Schooldays are the happiest... continued

~
Governor representatives in my Education Authority had a very long-running lobby for improving the clerking arrangements for governing bodies, beginning in 1988 as part of an Education Committee review of the clerking service. They campaigned not only for individual clerks for individual governing bodies, but also for their proper training and support. As so often happens when those fighting for a cause feel that they are not being heard through normal channels, we resorted to special measures. County Councillors attending an education meeting in January 1990 to discuss these issues, were each greeted with a copy of a poem laid on the table in front of them. Whether it was significant in bringing about the desired result we shall never know, but as the author of the work I would like to think that it was. At least it was reprinted in the next issue of the LEA's governors' magazine.

School governors' plea for a proper clerking service

We’ve said it before and we say it again:
We’re ready to learn and we’re willing to train;
We’ll read all the papers and sign on for courses;
But what is the use if we have no resources?

We’ve said it before and we’re saying it now:
We’re learning what’s what and we’re finding out how.
We’re eager to put it to work for our schools,
But to do a good job we must have the right tools.

We’ve said it before and we’ll say it with flowers:
The government thinks we should delegate powers
To small sub-committees - but then if we do,
Their meetings and work will need servicing too.

We’ve said it before and we’ll say it all day:
We cannot work miracles, try how we may;
We have our own jobs, and our families need us.
Must we do the admin? Will nobody heed us?

We’ve said it before and we want you to hear:
Our voluntary service is costing us dear.
We won’t go on strike, and we don’t want to pack up,
But please! don’t abuse us - do give us the back-up.

We’ve said it before and we’re saying it still:
The way is now clear and we do have the will
To play our full part and square up to the task.
Are the means to this end really too much to ask?
~

Writing under pressure

~
Ten years ago, at one of our Growing Old Disgracefully gatherings, we did a writing workshop. We were asked - or rather challenged - to write a poem to someone we know well, and to liken that person to:

a colour

a kind of weather

a time of day or year

a sound

a form of transport

a kitchen implement

something eatable

an animal

a speed

We were given about 15 minutes to complete the task. In such circumstances one can hardly help but write from the heart. This was my poem. I seem to have cheated slightly on the last line.

You are my brown earth and my green growth,
You are my light and warmth and the breeze that blows.
You are my springtime and my renewal,
You are birdsong and the chime of bells.
You are the wheels that change my horizons,
You are my top gear, my accelerator.
You are the knife that cuts out waste.
You are my bread and my wine.
You are my best friend and companion.

~~~~~~

Who am I?

~

'Alone'

I found this poem the other day when I was looking through old papers - I don't remember when I wrote it.



Who am I when I'm alone,

when I am not being a daughter,

doing as her mother taught her -

who am I when I'm alone?



Who am I when I'm alone,

when my brother needs no keeping,

and our rivalry is sleeping -

who am I when I'm alone?



Who am I when I'm alone,

when I have no lord and master,

husband, consort, mate or partner -

who am I when I'm alone?



Who am I when I'm alone,

when I'm not my children's mother,

quick to succour, not to smother -

who am I when I'm alone?



Who am I when I'm alone,

when my roles have all been taken:

tiny fragment left forsaken -

who am I when I'm alone?



Who am I when I'm alone,

do I know this someone other,

do I like her, even love her -

can I live with her alone?



[The fractal image entitled 'Alone' was created by Sven Geier. You can see many more on his website. He generously makes them freely available to everybody, for which I thank him.]
~

Blogging for health

~

I think it is probably a mistake to take a break from blogging - if you lose the momentum, you may find it difficult to get going again. That's what has happened to me anyway. "Back after Christmas" I said, and here we are 10th of January already. Every day I sit at my computer and deal with emails, or surf other people's blogs; I may leave a comment or two but that's it. When I say to myself "time to blog or your friends will lose interest" ..... I can't do it. I'm not in the mood, I haven't the heart for it. In fact I'm feeling kind of sulky and reclusive, sort of "what's the point"-ish. "Is this depression?" I ask myself.

~

Not surprising with the weather we have been having. I always tend to be rather down in the winter but this year it's worse than ever. And even when the sun shines it is too cold for me to walk, as the very cold air in my lungs makes me breathless and I can't walk fast enough to keep warm. So I stay indoors and stew in my own juice, nibbling constantly just to have something comforting in my day. Oh sod it! It's a bugger being old!

~

So why am I telling you all about it? Not really my style. But then on the other hand I started this blog with the idea of "telling it how it is" - and this is how it is for me at the moment. What decided me to write about it here was an article in The Mail on Sunday written by Jane Alexander yesterday, (and drawn to my attention by the Digital Unite blog). It seems that blogging about her problems and her "black dog" is her preferred form of therapy. So why not give it a try?

~

When I talked to my GP about feeling depressed she gave me an assessment form to fill in. You know the sort of thing:

Over the last 2 weeks, how often have you been feeling Down, Depressed, or Hopeless?

Not at all :: Several days :: More than half the days :: Nearly every day.

Silly question to start with, as each of the three is different in my view, if only in degree. I would say "Nearly every day" for Down; "Several days" or "More than half" for Depressed; but "Not at all" for Hopeless. Reassuringly, I was also able to write "Not at all" for "Feeling you would be better off dead, or Thoughts of hurting yourself in some way".

~

So, first off I wanted to rewrite the questions. Then I wanted an additional column to tick, as the four given didn't cover the full range of my experience. Then for one question I was on the borderline, and couldn't decide which way to go, so opted for giving myself a higher score. The GP wouldn't tell me in advance how the scoring was done, and I was quite surprised to find that my score did qualify me for treatment. She couldn't really believe it - she keeps telling me I always strike her as very "together". But together or not, I know that the quality of what I am feeling is different from previous winters.

~

Nevertheless, I suddenly found we were both agreeing that many of the symptoms occur in old age anyway, like feeling tired, low energy and trouble sleeping. But so what? Does that mean I am not feeling depressed, but simply feeling old? No, I'm feeling depressed because I am old. Does that mean my depression is inevitable, or should be disregarded? Does that lower my score and make treatment unnecessary, or does it just reinforce the view that one of the big problems of health in old age is depression, which can be treated?

~

Anyway, I didn't really want another lot of pills to take with all the others I have to keep track of , and take at the right time, and order more of every other week it seems. So I decided not to have a prescription this time, though I know she will give me one if I go back again and ask. She was not unsympathetic (despite being a bit disbelieving), and seemed to think as poorly of the form as I did. And I think at least she respects me for being someone who is knowledgeable, articulate, and in charge of my own health.

~

Well, that's my whinge for today - or was it a rant? I wouldn't be sure. I certainly feel a lot better for it. And I've just had another happy thought: there was a time 14 years ago when I felt a whole lot worse than I do now. Just to remind my self, here is a poem I wrote at the time.

~

MYSTERY ILLNESS

Nights of panic
Days of gloom
Trapped alone
Within the room

Endless fevers
Strength that wanes
Thoughts that fester
Fears and pains

Guilt and self-blame
Haunt the mind
No solution
Can I find

Wandering blindfold
In a maze
No way out
To better days

Normal life’s
A long-gone dream
In my head
An endless scream

What is happening?
How and why?
Must I simply

Wait to die?

~

Motherlove

If I do not write often in my blog about my sons and grandchildren, it is not because they are not important to me. On the contrary, they bring colour, drama and joy into my life, and there is so much I would like to write about. But some of them do not care to have their lives exposed on the world wide web, and do not want to have pictures of their young children posted either, and I must respect their wishes. But not writing about them or posting their pictures is a considerable frustration to me.


I think I may allow myself, however, to post this poem about them which I wrote many years ago, but which I would write again today:

They are great big lads
My four boys,
Bonny and brawny.
They have to bend
To hug their Mum.
Such pride I feel
In each of them
For his own specialness.
And when they gather
All at once
To celebrate
Some family event,
Then memory flows
And laughter breaks
In great explosions.
All the past
In which I played
My part
Is laid before me -
And my heart bursts
With joy.

Maude's ditty

~
Encouraged by Keith's comment on my previous post, I found a little verse forming itself in my mind:

Lace for the elderly

Purple for passion

This dress is 'me'

And it's also in fashion

---------------------

Closeups will show you

The flab and the wrinkles

But also the smile

And the fun-loving twinkles

---------------------

Nowhere to go in it

Oh! what a pity

I'm keeping it though

'Cos it makes me look pretty!

---------------------

Poetic fragment

I have recently come across this piece of verse among my husband's papers. I can't recollect seeing it before. As he worked for an engineering insurance firm, he may have written it for the house journal. I think it has a Gilbertian feel about it. He would have delighted in introducing a touch of ridicule to the rather stiff and stuffy world of insurance.

It is not clear to me whether the three lines starting with a dash were alternatives he planned to choose between, or whether he was allowing himself some poetic extravagance. I don't think it matters which.

INSURANCE RATES

It is the public’s firm belief
that rates are always found
by methods scientific and
statistically sound

Mathematically based, let’s say
allowing in each £
a modest bit of profit but
statistically sound

The truth is rather different
we use our gifts and flair
to raise a hand aloft and grab
a rate from out thin air

Or else there’s this (no doubt you wish
our mysteries to plumb)
to get the true and perfect rate
one sucks it from one’s thumb

And who shall say that we are wrong
if as each year comes round
we’ve made a bit and paid our way -
there really is no ground
- for saying we have gone to pot
- that rating’s just a lot of rot
- that no-one really cares a jot

In fact we think we’re rather hot
at rating (and we do a lot)
not always scientific but
statistically sound

No recall

I hear voices from the past
Telling me that I was wrong
And I'm listening at last
To the meaning of their song

And I'm feeling so much pain
For the hurt that I caused you
If I had the time again
How much better I could do

But the saddest thing of all
And the hardest pain to bear
Is to know there's no recall
For you are no longer there

Georges Brassens

Talking of handymen, there is a marvellous song about a handyman by one of my favourite French singer-songwriters, George Brassens. He never sang it himself, as he wrote it for cabaret singer Patachou, who helped him to launch his singing career on stage. I first heard it about 50 years ago, and I like it so much that I recently made a literal translation of it, from which I hoped to move on to a rhyming, singable version – but that has proved too great a challenge for me! You can see the original French lyric here.

LE BRICOLEUR

During rare moments of pause
When he is not repairing something
He looks for an available corner
Where he can still knock in a nail
(Hammer and nails)
(Hammer and nails)
The nail which he hammers in
In the place of yesterday’s nail
He’ll replace tomorrow with a better one
The same one as the day before yesterday,
what’s more.

[Refrain]
My God, what happiness !
My God, what happiness
To have a handyman husband
My God, what happiness !
My God, what happiness
To have a handy husband
(Hammer and nails)(2x)

During one of my pregnancies
I constantly grumbled to him
About the unbelievable cost
Of a baby’s layette.
(Hammer and nails) (2x)
But when the child saw the light of day
I found to my utmost delight
That my husband had somehow managed
To make it for me fully dressed.

[Refrain]

At the present moment he is installing
A new electrical system
Which will allow mankind, at last,
To make water out of wine.
(Hammer and nails) (2x)
But in his calculations he makes a mistake
And when we drink at the pump
We find ourselves gulping down
A large glass of electricity.

[Refrain]

As he is afraid that the riff-raff
Will covet his planes, and his pliers,
At bedtime he puts them all
In the middle of the marriage bed.
(Hammer and nails) (2x)
And often, at night, I wake up
Dreaming of all sorts of wonders
Suggested by a teasing sensation,
But it’s only a brace and bit !

My God, what a misery
My God, what a misery
To have a handyman husband !
My God, what a misery
My God, what a misery
To have a handy husband !

Now we shall always be together

Some years ago, when I had recently joined Growing Old Disgracefully, (about which I wrote here), I attended a workshop about funerals, and about creating one's own alternative celebration. The workshop was just for members of our Network, which made it easier for us to trust each other and take full advantage of the opportunity. In the event we were greatly moved by the experience, and formed a very close bond. After the workshop I wrote this:

We met, some friends, some strangers,
to look, with courage, at our dying;
to consider our leave-taking
and how it should be marked.

We sought the meaning of our lives
that others might celebrate them.
We touched the pain of things awry
and longed to set them right.

We shared our fears, our feelings,
and with paper, paint and willow
made expressions of ourselves.
We wept, and laughed, and hugged.

We joined our hands beneath the sky,
with lights, and words, and music,
rosemary and forget-me-nots.
We set our spirits free.

We should not travel on alone;
we should always be together.
Before, and after, we have gone,
we shall always be together now.

~~~~~~~~

The workshop was run by Welfare State International, "a collective of radical artists and thinkers who explored ideas of celebratory art and spectacle". Unfortunately the original organisation came to an end in 2006, but has been succeeded by Lanternhouse International, whose projects "projects are celebrations, performances and rites of passage, exploring the poetry of the everyday and the paradoxes of contemporary culture". It is worth having a look at the archive website and the new one if you are interested.

Thought for today

Thinking today about my friend Lee's blog entitled 'A Curate's Egg', I wondered if his title refers to his blog, or to something else. I came up with this in haiku form:

~~~~~~~~

Life's a curate's egg

You can eat or you can starve

Which do you prefer?

~~~~~~~~

I hope you'll forgive my working with your idea, Lee.

I missed you this morning ...

Last weekend I unexectedly found myself driving through the little mill town in Cheshire where we lived from 1960 to 1970. It turned out to be a very affecting experience.

I missed you this morning when I went back to Bollington
Chasing up the shadows of a time long gone
Missed you in the place where we made our first home together
Still looks the same though it’s forty years on

Missed you when I drove past The Olde Cock and Pheasant
Nice drop of Boddington’s - your favourite beer
Then past St Oswald’s where the boys were christened
The school and the corner shop - they’re both still there

Missed you when I stopped by our little farm cottage -
An Aga in the kitchen and nappies on the rail
And then at the big house we had to move on to -
The babies kept coming - now it’s up for sale

Missed you in the High Street where the shops are familiar
Then under the aqueduct and up by The Mill
Along the canal bank where the ducks are still squawking
And looking for White Nancy up on Kerridge Hill

You weren’t there to share with me our own special memories
I left it too long and you weren’t there to share
I missed you this morning when I went back to Bollington
I missed you... I missed you... you should have been there…..

[Local landmark White Nancy]

Haiku for a good friend

Permission to hug,

dear friend, how shall I seek it?

No need - you kissed me!

.

.

[Drawing by Mimi Noland, from The Little Book of Hugs by Kathleen Keating]

The computer's swallowed Grandma

I am posting this poem, although it is not mine, as a tribute to all the Grandmas who have been fearless and learned to use the computer....

I have come across it in two slightly different versions, and neither of them was attributed to a named author, so I am unable to acknowledge its origin.


The computer’s swallowed grandma.
Yes, honestly its true.
She pressed 'Control' and 'Enter'
And disappeared from view.

It’s devoured her completely,
The thought just makes me squirm.
She must have caught a ‘virus’
Or been eaten by a 'worm’.

I've searched through the recycle bin
And files of every kind;
I've even used the internet,
But nothing did I find.

In desperation, I asked Jeeves
My searches to refine.
The reply from him was negative,
Not a thing was found 'on line'.

So, if inside your 'Inbox',
'My Grandma you should see,
Please 'Copy', 'Scan' and 'Paste' her
And send her back to me!

Footnote:: When I first got my own computer seven years ago, I gave myself the title 'CyberGran' for the purposes of family correspondence by email.

NB:: It really bugs me the way I print some of my text in blue, and it still comes up black when I publish. Everything except the poem itself was entered in blue here. ~#:[

A 'bread-and-butter' poem

I wrote this for my son and daughter-in-law, a long time ago now, when a visit to them was marred because I was unwell. I had recently learned how to write haikus.

A house of welcome,
where skills, and taste, and living
have made their magic.

Co-ordinated
guest suite, blue and while; pictures
and flowers - comfort!

Guest lies a-bed, while
hosts work hard and long, and all
are too much parted.

Endless meals on trays
can yet do justice to the
culinary arts.

Mini-greenhouses
massed on the landing, simmer
and sweat with new growth.

Guineapig bundles
nestle in the duvet folds
and soothe the spirit.

Counsel and caring
offered with love, are with love
taken - to the heart.

A happy visit -
though not quite as expected -
brings hope and healing.

©Judith Taylor 1995

The loneliness of the on-line poster

Yesterday my friend Keith Donovan wrote a poem, or to be accurate, a parody, which echoed my own feelings so closely that I decided to reproduce it here - with his permission of course.

We both subscribe to a rather small message board list on line called The Steamie, which on some days is very busy, but on others almost totally inactive. Keith posts from his office and I post from home, but we both experience those tedious expanses of time when nothing seems worth doing on the spot, and only a lively exchange with like-minded list members will mitigate our boredom. So here is Keith's lament:

POSTING INTO AIR

I'm posting into air
I'm writing to a silent site
The other Steamie folk are sleeping as I write

I'm posting into air
I'm writing but I don't know why
It really isn't fun if you get no reply

I'm feeling quite alone
I'm writing but without effect
I'm surplus to requirements, just an old reject

No one gazes open-mouthed
Taken by surprise
Nobody's on the board to use their eyes

I'm surfing on the 'net
I'm Googling in the knowledge space
Refresh, but there's no change; it's such a lonely place

I'm dawdling through the day
The seconds trickle past like tears
The minutes and the hours, the days and weeks and years

I'm posting into air
I'm posting into air

©KeithDonovanJanuary2006

The picture, by the way, should have given you a clue as to the right tune to go with Keith's lyric: "Walking in the Air", the theme from "The Snowman" by Howard Blake.

Epiphany

Today is the Christian Feast of Epiphany, which celebrates the manifestation of the divine nature of Jesus. This day makes me think of certain moments of epiphany of my own, when a sudden insight or perception of reality has led to beneficial change in my life.

The first of these which I recall was when, at the age of 25, I suddenly realised that despite the prevailing culture for ‘nice’ girls in the 1950s, I did not have to remain a virgin until I married just because my mother said I should! From that moment I gave up the unequal struggle and changed from the tortured, neurotic creature that I was into a reasonably relaxed and tolerably happy person. Three years later I was married and became a ‘good’ girl again … from choice I might add!

Some 50 years on another moment of revelation occurred, thanks to the loving support in a crisis of a group of very dear friends. I suddenly understood, in the simplest terms, an aspect of my behaviour which I very much wanted to change. Out of this illumination came the following poem. I leave you to guess which verse is about me.

“This is me - please love me!”

She’s rather loud, and vulgar too, and says what’s on her mind.
Although she doesn’t mean to, she can sometimes be unkind.
If challenged, she will say to you “I speak just as I find”.
But what she really wants to say is: “This is me - please love me!”

She’s forceful and efficient and she likes to take control.
She organises everything and swallows problems whole.
She’s critical and bossy, and she thinks she knows it all.
But what she really wants to say is: “This is me - please love me!”

She talks a lot about her health, and worries till she’s ill.
She thinks she cannot do things - say’s “I might” and not “I will”.
And when she’s nothing else to do she takes another pill.
But what she really wants to say is: “This is me - please love me!”

She’s fawning and compliant and she never has a view.
She likes to tag along with you in everything you do.
And if you ask her what she wants, she says “It’s up to you”.
But what she really wants to say is: ” This is me - please love me!”

© Judith Taylor 2002

If you recognise someone you know, try listening to the real message and responding in a loving way. It can work wonders …
for both of you!

[Picture by Google Images]

Jake Thackray rewritten

The crowning glory of my birthday, however, was Keiwit’s offering of a rewrite of one of my favourite Jake Thackray songs, The Lodger. It was a saucy song in its time - (you will find the original lyrics here: http://www.jakethackray.co.uk/content/view/121/26/) and is admirably suited to Keiwit’s interpretation, in which he most accurately conveys my message. If you can possibly find yourself a recording of the song to listen to, I recommend that you do so, as it will help you to appreciate Keiwit’s talent as a parodist. If you follow the link on the left of the page for The Jake Thackray Website, you will find a discography.

Judith's Ideal

My neighbours’ sons were so tall and strapping
They used to play outside my house each day
They used to come even while I was napping
But I’d never tell those boys to go away
There was Billy: he was silly
There was Robbie: t’was his hobby to be critical about my fashion sense
There was Brian: he would try and be so blokey but provoked me
What a joke he had no courteous intents

But they grew up: they reached a new maturity
I saw possibilities of having fun
I’d endured a life of boring purity
So I promised I’d not turn down anyone
And sure enough, they called my bluff
When I was chilly, little Billy
He saw me huddled, so we cuddled for a while
He was sweet: but not discreet – his wand’ring hands, had other plans
He made demands but that is really not my style

"Billy, go away! Don’t make a pass"
"Now, Billy" I must say, "Take your hands off my arse"
"Stay off me henceforth, you must be made to see"
"You must go further north – to engage me!"

Well, after all, I'm still young and rather pretty
And I have time to choose my perfect man
So preferably I'd go for someone witty
And I’d never just go out with what I can
I’m not snobby but then Robbie
Tried his luck, the little schmuck
But his lids they never did stray from my chest
I did advise him to my eyes, but he declined quite unrefined
So I untwined and made a citizen’s arrest

"Robbie, go away! Robbie you’re a pest"
"Now, Robbie," I must say, "I’m really not impressed"
"It seems once again, I’ve picked the wrong boy"
"You must use my brain – I’m not a toy"

I felt quite down, and worried for the future
I thought there would be no one there for me
I might not ever use my Kama Sutra
But then came Brian my lucky number three
He was perplexing, never vexing
Quite engaging, hormones raging
Intellect he could collect me any time
And it was good, he understood, with that fine man, a love began
Because he can share my great passion for a rhyme

"Brian, come to bed! I won’t ask you twice"
"Now Brian look," I said, "I can be very nice"
"I'll do what you like, I think we connect"
"That’s because you’ve shown me proper respect"
[© Keiwit -November 2005]

I was so touched by this tribute that I had tears running down my face as I shut down my computer and went to bed that night.

Birthday badinage

BIRTHDAY BADINAGE

November 29th was my 78th birthday. I don’t usually make much of birthdays, but this one was remarkable for an unexpected outbreak of versifying in my honour. To set the scene I should explain that it happened in an online discussion forum to which I belong, and where, because it is a small group, most of whom know each other personally, a fair degree of outspoken banter and badinage is current. I should also mention that an entirely erroneous myth has grown up in this forum that my mind is set on acquiring a toyboy! Keith D opened the greetings with:

Happy birthday Jude.
At seventy-eight
I’ve gotta say, dude,
That you’re looking great.

But then he added the following, occasioned by a remark of mine that ‘Callipygea’ would make a nice pseudonym. (It seems ‘callipygean’ means ‘having beautifully proportioned buttocks’):

Of things callipygean
you’ve more than a smidgeon
but no one could say you were plump.
Could it be that your gluteus
is really quite beauteous
or do you just have a nice rump?

Further comments and conjectures relating to my rump ensued, until I observed rather sharply that a change of topic was called for, particularly as my rear end is nothing to write home about - (or as Keith said "Judith’s bum is just ho-hum"). Later I apologised for being peevish, and Keith produced the following (loosely based on Elvis’s ‘Trouble’):

Woke up this morning
I was seventy-eight
Had to see the cardiologist
Had a lot on my plate
Had to take a lot of comments
About my rear
And you still expect me to grin from ear to ear

Well, I'm peevish.
Acerbity's my middle name
Oh yes, I'm peevish
But so far I've been pretty tame

Just one more allusion
To my backside
And I'll raise a contusion -
Take weeks to subside
You may think that I'm easy
'Cos I'm getting old
But I can tell you things, boy, you ain't never been told

Because I'm peevish
And I'm starting to lose my cool
Oh yes, I'm peevish
So don't mess around with me, you fool.

Wanna make me happy?
Then praise my tits
And maybe my legs
But no other bits
And the jokes about toyboys
Just get on my wick
Make me feel like clouting you with my broomstick

Oh yes, I'm peevish
'Cos you're all picking on little Jude
You better stop now
Or we'll have a reg'lar old feud.

[To be continued tomorrow]

When I go ...

Some years ago I attended a Funerals Workshop. It was about devising an alternative rite of passage for those who feel that the conventional funeral does not always celebrate the life of the person who has gone, or meet the needs of those of us who mourn them. It was a practical and at the same time very moving experience.

We heard from an artist who painted coffins, a woman funeral director, and a celebrant from the British Humanist Association. We learned about the law, finance, the process of looking after the body, and alternatives for burial. We also did some creative craft work and some writing, and talked about how we felt as we approached the end of our lives. We ended with a special ceremony which we had planned ourselves. Far from being morbid or depressing, it proved to be a life enhancing experience.

Nevertheless, there was a moment when I felt some light relief would not come amiss. There was a noticeboard in the room where we ate our meals, and pinned onto this was a flier for a local singing group called HUMHOLLER'N'SING. I found this phrase echoing in my mind, and out of it came the following verses:

Hum, holler and sing
Or do 'most anything
But don't let me go without a party!

Shake, rattle and roll
Or let the church bell toll
But don't send me off without a party!

Toast, tipple and feast
It's true I'll be deceased
But it won't be too late to have a party!

Wake, revel or fight
Whatever you feel is right
But DON'T let me go without a party!

[© Judith Taylor 1998]

The workshop was run by Welfare State International in Ulverston, Cumbria, and if you are interested in their Rites of Passage Workshops you can read about them here, although it is too late for this autumn's programme: http://www.welfare-state.org/current/autumn.htm