Old Age Non-Pensioner

Old Age Non-Pensioner (or Growing Old Disgracefully)

I’ve just reached a certain age now,

But I have to tell you the truth:

As you can all plainly see before you,

I’m still in the first flush of my youth.

For age affects us all in different ways,

There’s no use in trying to hide:

It’s time to get out & declare it:

I’ve become a member of Grey Pride!

I may have to go for a medical,

And lay on the doctor’s bed all prostrate.

I’ll hear the snap of the marigolds,

When he’s about to inspect my prostate.

There’ll blood & urine samples to give:

It’s really not very nice.

I’ll be told “Stop smoking, and drink less,

And take more exercise”.

For I’ve got to keep healthy,

To avoid increasing debility.

Keep my mind & body active,

And ward off approaching senility.

I’ll get increasingly forgetful,

As I become a bit of a part-timer.

I’ll try to keep mentally agile,

And avoid contracting Alzheimers.

There’ll be hardened arteries to cope with,

As I approach age fifty seven,

But to help me at home these days,

I’ve got a Stannah stairlift to heaven.

I can look forward deafness,

And eye-sight that grows ever dimmer,

But at least I won’t need a road test

To go for a spin with my Zimmer.

With spreading waist, dodgy knees & joints,

The outlook’s increasingly “grey”,

And every day I’ve noticed,

That my toe-nails seem further away.

I’ve become follically challenged:

At least that’s what they say that it’s called,

But when I was that much younger,

They just used to say you were bald.

As more of my body parts stop working,

And my memory I’m starting to doubt,

I’m falling prey to more illnesses:

The wheezing, the coughing – and, of course, gout.

 But I’m told that I’m a silver surfer.

My computer has got lots of ROM,

And now I can get a subscription

On a site called Confused.com.

And there are some compensations,

Which come as quite a relief,

For whatever else I might be losing,

You know I’ve still got my own teeth.

So I’m going to grow older disgracefully,

And go out without my glasses.

I’ll probably get lost in the High Street,

And start chasing the older lasses.

But now I guess it’s off to Help The Aged,

To seek some help & dedication.

So I’ll see you all sometime later:

It’s time to take my medication.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

A One-Way Ticket to Mars

Mission

We left upon a high tide

Of love and hope and enthusiasm

That pushed us gently off from home

Out into the starry night

To travel upon waves of faith

And the best of our technology

We embarked upon the journey

In our silvered ship of dreams

Carrying deep within the belly of its hold

Supplies and building blocks of life

Essentials for the colony

And a fragile early settlement

And now we can only wait

And voyage on regardless

Tracking our co-ordinates

On our pre-determined trajectory

A long-distance one-way ticket

Through cold and airless space

There will be no return

No coming back across the void

From this long-term venture

From a dry and dusty planet

With its darker horizon

Orbiting further from our Sun

But we may survive for long enough

To thrive and procreate the species

To build a tenuous foothold

Upon the rocky surface

Where we can stand defiant

And watch the Earth rise once again

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Shoulder of Lamb Pot Roast

Recipe for: POT ROAST OF LAMB SHOULDER

Ingredients:

• 1 boned shoulder of lamb
• ½ tsp ground cumin
• ½ tsp ground black pepper
• 2 tblsp fresh mint, finely chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
• Juice of ½ lemon
• Salt
• 2-3 tblsp olive oil
• 1 large onion, chopped
• 1 large carrot, diced
• 1 small glass white wine or water

Method:

1. lay the boned shoulder out flat & trim off as much excess fat from the skin side as possible
2. turn cut-side up.  Scatter the cumin, pepper, mint, garlic & salt over the surface
3. drizzle over the lemon juice
4. roll the joint up tightly, in a spiral, and secure with cooking string
5. in a large, heavy pan, just big enough to take the joint, heat 2 tblsps of oil and brown the joint all over
6. take out the lamb & set aside
7. throw in the onion & carrot, sautéing until lightly browned
8. turn the heat down very low, spread the vegetables evenly over the bottom of the pan to form a bed, and place the joint on top
9. pour over the wine or water, and season with salt & pepper
10. cover tightly & cook over a very low heat for 1½ to 2 hours, turning the lamb every ¾ hour or so, until very tender
11. rest the lamb in a warm oven for 15 minutes before slicing
12. strain the juices & serve with the lamb

 What else you need to know:

1. you may need a little more liquid – check from time to time that the lamb is not drying out

Dying to Try It

Dying To Try It - (or Trying To Diet - a hand goes out to those on the 5/2 diet.  I feel your pain.)

A Dieter’s Resolution is a terrible thing,

But losing some weight is a must.

My clothes no longer fit me,

And I’ve started to develop a bust.

Diets always begin on a Monday,

But my belt has tightened a notch.

These trousers are now killing me:

They’re way too tight in the crotch.

I’m now counting calories the day long,

Went to Weight Watchers last night.

But the lack of nourishment is taxing:

I’m dying to just have a bite.

I’ve tried all types of diet it’s true:

The F-Plan, the Atkins, the Hay,

But I’ve still got a fat belly,

And that’s why you’ll hear me say:

Chorus - Lord knows I’m tryin’ to diet:

Please don’t let me be obese.

But I’m still dyin’ to try it,

So just hand over the cheese.

I’ve tried taking pills & supplements,

But they just left me feeling weak.

I even tried the old whiskey diet,

And I lost three days just last week.

But the weight it just won’t drop away,

And I can feel the strain on my heart.

And when I tried the Cabbage diet,

Well – it just forced me to fart.

My thickening waist-line is a real problem,

One that I don’t know how I’m to beat.

I get more lonely & hungry,

And then I just want more to eat.

I start to have dreams & then visions,

As plates of food pass in front of my eyes.

Pastries & pasties & cakes of all sorts,

And fish & chips, and savoury pies.

Chorus –

Where are the cream-cakes, the puddings & buns,

The chocolate, the gravy & foods of great cheer?

The sauces, the tarts, and the roast pork?

I’d give anything for a few pints of beer.

The images swim in front of my eyes,

And my fingers tremble & fumble.

I’ve a case of terrible cravings,

And my stomach has started to rumble.

So have pity on me, all of you there,

To see me cry, to see me unmanned.

If this goes on any longer,

I’ll be trying a gastric band.

And as you feel your arteries hardening,

And tuck into your meals tonight;

Think of me in dieting agony,

And say with me in my plight:

Chorus -

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

That Old Toothless Dog

That Old Toothless Dog (or The Thin End of the Wedge)

Here we are again, as you lie on the floor,

At the side of my chair, your lead all slack.

No wonder, by the look of you,

We were asked to sit at the back.

I felt it was the least that we could do,

Because you’re not too strong in the knees.

For they didn’t want the other pets put out,

Nor frightened, nor infected with fleas.

Your coat’s all matted & tangled,

And I didn’t feel that I could quibble.

For it’s quite obvious wherever we sit,

There’s going to be lots of your dribble.

Cos now you’re old, and you’re toothless,

You’re half-deaf and you’re half-blind,

All of which I can put up with:

It’s the incontinence that I mind.

It’s hard to list all of your ailments,

It’s hard to know just where to start,

But I guess your principal problem

Is quite how often you fart.

You get in the way wherever you flop down,

You cost us a fortune in dog food.

You can’t seem to leave anything alone,

And when we get home, we find everything chewed.

You’re becoming increasingly forgetful.

You just look puzzled, you old wretch.

Cos you stop half way to the stick:

You’ve forgotten what you were going to fetch.

You’ve become a useless guard-dog:

The burglars can’t believe their luck.

Your toothless jaws can no longer bite them,

Only give them a quite nasty suck.

You don’t bark in time to warn us,

They’re upon us all too soon.

And then when there’s no danger

You spend hours howling at the moon.

You’ve become an economic burden,

And now that you’re not very well,

You’re neither use nor ornament.

And on top of all that, you smell.

So here we are for your last journey,

The end of the road for you as a pet.

The life-force of you will soon be ended,

By that needle in the hands of the vet.

So don’t you look up at me like that,

With those big, brown, cloudy but trusting eyes.

I’m sure you can see into my purpose,

That this visit’s one way can’t be disguised.

You’ve grown up with me & the children,

You’ve always been faithful & loyal.

You’ve put in your years of good service,

And to us you’ve been a friend quite royal.

You’ve become part of the family,

As if you were related by blood.

We couldn’t take on a new puppy now:

I just don’t think that we could.

Dammit, everybody loves you,

Though you’re a toothless old hound.

You’re just a part of the furniture.

I think that it’s time we turned round.

Let’s leave this deathly waiting room,

Let’s walk right out calm & steady.

You don’t need to be pushed along,

You can do this when you’re good & ready

For now that it’s come right down to it,

I find that I can’t just erase yer.

We’d be doing it to people next,

And that’s the road to euthanasia!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 26th May 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 26^th May 2013

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

1. ·         In a landmark judgement in the Bromham Parish Court of Chancery, the modern role of technology was brought into a new light. The wife of the cousin of the brother of the bloke who cleans out the pigs at Dickhead Farm, Silly Poorcow, was found guilty of slandering members of the Young Farmers’ League in a tweet which she sent last year.  The tweet said “Wonder why young farmers are so keen on farmer’s balls? (Innocent, post-ironic, but still quite thoughtful & enquiring face).

2. ·         The Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) has been forced to admit that it has written off almost £7.99 in costs. This relates to the purchase of some software app which, apparently, is not compatible with the boss’s phone, and won’t run on his Humanoid operating system.  The BBC’s tea-boy, who had been sent out to buy the software from the local shop, has been sacked.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

A Thief In The Night

A Thief In The Night

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 2013

Eve's Pudding

Hmm....the temptation of Adam by Eve...

Recipe for: EVE’S PUDDING

Ingredients:

• For the fruit:
• 2-3 apples, peeled, cored & chopped
• 1 tblsp caster sugar
• For the sponge:
• 4 tblsp softened butter
• 4 tblsp caster sugar
• 75g self-raising flour
• 1 egg, beaten
• 2 tblsp milk

Method:

1. pre-heat the oven to 180C/ 170C fan
2. place the apples, 1 tblsp caster sugar + 1 tblsp water in a 2-pint buttered oven-proof dish
3. make the sponge: mix all the sponge ingredients together until smooth, light & fluffy
4. spoon the sponge mixture over the top of the apples & smooth the surface
5. bake for 45-50 minutes, or until the top s browned & springy to the touch.  A skewer should come out clean
6. remove from the oven & allow to cool for a few minutes.  Slide a knife or spatula around the edge, then place a warm plate over the top of the dish
7. turn the whole lot over, then ease off the dish to leave the apples now on top of the sponge

What else you need to know:

1. you can just leave the pudding in the dish & scoop it out with a large spoon if the turning over thing seems too risky!

Pilau with Salmon

Recipe for: PILAU/ PILAFF WITH SALMON

Ingredients:

• 1 tblsp olive oil
• 1 onion, peeled & diced
• 1 clove garlic, finely diced
• 1 tsp ground cumin
• 1 tsp ground coriander
• 180g brown/ basmati rice
• 60g dried apricots, chopped
• 900ml chicken stock, hot
• 45g chopped nuts e.g. pecans or walnuts
• 45g mixed seeds
• 4 tblsp chopped parsley
• 1 lemon, cut into wedges
• 2-4 salmon steaks, skin on

Method:

1. heat the oil over a medium heat & sauté the onion for about 8 minutes
2. add the garlic, cumin & coriander & stir for one minute
3. rinse the rice, then add to the pan with the apricots & stock
4. stir & bring to a simmer.  Lower the heat, cover & leave to cook for 20-25 minutes, or until the rice is cooked & has absorbed all of the liquid
5. meanwhile, before the rice is done, in a clean small frying pan dry-fry the nuts & seeds, until they become fragrant
6. stir the nuts & seeds into the rice, together with the chopped parsley
7. just before the pilau is ready, heat a little more oil in a clean pan.  Season the salmon steaks on both sides, then fry skin-side down first.  Cook for a few minutes, then turn & cook through, depending on the thickness of the fillets
8. to serve, pile the pilau onto warmed plates, topped with the salmon steaks (skin side up), garnishing the plates with lemon wedges

Socks Without Partners

Socks Without Partners

I’ll tell you a story of heart-ache and loss,

With a happy ending that’s a heartener,

Of a garment that was lost in the washing,

The tale of a sock without a partner.

Tootsie, for that was the sock’s name,

Suddenly found herself lonely and lonesome,

Carried off in the basket with the rest,

But realised she was all on her own-some.

They’d gone, as usual, in the washer together,

Then her other half seemed not to be there.

How had they managed to drift apart,

When they’d always been part of a pair?

She’d found herself in with some dirty types;

Their filthy behaviour caused her to wince,

And she found herself turned inside out,

When she finally came out of the rinse.

There’d been too much of a crowd in the basket,

With bras and knickers she’d been forced to mingle,

And it was only as she hung on the line,

That she realised that she was now single.

There was no-one to meet her or match her,

She started to rue, her anxiety grew,

She knew she was useless on her own,

There was no purpose unless there were two.

Then a kindly old night-shirt took pity,

When he saw that Tootsie was crying.

He made a suggestion to the young sock:

There was a way out, something worth trying.

“There’s a special support group,” he told her,

“Where singles can meet with a view to dating:

Goes by the name of Socks Without Partners,

Where the lucky ones may end up by mating.”

“But I’m too old to find anyone now,

With my ticking biological clock,

No-one will want some-one as washed-up as me,”

Thus wailed the little pink and white sock.

“They’ll see that I’m neither modern nor new,

My stitching’s all bobbled and sunken,

My colour has faded, my pattern’s all shaded,

And my elastic’s completely shrunken.”

  

The night-shirt replied, “it’s time that you tried,

By putting forward your very best foot.

And, of course, you’ll need to be on your toes,

If you want to get yourself out of this rut!”

“They don’t hang about in these places, you know,

If it’s a partner you’re after catching;

You only get two minutes for chatting,

It’s a new thing they call speed-matching.”

So Tootsie was thrown in the airing cupboard,

With no-one to love her, nobody to care,

When, just for a moment, somewhere in the pile,

Was that a flash of pink she could see there?

The colour wasn’t perfect it seemed,

The patterns on them differed some ways,

But they found that they had plenty in common,

To team up together for a few days.

The other old sock had lost his partner too,

And had been left long in this cupboard’s heat,

But they decided they could walk out together,

And, as a new partnership, they could meet.

So the moral of this story’s quite clear:

If you’ve been abandoned, don’t cry and moan -

There’s always some-one out there that’s for you,

Never give up if you’re left on your own.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Is There Anybody There?

Is There Anybody There? (or what the dead may have to tell us)

Now I had an old maiden aunt,

Who on her death-bed was lying.

I stroked her cheek, and held her hand,

But inside I knew she was dying.

As her time slipped slowly away,

She rallied briefly and muttered.

I strained to catch what she was saying,

But just couldn’t make out what she’d uttered.

She’d obviously had something to tell,

But the mystery remained unresolved,

And I knew that I wouldn’t rest,

Until the puzzle I’d solved.

So when she’d been laid to rest in the ground,

I went to seek what I lacked.

I contacted a spirit medium,

To see if I could make some contact.

The lady in question was a gloomy old girl,

With a crystal ball and an old ouija board,

But she seemed to know what she was doing,

So my hopes had presently soared.

She first noted the particulars,

In order to narrow the search down.

We didn’t want any old maiden aunt,

But, specifically, my own.

She pulled across the dark curtains,

And then she started the séance.

I wondered what was she was up to,

But then she went into a trance.

She started moaning & groaning,

And rolling around on her chair.

And then she suddenly shouted:

“Is there anybody there?”

The answer was quite spontaneous,

And the table started to rock.

I felt there was a ghostly presence,

And then was some sort of knock.

“Is there a message for someone here present?”

Asked the lady spiritual guide.

“Do you want to say something,

From across on the other side?”

Now, I have to say that I heard no-one answer,

But the clairvoyant was still swaying.

She seemed to be listening intently,

To what some ghostly voice was saying.

I’ll admit I’m a bit of a sceptic,

And of the occult I’m not really fond.

And I didn’t fancy ectoplasm,

Nor voices from the beyond.

Then suddenly it was all over:

We’d come to the end of the session.

What, I wondered, was the result

Of this bizarre intercession?

My spiritual lady became now composed,

But what on earth could this presage?

She put her ringed hand on my arm,

And then she delivered this message.

“I’m sorry I passed away before I was ready.

But I was in no fit state to shout.

Just don’t forget next Monday -

You need to put the rubbish bins out.”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Call Girl

Call Girl (or how telephone sex is not all it's cracked up to be)

I’m a great fan of online banking,

And I use it to manage accounts.

But last week I ran into a problem -

On the screen were the wrong amounts.

So seeking to sort this problem at once,

To the bank’s Call Centre I rang.

I listened to music for minutes,

As on the phone I was forced to hang.

Then a recorded voice quite sharply said:

“Press 1 for this, and press 2 for that”.

So I worked my way through the options,

Trying not to feel like a prat.

My digits blazed over the keypad,

Pressing this, pressing that, and then you

Think you’ve finished at last,

But there’s always one more menu.

At last I got to where I wanted,

After this long game of hide and seek

For it was just with a human being,

That I desperately wanted to speak.

At last came a female voice quite confident -

I wasn’t trying to be choosy.

She asked if she could help me,

And told me her name was Susie.

I stumbled through with my problem,

But really I hadn’t much of a choice.

I’d become all kind of nervous, you see,

Seduced by the sound of her voice.

So began my fantasies & questions:

I went right through the book.

Was she young, and was she pretty?

In fact, how good did she look?

I started to imagine for myself:

What was the colour of her hair?

For her voice was so gentle,

I decided she had to be fair.

Could I ever get to know this girl?

I could feel my cheek starting to heat.

Could we take this relationship further,

And arrange somewhere cosy to meet?

I wanted to take this thing off-line:

I felt that she was waiting to be whirled,

Away from her Call Centre employment,

To something more solid in the real world.

She carried on talking, working her script.

She was a mistress of her profession.

She was confident & well-drilled.

Would she listen to my confession?

She worked her way through my problem,

But the solution had started to vex.

Did a one-sided fantasy like this,

Count as telephone sex?

I wanted to keep her talking, you see,

And try to keep her involved.

I felt we needed to build up some rapport,

So I brought up new things to be solved.

Her voice was so delightful & sexy,

But always in command, never a fall-girl.

I wanted this to go on and on,

To take things further, with my dear call-girl.

Her accent betrayed nothing at all,

But she seemed like an English rose.

I’d no idea where she was,

But she certainly felt very close.

Eventually, I screwed up my courage,

And asked her if there could ever be more.

That’s when she said it was against the rules,

And besides, she was talking from Bangalore.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 19th May 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 19^th May 2013

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

·         1. On the 70^th anniversary of the famous “Bouncing Broccoli” incident during the Second World War, a commemoration and re-enactment was carried out in the fields of Bromham.  One of the few surviving field-worthy steam-driven broccoli-gathering machines made a symbolic pass across the top of the Long Field, whilst veterans from those heady times doffed their caps in remembrance of those who did not survive.

·        2.  Angry scenes took place in the Special Select Committee of the Parish Council, when the chairman and CEO of the village shop repeatedly refused to answer questions put to them regarding the payment of parish taxes.  Rounding on their motto of “Sell No Polenta”, the committee accused the shop-owners of secretly selling polenta, whilst squirreling away the profits in a complex accounting structure involving radishes and tins of baked beans.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Ee, But It's Grim Down South

Ee, But It's Grim Down South

 When I was a lad, at home in the North,

I was told that I lived with great bounty,

In the best place that there was:

Yes it were Yorkshire – God’s very own county.

We’d grand hills & dales to go walking,

With so many sheep you’d be amazed,

Which drove the great wool industry,

With its mills wherever you gazed.

At home, things were quite rough though:

Our house was subject to flooding.

We’d no access to sand-bags,

So were forced to use lengths of black pudding.

The food were boring & monotonous,

I’m really sorry to gripe.

For, although I’m quite fond of a pork pie,

You can only eat so much onions & tripe.

The tea was made strong & very sweet

To bolster our old working men.

You could stand your spoon up in it -

You had to be right sturdy back then.

You’d be woken by the sparrows,

Coughing first thing in the dawn,

And, to the strains of a Hovis advert,

You’d set forth to your work in the morn.

You’d work in the spinning mills,

The factory, or one of the pits,

And think of yourself as quite lucky

If you didn’t suffer from nits.

And rickets & diphtheria were all of the rage;

Keeping pigeons or whippets the usual thing.

We kept our coal in the bath-tub,

And in the lavvy, you had to know how to sing.

The women were fierce & big-chested,

And Tetley’s ale was always the best,

Rugby League was the sport among men,

And brass bands played without any rest.

The toil was rough and it was hard,

But you took what work you could find.

My father was broken down daily

By his labours in the Treacle Mine.

But among the chimneys and the grime,

We still thanked God for our lot,

For we could still have a bath monthly -

Aye – whether we needed it or not!

But then the industries all closed down,

And took all the amusement away.

The North were classed as “Special Needs”,

And down South I was forced to stray.

So I came down here to see what were brewing,

To work, to live & to marry.

Thirty years I’ve managed to survive,

But I’ve not been as happy as Larry.

For the hills are all piddling & gentle,

And the beer is always served flat.

There’s no proper cricket teams,

And I can’t say any fairer than that.

But I think I’ve given the South a fair trial now:

For thirty years I’ve been right plucky,

But I’ve missed the doom & the gloom

I just didn’t realise: I were that lucky!

So one of these days, I’ll just get up & go,

My image will soon fade from your view.

I’ll bugger off back North again,

And be no longer here to bother you.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

At The End Of The Pier

At The End Of The Pier

The gaps between the weathered planks below our feet

Left tantalising glimpses of the drop

Down to the restless grey boiling sea beneath

The waves slapping hard against the piles

Barnacled and seaweed-strewn

A watery world above which we were held aloft

On the bracing breezy boardwalk

Heads down into the wind

Eyes hooded in the slanting light

Along the corroded iron-girdered structure

A cheeky finger jutting out to sea

Edged around by rusting railings

Their layers of leaded paint

Flaking in the sea-salt onslaught

Of many stormy seas

And elemental winters

The pier’s attractions sheltered in the middle

Held tight together in clustered rows

Harbouring sweet and sickly smells

Of rock and ice-cream and candy-floss

What the butler-never-saw machines

And pulsating penny arcades

That held the promise of a prize

The seafood stalls set out their wares

Of prawns and cockles

Whelks and pin-hunted winkles

And shops that touted windmills

Flags and buckets and spades

Kiss-Me-Slowly cowboy hats

And revolving wire stands

Of saucy seaside postcards

Picturing pot-bellied punters

That had lost their little Willie

Then on beyond the rows of deckchairs

The booths and bandstand of a bygone era

Faded relics of Edwardian grandeur

Towards the final destination

And an end of walking

The prow of this promenade

With but a single telescope

That cost a silver sixpence

To let the gormless gaze out into the bay

Before bowing to the inevitable

And setting out upon the journey back

That could never be as thrilling

As that first stroll out into the sea

And towards a setting sun

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Cheese & Polenta Tart

Recipe for: CHEESE & POLENTA TART

Ingredients:

• For the pastry
• 170g plain flour
• 60g quick-cook polenta
• 20g grated parmesan
• 140g unsalted, fridge-cold butter
• 50ml cold water
• Pinch salt
• For the filling:
• 200-250g hard cheese, grated e.g. gruyere
• 150ml crème fraiche
• 150ml single cream
• 3-4 eggs
• ¾ tsp each salt & pepper
• 200g chopped swiss chard or spinach, cooked briefly in olive oil & drained
• Extra grated parmesan for the topping

 Method:

1. work all the pastry ingredients (except the water) together by hand or in a food processor to get a fine crumbly mixture.  Only add enough water to make it come together as a pastry
2. tip onto floured work-surface, & work until pastry comes together enough to be rolled out
3. butter a large flan dish, then lift the pastry disc into place & press gently into place.  Trim off any excess & use pieces to patch or re-inforce the gaps
4. chill in the freezer for 10 minutes.  Meanwhile heat oven to 180C/ 170C fan/ 350F
5. place a circle of grease-proof paper in the bottom of the pastry case & fill with baking beans
6. bake for 20 minutes until just golden
7. remove paper & beans & bake for another 10 minutes or until pastry cooked through
8. remove from oven & reduce oven temperature to 150C/ 140C fan
9. while the case is cooking, mix together all the other ingredients, except the parmesan,  in a bowl
10. pour into the cooked tart case & spread out evenly.  Grate parmesan on to the top
11. bake for about 30 minutes until the tart is golden on top & the mixture has set
12. leave to cool for 10 minutes before cutting & serving

 What else you need to know:

1. great with a mixed salad & fruity chutneys
2. the polenta in the pastry mix, just adds extra crunch & taste
3. good hot, warm or cold

Oh! Mr Weatherman!

Oh! Mr Weatherman!

Oh! Mr Weatherman, you’ve done it again,

You said it wouldn’t get any wetter,

But when I look out of my window,

I can’t see that it’s got any better!

My violets are all shrinking,

There’s a line that we’ve not crossed,

It’s chilly and miserable and windy,

And tonight there’s a threat of more frost!

What happened to Spring and to Summer?

Why are your isobars clustered together?

Aren’t we due for a warm front now,

And a promise of much better weather?

The shoots in my garden are shivering

My onions look like bunions

My spuds seem to be duds

The peas think I’m a tease

Cabbages creeping, parsnips not peeping

The kale has gone pale, I think it might fail

And oh golly, just look at my caul!

This cold can’t continue

Ever more rain, is more than a bane

It’s causing me pain, again and again

I know what it means, for my haricot beans

And it gives me the freaks, when I look at my leeks

And I’ve called off all bets

When it comes to courgettes

Outside it’s all drear and wet

It’s the worst season yet

I’ve started to grouse, and crept like a mouse

Inside of my greenhouse

I’m avoiding the slugs and the bugs

But even here there are foes

But that’s how it goes

With snails among my tomatoes

So, please Mr Weatherman!

This forecast of yours sucks -

Let’s get some new heart into your chart

Cause we don’t want the weather for ducks!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013