Saturday, January 20


& then some more tp-tp-tp...

outside, whilst two glasses (one on the glass desktop, one on the window ledge) sit empty.

Relaxing, somehow.

It has hills, it's cold, guess what?

it's also... northern!

A decent break, even though all northern-places now seem to be familiar. I either think 'Newcastle!', 'Manchester!', or 'Sheffield!'.

Never quite worked out what the accent is though - is there a Lancastarrrrr...ian accent?


Isn't life disappointing? Not as if unborn things can have expectations; more that our expectations of being a certain age, the 'awe' of that, when you reach that age, vanish; and they have the cheek to do so without so much as a sniff of purple smoke!

Monday, January 15

Today's offering. In need of a title, perhaps.

For months, he'd been pulling a bag along
with him, his new-found friend

at first it grew slowly, and then,
after a while, accelerated, growing
until it was cutting off
the lifeline.
Left him to dangle

shuffling in his bed –
slim cuttings of soft paper
bundled into a ball, a
cocoon, a coffin already made.
I remember

the days we didn't need
to worry about bulldog
clips on the cage, because
he wasn't going to
crawl up the chimney, not today,
and cleaning would only disturb.

I remember holding him, a baby
again awkward in my hands,
massaging the fur, slowly, so
slowly, circling, urging him
to warm up.

We passed him between us, his
last minutes, seconds, split
into a myriad of diamonds the size
of the last of his eye. My turn;

I took him to the radiator,
kneeled down, nudged him,
waiting for him to wake up, warm up,
stop pretending to give up.