Just a Synecdoche

One evening in the gloaming with the hour approaching late
I heard a sound, just ask my cat, he may corroborate.
I quickly went alfresco, thought I'd better take a look
A crowd of farmers gathered round to watch a donnybrook.

One farmer in pyjamas with a rubicund complexion,
Officious and unlaundered too, I thought, on close inspection,
Screamed words so execrable it made me hang my head
"Bugger off," I answered him, "You nasty slugabed"

He reddened more, demanding where I heard this sobriquet
“My bailiwick is language,” I began to say,
“I was just applying the accordant synecdoche;
Euphonious it was, especially if it gets your goat!”

The audience went bananas, with plaudit long and loud,
With swift volte-face I raised my hands to milk the cheering crowd
I took a bow then stood to watch my public genuflect.
My hubris was complete; I hadn’t known what to expect.

The ruddy man lunged forward to waylay me from behind
With fists clenched tight in anger and malfeasance on his mind
I heard “man on!” cried loudly by a sports aficionado
I spun around and held aloft my otiose red cardo!

My skill in diplomacy is something I misprise
So by some legerdemain I poked him in the eyes
He was implacable, impossible and vicious
And hence my disappearance was somewhat expeditious

My exile, I fear is from my own circumlocution
My life, although plenary has brought its retribution
My quandary as I hide out in a littoral bivouac
To change my life and limn a while or simply to head back

© Dave Carr


All of these words appeared as Word of the Day in October 2008 on the website dictionary.com The poem has at least one of these words on every line.



slugabed: one who stays in bed until a late hour.
donnybrook: a brawl or dispute.
littoral: on a coastal or shore region.
volte-face: an about-face.
rubicund: inclining to redness; ruddy.
officious: meddlesome.
implacable: incapable of being pacified.
circumlocution: the use of many words to express an idea that might be expressed by few.
aficionado: an enthusiastic admirer; a fan.
legerdemain: sleight of hand.
plaudit: enthusiastic approval.
euphonious: pleasing or sweet in sound.
sobriquet: a nickname.
otiose: ineffective; also, being at leisure; also, of no use.
waylay: to ambush or accost.
misprize (UK misprise): to despise; also, to undervalue.
expeditious: characterised by speed and efficiency.
alfresco: outdoors; outdoor.
bailiwick: a person's specific area of knowledge, authority, interest, skill, or work.
malfeasance: wrongdoing, misconduct, or misbehaviour.
synecdoche: figure of speech
plenary: full; complete.
limn: to draw or paint; also, to describe.
quandary: a state of difficulty or perplexity.
genuflect: to bend the knee, as in worship; also, to grovel.
corroborate: to strengthen or make more certain with other evidence.
execrable: detestable; extremely bad.
bivouac: a usually temporary encampment; also, to encamp.
hubris: overbearing pride or presumption.
gloaming: twilight; dusk.

Duncan Murray - A Cautionary Tale

Duncan Murray - A Cautionary Tale

Come hear the tale of Duncan Murray;
A man who loved the taste of curry.

He and his wife each Friday night,
Consumed a curry with delight.

His wife could only manage Korma,
But Duncan wanted something warmer.

All week long Duncan would yearn
For curry night; Bring on the burn.

Soon once a week was not enough,
He needed more; he loved the stuff.

Balti, Rogan Josh, Jalfrezi;
The flavours drove his senses crazy.

For breakfast, poppodoms he’d crunch;
With onion bhajees for his lunch.

He brought home jars of eastern spice
And filled the house with sacks of rice.

He liked red chillis on his skin.
He cut them up and rubbed them in.

His poor wife was overcome,
She ran away back to her mum.

And when she'd gone he ran amok,
He wallpapered the lounge with flock.

With incense burning everywhere,
While strains of citar filled the air.

Obsessed with flavours from the East,
He had become a curry beast.

But Duncan had a desperate wish
To make a giant curry dish.

He filled the bath with vindaloo;
Tea lights below to warm it through.

Then right into this deadly gunge,
Brave Duncan calmly took the plunge.

And when police investigated,
They found poor Duncan marinated.

They covered up the bath with card
And took him to the town graveyard.

They dug a grave out extra wide
And lowered Duncan’s bath inside.

“Ashes to Ashes,” said the vicar.
“Cause of death – a dodgy tikka.”

Be careful, or you too some day,
Could wind up as a take-away.

Reflect a while on Duncan Murray,
How he committed Hari Curry!

© Dave Carr

She (not the Charles Aznavour version)

She may be the face I can’t forget
Like something rescued from a vet
The fixed notice penalty I’ll have to pay
She may be the hollow in the bed
That causes me to butt my head
Sliding to her side instead
The chill I feel as she steals all the duvet

She, whose yoghurt’s bought to combat yeast,
May have the fragrance of a beast
Like rutting goats or flocks of geese
That settle on my car just when it’s waxed
The reversing mirror of my dream
Where things are larger than they seem
That make me turn and want to scream
The reason why my credit cards are maxed

She who always stands out in a crowd
With both voice and clothes that are so loud
Leopard spots with zebra stripes
Her arse and mouth that are so vast
And from each there comes a blast
Like rockets fired from organ pipes

She, the reason my B.P. needs screening
A life without pain has no meaning
Was once said by Schopenhauer
Perhaps he met her, I don’t know
But where she goes I’ve got to go
The marriage vows have said so
The meaning of my life is she… she…
(Death be my release…)

(Photo (c) Mashline/Aleksander Kuki, fair-use low-resolution copy not for profit.)

Impressionist Painter (imagist poem)

(posted on behalf of Jackie Hutchinson)

"The Golden Path of Cox’s Orange Pippins"

(Sestina posted on behalf of J Hutchinson)

The elderly apple tree buckles
under the weight of the Cox’s Orange Pippins.
The autumn sky streaked across the horizon like a stream
of amber nectar. Tom loves to ride his gold
bike through the woods to Sandy Lands.
Tom tells Sam "let’s catch some tiddlers in the river."

Splashing through the ford, Tom swerves on a river
of autumn russets. Whilst he ties the buckles
on his sandles, an apple lands
on his head. "Look at your coat-you are all muddy now, Pippins-
never mind, let’s search for gold-
we can jump across those stepping stones in that stream."

The two brothers thread their way through the winding stream-
their eyes focused on the swirling waters in the flowing river.
A rush of excitement builds up. "We might find some gold."
The muddy earth clings round Tom’s feet. "The buckles
on my sandals have come loose. Tom turns to his dog, Pippins
"Come on-my feet are all wet. We can’t go to Sandy Lands."

Sun bleached fence posts lay at the entrance of the park ‘Lands.’
Dejected, the two brothers walk alongside the grassy banking of the stream.
Amidst the gnarled apple tree, Tom sees splashes of yellow Pippins,
some of which have fallen in the river.
Tom feels sorry for the poor old tree, which bends and buckles
in the wind. The vibrant autumnal leaves have fallen into a path of gold.

"Tom, let’s carry some of these apples-Mum loves the warm gold
colour for her jams. But, look your sodden sandals will land
us in trouble. Mum will be cross when she sees the buckles.
The sun broke into bits, sprinkling its reflecting warmth in the curling stream
Sulking, Sam says, "Tom, we didn’t catch any tiddlers in the river."
The Jack Russell jumps up at grubby Tom. "Its time we went home Pippins."

Tom watches buoyant balls of fruit in the water. "Look at those Pippins,
Sam. Mum could have made us toffee apples, all sticky and gold."
"I know Tom," says Sam. Let’s skim stones along the river."
Tom shakes his head. "I don’t want to go to Sandy Lands
Because it’s dangerous if you cycle too close to the stream-"
Sam teases Tom, "you will get the spokes caught in your buckles."

"Stop yelping, Pippins." A morose mass of bracken recedes as Sandy Lands
disappears. "Sam, next time, why don’t we look for goldfish in the stream?"
"When you go in the river, Tom, don’t wear those sandals with buckles."



J Hutchinson
Sestina

Relativity

Our eyeless stares, the endless stairs constrain;
Figures of proportional intention,
We blandly trudge from plane to transformed plane.

Warping up and wefting down in vain,
Aching for a canvas of convention,
Our eyeless stares, the endless stairs constrain.

Incidental in some artist’s brain;
Ageing embryos in mock pretension,
We blandly trudge from plane to transformed plane.

Playing out a lifestyle so mundane;
Stepping casually across dimensions,
Our eyeless stares, the endless stairs constrain.

Hear our lipless screams of inner pain
From hyperbolic heads in meek dissension;
We blandly trudge from plane to transformed plane.

So as the mathematical explain,
Confusion is this mother of inventions.
Our eyeless stares, the endless stairs constrain;
We blandly trudge from plane to transformed plane.

The Dark Corner

The Dark Corner

The room has been emptied apart from a child’s wooden chair and two rusty tins of emulsion. My toes tap as I walk across the wooden floor to view, for the last time, the painting on my bedroom wall. I look at the corner of the room and remember the small table where we used to place the tray of homemade cakes and orange squash. No one could ever replicate the powdery taste of my mother’s pastry which clogged the mouth in a delicious satisfying way. Now at 80 she has moved into a home where she is given cakes in foil wrappers and tepid watery tea.
Soon the house will be invaded by strangers. I had come to paint over my wall
Julie had painted the mural 36 years ago, when we had both been 16 and still believed we could be famous and whatever we did, mattered.
With breathless excitement we had both stared at the blank wall, conjuring in our imaginations the masterpiece which would emerge from her talent with a paintbrush and my visionary inspiration.
At the time I knew very little about art although Blake’s ‘Newton’ had been on the school assembly wall along with Salvador Dali’s ‘Crucifixion’, separated by a wooden panel embossed with the school’s motto ‘Dare to Do Right’ This was a secondary modern school on a rough council estate in the early seventies and they were trying hard to inspire its recalcitrant pupils.
I had the spirit of Blake within me and I wanted my wall to be a vision of hope. I imagined an outstretched omniscient hand shedding white light onto a new world, there would be Isadora Duncan figures dancing and celebrating the joy of this first dawn, dipping perfect hands into crystal waters.
Yet there could not be perfection without its counterpart and in the corner I envisaged a representation of Satan, a sick despicable figure with rank weeds for hair and a slime green body, barred from the light, biding his time.
My parents were kind and generous; giving Julie a wall to experiment with and paying for all the material. It was something her parents would never have dreamt of. She shared a bedroom with her two younger sisters and in their small council house there was very little free wall space amongst the David Cassidy and Osmond’s posters for Julie to shine or even glimmer as an artist. She had difficulty persuading them to let her spend evenings round our house with her pots of paints; they expected her help with child minding and dish washing.
I never realised at the time what a peaceful haven Julie must have found our house where there was just me, mum, dad and an older brother who occasionally returned from a university in the North. I did not go round to Julie’s very often but when I did I always returned with a headache and a gratitude for a house not littered with tumbling, squabbling bodies.
I loved my room; retreat, refuge, a sanctuary from a world where self consciousness blazed within me.
My face constantly betrayed me. Every time an adult spoke to me on even the most mundane topics I would blush, though blush is too delicate, gentle a word to describe the fiery scarlet rash which in seconds would stain my cheeks and spatter down my neck and chest. At its worse even my eyes filled with tears and my nose became blocked with mucus.
I tried to convince myself that perhaps I didn’t look as red and awful as I felt but then, once, I came into the classroom 10 minutes late after a dental appointment, only to hear, Dave Cheshunt, the good looking bully of the class, say to his mate in a loud voice,
‘Here she comes, Bessie Beetroot. You could burn yer chips on that face!’
Everyone, even the teacher, laughed.
The only adult who understood was Mrs Simons, my English teacher; I gave my work to her in secret after class had finished and she would return it with copious notes in the margins.
I would savour and learn from her wise words of praise and advice, safe in my bedroom, away from the punishing arena.
Julie was my ‘best’ friend, a term which denoted a fierce loyalty, love and comradeship no one else would ever come close to. She had short mousey hair and doleful mud brown eyes. When she concentrated she would stroke her tongue over her full rose lips. We shared the same humour, laughing at things duller mortals would not find remotely funny. Neither of us had boyfriends and the nearest we’d come to intimacy with a boy was a quick snog in the corner of the school disco hall. We talked a lot about boys and waited for them to discover us.
We lived opposite ends of Chantry Estate but most weekends were spent together after she had completed her chores. We went on walks in the nearby countryside round Belsted Brook both of us armed with notebooks, Julie for her drawing, me for my poetry. Evening time whilst my parents were visiting relatives we would listen to folk, classical and Tubular Bells on the polished teak radiogram. Julie would talk a lot about John Ashton, her art teacher and what he had said about her work.
I felt a slight pique when she told me that she had discussed ‘our wall’ with him and had sought his advice about colours etc. This was our creation; nothing to do with him.
June 14th 1970 was the start date for the painting; it was never finished, never signed by the artist as it should have been.
Our first night was so exciting. As she opened the new bright tins of paint, anticipation tingled inside me, new worlds quivered into being.
While Julie painted I read to her, to us. I trusted Julie absolutely but I was still nervous at hearing my own voice for the first time in the stillness of the room where there was only the gentle slap of paint on plaster or, in the very quiet moments, just the sound of Julie’s concentrated breathing as she filled in the detail on her dancing figures.
I read from Dylan Thomas’ Collected works, the rich cloth of his language wrapping itself round our exposed adolescent spirits, we hugged his words in all their triumph and tragedy and they warmed our very soul.

‘From loves first fever to her plague, from the soft second
And to the hollow minute of the womb
From the unfolding to the scissored caul’.

Years later as an undergraduate I learnt to dissect, decipher and write clever essays on such things as the intentional fallacy of ‘Do not go gentle’ and analyse the poem as a cathartic exercise but then it was of no consequence that I didn’t understand every word or recite his poetry with the correct intonation with all the right pauses.
Gradually the picture began to take shape, a vibrant palette of colours emerged from the gloom.
One dancer wore blue robes of the deepest night and the lightest of mornings. Another’s robe was like the orange of a child’s party balloon or the vitamin C tablets my mum gave me every morning.
The nearest most prominent dancer was modelled on me, or the beauty I might have become; her corn field hair flowing in the gentle breeze, slim white arms reaching into the pool of life, the secret of eternity at her fingertips.
My grey bedroom wall was transformed into a celebration of life, a bursting forth of creation.
For her A Level art project Julie was doing a painting based on the idea of cogs, wheels and machinery which stretched almost the length of the art classroom. She was getting special tuition from Mr. Ashton and although I knew it was immature I could not help feeling a jealousy towards him and the painting she was doing for him, not me. It seemed increasingly to consume more of her thoughts than our creation.
Perhaps she sensed my upset as one Thursday she suggested she came round for an extra evening after she had given in her art portfolio.
I waited for ages at the gates and I thought she must have forgotten or else I’d missed her and she was already at my house.
The art building was deserted apart from the cleaner with her trailing noisy vacuum.
Julie’s wall display was complete; the paint still glistened. I walked towards the open door of the store cupboard and the first thing I saw was a white leg which looked as though it had become detached and was suspended in the air. As I moved closer I realised it was Julie’s leg and Mr Ashton was pressed between her parted thighs; his trousers round his ankles; his hands cupping her small pale breasts.
I looked into Julie’s eyes and saw not shame or surprise but anger and contempt. I was the unwelcome intruder who had stolen her secret, violated her privacy.
Her betrayal thumped me in the pit of my stomach. Quickly I turned and walked away, swallowing the vomit rising in my throat.
Julie didn’t call that night and when my mum asked why she hadn’t been to finish the painting; I said she had been off sick from school.
Apart from English lessons I wasn’t in the same classes as Julie and therefore we didn’t have to see very much of each other. Most of her breaks were spent in the art rooms rather than the common room.
The next day was Saturday and when I heard the doorbell; my legs were shaking as I answered.
She looked and spoke the same and yet a stranger had walked through the door.
I started to read Thomas’ short story ‘Extraordinary Little Cough’ but all I could hear was my own voice, self conscious, squeaky and ridiculous; Julie painted for ten minutes and then put her brush down. The dark figure in the corner was only half finished.
She made some excuse about having a headache and coming back next week to finish the rest off.
We avoided each others eyes. As she passed me sitting on my chair she handed me her painting shirt covered with the myriad daubs of colour from our wall.
For a long while after she left I held the cloth close to my face breathing in its scent of dry paint, cotton fibres and Julie’s beautiful skin.

I have returned now to paint over my wall. The paintbrush, thick with emulsion, lies heavy in my hand.

The Red Dress

Like a drowsy bee the mobile vibrated against her skin for the third time.
She could not remember now what had prompted her to read the text message meant for her husband. Why didn’t she just turn the annoying thing off?
They had made it a rule when they first met to always respect one another’s privacy. She had told him about an ex boyfriend who had read then ridiculed her diaries; the romantic poems she had written which he found so silly and amusing .He in turn confided the teenage humiliation he had felt about his mother’s room-cleaning, the cringing embarrassment of seeing his magazine in the waste paper basket and the frosty glare at the dinner table.
With very few exceptions they had kept this promise over the last 25 years and given each other the privacy and space which they had been deprived of when younger.
Had she been suspicious? It’s always said that women are quick to read the signs when their husbands are having an affair: the late nights at the office, the bouquets of guilt, and the scent of other skin. Why had it never even occurred to her?
Were there changes in him which she had deliberately chosen to ignore? Sitting in his armchair at night there had often been a faraway look in his eyes, was he thinking of her then? When she had not wanted to have sex, was he a little too quick to agree on their mutual exhaustion?
gr8 2bwu lasnite
u taste dvin long e 4u
lovu4evf
She had jotted the text message down on a scrap of paper like the clues from a crossword puzzle, so that she might muse on it while preparing the evening meal.
She had never mastered the art of ‘texting’ and Robert, their son, used to laugh at her long handed messages, then when she did try to use abbreviations no one could understand what she was saying. For a fleeting moment she thought of phoning Robert at college to see if he could decipher his father’s shorthand and then she realised the ridiculousness of that request.
Of course it wasn’t that complex and there was a numb satisfaction when she had solved the puzzle:
‘Great to be with you last night. You tasted divine. Longing for you. Love forever f’
The small f at the end of the text reminded her of a fish hook, snagging tender skin.
He had always said how much he loved the sound of her name; Sarah, the gentle sibilance of the ‘shh’ sound, his love, his wife.
The normalities of their routine life suddenly took on new significance and became the subject of doubt and suspicion.
He had told her a few nights ago that the Pharmaceutical Society had their AGM and there was ‘No need to wait up; it would be a long and boring night’.
She vaguely remembered it had been about 2am when he had slipped in to bed beside her and kissed the top of her head as he had done every night of their married life. She shrunk from the memory of that kiss now and unconsciously went to wipe it off her forehead; it had left a mark, a dirty stain.
She said he tasted ‘divine’, what did that mean? Was it sweet /savoury, with a tinge of bitterness? Was the guttural sound of his climax different from the one she had heard thousands of times?
Of course she knew who ‘f’ was; it didn’t take too much working out. She remembered his brief, casual description of the young, blond pa who had come to work at the company about 6 months ago.
The jigsaw began to piece together.
To begin with her husband was always complaining about his new pa.
‘These secretaries nowadays don’t have the common sense they were born with. Fran is thirty but looks and acts like a teenager. Every 5 minutes she’s running to me checking on work. No common sense. How am I meant to get on with anything? I need a reliable pa when I go to Edinburgh next week to set up the clinical trials not someone who is more hindrance than help’.
Presumably he must have trained her up for the job. He mentioned her less and less until she remembered, one day, about a month ago she asked John if Fran had left the company?
He seemed calm enough in his response but then his back had been towards her and she had not seen the flush of his cheek or felt the prickling at the base of his spine.
‘No she’s still with us, she’s fine I think. Don’t see her very often, does a lot of work for Dave now’
In the space of a few seconds Fran had moved from being an insignificant and rather incompetent pa, to the reason her world was collapsing.
Suddenly the full impact thumped inside her, making her double up. She concentrated until the pain became a separate entity. By doing this she could continue to breathe. To let go of the physicality of the pain was to open her-self to a blackness which she knew she could not survive. She crumpled to the floor with the weight of despair.
She wanted to lose consciousness. She was curled into a tight ball with her arms clasped around her bowed head. When eventually she opened her eyes she noticed the splash of some coffee stains on the sill beneath the food cupboard. They looked ingrained and she felt mildly disappointed with herself that she had missed them in her weekly kitchen clean. Not that she was house-proud to the point of being obsessed but the kitchen harboured so many germs it was the one room in the house she insisted on being spotless.
She knew she should get up, if only to clean the coffee stain away but she feared that if she went to move her limbs, her mind may begin to think and to feel.
She could not remember how long she remained there: five or fifty minutes, when the phone rang. It startled her like a rifle shot.
It rang for a long time until her weary bones summoned the energy to move into the study room and lift the receiver.
‘Sarah, it’s only me. Are you OK? What have you been up to this morning? Are you missing the little horrors…? Ringing just to see if you fancy going for a meal tonight, should be able to finish here early….’
She could hear beneath the gloss of calm; the fear and panic in his voice. She wondered when he had first realised he had left his mobile on the bedside table. He would have spoken to f when they arrived at work and she may have asked in a pouting lip gloss manner why he hadn’t replied to her text this morning. He would have reached in his pocket for his mobile and then felt his stomach tip.
The separate panic of exposed lovers who have committed themselves to one another in the safety net of a hotel bed and yet at the moment of discovery scramble like rats down their separate holes, twitching with fear, waiting for the snap.
She felt almost sorry for his nervousness, wanted to soothe the twisted knot of anxiety in his stomach like a mother comforting a frightened child.
Even in a happy marriage, she, like most women, had imagined this scenario and the possible consequences. It had occasionally been the topic of conversation between her and female teaching colleagues after a few bottles of red wine. The general consensus was to ‘show ‘him’ the door’ and throw his shredded suits behind him. She agreed with the others, said she could never forgive a man who deliberately deceived her and even if she tried to, how could she ever trust him again?
With John’s job he was always attending conferences, staying in hotels. He was a good looking, charming man. Even now, despite the middle age business-lunch tum, women would find him attractive.
They had met at a student disco when he had been studying pharmacy at Bath University and she had been attending the lesser revered local teaching training college. There had always been an unspoken gratitude that he had chosen her.
She had trusted him. She knew that he could, but believed he never would, be unfaithful to her. Was this the first time? There was a pit of terror beneath her feet.
Only last week he had joked that if they were divorced they would save themselves and Robert years of paying off university debts. At least, last week she had seen it as a joke. For a second she bristled with power. She felt like a surgeon, a scalpel in her hands. Her mouth opened to say the words, to give him an answer.

Afterwards she went upstairs to where his mobile still rested on the table, deleted the message and the name from the directory and placed the phone back inside the drawer. Then she chose the red dress from the wardrobe; it was his favourite. She was looking forward to a romantic evening; just the two of them.

memory box

MEMORY BOX

I am making a memory box
To ease the grief,
Create a palpable alternative
To the howling void.
Something physical to hold.
My box resembles a miniature coffin,
An unintentional slip,
Lift the lid and here’s my dad,
Metamorphosis 2 foot square.
I have the order of service,
The hymns and readings he planned
In the comfort of his sitting room:
A cosy contemplation of mortality
With the nice man from Dignity.
The diary where he noted
The weather,
Doctor’s appointments,
Blood tests,
Trips out with the club,
The date and time of
My next journey south,
‘Jacky’s coming home’.
I select a few holiday photographs
Taken in Buxton next to the fountain,
His thin blue summer jacket,
Tourist leaflets bulging from his pockets,
Mum’s handbag on his shoulder.
The final mementos,
A few weeks before he died,
The Christmas cracker gifts he kept,
A pink plastic ring,
A pencil sharpener
In the shape of a star,
An unused paper hat.



Jacqueline Pemberton

the hook

THE HOOK

Catch the moment before
Jekyll turns to Hyde.
Before the tipsy clown
Becomes the brutal drunk.
Try to read the signs,
The flicker of an eye
The quiver of a lip.
Beware the tapping toe
Waiting for you to trip.
Walk away before
The next smack in the face
For smiling at a stranger.
Remember the last time
He bathed your bruises,
Gave the excuses.
His penitent head, resting
All night in your lap.
Plan your escape,
Then swallow the map.
It is harder than you think.
Invisible hooks are
Embedded in your skin,
At any time he can snag
And pull you in.
Do not leave it too late,
Before the closing of the door,
The click of the lock.



Jacqueline Pemberton

Blue Nun

(To the tune of Blue Moon - not Eidelweiss!)

Blue Nun
You saw me standing alone
Without a glass in my hand
Without a drink of my own.

Blue Nun
You with your sultry "Halo"
You stoked the fire down below
You made my glass overflow

Blue Nun
Through alpine meadows we'll run
Communion out in the sun
Blue nuns just want to have fun

And then there suddenly appeared before me
A multitude of dancing blue nuns
I heard the sound of music playing just for me
And when I looked again my dream was gone

Blue Nun
I'll hold your candle for you
Walk round in sandals for you
I'd risk a scandal for you.

Blue Nun
I'd like to help you discove..r
Many new ways to love
But you said "nun of the above"

And then I saw your mother superior
Standing in the shadows so blue
I confess I felt a flush of mass hysteria
‘Cos I’ve got a thing about your mother too

Blue Nun
I'm in the habit with you
I've worn your wimple. It's true!
Just something men like to do.

Blue Nun
If you will always be mine
I'll take you right up the Rhine
You are my favourite wine

NAMES

The work of processing Tax Credit claims does not, ordinarily, offer much in the way of diversion or entertainment. And it may give some measure of the tedium of the job when I say that in an attempt to scrape together a few shavings of light relief, I have recently taken to noting down some of the more striking and unusual names which appear on Tax Credit applications forms.
I suppose I should declare an interest at this point since, when my two sons were born, I intended that they should be called Nebuchadnessar and Methusela. I have to confess that this choice was inspired more by the generous dimensions of champagne bottles than any long standing admiration for the wisdom and perspicacity of Old Testament kings. But still, at the time, I felt it displayed a commendable independence of mind; a willingness to strike out and be different from the crowd. Unfortunately my wife, being of a more prosaic turn of mind, could not be persuaded of the benefits that such an imaginative break with convention would confer upon our children. So, as the old joke goes, we compromised and she chose their names.
Mind you, I once knew a couple who couldn’t or wouldn’t reach agreement at all in the naming of their son. The mother called him Christopher and the father Barnaby. I have often thought that if these parents had wanted to ensure that their son suffered from lifelong schizophrenia it would have been difficult to devise a more effective strategy.
But to return to the Tax Credit Office; in amongst the legions of Karens, Darrens and Waynes, there are a few names which succeed in raising the eyebrow and grabbing the attention. Names which bear witness to the imagination, perversity or just plain whimsy of their parents. Names which will at the very least, ensure that their recipients do not pass through life unnoticed.
As to Christian names; I have a particular fondness for the classical. Xenos, Aphrodite and Zeus are among the commoner ones. And Roman Emperors seem particularly popular at the moment: Octavius’, Caesars and Augustus’ feature by the score – though I’m still waiting for my first Caligula.
Then there are the slightly more outlandish names like Pagan or Satan.
Now to call a child Satan seemed to me, at first, to be an act of wilful malevolence. But then I got to thinking about all those colic-ridden nights that new-borns inflict upon their parents and I could quite see that after a couple of sleep deprived weeks, Satan might seem an entirely appropriate name.
On the flip side of this particular coin were the twin sisters called Blessing and Miracle. I like to think that they were born to older parents who had given up all hope of having children and that the names were somehow a spontaneous expression of their surprise and joy. Quite whether Blessing and Miracle will seem so apt when their daughters enter that endless tunnel called pig-awkward adolescence is, of course, another matter.
As for Sky Helena Moonbeam - I was entranced. A child surely born to sparkle and touch with magic the lives of everyone whose path she crossed. A creature of air and light and joy. Please God, let her not be a witless, lumpen pudding.
Then there are the unfortunate surnames like Mr Sick or Mrs Pimple - I can only conclude that she must have loved her husband to abstraction. And when your surname is Clapp there must be a huge temptation to resort to deed poll. So I thought it showed chutzpah of the highest order when this particular Mrs and Mrs Clapp not only retained their surname but chose to call their son Charles Thunder. Anyway, I’m sure this was a decision arrived at only after much consideration, which is more than can be said for Mr and Mrs Key who, had they given it a moment’s thought would have called their son anything but Donald. Ok, it does take a moment’s thought.
Many people, including myself, have an intense dislike of the business of filling in forms even at the best of times. And if your wife has just left you and the cat has peed on the carpet I can quite understand the urge to put ‘Attila the Hun’ or ‘Mickey Mouse’ in the space marked NAME. So when I came across ‘Sonic the Hedgehog’, I was not unduly surprised.
However, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs doesn’t do funny or amusing so I was required to phone the gentleman in question to establish precisely what his name was. The conversation went something like:
‘Hello, is that Mr Hedgehog?’
‘Yes’.
‘Mr Sonic Hedgehog?’
‘Yes’.
‘It’s the Tax Credits Office here, I am processing your claim, but before I can go any further I need to know your legally correct name’.
‘It’s SONIC THE HEDGEHOG’. First name SONIC, middle name THE, spelt ‘T’, ‘H’, ‘E’. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
I assured him I did not but wondered whether the same could be said for his wife and children.
I readily accept that there is something very adolescent in the business of poking fun at other peoples names, particularly so, when they are foreigners. Take Mr Thong Pie for example. For all I know, it is a perfectly ordinary and unremarkable Vietnamese /Cambodian name but for some reason the thought of Mr Thong Pie continues to provide me with hours of childish chortling pleasure. Of course, there’s always the uncomfortable suspicion that in some South East Asian equivalent of the Tax Credit Office there might be someone convulsed in paroxysms of laughter over that ludicrous Welsh name: Trefor Lloyd.
I feel similar twinges of guilt about Stella Curry - although any aspiring ladette would surely rejoice in it. Then there’s Amos Delprat. A name that in my mind’s eye, constructs a comic edifice festooned with banana-skinned and custard-pied mirth. Quite why I should find it so funny I don’t know, but I just do.
Of course I could go on to delight you with the essential English whimsy of names like Mr Woebegone or Mr Bytheway but I think I’ve milked this particular cow quite dry enough.
And I’m sure that as a sophisticated, mature adult you find a catalogue of unfortunate or unusual names palls very quickly and you may indeed find the whole exercise in questionable taste.
But before you become too comfortable on that particular spot of moral high ground, I challenge you to try finding some light relief in the troglodytic world of Tax Credit Processing.

Hitler – The Comeback

It has been announced today that there is to be a remake of World War Two. There are a number of reasons for this. First of all, World War Two – The Original, proved to be very popular with large numbers of people everywhere. This was more so than a proposed sequel, World War Three – What are You Doing After The Apocalypse? shown to a test audience, which was rated badly for a lack of, well, anything, really, after the opening minutes. Secondly, it has widely been suggested that World War Two brought out a lot of sterling qualities in people, such as selflessness, forbearance, camaraderie and communal singing.

However it was felt nevertheless that the original World War Two had a number of shortcomings. First of all it was in black and white. Secondly, it was not in stereo. Nor was it available in a universally accepted format. The remake will have a broadly similar plot to the original. However, the Director’s Cut Special Edition DVD will feature a number of alternative endings for those who like a surprise. Look out for the one where, as the hostilities cease, Josef Stalin joins Cambridge Footlights with a song on ukulele called Lenin On A Lamp-post!

Rumours of a prequel to the series, The Franco-Prussian War – Who Are You Calling ‘Sausage-breath?’, are unfounded.

Anyone who wants to participate in any capacity whatsoever, from cast to crew, are welcome to get involved. And if should one of you feel that you can contribute some saucepans and kitchen utensils to make fighter aircraft, please hand yourself in to your local mental hospital or throw yourself into the nearest quarry immediately, whichever is more convenient.

(A remake of The Yom Kippur War, Your Land Is Mined Land – This Time It’s Anti-personnel, is still in its planning stages. More wars are definitely in the pipeline. Speaking of pipelines...)

Wilde About Chickens

Having been been asked to write a descriptive piece about a common activity, I chose one that has to be carried out every morning. The task is that of feeding the chickens. I decided that, as this is probably the most exciting thing that I do all day, and that my life is, therefore, worryingly uninteresting, I should attempt to make it sound less so to a reader. How would Oscar Wilde have carried out this task? Let's face it, Oscar Wilde would no doubt have had far more interesting things to do and philosophise over but just in case there was the slightest chance, I took on the role of Oscar himself. Not being in possession of a smoking jacket, I decided that my velour dressing gown would be the next best thing. Naturally I should have preferred a quilted one with a flamboyant pattern but I resolved to make the best of my Marks & Sparks attire. I strolled languidly through the door, flicking an imaginary cigarette in an equally imaginary holder.
I took a deep breath of the cold morning air and was quite thankful that the cigarette was imaginary, as the sharp air stung for several seconds before I was fully awake and ready for the charade. To get into character I decided to mince a little, instead of my usual purposeful stride. After all it was still practically dark and even on the slight chance that anyone was about they would probably not notice. Holding my elbows away from my body with my arms slightly raised I practically skipped across the lawn, leaving velvet brush stokes in the dew. At one point I even kicked my leg up behind me in the carefree manner of a Victorian beau. Yes I was really getting the hang of this. All that remains now is to think of something witty to say. As I leaned into the food bin to scoop pellets into the feeder I ventured "Women are like Chickens." The chickens, still in the shed at this point, were cawing in anticipation of this pearl from the great man himself. "They need their wings clipping regularly."
Rather poor I thought. Not really worthy of Wilde. Perhaps Shaw would have resorted to a cheap jibe like this but I was sure I could do better.
I began to caw back to the chickens, as is my wont. Would Wilde have done this I wondered. Of course he would. Probably much more flamboyantly than I, no doubt. I broke into a series of pock, pock, pocks just to prove a point. I opened the door. Hello chucklers, my usual greeting was wholly inappropriate today. "Good morning ladies," was my address.
I resolved to set the Wilde mind to the age old question of which came first, the chicken or the egg.
“Why it’s quite apparent”, I stated boldly. “It's whichever got laid first! “ I chortled a little, “Aheh, Aheh!”, in order to stimulate a thunderous applause from my audience. The chickens liked it. The brown one at the left side of the perch seemed to approve of my witticism. She murmered a little, then hopped off the perch and out through the door before turning her attention voraciously to the food pellet dispenser. The others followed. I paused to milk their contented crooning, trying my best to ignore the fact that the cockerel had one of them pinned to the floor, as if anxious to try out the theory as soon as possible.
“Women are like chickens,” I began again. But as I could only think of something crass and lewd, I decided to quit while I was ahead.
I looked in the nest box and removed two eggs, still warm. I held one in each hand and slowly absorbed the heat. Life had taken on a new meaning. This philosophy thing was worth pursuing.
Assuming my most ostentatious air, I strolled back to the house, nonchalantly turning my head this way and that in order to acknowledge the admiration of invisible onlookers from every quarter. As I strutted up the stone steps towards the back door I trod on the front of my dressing gown and stumbled forwards. Instinctively my hands shot forwards to prevent me hitting the stone, but neatly crushing the egg in each hand.
“Bugger!”, I exclaimed, the inclination to proclaim anything Wilde like having evaporated. I looked up and saw my neighbour looking over the fence and smirking to himself. “Morning,” he said drily and turned away before I could think of a Wildean repartee.
With the egg beginning to dry into a horrible sticky gel on my hands, I opened the door and entered the comparative warmth of the kitchen.
Washing my hands in the warm water at the sink, I pondered on the dismal failure of my venture. Never mind I thought. Perhaps tomorrow, Bruce Willis (vest and all) will be feeding the chickens.
“Yippee kai aye motherclucker!”

Nightmare on Manic Street

Well since my baby left me
My life's been torn apart.
I'm down at the end of Manic Street
'Cos she stole the sun from my heart.

Round and round the garden

‘Come on Sam, we’re not going out until you put your hat on, it’s too cold out there. If you keep being silly we won’t have time for the swings because baby Agnes will need her feed’.
She knew she would relent; seeing the scrunched up face of her little boy which would be the precursor to a full blown tantrum which would then result in the baby waking and joining in the general howl of despair. She would never get out at this rate. Sam would cry himself to sleep on the sofa and she’d have him awake all night.
‘Well ok, just this once, but if it starts to rain you must put your hood up and do as mummy tells you, we don’t want Agnes to see a big boy like you making such a ugly face’.
Sulky looks were instantly transformed to a beaming smile and a race to the front door.
Wigan Tech had not prepared her for the exhaustion she would feel being a mum of a two year old and childminder to a baby. She knew she should never give in to temper tantrums, that she was making a rod for her own back. ‘Children need structured guidelines and established codes of behaviour’, she had written in her portfolio under the heading ‘Discipline and the under fives’ followed by 10 bullet point suggestions. Now, six months into her first job, with her own toddler as well, the naughty step and firm voice had been replaced by the bag of gooey sweets and blatant bribery.

She was glad and very grateful that Agnes was such a placid and pleasant little girl, she felt she sometimes took advantage of her good nature; while she chased the more petulant Sam round with the white plastic potty or a spoonful of unsavoury looking baby food, Agnes seemed quite content to play with her cot mobile. She tried not to show favouritism towards her own child but Sam was so demanding at times.
Agnes was such a sweet little baby, when Sam had his afternoon nap she would scoop her up in her arms and cover her with kisses until she cooed and giggled and her soft pink skin blushed with delight.
Sometimes she felt a slight resentment when she heard Sam stirring as he snivelled awake and his head, with its mass of blond tangled curls, turned towards her for attention.
Katie was glad to feel the sharp north wind on her face and leave behind for a short while the stuffiness of the playroom with its smells of scented nappy bags and dried milk powder. She hoped Sam would be a good boy on the swings and not make a scene when they had to come back.



As she picked the dead baby up she was amazed at its perfection. It reminded her of the porcelain babies’ advertised sometimes in glossy magazines, ’unique, handcrafted each baby is accompanied by their own wrist tag and baby birth certificate with the name of your choice’ She had once seen a channel 4 documentary where some childless women collected these babies, had them ‘made to measure’ with their own choice of hair colour, freckles, even individual customised birth marks. Some of the babies you could feed, wind, even hear breathing.

This baby had been thrown over her garden wall and had landed on a bed of snowdrops. She still smelled of her last feed and by the corner of her mouth a tiny finger print of milk had congealed and dried.
Her white babygro and knitted pink hooded coat were unmarked apart from a sharp twig which had caught in the hood and snagged loose one of the stitches. She unhooked the twig and then carefully placed the baby back on its grass resting place.
A young woman, presumably the mother, was running round and round her garden, howling, her hands blindly clawing at the air. A small boy sat crossed legged in the centre of the garden as though he were a lost boy in a fairy tale, captured by a wicked witch. Blood was oozing from a large graze on his forehead and he was holding one ear and whimpering.

She let the woman continue to run her frenzied circuit of the lawn and quickly broke through to pick the child up and comfort him as best she could. The small boy clung to her and from the protection of her arms he looked across at his mother as though she was some terrible mad woman.

Where had this horror scene sprung from? She had been upstairs changing the bed sheets when she heard a loud thud and the splintering of glass and had gone to glance out of the window never expecting the scene which she was confronted with.
A blue car was concertinaed into the lamppost just outside her front garden wall and inside a young man lay slumped against the wheel. The pram which he had hit had been catapulted over her wall and now lay in the bushes as though it had been in a scrap yard compressor. On the opposite side of the road there was an empty parked car.
To begin with she could not see the driver and then realised she must be the tangled heap of blood soaked rags lagging the base of the speed camera sign. She knew it must have been a woman because one dainty black high heeled shoe was still in the middle of the road.

For a moment she sat on her front doorstep rocking the whimpering child and closing her eyes on the scene before her. Her eyelids were a soft gentle veil drawn momentarily over the carnage which faced her. She knew that soon she would have to open them. Neighbours and passers by would come to help, soon she would hear the sound of the ambulance and police sirens as they arrived to cover and carry the dead.
Later on reporters would be here with their flash lights and intrusive notepads. There would be headlines about this tragic ‘freak’ accident which claimed three lives and devastated families. The mother and childminder would revisit the scene of their loss and talk to her in whispered trembling voices. Tributes of flowers cards, soft toys would gather against her wall until it took on the semblance of a holy shrine which she dare not disturb out of reverence for a trio of people she never knew.
But for a few minutes she wanted to sit with her eyes closed and feel the early spring sun on her face.



Hi Amy, it’s me……………………………..
I’m just on my way to make a delivery in St. Helens, should be able to finish about four………………………….
Yeh, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have been so late back, I won’t do it again, really, I promise. It’s the lads fault, everyone was getting so pissed I couldn’t just walk out… Wouldn’t have looked very sociable…………….
Joanne? …………..Nah… don’t remember her being there…anyway………...you know I’m not interested in any one else………
Do you want me to pick up an Indian on the way back? We can have a quiet night in…. watch that soppy DVD you keep on about…….
What? OK.
What the fuck is that car doing in the middle…………….?

It’s Katie, poor cow, look at her saddled with two kids and she’s only my age. I remember her at college, she was in my class. Thought she was a bit of a swot, always got her homework in on time and got the best placement report of the lot of us. Then she got in with that wanker Mike; he just used her and then when she got pregnant he didn’t want to know. Still she managed to complete the course; we used to joke that she’d be the first to put into practise all those boring lessons with the real thing. Perhaps I should stop, ask her if she wants a night out with the girls, she looks as though she could do with cheering up.

‘Hi Katie, how you doing? What lovely kids, are they both yours?’
‘Hi Amy, I didn’t recognise you. like the fancy new car. No I’ve only got the one, Sam he’s mine, will be two next month. The baby’s called Agnes, I child mind her for my neighbour Teresa. Just started three weeks ago. It’s quite a handful with the two of them. Still she’s a good girl, aren’t you sweety?
Ok Sam we’re going to the swings. Say hello to Amy, stop kicking the buggy wheel or you won’t go anywhere. What you doin now, are you still goin with Jason?’
‘Na, dumped him months ago. Bin goin with Josh 6 weeks now. He’s manager of pc world in Wigan. What about you, have you got a man in your life? Does Sam ever see his dad?’
What that loser? No chance, he couldn’t even remember his way home, he’s a dead loss. Meant to pay me 30 quid a week maintenance but while he’s still unemployed I’m lucky if I even get a tenner in the post. Still; we’re doin ok, we don’t need him, do we Sam?’

‘If you can get a baby sitter, we was planning a night out with the girls, you remember Becky and Ruth, she’s got a little girl now. She got engaged last week and she’s invited us out for a……………



The pink woollen jacket my grandma knitted tickles my nose. It’s not that cold outside and yet she’s wrapped me up like one of those babushka dolls which sit on my dressing table. Katie means well though, not like the last childminder I had. She would let me sit in my pram all morning, a damp nappy chaffing my skin while she sat painting her nails. And then when mum came in make such a fuss of me, all smiles and tickles as if she hadn’t taken her eyes off me all day.
I know this one cares; even though it’s difficult for her with that pesky little boy of hers. Once when we’d had to go back early from the swings he spat in my face when she wasn’t looking and then made out I’d sneezed. I felt his saliva slowly dry on my skin. He’s not above giving me the occasionally nip too, I’m sure she must notice but turns a blind eye sometimes rather than have to deal with his terrible two’s tantrum. He goes blue in the face and his eyes spark like a little demon.
It’s lovely when he has his afternoon nap: it’s our special time. She scoops me up and pretends she’s going to ‘eat me all up’ because I taste so gorgeous. The way she nuzzles and kisses me on my neck just under my chin makes me squeal with delight.



She knows I’m so ticklish under my arms and I love it when she plays round and round the garden on my outstretched hand:

‘Round and round the garden like a teddy bear
One step a’ two step
A’ tickle Agnes under there…’

Sometimes she sings to me one of the top twenty hits and she disco dances me round the room and then we collapse in an exhausted bundle on the sofa.
Then there are the quiet times when I feel sleepy and she sits and holds me, gently stroking my skin, she stares out of the window with tears in her eyes as if she is waiting for someone or something.

The car came out of no where. I heard the screech of brakes and the smell of burnt rubber stung my nostrils. Then my world began to spin.

My name is Agnes Mary Evans; I am 6 months, two weeks and five seconds old.


UNBEARABLE
Mother tells of her grief after tragic death of 6 month old daughter.

An inquest has been opened following the tragic death of two adults and a six month old baby in an accident along Wigan Road in February………
Prosecutor, Alan Watkins read out a statement from Agnes’ mum, Teresa Evans in which she described the impact her daughter’s death has had on her:
‘I was so proud of my daughter and as a mother I loved her more than life itself. She was a happy, beautiful baby and the pain of losing her is unbearable. She brought joy into the life of everyone who knew her; she was our little treasure. Agnes is my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. Every child
in a pram is a constant reminder of what we have lost. I suffer from nightmares and have been unable to return to work.
The impact of Agnes’ death cannot be put in a statement. Unless you have had the terrible experience of having to choose your child’s clothes to wear in her coffin you can never understand and I hope you never will…..’

Wigan Reporter 14th April 2007

World War 3 and The Man Who Gave The Internet Away

Here is a much-slimmed down version (to half-size) of the piece I read out at the last workshop (for which I apologise!) I think it is much better and, hopefully, easier to understand. (If anyone would still like to see the over-stuffed version, let me know.)

It is a blisteringly hot afternoon in Colorado. The temperature is over 100 degrees in the shade. One place where there is lots of shade is deep within Cheyenne Mountain. Under the sleeping mountain is the eye that never sleeps. This is where the North American Aerospace Defence complex has its headquarters. If you wanted to leave the United States defenceless, this is where you would start – by taking out the headquarters of the Defence complex. And the Cold War is about to get very hot indeed.

Unbearable tensions have arisen between the two Superpowers, not known since the Cuban missile crisis. Fearing an attack, someone in the Kremlin orders a pre-emptive strike. NORAD is designed to withstand a thirty megaton hydrogen bomb within one nautical mile. However, multiple strikes explode over Cheyenne Mountain, vaporising it and its fortress of computers, communication links and staff. The US is blind and defenceless. Only revenge attack is possible. And World War Three has begun.

Or, at least, it could have been like that, and you and I would not be sitting here. But it hasn’t happened and isn’t likely to happen, all because of a very simple idea.

Telephones use wires in circuits to connect a caller. You are, for the duration of your call, given a whole circuit, just to yourself and your friend, to have a conversation. This arrangement is known, for hopefully obvious reasons, as circuit switching. It’s fine, but it does have its limitations, such as someone pulling the plug or blowing the exchange up. This was the problem that faced the United States when it wanted to build a defence system against possible Soviet missile or bomber attack. One big telephone exchange would have been a tempting target.

The Norad Defense system uses a lot of computers and computers can talk to each other in messages that can be chopped up and addressed separately in little packets. This is like sending a book through the post to a friend, one page at a time. Each packet can pick its own route as it feels fit, depending on the circumstances at the time. When all the pages arrive, you can stick them back together as a book.

This idea is known as packet switching, and it makes World War Three much less likely. And here’s why.

If you have enough alternative routes – a network of cables and computers, not unlike a network of cross-country roads – it’s very hard to find one choke-point where you can set up a road-block and stop all the packets getting through. In fact, if you make the system clever enough, so that it can re-route things on the fly and also keep sending copies till one gets through, it’s virtually impossible.

The rules for sending messages in packets are known as protocols. By having all the computers connected together sharing the same rules several things happen. For one – and importantly for stopping a world war – the system is tremendously resilient – you can’t break it easily. If you can’t smash the defence, you’re much less likely to attack. For another, any computer can talk to any other computer because they share a common language. And no one computer is boss. Again, no obvious big target.

Everyone knows that The Internet was invented in the Nineties to give something for teenagers to stay in and play with when they weren’t out wearing hoodies and beating up grandmas. Wrong! The Internet was a network of computers that used a family of protocols called the Internet Protocol, that was first fired up on New Year’s Day 1983. The network got its name from the name of the protocol, not the other way round.

The problem now, once The Internet broke out from its cradle of the Cold War and became available to civilians, was that it was still not very friendly – you had to be a bit of a computer whizz to use it. Fortunately, two people were about to come to the rescue.

Steve Jobs, of Apple Computers, borrowed an idea from Xerox, the photocopier people, to control computers by using a pointer to click on commands on a screen, This was known as a Graphic User Interface, with a pointing device called a mouse. Text you could click on to give a command, such as: "Load a file," was called hypertext.

A few years after this had caught on, the hypertext idea reached an English scientist called Tim Berners-Lee, working at CERN, the European nuclear research organisation. He thought it would be a neat idea if you could click on hyperlinks made of hypertext to get documents from any other computer anywhere in the world. The Hypertext Transport Protocol was born, and the mish-mash of links around the world’s computers became known as the World Wide Web. It’s so easy to use, even children can navigate it.

The Web makes information accessible via The Internet to a vast number of people, currently estimated at 1.2 thousand million. If Berners-Lee had patented his idea, he would surely now have been a billionaire. But he chose not to. He just wanted to enable people to get at information. He gave the World Wide Web away, free.

Then again, becoming a billionaire is still a small prize compared with preventing a nuclear war.

The End

The Net

Shrug away fears and firmly grasp the net;
Come saddle up a snorting photon beam;
Lean forward, grip the mane and ride the dream;
Joust bravely with electrons tete-a-tete.
Go boldly into other worlds, forget
Your leaden boots, leap out and get extreme.
In cyberspace, if no-one hears you scream,
Who cares. Absorb the nothingness of jet
Black night; lift just one digit to explore
Digital yarns of fibre optic nerve,
Vast quarky labyrinths of wire and wave.
Stand firm, hold fast, participate, observe;
A cornucopia awaits and more.
Subscribe to Interesting Times, be brave.

Margaret Thatcher - A Nation Holds Its Breath

And now - satire. I hope this doesn't offend anyone (much) - I'm sure Bremner, Bird and Fortune would go at least as far.

Margaret Thatcher was taken ill at a dinner last night after her duty food-taster failed to show up, presumably owing to the after-effects of a previous engagement. She was rushed to hospital in a private car, an ambulance being curiously unavailable. Millions of people across the country have been waiting for news, to see whether their claim for responsibility has been accepted. Even as I speak, Mrs Thatcher is leaving St Thomas' Hospital, taking care to close it behind her.

Gordon Brown has already recorded a message, saying that, "I hope she is... well..." the camera touchingly panning down to reveal crossed fingers. Organisers of International Women's Day today are planning to reschedule the event in light of the damage Mrs Thatcher did to the image of women in politics after her notorious period in power of this country for 11 years, an 11 years that Steven Spielberg, whose films include, Schindler's List and Saving Private Ryan has refused to capture in a screen drama, being "too gruesome" to show to the general public.

Sales of ammunition and sniper rifles are said to have boomed on the black arms market, while street-vendors keep stocks of t-shirts with the logo, "I survived Thatcherism" with a picture of the egregious former leader, tinted green and showing a remarkable resemblance to The Mekon from Dan Dare comics, remain under wraps awaiting the great day that must be coming ever closer.

Mrs Thatcher was said to have felt unwell at a dinner in the House of Lords last night. She is known to have had a number of minor strokes in the past - dozens of public services, hundreds of schools and colleges, thousands of coal-miners, millions of homeowners all were devastated by her at a stroke - and low blood pressure, indeed no blood pressure at all since her heart was replaced a lump of rusting metal and a fly-by-wire cyborg internal control system. This malfunctioned only once when, early in her premiership, she ordered the scrapping of the Royal Navy, thus precipitating the Argentine invasion of the Falklands, which she then ironically ordered to be seized back by the very same armed forces.

Mrs T had no comment for waiting reporters and photographers as she left St Thomas' in cerise red body armour and disembarked in a bullet-proof limousine, to the sound of a voice saying, "I pity the fool who voted for me, I pity the fool!"

The final update is bad news. Mrs Thatcher, as she arrived home, has just told reporters she is feeling better. A brief boost in local property prices has now collapsed.

We will keep you informed of further developments. Hopefully.

Impressions

The sky was a constant powder blue. The sun had already reached its highest point and was relentlessly burning its way westwards. Several kilometers north of Paris, a garden was thriving. Had it been smaller, it would almost certainly have been described as a cottage garden. The house to which it was attached was considerably larger than a cottage and its grounds fairly extensive. At the rear several walkways led between mists of colour, each one blending into the next, vieing for space and the privilege to grow. No area of ground was wasted, everywhere shoots rose up like firework displays bursting into colour. All around the scent of lavender and sage and honeysuckle drifted on the air. Still further from the house was a small lake made intimate by the light that was gently distilled by surrounding plane and willow trees. The surface of the lake, was almost entirely covered with water lillies, their petals of cream and chalky blue, complemeting the emeralds, jades, olives and cobalts of the leaves and sky. Here the presence of irises and lillies was so strong that smell dissolved into taste.
At the far side of the lake a curved wooden bridge, painted green was neatly framed by foliage. On the apex of the bridge two young women clad in white silk and lace blouses with long taffeta skirts and each holding parasols were gazing into the lake.
"I do love to stand here and admire the garden. You are so lucky Brigitte." the elder one began.
"Yes it is a tranquil place. But we mustn't stay too long. He may spot us. And then we'll have to stay all day while he paints us."
"I don't think I should mind being painted here so much. It's so much more pleasant than lying naked on a couch in a back street of Paris."
"Yes. Each to her own I suppose." Brigitte twirled her parasol absent-mindedly.
"He does love to paint doesn't he. And you know, some of them are rather good."
“Well, I know how much people rave... and they do look quite good from a distance. But if you get close up - well it all seems a bit messy.”
“Oh Francoise, I wouldn't say they were a mess. A little random perhaps. But he does have a certain something. He seems to capture the impression of what he paints. Even if it isn't very realistic.”
“You know he can't see very well.”
“Surely not. You do surprise me.“
“Actually he's as blind as an albino mole. He fell into the lake last week, easel and all.”
“Oh Francoise, the poor man.”
“Poor man nothing! His painting, when we fished it out, was hailed as a masterpiece. I’ve heard there are painters all over Paris dipping their work into the Seine now. They even have a name for it.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes they call it drenchism.”
“Oh Francoise, I can believe it. They really are most impressionable people these artist types. And always on the lookout for something new.”
“Well, I expect there will be a new movement starting any moment now.“
“If I were you Francoise I’d get my hands on one of those paintings, before London gets to hear of it.”
They paused to watch a dragonfly flicker through shafts of imprisoned light.
“Brigitte..”
“Yes Francoise?”
“Tell me about the back streets of Paris.”

The Dotted Line.
An Original Script By David Helm.

Scene 1.
We open in the reception area of an office. Plush red carpets, dark yet tasteful wall paper, and a desk. Sitting behind the desk is the receptionist. Smart, dark business suit and white blouse. The nameplate on the desk in front of her says her name is MELISSA. She is typing on the keyboard of her computer. She pays no attention to the group of young men sat- or rather slouched- on the couches in the main area of reception. These four could not be more contrasted to their surroundings- dark clothing, bandanas, knee-length shorts, boots. With their long hair and tattoos also, they look like a heavy metal band- which is exactly what they are, being the members of 8-BALL HAEMORRHAGE. Two of them are smoking, despite the “NO SMOKING” sign displayed above their heads. They are talking loudly amongst themselves, but MEL pays little attention to them, continuing to type. As she does, the buzzer on her desk goes off. She bends over the intercom and speaks inaudibly for several seconds. Then she looks up.
MEL: Mr. Hellman will see you now.
The band members get up from the sofas, one of them- hulking drummer RUSSELL “GRIZZLY” BURR- audibly cracking his knuckles as he does so. MEL winces. The men approach the desk, lead singer AXEL CAINE in the lead.
AXEL: (Smiling in a way he imagines to be charming) We can go in, finally, can we darling?
MEL nods, not looking up. AXEL waits for a couple of seconds to see if she will, then shrugs and walks past, gesturing to the rest of the band just exactly what he’d like to do to her. The others nod and grin, glancing back to MEL’S desk as they go through the door.
Scene 2.
We are now in the boss’s office. The carpet is so deep you sink five inches into it as you enter. The desk in the centre of the room appears to be carved out of whalebone, polished and varnished to within an inch of its life. Pictures adorn the walls of the boss shaking hands with assorted well-known faces. And sat behind the desk is the boss himself, NICK HELLMAN. He is about thirty-five years old, dark hair, tanned. His hair is spiked with a small lake’s worth of gel, the points so pronounced they look positively lethal. His teeth- blindingly white- resemble fangs. When he grins- which he does a lot- you can see nearly every single tooth.
HELLMAN: Guys! Great to finally meet you- always been a big fan.
He gestures for the band to sit down. The four men come in- AXEL swaggering in the lead, the other three behind him- and sit in the leather seats in front of HELLMAN’S desk. AXEL stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on HELLMAN’S desk as he sits down.
HELLMAN: Before we get going, can I offer anybody anything? I can get absolutely anything in here- say the word and I’ll have Mellie fetch it. Guys?
Three of the band members- GRIZZLY, bassist CURTIS WELLS and guitarist JAMES “GRINDER” GLENNON- shake their heads, CURTIS taking a little longer to make his mind up before reaching a decision. AXEL- perhaps inevitably- nods, pursing his lips.
AXEL: Anything?
HELLMAN nods.
AXEL: OK. Red absinthe. Get me a red absinthe.
He sits back in his chair, smirking.
HELLMAN nods again. He presses the intercom button on his desk, speaks into it for a couple of seconds- much as MEL did earlier- and then looks back up at the band.
HELLMAN: Sure there’s nothing that I can get for you guys?
GRINDER, GRIZZLY and CURTIS shake their heads again. HELLMAN shrugs.
HELLMAN: Suit yourselves, guys.
He leans back in his seat, placing his hands behind his head.
HELLMAN: A real honour to meet you guys. Always a pleasure to meet a bunch of guys like you- your music does so much for me. The last album- I could not stop listening to it. Snuff Movie Oscars and Facial Deconstruction were fantastic. And when you killed that chicken live on stage at that awards show- I thought that was great.
CURTIS, GRINDER and GRIZZLY raise their eyes to the ceiling and shake their heads.
AXEL: (Smirking) That was my idea.
HELLMAN: How could I guess?
The door opens and MEL comes in. She places a glass containing something red on the glass table between HELLMAN’S desk and AXEL’S chair. She turns and leaves without saying a word. AXEL picks up his glass and takes a sip. His face screws up in disgust and he puts the glass firmly back down.
AXEL: (Opening and closing his mouth, trying to remove the taste) Tastes like fucking lighter fluid. (Turns to GRIZZLY) Here, Grizz- you’ve tried lighter fluid. Get that down you, mate- you’ll probably love it.
GRIZZLY: (In the sort of voice that makes you realize how he got his nickname) Cheers.
He takes a big gulp. A few seconds, and then he twitches suddenly and rather alarmingly.
GRIZZLY: Surprisingly mild.
He finishes the glass in one more gulp and sits back. HELLMAN look slightly perturbed. After a couple of seconds he shakes his head to clear it and turns back to the rest of the band.
HELLMAN: Anyway, as I was…saying, I’ve asked you here today for one thing. (Laughs sheepishly) I’ve got to admit it- the only reason I wanted to see you was to sign you to my label.
AXEL: May have escaped your notice, Mr. Hellman, but we’re already signed to Redemption Records. Got the contract and everything.
HELLMAN laughs.
HELLMAN: Yes, yes, I heard about the deal you already have. Terry Gates is a good friend of mine… But have you seen the papers today?
He opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a newspaper. He tosses it to AXEL, who immediately tosses it to GRINDER, who is sitting on his right.
AXEL: I don’t read the papers. (Turns to GRINDER) What’s it say?
GRINDER: (Sounding shocked) “The boss of Redemption Records, Terrell Gates was struck and killed by a car as he left the studios late last night…The driver failed to stop and is now being sought by the police…”
AXEL: What? (Grabs the paper back) He’s dead?
GRINDER: What it says here.
HELLMAN: Yes, yes…Terrible tragedy, but (laughs again) as I understand it, gentlemen, the contract you had was with the late Mr. Gates was with him, not with his label. He’d been your manager for a while before he started his label, is that correct? He didn’t want to tie you to any label- wanted you to have artistic freedom, isn’t that right?
AXEL: That’s right, but-
HELLMAN: So if you were only signed with Terry, and Terry’s dead, you can sign with anybody now, can’t you?
He leans forward on his desk, spreading his palms outwards.
HELLMAN: Don’t get me wrong- I’m not trying to dance on his grave, but I think that you have everything that I need in a band. If you sign with Triple 6, then you’ll have everything too. Freedom to write your own songs, the space to do it- as well as hot and cold running women. You’ll have everything.
AXEL looks tempted- although by the “women” line more than anything else. The other three look unsure- they can see that it seems to be all in their favour- but this is a big decision to be taken on-the-spot.
CURTIS: Look, Mr. Hellman- you’ve made it seem like it would all be to our advantage to sign with you. What’s in it for you?
HELLMAN: What does anybody want these days? I won’t lie to you- I think you and your music have what it takes to make me very rich. But it’s what you get that makes this a good deal. You get everything.
CURTIS: Everything? And all we do is sign on the dotted line?
HELLMAN: That’s right…
He opens another drawer in his desk.
HELLMAN: Does that mean you’re ready to sign? (Reaches into the drawer)
CURTIS: Hold on, hold on. Wait a minute. This is a big decision to make, man.
AXEL: What d’you mean? You heard what the man said. Women- hanging off your cock. Money to fucking burn. What’s the problem? It’s win-win. (Turns back to HELLMAN) I’ll sign. Where’s a pen?
GRINDER: Wait, Axel. We’ve always done everything as a band- you ain’t signing on your own...
CURTIS: Besides- remember what we talked about? The new material?
HELLMAN, who has been flipping through some papers on his desk as the argument has been going on,snaps back to attention at this.
HELLMAN: New material? What new material?

Colours of You

When first we met, you were wedding dress white,
As precious and pure as all brand new things.
You soon became gold, a source of delight,
As Artemis’ chariot and wedding rings.
My passion was fuelled when you burned deep red,
Mauved slowly to yellow – soft and warm.
You were a kaleidoscope, a myriad
Of rainbows shimmering before the storm.
One day you showed up in a cloud of dull grey.
You blacked and blued, and then you marooned me.
The colours I’d loved were all blown away -
Now a world without hue is my destiny.
Will I love again? I’m not so certain
Since I see you now as faded net curtains.


A. Heys
10/2/08

Extract from GSOH – hiding at Crispin’s

(The scene: Roger, on the run from the police, suspected of a series of murders of women he has met through a dating agency and trying to prove his innocence, has recruited one of his dates, a TV journalist called Candice, and her colleague, Crispin, to help him. Roger and Candice have tried to get his remaining former dates to go into hiding with him, but, having initially drawn a blank, are forced to stay the night at Crispin’s house.)

As they drew up back at Crispin’s house, it was already growing dark, which suited both of them fine. Roger didn’t want to be seen. Candice certainly didn’t want to be seen with Roger.

"How’s the exclusive going?" was Crispin’s only greeting.

"Have you any food?" was Candice’s only reply.

"Try the freezer."

Candice grilled some pork chops without ceremony and without vegetables. Crispin added some canned peas, microwave chips and instant gravy as an afterthought. Bachelor cuisine. Candice sat, studying the meal, Roger toyed with his food, and only Crispin made any attempt to eat anything.

"You should get stuck in, mate," said Crispin to Roger. "It’s probably better than prison food."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," said Roger.

"I’m going to make some calls," Candice announced, abandoning her plate. She pulled out Crispin’s mobile. "I’ve got to have another shot at talking the women round."

"You won’t be needing this, then" said Crispin, stabbing her chop with his fork, along with a generous scoop of chips.

"You can have this too," said Roger, scraping his food on to Crispin’s plate before Crispin could stop him.

Crispin had just loaded his face with a huge mouthful, when the doorbell rang.

"You expecting anyone?" said Candice.

"Don’t!" said Roger. "Remember what happened when I said that?"

Unable to talk, Crispin stole a sidelong glimpse out of the front window.

"Fffck!" he cursed, spitting potato down the curtains. "Iff Frnnk Knn’nnduh!"

"It’s what?" said Roger.

Candice suddenly caught on. "Frank Kennedy! He’s a friend of Crispin’s. A detective friend."

"Oh, God! Not again!"

Crispin emptied his mouth on to his own plate in a disgusting spray of food, and slipped the other two plates underneath. "Quick – get in the kitchen! I’ll find out what he wants and try and get rid of him. If I can’t, make a dash for it."

"Don’t worry – we know how to do this."

The two scuttled out of sight while Crispin gave himself a quick preen, tried to remember what normal looked like, and nonchalantly opened the door. He made sure he had a tight grip on it, just in case he needed to shut it again quickly.

"Frank!" he said, a trifle too cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"

"Let me in for a start. I’ve not come all this way to admire your bloody doorstep."

"I’m just having my…" But Frank had already pushed past him. So much for holding the door.

"You in here?" Frank made his way into the front lounge where the dinner table was set. "Good. It’s turning miserable out there tonight."

"What do you want?" said Crispin, following him into the room. It didn’t look like he’d brought the rest of the police force with him, but Crispin didn’t think this was a social call either.

"I got to thinking, perhaps we can do each other a favour on this dating agency killer thing." He noticed the huge pile of food on the stack of plates. "Flippin’ ‘eck. You eat well, for a thin ‘un."

"Er, that’s because I work hard. Got to keep my strength up."

"Why the three plates?"

"I’ve no place mats."

"Just as well – you might eat them an’ all. You don’t mind me coming in, do you? I’m not interrupting anything?"

"No, not at all. Well… yes. Only my dinner."

"There’s nobody else here is there?"

"No, of course not."

"Only I don’t want to get in the way."

"No, Frank. Stay as long you want. As long as it’s only a few minutes."

Out in the kitchen, and easily within earshot, Candice and Roger craned to catch every word of this performance. The number of times Candice had told Crispin not to contradict himself when writing copy.

Crispin attempted to back-track. "So, what is it you want, exactly?"

"Well, I was thinking – I’m giving you the nod and wink on any developments from the police end, when it occurred to me that you are in a privileged position with the public."

"I’m… I’m sorry, Frank, I’m not following you."

"Get rid of the little blighter," Candice hissed to herself behind her hand.

"I’ll second that," whispered Roger.

"What we could do with," said Kennedy expansively, settling into an armchair, "is some background on dating agencies in general, y’know what I mean? What kind of people use ‘em, what the service is like and so on. Build up a picture of the clients or whatever they call themselves. Sad bastards, I call ‘em."

"Know what you mean, Frank," Crispin nodded.

"So how about you run a piece on Northwest News and see if you can get members of the public to phone in with their stories? See if you can paint a picture of these nutters. Any gory details, so much the better. Especially off-the-record confessions."

"Frank – you know, nothing is ever off the record."

"Exactly. Find out as much as you can about these wierdos and losers."

The sound of Candice’s teeth grinding was abruptly drowned out by Crispin’s mobile phone going off in her hand.

"Excuse me, Frank." Crispin was the height of casual urbanity. The only thing was, he thought he was going to wet himself. "Duty calls. That’s my phone, in the kitchen."

"Wish I could cook," said Kennedy and, as Crispin left the room, stole a mouthful of pork from Crispin’s plate.

"I can’t get rid of him!" Crispin whispered to Roger. "He’s going to reinvent Crimewatch, Police Five and Dragnet at this rate!" He suddenly realised that Candice was taking no notice of him, and listening with rapt concentration to the phone call she had just received.

"Candice," said Crispin, "if it’s another date, tell him he’ll have to wait!"

Candice hung up. "It’s Elizabeth! She’s in trouble. She thinks she’s got a prowler."

"Well? So have we!" said Roger. "Does she want to swap?"

"We’ve got to go," said Candice.

"I’ll not argue with that!" Crispin leapt to the back door, unlocked it and shoved the pair of them out into the night. Trying to recollect a Tai Chi exercise, he then slowly swaggered back into the lounge to rejoin the detective.

"Just one of my sources with a tip," said Crispin.

"That mobile phone of yours must be bloody loud," said Kennedy, swallowing hurriedly. "I could almost hear what the other person was saying."

"Well… er, they do say good policemen have big ears."

"Do they bollocks. You’re thinking of Noddy."

Outside, in the pitch dark of a damp Manchester evening, Candice and Roger encountered another obstacle. The gate on the side path of Crispin’s house was locked.

"Hang on," said Roger. "I’ll give you a bunk up."

"You will not!"

"Then you give me a bunk up."

"Piss off."

"Which finishing school did you go to?"

"Roger! Climb on top and pull me!"

"Whoa! Honeymoon night flashback."

A patent leather toe-cap caught a shin.

"What was that noise?" said Kennedy. "Y’know, these chips are a bit soggy. You should give ‘em another couple of minutes… There it is again. Can y’hear?"

"It’s… it’s…" Crispin shook his head, utterly bereft of a cover story. "It’s burglars. Probably."

"Oh, that’s alright then."

"Excuse me? You’re a police officer. Aren’t you supposed to catch burglars?"

"Jesus Christ!" said Kennedy, giving up on the chips. "If I went after every bloody burglar in Manchester, I’d never get any work done."

Outside, Roger and Candice had somehow managed to scale the gate. Candice thought she might have laddered something. Roger though he might have ruptured something. They tiptoed over to the Galaxy and quietly let themselves in.

As Crispin heard the familiar sound of his own car starting up and driving away, Kennedy took out a Regal and lit it. "Now, about this TV piece…"

Crispin looked in stern disapproval at Kennedy’s cigarette. "Do you mind?" he said.

"What?" said Kennedy, puzzled for a moment. "Oh! Sorry." He took out the packet and offered it to Crispin. "Help yourself."

End of Extract

ANGEL

ANGEL
She had been dredged up from the dank river and flung on to the bank. I had imagined she would be bloated, fish like, with the stench of the river clinging to green flesh, and yet as I walked towards the body I could smell her perfume. It was ‘Angel’, the same as I had bought for my girlfriend last Christmas.
She was still pretty with a doll like appearance verging between girl and woman. Her pink lipstick had been smudged as though in some childish pique she had wiped her hand across her mouth and never had the chance to reapply. Her bleach blond hair was matted with foliage which now she would never be able to brush away.
Skimpy night club clothes clung to the gentle contours of her ripening body. White lace bra had come undone and was caught up round her chin, looking slightly ridiculous like a baby’s summer bonnet.
Her unkissed nipples could be seen, erect and dark beneath the gossamer thin dress which barely covered her ghostly skin. Matching briefs had been smudged with fat thumbprints of mud streaking downwards over her thighs, down to an oozing red graze on her schoolgirl knees. Her small feet still had the blistering strap marks from the high heels she had bravely worn all night.
For a fleeting moment I thought of taking my jacket off and placing it over her shoulders, as a father might tuck his child in bed, yet that very act had a familiarity, almost an indecency about it and I kept my distance, hiding behind the formality of my task. I began to snap away, holding the horror of this scene within the parameters of my camera frame. Measured and thereby manageable.
Her eyes dazzled. Even behind the protection of my camera lens I did not want to focus on them. Unblinking, impenetrable, they stared into my soul, down to the pathetic, snivelling, small boy I thought I had buried long ago. They saw beneath my Hugo Boss suit and aspiring reporter’s badge down to the weedy excuse of a body that was never picked for the football team and was still sometimes frightened of the dark.
Her unflinching eyes saw humanity in all its dirt and depravity, naked, exposed and irretrievable.
‘Terrible aint it mate? Just a kid. Have you got enough?’
‘Yes,ok. I think I’m finished here. I’ll head off home now’.
I turned my face to the bitter wind, feeling the zoom lens of my camera digging into my side.

I won’t wait up for her; she’ll only think I’m fussing, being an overprotective mum but I can’t help worrying. At least I know the taxi’s booked and she’ll have her friend Jenny with her.
When she came down stairs she looked so grown up; such a beautiful young woman yet still my little girl. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement.
I still remember that breathless feeling as I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, wondering if tonight I would meet him, the boy of my dreams, straight from a Jackie comic.
Hot pants, white frilly blouse and platform toes, I would dance to T Rex, Abba, and wait to be chosen, praying I would not be the one left unclaimed at the end of the night or suffer the indignity of waiting while my best friend arranged a date with the boy I fancied.
But then after that night I never went dancing again. How stupid and naïve I had been to go outside with him. Of course he wanted more than a kiss and cuddle and to look at the stars.
I should have known; the way he grazed me against the canal bridge as soon as we were beyond the disco lights and the music was just a dull thud. There was something cold and indifferent about him. He smelled of sweat and fags as he fumbled to undo my white lace bra. I can feel his prodding gritted fingers on my skin, taste his sour spit in my mouth. He had stuck chewing gum in my hair, and when I cut it out long strands of my blond hair were glued to it. I never wore that blue mini dress again. Never told anyone what happened that night.

Mum had tears in her eyes when I came downstairs. She said she wouldn’t wait up but I knew she would. She worries so much about me, still treats me like her little girl.
I had looked forward to going out for weeks; my first night clubbing.
Jenny was supposed to be my friend then why did she chat Jason up the minute my back was turned? Only last night I had confided how much I fancied him. We had practised seductive looks and poses; I even let her use the Angel perfume mum had bought me for Christmas.
We had got there too early when there was still a lot of floor space. I didn’t think Jason and his mates had arrived but she must have seen him. I went to the toilet to reapply my lip gloss and when I returned she had her tongue down his throat and his hands were all over her. I couldn’t believe she would do that to me. Neither of them even noticed as I stormed out of the night club.
I stood in the entrance and then some pervey old guy started trying to chat me up. In his fancy suit he thought he was something special. Making out he was so concerned about me and ‘could he help?’ because he could see I was upset while all the time he had his eyes on my breasts, imagining what it would be like...
Honestly mum I tried to phone for a taxi but there was a forty minute wait and I just had to get out of that place. I couldn’t avoid the route by the canal and it wasn’t that late; there were plenty of people about. I thought if I just walk quickly I could be back before you had time to worry about me.
He just came out of nowhere.
I was glad when my body hit the water. Glad that it had ended and he could not hurt me any more.

For Valentine's Day

I haven't got any poems for Valentine's Day - but here are the lyrics of a couple of love songs. There were supposed to be three, all themed around the Moon, but I haven't come up with the third one yet.

Lady Moon

Gliding high, veiled with cloud
Timeless grace shining down
Though you are so high
You are always by my side
In my mind my lady moon

Leave me here on frozen ground
Falling tear only sound
Though you are so far
You are always in my heart
In my mind my lady moon
In my mind my lady moon
In my mind my lady moon

Born On The Moon

Oh I like to look at your picture
It reminds me of when I had a chance
To turn your head and sway your judgement
And maybe start a little romance
Oo, oo, oo, foolish song
Could not make up for what I did wrong
Mm, mm, it was over too soon
And my love for you was born on the moon

Sometimes I wander in to a daydream
And there I find you waiting for me
I call your name and I follow
But you always turn and flee
Mm, mm, mm, must it ever be?
Will you never turn and see me?
Mm, mm, ‘cos I’m looking at you
And my love for you was born on the moon

Mm, mm, mm, I cry out loud
My love for you is higher than the clouds
Mm, mm, it was over too soon
And my love for you remains on the moon