Honeyed Carrot & Thyme Loaf

Recipe for: CAKE – HONEYED CARROT & THYME LOAF 

Ingredients: 

·        1 tblsp honey

·        1tsp + 1 tblsp olive oil

·        4 carrots peeled & grated (about 300g)

·        2 tsp dried or fresh thyme

·        100g wholemeal flour

·        125g plain flour

·        ¾ tsp baking powder

·        ¾ tsp bicarbonate of soda

·        3 eggs

·        50g natural yoghurt

 

Method: 

1.      Heat oven to 160C (fan)

2.      In a bowl mix honey & 1 tsp oil then add carrots & thyme

3.      Season and stir well

4.      Tip onto a baking tray and roast for 10-15 minutes, tossing halfway through

5.      Line a 900g loaf tin with baking parchment

6.      Remove from oven and set aside to cool

7.      In a clean bowl combine the flours, baking powder and bicarb + pinch of salt

8.      In a separate bowl beat the eggs, yoghurt and 1 tblsp oil

9.      Add to the flour mixture, then add the roasted carrots

10.   Pour the mixture into the lined loaf tin

11.   Bake for 50-60 minutes

12.   Leave to cool before turning out and slicing

 

What else you need to know: 

1.      Serve sliced with chutney and sharp cheddar, or cream cheese & honey

Vertigo

Vertigo

Yes, it’s all part of the tour,

The thing we’re doing today.

We’ll shoot to the top of the tower,

In the bullet-like elevator,

The vomit-comet, they joke,

Up to the observation deck,

For the best view of the city.

It’s only ten dollars -

Can’t miss it – what the heck!

 

Looking out through the windows,

Acres of armour-plated glass,

Protecting camera-toting tourists,

Who don’t think to be afraid.

It’s a matter of no moment,

To see how close they can get

To the outside world,

With its roaring wind,

And the edge of the parapet.

 

And for a few dollars more,

There’s more adventure out there,

Beyond the doors on the sky-deck,

Walking outside of the rails,

Or even bungee-jumping,

Into the wild blue yonder,

With just a thin safety-harness,

That will set their hearts pumping.

 

There’s laughing and joking,

Daring each other to look down,

Hundreds of feet to the ground,

Why live on the edge when you can jump off?

It doesn’t take any skill,

Just the bottle to defy gravity,

To stare danger in the face,

And experience the thrill.

 

But I’m pinned against the back wall,

Legs heavy, like jelly,

Breathing shallow and thin,

Feet clamped hard to the floor,

Convulsed by a shake,

The very idea of falling,

Plummeting earthbound,

Is more than my nerves can take.

 

The edge has a way of drawing me in,

Pulling my body towards it.

A total loss of control,

A force too strong to resist.

Coming up here today was an error,

My sense of balance is failing,

As I slide slowly to the floor,

Filled with feelings of terror.

 

Clammy hands, sweating,

Mouth and throat dry,

Trembles and shivers increasing,

Sense of balance not trusted,

Dizzy, head spinning,

I can feel myself shaken.

Stuck here, transfixed,

Hanging on to the floor,

This spot is already taken.

 

Get me out of here, away from this place,

Take me slowly to the earth again,

Past the chattering crowds,

The souvenirs, the momentos,

And the photograph-sellers.

Help me again to feel sound,

Till this vertigo vanishes,

The nausea passes,

And I’m back down on the ground.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Dave

Dave

Collar turned up, usual style,

Clothes and hair that’s the latest,

In the best possible taste,

Fashion that’s all the rave,

That’s my modern mate Dave.

 

He looks a bit shifty, I guess,

A bit of a wide-boy, if I’m honest,

Thriving on ducking and diving,

But his company I always crave –

That’s my magic mate Dave.

 

Never sure just what he does,

Or how he makes any money,

Deceiving, bobbing and weaving.

Dismisses it all with a wave,

That’s my murky mate Dave.

 

He comes and he goes,

Seeing a man about a dog,

Dubious trades, not sure if they’re legal.

Fortune favours the brave:

That’s my moody mate Dave.

 

That’s the way he lives his life:

Trading, selling, bits of this and that,

Import, export, the usual stuff,

That’s how he’ll go to his grave -

My mysterious mate Dave.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Caravan

Caravan

Just off a track by the cross-roads,

Down the old lane, near the ash-trees,

On an autumn day dark and damp,

At the back of the verge, in the long grass,

A faded caravan parked up in its camp.

 

A horse tied up nearby, cropping the turf,

In its small circle of freedom,

Rangy, mangy and thin,

With its thick, matted coat,

Collection of bones and of skin.

 

At the door of the vehicle,

Insolently staring, unsmiling.

Stands a pinched, dirty-faced child.

Watches as we walk past her home,

With the look of a creature run wild.

 

Thin, tattered clothes on the wash-line,

A twist of smoke from the chimney,

At the back, one broken wheel,

Roof that’s seen better days,

And paint-work starting to peel.

 

No pretty picture postcard,

This scene of rough rural life,

No romantic tale to be told,

But a cramped, hard life on the road,

A struggle against damp and the cold.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 26th September 2021

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 26^th September 2021 

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:                                              

1.      Citizens of The Vize were advised not to panic following a disastrous week in which several local and national politicians finally ran out of gas.  The Regulator (OffTwat) advised that people put in this position, through no fault of their own, would be automatically switched to other politicians of another party, who are still full of gas, particularly those who were wind-assisted.  People found to be needlessly queueing for petrol would however not be given this protection. 

2.      Lawyers in D-Town High Court have ruled that newspapers have been correctly delivered to the man who lives in The Big House on The High Street, simply by being fully pushed through his letterbox, even though he wasn’t in at the time and wasn’t even looking.  He now has four weeks in which to claim that the papers were not correctly served. 

3.      Following the inexplicable MCC decision that official terminology is to be amended to make cricket more inclusive by referring to the batsman as a batter, local cricket clubs have adopted the new terms with alacrity.  Fielding position “third man” has become “third person”, “bowling a maiden over” is now “bowling a person of impeccable virtue over” and “silly mid-on” has become “bloody stupid fielding position” 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

A Long Coffee

A Long Coffee

Hands clasped round her coffee mug,

She sits, but rarely drinking,

Staring into middle distance,

Detached, distracted, thinking.

In front of her the sugar sachets:

Three of white, and three of brown,

Placed in defensive formation,

Mirror of her worried frown.

 

Each drink maybe lasts an hour,

While she loiters and she lingers,

Waiting for the hours just to pass her by,

Teaspoon twirled in twisting fingers.

Alerted by the door, she glances up,

Checking the face of every stranger,

Then sinking back into her reveries,

Relieved she’s not in any danger.

 

She has precious little money,

Neither cakes or biscuits she can choose.

She’s read the newspapers through and through,

Waded through the gossip-column news.

It’s just something else to pass the time,

It’s the same thing every boring day,

And, with a tacit understanding,

The manager now just lets her stay.

 

He doesn’t want to get involved,

And, although she’s never said so,

He can see how she’s likely fixed,

That she has nowhere else to go.

She’s anonymous, a total no-one,

A cipher, a shadow, never making sound,

Avoiding any lasting eye-contact,

Blending with the faceless back-ground.

 

Making patterns on the table,

The same routine, killing off the dead time,

Reflecting on her empty life,

As if being friendless were a sort of crime.

She stares out through the window,

Watching the world as it wanders past.

Then buys yet another coffee,

To see how long she can make it last.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

The Lady Gail

The Lady Gail 

Walking along the footway,

A path carried over a ridge,

Looking down at the old waterway,

From high, on top of the bridge.

Spying the weathered old barge,

Tethered to stakes at the edge,

The ropes twisted and tight,

Between the reeds and the sedge.

Thin metal chimney poked through the roof,

Emitting a steady smoke plume,

From the stove near the stern,

The thin galley, a shortage of room.

 

With fine, faded old artwork,

The reds, the greens and the blues,

Artful, intricate pictures,

Golds, yellows, several hues.

This girl had been beautiful once,

Though her paint had turned pale.

Now low, and snug in the water,

An old vessel, “The Lady Gail”.

Well-travelled, an itinerant,

Good body, mellowed face,

Wandering the waterways,

Moving on from place to place.

 

For days she moored there quietly,

Majestic, as if lying in state,

Resting her bones in the water,

Waiting, down near the lock-gate.

Then one day, towpath all covered in ice,

A space by the bank newly appeared:

The Lady Gail had slipped her mooring,

Just as I’d expected and feared.

No sign of her in either direction,

Her stay with us turned into history.

The cold water sadly deserted,

Her next destination a mystery.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Hasty Pudding

Recipe for: HASTY PUDDING 

Ingredients: 

• Some jam or fresh stewed fruit (Rhubarb, plums etc)
• 100g unsalted butter, very soft
• 100g caster sugar
• 2 eggs
• 100g self-raising flour
• 50g ground almonds
• 1 tblsp flaked almonds (optional) 

Method: 

1. heat oven to 180C/ fan 160C/ gas 5
2. spoon the fruit or jam into the bottom of a pudding dish
3. in a separate bowl mix the butter with the sugar.  Beat until smooth & creamy
4. beat in the eggs, then the flour, then the ground almonds
5. spoon the mixture over the fruit in the dish
6. top with a few flaked almonds (if using)
7. bake in the oven for 40-50 minutes, until the sponge is cooked through
8. remove from oven & allow to stand for a few minutes 

What else you need to know: 

1. serve with ice-cream, cream or custard

Splash

Splash

Driving home, cold winter night,

Dank, dark, snowing hard still,

Traffic bad, peering ahead,

Round the corner, over the hill.

 

Road and pavements all icy,

Sleet lying thick on the ground,

Windscreen wipers beating

Their regular heart’s sound.

 

Two boys at the side of the road,

Doing something I cannot observe,

Smashed my screen with a snowball,

Just as I emerged from the curve.

 

Momentarily startled,

Shocked, but keeping my nerve,

Holding on, juggling the steering,

Battling the skid and the swerve.

 

Thoughtless, stupid little fools!

Couldn’t they see what they’d done?

Nearly causing an accident,

All for their moment of fun.

 

The intention was never mine,

Couldn’t see the pothole was there,

But to be perfectly honest,

I cursed and sure didn’t care.

 

Wheels nearly striking the kerb,

Direction all in a muddle,

Skidding through the slush and the mush,

Scything through the invisible puddle.

 

A happy circumstance then ensued:

Suddenly it was all over in a flash -

A huge arc of freezing cold water,

Covered them both with a hell of a splash.

 

Blinding the aggressors -

What a battle they’d been in:

A cascade of retribution,

Soaking both through to the skin.

 

Instant, cruel justice,

Dispensed without any trial,

Leaving them both fuming,

Whilst I drove off with a smile.

 

Copyeight Andy Fawthrop 2021

No Room At The Bin

No Room At The Bin (or why some women seem to need ten times more space in the bathroom than a man).

 

I went in to the bathroom one day,

To clean my teeth if I may.

But the space was all clutter,

And I started to mutter:

We can’t carry on in this way!

 

My few things like a toothbrush,

Were squashed together all flush.

And my black plastic comb,

In its own little home,

All sitting right there in a crush.

 

I couldn’t help but notice her wares,

Spread out on one of the chairs.

But the things I required,

Were pushed to one side.

To me this hardly seemed fair!

 

Mascara, lipstick & eye-liner,

Were spread out, like in a diner.

There were six lotions,

And plenty of potions:

A display much better than mine were!

 

I spotted three types of shampoo.

She’d say there were too few.

Conditioner & ointment,

And at this point meant,

I couldn’t get near to the loo!

 

I don’t mean to grumble or mope,

But I’m starting to lose hope.

For too many creams,

Are giving me dreams,

Of being hung by soap on a rope.

 

I see she’s got three types of razor,

But this seems not to faze her.

Depillatory action

Is gaining some traction,

And one of them looks to me like a taser.

 

This variety’s all very well,

But when you’ve got ten sorts of gel,

The new body scrub,

Arranged near the tub,

Is leading to a bath-time’s version of hell.

 

There’s every form of cotton wool:

We’ve glass jars of it quite full.

Some buds & some balls,

Right round the walls:

It’s time that we went for a cull.

 

To say nothing of her dental picks,

Flosses, discloser and sticks.

Just for her teeth,

It’s beyond belief,

And is only one part of her tricks. 

 

Some of the creams & the products are pink,

Some of them are blue, but all of them stink.

To moisturise,

And hoist up her eyes,

She’s got potions all round the sink.

 

Don’t get me started on vitamins & pills,

Which with the cabinet she fills.

Some’ll be vital,

But some of them might’ll

Be fatal – perhaps one of them kills?

 

Even though it’s meant to be shared space,

I feel crowded in this grooming arms-race.

Because it’s replete,

I’m admitting defeat,

And I’m out of my depth in this place.

 

Now of my misery I’ll no longer sing,

But, there’s a question got me wondering.

With all of this stuff,

Is it more than enough,

Or is there any left of the real thing?

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Everything Changes

Everything Changes (you can’t count on any of the old certainties, these days – what’s happening?) 

Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold:

It’s all entropy, we’re told,

But you get to depend on the way things are,

And certainties that never fold.

 

But now everything’s changing:

It’s enough to make you feel faint.

They’ve finished the Forth Road Bridge:

They used up their last pot of paint.

 

And as they lock the brushes all away,

Packing in a big shed all of their kit,

I’d love to look up at the great structure,

And say: “here – you’ve missed a bit!”

 

They’re telling us GMT will be no more -

Greenwich is going to the dogs.

They’re running now on atomic clocks,

In Paris! – it’s all a plot by the Frogs!

 

They say there’s a new particle:

They’ve seen a bump in the data.

It might be the missing Higgs-Bosun:

I’m glad they found it sooner, not later.

 

They call it the “God Particle” -

They’re sure that it’s there -

It’s been missing for quite a while now,

They’re looking down the back of a chair.

 

The Universe is expanding faster,

Faster than ever they thought.

It’s getting ever so big you know,

And the edges are still being sought.

 

Then they said that it’s full of dark matter –

That’s stuff that nobody can see.

So how they know that it’s there,

Well, it’s way beyond me!

 

Now they’ve come up with a new theory,

Which has got them all ensnared.

It’s buggering up all of the physics -

E might no longer equal MC squared.

 

Neutrinos are travelling faster than light,

For which there’s no reason or rhyme,

And if that’s true, which I very much doubt,

It just makes a right horlicks of time.

 

But it could explain some phenomena,

Like Doctor Who and Star Wars and Stargate,

Why things happen in the wrong order,

And why the buses always run late.

 

No, the old certainties have gone,

But there’s things you can always depend on -

Like bills and debts, and like death and taxes,

And toast always falling butter-side down. 

 

Then there’s new promises that seem to be true:

Politicians will always keep lying,

And peeling very strong onions,

Will always leave you sobbing and crying.

 

The banks and corporates will make big profits,

And of tax loopholes make the very most,

But when they owe you any money,

You can be sure – “the cheque’s in the post”!

 

They’ll fiddle the interest rates if they can,

They’ll lie, they’ll cheat and they’ll steal,

Then they’ll lie to cover their crimes,

And live on bonuses of a level surreal.

 

Men will always chase women and girls,

Who never seem to heed the old warning.

For the worst of their promises will be:

“Of course I’ll still love you in the morning”.

 

So, you see, despite all this frightening stuff,

The Universe – we can’t do without it -

It’ll all carry on just as before,

And there’s buggar all we can do about it!

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 19th September 2021

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 19^th September 2021 

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:                                              

1.      A diplomatic row has broken out after D-Town announced a new strategic alliance with The Sham and Trowvegas (STUD).  The deal, which will mean Trowvegas buying a new fleet of rubber-band-powered milk floats, in place of their current string-driven models, has annoyed the local Swindonian super-power, and STUD’s former ally Westbury, which will now lose its previous contract for string production.  Each town has now summoned the others’ ambassadors for a verbal dressing-down, as well as withdrawing its ambassadors from all of the others.  Now no-one has clue what is going on.  Milk deliveries are not expected to be speeded up until 2024. 

2.      And high-level discussions are taking place over the current shortages in the supply chain.  Most councillors & bureaucrats are almost out of excuses, and the provision of truth is under threat.  Alibis and pretensions have already been rationed for some time.   Shelves of obfuscation are now almost empty, and the supply of hot air is clearly threatened.  The reasons for this sad state of affairs are complex, but are variously blamed on Covid, Brexit, SARS, BSE, ASAP, RSVP and flatulence. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

Truman Nature

Truman Nature – an apocryphal cricketing story for Summer. 

When I were a young lad in Yorkshire,

Lived the greatest bowler, it’s said.

His name was sometimes Truman,

Always known as Fiery Fred.

 

He was fast and he was fierce,

And he took many a Test wicket.

There’s many a batsman’s took shelter,

When Fred was playing at cricket.

 

Eventually, the time came to retire,

And opponents heaved sighs of relief.

In Australia and the West Indies,

Heads would come no longer to grief.

 

So Fred took his missus on holiday at last,

And went to Antigua to take of his ease.

He soaked up the sun and the sea and the sand,

With only his good self to please.

 

One day, he wandered down to the village,

And watched the young lads there on the green.

They were playing knock-about cricket,

The finest young batsmen he’d seen.

 

A youngster came over and asked if he’d like to play.

He explained that they were a bowler short.

They didn’t know who Fred was,

So to be friendly, he felt that he ought.

 

He thought he could still show them a thing or two,

How he could make a ball swing:

He’d bowl some medium-fastish

And send the ball down with some zing.

 

The young batsman came up and took guard,

Aiming to hit Fred’s ball straight out for Four,

But Fred sent the ball down sharpish,

Pitched it up, and there it was - plum Leg Before.

 

Fred turned round to the Umpire,

But he soon became quite amazed,

For in answer to his shout of “Owzat, then?”

The official’s finger was not raised.

 

Fred couldn’t believe what he’d seen,

Walking back to his run-up with many a mutter,

He decided he’d get this bugger out,

By bowling his famous daisy-cutter.

 

He came roaring in like a train,

Delivering a venomous ball that was short.

The batsman swung and missed,

But it clipped his glove, and was caught! 

 

“Owzat?!?!” shouted our Fred once again,

But the batsman refused clearly to walk.

To Fred’s chagrin, the umpire agreed.

And under his breath started to grumble and baulk.

 

What was going on here? He thought,

I know that these things are sent to try us,

But I’m the best bowler that ever there was,

How can I get past this cheating and bias?

 

He took an even longer run-up this time,

Tossing the ball from hand to hand in his ire.

His blood was up, his face was red:

Like days of old, he was breathing fire.

 

He sent down a delivery the fastest he could,

Down the pitch with its lumps and it bumps.

The batsman got nowhere near to it,

And the ball demolished his stumps.

 

The wickets went cart-wheeling through the grass,

The bails flew high into the air.

There was not a thing left standing;

In fact there was nothing left there.

 

Fred jumped in the air with delight,

Hopping from foot to foot in a mime,

Then he turned to the umpire with a smile,

And said, “I think I nearly had ‘im this time!”

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Farewell My Lovely

Farewell My Lovely (I’m in a good relationship now, but my last girlfriend….well there was a bit of a problem…..) 

Farewell my lovely, for I must go,

Though I’m not removed by any force,

I think that, for many reasons,

Our relationship has now run its course.

 

It wasn’t your dog that worried me,

Though his habits were certainly vile,

The postman’s out of hospital now,

And the locals don’t run for a mile.

 

I didn’t mind that you smoked,

Though sixty a day was over the top,

And though I couldn’t see you through the fog,

I never, ever begged you to stop.

 

I’d quite got over the look of your face,

Though it was quite odd of a sort,

Your crooked, lop-sided smile,

Topped off with a rectangular wart.

 

I looked beyond your cauliflower ear,

Your tattoos never gave me a care,

Your broken nose was never an issue,

Nor that your palms were covered in hair.

 

But I’ll admit that I got a few shocks,

The first time that we went to bed,

Before taking all of your clothes off,

Your whipped your wig off instead.

 

You know I’m no oil painting myself,

But I can’t deny that I was galled,

Having chatted up a blonde bombshell,

To find I was with a girl who was bald.

 

The surgical stockings came off next,

Which you hung up on the peg,

Followed by two pairs of tights,

Then unfastened your wooden leg.

 

I thought that this might un-nerve me,

But I didn’t want to appear pathetic,

Nor appear to be too un-grateful

At the sight of your pink prosthetic.

 

But when you took out your teeth,

And placed them on the bed-side table,

I could see them grinning at me,

And I didn’t think that I’d be able.

 

To love you in the way in the way I’d intended.

At that point, you remember, I turned shy,

And I had to look the other way,

As you removed your cheery glass eye. 

 

You put it there in a glass on the side,

And it gave me a terrible fright,

As it stared at me -  not just at first,

But another twice in the night.

 

So, you see, darling my dearest,

I’m not usually one to moan,

But I’m still left wondering,

How much of you is your own?

 

There’s so many parts to your make-up,

That make you look so fetching and fair.

But I’m going to find a new girl-friend,

And I’ll make sure the next one is all there.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021