Wordpool

 

puddle

(Half a year and)

Not

One

Drop

of

puddled prose

gathered in           the swollen –

-hearted silence

Not one

bead

of sad of glad of surge of word and sudden rush of perfect lines to

write the openings of stories that when you push the door expect a brilliant light

and not the black sewn seam stitched up before the words had even fully flowed

Anxious for celestial pools

I

have

only

dri

pp

ed

.

H is for… (clue: they’ll rot your teeth)

… HARIBO!haribo_starmix_160g

Despite German company, Haribo making their first gummy bear in 1922, they didn’t hit the US market until the 80s.  I assume that it must have been even later getting to the UK, which explains why I don’t recall them being here when I was growing up.

When I was young, I thought that it was only kids that ate sweets. Adults were WAAAAAY beyond all those sugary jellies. Chocolate; sure, chocolate was different because there were obvious degrees of something like choco-sophicstication… Which explained how it was that whilst we kids dribbled and drooled over Milky Bars and Animal Bars, the grown ups could nibble sensuously on a Cadbury’s Flake and eat things like After Eights in a bubble bath.

So it is, that nearing 40, I am still waiting for that crucial, transitional moment, when I can look at a strawberry shoelace, or a bag of Tangfastics, with a sense of disgust.

Deep down, I just want to be a grown up with a penchant for 80% cocoa, fairtrade, dark chocolate made from hand selected beans grown in sustainable developments in deepest darkest Ecuador. Instead, I go mad for a jelly fried egg, and sometimes crave a cola bottle.

Now. apologies for ending a lighthearted post on a downer, but in keeping with the confessional nature of my H post, I must admit that I can rarely allow myself the delights of any of it, as my choices nowadays are generally (and spitefully) governed by Anorexia Nervosa.  Bastard illness. haribo bears

 

 

 

 

G is for Guns…

n’ Roses…

Yep. Little old me. Who’d have thunk?

In my mid teens I discovered rock. And unfortunately for my parents, it wasn’t of the geological variety.

I literally fell in love with Guns n’ Roses.

There were others of course. I had flings with Aerosmith and Def Leppard, flirted heavily with AC/DC and Nirvana and occasionally eyed up Motorhead; but in truth, the sound of Slash’s searing guitar riffs, the crazy versitility of Axl’s FIVE OCTAVE vocal range, stole my heart.

In the years between then and now, I’ve played the field more times than Man U. I’ve been seduced by Opera, persuaded by Pop,  lured by Classical, grabbed by Grunge and utterly captivated by my eventual partner, Country.

There are moments though, when a certain smell, a kind of summer car heat, a particular road, when I think of them. Like the memory of a first love, I am filled again with a hunger for that tender, youthful craving for some wordless void that only music can begin to voice.

 

From BST to GMT in minus 60

As I drive through the valley, I get glimpses of the panorama of this county and the hills beyond. Late amber sunshine gathers in pools on the landscape, drenching the patchwork of fields and houses.

It’s the last day of British Summertime and the sun that has followed the light morning drizzle, is an apt way to end British Summer time. It’s been an unusually hot season in Britain this year. A welcome warmth and a VERY welcome change!

Tonight we lose and hour. Such a bizarre concept to a stubbornly non-mathematical, unscientific mind like mine! Losing an hour. Where does it go, this mysterious hour that we just carelessly drop from our needle of careful, knitted stitches.

What happens to those sixty minutes as the tick hits twelve? Where does it disappear to?

Just wondering.