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Tuesday, 30 November 2021

Rebounding

Rebounding

I simply cannot lie quite still

And take the heavy weight

Bearing down upon me

Allowing myself to be crushed

The breath choked out of me

Until blackness overcomes

 

Nor will I be defeated

Or lose my self-belief

Nor have my spirit broken

For I will fight back every time

Against defeat and disappointment

Despair and deep depression

And I will get back up

And lift up my eyes

To stare back into the faces

Of those who dare to put me down

 

I will re-new, re-start, re-boot

Re-fresh and re-assess

Taking in my stride

Whatever weighs upon me

Re-framing things

In their right proportion

And regain correct perspective

 

For I am better than this

So I will dust off the dirt of disappointment

And reassert my determination

Showing my resilience

By picking up the fallen pieces

And replacing the rose-tinted glasses

Upon my smiling face

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Monday, 29 November 2021

Endless Day

Endless Day

Waking early, escaping hours of restless sleep

Shuffling down stairs in threadbare slippers

And faded dressing gown

To face another tedious day

She makes tea in the old brown pot

And sits at the empty kitchen table

Staring out through the cobwebbed window

 

Lambent rays of dawn

Flirt with the dark horizon

Struggling to get another daytime under way

Only slowly lighting the cloudy sky

Heavy with coming rain

 

The silence sits oppressive

And darkness gathers round

She ignores the gently dripping tap

As she drinks a second cup

And smokes a cigarette

Reflecting on the empty day ahead

The hours yet to be traversed

The quiet to be endured

 

Restlessly wandering from room to room

Sometimes standing, shiftless

Rearranging tasteless ornaments

Long since collected

Now unloved, undusted, unwanted

But something to do with her hands

To keep them from trembling

 

Sometimes sitting down again

Leafing through year-old magazines

Loathe to listen, minute after lingering minute

To the quiet ticking of the clock

Among the clutter on the mantel

Its hands seeming not to move

As the endless hours stretch away

For another long day with little purpose

 

The deserted hall, no-one to call

No letters in the mailbox

And a phone that never rings

Staring into empty space

Alone, with time to kill

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Sunday, 28 November 2021

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 28th November 2021

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 28th November 2021

 

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:                                              

1.      D- Town was left reeling this weekend as completely unexpected cold weather swept in from across the world.  Winter winds and rain, previously completely unknown at the end of November, punished anyone daring to go out without a big coat.  Hundreds of people, dressed only in flimsy shirts, shorts and flip-flops, declared themselves astounded that the weather could act in this way, and petitioned the DIMWIT (D-Town International Meteorological & Weather Information Trust) to do more to raise awareness of such climate-based events. 

2.      And a second blow has been dealt to the town, especially to the hospitality sector, with the discovery of a new Omigod variant of the Covid virus.  Scientists continue to beaver away in D-Town’s world-beating immunology labs in Silicon Alley (just off the High Street, behind the old Abbey National Building Society) in the search to find an a vaccine.  So far several other strains and variants have come to light, such as O-Bloody-L, OMFG and Lukat-That. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

Saturday, 27 November 2021

Coffee Shop

Coffee Shop

They come in waves

An ebb and flow of clientele

In and out, like a restless sea

Seeking favourite seats and corners

In the back, or near the big window

The regular morning ritual

The daily caffeine fix of choice

With standard order and loyalty card

 

The comforting, constant soundtrack

Of the steaming machine

The harsh grinding of Fairtrade beans

And gurgling of scalding water

Brewing long shots of espresso

Americano, Mocha and Latte

The counter filled with cakes and chocolates

And the clanking of spoons in cups and mugs

Clattering in saucers carefully carried away

 

Singles sit quietly, stirring froth

Peering into phones or computers

Living out their different lifestyles

Absorbed in the not-here, not-now

Thoughtful, contemplating

Playing with the sugar sachets

Or flipping idly through the papers

 

Ladies in twos and threes

Hustling and bustling

Amid bulging shopping and handbags

Between crowded tables

Dropping voices to a whisper

Through confidential sections

Of their general gossiping

Chatting and chattering

Lingering till lunchtime

Before suddenly rushing away

To meet a pressing engagement

 

Then the unexpected pause

A reduced coming and going

The noise dropping down to a whisper

Leaving chairs at awkward angles

A rare respite in operations

The barrista sighs and wipes his brow

And a waitress clears the tables

Wiping surfaces as she goes

Behind the receding tide

Of floating humanity

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Friday, 26 November 2021

What Will Our Children Say?

                                           What Will Our Children Say?

What will our children say

When they look back at us,

From the vantage-point of their tomorrows,

Towards their empty yesterdays?

Will they understand our lack of action,

The time we wasted with indecision,

And let things drift from year to year,

Missing all those warning signs?

 

What will our children say

When they see that we could not agree,

And how we fought amongst ourselves,

Bickering, procrastinating,

Caught in many minds,

Snared in short-term self-interest,

And how we dithered and deliberated,

As things got worse and worse,

Just calmly carrying on,

Always hoping for the best?

 

What will our children say

When they look at what we did,

How we didn’t even try to change things,

But carried on regardless,

With pure blind faith in new technology,

Looking blithely to the future,

To provide the answers

That we could not find today?

 

What will our children say

About our undirected course,

With no hand upon the tiller,

Drifting towards oblivion,

Worrying only about the cost?

How will they ever comprehend

How we let things get this bad,

Used up all Earth’s bounty,

Exhausting our lonely planet,

Leaving a dirty, dried-up cinder

To circle round the Sun?

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Thursday, 25 November 2021

Apple, Oat & Banana Loaf

Recipe for: APPLE, OAT & BANANA LOAF 

Ingredients: 

·        3 large eggs, lightly beaten

·        200g olive oil

·        200g natural yoghurt

·        50g maple syrup

·        2 ripe bananas, peeled & mashed

·        1 red apple, grated

·        1 small carrot, peeled & grated

·        250g wholemeal spelt flour

·        3 tsp baking powder

·        ½ tsp salt

·        50g quick-cook porridge oats

·        75g soft brown sugar

·        ½ tsp grated nutmeg

·        ½ tsp ground cinnamon

·        100g raisins or sultanas

·        50g mixed seeds

·        50g chopped walnuts

 

Method: 

1.      Heat oven to 190C/ fan 180C/ 375F/ gas 5

2.      Grease two one-litre loaf tins & line with greaseproof paper

3.      In a bowl, whisk eggs into olive oil

4.      Whisk in the yoghurt, maple syrup, banana, apple and carrot

5.      In another large bowl sift in the flour, baking powder & salt

6.      Add the oats, sugar, spices, raisins, seeds & nuts

7.      Fold in all the stuff from the wet bowl

8.      Spoon mixture into the tins so that they are two-thirds full

9.      Smooth the tops & scatter with extra seeds

10.   Bake for 45-50 minutes until golden, and a skewer comes out clean

11.   Leave in tins to cool for 5 minutes, then remove & transfer to wire rack

12.   (optionally) when cool, brush with a little extra maple syrup

 

What else you need to know: 

1.      Best eaten within two days

 

Wednesday, 24 November 2021

Bit On The Side

Bit On The Side

I said that I could never do this -

Give myself up to words and waiting, wishes and whispers

Which disappear like mist in the morning

When I awake alone

With the sun rising, poking its light through blinds

Hastily drawn last night

 

I said that you should not come

Whenever the mood just took you

Leaving her alone with your alibis

And feeble excuses

To sneak your way to me

Turning your key in my lock

To find me always alone, ever-waiting,

Too desperately pleased to see you

Aching for your smile, your touch, your kiss

 

I said I would not live like this

Sharing short hours of stolen time

Mistress of your hidden desires

Fed by promises, endearments

And guilty late-bought offerings

A life unnaturally discreet

Behind closed doors

A kept pet within a cage

Your plaything, what you will

 

I said I could not exist alone

Caught between blind hope and cold despair

Bereft at your every going

Angry at each desertion

Hanging on, spoiled but tortured

Our coupling in the early evenings

No longer love nor lust, but only longing

For you to stay with me and stroke my face

And hold me through till morning

 

I said that I should live a life more normal

And be with you for all of the time

Together every day

Not just when you can steal away

To scramble my feelings

And tangle my bedsheets

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Tuesday, 23 November 2021

Your Hand

Your Hand

I felt your hand holding tightly onto mine

To keep me from falling down

When I struggled to stand and walk

Unaided by your side

Stumbling through my early steps

 

I felt your hand gently touching mine

To stop me losing heart

And keeping faith with all my dreams

When I doubted my own intentions

Finding my uncertain way to you

 

I took your hand close within mine

To show that we would be forever joined

You and me against the world, my love

Words and promises and rings

An affirmation of intentions

 

I held their hands when they were small

So they should know that I was there

Other lives that looked like mine

But better, brighter in every way

My hopes for a greater future

 

And when I could no longer move

Nor leave this deathly bed

Your hand held tightly onto mine

And you talked and talked into the night

So that I should never be alone


 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Monday, 22 November 2021

Powerless

Powerless

Empty calm descends

Upon the cooling house

As motors cease to hum

Falling into solemn stillness

Sudden TV and radio silence

Reduced to muted dumbness

With regular bulletins hushed

Amid the sudden rush

To join the armistice

Of unexpected quiet

Within the working day

 

Juice no longer in the wires

Plastic plugs and sockets

Stand redundant

Clunky, hard, dead things

Lying there unused, discarded

Their life-force deserted

Retreated down the circuit

Beyond a small switch far away

 

No longer any motive power

Nor easy electronic force

No pumps or ticking timers

No clocks or blinking lights

Alarms disabled, motors crippled

Equipment and components

Lie unmoving

As if awaiting further instructions

 

Then ensues a deathly hush

Through cold and empty rooms

Broken only by a ticking mantel clock

Driven by its tensioned spring

Beating out the passing time

In the darkened gloom

As the quiet settles

Heavy as a layer of dust

With almost a presence of its own


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021 

Sunday, 21 November 2021

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 21st November 2021

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 21st November 2021 

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:                                              

1.      The world of D-Town cricket has been rocked to its very foundations by accusations of institutional racism at all levels of the game.  This has been strongly denied by D-Town CC President Ivor Paleskin, appearing before the cameras with his all-male committee, dressed in their traditional cricket whites.  “We don’t allow blacks or coloureds here”, he said.  “They would only run in the wash and spoil the whites.  It’s purely a laundry thing.” 

2.      And dreadful news for D-Town commuters this week as it was announced by the Council that funding for the Eastern leg of the proposed HS2 (High Speed Tractor Route 2) is to be withdrawn.  The route out to the badlands of TrowVegas with now be served by a tractor replacement 49 bus and milk-float service.  A new fare structure, allowing the carriage of bales of hay and sacks of slurry on normal passenger services will be introduced. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

Saturday, 20 November 2021

Sea and Sand

Sea and Sand

Huddled behind the flapping wind-breaks

On creaking candy-stripe deck-chairs

Naked toes wriggling in the cold damp sand

Watching children play among their castles

The long, chilly day stretches far ahead

From sea-wall to a distant horizon

              

Optimistic hats and sun-tan lotions

Jostling with novels and newspapers

In the beach-bags of bosomy matrons

While damp, gritty bath-towels

Shield the modesty of shivering teen-agers

Changing out of cold wet swim-suits

 

Seagulls scream in the slate-grey sky

Perhaps portending later rain

Before the distant tide

Slowly comes back in again

Its waves sliding up the chilly beach

Erasing empires built along the shore

And enforcing the reluctant retreat

 

The last desultory donkey-rides taken

Flags and windmills rescued from the water

Before climbing to the esplanade

And a long promenade along the windy pier

To reach the lonely telescope

Which points towards the blackened sea

 

Then fish and chips in warm, greasy paper

Or cockles and mussels in plastic cups

The sharp and pungent waft of vinegar

Competing with the fresher smell of ozone

While seeking shelter against the elements

On the seats behind the life-boat station

 

And later, licking ice-cream and candy-floss

While steadily feeding slot machines

In glittering amusement arcades

Where noisy one-armed bandits

Devour great piles of tanners

Until, bored and poorer

Driven outside again

To stroll, wind-driven

Back along the Front

To buy rock and Kiss-Me-Slowly hats

 

Reading every comic card

On the twirling wire stands

Before games of football in the park

Krazy Golf, then Pitch and Putt

Before sauntering back slowly

To kill more time, before facing High Tea

And the tyranny of the guest-house landlady

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Friday, 19 November 2021

When I Was Older

                                                     When I Was Older

When I was older, things made much more sense

And everything kind of hung together

In a way I no longer understand

Life was serious, dull and boring

In a black and white sort of way

But it got me through the years

To get me where I am today

 

When I was older, I knew clearly who I was

Where I was going, what I was doing

And who was near and dear to me

I played the role of responsible adult

Father to my children, husband and provider

Worker, money-maker, decision-taker

Lover, and sometime man of leisure

 

When I was older, I grasped what it all meant

What mattered, and how to get things done

I knew who you were then

Why you left me and where you had gone

I hid my small box of cares and worries

And I kept the lid tightly closed

So that you should never know

 

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

The smells, the sounds, the sights leap right out

Everything is there in full colour

I find that I have nowhere I need to go

I need not make any great decisions

Except what I should have for my dinner

And what time I’d like to go to bed

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Thursday, 18 November 2021

Pumpkin/ Squash Soup

Recipe for: PUMPKIN/ SQUASH SOUP 

Ingredients: 

  • 4 tblsps olive oil
  • 50g butter (optional)
  • 2 medium onions, finely chopped
  • 1kg pumpkin or squash, peeled, de-seeded & chopped into chunks (reserve some of the seeds)
  • 700ml vegetable stock
  • 140ml double cream (or crème fraiche, or yoghurt – even milk)
  • Sprigs of fresh thyme and/ or sage
  • A few small cubes of stale bread 

Method: 

  1. if you want a nuttier flavour, roast the pumpkin/ squash first in a medium oven for 40 minutes, using some of the olive oil, salt & pepper and the fresh herbs.  This is not essential if you haven’t got time
  2. in a large pan, sauté the onions in the butter & a little oil – about 8-10 minutes.  You want them soft & lightly golden, but not browning
  3. add the pumpkin, stirring in the mixture to coat well.  Cook for a few minutes.
  4. add the stock & season well.  Bring up to a gentle simmer, part-cover & cook for 30-40 minutes, or until the pumpkin/ squash is quite soft
  5. puree with a hand-blender until very smooth, then stir in the cream
  6. bring back to a simmer
  7. meanwhile, in a small frying-pan, heat a little oil & butter until quite hot, then fry the cubes of bread to make croutons.  Stir in a few of the reserved pumpkin seeds until they are toasted.
  8. when golden, remove with a slotted spoon & drain on kitchen paper
  9. serve the soup in warmed, deep bowls with some croutons/ seeds scattered on top 

What else you need to know: 

  1. a swirl of cream or crème fraiche, or a dribble of chilli oil on the top is an alternative to the croutons/ seeds thing

 

Wednesday, 17 November 2021

Clown

                                                             Clown

Your appearance startles me

As I gaze upon your features

A false face with rictus smile

Wide-eyed, red-nosed grease-paint make-up

The wig, the hat, the jacket

Huge shoes and trousers

Ill-fitting coloured patched-up garb

Exaggerated, extravagant and eccentric

 

Your gestures make me flinch

Wild anarchic actions

Expansive and grotesque

Flapping, slapstick prat-falls

Tumbling to the crash of cymbals

Comedic foolish fall-guy

Miming pain and sorrow, a parade of emotions

And silent appeals to the comic gods

 

The crowd’s reaction does not move me

Their laughter growing

Mounting to crescendo

Faces smile-illuminated

Marvelling at the timing

Of the crazy performance within the circus ring

Watching Whiteface and Auguste

Conducting clowning chaos

 

But your deadpan muzzle leaves me cold

Your sinister expression

Raises phobic fear and terror

My voice sticks in my throat

To me you are no joking jester

Nor clowning priest of mirth

But a chill reminder of a childhood nightmare

A presence from dark anarchic night


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021 

Tuesday, 16 November 2021

Market Day

Market Day

Across the square, Cross-shadowed

Among redundant white lines

Car-cleared and bollarded

An encampment of trucks and white vans

Stalls under candy-stripe awnings

Channel raindrops into small streams

To drip from corners into baskets and trolleys

 

Shouting and calling, touting and yelling

Today’s bargains, special offers

Everything fresh from the farm

Cox’s in boxes

Bananas in bunches,

Grapes, tomatoes and pears

Eggs, bacon and ham

Puddings, pies and pasties

Sauces, pickles and jam

Milk, cheeses and honey

Flowers, veggies and fruit

Everything’s there if you’ve got money

 

Oily, scaly wet fish, fresh from the seas

Sharp-finned, bright-eyed and open-mouthed

All good at this price

Glittering, silver darlings

Fanned out on piles of crushed ice

 

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

Hoover bags, replacement parts, watches, batteries and clocks

 

Stall-holders sipping extra-sweet tea

Hugging the mugs for their warmth

Take-away bacon rolls cooling on the side

While change is quickly given

Keeping up incessant banter for the punters

A thriving cash economy

Among the strolling bargain-hunters

 

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

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

 

The wind whips round the deserted space

Whilst, inside, in the pub and the café

It’s time to watch someone else working

And for some hot food and a drink

A chance at last to get warm

A space to reflect and to think

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Monday, 15 November 2021

Playing The Game

Playing The Game 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Sunday, 14 November 2021

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 14th November 2021

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 14th November 2021 

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:                                              

1.      The latest last-gasp, last chance saloon, we’re-really not joking this time Climate Change talks held at the D-Town Symposium Centre and Skittle Alley (cheap rates available for block bookings) have resulted in yet another stalemate over the wording of the final communique.  Despite thirteenth-hour discussions held long into Saturday night drinking time at The Old Nadgers’ Arms, delegates could only agree to generate even more hot air next time they meet in some remote island complex, to increase consumption of blah-blah by 7.8%, and to limit the reliance on stalemate until 2040 (at the earliest). 

2.      And in a move that he hopes will be followed by other politicians, role models and society influencers, the mayor of D-Town has announced that he has reduced his pool of motorcars from four Jags to just two Jags.  He hopes to go to just one Jag in 2030 and to be Jag-neutral by 2040.  However, in order to protect jobs in the D-Town motor trade and ancillary services, he has warned that, in the short term at least, he may have to actually increase to five Jags.  He has also promised not to run some of the Jags on the road, but to keep them locked up at home in his private paddock, which he has referred to Jag capture and storage. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

Saturday, 13 November 2021

Double Agent

Double Agent

Do not be fooled by the easy manner

Or his apparently warm, affectionate nature

The well-groomed, tailored coat

Perfect hair and manicured whiskers

Nor his domesticated demeanour

 

Do not be taken in by his love of warmth

And cosy, comfortable, curled position

Nor his sleepy, silent gaze

As if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth

Always dozing during daylight

And rubbing round the legs at feeding time

 

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

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

For Sam is a double-agent, licensed to kill

A sleeper, hiding his true identity

Lying low until Agent Moonlight gives the signal

Calls him from retirement to carry out his next assignment

Working under cover of the darkness

For another operation in a foreign field

 

Passing through the portal, turning his collar to the night

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

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

Ready for rapid deployment, sleek and silent

He slips away without a backward glance

Leaving his safe house, out on patrol,

Round his marked and guarded territory

Eyes narrowed, focused, single-minded, ruthless

A trained professional, working alone

Driven by feral, instinctive urges

To taste fresh flesh and warm blood

Each evening before the curfew falls

 

This murderous, vicious assassin

Callous creeping killer in the night

Will make short work of anything that squeaks and scurries

Briefly before it dies, life throttled from its throat

Then brought back, trophy-style

To be chewed upon the killing floor

The fur and bones left undigested

 

Mission accomplished, victims abandoned

Honour and appetite satisfied

His shady, secret life discarded

He wanders slowly back to base

Reports in for the evening

Meanders to his sleeping quarters

Cleaning his equipment

Before, contented, curling tail beneath

Setting head upon his paws

To take his after-dinner nap

And resume his old identity

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Friday, 12 November 2021

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem

Squeeze the fruit, enjoy the juice,

And drink it whilst it’s fresh.

This really is that rainy day

And now, right now, is the very time

To indulge the appetite.

Do not prevaricate or hesitate,

Nor wait for some distant tomorrow.

 

Seize this memory,

This particular moment on this day,

This exact second when you saw and heard,

Smelt and felt this sensation.

Perhaps it will be there again another time

But you can never know for sure

And it may be lost it forever

If you let it go today.

 

There is no knowing what span of years is yours,

What may happen in days to come,

How long there might be still to go,

Or how close to the end

Before the force of life fails and fades,

When what holds it all together

One day will simply cease to work,

A heart no longer beating, pumping,

Driving the body to its daily workings,

Nor any longer draw in breath

As it has a million times before.

 

This precious thread will snap,

For it is thin and may break

At any moment, without warning.

Be careful, it is a fragile thing,

The material crumbling in your hand

Falling like dust between your fingers

Into an empty nothingness.

 

When the curtain finally falls,

Rehearsal over, there will be no performance.

The scene deserted, the actor gone away,

The costume lying empty

And piled inert upon the floor,

No lights, no dialogue,

No expression of emotion

And an end to thinking, feeling, aching.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Thursday, 11 November 2021

Rosti-topped Fish Pie

 FISH – ROSTI-TOPPED FISH PIE 

Ingredients: 

·        300g/ 10 oz waxy potatoes, peeled & halved

·        250g/ 9oz skinless white fish (or any mixture)

·        300ml/ 1/2pt milk

·        50g/ 2 oz butter

·        1 leek, washed, trimmed and finely sliced

·        25g/ 1 oz flour

·        2 tblsp chopped parsley

·        2 tsp Dijon mustard

 

Method: 

1.      Cook the potatoes in boiling water for 5-7 minutes until almost tender, but firm enough to grate

2.      Drain and refresh under cold running water

3.      Put the fish in a shallow pan and cover with the milk

4.      Simmer for five minutes

5.      Drain the fish, reserving the milk and set aside

6.      Heat half the butter in a small saucepan, and add the leek, cooking for 5 minutes until soft

7.      Stir in the flour and cook for one minute

8.      Turn the heat to low and gradually add the reserved milk, stirring all the time until the sauce thickens

9.      Stir in the parsley and mustard

10.   Heat the grill to high

11.   Flake the cooked fish into a gratin dish

12.   Fold in the parsley sauce and mix gently

13.   Coarsely grate the potatoes

14.   Melt the remaining butter and mix with the grated potato

15.   Pile the buttered potatoes over the fish and sauce, seasoning well

16.   Place under the grill for 5-10 minutes until the potatoes are browning