David Hadley's Blog, page 197

Spiritual Yearnings and Sell-By Dates

Sometimes it seems that even the very High Streets of our souls are now themselves past their sell-by dates with the shops becoming the hollow empty husks that so much resemble the promises of politicians and the witch-doctors of all the religions as they lie bare and empty before us.

It is not that we have run out of things to buy, for shopping is still the holiest of holies, with the bright shiny things still holding us in awed devotions as we peruse the web pages of all that could be wanted or desired. It is just that the High Street itself no longer caters for our needs. Just as the churches and other edifices of the old religions lie as empty and falling into ruins as the temples and holy places of the even older religions, now our shops lie empty and forlorn too.

Of course, there are the religions of the perfectly-cooked meal and the dwelling space made more desirable by nailing fancy bits of wood hither and yon, as well as the studying of the entrails of the doings and sayings of the most holy celebrities to bring meaning into lives no longer spiritually satisfied by the holy rites of shopping.

But still we yearn for more, for a religion that transcends these dreary routine days and somehow makes a brand new world-famous celebrity out of each of us.

Fundamentalist Terrorism Alert

Still, though, you have to wonder about it all, at least as far as the jelly babies are concerned. I mean, as the Prime Minister said in his emergency broadcast to the nation last night, we could all understand it if had been wine gums, or even – in the case of certain religious fundamentalists – fruit pastilles: but jelly babies?

There was a time, back in the latter half of the last century when it seemed that sweet-based differences between the various peoples of this Earth were on the wane. After all, it was the time of Pick 'n' Mix where confectionery of all types could be happily put together in the same sweetie bag.

Some now look back on such times as overly and naively optimistic. Some say that Rolos and Opal Fruits were never destined to be seen together, let alone consumed together, and that the Mint Aero was a foolish naïve dream of those who would see the world filled with nothing but overflowing sherbet fountains of joy, peace and happiness.

Still, though, there were those of us who had seen - and, yes - fallen in love with the Flake adverts and the promise of Earthly paradise personified by the Cadbury's Caramel bunny and we knew deep in our hearts that we had found something akin to paradise here on this poor blighted Earth.

Oh, and a Banana

Ah, but if we had world enough, and time… oh, and a banana I could show you things you know not the wot of, especially those things incorporating some of the more esoteric uses of the aforesaid banana, and several different ways to apply a fresh coat of creosote to any nearby hippopotami.

However, such is the current world economic situation that any uses of a banana for non-consumption purposes (as set out in the applicable EU regulations) would do more than be looked upon askance by the powers that be. This would especially be the case if it were deemed that we were approaching the dubious use of the foodstuff in a frivolous manner, or in a way likely to cause a breach of the peace, especially if the aforesaid hippopotamus did not feel the necessity for a new coat of creosote.

All in all, then, one the whole and taking all factors into consideration then I would suggest that tempting as it may be, we put the banana to one side for the moment and concentrate on perfecting the art of sitting quietly and behaving ourselves, at least until there is some sign of the now long-overdue economic recovery.

Monday Poem: Disturbances of Air

Disturbances of Air

The song is over, now the singer has gone
and no-one will remember all the words.
For what are words? Mere air disturbed and lost
a moment silence takes away, the sound
it keeps all for itself, away from here.

We wait for words to tell us how to act,
how to behave. We wait for songs to sing
that tell us how to love and lose, to kiss
and how to dance and sing our lives away.
But looking all around we see the song
is over now, the singer long departed
and no-one will remember all the words.

A String Contemplation Moment

So, here it is: yet another Dress-up-as-a-Marsupial Friday. It is like the last one, except that it isn't. But who am I to turn this into another String Contemplation Moment, especially when all the laminated zebras have been allocated to the itinerant wandering economists as they stroll the streets singing their songs and ballads of quantitative easing..

Still, it makes no difference. It changes nothing... not even your socks.

There are no adjustable spanners left in the salad drawer, and the social worker detection device is no longer working to its full capacity. I warned you that we would end up with solo yachtsmen infesting the wainscoting, but would you listen?

Still, there is always, always the cheese!

It could be worse....

It could involve those day-glo purple helicopters your mother warned you about - again.

Yet you still stand there, naked and holding your umbrella in a provocative manner. It is just the sort of thing that gets you a reputation as one of the more interesting Tax Inspectors.

These are my Spanish hamsters and there are no Austrian badgers in the playground any more.

Do not laugh at the elephant, she is very shy.

Approaching a Sherry Trifle with Intent

Surreptitiously approaching a sherry trifle with intent to cause a breach of the peace, as we all know, has been illegal in England since that infamous day back in 1743 when a band of brigands waylaid the then Bishop of Rochester and 'caused severe indignities to his cassock' with a fully-creamed sherry trifle.

Consequently, any attempt to reform the law to bring the legal situation in line with sherry trifles as they are used in the modern age, has always been strongly resisted by the clergy, especially those that sit in the House of Lords.

Of course, many of us have been to those kinds of parties where, if not providing trifles themselves, the hosts of the party have turned a blind eye, if not given tacit approval to the use of sherry trifles for – as the Act says – 'purposes other than consumption as a foodstuff'.

Critics of any such reform, such as the traditionalists in the Church of England, point to the decadent use of sherry trifle – often in public, in countries where such things are not illegal – by celebrities and other famous people and voice their concerns that such people could be taken as role models by the young and impressionable.

However, the police, customs and other such authorities say they simply no longer have the manpower to police how people use their sherry-trifles - whether in private or even in public any longer. They also point to the increasing frequency of illegal 'Sherry- Trifle Evenings' sometimes held in the last outposts of decency the garden suburbs of middle-England.

Even that last bastion of hypocritical double standards the Daily Mail has called for the legalisation of sherry trifles 'and not necessarily just for eating them'. That is, as the Daily Mail put it in an editorial '…that it can be proved both that illicit use of sherry trifles does not cause either cancer or a massive fall in house prices.'

The Pomegranates of Time

Here we are.

Still we search for those moments we can use as the pomegranates of time, or – at least the pomegranates of a fortnight ago. Even when we were young and we had access to all the mandarin segments our over-fevered erotic imaginings would allow, we still had no place to put the pineapple, at least until your friend, Lilly, arrived and we began to experiment with the erotic possibilities of the fresh fruit salad and its use in threesomes.

Still, though I could see that look in your eyes whenever one of us would – accidentally or not – mention custard. You had, of course, by then told me of you dreams of apple crumble and your fantasies involving firemen and rhubarb tart.

I though was still dreaming dreams of desire for steamed sponge pudding and jam roly-poly and I could see that look in Lily's eyes too whenever the conversation turned towards custard.

It was no surprise then, I suppose, when you came how that day from a hard day working deep in the filing cabinets of our local authority diversity compliance directorate to find Lily and I lying there. All still with the telltale custard stains on our bodies and on the sheets and the remains of a home-made sponge pudding in the dish on the pillow.

Of course, I begged you to stay, promised you all the apple crumble you could ever desire and Lily promised to share with you her secret family recipe for home-made custard, but it was not enough.

Thursday Poem: Moments like Water

 

Moments like Water

That tiny movement of the head
leaves eddies in its wake as though
this air is water flowing past
as though this moment could run down
into the pool of memories
already forming all around us.

The pearl of this one moment grows
on from the single grain of time
a possibility that runs
between these moments water turns
around us, fills the emptiness
that lies between us with a chance
we can, together, swim these seas.

Including the Zebra

Well, now, disregard my undertakings and call me Edwina, never in all my days (including that special Tuesday), have I ever seen anything like that, and yes – before you ask – I have been to Leeds*.

It is amazing how you can do that and keep a straight face, as well as keep such dexterous control over your yo-yo. I'm surprised, though, that the zebra is not somewhat more skittish, especially when in such close proximity to someone of your reputation who is wearing both a kilt and wellies.

Still, as they say, West Bromwich wasn't built in a day – despite all the seemingly contrary evidence.

Enough, though, of all this small talk, let us go then you and I (oh, and the zebra, if you insist) now the trainee supermarket managers are spread out against the sky and see what wonders and delights await us on this fine(ish) morn… er… afternoon.

Oh….

Right….

Well, that's that done. One more item to cross off the list.

Only… well, you see I thought there would be a bit more than this, and what with you wearing your special 'Wednesday night' cardigan too.

Still, we may as well not waste the zebra, being as you've hired it specially… so, wait here, and I'll go and fetch my harmonica.

 

*But only the once… obviously.

The Early Morning Mists

It held there in the silence of the early morning mists, like some ghost of a wood, like some foggy silhouette of what it could become. The ground was wet and the grass, bracken and other scrubby plants hung heavy with moisture. It was as though the clouds had become too heavy with rain and had fallen from the sky to cover everything. The air itself seemed heavy with moisture and a cold damp smell that made breathing seem difficult.

There was no birdsong, no sounds of animals in the distance and no rustles in the undergrowth as we made our way towards the woods. The silence seemed heavy too.

The first few trees emerged from the grey gloom with a suddenness that took us by surprise. One moment, one step, and there was nothing but a darker grey mass amongst the greyness. The next moment, the next step, there were the black trunks of the first trees, their branches weighed down with the weight of the rain heavy on their leaves.

The path curled towards and into those trees, into the mystery of the mists. There was a sudden hesitance to our step. We knew that if anything were to happen, it would be amongst those trees. Who knew what lurked and waited there? It could be anything from savage beasts to villains to... to... anything, anything at all.

We hesitated, looked at each other and felt for the comfort of our weapons. They did not reassure all that much. We knew the old stories and we'd heard the traveller's tales of what could lurk, awaiting the unwary traveller, some of which would be beyond the power of mere mortal weapons, creatures that could do far more than just wound, maim and kill.

However, we knew what was behind us, on our trail, and what would happen when they caught up with us. We could not delay. No matter what lay in wait for us, we knew that what lay behind us, racing to catch up with us, would be just as bad, if not worse than anything lurking in those misty woods.

We had to go on.