Month: March 2017

I lost my own head

 

 

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Photo by my sister
I once lost my head in the bedroom
But it will never recur, I am sure
A decimal point,
A finger to point…
The exit is through the front door.
My tongue used to wag in the kitchen
But now it’s as broad as it’s long,
Geometrical measures
Ain’t what folk treasures
.They prefer one to fall into song.
My heart used to throb in the ballroom
And in the bedroom, as well.
Then one day it broke,
Just at a stroke.
Though now it’s  real hard to tell.
My hands used to tap on the table.
My nerves were on edge with constraint.
I could not control myself
Nor my own mental health
.But I’d have done better to faint.
My knees were expert at knocking
My legs turned to jelly as well..
I fell to the ceiling
My mind began reeling.
If this isn’t heaven, what the hell.
My body has given me problems
But without one we’d never be here.
So enjoy the trembling,
Without dissembling…
Thank God we don’t have to steer

I have had a muff

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I have re-drawn my boundaries so we no longer intersect…Eve.
Thank you for the heathen, please ring, Josie.
I never want to flee from you again,  I  have pre-flown, Anne.
You promised me a rose pardon, not a humorous growth, Hubert.
I’ll never prey on women again in case I meet you or your doppelganger, Bill.
This week my prayers are sponsored by Hewlett-Packard as God likes HP sauce, Kate.
You  cried out  like a  radioactive boar at first but then you went over the hedge and wanted love in the nettlebed.Too rash for me, Tom.
I only married you for lack of other duffers, Marie.
You are a very good actress or actor as we PC folk say now.I truly believed you liked me until you thought I was a tea bag and brewed me .What does it all seem? Jim
If and only if you die I shall grant you eternal rest.So wake up and play, Tim.
Life, what’s it all but a doubt? Joseph
I know God loves me from afar but I had hoped you would approach me bodily, Tora.
My husband liked his mother so much he practically married her.
Ariel gets the dirt out of your clothes and you will be amazed when you see them.They’ll look different but will feel you the same.
I never wish to be you again, Cleo.
I never wish to strangled with glue again, Antony.
Caesar was killed by a brute  with a stagger and a hungry fiend
I’ve never trespassed on God but why does he keep watching us?
I need a new gas cooker.The oven is no G-d.No use worshipping  this…Baal!
 

Why not boil the kettle?

 
 

Dotty cats 2

 

When Mary got home, she took off her coat and put the kettle on the fire!She got the tea caddy out and put some tea into the pot.Suddenly the door burst open and Annie her exuberant neighbour fell into the kitchen
Are you ok, Mary asked her gently.Those 4-inch heels are rather dangerous.
Annie was wearing a sky blue track suit, red stilettos and a big green pashmina. Her make up had melted all down her face as she was so warm with running.She had some waterproof makeup but had the feeling it might be dangerous to clog the pores.So why had she bought it?
Where have you been? she asked Mary curiously.You were ages.
I forgot to get off the bus as I fell into a reverie.
That sounds like a black hole!
I was daydreaming so I ended up by the river and a policeman asked me for a date, sort of.
Did you have any dates with you?
No, I only had Stan in my bag, alas.
Where is he?Have you put him into the wardrobe?
It’s already full.He’s still in the bag at the moment.
The two women fell into a sad mutual silence realising Stan would never now teach Emile to swim in the bath nor return his overdue library books.
Am I liable for his fines, Mary wondered.
I can pay if you like,Annie, said generously.She got out homemade biscuits and gave one to Mary who was wearing a  long black dress from Lands End which resembled a nun’s habit.
Are you thinking of  retiring to the cloister soon , she continued.
No, I don’t believe in Christianity any more.Christ.yes, Christianity ,no.
What about Xmas? Will you celebrate?
I shall pray and do out the kitchen cupboards.
Are they that bad, asked Annie curiously, twiddling  her ringlets with her fingers.
Possibly, Mary giggled!
They didn’t teach domestic science at Oxford!And Mother was always busy cooking and cleaning the grate after she got home from work.
Talking about grates, I’d better look at the kettle.She lifted it off the fire and held it up in the air.It was very black on one side, just like the one Mary’s mother had had so many years ago.
Why don’t I make some tea, she asked.
I don’t know, said Annie.Is this the Xmas quiz?
No , you don’t understand.It’s a rhetorical question.
Oh, do stop  showing off, Annie told her.I only went to Knittingham Polytechnic and we  never did Greek, just Aramaic.I have forgotten it now.
Mary poured out the tea into two pint sized mugs and the women sat silently warming their hands on the mugs and meditating on the  wilful backwardness of the local poly which now only taught Latin, Hebrew and chemical engineering.The latter was an error as the professors thought that was what Wittgenstein had studied before finding Bertrand Russell more attractive.
Russell’s paradox had haunted Annie ever since those unhappy student days.Whereas she being a lady with a very high libido would have preferred Russell to his paradox if she had been given the choice.Alas, he was already dead.But why let that stand in the way of fantasy? If not Bertrand maybe  some other clever old chap who could talk in an interesting manner,

Is the laptop spying on you?

 

12799247_673073696165845_6684362272588328293_nI saw someone recommend covering the camera eye with paper when you were not using it.And could they listen to you? I do not know but probably or they can scan files using malware.But I have nothing to hide!

The skin is thin, but life may be resumed

We wrap our wounds in any kind of rag
Till we can make it off the battlefield
We walk for hours  till we fall to the ground
To harsh fear and weakness, we must yield

Some dare not remove the dirty cloth
Afraid of what confronts their nervous eye
Some tear if off and start to bleed again.
And seeing this, they weep and wish to die.

A time will come when intuition tells
We’ve reached the central space where we will see.
The wound’s not killed us, so we hold our breath.
Wishing not to fall in apathy.

The lines and shape of face  display the wound
The skin is thin, but life may be resumed

 

 

Teaching children not to smirk.

Oh, toilet with your flushing  plumbed
You are  the saviour of girls young
We had to go outside at night
To a closet with no light.
When menstruating, it was hard
To run in rain down the backyard
What a glory later on
We had a bathroom with plumbing
Now many folks have three  or more
One downstairs with its own door.
We used chamber pots  at night
Without putting on the light.
But children rarely woke  too soon
We’d have stayed in bed till noon.
Saturdays, my mother baked
All sorts of mysterious cakes
Then she knitted, sewed and  cried
For my dad who  who early died.
She sewed our clothes and brushed our hair
Didn’t bother with the stairs.
And she had her full-time work
Teaching children not to smirk.
She made them read and write in ink
She questioned them and made them think.
There was a loo for teachers use
Gosh, it flushed and was kept spruce.
Gone, the days of no bathroom
Gone the sweeping with the broom
Dysons are worshipped as  our gods
Getting dust out of the rugs.
One thing always puzzled me
Why did God want us to wee?

 

If we lock our hearts up tight

The brightness of late summer light,
The songs of birds whose brood take flight.
I love to take in these earthly pleasures,
And so to fill my mind with treasures.The conversations with my friends,
The closeness only death will end.
To share our life with those who care,
How could we have better fare?

Those who suffer pain and grief,
From whom love’s stolen by a thief,
Let us take them to our hearts,
So their healing path can start.

Those who are fear friendship and love,
Who set themselves at too low worth,
Do they know how courage grows
Through acceptance of our woes?

Life is tragi-comedy.
Love may be the remedy.
Though if we give our hearts away
We shall have grief and pain to pay.

But if we lock our hearts up tight,
And keep all feeling out of sight,
We will wither like dead leaves,
Of our whole life, we’ll be bereaved.

What sort of spirit are you?

 
I heard my husband unlock the front door last night.I never knew ghosts had to use keys…

Then I heard him again.I shouted, Get on with it. I’ve been waiting for you for 18 months and now you can’t get through the front door.What sort of spirit are you?And talking of spirit.I found a bottle of whisky.You should have drunk it before you died. What a waste of money.You know I don’t like it.

Then I heard him on the stairs.A pity I’ve not moved to a bungalow yet.

I said, I’ve been wearing your vests.He said

I think they look very fetching.

A bit late now.How did I know a woollen vest would turn him on?I bought some red underwear and in the end, I gave it to the Salvation Army.That was tactless.So if you are married ask your spouse what clothes turn them on.Then never wear them.Well, we are contrary!

When I wore a big woollen vest over my nightdress I didn’t realise I had fever.It was my kidneys.My husband never knew we had kidneys.He didn’t know what lungs were for but he had asthma, anyway.That was odd.Men!

Anyway, I may be confused but they seem to have the same programmes on TV as last night.Oh, I get it now.It’s the News.That Middle East, it saves the reporters looking at North Korea and Tibet.And the Isle of Man.They still have capital punishment there, you know.And the indigenous people have almost died out.Well, they all used to marry out and eventually they lost all their own DNA.Possibly in the washing machine.I blame Ariel myself.Ariel and Sylvia Plath; what a woman.She deconstructed poetry alright.And my mind as well.It’s just stuck together with little hooks now.I’ve cut my thumb in the kitchen, but did I write a poem about it? There’s a thought.Suppose I cut my own throat.That would give me something to muse over. I’m a bit too timid with knives.I keep them very blunt and never send them to Cambridge in term time.What more can I do? Stop eating!

Oh , do open that door.Can’t you see through it yet?I’m crying

Paranoia is the safest way

Paranoia is the safest way
To live in  this unsavoury world today
Advertisers know  the spies and MI5
Know the evil  habits of the live.

So get a doll the same size as yourself
Sit it on the sofa by the shelf
Make a short recording of your chat
Put it in the doll  under its hat

Make it say the Government is great
And Theresa May is almost your best mate.
Say you  enjoy helping MI  seven
And what an idiot was Ernest Bevin.

Say that Harold Wilson was  an error
He went to Oxford which filled him with terror.
Say that Tony Benn was almost red
The spy whom you saw underneath your bed.

What the bedroom habits were  of Lords
What the working classes thought of bawds
This useless information clogs their wires
And hence it helps the spies who are all liars.

TV spying on you?

 

sunlight-ohttp://www.zdnet.com/article/how-to-keep-your-smart-tv-from-spying-on-you/

 

“Well, for starters, don’t buy smart TVs in the first place. Apple TV and Roku, to name two, supply pretty much everything a smart TV does and more. Sure, they can have security holes as well, but at least they’re designed by people with a clue about security and network engineering.

What’s that? You already have a smart TV? Bite the bullet, disconnect it from the internet, and turn it into a dumb TV.

First, check to see if your TV will let you disconnect from your Wi-Fi network. If it won’t, reset it to its factory default setting. When it turns on again and goes through its setup routine, don’t give it your Wi-Fi password.

If you’re using Ethernet, do the same thing — except this time, you simply don’t plug it into your network.”

And knowing me

I love him but he does not love me
Although he  once seduced me with his art
His complex face I still would wish to see
I love him  yet but he does not love me.
I puzzle over this anomaly
And wish the grief of lies  to leave my heart
I love him but he does not love me
From his seduction,I, in pain, do smart.

I detest him  for I was then but newly known
He hung on me the clothes of his desire
And when I called him once on his iPhone
He  labelled me a whore and made me groan
His fantasy was not one I could own
Tried, condemned to perish in his fire
I detest him, for I was but newly known
And knowing me, he'd send me to my pyre

And how the the light comes in.

 

Let your lips meet gently,
the top one resting against the lower,
touching with tenderness
your own skin to skin.

Forefinger propped on chin,
I let the others dangle,
like leaves on a branch;
how softly gravity tugs them downwards.

Let heart beat quietly,slowly
as the blood circulates
carrying its music,
a river,
following the path of least resistance.

How the blood vessels receive willingly this flow,
touching it kindly as with tiny open fingers,
helping and being helped.

How the hair on the head
floats
on the breeze,
like tentacles of an octopus
waving goodbye.

Top eyelid loves the lower one;
as we blink they touch
like lovers kissing swiftly
behind a tree.

and how the light comes in
we see a world.
[mine may not be yours]
but the blink of my eyelid
sends waves through the air,
so we’re all touching and being touched,
lips kissing each other,
kiss all living creatures.

skin to skin.
air to air.

And inside us,the rich darkness
of creative night
transforms,in turn,
these touches
into dreams.

Life is what we know

 

When soft winds blow and air strokes our bare skin.
When days are long like melodies of youth,
when light wakes up the soul from out her sin
Then shall we know when this sweet life is truth?

When flowers droop and leaves are dried and brown;
When water’s short and all the ground’s forlorn
Then do not meet disaster with a frown,
For out of heartfelt sorrow new life’s born.

When winter’s here and all is quiet and still
And nothing seems to move or grow or speak
Then we shall learn the limits of our will,
When through the soil the first green shoots will break.

For seasons change and actors come and go.
Yet through such changes, life is what we know

But you went much too fast

I wanted to touch you again
I felt you were going away
But  you went much too fast
Like a bomb, like a blast
I had hoped  for the summer you’d stay

I wanted the feel of your arms
Keeping me   safe from the storms
It seems I knew not
Of the love I had got
Till the life disappeared from your form

Now I live with the birds and the bees
The slugs and the snails and the fleas
I don’t see the harm
Of spending my time
With the lower forms of life,  I’m at ease

The space I need is neither room nor chair

I need space to write my poetry
Away ye demons; let true peace find me
I cannot write when scruples sting my soul
I  know I’m broken; I was never whole

The space I need is neither room nor chair
It is a space within my  heart; it’s bare
My thoughts are channelled to  this sanctum near
Where  God burns bright and Moses stands in fear

When  exposed  to brightness  not so dear
My mind is wrecked; I wonder why I’m  here.
We need protection; ignorant of the way
Thoughts may cut us off, both night and day.

Tremble by  the  sacred Fires  within;
Protect them from  the politicians’ whim

Ode of the sauce pan

Hare_Otmoor2017

 

Oh, copper pan with silver lined
Now  your status exceeds mine
You are the best, the supreme pan
And I am a  mere, an also-ran.

I am made of stainless steel
So I don’t know  how to feel
But copper  has a warmth sublime
I wonder if you will be mine?

I’ll stand beside you on the shelf
And spin around, beside myself.
My heart is full, my mind is too
Won’t you tell me what to do?

Would you like a wedding dress
And a Rabbi there to bless?
Or an Imam or the Pope
He seems a really pleasant bloke

I am Jewish but do not need
To marry pans of  the same creed
I do  like some variety
Copper pan, please look at me!

Don’t reject me far too swift
I am easily dismissed
But stainless steel is very strong
Don’t  make me wait and think too long.

I may descend to paranoia!
I’m being watched by the chip fryer.
Let me feel  your copper form
That will  make me safe and warm

To be fried in boiling oil
The notion makes my soul recoil
Please forgive my  etiquette
I am polite till I forget

Continue reading “Ode of the sauce pan” →

Perhaps life’s real answers will prove to be dietary

Modern society; oh, what notoriety!
A dress  one can see through; they make sure we do, do, do
I wonder  what I can  say  writing my poetry

Some folks are models of total sobriety
From the top  of the head to the well-heeled  big toe too
Modern society  creates much notoriety

I wanted to  practise medicine and psychiatry
But my unconscious mind  caught  that  terrible swine flu
I wonder what one can achieve by learning poetry?

I studied the foot and learned much “podiatry”
How to cut corns off   or   stick them  back: superglue
Modern society  maims  with notoriety

Perhaps life’s  real answers will prove to be dietary
Stop all this writing and run to the Super Zoo
What I can achieve just making this poetry?

When you phone me up  you say “is that you, Lou”
I’ll  say  I felt bitter but now I’m just” Boo Hoo”!
Modern society  creates notoriety
I wonder  where I   can live  with my poetry

Yet all human lovers

I didn’t know I’d love you

With both my heart and mind
Every love is different
Each is a special kind

I didn’t know I’d miss you
In quite the way I do.
For we can’t feel emotion
Before its time is due.

And are you missing me now
Despite angelic hosts?
They may care for you , my  sweet
But I think I care the most.

Yet all human lovers
Must part and go their ways.
Some may die and fall to dust
Some may go astray.

I didn’t know I’d love you
And hurt invade my heart.
I didn’t know that you’d love me.
But we would have to part.

From mother and her bosom
From father and his strength
We lose and gain throughout our life
Whatever is its length.

I didn’t know I’d miss you
With all my loving heart.
But  as we’re made of fragile flesh
We must sadly part.

If you had been a sadist
If you had been unkind.
I would not now be grieving
And losing my own mind.

So maybe I should be grateful
For being found and known.
I wish you were still sitting here.
And I were not alone.

When we feel so lonely
No-one else will do.
It’s not that I’m just lonely.
I’m lonely, just for you.

In the wet and stony
Pathways we must go
We must keep on walking;
Be patient when we’re slow.

The inner force is working
To make new maps for me.
Wherever they shall guide my steps,
With you I long to be

When their loved ones do defect

I still don’t know  how deep inside  my heart
Is a strange belief, he has not died
I can’t believe  he’s never coming back
Is it self-deception or a lie?

I wakened up and thought I heard his breath
Then remembered all the details my loss.
I wonder if I’ll see his shadowed ghost?
And if I do, no doubt I shall get cross

Like children taken from a mother’s arms
When she returns they’re angry  yet forlorn
Too young to speak, to verbally express
They  bite the breast and wish that they were grown.

Even  those who rationally accept
Are struck dumb when  their loved ones  do defect

Offers lines from its unconscious wealth

When a novice writes an early poem
The surprise is not the cuteness of the  rhyme.
But is a moment when a deeper self
Offers lines from its unconscious wealth

Later when re-reading, I’m amazed
That I myself was channel for such  grace.
It may happen  but I  never know
Unless I write and travel with the flow.

To get to know the depths of our own mind
May  enlighten us to when we ‘re  most unkind.
Inside the heart, a bitterness may blind
Yet pain  may hint  we must the heart unchain.

So writing  opens both the soul and mind
Shows we’re one as we’re all humankind

 

 

 

Five ways to write a poem

 

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http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/advice/5-ways-how-to-write-a-poem

 

“Capture a moment. One trap I can sometimes fall into is that I try to write the big poem or the poem filled with ideas (like love, hate, etc.). What always works better, for me anyway, is to focus on one moment that expresses an emotion or works as a metaphor for a bigger idea.”

Stan’s Yorkshire puddings

Tea pot
Tea pot
 
  • Stan was cooking the Sunday dinner.As usual up North it was roast beef and Yorkshire puddings.Stan was very good with  Yorkshire puddings.
    They ate them with gravy before the main course just to maintain tradition.Even Emile,their talking cat, loved a pudding soaked in thick meaty gravy..Suddenly the kitchen door burst open and in rushed their neighbour Annie… covered in blue paint.
    What’s happened to you,hinny,Stan enquired naughtily.Surely you are not house painting on  a Sunday?
    No,I never paint  thee housemyself,she responded.I was in the shed and a stray cat was up on the top shelf.It leaped off  and knocked over over this  old tin of paint.I’m wondering how to get it out of my hair?The paint,not the cat!
    What type of paint is it?
    It’s emulsion paint.
    Well,I’m afraid you can’t get it out!
    I can’t go around town with blue hair,she cried hysterically..
    Well,all I can think is,I could cut off a little of your hair.
    OK, if that’s the only way.she said,being keen on Stan’s touching her even if only on the head.
    Can I stay and eat with you?
    Of course,sweetheart.Now here are some pinking shears.
    Have you no ordinary scissors?she screeched fractiously.
    No,we lost them.But pinking shears will give a layered effect.
    Stan began cuttting the left side of Annie’s hair.Then he went around to the right.
    She looked in the mirror,The left side  is a bit longer than the right.
    OK I’ll cut off a bit more on the left.
    Oh,my God.The shears slipped,it’s gone really short!
    All Stan could do was cut the remainder of Annie’s lovely hair so it was only 2.54 cm long all over.
    Suddenly Mary came in,I didn’t know you were a hair dresser she said sardonically to her husband.
    Well,Annie got paint in her hair so I’ve trimmed her hair.
    Trimmed it..it looks like she won’t need a cut for about two years.
    Annie began to sob noisily ,terrifying Emile who was hiding behind the flour bin.
    Well,Stan answered, it will be easier to wash and dry and no need for rollers etc
    I think it looks charming.
    Why pinking shears?Mary whispered.You could have used my dressmaking ones.
    Well,.too late now mioawed Emile sarcastically.
    Well,I think it looks sweet,said Stan bravely.
    Meantime,you have burned the puddings again
    Just like King Alfred and the cakes.Men are only good at savoury and meat dishes.
    It takes a woman to cook puddings and cakes.But Yorkshire puddings are savouries.
    I wonder how Wittgenstein would have classified them ?   cried Mary enthusiastically.
    Not Wittgenstein again,moaned Stan,can’t you move onto someone else?
    Whom do you suggest?
    Try Carnap for a while.
    Oh,he’s more of a logician,Mary said defiantly,You see I love Wittgenstein as a human being..
    Are you committing adultery ?Stan demanded  dominatingly That’s an exaggeration,He’s dead i believe.
    That’s what they all say,shouted Stan angrily.
    But what about you and Annie?
    Well,I get lonely with you lecturing and researching all day long.
    Surely you could wait till I come home?
    I suppose so,though a harem has always been my dream!
    I think you are past it,said Mary rudely.
    That’s not what I see, said Emile quietly.
    Meanwhile Annie had washed her hair an it dried in tiny uneven curls all over her head.
    It looks quite fetching,they decided as they sat down to eat the charred yorkshire puddings.
    What an exciting Sunday especially for Stan who enjoyed touching and playing with women’s hair.
    I wonder if it’s a mental illnes?
    I’ll have to look on the internet.Still, better than panic attacks, he thought consolingly as he carried the roast beef into the dining room where the women were discussing religious topics including a curiousity about why Christians were so anti Semitic despite Jesus’s wish for people to love each other.and besides Jesus being God,he was also a Jewish person too on his mother’s side.
    That’s interesting,Stan thought,Here people think he’s English!What a weird world it is,to be sure.
    Little children,love one another,as someone once said many years ago but humankind is still in the toddler stage of development I fear…. and going backwards too.

And places full of light

When the sun is high and bright and strong
We  feel that it will always be the same
But when we live  on earth we know we’re wrong
And for that darkness we have got a name

Now in England we  have lights and screens
We do not fear the dark, the  devils’ night
But often in the winter we will dream
Of summer heat and places full of light

The steps  at Aldeburgh where we saw the sea
The cliffs at Lyme and Charmouth in the spring
But from  such places I dread  memory
The  pain of loss is  hard and no child brings

Now the sky is lilac in the dusk
In creation I find what I trust

Hatred keeps people away

You loved me, but not the  true way
I am not sure  of how I can say
You could not take
An error or mistake
If you can’t  trust  then it ‘s safer to hate

Hatred keeps people away
You projected yours every day
I hoped trust would grow
But I don’t think so
Love makes us  open to blows

 

I noticed you found a new friend
You smile and you hold her slim hand
I wish I could warn her
Her life will be stormier
Dancing on eggs  till the end

What keeps this man going on
Who will be his new victim?
He starts with great charm
Before the alarm
Rings in  the mind and he’s gone

He broke my new window one time
He had to escape from his crimes
He swings to and fro
He wants us to know
He is the best or the worst every time

 

No shades of grey are perceived
So little mistakes make him scream
He curses or blesses
Endures many losses
He’s the cat who upended the cream

Are you a writer?

Hare_Otmoor2017

 

http://www.hongkiat.com/blog/signs-you-are-a-writer/

 

“Writing is a sacred calling that pulls at your soul.

It is the air that you breathe and what makes your heart continue beating. Your soul is filled with words that have no meaning until you sit down and pour them through your heart like a sieve. This is what writing is to the writer. The writing profession is unlike any other because it is not a profession to us. It is a way of life. We are drawn to it, sometimes despite our best efforts to pull away.

You will find us scribbling endlessly on scrap paper, writing during our lunch breaks at a corner table, and sitting at our computers for 20 hours at a time. We write because we have to write. Sometimes, our words are pleasing to other people and that is good. We write even when they are not. If this is not you, you may not be a writer. You may just be good at writing.”

Late blooming writers

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How Writers Can Take a Lesson from Late-Blooming Writers

 

-Quote

Wallace Stevens

Wallace Stevens worked as a lawyer and later as an insurance executive. However, he also wrote poetry during his off hours during most of his working life, except when his daughter was young. Stevens returned to writing around the time his daughter turned nine years old.

Wallace Stevens’s poetry matured and evolved as he got older, and his best work was done later in life, between the ages of fifty and seventy-five. In fact, Stevens won the Pulitzer Prize at seventy-five years old for the book The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens.

Mary buys a dummy

 

New cats today

While Mary sat in the kitchen on a large pine chair looking at Hotter’s  latest shoe catalogue,Annie was creeping up the garden path in a pair of turquoise suede elegantly heeled shoes matching her teal tencel culottes and matching blouse.Round her neck was a large lump of amber on a gold chain handy for beating off muggers or lustful men
Despite the heat she was in full splendour with  golden beige tinted moisturiser from Langone of Lyons on her lovely complexion,pink eyeshadow  from Yves St Current and dark brown boot polish as  her mascara had run out and she’d not been out for a while to buy more
Annie ran the last few yards and darted like an eel into Mary’s 1970’s  kitchen.
What on earth are you doing,dear? Mary asked her.Those shoes look unsuitable for  leading anyone up the garden path.Mind you,I do like them
Oh,I’ll explain,Annie said huskily.
I told  that therapist across the road I was  living with you.
What exactly do you mean by living,Mary asked anxiously.
Well,he said yesterday that anyone who lives alone must be lacking in some way.Except for him of course as he had full  analysis with Alfred Zion.
You mean Wilfred Bion,Mary told her.
Zion,Bion,what’s the difference?
It shows your  lack of education,Mary told her.Not that education nowadays makes much difference when almost anyone can get a 1st or 2.1.After all would you pay £90,000 for a third class degree in Aeronautical Engineering?
That’s not quite what I would have done, said Annie.A degree in flirtation and pleasing men would be more up my street.And cooking of course although I once did have an interest in Hebrew and Aramaic.
It’s not a way to progress in  a neo-liberal economy,although reading the Hebrew Bible is always interesting.Personally I  prefer  that to the New Vex-a man.The stories,the love songs,the action.Mary’s round eyes gleamed with intellectual life and a bit of  languorous lust
How about God? Annie asked her.
He seems to have changed as he related to his people.But he was a friend despite being an abstract concept.Though one could hardly call him a concept as he is inconceivable.
Mary’s voice faltered as  she was stunned by her own articulacy and wondered what she might say next that could offend millions around the globe.
You should write a book,Annie said kindly.
I think I am ill-equipped to write about God.And ,also ,I am saddened to see how his  own people  have been treated.I can’t dwell on  it over much as I already feel weak and weepy.
Why what have you  been doing,asked Annie.
I have been sorting out clothes to  give to the hospice shop. I’ve got a big bag
full already and  2 bags of newspapers and rubbish of various kinds which somehow creeps into my bedroom…  tissues,cotton wool, old hairbrushes.I am hoping to get it nice and neat before my sister comes to see me in August.And no doubt she will not be happy even then.She’d like me to buy a  small new house with a  lovely bathroom and kitchen. But I don’t want to leave my neighbours behind.If I won the lottery I could get the neighbours to move as well.Love thy  neighbour  etc
And now I realise I have far too many pans despite burning several.But it’s a big decision for a woman who was  famed for entertaining friends with  scorching Beef Vindaloo and lemon mousse that  tasted like  rubber.Giving that up is a big wrench.
Why can’t you carry on, asked Annie.
Carrying on is precisely why I can’t do it.Now I am a widow the wives of my former  colleagues and  my own women friends are afraid I will steal their husbands.
Emile miaowed in ecstasy as any  talk about  the love lives of his family were always intriguing.He was hiding as usual behind  the stone flour bin.
Don’t you see,said Annie.If we pretend we are living together then you can mingle with men without suspicion.
This is beginning to sound like a spy story,Mary told her.And do not drag me into  a character part  in the play  based on your romantic love for that psychoanalyst.
He looks ugly and boring to me.
Oh,that’s just a projection,Annie told her.You are defending yourself against acknowledging how much you long to lie in his arms and let him smother you in kisses.
Well,said Mary,I see you have been reading Freud for beginners again.
Or is it Freud for Dummies?
Mary recalled  how nice her dummy used to taste when it was dipped into a jar of malt and codliver oil.Maybe that is the answer,she thought.
I’m going to Mothercare,she called as  she ran out of the house in her green trainers and denim trouser suit.See you later.
Annie sat in the kitchen wondering how soon she could see the psychoanalyst again without  being accused of sexual harassment.Even   old age has not deterred her from seeking a replacement for dear old Stan.A few tears ran down her cheek and Emile  jumped out and sat on her knee.

Human chaos

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Rosa Benchez was standing in the hall  of her deluxe modern semi holding a bag of potatoes in one hand and the  snail mail in the other.Someone was knocking on the door.Rosa put the potatoes down on the bureau next to three broken  clocks and  some pink gloves.She got her camera out as she opened the door as she had a plan.
What is all this stuff doing here? asked her neighbour Rosamund Pilchard
I am doing  photographs of people’s homes and the meaning of such images  and I am starting  with this as an expression of  the loss  I have sufferedsince Charlie Blogge threw me over.Human chaos I might call it.She recalled burning the engagementt ring
She added  a banana to the heap and took several shots with her Kodak Bridge canera
What can I do for you? she asked
Do you know how to make trifle,Rosamund demanded
Yes, but you can buy it  in Waitrose
I  have got this man coming tomorrow from Soulmates.I want to make an impression.I know men used to buy women meals but now it’s different
Did you meet him in  the coffee shop?I saw you there with a strangely handsome  man last week.I liked the look of him
Well. they say don’t let them have your address but as he says he is an MP it should be ok
Is he  really an MP,asked Rosa?You are very  naive,you know
He may be one of those Euro MPs. That  Nigel Farage is.Not that I would date him
I am surprised he’s not met some gorgeous lady  already  over thre.Though you are very beautiful,dear girl.Brussels is very intriguing.Here,take this glass dish.I can email  you the recipe.
What I was thinking was.:will you ring the bell at 8.30 pm tomorrow and pretend you need an egg or some sugar.Then you can meet Saul and tell me what you think of him.Not then but later…
I am no expert on men,Rosa gurgled.I just made a big mistake with Charlie Blogge.I met him!He was ok online but in real life  he is mean and selfish.He only wanted one thing. and it was not sexual love.
Perhaps he hoped you would change him for the better? Rosamund whispered softly
Why can’t he change himself?
If you have a few friends you trust you can ask them for any criticisms they have of you but you can’t  do it with a boyfriend as it is a delicate task to choose the  right moment to say:
I’d rather live with  a gay man  who wears orange velvet trousers and dyes his hair green than with a selfish pig like you.Sex is not the most important thing in the world.Love is my priority
Rosamund was amazed.
I read in the Guardian than a woman of 87 in a Care Home asked for a vibrator.I suppose it’s better than having sex with a horrible man, she mused thoughtlessly
Do you think so? Rosa asked It’s completely different  than having someone there gazing into your eyes and wrapping their arms round you and calling you by a pet name.But I suppose it passes the time when you are stuck in  a Home.It’s exercise of course, as well.
Nowadays  there’s less love and kindness and more sexual experiments said her neighbour.
They are not real experiments as those have to be repeatable and independent  of the observer,Rosa murmured
Why bring in the Observer?  Rosamund asked.What about the Express or the Telegraph
Well,it’s immaterial as  it would not be the same making love while  bein abserved,Rosa told her.Some people might freeze up.Some may enjoy it
They gazed onto the garden where two cats were having  fun on the lawn
Shall we have a cup of tea and some Xmas cake?
The teapot was lying on the floor where Rosa had kicked it when she got up to vent her rage at life.She picked  it up and washed it tenderly
They sat in the lemon painted  room thinking about all the  men they had known and sometimes loved
Will we ever find someone  else suitable? Rosa asked.I sometimes wish I was gay as then we’d have more to talk about with another woman.But I don’t fancy it somehow.There is something missing.
I know what you mean,Rosamund giggled
I didn’t   mean that, it is just  a man is different.Greedy.lazy and can’t use a carpet sweeper as he cannot find the switch.It’s interesting to toy with them and play with their Meccano.
It certainly is.Or persuade them dolls are more fun that engineering
And so say all of us