Wonder what happened?
Woman super-hero down!
Help her! Help? Help who?
n.b. I saw this plastic doll’s head trodden into the towpath on Sunday.
Was it there because a local girl ripped the head off the toy and screamed in frustration, “I don’t need to take my 21st Century rôle models from some bloke drawing for DC Comics in 1941!”? I wonder.
(With respect to Joseph Heller, writer of Catch 22: “Help him! Help who? Help the bombardier. I am the bombardier. Then help him. Help the radio-gunner.”).
Where has this month gone?
I’ve not got used to writing
Twenty Nineteen yet!
p.s. What is this cruel trick? I have so many things still to do and this is my 60th year. Time to catch my breath, learn to breathe and slow things down. If I do, will my remaining days pass more slowly? I promise to take more care of each one.
At last, the last dance
Fumbled requests, mute replies
Music slow, hearts frantic
n.b. Remember the youth club, or school disco? Nightmare scenario. Boys on one side of the hall, girls dancing around handbags. Then, with just a few minutes before the lights would go up, the DJ would put on something like “Nights in White Satin” by The Moody Blues and the excitement or embarrassment of asking for a dance, being asked to dance and possibly having a slow dance would begin, leaving the wallflowers and perpetually tongue-tied watching on in a confusion of emotions ranging from relief to frustration.
Smiles with stranger in the queue
Alone no longer
Man versus Nature
Blades of steel v. blades of grass
Cricket’s the winner
n.b. The smell of cut grass releases various plant chemicals into the air. They signal the start of the English cricket season, even though there are weeks to the first coin toss and the first delivery.
In the picture above the light green patch of grass is the hallowed turf of a cricket square.
Coin found in the mouth
Ferry man gets his fare dues
No one goes Scot free.
n.b. You pay your money and take your choice. No going back. Time travels in one direction.
Now replaced by seats
Vast expanses of concrete
Filled with hopeful faces
p.s. I wrote this before travelling to London to stand in the away end to see Pompey lose 2-1 to Charlton Athletic at The Valley, (another club and ground with some great stories to tell).
Slowly pulses within unseen
Does The End start here?
Through now hollow eyes
Looking down on Walsall lives
No questions asked.
Founded in 1868 The Walsall Observer lived a predatory existance absorbing competitors throughout its 122 year existance, until it was culled itself by its eventual and ultimate owner, Trinity Mirror. This is a conglomerate of newspaper titles, which now calls itself Reach plc that is based at Canary Wharf in London’s revived docklands.
Observer is a passive role. Would this regional title have lived longer had it been given a more lively title? Does nominative determinism apply in business?
Walsall FC formerly Walsall Town Swifts FC currently struggle in the depths of League One, (the 3rd Division). Would they be doing better had the club not dropped the surname in 1896? The club is certainly long established enough to be amongst the high flyers, like their neighbours, Wolverhampton Wanderers, (The Wolves). I sense it has remained a modest competitor because of its more modest branding. Follow the Wolves, or follow the Swifts? It’s easier keep up with a wolf, I suppose.
Had this town newspaper been called The Walsall Inquisition, would people of power been more wary of the Fourth Estate in this community? Would the newspaper been a ferocious watchdog for the people’s interests?
The sandstone used to build this imposing facade was glowing in the last light of late afternoon, but the building looked most sad. Its bold headline never more apt, as life went on below and the old Observer watched on without comment.