Author Archives: W is for Duck

Blog Ja-Vu: We’ve been Robbed – by Coincidence, Chance……and Sod’s Law!

Hello, and welcome to my blog.

It’s been a while, so I thought I would take a long overdue trip down memory lane – to a previous blog I used to write, when my circumstances were different, and the circumference of my waist was less.

It’s a short piece, but I hope you like it.

(that’s what I said to her)

We’ve Been Robbed – By Coincidence, Chance, and Sod’s Law!

So, It’s 2:05pm and I’m sat on a fold up chair (no folded up) in my garden with my laptop on my lap, and a glass of rose by my side. It is another glorious day here in Sturminster Newton, and I suspect for much of Dorset and the UK as a whole. There is a wasp buzzing around my head, so I may in a moment throw my laptop to the floor and run into the house screaming like a small girl. If you never get to read this post, that is why.

But then, how would you know, if I never get to publish this post?

On that line of thought, how many masterpieces of literature, art, music or sculpture have never been completed or released to he world because their creator was interrupted somehow?

For all we know, Michelangelo’s “David” was just something he threw together whilst working on his real masterpiece – only to have his real best work destroyed when a moth flew into his workshop one night, causing him to reel back in panic, knocking five years worth of work to the floor, smashing it to smithereens?
Who can say that the world should have marvelled at Michelangelo’s “Rufus”, and only given “David” the briefest of attention that such lesser work requires?

Beethoven’s Unfinished Symphony might well have been destined to be completed and named “Exultation to the Glory of The World”, or some other more spectacular title, had it not been for the fire that broke out in his neighbour’s house, forcing Beethoven (who was also a part-time fireman – or the equivalent of his day) to leave his work, and spend the next four hours risking his life to save the life of his neighbour, his neighbour’s family, and even his neighbour’s dog, ironically named “Mozart”. And this act of friendship, social conscience, and heroism could well have erased from Beethoven’s mind the melody and tune required to complete his masterpiece. Instead, he returned to his work, scanned what he had created so far and simply thought to himself “I’ll come back to that later on.”

How do we not know that the day after painting “Sunflowers”, Vincent Van Gogh found himself by the river bank, in the perfect place at the perfect time to witness the struggle of life and death in nature, and be inspired to paint his greatest picture ever: “Dragonfly being caught by leaping fish as Kingfisher swoops” – only to inadvertently disturb a hornets nest hanging above him, and in the ensuing attack of the swarm, knock his painting into the river, losing it for ever? None of us can dismiss the theory with any certainty that from that day onwards, Van Gogh would privately refer to his much acclaimed “Sunflowers”, as a pile of crap in comparison to what might have been.

It could well have been possible that the greatest theologians, teachers, artists, mathematicians, and thinkers of their time all lived in the same street in Pompeii, all socialising together and meeting up for daily brain storming sessions. they could well have been on the verge of revolutionising the world as they knew it with ideas centuries before their time – only to be obliterated from the mind of history by that Volcanic eruption that engulfed their city in lava, preserving everything as it was at that moment. The world might well have been a different place is someone had said “that sounds like the volcano erupting”, instead of “is that your stomach grumbling? You’re always hungry you are”.

So, although we know there have been geniuses throughout the ages, we could quite conceivably have missed out on ever greater discoveries, or masterpieces, all because of unfortunate occurrences.

It makes you think, doesn’t it?

Well it made me think, I can’t speak for you lot.


Good evening, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

Before I get to this week’s poem, I wanted to let you know that it’s only a couple of weeks before the Poem that I wrote for The Hidden Needs Trust is launched on their website. I haven’t actually seen the finished video yet, but in conversation with HNT’s founder, Rachel Goodfellow, she assured me that the video, and the poem are amazing. I will let you know as soon as it is launched.

Now, don’t forget that I need suggestions for five poems for me to write about for my “Poem Challenge” – these poems will make up the Friday Poems numbers 70 – 75, and will appear in Volume Two of the Friday Poems which is launched next year. So get in touch and give me your suggestions.

But now, on to this week’s poem. The inspiration for this poem came to me recently after I  had flung myself down a snowy hill on a piece of plastic, and following a conversation with my counsellor about stopping focusing on the future, and trying to stay in the here and now. Between these too things, I created this week’s poem.

I hope you like it.


Let Go

Let go.

Lie back.

Enjoy the ride.

For once, put

Doubt and fear aside.

Go faster, faster!

Faster still!!

Keep momentum

By sheer will.

Feel the wind

Rush through your hair,

Release yourself

Without a care.

Live in the moment,

Floating free.

No trying, or struggling;

Simply ‘be’.

No thoughts,

No worries.

No rush,

No hurry.

Just timeless now

In this one moment,

Where nothing matters;

Nothing important.

Just you being you,

And that is all.

Forgetting life’s

Incessant call.

Watch life drift past

As clouds in your blue sky day

As you enjoy this moment

And drift away.



The Friday Poems – Volume One is now available to buy! Get it from in paperback by clicking here: , or for Kindle by clicking here:

Hello, and welcome to my blog.

It’s Mother’s Day here in the UK, and is also known as Mothering Sunday – though the two are actually very different; Mothering Sunday is actually, originally a day when people in “service” – Butlers, maids, gardeners, cooks etc. would get a chance to have a day off to go to Church at the church where they were christened. This church was referred to as their “Mother” Church, and those who got to go would go with all the members of their family – often the only opportunity they had to do this.

In stark contrast, Mother’s day is the one day of the year that Mum’s get a day off, and dad’s or boyfriends, or significant others get to fight with the kids to get them to help, and they also get to say things like “How’s the oven work?”

I was on duty today for my good lady, and I think I managed it alright – including cooking a roast chicken dinner. I successfully wrangled our children into helping throughout the day – with minimum fuss (although I did have to pull out a small lecture when my 9-year-old daughter complained of being tired when asked to help (at 10:30am).

Mother’s day is not always a happy day sadly. Many people’s mother are no longer with them – my own included (31 years this year), and many more mothers struggle in difficult relationships, or with health and emotional problems. Lots of mums don’t have a partner, and do their amazing job on their own, and some mums have lost children.

Nonetheless – a Mum is a mum, and today is their day. I wrote this poem on the spur of the moment this morning, for all mums – wherever they are:

To the Mums

To the mums
Who shine brighter
Than all of the stars.
Who dry all of our tears
And soothe our emotional scars.
To the mums who we see
Each and every day.
And to those who Dementia
Has cruelly taken away.
To the mums who have Cancer
But still carry on
Being brave for their families
Still smiling, being strong.
To the mums we have lost
Just now, or long ago
All taken too soon
But we’ll always know
Who they were
Who they are
As we carry them with us
So they’ll never be far.
To the mums for the first time
Frightened and scared
With no reference or guidelines
Or notes to compare.
And the mums who are trying
Their absolute best
In hardship, and struggle
Facing each new day’s test
The mums who aren’t perfect
And who don’t get it right
Who shout at their kids in the daytime
And then cry in the night.
To the mums who are wives,
Fiancée’s, and workmates
Working one, two, or three jobs
Just to keep food on the plate.
And the mums stuck at home
In that stereotypical role
Going mad at the four walls
Of their deepening hole.
To the mums, who don’t hear
This enough every day:
You are all our heroines
In so many ways.

To the mums
Thank you, and sorry, and I love you, and more.
You are so very wonderful, and are so adored.
There aren’t enough words to properly say
Exactly how we feel.

So happy Mother’s Day xxxx


Good evening, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

Ironically, I’ve been in a real rush to write this poem. This isn’t the poem I was intending to write, but then I got an idea in my head and had to go with it. The other poem will make an appearance at some point.

Anyway, this Poem was inspired by a recent visit to a local Pizza place with a game based logo and name.

I hope you like it.

(The Poem – not the Pizza place)


Fast Food……?


What’s the use of “Buy one – get one free”,

If you are doomed for all eternity

To stand and wait, with innards rumbling

While some gormless fool stands there, fumbling

Lost and dejected at the till

While they try to calculate your bill.


When exactly, did ‘Fast Food’ slowed?

It’s pace now equivalent to a Three-Toed

Sloth, appearing statuesque to you and me;

This now the fate of the once revolutionary

Convenience, quick food game-changer –

But now you risk the real danger

Of expiring fromstarvation or malnutrition

Because they can’t find your order

On their system.


This is despite the invention

Of the internet and apps

So all of us, fast food loving chaps

And ladies, can keep our oversized seating

As our meals are delivered

To our homes for eating.


It’s sold as convenient

And a real time saver;

Order straight from the App,

You can almost taste the flavour!

But all I taste is the tang of bitterness,

As my pre-ordered take-away

Becomes a real mess.


And the food itself

Is not to blame.

Like me, it’s a pawn

In the long, drawn-out game.

In store the display

Says that my order is ready,

And though there

Is not any kind of steady

Flow of customers through the door

My order has disappeared

Perhaps for evermore.


They apologise (again)

And start all over.

But then more delays

at the shift changeover

When a hitherto unseen

New face appears –

And can’t find my order,

Just as I feared.


While I wait,  I have the chance

To learn a new song.

It’s only got three words in it:

“It won’t be long”.

By now I’m weak

And emaciated

As my overdue meal

Is much anticipated.


The monitor lists

All orders, so

I knew my Pizza was ready

Forty Minutes ago.

How long does it take

To box a Pizza up?

It takes much longer

It’ll be time to shut.


The staff have disappeared

Out of sight;

Perhaps they have all

Decided to take flight

For fear of yet more eternal shame

For F*cking up another order – again.


But wait- it appears!

Brought by a supervisor

Who sadly it seems

Is still none the wiser

When it comes to remembering

What I’ve ordered.

The ineptitude here could almost be applauded.

Then she can’t find the code

For a large cola bottle

At which point, I just want to throttle

Every staff member – at the very least twice

And then cut them into pieces

With the Pizza slice.


I feel like I’ve aged a thousand years,

And, fighting back frustrated tears

I pay my money and take my food –

Though now, I’m not really in the mood.

This fast food experience

Changed day into night,

And now I’ve lost my appetite.



The Friday Poems – Volume One is now available to buy! Get it from in paperback by clicking here: , or for Kindle by clicking here:





Hello, and welcome to my blog.

Yesterday, was our annual “rush home from work only to rush straight out again because we need to get a parking space at some random school where our child is singing in a concert” night. It’s always a fraught affair, as we never ever get there early enough to get a seat in the audience anywhere near the stage, but every year we set of in high hopes that things will be different.

This year, things were the same.

We arrived at St. Osmosis (or whatever it was called) and took our child to the classroom where the rest of her school mates who were taking part were waiting. The concert was a number of children from various schools singing individual songs and group songs, all around a central theme. This year’s theme was peace and unity, as it is 100 years since the end of World War One.

Once again, we had to sit miles away from the stage (just like we had park way away from the school). I presume that the reason for this was that all the pushy parents were camped outside the school since 2pm on the day, like people waiting for the latest iPhone to go on sale, and then they rushed in to grab all the seats so that they can take multiple photographs of darling little Tarquin or Persephone, as they sing and pout just like they made them practice for six hours every day because all that matters is being the best, when you have no personality.

Soon enough, all the children from the seven different schools filed into the sports hall where the concert was taking place. As they did, each of the children looked for their parents, and vice versa. Across the crowd, it looked like when people do that thing where they don’t stand up fully, but just rise up a little bit – like when a crowd at a football match watch a player approach the goal. They don’t do it all at the same time, but you see one or two at a time bob up expectantly – and then pockets of people bob up all other the place. While they were bobbing about looking for the child, they had (for some reason) a look on their faces like people looking for their baggage on the carousel at the airport – trying to remember what shape and colour it is, but knowing it’s got a dent in it. We saw our little cherub – who decided to dispense with the usual smile and wave, and responded to our waving by sticking her tongue out.

I blame her mother.

The concert was very enjoyable. All the children sung very well, and some of the songs were complicated. Our child did very well – despite spending much of the time pulling faces at me (I was reciprocating) or fiddling with her hair, uniform, or biting her nails. Despite this, I cannot adequately explain just how proud I was to see my child – I genuinely felt like my heart would burst out of my chest. Yes, it was just an inter-school concert, but my child has a few struggles in life, and had a rough year last year health wise, and it was so lovely to see her singing and smiling.

Can’t wait until next year!

Mind you, by next year I will be a millionaire!!. The other day, I was fortunate enough to receive an email from Jacob Wunder, the Account Director in United Bank of Africa (UBA) Ghana. Mr Wunder wrote to me to tell me how I would get almost half of a $12.8m fortune, that he has found (found!?) in the bank. I quote:

In my Department here at the bank, I discover an abandoned sum of US$12.8M United State Dollars. The money belongs to one of our biggest customer whose name is General Valery Mikhaylovich Khalilov from Russia. The late General died on 25th December, 2016 on a plane crash en-route to Syrian where a civil war is going on since 2011.His plane crashed into the Black Sea off Sochi, Russia. I contacted you to enable both of us claim this US$12.8M United State Dollars,and have it transferred into your account in your country.”

How amazing is that! All that money being discovered 18 months after old General Khalilov snuffed it on Christmas Day. I wonder if he got to open his Presents? Jacob Wunder went on to explain what I need to do to get my hands on the money – and explained how easy it would be:

No other person will know about this business deal, not even my colleagues in my bank will know about this golden opportunity which I want you to partake with me. Make sure you keep everything confidential, until we have the fund claimed and wired into your bank account.It is 100% risk free, this is because I have mapped out a guideline and procedure to use in claiming this fund on your names. You will be presented as the rightful next of kin to late General Valery Mikhaylovich Khalilov.”
So all I need to do is pretend to be the General’s son! That’s easy! I can find a Russian army uniform on Ebay, get some medals, and before you can say “Perestroika” I’ll be rich beyond my wildest dreams!!

Apparently, there is a small form to fill out – but my new best mate Jacob Wunder assures me it’s a formality to ensure we have the full trust of each other: “I will send you an agreement, you will study it sign and I will also sign it. When we have endorsed the agreement, both of us will have full trust on each other

So, watch this space!

I’m in the money, I’m in the money…..


Hello, and welcome to my blog.

I made an unpleasant discovery the other day, whilst in the men’s toilets.

Before the more sensitive of you start worrying, fear not. I am not about to be vulgar. My vulgar blogs can be found here on the 2nd Tuesday of every month. The unpleasantness I discovered, came in the shape of the hand driers – or should I say, the height. The hand driers were situated very low down on the wall – I estimate only three and a half or four feet from the floor.

Now some of you may struggle to see what the problem is with this – but if you take into consideration the fact that I am six and a half feet tall, then I think the issue may become a little clearer. I was forced to bend over almost to ninety degrees to dry my hands – and although for only a relatively short time, it puts a strain on my back (a common complaint amongst tall people – along with “ow! low door frame!”). I tried to work out why the hand driers would be so low – there were no other low items in the toilets – the toilets and the sinks were all standard height, so just as if I had walked in to find all the toilets stolen, I had nothing to go on.

I know that this is a trivial thing, and that I can (and did) manage to use such equipment even when it is lower down that expected, but it is frustrating when things are lower than normal – for even an average height person. And I’m sure that those of us who are below average height also feel the same frustration about things being out of reach. On average, people are getting taller. The average height of a man in 2011 was 69.4 inches. In the 17th and 18th Century, the average height was 65.75 inches. Despite this, there seems to be still a regular and almost persistent trend of not catering for the taller person.

Perhaps this is a biased perspective. And maybe it’s a conspiracy against tall people, planned and executed by a hidden army of jealous shorter people, always in the shadows, just out of plain sight.

Or they could be in plain sight – but I’d never see them, being this tall…….



The Friday Poems – Volume One is now available to buy! Get it from in paperback by clicking here: , or for Kindle by clicking here:


Good evening, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem!

This poem came about after a bizarre conversation during a training session I was giving at work. It’s funny how much inspiration can be found in office chat!.

Anyway, before you read this, please be rest assured that I love my cat very much, and he is a gentle and very lovely addition to the family.


Gummed by the Cat



My cat’s a bastard,

And that is that.

He’s nice and sleek

But should be fat;

For his preferred method

Of formal greeting,

Is to bite me hard

And then keep eating.


And it isn’t as if

He’s hardly fed;

But he seems to prefer

My flesh instead.

Indeed, he takes pleasure,

It would seem

To hear my anguished

Pain fuelled screams.


He lurks at home, waiting

Like Clouseau’s Cato

Silently watching

For me, just so

That he can launch

Another attack


From front or back.


The final straw

Occurred at half past two

One night, as I stumbled

Back from the loo.

It was high summer,

So fairly hot

And I wore nothing;

Not a jot.


From the shadows

He watched me,

As I wandered past,

Then leaped –

And bit me in the arse.

To secure his hold,

Four paws clawed veins

And my face contorted

In excruciating pain.


I ran back

Into the bedroom –

Gave my lady a real shock;

As she thought

For one moment

That I’d sat on a sock

Which flapped from my arse wildly

As I ran to and fro.

But it was that evil cat

Who just wouldn’t let go.


Round our boudoir I ran

With my arms in the air

Screaming at the pain

From my chomped derriere.

My legs bled profusely

As I thrashed and I flailed

I even tried twerking

But alas, to no avail.


He clung on to my buttocks

As if for fear of death.

Making condensation on my skin

With his vicious feline breath.

His fur made me itchy,

His hot breath made me retch.

If he was a dog I could’ve ended this

With a quick game of fetch!


Eventually, he did release his grip

For reasons as yet unknown.

And sauntered off to resume his place

On his “King of bastards” throne.

I was left there in tatters

Upon the bedroom floor.

Through streaming tears of anger

I promised myself, “no more”.


After that, it was curtains;

I’d had it right up to here

With puncture wounds to both my legs

And blood-loss from my rear.

So hissing and spitting,

Off he was took

To the vets for my vengeance

By hook or by crook.


I had all of his teeth taken out

Every one without sorrow or regret.

Each one for a scar or a wound inflicted;

Wounds I would never forget.

And just for fun

I also had him de-clawed

Thus reducing his arsenal

To velvet soft paws.


And since then life has been better

I don’t live in fear any more.

Sure, I still get attacked

But it’s no skin off my back.

Yes he waits for me still

Behind every door

But only being gummed by a cat

Isn’t half as sore!


The Friday Poems – Volume One is now available to buy! Get it from in paperback by clicking here: , or for Kindle by clicking here: