Kitchen sink thoughts: a poem

(The challenge was to write a piece beginning with the opening line of Dodie Snith's "I Capture The Castle", namely "I write this sitting in the kitchen sink")

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink

A place to marinade the brain and think.

To cleanse and rinse the green stuffs and the grey

And send all gritty nonsense on its way.

Beside me lies the draining board of thought

Where dripping plates and notions newly sought

Assume their former or a brand new sheen

Or are they just pretending to be clean?

I rise with care and step down to the floor

Where brush and pan have swept up peel and core

The shining tiles have nothing left to say,

As bare of meaning as a wasted day.

Great thoughts depart and brainwaves all retreat

Perhaps I should resume my former seat.

© John Welford

Moving On

“Well, if it isn’t my old mate Shylock”, said Tubal. “How have things been since that little business in Venice when your pound of flesh scam came horribly unstuck?”

“Not so bad”, said Shylock. “As you know they forced me to become a Christian and hand over all my money to my daughter Jessica, so we’ve both moved on to pastures new.”

“So Jessica’s taken over the moneylending business, has she?”

“Not exactly. There’s no profit in moneylending for independents these days, not since people like Wonga cornered the market, so she’s taken to the next best thing in making a quick buck, namely estate agency and property development – not that she does much development of the properties that come her way, mind you.”

“And you?” asked Tubal.

“I run my own Christian sect, all Hell and damnation for wicked sinners, with Jessica’s help. We call it God’s Own Theoretical Christian Housing Academy.”

“That’s a bit of a mouthful”, said Tubal. “How does it work?”

“Well”, said Shylock, “We call it an academy because that way we can con the government into thinking that it’s one of these new free schools, and they give us lots of money to educate the kids of our members.”

“And do you?”

“Of course! We teach the three R’s – reading, writing and racketeering – and our pupils soon learn a very important lesson.”

“Which is?”

“The meaning of the word “theoretical”.

“Tell me more”, said Tubal.

“Jessica finds our church members some nice cheap housing - cheap for her, that is - and I make them sign our special contract. I don’t do the pound of flesh thing any more – I find that small print is much more effective. Do you remember that fake lawyer who got me into so much trouble in Venice?”

“You mean Portia, who married Bassanio?”

“I certainly do. She turned out to be a very clever cookie and moved on to become a full-time dodgy solicitor. We became quite good friends after things died down following that trial, and so I went to her office and asked her advice. She suggested that our contracts should contain clauses in print so small that even an ant couldn’t read it.”

“So what do your clients sign up to, then?”

“Let’s just say that once they’re in they don’t get out. They have to live in one of Jessica’s houses for life – pets are encouraged, and a very good idea for keeping the rats and mice at bay – and they have to pay a monthly fee for hearing my sermons every Sunday. Again, it’s for life.”

“Can’t they just walk away?”

“We find that the iron shackles bound to their ankles are a bit of a disincentive to that”.

“Remind me”, said Tubal. “What was your organisation called again?”

“God’s Own Theoretical Christian Housing Academy.”

“I’ve worked it out”, said Tubal. “You might have moved on, but you’re still a right little Scumbag However It’s Termed”.

© John Welford

New Beginnings

It is not generally realised that Macbeth made a third visit to the witches on the blasted heath, in addition to the two that are recorded in the famous Scottish play by that bloke from Stratford with the receding hairline.

“Hi there”, Macbeth offered in greeting, as cheerily as he could manage under the circumstances.

“You again?” said the chief witch. “What do you want this time?”

“Well”, said Macbeth, “the thing is that I’m getting ever so slightly worried about the way things are turning out”.

“That’s hardly surprising”, said witch number two, “given that you’ve already slaughtered half the cast and your wife has gone completely doolally. On those grounds, ‘ever so slightly worried’ would appear to be something of an understatement”.

“And what do you expect us to do about it?” asked witch number three. “We told you what would happen, but if you chose to conveniently ignore the bits that didn’t suit you at the time, that’s hardly our problem, is it?”

“Yes”, said Macbeth, “I’m sure you’re right, but it looks very much as though I’ll end up dead by the time the curtain falls at the end of Act Five, and I’d quite like that not to be the case.”

“Let’s get this straight”, said the chief witch. “You’re the title character in ‘The Tragedy of Macbeth’ and you expect to still be alive at the end of it? Have you ever seen a Shakespeare tragedy? Hamlet? Othello? King Lear? How many of those plays conclude with a jolly little song and dance number?”

“But that’s just the point”, said Macbeth. “I want you to fix it so that this play is different from the others. How about ‘The Tragi-Comedy of Macbeth’? Everything looks terrible half way through Act Four but it all ends up OK by the final curtain.”

“And just how are we supposed to manage that?” asked witch number two. “We said you’d be king, and your wife decided that killing the guy who was actually king at the time was the way to make that happen. We said that Banquo’s descendants would be kings, so you bumped off Banquo and nearly got his son as well. It’s your own stupid fault you’re in the mess you are now, not ours”.

“That’s what tragedy is all about”, said witch number three. “Some idiot gets above himself, does some stupid things and ends up paying the price. In the current case, that idiot is you.”

“But can’t I make a fresh start?” Macbeth pleaded. “Suppose I go to Macduff and say that it was all a terrible misunderstanding and I’m really sorry that I murdered his entire family, and would he like to go with me for a walking holiday in the Trossachs? I’d even offer to pay his bar bills”.

“And how you think he’d react to that?” asked the chief witch. “You reckon he’d let bygones be bygones, do you?”

“”It’s worth a try, surely?” said Macbeth. “Especially if I tell him some of my best jokes, like the one about the Englishman, the Scotsman and the pound of pork sausages?”

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one”, said witch number two, “how does it go?”

Macbeth was on the point of telling her when the chief witch pointed out the fatal flaw in his plan.

“That’s all very well”, she said, “but don’t you think that Mr Shakespeare’s audiences will be just a teeny bit disappointed with all the build-up to the gory battlefield death of the central character, only to end up with the protagonists having a belly-laugh and exiting stage left arm-in arm?”

“OK”, said Macbeth, “how about Plan B?”

“Which is?”

“You suddenly reveal that everything that happened in the first three acts took place in a parallel universe, and that the whole thing was a figment of somebody’s imagination? Duncan is actually alive and well, and so is everyone else.”

“Presumably”, said the chief witch, “your wife is not a raging homicidal maniac but a Sunday-school teacher from a small village in Dorset?”

“Now you’re talking!” said Macbeth. “I like what you’re saying! You simply make a whole new set of predictions and we all live happily ever after!”

“You’ve convinced me”, said witch number two. “Leave it to us and we’ll sort everything out. New beginnings! Don’t you worry about a thing.”

And with that Macbeth marched back down the hill from the witches’ camp, whistling a merry tune. It was just as well that a strong wind was blowing in his face as he walked away, because it rendered him incapable of hearing the guffaws of laughter that came from the trio round the cauldron.

© John Welford 

Invented saints

Great Britain (particularly but not exclusively England) abounds in towns and villages that take their names from those of saints. Examples include St Albans, St Ives and St Davids. However, with a little imagination, and tongue planted firmly in cheek, one can pretend that it is only accidents of typography that have prevented many other saints from receiving their due reward as British place names. Here are some suggestions.

St Evenage

Presumably the patron saint of new towns, he suffered martyrdom when he was hit by an overbalancing ticket machine at the town’s railway station, which is on the line from King’s Cross about 30 miles north of London. His sainthood comes from being overheard saying “Give me strength” as he exclaimed at the exorbitant price of the ticket and the fact that the machine had short-changed him. The miraculous strength he then obtained caused him to pull the machine over on top of him as he shook it.

St Ratford-upon-Avon

The patron saint of terrible Shakespearean actors met his end during a particularly dire performance of The Taming of the Shrew. His Petruchio convinced nobody, least of all the actress playing Kate (the Shrew) who took her part far too seriously and ended up beating him to death on stage in front of an audience of twelve (the rest of the audience having walked out some time before).

Ratford was observed lifting his eyes to the heavens several times before the fatal scene took place, but he was almost certainly searching for the prompt screen as he was notorious for forgetting his lines. However, having also forgotten to wear his contact lenses that night he was looking in entirely the wrong direction and would not have been able to read the screen anyway.

St Ansted

Ansted, or Ann Stead to give her preferred spelling, is the patron saint of queuing for hours at the airport when somebody, somewhere, has loused up in one way or another or has decided to go on strike for an indefinite period. On one famous occasion, when the queues went three times round the terminal building, Ann was noticeable as being the only person there who was not tearing their hair out with frustration. As somebody said: “She has the patience of a saint” – so a saint she became.

St Aines

Aines is the patron saint of really bad jokes. This is courtesy of his observation that if you say the words “Railing Staines” you sound like the Queen referring to Mick Jagger and his friends.

© John Welford

Coffin humour

It is estimated that 20,000 people queued up to file past the coffin of King Richard III during the three days prior to his reburial in Leicester Cathedral in 2015. I was one of that number, although I played a canny hand and only had to wait 20 minutes to get in, as opposed to the four hours endured by some of the earlier queuers on the first morning!

As you approached the entrance, a member of the cathedral staff handed you a printed card headed "Richard III & Me". I have mine in front of me as I write.

This is - at heart - a reminder to people that they are about to enter a Christian place of worship, and to ponder their beliefs about life and death. It's a mini-sermon, if you like, and a bit of Christian publicity.

Like many sermons it begins with a joke, which is worth retelling if you haven't heard it before. What follows is therefore a direct quotation from the pen of somebody at Leicester Cathedral:

The story is told of three men in a pub discussing what they would like people to say about them as they lay in their coffins at their funerals. The first said he would like people to remember a man of firm integrity and a generous giver of time and money to those in need. The second said he'd like people to say he was a great teacher and a positive role model to many. The third said he'd like people to say: "Look ... he's moving!"

© John Welford