Bushwhacked

We have a hedge – when I say we

I’m merely being neighbourly

Which separates us from next door

We’re Number Two, they’re Number Four.

The hedge is green and not too tall

And forms a living, breathing wall

Which houses hedgehogs, snails and toads

Who are no match for busy roads.

The problem is, our neighbour’s plans

Involve a wall where our hedge stands

Three times its height and twice as thick

He’s done all the arithmetic.

Just think how private it will be!

I won’t see you, you won’t see me!

To me, this sentiment offends

Because I’d thought of us as friends.

His plan to rip the whole hedge out

This ‘eyesore’ he could do without

We thought he had it all in hand

Until we learned it’s on our land.

So now he doesn’t speak to me

Which happens when folks disagree

Their house is also up for sale

A sorry ending to this tale.

As for our hedge, it’s still intact

And here’s an interesting fact:

He’ll get his wish without a wall

For soon we won’t see him at all…

Creature Feature

pizza – Hungr Blog

When dining out we’re well aware

Our manners are on view

We open doors like Fred Astaire

Insisting… After you!

Which silverware to use and when

And how to hold a glass

While tackling pommes parisienne

Delineate one’s class.

But not so in the cinema

The difference is stark

Because it’s hard to be bourgeois

And crack nuts in the dark.

The lighting’s low so patrons know

When they’re not being watched

It’s fine to eat an Oreo

Retrieved from off your crotch.

You eat out of a bucket

Like a hog out of a pail

And when you’re done, you chuck it

Like a Molotov cocktail.

Wonder what life’s like inside

A real safari park?

Round up loads of humans

And then feed them in the dark.

Chat Room

REVIEW: 50's Prime Time Cafe in Disney's Hollywood Studios

The cashier took my money

Without even glancing up

So I said something funny

As a means to interrupt

Her name tag spelled out Mary

And she didn’t think it cute

When I rhymed it with scary

Before asking: Are you mute?

The parking lot attendant

Waved me past while on the phone

A job that’s not dependent

Upon people skills alone

His name badge boasted Wainwright

And that’s all I gleaned from him

While he kept playing Fortnite

With a gamer in Tianjin.

My lunch was served by Lizzie

In a small, outdoor café

Where staff are far too busy

To cite Specials of the Day

Instead when it gets hectic

They just gesture to a wall

Good luck if you’re dyslexic

When you try read the scrawl.

The bank staff social-distanced

As they monitored the line

And then at their insistence

I saw Teller Number Nine

Laverne asked for my password

Followed by my date of birth

Then after that all I heard

Was my after-tax net worth.

Without a chat

We’re hardly here

Soon after that

We disappear

But I endure

This guessing game

Because I’m sure

God knows my name.

Don’t Stand So Close To Me

The Mean Old Lady!!! Storytime - YouTube

The new teacher entered the classroom and took her seat, greeting no one. Perpetua Tightwaters was having a bad day but her deportment made it impossible for the students to tell because she held only one expression in her armoury: disapproval. A fierce-looking woman with grey-blue eyes which devoured their prey whole, she could scan an entire school assembly at a glance over horn-rimmed glasses designed to gore enemies at close range. Thick, silvery hair which still held its lustre was meticulously hoovered up into a tidy bun, giving her the air of a grande dame of the Bolshoi who had long since exited the stage, but not the company. A smooth complexion required only a light touch from a modest palate; it was only her mauve lipstick which strayed into the adventurous, considered redundant by many because her lips were permanently pursed until they parted to issue a summons, reprimand or decree.

teacher old - Imgflip

Perpetua Tightwaters loved crosswords, hated skateboarders, still bought her meat from the local butcher, donated to the Red Cross by direct debit, considered pet ownership overrated, knew her brother-in-law had a drinking problem before he did and stopped listening to Engelbert Humperdinck the day the singer made a joke about the Queen Mother during a live interview on Radio 4.

During the montage on the first day of school, Cady is yelled at ...

Alert and self-assured, she made few demands of others and expected the same courtesy in return, preferring discretion at all costs. During her morning commute into the city, Perpetua remained vigilant lest she should drop her guard for even a moment and, in doing so, make eye contact with a fellow commuter just bursting to talk about his gifted toddler’s progress at Junior Montessori. She had nothing against the public, she simply regarded them much as she did junior royals: odd-jobbers whose pivotal role might one day involve organ donation. In an increasingly unrecognisable world where meat was murder, Drag Queen Storytime had replaced Show & Tell and a pope had wavered ever so slightly on the question of married clergy, Perpetua Tightwaters chose to anchor herself in work, God and country for everyone’s sake.

Let's allow Texas teachers to use deadly force against students ...

In her opinion, social distancing wasn’t overkill.

It was overdue.

Suture Self

Image result for Mary Pat Gleason Friends

Last month I received a letter from my doctor reminding me it was time for my annual health check. The fact it was addressed Dear Sir/Madam did ring a few alarm bells, given he’s taken at least three selfies with my prostate, but with no offence taken I followed doctor’s orders and booked an appointment at my local Code Blue Health Centre.

“That’s quite a number of steps,” I told the receptionist, stooping to catch my breath. “What happened to the ramp?”

“Gone,” I was informed. “Health & Safety.”

“Aren’t ramps for Health & Safety?”

“Too many Four-by-Fours were slamming into cars when they reached the bottom. When I made a claim my car insurance went up because they had to invent a new category.”

Four-by-Fours?” I wasn’t following.

“Wheelchair users.”

“Are we allowed to call them that?”

“I am, you’re not,” her reproval hung in the air, while a bejewelled talon gestured lazily towards a certificate propped up against a pink thermos. “I’ve had training.”

“What do people in wheelchairs do now?”

“They have to go around the back and enter through the…” she stopped texting then casually pulled her hair across her name badge. “Uh, you’re not a reporter, are you?”

“No, I’m checking-in for my appointment with Dr Shapiro.”

“Check-in is by touchscreen on the wall opposite,” I was duly despatched, as if telling me where to find the straws and napkins.

Throughout the check-in process, the Automated National User Service referred to me more than once as a customer without offering any form of cashback facility. This was not only misleading but highly inconvenient as I had an extortion payment due at noon and knew only too well that the Yakuza didn’t accept cheques. Even more worryingly, I was unable to recall exactly when the UK Government had reduced my role from citizen to that of ‘customer’. In my previous school the Head Teacher had once tried referring to the students as customers, explaining that we were delivering a service to them and, if they weren’t satisfied, they could file a complaint.

“There’s only one problem with that,” I spoke up.

“Go ahead, Mr Ormsby,” she readied herself.

“If the customer is always right then why do I have two hours of marking every night?”

“To support learning,” came the stock reply.

“So am I now Customer Support?”

“Well… in a way, yes,” she was on shaky ground and she knew it.

“Which would make you Sales.”

“Uh…”

“I just want to get this straight: Sales sells the dream and Customer Support services the nightmare,” I articulated for her benefit. “And will we be running any kind of customer loyalty scheme because I’ve just thought of one: students could redeem their SAT scores for Pot Noodles and spray paints.”

They were back to being students by lunchtime.

Having successfully checked in, I then retired to The Wellness Hub (that’s a Waiting Room to you and me) where I was faced with that age-old dilemma: where to sit so that no one would disturb or infect me while I tried to guess their affliction. We all play it, if not in a doctor’s office, then certainly in car parks whenever we observe what appear to be able-bodied drivers emerging from vehicles displaying a Disabled Parking Permit. My friend, Laverne, is ace at it.

“What do we think of this one?” she asked me last week.

“COPD?” I ventured.

“No, walking too fast.”

“Arthritis?”

“Carrying too many bags.”

“The Big C?”

“Too much hair.”

“Some disabilities are invisible,” Alison reminded us.

“I wish yours was,” Laverne scowled at her in the rear-view mirror. “Definitely upper respiratory… I’ve got it!” she smacked the dashboard in triumph. ”’Pneumothorax!”

“Oh, I loved her in Pulp Fiction,” Alison brightened, before frowning again. “I didn’t know she was disabled though.”

I negotiated my way towards the far corner of the seating area, avoiding eye contact all the way until I reached a cluster of empty seats. Surprised no one else had retreated to this refuge, I was just about to sit down when I noticed what appeared to be a small turn on one seat. Appalled that a Wellness Hubful of humans had watched me make my way towards an open latrine without so much as a warning left me cold inside.

“I tried Tangerine Dew on it but that’s not what they make it for,” one old dear explained, retrieving a bottle of Febreze from her shopping bag. “The one for pets maybe…”

My heart melted.

“No harm done,” I said, taking the seat next to her.

“It was an elderly gentleman,” she explained. “His daughter brought him in. We could all see the back of his trousers when he got up to go see the nurse. I told the receptionist.”

“Which receptionist?” my hackles were now up again.

“The sturdy girl… her, with the wig.”

(I love the way the older generation speaks)

“How do you know it’s a wig?” I suppressed a laugh.

“Because it looks like a bale of hay. I also told her it’s crooked.”

“And what did she say?”

“She told me check-in was behind me on the far wall. I thought it was a cash machine when I came in because I need to buy some stamps. Which doctor are you here to see? I’m here to see Dr Haslam.”

“Dr Shapiro,” I replied.

“Oh, Dr Shapiro’s not in today. It’s another, a Dr Fatwa.”

“Right,” I nodded, trying to guess the man’s actual name.

“I’ve seen him going back and forth. He’ll be better than Dr Raymond; I wouldn’t let him cut my toenails.”

I wanted to play the diagnostic game but I knew it would be a lot more fun talking with-

“-Enid,” she suddenly remembered. “Let me see if I can guess your name. I sometimes get it right… is it John?”

I almost fell off my chair.

“How did you know that?” I was stunned.

“You look like a John,” she patted my hand.

“I had you for a Keith,” a lad to the right of me said. “And I had you as a Lola,” he winked at Enid.

“No, Mary. You look like a Mary,” a woman with two toddlers chimed in. “And you’re probably a Jaden or a Tyler,” she said to him.

“And who are these two?” Enid asked, waving to her children.

“This one’s Thomas and this is little sister, Gracie. We’re here today because her liver’s acting up again.”

Everyone went quiet.

“It’s okay, we’re experts now. She’s missing an enzyme so it needs topping up,” she explained. “Thomas is just along for the ride. I’m Julie, by the way.”

“Robert,” the young man gave a slight wave to everyone. “How is she with it?”

“Sometimes she gets tired which frustrates her to no end. There’s no stopping her though,” Julie gave her daughter a hug. “My father’s a Robert.”

“What are we going to do if a Courteney and a Madison walk in?” I asked.

“Ring Child Services,” Robert replied.

“I went to school with a boy called Enzo and our Science teacher nicknamed him Enzyme,” I suddenly remembered. “And we had another kid called Nigel Sheepwash.”

“No way,” Robert sat up.

“I was at school with a girl called Mary Hammoth and the boys used to call her Hairy Mammoth,” Enid mused.

“I knew a Bobby Bibby,” Julie joined in. “No word of a lie: Bobby Bibby.”

“Did he have a sister Libby?” Robert asked.

“And I once went to the dancing with a boy called Ronald McDonald,” she rolled her eyes at Enid.

“No small feat,” I said.

“Oh my god,” Robert groaned aloud.

“Sorry,” I apologised, but not really.

“No, but funny thing: when I saw him the next week he was with another girl and I knew they were made for each other.”

“Why funny?” Enid asked.

“Because they came straight over and he said, “Meet Patty!”

Call it nervous tension. Call it peer contagion. Call it what you will but I’ll tell you something for nothing: people know a good punchline when they hear it and that one was so corny it was still on the cob. Everyone burst out laughing and when the receptionist told us off we laughed even harder.

After that, I don’t remember much else.

I can’t tell you which doctor I saw or what I told him or what he told me or where I went after that or how I got there because none of that mattered. What did matter was that for a few moments Julie was able to forget about liver enzymes, I forgot I was one year older, Robert forgot about the rod in his left arm and Enid forgot that she now spends most days on her own.

And you can’t get that on prescription.