A Long Coffee

A Long Coffee

Hands clasped round her coffee mug,

She sits, but rarely drinking,

Staring into middle distance,

Detached, distracted, thinking.

In front of her the sugar sachets:

Three of white, and three of brown,

Placed in defensive formation,

Mirror of her worried frown.

Each drink maybe lasts an hour,

While she loiters and she lingers,

Waiting for the hours just to pass her by,

Teaspoon twirled in twisting fingers.

Alerted by the door, she glances up,

Checking the face of every stranger,

Then sinking back into her reveries,

Relieved she’s not in any danger.

She has precious little money,

So there’s neither cakes or biscuits to choose.

She’s read the newspapers through and through,

Waded through the gossip-column news.

It’s just something else to pass the time,

It’s the same thing every boring day,

And, with a tacit understanding,

The manager now just lets her stay.

He doesn’t want to get involved,

And, although she’s never said so,

He can see how she’s likely fixed,

That she has nowhere else to go.

She’s anonymous, a total no-one,

A cipher, a shadow, never making sound,

Avoiding any lasting eye-contact,

Blending with the faceless back-ground.

Making patterns on the table,

The same routine, killing off the dead time,

Reflecting on her empty life,

As if being friendless were a sort of crime.

She stares out through the window,

Watching the world as it wanders past.

Then buys yet another coffee,

To see how long she can make it last.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

The Lady Gail

The Lady Gail

Walking along the footway,

A path carried over a ridge,

Looking down at the old waterway,

From high, on top of the bridge.

Spying the weathered old barge,

Tethered to stakes at the edge,

The ropes twisted and tight,

Between the reeds and the sedge.

Thin metal chimney poked through the roof,

Emitting a steady smoke plume,

From the stove near the stern,

The thin galley, a shortage of room.

With fine, faded old artwork,

The reds, the greens and the blues,

Artful, intricate pictures,

Golds, yellows, several hues.

This girl had been beautiful once,

Though her paint had turned pale.

Now low, and snug in the water,

An old vessel, “The Lady Gail”.

Well-travelled, an itinerant,

Good body, mellowed face,

Wandering the waterways,

Moving on from place to place.

For days she moored there quietly,

Majestic, as if lying in state,

Resting her bones in the water,

Waiting, down near the lock-gate.

Then one day, towpath all covered in ice,

A space by the bank newly appeared:

The Lady Gail had slipped her mooring,

Just as I’d expected and feared.

No sign of her in either direction,

Her stay with us turned into history.

The cold water sadly deserted,

Her next destination a mystery.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Splash

Splash

Driving home, cold winter night,

Dank, dark, snowing hard still,

Traffic bad, peering ahead,

Round the corner, over the hill.

Road and pavements all icy,

Sleet lying thick on the ground,

Windscreen wipers beating

Their regular heart’s sound.

Two boys at the side of the road,

Doing something I cannot observe,

Smashed my screen with a snowball,

Just as I emerged from the curve.

Momentarily startled,

Shocked, but keeping my nerve,

Holding on, juggling the steering,

Battling the skid and the swerve.

Thoughtless, stupid little fools!

Couldn’t they see what they’d done?

Nearly causing an accident,

All for their moment of fun.

The intention was never mine,

Couldn’t see the pothole was there,

But to be perfectly honest,

I cursed and sure didn’t care.

Wheels nearly striking the kerb,

Direction all in a muddle,

Skidding through the slush and the mush,

Scything through the invisible puddle.

A happy circumstance then ensued:

Suddenly it was all over in a flash -

A huge arc of freezing cold water,

Covered them both with a hell of a splash.

Blinding the aggressors -

What a battle they’d been in:

A cascade of retribution,

Soaking both through to the skin.

Instant, cruel justice,

Dispensed without any trial,

Leaving them both fuming,

Whilst I drove off with a smile.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

No Room At The Bin

No Room At The Bin (or why some women seem to need ten times more space in the bathroom than a man).

I went in to the bathroom one day,

To clean my teeth if I may.

But the space was all clutter,

And I started to mutter:

We can’t carry on in this way!

My few things like a toothbrush,

Were squashed together all flush.

And my black plastic comb,

In its own little home,

All sitting right there in a crush.

I couldn’t help but notice her wares,

Spread out on one of the chairs.

But the things I required,

Were pushed to one side.

To me this hardly seemed fair!

Mascara, lipstick & eye-liner,

Were spread out, like in a diner.

There were six lotions,

And plenty of potions:

A display much better than mine were!

I spotted three types of shampoo.

She’d say there were too few.

Conditioner & ointment,

And at this point meant,

I couldn’t get near to the loo!

I don’t mean to grumble or mope,

But I’m starting to lose hope.

For too many creams,

Are giving me dreams,

Of being hung by soap on a rope.

I see she’s got three types of razor,

But this seems not to faze her.

Depillatory action

Is gaining some traction,

And one of them looks to me like a taser.

This variety’s all very well,

But when you’ve got ten sorts of gel,

The new body scrub,

Arranged near the tub,

Is leading to a bath-time’s version of hell.

There’s every form of cotton wool:

We’ve glass jars of it quite full.

Some buds & some balls,

Right round the walls:

It’s time that we went for a cull.

To say nothing of her dental picks,

Flosses, discloser and sticks.

Just for her teeth,

It’s beyond belief,

And is only one part of her tricks.

  

Some of the creams & the products are pink,

Some of them are blue, but all of them stink.

To moisturise,

And hoist up her eyes,

She’s got potions all round the sink.

Don’t get me started on vitamins & pills,

Which with the cabinet she fills.

Some’ll be vital,

But some of them might’ll

Be fatal – perhaps one of them kills?

Even though it’s meant to be shared space,

I feel crowded in this grooming arms-race.

Because it’s replete,

I’m admitting defeat,

And I’m out of my depth in this place.

Now of my misery I’ll no longer sing,

But, there’s a question got me wondering.

With all of this stuff,

Is it more than enough,

Or is there any left of the real thing?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Everything Changes (including Leicester!)

Everything Changes (you can’t count on any of the old certainties, these days – what’s happening?)

Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold:

It’s all entropy, we’re told,

But you get to depend on the way things are,

And certainties that never fold.

But now everything’s changing:

It’s enough to make you feel faint.

They’ve finished the Forth Road Bridge:

They used up their last pot of paint.

And as they lock the brushes all away,

Packing in a big shed all of their kit,

I’d love to look up at the great structure,

And say: “here – you’ve missed a bit!”

They’re telling us GMT will be no more -

Greenwich is going to the dogs.

They’re running now on atomic clocks,

In Paris! – it’s all a plot by the Frogs!

They say there’s a new particle:

They’ve seen a bump in the data.

It might be the missing Higgs-Bosun:

I hope they find it sooner, not later.

They call it the “God Particle” -

They’re sure that it’s there -

It’s been missing for quite a while now,

They’re looking down the back of a chair.

The Universe is expanding faster,

Faster than ever they thought.

It’s getting ever so big you know,

And the edges are still being sought.

Then they said that it’s full of dark matter –

That’s stuff that nobody can see.

So how they know that it’s there,

Well, it’s way beyond me!

Now they’ve come up with a new theory,

Which has got them all ensnared.

It’s buggering up all of the physics -

E might no longer equal MC squared.

Neutrinos are travelling faster than light,

For which there’s no reason or rhyme,

And if that’s true, which I very much doubt,

It just makes a right horlicks of time.

But it could explain some phenomena,

Like Doctor Who and Star Wars and Stargate,

Why things happen in the wrong order,

And why the buses always run late.

Now Leicester have won the Premier League title,

By beating so many much bigger teams,

At five thousand-to-one odds,

An achievement beyond all their dreams.

No, the old certainties have gone,

But there’s things you can always depend on -

Like bills and debts, and like death and taxes,

And toast always falling butter-side down.

  

Then there’s new promises that seem to be true:

Politicians will always keep lying,

And peeling very strong onions,

Will always leave you sobbing and crying.

The banks and corporates will make big profits,

And of tax loopholes make the very most,

But when they owe you any money,

You can be sure – “the cheque’s in the post”!

They’ll fiddle the interest rates if they can,

They’ll lie, they’ll cheat and they’ll steal,

Then they’ll lie to cover their crimes,

And live on bonuses of a level surreal.

Men will always chase women and girls,

Who never seem to heed the old warning.

For the worst of their promises will be:

“Of course I’ll still love you in the morning”.

So, you see, despite all this frightening stuff,

The Universe – we can’t do without it -

It’ll all carry on just as before,

And there’s buggar all we can do about it!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Truman Nature

Truman Nature – an apocryphal cricketing story for Summer.

When I were a young lad in Yorkshire,

Lived the greatest bowler, it’s said.

His name was sometimes Truman,

Always known as Fiery Fred.

He was fast and he was fierce,

And he took many a Test wicket.

There’s many a batsman’s took shelter,

When Fred was playing at cricket.

Eventually, the time came to retire,

And opponents heaved sighs of relief.

In Australia and the West Indies,

Heads would come no longer to grief.

So Fred took his missus on holiday at last,

And went to Antigua to take of his ease.

He soaked up the sun and the sea and the sand,

With only his good self to please.

One day, he wandered down to the village,

And watched the young lads there on the green.

They were playing knock-about cricket,

The finest young batsmen he’d seen.

A youngster came over and asked if he’d like to play.

He explained that they were a bowler short.

They didn’t know who Fred was,

So to be friendly, he felt that he ought.

He thought he could still show them a thing or two,

How he could make a ball swing:

He’d bowl some medium-fastish

And send the ball down with some zing.

The young batsman came up and took guard,

Aiming to hit Fred’s ball straight out for Four,

But Fred sent the ball down sharpish,

Pitched it up, and there it was - plum Leg Before.

Fred turned round to the Umpire,

But he soon became quite amazed,

For in answer to his shout of “Owzat, then?”

The official’s finger was not raised.

Fred couldn’t believe what he’d seen,

Walking back to his run-up with many a mutter,

He decided he’d get this bugger out,

By bowling his famous daisy-cutter.

He came roaring in like a train,

Delivering a venomous ball that was short.

The batsman swung and missed,

But it clipped his glove, and was caught!

  

“Owzat?!?!” shouted our Fred once again,

But the batsman refused clearly to walk.

To Fred’s chagrin, the umpire agreed.

And under his breath started to grumble and baulk.

What was going on here? He thought,

I know that these things are sent to try us,

But I’m the best bowler that ever there was,

How can I get past this cheating and bias?

He took an even longer run-up this time,

Tossing the ball from hand to hand in his ire.

His blood was up, his face was red:

Like days of old, he was breathing fire.

He sent down a delivery the fastest he could,

Down the pitch with its lumps and it bumps.

The batsman got nowhere near to it,

And the ball demolished his stumps.

The wickets went cart-wheeling through the grass,

The bails flew high into the air.

There was not a thing left standing;

In fact there was nothing left there.

Fred jumped in the air with delight,

Hopping from foot to foot in a mime,

Then he turned to the umpire with a smile,

And said, “I think I nearly had ‘im this time!”

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 1st May 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 1^st May 2016

                                             

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

1.       The Parish Council has been split this week after leading members of the Carrot-Rooters’ Action Party (CRAP) were accused of anti-rootimism, particularly some offensive remarks related to Jerusalem Artichokes.  A full enquiry is to be launched by CRAP into pro-brassica activities.  This will be a full investigation at vegetable root and branch level.  A spokesperson for CRAP said ‘there is no room for anti-Brussels Sprouts sentiment in this party, and we are determined to stamp it out’.

2.       And in a most unlikely scenario, it appears as if the football season in Bromham may have a fairy-tale ending.  Having been given short odds on relegation from the Germolene League (Western) Third Division, Bromham Casuals look as if they will pull off an astonishing turnaround.  If they avoid defeat by more than six goals in today’s game away at Trowbridge Terriers, they will finish one place above the relegation places, on goal difference.  Who would have thought it?

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