Sonnet no1

The 'Kitchen Aid' my instrument of love

allowing me to bake and mix and whip

my way into the hearts of those I love.

First sugar then the butter I will tip

into her sleekly shining silver bowl.

Her sculptured body seemingly upset

by flour, batter, cream - all take their toll.

Ruffling her cool exterior. Can she regret

her role as comfort feeder? For the sake

of hungry mouths for whom I love to bake?

With pizza, pies and pastries I entice

my daughter's friends to tea and in a thrice

the treats are gone. Its left to me to wash

her, ready for the next delicious nosh.

Activity 8.6

You should try to put him out of your mind. The only trouble is, every time your mind's not busy with something else it takes itself off and thinks about him before you get a chance to stop it. Sometimes when your mind should be concentrating on what your maths teacher is explaining, it up sticks and wanders off into that part of itself where Adrian lives. And then you find your eyes following suit, wandering off Mrs Hall's blackboard and finding the back of his head. Staring at him, willing him to turn around. But he never does.

Not like that afternoon all those weeks ago. Why was he being so friendly to you then? Was it because there was no one else around? Might he harbour secret feelings for you too? Setting off home over the fields after the bus broke down, you'd never have thought Adrian'd want to walk with you, or talk with you. But it was as though a magic wand had sprinkled you with fairy dust and all of a sudden you were the only two people in the world. You chatted about this and that laughed and took the mickey out of teachers and the other kids at school. It was as though the two of you did this every day of your lives. And he looked at you with such sparkle in those wonderful grey eyes of his. Adrian was one of the cooler kids at school. You knew his family were less well-off than yours – he lived in one of the few council owned houses in the village. But this gave him a certain caché and along with his rebellious long hair and scruffy school uniform, were part of the attraction. You were always smart in your school uniform. Your mother made sure of that. She would never let you go out with a frayed cuff or an un-ironed shirt. Being smart was never cool. Neither was being clever. Your attention wandered back to Mrs Hall. She is writing an equation on the blackboard. She turns to the class and asks who would like to try to solve it? Your hand goes up, as usual.

Activity 7.5

I thought I would always remember this, but over time it must have become blurred. I was seventeen and he was just twenty. We had been seeing each other for a couple of months and I think we were pretty much in love. I had just passed my driving test and was determined to get some practice. It was the most beautiful, sunny, autumnal day, so we decided to drive to the top of box Hill for a picnic. I think we planned some great spread with ginger beer, sandwiches, scotch eggs and cream cakes. But we spent too long in bed in the morning and by the time we got our act together all we could find in my dad's fridge were a few cold sausages and some nearly stale bread. I can't remember now if there were many other people there. It's a hugely popular beauty spot, so there were probably hundreds. We must have walked away from the crowds because I don't remember anyone disturbing us. Maybe we were so wrapped up in each other that a herd of elephants could have stampeded by and we wouldn't have noticed. We lay our picnic blanket under a tree and at some point we must have chewed our way through the nearly stale sandwiches. I don't remember what we talked about or even how long we stayed there for. The image I remember, almost like a photograph that glows in my memory like yesterday, had nothing to do with where we were, the panoramic view or even the lovely young man. It was the view straight up through the golden-hued canopy of leaves. Transcendently beautiful autumn colours with sunlight pouring through them, all set against a watery blue sky.

I have often, in subsequent years, looked up through the leaves of trees in the autumn, searching out the same perfect combination of light, leaves and sky. I have never seen it again.

And the young man? Reader, I married him!

5.1

She absent-mindedly flipped the dog-eared business card between her fingers. In front of her were a blank sheet of paper and a jar of sharpened pencils. What was she to write? Inspiration came slowly in this dark and dusty room. She tried to write everyday but always allowed herself to become distracted. The new laptop – her link to the outside world – was tucked away under some books. But it was calling to her. The chat rooms and virtual worlds where she lived her life were beckoning to her from within the closed fold of the computer. But she resisted, for now. She looked again at the business card between her fingers. 'Derek Stone – Sales Manager'. He had tried to get her to buy his carpet cleaning service. He was nice looking – that's why she'd let him in. She enjoyed chatting to him, playing along with his patter. After he'd left she'd thought often about ringing him up, inviting him for coffee. But he might have wanted to go out. And she couldn't do that. In her imaginings she'd got as far as asking Janine to bring her in some auburn hair dye. But there it sat still, gathering dust. She put the card away and addressed herself anew to the blank sheet of paper. What is it they say? Write about what you know? All she knew was within the walls of her tiny flat between the withered poinsettia on the window sill and the dusty radio in the kitchen. That, and the world inside her laptop, where she could be anything and anyone. She shifted the books to one side, slid the laptop in front of her and opened the lid.

Smooth Pencil

 

The more I write, the more I realise that I like to write in pencil, on paper. Rather than typing on my laptop or using a pen. The computer has too many distractions and my attention is soon away from the job in hand onto something less important and more inane. And pens never seem quite right. The choice of the right pencil is becoming more and more of an obsession. I used to use those plastic things where the lead pops out of the end when you press the rubber-tipped end. But the plastic doesn't feel right in my hands. So I mostly use HB pencils from WH Smith. They are painted a lovely, soothing blue-grey colour and they feel silky to the touch. They have rubbers on the ends and are just about the perfect pencil. However, I do like them sharp, so my small stock is rapidly diminishing in size as they get sharpened away.

The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry

I bought this the other day & have been slowly working my way through it. Its a bit like an OU work book, but with jokes. I was already a fan of Stephen Fry's but now I think I will be worshipping at his feet & erecting a statue in hs honour. I have already managed to write two or three couplets that may develop into something useable for A215 and I have only got to about page 40. I keep the scribblings from the exercises in my notebook, so the whole thing dovetails nicely with a bit of daily writing. Well worth the effort & the doing it properly. Cannot recommend this highly enough.

Some Haikus.

Cows chewing grass
Shaded beneath apple tree.
Crumble and cream, yum.


Reflective, hard watch.
Dismissing time with cold hands.
Patience; waiting; done.


Small, hard, black flies
Whizzing, buzzing round my head.
Wish you were all dead.


Two Haikus on spider's webs.

Spider's webs, inside dust
Accumulates. Slatternly.
Hoover all up quick!

Outside, jewels, diamonds
Glistening on morning webs.
Nature's perfect dew.