Favourite Film

Today my favourite film is 2001: A Space Odyssey. Yesterday it was Casablanca. Tomorrow it might be Annie Hall. In other words a favourite film can be dependent on loads of variables like the weather, my mood or whether Blues won. I was going to tackle this topic by discussing what makes films favourites or best. However, it’s a bit difficult trying to prove a point when the subject is visual.

Then, when I was considering some of my favourite films, I realised that I was remembering words and phrases which have stuck with me. So I’m going to have a look at some of them with an eye to looking out for the writers and that seems appropriate in the Dead Good Poets' Blog.

These aren’t in any order:

Considering I started thinking about this on Valentine’s Day I have to begin with Casablanca and Humphrey Bogart’s Rick saying to Ingrid Bergman’s Ilsa ‘We’ll always have Paris’. I would imagine that most of us have a similar feeling about a romantic affair in some place that doesn’t need to be Paris.

The writing of the script is a little tangled so this is a brief version. The first writers assigned to the script were twins Julius and Philip Epstein who left in 1942 to work on another film. While they were gone, the other credited writer, Howard Koch, was assigned. When the Epstein brothers returned they were reassigned to Casablanca. The Epstein brothers and Koch never worked in the same room at the same time.

‘Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn’ is a line from the 1939 film Gone with the Wind starring Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh. The line is spoken by Rhett Butler (Gable), as his last words to Scarlett O'Hara (Leigh). Basically the script was by Sidney Howard but others were brought in to reduce the running time to a mere 3 hours and 41 minutes.

Have you ever casually looked in the mirror and halted, made sure no one was around before yelling at said mirror ‘You Talking to Me?’ more than once, of course, and in different poses. The script for Taxi Driver was written by Paul Schrader but famously that phrase was adlibbed by Robert de Niro and kept in the film.

There are loads of quotes from Woody Allen films that I could use but Annie Hall is my favourite film by him. ‘Honey, there’s a spider in your bathroom the size of a Buick’. Not particularly the funniest line in the film (and there is one line I’m definitely not using) but it has a sort of resonance for me. Allen’s co-writer was Marshall Brickman.

I know I have used these words a couple of times but can’t remember why. ‘I’ll have what she’s having’. Sally (Meg Ryan) to Harry (Billy Crystal) in When Harry met Sally. I had to have something by Nora Ephron.

How many times have I fantasized about saying “You’ve got to ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, punk”. Dirty Harry and the script was by the husband-and-wife team of Harry Julian Fink and Rita M. Fink. Well, do ya?

I can’t not have this: ‘whenever you look up, there I shall be--and whenever I look up there will be you.’ Gabriel Oak to Bathsheba Everdene in Far from the Madding Crowd. The 1967 one with Julie Christie, obviously. The film adaption of the Thomas Hardy novel was by Frederic Raphael. I’m not sure about screenplays.

I need to finish this as I could go on for ages but I do want to fit in some lines from the film My Dinner with Andre. ‘I treated myself to a taxi...when I finally came in, Debbie was home from work and I told her all about my dinner with Andre’. The film was written by and starred André Gregory and Wallace Shawn as fictionalized versions of themselves sharing a conversation at Café des Artistes in Manhattan. It brings back a time and place and me rushing home to tell someone about something similar.

It Could Have Been Moonlight

Walking the river path
after the movie
was right
letting images fade
in their own time
until you pointed
and for a second
we were stones again
washed by a perfect
ripple of seats

you whispered
it could have been moonlight

as across the water
a neon played
with a high tide
we smiled
full of illusions
that night.

First published in Equinox, November 2002.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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A Favourite Film - Goodnight, Mr Tom

 A favourite film is a tough choice to make. I’ve picked a few. I think they started as books, with the exception of ‘Grease’, where if I remember correctly, the book came later, and ‘The Holiday’, which doesn’t have a book. Please put me right, if I’m wrong.

‘Grease’, the sound of 1978 and there’s a familiar song in my head as I type. It’s got to be my favourite musical of my generation. A sing-a-long, feel good factor romance. What’s not to like? Ok, stop and wait, there was another that year with great songs, ‘Saturday Night Fever’ with exceptional dancing and a serious storyline.

I don't like romantic comedy, generally, but I make an exception with 'The Holiday'. I like the story, the characters are believable and it isn't too sweet. The cottage is appealing, too.

The 1939 black and white version of ‘Wuthering Heights’ was my introduction to Laurence Olivier when I was eleven or twelve and of course, I fell in love with him. The film only told half the story, but that was Hollywood. Cathy’s death broke my heart.

1939 was the year for ‘Gone with the Wind’, another beloved book and film starring Vivienne Leigh who was about to marry Laurence Olivier, but we won’t dwell on that and it happened way before I was born, anyway.

I’ve got to include the original, 1940 ‘Rebecca’ whilst I’m held captive by Olivier’s gaze and Daphne du Maurier’s writing.

During my childhood and particularly around the age of eleven to thirteen, I watched lots of films with my mum, from Hollywood musicals to Hammer Horrors, but the one I associate with her the most is ‘A Taste of Honey’. This was not a film we watched together sharing chocolate and enjoying mummy and daughter time. This was my forbidden fruit when I was told not to watch it. Too late, the beginning had already got me spellbound, but she sent me to bed saying it wasn’t suitable for me. I think I was eleven at the time, very much a child, still played with dolls and very different to modern day eleven year olds. I knew better than to argue or make that annoying, disapproving ‘arr’ sound. My mum was going downstairs to work in our pub, so I listened out for her leaving. Seconds later I was leaning on the lounge door frame with the door to our flat slightly open so I would hear if she came back up. I was rooted to the spot and loved every second of that film. Whatever my mum was protecting me from went right over my head. I was just disappointed that Jo’s sailor didn’t come back. As an adult I consider ‘A Taste of Honey’ to be Shelagh Delaney’s stroke of genius. Perhaps my mum wanted to avoid awkward questions from me. I’ve worked it all out since.

I was a fan of John Thaw ever since Phyllis Bentley’s ‘Inheritance’ was serialised on tv. To me, he was what made ‘The Sweeney’ and he was born to be ‘Morse’. I wasn’t sure about this completely different character as Tom Oakley in ‘Goodnight, Mr Tom’. Silly me to have such doubts. Not only was he perfect as the character, and the rest of the cast were equally excellent, the film, which was a tv adaptation of Michelle Magorian’s novel completely overwhelmed me. I cried so many times, full of sadness for what was being endured by this young boy, a war time evacuee. There are many twists and turns in the story and as it ends with an agreeable conclusion, fresh tears from me, happy ones this time. It really is that good. I think my eldest grandson might like to watch it with me.

My poem:

William Beech

Authority’s persuasion,
Tom Oakley’s reluctance,
Zach’s hand of boyhood friendship,
William’s acceptance.

My tears, they are relentless
For Will, where has he been?
Tom Oakley stopped complaining,
Taking in what he had seen.

William, shirtless when he saw
The scars left by the belt,
Sickened beyond all words by
The pain he must have felt.

I wish I knew Zach’s poem,
Verses of hope and home,
Safe in William’s pocket
From what life might become.

I love a happy ending,

It’s ‘Dad!’ I hear Will call
At the end of fear and doubt,
As even more tears fall.

PMW 2025

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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I ❤️ You

I feel this week's blog concerning love should be about the attachments that enrich life and give it meaning, so let me start off with a portmanteau quote: 

"There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved. To love is nothing. To be loved is something. But to love and be loved is the greatest joy of all."

Discuss (as it would then say, if it were an exam question), though there are not necessarily any right or wrong answers, and nobody would ever get 100%.

So who (or what) do you love? We can treat this like a brain-storming session, if you'd prefer. Don't be shy. Here's a sort of alphabetical trawl...

Family. Yes, that's a good enough place to start. Parents, siblings and children are definitely on my list. My parents are no longer of this world. I was going to add 'sadly', but they'd both be well over 100 years old now, so probably wouldn't want to be around anymore. But I loved them while they were here and I miss them. I love my brothers, though they live in disparate parts of the country and we don't see each other as often as I'd like. And I love my daughters, definitely part of the greatest joy of all. In fact I'm visiting them and a grandchild down in London this week-end.

Inamorato/a. I use the old Latin term for a romantic pairing. Be that boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife (maybe they should be in the 'family' grouping), partner, master or mistress, these loves are probably the most exhilarating, intense and often unsettling attachments we make.

Pets. Yes, why not? I have loved cats and I'm sure been loved back. For some people its dogs or horses, ferrets, monkeys or mongooses, birds, fish, snakes. I think the love has to be individual for animals though, not a generic warm glow for a species.

Places: Some of us imprint on a specific location that we think of as our 'happy place', perhaps somewhere associated with joyous memories from an original visit and somewhere we love going back to time and again.. The merchandisers have caught on to this emotion with their "I ❤ [insert location here]" T-shirts, fridge magnets and other paraphernalia. 

Religious: I suppose love of a God (or Goddess) is a valid affection. My own parents effectively dedicated their lives to a religious cause, and many priests, priestesses, monks and nuns and deeply religious individuals down the ages have made that affiliation a cornerstone of their lives.

Teams: This may be closely linked to places, in that sports teams tend to be location specific, and maybe it's a deep-seated, almost tribal need that many of us feel to belong to some sporting enterprise like a football club, to share in moments of communal passion, both delight and despair, as the fortunes of a team fluctuate. Indeed, some of us give of our time freely for the cause.  

Things: I think we're getting into dubious territory now. Clearly, many people derive great pleasure from material objects, collections of objects (vintage cars, stamps, shoes, works of art) but I'm uncertain to what extent such attachments can be described as love. Does it debase the concept to talk about loving one's possessions, loving one's food, loving one's bed, one's car. one's job? I'd be interested in your thoughts about this.

Universal: To quote Bob Dylan: "Love is all there is, it makes the world go round." It sounds simplistic but maybe it's the most profound lyric he ever wrote. We've come full circle and I refer you back to the quote with which I started this piece. 

Here's a new poem (subject to the usual qualifications about it being a work-in-progress):

Nothing Says I Love You Like...

that time when you said you felt numb,

worthless, couldn't see any point to life,

that no one would miss you if you were

gone...

so I cradled you all night, talked to you

till you fell asleep, by starlight watched

you frail but beautiful, the ache become

mine...

and only moved as sunrise flamed your

room, your hair. With care I placed you

in the discovery position, saw your eyes

open...

and we smiled without a need for words. 

As a musical bonus, the Blue Aeroplanes suggest there are actually 25 Kinds Of Love - and fittingly this performance was recorded on Valentine's Day in 2010. Enjoy.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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I Love You

I was a bit flummoxed by this week’s topic of I Love You but as luck would have it I was in Kendal yesterday and popped into The Famous 1657 Chocolate House as usual and found this bar so I’m going to start it now and I’m sure it will bring me luck in the writing.

I’m not going to write about chocolate, although it’s tempting, but about dating agencies. When I was younger there were loads of different ways of meeting a prospective partner be it through pubs, night clubs, social clubs, work etc. Now I’m retired most of those options are unavailable or not attractive to me and anyway, in general, people now don’t seem to go out as much.

So to get an idea of what those agencies are suggesting I’ve had a trawl through some of the sites looking for suggestions. I’m happy to pass them on. Beginning with this advice:

Many of us are under the illusion that falling in love solves all our problems. Not only is this not true, but a relationship can also bring us a whole new set of problems to navigate. So before you rush into finding love, figure out what you truly want and need. When you can name it, you’ll be able to spot in more clearly when you see it. That’s a good start. Except for the bit about ‘a whole new set of problems’ and ‘what you truly want and need’.

So, I’m going to presume that someone knows the wants and needs (I don’t). What next? The common thread is that you need to take care of yourself first. Devote the time you have on your own to taking really good care of yourself. Make self-care a priority, and try and do at least one thing each day to make yourself feel looked after and loved. This could be good.

They say that there are loads of things you can do. Cook yourself nutritious meals (well I like broccoli), move your body (eh?). Try meditating (on what?), socialize (don’t like it and don’t even mention a dinner party), find a new hobby (fair enough), have a makeover (you what!?)

Pause to say that the chocolate bar is now half way through.

So the agencies suggest that the loads of things will be beneficial for your health on all levels and will promote a more positive outlook on life (no chance, I’m a glass half empty person). Plus, that will tend to attract people who match our own energy (is this a good thing?). So if your vibe is an inspiring, infectious, full of life one, you’re likely to attract people with similar vibrations (exactly the sort of person I would avoid like the plague).

Ok, let’s now presume that you have met someone through an agency, they give tips for that first date:

Do ask questions
Don’t be late
Do put your phone away (Oh, please put your phone away)
Don’t break the bank (bit difficult if it’s a walk in the park)
Do have pristine (?) manners
Don’t pretend
Do present yourself well (I have some wonderful cardigans)
Don’t say I Love You.

And maybe, just maybe, there will a time and place where you will be able to say those three little words.

The chocolate bar has one bit left and I’m going to have that when I sign out.

This poem was written a few years ago.

On Line Dating

The difficult bit
is the smile,
so thank god for digital cameras.
Two hours and four mirrors
for a self timed natural look
of caring warm sincerity.

After that
the words are a breeze
and so they should be
imagery and rhythm
that space between lines
the bit that’s waiting
to be what you want it to be
which by now is obviously me.

And I’m looking for a woman
who isn’t fun loving
young for her age
who doesn’t like
walking in the rain
on a beach
under a full moon
while boring me senseless
with a wicked sense of humour
before driving herself
back to Camden
to dry those stupid shoes
before a late booking
at that so new Cambodian bistro.

And if you think
I’ve got the nerve
to actually put that down
then please email
all letters answered
photo essential
or if guaranteed even slight likeness
to Meg Ryan (circa Sleepless in Seattle)
please ignore above
and contact direct
on 822...

First published in Pennine Platform, Nov 2009.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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PS I Love You (no, really I do)

I love you. Three little words.

I have a bit of a love hate relationship with those three little words. And it’s not because I don’t like them or I never use them. Let me explain.

When I was growing up in the ‘50s and ‘60s, in a very close knit, nurturing family, I’m sure we all loved each other, and we knew we were loved, but, as I recall, the sentiment was very rarely verbalised. Certainly, my brothers and I would never have expressed such a feeling to each other, and even now I think I’ve only ever said it to them in jest, and they’ve done the same to me.

Mum and dad obviously loved each other. It showed in the way they spoke to each other, laughed, joked and bickered, and the way dad would put his arm around mum or place his hand on hers when sitting together. Not long before my dad died mum told me that every time she passed dad on her way out of the room he would grab her hand and give it a little squeeze. There was no doubt that was all part of their love language.

As for us children, we had hugs, kisses and cuddles galore from our mum, and only less from dad because he wasn’t always there first thing in the morning and when we went to bed. He worked long hours to provide for us, there’s love in that too. We didn’t need to question the love between us all. It was just there, an invisible, all enveloping cloud of safety and well being. Those three little words didn’t really need to be said. My generation and those before me very rarely verbalised that feeling.

My husband was the first person to actually tell me he loved me. I think I might have laughed - we were three weeks into a fledgling relationship and I certainly didn’t reciprocate. That came later and I guess we must both have been sincere because we’re still together fifty two years later.

We married and had babies. We told them often that we loved them. They grew up hearing those words and no doubt becoming immune to them, but that didn’t stop us, and like the little sponges they were, they began repeating those three little words back to us. The babies became teenagers, then adults and began to pronounce their love for people far more important at that time than their parents. We never stopped loving each other, it just wasn’t articulated so often.

I gained a son in law, two daughters in law and an ex of each too. I loved them all and they seemed to love me but the ‘I love yous’ were used sparingly. The girls, including my daughter were much more likely to tell each other, than were the males.

So where does this love hate relationship come from?

I think it started a few years ago with the use of the word, ‘hun.’ A word that, try as I might, I could not find rolling off my tongue. I knew it was a form of affection but it just didn’t sit right with me. I cringed as I heard it or saw it in print. I was nobody’s hun and nobody was mine. I was more of a ‘sweetheart/darling/matey’ kind of friend. And I’m sure that made others cringe too.

So... When the ‘I love yous’ started flying around it had a similar effect. They didn’t love me, I didn’t love them. It was just empty words to fill a gap. And those empty words were hugely overused. To me, of the boomer generation, the ‘I love yous,’ were reserved for our partners and our children, and mainly in private.

However, over time I’ve come to accept that I’m going to hear those words wherever I go, not necessarily directed at me but between teenage girls, young mothers, mums and grandmas with their children and babies. It’s what people say. Maybe it’s not always strictly true. Who am I to judge? It does no harm. I find myself articulating it to family members much more frequently these days. I love the grandchildren’s parroted responses. It gives me comfort.

I only ever told my dad I loved him once in his life. It was after a silly argument, a week before he died. I was leaving the house to return to Blackpool when I felt compelled to go back in, give him a hug and tell him I loved him. It was the last time I saw him. These days, on my way to bed, I often give his ashes a little kiss and tell him I love him. Somehow it’s easier when he can’t see me or answer back.

I have a friend who always signs off her messages, ‘Keep sprinkling that love.’ I like that. It’s an instruction, not a declaration.

I can do that.

Mixed Messages

Once, on MSN
Remember that?
Chatting to a man
About an IT problem
When my daughter popped up
All the way from the USA
I had two conversations on the go
IT man trying arrange a visit
Daughter telling me of her adventures
I thought I was an expert in multi tasking
I congratulated myself
On slipping seamlessly between messages

That was
Until I arranged for daughter to visit
next week at 3pm
And told IT man ‘I love you.’

Thanks for reading, Jill.

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Dashboards

This could go a number of ways, gentle readers. There are options. 

I could write about instrument panels in cars, trains, boats & planes - let's call that A, the Burt Bacharach option. 

a vintage car dashboard circa 1930s

I could regale you with thrilling tales of my time in the world of computer systems, designing applications using Lotus Symphony, Visual Basic and C++ that mined and aggregated data into high-level information dashboards for busy decision makers tracking performance in Key Result Areas - let's label that B, the Bill Gates scenario.

If you prefer, I could just make up some crazy fictive shit that's wacky and off the top of my head, but way more entertaining. That, logically, is option C - and let's dub it (appropriately) the Arthur C. Clarke variant.

Or I could write at length about why people should trust the graphical statistics published online by e.g. the CBI, GCOS, the ONS, UN and WHO about everything from climate change to coronavirus levels to immigration and industrial growth (or lack of it), rather than falling for the unsubstantiated conspiracy nonsense washing about on TikTok, X and YouTube. That's option D, the Chris Morris 'reality check' alternative.

Very well, there you have them, A, B, C or D, and the decision is yours, so fingers on your special keypads and all make your selections now in time-honoured 'ask the audience' fashion. 

[Here follows a short computational pause...]

the readership vote dashboard with token reader

Blimey! The votes are in and that is not what I was expecting. However, your wish is my command this Saturday night, ladies and gentlemen on the modern equivalent of the Clapham omnibus. Herewith, some crazy fictive shit for your delectation.

Dashboards

Once the science of anti-gravity had been properly understood and its principles embodied into a practical and cost-effective equivalent of the skateboard - only one without wheels or friction, one that moved through the air just inches off the ground using electro-magnetism - people took to these dashboards as they were called in a big way, to travel short distances of a few miles, e.g. to work, to school, to the shops, to the pub. They were so much more convenient than bicycles, scooters and cars for a person on his/her own getting from A to B and were fully GPS-compliant and programmable if so desired.

They were voice-activated, so only workable by the registered users (of which there could be more than one). They were self-balancing which rendered them safe to ride and they featured anti-collision software and an illuminated-strip which turned automatically when ambient light conditions were poor. They could be charged overnight, functioned in all weathers and had a top speed of fifteen miles an hour (approximately three times normal walking speed).

an anti-gravity Dashboard '99'

Naturally they came in different sizes, but even the largest could be carried comfortably under the arm, stowed on a luggage rack on public transport, or in the boot of a car. Very soon designated dashways were laid out along most urban thoroughfares, and in short order, offices, schools, cafes, pubs and shops installed dashslots, vertical racks to hold those ubiquitous dashboards.

Of course there were limitations. All models had weight restrictions, for obvious reasons, and dashboards would not work over rough/uneven terrain. They simply shut down, on principles of safety. They were somewhat unreliable over water too, though they were fine across ice providing the surface was flat, and dashing on ice was quite a popular past-time. In fact, recreational and sporting use of dashboards became quite a thing, and eventually an Olympic sport.

As a mode of transport, they were 'green', and very 'cool'. It was the ambition of the various companies manufacturing dashboards (such as the '99' pictured above) that every home should have one, and it was the dream of most self-respecting and aspirational families to own at least one. And so it came to pass. There was a thriving second-hand market as well.   

Now if all of this sounds too good to be true, then it probably is - just like the light-bulb, the car, radio and tv, contact lenses, microwave ovens, pacemakers, computers, mobile phones and drones once did.

No new poem from me this week, I must be running low on poetic fuel. Instead, here is something rather splendid by Stephen Dunn, a Pulitzer Poetry Prize winning American writer (1939-2021):

The Sacred

After the teacher asked if anyone had
            a sacred place
and the students fidgeted and shrank

in their chairs, the most serious of them all
            said it was his car,
being in it alone, his tape deck playing

things he’d chosen, and others knew the truth
            had been spoken
and began speaking about their rooms,

their hiding places, but the car kept coming up,
            the car in motion,
music filling it, and sometimes one other person

who understood the bright altar of the dashboard
            and how far away
a car could take him from the need

to speak, or to answer, the key
            in having a key
and putting it in, and going.

                                          Stephen Dunn, 2012

                  

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Dashboard

I have a vague recollection of the dashboard on the first car I bought back in around 1974, it was an Austin Mini, and only remember the gauges showing the speed (not a problem, it was too slow), the fuel (sometimes a problem) and the oil and water temperatures (always a problem). I haven’t had a car for ages so these days when I’m a passenger I am completely baffled by what I’m looking at.

Austin Mini dashboard circa 1966

When I looked up the origin of the word ‘dashboard’ most references were to the wooden or leather boards carriage makers attached to the front of carriages to prevent mud and rocks from being splashed onto drivers and their passengers by the horses that pulled them about. 

When a horse kicks up debris it is also referred to being ‘dashed up’ (although I can only find one reference to this). So the board on the front is to protect from the horses dashing, hence dashboard. Incidentally, in the same article, the author states that the word car is a shortened version of carriage.

carriage with dashboard

Naturally, this form of protection from dirt and mud was used by the Mesopotamians on their chariots back around 3,000 BCE.

So, as I said, in modern cars the dashboards can be baffling. The trouble is that when faced with information overload the tendency is often to zone out and ignore. But how do you know what all these warning lights mean and which ones are critical and which are not? And on top of that the signs must be obvious and understandable around not only this country but anywhere in the world so who designs them and how are they ratified?

Which was the wrong question as after wading through dozens of web sites it became obvious that there is no universal standard. They seem to be based on a picture is worth a thousand words and that’s even if you are one of the few who read the manual. I came across one site that boasted 683 inspirational designs for dashboards.

So how are the individual dashboards designed. According to Actia, one of the companies that does this sort of thing, the effective and ergonomic design of a dashboard starts with a blank piece of paper. Hurrah.

Before starting any manufacturing process, they must develop a design to guide the creation. The design and development stage is crucial for any prototyping. Often, machinists draft a series of CAD models, then go with one that captures how they imagine the end product. Designers of these interfaces have had to learn ‘kinetic typography’ to create interfaces that draw the viewers eye to the most important part of the information at the right time. Oh joy - kinetic typography. No idea.

About the same amount of joy as finding ‘keuomorphic design’ – design that looks similar to the original mechanical items it’s replacing – which was the obvious first step in replicating the interfaces because people need to feel comfortable using these new systems without having too much cognitive load.

Which reminds me of a chat I had with an AA bloke once and he was telling me of his previous call where the customer had reported that his coffee cup holder wouldn’t open.

I started off this blog describing the dashboard of my old mini so I’ll leave with an image of a futuristic display. I presume that all this technology has been proved, or will be proved, to be far safer than back in the day. But from my point of view (literally) it scares the living daylights out of me. I doubt I’d even want to be a passenger in one of the things.

futuristic dashboard

This poem by Dave Kavanagh is very good.

Feet on the dashboard

sleep to the sixty five
jazz cafe sounds
of a voice piped through
a blaupunkt radio

scented smoke
and a sweet briar voice
like fresh cherries
and bitter black chocolate

the drumming sound of rain
hypnotic wipers
and eighteen wheels
eager to be home

seven hundred swedish horses
chewing up Welsh mountains.

mac on the wheel,
wheezing on the citizen band
joking with the snow man
singing songs 'bout the homeland.

and randy sings
a rainy night in georgia
easing me to sleep.
feet on the dash board
head nodding in her storm clouds

                                      Dave Kavanagh

See more of his work, and you’ll enjoy it, on his website ‘Clinging to the Sides’.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Dashboard

 

It is many years since I crashed my four or five year old face into the shiny dashboard of my father’s Jaguar Mk 2, I think it was. Cars, particularly Jaguars were Dad’s passion at that time and I was still in my ‘Go faster, Daddy!’ phase. No speed limit, no seat belts, and no fear, until he had to slam the brakes on that day. A bumped head, with a growing lump, loud crying from me and worries about ‘What will Mummy say?’ from him as he consoled me. He wasn’t driving fast at that moment. Something happened and he had to brake. It was before I started wearing glasses, luckily. We lived in Lancaster at the time and Sunday afternoons when our pubs closed between 2pm and 7pm, were family gathering times. Our family of licensees across Lancaster and Morecambe, regularly went out for a countryside picnic in a convoy to Crook O’ Lune, Caton or Hornby. Someone’s car would break down on the way home and all the men would be under the bonnet with calls of ‘Try it now!’ and ‘What’s on the dash?’

I took no notice of the dials and switches on the dashboard. All I knew was that some lit up and others didn’t, and there was a button to press to start the engine. It didn’t always work. Sometimes it made a slow, groaning sound and nothing happened until Dad, with much muttering, fixed it.

The dashboard started to make sense when I began driving and learnt basic car care from my dad. My first car was my beloved Austin A40. It was a gift from my dad and after the initial disappointment, which I kept to myself, I loved it to bits. I’d hoped for something more appealing, like a Mini, or a bright green Ford Capri. An Austin A40 didn’t offer much wow factor to a trendy seventeen year old. It was clean and tidy, had low mileage and was very reliable. The plastic dashboard had minimal things on it, very basic, but it had everything I needed.

Dad liked to tinker about with his cars. He wouldn’t get much joy these days with sealed units and computerised dashboards. Our car has all manner of things monitored. It tells us if a tyre has incorrect pressure. Dad would have relied on his eyes and checked them every week with the oil and water.

Dashboards have their place on everything, not just motor vehicles. Computers, mobile phones and household appliances. We had the misfortune to have two items reach the end of their useful lives within a week or two, and around Christmas when they are most needed. Our tumble dryer, after serving us well every winter for twenty-eight years, squeaked for the last time, then the twenty year old dishwasher released a puff of electrical smoke. Both have been replaced recently but what a search to find something suitable. I don’t want anything complicated, just something to do the job, and I don’t need anything connected to a phone app, though the new dryer has that facility, should I change my mind. Both appliances, nice and efficient, I must say, require ‘programming’ to turn them on, by going through the dashboard and clicking this and that. I’m used to simple things that turn on and off. I could choose how many minutes I wanted my old dryer to tumble. Now I have to program the new one, depending on fabric care and hope for the best. 

My Haiku,

The makers include
Instructions and warning lights
On everything now.

So complicated
With far too many features.
I prefer simple.

I don’t need an app,
Just ‘off and on, stop and go’
Suits me perfectly.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Lancashire Dead Good Poets' February Open Mic Night

Our February event coming soon...

20 open mic slots available. No set theme (though love is in the ether).
Email: deadgoodpoets@hotmail.co.uk to reserve a slot to read and/or to listen in. You don't have to be from Lancashire!

Hope to see you there,

Steve ;-)

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Jigsaw

I’d always thought that solving a jigsaw puzzle was a solitary occupation done in your living room on a quiet evening on a cleared table and no cats, dogs or humans to spoil your concentration. How wrong can you be.

Much to my surprise there is The World Jigsaw Puzzle Federation which is an association of legal (I don’t know why legal) bodies with an interest in jigsaw puzzles. The Federation’s main objective is to spread speed-puzzling throughout the world, as a means of growing puzzle culture and its advantages on health, education, social cohesion and personal enrichment. Only one organization per country can belong to the WJPF.

Goals of the World Jigsaw Puzzle Federation are:

To achieve the acknowledgment of jigsaw puzzle competitions as a sport.

To establish a standard on regulations for jigsaw puzzle competitions and other issues about their organization to be taken into consideration.

To promote the foundation of National Associations capable of organizing contests and bringing together jigsaw puzzle fans in their country.

To foster friendship among jigsaw puzzle enthusiasts world-wide.

To stimulate innovations in the field of jigsaw puzzles.

Since 2021 the Federation is partner of the Guinness World Records, advising, verifying and endorsing world records in jigsaw puzzles section.

The World Jigsaw Puzzle Championship is an annual event organized by the World Jigsaw Puzzle Federation, supported by multiple national associations such as the United States Jigsaw Puzzle Association and Australian Jigsaw Puzzle Association. The World Championship was started in 2019, and all editions have been held in Valladolid, Spain.

The Championship includes three events: team, pairs and individual. In all events, placement is determined by the fastest completion within the time limit. For competitors who have not finished the assigned puzzle(s) within the time limit, the remaining pieces are counted to determine position.

Team event: Teams of four complete multiple puzzles (1,000, 1,500 or 2,000 pieces) in the time limit.

Pairs event: Two competitors complete a single puzzle (500 or 1,000 pieces) within a time limit.

Individual event: Each individual participant completes a 500-piece puzzle within a time limit.

In the first World Jigsaw Puzzle Championships, only one final round was held in each event. In 2022, semi-finals were introduced in all events. For 2023, due to the increase in the number of participants, another round has also been introduced prior to the semi-finals of the individual event. For 2024, a first round has been introduced prior to the semi-finals of the pairs event.

I would urge you to view this YouTube video of one of the Finals held in Valladolid. Check out the comments below it as well: Video of Jigsaw Puzzle Competition

The UK Jigsaw Puzzle Association has 2,200 members and the UKJP Championship Final will be held at the Woodhouse Grove School, Sports Hall – Apperley Bridge, Calverley, Bradford, UK BD10 0NR on 5th April 2025.

There will be an individual event (200 participants for the 500 piece puzzle) and a Pairs event also for a 500 piece puzzle. There are spectator tickets available.

A decent poem about Jigsaws:

The Puzzle
(for Lewis Mumford)

Two children bow their heads
Over the ruins of what is yet to be:
Sun, sky, and sand, the Pyramids, the Sphinx.

Under their fingers, under their eyes,
Before their minds, enclaves of order
Beginning to appear amid the heaped debris

As they go steadily sorting and rejecting
Turning about and matching, finding the fit
By image, colour, shape, or all at once,

Rebuilding the continuum from its bits,
Until the Sphinx’s head falls into place
Completing the vision of a ruined world

Divided in the crackling glaze of forms,
The seams and fissures of a kind of brain
Thinking what properties must go together

To make, accordant with mosaic law,
The real world match the mindful one, to which
The children bow their heads.

                                                            Howard Nemerov

 

[First published in Poetry, July 1972]

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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