And cry, make it snow, make it snow, make it snow.
***
I worry I’ll end up drowning,
When instead I’d rather be clowning,
In a frozen land all white, aglow
Please make it snow, make it snow, make it snow.
***
I want to frolic in the frozen white.
I’d rather be frozen than wet.
I put money on snow on Christmas night,
and I really want to win my bet.
***
I want to light a warm winter fire
And drink Snowballs*, that’s my desire.
But the Woods too damp to make it so.
Please, make it snow, make it snow, make it snow.
Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 5th December 2018 with obvious tribute to Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne who wrote the wonderful song, Let it Snow.
Snowballs* are a drink made with Advocaat (similar to Eggnog) mixed with Lemonade, it is commonly drunk at Christmas by people who want to enter into the festivities but not drink anything strong. It is often the first alcoholic drink that children are allowed to drink (with more lemonade).
Death held out a bony hand, protruding from his black flowing cape. The other hand still grasping the blood-stained scythe.
The other figure stood on two legs in an awkward fashion, with its body stooped as it grasped deaths hand in its own. One bony the other fleshy and hirsute.
The figure’s heavy brow raised and it gave an eager grin. Death had granted the creature and its descendants the ability to learn and evolve.
Death, being a skeleton, was incapable of smiling but he displayed good humour in other ways.
When the stupid figure lumbered off to continue its lowly existence, Death skipped off in the other direction, jumping and clicking his heels in a show of triumph.
Stupid though this creature was, Death knew that it would eventually evolve into an animal that would be responsible for more deaths than any other.
He had made an alliance with humankind’s ultimate nemesis: Humankind.
The Local Wives and Mothers Guild of the little village of Muckleton-in-the-Marsh were having their weekly meeting.
They had already gone through the agenda, in a rathercircuitousway, via all the gossip about everyone who wasn’t present, and now arrived at the most important item.
They needed to answer the most burning question. What was going to be their next fundraising project?
“Why not have a Pumpkin Carving competition? They had one last year over in Eckythorpe and they raised nearly two hundred pounds” Said Mrs Bottomley the Bankers wife.
“That’s no good” responded Mrs Palmer the Farmers wife “The weather’s been so poor we don’t have enough Pumpkins to go round. We could try it with turnips?”
“Who wants to pay to carve a turnip?” Said Mrs Prim the Florist.
“I know,” Said Old Granny Applebottom, their oldest member who at Ninety Seven years old had buried three husbands and so rumour would have it was on the look-out for number four. For her age she was surprisingly agile of mind and body, although her skin had so many wrinkles on it, it looked as though someone twice her size had tried it on and stretched it. Respectfully they all turned to listen to what their oldest and wisest member had to say.
“I saw a film about it and it was based on a true story. A group of ladies wanted to raise enough money for something so they decided to do one of those naughty naked calendars. They raised a fortune, apparently. Come on, let’s look it up on the computer.” She went over to the guild’s computer, kindly donated by Mr Pratt the Solicitor who had upgraded to something with a faster download. They had found all his dirty pictures on it and managed to bribe him into giving them a new table and chairs, a new tea and coffee set and the promise of free legal advice whenever they needed it.
Mrs Crabb, the guild secretary, typed in the name of the film, as given her by Granny Applebottom and eventually a picture built up on the screen.
They all gathered around to look at it. It showed several middle-aged to slightly more mature ladies gathered round a piano naked but with various objects hiding their unmentionables. The Knitwear and crochet work was very well placed.
Despite Granny Applebottom’s eagerness and protestations at how lucrative it could be, the general consensuswas that they would do a tapestrycompetition instead.
Tales from the mind of Kristian 