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Monday, 14 December 2009
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Slogging and Blogging away
Today I am using this blog as it should be used - to write about what's going on.
I got lucky last week in getting straight through to the Editor of Warwickshire Life who may be interested in the topiary piece. Inspired and indeed totally over-excited about this, I roughed up some ideas for stories around the NGS Open Garden scheme.
I have learnt that at Warwickshire Life they are now working on March/April. Country Living have a year's material mapped out in advance, apparently. So there's confusing.
The NGS garden scheme operates as from about May so should be good for the stable which Warwickshire Life belongs to (also including Cotswold Life). So the timing is correct for this. I didn't know last year that I was going to write a feature now, so have no suitable pictures and only memory to go on, but think I can do something special. This is my pitch for Cotwold life:
At Home with the Rich and Famous– A Sunday in Broughton.
This tiny corner of North Oxfordshire contains two very remarkable gardens owned by two very different people. Time your visit carefully to enjoy both the very public Broughton Castle and the very private Broughton Grange.
Royal Bank of Scotland Chief Executive Stephen Hester in constantly in national press, and few journalists can resist a passing reference of his ‘350 acre country estate'. It's location, though, is kept discreetly under wraps.
The gloriously named Lord Saye and Sele is less high profile, though family members Ralph and Joseph Fiennes are better known, as is Broughton Castle, the fairytale-pretty ancestral seat whose film credits include 'Shakespeare in Love'.
I also want to do something nationwide featuring Westfield (Felix Dennis's Pleasure Palace in Dorsington) and Charles Jencks' Garden of Cosmic Speculation in Dumfrees, both open only for one day a year under the NGS scheme and both utterly remarkable and eccentric.
Plus a 'Where are they now?' article on the craftsmen who worked on Dennis's place (I have a guide he published with a list of names, and have been checking them out on the web).
Plus articles on 'Mindfulness' for Psychologies Magazine, having just done a workshop on it.
Plus I have fallen utterly in love this weekend with Speigeltents, which would make a wonderful photo feature in the Sunday supplements.
So why am I writing and marketing all this instead of getting on with it?
Cos I'm feeling demotivated. This is turning into work. And I can see that I really ought to be thinking in terms of what magazines want to publish, rather than what I want to write. The UKPress site is depressing me, too. It's all so formulaic - think of an idea women will read about, then find case studies to illustrate it. Everything playing to women's hang-ups - looks and love - which I think is deeply damaging to readers (though of course irresistable to all, including me).
I'm also beginning to realise that most writers have money or a primary breadwinner behind them. A contact has just written and asked if I'm interested in an amusing part time job in the field for £6k pa - clearly under the impression that I'm some sort of rich, bored dilletante housewife.
If feature writing is going to become a slog, maybe I'd better just get a proper job and forget about it.
Time for some retail therapy, and a nice bolstering evening with Sally and the Class. Thank goodness for you all!
I got lucky last week in getting straight through to the Editor of Warwickshire Life who may be interested in the topiary piece. Inspired and indeed totally over-excited about this, I roughed up some ideas for stories around the NGS Open Garden scheme.
I have learnt that at Warwickshire Life they are now working on March/April. Country Living have a year's material mapped out in advance, apparently. So there's confusing.
The NGS garden scheme operates as from about May so should be good for the stable which Warwickshire Life belongs to (also including Cotswold Life). So the timing is correct for this. I didn't know last year that I was going to write a feature now, so have no suitable pictures and only memory to go on, but think I can do something special. This is my pitch for Cotwold life:
At Home with the Rich and Famous– A Sunday in Broughton.
This tiny corner of North Oxfordshire contains two very remarkable gardens owned by two very different people. Time your visit carefully to enjoy both the very public Broughton Castle and the very private Broughton Grange.
Royal Bank of Scotland Chief Executive Stephen Hester in constantly in national press, and few journalists can resist a passing reference of his ‘350 acre country estate'. It's location, though, is kept discreetly under wraps.
The gloriously named Lord Saye and Sele is less high profile, though family members Ralph and Joseph Fiennes are better known, as is Broughton Castle, the fairytale-pretty ancestral seat whose film credits include 'Shakespeare in Love'.
I also want to do something nationwide featuring Westfield (Felix Dennis's Pleasure Palace in Dorsington) and Charles Jencks' Garden of Cosmic Speculation in Dumfrees, both open only for one day a year under the NGS scheme and both utterly remarkable and eccentric.
Plus a 'Where are they now?' article on the craftsmen who worked on Dennis's place (I have a guide he published with a list of names, and have been checking them out on the web).
Plus articles on 'Mindfulness' for Psychologies Magazine, having just done a workshop on it.
Plus I have fallen utterly in love this weekend with Speigeltents, which would make a wonderful photo feature in the Sunday supplements.
So why am I writing and marketing all this instead of getting on with it?
Cos I'm feeling demotivated. This is turning into work. And I can see that I really ought to be thinking in terms of what magazines want to publish, rather than what I want to write. The UKPress site is depressing me, too. It's all so formulaic - think of an idea women will read about, then find case studies to illustrate it. Everything playing to women's hang-ups - looks and love - which I think is deeply damaging to readers (though of course irresistable to all, including me).
I'm also beginning to realise that most writers have money or a primary breadwinner behind them. A contact has just written and asked if I'm interested in an amusing part time job in the field for £6k pa - clearly under the impression that I'm some sort of rich, bored dilletante housewife.
If feature writing is going to become a slog, maybe I'd better just get a proper job and forget about it.
Time for some retail therapy, and a nice bolstering evening with Sally and the Class. Thank goodness for you all!
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Safe not Sorry - Under-age Drivers in the Hot Seat.
‘Where to now?’
‘I'm going for another burn up the main drag’ answered my 15 year old, manoevring my elderly but loved Citroen Zantia expertly across a roundabout.
A week ago I wouldn’t have believed that I could be flicking through a magazine in the passenger seat whilst my well-under-age son drove at 60 miles an hour on a busy road. I’m not sure I believe it now. But it happened. All thanks to Pathfinders.
Pathfinders is a joint initiative by the police, the district council and the Under 17 Car Club. When several organisations come together with a single, clear agenda, you know it's likely to a good one.
‘Car crashes are the single leading cause of death among 18-21 year old males’ we were told bluntly on our first day. ‘And these males are the single leading cause of death among 18-21 year old females, who are in the passenger seats at the time’
Pathfinders aims to get ‘em young, male and female alike. Rather than just scaring them stiff with statistics, the project channels their enthusiasm by teaching them to drive safely and sensibly, well before they can legally hit the highway.
I signed up to this, the second year of Pathfinders, to give my petrolhead child a flying start, remembering how long it took me to pass my driving test (don’t ask). I knew that as an ‘associate’ I would be required to attend alongside him. I didn’t realise quite how exhausting this would be.
For five days, after an extensive initial briefing, fifty parents and teenagers were let loose off-road on a disused airfield, negotiating elaborate road systems created from traffic cones
The first hour or so was absolutely terrifying. Suddenly, my son and I were alone together in my car, and it was up to me to tell him what happened next. Somehow, drawing on my sketchy memories of driving lessons, we got the car started and crept bravely around the complicated track, monitored at a discreet distance by teams of AA driving instructors and marshals.
Almost immediately, a red Nissan Micro leapt through a fence, narrowly missing an instructor, and we felt much braver (we came to learn that small red cars, invariably driven by beautiful, leggy girls with amazing tie-dyed hair, need plenty of space).
We had made it to second gear, and were wildly contemplating third, when we were waved down by an instructor.
‘We thought you might be struggling’ he said, taking my place in the passenger seat.
‘We weren’t struggling’ I said huffily ‘we were learning’
Over the week we both learned lots. I learned that my knowledge of the Highway Code is woefully outdated and that my son is a really nice bloke. The hands-on nature of the course provides a real bonding experience – if only because it reminds teenagers that there’s stuff you can still do better than them.
My son learnt to parallel park (something which took me years) reverse around corners, negotiate chicanes, and remove crumpled plastic cones from the undercarriage of the Citroen.
The week was well structured – a mixture of short, punchy lectures, driving lessons, set tasks, theory and special events, including trips in a police car and speed trials. Everything felt very safe and professional, fun but without condescension.
The Under17 Car Club Volunteers who created and manage the event must take credit for this. Men in their fifties who clearly never grew out of Top Gear, they made charismatic presenters, combining firmness and common-sense with adolescent enthusiasm.
The marshals, Car Club graduates in their late teens but mature beyond their years, were calm and authoritative. Like the one who flagged us down, took away my magazine and reminded me that I was meant to be supervising.
‘Mu-um, he’s in my Sixth Form’ groaned my son, sliding into the foot-well with embarrassment.
I would have loved my son to join the Under-17 Car Club itself but - get this - he’s already too old. Membership starts at 12.
At £100, for which you also get an impressive array of freebees, from mugs to driving handbooks, Pathfinders is clearly subsidised.
Does it work? Research to establish how much safer Pathfinders graduates actually are as legal drivers is underway. If the results are as expected, it’s hoped that the project will roll out nationally. It could save a lot of lives.
It’s certainly a lot of fun.
The Pathfinders Project currently runs October Half Term Holidays in South Warwickshire). Details from the Under 17 Car Club http://www.under17-carclub.co.uk/
-----------------------
‘I'm going for another burn up the main drag’ answered my 15 year old, manoevring my elderly but loved Citroen Zantia expertly across a roundabout.
A week ago I wouldn’t have believed that I could be flicking through a magazine in the passenger seat whilst my well-under-age son drove at 60 miles an hour on a busy road. I’m not sure I believe it now. But it happened. All thanks to Pathfinders.
Pathfinders is a joint initiative by the police, the district council and the Under 17 Car Club. When several organisations come together with a single, clear agenda, you know it's likely to a good one.
‘Car crashes are the single leading cause of death among 18-21 year old males’ we were told bluntly on our first day. ‘And these males are the single leading cause of death among 18-21 year old females, who are in the passenger seats at the time’
Pathfinders aims to get ‘em young, male and female alike. Rather than just scaring them stiff with statistics, the project channels their enthusiasm by teaching them to drive safely and sensibly, well before they can legally hit the highway.
I signed up to this, the second year of Pathfinders, to give my petrolhead child a flying start, remembering how long it took me to pass my driving test (don’t ask). I knew that as an ‘associate’ I would be required to attend alongside him. I didn’t realise quite how exhausting this would be.
For five days, after an extensive initial briefing, fifty parents and teenagers were let loose off-road on a disused airfield, negotiating elaborate road systems created from traffic cones
The first hour or so was absolutely terrifying. Suddenly, my son and I were alone together in my car, and it was up to me to tell him what happened next. Somehow, drawing on my sketchy memories of driving lessons, we got the car started and crept bravely around the complicated track, monitored at a discreet distance by teams of AA driving instructors and marshals.
Almost immediately, a red Nissan Micro leapt through a fence, narrowly missing an instructor, and we felt much braver (we came to learn that small red cars, invariably driven by beautiful, leggy girls with amazing tie-dyed hair, need plenty of space).
We had made it to second gear, and were wildly contemplating third, when we were waved down by an instructor.
‘We thought you might be struggling’ he said, taking my place in the passenger seat.
‘We weren’t struggling’ I said huffily ‘we were learning’
Over the week we both learned lots. I learned that my knowledge of the Highway Code is woefully outdated and that my son is a really nice bloke. The hands-on nature of the course provides a real bonding experience – if only because it reminds teenagers that there’s stuff you can still do better than them.
My son learnt to parallel park (something which took me years) reverse around corners, negotiate chicanes, and remove crumpled plastic cones from the undercarriage of the Citroen.
The week was well structured – a mixture of short, punchy lectures, driving lessons, set tasks, theory and special events, including trips in a police car and speed trials. Everything felt very safe and professional, fun but without condescension.
The Under17 Car Club Volunteers who created and manage the event must take credit for this. Men in their fifties who clearly never grew out of Top Gear, they made charismatic presenters, combining firmness and common-sense with adolescent enthusiasm.
The marshals, Car Club graduates in their late teens but mature beyond their years, were calm and authoritative. Like the one who flagged us down, took away my magazine and reminded me that I was meant to be supervising.
‘Mu-um, he’s in my Sixth Form’ groaned my son, sliding into the foot-well with embarrassment.
I would have loved my son to join the Under-17 Car Club itself but - get this - he’s already too old. Membership starts at 12.
At £100, for which you also get an impressive array of freebees, from mugs to driving handbooks, Pathfinders is clearly subsidised.
Does it work? Research to establish how much safer Pathfinders graduates actually are as legal drivers is underway. If the results are as expected, it’s hoped that the project will roll out nationally. It could save a lot of lives.
It’s certainly a lot of fun.
The Pathfinders Project currently runs October Half Term Holidays in South Warwickshire). Details from the Under 17 Car Club http://www.under17-carclub.co.uk/
-----------------------
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Arabian Nights in Andalucia – the magic of Granada.
The Alhambra; it’s one of those unreal Ali-Baba pantomime names, like Timbuctu and Zanzibar. The Alhambra, though, is a lot closer – Granada is just across the channel, straight down and then left a bit, like the rest of Southern Spain. Perfect for a long weekend.
Tell that to the airlines.
Granada, is a sod to get to. Flights from the UK are expensive and long – up to 11 hours in some cases, including transfers. In the end, we gave up and bussed it from Malaga.
Spanish buses are wonderful – comfortable, frequent and cheap, at around £1.50 for a single ride, £20 return for the smooth two hour coach trip.
This, however, is about the only bargain around. The sterling/Euro exchange, spiralling ever upward in the wrong direction (for us, anyway), leaves the British traveller in mainland Europe feeling more like an economic migrant than a desirable guest.
Still, some of the best things about Granada are free. This is a city designed to be explored on foot (obviously – they hadn’t invented cars back then). Nothing is very far aw
ay, and the narrow streets with their mosaic cobbles and stepped passageways actively discourage vehicles. What they do encourage is wandering about, getting happily lost and going ‘Oh, wow, isn’t that amazing?’ a lot.
In the City centre, the Ramblas, as vibrant as their Barcelona equivalent, offer outdoor dining in lamp-lit squares, and fascinating shopping, from silver-lace fans to elaborate confirmation gowns, chandeliers, swords and custom-built flamenco guitars.
The AlcaicerÃa or Arab bazaar surrounding the Cathedral is a haven of tourist tat – hookahs, inlaid wooden boxes, leather goods and shelves of plaster figurines. Here, doe-eyed Virgin Marys retail right alongside matadors and Pink Panthers – a real cultural melting pot.
The Albaicin, or old Moorish quarter, is on a steep hill that leaves you panting. One upmarket slope offers spectacular views of the Alhambra opposite. The rest, and the valley below, has been colonised by new-agers, with which Granada is absolutely heaving. Everywhere, dreadlocked crusties in matted coats and cheesecloth breeches trail mongrels on strings, and the air is heavy with wacky-baccy and Leonard Cohen.
Granada is a very old city with a young population, much of it student-based, all of it attractive, friendly and fun. What I don’t get is how they can afford to live there.
Food is seriously pricey. A starter of ‘mature sheep’s cheese’ at one Albaicin bar was an eye-watering £20 (you’d think they’d throw in the sheep for that), and tapas averages around £8 a dish. The Granadians don’t seem to have mastered tapas – standard dishes include tuna with tomato sauce on bread (about as nice as it sounds) grilled chorizo (okay, but unexciting) and potato croquettes (no, I can’t see the point either). Tourist paella is everywhere, usually re-heated, often unwisely garnished with a single desiccated mussel. Also cured hams, mounted for carving in elaborate callipers, the trotter pointing elegantly skyward, like a sawn-off ballerina.
I’m sure there’s wonderful food to be had in Granada: we just couldn’t quite find it.
Drinks can also cost. Wine in very average eating places can start at £25 per bottle. Look out, though, for the excellent, almost sherry-like, local rose by the glass, or try a generous warmed balloon of 10 year old Torres brandy (anything younger disappoints).
Places to see? Well, the Alhambra: you really can’t go all that way and just not bother. A fortified hilltop medina, the Alhambra is a vast, poorly-signposted network of palaces, towers, fountains with and without lions, terraces and gardens. Just finding your way into the place is a serious challenge. If I were an invader, I’d have given up. Which was presumably the whole idea.
The highlight is the Nazrid Palace complex. Entrance to this is by timed ticket and you have to be there on time or they won’t let you in. Once inside, sightseers are filtered through colonnades and chambers covered in exquisite arabesques, under intricately carved archways and alongside still, shaded pools reflecting the back the crush of tourists funnelling past. You know the sort of thing. Stunning, remarkable, absolutely unique - but strangely underwhelming.
For the real Arabian Nights bit, I actually preferred the Alhambra Hamman. A sinister-looking door down a side alley leads to a series of dim candlelit rooms, some apparently carved directly out of the rock face, each with its own temperature-controlled pool and perfumed relaxation area. Here, you hang about, sipping mint tea in near-silence, and chilling. You can also enjoy a very professional aromatherapy massage. And even, if you’re with someone special, a bit of discreet pool-based necking. All very Moorish, and very more-ish.
Moorish cafes, too, abound, each table modestly veiled off and surrounded by plump, invitingly-cushioned couches. Glasses of petal-scented tea are sipped to tinkling Arabic music and the satisfied bubbling of hookahs – carcinogenic and possibly hallucinogenic, but wonderfully soothing to be around.
Granada was Muslim, then Christian. When the Nazrids ceded to Ferdinand and Isabella, Catholicism broke out big-time. The cathedral is enormous; white and gold within, an apparent tumble of tiled towers and cupolas outside. I very kindly went there so you don’t have to. It’s full of massive, dusty-looking gilded monuments and altars. I wish I could say more, but the audio-guide was £3 extra, and I was feeling mean. The Capilla Real is the same, only more so. The city is full of big baroque churches and square, tiled monasteries, elbowing one another out of the way amid a sea of palaces, souks, chestnut sellers and spice stalls.
Tell that to the airlines.
Granada, is a sod to get to. Flights from the UK are expensive and long – up to 11 hours in some cases, including transfers. In the end, we gave up and bussed it from Malaga.
Spanish buses are wonderful – comfortable, frequent and cheap, at around £1.50 for a single ride, £20 return for the smooth two hour coach trip.
This, however, is about the only bargain around. The sterling/Euro exchange, spiralling ever upward in the wrong direction (for us, anyway), leaves the British traveller in mainland Europe feeling more like an economic migrant than a desirable guest.
Still, some of the best things about Granada are free. This is a city designed to be explored on foot (obviously – they hadn’t invented cars back then). Nothing is very far aw
ay, and the narrow streets with their mosaic cobbles and stepped passageways actively discourage vehicles. What they do encourage is wandering about, getting happily lost and going ‘Oh, wow, isn’t that amazing?’ a lot. In the City centre, the Ramblas, as vibrant as their Barcelona equivalent, offer outdoor dining in lamp-lit squares, and fascinating shopping, from silver-lace fans to elaborate confirmation gowns, chandeliers, swords and custom-built flamenco guitars.
The AlcaicerÃa or Arab bazaar surrounding the Cathedral is a haven of tourist tat – hookahs, inlaid wooden boxes, leather goods and shelves of plaster figurines. Here, doe-eyed Virgin Marys retail right alongside matadors and Pink Panthers – a real cultural melting pot.
The Albaicin, or old Moorish quarter, is on a steep hill that leaves you panting. One upmarket slope offers spectacular views of the Alhambra opposite. The rest, and the valley below, has been colonised by new-agers, with which Granada is absolutely heaving. Everywhere, dreadlocked crusties in matted coats and cheesecloth breeches trail mongrels on strings, and the air is heavy with wacky-baccy and Leonard Cohen.
Granada is a very old city with a young population, much of it student-based, all of it attractive, friendly and fun. What I don’t get is how they can afford to live there.
Food is seriously pricey. A starter of ‘mature sheep’s cheese’ at one Albaicin bar was an eye-watering £20 (you’d think they’d throw in the sheep for that), and tapas averages around £8 a dish. The Granadians don’t seem to have mastered tapas – standard dishes include tuna with tomato sauce on bread (about as nice as it sounds) grilled chorizo (okay, but unexciting) and potato croquettes (no, I can’t see the point either). Tourist paella is everywhere, usually re-heated, often unwisely garnished with a single desiccated mussel. Also cured hams, mounted for carving in elaborate callipers, the trotter pointing elegantly skyward, like a sawn-off ballerina.
I’m sure there’s wonderful food to be had in Granada: we just couldn’t quite find it.
Drinks can also cost. Wine in very average eating places can start at £25 per bottle. Look out, though, for the excellent, almost sherry-like, local rose by the glass, or try a generous warmed balloon of 10 year old Torres brandy (anything younger disappoints).
Places to see? Well, the Alhambra: you really can’t go all that way and just not bother. A fortified hilltop medina, the Alhambra is a vast, poorly-signposted network of palaces, towers, fountains with and without lions, terraces and gardens. Just finding your way into the place is a serious challenge. If I were an invader, I’d have given up. Which was presumably the whole idea.
The highlight is the Nazrid Palace complex. Entrance to this is by timed ticket and you have to be there on time or they won’t let you in. Once inside, sightseers are filtered through colonnades and chambers covered in exquisite arabesques, under intricately carved archways and alongside still, shaded pools reflecting the back the crush of tourists funnelling past. You know the sort of thing. Stunning, remarkable, absolutely unique - but strangely underwhelming.
For the real Arabian Nights bit, I actually preferred the Alhambra Hamman. A sinister-looking door down a side alley leads to a series of dim candlelit rooms, some apparently carved directly out of the rock face, each with its own temperature-controlled pool and perfumed relaxation area. Here, you hang about, sipping mint tea in near-silence, and chilling. You can also enjoy a very professional aromatherapy massage. And even, if you’re with someone special, a bit of discreet pool-based necking. All very Moorish, and very more-ish.
Moorish cafes, too, abound, each table modestly veiled off and surrounded by plump, invitingly-cushioned couches. Glasses of petal-scented tea are sipped to tinkling Arabic music and the satisfied bubbling of hookahs – carcinogenic and possibly hallucinogenic, but wonderfully soothing to be around.
Granada was Muslim, then Christian. When the Nazrids ceded to Ferdinand and Isabella, Catholicism broke out big-time. The cathedral is enormous; white and gold within, an apparent tumble of tiled towers and cupolas outside. I very kindly went there so you don’t have to. It’s full of massive, dusty-looking gilded monuments and altars. I wish I could say more, but the audio-guide was £3 extra, and I was feeling mean. The Capilla Real is the same, only more so. The city is full of big baroque churches and square, tiled monasteries, elbowing one another out of the way amid a sea of palaces, souks, chestnut sellers and spice stalls.
Why Granada is so inaccessible, when Barcelona is right on the main British tourist drag, I have no idea. Barcelona has Gaudi. Granada has it all. Once sterling starts recovering, I recommend you put Granada right at the top of your weekend-away list.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Twas the Night Before Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas. I sat in a bar
Too drunk to go home, at least not in the car,
And I thought of my wife and the kids and her mum
All sitting round waiting for Santa to come
And I just couldn’t face it. I switched off my phone
And into the darkness I stepped out alone.
I’d decided to leave, then and there, in the night
Keep walking till sunrise and dawn’s early light
Then start a new life with no ties and no past
Where the options are endless, horizons are vast…
So I walked through the night. It was chilly and dark
But surprisingly noisy, no walk in the park,
And though werewolves and zombies are figures of myth
It’s surprising how present they feel when you’re pissed.
I stumbled through bracken, got battered and bruised,
Till I came to a pathway that others had used
Well, I followed the path for some time, till I spied,
A window, a house, and some people inside.
The garden was muddy, I tripped on a Gnome,
Then I reached the front door of some good soul’s Sweet Home
I knocked, and they opened. They welcomed me in -
My wife and my children, my own kith and kin.
It was my house, how cosy, how good to be here
And to start the next morning with real Christmas Cheer
After all I can still run away for New Year.
------------
Written for Writelink poetry competition - 24 line max narrative poem with Xmas theme.
Too drunk to go home, at least not in the car,
And I thought of my wife and the kids and her mum
All sitting round waiting for Santa to come
And I just couldn’t face it. I switched off my phone
And into the darkness I stepped out alone.
I’d decided to leave, then and there, in the night
Keep walking till sunrise and dawn’s early light
Then start a new life with no ties and no past
Where the options are endless, horizons are vast…
So I walked through the night. It was chilly and dark
But surprisingly noisy, no walk in the park,
And though werewolves and zombies are figures of myth
It’s surprising how present they feel when you’re pissed.
I stumbled through bracken, got battered and bruised,
Till I came to a pathway that others had used
Well, I followed the path for some time, till I spied,
A window, a house, and some people inside.
The garden was muddy, I tripped on a Gnome,
Then I reached the front door of some good soul’s Sweet Home
I knocked, and they opened. They welcomed me in -
My wife and my children, my own kith and kin.
It was my house, how cosy, how good to be here
And to start the next morning with real Christmas Cheer
After all I can still run away for New Year.
------------
Written for Writelink poetry competition - 24 line max narrative poem with Xmas theme.
Getting competitive
Thanks to Sally's URLs, instead of getting on with feature writing, I am happily churning out entries to online writing competitions and trying to Xmas stuff. Oh dear.
Christmas Tweetings – an Online Carol
Three compulsive twittering hacks
Writing fast we cover the facts
‘What you doing?’
Fro-ing, to-ing,
All in one-forty max.
Oh, Web of wonder, Web of might
Keeps us up for half the night
Egos bulging
Self-indulging
Thinking up the cr*p we write
Ah URL thou little Tiny link
Ah URL lullay
So twitt’rers we
Say http
Hyperlink's had its say.
God rest you merry, internet; I guess you’re here to stay.
We dare not take a moment out, not even Christmas Day
When Google’s latest festive look may yet help bloggers pray,
Pray for tweetings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
On the birthday of a Holy infant boy.
We’ve no wish to read your twitters,
We’ll only ignore your blog page,
But we wish you a Merry Christmas
And a Real Life next year.
Writing fast we cover the facts
‘What you doing?’
Fro-ing, to-ing,
All in one-forty max.
Oh, Web of wonder, Web of might
Keeps us up for half the night
Egos bulging
Self-indulging
Thinking up the cr*p we write
Ah URL thou little Tiny link
Ah URL lullay
So twitt’rers we
Say http
Hyperlink's had its say.
God rest you merry, internet; I guess you’re here to stay.
We dare not take a moment out, not even Christmas Day
When Google’s latest festive look may yet help bloggers pray,
Pray for tweetings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
On the birthday of a Holy infant boy.
We’ve no wish to read your twitters,
We’ll only ignore your blog page,
But we wish you a Merry Christmas
And a Real Life next year.
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