I do my best thinking while driving. I drive a Fiat Panda.

Archive for the month “March, 2012”

A little bucket of chardonnay

Here’s a poem for the ‘dining club’ ladies and all those other wonderful people in my life (you know who you are) who, with me, enjoy moments that bring together wine, cooking and friends. It’s a little frivolous –  I wrote it one day when I was really not in the mood for a Monday. Well, today is a Monday and I wish it wasn’t – but we can still dream of weekends and good times to come! Cheers, y’all. Happy days to you!

Cheers through rosy-tinted glasses...

A little bucket of chardonnay

Sun’s coming up and traffic’s calling

Over the hills and far away

Sun’s arriving and I’m feeling

Grumpy-tired as this new day

Beckons me onward into the city

Humanity, ant-like, bustling along

Obligations got to be answered

But tonight I’ll sing a different song, and….

A little bucket of chardonnay

Always takes the edge away!

A song of friendship and relaxing,

A song to warm the inner soul

A song of cooking, wine and chat,

A song for feeling once more whole

And so, my friends, to food and wine

The grapes of solace, laughter, tears

The conversation’s ebb and flow

That sorts out all those little fears

And a little goblet of soft merlot

Spins me into high from low!

So forget the business of the day

Take up your glass and fill it full

With friendship, laughter, life and love

Gifts to self, and tools to pull

Joy from sorrow, smiles from strife

Relax! It’s time for letting go

Restoring reason and its rhyme

Balancing the status quo

And a bottle shared, be it red or white

Can lift a gloom and bring on light! 

(extract from) The siren song

When I was very young and all the lessons lay before me, I revered the music makers as god-like creatures from another planet. Each week, with fanatical devotion, my friends and I would buy the magazines that printed interviews, photos and song-words, and from these and top-40 radio we were informed, entertained and guided.

The music makers fed our emotions. They said:

This is good, or

That is bad, and

we believed them, and were mystified if we didn’t understand. We wondered then what they heard that we were deaf to.

The music makers are





mostly thin

often long-haired

bald maybe



old, young or somewhere in between





usually friendly, and

always opinionated.

In other words, music makers come in various guises, but there is always some mark that sets them apart. I always thought it was something in the eyes. If you look closely, and in the right light of course, you will see a different sort of soul shining through.

Different. There’s the thing. Different how? Different why? And do we envy the music makers, or pity them for this mark that sets them apart?

This depends. When they soar through the heights, we envy and adore. When they fall, we are mocking, scornful or sad, depending on our own innate generosity.

I shared my life once with a music maker. I put words to his music and spiritually, for a while, we were twins.

A genius with the guitar, he had a voice like honeyed smoke, with that bad boy allure any good girl worth her salt wants to tame. His hair was long and said ‘So what?’ to the rest of the world, and I really liked that – later. In the early moments of seeing him though, he had no street cred for me at all except in his soaring fingers, because he was stuck in a raucous pub doing bad covers for the drunken Friday night masses. Wasting his considerable talents being the background notes to a bottle blonde who fancied she could sing, he was disillusioned with life and hungry for something new. We met at the bar counter while the blonde was strutting her stuff without him in the misguided belief she was doing the song unplugged.

He smiled at me, and in the dim light at that particular moment I saw in his eyes the shadow of the mark. Noting the ‘So what?’ hair, my gloom lifted and I smiled back. He asked me then if I was enjoying the music – careless, unspectacular small talk. It irked me because I suddenly and instinctively knew he had much better conversation to share. I looked away briefly to order another red wine, and looked back. Red wine always makes me very truthful and sometimes a bit stroppy, especially when it’s a common-or-garden box wine as this particular glass was, and I decided not to get bogged down in small talk because it was boring and predictable and I really couldn’t be bothered any more.

So I replied truthfully: “No, not really.  It’s a pity you’re doing this commercial crap, covering other people’s songs, because I noticed you can actually play.”

His eyebrows shot up just as the barman returned and slid a red wine towards me and a whisky towards the music man.

“Put her drink on my tab,” said the music man, and the barman nodded and moved away.

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