Now that I’m considered past my working prime
I’m working on a three day week, so now I have more time
to tackle household jobs I could not manage before,
to spend some of my free time going out more
and find something for a non-working woman to do.
But with time on my hands to sort things out Continue reading
A poem from our waitress’s perspective
Just an orange juice they want,
a cup of tea for Mable,
oh, and a jug of water
for the rest of the table.
And one wants an extra plate
to share her lunch with her friend,
and another wants to swap
her chair and sit on the end.
They want to know if they can
have a “pensioner” amount
included in the “specials”
or if we will give discount.
Lunch only costs a fiver
but they will sit there for hours,
moaning about their ailments,
boasting about their flowers.
They’ll argue over the bill
and I have the slightest hunch
that we won’t get a big tip
from these Ladies who Lunch!
I am now beyond all hope!
There is definitely really no scope
for me leaving that bottle of red wine
until I reach the bottom. I still feel fine.
But then the next morning I feel so bad
with cramp in both legs, pumping blood
and I’m feeling like death warmed up,
until I get a hot, strong, black cup of
coffee and some food inside.
When will I learn to avoid
opening that bottle?
I’m not sure
my brain has gone.
Nimrod was a mighty hunter, so the Bible said,
but like every ancient hunter, he ended up dead.
Nimrod was my mother’s dog, big, black and strong.
Everywhere my mother went, Nimrod would come along.
My mother loved good music, she would listen to Classics FM,
so when my mother died, we chose her favourite hymn.
Elgar composed Enigma Variations, Nimrod was the best.
We played Nimrod at Mum’s funeral, with Nimod’s ashes locked in her chest.
Eleven degrees out in the sun at five o’clock at night?
I found that I definitely hadn’t dressed myself quite right,
when I went out walking with my dog, Myschka
and I kinda wished I
hadna worn so many clothes!
My mail has just arrived, for what it’s worth,
more junk mail than letters to cause my mirth:
double glazing leaflets – two of a kind,
and an advert for a vertical blind;
a bag to hold some charity money,
and a poster for a play that’s funny.
All dressed up and ready to go,
just as it was starting to snow,
I heard my mobile loudly ring
with a tune that Adele does sing: it was my beau.
A Rondel Poem
Now I buy groceries on line,
it’s so much easier that way.
When weather’s bad, at home I stay,
and order all my food and wine.
It was a dull, dreary, cold and windy February Sunday yesterday, and I was in no mood for waxing lyrical that morning, so I set about my daily tasks of answering emails, updating various websites I control, and sorting through my image files for something to inspire me to write about. This usually cures my writer’s block. However yesterday I could get no inspiration at all, so by lunchtime I was thoroughly depressed, and waiting for the world to wake up the other side of the Atlantic, so I could have a Facebook “chat” with my daughter.
February is here now and the days are getting lighter,
so those of us with SAD syndrome can feel a little brighter.
We’ve got rid of the worst months of our depressing winter gloom,
and now it’s time for us to see garden flowers start to bloom.
My favourite shoes are falling apart,
and I can’t wear them out when I am smart,
but when I’m walking with my dogs I feel
so comfortable, yet they’re down at heel.
Snow is falling all around.
There’s no birds, no cars, no sound.
No dogs are barking, no caterwauling.
Just lots of snow falling, falling.
Trees are glistening with the snow.
Plants are gone, deep down, won’t grow.
The ground is freezing, birds are listening,
All is white and glistening, glistening.
This Friday we have had some snow!
It absolutely tipped it down.
It covered up the entire town
and there was nowhere we could go.
Okay, it’s New Year’s Day and it’s time for some resolutions,
but I’ve given up making them, I just need some solutions.
I have absolutely no more room in my house for more “stuff”,
and I’ve tried to downsize, but obviously not hard enough.
So this year, I’ll throw away something every single day,
never mind how much I had to pay, or how I’d like it to stay.
As I didn’t use it, play it, wear it or eat it last year,
if I threw it away tomorrow, I should not shed a tear.
I love a frosty Wednesday morning like today under a clear blue sky.
Apart from the friendly robin in the bushes over there,
there’s no-one in the world about except my dog and I,
and our breath is steaming from us both in the fresh and icy air.
Such is retirement on a Wednesday –
almost as good as being a Sunday!
I’ve been out walking with the dog.
It’s cold, it’s damp and full of fog.
Dew drops are dripping from my nose
and I can hardly feel my toes.
“Drink your milk!” our teachers used to say,
but our milk bottle crates had stood all day,
in the years of free milk, out in the sun.
There were bits on the top, yuk – not much fun!
I found a better one. So there!
I’d had much more than my fair share!
You caught him, hook, line and sinker,
but you really caught a stinker!
I was late leaving work on Friday evening, and my car was all steamed up on that murky November night. I know I should have started the engine and let it run to clear all my windows before leaving, but I was bursting for a wee, and wanted to get home quickly, so I just mopped the mist from a big circle in the front windscreen, before I set off into the fog. Why my demisters chose not to function properly that night, I have no idea. All I know is that I couldn’t see a thing properly. I turned down the car radio. I always think that if you can’t hear, you won’t be able to see properly either. That’s probably a ridiculous conclusion to draw, but that’s how it seems to me.
The truth about retirement is
that it’s not so good as it is cracked up to be.
Everything you want has its limits,
comes with a price and hardly ever free.
I was wandering alone in the park
just before it was getting dark,
when a passing thought came to me
how lucky birds were to be free.
I wanted then to stop and stare
at a pony, and a grey mare,
and I quote a very famous ode
which came into mind as I strode.
I asked aloud, with no-one there,
‘What is this life if full of care?’
‘Shepherd’s Pie – a hug on a plate!’ I heard Greg Wallace say
when Mum was watching Masterchef on telly yesterday.
She ate it all! Left none for us! We need a nice hug too!
All we had was dried dog food with a spoon of doggy stew!
Our Mum has sponsored a dog called “Spot”
he’s not like us, but we think we like him a lot.
He’s seven and a half and it’s so very sad
that he was abandoned – because he was bad?
“I’ve got a good joint of pork for you today”
my friendly butcher down the road used to say.
“I saved it ‘specially for you, my dear,
and some special lamb chops, so never fear,
you won’t go hungry this week, my sweet.”
I’m sitting at my desk again, trying hard not to cry,
waiting for my laptop to restart again so I
can find some amusement. And what’s the reason why?
Quill pens, ledgers – bring them all back,
throw away computers on a disused railway track.
Bury them deep and plant over lots of trees,
or take them to the bottom of the deepest seas!
There he lies again, soaking up the sun
on our kitchen window sill, with a flower vase by his bum!
He doesn’t belong here, he just comes and goes,
leaves his mark in the doorway – it’s my fault I ‘spose!
The clocks have gone back
and we’ve lost an hour at night.
We come home in the dark now
instead of the light.
“He’s not very smart,” I’ve heard them say
cos I’m dressed in rags, in an odd way,
but I’ve stood in this field ev’ry day.
Waving my arms in the summer breeze
I’ve stood in rain, til it’s made me sneeze
and I’ve nearly fallen to my knees.
Just now the lilacs aren’t in bloom
all before his little room,
and from his flower beds I think
have gone the carnation, and the pink,
and in his borders well I know
poppies and pansies no longer blow.
Grantchester, oh Grantchester!
There should be peace and quiet there.
Rupert Brooke would have a fit
if he went back to visit it.
A family of long-tailed tits have come to visit me,
they’ve been here all day in and out the Eucalyptus tree.
They’re eating all the old nuts and fat balls that I’ve put out
I’ve not seen them here before, so I guess without a doubt
they like what I’ve provided more than the usual seeds
that all the birds sort through and drop down to grow into weeds!
In her madness, mild-mannered Martha mistakenly mixed mustard into the miniature meatballs made for the meal at the Mad March meeting of Manchester Masons. Meanwhile, Continue reading