Stephen Saunders: April 2012

My personal challenge: 365 rhyming tales in 365 days.

To book me for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher / illustrators wanted.

Last night, April 24th 2012, I watched a film called Julie and Julia with Meryl Streep and Amy Adams. It inspired me, not because it is a great film, but because it’s a great story, and apparently a true one. This is what it says on the DVD back cover:

Meryl Streep stars as culinary legend Julia Child, whose cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking inspired fledgling writer Julie Powell (Amy Adams) to whip up 524 recipes in 365 days. Based on the best selling books, Julie & Julia introduces a new generation to the magic of French cooking and proves that with the right combination of passion and fearlessness, anything is possible.

Julia (Amy) wrote about her challenge in a blog every day. The result, after many trials and tribulations along the way and wondering if anyone had read it, (assuming no-one had), was that her blog ultimately attracted the attention of editors, agents, publishers and TV and film makers who published her and gave her the writing career she craved. Here is the plot according to Wikipedia:

Plot
In 2002, Julie Powell (Adams) is a young writer with an unpleasant job at the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation's call center, where she answers telephone calls from victims of the September 11 attacks and members of the general public complaining about the LMDC's controversial plans for rebuilding the World Trade Center. To do something she enjoys, she decides to cook every recipe in Mastering the Art of French Cooking (1961) by Julia Child (Streep) in one year; Powell decides to write a blog to motivate herself and document her progress.
Woven into the story of Powell's time in Queens in the early 2000s is the story of Child's time in Paris throughout the 1950s, where she attends Le Cordon Bleu to learn French cooking and begins collaborating on a book about French cooking for American housewives. The plot highlights similarities in the women's challenges. Both women receive much support from their husbands, except when Powell's husband becomes fed up with her excessive devotion to her hobby and leaves her for a short time.
Eventually, Powell's blog is featured in a story published in The New York Times, after which her project begins to receive the attention of journalists, literary agents, publishers, and a dismissive response from Child herself. Although Child's book is rejected by Houghton Mifflin, it is accepted and published by Alfred A. Knopf.

It is a tale of two very determined women.....

And so, with equal determination I launch my blog into the ether with similar ambition and similar doubts. My personal challenge is to write a children’s story, poem or ditty every day for 365 days. I tested out the possibility of achieving this today, sitting down with an empty head, and willed something onto the paper. The result took about twenty minutes or so, plus some tweaking over dinner and is here...

Day one: 25th April 2012:

Number One;

Stuck in the car.

What is it children love to do,
When not discussing farts and poo?
When tired of fighting in the car,
And bored of asking; "is it far?"

What do they really want to play,
When travelling in the car all day?
When I spy with my little eye,
Has made the one in the middle cry.

Where would children rather be,
When stuck on the road with you and me,
Feeling tired and slightly queasy?
I think the answer’s easy peasy:

I think I know, I’ve got a clue,
I know what they would rather do,
I know where they would rather be;
Back home, playing on the Wii!

© Stephen Saunders

To book me for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

If anyone would like to do a drawing or illustration of any kind, even a doodle for any of these rhymes, please send them to me at the above e-mail address and I will put them onto the blog, and when a collection of rhymes is published the best ones will be used. You might get noticed, famous even, you never know. See number 54!

Ok, I'm not Keats or Wordsworth, but I'll improve. I went to the same school as Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who could spin a yarn, but I'll set my sights on chasing Edward Lear or Pam Ayres or Roald Dahl or Spike Milligan, or Quentin Blake perhaps. No point in having too low an aspiration.

(I have to add something here, on 2nd June: For 30 something days I have been making a mistake and editing the one post rather than adding posts each day. I just didn't understand blogging properly. So if you scroll down you will find the first 30 or so rhymes. Today, June 2nd, 2012 I am separating them out into individual days and individual posts. By the time I catch up to the end of today ( the rhyme for today is called Bare With Me!) I should be straight and tidy again).

If there is anyone out there reading this, please leave a comment. If you liked it, or think you might like to read another, come back tomorrow, or subscribe if you can find the button, or if I can to set it, and hopefully there will be another one, and another, and another. I am under no illusion that coming up with something every day may prove very difficult, so if I ever have a really inspired day I will have to try and produce two or three to cover those that prove void. Please leave suggestions of subjects or anything that you think might lubricate my grey cells to help the challenge along.

Day Two

Day two, and I already realise that this is a very big challenge. But what is the point of a a small challenge, or an easy one? To write something readable every day will require considerable effort. In the past ten years I have only written about ten rhyming stories. One a year. One a day looks a bit ambitious. So if I drop behind I have a few pieces in stock. This will have the added benefit of giving you, if you exist, something to read while I am getting going.

I wonder if this could be a project to raise money for a charity. Perhaps I could get sponsorship to complete the task., like running a marathon. If I do this I will need to network the blog to as many people as possible, and I’m not really very sure how to do this. I need to find out how to set up a charity collection facility on the blog. I’d love to do this for BBC Children in Need. Does anyone know how to do this?

Number two. Read on or move to Post numbers two, three, four etc., for each new rhyme.

Down the Drain

My mother warned me not to stay for too long in the bath,
She said I’d shrink and disappear, which only made me laugh.
Instead I stayed for hours on end, my fingers turning wrinkly;
Pale and white, just like my feet, horrible and crinkly!

Some of my best ideas were had, lying in the water,
Even though my mother said I really shouldn’t oughta;
“You’ll catch your death of cold”, she’d say, if I wasn’t careful;
She worried all the time you see, the type who’s rather prayerful.

And then one day she was proved right, just as I pulled the plug,
Before I had a chance to get my feet out on the rug,
I shrank until I floated free, smaller than my duck,
And headed for the whirlpool, running out of luck!

I yelled for help, to no avail, she never heard a word,
And disappeared down in the drain; but would have much preferred
To have my towel and dressing gown wrapped cosily around me,
And saunter slowly down the stairs and sit down for my tea.

I made a desperate grab for anything to get a hold on,
Then held my breath and waited till the water had all gone.
But what exactly was it that I’d got a hold of there?
Something long and bendy, and covered with black hair!

A pair of eyes on two short stalks peered bright and hungrily
From the dark recesses of the overflow at me.
So that was where the spider lived who came out every night,
And wandered round the bathtub giving everyone a fright!

I didn’t stop to say hello, I didn’t say goodbye,
I let go quickly, shut my eyes and hoped I wouldn’t die.
I plopped into the soapy water lying in the U-bend;
Then diving down I somehow made it to the other end.

The water gone, the empty pipe was straight now, like an arrow,
But it was dark and slippery and also pretty narrow.
I slithered on not knowing where the next bend would direct me,
And then it came, why down of course, with nothing to protect me!

Next thing I knew, flat on my back I saw a chink of light
Shining on a greasy wall a little to my right.
I wriggled over to the edge, across the smelly surface;
I had to get up out of there, that was my only purpose.

A shadow flickered on the wall, enormously and scary,
A whiskered face and beady eyes, its body wet and hairy;
The rat ran past and didn’t see me hiding in the gloom;
I think it had its heart set on some rubbish to consume.

It disappeared down in a tunnel; I didn’t choose to follow,
The thought of being eaten up was more than I could swallow.
I gathered up some bits of stuff, I don’t know what it was
But it made a pile just high enough to clamber on some moss.

I got a hand hold here and there and climbed out in the light,
But just as I got out of there I had another fright!
My mother stood there with her mop, as tall as the old church spire;
From where I stood it didn’t seem that she could get much higher!

I yelled and waved to no avail, as she emptied out her bucket,
And you can no doubt guess which way she thought that she would chuck it!
A wall of soapy water caught me right up to my neck,
And away I went into the ditch, a sorry little wreck.

The ditch was full and flowing fast, it was hard to stay afloat,
So I grabbed an empty matchbox with which I made a boat.
Exhausted now I climbed inside and soon I fell asleep;
I let the stream take me along, a helpless hopeless heap.

I dreamed of normal things like lunch, and getting punched at school,
And slipping down the plughole, and being called a fool.
And when I woke the sun was out, shining on the river,
The air was warm, but I was wet, causing me to shiver.

I stuck my head over the side to find out what I could,
Then carefully and gingerly I knelt up, then I stood.
I had to know how far I’d gone, but I didn’t want to tip up;
The last thing that I needed now was yet another slip-up.

Suddenly I realised I had to lie down flat,
As a bramble like the great Forth Bridge appeared just like that.
The matchbox bumped and briefly stopped, just long enough for me
To reach up with both arms and grab a giant blackberry.

I couldn’t manage more than half, but it tasted really good,
And so I felt much better now, just as I’d hoped I would.
Then as the river swept me on a swan came drifting past;
It hissed at me and set my heart beating rather fast.

Now I knew that nothing more than fate was in control;
There wasn’t much that I could do to change things, on the whole.
And so I lay back in my box and watched the world go past;
No longer feeling so afraid,...but my mother was aghast!

She’d been upstairs to drag me out, and found that I was missing,
Where could I be, she’d no idea, and you know that she was wishing
That she had said “Get straight to bed, never mind the tub”,
And brought me up a tray instead, from which to have my grub.

And so it was I floated on, the river turning salty;
I smelled the sea and heard the gulls, if my senses were not faulty.
The water turned quite choppy, and I was tipped out by a wave,
And though it was a tiny life, my life I had to save.

I swam as hard as ever I could and crawled out on the sand,
And sat there looking round about to see what was to hand.
And then I spotted far away a cave in which to shelter;
Before the gulls came after me I ran there helter-skelter.

Deep in the cave where it was dark, I started to relax,
And in the gloom I thought I saw some distant daylight cracks.
But as I stumbled through the dark I tripped on something soft,
And then a little farther on someone distinctly coughed!

I stood back up and felt around, it seemed like all around me
Was fabric, soft like summer dresses, whatever could it be?
And then I tripped again and fell headlong to the floor;
And in the tumble and the crash I burst open a door!

I came to on the carpet, right at my mother’s toes;
She didn’t look too pleased to see me, heaven only knows!
Whatever was I thinking of, why had I been in there?
And what was that piece of seaweed doing in my hair?

Two down, 363 to go. I am off work today, and I only get paid when I’m there, so I hope this is time well spent. I drive a truck for a tree nursery, delivering to landscape designers, big garden projects, rich people’s houses, new developments, old well-established places like the National Trust and all manner of private and public places where trees, hedges and shrubs are needed. I’ll give them a plug shall I? Griffin Nursery in Milland. But they are a trade-only nursery, so probably not good advertising here! Anyway, on Tuesday the truck had a problem with the brakes and has had to go in for repair so I have the best part of three days off. This gives me a chance to get going with this.

Number Three:

Nelson & Napoleon

Nelson and Napoleon were Wellington Boots,
And in everything they did they were in cahoots.
If one stepped forward then so did the other;
Napoleon even thought that Nelson was his brother!

Nelson was right and Napoleon was left,
If one of them was missing, the other felt bereft.
They lived in the passage underneath a shelf,
And neither of them ever liked to be there by himself.

Sometimes in the night a spider or a mouse,
Would think that one of them might make a comfy house,
But early in the morning they’d have to leave their hide;
Before a pair of stocking feet came stamping down inside.

You see Nelson and Napoleon belonged to Jonathon,
Who liked to wear them everywhere and always put them on
First thing every morning to run around outside in,
So neither of them really was a safe place to hide in.

Nelson and Napoleon didn’t mind the weather,
Which was just as well since Jonathon never
Missed a chance to stomp in a puddle or the snow,
And always took the muddy way wherever he would go.

Jonathon wasn’t worried if the two of them got dirty,
But if he couldn’t find them, then he really got shirty.
He would yell and scream till his mother looked around;
And usually found them just lying on the ground.

Then he’d run outside and kick hard at his ball,
But it wouldn’t bother either of them very much at all.
They were quite used to it, and it never really hurt;
At worst they both just ended up covered with more dirt.

Jonathon was growing and was bigger than his sister,
And one day Napoleon gave his toe a blister.
He didn’t mean to do it but it was becoming clear;
That the time for a new pair was getting very near.

Jonathon cried from the pain in his toe,
And for several days the two of them got to go
Nowhere at all, they just stayed there where they stood,
Trying to keep cheerful as best as they could.

Nelson and Napoleon needn’t have worried
When off to the shops Jonathon’s mother hurried.
They were a perfect fit for the next one in line;
Sophie’s feet coming along just in time.

Sophie was nearly as boisterous as her brother,
And ran everywhere kicking gravel at her mother.
She used her feet as brakes when riding on her bike;
But Nelson and Napoleon thought “Do what you like!”

They were just happy to be there on her feet,
Dangling in mid air underneath her seat.
When the dustmen came they could so easily have been
Taken to the rubbish tip, no more to be be seen.

Jonathon and his mummy had returned from the shops,
And there beneath the shelf with the buckets and the mops,
Was a new pair of Wellies hiding in the dark;
Shiny, tall and clean, but ready for the park.

Nelson and Napoleon didn’t really mind,
Titus and Felix were a completely different kind.
But there was no competition, just a new sort of smell,
And ever so quickly they all got on well.

Now Nelson and Napoleon had to budge up for the others;
Sophie was more tidy, with better habits than her brother’s.
There was not much room left now that they were four,
And the new boots had to find a space just behind the door.

As time went by it became even crowdier;
Sophie got some clogs and the place became rowdier.
Jonathon’s trainers couldn’t get to sleep,
And as for Sophie’s espadrilles, it often made them weep.

But Nelson and Napoleon couldn’t care less;
They were very happy living in a mess.
Their future looked bright, they couldn’t be more happy,
Yet another little person was crawling round in a nappy!

So, what does anyone think about sponsoring me to do 365 of these by the 24th April next year? How about a pound for each one to BBC Children in Need? Then, if the whole collection gets published with illustrations by person or persons as yet unknown a further percentage of profits for ever more. Sorry, can’t give it all away as I am on a low wage as it is and really could do with a little income from a book.

I live with my wife and ten year old son Johnnie in a six hundred year old farm cottage, rented I might add, a long way up a muddy track at Titty Hill. Never heard of Titty Hill? Well you have now. And one of my favourite illustrators happens to live not much more than a mile away down near the other end of the same muddy track; Gerald Scarfe. I’ve met him very briefly, but I certainly don’t know him well enough to ask him to do some illustrations, but we’ll see how this goes. He’s married to Jane Asher, famous actress and cake maker, a bit like my own wife Krystyna, though she’s not an actress, and she’s not famous! But she does make cakes and I have a piece in my mouth right now! Though to be fair, cakes are not her preferred speciality; she mostly like to make dinners and lunches. She is a passionate cook, in some ways more like Julie Adams in the film I mentioned at the very beginning of this blog. It is like having my own live-in Jamie Oliver. Krystyna is also a designer of lovely hand made boots, but she isn't famous for it yet. One day her boots will keep me in a style I would like to become accustomed to, or my silly stories will do that for her. Meanwhile, though, we bumble along from day to day and bill to bill like most people do, and count our blessings.

Number 4

Bandersnatch

Before reading this one it helps to know your Lewis Carroll:

JABBERWOCKY
Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 
All mimsy were the borogoves, 
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! 
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! 
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun 
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand: 
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree, 
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood, 
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, 
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, 
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through 
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! 
He left it dead, and with its head 
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? 
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' 
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

So, celebrations all round for killing the Jabberwock, but that's all he wrote and there is no further mention of the Jubjub bird or the Bandersnatch, both of them apparently to be feared. So here’s what I think happened:

Bandersnatch

T’was brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Jabberwock had long been slain
But brillig oft was shafter;
Callooh! Callay! had turned to rain
And shallow now their laughter.

“Beware the Jubjub bird”, he’d said
“And shun the Bandersnatch”.
He twirdled all this in his head
Beneath the matthling thatch.

Once more he took his vorpal weapon
And strayed the tulgey forest when
By ruggith chance he stumbled on
The drubbles of the Jubjub hen.

And crouching still in semberation
Heard well the waffles and faint fruming
Of the poultric abberation
Roosting in the tulgid glooming.

He drew his steely dagger up
And dreffly snuck up in the branches
Underneath the nested Jubjub;
He stabbed right through its pimp and tranches.

Just as in trumpet he descended
Up galumphed the baldrick cockjub
But leeking silent by pretending
Its fate hid in the dreebs and shrub.

Momentarily distracted
The cockjub jimmed the vorpal blade
Leeming in and sorely fracted
On the litter dead was laid.

He gathered up the sturging entrails
And in glorious umberition
Rammpled back to cheers and hails
And celebratory renditions.

“Now has thou slain the Jubjub bird?
Not one but two? Callay Calloo!
Oh beamish boy where are the words
To adequately champish you?”

“Alas my father, be not gleamish
I have still the last to catch.
Deep in that tulgey wood to finish
I yet must vanq the Bandersnatch”.

Beware the Bandersnatch my son,
Its frumiousness is justly reasoned”,
“Dear father, I’ll no longer shun
The Bandersnatch now I am seasoned”.

And so with very little rax
Again unto the wood he trole,
Armed only with a mastiff axe
Amongst the shrunks and shrub he stole.

So camped he out by the Tum-tum tree
And passed an unefrousal night
With false alarums one, two and three
He clutched his axe and held it tight.

Come morning he was rudely wakened
By the prungest sounds and smell...
And in a trice his life was taken,
All but his skids were ripped to Hell.

T’was brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Well, be that a lesson.

Perhaps I should give you the recipe for the cake I was enjoying, in tribute to Julie and Julia who inspired this challenge:

Easter chocolate torte; serves 8 to 10.
Based on the easy version of the River Cottage's famous Nemesis cake, this one's iced and decorated with sugar eggs.

340g 70 per cent cocoa solids chocolate
270g unsalted butter
270g caster sugar
5 medium eggs

To decorate:
100g dark chocolate
60g unsalted butter
2 dessert spoons caster sugar
sugared chocolate eggs

Butter a 25 cm cake tin with a loose base and line it with baking parchment. Preheat the oven to 120C / gas mark 1/2. break up the chocolate and put in a bowl set over a pan of simmering water. Add the butter and melt together. Put 100g of the sugar in a pan with 100ml water and bring to the boil. Boil for three to four minutes, then pour into a jug to cool a little before pouring into the chocolate mixture. Mix well.
Meanwhile, whisk the eggs with the remaining sugar until doubled in size and foamy. Slowly pour in the chocolate / sugar mixture, continuing to stir. Pour the cake batter into the tin. Put the cake tin in a roasting pan, and add enough water to the pan so it reaches half way up the cake tin. Put the cake into the oven and bake for one hour or until the surface is still and set.
Remove from the oven and allow to cool in the tin before un-moulding onto a plate.
To make the icing, put the chocolate, butter and sugar in a bowl and set it over a pan of simmering water. Stir with a wooden spoon as the contents become shiny. Remove from the heat and allow to cool, stirring occasionally, until the mixture is thick enough to spread over the surface of the cake. Decorate with the chocolate eggs, or leave to show off the cake's glossy surface.

Day 3, April 27th 2012.

Today is Friday, I am still not working while the truck is being repaired in Southampton. I have to go and collect it sometime today. I am a little apprehensive about being driven there by my boss’s mother. I am guessing she is in her late seventies, and her driving is cause for concern if not alarm. She brought me home on Wednesday when I dropped the truck off. It was bucketing down with rain and much of the journey is on the M27. We passed the scene of a grizzly accident, ambulance crews trying to help the occupants of a car which had dissected itself upside down across the crash barrier. It was one of those crashes which did not look survivable, but from which miraculous escapes are sometimes made. I pray that they did.

Meanwhile, trying not to look at the carnage, I am at the mercy of someone who talks nineteen to the dozen with her hands, both of them. And while they are away from the wheel gesticulating the car is drifting about across the lines between the lanes, and from the corner of my right eye I am checking to see if my driver is aware of this, or of other traffic beside or behind her, or indeed if she is using the mirrors at all. It seems not. We change lanes frequently, and with no hesitation. She just does it. Without craning my head round to check I am not sure if she is cutting anyone up or not as she weaves about, and she is, of course talking about the empire, or the Royal family, or trying to work out if the load on a truck ahead of us is really two bus shelters one on top of the other or something else entirely. She asks me, in a way which confers absolute expertise on all things to me. She is certainly not paying attention to anything important.

As we negotiate a roundabout just prior to joining the motorway she hears the siren of an ambulance coming from behind somewhere. Her reaction is to stop instantly. She just stops right where she is, without any regard for the truck and other cars right behind her on the roundabout, and had I not had my seat belt on I would be out of my chair. I don’t think she knew they were there, and certainly didn’t check in her mirrors. The ambulance takes a different route and we continue. That was Wednesday.

I wonder how my journey with her later today will be. I might offer to drive!

I’m home now though, with a nice cup of coffee, and a story to write.

Number 5,

The lift.

Mrs White is seventy nine
Her eyesight’s good and her hearing’s fine
She drives her car from here to there
But if you go with her, better beware.

It’s pouring with rain as she fiddles with switches
We dodge round the puddles and just miss the ditches
An oncoming lorry hoots loudly at us
As she jams on the brakes right in front of a bus.

‘What’s that over there?’ she exclaims with a shout
And getting excited waves her hands all about
It’s nothing important, just a man up a ladder
While people behind us get madder and madder.

‘Are my lights on, or are my lights off?’
She grabs for a hanky to smother a cough
She sees a small rabbit emerge from the grass
And we pull out in front of a car trying to pass.

The lights have turned red but is she awake?
She’s still doing fifty, it’s high time to brake.
We stop just in time, with our tail in the air
But when they go green she’s quite unaware.

She’s back in her handbag looking for lipstick
Somebody hoots and calls her a dipstick
Away we go with the handbrake on tight
Indicate left but then we turn right.

She chatters away about nothing at all,
And narrowly misses scraping a wall
From left to right she goes where she likes
Causing two or three cyclists to jump off their bikes.

We finally get to where we are going
At last I can’t hear any hooters blowing
The engine is off, I’m alive in one piece
Mrs White’s being interviewed by the Police!

That was fun!

When you read these rhymes they are all there in their complete entirety, and you are led through to the end by the words, one after each other. But for me, they appear out of nowhere, and I have no idea where they are taking me. I have absolutely no idea what the end will be until I get there, and the same goes for the middle as well. It's quite an adventure!

My mobile phone has just rung, it's the office to say the truck is ready! Fingers crossed.

Saturday 28th, Day 4 of the challenge. Only 361 to go.

Clearly I survived the trip to collect the truck, we didn't crash, and Mrs White didn't actually get her collar felt by the Plod, but...! I so wish I'd had a secret recording device.

Sunday 29th April.

What happened to Saturday? Well, it has been raining buckets for days, and blowing hard too. Technically it's a drought, but more accurately it's a flood. We are squelching about in mud up at the farmhouse, and the internet connection was down yesterday. I wrote a bit offline and will paste it in below. However, the recording device (lack-of) was solved over lunch. Our friend, Doug has a spare one, and his daughter Catherine recently dropped her iPod Nano into a cup of tea. We have one somewhere that we haven't ever used so a fair swap is in the offing. Doug also had a suggestion to make:

If anyone reading this would like to do an illustration of any part of any of these tales, (assuming someone can show me how pictures can be submitted to this blog) please send them. The best ones will be included and might even be used in any final publication that may or may not be the result of this challenge next year. If the blog won't accept pictures, a Facebook page probably would. Is this the way I should go? Let me know.

Number 6:

Sally.

Sally was a tree at the edge of the wood,
Sally couldn’t smile, but if she could she would.
Sally was the tree where the children played,
But when they went home, Sally stayed.

They climbed among her branches and they ran round and round,
She could feel the vibrations from their feet on the ground.
Some of them would carve their initials in her bark,
But all night long she just stood there in the dark.

In the spring and summer the children came to play,
But during the winter they’d mostly stay away.
Sally missed them all the time, whenever they weren’t there,
But the other trees were unimpressed and didn’t seem to care.

Until one day a truck came and out got several men;
They looked at all the trees and painted marks on some of them.
One was Sally and she didn’t know why,
But when the children all turned up some began to cry.

A few days later the men came back
To cut down a lot of trees and open up a track.
They brought in tractors with trailers on behind,
And now you couldn’t say that the trees didn’t mind.

The ones that were painted on were cut down fast,
Then Sally knew that any day could be her last.
But all of a sudden cars were parking by the logs,
And out poured all the children with their mums, dads and dogs.

They made a ring round Sally, hand in hand,
And put a big sign up saying the logging should be banned.
‘Please leave our favourite tree’... they begged the men to pause,
And think about the children before starting up their saws.

One of the lumberjacks watched a banner unfurl,
And realised that holding it was his own little girl.
‘Not this one Daddy’ was what it read;
‘If you need to cut a tree down cut another one instead’.

The men got together and talked to one another,
While the little girl stood holding tightly to her mother.
All the while Sally stood trembling in the breeze,
Thinking any moment she could be cut off at the knees.

The stand off continued all through the day,
The press turned up and they all had their say.
The men said ‘It’s just our job, it’s what we do’;
But the children protested, ‘Think of us too!’

Later that evening it was broadcast on TV,
And the owner of the forest could clearly see
That Sally was the favourite of the girls and boys,
And he decided not to cut her down because of all their noise.

Sally stood alone all through the night,
Wondering if tomorrow she would be all right.
Then early in the morning she saw the men come
And they tied a sign around her saying ‘NOT THIS ONE’.

Sally felt sorry for all of the others,
Some of them may have been her sisters or her brothers,
But the children were happy that their special tree was saved,
And their mums and dads were proud of the way they’d all behaved.

I wrote quite a lot yesterday, and when I pressed the publish button I lost it, as the broadband connection had gone down in the meantime.

But I saved another tale, so to catch up, here it is:

Number 7.

What can you say about a hedge?

Henry was a hedge by the side of the road,
He got bashed about his ears by every wide load.
He had quite a good haircut once or twice a year,
But he watched the trucks approaching with a fair amount of fear.

You see the trouble was he was rooted to the spot,
And couldn’t move an inch although he wanted to a lot.
He stayed exactly in one place, the place where he had growed,
Even though a lot of him was half out in the road.

Tractors and trailers loaded up with straw
Squeezed along beside and made him rather sore.
Then the combine harvester poked him in the eye
Henry winced and suffered it each time that they went by.

Over on his other side was a large and lovely lawn,
Which the children of the Manor House loved to sit awn.
They all had fun and showed off to the vicar,
While the grown ups drank sherry and stronger forms of liquor.

Over in the driveway there was usually a Bentley,
A dark green shiny one, incidentally.
The man who looked after it was also its driver,
Who every time he polished it earned an extra fiver.

The man’s name was Benson, in proper chauffeur style
He loved to drive the Bentley, mile after mile.
But when he wasn’t at the wheel, it was also him
Who came with the clippers to give Henry a trim.

Benson was careful and very conscientious,
While his boss was rather thoughtless and also quite pretentious.
Benson said he didn’t think it was a good idea
To cut the hedge like battlements, and told Henry, ‘No fear!’

Benson said he couldn’t cut until another day,
When the birds had left their nests and mostly flown away.
Henry was relieved for sure, and hoped that he would find
That by the time the birds had gone, the boss would change his mind.

Nonetheless he always liked to get a decent trim,
And have the chance for Benson to recover things from him.
He was always filling up inside with rubbish thrown from cars,
And a trimming helped to clean him up and get rid of his scars.

Come the end of summer when the leaves began to fall,
Henry got his trim and stood tidy as a wall.
Battlements forgotten he was level as a ruler;
The trimmings on the compost heap and feeling somewhat cooler.

The children no longer played much in the garden,
And several heavy frosts had made the ground harden.
Henry shivered while the wind blew right through him,
And without the leaves that autumn took he now looked really slim.

One icy day two teenagers driving in a car
Came tearing round the corner, too fast by far.
They skidded on the icy road and crashed
Right into Henry, who was really badly bashed.

One lad got a broken nose, the other just a fright,
So both of them scarpered as they could run alright.
The car was a write-off, left stuck where it was;
So long did it stay there it started growing moss.

Henry was fed up with it, and wished they’d come and take it.
Part of him was quite a mess and needed time to make it
Whole again and handsome as he hoped he’d be;
By the time that spring came round again. He’d have to wait and see.

Christmas came and went and so did some snow,
But six weeks later someone finally came to tow
The bashed up car and take it to the dump;
Henry was thrilled to be rid of his rusty lump.

The rest of the winter there was not much he could do
To cover up the hole which the children now crawled through.
But once the spring arrived new leaves began to grow,
And Henry felt much better now the damage didn’t show.

Now you’d think there wasn’t much you could write about a hedge,
Except to say how thick it is from edge to edge,
How high it is in certain points, or low enough to leap,
But Henry is just long enough to help you off to sleep.

It may be subconscious, I'm not sure, but of course I deliver trees and hedges.
Inspiration has to come from somewhere, and things that occur during the day are bound to provide topics for rhymes. Indeed, lunch today was at the home of friends; Mark, who is a solicitor and judge, and his wife Sue, also a lawyer. There were eleven of us there altogether, and we had a wonderfully sociable time. Mark has just bought a new Nissan Leaf; a totally electric car. The first I've seen in the flesh, and I got a ride in it too. Cars feature quite a bit in my life, I'm a bit of an enthusiast actually, with too many of my own just now (five). I might try a rhyme about all the cars I've ever had, but you may have to wait for that one. But while I'm thinking that one up, here's a lawyer one for Mark:

Number 8 (Eight down and 357 to go).

So what are you going to do about it?

In a fit of rage one day I wrote myself a letter,
And tore myself off quite a strip which made me feel much better;
It’s not my fault was my reply, but I was not so sure,
Who better placed than me, I thought, but I thought that I knew more.

I wrote a writ and issued it, and popped it through my door,
Then walked right in and there it was lying on the floor.
I have to say I was not pleased, and very disappointed
That I should take so stern a line, my nose was quite disjointed.

I’ll have my day in court I thought, and then I’ll see who’s sorry,
And later lay awake all night beside myself with worry.
What if I couldn’t prove my case, I’ve no corroboration;
I’ve only got my word for it, it’s just an allegation.

It’s evidence I need I thought, I hardly need a warrant,
I’ll search my house, and then I thought that’s really quite abhorrent.
I can’t condone engaging in something so underhand;
I’ll ask for an appointment first, I thought I’d understand.

In any case I knew for sure I’d nothing I should hide,
My alibi was cast iron strong, and I had never lied
About my whereabouts that night, it wasn’t me who did it;
And then I sat and scratched my head, could I be such an ejit?

It had to have been one of us, could I have been that weak?
And if I stood my ground would I turn the other cheek?
Or maybe hold an outstretched hand, let bygones be forgotten;
Perhaps I could forgive myself, I’m really not all rotten.

I have to live forever with the other half of me,
Including parts I never want the world or me to see.
So maybe I was hasty and I should back-track a little;
Things could get broken easily, I’m really rather brittle.

So I’ll just sit and contemplate the future, what to do;
And being master of my ship, summon up the crew.
I’ll have a little chat all round, restore a little calm,
And stop these allegations before they do me harm.

There was another suggestion made by Doug at lunch today, a rating system. If you feel like giving these marks out of ten, it will help me to know which ones work and which are pretty useless. Again, if you know how I can put a feature onto the blog with stars for example, like U tube does I think, then I'd like to know.

Monday 30th April, (Almost)

Number 9.

Chicken Pie

I've got a boat called Chicken Pie,
It’s really quite tiny but its mast is high.
It’s made of wood and its really really good,
And this is the reason why:

Some boats are in a dreadful state,
For some refurbishment can’t wait.
Some of them are clearly rotten,
And some have simply been forgotten.

Some boats are holed below the line,
Sinking in the mud and brine.
More meanwhile stay just afloat,
But don’t deserve to be called a boat.

For some it’s just a broken mast,
And then there’s those that are stuck fast.
Some sink because they’ve got no bailer;
I know of one sunk on its trailer.

Storms catch out the unprepared,
Going down because they dared ~
Go out in seas they couldn’t cope with,
And crews they didn’t have a hope with.

I’ve been on boats that could still sail,
But un-looked after, badly fail.
It’s not just being watertight,
Some just simply don’t feel right.

Some good boats are never used,
While others may have been abused;
You see them tied up to the pier,
Their owners absent year on year.

It seems an awful waste of cash,
Expensive boats left out to smash
Against each other in the gales,
Contributing to my tales.

But if not for them I would not know,
Quite what a gem I have in tow.
My little dinghy on it’s trailer,
Is a proper little sailer.

Monday, 30th April.

Today was alright, after so much rain it was remarkably sunny almost the whole day. I drove the truck, delivered trees, and picked a carrier bag full of wild garlic for the pub kitchen from beside a quiet country lane near Alton. When I got home I walked through the woods to Redford where there is an amazing old garage, the sort which has stuff piled up high everywhere and it is a wonder how they can find anything or make any room to get a car in to fix, but they do. I must go and photograph it before it disappears, as there are very few like it left. Anyway, they had my MG for a few days to sort out the indicators which packed up on the way back through France the other day. It was a lovely walk in the warm sunshine, but involved a lot of careful footwork as the whole way was waterlogged. Then it was a short but delightful blast back in the car, trying hard not to get it dirty.

I am working on rhyme number ten. It is pure fiction, so don't get the wrong idea!

The Old Trout.

I love my wife, my trouble and strife,
She lets me do the dishes.
She lets me do whatever I like,
As long as it’s what she wishes.

It’s lucky I love to mow the grass
And stick my hand in the drains,
It’s me who likes to dash down the path,
To bring things in when it rains.

I have no qualms about catching mice,
And throwing the dead ones away.
Fixing the plumbing is really very nice;
It’s something I could do all day.

If the shopping is heavy and needs to be carried,
It suits me down to the ground,
There’s nothing better for the man that she married;
It’s why she has me around.

Every now and then the dog or the cat
Leaves something unpleasant on the floor,
You know how I relish cleaning all that;
I wish they’d do it much more

When the car gets a flat or something like that,
And somebody has to get out,
I’m happy as Larry cranking up the jack,
While she frets in the car, the old trout.

If it’s cold or it’s wet, if it’s dark or it’s muddy,
If it’s going to be a bit of a pain;
Yes dear, alright I was going already,
You don’t have to ask me again.

But she sees me right every single night;
She spends hours and hours making dinner.
It’s always delicious, an absolute delight,
There’s no question who is the winner.

As I said; fiction.

May 2nd. I fell behind yesterday. Having mown the lawn after work I was so tired I went to bed early without inspiration. Nevertheless, I am ahead on aggregate, just, as it is day eight, so here is today's:

Number 11, (354 to go):

Little Miss Muffet

Little Miss Muffet sat down at the buffet,
Eating her yoghurt and honey.
A rich man who spied her, sat down beside her,
To tempt her away with his money

Miss Muffet was pretty and twenty,
Which couldn’t be said for the fellow,
Whose figure was more than just plenty,
Under skin that was tanned to a yellow.

She was fragrant demur and delightful,
Sitting peaceful and soft like a cat.
He reeked of cigars and was frightful,
And she declined to respond to his chat.

Little Miss Muffet tried to get up to leave,
As he carried right on with his quest.
But he made the mistake that so many men make,
By addressing himself to her chest.

Miss Muffet was prim and polite in reply,
She’d been perfectly properly raised:
‘Excuse me’ she said, ‘look me straight in the eye!’
But he wasn’t that easily fazed.

'I’ve a house in Bahamas and satin pyjamas,
And the housework is done by a cleaner'.
'I don’t care what you sat in', Miss Muffet replied,
'You’re really not making me keener'.

'Oh come now Miss Muffet, you surely can see,
That your heart is on fire with desire.
You’ve got nothing else planned, so please take my hand,
Come away and have fun with me'.

'I’ve a sports car, a plane, and I sail quite a bit,
You can travel the world with me;
I’m balding a lot and I’m not very fit,
But I’m still only fifty three'.

Miss Muffet by now was fed up with all that,
And she had to get rid of him quick;
She said, ‘My dear Sir, but you’re much too fat,
And I think I am going to be sick!'

That did it.

Number 12.

A Decent Sort.

People say I’m a decent sort,
I like a smoke after dinner and a glass of port.
I mooch about in faded jeans,
Enjoy life a bit, and know what it means.

I’ve a large old house and a fair few dogs,
And keep the fireplace stocked with logs.
The carpet is scruffy and very threadbare,
And so are my jackets, but what do I care?

I don’t worry about anything here;
I’m deaf in that eye and I’m blind in that ear.
You can say whatever you chose,
I’m quite happy, I’ve nothing to lose.

I can’t be bothered to buy a new car;
The old one still works, and I rarely go far.
I’ve no desire to try to look flash,
I don’t use credit cards, I prefer cash.

I can’t be bothered to go up to town,
The pretentious places all get me down.
The vapid people I inevitably see,
Never fail to irritate me.

I prefer to call a few friends,
Put on a dinner, ignore all the trends.
A brace of pheasant, a few bottles of wine,
Some good conversation and everything’s fine.

My wife is starting to look a bit old,
But we love each other and she keeps out the cold.
She keeps an eye as I potter about,
She thinks I’m daft, the silly old trout.

But I’m not really as soft as she thinks;
I’m still a scratch down at the links.
I can still get three birds with two barrels,
And bring down the roof singing Christmas carols.

Any time I feel a bit low,
If the sky’s a bit grey, or beginning to snow
I take up my rod and head for the stream;
There’s nothing like catching a trout or a bream.

Fresh air is all that I need,
A pint of bitter and a jolly good feed.
So I call up the wife and we meet at the pub,
And trade in some fish at the bar for some grub.

What more could a fellow desire?
I’ll be content to the day I expire.
I count my blessings day after day,
What about you, what would you say?

I don’t worry about anything here,
I’m deaf in that eye and I’m blind in that ear.
You can say whatever you think
Mine’s a large one.

Incidentally, I should say that all these are my own work and therefore my copyright. However, I am happy for anyone to cut and copy them to read out to children etc, just don't go publishing them without asking first! Having said that, I would be very interested to hear from a publisher or agent. I hope that one or two might be lyrical enough to be put to music, so if anyone wants to have a go with any of them, please do, there could be a Christmas song coming up some time soon, and a Christmas hit would be a big pay day! 353 to go.

It is now late on Friday 4th May, and I have not written anything sensibly childish for two days, so I hope I find my inspiration again soon. I have been rather busy, it has to be said, yesterday my e-bay auction for my MG ended without a bid, and then I started to get inquiries. People are coming to see it, so hopefully I will get a good price.

Yesterday I got back on a horse, (not literally). It is a good metaphor. I spent the day on a refresher with another driver in an articulated truck. I've not driven artics for a good few years and I have a new part time job with Condor Logistics, who own Condor Ferries, hauling trailers from the docks. It is to fill in the days when there's no work at the tree nursery, now that the season is about to start winding down for the summer. I was driving a DAF XF. That probably means nothing to you, but it's a big one! The entire fleet at Condor are fully automatic, and very well appointed. As easy to drive as a car, just a lot bigger.

Today I was back on my little 12 tonne MAN for the nursery, and after work managed to get some of the lawn cut for our elderly neighbour. Not a lot of time left for writing.

Had a very hot dinner; spicy hot.

Here's one for today, number 13. It might need a little additional work, as might any of them really. I do re-read them over and over, and sometimes change something here and there. But this is a first draft for now:

Number 13

Prevarivacation

I don’t know quite where to go, on holiday this year.
It could be Spain by car or plane, or France as it’s so near.
It could be Greece (I could buy a piece) the way things are out there.
Australia is way too far, New Zealand even more,
I’ll scrub out going to Devon as I’ve been there once before.
I could go down to Nice I s’pose and visit Monte Carlo,
Or sample all the highs and lows of the river Thames at Marlow.
Some people rave about Scotland the Brave;
It’s great in certain bits,
But people say that after May the place is plagued with nits.
I’m doubting Iceland too I guess, though Patagonia a little less;
It can be cold at certain times, but can indeed have varied climes;
And overall it sounds OK, so let me leave it for a day,
And think about it as an option which maybe justfies adoption.
Few people go, of whom I know to anywhere near there;
It’s off the beaten track a bit, I’m getting quite attached to it.
No doubt it’s really just as far as going to Australia,
But what the heck, I think I’ll book
A ticket there and take a look
At all things Patagonian,

....or should I stay at home again,
Like last year when I got cold feet, and chickened out and failed to meet
The check-in time and missed the plane, and had to come back home again?
I reassured myself that hey, there always is another day;
And this is it, it’s now or never, shall I go, ...or shall I ever?

Today is Sunday 6th May. I didn't post anything yesterday, nor did I write anything, but I did read three and a half of these tales to a small audience. It was a friendly audience, and many of them were friends, but some I didn't know, at least not very well. It was therefore a sympathetic audience and I got plenty of laughs, so I was encouraged. I would like to be further encouraged by a stranger audience, so we will see when that might happen. I read The Old Trout, Little Miss Muffet, A Decent Sort, and got stuck into Prevarivacation only to find that I had a page missing and had to stop on the Thames at Marlow.

In the afternoon I was out for a blast in the MG with a prospective buyer when, just having explained to him that you could really give it some stick without worrying about it being fragile, it broke down! I had just stopped to change over and let him have a drive when we noticed petrol pouring out. It had occurred only a couple of seconds before we stopped, as the trail of petrol was only about fifty yards long. My wife came to recover the purchaser, and I waited for the AA, who spotted that a screw had popped out of one of the carbs. We searched the road and the nooks and crannies under the bonnet to no avail. The car is now at the garage all for the want of the tiniest little part, which I hope will not be too hard to replace. Had we not stopped at that very moment the car would either have burst into flames as the petrol poured onto the exhaust manifold, or it would have lost the half a tank full of petrol it had and stopped of its own accord.

I hope to write something later today and put up number 14:

Day 13, Number 14, only one ahead, so need to keep on keeping on.

I wrote some of this one yesterday and some today, amid the detritus of a wonderful party we had here last night. It is now Monday (bank holiday) 7th May.

Jo

Thank you Ella’s mum, (and Mia’s mummy too)
For posting the first comment on my blog, bless you.
It’s very reassuring, to know there’s someone there,
The wall’s no longer blank, nor the space in which I stare.

One day I hope that there will be, another two or three,
Or maybe four more readers who will help encourage me.
A challenge isn’t worth it’s name unless it’s pretty tough,
And something every now and then is nowhere near enough.

I hope that in a year or so, there will be a book that
Has lots of illustrations for everyone to look at.
A rhyme for each and every day, from now throughout the year,
From day to day and week to week to read or just to hear.

So if you think they’re good enough, and want to read some more,
Think of the writer tucked away, shut in behind the door.
He really needs to hear you say you like what he has done,
To help to keep him going, or else there may be none.

It’s a funny business writing stuff, it’s unreliable;
Sometimes the words are stiff and stuck, and sometimes pliable.
One day they pour out thick and fast, the next they disappear,
It often seems they’re miles away, then pop up really near.

A writer or a blogger works in curious isolation,
Not knowing when or even if he gets appreciation.
So when somebody takes the time to send a comment in,
It’s like a light going on inside a dingy rubbish bin.

It shines on all the junk in there, the screwed up notes and scraps
Of failed attempts, abandoned tales, and late night candy wraps,
The empty bottles and the cans, the drips of blood and sweat,
And every now and then perhaps the greatest effort yet.

So what I ask is nothing less and still yet nothing more,
Than have you send some messages like Jo’s just done before.
And if you have your favourite one, please do say;
It will keep me going on and on, a story every day.

Tuesday 8th May.

This project is getting a little bit harder just now, as other situations crowd in and take my time and energy. I spent valuable time today that I could have spent writing, dealing with Saturday's MG disaster. But it was resolved in the best possible, almost miraculous way: Having talked at length about it with my local garage, on whose forecourt it sat since the AA pulled me in, I got the impression it was going to be a tricky job. They said it was twenty years since they had worked on anything like it, that it would be impossible to refit the various bits in situ and both carburetors would have to be removed together or they would lose their synchronization. Removal would be likely to damage the gaskets (and did I have any replacement ones?), and before anything else, they had no idea where I was going to find the missing part that had fallen out causing the problem in the first place. I was facing quite a labour bill for this, I could see.

So I went off to see the man at most wonderful garage, piled high with junk at Redford. Sure enough he found a few old carbs in a corner, and one of them was the same as the MG's. He fished out the miscreant screw and gave it to me for nothing

So armed with the part I needed I roped in a friend who is a metal worker and pretty handy with a tool kit, and he towed the car off the garage forecourt to his workshop. I removed the wing-mirror from his motorcycle so that we could see up inside the float chamber of the partly disassembled carb, and in about fifteen minutes, working upside down and back to front, we had it all back together. It fired up first time and I drove it back to the garage in a slightly childish show of triumph, using the excuse to thank them for having the car there for a day or two, but really to gloat. The final bill for the repair was nil.

May I say that with modern cars they are actually a great garage that is not overly expensive and I often recommend them. Vales Garage in Milland. They've helped me out many times.

But now it is late and I haven't written anything today, except a very short rhyme which finishes almost before it has started. I'll put it in anyway, and perhaps I'll think of a way to expand it, and make it a bit more worthwhile.

Most people are aware that nursery rhymes have hidden meanings, which are often unpalatable to the children to whom the story is being told. For example; Ring a Ring of Roses is about the plague, and when they all fall down sneezing, they are all dying of it. Not a happy tale. The story of Little Jack Horner is no exception. Here I allude to some more of the background, without blowing it wide open, so it still remains a little obscure. It also moves the story further into myth, since Mick is an unfamiliar enigma.

The 'real' story of Little Jack Horner. Number 15.

It wasn’t Jack Horner
Who sat in the corner,
It was his brother Mick.
It wasn’t because he was naughty or bad,
And it wasn’t because he was thick.
He chose such a place
Just to hide his face,
Because he was agoraphobic.

Mick rarely went out,
Nor went without,
Jack had seen to it all.
The Horners were wealthy since Jack had been stealthy,
And stolen the deeds to the Hall.
He saw off it’s bishop to be hung, drawn and quartered,
Then nailed his colours to the wall.

He’d stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plum,
And pretty plum had he remained;
For the plumb was the lead that he mined instead
Of the sucker from whom he had gained.
It all goes to show that it’s best not to go
With your property all in a pie,
Especially if you entrust it all
To a man with a penchant to lie.
(What a good boy am I?)

But over the years the tale was diluted,
And nobody knows now what’s true.
That the Hall was looted is widely disputed,
And by now there is somebody new.
The Horners remained there for four hundred years,
By right or by wrong who can say?
While Mick just stayed in the corner,
Afraid of the light of the day.

Fat lot of good it did him.

There might be some more verses to this, but I can't find them at the moment. They must be floating around in the ether, where all the words I use are to be found. But space is big, and my reach is small, so I shall have to wait and see if they appear.
However the story is so odd it might even be true. Such is history.

Wednesday 9th May.

Long day at work today, driving the truck in London. I heard something on the radio which struck a chord. Alice Arnold reacted to seeing a bottle thrown from the window of a car.

The Skunk. (Number 16).

Alice was driving in London today,
Enjoying the sights and the sounds
Of the city streets in a rainy May,
As she persevered with her rounds.

Stuck in traffic she patiently waited,
Tapping her hands on the wheel,
When she suddenly saw something she hated;
Something small, but to her a big deal.

From the open window of the driver in front
A plastic bottle was hurled;
A careless gesture, but quite an affront,
To Alice’s idea of the world.

Which child is taught that to litter is good,
And the place for such stuff is the road?
Who likes to live in a neighbourhood,
Where detritus is all a la mode?

Alice leapt out and picked up the bottle,
While no-one had moved very far.
Before the offender had got on his throttle,
She chucked it right back in his car!

The man was surprised, and quite taken aback,
That a woman would dare to confront,
His alpha male status as he sat his hack,
And he managed no more than a grunt.

But he nearly jumped out to use brawn where his brain
Clearly wasn’t up to the job;
But a crowd cheered on Alice as she stood in the rain,
And they appeared quite a threatening mob.

He wound up his window and stuck it in gear,
Then spun the car round in the street.
He raced away with their shouts in his ear,
And the bottle of shame at his feet.

Not everyone’s brave quite like Alice,
Even if we are moved to react;
But to teach them a lesson’s not malice,
And they need to be told, that’s a fact.

So next time you follow a van or a truck,
And the driver ejects all his junk,
Just ring the company’s number; and with luck
The owner will deal with the skunk.

Not long ago I was following a truck with the company name and phone number emblazoned on the back doors. The driver hoiked the wrappings of his lunch out of the window as if it was the only thing one would do with it. If he had thought for one second that there was anything wrong with doing it he would surely have waited till he didn't have anyone behind him. It was a lot of stuff too, Coke can, McDonald's wrappers, crisp packet, that sort of thing. I simply rang the number on his truck and suggested to the company representative who answered that they might educate the driver of the truck whose registration I was able to provide as it was right in front of me. Job done. I recommend everyone do it. It is unlikely to lose a driver his job, unless it happened a lot, but it will chastise him. How am I driving? Well actually...!!

10th May, day 16, level pegging and likely to slip behind here.

Met an unusual form of the pub bore today, a woman name dropper especially keen to make sure she was on first name terms with Andy in the hot seat today (Andy Coulson), and Rebbekah of course, and lots of other people including James and Rupert. Aaaargh. I might try to do something about her next. But this evening I've been writing something else: It's probably dangerous to mention it as it might not work out, but it's the beginning of a book. A novel perhaps, or just a story based on truth and lies. The trouble is it has diverted me from the challenge a bit. However, if it starts to go OK I can put a chapter up here now and then and it will count, under the non-rhyming get out clause in the title of the blog.

Today is Sunday 13th May, so there has been a short gap in attendance to my blog. I have been writing during this time, but not something I am ready to publish. I wrote the first chapter of the aforementioned story of truth and lies. But it is still a draft.

Friday11th May was my birthday, is my birthday, has always been my birthday. I had to work during the day, and we had a few friends over for the evening. I read a couple of rhymes on demand, but wrote nothing. There is something else remarkable about May 11th. It never rains. Apart from on one of my birthdays that I spent in Australia, in their Autumn, it has never rained on me. It has been so reliable that I confidently predict a dry and mainly sunny day every year. I should really lay bets on it. This year especially, since it was chucking it down right up to the 10th. Then, right on cue, I woke up on Friday with the sun streaming in. Perhaps this should be geographically identified as it might not be the case everywhere. I live in West Sussex, and we do generally enjoy the most clement weather in the UK, on average, but even so, for fifty five years it has remained dry on May 11th to the best of my recollection. After this year's abrupt change to sunny conditions, even my skeptical wife is starting to recognise the phenomenon. In fact this year it went from cold to hot, very wet to very dry all on the morning of May 11th.

Number 17, with 348 to go.

This one possibly counts as two, because on 26th May I almost doubled its length after using it as my first effort at a video recording. I realised that when read, some of the relevance to the people mentioned wasn't very clear, and I enjoyed adding a bit of a rant. Rants are fun. The lengthened version appears at number 26. Soon, when I have perfected the necessary techniques I shall have all these on U-tube under the name of Behind the Wheel, assuming the name hasn't been taken already.

Delusions.

I met a woman in a pub
Who interfered with my grub;
She didn’t stick her feet in it,
But simply spoiled my eating it.

Sometimes you want to be alone
To gnaw upon a lunchtime bone,
But now and then a chat is great,
Especially if it’s with a mate.

Not when the chat is with a bore,
Who keeps on talking, more and more
About the people who she claims
She knows and tells me all their names.

What do I think about poor Andy?
She asks me since she’s found me handy.
And now Rebekkah, James as well;
So many friends are going through hell.

Lord this, Sir that and Lady thing,
Jeremy Hunt gave her a ring.
“I told him that he should beware”
I told her that I didn’t care.

There are no tears in my eyes,
I’m sorry I don’t sympathise
With all these elevated fools,
When, oh dear, they break the rules.

Title does not me impress,
Fancy gongs or fancy dress.
Honest work, and modest pride
Are best, just knowing that you tried.

Two things only separate
The rich and poor, I can relate.
The rich are richer, that’s quite clear,
The other one is something queer.

It is delusion, nothing less;
The fact they think that they are best.
VIPs with power exclusive
Superiority is delusive!

How can simply having more,
(Something I tried to ask the bore)
Make yours a more important life
Than someone with financial strife?

We are all people, good and bad
Some have, some haven’t, others had
But ‘better’s down to good behaviour
Having money’s no-one’s saviour.

Tradesmen’s entrance round the back,
Call me Sir or get the sack.
Be grateful for the little I pay you,
What’s your name, do I even know you?

Out of my way, I’m coming through!
I’m more important, more than you.
Put it there, see the cook,
I’ve got a flight to France to book.

Title, Schmitle, even a crown
Are nothing, when you strip us down.
Human beings in the buff
Are all the same, and that’s enough.

I heard Ode to Billie Jo on the radio today. It is curious where inspiration comes from for a rhyme. I did a lot of things today, but this song was the one which tempted the ink out from the little hole at the end of the pen.

Number 18.

Ode to Bobbie Gentry.

Frank Beard strangely has no beard,
Bobbie Gentry’s disappeared.
To help her many people tried,
But Amy Winehouse sadly died.

Tina Turner’s rocking old,
Tom Jones still rocking solid gold.
Sid Vicious, even Johnny Rotten,
Are not too easily forgotten.

Elvis Presley’s on the moon,
Alive and well, he’ll be back soon.
He’s been seen in other places;
Must be a man of many faces.

Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page,
Justin Bieber act your age
Lest we forget you’re still a child,
While Charlotte Church, grown up’s gone wild.

Why ever not? most pop stars do,
Remember Kylie Minogue who
Was once a little girl in soaps,
With youthful aspirations, hopes.

No chance she’d stay within that box,
She grew into a sexy fox;
Her singing talent soon to foister
Onto all the world, her oyster.

You know Mick Jagger won’t retire;
On stage one day he’ll just expire.
The Rolling Stones at eighty five
Will still be well worth seeing live.

Susan Boyle ain’t no looker
And no one said to John Lee Hooker,
Pack it in you’re over the hill,
We don’t put oldies on the bill.

Madonna’s on her next big tour,
She can do it that’s for sure.
There are many who would see
Her even in senility.

There is no pension age for these;
Just disappearance when they wheeze.
One day they’re there, and then they’re gone;
You maybe heard their final song.

But all of them will be remembered,
Though legend has their lives dismembered.
Truth and lies, exaggeration;
Great music for our generation.

No matter what the age we’ve got to,
All these icons still we rock to.
But come back down, ever so gently
Where on Earth is Bobbie Gentry?

Tuesday 15th May 2012.

A pleasant drive in the country. There is a road I use every day which takes my breath away at this time of year. It passes through a beech forest. The new leaves are the most incredible luminous pale green, and since it has been raining the trunks and branches are wet and appear black as the sun streams through. The trees are huge and majestic, and the drive through them is simply wonderful. I drove past lots of other beech trees but nowhere today was quite like that road from Milland to Hillbrow. However, there is another stunning place; the colours are different, but still because of beech trees. The A272 near Brockwood Park, just west of the Meon Hut is fabulous for its massive and magnificent copper beeches, interspersed with green ones, all bursting forth with new leafery. If I were a proper poet I would have something to say about them. As it is, I am just quietly in awe.

Number 19.

My Old Man’s a Dustman.

My old man’s a gamekeeper,
Though he’s not very keen on grouse;
He wears a ridiculous deerstalker
And lives in an ordinary house.

My old man’s the Prime Minister,
He’s got political feet;
One of them’s left, the other one's right
And he lives in Downing Street.

My old man’s a painter,
He drives a painter’s van;
He comes home splattered with paint
And washes off what he can.

My old man’s a truck driver,
He’s always on the road;
One day when a gale blew up
His trailer over-blowed.

My old man drives a coach,
But we all call it the bus;
He takes everyone to school each day
And takes good care of us.

My old man’s retired,
He loves his golf and his beer;
He likes to wear tartan trousers
But we don’t let him do it round here.

My old man’s a milliner,
And now he’s also making wigs;
When he was still just learning
He had to live in digs.

My old man’s a farmer,
He keeps pigs and cows;
He comes home really smelly sometimes
Which causes quite a few rows.

My old man’s a copper,
Who goes out on the beat;
He likes to say ‘ello ‘ello ‘ello
Rocking up and down on his feet.

My old man’s an environmental recycling operative,
He wears an environmental recycling operative's fluorescent coat;
He wears very similar trousers
And lives in an old houseboat.

My old man’s a judge,
He wears a judge’s wig;
His trousers are eccentric
But he doesn’t give a fig.

My old man’s asleep,
It looks quite like he’s dead;
He’s been a landlord all his life
And the beer tends to go to his head.

My old man’s the Prince of Wales,
He wants to wear the crown;
Looks like I might get there first
And that would get him down.

My old man’s a pilot,
He wears a pilot’s cap;
He once got lost coming home
Because he’d brought the wrong map.

My old man digs ditches,
Using a JCB;
He wipes his hands on his ‘britches’
After he’s finished having tea.

My old man’s a gardener,
He wears gardening gloves;
He works hard pulling up nettles
It’s something that he loves.

My old man’s a chef,
He works at the local pub;
He wears chef’s grey check trousers
And makes terrific grub.

My old man’s the Pope,
I can’t tell anyone;
It’s been my secret for too many years
So the Vatican here I come.

My old man is dead,
He passed away in his sleep;
We put him in his Sunday best
And buried him six feet deep.

Me I’m trying to be a writer,
I wear a thinking cap;
Every now and then I take it off
And give my forehead a slap.

Wednesday 16th May.

Number 20, (Day 21 I think, so one behind).

Not Far Enough

I can’t run very far,
I can hardly get in or get out of a car;
My friends say I smell pretty bad,
But so do they, from the whisky we’ve had.

I ain’t got nothing to fear;
I’m deaf in that eye and blind in that ear.
You can say whatever you feel,
I couldn’t care, it's no big deal.

One leg is as much as I need,
My guts will digest quite a good feed;
My hair fell out a long time ago,
But my brain’s still inside, as far as I know.

People say that I’m no good,
That I detract from the neighbourhood.
I may be fat and badly dressed
But that’s no different from all the rest

Everyone who lives on my street,
Averts their eyes and stares at their feet;
But they should take a look at each other,
Then maybe they’d treat me more like their brother.

I don’t carry a gun,
And I don’t threaten anyone.
It just so happens I don’t work
I prefer to lounge and lurk.

I like to look at you,
And if you want you can look at me too.
I won’t mind if you wear a short skirt;
If I give you a wink will that really hurt?

I could wear my shirt undone,
Let out the odour and let in the sun;
But I think it wouldn’t do much,
To get your attention, well, not as such.

I suppose I’m a bit of a slob,
I fart in the street and occasionally gob.
But you don’t know how nice I can be,
If you don’t make any effort with me.

Well I can’t run hardly at all,
And it’s no use asking me to play ball.
Exercise is such a wrench
I’ll just sit on the bench.

I thought I’d got nothing to fear,
'Cos I’m a bit of a fixture here.
But thing’s ain’t right, and the doctor lied;
Next thing I knew, Lord ‘elp me, I’d died.

Number 21

An American Truck.

I am a truck, my name is Truck, and I’m a yellow truck,
And I’ll be parked up by the house, tonight with any luck.
Don’t get me wrong, I like it when I’m miles and miles away,
But best of all I like it when I’m back home, any day.

Sometimes I have to go away for several days or more,
And when I’m gone I miss my home, my family of four.
I say goodbye to Car the car, and Pickup Truck the pickup,
Not forgetting Bike the bike, and the little dog called hiccup.

These are my mates, the ones I pass the time with in the yard;
It’s there I rest and relax after days of working hard.
My oil and water get a check, my paintwork gets a shine,
And I lay back, my engine quiet, and have a peaceful time.

It doesn’t last for very long, I watch my driver coming,
A pile of papers in his hand through which I see him thumbing.
Another week out on the road, I wonder where we’re going;
Down to the southern sunshine, or up north where its snowing.

We trundle slowly to the freight yard while my engine’s warming,
There’s no-one much about just yet, this early in the morning.
We hook up to a special trailer, low down to the road;
So now I have a good idea of what will be our load.

We pull out on the highway, and soon we’re heading west,
The empty trailer pulling light, the way I like it best.
But pretty soon we’re turning down a very muddy track,
And there it is, the bulldozer, who’ll be riding on my back.

This bulldozer is not a bull, and neither is it dozy,
Its name of Caterpillar makes it sounds quite cozy.
But really this great hunk of steel is powerful enough
Every day to push away a thousand tons of stuff.

The trouble is although it’s strong, it’s also very slow,
Nothing much can make it stop, nor much can make it go.
To get it where it needs to be it has to be transported;
And that's my speciality, and I can get that sorted.

The trailer lowers at the front, and comes apart in two
To make a ramp which bulldozers can clamber up onto.
When connected up again we lift clear of the ground;
My driver makes it all secure and checks it all around.

The Caterpillar weighs a lot, and the trailer seems to bend,
But that’s the way it’s meant to be to carry our big friend.
We turn around and pretty soon we’re back out on the road;
This time we’re heading northwards, carrying our load.

At lunchtime we pull over in a crowded truck-stop yard,
Where maneuvering our big trailer is really pretty hard.
We squeeze between a breakdown truck and something painted pink;
A trailer full of pigs it seems, judging by the stink.

No two days are quite the same, though we stop there quite a lot;
I sometimes see the same truck twice, but much more often not.
It’s not as though we gossip much or have a heart to heart,
Because within an hour or two we’ll all be miles apart.

So on we go for three days more, a thousand miles in all,
Through the mountains, first in rain, and then a big snow fall.
We struggle on and on until we run right out of luck;
The snow’s so deep a Greyhound bus has got completely stuck.

There’s no way through, we can’t go back, there are people on the bus,
The weather’s hourly getting worse affecting all of us.
If we have to stay here over-night at least we are prepared,
But the people on the bus are cold and feeling rather scared.

They’ve all been out for several hours digging in the snow,
They’re tired and wet and getting hungry, the bus will still not go.
And now it’s getting dark as well, it’s ten degrees below,
Desperation is the feeling that’s now begun to grow.

Just then the dozer makes a sound, it is his engine starting!
Of course, why not, that’s what we need, everyone was shouting!
So down he climbed and got to work, he pushed the snow away
Around the bus and in the front, he really saved the day.

A chain was found to pull the bus, and in a steady line,
The Caterpillar led the way, while I was left behind.
My driver drove the bulldozer but I was not neglected;
Once the bus was on it’s own, I was soon collected.

It took a while to load back up but it was well worthwhile,
We caught up with the bus again in about a mile.
They’d pulled in at a hotel, and stopped there for the night.
Now they would be warm and fed, we knew they were alright.

As we drove down from the hills the snow turned back to rain,
The road ran by the railway tracks and we overtook a train.
It had a hundred wagons on, all loaded up with freight;
We said hello, but it was slow, and we had no time to wait.

Eventually we found the place we were to leave the dozer,
We were almost into Canada, we couldn’t get much closer.
We dropped him off and said goodbye, he went straight off to work;
He had his to do, and we had ours, and neither would we shirk.

Fifteen hundred miles for us, a road to cut for him,
Each to their own I think, his sounds rather grim.
I’d rather be there heading south, and in a day or three,
Back there in the yard we’ll be, Car, Pick-up, Hiccup, Bike and me.

A bit of a childish one, but who cares!

Thursday 17th May,

Spent the day driving around West Sussex thinking how beautiful it is. When I drive for the nursery delivering trees I get to go to the most lovely places, little villages down country lanes, to the houses and homes of people who love gardens. When I drive the juggernaut for Condor Logistics I go to places like Wembley or Swindon on the motorway, and deliver to industrial estates. Two different worlds.

Number 22.

Not many people know that.

Sir Michael Caine is at it (again)
Gathering anecdotes;
He got locked in the attic (again),
Asleep in a pile of coats.

Making a movie and needing a nap
He crept away to his lair,
But when he arose he was all in a flap;
The cast and the crew were not there.

They thought he’d gone to his trailer,
Not fast asleep in his room;
It’s not like they use a loud hailer,
When they go, they simply assume.

At the end of the day they’d gone on their way,
And the last one turned had out the lights;
But they’d also turned the key in the door,
And Michael was stuck for the night.

But the thing that I can’t quite see
And I really don’t mean to scoff
Is why on earth didn’t he
Simply blow the bloody doors off!

Saturday 19th May

I have no idea where this next one came from, it is one of those odd ones that appear out of nowhere and give me a bit of a surprise. One minute there is a blank page and the next, there it is.

Number 23

Joey

Joey is a wannabe,
Right now he’s just a wallaby.
Joey really wants to grow,
And maybe have a TV show.
He looks quite like a giant bunny;
People think he’s pretty funny.
At several schools he has been told,
You’re very good for four years old;
You dance well and you’re quite a hit,
The children love your hip hop bit,
And when you wear your cobber’s hat,
Ears stuck through the holes so that
It pulls down on your nose and eyes,
Creating quite a good disguise,
It is uncannily effective;
You look like you’re a lost detective.
Is it Clouseau or Columbo?
It may just sound like mumbo-jumbo,
But just the actions are enough;
Always bumping into stuff.
But as you stumble round the place,
Puzzlement is on your face;
The audience just falls apart,
And all the children love this part;
They really don’t know what you’re doing,
But they enjoy what they are viewing.
Though there is something they don’t know;
Deep inside you want to grow.
You see the children getting taller,
Which only makes you feel much smaller.
All you really want to do
Is grow into a kangaroo!

I have had some very good critical advice from an expert called Hilary Johnson who kindly spent quite some time writing her thoughts to me in an e-mail, after I wrote to her seeking it. She didn't pull any punches, which is a good thing, as it wouldn't be worthwhile if she was just being polite. I had thought of copying her letter here as it might help to remind me to strive hard to be better, and to get beyond the difficulties she highlighted, but I might wait to see if I hear from her again, and ask her if she minds me making her advice publicly available.

I had some other advice last night, which I am very interested in. Two friends think I should perform (read) my rhymes onto videos and put them on U-tube. This would be a great fun project, and one of them has offered me a special mini-movie camera to use. I can do it from lots of different locations, the cab of my truck, for instance. I'm quite excited about the idea. I know it is supposed to be easy, but I have no idea how to do it. Hopefully I will find out and get it right. Watch out for them!

Number 24.

A couple behind at the moment, as it is now Monday 21st May. This is based on a story in the news today, where three women were thrown out of a cafe for refusing to stand up during the National Anthem. But you knew that already. I might amend it a bit, as I do sometimes to any and all of my rhymes if I see a way of improving them.

Not amused.

Someone enamoured of the Queen,
(And all the Royal family), has been
And set up in this Jubilee year
A Royal themed tea shop, so I hear.

Called Royal Tea, (a painful pun)
This place, or so I’m told, is run
By someone who is oh so clever
To gather more royal junk than ever.

Indeed perchance if you should look
You’ll find them in the Guinness book
They have the record size collection
Documenting their affection.

Perhaps they are a bit demented
Clinging to a class, lamented
By other folk who plainly see
They’re people just like you and me.

Privileged, anachronistic,
Lives completely unrealistic;
The very words Your Royal Highness
Provokes in some disloyal whyness!

Highness, lowness, we must bow
In awe of Majesty, but how
Can anyone have so much worth?
Superior simply by their birth.

What do they do that others cannot
Why do we pay them, tell me what
Their unbelievable wealth is for?
I just don’t get it, that’s for sure.

Anyway, each day at three
A so called custom after tea
And quite sincerely they mean,
Is to play God Save The Queen.

Everyone must leave their seat
And standing tall be on their feet,
To pay allegiance and salute
In silence; conversation mute.

But there are those who don’t subscribe;
Republicans you might describe,
And three who were redoubtable
Found themselves chuck outable.

For if you venture here within
Committing anti royalist sin,
Reception here will be quite chilly
Even though it’s rather silly.

Out you go, out on your ear!
Your type’s not very welcome here.
Your disrespect for Royalty
Is not allowed to spoil our tea!

But you have done the place a favour
Even if the bill they waiver
Everyone’s heard of them now
Their Royal Family cash cow.

My wife thinks I need a haircut, but after the last rhyme she is concerned that I could get the whole lot done at once, off at the neck.

Strangely enough, I was having a nap across the seats of my truck today during my mandatory tachograph break, (this truck has a day cab, so no bunk), and I had the windows open as it was a lovely warm day. I felt something flutter in on my head, like a leaf or something, but I was parked in the middle of the HGV parking of a motorway services area at Chieveley on the M4 and A34. It turned out to be a business card for Sweeney Todd travelling barber, who does hair at the truck stop on Wednesdays and Thursdays, or some such arrangement, presumably for truck drivers who can't get time off to go to a barber shop! I'd never heard of anyone doing that before.

Number 25.

Beardie.

I know the man who lives downstairs,
He lives there with his sister.
He has unusual facial hairs
We call him Mister Whisker.

Some people like to be clean shaven
But his hair is below his knees
Nits could have no better haven
(Though I’ve never heard him sneeze).

All his life it’s been the same
Hair a mop, more often flowing,
The crowning glory that’s his mane
Has never ever quite stopped growing.

Although the front is now receding
And here and there it has got thin
Down the back it’s still proceeding
Much like the stuff that’s on his chin.

His beard grows like there’s no tomorrow
Local birds have made a nest
And here and there they sometimes borrow
Extra bedding from his chest.

Not till the young have all flown south
Does he get his scissors out.
He first just trims around his mouth
And lets some light in on his snout.

Then later when the summer’s gone
He lies himself down on the lawn
His sister turns the mower on
And runs him over till he’s shorn.

But in a day or two it’s back
It grows profusely everywhere
Some of it grey but mostly black
And not a single patch is bare.

The only bit of him you’ll see
Is just his forehead to his crown
And only now and then ‘cos he
Likes to pull his hat well down.

He’s quite a friendly chap to meet
More like a sheepdog than a man
He has a brush to keep him neat
But only he reaches where he can.

I asked him once what job he does
Seeing him go off each day
He takes the number seven bus
But what he does he wouldn’t say.

And then one day I was in town
And saw in standing with a mop
He looked as though he’d just washed down
The floor of Beardie’s Barber Shop!

This obviously is not my best effort, so expect it to change a bit, or disappear completely if I can't improve it!

Meanwhile, this is number 26. I am about 6 behind presently as I have had a lot to deal with lately and not had time to sit quietly and compose rhymes. (Job changes, interviews etc, all a bit stressful). First I extended Delusions, then my wife, who has become my editor drastically shortened it, much to my chagrin. Editors do that, and probably more especially if they are also married to the writer. You be the judge, as her new improved shorter version follows it.

Number 26, Delusions extended version.

Delusions.
I met a woman in a pub
Who interfered with my grub
She didn’t stick a fork in it
But simply spoiled my eating it.

Sometimes I want to be alone
To gnaw upon my lunchtime bone
Now and then a chat is great
But better if it’s with a mate.

Not when the chat is with a bore
Who keeps on talking, more and more
About the people who she claims
She knows and tells me all their names.

What do I think about poor Andy
She asks me since she’s found me handy
Rebekkah, Rupert, James as well
So many friends are going through hell.

Lord This, Sir That and Lady Thing
Jeremy Hunt gave her a ring
She told him that he should beware
I told her that I didn’t care.

There are no tears in my eyes
I’m sorry I don’t sympathise
With all these elevated fools
When, oh dear, they break the rules.

Title does not me impress
Fancy gongs or fancy dress
Honest work, and modest pride
Are best, just knowing that you tried.

Two things only separate
The rich and poor, I can relate
The rich are richer, that’s quite clear
The other one is something queer.

It is delusion nothing less
The fact they think that they are best
VIPs with power exclusive
Superiority is delusive.

How can simply having more
(Something I tried to ask the bore)
Make yours a more important life
Than someone with financial strife?

We are all people, good and bad
Some have, some haven’t, others had
But ‘better’s down to good behaviour
Having money’s no-one’s saviour.

The poor truck driver comes to call
And rings the bell at So and So Hall
You’d think they do not want the stuff
They ordered when they treat you rough.

Tradesmen’s entrance round the back
Call me Sir or get the sack
Be grateful for the little I pay you
What’s your name, do I even know you?

Mind the flower bed don’t park there
Hurry up you’re in my hair
I’ve got better things to do
Than have to deal with the likes of you.

Out of my way, I’m coming through
I’m more important, more than you
Put it there, see the cook
I’ve got a flight to France to book.

While the Murdochs spend their squillions
They overlook the fact that millions
Live their honest lives and bring
The rich ones nearly everything

It doesn’t matter who you are
No rich person would get far
Without the ordinary man
Who makes life happen with his van

For if right now you looked around
I don’t suppose that you’ll have found
A single solitary thing
That a lorry didn’t bring.

So just remember when you start
To boss us, we all do our part
We serve each other, do our best
And trust that you will do the rest

When you get above the law
It sticks in the honest person’s craw
So Andy, Rupert, James and all
You thoroughly deserve to fall.

I don’t want to hear today
Some sycophantic pub bore say
How awful it has been for you
You’ve done some things you shouldn’t do.

Your money and perceived positions
Made you make some bad decisions
When all the time you’re just a peep
Crawling out of the same heap

Title, Schmitle, even a crown
Are nothing when you strip us down
Human beings in the buff
Are all the same, and that’s enough.

Delusions.

Edited version. This is my wife's preferred version as she edited it. It is clearly shorter, and less boring!

I met a woman in a pub
Who interfered with my grub
She didn’t stick her feet in it
But simply spoiled my eating it.

Sometimes I want to be alone
To gnaw upon my lunchtime bone
Now and then a chat is great
But better if it’s with a mate.

Not when the chat is with a bore
Who keeps on talking, more and more
About the people who she claims
She knows, and tells me all their names.

Lord This, Sir That and Lady Thing
Jeremy Hunt gave her a ring
She told him that he should beware
I told her that I didn’t care.

There are no tears in my eyes
I simply do not sympathise
With all these elevated fools
When, all they do is break the rules.

A title does not me impress
Fancy gongs or a fancy dress
Honest work, and modest pride
Are best, just knowing that you tried.

And how can simply having more
(Something I tried to ask the bore)
Make yours a more important life
Than someone with financial strife?

Tradesmen’s entrance round the back
Call me Sir or get the sack
Out of my way, I’m coming through
I’m more important, more than you

When you get above the law
It sticks in the honest person’s craw
So Andy, Rupert, James and all
You thoroughly deserve to fall.

Title, Schmitle, or a crown
Are nothing when you strip us down
We human beings in the buff
Are all the same, and that’s enough.

I suspect that I am turning into the archetypal grumpy old man, but we all love to do it a bit, even those of us with cock-eyed optimism and a generally cheerful disposition!

Number 27. With 328 to go.

The Pot Hole

There was a pot hole in our lane
For many weeks, and driver’s blamed
The Council whom they daily called
After they had been appalled
To come across it by surprise
Bringing a tear to their eyes.
No warning signs; but if they knew
Instead of letting wheels crash through
They would slow down and go around
To save themselves from being drowned.
For on a day when it had rained
The water in it hadn’t drained
You couldn’t see that it was deep
Till jarring through it made you weep
By which time it would be too late.
A truck would just about escape
But a smaller car would fall right in
The driver nearly to his chin!
I do exaggerate a bit
About its size, but that’s just it;
It was a pothole, nothing much
Needing a patch or something such

Then yesterday all hell broke out
Half of the council team turned out
Ten brave men and several vans
Had all arrived to lend their hands.
Looking busy, one and all
But working hard’s not what you’d call
What most of them were really at
It seemed they did no more than chat.
One fellow did the Stop Go thing
While yet another filled it in.
What did the other people do?
They stood and watched, what would you do?
They came with hard hats one and all
As if the sky above might fall
And though the hole had been obscure
Now they forced you to detour
Past many different signs and posts
When one would do it at the most.
And heaven knows how much was spent
To pay for this extreme event
There are a lot more holes to fill
No doubt with similar overkill.

Sunday 27th May 2012. This must therefore be day 32 I think, so I am 5 behind schedule. I will catch up easily enough I think. I thought I should take a look at some Pam Ayres poems to make a comparison. It turns out that when you simply count the syllables, hers conform to a regular count no more than mine, and it is all in the way they are read. Since no-one has heard me read my poems they have to scan first time for the reader. Since Pam Ayres is well known and her delivery easily recognised she can get away with it. I am encouraged though, that I am travelling in the right direction. I have tried to record some of them on video, with varied success. I need to develop a style, some confidence, and practice them so that the right emphasis and intonation is given to every word and syllable with 100% accuracy, so that the emotion, humour and meaning is fully illuminated.

It is a project which requires more input than one might at first imagine.

Number 28, leaving 327 to go

Afraid of swimming

Do chickens swim or do they sink,
What is it grown up people think?
Has anybody taken one
To see how is it that they’ve done?
Perhaps they need a rubber ring
To get the basics of the thing.
I know that I did first of all
When I was really very small,
And if I’d gone in unassisted
Might not have very long existed.
I was not a natural swimmer
Talent there was not a glimmer.
But in time I persevered
And swimming gradually appeared
To be a possibility
I saw with less hostility.
But every time that I went under
Terror got me and no wonder.
Perhaps the chicken given time
Would do the breaststroke really fine.
Then perhaps what it could do
S’teach me and other chickens too.

Number 29.

Bent.

I got stuck in a traffic jam today
As cars and trucks all tried to pick their way
With difficulty either way they went
Around a quite embarrassing event.

It happened on a pretty narrow bridge
Which was hidden by a corner and a ridge.
If you should come upon it much too quick
It could result in feeling rather sick.

A car had just performed exactly so
And now the driver stood and cried Oh No!
Standing in the road I saw him praying
I can guess just what it was he’s saying.

If you are going to have to have a crash
Pick on something cheap with which to smash
Even if you do it fairly gently
Don’t end up colliding with a Bentley!

Yes, this is about you, at Trotton Bridge on the A272, on Monday afternoon, 28th May 2012, piled into the back of a Bentley Continental convertible.

I spend a lot of time driving, either in a truck or car. I drive two different trucks, and have five cars, one, the MG is for sale at this point. Nevertheless, driving allows some opportunity for thinking, and for inspiration, which I imagine is already revealing itself, as quite a few of my rhymes are to do with the road. I have been experimenting with recording myself reading my rhymes, and I have given myself a kind of performing name of Behind the Wheel. It seems to sit well with me. I might go to an open mike session and try them out one day. There is one in Petersfield called Write Angle. I've been twice, a long time ago, and it might be a good trying out spot to see if my rhymes get a laugh or not.

30, and catching up. I think it is day 33.

Strapped

Ever since I was a lad
I’ve tried to emulate my dad.
He was never in a hurry,
Neither did he ever worry.
It always seemed that he was able
To put our dinner on the table,
Pay the rent and pay the bills
On a decent house in Surrey Hills.
I’ve no idea quite how he did it
What his job was, how he hid it.
He was an enigmatic bloke,
And hung out with the coolest folk.

Meanwhile life for me has been
A bit of a disaster scene;
No home that I can call my own,
No way of paying off a loan.
I have tried a million things,
Planning that one of them brings
A bit more cash to pay for stuff,
And all I want is just enough.
While hoping every scheme makes money;
What I think is really funny,
Is though all these things are fun
I always end up making none.

But I always count my blessings
Now my secrets I’m confessing;
Friends I have, a wife and son.
I think we’re liked by everyone,
We’re happy healthy, not gone blind,
Got our marbles I think you’ll find.
We go to church and sometimes pray
For a bit more cash to come our way,
But really there’s not much we need
As long as every day we feed,
And somehow every day we do
We’re really very well thank you.

Inaccurately autobiographical, we didn't live in Surrey Hills!

Tuesday 29th May today, Day 34 I think, so I am 4 behind unless I rattle a few off tonight. I have been thinking about busking the rhymes, in Covent Garden or somewhere like that, but this takes a lot of courage I think. I am also thinking about printing a collection of them which will always be incomplete. So I thought of giving it a title page something like this:

The Incomplete Works
of
Behind The Wheel

Silliness, nonsense and deeply profound rhymes

by Stephen Saunders

Agent, publisher, illustrators wanted

Bookings taken for entertaining readings and talks by the author

bowleyfarm@gmail.com

07758 555 6796

Number 31, Had a few probs with the computator today, so not sure what's what. Hope this goes in OK.

Number 31; Sneezing.

I’m really fond of sneezing, I do it quite a lot
And very often find I do it nine times on the trot
I’ve no idea why it should be the cause of irritation
But my wife insists upon immediate cessation.
Her sneezes only come in ones, or at the most in pairs
To all concerned they really are most trivial affairs.
But when they creep into my nose they take on quite a status;
Seven coming all at once, and then a brief a hiatus.
Two more then follow as a rule, by which time I’ll have heard
All I need to on the subject from my less than patient bird.
The truth is I enjoy my sneezing, and I feel that I
Should have the benefit of any sneeze that might be passing by.
I cannot bear to silence them, or even hold them back;
I’ve developed their expression into quite a serious knack.
But her indoors is not amused, and she regards it badly
I know she thinks it rather rude, like farting, I think sadly;
The fact that hers are small and single is really more her loss
Of course I wish it otherwise, but you know who’s the boss.

Stephen Saunders

Wednesday 25 April 2012

Rhymes from Behind The Wheel, No 1, Stuck in the Car

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