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.