, and off she puttered along the corridor with attendant nurse in tow. Then it was my turn. Get ushered into cell like room, and told to disrobe, then return to yet another waiting area - to meet Audrey, again. Get ushered along corridor to room full of three nurses, two doctors and enormous amounts of Dr Who looking equipment ranged around the trolley/bed contraption onto which I'm ooshed. This is pumped up to desirable horizontal elevation for execution, and I am locked in with black padded side rails.
Blue needle contraption gets inserted in left hand, and we're off. I don't mean 'off' unconscious, merely that the fun begins and the multicolour show lights up the screen.

Doctors' highly technical conversation waxes and wanes enthusiastically above my head, and eventually sounds of almost glee are heard as they find three tiny polyps, and send in the dragon to bit their heads off. I did say it was like Dr Who, didn't I? Quantities of bright blue liquid splosh around in the subterranean tunnels on screen, and eventually the show is over, with no credits scrolling.

Get trundled at what feels like lightening speed through pastel corridors, to large room with more empty cubicles than anything else, and get ranged alongside - Audrey! Again. She is still fully clothed in her own gear, but wired up to some kind of bleeping monitor. A nurse does a quick blood pressure check on me, has a word with Audrey, and wanders off into the wide blue yonder.

Bleeping machine misses a bleep. I hope bleeps are not counting breathing or heartbeats, as I fear for Audrey's welfare. Bleeps resume. I relax. Bleeps judder. I peer around the room wondering if I should start yelling on her behalf. Eventually machine starts rapid bleeping, like di-dit-di-dit, di-dit-di-dit and I feel like bleeping myself to get attention. However, all was well, for pretty soon nurse wanders up, removes Audrey's oxygen mask and leads her out to the waiting area for parcel collection by her daughter. I've obviously watched too many Casualty episodes on TV.