Out of the Box Read online

Jack and Jill strolled up the hill to see the loan arranger.

  They told him all, they bared their souls, before a perfect stranger.

  “The money’s yours,” the nice man said. “But pray, why stop at twenty?

  You have your home to back the loan, the listening bank’s got plenty.”

  They signed the loan forms straightaway, their trust in him implicit.

  They had a few more years to pay; the forms were quite explicit.

  They slept a peaceful sleep that night, no hint of trouble brewing.

  They’d asked the expert after all, he must know what he’s doing.

  Jack and Jill went wild until the cash was theirs no longer.

  A kitchen, new, a bathroom too, the urge to spend grew stronger.

  Repayments came, repayments went, their finances seemed stable.

  They’d pay it off and move again as soon as they were able.

  Time went by, young Jack branched out and into self-employment.

  Their family grew, first one then two, to add to their enjoyment.

  Jack did well, his skills were prized, the business started growing.

  The bank suggested overdrafts to keep the cash flow flowing.

  Business boomed, the tax man loomed, his bill hit like a rocket.

  Jack um’d and ah’d, he’d worked so hard to line the taxman’s pocket.

  What could he use to pay his dues? His funds were all on paper.

  He had a thought. A last resort? This new remortage caper?

  The Bank said, “Fine! Extend the time, your equity’s still sound.

  It’ll give you cash to meet those bills, the best idea all round.

  We’ll need to see Accounts of course, before we let you borrow.

  We need three years’ to reach us here by 9 a.m. tomorrow.

  A year went by, the business dived and things looked bad for Jack.

  For though accounts were going out, no cheques were coming back.

  The overdraft was overdrawn, the interest rates a sin.

  The banks, so swift to make the loan, now swiftly called it in.

  Jack struggled on, though work was gone, and payments cost the earth.

  House prices fell, he couldn’t sell, he owed more than it’s worth.

  It endeth so, this tale of woe, with Jack in deep depression

  The family in B & B, the house in repossession.

  The moral of this story is, when ere you wish to borrow

  Don’t trust the expert here today, coz he’ll be gone tomorrow.

  Ever wondered what it might be like at the end of the road? Course you have, everyone does at some point.

  One can only hope it isn’t a call centre…

  Que Sera

  When, finally, my journey’s done and Life draws to its end

  And someone from the Life to come calls, ‘Just a minute friend!

  Before you throw the dice you hold and join the final line,

  we’d like your frank impressions of the Set on Level Nine.’

  ‘Beyond all doubt,’ I’ll answer them, ‘a masterpiece in Time.

  If one ignores the poverty, the cruelty, the crime.’

  ‘Mankind’s not our department,’ they’ll reply. ‘We can’t afford

  to supervise the games you play, we merely make the Board.’

  And then I’ll know, that even There, the rules are still the same.

  When things don’t go the way they ought, it’s wise to shift the blame.

  Dreaming the life…

  Windfall

  My partner’s had a windfall

  He wouldn’t say how much

  He said he’ll let me know for sure

  When he’s checked online and such.

  I know he’s got five numbers

  So it could be quite a lot

  And it doesn’t hurt to make a list

  Of things we haven’t got.

  We haven’t got a house abroad

  We haven’t got a yacht

  A Bentley for the driveway?

  Something else we haven’t got.

  I’ll nip to Aspreys, get some rings

  And diamonds for my ears

  I’ll find myself a surgeon

  Who can take off twenty years.

  We’ll need to have a swimming pool

  In grounds of half a mile

  It’ll be in full view as you drive up to

  Our huge old country pile.

  We’ll probably breakfast with the Queen

  And mingle with the toffs

  We’ll need a butler, butlering

  Like all the better-offs.

  Ah, here he is. Well, did you check?

  Oh no, he’s looking shifty

  It seems our share of this week’s prize

  Is Thirty-seven Fifty.

  Procrastination is the writer’s worst enemy. I’m constantly amazed at how many vitally important jobs I find to do when I should be writing. Maybe I need one of these.

  Back to Square One

  I bought an old lamp in the market today

  From a stall I’d not noticed before

  And inside the box, I found a long form.

  Fill this in for three wishes! And more!

  Three wishes! I laughed, but the match had been struck

  And the fire of fantasy burned.

  For ages I sat there, dreaming my dream,

  And spending the money I’d earned.

  I was still on cloud nine as I ticked the last square

  Now, finally, life would be fun.

  ‘Are you ready,’ it said, ‘to begin your new life?

  Jolly good, now go back to square one.’

  Well I went through that form another three times,

  And still ended up where I started.

  And that’s when I noticed the words on the lamp,

  ‘You old fool,’ it said. ‘Are you downhearted?’

  ‘You’ve just wasted three hours trying to fill in that form

  and dreaming of something exciting.

  Stop the ‘ifs’ and the ‘buts’ and ‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’

  And for goodness sake, work on your writing.’

  There are times when we all value a second opinion. Just be careful who you ask.

  Second Opinion

  Hello there! Yes, we meet again. I thought I knew you, dear.

  How nice that we should both decide to spend a few days here.

  How wide awake you seem today, you’ve been so tired of late.

  I feel I ought to mention, though, you have put on some weight.

  That hairstyle’s not your usual, dear. You’re trying something new?

  Well when one’s hair is thinning, there is little one can do.

  And what a lovely outfit too! Oh yes, you’re very wise

  to stick to looser garments, dear, when one has hips your size.

  You’ve still not found your style, I see. Ah well, life’s not so bad.

  At least one cannot miss dear, what one has never had.

  Come on, let’s go and mingle, best show some circumspection.

  We wouldn’t want the world to know you talk to your reflection.

  Enough said.

  Good Intentions

  (with apologies to John Masefield)

  I must go down to the pool again

  And force myself to swim

  And all I ask is the water’s warm

  And it pulls my stomach in.

  We all love going to the Dentist, don’t we? (Come on, be honest). I have a lovely Dentist, though I’m sure he won’t mind me saying it’s not my favourite way to spend a morning.

  Ever stopped to consider life on the other end of the drill?

  A Bridge Too Far

  Oh, pity the valiant Dentist,

  brave Defender of molar and crown.

  Though his calling in life may be lofty,

  he is destined to sit looking down.

  After tortuous years of hard study,
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  of burning the drill at both ends,

  He is faced with a lifetime of gnashers,

  and an army of fair-weather friends.

  He keeps hoping your teeth will be gleaming,

  after all, when it comes to the crunch,

  it’s enough of a trial repairing your smile

  without a review of your lunch.

  So some sympathy please for the Dentist,

  as he battles with fillings forsooth

  If the day finally comes when he’s down on his gums,

  coz he’s gotten too holed in the tooth.

  Monday morning. You’re tired, running late, trying to get the kids ready for school and yourself ready for a job you don’t like, but have to do because they give you time off for school holidays, assemblies, school plays, sports days and 101 other things.

  Then…

  I don’t want to go to school, Mum

  I don’t want to go to school, Mum

  I’m definitely getting a cough.

  It’s probably best if I have a nice rest

  Coz I’m thinking my leg might drop off.

  I’d better not go into school, Mum

  In case I’ve got something that spreads

  There’s a bit of a rash on my stomach

  That could break out in big yellow heads.

  If you could just write me a note, Mum

  And tell them my stomach’s still sore

  I really can’t join in P.E. Mum,

  If I’m rolling about on the floor.

  It’s not safe to go into school, Mum

  Attila the Hun’s come back.

  And Mr Smith said if this book isn’t read

  He’s putting us all on the rack.

  If you could just jot a few words, Mum

  And tell them I’m really quite ill

  I’ll do all my homework, I promise

  And tidy my bedroom until…

  Tomorrow.

  Christmas! Such an magical time for children!

  Such an exhausting time for parents…

  The Twelve Days of Christmas

  It’s the first day of Christmas and the big day holds no fear.

  I’m going to get the shopping done with time to spare this year.

  My lists are made, the bills are paid, I face no great encumbrance.

  I’ve ten days off, a nasty cough and money in abundance.

  It’s the second day of Christmas and this present-buying’s fun.

  Yes, true, I shopped from eight till late and only bought the one.

  But Christmas Day is miles away and it’s not as if I’m guessing,

  I’ll get the lot, I know what’s what, success is mine, no messing!

  It’s the third day of Christmas and I think I’ll take a break.

  There’s cards to write, mince pies to do and shall I ice the cake?

  But first a tea…or maybe two…a chance to dream of things

  I can’t afford, like newer cars and sparkly diamond rings.

  It’s the fourth day of Christmas and expense I can’t avoid

  My youngest wants a super cosmic robot Thunderzoid.

  The toyshop’s open, in I rush. “Need one of those,” I shout.

  “I’m sorry madam, that’s display. The Thunderzoid’s sold out.”

  It’s the fifth day of Christmas and yes I’m shopping still.

  I’ve bought some chocs for Mrs Fox and socks for Uncle Bill.

  My list grows longer, like my arms, my feet have bad inflation.

  I think I’m in a sit down or fall over situation.

  It’s the sixth day of Christmas and the panic’s setting in.

  I’ve still got Michael’s shirt to get. (Oh someone pass the gin.)

  Now what’s his size? Oh brain, do work! I’ve got a mental block.

  What do you mean, you don’t have green? How come it’s out of stock?

  It’s the seventh day of Christmas and the workload’s right on cue.

  I queue for this, I queue for that, I’ve nothing else to do.

  The play’s tonight, at Steven’s school. They’ll do the First Noel.

  I watch the kids and burst with pride, but those small chairs are hell.

  It’s the eighth day of Christmas and that’s the turkey bought.

  Just pop it in the freezer. No…I wonder if I ought?

  Now what’s the weight? And when’s the day? Allowing time to thaw…

  Is it too big? Or not enough? I’m never really sure.

  It’s the ninth day of Christmas and the twinkling lights won’t twink.

  The cat’s been sick, the dog’s run off, the TV’s on the blink.

  The tree’s too big, the stand’s too small, the fairy’s looking rough.

  The tinsel’s bald, the in-laws called, I think I’ve had enough.

  It’s the tenth day of Christmas and cards come by the score.

  Please say I’ve thought of everyone, there can’t be any more.

  Did I remember Auntie Fay? Or Sue? Or UncleTed?

  Who’s this one from? Great Uncle Tom? Mike told me he was dead!

  It’s the eleventh day of Christmas and the wrapping-up’s a chore.

  No matter where you stick the tape, it ends up on the floor.

  This game’s so big, it takes the roll and how d’you wrap a ball?

  It’ll all be torn at the crack of dawn, why wrap it up at all?

  It’s the twelfth day of Christmas and I’ve had my half hour’s sleep.

  The kids are happy, dinner’s on and now there’s not a peep.

  The house is warm, excitement reigns, we’re full of Christmas cheer.

  Why do we do it? Now I know. Same time again next year?

  Hands up anyone who finds the adverts irritating. Some, of course, are enchanting and considerably more entertaining than the programmes.

  If only we had a choice…

  Selective Viewing

  I’m thinking of starting a magazine

  That will list all the in-betweens

  Like washing powders, cereals

  Pork sausages and beans.

  I’m calling it The Advert Times

  It’s sure to be a winner

  It’ll list all the Adverts we’d like to avoid

  When we’re halfway through eating our dinner.

  The last thing we need when we’re having a feed

  Is a close-up of anyone’s loo

  Or an image of somebody’s plaque-ridden teeth

  Or a powder that clears you right through.

  I’m fed up with accident helplines

  And cholesterol lowering spread

  I don’t want to join an insurance

  That only pays out when I’m dead.

  Now, armed with my new publication

  I’ll select those that I like to see

  Like the puppets with cute little noses

  That advertised Lloyds TSB.

  (Please bring them back).

  Ah, the great outdoors. The bracing air, the beautiful countryside, wild flowers, majestic woodland dripping with water and teeming with biting insects, scudding clouds full of rain, grey skies, stormy beaches…oh, you’ve had holidays in Britain too, then…

  Sorry, got carried away there. This is a poem about alternative living.

  The Great Outdoors

  It’s a family trait, so they tell me

  This strange longing to live in a wood

  Settle down in the trees

  With the birds and the bees

  Like a modern day Miss Robin Hood.

  I’m related, way back, to Will Scarlet

  Which probably explains many things

  The Bank Manager said

  My account’s certainly red

  Since I purchased those prototype wings.

  I’m not best shaped to fly, I discovered

  As I leaped from a branch late at night

  With scarcely a sound

  I fell straight to the ground
r />   So much for my short maiden flight.

  So it’s back to traditional methods

  And the family will just have to cope

  When I drop by for tea

  From my house in a tree

  And swing in on the end of a rope.

  In keeping with Government guidelines on healthy eating, I’m taking a whole new look at the carrot. Oh, all right, it’s not the orange one that helps you see in the dark (remind me again, why is that useful?). It’s the carat I have in mind. Different, but equally as good for you.

  The Carrot

  What a wonderful thing is the carrot

  Sure, the carrot’s a wonderful thing

  But between me and you, I’m not thinking of stew

  But the possible size of my ring.

  ‘It’s the least I can do,’ said my hubby,

  ‘After ten faithful years as my wife.

  You’ve put up with my feet, with a smile that’s so sweet,

  Through air you can cut with a knife.’

  ‘I’ve been saving,’ he said, ‘for this moment

  and I’ve given your present some thought.’

  With a satisfied look, he whipped out a small book.

  ‘Come out here, dear, and see what I’ve bought.’

  ‘It’s the latest in laundry equipment

  with a sock drawer thrown in for a song!’

  ‘Well, that’s perfect,’ I said, as I patted his head,