Here, a little housewife, I
Sit upon my stool and sigh;
It’s dark, midnight, I’m feeling blue;
The cat is looking maudlin too.

I think of what I want to say -
It comes, it goes, it will not stay;
The Muse has left the building, gone;
Abandoned me; “Support withdrawn.”

What’s this? A voice! “Cheer up!” it cries,
“Don’t fool around with wherefores, whys!”
“Trouble?* Did you speak?” I query
(She never speaks unless I’m beery)

Trouble looks at me, she blinks;
Inscrutable – she’s as the Sphinx.
“Don’t mess about” I say, still shaken.
I try to keep my knees from quakin’.

Then, I think, that voice seemed friendly!
It wishes well; sounds kind. Suddenly,
It comes again: “Sam do not fear me!
I’m Voice-O’er Man come from the telly.

“I can’t be seen, I’m disembodied;
My voice is booming, epic, storied;
But nights, to keep me off the rum,
I moonlight as a fairy Godmum

“You say you’re feeling blue tonight?
Let me help you ease your plight.
You’ve just two wishes – spend them well -
The Market’s hurting us as well;

To make ends meet, we’ve cut right back;
Tooth Fairy’s turning tricks and crack!
We’ve only got 2 spells per litre,
Now hurry up, you’re on the meter!”

I thought, I thunked, I hemmed, I hawed,
Full of wonder, overawed.
Moonbeams puddled round the apples,
Silver light in pools and dapples.

“I have it!” whispered I discreetly
“My mind’s made up! I’m sure, completely!
What I want is Solomon’s knowledge
And ken that they don’t teach in college.”

“I’m sorry” said the voice, “You see
We’ve had a rush on Sol, ‘cos he
Had wisdom we all want to know
In these uncertain times: stock’s low.

In Wisdom all that’s left to offer you
‘Sthe Dubious Doublethink Of W;
Not asked for much, we’ve got a heap
Of his thoughts, AND those of the Veep

“Oh dear!” I said, “I must refuse
For I already have the blues.
Wading throught that fog of cant
Could render me MORE ignorant.”

“One more wish” said subbing Godmum
“Quick! I’m not here ad finitum!”
“I want to write of time,” I sighed
“Of fury, love and lives denied!”

“But” I whined, “The Muse is gone!
Alone I labour on t’wards dawn.
I wish…I wish…
I wish the words came swiftly, sweetly
My thoughts arriving meetly, neatly”

“It can’t be done, I’m sorry, Sam.
Errata’s gone, she’s on the lam.
What with poets’ importunings;
Editors debating prunings…

She’s buggered off; o’er-worked, she’s fled.
She left a note: “Piss off!” it said.
“I’m on my hols, leave me alone!
Don’t call ‘cos I’ve turned off my phone.

“Say I’ll come back when I’m ready
‘Til then, bash on, stay firm, keep steady.
All requests temp’rilly denied
(Especially tell that damn Sam, Child Bride!)”

“Oh,” said I, my hopes all rent,
“I guess she’s right. It’s my intent
To drop this folly, poetry;
It’s back to limericks for me!”

*

There once was a planet called Pluto
Most unjustly given the boot-o
The scientists (swine!)
Kicked him out of the nine
Poor Pluto’s now rendered caputo.

* Trouble = My cat.

For greater enjoyment of this pome, try not to notice it?s crap, and doesn?t scan and strains to

rhyme. Thanks.

Being a fur’ner in a strange land, people sometimes ask me “How did you wind up here?” or “How did you meet your Problem Husband who is twice your age but we’re good-hearted people so will pretend that’s not odd?”

Here is how it happened:

My parents sold me at the age of 12 for a John Deere tractor, a pair of nylons and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Weaving drunkenly off down the road, my parents turned and yelled “Take care, young’un, and be sure always to be kind! Yeeehaaa, this rig rocks, Seonaig! Next stop, Ullapool!” They honked their horn as they turned the bend in the road and that was the last I ever saw of them.

Weeping silently, I turned and looked into the cold, fish-like eyes of my new life, but not before looking into the cold, fish-like eyes of my new “owner”. Her name was Mrs. Billingsgate, like the market, and she ran a boarding house “for those wot weren’t welcome elsewhere”. For this was Near London and they talk like that Near London.

We left Near London straight away. Mrs. Billingsgate (how I would come to hate that name!) drove and I rode with her spotty son Roland on the back of a wooden cart and, through my woe, was almost oblivious to the anachronism of this as Toyota Avenses and Nissan Micros sped past us on the highway, spooking the cart-horse, Ted, who passed away from nervousness soon after that trip. I wept for Ted because he was my only friend in those early days in London.

At length we arrived at the boarding house which was in a dark, gloomy lane (it’s the gloomy lane on London’s famous “Take The Gloomy Lane Tour!” tour for which the bus-drivers demand extra compensation on account of the screamings and stabbings and wailings and, unexpectedly, the cluckings.) Ted, (God bless that horse!) parallel-parked our cart skillfully between two similar carts despite being lashed all the while by the boy, Roland (a more odious youth, I have yet to encounter).

I alit from the cart, clutching my thin woolen shawl around my shoulders as the settling London fog was making the air nippier than a bowlful of teething pirrhanas. As we had travelled straight from the island that morning, I was still wearing our traditional garb of a long, plain but becoming dress with crinolene petticoats, thin-woolen shawl and a biannac (a kind of headscarf that speaks Gaelic). I also had my Nike trainers on because when I heard we were ” just going to take a wee trip down South” I decided I wasn’t going to let these London kids think we don’t know about fashion in the Hebrides. Upon lifting my skirts to avoid a puddle, Roland spied my Nikes and his piggy little eyes shone greedily in his scone-like face. Later, he would steal them for money to support his absinthe habit.

I looked up at the grey, lowering building in which I was to be indentured as a scullery maid, patting Ted’s nose absently, and an iciness took its unforgiving grip on my soul and squeezed.

“‘Ere, watch aht, young miss, that’s moy naahose you’re squeezing”, said Ted, sounding not unlike Dick Van Dyke’s cheerful sweep, Bert.

I doubted my ears, but they were still there, and then my sanity, but I didn’t know where that was and I thought it might be squishy to go poking for it. So I thought the only sensible thing to do was to reply politely, as I had been taught always to do. (My parents may have sold their own daughter into a life of servitude but they were lovely really; quite irreproachable people – when not on the mainland, which, after all, is known to temporarily turn even the most stoic of island heads – in possession of impeccable manners, and there were always paper doilies at teatime. I’ve never held my sale against them.)

“Oh, I do beg your pardon!”, I said.

“Don’t worry, ” said the inestimable Ted (may choirs of unicorns neigh him to his rest!) “I expect it was the iciness gripping your soul and squeezing. Best run along now, dearie. Roland’s in a rum mood, tonight and I’m already terribly nervous from that big-rig back at the M25.”

Roland whipped and yeehaed Ted round a corner and I was alone in the street. I could have run then. Don’t think I haven’t replayed that moment over and over in my mind. But I still had hope at that point, contrary to my every instinct, that I might find some small measure of kindness in my new life with the Billingsgates.

“Well gerra move on, you dozy bint!” cried Mrs. Billingsgate from the gate. “There’s supper to fetch for 22 ‘ungry men and you ain’t no use to man nor beast gawping out there.”

I went in.

I’m sorry. I’m going to have to finish this another time. I can’t go on right now. Too awfully moving and difficult, you know, revisiting these dark chapters.

Leaping from tall building to tall building to short one and then “Ouchee!” a church spire, Our Heroine looks down and locates the right window. With a double-back flip-floppy bound, triple toe-axle and shimmy, she flies through the glass, landing with ease beside a stove on which a pot is gently simmering. She plies in ballet position 4.

“Where is it?” she asks, easily the most well-groomed and self-possessed in the small kitchen, despite her unconventional journey.

A young, harrassed-looking woman points mutely at a bowl of batter. On her hip is a child, maybe 3 or 4, eyes wide with amazement at the turn the evening has taken.

In a single, fluid, panther-like motion Our Heroine is at the bowl. Lifting one arm, she examines the lining of her long, dark and extremely well-tailored cloak and appears to mull something over briefly. “Hmm. A titanium-tipped Smith&Oliver 3000, I think. This sucker’s already starting to form lumps.”

With a flash of silver, she pulls out the eggwhisk and turns to her task.

“Close all the doors and windows, and hold on to the child!” she orders, her bluey-greeny-greyee-browny eyes, flashing and alive with a burning, other-worldy intensity.

The lights dim of their own accord, as if aware that their brilliance is not required right now; knowing, some-mysterious-how, that all the energy in the room will soon be concentrated in the batter-bowl.

Our Heroine begins. A low hum fills the room and she lowers the eggwhisk into the batter, wincing as she does so: this part can sometimes get messy real quick and she’s only used the Smith&Oliver once before. At the ambassador’s party, wasn’t it? The macaroons. But there’s no time for such idle thoughts – the lumps are bobbing on the surface now. Blee!

With a mighty plunge she thrusts the eggwhisk into the bowl and the lights dim even further. The hum is getting so loud now that the child and her mother cover their ears. The lights wink out. The hum rises. It’s almost screaming, and a golden light is emanating from the bowl as sparks of green and gold fly onto the laminated counter-top. Tomorrow, only a few singe marks on the linoleum will convince little Lucy that it wasn’t all a dream. Right now, The Mysterious Lady’s arm is just a blur, moving impossibly fast, her face a grim mask of concentration.

The curtains on the window are starting to flap as the whisking continues; the young woman’s patched, worn skirt starts to tug her in towards the bowl. Soon pieces of paper and napkins are whirling in a tornado above the counter. The child, Lucy, reaches up to catch a passing pepper-pot and her mother feels her grip begin to loosen on her daughter. A curtain tears loose and books are flying off the shelves, drawn inexorably, irresistably towards the batter-bowl…

The child screams.

And then there is calm. No sound, save that of old recipe cards twirling softly, eerily to the floor. The lights flicker back on.

Comes a voice, matter-of-fact, yet warm and tinkly: “That’s me, then! Just pop in the frying pan now, with plenty of good butter and a twist of pepper and, Bob’s your uncle, the lightest, fluffiest ommelettes your guests will ever eat this side of the pearly gates. What’s the occasion? Husband having his boss over for dinner?”

“N-n-n-no” stammers the young woman “His mother…awful woman…will be looking for dust and a four-course meal, but we can only afford eggs while Jimmy Jr’s out of work, you see. But, see…she doesn’t know he’s out of work and…it all seemed so hopeless half an hour ago…I can’t even boil an egg, far less make a moist, fluffy and delicious ommelette with one and …Oh!… How can I ever thank you?”

Our Heroine turns and regards the young woman kindly. She looks tired, she thinks.

“Just bring me a fresh towel please and I’ll be on my way. I think I’ve got some batter on my cloak.”

Not half a minute later, the young woman returns to the kitchen with the towel and gasps at the sight before her. For in that time, The Mysterious Lady has somehow, incredibly, set a full, sparkling table with a standing rib-roast steaming softly in the centre, surrounded by tasteful flowers and delectable-looking side-dishes.

“Oh my!”

The doorbell rings and she turns her head, in confusion towards it. When she looks back, The Mysterious Lady, Our Heroine, is gone. The young woman rushes to the window – there is nothing, noone. But, looking up into the darkening sky, she fancies for a moment she sees an extra twinkly star and could it be?… a shower of green sparks…? The doorbell rings again and she moves to answer it.

Moments later, in a dining-room in Ojai, a problemchildbride enters, looking breath-taking in a silk, inky-blue dress.

“Darling! There you are!” says her ProblemHusband. “Our guests are ready for some of your famous Baked Alaska.”

“Why, of course” says the problemchildbride and, spinning smartly on one heel, she glides towards the kitchen. As she leaves the room, noone notices her smoothing a tiny lock of stray hair from her otherwise immaculate bouffant, back into place, eyes twinkling merrily.

“”I think I’ve got some batter on my cloak.”" she says, almost scornfully, to herself. “I NEVER allow foodstuffs to get on my cloak. Still, I couldn’t let that young woman see how it’s done. But…wait… where was the child? Did she see? Oh buggrit! I really don’t want to have to kidnap another one…”

Finis.

http://anewwordforfast.blogspot.com/

(I appear to have underlined everything. Hmm. How to un-underline everything? It happened when I was adding the Latigo link above. Can any lovely tecchie person help?)

Update: Ha! Am genius! Fixed it myself.

Following a conversation with Mr. Latigo “Probably The Gloomiest Cowboy In The World” Flint, I came away feeling edified as usual because he is indeed awfully good at writing words down in ways I wish I’d thought of. But also – and I may be imagining this – I was left feeling well, slighted somehow; patted on the head and told to run along, sort of. You see, I think my friend Mr Latigo “Probably The Gloomiest Cowboy In The World” Flint doubts my ability to be an effective second in a bar-brawl! The cheek of that!

Just because I can make a souffle that’s lighter than air, a full roast with all the trimmings and melt-in-the-mouth billberry pie for guests who have telephoned just 30 minutes ago to say they’re popping over, and still appear looking polished and immaculate in every way … just because I have a “skill-set difference” with Latigo “A New Word For Fast” Flint does not mean I would not be superlative in any low-down hole-in-the-wall ruckus. I am a professional housewife who takes pride in all I do! (Although, admittedly, I don’t get paid.)

Needless to say, I took umbrage because it’s cheaper than taking more medication. I had a silent fuming think and this is what I thought: I thought I would outline the 3 certainly-very-useful assets I could bring to the brawl.

Fortunately, I am splendid in any bar-brawl situation. I have attended many, mostly recreationally but sometimes in an incitatory capacity and learnt a fair few things along the way. I feel I could ably assist in the following ways:

Firstly, it is not a difficult task to wound the pride of a man, although his relative woundability depends a good deal on his age and what he is drinking at the time – there’s actually a scientific equation on that, I think. Gin drinkers, for example, are notoriously even-tempered and not where a hopeful brawler should start. Whisky drinkers, on the other hand, are itching for confrontation; the older ones might not be as ready to jump to their feet but can be useful in further agitating the younger men to war (much like in the Middle East or indeed anywhere) It takes only a passing comment about a man’s hairiness relative to the other cowboys to put the explosive spark to the tinder-box that is the average desperado bar (I assume Latigo only goes to very good desperado bars). The jury is still out on whether hairiness is a good or bad thing in the low-life whisky-swilling world. Hairy could = manliness with hairlessness =ing womanliness. Or, so the other school of thought goes: hair is a disadvantage because it allows your opponent more purchase while grabbing you in a fight. Less hairy men are therefore more evolutionarily advanced and hairy ones are mere yahoos.

So, this I do. You’ve forgotten haven’t you? I almost did myself. So this I do: I pass a comment about hairiness; nobody present knows what they think about hairiness but they won’t let that stop them; the older men urge on the younger men and the tinderbox explodes.

The second thing I am very good at is standing about with a raised bar-stool and bashing any comical cowboys who might buffoon their way hilariously into my sphere of whacking. Indeed, I have found no other use to which this skill can be put, than bar-brawling.

Thirdly, if the Goddess of Bar-Brawls (Jennifer) looks like She does not that day favour us, I can be most useful in bringing things to a dignified close through the sheer force of my housewiffery:

Standing on the bar, I will bang my duck-headed umbrella on the taps and call for quiet. This will not be heard above the roar of of the fray, the scraping of the tables and the sickening crunch of bone against splintered bone. I will then repeat the call, more loudly. This will also go unnoticed and, just when I look like the most arrant idiot (heeheehee – what a mistake those men will make underestimating ME!) I will raise myself up to my full height, swiftly don a formidable bonnet and, in the manner of Mary Poppins, roar “WHEN you have QUITE finished!”

Brawlers everywhere will freeze in comical mid-punch attitude and turn to stare.

“Thank you” I will say crisply. Then, untroubled by the gaze of 100 (ish, maybe only 99 if it’s a very desperate desperado joint) bloodthirsty, yet astonished eyes, I will rap the nearest man on the forhead with my duck umbrella and demand that he help a lady down from the bar. Several ham-heads will rush forward to do this, unaccustomed as they will be, to see a lady in their midst, especially one in a wasp-waisted crinolene dress and apron (I’d wear my pinny for protection against the spraying brawler blood, you see. Preparation and foresight are a housewife’s best friends. And also Philippe)

I will stroll amongst the assembled brawlers asking random pugilists what their mothers would think of them if they could see them now. They will blush in shame. I will gesture sweepingly about at the disarray and posit “Who do you think will have to clear this mess up? Yes, you man! (fixing one pulpy-headed galoot with a hard stare, poking him in the chest and then wiping my finger in distaste with a lily-white handkerchief) Do you have something to say? A suggestion of any sort? No? I thought not.”

Then, wheeling round on one heel I will charge: “Somebody’s mother or granny or sister, that’s who! Some poor underpaid cleaning-lady who will be coming in at 2am, hoping against hope that the mess will be minimal tonight so she can get back home to look after her old Mama and Papa, the seven crippled children and in time to medicate the bipolar goldfish, (and we all know what happens when a goldfish doesn’t get his jujubes). And I expect her husband’s long gone – in fact, I bet he’s one of you!”

Somebody will no doubt mutter (for they always do) “Yeah Merv, that’s a sorry stunt to pull on your old lady, runnin’ out on her, what with all her troubles.”

Merv will say (he will be called Merv, they always are) “My Sarah’s an angel, she is, with all she has to contend wid’. She deserves better than me – ’swhy I hadda go! I felt like crap in the presence of such noble, yet never quite concealed, sacrifice. Day after day of bearing someone else’s noble sacrifice (shakes head) I tell you I couldn’t live with such an angel no more, guys, I just couldn’t.” Then he will spit out a tooth.

A muttering will arise around the room: “Sarah…blooming angel…too good for any of us…Shucks I feel bad now…shee-it, man…nothing like a bit o’ guilt to ruin a good brawl…I hardly feel like it any more”.

One by one, battered and bloody men will sit down and look glum and feel shame at the thought of weary Sarah coming in to clean up their mess.

“Come on then, spick spock”, I will interject, because that’s what Mary Poppins would say and not be being racist. “Chop chop, best foot forward! You find a dustpan and brush, and you – my word, that IS a lot of blood! I expect you’ll live. You man, pick up those tables! Get to work all of you, I want to see my face in the floor when you’ve finished tidying this almighty mess up.”

Chagrined, the former testosterone-charged burly ill-breds will fall to their tasks of polishing and sweeping and some of them will secretly like it. The amazed barman will remunerate us for my assistance in the cessation of the brawl, and you and I, Latigo, will proceed to the next bar and repeat. All who see us go will wonder and ask who we were. And we will run away giggling.

Later, after all the patrons have left, Benny, and not Sarah (who doesn’t exist) will come in to do his stint as a cleaner and will be delighted that all is tidy and agleam with the elbow grease of 50 cowboys. He will find that one rough cowboy (his name will be Bud, for it always is) has even folded the toilet-paper into a pointy bit in the bathroom, and left some pot-pourri by the urinal.

Benny does not deserve to be delighted though because he is, in reality, a pimp and “late-night-cleaner-man” is just his cover job; a reason to give the cops for being out all night. The delight of the abominable Benny is the only flaw in my otherwise beautifully planned night of bar-brawling and fun, but I am not inflexible and am open to suggestions there.

I think I shall wear my white evening gloves.

*

(But all my other posts seem to have underlined themselves too. O lovely tecchie person! Where are you??)