Bleak Midwinter

It wasn't enough to shaft Education at the Top End, then? Or to kick out the Cornerstone of the NHS, act all surprised that it goes a bit Wobbly and stick it with a Condemned Notice before Claire Raynor has time to reach for her Spectracles? Or to fold up Welfare and Unemployment, and snip at it with a pair of scissors, like a child making a Paper Snowflake- look how clever the pattern is, oh and so many holes? No, now it's actually time for Taking Candy from Babies. Booktrust, the scheme that provides Free Books to All Children between 9 months and 11 years, which includes Bookstart, is to have its funding cut by, er, 100%. (I had a state-funded education, but thankfully, not under The Coalition, so i can work out that this is A Bad Thing.) I can give you no better Thumbnail Sketch of the Great Yawning Moral Chasm of Unremitting Wickedness that is Michael Gove than this One Act- Taking Books off Babies. It won't let me underline it twice, but for the record, that is me SHOUTING. When i lived in North Yorkshire, we had a tiny Public Library where Every Week, Nigel would come and read stories to the Pre-Schoolers, with the Look of a Man Clinging to the Crow's Nest of a Storm-Tossed Boat who knows that the Sharks are hungry. Gone. When Joyce was little, in Wales, we would trot round twice a month after Toddlers to catch the Book Bus, and hand over our tickets to a Morose man in a Paisley Shirt whose Life Work of Providing Catherine Cookson to the members of the Evergreen Club for Retired Persons had left him a little Low- Strung. Gone. And now this. Well, let it be their Epigram, Gove, Osborne, Clegg, Cameron, Cable et al: the Wise Men come to visit the Newborn Child, brought into this World as Gift for all Mankind, dressed in their finery, with their Wealth and their Position and their Privilege. And they look down at the Promise of a Life, and give it the Empty Bag that is Conservative Greed and Liberal Democrat Self-Interest. Then take the bag back.

Crackers

It would be fair to say that Town is a little empty this morning, No Doubt due to the Completely Clear roads and Cloud-Free skies. Likewise all the schools are Shut, on the thinking that the kids were only going to be having Fun today anyway and that this is the UK so this can safely be postponed until they are old enough to have sex. Or we vote the Tories out. Boots actually have a sign on the Automatic Doors saying 'Closed due to staff shortages, prescriptions only'. Though if there are enough staff for one in the Dispensary and one on Special Door- and- Frowning- at- the- Public- Duty, surely they could just let me in for my shampoo if I promise only to require one checkout at once. In the Co-op they have been so Client-Free that Fag-Counter Lady is clearly quite jealous of Till Girl, interacting with some one other than Aled Jones or Slade, and tries to join in the conversation as we walk away. When i plough into the same 'Wet Floor Warning' as i did on the way in, the Atmosphere of Joyful Bonhomie turns a bit Titanic. For various reasons, headed up by my having forgotten to book a Christmas week Tesco Slot in March, i am shopping with the Ex-Mr Alison, with whom i will also be spending the big day, At My Parents. We decide i will need Gin, and he will need Port. At some point we realise we have not bought presents for one another. We drive to the Local Garden Centre where last year the Talking Reindeer had such a profound effect on Three and Joyce that for months they would not go back, in case 'the Goat Head starts singing again.' The lads clearing the Car Park have been alone at Ice Station Zebra for so long that when i ask if it is open, they look confused, and a bit upset, like when Nick Clegg is asked why Vince Cable is in the Naughty Corner for Telling the Truth. The women inside are Delighted to See Real People, and when we actually approach the counter with purchases, they offer to Gift Wrap it.  'Is it for you, or a present?' 'Erm,' Protocol escapes me for a change. Also Tact: 'actually, we've split up but he has to buy me a gift for Christmas Day or my mother will be upset. I'll pay, then he can get himself a Coffee Maker later.' She pauses, and looks at us, then says, decisively: 'I'll put it in some Bubble-Wrap, to be on the Safe Side.'

out above the village, December 19

white flecked with brown the spray of grit
ground rising with the snow
where summer went in spray and arch of flower clothed
i go walking into winter
branch and bow below

the fields fall along the roadside
down and banking to the woods where trees
are inked against the swell
i remember flutters in the sky pale-winged or common blue
splashed the tinge of leaves

the flint inlaid under the skin
the flesh will melt to bone
yet church bells turn me on the hill and call and call and call
i am come to colour and the water welled of stone
this is no flash of inkling, but a soul

Packet Goods.

There's a Cup-a-Soup in the Fridge. In the packet, yes. Not in a Mug. That would be Just Weird. 'Dad. There's a Cup-a-Soup in your Fridge.' 'Yes, I wondered about that.' 'Right.' To my Brother: 'There's a Cup-a-Soup in the Fridge.' 'Yeah- what's all that about then?' 'Um.' How Irritated would my mother be if i were to itemize her Larder, i wonder. In the interests of Science. And this Blog. Seven (7 ) varieties of Cup-a-Soup, no, me neither: Canned Tomato Section (in-date sub-division); Emergency Chinese Curry Bank; a selection of unidentifiable Foreign Edibles Bought during a terrifying Smash and Grab in Oswestry Value Mart  (slogan: 'there's a reason it's so cheap'); 3 tins of condensed milk-
'Evaporated.' 'Sorry? 'It's evaporated milk. i may need to make a quiche, and i would require 2 tins of evaporated milk.' 'But you have 3.' 'Well, there's an extra.' Of Everything. 
My brother is emptying the cupboards of his flat, in preparation for moving out. 'Do you think mum would hear me, if i got up at six in the morning and made a list of...' (pause). 'There's a lot of Sauces in here.' 'A Lot? Not really A Lot.' 'i have filled this Whole Box. ' 'It's not All Sauce.' 'No. Some of it is Spam. You like Spam then.' 'No, i can't stand it.' Silence. 'There are Four Tins.' 'They haven't been opened though, have they?' 'Woaah'. 'What?' 'i opened the Fridge.' Defensively: 'I haven't been here for a while.' ' i need a bin bag- this is a pickled..? penis?' 'Not the pickles!' 'My mistake, it's Hot Dog Sausages. sort of.'
'Did you clear the food out then?' 'Yes. i hope you like spam.' Dad: 'No neither me or your brother can stand it.' Mum: 'We can give it to the birds, instead of lard.' (Disbelievingly): 'You can't feed a bird Spam. Oh, and, Mum?' 'Yes?' 'Why is there a Cup-a-Soup in your Fridge?' 'A what?' Walks to fridge. Picks up sachet. Frown. Puts back in box.

War of the Words.

The Parish Magazine has arrived. Late. i was not actually 'anxious' about this, though i am touched by the fulsomeness of the apology nonetheless. Also the explanation regarding the trouble with the photocopier, and effects of the Cold Snap on the Order. My favourite ever edition is still last year's Parable of the Muddy Field- where it became as hard to go back as go o'er: a LOT like life. However the image of Jesus as a Party-Loving Kind of Guy- i seem to have made him into Cliff Richard somehow- is a Keeper. Working a computer is clearly the Province of the Godly in Guilsfield, though, as Spotlight still comes Hot From the Typewriter. Better Still, would be a Bander Machine- if, for some Unfathomable Reason, you ever have to read Spotlight, you will definitely want to Inhale. There is a Quarterly Poem in Spotlight, Of the kind that makes you think it's not right, To put out in verse, Things that rhyme but don't scan or worse, Are about people's pets which is Spite (ful). There is also the Relentlessly Scintillating News Bulletins of such Village Hotbeds as Old School Committee, and Evergreen Club for the Retired Person.  If we move Higher Up, to the Giddy Echelons of The County Times we will see that this is not a Formatting Issue, but one of Locality, for this is also a Product of Half-Arsedry. Indeed it is renowned for it, to the degree that ex- residents of this area have it sent on to them, even overseas, when they are Fatigued by Photos of people With Heads. Daily Mail Letters pale beside the Correspondence Section of the CT: if Aliens ever alight on Our World and this chances to be their Point of Contact, they will proceed amongst us In Bafflement. They'll be especially unnerved by our surprise as they wander through the streets, seeing as So Very Many Folk in Powys have already Sighted them in their Hot Air Balloons and Tree-Shaped Spaceships. They will also be expecting Very Much More Rage about Dog Crap. Now, i wonder if you could pass me the scissors: there is a very interesting article here about Gritting Bins, which i would very much like to Paste into my Scrapbook.

december poem

this is my heart

here

and this is its case

a curve of
spine and skin
breast hips ribs thighs the carvings on the lid
only patterns the inscription of
another hidden and revealed past


present
 

Wonderland

There is a point, in Through the Looking Glass, where one senses Carroll could throw Anything at Alice, (Eggs in Cravats, Pig-Babies, Terrible Verse) and she would shrug and start texting her Homies about Flashmobbing  Prescott's next Public Faux-Pas armed with flamingos and placards written in white paint, no red paint, no, white. Well, that's the Electorate of This Country now. I must have read 5 Articles in the last week or so, where the Grown-Ups shake their heads sadly at the Raggle-Taggle Student Protesters Turning Up day after day to express their Outrage over the Attacks on their Future. It IS Silly that they keep Banging on about Cuts and Unfairness, when it's All Sorted Out now, and the Poor and Vulnerable are no longer getting a Total Screwing in the Finger in the Dam Budget.  Sorry? It's not 'fixed'? It's Still a Daily Sicking Up of  Ill-Judged  Bullying informed by Dismissive Class Ignorance and Revulsion For Weakness or Need? Shall i explain exactly how successful my 'Tidy Your Room or there's No Pocket Money until You Do' Clamp Down has been? Put it this way, Doc has no need to look elsewhere for power for the Dolorean. Ever. But the same approach is Definitely going to work with Heroin Addicts because they're a much more Persuasive, Soft-Living Crowd. If it rains, you put your umbrella and mutter a bit. If it pours, you Pile Invective on the Weather Reporters for telling you to buy a Barbeque and then expecting you to turn it into a Houseboat at the last minute. Well, this is the Flood, this is Endless, Sickening, Stomach Turning Waves of Edicts and Proclamations bent on washing away the NHS, the Social Welfare System, and the Precept of Equal Expectation Education. And you've picked up an Egg Cup to start Bailing Out and put it down again, because you're overwhelmed. Your Only Hope now is fetch your best Helena Bonham-Carter Dressing up Clothes, dust off your DMs and Join the Kids. Or you may as well start filling your pockets with stones.

Cold Comfort

It has now been Winter For Ever. The Double Double Daylight Saving Scheme (as we have now elected to call it after a lengthy chat with the Scots over a Yard of Whiskey, during which it was also decided that if the people of Kent continued to harp on about being only 25 minutes from Another Time Zone, they should be Sliced Off from the mainland and made to paddle their county to France and see if they will be Let In 'we bring you Oast Houses, and Maidstone, Birthplace of McKenzie Crook...') is in place. It has been adopted solely to give us time to Dress and Undress at the beginning and end of the day. Every one North of Manchester is effectively Disenfranchised until it Warms Up, surely. The Southerners will be rushing through Bills banning Northumbrian Dancing and Shortbread. Amongst my  Favourite Horror of the Freeze Stories was Newcastle Council 'reminding drinkers to put a coat on.' What's the Moral Stance on Ethnic Cleansing by Omission of the Cracking Obvious? Also, the parents whose kids were 'stranded' at school- i've tried, they weren't having any of it- after they dropped them off, 'turned their cars around as the weather worsened, and then discovered They Were Stuck.' Even allowing for the drop-off run to be, say, from here to Biddulph and to involve a Ferry navigated by a Strange Beardy Guy in a Rusty Cloak, i think there's a  Notable level of Stupidity on display here. Perhaps the snow had got clumped coming out of the cloud and all fell in a Heap, like Bad Custard. Drawing on the Wide Pool of Figures available to me, from the Accidents and Injuries that have befallen my own Hapless Children, people are in less Danger from Frost than from Kitchen Utensils. Especially Ladles. Beware the Ladle. Not only is it capable of Inflicting Damage on a Small Chap, should he fall on it, Face-First, but then you have to explain the Crescent Shaped Bruise to others, for weeks and weeks. Often you also have to Explain A Ladle. Right, i can type No More, my fingers will freeze to the Keyboard.  There will be nothing left for it, then, but to Submit Me as an Installation to the Turner Prize Committee: 'AP, Silenced At Last.'

hairdresser

'how are you George? not cycling weather, is it?' 'very much not. i am better now i have bought Appropriate Clothing. i don't like wearing it though.' 'not a fan of the vest then? probably not afraid of unwashed salad, either?' 'no. i confess i did panic in Sainsbury's yesterday and buy Bovril.' 'that is a worry.' 'i have taken to obsessively tuning in to Weather stations.' 'be careful with the radio, George. whenever i get in a car with my dad, Radio 4 skip straight to a documentary about sex.' 'every time?' 'unfailingly. i thought i was safe yesterday, when they began to talk about pandas, but it went directly to panda sex, and there we were again.' 'pandas are rubbish, aren't they.' 'totally so. they only get away with it because they are cute. there are doubtless, hundreds of sexually inadequate Lizard Species out there, numbers declining...' 'cockroaches, showing off, desperate for a bit of attention.' 'no one wants to fellate a cockroach or a lizard, that's the nub of it. turns out, that pandas are especially prone to having twins. but will only bring up one of them.' 'nah, i don't like the look of the second one?' 'yeah, basically. any way, pandas have one on one keepers because they are so coddled, and what they've tried, is whisking one precious panda baby away for a couple of hours,then swapping it back and so forth.' ' really? what, he pops in, disguised as a bush..' 'yeah, panda up his jumper..' 'look over there, it's a balloon..' 'but if this is like the panda's best Human Mate, i reckon the panda catches on at some point. he's acting a bit weird today. and how long does this go on for? till the little chaps are 24?' 'hang on a minute, there's two of you- are you staying for the Winter Show by the way?' ' what will it comprise, George?' 'well, about six floats pulled by tractors, to be honest.' 'Christmas Themed?' 'maybe- apart from one lot who always come as Clubbers. i've made a bit of a mistake there, actually.' 'in what way?' 'well, i had this american woman here, yesterday, and i told her about the parade, as i thought, quite realistically, but by the time she joined her group she was announcing a Pageant, and i was a bit panicky, like no, no, not Gay pride.' 'lower your expectations?' 'it seemed wrong to say it, but, yes.' ' it looks lovely, that's your tip, thank you so much. and if any one asks after the cheerleaders and ticker-tape.?' 'don't, don't. she might be out there now, crying. take care, bye now.'

Doing it for the Kids.

They have changed the Precept of the National Lottery. Handing over a bunch of your Hard-Earned that you could have spent on Fags and Justin Bieber Print Pillow Slips in the hope of being given a Whole Heap back under the scheme hereby known as Buckley's, is No More. Instead, what you will now be required To Do (don't panic, it still isn't Get a Job and Save up for the Things you Want) is to root around in the back of the dry Goods cupboard for Superfluous Pasta and Tinned Items, which you will hand to our representative, grudgingly, and then pay for the chance to win them back. Not you, Mother, that is Out of Date. You can't just stick a draw ticket on last year's unwanted Christmas Body Butter, i'm afraid, because the Magic doesn't Happen unless you are in a School Hall, surrounded by Hysterical Primary- Age Kids, and Trying Not to catch the eye of the woman on the Home-Made Card Stall, because she might cry. Have a Cup of Tea and a 'free' cake. Free like 'Free Schools', yes. You made that cake and now you've just paid for it, but you aren't a Penny better off.  Just as in Cameron's Big Society, how delightfully ironic. There's no point trying to escape- or Not To Arrive, for that matter: your Six Year-Old has made a Bird Feeder out of a Yoghurt Pot and a quart of Pork Scratchings and written her Name on it in Biro and now you have to find it and buy it or she'll be snotty when she sees Santa. Talking of which, Start Queuing. Santa IS free- Real Free, like, um,  National Lottery Grants. The Photo will cost you a quid though- you can't use your own i'm afraid, you have to have a form for that.  There, now every one is arguing because they each want one another's Gifts. You can go home now, see you next year- ooo a ticket with a 5 on the end, Pickled Herring, you're a Winner!

There Be Dragons

i demand that We get the World Cup. It would be Ace, Better in fact, it would be a Total Fucking Shambles. i'm not English, you understand, i'm Welsh. i do know that this is the Tippety-Toppety End of Professional Sport, yes- nothing else would distract David Beckham from his Real Job of flogging Manscara to the Japanese in order to try and win over Sepp Blatter with his Collection of Comedy Tattoos. And i do realise that the Welsh never qualify- not a Disadvantage, look how the Jolly Maltese love Eurovision. You're imagining the Cream of the Soccer Elite swanking their Shiny Ladies afore a Hello-Courting Series of London Landmarks, aren't you? Dull, ITV-Titillating Corporate Tedium.   Especially compared to my proposal, which is to hold the Whole Shebang on Welshpool Show Ground, up past Morrisons, take a right, park up on the top of the field . Catering:  Spar, mainly bagettes; drinks later in the Angel (unless it's shut down again, as during the entire chart career of Nik Kershaw );plastic glasses only; last one into Moltos, formerly Images, has to drink the Bitter . Sporting Village: tough, spread between Hidden Valley Caravan Park and Lee Bock's mum's settee probably. Wags will have to bunk down at the Royal Oak, where there are at least Soap Dispensers in the Ladies, and, occasionally, Soap. Sponsorship split between Mike the Gas and Dick the Milk (Wayne Rooney only- oh YOU wouldn't have resisted). If the Poppettes need Freebies, there's always that maroon lingerie display that's been startling passers-by from the display window of Janeeva for the last 18 months. If we can make the Booze Tent a Drive-Thru,  i'm pretty sure we can bring off an opening ceremony of Agricultural Implements and Vehicles unmatchable elsewhere in Powys.  O go on, it'll be a laugh- remember how much all that Pro-Plus and Redbull cost you during the last World Cup. Lembit isn't coming, no.  I promise on His Life. Excellent,  I'll book the Bouncy Castle. See you there.

Warning: Dinner.

A light has appeared on the cooker. i will qualify this statement: a previously unseen Red Spot has lit up on the display panel of the electric hob, and i haven't even the Slightest Inkling of what it may signify. It Does Not mean 'this is on', another blip is already on the job there, two would be overkill, surely, even for a woman who can't work clingfilm. It doesn't mean 'you are cooking', although all of us would welcome a Definite Sign when this is taking place, and perhaps An Alarm which goes off if i grate butter instead of cheese, again. Before i do it. Not afterward. It Is not the lock to stop accidental alteration of the heat whilst one cooks, there is one, presumably a Mercy Feature, fitted when it was known i was coming. Also, this is a different display panel to the one for the actual oven portion of the device, which occasionally sounds a Random Siren and shuts down all operations until you hit all the buttons firmly with the flat of your hand several times, whereupon it stops, and the heat comes back on. Usually, cookers have a facility to start by timer, not usually to stop. Again, the suspicion it has been Personalized. Aunty Helen once sent me to check on our tea, when i stayed with her: 'what temperature have i put it on?'- Never Choose Friends Too Far Out of Your Own Orbit- 'it's between four and five.' 'what? oh, for god's sake' (very patiently) 'AP, that's the timer. that, there is the Gas Settings.' i think i'll turn it off at the wall, and hope that that is what it was trying to tell me: Stop.

Fear of Falling

I reckon, as he stood on the prow of his Big Ship, wondering for the millionth time Why Gopher Wood, and not something they'd heard of in B & Q, that Noah was at least Deeply Relieved that it wasn't snowing. And Gandhi: could have been worse, they might have needed More Salt. Some one texted me from the Darkest Reaches of North Yorkshire, Near Filey, earlier. Her village has been 'cut off', apart from presumably Seagulls, and, i don't know, Moomins? for 5 days now, due to all the Slippery White Stuff. There is Panic at the school- the parents are being asked to send in Breaktime Fruit from their Own Stores. Moomins, Gulls and Teachers, then. Emergency Clementines- this is a Fearful Pass. (Just out of interest i once ordered 2 clementines, 2 mandarins and 2 satsumas from the supermarket- as i suspected, All The Same, apply this as a Political Analogy during the Next Election, it will save you time.) Still, during this Period of Freezy Anguish, Some will emerge Triumphant. People Avoiding Having Sex, for a start, and Spontaneous Curlers. And my Mother. Not because she likes snow, no no, she greets it with the same Suspicion and Disgust usually bestowed upon Tesco, but because She Has Prepared. Since the closing chords of George Harrison's  Concert For Bangladesh the Stockpiling of Semi-Edible Goods to larder and freezer compartment has been dutifully, obsessively pursued All for This Day. And  tomorrow, and the day after, if it hasn't melted. When, the Brave Survivors of this Fearful Wintery Dooooom  crawl blinking from their bunkers just in time to catch the Royal Toffery being Live-Streamed Yea Unto their Very Souls, Mother will be amongst them. The Years of feasting on the Out-of-Date, and the Unidentifiable will have come to fruition.  And will they be Happy, this Post-Cold-Snap Society? No, it'll be too Hot, there'll be a shortage of Paddling Pools at Hardings, and the fan in the fridge won't be able to keep up, causing the Annual June Panic. There's no chance Sarah Palin didn't make it, either.

Happy Holiday

A Mini- Rubber Chicken that lays an egg when squeezed- re-insertion required; an unfortunately- shaped 'Magic Bubble Dispenser'; a Moody Face- cheaper to fill a stocking with No Gin; Jumping Beans- as usual less active than S Club Seven; Tangle- a 'great to fiddle with' toy that makes me regret replacing the cord on the iron: Light-Up Disco Pen: to remind you that Youth is Gone; the expectation-defining Come-Back Roller, push it away....and it returns;  Groan Tube (i know,i know, Superfluous), actually described as 'infuriating'. No wonder Santa doesn't want to do this himself. Less of an Elephant, thundering towards us, and more of a Fully- Animated Buckaroo Horizoning (it's a Coalition word, i mean to get mileage out of it) -Christmas is Coming. Pick another date, anything, the tenth of April, say- a date Quite Near when Shakespeare was born, but not, you know, actually that date, and then forget about Shakespeare. Go shopping, Now. Don't read the read the rest of this, there's no time, you need to Cash-Out on Fripperies. As many as you can fit in your saddlebags- this is a prescient word considering what's coming for your thighs- and as much as possible of what you purchase must Defy Use. And Keep Eating. Theme the eating in some way : Food you Don't Mind Finding at the Back of the Cupboard in July is a good one. It's largely irrelevant- at the last Moment some Smart Arse will pop up and suggest you have a Thai Shakespeare, or persuade you to add Guava to your Nut Roast, and you'll be left sobbing over the memory of a bowl of discarded sprouts. In the Name of Shakepearemas, you will have to dress small children as 1970s Rock Gods, dig out a protractor in the hope of getting your egg sandwiches to measure up to Nana's at the Playgroup Party, light up the front of your house so that it outshines the rolling news display you can see on your neighbours' flat-screen  from the other side of the street Every Morning, and Eat Dates. With a little stick. (Hang onto the stick, you will need it for stabbing yourself in the eyes when they turn the Festive Telly on. ) Oh and everything should sparkle. And some one probably spent time choosing me that Self-Waxing Kit, and writing that card, arranging to meet for a drink, texting, ringing. And it might snow, and children seem to like it i guess. I suppose it is the only time of the year i'm guaranteed to see the Wombles. Go on then i will have that sherry, ta- and a home-made Mince Pie? Curried? Great.

The Education Rant.

Michael Gove (cracks knuckles, flexes muscles) Michael Gove. It's like an Anti-Mantra for the Lacksadaisical.Try it: run a bath, light some candles, pour a drink, take a week off work and relax. Wait until, say Thursday Tea-Time, and gently, gently speak his name aloud. Tense? Thought so. Imagine him peering down at you from Atop his Mighty Runaway Steamroller of Random 'Reform'. Your body is out of the bubbles and toweling off the disgust before you've even had time to neck the Pinot. You probably need a shower now, too. And therapy. During the 20 seconds it took you to dress, Gove has passed (it's really the only word for these emissions) yet another Decree, abandoning modular assessment for one big Bumper Exam that lasts for as long as it takes for every one to be distracted from the fact that the School Buildings have fallen down around us and there's a Super New Straw-Build Academy on the Playing Fields. You didn't know the School was failing? oh, well, it was decided Retrospectively, via the criteria which i am thinking up now as i type, whereby all the Educational Establishments that would look better as New Unaffordable Council House Developments (short-term lease only) are suddenly Declared Dead, even though they are still sat up, drinking a cup of tea and watching Countdown. This Morning, i listened, wearing what we will call my Coalition Expression- it combines resignation, disbelief and fury, don't try it, i am RADA trained- to Gove explaining the cuts in the Sports Budget, how the Lack of Trained Staff, and Equipment will lead to a resurgence of The Greats: Hockey, Football, Rugby. As opposed to under the last government, where all the cash was being spent on- serious tone, disapproving shake of the head- Circus Skills. The latest Whizz-Pop idea, maybe one Nick Clegg has dreamed up on his Specially Calming Medicated Cigarettes, is that Trainee Teachers should spend a much higher proportion of their time learning in the classroom. Practicing (on Your kids, not Theirs) to  See if they're Up To It. Because if they aren't it would be Stupid to let them into a Real School where the Children's Whole Future depends on One Huge Monster Exam that they might Bugger up because David Cameron met a Squaddie once who he thought might be able to Learn the Oiks some Sums. Oh. Oops. Tightrope Walking or Juggling? You were waiting for the Clown Joke, weren't you? Don't Worry, it's Here.

wholly

halves light
in a dawn made where words
have ended waiting for the wake
then and always worn and new a day
breaks mends the two.

in the eye there is the storm when all collides
ever fall
ever rise to see the windows
on the whole only
a  moment
where none has gone

to be
one

Helpline.

 By 'holding on', they mean the receiver, i assume: they Should be liable when i throw it at someone. 'Thank you for waiting, we appreciate the Time and Patience you have spent anticipating us beginning this sentence again.' If what i can hear in the background was actual, genuine Straight From-the-Whales Birthing Music, i could not be more annoyed, O operatives of the Washing Machine Repair Line. Even if i was giving birth. To my Firstborn. On that drip they give you when the baby is goading you from the womb to give him his Birthday presents TWO WEEKS LATE every year. With the Birthing Staff present at my Youngest's birth, who suddenly announced that this was a Good Time to push because 'the head is coming round the corner.' Round The Corner? Why is there a Corner? Tell me the truth- you're seen it's me on Caller ID- you know that this Washing Machine, with its Multiple Replacement Parts, is as near to the Original One sold to me, as whatever Fluffy Tusked Bun- Junkie they'll claim to have reproduced from Freezer-Safe DNA snippets will be to a Woolly Mammoth. Without the claims i make, yearly on his repair policy, you could afford to double the size of the office Christmas Party. And move it to Antigua. By Mammoth. (Flying, yes, Resurrection went horribly wrong.) But, tough, keeping me on my knees in the shed is what i'm paying you for- yes, i've read that back- so, Hayley, Marcus, Kim, put that synth down, and answer the phone- hello? Yes? A week on Wednesday? Right, and in the meantime? Regular interaction with my mother. Right. Now, if you could just transfer me back to the lovely tunes, and turn it up, more, louder- i can still hear screaming-...cheers.

Old Hat

Apparently i am in need of a New Hat. What appears to be an Oddly-Stuffed Balding Bear in a Waistcoat has asked his Glossy Flopsy to marry him. Hurrah. We are paying for it to be on Live News Streaming so that we know how Important it is to us. I hope Ann Sang-Suu-Kyi stayed in to watch, especially the moment they asked a Random Poshette how thrilled she was, and she Was, Really. Now you know something is Unspeakably Foetid when your measure of excitement is that, at the last Grandy Royal Splicing, David Cameron slummed it up in a sleeping bag to get a place at the front of the crowd. Presumably he used Clegg as a pillow- i have these Irrepressible Notions of them Side-by-Side since childhood: in School Uniform and prefect badges; or as Cartoon Twins in contrasting lapels; or as Boy and Dog. i wonder if he had a Little Flag- FLAG, you've misread it, you've joined me in The Notions. Perhaps his mum and dad bought him his own Celebratory Cannon to Fire. and a Frigate to Fire it off. Digressing. There will be no avoiding this Frock-Trotting Wankery, come The Day you realise: it'll be every TV screen in every Repo Shop throughout the land, beamed onto the Poverty Tags in our Irises so we can Send the Happy-O-Meter soaring with our- ow- Unprompted Surge of Civic Pride. Perhaps they'll be so impressed in China that they stop torturing people who want to vote for ten minutes and send us another order for 25 Rolls Royces. Here at Pringle Towers, we've set up a Production Line. Every child must produce 10 items of WanKWales Memorabilia a day. Or no dinner. A Special Prize (no dinner) to the kid who can make the most varied selection of items from Soiled Nappies. Start the Revolution Small, but Start it- oh,and don't be afraid to look down at your Commemorative Ashtray, even if every one else is putting theirs in the Display Cupboard, and think, 'This, THIS is a load of Crap.' It is, it was, it always will be. Now, Wash Your Hands.

Celyn Lane, November

further out a swell of white clouds
charge
the rise of mountain

sun in hedges shield
catch
a thousand images
sable and ink framing berries bloody
tawny leaves cracking loose in scales

frozen pale
dawn
over the ground the scratch of swords
switch of the tail of Autumn
sweeping out
the roar before the colour
fading laying down
and sound
stoops

Remainders of Today. (sorry)

When they write The Memoir, i want a guarantee that Cameron and Clegg are Forced to write it Together. For a start, i'm not paying twice to subsidise the further adventures of these two Diamond-Encrusted Top Hats as they skip blithely across the Political Playpark of Europe or shimmy onto Letterman to the opening bars of Champagne Supernova. Secondly, i'm not paying at all, i now earn nearly enough to afford to park outside Tesco, everything else goes McSchool Dinners and Single-Parent Tax (whereby all the feckless Divorcees put a bit extra back into the state so that Philip Green can buy Kate Moss a new Minkskin Tutu). The local library is now the workhouse, Roger's Book Group are in charge of sacking for mailbags.Thirdly, whichever way they're Made To Do It, it'll be really really satisfying for the rest of us: take turns with chapters, 'i did not, that was his idea', 'i SAID to lock the doors, and hide the fire extinguishers'; Or get Cameron to do the first draft and then let Clegg proof-read with a highlighter and a red biro, THEN give it back to Cameron; Or, and this is my personal favourite, lock them in a room, a tv studio, preferably- oooh the Big Brothers House- and only leave them one pen, or one apple mac, whatever. Dangle the Publisher's Advance above them- bundles of notes, gold bullion- as long as it's Heavy. Let them fight it out to justify the Fear, Degradation and Misery they will have brought to this country by the time it comes to the composition of 'Why I Was Right'. Doesn't much matter who gets the Upper Hand, does it? Then we cut the rope that holds the money. If it doesn't kill any one straight off, there's always a fair chance of suffocation, or we just leave them there, with only the Cash for Food. Hopefully, we can watch them literally choke on their Wealth, and cherish the irony for a moment, before the rest of us, The Statistics, go back to sifting through the Ashes of the Welfare State in search of cockroaches to add to our gruel.

Alike, and different.

A strange Upper  Class woman- no, for once, this is Not shorthand for my Mother- took it upon herself to engage my Youngest in conversation in the local farm shop, yesterday. 'Are you trying to go to sleep? Has your mummy left you?' etc. My sensible little boy ignored her, and hid in his coat. 'Now, Ladies, are these parsnips Organic?' One shakes her head firmly: 'No, they aren't.' 'Why not?' Bemused silence. UC's basket is groaning with Wild Garlic Cordial and Potted Shrew, she heaves it onto the counter, sighing.'Serve her' (me) 'first, this can go on My Tab- i'll find something else.' disappears. Immediately, Terrible, Terrible Flummox. Ledgers, till notes, scraps of paper. 'Where is The Account?' They never find it, i leave before she reappears. Whole atmosphere Unsettled. Nice lady buying oranges (which may or may not be organic, but certainly aren't local) completely overlooked. A nice girl -she was my best friend- once told me that we were Frenemies, which apart from being the kind of word that makes you want to poke out the lenses of your reading glasses with Indeterminate Parsnips, is meant to indicate Friendship, with a hint of competition. In Women, obviously. I'm saying: 'i like your hair.' She's hearing : 'it usually looks like candyfloss.' Or worse still, i'm Actually Thinking: 'it usually looks like candyfloss.' 'I must assert my superiority over these two shopwomen, i shall begin by questioning the Parsnips.' Right, well i propose the New Feminism. What we will do is this: we will each buy a good shed. It can be locally sourced, if you like. They are each to be Standard Size, shed-coloured and not fancied up, or altered in any way. Now, when i say 'that is a lovely necklace.' that will be what i mean. Say thank you, look at your necklace, it IS lovely. Pass THAT on. 'Never mind, no one but Hugh Fearnley-Whitwhat ever really enjoys Curried Parsnip Soup, anyway. Can i have some of that cheese there, please? What a pleasing display.' And if you can't think of Anything nice to say, if your Youngest really did 'toilet-train herself', or you honestly Do enjoy listening to the Freak Zone, and aren't doing the aural equivalent of Squinting whenever that '8 Hot Air Balloons are being Inflated' nonsense is played, then you know what to do. Look over at the shed, Remember, you've got one just like it, and you know it takes a bit of looking after. Bite It Back- 'Nice shed, Alison.' 'Thank you.Yours is nice too.'

May Day

I watched the live streaming of the Students rioting last night for a couple of hours. An excellent decision had been made to appoint the Only Optimist left in the country as Voice Over Man. 'This will all begin to die down as night falls. Many of these young people will have trains to catch, it looks like rain, and oh... they've lit a Big Fire.' In my college, the Provost Peter Lee held a Mayday Ball every year, where he served 'punch' (vodka watered down with strawberries). Every First Year had an invite, but after that they were discretionary. Being an Arse wasn't a bar, being a Bore, was. The last time i attended Mayday, i went with Helen. We got our punch, and a glass of wine each- no point queuing unnecessarily- and sat with 50 odd Young Folk in designer gear, mainly beige, with a hint of taupe, until we could bear the dullness no longer. 'You look a bit glum, Peter.' 'I'm giving this up, these are the most uninteresting students i have ever known, they have got steadily worse as the years have gone on , and now, these...' Noise of Disgust. We left. There was still punch left. I don't condone the reported violence towards people , and they need to work on the placards, but yesterday was the first inkling i have had in 15 years that students are still capable of voicing Opinion and demonstrating Passion without reference to its effects on their Own Ambitions and Expectations. I got my Return Ticket to Mayday when Peter caught me leaving the 2nd year party that i had gatecrashed with a bottle of his wine 'concealed' in one half of my cardigan and half a bagette in the other. He cross- examined me about Pushkin for 15 minutes while i nodded, guessed and blagged for as long as either of us could stand it. Then he let me leave. I had been entertaining. I went and looked up Pushkin. It isn't just about Turning up,and remembering your Hat and Gloves: it's about what you Hear, and what you Say and finding out how (not what) to Think. And about learning that if you lower a Partially- Opened Camenbert through a lakeside window, you must not  forget to retrieve it before morning. Your life- lesson for the day, Class of 2010: Geese Will Eat Anything, even Dairy.

Sense and Sensibility

At the University of the Third Age, men and women of a certain Type and Maturity gather to discuss poetry, art, history and literature: to walk and visit places of cultural significance; to reflect upon life and its experiences. What they should be learning is how to remember where they have just put their car keys.(Where are you? in town? they're in the front pocket of your bag.At my house? on the mantlepiece.) The Members of Ancient Civilization Class could gather in the multi-storey car park in town- that's assuming they could position the car near enough to the ticket barrier to be able to execute entry- and i guarantee there would not be a Degree in Operating the Parking Machine among them. Lifts are not frightening, as soon as you accept that movement between floors is dependent on Accurate Button Choice and Depression, have this Instruction Pamphlet, I've had it translated into Latin, to soothe you. Video Recorders are extinct now, you need no longer fear their Trickery- though it is Still True that you can record from the aerial and watch something on a DVD player- no, i don't suppose it is something that Odysseus grappled with to any extent. Anyway, i-player need Not Worry You, if you can't remember your Facebook Password (the first line of your own address), you should really give it a miss. Now, Ladies, Gentlemen, sit down, here's a map of Mesopotamia you might enjoy labelling. i've put dinner in the microwave: press M, then turn the dial for the Power rating, then Start, then- no no, don't cry, i'll stay and do it for you. Whilst reading aloud from The Wasteland? Sigh. If i must.

waiting

always on the stairs,
or in a lift, or on a path or street or hill that is
not there, but on the way, or
going to. where you see
nothing all around you
unread books on dark-shut trains,
silent taxis.
windowless rooms.

at christmas
in the church, uncomprehending
looking at your life
and seeing not the star,  but just
the hole where it should be, while you wait for him
and wait,
then wonder,

when he's given, from so far away,
light,
for the one
who can't believe.

Sunday

there are lumps in the batter, but then, there were last time, and they turned out ok. at eight, a child should know how to silence a smoke alarm by flapping a magazine at it. i can't really wait for help with the table until you have uploaded your amusing video to You've Been Framed, no. you can put my name on it, yes. no, i was not born in 1966, you misheard me, cheers. help yourselves, i'll just change 'my depressing music'. not with your fingers. every one has to have cabbage. except him. you know why not. stop pretending to play Total Wipeout, please. i mean it. you can't have another Yorkshire Pudding until you eat something else. why do you call them Hedges? because there are spots on them. don't laugh at him, he is a show-off. are you eating everything in turn? do you think this is why you always finish last? no, it doesn't matter at all. put that down and pick it up with a fork. oh very clever. shoving it all in so you evade doing as i say. don't argue, your mouth is full. go to the toilet, but be quick, and wash your hands. with a fork. not until you eat something else. why are you running round and round? pins and needles? can you sit down again- it'll go off soon. your way probably is quicker, but- he is Not the Sucker Punch. once more and you'll have 5 minutes in your room afterwards. no, i'll clean up, she's still eating. what has he done? mint sauce on what?  enough, go to your room. yes, you can go and do your boy stuff. where did you get that from- oh, he stole it while you were in the loo. don't cry, there's another. can i put that in the dishwasher now? good girl. well, that was nice.

king of the sillies

'don't be silly.' she says, laughing. 'how silly am i, on the scale of one to silly?' 'you are about Half- much Silly. if Not Silly is five, you are a ten.' 'i see. and what would i have to do to graduate to fifteen: Very Silly Indeed? would i need clown shoes?' 'no. three things. you would have to wear funnier clothes all the time. you would have to walk on the ceiling, and you would have to stick lots of things on the roof.' 'oh' i think, 'i am not going to ever be Very Silly. i can't do those things. perhaps the clothes...' 'you could use the sink plunger.' ' for the ceiling? mm. i would need to buy a second one, if i wanted to move about. otherwise i would just be hanging there.' 'yes. and a million bags of Super Glue. for sticking.' 'a million? now, where will i store all these? how many tubes to a bag- oh, i think You are more than Half- much Silly. i think you are a twelve.' she is indignant: 'i am not.' 'hang off the ceiling with a plunger, she says, buy millions of bags of glue, she says.' she thinks. 'i will agree to be Half- much silly. the Same as you.' 'deal. shake.' ' anyway' (whispers) 'he is much sillier than us, King Silly Silly Silly, of Sillyness.' 'yes.' 'don't worry, though, he can't hear us.'

fireworks

there is a thin bridge, at the base of the hill, you must cross in single file. the slope where you bring your sledge in the snow is muddy under the lights from the Scout Hut. green is brighter, and the earth is darker. a man in a cowboy hat has brought his baby on his back. all the women from the daytime, from the schoolyard, and their men,and the children, and  teenagers, and the 'how is uni treating you?'s, are there. they light the bonfire. at first, it is the smoke: the pot which cleans the brushes, is knocked over in the ink. then the burst of life. madness, tiny orange souls, freed and flying, conversations, interactions, laughing on escape. murmuring, shouts, boys skidding down the bank and couples with umbrellas, close, leaning in. fuse. breath.
the lines of gold in a black shirt i bought twenty years ago.
sequins. fancy dress. silver jubilee.
gold tassels, a plastic fan, gaudy, black, shiny, a present from a holiday.

we leave the glitter in the trees, and walk back down, there are kids splashing through the brook, and then the mums and dads join in, we are all laughing up the lane. a single firework goes off. look.

the Rossettis. but different.

my father appears, he has been trying, unsuccessfully to take up a floorboard (Never Ask Why). my mother helpfully suggests unscrewing it. 'Alison is here.' And Visible. 'We are going to execute a Mercy Dash to the High School, to deliver Cookery ingredients.' 'I had unaccountably failed to realise that Friday would be following Thursday. Until it arrived.''Are you going in my car? I've taken the screws out. It's very odd.' 'Do you want anything?' 'Nothing that you can fetch.' (? Wildebeest? Vikings? his car does have the bigger boot.) 'This is like the argument you had over Sunday Dinner, while you were debating the nature of God.' 'is it?' (Mother) 'did we? what was it about?' (starting to giggle) 'dad was trying to explain to you what exactly a Parsec is.' 'was i?' 'yes, you must remember. you went to Google it, so as to try and explain more clearly. you said '(giggling more) 'the sec stands for second. and she..' 'well, i could guess that part.' (barely able to speak) 'yes, and then you started ...' no hang on i remember, it's the angle in a triangle of light, or...''no, no, no, let me just get a piece of paper.' 'don't dad, don't do the diagram again, you are making me cry, stop.' 'it's simpler if i just draw it.' 'you notice that i don't weigh in with my superior knowledge of history and literature and its structure and critique.' 'yes, mum, and don't, or this would be endless.' 'are we like the Rossettis, do you think, writing poetry and creating art around the kitchen table?' 'yes, mum.' (helpless with laughter, so that they are now laughing too) 'you are just like them, but different. you have ruined my eyeliner. Can i keep the diagram?'

Post

i would like my Children to go to University. in fact i'd like the Youngest to go Right Now, this morning. He already possesses most of the attributes necessary to achieve Student Immortality: an appalling diet, the ability to confuse Day and Night, and a reckless desire for experimentation of the most inappropriate kind -'he's at the top of the stairs on his motorbike again.' But there's 5 of them, and i won't be able to afford it because of the Government's Special Programme of Access to Higher Education, whereby more kids can go to college if we make it more expensive (i think i've followed that, just as i think i'm following the argument that Sarah Palin is a Feminist because she is Not a Man). I suppose, had he not had the Grant that enabled him to attend an Obscure Welsh College in the late 60s, my dad could have fallen back on his job in the Bread Factory. My mum was ambitious and bright, but if they don't have the little rubber feet on them, telephones Can slip around rather when you dial. So, 3 options: 1.Crush their Expectations of Life- inexpensive, if brutal. 2. pick the one i most want rid of for 3 years- easy, though devisive. 3.or pray that Some one Sees Sense- No Chance. My parents were Teachers for a total of over Sixty Years. These policies, and the Social Cuts that accompany them, will trap their Grandchildren in  lives of Disappointment, and Poverty. Those Bunk Beds will cramp The Boys' style somewhat, when they're in their twenties.

snapshots

an article on Radio 4, a Funeral Photographer.  taken back to Grandad's Funeral.
picture: my father and i in the Front Bedroom, where the bookshelf has been stored, stuck inside, Sunday School Prize, May Doorbar, awarded to, Ronald Bestwick.Science manuals, boarding school tales, spotters guides.
at the funeral parlour. holding his father's hand.
by the sink, tipping the chip dinner into the bin. we turn the heating on.
aunt, uncle, cousins, funeral directors,  the Lord's Prayer in the back room.
service: regret, weariness, giving at the knees as we leave, and outside, 'My Little Lal'. i am nearly forty years old, all the younger children towering over me.
graveside, blown about. drinks in the pub. back in the car, in the rain. it always rains in Stoke. except when it snows.
out of the shower, the radio off, my Youngest banging on the door. he has his drum.

whirlwind

sometimes the day picks you up and sets you down again, with no warning. But where you were and where you are only seem apart. It is all woven together, all waves in the sea. The leaves lie washed down to the ground, but still they are not separate from the tree.