Cautionary Tale

Having a blog is a useful thing sometimes. I just heard from my daughter’s good friend and Proper Big Banch, Sarah, who had been reading my blog and reminded me to cancel my direct debit for that missing mobile phone (blog passim). Thanks Sarah. Just for you, here’s a poem.

The Cautionary Tale of Cedric Mouse and Simon Louse

I sliced and diced and added spice
And in a trice, I’d served with rice,
A dish with which I could entice
My sweet shy Cedric into vice.
That shyster ate it, called it “nice”,
Not once or twice, he said it thrice.
In my mind’s eye I saw us spliced
And then he left, as cool as ice.

I thought tonight would end with kisses
But al I’ve got is dirty dishes.

Our lives are cursed by fly-by-nights
Who view us girls as their birthrights,
But quite my worst was Simon Price
Whose Merc turned out to be his wife’s.
Some men are mice, some men are lice,
So girls, I urge, take my advice
(I’ll try to make my words concise),
Steer clear of men, they’re just not nice.

Electoral Diversion

Last week was so full of dancing I had little time to write. In fact, adding up on my fingers, I find I have danced a total of 16 hours since Tuesday. Time for something different and to give my aching muscles a rest so tonight I went to the Hog’s Back Writers workshop on plotting. We did a mad but fun exercise where we all wrote words, mixed them up in a hat, pulled them out and knitted them into a story. The words were a mixture of incidents, names, abstract nouns, locations, professions and household objects. Mine were

An important election – wristwatch – The Colosseum in Rome – a kennel – hairbrush – Julia – Nigel – milkman – insurance claims assessor – relief – sugar bowl – tranquillity – goodwill – rotary washing line.

Here’s what I made of it….

The returning officer looked at his wristwatch and gulped. He would soon have to announce the results and he knew the whole Colosseum, nay, the whole of Rome would rise in revolt.

He feared the dogs would be loosed from the kennels. He felt about his person for some weapon to defend himself but found only a hairbrush.

He saw the Lady Julia approaching, a look of anger and impatience on her face.

“Do get on with it” she shouted. “The people are waiting. You really are milking it. No wonder they call you The Milkman.”

It was then that he remembered Emperor Nigel’s dirty little secret. That knowledge was his insurance in case they tried to pin the obviously fixed result on him. Any such claim would be assessed but he knew his insurance would keep him safe. At this realisation the relief washed over him. He took another sugar from the bowl and stirred it into his tea, leaned back and sipped it slowly; his mood now one of tranquillity. Make the bastards wait. He owed them no goodwill and if they tried to hang their dirty washing on him, he had a rotary washing line.