annswabey

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Posts posted by annswabey

  1. Enjoyed (if that's the right word for our old area having gone into a sad decline) reading your observations.  I know the last time I saw our old house (Melbury Road), I was sad to see how bad it looked.  All that hard work my Mum had put into the garden and it had been paved over and was covered in children's toys.  I knew the Pelican was still there as my cousin is involved in running their football team!  Amazed that Baxter's is still there.  Is the chip shop still there?  It was Proctors in my day.  I live near London now, so don't go to Nottm very often

  2. What's a "radical" feminist?  I'm a feminist, but funnily enough I don't own any dungarees or boiler suits... Some of you do have some stereotypical views.  A friendly touch/hug/pat from a man you know is fine, but often it's more than that, from strangers or work colleagues and older men are just as bad (if not worse) than younger ones.  About time it was stamped out, not by a "witch hunt," which I don't believe it is, anyway, but by men FINALLY having to learn that it's not on

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  3. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
    Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
    And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
    Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
    Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

    Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
    Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
    But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
    And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ...
    Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
    As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

    In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
    He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

    If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
    Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
    And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
    His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
    If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
    Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
    Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
    Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
    My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
    To children ardent for some desperate glory,
    The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
    Pro patria mori.

    • Like 1