Fantasy’s child.
Does she exist?
We see her in adverts
Or have we just missed
The exact images
Which change every day.
Will fantasy’s child ever go away?
One day she is blonde.
The next she is black.
Fantasy’s child always comes back.
Even when old
She sells us death plans.
Is Fantasy’s child
A creation of mans?

Here in blue jeans
With flowing hair.
Next in outfits we’d all
like to wear.
Her fantasy man is slim;
He has flair.
He is tall, dark
And so debonair.
It seems when we’re
shopping, minds are diminished.
Real people invisible
Till we are finished,
For only the ads.,
And the looking glass rule.
People just love it
It makes us feel cool,

For the moment
Till reality shows
How expensive and fragile
Are these new clothes.
For they wear out
Or spoil with a stain
So off we go shopping
Again and again!
We all need a lift
So the ads do attract
Though trees in the shopping mall
Are sadly lacked.
The bright photographs
Offer fantasy’s child.
As I just passed her
I’ll swear that she smiled!

Actually I hate shopping!



Changes in reality.
Varied actuality.
These aspects are what I see
Reflected in your poetry.

Threads of beauty blazing
Through images amazing!
These aspects entrance me
Reflected in your poetry.

Your liquid shapes are colour.
Oh! How much duller
Are the words I write.
And I would say goodnight,

But you have inspired me
The muse has not yet fired me
And promise I now see
Reflected in my poetry!


Honey the hamster was snug in his straw nest. There was a rasping sound on his cage door. He popped up his head and opened bright eyes.

“Hello. I’m Squigley,” squeaked a voice.

Honey stared at the little grey creature who bore a faint resemblance to himself.

“Are you a foreign hamster?” he asked.

“No. I’m a British mouse,” said Squigley happily. “I haven’t been abroad yet.” He added “There’s so much to do here.”

“I don’t have much to do,” Honey confided. “I sleep in the day time. At night I eat and run round my wheel. They put food in my cage every day. Sometimes the children stroke me, but I’d rather be asleep.”

“You must get bored,” said Squigley. “Why don’t you escape?”

“It’s safe here,” answered Honey. “I know where the next meal is coming from. The parrot next door makes a noise, squawking and flapping his wings. His cage is too close to mine.”

“I know,” said Squigley. “I eat the seed he throws out. It must be awful having such a noisy neighbour. If I gnaw through that weak bit of your cage, you could escape. Come with me. I have adventures. I can show you how to disappear. He looked doubtfully at the plump golden hamster.

“You’d have to lose weight first. You are too fat, but if you roam wild, free and hungry, you will become thin. You can explore the house. We can have races. Will you be my friend?”

“Oh yes,” said Honey, “But I’m staying put. I’ve never been hungry.”

“Could you push some of your food through the bars?” asked Squigley humbly.

“Of course.” Honey was a nice hamster. “I expect it gets tough out there.” he said. Honey pushed a lot of food through the bars. The grey mouse, his nose twitching, squeaked happily.

Suddenly the light went on. Honey stood still. Squigley disappeared.

“Oh look Honey’s awake,” said the little boy to his sister. “Shall we take him out and play?”

“No, we should be in bed. Look at the mess on the floor. We’ll have to clear it up tomorrow. There’s the book you wanted.”

“Good night Honey,” they chorused. They switched off the light and left the room. Honey curled up in his nest. Squigley returned and ate his fill.

The cat came softly down from the chair, but Squigley had vanished.



Mrs Taylor rushed from the house leaving the unwashed breakfast crockery in the dining room. The kitchen was incensed!

“you wont be able to use us now,” the taps dripped into a bowl. The bowl banged the sink. “Tell the taps to stop dripping or knives and forks will crash into soapy water and make a big splash, when Mrs Taylor comes home. The taps will have to cry buckets.”

“I got used to stir the tea,” interrupted the egg spoon. “I’m rather brown. I was silver.”

“Be quiet,” ground the cheese grater through gnashed spikes. “I’m gonna keep some of the cheese when they shred it. That will teach them. The taps will have to run at full flow.”

“Please let’s settle this argument peacefully,” the taps gushed. They were twins except for their hats.

“You’re just pretending to be reasonable,” the bread knife said cuttingly. “I’ve bathed under a few taps in my time, but you’re the limit.”

“Mmm… you have a long history,” mused the vinegar bottle with a touch of acidity.

“Really!” exclaimed a tea cup. “let’s round this off nicely with a drink.”

“Nicely!” exclaimed the sugar tin. “You haven’t even got a saucer.”

“If you think I’m putting up with this,” wobbled the door handle, “I’ll get stuck. None of you will enter the dining room.”


“You’re a drip,” tinkled the red capped tap to the blue one who answered, “You leave me cold.” The red capped tap let slide a hot tear. The bowl smirked.

“When I’m full I’ll invite a lot of plates to a bubble party. I’m tired of you two ruling above me!” cried the sink. The tea towel flapped nervously.

“We’re a bit poor today,” mentioned the frail blue plate whose few crumbs hid shyly in her corners.

“Don’t worry said the cake tin, “They’ve left paper in me covered in cake. There’s enough to go round.”

“You shouldn’t let the plug hole swallow it. He gets us blocked up,” hissed the pipes under the sink menacingly. “We’re getting a bit thin on top. All our paint is flaking off.”

“I know,” crackled the paint feebly “It’s condensation.”

The floor cloth fluttered. “We don’t know a sation.”

“What is condensation?” prattled the egg whisker.

“Don’t ask awkward questions,” pinged her mixing bowl, “Or I’ll give you less room to dance with the eggs.”

“Just a minute!” squeaked a floor board. People are near!”

“Quiet all of you!” frowned the ceiling.


The door opened.
“False alarm!” squeaked the top hinge. The door slammed.

“Don’t ask me,” whined the bottom hinge. I’m only your partner.” He had come slightly adrift.

“I wish some one would fix you,” muttered the door stop. You’re giving me a dent.”

“Don’t worry about that,” twisted the door handle. “I work at their command. I can go. No body will be able to get in.

A ponderous light hung over them all.

“Look what you’ve started,” the dish cloth flung at the taps.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” wavered a doily peeping over a silver cake stand at some abandoned tongs.

“Not now you’re empty,” clamped the tongs.
“If you don’t behave!” snapped the toaster “I’ll pop up unexpectedly.

“So what. Tick tock,” repeated the clock.

The smoke alarm threatened, “Every one quiet or I’ll scream”.

“I’m not very full,” muttered the box of matches to the gas stove.

“Strike a light,” said the gas stove moodily “I’m not switched on anyway.”

“All I want is to be on my own wavelength.” crackled the radio.

“I wish you’d decide which one before people decide for you. You know how they change my direction,” warned the aerial pointedly.

“No more bad feeling in here,” called the wall decoratively. “Or the people will ill treat us. Let’s make up and have fun before they arrive with the bleach.

At the word bleach everyone and strangely even the doily lacked lustre. Footsteps were heard.

“She’s back!” the dining room informed the kitchen. “I’ll be tidied and polished.

“No! She’ll use me first,” laughed the washing machine whirringly.

The door opened. Mrs Taylor entered her kitchen.

“It’s very untidy,” she murmured. “Oh I seem to be out of bleach!”

The kitchen heaved a sigh of relief.


It’s hard to be alone
For long days.
You begin to talk to the cat
And develop strange ways.
The people on TV
Are laughed at if they’re
And envied if they’re thin
But you tell it to the cat.

How still the empty air.
How sombre it can be
When one is alone with
A cat and a TV.
No one knocks on the door
Or calls on the phone.
You wonder what life’s for
When you live alone.

You think of the great reply
Your cat could make to
This verse
If only he would try.
As a critic you’ve known worse.
But all he does is purr
While needing with his claws
Despite a coat of fur
He likes to stay in doors.

Then I think he’s amused
By my lonely state
And yet,
Of course, he is
I don’t take him to the vet!


We choose from chicken, beef or lamb
Or processed meat like breaded ham.
The bakery smells really good.
The fruit is fresh, that’s understood.

Yoghurts, milk and varied creams
Are tastes beyond our wildest dreams.
The salad and abundant veg
Are green as our suburban hedge.

Fish in batter and smoked salmon.
We Rush past this to grab the gammon,
Then adding to former mistakes
Help ourselves to large fruit cakes.

An outsize woman passes by
Who somehow seems to catch my eye.
I put the cakes back with great speed
To conquer this indulgent greed,

To find that I am much seduced
By doughnuts that have been reduced.
I pause amid sudden shame
Although the adverts are to blame.

I think of those who cannot eat
Who carry water in the heat.
Then of men who fought the war.
It was our freedom they fought for.

How ungrateful it would be
To live in guilt and misery
And undervalue all we’ve got.
So let’s enjoy the sumptuous lot!



“We agreed to have the experience here in Kew Gardens surrounded by beauty and peace,” said Timothy.

His friends huddled together in the pagoda, peering gloomily at the gardens through a curtain of rain.

“What a day to come to Kew,” Becky sighed. George taking advantage of her nearness, put his arm around her waist. “well I vote we find a pub,” he said squeezing her. Becky’s hair was silver, like the rain. She felt past this sort of thing. She wriggled slightly to free herself.

Yvonne, lively at sixty, said “Tim’s right. We’ve come all this way. Besides it’s lovely here, rain or no rain. I vote we go ahead. Let’s make a run for the café where we can sit down.”

“let’s go!” shouted Timothy. The two elderly couple put up their collars and ran through sheets of water to the café.

“I’ll have a large cream cake,” said Yvonne reckless of her bulk.

Slim Becky sorting out everyone’s tea, nibbled a biscuit. They were the only ones in the café. Tim brought a small bottle from his pocket and tipped its contents into his hand.

“ecstasy, ” he said giving each one a tablet. They all stared at the pills.

“I’ll go first,” said George.

“No, all together,” called Becky.
“One, two, three go!” yelled Timothy. They all swallowed then looked at each other with excitement.

……….Silence…………..The silence continued…….They waited. Minutes ticked by. Tim swallowed the remains of his tea. “It may take a while,” he said at last.

One hour later they left the café.

“Bloody aspirins scorned George. “He’s paid fifty quid for aspirins. We’ve been conned! It wasn’t ecstasy.”

They all felt relieved and went their separate ways.