Monday, 2 April 2007

The Great British Tut

Whilst I am sure that many nations use the tut to great ends, none has ever quite equalled the unique level of disapproval achieved by the British tutter in a Post Office queue. I have, however, recently noticed the demise of the common tut, which seems to have been forced out of the major cities, into suburbs and small countryside towns. There are three major theories for this decline: a rise in immigration has led to a breakdown in communication over the meaning of the tut; a rise in bad manners has led to a weakening of the power of the tut, and therefore a loss of sustaining habitat; global warming has led to tutters being too hot to tut. The latter point has been more or less dismissed as scientifically unprovable.

With the tut facing imminent extinction, it is time to act. I feel it is necessary to start a campaign to re-establish the effective and unmistakable meaning of the British tut, in order to bring social cohesion and well-being back to the cities of Britain.


Monday Morning Post Office Queue


8:55

“Five minutes” the timekeeper announces

Fifth from the front.

The queue shuffles slightly

Forward

Towards the still

Closed door.


8:56

All heads bowed, as if to look at feet

But eyes monitor

All those who come too near,

Checking

The queue boundary

For suspects.


8:57

“He's there” an older voice informs

Eyes shift to the glass

Feet shuffle again,

Actively

Waiting for the lock

To be opened.


8:58

One lone woman, early twenties

Approaches from the left

Comes close to third position

Steps in

Looks around in innocence

Attempts to blend.


8:59

Places five to twelve crane forward

Quiet muttering of dissent

“Ought to be ashamed”

“A Queue!”

But nothing works to move

The jumper.


9:00

Elderly lady, in ninth place

Takes drastic action

Waits for silence

Tuts

Barger looks around, ashamed

“Sorry, is this a queue?”


9:01

Door opens, late, queue waddles in

Elbows out to stop

The most feared

Overtaking,

Each now tutting

For being kept waiting.


Sunday, 25 March 2007

Easter Egg

Sunk deep in
Faded brown armchair
He slumps
Head back, hips slightly forward
Belly pointing up at
Much loved photograph
A foot above the telly.

His best jeans
Snug, unbuttoned
Belt hanging open
Christmas jumper riding up
Exposing
Smooth, rounded, pink
Taut line of flesh.

Both hands
Palm down
Rest gently, one either side
Of the swollen belly
Gingerly touching
As warm toes
Wriggle out of backless slippers.

The tell-tale smudge
Of lamb gravy
Sits just below
The neck-line.
And on his knees
The neatly opened
Silver foil wrapper

And cracked remains
Of the chocolate.