“BUMMER” SUMMER

They say wind, rain and storming’s

The result of global warming,

Though, for the life of me,

I can’t see how;

With radiators blaring

And with all the layers I’m wearing,

I feel rather like

 A bloated cow.

They said we’d have a scorcher,

But this Summer is cold torture,

If only they could get it

Right or wrong.

This so called scorching Summer

Has been a soggy “bummer,”

So I think I’ll skip the country

Before long.

I Must B happy

                                                                          

I MUST BE HAPPY

(BEING LEFT BEHIND)

I must be happy and I must let go;

She’s young, she’s married now, I must move on,

But there’s an emptiness, I miss her so,

A dull ache deep inside me, now she’s gone.

No more the text, “Mums, can I come for lunch?

I can’t stay long, though, fancy feeding me?”

Her absence hits me like a silent punch,

And I admit, I miss her dreadfully.

How full of ups and downs the years have been;

This sometimes thankless job of parenthood,

Where “Mum, I love you” turns to, “you’re so mean!”

Yet I’d not change things even if I could.

Although she’s gone and left me feeling low,

Because I love her, I must let her go.

My elder daughter, Holly has just left my flat in Lymington.  She and her sister, Hannah, (left in the photo) were both born in Souhampton, and have lived in Lymington all their lives.

 Hannah now lives in London, but Holly who is a vet has worked in this area for 3 years.  On June 25th, she married and now she and her husband, Chris are moving tomorrow to High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire. 

They are both blissfully happy and doing what hey want to do, so of course I'm happy for them.  I'm going to miss her so much, though!  I suppose I've been spoilt having her around here so long.  I promised I wouldn't make a fuss and I haven't, but now she's gone I feel somewhat bereft.  I feel like Eyor, and my flat feels "rather boggy and sad."

I do hope this feeling isn't going to last too long; unlike Eyor, I prefer toast for breakfast, not thistles.

DISAPPOINTMENT


You’d think that disappointment would become
Much easier to cope with down the years,
But no it does not, for it can still numb
All hope, and turn ambition into tears.
“would you be interested? Are you free?”
They ask, “Oh yes” I answer eagerly,
“A telly episode, there’ll be a fee,
But nothing’s certain, we’ll ring back, we’ll see.”
And from that moment on, I think I know,
And disappointment greets me like a shroud;
No phone call, but I must not let it show,
I must keep going, laugh, forget the cloud.
Yes, it still hurts, yes it still dents the pride,
Rejection is so difficult to hide.


Written in a disappointed rush

I take my hat off (though I rarely wear one, I have to say) to the successful, even moderately successful short story writer. I am in the middle of a writing course, and foolishly thought that short stories would be an easy way to earn money. Alas, how wrong I was, and I still am.

I am not quite ready to admit that I can't do it, or that it's not for me. I'm at the angry stage now, where I an swearing at it and calling it all the names under the sun nad am doggedly determined to master the "genre", (for some reason or other I really don't like that word) but so far without success. I don't like admitting defeat, but before I do, let me say to all those who have succeeded in gething their short stories published, thank you and keep going. I love reading them

NOW WHAT DO I DO

Well, now I seem to have got it all set up, I feel rather as if I'm talking into a tape recorder for the first time in my life. What do I say? What do I write? "testing, testing, one, two, three, four." I can't keep writing that all the time, can I To be honest, I feel a tad silly and terribly self conscious. Well, I suppose I'll get into it given time. It's just that it feels so...public

Someone here where I live is laying bets on who will be the first inmate to go down with swine flu. I think it's Mildred. She loves gloom and doom does Mildred. Thrives on death and funerals. I'll swear she once ran a book on who would be next to pop their clogs.