Masterchef - That's Really Enough Now!

Masterchef

I’m all for a successful format,

But the BBC thinks it’s in clover,

If, for its tenth anniversary series,

It doesn’t give Masterchef a make-over.

The temperature’s reduced in the kitchen,

There’s boredom all over the nation:

Junior, celebrity, professional -

We’ve had every possible combination!

John Torode’s a chef, and knows how to cook,

But can we all stand yet one more outing,

For that great pudding Gregg Wallace,

Who doesn’t know when to stop shouting?

Too many contestants’ back-stories,

India Knight’s plodding and steady:

It’s getting like warmed-up leftovers,

A dish we’ve had too often already.

Combination recipes drive me mad,

Invention tests that feature just fish,

And all the fudging, over the judging,

As they deliver their “Signature Dish”.

Poached this, stuffed that, the drizzles and foams,

Smears, juices, crumbs, and the crispiest fat,

The sweetness finally coming through,

And the sharpness of this, cutting through that.

Fondants, creamings and, of course, salads,

De-constructing a favourite dinner,

Creating some fanciful new twist,

In an attempt to knock up a winner.

Then there’s dustings, little plates and purees,

Fondues, concasses and those ganaches,

There’s textures, baby-sick sauces and flavours,

Everyone’s in there, giving it a bash.

But the results can be disappointing,

Like a cheese soufflé that’s failing to rise -

The bizarre lengths these guys can go to,

In pursuit of that Masterchef prize.

It’s all getting to be too technical,

Using blow-torches, vacuums and suction,

And I swear I’ll scream hard at the TV,

If I’ve to look at one more “reduction”!

Good flavour’s a strange and fickle thing,

It’s not enough when you can only see -

Food’s all about how it smells and it tastes,

But you can’t do either when watching TV.

I don’t know what to do, when given a jus,

Too many things graded and marinaded:

I think I’m losing my appetite,

And my palate’s decidedly jaded.

I’ve come to deride whatever’s pan-fried,

My whole stomach has come to feel bloated,

I no longer care for salting, wilting or grating,

Whether it’s steamed, or creamed or roasted.

I can’t take much more slurping and burping,

It’s over-cooked, boring and tough.

My whole attitude to contestants’ food,

Has changed - I’ve just about had enough!

Crispy outside, or melting within,

This tired formula I’m ready to miss.

I think I’ll just have a cheese sandwich -

Cooking’s really no tougher than this.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 30th March 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 30^th March 2014

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

1.       The church-bells at Bromham rang out across the parish as the first same-species weddings took place just after midnight.  Several sheep-to-sheep and chicken-to-chicken nuptials took place, with the world’s press camped out on the doorstep of the church.  Dave Wentwrong, leader of the Parish Council sent a carefully-worded telegram from the deck of his yacht in the Caribbean to congratulate the first few couples, and to wish them well in those activities which, as animals, they particularly like doing.

2.       The Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) hosted a live debate this week between Dicky Legge, leader of the Workers Horticultural Organisation (WHO) and Wat Farrago, leader of the SELF (Swivel-Eyed Loony Federation).  The subject of the debate was the contentious issue of Bromham’s continued membership of the Wiltshire Alliance.  Supporters of both parties were quick to claim victory, and the debate carried on into the saloon bar of The Wounded Ferret.

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

Potholed

Potholed

It’s been a long, hard Winter for sure,

The weather’s done damage that’s easy to see,

There’s potholes down both sides of our road,

And that they need fixing’s obvious to me.

So I phoned up the Council, as you do,

Who said they’d put the job onto their list,

That I was to await for developments,

But it’d be a while, if you’re getting the gist.

The weeks went by, and many a day,

And nothing happened, as you’d expect,

But the holes got much bigger and deeper,

And I was waiting for cars to be wrecked.

There were joltings and bangings and bumpings,

Suspensions damaged without any doubt:

I was worried we’d lose some-one one day,

That we’d never get the poor bugger back out.

Then one day, it seemed there was action of sorts,

When two men turned up in a marked van,

Who inspected the holes from a good distance -

They just sat there, believe this if you can.

They held some sort of a conference,

Whilst sitting there at obvious leisure,

Then reluctantly got out of the van,

And approached the holes with a tape measure.

There was some shaking of heads, if you please,

By The Council’s pothole-repairing guys,

As if they couldn’t quite figure the problem,

Nor grasp the depth of the holes or their size.

They walked away muttering sadly,

Then stood there having a cigarette break,

Looking at all of the pros and the cons,

Undecided what action they should take.

Finally it seemed as if they’d decided,

How they should restore smoothness to the lane,

But it must have been too complicated,

Cos they got in the van, and drove off again.

Obviously the problem was too great,

To be tackled by only these two men -

They’d probably gone for reinforcements,

And would return again who knew when?

  

The mystery resolved itself next day,

When a task-force invaded the by-way.

We were over-run by men in hard-hats,

Who’d come to restore our rural highway.

A full Risk Assessment was in progress:

With impatience my nerves had started to jangle,

But they wanted yet more measurements,

To view the holes from every possible angle.

After a tea-break they at last started -

It was one of Wiltshire’s terrific sights,

But the barriers made it single-file,

And there were two sets of traffic lights.

There were five vans, and at least twenty men,

Hazard warning lights and lots of tricks,

Then they unloaded from out of their vans,

Shovels and spades and couple of picks.

The poor holes were now fairly surrounded,

The repair problem was starting to crack,

But when they all stood back from the action,

They’d only dropped in a small lump of tarmac.

It wasn’t big enough or of the same size,

There were still several jagged edges.

The road was even more of a switchback,

As it snaked between the country hedges.

Then all further work was suspended,

As they beat a retreat hell for leather.

They said it was more than their jobs’-worth,

To go on working in bad weather.

And that’s how it remains to this day,

It’s weeks since they finally departed,

And now the road’s in much worse condition,

Than before they ever got started!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop

Don't Ask Me

Don’t Ask Me

I’m happy to give of my opinion,

If you want to hear what I think.

That is, when I’m down at the pub,

With my mates, just having a drink.

But at home, it’s a different story,

And one that causes me strife.

For there we have the fount of all knowledge,

And it’s not me, it’s the wife!

For she’s got strong views on every topic:

There’s no subject on which she hasn’t a take.

She’s an expert in every field you can name,

No interest in which she hasn’t a stake.

Tho’ she is my love and my darling,

My dearest, my treasure, my dear,

She’s got a fearsome way of talking,

That inspires a goodly portion of fear.

Across the marmalade at breakfast,

I’m on The Guardian, but she reads the Express.

She chokes on her toast and she fulminates,

And the crumbs she exhales make quite a mess.

You see she’s got a very firm stance,

On any social policy or decision,

Religion, the Royal Family,

And even on female circumcision.

I can’t get a word in edgeways sometimes,

As she dispels any kind of confusion.

She’s got the answer to everything,

And for every problem, a solution.

Professors, doctors and researchers,

Who’ve spent a life-time studying ideas,

Stand for nothing in her onslaught,

As she contradicts them with jeers.

Economics, world hunger and AIDS,

She can hold forth without pause,

So it’s pointless you asking me,

You’d best check with ‘er indoors.

Immigration, emigration, benefit cheats,

Foreign policy, football or cricket,

It’s best to listen, not interrupt,

Or she’ll tell you where you can stick it.

Decoration? Fashion? Or trends?

She’s the one who knows where it’s at.

Northern Ireland? Palestine? Or Syria?

She says what she thinks, and that’s that!

Homophobia, xenophobia,

And prejudice of every kind,

Could be banished within a few minutes,

If she gave you a piece of her mind!

She knows what’s wrong with everything,

She’s clear how things ought to be done,

There’s little she can’t address herself to,

And for her, there’s nothing new under the sun.

If only people would listen to her,

The world could be a much better place,

There’d be no fighting, or wars or disease,

And evil would be gone without trace.

Politics is her specialist subject,

And don’t get her started about the tax-man.

Her polemical style is worse than Jon Humphrys,

And on a bad day gets worse than Paxman.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking,

That she’s incredibly well meant,

That she should perhaps become an MP,

And see how she gets on in Parliament.

But it’s far too late for that I’m afraid,

There’s already been a roll of the dice:

For Conservative Central Office,

Already ring daily just to ask her advice.

No, there’s no situation she can’t handle,

There’s not a dogma she won’t fight:

If you’re looking for a policy statement,

She’s the one who’ll provide a sound-bite.

She’s never ready to settle for nonsense,

And she can’t abide the status quo.

She doesn’t know the meaning of silence,

But, for God’s sake, don’t tell her I said so!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Mushroom Pate

Recipe for: MUSHROOM PATE

Ingredients:

• 90g butter
• 300g mixed mushrooms (shitake, chestnut, button) wiped & thinly sliced
• 1 small onion, very finely chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, very finely chopped
• Juice of one lemon
• Pinch cayenne pepper
• ½ tsp grated nutmeg
• 80g ricotta
• 50g gorgonzola (or other veg creamy blue cheese)

Method:

1. melt half the putter in a large frying pan and cook the mushrooms, onion & garlic for 10 mins or until soft.
2. squeeze over the lemon juice
3. divide the mixture in half.  Set one half aside, and blitz the other half in a food processor until smooth
4. in a bowl, combine the two lots of mushrooms, adding in the cayenne, nutmeg, ricotta, gorgonzola + salt/ pepper
5. when thoroughly mixed put the mixture either into a single bowl, or divide between four individual ramekins, smoothing the top to leave a smooth, flat surface.
6. melt the remaining butter, then pour carefully on top of the mushroom mixture to form a seal.
7. cover & place in fridge for a few hours to chill and set.

What else you need to know:

1. serve with toast or crusty bread, and onion marmalade (or a chutney)
2. makes a good, impressive dinner party starter, garnished with a little salad.

Girl On The Forty-Seven Bus

(Girl On The) Number Forty-Seven

Monday to Friday it’s always the same,

Off to work, to carry the load:

Waiting, whatever the weather,

For that bus to trundle down the road.

Route forty-seven is the number I need,

Though other numbers stop there too.

There’s jostling, and pushing and shoving,

As we stand there in the queue.

Sometimes it’s full and we can’t board,

Or perhaps there’s some spaces upstairs,

Then you have to get up there quickly,

And wait for the man collecting the fares.

But there’s one thing that I look out for,

That makes my journey complete:

The girl with the long blonde hair,

And she’s always there in the same seat.

She rides the upper deck near the front,

Staring from the window, calm and serene.

She’s beautiful and desirable -

I’m sure you know what I mean.

I wonder where she goes to each day,

And what could be her destination,

Cos I have to get off before she does,

As I continue my journey from the station.

I admire her, from my seat here at the back,

Though of me I’m sure she’s quite unaware.

I don’t even know what I’d say to her,

But I try and get as close as I dare.

She seems so cool, and calm and complete,

She looks so happy, assured and care-free.

I think she’s in a league way above me,

And I doubt if she’s ever noticed me.

So day after day, I just think about her,

And carry on without any fuss.

I don’t even know what her name is,

She’s just “the girl on the forty-seven bus”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Special

Special

The careful unpacking of the car

Its safety seat unclipped, unbuckled

Passed gently in to waiting hands

Its cossetted cargo

Wrapped up warmly against any chill

Cocooned in blankets

Tissue-paper protection

For this long-dreamed-of new life

Fragile, precious

The son and heir

The only one

The oft-practised transfer

Into the bumpered baby-buggy

Strapped and restrained

Armoured against a hostile world

Robust and resilient

Protection against a reality

Of bangs and cuts and scrapes

Or cold and unseen germs

Screened and sheltered

Lest any danger should penetrate

Multi-layered defences

And give the slightest cause

For any concern

Fiercely treasured

Special beyond measure

An antiseptic existence

Preserved in layers of cotton-wool

This first, their only child

Kept from all possible harm

And dangers of the world

Loved and feared in equal measure

By his doting parents

Who will do anything

To ensure his survival

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Smoke In The Woods

Smoke In The Woods

Footfalls muffled by leaf-mould

Springy turf of mulch and lichen

Amongst the dark and louring trees

Their trunks tall and straight

Like rigid columns

Holding up the canopy

That shades the lower cultures

Bud-laden, thick and lush

The saplings and the bushes

Of the under-growth

And among the monumental beeches

Pierced by glittering

Flickering sunlight shafts

Hangs a hazy skein of wood-smoke

Diaphanous, gauzy

Floating, drifting slowly

Its lingering strands

Fingering higher branches

And within the greater silence

Where there is no bird-song

Nor any rodent scuttlings

That can carry any distance

Through the depth of empty forest

There penetrates the faintest crackling

Cracking twigs and logs upon a fire

A simple sound of comfort

And a promise of human warmth

The smells of damp and ash

And simple cooking become stronger now

Than natural woodland aromas

Betraying the location

Of a camp-site under canvas

Hidden in a hollow

Among the dark, dank greenery

Of wet, mouldering vegetation

Near the gurgling stream

A lonely retreat

Far from any crowd

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 23rd March 2014

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

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

1.       It was great news for farmers in Bromham this week as the Treasurer of the Parish Council announced new vegetable measures.  From July it will be possible to transfer carrots in storage to a parsnip facility, and vice-versa, without restriction.  The upper limit for cabbage-storage will be increased, and it will be possible to draw down the full amount of cauliflowers at any time.  Rules on courgettes and pumpkins, however, were unchanged.

2.       The search for the missing tractor continues.  Small pieces of baler-twine were spotted in the wilder stretches of the southern fields on Friday, and observers have been despatched from Bromham to try and locate them.  However, it is now over  two weeks since the tractor veered from its intended route and went missing, so hopes of finding it intact are fading fast.

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

Curried Black-Eyed Beans

Recipe for: CURRY – BLACK-EYED PEAS/ BEANS

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

Major Incident At Construction Site

A major incident was declared yesterday at an out-of-town construction site.  Police, Ambulance and Rescue workers were called to the site when a man, thought to be one of the construction workers, fell from a recently-built wall.

A Police Spokesperson said: “Of course there will be a full enquiry later, but at the moment it appears that a man fell from the wall onto the ground below, where he sustained multiple injuries.  The wall from which he fell can be seen to be of considerable height, so it would have been quite a great fall.  The cause of the fall is not yet known, but the man was known to be slightly obese, and it is thought that his weight may have contributed to the accident.  Paramedics treated the man at the scene, but the extent of his injuries meant that he had to be moved to Bristol’s Frenchay Hospital by Air Ambulance.”

The man was admitted to the King’s Ward of the Hospital, where surgeons and medics worked throughout the night to save him.  However, the variety of different injuries sustained, and the loss of blood incurred, meant that they were unable to preserve his life.

And in other news:

·         Doctor Foster has returned home to Gloucester after a disastrous move to Somerset.  He said that he had not realised that it was so wet there.

·         A Farmer’s Wife has been arrested for animal cruelty after attacking three mice.  The creatures were known to be visually impaired.  Neighbours said that they had never seen anything like it in their lives.

·         And Police have been called to another local farm after a number of sheep were reported to have been stolen from a field.  The girl who was looking after the flock apparently fell asleep.  It is hoped that the animals will return to the farm of their own accord.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Renaissance

Renaissance

Suddenly, there, within the soil

In the iron grip of frozen ground

Are thin, small cracks

That break the crust

Of Winter’s solid surface

And poking through

Are tips of something green

Pointing at the glassy sky

Seeking new-year’s light

Shoots of new life

From long-buried bulbs

Forgotten since a year ago

Alive again after all

Their tentative return

From their barren sleep

A miracle of remembering

Cold, bold fingers of new growth

Awoken by the spinning of the Earth

The Spring cycle of re-birth

And a testament to memory

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Walking At Ephesus

Walking at Ephesus

It may be an effect of the light

Bright sunshine as it shimmers

The whiteness of rays from a low sun

Flickering between the columns

The almost-blinding sparkles

Of the crystalline texture of marble

Yet these stones that lay among the stunted grass

Will not rest nor stay asleep

Heavy and broken, a jumbled jigsaw

But seem to rise up and assemble themselves again

Resolving into the temples of many gods

Triumphal arches, fountains, houses

Palaces, tombs and theatres

The gateway carvings fresh, the features sharp

The markings clear as if newly-minted

The beating heat of Anatolia

Relieved by the coolness of water

Running through the fountains, pools and baths

And the leafy colonnaded avenue

Of the tree-shaded Arcadian Way

With the street and walkways busy

Thronged with people about their business

The simple sound of feet, sandal-clad

Voices of slaves and masters

Traders in the marketplace

The brothel thronged with customers

Asking to inspect the goods on offer

The girls watching for someone new

Perhaps an interesting stranger

A sailor walking up from the harbour-side

Far up into the heaving city

No longer the abandoned Graeco-Roman ruins

Or the ancient broken back of Byzantium

But a living space, a breathing place

Where ghosts are free to roam

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Galloping

Galloping

A flash of flanks and fetlocks

Horses running free within the paddock

The grass beaten and churned

Into sodden ground

By thumping, pounding hooves

As they wheel away

Heads held high and proud

Distended nostrils

And teeth exposed

Manes flowing in the breeze

Chasing along the fencing rails

At first a trembling trot

Building to a cautious canter

Before breaking into wide-legged gallops

Drumming in steady time

Shoulders and backs bent to the task

Of increasing speed

Careering across the open field

Driven by the memories

Of former glory racing days

And the dash along the final furlong

Now rid of bits and reins and saddles

And high-seated, whipping jockeys

Allowed to frolic unrestrained

Driven by sheer exuberance

Into an ecstasy of sprinting

Coursing round the circuit

Only pulling up at last

When good and ready

With a lung-deep whinney

Panting and straining

To catch their breath

Pleased as punch

Happy with their efforts

Then shambling gently over to the gate

To scrounge a proffered apple

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Drowning In Five Inches Of Water

Drowning In Five Inches Of Water

A telephone ringing

Down in the hall

Takes only a moment to answer

But creates an absence of minutes

From precious play-time in the bath

Begets a long, empty space of waiting

Of wanting you

Of needing you to come back

And an opportunity for her

To slide slowly down

Soft-skinned and slippery

Soapy from the bubbles

From the clear air above

To a short watery rest

Below the surface

Beneath the noise

Within the quiet, calm nothingness

And to breathe evenly

Drinking the warm liquid

Just long enough

To fall asleep forever

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 16th March 2014

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

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

1.       The search for the missing tractor continues, after nearly a week with no news.  It now appears from satellite and radar information that the tractor continued to move for up to ten more minutes after it was last seen in the lane by the school.  Searchers are now focused on two specific possible “corridors” where the tractor may have got to.

2.       Voting has commenced in the referendum in the local area of Hedddington to find out whether its residents wish to secede from the control of Seend and to join Bromham.  The majority of residents there share many ties with Bromham, and many of them speak Bromham-ese as their natural tongue, so it is expected that the result will be a landslide in favour of the motion.  The Foreign Minister of Seend, together with his opposite numbers in Trowbridge and The West,  has declared the referendum to be invalid, because it violates Wiltshire law.

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

Fleeting Madness

 Fleeting Madness

“Amor brevis furore est”

That day I thought my heart would burst

The blood boiling in my veins

A sickness at my stomach

Butterflies within

Every time I looked at you

Your eyelids flickering in the dazzling sun

Your lips parted in a gentle smile

Of mockery

And perhaps some pleasure

Reckless in my words

Hot and hasty, unthinking

Desperate to please, to promise anything

Urgent pleadings, passionate

Almost painful

Burning and breathless

Frightened lest you should turn away

I see it now

As a fleeting illness

Lasting but a little time

From which the fever passed its crisis

Symptoms resolved over many seasons

The heat now long dissipated

Calmer feelings restored

Cooler emotions to the fore

That messy madness gone

Replaced by a fine and clear indifference

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Daughters

Daughters

When did it start to happen?

Was it as soon as you were born?

Or was it even earlier

As you floated in the amniotic fluid?

Or even at the moment of conception

In a complex interplay

Of genes and chromosomes

That the differences began?

The females of my species

Developed along a very different path

From the ways that I had known

And had their own concerns

That yearned for pink in everything

(When I know full well

That such a colour

Never crossed our minds)

And took to wanting dollies

And kittens and puppies

From a very early age

And then grew up all too quickly

Soon giggling in barricaded bedrooms

Confused by active hormones

Pre-occupied with latest hairstyles

And clothing in the fashion magazines

Or brands of make-up and shampoo

And the sensitive removal of body hair

Or the base behaviour

Of the latest boyfriends

And who fancied who at school

Then the greater changes

Of maturing mind and body

Ripening into an all-at-once adulthood

With its sudden sensibilities

Of the female and the feminine

And the ferocious gender-bonding

Among the sisterhood

And a new respect

For a mother long-ignored

And who had little time for men

The masculine, muscled males

With their loudness and crudeness

Their football and sporting obsessions

And testosterone-driven lives

When did you girls grow into women?

Was it something subtle that I missed?

How did you grow so far apart from me

And became so very different?

And how many years has it taken now

For us to hardly know each other once again?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Bedtime

Bedtime

A careful journey through the house

Starts with the regular routine

The easy things at end of day

Of switchings-off, and shuttings-down

Of locks and bolts and doors

And the silences that quickly fall

Within the lounge and in the kitchen

Then heading for the staircase

And the reluctant nightly climb

Towards the empty, darkened corridor

That harbours brooding shadows

And perhaps conceals an unseen something

Now trying to hold back a creeping fear

And the mounting tension

Engendered by an empty house

And too many nights of loneliness

Fumbling round the corner of the wall

With a trembling, groping hand

Seeking out the elusive switch

That will illuminate the feeble bulb

And banish darkness

From the space along the landing

And the hurried steps

Echoing against the plaster walls

Towards the master bedroom

Past the other door, her door

The one that never opens now

And diving quickly into the empty bed

To banish this unwanted fear

This irrational paranoia

And to try to fall sleep

Yet again alone

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Looking Up

Looking Up

We waited for you

To come and join us on the lawn

The tea cooling in the pot

And David said he thought he’d seen you

Climbing the back stair-case

Not long before we had come out

And mother made some conversation

About the wayward rambling roses

Near the dining-room windows

Causing dark shadows

And tapping on the glass

They needed cutting back

And she would speak to Jenson

When next she saw him

Then David called out that he could see you

And we turned and looked up

And spotted you high above the gallery

Walking towards the round tower

The white flashes of your dress

Between the crenellations

Of sandy-coloured stone

And we waved hello

The house was looking at its best

The growth of ivy softening the harsher edges

And we admired the summer blooms

The grass springy under our feet

And we called out to you again

While David talked about the wedding

Busy with arrangements

His face shining with happiness

We must have looked quite small to you

Children or puppets on the lawn

Acting out some scene

Within the grand setting

As you regarded us from your vantage-point

High up there upon the parapet

Staring down at us from above

And the breeze caught your hair

Your eyes calm and steady

As if taking in the view

Your face quite composed

Your arms held high aloft

At the very moment

When we all looked up once more

Just in time to see you step out

Into thin air

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Sunday Dinner

Sunday Dinner

Hands washed, all at table

Before Mam brings it in

From the steaming kitchen

The still-smoking old roasting tin

Piled high with Yorkshires

Tall and brown and crisp

Dished out quick enough

Served onto cooling plates

With a lake of Oxo gravy

Thickened as we like it

And finished up in minutes

In case there’s another going

Simple batter puddings

To fill a grumbling stomach

Then the cindered joint of beef

(Chicken being a luxury)

Cooked to the usual formula

Gas mark eight for two hours

And when it’s brown, it’s done

But when it’s black, it’s buggered

Lifted straight out of a roaring oven

And asking Dad to do the usual

And carve the burnt offering

As if anyone else would ever be allowed

The small, careful, wafer-thin slices

Spread out to look like more

Watched like a hawk by Mam

And quickly passed around till all are served

The grey meat livened up with Colman’s English mustard

And then the roasties can be handed round

The shining fat still dripping down

With plain carrots or peas

Nothing fancy, plain as always

And what used to look like sprouts

Boiled to within an inch of their lives

Waterlogged and dangerous to know

Pushed to the side of the plate

And only eaten when threatened with no pudding

The scraping of knives and forks

On chipped and mismatched plates

Hides the murmurs of approval

But no time for chatting amongst the rapid eaters

And first to finish asks if there’s any seconds

But there hardly ever is

For nothing’s ever cooked that might be wasted

Except the remnants of the joint

That will make our Shepherd’s Pie

Or rissoles on Monday

Same as every other week

Then the siding away of dirty plates

And the clattering of the cooking dishes

Piled up in the sink to soak amidst hot, soapy water

And the inquests on any leftovers

Before the pudding bowls and spoons

Put in their appearance

A fruit and pastry pie

And lashings of thick Bird’s custard

Topped with a skin that nobody seems to want

Feeling full-to-busting, FTB

Heavy stomachs and shining eyes

Everybody had enough?

Before tackling the washing-up

Arguing over who’s washing and who’s wiping

And who shall put the pots away

Mam now tired and fretful

After slaving over a hot stove all the morning

Driven by the need to prove her metal

Haunted by recent memories

Of war-time restrictions

Of rationing and shortages

Making do and mend

Keeping calm and carrying on

And Gran asleep beside the fire

Leaving Dad to read his paper

And listen to the wireless

Where Family Favourites

And The Clitheroe Kid

Keep us all amused

And Mam can put her feet up for a bit

Before it’s time for Sunday tea

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Birthday Boy

Birthday Boy (reflections on being yet another year older.  My take on existential angst)

It’s funny how things can easily change,

How your view on life drops through the gears,

But your perspective can turn right around,

When you find yourself advancing in years.

I remember the early excitement,

When I was just a very young boy.

The anticipation of birthdays,

Would bring weeks of advancing joy.

How many cards and presents would there be?

When would my mother begin to bake?

How big and what kind of icing,

On top of my own birthday cake?

Would there be a party and some treats?

With games and plenty of laughter,

A day that would stick in the mind,

And provide memories for long after?

But things are all different now,

And I find my trepidation mounting.

After I’d got as far as fifty,

That’s when I really stopped counting.

There’s no special cake I’m having today,

But if bought from a shop you’d need handles.

It would have to be a massive confection,

If there was to be room for all of the candles.

They’d make up a blazing conflagration,

Of that you should have very little doubt,

And I don’t think I’d have the breath these days,

To blow every one of them out.

I’m no longer sure this day’s all that special.

Why make such a fuss of today?

Yesterday had no unique features,

And tomorrow’s just an ordinary day.

The few cards I get from those that remember,

Fall limply through my letter-box.

There isn’t enough of them to make up a pile,

And my birthday hopes are all mocked.

I don’t want to make any bother or fuss:

It would be good to get a nice present,

For I don’t want to be forgotten quite yet,

Or just seen as an ancient monument.

Once I hoped I’d die before I got old,

But you can see I’m not getting younger,

I’ve still got a great zest for life, though,

And for new things I continue to hunger.

And as I reflect on this anniversary,

And I head towards some veneration,

I begin to think about my own children,

And I’m talkin’ ‘bout my generation.

So don’t give up on me too soon,

Just because I’m advancing in years.

I can still go down to the pub, you know,

Yes, I can still sink a few beers!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 2nd March 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 2^nd March 2014

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

1.       The situation in Seend is now critical, with intense diplomatic activity seeking to head off a major regional meltdown.  Troops wearing Trowbridge insignia on their uniforms and carrying Wiltshire-made weapons have been seen massing near the Seend border.  Meanwhile, forces sympathetic to the Western-facing Bromham separatists have taken control of major public buildings like the Post Office and the Primary School.  Both parties are struggling for control of the hearts and minds of the bewildered population.

2.       Tonight sees the glittering red-carpet ceremony that is the BUSKERS (Bromham Urban Shows and Kitsch awards).  There are high hopes for George Piglet who is nominated in the Shiniest Tractor category, Peter Piglet for Greatest Village Idiot, and Sharon Piglet for Most Interesting Call-Girl Advert. 

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

Kindling

Kindling

Many years ago

I saw your blackened face

As it shone by firelight

With beads of sweat

Streaking whitened paths

Through the sooty grime

As it dripped into your beard

You stood above the flames

Your features darkened

By shadows flickering

Tending to your bonfire

Watching the orange fingers

Leafing through the pages

As they turned them over, one by one

And burned them fiercely

Within the conflagration

The blasphemous words

Dangerous thoughts

And heretical teachings

Within those banished books

Made easy fuel for flames

Mere card and paper

Covers and bindings

Consumed within the smoke

Rendered down to ash

So that none might read them any more

But now your brow seems furrowed

As you wonder what to do

With all this glass and plastic

Metal and electronica

Casings and batteries

Of phones and iPads

And other hand-held gadgets

That will not catch alight

Nor burn with any purpose

This digital economy

Its airwaves alive with anarchy

Downloaded through the ether

A seditious cyberspace

That cannot be controlled

A communications spectrum

That provides its own oxygen

Requiring nothing else to Kindle

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014