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SCRIBBLERS

Hinckley's very own writers workshop

 

 

 

 

 

 

England, My England

 

 

The village green, Morris dancers

Blackpool Rock, Seaside Romances

Small boys playinq, bat on ball

Wickets chalked on a playground wall

That's what England means to me.

 

Fish and chips, brown sauce and tripe

Music halls, Jaguar e-type

John Steed, Emma Peel,

Firework Night with a Catherine Wheel

That's what England means to me

 

Rank Holidays, Easter bunnies,

Morecambe and Wise, just so funny

Marston's Pedigree, Big Ben,

Monty Python, News at Ten

That's what England means to me.

 

by John Martin 

 

 

 

THE PUB

 

Are they a couple, the two over there?

They whispher then giggle - some secret they share.

They're not locals, of that I am sure

Though I think I've seen them in here before.

They hold hands across the oak table.

Yes a couple for sure. I'll give them that label.

 

 

The man at the bar, cigarette in hand,

his hair the colour of golden sand.

He must be about six foot three,

I avert my eyes as he looks over at me.

He's waiting for someone - maybe a date.

He looks twice at his watch: She must be late.

 

 

Over in the corner by the glowing fireplace

An old man sits hunched such lines on his face.

He looks like a professor, he certainly looks wise many an experience, he's seen through those eyes.

He puffs on his pipe, smoke rings fill the air.

A beard and moustache to match his white hair.

 

 

A girl on her own, in her late teens

Takes out a mirror, her hair she now preens

Out comes a lipstick the colour of blood,

Look again at her reflection - she knows she looks good.

Her tall slender figure sits upright and strong

The confidence she oozes, most truely long.

 

It's a pastime of mine, I sit and I study

Some like to fish or paint for their hobby,

I keep a note on all that I witness

Not one solitary item do I like to miss.

I sneak out my camera, take a sly shot

to add to the evidence I've already got.

 

I'm a detective, I'm under cover

The wife thought he'd taken a lover.

The man at the bar - really a spy

Looks again and gives me the eye,

The old man in the corner, claiming injury,

For a naval accident that damaged his knee.

And the stunning young beauty I hear you all cry?

Nothing wrong with her - just a passer by.

  

by Maxine Tuffin

 

 

 

THE TERRIBLE TWOS

 

I've just left Sainsburys, all tattered and torn, embarrassed and cringing, feeling all forlorn.

My son has found out that it's fun to shout

At the top of his voice when we go out.

People staring, old ladies tutting

All the noise is very off - putting.

 

 

"Can't she control him?" I hear people say,

I wish I could - I tried everyway

  

Books say "ignore it, its just a phase",

Many an eyebrow I see people raise.

I feel sorry for mothers with children in tow,

Whose kids have put on a similar show.

"We've been there, done that, its all in the past

The terrible twos is a stage that won't last:"

 

 

Thank goodness for that I think to myself

As I rush round the shop, grabbing things off the shelf.

"Soon it gets worse" they continue to say,

"They'll embarrass you still, but in a different way, wait till they're teenagers with views of their own

And they talk to their mates on your telephone".

 

 

I look at my family, I love them dearly,

I'd hate to be without them really.

I look at the young couple, arm in arm,

I remember the time when our life was calm. We went out for meals, and trips to the park, dancing and swinging all night through the dark

 

The only time now we get on our own, we collapse into bed in home, sweet home.

The moral of this story is though enjoy every minute, life will soon go!

 

by Maxine Tuffin

 

 

 

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