Written by Tommy Twinkle
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Friday, 22 July 2011

image for When Aunt Doris Came To Stay (Part Two) Dr Singebarni reading my poems.

Most of the toy cars I'd play with had chipped paint and scratches on them. That didn't happen when playing with them on a carpet, it happened when playing with them on the landing up our stairs. Through the banisters there was quite a long drop down to the linoleum passageway going along by our kitchen door. In my child's mind of course it wasn't a landing area at the top of a flight of stairs, it was a high cliff top or perilous mountain road the imaginary drivers of my toy cars would be trying to safely negotiate. Not generally with success. There'd be terrible accidents - with lots of carnage. And I mean LOTS!

The toy cars were strong, but the paintwork on them could only take so many drops from that landing at the top of our stairs before they'd get a paint scratch or chip. Or sometimes a wheel or two would snap off.

Mum had a lucky escape once. A car had gone over the side of the 'mountain road' just when she'd decided to walk out from our kitchen into the passageway. It missed her head by a whisker before crashing to the floor. I don't think she'd realised just how fast the metal toy car was falling when it whizzed by. And Hard metal picks up speed quickly when dropped from a big height.

"Oy you - that only just missed my head" she called up to me. I got away with it by calling back down to her "I'm only playing and it's raining outside". It was often raining outside where we lived and that excuse saved me from a walloping many times when I was a kid. But what happened to the cardboard box I hear you asking? Well I'm coming to that.

Unlike the toy cars made of metal, my 'cardboard box car' was of course.... well, it was more bendable. That made it an accident waiting to happen. The day it came to be destroyed was probably a day when I was in a really bad mood. I don't remember what had caused the bad mood. It wouldn't have needed to be much. Maybe there was no tomato sauce to put on my chips, or perhaps dad had insisted on watching some old film on television when Top of The Pops was on the other side. He did love his old rubbish films.

The cardboard box toy car was totally destroyed that day. Not through falling down from the landing onto the linoleum passageway - that didn't cause any damage at all. The damage came from my feet when I'd rushed down our stairs to 'finish it off'. Destroyed beyond all recognition it was. Then to make the accident even worse - and complete - I unzipped my flies and urinated over it in our passageway (In my mind that was the deep waters of the mountain lake the car had fallen into). There were no survivors.

Giving me a wallop was usually left for dad to do. But it came from mum. She wasn't concerned about the box of course. What she was angry about was that I'd just urinated all over the passageway lino floor. 'I'm only playing, and it's raining outside' didn't work that time, but it had been a splendid car accident and to my mind was worth it.

My doctor thinks the cardboard box toy car and the book of poems my Aunt Doris gave me that Christmas have something to do with why I write poems. I did write a poem about the cardboard box toy car accident for school homework a few years later but that was all. The teacher said it was rubbish but what did he know about poetry? Idiot!

I don't think I wrote another poem though until I was in my late thirties, which is still over twenty years ago. But there's been a steady stream of them since, strangely all about the pet animals I've had. Ants, wasps, beetles, a dog (our dad bought him for my brother and I as a pup from Petticoat Lane's Sunday market one Christmas but it died a few weeks later from distemper). There was a budgerigar, a rabbit, and a couple of goldfish he won with darts at a fairground he took us to. They all died of something or other after a few weeks.

Dr Singebarni describes my condition as being called 'poetic disturbances', but I don't think he found it in any book. I think he came up with it up himself. A few years ago he told me to stop taking my latest poems along to the surgery for him to read out to me because some of them had become rather long. It's a shame because he has a good speaking voice when it comes to poems. Nowadays I just post them off to him after completing them. He sticks them all into a big book he has with a red cover.

Last week I had to see him about something else that's been causing me problems. Nothing big. He said how he'd soon have to get another book for any more of my poems. I happened to mention to Dr Singebarni how I'd been submitting some spoof stories to this site. Dr Singebarni said I ought to submit any more of my poems to The Spoof to give him a well deserved rest from them. I suppose that's understandable really. He has lots of patients to see and probably doesn't always want to spend his evenings reading my poems.

I'll only include my most recent poem here. No doubt there'll be plenty of others to follow if this goes down well. I'm confident it will. I shouldn't say this myself of course but I think it's rather good. One of my best. It's a poem about my most recent pet animal. So far he's still alive, though I only got him last week so it's early days. I've named him Pat. It's just a coincidence that Pat rhymes with cat but poetically convenient because it means I have a rhyming title for it by calling it simply 'Pat the Cat'.

So here it is. I hope you like it.

Pat the Cat.

I have a cat
I've named him Pat
He's a bit too fat
To get through my cat-flap (That line needs a bit of working on).

As I live in a flat
Means my pet cat Pat
'Goes' on the mat (I think you'll know what I mean by 'goes')
Though not for a crap.

I've bought a big hat
For Pat to do that
But admit that in fact
He's not always....exact.

When he misses the hat
Pat craps on the mat
But I still love Pat
He's my pet cat.

The End

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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