Listen

To your heart

Hear the words

Its telling you

All you need to know

To Be.

A Face?

I saw a face
Muffled in layers
Afraid of the cold
Knocked about
That face had been

Maybe scared
Maybe worried
Maybe too many
Smokes or drinks
Once or twice

I felt sad for that face
Been there

Then I thought
Someone Down on His luck.
Could it be
A face I've seen before?
Huddled against the cold

In a doorway
As I rushed by
Too busy in a busy world?
Well, actually, yes, it is. Of course...

I'm not going to feel sorry.
That face had his days
Of hope and laughter

But!

If such a face took life too hard
Maybe found himself
Financially embarrassed
Maybe needing a small sub
From whenever to whenever

Feck it!

What can I say
I would, of course I would
Help out.

Just for a while
Until the horse romps home
First instead of last
You know on four legs
Instead of three.

Coming third in a three horse race
Is not so good.

Happy Birthday & Oh yes Draculaaaa

To Bram Stoker born on 8th November 1847 Born in Ireland and raised in Ireland there is no getting away from it he was Irish. But, for some reason he is one Irishman we, whilst not totally ignoring, seem to have been reluctant or slow to recognise.

Without Mr Stoker there would have been no need for long silk lined cloaks, black of course. No need for wooden stakes or garlic. No need for full length windows and no need for underwired bras.

At least Mr Stoker had the good taste to base his immortal character in Transylvania and not Ireland, even so it might be a good idea to lock the windows and close the curtains early tonight. One hundred and sixty five years old and stronger than ever.

Bram Stoker died on 20th April 1912. As far as I know he has not been seen since.....Whooo!

Come into My Parlour....

The eternal magic of poetry. I know I always put old and usually very well known chocolate box poems here but that's because they are my own old favourites as well as everyone elses and I love to remind myself of them.

This one is no different. It seems as though I have always known this. I'm told I loved it when it had to be read to me and when I was too young to see beyond the words. I still do it speaks to and for me. We're never too old for fun. Just a nursery rhyme or so much more. I'm not going into metaphor or inuendo there's no need.

Or as it is formally known:

The Spider and the Fly by Mary Howitt 1799-1888 First published: 1829

Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there."
Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, " Dear friend what can I do,
To prove the warm affection I 've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome -- will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind Sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you 're pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple -- there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue --
Thinking only of her crested head -- poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour -- but she ne'er came out again!

And now dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

279 - Whats in a Name

Its a lazy Sunday and I've been thinking about names, I wonder how many of us actually like our first or christian name. I don't like mine its not a new thing I've never liked it. I was named after my mother, except I wasn't, her name was changed by the nuns when she and her sisters were sent to the convent when their mother died. In those days if one parent died the children were abducted, perfectly legally, by the RCC. My mothers name was changed apparently because there was more than one person with her name in the convent and that, irritates, me.

Its not the catholicism of the name as far as I know my name has no religious connections, and I have no problem at all with names like Mary or Maria although given a choice I would choose Maria. My problem is that such was the power of the church they could change a name on nothing more than a whim. No questions asked no excuses even thought of. My names a reminder of that and is one of the reasons I dislike it, the other reason is its so pedestrian, so nondescript, to me it suggests bourgeois domesticity and I don't like that at all.

Obviously its easy to understand the origins of many names. Butcher, Baker, Robinson, Fitzpatrick and so on, they are easy. Slave names too are easily understood, Mohammed Ali changed his name from the christian Clay to muslim Mohamed Ali because he said that his name derived from slave ownership, many slaves were given the surname of slave owners and whilst that may be another cruelty inflicted by the slavers its as understandable as son of or trade of. To think the RCC and for all I know other religions were still powerful enough to change peoples names, often their original birth certificates being ignored or even destroyed, long after emancipation, independence and equality for all, is somehow worse than the rest or it is for me.

129 - No One Looked

On the top of the hill it stood, proud and majestic in the light. An eternal tribute to the generosity of those who would pay to abdicate responsibility. The long windows sparkled like jewels in winter snow. The steps leading to the main doors had the hard, rich gloss of marble. It was important never to be alone on those steps.

The building was surrounded by gardens so well kept not a blade of grass differed one from another. Like soldiers in a row the shrubs swayed in identical formation at any passing breeze. If you looked you could see the boys carefully and quietly tending the gardens, digging and weeding, never looking up, never stopping. Visitors came and went with smug, secure assurance. No one ever looked.

The bells rang and you woke. It was early but you didn't complain or hesitate, you threw the thin, single blanket off the bed and quietly got your things together. You didn't stop to look at anyone, a whisper to a friend was all you dared as you walked quickly and very quietly to the door.

In the bathroom you broke the ice on the water and washed quickly, making sure your hair was wet so that anyone glancing at you would know you had washed. You rushed to dress, muttering as frozen fingers red and sore fumbled at buttons. There was a bit of a crush around the door as everyone rushed to get out. No one wanted to be left alone in the bathroom.

You walked quickly down the long, wide shining hall. The boys in front, beside and behind you jostled for the safest spot. You didn't notice how the floor, windows and woodwork shone, why should you you and two others had scrubbed and polished them the day before, after mass you would do it all again. Sparkling clean statues of the saints stared down at you from their lofty shelves. You needed a ladder to clean those.

At the top of the stairs two of them stood waiting, your eyes narrowed and silently you melted into your carefully selected spot in the middle of the suddenly long single file. As your foot trod on the second step the boy stepping down behind you was hauled away, no reason was given or needed. No one looked. You shivered and didn't know if it was from the cold or from relief. You almost smiled as the bottom of the long wide flight came toward you. As far as you were concerned the day was off to a good start if you got down the stairs unnoticed.

The day began with Mass and you joined the long queue to get in. Two boys arrived late, there was a brief sound of shuffling as you and others made room. No one looked, it was even more important not to notice red eyes or bruises. The last boy arrived, he was limping. He slipped and almost fell as he reached your pew. No one reached to steady him. He caught the edge of a pew at the back and struggled to hold his footing on the floor the boys had scrubbed and polished. Something dripped from his leg to the floor. No one looked.

At the top, the priest appeared, casually straightening his belt or as you had been taught to call it his cincture. At last he stood in front of the alter resplendent in the vestments the boys had washed and ironed. The sound of the organ filled the air as the choir began to sing. You risked a brief glance up as the guests smooth and pampered in the front opened their hymn books and joined in the singing. If you looked you could see the tears on young faces as the beautiful music filled the air conveniently muffling the choked back sobs. No one ever looked.

THIRTY THREE - Bertie

It began late one night. I was checking all the doors that should be locked were and all unnecessary lights in the hotel I managed were switched off. It was a job I didn't have to do, we had night staff, but I liked to be sure, after all I was there for the night too! As I approached the double doors to the car park I noticed two bright amber glows completely and invisibly suspended in the pitch black of the night. It was a startling, slightly unearthly sight. I stood still for a second and then turned the outside light on, and there he was, the most beautiful black cat anyone has ever seen. I looked at him, he looked at me, and then I turned and went to the kitchens. I found a piece of chicken, cut it into bite size pieces and returned to the door. He was still there, the picture of patience, waiting. I opened the door. He didnt even step back as I carefully placed the food at a respectful distance and, without a backward glance went inside and locked the door. The next morning he was still there, the morning staff fed him, and who would not? I left him to his own devices, watching from a distance as he made himself at home in the large leafy car park and garden area.

We did not let him move in, we were being strong. It was clear to us he was much loved by someone. We all thought such a cat must have a home, someone must be missing him. I checked, left a note with the all the local pet stores, with all the local vets, I even checked with the police! After they got over the rolling eyes and sarcastic sniggers they assured me that although they did not keep records for lost cats they were sure they would have remembered it if anyone had attempted to report one missing. I was impressed at the way they maintained the serious facade as they told me: if anyone did come looking for a cat, they would certainly remember me...

We discovered he had very definite likes and dislikes about food! I think it was the way he would push the plate away with a huge paw and then go through the symbolic motion of burying it that gave us a clue. It became routine for people to hear my despairing: "But Bertie you like that!" I took him to the vet for a check up and apart from a minor operation he got a clean bill of health. We talked about it and thought perhaps an elderly person had owned him and there had been a tragedy.

By now we were all used to him, we argued about what name he might have. We tried to call him using various traditional 'cat' names. He ignored them all and for the record no one did 'ignore' better than this stunningly handsome, and as we now knew, aristocratic chocolate Persian cat. Its an art all cats seem to have mastered. One day a few weeks after he arrived one of the housekeepers said we should call him Bertie because of the old song and because he was obviously an aristocat. We tried it out on him and he seemed to like it. He now had a name but we were being firm he was still not allowed in.

Late one night, I was working again. I walked through the building checking lights and locks. It was a wild night the wind howled, the rain pounded the walls and windows and then the thunder started. My Bertie was outside the door in all that! It was not a thought it was instinct. I opened the door and in he rushed. He didn't even look at me. He ran straight into my office, into the bathroom and jumped into the sink. I watched bemused as he settled there and, quick as a flash I decided to use the public bathroom outside to brush my teeth. He stayed in the sink all night, just curled up asleep in the sink! The next morning one of the waitresses and I looked in on him. He opened his eyes stretched and was clearly ready for breakfast. My Bertie was home.

He ruled the hotel but there had to be rules. We put notices on the doors (all of them) saying: Please do not let the cat in the rooms. It didn't work. Guests would sneak him in, and then find themselves letting him out in the early hours because whilst he liked them sure enough, they were not his home and he was going to his home. He would arrive at my door and a huge paw would 'knock' at it until I stopped whatever I was doing and let him in.

He had a dodgy tummy. We discovered this when guests gave him their food. He loved Pitza, regrettably it always made him sick. We put notes up everywhere saying: Please do not feed the cat. It didn't work. No one did half starved like Bertie. Little did the guests know that the first thing the breakfast cooks did was feed him, personally cutting the chicken he loved into bite sized pieces, before giving even a thought to the guests.

He was very democratic, firmly believing every lap was his and mixing easily with all the guests, from the smart executive to the casual tourist. But there were sometimes problems when people found out he was a stray, some seemed to think we had not done enough to find his owners, surely there was something more we should do?some were less than convinced he was a stray, 'borrowed' more like!

Nationality made no difference to him either. One of his 'best friends' was a young Indian girl staying at the hotel for several weeks while on a college course. If he was missing, as long as she was there I knew where he would be. One Russian lady got very upset when we refused to give him to her. She stormed off saying she would never stay at the hotel again. On another occasion an American couple sent us a card saying the hotel had the worst bed and the best cat in the world...

The hotel was sold and I took Bertie home. He settled in very quickly making it his home too. An uncle came to stay and Bertie got into his room. I said: "I'll just get him out for you." My Uncle said. "No! He can stay." You see Bertie liked to sleep right beside you with his head on the pillow and one of your hands held gently in his front paws. Occasionally a huge paw would drift across your face, but it meant nothing more than an affectionate pat.

I sat in the garden one Sunday afternoon and the neighbours called over the wall how much they liked my cat. I said "give him some meat". Smiling I sipped my wine waiting for the inevitable, minutes later the oohs and ahs began. You see Bertie would hold your hand in his two huge front paws and very carefully take the food from your hand. It was a good trick and it never failed to gain yet another dewy eyed fan.

Ah my Bertie, so loved, so many stories to tell. He grew older, and he was not young when he found me. The years took their toll. All those sneaked pitzas added to the cost and one day it became too much for my much loved 'old gentleman'. The vet said he was very old and very ill...I miss him still, I always will. My Bertie.

FOURTEEN - Wootton Bassett

It is not about politics, politicians are often wrong, many are corrupt and all seem to be liars. This is about the men and women those politicians send to dangerous places. I believe the people of every country have the right and even the duty to show their respect for the soldiers, fighting and dying far from home.

It is nowhere special, a small market town a few miles from the RAF base at Lyneham. It just happens to be the first town a fallen soldier is taken through on his way home, An old soldier noticed this and made a few phone calls. He got together with friends and each time a soldier came home the people of Wootton Bassett gave a few minutes of their time to show their respect for the fallen soldier.

It became a silent gathering of local people standing by the side of the road. The death toll continued and gradually the small gathering grew and lined the streets in silence. More old soldiers arrived to add their memories and their pride. The families of the fallen went to be among the crowd and close to the loved one on his way home.

It was silent, it was peaceful. It was strictly non political. It was the people paying their respects to the men who had committed their lives to the protection of their country. A silent way of saying whatever they thought of war, they had the greatest respect for their army.

It had to happen, in a world of twenty four hour news the media arrived and with them came the extremists, those who milk the system and take advantage of every opportunity to draw attention to themselves. For people like that Wootton Bassett is an unwelcome reminder of a country they like to think no longer exists. It actually appalls and even frightens these promoters of hatred and extremism, that however many turn out to bring the soldiers home, millions more agree with and totally support the recognition and respect paid to the fallen soldiers of the British Army

Killed in Afghanistan