Panic

Panic

Last winter someone heard a snowflake drop

They were feeling full of anguished dread

So they rushed down to the supermarket

And they bought up fifty loaves of bread

And milk enough to last for thirty days

That emptied all the shelves

Not worrying about anyone else

Just looking out for their selfish selves

And now there’s something in the air

With origins that are rare and vague

There’s infection and contagion

There’s coming pestilence and plague

And suddenly everybody’s short of stock

Of hand-sanitiser and liquid soap

And merely trying to buy toilet rolls

They’re running out of hope

For they fear the bugs and beasties

The things that will make them ill

So they’re stocking up with drugs,

With potions and every kind of pill

They’re hoarding many types of pasta

All across the British Isles

They don’t trust the old supply-chains

They’re busy fighting in the aisles

Wringing hands and ringing tills

Panic-buying, Headless Chicken Syndrome

Soon they’ll be in self-isolation

Siege mentality, holed-up in their home

Locked up and in a total lock-down

No more touching or social contact

Forever washing their hands

The odds against them all are stacked

So we’ve had the forty days of floods

There’s a chance that we’ll all go bust

And now we’ve got this pestilence -

What next? – a swarm of locusts?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Honey & Mustard Ketchup

Recipe for: HONEY & MUSTARD “KETCHUP”

Ingredients:

·        2-4  medium onions, peeled & very finely chopped

·        4 cloves garlic, peeled & very finely chopped

·        2 tblsp oil

·        2 tblsp light Muscovado sugar

·        2 tblsp honey

·        4 tsp English mustard powder

·        1 tsp ground cinnamon

·        2 tsp turmeric

·        1 tsp salt

·        1 tsp fresh-ground black pepper

·        6 tblsp cider vinegar

·        4 tsp wholegrain mustard

Method:

1.      In a large frying pan, gently fry the onions & garlic in the oil until lightly golden (do not brown)

2.      Add the remaining ingredients, one by one, stirring all the time over a gentle heat

3.      Cook slowly until the mixture thickens slightly

4.      Keep tasting, adding more mustard or honey (and salt) to taste

5.      Whilst cooking, sterilise suitable glass jars (by washing then heating in the oven), ready for the mixture when it’s cooked

6.      Using a plastic funnel, decant the mixture into the jar (s)

What else you need to know:

1.      You can change the flavour by adding more honey (sweeter), more mustard powder & pepper (spicier)

2.      You can change the texture by straining the mixture through a sieve, keeping back some of the solids, if you want a smoother mixture.  Or you could use a hand-held liquidiser.

Empty House

Empty House

I may have been mistaken

When I heard another door

At the far side of this room quietly closing

At the very second I entered

Leaving someone else’s breath

A feeling of their presence

Within the empty space

Yet there is nothing here

Except this puzzling void

Pregnant with the possibility

That the designer of these rooms

Is inside this labyrinth

And may still be here walking somewhere

Just beyond where I can see

The next door is locked

The handle rattling in my hand

And I must retrace my weary steps

Back from an unexpected cul-de-sac

Only to think that he is now behind me

Yet when I turn to face him

There is no-one there

His elusive presence troubles me

As I seek him out without success

For whilst it may appear

That our paths must have crossed

At some time upon my search

I cannot find any clear sign

That he was ever really here

At times I believe that I am quite alone

Inside this deserted edifice

Yet then I hear faint sounds

Just beyond where I am standing

Which defy all definition

I worry at this illusion in my mind

The elaborate trickery

Or circularity of perception

Turning round upon itself

Allowing me to almost see

Myself disappearing

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Unanchored

Unanchored

Her leg hangs languidly

Over the side of the lounger

Above long- forgotten drinks

Their ice melted in the heat

On the light-bright surface

Of the blinding polished deck

Amid a tangle of abandoned magazines

Crumpled pages colour-bleached

Lost beneath the relentless, blazing sun

The yacht wallows gently

Shallowed near the shore

Warm water cradled

Swinging slowly round

Shifting position, drifting with the tide

In the heat-baked afternoon

Where nothing stirs

And there is not a breath of air

Nor any breeze to cool the burning day

Suddenly aroused, the girl looks intently

Towards the shimmering island

Alert to its spice-infused aromas

Believes she hears it calling

Feels the bow pull against the chain

Dragging the light anchor

Through the soft white sand

Beneath the gin-clear water

Where acid-blue fish dart

Between shafts of flickering sunlight

She aches to step ashore

To feel the firm-ness of the Earth

Beneath her naked feet

A home to hold on to

A fixed point within her orbit

Un-shifting, unchanging

A steady, stable foundation

Where she could remain

Upon which she might build a life

And feel that she had finally arrived

At some long hoped-for destination

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Waiting

Waiting

I pushed my way through the throng to the bar,

My ears assailed by drink-induced sound.

I’d put off it off as long as I could –

It was my turn to get in the next round.

Two lagers, two beers and a Guinness:

I knew that this wouldn’t be cheap.

But when I’d found my way to the target,

I saw that they were standing three deep.

I waited, I wheedled and I pushed,

I wormed my way through with a grunt.

Finally I crawled under their legs,

And eventually came up at the front.

They were all shouting and yelling:

Everyone was giving it a try,

Waving their fivers and their tenners,

Trying to catch the barmaid’s lazy eye.

She moved with the speed of a retarded sloth

On Mogadon, or a backward old tortoise.

Unimpressed by the frenzy of punters,

As if life itself held little purpose.

She took several passes, to find the right glasses,

To serve out pale ale or strong cider.

She poured gin-and-tonic, in a state catatonic,

And for beer, needed an old dog to guide her.

Some ice and a slice were beyond her:

Optics, mixers and bottles bemused her.

She couldn’t add up for toffee,

And the till completely confused her.

All around me were desperate people,

Yet from serving them quickly she shrunk.

With service at this glacial speed,

There wasn’t a chance of getting near drunk.

Empires rose and fell, and Hell froze over

In the time it took to serve out one cocktail,

And the period to complete one round

Was measured on the geological scale.

Nothing seemed to sir this girl up:

She was the world’s slowest barmaid.

By the time she served the guy next to me,

He’d lately died and his body decayed.

  

But I hung on in there, pinned up at the front,

Trying to catch her with a nod and a wink.

I might be several years older now,

But I was determined to get me a drink.

Galaxies formed, and faded away,

And the Universe fell in disorder.

Till she, at last, asked me what I wanted

And, finally, it was my turn to order.

But time had moved on, my memory gone,

I must have looked like a proper chump -

I’d forgotten the drinks that I’d come for,

And on the bar, my head I started to thump.

I racked my brains for some answers,

But there were only “ifs” and “ands” and “buts”,

And that’s why we’re all drinking crème de menthe,

To wash down our pork scratchings and nuts.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 15th March 2020

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 15^th March 2020

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

                                              

1.     Panic has now set into the streets of D-Town as a row has erupted over whether there is a need to panic or not.  The Town Council is advising that, based on the scientific evidence, a gradually escalating level of panic would be the most appropriate.  The opposition parties are saying that this is an inadequate response, and that we should all be panicking a lot more.  Retailers have suggested that there is no need to panic at all.  Anarchists in the town are stating that a huge level of panic is the only credible response in the face of the pandemic.  Social media is alive with panic and no-panic stories.  And finally the World Heath Organisation has advised that five episodes of panic per day, as part of a balanced diet of panic, is the best approach.

2.     D-Town University of Medicine (DUM) is to start a new degree course in Pandemic & Panic Studies (PAPS) leading to a BA qualification.  The three year course will involve studying the underlying sociological causes of panic in the face of an ongoing global coronoviral epidemic, together with practical work in the field, involving panic-buying, supermarket shelf-clearing and re-stocking, toilet-roll storage solutions, cooking dried pasta in an anti-bacterial sauce for a family of four, and immersive self-isolation strategies.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Steam

Steam

A heavy grinding, churning sound assaults the senses

Blacks out everything around, a skull-shaking

Teeth-rattling, deafening intensity of shuddering

The platform vibrating, juddering asunder

Then, dirty grey, clanking, slowly rumbling past

Spitting waste into a slate-grey sky

Hot, black, sooty smoke blown from chimney-stack

Hissing, wheezing steam escaping valves and joints, orifices

Leaking clouds of white, dripping water dribbling

Down onto cold wet, coal-black tracks beneath

Hot iron’s sound and smell, coal and fire and oil

And the whispering pressure of the boiler

Hard, heavy turning wheels, slow shimmering spokes

Across glittering rails of steel

Its pipes and pistons, rods and linkages

Crank and turn the shining driving gear

Valves and pumps forcing shafts to motion

Via vacuums and vapours, an elemental driving-force

An intricate inter-play of metal, gas and liquid

Fluid dynamics, perfectly synchronised

Harnessed in the creation

Of this dark demonic beast

And when at rest, at journey’s end, the engine

A leviathan hoarsely wheezing, breathing hard

From its great exertions stands hot, glowering

Every aspect of its bulk, its massive motive power

Its kinetic promise and potential, its working force

And energy yet held back, latent

Waiting patiently under the driver’s steady hand

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020