Showing posts with label the Beatles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the Beatles. Show all posts

Thursday, 16 April 2020

will you still need me ...



Well that was a bit different!

Today, my dear wife celebrated a certain birthday familiar to those in tune with the ninth track from the Beatles' legendary opus, 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band'.

She came down this morning to be greeted by a gallery of pictures from our three grandchildren, despatched lovingly to her across the internet. Breakfast and then present-opening beckoned.

Chocolate and sweeties galore, a book about quilting, a gift-card, book tokens and most bizarre of all the '#IstayathomeforGrandmaviruscoloringbook' sent by Debbie, her best friend and ex-vicar. Highlights included a skipping unicorn above the merry caption, 'Happy as F***', a beehive pattern with the words, 'F*** the Virus' at the centre and a lovely lady cycling through an idyllic scene with a helpful reminder, 'p.s. f*** the quarantine' at the bottom. Hours of endless fun await!

And so to the virtual birthday party.

I made egg sandwiches (crusts removed) and fetched out the calorie-busting chocolate cake I had tucked away discretely beneath the gin supplies in my shopping bag during our weekly 'essentials' visit to our local Co-op yesterday. Meanwhile a somewhat more capacious birthday spread had been laid out at our eldest daughter's  home.

We were connected by Facetime. 'Happy Birthday' was chorused across cyber-space and our grand-daughter approached the ipad at her end to blow out the solitary tea-light on said chocolate-cake at our end.

Memories are made of things such as these!!



Monday, 19 May 2014

Polaroid dream

Their feckless razors cut mean red slits through the night. We sleep so restlessly, tossing and turning as the door knocks time and time again.  Somewhere a disconnected telephone rings and we pick up the receiver to hear the voice of the late General George Armstrong call.  He chants the number 6 …


… and the nightmare 
pads
into
the
room
dressed
in
the
thin-veined
moebius loop
of
mr
wolf




Lycanthrope scratchings, rabid at the door with the voice of General George repeating his chant in time to the background.  Some sweet smelling flowers of romance to lay his grave by ...


number 6
number 6
...