Sunday, 21 May 2017

No News...

I don’ read books or anyfin,
ol’ fashion people do,
an’ I’m young y’know
an’ I’ve ‘air to crimp  an’ knees t’show – Har Har! 
Is this dress too short or not short enough?

The lads love me cos we talk of fins
that are importunt like, like what (?),
well fins in the neighbour’ud,  who’s screwing who,
an’ wevver fat ol’ Missis Smiff will kick Jonny
up ‘is arse‘n’kick ‘im owt like she said she would
when she found ‘im kissin Mike (yuk yuk),
y’know Mike ooze got’is brain arf missin.’ 
Har Har!

Prime Min’ster?  T’resa May innit? 
Tell trufe I don’ give a shit ‘bout anyfin in pollytics.   
They never do nowt for me, she’s Tory innit? 
Watch news on telly?  Nah, its borin’ innit? 
Wars?  Don’ care.  Famine?  What’s that?  Oh ‘unger.
Don’ care, only care what’s in my belly! (LOL)!

Newspapers?  Already said don’ read books or anyfin, 
I’m not ol’ fashion y’know, but I text’n’fins
so know evryfin that’s wurf anyfin I need t’know.

Anna :o]

Brendan at Toads writes brilliantly of how ‘The News’ is fed to us in this world of ours, where we are constantly bombarded with ‘News’ here there and everywhere. 

News and its intention to educate has now become a source of entertainment and often is presented thus.  It creates the shallow world of ‘celebrities’’ and then does its best to destroy same, cluttering their world with the sharks that are paparazzi, this especially so of the tabloid gutter press, who frequently find new depths to sink to.  Sadly, this presentation of ‘news’ is popular with its readers… (And this I worry about, worry about how society is being dumbed down.)

What did the (gutter) press do when Dr. David Dao was dragged off the United Airlines plane – they sought to find ‘dirt’ in his history and joined Oscar Munoz in victim-blaming.  Why in heavens name did they do that?   Luckily not all newspapers are the same and the Independent gives a fair opinion on this.

I could rant on forever but won’t.

Oddly enough, when reading Brendan’s post, the first thing that came to mind was that of an ex-colleague, a lovely kind young woman, who had no interest in the world outside her own sphere and had little knowledge of it – and so I wrote of her.   I could never understand why she didn’t want to know.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Bobbie Johnson

Wednesday, 17 May 2017


In the carnage of that that is war,
she touched by icy fingers of impending Death,
he rasps her (unwelcome) welcome as
he sucks in her last dying breath.

He finds a peculiar warmth there,
a tincture of her fear,
a scintilla of her hope there
as she knows that Death is near.

Oh how she fights it, her
heart pounding in chest,
a clock ceasing in relentless time
as he lays her out to rest

Her vision is forever dimmed
by the blackness in her eyes.
She is enveloped by the darkness
as she knowingly slowly dies.

He has won then,
his duty almost done,
she is enveloped by the darkness
as he blocks out rising sun.

She returned to the earth then,
her life is but her death,
relinquishing all her hope then,
she bequeathing her last breath.

She searches for the bright light
as promised by her God
and much to her displeasure
finds there is naught but neath the sod…

Anna :o]

Mish at dVerse has us writing of sensory play, that is, an abstract view of the senses.  I really don’t know if my offering fits the bill as it is not pretty, but nevertheless is what came to mind (from where I do not know!). Maybe an abstract of an abstract..?

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:  Soumyadipto

Saturday, 13 May 2017


He behemoth, obese he is, ridiculous, an affront to us, we who with polite constraint, nibble feasts with dainty fingers, whilst he, fat slothful fool, greedy, gorges gluttonous, fills selfish pleasures of his round repulsive belly.

How low he is, how far beneath us, we who scowl, sated with our smug self-satisfaction.  Deserving he of our derision, failed he is, outside the norm, he an imbecile, an embarrassment, a blight upon us, worthy of nothing but our scorn.

Watch how he moves, fat rippling flesh of fat lumbering fool!  How can we (in our ivory towers) do naught but smile smug self-satisfaction, laugh out loudly, jeer and deride?

Anna :o]

Magaly at Toads has us writing of how we think mythical monsters/imaginary beings might fare in the prejudices and discrimation rife in our present day world.

I don’t think Behemoth would fare very well, we would not tremble at his roar, rather he would tremble at ours…

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  E. Plon

Thursday, 4 May 2017

Wash Day

Peggy Vierra Link (1923-2004) Wash Day, Oil

She finds a certain intimacy
in the washing of his things,
his soft blue woollen jumper,
his old grey cotton slacks,   these
the clothes he died within. 

She sniffs the jumper first, inhales him,
then gently submerges him in suds,
she is beguiled by wild emotions,
there is wire in her blood.

Her breath caught in deep excitement,
she scrubs away his scent,
from deep within and deep without   he 
the source of malcontent.

Her labour brings with it vivid imagery,
of knife glistening in the sun,
of sharp surprise upon his face
as she with cruel twist of blade
his waywardness undone.

She bears the scars within her heart
of a woman truly sinned,
but cleansed her soul she pegs him out,
leaves him blowing in the wind.

Anna :o]

Margaret at Toads welcomes us with Artistic Interpretations, that is ekphrastic poetry inspired by works of art, of which she has chosen a fine selection (for us).  Cheers Margaret!

Also shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN.  Cheers for hosting Grace.

Image from Real Toads and used with permission.

Friday, 28 April 2017


I don’t know who he is
or where he is
but expect to find him there,
under the bed,
behind the drapes or
maybe snuck in
behind the closet door.    
Waiting for me he is,
scared stiff I am
as I imagine the unimaginable.

He will wait til me in deepest sleep
and then creep out he will,
maybe poke out my eyes, stitch up my lips
or maybe he’ll just smother me.

I promise I am good (I am)
and should he come tonight
I’ll tell him that and maybe
he’ll believe me then
and leave me then
and go and find another child,
a child that’s really bad
and poke out their eyes,
stitch up their lips before
he (maybe) finally smothers them.

I do so hope he will…

Anna :o]

Rommy at Toads has us writing of the dreaded boogeyman and above is my offering.  My words are based on the procedures I had as a child before daring to climb into bed and my thoughts and fears once I had.  I was not that young when I stopped doing this either…

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Ernst Barlach

Tuesday, 25 April 2017


She misses them, the good old days
when men were men,
and women knew their place
and rolled up their sleeves
and did the dishes. 
The houses then full to the brim
of happy hordes of kith and kin,
houses full of warmth and bonhomie,
of grandma hugs, of daddy smiles
and mother’s sweetest purest kisses.

She misses him,
oh she lost him oh so long ago,
him going to wherever tis dead people go,
heaven hell or maybe
just a space beneath the ground,
she can’t remember doesn’t know, 
she only knows she is alone. 

Her *two-up two-down her little narrow street,
city reached out and sucked them in
and how surrounded she by strangers now,
no warmth or love of kith and kin. 
And them,
the strangers that surround her now,
don’t reach out they don’t know how,
and lost she is and all alone
in that barren house she once called home. 

Anna :o]

Paul at dVerse has us writing on the theme of ‘Community.’

It got me thinking of where I live now and where I have lived and I do wonder whether I can define what community is (or means to me), moreso community spirit.   Does any kind of community bring with it cohesiveness, a sense of belonging, and a common goal?  We may think it does but in reality, do we not all have our own agenda?

My memories of the good old days are just that, they were good, for there was a community spirit and the common good meant we looked after and looked out for each other.  This didn’t mean that life was perfect for of course it wasn’t.  But there was always a willing listening ear to share your burden with and you would offer yours too.   I also realise that for many the good old days didn’t exist and that these days were often/mostly bad. 

Where I live now, is there a community spirit?  I don’t think so for we all dwell in our little castles and know little of each other.  Am I party to this lack of community spirit, yes I probably am for I have long given up in trying to change things.  I know my place.  I value solitude but many others don’t and loneliness is all they have.

*Two-up two down: generally a small terraced house built sometime after the industrial revolution.  These dwellings consisted of two downstairs rooms – kitchen & sitting room and two bedrooms upstairs.   The toilet/loo would be in an outhouse in the back yard and baths would be taken in a tin bath somewhere in the house or the backyard itself.  Backyard here means a small concreted area surrounded by high brick walls.

These houses still exist and are modernised by having an extension to the back to create a bathroom and if two storeys high an additional bedroom.  It is sometimes possible to squeeze a bathroom upstairs.

Also shared with the good folk at Toads Tuesday Platform

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer

Thursday, 20 April 2017


Neville Chamberlain holding the paper containing the resolution to commit to peaceful methods signed by both Hitler and himself on his return from Munich. He is showing the piece of paper to a crowd at Heston Aerodrome on 30 September 1938. He said:
"...the settlement of the Czechoslovakian problem, which has now been achieved is, in my view, only the prelude to a larger settlement in which all Europe may find peace. This morning I had another talk with the German Chancellor, Herr Hitler, and here is the paper which bears his name upon it as well as mine (waves paper to the crowd - receiving loud cheers and "Hear Hears"). Some of you, perhaps, have already heard what it contains but I would just like to read it to you ...".
Later that day he stood outside Number 10 Downing Street and again read from the document and concluded:
'"My good friends, for the second time in our history, a British Prime Minister has returned from Germany bringing peace with honour. I believe it is peace for our time."


Be silent now.

Let’s keep child’s quiet finger
firm upon our lips, shush now. 
Let’s not say those worried words
we so long to say.  Hush now!

Quiet!  Stay silent now,
don’t utter worried thoughts
that bounce crazily inside your head,
instead, be silent now and watch the evil grow,
grow around and all about you,
all about you!

Tis safer than opening up that can of worms,
worms that wriggle way out of own accord. 
We can’t afford to intervene
as we watch evil grow; instead
we only offer hollow idle threats
or lay sanctions (that don’t matter) at the door.

Let’s talk around a table; Appease!  Appease!  Appease!  
What more in gods name can we do? 

We can do what we do best,
sit back and watch the evil grow,
show worm our apparent helplessness,
our inaction loading bullets, our very self
shooting guns held towards our very heads.


Be silent now.

Let’s keep child’s quiet finger
firm upon our lips, shush now. 
Let’s not say those worried words
we so long to say.  Hush now!

What else is happening in our world
is not our problem, is it,

until it is.

Anna :o[

As said so often on this blog, I worry, do so worry about this world of ours, worry most about that that is humankind and the havoc we wreak on this beautiful planet.  We are not safe keepers of it and don’t deserve it. 

What do we do in this very tribal world of ours?  We protect our tribe of course!  We protect with the threat of our fine arsenals and that of our military.   Yet we tiptoe around as the world falls apart, we watch evil grow as despots and dictators flourish.  We really don’t want to get involved, it is easier to turn our backs and cover our eyes and ears.

We watch as countries/nation states turn on their own countrymen, those they deem inferior for they are the wrong colour, wrong religion, wrong tribe or wrong caste and so on forever.  And we watch…and do nothing or at the least very little, maybe (preferring to exist in our ?safe little bubbles) raising our voices,        a little…

The peaceful of us suggest negotiations/peace talks, but the sad fact is these ‘talks’ rarely bear fruit.  It seems that eventually battle we must to achieve the safety we crave – war equals peace.  Or does it?  How often have we invaded others for the sake of peace or to rid of despicable ills (or to keep our ‘gains’)  – but never see it through, leave loose ends, so complacent we are, so smug, that we have left our ideals there and all will be well.  (Remember Camp Bucca was probably the birthplace of Isis.) We leave a foreign land with a bleeding wound we have created and the void is filled with another branch of hell.  (And do remember some of us, the evil, those barely human, crave battle.)

What do I think of Trump’s sabre rattling?  It worries the hell out of me – but he has taken a stand (not very well thought out) towards/against North Korea, North Korea with its boy-man dictator ruling his long-indoctrinated people into believing that bombs are beautiful.   Do I fear Trump and his erratic ego-driven behaviour – yes I do.  But I fear Kim Jong-un more - how scary it is both men show similar macho traits.  We allow loose cannons (such as Kim Jong-un) for it is easier than doing something, and watch as evil/pure madness grows… and we turn our backs…cover our eyes…refuse to hear what our mind is telling us…and then… ?BANG!

How do I think we can heal our world?  Sadly, I don’t know…for how can we ever change who or what we are?

(Rant over.)

PS  Read and worry.

Shared with the good folk at dVerse Open Link Night.

Image (and description of) courtesy of: Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Ministry of Information official photographer.

Wednesday, 12 April 2017


“Stronger together” you state
as I squirm beneath as you
force your self upon me.

Know this: 
I hide my darkest thoughts (of you)
amongst the biscuits in the cookie jar.

What could be sweeter than you,
you fucking scumbag biscuit-eater
munching on my very thoughts?

I shall poison you with words.

Anna :o]

Isadora hosts at Toads and she writes:

I am ever so happy to present the mid-week prompt for our Poems in April promptkrieg. For this prompt we are going out of standard. I am going to challenge you to find new places in the everyday and sully the page with the unexpected. At this point in the month, your poem muscles are warm, limber and ready for the long haul. 

Signs of the times

The prompt is simple: find an image of a protest sign and use that phrase in a poem that is not political. 

Apologies to the good folk in the image as I feel my words have cheapened their ideals.  Of the image and feminism:  I do not consider myself a feminist (and tis true this term now has a pejorative ?quality about it) as as said in a previous post, I have never experienced gender inequality – or maybe I have and it was so subtle I didn’t notice it.

That said, I really do know that gender inequality exists and in some countries (I am happy I don’t exist in) to an extreme we couldn’t imagine.  I believe that gender inequality is purely a social construct, simplified: male physical strength = dominance, and thus a female’s lack of same physical strength has determined our place in the world.

It will be a long long time before beliefs/attitudes change – if ever - and sadder this world will be for it.  Proof of this, if it were needed, is a programme I watched a few days ago on VICELAND, this being “Discarded Daughters” and please view it your self.  (If VICELAND appears on your TV menu – don’t ignore it, because of its title – as I did for a long time.  There is much worthy of watching there.)  

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Elvert Barnes from Baltimore, Maryland, USA

Tuesday, 4 April 2017

Wind Turbine (and the Effort of Being)

I stand here, inshore, tis true
not cursed by lash of cruel sea,
yet still no peace of mind have I,
ennui the only cruel certainty as
arms spin in a desperate semaphore,
as I plead implore (in infrasound)
mankind to please acknowledge me,
for I exist, I am, I am, I am!

I am sentient! 
I am sentient and bored witless!

Can someone not read me a book or something?

Anna :o]

Lillian at dVerse has us writing of anthropomorphism and above is my offering.  It is true that I often think or wonder what it is like to be another living form, whether flora or fauna.  It is also true that I think the same about inanimate objects.  I do wonder about the wind turbines forever, or almost forever, spinning their arms in the harbour of my town, one so large or maybe so near, it rises above every building in the town centre.  I really think it must get bored silly doing the same thing day in day out day in day out…

Also shared with the good folks at Toads Tuesday Platform

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Photo: Molgreen, Animation:Amada44

Thursday, 30 March 2017

Chimney Pots

Twixt chimney pots moon glows amidst
a misty haze, and neath through thick
of silhouette of swaying trees
a window flickers candle lit.    

*And she inside has cried enough (she thinks)
and snuffs out candle at the wick
and flings herself upon the bed,
and in that troubled mind of hers
with demon of the night confers
her wish of *errant husband dead.

And in the morn she sets her plan
pulls neath the sheets a *book of spells  
and mixes notions with intent;
creates a gateway straight to hell.

And not for him an eye of newt
nor toe of frog nor tongue of dog,
but salami slice and sausage links,
bacon, eggs and deep fried chips
with loads of salt and full fat dips,
all washed down with sugary drinks.

*And as his girth begins to spread 
as diet takes its morbid toll,
she feeds him more and more and more
and boosts his smokes and alcohol.

But best laid plans do not bear fruit
despite disease, his blackened lungs. 
For determined he she be his nurse
and tend his needs eternally,
he grinds her down til on her knees
and *she the first to ride the hearse. 

Anna :o] 

*For those who know me (and now suspect me) I wish to make clear that these words are not, I repeat, are not, an analogy of my recent court case in which I was the accused, although I accept that comparisons can be made.
*He wouldn’t dare be errant.  He knew, sorry knows, I would kill him!
*As stated by the prosecution, yes I had borrowed an inordinate amount of cookery books over a short period of time from the library.  They were cookery books of bygone years when we ate rich fatty stuff because we enjoyed it, and oddly enough were not fat.  Hubs and I enjoy our food, therefore no crime! 
*The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach – we all know that!   I just love him so much!   
*Proof positive – if it were needed – of my words being mere coincidence, as I am not dead!  I am disgusted at the actions of my vicious neighbours, who with their dirty lies to the local constabulary, brought about the ?need for the court case, a case thrown out through lack of evidence.  Hubs is not dead, he is just lost, so lost I can’t remember where I buried him…(oops!)

Frank at dVerse has us writing of irony.  This afternoon I was searching for clues of what might be served up tonight and found same at Lillian's.  It was then I remembered a poem I had written last year, or maybe even the year before (these were years when real life held me prisoner and I did not blog very much) and said poem seemed to fit the bill.  And above it is.

Kerry at Toads asks us to add annotations to a poem and that I have done.  With humour!  This gave a ‘nowness’ to the long ago written poem.

So cheers Frank and Kerry for your inspiration!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Edwardwexler

Monday, 20 March 2017


We would all pile into dads recent acquisition, his first ever motorised wheels, a light blue Morris Minor Traveller, we being mum and dad, sis Chris and me and little brother John.    This little blue beauty had opened up new horizons for us, no longer hampered were we by the limitations of bus routes.  The countryside was ours.

Mum would pack a little hamper of food, this wonderful and simple feast bringing the fondest of memories of the oft happiness of childhood.  My favourite of this delightful fayre being the cheese and tomato sandwiches, which we would unwrap from the little greaseproof paper packages mum lovingly made.  Salt was not regarded as a problem then and when making, mum would liberally coat the innards of the sandwiches with it, facilitating osmosis drawing the tomato juice until it ran into the bread and softened the cheese.  My first memory of food is the heaven of soggy cheese and tomato sandwiches (and I am salivating now thinking of this delight) washed down with what was then a treat of dilute orange juice.

I only have vague memories of our trips out, the enjoyment of our green and pleasant land.  But I do so remember the wonderful the delicious soggy cheese and tomato sandwiches!  It is a lasting and pure love!

Buds fit to bursting
feasting on sunshine, alas
no crumbs for the ducks

Anna :o]

Toni at dVerse has us writing of Yum!!! for Haibun Monday, that is ‘The Best Meal You Ever Ate.’

The above is mine and will always be so.  It must be said that this meal also consisted of a packet of Smiths crisps with its little blue salt bag and a two finger Kit-Kat and mums homemade currant buns.

Maybe this first love is why I continue to enjoy buffet lunches, most wonderful things!

Image:  courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Reinhard Kirchner

Sunday, 19 March 2017


There are people in my home,
shuffling in the roof space,
banging on the windows
and banging on the doors.  

‘Please leave me, please
leave me alone’ I plead
as I turn off all the lights…

Old bones snap on the tricks of tired eyes,
tumble I do to the shock of terra firma…
as they shuffle in the roof space…
turning off the lights…

Mind is tired, forgets to remember…
father’s in my bed, telling me he loves me…
sharing (with me) awful secrets of the night…
’Please leave me alone,’    I scream (inside me)
as I fumble and stumble, trying to turn off the lights…

Pain in my leg and I don’t understand it,
wonder if you’ve hit me
as they  shuffle in the roof space…
banging on the windows
banging on the doors…

I lie in my bed here, screaming deep inside me,
hoping and praying they don’t turn off the lights…

Anna :o]

Brendan at Toads has us writing of our interpretation of what Home is.  To me, home is not merely bricks and mortar, rather a sense of belonging, a feeling of safety, a knowing of unconditional acceptance, indeed, a place where the heart lies, a place of comfort and love.

Home is not necessarily just the house in which you live, it maybe your place of work which gives you that same sense of belonging, or your town or your country, whatever defines the place of where you want to be, are happy in.

My words tell of ‘Violet’ who lived in the care home in which I once worked.  She was a very confused lady and regarded and saw  the home as hers, her fellow residents and staff being intruders.  This belief made her very agitated and physically aggressive as she would forever attempt to remove us, and how deep her frustration when she could not.  She was also at great risk of falls, and if she did so, sustaining a fracture, she was adamant these strangers in her house had pushed her.

Violet was a lady who feared the night and her light was always left on.  Despite this she would become very scared and tearful, a timid shadow of her daytime self, and staff sat with her until she fell asleep.  It was a couple or so of years before something she said made us realise why she feared the night, her childhood home never offering itself in how we perceive home, rather a place of abuse…

How sad that her memories and indeed lack of memory, made the care home, to her, a place of fear too.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Gelonida

Thursday, 9 March 2017


She cradles his soft innocence as he suckles at her breast, nurturing him.  All she feels is a deep unconditional love, an overwhelming love she never knew existed.  He is her world, the total sum of her.

As he grows he will be nurtured by his culture and he will turn against her.  She will become what she was and perhaps always will be, the nothingness of that that is woman.

You ask her of this and she softly replies:  It is my culture, it is who I am, it is all that I know.    Confronted, she returns the imaginary veil to her face blinding her vision, a veil that will mask her, mask who she is who she dreams to be, thus forever binding herself to her own fate.

But she will feel safe.

Anna :o[

Sumana at Poets United has us writing of (yesterdays) International Women’s Day whose campaign theme is:  Be Bold for Change.  Above is my offering of which I am uncertain as to whether it is poetry or prose or prose poetry.  I have difficulties with the concept of prose poetry…please see previous post.

In my lifetime I cannot recall any occasion I felt second class as in gender inequality.  But perhaps I am blind to the subtleties’ of it, perhaps I was gently and not deliberately conditioned into accepting a specific role, a role passed down in generations…I don’t know.  That said I do know that gender inequality exists.

In some cultures for a woman to express boldness for change would be tantamount to signing her own death warrant.  It is not right but that is the way it is, in these cultures women live in fear (of men).

Will International Women’s Day change a thing – probably not?  Things will carry on as they are.  From an IWD  page:

Some regions should expect to see their gender gaps narrow faster than the global rate of change. Among these are South Asia, with a projected closing of the gender gap in 46 years, Western Europe in 61 years, Latin America in 72 years and Sub-Saharan Africa, due to achieve parity in 79 years. Projections for other world regions suggest closing their gaps will take longer than 100 years, namely 129 years in the Middle East and North Africa, 146 years in East Asia and the Pacific, and 149 years in Eastern Europe and Central Asia. Given the slow progress over the last decade, the gender gap in North America is expected to close in 158 years. None of these forecasts are foregone conclusions. Instead they reflect the current state of progress and serve as a call to action to policymakers and other stakeholders to accelerate gender equality.

 On a more cheerful note, please watch the video below, a video by the excellent Harry Enfield & Co.  Things have moved on for some of us, maybe not enough but one day that day might come…

Photo header image:  Courtesy of:  Wikimedia Commons

Author:  John Thomson (1837–1921) 

Thursday, 2 March 2017


I’m struggling you know, struggling with being me, timid little mouse that I am, forever nibbling at my nails until the blood runs and the pain soothes and the heart aches.

All I want is to be liked.

Anna :o]

Frank at dVerse has us writing prose poetry and above is my contribution.  I wasn’t going to enter as I am not quite sure  what I think of prose poetry… however, when I was just about to move away from beloved PC,  the word ‘struggling’ jumped out at me from some TV programme serving as a background noise, and well, my head became full of other words and so joining in I am!

Please know the words are not about me.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Vinc3PaulS

Monday, 27 February 2017

An Awakening

Constrained by prim and proper Englishness
she giggles (nervously) as slowly he unzips her dress
and unclips her conforming comfort bra. 

In love with this, his heady scent his luscious kiss,
she wonders how far to let him go,
throwing caution to the wind.

Anna :o]

De at  dVerse has us writing a quadrille (44 words) containing the world Giggle and above is my offering. 

It is a true story based on a holiday I shared with my mother and aunt when I was sixteen or seventeen, I can’t quite remember which.   We holidayed at St Goarshausen, a delightful town located on the left shore of the Rhine.

It was here I had my first holiday romance, in fact my first ever ‘boyfriend’ and learnt of that that is love.  And love him I did.    Peter was about 6’6” and very muscular, sporting a shock of blond hair.  Jeez, the heady scent of his aftershave was pure bliss, sending me to seventh heaven - I probably loved this heady aroma as much as I loved him.

Did I throw caution to the wind?    In the end No – the bra was re clipped and the dress rezipped.  He appeared to accept this and we continued our dates and how thrilled I was when he asked for my address before mum aunt and me left for England.

Of course he never wrote, and I cried myself to sleep for weeks as dreams of marriage and a shock of blond kinder dissipated with each day that past.    So it was that I had made the right decision on that wonderful night we walked along the banks of the Rhine.  (I still remember his face – I guess you do with your first love…)

Image:  courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Dirk Schmidt (Celsius auf Wikivoyage) - erstellt mit Autostitch