Halloween

Halloween

It’s that bloody time of year again,

But I can’t be doing with modern Halloween.

I mean - all this trick-or-treating -

What on earth’s it all supposed to mean?

It’s them damned Americans again -

It makes me want to grieve.

To them it’s just a marketing plot,

When it should be All Hallows’ Eve!

It’s a Celtic or Pagan thing,

About the turning of the year,

The darkness of the coming Winter,

And about the banishment of fear.

Since when did we need plastic costumes?

Of spiders, skeletons and witches?

Just so that supermarket chains

Could add to their existing pile of riches?

I’m not bothered about the pumpkins,

Carved as Jack-o-lanterns, but good grief!

Can’t we stop all this talk of haunting,

And get back to good old mischief?

It’s the end of harvest and summer time,

The Winter solstice, the land’s no longer green,

So let’s forget talk of spooks and pranks,

And give us back our Halloween!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Hedgerow Jelly

Recipe for: HEDGEROW JELLY

Ingredients:

• 1 kg crab apples, or cooking apples
• 1 kg mixed hedgerow berries (e.g. sloes, bullaces, hips, haws, blackberries, elder-berries, rowan berries)
• 900 g granulated sugar

 Method:

1. pick over the fruits, removing stalks & leafy bits, rinsing as necessary
2. don’t peel or core the apples – just chop roughly
3. place all fruit in a heavy pan with 1.2 litres of water
4. bring to the boil, then simmer until all the fruit is soft & pulpy.  Remove from heat.
5. turn the contents of the pan through a scalded jelly bag or muslin cloth & leave to drip overnight
6. do not rush this bit – don’t squeeze the liquid through the bag or the jelly will be cloudy
7. the next day, measure the juice – you will probably have about 1.2 litres
8. put the juice into a clean pan and bring up to the boil
9. add the sugar – 450g of it for every 600 ml of fruit liquid, stirring until dissolved
10. boil rapidly, without stirring, for 9-10 minutes until setting point is reached 
11. skim off any scum with a shallow spoon, then pot & seal into sterilised jars
12. date & label the jars

 What else you need to know:

1. keeping the skin, cores & stones is a good source of pectin, which helps the jam to set

Country LIfe

Country Life

I’ve been a City boy for all of my life,

But of the town I’d had my fill,

So I was persuaded down into Wiltshire,

To share in the rural idyll.

That’s what I dreamt when I got here,

As we moved in next to a farm,

With green fields and village nearby,

I savoured the countryside charm.

I’m told the country is only two things:

That’s fornication and farming,

But there’s not much farming in winter -

Which is a thought that’s alarming.

But there are many great things to enjoy:

We’ve moved from houses like boxes.

Now there’s badgers and hedgehogs,

And buzzards, kestrels and foxes.

You don’t get such fresh air in town,

The green fields and the walking.

The peace and the quiet are amazing,

And canals – now you’re talking.

So I’ve decided it’s not too bad in the end:

And I don’t want to sound stricken,

So I’ll have to get along now -

It’s time I was milking the chickens.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fell Climbing Accident

Rhymes In The News – (Jack And Jill)

Fell-Climbing Accident

Paramedics called in the Wiltshire Air Ambulance last week to airlift an accident victim to the Head Injuries Unit at Bristol’s Frenchay Hospital.  The alarm was raised late on Friday afternoon after a young man, identified later as Jack, an inexperienced climber, had ascended a local hill with his girlfriend Jill, also a novice hill-walker, in order to collect water samples from a local dew-pond at a popular beauty-spot.

Details of the accident are still unclear, but it appears that Jack somehow fell, injuring his skull in the process.  It then appears that Jill also fell down the hill after attempting to come to Jack’s aid, although her injuries were thought to be less serious.

At Frenchay Hospital, Jack was treated for a cracked skull with a revolutionary new organic method involving acetic acid and a tan-coloured bandaging material.  He is now said to be comfortable, and his condition is no longer thought to be life-threatening.

The Head of the local Fire & Rescue Unit later commented:  “this incident underlines the importance of taking proper personal safety precautions before embarking upon any form of hill-climbing.”

And in other news:

·         An elderly lady has been visited by Wiltshire Social Services after being tipped off by reports by neighbours.  It appears that the woman is a single-parent family, supporting a large number of children, and living in extremely small and inadequate accommodation.  It was reported that the children were mal-nourished, and that they had been subject to a certain amount of physical abuse.

·         A suspected paedophile has been detained after being caught running through the town in his night-gown.  He was seen rapping on windows at around 8pm enquiring whether the small children inside houses had gone to bed yet. Failing to give his real name, the man was charged under his Internet pseudonym of Wee Willie Winkie.

·         And fire-fighters have been called out to rescue a baby from a tree-top.  It is not known how the child came to occupy such a perilous position, but fears have grown for its safety after the wind got up and the cradle, in which the child is lying, was seen to rock perilously.  An extending ladder has been called in to get to the child before the bough, upon which the cradle is resting, has a chance to break.  It is feared that such a break would cause both the cradle and the child to fall.  Latest updates on the situation can be found on BBC Local News.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Moving Day

Moving Day

Men come marching down the path,

Clear intent upon their faces.

They don’t give me a passing glance,

As one by one they shift the packing cases.

Mum and Dad don’t seem to mind,

And make no move to halt the flow.

I can’t bear to see them take our things,

And wonder where we’re all supposed to go.

Are we being thrown out upon the street?

And do the neighbours think it’s so?

Or is there more to this than meets the eye,

Another reason that we must go?

Mum says they’ve found another house,

Not far from here, and already signed,

But I don’t want to go from here,

Nor leave my play-mates far behind.

She says it will be better there,

A bigger garden, more room to play,

I’ll make new friends along The Avenue,

And soon forget those down our alley-way.

Young boys need space to breathe,

And says all this to calm my fears.

She smiles at my confusion,

And wipes away my floods of tears.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 26th October 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 26^th October  2014

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

1.       Bromham was thrown into a medical crisis on Friday when all the GPs registered in the wider area were reported to have retired en masse.  Following the Government’s announcement on Wednesday that GPs would receive £55 for every patient whom they diagnosed with dementia, it transpired that the vast majority of villagers were immediately classified as being “a pork pie short of a picnic”, or “all the lights being on but no-one at home”, or “wheel spinning, but hamster dead”.  Many patient files, however, were also endorsed “NFB”, which apparently is short-hand for “normal for Bromham”.

2.       Dave Wentwrong, Leader of the Parish Council, and head of the Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP), went into meltdown this week when it transpired that Wiltshire Council has decided to send Bromham a bill for over £12.50 for verge-clearing services, dating back to 2007.  “Here we go again!” he fulminated.  “This is exactly why we need to re-negotiate our relationship with Wiltshire Council.  If we are unable to agree more favourable terms, we will be left with no option but to secede from the county and apply to join Somerset.  Or Dorset. Or Gloucestershire.  Or Oxfordshire. Or Berkshire. Or Hampshire.  Or anywhere else that will have us. I’ve heard the North of Scotland is very nice.”

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

Nonsense From 1975

Nonsense

Here’s a short passage which makes (reasonable) sense in this day and age, but which would have been complete unintelligible nonsense in 1975.

Saw this amazing ad last night on Sky. I was watching on the HD flat-screen in the lounge, but I had to go out, so I finished on the tablet.  Been having trouble with my iPhone because the 4G coverage round here is rubbish, and there’s no WiFi hot-spots either. That’s what you get with Orange and EE! 

Anyway, this ad was for this amazing new App that recognises tunes when it hears them.  Any CD or DVD, or you can even be watching a film on Netflix, and it’ll give you the name and artist within seconds.  Didn’t know how that could work so I Googled it, and it was true.  Found it all explained on Wikipaedia.  Seems the App’s online 24/7 to some database in the Cloud.  Don’t even need broadband!  Then I found some guy using it on YouTube!  Amazing!  Decided I just had to have it, but it’s not available on iTunes.  Found it on Amazon, but some guy was selling it cheaper on eBay.  Only trouble was it was a crappy Windows version, and I really wanted Android.  I mean Apple and Microsoft are OK, but so expensive!  And their software!  The hackers and spammers are all over it. I’ve got everything I can to fight that stuff - spam-filters, anti-virus, anti-Trojan, firewall – you name it.  Anyway, I managed to download it OK in the end.  He wanted bitcoins, but I don’t have any, so I managed to use Euros via Paypal.

I thought it was really neat, so I let Sarah know about it on Facebook.  But she wasn’t interested.  She just wanted to bang on about her new mobile.  She’s chucked the Blackberry now and got herself a Galaxy.  It’s a SIM-only, pay-as-you-go deal – it comes with a huge bundle of minutes and SMS texts, and she gets free data-roaming!  Usual story though – needs yet another charger and different USB connector to her old one.

She’s on the bloody Web all the time now, posting selfies with Instagram, and Tweeting every few minutes.  Don’t like Twitter myself.  Can hardly get a word in edgeways.  Think I’ll have to pretend to be a stalker or one of those Internet trolls, just to put the willies up her.  I’ll just set up another social media id, follow her, then start PM’ing her.  Keeps it anonymous.  Not like email, because apart from your userid (which is a bit of a giveaway), they can trace your IP address, and pinpoint your exact location through GPS.  Need to be careful, or I’ll end up with an ASBO!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

It's All In The Numbers

It’s All In The Numbers

We all know the old counting rhymes,

Like “one for sorrow, two for joy”,

But it carries on way beyond there:

Never mind “three for a girl and four for a boy”.

It’s a game of two halves, or even four quarters,

Sometimes it’s “a six and two threes”.

And Lotto and Housey-Housey

Can bring you down to your knees.

Some people have a lucky number,

The National Lottery can send you blotto,

With Scratchcards and the Thunderball,

And the forty-nine numbers in Lotto.

There used to be old Bingo calls -

Clickety-click and seventy-six trombones,

Two fat ladies and Kelly’s Eye,

Now everyone’s obsessed with their phones.

Heinz had Fifty-Seven Varieties ,

I admit I never understood why -

I think they just plucked out any old number,

In order to encourage us to buy.

And extremist jihadist martyrs,

Believed in virgins seventy-seven,

When they brought down the twin towers -

Yes, everyone remembers Nine Eleven.

And talking of in seventh heaven,

With ninety-nine red balloons in flight,

You’re bound to start losing the count,

Try however hard you might.

There were the Fab Four and The Guildford Six,

Joe Ninety and WD Forty,

And if you were three sheets to the wind,

Everyone would say that you were naughty.

Two and two can sometimes add up to five,

That’s when you’ve hold the wrong end of a stick,

It simply means that things don’t really add up,

So find another argument to pick.

A UB40 was for unemployment,

If a P45 had been your fate,

Then you needed to drown out your sorrows,

Until you were one over the eight.

Two’s company, and three is a crowd,

And to me that’s perfectly fine:

I’m ready to give one hundred per cent,

Because a stitch in time is said to save nine.

Do you remember 5-4-3-2-1?

That was a song sung by Manfred Mann,

But it got stolen, and they used it in Houston,

Launching their rockets in the space plan.

Now, I only know one man who called himself Dad,

But it’s of fore-fathers that people speak.

Don’t know what happened to the other three,

But does that make me into a freak?

And as each birthday becomes a bigger number,

I won’t be seeing fifty once again.

I mean – how long have we all got?

I’m told it’s only three-score years and ten.

And when I finally decide to go,

And they dress me in my wooden suit,

I’d like the appropriate send-off please,

With a twenty-one gun salute.

They say you’re as old as the woman you feel,

But as I go gentle into this good night,

Don’t say I didn’t give you the count-down,

Due to my incredible fore-sight.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Dosh For Dementia

Dosh For Dementia

Being a doctor’s a difficult life,

Sometimes it’s hard to make one’s ends meet,

But I had a wonderful dream last night,

A new vision of how things could be sweet.

I dreamed it was easy to make money,

A wheeze that would make me a few bob,

Where I got lots of extra payments,

And that it was for just doing my job!

The NHS had decided to pay me,

Not for working any longer,

But for every diagnosis,

They’d just bung me more wonga!

There’d be a whole range of different payments,

Remuneration on a sliding scale.

I’d just have to do what I did anyway.

With so many patients, how could I fail?

I’d get a fiver for every fever,

Which would quickly add up in the billing,

And a tenner for each tonsillitis -

It would be simple to soon make a killing.

For a twenty, I could find plenty

Of symptoms for which I’d be paid,

And for a fifty, I could be quite nifty,

At seeing a fortune to be made.

Complex cases might pay up to a ton -

I guess the Health Service has thought this right through?

Making a monkey for spotting a junkie

It’d be too easy – but what can I do?

But dementia looks the easiest route:

For that they’ve promised fifty-five pound.

I’ll have a quick scan through my records,

And invite a few of the old dears around.

It’ll be like taking sweets from a baby,

A diagnosis that’s simple to do -

Anyone a bit vague or forgetful,

Will join the back of a new queue.

My Hippocratic Oath will stay intact,

Nor do I see any conflict of interest.

I’ll be able to whizz through appointments,

Which I think is all for the best.

  

Now these are targets that would be welcome,

And I could work for even less hours,

An incentive scheme that works like a dream,

And only adds more to my powers!

I’d be a planner, of my bedside manner,

But the elderly should have nothing to fear.

My retirement fund would grow fast enough,

For me to give up my practice next year.

My pension pot would grow day by day;

It’ll be like money for old rope -

I can spend all day, at leisure and play,

Whilst polishing my stethoscope.

Yes it’s tough being a doctor,

But now I can see how I might cope -

I don’t think it’s rash, to chase after cash,

Nor is it a slippery slope.

It’s just economic reality,

It’s the way that things are starting to tend -

Who wouldn’t want to be, a practising GP,

When it’s clear where this will all end?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

It Dis'nae Work

News that Euro Disney requires a financial bail-out has rather taken a shine off the golden image.

It Dis’nae Work

There’s gloom in the Magic Kingdom,

And Pinocchio’s wearing a frown,

There’s less visitors to Euro-Disney,

And all of the numbers are down.

There may have to be some cutbacks,

In this cartoon paradise heaven -

Less than one hundred and one dalmatians

And dwarves are too many at seven.

Bashful and Dopey are in for the chop,

And Sleepy and Sneezy will soon have a shock:

Happy and Grumpy are bound to be jumpy,

When all they’re left with is Doc.

The Aristocats will scatter like rats,

Pluto and Goofy head out into the night.

Jiminy Cricket will be given his ticket,

And no place left for Snow White.

The Lady may have to become a Tramp,

The Little Mermaid no more will be gadding,

A final tune for Silly Symphonies,

And there’s no room for Aladdin.

The theme park may have to go dark,

The old Jungle Book has run out of luck,

As the administrators move in,

Evicting Captain Hook and Donald Duck.

Perhaps they need Alice in Wonderland,

To bring along some of her magic,

Or is there a role for The Fairy Godmother,

To avoid a fate that’d be tragic?

Then there’s Peter Pan – he might have a plan,

And Tigger might see what he could do.

If Sleeping Beauty was only on duty,

We could call in Winnie The Pooh!

But a bail-out’s not the end of the line:

Mary Poppins could chase away a frown,

That’d be super-callifragilistic,

And’d help the medicine go down.

Can young Bambi or old Minnie Mouse

Do something expiallidocious,

To avoid a life of Bedknobs & Broomsticks,

Or even something more atrocious?

  

It’s down to these Dumbo accountants,

For telling truth is not in their habit.

It’s a shocking case of mis-management,

As bad as Who Fwamed Woger Wabbit!

Disney’s no Beauty now, only A Beast,

Whose long history only hinders

Its Fantasia of recovery,

And its reputation in Cinders.

Walt Disney would revolve in his grave,

To see his empire sink in this pit,

Its morals cast aside, taken for a ride -

But it always was a Mickey Mouse outfit.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Beyond The Fence

Beyond The Fence

Strange how this barrier affects me,

This line of posts, and its cross-beams.

How familiar I am this side of the fence,

How alien the other side seems.

For this is mine, and that is theirs:

I stand in my own ground, looking out.

Within this boundary I feel certain,

But the other side summons up doubt.

Kestrels and buzzards fly on regardless,

Using the sky’s common air-space,

Ignoring the obvious separation,

Which I still perceive in this place.

The wildness of the country,

With its plants and creatures laid hidden,

Seems to beckon me forward,

But my mind yet says it’s forbidden.

It seems easy for the eye to wander,

Across fields of grass and thick clover,

But far too great an endeavour,

To actually get up, and climb over.

What fear keeps holding me back?

There is no-one there that I can see:

I guess it’s the usual paranoia -

Someone’s out there, spying on me.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Black Hole

Black Hole

It reveals itself again,

As Winter’s reedy grass recedes,

Down there, at the foot of the fence,

A hole into a blackness beyond,

Where creatures scurry who knows whence.

A trail, a path so obvious now -

Damp, dark and muddy,

Between the slats of wood, a funnel,

Leading into the undergrowth,

Entering a tangled natural tunnel.

Deserted passage in the day,

Abandoned so it seems,

While ever there is light,

But a busy feral footpath,

And crowded highway throughout the night.

Leaving the ordered,

The known and familiar land,

Where garden crops are sown,

The track-way dives through the portal,

And disappears into an unknown.

So my mind tends to flow,

A blackness revealed in Winter:

Bad thoughts, tangled, confused,

A dark hole of depression,

An old pathway, well-used.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 19th October 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 19^th October  2014

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

1.       It appears that the starting-gun for next year’s long-awaited Parish Council elections has already been fired.  Party leaders have begun campaigning around the village, babies are already being kissed, and political speeches that have not yet been made are being reported verbatim in the Bromham Bugle.  The Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) has begun a daily bulletin on the progress being made by the Swivel-Eyed Loonie Federation (SELF) and its leader Wat Farrago.  Villagers are reported to have voted with their feet by leaving in droves to live with relatives elsewhere in the county until the dust dies down.

2.       A member of the Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP) was suspended by its leader Dave Wentwrong after being caught on tape making disparaging remarks about parsnip pluckers.  Paul Piglet, advisor to the Parish Council on one-armed farm-workers, claimed that some vegetable root-pickers were not worth the minimum agricultural wage, because they were not able to harvest certain root-crops with a single pull.  Later, he issued a full apology, claiming that he should not have accepted the premise of the question put to him, which was actually about the red-staining of hands caused by beetroot-picking. The Society of Local Unlicensed Root Pickers (SLURP), a national charity, was said to be outraged by the advisor’s comments.

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

Burglar

Burglar

Awoken by a bump in the night,

A noise I wish could have resisted.

I didn’t want to investigate,

But the wife – she’d insisted.

So, armed with what first came to my hand,

I crept quietly down the stair,

Clutching a pair of her curling tongs,

To discover who might be there.

There was a light on in the kitchen -

So - there was the criminal joker!

I shouted out - just to warn him:

“Hey! I’m armed with a big poker!”

I heard a noise, so I thought perhaps he’d gone,

And dashed bravely in, to chase off the thief,

But the sight that met my eyes,

Was one I could hardly believe.

The youth, he was just sitting there,

In the chair, as calm as can be,

Helping himself to some cornflakes,

With cold milk, as far as I could see.

He didn’t look so threatening,

Slumped at the table, almost dejected,

He didn’t have the traditional look,

Of the cat-burglar I’d expected.

He wasn’t armed and dangerous,

And there was no sign of a mask,

He didn’t wear a long stripey jumper,

No bag marked “swag” to help in his task.

He wasn’t alarmed to see me,

In fact, he didn’t even frown,

But said: “Calm yourself, Grandad! -

And put those curling-tongs down!”

I said: “A man’s home is his castle –

About that, you need to be clear,

You shouldn’t be eating my cornflakes,

In fact, you shouldn’t even be here!”

He said that as I was here now,

He knew how I must feel.

He didn’t have the heart to burgle,

And from me he’d better not steal.

House-breaking’s not all it’s cracked up to be,

The risks hardly make it worth-while,

Biting dogs and alarm systems

Were really cramping his style.

By the time I’d heard his story,

I could see things from his side,

And felt so very sorry for him,

Well, I very nearly cried.

I saw him out through the door,

Once he’d had a good rest,

I hoped he’d do well in the future,

And then I wished him all the best.

I locked the door behind him,

Reflecting on what we’d both said,

And knowing that crime doesn’t pay,

Made my way, happily, back to bed.

It was next morning that I discovered,

My wallet and keys he’d lifted,

He’d been back again in the night,

And all my valuables shifted.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Deer

Deer

Stumbling, I almost fall forward,

A stray bootlace dragged in the mud

Of the trail as I wearily walk,

So bend down to make the thing good.

Glad of the rest, but breaking my rhythm,

Quickly all fingers and thumbs,

Then looking up suddenly

I am almost struck dumb.

Frightened, but standing her ground,

Stands the trembling, terrified beast,

Staring unblinking straight forward,

Determined to face me, at least.

Not thirty feet between us,

The doe regretting her error,

Unwilling to turn her back upon me,

Despite her evident terror.

Time stands still for an instant,

The deer holding my stare,

No sound and no movement

For either of us, both fully aware.

Unmoving, the tableau continues,

A stand-off on the track,

Impossible to break away,

Neither can turn back.

This meeting of different worlds,

Here in the heat of the day,

Each uncomprehending the other,

The deer desperate to slip away.

Then a change of scent, or some movement,

Perhaps a sound somewhere to the right,

It takes just less than a second,

And she’s suddenly passed from my sight.

The bushes have swallowed her up,

And with a movement of some grace,

The lady has turned and fled,

Vanished, leaving without any trace.

I look about for her, of course,

Searching around everywhere,

But Nature has concealed her well,

Almost as if she’d never been there.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

In The Eye Of The Beholder

In The Eye of The Beholder           

I wanted to be one of the beautiful people,

But was it the big thighs,

That led to my demise in their eyes?

Or was it the tattoos that caused them to refuse?

Or perhaps I’m somehow deformed?

Not properly “normed”?

Too short to be sought, too old to be sold.

Or is it because I’m too tall that caused me to fall?

Is it my poor looks, my nips and my tucks,

Or just my sagging buttocks?

They say they’ve tightened their criteria,

And their standards haven’t slipped.

But let’s get to the nitty-gritty:

I know I’m not that pretty,

But I don’t look that shitty –

Can’t they have some pity?

What is it they’re wanting? –

A view selective and snooty,

Where difference is excluded,

And the only pass-book is beauty?

This ghetto of symmetrical features can never reach us.

This apartheid of self-image - what does it teach us?

These discriminations,

Against different genes,

Can only lead to eliminations -

And we know what that will finally mean.

They need to take care,

Before this nightmare,

Becomes more than a game.

For dating and mating,

With too many of their own kind,

Will produce offspring that all look the same.

We need to celebrate the differences that make us all what we are.

The good, the bad and the ugly should all get over the bar.

So let’s cease this paranoia,

And let’s all be bolder.

I know I’m no oil-painting,

But isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Orchard

Orchard

Through damp and dewy grass steps a man,

Then a line of people walking,

Bearing up the woven wicker casket,

Faces up-turned, wondering, quietly talking.

Beyond the farm, before the woodland

Lies the old orchard, long-abandoned trees,

Grass grows longer every Spring,

And apple blossoms blizzard in the breeze.

Shafts of sunlight dapple the procession,

Making its determined way:

A purposeful expedition,

Come because they still have much to say.

Quiet dignity settles around these walkers,

Making their way within the glades,

Arriving at the place where two men stand,

Discreetly waiting, leaning on their spades.

A special spot, where a grave is dug,

Bearers pause, shift the weight, lower the bier,

The others slowly gather round,

Begin their farewells in the grove that’s here.

Each taking an unbidden turn to speak:

No need for a man in black who leads.

One will sing, one recite a poem,

A child steps forward and slowly reads.

Sudden silence falls across these friends,

Then some gentle weeping’s sound.

Fresh flowers placed upon the coffin,

As it is slowly lowered in the ground.

Blossom rains into the gaping grave,

Perhaps some promise of re-birth.

Mourners begin to think again of the living,

Turning their backs upon the mound of earth.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Ghost Train

Ghost Train

So badly over-grown and deserted,

The fact is there’s very little left to see.

So hard to make out what went on here,

And how crowded this place used to be.

Here, beyond the fence, where grasses grow thick,

Lies a gravel track-bed that gives away a clue -

There - you can just make out the old station,

Where once the old branch-line ran through.

There’s no rails, nor any sleepers,

Revealing the place’s one-time function,

Nor the steam trains which left from here,

Wheezed up to the bend, then on to the junction.

Passengers, parcels and packages

On the up train, sometimes the down,

Carried from here in the country,

To their many purposes in the big town.

My dad used to come here in the mornings,

To bring the milk down from the farm,

Sending it in great churns to the city,

To keep it cool, and safe from any harm.

He had a job to be here on time,

Driving the old tractor down the lane.

Sometimes he had to race to the station,

In order to meet that early milk train.

In some ways it’s not so long ago,

But the line succumbed to the usual fate,

With the land sold off to developers,

That’s now sitting under a housing estate.

But it’s strange how the mind can play tricks,

How, when it’s wet, the coal I still smell,

And when the wind blows in the from the West,

There’s the sound of the old station bell.

There’s the steam, the oil and the smoke,

Of the engine waiting the signal to leave,

The whistle of the guard, the slamming doors,

A bustling scene that’s easy to believe.

And sometimes in the lonely night-times,

Maybe it’s a dream, or perhaps it’s quite true,

But I’d swear I can hear rattling milk-churns,

And the scream of the ghost-train passing through.         

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Teaching Maths - A Beginner's Guide

Teaching Maths – A Beginner’s Guide

Some sample questions taken from Maths papers over the past forty years to demonstrate how things have changed – not always for the better.

1.       Teaching Maths – 1970s

A logger sells a truckload of timber for £100.  His cost of production is 4/5 of the price.  What is his profit?

2.       Teaching Maths – 1980s

A logger sells a truckload of timber for £100.  His cost of production is 80% of the price.  What is his profit?

3.       Teaching Maths – 1990s

A logger sells a truckload of timber for £100.  His cost of production is £80.  What is his profit?

4.       Teaching Maths – 2000

A logger sells a truckload of timber for £100. His cost of production is £80.  His profit is £20.  Your assignment – using a black pen, carefully underline the number 20.

5.       Teaching Maths – 2005

A logger cuts down a forest of beautiful trees because he is selfish, and inconsiderate, and cares nothing for the habitat of animals, or the preservation of our woodlands.  Your assignment – discuss how the birds & squirrels might feel when they realise that the logger has cut down their homes for a measly £20 profit.

6.       Teaching Maths – 2009

A logger is arrested for attempting to cut down a tree on his own land, in case it may have been offensive to any groups not consulted in the application for the felling license.  He is also fined £100 because his chainsaw is in breach of the 2008 Health & Safety regulations, as it is deemed too dangerous, and could cut something.  He has used the chainsaw for over 20 years without incident.  However, he does not have the correct certificate of competence and is therefore considered to be a recidivist and habitual criminal.  He is compelled to give a sample of his DNA, and his details are circulated throughout all government departments.  He protests, is taken to court, and is fined a further £100.  When he returns from Court he finds that squatters have cut down half his wood to build a camp on his land.  He tries to throw them out, but is arrested again, prosecuted for persecuting an ethnic minority, imprisoned and fined a further £100.  Whilst he is in prison, the squatters cut down the rest of his wood, and sell it on the black market for £100 cash.  They also have a departure BBQ of roasted squirrel and pheasant, and leave behind several tons of rubbish and asbestos sheeting.  The logger is warned that failure to clear the fly-tipped rubbish immediately at his own expense is a criminal offence.  He complains and is arrested for environmental pollution, breach of the peace and invoiced £10,000 plus VAT for safe disposal costs by an outsourced regulated government contractor.  Your assignment – how many times is the logger going to have to be arrested and fined before he realises that he is never going to make a £20 profit via sheer hard work, give up and sign onto the dole and live off the State for the rest of his life?

7.       Teaching Maths – 2014

A logger doesn’t sell a lorry-load of timber because he can’t get a loan to buy a new lorry because his bank has spent all his and their money on a derivative of securitised debt related to sub-prime mortgages in the USA and lost the lot, with only some government money left to pay a few million-pound bonuses to their senior directors, and to the traders who made the biggest losses.  The logger struggles to pay the £1,200 road tax on his old lorry.  However, as it was built back in the 1970s, it no longer meets the emission regulations and he is forced to scrap it.  Some itinerant loggers buy the old lorry for cash from the scrap merchant, and put it back on the road.  They undercut everyone on price for timber haulage, whilst claiming unemployment benefit for themselves and all of their relatives. The Government borrows more money to pay more to the bankers, because bonuses do not come cheap. The parliamentarians feel that they are missing out, and claim the difference on expenses and allowances.  Your assignment  - explain how the British economy still manages to work at all, and how the teaching of Mathematics has evolved over the past 40 years.  Send the solution to Michael Gove in the envelope provided.  No crossings out.  Show all your working-out.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 12th October 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 12^th October  2014

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

1.       The Swivel-Eyed Loon Federation (SELF) party scored an amazing success this week in the Bromham by-election for the Parish Council (caused by the resignation of the former councillor who had been caught sending disgusting pictures of baler-twine to a female journalist).  Eddie “Nutcase” Piglet came from behind in the polls to win an amazing victory, and in his victory speech called for Bromham’s borders with Seend to be closed, in order to prevent unemployed immigrants from entering the village, thus causing the spread on ebola and monster killer spiders.

2.       The Bromham Theme Park narrowly avoided closure this week, after a last-minute financial bail-out by Bromham Bank.  Fans of the themed tractor rides, mangel-throwing competitions, and Wiltshire’s only dedicated in-breeding centre, were relieved that their days out were to be saved.  The Park’s three employees were also so relieved that their jobs had been saved that they went to The Wounded Ferret to celebrate, and the Park was subsequently closed for the rest of the day.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Stripes Of The Prisoner

Stripes Of The Prisoner

Among the dark shadows of the jungle,

Out of the sun, in the heat of the day,

I sit near the cooling, swirling stream,

And rest my aging bones, as is my way.

Advancing years have not been kind to me:

My old, unsteady limbs creak and groan.

There are no younger ones to comfort me.

I spend my time here ever more alone.

My inscrutable stare is fading fast,

Like my beauty, and my ev’ry dark stripe.

Soon I will fade into the background,

And there will be no more of my type.

You were afraid of me once long ago,

But now I’m the one that’s afraid.

Death waits around the corner for me:

A price that’s soon to be paid.

My looks are my downfall,

My fierce beauty inspires your greed.

You just have to have me:

I can supply one of your needs.

My fur is my curse, my tail a collector’s item,

My nose, my ears and my paws,

Everyone wants a piece of my action

My eyes, my tongue, even a slice of my claws.

I’m worth more dead than alive;

My very rarity is my value,

But there are so few of us left now,

That I have to be protected from you.

These last few forests must be my home,

A “Reserve” for we creatures called game,

But the fear and the respect have faded:

I’m a prisoner in all but my name.

Your children will not see me or my like,

Our image a strange forgotten sight.

The flame of our existence,

No longer burns in the forests of night.

So look upon me whilst you can.

There’ll be no more roaring jungle calls.

From this point there’ll be but a silence,

Except the sound of a single tear-drop, as it falls.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Pencil Case

Pencil Case

The bag sits upright, straight and packed

Books and folders ready-loaded

Alert and standing to attention

And the new pencil case

Shiny, patterned, yet under-stated

Its gold-bright teeth tightly zipped

Sheltering its treasures

Inky felt-tip pens of every colour

A set of HB pencils

Graphite honed to finest points

Compass and protractor

And plastic rulers all aligned

With pins and paper-clips

Sorted and snuggled down

With sharpener and eraser

Ammunition for the new campaign

No broken points or shavings

Nor dusty detritus gathered

Or cluttered in its depths

But clean, tidy, fresh, prepared

The very mirror of my mind

Open, hopeful, positive

Ready for another start

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fruit-flavoured Gins (and Vodkas!)

Recipe for: GINS (fruit-flavoured)

Ingredients:

• 1-2 lbs sloes, bullaces, damsons or plums (or sour cherries) – see below
• 6 oz sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1 litre (or more) of gin – the cheapest you can buy

 Method:

1. wash the fruit, but no need to stone
2. prick every fruit with a fork & place into a clean demi-john
3. add the sugar & vanilla extract
4. cover with the gin
5. stopper the demi-john with a bung or air-lock
6. shake the demi-john vigorously until the sugar is dissolved
7. place demi-john in a cool dark place, label with contents & date
8. shake the contents every few days for the next 3 months
9. when the liqueur is ready, remove the fruit (depending on what it is, this can be eaten in small quantities as a VERY boozy sweet with cream/ ice-cream/ yoghurt)
10. filter the remaining contents through several layers of muslin & a funnel into another demi-john.  You may need to do this more than once, until you have a fairly clearish liquid.  Try to let the liquid drain through itself, rather than squeezing, as this will help to keep the liqueur clear rather than cloudy
11. then decant again into sealable bottles. 
12. label the bottles

 What else you need to know:

1. traditionally, the fruit is picked in August/ September when it is fairly ripe, and the resultant liqueur can be bottled in time for Christmas (sloes are best after a frost, but this is not vital)
2. the liqueur will keep for years, and improves after a year or two
3. if a sediment forms in the bottom of the bottle(s), it can be re-filtered & re-bottled
4. fruits with a hard stone work the best.  I’ve used apples, peaches, pears, black-currants – they all work OK, but sloes are the very best.
5. Works equally well with vodka!

Walking At Avebury

Walking at Avebury

Dark and dreary December afternoon,

Weak, slanting sunshine that begins to fail,

Walking around the circles at Avebury,

Amid sarsen standing stones in shadows pale.

Light snow covering the lonely landscape,

Earth is robed in its ghostly cover,

The jagged monuments standing starkly,

Embracing the silence, like a lover.

Most of the visitors have now departed,

The pub and the car parks all deserted,

Rushing home to New Year’s Eve festivities,

Whilst here is soon to calm reverted.

In the weakening light, my mind plays tricks,

And imagines ancient figures walking,

Carrying out some ritual practice,

Whispering, gesturing, and talking.

Slowly, the place returns to ancient times.

Peopled again, the circle starts to fill,

And my eyes are drawn to the deep South-West,

And the brooding bulk of Silbury Hill.

Silhouetted against the darkening sky,

Stands the giant earth-work, the great mystery,

A monument built by many thousand hands,

Speaking to me still from beyond pre-history.

And the avenue of stones, leading away,

Stretching off beyond my current sight,

Through the chalk-land, into the far distance,

Disappearing, almost, into moonlit night.

Perhaps towards Stonehenge, or the barrows,

Across the Downs, through the deserted land,

With some deeper meaning or purpose,

That we still cannot understand.

Did these shadow people build these ancient structures,

And did they move the earth to make this massive ditch?

What is the purpose of these megaliths?

Is there a symbolic meaning rare and rich?

Are these stones placed exactly where they are,

In a circle of precise refinement,

Because of certain heavenly signs,

Which required a particular alignment?

I watch these unknown men of yesterday,

Creating such things with roughened hands,

Carving out this place of mysteries,

From the cold and unforgiving lands.

Their ceremonials mean naught to me;

As I watch the graceful gestures of their priest.

I hear the chanting, musical singing;

The fires burn bright, and they fall to feast.

Is this rite about the living, or the dead?

Are they looking back, or to their New Year?

This solstice-time pagan celebration

Must have a purpose which to them is clear.

Such great gathering of tribal men,

Of crops, of seasons, of death and of birth.

To propitiate their shadowy gods,

Or worship the Sun, the Moon or the Earth?

But I cannot ask – they are only ghosts;

Their figures disappear from present view.

My mind comes slowly back to current times,

And I view the archaeology anew.

By now, the place is dark and desolate.

I shiver against the penetrating cold.

I turn away to take my journey home,

And reflect on these great people of old.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Boys Will Be Boys

Boys Will Be Boys (The Spirit of Adventure)

Long, lazy, summer-time, school holidays,

Feeling frowsy in the long dry grass, so bored.

Waiting, languidly, for things to happen:

The itch for excitement that cannot be ignored.

It’s time for adventure, or some trouble:

Thrills don’t just come, so need to be sought out.

They all wanted to be a part of it,

None of them by cowardice caught out.

Who’s leading, who’s following, who’s daring?

Who’s going to be involved quite fully?

Who’s pushing who to make the first move?

Who’s the scaredy-cat, and who’s the bully?

It’s become a matter of honour to go,

No-one wants to appear the baby child,

Egging each other onwards to the place,

Three boys, scared to hold back, running wild.

The house stands deserted and forlorn,

Behind its barrier of tangled wire,

Its broken windows like empty sockets,

Tumble-down, decrepit and so dire.

It’s a simple target to be raided,

Undergrowth to keep them quite hidden,

Forcing down the old, broken back door,

Past where it says “Entry Is Forbidden”.

Plaster has fallen away from dirty walls,

Damp, mouldy, a smell that’s musty,

Broken floor-boards, glass everywhere,

Mouse-droppings, filthy and dusty.

Here was once the lounge, now long deserted,

A kitchen with many pipes hanging out.

They don’t think about the people who lived here,

Too busy exploring, and running about.

Here is a place with possibilities,

A secret space for a ghoulish game.

No limit to a child’s imagination,

Or the ideas that are in the frame.

A new head-quarters for their gang,

A pirate’s cave, or hidden treasure,

A robber’s den, a secret hideaway,

To torture their enemies at leisure.

But what if someone already comes here?

Beggars, or thieves or a filthy tramp?

How can it be made safe and secure?

How to establish their own camp?

Rooms up above must be inspected,

In case someone else is hiding there.

Their voices fall into edgy silence,

Gathering below the bottom stair.

The youngest one is pushed up to the front,

Nervous and trembling, fearing the worst,

The older ones standing right behind him,

Bullying, taunting, making him go first.

He wants to decline this stupid challenge,

His fear is building, and he feels like crying,

But the others will not let him stop now:

He cannot get away – no sense in even trying.

Then, too soon, it’s spinning out of control,

They threaten him with torture, calling names.

Challenging him, shoving him forward,

It’s gone beyond their normal childish games.

The mood has turned quite nasty,

And the laughter has faded away.

They prod him and push him upwards,

They force him – they will have their way.

He bites his lip, and swallows hard.

Though he is trembling and shaking,

He starts to mount the broken risers,

Fearing the dangerous steps he’s taking.

Near the top, his panic rises,

But he never hears the creaking sound,

As he falls through the crumbling structure,

Screaming, arms flapping all around.

A crashing noise and then the silence,

The dust and debris soon stop falling,

The older boys stand stunned, amazed,

Then for their friend start yelling, calling.

He does not answer, lying there quite still.

They know the situation’s far from good:

They run away in a frantic panic,

Leaving the body in its pool of blood.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014