Early Morning Delights

"Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer".
I think Gordon Brown should do that especially where David Miliband is concerned.
Could make him Chancellor I suppose...

Had a quick look outside.
Tomatoes are plumping up, still green but coming along nicely.
Weeds are tall and pretty.
Cosmos (see above) is striking in its simplicity. Bit like me.
Busy day today what with one thing and another.

Have finally decided which poems to take to the Poetry Group next Wednesday.
Now all I have to do is decide what to wear.
Could take a week.

Big Barry.....Poem

I'm so glad the night has come
for in its vastness I go wherever I like

so skimming over rooftops my imagination glides............

Big Barry at night in his perfect house of roses, bleach and photos
quells his fear of every day
with flat beer and Tesco cake
while his wife with friends plays up every night in the centre of a far away town

Old Mrs Lively pats golden Rex
till the old gold dog can take no more
she feeds him chocolate biscuits while pissing upon the floor

Big Brenda takes her washing in
whilst gabbing on the phone
Crushed Bill takes in everything
whilst planning his escape

Widower Mr Worthy
can't remember if its day or if its night
he calls his dead wife Laura
to come and fetch his plate

Kid-in-love yeah Lucy
writes his name
at least like a million times
each thick black letter letter proving
just how much she really loves him..
Steve Steve Steve


copyright Angela Norris

J.C for P.M ? O.K with G.H

David Miliband
James Purnell
Andy Burnham
Jack Straw
Harriet Harman
Alan Johnson

All the above are being mentioned in the yet-to-come-leadership election. But one name which isn't being bandied about much is that of lefty M.P. Jon Cruddas (see pic above) Currently polishing the back benches he's still blowing on his burnt fingers after losing out to Harriet Harman in the deputy leaders contest.
He came from nowhereville to claim third place, beating three cabinet ministers and winning the most 'first choice' votes.
So Jon is very well thought of obviously. Especially by the unions and me.

Anyway that's enough fantasizing.
Back to the real stuff, I can see 'Granita like' pacts taking place over the next couple of months, will James Purnell and Andy Burnham behave themselves and in so doing clear the way for a challenge to Gordo from Mr Miliband.
Or could Jack Straw be shoved temporarily into Downing Street to give the aforementioned young lads plenty of time to rise to the challenge of being a future Labour Prime Minster? And to shape up for major battles with Mr Cameron.

Hold on there's more.....

And best of all will there be a kamikaze candidate, a brave but foolhardy sort who is prepared to throw not only his titfer into the ring but his honour as well, just to force a contest. I can't think of anyone who'd be daft enough to do it, but the glorious House of Commons is stuffed to the gods with comedians, so someone might do it.
Hope so.
I need a good laugh.

So while Gordon basks on his Suffolk settee (might rain) he'll be reading the newspapers and blogs like mine with a sad and heavy heart, wondering what September and October 2008 have in store...
Probably removal vans.

Eight.....Poem

It's eight not late
a real sweet time for kissy at the gate

It's dark not light
a real bad time for the lonely in the night

It's t.v and tea
real quality time for solitary me


copyright Angela Norris

Gamine and Chips

It was zingingly hot yesterday, so what was I doing clamped to a barber's chair? Read on.

When I was a silly young thing my hair reached my waist, but now as I enter my second silly childhood my hair is to my ears. And by jolly jingo does it feel good. No more the blow drying, no more my hair feeling like a helmet on account of the lacquer lavished upon it. And no more resembling a Charlie's Angel.

I decided to go 'gamine' a few years ago and it was one of my better decisions. But what puzzles, nay, annoys me, is the continual amazement from so called 'stylists' who all happen to be female by the way, when I say I want it 'really short' they look at me in a kind of pitying way. "You sure?" some ask "Yes" I nod. "It might stick up" they whimper. "I want it short" I insist.

Now about yesterday.

I was desperate to get it cut and as I didn't fancy driving to Southend I headed for my local barbers! "He'll do it" I thought as I skipped to the little barbers next to the bakers.

As I entered the male emporium, 'Head Hunters' there were two reasonably tidy grey-haired men waiting (one was eating chips) while a WOMAN of about forty-five liberally waxed up a young guy's hair, my heart sank as I sank into the burnt umber leatherette chairs. "I Want A Man" I screamed inside, I don't want ladies handling my locks any more, they don't do it right.
But I was wrong.
Anyway I sat amongst the magazines listening to Vernon Kay and I wasn't thrown out, so I made myself comfortable and waited.

The men were seen to by the lady barber in a slow and methodical manner.
"Blimey" I thought "I'm going to miss The Weakest Link at this rate." So as I couldn't do anything, I just let it all wash over me.

"Would you like to come over?" she asked looking at me a bit old fashioned. And as my legs dangled from the chair I chirped up "Short all over please, especially at the back."
She did a Victoria, she was not amused.

"Short?" she asked
"Yes short" I echoed
"How short?"
Holding an inch of hair between my fingers I said "This short"
"You sure?"
"Yep"
After spraying some water on to my hair she began cutting and chatting.
"I won't do a number four" she said "It'd be too masculine and you don't want to look like a lesbian....."

I sighed the biggest sigh ever, and as I watched her through the mirror I felt rather sorry for her. Here was a professional middle-aged woman assuming that all women who prefer short hair must be gay. I've realized that just because you've made it to forty or fifty you've not suddenly become wise or sensible. I did hope however that beneath her unimpressive rug of blonde hair she possessed a little artistry.

"What's your name?" I asked
"Lisa" she said "I used to work in the city in insurance, but now I do this, I prefer it. Max who owns this shop is away for the day, and he doesn't do ladies hair, but I do. I have to pay him half of everything so that's why I'm into other things too....."

Every few minutes she'd ask impertinent questions like "Do you work?" and "Where do you live?"
"I rob banks and live in London" I said winking at her. That shut her up.
So after much chopping and whizzing of the trimmer thing she said "It suits you"
"Yes it does" I said cocking my head to one side."And thank you."

Her parting shot was a gem.

"I do do home visits you know" she whispered " Some of my older ladies prefer it"
After hitting her over the head I left.

Going Down

I wonder what Gordon is doing now, sharing breakfast with Sarah I expect.

His hefty head drooping onto his chest as the worry over his leadership weighs down heavy upon him.
I feel sorry for the beleaguered Scot in a way, because here's a man who waited in the dusty wings of politics for thirty years hoping for the top job, finally he gets his massive hands on it and look where it's got him.
Nowhere.

He's being torn to shreds by both big and little critics, the big ones coming in the shape of the unions, the little 'uns in the shape of trembling pasty-faced backbenchers who are are sobbing into their hankies because they believe that with Captain Brown at the helm they're going to drown come the next election.
Like the rats they are.

The former Chancellor he has one major disadvantage.
He lacks charisma.
As I wrote yesterday, he's not a performer like his predecessor Tony Blair, Brown may be a great guy with his chums, a positive comedian no doubt, but when it comes to setting the political stage ablaze, he fails miserably.

Prime Minister's Questions appears to be quite distressing for the P.M. because although he occasionally gives as good as he gets, he usually fails to execute a dazzling performance.
He doesn't steal every scene, and his stay-at-home tea drinking political groupies are left throwing missiles at the telly as he hangs onto the dispatch box, often leaving David Cameron to claim the bouquets.
Gordon should have remained an understudy.

His monthly meetings with the press are just as excruciating, and I should know because I've watched every one. His hands continually fiddle with sheets on paper on the lectern, his right hand constantly shuffling and patting, while his left smooths and props up the aforementioned bits of A4.
He looks ill at ease.
He looks nervous, and when he smiles that corker of a fake smile, I throw up.
'Don't do it Prime Minister' I beseech, 'Please be kind to yourself'. Unto thine own self be true and all that.
He can't hold an audience, there's no doubt about that, and his attempts at humour are pathetic, bit like a new guy at work trying to ingratiate himself with his colleagues.

Some people are in the wrong job and Mr Brown is one of them.
So as the nervous Prime Minister chews his nails and cornflakes I have one bit of advice for him. Go.


The painting is 'The Raft of the Medusa' by Théodore Gericault (1791-1824) It was painted between 1818 and 1819.

Gloria on Gordon

He's in trouble.
The suited and booted vultures are not only circling overhead they're talking to each other too.

Concerned aspiring colleagues are talking of clawing his house keys away from him, leaving him with nought but the clothes he stands in.
Political nature red in tooth, claw and ambition.

Because as Gordon checks his watch and soaks up the rays of a fine English summer whilst drinking beer, Cabinet hoodies huddle round sturdy tables salivating over the sound of popping champagne corks and his return.
They're gonna have him.

What shall I do Sarah, he says, I don't want to lose my job?
But Mrs Brown isn't listening she's tanning herself and thinking about book signing sessions.

Whenever asked about his current problems he says the same thing, sounds the same and looks the same, never do I see a Blairesque performance.

Brown is a shy man who looks uncomfortable in front of the camera, he's not a show-off.
He's not an actor.
He's not a star.
He's a Scot.

Labour are taking a pounding at the moment, and it's all Gordons fault.

The electorate can't afford meat no more and for that he'll lose his job.
It's over.