I may be an adult, but I still love my stocking,
To wake up without one would be truly shocking,
It really isn’t Santa who delivers, I know,
It is my partner, creeping, with a yo-ho-ho!

A huge pile of rubbish,
Just dumped on the land,
How they think it can’t hurt it,
I don’t understand,
It’s smelly and dirty
And so clearly not good,
But this my dear reader,
Is my ‘neighbourhood’.
An unwanted present,
A rash Christmas gift,
And now my existence,
Is destined for this.
Life on the scrap heap
Is my destiny,
Unless you take pity
And come rescue me…
Come here tomorrow,
Come here even sooner,
Please bring some milk,
And a nice bowl of tuna,
You know you want me,
A nice little cat,
Who’ll turn from an alley-,
Into an aristoc(r)at!
I’ll repay you in spades,
If you give me affection,
Love you and cherish my
World free from rejection.
I’m just a small creature,
With oodles to give,
If you, in return,
Give me somewhere to live…
I don’t ask for much,
Just to not be alone,
And to have somewhere
I can truly call home.

This photo has been going the rounds on the web. The trick is to try to find the little black and white cat that is doomed to live on this rubbish heap. Good luck finding the cat and taking her/him home with you!

My darling came home with a wreath,
To beautify the door beneath,
They’re Rowan berries tightly bound,
Then cinched tight to make a round,
No decoration heretofore,
But now this wreath adorns our door,
Judge for yourself just how it looks,
And no! You cannot see the hooks!!
It’s a sight to welcome every guest,
And yes, I feel this home is blessed.

My take on the old English nursery rhyme!

What is Christmas Pud made of?
What is Christmas Pud made of?
Suet, spice and fruit,
Alcohol to boot,
That’s what Christmas Pud is made of!

What is a mince pie made of?
What is a mince pie made of?
All the above,
Plus a whole heap of love!
That’s what a mince pie is made of!

Nelson Mandela, R.I.P,
Extraordinary product of your country.
From prisoner to president, via statesman and saint,
You learned from experience to use constraint.
That understanding and reconciliation,
Compromise, communication,
Were the only ways to heal your nation.
Your long walk to freedom was a walk well taken,
To show your peers that they were mistaken,
If they thought revenge was the dish best served,
Peace was what your land deserved.
Your own words will your fame ensure,
Your truth and wisdom will endure.
Nelson Mandela, R.I.P.,
Your name will be hallowed through history,
The greatest leader known this century.

“Resentment is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies.”

“For to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.”

“I learned that courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”

“I was a terrorist yesterday but today I am admired by the very people who called me one.”

“If you want to make peace with your enemy, you need to work with your enemy, then he becomes your partner.”

My friend, Fran, had a farm in High Ham,
On which she raised Christmas turkey,
She used milk from her cows, as part of their chow*,
And to keep her birds fat, fit and perky.

Raised on this diet, the turkeys ran riot,
Gained tone and put on shed loads of weight,
But one turkey called Kent, was more reticent,
Didn’t want to be fattened up for the plate.

So he thought up a scheme, a keep-fit regime,
To keep himself thin and weedy,
He thought he would jump off the roof or the pump,
So as to look scrawny and needy.

When it approached the due date to eviscerate,
Kent was still as light as a sparrow,
Fran took one look, eschewed the butcher’s hook,
And set him on a path straight and narrow.

Henceforth he’d be the token escapee,
The mascot for the farm,
– Fed all he could eat, this feathered athlete,
Would never come to any harm.

*chow = food

With food, I admit,
I’m a total addict,
I really cannot get enough.
And this itty-bitty*,
Is tasty and pretty,
– Just love to devour the stuff.
A wedge or a slice,
A soupçon will suffice,
As long as I get my hit.
It’s my major caprice,
So just give me a piece,
Even if it is only a bit.
Let me make it plain,
It’s all in the vein,
And that is what I like the best.
So pour over the port,
To make it really forte
Now let me enjoy and digest.
I don’t give a muckle,**
This one is MY truckle,***
Now, PLEASE, do let me resume,
It’s a war of attrition,
I’m on a mission,
I’ve a pressing desire to consume…

* a very small piece
** don’t give a damn
*** a truckle of cheese is a whole cheese

Port and Stilton cheese is a marriage made in heaven. So port-soaked Stilton cheese is just the best taste ever. It always brings up an image of Christmas for me because this is when we tend to eat it in the UK.

Port and Stilton cheese is a marriage made in heaven. So port-soaked Stilton cheese is just the best taste ever. It always brings up an image of Christmas for me because this is when we tend to eat it in the UK.

There are some features of Christmas that I truly love,
And one of them is the tree,
Hung with glass baubles made by my friend Will,
And the odd treasure passed down to me.
I love the smell of pine in the house,
And the way the fairy lights glow,
I like the odd bit of tinsel, the angel on top,
And all my old, loved furbelows.
Ours is arriving this Friday,
Brought by a firm called Christmas Tree Inc,
I’ve paid to have it brought in and set up too,
In the living room, we think.

Driving to aid my daughter, the lovely Isla Ness,
Her freezer was on meltdown – the food was in distress,

At a traffic ‘pinch-point’ caused by some stupid ballyhoo,
My love clipped a bollard and bang, two starboard tyres blew.

This sent the car into a terrible, washing machine-like spin,
But police-trained several years before, she used her strength within,

And brought the car to a total halt with tremendous resource,
But her head hit the window (driver’s side) with maximum force

She reached for her mobile to call everyone,
To tell what had happened, but life was there none,

Her phone, which just now, had been alive at her side,
Had, since the incident, inexplicably ‘died’.

Knowing I’d be climbing clear up every wall,
If no one involved heard anything from her at all,

She decided to drive home, degree by degree,
So as to try to avoid worrying me.

The tyres made the car really challenging to steer,
Because the power steering had all but disappeared,

And she could only creep slowly at the side of the road,
If she was to safely and soundly, reach our abode.

This process took more than two hours to perform,
By which time the vehicle was smoking a storm.

She collapsed in the house with tremendous relief,
And gave me and her sister* a sort of debrief,

But neglected to mention the blow to her head,
Till an hour later, when she climbed into bed.

Just shortly after, as so often occurs with these things,
She started talking gibberish, of cabbages and kings.

Alarmed, I reached for the phone and quickly rang 999,
And explained the scenario to the girl on the line.

The medics arrived and tried to downplay,
But they, like myself, didn’t think her okay.

They took her to ‘King’s’ ** to assess what was wrong,
They pronounced it concussion, which I’d feared all along.

So now she’s on bed rest and peace and real calm,
To ensure that my darling doesn’t come to more harm.

* I was talking to her sister, Emma at the time because we were both so worried
** King’s College Hospital (one of the big teaching hospitals in London)

I tell you every day I love you madly,
It’s something that I never can forget,
That it happened from the first,
In a kind of starburst,
From that moment, that instant, when we met.
– Never really believed in  love at first sight,
Just nutty hyperbole,
But I knew straight away,
We’d be more than OK,
When with you, it happened to me…