More Parking?

A text came through on my phone
telling me that my car was coming
to the end of its parking time and
did I want to extend the time it
was parked?
Yes, I thought, I do? I would really
like that.
There was a number and I called.
The recorded message asked me
the reg number of my car and I
tapped that in. The message then
asked me to tap in how many hours
I would like to add on. I tapped in 4.
The message said that this was an
invalid number. So I tapped in 6.
The message said that this was an
invalid number. So I tapped in 2 and
the message said, ‘The call is ended.’
I thought that’s a pity, I was just getting
to enjoy it. I found that I was strangely
attracted to the efficient but urgent tone
of the woman talking to me. I liked the
way that she seemed to be so good
at getting things done. And now this.
Out of the blue: the call is ended. I
wondered if it was something about
the way I tapped the keys. Was I a
bit clumsy? I know that I had just eaten
a sandwich and maybe she had picked
up the whiff of mayonnaise on one
of the numbers. And it wasn’t as if
it was me who had been in touch
in the first place. I figured that she
must sit there all day, day after day,
texting people telling them that they
can extend their hours and then snubbing
them with that ‘The call is ended’ thing.
Maybe that’s what she’s into. She likes
saying, 'The call is ended.'

Grandmother

I'm not American.

One day

my grandmother 

packed her bags

in America

gathered up her children:

got on a boat

and came to England.

There's a photo of 

my grandmother 

with her three children

on board the boat

that came to England. 

They are standing or sitting still.

The boat is moving,

taking them from America to England.

They are standing or sitting still.

Their world is changing:

no more America

London, here they come.

My Dad is one of those three children

standing still for the photo.

He is changing.

In a few days time

he will land in England

and that's where he'll live

from then on.

I'm not American.

My Mum and the Flower

My Mum and the Flower

My dad said that my mum 

had some secrets.

‘One time’, he said, 

‘when she was a girl

at school they said that

it was ‘Harvest Festival’

and all the children had to bring in flowers.

Well, remember,’ said my dad,

‘your mother’s family were very poor,

they couldn’t just go out and buy flowers

and they didn’t have a garden

they just had a back yard.

Now all this made your mother 

ashamed. 

She didn’t want to be the kid in the class

who didn’t bring in flowers.

And she wanted to fit in.

So, do you know what she did?

She slipped into the Park,

 the one just in front of the 

Bethnal Green Museum

and she nicked a flower.

Now, don’t tell her I’ve told 

you that. 

She still feels bad about it

but you see she was so worried

about going to school and

being the only one who didn’t have 

a flower that she was desperate.

So she nicked one from the park.

Now don’t tell her I told

you about it.

And don’t ever tell anyone, will you?’

‘No.’

Oh I have. 

My Dad and his Uncle Sam


When my dad was a boy

he shared a bedroom with

his Uncle Sam.

He didn’t talk to his Uncle Sam


‘Why not?’ I said.

‘Because I brought a hat home

from the market

and he turned it inside out and

back again.’

‘And you didn’t talk to him

because of that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ever? You didn’t ever talk to him

ever again?’

‘That’s it’




‘So when you went to bed

how did you decide who would

switch out the light.’

‘We didn’t have a light.

There was no electricity in the

bedrooms. There were candles.’

‘So who decided who would

blow out the candles?’

‘We had one each.’




‘Just as well.

Otherwise you would have had

to talk to him.’

Mr Mensh Books

Mr Mensh Books


I’m not sure that the estate of Roger

Hargreaves would give permission but

sometimes I lie in bed imagining a

special series to go with the Mr Men

books...they’re Mr Mensh books,

a tribute to my parents and

all the words they called me.

Some people are going to meet for a meal. 

Let's say it's a meeting. 

At Mr Kvell's place.

Remember him. He comes later:

Now the people:


Mr Shlump - the guy who turns up for the meal

in clothes he’s been wearing all week.

Mr Shloch- the guy who turns up for the meal

in clothes he’s been wearing all year

Mr Mommser - the guy who you didn't want

to turn up for the meal

Mr Shpilkes - the guy who’s worried about what's going to happen at the meal

Mr Tsirres - the guy who’s got reason to be

worried about what's going to happen at the meal because he’s in

trouble

Mr Shtuch - the guy who’s also in trouble but

it’s a bit more trouble

Mr Dr’erd _ the guy who’s in even more trouble

Mr Mittandring - the guy who’s in even more trouble

Mr Dreck - the guy who’s crap

Mr Nebbish - the guy who looks like he’s turned everything

into crap

Mr Varkakhte - the guy who looks like he’s crapped himself

Mr Bubkes - the guy who talks rubbish about the meal

Mr Pisher - the guy who is rubbish

Mr Bubbele - the guy who is so much of a mummy’s boy he’s a grandmother’s boy

Mr Shmerel - the guy who’s a bit of a fool

Mr Shlemiel - the other guy who’s a bit of a fool

Mr Shmendrik - and another guy who’s a bit of fool

Mr Kvell - the guy who’s very proud of his son for having made the 

soup

Mr Kvetsh - the guy who moans about the soup

Mr Chup - the guy who slurps the soup

Mr Shmalts - the guy who’s dribbled the soup down his front

Mr Shnorrer -the guy who wants your soup

Mr Chap - the guy who grabs your soup

Mr Chazze - the guy who can’t stop having soup

Mr Shmooze - the guy who sweet-talks you to get your soup off 

you

Mr Zhuzh - the guy who says he could turn a lousy soup into a good soup

Mr Knakke - the guy who thinks he knows more than Kvell's son 

about how to make soup

Mr Meshugge - the guy who talks nonsense about the soup

Mr Kibbitz - the guy who wants to have a chat while you’re having 

the soup

Mr Yachner - the guy who can’t stop talking about the soup

Mr Gantse Magilla - the guy who talks about every single thing 

that’s in the soup

Mr Gubba - the guy who tells you how to make the soup

Mr Ganuf - the guy who nicks your soup

Mr Shtum - the guy who keeps quiet about the guy who nicked your soup

Mr Kishkes - the guy who says that soup gives him a belly-ache

Mr Plotz - the guy who has his soup and laughs

Mr Greps - the guy who has his soup and burps

Mr Fotz -the guy who has his soup and farts

Mr Bocher - the guy who’s reading a book about the soup.

Mr Gantse Macher - the guy who owns the soup factory

1955: The Lone Ranger

When I was a kid, we had no TV.

Just imagine that: no TV! How did

we live?! Then one day the TV arrived.

Two guys brought it in. It was huge.

Like a wardrobe. It was bigger than them.

They struggled to get it in through the door.

It was massive. Only the screen...was tiny.

It was about as big as a slice of bread.

And it wasn’t colour. Do you know what it was?

No, not black and white. Black and white

hadn’t been invented yet. It was grey and grey.

And you couldn’t really see what was going

on. All that happened was there were smudges

moving across the screen. Some of them were

light grey. Some of them dark grey.

My favourite programme was ‘The Lone Ranger’.

There was a tune that went with it,

‘William Tell’s Overture’. We all learned how to

sing it, going:

daddle an, daddle an

daddle an dan-dan,

daddle an, daddle an

daddle an dan-dan

daddle an daddle an

daddle an dan-dan

daddle aaaaaaan, dan-dan!

The Lone Ranger had a mask.

You could never see his eyes.

We used to make a mask with our fingers

so that we looked like the Lone Ranger.

At the beginning of every programme

a voice said: “A fiery horse with the speed

of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty Hi-Yo Silverrrrrr!’

And a light grey smudge - that was the Lone

Ranger’s white horse - went across the screen.

We all learned how to say: “A fiery horse with the speed

of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty HiYo Silverrrrrr!’

Then in the programme, the Lone Ranger did all

sorts of good deeds but at the very end he would disappear. No sign of him anywhere.

There would just be two people standing there

and one would turn to the other and say,

‘Who was that man?’

And the other would say, ‘That was.....the Lone

Ranger.’

We all learned how to say that. We used to say it to

each other in school.

‘Who was that man?’

‘That was...the Lone Ranger!’

And then the music would come back:

daddle an, daddle an

daddle an dan-dan,

daddle an, daddle an

daddle an dan-dan

daddle an daddle an

daddle an dan-dan

daddle aaaaaaan, dan-dan!


That’s how exciting things were in 1955.

Fossils and my brother

My brother works at the Natural


History Museum in London. He’s a


fossil. No - sorry, I got that wrong.


He looks after the fossils.


Looks after the fossils? What sort


of job is that? I mean it can’t be very


hard, can it? They’re just stones.


They don’t jump at you, like if you


were looking after a tiger. Imagine


that, you come down in the morning,


there’s a tiger. You go up to it, and you


say, ‘What do you want to eat?’ And the


tiger says, ‘YOU!’. That would be hard.


No, my brother looks after fossils. I went


into his room forty years ago and there


were four fossils sitting on a shelf. I said,


‘What are you doing Brian?’ He said,


‘Looking after the fossils.’ I said, ‘They’re not


going to jump off the shelf, are they?’


He said, ‘You never know. That’s what


I’m here for.’ I went to his office the other


day and the four fossils were still there.


On the shelf. I said, ‘Brian, the fossils


are still there!’ And he said, ‘Yes.That’s


because I was here.’


If ever you find a fossil and


you don’t know what it’s called,


you might pick it up and


shout at it: ‘Dave!’ ‘Melanie!’


and it doesn’t answer - then


you can take it to the Natural


History Museum in London and


you go up to one of the people in uniform


and tell them you’ve got a fossil


and you don’t know its name:


‘Dave!’, ‘Melanie!’ - see it doesn’t


answer, and they send for my brother,


Doctor Brian Rosen. He lives in a cave


underneath the museum, he wears


a leopard skin bikini and he’s got a


great big club, and he comes up


from down below the museum, you’ll


hear him coming, ‘Ooof!!! Oooof!!!’


and suddenly the big double doors open


in front of you and there he is in his


leopard skin bikini and you can go up


to him and say, ‘Hello. I’ve found a fossil,


and I don’t know its name: Dave!


Melanie! See it doesn’t answer,’ and my


brother takes a magnifying glass out of


his leopard skin bikini bottom and it’s


one of those little ones, and he puts it


in his eye and it makes his eye go really


big and he studies it very hard and then


he says,’No, that’s not Dave. It’s not


Melanie, that is an ammonite.’ Or maybe


he’ll say, ‘That is a belemnite.’ and you’ll


be very pleased. And if it’s a really, really


good one, do you know what he does


then? He nicks it off you. Because if it’s


really, really good, it doesn’t belong to


you, it doesn’t belong to him. Do you


know who it belongs to? The Queen.


And if you go to Buckingham Palace


you’ll see that it’s stuffed full of old

fossils.