.
He let the omelette get cold on his plate. He ate a few vegetables and looked at his watch.
That's when I knew it was over. Once, he used to love it when I cooked for him.
But as my mother always said, you can't reheat an omelette.
.
Monday, 8 September 2008
Sunday, 7 September 2008
50 Word/Food: No Accounting -- by Tony Parker
.
“So let me see; you want me to take this magnificent piece of sirloin, cook every last drop of moisture out of it, spread caviar over it and then drown it in bisto gravy. Forget it.”
“Let me remind you, officer, this is not your last meal we’re talking about.”
.
“So let me see; you want me to take this magnificent piece of sirloin, cook every last drop of moisture out of it, spread caviar over it and then drown it in bisto gravy. Forget it.”
“Let me remind you, officer, this is not your last meal we’re talking about.”
.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
50 Word Story: Food
.
Here's a little challenge (because I know you like them):
write a 50 word story involving FOOD
and no, you can't just list a 50 word menu - it has to be a STORY.
50 words or less - over to you...
.
Here's a little challenge (because I know you like them):
write a 50 word story involving FOOD
and no, you can't just list a 50 word menu - it has to be a STORY.
50 words or less - over to you...
.
Friday, 29 August 2008
No caption necessary
.
...just because we like llamas:
... and here's a nice dog to herd them:
(thanks Munni)
...just because we like llamas:
... and here's a nice dog to herd them:
(thanks Munni)
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
After the Storm -- by Zephirine
The GU poetry blog is asking for poems about cities this week. If you don't feel reckless enough to post a poem on there, why not send one to me and I'll post it on here? This is the one I did:
The morning after the storm of 1987
Having to be somewhere
I set out early
and coming out of Regent’s Park tube
was astonished
not by the few uprooted trees
not by the absence of traffic
but by the air
the air
clean clean clean
fresh damp
fresh smelling of bruised leaves
smelling of broken branches
and earth
smelling of wet earth
the air of Country
I was seeing London
and smelling forest
walking the pavement
crossing the asphalt street
littered with twigs
and stray leaves
looking at office buildings
stucco frontages
brass plate front doors
feeling the damp breath
of woodland on my face
the grey rocky dirty exhaust-fumed city
swept clean
by some great green broom
despite the destruction
it was strangely wonderful
in all my time in this city
the morning that sticks in my mind
is when it became
city and country both
.
The morning after the storm of 1987
Having to be somewhere
I set out early
and coming out of Regent’s Park tube
was astonished
not by the few uprooted trees
not by the absence of traffic
but by the air
the air
clean clean clean
fresh damp
fresh smelling of bruised leaves
smelling of broken branches
and earth
smelling of wet earth
the air of Country
I was seeing London
and smelling forest
walking the pavement
crossing the asphalt street
littered with twigs
and stray leaves
looking at office buildings
stucco frontages
brass plate front doors
feeling the damp breath
of woodland on my face
the grey rocky dirty exhaust-fumed city
swept clean
by some great green broom
despite the destruction
it was strangely wonderful
in all my time in this city
the morning that sticks in my mind
is when it became
city and country both
.
Friday, 25 July 2008
Sunday, 13 July 2008
The Road to Pai -- by File
Guardian.co.uk (remember them?) now have a poetry blog where you can post your own pomes on a different subject each week. Needless to say File and Zeph have been prowling about there, and File wrote this one for the 'scenic spots' topic:
The Road to Pai
“Follow that scent!” you say
To the tuk-tuk pilot
In the day-glo jacket.
He smiles, soi
Disperse wildly
In every direction.
It’s the perfume of his birth, of breakfast
Of klong and death
It’s inside his sun-washed,
Knocked-off Diesel t-shirt
The ink under his skin
And long days working
In traffic
You decide on
A private eye,
Renting a Yamaha 125
For yourself. You set off,
Out of the city, into the mountains, climbing
Spiral roads by spirit houses’
Painted eaves and gold leaf like gold teeth
In the dark mouths of jungles. Here
Lie homes for ghosts, secret
Agents of other worlds, instinctively you know
Interrogating saffron
Won’t help.
Still pursuing hues
Looking down now on rice paddies,
The shade of verdant that is liquid emerald
Eddies in the shimmering late afternoon
Stream. Freewheeling
Past warnings of landmines
And signs to hot springs, sources
And waterfalls, informants
Furtive whisperings
At the hidden ends of dirt tracks
Off the main road that
Traces the valley to Pai.
The Shan fingerprint below
Twists into focus
The wooden ridges, shaded whorls
That once sheltered horses
Now keeps vinyl seats of trail bikes
Out of the heat of the day.
Finding chicken curry and noodles,
Cold Beer Chang and harsh menthol cigarettes
Called Falling Rain or
‘Saifon’ in the local sing-song
Which dips and soars; smoke kites on
Fickle thermals over the two-stroke
Spiked beats of mopeds
Laden with durian or jackfruit or corn
Or laughing children
On their way home from school
Looking right back at you
They say: “We’re all detective,
We are all clues”
.
The Road to Pai
“Follow that scent!” you say
To the tuk-tuk pilot
In the day-glo jacket.
He smiles, soi
Disperse wildly
In every direction.
It’s the perfume of his birth, of breakfast
Of klong and death
It’s inside his sun-washed,
Knocked-off Diesel t-shirt
The ink under his skin
And long days working
In traffic
You decide on
A private eye,
Renting a Yamaha 125
For yourself. You set off,
Out of the city, into the mountains, climbing
Spiral roads by spirit houses’
Painted eaves and gold leaf like gold teeth
In the dark mouths of jungles. Here
Lie homes for ghosts, secret
Agents of other worlds, instinctively you know
Interrogating saffron
Won’t help.
Still pursuing hues
Looking down now on rice paddies,
The shade of verdant that is liquid emerald
Eddies in the shimmering late afternoon
Stream. Freewheeling
Past warnings of landmines
And signs to hot springs, sources
And waterfalls, informants
Furtive whisperings
At the hidden ends of dirt tracks
Off the main road that
Traces the valley to Pai.
The Shan fingerprint below
Twists into focus
The wooden ridges, shaded whorls
That once sheltered horses
Now keeps vinyl seats of trail bikes
Out of the heat of the day.
Finding chicken curry and noodles,
Cold Beer Chang and harsh menthol cigarettes
Called Falling Rain or
‘Saifon’ in the local sing-song
Which dips and soars; smoke kites on
Fickle thermals over the two-stroke
Spiked beats of mopeds
Laden with durian or jackfruit or corn
Or laughing children
On their way home from school
Looking right back at you
They say: “We’re all detective,
We are all clues”
.
