Remember, remember, it still is November

Right, a couple of things I need to make clear before we launch into this one.

Firstly, I’m not against Christmas decorations per se. I just think a couple of weeks of them is PLENTY (yes, and that applies to your Christmas jumpers too, peak-too-sooners).

Secondly, this poem has NOTHING to do with the fact that I have a mid-December birthday and think everything leading up to, and including, my birthday should be ALL ABOUT ME. So, now that’s all clear, without further ado…

 

Remember, remember, it still is November

Remember, remember, it still is November,
Although the frost’s starting to bite,
For while those last leaves still cling to the trees,

STEP AWAY FROM THE ICICLE LIGHTS!

Resist your fake snow, your flashing “HO HO”,
Treat inflatable Santa with caution,
For he surely will burst by December the first,

If you’re blowing him up in the autumn.

By December the twelfth, the elf on the shelf
will hide in the pub with a half,
And before Christmas Eve, all the reindeer will leave,

Because Lapland is more of a laugh.

Your nativity scene will be mouldy and green,
There’ll be actual lichen on Mary,
Your chattering Santa will be out of banter,

Having bored the tits off the good fairy.

“Will we EVER get there?” wail the kids in despair,
As they gaze through the glass, looking bleak,
“With the house so festooned, Christmas MUST be SO SOON!”

“No it’s not, kids. It’s over six weeks.”

So – you want Christmas day to be happy and gay?
Dear readers, what have we discovered?
Remember, remember, until mid-December,

Keep Christmassy crap in the cupboard!

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2017

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Gotta end those innuendos

When writing poetry, it regularly occurs to me how fortunate I am to have been born with English as my mother tongue. What a fabulous, diverse, malleable language it is. And oh. The richness of the innuendos. Who could resist.

Well – I rarely CAN resist. And that can be a problem. So this is a poem about my personal struggle to rein in the innuendos – written entirely in innuendos. Because – don’t you just LOVE them?!

(Mum, you have been warned.)

Gotta end those innuendos

Can’t stop the innuendos, cos they’re just so satisfying,
When a big one gushes out, it’s so intensely gratifying,
But they get me into trouble, in a hole repeatedly,

Gotta end those innuendos or they’ll be the end of me.

When I’m busy in my kitchen, marinating my kebab,
Or I’m creaming up my cabbage, life is never ever drab,
For my mucky brain is ticking as I baste my meat (tee hee),

Gotta end those innuendos, or they’ll be the end of me.

When I’m doing all my housework, when I’m polishing my knobs,
The innuendos get me through those tricky manual jobs,
But I just can’t stop them coming when I’m busy on my knees,

Gotta end those innuendos, or they’ll be the end of me.

And as for DIY, I just can’t stand it any more,
All that screwing, hammering, drilling, filling – total filth for sure,
So one day, as I bang away, I say emphatically,

Gotta end those innuendos, or they’ll be the end of me.

So I try withdrawal method, giving up without exception
All the things that make me titter – big injections, huge erections,
Trimming bushes, stuffing baps, spilling gravy, lifting flaps,
But can I keep it up? Well it’s hard, but yes, perhaps –
I never carry two big jugs – that WOULD be tempting fate,
I don’t go up tight alleys, and I DON’T use my back gate,
But one dark day, I crack up as I roast a tart for tea –

I’ll  never end those innuendos. Guess they’ll be the end of me.

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2017

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Can’t wait for the snows!

My first poetry request! Just for Bec Connock and Andy Down, a poem about winter sports. This one must have been already lurking deep within me, as within 15 minutes of the request, it tumbled into my notebook like poo from a poodle.

Now, I’m just not a fan of cold weather, adrenaline sports, wearing silly clothes or spending half my annual salary in a week, so skiing and snowboarding are definitely not my bag. But hey, if they do it for you, then happy days. However, this little rhyme is dedicated to those who take their winter sports WAY too seriously. And feel obliged to share. every. detail.

 

Can’t wait for the snows

Can’t wait for the snows! Can’t wait for the snows!
I’ll fall down a hill in ridiculous clothes!
But shall I fall down it on two planks or one?

Two sounds amazing, but one sounds such fun!

Can’t wait for the season! Can’t wait for the season!
I’ll wear fuschia pink for no obvious reason!
And hang out in bars with instructors called Lars,

Drink stupid cocktails and talk out my arse.

Can’t wait for the crashes! Can’t wait for the crashes!
I’ll post lots of pics of my bruises and bashes.
But what shall I do, shall I pop out my shoulder,

Or fall off a ski-lift and land on a boulder?

Can’t wait for the spring! Can’t wait for the spring!
You’ll think it’s all over, but NO, no such thing –
I’ve got loads of films (got a headcam, remember?)

I’ll bore you to tears up until next December.

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2017

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The National Trust

I have a deep affection for the National Trust. With two energetic young boys, the weekend rule in our house is generally “anywhere but at home!” Our National Trust membership allows us to unleash them in some beautiful places, leaving our own house mostly unwrecked (although slightly more full of sticks) for one more precious day.

I think of the National Trust as a slightly eccentric great aunt, prone to lectures on the correct placement of cutlery, but also quite likely to slip me a boiled sweet or a couple of quid. So I hope this particular aunt doesn’t mind a bit of gentle ribbing.

 

The National Trust

The National Trust, The National Trust,
A mightier thing than all of us,
A fine institution, a positive force,
For a tenner a month, it can all be yours!
So we get in the car and head off for the day,
The brown signs of worthiness show us the way,
We head for the house – but I’ve got quite a thirst –

“Can we not go to the tearoom first?”

No – onwards! Past tapestries, teasets, a Titian,
A slightly tedious exhibition,
Cabinets, carpets and candelabras,
And a lovely lady, name of Barbara,
(A volunteer, reduced to tears,
By standing in one room for years)
She points at a pot! We all say “wow!

But can we go to the tearoom now?”

There are grounds all around, where there’s joy to be found,
In glorious nature, its sights and its sounds,
There are log piles to climb, and rope swings to hold on,
(It’s just like the park, only ten times more wholesome),
Rose gardens, rockeries, rippling rivers,
A small hairy man with his arrows and quiver,
Who gives us a go on his medieval bow –

But NOW is it time for the tearoom though?

Wait! Listen! YES! the clock strikes three,
The footsteps thunder – time for tea!
And mums, kids and grannies, all manners at bay,
Stampede for a spot in the Courtyard Café,
To toss back some tea, and scoff down some scones,
And snap up the shortbread before its all gone –
But where do we go once we’ve stuffed it all in?

LOOK! A shop full of chutney and artisan gin.

The National Trust, The National Trust,
A mightier thing than all of us,
A fine institution, a positive force,

For a tenner a month, this can all be yours.

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2017

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A plea to the ladies of France

Unsurprisingly, the inspiration for this one was a holiday in the South of France. I was simply in awe of the local ladies – they seemed a different species to sweaty, bedraggled me. You can see in my little thumbnail here, which was taken in Nimes, the elegance of me compared to the elegance of the lovely, composed lady posing for a photo behind me.

One day at the beach, there was one particular, very beautiful lady who sat down on a low wall which surrounded the beach – a wall that must have been covered in sand – wearing a white linen dress. When she arose, the dress remained both unstained and uncrinkled.

At that point, I knew something had to be done. And I did it via the medium of humorous poetry. Take that, immaculate lovely French ladies.

 

A plea to the ladies of France

On the South Coast of France,
We Brits love a chance
To enjoy all the sunshine and class,
But, dear French ladies, please,
While we’re loving your cheese,

There’s a few things we’d just like to ask.

First, please could you get
Up a bit of a sweat,
As we Brits dissolve into a mess?
In the blazing hot weather,
Don’t your thighs stick together,

Beneath that divine, skimpy dress?

Now, a week in a cossie
Surrounded by mozzies
Will get a Brit frantically scratching,
So please could you show –
Even just on one toe –

Some signs of allergic reaction?

Your clothes should be shabby,
Your mood must be crabby,
Your tops must have underarm tidemarks,
Your man should be chubby,
Your children quite grubby,

Your clothing should all be from Primark.

Just these few little tweaks,
And we’ll feel magnifique,
As we come, pink and sweaty and bitten
To the beautiful shores
of the grand Cote d’Azur –
Yours faithfully,
Women of Britain.
©️ Nina Parmenter 2017
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