Friends A Friend in Need is a Friend Indeed

 

Friends are the family we choose for ourselves. We become connected by common interests or something happens to throw us together. I’m lucky to have long-lasting and some life-long friends. I value very highly the times we share together. We laugh, we reminisce and collectively, we can remind each other of any bits we forget, especially now we are ‘grown ups.’

Last week, I enjoyed lunch out with three friends. We met at work in 1974. We joined at different times that year, as teenagers, and we’ve been together ever since. Life and work took us in different directions and away from each other, but we’ve always stayed connected. It’s great to get together and catch up. Three of us hit seventy last year, and the other one not too far behind, so knees, hips and general health come into the conversation. We laughed at a joke that we’d all collapsed over circa 1975, when a colleague had to escape the office before the punchline – she was laughing so much and a superior staff member was there – we didn’t want to get into trouble. We were the mostly well-behaved generation doing as we were told by seniors. I can’t remember exactly how long we worked together, but it was many fantastic years. One day, we each wrote down where we thought we’d be in ten years’ time. I think it was a small note book that got passed round. Our individual paragraphs will have been hilarious, and I don’t know what happened to the evidence, but ten years passed and we were still there. All good things come to an end and one by one we spread our wings but remain forever friends. And eventually, our lunch came to an end, after food, drinks and more drinks. An hour became two, then suddenly it was half past four and the sun was sliding down behind the trees. Farewell, until next time.

“This, too, will pass.” I’ve been the needy one for a while due to some tough times. Every day, I’ve been thankful for messages from friends checking in on me with good wishes, advice and offers of help. They keep me smiling and working towards better times. Reliable, trustworthy, caring people. These are my friends, small in number, but top quality. I know I’m privileged. I also know that it is important to be a good friend in return. My gang can rely on me to be there for them.

I found this poem,

Friends for Life 

We are friends
I got your back
You got mine,
I’ll help you out
Anytime!
To see you hurt
To see you cry
Makes me weep
And wanna die
And if you agree
To never fight
It wouldn’t matter

Who’s wrong or right
If a broken heart
Needs a mend
I’ll be right there
Till the end
If your cheeks are wet
From drops of tears
Don’t worry
Let go of your fears
Hand in hand
Love is sent,
We’ll be friends
Till the end!!!

Angelica N. Brissett (b.1991)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Flamboyant - Acceptance

 

When thinking about the word ‘flamboyant’, certain people come to mind, Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, Oscar Wilde, Freddie Mercury, Mick Jagger and many more. They exude confidence, they can walk into a room full of people and immediately ‘own’ it without demand or arrogance. I think it is something they are born with rather than worked on. I haven’t seen the Rolling Stones live – it’s not too late, still doing it – but I’ve watched enough TV documentaries covering concerts to see that Mick Jagger takes command of every inch of a stage, every move a performance. Charisma. Maybe Flamboyant and Charismatic go hand in hand. I wouldn’t describe myself as either, but there was a time, a long time ago, when someone said I wore flamboyant clothes. They were not being friendly and the remark upset me.

At fifteen, I was uprooted from all that was mine, familiar and secure. Another pub in another town was to become home. School and friends left behind. I kicked up a fuss, but I wasn’t old enough to be listened to, apparently. Since the passing away of my mother and the swift remarriage that followed, the family dynamics were different and I’ve said before that I no longer fitted in. Throw into this toxic mix a good helping of normal, teenage angst and I’m sure you’ll still hear the screams.

Halfway through the fourth year, modern day Year 10, I started my new school – not following the same ‘O’ Level curriculum, so I had lots of catching up to do, or not. Forever the rebel, of course it was NOT. I soon discovered that I was going to find it difficult to adjust. A couple of the girls were friendly and helpful, happy to welcome the new girl and I was glad for that, but we were worlds apart in our interests. Before this major move, I’d enjoyed ice-skating on beat nights at least once a week. No ice rink here, but there was a disco dance at the town hall, on alternate Friday nights. I was invited to go.

I wore a long, summer skirt with a cheese-cloth blouse tied in a knot at the front and a pair of sandals that were getting worn out, but I wasn’t going to wear my school shoes. Instinct told me there would not be any secret cider drinking. Oh the joys I’d had to leave behind! I met my new friends, one greeting me with, “Do you always wear flamboyant clothes?” as she looked me up and down. Immediately I’d failed the ‘come out with us’ test and I didn’t dare ask what she meant, but my attire was a million miles away from their two-tone pencil skirts and checked shirts. Inside was worse. I quite like soul music these days. Years of being drip-fed Tamla Motown by various juke-boxes means that I know the words and I have favourites, but back then, it was like being forced to listen to something totally against my music religion. I liked the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac (before the girls came), Yes, and my beloved Moody Blues. Some boys in baggy jeans and boots were in a line, bouncing out a tricky dance to Dave and Ansel Collins ‘Double Barrel’. Mods, Skinheads, whatever they were was the opposite to me, but as weeks passed into a month and the girls asked me to join them again, I tried to make an effort. After all, when in Rome…

I didn’t go completely mad, not quite. I earned extra pocket money by waitressing in the pub restaurant a few nights a week. It was train fare and skating money for trips back home. I used some to buy a Ben Sherman shirt and some cheap, straight-leg jeans from the market. My flared, embroidered ones wouldn’t blend in for the town hall dance. With nail scissors, I fashioned myself a feather-cut. Not my best move, but not too shabby. Frowned upon at home, but that was just because it was me and I was used to conflict. On the plus side, I mastered the ‘Double Barrel’ skippy moves at the dance. I can probably still do it, but I’m sure you don’t need proof.

At the Whit Week half term, I was packed off to family in London. A wonderful treat. I travelled alone on the train, met by my aunt at Euston, happy to be spending time with her and my younger cousins in Roehampton. Nothing was mentioned about my appearance, be it flamboyant or otherwise. I was wearing my normal, comfortable clothes with beads and sandals. By this time, I’d had a few more snips at my hair, which was also an unattractive  yellowy blonde. The things girls do! Within days, my aunt took me to the hair salon where my colour was toned down and my home-made cutting restyled into a proper shape. Next, a new dress and sandals, and me, spoilt again by my aunt. If my dad had asked for her intervention, she was tactful enough not to tell me so. The best news came towards the end of my stay. We were moving back home.

(If ever I'm back on a stage doing open-mic, I'll try to command it like Jagger. Just joking.)

My Haiku poem,

Flamboyant

I can’t fit in here,
I’m a fish out of water
And they stare at me

While they are dancing
To Dave and Ansel Collins,
That fast, skippy thing.

I learnt to do it,
Not that I was one of them,
More like “when in Rome”

Amused by my clothes,
They thought I was flamboyant,
Cheese-cloth shirts and jeans.

To try to blend in
I bought a Ben Sherman shirt,
It was a mistake.

I snipped at my hair
Attempting a feather-cut.
What a disaster!

Half-term in London,
Back to floaty tops and beads
And leather sandals.

With thanks to Auntie,
A cotton-print maxi dress
And a hairdresser.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Simple Pleasures

How nice it is to please myself what I do and when I do it. Retirement is wonderful, apart from the lack of freedom we’ve had due to Covid restrictions. To be fair, I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on much. I’m not one for much socialising, but when someone says I can’t, suddenly it’s the very thing I want to do. Revelations about social occasions the government got up to against their own rules make my blood boil. There’s enough being documented without me moaning. Give enough rope, etc. I’ll wait.

My family has been my ‘bubble’ since the end of the first lockdown relaxed movement enough for us to be together.  Sundays used to be family day. We would have all four grandchildren for lunch and tea, fun and games, cousins together, usually with one or more of their parents. Sometimes we need the help and we’d always end up shattered, even if we’d been doing quiet stuff like colouring or Play-Doh. Nowadays, with two of them being at school and two at nursery, we’ve changed to Mondays to make it a bit easier on ourselves – us getting older. We have two after school and enjoy their company for a while before the younger ones arrive a little later after nursery. It’s the lovely, simple pleasures that family time brings that gives me so much joy, even when there are tantrums and moody moments. My treasures, each one.

 When we were allowed, my husband and I travelled to Scotland on a couple of socially distanced breaks. We stay in a self-catering lodge and observe whatever restrictions are in place when we are out and about. Things are constantly changing but what we noticed each visit was that rules were strictly adhered to. We felt safe and looked after. Again, it’s the simple pleasures that matter for us; watching red kites, or the birds outside the lodge that I fill the feeders for twice a day, relaxing with a book, doing a bit of knitting or pottering about outside. It was great to be back after so long.

At home I like to keep in contact with my friends. One, like me, has kept very much to her immediate family throughout Covid, but we chat regularly on the phone or text each other, often after a Blackpool F.C. match. I’ve probably been at the ground, she’s been watching or listening at home. That’s another of my simple pleasures, going to the match, face mask on, being part of it regardless of the outcome and hopefully, walking home singing.

Music, as mentioned in my last blog is a necessary part of my day, lots of radio, but I’ve just taken delivery of John Lodge’s new album on CD and I’m happily giving it a hammering. I sometimes do the Sudoku in the paper, alternating between that and the word-wheel that drives me crazy. I’m mad, sad, simple or crazy, and I don’t care. I’m glad to be retired and pleasing myself.

My poem,

A welcome mug of Nescafe Gold Blend,

Enjoying a phone chat with a close friend.

“How’s it going? Are you coping okay?

I managed to get out for lunch today.

Doing the driving to help the guys plans,

A treat of salad and steak in St Anne’s.

Face mask and hand gel, all safety measures

Necessary for such simple pleasures.

Sunday was quiet, we just played Scrabble.

Monday was hectic with all our rabble.

At last, M’s wobbly tooth has come out,

The litt’luns were squabbling and falling out,

Just usual stuff, you know what they’re like,

They both want the pedal car, not the bike.

L loves to read, my darling treasure."

Fam’ly Mondays make a simple pleasure.

 

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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My Fantasy Dinner Party Guests - A Good Time To Be Had By All

It would be wonderful to have friends and family round. A gathering in the garden on a warm afternoon, children running riot, adults laughing, sharing jokes, happy and relaxed with drinks flowing, buffet table groaning under the weight and ice-lollies in the freezer. I wonder if we’ll ever have times like that again. When my spirits dip and I’m feeling low I’m inclined to think that’s it, we’ve had it, life will never be the same. Scotland is a border we’ll never cross again. When my spirits lift and thoughts are positive, I imagine a garden party close to my husband’s birthday in June. Covid will be contained enough for us to enjoy freedom. I feel privileged to have had my first vaccination, a joy of being a frontline keyworker. I’m thankful for each day seeing us healthy.

In the absence of any social gatherings, tea dances or drinks on the lawn, let’s have some fun and pretend.

The setting for my dinner party is important. It would not be here at my house, I think we’d need more space, and I am not cooking. Forty years ago I was a lunch guest at the Waldorf Astoria in New York. The dining room was breathtakingly splendid. Shell pink table linen with a fresh, single rose the exact same colour on every perfectly set table and attentive staff seeing to every need, well nearly. I lost my way looking for the Ladies room and ended up in the hotel hair salon, where they allowed me to use theirs then someone kindly took me back to the dining room. Background music, if it is fine to call it that, came from Michel Legrand playing the piano more softly than he normally would. I think he was running through his score in preparation for the evening, not there for us, but it was very welcome. I was very impressed with the Waldorf Astoria. Being there was the highlight of my stay in New York and I nearly chose to host my fantasy dinner party in the same dining room, but it missed out to The Selkirk Arms in Kirkcudbright.

Well, you know me and Scotland, so how could I not choose such a place? The dining room is the right size for my gathering, I love it and I believe it was frequented by my guest, Robert Burns. Perhaps he’ll tell me if he wrote The Selkirk Grace here, and, if he’s in good humour, he might entertain us after dinner with songs and poems.

I couldn’t have a dinner party without inviting Robert Peston. If you know me, no explanation is necessary. Anyway, he’ll be sitting next to me, where I can pick his brains. My husband will be on my other side and next to him will be Becky Barr. He’ll be delighted.

Girl power from strong minded, northern women, Barbara Castle, Emmeline Pankhurst and my great-grandmother Mary who died when I was four, but I really want to talk to her and find out how she coped.

I have to invite Alan Bennett, how I love his work, what a wordsmith. I have a hardback copy of Untold Stories, a birthday gift years ago. When it comes to wordsmiths, John Cooper Clarke is up there with the best. I’ve just finished reading I Wanna Be Yours. The genius Victoria Wood, a hardworking perfectionist who gave us so much and had more to give, I’m sure, but her life was cut short.

Someone else who’s life was cut short, my mum. Please come to my dinner party, we need to catch up, but do not tell me off in front of my friends.

We’ll need some music, besides Rabbie giving us a song, so I invite John Lodge, his wife and the other Moody Blues band members. It couldn’t possibly be anyone else. Have dinner first, of course. And everybody, mingle.

I was really looking forward to this dinner party. What a shame it’s pure fantasy, but imagine the mix of characters and what a memorable night it would be. When I was looking for a poem, I wanted something light-hearted and amusing and found it with Pam Ayres, and she's using a couple of words not normally associated with her. Go girl!  This is exactly what would happen if I tried to organise a dinner party at home.

The Dinner Party

It seemed like such a good idea, a flash of inspiration,
To hold a dinner party! Yes, out went the invitations,
A proper dinner party too, traditional and smart,
With all my oldest, dearest friends, the darlings of my heart.

We’d clear the dining table of each dog-eared magazine,
We’d dust around the skirting board, the place would be pristine,
We’d pick up all the clutter, drive the hoover round the floor,
And see again our carpet after eighteen months or more.

I’d plan a lovely menu, seven courses at the least,
An absolute abundance, an ambrosia, a feast!
With table linen matching and the candles burning bright,
What a celebration! What a banquet! What a night!

Yeah. Well.

That was then and this now, and one thing’s very clear,
I can’t imagine why I thought this was a good idea,
Today’s the day, tonight’s the night, they’ll be here in an hour,
I’m absolutely shattered and I haven’t had a shower.

I haven’t chilled the wine or put the nibbles in a bowl,
I found my silver cutlery, it’s all as black as coal,
I haven’t found the candles, we are making do with these,
One’s a stump and one is bent at forty-five degrees.

I haven’t folded napkins in sophisticated shapes,
Or beautified a plate of cheese with celery and grapes,
I haven’t spent the morning on a floral centrepiece,
And I’m skidding round the kitchen floor on half an inch of grease.

My husband’s disappeared, I don’t know where he’s hiding now,
He hasn’t helped at all, we’ve had a monumental row,
I don’t know where the day is gone, and I am filled with dread,
Forget the conversation, I just want to go to bed.

The guests I thought were witty, their attractiveness has palled,
The men, once so enticing, now they’re boring and they’re bald,
The women are all shadows of their former vibrant selves,
They’re all in sizes twenty-four, they used to be in twelves.

I stupidly asked George, I used to think him quite a card,
Not meaning to be spiteful, now he’s just a tub of lard,
He’ll bring his lovely wife, she’ll tell you all about her back,
One’s morbidly obese and one’s a hypochondriac.

I haven’t found the coffee cups, we’ll have to have the mugs,
The crumble’s looking soggy and the kale was full of slugs,
The meat is a disaster, undercooked and full of blood,
The dog’s pooed on the carpet and I haven’t done the spuds.

I thought I’d like to do this, but I don’t know where to start,
I thought I’d like to see them, but I’ve had a change of heart,
Their old recycled stories and voracious appetites,
Forget the darlings of my heart, they’re all a bunch of shites.

I meant to be the glam hostess but kiss goodbye to that,
I haven’t changed my frock, I smell attractively of fat,
I’ve done my best, it’s all gone west, I’ve ruined all the grub,
Too late. Here come the bastards now. Let’s all go down the pub.

                                                                                 Pam Ayres

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

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This is Your Time

When you are part of a large, loving, extended family, as I am, solitude can sometimes be a pretty hard state to achieve.  

Don’t get me wrong, I love the family gatherings with the laughter, the tears, the arguments, the music, the dancing, the spilt drinks, the chocolate melted on the sofa, the general craziness of getting together with family members from one to ninety one.  I love each and every one of them and I revel in their company, both individually or in a group.  I love the fact that my own children, their other halves and the grandchildren all live within about ten minutes of our house, and I’m happy that they know they can call in at any time - and they do.  To me, that’s what family is all about.  And when family isn’t around then there are friends to fill the space.  Our home has always been an open house.

However, much as I love the company of others, I am also very happy to spend time alone.  In fact, more than happy.  I love it.

My periods of solitude might be few and far between but that just makes them all the more precious.  Sometimes they come about by accident - a little voice calls out, “Bye, grandma,” the front door closes and all is quiet.  I sit in total silence, memories of a frantic afternoon are stored and peace descends.  Like a blanket, it envelopes me, as my mind slows and clears.  This is bliss, the total opposite of the mad few hours we’ve been enjoying, although that, in itself, is a different kind of happiness.  Sometimes my periods of solitude are planned: an hour on the bed, reading, snuggled under the covers; a brisk walk along the prom, just my thoughts to accompany me; an afternoon on the computer, editing photos. 

I’m sure, if I lived alone, with no family or friends, then the solitude that I now enjoy could well become a pain and not a pleasure:  a prison of loneliness.  The ticking of a clock, the drone of the TV, cars on the road outside - these background sounds would only serve to emphasise the fact that I was alone, and not by choice.  Thankfully, solitude is still a treat for me.  As a photographer, time alone with my camera is something I relish.  I become distracted if shooting with someone else.  Much as I love to chat, I find my best shots are those where my eye has been allowed to wander and focus without the distraction of conversation.  My mind will wander too, thoughts of where I’m going, what I’m aiming for, what are the optimum settings, where is the next capture likely to be?  This is my idea of heaven.

And then, home to the husband, a cup of tea, a chat about the day.  And possibly a room full of children....

As I walked along the prom this morning I was thinking about the subject of solitude, when I spotted this man and his dog, away from everyone and everything.  Now, that's solitude.

This is Your Time by Jill Reidy 

Find a quiet place

In or out

It doesn't matter

Add a blanket 

Or a coat if out

Gloves, hat, scarf

Whatever keeps you warm

Check head is clear

Thoughts are flowing

View is restful

No interruptions

Ignore the clock

The screeching of the gulls

You're on your own now

This is your time....

Whilst researching the subject, I came across this quote, and decided it was written specifically for me.  

'Solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.' 
― Honoré de Balzac

Thanks for reading, Jill

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Oh death, where is thy sting?

“Oh death, where is thy sting?”

I’m sure when this line first appeared in the bible (Corinthians 15.55, if anyone wants to check) it didn’t expect to raise riotous laughter. Before I’m accused of being cold hearted or flippant, let me elaborate. 

Many years ago, we were visiting my mum and dad with our three young children, along with my brother and his wife and their three offspring.  Six over excited children under seven in an enclosed space was a recipe for disaster.  There were drinks being spilt, toys broken, mouths yelling – it was absolute chaos.  My mum was calmly dealing with all disasters in a systematic manner, but my dad (who turned out to be the greatest granddad on earth once the kids reached about eight) was not enjoying it very much.  He’d not been well and really couldn’t stand too much mayhem.  Suddenly his voice rung out above the clatter,  

“Oh death, where is thy sting?!”

There was a short, stunned silence, whilst tiny hands stopped pouring drinks on the floor and wrestling over the Fisher Price garage, and tiny heads turned towards granddad, their mouths agape.  My dad looked a bit like he’d even shocked himself.  The adults swivelled their astonished eyes between granddad and each other.  One of us (I can’t remember who) started to snigger.   Within seconds, the room was in uproar.  We clutched our sides and roared with laughter, grandma stopped mopping for a moment and, after a slightly worried glance at granddad, allowed herself a short but unmistakeable guffaw.  The children caught the mood and joined in, without a clue what they were laughing about.  My dad looked indignant, which of course, caused even more hilarity.  Eventually, he grinned, shook his head and went upstairs for a lie down. Chaos resumed.

The husband was the one who found this funnier than anybody else.  The rest of us were pretty used to my dad and his dramatic outbursts.   Ever since that day, we’ve realised that any situation that has got out of control and unacceptable can only benefit from one of us shouting those famous words,

 “Oh death, where is thy sting?!”

The culprits at my dad's 60th birthday - singing a song I'd written to celebrate

Despite treating that quote with unbelievable irreverence, I do know death is no laughing matter.  I’ve grieved over grandparents and uncles, and a very close friend who we’d known for over twenty five years.  His wife, Mary is one of my dearest friends.  Our children grew up with their children and they are still all mates today, but sadly George died prematurely nine years ago.  He was the husband’s closest friend and we were both devastated.  However, this didn’t stop me making a cringe worthy remark only a few days after George’s funeral.  I was with Mary, chatting and laughing about George’s life and funny sayings, when there was a knock at the door.  Mary answered and came back into the room with a sombre looking man in a black suit, who she introduced as the funeral director.  We exchanged a handshake, and he turned back to Mary.  Very seriously he informed her he had brought George’s ashes, which were in an urn inside a carrier bag on the floor next to him.  With some effort, he lifted the bag and passed it to Mary, with the words, “Careful, it’s really heavy.”

Now before I tell you what came out of my mouth without a moment’s hesitation, I must first paint a picture of our lovely friend.  George was the biggest joker out there.  He was from Glasgow with a typical Glaswegian’s sense of humour (and language) and was a great one for teasing and winding people up.  Not only was George a big joker, he was also physically a pretty big guy, and one of his favourite sayings was, “I’m a fat b*****d, me,” always with a loud laugh and a poke at his stomach.  Each week he told us without a hint of irony, “The big diet starts tomorrow.”   Each week, we’d nod and know it would never happen.

So when the funeral director told Mary to be careful as George’s ashes exchanged hands, I heard myself say, “Well, he always was a fat b*****d.”

There was a stunned silence.  Everything seemed to go into slow motion.  The funeral director turned towards me with a look that combined horror with supreme distaste.  Mary clutched the urn and fixed her gaze on the floor and I wondered what on earth had possessed me.  Nobody said a word.  Mary ushered the man towards the door, whilst I contemplated jumping through the window.  As the front door closed I heard a stifled laugh. Mary burst into the room, grabbed me and hugged me close.   It seemed my rapidly composed apology was redundant.  She shook with laughter and could hardly speak, “Oh my God, Jill,” she said in her thick Glaswegian accent, “George would have LOVED that!”

I still cringe when I recollect what I said but I think Mary was right.  George would have loved the joke - and even more so my discomfort having said it.  I think about him every day and although I don’t believe in ghosts, a little part of me would like to believe it was George who possessed me that time I shocked the funeral director.

Dave and George - best mates

Dylan Thomas' poem is a favourite of mine, even more so as I get older.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Thanks for reading      Jill 

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Cafe Nostalgia

Cafe Nostalgia

It’s just another Sunday morning in Southport, 
Carpe Diem is what I was taught, 
I’m rolling solo in the Uni-qlo polo,
Café Nostalgia on Lord Street, 
Time to catch up on what happened in the week, 
Sun is shining so I got on my shades, 
Pencil line beard with the blended fade, 
Waitress serves me like Wimbledon, 
She got me drooling like a Simpleton,
You look so good in this venue, 
So I ordered something off the menu, 
A Tuna Melt with a dash of mayo,
Washed down with a double shot of espresso, 
A few seats away, sat this blonde with the Caramel Latte, 
I dropped my shades and had a little glance, 
She was eating that bread that comes from France, 
She was at alone and the table was for two, 
So I looked at myself and thought what to do, 
I learnt in a film called we bought a zoo, 
All you need is 20 seconds of insane bravery, 
And something beautiful will happen trust me,
So I made my move, stepped to her like I was in the groove, 
Would you mind if I join you, coz in this area I’m kind of new
In the shop it was just us two, 
She was dressed in a pair of converse, and slim fit jeans, 
Long sleeved crop top showing off her tummy if you know what I mean, 
Slim trim abs got that appeal, kind of girl that would go halves on the bill,
I asked her if she wanted another round, 
Because the last shot I just downed, 
She truly obliged, another caramel latte is what she replied, 
I ordered a hot chocolate and a slice of cheese cake, 
After all last impressions is what I’m trying to make, 
Discussion was minimal, kept it on point like a decimal, 
For once I chose to listen rather than interrupt, 
I got a habit of butting in and sounding abrupt, 
Breakfast turned to Lunch, 
Shop started getting busy as people formed a queue, 
And that was my cue to leave, so we agreed, 
It was nice meeting you some nice downtime,
It would be good to do this again sometime 
I began to fidget, as I asked her for the digits, 
It started with 07, as I got all 11, 
See it all started it with a latte, 
And that’s the story of a blonde in the café,

Abdulicious 2014

Refreshment is the theme of the week and I found this refreshing to write to be honest. If you're not aware of my style of writing, well it's Street & Sweet. Since moving to Southport I have had to make things interesting for myself. I love spending Sundays visiting tea rooms and coffee shops. I like to visit shops that have a funky name. This time I visited Nostalgia Tea Rooms on Lord Street, a classic layout, as I am fairly new to the area I have to make new friends myself. 

The waitress was cute I must admit but it's Sunday morning, you have to take the time and place into consideration, I cant just start hitting on her straight away. I made light conversation with her and ordered a tuna melt and some espresso. Got talking to her about how small Southport is and coming from a city like London it is something that takes a while to get used to. So I sat down and started reading the paper for a while. 

It was a quiet morning. I was the only guy in the shop until this eloquent blonde walked in. I gave it 15 minutes and thought to myself, I am sat here alone and she is the only other person in the shop on a Sunday morning. It’s quite refreshing talking to someone who does not have a hangover on a Sunday morning. And that’s how the poem came about. 

It takes guts walking over to a total stranger and making conversation but nothing ventured the nothing gained. My focus from July is to meet new people I have been here since April and I have realised friendship is something you have to make it does not come just like that. 

Until next week have a good week ahead. A refreshing drink with a refreshing girl is not a bad way to end the week.

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