I frequently talk about the spark of an idea that can grow into a flame.  -A flame that lights the way forward. I am buoyed by such moments... A brief conversation with a six year old regarding how much she likes blue jelly had me instantly reflecting upon my own childhood and suddenly my mind was filled with custard, not literally of course, but thoughts of how custard was a dominant dessert during my early years, so long ago. Suddenly young eyes lit up- 'You should write a poem about custard, Papa.'  And so the poem, 'The Custard Years' began to form in my mind. Here, now is what was revealed. The Custard Years It’s amazing how much custard one can eat before the age of ten.  For I certainly ate a lot of custard early in my life... Custard was a dessert staple. I loved it lump free and viscous -mellow yellow Simply mum made using Foster Clark's custard powder. For me  they were my custard years.  Custard with ice-cream, two-fruits, or jelly Custard tarts...

Recently I was watching an episode of 'Antiques Roadshow' (the UK version) when the words 'occasional table' were mentioned. I immediately thought of  tables small in size including coffee, side, and end tables, designed for  social gatherings in the home,  occasionally employed and  variously used to present light refreshment, drinks, snacks, or possibly the playing card games and the like.    Much to my surprise the words 'occasional table' sparked my interest and for a number of days ideas swirled in my head, spinning like clothes in a dryer. I have no idea why these words persisted in my thinking, maybe the specifics of nomenclature, can account for my interest.    I found myself engaging in some personification to tell the story of an occasional table, beset with unfulfilled ambition. The resulting poem is clearly tinged with sadness and whimsy. I wish I could turn the tables, but alas. The Occasional Table It was named for designated moments...