I hear just one bar of this beautiful beat,

And the rhythm invades my soul and my feet.

My hips start swaying, and then my tush,

I want to grind and I want to push.

This music does a real good job

Of making my heart start to pulse and throb.

I swear that it’s alive,  infectious,

It hits you in the solar plexus.

It’s a breath of home, it’s from my roots,

It lifts me then shimmies me down to my boots.

Hear one note and my feet start to  move,

I’m in the zone, I’m in the groove.

Just like Mr Lloyd Webber’s cello,

It’s powerful yet it’s very mellow.

Ska or reggae, it’s my choice

Of music to which I can rejoice.

With apologies to the wonderful Matt Sharp, our builder, who is one  in a million and who does all these things, and his equally fabulous friends, Gerry and James.

Do you, like me, hate waiting,

For a tradesman that doesn’t arrive?

Do you catch yourself debating,

How his cash flow continues to thrive?

Why can’t he pick up his mobile phone,

To tell you his work’s gone the shape of a pear?

That you no longer need to be ‘home alone’,

‘Cause he simply won’t be there!

Don’t mind if he has to delay my job,

As long as he makes it clear,

All it’ll cost him is just a few bob,

To tell me he won’t appear…

Does he ever? Does he heck!

Doesn’t cross his mind I’m waiting.

The idea I’m a nervous wreck,

Doesn’t dent his armour plating.

Huzzah for a tradesman that keeps his word,

And arrives at the given time

Or tells you your appointment’s been deferred,

– Is that too hard a road to climb?

I’ve found in the UK 29%,

Want women to do their build.

They keep you informed of every event,

And tend to be very skilled.

They’ll plumb your loo, or plaster your wall,

Reveal that lovely Victorian rafter.

Sort you out with no trouble at all,

And then get out the hoover after.

I confess I have some reservation

‘Bout the dying art of conversation

Am I just a dying breed

Who thinks a text, a Tweet, a Facebook feed

Can’t replace a good long chat

With a kindred spirit that

You want to talk to all day through

Because you share a point of view

Or ponder, argue, contemplate

So you set the records straight

A mail sent to a lifelong friend

Can confuse or worse, offend

And simply cannot take the place

Of a banter, face to face.

Written in the early hours of this morning for my darling heart who was let down by ‘A Man With A Van” yesterday, having mapped out every minute of her day by a twonk called Simon   who compounded his sins by lying to her throughout the day.

What is it with the white van man?

Why is he such a twonk?

He says he is a man who can,

And then he does a bunk.

He agrees that he’ll be with you,

At a certain time,

So you wait the whole day through,

Then he compounds his crime,

By telling you he can’t be arsed,

To turn up at your door,

And you are left upset, aghast,

Keen to even up the score.

You’d planned your time from morn to night,

With military precision,

You feel this monstrous human blight,

Needs PUBLIC circumcision.

You’ll out him on your Facebook page,

And rubbish him on Twitter,

He’ll find that London’s not his stage,

You’ll crucify this critter.

He needs to know that you don’t mess,

In your own backyard,

Don’t cause others untold stress,

Or leave them battle-scarred,

So man with van, we’ve had enough,

Here’s what we intend to do,

Play by the rules, but play quite rough,

And stick two fingers up at you!

You don’t treat people with disdain,

You treat them with respect,

Bad rep is all that you will gain,

For all the lives you’ve wrecked.

I am proud to be a coffee snob,

It’s got to be the proper job,

A nice rich roast of coffee bean,

I need my fix of neat caffeine.

Instant coffee’s not the same,

It doesn’t merit or deserve the name.

Americano, iced or latte,

An espresso after an all-night party,

Macchiato, cappuccino,

Mocha, Irish, Frappuccino.

Turkish coffee, Viennese,

Cafe Zorro? Ooh, yes please!

Yes, I am a coffee buff,

And no, I cannot get enough.

So yes, I confess it,
They give me the shakes,
I’m just not equipped
To handle snakes.
And yet I find that
Eunectes murinus
Is one that absorbs me,
And I want to discuss.
The name means good swimmer
And also “of mice”,
Because it lives mainly in water,
And thinks rodents are nice.
It’s the green anaconda,
A creature that’s feared,
But it’s reputation
Has been commandeered
By movies and books
That lay claim to the fact
That this snake will kill humans
And boy is it packed.
Yes it is big,
At six meters long,
And it is a boa,
So be sure it is strong.
But none have been found
At 40 feet or more
Though $50,000 says,
Let’s just be sure!
It is blotched with black
On a field of green,
And believe me that this is
One efficient machine,
I’m not a snake-lover
But this one I admire,
Though I have to confess
It still makes me perspire,
So light the touch paper
And quickly retire!

Relatively recently,
We have seen the introduction,
Of a programme devoted to comedy,
It is a chuckle-fest induction.
Competitions, chat shows,
It’s ‘the home of witty banter’,
They may not make you cackle/crow,
But this station’s an enchanter.
And no, they don’t feature anything new,
It is devoted to repeats,
But they’re all shows with a pedigree,
That you laugh at in your sleep.
And what name did they give this station,
What stunning sobriquet?
What did they bequeath to the nation?
“Comedy cabaret”?
No, my friends, not on your nelly,
They decided that you’d rave,
About a spot to exercise your belly,
If they called the station “Dave”?!

A Christmas Dinner’s a glorious thing,
With all the trimmings, but
It won’t make the rafters ring
Without this splendid nut.
“Roast them on an open fire”
In a special pan,
My darling went and bought me one,
So I’m glad to say, I can.
It may be hard to pick them,
Because the burrs are spiky,
But this does not deter me,
Because my friends me likey!
Eat them either cooked or raw,
Or in a sweet purée,
I swear that you’ll be back for more,
Or for a nice marron glacé?
What’s my favourite spot in France?
The town, Collibrieres,
Why? Because the chestnut,
Is all they grow and sell right there!

Introducing Ms Cochrane, or Nelly Bly,
A woman of grit and ambition.
Who checked herself into a mental asylum,
Entirely of her own volition.
To write a blistering exposé
Of the insane, all pitiful creatures,
Subjected to cruelty, clearly not hearsay,
But one of her most powerful features.
She holds the record, like the fictional Phileas Fogg,
Of travelling round the world in less than 80 days,
And writing for The World a travelogue,
Of how she did this by only ship and rail.
I urge you to read ’bout this astonishing gal,
Who lived off her wits and her nerves,
Who lifted spirits, raised morale,
And did so with panache and with verve.

I love the Stinking Bishop,

It is the king of cheese.

It really truly pongs a lot,

But its taste is sure to please.

It’s rind is washed in perry,

Which is what makes it smell,

But it’s creamy and delicious,

I love it, can’t you tell?

It’s unctious and it’s ‘meadowy’,

It’s flavour’s soft and sweet,

At the end of a fantastic meal,

It makes you feel replete.