KEY OF THE DOOR.

Kila lifted her hand up to the door again. Nothing. She shook her head perplexed. Why wasn’t the door opening? This had never happened before.

When the Ministry of Security and Home Affairs had first mooted the idea of integrated keys, there had been an outcry. What next will they want to embed in our skin, people had asked. But, as with the notion of vaccine passports, back in 2021, everyone had soon got used to the idea. And who nowadays still used an old fashioned key?

Kila rubbed her hand and tried the door again. What was she going to do? Without her palm key she wouldn’t be able to activate anything. How was she going to make phone calls, write, bank, show her health record, her ID? This was the stuff of nightmares.

She looked around in case anyone she knew was passing.

“Kila!” It was Alik reaching out a friendly elbow in greeting.

“Alik! Am I pleased to see you!” She smiled happily at her neighbour and elbowed him back.

Alik wasn’t smiling. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“My key’s no longer working,” he said.

“That’s odd,” she responded, “neither is mine. What do you think is going on?”

“So you haven’t heard the news?” Kila shook her head.

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s been some kind of security lapse. None of the palm keys are working. Not just yours and mine. But everyone’s.”

Kila’s eyes widened in amazement. “But that’s crazy. How are we going to do anything? The whole system will breakdown! It’s like they had back in the old days with the internet. What are we going to do?”

“We’re marching” announced Alik. “We’re marching on the Ministry. Listen!”

Kila listened and for the first time could hear the shouts of an angry mob. She could just about make out the words, “freedom from the key” being repeated over and over again.

“But I don’t want freedom from the key. I like my palm key. It gives me freedom to do everything I want to do.”

“But it gives them control over us,” answered Alik. “We want freedom from control.”

Now Kila could hear the mob chanting, “Freedom from control. Freedom from control!”

Alik elbowed her again. “Come with us Kila. Join the protest.”

Kila stepped back. “I can’t Alik. Keys give us freedom. You must see that.”

Alik scowled. “Keys belong to our colonial past.”

Kila shook her head and elbowed him away. “NO!”

“NO! NO! NO!”

“Kila – wake up! Happy birthday my darling! 21 today!”

Her mother was leaning over her. She was laughing and dangling something in her face. A large silvery beribboned cardboard key.

“Happy 21st birthday! Today you get the key of the door! That’s what we used to say when I was young. But it’s all change now. The Prime Minister was on TV just before announcing a new idea. They’re going to impregnate keys into your hand. Can you imagine! Whatever will they think of next?”

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems

AN ODE TO LITTER.

This needs to be sung to the tune of The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.

If you go down to the park today, you’re in for a big surprise

If you go out with your kids today, you’d better just close your eyes

For everywhere that there ever was

Is dumped with litter today because

Today’s the day that everyone has their picnic.

Every kid who’s out with their friends is sure of some fun today

There’s lots of fabulous food to eat and wrappings to throw away

Beneath the trees where nobody sees

That’s where they go to do their wees

That’s the way the kids today are brought up.

Picnic time for all their friends

All the kids are having a lovely time today

Watch them, catch them unawares

And see them litter on their holiday.

The leftovers that they ought to take home

Are left on the grass for you to step on

They’re totally unaware

The parents are on their mobile phones

And at six o’clock they’ll all go home

Leaving litter everywhere.

When you walk out of your front door, you’re in for a big surprise

A pile of poo has been left for you, you can see just where it lies

For every dog that ever there was

Will leave its poo for you to pick up

Another day their owners turn a blind eye.

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems

LETTERS IN THE ATTIC.

I’ve kept Rupert’s letters to me all these years. I don’t know why.  I come up here to the attic sometimes to re-read them and to escape.

Reading his letters I can still remember the girl I once was – or would like to have been.

People say that if you remember the sixties you weren’t there.  It’s said to have been a time of drugs, sex and rock and roll. I remember the sixties very well because Rupert and I met in 1968. The summer of love. All hippies, sit-ins, flares and flower power. A favourite song of the time was, “Are you going to San Francisco. It went, “If you’re going to San Francisco be sure to wear some flowers in your hair. If you’re going to San Francisco you’re gonna meet some gentle people there.” It sounds so soppy now but we all loved that song at the time.

Rupert and I met on the tube of all places. He accidentally stepped on my toe, very sweetly apologised and we just carried on talking. He remained on well past his stop and then asked if he could walk me home.

1968 is said to have been a time of sexual freedom. And it probably was for those who didn’t have nice middle class parents like mine watching their every move.

I remember feeling so excited when Rupert asked me to go away with him. I couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing him for six whole weeks. We were so much in love. I would have done anything to be with him. 

But my parents soon put a stop to that. Nice girls didn’t, they said. And that was that.

So Rupert and I wrote to one another. Every single day. And I still have his beautiful love letters.  Reading them now makes me want to cry. I don’t think I’ll throw them away just yet. They remind me of that time of innocence when everything was in front of me – when life was full of love and promise and …

 “Hey Jill, what are earth are you doing up there? You’ve been ages! Get a bloody move on! What is it with you? You always keep me waiting! Get a move on!”

I gathered up Rupert’s old love letters and stuffed them into their hiding place in the corner.

There was another yell, much louder and angrier this time.

“It’s time you gave that attic a bloody clear out. All the junk you have up there. Don’t tell me you’re mooning over those stupid old love letters again. You should have thrown them out years ago. I can’t understand why I ever wasted my time writing love letters to you!

Get a move on or do I have to come up there and drag you down myself!”

“It’s alright Rupert,” I reply meekly. “I’m coming down.”

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems

FREEDOM.

This evening – Monday 22nd April – will be the beginning of Passover, when Jewish families all over the world will be sitting down to the Passover Seder. 

Every year, the Passover story is told.   How we, the Jewish people, were once slaves in Egypt and are now free.

Jesus, who of course was Jewish – as were his disciples – was celebrating the Passover meal (Seder) at The Last Supper. 

Passover often coincides with Easter – hence the first line of this poem.  It also often coincides with my birthday – though not this year I am glad to say. Growing up this meant that I rarely enjoyed traditional birthday cake or a birthday tea. Having said that, Passover biscuits such as cinnamon balls are so yummy that I often wonder why we don’t have them all year round!

PASSOVER DITTY

When you’re celebrating *Easter,

it’s Passover for me,

no bread or cake or biscuits,

just matzos for our tea!

We have to eat unleavened bread

that’s matzo don’t you know,

they’re rather tasty crackers

but for eight days it’s a blow.

We cannot bake with flour

so use substitutes instead,

coconut and ground almonds

because there isn’t any bread.

It’s the festival of freedom

when we fled Egypt long ago

but just as relevant today

with what’s going on you know!

NB – I wrote this poem last year when Passover was, as it so often is, at Easter.

If you would like my recipe for cinnamon balls, please let me know.

If you would like to know about Passover, here’s an excellent link from the British Library: https://www.bl.uk/learning/cult/inside/goldhaggadahstories/goldenhagg.html

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems

© Photo by Andrea Neidle

ADDRESS BOOK.

I still use an old fashioned address book. The main drawback is that it needs regular updating. Hence this poem.

I do this every year.

Who’s in, who’s out

Crossing out the names

Of those no longer here.

One day far away

Will I look at the names

I crossed out today

And ask who were they?

And years from today

Will someone I know

Be doing the same?

Crossing out my name.

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems

A TEACHER’S LAMENT.

Challenged to write new lyrics to an old song, I came up with this.

It’s sung to the tune of, “Every Time We Say Goodbye”.

EVERY TIME I SEE AI

Every time I see AI

 I cry a little

Every time I see AI

I wonder why a little

Why all the students

Who just don’t seem to care

Are happy to pass off AI’s work

As if they are not there.

When AI’s used

There’s such an air of cheat about it

I’ve seen some geeks somewhere

Begin to speak about it

There’s no short cut better

But how strange the change

In word and in letter

Every time we use AI.

Every time we use AI

We lie a little

Every time we spot AI

We should cry a little

Every time we see AI

Every time we see AI.

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems