Thursday, 27 June 2013

Let's Regress

I'm going through a patch of technology trouble at the moment which has left me yearning for the good old days when life was less complicated and the language more colourful...

Pray welcome, good gentlefolk.

Forsooth this cursed machine is so temperamental it might turn a man's brain to curds. Such is my frustration I have hence forsaken all modern instrumentation. Likewise have my utterances regressed to the language of yore.

Pray address your remarks in the appropriate manner of learned gentry. Thou canst hail loudly in the general direction of the shire of Nottingham, direct your missive by carrier pigeon or transport such documents via stagecoach.

Gadzooks! The first option is surely effective if standing atop a bell tower within sight of the highway known in these parts as M1. Only select the second if said bird is sound of wing. The latter is most likely to succeed but may perchance take up to three days.

I am told I must expend up to four hundred Guineas to replace this infernal contraption. What thinkst thou? Stap me vitals! I wouldst sooner allow my wife to find gainful employment in the local whorehouse than waste my hard-earned wealth.

I must away now to partake of my lunch of stewed rodent. Then I must toil about my duties - berate my wife for her spendthrift ways, beat the servants for their indolent conduct and abuse my neighbours for lack of breeding and deficiency of wit.

May your quills stay sharp and your ink be as black as my heart.

Until the morrow.

Saturday, 15 June 2013

For Father's Day

                                     Midnight Caller

I came to see you tonight, dad. I wanted to come after dark, in the small hours, when the rest of the world is asleep. I wanted it to be just you and me.

I climbed over the gates by the bus stop and found my way through the maze of footpaths and lawns by moonlight. Three rows up from the big white stone angel. Six plots along from the footpath and here you are.

Mum chose the wording on your headstone.

To be remembered in our hearts is not to die.

I suppose that's profound enough to satisfy both believers and atheists. What were you, dad? I never got round to asking did I?

I think you must be pleased with our choice. Just plain black marble with gold lettering. No fancy shapes. Just rectangular with a bevelled edge.

It's strange. You only notice all the other graves when you're trying not to stumble into them in the dark. I didn't realise there were so many to choose from. Arched, pointed arch, Gothic, with cross, without cross, plain cross, Celtic cross, praying angel, weeping angel. Who thinks them all up?

I noticed there were no flowers. Usually there are several bunches and wreaths lying around. People bring them on birthdays and anniversaries don't they? But there are none here now. Maybe the cemetery staff have cleared them up. Or maybe no-one cares.

And the inscriptions. I didn't stop to read any but there must be a lucrative business writing those.

So where was I? Oh yes. How does that poem go? I can't remember who wrote it.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

Well, I am standing at your grave, dad, and I am weeping. And I just wanted to say.
                                         I love You.