An Awful Anniversary Assembly.

Sixty years, well here’s to it, I raise a glass; into it, I spit.
Jerk my head to call him near, passed his glass feigned a cheer.
He swallowed with greed; saliva and all. I curl my lip; soon he’ll fall.

A drunk, a bully full of hate; tonight, they will see his colours
spread out on the dinner plate. I served tripe and jellied eels.
This food, both banal and grey; like him, had seen a better day.

I smile at those around my cloth. His cronies and the hangers-on
those that doff their cap, those that think him a super chap.
“Please sit” I cry. Having previously dressed his tripe
with little crushed garlic to disguise the arsenic’s taste.
It was with finality he gorged in ungentlemanly haste.

Today my cynical response to the terrible poetry prompt. It takes me to a sixtieth Anniversary gathering. I hope you enjoy. Please leave me a comment I simply love to talk.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/22 – 2/28/2020

Give Notice To Write.

Thank you Linda Hill press Here to join in or read. Saturdays Stream of Consciousness word is ‘notice.’ #SoCs


A link to where you can purchase above mug is my gift to you!
Happy writing.

Go Away I'm Writing Bone China Mug

“Go away” is not nice for someone you love to hear.
I began to wonder how other writers got “space”or privacy to write. How do you have room?
What do you do to get room to pull faces, pace the floor, screw up sheets of paper for no good reason and toss them by the door. We do not need others seeing us chewing our lips, clenching our fists, grunting, groaning or raucously laughing at what is in our heads, so how do we manage?
Here are a few things I can think of some work and some … Some maybe not so well.

A. In a loud voice state “I need to be at my desk this morning” then slam the door.

B. Put a note on the door “Shut happens” and hope. This can be propped on your desk if you live in an openplan home, stuck to the window if ou have a garden office or attatched to the back of your head.


C. With a desperate look and dramatic voice, beg to be left alone for at least eight hours, taking a flask and sandwiches with you, so there is no need to be disturbed with lunch.
D. Smear chocolate around your mouth, mess, up your hair, while still in your pyjamas, run around the house maniacally while chanting “I need to write ” repeatedly until husband, flat mate, parent or partner, get so concerned they tell you ‘ go and write.’

E. Have a frank discussion about how long and when you need to write, the day before; preparing the way.

F. Pour a cup of tea in the pictured mug, and if there dares to be a tap on the door to your writing place, thrust it through the partially opened space and shake with vigour.

G. Write out a formal notice to quit.

Dear ….., (insert name) Husband,

I am giving you formal notice that on Tuesday at eight A.M precisely my services as …. (insert your own) wife/superhero will be withdrawn. I will not be approached for any reason, other than to recieve bi- hourly deliveries of snacks, shoulder massages, smiles, or cups of my favoured brand of tea. During such visits conversation will not be permitted. Normal service will resume at six pm. I thank you in advanced for your co-operation.

If you can think of any better ones, or some that you have tried, please leave them in the comments … Do keep them clean and I will add them if appropriate to my list. Happy writing my friends.

 Dr Who?

This week there were tweets and news reports, conversations and flips about the New! Doctor Who. For the first time ever, or so I have been led to believe, a woman is to take the starring role. I have watched many Dr Who’s come and go my favourite has to be John Pertwee, mostly because I adored Worzel Gummidge.

Anyway I digress, The lovely Jodie Whittiker, ‘I know her from Broadchurch’. Just saying, anyway she has got the title, won the coveted prize, stepped up to evolve the cult programme further into the realms of wonder. Now don’t shoot, my hands are up. I became bored witless at the naysayers, the chauvinistic complaints and the Agg-Gh ahh! It was everywhere, the moaning. So I switched off unplugged and refused to look any more.

Personally, I think she will be an iconic Dr Who. A conversation with a good friend had some days after the self-imposed ban,  was to bring up the question once more of should the Doctor be a woman? That was when we took it to the pub. Yes, two women took a convo to the village pub to do what men have done for centuries,  and why not! If a woman can be The Doctor… we ordered fizz as we would, a pint of John Smiths (any other beer could be substituted in this spot) is not our taste after all. The following is my version, maybe embellished, but mine none the less. Of an overheard conversation.

Two Men In A pub

Stan was slurping the froth from the top of his beer when this exchange took place.

Stan looks at Tom… ‘I suppose it will be exfoliate what they say now’. Wipes his mouth on his sleeve and sniffs loudly.

Tom. ‘What, what do ya mean’

Stan. ‘Them Dalek’s … now it’s a woman doctor’

Tom. ‘Ave you gone doolally, exfoliate’.

Stan. ‘Instead of sayin exterminate as they’ve  always done’.

Tom shakes his head slowly ‘Tha’s a daft bugger; exfoliate’.

A few minutes pass, both men finish their beers and Stan says. ‘You for another’?

Tom nods, and as Stan lurches unsteadily towards the bar you can hear a penny drop when Tom begins to guffaw.

Tom. ‘ Dalek’s exfoliate that’s reet funny that’.

I would like to thank a dear friend Anna, you know who you are, for the gift. Nuf said, “I owe you some fizz now we have moved back”. The pictures courtesy of pixabay  and unsplash and the land of lost internet photos. And you tube for the marvleous vid of Dr John Pertwee, forever in my heart as the undeniably wonderful Worzel Gummidge and in this bit Una Stubs as Aunt Sally.


For Dr Who aficionados out there…  the relevance of John Smiths in the pub is that it  was the name the Dr took while being a human in The Family of Blood. Coincidence? Or did some helpful blogger (Gary Jefferies ) unaware of my dastardly dealings let my coincidence become a clever twist? Thank you  cue time lord music and …cut!

I couldn’t resist writing this post and I hope I captured the scene. What is your opinion on women taking it to the pub? Or woman being the lead in a cult programme? Have you ever overheard a gem when you least expected it. Leave me a comment I love to talk.


Linda’s prompt for #Socs is Ham! To join in or read some

fantastic responses click 🔜here🔙

I once laughed til I cried

over a song about ‘spam’.

Was surprised when given a book

Called ‘Green eggs and ham’.
I was thrilled when cooked

Chips, beans and ham,

for the first time,

by a visiting man. *wink wink*.
You never know what form

memories will take,

or how we inadvertently

nudge them awake.
A smell of lavender

Reminds me of Gran,

reading the rhymes… you guessed it

From green eggs and ham.

The taste of pig does it for me

It rumbles my stomach

until i fill it with tea….

Anyone for a sandwich?

A whimsical ditty … My husband listened (as they do) and said “You do know you’re weird… dont you”?

Comments welcomed and responded to promptly.


Silence Please.

Charli at the carrot ranch has charged us with a challenge in 99 words no more or less write about something not allowed.  🔜 press here 🔙 to join in.

photos curtesy of pinterest.

She shushed me as the door slammed,

My arms full of books.

People peered above their specticles,

Gave me dirty looks..

She wagged a silent finger and 

pursed her lips tight.

When I slipped to the carpet

And toppled off the light.

My card was marked at the library door,

When a cough sent bubblegum

To skid across  the parquet floor.

Her sole was stuck fast 

As I staggered past.

just to round the debacle off

I snorted as I laughed.

Her teeth you couldn’t fail to miss

As the librarian delivered an Almighty hiss…

and pointed to the quote   

Darla’s Second Chance.3.

This is part 3 of my serial if you blinked and missed the first two Here are the links.

Part 1.’s-second-chance/’s-second-chance-part-two/


Darla looked in the mirror put her hand up to her face, pressed below her eyes and sighed, her waistline was less curved and she looked tired. She ran her palms down her thighs straightening the pale blue fabric of her skinny jeans, into the mirror she said: “ Pale blue is a bad colour for showing lumps and bumps, not as forgiving as denim.” *doorbell rings*

“Come in Moll, I was just putting the finishing touches”. Moll grinned, “I could do with an exterior decorator, you look good.” Darla sniffed “This dating is playing havoc with my figure.” Moll shook her head “You look lovely, better than I’ve ever seen you, you silly apeth.” She elbowed her from the mirror to push more lipstick into place. “Why is it being happy makes you fat?” Darla said as she sighed and picked up a jacket. Moll asked “You are happy Darla, aren’t you? I mean you two seem so good together, everything’s okay isn’t it?” With a sigh, Darla told her he was everything she ever wanted, “He, could be … the one, I don’t know Moll I never thought I’d want anyone; not again.” The two women grabbed their coats and headed out.

Noise assaulted their ears as the bouncer pushed the doors to the bar open. “Moll, did you see? that cheeky barman winked at you.” Moll patted her hair winked salaciously and replied “Yes, that’s Mario, I’ve known him for years, as pink and fluffy as they come,” Moll giggled “pardon the expression.” They took their drinks furthest away from the music and settled back in comfort. Groups of businessmen huddled trying to recall the day’s traumas over the music. A crowd of noisy hen night revellers warmed their drinks as they waited for the bride to be to appear from the cloakroom. A cheer and sporadic clapping roused the bar. She appeared as a glitter-clad red-faced fairy and made her way to the dance square where giggly girlies twerked to the tunes.

The workers and hen party drifted off to their homes or the next venue. Jake’s wine bar altered, the ambience of the place changed, soft Jazz and dimmed lights were soon followed by couples who sat in intimate corners, menu’s appeared and candles flickered. “Look at this” Moll waved her hand. “This could be you, eating holding hands, romantic nights, don’t you scupper it girl. It will happen you just have to relax stop looking for problems.” She waved her arm at Mario and patted the seat beside her. Darla hadn’t noticed Mario approach when she glassy-eyed said: “No it’s Mark, I think he’s changed his mind, Friday night he said he needed space.” The word space seemed to ricochet around the room, several heads turned in her direction. “Oh no, I had that with Jake it was awful, I sobbed for hours, you poor thing,” said Mario who had plonked himself down and put his hand to his cheek ( for dramatic licence). “ Don’t mind Mario, go on, tell us, a problem shared and all that.” Moll rubbed her leg and patted her knee as she spoke. “We had a lovely night and were saying goodbye at his door when he just said it. I was shocked, I asked him “What do you mean?” Darla pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes and swallowed a mouthful of wine. “ That’s not all, it was so confusing, I kept calm and told him I wouldn’t come over until Monday. I said I would give him the weekend to think. What else could I do?”  All three drank some more while she composed herself. “ anyway, I tried not to cry though anyone would have known I was upset, and that’s when he passed me the bag.” Darla gulped, “It was an old-fashioned sweet bag like we would get when we were kids. I looked inside and he said, “I thought you might need that.” Darla looked from one to another, confusion marred their faces. “I was shocked, It was a spare head to his electric toothbrush. I ask you, how flipping confused was I.”



Poor Darla, love the second time around seems to be full of ups and downs, and mixed messages. Tune in for part 4, soon. Thanks for coming, commenting and most of all for reading.

Have you ever given or received such a confused message? Drop your answers and thoughts in the comments I will respond soonest.