Poems about working in a chippy and a newsagents.

My first job was in Kenarna chipshop on the Old Glenarm Road, which was owned by David Liddle. I was in third year, aged fourteen, and had to have an emergency lesson beforehand on how to cut an onion. Winnie did the frying, and Diane and Sandra trained me up on the essentials, like how to wrap chips – I'm still an expert. The laughter in the kitchen was constant, as was the stream of customers right up until last orders in the pubs. We closed at twelve. David arranged for us all to be taxi'd home, filled to the brim with fried food. School finished at 3.45, so I sprinted across through the Health Centre to attempt to get there for four. I got home after midnight on Mondays and Thursdays, when I started my homework. (My neighbour told me that I was never in bed before 2.00am). Then I worked on a Friday night, so I was able to keep Irish dancing on Saturdays that first year. By fourth year I had another job in Apsley's newsagents. For a while I did both, until my history teacher reminded me of the importance of GCSEs. These poems happen to comprise what we now call Ulster Scots. It was just the way people spoke back then. It may also help to know that Transvision Vamp was all the rage in third year! 

On Velveteen

​Hang up your 
Pollicitis Addere 
Facta blazer,
step into gingham, 
take a deep breath,
and tidy away your ings.
Jouk whitin in tae flour 
and gleek as grease 
blisters, bubbles n grows;
harl a sack up the sappled steps
and hear the spuds dunner 
against the steel;
slap scaldin japs fra yer han
and wipe the spit o chips 
fra yer knee;
gulder, ‘Next!’ and write 
a wheen o orders
in yer heid;
shiver salt n vinegar
and forge a fish supper
swaddled in cream.

Skim the cream silken sheen
and screeve your German, French 
​and Spanish on Velveteen.
Irregular girl; perfect tense:
Monter Retourner Rester
Venir Arriver Naître Sortir 
Tomber Rentrer Aller Mourir Partir Entrer Descendre.
Mr R Vans Tramped; Mr R Trans Vamped:
Transvision Vamp.

Half past midnight,
Braw bricht moonlight,
Scrub aff the batter,
Sweel aff the grease,
Fulfil your promise,
and mind what ye writ,
in your heed at fourteen.

Angeline King
Published in Community Arts Partnership, Vision, 2019/20


Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903

Wuiden shelves chime wi Irish lace 
and linen, crystal trinkets, bare-skud 
hardbacks hunkered doon like 
square soldiers, words aimed
– yin day – at weans grespin 
leathery liquorice laces happed 
in Paisley-patterned paper, hearkenin 
yarns o grannies built peelie like 
The People’s Friend, ganshin, gabbin, 
crackin neath yellow, striped awning. 
Waater drips doon tweed caps. Scent 
o Woodbine, o war, o dulse, o ale.
Bachelors cowp coins, scatter tobacco, 
buy news, pay for pipe dreams weighed
in siller scales glentin ahint the 
coonter, midget gems sowl in 
quarters, ribbons and iambs 
measured by the meter — 
similes settled by the score.
We sing and dance.

'Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903' was the winning poem in the Frances Browne Festival poetry competition (Ulster Scots Category), October 2021

Image:  Alma Thomas, The Eclipse, 1970, acrylic on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum.