Friday, 24 November 2017

welcome to neverland (24/Nov/17)

deary, deary me, oops it happened again….

but that’s only to be expected when you build on a floodplain within a couple of metres of a river a mere metre or two above its normal flow level… so when it rains… and rain… and rains and rains and the wind doth blow, as is not uncommon here then it’s predictable even to a fool on the hill who’s built his house rather less foolishly on higher ground than flooding is inevitable…. as it was yesterday when it felt like when the island became more water than land…. roads flooded, houses flooded, fields flooded, railway lines flooded and yes, Council Offices flooded… again.. for, I think, the third maybe fourth time since they were built a number of years ago… because… because against all advice and even legal argument from every possible corner of the common sense spectrum the local County Council decided to give themselves planning consent, as they were the planning authority anyway, and build on said floodplain mere metres from the river known for and prone to flooding anyway…… 

oh, and did I mention it was also built on a public footpath?...... 

its location not being its only flaw as it lacks any sense of sustainability, environmental credentials, space for storage never mind people (who they’ve been ‘letting go’ in dribs and drabs over the years stretching services to now broken point, more space I suppose for the remaining overworked), in other words, the perfect design for an anonymous, nondescript call centre… but not a County Council……

deary, deary me…

this is the very Council quick to close or sell-off libraries, public toilets, community halls, sports and leisure centres, schools, land (even land they don’t own and most definitely have no right to sell), tenant farms, council houses, even their own satellite offices around the island and centralising everything into one hopeless building….. in other words, rationalisation gone mad and cost-cutting most of the very reasons they exist, for the community of Anglesey… it’s all very Machiavellian……
meanwhile this drive for ‘streamlining’ and centralising whether it be on their own nest or schools focuses all the traffic at certain times of the day into those few places causing gridlock and chaos, not to mention places vital resources further away from the majority of people who need them and have to now travel great distances often to no avail because they “didn’t call first and make an authorised appointment”……

deary, deary me…

to top off this rather stale and bitter cake the Council and their Offices are becoming more fortress-like every day as public access into what is a public building, being it belongs to and is paid for by the public, is being increasingly curtailed to a cramped and claustrophobic foyer staffed by a handful of harassed jobsworths and protected by haphazard security systems…… no one gets in, and it feels at times no one gets out being the only way to ‘see’ an officer is to talk to them on the one and only internal far from private phone in the stifling foyer, officers who can’t or won’t (or daren’t?) come out… a bizarre kind of Neverland beyond which there may be dragons……

deary, deary me…

the waters have mostly receded for now…. until the next one of course… meanwhile the powers that be continue flaunting one flawed initiative and vanity project after another… keep your wellies close at hand lest the island sinks under the weight of its own hypocrisy….... I’ll put the kettle on now for any reader who’s made it this far to the end of this tortuous blog, it’s the least I can do.

   © 2017 robert greig

Thursday, 23 November 2017

the unrelent (23/Nov/17)

the rain, the rain…
the rain is unrelenting, unrepentant, resistance is futile, through a glass smearly I watch it dash, lash and splash unable or unwilling to surrender too soon…. make a list of all the things you lost ever throughout your life, in fact make two lists, one for those things you cared about and lost and another for those you didn’t care about…… which one is the longest?.... I’ve counted my fingers and toes and they’re all present and correct…

the rain, the rain… another pot of tea?...... I don’t mind if I do, capital idea… with fresh leaves if you will old chap, none of your saggy bags for me, what!...... oh what a snob you are dear sir, and you’re a one to complain, you’re the one sat here talking to yourself…… me? me?! what about you!... talk about talking to yourself, you’re the master to talking to oneself, let me tell you dear heart you could teach me a thing or two about talking to yourself…

the rain, the rain…… is it time to make a rhyme and lay it out in ordered lines ensuring it is just refined enough so not the senses to offend lest ladybirds would hibernate too soon and rush to find a place to hide for months on end til winters end which seems so very far away from here as if it might may never come….. but when all is said and done I’ll leave the rhymes to greater minds than mine….
the rain, the rain…

read a bit, sit a bit, read a bit, sit a bit, stare a lot, listen to music, listen to… rain… listen to histories strain a refrain from my thoughts that ought to know better than to delve so deep into past that are buried this deep…… but worry not I’m still here watching the rain, the rain, making puddles from clouds… there is poetry in rain, but also tedium, also repetition, also rhythm, pattern, sustenance, from quenching to soaking to drowning, it’s at times like these I’m glad I’m not a worm… although most of the time I’m glad I’m not a worm, not that worms aren’t worth their weight in gold and often denigrated unfairly through name-calling unseemly people as worms when in fact worms are masters of the soil, of the earth, or recycling, everything we stand on is courtesy of the worm, the ultimate overlooked treasure trove…… and yet people squirm at the worm, the wonderful, wriggly, wiggly, underestimated worm…

the rain, the rain… and everything under the sun is in tune but the sun is eclipsed by the moon……

   © robert greig 2017

Wednesday, 22 November 2017

crazy little thing called food (22/Nov/17)

what is this thing called 'food' that I
stuff into my mouth from day to day
after day after day that makes
my face make funny shapes
with every masticating chew,
a bite, a nibble and a gnaw,
keep it closed or keep it open,
closed or open, surely that's the question,
closed or open
open, closed?
while my teeth will tear and snare
and roll each mouthful morsel
on my tongue between the cheeks
to mould it not too big and small enough
to slip and slide into my tum
my tum-diddy-um-tum tum-tum
feeding me, my hungry heart and belly
feed the rumble in my tum that soon
is quelled by even more to munch
and crunch and stunch for brunch for surely
what must be one flaw in the design,
a fault, it's bound to be somebody's
fault that we fall prey to such a craven need
and wish I didn't have to eat my way
through half my life and more
consumed by food and all it takes to
buy it, make it, bake it, roast it,
poach it, grill it, fry it, dice it,
slice it, grate it, serve it,
flavour, season, stir and drain,
recipes to melt
the taste buds and the brain
then gobble, gobble,
yum, yum, yum,
all aboard the gravy train
ah yes, ah yes, ah yes,
the yum, yum, yum,
that happy feeling in my tum
the smell and scent, aroma-fest,
the party in my nose
that tempting titillation  tip-toes
teasing on my tongue,
so what is this thing called 'food'
the company that keeps me warm
that gets me through each spinning day?

   © robert greig 2017