My Anxiety

There's no one thing that sets it off,
well; other than it's usually over nothing important.
It'll be; being 2 minutes over on a parking ticket or,
my mind will have jumped 3 steps ahead and is fretting over the consequences of some terrible act that I'm never going to do,
but I'll start catastrophizing over it anyway,
on something which is never going to happen,
I'm never going to do it -
but so it starts

It's like that little voice in your head,
you know; your conscience,
only with me it's more like one of those sargent-majors,
the ones who shout orders at you,
and end every sentence with "you 'orrible lad you!"

And then my chest starts to tighten,
as if in a vice
a vice which someone is very slowly turning the screw,
slowly,
deliberately,
tighter and tighter.

Then there's the 'washing machine' stomach,
with an imbalanced load of bath towls,
that load that never spins smoothly,
churns with a clunk,
the load that causes your washing machine to walk across the kitchen floor.

Then my heart picks up on all this action and decides to pump more blood round me.
Forget the sound of horses hooves along a beach!
This is that disaster movie,
the one with the captain on the bridge of an ocean going liner,
fighting to keep his ship afloat
yelling down one of those 'speaking tubes',
"more power, more power!"

By this time my breath decides to join the party,
gets heavy and I'm starting to flush.
By now I'll have forgotten what it was that set me off in the first place!

But their it is!
My anxiety.
Not logical,
not a sensible reaction,
but there you have it,
anxiety is not a logical; sensible reaction.

Maybe I Look Tired and Old

Driving along the streets I grew up on,
along streets I used to walk along,
streets I used to play on.
There are middle - aged men and women
shuffling along.
Looking very tired,
looking very old!
Maybe they are.
Maybe these are the people I went to school with,
The people who I played with.

Maybe I look tired and old!

Return to Ventnors' Shore

Ventnor on the Isle of Wight,
once a gem; a shining light.
A fashionable health resort had grown
'round a climate of its own,
'neath it's chalky downland hill,
said could cure many an ill.

The Southern Railway used to run
the 'well to do' for sea and sun,
the trains from Ryde did take them down
to 'Ventnor West' and 'Ventnor Town'.
To fill hotels; fill beaches too,
doing what was 'good for you!'
Taking the air; swim in the sea,
Ventnor was the place to be!

The beach to which Victorians thronged
now time and tide; both have wronged.
It was the 'Londoners' place to be,
they called it "Mayfair by the sea!"
Ventnors' current streets I feel
are looking a little down at heel.
The days of steamers at the pier,
day trippers all; come nowhere near.

But...
If on the Isle; head Ventnors way,
don't listen to what others say!
Stand on the beach; what's that you hear,
is that a steamer sailing near?
Are the stations full of trains?
Are we curing aches and pains?

For when we all can fly no more,
we will return to Ventnors shore!

(Haiku)

An M.P's reply:
"You are not getting me to
name him!" Me: "GO ON!"

Gardening

A gardening outfit required.
A "never to be seen in the outside world again" outfit,
a beyond old outfit,
a perfect for gardening outfit!
Spade and wellies from the shed,
kneeling pad for my poor old knees,
big rake,
trowl,
and look out garden for here I come!

Soon the soil stains are everywhere.
Hands have turned a redish brown,
my nose has a redish brown stain where I itched it,
and sweat is blurring my glasses.
Nobody told me gardening was such hard work!
Take step or two back to admire my handy work,
catch my breath.
Nearly done.
One last look and imagine it this time next year.

Time to put the spade, trowl and wellies away.
Bath time,
boy is it bath time!
The sort of Bath time where you need to wash your hands before you get in!

Oooooooh! Hot water on my shoulders.
Work your magic!
Grab the nail brush to remove the one half of the garden which ended up under my nails.

...Time for lunch.

Twenty's Plenty!

Twenty's plenty
Thirty's shirty!
Fourty is naughty
Fifty is nifty,
Sixty is too quicksty,
and seventy is basic'lly
as fast as you need to go!