The Best Medicine!

This was indubitably LAUGHTER! I couldn't have wished for a better selection of poetic wit; it lead me to the conclusion, that my blog is a meeting ground for rhyming nit-wits of the first order. I shall resist the urge to produce a closing stanza of my own, but simply ask that you go back to read the suggestions made by other compatriots on Thursday's post. Shades of blue entered the equation, from harmless, blue-llama pyjamas, to a far more dubious blue pill, mention of which is best glossed over, quickly.
As a result of these shenanigans, I was even tempted to go on a Spanish holiday to sing to a guitar accompaniment, no doubt rattling my castanets forcibly and stamping my heels to the rhythm. You never know where a Blogland path may take you... However, be warned! Wandering through its uncharted regions may leave you needing a jab in your bottie, too, if you are ever to be able to return to normal life...

Medicinal Compound

As yesterday's bit of non-sense seems to have caused a chuckle in more places than one, I feel obligated to continue in mirthful mood for a little longer. Many of you were taken with the idea of an ailing doctor. The concept is a trifle unnerving, to say the least. Therefore this morning I've been trying to see possibility in telling one such doctor's story. No offence intended to any of the medical profession who should happen upon the result.

A Bitter Pill

Doctor B rose one morning
as daylight was dawning
and picked up his doctoring bag.
His front door was a jar* n.b this is not a typo -I mean A Jar- as per Jam Pot!
so he climbed in his car
and drove off while waving a flag.

His receptionist stared
she was quite unprepared
for the horrible vision she saw.
She knew in a trice
that he needed advice
as soon as he lurched through the door.

'Your nose drips are glowing
your pimples are growing
how dare you pretend to be well!
Dandruff is flaking
I see your knees shaking
Go home! You are ill, I can tell'.

Doc looked all forlorn
his face flushed and warm,
his backache was giving him grief.
He hurried back home,
gave a shuddering groan
and swallowed two pills for relief.

At this point I either ran out of steam, or my quill pen blotted my copy book beyond recognition, for I couldn't for the life of me find a suitable way to wrap up the sorry tale in fitting jinksy style. At present, it is a little lame, and in need of a word doctor of its own. Please, I need your help and advice on how to finish with a bang - maybe not literally - but a little eclat with a final verse would be good. I await your inspirational ideas, preferably sooner than later...

Non-Sense?

Today, at the top of my reading list, I found waiting a Blogger who has made my day! 'Lets have 24 hours of not making sense!' Apparently, this was dreamed up by another. Goodness knows how I managed to miss such a delight a year ago, as the thought of deliberately writing nonsense is very appealing - I do it often, unintentionally! . However, I will need to let the stew pot of my mind simmer a little, to see whether it can bubble up something suitable...If the pan doesn't boil dry, I may be back later with an offering...
How about concocting your own recipe in the meantime?

*******************************

Have now decided it's harder than you think to write rubbish to order, but this will have to do:-

Cobbled Codswallop

A pink python purred,
swam through lemon curd
then pranced on the end of his tail;
but nothing deterred,
though he looked quite absurd,
he covered his head with a pail.

'Look at me, look at me!'
he then shouted with glee
'Aren't I just like a new kind of snail?
Why, don't you agree,
(and he hopped like a flea)
'as a secret disguise it can't fail?'

Hopefully, next time I shall return with a more sane approach to the world in general - but maybe not. Today has been totally daft so far. First I had a call from the surgery to cancel an appointment because my Doctor's not well! This so flabbergasted me, I didn't remember to cancel the taxi I'd booked, so have just answered my door with a totally blank look on my face, as a gentleman stood there, saying 'Taxi?' Oo er, no sense there then, on my part...

Addiction

...
I confess to being a life long addict where A A Milne is concerned. I had thought to regale you again with his delightful poem entitled Sneezles, for the last line says 'Now, how to amuse them today?' You can see how this may be especially apt in my case.

But when I flicked through my book of his poetry to make sure I was remembering it correctly, I happened across a poem I'd swear I've never seen before - and that's in sixty plus years of addiction. I have no logical explanation as to how this may have happened - unless it was magically inserted on page 121 just for today. It's entitled The Alchemist, appropriately enough, Here it is:-

The Alchemist

There lives an old man at the top of the street,
and the end of his beard reaches down to his feet,
and he's just the one person I'm longing to meet -
...I think that he sounds so exciting;
for he talks all the day to a tortoiseshell cat,
and he asks about this and explains about that,
and at night he puts on a big wide-awake* hat
...and sits in the writing room, writing.
........................................................................* So as not to go to sleep.

He has worked all his life (and he's terribly old)
at a wonderful spell which says 'Lo and behold!
your nursery fender is gold!' - and it's gold!
...Or the tongs, or the rod for the curtain);
But somehow he hasn't got hold of it quite,
or the liquid you pour on it first isn't right,
so that's why he works on it, night after night
...till he knows he can do it for certain.

This struck me as SO like Blogland writers, that I simply had to make a song and dance about it. I do believe many of them have their own wide-awake hats; but unlike the Alchemist, they very often successfully conjure gold with the words they write for us. Long may their spells continue.
...

The Definitive Oatmeal Experiment

After all your kind comments and advice, I've added it all up, divided by 42 (the answer to life, the universe and everything) and determined this morning would be the day I cracked the problem.

I know that to stop cooking and stir the pot is good advice, but I figured having to keep popping the door lock too often was not a good idea. Then I remembered - on a medium high, medium or medium low setting, the oven worked in pulses, few seconds on, few seconds off, which would amount to the same thing as opening door/stirring routine.

I can happily report it worked like a dream: 2 mins high: 2 mins medium: 2 mins medium low, and not an oat escaped from the dish; no porridge tsunami ensued.

This left me in the perfect frame of mind for facing the real test of the day - a retinopathy one; my first. As is the way these days with any medical procedure, the explanatory leaflet spread doom and gloom as regards possible side effects, and as usual, was entirely OTT in it's warnings; the drops didn't sting even as much as a splash of soap or shampoo in the eyes, and the blurry vision was no great hardship, either.

So fear not, any Bloglanders about to undergo the same thing - it's a doddle. And I don't have to go again for twelve months. Hang out the flags - porridge coloured ones, of course!

Laugh! Part 2 - He Who Laughs Last.

I was intending to do a separate post for today about last night's QI XL programme that I'd recorded and watched this afternoon. It had a wonderful section on archaic words and phrases that would be fun to share.

However, now the day has run away with me, and I return at last to the keyboard, honesty bids me tell the background story to my morning porridge, mentioned above. Yes it was fine - eventually. But this is the before.

Usually, I put one scoop of oats into a bone china bowl, with three scoops of water, then microwave for two minutes for perfect results every time, and no saucepan to wash at the end of it! But in my groceries this week, I had 'organic' oats - still oats, but on opening the packet, they appeared slightly lager (?) (larger! Ta, Weaver for handy hint!) flakes that the 'ordinary' variety, so I thought I might follow the instructions that came with them: 50g oats to 300ml water, cook 31/2 mins, stir, cook 3 mins, rest one minute.

Now, before I found my perfect combination of china bowl, oats and water, I had experienced microwave boil-over emergency, as well as stove top burnt saucepan ditto. These disasters had taught me to be wary when trying new quantity versions of plain old oatmeal breakfasts. The instructions I read this morning, had me reaching for a larger, deeper, microwave plastic pot, just in case. First three and a half minutes - fine. Got bold, and left the second three minutes to run their allotted time without watching progress. Result? When I opened the door, a hideous alien creature met my gaze. Bulbous porridge warts oozed slowly down the sides of the pot, to pool in a gelatinous mass around its base.

I'd love it if anyone could tell me how a purpose designed, plastic microwave container of considerable depth, could not keep 50g of oats under control - or lock and key- for a paltry 6 1/2 minutes.

So though I spoke the truth - my porridge was fine - it only achieved that happy state after much scraping of the outside of the pot, and scooping up of gelatinous mass from microwave glass plate. I feel much better now I've shared the true story... blow QI.

Laugh!

If you feel like a bear with a sore head and want a chuckle NOW, there's no better place to find one than here thanks to Scriptor Senex.
I shall try to add my bit to the hilarity of the day a little later; BTW, my porridge was fine.

The Pace Of Modern Living

I’ve heard of paper roses –
I’ve even made a few –
But really, paper kisses?
What is a girl to do?

‘Hugs and kisses’
runs the line,
‘Will write again,
another time.'

Weaver's Challenge

If there's one thing I can't resist, it's a challenge. Therefore yesterday, when this wonderful lady took time off from writing one of her delightful posts, she came to throw down the gauntlet on one of mine. Having realised that any oddball word would start my grey cells in motion, what did she caste before me but 'Nutcrackers!' As soon as I read her comment, I immediately had visions of myself as a nut...NO! Not the nutty woman sort, though I know, that you know, that I know I am one of those to the very core...er...kernel; I immediately became imprisoned in a nutshell, from which dark place I let the following lines hammer their way to air.


In A Nutshell

I know I'm a nut,
in need of a cracker.
I sit in my shell
while the day just gets blacker.

Alone and unchewed -
how long must I wallow
before someone cracks me
and eats with one swallow

my nutty gold kernel?
I'm wasted, in here.
Please, crack me soon
and eat me, my dear!

Now you all have the opportunity of telling me which KIND of nut you think I am...plus your ideas of how to crack me, perhaps...Can't wait to read your answers!

P.S. I did hope for one moment, it being the day Flash 55 goes the rounds of Blogland, that this piece of idiocy may have contained the required word count, but for the sake of rhyme and whatever little reason it possesses, I can't get below 58. Tant pis. After editing this I did a recount, and by George! I think I've got it - I make it 55 after all!!! Howzat?!!!

The Spark Returns

Didn't you all do well with those recipes for resuming normal service after a temporary halt in inspiration? When I read the one from Lakeviewer, it certainly sparked my memory, if not my creative battery. 'Time to clean the gutters' she said.

Gutters. What a glorious sounding word - think I'll say it again. Gutters. The closely following stutters, shutters, putters, butters and mutters, which inner voice interjected at this point, don't give me the same thrill at all. But enough of that.

The question is, did the word gutters send your imagination to rooftop height, with associated fear of heights and wobbly ladders, or did your mind instantly plummet to the drab fringes of our pavements ( sidewalks?) whose gutters tend to collect such a varied assortment of twenty first century, careless, throw away rubbish?

It made my mind link instantly to the other similar word, guttersnipe, which I then Googled - not because I didn't know its meaning, but because I was curious to see what else I might find.

a child of the slums who spends most of his or her time in the streets: contemptuous term applied to anyone regarded as having the manners, morals, etc. of the gutter

Etymology: orig. (Brit dial.), the common snipe, which picks food out of gutters.

As it happens, the Slumdog Millionaire film was shown on TV this week as well as a documentary called Slumdog Secret Millionaire, in which a wealthy London dentist, Seema Sharma, went to live undercover in Mumbai. She chose to stay in Dharavi, where nearly one million people are crammed into one square mile. It is one of the largest slums in india. People live in the poorest, most abject circumstances you could imagine, some even living on the pavement, with a gutter as their permanent home.

But what shone through from the programme, was the incredible pride and work ethic of so many of these adults, but more especially, the children. Far from creating rubbish, they spend their days collecting and sorting other people's rubbish, as a means of earning enough money to live on. One young nine year old boy considered it was his duty to work long, hard hours every day, to support his widowed mother, barely taking time out to go for occasional schooling, when the teacher made it her business to go and find him.

Ms. Sharma visited relations of hers, a family in which the main bread winner was an accountant who enjoyed a good standard of living. She was shocked to find this family had a negative attitude to those much worse off that themselves, shrugging shoulders and saying 'What can we do? They wouldn't appreciate us interfering. They have to do things for themselves'.

With no home, no money, no prospects of a good education, I wonder what he expects the children to do, other than to continue being guttersnipes...

Why?

A blank page, guaranteed to stop inspiration in its tracks, sits accusingly before me.
‘So, you imagine you’re a writer? What’s stopping you?’ it sneers.

Good question. The freedom of choice as to subject matter and style are completely in my hands. No restriction, no rules, other than those I set for myself. So why the tongue tied, word blindness that screams at me to leave the pristine white page unsullied by typeface, words, ideas in embryo? Instead of tumbling and jostling ‘Write me! Pick me first!’, the words back up upon themselves, a dam of jumbled letters, dyslexic heap of detritus, blocking the flow of cohesive thought.

The more Logical Brain rebels, the more Creative Brain baulks at being assaulted in this way; digs deeper holes for words to be buried in as ideas are cremated and crumble to dust.

Who’d have thought I’d be tempted to wax lyrical about a dose of good old writer’s block?! I wonder what all of you do to purge the demon from your systems? All suggestions gratefully accepted, but humorous ones will go to the head of the queue…

And the title is...

It has to be 'The Uninvited' as suggested by this very clever lady, who sees much through her windows, and opens doors to some unexpected places.

It's Monday, so here's a quick rhyme.
THANK YOU, all who dropped by at some time
with a name for my pome (!)
while I languished at home
and rested my brain, by design!

Take Two

Being a stubborn sort, I was determined to salvage something from yesterday's goof, so as soon as the porridge had fortified my inner woman, I sat down this morning to let the muse return, if possible. Below is the resultant offering, for which I'd like your suggestions for a title, if you please?


Untitled - but living in hopes...

Meltwater droplets drip on frozen ground.
Air temperatures relax, relinquish hold
on pristine snow that fell from Winter’s hand.
They unlock the vice-like grip of biting cold.

Now, drab and brown, our countryside returns;
no more disguised as one amorphous mound
beneath a cloak whose icy fire burns
while bush and branch, defenceless, hunker down.


The snowbound world held still its frost-rimed breath
as Silence danced light-footed through the land -
leaving in her wake a peace like death,
she forbade the merest whisper; it was banned.

A trespasser is how she made me feel,
in her soulless universe of cold forged steel.

And, because it's Friday, here's one of those slightly annoying, 55 word stories to whet your appetite, whistle, or whatever, as dreamed up by this gentleman.

A gunshot echoed amongst the trees. Birds raucous alarm calls shattered the air in tandem with wing beats, which created swirling eddies in overhead foliage. The sudden brouhaha ceased, as wildlife realized no danger lurked. Only a slight aroma of gunpowder remained to mark the scene where,in surrounding leaf mould, a body lay bleeding.

The Gas Man Cometh Again

I was hoping to post much earlier today. On Tuesday, Mr BritGas said he would have to get a new part for the water heating side of my boiler and that he'd arrive today, Thursday to fit it. 'Good', thought I. 'Then I can blog the concluding part of the saga'. Hmm - might have known he'd not be here at the crack of dawn, and indeed, it was just after 3pm when his blue van drew up outside my door.

It took him roughly half an hour to take everything apart, reassemble and test it, and I heaved a sigh of relief when it was all systems go, as opposed to only the warm air section that he'd sorted on his first visit, for I used the word 'roughly' advisedly. He was one of those bombastic workers who went at everything like a bull at a gate, while I cringed on the sidelines, praying he'd not end up doing more damage than good!

Anyhow, the day was looking brighter; snow was melting and Asda had delivered a mound of long-awaited groceries, at last. After closing the front door on the retreating form of Mr BritGas, I felt a poem coming on - like you do. For once I didn't reach for the back of an envelope and a pencil to scribble on madly, but sat before the screen and typed, slowly and neatly. Some considerable time later, I had twelve lines of carefully crafted iambic pentameter finished to my satisfaction. 'Right, time to copy and paste', I thought to myself. Then BOOM - I somehow managed to lose all but one line. Off it went to the great junkyard in the sky, and I lost heart, and walked away from the screen in disgust.

If it had been typical jinksy doggerel, I'd probably have been able to repeat it verbatim, but iambic pentameter is a different kettle of fish, especially to a Piscean like me.

It may, or may not, resurrect in some form eventually, but for today, enough is enough.
A dejected, thwarted poet I bid you all good night.

Waiting For The Gas Man

Getting up a 7am in order to be with it enough to welcome the (possibly) expected engineer, was not the best start to another icy day. Needless to say, he did not appear at the earliest time of 8am, and indeed, I await him still.

As I explained to some of my concerned followers yesterday, by dint of schmoosing a local taxi firm, I have been fairly toasty, after all. First, I made sure my local Curry's store had a convector heater for a reasonable price, and after only a modicum of friendly persuasion - or do I mean coercion? - a wonderful taxi driver bought one and delivered it to my door within about fifteen minutes, for just a nominal charge. If that's not service, I don't know what is! Thank goodness, I had some money in my purse, for these days I normally use a debit card all the time. Anyhow the rest of the day was far cosier than the evening before, and I could even shed the poncho, hat and gloves before too long.


Just as my lunch time soup was ready, a large van drew up outside my door. Mr BritGas? No.
But something possibly even more welcome - a parcel containing a pair of Wellington boots.You think that's not exciting? Well, it is, when it means it's a key to my door - from the inside, to out! As though losing the heat on Sunday wasn't enough, the trip switch in my meter cupboard, tripped, which meant I had no lights in the hall or kitchen when it got dark. With no shoes capable of braving the outdoor conditions, my wonderful neighbour it was, who waded through the snow in his wellies, to flip the switch for me. Now if that had happened today, I could have put my new boots on and done it myself. Sod's law in action.


Ode To My Wellie Boots

Oh, Wellie Boots, oh, Wellie Boots
with lovely, rubber smell!
They've been delivered to me -
and they fit, as well!
For many years my wardrobe
has lacked a pair of these -
my feet could not get round the bend,
not even with a squeeze,
into the cheaper models
on offer in a store -
you, know, psychedelic coloured ones
not like any seen before?
But a lovely pair of Hunter's
I found displayed on line,
which,ordered for a princely sum,
I can at last call mine!
They're plain and black and boring,
just like Wellies used to be,
but none the less, I'm certain,
they'll be like gold to me!


Hoorah! Mr BritGas has just 'phoned and told me he'll be here in about 15 minutes... Just as well I've finished this post.

Now It's Your Turn

 ...to complete the following ditty. You may find it easier than you think, especially those amongst you who say you don't 'do' poetry.

It's hard to type with gloves on.
I never thought before;
but now I'm learning daily,
since my heat has gone.
I sit here bundled like a loon
thank goodness Tuesday
will come soon!
The Gas Man's booked
'twixt eight and six;
not sure when he'll come.
Hopefully an easy fix
will warm my chilly .......?

Answers on a postcard will only be considered if accompanied by an adult, as rude answers are expected to arise. 

What, Twice In One Day?

Whatever next? After this mornings effort, I thought you'd not be seeing any more of me for a while, but this is too good not to share...

When I came downstairs at eight o'clock-ish this morning, I turned the thermostat up from the lowly number four I have it set on overnight, to a slight more friendly five and promptly forgot all about it, as I rattled away on the keyboard after breakfast. One poem, two loads of washing and one lunch time later, I became increasingly aware that something was amiss on the heating front.

Now, I pay what seems like exorbitant amounts to British Gas each month, for them to come and service my boiler once a year to keep it happy, and the engineer completed this task only last week. Not exactly reassuring when something goes to pot a few days later. I have my suspicions it may be the thermostat, as the boiler seems to be heating water, just not doing the warm air part.

Luckily, I have a gas cooker, so have turned the oven on to provide warmth in the kitchen, and there are gas wall heaters in two of the bedrooms. But here at my computer in the living room, it's a different story, and I'm not sure whether I wish you could see me or no...It's not a pretty sight. Over my all cotton T-shirt, and all synthetic fleece(!) I have now added my all wool crocheted poncho, and, obeying keep-warm-instructions-for-old-wrinklies, have now place my all wool, felt fedora on my all white, sparsely haired head.

Eccentric? Moi? What ever gives you that idea...

The 365 day, 24 hour cover British Gas Home Care people, when I eventually got to speak to a human being, have booked me in for an engineer's visit on Tuesday, between 8 am and 6pm. What's the betting he arrives at 5.55 ?

Good job I'll have your love to keep me warm.

A Sobering Sunday Soliloquy

A Sorry Tale

I'm feeling like old Mother Hubbard
the longer the snow is in place;
I keep peering into my cupboard,
a pensive look stuck on my face.

How long will I manage to feed me
and keep the old wolf from the door?
No delivery vans have come lately,
replenishing stuff like before.

The roads all resemble an ice-rink;
night temperatures were all to blame.
They plummeted steadily during the week.
We've all had enough of this game!

So seldom do we see a snowstorm
that covers the whole of the land,
for us, it is certainly far from the norm,
but can't be dismissed out of hand.

We're told future years will repeat it,
as the climate see-saws in between
the summertime highs and wintery lows,
which scientist's minds had foreseen.

They say it's excess Global Warming
we've all heard so much about,
and the longer we don't heed their warning,
then the more our poor world will lose out.

More Wintry Thoughts

'S No Joke


This snow is glistening brightly;
the back door's iced-up, tightly.
The front door opens very wide -
but icy blasts will creep inside
each time I peep into the street
to study all the prints of feet
of wary walkers who pass by
and trample bits of fallen sky -
for isn't this what snowflakes are?
A cloud that came here from afar?

Winter And Weather

All Change

Stark Winter landscape,
suddenly softened by snow,
needs no make-over.

Such beauty enchants
all who witness the change
from black to pure white.

Tree branches combine
light and dark in tandem;
a snow tree is born.

No News Is Good News

This well worn phrase may be taken in more ways than one. But there was no mistaking BBC Radio 4 as they gave details in this morning's bulletin, of the first British soldier to be killed in Afghanistan this year. He was still in his teens.

What a waste of a life in 2010.

While sorting through a box file yesterday, I came across an envelope in which I have carefully stored a letter dated February 18th 1918, sent to my Gran. It is typed on a flimsy, foolscap sheet of very thin, translucent paper. There were several spelling mistakes and no paragraph breaks, so I've edited it, to make it a little easier to read. This is is what it says:-

Dear Mrs Flew,

A letter written by L.Stokes from Portsmouth, on the 15th of January 1918, reached me February17th, Sunday last. I feel grateful that the opportunity is given me of writing to express my sincere and heartfelt sympathy with you, in the great loss you have suffered by the death of your gallant son.

Your boy fell in action on December 17th 1917, his death being instantaneous and unaccompanied by any pain or suffering. He fell in an attack on a hill called Hill 2450. It was a day of heroic deeds, performed under very difficult and trying conditions. Your son was second to none in the gallantry which he displayed, serving his Lewis gun faithfully right up to the end.

The Hill is in Palestine, 7 miles north-east of Jerusalem, and it was on this hill we laid him to rest after the battle was over, besides those of his comrades who fought and fell with him on that day. The site of the grave has been reported to the graves regulation unit at Alexandria and we have marked it with a little wooden cross, as a token of our respect. The exact position will be carefully preserved in the records of the committee appointed to take care of soldier's graves.

One of our officers has taken a photograph of the grave and I will do my best to obtain a copy and send it to you. It is rather difficult to get photographs developed in conditions under which we are now living. All your boy's belongings were sent to the base, to be forwarded on to you through proper channels, but I am afraid they will take some time before they can reach you.

I feel deeply for your sorrow, all the more so, as I know how my own widowed Mother would feel if anything were to happen to me out here. May He who comforted the Widow of Nain, comfort you also in your sorrow, by the reassurance that He holds your brave son in His keeping.

His Company Commander speaks very highly of him, and wrote you in early January last. I hope you will have received his letter by now. If there is any further information that you require or anything else I can do, please write and let me know. The same address as before will always find me.

Yours in sympathy,

W. J. Jones. C.F.

What a waste of a life in 1917.

Party Season Passes

And all over Blogland are happy pics of party goers, or tales of terrific gatherings. Don't get me wrong - I'm not knocking any of that. But having told Janine I'd be ramming another spoon of already-posted poetic medicine down her delicate throat, I thought today would be a good time to do just that.

I've actually popped this poem in with my comments on one or two blogs, when it's seemed appropriate to do so, but readership must have been relatively limited, so for those amongst you who have never had the temerity or desire to exhume any of my previous ramblings, nor spotted these words elsewhere, here's the reprise. Definite apologies to Friko, for I'm certain I've regaled her with this before; but for the rest of you, open wide for your daily dose from Nurse Jinksy. Who was it who said laughter is the best medicine? Even tongue in cheek...

A Hostess' Farewell

Did you enjoy the party?
We hoped it would go with a swing,
but next time
we'll make sure the neighbours are out
before we let everyone sing...

Did you enjoy the party?
I'm sorry it got out of hand,
but possibly,
once all the noise has died down
the majority will understand?

Did you enjoy the party-
the food and the drink and the fun?
You must have,
because you're the last one to leave...
I'm so glad you decided to come!

PS For a truly hearwarming winter photo pop over here. It was so beautiful, I've had to write a haiku on the spot.

Winter fire warms.
Dancing flames' molten red gold
gilds burning logs.

Even A Fairy Can Live In Hope

A Salutary Tale

I'm a forlorn Christmas Fairy,
tied to the top of a tree.
I've been here already for over a week
but nobody notices me.

Below my skirts tiny lights twinkle
and pretty things hang all around
but the needles keep pricking
my poor fairy feet -
I wish I had both on the ground!

I flutter my wings with excitement.
It does me no good, you'll agree
for they tethered me fast
with a thread round my waist.
Oh, how I long to be free!

I know all too soon
the Twelve Days will be past,
and the tree will be carried away.
I shall be bundled into a big box,
to wait until next Christmas day.

It's really no life for a fairy,
just waiting or hanging around.
I might give a wave of my magical wand -
Why, yes! What and idea I've found!
I'll wish that next year they'll forget about me,
and stick up a star on the top of their tree!

Then I'll fly off to Fairyland on Christmas Eve
when toys everywhere spring into life,
and who knows, I may even surprise myself
and make some Christmas elf a good wife!

Is Second Time Twice As Nice?

Because the ensuing verses appeared a year ago, do I need to apologise for the repeat? Only two brave bloggers (Lee and Fletch) came to call, so now there's a chance more of you will get the picture. I could start from scratch, and churn out another little ditty on the same subject, but why waste a ready made poem which only needs a bit of dust blowing away before it looks as good as new?

In fact, it makes me giggle a bit, as I feel like Nurse administering a dose of unpleasant medicine. ('Open wide! Yes, you will swallow it this time!', as she clamps the jaws closed...) Only in my case, I'm attacking your eyeballs, before they become too bloodshot from an overindulgence at the New Year's Eve shindig you may be contemplating attending. ('Yes, you will read my words as I hold them under your nose for the second time.' Hehehe...)

Of course, there may be some who get no further than the word 'verses'; they may flee in haste to cower in a darkened room, muttering 'Oh,no!Not more versification!' as they hold their hands over their eyes before they get mesmerised into reading further against their will. In that case, I believe the relevant phrase is 'tough titty'.

I know we've only reached 30th December here at the moment, but as Blogland works on its own peculiar time scale, I think it's close enough to New Year's Eve to get this out of my system today, in more ways than one, if you follow my drift? If not, you'll only put it down to my oddball thinking, and won't worry as to what I meant. I know what I meant, and that's the main thing, no? No? Okay...I shan't argue. Here it is then, for the second time around.

New For Old

Seasons roll forward,
Earth spins onward
in its elliptical round.

Old Year to New Year,
time’s cogs change gear.
Bells herald it with their sound.

Flaunting its drab gown,
Old Year winds down,
greeting the year that’s to come.

Wipe all the slates clean,
then dream a new dream.
Happy New Year everyone!

That's It For Another Year Then, Folks!

Back To Reality

Santa's bells have all stopped jingling. Once again he's far away
unharnessing his trusty reindeer, brushing out his empty sleigh.
He can relax and put his feet up - for a little while, at least -
and tuck into his very late, but welcome, Christmas feast.

Soon, the busy tills start ringing, totting up the sales,
as shoppers grab at tempting bargains - often fighting tooth and nail -
to spend their hoarded Christmas money while the going's good
and all expensive, luxury items cost only half of what they should.

Scrooge would have been delighted to watch this money flow
into the merchant's coffers. But outside in the snow
are many folks who're destined for another sleepless night
upon the cold and icy streets, without a warm fire's light.

Still opulence and poverty go walking hand in hand;
an odd, double relationship that's hard to understand.
Each Christmas serves to highlight how the two stand side by side,
those who have, or have not, a happy Christmastide.

A quick, late, Tuesday post script - anybody reading the comments now on this post, might be puzzled by A Woman of No Importance; she it talking about the no-card card I emailed to many Blogpals for whom I have actual email addresses. If you are one of those still hiding behind noreply-comment @blogger.com, you can click here and see what you missed! She has cleverly posted the picture on her sidebar.

Not Quite Christmas Day In The Workhouse

Firstly, because at the moment it's only Christmas Eve, and secondly, Christmas Day In The Workhouse was the title of a poem written by George Sims, 1847-1922, that you may read at http://www.christmas-time.com/cp-work.html - providing you have stamina enough to wade through it's many verses.

I believe I encapsulated a more up to date view of the festive season, in this short offering I put before Blogland for the first time last December.

Noel, noel...

Festive wreaths all spiked with holly,
mistletoe and robins (jolly):
wassail cup all spiked with gin:
crackers with no bangers in:
smelly soap and stripy socks:
same old programmes on the box:
nuts and sweets and drinks free-flowing:
paper hats, balloons for blowing.
Tempers (short) and children (tired):
evening suits and dresses (hired):
office parties, too much drink:
Father Christmas on the brink
of chimney pots with central heating:
Christmas takes a lot of beating!

I leave my readers to ponder over the differing views of George Sims and jinksy, set as they are a whole lifetime apart. How times have changed; but for good or ill, I wonder...

Busy, Busy, Busy...

Isn't everybody? I've certainly not had time to post anything for a bit, as the emails sparked off by all the recent commenters have kept me typing merrily away, with nothing to show for it on the Blogpage! PLUS - the Christmas card-making bug bit me at last on Sunday, and I turned into a mini production line. There are still a few paper offcuts at my feet to prove it - the ones small enough to fall through the holes of my woven waste paper basket.

Now I've assuaged that overpowering creative urge, I have time to play with you all again. It's coming up to the first anniversary of my moving to Blogland, and I think I may do a slight action replay of my first tentative steps into this wonderful world. How funny does this Boxing Day 2008 offering sound, now?

Having finally managed to set myself up as an OAP Blogger yesterday morning, I was then called to the kitchen by the knowledge that Christmas dinner needed to be prepared if I was to feed the inner man/woman even as the blog called me to feed the mind by learning something new...
At this point, the day took over and ran away with me, so it was not until this morning that I settled down to actually 'post' something. There is so much jargon to learn. I would have said simply 'to write something', but no, I have to get used to 'posting' sans paper, pen, envelope or stamp. It's only taken me about two hours to actually find where and how this very first post may be committed to screen...
All who read, pity me - it will come to you to eventually - the feeling of being overtaken by technology.
Undaunted, I shall plod on.

And plod on I have, ever since! I apologise in advance to my far flung family, who were the only ones who read and commented on this initial post, but old people are renowned for repeating themselves, so why should I break the habit?!

And it seems like the right time to include this in the mix, too, for sadly it is just as pertinent today as when I wrote it initially.

Celebration

Evening dark enfolds the waiting city.
Children dream, perhaps of Santa Claus,
while juke-box music churns its tuneless ditties
into the streets where nobody gives pause
to think of Christmas.

The midnight hour solemnly approaches;
a small group congregates in vacant pews,
their measured footsteps rhythmically encroaching
upon a silence echoing with the news
of that first Christmas.

Around the crib the candlelight is flickering,
but muted organ notes cannot compete
with raucous sound of angry voices bickering
from drunken revellers outside in the street.
Can this be Christmas?

Expectant landscape waits for welcome silence,
as moon and stars continue on their way
around a world beset with wars and violence
which needs the gift of Peace as much today
as that first Christmas.

Christmas Trees Past And Present

They have sprouted all over Blogland, all kinds, all shapes, all sizes. I started to reminisce. To my surprise, I had no memory of Christmas trees being around, until I was about eleven. Before that, we'd lived in the top flat of a three storey building which was simply a large house - not purpose built apartments.
The landlord and his wife lived in the flat below, and I can imagine they'd not have been too happy if great trees had been lugged up all the stairs - not that I can even remember trees on offer in the shops. In that department, my mind is a complete blank...Perhaps it was simply because, in a town like Portsmouth, trees had not arrived commercially. There certainly weren't any growing outside our doors, waiting to be dug up!

So, in the 1950's, when we'd moved to a larger flat with more room and even higher ceilings, tall Christmas trees became a yearly event to look forward to. The Aged P's, who back in those days were relatively young forty-somethings, did all the choosing, decorating and clearing up of the pine needles when the whole festive thing was over.

Through my teens, as I became more and more dubbed 'the arty one', I gradually evolved into decorator in chief. Then came the year when our large, extended family was scattered to the four winds; one cousin and family in Tunbridge Wells, the other cousin and hers, far away in Gibraltar.

Mum decreed there'd be 'No tree this year!'. She had a tendency to side with the 'Bah Humbug' brigade on the commercialised Christmas question. Many years later, after she'd died, I found the possible explanation as to why. I found a letter from an Army Officer to Ada, (Gran) informing her of the death of her son, Arthur Charles. The letter was dated 21st December 1918.
He was the brother closest in age to my Mum.

Be that as it may, my brother and I , after a whispered conversation about the state of our pocket money coffers, decided a tree was essential. Saturday morning, off we trotted to a local shop and for the princely sum of eight shillings, bought a six foot specimen; as pine scented, prickly needled, and bushy as could be. That Christmas, at least, was still going to have all the trimmings, if we had anything to do with it.

Last Minute Preparation Has Its Place, Too...

At least in my world. When it came to Christmas Pudding, Gran continued an old English tradition where the mixing of The Pud was a yearly ritual for every member of the family, and when I say every, I mean every. No matter how long it took to waylay both grown ups and small fry to stir the mix three times and make a wish, The Pud sat and patiently waited until all had taken their turn. By the time a hand written version of her recipe came to me, it had been honed by the years, and the cooks of the family, into a pretty good pud-producing list of ingredients. Except for one. Beef suet. As family butchers morphed into impersonal supermarket meat operatives (!) it became harder to find chunks of this strange looking, slightly stringy stuff, and did we want to eat it, anyway? It used to take for ever to grate it into tiny flakes - I know, because it was often my job and it used to try my patience as a small girl. Thanks to Atora, this chore faded in the mists of time, and even better, they began to produce something they laughingly call 'Vegetable Suet'. Be that as it may, it works fine, so my Puds have been vegetarian ever since. One year I discovered Escoffier's recipe for Christmas Pudding, and was both amazed, and chuffed, to see how closely it resembled my Gran's. I think the only major differences were the amount of breadcrumbs he used in relation to the other ingredients, and the addition of allspice, which is quite different from the mixed spice found in Gran's. But I seldom get to make The Pud until Christmas is nearly upon us, and the aroma of one steaming away on the stove has become as much a necessary Christmas smell as the pine needles I spoke of the other day. Those among you who lack either the interest or the culinary skill to produce your own, have been missing one of life's treats! Maybe this will spur you on... Christmas Pud Some people buy their Pudding, but for true old fashioned feel, I like to mix and steam my own; that has the most appeal. I used to use a recipe that first came from my Gran. But then I found Escoffier's and Gran's an also ran. His is light and airy with a special touch of spice, but not so much it spoils the taste - it's really uber nice. If this should tempt your taste buds, then email me today - and I'll pass on all my secrets for That Pud served Christmas Day. P.S. I have details that can accommodate different quantities, from a single portion to a mammoth family feast, so nobody need miss out on this culinary delight!

Preparation Is Everything!

With the festive season approaching with alarming speed, my thoughts have been centering around the subject of decoration, especially of The Tree. I used to adore the aroma of pine trees (Pinus Sylvestris) of my childhood; it scented the room with resinous anticipation that spelled Christmas.

Now, they've been replaced by other less fragrant varieties not so prone to dropping their needles at an alarming rate, but which deny the senses their yearly wallowing in the spirit of Christmas Past, for time was spruce trees were unheard of, and the Scots or Scotch Pine ruled supreme.

Because of their needle dropping propensity, though, my Mum, and later my Hubby, banned their entry into the house until, almost literally, the eleventh hour on Christmas Eve. I can remember my Dad, surrounded by at least two, and sometimes three, strings of lights, desperately trying to achieve one complete working set, when it was finally time to deck the tree, if not the halls! These days, cheap lights are almost two-a-penny, but back then lights were a considered purchase, and not to be relegated to the scrap heap at the flicker of a bulb. They were wired up in series ( I think I have the correct term, but maybe not - it might have been parallel) so that if one bulb blew, they all went out together, making finding the one dud bulb an absolute nightmare.

So it was with these happy thoughts in mind that I picked up pad and pencil this morning, and waited for the muse to strike. This was the result.

Oh, Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum...

It's time to get the tinsel out and check the Christmas lights,
the fairy and the baubles - all the seasonal delights.

The tinsel's looking tarnished. May be time to get some more?
And what about the holly wreath to hang upon the door?

It's only artificial, so should be fit to use…
Not so sure about the lights…I think they've blown a fuse.

I test them with a gadget which tells me they are good.
I only need replace a bulb - I rather thought I would;

there's always one that lets you down! Now, where did I put the spares?
I think they're in an old shoe box I've tucked away upstairs

inside the back room cupboard, near the plastic Christmas tree.
That'll need a lot of sprucing up - Ha! I said 'spruce' you see?

A crafty way to compensate for its not being real,
but merely pseudo needles in wire twists as tough as steel.

But once you've bent 'em back in shape, dressed branches one and all,
the tree will look a picture, when Old Santa comes to call!