A nice day yesterday, a bit warn and tired today. 12 guest & family in all…
Rowan is out wandering, and the sun is going down. Quiet music on the system, and I understand the radio is down… argh.
This is the quiet time of the year… A few visitors making their way to Turfing, but in general pretty quiet around here.
I will be in the posting “lite” phase for the next few days. Poems, Pics, Music. Come on by, and if you have request…. please let me know.
A big hello to Sean and all the peeps at EE. Bright Blessings to ya all!
A Bit Of Silly Fun
Wenceslas: A Boxing Day poem by Martin Newell
Wenceslas was woken early,
By the hounds, who wanted out.
Brandy glass and tipped-up ashtray
Where his clothes were strewn about.
Cursing by his old four-poster
Utilising his gazunder
Limbs were stiff and head was aching,
Fit to split his skull asunder.
Christmas Eve had snowed all morning
Forced him out to get the stock in
Trip to town and lunchtime session
Followed by a late-night lock-in.
Memory blurred – a Tarantino
Hangover was what he’d got –
(That’s the one where all the flashbacks
Come, before you get the plot).
Still, he’d hang on to his castle
If he made it pay its way
Now his page stood waiting for him
For this was St Stephen’s day
Wenceslas and page were talking
Pipes had frozen overnight
Past the gatehouse they were walking
When a couple came in sight.
Poorly dressed for such bad weather
Gathering their winter fuel
City types, they looked, together
On a country break for Yule
“Page,” he asked, “Who are those people?”
Page replied with bridled sneer:
“Sire, they are the London grockles,
Renting your old cottage here.”
Page continued: “Most unhappy –
Been here for the past few days
It appears they’re having trouble
Coping with our country ways.
Sundry powercuts, snow, what-have-you
Laptops, car and mobile phone
Out of service now, they’re stranded
Hungry, cold and quite alone.”
Wenceslas, an old patrician
Patriarchal sort of gent
Said: “We can’t be having this one
Even though I’m overspent.
Fetch some logs, a festive hamper,
Crate of grog to slake their thirst
It can wait though, till it’s lunchtime
While we do some shooting first.”
Nikki and her partner Drew
Had flipped a coin for what to do
Thirty-something West Elevens
Found themselves at six and sevens
With the Saturnalia near
Tuscany might be too dear
Suffolk? Cheaper, if less fun
Prudence reigned and Suffolk won
Both employed as health advisors
To the various Czars and Kaisers
Who by cattle-prod or stealth
Police our ailing nation’s health
Now though, for their own health’s sake
They were on a winter break
Country cottage, bird-life, walking.
Perfect cure for weltschmerz stalking
Sat by fireside, bonding, thinking
Freed from stress-related drinking.
Firstly it had been plain sailing
Till the power-grid started failing
Due to weather most malignant
Now they bickered, cold, indignant.
Chiefly on nutrition issues
By a fire of twigs and tissues
All they had to keep them going
While the Suffolk wind was blowing
From the Russian steppes, unstopping
Troshing at the trees and stropping
At the chimneys, window-ledges
Freezing ponds and bending hedges
Nikki and her partner Drew
Found it took an hour or two
Heating soup with scented candles
Holding saucepans by their handles
Huddled up in duvet jackets
Snacking from organic packets.
Till the knock upon the door
And a stout stentorian roar.
Wenceslas stood beaming proudly.
Twinkle-eyed with outstretched hand
Boomed a Merry Christmas loudly
Gestured back towards his land:
“Brought some pine logs over for you
Took them down myself this year
What with all the various cutbacks
Just one man and me left here.
‘Tisn’t easy trying to manage
Told we must diversify
Still, despite the fiscal damage
What the hell – a chap gets by.
Met my page already, have you?
Helps me manage this estate
Yes, I grant he may seem surly
As a stockman though, first rate.”
Wenceslas regarded Nikki
Said: “The logs are in the ‘Drover
Move it girl, it’s freezing out here.”
Help me haul the buggers over.”
Half an hour or so – no later
Fire was roaring, cheered the gloom
Warmed the landlord and the peasants
As it flickered round the room.
“Page should be here any minute
With a case of wine and grub.
Can’t think where the bastard’s got to
Prob’ly stopped off at the pub
Touch and go, the trade round here now
Since they built that by-pass mall.
All the shops will disappear now
At this rate, there’ll be sod all.
How d’you say you make your living?
Health advice? That’s clever stuff.
Lot of call for that in London?
Citizens seem pale enough.
Hardly feel the need to go there
‘Less of course, they give us reason
Then we all troop down together
– Like that march we held last season.”
Wenceslas now paused a second
Rummaged in his waxy cloak
“Haven’t had a fag all morning
– Either of you people smoke?”
Can’t think where that page has got to
Must have been delayed somehow
Sharpener should clear the headache
“Ah! Here comes the fellow now.”
In the page came, even surlier
Than he’d been three hours earlier
“Bloody hunt-sabs in the lane.
– Ran over the fox again.
Accident it would appear
Third time it’s occurred this year.”
Tim Buckley Sings Fred Neal