Attachment

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

She’d been wanting it since last December,

And with a flourish of her credit card,

There it was – a new family member.

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

And with a duster I’m a lovely mover,

But ‘Er Indoors goes in for extreme cleaning,

And she’d demanded the latest hoover.

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

Including several from Mister Dyson,

But it was a special one she’d coveted,

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

It took three days just to unpack the boxes:

The cardboard and plastic wasn’t the least,

For this thing needed major assembly -

I soon found it was a hell of a beast.

This fantastic piece of machinery

Towered above me, erect and so tall,

Covered in sockets, dockets and ports -

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

The orifices, gizmos and nozzles

Harboured so many attachments and tools,

Brushes, fitments, hoses and extensions:

She stared in wonder at her new Crown Jewels.

There were things for every application:

Truly this was a space-age appliance.

It had more computing power than NASA,

And was forged in the white heat of science.

It could do every possible job needed:

You just had to read the right instruction,

To locate the right setting or programme,

And it would produce mind-boggling suction.

She fell in love with it at first sight,

She could see it would be a lovely mover:

This machine that would do anything -

Truly it was a Swiss Army Hoover.

I remember the days of just pushing one round,

A job that could be done all alone,

But this thing was full of technology,

And I think it had a mind of its own.

  

It seemed to have clear fixed ideas,

About the best method for house cleaning.

There was something about it quite spooky -

If you get the drift of my meaning.

It was all programmes and electronics,

Controls and switches that needed setting,

So complex and damned complicated,

That we’d no idea what we were getting.

It talked to us when it wanted something,

In a synthesised voice thin and reedy,

Like when it wanted its dust-bag changing:

Soon we realised that it was quite needy.

It started to follow me round the house,

Even if I wandered from room to room.

It didn’t like being on its own much -

You could say it was a lonely vacuum.

There was almost nothing it couldn’t do,

And its motor was virtually silent.

I began to feel it was spying on me,

For it was there, wherever I went.

I had to creep quietly when I moved -

It created in me paranoid cares,

Until I discovered a new strategy,

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

I thought that I’d finally beaten it,

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

But it started using its extensions,

And to plot ways to cause me some harm.

You see it wanted ‘Er Indoors for itself,

And to be the holder of her affection,

It couldn’t stand me being in the way,

And it sought to sever my connection.

So in the end I took drastic measures,

And “by accident” fed it some water -

The explosion was quite spectacular -

There’ll be no more trouble from that quarter.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 15th July 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 15^th July 2018

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

1.   Huge delight in the town this week as twelve exhausted shoppers were pulled out alive from Morrisons’ bakery department, where they had been trapped with their trolley, and a dwindling supply of Tunnock’s Teacakes, for nearly two weeks.  A crack team of Army psychologists managed to talk them out safely, aisle by aisle, by stringing together a trail of “Reduced” stickers and BOGOF offers.  The rescue was hampered by the increasing presence of “Match & More” cards near the tills, and only the specialist expertise of the military were able to deal with the incredibly difficult conditions.  The shoppers are now receiving counselling.

2.  And The Vize’s branch of Poundland is having an almost unprecedented sale.  Job lots of “Engerland” flags, pennants, t-shirts and car-stickers are being offered for 99p as “unwanted stock”.  Recordings of “Football’s Coming Home” are now clogging the shelves.  Meanwhile several shops in the town have sold out of gentlemen’s waistcoats.  Never mind – Wimbledon finishes today, and the Proms season has already started, so it’ll soon “Winter drawers on” for Christmas.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

When The Archbishop Came To Call

When The Archbishop Came To Call

Our village is a quiet sort of place;

You can hear the autumn leaves as they fall,

But strange things started to happen,

Last Sunday, when the archbishop came to call.

St Nicholas is the name of our church,

Where suddenly everything came to a stop,

Expecting the top man from the C of E,

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

It was all meant to be very informal,

To give thanks for our Bishop’s loyalty,

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

You’d think they were expecting some royalty!

Now normally there’s not many goes there,

The congregation’s usually measured in tens,

But soon as word started to go round,

The vicar was cleaning his Mercedes-Benz.

The parishioners went into overdrive,

So that His Reverence would be very well-met.

They polished up the Church’s silverware,

And got set to roll out the red carpet.

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

Got themselves into a great fluster,

They pulled out all their best vestments,

And flicked round the vestry with a new duster.

The pulpit was given a make-over,

They made it into such a big deal -

Up in the bell-tower things were afoot,

They arranged to ring a grand quarter-peal.

They practised the bells for two days and nights,

The place was full of crumbly old ringers,

You couldn’t move for them pulling the ropes,

And they made a real set of swingers.

Come the day itself, things started to happen:

The last thing you’d feel would be lonely.

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

In the church it was standing-room only.

There was a danger of over-crowding:

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

Inside people sat on one another’s knees,

Into the pews they were forcibly packed.

  

There was no outbreak of religious fervour,

Such was the opinion of the Dean,

But more of a social occasion,

As they all struggled to see, and be seen.

Now I’m not of a Christian persuasion,

I’m an atheist I have to confess,

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

Just to see a bloke turn up in a dress.

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

I just fancied to drink a few jars,

But I couldn’t get into the village,

For the two-mile tailback of cars.

Thousands wanted to get to communion,

There was a queue for road-side conversions,

There was chaos for miles all around,

The police set up road-blocks and diversions.

A helicopter droned low overhead,

Crack teams of snipers were up on the roofs,

And a ring of steel surrounded the pub,

Leaving me wondering just what this proves.

I hope that the moral of this story is clear,

Though some of my tale might be quite tall:

Don’t try to do anything near normal,

When an archbishop comes by to call.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drought

Drought

Tramping feet of skinny cattle

Track-herded, raising dust billows

Between brown, empty fields

The earth, dried and caked

Cracked and baked

Crusted solids parched beneath a searing sun

The glaring, cloudless sky

Fierce and rain-barren

Curses and punishes the land

Withholds its water from the needy

Liquid long receded, unreachable

Deep beneath the surface

Leaving not a thing alive in the sterile landscape

Condemned to a gasping, choking death

In the over-heated breeze

Burned, beaten crops defeated by the dryness

Lie strangled, wispy roots withered

Lifeless, straw-like stretchings

Fingering down between cracks of powdered soil

Exhausted by the struggle to survive

Shrivelled and stunted in the cratered furrows

The ground cries out for moisture

Any drop to slake and quench its thirst

Its desiccated loamy texture

Dirt-crumbled in the empty air

Powdered into shifting dust, drifting into piles

Driven by an arid wind, which whispers as it blows

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

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 minutes

7.      Serve with breads/ rice & pickles

Blood

Blood

A sudden slice of skin pearls, peels apart

tiny droplets, liquid beads

sitting pert, proud

waiting, welling moments

brimming, holding pause

awaiting further strength to push on

Then the pump and pulse

the stroke of a distant heartbeat

mechanics and hydraulics

forcing fluid pressure

through arteries, veins, capillaries

the cut-confines broken

an inundation, a rupturing

pouring crimson from the wound

a tracered stream of life-blood

red-staining onto flesh-whiteness

The torn and jagged scratch-line

filled and flooded by the flow

drops spotting the ground

AB Positive perhaps

vital to some-one else

but my wasteful gory loss

waiting the staunching, the padding and bandaging

or the subtle clotting power

of life’s congealment

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Flushed With Success

Flushed With Success

There was a young man by the name of Ness,

Who to the toilet rushed in distress.

It’s a good job he made it,

Or else I’m afraid it,

Would have led to an embarrassing mess.

I can’t say what he was going to do,

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

To reveal what then occurred,

Would need to have a rude word,

So let’s just say it was Number Two.

Now he was from a good part of town,

And realised with a puzzled old frown,

That if it’s at all yellow,

You can just let it mellow,

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

Thus it was that he pulled on the chain,

As it hung there above the porcelain,

But it came off in his hand,

Leaving him there to stand,

And deliver himself of this sorry refrain.

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

This thing that’s broken so I can send,

That which sits in the bowl,

To disappear down the hole,

And carry on, right past the u-bend!”

As I say, this man was no navvy,

And with plumbing was not very savvy.

He didn’t wish to dwell,

Or to stay with the smell,

But wanted to escape from the lavvy.

He found himself trapped there in the loo:

He was in a right pickle, it’s true.

He put down extra paper,

To cover the vapour,

And wondered what else he could do.

Upon a solution his mind was now set,

And up to the cistern he wanted to get,

The mechanism to beat,

He stood on the seat,

But his foot went through, into the toilet.

  

Which caused the said contents to be pushed,

Deep into the water and mushed.

This meant that his floater,

Was no longer a boater,

And decidedly the opposite of flushed.

He heard himself let out a great roar,

As it all overflowed onto the floor.

His foot was all muddied,

As the cubicle flooded,

And it all ran away under the door.

It filled his shoe and got into his sock,

When on the door came a very loud knock.

Someone wanted a wee,

In this here W.C.

And had started to rattle the lock.

Ness knew he needed a proposal,

For the man outside with his nose’ll,

Guess what occurred,

Regarding the turd,

Unless he could conclude a disposal.

He began to feel like an animal caged,

As the intruder grew more enraged.

It always rankles,

With pants round your ankles,

So he shouted out loudly: “Engaged!”

And the moral of this altercation?

Make sure you’ve got good information,

Take plenty of towels,

Before moving your bowels,

And test before your evacuation.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018