Thursday, June 29, 2017

How to Remove Ear Wax

When we got back from our holidays there was a poster through the door advertising a free consultation with an audiologist who was offering treatments for the removal of ear wax. I thought, God! has it come to this. But I kept the flyer, and re-reading it today, it gave me inspiration for this poem. I do suffer from a bit of tinnitus but I think I'll live with it.

‘Every year in the UK, an estimated 2.3 million people have problems with excessive ear wax.’

Never Stick Anything Smaller Than Your Elbow in Your Ear

Never Stick Anything Smaller Than Your Elbow in Your Ear

Malleus Incus Audiologist – Treatments £85.50 per session

For personal Ear Wax Removal at home
apply for a free quotation,
send details to
describing all ear irritation.

If hair grows like pampas grass out of your ears,
or pit dust has filled your canals,
or work down the coal mine for forty-five years
has caused grime to silt up your valves,

then Malleus Incus the Audio man
will visit your home right away,
discreet audiology second to none,
with 10% off during May.

If all you can hear is an incessant hiss
like after a gig in the park,
a soft muted fizzle, a hearing abyss
where sound is a shot in the dark,

Then Malleus Incus the Audio man
will tend to your every need,
in only ten minutes he’ll do what he can
a fast, painless job guaranteed.

The Malleus Incus procedure dissolves
and flushes out all trace of wax,
with hygienic rinses designed to resolve
the dregs that cause itching attacks.

His stainless steel rod with its grouted out head
is whizz for dry irrigation;
his vacuum pump action with extracting thread
would suck a train out of a station.

When external channels are packed tight with gunge,
you’ll need multifunctional swab,
it’s sort of a hydrogen peroxide sponge,
which usually does a good job.

Forget little fingers; that warm pinky-prod,
the pen, or the cocktail stick trick,
you’ll impact the particles, compact that crud,
and cause it to set worse than Prit.

Do not use the pencil eraser technique,
it’s not the most dazzling idea,
for something distinctive and new ultra-chic
a hot candle stuck in your ear

called Thermo-auricular Therapy Fix,
is by far the most popular craze;
white linen is soaked in a paraffin mix,
rolled tightly and then set ablaze.

And if all else fails there’s the tooth fairy, Lok
she works on ears in her spare time,
but don’t be surprised if you black out with shock
her technique is not so refined.

She hammers a tiny wee nail in your drum,
enough to cause perforation,
and then she blows hard, and the wind whistles through
affecting instant filtration.

Of course, Lok is under strict supervision,
M Incus, her overall boss,
she comes with a comprehensive provision
of cover for slight hearing loss.

For personal ear wax removal act now
M. Incus will render it clear,
choose Malleus Incus the man who knows how
to move all that gunk from your ear.

Mail Malleus, advice free.
Why suffer that tormenting pain?
Send 85.50 and we’ll guarantee
you’ll never hear from us again!

Jane Sharp

I think I must have a warped muse working with me at the moment, either that or I'm just not hearing right.

I had a lovely day at the Shortland's Poetry Circle Summer Celebration, at Ripley Arts Centre, Bromley, on Tuesday where the guest poets were Danielle Hope and Michael Loveday. After the reading there was a homemade afternoon tea complete with strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, yummy! It was a good antidote to the terrible sadness of the past couple of weeks in London.

If you haven't listened to Ben Okri's poem, do it now.

So sad, such a brilliant poem and what an accurate account of that terrible scene. My prayers are for both the lost and the living.

It's a sad note to end on but all those people deserve a minute of our energy to help them get through.

Talk again soon,
Jane x

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

: Bedroom Stuff

Back in Birdwell after our little sojourn in Crete, I have spent a few days reorganising the house so as to create a working space. I was all excited about getting the shed erected, the one we got from our neighbour as he was packing up and moving, only to find that he did not go after all, and with a sorry look on his face said he could really do with the shed back. So, I don't have my writing shed after all. It is a disappointment, but you know what? When I do get a shed it will be bigger and better than that one.

So, we have had a big move around of stuff, and I have set up my desk in the bedroom. It is out of the way, light and warm, and if I so wish I can lie down while I'm thinking. All I need now is a chair that fits the desk, but for the time being I am perched on the end of the bedding chest which, with a great big cushion, is not too uncomfortable.

This isn't my bedroom but the eclectic feel is very similar.

Although I am spending most of my time with my novel, I am producing the odd bit of poetry, etc.

Here's an odd bit which I wrote the other day:

To Be A Poet in 2017

When I wake up, I don’t draw the curtains and think:

‘Ah, most planitaried skies how bounteous beams thy morning dawn,
Whereof a Marharaja lies in golden red pre-nuptual form.

No I draw the curtains and think:

Sod it! off we go again, what’s on offer today, world?
It’s me in my pajamas, and in the street, bin men clattering about,
hauling trash like gloved zombies dragging coffins.
Who needs getteruppers when you’ve got bin men?
I might push a bit of: The dulcet tones of detritus, the stink,
but that’s as far as it goes before peppermint paste hits molars,
and I have to spit into the sink.

When I go downstairs I switch the radio on,
but I  don’t feel like fluttering and dancing to the BBC.

No, I listen to the news and depress myself to hell
with bombs, and Brexit and the buggeryshiteness
of it all.

I don’t open the Rice Crispies and think:
Hark the sound of spangled snap,
crick-crackle in my dish,
O the pop of wondrous rice,
What ecstasy, what bliss.

No, I think:

maybe once, just once I could open the cupboard and find
a full English breakfast with sausage, bacon, eggs and black pudding
all ready to take to the table, oh and beans, hash brown and fried slice,
It would be nice.

I don’t go out of the front door thinking:

Daffodils at the gate are waking
Dew upon their towering stems
Oh how glorious is their blooming,
Golden host of diadems.

No, I think:

the daffs need dead heading,
there’s another job for weekend,

I don’t walk down the street reciting odes or villanelles,
I don’t wax on about butterflies, or birdsong, or the sound of trains,
On down the line, on down the line, is it on time? Is it on time?

No, I walk along the uneven pavement watching the cracks,
keeping up a good pace so as not to look lackadaisical,
or unemployed, or dare I say it, as though my head is floating
somewhere on high, and I continue on till I reach the sanctuary
of the library and the company of other poets. It’s a place
where I can sit in the warm and learn how not to say,
I wandered lonely as a cloud.

And now I'm going to watch the Queen's speech, I hear she is not putting on the regalia this year, probably because she is hot footing it to Ascot after the parliament bit. Well, I hope she has a good day, I must say she does extremely well for her age. I bet she's got a shed or two, I wonder if she's got one going spare. 

Talk some more soon, have a good day whatever you are doing.
Love and hugs,
Jane x

Tears From The Sun - The Story