Lahori Lamb Curry

Recipe for: CURRY – LAHORI LAMB

Ingredients:

• 6 large cloves of garlic, peeled
• 6g fresh ginger, peeled
• 4 medium-large tomatoes, skinned
• 250ml natural yoghurt
• 4 tblsp sunflower oil
• 3 black cardamoms
• 3 cloves
• 5cm cinnamon stick
• 2 green cardamoms
• 10 black peppercorns
• 2 bay leaves
• Salt, to taste
• ¾ tsp red chilli powder
• 600g cubed lamb

Method:

1. using a blender, make a fine paste of the garlic & ginger with a splash of water.  Set aside.
2. using a clean blender, puree the tomatoes & yoghurt
3. heat the oil in a heavy pan, adding the whole spices & bay leaves, letting them sizzle for 10 seconds or so
4. add the ginger & garlic paste.  Cook, stirring constantly, for 2 minutes
5. add the salt & chilli powder, then the yoghurt & tomato puree.  Bring to the boil
6. add the lamb, bring back to the boil, then turn the heat down & simmer gently, covered, for 35-40 minutes, or until the meat is tender
7. take the lid off & raise the heat, tossing the meat in the thickening gravy.  As it thickens, add a splash of water, then reduce again
8. do this two or three times – this adds depth to the flavour
9. finish with a splash of water to give you the final gravy

Your Hand

Your Hand

I felt your hand holding tightly onto mine

To keep me from falling down

When I struggled to stand and walk

Unaided by your side

Stumbling through my early steps

I felt your hand gently touching mine

To stop me losing heart

And keeping faith with all my dreams

When I doubted my own intentions

Finding my uncertain way to you

I took your hand close within mine

To show that we would be forever joined

You and me against the world, my love

Words and promises and rings

An affirmation of intentions

I held their hands when they were small

So they should know that I was there

Other lives that looked like mine

But better, brighter in every way

My hopes for a greater future

And when I could no longer move

Nor leave this deathly cancer bed

Your hand held tightly onto mine

And you talked and talked into the night

So that I should never be alone

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Powerless

Powerless

Empty calm descends

Upon the cooling house

As motors cease to hum

Falling into solemn stillness

Sudden TV and radio silence

Reduced to muted dumbness

With regular bulletins hushed

Amid the sudden rush

To join the armistice

Of unexpected quiet

Within the working day

Juice no longer in the wires

Plastic plugs and sockets

Stand redundant

Clunky, hard, dead things

Lying there unused, discarded

Their life-force deserted

Retreated down the circuit

Beyond a small switch far away

No longer any motive power

Nor easy electronic force

No pumps or ticking timers

No clocks or blinking lights

Alarms disabled, motors crippled

Equipment and components

Lie unmoving

As if awaiting further instructions

Then ensues a deathly hush

Through cold and empty rooms

Broken only by a ticking mantel clock

Driven by its tensioned spring

Beating out the passing time

In the darkened gloom

As the quiet settles

Heavy as a layer of dust

With almost a presence of its own

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Sea And Sand

Sea and Sand

Huddled behind the flapping wind-breaks

On creaking candy-stripe deck-chairs

Naked toes wriggling in the cold damp sand

Watching children play among their castles

The long, chilly day stretches far ahead

From sea-wall to a distant horizon

               

Optimistic hats and sun-tan lotions

Jostling with novels and newspapers

In the beach-bags of bosomy matrons

While damp, gritty bath-towels

Shield the modesty of shivering teen-agers

Changing out of cold wet swim-suits

Seagulls scream in the slate-grey sky

Perhaps portending later rain

Before the distant tide

Slowly comes back in again

Its waves sliding up the chilly beach

Erasing empires built along the shore

And enforcing the reluctant retreat

The last desultory donkey-rides taken

Flags and windmills rescued from the water

Before climbing to the esplanade

And a long promenade along the windy pier

To reach the lonely telescope

Which points towards the blackened sea

Then fish and chips in warm, greasy paper

Or cockles and mussels in plastic cups

The sharp and pungent waft of vinegar

Competing with the fresher smell of ozone

While seeking shelter against the elements

On the seats behind the life-boat station

And later, licking ice-cream and candy-floss

While steadily feeding slot machines

In glittering amusement arcades

Where noisy one-armed bandits

Devour great piles of tanners

Until, bored and poorer

Driven outside again

To stroll, wind-driven

Back along the Front

To buy rock and Kiss-Me-Slowly hats

Reading every comic card

On the twirling wire stands

Before games of football in the park

Krazy Golf, then Pitch and Putt

Before sauntering back slowly

To kill more time, before facing high tea

And the tyranny of the guest-house landlady

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

When I Was Older

When I Was Older

When I was older, things made much more sense

And everything kind of hung together

In a way I no longer understand

Life was serious, dull and boring

In a black and white sort of way

But it got me through the years

To get me where I am today

When I was older, I knew clearly who I was

Where I was going, what I was doing

And who was near and dear to me

I played the role of responsible adult

Father to my children, husband and provider

Worker, money-maker, decision-taker

Lover, and sometime man of leisure

When I was older, I grasped what it all meant

What mattered, and how to get things done

I knew who you were then

Why you left me and where you had gone

I hid my small box of cares and worries

And I kept the lid tightly closed

So that you should never know

But now I’m young again, things have changed around

The smells, the sounds, the sights leap right out

Everything is there in full colour

I find that I have nowhere I need to go

I need not make any great decisions

Except what I should have for my dinner

And what time I’d like to go to bed

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Clown

Clown

Your appearance startles me

As I gaze upon your features

A rictus smile on a painted face

Grease-paint make-up

Wide-eyed, red-nosed

The wig, the hat, the jacket

Huge shoes and floppy trousers

Ill-fitting coloured patched-up garb

Exaggerated, extravagant and eccentric

Your gestures make me flinch

Wild anarchic actions

Expansive and grotesque

Flapping, slapstick prat-falls

Tumbling to the crash of cymbals

Comedic foolish fall-guy

Miming pain and sorrow

A pantomime parade of emotions

And silent appeals to the comic gods

The crowd’s reaction does not move me

Their laughter growing

Mounting to crescendo

Wide-eyed faces smile-illuminated

Marvelling at the perfect timing

Of the crazy crackpot performance

Within the circus ring

Watching Whiteface and Auguste

Conducting clowning chaos

But your deadpan muzzle leaves me cold

Your sinister expression

Raises phobic fear and terror

My voice sticks in my throat

To me you are no joking jester

Nor clowning priest of mirth

But a chill reminder

Of a childhood nightmare

A presence from dark anarchic night

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 22nd February 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 22^nd February 2015

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

1.       Police in Bromham are racing against time to try and find three young school-girls who have not been seen by their families for several days.  CCTV cameras picked up the girls mounting a bus to Melksham in the High Street on Wednesday afternoon.  It is feared that, following earlier online grooming, they may have been “recruited” by Seend jihadists, and that they will try and make their way over the border into Seend to join the separatist movement there.

2.       And a short length of near-red off-cut carpet has been laid outside the Bromham Roxy for tonight’s annual show-business bash the TOSSAs (Technical On-Screen Special Awards), where many of the stars of stage are film are extremely unlikely to bother to attend.  Extra popcorn has been ordered by the cinema management in anticipation of a late rush to attend a special screening of “Field Wars: The Landlord Strikes Back”.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Market Day

Market Day

Across the square, Cross-shadowed

Among redundant white lines

Car-cleared and bollarded

An encampment of trucks and white vans

Stalls under candy-stripe awnings

Channel raindrops into small streams

To drip from corners into baskets and trolleys

Shouting and calling, touting and yelling

Today’s bargains, special offers

Everything fresh from the farm

Cox’s in boxes

Bananas in bunches,

Grapes, tomatoes and pears

Eggs, bacon and ham

Puddings, pies and pasties

Sauces, pickles and jam

Milk, cheeses and honey

Flowers, veggies and fruit

Everything’s there if you’ve got money

Oily, scaly wet fish, fresh from the seas

Sharp-finned, bright-eyed and open-mouthed

All good at this price

Glittering, silver darlings

Fanned out on piles of crushed ice

Men’s outsizes, ladies’ lingerie, hats, bras, knickers and socks

Hoover bags, replacement parts, watches, batteries and clocks

Stall-holders sipping extra-sweet tea

Hugging the mugs for their warmth

Take-away bacon rolls cooling on the side

While change is quickly given

Keeping up incessant banter for the punters

A thriving cash economy

Among the strolling bargain-hunters

Hours later, the camp dismantled, the rubbish, the mess and the muck,

Brushes and brooms in the rain, and work-men with the garbage-truck

The wind whips round the deserted space

Whilst, inside, in the pub and the café

It’s time to watch someone else working

And for some hot food and a drink

A chance at last to get warm

A space to reflect and to think

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Playing The Game (Of Cricket)

Playing The Game

We’re all very friendly here, you’ll find, we’d like you to join in with our game.

There’s just a few very simple rules: to misunderstand would be such a shame.

First you must dress in the correct rig: shirt, jumper and flannels all white,

So you can be seen out there on the green - anything else just wouldn’t be right.

It’s quite safe, but you’ll need precautions: helmet, bat, pads and a cricketer’s box,

Cause the bowlers can bowl pretty sharpish, and the ball is as hard as a rock.

Now first you go ”in” and stand at the crease - your main job is not to get “out”,

And if you manage to hit the ball, run to the other end with a heck of a shout.

There’s another chap “in” at the same time, so try not to get in each other’s way,

Keep crossing in the middle as you run, and try to keep batting all day.

It can be fraught if you get caught, and your hands can get pretty sore.

Don’t be lumped with those that get stumped, and don’t be trapped Leg Before.

It can get rich, out there on the pitch - it’s flat, there’s no grass and no clover,

But you needn’t have doubt, you’re not given “out” even when the umpire shouts “over!”

If you’ve been bowled, you’ll surely be told, by a mad bowler who’s pitching short,

By a fat porker sending down a plumb Yorker, or a daisy-cutter that’s caught.

Don’t be yielding to athletic fielding, and remember: Third Man’s theirs, Twelfth Man’s ours,

Better get wise to no-balls and byes, then keep your bat straight for hours and hours.

Ride on your luck and don’t go for a duck, stroke it through the covers with care,

Don’t do a dance when you get your second chance, and on no account go for a pair.

Try to bestride, out on the leg-side; beware Gully, Point and Silly Mid-on,

And if the ball nips through to their Slips, they could enforce the Follow-on.

They’ll be vermillion, back there in the pavilion, if you don’t watch the bowler’s arm laden.

A spinner or seamer, or left-arm dreamer, could easily bowl over a maiden.

You have the right to ask for the light, or get them to shift the Sight-Screen.

You can be curt, or even retire hurt when the pickings have become rather lean.

When at your best, you can take a short rest, by holding up the non-batting end,

And when you cut free, the game stops for tea, and if it rains, the game they’ll suspend.

Your skipper might be a nipper, but he’ll be daring and never be scared.

You might be still out there and swinging, but you might find the total’s “declared”.

Have not a doubt, you’re now clearly “out”, and you’ll find that you have to yield.

It’s now time you tried to bowl out other side, and start your session out in the field.

Sometimes it’s seen, that weather can intervene, so Duckworth-Lewis is brought into play:

It sets up new targets for scoring - how it works, really no-one can say.

But that only catches the very short matches: - it would never do for a Test score.

It’s the only game one plays for up to five days, where the result can still be a draw.

So there you go, there’s little more to know, you’ll pick it up pretty quickish.

It says everything about our nation; it’s the key to being British.

At the end of every inning, if you’re still winning, or if you’ve taken every wicket,

Your own eleven will be in Wisden’s heaven, and you’ll finally understand cricket.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Double Agent

Double Agent

Do not be fooled by the easy manner

Or his apparently warm, affectionate nature

The well-groomed, tailored coat

Perfect hair and manicured whiskers

Nor his domesticated demeanour

Do not be taken in by his love of warmth

And cosy, comfortable, curled position

Nor his sleepy, silent gaze

As if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth

Always dozing during daylight

And rubbing round the legs at feeding time

Do not believe for one moment that his carefully managed image,

This cool, collected character, is at all what he purports to be

For Sam is a double-agent, licensed to kill

A sleeper, hiding his true identity

Lying low until Agent Moonlight gives the signal

Calls him from retirement to carry out his next assignment

Working under cover of the darkness

For another operation in a foreign field

Passing through the portal, turning his collar to the night

Nose, ears and senses all alert, carefully checking his equipment

Teeth, paws and claws, all razor-sharpened, glinting

Ready for rapid deployment, sleek and silent

He slips away without a backward glance

Leaving his safe house, out on patrol,

Round his marked and guarded territory

Eyes narrowed, focused, single-minded, ruthless

A trained professional, working alone

Driven by feral, instinctive urges

To taste fresh flesh and warm blood

Each evening before the curfew falls

This murderous, vicious assassin

Callous creeping killer in the night

Will make short work of anything that squeaks and scurries

Briefly before it dies, life throttled from its throat

Then brought back, trophy-style

To be chewed upon the killing floor

The fur and bones left undigested

Mission accomplished, victims abandoned

Honour and appetite satisfied

His shady, secret life discarded

He wanders slowly back to base

Reports in for the evening

Meanders to his sleeping quarters

Cleaning his equipment

Before, contented, curling tail beneath

Setting head upon his paws

To take his after-dinner nap

And resume his old identity

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem

Squeeze the fruit and enjoy the juice

Drink it whilst it’s fresh

Today really is that rainy day

The one you waited for

And now, right now, is the very time

To indulge the appetite

Do not prevaricate or hesitate

Nor wait any longer

For some distant tomorrow.

Seize upon this memory

This particular moment on this day

This exact second when you saw and heard

Smelt and felt this sensation

Perhaps it will be there again another time

But you can never know for sure

And it may be lost it forever

If you let it slip away.

There is no knowing

What span of years is left to run

What may happen in days to come,

How long there might be still to go

Or how close one is to the end

Before the force of life fails and fades

When what holds it all together

One day will simply cease to work

A heart no longer beating, pumping

Driving the body to its daily workings

Nor any longer draw in breath

As it has a million times before.

This precious thread will snap

For it is gossamer thin and may break

At any moment, without warning

Be careful, it is a fragile thing

The material crumbling in your hand

Turning dust between your fingers

Into empty nothingness.

When the rehearsal is over

And the curtain finally fallen

There will be no performance

The scene deserted, the actor gone away

The costume lying empty

And piled inert upon the floor

House-lights extinguished

No more empty dialogue

No expression of emotion

And an end to thinking, feeling, aching.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Black-eyed bean curry

Recipe for BLACK-EYED PEAS/ BEANS CURRY

Ingredients:

• 4 tblsp sunflower oil
• 2 bay leaves
• 2 tsp cumin seeds
• 2 green chillies, slit & left whole
• 1 medium onion, peeled & chopped
• 17g fresh ginger, peeled
• 5 cloves garlic, peeled
• ½ tsp turmeric
• ½ tsp chilli powder
• 1 tblsp ground coriander
• 1 tsp garam masala
• Salt, to taste
• 3 large tomatoes, pureed
• 2 tins black-eyed peas/ beans, drained & rinsed
• Handful fresh coriander leaves & stalks, chopped

 Method:

1. heat oil, add bay leaves & cumin seeds & fry till they sizzle – 30 seconds
2. add green chillies & onions, cooking until well browned
3. meanwhile, using a blender, make a paste of the ginger & garlic with a splash of water
4. stir the paste into the mixture in the pan, and cook for a couple of minutes
5. add the powdered spices & salt, and cook for another 30 seconds
6. add the tomatoes, cooking over a medium heat until the oil in the masala begins to separate – about 12 to 15 minutes
7. add the peas/ beans & mix well
8. cook for 2 minutes, then add 250ml water
9. bring to the boil & simmer for 8-10 minutes
10. remove 2 tblsp of the beans from the gravy, mash well, then stir back in
11. stir in the fresh coriander & serve

 What else you need to know:

1. comforting & chunky in flavour
2. freezes well

Dealer

Dealer

Movement in the corner of the room

By a silent, shifty individual

A jackal in jacket and jeans

Whose slightest gesture with his eyes

Signals all-clear for the client

Who may casually approach

Stand close by for a few seconds

As fingers delve into pockets

To extract merchandise

In the slim-line paper packet

The swiftest wordless handshake

Between these men who are not friends

And do not know each other

A mere transactional gesture

Enables the exchange

Quickly hand-to-hand

Money moved in seconds

Unseen by the casual observer

The goods gone, the punter moves away

To sample his substance

But the peddler stands his ground

Scouting further business

Looking for passing trade

Cruising for customers

Watching for watchers

Blending with the background

Quiet buying and selling

Subtle supply and demand

Unobtrusive opportunities of the open market

A final chance to turn a profit

Before quietly slipping away

Sliding into dark shadows

As if he had never been here

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 15th February 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 15^th February 2015

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

1.       The High Street Bromham Banking Corporation (HSBBC) has been accused of major unethical dealings by making special arrangements for its private farming clients.  In a major investigation the Bromham Bugle has uncovered secret emails and other correspondence which shows the bank helping farmers to evade vegetable taxes, providing agricultural workers with undisclosed “CarrotMaster” cards, and assisting gangmasters to pay crop-pickers with cabbages instead of cash.

2.       A queue of nearly five people formed outside the Bromham Roxy on Thursday to see the first screening of the new erotic bonk-buster “Fifty Sheds of Grey”, an uncompromising look at rural outbuildings.  Afterwards the audience retired to the Wounded Ferret for a celebratory meal, featuring pink champagne, a trio of aphrodisiac starters, and steak pie with fifty shades of gravy.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Men In Fancy Dress

Men In Fancy Dress

Such clowns and crowd-pleasers

Posing calmly for the cameras

Neither shy nor reticent

To display their daily lives

Each gesture and posture

Behaviour and expression

Perfectly matched

As they sit side by side

And stare into each other’s eyes

Sleeping, eating, playing

In full view, unafraid

These slow, gentle creatures

Endearing and enduring

Such deliberate actions and attitudes

Oblivious to their keepers’ attentions

In these parkland pens

Symbols and souvenirs of their species

Precious panda merchandise

Raising vital funds for breeding research

Daily bamboo diet and long-term preservation

For sale now in the tourist shop

But these cannot be wild creatures

Rescued from their habitat

With heads and hands and feet

Large enough to get into

Their black and white costumes

The right size and shape

For men to live inside

And provide the daily show

For a thousand photographs

The actors, for actors they must be,

Practised in their antics

Always sitting in the right positions

For maximum exposure

This cannot be natural

For them to co-operate so well

The pandas, for pandas they cannot be

Must be but men in fancy dress

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Jam

Jam

A man in a black shirt

Glances across through wet glass

To see what I’m doing

Drumming on the steering wheel

In time to the music

And the beat of the wipers

To the other side, a girl chats on her mobile

Oblivious to the pouring rain

And the two men watching her, envious

Lines of lights ahead and behind

A red sea that does not part

Three lanes aligned, facing forward

Inching along in the queue

Bumper to bumper

Blocked, jammed

Wheels and windows

Boxes of metal, plastic and glass

Each a singular environment

Separate worlds, personal spaces

Lives in a landscape

Of black wet tarmac

The matrix on the gantry

Flashes warning messages

Which say nothing helpful

Reflecting on a thousand shiny surfaces

Cars, coaches and cabs

Trucks and taxis

Caught in the same stasis

All time and space co-ordinates dead

Suspended sat-navs silently waiting

For onward progress to occur

And something meaningful to say

Activities suspended, action on hold

Hurrying home or toiling to the terminal

To catch a flight that will not wait

Marooned, late, tired, frustrated

Despairing in the dark

Looking forward to a future

That has no clear horizon

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Screaming Tree

Screaming Tree

In this forbidding forest

Within a cathedral of trees

It bides its time and waits

For those that come and stand before it

To this special place

An altar of sorts

A clearing amongst the greenwood

Massive roots like fierce, hard fingers

Grasp deep within the ground

Holding fast to the surface of the planet

Its gnarled and twisted trunk

Spiralling up into the canopy

Sweet sap oozing deep within

Huge amongst its brothers

A giant within the greenery

Old, brooding, silent, implacable

Grounded on the surface of the Earth

Reaching through to the sky and Heaven beyond

A long, ancient finger pointing upward

Woody conduit of sound

It hears the howling, screaming, shouting

The agony and the anger

The breast-beating of those who stand before it

Hurling their inarticulate noises

Of inexpressible passion and pain

Drawing in this raw emotion

Absorbing, amplifying

Soaking up, staring back, immobile

Faceless, unflinching

Knotted, woody aspect

Reflecting, projecting, transmitting

Upwards for the heavens to hear

And provide an answer if they will

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Only Child

Only Child

What was it about me

That I should be treated this way?

That you should leave me all alone,

Single, singular and lonely?

Was it my monopoly upon your time,

All your sharing, your caring, your affection

For your one and only treasure?

What was it about me

That made you give up after only one?

Was I quite enough for you

So wonderful, so endearing

That I filled all your time

Took all your attention

So there could be no room for any another

And a second could never be as good?

What was it about me

That made you say “never again”?

Was I too much for you

That you could not bear to go through it all twice?

Was I just too much to cope with

My behaviour not good enough

A great disappointment

Or just not what you wanted?

What was it about me

That was the fault in my creation?

Was it the love or the sex when you made me?

You never explained it to me

Why I should remain unaccompanied

No playmates of my own, no brother or sister

But left to wonder

About larger families around me

What was it about me

Or did I do something wrong?

Was I too strange, too weird, too odd

An alien little boy

Too hard for you to cope with

Or was having a child

Just not what you’d expected?

And why did you both go from me

Leaving only questions, never any answers?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Dog and Man

Dog And Man

Above the muddy field, near the ridge

The track tracing along the skyline

Silhouettes two figures slowly wandering

Each waiting upon the other

Stopping to stare, to listen

Then ambling along untroubled

With no particular place to go

Nor anything to rush back for

The man, in mac and cap,

Well-wrapped against the cold and damp

Slightly stooped, leaning upon his stick

Coughs occasionally, pulls up his scarf,

A shambling gait making slow progress

Snaking through fields, along the paths

Towards the wood and the dripping trees

His canine companion

Unfettered by lead or collar

Walks steadily beside his master

Step for step, stop for stop

Shadowing his movements

Never more than a few yards away

With rheumy eyes, aching joints,

Matted coat and long-life tiredness

He too has known better days

But plods along the well-known route

A thousand times walked

Darting rabbits and hares provoke no reaction

Desiring only the love of his Man

Whose word or gentle gesture

Is enough to bring him to his side

And gently scan that weathered face

Seeking his usual reassurance

With their regard for one another

Hard-gained, long-deserved

And aches and pains ignored

They reach the gate, stare across the valley

And through murky mist can just make out

An oft-seen pair of ghosts -

The figures of a young man in shirtsleeves

Running alongside a bounding dog

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Manchester Road

Manchester Road

Friday night through filthy fog

Side by side with Dad

Muffled under coats and caps and gloves

Scarves tucked inside for warmth

Walking warily towards the bus-stop by the shops

Butcher, baker, grocer hold no interest

Mostly closed this time of night

But windows lit to show their wares

Condensation streaming down the insides

Gathering in pools at the bottom

A smell of coal-dust in the air

Smoke from a thousand chimneys

The clank and hoot of distant shunting-engines

From the railway yards half a mile away

Hidden in the smog

The pub across the road, its windows dimly lit

Faint beams of promised comfort

Reflected across a wet pavement

Its hanging sign motionless in the still air

Dad wants a paper and his ciggies

Dives inside the newsagent for a moment

Allowing me to slope next door

To shiver in the dark, damp doorway

And peer in envy at the toyshop display

The train-set and the cricket-bat

I’d been wanting for my Christmas

Hoped-for, hints long-dropped

Standing at the bus- stop

Peering through the gloom

Stamping foot to foot

To try and warm the toes

Dirty pavement underfoot

And in the greasy roadway

The swish of slowly-moving tyres

As the cars creep past the queue

Waiting for the throbbing, heavy engine

And a larger pair of headlights to emerge

To come and find us waiting, shivering

To pick us up and take us into town

Sitting on the upper-deck

Where the smokers sit

Coughing in the cold and damp

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 8th February 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 8^th February 2015

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

1.       The Chairman of the Parish Council has been engaged in intensive shuttle diplomacy this week to try and bring about a peaceful settlement to the armed conflict along the Seend border, where enemy tractors have been spotted massing, with possible intent to invade the top fields near Minty’s Top.  It is thought that he will propose a de-militarised zone (DMZ) of 500 yards either side of that little lane runs down the valley, near the big oak tree, with the large rock at the bottom.

2.       Bromham Telecom (BT) has announced that it has agreed to buy Easington Electric (EE) in a deal reported to be worth a disused barn and three pigs.  In other moves “3” is buying “02” and launching a new company to be called “5”, and Poundland will buy 99p stores in order to launch a new store on Bromham High Street to be called “Just Under Two Quid”.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Glad Rags

Glad Rags

You stare back at me

a long, hard look, unflinching

Your expression vacant, unchanging

hollow-cheeked, dark-eyed, spare

coloured, tinted, or black and white

Soft-toned image on hard shiny paper

an empty, two-dimensional being

Expensive rags adorn

and hang about your frame

Cool mags project your image

independent, insouciant, insolent

ideal and unattainable

Slender, bony clothes-horse

sharp, angular cheekbones

long legs akimbo

red lips slightly parted

eyes inviting

Saying have me if you want me

yours for the taking

rouged and ready-for-sex

Caped in haute couture

draped, designer-dressed

Fine fashion figure of long, crisp lines

sporting silk, wool, cotton, cashmere

The cut, the crease, the costume

folds, buttons, pleats and zips

placed to emphasise the fit

stylised, carefully-lit

Snapped and wrapped

shaped and taped

edited, cropped

Air-brushed to perfection

Does your reality have more substance?

Do you exist outside the pictures?

After the last shutter clicks

and the camera-motor stops

the painful pose abandoned

make-up all removed

And another shoot is over

what do you think about?

And how do you feel

when you’re allowed to leave the set?

Finally, sofa-settled

feet up, jumper and jeans

tea and toast, and a quiet cigarette?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Courgette & Cheese Soup

Recipe for: COURGETTE & CHEESE SOUP

Ingredients:

• 1 – 2 lbs courgettes, washed & chopped
• 1 large white onion, finely sliced or chopped
• 50g butter
• 1 tblsp olive oil
• 1 tblsp flour
• 1 – 2 pints vegetable or chicken stock
• 100 – 200g mature cheddar cheese, grated
• Fresh herbs – thyme, oregano, parsley, whatever
• 3 – 4 tblsp cream, crème fraiche or greek yoghurt (or milk even)

 Method:

1. in a large pan melt the butter & oil, tip in the onion and cook gently for 10 to 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.  Don’t let the onions colour
2. add the chopped courgettes & the herbs, mixing to coat everything with the buttery onions
3. add the flour, and keep stirring to coat everything
4. add the stock, enough to just cover the combined vegetables
5. bring to the boil, then lower the heat, cover & simmer gently for about 40 – 50 minutes.  Add a little extra stock if necessary
6. check that the courgettes are completely soft and that the liquid has thickened slightly
7. remove from the heat, then blitz with a stick-blender until completely smooth
8. return to a very low heat and add the grated cheese.  Stir until completely melted
9. add the cream or yoghurt and stir to incorporate

 What else you need to know:

1. great recipe for using up a glut of courgettes.  You can make this soup in large quantities & then freeze it
2. most types of cheese will do instead of cheddar, especially blue cheeses like stilton – anything which can be grated & will melt