/ Community, Travel & Leisure

Step into The Rhyming Room

Poetry on typewriter

Would you prefer to write your comments as a poem? Then The Rhyming Room is exactly where you want to be. Take inspiration from our weekly themes or wax lyrical on current consumer concerns…

The Which? Conversation community is fortunate to have many budding poets in its midst who frequently put their thoughts into verse.

On the odd occasion, we’ve even had dedicated conversations encouraging you to show off your creative talents and command of couplets and stanzas, such as those community member Ian led on National Poetry Day last year and at Christmas.

Poets’ corner

Concerned that some of the odes may get buried and forgotten in the depths of Which? Conversation, a number of you have requested a permanent poetry convo.

The space you envisaged was somewhere to store your topical verses so you could easily access them for further enjoyment – and even contribute more when you’re feeling inspired.

So, without further ado: welcome to The Rhyming Room.

On song

Of course, the main idea here is to write poems about your thoughts on current consumer issues.

But for added inspiration, each week, we’ll also be suggesting themes. These could be based on a mixture of world, international and national days, and even dubious celebratory days – so be sure to check back regularly.

Naturally, if you come up with your own celebratory occasion and want to write a poem, that’s OK, too.

Your musings can also be serious or amusing.

The only rules are that the poems must be your own work and it would be helpful to others to mention the subject. You should also always keep our Community Guidelines in mind.

To kick things off, Alfa’s kindly put pen to paper.

Did you ever dream of being a poet
But never quite sure just how to show it?
Let thoughts in your head turn to words that flow
And watch a poem start to grow

Each week there will be a new set of themes
Inspiration may come to you in your dreams
The end of lines don’t have to rhyme
Just come back and share with us in due time

This week’s themes:

Any current issues on Which? Conversation, plus:

Notable upcoming dates:

Fri 26 May: Don’t Fry Day, Dracula Day, Paper Airplane Day, Heat Awareness Day
Sat 27 May: Cellophane Tape Day, Sun Screen Day,
Sun 28 May: Brisket Day, Amnesty International Day, Hamburger Day, World Hunger Day
Mon 29 May: Biscuit Day, Paper Clip Day, Learn About Composting Day, Coq Au Vin Day
Tue 30 May: Water a Flower Day, Loomis Day, My Bucket’s Got A Hole Day
Wed 31 May: No Tobacco Day, Macaroon Day, Senior Health & Fitness Day, Speak in Sentences Day
Thu 1 Jun: Say Something Nice Day, Go Barefoot Day, Olive Day, Heimlich Manoeuvre Day, Penpal Day
Fri 2 Jun: Doughnut Day, Rocky Road Day, Leave The Office Early Day,
Sat 3 Jun: Repeat Day, Insect Repellent Awareness Day, Egg Day
Sun 4 Jun: Hug Your Cat Day, Tailors Day, Old Maid’s Day, Cancer Survivors Day, Cheese Day, Cognac Day

Please check back regularly for themes of the week.

We look forward to reading your compositions!

With special thanks to Which? Conversation community member, Alfa, who assisted with this conversation and came up with the inspired name of The Rhyming Room.


Another from Alfa’s list before she slaps my wrist.

Straw Hat Day.

Straw hat.
My cat.
Claws that
Pull at
Straw plat.
No hat.
Bad cat!
Lap sat.
Purr, purr, purr.

Wow, Vynor’s got us to page 2 ✍ 🙂 Keep ’em coming…

A few more celebrated dates:

Thu May 18: Visit Your Relatives Day, Notebook Day, Museum Day, No Dirty Dishes Day,
Fri May 19: Bike To Work Day, Endangered Species Day, Pizza Party Day, The Great British Fish & Chips Supper
Sat May 20: Learn To Swim Day, Plant A Lemon Tree Day, World Whisky Day, World Fiddle Day Weights & Measures Day, Pick Strawberries Day
Sun May 21: Memo Day, Waiting Staff Day, I Need A Patch For That Day
Mon May 22: International Day for Biological Diversity, World Goth Day, Sherlock Holmes Day, Maritime Day
Tue May 23: Lucky Penny Day, Turtle Day, Title Track Day, Talk Like Yoda Day
Wed May 24: Brother’s Day, Tiara Day, Escargot Day, Scavenger Hunt Day
Thu May 25: Wine Day, Tap Dance Day, Geek Pride Day

Hi Alfa,

That’s all updated – I might have to treat myself to some fish & chips tomorrow 🙂

Well if you insist! Ian, in the lobby gives us wise sayings and amusing anecdotes every morning. I wondered whether it might be possible to tell jokes in verse. Hilaire Belloc was half way there with Henry King whom he exhorted to “Always keep a hold of nurse, for fear of finding something worse.” I’ve chosen three real old chestnuts and had a go.

A competition was set,
To find the best pun they could get.
A man in his prime,
Sent ten at a time,
But sadly, his entries
Fell foul of the sentries.
For his prize winning bid,
No pun in-ten-did.
A man to the doctor applied
For a cure for wind to be tried.
The doctor, in spite,
Suggested a kite.
A damsel came to an artist’s lair.
The artist happened to be painting there.
She spoke in tones that were subdued,
“I wonder if you think me rude,
But can you paint me in the nude?”

The artist smiled and said “For sure,
But one small favour I implore.
Please allow me socks to wear,
I need to store my brushes there.”

Back to the wilderness for now.

LOL! Excellent!

Short note to self on Sunday for Monday.


When hate comes by,
That’s where bodies lie.
When hate is taught,
Its evil message bought,
That’s when the innocents die.

When hate is at the heart
Of what “teachers” impart,
That’s where murders start.
When hate is the whole,
The religion and the goal,
That’s when lives depart.

When hope is there,
That’s when people care.
When hope’s alive,
That’s when communities thrive.
When hope spreads through
There’s only we, not us and you.

When hope translates
To friendship that relates,
When hopes transcend
The divisions that offend,
When hope is true,
Then life can grow a-new.

When disaffections hide
And troubled souls can not confide,
When disaffections grow
And evil prophets, hatred sew,
When disaffections spread,
That’s where propagandists tread.

When communities are strong
And everyone thinks they belong,
When families confide
And no one feels the need to hide,
When our world, at last, decides
That no religion need take sides,
When countries feel there is no threat,
No need to challenge or abet,
Then poverty can be our goal,
The starving all with food in bowl,
Helping those who really need
To dig the soil and plant the seed.

When Utopia is there for real,
When goodness gives us time to heal,
Then all our problems – large and small,
Will be shared among us all.

Will human kind adapt and say
This is our world, our path, our way?

More celebrated Days:

Fri May 26: Don’t Fry Day, Dracula Day, Paper Airplane Day, Heat Awareness Day
Sat May 27: Cellophane Tape Day, Sun Screen Day,
Sun May 28: Brisket Day, Amnesty International Day, Hamburger Day, World Hunger Day
Mon May 29: Biscuit Day, Paper Clip Day, Learn About Composting Day, Coq Au Vin Day
Tue May 30: Water a Flower Day, Loomis Day, My Bucket’s Got A Hole Day
Wed May 31: No Tobacco Day, Macaroon Day, Senior Health & Fitness Day, Speak in Sentences Day
Thu Jun 1: Say Something Nice Day, Go Barefoot Day, Olive Day, Heimlich Manoeuvre Day, Penpal Day
Fri Jun 2: Doughnut Day, Rocky Road Day, Leave The Office Early Day,
Sat Jun 3: Repeat Day, Insect Repellent Awareness Day, Egg Day
Sun Jun 4: Hug Your Cat Day, Tailors Day, Old Maid’s Day, Cancer Survivors Day, Cheese Day, Cognac Day

I’ve been hoping for a Stem Ginger Cookies day but will make do with 29 May. Heat Awareness Day is well timed.

I think biscuit or cookie days is the closest we will get. But we do look forward to reading your poem Wavechange 🙂

If you insist.

Stem Ginger Cookies are the best
Who needs Ginger Nuts or the rest?
Chewy, tasty – my great pleasure
Full of sugar, full of fat
Low in salt, so not so bad
Other biscuits are so boring
Chocolate ones are not for me
How could anyone invent Rich Tea?

Congratulations on avoiding an advert for the generic Cellophane Tape. This is my first – and last – attempt at chemical verses. Of necessity it lacks details but the outline should follow a logical path, even if the scientists among you smile at my efforts to describe the chemistry as it applies here.

Stick To The Facts.

Back in eighteen forty five, they say,
Lived a surgeon, Doctor Horace Day.
He wanted something surgically cohesive,
So invented a pressure sensitive adhesive.

But the sticky tape in rolls so clear
Had to wait for many a year.
Nineteen twenty five, the date
When the inventors finally got it straight.

The tape we use to stick and to hold
Is a complex mix of new and of old.
A chemical mix of this and of that
Joined together on roller and vat.

The outer layer, clear and so tough
Is made from wood pulp, once so rough,
Or cotton seeds, which like the wood
Are mixed and mashed to make them good.

Added chemicals on the acidic side
Are Acetic and also Anhydride.
These make the wood and the seed mutate
To become clear Cellulose Acetate.

Now this thin film is all in a roll
A massive great cylinder, wound round a pole.
To stop it from sticking, when glue is applied
A releasing agent is placed, on the non-sticky side.

This is a chemical, Chromic Chloride based,
Which lets the tape, when the glue is placed
Wind and unwind without getting stuck,
Without a “kerfuffle” and tape in a ruck.

The glue is a compound of complex construction.
Twenty nine chemicals mixed by instruction.
Acrylic resins are used as a start,
Petroleum bi-products added, in part.

These bi-products, previously broken in two,
Acids and alcohols obtained from the brew.
Finally a solvent to bond and to bind,
A Hydrocarbon element of some sort or kind.

So all is fused and gathered together.
A Polymer compound, the mixture to tether.
The glue to the cellophane placed on a roller,
The tape then is then coated by computer controller.

At last the tape is prepared to be cured.
A high temperature oven ready procured.
It dries all the parts as tape passes through,
Back on the roller, ready and new.

Then to the cutter to size and to shape.
Centres to insert, packing the tape.
Into the boxes and off to the shops.
Our need for this tape just never stops.

So when you next pull at the tape end
To stick something down or paper to mend,
Marvel the way the tape interacts,
A product that always sticks to the facts.

Amazing stuff Vynor! Have you ever had any of your work published? I am assuming it made reference to British Sellotape and not the American Scotch. I have very sticky connections to the latter from which I had to search long and hard to find the right solvent to extricate myself!

One novel about thirty short stories and some poetry in the file, but, as you probably know, publishers publish one item in a thousand if one is lucky. I submitted a dozen linked stories to a writers workshop and had a favourable response regarding the contents, but the closing paragraph informed me that they were not commercial enough and I should continue writing for fun…which I do. “The Rhyming Room” is somewhere I can write for fun and be creative, but I have to be careful not to regard this space as an excuse for putting rubbish out. So far there is no area where a short story might exist, so my efforts are in verse, and I try to be creative by experimenting with different structures and rhyme sequences. I am also having fun composing music to go with the words and, maybe, one day, history will be made when one appears here. Who knows?

I believe that Scotch tape came first. Sellotape seems to be a product from a firm called “Henkel,” which markets globally with a diverse product list.

With abject apologies to W.S., who ever he might have been.

Hamlet’s Skililoquy.

To ski or not to ski, that is the question.
Whether ‘tis colder on the behind to suffer
The prangs and harrows of outrageous misfortunes
Or take alarm against the freeze and tumbles
And by opposing avoid them? To fly
To flip no more and, by a jeep, to say we end
The muscle ache and thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
‘tis a situation devoutly to be wished. To sigh, to weep,
To weep to scream – “Aye, there’s the pub!”
For in that stream of breath what schemes may come
When we have shuffled off this frozen soil
To warm indoors. That’s the aspect
That makes sanity to say “So long” to the wife.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of thine;
The confessor’s song, the loud dame’s contumely,
For prangs from uninspired moves that cause delay
The consequence of a novice trying turns
That impatience merits for unworthy mistakes
When he, himself, might his quiet use make
Of a spare noggin? Who would doubles pair
To shunt and get from under a slippery strife?
But that dread of something uttered under breath,
The undiscovered curse from whose scorn
No reveller can turn, puzzles the will
And makes us rather dare those hills we know
Than fly down others we know not of.
Thus consternation does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native’s show of resolve
Is prickled more with the female cries of doubt,
And skiing enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this rear guard, the ski blades turn awry
And lose the game of traction. – Soft, the snow.
In the glare of media you’re thumped in the orisons –
She’s all my sins remembered!

Time, once more, to move off piste…in a hurry.

Water A Flower Day.

I’m up a ladder and need a pee,
The front door is locked and I’ve put down the key.
I look for the neighbours in case they might be
Out in the garden and observing me.

Furtive and careful I climb down the rungs.
A casual whistle comes out from my lungs
I walk to the flower bed fully in bloom
A casual attitude there to assume.

The flowers are watered and I am relieved,
I zip up the overall un-observed, I believed.
A there sitting silent alone on his swing,
A child is staring, he’s seen everything.

“That’s better”, I say and smile at the lad,
What else can be done to make it less bad?
“You see that corner, just there by the tray,
That’s where I wee when I’m pushed out to play.”

Recent Political Debates.

There they are behind their stands
Forming a crescent of coloured bands.
Each is ready with a quip
A jibe with which to lash and whip.
An audience faces, searching clues,
Selected for their diverse views.

Here they sit, the coloured gent
The casual shirted, open vent,
The woman who has seen it all
The suited man from county hall.
The man who only has three teeth
The girl there with her boyfriend Keith.

The spiked hair militant rough and rude,
The grey haired pensioner unsubdued,
The mid-wife who has worked long shifts
The foreign person with family rifts.
Students from the local college
And some with long established knowledge.

And in between the presenter sits,
Working on the opening bits.
The light come up the stage is lit
Music harsh and loud to fit
This battle now of wit and guile,.
The music fades, the faces smile.

Each has their opening minute when,
They make their pitch, which poison pen
Stabs the others, mocks their stances
Jeering with malevolent glances
As they claim to solve our woes,
Promise goodies in eloquent prose.

And now the audience has the floor
Anxious still to question more.
No sooner has that one been raised,
Then all on stage appear quite crazed.
“No you didn’t, what about,”
The presenter has to turn and shout.

A moment’s calm as one’s selected,
Moments next his claim’s rejected,
Mayhem now for who’s to hear
As the voices snarl and sneer.
Audience captures this aggressive mood
Hear the comments cheered and booed.

And so the evening rolls along
Everyone with their merry song,
And when the credits finally roll
The spinners scramble into goal.
“Wasn’t that great, a victory clear”
“Let’s celebrate and drink some beer.”

The trouble with browsing on Which Conversation, one sees things and the brain clicks.

“I’ve just had a call from an Indian man
Claiming to be from Virgin.
I’ve just spoken to an Asian women
Claiming she was a virgin.
I’ve just dreamt about a woman
Claiming she was The Virgin.
I didn’t believe any of them.
One’s dead,
One’s in bed
And one phones from a shed. “

Repeat Day.

The olden
Days the wind-
-Up gramophone had
A handle on the side, which
Wound the spring. The records were
Made of shellac and the heavy needle wore the
Grooves as it transferred the music to the horn on the
Top of the turntable. When the record became worn, the groove
Could become damaged. The result of this damage meant
That two or three bars of music could be repeated and
Repeated and repeated. Repeated and repeated.
Repeated until the spring inside the clock-
-Work motor that drove the turn-
-table wound down. The
Record slowly lost
Velocity and it
Came to a

Effect totally ruined by the site editing. Sorry, this was meant to swell and die on BOTH sides like a spinning top. Oh well, I tried.

On my computer it looks as you intended, Vynor.

We got the picture, Vynor, even if the website’s textual architecture made it one-sided.

I very much enjoyed reading your piece as it reminded me of the old wind-up gramophone we used to have when I was very young. I seem to recall the needle went round and round the final innermost groove until someone lifted off the tone arm with its heavy head and turned it back onto its rest. It was then necessary to switch off the rotation of the platter. On ours you could speed up or slow down the motor because some records were made for higher or lower speeds than 78 r.p.m. I wish now that we had kept it as a curiosity but a new Dansette record player with auto-changer supplanted it. People today who agonise over hi-fi don’t know they’re born!

I can still remember listening to Harry Lauder singing ‘Keep right on to the end of the road’ on my grandparents’ Dulcetto gramophone. The ordinary needles were for single use and the ones with red shanks could be used five times, if I remember correctly. I must have been about eight at the time.

You two are making me feel nostalgic.

I had fibre needles and a sharpener, which had a rotator spindle and a sandpaper strip to do the sharpening. The needles gave a more mellow tone but less volume. They were kinder to the records. I still have a stack under one of the beds, but my gramophone needs to have a new governor if it is ever to work again. It is a portable machine with the horn under the turntable. I paid five shillings for it in an auction. Ink Spots, Fats Waller, and Beecham conducting Delius and Elgar conducting his own orchestra, with Menuhin I think. What is remarkable about many of these is the inventive way they ended a record and began on the other side, without losing a note. George Thalben Ball introduced me to Handel organ concertos and Boyd Neal gave me a Brandenburg . I was hooked. Bed calls before I drown in nostalgia.

Addendum. Funnily enough what has stuck is the colour of the record labels. Ink Spots were black (of course) Brunswick, Fats was plum, Blue Decca for Charlie Kunz and the Teddy Bear’s picnic (sadly broken) was red HMV. Ann Stephens was twelve when she recorded that and “Dicky Bird Hop” on the other side. The record companies had their posh labels for premier recordings, and Woolworth copied songs with unknown artists on the Embassy label. We all scorned their efforts.

I wonder if inquisitive children of the future will be fascinated by an MP3 player. 🙂

Your comment about fibre needles brought this to mind Vynor:

I had a little gramophone,
I’d wind it round and round.
And with a sharpish needle,
It made a cheerful sound.

And then they amplified it,
It was much louder then.
And used sharpened fibre needles,
To make it soft again.

Today for reproduction,
I’m as eager as can be.
Count me among the faithful fans,
Of high fidelity.

High fidelity,
Hi-Fi’s the thing for me.
With an LP disk and an FM set,
And a corner reflex cabinet.

High frequency range,
Complete with auto-change.
Flanders: All the highest notes neither sharp nor flat,
Swann: The ear can’t hear as high as that.
Flanders: Still, I ought to please any passing bat,
Swann: With my high fidelity.

Flanders: Who made this circuit up for you, anyway? Bought it in a shop? Oooh, what a horrible shoddy job they fobbed you off with with.
Surprised they let you have it in this room anyway, the acoustics are all wrong. If you raise the ceiling four feet… put the fireplace from that wall to that wall… you’ll still only get the stereophonic effect if you sit in the bottom of that cupboard.
I see… I see you’ve got your negative feedback coupled in with your push-pull-input-output. Take that across through your redded pickup to your tweeter, if you’re modding more than eight, you’re going to get wow on your top. Try to bring that down through your pre-amp rumble filter to your woofer, what’ll you get? Flutter on your bottom!

Both: High fidelity,
Flanders: FFRR for me.
Both: I’ve an opera here that you shan’t escape,
On miles and miles of recording tape.

High decimal gain,
Is easy to obtain.
Flanders: With the tone control at a single touch,
Swann: Bel canto sounds like double Dutch.
Both: But I never did care for music much,
It’s the high fidelity!

What a wonderful memory you have Ian. Correct, word for word. I’m singing along merrily. I have the whole show, somewhere on cassette tape. Still as amusing as ever. I remember the Hi Fi days very well and visited Tottenham Court Road and the Paddington area where serious bits of kit were available at knock down prices . Happy memories of Revox and Quad to name but two. I have my original sixties speakers and they still deliver the goods.

Friends and I used to play Skat and Bridge while this played endlessly on the deck. Became ingrained .

I have just finished a choral composition using a favourite poem by Thomas Hardy. I have had the temerity to add two more verses to it. Sadly, for two reasons, it can not be published here. Firstly, this site does not support printed music and secondly the twenty two pages (about three minutes of music) would take up too much space if it was printed. So I am unable to make history by being the first to burst into song on Which Conversation. No ego trip then. Below is Hardy’s original and my two imposters.

Weathers/Seasons. Thomas Hardy, with two additional verses interspersed.

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I.
When showers be-tumble the chestnut spikes
And nestlings fly.
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at the “Travellers’ Rest”,
And maids come forth sprig muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the South and West,
And so do I.

This is the weather the farmers crave,
And so do I.
When rosy apples are picked to save
From branches high.
And the plums so ripe with their purple hue,
And the sunset’s glow on the grassy dew;
And animals start fur to renew,
And folk admire the autumnal view,
And so do I.

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I.
When beeches drip in browns and duns
And thresh and ply.
And hill-hid tides throb throe on throe,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.

This is the weather the gardener loves,
And so do I.
When soft snow melts from working gloves
And flower buds try.
And snowdrops with their bells of white,
And days now with extended light,
And hope is there for sunshine bright,
And people long to put things right,
And so do I.

In this topsy -turvy world,
An election’s unfurled.
Those who have won
Feel all is undone,
And those who just might
Feel buoyant and bright.

In both there’s surprise,
As ramifications arise.
For both disbelief
For both some relief.

The blue coloured banner
Now blue for all manner
Of woes and regrets
For what it begets.

No mandate, no strength
A waste of great length
And deals must be done
Before brexit’s begun.

The waste of a chance
Opponents to lance,
The stupid mistakes
That slammed on the brakes.

The consolation of power
To live one more hour
To pick up the score
And play it once more.

So anger for change
Desire to re-arrange,
Will haunt and will goad
As they limp down the road.

For reds the surprise,
As they realise
That from wreckage of old
Rises riches untold.

The charisma to draw,
Crowds by the score.
To enthuse and inspire
With passion and fire.

No regretful valediction,
For that odd contradiction
Of losing and winning
The support underpinning.

The triumph and joy
Might gradually cloy
As the dogma’s debated
And positions restated.

Was it promises made
Of cash and more aid
Spending for all
A bonanza, a ball?

Does the country require
What the left now desire?
Should we spend out and splash
Or conserve our hard cash?

For now it does seem,
That most of us deem
To reject Labour’s dream,
Their nationalising scheme.

We’re clearly not glad
With Torys we’ve had.
So no single party
Can afford to be hearty.

A Greek tragedy this,
When all is amiss,
The dust must now settle
There’s a country to fettle!

Having been foolish enough to write this here instead of copying and pasting it. I nearly lost the lot when the web site crashed. Let that be a warning to all! That’s why my logo is missing.

A Post Election Conundrum.

We are all getting older,
Age is tapping on the shoulder.
Soon care will be needed,
Financial warning’s heeded.

It costs to assist
What we try to resist.
Help in the house,
When we can just grouse.

It costs to assist
What we try to resist.
Help with our lives
When ability nose-dives.

It costs to assist
What we try to resist.
Placement in care
When nursing is there.

So who is to pay
For the beds where we lay?
Society all?
Not a good call.

So who is to pay
For the beds where we lay?
Those who are in them?
Dementia tax – condemn!!

So who is to pay
For the beds where we lay?
So who pays the bill by and by?
Not I! Not I! Not I!

University colleges’ fee
For something that used to be free.
A debt for the users,
The knowledge pursuers.

University colleges’ fee
For something that used to be free.
The youth have no earnings
To pay for their learnings.

So who is to pay for the right,
To learn when you’re clever and bright?
Society all?
Not a good call.

So who is to pay for the right
To learn when you’re clever and bright?
Give them loans and saddle with debt
That leads to resent and regret?

So who is to pay for the right
To learn when you’re clever and bright?
So who pays the bill by and by?
Not I! Not I! Not I!

Extrapolate further I pray.
For all those bills we must pay.
For nurses and teachers
The police and out-reachers.

There’s finite cash in the pot,
That’s all we have that we’ve got.
Do we hock now and borrow
And pay back tomorrow?

There’s finite cash in the pot,
That’s all that we have that we’ve got.
So who pays the bills by and by?
Not I! Not I! Not I!

Nothing New Then? Reflections On A Recent Journey.

In this crowded land of ours
It pays to watch the travelling hours
When moving, thus, from here to there,
When to go and when forbear.

It is now a simple fact of life,
That to avoid the stress and strife,
The clock is vital in the plan
Of when to go and when to ban.

The traffic news spreads doom and gloom,
Congestion makes the car a tomb,
Wasted hours in queues that crawl,
Getting no-where – bu**er all.

Each bulletin conveys the fact
At several points there’s been impact.
The emergency services are on the way,
Yet another long delay.

The news that crashes now have cleared,
But tail-backs still are there, it’s feared.
A broken lorry clogs the lane,
Another hour goes down the drain.

Road works, cones and speeds so slow,
Another queue to grow and grow.
More wasted time that could be spent
On family, hobbies and schemes, well meant.

Insurance claims for each collision,
Met with doubt and some derision.
Impatient, careless, tired and worn,
Their vehicles bent and all forlorn,

The victims stand around the wrecks,
As trailers pull them on their decks.
The shiny pride, expensive wheels,
Many still on purchase deals.

Daily in the morn and eve,
Trouble spots just clog and heave.
Cars and vans are nose to tail,
Scheduled plans to no avail.

No one wants a travel ban,
No one wants a ration plan.
Free to move and go at will,
Always wished for, will be still.

Yet this curfew, we self-impose,
It’s here today as highways close.
Now one can’t move as one pleases
With clogged up roads and traffic freezes.

No solution seems in sight,
One dark tunnel without light.
So we queue and move in packs
No more simple there and backs.

Facts in moving, waste of times
One of life’s enduring crimes.

Just to make the hundredth entry.

While in travelling mode, I’ll indulge in a saga. This tale of woe is more or less what happened.

Sat Nav Sat Naf.

Long way to go
But a route that we know.
Dual carriageway ahead
No map to be read.

Then up pops a voice,
Not one of our choice.
“There’s queues up ahead.
Traffic’s stopped dead.”

There is a back route,
We used to shoot,
When this road was grass
As we came to pass.

We take the next turn
New path to learn.
Set nav up to show,
Just to help us go.

“A mile ahead, right.
Now left at the light.”
A right, a left,
All signs bereft.

Not the way we know,
But she says go.
So on we weave
Ready to believe.

Then lo and behold,
It knocks us cold,
That damn dual lane
Is before us again.

We curse and complain
And again we distain
The queues up ahead
And turn left instead.

This time our voice
Dislikes our smug choice.
“U turn if you can”
That’s not in our plan.

“Take a left in a mile.”
We go right with a smile.
The map adjusts solution,
Planning its retribution.

We agree that we take
A right for the sake
Of direction on map
And head for the gap.

A lane lies before,
One car and no more.
Down a slope,
Brake to cope.

Now in deepest darkest wood,
Can’t turn if we should.
“Bear Left” says our voice.
We have no choice.

Grass grows green
On this track so mean.
A bridge that narrows,
Just fit for sparrows.

A bank so steep,
With gulleys deep.
Blind bends that curve
And test our nerve.

We expect our voice
To now rejoice.
“You’re lost, ha, ha!
I know where you are!”

Many turns and twists
Our voice demands and lists.
Left and right and we obey,
What else is there to say?

Finally, revenge complete,
Forgiven for our first deceit
We find a road that’s broad
And a sign post – Praise the Lord!

Time lost in the maze
Or sitting in a traffic haze?
Our sat nav’s little jest.
Who knows which was best?

A sideways look and keeping Which Conversation on the rails, based on what people have complained about in their comments.


Which Conversation is a complex beast
Where gremlins come and make a feast.
Entries jump and change in order,
Later entries cause disorder
Mixing up Chronology.

Delete buttons come and go
What they delete is hard to know.
Text that’s cancelled might appear
Not in there but just out here.
Mixing up functionality.

Cancel buttons cause us strife,
Sometimes with a double life.
They work for you and not for me
Is this to be or not to be?
Mixing up clearability.

Text in “Latest Comments” show
But not the place they’re supposed to go.
Worst of all it has been known
That texts are to the ether blown
Mixing up incredulity.

What’s amusing, what is fun
Is that those who make it run
Are themselves a subject to
Those same gremlins that we rue.
Mixing up accountability.

Was there ever software that
Didn’t sometimes fall down flat?
Is perfection so perverse
A distant dream in our universe?
Mixing up achievability.

Thanks Vynor. That’s the first time I’ve seen an executive summary in rhyme.