News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 4th October 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 4^th October  2014

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

1.       There has been a stand-off this week between students in the Westbrook area, who are protesting about the need for open and fair elections, and Bromham riot police, who have been sent in by the central authorities in what many see as a heavy-handed attempt to quell dissatisfaction in the province.  The students used bailer-twine to tie up the riot police in what has become known as the…er…bailer-twine protest.

2.       Two prominent politicians have now left the Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP) and decided to join Mr Farrago, leader of Swivel-Eyed Loon Federation (SELF), in raising funds on the fruit-cake stall at this year’s village fete.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fruitcake

Fruitcake

Welcome to our little jamboree,

And thanks for answering the call.

Perhaps you’d like to help us out

On Mister Farage’s Fruitcake stall?

He answers to the name of Nigel,

But his counter’s rather under-manned.

So to sell his pitch, his mixture’s rich,

And it’s way too fruity on his stand.

He’s concerned with currant issues,

There’s not a subject he’s not raisin’.

His cakes look merry, adorned with cherry -

With only home-grown stuff in his basin.

But take a slice of what he’s offering,

The texture’s too light if you try it.

When it’s sliced so thick, it’ll make you sick -

I doubt if anyone will buy it.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Night Terrors

Night Terrors

Floating through the numbness of drifting dreams,

Softly billowing, falling and rising,

Seeking, searching, following a distant figure,

Reaching out towards the tantalising.

Then the crack of sound which startles,

The snap of sudden, startled waking,

Bolt upright in the tangle of sheets,

Listening hard, to a silence that’s breaking.

Heavy, deep, suffocating blackness,

Pierced by the thinnest slice of moonlight,

Through a curtain-crack not closed,

Creating shadowy shapes within the night.

Thick, breathing stillness,

Then a creak upon the stair.

A catch of breath -

Is there somebody there?

The house settling, moaning and groaning,

A catalogue of clicks and ticks.

Sounds from out of the silence,

Or is it the mind just playing tricks?

And, from outside, (the night is barely quiet now) -

The scratchings and callings and shufflings,

Of badgers and mice,

Of owls and foxes,

Their scrapings and diggings and snufflings.

The swishing of wind as it blows through the trees,

And the tapping of twigs against the pane,

A gentle pittering and pattering,

That might be just the winter rain.

But what was that?

Yet stranger sounds abound.

Perhaps those unwelcome creatures, the rats.

Wandering, investigating, nosing around,

Stoats, weasels, bats or meandering cats.

They are out there, safe where they belong,

In the kingdoms they inhabit,

But then, from somewhere out the distance,

The searing scream of captured rabbit.

And, inside now, fear and tension rising.

Blood pumping,

Heart thumping,

Ears straining,

Mind working overtime,

And a sense of terror gaining.

Was that a subtle movement?

Something just over there?

Is something hidden in the shadows?

Is there really somebody there?

Or has a primal imagination,

Seeking to penetrate the gloom,

Created something super-natural,

Standing there across the darkened room?

So scared, forgetting how to breathe,

Unable to swallow, starting to shiver,

Limbs stiff, skin chilled, eyes out on stalks,

Fingers kneading bed-clothes, all a-quiver.

Straining hard to distinguish every sound,

Listening, thinking, hoping, guessing,

An eerie quiet now descending,

Perhaps portending something more distressing?

Primitive and primordial fear,

That traces roots from inside the womb.

Terrors of torment and lingering death,

Staring at the black inside of one’s tomb.

Dying alone – the dark, deepest dread

That everyone cradles inside.

Fear of the dying, more than the dead,

The unspoken horror we all seek to hide.

Was that a door slamming, a bang or a bump?

A noise unfamiliar, or unknown?

Or was the whole thing inside of my head,

Created by demons all of my own?

There’ll be no sleep further tonight:

Ghouls and ghosts may wander at will.

Perhaps there’s nobody there after all,

But the mind won’t believe that, cannot be still.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Bonfire

Bonfire                                               

Cool, calm, short winter day,

Wood, waste, weeds on the fire,

Cleaning up garden detritus,

Piling them on the pyre.

Flames flicking, licking the leaves,

Smouldering, spluttering, smoking,

Throwing out gases and fumes,

Wheezing, coughing and choking.

Eyes watering and damp,

Smoke and steam in the air,

Getting too near the fierce heat,

Singeing eyebrows and hair.

Leaves and branches catching,

Wood crackling, bark cracking,

Twigs breaking, snapping,

Greying and blacking.

Consumed by the inferno,

Noises quite troubling.

Sap escaping and hissing,

Oozing, boiling and bubbling.

Feeding the fire, adding the fuel,

Working through the waiting stash.

Destroying everything fed to it,

Reducing all to glimmering ash.

What’s rotten, what’s rubbish,

Infestations of grubs and of bugs,

Contagions of parasites,

Creepy-crawlies and slugs.

Logs gently hunkering down,

As they slowly dismember.

Fire blazing, burning and charring,

Settling to black and red ember.

Now a rising smoke signal,

Showing the task as complete,

Nature’s waste products,

Disappearing in that searing heat.

Cleansing, cleaning, clearing,

Consuming, eating with ease,

Twisting, turning and burning,

Killing off the rot and disease.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Roundway Hill

Roundway Hill

Sitting at last, gathering breath,

From the hard climb up the track,

Staring across the ancient landscape,

Allowing myself at last to look back

Towards the far village steeple,

Rising through late morning haze,

Shimmering in the distance,

Attracting my sun-dazzled gaze.

Calves and feet gently aching,

Boots well covered in fine dust,

Kicked up by my plodding progress

Through the chalk’s crumbling crust.

Orchids peer shyly through the long grass

Of this upland meadow where calmly I wait,

Tiny, quick flashes of colour,

Right down the track to the gate.

Butterflies dance in gaudy profusion,

Fluttering round, ignoring the heat,

And a fox flees into the wood,

Less than fifty yards from my seat.

Far below me, down in the cornfield,

Seeming like dots, are boxing hares,

Standing, running, darting and feinting,

Pre-occupied with Spring-mating cares.

Recovered, exhaling slowly,

Back on my feet, I continue the climb,

The steady tramp, tramp of the boots,

Marking out the rhythm of time.

Head gently clearing, eyes lifting,

Up to the summit of the long hill,

Driving my aching legs forward,

With the sheer force of my will.

No thought for the tension and stress,

That can clutter my mind these days:

Exhaustion drives it all out,

And calms my soul in so many ways.

Daily detoxification

Can be found on this high ground,

And the tiredness of an aching body,

Works like a drug, leaving me sound.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Old-Age Non-Pensioner

Old-Age Non-Pensioner (or Growing Old Disgracefully)

I’ve just reached a certain age now,

But I have to tell you the truth:

As you can all plainly see before you,

I’m still in the first flush of my youth.

For age affects us all in different ways,

There’s no use in trying to hide:

It’s time to get out & declare it:

I’ve become a member of Grey Pride!

I may have to go for a medical,

And lay on the doctor’s bed all prostrate.

I’ll hear the snap of the marigolds,

When he’s about to inspect my prostate.

There’ll blood & urine samples to give:

It’s really not very nice.

I’ll be told “Stop smoking, and drink less,

And take more exercise”.

For I’ve got to keep healthy,

To avoid increasing debility.

Keep my mind & body active,

And ward off approaching senility.

I’ll get increasingly forgetful,

As I become a bit of a part-timer.

I’ll try to keep mentally agile,

And avoid contracting Alzheimers.

There’ll be hardened arteries to cope with,

As I approach age fifty seven,

But to help me at home these days,

I’ve got a Stannah stairlift to heaven.

I can look forward deafness,

And eye-sight that grows ever dimmer,

But at least I won’t need a road test

To go for a spin with my Zimmer.

With spreading waist, dodgy knees & joints,

The outlook’s increasingly “grey”,

And every day I’ve noticed,

That my toe-nails seem further away.

I’ve become follically challenged:

At least that’s what they say that it’s called,

But when I was that much younger,

They just used to say you were bald.

As more of my body parts stop working,

And my memory I’m starting to doubt,

I’m falling prey to more illnesses:

The wheezing, the coughing – and, of course, gout.

  

But I’m told that I’m a silver surfer.

My computer has got lots of ROM,

And now I can get a subscription

On a site called Confused.com.

And there are some compensations,

Which come as quite a relief,

For whatever else I might be losing,

You know I’ve still got my own teeth.

So I’m going to grow older disgracefully,

And go out without my glasses.

I’ll probably get lost in the High Street,

And start chasing the older lasses.

But now I guess it’s off to Help The Aged,

To seek some help & dedication.

So I’ll see you all sometime later:

It’s time to take my medication.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Red Onion Marmalade

Recipe for: RED ONION MARMALADE

Ingredients:

• 3 tblsp light olive oil
• 700g red onions, very finely sliced
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 tsp freshly ground black pepper
• 150g golden caster sugar
• 150ml sherry vinegar
• 250ml full-bodied red wine
• 2 tblsp fresh raw beetroot juice or grenadine

 Method:

1. heat the oil in a heavy pan, adding onions, salt, pepper & sugar.  Stir to mix
2. cover & cook on low heat, until mixture has produced some liquid
3. uncover & cook on gentle heat, stirring occasionally for about 30 minutes, until the onions are completely soft (but don’t allow to brown)
4. add the vinegar, wine & beetroot juice & cook on higher heat for 30 minutes until thickened a little
5. remove from heat & pot into warm sterilised jars.  Cool completely before sealing & labelling.

 What else you need to know:

1. the key to this is long, slow, gentle cooking.  The onions should have a completely soft, silky texture
2. improves with age as it matures
3. great with cheese, pates & terrines, cold meats & roasts