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

MY KITCHEN DRAWER.

Do you, like me, have a kitchen drawer filled with a collection of utensils you hardly ever use, although they all seemed a great idea at the time?

Take, for example, my falafel spoon. I love falafel and always wanted to make my own. All I needed was the right spoon.  Many years ago, we hunted through supermarkets in Tel Aviv for a falafel spoon with a little metal cup on the end.  You fill it with the mix and when released it forms the perfect ball. We finally found it and I was overjoyed. Have I ever used it? No. It has languished at the back of the drawer from that day to this.

What would you call a collection of chopsticks?  A Chinese of chopsticks? A handling of chopsticks. Or how about a sticky of chopsticks?  We have an abundance of these, bought over the years in various China towns. They bring back memories of messy meals in noisy, crowded cafes in London, San Francisco, New York, Taipei and Beijing.

How about my three rolling pins. Why three you ask? A good question. There are four if you count the tiny wooden one I used myself as a child. I was about five when someone gave me a little baking set of which now only the rolling pin remains, beloved of each of our six grandchildren. They have all rolled pastry with it, cut out shapes of stars and gingerbread men. And as they roll we sing, “rolling rolling rolling” – the old TV theme tune from Rawhide. All families make their own traditions. And that’s one of ours! Of the other three rolling pins – one was my mum’s, one my mother in law’s and the other has always been mine. I wouldn’t be without it. Except when it, together with the others, gets stuck and I have to spend half an hour trying to ease the drawer open.

Here’s a small cellophane bag filled with brightly coloured plastic handles each with a sharp metal prong. These are for daintily holding your corn on the cob, one at each end.  The idea is to stop your fingers getting all greasy and buttery. But that’s part of the fun, so consequently they remain in the drawer.

What in my drawer gets used the most? My collection of battered wooden spoons which sometimes get thrown out and replaced. So, yes, they are actually useful. Probably the most used utensil I own.  Contrary to manufacturers’ advice they get put in the dishwasher so they seldom last long.

I once spent a fascinating half an hour with a friend who took me through every item in her kitchen drawer.  And then, just like me, she put them all back because you never know when they might come in useful!

© Andrea Neidle, My Life in Poems