BIOGRAPH

CANDERFAST

GET OUT OF YOUR MIND

DROOPER & THE DRONE

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM  from Pexels

Drooper portrait by Joyce Barrass

You might know me as Drooper, from that lass with seed she shares,
She has that little box that takes my photo unawares.
I used to be an egg, you know, dragged up in a messy nest.
I have a wonky wingtip, though I always fly my best.

Now, sometimes when my mates and I are zooming thataway,

I see these massive metal birds soar into DSA.*

I went to watch the other day, and saw them come to ground

All flashing lights and landing gear and blimey! What a sound!

But just as I was leaving to fly back home for seed,

This little bird came buzzing by, which I really didn’t need.

He didn’t seem too bothered about resting in a tree,

I called “Do Two Coos, Taffy!” but he didn’t answer me!

Then on the ground all hell broke loose with humans everywhere,

Army, police and passengers all pointing in the air.

“Another blummin' drone!” they cried, and fetched their guns and shields,

I got a zap off something, had me flying for the fields!

The little bird’s oblivious, though he seemed in quite a spin,

I thought I’d hang around and help the little chap to win.

So from a height I aimed at them, and dropped some limey poops

“Make your escape!” I tweeted him, “while I decoy the troops!”

They had me on the radar, they had me in their sights.

Could hardly get my bearings with the lasers and the lights!

They soon forgot about me, once my little mate was gone.

The runway soon reopened and I flew triumphant home.

Now I steer clear of the airport, it’s the garden life I choose.

The drone-bird never did get caught, but he made the evening news!

*Doncaster-Sheffield Airport aka Robin Hood Airport on the site of the old Finningley RAF military aerodrome in South Yorkshire, about 15 miles northeast of my garden as the Wood Pigeon flies.

SEE YOU LATER, PROCRASTINATOR!

Grab the to-do list. Right time. Right date.

Now dawns the hour to procrastinate.

Line up the knick-knacks, fiddle and fudge,

Opportunity knocks but the brain cells won’t budge.

Clean out that cupboard. Check on the mail.

If you don’t start, how can you fail?

Biting the bullet? Not doing that!

Don’t show your hand and you’ll not look a prat.

Time for a cuppa. Who’s for a brew?

Descale the kettle. What can you do?

Check on the internet. Yes, it’s still there.

Just testing my balance by spinning the chair.

Need inspiration. Go for a walk.

Putting it off?  Who, me? You can talk!

What’s number one on this list? Let me see.

I’ll just dust my glasses and nip for a wee.

Right, full steam ahead. I’ve got to press on.

No time for that, now. Where has today gone?

NEW YEAR'S RESOLU...OH, TO HECK WITH ALL THAT!

I struggle at this time of the year. Not so much with the shiny, squeaky new beginnings. More with maintaining a regular regime built on those rose-coloured fresh-out-of-the-box intentions. 

At the start of a new year, my heart rebels against the traditions of diary keeping, resolution making, to-do list mania. By just about now, I miss a day, or several days, a week, and suddenly, the perfectionist in me feels it's getting left behind on the starting blocks! Then the problem’s doubled with every passing day. The more I feel I’ve missed or dropped the ball while playing 'keepy-uppy', the more overwhelming it seems to get 'back on track'. Crazy but true! I should resolve to do better this year, but there I go again. It’s those darned resolutions that seem to press the pause button on forward motion!

It can apply to all sorts. Diary entries. Blogging. Arbitrary targets. The more goals I set, the less I feel inspired. I'm one of those who thrives on wiggle room. Not least in writing. What about you? I find the ideas that get me buzzing come unbidden in the dead of the night, or after an hour in the silence, off piste, off the map, off the timetable. 

Socrates, now. He didn't think much of writing. (Sorry, Soxy boy, I know that's an outrageous oversimplification!) He never wrote down his thoughts. It took his pupil Plato, among others, to commit his master’s words to paper and hand them down to future generations. Socrates said (or was it Plato putting words in his mouth?) that writing things down leads to forgetfulness. For me, regimented writing, the diaries and the spreadsheets, just because night's turned to day or there's an r in the month, kills my vibe. Once pressure is off, I can gladly and gratefully scribble away at any hour of day or night. 

Not writing things down? No. Never going to happen. How do inspirations get processed and passed along if you don't record them somehow? Even when you have a Plato to your Socrates, you’re dependent on the one who curates your content and on what they think you said. Socrates had his Plato, so we know him principally that way, by pupil proxy. But at best, it's going to be lost in translation, whispered from lip to ear round the circle in a Victorian parlour game, emerging as something barely resembling the original.

Unlike Socrates, I can’t imagine not writing. It’s my preferred way of relaxing, of challenging myself, of finding out what I actually think or feel or intuit and then sharing it, connecting with others. I have no plans to stop, even if I could! 

I enjoyed every second of writing my first novel, editing it, typesetting it, getting it out there, blogging about its background and genesis. I enjoy sharing it. I enjoy the feedback. I love that people enjoy it, or get frustrated at or enchanted by one of the characters.

I'm enjoying planning my second book, the writing, the letting it all coalesce and mature. Then come the expectations. As soon as you realise other people are hanging on the hope of a sequel, the pressure is on, like the unwritten diary page or the missed appointment. We need to hang on mindfully to the truth that every word we write is first for ourselves, then for others if they happen to choose to read it. We really need to stop concerning ourselves, as writers, as humans, with what others think, or demand or expect. 

Just breathe, one breath, then the next breath and the one after that.  One step, then the next, one foot in front of the other. One word, then another, then the one after that. For the sheer joy of it, always.

Sometimes, we feel the pressure to match or compare one piece of writing with the next. Maybe we need to let go of wanting the present moment's project to rival anything, but just to let what we produce become exactly what it needs to be, precious in its own right. Able to be graciously marinaded in the edit or fed without regrets into the shredder.

As I coax my characters through their story arcs, piecing together their universe, it’s as if I don’t want to let them down. The same with each poem. I want them to be everything I desire for them, like children. Yet, like children, I know I just have to bring them into the world, love them, nurture them and let them go, toddling out into print so they can be friends with people who haven't even met them yet. 

A  daily straitjacket, especially now my energy levels are so variable in chronic illness, sometimes trips me up or freezes me out from the fires of spontaneity . This year is going to be different! (Was that a pesky new year resolution, sneaking in, there?) It’s down to me, calmly staying present, being very gentle and kind to myself. Are you planning to give yourself the same TLC this year? Be your own best encourager. Your own cheerleader. Go on, why not? Don't be so hard on yourself. Failure isn’t an option. Precisely because nothing is failure, unless you label it so. This year, dear one, don't punish yourself. Rip up the calendar if you need to. Just never let your fire go out!

FORGETTING

THE WELLS OF WHENCE

ASH-SHE - on the felling of the Beloved Ash

They came without fanfare
As Autumn gathered her gold
In keys and coppery carillons
Of trees untold.

You stood, Beloved Ash,
Fraxinus fair,
Facing unfazed their saw teeth
Till no tree was there.

When stillness swallowed blade-hum
In your shadowy wake,
The sawdust sprinkled silence
For your soundless sake.

This space still throws your shape
Above your severed root.
The elder that you sheltered
Conjures sap and shoot

In memory of your majesty,
Spring sprays unborn.
Birds circle your absence,
Wings on paths well worn.

Your stump now melts its heart
In toadstool and in moss,
Minting from Winter's promise
Wisdom, truth and loss.

[Tribute to the much-beloved Ash tree (Fraxinus excelsior) at the end of my garden, felled earlier this month at the request of another who lived in its sacred shadow but saw only leaf litter and blocked sky. Felt its going so deeply, it's taken me this long to say what I wanted to say in tribute to such a beautiful old friend. I could never do it full justice. RIP the Beloved Ash.]

BUTTERFLY WITH BONES - a poem for those who live with chronic illness

WE BE CREATION'S CRYING

Bonded
To this body of birds
Wheeling in freeform flock

Rooted
Radical in earthball
Tendrils tucked
Through trackless undergrowth

Voice of the heartstop hare
From her barren form,
Whisper and whicker,
Melt and bloat

Ductile seductive
Plastic at the seabird's throat,
Barnacles losing purchase
On the toxic rock

We be creation's crying
Syrinx singing
Solidarity
With rhythmic sobs
Please cope

Struggling to shine afresh
The sun slinks up,
Wandering west
To wash the waste
Pale gold
Wanhope.

TELLING THE TEACHER

Standing by the nature table in your classroom,

Ruckled landscapes of gingham,

Jars of startled lemon trumpets,

Scent of binka and little accidents,

("Who's made a naughty smell?")

Squeak and slough of wax crayon,

Conkers in autumn

Pussy willow in spring.

Stroking fragility,

Sniffing the furry,

Twirling my tongue

One snowy playtime

To taste the fluster and fizz

Falling from forever.

That fossil hiding in the wall,

Ripples of secret aeons

Between the Infants' and Juniors'!

 Coaxed by your compendium of buds and birthing

My eyes, my heart stretched to take it all in,

The wonder of this world,

In music and motion.

We'd made it to the Moon,

Lived a whole decade in our skins

Made collages of how we might dress

In that thing called future,

Rubber-glueing chain mail of foil and button

On sugar paper, chubby fingers

Skipping in glitter,

Imagining.

We could never have dreamed,

We babes of the boom,

Your weekday words 

Whispering down all our tomorrows,

Rhythmic reminders

You are still somehow

Incurved nurture round our eggshell childhoods,

Tender to tease us out of ourselves,

Believing in us

Till we could

Believe in ourselves.

DISSOLUTION (Roche Abbey, 1538) - a poem

Disbelieving

On hands and knees,

I crawl, shielding

The hum-bright hive,

Tilted honey spilling unspoiled

Bees trail a curling Kyrie

Up between linden’s fingers

Disbelieving that they would

Until they came

A storm of the king’s sending,

No pilgrimage of grace

Tripping me out of my habit

La belle Roche,

Melts into pewter, stone, timber, lead

What will become of me?

I lick my fingers

As the sword descends,

Taste only honey, blood,

Thyme from the shadows of the kitchen-garden.

Refectorium

Buzz and banter

Swims into silent

No stone unturned

Into rectangles of hollow

Mapped matins and misericord

Long since sung.

BLUE MONDAY

You for whom Monday dawns bluely

Not blue of gentian, of cirrus-combed skies,

Not cornflower, powder, periwinkle,

But bottomless blue bruise of ice,

Of frozen feather in a fox’s footprint:

I will stitch you a cloak of comfort in Arnolfini greens,

Swaddle your sadness in robes of amethyst,

Wrap your sorrow in sun-warmed apricots and ambers,

Dry your tears with tissues of cadmium and canary,

Warm your heart with carnelian and coquelicot reds.

I would not see you blue

But if that is where you must be for now,

I will walk out across

This fragile crust of slippy-sided blueness

To hold your hand

Under the frozen brow

To wait with you

For rainbows.

RADICAL SUNSHINE

Radical sunshine meets holly's raised razors

Minting scintillas, flinders of blaze

From leaves that lack all urgency for autumn.

Behind blinds, staggered by circumzenith rays,

Welling eyes mirror slow shift of day

From promise to demise.

EMILY BRONTË'S ON MY DOORSTEP

Emily Brontë’s on my doorstep.

Under her hem I can see her feet.

She has no shoes on.

I know she will have avoided

Stepping in toadstools, hedgehog

Excreta, worm casts,

Flattened her soles into moss,

Cold clover, mist of dew,

Maybe thorns.

I remember referring to my upland home

As wuthering. Has she come

To snort derision?

She sifts through my heart,

Eyes a forgotten colour, all reproach,

Lofty, lyric,

A shadow on the shelf,

She enters, dissolving in dimity,

Ferocious flare from heath to hearth.

Tapping keys, watching words cascade

I feel her at my back,

Refusing to relent, melt, yield, unbend.

WRITING DOUBLE DARE

"Write what you know!"

Writing advice we've all heard.

But what if you don't really know what you think you know? You know?

Here's an idea.

Write what you dare!
Write what you dare to imagine!

If we never dare to write while clinging by our sweaty fingertips to the edge of what we might never be sure of, stomach churning, naked to possibility, how will we really know anything, anyway?

Living's a risky venture. Writing sometimes has to kick away the stabilisers, if we want to grow, exhilarated and incorrigible, into the writers we were born to be.

Write what excites you, challenges you, expands you, pushes you to your limits.

I double dare you!

BLOCK-BUSTERS THAT HELP BUST THROUGH CREATIVE BLOCKS

We all bash our heads on them, sometimes, don't we? Brick walls. Creative blocks.

Sometimes the block's as wrinkly and stubborn as the biggest elephant you can fit in the room.

Sometimes the block comes over all soft and squishy but it still ends up suffocating your flow like a massive pillow with odd feathers spilling out to make you sneeze with sheer frustration.

I don't so much get blocked with writing in general. Oh no. It's much more specific than that. It's only now in enforced ill-health retirement I'm getting down to penning the novels I've always dreamed of writing, those longer projects, that the dreaded block taps me smugly on my unsuspecting shoulder.

Indignant me growls: "But I love this story! I love writing it! So why am I more inclined to write my boring old shopping list than pick up where I left off with the first draft?"

Yes. I get blocked with whatever the main project is. All other writing becomes a tempting seductress of a sideline. I can procrastinate as much as I like,  writing other things, shorts, poems, comments, letters, emails, blogposts, serendipitous daily scribblings. Nothing wrong with any of that. Trouble is, the block's still there, waiting, where it was all along. Helping me avoid the risk of not getting the perfect word in the perfect sentence first time around. Not reaching 'The End'.

Once I realise what the block really is, I can face it. I can thumb my nose at it and get on with the job in hand. It isn't an anonymous block, you see. It's that little voice inside me that talks in the irritating critical accent only I can understand.

For me it's my perfectionism.

For me it's my fear of failure.

For me it's my wanting to keep my options open.

For me it's the ludicrous grammar nerdish inner pedant.

It's all manner of unhelpful things. Specific things. Specific lies. Once I've identified them and pinned them to the desk, they haven't the power to bully me into neglecting the very thing that brings me most joy, for one moment longer.

So I self-medicate these days for this common ailment of us crazy creatives.

There is help out there. Help that rings true because it comes from other writers who have been there. Like most of us, they've been there daily but won't quit!

Two books I find especially therapeutic for kicking the blocks into touch and tricking my inner critic into allowing me back to the page, I always keep at my elbow as I write these days. I think of them as my block-busters. My life-savers!

One was a present from a very dear writer friend who had found it helpful.

Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way Every Day; a Year of Creative Living."

The other was bought as a treat for myself after I read it in the bibliography to another of Cameron's books and simply couldn't resist the title:

Susan Shaughnessy's "Walking on Alligators: a book of meditations for writers."

Wherever I open them, there are bite-sized nuggets of good-humoured wisdom. Best thing is, they really help me get past my pesky personal writing-resistant sticking points. Perhaps the latter's my favourite writing encouragement book of all. My go-to lifesaver block-buster!

A page or two and I can laugh at my inner cowardly lion or elephant again. Laugh at it, cuddle it compassionately and more importantly, plunge back into writing the manuscript.

I wonder what your own personal blocks and block-busters are?

I'd really love to hear about them! (In the moments before we all head thankfully back to the unwritten page only we can write!)

Thanks for stopping by!

THE GREAT FIRE OF LUNCHEON (Short story/humour)

           

 "You're joking me, right?"

             "No, mate. That's what you said on the phone. That's what I've written. That's what you're paying me for."

            Sign writers; couldn't write their own name if it wasn't taped in the back of their boxers. I said it clear enough:

            "The Great Fryer of Luncheon" I said. "Fancy font, curlicues or whatever you call those poncy swirly bits."

             Turn some heads, have a laugh. Now look at it. Right above the door, making me sound like a ruddy Samuel Pepys grappling with Gordon Ramsey. No subtle chippy reference after all, thanks to this jobsworth.

             "It's a license to print money, mate," my cousin Nobby said to me and the missus as we were driving him to the airport. He's off to Australia to open another chippy there for ex-pats. I say he just has a crush on that lass off the telly that does the holiday programme. He fancies escaping to the sun instead of being stuck in sunny Plumstead. He's had this chippy since Uncle Horace passed away. Good turn over. Nice little earner. Catches the passing trade. You can't lose.

              So I do a bit of brainstorming with the wife and she has this flash of genius. Jane calls it 're-branding'. I call it a disaster. When the sign guy peels off the dust sheet, I see the writing on the wall. Literally.

             "The Great Fire of Luncheon" it says in great magenta lettering two feet high. Thank crikey we didn't go for that flat fish logo in the catalogue. We might have ended up with a Technicolor Jaws slavering over the door. Anyway, I'm not one to stick fast, so I say to Jane, "Let's go upmarket. Ditch the deep fat and go Bistro."

             How hard can it be? Jamie Oliver eat your heart out.  Just don't book your holidays in Rotherham. The refit goes like clockwork and we put in these up-lights that stop you seeing what you're eating and a bit of the old Rennie Mackintosh I saw once on the Antiques Roadshow. Then some mood music and a  bit of silver service. I've stocked up with a load of crates of plonk. Three Pinot Grigiots and Jane's anybody's. Health and Safety gave us the green light when the wrappers were still on the fish knives, so we were opening on Monday.

             It was over the weekend Jane said to me, 

             "Can you cook all this stuff?"

             That made me stop for a minute. Only a minute, mind, because I've never been much of a one for navel-gazing.

             "Cook it? What's the point? There's that little restaurant on the High Street that does takeaway deliveries. Why keep a dog and bark?"

             So it's into cruise control with Plumstead's own Antony Worrall Thompson. Once we've taken the orders, out comes the complimentary carafe and while they're getting a bit chillaxed after a hard day at the office, I'm ringing the 'Fatted Calf' for whatever's required. I mark it up a few percent, natch. I've my overheads, phone bill, free plonk and all that to cover, but I'm quids in at the end of the day as there's no delivery charge for orders over twenty pounds within a radius of two miles and the 'Fatted Calf' is only just round the corner.

             "Sorted, love," I say to Janey, cos I could see she's going a bit Eastenders boom-boom-boom-bup-bup-biddly-biddly on me. It was all working like a well-oiled machine. Until today.

             Tonight when I rang the order through, the phone just went on ringing.

             "Come on, mate," I'm saying into the receiver, "get a shake on, we're getting busy this end." We were, as well. The punters from the new solicitor's office on the High Street came in with their other halves, as well as the usual steady flow of couples on a first date when he fancies a bit of Dutch courage and she fancies getting him blotto so she can go back and watch a box set of Sex and the City.

             "Come on, geezer, let's have you," I'm saying when suddenly the answer machine kicks in and I'm hearing this plummy speaker phone voice:

             "I'm sorry. 'The Fatted Calf' will be closed until Monday next due to a family bereavement. We regret being unable to serve you at this time, but look forward to welcoming you when we reopen after the weekend. Thank you for your understanding at this time."

             Jane comes through to fill up some of the glasses and she sees me with my mouth open, staring into space.

             "Have you rung them yet, Dave? One of the girls is debating whether to order your famous quail with cucumber and peppermint jus. Peppermint jus, Dave!" -she's getting uppity now-"Where's your head at, tonight?"

             So I tell her the news and she just looks at me like I've completely taken leave.

            "Well, there's only one thing for it, honey bun, beloved. You're going to have to do exactly what it says on the tin. You're going to have to step up to the white imitation porcelain dinner plate, and actually be a restaurateur."

             Jane does an impressive line in comedy when it's called for; most often when it's not. I put the phone down and flick through the local directory but no restaurants are making what's on our menu. That's all down to the 'Fatted' flaming 'Calf'! Their chef's rubbed shoulders with Egon Ronay, somewhere down the line, which is why I now find myself up the proverbial creek devoid of proverbial paddle. I tentatively ring a couple of places further away, but they either don't do deliveries or we're out of their area.

             Jane's schmoozing and each time she comes back to see how I'm getting on, she makes one of her little comments.

             "Get a wriggle on, Dave!" she says, "the natives are starting to get twitchy. We don't need the background muzak any more with all those executive bellies rumbling."

              I look in one cupboard, then another. Then I push my head in the chest freezer. It's actually starting to look appealing just leaving it there. Bare, apart from some frozen vol-au-vents and a tub of cookie dough ice cream.

             Then I have a look in the fridge: left over lasagne verde that Jane buys because she thinks anything green is healthy; half a bottle of brown sauce I buy in because my dad always had it with his ham sarnies for work; eggs, bacon, hash browns, all the breakfast stuff. Perhaps we could ask the patrons to stay over and I could do them a full English as compensation. 

             There's this huge plastic bag of baby potatoes with some wilted salad, scotch eggs and two packets of mini pork pies, one with pickle, one with apple. That's something me and Jane can't compromise on, so the pies are a sort of his and hers selection. There's white bread rolls on the counter and those rye cracker things Jane has, to make up for it when she's been at the cookie dough deluxe.

             I can hear the hubbub in the front of house getting a bit more lively. I'm hoping that's the free booze though time's ticking by. My mind does a little juggling with those ingredients but then I realise it's now or never; do a runner or run them up some grub, sharpish.

             I grab a frying pan out of the bottom cupboard and look around for some oil. Every legit establishment in our game has its signature dishes, so perhaps it's time I left the 'Calf' with its hackneyed old peppermint jus and its balsamic vinaigrette and got our clientele's palates buzzing with some all-new flavours. 

             I unearth some garlic butter, a bit dried at the edges but serviceable and that gives me a bit of a confidence boost. I tie on an apron. It's got fake boobs and striped like a butcher down below, but I'm on a roll, so I stride to the front and shout:

             "Ladies and gents, tonight you're in for a treat. Our usual dishes are being suspended for one night only in order to introduce you, our most valued customers, to our brand new special gourmet menu. These dishes have been a long time in the production and as we value our customers so highly, we would appreciate your feedback...on the feed."

             This seems to go down reasonably. Nobody cries. Nobody starts eating the place-mats. Nobody screams and pulls the table cloth off. More importantly, nobody leaves.

             Jane starts clinking the bottle against their glasses to cover my exit, talking about how her genius husband is expecting to be asked onto the advisory panel for Ready Steady Cook very soon, though he's such a connoisseur, he's had to turn them down a couple of times already, in light of their disregard of the requirement of the more discerning palate such as we cater for here.

             I can still hear her going on about me in the background while I stick a couple of the scotch eggs into the pan with the garlic butter and grub around for the rest of the starter ingredients. We'll deal with the mains and the desserts later.

            There's some ready-grated cheddar in the fridge door next to the piccalilli and pickled onions. It isn't actually cheddar, it's that half fat nonsense, but who's counting? I sprinkle some over the scotch eggs (giving my trade secrets away, here!) and bang it all under the grill. I plate up and bung on some wilted salad. Well, not wilted in the traditional sense, but this is gastronomy at the cutting edge, after all. It's looking pretty limp, anyway. 

             I do one of those streaks of brown sauce, that kind of flourish all the chefs seem to do these days, when they're not busy calling a teaspoonful of frozen mousse a quenelle. I'm sparing with it. Not enough on there to satisfy, just enough to make the plate look a cross between dressy and messy, so you wonder if you can get away with licking it off before the waiter comes back. I daub a quenelle of piccalilli on each cover. They don't all stay as quenelles, mind. A few slump a little, but what the heck, I've got my mains to churn out yet!

             "Here he is, the man himself," I notice Jane is swaying slightly, even though she seems to have taken her heels off. Not too formal. Casual but welcoming, that's our way. She helps me serve up and there's a real buzz going round the room.

 “Ladies and gents, I present our exclusive new starter, oeuf sauté with wilted salad and a quenelle of crudites à la moutarde jaune. A votre santé!” French GCSE comes in handy, at last. It never did in Ibiza.

The punters are all busy chewing so I hare back into the kitchen to look for the next hotchpotch of ingredients. I need to go for more substantial this time, so I winkle out the bag of baby potatoes and fling open a couple more cupboards. There's the lasagne verde, of course, and a line of microwavable packets of savoury rice. That'll do for the carb fix. Now for the protein. 

I end up back at the fridge where the only protein I can spot is the pork pie selection. I get to work with a knife and teaspoon, gouging out their innards onto a baking sheet. Offal's very popular these days, so maybe I could pass these pie fillings off as something similar. I put the bacon and hash browns in the pan for good measure.

 

I'm mashing the potatoes when Jane comes in carrying the crockery from the starters.

“Nobody's got food poisoning yet, as far as I can see,” she says, reaching under the counter for a couple more bottles of Blue Nun. She's crashing about in the sink when I start to gloat.

“Mains is pork paté with bacon and hash served with mashed baby spuds and a whole raft of subtle and innovative sides. Sorted. Then it's out of the freezer with your cookie dough delight smothered in a bit more alcohol and drinking chocolate powder and job's a good 'un.”

“I ate it.”

“Ate it? Ate what?”

“The ice cream. I had a midnight feast at eleven o'clock. I think I left a little bit in the bottom of the tub, just in case I get the munchies before I do the supermarket run.” I can see she isn't joking.

One of the guys staggers into the kitchen, tie askew by this point, a bit flushed and merry, looking for the gents, so Jane waltzes back out with him while I stick the insides of the pies on the plates in a bit of horseradish sauce with the mash and some dollops of white bread soaked in gravy, which is a new kind of dumpling, the way I sell it to them in my best jovial host mode. I've had it with fancy. Needs must.

Jane's rarely wrong, but this time she's way off. There isn't even a lick of ice cream in the empty tub. It must have been a heavy night. That's why there are all those blinking rye crackers on the counter, to redress the balance.

I eye these up, with dessert on my mind. I do a bit of a find and replace for any sign of fruit, but nothing's doing.

I didn't bother investing in one of those expensive solid marble mortar and pestles, so I get the rolling pin and start giving the rye crackers a good going over. Could have done cheese and biscuits, but I've used all the cheese and anyway, that is SO seventies.

Jane comes in tutting and frowning to see what the noise is, and I manage to keep the blunt instrument focussed on the task in hand. I'm glancing round wondering how to make the crackers less dry; sweet, moist and melt-in-the-mouth would be good, too, but I'm not going to push it at this late stage.

“That bloke who came in here's very chatty. I think he's impressed. Keeps asking where you get your inspiration,” Jane giggles as she necks the dregs of the Blue Nun without bothering to decant it into a glass.

“Gotta keep the customer satisfied,” I mutter as I put some black pepper on the rye crumbs. Well, it works on strawberries. It's supposed to get your juices flowing so everything tastes more intense. I can see the dishes are maybe lacking a little je ne sais quoi so I do some fancy spoon work with half a jar of marmalade and some treacle topping stuff we never used out of a hamper our Doreen won from the old folks' bazaar last Christmas, and we're in sight of the winning post.

When I'm clearing the dishes and Jane's showing out the last of the diners, I notice a few tips under the mats. A bit of my sweet Seville sauce left on the occasional plate, but nothing major, so I'm ready for an early night and a private pat on the back. Never again. Then I see the card on the table by the window.

“This is where your chatty mate was sitting, wasn't it?” I say to Jane as she turns the 'Closed' sign round with a long overdue burp.

“Excuse me, soggy muesli” she says, as per.

“He's left his business card, if we ever need a solicitor with no taste buds.”

Jane snatches the card off me before I can turn it over.

“Joe Collinger. Food and Wine critic of the Saturday Standard,” Jane looks a bit blank, but it is late.

It's only the local freebie paper, but it's a start. We're taking on more staff next month when I can get the paperwork sorted out. They're queueing up for a job here waiting tables.

Joe did us a great write-up, and the review online got loads of hits. We've set up a Facebook page, but Jane deals with all that when she's Twittering with her girlfriends. I'm back in the kitchen, dreaming up all these new dishes.

“Tastes like home but with a twist. You'll be laughing from the moment you catch sight of the quirky name over the door. What cookery lacks today is comedy. Mine hosts Dave and Jane have changed all that. Theirs is the most comical bistro this side of the Thames,” wrote Joe in his article.

I read the other week that 'The Fatted Calf' is selling up and shutting down. It's a competitive world, and with us on their doorstep, who can blame them?

Bon appetit!

FIRST SNOW AND THE OWL

This poem I wrote while I was at Leicester University studying for a BA in English Literature.

One of my lecturers was poet Robert Wells who was on the editorial board of the English Faculty's 'Poetry Worksheet'. The Spring 1982 edition carried this poem of mine which Robert Wells had seen and recommended for publication. 

30p, eh? Cheap at half the price!

FIRST SNOW AND THE OWL

Sun's haemorrhage

On snow's anaemia momentarily

Lights up the owl's alarm.

Pink freezes blue in the forgetfulness

Of moments while the owl

Calculates winter's coming.

Above, numb limbs of tree

Girdle him in stupor,

Sore, separate suddenly from his hooting.

Conspicuous as blood on snow

He breathes steadily beneath measured

Feathers.

He will not hoot again,

Or call to the vast, heedless settling

Delicacy. The nest is cold.

This he knows, eyeing the white shock

Of the hibernal onset, mistrustful,

Weighing a branch beneath his weight.

Below him, slow, the roots leak paths

In the void, rising, stern, determined

Like the grip of bruised fingers.

The owl flies low, buoyed up by fear

And the air's crisp parsimony,

To warn the sun.