My friend Joanna Crosby wrote this poem. Read it carefully 🙂
Why am I wearing woolly gluvs
instead of woolly gloaves?
The Christmas spice is not a cluv
– it is, of course, a clove,
and deer don’t run through woodland gruvs
but stand in dappled groves,
and Michael Gove’s called many things – but never Mr Guv.
Ah, but. Did Frank Sinatra croon of loave
or how he’d been a ruvver?
And do you watch a mauvie
or hire a van to help you muv?
There’s always an exception, as I can quickly proave.
So I will wear my woolly gluvs
and look for treasure trove
returning home to warm my hands, beside my kitchen stuv.
I’m starting to enjoy amateur dramatics. Not to be roped into the stress of performing myself but instead to be willingly subjected to the supremely brave efforts of part-time actors and supporters of varying talents, who most of the time don’t take themselves too seriously.
The attractions are obvious: you get a low-cost, local, often fairly exclusive (!) evening of entertainment, with lots to talk about afterwards.
As soon as I saw mention of Fat-headed Chunks’ performance of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” I knew I wanted to see it – who could refuse? A touring show covering lots of small village halls across north Cumbria, starring some faces starting to be familiar to me and the bonus of one old friend I’ve known for a long time.