Turning Into My Own Father

Turning Into My Own Father

It’s no use, I can see it now

The mirror does not lie

I find myself looking at a man

That I do not recognise

That cannot be me, yet is alike

And who looks vaguely familiar

And, although I cannot place him

I’m sure he is not a stranger

The fullness of his face

The receding hairline

Ebbing back from his features

In that distinctive pattern

That I know from photographs

The sepia tones

Of many generations

That went before me

His dark and hooded eyes

Looking back towards me

Posing unanswerable questions

His full, uneven lips

His thickening jowls

His jaw-line set heavy

And the slackness of muscles

Etches deeper, longer lines

Within his sagging skin

And tells a story of its own

He returns my stare unblinking

His face unreadable

Implacable and calm

But tired, deadly tired

As if this may be the last time

That he will stand so still

And allow himself to be inspected

His features exposed, picked over

In the ghastly bathroom light

And at last I am forced to look away

No longer able to hold his gaze

And to make the excuse

That I am too busy

To spend more time

On this sad reflection

And I am left to wonder

If his eyes will continue to follow me

Around the room

Long after I have stepped aside

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Cat's Cry

Cat’s Cry

How your crying disturbs me

Makes me sit up and take notice

And listen to your distress

To your prowling round the room

Along the edges and into deep corners

Seeking among the shifting shadows

Something that is not there

And that you will never find

The pitiful, lonely sound

That mewling tone

Of fear and desperation

Catches at me, snags on something

That makes me want to comfort you

To tell you that it’s alright

That I’m always here for you

But you do not understand me

When I try to soothe you

The words carry no sense

In your feline world

And soon the frenzy passes

Back into forgetfulness

And your normal cool indifference

As you cease to enquire

Into the meaning of your existence

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fifty Shades Of Gravy

Fifty Shades of Gravy (a modern romance)

How long have I loved thee my dearest? – Probably since I was but a mere child,

But the merest thought of devouring you is sure to be driving me wild!

‘Cause this is a very ticklish subject, and I don’t like to seem naughty or coarse,

For we’re talking about that sticky stuff, which posh people refer to as “sauce”.

I hate it when things are too watery - to have it like that is surely a sin -

It needs to have some kind of substance - it serves no purpose if it’s too thin.

It just slips off all over the place, and everything starts sliding around,

It doesn’t keep the right things together - you need something thicker, I’ve found.

You see it has to have the right texture, and about this I know I’m quite picky,

But if it doesn’t have enough body, it’ll never stand up and be sticky.

Without it, things just won’t move along, and you’ll be left wondering why,

And if it’s not adequately lubricious, you’ll find everything tends to be dry.

Such lack of lubrication’s a problem, and can render you exceedingly grumpy,

‘Cos what you don’t expect, when you get down to it, is for it all to feel terribly lumpy.

And if the flavour’s not tasty enough, it can leave you feeling quite queasy,

For the last thing you want, at this juncture, is something that’s oily or greasy.

It’s got to be configured just right, for the appetite it needs to induce,

To bring forth great oral pleasure, you must have plenty of juice!

No, you can’t have it too firm or too runny - such liquid upon you I just wouldn’t foist,

But something for the meat and two veggies - it’s best to have everything flowing and moist.

Yes, the moisture derives from the meat, it’s what you need, if you’re to have dripping,

The jus and the fat come together, and it’s like on nectar you’re sipping.

Of course, I speak not of jelly, but of gravy, made with Oxo, Bisto or browning,

Where on your plate there’s an ocean or lake, and the roast spuds are waving, not drowning.

So, I appeal to you ladies out there, if you want something that’ll cut the mustard,

Make sure you’ve got plenty of gravy, and avoid shark-infested custard!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

A Taxing Problem

A Taxing Problem

Times is tough and money is short;

It’s hard to know what to do;

The creditors keep asking for payment,

Especially the Inland Revenue.

But now there’s something that’s bothering me,

It’s difficult to know where to start,

‘Cause some people have hired accountants,

And made tax-avoidance into an art.

It’s all done through complex company structures,

Where they shift all their profits off-shore,

Paying far less than they really oughter,

And making out that, really, they’re poor!

The Yanks seem to be especially cute,

Hiding their earnings in crannies and nooks.

I’m talking about Google and Amazon,

And especially about Starbucks.

But they’re not the only ones in the game,

Who seek for their taxes to minimise,

By shifting their trading operations,

And their sales figures to disguise.

It might all be technically legal,

But morally, ethically, it’s not right.

It’s time that we did something about it,

It’s time for us all to put up a fight!

These corporations can afford to pay tax,

If they want to trade here in our market.

It’s time they made the right contribution –

Otherwise, we should tell them where they can park it!

They’re earning millions and billions,

Selling us books, DVDs and coffee.

The Government seem powerless to act,

And can’t spot the loopholes for toffee.

So let us consumers lead a fight-back,

Let’s see how much spending power we’ve got;

Time to vote with our purchasing choices,

And hit them with the tactics of boycott.

I’m fed up with being taken to the cleaners,

I’m almost at the end of my tether,

And I swear I’ll belt that idiot Cameron,

If he says again that “we’re all in it together”!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Night-time Navigation

Night-time Navigation

I hope you won’t mind me telling you this,

But there’s something I have to confess:

I’ve got this disembodied voice that I hear,

But where it’s coming from - I just cannot guess.

Sometimes, whilst I’m sleeping and dreaming,

That is to say, this happens during the night,

Being of a certain age, you see,

I often find that my bladder is tight.

I find I have to get up for relief,

And I desperately want to go to the loo:

I’ve got to find the bathroom quite quickly,

In order to do what it is that I’ve got to do.

But as I disentangle the covers,

I cannot but observe it’s pitch black,

And if I were to wake up the old lady,

She’d surely give me a smack.

I’m half asleep, and I can’t really see:

In fact, there’s no sort of landmark,

So I have to find my way to the toilet,

Without the aid of a lamp, in the dark.

That’s where my automatic pilot comes in:

As I quietly slip out from the bed,

Through many years of custom and practice,

I can hear the voice speaking inside my head.

“Go forward four paces, then turn to the left,

Carry on - right to the end of the wall,

Exit carefully into the next room,

And be careful that you don’t fall!”

“Proceed three steps, and the toilet you’ll find:

You are located before the loo station,

Now stop! and switch off your engine -

You have arrived at your destination!”

It’s curious I can do this whilst asleep,

I think it’s just a gift that I have.

I’m thinking of selling on the idea –

Tom Tom could market it as “Sat Lav”!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 23rd February 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 23^rd February 2014

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       Bromham residents could only wonder from afar as they watched the unfolding drama in nearby Trowbridge, where the Chairman of the Council was dramatically driven from office after weeks of overnight protests by opposition forces in the main Shopping Centre.  The Council Offices were dramatically deserted last night, as the people swept in to marvel at the previously unknown costly extravagances within. The exiled former Council leader was released from prison in the distant windswept province of Somerset, and within hours was being borne in triumph back to Trowbridge to re-take power.

2.       There was success for local artists in the Bromham Rural Industrial Trials (BRIT) awards this week.  The strange bloke who has been sitting on the fence in the Upper Field, whistling tunelessly through his teeth for the past nineteen years was rewarded with a Lifetime Wasted Award.  The three old codgers who gather in the corner of the Snug Bar of The Wounded Ferret scooped Group of The Year, and the young lady who has started advertising her services in the phone-box on the High Street won Best Promising Newcomer.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Leopard

Leopard

A shout and then a scramble

Engines revving, jeeps reversing

A finger points toward the tree

There, there! - up on the branch

Cameras snapping

Binoculars focused

Jostling for position

To get the clearest sighting

There, there! – reclining

Relaxed and lazy

Dozing through the day

Conserving energy till drowsy dusk

And night-time hunting

A fearsome predator in the dark

Stalking killer

Silent assassin

Striking without warning

Calm and camouflaged

Spotted, sandy, black

Among the shimmering leaves

This shy, retiring cat

Elusive at noon-time

Yawning, revealing razor teeth

Blinking yellow, slit-like eyes

Which gaze, bored, at his admirers

Lithe and muscular

His deceptive power concealed

Hidden in his restful pose

A paw casually hanging down

Towards the ground

Awesome in his beauty

And as the sun sinks low

Burning into the horizon

Casting long shadows

The nervous herdsmen

Move their lowing cattle

Inside their flimsy compound

Away from night-time danger

And stare after the retreating jeeps

As they roll away, back to camp

Amid rising clouds of dust

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fungus

Fungus

A slow progress through the countryside

Breeze-carried through the air

Whispering, a gentle breath

Infection, invisible and insidious

Creeping, hidden, unseen movement

Bringing disease and certain death

A tiny fungus, just a spoor

Microscopic, beyond perception

Multiplying, growing quickly

Inside the branches and the leaves

Spreading, covering its victims

A landscape dying, wheezing, sickly

Trees ailing, falling, humbled

By the contagion in the country

Cut back, thrown upon the fire

A forest with holes in, open to the sky

The ashes slowly die back

And burn fierce upon the pyre

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Waterworld

Waterworld

Apparently the weather’s been dreadful,

But precipitation is heaven-sent,

And now the suburbs are complaining,

The effluent is hitting the affluent.

Last time we heard, you were moaning of drought.

And you cried out at the hosepipe ban.

Well now there’s really plenty of water,

And sewage is coming up through the pan.

Seems that you citizens are never happy,

And some are complaining like devils,

Even those in the “South-Western Lakeland”,

Formerly known as the Somerset Levels.

But we in Government take this to heart.

Of the situation we are the kings -

Every problem’s an opportunity,

So we’re going to make the best of things.

There’s no point fighting the force of the water,

Insurance Companies won’t make things better,

There’s no money for barriers or dredging,

Let’s just accept that we’re gonna be wetter.

This Act of God, may be a bit of a sod,

But let’s take advantage of this new flood,

Think of all the things we could be doing,

By turning misfortune into some good.

With roads under water, we’ll need less cars,

Which will stop them producing pollution,

There may be a monsoon, come every June,

You see every problem has a solution.

Traffic jams will be a thing of the past,

Swathes of the country returned to a calm,

And instead of our old agriculture,

We’ll turn Maidenhead into a fish-farm.

There’ll be a boost to the makers of wellies,

For everyone will want to stay sealed,

As they wade out from their homes in the morning,

To their work in the Windsor paddy-field,

There’s a lot you can do, if you’ve got a canoe:

The whole Thames Valley can be a water-park -

We’ll have paddle-steamers, and catamarans

Yachting, water-ski-ing, and live on an Ark.

Have a year-round Oxford-Cambridge boat-race,

When we have it, does it really matter?

The sport of rowing, will soon be growing,

And a monthly Henley Regatta.

This new natural wetland will be great,

Visitors will arrive in their hoards -

They’ll all get merry, whilst using the ferry,

Sailing right round the new Berkshire Broads.

But don’t think we won’t be vigilant,

Those chaps over in Planning aren’t fools –

We know that people with flooded cellars,

Are using them as indoor swimming pools.

But the middle class won’t be neglected:

No need for them to turn up their nose,

Cause we’ve made emergency provision,

To sell designer sand-bags in Waitrose.

So don’t be down-hearted, dear voters,

Though you’re standing in water up to your chest,

Let’s be emphatic, that the new life aquatic,

Is probably going to be for the best.

Let’s respond in true British spirit,

And embrace this new change in the weather,

Don’t get annoyed, by the risk of some typhoid:

Remember – we’re all in this together!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Trousers

Trousers

What a wonderful invention are pants! Or, as the upper classes say, “trizers” -

For the lower male garment comes in many forms - it all depends on what the wife buys us.

You’d think the designer’s not got that much to go on, when he thinks about gentlemen’s kegs,

But - you must have a large hole for the body and (I suppose) at least one for the legs.

Of course, trousers come in so many forms: cords, pantaloons, slacks, whatever you wilt:

Plus-fours, culottes, even trackie-bottoms or, if you’re North o’ the border – the kilt.

But there’s more to it than first meets the eye, and the permutations can be legion -

You’d be surprised at the considerations when clothing a man’s nether region.

For a start, there’s the aspect of comfort, which demands a great deal of care,

But, naturally, some of the problems depend on your style of underwear.

For chaps are sometimes known to go Commando, which can lead to a great deal of slipment,

To say nothing of plenty of movement amongst the various bits of equipment.

But, if they’ve got any sense, they’ll wear undies to keep everything tidy and neat,

Shorts, slips, jock-strap, or a nice pair of boxers, but a good pair of knickers is hardest to beat.

They keep the meat and two veggies warm and, I don’t want to hear any drivel,

For if things below are allowed to get cold, there’s a serious danger of shrivel.

This allows the trousers to get on with their main job, like the role (for the ladies) of their skirts,

Which, apart from providing some modesty, is there mostly for the tucking of shirts.

That’s to say nothing of extra functions, and you’re in no position to mock it,

When we enter that very strange kingdom - the diverse uses of the male pocket.

For there you can keep your change, or some keys - about the contents you can get cocky -

Not to mention that pursuit of little boys - a furtive quick game of pocket-hockey.

Openings and fastenings are many, a subject that can cause some chaps to worry:

Buttons are slow, but zips can be dangerous, especially if you’re in a great hurry.

For you need a belt and braces approach, and you must be aware of what you’re about:

On leaving, “Gentlemen - Adjust Your Dress” - you mustn’t leave anything still sticking out.

So let’s pause and celebrate men’s trousers, a serious subject that everyone mocks,

I hope I’ve explained it all clearly – but just don’t get me started on socks.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Attachment

Attachments

She got it mail-order – it came in a large van -

She’d been wanting it since last December,

And with a flourish of her credit card,

There it was – a new family member.

Now I like to think I’m as clean as the next man,

And with a duster I’m a lovely mover,

But ‘Er Indoors goes in for extreme cleaning,

And she’d demanded the latest hoover.

There’s all types on the market you can buy,

Including several from Mister Dyson,

But it was a special one she’d coveted,

A top-of-the-range one she’d had her eyes on.

It took three days just to unpack the boxes:

The cardboard and plastic wasn’t the least,

For this thing needed major assembly -

I soon found it was a hell of a beast.

This fantastic piece of machinery

Towered above me, erect and so tall,

Covered in sockets, dockets and ports -

So many clips and wires, and that wasn’t all.

The orifices, gizmos and nozzles

Harboured so many attachments and tools,

Brushes, fitments, hoses and extensions:

She stared in wonder at her new Crown Jewels.

There were things for every application:

Truly this was a space-age appliance.

It had more computing power than NASA,

And was forged in the white heat of science.

It could do every possible job needed:

You just had to read the right instruction,

To locate the right setting or programme,

And it would produce mind-boggling suction.

She fell in love with it at first sight,

She could see it would be a lovely mover:

This machine that would do anything -

Truly it was a Swiss Army Hoover.

I remember the days of just pushing one round,

A job that could be done all alone,

But this thing was full of technology,

And I think it had a mind of its own.

It seemed to have clear fixed ideas,

About the best method for house cleaning.

There was something about it quite spooky -

If you get the drift of my meaning.

It was all programmes and electronics,

Controls and switches that needed setting,

So complex and damned complicated,

That we’d no idea what we were getting.

It talked to us when it wanted something,

In a synthesised voice thin and reedy,

Like when it wanted its dust-bag changing:

Soon we realised that it was quite needy.

It started to follow me round the house,

Even if I wandered from room to room.

It didn’t like being on its own much -

You could say it was a lonely vacuum.

There was almost nothing it couldn’t do,

And its motor was virtually silent.

I began to feel it was spying on me,

For it was there, wherever I went.

I had to creep quietly when I moved -

It created in me paranoid cares,

Until I discovered a new strategy,

For, just like a Dalek, it couldn’t climb stairs.

I thought that I’d finally beaten it,

And that I’d be able to live in some calm,

But it started using its extensions,

And to plot ways to cause me some harm.

You see it wanted ‘Er Indoors for itself,

And to be the holder of her affection,

It couldn’t stand me being in the way,

And it sought to sever my connection.

So in the end I took drastic measures,

And “by accident” fed it some water -

The explosion was quite spectacular -

There’ll be no more trouble from that quarter.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Drought

Drought

Dust rises from the tramping feet

Of skinny cattle moving along the track

Between brown and empty fields

Where the earth, dried and caked

Cracked and baked

Solid in its crustiness

Lies parched beneath a burning sun

The crops lie burned and beaten

Defeated by the dryness

Wispy roots withered

Lifeless, straw-like stretchings

Down between the cracks

Of powdered soil

Exhausted by the struggle to survive

Shrivelled and stunted

In the cratered furrows

The ground cries out for moisture

Any drops to slake and quench its thirst

Its desiccated loamy texture

Crumbling in the empty air

Turning into shifting dust

Drifting slowly into piles

Driven by an arid wind

Which whispers as it blows

The glaring, cloudless sky

Fierce and rain-barren

Curses and punishes

Withholds the water from the needy

Any liquid long receded, unreachable

Deep beneath the surface

Leaving not a thing alive

The landscape sterile

Condemned to a gasping, choking death

In the over-heated breeze

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 16th February 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 16^th February 2014

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       The debate over the future independence of Seend took a new twist during the week, when the leaders of all three main political parties in Bromham Parish Council showed a rare united front in condemning Seend villagers’ plans to continue shopping at the Bromham butcher and Post Office.  If there were to be a future split, following this September’s referendum on the subject, new arrangements would need to be put in place to allow Seend residents to drink in The Wounded Ferret.  A separate snug bar would be required to ensure that residents of the two villages no longer mixed.

2.       The Bromham Winter Olympics also got under way. The first round-robin matches in the 400m path-sliding got under way down Church Hill, followed by the first heats of arse-over-tit falling down on the High Street.  Tomorrow’s highlight will include the 100m snow-shovelling and the exciting, if rarely-understood, short-car windscreen-scraping.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Blood

Blood

A sudden slice of skin

That pearls, then peels apart

Beading tiny drops of liquid

Which sit neatly, quietly

Waiting, welling for a moment

Brimming, holding pause

Needing further strength

Before pushing outwards

Then the pump and pulse

Stroke of a distant heartbeat

Forcing fluid pressure

Through arteries, veins, capillaries

To break the confines of the cut

Pouring crimson from the wound

A slivered stream of life-blood

Dripping red upon the whiteness

The jagged scratch-line

Filling and flooding

Inundated by the flow

Drops spotting the ground

AB Positive perhaps

Vital to some-one else

Waiting to be staunched

With pads and bandages

And the subtle clotting power

Of life’s congealment

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Earl Grey Tea-Bread

Recipe for: EARL GREY TEA-BREAD

Ingredients:

·         275g mixed fruit or sultanas

·         300ml strong black Earl Grey tea

·         60g soft brown sugar

·         Zest of one orange or lemon

·         2 large eggs

·         275g plain flour

·         2 ½ tsp baking powder

·         1 tsp ground ginger

·         ½ tsp ground cinnamon

·         ¼ tsp ground nutmeg

·         ¼ tsp salt

Method:

1.       Grease & line 2lb/ 900g loaf tin

2.       Heat oven to 170C/ 160C fan/ 335F, gas 3 ½

3.       Put dried fruit in a saucepan with the tea, bring to the boil & simmer for one minute

4.       Add sugar and zest, stirring to dissolve, and set aside to cool

5.       In a separate large bowl mix the flour & spices

6.       Beat the two eggs lightly in a separate small bowl

7.       Add the wet ingredients to the dry ones in the large bowl & mix carefully

8.       Tip/ spoon the mixture into the loaf tin & smooth the top gently

9.       Bake for 50-55 minutes, testing with s skewer that the loaf is cooked through

10.    Remove and cool in the tin for ten minutes, before lifting out onto wire rack.

What else you need to know:

1.       Slice and butter thickly & eat with a cup of tea.

Flushed With Success

Flushed With Success

There was a young man by the name of Ness,

Who to the toilet rushed in distress.

It’s a good job he made it,

Or else I’m afraid it,

Would have led to an embarrassing mess.

I can’t say what he was going to do,

It’s just that he had to get to the loo.

To reveal what then occurred,

Would need to have a rude word,

So let’s just say it was Number Two.

Now he was from a good part of town,

And realised with a puzzled old frown,

That if it’s at all yellow,

You can just let it mellow,

But if it’s brown, you must flush it right down.

Thus it was that he pulled on the chain,

As it hung there above the porcelain,

But it came off in his hand,

Leaving him there to stand,

And deliver himself of this sorry refrain.

“Oh dear!  I can’t see how I can mend,

This thing that’s broken so I can send,

That which sits in the bowl,

To disappear down the hole,

And carry on, right past the u-bend!”

As I say, this man was no navvy,

And with plumbing was not very savvy.

He didn’t wish to dwell,

Or to stay with the smell,

But wanted to escape from the lavvy.

He found himself trapped there in the loo:

He was in a right pickle, it’s true.

He put down extra paper,

To cover the vapour,

And wondered what else he could do.

Upon a solution his mind was now set,

And up to the cistern he wanted to get,

The mechanism to beat,

He stood on the seat,

But his foot went through, into the toilet.

Which caused the said contents to be pushed,

Deep into the water and mushed.

This meant that his floater,

Was no longer a boater,

And decidedly the opposite of flushed.

He heard himself let out a great roar,

As it all overflowed onto the floor.

His foot was all muddied,

As the cubicle flooded,

And it all ran away under the door.

It filled his shoe and got into his sock,

When on the door came a very loud knock.

Someone wanted a wee,

In this here W.C.

And had started to rattle the lock.

Ness knew he needed a proposal,

For the man outside with his nose’ll,

Guess what occurred,

Regarding the turd,

Unless he could conclude a disposal.

He began to feel like an animal caged,

As the intruder grew more enraged.

It always rankles,

With pants round your ankles,

So he shouted out loudly: “Engaged!”

And the moral of this altercation?

Make sure you’ve got good information,

Take plenty of towels,

Before moving your bowels,

And test before your evacuation.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Banger

Banger

I’m a great fan of pork products:

To be deprived would be a great lossage -

So I’m here to sing you the praises,

Of the noble, and various sausage.

                                                        

There’s Cumberland, and there’s your Irish,

And French ones from the town of Toulouse,

And they’re all bound to get juices running,

For soon as you cook them, fat’s starting to ooze.

On the Continent you’ve got Saucisson,

In Germany there’s a thing called a Bratwurst.

It’s not Baloney to think of Poloney,

A nation without one should call itself cursed.

The flavours come in all shapes and sizes,

To suit the rich and the hoi-polloi.

A chipolata’s good for a starter,

But pales beside the good old Saveloy.

You can go the whole hog for a Hot Dog,

But salami, I think, looks perter.

You can be a hanger for a good banger,

Especially if it’s a Frankfurter.

But I think we must look rather deeper,

And we’ve got to be really willing,

To delve into methods of production,

And to wonder just what’s in the filling.

The casing might be natural or false,

But there’s lots of things can call themselves pork.

You’d be surprised if only you knew,

Exactly what’s on the end of your fork.

They like to use up all of the animal,

And be sure that nothing can go to waste,

So everything gets ground up you see,

And reduced to a pink kind of paste.

Mechanically-recovered’s the term,

With cereal and rusk they pack and they fill,

And then they do grind, lots of thick rind,

And the snout, the ears and the nostril.

Most of the innards, and outwards, are used:

The guts, the toe-nails and the eye-lashes,

The pistle, the gristle and even the whistle,

Mixed all up into hashes and mashes.

Colourings and plenty of flavourings,

Additives and seasonings to begin,

You’d wince, if you knew what went into the mince,

That was finally forced into the skin.

The feet are mixed up with wheat, and even some teat,

Some spice, some rice, perhaps even some mice,

Then its ground and bound, and gently browned,

That’s the way to make it taste nice.

For these are some of the ingredients,

The contents that the makers might favour.

After all, without all the e-numbers,

How would we ever get any flavour?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

A Journey To The Centre Of My Fridge

A Journey To The Centre Of My Fridge

The door makes a gentle sucking noise as it opens

Revealing the contents within

The lamp flickering with alarm

As it tries to illuminate the gloomy interior

The shelves sparsely populated

With a range of dubious items

Covered and clumsily wrapped

Concealing the substances

Whose origin is now unknown

And the subject of fervent speculation

There’s something grey there at the back

Hiding itself from prying eyes

Crawling down from a mouldy plate

Along the wires to the edge

Attaching itself to the side

There’s a gathering odour

Emanating from that crumbled blob

Which might once have been cheese

It’s building its own dairy culture

As it transforms itself into yoghurt

And drips slowly towards the bottom

And perhaps those grey flakes of something

Used to be fine fresh slices of ham

Bought to go with the salad leaves

Which still crouch there in packets

In the special crisper below

Transmuting themselves into a liquid form

In three different shades of brown

It’s a sorry sight at this time of night

When desperate for nourishment

It offers little hope of satisfaction

And may be a danger to health

So the only practical thing to do

Is to close the door again, sighing gently

And turn elsewhere for comfort

Whilst making a firm resolution

To clean it all out in the morning

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Egg

Egg

There’s a single egg in the fridge

Which sits alone and forlorn

Abandoned by the rest of its dozen

The only occupant

Of that strange frame in the door

I’m in a quandary on how best to proceed

Since it’s not enough on its own

It really needs a companion

To make up a proper omelette

Or to be scrambled with butter

If there were some bread

I could summon some soldiers of toast

And have it soft-boiled

Before knocking its head off

And dunking them in headfirst

Or perhaps poached gently in hot water

Swirling in a vortex of bubbles and steam

Maybe slowly baked in a ramekin

In a bain-marie in a low oven

Or hard-boiled to make a small sandwich

There’s a single egg in the fridge

Which probably thinks that it’s escaped

However I fear it’s much mistaken

Since I can see it’s going to get fried

Now that I’ve spotted the bacon

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Sunday 9th February 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 9^th February 2014

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       The first ever Parish Council meeting to be held completely under water took place this last Wednesday.  In an attempt to save money, pumping out of the Council chamber for the sole purpose of holding a meeting was not thought to be economic.  Councillors were therefore issued with SCUBA gear and voting cards.  After it became clear that discussion was necessarily truncated on most issues, and that the normal four hour meeting could be got through in less than thirty minutes, councillors were said to be keen to use the same approach in the future.

2.       The recent stormy weather was also responsible for the washing away of HS1 (the High Speed tractor trail between the upper and lower parts of the village).  Engineers are currently assessing the damage, but it is thought likely that Upper Bromham may be cut off for up to five weeks.  People from Lower Bromham were heard to be muttering that it would be difficult to notice the difference.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Husks

Husks

A gently-trembling hand

Across the beer-ringed table

Reaches to grasp the glass half-empty

And drain it to its meagre dregs

Before slowly rolling out a cigarette

With the last of this week’s tobacco

A delicate line of spittle traced along

To seal the thin white paper

Then tucking it behind the ear

For later consumption

On the way home

Through derelict streets

Deep-set wistful eyes

Survey the scene unchanging

Staring out through rheumy windows

Eking out the time of endless days

In this waiting-room of dejected men

Rejected and pensioned off into retirement

Who feel no ease or comfort

Nor expect any better prospects

Sitting wordless among the others

Staring across the musty bar-room

Where no-one talks today

Since there’s nothing much to say

Ground down by hopelessness

Arms rendered thin and scrawny

Through life-long labour

On shop-floors and in yards

Which sit now silent and abandoned

Worn out by years of heavy toil

Sinews stretched and lacking strength

Old muscles worn and wasted

Veins standing proud and blue

Upon the wrinkled, liver-spotted skin

Of these exhausted men

Insides hollowed out

Husks of what used to be

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Chicken Tagine with Squash or Apricots

Recipe for: CHICKEN TAGINE(with squash or apricots)

Ingredients:

• 2 large chicken breasts, skin on, cut into 2/3 pieces each (or use thighs)
• 2 tblsp olive oil
• 200g/ 7oz shallots or onions
• 2 garlic cloves, peeled & sliced
• 4cm piece ginger, peeled & grated
• 1 tsp cumin powder
• 1 tsp coriander powder
• 2 small cinnamon sticks
• 1 tsp ground ginger
• Large pinch saffron threads
• Pinch chilli powder
• 375g/ 13oz butternut squash, peeled & cubed (don’t use sweet potato – too soft) OR 100g dried apricots, halved if large
• 500ml/ 18 fl oz chicken stock
• 1 rounded tblsp clear honey
• 2 tblsp fresh coriander, roughly chopped

Method:

1. heat oven to 180c/ 160C fan/ gas 4
2. season the large chunks of chicken
3. heat oil in flameproof casserole, add chicken skin-side down & brown all over in hot oil
4. remove from pan & set aside
5. add shallots/ onions & brown all over
6. add garlic & grated ginger, cook for 30 seconds
7. add all spices & cook for 60 seconds
8. add butternut squash (if using, or omit this step) & stir to coat in the spices
9. arrange chicken pieces on top of onions/ squash
10. pour over stock, then drizzle in honey
11. bring to gentle simmer, then put lid on casserole & put in the oven
12. bake for 10-15 minutes, then add apricots (if using these instead of squash)
13.  turn heat down to 150C/ 130C fan & cook for further 30 minutes
14. just before dish is ready, stir in most of fresh coriander, reserving a little to scatter over as the dish is brought to table

What else you need to know:

1. serve with a bowl of couscous.  There should be plenty of liquor in the tagine to lubricate a lot of couscous.

One For The Road

One For The Road (celebrating the opening of the first pub on Britain’s motorway network at Beaconsfield on the M40)

I was just trundlin’ down to London,

And, feelin’ tired, I fancied a rest,

But what met my eyes at Beaconsfield,

Was more than I ever could have guessed.

I pulled off the road, into the car park,

And started looking for tea and some grub,

When I noticed The Hope & Champion:

I couldn’t believe it – there was a pub!

Now I’m as fond of a pint as the next man,

And reaching a watering-hole so soon,

Appeared like a mirage in the desert

Courtesy that nice Mr Wetherspoon!

I’ve no truck with spirits or alcopops,

And drinking & driving are sinful,

But a swift half of excellent beer,

Is quite a long way from a skinful.

So I settled down for a drink at the bar,

Ignored all the bottles and ordered a half,

But the barmaid said I had to be jokin’,

Such short measures – was I havin’ a laugh?

I suppose it’s just their sales tactics,

For she told me her name to be Carole,

But she wasn’t really very attractive -

For looks, she was scrapin’ the barrel.

But a woman’s allure can’t be discounted,

She knew how to peddle the pub’s wares,

She talked & charmed me, really quite calmed me,

And soon I’d forgotten all of my cares.

And thus it was I ordered a full glass,

Sure that it wasn’t enough to be boozy,

But, what with fatigue and strength of the ale,

I soon started to feel rather woozy.

I have to admit that it was a strange pint,

Not a flavour I’d encountered before,

Rather gassy, and a bit fruity,

But a pint was enough: I couldn’t have more.

Now there’s nothing droll, about alcohol,

And I knew that some fresh air was the way,

Soon I could feel, I was fine behind the wheel,

So headed back out onto the Motorway.

 For safety, I decided to take things slow,

Keep to the speed limit, and the centre lane,

I took no notice of other motorists,

Nor the black car that had started to gain.

I was now happily drivin’ along,

But tiredness I was having to fight,

It wasn’t the sirens that woke me up,

But the strength of that blue flashing light.

They pulled me into the hard shoulder,

The constable came over, and said with a wink,

“I’m sadly grieving, to notice you weaving,

But is it possible you’ve had a drink?”

I admitted the pint I’d had just before,

I said I didn’t lead the life of a monk,

I knew that he’d caught me, whilst on the M40,

But was sure I couldn’t nearly be drunk.

The police-man was quite nice about it,

Tho’ he had to give me the breathalyser,

He was quite frank – it was totally blank,

For Carole had only been feeding me Tizer.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014