Bread,
Staff of life,
Crusty white,
Granary, wholemeal,
Sliced or slice it yourself,
Spread thickly with
Creamy English butter,
And jam to taste,
Or liberal helpings
Of smoked salmon,
Ham or cheese with chutney.
You won’t go hungry here.
photo by Andy Benn
It’s one of those idyllic “why would anyone want to be anywhere else” days in May. The back garden is starting to bloom and the sound of birdsong is all around. The lawn has been mown and the hammock is up for the first time this season.
Upstairs the two older offspring are revising for forthcoming examinations, voluntarily and without parental pressure! The other two are in Sunday School with their mother making for a peaceful morning.
Cricket has unfortunately been cancelled as Bracebridge Heath Under 9s have failed to raise a side. It would have been a perfect day for it sat on the boundary sipping a coffee and reading the Sunday papers.
A small plane buzzes across the sky leaving no trail, the sound remaining for a short while after it has disappeared from sight. Leaves flutter in the gentle wind.
The jobs list has been quickly finished and the car retrieved from Burton Road where it was left after a quick post golf drink turned into several. I am now sat in the conservatory with the doors open with a cup of green tea sourced from the shop on Steep Hill. Outside in the garden it is too bright to type. All is well.
I’m looking out of the window. It’s a bright, blustery day. The branches of the trees are swaying, and the birds are being blown about. The scudding clouds are casting fleeting shadows over the landscaped lawns. The grass was cut last week, but the dandelions, buttercups, and daisies are already back and moving in waves with every gust of wind. The road beyond the car park is full of cars coming and going. Everything’s moving, big and small. Except me. I’m just sitting here watching.
My Lovely Mum,
Your food is scrum,
Your huncles are warm,
You do the housework as quick as a storm,
You buy me presents,
But don’t shoot pheasants.
From John. firstpharmacyuk
Bank Holiday. As if they need one.
Weekend.
Like we used to have.
Peat on the fire, as the lady cools.
Some camping, but
I’m not there, I’m not invited
Into the front room.
Why there?
It might rain, so be safe
And sanitised.
Is that a sneeze I hear?
Will we live Tref?
Should we stock up?
Let loose the 21st Century’s dogs of war.
Telegraph the news abroad.
Swine flu has put me on a high,
Another pandemic in progress,
The end of the world is nigh,
Whilst you can, live life to excess.
One more drink before the end of play,
A calming effect don’t panic,
Oblivion wends its certain way,
Endemic or not, it’s academic.
As we await our final moments,
A time for thought and deep reflection,
A battle fought with inner torments,
If life is cheap, what price infection?
He died, young,
Though many have gone before,
The shock remains,
As if for the first time.
The community, silenced,
In unexpected grief,
Left thinking,
Pondering their own mortality.
We’re on the Tesco stage at the Millennium Centre tomorrow.
Singing some songs that as yet I haven’t seen and don’t know.
I’ll be standing at the back doing my best as anyone would,
I really hope I don’t do an impression of John Redwood.
Not cricket. He said.
Don’t care. Said Mr Turner.
What am I to do between 5 and 7?
Not my concern, you’re not sitting here,
We don’t like you’re demographic and its lack of money.
But my listeners. But my games, my lines. My life.
Commercial radio is no place for cost cutting,
Just people cutting and Mike has gone.
Beware all those who plan careers
In this, the people marketplace.
You’re young once only
And then only briefly.
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