THE HIGH LIFE [Part 1]

THE HIGH LIFE   [Part 1] 

By Richard Banks

It was not until after my passing that I discovered the truth. One moment I was in the Waterloo Room, sitting on the sofa and sipping a restorative sherry, the next I wasn’t. It really was that quick. I remember the glass slipping from my fingers but even before it hit the floor I was rising through the ceiling which, despite its solid construction, could do nothing to keep me in.

         But this was the new me, the inside of my head me; my body, my flesh and blood for over thirty years, had been left sideways down on the settee. It was a strange experience but not entirely unpleasant and, on a cloudless evening with the sun sinking towards the horizon, the view of Frampton Hall from up high was a joy to behold. The trouble was that having risen to a point where most days you would expect there to be clouds I continued, ever faster, into space, the Earth below me soon resembling the globe in my children’s playroom. 

         It was all very fascinating but at the same time more than a little alarming and, as I sped further and further away from Earth, I must confess I was thrown into something of a tizz, especially as I was headed straight for the Moon which like me was unable to change direction. A month after Neil Armstrong and Buzz had set down there it seemed I was to be the first woman, but not, I feared, with the same happy outcome. They had buttons to press that made Apollo 11 go up, down and every other way but I had nothing, not even a finger to do the pressing. Worse still I couldn’t slow down, and though common sense told me that having already died I was unlikely to do so again, the prospect of crashing into the lunar surface triggered something in my altered being that I can only describe as instinct or mind over matter, except that my matter had been very much left behind in the Wellington Room.

         “Stop,” I shrieked, or tried to, not a sound passing my non-existent lips. But stop I did. So that’s how it works, I thought. It was just like talking to Fred, our chauffeur, except that I was Fred and by the power of thought able to send me, or what was left of me, anywhere I wanted to go. So back to earth I went and after getting a little muddled with my geography descended back into Frampton Hall as the sun was rising at the start of a new day. Needless to say I assumed this to be the day after my departure, but as I came in through the roof it soon became apparent that this was not the case.

         Whilst I had no wish to see my mortal remains stiff and horizontal on the settee I was both surprised and perplexed to find that their removal was only one of a number of things to have happened since my departure. Indeed, the room had been treated to a complete make over and the Goya above the mantelpiece replaced by some other old master. In the hall the chiming of a new timepiece alerted me to a further change; the old carriage clock that had struck the hour and half hour, with loud reverberating chimes that could be heard in every room of the house, had now been replaced by one, rather smaller, that spoke with a softer voice. Reassuringly the rogues’ gallery of Neville’s ancestors was still there, beginning, at the foot of the Grand Stairway, with the one that came over with William I and continuing up to me and Neville at the top. Yes, there they all were, the same old faces I had passed by, back and forth, so many times, except that now there was one further picture on the first floor landing.           

         This was as puzzling as it was disconcerting, and on rising up to see what it was I came face to face with Neville and his new wife, the sixteenth Lady Frampton, otherwise known as Mildred, my little sister. Resisting the urge to continue on to our bedroom which, perish the thought, must now be their bedroom, I retreated to the Wellington Room where I hoped a little thinking time might make things clearer. Never had I been in more need of a stiff drink and, although my drinking days were now well and truly over, the smell of alcohol around the decanters not only steadied my nerves but put me on the maudlin side of squiffy. Back in the familiar surroundings of Frampton Hall, my present predicament, troubling as it was, seemed less important to me than the loss of a privileged lifestyle that had somehow slipped from my grasp.     

 

         It’s been ten years since I met Neville in a West End club and, on finding him to be the elder son of an Earl, did everything I could to retain his very evident affection. His parents, of course, did everything they could to break us up. After all they were peers of the realm and I was a commoner, and an insignificant one at that. Had my father been a billionaire that might have been enough to buy me into the aristocratic fold, but having neither money nor blue blood I had nothing they were looking for in a daughter-in-law. Fortunately Neville was a headstrong, determined young man who had been spoilt rotten and expected to get whatever he wanted, and what he wanted just then was me.

         It was true love, he said, he had discovered his muse, his soul mate, his rock in this life and the next. He was smitten alright, although his infatuation may have had more to do with my more visible qualities that had recently won me the title of Miss South East Counties, 1958. Having been shown the broom cupboard in which he thought he had been conceived, and declined his invitation to re-enact history, I set-out an alternative scenario that involved a gold ring and a comfortable bed. A week later we were in Gretna Green, and legally wed.

         At first all went well, Neville’s parents were reasonably civil, and he did everything he could to help me fulfil my dynastic mission which was to provide an heir and a spare. It therefore came as no surprise when after only a year of married life I gave birth to our first child, Cassandra.  A wonderful child was Cassandra, healthy and fair of face, who had only one failing – she was not a boy. Neville’s disappointment was only too evident; indeed he did little to conceal it. The Earldom had always passed down through the male line and this was a tradition he was determined to maintain.

         “But you will,” I assured him, “I have two brothers and five uncles, it’s in the genes, we’re bound to have boys.” And so it was that eighteen months later we had Catherine.

         Having failed to convince Neville that she or her sister might very well prove useful in marrying a Prince we returned to ‘mission boy’ with a renewed vigour that soon resulted in the double blessing of the twins – Isabel and Elizabeth. It was at this point that Neville began to take consolation in malt whisky and the solitude of his study. To make matters worse, if worse they could be, my young sister, Mildred lost her husband in a supermarket car park in the sense that he stepped out in front of a delivery van and was a tad too slow in stepping back.

         At least it took my mind off my own troubles and living in a stately home with twenty-four bedrooms I had no hesitation in inviting Mildred to come and stay for a while. A stay that lasted somewhat longer than expected, when it transpired that her husband’s life was uninsured and she had nothing in the kitty to pay their mortgage. Not that she outstayed her welcome. With Neville in a permanent sulk I was more than grateful to have her near by, her presence unnoticed by him and his parents who took her to be a maid or some other minion. It was not until we went riding one day that Neville realised that she was ‘one of us,’ at least by association. Happily they hit it off rather well and she was formally invited to stay as long as she wished which, as far as she was concerned, was as long as possible. After all a life of luxury in a stately home was a distinct improvement on the social housing on offer from Camden Council.

         And so our lives took a turn for the better. Neville emerged from the shadows and we resumed ‘mission boy’ while Mildred was always at hand to look after the girls at inconvenient moments and keep me company when Neville was at his London club having what he called his ‘man time’. Quite what this involved I thought best not to ask, and as he was always very nice to me on his return, his times away were not to be discouraged. Anyway, I had my sister now and whenever we were left to ourselves we filled in the time very pleasantly. And then, just when life couldn’t get better, it did; I became pregnant for a fifth time and Neville’s father died of something the doctor was persuaded not to write on the death certificate. Of course no one should be celebrating the death of their father-in-law but he was a dreadful old bore and with him out of the way Neville became the fourteenth Earl and that, of course, made me Lady Frampton.

         Whoopee, I thought, what an upgrade on Miss South East Counties! And, with another child on the way, I thought things were set to get even better. This time it would be fifth time lucky and when my stomach went a very different shape to how it had been before, I became convinced, as was everyone else that the child inside me was a boy. The only downer was that the, poor child, was to be named Hubert after Neville’s father but apart from that it was all systems go and Hubert was duly enrolled for his father’s schools up to and including Harrow. Unfortunately on the day of his triumphal entry into this world Hubert turned out to be a Huberta, and as part of her father’s revenge was christened as such in the family church in front of six people who reluctantly included Neville, looking even grimmer than at his father’s funeral.

         It was not long after that the thorny issue of divorce was raised. Not by me of course, I liked being Lady Frampton and no one was going to edit me out of Debretts. Needless to say Neville went into another one of his sulks and spent more and more time away at his club. How would I have managed without Mildred, my darling sister and confidant, who was not only my rock during these troubled times but somehow effected the reconciliation that brought Neville back to his senses. How she did this when I could hardly drag a word out of him I will never know but within a month our life together became as tranquil as a millpond, and although Neville seldom strayed from his side of the marital bed he was, at least, still in it. And that’s how it was until that dreadful evening when everything changed and I went shooting up through the ceiling.

 To Be Continued/... 

                                                                        Copyright Richard Banks 

We Will Not Forget!

 We Will Not Forget!

By Sis Unsworth

They were indecisive, back then so long ago,

The weather unpredictable, they weren’t sure they would go.

The channel was so stormy, they were filled with gloom,

But a decision had to be made, and they had to make it soon.

The sailors and the soldiers, would face the stormy sea,

while the RAF would fly above, to help set Europe free.

At last they got the order, to face the angry tide,

those who were believers, prayed god was on their side.

They reached the Normandy beaches, early in the morning,

anxious that the enemy, had not had any warning.

Despite the bad conditions, they did their best to cope,

and by the end of that long day, Europe now had hope.

So remember eighty years ago, they fought without regret,

and the least that we can do for them, is never to forget!

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

 

THE MYSTERY OF RAYLEIGH LIBRARY

 THE MYSTERY OF RAYLEIGH LIBRARY

By Richard Banks    

On the 28^th of July 1875 the stagecoach from London pulled up outside the Crown Hotel in Rayleigh where the horses were changed and the passengers took the opportunity to stretch their limbs or take refreshment in the saloon bar. It was an uneventful occurrence which generally attracted little attention except that on this particular day a small deputation of local worthies had gathered on the narrow pavement to welcome the one passenger not continuing on to Prittlewell. The passenger’s name was Nathaniel Rothwell who, earlier that month, had been appointed the town’s first librarian.

      He was the outstanding candidate of those interviewed for the position. A graduate of London University College he had subsequently taught at some of the better private schools in the metropolis before becoming assistant editor of the Finsbury Recorder, a position he had relinquished in order to write a biography of Milton. This task, although completed within the exacting deadline of his publisher, had proved injurious to the health of the author and, on the advice of his doctor, Mr Rothwell had decided to seek employment in the smoke-free environment of the Essex countryside. He was, he assured the interviewing committee, “much restored” and indeed his appearance gave every indication that this was so. He was an imposing figure, taller than average and with an upright posture not normally associated with those in academic occupations. Although a man of middle years he had retained a youthful appearance, and his dark complexion was accentuated by a full head of black hair that flowed downwards via thick sideburns into a well tended beard.

      His physical appearance was particularly pleasing to the ladies of the committee who were also impressed by his genteel manners and the fine cut of his morning coat. In the discussion that followed the interview, the collective voices of the ladies were more than enough to overrule the several gentlemen who considered that Mr Rothwell was over qualified for the position and unlikely to remain in post once more remunerative employment became available.

      On taking up his new appointment Mr Rothwell found himself to be a librarian without a library. His first task therefore was to secure premises suitable for the use of those willing and able to pay the weekly subscription of sixpence a week. With commendable promptitude he secured a lease on a grocer’s shop in the High Street which had been empty for several months since the demise of the elderly shopkeeper. A substantial refurbishment of the building soon followed and the first consignment of books arrived on the stage wagon from London. These developments were observed with keen interest by the good folk of Rayleigh who frequently saw Mr Rothwell busily directing operations or taking charge of deliveries.

      Those who sought to engage him in conversation found him courteous and helpful in matters concerning the library but curiously lacking in any intelligence about himself. When asked by a young widow if Mrs Rothwell would be joining him he merely replied that the living accommodation above the shop was sufficient only for himself. No doubt anticipating further questions on his matrimonial status, he had hastily excused himself on account of urgent business at the Vestry; if Mr Rothwell was an eligible bachelor he clearly had no intention of letting this be known to the ladies of the town or indeed to anyone else. His answers to other personal questions were equally evasive and the townspeople eventually took the hint and asked no more.

      This did not, of course, mean that they were no longer interested in Mr Rothwell’s personal circumstances. Indeed, his reticence only fuelled speculation, and the drawing rooms of Rayleigh’s chattering classes resounded with rumours that he was a jilted lover, a grieving widower or even, heaven forbid, a divorcee! Those of a less romantic disposition considered that Mr Rothwell’s upright bearing was evidence that he had once been a military man. That he had not mentioned this at the interview was taken by some as inferring that his military service had been less than honourable.

      These and other speculations about Mr Rothwell’s mysterious past ensured that the formal opening of Rayleigh’s library attracted almost as many onlookers as the annual carnival. When the speeches had been made and the blue ribbon across the doorway cut, the surprising enthusiasm of the local populace for their new library ensured that there was no shortage of persons ready to give Mr Rothwell their sixpence in return for a library membership card and his assurance that he, ‘looked forward to meeting their future needs’.

      In the several weeks that followed, Mr Rothwell found that these needs often obliged him to fetch down books from shelves beyond the surprisingly limited reach of lady members, while the menfolk of the town consistently sought his opinion on matters of a military nature. Although there can be little doubt that Mr Rothwell was bemused, if not bewildered, by such behaviour, he was at least able to take consolation from the steady trickle of sixpences that continued to flow across the library counter. Even to the most biased of observers it soon became obvious that the library under Mr Rothwell’s capable direction was an outstanding success. Despite the loss of some of its early recruits the steady increase in new members soon necessitated an extension in opening hours and the employment of a diligent young woman, named Sarah Donnell, as Rayleigh’s first assistant librarian.

      Mr Rothwell’s reputation continued to grow, along with that of his library, and his advice was sought by several nearby towns as to how they might establish libraries. Fearing that an offer of employment would follow, the parish authority chose the first anniversary of his appointment to promote him to senior librarian with a commensurate increase in salary; a decision which seemed fully vindicated when Mr Rothwell’s biography of Milton was finally printed by the London publishing house of Millard & Major. The speculation concerning his past life was now largely unspoken and would probably have remained so had it not been for the disappearance of Sarah Donnell.

      On a cold October evening Sarah finished work at seven pm, bid goodnight to Mr Rothwell, and set off for her parent’s house in Bull Lane. When she failed to arrive by nine pm her parents alerted the police, who waited until the following day before making door-to-door enquiries at all the properties along her route home. No one, it seemed, had seen Sarah that evening except Mr Rothwell, who recalled seeing her leave the library and hurry past the front window in the direction of her home. After several days, during which no further intelligence concerning Sarah was received, the police received a visit from Mr Pendleberry who owned the draper’s shop next to the library. “Were they aware,” he asked, “that on the evening of Sarah’s disappearance Mr Rothwell had been digging in the library garden by the light of a lantern?”

      The police were not aware, and an hour later two police constables arrived at the library, shovels in hand, ready to make their own excavations in the library garden, When they failed to find anything beyond a small metal box containing a cut throat razor and several blunted carving knives, they extended their search to include Mr Rothwell’s living accommodation above the library. Here they recovered a blood soaked cloth which they took back to the police office, along with Mr Rothwell, who was questioned until late evening. He was questioned again the following day and released only after giving assurances that he would not leave the town. Although the police were privately convinced that Mr Rothwell had murdered Sarah they had no evidence beyond the blood on the cloth which Mr Rothwell claimed to be his own. In desperation they interviewed Mr Rothwell for a third time, an interview that was abruptly terminated in the early afternoon when news was received that Sarah was alive and well and living in Aldershot. She had met a young soldier at the Whitsun horse fair and unbeknown to anyone else had continued to meet him in secret. Fearing that her parents would never approve such a liaison, the young couple had eloped, married and made their home in Aldershot, where the soldier was stationed.

      Mr Rothwell returned to the library, which reopened for business in the morning. Although the townsfolk had been deprived of a good mystery there was genuine relief, not only that Sarah was safe, but that Mr Rothwell was free of suspicion. While he was never to win their affection, the events of the previous seven days had earned him both their sympathy and respect. Another young woman was selected to replace Sarah and the library returned to its normal, well-ordered routine. More members were enrolled, and plans were made to move the library to more spacious premises in the Eastwood Road.

      All was well and might have continued so, but for the arrival of The Times newspaper on the doormat of one George Harker, JP for Rayleigh and Rawreth. It was on page 3, in the obituaries column, that Mr Harker discovered the surprising news that Mr Nathaniel Rothwell, scholar and author of the recently published ‘Life of Milton’ had died at his residence in Malta.

      It can only be supposed that Rayleigh’s senior librarian had also read the obituary, for his departure from Rayleigh was as sudden and unobserved as that of his former assistant. Unlike Sarah, he was never seen or heard of again.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

The New Coat

 The New Coat 

By Jane Scoggins 

It had been a long time coming but today was the day for shopping. Not just any shopping, but specifically for a new coat.  Very long overdue, and dreamed about for quite some time. The main reason for the wait was money of course. Not enough of it for the sort of coat he dreamed of having.  After a period of saving and with birthday money, and the use of a credit card, the time had come when it was possible to fulfil the dream, and the need, because winter was starting to bite and Ricky’s jacket was just not warm enough. He was going to go all out for a thick warm full length, good quality winter coat. He had looked in the shops, in magazines and online and knew that the sort of coat he wanted would be at least £200. Ricky didn't drive, couldn’t afford a car anyway, so his usual mode of transport was the bus. Very convenient for work and shops with a bus stop five minutes walk from his flat. It was a busy Saturday with lots of folk out shopping. Ricky felt a buzz of excitement. He had three shops in mind and planned to visit each one before making up his mind.  He had no intention of buying such a precious garment online. No he wanted to be able to luxuriate in the whole process of choosing, trying on, and taking his time. After all, for him, it was to be an unusually expensive purchase. He had set the day aside for this trip, It felt like an adventure. He didn't have much adventure in his life normally. He had mates at work and some friends he met up with to go to football or the pub, but no one special, like a girlfriend. He had a nice Mum he saw maybe one a month, but that didn’t count in the same way. She had suggested more than once that he could do with a better coat when he turned up shivering in his thin jacket, but he had always brushed it aside,saying he was fine. He knew it would please her to see him sporting a smart new warm coat. It seemed to him that mothers worried about their children keeping warm, even when they were grown up. He could remember all the times she zipped or buttoned him into his school coats right up to his neck from September to March during his school years. Well maybe until the age of nearly twelve when he insisted she stop.

The town was busy. Ricky decided on having a Costa coffee before he started shopping. He liked the idea of making the pleasure last and the idea of delayed gratification.

He went to the three shops he knew would sell the sort of quality coats he was looking for. All very nice in the first two, with possible contenders, but it was not till he stepped into the plush surrounds of the third shop and ran his eyes and his hands over their rail of gentlemen's overcoats and tried some on that he was sure he had found the right shop and the right coat. The sales assistant was helpful and attentive but not pushy, only commenting in a genuine sort of way

 ‘Colour suits you sir, nice fit in the arms and across the shoulders too’.

Which made Ricky feel a bit more comfortable in the sort of posh shop he had never been in before. He made his choice, an understated Reiss Gable Wool Blend single breasted Epsom overcoat. Camel coloured. It was expensive alright and momentarily he wondered if he was a bit mad, foolish in fact, at such a purchase. Even the carrier bag with his new coat carefully wrapped around in tissue paper looked expensive. Wanting to maintain the feeling of excitement he went to a snazzy cafe, sat at a little bistro table in the window and set his precious carrier bag on the seat next to him, like as if it was a guest, while he ate a toasted sandwich. Ricky then headed for home. At the bus stop he sat on the bench and waited for the bus. While he was waiting he texted two of his friends to see if they were still up for a night out. Just before the bus arrived his Mum phoned

 ‘Hello Ricky, cold today isn't it? Would you like to come for a roast dinner next Sunday? Also if you could, will you take a look at the shelf in the kitchen, its gone a bit wobbly’

‘Yes sure Mum, would love to look forward to one of your roasts, they always keep the cold out. And yes, I will take a look at your shelf. Probably just needs another screw fixing. Got to go the bus is here’

Ricky jumped on the crowded bus, paid his fare and went to the back to find on of the few vacant seats.

It was more that a few minutes before he realised he’d left the carrier bag with his precious new coat on the bench at the bus stop. He rang the bell, and had to wait several more agonising minutes before the next stop. He ran from the bus all the way back to the bench. The carrier bag was gone, nowhere to be seen. Ricky looked around frantically but there was nothing, and no one in sight. He sank to the bench in disbelief, tears springing to his eyes. Perhaps someone kind had picked it up and would hand it in somewhere? Too awful to imagine someone heartless had taken it for themselves or to sell on. He would make enquiries at the shop, he would contact the police, even though police stations didn’t seem to take in lost property, or even be open these days. He would have to wait in agony and hope and pray for the best.

Ricky spent a few miserable hours at home. He cried off from his usual Saturday night at the pub with the boys. He paced and fidgeted, couldn’t settle, and slept badly. He struggled through Sunday. On Monday he went to work as usual. At coffee break he phoned the shop to hear that so far no one had handed in his carrier bag and coat. The assistant took his telephone number and told him she would contact him if (by a miracle her tone of voice implied) the coat was returned to the shop. Ricky phoned 101 and explained his loss to the police person, who was very understanding, but didn’t hold out much hope. Ricky realised that his coat would not be rated very high, if at all, on the scale of importance. However he left his contact number in the million to one chance his coat was handed in or found somewhere. He was very aware that despite his very precise description, bobbies on the beat would not be apprehending every male wearing an exact description of his coat. Unless of course it was being worn by a known lowlife fence or drug dealer whose usual outdoor attire was a Primark hoody.

Two weeks passed and the painful loss of the beautiful coat lessened only slightly. Ricky wore his old jacket and often felt cold and miserable

  Once or twice he thought he glimpsed his coat on the back of a fleeting figure across the street or in the shopping arcade, but he knew in his heart that it wasn’t. He had left his details, along with his shame and embarrassment with the sales person in the posh shop where he had bought his wonderful quality coat, just in case. The look on the assistant’s face was sympathetic but that was all. It probably didn't mean much to him in the scheme of things. But it probably made quite a good story to tell about the man who didn't look like he could afford an expensive coat but had bought one none the less, and then within an hour had left it at a bus stop, never to be seen again. What an idiot. Ricky felt he deserved every bit of idiot shaming. He hated himself for being so stupid. It had been foolish of him to even think he could own such a coat. Would his mates have laughed at him for being above himself, showing off. Would he have been worried every time he took it off that someone would take it? Some grotty scumbag in the pub. Maybe he would have felt so worried about his precious coat he would have felt limited as to where he could wear it. He was just an ordinary bloke on not much of a salary, mixing with other ordinary people who bought their clothes in cheap outlets, and not that often at that. He thought it best to cut his losses and save for another coat, this time something more sensible like an all weather quilted jacket from Sports Direct. It would have to do. So he did, and was glad of the warmth, and the compliments from his mates down the pub. But one day he was in a charity shop browsing the book section when he saw a coat hanging up behind the till. It was a man’s camel overcoat. His heart skipped a beat. It was not his coat, not the quality, neither was it new, but looked good, and warm. On impulse he asked to try it on. The lady assistant took it down and showed it to him.

‘Its only just come in actually’

  Ricky tried it on, it fitted apart from the sleeves being too long. The assistant looked at him and smiled, and he smiled back. Somehow she knew it meant something important to him. He found himself looking at her for a comment, approval. She did not disappoint

‘Colour suits you, good fit across the shoulders’.

 He was transported back to the posh shop, where the sales assistant had said the same thing. He was grateful she didn’t comment on the sleeves being too long. He smiled at her, and said he would have it. With the same grace and understanding as before she said.

‘Good choice, I will find a bag to put it in’

Ricky watched as she disappeared out the back and returned triumphant with not just any bag, but a large handsome carrier with Selfridge's written across the front.

‘Thank you that will do me just fine’ 

He left the shop content, knowing his Mum would shorten the sleeves. He would wear this coat on appropriate occasions as an alternative to his North face weather proof jacket. He was back on track for putting the loss of the posh coat behind him and getting back to being his old self.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

A Haibun and a Haiku

 A Haibun and a Haiku

By Rob Kingston 

Aligning stars

How weird, you're thinking about something that has come through spiritual lines and you open today's wordle and type a relative word.

strike one
the clatter of skittles
dancing on the floor

Haiku

gong bath

a bit of me in full

chakra colours 

Both were published in last month's Blithe Spirit Volume 34, number 2

 

The Appointment

 The Appointment

 

By Sis Unsworth

 

George was feeling quite poorly, not himself from his point of view

He rang for a doctor's appointment, and was told he was in a queue

At first, he was quite patient, just waiting for his turn,

But after half an hour, he began showing some concern

A voice said they were busy, but would answer him real soon

So frequently they said it, it filled poor George with gloom

He heard the postman knocking, but wouldn’t leave the phone

It surely must be his turn soon, he had a silent moan.

George was feeling hungry, his breakfast had turned cold,

He wanted that appointment, so he continued to hold.

He noticed through the window, it had begun to rain

Earlier he’d put some washing out, it would now be wet again,

The dog was rubbing around his legs, impatient to go out.

“Why don’t you get the washing in,” he heard his wife cry out.

George was feeling so irate, when he heard a voice then say,

“All appointments are now filled, please call another day.”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

THE TROUBLE WITH NAMES

 THE TROUBLE WITH NAMES

By Peter Woodgate

I have this sort of problem

With names of things and places

With people too it’s just the same

I can’t put names to faces.

There’s thingamajigs and whatsername

And watchermecallit too

Thingamebobs and whatsitcalled

Just give me a bloody clue.

You see it’s fairly simple

It’s there within my brain

But accessing is difficult

It’s never been quite the same

Since I became an O.A.P.

My memories gone to pot

My children look at me and say

That I have lost the plot.

This does not concern me much

Cos I can keep a list

Of all those names and birthdays

And things I’ve often missed.

But something is quite worrying

When I cuddle the wife and then,

She utters the words “You’ve had that”

And I can’t remember when.

Copyright Peter Woodgate