Larkin about

My teacher Miss Larkin
was terrible at car parking
this way and that way swerving and weaving
scratch upon scratch everyday more appearing.

Bushes and Kerb stones her car would dent,
she lost all her hubcaps in a war with a fence.
Her headlights held on by black masking tape
her left indicator she’d somehow misplaced.

The glass in the back was an old plastic bag,
it didn’t quite fit but it was all that she had
Her aerial missing since her drive through car was
and both her front fog lights
she seemed to have lost.

The wing mirror buckled by parking the closest
to a lampost that everyone else seemed to notice
when bought it was shiny
then ten minutes later
it looked liked she’d driven through
a huge cheese grater
yet somehow she managed to arrive every day
having clipped the school gates
in her oblivious way.

And not even people walking their dog
were safe from Miss Larkin as she drove along
up one way streets
(the wrong way of course)
down farmers fields
scattering cattle and horse.

Then one Monday morning she gave me a fright
and I asked if she’d ever considered a bike.
“Oh Douglas, my child. How clever you are,
I’ll buy a Harley Davidson and trade in my car.
I’ll kit myself out in helmet and leathers
and buy a wet suit for the cold winter weather.”

So she scurried off home in her tatty old car,
hit the wall on the way out
and drove into the park,
spinning it around in one last instance
she ran over four ducks
and disappeared in the distance.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

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6 thoughts on “Larkin about

  1. [Dazzling materialisation of microfiche rendered on a bubble in your pint]
    Dear Mr Black. I’ve seen the future. It’s Black. Now I’m heading back, forward. But I’m already here (‘now’ and ‘here’ are relative, you understand). When you’re ready, you’ll find me in the icebox, decompressing. ArchWiz sends hugs – or maybe it was a hex – and I’m not to call him Stella. Drat, I may have inadvertently freeze-dried the woodlice on re-entry. Archiversal anguisal amusial energy, Odycceuc.
    PS Please say it’s your turn to play.

    • Dear Miserly Whiplash.

      I’m currently being interrogated by “Top Men” on the secret messages contained within our recent conversations. I have tried to tell them you are Welsh but they think I’m bluffing.
      Shame about the woodlice I will wear a black veil in remembrance just like Queen Victoria.
      I apologise for writing so many “Poems” as I’m sure when you have exhausted my archive I will be nothing more than a North Korean missile launch sequence generator to yourself.
      I do hope we manage to converse past def con one.
      1365489076463861298757

      • Is ‘Top Men’ a positional preference or a fashion tragedy? I suppose ‘bluffing’ means something quite different to you in Lancashire, I really can’t imagine, I hope it’s not too demeaning.
        Veil over your face, clot – I don’t care what QV did, right now it looks like a garter. Although not unattractive, it’s disrespectful to the wee critturs.
        There’s an Arch-ive? But – but – I thought I read it aaaaalllll! Augh, that’s it, I can’t go on. I don’t like your gritty ‘northern’ reality any more, you’re a horrid boy; I had to read several Calvin & Hobbeses to restore my belief in cuteness.
        [Ill-advised sincerity moment: I particularly enjoyed some of your er fruitier language but I suppose you’re all grown up now]
        Anyway the secret message from Uncle Bulgaria is: the ‘dustbin’ has flown into the ‘Post Office’. You have 29 minutes to reply before I start self-mutilating. *insert Countdown theme*
        Field Agent WenchPest
        PS I’m well aware of your stratospheric popularity; there’s no need to rub it in with your hit counter. Anyway, most of that was me.

      • Dear Sylvia Wrenchfist,
        Before the sodium pentathol wears off and I have been thoroughly ‘bluffed’ by Gok Wan I can assure you I have never been over the border in pursuit of gritty northern reality or indeed in pursuit of a barm-cake. It’s like another country over there.
        I’m sorry you had to read Calvin and Hobbes to restore your faith in cuteness, there is a dearth of inanimate objects in need of recognition.
        I have not lost the art of fruity writing just the inclination and I have no intention of growing up, perish the thought!
        OMG I never realised The Wombles were sending coded messages as well! Must extricate VHS from loft!
        Thanks for contributing to my stratospheric statistics, although my mum will be disappointed you have usurped her.
        Cancel Countdown theme and insert theme tune from One Man and his dog.

      • Wrenchfist?! And was there not a Slippery Washboard also? Steady.
        I have similar feelings about Clackmannanshire, a toy county in the style of Camberwick Green. Fife is simply disgraceful and should be detached and floated quietly away.
        Name an inanimate object in need of recognition and I shall transfer my deeply fluffy affections immediately.
        I must say it was a joy to find the original script for your ‘dreamy wonder’ number. Now I can translate it into prroaper wurrds. This will console me for there being no further audio tracks to lull me to sleep then reprogram me.
        So, did I make it? Complete the course? Did I reach nirvana? Where’s my reward? Heaven of a ride, though, really.
        Well now, how blatant can I be? It’s been a good day; I’m feeling reckless. I’ll hit you over the head.
        “I do hope we manage to converse past def con one.” See “Please say it’s your turn to play.” I’m sure your ‘top men’ can show you how to set up a disposable mailbox to protect yourself since I’m most likely a bunny boiling cyberpath. Or not. Just a suggestion. It could ruin it… You could always publish more corkers and wait a couple of years.
        One man and his dog fades into Call My Bluff.
        Over and out, Sybil Willo-the-Wisp

      • Apologies for the offending openings.
        Did you know ‘Camberwick Green’ was coded slang reference for Marijuana? Lord only knows what Oliver Postgate was thinking about with a title like Bagpuss!
        You cant go around floating Welsh counties like Fife down the river just because it offends you. Think of the children! Think of those tiny little Welsh children’s faces!
        Giles Brandreth is an inanimate object object, feel free to transfer allegiance.
        Im sorry I have no plans to record my dulcet tones in the near future, mainly because I cant work out how to turn on the microphone and I didn’t sound like Richard Burton (another Welsh person) when I listened back to it.
        I’ve lost count if you if you have read everything, if you have you have my condolences as there is a LOT of mediocre musings scattered over the years. Im afraid the only prize you win is my utmost admiration for sticking with it.
        I have a public email on every comment, I have no need for ‘Top Men’ protection from cinder paths or cyber paths. Email away. It will probably ease the confusion on my other followers who clicked the ‘notify me of follow up comments”, heaven knows what they have made of our endeavours to string a sentence together.
        I don’t like the idea of waiting a couple of years to write something else just for a response from left field.
        Call My Bluff fades into Rising Damp.
        Until the equinox.

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