Poetry

Brentford

Along the winding Thames, where Brentford sighs, Its red‑brick terraces stand beside the water’s gleam, Old lock gates whisper of industrious sighs, While modern cafés hum like a waking dream. The Brentford

Stevenage

Stevenage, where ancient roads still whisper, Roman footsteps fade beneath the modern grid, Concrete boulevards meet timber‑framed cottages, A town reborn from post‑war hope and grit. Roundabouts spin like tired Ferris wheels, Guiding

Clang

Clang In the early morning railway yard, the steel wheels strike the rails with a clang, a sharp, bright note that slices the mist, echoing off brick arches and distant factories. It is

Ten Unexpected Items to Find in a Bagging Area

Ten Unexpected Items to Find in a Bagging Area A rubber duck, bobbing serenely beside the tins, A lone sock, its partner lost in the maze of aisles,

Clyde

Clyde rolls through the Highlands, a silver thread, Where mist clings to the heather and the lochs are spread. His waters whisper tales of old clans and wars, Carrying the scent of peat

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives