Officially Fragile

Officially Fragile

I went for my check-up the other day

A long-delayed appointment

And had to sit amongst the great unwashed

Whilst awaiting my consultation

And when it finally came round to me

And made it inside to see the doc

I sat myself upon the patient’s chair

And he asked me what my trouble was

Where to begin? I said morosely

And then proceeded to tell him of my woes

Of all my aches and pains

The stiffness in my joints

My general lack of energy

And all my trouble sleeping

That I hated taking tablets

Of how my hip was always hurting

As I waited for my operation

That I disliked walking with a stick

And was frightened now of falling

That I couldn’t carry heavy shopping

Nor stand for long when riding on the bus

How everything felt so exhausting

And how my bladder was no longer to be trusted

And he listened patiently to me

Despite all the others waiting in his queue

Asked a few general leading questions

Felt my pulse, took my blood pressure

And perused my bulging patient file

Before coming to his sad conclusion –

That I was doing pretty well, considering

My great advance in years

And it was only to be expected

He told me I’d earned a new designation

And reached another milestone in my life

He explained that I was now “officially fragile”

And that I must be extra careful

Because my bones were dry and brittle

That any breakage might be my last

And that my body would shy away from healing

So it’s a cotton-wool existence now for me

No going out or taking risks

Avoiding any surface that is hard

Which rules out just about everything I love

So I might just have to cancel

That long-awaited skiing holiday

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Stopped

Stopped

The house is slowly grinding to a halt

For want of better care and more attention

There’s nagging neglect and a lack of love

A running-down of what once was vibrant

But now, in the empty bathroom

The tap carries on its steady leaking

Its silent drips fall unheeded

And make a stain upon the sink

In the lounge, upon the mantel

The clock un-wound stands silent

And no longer tells the time

Nor chimes upon the hour

In the cheerless kitchen

The plates sit unwashed upon the drainer

Holding dirty forks and knives

Awaiting loading into the machine

And in the bedroom

The floor has gathered a fair selection

Of abandoned grubby clothes

Which have not yet made it to the laundry

Will no-one draw these gloomy curtains back

And let some light back in to the rooms?

How much longer can this go on

Before something starts to give?

How many days until everything’s gone

And there is nothing left that’s fit to use?

And do you think we will ever start again

To put our lives back in running order?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Bromham - Dateline 29th January 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 29^th January 2017

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

                                                        

1.       In a surprise move, the head of the Parish Council signed an Executive Order on Friday which put into place an immediate ban on all immigration through Bromham’s borders to a wide range of passport holders from foreign villages.  Even some Bromham villagers who had just popped in to Trowbridge or Swindon for essential supplies, such as truss-lubricant, baler-twine and horse linament,were caught out by the ban, finding their right to return denied and forced to sleep at the border in their tractor-cabs.

2.       It has been announced by the two brothers who live up in The Big House on the hill that they are to erect a statue of very large carrot.  They feel that, as twenty years has now passed since the Great Carrot Disaster in the village, the time has come to finally make a permanent memorial of the event.  A public carrot subscription is to be launched to fund the statue, but it is thought the brothers will also dig into their own filthy pockets.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Lengths

Lengths

It occurs to me from time to time

That there must be a better way

My head emerging from the water

Grasping for the air

Gasping, lungs hurting

Breathless from the effort

Between tired strokes

Sometimes near choking

In the careless back-wash bow-wave

Of be-spectacled dolphins beside me

Speeding through the swell

In their effortless freestyle

And that there are easier means

Than this daily immersion

In stinging chlorine spray

To drag an ungainly body

Through the crash and splash

Beyond the pain barrier

Of an aching, heaving chest

And exhausted arms and legs

Soon losing their co-ordination

And any sense of rhythm

Between the lines of lanes

And ability to remain

On the straight and narrow

And that perhaps it’s all so… pointless

This swimming end to end

The relentless back and forth

Of many measured lengths

To ignore the overwhelming urge

To simply stop and float awhile

Then sink slowly to the bottom

Amid the rising bubbles

To inspect the detail

And the regular pattern

Picked out in white and blue tiles

Whilst other bathers carry on regardless

And a lifeguard looks on in horror

At the body of a drowning man

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Breaking In

Breaking In

I parked down by the Castle last week,

A fantastic spot in a little side-street:

Very handy for the shops and the stores,

A location quite difficult to beat.

But as I returned from doing my shopping,

I was in for a terrible shock:

When I tried to get into the car,

I found my keys wouldn’t open the lock.

It looked like I’d have to break in,

An action which could only perturb,

So I got myself into a helluva panic,

As I stood there, helpless, at the side of the kerb.

Then I noticed something that might be of some help,

When I looked into my car at the back –

I’d luckily left open the rear window -

It wasn’t much – it was only a slight crack.

If I could only get my hand inside,

And reach over the top of the glass,

I’d be able to pull up the door handle,

And inside the car be able to pass.

It was a good scheme, tho’ I say so myself,

I just hoped my arm was sufficiently thin,

It would save making a pile of smashed glass:

With a bit of luck, I’d soon be within.

I huffed and I puffed to get my arm in,

Tho’ my technique was terribly poor.

Eventually I pulled on the catch,

And, finally, I opened the door!

What relief! And how happy I was,

As I flopped onto the back seat!

I just had to climb into the front now,

Then I’d have the problem totally beat.

But that was easier said than done,

And it certainly couldn’t be done quick:

I got myself tangled up in the seat-belt,

And it’s painful to sit on a gearstick!

Then at last, I was where I should be.

In triumph I sat behind the wheel,

Getting ready to drive back to my home -

You can imagine how it would feel.

  

Then I noticed something untoward:

There were some gloves on the passenger seat,

And some de-icer in the door-pocket -

How they’d got there had me totally beat.

The air-freshener was different,

And there was a road atlas in the rear,

But I never carried such an old thing,

And that’s when, suddenly, I felt queer.

I should have realised that I’d cocked up,

I should have known it was all wrong,

For this wasn’t my vehicle you see –

Mine was parked three cars further along!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Fairy Chimneys

Fairy Chimneys

Amid these ancient river valleys

In the river-hewn landscape

Bony fingers stretch upwards

Irregular sandstone columns pointing at the sky

Shielded from erosion of wind and weather

By basalt boulders perched precariously atop

Thus they sit

Wearing dainty caps

Stretched mushroom shapes

Tall fungal structures

Amid the tuff

Curved and crooked

Twisted, leaning

Top-heavy hat-stones

Defying gravity

Balanced high

Up in the air

Waiting for that moment

When the softer pillar

Will at last collapse

And rain down rocks

To the ground beneath

A fairy chimney no longer

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

That Takes The Biscuit

That Takes The Biscuit

They say a drink’s too wet without one,

And that’s not just a piece of somebody’s wit,

Cos when you settle down with a cuppa tea,

It’s no good without some sort of biscuit.

But finding the right kind can be tricky,

And there’s some myths need de-bunking,

Cos if it’s the wrong consistency,

Then it’ll be no good for dunking.

It’s got to home-baked and British,

Cos those foreigners can be a bit potty.

If you’re not careful it’ll be Amaretti,

A Florentine or a biscotti.

The Flap-jack, Cereal Bar and Blue Riband,

The Club, the Domino and all of that,

These fancy types are all very well,

But they don’t measure up to a Kit-Kat.

But you’re surely asking for trouble,

If you start off with chocolate in fingers.

You see, it melts off in the hot tea,

It covers everything, and it lingers.

Any kind of a sandwich, can be a real bitch,

And an Oatcake’s insufficiently hard,

And a Jaffa Cake’s a bit of a fake:

So’s a Garibaldi, called a Flies Graveyard.

People go to grand cities, to find a McVities,

To find Mis-Shapes, (those biscuits in bits),

To be daintily fed, on slices of Shortbread,

Or crackers with cheese, sometimes called Ritz.

You’d be knackered, with any kind of cracker:

You’d not want to suck, on one of those TUC,

Might even be safer, with some kind of wafer,

But a Bath Oliver’d give you no luck.

Of Ginger Nuts and various Cookies,

Their supporters would sing a grand tune:

Of Marie, Butter Pecans and Fig Rolls,

The Jammy Dodger, the Coconut Macaroon.

Now I don’t want to stand here and Hob-Nob,

About Oreos and Wagon Wheels:

For it would seem, that like Custard Creams,

Each of them turns into goo and congeals.

  

Crispbreads and Mini Cheddars ain’t the thing,

It’d even be neater, with a Ryvita.

Oats and nuts, just ain’t got the guts,

But a Digestive’s a world-beater.

It can be Nice to have a Rich Tea,

A Lincoln, or a Morning Coffee,

But a brown Bourbon, would be frowned upon,

And can’t match a Digestive for toffee.

So taking all into consideration,

My conclusion’s more than suggestive:

Just forget every other kind of biscuit -

You know where you are with a Digestive!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Turkish Delight

Turkish Delight

Into the Eastern lands of Anatolia

Hemmed around by ragged Turquoise coastlines

Through the narrow Dardanelles

Amid the seas of Black and Marmara

To Aegean and Mediterranean

Across the Bosphorus via Istanbul

No longer Constantinople, nor yet Byzantium

Sentinelled by soaring Aya Sofia

Once a church turned to mosque

Now monument and testament

To a long and bloody history

And inland a rugged landscape

Of ancient theatres and temples

The architectural artefacts

And stony remnants of many races

From warlike Hittites and their foes

Phrygians, Hellenes, Lycians and their ilk

Greeks, Romans, Kurds and Gypsies

Through many caliphates

And Ottomans of Empire

To the modern state

And legacy of Ataturk

Once, out of mankind’s nursery

In the basin of Tigris and Euphrates

And unknown distant places in the East

Along the ancient silk-road trading route

Carrying cargoes of gold and precious metals

Opium, silks and spices

Knowledge and know-how

Astronomy and astrology

And mystical religions

Came the camel-trains

Calling at the caravanserais

To break their arduous trek

Towards their Western markets

And now the groves of fruits and olives

The piles of teas and spices

The gemstones and the carpets

The flocks of goats and sheep

And the colours, sounds and smells

Of Turkish tastes and flavours

In the bazaars and hamams

Assault the very senses

Yet can give no explanation

Of this modern ethnic melting-pot

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 22nd January 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 22nd January 2017

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

                                                        

1.       Up to seven villagers, mostly wearing green kale leaves as camouflage, marched on the Village Hall yesterday in a mass protest against the inauguration of some bloke in another country that they had never actually heard of.  They were protesting against his anti-vegetable stance in a number of speeches he had made at some time in the past.  Police made no arrests. Buses were not re-routed.

2.       Village authorities have sought to play down a report in the Bromham Bugle that a test-firing of one of Bromham’s bird-scarers went badly wrong, and that two local villagers had become suddenly alarmed (instead of the intended rooks and crows).  “At no time were villagers in any danger,” said a spokesman.  He was, however, unable to explain why film of the test-firing had been deleted from the village website.  Spooky, huh?

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Beige

Beige

As I get to be another year older,

I think I’m starting to change.

My taste has gone right out of the window

In a way that seems spooky and strange.

It all began with magnolia,

Other paint colours just seemed to gawp.

I could no longer stand any bright shades,

And I developed a fondness for taupe.

I believe that it’s a rite of passage,

One you reach at a certain age.

Everything else appears far too jazzy,

And you get your first craving for beige.

It used to be brown, the colour of ear-wax,

But the appeal of that tint’s started to fade.

What I was really looking for, I realised,

Was something matching my hearing-aid.

It’s the same thing with clothing -

Attractive material now makes me retch.

I find I’m shopping for easy-care fabrics,

And trousers with waistbands that stretch.

No-iron, sta-prest and things that are cosy,

And easy-clean, so long as it’s not green.

Slacks, wind-cheaters and cardigans,

In nice polyester, or in Crimpelene.

I’m becoming an old person, I think,

I’m obviously reaching that stage,

Where I don’t care any more what things look like,

But where it’s important to be beige.

I want a jacket with leather elbow patches,

And trousers with vents and with slants,

Anything that will hide the volume,

And the shape of my incontinence pants.

I’m not looking for sex, but my reading specs,

With bright colours I’m near sated,

And it’s no longer the style, but the comfort,

Which is why everything I wear’s elasticated.

I’d rather be dead, than wear anything red:

In fact that would drive me to rage,

And I wouldn’t feel mellow, dressed up in yellow,

No – the only thing that’ll do now is beige.

  

I’d put up a fight, never to wear white,

The loss of the rainbow I’m not going to rue.

I’m just same about purple or black,

And don’t even mention royal blue!

No – it’s time to accept that time has moved on,

My taste has declined, and I’ve turned over a page,

So you can keep all shades and variations –

There’s only one colour for me now – and it’s beige.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Fielding An Illegible Player

Fielding An Illegible Player

I thought at first it must be a slip of the tongue

A simple error that anyone could make

But as the marmalade congealed upon my toast

I heard him explain some more about it

And I better understood what it was that he was saying

When he announced that my local club

Would be punished with a points deduction

A reprimand and a swingeing fine

It appeared the team had broken the rules

And fielded what he said was an illegible player

Which is a rather different thing

And as the sports reporter’s voice carried on

The breakfast table faded before me

And I was transported back to the touchline

From where I’d watched on Saturday last

And where I’d sought in vain to spot the winger

His whereabouts were uncertain, if not obscure

I just couldn’t make him out at all

A pass went out to him, to run down the wing

In an attempt, perhaps, to defeat the off-side trap

But he just wasn’t there, and the ball ran into touch

His position being indecipherable

His off-the-ball movement unreadable

He was totally anonymous in the game

Occupying a lacuna of space out on the right

An unseen presence, missing in action

His role in the side no more than a mystery

The meaning something I couldn’t even guess

The room swam sharply back into focus

With the shelf and the radio all present

The toast still soft and buttery in my hand

My mug of tea gone cold and un-drunk

And the announcer now on a different story

Having moved on from the offence and investigation

To the scores elsewhere in the league

I’m still not sure that I’d heard him quite right

But upon more sober reflection

I think he’d used the right word after all

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Inappropriate

Inappropriate

How can it come about?

How can it happen yet again?

These allegations and accusations

Made recently against you?

For are you not supposed to be a shepherd

Set in Holy Roman authority

Over the sheep within your flock?

Are you not supposed to lead them

On the paths of righteousness

Rather than into temptation

Created by the weaknesses

Of your personal failings?

Are you not a consecrated priest?

Entrusted with the sacraments

And the care of willing souls?

A reverend cardinal indeed?

Not fiddling with the altar-boys

Or inappropriate touching

But a role-model for all believers?

A ministry of care for others

Lived in unnatural celibacy

In a position of respect

Where others dare not challenge you?

And is it not bad enough

That you ask of others

What you cannot do yourself?

That you should abuse such trust

By your dubious behaviour

Without you making victims into liars?

And compound your unclean crimes

By pretending that you are pure

And hiding behind your church

Which conceals your crimes

And helps to cover up the scandal?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Casino

Casino

You can tell they’re coming in, the guide confides

By their happy, smiling faces!

They still have all their money!

We stop and watch the coaches

Filled with many Chinese men

The punters and the gamblers

Bussed in to the casinos

Brought here free of charge

To come and lose their cash

And later in the day

We wander cautiously inside

Out of prurient curiosity

Across the sticky carpets

And through the gaming rooms

To see them huddled round

The dealers and the croupiers

At the carefully spot-lit tables

Unsmiling now, grim-faced

Eyes glazed in worry

Brows folded in concentration

Wagering on the roll of the dice

The turn of a single card

Or the number on the spinning wheel

In games of blackjack, poker and roulette

And though they know the odds

Are stacked against them

They see the pile of chips before them

Their stakes slowly shrinking

And still they chase their daily dream

Trying out their latest System

For the one big win that will beat The House

And save them from their losses

And in the glitzy entrance lobby

We gaze in wonder at the floor

Where bars of solid gold

Are set in glassy blocks below our feet

A tantalising glimpse of the riches

That lie beyond the grasp

Of long- addicted losers

And then we see them on the bus again

Their faces hard and set

Being taken back to where they came

Now watch them leaving, says the guide

Not so happy now!  He laughs

Their money’s gone, gambled away

With all their hopes, poor suckers!

As they leave to find more money

To come and lose it once again

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Underdog

Underdog

Everyone said they had no chance

That they would surely lose

Against a better team

Of superior skill and guile

And of greater strength

That their outlook could not be hopeful

That they would surely be defeated

Outclassed, overwhelmed

And all their efforts overcome

And be badly beaten

Just for their impertinence

Of even daring to take the field

And the bookies gave the poorest odds

Saying their challenge could not be rated

But every underdog may have his day

And turn the situation round

By finding those hidden reserves

That no-one knew they had

Springing the sudden surprise

And cause an unpredicted upset

Snatching worthy victory

From out the very jaws

Of expected defeat

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

The Sett

The Sett

Hidden by the corner of the path

On the rising ground

Where the mound runs into the bank

Are the newest excavations

The latest extensions to the scheme

The diggings being carried on at night-time

A nocturnal construction project

Creating a modern morning earth-work

Revealed by heaps of spoil

The crumbled soil deposited neatly

Outside the D-shaped hole

Which leads darkly down

By under-ground pathways

Into a dark, black home

A subterranean complex

Of tunnels and hidden chambers

Beneath the grassy surface

That provides protection from the cold

And a nesting-space for gravid mothers

Where, in future days

The curious heads of cubs

May appear blinking to the light

A small study in black and white

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017 

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 15th January 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 15^th January 2017

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

                                                        

1.       Panic buying occurred at the village shop on Thursday after a single snow-flake was spotted by a man walking his dog out in the fields.  Villagers stocked up with milk, bread and Aunt Bessie’s pre-cooked Yorkshire puddings in a desperate attempt to get through the crisis.  Police advised people to abandon their homes.  The Wounded Ferret was set up as a social centre and bus services were re-routed for the day.

2.       The nature of the arrangements for leaving Wiltshire (Wexit) continues to be debated.  Whilst several have argued for a hard Wexit, there are those who want a very soft Wexit.  However new factions have emerged who want a slightly soggy-bottomed Wexit, those who want a crusty-topped Wexit, and even a breakaway group seeking a Roast Wexit with all the trimmings & gravy.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

The Ringers

The Ringers

Tramping one by one

Along the church-yard path

Which bends and turns

Between the weathered headstones

Of long-neglected graves

Testament to forgotten souls

That trod this path before

Around the nave and chancel

To the almost-hidden staircase

Harbouring narrow steps

Which twist and wind, well-trodden

Spiralling upward into the tower

To the musty ringing room

Concealed behind the clock

Where hang ropes and sallies

Through the wooden ceiling

And now the heavy bells

Are rung slowly down

The tenor and the treble

Prepared for ringing

That practice may begin

Of rounds and methods

Changes and hunting

The Bob and Grandsire Doubles

And the Quarter Peal

Aching arms

And brows of concentration

To get the timing right

Ready for every occasion

Of morning service every Sunday

Or joyful summer Saturday weddings

Or the simple sombre tolling

Of a single funeral bell

That may ring on any day

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

The Shit-Shoveller's Lament

The Shit-Shoveller’s Lament

It’s all right being a gardener,

In fact it’s one of life’s pleasures,

But it takes a real lot of hard work -

You can’t afford to be a man of leisure.

Take today, just for an instance,

It turned all sort of spring-like, to be sure,

Which could mean only one thing –

It was time to go get the manure.

For a garden needs nutrients,

If it’s to grow veggies and be dynamic,

And you can’t be using chemicals,

If you want your produce to be organic.

So you’ve got to something natural

To dig in with your fork and your trowel,

Which means – and there’s no escaping this –

You need stuff that fell out of an animal’s bowel.

Now some swear by cow, and some by sheep:

It doesn’t really matter whichever you do,

But I have my personal preference,

And that happens to be horse-poo.

So I went on down to my local farm,

To inspect a steaming pile that I’d spotted,

And to dig out several hundredweight,

Of that dark-looking substance, well-rotted.

I took my fork and my shiny new spade,

And I slid that compost into many a sack.

I shovelled that shit for all I was worth,

Until it felt like I was breaking my back.

I weighed the car down, till it sat on its springs:

I couldn’t get more of it in if I’d tried,

But if I thought the stuff had an aroma of the field,

You can’t imagine how bad it stunk there inside!

That brown sticky stuff just gets everywhere:

On your gloves, and your hands, and your wellies,

On your legs, your hat and your jacket,

Till, finally, every single part of you’s smelly.

But there’s one thing I had to remember,

And I hope that it’s obvious to see:

Even though I’ve been shovelling shit,

At least I was getting all of it free.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Beef with Pickled Walnuts & Pastry Stars

Recipe for: BEEF with PICKLED WALNUTS & PASTRY STARS

Ingredients: (serves 8)

For the beef:

·         1.5kg/ 3lb 5 oz stewing or braising steak, cut into generous cubes, fat removed

·         2 garlic cloves, peeled & crushed

·         1 bay leaf

·         440ml can/ bottle of stout or Guinness

·         85g/ 3oz butter

·         3 tblsp olive oil

·         100g/ 4 oz smoked streaky bacon in slices, chopped, or cubes

·         3 large Spanish onions

·         350ml/ 12 fl oz port

·         390g jar pickled walnuts (Sainsburys, since you ask), halved, reserving about half the pickling liquor

·         3 tblsp finely-chopped flat-leaf parsley

For the pastry stars:

·         2 tblsp flour

·         375g pack ready-rolled puff pastry

·         1 egg, beaten

Method:

1.       You can make the stars first or last – see the bit at the end.

2.       Put the beef, garlic, stout & bay leaf into a large non-metallic bowl.  Cover & chill for a few hours, or preferably overnight. Turn occasionally.

3.       Drain the meat & reserve the marinade.

4.       Pat the beef dry with kitchen towel.

5.       Heat half the butter & oil in a large pan, and brown the meat well in batches, removing to a flame-proof casserole with a slotted spoon.

6.       Add the rest of the butter & oil and fry the bacon & onions slowly & gently until they are golden brown and softened.

7.       While they are cooking, heat the oven to 150C/ 130C fan/ gas 2.

8.       When the onions are cooked down, stir in the flour, stirring well to create a roux

9.       Add the port and the reserved marinade & cook gently to blend to a smooth sauce/ gravy.

10.    Tip the lot into the casserole with the beef, and stir well to mix.

11.    Cover the casserole and cook in the oven for 2½ to 3 years, stirring occasionally.  Cook lower & slower if you can.

12.    The beef should become very soft & tender.

13.    Add the walnuts & reserved pickling vinegar. Add the parsley and stir through.

14.    Cook for another 5-10 minutes and serve.

15.    To make the pastry stars: roll out the pastry on a floured board. Using a star-shaped pastry cutter, cut out star shapes.  Put them on an oiled baking sheet. Brush with beaten egg & sprinkle with salt. Then place into a hot (200C/ fan 180C/ gas 6) oven and bake for 5-7 minutes until puffed, cooked & golden. Place on a rack to cool & reserve for serving later.

What else you need to know:

1.       Obviously you can make whatever pastry shapes you want, but stars are attractive & amusing.

2.       They can be cooked ahead of time & kept in an airtight tin for a couple of days.

3.       Before serving, just warm the pastry shapes very gently in the oven.

4.       Serve up the beef onto plates, then put the pastry shapes on top – makes a kind of deconstructed “pie”. Looks very impressive.

5.       Hand round a plate of extra stars/ shapes – they will soon disappear!

6.       The beef should be very soft & unctuous, the sauce very rich.

7.       No-one will guess that the mystery ingredient is pickled walnuts!