Friday, 22 February 2019

My perfect dog

I’ve seen a labradoodle and a
Dachysdoodle too,
But what I really, really wants’s
A peke-a-pug-a-poo.

I’d like to get three little dogs and
This is what I’d do -
I’d mix and match them til I got
A peke-a-pug-a-poo.

People would stop in wonderment,
And then they’d  ask me: “who
On earth have you got there?”
I’d say: “my peek-a-pug-a-poo.”

You’ll never find one in the street
Or park or beach or zoo,
So mine would be unique, the only

So if I fail at writing, or
The other things I do,
At least I’d own the one and only

(Except that I bet someone’s already done it...)

Wednesday, 30 January 2019

Ode to Writerr's Block

I've discovered a (another) wonderful way of wasting time: the Sonnet Generator. You feed in certain words, and bingo! A sonnet appears! This is mine, written entirely by the generator (with a few choice words supplied by me).


My writers block, you inspire me to write.
I hate the way you pounce, surprise and creep,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Always dreaming about the block short sleep.

Let me compare you to a library?
You are more frustrate and more disable.
Snow chills the berries of January,
And wintertime has the lead pier table.

How do I hate you? Let me count the ways.
I hate your frustrating and unhappy.
How your infuriating fills my days!
My hate for you is the pop white crappie.

Now I must away with an impede heart,
Remember my top words whilst we're apart

Ps. I'm actually writing quite happily today, but thought I deserved a break...

Tuesday, 8 January 2019

Daffodils (Especially for Graham)

On Seeing the First Daffodils in Sainsbury's

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once, in Sainsbury's, lo!
Bunches of golden daffodils!
Behind the meat, beyond the peas,
(Not fluttering, there was no breeze.)

When often on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
I often dream of daffodils
(I very rarely dream of food).
The first bright sign spring's on the way -
I have to buy some now! Today!

Out go the sausages and bread
The cleaning products, oh, so dull.
I must buy daffodils instead
Until my shopping trolley's full.
I only came in for my lunch,
But daffodils! A pound a bunch!

And oh, my heart with pleasure fills
And dances, as I reach the tills.

(With apologies to Wordsworth, but I know he'd understand.)

Sunday, 30 December 2018

My 2019....I hope...

I’m not making any resolutions this year: I’m just going to try to stick to this very wise mantra I read recently: “you are what you do today, not what you say you’ll do tomorrow”.

So to all procrastinating writers - and everyone else who reads this blog -  have a very happy and productive new year. Cheers 🥂

(The photo is of my wonderful family on Boxing Day. It’s the first time ever that we’ve all been in a photo together, with no-one missing 😀)

Sunday, 23 December 2018

Happy Christmas encore

Happy Christmas again (because I just had to use this photo of my youngest grandson)!

Friday, 21 December 2018

I am a bald, impotent, randy man

Oh, the downside of having a name which (spelled differently) could be that of a man.

For some time, I’ve  been inundated with emails from comapanies offering to increase the size of my penis (or improve the performance of the one I’ve apparently got) and to introduce me to voluptuous young women from the East. Now, these people have decided that I’m bald, as well, and are offering me a variety of hair restoring products (my hair is actually quite thick). 

In vain do I send messages to say that I AM A WOMAN, but these are always ignored. So I’ll just have to put up with it.

Next time around, I’ve decided I shall simply be called Mary 🙂

Sunday, 16 December 2018


These final verses of a beautiful poem by John Betjeman say all that I feel about Christmas. Whether you agree or not, I hope that you all have a wonderful Christmas and (especially the writers among you) an inspirational and successful new year.

 And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

(Apologies to Graham, who kindly replied to a line of this poem which escaped and made a post all on its own.)