Mairzy Doat's A Female Deer....

 

'Lalalalala....Sososososo....mememememeeeee.'

'Pooh, what are you doing?'

'Keeping the old vocal nodules at bay, Piglet. Dohdohdohdohdoh...

Feeegaro...Feeegaro...Figarofigarofigarofeeeegaaaahhroooowww...

Figaro here, Figaro there, Figaro every fu--'

'What for?'

'My chance to shine, Piglet. My chance to showcase all my hums on that TV show.'

'TV show?'

'"Let's Have A Butcher's At Yer Voice, Then".'

'It's "I Can See Your Voice".'

'That's what I said.'

'So which, er, hum to you propose--?'

'A crowd-pleaser, Piglet. A rousing singalong.'

'Oh, yes?'

'"Mairzy Doat's A Female Deer".'

'I think it's "Doh A Deer".'

'I know what it is, Piglet. Always brings a tear to the old eye when Mary Poppins sings it to that Trappist family high in the Austrian Alfs.'

'It's actually The Sound Of--'

'Success, Piglet. And it'll be all mine. Marvellous song. Halfway through the first verse there's that commotion at the back of the circle. Then this Mother Superior sings,

"Mariaaah,

I've just decked a nun

called Mariaaah -

And suddenly that dame

Is walking somewhat lame - you seeeee".'

'That's not how I remember the film you don't remember at all.'

''Course, they have to get a move on with the old "Mairzy Doats".  Next thing you know, all those German planes are heading their way.'

'The Luftwaffe.'

'The Stroopwaffel. Exactly. That's when they all have to clear out...you know, climb every mountain, drive Fords across every stream.'

'I think it's "ford every stream", Pooh. As in get across --'

'Though I can't see how they can climb and drive at the same time. Then there's that bit,

"Climb every mountain,

Search high and low."

I mean, you're not going to clock a mountain if you search low, are you? There you are, snout to the ground...your average What'sthematterhorn isn't going to yell "Oi! I'm up here".'

'Pooh, I think--'

'I suppose that's what they call the mystique of cinema.'

'I suppose.'

'Anyway, I'll have a gala time on that show. Very genial host, you know. Paddy McGinty.'

'It's Paddy McGuinn--'

'An Irishman of note, he is. Fell in for a fortune and - bam! - suddenly and unexpectedly advanced himself in goat-fancying circles.'

'Paddy McGuinness, Pooh. And he's from near Bolton.'

'I have no idea to whom who toom you refer, Piglet.'

'I...oh, good luck, Pooh.'

'Thank you, Piglet. And you will come along? The old moral support? Front row?'

'I'll be somewhere.'

'Spendid! Now...lalalalalaaa...mememememeeeeee....Jules-Rimet-fat-solar-flare-tee-dious!'

'Indeed.'

Fromage-based rockabilly.

 

'Well, quite a nice evening for the time of year, eh, Pooh?  Pooh?'

'Sorry, Piglet, I was miles away.'

'Any particular reason?'

'Just very sad that he's gone.'

'Who?'

'The Last Rocker Standing, Piglet.  He of the rebellious forelock and keyboard thumpage.'

'Oh, yes...you mean--'

'Dairylea Lewis.'

'I think you'll find it's Jer--'

'Quintessential purveyor of fromage-based rockabilly, you know.'

'Pooh, he was nothing of the sort--'

'"Great Balls of Stilton."  Incomparable groove.'

'He had nothing to do with--'

'Finger in every fondue, Dairylea.  Pioneered CaerPhilly Soul for a start.'

'Pooh, it's just Philly--'

'Master songwriter.  Wrote that wonderful hit,
"The moment I wake up
Before I put on my make-up,
I cheddar little tear for you."

Made a star of Benjamin Franklin, that did.'

'I think you'll find it's Aretha--'

'And of course he played with all the greats.  Dorset Blue Vinny, Mississippi Red Leicester.'

'Pooh--'

'Soundtracks to boot.  For that film with Whoreson Welles and Frankie Howerd.'

'Er, Orson...and Trev--'

'Now, what was it?  Ah, yes, the Harry Lymeswold theme.  But of course Anton Karas played it...on his slither.  Dairylea gifted it to him and stepped aside.  A measure of the man.'

'Pooh, it...oh, never mind.  Great shame about Jerry Lee Lewis, too.'

'Who's he, then?'

 

 

 

Smocks and Mirrors

 

 

'Of course it's all flummery, Owl says.'

'Sorry, Piglet, what is?'

'Politics.'

'Ah.'

'Nothing but smocks and mirrors.'

'Tchah.'

'I mean, look at the present management.'

'Must I?  Well, all right, for a minute.'

'All they've got to offer is a Quasi-Kwarteng.'

'Really?'

'True, Owl says.  Won't stump up for a real one.'

'Dear, oh dear.'

'And that Therese Coffin.'

'I thought it was Coffey.'

'Have you seen the way she gets through cigars?'

'Take your point.'

'And there's another called James Cleverly.'

'Need we go there?'

'Not at the end of a chilly day.  Mind you, someone said he was fairly decent.'

'So how did he end up among--?'

'Lost a bet?'

'That'd be the way of it.'

'I'd say so.  And not to mention Miss Truss.'

'Oh, I wouldn't.  But is she the one who has nightmares about being pursued by giant rounds of French cheese singing "Mademoiselle from Brexitieres"?'

'Still wakes up screaming.  Or rather, Wakes. Up. Screa. Ming.'

'She. Should. Dou. Ble. Her. Hor. Licks. In. Take.'

'She was a Loiner for a while, you know.'

'I wouldn't believe all they say on Tinder.'

'No, she lived in Leeds.'

'Oh, I see.'

'And spent a year in British Columbia.'

'Well, if you catch the wrong bus from the Headrow --'

'No, while her dad was working there.'

'Ah, right.'

'Enjoyed school there, she did. Said it was really good to be top of the class.'

'That's the beauty of one-to-one teaching, I suppose.'

'I suppose.'

 

Unimaginables

 

'Well, Piglet.'

'Well, Pooh.'

'How do you feel?'

'Reflective.'

'Ah.'

'Not to mention sombre.'

'We shan't.'

'In fact - enwrapped in unimaginables.'

'Well, you really should buy them in your own size.'

'I have to say, this morning, I definitely felt the hand of destiny.'

'Sorry, that was me - I thought you were sitting on that extra pot of hunny.'

'There will of course be reverberations.'

'I know. I ate it too fast.'

'The need to take stock.'

'Ah...yes. Quite.'

'To ask the unaskable question.'

'To fight the unfootling foe.'

'To bear with unbearable sorrow.'

'To take a left turn at Glencoe.'

'Pooh, what are you on about?'

'Sorry, I thought we were onto that song...you know..."This is my quest...to leach the unleachable tar" - and all that.'

'Hardly appropriate for the present moment, Pooh.'

'I suppose not.'

'There'll be an extended mourning.'

'I don't like the sound of that.  My stomach starts whimpering round eleven.'

'Not that kind of - look, let's just ponder in silence.'

'Right you are.'

'Have a proper mull.'

'Don't we need a mist rolling in from a sea for that?'

'Silence, Pooh.'

'Sorry.'

'No. I'm sorry, Pooh.  I was rather harsh just then.'

'I quite understand - unimaginables chafing, eh?'

9th September, 2022.

 

 

"This is my best side...."

 

'Shame about the stream.'

'Sorry, Piglet'?

'By Eeyore's field. Pretty well dammed up after the rains. Set to burst its banks.'

'Oh, dear.'

'Still, Tigger's on the case.'

'I'm glad to hear it. Very probiotic, Tigger.'

'Proactive.'

'Well, yes, if he has time left over. I'm sure the first thing he'll do is get everyone together--'

'No.'

'No?'

'No.'

'Second thing, then?'

'If that.'

'So what's the first thing?'

'Fly to Ukraine for a photo-op with Mr Zelensky.'

'I see.'

'Tigger says it's the only way to deal with issues whose parameters are own-doorstep-facing.'

'He does realise that he says these things out loud?'

'Occasionally.'

'Actually, I've noticed a bit of a split in the grain round my front door.'

'A bit of a split?'

'A bit of a split.'

'Well, Pooh, you know what to do.'

'Plane?'

'Yes.'

'Up and away'?

'Yes.'

'"Hello Zel...this is my best side"?'

'Yes.'

'"I was meant to meet some chaps in the north of England but I can't for the life of me place where that is"?'

'Yes.'

'"By the way, have you got any wood-filler knocking about"?'

'You won't need it.'

'No?'

'Whole point of the photo-op. The moment they start snapping, your bit of a split will go away.'

'Goodness.'

'You can focus on post-split priorities moving on-wise.'

'Tigger again?'

'Sadly, yes.'

'Well, that's all a big relief.'

'Exactly what Kanga found.'

'Kanga?'

'Problems with an unruly coppice.'

'So she's--'

'Seven miles over Magdeburg as we speak.'

 

Platignum street plates

 

'So it's a big occasion.'

'Oh, yes, Pooh. None bigger.'

'What's the official name again?'

'The Platignum Jubilee.'

'Platignum, eh? Meaning?'

'Meaning the nation's admiration.'

'Because?'

'Well obviously because she's taken good care of the same fountain pen for seventy years.'

'Fancy that. So...much celebrificalibration.'

'Bound to be, Pooh.'

'Street parties and such.'

'Ah, no...street meal.'

'Meal?'

'Where we are now, Pooh.'

'Meaning?'

'Well back in the mists you'd have had street parties. Now everyone in each street will be asked to contribute the one thing they could afford that week, and it'll be put on a single street plate.'

'Not cooked?'

'Cooked, he says. Cooked. Requiring gas. Electrics. Where've you been, Pooh? Get with the pugwash.'

'So they'll eat the stuff raw?'

'Yes...well, when I say "they" - '

'No, I said that.'

'Well, when you say and I repeat "they", diners will be selected by raffle.'

'Ah, the good old stromboli.'

'Tombola.'

'I thought he was the new T20 captain.'

'Yes, well, they might have a celebrity to pick the tickets.'

'What about those who aren't winners?'

'Oh, there'll be plenty of other attractions.'

'Always assuming that a hundred people watching half-a-dozen other people eating vegetables al-dirtyden is attractive.'

'Well, yes...but, you know, there'll be trips down memory lane. Old films.'

'Such as?'

'Oh, footage of some chap filling up on a forecourt, paying, coming out with change.'

'I see.'

'Or maybe some archive nugget of all four gas rings burning for a good minute.'

'Mercy. I wonder what she'll choose.'

'Choose, Pooh?'

'Which uncooked vegetable she'll eat off her street plate. 'Course, she might not get a winning ticket.'

'Not get...? Oh, Pooh. Bless.'

 

 

Slow to clear

 

Slow to clear

There’s one light out there.
The fog isn’t yet what it may be.
Twice I lift and let fall my hand
pretending to sketch the pillared folds
of the curtains dropping clean
either side of the window.
I turn my head.
The room nudges up
its all but colourless angles.
It is dawn.  It is morning.
It is no time.  On the wall
is a painting of a boat
run up on nowhere sands
perhaps Rosslare
or granite Brittany. 
Around the light switch
the plate snags a fugitive gleam
like the draff of riches.
I hear whistling cut from a body
in the murk.  I hear the grizzle of motion
as an engine crests and sinks
below itself.  The fog thickens.
The one light disappears.  On the path
a cat stalks a single fetch of shadow
in hope that it has enough give.
It steps in and never was.
And now a single cry far out on that sea
could be the very world
unfastening its soul
rocking against the effort
then for all time still.