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 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 30th October 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 30^th October 2016

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

                                                        

1.       After nearly a hundred and seven years of wrangling, the Parish Council has announced the location of the new cycle lane in the village.  It will be built for about 200 yards along the side of the High Street, but actual construction work will not commence for several years, due to wrangling over the £312 cost, further environmental impact analysis, and the rash of expected High Court challenges from residents living along the intended route.

2.       Last Wednesday saw the intended clearing of the squatter’s camp in the woods near Stoney Lane.  However, the squatter is still actually there, since he was classified as a “vulnerable child” by the authorities.  Social Services are now investigating the needs of the 32-year old child before any final decision can be made on the future of his tent.  The idea had been to move the squatter to another part of Bromham where he would have been free to be a blot on the landscape in a different part of the village, but that plan is now on hold.

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

Turning Into My Own Father

Turning Into My Own Father

It’s of little use

I can see it all now

The mirror does not lie

I find myself looking at a man

That I do not recognise

Yet is alike, and who looks vaguely familiar

Although I cannot quite place him

I’m sure he is not a stranger

The fullness of his face

The receding hairline

Ebbing back above his brow

A distinctive pattern

That I know from photographs

In the sepia tones of generations

Dark and hooded eyes

Look back towards me

Posing unanswerable questions

Full, fleshy uneven lips

Thickening jowls

Jaw-line set heavy

And the slackness of muscles

Etch long, deep lines within sagging skin

And tell a story of their own

Unblinking he returns my stare

His face unreadable

Implacable and calm

But tired, deadly tired

As if this may be the last time

That he will stand so still

Allowing himself to be inspected

His features so exposed

Under the unforgiving bathroom light

And at last I am forced to look away

No longer able to hold his gaze

Nor to make the excuse

That I am too busy

To spend more time

On this sad reflection

And I am left to wonder

If his eyes will continue to follow me

Around the room

Long after I have moved away

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Cat's Cry

Cat’s Cry

How your crying disturbs me

Makes me sit up and take notice

And listen to your distress

To your prowling round the room

Snuffling among the shifting shadows

Along the edges and into deep corners

Seeking something that is not there

And that you will never find

The pitiful, lonely sound

That mewling tone

Of existential angst

That smacks of fear and desperation

And catches at my pity

Snags on something

That makes me want to comfort you

To tell you that it’s alright

That I’m always here for you

But you do not understand me

When I try to soothe you

My words of comfort carry no sense

In your feral feline world

And soon the frenzy passes

Back into forgetfulness

And you resume your normal cool indifference

As you suddenly cease to enquire

Into the meaning of your existence

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Christmas Cake

Recipe for: CHRISTMAS CAKE

Ingredients:

• 1 lb currants
• 8 oz raisins
• 1 lb sultanas
• 6 oz mixed peel
• 4 oz glace cherries
• 4 oz shelled almonds (optional)
• 10 oz butter, warm or softened
• 10 oz caster sugar
• 6-8 eggs
• 12 oz self-raising flour (or plain + 1 tsp baking powder)
• Pinch salt
• 2 tsps mixed spice
• Grated rind of one lemon
• Juice of one lemon
• Splash of milk or buttermilk

 Method:

1. get two big bowls out.  In the first assemble all the dried fruits, nuts & peel.  Put aside.
2. in the second bowl, put the butter & caster sugar.  Cream them together until light & fluffy.  Be prepared for your arms to hurt a lot while doing this.  While you’re having frequent rests, line & butter a large cake tin with grease-proof paper & set it on a baking tray.
3. when the creamed mixture is ready, add the eggs one at a time.  It’s easiest to do this by lightly beating each egg in a small bowl first, then adding it.  Make sure each egg is properly incorporated before adding the next.
4. when all the eggs have been added, gradually sift in the flour, salt & mixed spice
5. when that’s done add in the lemon & the milk
6. when that’s done, gradually mix in the pile of dried fruit & nuts from the first bowl
7. the mixture should now be a solid mass of ingredients held together by the sponge mix.  It should be of a stiff dropping consistency
8. pile the mixture into the prepared lined cake tin & pat down gently to avoid any major air bubbles.  Smooth the top with a spatula.
9. bake in a low to medium oven (160C/ 150C fan) for about 3 hours.  It’s hard to be precise, depending on heaviness of mixture.  Test from 2 hours onward with a skewer – if it comes out clean, it’s cooked.  The cake should be browned on the top and the sides just starting to come away from the sides of the tin.  If in doubt, give it another 20 minutes, then test again.
10. remove to a wire rack to cool completely, then store & begin feeding.

 What else you need to know:

1. the cake should be made in August/ Sept if possible because it needs time to mature & to be fed before Christmas.  Store in an air-tight container;
2. feed the cake weekly.  You can use rum, brandy or sherry or any combination you like.  Prick the cake all over the top with a fork or a skewer.  Use a tea-spoon to gently pour your alcohol of choice into the holes, then re-seal in the cake container;
3. this cake is wonderful on its own, but is improved when accompanied by a wedge of a white crumbly cheese such as Wensleydale, Lancashire or Cheshire.

Fifty Shades Of Gravy

Fifty Shades of Gravy (a modern romance)

How long have I loved thee my dearest? – Probably since I was but a mere child,

But the merest thought of devouring you is sure to be driving me wild!

‘Cause this is a very ticklish subject, and I don’t like to seem naughty or coarse,

For we’re talking about that sticky stuff, which posh people refer to as “sauce”.

I hate it when things are too watery - to have it like that is surely a sin -

It needs to have some kind of substance - it serves no purpose if it’s too thin.

It just slips off all over the place, and everything starts sliding around,

It doesn’t keep the right things together - you need something thicker, I’ve found.

You see it has to have the right texture, and about this I know I’m quite picky,

But if it doesn’t have enough body, it’ll never stand up and be sticky.

Without it, things just won’t move along, and you’ll be left wondering why,

And if it’s not adequately lubricious, you’ll find everything tends to be dry.

Such lack of lubrication’s a problem, and can render you exceedingly grumpy,

‘Cos what you don’t expect, when you get down to it, is for it all to feel terribly lumpy.

And if the flavour’s not tasty enough, it can leave you feeling quite queasy,

For the last thing you want, at this juncture, is something that’s oily or greasy.

It’s got to be configured just right, for the appetite it needs to induce,

To bring forth great oral pleasure, you must have plenty of juice!

No, you can’t have it too firm or too runny - such liquid upon you I just wouldn’t foist,

But something for the meat and two veggies - it’s best to have everything flowing and moist.

Yes, the moisture derives from the meat, it’s what you need, if you’re to have dripping,

The jus and the fat come together, and it’s like on nectar you’re sipping.

Of course, I speak not of jelly, but of gravy, made with Oxo, Bisto or browning,

Where on your plate there’s an ocean or lake, and the roast spuds are waving, not drowning.

So, I appeal to you ladies out there, if you want something that’ll cut the mustard,

Make sure you’ve got plenty of gravy, and avoid shark-infested custard!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

A Taxing Problem

A Taxing Problem

Times is tough and money is short;

It’s hard to know what to do;

The creditors keep asking for payment,

Especially the Inland Revenue.

But now there’s something that’s bothering me,

It’s difficult to know where to start,

‘Cause some people have hired accountants,

And made tax-avoidance into an art.

It’s all done through complex company structures,

Where they shift all their profits off-shore,

Paying far less than they really oughter,

And making out that, really, they’re poor!

The Yanks seem to be especially cute,

Hiding their earnings in crannies and nooks.

I’m talking about Google and Amazon,

And especially about Starbucks.

But they’re not the only ones in the game,

Who seek for their taxes to minimise,

By shifting their trading operations,

And their sales figures to disguise.

It might all be technically legal,

But morally, ethically, it’s not right.

It’s time that we did something about it,

It’s time for us all to put up a fight!

These corporations can afford to pay tax,

If they want to trade here in our market.

It’s time they made the right contribution –

Otherwise, we should tell them where they can park it!

They’re earning millions and billions,

Selling us books, DVDs and coffee.

The Government seem powerless to act,

And can’t spot the loopholes for toffee.

So let us consumers lead a fight-back,

Let’s see how much spending power we’ve got;

Time to vote with our purchasing choices,

And hit them with the tactics of boycott.

I’m fed up with being taken to the cleaners,

I’m almost at the end of my tether,

And I swear I’ll belt any Conservative,

Who tells us again that “we’re all in it together”!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Night-time Navigation

Night-time Navigation

I hope you won’t mind me telling you this,

But there’s something I have to confess:

I’ve got this disembodied voice that I hear,

But where it’s coming from - I just cannot guess.

Sometimes, whilst I’m sleeping and dreaming,

That is to say, this happens during the night,

Being of a certain age, you see,

I often find that my bladder is tight.

I find I have to get up for relief,

And I desperately want to go to the loo:

I’ve got to find the bathroom quite quickly,

In order to do what it is that I’ve got to do.

But as I disentangle the covers,

I cannot but observe it’s pitch black,

And if I were to wake up the old lady,

She’d surely give me a smack.

I’m half asleep, and I can’t really see:

In fact, there’s no sort of landmark,

So I have to find my way to the toilet,

Without the aid of a lamp, in the dark.

That’s where my automatic pilot comes in:

As I quietly slip out from the bed,

Through many years of custom and practice,

I can hear the voice speaking inside my head.

“Go forward four paces, then turn to the left,

Carry on - right to the end of the wall,

Exit carefully into the next room,

And be careful that you don’t fall!”

“Proceed three steps, and the toilet you’ll find:

You are located before the loo station,

Now stop! and switch off your engine -

You have arrived at your destination!”

It’s curious I can do this whilst asleep,

I think it’s just a gift that I have.

I’m thinking of selling on the idea –

Tom Tom could market it as “Sat Lav”!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 23rd October 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 23^rd October 2016

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

                                                        

1.       Bromham’s secretive and iconoclastic veteran songsmith Robert Zucchiniman was this week awarded the prestigious Knobbly Prize for “services to literature”.  This seems to consist of creating a few interesting songs back in the 1960s with dope-inspired lyrics, continuing to make records of no critical acclaim for the following forty years, hosting a digital-only radio station with no listeners and, finally, and most importantly of all, still being alive in 2016.

2.       The revered head of the Parish Council, Theresa Green, has just arrived back in breathless state from the Big Meeting in Trowbridge, where she apparently made a speech to the assembled Big Cheeses at the end of dinner.  The speech was made at 1 a.m. when most of the audience had already left, but a waiter who was busy stacking chairs and clearing plates at the end of the evening said that she probably made some very good points.  However, he admitted that he had missed most of it because of helping the diners on with their coats and calling taxis for them.

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

Leopard

Leopard

A shout and then a scramble

Engines revving, jeeps reversing

A finger points toward the tree

There, there! - up on the branch

Cameras snapping

Binoculars focused

Jostling for position

To get the clearest sighting

There, there! – reclining

Relaxed and lazy

Dozing through the day

Conserving energy till drowsy dusk

And night-time hunting

A fearsome predator in the dark

Stalking killer

Silent assassin

Striking without warning

Calm and camouflaged

Spotted, sandy, black

Among the shimmering leaves

This shy, retiring cat

Elusive at noon-time

Yawning, revealing razor teeth

Blinking yellow, slit-like eyes

Which gaze, bored, at his admirers

Lithe and muscular

His deceptive power concealed

Hidden in his restful pose

A paw casually hanging down

Towards the ground

Awesome in his beauty

And as the sun sinks low

Burning into the horizon

Casting long shadows

The nervous herdsmen

Move their lowing cattle

Inside their flimsy compound

Away from night-time danger

And stare after the retreating jeeps

As they roll away, back to camp

Amid rising clouds of dust

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Rosehip Syrup

Recipes for: ROSEHIP SYRUP

Ingredients:

• 700g fresh rosehips, cleaned & washed
• 1kg fruit sugar
• ½ tsp rose-water (optional)
• 1 tblsp lemon juice

 Method(1):

1. place the rosehips in a pan, cover with water, bring to the boil, then simmer for 20 minutes until soft
2. strain the liquor through a fine sieve into a bowl
3. return the pulp to the pan, adding the same amount of water
4. bring to the boil again & simmer briefly
5. strain out the liquor again (second extraction)
6. return the pulp to the pan, add water, boil, simmer
7. strain out the liquor again (third extraction)
8. discard the pulp
9. turning to the gathered liquor, measure the amount you have, then pour into a clean pan
10. for every two cups of juice, add one cup of sugar
11. add the rose water & lemon juice
12. bring to the boil & simmer for 20 minutes, skimming off any froth
13. pour into warm, sterilised jars & seal whilst warm
14. cool, label & store

 Method(2):

1. get a large clean Kilner jar
2. put in a layer of rosehips
3. cover with enough sugar that you cannot see the red of the rosehips
4. put in another layer of rosehips, then more sugar
5. keep layering until the jar is full
6. seal tightly, then place the jar into a dark cupboard
7. leave for a month or two until the sugar has dissolved
8. strain into a sterilised jar

 What else you need to know:

1. remember that this is a syrup, not a jelly, so it isn’t meant to set
2. serve on pancakes, with Greek yoghurt, or with ice-cream
3. you could also use it in a Charlotte or upside-down pudding

Fungus

Fungus

A slow progress through the countryside

Breeze-carried through the air

Whispering, a gentle breath

Infection, invisible and insidious

Creeping, hidden, unseen movement

Bringing disease and certain death

A tiny fungus, just a spoor

Microscopic, beyond perception

Multiplying, growing quickly

Inside the branches and the leaves

Spreading, covering its victims

A landscape dying, wheezing, sickly

Trees ailing, falling, humbled

By the contagion in the country

Cut back, thrown upon the fire

A forest with holes in, open to the sky

The ashes slowly die back

And burn fierce upon the pyre

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016 

Trousers

Trousers

What a wonderful invention are pants! Or, as the upper classes say, “trizers” -

For the lower male garment comes in many forms - it all depends on what the wife buys us.

You’d think the designer’s not got that much to go on, when he thinks about gentlemen’s kegs,

But - you must have a large hole for the body and (I suppose) at least one for the legs.

Of course, trousers come in so many forms: cords, pantaloons, slacks, whatever you wilt:

Plus-fours, culottes, even trackie-bottoms or, if you’re North o’ the border – the kilt.

But there’s more to it than first meets the eye, and the permutations can be legion -

You’d be surprised at the considerations when clothing a man’s nether region.

For a start, there’s the aspect of comfort, which demands a great deal of care,

But, naturally, some of the problems depend on your style of underwear.

For chaps are sometimes known to go Commando, which can lead to a great deal of slipment,

To say nothing of plenty of movement amongst the various bits of equipment.

But, if they’ve got any sense, they’ll wear undies to keep everything tidy and neat,

Shorts, slips, jock-strap, or a nice pair of boxers, but a good pair of knickers is hardest to beat.

They keep the meat and two veggies warm and, I don’t want to hear any drivel,

For if things below are allowed to get cold, there’s a serious danger of shrivel.

This allows the trousers to get on with their main job, like the role (for the ladies) of their skirts,

Which, apart from providing some modesty, is there mostly for the tucking of shirts.

That’s to say nothing of extra functions, and you’re in no position to mock it,

When we enter that very strange kingdom - the diverse uses of the male pocket.

For there you can keep your change, or some keys - about the contents you can get cocky -

Not to mention that pursuit of little boys - a furtive quick game of pocket-hockey.

Openings and fastenings are many, a subject that can cause some chaps to worry:

Buttons are slow, but zips can be dangerous, especially if you’re in a great hurry.

For you need a belt and braces approach, and you must be aware of what you’re about:

On leaving, “Gentlemen - Adjust Your Dress” - you mustn’t leave anything still sticking out.

So let’s pause and celebrate men’s trousers, a serious subject that everyone mocks,

I hope I’ve explained it all clearly – but just don’t get me started on socks.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Attachment

Attachment

She got it mail-order – it came in a large van -

She’d been wanting it since last December,

And with a flourish of her credit card,

There it was – a new family member.

Now I like to think I’m as clean as the next man,

And with a duster I’m a lovely mover,

But ‘Er Indoors goes in for extreme cleaning,

And she’d demanded the latest hoover.

There’s all types on the market you can buy,

Including several from Mister Dyson,

But it was a special one she’d coveted,

A top-of-the-range one she’d had her eyes on.

It took three days just to unpack the boxes:

The cardboard and plastic wasn’t the least,

For this thing needed major assembly -

I soon found it was a hell of a beast.

This fantastic piece of machinery

Towered above me, erect and so tall,

Covered in sockets, dockets and ports -

So many clips and wires, and that wasn’t all.

The orifices, gizmos and nozzles

Harboured so many attachments and tools,

Brushes, fitments, hoses and extensions:

She stared in wonder at her new Crown Jewels.

There were things for every application:

Truly this was a space-age appliance.

It had more computing power than NASA,

And was forged in the white heat of science.

It could do every possible job needed:

You just had to read the right instruction,

To locate the right setting or programme,

And it would produce mind-boggling suction.

She fell in love with it at first sight,

She could see it would be a lovely mover:

This machine that would do anything -

Truly it was a Swiss Army Hoover.

I remember the days of just pushing one round,

A job that could be done all alone,

But this thing was full of technology,

And I think it had a mind of its own.

It seemed to have clear fixed ideas,

About the best method for house cleaning.

There was something about it quite spooky -

If you get the drift of my meaning.

It was all programmes and electronics,

Controls and switches that needed setting,

So complex and damned complicated,

That we’d no idea what we were getting.

It talked to us when it wanted something,

In a synthesised voice thin and reedy,

Like when it wanted its dust-bag changing:

Soon we realised that it was quite needy.

It started to follow me round the house,

Even if I wandered from room to room.

It didn’t like being on its own much -

You could say it was a lonely vacuum.

There was almost nothing it couldn’t do,

And its motor was virtually silent.

I began to feel it was spying on me,

For it was there, wherever I went.

I had to creep quietly when I moved -

It created in me paranoid cares,

Until I discovered a new strategy,

For, just like a Dalek, it couldn’t climb stairs.

I thought that I’d finally beaten it,

And that I’d be able to live in some calm,

But it started using its extensions,

And to plot ways to cause me some harm.

You see it wanted ‘Er Indoors for itself,

And to be the holder of her affection,

It couldn’t stand me being in the way,

And it sought to sever my connection.

So in the end I took drastic measures,

And “by accident” fed it some water -

The explosion was quite spectacular -

There’ll be no more trouble from that quarter.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

When The Archbishop Came To Call

When The Archbishop Came To Call

Our village is a quiet sort of place;

You can hear the autumn leaves as they fall,

But strange things started to happen,

Last Sunday, when the archbishop came to call.

St Nicholas is the name of our church,

Where suddenly everything came to a stop,

Expecting the top man from the C of E,

You know – Rowan – for he’s the Archbishop!

It was all meant to be very informal,

To give thanks for our Bishop’s loyalty,

But that’s not how it all turned out on the day -

You’d think they were expecting some royalty!

Now normally there’s not many goes there,

The congregation’s usually measured in tens,

But soon as word started to go round,

The vicar was cleaning his Mercedes-Benz.

The parishioners went into overdrive,

So that His Reverence would be very well-met.

They polished up the Church’s silverware,

And got set to roll out the red carpet.

The Erics, and Dereks, and all of the clerics,

Got themselves into a great fluster,

They pulled out all their best vestments,

And flicked round the vestry with a new duster.

The pulpit was given a make-over,

They made it into such a big deal -

Up in the bell-tower things were afoot,

They arranged to ring a grand quarter-peal.

They practised the bells for two days and nights,

The place was full of crumbly old ringers,

You couldn’t move for them pulling the ropes,

And they made a real set of swingers.

Come the day itself, things started to happen:

The last thing you’d feel would be lonely.

It was like “Songs Of Praise” had come to town:

In the church it was standing-room only.

There was a danger of over-crowding:

It was close to a riot – that’s a fact.

Inside people sat on one another’s knees,

Into the pews they were forcibly packed.

  

There was no outbreak of religious fervour,

Such was the opinion of the Dean,

But more of a social occasion,

As they all struggled to see, and be seen.

Now I’m not of a Christian persuasion,

I’m an atheist I have to confess,

So I don’t get what the fuss was about,

Just to see a bloke turn up in a dress.

Instead I decided I’d go down to the pub,

I just fancied to drink a few jars,

But I couldn’t get into the village,

For the two-mile tailback of cars.

Thousands wanted to get to communion,

There was a queue for road-side conversions,

There was chaos for miles all around,

The police set up road-blocks and diversions.

A helicopter droned low overhead,

Crack teams of snipers were up on the roofs,

And a ring of steel surrounded the pub,

Leaving me wondering just what this proves.

I hope that the moral of this story is clear,

Though some of my tale might be quite tall:

Don’t try to do anything near normal,

When an archbishop comes by to call.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 16th October 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 16^th October 2016

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

                                                        

1.       Plaudits have rained in this week since Thursday’s announcement by the international No-Bells-And-Whistles Committee that this year’s Prize for Literature would be awarded to Bob Dillon, one-time singer/ songwriter from Bromham.  Some of his lyrics have been the sound-track to people’s lives, and include such timeless classic lines as “Farting In The Loo”, “It Ain’t Me Constable”, “It’s All Over Now, Babybel” and, of course, “Just Like A Courgette”.

2.       And the village was cast into mourning on Saturday when the death was announced of Bean Alexander, who played the popular figure of “Builder Ogden”, the hard-bitten but often hen-pecked husband, who meagrely supported his family with bodged jobbing building work, in the long-running soap opera "Coronation Chicken”.  He played the role for over twenty years, and his performances created such now-famous catch-phrases as “oh”, “what?” and “eh?”.   Fellow actors were quick to praise his casual approach to acting, and his at times apparently totally feckless demeanour.  He will be sadly missed. 

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

Drought

Drought

Tramping feet of skinny cattle

Track-herded, raising dust billows

Between brown, empty fields

The earth, dried and caked

Cracked and baked

Crusted solids parched beneath a searing sun

The glaring, cloudless sky

Fierce and rain-barren

Curses and punishes the land

Withholds its water from the needy

Liquid long receded, unreachable

Deep beneath the surface

Leaving not a thing alive in the sterile landscape

Condemned to a gasping, choking death

In the over-heated breeze

Burned, beaten crops defeated by the dryness

Lie strangled, wispy roots withered

Lifeless, straw-like stretchings

Fingering down between cracks of powdered soil

Exhausted by the struggle to survive

Shrivelled and stunted in the cratered furrows

The ground cries out for moisture

Any drop to slake and quench its thirst

Its desiccated loamy texture

Dirt-crumbled in the empty air

Powdered into shifting dust, drifting into piles

Driven by an arid wind, which whispers as it blows

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Blood

Blood

A sudden slice of skin pearls, peels apart

tiny droplets, liquid beads

sitting pert, proud

waiting, welling moments

brimming, holding pause

awaiting further strength to push on

Then the pump and pulse

the stroke of a distant heartbeat

mechanics and hydraulics

forcing fluid pressure

through arteries, veins, capillaries

the cut-confines broken

an inundation, a rupturing

pouring crimson from the wound

a tracered stream of life-blood

red-staining onto flesh-whiteness

The torn and jagged scratch-line

filled and flooded by the flow

drops spotting the ground

AB Positive perhaps

vital to some-one else

but my wasteful gory loss

waiting the staunching, the padding and bandaging

or the subtle clotting power

of life’s congealment

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Cauliflower Curry

Recipe for: CAULIFLOWER CURRY

Ingredients:

·         Large cauliflower, cut into florets

·         2 large potatoes, peeled & cut into chunks

·         1 tsp cumin seeds

·         1 tblsp ground coriander

·         ½ tsp turmeric

·         ½ tsp fenugreek

·         1 tsp ground cumin

·         1 tsp chilli powder

·         Tin tomatoes

·         750 ml water

·         1 tsp salt

·         200g frozen peas

Method:

1.       Fry the cumin seeds in hot oil until they brown

2.       Add coriander powder, turmeric, fenugreek, cumin, chilli powder.  Mix & fry for 30 secs

3.       Add cauliflower & potatoes, frying gently for 5-10 minutes until well coated with spice mixture

4.       Add the tin of tomatoes and fry for another 5 minutes

5.       Add water and salt, simmering for 15 minutes until vegetables are just tender

6.       Add the frozen peas, cooking for another 2-3 minutes

7.       Serve with breads/ rice & pickles

Flushed With Success

Flushed With Success

There was a young man by the name of Ness,

Who to the toilet rushed in distress.

It’s a good job he made it,

Or else I’m afraid it,

Would have led to an embarrassing mess.

I can’t say what he was going to do,

It’s just that he had to get to the loo.

To reveal what then occurred,

Would need to have a rude word,

So let’s just say it was Number Two.

Now he was from a good part of town,

And realised with a puzzled old frown,

That if it’s at all yellow,

You can just let it mellow,

But if it’s brown, you must flush it right down.

Thus it was that he pulled on the chain,

As it hung there above the porcelain,

But it came off in his hand,

Leaving him there to stand,

And deliver himself of this sorry refrain.

“Oh dear!  I can’t see how I can mend,

This thing that’s broken so I can send,

That which sits in the bowl,

To disappear down the hole,

And carry on, right past the u-bend!”

As I say, this man was no navvy,

And with plumbing was not very savvy.

He didn’t wish to dwell,

Or to stay with the smell,

But wanted to escape from the lavvy.

He found himself trapped there in the loo:

He was in a right pickle, it’s true.

He put down extra paper,

To cover the vapour,

And wondered what else he could do.

Upon a solution his mind was now set,

And up to the cistern he wanted to get,

The mechanism to beat,

He stood on the seat,

But his foot went through, into the toilet.

Which caused the said contents to be pushed,

Deep into the water and mushed.

This meant that his floater,

Was no longer a boater,

And decidedly the opposite of flushed.

He heard himself let out a great roar,

As it all overflowed onto the floor.

His foot was all muddied,

As the cubicle flooded,

And it all ran away under the door.

It filled his shoe and got into his sock,

When on the door came a very loud knock.

Someone wanted a wee,

In this here W.C.

And had started to rattle the lock.

Ness knew he needed a proposal,

For the man outside with his nose’ll,

Guess what occurred,

Regarding the turd,

Unless he could conclude a disposal.

He began to feel like an animal caged,

As the intruder grew more enraged.

It always rankles,

With pants round your ankles,

So he shouted out loudly: “Engaged!”

And the moral of this altercation?

Make sure you’ve got good information,

Take plenty of towels,

Before moving your bowels,

And test before your evacuation.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Morning Has Broken

Morning Has Broken

Morning has broken

But the coffee’s not yet spoken

The clouds of last night

Still fog up my sight

The daylight’s too bright

I’m not yet ready

Nor feeling too steady

Time to get through the gate

In spite of my state

The newspaper must wait

It remains to be seen

When I get that hit of caffeine

If the day won’t hold any fear

And the clouds in my head will finally clear

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016