Looking out my window,
All I see are trees.
A gentle droop of elderflower,
Spatulate lime leaves.
I wake each day to birdsong,
Robin, thrush and tit.
And I lie here marvelling,
At the joy of it.
How can I be in London?
Is what I think each day,
The gentle hum of traffic
All that gives the game away.

I called my dog Macgregor,

Because it was him down to the ground.

He IS a bit of a reprobate,

But he’s fun to have around.

He’s a rag, tag, tumble kind of a dog,

With a terrific head of hair,

And when he’s off visiting his friends,

You know that he’s not there.

His coat is so heavy and terribly thick,

I shave him, to lighten his load,

He loves the feel of his svelte new bod,

So shows it off to the rest of the road!

He’s fathered litters of puppies,

And boy does he have some strong genes,

They all took after their father,

Gorgeous and full of beans!

If you haven’t met this extraordinary cat,
I can tell you he’s splendid and also that
He is a judge of character, second to none,
Who will hiss and growl and definitely shun
All those he thinks are beyond the pale,
He’ll simply diss, ignore you, and he’ll do it wholesale!
He’s an elderly gentleman, at 17,
Yet his youthful high spirits need to be seen!
He’s partial to tuna, he’s a sucker for ham,
Yet he turns up his nose at a nice piece of lamb!
He’s discovered the armchair’s the most perfect place,
To serenely siesta – it puts a smile on his face.
Or else he will lie under the baby grand,
Expecting some Wagner to be played on demand.
His meerkat impression’s a genius stroke,
As he peers out the window, looking for folk.
He loves his new home, to him it is balm,
It’s peaceful and quiet, an oasis of calm.
So this is Anita’s wonderful cat revealed,
The incomparable Orlando Henry Field.

So what do I fancy? A Singapore Sling?

A Mai Tai, White Russian, or Mandarin?

You can mix me a Zombie, or a luscious B2,

A Pina Colada, a fruity Zulu.

A Kirsch Cuba Libre, Long Island Iced Tea,

A Hobart, an Egg Nogg, a fine Bellini,

A Woo Woo, a Voodoo, a Peach Daiquiri,

Just make it and shake it and give it to me!*

* please!

You know when you get that desperate urge,

To simply search for bric a brac,

You don’t feel the need to spend, to splurge,

Like some rich as Croesus megalomaniac.

You go with a friend and it isn’t a crime,

To wander, to drift from shop to shop,

To spend a little quality time,

Not buying, just looking, until you feel the need to stop,

And sit in a cafe and have a cup of tea,

And discuss what you’ve seen with your very good friend,

I call this adventure ‘truffling’, this shared camaraderie,

It’s a day to snuffle and waffle, I can recommend!

Break 70% chocolate in a pan.

Then melt it in a bain marie,

Stir in,  as gently as you can,

Double cream, to make it as rich as can be.

Now add some glugs of whisky or better still rum,

Then stir some more till the aroma’s seductive,

A rich ganache is what the mix should become,

Your time spent stirring gently is highly productive.

Now take it reverently from the heat,

And set it aside to firm up and cool,

Avoid a taste, ‘cause that would be a cheat,

Even though the smell makes you salivate and drool.

Place in a covered container in your fridge,

To really get cold and untainted by other scents,

Don’t be tantalised to taste a smidge,

No matter how much it tempts and torments!

Once firm yet pliant and moderately hard,

Roll it into small balls in cocoa powder,

This should be done with great care and regard,

Your first batch of truffles – you couldn’t be prouder!

I wrote an early version of this, which has now been improved, I think!

If I’m a song, then you’re my score,

If I’m an apple, you’re my core,

If you’re the diamond, I’m your flaw.

If I’m a river, you’re my source,

If I’m a jockey, you’re my horse,

If you’re a meal, I’m your first course.

If I’m a needle, you’re my eye,

If I’m a collar, you’re my tie,

If you’re a spider, I’m your fly.

If I’m a glass, then you’re my drink,

If I’m a fur, then you’re my mink,

If you’re a pen, then I’m your ink.

If I’m a boxer, you’re my clout,

If I’m a wager, you’re my tout,

If you’re a teapot, I’m your spout..

If I’m a caber, you’re my toss,

If I’m an employee, you’re my boss,

If you’re a tooth, then I’m your floss.

If I’m an egg, then you’re my yolk,

If I’m a comedian, you’re my joke,

If you’re a pig, then I’m your poke.

If I’m a dancer, you’re my barre,

If I’m a planet, you’re my star,

If you’re a driver, I’m your car.

If I’m a leaf, then you’re my clover,

If I’m a herd, then you’re my drover,

If you’re a white cliff, I’m your Dover.

If I’m the icing, you’re my bun,

If I’m a trigger, you’re my gun,

If you’re my day, then I am done.

Let’s face it, British weather can be erratic,

Changeable, capricious, it’s never static,

It’s warm, it’s bright, it’s fantastically sunny,

Then the clouds roll in – well, it just ain’t funny,

You forgot your umbrella, you’re soaked to the skin,

You start envying the life of the bedouin…

We may have flash floods, ’cause it rains so much,

But we don’t have major earthquakes, tornadoes and such.

We may grind to a halt ’cause we are feet-deep in snow,

Or our train service stops: leaves on the line, don’t you know!

Did you know that a Brit spends 6 months of their life on this earth,

Discussing the weather? So for God’s sake give it a very wide berth!

Weather-forecasting’s a subject to which we’re genetically predisposed,

So for the sake of your health, keep the subject resolutely closed!

Please pass me my art deco shaker,

I’m in the mood to be a booze-maker,

Give me a swizzle stick and highball glass,

I want to give you a cocktail class…

Squeezes of lime, plenty of ice,

Sugar syrup for balance, and then some spice,

So lashings of lovely golden rum,

To make your taste buds zing and hum,

Then shake, shake, shake,

Till your muscles ache..

To make the perfect yard arm drink,

Down it with relish, don’t doublethink!

A lesson in marv’lous mixology,

To make a delicious daiquari…

Today, hospital transport took me to the QE*,
To get a date for my surgery.
They quaintly call it the “pre-op”,
Then give you a date to give you the chop.
They test your urine, take your bloods,
Give you an ECG, to ensure your heart scuds.
Then they announce they’ve got a date in June,
Despite the odds, they’re operating soon.
You’ve got to be there by quarter to eight,**
You’re the first to be seen, you might go home that day.
So we are now praying the week after next,
On the 11th, that the surgeon dissects,
Lasers my stone into numerous pieces,
And then I’ll be signed up for the day releases.
So gentle reader, cross your fingers and toes,
That they don’t need to use warheads or worse, torpedoes!

*Queen Elizabeth Hospital
*Heaven help us! Out of the building by 5 in the morning!