If you read eighteenth or nineteenth century novels you might notice the references to postal deliveries. Now we are some used to electronic communication that the simple idea of writing a letter, using pen and ink and sealing it – with sealing wax -anyone under forty know what sealing wax is, let alone what it is used for?
But back in those golden days when people still wrote letters to each other – or “corresponded” as Jane Austen would put it, there were several postal deliveries each day. Now we are lucky to get one and that at a seemingly random time. But I shouldn’t grumble. I’ve got electronic communication in all its varied manifestations, email, twitter (for twits), Facebook , whatsapp, instagram and umpteen others that I don’t use and don’t want to. We’ve even got the good old fashioned telephone, the sort that sits on a table in the hall and you actually dial the number you want, rather than just inputting it via a keypad.
Yes, like about 99% of the populace I have a mobile phone. Not a “smart” phone, just a dumb gadget that I can use to send and receive phone calls and send and receive text messages. And that’s all I want from a phone. I don’t use it to tell the time – I’ve got a watch; I don’t use it to surf the internet – I’ve got a desk top computer, I don’t use it to take photos – I’ve got a camera for that. I’m a firm believer in one gadget – one function. It’s bad enough that we now get our electricity from the gas board and that an “address” means more often than not some weird string of letters ending “.co.uk “
Oh for the days of Postman Pat with his black and white cat!
It quivers and shimmers
It glimmers and shines
That dress on the model
Oh would it were mine!
I know I’d look slimmer
It would make me much trimmer
I’d feel like a winner
I’d look quite divine.
The colours are gorgeous
Shading to turquoise
I adore it, don’t you?
The dress of my dreams
That’s how it will stay
I’ve see the price ticket
That’s half a year’s pay!
Dense dark smothering choking,
Bits of soot clinging to clothes and hair
Clogging up your nose, your throat.
Not if you’re under thirty, you won’t.
They were like the masks worn by medics doing a minor op.
Or like dentists wear to keep from ingesting our germs –
Or is it the other way round – so they don’t contaminate us?
Now there is a constant babble about “air quality” and whether having speed bumps on roads makes the atmosphere better or worse.
(I’m told drivers slow down for the bump and then speed up and so produce more nasty gases and cause more damage to the atmosphere than if the speed bumps were not there.)
It baffles me. You could say I’m totally be-fogged.
They come to your doorstep these earnest young folk
To ask “Have you been Saved?” (It isn’t a joke!)
They stand there and argue, they stand there and pray
They’re courteous and charming, but won’t go away!
And always they choose just the worst time of day.
When you’re right in the middle of cooking or baking
And your children are home. From the row that they’re making
They’re trashing the house the foundations are shaking.
You can hear in the bedroom the baby awaking…
Were I more assertive, I’d swear and I’d shout.
But one day by chance I found the way out…
One day I was home. I’d shampooed my hair
And set it in rollers with infinite care.
I spread on a face mask that claimed to cure spots
And pimples and wrinkles and blackheads and blots.
I smeared it on thickly and lay down to rest
As advised on the packet and then – I’ll be blest
If the bell didn’t ring. I went down in my vest
To see who was there. I was most impressed
The lass on my doorstep took one look and fled
At the sight of my face and my hair-rollered head.
I must write to the firm that make this great goo
It gets rid of spots, that claim is quite true
And not only spots, some other pests too!
This was an entry for a poetry competition some time ago to write about what you could do with a broken tea-pot. Here are my suggestions:
You could hurl it at your husband
In a fit of wifely rage
You could plant it up with kitchen herbs,
Parsley, thyme or sage,
You could keep your trinkets in it,
Brooches, rings or owt
Or keep a ball of string in it,
The end poked through the spout.
You could paint it blue and silver
And put it on display
Or use it as a piggy bank
For the proverbial rainy day.
It would make a nice container
For a floral decoration
But the use for an old tea pot
That shows most imagination
Is one most economical,
It will not stretch your purse,
Just take your pot and make it
The subject of a verse!
T The ties that bind us together
E Ever strong, ever there
T Twining, twirling, teaching keep us tethered
H Having one purpose only to keep us together
E Eternal vows, everlasting promises,
R Really these are what keep together a love, a life ,
a marriage .
Sometimes duck eggs are set under a broody hen to hatch.
It’s claimed that ducklings attach themselves to the first large moving object they see when they fledge and regard it as their mother.
I’ve never actually witnessed either phenomenon, but they gave me idea for this rather dippy verse.
Young Don was a strange kind of duck
Instead of a “quack” he said “cluck”
He’d been hatched by a hen
Which impressed him and when
He first tried to swim he got stuck.
But Don was a brave sort of duck
Not lacking in spunk or in pluck
But he hadn’t much sense
When he perched on the fence
He fell beak over tail in the muck.