A brief hello to all...i am off to party number two of today, the children's swimming party turned out to be heaps more fun than expected! hurrah!...right, better go.....so looking forward to returning to lots more brilliant choices from you all tomorrow morning ...have fun tonight and speak tomorrow....
Evening all
this mornings running report......
Had a little stomp around the house
My climbing trip scuppered by spouse
Set off on a run to collect the car
That was parked outside a city bar.
Setting off at a canny pace
Saw a stiffed legged badger with a grimacing face.
Heading out of this valley of mine
Arrived at the place where Derwent meets Tyne.
Over Scotswood bridge with a steady gait
Watched some rowers – a cox plus eight.
Onto to Scotswood Road, ‘gannin along’
The opposite way to the famous song.
Passing by Armstrong-Vickers
And trees festooned with witches knickers.
Turned my ipod up to drown the sound
Of cars and lorries all around.
Underworld and Finlay Quaye
Keeping me company along the way.
A seven mile run instead of a climb
And in my head composing this rhyme.
A pace of 7:40 seemed quite frisky
Taking into account last night’s whisky
Tomorrow morning, all being well
I’ll forget the road and stick to fell.
Evening OW. A nice one to get us started off this evening.
I've never heard of whitches knickers before, so I googled it.
In south Africa they call them Soweto Daisies, which is kind of sweet.
Originally Posted by Old Whippet
After Hes gave us our first Anne Michaels yesterday, I looked for some more. I love the first paragraph of this especially.
It was the tambourine that pushed my father
over the edge in 1962. His patience
a unit of time we never learned to measure.
The threat to "drive into a post"
was a landmark we recognized and raced towards
with delirious intent,
challenging the sound barrier of the car roof.
We were wild with stories we were living.
The front seat was another time zone
in which my parents were imprisoned, and from which
we offered to rescue them, again and again.
That day we went too far.
They left us at the side of the road
above St. Mary's quarry. My mother insists
it was my father's idea, she never wanted to drive away,
but in retrospect, I don't believe her.
This was no penalty; drilled in wilderness protocol,
happy as scouts, my brothers
planned food and shelter.
The youngest, I knew they'd come back for us,
but wasn't sure.
Hot August, trees above the quarry like green flames,
dry grass sharpened by the heat, and
dusty yellow soil "dry as mummy skin,"
a description meant to torment me.
They were rockhounds howling in the plastic light
melting over fossil hills;
at home among eras.
It was fifteen minutes, maybe less,
and as punishment, useless.
But the afternoon of the quarry lives on,
a geological glimpse;
my first grasp of time,
not continuous present.
me neither til recently Harry. To save others googling, the Irish refer to the plastic carrier bags in trees as witches knickers. I love the term! and I appreciate that you, harry, were attentive enough to go and check it out!Evening OW. A nice one to get us started off this evening.
I've never heard of whitches knickers before, so I googled it.
In south Africa they call them Soweto Daisies, which is kind of sweet.
Cheers OW
I was just trying to get into the mind of a great poet.
I was thinking of all sorts of things until I searched. I know what these North East lasses can be like.(Apart from that Freckle of course.)
Do you also mean witches britches?I've never heard of witches knickers before, so I googled it..
Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble... genuine black magic for piloting broomsticks and fighting winter chills. Witches Britches combine 8-panel performance with below-the-knee styling and Hot Shot Lycra to keep you and your knees toasty warm.
Aah. But Snitches get stitches, don't you know...
snitches get stitches!
an old piece of advice that still rings true today..indicating that somebody who snitches on somebody else shall reap the fit punishment.
While he sat in the interrogation room singing like I bird, I mouthed a simple reminder to him through the glass... "snitches get stitches!"
The Saga of Fell Runner Nell
Come fill with wine
This glass of mine
And a tale to you I’ll tell
Of a climate cold
And a runner bold
And a girl called Fell Running Nell.
I’ll start in the dawn
Of a cold Lakeland morn
A few hours before a big race
When over the way
Came a cry of dismay
At the sight of a terrible face.
It wasn’t a fella
Who cause all the terror
That morning out on the fell
No, the figure they saw
As they gazed on in awe
Was none other than Fell Running Nell.
They knew the disaster
Of trying to get past her
Once she’d made up her mind she’d win
And never a racer
Would ever dare face her
Or risk her left hook to the chin.
Every valley and fell
Has cause to fear Nell
As she kicked and sweated away
And many a boulder
Was tossed over her shoulder
Just because it got in her way.
I’m not a good loser
She’d say in the boozer
As she grabbed the winner, poor soul
And taking him out
She gave him a clout
With an arm like a telegraph pole.
So the message was sent
To bring on the gent
A man who knew everyone knew
With his jet black beard
Big strong and feared
The mighty Black Jack Carew
He came down the dale
In the teeth of the gale
His running vest torn apart
And said with a roar
As he kicked in the door
‘Where’s my number, I’m ready to start’.
The crack of the gun
The race had begun
With Nell and Jack coming to blows
But Nell went to the front
With a very load grunt
Using her fists and elbows
Jack made a try
Got one in the eye
Bur decided that he must try to win
Until a vicious back heel
Hurt him a great deal
And Nell gave him a wicked grin.
But then it got steep
So Jack picked up a sheep
And hurling it over his head
Hit Nell in the back
With an almighty thwack
And ran past her as though she were dead.
Nell knew to her cost
This was one race she’d lost
As she started the final descent
Saw Jack cross the line
And give a rude sign
As she came in bedraggled and spent.
The crowd went to the pub
As the smell of the grub
Overcame their misgivings and doubts
While Nell feeling ill
Gave a look that could kill
And her presence soon quietened their shouts.
Then everyone cowered
As Nell turned and glowered
At the giant they called Jack Carew
But he stood his ground
And bought the next round
And asked Nell if she’d like one too.
‘The booze I can store
Would put you on the floor’
She said to Black Jack with a sneer
‘And I do not think
That I’ll have a drink
With a man who can’t handle his beer’.
No mirth in her laughter
(Though it cracked a main rafter)
Could worry a man like Carew
As he downed yet another
The called for its brother
And told Nell just what she could do.
The crowd felt such a dread
They all turned and fled
And slammed the pub door in their fright
Then from the deep within
Came a terrible din
Like a Clayton-le-Moors training night.
No-one ever knew
What befell Jack Carew
Or why his black beard turned snow white
Or why he came out
Gave a pitiful shout
And ran off in the depths of the night
And no-one could tell
What happened to Nell
As she staggered away down the track
And instead of her growl
She let out a howl
Saying she wouldn’t come back
And she didn’t!
With thanks to Lawrence Sullivan,"The Fell Runner" Summer 1987, page 17.
This is really evocative. Proustian. So thanks to Hes and you for bringing the name of Ann Michaels to us.
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