The Princess Who Thought She Was A Frog

Tube Strike Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Wed, 30 Apr 2014 10:51:00 +0000

TFL

Tube Fury. Love That Feeling.

Late Trains Fuck London.

Tunnel. Fine.

Lost Time, Fine.

Line Terminated. Fuck.

Late. Tardy Fucking Late.

Tottenham, Fulham, Lancaster Gate

Traffic. Fumes. Limited Trains.

Farringdon, Leyton, Turnpike Lane.

Tube Faces Long-Term Financial Ligatures

The Funding’s Limited

Terrific For Londoners. Tube’s Future

Lurching Towards Freefall.

Last Train

Approaching

I Saw This & Thought of You (Or: When an Ex Gets Back in Touch After a Year)

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Tue, 29 Apr 2014 11:20:00 +0000

I Saw This & Thought of You (Or: When an Ex Gets Back in Touch After a Year)

Were your x-box and bike broken?
Was there nothing on TV?

Were you bored & lonely?
Is that why you thought of me?

Is there something she lacks?
Is it something I've got?

Is it something we had?
I just can't think what.

So you saw this thing: How sweet, how kind

And all of a sudden I spring to mind

If every time I saw a piece of sh!t and texted to tell you so

You'd have stopped thinking about me a very long time ago.

For Alex: On what makes a pub great

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 23:32:00 +0000

For Alex: On what makes a pub great. I took a bit of a diversion on this one and decided to have a go at re-writing the narky, passive aggressive signs you often see in bars.

On what makes a great pub

Make all the noise you want. Our neighbours do not need your respect.

If we think you look under age we'll ask you for ID. It's harder to feel jealous when you're humiliating someone.

Why stop at two? We reckon you could fit at least five people in that cubicle.

There is no minimum spend.

These toilets are a mess, it's true. Coz they're being used by drunk people like you.

For Leonie on National Poetry Day

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 23:12:00 +0000

These four are for Leonie who gave me the title, Tangled.

Tangled

We will work

Or we will knot

Tangled

Braided like Challah bread

Twisting like the helixes of DNA thread

Intertwined like the sucked spaghetti in Lady and The Tramp

Or like a mic lead coiling round the stand before it snakes back to the amp

Tangled

We are a glorious mess you and I

Artists of the uncommon variety

A perfect two person society

Tangled

The kids call it the Green House

Not because it is made of glass

But because of the creeping ivy that covers it

It looks like the face of a woodland god,

A gigantic Green Man come to life

With windows for eyes

And a door for a mouth.

The ivy and the house

The house and the ivy

They are inseparable

And it is hard to tell

Whether the lattice of leaves and veins

Is binding this old house together

Or a funeral wreath

Slowly tearing it apart.

For Christine on National Poetry Day

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 16:13:00 +0000

For Christine who wanted a poem about Confidence.

Confidence

Be the Queen of self esteem

And banish the self belief thief

For Anita on National Poetry Day

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 14:46:00 +0000

For Anita who wanted a poem on on cuteness, flirtiness, naughtiness, cheeckiness.

When they ask, this is what you tell them:

That you are the jewel, the precious gem

And the stones worn at your neck and wrist

Suggest to lovers where you like to be kissed.

Tell them your heart is a glowing green emerald

Your belly a bright ruby

Your throat a dazzling sapphire

And your mind a brilliant diamond

Tell them that the stones caressing your skin

Are merely reflections of the beauty within.

For Suzy

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 12:15:00 +0000

A poem for Suzy- she wanted a poem On why checking Facebook status updates is quite addictive. Here is my dystopia to utopia.

When no one re-pinged her pong

She knew something was wrong

So she logged into EgoWall

And it made her feel small

No likes. No comments. No roman salutes

She’d tried so hard to be social but what was the use?

Every photo was tinted with a flattering instagram filter

So why was her world so suddenly off kilter?

Why was no one posting on her timeline?

Or leaving offerings in her SelfieShrine?

She’d employed a ‘buzzer’ on an Indonesian isle

To ramp up her multi-channel profile

But her content wasn't great. It did not engage

So potential fans just flicked to another page.

She googled ‘The Cult of Self’

And read the first link that appeared

It was what the advertisers had most feared:

Millions of people abandoning their online home

Because they wanted to be left alone.

They’d shut the book

And refused to look.

But she’d missed the exodus.

She’d not seen the trend spread across Ping

As people deleted their micro-blogging accounts

And saw their social c-ap(ple)-ital decrease by vast amounts

The Egowall was dismantled face by face and then she realised it: Gawd-she was thick!

That that was why no one had commented on her new profile pic.

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 09:56:00 +0000

These two are for Caroline who gave me the title, Change.

Change

Loose

Inter

For ex

Gaseous ex

Bureau de

……

Change

Every ten years your whole skeleton renews

Every minute you produce between 30,000 and 40,000 new skin cells

Your taste buds renew themselves every ten to 20 days

And you change your mind all the time.

You’re always changing

Even if you can’t see it happening.

Poem for Liz for National Poetry Day

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 09:20:00 +0000

This one is for Liz with love. The title was: Cobbling Sweaters

Cobbling Sweaters

Watch! watch! How the magic happens

When you wear one of her patterns

Tell her your size and shape

And she’ll magic you up a coat or a cape.

She sits spinning night and day

A heroine in a fairy tale book

Peer through the window, give her a look

This beautiful seamstress knitting the rainbow

A kaleidoscope flying from her sewing machine

A woven wonder, a psychedelic dream

Where every thread is a spell

To wish the wearer well

Cobbling Sweaters

Where there’s a wool there’s a way

A poem for Katie P for National Poetry Day

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 06:55:00 +0000

A week ago I asked people via Facebook to give me a word or a title and I would write them a poem for National Poetry Day. I will be posting the results on my blog today. This first is three poems on Biscuits for Katie P.

Biscuit

Oh sweet circular temptress

Cousin of the cookie

Is the oat cake your kith and kin?

Do you prefer a barrel or a tin?

Oh crunchy coin of crumbs

Eaten with finger and thumbs

And dunked

Bitten or nibbled

And sometimes dribbled

All the way down my top

Dropping into my mug with a plop

So thank heavens for

The miracle of Washburn’s Equation

Designed to stop biscuit disintegration

Or ‘flunking when you’re dunking’

It's the saviour of the tea break

And explains how long it will take

Before your time’s up

And your biscuit collapses into your cup

For a Gingernut this is three seconds

Eight if you prefer Digestives

It’s all about maintaining structural integrity:

A delicate balance between the biscuit's porosity

And the rate at which it sucks up tea.

Biscuit

Dieter’s Dilemma

Risk it-

Have a biscuit

Biscuit

The Kookie Jar

Where they put all the biscuits that like Zoe Deschanel

For Christine and Tom Goldsmith

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Mon, 27 May 2013 17:34:00 +0000

For Christine and Tom Goldsmith

You two make me believe in love

Not in the Love of Rom Coms

Or Pop songs or power ballads

But LOVE-LOVE. The Real thing

Love that grows in daily gestures

And everyday acts of consideration and kindness

Love that meets you with an open heart

Speaks hopefully and honestly

And won't stop till it knows exactly who you are

Always whispering to you: don't worry it's safe

Until you know that with them you really are

The love

That holds your hand in the cinema

Takes the bins out without asking

Curls itself around you on the sofa

When rain flecks the windows

Love that leads you on countryside walks

And talks and talks and talks

Till there's no room for misunderstanding

Christine, Tom loved you before he met you

Felt you in the comfort and softness of cashmere jumpers

Saw you in the smooth curves of a Morris Minor

Smelt you in the fragrance of wild strawberries

Heard your voice in Indie music and acoustic sets

Saw you in the beauty and serenity of Groudel Glen

You were the sunshine that transformed a simple 11am tea break into a magical intermission

And then you and he became a 'we'

You have always been his cup of tea

Tom, Christine loved you before she knew you

Heard you before you spoke

In the lilt and rhythm of folk music

And in the strumming of fingers over guitar strings

You were the velvet feel of Corduroy trousers

And the certainty that a flagon of real ale will slake all thirst

You were the deep blue of calm seas

The quiet of the middle of the night

The shelter and company of an Oak Tree

And the rare, old fashioned charm of a Penny Farthing

And then one day

You both walked into the same pub

As if you’d always been in the wings of each other’s lives

Waiting to arrive on the same stage

As if you’d both been reading a book from opposite ends

And finally reached the same page

And so your story began

You make me believe in love

Not in the Love of Rom Coms

Or Pop songs or power ballads

But LOVE-LOVE.

The Real thing

Valentine's Day Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 20:34:00 +0000

Mash up poems are my favourite - a poem that combines too seemingly unconnected events and the fact that Valentine's Day and Pancake Day fell in the same week inspired this. Well, inspired some of it.

Untitled

Keep your chocs and knickers made of silk

And instead bring me eggs, flour and milk.

I don't want a card or a scented candle

Instead give me a pan with a decent handle

So I can show you how much you matter

By making you the perfect pancake batter

I will probably burn the first one . And possibly the second one too

I'm no domestic goddess, but I'm frying this for you

Loosening each with a fish slice

Then flipping it over once, then twice

Seeing it leap up with a single flick

Then diving back into the non-stick

And then we will row, because we never can agree

which is the better filling: sweet or savoury?

And you won't mind if they are crisp or underdone

All you'll remember is that making them was fun

As was eating them together one by one

So please no gifts, no cards

Instead promise me that in lieu of heart aches

Or flowers to make up for mistakes

We will always make each other crepes

It's not the end of the world

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Fri, 21 Dec 2012 14:57:00 +0000

It's 3pm on Friday December 21, 2012. This means I am alive, so are you and the world did not end.

The End of the World is Not Nigh

The night before

The world was set to end

I grabbed a drink with a friend

No talk of the Apocalypse

Passes our lips

There is no list of regrets

There is no laying of bets

Because we know they will be a tomorrow

And a tomorrow after that and after that one too

The next day London reveals itself to me

The familiar is where I expect it to be

I get coffee from the place I always do

There's no fireballs, no horsemen, no more will the world blow?

Plastered all over the front page of Metro

Outside the Tate Britain a few fragile roses remain

On the bushes. I have watched them defy winter

Withstand creeping frost and relentless rain

Their soft pink petals only just curling and turning brown

Today a man stopped and cupped one in his hand

And as I walked past I did the same

The tinsel, sell, sell: a Christmas poem

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 13:23:00 +0000

Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier every year. But imagine if we had 365 days of Christmas....

The Tinsel, sell, sell

The tinsel, sell, sell gets earlier ever year

The Easter Bunny’s been replaced by a Reindeer

There's no more Burn’s Night, no more Be My Valentine

Just year round mince pie eating and singing Auld Lang Syne

And children are always good

There’s no more debit, or credit only the Christmas card

The lights on Oxford Street remain on and the Shard

Has been transformed into a replica pine

With emerald lights hugging every line

It’s forever green, and looks rather pretty

As it twinkles from the outskirts of the City

Tourists mistake it for the Gherkin

But locals know it as the Firkin

Tribute poem 2: Fifty Shades of Dismay

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 12:35:00 +0000

Fifty Shades of Dismay

Anais Nin

Is spinnin'

In her coffin.

Tribute poem: Fifty Lines of Gray

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 12:12:00 +0000

The below is the first of three tribute poems I've written about Fifty Shades of Grey.

Fifty Lines of Grey

Kinky Kindle
Mr Gray meets Miss Steele
Interview with a virgin
Awkward kiss
Dizzying Helicopter trip
Trousers hanging from hip
Creased linen
Spiking adrena-lin-en
Foil packet rip
Perfect fit
Tease and tickle
Erect nipple
Sexual paperwork
Anastasia goes berserk
Vanilla to S&M
Is it like this with all men?
No way of knowing
So more to-ing and fro-ing
In and out of the Red Room of pain
And again and again and again
Groping and stroking
Squeeze and poking
Chaining up and half choking
You must be joking!? This is not normal
Break up
Make up
Shake up
New contract, new rules
They start a fresh
“I love you,” says Ana
And rewind and grind
And rewind and grind
Rewind and find
His release
Her release
Heave
Sigh
Cry out:
Christian.
Why exactly are you so messed up?
Childhood not much fun
Crack whore mum
Learned Sub/ Dom from Mrs Robinson
Ana. Listen to your inner goddess
She says: "yes! yes! yes!"
Ana. Listen to your subconscious
She says: "This is a mess, mess, mess."
“But if I love him”, says Ana.“and he needs this kind of sex what do I do?
To find out what happens next please buy book number 2
In the trilorgy I mean trilogy

When the fire goes out

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Fri, 05 Oct 2012 11:27:00 +0000

The final poem I wrote for National Poetry Day. The topic: Being dumped by the Olympics.

When the fire goes out

Tell me, was it you? Orwas it me?

We just spent the bestsummer in history

together, and I'm wearing my heart on my sleeve

here but, I didn't believe you'd actually leave.

I honestly thought you could be persuaded stay

Things like that don't happen to me every day

And they only happen to you every couple of years.

I can still see thecrowds, still hear the cheers

I didn't think you going was even in the running.

So you take the medal for things I didn't see coming.

It wasn't just me.Everyone thought we were good together

And no one has made mescream like that ever

While watching TV.

I'd celebrate even if we didn't win

I miss our days out and our nights in.

I loved your stadiums.

I bought your merchandise

And before you, I'd never looked twice

At any kind of sportingevent

I can't tell you whatyou meant

To me.

I knew you had areputation. A notoriety

For needing endlessvariety

And like a runner getsa stitch

You suffer from a four year itch

It's seems no one can tame

The wanderings of the Olympic flame.

I frikkin' loved you,and you,

You threw me over like Salt Lake city

So now I can say it:your logo really was shitty.

So don't expect me tocall, I'm just gonna let you be

And burn every photo I took of the Opening Ceremony

Because you ditching me for Rio

Is...is...is...

Is the equivalent of Brad leaving Jennifer Aniston for Angelina Jolie

There's no way Jen could compete. It hit her hard now kills her slowly

And has Jen got over itsince?

No. She ended up with whasss his name? Vince

Vaughn

That's what happens to the love lorn

They shack up with someone else

They move on.

So basically Olympics,I'm cool with it.

You got what you wanted:

Adoration from everycorner of the nation

And a global sportingcelebration

It was a summer romance. I geddit.

But you know whatreally stings?

You kept the rings

And left behind loads of your things.

Job interviews

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Thu, 04 Oct 2012 09:05:00 +0000

Today is national poetry day and I have offered to write everyone who wants it a poem. This is for my friend Caroline, her topic was Job Interviews.

Job Interviews

A dialogue between boss and potential- proletariat

A sweat inducing corporate Q&A

A gate keeper to the role of my dreams

The hoped for outcome after a CV mail out

A commercial set-up, a make -or- break date

And watch the time, 'coz you better not be late

Because lateness will make you look flaky and sloppy

Like you're not even responsible enough to photocopy

Never mind do the job that you're dressed for

Never mind do the job that you've pushed and pressed for

Never mind do the job that you were made for

That you'd like to get paid for.

So you arrive a little too earlier

And give your name to a receptionist

Who cracks a fake smile

Then asks you if you'd like some water while you wait

For this make or break date

With somebody who with a simple yes or no

Can set you on the path to where you want to go

You sit in the waiting area

And there is nothing is scarier

Than being held in this pre-interview holding pen

Before you go into that room and it's just you and them.

You sip freezing water from a clear plastic cup and squish the sides

Wondering if your presentation has got all its slides

Your mind is racing

And you'd like to stand up and start pacing

The lobby but you're sweating just a bit

So instead you decided to just sit

And you try to look calm, poised and relaxed

Like your not the least bit taxed

Like your not gripped by fear

Every time you have to discuss your CV and career

You glance at the magazines on the table

And you'd like to read something but you're just not able:

Your hearts too thumpy

Your nerves are too jumpy

You're not Donald Trumpy

With a business empire

And the rights to hire and fire

You're a cog with a dream

In need of a machine.

School Reunion Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 08:38:00 +0000

Oh my god! It's so good to see you. 

It's fifteen years since we left sixth form.
Fifteen years since I hung a blazer on a coat hook
Wrote with a fountain pen or read an A-level text book
Sneaked off for a fag
Packed a school bag
Or sewed a name tag 
Into my underwear.

It's fifteen years since I had a motto or a crest
A regulation length skirt or an airtex vest
Since I went to chapel, lists or detention
Since hockey matches or the biscuit game
Or being called by your last name.

It's fifteen years since
Sur Sum Corda
And the total disorder
That breaks out on non-exeat weekends...

Fifteen years since the gossip, the flirting, the shagging
The pulling, the sharking, the bragging,
The lingo, the slang, the insults, the cliques
The studies, the houses, the parties
The Leavers' Ball:

I collapse in a pile of vomit. 
It's bright red and studded with bits of chicken.
I am so wasted I can't pull myself out of it,
And my knight in shining armour, the guy who lifts me out of the puke,
And carries me like a new bride back to the party,
Is the same guy who has tried to grope me under the desk in History class
Every lesson for the last two years,
That makes more than 200 times where I have had to smack his hand off my knee, 
Or wriggle out of his reach as he squeezes my thigh
And now, now, he is the guy that finds me.
 
I am easy prey, the game is up
And I expect him to try his luck
But he doesn't. 
Instead he scoops one arm under my knees and the other under my arm,
My body sags like a hammock.
He picks me off the grass
Takes me inside, puts me in an armchair
And goes to get me a glass of water.
 
This chair is a bucket.
It has a high back, a deep seat and sturdy, solid arms. 
It's a shelter
Like one of those huts that hunters have.
It's camouflage.

But I cannot sit up,
My legs slide out from underneath me: the alcohol has dissolved all my bones. 
And now the chair is not a chair at all but a head rest.
  
Let me describe how I look:

Imagine if you squeezed and rolled the letter C between your fingers. 
So the lower curve ends up straight with the top end weeping over it. 
That is my posture in this chair:  
Almost horizontal but with my head lolling over my chest.
Which means the arm rests 
Are no longer arm rests at all, 
They're gigantic ear muffs. 


It's fifteen years since …

Since tuck,trunks and tea
And the First Fifteen supremacy
Or fumbling in the library
The library, with its graffitied tables and bust of Kipling
Just another ex-pupil to do this kind of thing.

Essex Lion

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Wed, 19 Sep 2012 07:48:00 +0000

ESSEX LION

Her Majesty is sleeping

When she's woken by hermobile bleeping.

It's a fresh SMS fromHarry,

Big Ears' scion,

It says LION.

It's a secret code, aspecial acronym

Sent so that she canhelp him.

LION means

Las Vegas Images ofNudity.

Now Liz is owed a fewfavours from the paparazzi

Specially from thatbloke who snapped Harry as a Nazi.

She wonders if he wascrucified at the Leveson trial

But takes her chancesand decides to dial.

“ Brian, it's Liz. Harry's taking some heat,

We need to get a hotterstory out on the street.”

So she goes to thegarden and checks the corgis' cages

And finds the fattest -one that hasn't had a walk in ages

A house dog, who livesits life in doors

A tubby barrel on fourfat paws.

It's a beast, aplus-sized pooch

She shoves it into theback of a Land Rover. “Scooch,”

She says as she movesit out of the way of the closing door

Then jumps in the driver'sseat and puts her foot to the floor

In the dead of nightshe drives

And at first light shearrives

On a high street ofnail bars, hairdressers and tanning shops

“Ah! This must beEssex,” she says and stops.

She gets out and opensthe boot

And says to the corgi:“Scoot.”

She nods to Brian whosecamera is already snapping

As the corgi waddlesand starts its yapping

Its golden fur catchingthe early morning rays

“Yes,” says theQueen, “this will set newsrooms ablaze.”

So she texts Harry backa simple acronym:

ESSEX

Which means

Elizabeth Stops StoryExplosion X

and the X is a kiss

From a Gran to aGrandson.

Liz doesn't mindHarry's been caught in his birthday suit

And she's pragmaticabout all his pursuits

"Because us Royals needto show we can do more than just wave

We need to show we alsoknow how to rave

When I skydived at theOlympic opening ceremony

Harry said he'd go onebetter than me

And he's such a whorefor publicity.

“But you know what?He still misses her, still thinks about his mum.

But I thought he'd justgo to the strip- not do one.”

A poem in reverse

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Wed, 12 Sep 2012 17:23:00 +0000

The School of You

A candy coloured landing strip

Your towel on life's beach

A piece of the path

A Yoga mat

How the Grinch stole the Olympics

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 07:34:00 +0000

How the Grinch stole the Olympics

He moved column inch by column inch
Spreading invective did the Grinch
All a mongering of doom and snide of retort
Shitting on this celebration of sport

He mocked as Stratford was covered in asphalt
And cheered as TFL ground to a halt
So no one could watch the pole vault or Usain Bolt

He smiled when his creation hit the shops-
That disturbing Olympics cyclops
A chimera: half alien half phallus
As British as Buckingham Palace
Exactly. But that's what London got:
A bell end as an Olympic mascot

But why? Why did he want Locog to fail
Why did he want to see its Ukraine representative in jail
Why did he want to see London skint
For the sake of a 100m sprint?
Because London already had the Jubilee
A four day bank holiday by Royal decree
The whole country exploding into one big street party
Getting its tan on in a beer garden
All by Royal Pardon
There'd be commemorative biscuit tins,
There'd be jugs of Pimms
There be strings of coloured bunting
And now? You give Blighty the cunting Olympics !!??

Well All this public revelry, all this merry making
Well it left the Grinch mad and shaking
Because he hates happiness does the Grinch
makes him flinch

Here Comes the Sun

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Wed, 16 May 2012 11:15:00 +0000

I was caught in a hailstorm in Soho yesterday afternoon
pebbles pounding pavements: more meteorological gloom
The sun has missed every appointment since the start of May
Ruined weddings, pinics and the first Bank Holiday
Facebook statuses chart the piss poor climate
Commuters are terminally depressed and young mothers are irate
Because we all live better when we can play out doors
And rain rain rain makes us all such bores;
Girls long to flash a bit of leg, builders want to work sans shirts
And rain, rain, rain puts us all off our game

But today London woke to sunshine:
The ultimate Instagram filter that makes everything look not just fine
But F-ing brilliant

Geisha meets a friend

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Mon, 14 May 2012 15:22:00 +0000

For the last two months I have been wearing an orthopaedic shoe boot. Don't worry, I haven't abandoned my sartorial sense; I've been using it to heal my broken big toe.

Big G, Geisha Shoe or Baby G as she has been nicknamed and I have toured countries, parties, dive bars and wedding discos over the last few months in search of a good time and by golly we've had a few.

But on Friday night, G met her match: a leg brace. A leg brace worn by a fascinating guy called Tom. And while I broke my toe falling down stairs Tom's story thrashed mine in terms of cool: he broke his ankle jumping over a car to impress a girl. It's the kind of brazen act of bravado, stupidity and Hollywood cliche that makes my heart somersault and sets my writerly antics in motion.

And so I wrote him a poem and gave it to him just as we left the bar. But when he asked for my number my feistiness failed me and I just told him to google this blog. Yes I am a twat and that dear reader is how to cock block yourself.

Below is Tom's poem written on a napkin. And also one of Geisha.

A Recipe for all the Tomorrows and Jenerations to come

noreply@blogger.com (Clair Whitefield) — Sat, 05 May 2012 09:28:00 +0000

I have just come back from Italy where one of my oldest friends Tom got hitched to the wonderful Jen. I wrote them a poem and read it during the ceremony. The title?

A recipe for all the Jenerations and Tomorrows to come

Take one black hoodie and muddle it with some Japanese design
Add whiskey in winter and in the summer gin, tonic and lime
Agitate it in front of the Obama election coverage at Semple Towers
Shake it then Leave it
Barking snarky commentary for which it is legendary
At the TV
Making such a scene that the hoodie has to notice
This is the beginning: Tom bleats and Jen Looks
Ice clinks in their drinks
Looking at each other: nice. he thinks
Nice she thinks
And just as Obama recieves his crown
And all over the world from
Washington to London town
The world agrees that yes- we can
Something else happened that night: a girl has met her man
Because this is where the fire sparks
this is where the story starts
Because Cupid has fired and this it
The fuse is lit
And she watches this display of biting satire and acerbic wit
And is slightly impressed....
because up until then she has never met anyone as loud, rude, obnoxious, offensive, sharp, quick witted, brilliant, clever and funny as she is.

But what begins as a flicker follows a timeline
Of East London luncheons, and parties and other goings on
that mean that by the end of the year
The hoodie and a Japanese designed man bag will be slung on the same coat hooks
and the biting comments will be channeled through TomeatsandJenCooks

And thanks to the Internet which will not allow for the proper spacing of words
You can see how lives and passions merge
Into one continuous stream tomeatsjencooks
Each word hugging the next
Creating a single line of text