Our Residents
Angela Lanyon
Angela is an author and (retired)
theatre director. She has been a resident of the Britannia Square neighbourhood
since the 1970s, when it was, she recalls, ‘quite a lively place!’ Angela is well known for readings of her wonderfully entertaining comic verses and poetry at neighbourhood events.
“I have worked everywhere, from the
Woman's Land Army to professional theatre. Now retired, I continue to write articles
and murder mystery plays, many of which I have directed at the Swan Theatre,
Worcester. I wrote IMAGES OF ELSEWHERE to please myself after having been made
redundant and then found it seemed to chime with other people. THE SWORDSMAN'S
REEL is the first book, THE ROPEMAKER'S WALK is the second (both self published)
and the last is THE WEAVER'S CLEW, which appropriately ties everything up.”
Below is a selection of Angela's work. A collection of her 'Verse of the Day', written during the Coronavirus pandemic, can be found here.
Up at a Villa – Down in the City
by Robert Browning (with nod-ins from Angela Lanyon)
Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city Square.
O, such a life, such a life as one leads at the windows there!
Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least,
Although there, all day long, one’s life is a perfect feast,
While out in the country, one lives, I maintain it, no more than beast.
But the city, oh, the city, the Square with the houses! Why
They’re stone-faced, white as curd - there is something to catch the eye.
Houses in four straight lines. Not a single front awry!
You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by
.Green blinds as a matter of course to draw when the sun gets high,
And doors with their elegant knockers where windows reflect the sky.
Ere you open your eyes in the morning the racing is sure to begin,
Hot air balloons and loudspeakers, and a circus to add to the din.
By and by there’s the sound of the bin men - is it paper or landfill today?
And watch out for diversions and potholes that are carefully put in the way.
It’s a horror to think of the country, so it’s life in the city for me,
With plenty of comings and goings and always some drama to see,
There’s always some sort of excitement, some incident going on there,
For two hundred years it’s been standing -
So three cheers for Britannia Square!
You'd Never Think To See Her
You’d never think to see her
That the
Vicar’s dowdy wife
Is really quite
a go-er
And lives a
double life.
You’d never
think to see her
When she’s on
her knees at prayer
That she’s
throwing rowdy parties
When the Vicar isn’t
there.
When he’s going
round the parish
She’s letting
down her curls
For she runs a
busy strip club
With some other
local girls.
She passes to
the parish
The profits
from her hire
And boosts the
restoration fund
To reconstruct
the spire.
You’d never
think to look at
The Vicar, as
he goes
Walking round
the parish,
That he’s got a
business nose.
You’d never
think to see him
In church
absolving sin,
That he runs a
small consortium
Distilling
bathtub gin.
When Evensong
is over
He stays alone
in prayer,
Recycling the
empties
Parishioners
leave there.
The undertaker
takes them
And the bottles
are tucked by
The side of
stiffened loved ones
As there in
state they lie.
You’d never
think to look at
The mourners as
they weep
That they’re
secretly rejoicing
At spirits on
the cheap.
A thriving
church, Saint Polycarp’s
The surfaces
all glow
They’re
polished free of fingerprints
By choirboys in
the know.
The parable of
talents
Is the one
they’ve got on board,
To make the
most of varied gifts
And blessings
from the Lord.
Diversify,
diversity,
Reach people
where they are!
Among the black
economy,
The strip club
and the bar.
You’d never
think to look at
The Vicar and
his wife
Those
higher-minded simple souls
Lead such a
worldly life.
15th February 2002
Oh, I’ll never forget what’s his name
And that nice
little cottage in Wales,
Where Chris and
Elaine
Got locked out
in the rain
And the letters
were eaten by snails.
And I’ll never
forget Mrs Thing -y
You remember,
she came in to do,
And left
cigarette ash
In the Cadbury Smash
And lost her
false teeth in the stew.
And don’t you
remember the feller
Who dragged
that huge dog on a lead?
How he brought
down the cream
Then fell in
the stream
And was pulled
out all smothered with weed?
Oh, I’m sure
you remember that day in September
When Granny
fell out of the tree?
She’d climbed
up in her vest
To sort out a
wasp’s nest
And was stung
on the bum by a bee.
Oh I’ll never
forget what excitement we had
When the power
lines came down in the night
And Chrissie
and Fred
Were discovered
in bed
And Elaine
threw a wobbly with fright.
Oh I’ll never
forget wherever it was,
It’s so sad
that the cottage burnt down.
If you stay in
the sticks
You put up with
the pricks
Which is why we all now stay in Town.
Doing the Teas
Don’t muddle
the spoons, Mrs Perkins,
Those tea
towels belong to Miss Jones,
And watch where you putting the gherkins
I don’t want
them spilt on the scones.
Now just keep
an eye out for Billy
He’s promised
to stay by the stall
But he gets
that excited and silly
His mother’s
gone right up the wall.
I don’t know,
this urn should be boiling
What? It’s time
for the Brownie’s display,
But all the ice
creams will be spoiling
If we can’t get
them served right away.
Refreshments,
they’re already queuing
I tell you,
we’re rushed off our feet.
The first lot
of clearing needs doing,
Oh Vicar,
you’re here. Take a seat.
The tea urn is
always Fay Belper,
Her Mum died
and she took it on,
She’ll fair
have a fit if some helper
Fills all the
pots while she’s gone.
God may have a
perfect hierarchy
That’s come
down from years long ago
But the
parish’s own matriarchy
Is in charge,
here on earth, down below.
Fitness
Training
The
noise was appalling, The dim was obscene,
I
doubt if you’d hear an elephant scream,
They
were jumping around in sweat shirts and shorts
While
the person in charge besides them, exhorts –
`Go
faster – push harder, you’ll never lose weight
If
you lean on that bar like a cow on a gate.’
The
music gets louder, the faces grow grim,
Is
it worth all this effort just to get slim?
With
dumb bells and treadmills the dumb-belles proceed
To
rub of those inches that accrue from their greed.
A
clinic for fitness? Or fetish for pain?
What
urge keeps them trying to lose what they
gain?
Keep
going, don’t slacken, their bodies drip sweat
If
they keep to the programme there’s hope for them yet.
The Terrible Tale of
Lisa whose Successful Work Ethic Led to Her Redundancy!
Lisa excelled man made machines
As tester out of trampolines,
She craved for food, out grew her home,
Then rivaled the Millennium Dome.
But unrestricted exercise
Rapidly reduced her size.
Disaster struck! Calamity!
She lost her job. Redundancy!
Poor girl, she's now compelled to sit
At home - alone - on benefit.
MY Mother Told Me…
My mother often told me
Quite frequently, she said,
`You must be very careful
And not leave crumbs in bed.’
She never ever mentioned
That mattresses with springs
Are not the ideal venue
When doing naughty things.
I never heard her whisper
Of problems that befall
When entertaining strangers
If they come round to call,
With tea cups on the terrace
And the murmuring of bees,
What happens when a fellow
Pulls you down upon his knees?
My mother often warned me
About the local park
Where paedophiles and psychopaths
Go hunting after dark,
She never thought to tell me
The perils of the choir
When four and twenty lusty men
Are panting with desire.
She warned me about spending,
And how to write a cheque
But not the way to cure a bruise
When bitten on the neck.
With all these early warnings
I take a pinch of salt –
And if you find I’ve gone astray
It’s all her bleeding fault!
© Copyright: Angela Lanyon 2019