Seven Score And Other Tales

My new book of short stories, mostly with a sting in the tail, "Seven Score And Other Tales", is now (or about to be) available on Amazon as a physical book, and down-loadable for Kindle (and other assorted online electronica).

I'd be dreadfully grateful, and a few pence richer, if you'd order a copy!

I'd also be dreadfully grateful, once you've read the stories, if you'd then leave a Review on Amazon!

What Made Britain Great

What Made Britain Great

How great is our civilisation?

And the evolution of mankind?

How advanced is our technology?

A superior species I think that you’ll find.

How far spread the great British Empire?

When the world map was covered with pink?

Where the Sun never set upon our Dominions,

We were at our greatest I think.

But, to what could we ascribe this grandeur?

What driving force took us so far?

Was it the invention of fire? Or the wheel?

Of steam power?  Or of the motor car?

Yes they were important, I’ll agree,

Their places in history are taken,

But surely more vital to any progress

Was the idea of a sandwich – with bacon!

Who first thought to cure the meat of the pig?

In a mixture of spices and brine to soak it?

To give it the gift of preservation,

And then to go on, and to smoke it?

What’s better than the smell of pork cooking?

An aroma that forces the senses to waken -

A sure cure for vegetarianism,

Is the grilling or frying of bacon!

Two slices of white buttered bread,

And great dollops of brown sauce,

Rashers of streaky, with the fat running,

Is a feast for a king, the very best course.

Yes, they invented a prime delicacy –

About that you must not be mistaken.

Crisp slivers of meat with a rind on,

The heavenly substance known as bacon.

So get yourself a flitch or a roll,

Don’t leave yourself God-forsaken,

It’s not something for faking,

Forget all about baking,

You know that you’re aching,

A bap or a butty to be making,

The thing to eat upon waking,

The very best meal to be taking

Yes, the force of the Universe….is bacon!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

A Cup Of Coffee

A Cup Of Coffee

Dragging round town is a thirsty business -

I can’t manage shopping for toffee -

So I popped in to one of the chains,

Cause I needed a large cup of coffee.

I don’t think that it’s too much to ask,

Just to go to the counter and order a drink,

But it’s a whole lot more complicated these days:

It’s a lot tougher than you’d ever think!

Now I don’t count myself as too stupid,

And I think I can make an intelligent choice,

But it was hard to give a straight reply,

In answer to that pre-pubescent voice.

“To drink in-house or to take away?

Piccola, media o grande?” she said.

What the hell was she talking about?

What was she doing to my head?

“I’ll just have a…. coffee,” I ventured,

“With no sugar, and some cold milk.”

This puzzled the young till-puncher

Who referred to the board and all of that ilk.

“Mocha, Flat White or an Espresso?

Americano, Latte, Cappuccino?

Café Caramella or a Hot Chocolate?

Macchiata, or Frappuccino?”

Can I have a coffee, with milk please….

“Chai latte or Mocha Cortado?

Iced Risretto, with Raspberry Sauce?

Iced Tea, or Belgian Chocolate Cooler?

With Vanilla, or Cinnamon of course?”

Just a coffee….

“I want to know which milk would you like:

Is that Skinny, Medium or the Full Fat?

We also have soya, almond or cream?

Which one do you want out of all that?”

Just ordinary milk….

“And what temperature would you like it?

Fridge-cold? quite hot? or all silky steamed?

In the coffee? on the side? iced or just frothed?”

She looked at me and she beamed.

I don’t really know…

“And there’s the topping to consider:

Fruit sprinkles or hazelnuts roasted?

Chocolate, cinnamon or gingerbread?

Or even marshmallows all toasted?”

Really….?

“How about an extra shot for a change?

Summer Fruit Punch or a Piccino?

Play with flavours, the foams and the finishing

Or can I tempt you to a Babyccino?”

I’m not sure…

“It all depends on how you like your caffeine:

Velvety smooth or all rich and thick?

All dressed and drizzled – it’s your choice -

Our Five-Star Barista knows every trick!”

Er, look….

“You must understand our philosophy:

To Freetrade Independents we’re quite bound,

And Rain-Forest Alliance producers,

Of single-estate beans, simply roasted and ground.”

“To give you a hand-crafted beverage,

Of artisanal dexterity and thence,

Whilst within our establishment,

A total bean-to-cup experience!”

I have to admit this whole “concept” had me beaten,

I felt that I’d run right out of luck,

I muttered “No Thanks” and fled from the shop,

And went for a pint in The Old Dog And Duck.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

A Bit On The Side

Bit On The Side

I said that I could never do this -

Give myself up to words and waiting, wishes and whispers

Which disappear like mist in the morning

When I awake alone

With the sun rising, poking its light through blinds

Hastily drawn last night

I said that you should not come

Whenever the mood just took you

Leaving her alone with your alibis

And feeble excuses

To sneak your way to me

Turning your key in my lock

To find me always alone, ever-waiting,

Too desperately pleased to see you

Aching for your smile, your touch, your kiss

I said I would not live like this

Sharing short hours of stolen time

Mistress of your hidden desires

Fed by promises, endearments

And guilty late-bought offerings

A life unnaturally discreet

Behind closed doors

A kept pet within a cage

Your plaything, what you will

I said I could not exist alone

Caught between blind hope and cold despair

Bereft at your every going

Angry at each desertion

Hanging on, spoiled but tortured

Our coupling in the early evenings

No longer love nor lust, but only longing

For you to stay with me and stroke my face

And hold me through till morning

I said that I should live a life more normal

And be with you for all of the time

Together every day

Not just when you can steal away

To scramble my feelings

And tangle my bedsheets

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Your Hand

Your Hand

I felt your hand holding tightly onto mine

To keep me from falling down

When I struggled to stand and walk

Unaided by your side

Stumbling through my early steps

I felt your hand gently touching mine

To stop me losing heart

And keeping faith with all my dreams

When I doubted my own intentions

Finding my uncertain way to you

I took your hand close within mine

To show that we would be forever joined

You and me against the world, my love

Words and promises and rings

An affirmation of intentions

I held their hands when they were small

So they should know that I was there

Other lives that looked like mine

But better, brighter in every way

My hopes for a greater future

And when I could no longer move

Nor leave this deathly bed

Your hand held tightly onto mine

And you talked and talked into the night

So that I should never be alone

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Powerless

Powerless

Empty calm descends

Upon the cooling house

As motors cease to hum

Falling into solemn stillness

Sudden TV and radio silence

Reduced to muted dumbness

With regular bulletins hushed

Amid the sudden rush

To join the armistice

Of unexpected quiet

Within the working day

Juice no longer in the wires

Plastic plugs and sockets

Stand redundant

Clunky, hard, dead things

Lying there unused, discarded

Their life-force deserted

Retreated down the circuit

Beyond a small switch far away

No longer any motive power

Nor easy electronic force

No pumps or ticking timers

No clocks or blinking lights

Alarms disabled, motors crippled

Equipment and components

Lie unmoving

As if awaiting further instructions

Then ensues a deathly hush

Through cold and empty rooms

Broken only by a ticking mantel clock

Driven by its tensioned spring

Beating out the passing time

In the darkened gloom

As the quiet settles

Heavy as a layer of dust

With almost a presence of its own

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 12th June 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 12^th June 2016

                                             

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

                                                        

1.       In true British spirit, and after months of planning, the village turned out in force today to celebrate the 90^th birthday of the little old woman who lives in that broken-down cottage in the leafy lane outside the pub.  The High Street was closed to traffic for a street party, organised by her grandson Peter Piglet.  More than seven tables were crammed with people who had paid up to £5 each for a ticket.  Security was tight with all bags being searched, mostly to prevent people from bringing in their own food.  Villagers were given a free hamper containing a cheese sandwich, an apple, a carrot, a packet of crisps, a bottle of Vimto and a flag bearing the motto “Happy Birthday Grannie”.  The event lasted nearly thirteen minutes before thunder, lightning and torrential rain drove the party-goers into the Saloon bar of The Wounded Ferret.

2.       Meanwhile, Bromham Casuals were playing their first game in the Group Stage of the Wiltshire 2016 Tournament in Trowbridge.  There was crowd trouble before, during, and after the game, as disillusioned fans, who had been hoping for a few months away from soccer, were forced to watch the usual tedious 0-0 draw, in designated “fan-zones”.  After several hours of rioting in central Trow-vegas, the clean-up campaign began, with local police estimating that nearly £10-worth of damage had been caused.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Sea And Sand

Sea and Sand

Huddled behind the flapping wind-breaks

On creaking candy-stripe deck-chairs

Naked toes wriggling in the cold damp sand

Watching children play among their castles

The long, chilly day stretches far ahead

From sea-wall to a distant horizon

               

Optimistic hats and sun-tan lotions

Jostling with novels and newspapers

In the beach-bags of bosomy matrons

While damp, gritty bath-towels

Shield the modesty of shivering teen-agers

Changing out of cold wet swim-suits

Seagulls scream in the slate-grey sky

Perhaps portending later rain

Before the distant tide

Slowly comes back in again

Its waves sliding up the chilly beach

Erasing empires built along the shore

And enforcing the reluctant retreat

The last desultory donkey-rides taken

Flags and windmills rescued from the water

Before climbing to the esplanade

And a long promenade along the windy pier

To reach the lonely telescope

Which points towards the blackened sea

Then fish and chips in warm, greasy paper

Or cockles and mussels in plastic cups

The sharp and pungent waft of vinegar

Competing with the fresher smell of ozone

While seeking shelter against the elements

On the seats behind the life-boat station

And later, licking ice-cream and candy-floss

While steadily feeding slot machines

In glittering amusement arcades

Where noisy one-armed bandits

Devour great piles of tanners

Until, bored and poorer

Driven outside again

To stroll, wind-driven

Back along the Front

To buy rock and Kiss-Me-Slowly hats

Reading every comic card

On the twirling wire stands

Before games of football in the park

Krazy Golf, then Pitch and Putt

Before sauntering back slowly

To kill more time, before facing High Tea

And the tyranny of the guest-house landlady

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

When I Was Older

When I Was Older

When I was older, things made much more sense

And everything kind of hung together

In a way I no longer understand

Life was serious, dull and boring

In a black and white sort of way

But it got me through the years

To get me where I am today

When I was older, I knew clearly who I was

Where I was going, what I was doing

And who was near and dear to me

I played the role of responsible adult

Father to my children, husband and provider

Worker, money-maker, decision-taker

Lover, and sometime man of leisure

When I was older, I grasped what it all meant

What mattered, and how to get things done

I knew who you were then

Why you left me and where you had gone

I hid my small box of cares and worries

And I kept the lid tightly closed

So that you should never know

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

The smells, the sounds, the sights leap right out

Everything is there in full colour

I find that I have nowhere I need to go

I need not make any great decisions

Except what I should have for my dinner

And what time I’d like to go to bed

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Beetroot & Goat's Cheese Gratin

Recipe for: BEETROOT & GOAT’S CHEESE GRATIN

Ingredients:

·         500g beetroots, scrubbed, topped & tailed

·         100-150g goat’s cheese (or other soft cheese)

·         1 tblsp horseradish sauce

·         150ml cream, crème fraiche or yoghurt

·         3 tblsp fresh breadcrumbs (optional)

·         3 tblsp freshly-grated parmesan

Method:

1.       Preheat oven to 200C (fan 185C)

2.       Boil the beetroots for 10-15 minutes until tender, but still retaining some bite

3.       Drain and plunge into cold water for a few minutes

4.       When cool enough to handle, slip off any remaining beetroot skin and cut into thick slices

5.       Grease a shallow baking dish with a little butter

6.       Slice the goat’s cheese into small slices

7.       Arrange the beetroot & cheese slices in alternating layers in the greased dish

8.       In another small bowl, mix the horseradish with the cream.  Add salt & pepper

9.       Pour over the beetroot & cheese

10.    Put a layer of breadcrumbs (if using) & grated parmesan over the top of the dish

11.    Bake in the oven for about 10-12 minutes until the cheese is melted and the sauce is bubbling

What else you need to know:

1.       Serve with a green salad and some thick wholemeal bread to mop up the juices

2.       Ideal on its own as a snack meal, or makes an impressive side dish with red meats

Clown

Clown

Your appearance startles me

As I gaze upon your features

A rictus smile on a painted face

Grease-paint make-up

Wide-eyed, red-nosed

The wig, the hat, the jacket

Huge shoes and floppy trousers

Ill-fitting coloured patched-up garb

Exaggerated, extravagant and eccentric

Your gestures make me flinch

Wild anarchic actions

Expansive and grotesque

Flapping, slapstick prat-falls

Tumbling to the crash of cymbals

Comedic foolish fall-guy

Miming pain and sorrow

A pantomime parade of emotions

And silent appeals to the comic gods

The crowd’s reaction does not move me

Their laughter growing

Mounting to crescendo

Wide-eyed faces smile-illuminated

Marvelling at the perfect timing

Of the crazy crackpot performance

Within the circus ring

Watching Whiteface and Auguste

Conducting clowning chaos

But your deadpan muzzle leaves me cold

Your sinister expression

Raises phobic fear and terror

My voice sticks in my throat

To me you are no joking jester

Nor clowning priest of mirth

But a chill reminder

Of a childhood nightmare

A presence from dark anarchic night

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Market Day

Market Day

Across the square, Cross-shadowed

Among redundant white lines

Car-cleared and bollarded

An encampment of trucks and white vans

Stalls under candy-stripe awnings

Channel raindrops into small streams

To drip from corners into baskets and trolleys

Shouting and calling, touting and yelling

Today’s bargains, special offers

Everything fresh from the farm

Cox’s in boxes

Bananas in bunches,

Grapes, tomatoes and pears

Eggs, bacon and ham

Puddings, pies and pasties

Sauces, pickles and jam

Milk, cheeses and honey

Flowers, veggies and fruit

Everything’s there if you’ve got money

Oily, scaly wet fish, fresh from the seas

Sharp-finned, bright-eyed and open-mouthed

All good at this price

Glittering, silver darlings

Fanned out on piles of crushed ice

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

Hoover bags, replacement parts, watches, batteries and clocks

Stall-holders sipping extra-sweet tea

Hugging the mugs for their warmth

Take-away bacon rolls cooling on the side

While change is quickly given

Keeping up incessant banter for the punters

A thriving cash economy

Among the strolling bargain-hunters

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

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

The wind whips round the deserted space

Whilst, inside, in the pub and the café

It’s time to watch someone else working

And for some hot food and a drink

A chance at last to get warm

A space to reflect and to think

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Playing The Game

Playing The Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 5th June 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 5^th June 2016

                                             

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

1.       Bromham paid tribute this week to the death of a champion.  The amateur boxer Mohammed Barley, the “Bromham Blip”, famed locally for once winning one round on points in one of his many unsuccessful , has died aged 75.  He changed his name by deed poll in 1975 from Cassius “Clay” Piglet, after he turned his back on the vegetable way of life and adopted cereal crops.  In 1979 he refused to serve in the local militia in the fight against the Seend Separatists, claiming it as a “vegetable” war, which his faith would not allow him to participate in, and was sentenced to three years’ hard labour in the carrot fields.

2.       A Bromham father has apologised in public after being reunited with the child he had deliberately left at the edge of the village as a punishment for being naughty.  The boy was found safe and well almost 200 yards away on the edge of a broccoli field, having survived for six days existing mostly on pond water and fresh vegetables.  He was said to be a lot healthier than when his father abandoned him in the first place.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Double Agent

Double Agent

Do not be fooled by the easy manner

Or his apparently warm, affectionate nature

The well-groomed, tailored coat

Perfect hair and manicured whiskers

Nor his domesticated demeanour

Do not be taken in by his love of warmth

And cosy, comfortable, curled position

Nor his sleepy, silent gaze

As if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth

Always dozing during daylight

And rubbing round the legs at feeding time

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

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

For Sam is a double-agent, licensed to kill

A sleeper, hiding his true identity

Lying low until Agent Moonlight gives the signal

Calls him from retirement to carry out his next assignment

Working under cover of the darkness

For another operation in a foreign field

Passing through the portal, turning his collar to the night

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

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

Ready for rapid deployment, sleek and silent

He slips away without a backward glance

Leaving his safe house, out on patrol,

Round his marked and guarded territory

Eyes narrowed, focused, single-minded, ruthless

A trained professional, working alone

Driven by feral, instinctive urges

To taste fresh flesh and warm blood

Each evening before the curfew falls

This murderous, vicious assassin

Callous creeping killer in the night

Will make short work of anything that squeaks and scurries

Briefly before it dies, life throttled from its throat

Then brought back, trophy-style

To be chewed upon the killing floor

The fur and bones left undigested

Mission accomplished, victims abandoned

Honour and appetite satisfied

His shady, secret life discarded

He wanders slowly back to base

Reports in for the evening

Meanders to his sleeping quarters

Cleaning his equipment

Before, contented, curling tail beneath

Setting head upon his paws

To take his after-dinner nap

And resume his old identity

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Buffalo Wings

Recipe for: BUFFALO WINGS (Spiced chicken wings)

Ingredients:

·         A great big pile of chicken wings (cut the thin tips off & joint each wing into two to leave bit-size pieces on the bone)

·         2 cloves garlic, peeled & crushed

·         1 tblsp olive oil

·         1 ½ tblsp cider vinegar

·         1 tsp paprika

·         1 tblsp Worcestershire sauce

·         2 tblsp tomato puree

·         1 tsp salt

·         2 tblsp pepper sauce – choose how hot/ intense you want the wings to be!)

·         2 tblsp clear honey

Method:

1.       Prepare the chicken wings, and place them in a large bowl with some room to be able to stir them around.

2.       In a separate bowl, mix all the other ingredients to form a hot, sticky marinade.

3.       Taste & adjust as you see fit, depending on how spicy you want your wings.

4.       Pour the marinade over the wings, and turn them over to coat everything thoroughly.

5.       Cover and stick the bowl in the fridge for as long as possible.  Overnight is good.

6.       Stir/ turn the wings in the marinade a few times.

7.       When you are ready to cook, heat the oven to 180C/ fan 170C/ gas 4.

8.       Drain the wings and reserve the marinade.

9.       Spread the drained wings onto a large baking sheet, spacing them out as much as possible.  If there’s a lot, use two trays rather than crowd them – they need to bake, not steam.

10.    Bake for 30 minutes, then pour off any excess oil that has gathered on the tray.

11.    Baste the wings in some of the marinade, then return to the oven.  Turn the oven up by 10-15C, because we want the edges of the wings to start catching in the heat.

12.    Bake for another 15-20 minutes, basting with marinade 2 or 3 times.

13.    The wings should be sticky & glazed, with most of the liquid/ marinade evaporated or poured off.  That means dry, not floating in a sauce!

What else you need to know:

1.       Serve on a warmed large serving platter, sprinkled with chopped coriander and/ or spring onions.

2.       Provide plenty of napkins/ kitchen towel as the wings are wonderfully messy, and a bowl to catch all the discarded bones.

3.       The traditional American accompaniments are sticks of raw carrot and raw celery, together with a blue cheese dip/ dressing.  No idea why, but they do, and it works just fine!

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem

Squeeze the fruit and enjoy the juice

Drink it whilst it’s fresh

Today really is that rainy day

The one you waited for

And now, right now, is the very time

To indulge the appetite

Do not prevaricate or hesitate

Nor wait any longer

For some distant tomorrow.

Seize upon this memory

This particular moment on this day

This exact second when you saw and heard

Smelt and felt this sensation

Perhaps it will be there again another time

But you can never know for sure

And it may be lost it forever

If you let it slip away.

There is no knowing

What span of years is left to run

What may happen in days to come,

How long there might be still to go

Or how close one is to the end

Before the force of life fails and fades

When what holds it all together

One day will simply cease to work

A heart no longer beating, pumping

Driving the body to its daily workings

Nor any longer draw in breath

As it has a million times before.

This precious thread will snap

For it is gossamer thin and may break

At any moment, without warning

Be careful, it is a fragile thing

The material crumbling in your hand

Turning dust between your fingers

Into empty nothingness.

When the rehearsal is over

And the curtain finally fallen

There will be no performance

The scene deserted, the actor gone away

The costume lying empty

And piled inert upon the floor

House-lights extinguished

No more empty dialogue

No expression of emotion

And an end to thinking, feeling, aching.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Dealer

Dealer

Movement in the corner of the room

By a silent, shifty individual

A jackal in jacket and jeans

Whose slightest gesture with his eyes

Signals all-clear for the client

Who may casually approach

Stand close by for a few seconds

As fingers delve into pockets

To extract merchandise

In the slim-line paper packet

The swiftest wordless handshake

Between these men who are not friends

And do not know each other

A mere transactional gesture

Enables the exchange

Quickly hand-to-hand

Money moved in seconds

Unseen by the casual observer

The goods gone, the punter moves away

To sample his substance

But the peddler stands his ground

Scouting further business

Looking for passing trade

Cruising for customers

Watching for watchers

Blending with the background

Quiet buying and selling

Subtle supply and demand

Unobtrusive opportunities of the open market

A final chance to turn a profit

Before quietly slipping away

Sliding into dark shadows

As if he had never been here

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016