Thursday, 12 April 2012

Poetry for Beginners

On Wednesday I popped along to the Garden Cafe, here in Frome, for another fabulous Crysse Morrison-hosted open-mic poetry evening.  Mr L was out motorcycling so I had to take Little Sprig and Tiny Sprig along too - but I like them to come: they know Mummy writes poetry; they know she performs it in her frilly knickers; rather sweetly they tell their teachers they like Mummy's poems the best.  Lovely, but clearly very important to expose them to the works of lots of other poets too.  
The theme for the evening was 'On the Road Again', and so we listened to the headlining guest poets Mo Robinson and Paul Tobin (please follow the links to find out more about them, they were each an absolute joy in very different ways).  Crysse will blog far more eloquently than I can so I will limit my remarks on the evening; partly because I retired with the Sprigs to the back room in order that the listeners should not be disturbed by small people, so I had to strain to hear the wonderful contributions from Liv Torc; Rosie Eliot; Rose Flint and Dawn Gorman amongst others.  By arriving prepared with dot-to-dot books and crayons, I didn't realise I would only be making it worse - who knew colouring in was such a noisy affair?  
At interval time, we made our excuses and left. The Sprigs were pooped. They'd had an exhausting day being really nice to each other (delightful; almost unprecedented).  I was prepared to agree to anything by then, so we had pyjamas, milk and cookies at ten-thirty p.m. 
The point is this: we sat with our milk and cookies, feeling very naughty because all 5-7 year olds should have been in bed hours ago, and I asked them if hearing all those poems had inspired them.
The responses say it all. The first is by Little, aged 7, and he says 'Mucky Puppy' represents his little sister, and 'Tidy Teddy' represents himself.  The second is by Tiny, aged 5, and I am grateful for both the frog and the plum.

The mucky puppy eats ice cream
The tidy teddy eats vegetables
They mesh together
To make vegetably ice cream
And they both share
© Little Sprig, April 2012


A princess had a princess toy
She said to her King
She will get married in her castle
She will play with her dolly
And she will have her Prince and her King and Queen
This was her King and Queen and her toy frog
Her frog was in a pond and it had a plum
And it was a smiley face frog

The End

© Tiny Sprig, April 2012

Wednesday, 4 April 2012

The Chest That Launched A Thousand Bricks

On a recent flight to New York, I was delighted when the Captain announced: ‘This is your Captain speaking. In the event of a forced landing on water, all passengers should make their way to the woman in seat 36F, whose magnificent chest-mounted flotation devices will be your best chance of survival.’ He added, cheekily, ‘Phwoarrrr!’
You’re probably thinking ‘what a lovely surprise’. But while it was lovely, it wasn’t a surprise. At least, not for me.

‘Whopping Jugs’: But Muriel says that her floating funbags have been a mixed blessing, with many of her own sex becoming resentful, and have closed as many doors as they have opened

Throughout my adult life, I’ve regularly had men I don’t know leering at me in restaurants. Once, a well-dressed chap bought my train ticket when I was pressing my enormous assets into his back in the queue, while there was another occasion when a charming gentleman fondled my norks as I stepped out of a cab in Paris.
Another time, as I was walking through London’s Portobello Road market, I was tapped on the shoulder and invited to sell ‘the one of those puppies with the pink nose’.  Even bartenders frequently don their horizontal blinkers when I try to settle my bill.
And whenever I’ve asked what I’ve done to deserve such treatment, the gents have always said the same thing: Gor Blimey Missus, You Don’t Get Many Of Them To The Pound, Eh? Eh? Woo-Hoo-Hah-hah!
While I’m no Pamela Anderson, I’m tall, slim, usually pink-haired and so, I’m often asked whether I am definitely a woman. I know how lucky I am. But there are downsides to having massive mammaries — the main one being that other women hate me for no other reason than my lovely jubblies.
If you’re a woman reading this, I’d hazard that you’ve already formed your own opinion about me — and it won’t be very flattering. For while many doors have been opened (literally) as a result of my looks, just as many have been metaphorically slammed in my face — not literally, obviously, on account of my ginormonus gazungas.
I’m not smug and I’m no flirt, yet over the years I’ve been dropped by countless friends who felt threatened if I was merely in the presence of their other halves. If their partners dared to actually look at my baps, a sudden chill would descend on the room.
And most poignantly of all, not one girlfriend has ever asked me to be her bridesmaid.
You’d think we women would applaud each other for taking pride in our appearances.
Unfortunately women find nothing more annoying than someone else having the biggest bazoombas in a room.
Take last week, out ‘walking the dogs’, a neighbour passed by in her car. I waved — she blatantly blanked me. It seems the only crime I’ve committed is not leaving the house wearing a robust hessian undergarment. Incidentally, she has knockers like two aspirins on an ironing board.

Hello Dolly: Muriel laments that not one of her girlfriends has ever asked her to be a bridesmaid - perhaps from fear of being overshadowed by her impressive melons

 Large-breasted women don’t have it easy. If you are well-upholstered, other women think you lead a perfect life — which simply isn’t true.
 They don’t realise you are just as vulnerable as they are. It’s hard when everyone resents you for your hooters. Men think “what’s the point, she’s out of my league” and don’t ask you out. And women don’t want to hang out with someone with bigger charlies than they have.
Take last summer and a birthday party I attended with my husband. At one point the host, who was celebrating his 50th, decided he wanted a photo with all the women guests. Positioning us, the photographer suggested I stand immediately to his right for the shot.
Another woman I barely knew pushed me out of the way, shouting it wasn’t fair on all the other women if my considerable assets were dominating the snap.
Perhaps one day the sisterhood will finally stop judging me so harshly on my unparalleled shirt potatoes, and instead accept me for who I am. Because I’m lovely. Obviously.