THE DAVID NIVEN RESURRECTIONIST

A David Niven resurrectionist,
Gauging quantities of aniseed twist,
Confounds the mistaken confectioner,
Whom he tosses aside with a flick of the wrist.

Orthopaedic mattresses rest on mats,
Outside their delivery addresses,
‘I was confused!’ the confectioner confesses,
To the resurrectionist, who he somewhat distresses.

Until…
At last, a confetti Yetti eats them both.
Or was it a sloth?

PVA #26 (From my Flickr photostream)

MONGREL DOGGEREL

Can a shitzu do ju jitsu?
Or is this a form of self-defence taught in synagogues?
I thought a shitzu was a poor menagerie,
Rather than a breed of dog frequently confused with a type of massage.
If you went for some shiatsu and had a dog rubbed into your head,
It’d drive you barking mad and you’d do something else instead.
Possibly, like learning a martial art, for a start.
If you weren’t thrown by judo,
Or bored with board game Cluedo,
Rise early to watch the dew go,
Try something you don’t know.

JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES

NOW: Politically correct contortions of Orwellian proportions,
Police cautions, cautious police,
Poll ease, Pole seize, Pole vault—
For the incarceration of natives of Poland,
(With) Poles in hand.
Soles inland—fishmongers in shoe shops,
Cops a feel, cops appeal for witnesses,
Jehovah’s Witnesses appeal for attention inflicting their doorstep detention,
We need intervention to facilitate their prevention,
In ways I dare not mention.
Tension—racial and sexual, and tension headaches,
Bed lakes result from exaggerated bedwetting,
Bloodletting confusion stems from circulation of rumoured refusals of Jehovah’s Witnesses to receive blood transfusions,
Ironically, new blood is always welcome and aggressively sought by those bearing witness to Jehovah.
Whether you’re a lover or a loather of extremist religious factions,
One of their attractions is rigid thinking like mental traction,
Self-punishing abstinence and masochistic satisfaction,
With adherence to heresy and opinion, rather than the taking of action.

CRANKY

Known only as ‘Cranky’, the relentless handle-turner could have handled Turners, if only he’d been an art dealer. Instead, in Cranky’s head, unrealised dreams accrue on the barren shores of the coast of his imagination. Insubstantial memories over twenty or more years cluster vaguely round his buried fears. Long ago, he did someone a good turn and once he fell in love with a woman. Is it her for whom, at night, he’ll yearn?
What does he earn turning handles? Not a lot. What does he learn spurning vandals? He learns it’s not worthwhile. He slowly blinks, forgets to smile, trudging home mile after mile.
Fifty-two, Cranky feels there’s nothing new or inspiring. His life is stale. So are his clothes and his breath. His days are empty yet still he fears death. At night, he dreams the Reaper calls to chop off his head and squeeze his balls. Awake in a sweat at three a.m., he asks himself from where do his fears stem? Turning things over in his mind, he knows he will find no answers, no real peace, but just like when he’s turning his handles, Cranky’s cranking things up.
Every summer, he feels too hot. He sweats and gasps and complains a lot. In the winter, he fares no better, stamping his feet with holes in his sweater. Come rain or shine, all Cranky does is whine in an archetypically English way. Perversely, he’s not happy unless he grumbles throughout the day.
Shunned by others, Cranky’s a bore. His false cheery greetings meet with stares at the floor. His generally icy reception’s one he never seems to thaw. Instead, he has to bite his tongue when choosing to ignore the typical response he gets, although he gets it more and more.
His health is bad, he must not drink, his doctor tells him. It makes him think. Turning things over in his mind to see what he will find, Cranky draws a blank. Who he is, he doesn’t know as pain racks his right flank. His left leg numbs, then seizes up and stiffens like a plank.
‘Compose yourself!’ Cranky hears the cry.
He reels, his face stinging, from a harshly delivered spank.
‘Oh, no, no, no! Must I die?’
His eyes water at his childless fate, for he has no son or daughter. He lived alone, now he must die so also. Although he’s sad and scared as well, it’s for the best he seems to tell, as a strange sense of calm belies the signs of terminal harm. His chest jolts and quivers and his neck starts to swell. Death would be a relief, he half-muses, from a life of hell. Blood vessels explode internally and then… Then, he simply fell.
Cranky’s name and life and death are engraved on a sacred bell in the church of St. Botolph’s. It came about at the insistence of a fixated campanologist, who claimed to be Cranky’s friend. It wasn’t true. The bell-ringer suffered from tinnitus and was clearly round the bend. Not without blackmailing an engraver and coercing a vicar, did the man achieve his end. His threat to stop ringing the church bells had limited appeal. It was best just to appease him, the vicar and his parishioners agreed. He even said a prayer for Cranky, wishing him God speed. Insanely smiling, the bell-ringer hears ringing in his ears. He shouts out words that none will heed. Then, falling silent, he disappears.

TROUBLE BREWING (A short story) Part 4 (Conclusion)

After the mistaken caller had been redirected and I’d made Liz a fresh cup of tea the window cleaner arrived. He asked Liz for a bucket of hot water.
‘Well, all right…’ She said taking his bucket. ‘Only don’t blame me if it goes cold on you.’
‘Er-no, no I, won’t,’ the window cleaner looked baffled. I offered him a cup of tea before he got started.
‘Ooh, well I dunno if I should, naah,’ he said.
I was baffled and asked, ‘Why ever not?’
‘Well if I drink the tea the ’ot water in me bucket might go cold.’ He pointed at the bucket Liz had filled from the kettle and the hot tap.
‘Yes,’ Liz spoke. ‘And you can’t blame me because it won’t be my fault!’
‘That’s true,’ nodded the window cleaner.
An idea occurred to me so, inspired, I said, ‘Hey—why don’t you clean the windows first and then drink your tea?’
‘Naah,’ he shook his head. ‘Then the tea will go cold before I get a chance to drink it.’
‘No, wait a minute,’ Liz, looking smug, said. ‘I’ve got the perfect solution…’
In the short pause that followed the window cleaner and I exchanged baffled looks as Liz’s smugness exuded from her like an aura.
‘Well what is it?’ We eventually asked.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea AFTER you’ve cleaned the windows!’ It was obvious of course.
‘Excellent,’ the window cleaner chirped grinning. ‘An’ I’ll drink it straight away.’
‘Mmm, could I have a cup too, please, Liz?’ I was rude enough to ask.

When the window cleaner had finished cleaning the windows, he joined us for a cup of tea, which stayed hot all the way to the bottom of his cup.
‘Mmm, that was a lovely cup of tea, thank you, missus,’ thanked the window cleaner, his mouth parted in a fixed grin as he clutched his bucket and made for the door.
‘You’re most welcome,’ Liz beamed then closed the door before looking at me.
‘What is it, Liz?’ I asked wondering why she was looking at me that way.
‘Oh I was just thinking that that was the most successful round of tea I’ve had in ages.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I agreed. ‘Me too, I reckon.’ I reckoned returning her look.
‘There’s just one thing though…’
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t it make you want to go to the loo?’
‘Why, yes!’ I exclaimed as an abrupt awareness of the litres of tea I’d consumed centred on my bladder.
‘Me first,’ Liz cried and hurried off up the stairs to the toilet. At least it had been repaired now I mused to the sight of her retreating legs. After she’d been I hastened to relieve myself, enjoying a long steaming pee and it occurred to me that had I waited longer my pee would have got cold. Not that it seemed to matter now as I rejoined Liz downstairs.
‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ She asked.

TROUBLE BREWING (A short story) Part 3

After the TV repairman had left, we received a visit from a plumber. He’d been expected and, unlike the TV repairman, was on time. He came to flush the lavatory as part of a local council survey and changed a tap washer while he was at it. He only charged £250 an hour and told Liz her case was unusually complicated and unexpectedly problematic. For her own safety, Liz was asked to remain out of the bathroom for the next three and a half hours while he worked in complete silence. We assumed he was concentrating very hard during this time after which he appeared from Liz’s bathroom and smilingly reassured her that everything was as good as new.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Liz told him with a cup of tea in her hand. ‘I only recently had the bathroom suite fitted.’
‘Mmm,’ rejoined the plumber. ‘I thought it looked new. ’Ow old is it then? I mean the bog—toilet an’ basin an’ that?’
‘I bought them not six weeks ago.’
‘I thought so. In fact I knew it. Anyway, all clear—Hur-hur an’ I oughta be goin’. ’Ere ’ave this an’ ta, luv. Cheers!’ With that, the plumber handed her his unfinished tea.
‘You haven’t finished your tea,’ exclaimed Liz.
‘Naah, well it went cold, didn’t it?’
‘Huh, that’s what happened to me!’ I said but he was already out the door and in his car turning the engine on. Liz shut the door and looked guiltily at the returned cup. I put my arm around her shoulder consolingly as her chest suddenly heaved in convulsive sobbing as her tea temperature remorse tore at her heart inflicting savage grief and pain.
‘Ssh, there, there now, Liz,’ I soothed. ‘Don’t cry; let me put the kettle on.’ I said magnanimously and promptly made us both a cup of steaming hot tea.

After the plumber had left, we drank the hot tea and I took the trouble to reassure Liz of her total innocence with regards to the plumber’s tea going cold.
‘It really wasn’t your fault,’ I told her.
‘Well,’ sobbed Liz. ‘I suppose the tea was hot when I gave it to him.’
‘Exactly!’ I placated gently. It was as she said and equally I didn’t hold her at all responsible for my tea getting cold earlier and with me, it had happened twice! ‘It’s like my tea went cold earlier as well, Liz—twice! I don’t blame you because I know it really wasn’t your fault.’
‘So I’m not to blame?’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘Then it can’t be my fault!’
‘No, Liz, it isn’t.’
‘Really?’
‘YES!’
Just then, the doorbell rang, but it was a mistake—somebody had come to the wrong house. Liz closed the door after pointing to number 35, opposite, which is where the mistaken caller really wanted to visit.
‘Ooh, thanks a lot,’ said the grateful mistake maker before setting off on his way.
‘Don’t mention it,’ cried Liz, grateful for the opportunity to help someone. ‘I’m just glad of the opportunity to help someone.’ I could tell by her tone she had cheered up considerably but one look at her troubled face seemed to show me a different story.
‘What’s the matter, Liz?’ I refrained from adding ‘now’.
Her face had assumed a perplexed expression as she peered at the unfinished drink in the cup still in her hand.
‘My tea’s gone cold!’ I couldn’t help laughing when she replied. ‘Any chance of another cup?’ She was rude enough to ask.

TROUBLE BREWING (A short story) Part 2

After Bill had left, the TV repairman turned up. It was about time too.
‘Huh, it’s about time you turned up!’ Liz snapped at the man. Mumbling some vague apologies, he then asked to see the TV so Liz showed him into the lounge. He turned on the set and pulled his bag of tools towards him as the picture fuzzily emerged on the screen. Liz made the man some tea as he fiddled and prodded the set with screwdrivers and long-nosed pliers. He flicked through the channels whistling and slurped his tea noisily. It took him about half an hour to repair the set and he left grinning, assuring Liz an invoice for his services would be in the post.
‘Well you can bleeding well wait as long for your money as I’ve had to wait for you to turn up,’ said Liz closing the door behind him.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘It was a bit of a cheek!’
‘Four bloody weeks I had to wait,’ Liz bleated. ‘I rang him up nine times!’
‘God, really?’ I said although I definitely believed her and had witnessed her making several of the nine calls she’d claimed to have made. It did seem a bit much. ‘It does seem a bit much,’ I added.
‘A bit much!’ Liz protested. ‘Four weeks—that’s a MONTH!’
‘Mmm,’ I considered. ‘It’s not as if it were only a few days or a week, a fortnight even.’
‘No, it was a whole month!’
‘Still, at least it wasn’t as long as three months,’ I injected cheerily hoping Liz would lighten up. ‘Mmm,’ I said then. My tea was cold again.
‘Fancy a cup of tea, Liz?’ I was polite enough to offer.

TROUBLE BREWING (A short story) Part 1

‘Did you know that nearly fifty per cent of the population of Hastings is on some form of benefit?’ Asked the man sat across from me at the table in Brighton.
‘No, really?’ I replied although I obviously believed him.
‘Good God!’ Liz exclaimed behind me as the man sagely nodded. In the silence that followed, I gleaned strange satisfaction from the statistic—nearly fifty per cent of the population was approximately half—I was far from alone. However, I was quite far from Hastings.
‘It’s quite a long way to Hastings, isn’t it?’ I asked to break the silence.
‘Ooh, it’s not that far,’ the man, called Bill, said.
‘It’s about eighty miles along the coast.’ Liz chimed.
‘Well that’s what I mean,’ I said. ‘Eighty miles is a long way from here.’
‘I don’t know,’ Bill shook his head. ‘It’s less than a hundred miles.’
Baffled, I said, ‘It’s still more than fifty!’
‘Mmm or thirty,’ offered Liz. This baffled Bill, who ignored us both and, with a shrug, picked up the paper, ‘The Granite Observer’. Its headline read ‘SHIP SINKS AT SEA: MUCH DEATH BY DROWNING!’ It was quite an obvious tabloid really, noted for its stylistic simplicity.
‘Oh, yes, please…’ I was grateful when Liz offered a cup of tea, Assam, a minute later. The day had dragged until Bill had arrived; then it had stood still. An agony of boredom seized my heart at the table right then as Bill read the paper. I could just see his eyebrows above the sheet. They formed a comic quizzical expression as the eyes below inevitably travelled from left to right so the brain behind could receive the printed messages.
‘Good read, Bill?’ I forced myself to say, my legs becoming concrete.
‘Mmm.’ Was the irritated response from studious Bill, behind the paper. You prick, I thought, resenting his hidden face and fantasised about setting fire to his damn paper screen. My tea was cold!
‘Any chance of another cup, please Liz?’ I was rude enough to ask.

A HEAD OF HIS TIME (LEFT)