The Song I Wish I'd Written

A Rainy Night In Soho

I've been loving you a long time
Down all the years, down all the days
And I've cried for all your troubles
Smiled at your funny little ways

We watched our friends grow up together
And we saw them as they fell
Some of them fell into Heaven
Some of them fell into Hell

I took shelter from a shower
And I stepped into your arms
On a rainy night in Soho
The wind was whistling all its charms

I sang you all my sorrows
You told me all your joys
Whatever happened to that old song?
To all those little girls and boys

Now the song is nearly over
We may never find out what it means
But there's a light I hold before me
You're the measure of my dreams
The measure of my dreams

Sometimes I wake up in the morning
The ginger lady by my bed
Covered in a cloak of silence
I hear you talking in my head

I'm not singing for the future
I'm not dreaming of the past
I'm not talking of the first time
I never think about the last

Now the song is nearly over
We may never find out what it means
Still there's a light I hold before me
You're the measure of my dreams
The measure of my dreams

Shane McGowan

I am a lover of lists. Mark Radcliffe does a great radio feature called My CD CV. The rest of mine can be found here. You can also submit your own....

Go on, you know you want to.

Zippo!

I have a new Zippo!

:)

It is a pen.

:~

It does not make fire.

:(

Things You Encounter When You Haven't Got Your Gun #1

This is not, and never will be a rant blog. Mr Angry does it so much better anyway. But we'll keep a little corner just for special 'Oh For F**k's Sake' moments.

Today's offering: Two lanes closed during rush hour on the M56, in order to remove cones from the one-lane shutdown for roadworks!

Your own contributions welcome.

Last Orders

It's never easy deciding how to approach the subject of death with the Little Ducks. Luckily they have only been subjected to goldfish and soap death so far - the former when they were very tiny ducklings and didn't really notice and the latter on a regular basis, the latest being Charlie Stubbs in Corrie. They are fascinated by the disposal element - happy in the knowledge that the departed spirits will be tucked up in Heaven. It is with great interest that they check out the church service to establish whether the coffin will be passing through the curtains at the back, or out the front again to a pre-prepared hole in the ground. They particularly like the idea of the open air funeral pyre as favoured in Star Wars.

Occasionally the subject of our growing old does crop up. A couple of weeks ago, JP asked where I would be when he was different ages. By the time he got up to 75, I had to break the news to him that I would be dead (having already established that I would be getting a letter from the Queen when he was 60 something).

I steeled myself for tears and upset....

'Do you want to be burned or buried?' asked Tiddler.

I'm just hoping he isn't making arrangements with the Co-Op anytime soon.

Fnarr Fnarr!

I spent Saturday consulting with Mr. Titchmarsh* in the Purple Garden while listening to the Beatles.**

It being a fine day I took the opportunity to tackle a number of chores, especially round the back where it's a bit bare thanks to dormant perennials. Why does any comment about gardening come out as a double entendre? Perhaps it's all the talk of tools and seeds and bedding. The possibilities are endless.

Anyway, here is a list of my outdoor labours, in the style of Finbarr Saunders.

1. Checked my cherry
2. Bedded my pansies
3. Brushed my crusty pots
4. Top-dressed my clematis
5. Lifted my pelargoniums
6. Tested my fountain for good flow
7. Trimmed the sensitive parts of my euphorbia
8. Planted 12" nerines between the rocks
9. Pulled some saggy digitalis
10. Found a perfect damp spot to raise my rhubarb.

Next weekend trimming my bush and rooting some succulents.

* in print not in the flesh, although as one of my personal heroes, he'd be welcome to test my soil at any time.

**we'll discuss the whole indoor v outdoor music question another day - lots to say on that subject.

Men Will Be Boys

The bedroom door opens slowly. He tiptoes round to the other side of the bed and slides in under the duvet. Mr Duck is away. The early signs of dawn are just visible through the curtains as he inches closer toward me. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek as I lie perfectly still, feigning sleep. He brushes my lips with his, in a soft butterfly kiss.

'Mummy. You're not dead.' he pronounces.

He throws back the duvet, flings me my dressing gown and sets off downstairs with the alarm keys - confident that I will follow. Scooby Doo won't cut it this morning. Tiddler requires Mummytime. The kitchen clock tells me it's 5.50am. The kettle nods knowingly - today will definitely require a 3-cup kickstart.

I thank God for PG Tips, as I break open the Gumball Rally Top Trumps.

Tiddler loves these cards. He would - his favourite programme is Top Gear. Both Little Ducks look forward to the child-friendly Wednesday repeats.

I think they identify with the small boys who present it. Someone once told me that men are just little boys with money in their pockets. They must have been watching Top Gear at the time. Last night was laugh-out-loud hilarious. The playground mischief, the one-upmanship, and the 'I Dare You' egging-on make it utterly watchable.