Probably, I should try to nobble other competitors by not sharing this bit of information. But the better angels of my nature are beating up on the shrewder ones, so here it is. I believe there's a letter missing from the email address you gave, John. The address should start with "comps" rather than just "comp" -- unless I'm indulging in a bit of chicanery to make all your entries vanish into the cyber-void.

Chris, you're right.
In case John hasn't spotted this the address is
comps@theoldie.co.uk and the deadline is November 19th. (Your good-natured act in pointing this out will no doubt be rewarded. What I mean is, you'll probably win! :))

A selfish rant
 

“Compact Fluorescent Lamps” they’re called,
or CFLs, but I’m appalled
that incandescent bulbs are ‘out’;
they’re still the best, without a doubt.
I stock-pile when I see them now,
which isn’t often, sadly. How
did we get stuck with candle-power
from bulbs which seem to take an hour
before they reach the proper wattage?
I don’t live in a dingy cottage!
I have large rooms, high ceilings, and
I simply cannot bloody stand
those stupid shapes, those bulbs so dim
they make my home look really grim.

Bring back my proper bulbs – and light! –
I’m incandescent every night.

Nice, Jayne. I've been waiting for your bulbs. And now they bloom.

Though bulbs brought Edison his fame
As well as lots of gravy,
The man we really ought to blame
Is our Sir Humphry Davy.

The 19th century two years old,
He set a current flowing,
Through platinum, which cost much gold,
And left the metal glowing.

Now all around see bulbs ablaze,
Canary Wharf, or cottage . . .
Sir Humphry’s legacy these days
Is just a mess of wattage.

The setting might be Amsterdam or Utrecht,
the scene, by early Hals or late Vermeer:
it's auction day; a merry band is here
with faces lit to wonderful effect.
In back, a huisvrau, stiff and ruffly necked,
strains hard to catch the van-dyked auctioneer
(who holds what seems to be a giant tear)
proclaiming that this lot is quite select.
The crowd is surging 'round like running grunion;
they know he won’t return until November,
and caught up in the newest tulipmania,
each yearns to buy that thing shaped like an onion.
He packs them off to Ghent, though, come September—
these bulbs, inscribed “100 watts - Sylvania.”

Frank

neat one, but...
 

doesn't line 5 lack a foot?

Thanks, Bazza - it was still fresh from the forcing jar.

Frank

When it's become too late to do without,
Jo lights one eco-bulb, and slow, so slow,
It stirs itself to spread a moderate glow,
Not quite enough to read by. None could doubt
She was a thinking, caring woman, Jo.
But now her mouth forms in a bitter pout,
Her nostrils tighten and her keen eyes harden.
For what she sees is Dave-next-door's front garden.

Five hundred Christmas lights are rioting there:
They dance around the lawn, they flash in trees,
And snowmen glow. Such prodigalities
Fill Jo with anger verging on despair.
Says Dave: “Oh dear, I bought the lights to please
The kids. What's that? They warm the winter air?
Not much, you know.” He laughs: “But who'd have fancied
A few bright lights could turn a nice girl rancid?”

Very nice, George. And with a moral too.