Now?

i do hope they Postpone the Apocalypse, because Powys County Council will almost certainly Panic. There's Enough To-Do with the Timetabling of the Swimming Pool at the Flash Leisure Centre: 'How many Seals? And they all Open in Succession? and What Flies Out? Dave, will we need a Music License for Angels with Trumpets?' Even if there is a man in the Oak who knows a man who can get Alexander a Really Big Iron Gate, there's no telling when they'll make the decision to put it up. 'Are we talking Gog and Magog, or just Gog?' They'll probably need to send out for a man from Wrexham to dig the hole, and a team from Wolverhampton to fill it, and that's without Community Centre Committee being recalled to sit on Appropriate Signage. English, Hebrew and Welsh. The County Times Letters Page can expect to be inundated: Sir, I am writing to draw your attention to the Unacceptable Levels of Horse Excrement to be seen on the Roads adjacent to the Vicinity of the Hitherto Delightful Environs of the Village of Trewern, following the Surprise Arrival of Four Huge, Scandalously- Coloured Beasts of Unknown Origin...demanded his Particulars...what sort of a name is Pestilence- probably a Yow-Yow...writing to my MP'.  Come Judgement Day, and by using and projecting, O, for NO REASON, the Advent of Two Centimetres of Forecast Snow, what will probably happen is this: 'Right, now, is that Ragnarok, over there, or just a bit of a Godly Tiff?' 'No idea, I mean, they look a bit Tetchy- is that Freya with her hands on her hips?' 'You're right, mind, have you ever tried getting a Cat to pull a Chariot?' 'Are we shutting the School then? Threat of Flooding and/or Hellfire et cetera?' 'Um.. Not Sure- I think they're stopping, look Loki's having a little rest- oh, no, what's He doing? Another horse, Eight Legs? pass me the address of the County Times, this'll be trouble.' 'I'll put Open on the End of the World Website, then.' 'Ah. Fighting again. No, it's Definitely Doom.' 'I can't change it now, they're all arriving. The parents won't be happy if we haven't Foretold The End of the World and they all have to come back from work.' 'Let's fudge it and warn them we'll definitely stay open until Dinner Time . And keep an eye on that Tree.'

wall-to-wall

It is a sad fact that above a certain level of income that it becomes difficult to disentangle Need from Want. Well, not that hard, actually, unless you spend all your time reading Hello and weeping because now Katona is off the Happy Powder AGAIN they should really have her back behind that Iceland Prawn Ring where she belongs . Here's one for inclusion in the Rewriting of a Bill of Rights: carpets. Let's add carpets to Our List of things we write on our placards or e-mail to our Mps or just Weep Over as we watch Rolling News and reflect on how Shit it all is. Because, apparently, below a certain income, a covering over concrete is one of those things you can do without. Like Coats, and Cookers, and a Standard of Living that allows a Scrap of Dignity. A State-Funded Beanfest for the Dynastically Inbred, or the means to provide cooked food for families in Emergency Housing? Shall we Toss a Commemorative Coin?
It's the All-Round Joined Up Thinking, i admire: cut jobs, so there are more unemployed; cut benefits for these people so that they find themselves on even lower incomes; cut funding to relief organizations so there is less emergency assistance; raise rents so more people are made homeless; hike up VAT so the safety net that remains has great big holes in it; and divvy up the NHS in a Piecemeal and Random fashion so that when every one in the Shanty Towns gets sick no one at the sharp end knows what they're doing or how to pay for it.
Did i miss anything out? Probably. Since its inception this Government has been frantically hurling policies off the Top of Its Ivory Tower while the Electorate affected cowers below with only Ed Miliband and his rhetorical pea-shooter for protection. Is there some one in the Coalition whose Actual Designated Post it is to stand over ideas like this, whacking Common Sense and Decency into the stratosphere with a Polo Mallet? Is it George Osborne? It's Time For Action. Fetch me a Sleeping Bag, a flask of Hot Squash and Annie Lennox's Union Jack Dress (i want to blend in). i have had an idea of where i can come by some carpet.

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.