Wednesday, 5 February 2014

This explores my obsession with showing off, despite my often crippling shyness.  Looks like I'm opening up here, if you find the idea repulsive, please pretend that it's all made up and not anything to do with a real person living or dead....or me.


Hit the lights! Centre stage.
Find the mark and never move.
Spotlight, duvet warm, secure.
Comforting and safe.
Here is where I live, I thrive.
Centre stage keeps me alive.

One hundred, one thousand, I really don't care,
A thousand  pair of eyes wrap me in their stare.
Cradling me in your casual regard
Me, holding you for a fractured moment.
Your interest not even skin deep
No-one really wants to know .... me.

I'm only here to be seen
Not to be known, not to be gleaned.
A clown, a dancing, prancing marionette,
Pirouetting, performing just for you - someone else?
A passing amusement, a gewgaw a bauble
Centre stage I am here. Right here!
You are looking right at me
But I'll never be seen.

Can I Go Out?

This is a little poem that harks back to my childhood growing up in Whitby on the North Yorkshire coast.  All the places and activities are real, I didn't even make any of it up.  Not even the names have been changed to protect the guilty.


Can I go out Mum? -  Hmm, let's see,
Where are you going?  Be back for your tea!

Big Park, Little Park, Tucker's Field
Or down on the bomb-site - whooping Cherokees.

I won't climb the scaffolding,  I won't go far
Back St Hilda's car park I'll look out for the cars.

I'll be Evil Kinevil in the cramped backyard
Ramps made of wood and mossy hardboard.

Shuffling through dry Autumn leaves to my knees
Or peering with envy at the toys in Blenkey's

Chalk scrawled cricket stumps, or kicking a ball
Under the arch against Church House wall.

Can I go out Mum, I'll be back for my tea.
Can I go out Mum? Can I? Please?

To Premier, To Publish, To Chuck Into The Ring ......

One of the main reasons I began this blog was to do something with my writing.  By 'do something' I mean precisely that. Something.  Premier, publish, or just chuck it out there into the ring to be mauled by lions, or worse still be left flopped in the centre of the arena ignored, stepped over.  Anything.  Any kind of action would be better than just jotting these things down and having them languish on my hard-drive, or notebook until I forget them.

In 'publishing' any pieces here I am going through the motions of preparation.  The pieces probably won't the in their finished form, but will be at least in a form I am happy with for the moment - albeit perhaps just as a draft or rough sketch.

So, if perhaps you stumble upon this blog, and begin to read these posts, poems, short stories or sketches, please be kind, be patient, (be critical by all means) but hopefully, please be entertained.

Wednesday, 29 January 2014

To Like or Not To Like, That Is The Question.

Every so often the people of Facebook cry out to the powers that be for a "DISLIKE" button.  It certainly would help people continue their casual 'nod of connection’ relationships as they scroll down through their Timelines.

That kind of "Can't be bothered to be in touch properly, despite having your email, snail mail, home and mobile telephone contact details, but I 'Like' that picture of your child on the beach, that's kind of the same as keeping in touch." would be given an added dimension, an ever so slightly less two dimensional edge, if there was just as easy a way to sympathise with someone's bad times as there was to celebrate the restaurant meal on a plate.

As this post will be published to my Facebook account please feel free to 'Like' the post, just so I know I am alive.  If, of course, you don't like it then press the imaginary 'Dislike' button.

Just please don't press the 'Can't-be-Bothered-To-Care-Properly-BUT-At-Least-I Noticed-Your-Post-Even-Tough- I-Didn't-Read-It-All' button, which equally doesn't exist, but I'll know, and it will cut me to the quick.



Babygrows For All?

I was watching my little MoMo playing in the front room after getting out of bed because he was 'scared', or bored and not asleep, as it is actually known. He was dressed in a penguin onesie, quite reasonable as he is only four years old.  However, I am aware that upstairs I had either sleeping or finishing off homework that they told me they had already done, one reindeer, aged 12, one dinosaur, aged 14, and one Tardis, aged 17 ....

I can appreciate the current trend for the onesie among the youth of today, and particularly the youth of this house -  not that I have succumbed, but then again I could hardly be described as the youth of anything.  The all in one comfortable pyjamas certainly seem cosy and warm, if a little impractical, where are the 'escape chutes' of the long johns of John Wayne and the like? My issue is, when you can look across the generations from 4 year old penguin to 17 year old Tardis - who incidentally has been a Tiger on overnight school trips on buses and ferries - you realise these are not a new thing, not a trendy concept, not withstanding the aforementioned cowboy underpinnings  they are simply baby grows for adults.

I suppose it is indicative of the Nanny State that so called adults are happy to parade around the streets in amusingly themed baby grows.  One only needs to encounter a stag night or office party, or college  pub-crawl to see an astonishing array of these onesies. Indeed, it is getting that trying to negotiate ones way from hostelry to hostelry is becoming like a game of dodge the cartoon character.  The streets of Britain are beginning to look like CBeebies and Cartoon Network have let all their 'staff' out from work early.   It is enough to make you wonder what will be the next trend? How much more ridiculous can the spectacle of Britain's high streets on a Saturday evening get?

It seems it is also enough to make me into a doddering old grumpy git.  They are just pyjamas, what is my problem?  When we were young we used to have to go swimming in our PJs, so going for a
pint (of beer down the pub, or milk down at Tescos) seems almost sensible.

Though not a convert myself I realise that the onesie's days as super trendy are numbered but it's days as a practical warm pyjama choice are probably numerous.  And why not?  I mean what household wouldn't be the richer for a penguin, an reindeer, a dinosaur, and a Tardis?

Saturday, 25 January 2014

It's Now or Never.

The time has come to abandon the long unsuccessful vigil, waiting in vain for the invention (and subsequent inexplicable instant delivery to my house) of Beard-Be -Gone.

Time to shave. Wish me luck!

It's like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder how I keep from going under.

Wednesday, 15 January 2014

Choir Tonight

Whitby Community Choir tonight.  Seems I haven't been for ages, and indeed it was before Christmas. 

I have done some singing since then, for example I went to Moorvoices on Monday and worked hard on Sinnerman, getting far further with it than either Rebecca or the choir thought.  We have also managed to get to The White Hart Folk Club.  But going to Whitby Community Choir is somehow different.  (Not sure why ..... maybe I should put some thought into why, the answer may be interesting - on the other hand it may be boring and inconsequential.)

The choir obviously had loads of gigs and social gatherings over the festive season, which i attended, but with our Whitby Wassail followed by our Christmas meal then the Christmas break it is actually five weeks now since i went to a choir night.  I was raring to go last week, but just felt too ill.

This week I am a bit fitter tonight and looking forward to some singing, despite still wallowing in self pity and man flu ..... or suffering from a bit of a cold as it is actually known.

So, sniffles and scrumpled tissues aside ......