FRINTON

There is a poem in the Morning Star about Frinton Golf Club, so here is my poem about Frinton generally. Most of my family enjoyed their holiday there, but this is how it seemed to me.



FRINTON

There are no dogs in Frinton,
no ice creams, no cycling, hardly any
buses; buses are vulgar, so by decree
all buses drop you at the Boundary.
There are some gulls of course, not raucous,
for unseemly noise is not allowed
so seagulls clamour silently.

Retirement homes and swathes of grass
mowed tidily, and seats adorned
with tasteful plaques in memory -
"He died upon the greensward
after a fine day's fishing" far beyond
the beach huts serried row on row.
The back rows though more private
are considered less genteel.

Wandering north of Frinton, seeking countryside
I wondered why they dropped industrial containers
along a headland, but of course as I approached
I saw that they were beach huts, supplementary
beach huts. I presume you cannot possibly
have superfluity of beach huts.

There are careful cries of children
in well bred sunshine, rushing slowly,
digging circumspectly, dancing courtly,
throwing gently, catching,
wading in quiet water to the waist,
a little jump with each miniscule wave,
breasting the ocean in a fledgling way,
and the butterflies upon the greensward
as fine as any in the world.

The wind farm on the far horizon
is the future, but remote enough
to not disturb a cup of tea
in a beach hut contemplating
leviathan propellers on the sea,
in a resort where seagulls dare not scream.


Norman Andrews, on holiday, Summer 2011.

Curtains.

Sitting in my local pub, not talking to anybody, just sitting at the bar listening to the conversation around me, I heard the following:

"I'm 69 years old. I've lived in a hostel for single men for the last ten years. Done time in prison before that, so I've never expected much out of life. This hostel was so cold and my room was so far from the loo that I used to pee in a bottle rather than go along the corridor in the middle of the night. Then after 10 years on the waiting list I suddenly got an offer of a council flat, well Housing Association, same thing. It had central heating, warm, lovely. I just love it."

The friend he was talking to said, "I saw you got your flat. I could see you through your window. Ain't you got no curtains?"

"Well, I've only got nets and of course you can see through them if I've got the lights on."

Someone said "Can't you get a grant from the Council for proper curtains?" and he said, "Yes probably I could but its such a hassle, filling in forms and being interviewed. I just don't want to tell some clerk that I can't afford curtains."

I had a sudden thought. I phoned my wife and asked her have we got any spare curtains. Yes she said, we've got a boxful in the cupboard upstairs. I told her why I was asking. She knew where I was and said See you in ten.

She arrived with this big bag full of very good quality curtains we had abandoned over the years. Why we have to keep buying new curtains is beyond me. She asked me to point out the cutainless man and she went over to him, never having met him before and said "Would you like to choose some curtains for your new flat?"

He looked her in astonishment, then realising she was serious, and real, he looked carefully through the selection and said, "Thank you Darling, can I have these?"

Then he said "Oh my God, I don't know how to hang curtians. I havn't got a stepladder." Dave the Decorator and John the Roof both said "Don't worry, I'll put them up for you." That's the sort of pub it is. I rushed in there one Saturday afternoon and Tony left his pint to rush round and stop the leak in our washing machine, in the middle of a football match!. I think it was Dave who hung the curtains.

On the way home, my wife said "That was better than giving them to Oxfam."

As always, I agree with my dear wife.