The little engine that couldn't

The diners were seated in art deco splendour
The waiters were ever so smart
I wonder did they know about the pretender
the horse placed in front of their cart?

Our poor Galatea 45699 was
Uncoupled and shunted aside
The fireman said something’s terribly wrong and
She doesn’t seem up for the ride

So out from the engine shed blinking his eyes
Old Harry the diesel was hauled
He’d never pulled nuffin as classy as this
And now into service recalled

He promised the panicking ticket inspector
To do what he could for the team
His oily black diesel might not smell of nectar
But almost looks something like steam…

Yes, ok, ok... But according to Scribbler it's National Poetry Writing Month, or NaPoWriMo... I know, I'd never heard of it either. But, well, you know.  

I wonder if I'll manage the whole month. I wonder if I'll still have any followers by Beltane? :-)

So today started well, despite the BBC getting the weather forecast wrong again. A bunch of us went out litter picking around the village in the certain knowledge the rain wouldn't come until the afternoon. We managed a good dozen black bags of rubbish before the heavens opened. I was particularly taken with the number of wine bottles I rescued from the hedge by the junction of the B4509 and the B4058 - with no footway there it can only be drivers tossing them out! Scary thought, innit?

Afterward, I took Morrigan over to Bath in glorious sunshine (forecast said heavy showers) in the hope of catching Galatea as she passed through from Bristol. Having got there, a proper trainspotter then told me she had broken down and the train would be hauled by two dirty old diesels soon to be decommissioned. But having got there I thought I'd stay for the pic, and just then Greg phoned to say he was in position just over the hill. This led to a very nice cuppa and a home baked hot cross bun.