Boxing Day…

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!

Big Love,



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


Keep Warm!