Heron

Heron

Daily at dawn and at dusk,

His ghostly glide-path,

Takes him down to his target.

A stealthy attacker,

Coming in from the blue beyond,

A large shadow in the sky,

Darkening the surface of the pond.

There he sits patiently waiting,

An expert fisherman on the bank:

A huge, hungry bird,

With an eye glinting and greedy,

Wondering which ones to target

From among the frightened fish,

Swirling in panic just beneath the netting.

It’s the battle to survive, the battle to eat,

And the battle to feed the young in the nest,

Which drives his hunting attitude.

The koi and the carp,

The orfe and the comets,

And the shimmering Shubunkins

Are my darling ornamentals,

But to him are just his dinner.

It’s a battle of wits between us:

Ever-watching, ever-vigilant,

Neither of us will give any quarter,

In the struggle to be the victor,

To be the one last left

Staring down into the water.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013 

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 14th July 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 14^th July 2013

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

1.       Amazement was expressed this last week that out on the rarely-used courts, some Scottish kid won a tennis competition.  Although not actually from Bromham, as the crowd would have liked, Andy McPiglet was the first to win any tennis game there for seventy-seven years.  After his triumph, McPiglet failed to smile for the official photograph, mumbled something about being over the moon, and forgot to kiss his mother.  Well that’s what the other kids said anyway.

2.       Further amazement was expressed when it was revealed that Bromham Parish Councillors are in line for an 11% increase in their official carrot allowance.  Coming as it does in a time of severe vegetable austerity, a member of the public described the proposal as a joke.  The Bromham Parsnip Bank has seen requests for its services increase strongly over the last year, and there are rumours that in the coming winter a system of strict sprout rationing will be introduced.

3.       After three days of slightly warm weather, local water services have gone into meltdown.  A hosepipe ban has been immediately introduced, and people have been found wandering around the village muttering such things as “cor, what a scorcher!” and “hot enough for yer?”

4.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Instant Revenge

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 2013

Plum Upside-Down Cake

Recipe for: Upside-down PLUM Cake

Ingredients:

• For the fruit:
• 30g butter, softened
• 30g Demerara sugar
• 2 tblsp jam (plum, damson, medlar)
• 450g fresh plums (or damsons or peaches/ nectarines), halved & stones removed
• For the cake sponge:
• 100g butter, softened
• 100g caster sugar
• 3 eggs
• 100g self-raising flour
• 1 tsp baking powder
• ½ tsp ground cinnamon
• 2 tblsp milk

 Method:

1. beat together the 30g butter, demerara and jam, and spread over the base of a 20cm round non-stick cake tin or dish
2. arrange the halved plums, cut-side down, over the base pushing into the jam mixture
3. to make the cake mix, beat together the 100g softened butter and caster sugar
4. add the eggs, one at a time with 1 tblsp of the flour, beating to incorporate
5. sift in the rest of the flour, baking powder, cinnamon & fold in well with the milk
6. when ready to cook, spoon the cake mixture gently over the top of the fruit/ jam mix, and level with the back of a sppon
7. bake in 180C/ fan 170C/ 350F oven for 45-50 minutes, until well risen & golden, and a skewer inserted into the entre comes out clean
8. allow to cool in the dish for five minutes, then loosen round the edges with a knife
9. place a large serving plate over the top, then turn the lot over & lift the dish off (hoping that it all comes out cleanly!)
10. the sponge should now be on the bottom with the fruit/ jam mixture dribbling down all over it

What else you need to know:

1. this is actually really simple & looks impressive, delicious to eat
2. serve with cream, ice-cream or custard

Goodbye to Postman Pat

Mail for Sale

Looks like the end of an era,

But I’m not drinking a toast -

They’ve sold off everything else,

And now it’s the turn of the Post.

They’ll give the postmen a pay-rise,

And bribe them all with free shares.

It’s like they don’t give a toss any more;

It’s as if nobody cares!

It’s not the service that counts any more,

But the profits the investors are after,

With our protests not likely to be heard,

Over the sound of their laughter.

It won’t be for the public’s benefit,

So don’t be surprised by what you get:

Things’ll get worse, rather than better,

I think we should be willing to bet.

In private hands it just won’t be the same,

In the ownership of these go-getters,

And we’ll find we haven’t got a clue,

About who’s handling our letters.

Goodbye to EiiR on the post-box,

And farewell to old Postman Pat:

There’ll be no room for duffers like him,

Nor for his black-and-white cat.

Goodbye to the royal insignia -

I suppose all that stuff will be dead.

They’ll come up with some fancy new colour,

And there’ll be no more Post Office Red.

Goodbye to the little vans in the lane:

There’ll be no more of our friendly old postie -

A figure from the age of the Penny Black,

A memory, like an old ghostie.

Soon they’ll stop the daily collections,

Down into the town we’ll all have to tramp.

They’ll charge us for every delivery,

And ramp up the price of a stamp.

Is there nothing sacred these days?

Is everything destined to fail?

No – you can’t depend on anything,

Once they’ve sold off our Royal Mail.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

No Room At The Bin

No Room At The Bin

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 2013

Senior Escorts Limited

Senior Escorts Limited (or My Life As An Aging Hooker)

I get my assignments from the agency -there’s quite a few of us on the books.

I’m working for Twilight Escorts, for I still haven’t lost all of my looks.

I’m what they call a Silver Stallion, serving older ladies, with a quick wink.

You might have thought they were past it, but there’s more call for it than you might think.

I specialise in the older clientele: crusties, crumblies and old wrecks.

I’m not worried about their ages, as long as they’ll pay me for sex.

For everyone has needs to be met, and if I can speak to you frankly,

There are worse ways to spend your afternoons, than providing some hanky-panky.

For elderly widows get lonely, and just want to have some fun days,

But I think that it also helps that we do pensioner discounts on Mondays.

I can only handle one or two jobs in a day, but it’s not the energy that I lack.

I just have to be quite careful, or else I’ll put out my back.

My ladies have simple requirements, and don’t make complex conditions.

I’m not quite as lithe as I was, so I don’t do funny positions.

I’m clean and I travel quite light, and I’m one of their younger boys.

I don’t need much equipment: just baby-oil and one or two sex toys.

Afternoon is the most popular time and, I know that it sounds corny,

But it’s when the clients are mostly awake, as well as feeling most horny.

So, after I’ve parked my Zimmer frame in the hall, and perhaps been offered a medicinal whiskey,

It’s time to get on with the business, and chase her round the house, if she’s frisky.

It’s all straight-forward once in the bedroom, and I’m certainly not mocking.

I’m quite used to false teeth and false limbs, and rolling down their surgical stockings.

Medical appliances hold no fear for me, and I’ll also help with suspenders,

And afterwards we’ll share a cup of Sanatogen, and settle down to watch Eastenders.

But I can’t stay for too long at their house, even though they might make a fuss.

I can’t drive any longer at my age, so have to go and catch the last bus.

I’ve got my regular customers, but the flow is hardly a Niagara.

Still - my doctor’s quite understanding, and keeps me supplied with Viagara.

I provide a reliable service, and it’s one I think that appeals,

For my latest advertising slogan, I’m selling myself as “Feels on Wheels”.

We’re sponsored by Help The Randy, and other organisations you’ll learn.

Our latest out-sourcing contract is in support of Urge Concern.

Satisfaction’s not guaranteed, I feel I just ought to mention,

But what better way can you think of to fritter away most of your pension?

So if you’re in need of my services, and we cater for all sorts of ages,

Log on to our website at once, or look for us in Yellow Pages.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013