A Little Chink of Light, Look You.

My husband Caddoc AKA Cad the Blogger (here) maybe doesn't realise I've been monitoring his recent antics with mounting interest.  I have been away the last few days in Llandudno. The shopping there is better. For a Welsh chapel-goer, I have splashed out considerably on some new outfits, one of which is quite suitable for day-wear. I also nipped into the excellent Llandudno "Homebase" for a doormat to replace the tattered old doormat which has disgraced my doorstep far too long.  I found quite an attractive one with a prominent "Welcome" legend on it.  Re-reading that last sentence, I get the feeling it is capable of more than one interpretation. Be assured I wasn't referring to you, Caddoc.  It's your gardener's hat that's tattered, not you. And surprise, surprise, I decided you needed a new one . . .

. . . an improvement, I think you will agree, even if little can be done about your face.  Then, imagine my surprise on returning to Abergele, to find you have parted with your saxophone!This can only be, I assume, in response to my recent complaints. Now that's going one step too far. You take your Ada's grouching far too seriously sometimes. I've had a look round some online music stores, and, well . . . Christmas is coming, and although these things are not exactly cheap . . .  And do you know, I didn't know they come in different sizes!  I'd like to think you were equipped with a nice big one.  Finally, I have just made a big pot of Welsh leek soup.  Far too much for one refined lady living alone.

Solution To The Saxophone Problem

Please note Ada,  I have donated my instrument to a worthy cause! I will never play another note on it. This shows where it is now.
So farewell wind instrument...

and hello silence!

Late Edition Extra...Silence which has now been broken by the dulcet tones of my beloved! I've been TOOTED! And she's bought me a new hat, apparently, though I have yet to be presented with it.

Wonders will never cease!

 

I hope she remembered it needs to fit my 23 1/2" head...

Another Plea To Ada

Empty is my cup; its tarnished face
rebukes me. When did it drain dry of love?
The heady wine of passion will not slake
a thirst which longs for tenderest embrace
from loving arms. A hand in velvet glove
could lead me where it willed, and I'd forsake
all other paths. I call upon your grace
of spirit, hoping it may rise above
recriminations  for my past mistakes.

I have to thank Magpie Tales for providing a picture which had exactly the right emotional feel for my latest outpouring to my Beloved.

Monday's Child. November 22nd.

Another contribution to the Child's Garden of Verses, prompted by this illustration:-

Dragon's Eye View

What strange animal is this?

It has no tail or wings or scales.

It's colour is not green.

Its yellow skin seems not to fit,

flopping around its waist and hip.

The strangest beast I've ever seen!

It's friend has spiky horns and tail

grown from its head. Red its lower

skin. What a tale to tell

my dragonettes when I get home.

I bet my Naughty One will say

"Ada, did you flame them both away?"

Strictly Not For Kiddywinks

Another Monday's Child prompt tempted me to add this piece of naughtiness in my ongoing attempt to woo my lady love. See HERE for stage one, or HERE for stage two, or if you need further clarification, ask Ada.

Ada the Queen of my heart -
this little Welsh Dragon upstart
is starting to pine.
O, won't you be mine?
Love,
Cad
the silly old f**t.

P.S. don't miss the previous one of today's posts ! It shows my thoughtful side much better than this tarradiddle.
Here's the link for you.

Poems For Ada

Life was one long hand-hold

In the Springtime of our life together
we had time to talk and exchange thoughts.
But fate, which falls the same for many people,
soon forced another path, one often fraught
with accusations, discontent and tears.
We ourselves destroyed the peace we sought.
Now, through conscious change, may we not take
a better heed of lessons life has taught? 

But things changed.

I would shower you with fragrant petals,
serenade you underneath the moon,
if you would condescend to smile upon me,
and forgive the paltry efforts of a goon
who'll try his best to win back your affection.
I hope that you will give your answer soon;
I'd like to wind time back to our beginning...

May I suggest a second honeymoon?  

Time to start again.

Message To My Beloved Part 2

Perhaps you would have understood better, my dearest, if I had posted this version of the song I was trying to serenade you with - no scantily clad pouters in sight. But I must say the Golden Lady with the dark hair in the first version bears more than a passing resemblance to your good self in the days of your youth, don't you agree?

Having survived the night here in the potting shed,  I now present you with my adaptation of verses for you to sing as you play your guitar, accompanied by my banjo.


Song For Ada

"Rock me, Mama like a waggon wheel,
rock me Mama any way you feel "-
I'm your Caddoc and sure, I'm real!
Oh Mama!
(plinka-plinka-plink-plink)

Dig my potatoes and trim my leeks -
be the perfect lady love that I seek.
You can pluck my banjo any day of the week
Oh Mama!
(winka-winka-wink-wink)

Let's forget the warring and call a truce-
trip the light fantastic 'til we both turn puce
and need to drink a gallon of orange juice.
Oh Mama!
(drinka-drinka-drink-drink)

Sorry the YouTube clip seems to begin at a strange place, but click to play anyway...The words are fine as long as you ignore the spelling mistakes!

What's Today?

Would you believe it's -

STIR UP SUNDAY? - 

- that's what a TV chef is telling me, at this very moment, even as I write.  HE'S talking about making your Christmas Pudding. I'M talking about making mincemeat of Caddoc the Haddock, look you!

Master Chef is talking about getting all the family into the kitchen on this the fourth Sunday before Christmas so that they can all take a hand in stirring the pud. Including the dog!  The very idea. I'm talking about banishing Caddoc to his Shed as punishment for the "serenade" he posted yesterday - for I need no more convincing that "Cad", the blog author, is indeed husband Caddoc, green-fingered gardener, indifferent saxophonist, and general . . . words fail me.  Go visit his blog, watch and listen as I did with mounting horror as a bevy of scantily clad young women parade themselves in his YouTube selection, twisting themselves this way and that . .  what's the modern expression . . . "bumping and grinding" . . . their seductive young hips writhing in a pitiful imitation of . . . of . . .  stirring up unmentionable passions in impressionable young minds, inflaming young men to transports of ungovernable lust before they hurl themselves upon these provocative maidens with lecherous snorts and grunts and carry them off to secluded nooks and crannies in Pentre Mawr Park where the women "license their roving hands to go before, above, between, below" (click the link if you dare! Just look at it!  Blatant nudity and undisguised eroticism!) - until the whole of North Wales seems to be one long sustained bellow of . .  of . . . well, never mind. You wonder I need to go sit in a damp, freezing cold Welsh Chapel twice very Sunday?  And there was me, Ada Trellis, retired schoolmarm, Mary Whitehouse Soundalike, Scourge of the Permissive Society, on the point of considering the possibility of discussing the question as to whether after due deliberation and a thorough examination of all the various issues involved, I might readmit Caddoc to the Marital Roof.  Only as a first step, you understand.  There!  Glad I got that off my, my, er . .  my chest!  Is the shed comfy, Caddoc?  We are back to Square One  . . . well, perhaps Square Two, my little Welsh friend.

Message To My Beloved

If you want to meet the lady in question, pop over to HERE - but be prepared for a surprise, perhaps...

Confession Time?

The Hour Approaches

I hide behind my trellis with alarm.
The witch's dust may signify my end
and force me to admit the truth I hid -
she is is my best and truest lifelong friend.

Beneath her outer shell there beats a heart
as soft as any pink and white marshmallow,
which, once toasted to perfection by my fire,
could melt the very core of this poor fellow

who stands before you. Hapless in my shed
I while away the hours by chasing dreams
of how to pave the cobblestones with gold
to lead us to a better life. It seems

the longed for time may come upon us soon,
when both will be content to work as one,
though love, not magic, will  provide the cure...
Perchance our fighting days are almost done?

To understand what is going on, it might help if you were to visit HERE first! Then you need to realise all these moments in time were sparked by Willow's Magpie Tales prompt this week. If you are still puzzled - then Gesundheit!

Magpie Tales#41

I use this week's prompt from the indefatigable Willow to continue the contest with my estranged husband Caddoc Trellis.  (Oops. Did I say "estranged"? Sorry, "strange" is what I meant . . . )

Witching Hour

Five to XI! (*) I brush my pointy hat
and sandpaper the splinters off my broom-
stick some eyes of frogs and blood of newts,
that sort of thing, into my portmanteau
and take a trial spin around the room.

(Wheeeeeeeeee! Out through the open window!)

The stars look down. The baleful Moon is full
of craters just like husband Caddoc's face.
I'll strafe his Shed with Witching Dust I've made
from ground-up bones and condiments to taste.

(That'll hexxxxxxx the poor old git.)

My Witching Dust's a Truth Drug. Just one sniff
he'll spill the beans. That "Trellis Fencing" blog
authored by "Cad" who I suspect is Caddoc -
he'll own up, just like falling off a log.

(Caddoc!  Are you in there?  Come out and fight!)

Drifting smoke suggests he's frying wee dead mice
in batter. And he thinks that I'm the witch!
Perhaps we should join forces. Combined spells
could lure a Gardener back to an Old Bitch . .  ?
He's such a softie. (So am I at heart.
Perhaps, perhaps we could make a fresh start . . ?)


(Coooeeee!  Caddoc  . .  all could be forgiven . . . )


(*) Pronounce as "five to ex eye", or "five to eleven"  
Either suits the "pentameter" reasonably well. Schimples!

Times Are Gettin' Hard, Boys...

So I've started thinking about alternative Christmas Goodies. How about these for tasty Festive treats?

Method.

After whacking, skin carefully, dip in egg and breadcrumbs, and fry in butter until golden brown. The tails make perfect pick-up points, as they remain relatively cool at all times.They may be decorated with red or green ribbons, to add to the Seasonal Jollity.

Mind you, you will need strong teeth to masticate these bony morsels to a consistency where swallowing is possible. Their bones are somewhat tougher than sardines or pilchards...

N.B. Nobody in their right mind is expected follow this recipe...

Monday's Child#21

Will the prompt picture prompt KiddyFriendly verses?

Come Hither, Little Turkey.
Don't be deceived by beaming smile
or pumpkin-pie aroma.
It's just a ruse to help beguile
the turkey's "Why, Hello Ma!"
Then, when he's close enough to sniff
I whack him with the pie-dish
a single, brutal, well-timed biff -
and a warm(*) Thanksgiving wish.
(I bet my readers think I'm vile . . )

(Children have to learn sooner or later than life is cruel, bloodthirsty and unfair. Particularly to turkeys. At Thanksgiving. And Christmas.)

(*) Warm?  Actually about 180degC. 20 minutes per pound + 20 minutes
In many fan assisted ovens, 140degC is quite hot enough.

Kiddywinks Korner?

Not in my shed. But this picture prompt I saw on Dr FTSE's blog got me thinking.

WARNING-  

Children and animal welfare exponents READ NO FURTHER!

Rat Man Rant

Mice aren't nice.

They gnaw.

What's more,

they're twice

as quick

as my stick.

But in my shed,

I like them DEAD.

Poison pellets

in shallots

might work.

But why shirk

the death blow?

POW!

Splat!

That's that. 

I believe thanks are due to BKM at Monday's Child  and Phoebe Ericson, who drew the original way back in 1947 . Both would no doubt be scandalised at my interpretation...

Now Look At Me

Do you wonder, after Life With Ada, that I have become a crumpled wreck? For her latest Cad knock, she has crept into my shed and made shards of my special pots! Their broken parts carpet the bench where I had them neatly stacked and some have been ground into the shag pile rug I rescued from a tip. I said my shed had hidden depths. Shag pile, leather recliner, blackout curtains - oh yes, they're all there in my Home From Home corner...
I can see I shall have to go to B&Q today to replace my pots. Thinks, should I next replace potty Ada?

Once I was Handsome

...now plus 'E'!  As edited later, thanks to Dr FTSE
Look at me! Once upon a time...

I told you my shed was like the Tardis. It managed to hide this photo for years, underneath a bag of Growmore. So, now it has surfaced, I can let you see me back in my glory days...

Don't all swoon ladies, but if you bump into Ada, do tell her what she's been missing for all these years?

Magpie Tales#40

This week's prompt from Willow gave me a Bright Idea!

BOLAS


Necklace of polished stones
with chunky badge attached . . .
Where most women see bling
Ada sees bolas!  I'll swing
it round and round my head
till it whistles like the wind.
I'll make for his Garden Shed.
(Are you with me, followers
 and fans?) Whey-hey!
It's Smash Some Plant Pots Day!







Interpretation and comprehension of this Opus will be helped by reading
earlier posts about Caddoc Trellis's Beloved Garden Shed.

Wishful Thinking

If only...

Ada, as usual, sat there unsmiling.
Despite the harsh treatment
and relentless grilling
her man remained true.
But this was thrilling -
she knew what to do!
Open her heart,
her legs and her arms
and welcome her husband
with all of her charms!
Why had she spent long years
frigid and cold,
when the warmth she had longed for
could be hers to hold?

"To have and to hold"-
was that not the vow?
She pulled out her mobile
gave Caddoc a call.
"Come to the shed now -
I will reveal all!"

It was dark in the potting shed,
until the moon
lit up the wheelbarrow-
made Ada swoon
as she realised Caddoc was
eager and willing,
as he stood in the doorway
where moonlight was spilling...



My imagination was incapable of proceeding beyond this point- possibly just as well. But if anyone knows of a potent love potion that would make my Beloved act in the manner heretofore mentioned, please tell me how to acquire same? I am getting desperate, you can tell...

There's A First Time For Everything

And this is mine! I have been relegated to my garden shed once too often and today the worm has turned. I have dug deep into something other than garden soil, and am planting seeds of rebellion. No longer will I be the silent partner, even though the ears who listen to me will not be the ones I most wish to whisper into. Ah, Ada my Ada, after forty years you still remain the light of my life, but you have drawn the blinds down in your mind, and your brilliance eludes me.
The World of Blog will be my confessor, and and my salvation. It's better than talking to myself.

Poetry Bus. November 8th.

A Garden Shed Widow's Pipe Dream
(after reading Ariel's Song from "The Tempest")

Full six foot deep my Caddoc lies.
Of his bones are caulis made.
These shallots once were his eyes:
Nothing of him that could fade
but will Scheming Ada riddle
into something edibible.
Bird-scarers hourly chink his knell:
Clink-clank, clink-clank

Oh, how I wish he'd go to...

What's that, dear?  I must have dozed off...


The original, by W.S. (which is linked above) answers
Jessica's sea-themed prompt here for the Poetry Bus, 8th. November.

Magpie Tales#39

Marital disharmony in the Trellis household continues, thanks to Willow's latest prompt.

Caddoc-a-Doodle-Do

Now what's he up to, Caddoc in his shed?

Sounds like his saxophone has sprung a leak?

Or . .  that vile rooster he brought home last week

is making merry with its jabbing beak

to peck a few more pockmarks in his head.

Some men would pluck their Little Chick in there -

not Caddoc! The imagination baulks

at the thought!  Those impassioned rooster squawks

speak not of rapture.  He takes it out for walks . . .

. . . whatever keeps him out of Ada's hair.

(Pssst . . . reading this might help. Regards, Ada T.)

Poetry Bus, November 1st.

Go here to see the multiplicity of prompts offered by Liz  this week, all connected to Halloween.


Grow It With Music

In our back yard there stands a garden shed,

and from the shed, nerve-shredding wails and moans

leak through my kitchen window. Tears I shed -

of laughter! Caddoc’s playing saxophone!

He thinks it helps his baby pumpkins grow

plump for All Hallows’ Eve. “For don’t you see,”

he says, “that serenading sweet and low

inflates my pumpkins?” One of many bees

in Caddoc’s gardening bonnet, I suppose.

In Spring I’ve heard him serenading trees.

Bet they’d like to uproot themselves and run –

as I would.  Caddoc’s sax is not much fun.

The Poetry Bus Challenge, 25th. October

Argent's interesting prompt sought poems about "Meetings"


Name Dropping


Biggles I met at the Llandudno fete
in '64. He took me on a flight of fancy.
Man, oh MAN, I fancied him, his leather
airman's helmet gracing his airman's head.
But I digress. Dick Barton, Sherlock Holmes,
some footballer whose name I now forget,
all these from time to time became my friends,
Ill Met by Moonlight or at day's High Noon.
Jimmy Stewart, Marilyn, two comics
who wore bowler hats - Quarrell? And Hardly?

I can't escape them even in my dreams.
General de Gaulle (what a monstrous ego),
explained he won the war all by himself,
a feat he claimed was worth a Croix de Guerre
or two. We were dream lovers. Didn't last -
I swapped him for the Ghost of Christmas Past!

Not too many people know that Linbergh
landed first near Abergele. He stopped
by to say "Hello", or was it "Hiya,
Ada!" (being a Yank, you see). There is
no end to famous well-knowns I have met,
even The Man Who Never Was. A pet
he was, or was it never was?  I bet
I've known a lot more famous names than you -
But youth and youthful popularity
were thrown away on Caddoc!  Pity me . . .

Another Trip on the Poetry Bus

For this week's prompt, NanU asks poets to abandon their usual writing den for pastures new, so to speak, and there - produce their poem - which I do now, with apologies to Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley,(*) whose original you can find HERE.

Wishful Thinking

I met a poet from nearby Colwyn Bay

Who said: A small, dilapidated Shed

Stands in Abergele. There, amongst clay

pots, his visage battered, pocked, half dead
with wrinkled skin and look of worn dismay
sulks Caddoc banished from the nuptial bed
and mocked in Blogland by a Demon Wife.
"Full forty b***dy years of married strife"
he sighs.
                Beyond his rhubarb bed, berries
of deadly nightshade grow, deep purply red.
She culls - but only when the Moon is up
so no one sees the Demon at her toil
with mortar, pestle. Soon the ooze of oil
drips into Caddoc's bedtime Horlicks cup . . .

(*) I thought Bysshe was a real dumb name till I learned
that some recently dead pop-singer called one of his children "Blanket"

The Poetry Bus, October 4th

The prompt, this week from NanU was:-

Happiness

Yes, I remember Happiness -

the word, because one afternoon

when I was seventeen, my Mam said

“A girl can’t leave her Mam too soon.”

Not “said”, “hissed.” Ada jumped for joy

and ran to pack her little case,

met her beau from the motor trade.

He lived in Rhyl, a smashin’ place.

A week, a month, two months went by

I learned to cook and wash and dry

the dishes while he sold old cars

to any punter who passed by.

And for those months my young heart sang

till came the day he said in jest . .

“Why not go dancing on your own . .  “

Caddoc was there. You know the rest.

DJINN AND DISAPPOINTMENT

Bought

myself

a lamp, and

Alladin-like,

rubbed its dull bits bright.

Blue smoke! A djinn writhed out!

He bowed, spoke . . . "What's Madam's wish?"

Fast thinker, me! I said "Banish

Dreaded Caddoc to Llandudno, please"

Whoosh! Shed and husband vanished . . . then I woke.

(Followers and commenters can see husband Caddoc down in the right side-bar)

PERFUMEREE

Don't

you dare

suggest I

wear fragrant oil!

The Old Goat in his

garden shed has daydreams

of romance while he's bedding

his tomatoes in the greenhouse

soil. A spoon of garlic if I may?

A clove a day keeps Caddoc's hands at bay.

(*) Just my little joke!

Renewal of Vows After 40 Years

Has it really been that long
that we aren't put asunder?
How do I put up with you?
That's what I often wonder.
Have you not learned in forty years
to keep your Welsh hands to yourself?
You can get stuff to keep you calm
free on the National Health.
Get out to your garden shed
or do some DIY.
And don’t come in with muddy boots.
And never ask me why
I’m such a crabbed old battleaxe.
I’ve lived with you too long!
TWO THOUSAND weeks ago it was
when life went badly wrong.
All veiled in white, my Mam in tears
The Best Man reeling drunk
The darling bridesmaids rioting.
I knew that I was sunk.
And when I think there’s more to come . . .
I must try to be brave.
Perhaps, with Fortune on my side
I’LL dance upon YOUR grave.

Concrete Poetry

On my tours of Blogscapes I sometimes see references to "concrete" poetry and a novel form known as the "etheree", what will they think of next?  I have asked Caddoc about concrete, for he does have some uses. I have consulted Google and Wikipedia: -

"Concrete poetry begins by assuming a total responsibility before language: accepting the premise  of the historical idiom as the indispensable nucleus of communication, it refuses to absorb words as mere indifferent vehicles, without life, without personality without history —  taboo-tombs in which convention insists on burying the idea."

- which presumably means something in the Ivory Towers of the Universities of Abergele, Bradford or Connecticut.  

Concreteree

Mix

four parts

gravel with two

parts sand and one

part O.P.C(*). Add

water. Stir with paddle.

Pour into two big buckets.

Put one foot in one and one foot

in the other. Wait till mix hardens.

Now you can't move or fall over. Schimples!

(*) Ordinary Portland Cement according to Caddoc Trellis, 
to whom this etheree is dedicated.

“Big Tent Poetry” Sept. 6th.

 Prompt  is HERE -

"Think of something you said. Now write what you wish you had said”

Ladies Choice

At the Abergele ballroom long ago
the M.C., such a nice young man, you know,
announced – he had a nice Welsh lilting voice –
“The next dance, ladies, is a ‘Ladies’ Choice.’”

The band struck up – I yomped across the floor.
I’d spied a nice young man beside the door.
“You'll dance with me, young man. Indeed you shall.”
I should have said “Where are the toilets, pal?”