Inspired by the Discovery of a Moustache Hair

I confess, the hair on my lip is not
so bad as the hair on my chest,
which leaves me quite distraught.

Then there’s the mammogram,
which some claim is the foulest invention
for women, by man.

Some women hate that man so hard they’d like to clutch
his nuts and test him in what should be named
the mammograbandcrushtobits.

I found it not too bad, because of my tiny breasts,
but I pity big girls who obey our NHS
diktat-by-post – I wouldn’t like their test.


Yes, it’s that time again.

Ladies, I urge you to get tested, uncomfortable/painful as it is.

Gentlemen, urge your ladies. Or ladies, urge your ladies.

I found the cartoon on an interesting post, complaining like me about this being a woman-only adventure; it’s well worth a read.


This poem is taken from my collection, Hormoanal, available from Matthew James Publishing.

A Note for my Husband…

Scribbled as I Left to Catch a Train

Dog did a poo
Please clean it up

And I love you


This poem from The Book of Pooetry is brought to you from the upstairs toilet in St Matthew’s Church House, Edgeley.

If you want to learn more about The Book of Pooetry (and why wouldn’t you?), click here.

The Unhappy Woman’s Jargon Poem

Photo by SHVETS production on

I do my due diligence 9-5 as chief cook and bottle washer
plus a bang for the buck if I’m up for it and not dragging ass.
His juju is such that first touch, he shoots, he scores, lifts the silverware then hits the sack while I’m left to Bill Murray and I’m insomniate.

My sweat equity’s out the wazoo so I sometimes go AWOL
and his bitchin’s shockley but I don’t take no sassitude –
I show him the red card and take an early bath
before I nutmeg his tackle.

IIRC my BFF has the same probs (obvs)
and when I give her a bell and her second half yells
while he’s lay in the cut with his FAQs
she hits back with FUs so I LOL
and say CYA, I CBA with his chunter. TTYL, TTFN
and I bust open a red and think, HTH.


I wrote this three years ago, to a prompt requiring the use of slang in ordinary life, and I have no idea what half of these words and phrases mean! I’m pretty sure some of them are already obsolete. Language really is a living, growing thing.

Nan’s Kitchen

an overhead maiden
a drowsy mangle
a veteran bucket

sixties’ washing day


My Nan lived in a dreary block of flats in Liverpool when I was a child. Her kitchen was cold and dark and dank and she kept her milk in water in a metal bucket on her shadowed concrete balcony. She didn’t own a fridge until she was in her sixties (in the 1970s).

I have a strong memory of her putting washing through a mangle in her kitchen, then hanging it on an overhead wooden, slatted maiden. It must have dripped onto the solid wooden table beneath, but I don’t remember that.

Nothing as fancy as this, of course.


Photo by Spencer Selover on

My current favourite genre is Young Adult Fantasy: vampires/angels/werewolves/fairies
(the Fae, I ought to say).
I am immersed in non-reality.

These books have me entrapped, spellbound.
It’s a craving I cannot seem to quell.
I’m fifty-three – this has to be some sort of anomaly.

Please, I beg you, please:
throw me a chick lit text, a comic, a cartoon strip,
literature not covered in any degree
and set me free.


I feel honour-bound to tell you that, actually, I feel no shame in reading any of the above-mentioned genres. I completed a degree in Literature and didn’t read for pleasure for years afterwards, so tired as I was of reading for study. So called ‘lowbrow’ books restored the joy; and I receive eight cartoons in my inbox every day, because I like to start the day with a laugh.