In Comp. 3402 you were invited to submit a poem or passage about an unusual predilection. The quirks ranged from wildly fantastical to having the ring of truth. Mike Morrison, Paddy Mullin, David Shields, Elizabeth Kay, Adrian Fry and Nick Syrett were close contenders, but the vouchers go to those below.
In supermarket checkout queues, not being in a dash
And now retired with time to spare, I always pay by cash.
Aware that those behind me have a thousand things to do
There’s nothing that delights me more than holding up the queue.
Behaving as a pensioner should and making others curse,
I’ll fumble through my pockets in a search to find my purse.
Then, having found it after a prolonged, drawn-out delay,
I’ll fiddle through the coins to find the right amount to pay.
To add a little pleasure and enjoy the process more,
I’ll purposely, perversely, drop a few coins on the floor
And, looking helpless, stand aside while others scrabble round
On bended knees to scout about till every penny’s found.
Then, come at last the time to pay, I’ll crown my quirky sport
By finding, after all the fuss, I’m still a penny short.
Oh, what a joy it is to practise this, my new-found art,
And though still spry despite my age, to act the pensioner’s part.
Alan Millard
My Dad, at the head of the table,
Must always be served up some bread:
It tickled his soul to have three crusty white rolls
Whenever the family was fed.
These rolls he took, one after t’other,
And plunged in a finger and thumb,
Pulling out, very slow, their internal dough,
Whilst all the while staring at Mum.
She seen him, a thousand occasions,
Do what he next went on to do:
Rolled the dough in his thrall into three little balls,
While whistling up Kalamazoo.
‘Don’t do what I do,’ he insisted,
As he juggled the doughballs with vim
Before smashing all three past the distant settee
With the cake slice provided for him.
Bill Greenwell
I scrub the loo while crowned by a tiara,
It adds a dash of sparkle to my chores,
French polish in French perfume; it’s uplifting,
In ballgowns I mop mud stains from my floors.
I organise the pantry in organza,
De-grease the oven, trailing clouds of tulle,
Dust skirting boards in skirts of silk and satin,
Brush tiles in beaded brocade as a rule,
Set cockroach traps while chiffon floats about me,
Swish taffeta each time I scour the bins,
I wash pans wearing head-to-toe black velvet,
Twirl in gold lamé as my laundry spins.
My carpet’s red – or is, once it’s been vacuumed –
It needs a touch of glamour, frocks and frills,
But buying all this bling instead of aprons
Is causing monumental cleaning bills.
Janine Beacham
Languishing, anguishing, Vincent the oil painter,
Being at odds with his mortal constraints,
Heedless of bodily vulnerabilities,
Felt a compulsion to dine on his paints.
Ergo, the woebegone neoimpressionist,
Sanity wandering out of control,
Wrapped in a mantle of sacramentality,
Suffered his pigments to enter his soul.
Fitfully, fatefully, Vince the invincible
Gobbled viridian, manganese blue,
Cobalt (insidious toxicologically),
Umber and madder, and madder he grew.
Onward he gormandised monomaniacally
Ochre, sienna and cadmium gold,
Rapt to discover their palatability,
Swallowing all that his palette could hold.
Alex Steelsmith
Whenever a lovelorn young Ouzelum bird
Made a date with an Ouzelum floosielum
This male’s predilection for flying tail first
Would hamper his chance to enthuselum.
So no matter the guiles and the various wiles
That were used to entice and to schmoozelum
They’d never take chances with rough male advances
But quickly and firmly defuselum.
Males tried every trick on each Ouzelum chick;
Of half measures one couldn’t accuselum.
But it made things much worse that they flew in reverse
So coitus was prone to bamboozelum.
Thus the Ouzelum species just faded away
Since love had so failed to amuselum.
No prospect at all to delight and enthral –
So no Ouzelum seed to infuselum.
Martin Parker
My mailbox is always full,
Paper bulges from its mouth
Letters all, there’s nothing else,
Postmarked London (West and South):
I write them all myself.
Some bring news of my affairs,
From others, invitations,
Some attend to my morale
With little recitations:
I’m my very own pen pal.
An interloper came today,
Sent by one who is not me,
An unwanted imposition:
A date for me to go and see
My mental health clinician.
Joseph Houlihan
No. 3405: Who’s who?
You’re invited to write a scene in which Doctor Whohas regenerated into someone you’d least expect (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 19 June.
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