Alive! Alive oh!

In Blogland's fair city where girls are so pretty 

I first set my eyes on sweet Ada - alone!

T'was my chance to pursue her

and maybe to woo her...thinking 

"Freckles and Muscles? Alive, alive oh!" 

"Alive, alive oh, alive, alive oh!

See my Freckles and Muscles, alive alive oh!" 

So sang my dear Ada, and no one could save her

from smelling too fishy, despite all her charms.

She wheeled her wheel-barrow

through streets broad or narrow,

while I couldn't wait to scoop her in my arms.

"Alive, alive oh, alive, alive oh!

See my Freckles and Muscles, alive alive oh!" 

Life now? It's more pithy, and oftentimes gritty;

dear Ada, my Ada don't leave me alone!

But hark! Am I dreaming?

Is my Ada scheming

to gather me into her arms once again?

"Alive, alive oh, alive, alive oh!

See my Freckles and Muscles, alive alive oh!" 

I hear a voice calling - almost caterwauling!

"Oh, Ada, my Ada, please throw me a bone?

I'll sing for my supper, 

show I'm not a duffer, 

for like any trained doggie, I will follow you home!

With apologies to Molly Malone traditional song, and thanks to P&SU 

P.S. This shows  why I have more than one reason for vacating my shed at the bottom of the garden, and trotting back to the house when Ada calls...

What's He Up To Now?

Bet you didn't know, dear reader, that in his younger days my husband Caddoc went in for all-in-wrestling. His favourite opponent was little me, Ada, his best-beloved (he says) wife. "Come now, dearest," he would cry, "three five minute rounds with two falls or a submission to decide the issue." Just imagine it!  In the halcyon days losing to him wasn't too bad, but latterly . . . goodness me, at my age!  Anyway, there he is, holed up in his shed, doing burpees and squats and one arm push-ups and trunk-curls and what are those rumbling sounds I hear . . . has he got a treadmill or an exercise bike in there? And here am I imagining him expanding his chest, toning his biceps and thighs, reshaping his physique to it's useful (oops! I mean 'youthful') splendour . . . though come to think of it 'useful' doesn't sound so bad.  Hold on!  Can this really be me, Ada (call me "Unyielding") Trellis falling prey to slightly impure day-dreams?  Never! No way!  On the other hand . . .

'Caddoc.  CADDOC!  Come here a minute. But take that scarecrow hat off, look you!' 

Magaly's invitation to write about muscle memory is behind this unwarranted and, I assure you, quite untypical outburst. Things are now back to normal and our hero has retreated to his shed. 

 

Aroint Thee, Cad!

 No, I don't know what it means, but it's Shakespeare(*), so it must be good. Unlike he of the burnt rice-pudding face and matching hat who is a bit of a curate's egg(**) - good, but only in parts. He thinks food be the music of his love, or something equally daft, but his little ditty fails to impress me.  It's overlaid with foodie metaphors and he's managed to devise a menu of all the stuff I really don't like.  Like marshmallow. Where on earth did he get the idea  . . . oh, never mind.  As I waded through his tripe (where are the onions)(**), I was waiting for some preposterous 'horses for courses' metaphor and an offer of horsemeat for a horse d'oeuvres (**).  Then what?  A main course where I fight off wandering hands like hands of bananas(**) seasoned with imploring glances, a ratatouille(**) of third rate chat-up lines, when all I really want is my feet up, 'Bake Off'(**) on TV and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps.(**)

To say again . . . 'Aroint Thee, Cad. Thou rump fed Runyon.'(*) 

(*) From the 'witches stirring their cauldron' scene in Macbeth,
(**)  'Food' references in accordance with Rosemary's inspiring prompt on 'Poets and Storytellers United.'

WATCH OUT, CADDOC

 Ada's Onto You . . .

In my wee Mini Clubman I went forth today, to shop in Llandudno or perhaps Colwyn Bay.  I drove down the High Street and was leaving the town when I spied an old hat that was wrinkled and brown, perched on the head of a wrinkled old man.  'Twas Caddoc, my husband.  I'll park where I can and follow the varmint. I'll keep him in sight.  I must see what he's up to, something’s not right, some scheme that he hopes will soften me up till I offer the manna from my loving cup. No chance!  I am Ada!  I spurn all romance!

The first shop he entered - a florist, forsooth. He emerged with red roses, I tell you the truth. Thence to Dunn's Hat Shop, the town's only link to his dim, distant past. What must I think? Surely to goodness the silly old bat isn't treating himself to a spanking new hat? A soft grey velour, a deerstalker perhaps?  Whatever it is, it's concealed in a box.  What next? A fresh haircut? Eye-liner? New socks?  He's planning an attack on my stout bedroom door.  "Avaunt thee, you rascal. You're a mind-numbing bore.'  But give him his due, he really does try. And Ada - that's me - should I laugh? Should I cry?

Forty long years I've resisted his charms.  Maybe next birthday I'll open my arms. 

My response to the Poets and Storyteller's prompt for this week, and my warning to my husband.

Are You Listening, Cad-My-Lad?

This week, the Poets and Storytellers blog asks us to take a fresh look at Clichés.

So here goes . . . a ditty with a sting in the tail (And that’s a cliché for a start!)

JUST SAYIN'

I have no box to think outside.

My plate is never full.

I do not basket all my eggs,

By no horns seize my bull.

There’s not a thing I feel deep down,

Nothing I over-mull.

‘Cad's eye?' My sharp stick longs to poke it,

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

Using clichés is not my wont,

Except ‘I love you’ when I don’t.

'My sharp stick?'  You must be joking!

I keep a quiver-full in my kitchen drawer.