-It looks as if our dip into the sweet brief summer puddle is coming to an end. I got very wet in the dry.
-Gordon Brown is doing more disastrous turns than a bad hard-up comedian on the seafront at Blackpool.
-Scottish tennis player Andy (I'm not English) Murray is playing Rafael (muscles) Nadal today in the Hamburg Open. Adios Andy.
-Gordon Brown has had a make-over, but no amount of primping will turn this earthworm into a butterfly.
-Alex Ferguson rubs me up the wrong way.
-John Humphrys is my sugar daddy.
-Ant and Dec are Morcambe and Wise without the humour, talent, class or warmth. I wonder if they share the same bed?
-If a biopic is made about Bob Hope, Graham Norton should get the lead. I think he looks like him, especially from the front.
-Alastair Darling is Mr Negative Man. Black and grey with holes in.
-Monty is morphing into a small donkey. He's started walking on the beach and wearing silly hats.
-I was eating porridge this morning whilst applying lipstick, listening to Gordon Brown and looking at my purple knees. Or was it the other way around?
To be continued...
Later...
Saw Brown on t.v. his forced smile and awkward laughter made me feel quite ill. If ever there was a man in the wrong place it is him. Tony Blair swanned out of Downing Street leaving us, the great British nation in the incapable clammy hands of a fake Prime Minister.
The rain hasn't stopped today. Hasn't stopped me laughing, spending or wishing.
Below is a poem I wrote earlier this year for my Pearl Dust blog. I won't insult you by explaining it, suffice to say it tells an all too common story of how true love is unkillable. I hope you like it.
I'll be posting other poems, some of which will be familiar to my regular readers and although I've tinkered with a few, I haven't taken liberties, just edited and made good.
Mrs Roper
Mrs Roper leant against the pillar box
knowing this was her last letter sent
no more the kisses under her name
no more her heart mashed on feint lines
Mrs Roper had had enough.
Raymond's gushing had drowned her
and her tongue was all run dry
her mind was now still and exhausted
her heart was lying with Ted's
beneath the best daisies on Old Ossett Hill
It started plain and simple enough
no frills or loud shouted promises
no split veins wet sticky and rubbed together
no tattoos of grand coiled initials in black
just the sound of silly old hearts
jumping at a love found past 70
The temperatures hit high
as the king and queen creaked the Cha Cha
she in tight emerald green
he in brushed black and gold
the single couple moved briskly after the marrieds had left the floor
in the Halola dancehall behind the car park at Old Ossetts Hill
the powdered lady
the shiny man
whooped like the young and free
But one day at teatime
after a day of sifting through boxes
Mrs Roper sat solid unable even to cry
chapters of her life laid down in tin boxes
done up in envelopes now torn and frayed
she fingered her past with Ted from the railway
and couldn't possibly see Raymond today.
