i have proof, as if it were needed, of the continuing
degradation of civilised standards.
(for background reading click here if you like although,
personally, i wouldn't bother)
the festive season has barely begun and yet, for me,
it may as well be over.
after last year's devastation at the unveiling of 'luxury mince pies', i have returned to the scene of that particular culinary crime and uncovered this year's travesty - mince tart.
there's mince (but very little of it).
but (as indicated) it is not a pie, but a tart.
how hard can it be to stick to tradition?
i think this best sums up my mood...
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message There Are No Mince Pies,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
They were my North, my South, my East and West,
My Christmas Day and my New Year too,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would be with me for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Without Mince Pies.
(sincere apologies to wystan hugh auden)
