Tale End

Where’s Monica? a colleague asked

The heating’s not turned up enough

It’s not as if she’s over-tasked

To take care of this kind of stuff.

Where’s Monica? another chimed

It’s 9:05, we’ve got no milk

Do we now have to have her timed?

Her job? Her breaks? Her type? Her ilk?

I never bother, you know me

Head down, work hard and see it through

But did she get the gluten-free?

If not, my bowels will turn to glue.

The printer’s low on paper too

Delivery was yesterday

It’s just one flight, it isn’t two

So why the need for this delay?

I saw her tumble down the stairs

The look of shock upon her face

Those sandwiches went everywhere

And crystal’s not cheap to replace.

What if she’s poorly, do we know?

Those files won’t files themselves today

Or HR, did they let her go?

For if they did, they didn’t say.

No, Monica is fine and well

She hasn’t quit, she wasn’t fired

Her colleagues didn’t hear her tell

In one week’s time she’d be retired.

So now she sits as each day ends

With husband, Jim, and the odd glass

And smiles at what she left for them:

A photocopy of her ass.

Consequential Confidential

Image result for top secret Hillary sunglasses

I think at times, oh yes, I think
That I would make the best Rat Fink
The sort who listens to friends’ tales
Then snitches, sending them to jails
For foolery and crimes and tricks
(those deeds which get you two-to-six)
But then again I’d better not
They are a vengeful, wicked lot
Who’d want to even up the score
For they know me and I’ve done more…

Doggone

My dog has died and no one cares
I mention him but this draws stares
And frowns which tell me I’m too old
To mourn a pet, or so I’m told.
Empty corners, bare floor
Room before but now we’ve more
Toys donated, bed gone
No more divots in the lawn.
Coming home, a rusty gate
Announces me and though I wait
No rocket launches down the path
To knock me down and make me laugh.
Quiet mealtimes, no one begs
Or nuzzles gently at my legs
Knowing that, in time, of course I’ll
Slip him the odd, tender morsel.
Day is done, I climb the stair
And reach the top but he’s not there
I pray for sleep – those loving scenes
When he runs to me in my dreams.

Alcohol On You Later

My granny’s got two teapots
(this tends to make her wee lots)
Her good one goes out on display
The other she keeps tucked away
When visitors decide to call
The posh pot serves them, one and all
Dispensing cups of Earl of Grey
On her brushed-silver serving tray

A person shouldn’t trivialise
A ritual so civilised

When Elsie Burns, who lives next door
Comes calling ‘round each day at four
The Staffordshire is put away
For it’s too late for Earl of Grey
Gran reaches for her other pot
Whose contents never need be hot
And pours her canny friend a cup
Of mother’s homemade pick-me-up

A nip of whisky leaves them feeling
Life’s too short to drink Darjeeling

Another Mist Opportunity

I’m known to stretch out on the lawn
Amidst the weekend carry-on
Of mowing, trimming, watering
And folks I know I ought to ring.
Just when it starts to get too loud
When life can push and kids can crowd
Before the next field’s needing ploughed
I lay right back and pick a cloud.
The dogs, alerted, circle me
Unsure if they should stay or flee
They know each trick, each ruse I use
To wrestle them in ones and twos.
Eventually they come to rest
On either side, heads on my chest
And then the three of us just stare
At our own clouds a way up there.
Marshmallow Fluff or Dairy Whip
A giant dollop on the lip
Of Heaven, cruising like a ship
That’s drifted, noiseless, from its slip.
I want to jump and land on it
And try my best to stand on it
Then sink into its spongy core
While eating handfuls from its store.
They have no map, no place to be
You can’t catch clouds because they’re free
To nonchalantly skirt your town
And make us run when they come down.
The trouble is, they take their time
And doing so, robs me of mine
So up I get – no time to lie!
Until the next cloud passes by…

Heir Heads

British Royal Family Tree - Guide to Queen Elizabeth II Windsor Family Tree

With the last of the dishes put away and the Corgis farting up a storm after polishing off the unwanted sprouts, everyone gathered in front of the TV for Her Majesty’s Christmas message to the nation. At 95, The Queen appeared staid and resolute, a safe pair of hands to see us through the next 12 months.

She was actually doing just fine; it was the rest of the family who needed sorting out.

Her Madge had described the previous few years as “quite bumpy”, but that was just how Philip drove after he’d had a few. Not only had the Duke of Edinburgh run some poachers off the road, he’d proved a ticking time bomb who would say anything to anyone, especially if they were foreigners. Some found this quite rich, considering his father was Prince Andrew of Greece and Denmark, his mother was Princess Alice of Battenberg, Granny was a Russian and he was born in Greece but educated in France, Germany and England. Between them, they covered more countries than EasyJet.

Earlier in the year, Harry had put the boot into his older brother, the future king, admitting the two hated each other’s guts. Wills then hit back saying he “worried Harry might be bonkers,” which Harry then proved by announcing he planned to make a documentary on mental health with Oprah Winfrey. Then the rumours that Kate and Meghan could no longer reside within the same kingdom became evident when the Sussexes vacated Kensington Palace and fled to the icy Kingdom of Canadia. However, bored after only two days by the solitude and sheer beauty of their surroundings, and running low on Manuka Elbow Moisturiser, the pair then fled to California to… erm… escape the royals (which they’d already done), Britain (which they’d also already done) and the media (whom they’d taken on their honeymoon).

And as for Anne – an examination of this royal princess isn’t for the squeamish – while it’s true she is indeed very hard working, the same can be said of fire ants. For her Duke of Edinburgh Award, it’s rumoured a young Anne commissioned a wind-up doll capable of neutralising any lady-in-waiting who approached without curtseying. Sometimes mistaken for an Amish horse hand by members of the Household Cavalry, an awkward Anne clung to the fact that she remained the only princess in a stable of princes.

That is, until Diana appeared on the scene.

Dispatching her sister-in-law abroad in a stroke of genius, Anne and her father then fixed their sights upon the latest royal interloper. Rumour has it that during her initial stay at Kensington Palace, Prince Philip presented Kate Middleton with a Princess Diana doll sans tête. Examining it thoughtfully, if not warily, the young Kate made a mental note of her nearest exit.

“She was pretty like you,” Princess Anne remarked. “She’s not pretty now, though… I’m the pretty princess now.”

“Isn’t she missing something?” Kate asked, pointedly.

“My bad,” Anne apologised, crushing her can of Pilsner and flicking it at her. “There’s the car.”

Kids, eh?… w

Who’d have ’em?