Mission

Mission

We left upon a high tide

Of love and hope and enthusiasm

That pushed us gently off from home

Out into the starry night

To travel upon waves of faith

And the best of our technology

We embarked upon the journey

In our silvered ship of dreams

Carrying deep within the belly of its hold

Supplies and building blocks of life

Essentials for the colony

And a fragile early settlement

And now we can only wait

And voyage on regardless

Tracking our co-ordinates

On our pre-determined trajectory

A long-distance one-way ticket

Through cold and airless space

There will be no return

No coming back across the void

From this long-term venture

To a dry and dusty planet

With its darker horizon

Orbiting further from our Sun

But we may survive for long enough

To thrive and procreate the species

To build a tenuous foothold

Upon the rocky surface

Where we can stand defiant

And watch the Earth rise once again

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Socks Without Partners

Socks Without Partners

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

With a happy ending that’s a heartener,

Of a garment that was lost in the washing,

The tale of a sock without a partner.

Tootsie, for that was the sock’s name,

Suddenly found herself lonely and lonesome,

Carried off in the basket with the rest,

But realised she was all on her own-some.

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

Then her other half seemed not to be there.

How had they managed to drift apart,

When they’d always been part of a pair?

She’d found herself in with some dirty types;

Their filthy behaviour caused her to wince,

And she found herself turned inside out,

When she finally came out of the rinse.

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

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

And it was only as she hung on the line,

That she realised that she was now single.

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

She started to rue, her anxiety grew,

She knew she was useless on her own,

There was no purpose unless there were two.

Then a kindly old night-shirt took pity,

When he saw that Tootsie was crying.

He made a suggestion to the young sock:

There was a way out, something worth trying.

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

“Where singles can meet with a view to dating:

Goes by the name of Socks Without Partners,

Where the lucky ones may end up by mating.”

“But I’m too old to find anyone now,

With my ticking biological clock,

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

Thus wailed the little pink and white sock.

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

My stitching’s all bobbled and sunken,

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

And my elastic’s completely shrunken.”

  

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

By putting forward your very best foot.

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

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

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

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

You only get two minutes for chatting,

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

So Tootsie was thrown in the airing cupboard,

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

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

Was that a flash of pink she could see there?

The colour wasn’t perfect it seemed,

The patterns on them differed some ways,

But they found that they had plenty in common,

To team up together for a few days.

The other old sock had lost his partner too,

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

But they decided they could walk out together,

And, as a new partnership, they could meet.

So the moral of this story’s quite clear:

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

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

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 26th February 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 26^th February 2017

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

                                                    

1.      Vegetable producers in Bromham were cock-a-hoop this week when it was announced that a recent medical study has suggested that good health could be promoted by eating up to 15 portions of carrots or swedes per day.  Villagers feel that the study backs up the claims they have been making for years - that the secret of their collective longevity is due to the relationship they have with cabbages, cauliflowers and other vegetables.  On the other hand, that could be something completely different.

2.      Shock and awe in the world of football this week as Bromham Casuals sacked their enigmatic and charismatic talisman manager Benny Dogleash.  After leading the team to a totally unexpected championship of the Germolene South-West Wiltshire League A (Southern Section) last year, this season he had seemed less sure and appeared to have lost the confidence of the makeshift (home) dressing room.  The team now hovers uncertainly only one point above the relegation places, and the owners of the club (the bloke in the Big House on the High Street) finally lost patience with their appointee.  No strikers were injured in the making of this statement.

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

At The End Of The Pier

At The End Of The Pier

The gaps between the weathered planks underfoot

Left tantalising glimpses of the drop

Down to the restless sea boiling beneath

The waves slapping hard against the piles

Barnacled and seaweed-strewn

A watery world, above which we were held aloft

On the bracing breezy boardwalk

Heads down into the wind

Eyes hooded against the slanting light

Along the corroded iron-girdered structure

A jaunty finger jutting out from land

Edged around by rusting railings

Their corroded layers of leaded paint

Flaking in the sea-salt onslaught

Of many stormy seas

And elemental winters

The pier’s attractions sheltered in the middle

Clustered tight together in serried rows

Harbouring sweet and sickly smells

Of sugared rock, ice-cream and candy-floss

What-the-butler-never-saw machines

And pulsating penny arcades

That held the promise of a prize

The seafood stalls set out their wares

Of cockles and crab-sticks

Pinky prawns and pin-hunted winkles

And shops that touted windmills

Flags and buckets and spades

Kiss-Me-Slowly cowboy hats

And revolving wire stands

Of saucy seaside postcards

Picturing pot-bellied punters

That had lost their little Willie

Then beyond the chevroned deckchairs

The booths and bandstand of a bygone era

Faded relics of Edwardian grandeur

Out towards the final destination

And an end of walking

The promenade’s pointing prow

With but a single heavy telescope

That cost a silver sixpence

To let the gormless gaze out into the bay

Before bowing to the inevitable

And setting out upon the journey back

That could never be as thrilling

As that first stroll out into the sea

And towards a setting sun

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Oh! Mr. Weatherman!

Oh! Mr Weatherman!

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

You said it wouldn’t get any wetter,

But when I look out of my window,

I can’t see that it’s got any better!

My violets are all shrinking,

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

It’s chilly and miserable and windy,

And tonight there’s a threat of more frost!

What happened to Spring and to Summer?

Why are your isobars clustered together?

Aren’t we due for a warm front now,

And a promise of much better weather?

The shoots in my garden are shivering

My onions look like bunions

My spuds seem to be duds

The peas think I’m a tease

Cabbages creeping, parsnips not peeping

The kale has gone pale, I think it might fail

And oh golly, just look at my caul!

This cold can’t continue

Ever more rain, is more than a bane

It’s causing me pain, again and again

I know what it means, for my haricot beans

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

And I’ve called off all bets

When it comes to courgettes

Outside it’s all drear and wet

It’s the worst season yet

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

Inside of my greenhouse

I’m avoiding the slugs and the bugs

But even here there are foes

But that’s how it goes

With snails among my tomatoes

So, please Mr Weatherman!

This forecast of yours sucks -

Let’s get some new heart into your chart

Cause we don’t want the weather for ducks!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Chicken with tapenade, basil and goat's cheese

Recipe for: CHICKEN with tapenade, basil & goat’s cheese

Ingredients:

• Skinless chicken breasts
• 80g soft goat’s cheese, crimbled
• 30g pine nuts
• 1 tblsp black olive tapenade (but green is OK)
• 2 tsps tomato puree
• Bunch fresh basil leaves, roughly chopped
• 2 tblsp olive oil
• To serve:
• Salad leaves, baby spinach etc
• Salad dressing of your choice
• 1 tblsp grated parmesan flakes

 Method:

1. heat oven to 180C/ fan 165C/ gas 4
2. in a bowl mix together the goat’s cheese, tapenade, pine kernels, tomato puree and half the basil
3. make a deep horizontal cut in each chicken breast
4. stuff with as much mixture as will allow you to pinch the chicken breasts together again, and secure with small cocktail sticks
5. mix the remaining mixture with the olive oil and smear it all over the chicken breasts
6. place in a baking dish and roast in the oven for 35-45 minutes, depending on the size & thickness of the chicken.  Cook until there is no pink meat
7. to serve, place salad leaves on plate, dress lightly with the dressing
8. remove the chicken breasts from the dish to a carving board
9. remove the cocktail sticks carefully
10. cut the breasts diagonally into two or four pieces, and arrange them with the salad leaves
11. pour over any remaining oil/ juices from the baking dish
12. scatter over the flakes of parmesan and the remaining chopped basil

 What else you need to know:

1. this is simpler than it looks, but the result is impressive

Fielding An Illegible Player

Fielding An Illegible Player

I thought at first it was just a slip of the tongue

A simple error that anyone could make

But as I spread the marmalade upon my toast

And heard him explain some more about it

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 began to fade away

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

Then the room came sharply back into focus

With the shelf and the radio all present

The toast 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

Hanging On

Hanging On

The frustration of not being able to get through, to send & receive clearly, on demand, but to be at the mercy of technology, time & cyberspace.

I thought it was meant to be progress?

This stuff they call technology?

My smart-phone’s turned into a dumb-phone,

And 4G’sjust  a piece of kidology.

I don’t want to download, I don’t want to upload,

I don’t want to jabber in code:

I just want to talk to the bloke who lives down the road.

This lack of signal’s a pain, I’m giving myself wrist-sprain

I’m going insane, whilst trying to gain

The position to “send” once again

I’d be in my element, I’d become a real gent

If this text could be sent

But instead I’m reduced to railing

Cos the damned thing keeps failing

The designer of this should be quailing

If I got near him he’d be wailing

I’d want the bugger jailing

I get really riled, each time when I’ve dialled

One of the numbers I’ve filed

When it says it’s unknown, then it fails with a groan

And I can’t find a dial-tone, or enough bars on the phone

I’ll admit that I’ve cried, whenever I’ve tried

To follow the User Guide, then I get “Access Denied”

I’ve even tried bending

To improve the chances of sending

It’s my money I’m spending

But the damned things always offending

My hair I’m tearing and rending

The problems are never-ending

And my messages and calls are tending

To a status of “pending”

Why can’t I get through? 

What am I supposed to do?

I think I should sue!

I’m clearly stating, that this situation I’m hating

I’m fed up of waiting, the problem’s never-abating

It shouldn’t fail, it’s not the Holy Grail!

Not on this scale, it’s beyond the pale

So I think I’ll give up and go back to email

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Tasting Notes

Tasting Notes

The world is full of wonderful wine,

So many that it’s very hard to choose.

But you’re supposed to be particular,

Not just knock it back like booze.

So I was dragged along to a wine tasting,

Then told to wait patiently and sit,

But the biggest shock I got that night,

Was being told not to swallow, but to spit!

Apparently, you can’t just rush in:

You’re supposed to take your time, and savour it.

If you go and drink it too quickly,

You’ll not discover your favourite.

There was a method and a protocol,

I soon learnt, that had to be observed,

Although I’d have liked to just get on with it,

From quaffing too quickly I had to be deterred.

Firstly they all gazed upon its colour,

Finding words to describe its “shades” and its “tints”,

So I swallowed a few mouthfuls,

And listened to them talking of “hints”.

Then there was some swirling around in the glass,

To develop the “bouquet” and the “aroma”:

But I decided to just finish my glass,

Before I slept, or fell into a coma.

I thought after that we’d get on with it,

But they started mentioning the “nose”,

So I started sipping a bit more of it -

What they were waiting for, God Alone knows.

Then, finally, they got on to the drinking,

And to their palates (that means the taste),

But I was already way ahead of them,

I drank a bit more, no time to waste.

They started swirling it all round their mouths,

And rolling their eyes as they savoured,

And sucking in air, and pinching their cheeks,

Was another method they favoured.

Then they spit it all out in front of me!

And started describing it as “amusing”.

It was “intense”, some called it “immense”,

But I just found their chatter confusing.

  

Now I can’t see the point of spitting it out,

Once you’ve got the stuff in your gob,

So I carried right on swallowing,

Trying my best not to look like a yob.

They were on about it being “floral”,

It was “delicate” I must understand,

And when they said it was “well-balanced”,

By this time, I had a glass in each hand.

I couldn’t frown, as I let it slip down -

They said it was “full-bodied” and “smooth” -

But by now I was cursed, with a great raging thirst,

And my drinking was looking uncouth.

The “complex notes” passed by their throats,

And there were “distinctive undertones”,

But this “fragrant” medium, had turned into tedium,

As I threw back the Cotes de Rhone.

At lasht they were talking of the “finish”,

Of how the “fragrant notes” really shung.

They were lying, to call it shatisfying,

The tashte hung around on my teeth & my tongue.

To be perfectly honesht, I’d had enough,

My legsh felt shaky; I went t’wards the door,

Everything looked all kind of doubled;

I needed no more, as slowly I shlid to the floor.

Sho take the moral of thish shtory;

And lishen to me when I try hard to shpeak:

Don’t drink too fasht, try and make it lasht,

And – shorry – I’ve to dash for a leak!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 19th February 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 19^th February 2017

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

                                                    

1.      Bromham International Airstrip’s main terminal was in lock-down this week after the reported murder of a man identified as Dim Cong-Eal, who may or may not be related to Dum Cong-Eal, the megalomaniac leader of North Wiltshire Council.  Bromham police have so far arrested 1,275 people in connection with the incident, in which the man is suspected of being poisoned. But, in a confused press conference yesterday, the authorities admitted that they had released 1,276 people on bail pending further enquiries. Ben Dover, the village drunk, has not been seen since.

2.      The situation at the airport was further complicated when Harry’s son, Ford, mistakenly drove his tractor onto the main runway, thinking that it was simply a local access road. As jets landing and taking off swooped only feet above his head, Ford radioed the control tower, asking if these aircraft movements were meant to be taking place on his farm.  Ford, a local celebrity, used to train hawks, as far back as the year 2000, when his favourite bird was known as the millennium falcon.

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

A Different Country

A Different Country

Things were different way back then

We accepted different things

How our heroes sailed before the mast

And behaved the way they did

Because no-one knew to stop them

But today we’re ready to talk about the past

Seeds sown so many years ago

Lain dormant, suddenly awaking

Tear-watered, flourish fast

And grow into monstrous shapes

Cast long shadows on the guilty

And leave the public full aghast

A long, long shameful silence

Brooding on bottled-up emotions

And how history’s since been cast

Now emerging into light of day

And moved to naming famous names

How could they expect such lies to last?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Cherry & Almond Cake

Recipe for: CHERRY & ALMOND CAKE

Ingredients:

• 200g butter, softened
• 200g golden caster sugar
• 4 eggs
• ½ tsp almond extract
• 175g self-raising flour
• 85g ground almonds
• ½ tsp baking powder
• 300g glace cherries
• 100ml milk
• 2 tblsp flaked almonds

 Method:

1. heat the oven to 160C/ 140C fan/ gas 3
2. line the base & sides of a 20cm deep cake tin with grease-proof & butter it
3. beat together the butter & sugar until light & fluffy, then beat in the eggs one by one, ensuring that each is well incorporated before adding the next
4. fold in the almond extract, flour, ground almonds and baking powder, followed by the cherries (see below) and milk
5. scrape the mixture into the prepared tin & scatter over the flaked almonds on the top
6. bake for 1 hour to 75 minutes, or until the cake has risen with a golden-brown top, and a skewer comes out cleanly
7. cool the cake on a wire rack before serving

 What else you need to know:

1. if you want the cherries to be distributed throughout the cake, cut them up a bit.  If you leave them whole, they will tend to gather towards the bottom

Killer In The Village

Killer In The Village

There’s a killer in our village

And he’s not been brought to justice

He’s out there right now

Walking round a free man

Because no-one knows

About his guilty secret

There’s a killer in our village

He’s just an ordinary guy

With a wife and children

Worrying about his credit card

And his hefty mortgage

Perhaps the same as you and I

There’s a killer in our village

And everybody knows his name

They see him down the pub

And he plays on all the local teams

They’ve been known to pat him on the back

When he makes a winning score

There’s a killer in our village

Who knows how to hit a target

He’s top gun at computer games

With hand/ eye co-ordination

Second-to-none, rated excellent

For a special military job

There’s a killer in our village

Yet no-one lives in any fear

He drives over to the airbase

And he works his every shift

Then he passes through security

And descends in to his bunker

There’s a killer in our village

But no-one’s after him

He peers into his monitor

Yet he’s never in any danger

A pilot who always stays at home

And flies the drones in Afghanistan

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Wargames

Wargames

Heads bowed forward

to concentrate upon the task

clean-shaven faces

beneath the headsets

reflect the screen-glow

amid an arcade of work-stations

computers and communications

racks and tangled cables

hands upon the joysticks

making careful corrections

to course and altitude

fingers flicking nervously

around the bomb-buttons

as the targets come into focus

An aerial view of desert landscape

criss-crossed with beaten tracks

unfolds slowly far below

small settlements of human habitation

at the correct co-ordinates

and the sought-after compounds

encompassed by perimeter walls

home to suspected fighters

insurgent enemies

in a distant combat zone

The transmission time-delay

of remote telemetry

muffles the stark reality

of sound and vision

of the over-flying drone

dealing out its deadly cargo

of silent sky-borne death

whilst the pilots sit secure

removed from any jeopardy

detached and unconnected

bunkered beneath the ground

in a rural homeland

amid cool and air-conditioned calm

within the secure perimeter

behind the blast-door

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

My Funny Valentine

My Funny Valentine (an anti-dote to the hearts-and-flowers sentimentality of Valentine’s Day).

I have to say it’s been a bit slow lately,

In the “bedroom department” you know,

So I thought I’d tempt my dear beloved,

And try to bring back the old glow.

February four-teenth looked a good bet,

For that, as you know, is Valentine.

I thought that if I put in some effort,

Once again, our hearts could entwine.

I went and bought her some fine roses,

The best ones I could see in the shop.

It cost me an absolute fortune,

My funds had already started to drop.

Undeterred, I continued my bounty,

And I added a selection of chocs:

Nothing cheap, I really must emphasise,

Not a small one, but a very large box.

I wrote her poem, declaring my love,

And put it into her Valentine card.

It’s not easy writing poetry, you know,

It fact, I’d say it’s quite hard.

And finally I worked at the cook-book,

To present her with a very fine dinner.

I felt sure that this would win her heart,

I’d even say I was on to a winner.

I made our dining arrangements,

And over the details I took some pain.

There was soft, gentle lighting,

Mood music, and some pinkish champagne.

I hoped that she’d be impressed,

As she swooned over the effects,

And hopefully, when she’d eaten her meal,

There’d be kissing, and cuddling and sex.

But the best-laid plans of mice and of men,

Are often reputed to go far astray.

The course of true love rarely runs smooth:

I was in for a disappointment that day.

She was allergic to the chocolates I’d bought,

And she burnt her mouth on the soup.

The meal I’d cooked was truly awful,

And the sauce just tasted like gloop.

She thought my poem was real corny,

She scratched her arm on the roses’ thorn,

She got drunk on the champagne,

Which left my hopes all forlorn.

She went off to bed with a headache,

As can be a fair creature’s fashion.

I had to do all the washing-up,

And that was the end to all of my passion.

I was left on my own,

To sigh and to moan.

I’d wined her,

I’d dined her.

I’d thought that we two,

Would bill & would coo,

But it’s easy to see,

It just wasn’t to be.

So what lesson can we draw from this tale?

What should we take as love’s sign?

Well - if you think pink,

It’ll drive you to drink.

You know in your head,

That it won’t lead to bed.

So he’s got a lot to answer for, that Valentine!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Outrage

Outrage

The explosion comes

Always without warning

The ear-drum splitting noise

The force of the blast

And the percussive shock-wave

Of shrapnel as it flies in all directions

Screams of terror fill the air

And dust-clouds billow

As if to coat the bloody bodies

And hide them from inspection

The crack of concrete

And the crunch of shattered glass

An uneven layer of dusty debris

The smoking aftermath of bombers

Deal out death and indiscriminate injury

Damaged bodies and severed limbs

Casualties littered across the street

The wail of urgent sirens

Heralds the arrival of police and paramedics

Who crawl across the wreckage

To pull out maimed and mangled bodies

In unseen heroic acts

But who later on are more visible

Standing outside the hospitals

And before the cameras

Giving details of the deceased

And estimate the numbers

And yet these official figures

Take on very different meanings

Whether in Boston or Baghdad

In London or Afghanistan

Where the value of a Western life

Becomes inflated by the media

And where a Middle Eastern soul

Who was someone’s husband

Mother, father, brother

A lately-living person

Is reduced to just a cipher

Just a nameless victim

And somehow worth a little less

Copyright Andy Fawthrop  2017

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 12th February 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 12^th February 2017

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

                                                    

1.      After furious exchanges in the recent Parish Council meeting, it has been decided not to invite that bloke from Wiltshire Council to address the village after all.  The squeaker of the Council, Mr John Berk, raised both boos and cheers on Tuesday when he said that he did not feel it appropriate to extend an invitation to a man who was reputed to be a carrot-snaffler, a goat-nadgerer, and a serial horse-massager.

2.      And the columns of the Bromham Bugle have been alive with letters both supporting and denigrating football star David Fuckem whose leaked emails appeared to suggest that he was unhappy with never having been awarded the Freedom of Bromham.  Mr Fuckem’s agent, Hugh Jarse, defended his client, saying that “Brand Fuckem” is still alive and well, quoting Mr Fuckem’s extensive charity work with under-privileged village urchins, mud-larks and ne’er-do-wells.  His wife, the stick-insect, Victoria Fuckem was not available for comment.  The village issued a sigh of relief.

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

Safari, So Good

Safari, So Good – a poem un-inspired by a visit to Longleat in the rain

It might be a strange thing to want to do,

But I had a craving to go to the park,

Not to that flat thing at the end of the road,

But to see the creatures saved from the Ark.

I wanted to see animals all exotic,

From Asia and Africa and such.

(I know that I’m living in Wiltshire,

But surely, it’s not asking too much?)

So we drove off down to Longleat,

And followed the signs right up the path,

Where they’ve got all sorts of creatures,

Including the latest Marquess of Bath.

Now I know it probably costs a few bob,

To build a few enclosures and cages,

But I didn’t think it’d cost me so much:

To get in was at least a week’s wages!

And we should have picked better weather,

Cause the day was all cloudy and wet,

And I think it were on a cold Monday,

The most miserable day you could get.

The animals were getting over their week-end,

Sunday must have been better, I’ve no doubt,

So they were all sleeping it off,

And none of them wanted to come out.

We couldn’t choose, to go on a Jungle Cruise,

For the boats were all moored up that day.

We had a short phase, lost in the Monkey Maze,

But even the meerkats slept – what can I say?

We repaired to the Capybara Café,

But they didn’t have anything we’d want,

Nor did we stay, in the Hippo Hideaway,

And ended up in the Rhino Restaurant.

My Safari Burger had made me feel bad,

So I had no wish to go on the Funfair,

What I needed were the great open spaces,

The Africa Drive-Thru and get some fresh air.

This’ll be good, we thought as we drove,

We’ll see the wide open Savannah at least,

With buffaloes, giraffes and some zebra,

And great herds of wildebeest.

  

Alas the experience was somewhat different,

Past warning notices and thence,

Two sets of gates and piles of barbed wire,

Warders in Jeeps, and a security fence.

Security cameras watched our every move

To ensure that we weren’t in any danger,

You weren’t allowed out of the car,

And we were watched every few yards by a ranger.

It was a bit like being in Parkhurst,

Not that I’ve been there, you know,

Except there was nothing for the captives to do,

Not even some mail-bags to sew.

The lions were bored and sat under the trees,

Like listless teen-agers kicking their heels;

Eyeing all the tasty-looking people in cars:

To them we must’ve looked like Meals on Wheels.

Then out of the final enclosure,

The short line of cars and vans waggled,

A quick trip to the Tiger Toilets,

And then homeward, weary and bedraggled.

So if you’re looking for a wildlife experience,

Whilst you’re dreaming, or lying in bed,

Take a word of advice from someone who knows,

Save up, and go to Africa instead.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

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 spce 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 minute

7.      Serve with breads/ rice & pickles