The fear of life’s rich pattern, is an affliction that can be seen,
from princes to paupers, and everyone in between,
The daily grind and intensity, that plagues the very soul,
relief is sought in different remedies, for seeking a loophole.

Throughout history many have suffered, from this sensitivity,
personally I find respite, in oblivion, and my creativity,
of course, this is not a perpetual state, it comes on like a cloud,
but when it hits, it envelops you, almost like a shroud.

Brad Pitt, Gwyneth Paltrow, Abraham Lincoln, Churchill and Mark Twain,
just a few of the well-knowns, who have suffered just the same,
I especially like Churchill’s phrase, he described it very well,
He had times, when the Black Dog visited, and his descent, to utter hell.

It’s described as a mental disorder, but of course, there are many forms,
Those who suffer mildly, to those, where life, is a constant mental storm,
For those who can sleep at nights, it affords a margin of respite,
Until the dawn comes again, and you’re back, into the fight,
Plan my day, what am I saying, it’s not as easy as that,
Should I get up or stay in bed, swirling mental promises, am I as mad as a bat.
from behind my eyes, my problems are insurmountable, with unabated haste,
What’s even more disturbing, are my contemporaries apparent distaste,
For an affliction that affects, one in three people, in the working space,
A web of illusionary sickness’, woven to hide, what’s exactly taking place,

As you may appreciate, this is part of me,
But in this crowded room, can you identify, another three,
probably not, it’s a taboo subject, secretly you devise coping mechanisms,
knowing all along that my openness, will cause me, much criticism,
I’ll even go as far to say, that some, yes some psychiatric professionals, dispense dubious wisdom,
Stop taking the medication, get out more, find more life rhythm,
Well, that was certainly my intention, but it’s a bit like taking away an addicts drugs,
and saying, there you are, you’re fine now, don’t get in to trouble, your family will give lots of hugs,

If only that simple, there’d be no need, for mental health command,
From Alzheimer's to the psychotic, and for all that in between, there would be no demand,
I fear, I shall dispense my wisdom, from experiences, I’ve had a few,
Your on your own with some things, unfortunately, it’s your life to chew,
Normal, what is normal exactly, and on whose measure do you gauge, for the treatment to take,
So please give us crazy people, a considered, even break.

The plumber came to call or The self-draining P’trap

To all the plumbers I have met, and yes I've met a few,
Domestic pipes, commercial pipes and civil pipe-work too,
Blow torch and solder, flux and joints,
Tricky bends and straight bits, in perfect counterpoint.

Then of course the big stuff, pipes bigger than your shoulders,
Not supplied by DIY, only bought from stockholders,
No solder for this job, a welding torch’s the thing,
Careful tack, align no crack, weld a perfect ring.

All the pipes are connected, whether large or domestic small,
Fill with water and pressurize, hoorah, no leak at all,
Flush the pipes, flow is fine, a job with a happy ending,
Pack the tools grab the kit, thank god I’ve finished bending.

The domestic user is dabbling, with a little pipe-work flair,
Can’t be that difficult, just one joint here, or the odd joint there,
All seems fine, fresh water in, waste water out,
I’m not going to spend money, on a plumber’s callout,
The waste seems not to drain well, gracious, how can that be,
I connected what I thought was right, no it can’t be me

It appears the waste pipe is blocked, gone are the comforting swirls,
This must be where the gooey stuff goes, and all those hairy curls,
I can clear the blockage, how difficult can it be,
Now, the water goes down the plug hole, around a wiggly bit, I see,
I think they call that a P-Trap, that’s all technical news to me
An old wire hanger, with force of water, will definitely do the trick
Plunge hanger down the hole, wiggle it round a bit, give it a flick,
The water hasn’t moved an inch, and the wire is firmly stuck,
Time to remove the P-trap, and deal with the unpleasant muck,
How difficult can this be, what could possibly go wrong,
Get the tools, lay on my back, this shouldn’t take too long,
Gripping trap tightly, with little effort it should unscrew,
Nothing moves, try again, it’s ****** tight, I think the thread’s askew,
A tap with my hammer, will loosen this stubborn joint,
No movement is detected, both sides are still conjoint,  
A mighty whack should do the trick, just to make my point,

A thin stream of water, is dribbling down my arm,
Success, I grab the trap, twist like merry hell, and to my alarm,
The stored bath water gushes out, the mood is far from calm.

Pushing the trap together again, trying to stem the flow,
A loud voice calls, from the dining room below,
What the hell are you doing, water’s all over my Chapeau.

Sorry my love, move your hat, it’ll be fixed in a trice,
Me thinks, If I don’t fix this very soon, I’ll need a flotation device,
Just a five minute job, am I kidding myself, my mouth is all agape,
I hunt around with my free hand, and grab the gaffer tape.

I unwind the life saver, and wrap it around the leak,
Let’s consider the situation, to avoid my wife’s serious fit of pique,  
Keep my mind focused, what could possibly go wrong,
A solution is required this very minute, that won’t take overlong.

I’ll wedge my hammer, beneath the troublesome trap,
This will give extra support, whilst my plan, I have time to map,
As I swung the hammer into place, there came a mighty crack,
A hole appeared in the bath end, I suffered a symbolic heart attack.

Time to call the plumber, and hang my head in shame,
My wife’s assessment of DIY, will never be the same,
Emergency call out was swift, a smiling youth at my door,
Lead me to the problem site, and I will probe and explore.

An estimate was made, whilst ******* air through his teeth,
What Pratt, he said, has been working on the trap beneath,
Is it bad, my wife has strength of a gorilla, it’s beyond belief,
I’m afraid it’s a bath, a trap and associated pipe work, good grief.

It’s going to be expensive, there’s the bath and tiling too,
I can’t do it straight away, but I’ll put you in the queue,
Said he was interested in the engineering feat,
Designing a self draining P-trap, was a little hard to beat.


A temporary repair was fashioned, with fiberglass and tape,
I cleared the mess around me, and quickly made an escape,
It was some days later, I thought I’d clear the gutters,
I could tell the family were not keen, by their groans and their mutters,
Not to be diverted, I disregarded all their ridicules,
I told the wife I’d start right now, but she’d locked away my tools.

Cosmo Place

The Queens Larder, Queen Square, London, listening with wonder,
A cosy little pub, lots of chat, many students, rain thrashing down, claps of thunder.

Landlady from South Africa, with a wonderful rolling accent,
Taking pride in her alehouse, a friendly pub to present
I believe she has travelled, but settled in London, now with intent,
This is my respite from the neuro-hospital, across the square, adjacent.

The kitchen had just closed, when I arrived ravenous at the bar,
the chef’s lunch shift had ended, but offered a tasty meal, Oh what a star,
Sparingly sprinkling condiments, especially with the pepper ***,
disappointment, there was none, the dish fairly hit the spot,

Jazz on the speakers, relaxing with my ***,
lie back in my seat; clear my head, before I have to run,
Back to the hospital, to administer to my son.

I’ll come back to this pub, to the relaxing atmosphere,
to enjoy the food on offer, and time for my head to clear,
I recommend this little haven, for travellers far and near,
Relax and sample the ambience, and leave full of cheer  

(Brian Pickering – 05:03:2017)

Sartorial

Not always conformed, to what was expected of me,
The sixties and seventies, exciting times, not what the older generation, thought it should be,
Sample new pleasures, sometimes on a whim,
New music, new stimulants, often, not what it said on the tin,

Dress code were informal, and often quite extreme,
Highly coloured loon pants, that the older folk, had never seen,
Time progressed, matured, and subdued was the order of the day,
Dark blue socks, pin striped suits, and some, a very, very drab grey,

Time sped on, identity gone, I tired of life conformity,
I’m a full grown man, so I hatched a plan, for my own, self autonomy,
I started with the socks, with colours so bright, I always knew where my feet were,
Like beacons in the night, a luminous sight, my feet, a pyrotechnical blur,
A very useful guide, when you’re totally pie-eyed, to know your feet, were still on the ground, beneath you,
If they were at shoulder height, there’s a good chance you’re tight, that things had gone, totally askew,
Panicked thoughts do abound, I shouldn’t be this way around, whilst a gentle thud is the sound, of your ****, as it’s striking the ground.

Ah the shirt, a statement, a provocative trait, with designs, you either love, or you hate,
The shirt is the thing, that should make every man sing, at the prospect of projecting an image,
Hawaiians are brash, the colours do clash, but you’re starting a new age, the old one to trash
Your identity is born, let the old identity mourn, be extravagant with colour, be flamboyant,
Burn the beige and grey, stand up and say hey, my colourful image, is my enjoyment.

Parrots and cars, palm trees and bars, and shirts with multi-coloured stars,
Brightly coloured sneakers, baggy shorts that features, a perfectly monstrous clash,
With your new image to go, step out and throw, your wavering confidence away,
Treat people with humour, especially those who are gloomier, and brush away that awful cliché,

Some people may think, it’s OK to link, dislike of your choice,
for unkind remarks, to voice,
Accept it as is, it can make you annoyed, but it’s only a mark of their schadenfreude,
To combat this, it’s absolute bliss, to give them the finger, then slowly depart, don’t linger.