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my computer’s back
it was badly missed
I was champing at the bits
under anxiety attacks
became a dipsomaniac
for all my fluff
in files were stuffed
seething in the black
folders where they lie
agitating to be heard
for even silly words
need liberating
from time to time

that’s why you get so many of mine


Sorry I was gone so long. When computers die, a little piece of my soul goes with them (and a huge piece of my back catalogue: thankfully, all recovered).





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I’m sorry that
you had to wait;
I’ve been locked out
for eight days straight.

But now I’m back,
the poems will come…
assuming I’m not
still pc dumb.


Apologies for the longer than anticipated break; as far as I know, I haven’t changed my password (I’ve done that accidentally more than once), but WordPress wouldn’t let me in. I eventually found my way via Google but I can’t rely on that access remaining open, because technology and me don’t really mix.



An Ode To WordPress, The Object Of My Affliction

This poem was written back in 2014, when I blogged as The Laughing Housewife. In those days, WordPress strongly encouraged its bloggers to blog and – once the novelty of blogging had worn off and I all I felt was guilt if I didn’t post something – I strenuously resisted. And by ‘strenuously resisted’ I mean, ‘wrote a bad poem which I’m pretty sure no WordPress Employee ever read’.

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When I do not write
You prompt me to
Bloggers not blogging
Reflects badly on you

When I do write
You spy on me
I must object

But let’s be fair
This ode is crap
Are you really sure
You want me back?

We Love Memoirs Day

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Today is We Love Memoirs Day and so to celebrate
I’ll share something from my previous blog
(that doesn’t rhyme, hence this dog-
gerel filler I use to compensate).



  • Noun
  • Comic verse composed in irregular rhythm.
  • Verse or words that are badly written or expressed.*

*If the cap fits…


The following is a memoir of an incident that happened in December 2014, taken from my previous blog, The Laughing Housewife.

A-One, A-Poo, A-One-Poo-Wee

Last night I went to a brass band concert with my friend Alison. Brass bands are as vital to celebrating Christmas as chocolates and migraine so I was glad to go.

Alison has been renovating her house, so we called early, for a tour and a brew. She lives some distance from us so the Hub drove me there, and afterwards dropped us off at the hall where the concert was taking place.

Alison dotes on our dogs and asked us to bring them along. As it had been raining all day we carried them in, to avoid their muddy paws marking her brand new and expensive carpets. Although the paws weren’t actually muddy, of course, because the dogs refuse to walk in the rain, and had been indoors all day.

The dogs adore Alison, in the purest form of cupboard love there is, because she brings them sausages and treats whenever she visits. As soon as they realised the car was heading her way, they whined and cried in slavering excitement.

We had the usual mad-circle run around and hysterical barking (not all of it from the dogs: I told you, she dotes on them) and it was all too much for Molly, who wet herself in joy, right there on the new carpet. Fortunately, Alison is tolerant of their misdemeanours and assured me that the carpet could take bleach if necessary, and a little excited piddle wouldn’t harm it. Her husband Pete smiled benignly, as he always does, being the easiest-going man I’ve ever known.

The Hub apologised, ‘It’s our fault; they haven’t been out all day because of the rai…TOBY! NO!’ All heads whipped around to a perfect view of Toby’s backside, also known as crouching terrier, impending poo. The Hub grabbed the dog and ran with him for the door, and the rest of us watched the plop-plop-plop of the unstoppable excrement as it carpet bombed the, well, the new carpet (and the couch: the angle at which Toby was snatched up allowing for a sideways trajectory).

Mortified, apologetic but laughing, I cleaned up the mess while the Hub and Toby stood out in the rain in disgrace. The carpet was easily cleaned and looked none the worse for wear. The miscreants were allowed back in.

Drama over, we all sat down to relax and drink our tea. I felt suddenly warm and thought, But I haven’t touched mine yet, how could I spill it? I then realised the warmth was neither a spill nor a hot flush from drinking it, if it was emanating from my lap. I looked down to see Molly, squatting on my knees, doing the longest wee I’ve ever had the misfortune to sit under.

We think she must have seen Toby’s plight and thought she’d be better off spraying Mum than the carpet.

If you thought a brass band was loud, you should have heard my scream of horror. I jumped up, sending Molly flying across the room without the benefit of a Hub hold, and there was complete uproar – most of it from four people laughing uncontrollably, me the loudest. I had lost it by this point and if I wet my knickers in hysteria, at least no one would know.

Alison gave me a cloth to disinfect my pants; I had a wash; and then sat on her bedroom floor in my sweater, socks and underwear, using her hairdryer on the crotch-soaked jeans because we didn’t have time for me to go home and change before the concert.

I sat in the hall, steaming quietly and stinking of disinfectant-combined-with-Brut (to disguise any unpleasant odour), and got quietly sozzled on a bottle of wine.

It’s okay; I knew where the toilets were.