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A Tourists Guide to the Charming Old city of Amsterdam

I’d sat and drank all afternoon,
Lager, gin and made a fool
Of myself reflected in the mirror,
Amid the chaos, spills of beer.
Outside hard rain had fallen,
And in my kerb-like crawling,
This brain had lost its power to teach
Simple messages to tired feet.
With difficulty
Small bridges in their gentle undulation
Meant I wasn’t up to rising
On this particular occasion;
So I grabbed the nearest post,
No sense of public hesitation,
And we danced together,
One-sided sexual gyrations.
Avoiding cyclists in their haste,
To rendezvous and make their dates,
I in random acts of motivation,
Watched the whores in fascination;
Perched in pretty window boxes,
Like captured chicks awaiting foxes.
Sometime later,
Amid my vomit
Strewn across the cobbled ground,
New friends I made
Who did the rounds;
To help themselves
And rob me of my lasting memories
Of this charming city I’d just found.

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Distant Friend

For Claire to leave what she was doing and go pick up the newly scattered assortment of post from the grubby hall carpet was a particularly challenging exercise amid this early morning domestic chaos.

First the baby needed to be fed, its bare feet dangling from the height of a non-too sturdy highchair. Then there was Taylor her six-year old son, with a bouquet of attention deficiencies flowering into full bloom as impending school time rapidly approached.

She looked around her surroundings. God this kitchen was a mess. In fact this entire cramped flat was now a back-catalogue of broken council maintenance promises. Perhaps the black mottled patches of mildew that pervaded every aspect of her family’s life should have been made to hang on their landlord’s conscience like an irremovable family curse.

Having managed to leave the kitchen table for a moment, Claire picked up the letters before beginning the ambidextrous operation of buttering two slices of semi-burnt toast while turning each item of mail between fingers stained raw with the daily abuse of constant housework and a succession of low-paid part-time jobs.

Red bills, circulars, an early birthday card for Taylor, and one letter bearing a Canadian postmark. How strange! She puckered her now overblown, once rather cute face, pushed back a handful of unkempt hair, and turned the envelope over as if examination would reveal clues to its sender before opening it.

It was from Robert of all people.

Well who’d have thought it? Robert Jenkins.

After all these years. Was it fifteen or sixteen? A lifetime ago. From a period of her life that now existed only as a mere shadow across her soul. She began reading to herself, mouthing each word as if every intake of breathe reduced the years that separated their last meeting.

I moved to Toronto to pursue a Phd after finishing Uni.

Found the lifestyle to my taste. (Winters freezing though.)

Summer on the lakes where I own a small log cabin and a boat of my own. (Can you believe I’ve actually learnt to swim at last)

Job as a research chemist (well Director of Research actually)

Never married (yeah still love my books too much I guess)

I’m looking at a photo of us both (that Halloween night in Blackpool)

Just think Claire you were top of our class before you dropped out during the second year of your chemistry degree. (no one ever found out why.)

Guess what -I happened to find your engagement ring in my attic last weekend (the one you threw back at me, remember.) Bet you’re part of the stockbroker belt now. (one of those 4 x4 school-run mums we read a lot about)

Miss you. (we really have a lot of catching up to do)

Do try and get over sometime.

Love Robert (bob-tail) Jenkins

P.S. Traced you eventually through the ‘Distant Friends’ web-site.

Taylor moved from the kitchen table and reached out for his mothers hand, an over abundance of affection children of his nature are often imbued with.

“Why are you crying Mummy?” he asked timidly.

Claire wiped away a tear, a tiny droplet of emotion belying an ocean of significance beneath. Then she crumpled the letter into a tight ball and popped it into the pedal bin by her side.

“She’s always crying’” Gavin the fifteen year old grunted, one half of his headphones removed for a moment before he imparted another piece of unsolicited teenage advice.

“It’s called the menopause.”

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The Bar Stewards Tale

The silent clock upon the wall
Moves its hand and gives the call;
It’s opening time – God help us all !
Like huddled flocks of sheep
They beat their hooves,
And bleat their orders at the ba-ar.
Young men
With benefits to spend,
Can pass their idle days
Locking horns among old rams
Whose bodies show decay.
And what of these rams,
With rheumy eyes
And swollen prostate glands:
Their not-so timid wives
Whose battered lives
Stretch back for forty years or more.
Where once a couple lived together,
Now two people torn apart,
But patched up temporary,
Sipping scotch and supping pints.
Their patriotism,
Racism,
Nothing but bloody pessimism:
While stories old are glorified
And magnified
But never verified among their empty glasses high.
Such pride in being a working man,
Supporting Wilson, Callaghan,
Their fleeces dyed a shade of red,
Were staunch supporters of the feathered bed.
I listen to these bleaters moans and groans
Whose top priorities I place so low,
And through a haze of tatty roll-ups,
Dominoes clack against the table tops;
And then a scraping chair been moved
Tells me another one is getting up.
Now at the close of day,
These rams and ewes so easily led,
With drooping lids should to their beds:
For we the sheepdogs
With canines bare,
Now growl and fix them with a stare.
Soon only one or two stray lambs are left
Among the troughs and benches mess;
Then finally
To their pens we push them;
It’s closing time – May their God bless them !

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