Solitude’s the best of things,
Yet loneliness the worst.
Listen, a pariah sings,
Of the silent crypt rehearsed.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Empty halls weigh heavy
Empty halls weigh heavy,
Upon a lonely heart.
Pay the social levy,
Else you’ll always stand apart.
Upon a lonely heart.
Pay the social levy,
Else you’ll always stand apart.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
The Rabbit Who Loved
Once there was a rabbit named Florence, who slept all day and wandered the hills all night.
‘It’s not natural,’ pleaded her mother, ‘for a rabbit to be nocturnal. We need sunshine to nourish our bodies.’
‘It’s not safe,’ roared her father, ‘for a rabbit to walk abroad at night. There are many predators that eat foolish rabbits.’
Despite these parental protests, she continued in her unorthodox lifestyle, insisting that any alteration would make her unhappy.
Yet there was another reason for Florence’s behaviour, one which she’d divulged only to her closest friend Blossom.
‘I’m in love,’ she’d explained one dusk.
‘In love? With who?’
‘The moon,’ Florence had sighed wistfully, glancing upwards at the conspicuously moonless sky. ‘When the moon is out, I sit and watch him lovingly – and when he leaves, I sit and weep each night for his return.’
‘But you can’t love the moon,’ laughed Blossom.
‘Why not? I thought you’d understand.’
‘You can’t love the moon, because your love will always be unrequited. He couldn’t love you back even if he wanted to, and you deserve someone who can. There are plenty of handsome bucks in our warren – forget this silly fancy and rejoin your kin.’
‘I shall love whoever I choose to love,’ shouted Florence, racing away. Blossom did not follow – she hoped her friend would, given time, overcome this infatuation.
Yet Florence’s love only grew stronger as the nights grew black and chill, so her parents renewed their pleas.
‘It was all very well to enjoy the summer nights,’ reasoned her mother, ‘but the winter nights will make you ill. Come, rejoin your kin.’
‘We can all see how thin and sad you’ve become,’ exclaimed her father. ‘It is because you’ve isolated yourself for too long. Come, rejoin your kin.’
Although she didn’t heed their calls, Florence knew that she had indeed become thin and sad. While other rabbits happily mated, she lingered in her twilit existence.
Blossom’s fears for her friend had strengthened too. Often she would seek out the newly woken Florence at dusk and lament how little time they shared together anymore.
Still Florence continued in her routine, for she couldn’t bear to sleep in the knowledge that her beloved moon might be waiting outside. Even as the coldest time of year approached, she maintained the nightly ritual.
It was only now that Blossom, tormented by anxiety, visited Florence’s parents and revealed their daughter’s obsession with the moon. ‘This is far worse than we thought,’ they replied, and resolved to confront Florence.
So it occurred that one dawn, as Florence slipped back into her home for a day’s rest, her parents revealed their knowledge and delivered an ultimatum: that Florence must either conform to her family’s expectations or leave the warren forthwith.
‘In that case, I must leave,’ Florence murmured, and did so. Her mother was distraught, and drew little comfort from Father Rabbit’s assertion that Florence would soon return and beg forgiveness.
A week later Florence was still absent from the warren, instead sleeping in quiet forest-holes from day to day, but she was severely weakened by the ordeal.
‘Please, you can stay with my family if necessary,’ begged Blossom after a long day’s searching for her old friend’s hideout. ‘You must come back – your mother cries daily for her loss.’
‘I never wished to cause my family any pain, but I must pursue my love,’ Florence said simply.
Blossom did not tell Florence’s mother of this exchange, for she did not wish to cause the poor lady any more suffering.
One night the snowstorms came, and Florence began to scream at her love: ‘Moon, why won’t you love me? I have given all, yet still you turn away.’ She fell to weeping at the pain of all she’d sacrificed, until a sudden warmth filled her heavy limbs and she exited this world.
Although the rabbits of the warren never knew for sure what became of Florence, her name echoed down the ages as a byword for those whose love put all others to shame, and there were many who claimed the moon never shone so seductively again.
‘It’s not natural,’ pleaded her mother, ‘for a rabbit to be nocturnal. We need sunshine to nourish our bodies.’
‘It’s not safe,’ roared her father, ‘for a rabbit to walk abroad at night. There are many predators that eat foolish rabbits.’
Despite these parental protests, she continued in her unorthodox lifestyle, insisting that any alteration would make her unhappy.
Yet there was another reason for Florence’s behaviour, one which she’d divulged only to her closest friend Blossom.
‘I’m in love,’ she’d explained one dusk.
‘In love? With who?’
‘The moon,’ Florence had sighed wistfully, glancing upwards at the conspicuously moonless sky. ‘When the moon is out, I sit and watch him lovingly – and when he leaves, I sit and weep each night for his return.’
‘But you can’t love the moon,’ laughed Blossom.
‘Why not? I thought you’d understand.’
‘You can’t love the moon, because your love will always be unrequited. He couldn’t love you back even if he wanted to, and you deserve someone who can. There are plenty of handsome bucks in our warren – forget this silly fancy and rejoin your kin.’
‘I shall love whoever I choose to love,’ shouted Florence, racing away. Blossom did not follow – she hoped her friend would, given time, overcome this infatuation.
Yet Florence’s love only grew stronger as the nights grew black and chill, so her parents renewed their pleas.
‘It was all very well to enjoy the summer nights,’ reasoned her mother, ‘but the winter nights will make you ill. Come, rejoin your kin.’
‘We can all see how thin and sad you’ve become,’ exclaimed her father. ‘It is because you’ve isolated yourself for too long. Come, rejoin your kin.’
Although she didn’t heed their calls, Florence knew that she had indeed become thin and sad. While other rabbits happily mated, she lingered in her twilit existence.
Blossom’s fears for her friend had strengthened too. Often she would seek out the newly woken Florence at dusk and lament how little time they shared together anymore.
Still Florence continued in her routine, for she couldn’t bear to sleep in the knowledge that her beloved moon might be waiting outside. Even as the coldest time of year approached, she maintained the nightly ritual.
It was only now that Blossom, tormented by anxiety, visited Florence’s parents and revealed their daughter’s obsession with the moon. ‘This is far worse than we thought,’ they replied, and resolved to confront Florence.
So it occurred that one dawn, as Florence slipped back into her home for a day’s rest, her parents revealed their knowledge and delivered an ultimatum: that Florence must either conform to her family’s expectations or leave the warren forthwith.
‘In that case, I must leave,’ Florence murmured, and did so. Her mother was distraught, and drew little comfort from Father Rabbit’s assertion that Florence would soon return and beg forgiveness.
A week later Florence was still absent from the warren, instead sleeping in quiet forest-holes from day to day, but she was severely weakened by the ordeal.
‘Please, you can stay with my family if necessary,’ begged Blossom after a long day’s searching for her old friend’s hideout. ‘You must come back – your mother cries daily for her loss.’
‘I never wished to cause my family any pain, but I must pursue my love,’ Florence said simply.
Blossom did not tell Florence’s mother of this exchange, for she did not wish to cause the poor lady any more suffering.
One night the snowstorms came, and Florence began to scream at her love: ‘Moon, why won’t you love me? I have given all, yet still you turn away.’ She fell to weeping at the pain of all she’d sacrificed, until a sudden warmth filled her heavy limbs and she exited this world.
Although the rabbits of the warren never knew for sure what became of Florence, her name echoed down the ages as a byword for those whose love put all others to shame, and there were many who claimed the moon never shone so seductively again.
Monday, 2 November 2009
The Little Otter
Whilst walking through thick woodland, a woman heard soft whimpering. She cast her eyes from place to place but could not locate the source of such sorrowful sounds – that was, until she glanced downward and saw an otter knelt upon the ground, face hidden beneath its paws.
‘Little otter,’ she asked, ‘why do you cry?’
Yet the otter did not respond, so the woman repeated her question: ‘Little otter, why do you cry?’
This time the otter raised its head and the woman saw that tears glistened upon its cheeks. ‘Little otter,’ she repeated a third time, ‘why do you cry?’
‘I cry because the leaves fall from the trees. Oh, what sorrow that the leaves should shrivel and die!’
‘But little otter,’ spoke the woman kindly, ‘it is only natural that the leaves should fall from the trees. If these leaves did not die, next year’s leaves could never live. Indeed, if leaves of past years had not fallen in their turn, this year’s crop could never have flourished.’
The otter considered this for a moment, then replied: ‘I shall remember these leaves regardless, and weep for their memory.’
‘Yes, little otter, it is also natural that we should feel sorrow for that which perishes. But we must not let that sorrow consume us, else we could never feel joy at the birth of new leaves.’
The otter wiped its eyes and blinked at the sunlight as if noticing its warm rays for the first time. ‘Thank you, stranger – my sorrow is much lightened by your kind words.’
‘Go forth and be happy, little otter. Think no more of the leaves falling from the trees, except to be glad that one day new leaves shall grow in their place.’
‘Little otter,’ she asked, ‘why do you cry?’
Yet the otter did not respond, so the woman repeated her question: ‘Little otter, why do you cry?’
This time the otter raised its head and the woman saw that tears glistened upon its cheeks. ‘Little otter,’ she repeated a third time, ‘why do you cry?’
‘I cry because the leaves fall from the trees. Oh, what sorrow that the leaves should shrivel and die!’
‘But little otter,’ spoke the woman kindly, ‘it is only natural that the leaves should fall from the trees. If these leaves did not die, next year’s leaves could never live. Indeed, if leaves of past years had not fallen in their turn, this year’s crop could never have flourished.’
The otter considered this for a moment, then replied: ‘I shall remember these leaves regardless, and weep for their memory.’
‘Yes, little otter, it is also natural that we should feel sorrow for that which perishes. But we must not let that sorrow consume us, else we could never feel joy at the birth of new leaves.’
The otter wiped its eyes and blinked at the sunlight as if noticing its warm rays for the first time. ‘Thank you, stranger – my sorrow is much lightened by your kind words.’
‘Go forth and be happy, little otter. Think no more of the leaves falling from the trees, except to be glad that one day new leaves shall grow in their place.’
Friday, 30 October 2009
Long ago
Long ago I believed you were the only good thing in my life, that all else was worthless. I now perceive you were the only worthless part.
Friday, 21 August 2009
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Haiku 2: The Questionable Haiku
A world where peace and
Love are cliche is a world
Most in need of them
Love are cliche is a world
Most in need of them
Friday, 5 June 2009
Dentists have love affairs too
Oh, chequered picnic blanket,
Laid crisp upon the heath,
Lemonade - we drank it,
Shall surely rot our teeth!
Laid crisp upon the heath,
Lemonade - we drank it,
Shall surely rot our teeth!
Day Trip
Let’s away to virgin downs,
Where ladybirds scuttle,
And speckled pheasants thrive,
Via criss-cross lanes we’ll shuttle,
Once we’ve learnt to drive.
Where ladybirds scuttle,
And speckled pheasants thrive,
Via criss-cross lanes we’ll shuttle,
Once we’ve learnt to drive.
Sunday, 24 May 2009
Symmetry
Each morning she visits, hair bedraggled by another restless night. For her, sleep is rarely attainable until an hour’s spinning has transfigured once-smooth bed linen into a tightly mummifying coil around her slender form.
One by one she applies various cosmetics, tenderly crafting a face for the world. I’m privileged to watch this sculptress mid-masterpiece, as the natural vulnerabilities of her countenance harden into something more businesslike. She’s careful to erase the scars of time’s passage which I view all too clearly.
I long to call out assurances that none of it's necessary, that she’s naturally beautiful regardless, but instead I find myself copying her actions. If a little make-up makes us happy, who am I to argue? All the same, I sometimes wonder if today’s antidote isn’t tomorrow’s poison.
Lastly she drapes a butterfly-shaped pendant around her neck. She likes butterflies. She admires the eye-catching pattern, the unpredictable flight path, the careless hop from flower to flower, but most of all she admires the metamorphosis.
Our eyes meet one last time, in wordless understanding. She’ll return briefly this evening, but by then those features have long since settled into comfortable artifice for another day. How I envy her freedom of movement, while I can only echo it from this plate of glass.
One by one she applies various cosmetics, tenderly crafting a face for the world. I’m privileged to watch this sculptress mid-masterpiece, as the natural vulnerabilities of her countenance harden into something more businesslike. She’s careful to erase the scars of time’s passage which I view all too clearly.
I long to call out assurances that none of it's necessary, that she’s naturally beautiful regardless, but instead I find myself copying her actions. If a little make-up makes us happy, who am I to argue? All the same, I sometimes wonder if today’s antidote isn’t tomorrow’s poison.
Lastly she drapes a butterfly-shaped pendant around her neck. She likes butterflies. She admires the eye-catching pattern, the unpredictable flight path, the careless hop from flower to flower, but most of all she admires the metamorphosis.
Our eyes meet one last time, in wordless understanding. She’ll return briefly this evening, but by then those features have long since settled into comfortable artifice for another day. How I envy her freedom of movement, while I can only echo it from this plate of glass.
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Poor Grooming
All I recall o’you these days, girl,
Is a strawb’rry milkshake’s frothy swirl,
From that roadside Fifties diner,
Where you told me I’m a whiner.
Boy, ye wore an old T-shirt,
Crusty wi’ construction dirt,
Spectators thought ye blessed,
For I was smartly dressed.
Girl, all we ate was meat ‘n’ fries,
Ma - dear Ma - always did despise
ya - Why did I refuse to listen?,
Who’d dress up to view burger-glisten?
Not’ing wrong wi’ standards, boy,
I aimed to please, not to annoy,
Ain’t I allowed fancy threading,
Upon the day o’my wedding?
Is a strawb’rry milkshake’s frothy swirl,
From that roadside Fifties diner,
Where you told me I’m a whiner.
Boy, ye wore an old T-shirt,
Crusty wi’ construction dirt,
Spectators thought ye blessed,
For I was smartly dressed.
Girl, all we ate was meat ‘n’ fries,
Ma - dear Ma - always did despise
ya - Why did I refuse to listen?,
Who’d dress up to view burger-glisten?
Not’ing wrong wi’ standards, boy,
I aimed to please, not to annoy,
Ain’t I allowed fancy threading,
Upon the day o’my wedding?
Sunday, 1 March 2009
For Michael
Beside railway tracks, a rusty bike,
Proudly labelled ‘Property of Mike’,
Once-polished frame so mournfully twisted,
Sole witness that he once existed.
Proudly labelled ‘Property of Mike’,
Once-polished frame so mournfully twisted,
Sole witness that he once existed.
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Ah, Prime Minister!
Parliamentary Meeting Room. Ministers are seated around a table. Door opens.
John: Ah, Prime Minister! Ready to start?
PM (looks uncomfortable as he sits down): Yes, I think so. Have you a copy of the agenda? I wore a hole in mine...from reading it so much.
John: A hole, Prime Minister?
PM (impatient): Yes, a hole. Could I please look at yours?
John (hands it to PM): It would be my pleasure.
PM: Ah yes, the Parliamentary vending machines. Something to chew over. Let’s start then, shall we?
John: Yes, I thought we’d quickly deal with that before moving on to more pressing matters...
PM: Moving on? I imagine that subject alone will occupy us for a good hour. But we shall see, we shall see.
John: In that case, Prime Minister, perhaps you’d consider discussing the Fuel Crisis first?
PM: Well, if you insist...
Home Secretary: If I might interrupt, I’d very much like to discuss the vending machines first – it’s of the outmost urgency. Some Ministers with allergies aren’t being properly catered for.
One Hour Later
PM: So we’re willing to sacrifice chocolate peanuts, provided ordinary peanuts are available?
Ministers murmur and nod assent
PM: Very good. Now then, what about crisps?
John (leans over to whisper in PM’s ear): Umm Prime Minister, time is running rather short.
PM (looks at watch): So it is! Alright then, we’ll continue this discussion next week – and shift everything else on the agenda to then as well.
John (alarmed): Prime Minister, the Fuel Crisis...
PM: Yes, next week.
Home Secretary: Isn’t next week the start of Lent?
PM (thinks for a moment): Christ, I think you’re right! Forgotten about that. Well, we can’t hold any meetings during Lent. George, shift everything on the agenda back by forty days and forty nights.
John: Prime Minister, the Fuel Crisis won’t wait forty days!
Home Secretary (to John): He’s the Prime Minister! I think he understands what’s best for the nation, don’t you?
John (ignoring Home Secretary): Prime Minister, is it necessary to celebrate Lent? I mean, you’re an elected official and the public expects...
PM: Of course it’s necessary to celebrate Lent! Don’t want people remembering me as the Infidel Prime Minister!
Home Secretary (nods firmly): We must celebrate Lent
John (incredulous): For forty days?
PM: And forty nights. Well then gentlemen, crisps will have to wait, but I’ll instruct the kitchen staff to make the other changes we’ve agreed upon. Good day.
Ministers leave
PM: Have you ever played badminton, George?
John: Badminton, Prime Minister?
PM: Yes, badminton. You know, shuttlecocks - little feathery things.
John: I’ve played it once or twice. Why d’you ask?
PM: Playing the Home Secretary next week. He’s always bragging about some trophy he won. I really want to wipe the smug grin off his face.
John: Ah, Prime Minister! Ready to start?
PM (looks uncomfortable as he sits down): Yes, I think so. Have you a copy of the agenda? I wore a hole in mine...from reading it so much.
John: A hole, Prime Minister?
PM (impatient): Yes, a hole. Could I please look at yours?
John (hands it to PM): It would be my pleasure.
PM: Ah yes, the Parliamentary vending machines. Something to chew over. Let’s start then, shall we?
John: Yes, I thought we’d quickly deal with that before moving on to more pressing matters...
PM: Moving on? I imagine that subject alone will occupy us for a good hour. But we shall see, we shall see.
John: In that case, Prime Minister, perhaps you’d consider discussing the Fuel Crisis first?
PM: Well, if you insist...
Home Secretary: If I might interrupt, I’d very much like to discuss the vending machines first – it’s of the outmost urgency. Some Ministers with allergies aren’t being properly catered for.
One Hour Later
PM: So we’re willing to sacrifice chocolate peanuts, provided ordinary peanuts are available?
Ministers murmur and nod assent
PM: Very good. Now then, what about crisps?
John (leans over to whisper in PM’s ear): Umm Prime Minister, time is running rather short.
PM (looks at watch): So it is! Alright then, we’ll continue this discussion next week – and shift everything else on the agenda to then as well.
John (alarmed): Prime Minister, the Fuel Crisis...
PM: Yes, next week.
Home Secretary: Isn’t next week the start of Lent?
PM (thinks for a moment): Christ, I think you’re right! Forgotten about that. Well, we can’t hold any meetings during Lent. George, shift everything on the agenda back by forty days and forty nights.
John: Prime Minister, the Fuel Crisis won’t wait forty days!
Home Secretary (to John): He’s the Prime Minister! I think he understands what’s best for the nation, don’t you?
John (ignoring Home Secretary): Prime Minister, is it necessary to celebrate Lent? I mean, you’re an elected official and the public expects...
PM: Of course it’s necessary to celebrate Lent! Don’t want people remembering me as the Infidel Prime Minister!
Home Secretary (nods firmly): We must celebrate Lent
John (incredulous): For forty days?
PM: And forty nights. Well then gentlemen, crisps will have to wait, but I’ll instruct the kitchen staff to make the other changes we’ve agreed upon. Good day.
Ministers leave
PM: Have you ever played badminton, George?
John: Badminton, Prime Minister?
PM: Yes, badminton. You know, shuttlecocks - little feathery things.
John: I’ve played it once or twice. Why d’you ask?
PM: Playing the Home Secretary next week. He’s always bragging about some trophy he won. I really want to wipe the smug grin off his face.
Sunday, 25 January 2009
Uncle Jude
Uncle Jude rarely smiles, but when he does you’d think he’d done nothing but grin all his life. I think he saves up little ration tokens of gladness over weeks and months, then cashes them all at once in return for a single blissful afternoon. This does make sense – I’d rather have one big cake on my birthday than lots of little slices throughout the year. All the same, I can’t help wondering why he doesn’t simply choose to always be happy.
Last year he came to the Summer Fair. I’m not sure why, because seeing all the children play only seemed to make him more melancholy. That was the first time I wondered why he didn’t have a family of his own, but Dad said not everybody wants one. I could tell Uncle Jude wanted one though, and I vowed to always make him feel included in ours.
Often at night he walks along nearby beaches with a torch, picking up any piece of glass or metal which catches his fancy. Nobody else much likes these peculiar keepsakes brought home to display on his mantelpiece, but he insists they’re beautiful. Once he told me to gather up scraps of joy in much the same way, finding reasons to be cheerful wherever I can and placing them in my mind’s casket. Then when I need them most, all those nice thoughts and memories will be waiting there to dispel my gloom. This didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but I understood it must be important from the way he said it. I want to find out more, but haven’t seen him since.
Last year he came to the Summer Fair. I’m not sure why, because seeing all the children play only seemed to make him more melancholy. That was the first time I wondered why he didn’t have a family of his own, but Dad said not everybody wants one. I could tell Uncle Jude wanted one though, and I vowed to always make him feel included in ours.
Often at night he walks along nearby beaches with a torch, picking up any piece of glass or metal which catches his fancy. Nobody else much likes these peculiar keepsakes brought home to display on his mantelpiece, but he insists they’re beautiful. Once he told me to gather up scraps of joy in much the same way, finding reasons to be cheerful wherever I can and placing them in my mind’s casket. Then when I need them most, all those nice thoughts and memories will be waiting there to dispel my gloom. This didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but I understood it must be important from the way he said it. I want to find out more, but haven’t seen him since.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Children Have Such Vivid Imaginations
My friends haven’t come to play today.
Will you help me find them?
Could they be under the carpet?
No, they’re not under the carpet.
Are they behind the stairs?
No, they’re not behind the stairs.
Maybe they’re in the shed?
No, they’re not in the shed.
Perhaps they died?
No, they never existed at all.
Will you help me find them?
Could they be under the carpet?
No, they’re not under the carpet.
Are they behind the stairs?
No, they’re not behind the stairs.
Maybe they’re in the shed?
No, they’re not in the shed.
Perhaps they died?
No, they never existed at all.
Friday, 16 January 2009
Leave Me On The Roadside
Formulate no death arrangements,
Why conceal our life estrangements?
Would a mighty monument erect,
Somehow compensate years of neglect?
All these corpses to whom you’re giving,
Desire nothing – help the living.
Why conceal our life estrangements?
Would a mighty monument erect,
Somehow compensate years of neglect?
All these corpses to whom you’re giving,
Desire nothing – help the living.
Saturday, 10 January 2009
Man Walks Into A Bar
Barman: Hiya, what’ll it be?
Customer: I’d like a hat please.
Barman: That some kinda cocktail? How do you make it?
Customer: I’m not certain - but it involves felt. Can I have my hat please?
Barman: A hat? This is a bar! We don’t sell hats!
Customer: That’s handy, because I don’t want to buy a hat.
Barman (relieved): What’ll it be then?
Customer: I’d like my hat please.
Barman (angry): Look, if you’re gonna mess around...
Customer: I’m not messing around. Just want my hat. Left it here on Friday.
Barman (comprehension dawns): Oh I see. Left your hat here? I didn’t find it.
Customer (insistent): Well it must be here.
Barman: How can you be sure?
Customer: Because whenever I walk somewhere, I wear it. Meaning I could only lose it while I’m sitting down.
Barman: And this is the only place you sat down on Friday?
Customer: I’ve already checked the other pubs I went in that day.
Barman: Big drinker?
Customer: Not especially. I enjoy a tipple now and then.
Barman: Well I’m sorry, but you didn’t leave your hat here. I would have found it.
Customer: Fine.
Barman (glad they finally seem to be agreeing on something): Fine.
Customer (turning to leave): I’ll be going to the police station then.
Barman (worried): Why?
Customer: To press charges against you.
Barman (even more worried): For what?
Customer: Stealing my hat.
Barman (desperate): You can’t be certain you left it here! Didn’t you go anywhere but pubs on Friday?
Customer (affronted): Of course I did. Off licence.
Barman: And?
Customer (shaking head): Checked there. They don’t have it.
Barman: What about work? Couldn’t you have left it there?
Customer: No, I’m not allowed to wear my hat at work.
Barman (genuinely interested): Why not?
Customer (sighing): They got sick of me hiding whiskey underneath it.
Barman (knowingly): I see. So you are a big drinker?
Customer: That an accusation?
Barman: No, it’s an observation. Look, what makes you think I’ve stolen your hat?
Customer (simply): You’re wearing it.
Barman (removing own hat to examine it): This old thing? I’ve had it for years!
Customer (suspicious): Never seen you wearing it before
Barman: I save it for weekends. And how would you even know? Never seen you in here before!
Customer: I wore disguises. Don’t want people to see me in pubs. They might get the wrong idea.
Barman (with renewed politeness): Whatever you say, sir. I still haven’t got your hat.
Customer (shrugging): Let’s see what the police make of it.
Barman (urgently): I don’t want any trouble! How about a drink on the house and we’ll say no more about it?
Customer (wanting to clarify the situation): Are you trying to bribe me?
Barman: Two drinks.
Customer: Make it three.
Barman: Three drinks and we’ll say no more about it?
Customer (extending hand): Deal.
Barman (grudgingly shaking it): Alrighty then. What’ll it be?’
Customer (automatically): I’ll have a pint of vodka please.
Customer: I’d like a hat please.
Barman: That some kinda cocktail? How do you make it?
Customer: I’m not certain - but it involves felt. Can I have my hat please?
Barman: A hat? This is a bar! We don’t sell hats!
Customer: That’s handy, because I don’t want to buy a hat.
Barman (relieved): What’ll it be then?
Customer: I’d like my hat please.
Barman (angry): Look, if you’re gonna mess around...
Customer: I’m not messing around. Just want my hat. Left it here on Friday.
Barman (comprehension dawns): Oh I see. Left your hat here? I didn’t find it.
Customer (insistent): Well it must be here.
Barman: How can you be sure?
Customer: Because whenever I walk somewhere, I wear it. Meaning I could only lose it while I’m sitting down.
Barman: And this is the only place you sat down on Friday?
Customer: I’ve already checked the other pubs I went in that day.
Barman: Big drinker?
Customer: Not especially. I enjoy a tipple now and then.
Barman: Well I’m sorry, but you didn’t leave your hat here. I would have found it.
Customer: Fine.
Barman (glad they finally seem to be agreeing on something): Fine.
Customer (turning to leave): I’ll be going to the police station then.
Barman (worried): Why?
Customer: To press charges against you.
Barman (even more worried): For what?
Customer: Stealing my hat.
Barman (desperate): You can’t be certain you left it here! Didn’t you go anywhere but pubs on Friday?
Customer (affronted): Of course I did. Off licence.
Barman: And?
Customer (shaking head): Checked there. They don’t have it.
Barman: What about work? Couldn’t you have left it there?
Customer: No, I’m not allowed to wear my hat at work.
Barman (genuinely interested): Why not?
Customer (sighing): They got sick of me hiding whiskey underneath it.
Barman (knowingly): I see. So you are a big drinker?
Customer: That an accusation?
Barman: No, it’s an observation. Look, what makes you think I’ve stolen your hat?
Customer (simply): You’re wearing it.
Barman (removing own hat to examine it): This old thing? I’ve had it for years!
Customer (suspicious): Never seen you wearing it before
Barman: I save it for weekends. And how would you even know? Never seen you in here before!
Customer: I wore disguises. Don’t want people to see me in pubs. They might get the wrong idea.
Barman (with renewed politeness): Whatever you say, sir. I still haven’t got your hat.
Customer (shrugging): Let’s see what the police make of it.
Barman (urgently): I don’t want any trouble! How about a drink on the house and we’ll say no more about it?
Customer (wanting to clarify the situation): Are you trying to bribe me?
Barman: Two drinks.
Customer: Make it three.
Barman: Three drinks and we’ll say no more about it?
Customer (extending hand): Deal.
Barman (grudgingly shaking it): Alrighty then. What’ll it be?’
Customer (automatically): I’ll have a pint of vodka please.
Thursday, 8 January 2009
Seaside Reflection
Messages scrawled in coastal sand,
To infant authors, relics holy,
Vanishing, licked away by tide,
Beach washed clean. You understand?
If love diminished just as slowly,
Maybe we could take it in our stride.
To infant authors, relics holy,
Vanishing, licked away by tide,
Beach washed clean. You understand?
If love diminished just as slowly,
Maybe we could take it in our stride.
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