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The National Trust

I have a deep affection for the National Trust. With two energetic young boys, the weekend rule in our house is generally “anywhere but at home!” Our National Trust membership allows us to unleash them in some beautiful places, leaving our own house mostly unwrecked (although slightly more full of sticks) for one more precious day.

I think of the National Trust as a slightly eccentric great aunt, prone to lectures on the correct placement of cutlery, but also quite likely to slip me a boiled sweet or a couple of quid. So I hope this particular aunt doesn’t mind a bit of gentle ribbing.

 

The National Trust

The National Trust, The National Trust,
A mightier thing than all of us,
A fine institution, a positive force,
For a tenner a month, it can all be yours!
So we get in the car and head off for the day,
The brown signs of worthiness show us the way,
We head for the house – but I’ve got quite a thirst –

“Can we not go to the tearoom first?”

No – onwards! Past tapestries, teasets, a Titian,
A slightly tedious exhibition,
Cabinets, carpets and candelabras,
And a lovely lady, name of Barbara,
(A volunteer, reduced to tears,
By standing in one room for years)
She points at a pot! We all say “wow!

But can we go to the tearoom now?”

There are grounds all around, where there’s joy to be found,
In glorious nature, its sights and its sounds,
There are log piles to climb, and rope swings to hold on,
(It’s just like the park, only ten times more wholesome),
Rose gardens, rockeries, rippling rivers,
A small hairy man with his arrows and quiver,
Who gives us a go on his medieval bow –

But NOW is it time for the tearoom though?

Wait! Listen! YES! the clock strikes three,
The footsteps thunder – time for tea!
And mums, kids and grannies, all manners at bay,
Stampede for a spot in the Courtyard Café,
To toss back some tea, and scoff down some scones,
And snap up the shortbread before its all gone –
But where do we go once we’ve stuffed it all in?

LOOK! A shop full of chutney and artisan gin.

The National Trust, The National Trust,
A mightier thing than all of us,
A fine institution, a positive force,

For a tenner a month, this can all be yours.

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2017

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A plea to the ladies of France

Unsurprisingly, the inspiration for this one was a holiday in the South of France. I was simply in awe of the local ladies – they seemed a different species to sweaty, bedraggled me. You can see in my little thumbnail here, which was taken in Nimes, the elegance of me compared to the elegance of the lovely, composed lady posing for a photo behind me.

One day at the beach, there was one particular, very beautiful lady who sat down on a low wall which surrounded the beach – a wall that must have been covered in sand – wearing a white linen dress. When she arose, the dress remained both unstained and uncrinkled.

At that point, I knew something had to be done. And I did it via the medium of humorous poetry. Take that, immaculate lovely French ladies.

 

A plea to the ladies of France

On the South Coast of France,
We Brits love a chance
To enjoy all the sunshine and class,
But, dear French ladies, please,
While we’re loving your cheese,

There’s a few things we’d just like to ask.

First, please could you get
Up a bit of a sweat,
As we Brits dissolve into a mess?
In the blazing hot weather,
Don’t your thighs stick together,

Beneath that divine, skimpy dress?

Now, a week in a cossie
Surrounded by mozzies
Will get a Brit frantically scratching,
So please could you show –
Even just on one toe –

Some signs of allergic reaction?

Your clothes should be shabby,
Your mood must be crabby,
Your tops must have underarm tidemarks,
Your man should be chubby,
Your children quite grubby,

Your clothing should all be from Primark.

Just these few little tweaks,
And we’ll feel magnifique,
As we come, pink and sweaty and bitten
To the beautiful shores
of the grand Cote d’Azur –
Yours faithfully,
Women of Britain.
©️ Nina Parmenter 2017
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Halloween Tat

I have to declare I’m not a lover of Halloween these days.  I’m utterly depressed by the annual growth in disposable tat, and the increasing grisliness of the costumes. Call me super-sensitive, but I’m not a great fan of seeing my gorgeous, fresh-faced children dressed as corpses. Here they are in this year’s dreadful outfits; the only saving grace is that 90% of what you see here is re-used from previous occasions. You’re welcome, Mother Earth. You’re welcome, bank balance.

So I’ll say Bah Humbug, or whatever the Halloween equivalent is (Bah Special Edition Pumpkin-Themed Haribo, presumably), and leave the poem to say the rest…

 

Halloween Tat

There’s nothing more tatty than Halloween tat,
A bent plastic broomstick, a Styrofoam cat,
A bad rubber mask of Vlad the Impaler,

Get it all now from your nearest retailer!

Come on consumers! Now now, don’t be sceptical,
Buy all your crap for the Halloween festival,
Googly eyes, all squidgy and spherical,
Musical witch-hats (now they are hysterical),
Transform yourself to a fake plastic spectacle,
Bugs on your earlobes and bats on your testicles,
Let’s all make Poundland so much more investible,

What better use for our scarce petrochemicals?

So dress up your grandchildren as the undead,
Don’t they look cute with fake blood on their heads,
And as Halloween ends, and you turn out the light,

Have sweet dreams of landfill. How scary. Night night.

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2017

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