I hate clutter. That may surprise anyone who has ever visited my house. But what’s important to realise is that there is a difference between wanting a tidy house and being able to achieve it.
I have friends with grown up, tidy houses. Friends with grown up, tidy houses AND KIDS. I’m at a loss as to how this is achieved. I’m guessing the crucial ingredients are a domestic goddess mother, and a well-trained, or at least trainable family. Here, we have neither.
So it seems that I am doomed to wake up each day, vow to have A BIG TIDY UP, sometimes even achieve a middle-sized tidy up, and then go to bed wondering which house it was that I tidied earlier.
This poem, if you’d be so kind, is to be read with a hint of insanity in the voice. Thank you so much.
Nothing makes me mutter more than clutter
But I think they think it puts itself away.
Which all adds up to a house which makes me twitch.
In the playroom, there’s two hundred, maybe three.
Have to stay there til I work out what it’s for.
And I don’t know how much longer I can cope.
The clatter as more clutter takes its place.
By the way – if you were thrown by the word “guff”, do let me know – I’m not sure if this delightful term for a fart is only understood by those who were around seven years old in 1984. Could even be a Somerset thing, I’m not sure!
I do have in my pocket the alternative line “There is barely any fart-room in the bathroom – which I quite like – but I was swayed by the opportunity to say “guff” for the first time in around twenty years!
©️ Nina Parmenter 2018
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Well, here we are, coming towards that end of that magical / terrible time between Christmas and New Year. Nearly time to contemplate the dull, saintly times that lie ahead and wave farewell to guilt-free scoffing. But just about time to open one last box of choccies… I mean it can’t do any harm…
Schadmin… school related admin. Yet another thing they don’t tell you before you have children.
lthough my teenage years were the inevitable emotional rollercoaster (cheers for that, hormones), I was hardly the rebellious type. Through the rage and the tears (yep, again, nice one, hormones), I was generally content, and I put that down to three things: a supportive family, amazing friends (seen left, modelling some exemplary 90s fashion choices), and the awesome era in which we were living. I turned 13 just two weeks before the end of 1989 and so very nearly all of my teen years were spent in the 1990s, and my heart, and quite a lot of my music collection, still lie there today. The latter part of the decade was spent as a student, but this rhyme is really a tribute to the first five years, growing up in rural Somerset. It might not reflect your 1990s teenhood – but it very much reflects mine.
My first poetry request! Just for Bec Connock and Andy Down, a poem about winter sports. This one must have been already lurking deep within me, as within 15 minutes of the request, it tumbled into my notebook like poo from a poodle.
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.
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.