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Tigger.

I found him sleeping in the shade of the Fatsia Japonica
He is little more than skin over bones.
He has never been this skinny before.
Should I tell you how badly I am worried?
I bring him shredded chicken in a bowl.
I wait anxiously to wake and test my gift.
I sigh in relief as his nose twitches and he explores.
I wander out to my car,sit on the floor beside it and fill my eyes.
Himself walks to me and settles in my arms,
I talk to him.
I tell him I love him and always will.
He still walks jauntily,my ever lovely boy,
but he is naught but skin and bones.
And I worry for him.

We go to the vets.
I ask that he be checked for illnesses or infections.
Yes I really am that worried about him.
The vet finds nothing.
She watches,amused,as he lets himself off the examining table.
He explores the surgery.
She picks him up and weighs him.
He hits her.
She does not worry.
“He is eighteen human years.Ninety something in cat years.”
She tells me this while stroking him.
He is tucked into me.
“Daddy’s boy.” she says with a smile.
“I am owned.” I reply. “And I love him.”

Today I watched him devour a slice of turkey.
Today he walked into my arms for a cuddle.
Today,as with yesterday and tomorrow,I love him.
Tigger.
My boss.
Andy Fox 1407

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Democracy.

Did you vote?
Did you take your place in a queue to make your mark?
Did you stand with the young and the old alike?
Or did you expect that the vote would go the way you wanted and not bother?
Away ye bleating bairn if that were ye.
You abide by the decision made by those who cared.
By those who voted for a new future.
By those who wanted a repatriation of powers given so blithely away.
And by those who wanted away from an institution
that they were never given a vote on joining.
There was no vote on joining the EU.
But there was a vote on leaving it or staying in it.
The UK voters chose to leave the EU.
Now it is in the hands of the politicians.
They promised to respect the result of the EU referendum.
Now it is time to keep that promise.

Andy Fox 070618

Sometimes I see the whole of the moon.
Sometimes naught but a sliver.
At times I see the story whole.
At other times no more than a line.
At times I dream of inflicting pain
and a cat sneaks onto my chest and purrs .
Sometimes I wish for another life.
But this is the one I chose.

Andy Fox 10418

We were young.

We see the past through rose tinted eyes.
The summers were longer,
The winters were harsher.
The colours were brighter.
We were young.

We had single glazed windows
that Jack Frost adored.
We slept under piles of blankets.
We had hot water bottles
and Fab 208 on our late night radios.
We were young.

We slid into school on roads treacherous with ice.
We left our gloves on the radiators to dry.
We got sun burnt in the summer of 1976.
What can I say?
What else needs to be said?
We were young.

Andy Fox.310318

Rebel rebel.

I wore a white bomber jacket
and a large patterned shirt with a fly away collar.
My hair was long. [But only shoulder length.]
I wore tight ass flares in a fetching beige.
Doc Martens polished with an ox blood stain.
I wore my shirt open at the collar.
My school tie worn loose.
[If I wore one at all.]
And I never got detention for breaking those rules.
I was a rebel then and I guess I still am.
Long live the misfits.
The rebels.
Do they make you wonder what they are rebelling against?
And why?

Andy Fox 220318

I finished my school years in the summer of 1978.
I still wear my hair long.
But my waist has long since gone.

3am.

At 3 am I wake.
Cramp is tearing my calf into shreds of pain.
My bladder is at bursting point.
I have burning sweat rash under my right breast.
I struggle into a shirt whimpering under the onslaught,
I will not subject the lorry park to the sight of my half naked frame,
and I ease myself out of the cab of my wagon.
My leg screams at me as I walk to ease it.
My bladder sighs in relief as I empty it.
My breast remains red and angry as I rub ointment into it.
Gradually the pain fades.
My leg realises that I have breathed new life into it.
I walk easier as the waves of agony recede.
I check my wagon and its load,I am awake so why not use the time?,
and then clamber ungracefully into my cab and force my frame back to bed.
I lie awake for a time listening to the sounds of the life around me.
My mood is bleak and unforgiving.
I realise it would have been easier to walk onto the motorway and wait to die.
I live.And damn myself for doing so.

Andy Fox 110318.

Flats.

Where are all the Flatbed men?
The guys that knew a dolly from a half hitch.
The men that could cover a load with a sheet of canvas
held down by ropes and cunning.
Who knew what a double dolly was and when best to use it.

Where are all the guys who know how to use straps and ratchets?
Those who fold their sheets in a particular way
and woe betide anybody who dares to question them.
Where are the men who say they are still learning their trade
and yet delight at passing their knowledge on.

Where are the men who battle the elements loading open lorries?
Look on the highways and byways.
Take a look at the wagon you pass by.
We are still out here practising our trade.
The Flatbed men have not gone away.
There is still a need for our skills.

Andy Fox 240118