This is Thursday

The 1970s, IMHO, was the best decade for music, and you could get it all on Top of the Pops on Thursday evening.

Every teen in 70s Britain
on Thursday evenings would be sitting
at half past seven, in front of the box,
eagerly anticipating Top of the Pops.

Wednesday: half-day closing

Here's my verse for Wednesday.

Before the birth of the online store
buying goods was quite a chore,
and woe betide the afternoon shopper
who, mid-week, might come a cropper
'cos many a town across the country
had half-day closing, every Wednesday.

Not much to say about Tuesday

I thought I might as well write a rhyme for Tuesday too. Here's a Tuesday limerick:

Here's Tuesday, there's not much to say;
its child in the rhyme's full of grace.
With a spiritual bent,
the last before lent
is for pancakes and stuffing your face.

Monday starts the working week...

A lttle senior rhyme to start off the week:

Monday starts the working week
but not for senior retirees
whose waking thoughts are nearly always
"another day, but which one is this?"

Much, much too rich for his own good

Before picking up The Hare With Amber Eyes, I was under the impression it was fiction. My heart sank on discovering it's a family memoir. I'm not a fan of this sort of non-fiction unless it's warts-and-all, or humorous and self-deprecating. But it was a Book Club choice, so I swiped to the first page and began reading.

The book's set in late 19th century Europe, WW1, and the inter-war years of the 20th century. French art and literature loom large, both of which are interests of mine. So far so good. As for the family, it takes in three generations of the Ephrussi bankers, from whom de Waal is descended. He says, "I know that my family were Jewish, of course, and I know they were staggeringly rich". He traces these ancestors using a collection of 264 netsuke as a device, moving through generations and locations according to who owns the small Japanese carvings, one of which is the titular amber-eyed hare.

Not for the faint-hearted reader

José Saramago's The Cave isn't for the faint-hearted reader. It was a book club choice, and such was the density of words that I was 40 pages short of finishing before the meeting. One of our members thought it was terrible, the main complaint being a lack of punctuation.

At first, I too wasn't sure I was going to enjoy it, however the more I read, the more I was struck by its style of writing. I began to imagine Saramago sitting before me, reading the book out loud, like the actors on the old UK children's TV series Jackanory.

Briefly, the elderly potter, Cipriano Algor has a predictable, productive and happy life. His daughter Marta helps him make pots for The Centre, where his security guard son-in-law Marçal works. Marçal is hoping for a promotion which will allow the three of them to move from their rural community to a rental apartment in The Centre. The plot isn't intricate, the characters are nicely drawn, and we even get to listen to the thoughts of the dog, Found, whose relationship with Cipriano Algor is charming.

It's been described as dystopian and Orwellian, and raises questions about what to do with your life when you no longer work. This may not be the intentional theme of The Cave, but that's what I was thinking when I finished it. You might want to read Plato's allegory of the cave before starting, or you can just enjoy it for what it is; a story with a happy ending.

Questions for Tom Jones

This summer I embarked on a bus and rail tour of Wales. Mad, I know, but using Traveline Cymru's journey planner the trip went relatively smoothly. I started in Cardiff and made a special detour to Pontypridd for a pint in the Llanover Arms where I was inspired to write a few verses about the great Sir Thomas Jones Woodward OBE, who was born in Treforest, just down the road.

Photo Raph_PH - flickr, CC BY 2.0, Link

I'd ordered a pint of Brain’s Bitter,
when, guess who walked in off the street?
Tom Woodward, or as you might know him,
Tom Jones, Jones the Voice, OBE.

He wore a silk shirt, half-unbuttoned,
a gold cross on his big hairy chest.
His trousers were skin tight, revealing
quite clearly his meat and two veg.

He wore a flat cap and dark Ray-Bans,
which might have fooled one or two folk,
but he couldn't disguise his Welsh accent,
nor baritone voice when he spoke.

I bought him a drink, said, "Come join me.
There’s no need to sing me a song.
Instead, would you answer some questions?
If you like, You Can Leave Your Hat On."

He grinned, replied, "It's Not Unusual
that fans want to know a few facts
‘bout my life and my numerous lovers.
So please, go ahead and just ask."

I thought him a gent, said, "I'm curious.
That Pussycat sounds like a tiger.
Who was she?" and grinning Tom answered,
"a very good friend of Delilah."

"And where did you meet? In Treforest?"
"The first time, yes. Later we'd roam
to Cardiff. We'd Kiss in the Valleys,
and on the Green Green Grass of Home."

"What makes Pussycat so attractive?"
"She's a Lady, and local," sighed Tom.
Then smiling and winking he added,
"If you know what I mean, a Sex Bomb."

We laughed. He said, “Just one more question,
and I know what that question will be.
Tho' I asked of her over and over,
What's new Pussycat? She never told me."