Saturday, May 26


lots of this

plus this

means no more of this

for this.

We get to use this

instead of this


until this.


Friday, May 18

marooned. . .with unseasonal snow. . .& without my new shoes

when I'm indoors (or sometimes outdoors for that matter)
I like to go barefoot
I love that s-t-r-e-t-c-h of toes against the ground
and feeling a little lift as you walk.
If I've managed a careful pedicure with glittery red polish
and not smudged it by being impatient
that makes me smile too.

I tried flip-flops but scooted down the stairs once too often
when they transformed into skateboards.
Ever grateful for Tesco's BOGOF offer
on frozen peas- one bag for sprained ankle and
the second (free one) for my bum. . .
never mind Birds Eye Finest- more like Birds Eye View!

all I wanted to do was get the big cake tin down from the top shelf.
Lucky enough to have a walk-in larder,
I pulled a chair from the kitchen
(the top shelf is a high top shelf)
and climbed aboard.

First I caught a tin of tomato soup (Heinz of course)
with my dressing gown sleeve
which rolled into a jar of pickled onions (Ted's of course)
which fell into my cinnamon sprinkler.

The tin of soup tottered off the shelf
gathering speed as it spun
and bounced off my ankle before landing upright on the floor
denting at one edge and gently leaking tomatoey goo all over the concrete.
My ankle bled like a stuck pig.
The jar of onions and cinnamon sprinkler cascaded from the shelf
in an awesome display of synchronised diving
and landed on the floor, avoiding the tin of soup but breaking on impact.

Gritting my teeth and reminding myself why I was there
I pulled at the cake tin on the top shelf
forgetting it had Christmas decorations stored inside from the last time used
and showered myself, the shelves,
the packets of cereals and store-cupboard staples in silver Santas and snow.

I'm marooned, barefoot and bleeding on the kitchen chair in the larder.
Covered in snow.
The floor is awash with broken glass, broken china, broken Santas, pickled onions
tomato soup and a lavish sprinkling of cinnamon.

The phone rings. . .can't answer that, it's in the kitchen.

There's a knock at the front door. . .
can't answer that, I'm still in my dressing gown haha!

If only I'd been wearing my NEW SHOES!!!

Sunday, May 13

I'm-not-buying-just-looking. . .

Saturday morning I met Julie for coffee and a catchup

Two doors up from Costa,
the United Reform Church was holding a Coffee Morning
so we went in there and had
latte, fruit tea and gorgeous ginger flapjacks all for £1.20

The lady at the next table had brought her knitting
as you do
and we giggled and gossipped and decided church coffee mornings
were the way to go
and Morning Coffee was the new Afternoon Tea

Then we thought a quick troll round the shops would be in order
"not to buy- just to have a look"
(why do we even bother to say that?)
and headed for the rather nice shoe shop

Now, I spend the winter in wellies, sheepskin biker boots,
black riding boots and as many pairs of socks
 chilblains will allow

between seasons its brogues and woolly tights

Summer wear is scuffies, flip-flops

and for special girly  occasions. . .
ballet flats

So how come
when they're high
and not what I wear
when its cold and wet and not at all summery
and there's no room for socks or tights (woolly or otherwise)
and my toes look like Hobbit's feet
when I can't walk in them
when my back will hurt
and my gammy knee will get gammier
and my ankles will twist
and I'll fall off them without any straps
and I was

how come I came home with these?

Monday, May 7

a soldier sweetheart?

never guilty of an underactive imagination, I'm totally captivated
by this dainty silver mesh handbag

with gently swirling flowers and the name E SHORE 1916
engraved on the frame. 

1916. . .WW1. . .Battle of the Somme. . .

20,000 British casualties on the first day alone. . .
boys marching into death before their lives had even begun.

Did he buy it for her wedding day,
the dashing Captain Shore?

To walk side by side down the aisle on his next leave
thoughts of battle clouded by her gentle beauty.

A few short day of heaven
a heartbreaking farewell
and return to indescribable hell.

And did she get to wear it,
this token of undying love?

Did she get to love him
 for years and years and years
and grow old in eachother's arms?

Or was he only a memory
wrapped in tissue, tied with ribbon, blessed with tears
and laid to rest in a bottom drawer.


Until I saw the tiny number 800 stamped inside the frame
I hadn't realised it was silver.
800 silver was commonly used for jewellery making
in France and Belgium in the early 20th C

Alas, "needs must" at the moment so the purse is offered for sale

I shall be very, very sad to see it go. . .

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