Memory Lanes

I sit knees tucked under,

leant against the chair,

a  handful of wallets

Ilford , Kodak, Boots Express.

I open a random wallet

and life drops to the floor,

a history in crimped edge photos

parents, brothers more.

A picture from my birthday,

knife in right hand [how wrong!],

 rosy chubby cheeks,

there with my mom.

Primus shielded by tarp,

Back of the car we sit,

A tea break on the journey

On small stools we sit.

A caravan in the New Forest.

Mom standing on a step.

The dog, Lass, good as gold,

a summer day to rest.

A beach, rolling waves

two boys digging in the sand.

Small girl in swimming cosy:

a woman and a man.

The boys sat by the sea,

hair in cow lick style,

mom eating prawns,

Mudeford style.

Happy smiling faces,

50 years of life.

I look at me at one

and then in my mother there.

No one will ever look back

on me as I am now.

No children to miss me.

No rummaging in my past.

I’m looking at my mother.

Reflecting on me now.

So different are our lives,

I wonder how I got here now.

May contain nuts

always amusing to look back at things written very tongue in cheek

May contain nuts

There were no fireworks.

There was no big band, harpists or a chorus of angels.

But there was, in the days of ‘moonlighting’ and Cybil Shepherd; soft focus.

This was if truth be told, the result of far too much wine to blot out the jabbering of the Wokky next to me who was interviewing a guy for the prospect of coitus non interuptus. She crashed and burned but moved onto the next unsuspecting bloke by cooing adoringly at how lovely his little pooch was. Now was probably not the time to remind her that she was old enough to be his mother however well preserved she is!

But back to my soft focus. Yes, I had walked into or nearly fell into the lap of, my Milk Tray Man. Tall dark and devilishly handsome, I was hooked. Trying [convincing I felt] not to slur my words I leapt in with both feet about my love for the area and how much I wanted to live here. That I was an aspiring writer and wanted to come here to create THE masterpiece that would turn me into the next J K Rowling. At this point I failed to mention poetry as it tends to make people run a mile. He smiled and continued to put up with my chatter. I couldn’t shut up! When he could get a word in, my Milk Tray Man, it appeared, wasn’t on holiday, but lived in this heavenly place. He woke up every morning to the stunning blue skies and mountainous countryside that surrounded us. How envious was I? In my soft focus moment, I’d also failed to notice his distinct northern accent. My vision was coming back to earth with a bump as the bar we were in shut [but it’s only 1am!] and we had to move onto the next one. A ramble of countryside loving Brits on what I thought was ‘a session’ headed 200 yards without backpack or navigational equipment to get the beers lined up and continue the chat. Little did I know, this was normal drinking here!

Negotiating road, kerbs, parked cars and continuing to bend Milk Tray Man’s ear [although god only knows what twaddle I was talking] I realised my alcohol limit was at its peak. No more for me thanks! I glanced at the jabbering Wokky who was still pouting and preening at the boyman with the cute pooch; he seemed to be enjoying it so I left them to it. Somehow and I really don’t know how, well, other than my big mouth going into overdrive of alcoholic bravery, I was discussing the making of béchamel sauce with the hulking geezer next to me. ‘Rubbish, you can’t call it a béchamel with just milk and flour’. Was that me? Oops it was. The hulk turned to look, his mates too. Ooh, what had I done? I plodded on, all sense and sensibility gone, ‘you’ve got to steep the milk with bay leaves and cloves’ I kept on, what did he know? Milk Tray Man, leant into my ear, ‘he’s a chef.’ Did I shut up? Nope! ‘well, he ought to know better then!’ was my retort to which, Chef went through the full minutiae of making béchamel sauce.

I’d like to say, that Milk Tray Man walked us back to our hotel but, he didn’t; so I had the jabbering Wokky all to myself. Joy. In went the earplugs and out went the jabbering, for now.

I was surprisingly perky the next morning, even when I groaned about the béchamel sauce faux pas. Ah well, I wouldn’t see them again would I? And what about Milk Tray Man? Mmm. Dunno. Was it just the drink? I wandered to breakfast alone in my thoughts. The Wokky was still resting her jaw so I had peace and quiet over Lipton’s tea and  tostadas and wondered what milk Tray Man would look like without the soft focus.

Joey in his VW neckerchief

a little bit of Joey

Barking Mad

Well the barking has finally got to She-mom.

Well actually it wasn’t the barking; it was the smell.

Well really it wasn’t the smell but what/who had caused the smell.

I am definitely in the dog house.

She was sitting with her feet up and had been trying to identify the smell for a few days but couldn’t work out what it was or where it was coming from. She’d checked the fridge and shut the back windows in case it was drifting in and disinfected the bin too. But it was still there. Then just as we were off to bed, she dropped onto the floor, sniffing like a blood hound. Uh oh. My number was up as she neared the far end of the couch ‘Joey!’ I cowered. She’d found it. I couldn’t look. She was wiping her hand on the couch and the carpet; maybe the puppy eyes would work?

Copious amounts of kitchen towel flowed from her hands like a white bouquet as she dropped it onto the spot where I had pee’d.  She was mumbling something again but I kept well away. All she did was look at me with those eyes. Not the lovey dovey ‘you are my best boy’ eyes but the slightly cooky ‘Hellraiser’ ones.

 I slept on the landing for most of the night before creeping onto the bed and making myself so small in the corner that she wouldn’t notice.

It was still there, the smell that is, so she-mom was consulting the oracle on her ipad. Water then a nose wrinkling vinegar and water were applied, more paper towel and a brick. Success. No smells. I still kept out of the way and made myself busy in the conservatory fly catching; I know this impresses her; cats bring mice, I catch flies, simples. But I mean, it’s her own fault really. If she is going to bring a bloke in here to challenge my male domain, what does she think will happen? Boys will be boys!

I settled down in the sun and relaxed. Life was sweet again, or so I thought.

I raised an eyebrow as I heard my name called. She-mom had my lead in her hand. WALKIES! Excitement and circles and whoops and woofs of delight; WALKIES! Where are we going, it’s evening and we are getting in the car? Oh no. had I blown it this time? Was I going back ‘there’? Now I was scared. I barked.

And I barked and barked. NOOOOO!

We stopped. Where were we? The park? Hmmm no. I sniffed the air. I could smell other dogs. Little dogs, big dogs, puppy dogs and old dogs. Was she going to leave me in a cell again? We were going towards the big doors where a cute little Pomeranian had just gone in.

In we went and there was a big black Labrador. Oh my, he was huge and he just sat there, happy as you like not even taking any notice of me. We walked towards another couple of She-moms, they were smiley and were stroking me and giving me the lovey dovey eyes. This wasn’t a cell place, this was a happy place and I liked these She-moms! Then I saw two Spaniels and another dog I didn’t know, just lazing away by some chairs, napping. She-mom was leading my up some stairs and then we were above everybody. I like this; I can see and be seen and, hello, here’s the cute little Pomeranian: but what’s going on? More dogs were coming in.

Then they were all walking in a circle with the big lab in the middle watching over them with his He-dad. Then they changed direction and walked in circles the other way.  And then…oh…and then… I sniffed…bacon! I smell bacon! Oh yes, treats!!!! I sat bolt upright; I wanted treats but it was all the other dogs getting treats. I gave She-mom the puppy eyes, would it work? Yeah I got a treat too.

But what was I doing here?