Master of Sabotage

MS is a Miserable Sod
All powerful it thinks it’s God
I hate it immensely
But what can I do?
It creates disaster
Maybe I’ll sue
It takes my dignity
It knocks me down
It makes it difficult
To go into town
It stops me from walking
It doesn’t do talking
It has no reason
For committing treason
Insidiously creeping
I think it is sleeping
But then it is leaping
And leaves me weeping
It doesn’t give up
It doesn’t stop
Relentless and endless
It continues to bop
Master of Sabotage
Creator of doom
It grows and grows
Making more gloom
My feet feel like clay
It goes on all day
I want to shout
Let me out
It doesn’t hear
It adds to my fear
There’s no rhyme or reason
To where it will go
What will be next?
When will it show?
There is no guide
And nowhere to hide
It doesn’t care
It isn’t fair
Always it’s with me
It won’t leave me alone
I can’t give it back
It’s not on loan
I want a break
I want to eat cake
It’s my life
It’s not its to take
But take it, it will
Even though it won’t kill
Maybe that’s worse
It makes life a curse
What is it for?
This MS war
To prove what
I haven’t got

But...

 
There’s more that I have
Than there is that I don’t
I’ll work on those strengths
And give in I won’t.
I can laugh and can talk
With wheels I can walk
I can still get about
With my friends I go out
I can’t hold a pen
But still I can write
I tap on my keyboard
The words they come out
They jump and they dance
When I give them the chance
They say what I think
And how that I feel
All my frustrations
Those feelings are real
The heartache and anger
I’ll channel it through
Watch this space
I’ll show what I can do
I’m more than MS
FUCK YOU!!

Sea to City by rail

I've started a course on Literary Travel Writing at Citylit in London and I thought I'd share with you one of the pieces I wrote for it. We were tasked with writing about a journey.

I boarded the train at Southend Central. “Are you ok with dogs?” the lady I sat next to asked. I was confused. Then a little head appeared from under the seat. “She’s very good” I said. “She used to travelling,” the lady replied. “When I first got her she was too little to leave at home, and now I wouldn’t travel without her.”

Stopping at Chalkwell the beach is empty and deserted. The sun tries to break through the mist and cloud. I can see a dulled yellow disc behind the curtain. It casts a bright gloomy light adding a blue tinge to the grey.

Leaving the station the train runs between the sea and the houses overlooking it. And squashed between the track and the river is a footpath that leads to Old Leigh. The town was spilt when the railway line was built and the side next to the sea has retained a village like atmosphere. It’s the place to buy the freshest fish. The little boats, many of whose predecessors took part in the Dunkirk rescue, stand upright in the mud while the tide is out.

We move into Hadleigh Farm. A tractor ploughs a field. The Castle remains stand tall and clear, framed by the sky behind. In front, lies lush green hillside sloping down to the track and the river.

 

The train rolls on. It fills with more commuters as it goes. There’s little conversation. They’re all glued to ipads and iphones. There are a couple of men with fold-up bicycles. A lady applies her make-up. How does she do that on a moving train?

Small boats, in a haphazard crowd fill the channel between Benfleet and Canvey. Then the scenery disappears behind trees lining both sides of the track. Countryside emerges again briefly, exposing a small and lonely chapel, before the trees enclose us again. The next time they thin, we are in Basildon. Then more trees, behind which lie Legoland housing estates.

By the time we get to West Hornden, we are in farmland again. The cows are laying huddled together. That’s a good sign, I think. Nobody notices. They are engrossed in their electronic equipment.

Urbanisation and The District Line begin as we arrive in Upminster. We follow it to Barking and as we pull into the station, so does a tube train. Its driver sits relaxed, with his sleeves rolled up and the door wide open. I wonder what Health and Safety would say.

A short way after West Ham, the two lines separate. If I look one way, I can see the red, whirly monstrosity that is the Orbit. On the other side is the distinctive Canary Wharf building. A canal winds between the blocks of flats. The Docklands light Railway joins us at Limehouse.

Then we are at Fenchurch Street and everyone scrambles to get off.

The Moat is now full

It’s Armistice Day and the last poppy is laid in the Tower of London moat. It is now full. Thousands of people have come to see and pay their respects. Officials direct them through a one way route round the edge of the sea of red. It was a peaceful crowd that moved slowly. As much respect for each other as for what the display of poppies represented.

We walked slowly across the rampart over the moat and under the poppy arch into The Tower. At the same time, a ship’s horn sounded. The enormous and tall vessel sailed through the lifted ballasts of Tower Bridge and past the Fortress.

 

 

The sun appeared. It shone through the poppies rising above our heads. Those below glowed with pride. We walked though and my mobility scooter bumped along the cobbles. It was like being on a roller-coaster. “Hope you’ve got good suspension on that” called a man we passed. “I wish,” I replied, as I continued my bone-shaker ride.

We looked through a cross shaped slit in the battlements. The poppies shone in contrast through the gap. Further inside there was an open area. The Tower had played a role in army recruitment during the First World War, and re-enactments were being played out in the courtyard. An officer wearing a uniform of the time was marching up and down. “This is where you join up”, he barked. “Ladies come over.” I laughed. “It works”, he said. “If the ladies come, the men follow.”

Later on, he was on the South Lawn opposite, instructing three new recruits how to march. He was a harsh task master.

We wandered around further. Outside Wellington Barracks, that house the Crown Jewels (the only building apart from the cafe that’s wheelchair accessible), was a guard standing in front of his little box. I thanked him for allowing me to take his photo even though I knew he wasn’t allowed to respond. In front of Chapel Royal of St Peter and Vincula, looking onto the Scaffold Site, was a Beefeater in splendid red and black uniform. Next to it, on the Tower Green, black Ravens were hopping about. It is said that if they leave the Tower, the Kingdom (or Queendom) will fall. Back round at the first courtyard, one was posing atop a cannon, as if to say “Look at me. Take my photo.” We all obliged.

On our way out, across another bridge across the poppy filled moat the scene was powerful. A sea of people standing along the edge of the moat, looking on. Behind them rose Tower Bridge. And below them, a swirl of red poppies.

The Last Post

A sea of red swirls around The Tower of London moat, contrasting with the green grass underneath and the stone walls at the sides. A tall wave of red poppies rises from those below to throw itself over the rampart to the entrance. It freezes midway. 

The poppies are an evolving exhibition to mark the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War. On 5^th August, the first full day of the UK having joined the conflict, ceramic poppies began to be planted in the moat. By Armistice Day on 11^th November, there will be 888,246. Each representing a member of the British and Commonwealth armed forces who was killed. 

The usual bustle around the Tower is subdued as people gaze in wonder and reflection. Even the nearby busy traffic sounds muffled in respect. 

Every evening as the sun goes down, there is a roll of honour of the names of some of the dead, followed by a lone bugler playing “The Last Post”. Next to me was a lady who was there to hear the name of her grandfather’s cousin. “Your grandfather came back?” I asked. “Yes he came back. But his cousin didn’t.” She paused. “He was a prisoner of war, actually,” she said. “He was in a camp and when he died… it wasn’t because of the war. He died of a kidney infection in 1918”. 

Another man joined the small gathering crowd and enquired “Is something going to happen?” I explained why we were all standing there and the significance of the number of poppies. He let out a slow breath. “I must write that down,” he said. “How many was that?” “888,246.” 

Dusk approached. A Yeoman of the Guard and a Bugler walked to the centre of the moat. The crowd grew silent. Surrounded by a sea of red poppies, a single light shone on the Beefeater as he began to read the names of the fallen, their rank and regiment. Name after name was spoken. The silence increased. The list continued, page after page. With each identity, the enormity of the moment, and the silence, gained weight. Four men in succession had the same surname. Were they brothers? Father and sons? A few names further on, the same surname again. On and on the roll of names flowed, until approximately two hundred had been said. And yet it was a pinprick in the total. The sun had set. It was dark.

 

Then came the famous words by Robert Laurence: 

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them. 

“The Last Post” cried in anguish. And the crowd dispersed silently.