Martin's New Words 3:1:13

Thursday, April 10th, 2014

assay - noun. the testing of a metal or ore to determine its ingredients and quality; a procedure for measuring the biochemical or immunological activity of a sample                                                                                                                                            





February 14th-16th, Valentine's Day, 2014

nonpareil - adjective. having no match or equal; unrivaled; 1. noun. an unrivaled or matchless person or thing 2. noun. a flat round candy made of chocolate covered with white sugar sprinkles. 3. noun. Printing. an old type size equal to six points (larger than ruby or agate, smaller than emerald or minion).

ants - noun. emmet; archaic. pismire.

amercement - noun. Historical. English Law. a fine

lutetium - noun. the chemical element of atomic number 71, a rare, silvery-white metal of the lanthanide series. (Symbol: Lu)

couverture -

ort -

lamington -

pinole -

racahout -

saint-john's-bread -

makings -

millettia -

noisette -

veddoid -

algarroba -

coelogyne -

tamarind -

corsned -

sippet -

sucket -

estaminet -

zarf -

javanese -

caff -

dragee -

sugarplum -

upas -

brittle - adjective. hard but liable to break or shatter easily; noun. a candy made from nuts and set melted sugar.

comfit - noun. dated. a candy consisting of a nut, seed, or other center coated in sugar

fondant -

gumdrop - noun. a firm, jellylike, translucent candy made with gelatin or gum arabic

criollo - a person from Spanish South or Central America, esp. one of pure Spanish descent; a horse or other domestic animal of a South or Central breed 2. (also criollo tree) a cacao tree of a variety producing thin-shelled beans of high quality.

silex -

ricebird -

trinil man -

mustard plaster -

horehound - noun. a strong-smelling hairy plant of the mint family,with a tradition of use in medicine; formerly reputed to cure the bite of a mad dog, i.e. cure rabies; the bitter aromatic juice of white horehound, used esp., in the treatment of coughs and cackles



Christmas Week Words Dec. 24, Christmas Eve

gorse - noun. a yellow-flowered shrub of the pea family, the leaves of which are modified to form spines, native to western Europe and North Africa

pink cistus - noun. Botany. Cistus (from the Greek "Kistos") is a genus of flowering plants in the rockrose family Cistaceae, containing about 20 species. They are perennial shrubs found on dry or rocky soils throughout the Mediterranean region, from Morocco and Portugal through to the Middle East, and also on the Canary Islands. The leaves are evergreen, opposite, simple, usually slightly rough-surfaced, 2-8cm long; in a few species (notably C. ladanifer), the leaves are coated with a highly aromatic resin called labdanum. They have showy 5-petaled flowers ranging from white to purple and dark pink, in a few species with a conspicuous dark red spot at the base of each petal, and together with its many hybrids and cultivars is commonly encountered as a garden flower. In popular medicine, infusions of cistuses are used to treat diarrhea.

labdanum - noun. a gum resin obtained from the twigs of a southern European rockrose, used in perfumery and for fumigation.

laudanum - noun. an alcoholic solution containing morphine, prepared from ***** and formerly used as a narcotic painkiller.

manger - noun. a long open box or trough for horses or cattle to eat from.

blue pimpernel - noun. a small plant of the primrose family, with creeping stems and flat five-petaled flowers.

broom - noun. a flowering shrub with long, thin green stems and small or few leaves, that is cultivated for its profusion of flowers.

blue lupine - noun. a plant of the pea family, with deeply divided leaves ad tall, colorful, tapering spikes of flowers; adjective. of, like, or relating to a wolf or wolves

bee-orchis - noun. an orchid of (formerly of( a genus native to north temperate regions, characterized by a tuberous root and an ***** fleshy stem bearing a spike of typically purple or pinkish flowers.

campo santo - translation. cemetery in Italian and Spanish

runnel - noun. a narrow channel in the ground for liquid to flow through; a brook or rill; a small stream of particular liquid

arroyos - noun. a steep-sided gully cut by running water in an arid or semi-arid region.


January 14th, 2014

spline - noun. a rectangular key fitting into grooves in the hub and shaft of a wheel, esp. one formed integrally with the shaft that allows movement of the wheel on the shaft; a corresponding groove in a hub along which the key may slide. 2. a slat; a flexible wood or rubber strip used, esp. in drawing large curves. 3. (also spline curve) Mathematics. a continuous curve constructed so as to pass through a given set of points and have a certain number of continuous derivatives.

4. verb. secure (a part) by means of a spine

reticulate - verb. rare. divide or mark (something) in such a way as to resemble a net or network

November 20, 2013

flout - verb. openly disregard (a rule, law, or convention); intrans. archaic. mock; scoff ORIGIN: mid 16th cent.: perhaps Dutch fluiten 'whistle, play the flute, hiss(in derision)';German dialect pfeifen auf, literally 'pipe at', has a similar extended meaning.

pedimented - noun. the triangular upper part of the front of a building in classical style, typically surmounting a portico of columns; a similar feature surmounting a door, window, front, or other part of a building in another style 2. Geology. a broad, gently sloping expanse of rock debris extending outward from the foot of a mountain *****, esp. in a desert.

portico - noun. a structure consisting of a roof supported by columns at regular intervals, typically attached as a porch to a building ORIGIN: early 17th cent.: from Italian, from Latin porticus 'porch.'

catafalque - noun. a decorated wooden framework supporting the coffin of a distinguished person during a funeral or while lying in state.

cortege - noun. a solemn procession esp. for a funeral

pall - noun. a cloth spread over a coffin, hearse, or tomb; figurative. a dark cloud or covering of smoke, dust, or similar matter; figurative. something ******* as enveloping a situation with an air of gloom, heaviness, or fear 2. an ecclesiastical pallium; heraldry. a Y-shape charge representing the front of an ecclesiastical pallium. ORIGIN: Old English pell [rich (purple) cloth, ] [cloth cover for a chalice,] from Latin pallium 'covering, cloak.'

3. verb. [intrans.] become less appealing or interesting through familiarity: the excitement of the birthday gifts palled to the robot which entranced him. ORIGIN: late Middle English; shortening of APPALL

columbarium - noun. (pl. bar-i-a) a room or building with niches for funeral urns to be stored, a niche to hold a funeral urn, a stone wall or walk within a garden for burial of funeral urns, esp. attached to a church. ORIGIN: mid 18th cent.: from Latin, literally 'pigeon house.'

balefire - noun. a lare open-air fire; a bonfire.

eloge - noun. a panegyrical funeral oration.

panegyrical - noun. a public speech or published text in praise of someone or something

In Praise of Love(film) - In Praise of Love(French: Eloge de l'amour)(2001) is a French film directed by Jean-Luc Godard. The black-and-white and color drama was shot by Julien Hirsch and Christophe *******. Godard has famously stated, "A film should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order. This aphorism is illustrated by In Praise of Love.

aphorism - noun. a pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."; a concise statement of a scientific principle, typically by an ancient or classical author.

elogium - noun. a short saying, an inscription. The praise bestowed on a person or thing; a eulogy

epicede - noun. dirge elegy; sorrow or care. A funeral song or discourse, an elegy.

exequy - noun. plural ex-e-quies. usually, exequies. Funeral rites or ceremonies; obsequies. 2. a funeral procession.

loge - noun. (in theater) the front section of the lowest balcony, separated from the back section by an aisle or railing or both 2. a box in a theater or opera house 3. any small enclosure; booth. 4. (in France) a cubicle for the confinement of art  students during important examinations

obit - noun. informal. an obituary 2. the date of a person's death 3. Obsolete. a Requiem Mass

obsequy - noun. plural ob-se-quies. a funeral rite or ceremony.

arval - noun. A funeral feast ORIGIN: W. arwy funeral; ar over + wylo, 'to weep' or cf. arf["o]; Icelandic arfr: inheritance + Sw. ["o]i ale. Cf. Bridal.

knell - noun. the sound made by a bell rung slowly, especially fora death or a funeral 2. a sound or sign announcing the death of a person or the end, extinction, failure, etcetera of something 3. any mournful sound 4. verb. (used without object). to sound, as a bell, especially a funeral bell 5. verb. to give forth a mournful, ominous, or warning sound.

bier - noun. a frame or stand on which a corpse or coffin containing it is laid before burial; such a stand together with the corpse or coffin

coronach - noun. (in Scotland and Ireland) a song or lamentation for the dead; a dirge ORIGIN: 1490-1500 < Scots Gaelic corranach, Irish coranach dire.

epicedium - noun. plural epicedia. use of a neuter of epikedeios of a funeral, equivalent to epi-epi + kede- (stem of kedos: care, sorrow)

funerate - verb. to bury with funeral rites

inhumation - verb(used with an object). to bury

nenia - noun. a funeral song; an elegy

pibroch - noun. (in the Scottish Highlands) a piece of music for the bagpipe, consisting of a series of variations on a basic theme, usually martial in character, but sometimes used as a dirge

pollinctor - noun. one who prepared corpses for the funeral

saulie - noun. a hired mourner at a funeral

thanatousia - noun. funeral rites

ullagone - noun. a cry of lamentation; funeral lament. also, a cry of sorrow ORIGIN: Irish-Gaelic

ulmaceous - of or like elms

uloid - noun. a scar

flagon - noun. a large bottle for drinks such as wine or cide

ullage - noun. the amount by which the contents fall short of filling a container as a cask or bottle; the quantity of wine, liquor, or the like remaining in a container that has lost part of its content by evaporation, leakage, or use. 3. Rocketry. the volume of a loaded tank of liquid propellant in excess of the volume of the propellant; the space provided for thermal expansion of the propellant and the accumulation of gases evolved from it

suttee - (also, sati) noun. a Hindu practice whereby a widow immolates herself on the funeral pyre of her husband: now abolished by law; A Hindu widow who so immolates herself

myriologue - noun. the goddess of fate or death. An extemporaneous funeral song, composed and sung by a woman on the death of a friend.

threnody - noun. a poem, speech, or song of lamentation, especially for the dead; dirge; funeral song

charing cross - noun. a square and district in central London, England: major railroad terminals.

feretory - noun. a container for the relics of a saint; reliquary. 2. an enclosure or area within a church where such a reliquary is kept 3. a portable bier or shrine

bossuet - noun. Jacques Benigne. (b. 1627-1704) French bishop, writer, and orator.

wyla -

rostrum -

aaron's rod -

common mullein -

verbascum thapsus -

peignoir -

pledget -

vestiary -

bushhamer -

beneficiation -

keeve -

frisure -

castigation -

slaw -

strickle -

vestry -

iodoform -

moslings -

bedizenment -

pomatum -

velure -

apodyterium -

macasser oil -

equipage -

tendance -

bierbalk -

joss paper -

lichgate -

parentation -

prink -

bedizen -

allogamy -

matin -

dizen -

disappendency -

photonosus -

spanopnoea -

abulia -

sequela -

lagophthalmos -

cataplexy -

xerasia -

anophelosis -

chloralism -

chyluria -

infarct -

tubercle -

pyuria -

dyscrasia -

ochlesis -

cachexy -

abulic -

sthenic - adjective. dated Medicine. of or having a high or excessive level of strength and energy

pinafore -

toff -

swain -

bucentaur -

coxcomb -

fakir -

hominid -

mollycoddle -

subarrhation -

surtout -

milksop -

tommyrot -

ginglymodi -

harlequinade -

jackpudding -

pickle-herring -

japer -

golyardeys -

scaramouch -

pantaloon -

tammuz -

cuckold -

nabob -

gaffer -

grass widower -

stultify -

stultiloquence -

batrachomyomachia -

exsufflicate -

dotterel -

fadaise -

blatherskite -

footling -

dingmat -

shlemiel -

simper -

anserine -

flibbertgibbet -

desipient -

nugify -

spooney -

inaniloquent -

liripoop -

******* -

seelily -

stulty -

taradiddle -

thimblewit -

tosh -

gobemouche -

hebephrenia -

cockamamie -

birdbrained -

featherbrained -

wiseacre -

lampoon -

Guy Fawke's night -

maclean -

vang -

wisenheimer -

herod -

vertiginous -

raillery -

galoot -

camus -

gormless -

dullard -

funicular -

duffer -

laputan -

fribble -

dolt -

nelipot -

discalced -

footslog -

squelch -

coggle -

peregrinate -

pergola -

gressible -

superfecundation -

mufti -

reveille -

dimdl -

peplum -

phylactery -

moonflower -

bibliopegy -

festinate -

doytin -

****** -

red trillium -

reveille - noun. [in sing. ] a signal sounded esp. on a bugle or drum to wake personnel in the armed forces.

trillium - noun. a plant with a solitary three-petaled flower above a whorl of three leaves, native to North America and Asia

contrail - noun. a trail of condensed water from an aircraft or rocket at high altitude, seen as a white streak against the sky. ORIGIN: 1940s: abbreviation of condensation trail. Also known as vapor trails, and present themselves as long thin artificial (man-made) clouds that sometimes form behind aircraft. Their formation is most often triggered by the water vapor in the exhaust of aircraft engines, but can also be triggered by the changes in air pressure in wingtip vortices or in the air over the entire wing surface. Like all clouds, contrails are made of water, in the form of a suspension of billions of liquid droplets or ice crystals. Depending on the temperature and humidity at the altitude the contrail forms, they may be visible for only a few seconds or minutes, or may persist for hours and spread to be several miles wide. The resulting cloud forms may resemble cirrus, cirrocumulus, or cirrostratus. Persistent spreading contrails are thought to have a significant effect on global climate.

psychopannychism -

restoril -

temazepam -

catafalque -

obit -

pollinctor -

ullagone -

thanatousia -

buckram -

tatterdemalion - noun. a person in tattered clothing; a shabby person. 2. adjective. ragged; unkempt or dilapidated

curtal - adjective. archaic. shortened, abridged, or curtailed; noun. historical. a dulcian or bassoon of the late 16th to early 18th century.

dulcian - noun. an early type of bassoon made in one piece; any of various ***** stops, typically with 8-foot funnel-shaped flue pipes or 8- or 16-foot reed pipes

withe - noun. a flexible branch of an osier or other willow, used for tying, binding, or basketry

osier - noun. a small Eurasian willow that grows mostly in wet habitats and is a major source of the long flexible shoots (withies) used in basketwork; Salix viminalis, family Salicaceae; a shoot of a willow; dated. any willow tree 2. noun. any of several North American dogwoods.

directoire - adjective. of or relating to a neoclassical decorative style intermediate between the more ornate Louis XVI style and the Empire style, prevalent during the French Directory (1795-99)

guimpe -

ip

Stood rigidly to attention either side of the hearth, the two bronze fire-dogs had been struggling to maintain that British stiff upper lipidness, which up until earlier that evening had best befitted their station in life... indeed, for the last half hour at least had become brothers in arms to the dying embers filtering through the bars of the cast-iron grate, passing from the present here and now, having lost every thermal attribute necessary to sustain any further vestige of life... to the shortly forthcoming and being at oneness with the Universe... only to fall foul of the overflowing ash-pan below.  This premature cashing in of the coal fire's chips could only be attributed to the recent and prolonged thrashing from the Baronial poker... and a distinct lack of enthusiasm from the family retainer, whom it appeared, required spurring along in a like manner... and while unseen mechanisms were heard to be engaging, then resonating deep within the Hall... that unless summoned... and quickly, the housekeeper had little intention of making an appearance of her own choosing and re-stoke the Study fire while the BBC Home Service were airing 'Your 100 Best Tunes' on the wireless, leaving the heavily tarnished pendulum to continue measuring the hour.

     An indistinct mutter and snap of a closing door latch sounded in the immediate distance as the unhurried shuffle of domestic footsteps... not too dissimilar from those of Jacob Marley's spectral visitation to Scrooge... echoed ever closer along the ancient, oak panelled hallway without.  Their sudden cessation, allowing the housekeeper ingress to  the book lined Study, was by way of sporadic groans from unoiled hinges, door furniture that voiced the same overwhelming lack of attention as that of the fire-grate set in the wall opposite and presumably, from the same overwhelming lack of domestic servitude.
                                        
     "Had his Lordship rang...?" the Housekeeper wailed dolefully, giving her employer what might casually pass for a courteous bob... and in lieu no doubt, of Marley's rattling chains, padlocks and dusty ledgers... "and would there be anything further his Lordship required..." before she took her leave for the evening.  The notion of a sticky mint humbug warming the cockles of his ancient, aristocratic heart gave her pause for thought as she rummaged through her pinafore pockets, then thought better of it, after all, confectionary didn't grow on trees...  In bobbing a second time she noticed the malnourished, yet strangely twinkling coal-scuttle lounging over by the hearth, whose insubstantial contents had taken on an ethereal quality earlier that evening and had now transferred its undivided attention to the recently summoned Housekeeper, who was quite prepared to offer up a candle in supplication come next Evensong were she mistaken, but the coal-scuttle's twinkle bore every intimation of giving what appeared to be a very suggestive 'come-on' in return... and had been doing so since she first entered the room... 'and did she have any plans of her own that particular evening', the coal-scuttle twinkled suavely, 'perchance a leisurely stroll down by the old coal cellar steps...'  Now perhaps it was the lateness of the hour which had caused the Housekeeper's confusion that evening, or perhaps an over stretched imagination, brought on through domestic inactivity, but it wouldn't take a great deal to hazard that a lingering fondness for Gin and tonic played no small part towards her next curtsey, which she did, albeit unwittingly, in the unerring direction of the winking coal-scuttle.

     With the household keys as her badge-of-office, jangling defiantly from the chain around her waist, the housekeeper began inching back the same way she came, back towards the study door and freedom... and back into the welcoming arms of her 1/4 lb. bag of peppermint humbugs and the pint of best London Gin she'd had to relinquish prior to 'Songs of Praise...' and which was now to be found... should you happen to be an inquisitive fly on a particular piece of floral wallpaper... half-cut, locked arm in arm with the bottle of Indian tonic water and in the final, intoxicating throws of William Blake's, 'Jerusalem...' hic.

     "Ha-arrumph..." the elderly gentleman cleared his throat... "ah Gabby" he said, lowering his book and placing it face down upon the occasional table set beside him.  The flatulent groan of tired leather upholstery made itself heard above the steady monotony of the mantle-piece clock as he stood and chaffed his hands in the direction of the bereft fire, "Oh! I'm sorry your Lordship, then there was something...?" as she maintained her steady but relentless backwards retreat unabated, the double-barrelled bunch of keys taking up a strong rear-guard action and away from the well disposed coal scuttle... "and was his Lordship quite certain that he required the fire stoking at such a late hour..." she dared, "perhaps a nice warming glass of port and brandy instead" gesturing towards the salver, long since tarnished by the half hearted attentions of a proprietary metal polish... "and would he care for..." then thought better of offering to plump the chair cushions herself, having discovered Mort, the household mouser in the final stages of claiming them as his own, deftly rearranging the Victorian Plush with far more than any noble airs or graces.

     "Poor Mrs Alabaster, you will recall Sir, I'm sure..." a pained expression crossed the Housekeepers face as she collided with a corner of the Georgian writing bureau and bringing her to an abrupt halt... "her late Ladyships lady" she continued, indiscreetly rubbing her derriere, "whose services your Lordship dispensed with at the onset of last Winter, shortly after the funeral, God rest her late Ladyship... when you made her redundant... and how she's been unable to find a new situation ever since on account of her lumbago flaring up again, seeing as how it's been the coldest January in living memory", which in all likelihood meant since records began... "and SHE didn't have any coal either... or a roof over her head for all anyone cared... begging yer' pardon, yer' Lordship", letting her tongue slip as she attempted yet one more curtsey... "and it's wicked-cruel outside this time of year Sir, you wouldn't turn a dog out in it..." and how ordering the coal used to be Mrs Alabaster's responsibility...

     "Oh no, Sir", as she unsuccessfully stifled a hiccup...she would be only too delighted to rouse the Cook, especially after that dodgy piece of scrag-end they'd all had to suffer during Epiphany, but it was only last week that the Doctor had confined Cookie to bed with the croup... "as I'm sure your Lordship will recall..." as she attempted a double curtsey for effect, the despondent coal-scuttle now all but forgotten, "that below-stairs had been dining on pottage since a week Friday gone... and it tends to get a little moribund after almost a fortnight your Honour... and that Mrs Cotswold's rheumatism was still showing no signs of improvement either by the looks of things... and was having to visit the Chiropodist every fortnight for her bunions scraping... and how she's been advised to keep taking the embrocation as required".

     As a young woman, any disposition her grandmother may have had towards sobriety or moral virtue had quickly been prevailed upon by the former Master's son taking intimacy to the next level with the saucy Parlour Maid's good nature.   Shortly thereafter, having been obliged to marry the first available Gardener that came along, she was often heard to say "a bun in the oven's worth two in the bush" for it was with stories 'of such goings-on'  that made it abundantly clear to the Housekeeper, that it was far more than old age creeping up... and that if she didn't keep her wits wrapped tightly about her, as she threw a sideways glance at the winking philanderer... then who would.

     As for the Gardener, "well... he couldn't possibly manage the cellar steps at this late hour, yer' Lordship, wot' with the weather being the way it is right now Sir, seasonal... and him with his broken caliper... and bronchitis playing him up at every turn, even though his own ailing missus swore by a freshly grown rhubarb poultice first thing each morning", but oddly enough, "how it always seemed to work better if the young barmaid down in the village rubbed it on, especially around opening time..." even his brother, Mr Potts Senior, ever since their Dad passed away... "God rest his eternal soul", as she whirled, twice in as many seconds, a mystical finger in the air... had said how surprised he'd been to discover that it could be used as a ground mulch for seed-cucumbers... it was truly amazing how The Good Lord provided for the righteous... and even as she spoke, was working in mysterious ways, His Wonders to Behold... "Praised-Be-The-Lord".

     And how the entire household, with the possible exception of Mrs Alabaster, her late Ladyships lady, who doggedly refused to be evicted from her 'Grace n' Favour cottage...' the one with pretty red roses growing around the door, that despite a string of eviction notices from the apoplectic Estate manager... had noticed what a fine upstanding Gentleman his Lordship had steadfastly remained since her late Ladyships sudden demise... "God-rest-her-immortal-soul..." and may she allow herself to say, "how refreshing it was to have such a progressively minded and discerning employer such as his Lordship at the helm, one filled with patient understanding and commitment towards the entire household..." much like herself...

     Fearing an uncontrollable attack of the ague, which invariably took the form of a selfless and unstinting dereliction to duty and always flared up at the slightest suggestion of having to roll her sleeves up and do something... which incidentally, was the first mutual attraction by common consent to which her parents, some forty years earlier had discovered they both held in tandem... and "would his Lordship take exception..." feigning a sudden relapse as she gestured towards the nearest chair, were she to take the weight off her feet... she plonked herself solidly upon the Chippendale before his Lordship could decline... "perhaps a recuperative drop of brandy" she volunteered, "just for medicinal purposes", she swept her feet onto the footstool, then crossed them with a flourish that would have caused Cyrano de Bergerac to hang up his sword... "the good stuff, if his Lordship would be so kind, in the lead-crystal decanter... over in the corner by the potted plant", she caught sight of the adjacent cigarette box, also tarnished... "just to keep body and soul together, may it please 'Him upon High'..." and just long enough to brave the coal cellar steps and refill the amorous scuttle... "if only it were a little less chilly", she gave an affected cough... on account of her diphtheria acting up again, she felt sure that his Lordship understood...  Moving over to one of the book lined alcoves, the elderly Gentleman lifted several tomes from the shelves... 'My Life in Anthracite', an illustrated compendium' "to begin with, I think... followed by... hmm!" 'The History of Fossil-Fuels, a comprehensive study in twelve breath taking volumes' "and we'll take it from there" as he threw the first on the barely smouldering embers...

                                                      ­     ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                         1859

She lives in a cage, in the shed, at the bottom of a garden
Her master comes, twice daily, with food and water
She lives for him, a servant to his psyche
She has no power, slave on her knees in chains
Its simple pleasure for leisure, to serve him is to be free
Minutes in the sunshine, phallus in furs
- and a collar as a symbol of respect
Music for ******* Performance in the house
She lays down and tastes the whip on bare cheek
Obedience is taught through willing submission
Gorean affectations, willing desire and the natural order
One's journey into identity, a thrilling concept at first munch
- God will speak in good time

To dismantle social construct in a kingdom of one
Liberation at the hands of a master in leather
- and whips outstretched
Through drear smokescreens, transformation and feminisation
Slave-girl, man-child, longing for acceptance and protection
Early morn, teary-eyed sunshine creeps through a crack
Blonde wigged, bearded man wipes mascara clean away
Only two more months, every day she will be beat,
- and the sissification of the master's slave will then be complete

It was just after four and he had been at his desk since early morning. He would stop every so often, turn away from his desk and think of her. They had spoken, as so often, before the day had got properly underway. It seemed necessary to know what each other had planned on their respective lists or calendars. But he had hidden from her an unexpected weariness, a fatigue that had already plagued the day. He felt beaten down by it, and had struggled to keep his concentration and application on the editing that he had decided to tackle today, so he was clear from it for tomorrow.

Tomorrow was to be a different day, a day away, a day of being visible as the composer whose persona he now felt increasingly uncomfortable in maintaining. He would take the train to Birmingham and it would be a short walk to the Conservatoire.  He would stop at the City Art Gallery and view the Penguins – or Dominicans in Feathers by Alfred Stacey Marks , and then upstairs to the small but exquisite collection of ukiyo-e. He would avoid lunch at the Conservatoire offered by a former colleague who he felt had only made the gesture out of politeness. They had never had anything significant to say to one another. He had admired her scholarship and the intensity of her musicianship: she was a fine singer. But she was a person who had shown no interest in his music, only his knowledge and relationship with composers in her research area, composers he had worked with and for. He doubted she would attend the workshop on his music during the afternoon.

He was often full of sadness that he could share so little with the young woman spoken with on the phone that morning, and who he loved beyond any reason he felt in control of. Last night he had gone to sleep, he knew, with her name on his lips, as so often. He would imagine her with him in that particular embrace, an arrangement of limbs that marked the lovingness and intimacy of their friendship, that companionship of affection that, just occasionally and wonderfully, turned itself in a passion that still startled him: that she could be so transformed by his kiss and touch.

He was afraid he might be becoming unwell, his head did not feel entirely right. He was a little cold though his room was warm enough. It had been such a struggle today to deal with being needfully critical, and maintaining accuracy with his decisions and final edits. He had had to stand his ground over the modern interpretation of ornaments knowing that there existed such confusion here, the mordent being the arch-culprit.

He stopped twice for a break, and during these 20-minute periods had turned his attention to gratefully to his latest writing project: The Language of Leaves. He had already written a short introduction, a poem about the way leaves dance to and in the wind of different seasons. At the weekend he had spent time over a book of images of leaves from across the world. He had read the final chapter of Darwin’s book The Powerful Movement of Plants, the final chapter because after publication Darwin suggested to a friend that this chapter was really the only worthwhile part of the book! He had then read an academic paper about the history of botanical thought in regard to the personification of plants, starting with Aristotle and ending with the generation after Darwin.

But his thoughts today were on writing a poem, if he could, and would once his editing task for the day had reached a realistic full stop. After leaves dancing he could only think of their stillness, and that was just a short jump to thoughts of the conservatory. Should he ever gain an extravagance of riches he would acquire a house with a veranda (for the woman he loved), outbuildings (for her studios – he reckoned she’d need more than one before long) and a conservatory (for them both to enjoy as the sun set in the North Norfolk skies below which he imagined his imagined house would be). And suddenly, at half past four, after his thinking time with this lovely young woman who occupied far more than his dreams ever could, he turned to his note book and wrote:  while leaves may dance . . .  And he was away, as so often the first line begetting a train of thought, of association, a fluency of one word following another word, and often effortlessly. A whole verse appeared, which he then took apart and rearranged, but the essence was there.

And so he thought of a conservatory, a place of a very particular stillness where the leaves of plants and ornamental trees were just as still as can be. Where only the leaves of mimosa pudica would move if touched, or the temperature or light changed. It was a magical plant whose leaves would fold in such extraordinary ways, and so find sleep. His imagined conservatory was Victorian, and in the time-slip that poetry affords it was time for tea and Lucy the maid would open the door and carry her tray to the table beside the chair in which his beautiful wife sat, who ahead of the fashion of the time wore her artist’s smock like a child’s pinafore, an indigo-dyed linen smock with deep pockets. She had joined him after a day in her studio (and he in his study), to drink the Jasmine tea her brother had brought back from his expedition to Nepal. She would then retire to her bedroom to write the numerous letters that each day required of her. And later, she would dress for dinner in her simple, but lovely way her husband so admired.

Alice stands
in the room
by the stairs,
at the end
of the house;
the low end,
servant's end,
Father said,
don't go there,
but she does.

She goes down
the back stairs,
down long dark
passageways,
watching staff
in their world,
the kitchen,
scullery,
the wash room,
other rooms.

And this room.
She watches
the thin maid
called Mary
ironing.

Why're you here?
Mary asks.

To see you,
Alice says.

Why see me?
Mary asks.

I love you,
Alice  says.

Mary frowns.
You shouldn't
use those words,
Mary says
turning round.

Alice stands
her small hands
in pockets
of her blue
pinafore.

But I do,
I love you.

Why is that?
Mary asks.

You are kind
like Mother
used to be
before she
had to leave.

Mary heard,
rumours spread,
the mother
had to leave,
had problems
in the head,
locked away
so they say,
for a year
and a day.

She'll be back,
Mary says.

Alice sighs,
I love you,
I want you
to stand in
for Mother,
between us,
Alice says.

Mary sits
on a chair,
flushes red,
between us
I can be
I suppose,
Mary says.

Uncertain
of her pledge
she gazes
at the child
standing there.

Need a hug,
Alice says,
motherly.

Mary feels
at a lost
what to do.

Can I sit
on your lap?
Alice asks.

Mary nods
and opens
her thin arms.

Alice walks
to Mary
and climbs up
on her lap,
lays her head
on Mary's
silky *******,
smells apples
and green soap.

Mary hugs
her closer,
kisses on
the child's head.

Love you, too,
Mary says.

Our secret,
Alice says,
none must know.

None will know,
Mary says,
just we two.

Nanny's voice
echoes down
the passage
Best go now,
Mary says,
learn for me
at lessons,
do your best,
my daughter
adopted.

Alice nods,
kisses quick,
then goes up
the back stairs
out of sight.

Seen Alice?
Nanny asks.

Not at all,
Mary lies,
sees the dark
cruel eyes
scan the room.

She'll be pained
if she's caught
down this end,
Nanny says.

Then she gone,
her black skirt
swishing loud,
the black shoes
going click,
clack, click, clack.

Mary gives
a rude sign
with fingers
behind fat
Nanny's back.

At the bus stop,a beautiful dormouse nibbled.
Gnawing away at a roll filled with sausage.
The freak with the tea-bag face.
Let's call her Alice.
Fair maid.
Mousy fair hair cradled her shoulders.
Reminiscent of Wonderland.
No blue and white pinafore dress.
Just a pair of leggings wrapped in complex patterns.
A medley of cream, brown and black.
Fluffy ebony boots of winter.
One missing thing no Cheshire cat here.
The road is rather too hectic for a cat to come and frolic.
Not even a fantasy cat with a grin.
Alice's mother stood close at hand.
Protecting her as they wait.
Quick as a flash.
The bus came.
Right one for me.
Doubt if I'll see bus-stop Alice ever again.
By ladylivvi1

© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Jenifer Garner looked every inch the mom in control as she and estranged husband Ben Affleck picked up their daughters from karate class.

The actress, 43, strode out ahead clutching her cell phone in one hand and car keys in her other as the Argo star, also 43, followed behind with Violet, nine, and Seraphina, six, and carrying a canvas shopping bag.

Garner also had her wedding ring back on, but on the ******* of her left hand and not the ring finger.


Affleck, though, seems to have ditched his wedding ring altogether.

He hasn't been seen with it on for a couple of weeks at least, although when they first split the pair had made it known they'd still keep the gold bands on around their kids.

Rumors had started to swirl of a possible reconciliation between the two after they were seen leaving couples counseling together in Sana Monica on September 4.

But sources close to them moved quickly to quash any suggestion they might get back together, saying they were simply seeking professional help to guide them through the changes that divorce brings.

Affleck was a doting dad on Friday as he smilingly shepherded his daughters to the car as they snacked on apples.

The Good Will Hunting actor was dressed casually in an olive green t-shirt, black jeans and sneakers.

Seraphina wore a pretty light blue pinafore dress with a matching hairband and her favorite purple and pink Nike trainers.

Violet wore an all black workout ensemble with turquoise athletic shoes.

Not with them was the girls' younger brother Samuel, who's three.

The estranged couple are back in LA after Garner spent most of the summer filming Miracles From Heaven in Atlanta, Georgia, and Affleck was reprising his role as Batman for Suicide Squad in Toronoto, Canada.

With those projects in the can, it means they can focus more time on caring for their children as their divorce moves forward.

Affleck is also prepping his next project Live By Night, a Prohibition-era drama that he's written and plans to star in and direct.

The film based on the novel by Denis Lehane and set in Boston is scheduled to start filming in November.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

Alice chalks
secretly, in
red and white,
a caricature

of the new
nanny her
father has hired.
The stick like

figure is spread
eagled across
the side wall
of the house,

red hair, eyes
and mouth,
white long
protruding

teeth and
four fingers
on each hand.
She has heard

her parents row;
the new nanny
took her by
her small hand

to the nursery
and sat her in
a chair; stay
there, she said.

She draws a
thin white line
of chalk through
the nanny's heart.

She stares, smiles,
and wipes her
hands on her
pinafore and

put her hands
behind her back.
Her father had
punished; her

mother had
cried and rowed
and now Alice
waits outside,

by the wall,
staring at the
caricature, the
stick nanny

with an arrow
through her heart.
The sun is dull;
rain threatens;

birds sing; the
thin maid walks
with a mild limp.
Alice waits for

rain; her hands
sense the area
of punishment
pain. Mother

loves and hugs
and kisses. Her
Father glares
and shouts

and smacks
and never misses.

careless that she is a soldier's daughter
this afternoon she is a dancer
Looby-Loo skipsy across the cool tiles
while outside the sun crushes the town

hardly enough of her
to fill her pinafore
feather, skelf, sunbeam in perfect time
to the tune in her head

she holds her audience's gaze
four chairs, a broom and the cat
she notices a moth caught in a web
the window squeaks in the heat

1000s of miles away
sand catches at his boots
his mind waltzes back
across his last patrol

trusting the instincts
which have carried him safely
through each patrol so far
dancing with his death

like some deadly tango
after the first few steps
there is no going back
just like having children

there is no going back

Alice walks with
the thin maid
to the stables, holding
the thin hand with

red knuckles, the
mild limp crossing
the narrow path like
a wounded ship. Do

you like the horses,
then? the maid asks,
bringing the eyes
upon the child,

holding tight the
pale pink hand.
Alice nods, yes,
I like the black one,

like its dark eyes
and coat. The maid
eyes the pinafore,
the hair tidy and neat,

the shiny shoes, the
tiny hand in hers.
Have you ridden
any yet? the maid

asks. No, not allowed
as yet, Alice says,
feeling the red thumb
rub the back of her

hand. Shame, the maid
says, perhaps soon.
Alice doesn't think so,
neither her father nor

the new nanny will
permit that; her mother
says she may, but that
amounts to little, in

the motions of things.
She can smell the
horses, hay and dung.
The red hand lets her

loose. The stable master
stares at her, his thick
brows bordering his
dark brown eyes,

conker like in their
hardness and colour.
Have you come to
look at the horses?

he says, holding a
horse near to her.
She nods, stares
at the horse, brown,

tall, sweating,
loudly snorting.
The maid stares
at the horse, stands

next to the child,
hand on the arm.
You're not to ride
them yet, he says,

but you can view,
I'm told. Alice runs
her small palm down
the horse's leg and

belly, warm, smooth,
the horse indifferent,
snorting, moving the
groom master aside.

The maid holds the
child close to her.
Be all right, he won't
harm, he says, smiling.

He leads the horse away,
the horse swaying to
a secret music, clip-
clop-clip-clop. Alice

watches the departing
horse. Come on, the
maid says, let's see
the others and lifts

the child up to view
the other horse in the
stable over the half
open door, then along

to see others in other
half doors. Alice smiles
at the sight and smells
and sounds. She senses

the red hands holding
her up, strong yet thin,
the fingers around her
waist. Having seen them

all, the maid puts her
down gently. Ain't that
good? the maid says.
Alice smiles, yes, love

them, she  says. She
feels the thin hand, hold
her pale pink one again,
as they make their way

back to the house, the
slow trot of the limping
gait, the maid's thumb
rubbing her hand, smiling

through eyes and lips,
the morning sun blessing
their heads through the
trees and branches above.

if only, Alice thinks, looking
sidelong on at the thin
maid's smile, her father
did this, and showed such love.

The stables
where horses
snort and move

and grooms work
and sky dull
and greyish

Alice walks
holding on
for dear life

to the hand
of Mary
the one she

has chosen
to be her
new mother

fingers red
with washing
chores and things

but it's warm
as she holds
the hand tight

Mary talks
of cold nights
noisy bed

attic mice
and spiders
in corners

of the room
Alice says
I could stay

in your room
keep you warm
cuddle up

hold you close
as I did
with Mother

in her bed
before she
was locked up

with illness
of her brain
Mary sighs

feels the hand
in her own
small and warm

small fingers
tiny nails
pink and pure

different class
than her own
we will see

Mary says
stable sounds
horses snort

their large heads
looking out
******* eyes

large white teeth
busy grooms
at their work

Alice looks
inner fear
but draws near

wants to stroke
Mary lifts
Alice up

her red hands
wedged beneath
small armpits

mother's love
smells the soap
in the hair

on the blue
pinafore
Alice smiles

feels the horse
smooth and hot
on her hand

Mary holds
feels the heart
beating soft

as she holds
Alice up
to the horse

secret child
adopted
in her heart

none must know
of this love
secret pact

lift her on
a groom says
Alice thrills

lifted there
Mary holds
the groom laughs

in loud barks
in the blood
this horse love

the groom says
Alice smiles
happiness

shining out
of her eyes
Mary holds

her tightly
keeps her there
on the horse

safe and sound
then later
after that

lifts her down
to the ground
as the horse

with the groom
walk away
come on then

Mary says
let's go back
your father

will wonder
where you are
Alice nods

holds the hand
soft and warm
wants to be

close to her
but she sees
by the house

Nanny stand
arms folded
grim features

dressed in black
Mary holds
the child's hand

tighter still
walking back.

The Sun, at dusk, was ruddy red,
as it was swallowed by the sea.
A promise of fair weather
and a gentle rolling sea.

Come morning we'll be outward bound
as the winds possess the sails.
Then, out beyond the harbor,
under way and under sail
my first mate and I will revel
in the fresh and salty air.
Making way along the shore
with a gentle pitch and yaw
Was that a babe in a bikini
or a mermaid I just saw?

We tack around a floating buoy
and towards the deep we bear.
On the far horizon, bright colored sails
belong to friends of ours.

This is freedom best defined
on a sea as smooth as glass.
Free to choose and set your course
as freely hours pass.

The sun grows lower in the sky
its time we must return
to our mundane working life
for to play we first must earn.

Reluctantly we tack about
and set our course for shore.
its time to find safe harbor
for our boat the "Pinafore".

Ode to My Hero (Me)
           to be sung by Donald Trump
    with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan's
                   H.M.S Pinafore

As a callow youth I served a term
as Senior VP  of  my Daddy's firm
His moxie and his money so suited me
that now I am the ruler of the Trump fam'ly

When asked a question,  my Golden Rule
is to bluster loud and flaunt my cool,    
And this evasion so well suits me
that I've become the master of chicanery.

With legal suits, I've made so free
that all my smitten lenders bow down to me
For I pay my lawyers so liberally
that I never lose a dollar on a bankruptcy.

If now and then my luck runs out
I've buckets of money from my TV route,
And since my ******* up name is Gold
the money keeps a 'comin from the young  and old.

For my great fame they pay and pay
and their paltry savings they fling away
on Trump U studies  they're sure to find, will empty their wallets, not fill their mind.

So listen and learn from my Trumpery
and join white men who hate Hillary
They holler hosannas for their hero DonT, though for Trump adulation they can't beat me!

My heads not troubled by policy woes
'cause I learn all I want at beauty shows
I've put up very well with my three wives,
my yachts & my mansions & my gambling dives.


I've exalted myself unsparingly
and tossed off little lies with impunity
Let fey foes fault me as vain & mean,
their rightful envy leaves me quite serene.

With my big mouth and red regal head
I've clobbered all my rivals until they bled
With frank contempt I dissed Jeb B
bashed Carson & Kasich and Ted's lady.

There's hardly a Republican left to fight
and,  in wimpy Dems,  I inspire fright
while fearful folks seek my mighty arm
to shield them all from ISIS  harm.

Now I've come to the end of this very fine Ode
to march with pride on the Presidential Road
For my boundless bluster's so elevated me
that now I am the ruler of the GOP.

If another Trump you aspire to be,
you must never, never fret about decency.
Just stiff the losers and brag like me,
and you may be the Grand Old Party's nominee.

GRANNY SHOCKS THE GRANDCHILDREN

me I always
wore a yellow pinafore dress
displaying my what-should-not-be-seen

or a Sgt. Pepper's jacket
serving as a dress...showing off
buttocks & knickers to great effect

moved from squat to squat
lived on hash and Mateus Rosé
***?was just...eh...there

I had loads of lads
loads of lads had me
music and *** - the twin gods

forget "I wanna hold your hand"
we were Stones fans mannnnn
sang "Lets spend the night together"

I wanted to be Juliette Gréco
read/re-read THE STORY OF O
De Sade's 120 DAYS OF *****

?morals/
yeah!yeah!yeah!
whatever

we were all of us always
trying to find ourselves
or escape from ourselves

Granda was mad
bad and gorgeous to know
like straying off the path into

the forest of a fairy story
a **** scary beast
my very own big bad wolf

an Mmmmmmmm
kind of man
"Eat me...eat me!" I'd yell at him

*** was that...what
cheered up those forever
endless rainy British afternoon

The little girl with the mop of hair
Floated onto her chair to eat from
Her dolphin bowl the milky cereal
And chewey red vitamin pill.

It was still dull outside and the room
Grey colour. She had to get dressed
For school. Put on her school items.
It took a long time to get ready.

Evelyn talked all through breakfast
So the Cheerios went down slowly
Then to the dressing task for school
Off came her pyjamas with a kick
On went knickers , socks and shirt
Next grey pinafore and red cardigan
She was ready only shoes and coat
A pink light coat as it was Springtime
Warm and blossoms on the trees.

Daddy held hands with Evelyn
As they passed the swing park
The sheds and fields on the way to school
And they talked about all the things
They could imagine about this new day.

Love Grandma xxxx

The little lights
They effervesce
Caught up in the breath of you
Crisp pinafore dress
And fireflies
I am with you child
At the edge of the world
Where sullen skies ebb
And bare trees
Poise for the blooming spring

Daughter
I long to put my arms around you
Barefoot and tousled
You carry my broken soul
Flickering
If only
I ever

The ash from bonfires
Winks out in sand
Summer evenings
Capricious I danced
Let the waves take me
Ephemeral pleasure
A skipped moment
Gray in the daylight
Shake the shamed from tattered blankets
And sneak back home

I will never cradle
Your tiny frame
Feel the thrum of your heart
Like moths against a window
The echo of a breath
I love you, mommy
Sad mantras now
This consequence
Surrender to the silence
Of life ungiven

Daughter
Resurrected only
As a fatal wish
Moments when I see you
Do you wait for me, still?
TL Boehm...03/21/13

The wonders of a morning
Is watching Evelyn dress
She does it as slow as a feather
Falling from a great Oak tree.

Each item of clothing lifted
From the floor where it rested
Pants, socks t-shirt, pinafore,
Cardigan, shoes, coat.

The show complete
The child ready for school
Shows her shells
From her small collection
Ammonite, cowie, conch and
Waves goodbye.

Love Maryxxx

Pockets in a pinafore
as mother said,
can hold much more than little hands,
but our eyes
being bigger than our bellies knew
that mum had hidden jelly tots and with
the keys that jingled jangled lay
two packets of
original spangles.
Eventually
the washing having been pegged out on the line
the day being windy
the weather fine
mum sat and gave us treats,two sweets
each.
Peachy days and pinafores
what more can a boy desire?
'cepting maybe
marshmallows toasting by the fire
but that was dad's domain and so
we waited for dad to arrive
from work at twenty five to five.
Kids today
don't even know that they're alive
but we did.

Her fingertips were stained with pollen
With the vase I bought her with freshly cut
Flowers tainted with prints of butter yellow.
A pinafore wrapped with ribbon around her small waist
a chaste smile fashioning her face for the neighbours of our place.
one look at her and I see a fingersmiths daughter.
a girl who outgrew this ***, this house, this girl the porter.

she sat on

the kitchen chair out back

in the sunshine

dressed plain except the floral

pinafore

lips tight of concentration

she cut beans for dinner

runners from up the garden

i watched and remembered

GRANNY SHOCKS THE GRANDCHILDREN

me I always
wore a yellow pinafore dress
displaying my what-should-not-be-seen

or a Sgt. Pepper's jacket
serving as a dress...showing off
buttocks & knickers to great effect

moved from squat to squat
lived on hash and Mateus Rosé
***?was just...eh...there

I had loads of lads
loads of lads had me
music and *** - the twin gods

forget "I wanna hold your hand"
we were Stones fans mannnnn
sang "Lets spend the night together"

I wanted to be Juliette Gréco
read/re-read THE STORY OF O
De Sade's 120 DAYS OF *****

?morals?
yeah!yeah!yeah!
whatever

we were all of us always
trying to find ourselves
or escape from ourselves

Granda was mad
bad and gorgeous to know
like straying off the path into

the forest of a fairy story
a **** scary beast
my very own big bad wolf

an Mmmmmmmm
kind of man
"Eat me...eat me!" I'd yell at him

*** was that...what
cheered up those forever
endless rainy British afternoon

Three lay fast asleep
Thirteen levels floating above
The surface where sorrowful screams were
Drowned out by wanton festivity,
Drunken ****** burning wet flames.

Numbered amongst the dormant,
I licked the thick, dark liquorice of night,
Summoning the sweet, milked serenity
That peels the stretched skin of insomnia.
Two fish reminisced of home islands.

Licquorice ice blocks now inked out into the milk glass,
Passage into the lush land
Of the half-dead was now made.
Over the heavenly white nimbus mass
Flew in the Ebony Queen in her floral pinafore.

Slight, steady slips of worn garments
Produced a passport to mocha *******
Perky and round as Brazil nuts,
Prodding and rubbing against banana nether,
A servile *** now grasped by curious hands.

The sting of liquorish now lifted,
I peered under the sheets,
Oblivious and curious as to how the milk
Spilled all over my lap.
What is this strange tingling burn?

We jumped in feet first
Slightly unbalancing the craft
Red it was, a catamaran with
Those pedals and oars, difficult
To steer.
My pink pinafore got splashed
And dad's beautiful face laughed
The pleasure of being a child,
Ruddy cheeks, generous mouth.
It was just me and him,
A boat for two, as we spun
Round and round trying to get
Started in a direction.

Out in the shallow sea we bobbed along
Only had half-an-hour before call in.
Our feet got wet in our shoes
And we smiled and smiled
I loved my dad that day
In his stripped top.

Love Mary x

You play so lightly pretty maid
If I touch you, what would you say
So near, I hear a heart beat
Feel your breathing on my face.

And the sunlight caresses your sleeve
At this beauty I barely breathe
My fingers creep towards yours
And you ignore me and do play.

I can feel you lift those fingers
Oh so slowly on the keys
And I want you there to need me
But you stare straight in front.

Now I am earnest in this warm light
And your black pinafore falls as a dove
Oh so soft is the velvet covering
Curled around you gentle love.


Yet do you not hear me in this stillness
Where the words go unsaid
Is the music your only love dear?
For my passion is outsaid.

On the blue chair I will sit you
Press open your knees
Find my fingers in your underskirts
Rub you tenderly with my sheath.

Yet you keep playing in the sunlight
While I hold deep my breath
And my panting is becoming audible
As I look at your *******.

Yet I fear this is useless as my ardour is strong
But for you pretty lady my love appears wrong.



Love Maryxx

"someone you love can be so damaged!"
the human body is not sacred as we believe it to be. everything is a house for a soul! but flesh is warm and blood flows so we treat it as if it lives. it does not live. love, reason, sorrow live.
flesh is not sacred so much that it is protected, but it is not sinful and it is not a cage. we cremate the body - prepare it, manicure it, embalm it. the cynic says we do these things for the living, but it's not true.
we care about the dead because we can tell they are living somewhere outside themselves.
it's like making the bed, steaming the curtains of a room inhabited by some lover on an indefinite voyage.

blood will creep into the soft, cream cotton seams of my pinafore and it will never ever leave.
will they torture me first?
I don't think so.
does a killer hate or love their victim? is it the same?

Twas just another ordinary day down on the farm when Clarence cockerel “****-a-doodle-dood” his daybreak alarm..as Pingo pigeon picked from tiny little crumbs of corn amidst the shed loft and his partner Sonia sat in the hay stack that was warm and soft..

Yes it was an Autumnal morning just like any other as Farmer Ted Brown worked in the dairy along with Molly his Mother, milking the Friesian cattle all in a row as the udders filled the pipes with such a creamy milk flow..And  Daisy the cow being the oldest of the lot would “Moo” and “Moo” as Harry horse did trot..”Quack” “Quack” “Quack” went Daddy Donald duck as he splashed and swam in the farmyard pond quite covered in muck.. with his partner Michelle a very fine Muscovy Mother as her ten tiny ducklings, nine sisters and a brother.. splishing and sploshing muddy water with their wings, squibbling and squabbling the noisy little things..

Of course this Monday morning at the crack of dawn didn’t rouse the Farmer’s son Sid as he stretched with a yawn coz he hadn’t went to bed until well after late courtin’ and a’kissin’ his latest date..just a couple of school kids lying canoodling on the hayshed floor as mice and voles ran in and out of that door..But Penelope pony pranced around the paddock as she  strutted and head butted in her frenzied fit so sporadic..The Suffolk sheep “Baa’d” and bleated munching in the meadows all that day in the Farmer’s field not too far away..

So it was indeed just another average ordinary morning on that hillside farm and the sun had risen as the day was dawning.. Everything was normal with nothing untoward as Great Granny Glenda Brown stood pressing her pinafore on the ironing board.. she had the bacon and eggs frying in the pan, ready to enjoy her breakfast with Great Grandad Stan..And how they all adored their countryside affair with the sounds and the smells in that cow dung fresh air..Ted, Winifred his wife and his Mother Molly and Sid her Grandson, lived in the big farmhouse with lots of fun..And Great Granny Glenda and Great Grandad Stan Brown had just moved to a lovely country cottage nextdoor from a flat up the road in the neighbouring town..

So,
you went to get tested
but instead, you got wasted,
common mistakes are all that it takes
to make more and more common mistakes.

anyway, Saturday and what's on the menu?
shopping and cleaning and have you seen me in
a pinafore before?

Well,
when the bomb drops
the house will be spotless.

I could do with more days like these days when she stays with me.