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.

On The Contrary

Rallentanda, I see wrote her own little ditty, which, thanks to the machinations of Blogland, has only just come to my attention. Therefore, I reproduce it here for the delectation of all, together with my reply. I have a feeling that more of you may be tempted to add a few of your own verses, judging on what happened last time I gave you all a chance wax lyrical.

Rallentanda says -

The child that's born on the seventh day
is much worse than the others at play;
she mucks up the hop scotch, doesn't catch balls,
eats all the cup cakes from the school fete stall.
She pulls the cat's tail and sneaks her dad's ale
and then blames her brother or somebody t'other.


On the contrary, says Jinksy -

The child who is born on the seventh day
likes dancing and singing on her merry way,
spreading some sunshine is always her aim
plus helping all others to share in the same.
Life is surely too short to be lonely or sad -
and so Sunday maidens can't be all that bad!

Come on people - join in the fun! If you email me with some of your own creations, I'll go into my blog, and add them here so's everyone can see! Let's get this party started. You can pick on any of the weekdays, positive or negative as you choose. Get creative?

Here's Technobabe now-

The child born a on a Saturday
is born to win and lead the way,
her body and soul ever prancing.
She uses words to join the dancing
and spread the word along the way.
Hooray! Rejoice! Dear Saturday!

Here's Ronda Laveen

I grabbed Monday,
Jumping to the
Head of the line.
Now all the rest
Of you can
Just fall in behind.

Here's Vagabonde

L’enfant née un mardi
est intelligente – pardi!
Elle mange des crèpes pour Mardi-gras
Et fais des exercices à tout de bras.
C’est vraiment une petite moqueuse
Mais elle parle peu – j’en suis heureuse!

And Bernie

I arrived on Tuesday morn
as cute as I could be.
My mother, who was not impressed,
said..."She don't belong to me!"
So I smiled at my Daddy
who held me close with care.
"Oh, yes, she is most surely ours.
Like me she has no hair!"


And Titanium's Domenica

A child born on the seventh day
Is vibrantly alive in repose;
She dances on thinner air, at play
And sees words as colors she knows.
She braids ropes from black sand shores
And waters Silver Sword at crater’s edge-
The world is hers, for where she explores
Sunday tips her hand, painting knowledge

Here's Enchanted Oak

Friday’s child is loving and giving
She finds delight in the act of living
Human beings make her smile
All God’s children are worthwhile
Their laughter is her source of joy
But she’s truly glad she’s not a boy!

I seem to be having problems with posting your verses on this actual Blogpage, so anyone joining in after GMT 3.30pm Monday, please simply write your versions in as a comment, as I'm going gaga editing!

I'll Let You Into A Secret Or Two

The first secret is the title of the book I'm reading. Now, all over Blogland there are many books mentioned every day, from erudite classics to children's favourites. I guess my claim to second childhood lets me join in this last category with gusto. My book, on the desk before me, is 'For Laughing Out Loud' - Poems To Tickle Your Funny Bone, selected by Jack Prelutsky and Illustrated by Marjorie Priceman.

The second secret - well, almost, as I have shared it with one or two of you - is that I was born on a Sunday, and we all know a version of the old rhyme 'Monday's child', don't we? Yep, that's me - bonny and blithe and good and gay (in the original accepted meaning of the word). So my funny bone was most decidedly tickled by the following version, which I am now giving you, in case you got me wrong...It's by Colin McNaughton, and I apologise to all Blogpals, whichever day they happen to have been born on!

Monday's Child Is Red And Spotty

Monday's child is red and spotty,
Tuesday's child won't use the potty.
Wednesday's child won't go to bed,
Thursday's child will not be fed.
Friday's child breaks all his toys,
Saturday's child makes an awful noise.
And the child that's born on the seventh day
Is a pain in the neck like the rest! OK?

Drat - it's Friday

It does come around with amazing regularity, and it seems I'm being egged on from all sides to join the manic world of G-Man and produce 55 words of practically anything but wisdom, to entertain my happy band of followers. Once again, I have tried to use a light touch that won't tax anybody's brains at the end of a working week, when all they want to do is get on with their weekend and have a respite from care. Smile, people! You have a whole week before the 55 bug bites again.

Are You Checking Up On Me?

Friday folk come looking
to count my every word.
It keeps them very busy
although it is absurd

to set myself a limit
where verses are concerned;
I may discover I end up
with all my bridges burned!

The count is low?
Add one more row...
The count is high?
"Oh, no!" I sigh.

"Bother!"

A Serious Moment

This was a little something I wrote for a friend who was in a bit of a glum mood, and I decided this morning it was probably worth sharing with everyone, as we all have odd moments when we feel the same!

Admonition

Be not sad, when darkness looms. It comes
to balance times of great illumination;
that spark of brilliance which may otherwise
obscure the bigger picture with its glare.
A photograph requires tints and tones
of white and black to capture images
on paper. So life requires us to move
through shades and shadows in our search
for the brightness of an ideal world.

Water, Water, Everywhere

The Weaver of Grass has had more than one watery post lately, and today she has prodded me to jump in and splash around with her, as I follow her train of thought. I've had a life long fascination with stuff, from the days when I dabbled in my Gran's water butt and scrubbed her garden path enthusiastically with the soft rainwater, to now, when I prefer water as a drink over tea and coffee.

An architect friend once told me that Havant is built over many underground streams and watercourses which eventually make their way to the nearby sea. In the oldest part of the town, just to the rear of St Faiths church, the ancient Homewell spring comes bubbling up from the ground, and must have been one of the major factors in the settlement of the area.
When the children were small we always had to visit Homewell whenever we parked in the nearby car park, even if it was only a fleeting visit on the way to the shops. But best of all, was when we were merely ambling round and about and could give the spot our full attention for some time.

The spring fills an area of no more than three or four square metres, if that, with a low, curved wall forming a shape almost like a quadrant of a circle, with two brick walls which join at ninety degrees at the left and top of this near quadrant. They have small, semi circular grills for the water to flow through, after it has bubbled mysteriously up through the little stones on the bed of the pool.

Tiny water creatures are sometimes discernible in the clear water, but the bubbles are the real source of wonder. If you perch on the wall and wait, you can see strings of them chasing each other leisurely to the surface, never twice in the same place, never with bubbles of the same size; little vertical bursts of spherical oxygen bubbles with inexplicable origins.

To this day it remains a source of wonder to me, that my son never ended up falling head first into the water as he dangled over the wall to feel the bubbles, or to reach for a stone to plop back into the pond. Despite many pleas on his behalf, he was never allowed to paddle, because there was no way of knowing how many broken pieces of glass hid amongst the seemingly innocuous stones. Strangely enough, I don't remember his sister being so vociferous with paddling requests, but I freely admit to my own almost overwhelming urge to do so!

Plus, I confess, on one sultry summer evening whilst on my own, waiting for a lift home, I did surreptitiously straddle the wall, and let one rather hot and dusty foot escape its flip-flop and sample the delights of cool, fresh water. Who says I couldn't still be a big kid in my thirties?

I Like To Follow My Nose

Are you a 1) Planner Ahead, a 2) Let's Jump On The Band Wagon At The Last Minute or a 3) Laissez Faire type? Possibly I can be any of the three, depending on where my nose is leading me at any given time.

Whilst feeling in the 1) mode, I ordered a book from Amazon several days back. This morning I showed definite signs of 3) by not having the least idea as to whether, or what, I might post.

Now I'm most certainly hanging on to 2) section, as upon picking up said book, I decide to share with you this delightful poem by Jack Prelutsky.

Be Glad Your Nose Is On Your Face

Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted in some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes;
that clearly would not be a treat
as you would have to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head.
It soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted in some other place -
be glad your nose is on your face!

You Can Never Have Too Many Cooks

Yesterday, for the first time in many long moons, I made a Victoria Sponge as a birthday surprise for a neighbour of mine, who, by her own admission, 'doesn't do sponges'. It was from a recipe given me by my Auntie Nell, and is so basic, it's unreal - three eggs and their weight in butter, sugar and flour. The only 'secret ingredient' is a tablespoon of boiling water added last thing before spooning the mix into two sandwich tins. I believe this is what makes it special of its kind.

As the cooking time grew near to its close, the unparalleled aroma of cake filled my nostrils, and I breathed deeply - it was a near as I would get to sampling the finished product! Eventually, two golden circles sat cooling on my work top, and I turned my thoughts to the butter cream filling which would complete them. I was unsure of the quantity to make - that shows how long since I last needed to know!

I reached my old, trusty cook book down from the shelf, and removed it from its cardboard sleeve. Immediately I was swamped with a rush of memories, almost as though a lifetime of cooking rewound in my mind. I remembered the book new, when I got married, and first read all the do's and don'ts of kitchen hygiene, food preservation and storage, and glossary of cooking terminology. At home, I had cooked various different things from the age of eleven upwards, but now it dawned on me this was the start of a whole new ball game. For the rest of my life, I was COOK, in capital letters.

There was a section at the back of this 'Woman's Own Cook Book' that had several blank pages, ready for recipes to be added, and over the years I did just that. But the pages were too few. I then had scraps of paper, snippets from magazines, hasty notes from friends on tiny pages torn from diaries - each one a new to me but tried and trusted favourite for somebody else. The spine part shredded: several pages became loose: the edges of the leaves became discoloured and brown, a bit like a well cooked biscuit.

As I held the book in my hands. I was overwhelmed by an invisible, jostling crowd of people who had at some time added to my collection, and now left their energies ballooning and swamping me across time and space. They gathered round me, as if eager to come close, as I carefully turned the fragile pages to find the recipe I sought.

It was a Blogpost moment, and no mistake. I knew I'd have to share it with you today, even though you may have come looking for a laugh. Sometimes even jinksy has to be serious.

What? Friday Again?

Go have words with G-Man if you don't know what a 55 is all about - apparently he is the ringleader! It will then leave you with all the weekend to recover...

A 55 Morning Awakening

If people wake up very grumpy,
like a camel with a humpy,
I like to try and make them smile
by being silly for a while
until their frowning faces brighten
as they feel their burdens lighten.
Then like a golden buttercup
they can cheer some others up!

Join me in a love in, folks?

N.B. :- Thanks to Dan's careful counting, it came to light that I'd copied and pasted my Mark 1 55, which only had 54 words. In Mark 2, I'd added an extra one to get the total 55. I have now come back to edit my mistake, before any other sharp eyed reader takes me to task. I never mind being corrected!

Better Out Than In

I woke up around 1.30am, with a distinct awareness that my feet were cold. Maybe they'd tried to escape the duvet. Who knows? Anyhow, there I was , more awake than I should have been. My brain clicked into gear and before I knew it, I'd composed a couple of verses all about twin-tubs and twins that seemed rather fetching at that hour. For a fleeting moment, I contemplated finding a pen and paper, but the effort was too great. Come the morning, and I sat here expectantly, waiting for the poem to resurface and - Nada- Nowt- Nothing.
Then a string of words came to me... 'There's a Gurgler in my sink.' They chose me - I didn't choose them, but here is the result. Sorry.

A Plughole Poem

There's a Gurgler in my sink
and I think he wants a drink.
When I slowly shift the plug,
that is when he starts to glug
as the water's rushing down;
I do hope that he won't drown.
It can't be very nice to swallow
soapy water from a hollow
gushing, pipe so dark and gloomy
in the sink of my bathroomy.

Starting Young

This one must be a record. L7 has recently begun his own book review blog. The clue is in his name, seven years young! Why not pop by and say hello? He needs encouragement - and he would like to get dots on his counting-thingy, from all over the world, please...

Monday Glumday?

Never! Not while jinksy treads the halls of Blogland. I've had a delightful email from a non-Blogging Buddy of mine which contained the following:-

The Washington Post Submissions to its yearly contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.
And the winners are:

1. Coffee, n. The person upon whom one coughs.

2. Flabbergasted, adj. Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.

3. Abdicate, v. To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.

4. Esplanade, v. To attempt an explanation while drunk.

5. Willy-nilly, adj. Impotent.

6. Negligent, adj. Absentmindedly answering the door when wearing only a nightgown.

7. Lymph, v. To walk with a lisp.

8. Gargoyle, n. Olive-flavored mouthwash.

9. Flatulence, n. Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.

10. Balderdash, n. A rapidly receding hairline.

11. Testicle, n. A humorous question on an exam.

12. Rectitude, n. The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.

13. Pokemon, n. A Rastafarian proctologist.

14. Oyster, n. A person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.

15. Frisbeetarianism, n. The belief that, after death, the soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.

16. Circumvent, n. An opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.

Now I'm pretty sure, once I post these, there will be a veritable avalanche of words and meanings added by you, my own dear, quick-thinking, word revellers who come traipsing to my door in expectation of a bit of a giggle. Hope your Monday isn't Glumday.

P.S. Thought of one of my own:- FORMAT - a thing by the front door for dogs to wipe their feet on. Come on people - try hard...

Not Quite Smellivision

In the wakeful wee small hours of the morning, what should I begin pondering but perfumes, aromas, smells, whiffs of fragrance lingering in the air, or on skin, hair, fabrics. As my teenage years approached, I was pleased when Auntie Glad presented me with Tweed toiletries, my first brush with perfumes. Before, there had been only carbolic, Wrights Coal Tar or sometimes Pears or Cussons soaps that left their trademark smells on my person.

Then, further into my teens, this same Auntie and my cousin Peg, kept me supplied with fragrances of their choosing - Lily if the Valley, Rose , Lavender and eventually, the one I liked best for many years - Elizabeth Arden's Blue Grass. During my college days this was the smell that announced 'jinksy woz 'ere!'. I bought a tiny bottle a few weeks ago, after many years of eschewing any kind if fragrance at all, and found it somewhat overpowering until it's worn off a little. These days, Johnson's shower creme has enough perfume for me. On the whole, I prefer an absence of smell!

Chanel No.5 was my eventual grown up choice, closely followed by Hermès Calèche, or Madame Rochas, and Panache when the funds were running low. So next time you stand before a row of perfume bottles, you could see if you can find one that will say to you 'Hm.. jinksy might be here!'