December 22, 2004

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  “Tea and Tiffin at Jane’s”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “The most remarkable thing
  

  
  

  about words” she said, “more tea my dear?
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Is that they mean so much
  

  
  

  to us.”
  

  
  

  She poured out the tea into
  

  
  

  little china cups and saucers.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  (I doubt I’ve a saucer in my pub!)
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “I mean” she continued
  

  
  

  after handing out the cakes,
  

  
  

  daring us to start talking to each other
  

  
  

  when She, the grand dame
  

  
  

  was in the middle of a conversation,
  

  
  

  even it was a bit like
  

  
  

  humpty-dumpty’s in Alice.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I dared a quick glane of my watch,
  

  
  

  her eagle eyes spotted me.
  

  
  

  “Am I boring any of you?” she cried
  

  
  

  in an “Hyacinth Buckett” shrill voice.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  We all shook our heads,
  

  
  

  we were a little scared of our host
  

  
  

  but she did good tea and tiffin;
  

  
  

  and had given a lot of money
  

  
  

  to the local children’s hospital.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “I mean” she gave us a glare,
  

  
  

  “words are mere tools
  

  
  

  of human vanity.”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  With that, she shut up.
  

  
  

  and the silence got longer and longer
  

  
  

  before one of us dared to agree.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  She did make beautiful cakes,
  

  
  

  better than any bakers
  

  
  

  and her chairs were cosy,
  

  
  

  but I wish Jane was sane!
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Tiffy Witherington.
  

  
  

  ____________________

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  “A Poem for Christmas.”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Of all the stories that are told
  

  
  

  By infelicitous bores,
  

  
  

  There’s none as sad as
  

  
  

  The death of Santa Claus.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  We first learnt of his sad death
  

  
  

  In a strange sort of way,
  

  
  

  When our kids got absolutely nothing
  

  
  

  On one Christmas Day.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Of course by now they believed
  

  
  

  That Santa did not exist
  

  
  

  And that we had brought them nothing.
  

  
  

  (Oh how our neighbours hissed!)
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  How could we explain
  

  
  

  To children we adored
  

  
  

  That we never brought anything because
  

  
  

  We believed in Santa Claus?
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  But now he’s dead and we must buy
  

  
  

  The kids presents ourselves next year.
  

  
  

  Oh why oh why did Santa die
  

  
  

  Before he delivered our beer?
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Bob Smartass.
  

  
  

  __________________

  
  

   

  
  

  The Three_Headed_Sarahs  has realised by now that you all hate my novels, so has gone back to jokey and risque with full Christmas cheers!

  
  

   

  
  

  Ps Sorry my Christmas cards (one I sent mistakingly to a Jewish lady and one to a Muslem man!) were full of adverts I picked the wrong firm. I would have used paid cards if I could have gotten ‘pay pal’ in this country.

  
  

   

  
  

  pps PoeticaC said few if any of us will be in xangaland on Christmas day. This sad git will be!

  • 1:34 pm
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