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Sunday, 31 January 2010

I heard about an acquaintance recently who had been "Taken for a ride" by an unscrupulous fellow. I could cry for her but I can also see how it could have happened.


It’s all so wonderful because of the dreams
But in reality, not as it seems.
Our eyes deceive us whilst looking at this,
Nothing is seen that our minds want to miss.
When your heart is involved and holds hard to that dream
It’s rose tinted glasses that scan the scene.
If only all truths were so easy to hide
And the less salubrious side be denied
Would ignorance make life more palatable?
Could we really be so gullible?

Saturday, 30 January 2010

A Wedding Invitation

I have a Sister-in-saw of whom I am very fond. We rarely meet up these days, the main reasons are distance and that she travels the world frequently. However, I digress. She is getting married. Her and her partner have been together for several years and, having tried it, decided to formalise it. So, to a wedding I am going.
Sue is a Doctor of Anthropology. She is also a founder member of Dramatherapy and The Association of Dramatherapists. Very broadly it is a form of using the arts as a therapy which she teaches worldwide and has done for many years. Her endless energy puts me to shame. Her internet sites make very interesting reading, do have a look.
I am off to plan a crafty wedding gift which I know she will appreciate far more than a bought one. will take you into her Rowan Studio
or put Drsuejennings into your search engine for multiple choices. is a very informative site too.

Friday, 29 January 2010

I have just spent a few hours sitting in a hospital outpatients waiting room, result,I am soooo grateful I only had to have my eye lasered.

I sat and watched the suffering
Of people passing by
A child bravely smiling
But only had one eye.

A woman with a headscarf
Worn turban style you see.
To hide the toll that Kemo took
From prying eyes like me.

A young man in a wheelchair
Handsome he was as well.
He hadn't any legs,
As far as I could tell.

A salutary lesson it was for me.
I learnt it well and good.
A much more humble person
Went home, and so she should.

Thursday, 28 January 2010

My Life

Hello! Is anyone there,
With time on their hands,
For a short while, free
From life’s eternal demands
To enjoy sharing,
The pleasures with me,
Of a little lighthearted

My life path is charted through my rhymes and ditties. Allow me to gently escort you along the trail left by my pen.
Everything I have written is linked to events and emotions, both funny and sad, and have helped me to deal with them and even to be more objective occasionally.

Perhaps it started when my ex husband and I adopted our first baby and we were given a short piece, duly adapted to our situation, which I loved.

Not flesh of my flesh
Nor bone of my bone
But miraculously
My very own.

Being a one parent family I have, from necessity, worked in a variety of jobs whilst trying to bring up the children, several of which are alluded to..

The Trials and Tribulations of a P.A.stroke Secretary

I open the post and make the tea,
Distribute the mail for all to see.
Mundane jobs like ‘phoning and filing,
One hand on the keyboard, the other dialling.

Organise meetings, book all the lunches,
And in their absence act only on hunches.
My crystal ball oft comes into being,
With another quick rub I become all seeing.

I wear a smart suit and high shiny shoes.
Shield the boss when he’s been on the booze.
And at the same time keep out of his way,
Because by this time he just wants to play.

I’m a plausible liar to his clientele,
So when told to tell them “Go to Hell”.
I say “I’m sorry, he’s left the room,
I know he will get back to you soon”.

I must practice the art of creating serenity,
When all around me is chaotic insanity.
I like to think I’m indispensible,
In truth I know, I’m quite expendable.


I help to run a transport café,
My pals and I enjoy a laugh.
The world and wife come through our door,
Some are rich and some are poor.

All are hungry without a doubt,
When at the counter for food they shout.
An “All day breakfast” goes down well,
Beverage by the gallon we sell.

In thick mug or china cup,
It tastes the same what ere you sup.
We will try ow’t to make a crust,
You’ll eat it too if you’re not fussed.

They come in cars, in lorries, on bikes,
All with their different tastes and likes.
There’s Reps and drivers, pensioners too.
Fishermen, Cyclists, Hikers passing through’.

Regulars and locals come in for a smoke,
Lonely singles to enjoy a joke.
We only close one day a year,
On Christmas day for seasonal cheer.

There were many times when I felt I couldn’t cope any more. I got very tired. I could not afford to be ill. I always had to have ‘Remote Control’ of the children. to have jobs with understanding employers so the children could ‘clock-in’ after school.

As each one hit the doorstep they rang me at work.
All this meant that high paid jobs were out of the window and employers had the ‘Whip hand’.

The problems of a ‘One Parent’ Mum,
Are endless, or so it seems.
To be a loving Mother,
And the Father of their dreams.

To balance the scales of discipline,
With strict and firm control.
Against the cakes and sweets and cuddles,
That fit the Mother role.

To be the family breadwinner,
And out earning a crust.
The same time trying to run the home,
And keep down all the dust.

Supervision is always a problem,
Here, the ‘phone comes into its own,
It’s “Control by remote control”,
So they think they’re never alone.

Your earning power is restricted,
To employers who understand,
That the number of personal ‘phone calls,
Can easily get out of hand.

School holidays are a nightmare,
Especially the long summer break.
I wonder how I’ve survived it,
Each year as we pass the date.

And as the children’s “I wants” and “Can I Have’s”got bigger and more expensive!!!!!! Evening work as well….


Financial shortfalls promoted a need,
For extra employment with all speed.
A snooker Club required more staff,
I got the job, but what a gaff.

The clientele was somewhat seedy,
The Stewardess was rather greedy.
The décor and the furnishings,
Left much to the imaginings.

The conversation mostly sport,
(The football field not tennis court),
Or maybe of a maggot or two,
Off the end of a line with a watery view.

The pay was not so very good
For all the time that I have stood,
With aching back, and legs, and feet,
And boredom factor ten feet deep.

And the children took up more space!!!!


The removal van’s outside.
Very long and big and wide.
My home is being stacked within,
Right down to Richards rubbish bin.

That’s Nan’s table, have a care,
There’s Phil’s books, my chair.
Oh! Watch it with that bureau son,
It’s seen a lot of life and fun.

There go the beds, the pillows too,
An armful of towels of every hue.
My plants, oh dear, I’ll carry them,
I don’t fully trust you clumsy men.

The garage is empty, the bikes have gone,
It’ll all be in Rugby before very long.
And then we start all over again
In reverse this time, a bigger pain.

And I have to say goodbye to here,
Where we have lived for many a year.
We start a life in the countryside
With a semi detached in which to bide.

And then the frustrations of settling in and adjusting to the isolation and the quiet. There were a few other problems attached to life in the “sticks”.

The house had been empty for five years and when we turned the water on it showered us through all the light sockets. Windows were cracked and broken, door handles and light fittings missing. The garden was so wild we dare not go out the back door without a gun.

I have been very lucky, once again my brother bailed me out and made it habitable.

The kitchen is a horror,
Of rotting wood and grime.
Paintwork peeling, walls are cracked,
It failed the test of time.

My brother, bless him, set to work,
It was a monstrous job.
Every room was needing,
It could cost quite a bob.

I fear I’ve been a trial,
He’s helped me out so much.
If I ever win the football pools,
With him I will go Dutch.

We finally won the battle of the birds nests and spiders when the next catastrophe struck:-


How did they manage in another age,
Before electricity became all the rage.
We had a power cut yesterday,
The chaos it caused I dare not say.

Finding matches for a start,
And then the candles in the dark.
We put them round and got them lit.
They flickered on the ceiling a bit.

Shadows in corners I’d not seen before.
Went out in the draught when we opened the door.
What would we do without the TV,
We can’t boil the kettle so no cup of tea.

The heating went off, we lit a coal fire,
Jacket Potatoes and toast, the desire..
We actually spoke to each other that night.
Huddled round the hearth all cosy and bright.

We all went to bed at a reasonable hour.
The alarms not working because of the power.
We put the candles back on the shelf,
And let tomorrow take care of it’s self.


Where is the sun, it’s growing dark,
The blue has turned to grey.
The clouds roll faster ere I look,
No longer seems like day.

A sudden flash lights up the sky,
A distant rumble sounds.
Along it rolls, away it fades,
And then the rain comes down.

The telly flashed, the power’s off.
The candles we must seek.
It seems as if time’s standing still,
For the storm to reach its peak.

Safe in my home I watch the sky,
The magic being performed.
This feeling of security,
Wraps round and keeps me warm.

The storm moves on to who knows where,
The sun comes peeking through.
Grey clouds have moved, blue sky again,
The grass is greener too.

And garden, not a small, manageable town one but a large rambling country one which hadn’t been touched for five years.


I give in, yes, I concede,
I’ve lost the battle of the weed.
They’re mostly thin, of puny growth.
A thing most human beings loath.
Where do they find the energy,
To reproduce prolifically.
And should you miss before they flower,
Their seeds have sown within the hour.
During drought when all things die,
The weed continues growing high.
An English frost, the knell of doom,
In winter, to a beautiful bloom,
But what survives year after year,
The common weed doth have no fear.

We grew to love living in the country and appreciate its many aspects and varied seasons.
The Starlings, in their hundreds, descend into the Blackthorn at the bottom of the garden making the bare winter trees appear dense with foliage against the grey sky.

They chatter continually together, the noise is deafening.

Just for the sheer spectacle I quietly walk onto the patio and clap my hands, just once, sharply.

There is a sudden hush, the minutest pause, then, as one they rise into the air like a black cloud, dipping slightly at it moves away and gradually disperses.

I'm not worried, they'll be back later today, lining the roofs, swinging along the telephone wires and returning to my three old Blackthorns.

Nearer the house is a two tier fish pond of ageing sandstone blending into the damp earth of the surrounding rockery and built into what was, a large rubbish heap.

The smaller, raised, pond has become a private bathroom for the colourful finches and tits..

I watch water spray into the air as they bathe in twos and threes whilst others look on, not too patently for their turn, darting back and forth along the flat rocks.

The whole episode is one of hustle and bustle.
It is a very busy corner of my winter garden.

And the nights!!!!

It’s the still dark silence,
Of the hours before dawn.
Too soon for the birds
With their chorus each morn.

The vixen who hunts,
With fox cubs to feed.
Hunger an instinct,
Creating a need.

I hear a shrill cry.
A pitiful sound.
A poor creature has died,
A prey has been found.

I feel very sad,
Awake in my bed.
Something must die,
To let others be fed.

The hedgehog unrolls,
And bravely partakes.
Of the food and the drink,
We left by the gate.

I love to watch,
From my window up high,
I can see quite well,
When the moon’s in the sky.

Some tasty morsel
Left on the ground,
A pair of badgers,
Oft call around.

I’m very aware,
Should I sleep well at night,
Of the life that I’d miss,
Going on before light.

I gradually became quite familiar with the local watering hole!


I'm oft to be found for an hour or two
At the ‘Rose’ at Willoughby in a seat with a view.
Keeping an eye on the occupants, while
Inebriation creeps up in style.

There are many colourful beings and lives
That pass through its doors, both husbands
And wives,
They have many reasons for being here,
Some are for pleasure, for joy, and the beer.

To drown their sorrows and their woe,
And all are very reluctant to go,
When closing time thro' the windows we peep,
At the local constabulary there in the street.


As a country bumpkin I live in the sticks,
Considered naïve – no streetwise tricks,
Enjoying the simpler things in life,
Like accepting mans word not taking his life.

Don’t miss the conveniences yuppies hold dear.
Like gas, the tube, cheap taxis, dear beer.
Or the traffic thundering by?
With the hosts of people scurrying nigh.

Whilst we sit in our gardens all peaceful and calm,
With the birds in the trees and the cows from the farm,
When cold, a log fire all cosy and warm.
Shutters are bolted against any storm.

We have total access in technology too.
Computers and ‘phones to name but a few.
In “One upmanship” we win hands down.
Compared to our relatives from “Up town”.

The children got older and acquired an assortment of friends who never seemed to go home.

So many folk coming and going,
Through my front door continually flowing.
I’m not sure how many are sleeping,
I try not to notice how many are eating.

I liken my home to Euston Station,
I’m expected to hover with motherly devotion,
And wait upon them at their beck and call,
Without a murmur of complaint at all.

I’m offering up a fervent prayer,
To anyone listening way up- there,
Will they never get off the phone,
How long before they all leave home.

THE HOUR OF THE ZOMBIE It feels like a house of evil,
A church yard or tomb somewhere,
Its’ eerie and creepy and quiet,
You can feel it tense in the air.

They pass like shadows silently,
Speech not a recommended act.
Faces are grim and thunderous,
It stretches the art of tact.

Neither darkness or light filter in
The hour is cheerless and grey
A chill creeping into their bones,
Being little past break of day.

‘Tis the hour of the Zombie once more,
It repeats itself daily you know,
Between the time we first get up,
And off to work we go.

Time is moving so fast I’m dizzy. I never seem to stop long enough to catch my breath. I wonder, is the grass greener?

Oh, could I but recline,
Comfortably, cares all gone,
To delicately, frailly unwind,
Upon a Victorian chaise longue.

A portrait of loved and adored,
Clouded in silk and chiffon.
Me being politely bored,
Soft pillows to relax on.

The warmth of the sun through the drapes,
Gentle sounds drifting o’er air.
A profusion of flowers and grapes,
The epitome of love and care.

My guests should not stay too long.
To perpetuate the relaxing mood.
Just kidding, the dreams just gone.
Here’s the ironing, the washing, the food.

At eighteen, my eldest son left home to be a “New Age Traveller” causing me much heartache and grief for a while.


You could just disappear,
It’s always there, that fear.
To never know for sure,
When you’ll come through the door.

Gypsy of a modern time, New Age Traveller of mine.
Eleven winters you’ve been there,
In your bus or tent somewhere.

Companions of like ways,
Enjoying some halcyon days.
You’ve oft been hungry I know. I have fretted and worried so.

A grandchild now on the way,
Should be here any day. I’m so grateful you always rang home While I breathed, you were never alone. ******
And like all “New age Travellers” he acquired a dog


There’s a Doberman Pincher I’m acquainted with,
He visits sometimes to where I live.
He belongs to my son, it’s his best friend,
He’s not too obedient, but we love him no end.

He’s sleek and tall, and shinny and dark,
A long pointed nose and very loud bark.
Soft mournful eyes that make you feel,
As guilty as hell whilst eating your meal.

To unwelcome guests a formidable sight,
One look through the door and they take instant flight.
To those in the know he’s all soft and soggy,
And has not got a mean bone in his body.

Time rushed on at home and one by one they seemed to be preparing to leave the nest.


They have very strong views of what Mums should be,
Counsellors, Hairdressers, Cleaners are we.
Chauffeurs and Maids with much to do,
My word we have a lot to live up to.

Home bankers, that's us, with unlimited funds,
To help stretch their salary when not done their sums.
Ridicule our clothes but when loaned look a treat.
Oh I'm so grateful I've got much smaller feet.

The bathroom is theirs on a permanent basis,
To be treated as their own private oasis.
With shampoo and conditioner, bath oils and cream,
Plus empty containers its never too clean.

Their bedrooms' the jungle you should never encroach,
Unless armed with large bin bags before you approach.
The wardrobes are empty but not so the floor,
In fact, you're lucky if you can open the door.

But, having done and said all, we dread the day,
When she grows up, packs up and moves away.
We'll have done what we can, could we have done more?
We can't live their lives for them that's for sure.

We count the years as back they come,
Grandchildren with them, daughter or son.
Complaining about their children's ways,
You'll look back remembering, those were the days.


We’re trying to plan a wedding,
My daughter’s it will be.
The cost is astronomical,
She wants everything you see.

Long white dress with train and veil,
Bridesmaids, two or three,
A pageboy and a flower girl,
All to be dressed by me.

With matching shoes and posies,
A prayer book small and twee,
A basket of flower petals,
Buttonholes for elegancy.

White Rolls Royce all ribboned.
Photographer, horseshoes, a key.
A bloody great reception,
Two hundred and fifty for tea.

I don’t begrudge a penny,
For this overpriced jamboree.
I realised many years ago,
Lovely daughters don’t come free.
Besides – she leaves home that day,
And the bathroom becomes mine again. See.

(or the day we got the wedding dress)

We’ve had a day in London,
The great metropolis,
Not sight seeing your understand,
But with a shopping list.

Both ways along Oxford Street.
Then Regent Street as well.
Back down the tube for Knightsbridge,
And Harrods just for the hell.

A corner shop beyond our dreams,
Our pockets too I fear.
But just to get a carrier bag,
We must buy something here.

The tube again, the moving stairs
To take us back to town.
Our weary feet and aching arms,
Wish we were homeward bound.

We’ve still to queue for food and drink,
Alas no tables free.
The queue for loos is two miles long,
I’m desperate for a pee.

I have been banged and kicked and pushed
From pillar to post all day.
The pavements are full of milling crowds,
All going the opposite way.

When next you are planning another trip,
To our capitol city for fun.
Remind me of my pleasures today,
It’s unlikely that I’ll come!!!


Amid the bustle. The flurry, the haste,
I sought a haven of peace.
A place of solace to collect myself,
For my racing thoughts to cease

I sat among the petticoats,
The layers of lace and net.
Of pearls and satin, shoes and gloves,
And flowers still dewy and wet.

I let my mind go wandering back,
To browse across the years.
From little girls in pretty frocks,
To teenagers and tears.

Picking daisies on a lawn,
Idyllic summer days,
Learning how to roller-skate,
And fight ‘Doc Marten’ craze.

We also had a Judo phase,
And then the Silver Band.
The cornet and euphonium,
The piano with both hands.

The trials and tribulations,
When first loves are made and lost.
Swimming lessons and driving tests,
We didn’t count the cost.

I now recall the motor car,
A gift from Uncle Bert.
And the bollard on The Kingsway,
Leaping out to cause the hurt.

All these life experiences,
Have made her what she is.
And now she’s getting married,
To Ian, and she’ll be his.

She’ll dress in all this finery,
With make-up, hoops and veils.
On cloud nine to Barby Parish Church,
To meet Ian down the aisle.

I am pleased to report the day went beautifully. The top hats, tails, flowers and guests all arrived on time, the sun shone and we all cried.
Now just one more to go before my life becomes my own.

Number 2 Son

Still one left to fly the nest,
This one’s often rather a pest.
Being the youngest, I don’t know,
I expect he’s spoilt, they tell me so.

He’s supposed to be gifted in the music scene,
About his drum kit he’s very keen.
Like his sister he played in the band
With his cornet and music stand.

Trampoline champion for his school.
In other subjects played the fool.
Goalie in a junior team,
You have to be mad to do this it seems.

The team went to Belgium and Holland to play,
Two whitsun holidays spent that way,
Two goes at College – dropped out both times,
What on earth will I do with this Son of mine.

“I’m a Hedonist” he shouts at me,
‘Work’ a dirty word will be..
Will he ever grow up, I’m not so sure.
I’m glad I haven’t got any more.

I feel I have now reached my “Mauve” era – (turning rapidly to purple) supposedly the time of life women of my age get accused of suffering from.


In this fast moving world of commerce,
Of computers dominating the scene.
In place of the old human element
When people did jobs, not machines.
I am finding my age is against me
And my brain is not quite so keen.

Some days I can wiz through so quickly
With everything filed in its place
My fingers on all the right buttons
My memory bank keeping apace.
I’ll feel a moderate achievement
And go home feeling really great

I’m oft full of best meant intentions,
But lack ability to see them through
I’ve been told “Its you’re age, it’ll end soon”,
“Just another few years, its true”.
I’ve had it with being a woman,
I want to be a machine like you.


As I sit and listen, or watch the news,
This one or that one put forth their views.
It is borne upon me, and many others,
That we are no longer like Sisters and Brothers.

Those relations are more like adversaries or foes,
Trust, non existent, and love is a pose.
Always attach, never defend,
Now we breed enemies, never a friend.

Everything’s take, no one wants to give.
We all just exist, very few want to live.
One for one, not one for all.
And generosity has gone to the wall.

We seem all to forget life’s a gift we should share,
So when you’re down and out there’s no one to care.
Does no one realise that life without love
Is like admitting to Hell but no Heaven above.

To switch off the sun and remain in the dark,
Allow evil cadavers to leave their mark.
Think of a language with words taken out,
Like kindness, generosity, love, laughter and rout.

We’re living longer as well in this violence and sloth
Our three score years and ten have been extended somewhat
I wonder, could this be punishment indeed,
For taking the wrong turn, not following the right lead.


Convalescing after surgery – a lifetime it feels,
Eight weeks in reality without my “Wheels”.
They’ve hidden my car to make sure I don’t drive
Without it God knows how I’m going to survive.

My restrictions are boundless, or so it seems,
No ironing, no hoovering, no cleaning the stairs.
Just gentle pursuits like knitting and sewing,
And the frustration of watching the dirt and dust growing.

I’m painfully aware of all bowel movements.
Frightened to take any laxative treatments.
Twinges of pain or unusual soreness,
Scares me in case I’ve done something brainless.

If my enforced idleness needs any proof,
The pile of ironing has now reached the roof.
But no matter how careful, one often forgets,
Not to pick up the kettle or take down the nets.

Inactivity has created a weight problem too.
The clothes I can get into now are few.
Half a stone extra!! I was already too fat,
I find it so hard not to eat this and that.

I’m three week’s into my eight weeks now,
Only five left to survive somehow.
After Doctors and Nurses have all done their best.
I’m grateful in truth, I mean only in jest.

I must be mad, I’m contemplating matrimony again, after resisting all these years as well


I've quietly studied
The species of Man,
I'll put pen to paper,
And describe if I can,
The many varieties
The species span.
There's Tom, Dick and Harry,
A Michael and Dan.
There's film stars and singers,
You could be a fan.
Short ones, tall ones,
Beefcake’s with a tan,
Adonis's, athletes,
And then 'also rans'.
Some come as loners,
Others in clans
Some on buses
Some on trams.
Some own houses
Some own land.
Others on
Street corners stand.
Let’s face it girls,
Theres nothing grand,
About a fella,
With nothing planned.
Go for the jugular,
The plain gold band.
Security sits
On your left hand.


Where has all the romance gone
I think to myself.
I lean back on my pillows
Put my book on the shelf.

My other half’s now fast asleep,
He's had two hours downstairs on the suite
He's completely indifferent or just ignores
When I try to tell him how loudly he snores.

When my feet are cold I get my revenge
I'm the best in the world at that sort of challenge.
As the snoring gets louder I can't get my rest
With a couple of blankets the settee seems the best

Words like "love" and "companionship" ring in
my ears,
As night after night I creep down the stairs.
To a world I’ve created all of my own,
Watching TV movies all alone.


As I lay in my bed trying not to awake,
I can see thro' my eyelids the sun at day break
I can hear the birds singing happy and loud,
I can feel a sky blue without any cloud.

I can feel the warm air upon my face,
If I'm not very careful and don't make haste,
I'll end up sleeping or dozing my way
Through such a beautiful summers day.

I have yet to live another part of my life before I can expound its attributes or otherwise.

Getting Started

Do you think I'll ever get it right,
Ive worried about it all thro' the night.
I cannot get my head round this,
Surely there's something amiss.

To download from my Windows page,
Iv'e been sat for such an age.
And cut and pasted till I'm blue
But have words come, not even a few.

I must be doing something wrong,
I can't re-type its 10 sheets long.
If I don't get it sorted soon,
I''ll sling the damn thing to the moon.

Wednesday, 27 January 2010


O.K. So now I am the proud owner of a blog - what do I do next?