For Love. Poem

To blaze
to wink
to sin
to save
our little lives reveal
what matters most
what deeds we do for love

To burn
to cry
to sacrifice
to dwell
our little lives reveal
what matters most
what pain we take for love

To temper
to allow
to forget
to commit
our little lives reveal
what matters most
what joy we feel in love

To entreat
to bend
to swallow
to beg
our little lives reveal
what matters most
what self we lose for love

To give
to give
to give
our little lives reveal
what matters
is what we do for love



Angela Norris

With This Banana...

I've just got to get it out.
What a blasted morning I've had.
Henry was twittering about his sleeplessness, his biker hair, the other Queen, armed robbery and my 'heavenly' trifle.
And then as I was fishing out two blackened bananas from his watery fridge he asked for my hand in marriage.
'Already taken' I chirped
'Bugger' cried Henry
Thank God I'm off tomorrow.

Thoughts On Gordon Brown

His position remains impossibly black.

Ministers are dropping like fun fair ducks and even The Guardian is suggesting it's time for the Prime Minister to go.

But he'll dig in, holding on to the great office by his bitter dirty finger nails.

This government is a sad out-of-touch gaggle of people with a tetchy Scot as the boss.
And I'm not only fed up with them I'm angry and tired.

Most of the electorate want a General Election but Gordon Brown is gripping those number ten keys like a spoilt boys holding his favourite toy.
NO! Won't let go. Nothing you can do. Me Me Me!

But there is something we can do Gordon, we can kick you out.

I Googled Meatballs and Found 3,540,000 Recipes...

I've just made 25 Meatballs.
Not all for me of course, some will go to Henry. Only hope he's a meatball man. My recipe has evolved over 25 years, there's a little bit more of this, a little less of that and a lot more pizazz. The pizazz taking the form of smaller tighter balls. Large ones tend to spread about a bit.
Of course with 25 balls I'll need a lot more sauce.
I think I've got some.

Cliff, Monty and Me

So after all the excitement of my bosses possible death, I'm rather subdued on what is to be the hottest day of the year, so far.
Got loads to do of course. Mostly to do with all things horticultural. Does rubbing down a garden chair qualify as horticulture? I suppose if I do the deed in shorts and straw hat it does.
When I get a chance I must post a pic in me in my white shorts astride a rake. I don't own a pony unfortunately.
But before all that I have to make Meatballs.
Monty is being particularly stroppy this morning, miaowing at the door wanting to go out, so I gave in to his whining but only on account of the washing needing to be pegged up. Wouldn't have let him out otherwise, because he'd have only got into all kinds of scrapes and mishaps. No matey, you have to suffer the embarassment of having your mum in tow.


Now other summer matters.

Wimbledon starts on the 22nd June and I can barely contain my thrills. The thought of seeing the new roof on Centre court going back and forth back and forth due to the vagaries of the British weather. I wonder if someone will capture Sir Cliff Richard so that when the start/stop mechanism fails he'll be on hand to warble our rain splashed tears away. I do hope so. How old is he now I wonder? Must be nearing 70 if he's a day. Still he's as much of a British institution as Wimbledon so I'll give him a little love.

Strawberries. Had some in a trifle. I'd sat them on top of a sliced raspberry sponge cake and then covered it all with custard, cream, toasted almonds and more straws. Delicate flavours which turns me pig like. I'm so ashamed.

Football. England play Andorra next week, I think. Bunting at the ready.

Dresses. Bought a couple recently. Secondhand of course and I love them, but one I feel is surely the mark of impending middle aged madness. So I will only wear it when I'm drinking spritzers in a field in a Fambridge.

That's enough summer fun for one morning, after all I've got the rest of June and all of July and August to tell you what's hot and what's not!

Henry VIII And Mrs Horsehound.

On my way home from work I bought 'The Best of Cooking' a recipe book first published in 1977. And I can't wait to flick through its glossy pages. I'm so excited.
Talking of excitement, my employer who shall be called Henry from now on, was in bed when I arrived. And no amount of clashing pots, banging back doors or screaming starlings managed to stir him.
I thought he was dead.

So after binning two sprouting potatoes, cleaning the kitchen window and plating up two salads I made him a pot of tea and went up.

Knock knock.
No answer.
Knock again.
Nothing.

So down I came with the brew and poured it down the sink. And as the brown liquid flowed I thought
What'll I do if he's had a fall in his en suite and is lying naked by the toilet brush? I'd need to get an ambulance, but first I'd need to check his vital signs and that could prove difficult because he's a big lad and I might not be able to find his pulse. That would mean going down on to his chest to listen out for a heart beat.
Oh God don't be dead Henry. I need the money.

To take my mind of Henry's possible demise and my possible loss of job I sifted through his daughter's detritus which was laying on her bedroom floor. Hmmm. What do I do with six odd socks, eight hairbrushes and a laptop? Well, I sighed at first then dumped the socks in the laundry cupboard hoping their mates would eventually show themselves. The hairbrushes were quite appalling so I put them in her bathroom where they'd feel more at home. The laptop was gently closed and and looked quite out of place propped up alongside her black and white bear face bin. But at least I'd cleared some space and so could stand on the bed to reach and then dust her wall mounted telly.
Meanwhile Henry was still upstairs.

Pegging out some laundry I thought 'ok after I've done this I'm going up again'.
So I did.

Pressing my burning right cheek to his cream door I listened for life signs. Yes he was alive on account of my being able to hear the cheery sounds of BBC Radio Essex. 'Thank heavens for that' I thought and went into the bedroom next door where I picked up a pair of men's fawn leather shoes and blue velvet skirt which were heading for the dump, but which were now heading for my basket.
Henry wasn't dead after all and so happy was I that I wrote him an up beat note telling him about the trifle I'd left in the fridge for him.
I knew that'd make the big man happy.

But on the drive home creeping fears and silly worries still clogged my head 'supposing the Guiness and Vodka he'd had last night had coagulated in his enormous tum and he'd had an insufferable night with vast amounts of wind'.
What if his reconstructed hip has fallen out or something or maybe his heart has lost the plot. He'd told me last night about his ticker trouble. It loses it's rhythm or something. Anyway I needn't have worried because as I was looking at books in the charity shop he phoned, 'I'm feeling sorry for myself babe' he said.
'I came up with tea, you know' I whispered.
'Did you?' he asked
'Yes' I said
'I'm going back to bed' he moaned
'No don't' I shouted ' Go downstairs and look at your trifle' Henry is prone to depression and beds are bad for the mentally ill.
'Ok darling, I will' Henry said and hung up.
I bought my book and came home.

What a morning.
But at least I still get to wear my rubber gloves...

I Can Handle Myself...

Glorious weather yesterday. So being a stupid English woman I stayed in the garden way too long and now resemble a trifle. Red white and wobbly.
But I got things done, fiddled with toy owls, watered tomatoes and generally had a hoot of a time.
But that was yesterday...

Work now calls, so into Ripleyesque gear I plunge. Combats and vest are so unEnglish. But are so essential when fighting evil dust mites.
Go Glo go.....................