Lunchtime is fraught with perils. Here's one.

Where are my chopsticks?

Or “you had one job, Pret.”

I pick out some sushi, and queue with the masses,

I bear unsolicited thoughts on my glasses,

from the cashier (a man with no obvious talent

for seducing the ladies – a bungling gallant),

to the office I wend, bereft of a fiver

but focused on what will absorb my saliva.

But where are my chopsticks? I’m implement-less!

How can I consume my lunch with finesse?

So I track down a fork, eat my sushi old-school

with a culturally irregular, frumpier tool.

Here's a post about a magazine cover that made me cross today.

Magazines show us pictures of ladies’ bods, mocked

and we’re meant to feel sickened and horribly shocked

at the post-baby belly, the whiff of a wobble

the bare-faced ass cheek of a thigh un-remodeled.

If bouncing beach babes are disrobed as disgusting

then we feel less bad when our own jeans are busting.

Thank you mags! You have sanctioned our fallible form!

But did we ask you to have female beauty re-drawn

as a shock-fest, a horror, a laughable mass?

You have come to a terrible logic impasse:

if famous femme bodies are monstrous when flawed

are our own imperfections really, truly ignored?

You’d like us to think you’ve forgiven our rolls

you believe we’ve not spotted you’re making us trolls.

But we notice hypocrisy hiding as hugs

liking ladies is not done by trashing their jugs.

NOW’s the time to fight back and be interceders,

lazy magazines, you have insulted your readers.

Walking in the Lakes

I'm walking in the fells

breathing deep the hill-top air

savouring the beauty

and letting go my cares

when it comes into my vision

 - a Heaven-fashioned cranny!

Just one minor point,

it looks exactly like a fanny.

The second in the criminal condiments series

Coleslaw

There’s a garnish that’s often found in the vicinity

of cold meats, of baps; an unholy trinity

concocted of carrot, of shaven raw cabbage

baptised in mayonnaise, in unopposed marriage…

until now. I will not hold my peace

til this horror of sauce will desist and decease!

Its texture is slippy, its taste is abhorrent,

how dare it invade my plate without a warrant?

And there’s one other thing ang’ring me more and more

and that’s when food vendors describe it as ‘slaw’.

We’re not in the Deep South, and this is a ballad

to say ‘I will exorcise you, devil’s salad’.

A Supreme Being commutes to work

For this post, I've really tried to get inside the head of a tube arsehole.

A Supreme Being commutes to work

The thing you should know before you embark

upon reading my tale, is a truth that is stark.

I’m honestly sorry for all of you folk,

you merest of mortals, who carry the yoke

of ordinariness,

but I solely address

my comments and musings to others like me,

whose importance is close to Lord God Almighty.

When I ride on the bus I favour a seat

that is close to the window – the spot that is sweet.

But what’s certainly not in my anticipation

is the slightest delay in alighting at station

and I’d rather the chap in the aisle to be standing

and swaying for hours if it speeds up my landing

(a wait by closed doors is a small price to pay

if it saves me a second on my celestial way).

When down in the underground, braving the rabble

I’m never deterred by the threat of a scrabble

because pushchairs and suitcases simply dissolve

when I thrust them aside with my mighty resolve.

Once on the platform, and the tube doors spring wide

I simply don’t see why I should stand aside

when a deity’s need to be boarding trumps all!

(if you slip down the gap, the rats soften your fall).

It’s time for the lift, and we’re all crammed inside

(to force myself in is a matter of pride

twasn’t my elbow that made you jackknife!)

and my virtuous bowels are stirring to life

but my sanctified gust is incense for the masses

and their sad little sins purified by my gasses.

When the lift has ascended, I surge for the gate

(whole worlds would expire should I become late)

but it’s so damn unsporting to reach for my ticket

in advance of the tube’s gaping, clamping last wicket   

and the mortals behind me are pleased by the show

while I empty my pockets and cork up the flow.

Now I burst from the station, and pound up the street

the nation must dance to the pulse of my feet

so they dodge and they skip so my pathway is clear

God it’s great to receive all this well-earned god-fear!

Cats and coffee

I don't own a cat and I don't drink coffee, but don't let that spoil your enjoyment of today's blatherings:

A bad start to the day

I woke up this morning and tumbled from bed

I misjudged the cupboard and bumped my poor head

I tripped on the carpet and stubbed my big toe

It’s truthful to say that my mood was quite low.

The kitchen was dark and the air thick with silence

til I flicked on the light, and my eyes met with violence

for there sat the cat, head held high in the air,

its fat rear wedged tight in my cafetiere!

My morning thenceforth involved yanking and hissing

but I won’t have a cat’s bum cause me to go missing

the tiniest drop of my first cup of coffee.

But as I sit sipping, my throat has gone frothy…

I think that the cat had a trick up his paw

for I’m rendered unable to take a gulp more

as out of my mouth winds a long strand of fur

and that nasty old feline has started to purr.

© Catherine Lucie, 2013

Mayonnaise

I'm on tour at the moment and am eating a lot of packet sandwiches, hence the following sentiments:

I hate you, mayonnaise

I open the packet, saliva a-brewing

but the moment I chomp, the whole sandwich is ruined

because plastered throughout, like a coat of emulsion

is a glutinous substance to cause my revulsion…

Wherever there’s food, mayonnaise, you’re there - hidden,

you lurk in my sandwich: you snuck in, unbidden.

You slick up my burger, you skulk near my chips,

you posture as mustard – you’re the craftiest of dips.

I loathe you, I hate you, I can’t stand your taste

you eggy, you slimy, you wobbly paste!

I won’t stand aside, I abhor acquiescing

to a gate-crashing, slippery, commonplace dressing. 

© Catherine Lucie, 2013